Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology

CHAPTER IV

A CONTRIBUTION TO THE PSYCHOLOGY OF RUMOUR[161]

About a year ago the school authorities in N. asked me to give a professional opinion as to the mental condition of Marie X., a thirteen year old schoolgirl. Marie had been expelled from school because she had been instrumental in originating an ugly rumour, spreading gossip about her class-teacher. The punishment hit the child, and especially her parents, very hard, so that the school authorities were inclined to readmit her if protected by a medical opinion. The facts were as follows:—

The teacher had heard indirectly that the girls were attributing some equivocal sexual story to him. On investigation it was found that Marie X. had one day related a dream to three girl-friends which ran somewhat as follows:—

"The class was going to the swimming-baths. I had to go to the boys' because there was no more room. Then we swam a long way out in the lake (asked 'who did so': 'Lina P., the teacher, and myself'). A steamer came along. The teacher asked us if we wished to get into it. We came to K. A wedding was just going on there (asked 'whose': 'a friend of the teacher's'). We were also to take part in it. Then we went for a journey (who? 'I, Lina P., and the teacher'). It was like a honeymoon journey. We came to Andermatt, and there was no more room in the hotel, so we were obliged to pass the night in a barn. The woman got a child there, and the teacher became the godfather."

When I examined the child she told this dream. The teacher had likewise related the dream in writing. In this earlier version the obvious blanks after the word "steamer" in the above text were filled up as follows: "We got up. Soon we felt cold. An old man gave us a blouse which the teacher put on." On the other hand, there was an omission of the passage about finding no room in the hotel and being obliged to pass the night in the barn.

The child told the dream immediately, not only to her three friends but also to her mother. The mother repeated it to me with only trifling differences from the two versions given above. The teacher, in his further investigations, carried out with deepest misgivings, failed, like myself, to get indications of any more dangerous material. There is therefore a strong probability that the original recital could not have run very differently. (The passage about the cold and the blouse seems to be an early interpolation, for it is an attempt to supply a logical relationship. Coming out of the water one is wet, has on only a bathing dress, and is therefore unable to take part in a wedding before putting on some clothes.) At first, of course, the teacher would not allow that the whole affair had arisen only out of a dream. He rather suspected it to be an invention. He was, however, obliged to admit that the innocent telling of the dream was apparently a fact, and that it was unnatural to regard the child as capable of such guile as to indicate some sexual equivocation in this disguised form. For a time he wavered between the view that it was a question of cunning invention, and the view that it was really a question of a dream, innocent in itself, which had been understood by the other children in a sexual way. When his first indignation wore off he concluded that Marie X.'s guilt could not be so great, and that her phantasies and those of her companions had contributed to the rumour. He then did something really valuable. He placed Marie's companions under supervision, and made them all write out what they had heard of the dream.

Before turning our attention to this, let us cast a glance at the dream analytically. In the first place, we must accept the facts and agree with the teacher that we have to do with a dream and not with an invention; for the latter the ambiguity is too great. Conscious invention tries to create unbroken transitions; the dream takes no account of this, but sets to work regardless of gaps, which, as we have seen, here give occasion for interpolations during the conscious revision. The gaps are very significant. In the swimming-bath there is no picture of undressing, being unclothed, nor any detailed description of their being together in the water. The omission of being dressed on the ship is compensated for by the above-mentioned interpolation, but only for the teacher, thus indicating that his nakedness was in most urgent need of cover. The detailed description of the wedding is wanting, and the transition from the steamer to the wedding is abrupt. The reason for stopping overnight in the barn at Andermatt is not to be found at first. The parallel to this is, however, the want of room in the swimming-bath, which made it necessary to go into the men's department; in the hotel the want of room again emphasises the separation of the sexes. The picture of the barn is most insufficiently filled out. The birth suddenly follows and quite without sequence. The teacher as godfather is extremely equivocal. Marie's rôle in the whole story is throughout of secondary importance, indeed she is only a spectator.

All this has the appearance of a genuine dream, and those of my readers who have a wide experience of the dreams of girls of this age will assuredly confirm this view. Hence the meaning of the dream is so simple that we may quietly leave its interpretation to her school-companions, whose declarations are as follows:

Aural Witnesses.

Witness I.—"M. dreamed that she and Lina P. had gone swimming with our teacher. After they had swum out in the lake pretty far, M. said she could not swim any further as her foot hurt her so much. The teacher said she might sit on my[162] back. M. got up and they swam out. After a time a steamer came along and they got up on it. Our teacher seems to have had a rope by which he tied M. and L. together and dragged them out into the lake. They travelled thus as far as Z., where they stepped out. But now they had no clothes on. The teacher bought a jacket whilst M. and L. got a long, thick veil, and all three walked up the street along the lake. This was when the wedding was going on. Presently they met the party. The bride had on a blue silk dress but no veil. She asked M. and L. if they would be kind enough to give her their veil. M. and L. gave it, and in return they were allowed to go to the wedding. They went into the Sun Inn. Afterwards they went a honeymoon journey to Andermatt; I do not know now whether they went to the Inn at A. or at Z. There they got coffee, potatoes, honey, and butter."

"I must not say any more, only the teacher finally was made godfather."

Remarks.—The roundabout story concerning the want of room in the swimming-bath is absent; Marie goes direct with her teacher to the bath. Their persons are more closely bound together in the water by means of the rope fastening the teacher and the two girls together. The ambiguity of the "getting up" in the first story has other consequences here, for the part about the steamer in the first story now occurs in two places; in the first the teacher takes Marie on his back. The delightful little slip "she could sit on my back" (instead of his), shows the real part taken by the narrator herself in this scene. This makes it clear why the dream brings the steamer somewhat abruptly into action, in order to give an innocent, harmless turn to the equivocal "getting up" instead of another which is common, for instance, in music-hall songs. The passage about the want of clothing, the uncertainty of which has been already noticed, arouses the special interest of the narrator. The teacher buys a jacket, the girls get a long veil (such as one only wears in case of death or at weddings). That the latter is meant is shown by the remark that the bride had none (it is the bride who wears the veil). The narrator, a girl-friend of Marie, here helps the dreamer to dream further: the possession of the veil designates the bride or the brides, Marie and Lina. Whatever is shocking or immoral in this situation is relieved by the girls giving up the veil; it then takes an innocent turn. The narrator follows the same mechanism in the cloaking of the equivocal scene at Andermatt; there is nothing but nice food, coffee, potatoes, honey, butter, a turning back to the infantile life according to the well-known method. The conclusion is apparently very abrupt: the teacher becomes a godfather.

