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Title: Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology

Author: C. G. Jung

Editor: Constance E. Long

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED PAPERS ON ANALYTICAL
PSYCHOLOGY ***

COLLECTED PAPERS

ON

ANALYTICAL PSYCHOLOGY

BY

C. G. JUNG, M.D., LL.D.,

FORMERLY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ZÜRICH.

AUTHORISED TRANSLATION

Edited by DR. CONSTANCE E. LONG,

MEDICAL OFFICER, EDUCATION BOARD; MEMBER ADVISORY COMMITTEE
INSURANCE ACT;
EX-PRESIDENT ASSOCIATION OF REGISTERED MEDICAL WOMEN, ETC.

SECOND EDITION (REPRINTED)

LONDON

BAILLIÈRE, TINDALL AND COX
8, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN

1920

[All rights reserved]

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.

EDITOR'S PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION
The following papers have been gathered together from various sources, and are now available for the first
time to English readers. The subject of psychoanalysis is much in evidence, and is likely to occupy still
more attention in the near future, as the psychological content of the psychoses and neuroses is more
generally appreciated and understood. It is of importance, therefore, that the fundamental writings of both
the Viennese and Zürich Schools should be accessible for study. Several of Freud's works have already
been translated into English. Dr. Jung's "Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido" was published in America
in 1916 under the title of "The Psychology of the Unconscious." That work, read in conjunction with these
papers, offers a fairly complete picture of the scientific and philosophic standpoint of the leader of the
Zürich School. It is the task of the future to judge and expand the findings of both schools, and to work at
the development of the new psychology, which is still in its infancy.
It will be a relief to many students of the unconscious to see it in another aspect than that of "a wild beast
couched, waiting its hour to spring." Some readers have gathered that view of it from the writings of the
Viennese School, a view which is at most that dangerous thing "a half-truth."
In the papers appearing for the first time in this edition (Chapters XIV. and XV.), Dr. Jung develops his
ideas of introversion and extroversion, a contribution of the first importance to psychology. He agrees with
Freud in regarding the neuroses to be the result of repression, but differs in his view as to the origin of
repression. He finds this to lie not in sexuality per se, but rather in man's natural tendency to adapt to the
demands of life one-sidedly, according to his type of mentality. The born extrovert adapts by means of
feeling, thought being under repression and relatively infantile. The introvert's natural adaptation is by
means of thought; feeling being more or less repressed remains undeveloped. In either type the neglected
co-function is behind the adapted function. This inequality operating in the unconscious, brings about a
conflict, which in certain subjects amounts to a neurosis, and in others produces a limitation of individual
development. This view shifts the interpretation of repression on to a much more comprehensive basis
than that of sexuality, although there can scarcely be a repression that does not include this instinct on
account of its deep and far-reaching importance in man.
There is no doubt that some even scientific persons have a certain fear of whither the study of the
unconscious may lead. These fearful persons should be reminded that they possess an unconscious in spite
of themselves, and that they share it in common with every human being. It is an extension of the
individual. To study it is to deepen the self. All new discoveries have at one stage been called dangerous,
and all new philosophies have been deemed heresies. It is as though we would once more consign radium
to its dust-heaps, lest some day the new radiancy should over-power mankind. Indeed this particular thing
has proved at once most dangerous and most precious. Man must learn to use his treasure, and in using it
to submit to its own laws, which can only become known when it is handled and investigated.
Those who read this book with the attention it requires, will find they gain an impression of many new
truths. The second edition is issued towards the end of the third year of the Great European war, at a time
when much we have valued and held sacred is in the melting-pot. But we believe that out of the crucible
new forms will arise. The study of psychoanalysis produces something of the effect of a war in the psyche;
indeed, we need to make conscious this war in the inner things of the mind and soul if we would be
delivered in the future from war in the external world. There is a parallelism between individual and
international neurosis. In the pain of the upheaval, one recognises the birth-pangs of newer, and let us
hope, truer thought, and more natural adaptations. We need a renewal of our philosophy of life to replace
much that has perished in the general cataclysm, and it is because I see in the analytical psychology, which
grows out of a scientific study of the unconscious, the germs of such a new construction, that I have
gathered the following essays together. The translation is the work of various hands, the names of the

different translators being given in a footnote at the beginning of each essay; for the editing I am
responsible. The essays are, as far as possible, printed in chronological order, and those readers who are
sufficiently interested will be able to discern in them the gradual development of Dr. Jung's present
position in psychoanalysis.
CONSTANCE E. LONG.

2, Harley Place, W.
June, 1917.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION
In agreement with my honoured collaborator, Dr. C. E. Long, I have made certain additions to the second
edition. It should especially be mentioned that a new chapter upon "The Concept of the Unconscious" has
been added. This is a lecture I gave early in 1916 before the Zürich Union for Analytical Psychology. It
gives a general orientation of a most important problem in practical analysis, viz. of the relation of the
psychological ego to the psychological non-ego. Chapter XIV. has been fundamentally altered, and I have
used the opportunity to incorporate an article that should describe the results of more recent researches. In
accordance with my usual mode of working, the description is as generalised as possible. My habit in my
daily practical work is to confine myself for some time to studying my human material. I then abstract as
generalised a formula as possible from the data collected, obtaining from it a point of view and applying it
in my practical work, until it has either been confirmed, modified, or else abandoned. If it has been
confirmed, I publish it as a general view-point, without giving the empirical material. I only introduce the
material amassed in the course of my practice in the form of example or illustration. I therefore beg the
reader not to consider the views I present as mere fabrications of my brain. They are, as a matter of fact,
the results of extensive experience and ripe reflection.
These additions will enable the reader of the second edition to become familiar with the recent views of
the Zürich School.
As regards the criticism encountered by the first edition of this work, I was pleased to find my writings
were received with much more open-mindedness among English critics than was the case in Germany,
where they are met with the silence born of contempt. I am particularly grateful to Dr. Agnes Savill for an
exceptionally understanding criticism in the Medical Press. My thanks are also due to Dr. T. W. Mitchell
for an exhaustive review in the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research. This critic takes
exception to my heresy respecting causality. He considers that I am entering upon a perilous, because
unscientific, course, when I question the sole validity of the causal view-point in psychology. I sympathise
with him, but in my opinion the nature of the human mind compels us to take the final point of view. For it
cannot be disputed that, psychologically speaking, we are living and working, day by day, according to the
principle of directed aim or purpose, as well as that of causality. A psychological theory must necessarily
adapt itself to this fact. What is plainly directed towards a goal cannot be given an exclusively causalistic
explanation, otherwise we should be led to the conclusion expressed in Moleschott's famous enunciation:
"Man is, what he eats." We must always bear the fact in mind that causality is a point of view. It affirms
the inevitable and immutable relation of a series of events: a-b-d-z. Since this relation is fixed, and
according to the view-point must necessarily be so, looked at logically the order may also be reversed.
Finality is also a view-point, that is justified empirically solely by the existence of series of events,
wherein the causal connection is indeed evident, but the meaning of which only becomes intelligible as
producing final effect. Ordinary daily life furnishes the best instances of this. The causal explanation must
be mechanistic, if we are not to postulate a metaphysical entity as first cause. For instance, if we adopt
Freud's sexual theory and assign primary importance psychologically to the function of the genital glands,
the brain is viewed as an appendage of the genital glands. If we approach the Viennese idea of sexuality
with all its vague omnipotence, and trace it in a strictly scientific manner down to its psychological basis,
we shall arrive at the first cause, according to which psychic life is for the most, or the most important
part, tension and relaxation of the genital glands. If we assume for the moment that this mechanistic
explanation be "true," it would be the sort of truth which is exceptionally tiresome and rigidly limited in
scope. A similar statement would be that the genital glands cannot function without adequate nourishment,
with its inference that sexuality is an appendage-function of nutrition! The truth contained in this is really
an important chapter in the biology of lower forms of life.

But if we wish to work in a really psychological way, we shall want to know the meaning of psychological
phenomena. After learning the kinds of steel the various parts of a locomotive are made of, and from what
ironworks and mines they come, we do not really know anything about the locomotive's function, that is to
say, its meaning. But "function" as conceived by modern science is by no means solely a causal concept; it
is especially a final or "teleological" one. For it is utterly impossible to consider the soul from the causal
view-point only; we are obliged to consider it also from the final point of view. As Dr. Mitchell also points
out, it is impossible for us to think of the causal determination conjointly with a final connection. That
would be an obvious contradiction. But our theory of cognition does not need to remain on a pre-Kantian
level. It is well known that Kant showed very clearly that the mechanistic and the teleological view-points
are not constituent (objective) principles, in some degree qualities of the object, but that they are purely
regulative (subjective) principles of thought, and as such they are not mutually inconsistent. I can, for
example, easily conceive the following thesis and antithesis:—

Thesis: Everything came into existence according to mechanistic laws.
Antithesis: Some things did not come into existence according to mechanistic laws only.

Kant says to this: Reason cannot prove either of these principles, because a priori purely empirical laws of
nature cannot give us a determinative principle regarding the potentiality of things.
As a matter of fact, modern physics has necessarily been converted from the idea of pure mechanism to
the final concept of the conservation of energy, because the mechanistic explanation only recognises
reversible processes, whereas the actual truth is that the process of nature is irreversible. This fact led to
the concept of an energy that tends towards relief of tension, and therewith also towards a definite final
state.
Obviously, I consider both these points of view necessary, the causal as well as the final, but would at the
same time lay stress upon the fact that since Kant's time we have come to know that the two view-points
are not antagonistic if they are regarded as regulative principles of thought, and not as constituent
principles of the process of nature itself.
When speaking of the reviews, I must also mention those that seem to me beside the mark. I was once
more struck by the fact that certain critics cannot distinguish between the theoretical explanation given by
the author, and the phantastic ideas provided by the patient. One of my critics makes this confusion when
discussing "Number Dreams." The associations to the quotation from the Bible in Chapter V. are, as every
attentive reader must readily perceive, not arbitrary explanations of my own, but a cryptomnesic
conglomeration emanating, not from my brain at all, but from that of the patient. Surely it is not difficult
to perceive upon reflection that this conglomeration of numbers corresponds exactly to that unconscious
psychological function from which proceeded all the mysticism of numbers, Pythagoric, Kabbalistic, and
so forth, existent from untold ages.
I am grateful to my serious reviewers, and should like here to also express my thanks to Mrs. Harold F.
McCormick for her generous help in the production of this book.
C. G. JUNG.
June, 1917.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION
This volume contains a selection of articles and pamphlets on analytical psychology written at intervals
during the past fourteen years. These years have seen the development of a new discipline, and as is usual
in such a case, have involved many changes of view-point, of concept, and of formulation.
It is not my intention to give a presentation of the fundamental concepts of analytical psychology in this
book; it throws some light, however, on a certain line of development which is especially characteristic of
the Zürich School of psychoanalysis.
As is well known, the merit of the discovery of the new analytical method of general psychology belongs
to Professor Freud of Vienna. His original view-points had to undergo many essential modifications, some
of them owing to the work done at Zürich, in spite of the fact that he himself is far from agreeing with the
standpoint of this school.
I am unable to explain fully the fundamental differences between the two schools, but would indicate the
following points: The Vienna School takes the standpoint of an exclusive sexualistic conception, while
that of the Zürich School is symbolistic. The Vienna School interprets the psychological symbol
semiotically, as a sign or token of certain primitive psychosexual processes. Its method is analytical and
causal.
The Zürich School recognises the scientific feasibility of such a conception, but denies its exclusive
validity, for it does not interpret the psychological symbol semiotically only, but also symbolistically, that
is, it attributes a positive value to the symbol.
The value does not depend merely on historical causes; its chief importance lies in the fact that it has a
meaning for the actual present, and for the future, in their psychological aspects. For to the Zürich School
the symbol is not merely a sign of something repressed and concealed, but is at the same time an attempt
to comprehend and to point out the way of the further psychological development of the individual. Thus
we add a prospective import to the retrospective value of the symbol.
The method of the Zürich School is therefore not only analytical and causal, but also synthetic and
prospective, in recognition that the human mind is characterised by "causæ" and also by "fines" (aims).
The latter fact needs particular emphasis, because there are two types of psychology, the one following the
principle of hedonism, and the other following the principle of power. Scientific materialism is pertinent
to the former type, and the philosophy of Nietzsche to the latter. The principle of the Freudian theory is
hedonism, while that of Adler (one of Freud's earliest personal pupils) is founded upon the principle of
power.
The Zürich School, recognising the existence of these two types (also remarked by the late Professor
William James), considers that the views of Freud and Adler are one-sided, and only valid within the
limits of their corresponding type. Both principles exist within every individual, but not in equal
proportions.
Thus, it is obvious that each psychological symbol has two aspects, and should be interpreted according to
the two principles. Freud and Adler interpret in the analytical and causal way, reducing to the infantile and
primitive. Thus with Freud the conception of the "aim" is the fulfilment of desire, with Adler it is the
usurpation of power. Both authors take the standpoint in their practical analytical work which brings to
view only infantile and gross egoistic aims.
The Zürich School is convinced of the fact that within the limits of a diseased mental attitude the
psychology is such as Freud and Adler describe. It is, indeed, just on account of such impossible and

childish psychology that the individual is in a state of inward dissociation and hence neurotic. The Zürich
School, therefore, in agreement with them so far, also reduces the psychological symbol (the phantasy
products of the patient) to the fundamental infantile hedonism, or to the infantile desire for power. But
Freud and Adler content themselves with the result of mere reduction, according to their scientific
biologism and naturalism.
But here a very important question arises. Can man obey the fundamental and primitive impulses of his
nature without gravely injuring himself or his fellow beings? He cannot assert either his sexual desire or
his desire for power unlimitedly, and the limits are moreover very restricted. The Zürich School has in
view also the final result of analysis, and regards the fundamental thoughts and impulses of the
unconscious, as symbols, indicative of a definite line of future development. We must admit there is,
however, no scientific justification for such a procedure, because our present-day science is based as a
whole upon causality. But causality is only one principle, and psychology essentially cannot be exhausted
by causal methods only, because the mind lives by aims as well. Besides this disputable philosophical
argument, we have another of much greater value in favour of our hypothesis, namely, that of vital
necessity. It is impossible to live according to the intimations of infantile hedonism, or according to a
childish desire for power. If these are to be retained they must be taken symbolically. Out of the symbolic
application of infantile trends, an attitude evolves which may be termed philosophic or religious, and these
terms characterise sufficiently the lines of further development of the individual. The individual is not
only an established and unchangeable complex of psychological facts, but also an extremely changeable
entity. By exclusive reduction to causes, the primitive trends of a personality are reinforced; this is only
helpful when at the same time these primitive tendencies are balanced by recognition of their symbolic
value. Analysis and reduction lead to causal truth; this by itself does not help living, but brings about
resignation and hopelessness. On the other hand, the recognition of the intrinsic value of a symbol leads to
constructive truth and helps us to live. It induces hopefulness and furthers the possibility of future
development.
The functional importance of the symbol is clearly shown in the history of civilisation. For thousands of
years the religious symbol proved a most efficacious means in the moral education of mankind. Only a
prejudiced mind could deny such an obvious fact. Concrete values cannot take the place of the symbol;
only new and more efficient symbols can be substituted for those that are antiquated and outworn, such as
have lost their efficacy through the progress of intellectual analysis and understanding. The further
development of mankind can only be brought about by means of symbols which represent something far
in advance of himself, and whose intellectual meanings cannot yet be grasped entirely. The individual
unconscious produces such symbols, and they are of the greatest possible value in the moral development
of the personality.
Man almost invariably has philosophic and religious views of the meaning of the world and of his own
life. There are some who are proud to have none. These are exceptions outside the common path of
mankind; they miss an important function which has proved itself to be indispensable to the human mind.
In such cases we find in the unconscious, instead of modern symbolism, an antiquated archaic view of the
world and of life. If a requisite psychological function is not represented in the sphere of consciousness, it
exists in the unconscious in the form of an archaic or embryonic prototype.
This brief résumé may show what the reader cannot find in this collection of papers. The essays are
stations on the way of the more general views developed above.
C. G. JUNG.
Zürich,
. January, 1916.

CONTENTS
PAGE

Editor's Preface to Second Edition v

Author's Preface to Second Edition ix

Author's Preface to First Edition xiii

CHAPTER I
On the Psychology and Pathology of so-called Occult Phenomena 1

Difficulty of demarcation in borderline cases between epilepsy, hysteria, and
mental deficiency—Somnambulism an hysterical manifestation—A case of
spontaneous somnambulism, with some characters of protracted hysterical
delirium—Other cases quoted—Charcot's classification of somnambulism—
Naef's and Azam's cases of periodic amnesia—Proust's and Boileau's
wandering-impulse cases—William James' case of Rev. Ansel Bourne—Other
examples showing changes in consciousness—Hypnagogic hallucinations—
Neurasthenic mental deficiency, Bleuler's case—Summing up of Miss Elsie K.'s
case—Need of further scientific investigation in the field of psychological
peculiarities.

Case of Somnambulism in a Person with Neuropathic Inheritance
(Spiritualistic Medium) 16

History of case—Accidental discovery of her mediumistic powers—Her
somnambulic attacks, "attitudes passionelles," catalepsy, tachypnœa, trance
speeches, etc.—Ecstasies—Her conviction of the reality of her visions—Her
dreams, hypnagogic and hypnopompic visions—The elevation of her
somnambulic character—Mental thought transference—S. W.'s double life—
Psychographic communications—Description of séances—The Prophetess of
Prevorst—Automatic writing—The two grandfathers—Appearance of other
somnambulic personalities.

Development of the Somnambulic Personalities 30

The psychograph and spiritualistic wonders—The grandfather the medium's
"guide" or "control"—Ulrich von Gerbenstein—The somnambulic personalities
have access to the medium's memory—Ivenes—S. W.'s amnesia for her
ecstasies—Later séances—Her journeys on the other side—Oracular sayings—

Conventi—Ivenes' dignity and superiority to her "guides"—Her previous
incarnations—Her race-motherhood.

Mystic Science and Mystic System of Powers 40

Her growing wilful deception—The waking state—Her peculiarities—Instability—
Hysterical tendencies—Misreading—Errors of dispersion of attention
discussed.

Semi-Somnambulism 48
Automatisms 49

Table movements—Unconscious motor phenomena—Verbal suggestion and auto-
suggestion—The experimenter's participation—The medium's unconscious
response—Thought-reading—Table-tilting experiment, illustrated—
Experiments with beginners—Myers' experiments in automatic writing—Janet's
conversation with Lucie's subconsciousness—Example of the way the
subconscious personality is constructed—Hallucinations appear with deepening
hypnosis; some contributing factors—Comparison between dream symbols and
appearance of somnambulic personalities—Extension of the unconscious sphere
—The somnambulist's thinking is in plastic images, which are made objective
in hallucinations—Why visual and not auditory hallucinations occur—Origin of
hypnagogic hallucinations—Those of Jeanne d'Arc and others.

The Change in Character 64

Noticeable in S. W.'s case, also in Mary Reynolds'—Association with amnesic
disturbances—Influence of puberty in our case—S. W.'s systematic anæsthesia
—Ivenes not so much a case of double consciousness as one in which she
dreams herself into a higher ideal state—Similar pathological dreaming found
in the lives of saints—Mechanism of hysterical identification—S. W.'s dreams
break out explosively—Their origin and meaning, and their subjective roots.

Relation to the Hysterical Attack 75

In considering the origin of attack, two moments, viz. irruption of hypnosis, and
the psychic stimulation, must be taken into account—In susceptible subjects
relatively small stimuli suffice to bring about somnambulism—Our case
approaches to hysterical lethargy—The automatisms transform lethargy into
hypnosis—Her ego-consciousness is identical in all states—Secondary
somnambulic personalities split off from the primary unconscious personality—
All group themselves under two types, the gay-hilarious, and serio-religious—
The automatic speaking occurs—This facilitates the study of the subconscious
personalities—Their share of the consciousness—The irruption of the hypnosis
is complicated by an hysterical attack—The automatism arising in the motor
area plays the part of hypnotist—When the hypnotism flows over into the visual
sphere the hysterical attack occurs—Grandfathers I. and II.—Hysterical

dissociations belong to the superficial layers of the ego-complex—There are
layers beyond the reach of dissociation—Effect of the hysterical attack.

Relationship to the Unconscious Personality 82

The serio-religious and the gay-hilarious explained by the anamnesis—Two halves
of S. W.'s character—She is conscious of the painful contrast—She seeks a
middle way—Her aspirations bring her to the puberty dream of the ideal Ivenes
—The repressed ideas begin an autonomous existence—This corroborates
Freud's disclosures concerning dreams—The relation of the somnambulic ego-
complex and the waking consciousness.

Course 83

The progress of this affection reached its maximum in 4-8 weeks—Thenceforth a
decline in the plasticity of the phenomena—All degrees of somnambulism were
observable—Her manifest character improved—Similar improvements seen in
certain cases of double consciousness—Conception that this phenomenon has a
teleological meaning for the future personality—As seen in Jeanne d'Arc and
Mary Reynolds II.

The Unconscious Additional Creative Work 84

S. W. shows primary susceptibility of the unconscious—Binet affirms the
susceptibility of the hysteric is fifty times greater than that of normal—
Cryptomnesia, a second additional creation—Cryptomnesic picture may enter
consciousness intra-physically—Unconscious plagiarism explained—
Zarathustra example—Glossolalia—Helen Smith's Martian language—The
names in Ivenes' mystic system show rudimentary glossolalia—The
Cryptomnesic picture may enter consciousness as a hallucination—Or arrive at
consciousness by motor automatism—By automatisms regions formerly sealed
are made accessible—Hypermnesia—Thought-reading a prototype for
extraordinary intuitive knowledge of somnambulists and some normal persons
—Association-concordance—Possibility that concept and feeling are not always
clearly separated in the unconscious—S. W.'s mentality must be regarded as
extraordinary.

CHAPTER II
The Association Method 94

Lecture I.—Formula for test—Disturbances of reaction as complex-indicators—
Discovery
of a culprit by means of test—Disturbances of reaction show emotional rather
than intellectual causes—Principal types—Value of the experiment in dealing
with neurotics.

Lecture II.—Familiar Constellations 119

Dr. Fürst's researches—Effect of environment and education on reactions—Effect
of parental discord on children—Unconscious tendency to repetition of parental
mistakes—Case of pathological association-concordance between mother and
daughter—Neurosis, a counter-argument against the personality with which the
patient is most nearly concerned—How to free the individual from unconscious
attachments to the milieu.

Lecture III.—Experiences concerning the Psychic Life of the Child 132

Importance of emotional processes in children—Little Anna's questions—Arrival
of the baby brother—Anna's embarrassment and hostility—Introversion of the
child—Of the adolescent—Her pathological interest in the Messina earthquake
—The meaning of her fear—Anna's theories of birth—Meaning of her
questions—Her father tells her something of origin of her little brother—Her
fears now subside—The unconscious meaning of the child's wish to sit up late
—Anna's equivalent to the "lumpf-theory" of little Hans—The stork-theory
again—Author's remarks on the sexual enlightenment of the child.

CHAPTER III
The Significance of the Father in the Destiny of the Individual 156

Psychosexual relationship of child to father—Fürst's experiments quoted—The
association experiment typical for man's psychological life—Adaptation to
father—Father-complex productive of neurosis—Father-complex in man with
masochistic and homosexual trends—Peasant woman "her father's favourite,"
tragic effect of the unconscious constellation—Case of eight-year-old boy with
enuresis—Enuresis a sexual surrogate—Importance of infantile sexuality in life
—Hence necessity for psychoanalytic investigation—The Jewish religion and
the father-complex—Parental power guides the child like a higher controlling
fate—The conflict for the development of the individual—Father-complex in
Book of Tobias.

CHAPTER IV
A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour 176

Investigation of a rumour in a girls' school—The rumour arose from a dream—
Teacher's suspicions—Was the rumour an invention and not, as alleged, the
recital of a dream?—Interpolations in dreams—Collection of evidence—
Duplication of persons an expression of their significance both in dreams and in

dementia præcox—The additions and interpolations represent intensive
unconscious participation—Hearsay evidence—Remarks.

Epicrisis 188

The dream is analysed by rumour—Psychoanalysis explains the construction of
rumour—The dream gives the watchword for the unconscious—It brings to
expression the ready-prepared sexual complexes—Marie X.'s unsatisfactory
conduct brought her under reproof—Her indignation and repressed feelings lead
to the dream—She uses this as an instrument of revenge against the teacher—
More investigation needed in the field of rumour.

CHAPTER V
On the Significance of Number-Dreams 191

Symbolism of numbers has acquired fresh interest from Freud's investigations—
Example of number dream of middle-aged man—How the number originates—
A second dream also contains a number—Analysis—The wife's dream "Luke
137"—This dream is an example of cryptomnesia.

CHAPTER VI
A Criticism of Bleuler's "Theory of Schizophrenic Negativism" 200

Bleuler's concept of ambivalency and ambitendency—Every tendency balanced by
its opposite—Schizophrenic negativism—Bleuler's summary of its causes—The
painfulness of the complex necessitates a censorship of its expression—Thought
disturbance the result of a complex—Thought pressure due to schizophrenic
introversion—Resistance springs from peculiar sexual development—
Schizophrenia shows a preponderance of introversion mechanisms—The value
of the complex theory concept.

CHAPTER VII
Psychoanalysis 206

Doctors know too little of psychology, and psychologists of medicine—Strong
prejudice aroused by Freud's conception of the importance of the sexual
moment—The commoner prejudices discussed—Psychoanalysis not a method
of suggestion or reasoning—The unconscious content is reached via the

conscious—Case of neurotic man with ergophobia for professional work—Case
of neurotic woman who wants another child—Resistances against the analyst—
Dream analysis the efficacious instrument of analysis—The scientist's fear of
superstition—The genesis of dreams—Dream material is collected according to
scientific method—The rite of baptism analysed—When the unconscious
material fails, use the conscious—The physician's own complexes a hindrance
—Interpretations of Viennese School too one-sided—Sexual phantasies both
realistic and symbolic—The dream the subliminal picture of the individual's
present psychology—Symbolism a process of comprehension by analogy—
Analysis helps the neurotic to exchange his unconscious conflict for the real
conflict of life.

CHAPTER VIII
On Psychoanalysis 226

Difficulties of public discussion—Competence to form an opinion presupposes a
knowledge of the fundamental literature—The abandoned trauma theory—
Fixation—The importance of the infantile past—Analysis discloses existence of
innumerable unconscious phantasies—Œdipus complex—Fixation discussed—
The critical moment for the outbreak of the neurosis—Predisposition—Author's
energic view point—Application of the libido to the obstacle—Repression—
Neurosis an act of adaptation that has failed—The energic view does not alter
the technique of analysis—Analysis re-establishes the connection between the
conscious and unconscious—Is a constructive task of great importance.

CHAPTER IX
On Some Crucial Points in Psychoanalysis 236
Letter I.—Loÿ 236

The dream a means of re-establishing the moral equipoise—The dreamer finds
therein the material for reconstruction—Methods discussed—The part played
by "faith in the doctor"—Abreaction.

Letter II.—Jung 238

For the patient any method that works is good, though some more valuable than
others—The doctor must choose what commends itself to his scientific
conscience—Why the author gave up the use of hypnotism—Three cases
quoted—Breuer and Freud's method a great advance in psychic treatment—
Evolution of author's views—Importance of conception that behind the neurosis
lies a moral conflict—Divergence from Freud's sexual theory of neurosis—The
doctor's responsibility for the cleanliness of his own hands—Necessity that the

psychoanalyst should be analysed—He is successful in so far as he has
succeeded in his own moral development.

Letter III.—Loÿ 244

Opportunism v. scientific honour—Psychoanalysis no more than hypnotism gets
rid of "transference"—Cases of enuresis nocturna, and of washing-mania
treated by hypnosis—On what grounds should such useful treatment be
dispensed with?—The difficulty of finding a rational solution for the moral
conflict—The doctor's dilemma of the two consciences.

Letter IV.—Jung 248

Author's standpoint that of the scientist, not practical physician—The analyst
works in spite of the transference—Psychoanalysis not the only way—
Sometimes less efficacious than any known method—Cases must be selected—
For the author and his patients it is the best way—The real solution of the moral
conflict comes from within, and then only because the patient has been brought
to a new standpoint.

Letter. V.—Loÿ 252

"What is truth?"—Parable of the prism—All man attains is relative truth—
Fanaticism is the enemy to science—Psychoanalysis a method of dealing with
basic motives of the human soul—Must not each case be treated individually?
—Morals are above all relative.

Letter VI.—Jung 256

Definition of psychoanalysis—Technique—So-called chance is the law—Rules
well-nigh impossible—The patients' unconscious is the analysts' best
confederate—Questions of morality and education find solutions for themselves
in later stages of analysis.

Letter VII.—Loÿ 258

Contradictions in psychoanalytic literature—Should the doctor canalise the
patient's libido?—Does he not indirectly suggest dreams to patient?

Letter VIII.—Jung 261

Different view-points in psychoanalysis—Vide Freud's causality and Adler's
finality—Discussion of meaning of transference—The meaning of "line of least
resistance"—Man as a herd-animal—Rich endowment with social sense—
Should take pleasure in life—Error as necessary to progress as truth—Patient
must be trained in independence—Analyst is caught in his own net if he makes
hard-and-fast rules—Through the analyst's suggestion only the outer form,

never the content, is determined—The patient may mislead the doctor, but this
is disadvantageous and delays him.

Letter IX.—Loÿ 267

The line of least resistance is a compromise with all necessities—The analyst as
accoucheur—The neurotic's faith in authority—Altruism innate in man—He
advances in response to his own law.

Letter X.—Jung 270

Transference is the central problem of analysis—It may be positive or negative—
Projection of infantile phantasies on the doctor—Biological "duties"—The
psyche does not only react, but gives its individual reply—We have an actual
sexual problem to-day—Evidences thereof—We have no real sexual morality,
only a legal attitude—Our moral views are too undifferentiated—The neurotic
is ill not because he has lost his faith in morality, but because he has not found
the new authority in himself.

CHAPTER X
On the Importance of the Unconscious in Psychopathology 278

Content of the unconscious—Defined as sum of all psychical processes below the
threshold of consciousness—Answer to question how does the unconscious
behave in neurosis found in its effect on normal consciousness—Example of a
merchant—Compensating function of the unconscious—Symptomatic acts—
Nebuchadnezzar's dream discussed—Intuitive ideas, and insane manifestations
both emanate from the unconscious—Eccentricities pre-exist a breakdown—In
mental disorder unconscious processes break-through into consciousness and
disturb equilibrium—True also in fanaticism—Pathological compensation in
case of paranoia—Unconscious processes have to struggle against resistances in
the conscious mind—Distortion—In morbid conditions the function of the
unconscious is one of compensation.

CHAPTER XI
A Contribution to the Study of Psychological Types 287

Striking contrast between hysteria and dementia præcox—Extroversion and
Introversion—Repression—Hysterical transference and repression the
mechanism of extroversion—Depreciation of the external world the mechanism
of introversion—The nervous temperament pre-exists the illness—Examples of

the two types from literature—James's Tough and Tender-minded—Warringer's
Sympathy and Abstraction—Schiller's Naïf and Sentimental—Nietzsche's
Apollien and Dionysian—Gross's Weakness and Reinforcement of Consecutive
Function—Freud and Adler's Causalism and Finality—The fundamental need
for further study of the two types.

CHAPTER XII
The Psychology of Dreams 299

Psychic structure of dream contrasted with that of conscious thought—Why a
dream seems meaningless—Freud's empirical evidence—Technique, analysis of
a dream—The causal and teleological view of the dream—A typical dream with
mythological content—Compensating function of dreams—Phallic symbols.

CHAPTER XIII
The Content of the Psychoses 312

Discussion of psychological v. physical origin of mental disease—Mediæval
conception of madness as work of evil spirits—Development of materialistic
idea that diseases of the mind are diseases of the brain—Psychiatrists have
come to regard function as accessory to the organ—Analysis of patients
entering Burgholzi Asylum—A quarter only show lesions of the brain—The
psychiatry of the future must advance by way of psychology—Cases of
dementia præcox illustrating recent methods in psychiatry—The development
of the outbreak at a moment of great emotion—Delusions determined by
deficiencies in the patient's personality—Difficulties of investigation—
Temporary remission of mental symptoms proves that reason survives in spite
of preoccupation with diseased thoughts—Case of dementia præcox, showing
exceeding richness of phantasy formations, and the continuity of ideas.

Part II. 336

Freud's case of paranoid dementia—(Schreber case)—Two ways of regarding
Goethe's "Faust"—Retrospective and prospective understanding—The scientific
mind thinks causally—This is but one half of comprehension—Pathological and
mythological formations, both structures of the imagination—Flournoy's case—
Misunderstanding of author's analysis of it—Adaptations only possible to the
introverted type by means of a world-philosophy—The extroverted type always
arrives at a general theory subsequently—Psychasthenia is the neurosis of
introversion, hysteria of extroversion—These diseases typify the general
attitude of the types to the phenomena of the external world—The extreme

difference in type a great obstacle to common understanding—The general
result of the constructive method is a subjective view, not a scientific theory.

CHAPTER XIV
Foreword to New Edition 352

Adler's views more fully discussed—The psychological events of the war force the
problems of the unconscious on society—The psychology of individuals
corresponds to the psychology of nations.

The Psychology of the Unconscious Processes 354
I. The Beginning of Psychoanalysis

The evolution of psychology—How little it has had to offer to the psychiatrist till
Freud's discoveries—The origin and reception of psychoanalysis—The
prejudiced attitude of certain physicians—Freud's view that his best work
arouses greatest resistances—The Nancy School—Breuer's first case—"The
talking cure"—The English "shock theory"—Followed by the trauma theory—
Discussion of predisposition—Author's case of hysteria following fright from
horses—The pathogenic importance of the hidden erotic conflict.

II. The Sexual Theory 367

Humanity evolves its own restrictions on sexuality for the sake of the advance of
civilisation—The presence of a grave sexual problem testifies to the need of
more differentiated conceptions—The erotic conflict largely unconscious—
Neurosis represents the unsuccessful attempt of the individual to solve the
problem in his own case—To understand the idea of the dream as a wish-
fulfilment the manifest and latent content must be taken in review—The nature
of unconscious wishes—Dream analysis leads to the deepest recesses of the
unconscious—The analyst compared to the accoucheur—The highest
development of the individual is sometimes in complete conflict with the herd-
morality—Psychoanalysis provides the patient with a philosophy of life
founded upon insight—Man has within himself the essence of morals—Both
the moral and immoral man must accept the corrective of the unconscious—Our
sexual morality too undifferentiated—Freud's sexual theory right to a point but
too one-sided.

III. The Other Viewpoint: the Will to Power 381

The superman—Nietzsche's failure to justify his theories by his life—His view also
too one-sided—Adler's theory of neurosis founded upon the principle of power
—Case of hysteria discussed from the standpoint of unconscious motivation.

IV. The Two Types of Psychology 391

Thinking the natural adaptive function for introvert, feeling for the extrovert—The
sexual theory promulgated from the standpoint of feeling, the power theory
from that of thought—Criticism of both theories indispensable—Symptoms of
neurosis are aims at a new synthesis of life—Definition of positive value as
energy in a useful form—In neurosis energy is located in an inferior form—
Sublimation a transference of sexual energy to another sphere—Destiny often
frustrates purely rational sublimations—Rationalism, the world-war an example
of its breakdown—So-called "disposable energy"—Case of American business-
man—The types have different problems—The feelings of the introvert
relatively conventional and undifferentiated—The thinking of the extrovert
colourless and dry—The types apt to marry, but not to understand one another
—The theories of the types led to a new theory of psychogenic disturbances—
Neurosis postulates the existence of an unconscious conflict—New theory
declares it to lie between the natural conscious function and the repressed
undifferentiated co-function—Repressed feelings of introvert projected as
vague physical symptoms—Repressed thought of extrovert projected as
hysterical symptoms—In analysis the libido liberated from the unconscious
phantasies is projected on to the physician—It finds its way into the
transference, which in turn is dissolved—The new channel for the libido is
already found.

V. The Personal and the Impersonal Unconscious 408

Transference a projection of unconscious contents on to the physician—Contents
of the unconscious at first personal, later impersonal—Primordial images—A
differentiation of the unconscious contents necessary—The deepest layers are
now designated impersonal, absolute, collective, or super-personal—The libido
now liberated in analysis sinks down into the unconscious, reviving original
"thought-feelings"—Example in Mayer's idea of conservation of energy—The
world-wide existence of the primordial images—The concept of God—
Enantiodromia, the world-war an example of this—In analysis the pairs of
opposites are torn asunder—This necessitates that patients learn to differentiate
between the ego and non-ego.

VI. The Synthetic or Constructive Method 417

The transcendental function, a new way of regarding the psychological materials as
a bridge between the two sides of the psyche—Example of method of synthesis
of symbols of absolute unconscious—Dream of the crab.

VII. Analytical (Causal-reductive) Interpretation 419

The unconscious homosexual tendencies—The causal-reductive method does not
strictly follow the patient's own associations—It does not interpret the dream as
subjective phenomenon—Interpretation on both objective and subjective planes
necessary.

VIII. The Synthetic (Constructive) Interpretation 422

Homosexuality in this case an unconscious defence against acceptance of "more
dangerous" tendencies—Fascination an unconscious compulsion
—"Identifications" have power so long as they remain unconscious—Union of
subjective and objective view of dream gives its full meaning.

IX. The Dominants of the Super-personal Unconscious 426

Projection in relation to transference—Projection of certain attributes not
explicable on the ground of personal contents, but must be referred to the super-
personal—Collective unconscious is sediment of all the experience of the
universe throughout time—Certain features that have become prominent, e.g.
gods and demons, are called "dominants" and have a character of universal
psychological truth—These dominants become conscious as projections,
explaining infatuations, incompatibilities, unconscious conflicts, etc.—The
"magical demon" is the most primitive concept of God—Analysis traces home
these projections to the non-ego—Fear belongs to the dominants of the
collective unconscious—The next step is the detachment of these projections
from the objects of consciousness—This liberates energy for further progress—
The transcendental function—The hero-myth symbolises this differentiation of
ego from non-ego.

X. The Development of the Types of Introversion and Extroversion 437

The types apprehend life by opposite methods—All psychic images have two
sides, one directed towards the object, the other towards the soul (idea)—The
feelings of the introvert are under repression, the thoughts of the extrovert—
Analytical development of the unconscious brings out the secondary function in
each type—The pairs of opposites being thus demonstrated need for synthesis
arises—This is a compensatory process leading to enrichment of the individual.

XI. General Remarks on the Therapy 441

The unconscious is a source of danger when the individual is not at one with it—It
also creates harmonious prospective combinations which can be an effective
source of wisdom for the individual—The use of the phantasies in conjunction
with conscious elaboration is the transcendental function—Not every individual
passes through all the stages described—For some the end of analysis is reached
when the cure is achieved—Others are under a moral necessity to reach a full
psychological development.

Conclusion 443

CHAPTER XV

The Concept of the Unconscious 445
I. The Distinction between the Personal and Impersonal Unconscious.

Development of concepts—Removal of repression does not empty the unconscious
—Repression is a special phenomenon—The unconscious contains not only
repressed material, but subliminal sense-impressions which have never reached
consciousness—It is constantly busied with new phantasy formation—Patients
are urged to retain their hold on repressed materials that analysis has brought
into consciousness—Prolonged analysis reveals contents other than those of a
personal nature—Necessity to differentiate a layer called the "personal"
unconscious whose materials originate in the personal past—Their omission
from consciousness constitutes a defect or neglect—The moral reaction against
this neglect shows they could become conscious if sufficient trouble were taken
—The gradual transference of the personal unconscious contents into
consciousness extends the periphery of consciousness.

II. The Consequences of Assimilation of the Unconscious 449

First result is increased self-consciousness—May lead to a sense of God-
Almightiness in one type, or to overwhelming self-depreciation in the other—A
result of ascribing to oneself qualities or vices that do not belong individually
but collectively—The collective pysche divided into collective mind and
collective soul—The collective contains the "parties inférieures" of Janet; the
conscious and personal unconscious contains the "parties supérieures"—
Incorporation of the impersonal unconscious leads to a dissolution of the pairs
of opposites—As seen in neurotic, who combines megalomania and sense of
inferiority in extreme degree—Primitive man possesses the collective vices and
virtues in an undifferentiated way—Mental conflict only begins with conscious
personal development—Desire to be good brings about repression of the bad—
Collective view-point, though necessary, is dangerous to individuality—
Collective psyche is the result of psychological differentiation of the gregarious
instincts—Dangers of identification with collective psyche—Recognition of the
different psychology of the types a safeguard, promoting a proper respect for
individuality of the opposite type—Individuation hampered by man's
suggestibility and tendency to imitation.

