Dreams

by Jerome K. Jerome
The most extraordinary dream I ever had was one in which I fancied

that, as I was going into a theater, the cloak-room attendant stopped
me in the lobby and insisted on my leaving my legs behind me.

I was not surprised; indeed, my acquaintanceship with theater harpies
would prevent my feeling any surprise at such a demand, even in my

waking moments; but I was, I must honestlyconfess, considerably
annoyed. It was not the payment of the cloak-room fee that I so much

minded--I offered to give that to the man then and there. It was the
parting with my legs that I objected to.

I said I had never heard of such a rule being attempted to be put in
force at any respectable theater before, and that I considered it a

most absurd and vexatious regulation. I also said I should write to
The Times about it.

The man replied that he was very sorry, but that those were his
instructions. People complained that they could not get to and from

their seats comfortably, because other people's legs were always in
the way; and it had, therefore, been decided that, in future,

everybody should leave their legs outside.
It seemed to me that the management, in making this order, had clearly

gone beyond their legal right; and, under ordinary circumstances, I
should have disputed it. Being present, however, more in the

character of a guest than in that of a patron, I hardly like to make a
disturbance; and so I sat down and meekly prepared to comply with the

demand.
I had never before known that the human leg did unscrew. I had always

thought it was a fixture. But the man showed me how to undo them, and
I found that they came off quite easily.

The discovery did not surprise me any more than the original request
that I should take them off had done. Nothing does surprise one in a

dream.
I dreamed once that I was going to be hanged; but I was not at all

surprised about it. Nobody was. My relations came to see me off, I
thought, and to wish me "Good-by!" They all came, and were all very

pleasant; but they were not in the least astonished--not one of them.
Everybody appeared to regard the coming tragedy as one of the

most-naturally-to-be-expected things in the world.
They bore the calamity, besides, with an amount of stoicism that would

have done credit to a Spartan father. There was no fuss, no scene.
On the contrary, an atmosphere of mild cheerfulness prevailed.

Yet they were very kind. Somebody--an uncle, I think--left me a
packet of sandwiches and a little something in a flask, in case, as he

said, I should feel peckish on the scaffold.
It is "those twin-jailers of the daring" thought, Knowledge and

Experience, that teach us surprise. We are surprised and incredulous
when, in novels and plays, we come across good men and women, because

Knowledge and Experience have taught us how rare and problematical is
the existence of such people. In waking life, my friends and

relations would, of course, have been surprised at hearing that I had
committed a murder, and was, in consequence, about to be hanged,

because Knowledge and Experience would have taught them that, in a
country where the law is powerful and the police alert, the Christian

citizen is usually pretty successful in withstanding the voice of
temptation, prompting him to commit crime of an illegal character.

But into Dreamland, Knowledge and Experience do not enter. They stay
without, together with the dull, dead clay of which they form a part;

while the freed brain, released from their narrowing tutelage, steals
softly past the ebon gate, to wanton at its own sweet will among the

mazy paths that wind through the garden of Persephone.
Nothing that it meets with in that eternal land astonishes it because,

unfettered by the dense conviction of our waking mind, that nought
outside the ken of our own vision can in this universe be, all things

to it are possible and even probable. In dreams, we fly and wonder
not--except that we never flew before. We go naked, yet are not

ashamed, though we mildly wonder what the police are about that they
do not stop us. We converse with our dead, and think it was unkind

that they did not come back to us before. In dreams, there happens
that which human language cannot tell. In dreams, we see "the light

that never was on sea or land," we hear the sounds that never yet were
heard by waking ears.

It is only in sleep that true imagination ever stirs within us.
Awake, we never imagine anything; we merely alter, vary, or transpose.

We give another twist to the kaleidoscope of the things we see around
us, and obtain another pattern; but not one of us has ever added one

tiniest piece of new glass to the toy.
A Dean Swift sees one race of people smaller, and another race of

people larger than the race of people that live down his own streets.
And he also sees a land where the horses take the place of men. A

Bulwer Lytton lays the scene of one of his novels inside the earth
instead of outside. A Rider Haggard introduces us to a lady whose age

is a few years more than the average woman would care to confess to;
and pictures crabs larger than the usual shilling or eighteen-penny

size. The number of so called imaginative writers who visit the moon
is legion, and for all the novelty that they find, when they get

there, they might just as well have gone to Putney. Others are
continually drawing for us visions of the world one hundred or one

thousand years hence. There is always a depressing absence of human
nature about the place; so much so, that one feels great consolation

in the thought, while reading, that we ourselves shall be comfortably
dead and buried before the picture can be realized. In these

prophesied Utopias everybody is painfully good and clean and happy,
and all the work is done by electricity.

There is somewhat too much electricity, for my taste, in these worlds
to come. One is reminded of those pictorialenamel-paint

advertisements that one sees about so often now, in which all the
members of an extensive household are represented as gathered together

in one room, spreadingenamel-paint over everything they can lay their
hands upon. The old man is on a step-ladder, daubing the walls and

ceiling with "cuckoo's-egg green," while the parlor-maid and the cook
are on their knees, painting the floor with "sealing-wax red." The

old lady is doing the picture frames in "terra cotta." The eldest
daughter and her young man are making sly love in a corner over a pot

of "high art yellow," with which, so soon as they have finished
wasting their time, they will, it is manifest, proceed to elevate the

piano. Younger brothers and sisters are busy freshening up the chairs
and tables with "strawberry-jam pink " and "jubilee magenta." Every

blessed thing in that room is being coated with enamel paint, from the
sofa to the fire-irons, from the sideboard to the eight-day clock. If

there is any paint left over, it will be used up for the family Bible
and the canary.

It is claimed for this invention that a little child can make as much
mess with it as can a grown-up person, and so all the children of the

family are represented in the picture as hard at work, enameling
whatever few articles of furniture and household use the grasping

selfishness of their elders has spared to them. One is painting the
toasting fork in a "skim-milk blue," while another is giving

aesthetical value to the Dutch oven by means of a new shade of art
green. The bootjack is being renovated in "old gold," and the baby is

sitting on the floor, smothering its own cradle with
"flush-upon-a-maiden's cheek peach color."

One feels that the thing is being overdone. That family, before
another month is gone, will be among the strongest opponents of enamel

paint that the century has produced. Enamel paint will be the ruin of
that once happy home. Enamel paint has a cold, glassy, cynical

appearance. Its presence everywhere about the place will begin to
irritate the old man in the course of a week or so. He will call it,

"This damn'd sticky stuff!" and will tell the wife that he wonders she
didn't paint herself and the children with it while she was about it.