Witness II.—M. dreamt she had gone bathing with L. P. and the teacher. Far out in the lake M. said to the teacher that her leg was hurting her very much. Then the teacher said she could get up on him. I don't know now whether the last sentence was really so told, but I think so. As there was just then a ship on the lake the teacher said she should swim as far as the ship and then get in. I don't remember exactly how it went on. Then the teacher or M., I don't really remember which, said they would get out at Z. and run home. Then the teacher called out to two gentlemen who had just been bathing there, that they might carry the children to land. Then L. P. sat up on one man, and M. on the other fat man, and the teacher held on to the fat man's leg and swam after them. Arrived on land they ran home. On the way the teacher met his friend who had a wedding. M. said: "It was then the fashion to go on foot, not in a carriage." Then the bride said she must now go along also. Then the teacher said it would be nice if the two girls gave the bride their black veils, which they had got on the way. I can't now remember how. The children gave it her, and the bride said they were really dear generous children. Then they went on further and put up at the Sun Hotel. There they got something to eat, I don't know exactly what. Then they went to a barn and danced. All the men had taken off their coats except the teacher. Then the bride said he ought to take off his coat also. Then the teacher hesitated but finally did so. Then the teacher was.... Then the teacher said he was cold. I must not tell any more; it is improper. That's all I heard of the dream.

Remarks.—The narrator pays special attention to the getting up, but is uncertain whether in the original it referred to getting up on the teacher or the steamer. This uncertainty is, however, amply compensated for by the elaborate invention of the two strangers who take the girls upon their backs. The getting up is too valuable a thought for the narrator to surrender, but she is troubled by the idea of the teacher seeing the object. The want of clothing likewise arouses much interest. The bride's veil has, it is true, become the black veil of mourning (naturally in order to conceal anything indelicate). There is not only no innocent twisting, but it is conspicuously virtuous ("dear, generous children"); the amoral wish has become changed into virtue which receives special emphasis, arousing suspicion as does every accentuated virtue.

This narrator exuberantly fills in the blanks in the scene of the barn: the men take off their coats; the teacher also, and is therefore ... i.e. naked and hence cold. Whereupon it becomes too improper.

The narrator has correctly recognised the parallels which were suspected in the criticisms of the original dream; she has filled in the scene about the undressing which belongs to the bathing, for it must finally come out that the girls are together with the naked teacher.

Witness III.—M. told me she had dreamt: Once I went to the baths but there was no room for me. The teacher took me into his dressing-room. I undressed and went bathing. I swam until I reached the bank. Then I met the teacher. He said would I not like to swim across the lake with him. I went, and L. P. also. We swam out and were soon in the middle of the lake. I did not want to swim any further. Now I can't remember it exactly. Soon a ship came up, and we got up on the ship. The teacher said, "I am cold," and a sailor gave us an old shirt. The three of us each tore a piece of the shirt away. I fastened it round the neck. Then we left the ship and swam away towards K.

L. P. and I did not want to go further, and two fat men took us upon their backs. In K. we got a veil which we put on. In K. we went into the street. The teacher met his friend who invited us to the wedding. We went to the Sun and played games. We also danced the polonaise; now I don't remember exactly. Then we went for a honeymoon journey to Andermatt. The teacher had no money with him, and stole some chestnuts in Andermatt. The teacher said, "I am so glad that I can travel with my two pupils." Then there is something improper which I will not write. The dream is now finished.

Remarks.—The undressing together now takes place in the narrow space of the dressing-room at the baths. The want of dress on the ship gives occasion to a further variant. (The old shirt torn in three.) In consequence of great uncertainty the getting up on the teacher is not mentioned. Instead, the two girls get up on two fat men. As "fat" becomes so prominent it should be noted that the teacher is more than a little plump. The setting is thoroughly typical; each one has a teacher. The duplication or multiplication of the persons is an expression of their significance, i.e. of the stored-up libido.[163] (Compare the duplication of the attribute in dementia præcox in my "Psychology of Dementia Præcox.") In cults and mythologies the significance of this duplication is very striking. (Cp. the Trinity and the two mystical formulas of confession: "Isis una quæ es omnia. Hermes omnia solus et ter unus.") Proverbially we say he eats, drinks, or sleeps "for two." The multiplication of the personality expresses also an analogy or comparison—my friend has the same "ætiological value" (Freud) as myself. In dementia præcox, or schizophrenia, to use Bleuler's wider and better term, the multiplication of the personality is mainly the expression of the stored-up libido, for it is invariably the person to whom the patient has transference who is subjected to this multiplication. ("There are two professors N." "Oh, you are also Dr. J.; this morning another came to see me who called himself Dr. J.") It seems that, corresponding to the general tendency in schizophrenia, this splitting is an analytic degradation whose motive is to prevent the arousing of too violent impressions. A final significance of the multiplication of personality which, however, does not come exactly under this concept is the raising of some attribute of the person to a living figure. A simple instance is Dionysos and his companion Phales, wherein Phales is the equivalent of Phallos, the personification of the penis of Dionysos. The so-called attendants of Dionysos (Satyri, Sileni, Mænades, Mimallones, etc.) consist of the personification of the attributes of Dionysos.

The scene in Andermatt is portrayed with a nice wit, or more properly speaking, dreamt further: "The teacher steals chestnuts," that is equivalent to saying he does what is prohibited. By chestnuts is meant roasted chestnuts, which on account of the incision are known as a female sexual symbol. Thus the remark of the teacher, that he was especially glad to travel with his pupils, following directly upon the theft of the chestnuts, becomes intelligible. This theft of the chestnuts is certainly a personal interpolation, for it does not occur in any of the other accounts. It shows how intensive was the inner participation of the school companions of Marie X. in the dream, resting upon similar ætiological requirements.

This is the last of the aural witnesses. The story of the veil, the pain in the feet, are items which we may perhaps suspect to have been suggested in the original narrative. Other interpolations are, however, absolutely personal, and are due to independent inner participation in the meaning of the dream.

Hearsay Evidence.