III. The Individual as an Excerpt of the Collective Psyche 456

The personal unconscious contains repressed materials capable of becoming
conscious—By also incorporating the impersonal contents the state of God-
Almightiness is brought about—The "persona" a mask for the collective psyche
—Development of God-Almightiness, physical concomitants—Dissolution of
the persona results in release of phantasy—Analogy with mental derangement
—Difference consists in that the unconscious is at first deliberately brought into
consciousness by consent, and later that it is recognised as having psychic
validity only.

IV. Endeavours to free the Individuality from the Collective Psyche 459

(i) The Regressive Restoration of the Persona—Three ways open, (a) Regressive
application of a reductive theory; (b) application of God-Almightiness as a
"virile protest;" (c) recognition of the primitive archaic collective psychology in
man—Temptation to solve the difficulty by forgetting one has an unconscious—
This does not work—The unconscious cannot be deprived of libido, nor its
activity stilled for any length of time.
(ii) Identification with the Collective Psyche—God-Almightiness developed into a
system—Identification increases feeling for life or sense of power, according to
the type—This, mystically understood, is the "yearning for the mother" of the
hero-myth, or the "incest-wish" of Freud—It is the collective psyche that has to
be overcome—Identification with the collective psyche is a failure because
being lost in it, a bearable or satisfactory life is impossible.

V. Leading Principles for the Treatment of Collective Psyche 468

Neither regressive restoration of the persona, nor identification with collective
psyche solves the problem—Psychology will have to admit a plurality of
principles—Only the collective part of individual psychology can be the subject
of scientific study—What belongs to the psychology of the individual requires
its own text-book—The persona must be strictly separated from the concept of
the individual—What is individual is the remnant which can never be merged
into the collective—Analysis of the persona transfers greater value on to the
individuality, increasing its conflict with collectivity—The persona is identical
with a one-sided attitude, being a typical attitude in which thought or feeling or
intuition dominates, causing relative repression of the other functions—
Dissolution of persona indispensable to individuation—The more individual a
person is the more he assimilates and develops those attributes that are the basis
of a collective concept of human nature—Unifying function between the
conscious and unconscious, between the collective and individual is found in
the phantasies—Phantasy the creative soil for everything that has brought
development to humanity—Phantasy not to be taken literally but
hermeneutically—Hermeneutics adds analogies to those already given—
Hermeneutical interpretation indicates the means of synthesis of the individual,
provided as soon as the symbolic outlines of the path are understood they are
followed up—Co-operation and honest endeavour essential to cure—The moral
factor determines the cure—"Life-lines" have a short and ephemeral value—
Dreams are compensatory to conscious thinking—Watch must be kept for
dreams indicative of causes of error—Hence the patient must remain in contact
with the unconscious—End of analysis reached when enough psychological
insight and mastery of technique is acquired to enable individual to follow his
ever-changing life-line, and to retain hold on the libido currents which give
conscious support to his individuality.

Summary 472
Index 475

ANALYTICAL PSYCHOLOGY

CHAPTER I
ON THE PSYCHOLOGY AND PATHOLOGY OF SO-CALLED OCCULT
PHENOMENA[1]
In that wide field of psychopathic deficiency where Science has demarcated the diseases of epilepsy,
hysteria and neurasthenia, we meet scattered observations concerning certain rare states of consciousness
as to whose meaning authors are not yet agreed. These observations spring up sporadically in the literature
on narcolepsy, lethargy, automatisme ambulatoire, periodic amnesia, double consciousness,
somnambulism, pathological dreamy states, pathological lying, etc.
These states are sometimes attributed to epilepsy, sometimes to hysteria, sometimes to exhaustion of the
nervous system, or neurasthenia, sometimes they are allowed all the dignity of a disease sui generis.
Patients occasionally work through a whole graduated scale of diagnoses, from epilepsy, through hysteria,
up to simulation. In practice, on the one hand, these conditions can only be separated with great difficulty
from the so-called neuroses, sometimes even are indistinguishable from them; on the other, certain
features in the region of pathological deficiency present more than a mere analogical relationship not only
with phenomena of normal psychology, but also with the psychology of the supernormal, of genius.
Various as are the individual phenomena in this region, there is certainly no case that cannot be connected
by some intermediate example with the other typical cases. This relationship in the pictures presented by
hysteria and epilepsy is very close. Recently the view has even been maintained that there is no clean-cut
frontier between epilepsy and hysteria, and that a difference is only to be noted in extreme cases. Steffens
says, for example[2]—"We are forced to the conclusion that in essence hysteria and epilepsy are not
fundamentally different, that the cause of the disease is the same, but is manifest in a diverse form, in
different intensity and permanence."
The demarcation of hysteria and certain borderline cases of epilepsy from congenital and acquired
psychopathic mental deficiency likewise presents the greatest difficulties. The symptoms of one or other
disease everywhere invade the neighbouring realm, so violence is done to the facts when they are split off
and considered as belonging to one or other realm. The demarcation of psychopathic mental deficiency
from the normal is an absolutely impossible task, the difference is everywhere only "more or less." The
classification in the region of mental deficiency itself is confronted by the same difficulty. At best, certain
classes can be separated off which crystallise round some well-marked nucleus through having peculiarly
typical features. Turning away from the two large groups of intellectual and emotional deficiency, there
remain those deficiencies coloured pre-eminently by hysteria or epilepsy (epileptoid) or neurasthenia,
which are not notably deficiency of the intellect or of feeling. It is essentially in this region, insusceptible
of any absolute classification, that the above-named conditions play their part. As is well known, they can
appear as part manifestations of a typical epilepsy or hysteria, or can exist separately in the realm of
psychopathic mental deficiency, where their qualifications of epileptic or hysterical are often due to the
non-essential accessory features. It is thus the rule to place somnambulism among hysterical diseases,
because it is occasionally a phenomenon of severe hysteria, or because mild so-called hysterical
symptoms may accompany it. Binet says: "Il n'y a pas une somnambulisme, état nerveux toujours
identique à lui-même, il y a des somnambulismes." As one of the manifestations of a severe hysteria,
somnambulism is not an unknown phenomenon, but as a pathological entity, as a disease sui generis, it
must be somewhat rare, to judge by its infrequency in German literature on the subject. So-called
spontaneous somnambulism, resting upon a foundation of hysterically-tinged psychopathic deficiency, is
not a very common occurrence and it is worth while to devote closer study to these cases, for they
occasionally present a mass of interesting particulars.

Case of Miss Elise K., aged 40, single; book-keeper in a large business; no hereditary taint, except that it is
alleged a brother became slightly nervous after family misfortune and illness. Well educated, of a cheerful,
joyous nature, not of a saving disposition, always occupied with some big idea. She was very kind-hearted
and gentle, did a great deal both for her parents, who were living in very modest circumstances, and for
strangers. Nevertheless she was not happy, because she thought she did not understand herself. She had
always enjoyed good health till a few years ago, when she is said to have been treated for dilatation of the
stomach and tapeworm. During this illness her hair became rapidly white, later she had typhoid fever. An
engagement was terminated by the death of her fiancé from paralysis. She had been very nervous for a
year and a half. In the summer of 1897 she went away for change of air and treatment by hydropathy. She
herself says that for about a year she has had moments during work when her thoughts seem to stand still,
but she does not fall asleep. Nevertheless she makes no mistakes in the accounts at such times. She has
often been to the wrong street and then suddenly noticed that she was not in the right place. She has had
no giddiness or attacks of fainting. Formerly menstruation occurred regularly every four weeks, and
without any pain, but since she has been nervous and overworked it has come every fourteen days. For a
long time she has suffered from constant headache. As accountant and book-keeper in a large
establishment, the patient has had very strenuous work, which she performs well and conscientiously. In
addition to the strenuous character of her work, in the last year she had various new worries. Her brother
was suddenly divorced. In addition to her own work, she looked after his housekeeping, nursed him and
his child in a serious illness, and so on. To recuperate, she took a journey on the 13th September to see a
woman friend in South Germany. The great joy at seeing her friend from whom she had been long
separated, and her participation in some festivities, deprived her of her rest. On the 15th, she and her
friend drank half a bottle of claret. This was contrary to her usual habit. They then went for a walk in a
cemetery, where she began to tear up flowers and to scratch at the graves. She remembered absolutely
nothing of this afterwards. On the 16th she remained with her friend without anything of importance
happening. On the 17th her friend brought her to Zürich. An acquaintance came with her to the Asylum;
on the way she spoke quite sensibly, but was very tired. Outside the Asylum they met three boys, whom
she described as the "three dead people she had dug up." She then wanted to go to the neighbouring
cemetery, but was persuaded to come to the Asylum.
She is small, delicately formed, slightly anæmic. The heart is slightly enlarged to the left, there are no
murmurs, but some reduplication of the sounds, the mitral being markedly accentuated. The liver dulness
reaches to the border of the ribs. Patella-reflex is somewhat increased, but otherwise no tendon-reflexes.
There is neither anæsthesia, analgesia, nor paralysis. Rough examination of the field of vision with the
hands shows no contraction. The patient's hair is a very light yellow-white colour; on the whole she looks
her age. She gives her history and tells recent events quite clearly, but has no recollection of what took
place in the cemetery at C. or outside the Asylum. During the night of the 17th-18th she spoke to the
attendant and declared she saw the whole room full of dead people—looking like skeletons. She was not
at all frightened, but was rather surprised that the attendant did not see them too. Once she ran to the
window, but was otherwise quiet. The next morning, while still in bed, she saw skeletons, but not in the
afternoon. The following night at four o'clock she awoke and heard the dead children in the neighbouring
cemetery cry out that they had been buried alive. She wanted to go out to dig them up, but allowed herself
to be restrained. Next morning at seven o'clock she was still delirious, but recalled accurately the events in
the cemetery at C. and those on approaching the Asylum. She stated that at C. she wanted to dig up the
dead children who were calling her. She had only torn up the flowers to free the graves and to be able to
get at them. In this state Professor Bleuler explained to her that later on, when in a normal state again, she
would remember everything. The patient slept in the morning, afterwards was quite clear, and felt herself
relatively well. She did indeed remember the attacks, but maintained a remarkable indifference towards
them. The following nights, with the exception of those of the 22nd and the 25th September, she again had
slight attacks of delirium, when once more she had to deal with the dead. The details of the attacks
differed, however. Twice she saw the dead in her bed, but she did not appear to be afraid of them, she got
out of bed frequently, however, because she did not want "to inconvenience the dead"; several times she
wanted to leave the room.

After a few nights free from attacks there was a slight one on the 30th Sept., when she called the dead
from the window. During the day her mind was clear. On the 3rd of October she saw a whole crowd of
skeletons in the drawingroom, as she afterwards related, during full consciousness. Although she doubted
the reality of the skeletons, she could not convince herself that it was a hallucination. The following night,
between twelve and one o'clock—the earlier attacks were usually about this time—she was obsessed with
the idea of dead people for about ten minutes. She sat up in bed, stared at a corner and said: "Well, come!
—but they're not all there. Come along! Why don't you come? The room is big enough, there's room for
all; when all are there, I'll come too." Then she lay down with the words: "Now they're all there," and fell
asleep again. In the morning she had not the slightest recollection of any of these attacks. Very short
attacks occurred in the nights of the 4th, 6th, 9th, 13th and 15th of October, between twelve and one
o'clock. The last three occurred during the menstrual period. The attendant spoke to her several times,
showed her the lighted street-lamps, and trees; but she did not react to this conversation. Since then the
attacks have altogether ceased. The patient has complained about a number of troubles which she had had
all along. She suffered much from headache the morning after the attacks. She said it was unbearable. Five
grains of Sacch. lactis promptly alleviated this; then she complained of pains in both fore-arms, which she
described as if it were a teno-synovitis. She regarded the bulging of the muscles in flexion as a swelling,
and asked to be massaged. Nothing could be seen objectively, and no attention being paid to it, the trouble
disappeared. She complained exceedingly and for a long time about the thickening of a toenail, even after
the thickened part had been removed. Sleep was often disturbed. She would not give her consent to be
hypnotised for the night-attacks. Finally on account of headache and disturbed sleep she agreed to
hypnotic treatment. She proved a good subject, and at the first sitting fell into deep sleep with analgesia
and amnesia.
In November she was again asked whether she could now remember the attack on the 19th September
which it had been suggested that she would recall. It gave her great trouble to recollect it, and in the end
she could only state the chief facts, she had forgotten the details.
It should be added that the patient was not superstitious, and in her healthy days had never particularly
interested herself in the supernatural. During the whole course of treatment, which ended on the 14th
November, great indifference was evinced both to the illness and the cure. Next spring the patient returned
for out-patient treatment of the headache, which had come back during the very hard work of these
months. Apart from this symptom her condition left nothing to be desired. It was demonstrated that she
had no remembrance of the attacks of the previous autumn, not even of those of the 19th September and
earlier. On the other hand, in hypnosis she could recount the proceedings in the cemetery and during the
nightly disturbances.
By the peculiar hallucination and by its appearance our case recalls the conditions which V. Kraft-Ebing
has described as "protracted states of hysterical delirium." He says: "Such conditions of delirium occur in
the slighter cases of hysteria. Protracted hysterical delirium is built upon a foundation of temporary
exhaustion. Excitement seems to determine an outbreak, and it readily recurs. Most frequently there is
persecution-delirium with very violent anxiety, sometimes of a religious or erotic character. Hallucinations
of all the senses are not rare, but illusions of sight, smell and feeling are the commonest, and most
important. The visual hallucinations are especially visions of animals, pictures of corpses, phantastic
processions in which dead persons, devils and ghosts swarm. The illusions of hearing are simply sounds
(shrieks, howlings, claps of thunder) or local hallucinations, frequently with a sexual content."
This patient's visions of corpses, occurring almost always in attacks, recall the states occasionally seen in
hystero-epilepsy. There likewise occur specific visions which, in contrast with protracted delirium, are
connected with single attacks.
(1) A lady 30 years of age with grande hystérie had twilight states in which as a rule she was troubled by
terrible hallucinations; she saw her children carried away from her, wild beasts eating them up, and so on.
She has amnesia for the content of the individual attacks.[3]

(2) A girl of 17, likewise a semi-hysteric, saw in her attacks the corpse of her dead mother approaching her
to draw her to her. Patient has amnesia for the attacks.[4]
These are cases of severe hysteria wherein consciousness rests upon a profound stage of dreaming. The
nature of the attack and the stability of the hallucination alone show a certain kinship with our case, which
in this respect has numerous analogies with the corresponding states of hysteria. For instance, with those
cases where a psychical shock (rape, etc.) was the occasion for the outbreak of hysterical attacks, and
where at times the original incident is lived over again, stereotyped in the hallucination. But our case gets
its specific mould from the identity of the consciousness in the different attacks. It is an "Etat Second"
with its own memory and separated from the waking state by complete amnesia. This differentiates it from
the above-mentioned twilight states and links it to the so-called somnambulic conditions.
Charcot[5] divides the somnambulic states into two chief classes:—
1. Delirium with well-marked incoordination of representation and action.
2. Delirium with co-ordinated action. This approaches the waking state.
Our case belongs to the latter class.
If by somnambulism be understood a state of systematised partial waking,[6] any critical review of this
affection must take account of those exceptional cases of recurrent amnesias which have been observed
now and again. These, apart from nocturnal ambulism, are the simplest conditions of systematised partial
waking. Naef's case is certainly the most remarkable in the literature. It deals with a gentleman of 32, with
a very bad family history presenting numerous signs of degeneration, partly functional, partly organic. In
consequence of over-work at the age of 17 he had a peculiar twilight state with delusions, which lasted
some days and was cured with a sudden recovery of memory. Later he was subject to frequent attacks of
giddiness and palpitation of the heart and vomiting; but these attacks were never attended by loss of
consciousness. At the termination of some feverish illness he suddenly travelled from Australia to Zürich,
where he lived for some weeks in careless cheerfulness, and only came to himself when he read in the
paper of his sudden disappearance from Australia. He had a total and retrograde amnesia for the several
months which included the journey to Australia, his sojourn there and the return journey.
Azam[7] has published a case of periodic amnesia. Albert X., 12-1/2 years old, of hysterical disposition,
was several times attacked in the course of a few years by conditions of amnesia in which he forgot
reading, writing and arithmetic, even at times his own language, for several weeks at a stretch. The
intervals were normal.
Proust[8] has published a case of Automatisme ambulatoire with pronounced hysteria which differs from
Naef's in the repeated occurrence of the attacks. An educated man, 30 years old, exhibits all the signs of
grande hystérie; he is very suggestible, has from time to time, under the influence of excitement, attacks
of amnesia which last from two days to several weeks. During these states he wanders about, visits
relatives, destroys various objects, incurs debts, and has even been convicted of "picking pockets."
Boileau describes a similar case[9] of wandering-impulse. A widow of 22, highly hysterical, became
terrified at the prospect of a necessary operation for salpingitis; she left the hospital and fell into a state of
somnambulism, from which she awoke three days later with total amnesia. During these three days she
had travelled a distance of about 60 kilometres to fetch her child.
William James has described a case of an "ambulatory sort."[10]
The Rev. Ansel Bourne, an itinerant preacher, 30 years of age, psychopathic, had on a few occasions
attacks of loss of consciousness lasting one hour. One day (January 17, 1887) he suddenly disappeared
from Greene, after having taken 551 dollars out of the bank. He remained hidden for two months. During
this time he had taken a little shop under the name of H. J. Browne in Norriston, Pa., and had carefully

attended to all purchases, although he had never done this sort of work before. On March 14, 1887, he
suddenly awoke and went back home, and had complete amnesia for the interval.
Mesnet[11] publishes the following case:—
F., 27 years old, sergeant in the African regiment, was wounded in the parietal bone at Bazeilles. Suffered
for a year from hemiplegia, which disappeared when the wound healed. During the course of his illness
the patient had attacks of somnambulism, with marked limitation of consciousness; all the senses were
paralysed, with the exception of taste and a small portion of the visual sense. The movements were co-
ordinated, but obstacles in the way of their performance were overcome with difficulty. During the attacks
he had an absurd collecting-mania. By various manipulations one could demonstrate a hallucinatory
content in his consciousness; for instance, when a stick was put in his hand he would feel himself
transported to a battle scene, would place himself on guard, see the enemy approaching, etc.
Guinon and Sophie Waltke[12] made the following experiments on hysterics:—
A blue glass was held in front of the eyes of a female patient during a hysterical attack; she regularly saw
the picture of her mother in the blue sky. A red glass showed her a bleeding wound, a yellow one an
orange-seller or a lady with a yellow dress.
Mesnet's case reminds one of the cases of occasional attacks of shrinkage of memory.
MacNish[13] communicates a similar case.
An apparently healthy young lady suddenly fell into an abnormally long and deep sleep—it is said without
prodromal symptoms. On awaking she had forgotten the words for and the knowledge of the simplest
things. She had again to learn to read, write, and count; her progress was rapid in this re-learning. After a
second attack she again woke in her normal state, but without recollection of the period when she had
forgotten things. These states alternated for more than four years, during which consciousness showed
continuity within the two states, but was separated by an amnesia from the consciousness of the normal
state.
These selected cases of various forms of changes of consciousness all throw a certain light upon our case.
Naef's case presents two hysteriform eclipses of memory, one of which is marked by the appearance of
delusions, and the other by its long duration, contraction of the field of consciousness, and desire to
wander. The peculiar associated impulses are specially clear in the cases of Proust and Mesnet. In our case
the impulsive tearing up of the flowers, the digging up of the graves, form a parallel. The continuity of
consciousness which the patient presents in the individual attacks recalls the behaviour of the
consciousness in MacNish's case; hence our case may be regarded as a transient phenomenon of
alternating consciousness. The dreamlike hallucinatory content of the limited consciousness in our case
does not, however, justify an unqualified assignment to this group of double consciousness. The
hallucinations in the second state show a certain creativeness which seems to be conditioned by the auto-
suggestibility of this state. In Mesnet's case we noticed the appearance of hallucinatory processes from
simple stimulation of touch. The patient's subconsciousness employs simple perceptions for the automatic
construction of complicated scenes which then take possession of the limited consciousness. A somewhat
similar view must be taken about our patient's hallucinations; at least, the external conditions which gave
rise to the appearance of the hallucinations seem to strengthen our supposition. The walk in the cemetery
induces the vision of the skeletons; the meeting with the three boys arouses the hallucination of children
buried alive whose voices the patient hears at night-time. She arrived at the cemetery in a somnambulic
state, which on this occasion was specially intense in consequence of her having taken alcohol. She
performed actions almost instinctively about which her subconsciousness nevertheless did receive certain
impressions. (The part played here by alcohol must not be underestimated. We know from experience that
it does not only act adversely upon these conditions, but, like every other narcotic, it gives rise to a certain
increase of suggestibility.) The impressions received in somnambulism subconsciously form independent
growths, and finally reach perception as hallucinations. Thus our case closely corresponds to those

somnambulic dream-states which have recently been subjected to a penetrating study in England and
France.
These lapses of memory, which at first seem without content, gain a content by means of accidental auto-
suggestion, and this content builds itself up automatically to a certain extent. It achieves no further
development, probably on account of the improvement now beginning, and finally it disappears altogether
as recovery sets in. Binet and Féré have made numerous experiments on the implanting of suggestions in
states of partial sleep. They have shown, for example, that when a pencil is put in the anæsthetic hand of a
hysteric, letters of great length are written automatically whose contents are unknown to the patient's
consciousness. Cutaneous stimuli in anæsthetic regions are sometimes perceived as visual images, or at
least as vivid associated visual presentations. These independent transmutations of simple stimuli must be
regarded as primary phenomena in the formation of somnambulic dream-pictures. Analogous
manifestations occur in exceptional cases within the sphere of waking consciousness. Goethe,[14] for
instance, states that when he sat down, lowered his head and vividly conjured up the image of a flower, he
saw it undergoing changes of its own accord, as if entering into new combinations.
In half-waking states these manifestations are relatively frequent in the so-called hypnagogic
hallucinations. The automatisms which the Goethe example illustrates are differentiated from the truly
somnambulic, inasmuch as the primary presentation is a conscious one in this case; the further
development of the automatism is maintained within the definite limits of the original presentation, that is,
within the purely motor or visual region.
If the primary presentation disappears, or if it is never conscious at all, and if the automatic development
overlaps neighbouring regions, we lose every possibility of a demarcation between waking automatisms
and those of the somnambulic state; this will occur, for instance, if the presentation of a hand plucking the
flower gets joined to the perception of the flower or the presentation of the smell of the flower. We can
then only differentiate it by the more or less. In one case we then speak of the "waking hallucinations of
the normal," in the other, of the dream-vision of the somnambulists. The interpretation of our patient's
attacks as hysterical becomes more certain by the demonstration of a probably psychogenic origin of the
hallucination. This is confirmed by her troubles, headache and teno-synovitis, which have shown
themselves amenable to suggestive treatment. The ætiological factor alone is not sufficient for the
diagnosis of hysteria; it might really be expected a priori that in the course of a disease which is so
suitably treated by rest, as in the treatment of an exhaustion-state, features would be observed here and
there which could be interpreted as manifestations of exhaustion. The question arises whether the early
lapses and later somnambulic attacks could not be conceived as states of exhaustion, so-called
"neurasthenic crises." We know that in the realm of psychopathic mental deficiency there can arise the
most diverse epileptoid accidents, whose classification under epilepsy or hysteria is at least doubtful. To
quote C. Westphal: "On the basis of numerous observations, I maintain that the so-called epileptoid attacks
form one of the most universal and commonest symptoms in the group of diseases which we reckon
among the mental diseases and neuropathies; the mere appearance of one or more epileptic or epileptoid
attacks is not decisive for its course and prognosis. As mentioned, I have used the concept of epileptoid in
the widest sense for the attack itself."[15]
The epileptoid moments of our case are not far to seek; the objection can, however, be raised that the
colouring of the whole picture is hysterical in the extreme. Against this, however, it must be stated that
every somnambulism is not eo ipso hysterical. Occasionally states occur in typical epilepsy which to
experts seem parallel with somnambulic states,[16] or which can only be distinguished by the existence of
genuine convulsions.[17]
As Diehl shows,[18] in neurasthenic mental deficiency crises also occur which often confuse the diagnosis.
A definite presentation-content can even create a stereotyped repetition in the individual crisis. Lately
Mörchen has published a case of epileptoid neurasthenic twilight state.[19]
I am indebted to Professor Bleuler for the report of the following case:—

An educated gentleman of middle age—without epileptic antecedents—had exhausted himself by many
years of over-strenuous mental work. Without other prodromal symptoms (such as depression, etc.) he
attempted suicide during a holiday; in a peculiar twilight state he suddenly threw himself into the water
from a bank, in sight of many persons. He was at once pulled out and retained but a fleeting remembrance
of the occurrence.
Bearing these observations in mind, neurasthenia must be allowed to account for a considerable share in
the attacks of our patient, Miss E. K. The headaches and the teno-synovitis point to the existence of a
relatively mild hysteria, generally latent, but becoming manifest under the influence of exhaustion. The
genesis of this peculiar illness explains the relationship which has been described between epilepsy,
hysteria and neurasthenia.
Summary.—Miss Elise K. is a psychopathic defective with a tendency to hysteria. Under the influence of
nervous exhaustion she suffers from attacks of epileptoid giddiness whose interpretation is uncertain at
first sight. Under the influence of an unusually large dose of alcohol the attacks develop into definite
somnambulism with hallucinations, which are limited in the same way as dreams to accidental external
perceptions. When the nervous exhaustion is cured the hysterical manifestations disappear.
In the region of psychopathic deficiency with hysterical colouring, we encounter numerous phenomena
which show, as in this case, symptoms of diverse defined diseases, which cannot be attributed with
certainty to any one of them. These phenomena are partially recognised to be independent; for instance,
pathological lying, pathological reveries, etc. Many of these states, however, still await thorough scientific
investigation; at present they belong more or less to the domain of scientific gossip. Persons with habitual
hallucinations, and also the inspired, exhibit these states; they draw the attention of the crowd to
themselves, now as poet or artist, now as saviour, prophet or founder of a new sect.
The genesis of the peculiar frame of mind of these persons is for the most part lost in obscurity, for it is
only very rarely that one of these remarkable personalities can be subjected to exact observation. In view
of the often great historical importance of these persons, it is much to be wished that we had some
scientific material which would enable us to gain a closer insight into the psychological development of
their peculiarities. Apart from the now practically useless productions of the pneumatological school at the
beginning of the nineteenth century, German scientific literature is very poor in this respect; indeed, there
seems to be real aversion from investigation in this field. For the facts so far gathered we are indebted
almost exclusively to the labours of French and English workers. It seems at least desirable that our
literature should be enlarged in this respect. These considerations have induced me to publish some
observations which will perhaps help to further our knowledge concerning the relationship of hysterical
twilight-states and enlarge the problems of normal psychology.

Case of Somnambulism in a Person with Neuropathic Inheritance (Spiritualistic Medium).
The following case was under my observation in the years 1899 and 1900. As I was not in medical
attendance upon Miss S. W., a physical examination for hysterical stigmata unfortunately could not be
made. I kept a complete diary of the séances, which I filled up after each sitting. The following report is a
condensed account from these notes. Out of regard for Miss S. W. and her family a few unimportant dates
have been altered and a few details omitted from the story, which for the most part is composed of very
intimate matters.
Miss S. W., 15½ years old. Reformed Church. The paternal grandfather was highly intelligent, a
clergyman with frequent waking hallucinations (generally visions, often whole dramatic scenes with
dialogues, etc.). A brother of the grandfather was an imbecile eccentric, who also saw visions. A sister of
the grandfather, a peculiar, odd character. The paternal grandmother after some fever in her 20th year
(typhoid?) had a trance which lasted three days, from which she did not awake until the crown of her head
had been burned by a red-hot iron. During states of excitement later on she had fainting fits which were
nearly always followed by a brief somnambulism during which she uttered prophesies. Her father was

likewise a peculiar, original personality with bizarre ideas. All three had waking hallucinations (second-
sight, forebodings, etc.). A third brother was also eccentric and odd, talented but one-sided. The mother
has an inherited mental defect often bordering on psychosis. The sister is a hysteric and visionary and a
second sister suffers from "nervous heart attacks." Miss S. W. is slenderly built, skull somewhat rachitic,
without pronounced hydrocephalus, face rather pale, eyes dark with a peculiar penetrating look. She has
had no serious illnesses. At school she passed for average, showed little interest, was inattentive. As a rule
her behaviour was rather reserved, sometimes giving place, however, to exuberant joy and exaltation. Of
average intelligence, without special gifts, neither musical nor fond of books, her preference is for
handwork—and day dreaming. She was often absent-minded, misread in a peculiar way when reading
aloud, instead of the word Ziege (goat), for instance, said Gais, instead of Treppe (stair), Stege; this
occurred so often that her brothers and sisters laughed at her. There were no other abnormalities; there
were no serious hysterical manifestations. Her family were artisans and business people with very limited
interests. Books of mystical content were never permitted in the family. Her education was faulty; there
were numerous brothers and sisters and thus the education was given indiscriminately, and in addition the
children had to suffer a great deal from the inconsequent and vulgar, indeed sometimes rough, treatment of
their mother. The father, a very busy business man, could not pay much attention to his children, and died
when S. W. was not yet grown up. Under these uncomfortable conditions it is no wonder that S. W. felt
herself shut in and unhappy. She was often afraid to go home, and preferred to be anywhere rather than
there. She was left a great deal with playmates and grew up in this way without much polish. The level of
her education is relatively low and her interests correspondingly limited. Her knowledge of literature is
also very limited. She knows the common school songs by heart, songs of Schiller and Goethe and a few
other poets, as well as fragments from a song book and the psalms. Newspaper stories represent her
highest level in prose. Up to the time of her somnambulism she had never read any books of a serious
nature. At home and from friends she heard about table-turning and began to take an interest in it. She
asked to be allowed to take part in such experiments, and her desire was soon gratified. In July 1899, she
took part a few times in table-turnings with some friends and her brothers and sisters, but in joke. It was
then discovered that she was an excellent "medium." Some communications of a serious nature arrived
which were received with general astonishment. Their pastoral tone was surprising. The spirit said he was
the grandfather of the medium. As I was acquainted with the family I was able to take part in these
experiments. At the beginning of August, 1899, the first attacks of somnambulism took place in my
presence. They took the following course: S. W. became very pale, slowly sank to the ground, or into a
chair, shut her eyes, became cataleptic, drew several deep breaths, and began to speak. In this stage she
was generally quite relaxed; the reflexes of the lids remained, as did also tactile sensation. She was
sensitive to unexpected noises and full of fear, especially in the initial stage.
She did not react when called by name. In somnambulic dialogues she copied in a remarkably clever way
her dead relations and acquaintances, with all their peculiarities, so that she made a lasting impression
upon unprejudiced persons. She also so closely imitated persons whom she only knew from descriptions
that no one could deny her at least considerable talent as an actress. Gradually gestures were added to the
simple speech, which finally led to "attitudes passionelles" and complete dramatic scenes. She took up
postures of prayer and rapture, with staring eyes, and spoke with impassionate and glowing rhetoric. She
then made use exclusively of a literary German which she spoke with an ease and assurance quite contrary
to her usual uncertain and embarrassed manner in the waking state. Her movements were free and of a
noble grace, depicting most beautifully her varying emotions. Her attitude during these states was always
changing and diverse in the different attacks. Now she would lie for ten minutes to two hours on the sofa
or the ground, motionless, with closed eyes; now she assumed a half-sitting posture and spoke with
changed tone and speech; now she would stand up, going through every possible pantomimic gesture. Her
speech was equally diversified and without rule. Now she spoke in the first person, but never for long,
generally to prophesy her next attack; now she spoke of herself (and this was the most usual) in the third
person. She then acted as some other person, either some dead acquaintance or some chance person,
whose part she consistently carried out according to the characteristics she herself conceived. At the end of
the ecstasy there usually followed a cataleptic state with flexibilitas cerea, which gradually passed over

into the waking state. The waxy anæmic pallor which was an almost constant feature of the attacks made
one really anxious; it sometimes occurred at the beginning of the attack, but often in the second half only.
The pulse was then small but regular and of normal frequency; the breathing gentle, shallow, or almost
imperceptible. As already stated, S. W. often predicted her attacks beforehand; just before the attacks she
had strange sensations, became excited, rather anxious, and occasionally expressed thoughts of death: "she
will probably die in one of these attacks; during the attack her soul only hangs to her body by a thread, so
that often the body could scarcely go on living." Once after the cataleptic attack tachypnœa lasting two
minutes was observed, with a respiration rate of 100 per minute. At first the attacks occurred
spontaneously, afterwards S. W. could provoke them by sitting in a dark corner and covering her face with
her hands. Frequently the experiment did not succeed. She had so-called "good" and "bad" days. The
question of amnesia after the attacks is unfortunately very obscure. This much is certain, that after each
attack she was quite accurately orientated as to what she had gone through "during the rapture." It is,
however, uncertain how much she remembered of the conversations in which she served as medium, and
of changes in her surroundings during the attack. It often seemed that she did have a fleeting recollection,
for directly after waking she would ask: "Who was here? Wasn't X or Y here? What did he say?" She also
showed that she was superficially aware of the content of the conversations. She thus often remarked that
the spirits had communicated to her before waking what they had said. But frequently this was not the
case. If, at her request, the contents of the trance speeches were repeated to her she was often annoyed
about them. She was then often sad and depressed for hours together, especially when any unpleasant
indiscretions had occurred. She would then rail against the spirits and assert that next time she would beg
her guides to keep such spirits far away. Her indignation was not feigned, for in the waking state she could
but poorly control herself and her emotions, so that every mood was at once mirrored in her face. At times
she seemed only slightly or not at all aware of the external proceedings during the attack. She seldom
noticed when any one left the room or came in. Once she forbade me to enter the room when she was
awaiting special communications which she wished to keep secret from me. Nevertheless I went in, and
sat down with the three other sitters and listened to everything. Her eyes were open and she spoke to those
present without noticing me. She only noticed me when I began to speak, which gave rise to a storm of
indignation. She remembered better, but still apparently only in indefinite outlines, the remarks of those
taking part which referred to the trance speeches or directly to herself. I could never discover any definite
rapport in this connection.
In addition to these great attacks which seemed to follow a certain law in their course, S. W. produced a
great number of other automatisms. Premonitions, forebodings, unaccountable moods and rapidly
changing fancies were all in the day's work. I never observed simple states of sleep. On the other hand, I
soon noticed that in the middle of a lively conversation S. W. became quite confused and spoke without
meaning in a peculiar monotonous way, and looked in front of her dreamily with half-closed eyes. These
lapses usually lasted but a few minutes. Then she would suddenly proceed: "Yes, what did you say?" At
first she would not give any particulars about these lapses, she would reply off-hand that she was a little
giddy, had a headache, and so on. Later she simply said: "they were there again," meaning her spirits. She
was subjected to the lapses much against her will; she often tried to defend herself: "I do not want to, not
now, come some other time; you seem to think I only exist for you." She had these lapses in the streets, in
business, in fact anywhere. If this happened to her in the street, she leaned against a house and waited till
the attack was over. During these attacks, whose intensity was most variable, she had visions; frequently
also, especially during the attacks where she turned extremely pale, she "wandered"; or as she expressed
it, lost her body, and got away to distant places whither her spirits led her. Distant journeys during ecstasy
strained her exceedingly; she was often exhausted for hours after, and many times complained that the
spirits had again deprived her of much power, such overstrain was now too much for her; the spirits must
get another medium, etc. Once she was hysterically blind for half an hour after one of these ecstasies. Her
gait was hesitating, feeling her way; she had to be led; she did not see the candle which was on the table.
The pupils reacted. Visions occurred in great numbers without proper "lapses" (designating by this word
only the higher grade of distraction of attention). At first the visions only occurred at the beginning of the
sleep. Once after S. W. had gone to bed the room became lighted up, and out of the general foggy light

there appeared white glittering figures. They were throughout concealed in white veil-like robes, the
women had a head-covering like a turban, and a girdle. Afterwards (according to the statements of S. W.),
"the spirits were already there" when she went to bed. Finally she also saw the figures in bright daylight,
though still somewhat blurred and only for a short time, provided there were no proper lapses, in which
case the figures became solid enough to take hold of. But S. W. always preferred darkness. According to
her account the content of the vision was for the most part of a pleasant kind. Gazing at the beautiful
figures she received a feeling of delicious blessedness. More rarely there were terrible visions of a
dæmonic nature. These were entirely confined to the night or to dark rooms. Occasionally S. W. saw black
figures in the neighbouring streets or in her room; once out in the dark courtyard she saw a terrible copper-
red face which suddenly stared at her and frightened her. I could not learn anything satisfactory about the
first occurrence of the vision. She states that once at night, in her fifth or sixth year, she saw her "guide,"
her grandfather (whom she had never known). I could not get any objective confirmation from her
relatives of this early vision. Nothing of the kind is said to have happened until her first séance. With the
exception of the hypnagogic brightness and the flashes, there were no rudimentary hallucinations, but
from the beginning they were of a systematic nature, involving all the sense-organs equally. So far as
concerns the intellectual reaction to these phenomena it is remarkable with what curious sincerity she
regarded her dreams. Her entire somnambulic development, the innumerable puzzling events, seemed to
her quite natural. She looked at her whole past in this light. Every striking event of earlier years stood to
her in necessary and clear relationship to her present condition. She was happy in the consciousness of
having found her real life-task. Naturally she was unswervingly convinced of the reality of her visions. I
often tried to present her with some sceptical explanation, but she invariably turned this aside; in her usual
condition she did not clearly grasp a reasoned explanation, and in the semi-somnambulic state she
regarded it as senseless in view of the facts staring her in the face. She once said: "I do not know if what
the spirits say and teach me is true, neither do I know if they are those by whose names they call
themselves, but that my spirits exist there is no question. I see them before me, I can touch them, I speak
to them about everything I wish, as naturally as I'm now talking to you. They must be real." She absolutely
would not listen to the idea that the manifestations were a kind of illness. Doubts about her health or about
the reality of her dream would distress her deeply; she felt so hurt by my remarks that when I was present
she became reserved, and for a long time refused to experiment if I was there; hence I took care not to
express my doubts and thoughts aloud. From her immediate relatives and acquaintances she received
undivided allegiance and admiration—they asked her advice about all kinds of things. In time she
obtained such an influence upon her followers that three of her brothers and sisters likewise began to have
hallucinations of a similar kind. Their hallucinations generally began as night-dreams of a very vivid and
dramatic kind; these gradually extended into the waking time, partly hypnagogic, partly hypnopompic. A
married sister had extraordinary vivid dreams which developed from night to night, and these appeared in
the waking consciousness; at first as obscure illusions, next as real hallucinations, but they never reached
the plastic clearness of S. W.'s visions. For instance, she once saw in a dream a black dæmonic figure at
her bedside in animated conversation with a white, beautiful figure, which tried to restrain the black one;
nevertheless the black one seized her and tried to choke her, then she awoke. Bending over her she then
saw a black shadow with a human contour, and near by a white cloudy figure. The vision only disappeared
when she lighted a candle. Similar visions were repeated dozens of times. The visions of the other two
sisters were of a similar kind, but less intense.
This particular type of attack with the complete visions and ideas had developed in the course of less than
a month, but never afterwards exceeded these limits. What was later added to these was but the extension
of all those thoughts and cycles of visions which to a certain extent were already indicated quite at the
beginning. As well as the "great" attacks and the lesser ones, there must also be noted a third kind of state
comparable to "lapse" states. These are the semi-somnambulic states. They appeared at the beginning or at
the end of the "great" attacks, but also appeared without any connection with them. They developed
gradually in the course of the first month. It is not possible to give a more precise account of the time of
their appearance. In this state a fixed gaze, brilliant eyes, and a certain dignity and stateliness of
movement are noticeable. In this phase S. W. is herself, her own somnambulic ego.

She is fully orientated to the external world, but seems to stand with one foot, as it were, in her dream-
world. She sees and hears her spirits, sees how they walk about in the room among those who form the
circle, and stand first by one person, then by another. She is in possession of a clear remembrance of her
visions, her journeys and the instructions she receives. She speaks quietly, clearly and firmly and is always
in a serious, almost religious frame of mind. Her bearing indicates a deeply religious mood, free from all
pietistic flavour, her speech is singularly uninfluenced by her guide's jargon compounded of Bible and
tract. Her solemn behaviour has a suffering, rather pitiful aspect. She is painfully conscious of the great
differences between her ideal world at night and the rough reality of the day. This state stands in sharp
contrast to her waking existence; there is here no trace of that unstable and inharmonious creature, that
extravagant nervous temperament which is so characteristic for the rest of her relationships. Speaking with
her, you get the impression of speaking with a much older person who has attained through numerous
experiences to a sure harmonious footing. In this state she produced her best results, whilst her romances
correspond more closely to the conditions of her waking interests. The semi-somnambulism usually
appears spontaneously, mostly during the table experiments, which sometimes announced by this means
that S. W. was beginning to know beforehand every automatic communication from the table. She then
usually stopped the table-turning and after a short time passed more or less suddenly into an ecstatic state.
S. W. showed herself to be very sensitive. She could divine and reply to simple questions thought of by a
member of the circle who was not a "medium," if only the latter would lay a hand on the table or on her
hand. Genuine thought-transference without direct or indirect contact could never be achieved. In
juxtaposition with the obvious development of her whole personality the continued existence of her earlier
ordinary character was all the more startling. She imparted with unconcealed pleasure all the little childish
experiences, the flirtations and love-secrets, all the rudeness and lack of education of her parents and
contemporaries. To every one who did not know her secret she was a girl of fifteen and a half, in no
respect unlike a thousand other such girls. So much the greater was people's astonishment when they got
to know her in her other aspect. Her near relatives could not at first grasp this change: to some extent they
never altogether understood it, so there was often bitter strife in the family, some of them taking sides for
and others against S. W., either with enthusiastic over-valuation or with contemptuous censure of
"superstition." Thus did S. W., during the time I watched her closely, lead a curious, contradictory life, a
real "double life" with two personalities existing side by side or closely following upon one another and
contending for the mastery. I now give some of the most interesting details of the sittings in chronological
order.
First and second sittings, August, 1899. S. W. at once undertook to lead the "communications." The
"psychograph," for which an upturned glass tumbler was used, on which two fingers of the right hand
were laid, moved quick as lightning from letter to letter. (Slips of paper, marked with letter and numbers,
had been arranged in a circle round the glass.) It was communicated that the "medium's" grandfather was
present and would speak to us. There then followed many communications in quick sequence, of a most
religious, edifying nature, in part in properly made words, partly in words with the letters transposed, and
partly in a series of reversed letters. The last words and sentences were produced so quickly that it was not
possible to follow without first inverting the letters. The communications were once interrupted in abrupt
fashion by a new communication, which announced the presence of the writer's grandfather. On this
occasion the jesting observation was made: "Evidently the two 'spirits' get on very badly together." During
this attempt darkness came on. Suddenly S. W. became very disturbed, sprang up in terror, fell on her
knees and cried "There, there, do you not see that light, that star there?" and pointed to a dark corner of the
room. She became more and more disturbed, and called for a light in terror. She was pale, wept, "it was all
so strange, she did not know in the least what was the matter with her." When a candle was brought she
became calm again. The experiments were now stopped.
At the next sitting, which took place in the evening, two days later, similar communications from S. W.'s
grandfather were obtained. When darkness fell S. W. suddenly leaned back on the sofa, grew pale, almost
shut her eyes, and lay there motionless. The eyeballs were turned upwards, the lid-reflex was present as
well as tactile sensation. The breathing was gentle, almost imperceptible. The pulse small and weak. This
attack lasted about half an hour, when S. W. suddenly sighed and got up. The extreme pallor, which had

lasted throughout the whole attack, now gave place to her usual pale pink colour. She was somewhat
confused and distraught, indicated that she had seen all sorts of things, but would tell nothing. Only after
urgent questioning would she relate that in an extraordinary waking condition she had seen her
grandfather arm-in-arm with the writer's grandfather. The two had gone rapidly by in an open carriage,
side by side.
III. In the third séance, which took place some days later, there was a similar attack of more than half an
hour's duration. S. W. afterwards told of many white, transfigured forms who each gave her a flower of
special symbolic significance. Most of them were dead relatives. Concerning the exact content of their
talk she maintained an obstinate silence.
IV. After S. W. had entered into the somnambulic state she began to make curious movements with her
lips, and made swallowing gurgling noises. Then she whispered very softly and unintelligibly. When this
had lasted some minutes she suddenly began to speak in an altered deep voice. She spoke of herself in the
third person. "She is not here, she has gone away." There followed several communications of a religious
kind. From the content and the way of speaking it was easy to conclude that she was imitating her
grandfather, who had been a clergyman. The content of the talk did not rise above the mental level of the
"communications." The tone of the voice was somewhat forced, and only became natural when, in the
course of the talk, the voice approximated to the medium's own.
(In later sittings the voice was only altered for a few moments when a new spirit manifested itself.)
Afterwards there was amnesia for the trance-conversation. She gave hints about a sojourn in the other
world, and she spoke of an undreamed-of blessedness which she felt. It must be further noted that her
conversation in the attack occurred quite spontaneously, and was not in response to any suggestions.
Directly after this séance S. W. became acquainted with the book of Justinus Kerner, "Die Seherin von
Prevorst." She began thereupon to magnetise herself towards the end of the attack, partly by means of
regular passes, partly by curious circles and figures of eight, which she described symmetrically with both
arms. She did this, she said, to disperse the severe headaches which occurred after the attacks. In the
August séances, not detailed here, there were in addition to the grandfather numerous spirits of other
relatives who did not produce anything very remarkable. Each time when a new one came on the scene the
movement of the glass was changed in a striking way; it generally ran along the rows of letters, touching
one or other of them, but no sense could be made of it. The orthography was very uncertain and arbitrary,
and the first sentences were frequently incomprehensible or broken up into a meaningless medley of
letters. Generally automatic writing suddenly began at this point. Sometimes automatic writing was
attempted during complete darkness. The movements began with violent backward jerks of the whole arm,
so that the paper was pierced by the pencil. The first attempt at writing consisted of numerous strokes and
zigzag lines about 8 cm. high. In later attempts there came first unreadable words, in large handwriting,
which gradually became smaller and clearer. It was not essentially different from the medium's own. The
grandfather was again the controlling spirit.
V. Somnambulic attacks in September, 1899. S. W. sits upon the sofa, leans back, shuts her eyes, breathes
lightly and regularly. She gradually becomes cataleptic, the catalepsy disappears after about two minutes,
when she lies in an apparently quiet sleep with complete muscular relaxation. She suddenly begins to
speak in a subdued voice: "No! you take the red, I'll take the white, you can take the green, and you the
blue. Are you ready? We will go now." (A pause of several minutes during which her face assumes a
corpse-like pallor. Her hands feel cold and are very bloodless.) She suddenly calls out with a loud, solemn
voice: "Albert, Albert, Albert," then whispering: "Now you speak," followed by a longer pause, when the
pallor of the face attains the highest possible degree. Again, in a loud solemn voice, "Albert, Albert, do
you not believe your father? I tell you many errors are contained in N.'s teaching. Think about it." Pause.
The pallor of the face decreases. "He's very frightened. He could not speak any more." (These words in
her usual conversational tone.) Pause. "He will certainly think about it," S. W. now speaks again in the
same tone, in a strange idiom which sounds like French or Italian, now recalling the former, now the latter.
She speaks fluently, rapidly, and with charm. It is possible to understand a few words but not to remember

the whole, because the language is so strange. From time to time certain words recur, as wena, wenes,
wenai, wene, etc. The absolute naturalness of the proceedings is bewildering. From time to time she
pauses as if some one were answering her. Suddenly she speaks in German, "Is time already up?" (In a
troubled voice.) "Must I go already? Goodbye, goodbye." With the last words there passes over her face
an indescribable expression of ecstatic blessedness. She raises her arms, opens her eyes,—hitherto closed,
—looks radiantly upwards. She remains a moment thus, then her arms sink slackly, her eyes shut, the
expression of her face is tired and exhausted. After a short cataleptic stage she awakes with a sigh. She
looks around astonished: "I've slept again, haven't I?" She is told she has been talking during the sleep,
whereupon she becomes much annoyed, and this increases when she learns she has spoken in a foreign
tongue. "But didn't I tell the spirits I don't want it? It mustn't be. It exhausts me too much." Begins to cry.
"Oh, God! Oh, God! must then everything, everything, come back again like last time? Is nothing spared
me?" The next day at the same time there was another attack. When S. W. has fallen asleep Ulrich von
Gerbenstein suddenly announces himself. He is an entertaining chatterer, speaks very fluently in high
German with a North-German accent. Asked what S. W. is now doing, after much circumlocution he
explains that she is far away, and he is meanwhile here to look after her body, the circulation of the blood,
the respiration, etc. He must take care that meanwhile no black person takes possession of her and harms
her. Upon urgent questioning he relates that S. W. has gone with the others to Japan, to appear to a distant
relative and to restrain him from a stupid marriage. He then announces in a whisper the exact moment
when the manifestation takes place. Forbidden any conversation for a few minutes, he points to the sudden
pallor occurring in S. W., remarking that materialisation at such a great distance is at the cost of
correspondingly great force. He then orders cold bandages to the head to alleviate the severe headache
which would occur afterwards. As the colour of the face gradually becomes more natural the conversation
grows livelier. All kinds of childish jokes and trivialities are uttered; suddenly U. von G. says, "I see them
coming, but they are still very far off; I see them there like a star." S. W. points to the North. We are
naturally astonished, and ask why they do not come from the East, whereto U. von G. laughingly retorts:
"Oh, but they come the direct way over the North Pole. I am going now; farewell." Immediately after S.
W. sighs, wakes up, is ill-tempered, complains of extremely bad headache. She saw U. von G. standing by
her body; what had he told us? She gets angry about the "silly chatter" from which he cannot refrain.
VI. Begins in the usual way. Extreme pallor; lies stretched out, scarcely breathing. Speaks suddenly, with
loud, solemn voice: "Yes, be frightened; I am; I warn you against N.'s teaching. See, in hope is everything
that belongs to faith. You would like to know who I am. God gives where one least expects it. Do you not
know me?" Then unintelligible whispering; after a few minutes she awakes.
VII. S. W. soon falls asleep; lies stretched out on the sofa. Is very pale. Says nothing, sighs deeply from
time to time. Casts up her eyes, rises, sits on the sofa, bends forward, speaks softly: "You have sinned
grievously, have fallen far." Bends forward still, as if speaking to some one who kneels before her. She
stands up, turns to the right, stretches out her hands, and points to the spot over which she has been
bending. "Will you forgive her?" she asks, loudly. "Do not forgive men, but their spirits. Not she, but her
human body has sinned." Then she kneels down, remains quite still for about ten minutes in the attitude of
prayer. Then she gets up suddenly, looks to heaven with ecstatic expression, and then throws herself again
on her knees, with her face bowed on her hands, whispering incomprehensible words. She remains rigid in
this position several minutes. Then she gets up, looks again upwards with a radiant countenance, and lies
down on the sofa; soon after she wakes.

Development of the Somnambulic Personalities.
At the beginning of many séances the glass was allowed to move by itself, when occasionally the advice
followed in stereotyped fashion: "You must ask."
Since convinced spiritualists took part in the séances, all kinds of spiritualistic wonders were of course
demanded, and especially the "protecting spirits." In reply, sometimes names of well-known dead people
were produced, sometimes unknown names, e.g. Berthe de Valours, Elizabeth von Thierfelsenburg, Ulrich

von Gerbenstein, etc. The controlling spirit was almost without exception the medium's grandfather, who
once explained: "he loved her more than any one in this world because he had protected her from
childhood up, and knew all her thoughts." This personality produced a flood of Biblical maxims, edifying
observations, and song-book verses; the following is a specimen:—

In true believing,
To faith in God cling ever nigh,
Thy heavenly comfort never leaving,
Which having, man can never die.
Refuge in God is peace for ever,
When earthly cares oppress the mind;
Who from the heart can pray is never
Bowed down by fate, howe'er unkind.

Numerous similar elaborations betrayed by their banal, unctuous contents their origin
in some tract or other. When S. W. had to speak in ecstasy, lively dialogues developed
between the circle-members and the somnambulic personality. The content of the
answers received is essentially just the same commonplace edifying stuff as that of the
psychographic communications. The character of this personality is distinguished by
its dry and tedious solemnity, rigorous conventionality and pietistic virtue (which is
not consistent with the historic reality). The grandfather is the medium's guide and
protector. During the ecstatic state he gives all kinds of advice, prophesies later attacks
and the visions she will see on waking, etc. He orders cold bandages, gives directions
concerning the medium's lying down or the date of the séances. His relationship to the
medium is an extremely tender one. In liveliest contrast to this heavy dream-person
stands a personality, appearing first sporadically, in the psychographic
communications of the first séance. It soon disclosed itself as the dead brother of a Mr.
R., who was then taking part in the séance. This dead brother, Mr. P. R., was full of
commonplaces about brotherly love towards his living brother. He evaded particular
questions in all manner of ways. But he developed a quite astonishing eloquence
towards the ladies of the circle and in particular offered his allegiance to one whom
Mr. P. R. had never known when alive. He affirmed that he had already cared very
much for her in his lifetime, had often met her in the street without knowing who she
was, and was now uncommonly delighted to become acquainted with her in this
unusual manner. With such insipid compliments, scornful remarks to the men,
harmless childish jokes, etc., he took up a large part of the séance. Several of the
members found fault with the frivolity and banality of this "spirit," whereupon he
disappeared for one or two séances, but soon reappeared, at first well-behaved, often
indeed uttering Christian maxims, but soon dropping back into the old tone. Besides
these two sharply differentiated personalities, others appeared who varied but little
from the grandfather's type; they were mostly dead relatives of the medium. The
general atmosphere of the first two months' séances was accordingly solemnly
edifying, disturbed only from time to time by Mr. P. R.'s trivial chatter. Some weeks
after the beginning of the séances, Mr. R. left our circle, whereupon a remarkable
change took place in Mr. P. R.'s conversation. He became monosyllabic, came less
often, and after a few séances vanished altogether, later on he reappeared but with

great infrequency, and for the most part only when the medium was alone with the
particular lady mentioned. Then a new personality forced himself into the foreground;
in contrast to Mr. P. R., who always spoke the Swiss dialect, this gentleman adopted
an affected North-German way of speaking. In all else he was an exact copy of Mr. P.
R. His eloquence was somewhat remarkable, since S. W. had only a very scanty
knowledge of high German, whilst this new personality, who called himself Ulrich
von Gerbenstein, spoke an almost faultless German, rich in charming phrases and
compliments.[20]
Ulrich von Gerbenstein was a witty chatterer, full of repartee, an idler, a great admirer
of the ladies, frivolous, and most superficial.
During the winter of 1899-1900 he gradually came to dominate the situation more and
more, and took over one by one all the above-mentioned functions of the grandfather,
so that under his influence the serious character of the séances disappeared.
All suggestions to the contrary proved unavailing, and at last the séances had on this
account to be suspended for longer and longer intervals. There is a peculiarity
common to all these somnambulic personalities which must be noted. They have
access to the medium's memory, even to the unconscious portion, they are also au
courant with the visions which she has in the ecstatic state, but they have only the
most superficial knowledge of her phantasies during the ecstasy. Of the somnambulic
dreams they know only what they occasionally pick up from the members of the
circle. On doubtful points they can give no information, or only such as contradicts
the medium's explanations. The stereotyped answer to these questions runs: "Ask
Ivenes."[21] "Ivenes knows." From the examples given of different ecstatic moments it
is clear that the medium's consciousness is by no means idle during the trance, but
develops a striking and multiplex phantastic activity. For the reconstruction of S. W.'s
somnambulic self we have to depend altogether upon her several statements; for in the
first place her spontaneous utterances connecting her with the waking self are few, and
often irrelevant, and in the second very many of these ecstatic states go by without
gesture, and without speech, so that no conclusions as to the inner happenings can
afterwards be drawn from the external appearances. S. W. is almost totally amnesic for
the automatic phenomena during ecstasy as far as they come within the territory of
the new personalities of her ego. Of all the other phenomena, such as loud talking,
babbling, etc., which are directly connected with her own ego she usually has a clear
remembrance. But in every case there is complete amnesia only during the first few
minutes after the ecstasy. Within the first half-hour, during which there usually
prevails a kind of semi-somnambulism with a dreamlike manner, hallucinations, etc.,
the amnesia gradually disappears, whilst fragmentary memories emerge of what has
occurred, but in a quite irregular and arbitrary fashion.
The later séances were usually begun by our hands being joined and laid on the table,
whereon the table at once began to move. Meanwhile S. W. gradually became

somnambulic, took her hands from the table, lay back on the sofa, and fell into the
ecstatic sleep. She sometimes related her experiences to us afterwards, but showed
herself very reticent if strangers were present. After the very first ecstasy she indicated
that she played a distinguished rôle among the spirits. She had a special name, as had
each of the spirits; hers was Ivenes; her grandfather looked after her with particular
care. In the ecstasy with the flower-vision we learnt her special secret, hidden till then
beneath the deepest silence. During the séances in which her spirit spoke she made
long journeys, mostly to relatives, to whom she said she appeared, or she found
herself on the Other Side, in "That space between the stars which people think is
empty, but in which there are really very many spirit-worlds." In the semi-
somnambulic state which frequently followed her attacks, she once described, in
peculiar poetic fashion, a landscape on the Other Side, "a wondrous, moon-lit valley,
set aside for the races not yet born." She represented her somnambulic ego as being
almost completely released from the body. It is a fully-grown but small, black-haired
woman, of pronounced Jewish type, clothed in white garments, her head covered with
a turban. She understands and speaks the language of the spirits, "for spirits still, from
old human custom, do speak to one another, although they do not really need to, since
they mutually understand one another's thoughts." She "does not really always talk
with the spirits, but just looks at them, and so understands their thoughts." She travels
in the company of four or five spirits, dead relatives, and visits her living relatives and
acquaintances in order to investigate their life and their way of thinking; she further
visits all places which lie within the radius of these spectral inhabitants. From her
acquaintanceship with Kerner's book, she discovered and improved upon the ideas of
the black spirits who are kept enchanted in certain places, or exist partly beneath the
earth's surface (compare the "Seherin von Prevorst"). This activity caused her much
trouble and pain; in and after the ecstasy she complained of suffocating feelings,
violent headache, etc. But every fortnight, on Wednesdays, she could pass the whole
night in the garden on the Other Side in the company of holy spirits. There she was
taught everything concerning the forces of the world, the endless complicated
relationships and affinities of human beings, and all besides about the laws of
reincarnation, the inhabitants of the stars, etc. Unfortunately only the system of the
world-forces and reincarnation achieved any expression. As to the other matters she
only let fall disconnected observations. For example, once she returned from a railway
journey in an extremely disturbed state. It was thought at first something unpleasant
had happened, till she managed to compose herself, and said, "A star-inhabitant had
sat opposite to her in the train." From the description which she gave of this being, I
recognised a well-known elderly merchant I happened to know, who has a rather
unsympathetic face. In connection with this experience she related all kinds of
peculiarities of these star-dwellers; they have no god-like souls, as men have, they
pursue no science, no philosophy, but in technical arts they are far more advanced
than men. Thus on Mars a flying-machine has long been in existence; the whole of
Mars is covered with canals, these canals are cleverly excavated lakes and serve for

irrigation. The canals are quite superficial; the water in them is very shallow. The
excavating caused the inhabitants of Mars no particular trouble, for the soil there is
lighter than the earth's. The canals are nowhere bridged, but that does not prevent
communication, for everything travels by flying-machine. Wars no longer occur on
the stars, for no differences of opinion exist. The star-dwellers have not human bodies,
but the most laughable ones possible, such as one would never imagine. Human spirits
who are allowed to travel on the Other Side may not set foot on the stars. Equally,
wandering star-dwellers may not come to the earth, but must remain at a distance of
twenty-five metres above the earth's surface. Should they transgress they remain in the
power of the earth, and must assume human bodies, and are only set free again after
their natural death. As men, they are cold, hard-hearted, cruel. S. W. recognises them
by a singular expression in which the "Spiritual" is lacking, and by their hairless,
eyebrowless, sharply-cut faces. Napoleon was a star-dweller.
In her journeys she does not see the places through which she hastens. She has a
feeling of floating, and the spirits tell her when she is at the right spot. Then, as a rule,
she only sees the face and upper part of the person to whom she is supposed to appear,
or whom she wishes to see. She can seldom say in what kind of surroundings she sees
this person. Occasionally she saw me, but only my head without any surroundings.
She occupied herself much with the enchanting of spirits, and for this purpose she
wrote oracular sayings in a foreign tongue, on slips of paper which she concealed in
all sorts of queer places. An Italian murderer, presumably living in my house, and
whom she called Conventi, was specially displeasing to her. She tried several times to
cast a spell upon him, and without my knowledge hid several papers about, on which
messages were written; these were later found by chance. One such, written in red ink,
was as follows:

Conventi
Marche. 4 govi
Ivenes.

Conventi, go
orden, Astaf
vent.

Gen palus, vent allis

ton prost afta ben genallis.
Unfortunately, I never obtained any interpretation of this. S. W. was quite inaccessible
in this matter. Occasionally the somnambulic Ivenes speaks directly to the public. She
does so in dignified fashion, rather precociously, but she is not wearisomely unctuous
and impossibly twaddling as are her two guides; she is a serious, mature person,
devout and pious, full of womanly tenderness and great modesty, always yielding to
the judgments of others. This expression of plaintive emotion and melancholy
resignation is peculiar to her. She looks beyond this world, and unwillingly returns to
reality; she bemoans her hard lot, and her unsympathetic family surroundings.
Associated with this there is something elevated about her; she commands her spirits,
despises the twaddling chatter of Gerbenstein, consoles others, directs those in
distress, warns and protects them from dangers to body and soul. She is the
intermediary for the entire intellectual output of all manifestations, but she herself
ascribes it to the direction of the spirits. It is Ivenes who entirely controls S. W.'s semi-
somnambulic state.
In semi-somnambulism S. W. gave some of those taking part in the séances the
opportunity to compare her with the "Seherin von Prevorst" (Prophetess of Prevorst).
This suggestion was not without results. S. W. gave hints of earlier existences which
she had already lived through, and after a few weeks she suddenly disclosed a whole
system of reincarnations, although she had never before mentioned anything of the
kind. Ivenes is a spiritual being who is something more than the spirits of other human
beings. Every human spirit must incorporate himself twice in the course of the
centuries. But Ivenes must incorporate herself at least once every two hundred years;
besides herself only two other persons have participated in this fate, namely,
Swedenborg and Miss Florence Cook (Crookes's famous medium). S. W. calls these
two personages her brother and sister. She gave no information about their pre-
existences. In the beginning of the nineteenth century Ivenes was Frau Hauffe, the
Prophetess of Prevorst; at the end of the eighteenth century, a clergyman's wife in
central Germany (locality unknown). As the latter she was seduced by Goethe and
bore him a child. In the fifteenth century she was a Saxon countess, and had the poetic
name of Thierfelsenburg. Ulrich von Gerbenstein is a relative from that line. The
interval of 300 years, and her adventure with Goethe, must be atoned for by the
sorrows of the Prophetess of Prevorst. In the thirteenth century she was a noblewoman
of Southern France, called de Valours, and was burnt as a witch. From the thirteenth
century to the Christian persecution under Nero there were numerous reincarnations of
which S. W. could give no detailed account. In the Christian persecution under Nero
she played a martyr's part. Then comes a period of obscurity till the time of David,
when Ivenes was an ordinary Jewess. After her death she received from Astaf, an
angel from a high heaven, the mandate for her future wonderful career. In all her pre-
existences she was a medium and an intermediary in the intercourse between this side
and the other. Her brothers and sisters are equally old and have the like vocation. In
her various pre-existences she was sometimes married, and in this way gradually

founded a whole system of relationships with whose endless complicated inter-
relations she occupied herself in many ecstasies. Thus, for example, about the eighth
century she was the mother of her earthly father and, moreover, of her grandfather,
and mine. Hence the striking friendship of these two old gentlemen, otherwise
strangers. As Mme. de Valours she was the present writer's mother. When she was
burnt as a witch the writer took it much to heart, and went into a cloister at Rouen,
wore a grey habit, became Prior, wrote a work on Botany and died at over eighty years
of age. In the refectory of the cloister there hung a picture of Mme. de Valours, in
which she was depicted in a half-reclining position. (S. W. in the semi-somnambulic
state often took this position on the sofa. It corresponds exactly to that of Mme.
Recamier in David's well-known picture.) A gentleman who often took part in the
séances, who had some slight resemblance to the writer, was also one of her sons from
that period. Around this core of relationship there grouped themselves, more or less
intimately connected, all the persons in any way related or known to her. One came
from the fifteenth century, another—a cousin—from the eighteenth century, and so on.
From the three great family stocks grew by far the greater part of the present European
peoples. She and her brothers and sisters are descended from Adam, who arose by
materialisation; the other then-existing families, from whom Cain took his wife, were
descended from apes. S. W. produced from this circle of relationship an extensive
family-gossip, a very flood of romantic stories, piquant adventures, etc. Sometimes
the target of her romances was a lady acquaintance of the writer's who for some
undiscoverable reason was peculiarly antipathetic to her. She declared that this lady
was an incarnation of a celebrated Parisian poisoner, who had achieved great notoriety
in the eighteenth century. She maintained that this lady still continued her dangerous
work, but in a much more ingenious way than formerly; through the inspiration of the
wicked spirits who accompany her she had discovered a liquid which when merely
exposed to the air attracted tubercle bacilli and formed a splendid developing medium
for them. By means of this liquid, which she was wont to mix with the food, the lady
had brought about the death of her husband (who had indeed died of tuberculosis);
also one of her lovers, and of her own brother, for the sake of his inheritance. Her
eldest son was an illegitimate child by her lover. As a widow she had secretly borne to
another lover an illegitimate child, and finally she had had an unnatural relationship
with her own brother (who was later on poisoned). In this way S. W. spun
innumerable stories, in which she believed quite implicitly. The persons of these
stories appeared in the drama of her visions, as did the lady before referred to, going
through the pantomime of making confession and receiving absolution of sins.
Everything interesting occurring in her surroundings was incorporated in this system
of romances, and given an order in the network of relationships with a more or less
exact statement as to their pre-existences and the spirits influencing them. It fared thus
with all who made S. W.'s acquaintance: they were valued at a second or first
incarnation, according as they possessed a marked or indefinite character. They were
generally described as relatives, and always exactly in the same definite way. Only

subsequently, often several weeks later, after an ecstasy, there would make its
appearance a new complicated romance which explained the striking relationship
through pre-existences or through illegitimate relations. Persons sympathetic to S. W.
were usually very near relatives. Most of these family romances were very carefully
made up, so that to contradict them was impossible. They were always worked out
with a quite bewildering certainty, and surprised one by an extremely clever
evaluation of certain details which she had noticed or taken from somewhere. For the
most part the romances had a ghastly character, murder by poison and dagger,
seduction and divorce, forgery of wills, played the chief rôle.

Mystic Science.—In reference to scientific questions S. W. put forward numerous
suggestions. Generally towards the end of the séances there was talk and debate about
various subjects of scientific and spiritistic nature. S. W. never took part in the
discussion, but generally sat dreamily in a corner in a semi-somnambulic state. She
listened to one and another, taking hold of the talk in a half-dream, but she could
never relate anything connectedly; if asked about it only partial explanations were
given. In the course of the winter hints emerged in various séances: "The spirits taught
her about the world-forces and the strange revelations from the other side, yet she
would not tell anything now." Once she tried to give a description, but only said: "On
one side was the light, on the other the power of attraction." Finally, in March 1900,
when for some time nothing had been heard of the teachings at the séances, she
announced suddenly with a joyful face that she had now received everything from the
spirits. She drew out a long narrow strip of paper upon which were numerous names.
Although I asked for it she would not let it leave her hands, but dictated the following
scheme to me.

Fig. 1.
I can remember clearly that in the course of the winter of 1895 we spoke several times
in S. W.'s presence of the forces of attraction and repulsion in connection with Kant's
"Natural History of the Heavens"; we spoke also of the "Law of the Conservation of
Energy," of the different forces of energy, and of the question whether the force of
gravity was perhaps a form of movement. From this talk S. W. had plainly created the
foundation of her mystic system. She gave the following explanation: The natural
forces are arranged in seven circles. Outside these circles are three more, in which
unknown forces intermediate between energy and matter are found. Matter is found in
seven circles which surround ten inner ones. In the centre stands the primary force,
which is the original cause of creation and is a spiritual force. The first circle which
surrounds the primary force is matter which is not really a force and does not arise
from the primary force, but it unites with the primary force and from this union the
first descendants are the spiritual forces; on the one hand the Good or Light Powers,
on the other the Dark Powers. The Power Magnesor consists most of primary force;
the Power Connesor, in which the dark might of matter is greatest, contains the least.
The further outwards the primary force streams forth, the weaker it becomes, but
weaker too becomes the power of matter, since its power is greatest where the
collision with the primary power is most violent, i.e. in the Power Connesor. Within
the circles there are fresh analogous forces of equal strength but making in the
opposite direction. The system can also be described in a single series beginning with
primary force, Magnesor, Cafor, etc., proceeding from left to right on the scheme and
ascending with Tusa, Endos, ending with Connesor; only then the survey of the grade

of intensity is made more difficult. Every force in the outer circle is combined from
the nearest adjacent forces of the inner circle.
1. The Magnesor Group.—The so-called powers of Light descend in direct line from
Magnesor, but slightly influenced by the dark side. The powers Magnesor and Cafor
form together the so-called Life Force, which is no single power but is differently
combined in animals and plants. Between Magnesor and Cafor there exists the Life
Force of Man. Morally good men and those mediums who bring about interviews of
good spirits on the earth have most Magnesor. Somewhere about the middle there
stand the life forces of animals, and in Cafor that of plants. Nothing is known about
Hefa, or rather S. W. can give no information. Persus is the fundamental power which
comes to light in the phenomenon of the forces of locomotion. Its recognisable forces
are Warmth, Light, Electricity, Magnetism, and two unknown forces, one of which
only exists in comets. Of the powers of the seventh circle S. W. could only point out
north and south magnetism and positive and negative electricity. Deka is unknown.
Smar is of peculiar significance, to be indicated below; it leads to—
2. Hypnos Group.—Hypnos and Hyfonismus are powers which only dwell within
certain beings, in those who are in a position to exert a magnetic influence upon
others. Athialowi is the sexual instinct. Chemical affinity is directly derived from it. In
the ninth circle under it arises indolence (that is the line of Smar). Svens and Kara are
of unknown significance. Pusa corresponds to Smar in the opposite sense.
3. The Connesor Group.—Connesor is the opposite pole of Magnesor. It is the dark
and wicked power equal in intensity to the good power of light. While the good power
creates, this one turns into the opposite. Endos is an elemental power of minerals.
From these (significance unknown) gravitation proceeds, which on its side is
designated as the elemental force of the forces of resistance that occur in phenomena
(gravity, capillarity, adhesion and cohesion). Nakus is the secret power of a rare stone
which controls the effect of snake poison. The two powers Smar and Pusa have a
special importance. According to S. W., Smar develops in the bodies of morally good
men at the moment of death. This power enables the soul to rise to the powers of light.
Pusa behaves in the opposite way, for it is the power which conducts morally bad
people to the dark side in the state of Connesor.
In the sixth circle the visible world begins, which only appears to be so sharply
divided from the other side in consequence of the fickleness of our organs of sense. In
reality the transition is a very gradual one, and there are people who live on a higher
stage of knowledge because their perceptions and sensations are more delicate than
those of others. Great seers are enabled to see manifestations of force where ordinary
people can perceive nothing. S. W. sees Magnesor as a white or bluish vapour, which
chiefly develops when good spirits are near. Connesor is a dark vapour-like fluid,
which, like Magnesor, develops on the appearance of "black" spirits. For instance, the
night before the beginning of great visions the shiny vapour of Magnesor spreads in

thick layers, out of which, the good spirits grow to visible white forces. It is just the
same with Connesor. But these powers have their different mediums. S. W. is a
Magnesor medium, as were the Prophetess of Prevorst and Swedenborg. The
materialisation mediums of the spiritualists are mostly Connesor mediums, because
materialisation takes place much more easily through Connesor on account of its close
connection with the properties of matter. In the summer of 1900 S. W. tried several
times to produce the circles of matter, but she never arrived at other than vague and
incomprehensible hints and afterwards spoke no more about this.
Conclusion.—The really interesting and valuable séances came to an end with the
production of the system of powers. Before this a gradual decline in the vividness of
the ecstasies was noticeable. Ulrich von Gerbenstein came increasingly to the front,
and filled up the séances with his childish chatter. The visions which S. W. had in the
meantime likewise seem to have lost vividness and plasticity of formation, for S. W.
was afterwards only able to feel pleasant sensations in the presence of good spirits,
and disagreeableness in that of bad spirits. Nothing new was produced. There was
something of uncertainty in the trance talks, as if feeling and seeking for the
impression which she was making upon the audience, together with an increasing
staleness in the content. In the outward behaviour of S. W. there arose also a marked
shyness and uncertainty, so that the impression of wilful deception became ever
stronger. The writer therefore soon withdrew from the séances. S. W. experimented
afterwards in other circles, and six months after my leaving was caught cheating in
flagranti delicto. She wanted to arouse again by spiritualistic experiments the lost
belief in her supernatural powers; she concealed small objects in her dress, throwing
them up in the air during the dark séance. With this her part was played out. Since
then, eighteen months have passed during which I have not seen S. W. I have learnt
from an observer who knew her in the earlier days, that she has now and again strange
states of short duration during which she is very pale and silent, and has a fixed
glittering look. I did not hear any more of visions. She is said not to take part any
longer in spiritualistic séances. S. W. is now in a large business, and according to all
accounts is an industrious and responsible person who does her work eagerly and
cleverly, giving entire satisfaction. According to the account of trustworthy persons,
her character has much improved; she has become quieter, more regular and
sympathetic. No other abnormalities have appeared in her. This case, in spite of its
incompleteness, contains a mass of psychological problems whose exposition goes far
beyond the limits of this little work. We must therefore be satisfied with a mere sketch
of the various striking manifestations. For the sake of a more lucid exposition it seems
better to review the various states separately.
1. The Waking State.—Here the patient shows various peculiarities. As we have seen,
at school she was often distracted, lost herself in a peculiar way, was moody; her
behaviour changes inconsequently, now quiet, shy, reserved, now lively, noisy and
talkative. She cannot be called unintelligent, but she strikes one sometimes as narrow-

minded, sometimes as having isolated intelligent moments. Her memory is good on
the whole, but owing to her distraction it is much impaired. Thus, despite much
discussion and reading of Kerner's "Seherin von Prevorst," for many weeks, she does
not know, if directly asked, whether the author's name is Koerner or Kerner, nor the
name of the Prophetess. All the same, when it occasionally comes up, the name
Kerner is correctly written in the automatic communications. In general it may be said
that her character has something extremely impulsive, incomprehensible, protean.
Deducting the want of balance due to puberty, there remains a pathological residue
which expresses itself in reactions which follow no rule and a bizarre unaccountable
character. This character may be called déséquilibré, or unstable. Its specific mould is
derived from traits which can certainly be regarded as hysterical. This is decidedly so
in the conditions of distraction. As Janet[22] maintains, the foundation of hysterical
anæsthesia is the loss of attention. He was able to prove in youthful hysterics "a
striking indifference and distracted attention in the whole region of the emotional
life." Misreading is a notable instance, which beautifully illustrates hysterical
dispersion of attention. The psychology of this process may perhaps be viewed as
follows: during reading aloud attention becomes paralysed for this act and is directed
towards some other object. Meanwhile the reading is continued mechanically, the
sense impressions are received as before, but in consequence of the dispersion the
excitability of the perceptive centre is lowered, so that the strength of the sense
impression is no longer adequate to fix the attention in such a way that perception as
such is conducted along the motor speech route; thus all the inflowing associations
which at once unite with any new sense impression are repressed. The further
psychological mechanism permits of only two possible explanations: (1) The
admission of the sense impression is received unconsciously (because of the increase
of threshold stimulus), in the perceptive centre just below the threshold of
consciousness, and consequently is not incorporated in the attention and conducted
back to the speech route. It only reaches verbal expression through the intervention of
the nearest associations, in our case through the dialect expression[23] for the object.
(2) The sense impression is perceived consciously, but at the moment of its entrance
into the speech route it reaches a territory whose excitability is diminished by the
dispersion of attention. At this place the dialect word is substituted by association for
the motor speech image, and it is uttered as such. In either case it is certain that it is
the acoustic dispersed attention which fails to correct the error. Which of the two
explanations is correct cannot be proved in this case; probably both approach the
truth, for the dispersion of attention seems to be general, and in each case concerns
more than one of the centres engaged in the act of reading aloud. In our case this
phenomenon has a special value, for we have here a quite elementary automatic
phenomenon. It may be called hysterical in so far as in this concrete case a state of
exhaustion and intoxication, with its parallel manifestations, can be excluded. A
healthy person only exceptionally allows himself to be so engaged by an object that he
fails to correct the errors of a dispersed attention—those of the kind described. The

frequency of these occurrences in the patient point to a considerable limitation of the
field of consciousness, in so far as she can only master a relative minimum of
elementary sensations flowing in at the same time. If we wish to describe more
exactly the psychological state of the "psychic shady side," we might call it either a
sleeping or a dream-state, according as passivity or activity predominated. There is, at
all events, a pathological dream-state of very rudimentary extension and intensity and
its genesis is spontaneous; dream-states arising spontaneously, with the production of
automatisms, are generally regarded as hysterical on the whole. It must be pointed out
that these instances of misreading occurred frequently in our subject, and that the term
hysterical is employed in this sense; so far as we know, it is only on a foundation of
hysterical constitution that spontaneous states of partial sleep or dreams occur
frequently.
Binet[24] has studied experimentally the automatic substitution of some adjacent
association in his hysterics. If he pricked the anæsthetic hand of the patient without
his noticing the prick, he thought of "points"; if the anæsthetic finger was moved, he
thought of "sticks" or "columns." When the anæsthetic hand, concealed from the
patient's sight by a screen, writes "Salpêtrière," she sees in front of her the word
"Salpêtrière" in white writing on a black ground. This recalls the experiments above
referred to of Guinon and Sophie Waltke.
We thus find in our subject, at a time when there was nothing to indicate the later
phenomena, rudimentary automatisms, fragments of dream manifestations, which
imply in themselves the possibility that some day more than one association would
creep in between the perception of the dispersed attention and consciousness. The
misreading shows us, moreover, a certain automatic independence of the psychical
elements. This occasionally expands to a more or less fleeting dispersion of attention,
although with very slight results which are never in any way striking or suspicious;
this dispersedness approximates to that of the physiological dream. The misreading
can be thus conceived as a prodromal symptom of the later events; especially as its
psychology is prototypical for the mechanism of somnambulic dreams, which are
indeed nothing but a many-sided multiplication and manifold variation of the
elementary processes reviewed above. I never succeeded in demonstrating during my
observations similar rudimentary automatisms. It would seem that in course of time
the states of dispersed attention, to a certain extent beneath the surface of
consciousness, at first of low degree have grown into these remarkable somnambulic
attacks; hence they disappeared during the waking state, which was free from attacks.
So far as concerns the development of the patient's character, beyond a certain not
very extensive ripening, no remarkable change could be demonstrated during the
observations lasting nearly two years. More remarkable is the fact that in the two
years since the cessation (complete?) of the somnambulic attacks, a considerable
change in character has taken place. We shall have occasion later on to speak of the
importance of this observation.

Semi-Somnambulism.—In S. W.'s case the following condition was indicated by the
term semi-somnambulism. For some time after and before the actual somnambulic
attack the patient finds herself in a state whose most salient feature can best be
described as "preoccupation." She only lends half an ear to the conversation around
her, answers at random, often gets absorbed in all manner of hallucinations; her face is
solemn, her look ecstatic, visionary, ardent. Closer observation discloses a far-
reaching alteration of the entire character. She is now serious, dignified; when she
speaks her subject is always an extremely serious one. In this condition she can talk so
seriously, forcibly and convincingly, that one is tempted to ask oneself if this is really
a girl of fifteen and a half. One has the impression of a mature woman possessed of
considerable dramatic talent. The reason for this seriousness, this solemnity of
behaviour, is given in her explanation that at these times she stands at the frontier of
this world and the other, and associates just as truly with the spirits of the dead as with
living people. And, indeed, her conversation is usually divided between answers to
real objective questions and hallucinatory ones. I call this state semi-somnambulism
because it coincides with Richet's own definition. He[25] says: "La conscience de cet
individu persiste dans son intégrité apparente, toutefois des opérations très
compliquées vont s'accomplir en dehors de la conscience sans que le moi volontaire et
conscient paraisse ressentir une modification quelconque. Une autre personne sera en
lui qui agira, pensera, voudra, sans que la conscience, c'est à dire le moi réfléchi
conscient, aît la moindre notion."
Binet[26] says of this term: "Le terme indique la parenté de cet état avec le
somnambulisme véritable, et en suite il laisse comprendre que la vie somnambulique
qui se manifeste durant la veille est réduite, déprimée, par la conscience normale qui
la recouvre."

Automatisms.
Semi-somnambulism is characterised by the continuity of consciousness with that of
the waking state and by the appearance of various automatisms which give evidence
of an activity of the subconscious self, independent of that of consciousness.
Our case shows the following automatic phenomena:

(1) Automatic movements of the table.
(2) Automatic writing.
(3) Hallucinations.