(I.) The whole school had to go bathing with the teacher. M. X. had no place in the bath in which to undress. Then the teacher said: "You can come into my room and undress with me." She must have felt very uncomfortable. When both were undressed they went into the lake. The teacher took a long rope and wound it round M. Then they both swam far out. But M. got tired, and then the teacher took her upon his back. Then M. saw Lina P.; she called out to her, Come along with me, and Lina came. Then they all swam out still farther. They met a ship. Then the teacher asked, "May we get in? these girls are tired." The boat stopped, and they could all get up. I do not know exactly how they came ashore again at K. Then the teacher got an old night-shirt. He put it on. Then he met an old friend who was celebrating his wedding. The teacher, M. and L. were invited. The wedding was celebrated at the Crown in K. They wanted to play the polonaise. The teacher said he would not accompany them. Then the others said he might as well. He did it with M. The teacher said: "I shall not go home again to my wife and children. I love you best, M." She was greatly pleased. After the wedding there was the honeymoon journey. The teacher, M. and L. had to accompany the others also. The journey was to Milan. Afterwards they went to Andermatt, where they could find no place to sleep. They went to a barn, where they could stop the night all together. I must not say any more because it becomes highly improper.

Remarks.—The undressing in the swimming-bath is properly detailed. The union in the water receives a further simplification for which the story of the rope led the way; the teacher fastens himself to Marie. Lina P. is not mentioned at all; she only comes later when Marie is already sitting upon the teacher. The dress is here a jacket. The wedding ceremony contains a very direct meaning. "The teacher will not go home any more to wife and child." Marie is the darling. In the barn they all found a place together, and then it becomes highly improper.

(II.) It was said that she had gone with the school to the swimming-baths to bathe. But as the baths were over-full the teacher had called her to come to him. We swam out to the lake, and L. P. followed us. Then the teacher took a string and bound us to one another. I do not know now exactly how they again got separated. But after a long time they suddenly arrived at Z. There a scene is said to have taken place which I would rather not tell, for if it were true it would be too disgraceful; also now I don't know exactly how it is said to have been, for I was very tired, only I also heard that M. X. is said to have told how she was always to remain with our teacher, and he again and again caressed her as his favourite pupil. If I knew exactly I would also say the other thing, but my sister only said something about a little child which was born there, and of which the teacher was said to have been the godfather.

Remarks.—Note that in this story the improper scene is inserted in the place of the wedding ceremony, where it is as apposite as at the end, for the attentive reader will certainly have already observed that the improper scene could have taken place in the swimming-bath dressing-room. The procedure has been adopted which is so frequent in dreams as a whole; the final thoughts of a long series of dream images contain exactly what the first image of the series was trying to represent. The censor pushes the complex away as long as possible through ever-renewed disguises, displacements, innocent renderings, etc. It does not take place in the bathing-room, in the water the "getting up" does not occur, on landing it is not on the teacher's back that the girls are sitting, it is another pair who are married in the barn, another girl has the child, and the teacher is only—godfather. All these images and situations are, however, directed to pick out the complex, the desire for coitus. Nevertheless the action still occurs at the back of all these metamorphoses, and the result is the birth placed at the end of the scene.

(III.) Marie said: the teacher had a wedding with his wife, and they went to the "Crown" and danced with one another. M. said a lot of wild things which I cannot repeat or write about, for it is too embarrassing.

Remarks.—Here everything is too improper to be told. Note that the marriage takes place with the wife.

(IV.) ... that the teacher and M. once went bathing, and he asked M. whether she wanted to come along too. She said "yes." When they had gone out together they met L. P., and the teacher asked whether she wished to come along. And they went out farther. Then I also heard that she said that the teacher said L. P. and she were the favourite pupils. She also told us that the teacher was in his swimming drawers. Then they went to a wedding, and the bride got a little child.

Remarks.—The personal relationship to the teacher is strongly emphasised (the "favourite pupils"), likewise the want of clothing ("swimming drawers").

(V.) M. and L. P. went bathing with the teacher. When M. and L. P. and the teacher had swum a little way, M. said: "I cannot go any further, teacher, my foot hurts me." Then the teacher said she should sit on his back, which M. did. Then a small steamer came along, and the teacher got into the ship. The teacher had also two ropes, and he fastened both children to the ship. Then they went together to Z. and got out there. Then the teacher bought himself a dressing jacket and put it on, and the children had put a cloth over themselves. The teacher had a bride, and they were in a barn. Both children were with the teacher and the bride in the barn, and danced. I must not write the other thing, for it is too awful.

Remarks.—Here Marie sits upon the teacher's back. The teacher fastens the two children by ropes to the ship, from which it can be seen how easily ship is put for teacher. The jacket again emerges as the piece of clothing. It was the teacher's own wedding, and what is improper comes after the dance.

(VI.) The teacher is said to have gone bathing with the whole school. M. could not find any room, and she cried. The teacher is said to have told M. she could come into his dressing-room.

"I must leave out something here and there," said my sister, "for it is a long story." But she told me something more which I must tell in order to speak the truth. When they were in the bath the teacher asked M. if she wished to swim out into the lake with him. To which she replied, "If I go along, you come also." Then we swam until about half-way. Then M. got tired, and then the teacher pulled her by a cord. At K. they went on land, and from there to Z. (The teacher was all the time dressed as in the bath.) There we met a friend, whose wedding it was. We were invited by this friend. After the ceremony there was a honeymoon journey, and we came to Milan. We had to pass one night in a barn where something occurred which I cannot say. The teacher said we were his favourite pupils, and he also kissed M.

Remarks.—The excuse "I must leave out something here and there" replaces the undressing. The teacher's want of clothing is emphasised. The journey to Milan is a typical honeymoon. This passage also seems to be an independent fancy, due to some personal participation. Marie clearly figures as the loved one.

(VII.) The whole school and the teacher went bathing. They all went into one room. The teacher also. M. alone had no place, and the teacher said to her, "I have still room," she went. Then the teacher said, "Lie on my back, I will swim out into the lake with you." I must not write any more, for it is improper; I can hardly say it at all. Beyond the improper part which followed I do not know any more of the dream.

Remarks.—The narrator approaches the basis. Marie is to lie upon the teacher's back in the bathing compartment. Beyond the improper part she cannot give any more of the dream.

(VIII.) The whole school went bathing. M. had no room and was invited by the teacher into his compartment. The teacher swam out with her and told her that she was his darling or something like that. When they got ashore at Z. a friend was just having a wedding and he invited them both in their swimming costumes. The teacher found an old dressing jacket and put it over the swimming drawers. He (the teacher) also kissed M. and said he would not return home to his wife any more. They were also both invited on the honeymoon journey. On the journey they passed Andermatt, where they could not find any place to sleep, and so had to sleep in the hay. There was a woman; the dreadful part now comes, it is not at all right to make something serious into mockery and laughter. This woman got a small child. I will not say any more now, for it becomes too dreadful.

Remarks.—The narrator is thoroughgoing. (He told her simply she was his darling. He kissed her and said he would not go home to his wife.) The vexation about the silly tattling which breaks through at the end suggests some peculiarity in the narrator. From subsequent investigation it was found that this girl was the only one of the witnesses who had been early and intentionally given an explanation about sex by her mother.

Epicrisis.

So far as the interpretation of the dream is concerned, there is nothing for me to add; the children have taken care of all the essentials, leaving practically nothing over for psychoanalytic interpretation. Rumour has analysed and interpreted the dream. So far as I know rumour has not hitherto been investigated in this new capacity. This case certainly makes it appear worth while to fathom the psychology of rumour. In the presentation of the material I have purposely restricted myself to the psychoanalytic point of view, although I do not deny that my material offers numerous openings for the invaluable researches of the followers of Stern, Claparède, and others.

The material enables us to understand the structure of the rumour, but psychoanalysis cannot rest satisfied with that. The why and wherefore of the whole manifestation demands further knowledge. As we have seen, the teacher, astonished by this rumour, was left puzzled by the problem, wondering as to its cause and effect. How can a dream which is notoriously incorrect and meaningless (for teachers are, as is well known, grounded in psychology) produce such effects, such malicious gossip? Faced by this, the teacher seems to have instinctively hit upon the correct answer. The effect of the dream can only be explained by its being "le vrai mot de la situation," i.e. that the dream formed the fit expression for something that was already in the air. It was the spark which fell into the powder magazine. The material contains all the proofs essential for this view. I have repeatedly drawn attention to their own unrecognised participation in the dream by Marie's school-companions, and the special points of interest where any of them have added their own phantasies or dreams. The class consists of girls between twelve and thirteen years of age, who therefore are in the midst of the prodromata of puberty. The dreamer Marie X. is herself physically almost completely developed sexually, and in this respect ahead of her class; she is therefore a leader who has given the watchword for the unconscious, and thus brought to expression the sexual complexes of her companions which were lying there ready prepared.

As can be easily understood, the occasion was most painful to the teacher. The supposition that therein lay some secret motive of the schoolgirls is justified by the psychoanalytic axiom—judge actions by their results rather than by their conscious motives.[164] Consequently it would be probable that Marie X. had been especially troublesome to her teacher. Marie at first liked this teacher most of all. In the course of the latter half-year her position had, however, changed. She had become dreamy and inattentive, and towards the dusk of evening was afraid to go into the streets for fear of bad men. She talked several times to her companions about sexual things in a somewhat obscene way; her mother asked me anxiously how she should explain the approaching menstruation to her daughter. On account of this alteration in conduct Marie had forfeited the good opinion of her teacher, as was clearly evidenced for the first time by a school report, which she and some of her friends had received a few days before the outbreak of the rumour. The disappointment was so great that the girls had imagined all kinds of fancied acts of revenge against the teacher; for instance, they might push him on to the lines so that the train would run over him, etc. Marie was especially to the fore in these murderous phantasies. On the night of this great outburst of anger, when her former liking for her teacher seemed quite forgotten, that repressed part of herself announced itself in the dream, and fulfilled its desire for sexual union with the teacher—as a compensation for the hate which had filled the day.

On waking, the dream became a subtle instrument of her hatred, because the wish-idea was also that of her school companions, as it always is in rumours of this kind. Revenge certainly had its triumph, but the recoil upon Marie herself was still more severe. Such is the rule when our impulses are given over to the unconscious. Marie X. was expelled from school, but upon my report she was allowed to return to it.

I am well aware that this little communication is inadequate and unsatisfactory from the point of view of exact science. Had the original story been accurately verified we should have clearly demonstrated what we have now been only able to suggest. This case therefore only posits a question, and it remains for happier observers to collect convincing experiences in this field.

CHAPTER V

ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF NUMBER-DREAMS[165]

The symbolism of numbers which greatly engaged the imaginative philosophy of earlier centuries has again acquired a fresh interest from the analytic investigations of Freud and his school. But in the material of number-dreams we no longer discover conscious puzzles of symbolic concatenations of numbers but the unconscious roots of the symbolism of numbers. There is scarcely anything quite fundamentally new to offer in this sphere since the presentations of Freud, Adler and Stekel. It must here suffice to corroborate their experiences by recording parallel cases. I have had under observation a few cases of this kind which are worth reporting for their general interest.

The first three instances are from a middle-aged married man whose conflict of the moment was an extra-conjugal love affair. The piece of the dream from which I take the symbolised number is: in front of the manager his general subscription. The manager comments on the high number of the subscription. It reads 2477.

The analysis of the dream brings out a rather ungentlemanly reckoning up of the expense of the affair, which is foreign to the generous nature of the dreamer, and which the unconscious makes use of as a resistance to this affair. The preliminary interpretation is, therefore, that the number has some financial importance and origin. A rough estimate of the expenses so far leads to a number which in fact approaches 2477 francs; a more exact reckoning, however, gives 2387 francs, which could be only arbitrarily translated into 2477. I then left the numbers to the free association of the patient; it occurs to him that the figure in the dream should be divided as 24-77. Perhaps it is a telephone number; this supposition proves incorrect. The next association is that it is the total of some numbers. A reminiscence then occurs to him that he once told me that he had celebrated the 100th birthday of his mother and himself when his mother was 65 and he was 35 years old. (Their birthdays are on the same day.)

In this way the patient arrived at the following series of associations:—

He is now 36 years old, his mistress 25.

If this series of associations is written in the usual figures, the following addition is arrived at:—

This series, which includes all the members of his family, gives the number 2477.

This construction led to a deeper layer of the dream's meaning. The patient is most closely united to his family, but on the other hand very much in love. This situation provokes a severe conflict. The detailed description of the manager's appearance (which I leave out for the sake of brevity) pointed to the analyst, from whom the patient rightly fears and desires firm control and criticism of his condition of dependence and bondage.

The dream which followed soon afterwards, reported in brief, runs: The analyst asks the patient what he actually does at his mistress'? to which the patient replied he plays there, and that indeed on a very high number, on 152. The analyst remarks: "You are sadly cheated."