1. Automatic Movements of the Table.—Before the patient came under my observation
she had been influenced by the suggestion of "table-turning," which she had first
come across as a game. As soon as she entered the circle there appeared

communications from members of her family which showed her to be a medium. I
could only find out that, as soon as ever her hand was placed on the table, the typical
movements began. The resulting communications have no interest for us. But the
automatic character of the act itself deserves some discussion, for we may, without
more ado, set aside the imputation that there was any question of intentional and
voluntary pushing or pulling on the part of the patient.
As we know from the investigations of Chevreul,[27] Gley, Lehmann and others,
unconscious motor phenomena are not only of frequent occurrence among hysterical
persons, and those pathologically inclined in other directions, but they are also
relatively easily produced in normal persons who show no other spontaneous
automatisms. I have made many experiments on these lines, and can confirm this
observation. In the great majority of instances all that is required is enough patience to
put up with an hour of quiet waiting. In most subjects, motor automatisms will be
obtained in a more or less high degree if contra-suggestions do not intervene as
obstacles. In a relatively small percentage the phenomena arise spontaneously, i.e.
directly under the influence of verbal suggestion or of some earlier auto-suggestion. In
this instance the case is powerfully affected by suggestion. In general, the particular
predisposition is subject to all those laws which also hold good for normal hypnosis.
Nevertheless, certain special circumstances are to be taken into account, conditioned
by the peculiarity of the case. It is not a question of a total hypnosis, but of a partial
one, limited entirely to the motor area of the arm, like the cerebral anæsthesia
produced by "magnetic passes" for a painful spot in the body. We touch the spot in
question employing verbal suggestion or making use of some existing auto-
suggestion, using the tactile stimulus which we know acts suggestively, to bring about
the desired partial hypnosis. In accordance with this procedure, refractory subjects can
be brought easily enough to an exhibition of automatism. The experimenter
intentionally gives the table a slight push, or, better, a series of rhythmic but very
slight taps. After a short time he notices that the oscillations become stronger, that
they continue although he has interrupted his own intentional movements. The
experiment has succeeded, the subject has unsuspectingly taken up the suggestion. By
this procedure much more is obtained than by verbal suggestion. In very receptive
persons and in all those cases where movement seems to arise spontaneously, the
purposeful tremulous movements,[28] not perceptible by the subject, assume the rôle
of agent provocateur.
In this way persons who, by themselves, have never obtained automatic movements of
a coarse calibre, sometimes assume the unconscious guidance of the table-movements,
provided that the tremors are strong and that the medium understands their meaning.
In this case the medium takes control of the slight oscillations and returns them
considerably strengthened, but rarely at exactly the same instant, generally a few
seconds later, in this way revealing the agent's conscious or unconscious thought. By
means of this simple mechanism there may arise those cases of thought-reading so

bewildering at first sight. A very simple experiment, that succeeds in many cases even
with unpractised persons, will serve to illustrate this. The experimenter thinks, say, of
the number four, and then waits, his hands quietly resting on the table, until he feels
that the table makes the first inclination to announce the number thought of. He lifts
his hands off the table immediately, and the number four will be correctly tilted out. It
is advisable in this experiment to place the table upon a soft thick carpet. By close
attention the experimenter will occasionally notice a movement of the table which is
thus represented.

Fig. 2.

(1) Purposeful tremors too slight to be perceived by the subject.
(2) Several very small but perceptible oscillations of the table which indicate that
the subject is responding to them.
(3) The big movements (tilts) of the table, giving the number four that was
thought of.
(ab) Denotes the moment when the operator's hands are removed.

This experiment succeeds excellently with well-disposed but inexperienced subjects.
After a little practice the phenomenon indicated is wont to disappear, since by practice
the number is read and reproduced directly from the purposeful movements.[29]
In a responsive medium these purposeful tremors of the experimenter act just as the
intentional taps in the experiment cited above; they are received, strengthened and
reproduced, although slightly wavering. Still they are perceptible and hence act
suggestively as slight tactile stimuli, and by the increase of partial hypnosis give rise
to great automatic movements. This experiment illustrates in the clearest way the
increase step by step of auto-suggestion. Along the path of this auto-suggestion are

developed all the automatic phenomena of a motor nature. How the intellectual
content gradually mingles in with the purely motor need scarcely be elucidated after
this discussion. There is no need of a special suggestion for the evoking of intellectual
phenomena. From the outset it is a question of word-presentation, at least from the
side of the experimenter. After the first aimless motor irrelevancies of the unpractised
subject, some word-products or the intentions of the experimenter are soon
reproduced. Objectively the occurrence of an intellectual content must be understood
as follows:—
By the gradual increase of auto-suggestion the motor-range of the arm becomes
isolated from consciousness, that is to say, the perception of the slight movement-
impulse is concealed from consciousness.[30]
By the knowledge gained from consciousness that some intellectual content is
possible, there results a collateral excitation in the speech-area as the means
immediately at hand for intellectual notification. The motor part of word-presentation
is necessarily chiefly concerned with this aiming at notification.[31] In this way we
understand the unconscious flowing over of speech-impulse to the motor-area[32] and
conversely the gradual penetration of partial hypnosis into the speech-area.
In numerous experiments with beginners, as a rule I have observed at the beginning of
intellectual phenomena a relatively large number of completely meaningless words,
also often a series of meaningless single letters. Later on, all kinds of absurdities are
produced, e.g. words or entire sentences with the letters irregularly misplaced or with
the order of the letters all reversed—a kind of mirror-writing. The appearance of the
letter or word indicates a new suggestion; some sort of association is involuntarily
joined to it, which is then realised. Remarkably enough, these are not generally the
conscious associations, but quite unexpected ones, a circumstance showing that a
considerable part of the speech-area is already hypnotically isolated. The recognition
of this automatism again forms a fruitful suggestion, since invariably at this moment
the feeling of strangeness arises, if it is not already present in the pure motor-
automatism. The question, "Who is doing this?" "Who is speaking?", is the suggestion
for the synthesis of the unconscious personality which as a rule does not like being
kept waiting too long. Any name is introduced, generally one charged with emotion,
and the automatic splitting of the personality is accomplished. How accidental and
how vacillating this synthesis is at its beginning, the following reports from the
literature show. Myers[33] communicates the following interesting observation on a
Mr. A., a member of the Society for Psychical Research, who was making
experiments on himself in automatic writing.

Third Day.
Question: What is man?

Answer: TEFI H HASL ESBLE LIES.
Is that an anagram? Yes.
How many words does it contain? Five.
What is the first word? SEE.
What is the second word? SEEEE.
See? Shall I interpret it myself? Try to.

Mr. A. found this solution: "Life is less able." He was astonished at this intellectual
information, which seemed to him to prove the existence of an intelligence
independent of his own. Therefore he went on to ask:

Who are you? Clelia.
Are you a woman? Yes.
Have you ever lived upon the earth? No.
Will you come to life? Yes.
When? In six years.
Why are you conversing with me? E if Clelia el.
Mr. A. interpreted this answer as: I Clelia feel.

Fourth Day.
Question: Am I the one who asks the questions? Yes.
Is Clelia there? No.
Who is here then? Nobody.
Does Clelia exist at all? No.
With whom then was I speaking yesterday? With no one.

Janet[34] conducted the following conversation with the subconsciousness of Lucie,
who, meanwhile, was engaged in conversation with another observer. "M'entendez-
vous?" asks Janet. Lucie answers by automatic writing, "Non." "Mais pour répondre il
faut entendre?" "Oui, absolument." "Alors comment faites-vous?" "Je ne sais." "Il faut
bien qu'il y ait quelqu'un qui m'entend?" "Oui." "Qui cela! Autre que Lucie. Eh bien!

Une autre personne. Voulez-vous que nous lui donnions un nom?" "Non." "Si, ce sera
plus commode," "Eh bien, Adrienne!" "Alors, Adrienne, m'entendez-vous?" "Oui."
From these quotations it will be seen in what way the subconscious personality is
constructed. It owes its origin purely to suggestive questions meeting a certain
disposition of the medium. The explanation is the result of the disintegration of the
psychical complex; the feeling of the strangeness of such automatisms then comes in
to help, as soon as conscious attention is directed to the automatic act. Binet[35]
remarks on this experiment of Janet's: "Il faut bien remarquer que si la personnalité
d'Adrienne a pu se créer, c'est qu'elle a rencontré une possibilité psychologique; en
d'autres termes, il y avait là des phénomènes désagrégés vivant séparés de la
conscience normale du sujet." The individualisation of the subconsciousness always
denotes a considerable further step of great suggestive influence upon the further
formation of automatisms.[36] So, too, we must regard the origin of the unconscious
personalities in our case.
The objection that there is simulation in automatic table-turning may well be given up,
when one considers the phenomenon of thought-reading from the purposeful tremors
which the patient offered in such plenitude. Rapid, conscious thought-reading
demands at the least an extraordinary degree of practice, which it has been shown the
patient did not possess. By means of the purposeful tremors whole conversations can
be carried on, as in our case. In the same way the suggestibility of the subconscious
can be proved objectively if, for instance, the experimenter with his hand on the table
desires that the hand of the medium should no longer be able to move the table or the
glass; contrary to all expectation and to the liveliest astonishment of the subject, the
table will immediately remain immovable. Naturally any other desired suggestions
can be realised, provided they do not overstep by their innervations the region of
partial hypnosis; this proves at the same time the limited nature of the hypnosis.
Suggestions for the legs and the other arm will thus not be obeyed. Table-turning was
not an automatism which belonged exclusively to the patient's semi-somnambulism:
on the contrary, it occurred in the most pronounced form in the waking state, and in
most cases then passed over into semi-somnambulism, the appearance of this being
generally announced by hallucinations, as it was at the first sitting.
2. Automatic Writing.—A second automatic phenomenon, which at the outset
corresponds to a higher degree of partial hypnosis, is automatic writing. It is,
according to my experience, much rarer and more difficult to produce than table-
turning. As in table-turning, it is again a matter of a primary suggestion, to the
conscious when sensibility is retained, to the unconscious when it is obliterated. The
suggestion is, however, not a simple one, for it already bears in itself an intellectual
element. "To write" means "to write something." This special element of the
suggestion, which extends beyond the merely motor, often conditions a certain
perplexity on the part of the subject, giving rise to slight contrary suggestions which

hinder the appearance of the automatisms. I have observed in a few cases that the
suggestion is realised, despite its relative venturesomeness (e.g. one directed towards
the waking consciousness of a so-called normal person). However, it takes place in a
peculiar way; it first displaces the purely motor part of the central system concerned in
hypnosis, and the deeper hypnosis is then reached by auto-suggestion from the motor
phenomenon, analogous to the procedure in table-turning described above. The
subject,[37] who has a pencil in his hand, is purposely engaged in conversation whilst
his attention is diverted from the writing. The hand begins to make movements,
beginning with many upward strokes and zigzag lines, or a simple line is made.
Occasionally it happens that the pencil does not touch the paper, but writes in the air.
These movements must be conceived as purely motor phenomena, which correspond
to the expression of the motor element in the presentation "write." This phenomenon
is somewhat rare; generally single letters are first written, and what was said above of
table-turning holds true of their combination into words and sentences. True mirror-
writing is also observed here and there. In the majority of cases, and perhaps in all
experiments with beginners who are not under some very special suggestion, the
automatic writing is that of the subject. Occasionally its character may be greatly
changed,[38] but this is secondary, and is always to be regarded as a symptom of the
intruding synthesis of a subconscious personality.

Fig. 3.
As stated, the patient's automatic writing never came to any very great development.
In these experiments, generally carried out in darkness, she passed over into semi-
somnambulism, or into ecstasy. The automatic writing had thus the same effect as the
preliminary table-turning.
3. The Hallucinations.—The nature of the passing into somnambulism in the second
séance is of psychological importance. As stated, the automatic phenomena were
progressing favourably when darkness came on. The most interesting event of this
séance, so far, was the brusque interruption of the communication from the
grandfather, which was the starting-point of various debates amongst the members of
the circle. These two momentous occurrences, the darkness and the striking event,
seem to have been the foundation for a rapid deepening of hypnosis, in consequence
of which the hallucinations could be developed. The psychological mechanism of this
process seems to be as follows. The influence of darkness upon the suggestibility of

the sense-organs is well known.[39] Binet[40] states that it has a special influence on
hysterics, producing a state of sleepiness. As is clear from the foregoing, the patient
was in a state of partial hypnosis and had constituted herself one with the unconscious
personality in closest relationship to her in the domain of speech. The automatic
expression of this personality is interrupted most unexpectedly by a new person, of
whose existence no one had any suspicion. Whence came this cleavage? Obviously
the eager expectation of this first séance had very much occupied the patient. Her
reminiscences of me and my family had probably grouped themselves around this
expectation; hence these suddenly come to light at the climax of the automatic
expression. That it was just my grandfather and no one else—not, e.g., my deceased
father, who, as she knew, was much closer to me than the grandfather whom I had
never known—perhaps suggests where the origin of this new person is to be sought. It
is probably a dissociation of the personality already present which seized upon the
material next at hand for its expression, namely, upon the associations concerning
myself. How far this is parallel to the experiences revealed by dream investigation
(Freud's[41]) must remain undecided, for we have no means of judging how far the
effect mentioned can be considered a "repressed" one. From the brusque interruption
of the new personality, we may conclude that the presentations concerned were very
vivid, with corresponding intensity of expectation. This perhaps was an attempt to
overcome a certain maidenly shyness and embarrassment. This event reminds us
vividly of the manner in which the dream presents to consciousness, by a more or less
transparent symbolism, things one has never said to oneself clearly and openly. We do
not know when this dissociation of the new personality occurred, whether it had been
slowly prepared in the unconscious, or whether it first occurred in the séance. In any
case, this event meant a considerable increase in the extension of the unconscious
sphere rendered accessible through the hypnosis. At the same time this event must be
regarded as powerfully suggestive in regard to the impression which it made upon the
waking consciousness of the patient. For the perception of this unexpected
intervention of a new power must inevitably excite a feeling of the strangeness of the
automatisms, and would easily suggest the thought that an independent spirit is here
making itself known. Hence the intelligible association that she would finally be able
to see this spirit. The situation that ensued at the second séance is to be explained by
the coincidence of this energising suggestion with the heightened suggestibility
conditioned by the darkness. The hypnosis, and with it the series of dissociated
presentations, break through to the visual area, and the expression of the unconscious,
hitherto purely motor, is made objective, according to the measure of the specific
energy of the new system, in the shape of visual images with the character of
hallucinations; not as a mere accompanying phenomenon of the word-automatism, but
as a substituted function. The explanation of the situation that arose in the first séance,
at that time unexpected and inexplicable, is no longer presented in words, but as a
descriptive allegorical vision. The sentence "they do not hate one another, but are
friends," is expressed in a picture. We often encounter events of this kind in

somnambulism. The thinking of somnambulists is given in plastic images which
constantly break into this or that sense-sphere and are made objective in
hallucinations. The process of reflection sinks into the subconscious; only its end-
results arise to consciousness either as presentations vividly tinged by the senses, or
directly as hallucinations. In our case the same thing occurred as in the patient whose
anæsthetic hand Binet pricked nine times, making her think of the figure 9; or as in
Flournoy's[42] Helen Smith, who, when asked during business-hours about certain
patterns, suddenly saw the number of days (18) for which they had been lent, at a
length of 20 mm. in front of her. The further question arises, why does the automatism
appear in the visual and not in the acoustic sphere? There are several grounds for this
choice of the visual sphere.
(1) The patient is not gifted acoustically; she is, for instance, very unmusical.
(2) There was no stillness corresponding to the darkness which might have favoured
the appearance of sounds; there was a lively conversation.
(3) The increased conviction of the near presence of spirits, because the automatism
felt so strange, could easily have aroused the idea that a spirit might be seen, thus
causing a slight excitation of the visual sphere.
(4) The entoptic phenomena in darkness favoured the occurrence of hallucinations.
The reasons (3) and (4)—the entoptic phenomena in the darkness and the probable
excitation of the visual sphere—are of decisive importance for the appearance of
hallucinations. The entoptic phenomena in this case play the same rôle in the auto-
suggestion, the production of the automatism, as the slight tactile stimuli in hypnosis
of the motor centre. As stated, flashes preceded the first hallucinatory twilight-state.
Obviously attention was already at a high pitch, and directed to visual perceptions, so
that the retina's own light, usually very weak, was seen with great intensity. The part
played by entoptic perceptions of light in the origin of hallucinations deserves further
consideration. Schüle[43] says: "The swarming of light and colour which stimulates
and animates the field of vision, although in the dark, supplies the material for
phantastic figures in the air before falling asleep. As we know, absolute darkness is
never seen; a few particles of the dark field of vision are always illumined; flecks of
light move here and there, and combine into all kinds of figures; it only needs a
moderately active imagination to create out of them, as one does out of clouds, certain
known figures. The power of reasoning, fading as one falls asleep, leaves phantasy
free play to construct very vivid figures. In the place of the light spots, haziness and
changing colours of the dark visual field, there arise definite outlines of objects."[44]
In this way hypnagogic hallucinations arise. The chief rôle naturally belongs to the
imagination, hence imaginative people in particular are subject to hypnagogic

hallucinations.[45] The hypnopompic hallucinations described by Myers arise in the
same way.
It is highly probable that hypnagogic pictures are identical with the dream-pictures of
normal sleep—forming their visual foundation. Maury[46] has proved from self-
observation that the pictures which hovered around him hypnagogically were also the
objects of the dreams that followed. G. Trumbull Ladd[47] has shown this even more
convincingly. By practice he succeeded in waking himself suddenly two to five
minutes after falling asleep. He then observed that the figures dancing before the
retina at times represented the same contours as the pictures just dreamed of. He even
states that nearly every visual dream is shaped by the retina's own light-figures. In our
case the fantastic rendering of these pictures was favoured by the situation. We must
not underrate the influence of the over-excited expectation which allowed the dull
retina-light to appear with increased intensity.[48] The further formation of the retinal
appearances follows in accordance with the predominating presentations. That
hallucinations appear in this way has been also observed in other visionaries. Jeanne
d'Arc[49] first saw a cloud of light, and only after some time there stepped forth St.
Michael, St. Catherine and St. Margaret. For a whole hour Swedenborg[50] saw
nothing but illuminated spheres and fiery flames. He felt a mighty change in the brain,
which seemed to him "release of light." After the space of one hour he suddenly saw
red figures which he regarded as angels and spirits. The sun visions of Benvenuto
Cellini[51] in Engelsburg are probably of the same nature. A student who frequently
saw apparitions stated: "When these apparitions come, at first I only see single masses
of light and at the same time am conscious of a dull noise in the ears. Gradually these
contours become clear figures."
The appearance of hallucinations occurred in a quite classical way in Flournoy's Helen
Smith. I quote the cases in question from his article.[52]
"18 Mars. Tentative d'expérience dans l'obscurité. Mlle. Smith voit un ballon tantôt
luminieux, tantôt s'obscurcissant.
"25 Mars. Mlle. Smith commence à distinguer de vagues lueurs, de longs rubans
blancs, s'agitant du plancher au plafond, puis enfin une magnifique étoile qui dans
l'obscurité s'est montrée à elle seule pendant toute la séance.
"1 Avril. Mlle. Smith se sent très agitée, elle a des frissons, est partiellement glacée.
Elle est très inquiète et voit tout à coup se balançant au-dessus de la table une figure
grimaçante et très laide avec de longs cheveux rouges. Elle voit alors un magnifique
bouquet de roses de nuances diverses; tout à coup elle voit sortir de dessous le
bouquet un petit serpent, qui, rampant doucement, vient sentir les fleurs, les regarde,"
etc.
Helen Smith[53] says in regard to the origin of her vision of March:

"La lueur rouge persista autour de moi et je me suis trouvée entourée de fleurs
extraordinaires."
At all times the complex hallucinations of visionaries have occupied a peculiar place
in scientific criticism. Macario[54] early separated these so-called intuition-
hallucinations from others, since he maintains that they occur in persons of an eager
mind, deep understanding and high nervous excitability. Hecker[55] expresses himself
similarly but more enthusiastically.
His view is that their condition is "the congenital high development of the spiritual
organ which calls into active, free and mobile play the life of the imagination,
bringing it spontaneous activity." These hallucinations are "precursors or signs of
mighty spiritual power." The vision is "an increased excitation which is harmoniously
adapted to the most complete health of mind and body." The complex hallucinations
do not belong to the waking state, but prefer as a rule a partial waking state. The
visionary is buried in his vision even to complete annihilation. Flournoy was also
always able to prove in the visions of H.S. "un certain degré d'obnubilation." In our
case the vision is complicated by a state of sleep whose peculiarities we shall review
later.

The Change in Character.
The most striking characteristic of the second stage in our case is the change in
character. We meet many cases in the literature which have offered the symptom of
spontaneous character-change. The first case in a scientific publication is Weir-
Mitchell's[56] case of Mary Reynolds.
This was the case of a young woman living in Pennsylvania in 1811. After a deep
sleep of about twenty hours she had totally forgotten her entire past and everything
she had learnt; even the words she spoke had lost their meaning. She no longer knew
her relatives. Slowly she re-learnt to read and write, but her writing was from right to
left. More striking still was the change in her character. Instead of being melancholy,
she was now cheerful in the extreme. Instead of being reserved, she was buoyant and
sociable. Formerly taciturn and retiring, she was now merry and jocose. Her
disposition was totally changed.[57]
In this state she renounced her former retired life and liked to undertake adventurous
excursions unarmed, through wood and mountain, on foot and horseback. In one of
these excursions she encountered a large black bear, which she took for a pig. The
bear raised himself on his hind legs and gnashed his teeth at her. As she could not
drive her horse on any further, she took an ordinary stick and hit the bear until it took
to flight. Five weeks later, after a deep sleep, she returned to her earlier state with

amnesia for the interval. These states alternated for about sixteen years. But her last
twenty-five years Mary Reynolds passed exclusively in her second state.
Schroeder von der Kalk[58] reports on the following case: The patient became ill at the
age of sixteen with periodic amnesia, after a previous tedious illness of three years.
Sometimes in the morning after waking she passed through a peculiar choreic state,
during which she made rhythmical movements with her arms. Throughout the whole
day she would then exhibit a childish, silly behaviour and lost all her educated
capabilities. (When normal she is very intelligent, well-read, speaks French well.) In
the second state she begins to speak faulty French. On the second day she is again at
times normal. The two states are completely separated by amnesia.[59]
Hoefelt[60] reports on a case of spontaneous somnambulism in a girl who, in her
normal state, was submissive and modest, but in somnambulism was impertinent, rude
and violent. Azam's[61] Felida was, in her normal state, depressed, inhibited, timid;
and in the second state lively, confident, enterprising to recklessness. The second state
gradually became the chief one, and finally so far suppressed the first state that the
patient called her normal states, lasting now but a short time, "crises." The amnesic
attacks had begun at 14½. In time the second state became milder and there was a
certain approximation between the character of the two states. A very striking example
of change in character is that worked out by Camuset, Ribot, Legrand du Saulle,
Richer, Voisin, and put together by Bourru and Burot.[62] It is that of Louis V., a severe
male hysteric with amnesic alternating character. In the first stage he is rude, cheeky,
querulous, greedy, thievish, inconsiderate. In the second state he is an agreeable,
sympathetic character, industrious, docile and obedient. This amnesic change of
character has been used by Paul Lindau[63] in his drama "Der Andere" (The Other
One).
Rieger[64] reports on a case parallel to Lindau's criminal lawyer. The unconscious
personalities of Janet's Lucie and Léonie (Janet, l.c.) and Morton Prince's[65] may also
be regarded as parallel with our case. There are, however, therapeutic artificial
products whose importance lies in the domain of the dissociation of consciousness and
of memory.
In the above cases, the second state is always separated from the first by an amnesic
dissociation, and the change in character is, at times, accompanied by a break in the
continuity of consciousness. In our case there is no amnesic disturbance; the passage
from the first to the second stage follows quite gradually and the continuity of
consciousness remains. The patient carries out in her waking state everything,
otherwise unknown to her, from the field of the unconscious that she has experienced
during hallucinations in the second stage.

Periodic changes in personality without amnesic dissociation are found in the region
of folie circulaire, but are rarely seen in hysterics, as Renaudin's[66] case shows. A
young man, whose behaviour had always been excellent, suddenly began to display
the worst tendencies. There were no symptoms of insanity, but, on the other hand, the
whole surface of the body was anæsthetic. This state showed periodic intervals, and in
the same way the patient's character was subject to vacillations. As soon as the
anæsthesia disappeared he was manageable and friendly. When the anæsthesia
returned he was overcome by the worst instincts, which, it was observed, even
included the wish to murder.
Remembering that our patient's age at the beginning of the disturbances was 14-1/2,
that is, the age of puberty had just been reached, one must suppose that there was
some connection between the disturbances and the physiological character-changes at
puberty. "There appears in the consciousness of the individual during this period of
life a new group of sensations, together with the feelings and ideas arising therefrom;
this continuous pressure of unaccustomed mental states makes itself constantly felt
because the cause is always at work; the states are co-ordinated because they arise
from one and the same source, and must little by little bring about deep-seated
changes in the ego."[67] Vacillating moods are easily recognisable; the confused new,
strong feelings, the inclination towards idealism, to exalted religiosity and mysticism,
side by side with the falling back into childishness, all this gives to adolescence its
prevailing character. At this epoch the human being first makes clumsy attempts at
independence in every direction; for the first time uses for his own purposes all that
family and school have contributed hitherto; he conceives ideals, constructs far-
reaching plans for the future, lives in dreams whose content is ambitious and egotistic.
This is all physiological. The puberty of a psychopathic is a crisis of more serious
import. Not only do the psychophysical changes run a stormy course, but features of a
hereditary degenerate character become fixed. In the child these do not appear at all,
or but sporadically. For the explanation of our case we are bound to consider a
specific disturbance of puberty. The reasons for this view will appear from a further
study of the second personality. (For the sake of brevity we shall call the second
personality Ivenes—as the patient baptised her higher ego).
Ivenes is the exact continuation of the everyday ego. She includes the whole of her
conscious content. In the semi-somnambulic state her intercourse with the real
external world is analogous to that of the waking state, that is, she is influenced by
recurrent hallucinations, but no more than persons who are subject to non-confusional
psychotic hallucinations. The continuity of Ivenes obviously extends to the hysterical
attack with its dramatic scenes, visionary events, etc. During the attack itself she is
generally isolated from the external world; she does not notice what is going on
around her, does not know that she is talking loudly, etc. But she has no amnesia for
the dream-content of her attack. Amnesia for her motor expressions and for the
changes in her surroundings is not always present. That this is dependent upon the

degree of intensity of her somnambulic state and that there is sometimes partial
paralysis of individual sense organs is proved by the occasion when she did not notice
me; her eyes were then open, and most probably she saw the others, although she only
perceived me when I spoke to her. This is a case of so-called systematised anæsthesia
(negative hallucination) which is often observed in hysterics.
Flournoy,[68] for instance, reports of Helen Smith that during the séances she suddenly
ceased to see those taking part, although she still heard their voices and felt their
touch; sometimes she no longer heard, although she saw the movements of the lips of
the speakers, etc.
Ivenes is just the continuation of the waking self. She contains the entire
consciousness of S. W.'s waking state. Her remarkable behaviour tells decidedly
against any analogy with cases of double consciousness. The characteristics of Ivenes
contrast favourably with the patient's ordinary self. She is a calmer, more composed
personality; her pleasing modesty and accuracy, her uniform intelligence, her
confident way of talking must be regarded as an improvement of the whole being;
thus far there is analogy with Janet's Léonie. But this is the extent of the similarity.
Apart from the amnesia, they are divided by a deep psychological difference. Léonie
II. is the healthier, the more normal; she has regained her natural capabilities, she
shows remarkable improvement upon her chronic condition of hysteria. Ivenes rather
gives the impression of a more artificial product; there is something thought out;
despite all her excellences she gives the impression of playing a part excellently; her
world-sorrow, her yearning for the other side of things, are not merely piety but the
attributes of saintliness. Ivenes is no mere human, but a mystic being who only partly
belongs to reality. The mournful features, the attachment to sorrow, her mysterious
fate, lead us to the historic prototype of Ivenes—Justinus Kerner's "Prophetess of
Prevorst." Kerner's book must be taken as known, and therefore I omit any references
to these common traits. But Ivenes is no copy of the prophetess; she lacks the
resignation and the saintly piety of the latter. The prophetess is merely used by her as
a study for her own original conception. The patient pours her own soul into the rôle
of the prophetess, thus seeking to create an ideal of virtue and perfection. She
anticipates her future. She incarnates in Ivenes what she wishes to be in twenty years
—the assured, influential, wise, gracious, pious lady. It is in the construction of the
second person that there lies the far-reaching difference between Léonie II. and
Ivenes. Both are psychogenic. But Léonie I. receives in Léonie II. what really belongs
to her, while S. W. builds up a person beyond herself. It cannot be said "she deceives
herself" into, but that "she dreams herself" into the higher ideal state.[69]
The realisation of this dream recalls vividly the psychology of the pathological cheat.
Delbruck[70] and Forel[71] have indicated the importance of auto-suggestion in the
formation of pathological cheating and reverie. Pick[72] regards intense auto-
suggestibility as the first symptom of the hysterical dreamer, making possible the

realisation of the "day-dream." One of Pick's patients dreamt that she was in a morally
dangerous situation, and finally carried out an attempt at rape on herself; she lay on
the floor naked and fastened herself to a table and chairs. Or some dramatic person
will be created with whom the patient enters into correspondence by letter, as in
Bohn's case.[73] The patient dreamt herself into an engagement with a totally
imaginary lawyer in Nice, from whom she received letters which she had herself
written in disguised handwriting. This pathological dreaming, with auto-suggestive
deceptions of memory amounting to real delusions and hallucinations, is pre-
eminently to be found in the lives of many saints.[74]
It is only a step from the dreamlike images strongly stamped by the senses to the true
complex hallucinations.[75] In Pick's case, for instance, one sees that the patient, who
persuades herself that she is the Empress Elizabeth, gradually loses herself in her
dreams to such an extent that her condition must be regarded as a true "twilight" state.
Later it passes over into hysterical delirium, when her dream-phantasies become
typical hallucinations. The pathological liar, who becomes involved through his
phantasies, behaves exactly like a child who loses himself in his play, or like the actor
who loses himself in his part.[76] There is here no fundamental distinction from
somnambulic dissociation of personality, but only a difference of degree, which rests
upon the intensity of the primary auto-suggestibility or disintegration of the psychic
elements. The more consciousness becomes dissociated, the greater becomes the
plasticity of the dream situation, the less becomes the amount of conscious lying and
of consciousness in general. This being carried away by interest in the object is what
Freud calls hysterical identification. For instance, to Erler's[77] acutely hysterical
patient there appeared hypnagogically little riders made of paper, who so took
possession of her imagination that she had the feeling of being herself one of them.
Similar phenomena normally occur to us in dreams in general, in which we think like
"hysterics."[78]
The complete abandonment to the interesting image explains also the wonderful
naturalness of pseudological or somnambulic representation—a degree unattainable in
conscious acting. The less waking consciousness intervenes by reflection and
reasoning, the more certain and convincing becomes the objectivation of the dream,
e.g. the roof-climbing of somnambulists.
Our case has another analogy with pseudologia phantastica: The development of the
phantasies during the attacks. Many cases are known in the literature where the
pathological lying comes on in attacks and during serious hysterical trouble.[79]
Our patient develops her systems exclusively in the attack. In her normal state she is
quite incapable of giving any new ideas or explanations; she must either transpose
herself into somnambulism or await its spontaneous appearance. This exhausts the
affinity to pseudologia phantastica and to pathological dream-states.

Our patient's state is even differentiated from pathological dreaming, since it could
never be proved that her dream-weavings had at any time previously been the objects
of her interest during the day. Her dreams occur explosively, break forth with
bewildering completeness from the darkness of the unconscious. Exactly the same
was the case in Flournoy's Helen Smith. In many cases (see below), however, links
with the perceptions of the normal states can be demonstrated: it seems therefore
probable that the roots of every dream were originally images with an emotional
accentuation, which, however, only occupied waking consciousness for a short time.
[80]
We must allow that in the origin of such dreams hysterical forgetfulness[81] plays a
part not to be underestimated.
Many images are buried which would be sufficient to put the consciousness on guard;
associated classes of ideas are lost and go on spinning their web in the unconscious,
thanks to the psychic dissociation; this is a process which we meet again in the
genesis of our dreams.
"Our conscious reflection teaches us that when exercising attention we pursue a
definite course. But if that course leads us to an idea which does not meet with our
approval, we discontinue and cease to apply our attention. Now, apparently, the chain
of thought thus started and abandoned, may go on without regaining attention unless it
reaches a spot of especially marked intensity, which compels renewed attention. An
initial rejection, perhaps consciously brought about by the judgment on the ground of
incorrectness or unfitness for the actual purpose of the mental act, may therefore
account for the fact that a mental process continues unnoticed by consciousness until
the onset of sleep."[82]
In this way we may explain the apparently sudden and direct appearance of dream-
states. The entire carrying over of the conscious personality into the dream-rôle
involves indirectly the development of simultaneous automatisms. "Une seconde
condition peut amener la division de conscience; ce n'est pas une altération de la
sensibilité, c'est une attitude particulière de l'esprit, la concentration de l'attention pour
un point unique; il résulte de cet état de concentration que l'esprit devient distrait pour
la reste et en quelque sorte insensible, ce qui ouvre la carrière aux actions
automatiques, et ces actions peuvent prendre un caractère psychique et constituer des
intelligences parasites, vivant côte à côte avec la personnalité normale qui ne les
connaît pas."[83]
Our subject's romances throw a most significant light on the subjective roots of her
dreams. They swarm with secret and open love-affairs, with illegitimate births and
other sexual insinuations. The central point of all these ambiguous stories is a lady
whom she dislikes, who is gradually made to assume the form of her polar opposite,
and whilst Ivenes becomes the pinnacle of virtue, this lady is a sink of iniquity. But
her reincarnation doctrines, in which she appears as the mother of countless
thousands, arises in its naïve nakedness from an exuberant phantasy which is, of

course, very characteristic of the period of puberty. It is the woman's premonition of
the sexual feeling, the dream of fruitfulness, which the patient has turned into these
monstrous ideas. We shall not go wrong if we seek for the curious form of the disease
in the teeming sexuality of this too-rich soil. Viewed from this standpoint, the whole
creation of Ivenes, with her enormous family, is nothing but a dream of sexual wish-
fulfilment, differentiated from the dream of a night only in that it persists for months
and years.

Relation to the Hysterical Attack.
So far one point in S. W.'s history has remained unexplained, and that is her attack. In
the second séance she was suddenly seized with a sort of fainting fit, from which she
awoke with a recollection of various hallucinations. According to her own statement,
she had not lost consciousness for a moment. Judging from the external symptoms and
the course of the attack, one is inclined to regard it as a narcolepsy, or rather a
lethargy; such, for example, as Loewenfeld has described, and the more readily as we
know that previously one member of her family (her grandmother) has had an attack
of lethargy. It is possible to imagine that the lethargic disposition (Loewenfeld) had
descended to our subject. In spiritualistic séances it is not usual to see hysterical
convulsions. Our subject showed no sort of convulsive symptoms, but in their place,
perhaps, the peculiar sleeping-states. Ætiologically, at the outset, two moments must
be taken into consideration:
1. The irruption of hypnosis.
2. The psychic stimulation.
1. Irruption of Partial Hypnosis.—Janet observes that the subconscious automatisms
have a hypnotic influence and can bring about complete somnambulism.[84]
He made the following experiment: While the patient, who was in the completely
waking state, was engaged in conversation by a second observer, Janet stationed
himself behind her and by means of whispered suggestions made her unconsciously
move her hand and by written signs give an answer to questions. Suddenly the patient
broke off the conversation, turned round and with her supraliminal consciousness
continued the previously subconscious talk with Janet. She had fallen into hypnotic
somnambulism.[85]
There is here a state of affairs similar to our patient's. But it must be noted that, for
certain reasons discussed later, the sleeping state is not to be regarded as hypnotic. We
therefore come to the question of—
2. The Psychic Stimulation.—It is told of Bettina Brentano that the first time she met
Goethe she suddenly fell asleep on his knee.[86]

This ecstatic sleep in the midst of extremest torture, the so-called "witch-sleep," is
well known in the history of trials for witchcraft.[87]
With susceptible subjects relatively insignificant stimuli suffice to bring about the
somnambulic state. Thus a sensitive lady had to have a splinter cut out of her finger.
Without any kind of bodily change she suddenly saw herself sitting by the side of a
brook in a beautiful meadow, plucking flowers. This condition lasted as long as the
slight operation and then disappeared spontaneously.[88]
Loewenfeld[89] has noticed unintentional inducement of hysterical lethargy through
hypnosis.
Our case has certain resemblances to hysterical lethargy[90] as described by
Loewenfeld, viz. the shallow breathing, the diminution of the pulse, the corpse-like
pallor of the face, and further the peculiar feeling of dying and the thoughts of death.
[91]

The retention of one sense is not inconsistent with lethargy: thus in certain cases of
trance the sense of hearing remains.[92]
In Bonamaison's[93] case not only was the sense of touch retained, but the senses of
hearing and smell were quickened. The hallucinatory content and loud speaking is
also met with in persons with hallucinations in lethargy.[94] Usually there prevails total
amnesia for the lethargic interval. Loewenfeld's[95] case D. had, however, a fleeting
recollection; in Bonamaison's case there was no amnesia. Lethargic patients do not
prove susceptible to the usual waking stimuli, but Loewenfeld succeeded with his
patient St. in turning the lethargy into hypnosis by means of mesmeric passes, thus
combining it with the rest of consciousness during the attack.[96] Our patient showed
herself absolutely insusceptible in the beginning of the lethargy, but later on she began
to speak spontaneously, was incapable of giving any attention when her somnambulic
ego was speaking, but could attend when it was one of her automatic personalities. In
this last case it is probable that the hypnotic effect of the automatisms succeeded in
achieving a partial transformation of the lethargy into hypnosis. When we consider
that, according to Loewenfeld's view, the lethargic disposition must not be "too readily
identified with the peculiar condition of the nervous apparatus in hysteria," then the
idea of the family heredity of this disposition in our case becomes not a little probable.
The disease is much complicated by these attacks.
So far we have seen that the patient's consciousness of her ego is identical in all the
states. We have discussed two secondary complexes of consciousness and have
followed them into the somnambulic attack, where they appear as the patient's vision
when she had lost her motor activity during the attack. During the next attacks she
was impervious to any external incidents, but on the other hand developed, within the
twilight state, all the more intense activity, in the form of visions. It seems that many

secondary series of ideas must have split off quite early from the primary unconscious
personality, for already, after the first two séances, "spirits" appeared by the dozen.
The names were inexhaustible in variety, but the differences between the personalities
were soon exhausted and it became apparent that they could all be subsumed under
two types, the serio-religious type and the gay-hilarious. So far it was really only a
matter of two different unconscious personalities, which appeared under different
names but had no essential differences. The older type, the grandfather, who had
initiated the automatisms, also first began to make use of the twilight state. I am not
able to remember any suggestion which might have given rise to the automatic
speaking. According to the preceding view, the attack in such circumstances might be
regarded as a partial auto-hypnosis. The ego-consciousness which remains and, as a
result of its isolation from the external world, occupies itself entirely with its
hallucinations, is what is left over of the waking consciousness. Thus the automatism
has a wide field for its activity. The independence of the individual central spheres
which we have proved at the beginning to be present in the patient, makes the
automatic act of speaking appear intelligible. Just as the dreamer on occasion speaks
in his sleep, so, too, a man in his waking hours may accompany intensive thought with
an unconscious whisper.[97] The peculiar movements of the speech-musculature are to
be noted. They have also been observed in other somnambulists.[98]
These clumsy attempts must be directly paralleled with the unintelligent and clumsy
movements of the table or glass, and most probably correspond to the preliminary
activity of the motor portion of the presentation; that is to say, a stimulus limited to the
motor-centre which has not previously been subordinated to any higher system.
Whether the like occurs in persons who talk in their dreams, I do not know. But it has
been observed in hypnotised persons.[99]
Since the convenient medium of speech was used as the means of communication, the
study of the subconscious personalities was considerably lightened. Their intellectual
compass is a relatively mediocre one. Their knowledge is greater than that of the
waking patient, including also a few occasional details, such as the birthdays of dead
strangers and the like. The source of these is more or less obscure, since the patient
does not know whence in the ordinary way she could have procured the knowledge of
these facts. These are cases of so-called cryptomnesia, which are too unimportant to
deserve more extended notice. The intelligence of the two subconscious persons is
very slight; they produce banalities almost exclusively, but their relation to the
conscious ego of the patient when in the somnambulic state is interesting. They are
invariably aware of everything that takes place during ecstasy and occasionally they
render an exact report from minute to minute.[100]
The subconscious persons only know the patient's phantastic changes of thought very
superficially; they do not understand these and cannot answer a single question
concerning the situation. Their stereotyped reference to Ivenes is: "Ask Ivenes." This

observation reveals a dualism in the character of the subconscious personalities
difficult to explain; for the grandfather, who gives information by automatic speech,
also appears to Ivenes and, according to her account, teaches her about the objects in
question. How is it that, when the grandfather speaks through the patient's mouth, he
knows nothing of the very things which he himself teaches her in the ecstasies?
We must again return to the discussion of the first appearance of the hallucinations.
We picture the vision, then, as an irruption of hypnosis into the visual sphere. That
irruption does not lead to a "normal" hypnosis, but to a "hystero-hypnosis," that is, the
simple hypnosis is complicated by a hysterical attack.
It is not a rare occurrence in the domain of hypnotism for normal hypnosis to be
disturbed, or rather to be replaced by the unexpected appearance of hysterical
somnambulism; the hypnotist in many cases then loses rapport with the patient. In our
case the automatism arising in the motor area plays the part of hypnotist; the
suggestions proceeding from it (called objective auto-suggestions) hypnotise the
neighbouring areas in which a certain susceptibility has arisen. At the moment when
the hypnotism flows over into the visual sphere, the hysterical attack occurs which, as
remarked, effects a very deep-reaching change in a large portion of the psychical
region. We must now suppose that the automatism stands in the same relationship to
the attack as the hypnotist to a pathological hypnosis; its influence upon the further
structure of the situation is lost. The hallucinatory appearance of the hypnotised
personality, or rather of the suggested idea, may be regarded as the last effect upon the
somnambulic personality. Thenceforward the hypnotist becomes only a figure with
whom the somnambulic personality occupies itself independently: he can only state
what is going on and is no longer the conditio sine qua non of the content of the
somnambulic attack. The independent ego-complex of the attack, in our case Ivenes,
has now the upper hand. She groups her own mental products around the personality
of the hypnotiser, that is, of the grandfather, now degraded to a mere image. In this
way we are enabled to understand the dualism in the character of the grandfather. The
grandfather I. who speaks directly to those present, is a totally different person and a
mere spectator of his double, grandfather II., who appears as Ivenes' teacher.
Grandfather I. maintains energetically that both are one and the same person, and that
I. has all the knowledge which II. possesses, and is only prevented from giving
information by the difficulties of speech. (The dissociation was of course not realized
by the patient, who took both to be one person.) Grandfather I., if closely examined,
however, is not altogether wrong, judging from one fact which seems to make for the
identity of I. and II., viz. that they are never both present together. When I. speaks
automatically, II. is not present; Ivenes remarks on his absence. Similarly, during the
ecstasy, when she is with II., she cannot say where I. is, or she may learn only on
returning from an imaginary journey that meanwhile I. has been guarding her body.
Conversely I. never says that he is going on a journey with Ivenes and never explains
anything to her. This behaviour should be noted, for if I. is really separate from II.,

there seems no reason why he should not speak automatically at the same time that II.
appears, and be present with II. in the ecstasy. Although this might have been
supposed possible, as a matter of fact it was never observed. How is this dilemma to
be resolved? At all events there exists an identity of I. and II., but it does not lie in the
region of the personality under discussion; it lies in the basis common to both; that is,
in the personality of the subject which in deepest essence is one and indivisible. Here
we come across the characteristic of all hysterical dissociations of consciousness.
They are disturbances which only belong to the superficial, and none reaches so deep
as to attack the strong-knit foundation of the ego-complex.
In many such cases we can find the bridge which, although often well-concealed,
spans the apparently impassable abyss. For instance, by suggestion, one of four cards
is made invisible to a hypnotised person; he thereupon names the other three. A pencil
is placed in his hand with the instruction to write down all the cards lying there; he
correctly adds the fourth one.[101]
In the aura of his hystero-epileptic attacks a patient of Janet's[102] invariably had a
vision of a conflagration, and whenever he saw an open fire he had an attack; indeed,
the sight of a lighted match was sufficient to bring about an attack. The patient's visual
field on the left side was limited to 30°, the right eye was shut. The left eye was fixed
in the middle of a perimeter whilst a lighted match was held at 80°. The hystero-
epileptic attack took place immediately. Despite the extensive amnesia in many cases
of double consciousness, the patients' behaviour does not correspond to the degree of
their ignorance, but it seems rather as if a deeper instinct guided their actions in
accordance with their former knowledge. Not only this relatively slight amnesic
dissociation, but the severe amnesia of the epileptic twilight-state, formerly regarded
as irreparabile damnum, does not suffice to cut the inmost threads which bind the
ego-complex in the twilight-state to the normal ego. In one case the content of the
twilight-state could be grafted on to the waking ego-complex.[103]
Making use of these experiments for our case, we obtain the helpful hypothesis that
those layers of the unconscious beyond reach of the dissociation endeavour to present
the unity of automatic personality. This endeavour is shattered in the deeper-seated
and more elemental disturbance of the hysterical attack,[104] which prevents a more
complete synthesis by the tacking on of associations which are to a certain extent the
most original individual property of supraliminal personality. As the Ivenes dream
emerged it was fitted on to the figures accidentally in the field of vision, and
henceforth remains associated with them.

Relationship to the Unconscious Personality.
As we have seen, the numerous personalities become grouped round two types, the
grandfather and Ulrich von Gerbenstein. The first produces exclusively sanctimonious

religiosity and gives edifying moral precepts. The latter is, in one word, a "flapper," in
whom there is nothing male except the name. We must here add from the anamnesis
that at fifteen the patient was confirmed by a very bigoted clergyman, and at home she
is occasionally the recipient of sanctimonious moral talks. The grandfather represents
this side of her past, Gerbenstein the other half; hence the curious contrast. Here we
have personified the chief characteristics of her past. On the one hand the
sanctimonious person with a narrow education, on the other the boisterousness of a
lively girl of fifteen who often overshoots the mark.[105] We find both sets of traits
mixed in the patient in sharp contrast. At times she is anxious, shy, and extremely
reserved; at others boisterous to a degree. She is herself often most painfully aware of
these contradictions. This circumstance gives us the key to the source of the two
unconscious personalities. The patient is obviously seeking a middle path between the
two extremes; she endeavours to repress them and strains after some ideal condition.
These strainings bring her to the puberty dream of the ideal Ivenes, beside whose
figure the unacknowledged trends of her character recede into the background. They
are not lost, however, but as repressed ideas, analogous to the Ivenes idea, begin an
independent existence as automatic personalities.
S. W.'s behaviour recalls vividly Freud's[106] investigations into dreams which disclose
the independent growth of repressed thoughts. We can now comprehend why the
hallucinatory persons are separated from those who write and speak automatically.
The former teach Ivenes the secrets of the Other Side, they relate all those phantastic
tales about the extraordinariness of her personality, they create scenes where Ivenes
can appear dramatically with the attributes of power, wisdom and virtue. These are
nothing but dramatic dissociations of her dream-self. The latter, the automatic persons,
are the ones to be overcome, they must have no part in Ivenes. With the spirit-
companions of Ivenes they have only the name in common. A priori, it is not to be
expected that in a case like ours, where these divisions are never clearly defined, that
two such characteristic individualities should disappear entirely from a somnambulic
ego-complex having so close a relation with the waking consciousness. And in fact,
we do meet them in part in those ecstatic penitential scenes and in part in the
romances crammed with more or less banal, mischievous gossip.

Course.
It only remains to say a few words about the course of this strange affection. The
process reached its maximum in four to eight weeks. The descriptions given of Ivenes
and of the unconscious personalities belong generally to this period. Thenceforth a
gradual decline was noticeable; the ecstasies grew meaningless and the influence of
Gerbenstein became more powerful. The phenomena gradually lost their distinctive
features, the characters which were at first well demarcated became by degrees
inextricably mixed. The psychological contribution grew smaller and smaller until

finally the whole story assumed a marked effect of fabrication. Ivenes herself was
much concerned about this decline; she became painfully uncertain, spoke cautiously,
feeling her way, and allowed her character to appear undisguised. The somnambulic
attacks decreased in frequency and intensity. All degrees from somnambulism to
conscious lying were observable. Thus the curtain fell. The patient has since gone
abroad. We should not underestimate the importance of the fact that her character has
become pleasanter and more stable. Here we may recall the cases cited in which the
second state gradually replaced the first state. Perhaps this is a similar phenomenon.
It is well known that somnambulic manifestations sometimes begin at puberty.[107]
The attacks of somnambulism in Dyce's case[108] began immediately before puberty
and lasted just till its termination. The somnambulism of H. Smith is likewise closely
connected with puberty.[109]
Schroeder von der Kalk's patient was 16 years old at the time of her illness; Felida 14-
1/2, etc. We know also that at this period the future character is formed and fixed. In
the case of Felida and of Mary Reynolds we saw that the character in state II. replaced
that of state I. It is not therefore unthinkable that these phenomena of double
consciousness are nothing but character-formations for the future personality, or their
attempts to burst forth. In consequence of special difficulties (unfavourable external
conditions, psychopathic disposition of the nervous system, etc.), these new
formations, or attempts thereat, become bound up with peculiar disturbances of
consciousness. Occasionally the somnambulism, in view of the difficulties that oppose
the future character, takes on a marked teleological meaning, for it gives the
individual, who might otherwise be defeated, the means of victory. Here I am thinking
first of all of Jeanne d'Arc, whose extraordinary courage recalls the deeds of Mary
Reynolds' II. This is perhaps the place to point out the similar function of the
"hallucination téléologique" of which the public reads occasionally, although it has
not yet been submitted to a scientific study.

The Unconscious Additional Creative Work.
We have now discussed all the essential manifestations offered by our case which are
of significance for its inner structure. Certain accompanying manifestations may be
briefly considered: the unconscious additional creative work. Here we shall encounter
a not altogether unjustifiable scepticism on the part of the representative of science.
Dessoir's conception of a second ego met with much opposition, and was rejected, as
too impossible in many directions. As is known, occultism has proclaimed a pre-
eminent right to this field and has drawn premature conclusions from doubtful
observations. We are indeed very far from being in a position to state anything
conclusive, since we have at present only most inadequate material. Therefore if we
touch on the field of the unconscious additional creative work, it is only that we may

do justice to all sides of our case. By unconscious addition we understand that
automatic process whose result does not penetrate to the conscious psychic activity of
the individual. To this region above all belongs thought-reading through table
movements. I do not know whether there are people who can divine a whole long train
of thought by means of inductions from the intentional tremulous movements. It is,
however, certain that, assuming this to be possible, such persons must be availing
themselves of a routine achieved after endless practice. But in our case long practice
can be excluded without more ado, and there is nothing left but to accept a primary
susceptibility of the unconscious, far exceeding that of the conscious.
This supposition is supported by numerous observations on somnambulists. I will
mention only Binet's[110] experiments, where little letters or some such thing, or little
complicated figures in relief were laid on the anæsthetic skin of the back of the hand
or the neck, and the unconscious perceptions were then recorded by means of signs.
On the basis of these experiments he came to the following conclusion: "D'après les
calculs que j'ai pu faire, la sensibilité inconsciente d'une hystérique est à certains
moments cinquante fois plus fine que celle d'une personne normale." A second
additional creation coming under consideration in our case and in numerous other
somnambulists, is that condition which French investigators call "cryptomnesia."[111]
By this term is meant the becoming conscious of a memory-picture which cannot be
regarded as in itself primary, but at most is secondary, by means of subsequent
recalling or abstract reasoning. It is characteristic of cryptomnesia that the picture
which emerges does not bear the obvious mark of the memory-picture, is not, that is to
say, bound up with the idiosyncratic super-conscious ego-complex.
Three ways may be distinguished in which the cryptomnesic picture is brought to
consciousness.
1. The picture enters consciousness without any intervention of the sense-spheres
(intra-psychically). It is an inrushing idea whose causal sequence is hidden within the
individual. In so far cryptomnesia is quite an everyday occurrence, concerned with the
deepest normal psychic events. How often it misleads the investigator, the author or
the composer into believing his ideas original, whilst the critic quite well recognises
their source! Generally the individuality of the representation protects the author from
the accusation of plagiarism and proves his good faith; still, cases do occur of
unconscious verbal reproduction. Should the passage in question contain some
remarkable idea, the accusation of plagiarism, more or less conscious, is justified.
After all, a valuable idea is linked by numerous associations with the ego-complex; at
different times, in different situations, it has already been meditated upon and thus
leads by innumerable links in all directions. It can therefore never so disappear from
consciousness that its continuity could be entirely lost from the sphere of conscious
memory. We have, however, a criterion by which we can always recognise objectively
intra-psychic cryptomnesia. The cryptomnesic presentation is linked to the ego-

complex by the minimum of associations. The reason for this lies in the relation of the
individual to the particular object, in the disproportion of interest to object. Two
possibilities occur: (1) The object is worthy of interest but the interest is slight in
consequence of dispersion or want of understanding; (2) The object is not worthy of
interest, consequently the interest is slight. In both cases an extremely labile
connection with consciousness arises which leads to a rapid forgetting. The slight
bridge is soon destroyed and the acquired presentation sinks into the unconscious,
where it is no longer accessible to consciousness. Should it enter consciousness by
means of cryptomnesia, the feeling of strangeness, of its being an original creation,
will cling to it because the path by which it entered the subconscious has become
undiscoverable. Strangeness and original creation are, moreover, closely allied to one
another if one recalls the numerous witnesses in belles-lettres to the nature of genius
("possession" by genius).[112]
Apart from certain striking cases of this kind, where it is doubtful whether it is a
cryptomnesia or an original creation, there are some cases in which a passage of no
essential content is reproduced, and that almost verbally, as in the following example:
—

About that time when Zarathustra lived on the blissful islands, it came to pass
that a ship cast anchor at that island on which the smoking mountain standeth;
and the sailors of that ship went ashore in order to shoot rabbits! But about the
hour of noon, when the captain and his men had mustered again, they suddenly
saw a man come through the air unto them, and a voice said distinctly: "It is
time! It is high time!" But when that person was nighest unto them (he passed by
them flying quickly like a shadow, in the direction in which the volcano was
situated) they recognised with the greatest confusion that it was Zarathustra. For
all of them, except the captain, had seen him before, and they loved him, as the
folk love, blending love and awe in equal parts. "Lo! there," said the old
steersman, "Zarathustra goeth unto hell!"
An extract of awe-inspiring import from the log of the ship "Sphinx" in the year
1686, in the Mediterranean.
Just. Kerner, "Blätter aus Prevorst," vol. IV., p, 57.
The four captains and a merchant, Mr. Bell, went ashore on the island of Mount
Stromboli to shoot rabbits. At three o'clock they called the crew together to go
aboard, when, to their inexpressible astonishment, they saw two men flying
rapidly over them through the air. One was dressed in black, the other in grey.
They approached them very closely, in the greatest haste; to their greatest dismay
they descended amid the burning flames into the crater of the terrible volcano,
Mount Stromboli. They recognised the pair as acquaintances from London.

Frau E. Förster-Nietzsche, the poet's sister, told me, in reply to my inquiry, that
Nietzsche took up Just. Kerner between the age of twelve and fifteen, when stopping
with his grandfather, Pastor Oehler, in Pobler, but certainly never afterwards. It could
never have been the poet's intention to commit a plagiarism from a ship's log; if this
had been the case, he would certainly have omitted the very prosaic "to shoot rabbits,"
which was, moreover, quite unessential to the situation. In the poetical sketch of
Zarathustra's journey into Hell there was obviously interpolated, half or wholly
unconsciously, that forgotten impression from his youth.
This is an instance which shows all the peculiarities of cryptomnesia. A quite
unessential detail, which deserves nothing but speedy forgetting, is reproduced with
almost verbal fidelity, whilst the chief part of the narrative is, one cannot say altered,
but recreated quite distinctively. To the distinctive core, the idea of the journey to
Hell, there is added a detail, the old, forgotten impression of a similar situation. The
original is so absurd that the youth, who read everything, probably skipped through it,
and certainly had no deep interest in it. Here we get the required minimum of
associated links, for we cannot easily conceive a greater jump, than from that old,
absurd story to Nietzsche's consciousness in the year 1883. If we picture to ourselves
Nietzsche's mood at the time when "Zarathustra" was composed,[113] and think of the
ecstasy that at more than one point approached the pathological, we shall comprehend
the abnormal reminiscence. The second of the two possibilities mentioned, the
acceptance of some object, not itself uninteresting, in a state of dispersion or half
interest from lack of understanding, and its cryptomnesic reproduction we find chiefly
in somnambulists; it is also found in the literary chronicles dealing with dying
celebrities.[114]
Amid the exhaustive selection of these phenomena we are chiefly concerned with
talking in a foreign tongue, the so-called glossolalia. This phenomenon is mentioned
everywhere when it is a question of similar ecstatic conditions. In the New Testament,
in the Acta Sanctorum,[115] in the Witchcraft Trials, more recently in the Prophetess of
Prevorst, in Judge Edmond's daughter Laura, in Flournoy's Helen Smith. The last is
unique from the point of view of investigation; it is found also in Bresler's[116] case,
which is probably identical with Blumhardt's[117] Gottlieben Dittus. As Flournoy
shows, glossolalia is, so far as it really is independent speech, a cryptomnesic
phenomenon, [Greek: Kat' exochên]. The reader should consult Flournoy's most
interesting exposition.
In our case glossolalia was only once observed, when the only understandable words
were the scattered variations on the word "vena." The source of this word is clear. A
few days previously the patient had dipped into an anatomical atlas for the study of
the veins of the face, which were given in Latin. She had used the word "vena" in her
dreams, as happens occasionally to normal persons. The remaining words and
sentences in a foreign language betray, at the first glance, their derivation from

French, in which the patient was somewhat fluent. Unfortunately I am without the
more accurate translations of the various sentences, because the patient would not give
them; but we may hold that it was a phenomenon similar to Helen Smith's Martian
language. Flournoy found that the Martian language was nothing but a childish
translation from French; the words were changed but the syntax remained the same.
Even more probable is the view that the patient simply ranged next to each other
meaningless words that rang strangely, without any true word-formation;[118] she
borrowed certain characteristic sounds from French and Italian and combined them
into a kind of language, just as Helen Smith completed the lacunæ in the real Sanscrit
words by products of her own resembling that language. The curious names of the
mystical system can be reduced, for the most part, to known roots. The writer vividly
recalls the botanical schemes found in every school atlas; the internal resemblance of
the relationship of the planets to the sun is also pretty clear; we shall not be going
astray if we see in the names reminiscences from popular astronomy. Thus can be
explained the names Persus, Fenus, Nenus, Sirum, Surus, Fixus, and Pix, as the
childlike distortions of Perseus, Venus, Sirius and Fixed Star, analogous to the Vena
variations. Magnesor vividly recalls Magnetism, whose mystic significance the patient
knew from the Prophetess of Prevorst. In Connesor, the contrary to Magnesor, the
prefix "con" is probably the French "contre." Hypnos and Hyfonismus recall hypnosis
and hypnotism (German hypnotismus), about which there are the most superstitious
ideas circulating in lay circles. The most used suffixes in "us" and "os" are the signs
by which as a rule people decide the difference between Latin and Greek. The other
names probably spring from similar accidents to which we have no clues. The
rudimentary glossolalia of our case has not any title to be a classical instance of
cryptomnesia, for it only consisted in the unconscious use of various impressions,
partly optical, party acoustic, and all very close at hand.
2. The cryptomnesic image arrives at consciousness through the senses (as a
hallucination). Helen Smith is the classic example of this kind. I refer to the case
mentioned on the date "18 Mars."[119]
3. The image arrives at consciousness by motor automatism. H. Smith had lost her
valuable brooch, which she was anxiously looking for everywhere. Ten days later her
guide Leopold informed her by means of the table where the brooch was. Thus
informed, she found it at night-time in the open field, covered by sand.[120] Strictly
speaking, in cryptomnesia there is not any additional creation in the true sense of the
word, since the conscious memory experiences no increase of its function, but only an
enrichment of its content. By the automatism certain regions are merely made
accessible to consciousness in an indirect way, which were formerly sealed against it.
But the unconscious does not thereby accomplish any creation which exceeds the
capacity of consciousness qualitatively or quantitatively. Cryptomnesia is only an
apparent additional creation, in contrast to hypermnesia, which actually represents an
increase of function.[121]

We have spoken above of a receptivity of the unconscious greater than that of the
consciousness, chiefly in regard to the simple attempts at thought-reading of numbers.
As mentioned, not only our somnambulist but a relatively large number of normal
persons are able to guess from the tremors lengthy thought-sequences, if they are not
too complicated. These experiments are, so to speak, the prototype of those rarer and
incomparably more astonishing cases of intuitive knowledge displayed at times by
somnambulists.[122] Zschokke[123] in his "Introspection" has shown us that these
phenomena do not belong only to the domain of somnambulism, but occur among
non-somnambulic persons. The formation of such knowledge seems to be arrived at in
various ways: first and foremost there is the fineness, already noted, of unconscious
perceptions; then must be emphasised the importance of the enormous suggestibility
of somnambulists. The somnambulist not only incorporates every suggestive idea to
some extent, but actually lives in the suggestion, in the person of his doctor or
observer, with that abandonment characteristic of the suggestible hysteric. The
relation of Frau Hauffe to Kerner is a striking example of this. That in such cases there
is a high degree of association-concordance can cause no astonishment; a condition
which Richet might have taken more account of in his experiments in thought-
transference. Finally there are cases of somnambulic additional creative work which
are not to be explained solely by hyperæsthesia of the unconscious activity of the
senses and association-concordance, but presuppose a highly developed intellectual
activity of the unconscious. The deciphering of the purposive tremors demand an
extreme sensitiveness and delicacy of feeling, both psychological and physiological,
to combine the individual perceptions into a complete unity of thought, if it is at all
permissible to make an analogy between the processes of cognition in the realm of the
unconscious and the conscious. The possibility must always be considered that in the
unconscious, feeling and concept are not clearly separated, perhaps even are one. The
intellectual elevation which certain somnambulists display in ecstasy, though a rare
thing, is none the less one that has sometimes been observed.[124] I would designate
the scheme composed by our patient as just one of those pieces of creative work that
exceed the normal intelligence. We have already seen whence one portion of this
scheme probably came. A second source is no doubt the life-crisis of Frau Hauffe,
portrayed in Kerner's book. The external form seems to be determined by these
adventitious facts. As already observed in the presentation of the case, the idea of
dualism arises from the conversations picked up piecemeal by the patient during those
dreamy states occurring after her ecstasies. This exhausts my knowledge of the
sources of S. W.'s creations. Whence arose the root-idea the patient is unable to say. I
naturally examined occultistic literature pertinent to the subject, and discovered a
store of parallels with her gnostic system from different centuries scattered through all
kinds of work mostly quite inaccessible to the patient. Moreover, at her youthful age,
and with her surroundings, the possibility of any such study is quite excluded. A brief
survey of the system in the light of her own explanations shows how much
intelligence was used in its construction. How highly the intellectual work is to be

estimated is a matter of opinion. In any case, considering her youth, her mentality
must be regarded as quite extraordinary.

CHAPTER II

THE ASSOCIATION METHOD

Lecture I[125]
When you honoured me with an invitation to lecture at Clark University, a wish was
expressed that I should speak about my methods of work, and especially about the
psychology of childhood. I hope to accomplish this task in the following manner:—
In my first lecture I will give to you the view points of my association methods; in my
second I will discuss the significance of the familiar constellations; while in my third
lecture I shall enter more fully into the psychology of the child.
I might confine myself exclusively to my theoretical views, but I believe it will be
better to illustrate my lectures with as many practical examples as possible. We will
therefore occupy ourselves first with the association test which has been of great value
to me both practically and theoretically. The history of the association method in
vogue in psychology, as well as the method itself, is, of course, so familiar to you that
there is no need to enlarge upon it. For practical purposes I make use of the following
formula:—

1. head 34. yellow 67. carrot
2. green 35. mountain 68. to paint
3. water 36. to die 69. part
4. to sing 37. salt 70. old
5. dead 38. new 71. flower
6. long 39. custom 72. to beat
7. ship 40. to pray 73. box
8. to pay 41. money 74. wild
9. window 42. foolish 75. family
10. friendly 43. pamphlet 76. to wash
11. to cook 44. despise 77. cow
12. to ask 45. finger 78. friend
13. cold 46. expensive 79. luck
14. stem 47. bird 80. lie
15. to dance 48. to fall 81. deportment
16. village 49. book 82. narrow
17. lake 50. unjust 83. brother
18. sick 51. frog 84. to fear
19. pride 52. to part 85. stork
20. to cook 53. hunger 86. false
21. ink 54. white 87. anxiety
22. angry 55. child 88. to kiss
23. needle 56. to take care 89. bride
24. to swim 57. lead pencil 90. pure
25. voyage 58. sad 91. door
26. blue 59. plum 92. to choose
27. lamp 60. to marry 93. hay
28. to sin 61. house 94. contented
29. bread 62. dear 95. ridicule
30. rich 63. glass 96. to sleep
31. tree 64. to quarrel 97. month
32. to prick 65. fur 98. nice
33. pity 66. big 99. woman
100. to abuse
This formula has been constructed after many years of
experience. The words are chosen and partially arranged in such a manner as to strike
easily almost all complexes which occur in practice. As shown above, there is a
regulated mixing of the grammatical qualities of the words. For this there are definite
reasons.[126]
Before the experiment begins the test person receives the following instruction:
"Answer as quickly as possible with the first word that occurs to your mind." This

instruction is so simple that it can easily be followed. The work itself, moreover,
appears extremely easy, so that it might be expected any one could accomplish it with
the greatest facility and promptitude. But, contrary to expectation, the behaviour is
quite otherwise.

I.—An Example of a Normal Reaction Type.

Stimulus Reaction Time.
Reaction. Reproduction.
word. Unit 0·2 second.

head 9 foot part of the body

green 11 blouse

water 14 clear light

to sing 6 children

dead 11 do not like

long 6 short I, tall

ship 7 forth

to pay 9 bills

window 9 room

friendly 10 children

table 9 chair room

to ask 10 all kinds

cold 7 warm

stem 6 flower

to dance 9 I.. like

lake 8 Zürich

sick 8 sister

pride 6 people

to cook 7 woman

ink 5 black

angry 10 children people

needle 9 to prick

to swim 10 healthy

voyage 9 England

blue 10 pretty like

lamp 6 light

to sin 8 much people

bread 10 good like, necessary

rich 9 nice

tree 6 green

to prick 9 need

II.—An Example of an Hysterical Reaction Type.

Stimulus Reaction Time.
Reaction. Reproduction.
word. Unit 0·2 second.

needle 7 to sew

to swim 9 water ship [127]
[128]

voyage 35 to ride, motion, voyager

blue 10 colour

lamp 7 to burn

to sin 22 this idea is totally

strange to me, I do not

recognize it

bread 10 to eat

rich[129] 50 money, I don't know possession

brown 6 nature green

to prick 9 needle

pity 12 feeling

yellow 9 colour

mountain 8 high

to die 8 to perish

salt 15 salty (laughs) I don't

know NaCl

new 15 old as an opposite

custom 10 good barbaric

to pray 12 Deity

money 10 wealth

foolish 12 narrow minded, restricted

pamphlet 10 paper

despise 30 that is a complicated, too

foolish

finger 8 hand, not only hand, but

also foot, a joint,

member, extremity

dear 14 to pay (laughs)

bird 8 to fly

to fall 30 _tomber_, I will say no

more, what do you

mean by fall?

book 6 to read

unjust 8 just

frog 11 quack

to part 30 what does that mean?

hunger 10 to eat

white 12 colour, everything

possible, light

child 10 little, I did not hear

well, _bébé_

to take care 14 attention

lead pencil 8 to draw, everything

possible can be drawn

sad 9 to weep, that is not to be

always the case

plum 16 to eat a plum, pluck what fruit

do you mean by it? Is

that symbolic?

to marry 27 how can you? reunion, union union, alliance

The following diagrams illustrate the reaction times in an association experiment in
four normal test-persons. The height of each column denotes the length of the reaction
time.

Fig. 4.

Fig. 5.

Fig. 6.

Fig. 7.
The succeeding diagram shows the course of the reaction time in hysterical individuals.
The light cross-hatched columns denote the places where the test-person was unable to
react (so-called failures to react).

Fig. 8.

Fig. 9.

Fig. 10.
The first thing that strikes us is the fact that many test-persons show a marked
prolongation of the reaction time. This would seem to be suggestive of intellectual

difficulties,—wrongly however, for we are often dealing with very intelligent persons
of fluent speech. The explanation lies rather in the emotions. In order to understand the
matter, comprehensively, we must bear in mind that the association experiments cannot
deal with a separated psychic function, for any psychic occurrence is never a thing in
itself, but is always the resultant of the entire psychological past. The association
experiment, too, is not merely a method for the reproduction of separated word
couplets, but it is a kind of pastime, a conversation between experimenter and test-
person. In a certain sense it is still more than that. Words really represent condensed
actions, situations, and things. When I give a stimulus word to the test-person, which
denotes an action, it is as if I represented to him the action itself, and asked him, "How
do you behave towards it? What do you think of it? What would you do in this
situation?" If I were a magician, I should cause the situation corresponding to the
stimulus word to appear in reality, and placing the test-person in its midst, I should then
study his manner of reaction. The result of my stimulus words would thus undoubtedly
approach infinitely nearer perfection. But as we are not magicians, we must be
contented with the linguistic substitutes for reality; at the same time we must not forget
that the stimulus word will almost without exception conjure up its corresponding
situation. All depends on how the test-person reacts to this situation. The word "bride"
or "bridegroom" will not evoke a simple reaction in a young lady; but the reaction will
be deeply influenced by the strong feeling tones evoked, the more so if the
experimenter be a man. It thus happens that the test-person is often unable to react
quickly and smoothly to all stimulus words. There are certain stimulus words which
denote actions, situations, or things, about which the test-person cannot think quickly
and surely, and this fact is demonstrated in the association experiments. The examples
which I have just given show an abundance of long reaction times and other
disturbances. In this case the reaction to the stimulus word is in some way impeded,
that is, the adaptation to the stimulus word is disturbed. The stimulus words therefore
act upon us just as reality acts; indeed, a person who shows such great disturbances to
the stimulus words, is in a certain sense but imperfectly adapted to reality. Disease itself
is an imperfect adaptation; hence in this case we are dealing with something morbid in
the psyche,—with something which is either temporarily or persistently pathological in
character, that is, we are dealing with a psychoneurosis, with a functional disturbance of
the mind. This rule, however, as we shall see later, is not without its exceptions.
Let us, in the first place, continue the discussion concerning the prolonged reaction
time. It often happens that the test-person actually does not know what to answer to the
stimulus word. He waives any reaction, and for the moment he totally fails to obey the
original instructions, and shows himself incapable of adapting himself to the
experimenter. If this phenomenon occurs frequently in an experiment, it signifies a high
degree of disturbance in adjustment. I would call attention to the fact that it is quite
indifferent what reason the test-person gives for the refusal. Some find that too many
ideas suddenly occur to them; others, that they suffer from a deficiency of ideas. In
most cases, however, the difficulties first perceived are so deterrent that they actually

give up the whole reaction. The following example shows a case of hysteria with many
failures of reaction:—

Stimulus Reaction Time.
Reaction. Reproduction.
word. Unit 0·2 second.

to sing 9 nice +[130]

dead 15 awful ?

long[131] 40 the time, the journey ?

ship[132] +

to pay 11 money

window 10 big high

friendly 50 a man human

to cook 10 soup +

ink 9 black or blue +

angry bad

needle 9 to sew +

lamp 14 light +

to sin

bread 15 to eat +

rich[133][134] 40 good, convenient +

yellow 18 paper colour

mountain 10 high +

to die 15 awful +

salt[135] 25 salty +

new good, nice

custom[136]

to pray

money[137] 35 to buy, one is able +

pamphlet 16 to write +

to despise[138] 22 people +

finger

dear 12 thing +

bird 12 sings or flies +

In example II. we find a characteristic phenomenon. The test-person is not content with
the requirements of the instruction, that is, she is not satisfied with one word, but reacts
with many words. She apparently does more and better than the instruction requires,
but in so doing she does not fulfil the requirements of the instruction. Thus she reacts:
—custom—good—barbaric; foolish—narrow minded—restricted; family—big—small
—everything possible.
These examples show in the first place that many other words connect themselves with
the reaction word. The test person is unable to suppress the ideas which subsequently
occur to her. She also pursues a certain tendency which perhaps is more exactly
expressed in the following reaction: new—old—as an opposite. The addition of "as an
opposite" denotes that the test-person has the desire to add something explanatory or
supplementary. This tendency is also shown in the following reaction: finger—not only
hand, also foot—a limb—member—extremity.
Here we have a whole series of supplements. It seems as if the reaction were not
sufficient for the test-person, something else must always be added, as if what has
already been said were incorrect or in some way imperfect. This feeling is what Janet
designates the "sentiment d'incomplétude," but this by no means explains everything. I
go somewhat deeply into this phenomenon because it is very frequently met with in
neurotic individuals. It is not merely a small and unimportant subsidiary manifestation
demonstrable in an insignificant experiment, but rather an elemental and universal
manifestation which plays a rôle in other ways in the psychic life of neurotics.
By his desire to supplement, the test-person betrays a tendency to give the experimenter
more than he wants, he actually makes great efforts to find further mental occurrences

in order finally to discover something quite satisfactory. If we translate this observation
into the psychology of everyday life, it signifies that the test-person has a constant
tendency to give to others more feeling than is required and expected. According to
Freud, this is a sign of a reinforced object-libido, that is, it is a compensation for an
inner want of satisfaction and voidness of feeling. This elementary observation
therefore displays one of the characteristics of hysterics, namely, the tendency to allow
themselves to be carried away by everything, to attach themselves enthusiastically to
everything, and always to promise too much and hence perform too little. Patients with
this symptom are, in my experience, always hard to deal with; at first they are
enthusiastically enamoured of the physician, for a time going so far as to accept
everything he says blindly; but they soon merge into an equally blind resistance against
him, thus rendering any educative influence absolutely impossible.
We see therefore in this type of reaction an expression of a tendency to give more than
is asked or expected. This tendency betrays itself also in other failures to follow the
instruction:—

to quarrel—angry—different things—I always quarrel at home;
to marry—how can you marry?—reunion—union;
plum—to eat—to pluck—what do you mean by it?—is it symbolic?
to sin—this idea is quite strange to me, I do not recognise it.

These reactions show that the test-person gets away altogether from the situation of the
experiment. For the instruction was, that he should answer only with the first word
which occurs to him. But here we note that the stimulus words act with excessive
strength, that they are taken as if they were direct personal questions. The test-person
entirely forgets that we deal with mere words which stand in print before us, but finds a
personal meaning in them; he tries to divine their intention and defend himself against
them, thus altogether forgetting the original instructions.
This elementary observation discloses another common peculiarity of hysterics,
namely, that of taking everything personally, of never being able to remain objective,
and of allowing themselves to be carried away by momentary impressions; this again
shows the characteristics of the enhanced object-libido.
Yet another sign of impeded adaptation is the often occurring repetition of the stimulus
words. The test-persons repeat the stimulus word as if they had not heard or understood
it distinctly. They repeat it just as we repeat a difficult question in order to grasp it
better before answering. This same tendency is shown in the experiment. The questions
are repeated because the stimulus words act on hysterical individuals in much the same
way as difficult personal questions. In principle it is the same phenomenon as the
subsequent completion of the reaction.
In many experiments we observe that the same reaction constantly reappears to the
most varied stimulus words. These words seem to possess a special reproduction

tendency, and it is very interesting to examine their relationship to the test-person. For
example, I have observed a case in which the patient repeated the word "short" a great
many times and often in places where it had no meaning. The test-person could not
directly state the reason for the repetition of the word "short." From experience I knew
that such predicates always relate either to the test-person himself or to the person
nearest to him. I assumed that in this word "short" he designated himself, and that in
this way he helped to express something very painful to him. The test-person is of very
small stature. He is the youngest of four brothers, who, in contrast to himself, are all
tall. He was always the "child" in the family; he was nicknamed "Short" and was
treated by all as the "little one." This resulted in a total loss of self-confidence.
Although he was intelligent, and despite long study, he could not decide to present
himself for examination; he finally became impotent, and merged into a psychosis in
which, whenever he was alone, he took delight in walking about in his room on his toes
in order to appear taller. The word "short," therefore, stood to him for a great many
painful experiences. This is usually the case with the perseverated words; they always
contain something of importance for the individual psychology of the test-person.
The signs thus far discussed are not found spread about in an arbitrary way through the
whole experiment, but are seen in very definite places, namely, where the stimulus
words strike against emotionally accentuated complexes. This observation is the
foundation of the so-called "diagnosis of facts" (Tatbestandsdiagnostik). This method is
employed to discover, by means of an association experiment, which is the culprit
among a number of persons suspected of a crime. That this is possible I will
demonstrate by the brief recital of a concrete case.
On the 6th of February, 1908, our supervisor reported to me that a nurse complained to
her of having been robbed during the forenoon of the previous day. The facts were as
follows: The nurse kept her money, amounting to 70 francs, in a pocket-book which she
had placed in her cupboard where she also kept her clothes. The cupboard contained
two compartments, of which one belonged to the nurse who was robbed, and the other
to the head nurse. These two nurses and a third one, who was an intimate friend of the
head nurse, slept in the room where the cupboard was. This room was in a section
which was occupied in common by six nurses who had at all times free access to the
room. Given such a state of affairs it is not to be wondered that the supervisor shrugged
her shoulders when I asked her whom she most suspected.
Further investigation showed that on the day of the theft, the above-mentioned friend of
the head nurse was slightly indisposed and remained the whole morning in the room in
bed. Hence, unless she herself was the thief, the theft could have taken place only in the
afternoon. Of four other nurses upon whom suspicion could possibly fall, there was one
who attended regularly to the cleaning of the room in question, while the remaining
three had nothing to do in it, nor was it shown that any of them had spent any time there
on the previous day.

It was therefore natural that the last three nurses should be regarded for the time being
as less implicated, so I began by subjecting the first three to the experiment.
From the information I had obtained of the case, I knew that the cupboard was locked
but that the key was kept near by in a very conspicuous place, that on opening the
cupboard the first thing which would strike the eye was a fur boa, and, moreover, that
the pocket-book was between some linen in an inconspicuous place. The pocket-book
was of dark reddish leather, and contained the following objects: a 50-franc banknote, a
20-franc piece, some centimes, a small silver watch-chain, a stencil used in the lunatic
asylum to mark the kitchen utensils, and a small receipt from Dosenbach's shoeshop in
Zürich.
Besides the plaintiff, only the head nurse knew the exact particulars of the deed, for as
soon as the former missed her money she immediately asked the head nurse to help her
find it, thus the head nurse had been able to learn the smallest details, which naturally
rendered the experiment still more difficult, for she was precisely the one most
suspected. The conditions for the experiment were better for the others, since they knew
nothing concerning the particulars of the deed, and some not even that a theft had been
committed. As critical stimulus words I selected the name of the robbed nurse, plus the
following words: cupboard, door, open, key, yesterday, banknote, gold, 70, 50, 20,
money, watch, pocket-book, chain, silver, to hide, fur, dark reddish, leather, centimes,
stencil, receipt, Dosenbach. Besides these words which referred directly to the deed, I
took also the following, which had a special effective value: theft, to take, to steal,
suspicion, blame, court, police, to lie, to fear, to discover, to arrest, innocent.
The objection is often made to the last species of words that they may produce a strong
affective resentment even in innocent persons, and for that reason one cannot attribute
to them any comparative value. Nevertheless, it may always be questioned whether the
affective resentment of an innocent person will have the same effect on the association
as that of a guilty one, and that question can only be authoritatively answered by
experience. Until the contrary is demonstrated, I maintain that words of the above-
mentioned type may profitably be used.
I distributed these critical words among twice as many indifferent stimulus words in
such a manner that each critical word was followed by two indifferent ones. As a rule it
is well to follow up the critical words by indifferent words in order that the action of the
first may be clearly distinguished. But one may also follow up one critical word by
another, especially if one wishes to bring into relief the action of the second. Thus I
placed together "darkish red" and "leather," and "chain" and "silver."
After this preparatory work I undertook the experiment with the three above-mentioned
nurses. Following the order of the experiment, I shall denote the friend of the head
nurse by the letter A, the head nurse by B, and the nurse who attended to the cleaning of
the room by C. As examinations of this kind can be rendered into a foreign tongue only
with the greatest difficulty, I will content myself with presenting the general results, and

with giving some examples. I first undertook the experiment with A, and judging by the
circumstances she appeared only slightly moved. B was next examined; she showed
marked excitement, her pulse being 120 per minute immediately after the experiment.
The last to be examined was C. She was the most tranquil of the three; she displayed
but little embarrassment, and only in the course of the experiment did it occur to her
that she was suspected of stealing, a fact which manifestly disturbed her towards the
end of the experiment.
The general impression from the examination spoke strongly against the head nurse B.
It seemed to me that she evinced a very "suspicious," or I might almost say, "impudent"
countenance. With the definite idea of finding in her the guilty one I set about adding
up the results. You will see that I was wrong in my surmise and that the test proved my
error.
One can make use of many special methods of computing, but they are not all equally
good and equally exact. (One must always resort to calculation, as appearances are
enormously deceptive.) The method which is most to be recommended is that of the
probable average of the reaction time. It shows at a glance the difficulties which the
person in the experiment had to overcome in the reaction.
The technique of this calculation is very simple. The probable average is the middle
number of the various reaction times arranged in a series. The reaction times are, for
example,[139] placed in the following manner: 5, 5, 5, 7, 7, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9, 12, 13, 14.
The number found in the middle (8) is the probable average of this series.
The probable averages of the reaction are:

A B C

10·0 12·0 13·5.