The analysis displayed again a repressed tendency to reckon up the expense of the affair. The amount spent monthly was close on 152 francs, it was from 148-158 francs. The remark that he was being cheated alludes to the point at issue in the difficulties of the patient with his mistress. She maintains that he had deflowered her; he, on the contrary, is firmly convinced that she was not a virgin, and that she had already been seduced by some one else at the time when he was seeking her favours and she was refusing him. The expression "number" leads to the associations: number of the gloves, calibre-number. From there the next step was to the fact that he recognized, at the first coitus, a noticeable width of the opening instead of the expected resistance of the hymen. To him, this is proof of the deception. The unconscious naturally makes use of this opportunity as an effective means of opposition to the relationship. 152 proves at first refractory to further analysis. The number on a subsequent occasion aroused the really not remote association, "house-number." Then came this series of associations. When the patient first knew her the lady lived at X Street No. 17, then Y Street No. 129, then Z Street No. 48.

Here the patient thought that he had clearly gone far beyond 152, the total being 194. It then occurred to him that the lady had removed from No. 48 Z Street at his instigation for certain reasons; it must therefore run 194 - 48 = 146. She now lives in A Street No. 6, therefore 146 + 6 = 152.

The following dream was obtained during a later part of the analysis. The patient dreamt that he had received an account from the analyst in which he was charged interest for delay in payment from the period September 3rd to 29th. The interest on the total of 315 francs was 1 franc.

Under this reproach of meanness and avariciousness levelled at the analyst, the patient covered, as analysis proved, a violent unconscious envy. Diverse things in the life of the analyst can arouse the patient's envy; one fact here in particular had recently made a marked impression. His physician had received an addition to the family. The disturbed relations between the patient and his wife unfortunately does not permit such an expectation in his case. Hence his ground for envy and invidious comparisons.

As before, the analysis of 315 produces a separation into 3—1—5. To three he associates—his doctor has three children, just lately there is one in addition. He himself would have five children were all living; as it is he has 3 - 1 = 2 living; for three of the children were stillborn. The symbolism of the numbers is not exhausted by these associations.

The patient remarks that the period from 3rd to 29th September contains twenty-six days. His next thought is to add this and the other figures of the dream:

• 26
• 315
• 1
• ___
• 342
• ___

With 342 he carries out the same operation as on 315, splitting it into 3—4—2. Whereas before it came out that his doctor had three children, and then had another, and the patient had five, now it runs: the doctor had three children, and now has four, patient has only two. He remarks on this that the second figure sounds like a rectification in contrast with the wish-fulfilment of the first.

The patient, who had discovered this explanation for himself without my help, declared himself satisfied. His physician, however, was not; to him it seemed that the above disclosures did not exhaust the rich possibilities that determined the unconscious images. The patient had, for instance, added to the figure five that of the stillborn children; one was born in the 9th month and two in the 7th. He also emphasised the fact that his wife had had two miscarriages, one in the 5th week and the other in the 7th. Adding these figures together we get the determination of the number 26.

It seems as if the number twenty-six were determined by the number of the lost times of pregnancy. This time (twenty-six days) denotes, in the dream, a delay for which the patient was charged one franc interest. He has, in fact, suffered a delay through the lost pregnancies, for his doctor has, during the time the patient has known him, surpassed him with one child. One franc must be one child. We have already seen the tendency of the patient to add together all his children, even the dead ones, in order to outdo his rival. The thought that his physician had outdone him by one child could easily react immediately upon the determination of 1. We will therefore follow up this tendency of the patient and carry on his play with figures, by adding to the figure 26 the two complete pregnancies of nine months each.

26 + 9 + 9 = 44

If we follow the tendency to split up the numbers we get 2 + 6 and 4 + 4, two groups of figures which have only this in common, that each group gives 8 by addition. These numbers are, as we must notice, composed entirely of the months of pregnancy given by the patient. Compare with them those groups of figures which contain the information as to the doctor's fecundity, viz. 315 and 342; it is to be noted that the resemblance lies in their sum-total giving 9 : 9 - 8 = 1. It looks as if here likewise the notion about the differentiation of 1 were carried out. As the patient remarked, 315 seems thus a wish-fulfilment, 342 on the other hand a rectification. An ingenious fancy playing round will discover the following difference between the two numbers:

3 × 1 × 5 = 15.     3 × 4 × 2 = 24.     24 - 15 = 9

Here again we come upon the important figure 9, which neatly combines the reckoning of the pregnancies and births.

It is difficult to say where the borderline of play begins; necessarily so, for the unconscious product is the creation of a sportive fancy, of that psychic impulse out of which play itself arises. It is repugnant to the scientific mind to have serious dealings with this element of play, which on all sides loses itself in the vague. But it must be never forgotten that the human mind has for thousands of years amused itself with just this kind of game; it were therefore nothing wonderful if this historic past again compelled admission in dream to similar tendencies. The patient pursues in his waking life similar phantastic tendencies about figures, as is seen in the fact already mentioned of the celebration of the 100th birthday. Their presence in the dream therefore need not surprise us. In a single example of unconscious determination exact proofs are often lacking, but the sum of our experiences entitles us to rely upon the accuracy of the individual discoveries. In the investigation of free creative phantasy we are in the region, almost more than anywhere else, of broad empiricism; a high measure of discretion as to the accuracy of individual results is consequently required, but this in nowise obliges us to pass over in silence what is active and living, for fear of being execrated as unscientific. There must be no parleying with the superstition-phobia of the modern mind; for this itself is a means by which the secrets of the unconscious are kept veiled.

It is of special interest to see how the problems of the patient are mirrored in the unconscious of his wife. His wife had the following dream: She dreamt, and this is the whole dream: "Luke 137." The analysis of the number gives the following. To 1 she associates: The doctor has another child. He had three. If all her children were living she would have 7; now she has only 3 - 1 = 2. But she desires 1 + 3 + 7 = 11 (a twin number, 1 and 1), which expresses her wish that her two children had been pairs of twins, for then she would have reached the same number of children as the doctor. Her mother once had twins. The hope of getting a child by her husband is very precarious; this had for a long time turned her ideas in the unconscious towards a second marriage. Other phantasies pictured her as "done with," i.e. having reached the climacteric at 44. She is now 33 years old, therefore in 11 years she will have reached her 44th year. This is an important period as her father died in his 44th year. Her phantasy of the 44th year contains the idea of the death of her father. The emphasis on the death of her father corresponds to the repressed phantasy of the death of her husband, who is the obstacle to a second marriage. At this place the material belonging to the dream "Luke 137" comes in to solve the conflict. The dreamer is, one soon discovers, in no wise well up in her Bible, she has not read it for an incredible time, she is not at all religious. It would be therefore quite purposeless to have recourse to associations here. The dreamer's ignorance of her Bible is so great that she did not even know that the citation "Luke 137" could only refer to the Gospel of St. Luke. When she turned up the New Testament she came to the Acts of the Apostles. As chapter i. has only 26 verses and not 37, she took the 7th verse, "It is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in his own power."

But if we turn to Luke i. 37, we find the Annunciation of the Virgin.

Verse 35. The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.

Verse 36. And, behold, thy cousin Elisabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren.

Verse 37. For with God nothing shall be impossible.

The necessary continuation of the analysis of "Luke 137" demanded the looking up of Luke xiii. 7, where it says:

Verse 6. A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came and sought fruit thereon, and found none.

Verse 7. Then said he unto the dresser of his vineyard, Behold, these three years I come seeking fruit on this fig tree, and find none: cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground?

The fig-tree, which from antiquity has been a symbol of the male genital, is to be cut down on account of its unfruitfulness. This passage is in complete accord with innumerable sadistic phantasies of the dreamer, concerned with the cutting or biting off of the penis. The relation to her husband's unfruitful organ is obvious. That she withdraws her libido from her husband is clear for he is impotent as regard herself; it is equally clear that she undergoes regression to the father ("which the father hath put in his own power") and identifies herself with her mother who had twins.[166] By thus advancing her age the dreamer places her husband in regard to herself in the position of a son or boy, of an age at which impotency is normal. Furthermore, the desire to overcome her husband is easily understood from, and amply evidenced in her earlier analysis. It is therefore only a confirmation of what has been already said, if, following up the matter of "Luke 137," we find in Luke vii. verse 12, Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. (13) And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. (14) And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.

In the particular psychological situation of the dreamer, the allusion to the resurrection presents a delightful meaning as the cure of her husband's impotency. Then the whole problem would be solved. There is no need for me to point out in so many words the numerous wish-fulfilments contained in this material; they are obvious to the reader.

The important combination of the symbol "Luke 137" must be conceived as cryptomnesia, since the dreamer is quite unversed in the Bible. Both Flournoy[167] and myself[168] have already drawn attention to the important effects of this phenomenon. So far as one can be humanly certain, the question of any manipulation of the material with intent to deceive does not come into consideration in this case. Those well posted in psychoanalysis will be able to allay any such suspicion simply from the disposition and setting of the material as a whole.

CHAPTER VI

A CRITICISM OF BLEULER'S "THEORY OF SCHIZOPHRENIC NEGATIVISM"[169]

Bleuler's work contains a noteworthy clinical analysis of "Negativism." Besides giving a very precise and discerning summary of the various manifestations of negativism, the author presents us with a new psychological conception well worthy of attention, viz. the concept of ambivalency and of ambitendency, thus formulating the psychological axiom that every tendency is balanced by its opposite tendency (to this must be added that positive action is produced by a comparatively small leaning to one side of the scale). Similarly all other tendencies, under the stress of emotions, are balanced by their opposites—thus giving an ambivalent character to their expression. This theory rests on clinical observation of katatonic negativism, which more than proves the existence of contrasting tendencies and values. These facts are well known to psychoanalysis, where they are summed up under the concept of resistance. But this must not be taken as meaning that every positive psychic action simply calls up its opposite. One may easily gain the impression from Bleuler's work that his standpoint is that, cum grano salis, the conception or the tendency of the Schizophrenic is always accompanied by its opposite. For instance, Bleuler says:—

1. "Disposing causes of negativistic phenomena are: the ambitendency by which every impulse is accompanied by its opposite."

2. "Ambivalency, which gives two opposed emotional expressions to the same idea, and would regard that idea as positive and negative at the same time."

3. "The schizophrenic splitting of the psyche prevents any final summing up of the conflicting and corresponding psychisms, so that the unsuitable impulse can be realised just as much as the right one, and the negative thought substituted for the right one." "On this theory, negative manifestations may directly arise, since non-selected positive and negative psychisms may stand for one another," and so on.

If we investigate psychoanalytically a case of obvious ambivalency, i.e. of a more or less unexpected negative reaction instead of a positive one, we find that there is a strict sequence of psychological causes conditioning negative reaction. The tendency of this sequence is to disturb the intention of the contrasting or opposite series, that is to say, it is resistance set up by a complex. This fact, which has not yet been refuted by any other observations, seems to me to contradict the above-mentioned formulæ. (For confirmation, see my "Psychology of Dementia Præcox," p. 103.) Psychoanalysis has proved conclusively that a resistance always has an intention and a meaning; that there is no such thing as a capricious playing with contrasts. The systematic character of resistance holds good, as I believe I have proved, even in schizophrenia. So long as this position, founded upon a great variety of experience, is not disproved by any other observations, the theory of negativism must adapt itself to it. Bleuler in a sense supports this when he says: "For the most part the negative reaction does not simply appear as accidental, but is actually preferred to the right one." This is an admission that negativism is of the nature of resistance. Once admit this, and the primary importance of ambivalency disappears so far as negativism is concerned. The tendency to resistance remains as the only fundamental principle. Ambivalency can in no sense be put on all fours with the "schizophrenic splitting of the psyche," but must be regarded as a concept which gives expression to the universal and ever-present inner association of pairs of opposites. (One of the most remarkable examples of this is the "contrary meaning of root-words." See Freud's "Essay on Dreams," Jahrbuch, vol. II., p. 179.) The same thing applies to ambitendency. Neither is specific of schizophrenia, but applies equally to the neuroses and the normal. All that is specific to katatonic negativism is the intentional contrast, i.e. the resistance. From this explanation we see that resistance is something different from ambivalency; it is the dynamic factor which makes manifest the everywhere latent ambivalency. What is characteristic of the diseased mind is not ambivalency but resistance. This implies the existence of a conflict between two opposite tendencies which has succeeded in raising the normally present ambivalency into a struggle of opposing components. (Freud has very aptly called this, "The separation of pairs of opposites.") In other words it is a conflict of wills, bringing about the neurotic condition of "disharmony within the self." This condition is the only "splitting of the psyche" known to us, and is not so much to be regarded as a predisposing cause, but rather as a manifestation resulting from the inner conflict—the "incompatibility of the complex" (Riklin).