No conclusions can be drawn from this result. But the average reaction times calculated
separately for the indifferent reactions, for the critical, and for those immediately
following the critical (post-critical) are more interesting.
From this example we see that whereas A has the shortest reaction time for the
indifferent reactions, she shows in comparison to the other two persons of the
experiment, the longest time for the critical reactions.

The Probable Average of the Reaction Time.

for A B C

Indifferent reactions 10·0 11·0 12·0

Critical reactions 16·0 13·0 15·0

Post-critical reactions 10·0 11·0 13·0

The difference between the reaction times, let us say between the indifferent and the
critical, is 6 for A, 2 for B, and 3 for C, that is, it is more than double for A when
compared with the other two persons.
In the same way we can calculate how many complex indicators there are on an average
for the indifferent, critical, etc., reactions.

The Average Complex-Indicators for each Reaction.

for A B C

Indifferent reactions 0·6 0·9 0·8

Critical reactions 1·3 0·9 1·2

Post-critical reactions 0·6 1·0 0·8

The difference between the indifferent and critical reactions for A = 0·7, for B = 0, for
C = 0·4. A is again the highest.
Another question to consider is, the proportion of imperfect reactions in each case.
The result for A = 34%, for B = 28%, and for C = 30%.
Here, too, A reaches the highest value, and in this, I believe, we see the characteristic
moment of the guilt-complex in A. I am, however, unable to explain here
circumstantially the reasons why I maintain that memory errors are related to an
emotional complex, as this would lead me beyond the limits of the present work. I
therefore refer the reader to my work "Ueber die Reproductionsstörrungen im
Associationsexperiment" (IX Beitrag der Diagnost. Associat. Studien).[140]
As it often happens that an association of strong feeling tone produces in the
experiment a perseveration, with the result that not only the critical association, but also
two or three successive associations are imperfectly reproduced, it will be very
interesting to see how many imperfect reproductions are so arranged in the series in our
cases. The result of computation shows that the imperfect reproductions thus arranged
in series are for A 64·7%, for B 55·5%, and for C 30·0%.
Again we find that A has the greatest percentage. To be sure, this may partially depend
on the fact that A also possesses the greatest number of imperfect reproductions. Given
a small number of reactions, it is usual that the greater the total number of the same, the

more the imperfect reactions will occur in groups. But this cannot account for the high
proportion in our case, where, on the other hand, B and C have not a much smaller
number of imperfect reactions when compared to A. It is significant that C with her
slight emotions during the experiment shows the minimum of imperfect reproductions
arranged in series.
As imperfect reproductions are also complex indicators, it is necessary to see how they
distribute themselves in respect to the indifferent, critical, etc., reactions.
It is hardly necessary to bring into prominence the differences between the indifferent
and the critical reactions of the various subjects as shown by the resulting numbers of
the table. In this respect, too, A occupies first place.

Imperfect Reproductions which Occur.

in A B C

Indifferent reactions 10 12 11

Critical reactions 19 9 12

Post-critical reactions 5 7 7

Naturally, here, too, there is a probability that the greater the number of the imperfect
reproductions the greater is their number in the critical reactions. If we suppose that the
imperfect reproductions are distributed regularly and without choice, among all the
reactions, there will be a greater number of them for A (in comparison with B and C)
even as reactions to critical words, since A has the greater number of imperfect
reproductions. Admitting such a uniform distribution of the imperfect reproductions, it
is easy to calculate how many we ought to expect to belong to each individual kind of
reaction.
From this calculation it appears that the disturbances of reproductions which concern
the critical reactions for A greatly surpass the number expected, for C they are 0·9
higher, while for B they are lower.

Imperfect Reproductions.

Which may be expected Which really occur

Post- Post-
Indifferent Critical Indifferent Critical
For critical critical
Reactions. Reactions. Reactions. Reactions.
Reactions. Reactions.

A 11·2 12·5 10·2 10 19 5

B 9·2 10·3 8·4 12 9 7

C 9·9 11·1 9·0 11 12 7

All this points to the fact that in the subject A the critical stimulus words acted with the
greatest intensity, and hence the greatest suspicion falls on A. Practically relying on the
test one may assume the probability of this person's guilt. The same evening A made a
complete confession of the theft, and thus the success of the experiment was confirmed.
Such a result is undoubtedly of scientific interest and worthy of serious consideration.
There is much in experimental psychology which is of less use than the material
exemplified in this test. Putting the theoretical interest altogether aside, we have here
something that is not to be despised from a practical point of view, to wit, a culprit has
been brought to light in a much easier and shorter way than is customary. What has
been possible once or twice ought to be possible again, and it is well worth while to
investigate some means of rendering the method increasingly capable of rapid and sure
results.
This application of the experiment shows that it is possible to strike a concealed, indeed
an unconscious complex by means of a stimulus word; and conversely we may assume
with great certainty that behind a reaction which shows a complex indicator there is a
hidden complex, even though the test-person strongly denies it. One must get rid of the
idea that educated and intelligent test-persons are able to see and admit their own
complexes. Every human mind contains much that is unacknowledged and hence
unconscious as such; and no one can boast that he stands completely above his
complexes. Those who persist in maintaining that they can, are not aware of the
spectacles upon their noses.

It has long been thought that the association experiment enables one to distinguish
certain intellectual types. That is not the case. The experiment does not give us any
particular insight into the purely intellectual, but rather into the emotional processes. To
be sure we can erect certain types of reaction; they are not, however, based on
intellectual peculiarities, but depend entirely on the proportionate emotional states.
Educated test-persons usually show superficial and linguistically deep-rooted
associations, whereas the uneducated form more valuable associations and often of
ingenious significance. This behaviour would be paradoxical from an intellectual view-
point. The meaningful associations of the uneducated are not really the product of
intellectual thinking, but are simply the results of a special emotional state. The whole
thing is more important to the uneducated, his emotion is greater, and for that reason he
pays more attention to the experiment than the educated person, and his associations are

therefore more significant. Apart from those determined by education, we have to
consider three principal individual types:

1. An objective type with undisturbed reactions.
2. A so-called complex-type with many disturbances in the experiment occasioned
by the constellation of a complex.
3. A so-called definition-type. The peculiarity of this type consists in the fact that
the reaction always gives an explanation or a definition of the content of the
stimulus word; e.g.:

apple,—a tree-fruit;
table,—a piece of household furniture;
to promenade,—an activity;
father,—chief of the family.

This type is chiefly found in stupid persons, and it is therefore quite usual in imbecility.
But it can also be found in persons who are not really stupid, but who do not wish to be
taken as stupid. Thus a young student from whom associations were taken by an older
intelligent woman student reacted altogether with definitions. The test-person was of
the opinion that it was an examination in intelligence, and therefore directed most of his
attention to the significance of the stimulus words; his associations, therefore, looked
like those of an idiot. All idiots, however, do not react with definitions; probably only
those react in this way who would like to appear smarter than they are, that is, those to
whom their stupidity is painful. I call this widespread complex the "intelligence-
complex." A normal test-person reacts in a most overdrawn manner as follows:

anxiety—heart anguish;
to kiss—love's unfolding;
to kiss—perception of friendship.

This type gives a constrained and unnatural impression. The test-persons wish to be
more than they are, they wish to exert more influence than they really have. Hence we
see that persons with an intelligence-complex are usually unnatural and constrained;
that they are always somewhat stilted, or flowery; they show a predilection for
complicated foreign words, high-sounding quotations, and other intellectual ornaments.
In this way they wish to influence their fellow-beings, they wish to impress others with
their apparent education and intelligence, and thus to compensate for their painful
feeling of stupidity. The definition-type is closely related to the predicate-type, or, to
express it more precisely, to the predicate-type expressing personal judgment
(Wertprädikattypus). For example:

flower—pretty;
money—convenient;
animal—ugly;
knife—dangerous;
death—ghastly.

In the definition type the intellectual significance of the stimulus word is rendered
prominent, but in the predicate type its emotional significance. There are predicate-
types which show great exaggeration where reactions such as the following appear:

piano—horrible;
to sing—heavenly;
mother—ardently loved;
father—something good, nice, holy.

In the definition-type an absolutely intellectual make-up is manifested or rather
simulated, but here there is a very emotional one. Yet, just as the definition-type really
conceals a lack of intelligence, so the excessive emotional expression conceals or
overcompensates an emotional deficiency. This conclusion is very interestingly
illustrated by the following discovery:—On investigating the influence of the familiar
milieus on the association-type it was found that young people seldom possess a
predicate-type, but that, on the other hand, the predicate-type increases in frequency
with advancing age. In women the increase of the predicate-type begins a little after the
40th year, and in men after the 60th. That is the precise time when, owing to the
deficiency of sexuality, there actually occurs considerable emotional loss. If a test-
person evinces a distinct predicate-type, it may always be inferred that a marked
internal emotional deficiency is thereby compensated. Still, one cannot reason
conversely, namely, that an inner emotional deficiency must produce a predicate-type,
no more than that idiocy directly produces a definition-type. A predicate-type can also
betray itself through the external behaviour, as, for example, through a particular
affectation, enthusiastic exclamations, an embellished behaviour, and the constrained
sounding language so often observed in society.
The complex-type shows no particular tendency except the concealment of a complex,
whereas the definition and predicate types betray a positive tendency to exert in some
way a definite influence on the experimenter. But whereas the definition-type tends to
bring to light its intelligence, the predicate-type displays its emotion. I need hardly add
of what importance such determinations are for the diagnosis of character.
After finishing an association experiment I usually add another of a different kind, the
so-called reproduction experiment. I repeat the same stimulus words and ask the test-
persons whether they still remember their former reactions. In many instances the
memory fails, and as experience shows, these locations are stimulus words which

touched an emotionally accentuated complex, or stimulus words immediately following
such critical words.
This phenomenon has been designated as paradoxical and contrary to all experience.
For it is known that emotionally accentuated things are better retained in memory than
indifferent things. This is quite true, but it does not hold for the linguistic expression of
an emotionally accentuated content. On the contrary, one very easily forgets what he
has said under emotion, one is even apt to contradict himself about it. Indeed, the
efficacy of cross-examinations in court depends on this fact. The reproduction method
therefore serves to render still more prominent the complex stimulus. In normal persons
we usually find a limited number of false reproductions, seldom more than 19-20 per
cent., while in abnormal persons, especially in hysterics, we often find from 20-40 per
cent. of false reproductions. The reproduction certainty is therefore in certain cases a
measure for the emotivity of the test-person.

By far the larger number of neurotics show a pronounced tendency to cover up their
intimate affairs in impenetrable darkness, even from the doctor, so that he finds it very
difficult to form a proper picture of the patient's psychology. In such cases I am greatly
assisted by the association experiment. When the experiment is finished, I first look
over the general course of the reaction times. I see a great many very prolonged
intervals; this means that the patient can only adjust himself with difficulty, that his
psychological functions proceed with marked internal frictions with resistances. The
greater number of neurotics react only under great and very definite resistances; there
are, however, others in whom the average reaction times are as short as in the normal,
and in whom the other complex indicators are lacking, but, despite that fact, they
undoubtedly present neurotic symptoms. These rare cases are especially found among
very intelligent and educated persons, chronic patients who, after many years of
practice, have learned to control their outward behaviour and therefore outwardly
display very little if any trace of their neuroses. The superficial observer would take
them for normal, yet in some places they show disturbances which betray the repressed
complex.
After examining the reaction times I turn my attention to the type of the association to
ascertain with what type I am dealing. If it is a predicate-type I draw the conclusions
which I have detailed above; if it is a complex type I try to ascertain the nature of the
complex. With the necessary experience one can readily emancipate one's judgment
from the test-person's statements and almost without any previous knowledge of the
test-persons it is possible under certain circumstances to read the most intimate
complexes from the results of the experiment. I look at first for the reproduction words
and put them together, and then I look for the stimulus words which show the greatest
disturbances. In many cases merely assorting these words suffices to unearth the
complex. In some cases it is necessary to put a question here and there. The matter is
well illustrated by the following concrete example:

It concerns an educated woman of 30 years of age, married three years previously.
Since her marriage she has suffered from episodic excitement in which she is violently
jealous of her husband. The marriage is a happy one in every other respect, and it
should be noted that the husband gives no cause for the jealousy. The patient is sure that
she loves him and that her excited states are groundless. She cannot imagine whence
these excited states originate, and feels quite perplexed over them. It is to be noted that
she is a catholic and has been brought up religiously, while her husband is a protestant.
This difference of religion did not admittedly play any part. A more thorough
anamnesis showed the existence of an extreme prudishness. Thus, for example, no one
was allowed to talk in the patient's presence about her sister's childbirth, because the
sexual moment suggested therein caused her the greatest excitement. She always
undressed in the adjoining room and never in her husband's presence, etc. At the age of
27 she was supposed to have had no idea how children were born. The associations
gave the results shown in the accompanying chart.
The stimulus words characterised by marked disturbances are the following: yellow, to
pray, to separate, to marry, to quarrel, old, family, happiness, false, fear, to kiss, bride,
to choose, contented. The strongest disturbances are found in the following stimulus
words: to pray, to marry, happiness, false, fear, and contented. These words, therefore,
more than any others, seem to strike the complex. The conclusions that can be drawn
from this is that she is not indifferent to the fact that her husband is a protestant, that
she again thinks of praying, believes there is something wrong with marriage, that she
is false, entertains fancies of faithlessness, is afraid (of the husband? of the future?), she
is not contented with her choice (to choose) and she thinks of separation. The patient
therefore has a separation complex, for she is very discontented with her married life.
When I told her this result she was affected and at first attempted to deny it, then to
mince over it, but finally she admitted everything I said and added more. She
reproduced a large number of fancies of faithlessness, reproaches against her husband,
etc. Her prudishness and jealousy were merely a projection of her own sexual wishes
on her husband. Because she was faithless in her fancies and did not admit it to herself
she was jealous of her husband.

For the stimulus words corresponding to the numbers, see the list
on pages 94 and 95.

The blue columns represent failures of reproductions, the green
ones represent repetitions of stimulus words, and the yellow
columns show those associations in which the patient either
laughed or made mistakes, using many words instead of one. The
height of the columns represent the length of the reaction time.
[To face p. 118.
It is impossible in a lecture to give a review of all the manifold uses of the association
experiment. I must content myself with having demonstrated to you a few of its chief
uses.

Lecture II
THE FAMILIAL CONSTELLATIONS
Ladies and Gentlemen: As you have seen, there are manifold ways in which the
association experiment may be employed in practical psychology. I should like to speak
to you to-day about another use of this experiment which is primarily of theoretical
significance. My pupil, Miss Fürst, M.D., made the following researches: she applied
the association experiment to 24 families, consisting altogether of 100 test-persons; the
resulting material amounted to 22,200 associations. This material was elaborated in the
following manner: Fifteen separate groups were formed according to logical-linguistic
standards, and the associations were arranged as follows:

Husband Wife Difference

I. Co-ordination 6·5 0·5 6

II. Sub and supraordination 7 — 7

III. Contrast — — —

IV. Predicate expressing a personal judgment 8·5 95·0 86·5

V. Simple predicate 21·0 3·5 17·5

Relations of the verb to the
VI. 15·5 0·5 15·0
subject or complement

VII. Designation of time, etc. 11·0 — 11·0

VIII. Definition 11·0 — 11·0

IX. Coexistence 1·5 — 1·5

X. Identity 0·5 0·5 —

XI. Motor-speech combination 12·0 — 12·0

XII. Composition of words — — —

XIII. Completion of words — — —

XIV. Clang associations — — —

XV. Defective reactions — — —

Total — — 173·5

173·5

Average difference —— = 11·5

15

As can be seen from this example, I utilise the difference to demonstrate the degree of
the analogy. In order to find a basis for the sum of the resemblance I have calculated the
differences among all Dr. Fürst's test-persons, not related among themselves, by
comparing every female test-person with all the other unrelated females; the same has
been done for the male test-persons.
The most marked difference is found in those cases where the two test-persons
compared have no associative quality in common. All the groups are calculated in
percentages, the greatest difference possible being 200/15 = 13·3 per cent.

I. The average difference of male unrelated test-persons is 5·9 per cent., and that of
females of the same group is 6 per cent.
II. The average difference between male related test-persons is 4·1 per cent., and that
between female related tests-persons is 3·8 per cent. From these numbers we see that
relatives show a tendency to agreement in the reaction type.
III. Difference between fathers and children = 4·2.
" " mothers " " = 3·5.
The reaction types of children come nearer to the type of the mother than to the father.

IV. Difference between fathers and their sons = 3·1.

" " " " " daughters = 4·9.

" " mothers " " sons = 4·7.

" " " " " daughters = 3·0.

Fig. 11.
Tracing A. —— father; ..... mother; ++++
daughter.
I. Assoc. by co-ordination; II. sub and
supraordination; III. contrast, etc. (see
previous page).
V. Difference between brothers = 4·7.
" " sisters = 5·1.
If the married sisters are omitted from the comparison we get the following result:
Difference of unmarried sisters = 3·8. These observations show distinctly that marriage
destroys more or less the original agreement, as the husband belongs to a different type.

Difference between unmarried brothers = 4·8.
Marriage seems to exert no influence on the association forms in men. Nevertheless,
the material which we have at our disposal is not as yet enough to allow us to draw
definite conclusions.
VI. Difference between husband and wife = 4·7.

Fig. 12.
Tracing B. —— husband; ..... wife.
This number sums up inadequately the different and very unequal values; that is to say,
there are some cases which show extreme difference and some which show marked
concordance.
The different results are shown in the tracings (Figs. 11-15).
In the tracings I have marked the number of associations of each quality
perpendicularly in percentages. The Roman letters written horizontally represent the
forms of association indicated in the above tables.
Tracing A. The father (black line) shows an objective type, while the mother and
daughter show the pure predicate type with a pronounced subjective tendency.
Tracing B. The husband and wife agree well in the predicate objective type, the
predicate subjective being somewhat more numerous in the wife.
Tracing C. A very nice agreement between a father and his two daughters.

Fig. 13.
Tracing C. —— father; ..... 1st daughter; ++++ 2nd
daughter.
Tracing D. Two sisters living together. The dotted line represents the married sister.

Fig. 14.
Tracing D. —— single sister; ..... married sister.
Tracing E. Husband and wife. The wife is a sister of the two women of tracing D. She
approaches very closely to the type of her husband. Her tracing is the direct opposite of
that of her sisters.

Fig. 15.
Tracing E. —— husband; ..... wife.
The similarity of the associations is often very extraordinary. I will reproduce here the
associations of a mother and daughter.

Stimulus Word. Mother. Daughter.

to pay attention diligent pupil pupil

law command of God Moses

dear child father and mother

great God father

potato bulbous root bulbous root

family many persons 5 persons

strange traveller traveller

brother dear to me dear

to kiss mother mother

burn great pain painful

door wide big

hay dry dry

month many days 31 days

air cool moist

coal sooty black

fruit sweet sweet

merry happy child child

One might indeed think that in this experiment, where full scope is given to chance,
individuality would become a factor of the utmost importance, and that therefore one
might expect a very great diversity and lawlessness of associations. But as we see the
opposite is the case. Thus the daughter lives contentedly in the same circle of ideas as
her mother, not only in her thought but in her form of expression; indeed, she even uses
the same words. What could be regarded as more inconsequent, inconstant, and lawless
than a fancy, a rapidly passing thought? It is not lawless, however, neither is it free, but
closely determined within the limits of the milieu. If, therefore, even the superficial and
manifestly most inconsequent formations of the intellect are altogether subject to the
milieu-constellation, what must we not expect for the more important conditions of the
mind, for the emotions, wishes, hopes, and intentions? Let us consider a concrete
example, illustrated by tracing A.
The mother is 45 years old and the daughter 16 years. Both have a very distinct
predicate-type expressing personal judgment, both differ from the father in the most
striking manner. The father is a drunkard and a demoralised creature. We can thus
readily understand that his wife experiences an emotional voidness which she naturally
betrays by her enhanced predicate-type. The same causes cannot, however, operate in
the case of the daughter, for, in the first place, she is not married to a drunkard, and, in
the second, life with all its hopes and promises still lies before her. It is distinctly
unnatural for the daughter to show an extreme predicate-type expressing personal
judgment. She responds to the stimuli of the environment just like her mother. But
whereas in the mother the type is in a way a natural consequence of her unhappy
condition of life, this condition is entirely lacking in the daughter. The daughter simply
imitates the mother; she merely appears like the mother. Let us consider what this can
signify for a young girl. If a young girl reacts to the world like an old woman,
disappointed in life, this at once shows unnaturalness and constraint. But more serious
consequences are possible. As you know the predicate-type is a manifestation of
intensive emotions; the emotions are always involved. Thus we cannot prevent
ourselves from responding inwardly, at least, to the feelings and passions of our
immediate environment; we allow ourselves to be infected and carried away by it.
Originally the effects and their physical manifestations had a biological significance;
i.e. they were a protective mechanism for the individual and the whole herd. If we

manifest emotions, we can with certainty expect to receive emotions in return. That is
the feeling of the predicate-type. What the 45-year-old woman lacks in emotions, i.e. in
love in her marriage relations she seeks to obtain in the outside world, and for that
reason she is an ardent participant in the Christian Science movement. If the daughter
imitates this situation she copies her mother, she seeks to obtain emotions from the
outside. But for a girl of sixteen such an emotional state is, to say the least, quite
dangerous; like her mother, she reacts to her environment as a sufferer soliciting
sympathy. Such an emotional state is no longer dangerous in the mother, but for
obvious reasons it is quite dangerous in the daughter. Once freed from her father and
mother she will be like her mother, i.e. she will be a suffering woman craving for inner
gratification. She will thus be exposed to the great danger of falling a victim to brutality
and of marrying a brute and inebriate like her father.
This conception is of importance in the consideration of the influence of environment
and education. The example shows what passes over from the mother to the child. It is
not the good and pious precepts, nor is it any other inculcation of pedagogic truths that
have a moulding influence upon the character of the developing child, but what most
influences him is the peculiarly affective state which is totally unknown to his parents
and educators. The concealed discord between the parents, the secret worry, the
repressed hidden wishes, all these produce in the individual a certain affective state
with its objective signs which slowly but surely, though unconsciously, works its way
into the child's mind, producing therein the same conditions and hence the same
reactions to external stimuli. We know the depressing effect mournful and melancholic
persons have upon us. A restless and nervous individual infects his surroundings with
unrest and dissatisfaction, a grumbler with his discontent, etc. Since grown-up persons
are so sensitive to surrounding influences, we should certainly expect this to be even
more noticeable among children, whose minds are as soft and plastic as wax. The father
and mother impress deeply into the child's mind the seal of their personality; the more
sensitive and mouldable the child the deeper is the impression. Thus things that are
never even spoken about are reflected in the child. The child imitates the gesture, and
just as the gesture of the parent is the expression of an emotional state, so in turn the
gesture gradually produces in the child a similar feeling, as it feels itself, so to speak,
into the gesture. Just as the parents adapt themselves to the world, so does the child. At
the age of puberty when it begins to free itself from the spell of the family, it enters into
life with, so to say, a surface adaptation entirely in keeping with that of the father and
mother. The frequent and often very deep depressions of puberty emanate from this;
they are symptoms which are rooted in the difficulty of new adjustment. The youthful
person at first tries to separate himself as much as possible from his family; he may
even estrange himself from it, but inwardly this only ties him the more firmly to the
parental image. I cite the case of a young neurotic who ran away from his parents; he
was estranged from, and almost hostile to them, but he admitted to me that he
possessed a special sanctum; it was a strong box containing his old childhood books,

old dried flowers, stones, and even small bottles of water from the well at his home and
from a river along which he walked with his parents, etc.
The first attempts to assume friendship and love are constellated in the strongest
manner possible by the relation to parents, and here one can usually observe how
powerful are the influences of the familiar constellations. It is not rare, for instance, for
a healthy man whose mother was hysterical to marry a hysteric, or for the daughter of
an alcoholic to choose an alcoholic for her husband. I was once consulted by an
intelligent and educated young woman of twenty-six who suffered from a peculiar
symptom. She thought that her eyes now and then took on a strange expression which
exerted a disagreeable influence on men. If she then looked at a man he became self-
conscious, turned away and said something rapidly to his neighbour, at which both
were either embarrassed or inclined to laugh. The patient was convinced that her look
excited indecent thoughts in the men. It was impossible to convince her of the falsity of
her conviction. This symptom immediately aroused in me the suspicion that I dealt with
a case of paranoia rather than with a neurosis. But as was shown only three days later
by the further course of the treatment, I was mistaken, for the symptom promptly
disappeared after it had been explained by analysis. It originated in the following
manner: The lady had a lover who deserted her in a very marked manner. She felt
utterly forsaken; she withdrew from all society and pleasure, and entertained suicidal
ideas. In her seclusion there accumulated unadmitted and repressed erotic wishes which
she unconsciously projected on men whenever she was in their company. This gave rise
to the conviction that her look excited erotic wishes in men. Further investigation
showed that her deserting lover was a lunatic, which she had not apparently observed. I
expressed my surprise at her unsuitable choice, and added that she must have had a
certain predilection for loving mentally abnormal persons. This she denied, stating that
she had once before been engaged to be married to a normal man. He, too, deserted her;
and on further investigation it was found that he, too, had been in an insane asylum
shortly before,—another lunatic! This seemed to me to confirm with sufficient certainty
my belief that she had an unconscious tendency to choose insane persons. Whence
originated this strange taste? Her father was an eccentric character, and in later years
entirely estranged from his family. Her whole love had therefore been turned away
from her father to a brother eight years her senior; him she loved and honoured as a
father, and this brother became hopelessly insane at the age of fourteen. That was
apparently the model from which the patient could never free herself, after which she
chose her lovers, and through which she had to become unhappy. Her neurosis which
gave the impression of insanity, probably originated from this infantile model. We must
take into consideration that we are dealing in this case with a highly educated and
intelligent lady, who did not pass carelessly over her mental experiences, who indeed
reflected much over her unhappiness, without, however, having any idea whence her
misfortune originated.
There are things which unconsciously appear to us as a matter of course, and it is for
this reason that we do not see them truly, but attribute everything to the so-called

congenital character. I could cite any number of examples of this kind. Every patient
furnishes contributions to this subject of the determination of destiny through the
influence of the familiar milieu. In every neurotic we see how the constellation of the
infantile milieu influences not only the character of the neurosis, but also life's destiny,
even in its minute details. The unhappy choice of a profession, and innumerable
matrimonial failures can be traced to this constellation. There are, however, cases where
the profession has been well chosen, where the husband or wife leaves nothing to be
desired, and where still the person does not feel well but works and lives under constant
difficulties. Such cases often appear under the guise of chronic neurasthenia. Here the
difficulty is due to the fact that the mind is unconsciously split into two parts of
divergent tendencies which are impeding each other; one part lives with the husband or
with the profession, while the other lives unconsciously in the past with the father or
mother. I have treated a lady who, after suffering many years from a severe neurosis,
merged into a dementia præcox. The neurotic affection began with her marriage. This
lady's husband was kind, educated, well to do, and in every respect suitable for her; his
character showed nothing that would in any way interfere with a happy marriage. The
marriage was nevertheless unhappy, all congenial companionship being excluded
because the wife was neurotic.
The important heuristic axiom of every psychoanalysis reads as follows: If a person
develops a neurosis this neurosis contains the counter-argument against the relation of
the patient to the individual with whom he is most intimately connected. A neurosis in
the husband loudly proclaims that he has intensive resistances and contrary tendencies
against his wife; if the wife has a neurosis she has a tendency which diverges from her
husband. If the person is unmarried the neurosis is then directed against the lover or the
sweetheart or against the parents. Every neurotic naturally strives against this relentless
formulation of the content of his neurosis, and he often refuses to recognise it at any
cost, but still it is always justified. To be sure, the conflict is not on the surface, but
must generally be revealed through a painstaking psychoanalysis.
The history of our patient reads as follows:
The father had a powerful personality. She was his favourite daughter, and entertained
for him a boundless veneration. At the age of seventeen she for the first time fell in love
with a young man. At that time she twice dreamt the same dream, the impression of
which never left her in all her later years; she even imputed a mystic significance to it,
and often recalled it with religious dread. In the dream she saw a tall, masculine figure
with a very beautiful white beard; at this sight she was permeated with a feeling of awe
and delight as if she experienced the presence of God Himself. This dream made the
deepest impression on her, and she was constrained to think of it again and again. The
love affair of that period proved to be one of little warmth, and was soon given up.
Later the patient married her present husband. Though she loved her husband she was
led continually to compare him with her deceased father; this comparison always
proved unfavourable to her husband. Whatever the husband said, intended, or did, was

subjected to this standard and always with the same result: "My father would have done
all this better and differently." Our patient's life with her husband was not happy, she
could neither respect nor love him sufficiently; she was inwardly dissatisfied. She
gradually developed a fervent piety, and at the same time violent hysterical symptoms
supervened. She began by going into raptures now over this and now over that
clergyman; she was looking everywhere for a spiritual friend, and estranged herself
more and more from her husband. The mental trouble manifested itself about ten years
after marriage. In her diseased state she refused to have anything to do with her
husband and child; she imagined herself pregnant by another man. In brief, the
resistances against her husband, which hitherto had been laboriously repressed, came
out quite openly, and among other things manifested themselves in insults of the
gravest kind directed against him.
In this case we see how a neurosis appeared, as it were, at the moment of marriage, i.e.
this neurosis expresses the counter-argument against the husband. What is the counter-
argument? The counter-argument is the father of the patient, for she verified her belief
daily that her husband was not the equal of her father. When the patient first fell in love
there had appeared a symptom in the form of an extremely impressive dream or vision.
She saw the man with the very beautiful white beard. Who was this man? On directing
her attention to the beautiful white beard she immediately recognised the phantom. It
was of course her father. Thus every time the patient merged into a love affair the
picture of her father inopportunely appeared and prevented her from adjusting herself
psychologically to her husband.
I purposely chose this case as an illustration because it is simple, obvious, and quite
typical of many marriages which are crippled through the neurosis of the wife. The
cause of the unhappiness always lies in a too firm attachment to the parents. The
infantile relationship has not been given up. We find here one of the most important
tasks of pedagogy, namely, the solution of the problem how to free the growing
individual from his unconscious attachments to the influences of the infantile milieu, in
such a manner that he may retain whatever there is in it that is suitable and reject
whatever is unsuitable. To solve this difficult question on the part of the child seems to
me impossible at present. We know as yet too little about the child's emotional
processes. The first and only real contribution to the literature on this subject has in fact
appeared during the present year. It is the analysis of a five-year-old boy published by
Freud.
The difficulties on the part of the child are very great. They should not, however, be so
great on the part of the parents. In many ways the parents could manage the love of
children more carefully, more indulgently, and more intelligently. The sins committed
against favourite children by the undue love of the parents could perhaps be avoided
through a wider knowledge of the child's mind. For many reasons I find it impossible to
say anything of general validity concerning the bringing up of children as it is affected
by this problem. We are as yet very far from general prescriptions and rules; indeed we

are still in the realm of casuistry. Unfortunately, our knowledge of the finer mental
processes in the child is so meagre that we are not yet in any position to say where the
greatest trouble lies, whether in the parents, in the child, or in the conception of the
milieu. Only psychoanalyses of the kind that Professor Freud has published in the
Jahrbuch, 1909,[141] will help us out of this difficulty. Such comprehensive and
profound observations should act as a strong inducement to all teachers to occupy
themselves with Freud's psychology. This psychology offers more values for practical
pedagogy than the physiological psychology of the present.

Lecture III
EXPERIENCES CONCERNING THE PSYCHIC LIFE OF THE
CHILD[142]
Ladies and Gentlemen: In our last lecture we saw how important the emotional
processes of childhood are for later life. In to-day's lecture I should like to give you
some insight into the psychic life of the child through the analysis of a four-year-old
girl. It is much to be regretted that there are few among you who have had the
opportunity of reading the analysis of "Little Hans" (Kleiner Hans), which was
published by Freud during the current year.[143] I ought to begin by giving you the
content of that analysis, so that you might be in a position to compare Freud's results
with those obtained by me, and observe the marked, and astonishing similarity between
the unconscious creations of the two children. Without a knowledge of the fundamental
analysis of Freud, much in the report of the following case will appear strange,
incomprehensible, and perhaps unacceptable to you. I beg you, however, to defer your
final judgment and to enter upon the consideration of these new subjects with a kindly
disposition, for such pioneer work in virgin soil requires not only the greatest patience
on the part of the investigator, but also the unprejudiced attention of his audience.
Because the Freudian investigations apparently involve a discussion of the most
intimate secrets of sexuality many people have had a feeling of repulsion against them,
and have therefore rejected everything as a matter of course without any real disproof.
This, unfortunately, has almost always been the fate of Freud's doctrines up to the
present. One must not come to the consideration of these matters with the firm
conviction that they do not exist, for it may easily happen that for the prejudiced they
really do not exist. One should perhaps assume the author's point of view for the
moment and investigate these phenomena under his guidance. Only in this way can the
correctness or otherwise of our observations be affirmed. We may err, as all human
beings err. But the continual holding up to us of our mistakes—perhaps they are worse
than mistakes—does not help us to see things more distinctly. We should prefer to see
wherein we err. That should be demonstrated to us in our own sphere of experience.

Thus far, however, no one has succeeded in meeting us on our own ground, nor in
giving us a different conception of the things which we ourselves see. We still have to
complain that our critics persist in maintaining complete ignorance about the matters in
question. The only reason for this is that they have never taken the trouble to become
thoroughly acquainted with our method; had they done this they would have understood
us.
The little girl to whose sagacity and intellectual vivacity we are indebted for the
following observations is a healthy, lively child of emotional temperament. She has
never been seriously ill, and never, even in the realm of the nervous system, had there
been observed any symptoms prior to this investigation. In the report which follows we
shall have to waive any connected description, for it is made up of anecdotes which
treat of one experience out of a whole cycle of similar ones, and which cannot,
therefore, be arranged scientifically and systematically, but must rather be described
somewhat in the form of a story. We cannot as yet dispense with this manner of
description in our analytical psychology, for we are still far from being able in all cases
to separate with unerring certainty what is curious from what is typical.

When the little daughter, whom we will call Anna, was about three years old, she once
had the following conversation with her grandmother:

Anna: "Grandma, why are your eyes so dim?"
Grandma: "Because I am old."
A.: "But you will become young again."
G.: "No, do you know, I shall become older and older, and then I shall die."
A.: "Well, and then?"
G.: "Then I shall be an angel."
A.: "And then will you be a little baby again?"

The child found here a welcome opportunity for the provisional solution of a problem.
For some time before she had been in the habit of asking her mother whether she would
ever have a living doll, a little child, a little brother. This naturally included the question
as to the origin of children. As such questions appeared only spontaneously and
indirectly, the parents attached no significance to them, but responded to them as lightly
and in appearance as carelessly as the child seemed to ask them. Thus she once
received from her father the pretty story that children are brought by the stork. Anna
had already heard somewhere a more serious version, namely, that children, are little
angels living in heaven, and are brought from heaven by the stork. This theory seems to
have become the starting point for the investigating activity of the little one. From the

conversation with the grandmother it could be seen that this theory was capable of wide
application, namely, it not only solved in a comforting manner the painful idea of
parting and dying, but at the same time also the riddle of the origin of children. Such
solutions which kill at least two birds with one stone were formerly tenaciously adhered
to in science, and cannot be removed from the mind of the child without a certain
amount of shock.
Just as the birth of a little sister was the turning point in the history of "Little Hans," so
in this case it was the birth of a brother, which happened when Anna had reached the
age of four years. The pregnancy of the mother apparently remained unnoticed; i.e. the
child never expressed herself on this subject. On the evening before the birth, when
labour pains were beginning, the child was in her father's room. He took her on his knee
and said, "Tell me, what would you say if you should get a little brother to-night?" "I
would kill him" was the prompt answer. The expression "to kill" looks very serious, but
in reality it is quite harmless, for "to kill" and "to die" in child language signify only to
remove, either in the active or in the passive sense, as has already been pointed out a
number of times by Freud. "To kill" as used by the child is a harmless word, especially
so when we know that the child uses the word "kill" quite promiscuously for all
possible kinds of destruction, removal, demolition, etc. It is, nevertheless, worth while
to note this tendency (see the analysis of Kleiner Hans, p. 5).
The birth occurred early in the morning, and later the father entered the room where
Anna slept. She awoke as he came in. He imparted to her the news of the advent of a
little brother, which she took with surprise and strained facial expression. The father
took her in his arms and carried her into the lying-in room. She first threw a rapid
glance at her somewhat pale mother and then displayed something like a mixture of
embarrassment and suspicion as if thinking, "Now what else is going to happen?"
(Father's impression.) She displayed hardly any pleasure at the sight of the new arrival,
so that the cool reception she gave it caused general disappointment. During the
forenoon she kept very noticeably away from her mother; this was the more striking as
she was usually much attached to her. But once when her mother was alone she ran into
the room, embraced her and said, "Well, aren't you going to die now?" Now a part of
the conflict in the child's psyche is revealed to us. Though the stork theory was never
really taken seriously, she accepted the fruitful re-birth hypothesis, according to which
a person by dying helps a child into life. Accordingly the mother, too, must die; why,
then, should the newborn child, against whom she already felt childish jealousy, cause
her pleasure? It was for this reason that she had to seek a favourable opportunity of
reassuring herself as to whether the mother was to die, or rather was moved to express
the hope that she would not die.
With this happy issue, however, the re-birth theory sustained a severe shock. How was
it possible now to explain the birth of her little brother and the origin of children in
general? There still remained the stork theory which, though never expressly rejected,
had been implicitly waived through the assumption of the re-birth theory. The

explanations next attempted unfortunately remained hidden from the parents as the
child went to stay with her grandmother for a few weeks. From the latter's report the
stork theory was often discussed, and was naturally reinforced by the concurrence of
those about her.
When Anna returned to her parents, she again, on meeting her mother, evinced the same
mixture of embarrassment and suspicion which she had displayed after the birth. The
impression, though inexplicable, was quite unmistakable to both parents. Her behaviour
towards the baby was very nice. During her absence a nurse had come into the house
who, on account of her uniform, made a deep impression on Anna; to be sure, the
impression at first was quite unfavourable as she evinced the greatest hostility to her.
Thus nothing could induce her to allow herself to be undressed and put to sleep by this
nurse. Whence this resistance originated was soon shown in an angry scene near the
cradle of the little brother in which Anna shouted at the nurse, "This is not your little
brother, he is mine!" Gradually, however, she became reconciled to the nurse, and
began to play nurse herself; she had to have her white cap and apron, and "nursed" now
her little brother, and now her doll.
In contrast to her former mood she became unmistakably mournful and dreamy. She
often sat for a long time under the table singing stories and making rhymes, which were
partially incomprehensible but sometimes contained the "nurse" theme ("I am a nurse
of the green cross"). Some of the stories, however, distinctly showed a painful feeling
striving for expression.
Here we meet with a new and important feature in the little one's life: that is, we meet
with reveries, even a tendency towards poetic fancies and melancholic attacks. All of
them things which we are wont first to encounter at a later period of life, at a time when
the youth or maiden is preparing to sever the family tie and to enter independently upon
life, but is still held back by an inward, painful feeling of homesickness for the warmth
of the parental hearth. At such a time the youth begins to replace what is lacking with
poetic fancies in order to compensate for the deficiency. To approximate the
psychology of a four-year-old child to that of the youth approaching puberty will at first
sight seem paradoxical; the relationship lies, however, not in the age but rather in the
mechanism. The elegiac reveries express the fact that a part of that love which formerly
belonged, and should belong, to a real object, is now introverted, that is, it is turned
inward into the subject and there produces an increased imaginative activity. What is
the origin of this introversion? Is it a psychological manifestation peculiar to this age,
or does it owe its origin to a conflict?
This is explained in the following occurrence. It often happened that Anna was
disobedient to her mother, she was insolent, saying, "I am going back to grandma."
Mother: "But I shall be sad when you leave me."
Anna: "Oh, but you have my little brother."

This reaction towards the mother shows what the little one was really aiming at with
her threats to go away again; she apparently wished to hear what her mother would say
to her proposal, that is, to see what attitude her mother would actually assume to her,
whether her little brother had not ousted her altogether from her mother's regard. One
must, however, give no credence to this little trickster. For the child could readily see
and feel that, despite the existence of the little brother, there was nothing essentially
lacking to her in her mother's love. The reproach to which she subjects her mother is
therefore unjustified, and to the trained ear this is betrayed by a slightly affected tone.
Such an unmistakable tone does not expect to be taken seriously and hence it obtrudes
itself more vehemently. The reproach as such cannot be taken seriously by the mother,
for it was only the forerunner of other and this time more serious resistances. Not long
after the conversation narrated above, the following scene took place:

Mother: "Come, we are going into the garden now!"
Anna: "You are telling lies, take care if you are not telling the truth."
M.: "What are you thinking of? I am telling the truth."
A.: "No, you are not telling the truth."
M.: "You will soon see that I am telling the truth: we are going into the garden
now."
A.: "Indeed, is that true? Is that really true? Are you not lying?"

Scenes of this kind were repeated a number of times. This time the tone was more rude
and more vehement, and at the same time the accent on the word "lie" betrayed
something special which the parents did not understand; indeed, at first they attributed
too little significance to the spontaneous utterances of the child. In this they merely did
what education usually does in general, ex officio. We usually pay little heed to children
in every stage of life; in all essential matters, they are treated as not responsible, and in
all unessential ma tters, they are trained with an automatic precision.
Under resistances there always lies a question, a conflict, of which we hear later and on
other occasions. But usually one forgets to connect the thing heard with the resistances.
Thus, on another occasion, Anna put to her mother the following questions:—

Anna: "I should like to become a nurse when I grow big—why did you not
become a nurse?"
Mother: "Why, as I have become a mother I have children to nurse anyway."
A. (Reflecting): "Indeed, shall I be a lady like you, and shall I talk to you then?"

The mother's answer again shows whither the child's question was really directed.
Apparently Anna, too, would like to have a child to "nurse" just as the nurse has. Where

the nurse got the little child is quite clear. Anna, too, could get a child in the same way
if she were big. Why did not the mother become such a nurse, that is to say, how did
she get a child if not in the same way as the nurse? Like the nurse, Anna, too, could get
a child, but how that fact might be changed in the future or how she might come to
resemble her mother in the matter of getting children is not clear to her. From this
resulted the thoughtful question, "Indeed, shall I be a lady like you? Shall I be quite
different?" The stork theory evidently had come to naught, the dying theory met a
similar fate; hence she now thinks one may get a child in the same way, as, for
example, the nurse got hers. She, too, could get one in this natural way, but how about
the mother who is no nurse and still has children? Looking at the matter from this point
of view, Anna asks: "Why did you not become a nurse?" namely, "why have you not
got your child in the natural way?" This peculiar indirect manner of questioning is
typical, and evidently corresponds with the child's hazy grasp of the problem, unless we
assume a certain diplomatic uncertainty prompted by a desire to evade direct
questioning. We shall later find an illustration of this possibility. Anna is evidently
confronted with the question "Where does the child come from?" The stork did not
bring it; mother did not die; nor did mother get it in the same way as the nurse. She has,
however, asked this question before and received the information from her father that
the stork brings children; this is positively untrue, she can never be deceived on this
point. Accordingly, papa and mama and all the others lie. This readily explains her
suspicion at the childbirth and her discrediting of her mother. But it also explains
another point, namely, the elegiac reveries which we have attributed to a partial
introversion. We know now what was the real object from which love was removed and
uselessly introverted, namely, it had to be taken from the parents who deceived her and
refused to tell her the truth. (What can this be which must not be uttered? What is going
on here?) Such were the parenthetic questions of the child, and the answer was:
Evidently this must be something to be concealed, perhaps something dangerous.
Attempts to make her talk and to draw out the truth by means of artful questions were
futile, so resistance is placed against resistance, and the introversion of love begins. It
is evident that the capacity for sublimation in a four-year-old child is still too slightly
developed to be capable of performing more than symptomatic services. The mind,
therefore, depends on another compensation, namely, it resorts to one of the
relinquished infantile devices for securing love by force, preferably that of crying and
calling the mother at night. This had been diligently practised and exhausted during her
first year. It now returns, and corresponding to the period of life has become well
determined and equipped with recent impressions. It was just after the earthquakes in
Messina, and this event was discussed at the table. Anna was extremely interested in
everything, she repeatedly asked her grandmother to tell her how the earth shook, how
the houses fell in and many people lost their lives. After this she had nocturnal fears,
she could not be alone, her mother had to go to her and stay with her; otherwise she
feared that an earthquake would happen, that the house would fall and kill her. During
the day, too, she was much occupied with such thoughts. While walking with her
mother she annoyed her with such questions as, "Will the house be standing when we

return home? Are you sure there is no earthquake at home? Will papa still be living?"
About every stone lying in the road she asked whether it was from an earthquake. A
building in course of erection was a house destroyed by the earthquake, etc. Finally, she
began to cry out frequently at night that the earthquake was coming and that she heard
the thunder. Each evening she had to be solemnly assured that there was no earthquake
coming.
Many means of calming her were tried, thus she was told, for example, that earthquakes
only occur where there are volcanoes. But then she had to be satisfied that the
mountains surrounding the city were not volcanoes. This reasoning led the child by
degrees to a desire for learning, as strong as it was unnatural at her age, which showed
itself in a demand that all the geological atlases and text-books should be brought to her
from her father's library. For hours she rummaged through these works looking for
pictures of volcanoes and earthquakes, and asking questions continually. Here we are
confronted by an energetic effort to sublimate the fear into an eager desire for
knowledge, which at this age made a decidedly premature exaction. But how many a
gifted child suffering in exactly the same way with such problems, is "cosseted"
through this untimely sublimation, by no means to its advantage. For, by favouring
sublimation at this age one is merely strengthening manifestation of neurosis. The root
of the eager desire for knowledge is fear, and fear is the expression of converted libido;
that is, it is the expression of an introversion which has become neurotic, which at this
age is neither necessary nor favourable for the development of the child.
Whither this eager desire for knowledge was ultimately directed is explained by a series
of questions which arose almost daily. "Why is Sophie (a younger sister) younger than
I?" "Where was Freddie (the little brother) before? Was he in heaven? What was he
doing there? Why did he come down just now, why not before?"
This state of affairs led the father to decide that the mother should tell the child when
occasion offered the truth concerning the origin of the little brother. This having been
done, Anna soon thereafter asked about the stork. Her mother told her that the story of
the stork was not true, but that Freddie grew inside his mother like the flowers in a
plant. At first he was very little, and then he became bigger and bigger as a plant does.
She listened attentively without the slightest surprise, and then asked, "But did he come
out all by himself?"

Mother: "Yes."
Anna: "But he cannot walk!"
Sophie: "Then he crawled out."

Anna, overhearing her little sister's answer: "Is there a hole here? (pointing to the
breast) or did he come out of the mouth? Who came out of the nurse?" She then
interrupted herself and exclaimed, "No, no, the stork brought baby brother down from

heaven." She soon left the subject and again wished to see pictures of volcanoes.
During the evening following this conversation she was calm. The sudden explanation
produced in the child a whole series of ideas, which manifested themselves in certain
questions. New unexpected perspectives were opened; she rapidly approached the main
problem, namely, the question, "Where did the baby come out?" Was it from a hole in
the breast or from the mouth? Both suppositions are entirely qualified to form
acceptable theories. We even meet with recently married women who still entertain the
theory of the hole in the abdominal wall or of the Cæsarean section; this is supposed to
betray a very unusual degree of innocence. But as a matter of fact it is not innocence;
we are always dealing in such cases with infantile sexual activities, which in later life
have brought the vias naturales into ill repute.
It may be asked where the child got the absurd idea that there is a hole in the breast, or
that the birth takes place through the mouth. Why did she not select one of the natural
openings existing in the pelvis from which things come out daily? The explanation is
simple. Very shortly before, our little one had invoked some educational criticism from
her mother by a heightened interest in both openings with their remarkable excretions,
—an interest not always in accord with the requirements of cleanliness and decorum.
Then for the first time she became acquainted with the exceptional laws relating to
these bodily regions and, being a sensitive child, she soon learned that there was
something here to be tabooed. This region, therefore, must not be referred to. Anna had
simply shown herself docile and had so adjusted herself to the cultural demands that
she thought (at least spoke) of the simplest things last. The incorrect theories
substituted for correct laws sometimes persist for years until brusque explanations
come from without. It is, therefore, no wonder that such theories, the forming of and
adherence to which are favoured even by parents and educationalists should later
become determinants for important symptoms in a neurosis, or of delusions in a
psychosis, just as I have shown that in dementia præcox[144] what has existed in the
mind for years always remains somewhere, though it may be hidden under
compensations of a seemingly different kind.
But even before this question was settled as to where the child really comes out a new
problem obtruded itself, viz. the children came out of the mother, but how is it with the
nurse? Did some one come out of her too? This question was followed by the remark,
"No, no, the stork brought down baby brother from heaven." What is there peculiar
about the fact that nobody came out of the nurse? We recall that Anna identified herself
with the nurse, and planned to become a nurse later, for she, too, would like to have a
child, and she could have one as well as the nurse. But now when it is known that the
little brother grew in mama, how is it now?
This disquieting question is averted by a quick return to the stork-angel theory which
has never been really believed and which after a few trials is at last definitely
abandoned. Two questions, however, remain in the air. The first reads as follows:
Where does the child come out? The second, a considerably more difficult one, reads:

How does it happen that mama has children while the nurse and the servants do not?
All these questions did not at first manifest themselves.
On the day following the explanation, while at dinner, Anna spontaneously remarked:
"My brother is in Italy, and has a house of cloth and glass, but it does not tumble
down."
In this case, as in the others, it was impossible to ask for an explanation; the resistances
were too great and Anna could not be drawn into conversation. This former officious
and pretty explanation is very significant. For some three months the two sisters had
been building a stereotyped fanciful conception of a "big brother." This brother knows
everything, he can do and has everything, he has been and is in every place where the
children are not; he is owner of great cows, oxen, horses, dogs; everything is his, etc.
Every one has such a "big brother." We must not look far for the origin of this fancy;
the model for it is the father who seems to correspond to this conception; he seems to
be like a brother to mama. The children, too, have their similar powerful "brother." This
brother is very brave; he is at present in dangerous Italy and inhabits an impossible
fragile house, and it does not tumble down. For the child this realises an important
wish: the earthquake is no longer to be dangerous; in consequence the child's fear
disappeared and did not return. The fear of earthquakes now entirely vanished. Instead
of calling her father to her bed to conjure away the fear, she now became very
affectionate and begged him every night to kiss her.
In order to test this new state of affairs the father showed her pictures illustrating
volcanoes and earthquake devastations. Anna remained unaffected, she examined the
pictures with indifference, remarking, "These people are dead; I have already seen that
quite often." The picture of a volcanic eruption no longer had any attraction for her.
Thus all her scientific interest collapsed and vanished as suddenly as it came. During
the days following the explanation Anna had quite important matters to occupy herself
with; she disseminated her newly acquired knowledge among those about her in the
following manner: She began by again circumstantially affirming what had been told
her, viz. that Freddy, her younger sister, and herself had grown in her mother, that papa
and mama grew in their mothers, and that the servants likewise grew in their respective
mothers. By frequent questions she tested the true basis of her knowledge, for her
suspicion was aroused in no small measure, so that it needed many confirmations to
remove all her uncertainties.
On one occasion the trustworthiness of the theory threatened to go to pieces. About a
week after the explanation, the father was taken ill with influenza and had to remain in
bed during the forenoon. The children knew nothing about this, and Anna, coming into
the parents' bedroom, saw what was quite unusual, namely, that her father was
remaining in bed. She again took on a peculiar surprised expression; she remained at a
distance from the bed and would not come nearer; she was apparently again reserved
and suspicious. But suddenly she burst out with the question, "Why are you in bed;
have you a plant in your inside too?"

The father naturally had to laugh. He calmed her, however, by assuring her that children
never grow in the father, that only women can have children, and not men; thereupon
the child again became friendly. But though the surface was calm the problems
continued to work in the dark. A few days later, while at dinner, Anna related the
following dream: "I dreamed last night of Noah's ark." The father then asked her what
she had dreamed about it, but Anna's answer was sheer nonsense. In such cases it is
necessary only to wait and pay attention. A few minutes later she said to her mother, "I
dreamed last night about Noah's ark, and there were a lot of little animals in it."
Another pause. She then began her story for the third time. "I dreamed last night about
Noah's ark, and there were a lot of baby animals in it, and underneath there was a lid
and that opened and all the baby animals fell out."
The children really had a Noah's ark, but its opening, a lid, was on the roof and not
underneath. In this way she delicately intimated that the story of the birth from mouth
or breast is incorrect, and that she had some inkling where the children came out.
A few weeks then passed without any noteworthy occurrences. On one occasion she
related the following dream: "I dreamed about papa and mama; they had been sitting
late in the study, and we children were there too." On the face of this we find a wish of
the children to be allowed to sit up as long as the parents. This wish is here realised, or
rather it is utilised to express a more important wish, namely, to be present in the
evening when the parents are alone; of course, quite innocently, it was in the study
where she has seen all the interesting books, and where she has satiated her thirst for
knowledge; i.e. she was really seeking an answer to the burning question, whence the
little brother came. If the children were there they would find out.[145] A few days later
Anna had a terrifying dream from which she awoke crying, "The earthquake is coming,
the house has begun to shake." Her mother went to her and calmed her by saying that
the earthquake was not coming, that everything was quiet, and that everybody was
asleep. Whereupon Anna said: "I would like to see the spring, when all the little flowers
are coming out and the whole lawn is full of flowers; I would like to see Freddy, he has
such a dear little face. What is papa doing? What is he saying?" The mother said, "He
is asleep, and isn't saying anything now." Little Anna then remarked with a sarcastic
smile: "He will surely be sick again to-morrow."
This text should be read backwards. The last sentence was not meant seriously, as it
was uttered in a mocking tone. When the father was sick the last time, Anna suspected
that he had a "plant in his inside." The sarcasm signifies: "To-morrow papa is surely
going to have a child." But this also is not meant seriously. Papa is not going to have a
child; mama alone has children; perhaps she will have another child to-morrow; but
where from? "What does papa do?" The formulation of the difficult problem seems
here to come to the surface. It reads: What does papa really do if he does not bear
children? The little one is very anxious to have a solution for all these problems; she
would like to know how Freddy came into the world, she would like to see how the

little flowers come out of the earth in the spring, and these wishes are hidden behind the
fear of earthquakes.
After this intermezzo Anna slept quietly until morning. In the morning her mother
asked her what she had dreamed. She did not at first recall anything, and then said: "I
dreamed that I could make the summer, and then some one threw a Punch[146] down
into the closet."
This peculiar dream apparently has two different scenes which are separated by "then."
The second part draws its material from the recent wish to possess a Punch, that is, to
have a boy doll just as mama has a little boy. Some one threw Punch down into the
closet; one often lets other things fall down into the water closet. It is just like this that
the children, too, come out. We have here an analogy to the "Lumpf-theory" of little
Hans.[147] Whenever several scenes are found in one dream, each scene ordinarily
represents a particular variation of the complex elaboration. Here accordingly the first
part is only a variation of the theme found in the second part. The meaning of "to see
the spring" or "to see the little flowers come out" we have already remarked. Anna now
dreams that she can make the summer, that is she can bring it about that the little
flowers shall come out. She herself can make a little child, and the second part of the
dream represents this just as one makes a motion in the w.c. Here we find the egoistic
wish which is behind the seemingly objective interest of the previous night's
conversation.
A few days later the mother was visited by a lady who expected soon to become a
mother. The children seemed to take no interest in the matter, but the next day they
amused themselves with the following play which was directed by the elder girl; they
took all the newspapers they could find in their father's paper-basket and stuffed them
under their clothes, so that the imitation was unmistakable. During the night little Anna
had another dream: "I dreamed about a woman in the city; she had a very big stomach."
The chief actor in a dream is always the dreamer himself under some definite aspect;
thus the childish play of the day before is fully solved.
Not long after, Anna surprised her mother with the following performance: She stuck
her doll under her clothes, then pulled it out slowly head downwards, and at the same
time remarked, "Look, the baby is coming out, now it is all out." By this means Anna
tells her mother, "You see, thus I apprehend the problem of birth. What do you think of
it? Is that right?" The play is really meant to be a question, for, as we shall see later, this
idea had to be officially confirmed. That rumination on this problem by no means
ended here, is shown by the occasional ideas conceived during the following weeks.
Thus she repeated the same play a few days later with her Teddy Bear, who stands in
the relation of an especially beloved doll. One day, looking at a rose, she said to her
grandmother, "See, the rose is getting a baby." As her grandmother did not quite
understand her, she pointed to the enlarged calyx and said, "Don't you see it is quite fat
here?"

Anna once quarrelled with her younger sister, and the latter exclaimed angrily, "I will
kill you." Whereupon Anna answered, "When I am dead you will be all alone; then you
will have to pray to God for a live baby." But the scene soon changed: Anna was the
angel, and the younger sister was forced to kneel before her and pray to her that she
should present to her a living child. In this way Anna became the child-dispensing
mother.
Oranges were once served at table. Anna impatiently asked for one and said, "I am
going to take an orange and swallow it all down into my stomach, and then I shall get a
baby." Who does not think here of fairy tales in which childless women become
pregnant by swallowing fruit, fish, and similar things?[148] In this way Anna sought to
solve the problem how the children actually come into the mother. She thus enters into
a formulation which hitherto had not been defined with so much clearness. The solution
follows in the form of an analogy, which is quite characteristic of the archaic thinking
of the child. (In the adult, too, there is a kind of thinking by metaphor which belongs to
the stratum lying immediately below consciousness; dreams bring the analogies to the
surface; the same may be observed also in dementia præcox.) In German as well as in
numerous foreign fairy tales one frequently finds such characteristic childish
comparisons. Fairy tales seem to be the myths of the child, and therefore contain among
other things the mythology which the child weaves concerning the sexual processes.
The spell of the fairy tale poetry, which is felt even by the adult, is explained by the fact
that some of the old theories are still alive in our unconscious minds. We experience a
strange, peculiar and familiar feeling when a conception of our remotest youth is again
stimulated. Without becoming conscious it merely sends into consciousness a feeble
copy of its original emotional strength.
The problem how the child gets into the mother was difficult to solve. As the only way
of taking things into the body is through the mouth, it could evidently be assumed that
the mother ate something like a fruit, which then grows inside her. But then comes
another difficulty, namely, it is clear enough what the mother produces, but it is not yet
clear what the father is good for.
What does the father do? Anna now occupied herself exclusively with this question.
One morning she ran into the parents' bedroom while they were dressing, she jumped
into her father's bed, lay face downwards, kicked with her legs and called at the same
time, "Look! does papa do that?" The analogy to the horse of "little Hans" which raised
such disturbance with its legs, is very surprising.
With this last performance the problem seemed to be at rest entirely, at least the parents
found no opportunity to make any pertinent observations. That the problem should
come to a standstill just here is not at all surprising, for this is really its most difficult
part. Moreover, we know from experience that not many children go beyond these
limits during the period of childhood. The problem is almost too difficult for the
childish mind, which still lacks much knowledge necessary to its solution.

This standstill lasted about five months, during which no phobias or other signs of
complex-elaboration appeared. After this lapse of time there appeared premonitory
signs of some new incidents. Anna's family lived at that time in the country near a lake
where the mother and children could bathe. As Anna was afraid to wade farther into the
water than knee-deep, her father once put her into the water, which led to an outburst of
crying. In the evening while going to bed Anna asked her mother, "Do you not believe
that father wanted to drown me?" A few days later there was another outburst of crying.
She continued to stand in the gardener's way until he finally placed her in a newly dug
hole. Anna cried bitterly, and afterwards maintained that the gardener wished to bury
her. Finally she awoke during the night with fearful crying. Her mother went to her in
the adjoining room and quieted her. She had dreamed that "a train passed and then fell
in a heap."
This tallies with the "stage coach" of "little Hans." These incidents showed clearly
enough that fear was again in the air, i.e. that a resistance had again arisen preventing
transference to the parents, and that therefore a great part of her love was converted into
fear. This time suspicion was not directed against the mother, but against the father,
who she was sure must know the secret, but would never let anything out. What could
the father be doing or keeping secret? To the child this secret appeared as something
dangerous, so that she felt the worst might be expected from the father. (This feeling of
childish anxiety with the father as object we see again most distinctly in adults,
especially in dementia præcox, which lifts the veil of obscurity from many unconscious
processes, as though it were following psychoanalytic principles.) It was for this reason
that Anna came to the apparently absurd conclusion that her father wanted to drown
her. At the same time her fear contained the thought that the object of the father had
some relation to a dangerous action. This stream of thought is no arbitrary
interpretation. Anna meanwhile grew a little older and her interest in her father took on
a special colouring which is hard to describe. Language has no words to describe the
quite unique kind of tender curiosity which shone in the child's eyes.
Anna once took marked delight in assisting the gardener while he was sowing grass,
without apparently divulging the profound significance of her play. About a fortnight
later she began to observe with great pleasure the young grass sprouting. On one of
these occasions she asked her mother the following question: "Tell me, how did the
eyes grow into the head?" The mother told her that she did not know. Anna, however,
continued to ask whether God or her papa could tell this? The mother then referred her
to her father, who might tell her how the eyes grew into the head. A few days later there
was a family reunion at tea. When the guests had departed, the father remained at the
table reading the paper and Anna also remained. Suddenly approaching her father she
said, "Tell me, how did the eyes grow into the head?"
Father: "They did not grow into the head; they were there from the beginning and grew
with the head."
A.: "Were not the eyes planted?"

F.: "No, they grew in the head like the nose."
A.: "Did the mouth and the ears grow in the same way? and the hair, too?"
F.: "Yes, they all grew in the same way."
A.: "And the hair, too? But the mousies came into the world naked. Where was the hair
before? Aren't there little seeds for it?"
F.: "No; you see, the hair really came out of little grains which are like seeds, but these
were already in the skin long before and nobody sowed them." The father was now
getting concerned; he knew whither the little one's thoughts were directed, but he did
not wish to overthrow, for the sake of a former false application, the opportunely
established seed-theory which she had most fortunately gathered from nature; but the
child spoke with an unwonted seriousness which demanded consideration.
Anna (evidently disappointed, and in a distressed tone): "But how did Freddy get into
mama? Who stuck him in? and who stuck you into your mama? Where did he come out
from?"
From this sudden storm of questions the father chose the last for his first answer. "Just
think, you know well enough that Freddy is a boy; boys become men and girls women.
Only women and not men can have children; now just think, where could Freddy come
out from?"
A. (Laughs joyfully and points to her genitals): "Did he come out here?"
Father: "Yes, of course, you certainly must have thought of this before?"
A. (Overlooking the question): "But how did Freddy get into mama? Did anybody plant
him? Was the seed planted?"
This very precise question could no longer be evaded by the father. He explained to the
child, who listened with the greatest attention, that the mother is like the soil and the
father like the gardener; that the father provides the seed which grows in the mother,
and thus gives origin to a baby. This answer gave extraordinary satisfaction; she
immediately ran to her mother and said, "Papa has told me everything, now I know it
all." She did not, however, tell what she knew.
The new knowledge was, however, put into play the following day. Anna went to her
mother and said, "Think, mama, papa told me how Freddy was a little angel and was
brought from heaven by a stork." The mother was naturally surprised and said, "No,
you are mistaken, papa surely never told you such a thing!" whereupon the little one
laughed and ran away.
This was apparently a mode of revenge. Her mother did not wish or was not able to tell
her how the eyes grew into the head, hence she did not know how Freddy got into her.
It was for this reason that she again tried her with the old story.

I wish to impress firmly upon parents and educationists this instructive example of
child psychology. In the learned psychological discussions on the child's psyche we
hear nothing about those parts which are so important for the health and naturalness of
our children, nor do we hear more about the child's emotions and conflicts; and yet they
play a most important rôle.
It very often happens that children are erroneously treated as quite imprudent and
irrational beings. Thus on indulgently remarking to an intelligent father, whose four-
year-old daughter masturbated excessively, that care should be exercised in the
presence of the child who slept in the same room as the parents, I received the
indignant reply, "I can absolutely assure you that the child knows nothing about sexual
matters." This recalls that distinguished old neurologist who wished to deny the
attribute "sexual" to a childbirth phantasy which was represented in a dreamy state.
On the other hand, a child evincing neurotic talent exaggerated by neurosis may be
urged on by solicitous parents. How easy and tempting it would have been, e.g. in the
present case, to admire, excite, and develop prematurely the child's eager desire for
learning, and thereby develop an unnatural blasé state and a precociousness masking a
neurosis! In such cases the parents must look after their own complexes and complex
tendencies and not make capital out of them at the expense of the child. The idea should
be dismissed once for all that children are to be held in bondage by their parents or that
they are their toys. They are characteristic and new beings. In the matter of
enlightenment on sexual things it can be affirmed that they suffer from the
preconceived opinion that the truth is harmful. Many neurologists are of opinion that
even in grown-ups enlightenment on their own psychosexual processes is harmful and
even immoral. Would not the same persons perhaps refuse to admit the existence of the
genitals themselves?
One should not, however, go from this extreme of prudishness to the opposite one,
namely that of enlightenment à tout prix, which may turn out as foolish as it is
disagreeable. In this matter I believe much discretion is advisable; still if children come
upon an idea, they should be deceived no more than adults.
I hope, ladies and gentlemen, that I have shown you what complicated psychic
processes psychoanalytic investigation reveals in the child, and how great is the
significance of these processes for the mental health as well as for the general psychic
development of the child. What I have been unable to show is the universal validity of
these observations. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to demonstrate this, for I do
not know myself how much of it is universally valid. Only by accumulation of such
observations and further penetration into the problems broached shall we gain a
complete insight into the laws of psychical development. It is to be regretted that we are
at present still far from this goal. But I confidently hope that educators and practical
psychologists, whether physicians or deep-thinking parents, will not leave us too long
unassisted in this immensely important and interesting field.

Literature.
1. Freud. "Die Traumdeutung," II Auflage. Deuticke, Wien, 1909.
2. —— ——. "Sammlung kleiner Schriften zur Neurosenlehre," Band I & II.
Deuticke, Wien.
3. —— ——. "Analyse der Phobie eines 5 jahrigen Knaben," Jahrbuch für
Psychoanalytische u. Psychopathologische Forschungen, Band I. Deuticke, Wien,
1908.
4. Freud. "Der Inhalt der Psychose," Freud's Shriften zur angewandten
Seelenkunde. Deuticke, 1908.
5. Jung. "Diagnostische Associationsstudien," Band I. Barth, Leipzig, 1906.
6. —— ——. "Die Psychologische Diagnose des Thatbestandes." Carl Marhold,
Halle, 1906.

7. Jung. "Die Bedeutung des Vaters für das Schicksal des Einzelnen." Deuticke,
Wien, 1908.
8. Jung. "The Psychology of Dementia Præcox," translated by Peterson and Brill,
Journal of Mental and Nervous Diseases, Monograph Series, No. 2.
9. Fürst. "Statistische Untersuchungen über Wortassoziationen und über familiäre
Übereinstimmung im Reactionstypus bei Ungebildeten," X. Beitrag der Diagnost.
Assoc. Studien, vol. II.
10. Brill. "Psychological Factors in Dementia Præcox," Journal of Abnormal
Psychology, vol. III., No. 4.
11. —— ——. "A case of Schizophrenia," American Journal of Insanity, vol.
LXVI., No. 1.
12. "Le Nuove Vedute della Psicologia Criminale," Rivista de Psicologia
Applicata, 1908, No. 4.
13. "L'Analyse des Rêves," Année Psychologique, 1909, Tome XV.
14. "Associations d'idées Familiales," Archives de Psychologie, T. VII., No. 26.

CHAPTER III
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE FATHER IN THE DESTINY OF THE
INDIVIDUAL[149]
Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt.
Freud has pointed out in many places[150] with unmistakable clearness that the
psychosexual relationship of the child towards his parents, particularly towards the
father, possesses an overwhelming importance in the content of any later neurosis. This
relationship is in fact the infantile channel par excellence in which the libido flows
back[151] when it encounters any obstacles in later years, thus revivifying long-forgotten
dreams of childhood. It is ever so in life when we draw back before too great an
obstacle—the menace of some severe disappointment or the risk of some too far-
reaching decision—the energy stored up for the solution of the task flows back
impotent; the by-streams once relinquished as inadequate are again filled up. He who
has missed the happiness of woman's love falls back, as a substitute, upon some
gushing friendship, upon masturbation, upon religiosity; should he be a neurotic he
plunges still further back into the conditions of childhood which have never been quite
forsaken, to which even the normal is fettered by more than one link—he returns to the
relationship to father and mother. Every psychoanalysis carried out at all thoroughly
shows this regression more or less plainly. One peculiarity which stands out in the
works and views of Freud is that the relationship to the father is seen to possess an
overwhelming importance. This importance of the father in the moulding of the child's
psycho-sexuality may also be discovered in a quite other and remote field, in the
investigation of the family.[152] The most recent thorough investigations demonstrate
the predominating influence of the father often lasting for centuries. The mother seems
of less importance in the family.[153] If this is true for heredity on the physical side how
much more should we expect from the psychological influences emanating from the
father? These experiences, and those gained more particularly in an analysis carried out
conjointly with Dr. Otto Gross, have impressed upon me the soundness of this view.
The problem has been considerably advanced and deepened by the investigations of my
pupil, Dr. Emma Fürst, into familial resemblances in the reaction-type.[154] Fürst made
association experiments on one hundred persons belonging to twenty-four families. Of
this extensive material, only the results in nine families and thirty-seven persons (all
uneducated) have been worked out and published. But the painstaking calculations do
already permit some valuable conclusions. The associations are classified on the
Kræpelin-aschaffenburg scheme as simplified and modified by myself; the difference
is then calculated between each group of qualities of the subjects experimented upon

and the corresponding group of every other subject experimented upon. Thus we finally
get the differentiation of the mean in reaction-type. The following is the result:—

Non-related men differ among themselves by 5·9.
Non-related women differ among themselves by 6·0.
Related men differ among themselves by 4·1.
Related women differ among themselves by 3·8.

Relatives, and especially related women, have therefore, on the average, resemblance in
reaction-type. This fact means that the psychological adaptation of relatives differs but
slightly.
An investigation into the various relationships gave the following:—
The mean difference of the husband and wife amounts to 4·7. The mean deviation of
this mean is, however, 3·7, a very high figure, which signifies that the mean figure 4·7
is composed of very heterogeneous figures; there are married couples in whom the
reaction type is very close and others in whom it is very slight. On the whole, however,
father and son, mother and daughter stand remarkably close.
The difference between father and son amounts to 3·1.
The difference between mother and daughter amounts to 3·0.
With the exception of a few cases of married couples (where the difference fell to 1·4)
these are the lowest differences. In Fürst's work there was a case where the difference
between the forty-five year old mother and her sixteen year old daughter was only 0·5.
But it was just in this case that the mother and daughter differed from the father's type
by 11·8. The father is a coarse, stupid man, an alcoholic; the mother goes in for
Christian Science. This corresponds with the fact that mother and daughter exhibit an
extreme word-predicate type,[155] which is, in my experience, important semeiotically
for the diagnosis of insufficiency in the sexual object. The word-predicate type
transparently applies an excessive amount of emotion externally and displays emotions
with the unconscious, but nevertheless obvious, endeavour to awaken echoing emotions
in the experimenter. This view closely corresponds with the fact that in Fürst's material
the number of word-predicates increases with the age of the subjects experimented
upon.
The fact of the extreme similarity between the reaction-type of the offspring and the
parents is matter for thought. The association experiment is nothing but a small section
from the psychological life of a man. At bottom daily life is nothing but an extensive
and many-varied association experiment; in essence we react in life just as we do in the
experiments. Although this truth is evident, still it requires a certain consideration and
limitation. Let us take as an instance the case of the unhappy mother of forty-five years
and her unmarried daughter of sixteen. The extreme word-predicate type of the mother
is, without doubt, the precipitate of a whole life of disappointed hopes and wishes. One

is not in the least surprised at the word-predicate type here. But the daughter of sixteen
has really not yet lived at all; her real sexual object has not yet been found, and yet she
reacts as if she were her mother with endless disillusions behind her. She has the
mother's adaptation, and in so far she is identified with the mother. There is ample
evidence that the mother's adaptation must be attributed to her relationship to the father.
But the daughter is not married to the father and therefore does not need this adaptation.
She has taken it over from the influence of her milieu, and later on will try to adapt
herself to the world with this familial disharmony. In so far as an ill-assorted marriage
is unsuitable, the adaptation resulting from it is unsuitable.
Clearly such a fate has many possibilities. To adapt herself to life, this girl either will
have to surmount the obstacles of her familial milieu, or, unable to free herself from
them, she will succumb to the fate to which such an adaptation predisposes her. Deep
within, unnoticed by any one, there may go on a glossing over of the infantile
disharmony, or a development of the negative of the parents' character, accompanied by
hindrances and conflicts to which she herself has no clue. Or, growing up, she will
come into painful conflict with that world of actualities to which she is so ill-adapted
till one stroke of fate after another gradually opens her eyes to the fact that it is herself,
infantile and maladjusted, that is amiss. The source of infantile adaptation to the parents
is naturally the affective condition on both sides; the psycho-sexuality of the parents on
one side and that of the child on the other. It is a kind of psychical infection; we know
that it is not logical truth, but affects and their psychical expressions[156] which are here
the effective forces. It is these that, with the power of the herd-instinct, press into the
mind of the child, there fashioning and moulding it. In the plastic years between one
and five there have to be worked out all the essential formative lines which fit exactly
into the parental mould. Psychoanalytic experience teaches us that, as a rule, the first
signs of the later conflict between the parental constellation and individual
independence, of the struggle between repression and libido (Freud), occur before the
fifth year.
The few following histories will show how this parental constellation obstructs the
adaptation of the offspring. It must suffice to present only the chief events of these, that
is the events of sexuality.
Case 1.—A well-preserved woman of 55; dressed poorly but carefully in black with a
certain elegance, the hair carefully dressed; a polite, obviously affected manner, precise
in speech, a devotee. The patient might be the wife of a minor official or shopkeeper.
She informs me, blushing and dropping her eyes, that she is the divorced wife of a
common peasant. She has come to the hospital on account of depression, night terrors,
palpitations, slight nervous twitchings in the arms, thus presenting the typical features
of a slight climacteric neurosis. To complete the picture, she adds that she suffers from
severe anxiety-dreams; in her dreams some man seems to be pursuing her, wild animals
attack her, and so on.

Her anamnesis begins with the family history. (So far as possible I give her own
words.) Her father was a fine, stately, rather corpulent man of imposing appearance. He
was very happy in his marriage, for her mother worshipped him. He was a clever man,
a master-mechanic, and held a dignified and honourable position. There were only two
children, the patient and an elder sister. The sister was the mother's, and the patient her
father's favourite. When the patient was five years old the father died suddenly from a
stroke, at the age of forty-two. The patient felt herself very isolated and was from that
time treated by the mother and the elder sister as the Cinderella. She noticed clearly
enough that her mother preferred her sister to herself. Her mother remained a widow,
her respect for her husband being too great to allow her to marry a second time. She
preserved his memory "like a religious cult" and brought up her children in this way.
Later on the sister married, relatively young; the patient did not marry till twenty-four.
She never cared for young men, they all seemed insipid; her mind turned always to
more mature men. When about twenty she became acquainted with a stately gentleman
rather over forty, to whom she was much drawn. For various reasons the friendship was
broken off. At twenty-four she became acquainted with a widower who had two
children. He was a fine, stately, somewhat corpulent man, and had an imposing
presence, like her father; he was forty-four. She married him and respected him
enormously. The marriage was childless; the children by the first marriage died from an
infectious disease. After four years of married life her husband also died. For eighteen
years she remained his faithful widow. But at forty-six (just before the menopause) she
experienced a great need of love. As she had no acquaintances she went to a
matrimonial agency and married the first comer, a peasant of some sixty years who had
been already twice divorced on account of brutality and perverseness; the patient knew
this before marriage. She remained five unbearable years with him, when she also
obtained a divorce. The neurosis set in a little later.
No further discussion will be required for those with psychoanalytic experience; the
case is too obvious. For those unversed in psychoanalysis let me point out that up to her
forty-sixth year the patient did but reproduce most faithfully the milieu of her earliest
youth. The sexuality which announced itself so late and so drastically, even here only
led to a deteriorated edition of the father-surrogate; to this she is brought by this late-
blossoming sexuality. Despite repression, the neurosis betrays the ever-fluctuating
eroticism of the aging woman who still wants to please (affectation) but dares not
acknowledge her sexuality.
Case 2.—A man of thirty-four of small build and with a sensible, kindly expression. He
is easily embarrassed, blushes often. He came for treatment on account of
"nervousness." He says he is very irritable, readily fatigued, has nervous indigestion, is
often deeply depressed so that he has thought of suicide.
Before coming to me for treatment he sent me a circumstantial autobiography, or rather
a history of his illness, in order to prepare me for his visit. His story began: "My father
was a very big and strong man." This sentence awakened my curiosity; I turned over a

page and there read: "When I was fifteen a big lad of nineteen took me into the wood
and indecently assaulted me."
The numerous gaps in the patient's story induced me to obtain a more exact anamnesis
from him, which produced the following remarkable facts.
The patient is the youngest of three brothers. His father, a big, red-haired man, was
formerly a soldier in the Papal Swiss Guard, and then became a policeman. He was a
strict, gruff old soldier, who brought up his sons with military precision; he commanded
them, did not call them by name, but whistled to them. He had spent his youth in Rome,
where he acquired syphilis, from the consequences of which he still suffered in old age.
He was fond of talking about his adventures in early life. His eldest son (considerably
older than the patient) was exactly like him, he was big, strong and had reddish hair.
The mother was a feeble woman, prematurely aged; exhausted and tired of life, she
died at forty when the patient was eight years old. He preserved a tender and beautiful
memory of his mother.
When he went to school he was always the whipping-boy and always the object of his
schoolfellows' mockery. The patient considers that his peculiar dialect was to blame for
this. Later he was apprenticed to a severe and unkind master, under most trying
conditions, from which all the other apprentices had run away, finding them intolerable.
Here he held out for over two years. At fifteen the assault already mentioned took
place, in addition to some other slighter homosexual experiences. Then fate sent him to
France. There he made the acquaintance of a man from the South of France, a great
boaster and Don Juan. He dragged the patient into a brothel; he went unwilling and out
of fear. He was impotent there. Later he went to Paris, where his brother, a master-
mason, the replica of his father, was leading a dissolute life. There the patient remained
a long time, badly paid and helping his sister-in-law out of pity. The brother often took
him along to a brothel, where the patient was always impotent. Here the brother asked
him to make over to him his inheritance, 6000 francs. He first consulted his second
brother, who was also in Paris, who urgently tried to dissuade him from giving the
money to his brother, because it would only be squandered. Nevertheless the patient
gave his all to his brother, who indeed soon squandered it. And the second brother, who
would have dissuaded him, was also let in for 500 francs. To my astonished question
why he had so light-heartedly given the money to his brother without any guarantee, he
replied: he had asked for it, he was not a bit sorry about the money; he would give him
another 6000 francs if he had it. The eldest brother came to grief altogether and his wife
divorced him. The patient returned to Switzerland and remained for a year without
regular employment, often suffering from hunger. During this time he made the
acquaintance of a family where he became a frequent visitor. The husband belonged to
some peculiar sect; he was a hypocrite and neglected his family. The wife was elderly,
ill and weak, and moreover pregnant. There were six children and great poverty. The
patient developed warm affection for this woman and divided with her the little he
possessed. She brought him her troubles, and said she felt sure she would die in

childbed. Then he promised her (he who possessed nothing) to take charge of the
children himself and bring them up. The wife did die in childbed. The orphanage-board
interfered, however, and allowed him only one child. So he had a child but no family,
and naturally could not bring it up by himself. He thus came to think of marrying. But
as he had never been in love with any woman he was in great perplexity. It then
occurred to him that his elder brother was divorced from his wife, and he resolved to
marry her. He wrote his intention to her in Paris. She was seventeen years older than he,
but not disinclined to the plan. She invited him to come to Paris to talk matters over. On
the eve of this journey fate, however, willed that he should run a big iron nail into his
foot so that he could not travel. After a little while, when the wound was healed, he
went to Paris, and found that he had imagined his sister-in-law, and now his fiancée, to
be younger and prettier than she really was. The wedding took place, and three months
later the first coitus, at his wife's initiative. He himself had no desire for it. They
brought up the child together, he in the Swiss and she in the French way, for she was a
French woman. At the age of nine the child was run over and killed by a cyclist. The
patient then felt very lonely and dismal at home. He proposed to his wife that she
should adopt a young girl, whereupon she broke out into a fury of jealousy. Then for
the first time he fell in love with a young girl, whilst at the same time the neurosis
started, with deep depression and nervous exhaustion, for meanwhile his life at home
had become a hell.
My proposition to separate from his wife was refused out of hand, because he could not
take upon himself to make the old woman unhappy on his account. He clearly prefers to
be tormented still further; for it would seem that the recollection of his youth is more
precious to him than any present joys.
In this case also the whole movement of a life takes place in the magic circle of the
familial constellation. The relation to the father is the strongest and most momentous
issue; its masochistic homosexual colouring stands out clearly everywhere. Even the
unhappy marriage is determined in every way through the father, for the patient marries
the divorced wife of his eldest brother, which is as if he married his mother. His wife is
also the representative of the mother-surrogate, of the friend who died in childbed.
The neurosis started at the moment when the libido had obviously withdrawn from this
relationship of infantile constellation, and approached, for the first time, the sexual end
determined by the individual. In this, as in the previous case, the familial constellation
proves to be by far the stronger; the narrow field vouchsafed by a neurosis is all that
remains for the display of individuality.
Case 3.—A thirty-six year old peasant woman, of average intelligence, healthy
appearance and robust build, mother of three healthy children. Comfortable family
circumstances. Patient comes to the hospital for treatment for the following reasons: for
some weeks she has been terribly wretched and anxious, has been sleeping badly, has
terrifying dreams, and suffers also during the day from anxiety and depression. All
these things are admittedly without foundation, she herself is surprised at them, and

must admit her husband is perfectly right when he insists they are all "stuff and
nonsense." All the same she cannot get away from them. Strange ideas come to her too;
she is going to die and is going to hell. She gets on very well with her husband.
The psychoanalytic examination of the case immediately brought the following: some
weeks before, she happened to take up some religious tracts which had long lain about
the house unread. There she read that swearers would go to hell. She took this very
much to heart, and has since thought it incumbent on her to prevent people swearing or
she herself will go to hell. About a fortnight before she read these tracts, her father, who
lived with her, suddenly died from a stroke. She was not actually present at his death,
but arrived when he was already dead. Her terror and grief were very great.
In the days following the death she thought much about it all, wondering why her father
had to meet his end so abruptly. In the midst of such meditations it suddenly occurred to
her that the last words she had heard her father say were: "I also am one of those who
have fallen from the cart into the devil's clutches." The remembrance filled her with
grief, and she recalled how often her father had sworn savagely. She wondered then
whether there really were a life after death, and whether her father were in heaven or
hell. During these musings she came across the tracts and began to read them, getting to
the place where it said that swearers go to hell. Then came upon her great fear and
terror; she overwhelmed herself with reproaches, she ought to have stopped her father's
swearing, deserved punishment for her neglect. She would die and would be
condemned to hell. Henceforth she was full of sorrow, moody, tormented her husband
with this obsessive idea, and renounced all joy and happiness.
The patient's life-history (reproduced partly in her own words) is as follows:—
She is the youngest of five brothers and sisters and was always her father's favourite.
The father gave her everything she wanted if he possibly could. For instance, if she
wanted a new dress and her mother refused it, she could be sure her father would bring
her one next time he went to town. The mother died rather early. At twenty-four the
patient married the man of her choice, against her father's wishes. The father simply
disapproved of her choice although he had nothing particular against the man. After the
wedding she made her father come and live with them. That seemed a matter of course,
she said, since the other relations had never suggested having him with them. The
father was a quarrelsome swearer and drunkard. Husband and father-in-law, as may
easily be imagined, got on extremely badly together. The patient would always meekly
fetch her father spirits from the inn, although this gave rise perpetually to anger and
altercations. But she finds her husband "all right." He is a good, patient fellow with
only one failing: he does not obey her father enough; she finds that incomprehensible,
and would rather have her husband knuckle under to her father. All said and done,
father is still father. In the frequent quarrels she always took her father's part. But she
has nothing to say against her husband and he is usually right in his protests, but one
must help one's father.