Resistance, as the fundamental fact of schizophrenic dissociation, thus becomes something which, in contra-distinction to ambivalency, is not eo ipso identical with the concept of the state of feeling, but is a secondary and supplementary one, with its own special and quasi independent psychological development; and this is identical with the necessary previous history of the complex in every case. It follows that the theory of negativism coincides with the theory of the complex, as the complex is the cause of the resistance.

Bleuler summarises the causes of negativism as follows:

(a) The autistic retirement of the patient into his own phantasies.

(b) The existence of a life-wound (complex) which must be protected from injury.

(c) The misconception of the environment and of its meaning.

(d) The directly hostile relation to environment.

(e) The pathological irritability of schizophrenics.

(f) The "press of ideas," and other aggravations of action and thought.

(g) Sexuality with its ambivalency on the emotional plane is often one of the roots of negative reaction.

(a) Autistic withdrawal into one's own phantasies[170] is what I formerly designated as the obvious overgrowth of the phantasies of the complex. The strengthening of the complex is coincident with the increase of the resistance.

(b) The life-wound (Lebenswund) is the complex which, as a matter of course, is present in every case of schizophrenia, and of necessity always carries with it the phenomena of autism or auto-erotism (introversion), for complexes and involuntary egocentricity are inseparable reciprocities. Points (a) and (b) are therefore identical. (Cf. "Psychology of Dementia Præcox," chapters ii. and iii.)

(c) It is proved that the misconception of environment is an assimilation of the complex.

(d) The hostile relation to environment is the maximum of resistance as psychoanalysis clearly shows. (d) goes with (a).

(e) "Irritability" proves itself psychoanalytically to be one of the commonest results of the complex. I designated it complex-sensibility. Its generalised form (if one may use such an expression) manifests itself as a damming up of the affect (= damming of the libido), consequent on increased resistance. So-called neurasthenia is a classical example of this.

(f) Under the term "press of ideas," and similar intellectual troubles, may be classified the "want of clearness and logic of the schizophrenic thinking," which Bleuler considers a predisposing cause. I have, as I may presume is known, expressed myself with much reserve on what he regards as the premeditation of the schizophrenic adjustment. Further and wider experience has taught me that the laws of the Freudian psychology of dreams and the theory of the neuroses must be turned towards the obscurities of schizophrenic thinking. The painfulness of the elaborated complex necessitates a censorship of its expression.[171] This principle has to be applied to schizophrenic disturbance in thinking; and until it has been proved that this principle is not applicable to schizophrenia, there is no justification for setting up a new principle; i.e. to postulate that schizophrenic disturbance of ideas is something primary. Investigations of hypnagogic activity, as well as association reactions in states of concentrated attention, give psychical results which up to now are indistinguishable from the mental conditions in schizophrenia. For example excessive relaxation of attention suffices to conjure up images as like as two peas to the phantasies and expressions of schizophrenia. It will be remembered that I have attributed the notorious disturbances of attention in schizophrenia to the special character of the complex; an idea which my experience since 1906 have further confirmed. There are good reasons for believing specific schizophrenic thought-disturbance to be the result of a complex.

Now as regards the symptoms of thought-pressure, it is first and foremost a thought-compulsion, which, as Freud has shown, is first a thought-complex and secondly a sexualisation of the thought. Then to the symptom of thought-pressure there is superadded at least a demoniac impulse such as may be observed in every vigorous release or production of libido.

Thought-pressure, on closer examination, is seen to be a result of schizophrenic introversion, which necessarily leads to a sexualisation of the thought; i.e. to an autonomy of the complex.[172]

(g) The transition to sexuality appears from the psychoanalytical standpoint difficult to understand. If we consider that the development of resistance coincides in every case with the history of the complex we must ask ourselves: Is the complex sexual or not? (It goes without saying thatwe must understand sexuality in its proper sense of psycho-sexuality.) To this question psychoanalysis gives the invariable answer: Resistance always springs from a peculiar sexual development. The latter leads in the well-known manner to conflict, i.e. to the complex. Every case of schizophrenia which has so far been analysed confirms this. It can therefore claim at least to be a working hypothesis, and one to be followed up. In the present state of our knowledge, it is therefore not easy to see why Bleuler only allows to sexuality a quasi-determining influence on the phenomena of negativism; for psychoanalysis demonstrates that the cause of negativism is resistance; and that with schizophrenia, as with all other neuroses, this arises from the peculiar sexual development.

It can scarcely be doubted to-day that schizophrenia, with its preponderance of the mechanisms of introversion, possesses the same mechanism as any other "psycho-neurosis." In my opinion, at any rate, its peculiar symptoms (apart from the clinical and anatomical standpoints) are only to be studied by psychoanalysis, i.e. when the investigation is mainly directed to the genetic impetus. I have, therefore, endeavoured to indicate how Bleuler's hypothesis stands in the light of the theory of complexes; I feel myself bound to emphasise the complex-theory in this relation, and am not disposed to surrender this conception, which is as illuminating as it was difficult to evolve.

CHAPTER VII

PSYCHOANALYSIS[173]

Psychoanalysis is not only scientific, but also technical in character; and from results technical in their nature, has been developed a new psychological science which might be called "analytical psychology."

Psychologists and doctors in general are by no means conversant with this particular branch of psychology, owing to the fact that its technical foundations are as yet comparatively unknown to them. Reason for this may be found in that the new method is exquisitely psychological, and therefore belongs neither to the realm of medicine nor to that of experimental psychology. The medical man has, as a rule, but little knowledge of psychology; and the psychologist has no medical knowledge. There is therefore a lack of suitable soil in which to plant the spirit of this new method. Furthermore, the method itself appears to many persons so arbitrary that they cannot reconcile it with their scientific conscience. The conceptions of Freud, the founder of this method, laid particular stress upon the sexual factor; this fact has aroused strong prejudice, and many scientific men are repelled merely by this feeling. I need hardly remark that such an antipathy is not a logical ground for rejecting a new method. The facts being so, it is obvious that the psychoanalyst should discuss the principles rather than the results of his method, when he speaks in public; for he who does not acknowledge the scientific character of the method cannot acknowledge the scientific character of its results.

Before I enter into the principles of the psychoanalytic method, I must mention two common prejudices against it.

The first of these is that psychoanalysis is nothing but a somewhat deep and complicated form of anamnesis. Now it is well known that the anamnesis is based upon the evidence supplied by the patient's family, and upon his own conscious self-knowledge, revealed in reply to direct questions. The psychoanalyst naturally develops his anamnesic data as carefully as any other specialist; but this is merely the patient's history, and must not be confused with analysis. Analysis is the reduction of an actual conscious content of a so-called accidental nature, into its psychological determinants. This process has nothing to do with the anamnesic reconstruction of the history of the illness.

The second prejudice, which is based, as a rule, upon a superficial knowledge of psychoanalytic literature, is that psychoanalysis is a method of suggestion, by which a faith or doctrine of living is imposed upon the patient, thereby effecting a cure in the manner of mental healing or Christian Science. Many analysts, especially those who have worked in psychoanalysis for a long time, previously used therapeutic suggestion, and are therefore familiar with its workings. They know that the psychoanalyst's method of working is diametrically opposed to that of the hypnotist. In direct contrast with therapeutic suggestion, the psychoanalyst does not attempt to force anything upon his patient which the latter does not see himself, and find reasonable with his own understanding. Faced with the constant desire on the part of the neurotic patient to receive suggestions and advice, the analyst just as constantly endeavours to lead him away from this passive receptive attitude, and make him use his common sense and powers of criticism, that equipped with these he may become fitted to meet the problems of life independently. We have often been accused of forcing interpretations upon patients, interpretations that were frequently quite arbitrary in character. I wish that one of these critics would make the attempt to force such arbitrary interpretations upon my patients, who are often persons of great intelligence and high culture, and who are, indeed, not infrequently my own colleagues. The impossibility of such an undertaking would soon be laid bare. In psychoanalysis we are dependent upon the patient and his judgment, for the reason that the very nature of analysis consists in leading him to a knowledge of his own self. The principles of psychoanalysis are so entirely different from those of therapeutic suggestion that they are not comparable.

An attempt has also been made to compare analysis with the reasoning method of Dubois, which is in itself a rational process. This comparison does not however hold good, for the psychoanalyst strictly avoids argument and persuasion with his patients. He must naturally listen to and take note of the conscious problems and conflicts of his patient, but not for the purpose of fulfilling his desire to obtain advice or direction with regard to his conduct. The problems of a neurotic patient cannot be solved by advice and conscious argument. I do not doubt that good advice at the right time can produce good results; but I do not know whence one can obtain the belief that the psychoanalyst can always give the right advice at the right time. The neurotic conflict is frequently, indeed as a rule, of such a character that advice cannot possibly be given. Furthermore, it is well known that the patient only desires authoritative advice in order that he may cast aside the burden of responsibility, referring himself and others to the opinion of the higher authority.

In direct contrast to all previous methods, psychoanalysis endeavours to overcome the disorders of the neurotic psyche through the subconscious, not through the conscious self. In this work we naturally have need of the patient's conscious content, for his subconsciousness can only be reached viâ the conscious. The material furnished by the anamnesis is the source from which our work starts. The detailed recital usually furnishes many valuable clues which make the psychogenic origin of the symptoms clear to the patient. This work is naturally only necessary where the patient is convinced that his neurosis is organic in its origin. But even in those cases where the patient is convinced from the very first of the psychic nature of his illness, a critical survey of the history is very advantageous, since it discloses to him a psychological concatenation of ideas of which he was unaware. In this manner those problems which need special discussion are frequently brought to the surface. Work of this kind may occupy many sittings. Finally the explanation of the conscious material reaches an end, in so far as neither the patient nor the doctor can add anything to it that is decisive in character. Under the most favourable circumstances the end comes with the formulation of the problem which proved itself to be impossible of solution. Let us take, for instance, the case of a man who was once well, but who became a neurotic between the age of 35 and 40. His position in life is assured, and he has a wife and children. Parallel with his neurosis he developed an intense resistance towards his professional work. He observed that the first symptoms of neurosis became noticeable when he had to overcome a certain difficulty in regard to it. Later on his symptoms became aggravated with each successive difficulty that arose. An amelioration in his neurosis occurred whenever fortune favoured him in his professional work. The problem that results from a critical discussion of the anamnesis is as follows:—

The patient is aware that if he could improve his work, the mere satisfaction that would result could bring about the much-desired improvement in his neurotic condition. He cannot, however, make his work more efficient because of his great resistance against it. This problem cannot be solved by any reasoning process.

Let us take another case. A woman of 40, the mother of four children, became neurotic four years ago after the death of one of her children. A new period of pregnancy, followed by the birth of another child, produced a great improvement in her condition. The patient now lived in the thought that it would be a great help to her if she could have yet another child. Believing, however, that this could not happen, she attempted to devote her energies to philanthropic interests. But she failed to obtain the least satisfaction from this work. She observed a distinct alleviation of her complaint whenever she succeeded in giving real, living interest to any matter, but she felt entirely incapable of discovering anything that could bring her lasting interest and satisfaction. It is clear that no process of reasoning can solve this problem.

Here psychoanalysis must begin with the endeavour to solve the problem as to what prevents the patient from developing interests above and beyond her longing for a child.

Since we cannot assume that we know from the very beginning what the solution of such problems is, we must at this point trust to the clues furnished us by the individuality of the patient. Neither conscious questioning nor rational advice can aid us in the discovery of these clues, for the causes which prevent us from finding them are hidden from her consciousness. There is, therefore, no clearly indicated path by which to reach these subconscious inhibitions. The only rule that psychoanalysis lays down for our guidance in this respect, is to let the patient speak of that which occurs to him at the moment. The analyst must observe carefully what the patient says and, in the first instance, take due note thereof without attempting to force his own opinions upon him. Thus we observe that the patient whom I first mentioned begins by talking about his marriage, which we hitherto had reason to regard as normal. We now learn that he constantly has difficulties with his wife, and that he does not understand her in the least. This knowledge causes the physician to remark that the patient's professional work is clearly not his only problem; but that his conjugal relations are also in need of revision. This starts a train of thought in which many further ideas occur to the patient, concerning his married life. Hereupon follow ideas about the love affairs he had before his marriage. These experiences, related in detail, show that the patient was always somewhat peculiar in his more intimate relations with women, and that this peculiarity took the form of a certain childish egoism. This is a new and surprising point of view for him, and explains to him many of his misfortunes with women.