Soon it began to seem to her that she had sinned against her father by marrying against
his will, and she often felt, after one of these incessant wrangles, that her love for her
husband had quite vanished. And since her father's death it is impossible to love her
husband any longer, for his disobedience was the most frequent occasion of her father's
fits of raging and swearing. At one time the quarrelling became too painful for the
husband, and he induced his wife to find rooms for her father elsewhere, where he lived
for two years. During this time husband and wife lived together peaceably and happily.
But by degrees the patient began to reproach herself for letting her father live alone; in
spite of everything he was her father. And in the end, despite the husband's protests, she
fetched him home again because, as she said, in truth she did love her father better than
her husband. Scarcely was the old man back in the house before strife was renewed.
And so it went on till the father's sudden death.
After this recital she broke out into a whole series of lamentations: she must separate
from her husband: she would have done it long ago if it were not for the children. She
had indeed done an ill-deed, committed a very great sin when she married her husband
against her father's wish. She ought to have taken the man whom her father had wanted
her to have. He certainly would have obeyed her father and then everything would have
been right. Oh, her husband was not by a long way so kind as her father, she could do
anything with her father, but not with her husband. Her father had given her everything
she wanted. Now she would best of all like to die, so that she might be with her father.
When this outburst was over, I inquired eagerly on what grounds she had refused the
husband her father had suggested to her.
The father, a small peasant on a lean little farm, had taken as a servant, just at the time
when his youngest daughter came into the world, a miserable little boy, a foundling.
The boy developed in most unpleasant fashion: he was so stupid that he could not learn
to read or write or even speak quite properly. He was an absolute idiot. As he
approached manhood there developed on his neck a series of ulcers, some of which
opened and continually discharged pus, giving such a dirty, ugly creature a horrible
appearance. His intelligence did not grow with his years, so he stayed on as servant in
the peasant's house without any recognised wage.
To this youth the father wanted to marry his favourite daughter.
The girl, fortunately, had not been disposed to yield, but now she regretted it, since this
idiot would unquestionably have been more obedient to her father than her good man
had been.
Here, as in the foregoing case, it must be clearly understood that the patient is not at all
weak-minded. Both possess normal intelligence, which unfortunately the blinkers of the
infantile constellation prevent their using. That appears with quite remarkable clearness
in this patient's life-story. The father's authority is never questioned! It makes not the
least difference that he is a quarrelsome drunkard, the obvious cause of all the quarrels
and disturbances; on the contrary, the lawful husband must give way to the bogey, and

at last our patient even comes to regret that her father did not succeed in completely
destroying her life's happiness. So now she sets about doing that herself through her
neurosis, which compels in her the wish to die, that she may go to hell, whither, be it
noted, the father has already betaken himself.
If we are ever disposed to see some demonic power at work controlling mortal destiny,
surely we can see it here in these melancholy silent tragedies working themselves out
slowly, torturingly, in the sick souls of our neurotics. Some, step by step, continually
struggling against the unseen powers, do free themselves from the clutches of the
demon who forces his unsuspecting victims from one savage mischance to another:
others rise up and win to freedom, only to be dragged back later to the old paths, caught
in the noose of the neurosis. You cannot even maintain that these unhappy people are
neurotic or "degenerates." If we normal people examine our lives from the
psychoanalytic standpoint, we too perceive how a mighty hand guides us insensibly to
our destiny and not always is this hand a kindly one.[157] We often call it the hand of
God or of the Devil, for the power of the infantile constellation has become mighty
during the course of the centuries in affording support and proof to all the religions.
But all this does not go so far as to say that we must cast the blame of inherited sins
upon our parents. A sensitive child whose intuition is only too quick in reflecting in his
own soul all the excesses of his parents must lay the blame for his fate on his own
characteristics. But, as our last case shows, this is not always so, for the parents can
(and unfortunately only too often do) fortify the evil in the child's soul, preying upon
the child's ignorance to make him the slave of their complexes. In our case this attempt
on the part of the father is quite obvious. It is perfectly clear why he wanted to marry
his daughter to this brutish creature: he wanted to keep her and make her his slave for
ever. What he did is but a crass exaggeration of what is done by thousands of so-called
respectable, educated people, who have their own share in this educational dust-heap of
enforced discipline. The fathers who allow their children no independent possession of
their own emotions, who fondle their daughters with ill-concealed eroticism and
tyrannical passion, who keep their sons in leading-strings, force them into callings and
finally marry them off "suitably," and the mothers who even in the cradle excite their
children with unhealthy tenderness, later on make them into slavish puppets, and then
at last, out of jealousy, destroy their children's love-life fundamentally, they all act not
otherwise than this stupid and brutal boor.
It will be asked, wherein lies the parents' magic power to bind their children to
themselves, as with iron fetters, often for the whole of their lives? The psychoanalyst
knows that it is nothing but the sexuality on both sides.
We are always trying not to admit the child's sexuality. That view only comes from
wilful ignorance, which happens to be very prevalent again just now.[158]
I have not given any real analysis of these cases. We therefore do not know what
happened within the hearts of these puppets of fate when they were children. A

profound insight into a child's mind as it grows and lives, hitherto unattainable, is given
in Freud's contribution to the first half-yearly volume of Jahrbuch für
Psychoanalytische u. Psychopathologische Forschungen. If I venture, after Freud's
masterly presentation, to offer another small contribution to the study of the child-mind
it is because the psychoanalytic records of cases seem to me always valuable.
Case 4.—An eight year old boy, intelligent, rather delicate-looking, is brought to me by
his mother, on account of enuresis. During the consultation the child always hangs on to
his mother, a pretty, youthful woman. The parents' marriage is a happy one, but the
father is strict, and the boy (the eldest child) is rather afraid of him. The mother
compensates for the father's strictness by corresponding tenderness, to which the boy
responds so much that he never gets away from his mother's apron-strings. He never
plays with his schoolfellows, never goes alone into the street unless he has to go to
school. He fears the boys' roughness and violence and plays thoughtful games at home
or helps his mother with housework. He is extremely jealous of his father. He cannot
bear it when the father shows tenderness to the mother.
I took the boy aside and asked him about his dreams.
He dreams very often of a black snake which wants to bite his face. Then he cries out,
and his mother has to come from the next room to his bedside.
In the evening he goes quietly to bed. But when he falls asleep it seems to him that a
wicked black man with a sabre or gun lies on his bed—a tall, thin man who wants to
kill him.
His parents sleep in the adjoining room. It often seems to him that something dreadful
is going on there, as if there are great black snakes or wicked men who want to kill his
Mamma. Then he has to cry out and his mother comes to comfort him.
Every time he wets his bed he calls his mother, who has to settle him down again in dry
things.
The father is a tall thin man. Every morning he stands at the washstand naked in full
view of the child, to perform a thorough ablution. The child also tells me that at night
he is often suddenly waked from sleep by a strange sound in the next room; then he is
always horribly afraid as if something dreadful were going on in there, some struggle—
but his mother quiets him, says there's nothing to be afraid of.
It is not difficult to see whence comes the black snake and who the wicked man is, and
what is happening in the next room. It is equally easy to understand the boy's aim when
he calls out for his mother: he is jealous and separates her from the father. This he does
also in the daytime whenever he sees his father caressing her. So far the boy is simply
his father's rival for his mother's love.
But now comes the circumstance that the snake and the bad man also threaten him,
there happens to him the same thing as to his mother in the next room. Thus he

identifies himself with his mother and proposes a similar relationship for himself with
his father. That is owing to his homosexual component which feels like a woman
towards the father. What enuresis signifies in this case is, from the Freudian standpoint,
not difficult to understand. The micturition dream throws light upon it. Let me refer to
an analysis of the same kind in my article: "L'analyse des rêves, Année psychologique"
(1909). Enuresis must be regarded as an infantile sex-surrogate; in the dream-life of
adults too it is easily used as a cloak for the urge of sexual desire.
This little example shows what goes on in the mind of an eight year old boy, when he is
in a position of too much dependence upon his parents, but the blame is also partly due
to the too strict father and the too indulgent mother.
The infantile attitude here, it is evident, is nothing but infantile sexuality. If now we
survey all the far-reaching possibilities of the infantile constellation, we are forced to
say that in essence our life's fate is identical with the fate of our sexuality. If Freud and
his school devote themselves first and foremost to tracing out the individual's sexuality
it is certainly not in order to excite piquant sensations, but to gain a deeper insight into
the driving forces that determine that individual's fate. In this we are not saying too
much, rather understating the case. If we can strip off the veils shrouding the problems
of individual destiny, we can afterwards widen our view from the history of the
individual to the history of nations. And first of all we can look at the history of
religions, at the history of the phantasy-systems of whole peoples and epochs. The
religion of the Old Testament elevated the paterfamilias to the Jehovah of the Jews
whom the people had to obey in fear and dread. The Patriarchs are an intermediate
stage towards the deity. The neurotic fear and dread of the Jewish religion, the
imperfect, not to say unsuccessful attempt at the sublimation of a still too barbarous
people, gave rise to the excessive severity of the Mosaic Law, the ceremonial constraint
of the neurotic.[159]
Only the prophets succeeded in freeing themselves from this constraint; in them the
identification with Jehovah, the complete sublimation, is successful. They became the
fathers of the people. Christ, the fulfilment of prophecy, put an end to this fear of God
and taught mankind that the true relation to the Godhead is "love." Thus he destroyed
the ceremonial constraint of the Law and gave the example of a personal loving
relationship to God. The later imperfect sublimation of the Christian Mass leads again
to the ceremonial of the Church from which occasionally the minds capable of
sublimation among the saints and reformers have been able to free themselves. Not
without cause therefore does modern theology speak of "inner" or "personal"
experiences as having great enfranchising power, for always the ardour of love
transmutes the dread and constraint into a higher, freer type of feeling.
What we see in the development of the world-process, the original source of the
changes in the Godhead, we see also in the individual. Parental power guides the child
like a higher controlling fate. But when he begins to grow up, there begins also the

conflict between the infantile constellation and the individuality, the parental influence
dating from the prehistoric (infantile) period is repressed, sinks into the unconscious
but is not thereby eliminated; by invisible threads it directs the individual creations of
the ripening mind as they appear. Like everything that has passed into the unconscious,
the infantile constellation sends up into consciousness dim, foreboding feelings,
feelings of mysterious guidance and opposing influences. Here are the roots of the first
religious sublimations. In the place of the father, with his constellating virtues and
faults, there appears, on the one hand, an altogether sublime deity, on the other the
devil, in modern times for the most part largely whittled away by the perception of
one's own moral responsibility. Elevated love is attributed to the former, a lower
sexuality to the latter. As soon as we approach the territory of the neurosis, the
antithesis is stretched to the utmost limit. God becomes the symbol of the most
complete sexual repression, the Devil the symbol of sexual lust. Thus it is that the
conscious expression of the father-constellation, like every expression of an
unconscious complex when it appears in consciousness, gets its Janus-face, its positive
and its negative components. A curious, beautiful example of this crafty play of the
unconscious is seen in the love-episode in the Book of Tobias. Sarah, the daughter of
Raguel in Ecbatana, desires to marry; but her evil fate wills it that seven times, one
after another, she chooses a husband who dies on the marriage-night. The evil spirit
Asmodi, by whom she is persecuted, kills these husbands. She prays to Jehovah to let
her die rather than suffer this shame again. She is despised even by her father's maid-
servants. The eighth bridegroom, Tobias, is sent to her by God. He too is led into the
bridal-chamber. Then the old Raguel, who has only pretended to go to bed, gets up
again and goes out and digs his son-in-law's grave beforehand, and in the morning
sends a maid to the bridal-chamber to make sure of the expected death. But this time
Asmodi's part is played out, Tobias is alive.
Unfortunately medical etiquette forbids me to give a case of hysteria which fits in
exactly with the above instance, except that there were not seven husbands, but only
three, ominously chosen under all the signs of the infantile constellation. Our first case
too comes under this category and in our third we see the old peasant at work preparing
to dedicate his daughter to a like fate.
As a pious and obedient daughter (compare her beautiful prayer in chapter iii.) Sarah
has brought about the usual sublimation and cleavage of the father-complex and on the
one side has elevated her childish love to the adoration of God, on the other has turned
the obsessive force of her father's attraction into the persecuting demon Asmodi. The
legend is so beautifully worked out that it displays the father in his twofold aspect, on
the one hand as the inconsolable father of the bride, on the other as the secret digger of
his son-in-law's grave, whose fate he foresees. This beautiful fable has become a
cherished paradigm for my analysis, for by no means infrequent are such cases where
the father-demon has laid his hand upon his daughter, so that her whole life long, even
when she does marry, there is never a true union, because her husband's image never
succeeds in obliterating the unconscious and eternally operative infantile father-ideal.

This is valid not only for daughters, but equally for sons. A fine instance of such a
father-constellation is given in Dr. Brill's recently published: "Psychological factors in
dementia præcox. An analysis."[160]
In my experience the father is usually the decisive and dangerous object of the child's
phantasy, and if ever it happens to be the mother, I have been able to discover behind
her a grandfather to whom she belonged in her heart.
I must leave this question open: my experience does not go far enough to warrant a
decision. It is to be hoped that the experience of the coming years will sink deeper
shafts into this still dark land which I have been able but momentarily to light up, and
will discover to us more of the secret workshop of that fate-deciding demon of whom
Horace says:

"Scit Genius natale comes qui temperat astrum,
Naturæ deus humanæ, mortalis in unum,
Quodque caput, vultu mutabilis, albus et ater."

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 born on 26 II.

His mistress 28 VIII.

His wife 1 III.

His mother (his father is long dead) 26 II.

His two children 29 IV.

and 13 VII.

The patient is born II. 75.

His mistress VIII. 85.

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:—

26. II. = 262

28. VIII. = 288

1. III. = 13

26. II. = 262

29. IV. = 294

13. VII. = 137

II. 75. = 275

VIII. 85 = 885

25 = 25

36 = 36

——

2477

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.

Child of 7 months

" " 7 "

" " 9 "

__

23 "

2 miscarriages (5 + 7 weeks) 3 "

__

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.
We cannot in every case get so far as this on the simple principle of letting the patient
talk; few patients have their psychic material so much on the surface. Furthermore,
many persons have a positive resistance against speaking freely about what occurs to
them on the spur of the moment; it is often too painful to tell the doctor whom perhaps
they do not entirely trust; in other cases because apparently nothing occurs to them,
they force themselves to speak of matters about which they are more or less
indifferent. This habit of not talking to the point by no means proves that patients
consciously conceal their unpleasant contents, for such irrelevant speaking can occur
quite unconsciously. In such cases it sometimes helps the patient if he is told that he
must not force himself, that he must only seize upon the very first thoughts that
present themselves, no matter how unimportant or ridiculous they may seem. In
certain cases even these instructions are of no use, and then the doctor is obliged to
have recourse to other expedients. One of these is the employment of the association
test, which usually gives excellent information as to the chief momentary tendencies
of the individual.
A second expedient is dream analysis; this is the real instrument of psychoanalysis.
We have already experienced so much opposition to dream analysis that a brief
exposition of its principles is necessary. The interpretation of dreams, as well as the
meaning given to them, is, as we know, in bad odour. It is not long since that
oneirocritics were practised and believed in; nor is the time long past when even the
most enlightened human beings were entirely under the ban of superstition. It is
therefore comprehensible that our age should still retain a certain lively fear of those
superstitions which have but recently been partially overcome. To this timidity in
regard to superstition, the opposition to dream analysis is in a large measure due; but
analysis is in no wise to blame for this. We do not select the dream as our object
because we pay it the homage of superstitious admiration, but because it is a psychic
product that is independent of the patient's consciousness. We ask for the patient's free

thoughts, but he gives us little, or nothing; or at best something forced or irrelevant.
Dreams are free thoughts, free phantasies, they are not forced, and they are psychic
phenomena just as much as thoughts are.
It may be said of the dream that it enters into the consciousness as a complex
structure, the connection between the elements of which is not conscious. Only by
afterwards joining associations to the separate pictures of the dream, can the origin of
these pictures, in certain recollections of the near and more remote past, be proved.
One asks oneself: "Where have I seen or heard that?" And by the same process of free
association comes the memory that one has actually experienced certain parts of the
dream, some of them yesterday, some at an earlier date. This is well known, and every
one will probably agree to it. Thus far the dream presents itself, as a rule, as an
incomprehensible composition of certain elements which are not in the first instance
conscious, but which are later recognised by the process of free association. This
might be disputed on the ground that it is an a priori statement. I must remark,
however, that this conception conforms to the only generally recognised working
hypothesis as to the genesis of dreams, namely, the derivation of the dream from
experiences and thoughts of the recent past. We are, therefore, upon known ground.
Not that certain dream parts have under all circumstances been known to the
individual, so that one might ascribe to them the character of being conscious; on the
contrary, they are frequently, even generally, unrecognisable. Not until later do we
remember having consciously experienced this or that dream part. We may therefore
regard the dream from this point of view as a product that comes from a subconscious
origin. The technical unfolding of these subconscious sources is a mode of procedure
that has always been instinctively employed. One simply tries to remember whence
the dream parts come. Upon this most simple principle the psychoanalytic method of
solving dreams is based. It is a fact that certain dream parts are derived from our
waking life and, indeed, from experiences which, owing to their notorious lack of
importance, would frequently have been consigned to certain oblivion, and were
therefore well on their way towards becoming definitely subconscious. Such dream
parts are the results of subconscious representations (images).
The principles according to which psychoanalysis solves dreams are therefore
exceedingly simple, and have really been known for a long time. The further
procedure follows the same path logically and consistently. If one spends considerable
time over a dream, which really never happens outside psychoanalysis, one can
succeed in finding more and more recollections for the separate dream parts. It is,
however, not always possible to discover recollections for certain other parts; and then
one must leave them for the time being, whether one likes it or not. When I speak of
"recollections" I naturally do not mean merely memories of certain concrete
experiences, but also of their inter-related meanings. The collected recollections are
known as the dream material. With this material one proceeds according to a scientific
method that is universally valid. If one has any experimental material to work up, one

compares its separate parts and arranges them according to their similarities. Exactly
the same course is pursued in dealing with the dream material; one gathers together its
common characteristics, whether these be formal or material. In doing this one must
absolutely get rid of certain prejudices. I have always observed that the beginner
expects to find some tendency or other according to which he endeavours to mould his
material. I have noticed this particularly in the cases of colleagues who were
previously more or less violent opponents of psychoanalysis, owing to their well-
known prejudices and misunderstandings. When fate willed that I should analyse
them, and they consequently gained at last an insight into the method of analysis, it
was demonstrated that the first mistake which they had been apt to make in their own
psychoanalytic practice was that they forced the material into accord with their own
preconceived opinions; that is, they allowed their former attitude towards
psychoanalysis, which they were not able to appreciate objectively, but only according
to subjective phantasies, to have its influence upon their material. If one goes so far as
to venture upon the task of examining the dream material, one must permit no
comparison to frighten one away. The material consists, as a general rule, of very
unequal images, from which it is under some circumstances most difficult to obtain
the "tertium comparationis." I must forego giving you detailed examples of this, since
it is quite impossible to introduce such extensive material into a lecture.
One pursues, then, the same method in classifying the unconscious content, as is used
everywhere in comparing materials for the purpose of drawing conclusions from
them. One objection has often been made, namely: why should the dream have a
subconscious content at all? This objection is unscientific in my opinion. Every
psychological moment has its own history. Every sentence that I utter has, besides the
meaning consciously intended by me, a meaning that is historical; and this last may be
entirely different from the conscious meaning. I am purposely expressing myself
somewhat paradoxically. I certainly should not take it upon myself to explain each
sentence according to its individual-historical meaning. That is easier in the case of
larger and more complex formations. Every one is certainly convinced of the fact that
a poem—in addition to its manifest contents—is also particularly characteristic of its
author, in its form, subject-matter, and the history of its origin. Whereas the poet gave
skilful expression to a fleeting mood in his song, the historian of literature sees in it
and beyond it, things which the poet would never have suspected. The analysis which
the literary critic makes of the subject-matter furnished by the poet may be compared
with psychoanalysis in its method, even to the very errors which occur therein. The
psychoanalytic method may be aptly compared with historical analysis and synthesis.
Let us assume, for instance, that we do not understand the meaning of the rite of
baptism as it is practised in our churches to-day. The priest tells us that baptism means
the reception of the child into the Christian community. But we are not satisfied with
this. Why should the child be sprinkled with water, etc.? In order that we may
understand this rite we must gather together materials for comparison from the history

of the rite, that is, from the memories of mankind appertaining to it; and this must be
done from various points of view.
Firstly—Baptism is clearly a rite of initiation, a consecration. Therefore those
memories, above all, must be assembled which preserve the rites of initiation.
Secondly—The act of baptism is performed with water. This especial form of
procedure proves the necessity of welding together another chain of memories
concerning rites in which water was used.
Thirdly—The child is sprinkled with water when it is christened. In this case we must
gather together all the forms of the rite, where the neophyte is sprinkled or where the
child is submerged, etc.
Fourthly—We must recollect all the reminiscences in mythology and all the
superstitious customs which are in any respect similar to the symbolic act of baptism.
In this manner we obtain a comparative study of the act of baptism. Thus we ascertain
the elements from which baptism is derived; we further ascertain its original meaning,
and at the same time make the acquaintance of a world rich in religious mythology,
which makes clear to us all the multifarious and derived meanings of the act of
baptism. Thus the analyst deals with the dream. He gathers together historical
parallels for each dream part, even though they be very remote and attempts to
construct the psychological history of the dream and the meanings that underlie it. By
this monographic elaboration of the dream one gains, exactly as in the analysis of the
act of baptism, a deep insight into the wonderfully subtle and significant network of
subconscious determinations; an insight which, as I have said, can only be compared
with the historical understanding of an act that we used only to consider from a very
one-sided and superficial point of view.
I cannot disguise the fact that in practice, especially at the beginning of an analysis,
we do not in all cases make complete and ideal analyses of dreams, but that we more
generally continue to gather together the dream associations until the problem which
the patient hides from us becomes so clear that even he can recognize it. This problem
is then subjected to conscious elaboration until it is cleared up as far as possible, and
once again we stand before a question that cannot be answered.
You will now ask what course is to be pursued when the patient does not dream at all;
I can assure you that hitherto all patients, even those who claimed never to have
dreamed before, began to dream when they went through analysis. But on the other
hand it frequently occurs that patients who began by dreaming vividly are suddenly no
longer able to remember their dreams. The empirical and practical rule, which I have
hitherto regarded as binding, is that the patient, if he does not dream, has sufficient
conscious material, which he keeps back for certain reasons. A common reason is: "I

am in the doctor's hands and am quite willing to be treated by him. But the doctor
must do the work, I shall remain passive in the matter."
Sometimes the resistances are of a more serious character. For instance, persons who
cannot admit certain morally grave sides to their characters, project their deficiencies
upon the doctor by calmly presuming that he is more or less deficient morally, and
that for this reason they cannot communicate certain unpleasant things to him. If, then
a patient does not dream from the beginning or ceases to dream he retains material
which is susceptible of conscious elaboration. Here the personal relation between the
doctor and his patient may be regarded as the chief hindrance. It can prevent them
both, the doctor as well as the patient, from seeing the situation clearly. We must not
forget that, as the doctor shows, and must show, a searching interest in the psychology
of his patient, so, too, the patient, if he has an active mind, gains some familiarity with
the psychology of the doctor and assumes a corresponding attitude towards him. Thus
the doctor is blind to the mental attitude of the patient to the exact extent that he does
not see himself and his own subconscious problems. Therefore I maintain that a
doctor must be analysed before he practises analysis. Otherwise the practice of
analysis can easily be a great disappointment to him, because he can, under certain
circumstances, reach a point where further progress is impossible, a situation which
may make him lose his head. He is then readily inclined to assume that
psychoanalysis is nonsense, so as to avoid the admission that he has run his vessel
ashore. If you are sure of your own psychology you can confidently tell your patient
that he does not dream because there is still conscious material to be disposed of. I say
that one must be sure of one's self in such cases, for the opinions and unsparing
criticisms to which one sometimes has to submit, can be excessively disturbing to one
who is unprepared to meet them. The immediate consequence of such a loss of
personal balance on the part of the doctor is that he begins to argue with his patient, in
order to maintain his influence over him; and this, of course, renders all further
analysis impossible.
I have told you that, in the first instance, dreams need only be used as sources of
material for analysis. At the beginning of an analysis it is not only unnecessary, but
also unwise, to make a so-called complete interpretation of a dream; for it is very
difficult indeed to make a complete and really exhaustive interpretation. The
interpretations of dreams that one sometimes reads in psychoanalytic publications are
often one-sided, and not infrequently contestable formulations. I include among these
certain one-sided sexual reductions of the Viennese school. In view of the
comprehensive many-sidedness of the dream material one must beware, above all, of
one-sided formulations. The many-sidedness of the meaning of a dream, not its
singleness of meaning, is of the utmost value, especially at the beginning of the
psychoanalytic treatment. Thus, for instance, a patient had the following dream not
long after her treatment had begun: "She was in a hotel in a strange city. Suddenly a
fire broke out; and her husband and her father, who were with her, helped her in the

work of saving others." The patient was intelligent, extraordinarily sceptical, and
absolutely convinced that dream analysis was nonsense. I had difficulty in inducing
her to give dream analysis even one trial. Indeed I saw at once that I could not inform
my patient of the real content of the dream under these circumstances because her
resistances were much too great. I selected the fire, the most conspicuous occurrence
of the dream, as the starting point for obtaining her free associations. The patient told
me that she had recently read in a newspaper that a certain hotel in Z. had been burnt
down; that she remembered the hotel because she had once lived in it. At the hotel she
had made the acquaintance of a man, and from this acquaintance a somewhat
questionable love affair developed. In connection with this story the fact came out that
she had already had quite a number of similar adventures, all of which had a certain
frivolous character. This important bit of past history was brought out by the first free
association with a dream-part. It would have been impossible in this case to make
clear to the patient the very striking meaning of the dream. With her frivolous mental
attitude, of which her scepticism was only a special instance, she could have calmly
repelled any attempt of this kind. But after the frivolity of her mental attitude was
recognised and proved to her, by the material that she herself had furnished, it was
possible to analyse the dreams which followed much more thoroughly.
It is, therefore, advisable in the beginning to make use of dreams for the purpose of
reaching the important subconscious material by means of the patient's free
associations in connection with them. This is the best and most cautious method,
especially for those who are just beginning to practise analysis. An arbitrary
translation of the dreams is absolutely unadvisable. That would be a superstitious
practice based on the acceptance of well-established symbolic meanings. But there are
no fixed symbolic meanings. There are certain symbols that recur frequently, but we
are not able to get beyond general statements. For instance, it is quite incorrect to
assume that the snake, when it appears in dreams, has a merely phallic meaning; just
as incorrect as it is to deny that it may have a phallic meaning in some cases. Every
symbol has more than one meaning. I can therefore not admit the correctness of
exclusively sexual interpretations, such as appear in some psychoanalytic
publications, for my experience has made me regard them as one-sided and therefore
insufficient. As an example of this I will tell you a very simple dream of a young
patient of mine. It was as follows: "I was going up a flight of stairs with my mother
and sister. When we reached the top I was told that my sister was soon to have a
child."
I shall now show you how, on the strength of the hitherto prevailing point of view, this
dream may be translated so that it receives a sexual meaning. We know that the incest
phantasy plays a prominent part in the life of a neurotic. Hence the picture "with my
mother and sister" might be regarded as an allusion in this direction. The "stairs" have
a sexual meaning that is supposedly well established; they represent the sexual act
because of the rhythmic climbing of steps. The child that my patient's sister is

expecting is nothing but the logical result of these premises. The dream, translated
thus, would be a clear fulfilment of infantile desires which as we know play an
important part in Freud's theory of dreams.
Now I have analysed this with the aid of the following process of reasoning: If I say
that the stairs are a symbol for the sexual act, whence do I obtain the right to regard
the mother, the sister, and the child as concrete; that is, as not symbolic? If, on the
strength of the claim that dream pictures are symbolic, I give to certain of these
pictures the value of symbols, what right have I to exempt certain other dream parts
from this process? If, therefore, I attach symbolic value to the ascent of the stairs, I
must also attach a symbolic value to the pictures that represent the mother, the sister,
and the child. Therefore I did not translate the dream, but really analysed it. The result
was surprising. I will give you the free associations with the separate dream-parts,
word for word, so that you can form your own opinions concerning the material. I
should state in advance that the young man had finished his studies at the university a
few months previously; that he found the choice of a profession too difficult to make;
and that he thereupon became a neurotic. In consequence of this he gave up his work.
His neurosis took, among other things, a decidedly homosexual form.
The patient's associations with his mother are as follows: "I have not seen her for a
long time, a very long time. I really ought to reproach myself for this. It is wrong of
me to neglect her so." "Mother," then, stands here for something which is neglected in
an inexcusable manner. I said to the patient: "What is that?" And he replied, with
considerable embarrassment, "My work."
With his sister he associated as follows: "It is years since I have seen her. I long to see
her again. Whenever I think of her I recall the time when I took leave of her. I kissed
her with real affection; and at that moment I understood for the first time what love
for a woman can mean." It is at once clear to the patient that his sister represents "love
for woman."
With the stairs he has this association: "Climbing upwards; getting to the top; making
a success of life; being grown up; being great." The child brings him the ideas: "New
born; a revival; a regeneration; to become a new man."
One only has to hear this material in order to understand at once that the patient's
dream is not so much the fulfilment of infantile desires, as it is the expression of
biological duties which he has hitherto neglected because of his infantilism.
Biological justice, which is inexorable, sometimes compels the human being to atone
in his dreams for the duties which he has neglected in real life.
This dream is a typical example of the prospective and teleological function of dreams
in general, a function that has been especially emphasised by my colleague Dr.
Maeder. If we adhered to the one-sidedness of sexual interpretation, the real meaning
of the dream would escape us. Sexuality in dreams is, in the first instance, a means of

expression, and by no means always the meaning and the object of the dream. The
unfolding of the prospective or teleological meaning of dreams is of particular
importance as soon as analysis is so far advanced that the eyes of the patient are more
easily turned upon the future, than upon his inner life and upon the past.
In connection with the application of symbolism, we can also learn from the example
furnished us by this dream, that there can be no fixed and unalterable dream symbols,
but at best a frequent repetition of fairly general meanings. So far as the so-called
sexual meaning of dreams, in particular, is concerned, my experience has led me to
lay down the following practical rules:
If dream analysis at the beginning of the treatment shows that the dream has an
undoubted sexual meaning, this meaning is to be taken realistically; that is, it is
proved thereby that the sexual problem itself must be subjected to a careful revision.
If, for instance, an incest phantasy is clearly shown to be a latent content of the dream,
one must subject the patient's infantile relations towards his parents and his brothers
and sisters, as well as his relations towards other persons who are fitted to play the
part of his father or mother in his mind, to a careful examination on this basis. But if a
dream that comes in a later stage of the analysis has, let us say, an incest phantasy as
its essential content, a phantasy that we have reason to consider disposed of, concrete
value must not be attached to it under all circumstances; it must be regarded as
symbolic. In this case symbolic value, not concrete value, must be attached to the
sexual phantasy. If we did not go beyond the concrete value in this case, we should
keep reducing the patient to sexuality, and this would arrest the progress of the
development of his personality. The patient's salvation is not to be found by thrusting
him back again into primitive sexuality; this would leave him on a low plane of
civilisation whence he could never obtain freedom and complete restoration to health.
Retrogression to a state of barbarism is no advantage at all for a civilised human
being.
The above-mentioned formula, according to which the sexuality of a dream is a
symbolic or analogous expression, naturally also holds good in the case of dreams
occurring in the beginning of an analysis. But the practical reasons that have induced
us not to take into consideration the symbolic value of this sexual phantasy, owe their
existence to the fact that a genuine realistic value must be given to the abnormal
sexual phantasies of a neurotic, in so far as the latter suffers himself to be influenced
in his actions by these phantasies. Experience teaches us that these phantasies not only
hinder him from adapting himself suitably to his situation, but that they also lead him
to all manner of really sexual acts, and occasionally even to incest. Under these
circumstances, it would be of little use to consider the symbolic content of the dream
only; the concrete content must first be disposed of.
These arguments are based upon a different conception of the dream from that put
forward by Freud; for, indeed, my experience has forced me to a different conception.

According to Freud, the dream is in its essence a symbolic veil for repressed desires
which are in conflict with the ideals of the personality. I am obliged to regard the
dream structure from a different point of view. The dream for me is, in the first
instance, the subliminal picture of the psychological condition of the individual in his
waking state. It presents a résumé of the subliminal association material which is
brought together by the momentary psychological situation. The volitional meaning of
the dream which Freud calls the repressed desire, is, for me, essentially a means of
expression. The activity of the consciousness, speaking biologically, represents the
psychological effort which the individual makes in adapting himself to the conditions
of life. His consciousness endeavours to adjust itself to the necessities of the moment,
or, to put it differently: there are tasks ahead of the individual, which he must
overcome. In many cases the solution is unknown; and for this reason the
consciousness always tries to find the solution by the way of analogous experience.
We always try to grasp what is unknown and in the future, according to our mental
understanding of what has gone before. Now we have no reasons for assuming that
the unconscious follows other laws than those which apply to conscious thought. The
unconscious, like the conscious, gathers itself about the biological problems and
endeavours to find solutions for these by analogy with what has gone before, just as
much as the conscious does. Whenever we wish to assimilate something that is
unknown, we arrive at it by a process of comparison. A simple example of this is the
well-known fact that, when America was discovered by the Spaniards, the Indians
took the horses of the conquerors, which were strange to them, for large pigs, because
pigs were familiar to their experience. This is the mental process which we always
employ in recognising unknown things; and this is the essential reason for the
existence of symbolism. It is a process of comprehension by means of analogy. The
apparently repressed desires, contained in the dream, are volitional tendencies which
serve as language-material for subconscious expression. So far as this particular point
is concerned, I am in full accord with the views of Adler, another member of Freud's
school. With reference to the fact that subconscious materials of expression are
volitional elements or tendencies, I may say that this is dependent upon the archaic
nature of dream thinking, a problem with which I have already dealt in previous
researches.[174]
Owing to our different conception of the structure of the dream, the further course of
analysis also gains a different complexion from that which it had until now. The
symbolic valuation given to sexual phantasies in the later stages of analysis
necessarily leads less to the reduction of the patient's personality into primitive
tendencies, than to the extension and further development of his mental attitude; that
is, it tends to make his thinking richer and deeper, thus giving him what has always
been one of the most powerful weapons that a human being can have in his struggle to
adapt himself to life. By following this new course logically, I have come to the
conclusion that these religious and philosophical motive forces—the so-called

metaphysical needs of the human being—must receive positive consideration at the
hands of the analyst. Though he must not destroy the motive forces that underlie them,
by reducing them to their primitive, sexual roots, he must make them serve biological
ends as psychologically valuable factors. Thus these instincts assume once more those
functions that have been theirs from time immemorial.
Just as primitive man was able, with the aid of religious and philosophical symbol, to
free himself from his original state, so, too, the neurotic can shake off his illness in a
similar way. It is hardly necessary for me to say, that I do not mean by this, that the
belief in a religious or philosophical dogma should be thrust upon the patient; I mean
simply that he has to reassume that psychological attitude which, in an earlier
civilisation, was characterised by the living belief in a religious or philosophical
dogma. But the religious-philosophical attitude does not necessarily correspond to the
belief in a dogma. A dogma is a transitory intellectual formulation; it is the result of
the religious-philosophical attitude, and is dependent upon time and circumstances.
This attitude is itself an achievement of civilization; it is a function that is exceedingly
valuable from a biological point of view, for it gives rise to the incentives that force
human beings to do creative work for the benefit of a future age, and, if necessary, to
sacrifice themselves for the welfare of the species.
Thus the human being attains the same sense of unity and totality, the same
confidence, the same capacity for self-sacrifice in his conscious existence that belongs
unconsciously and instinctively to wild animals. Every reduction, every digression
from the course that has been laid down for the development of civilisation does
nothing more than turn the human being into a crippled animal; it never makes a so-
called natural man of him. My numerous successes and failures in the course of my
analytic practice have convinced me of the invariable correctness of this psychological
orientation. We do not help the neurotic patient by freeing him from the demand made
by civilisation; we can only help him by inducing him to take an active part in the
strenuous task of carrying on the development of civilisation. The suffering which he
undergoes in performing this duty takes the place of his neurosis. But, whereas the
neurosis and the complaints that accompany it are never followed by the delicious
feeling of good work well done, of duty fearlessly performed, the suffering that comes
from useful work, and from victory over real difficulties, brings with it those moments
of peace and satisfaction which give the human being the priceless feeling that he has
really lived his life.

CHAPTER VIII
ON PSYCHOANALYSIS[175]
After many years' experience I now know that it is extremely difficult to discuss
psychoanalysis at public meetings and at congresses. There are so many
misconceptions of the matter, so many prejudices against certain psychoanalytic
views, that it becomes an almost impossible task to reach mutual understanding in
public discussion. I have always found a quiet conversation on the subject much more
useful and fruitful than heated discussions coram publico. However, having been
honoured by an invitation from the Committee of this Congress as a representative of
the psychoanalytic movement, I will do my best to discuss some of the fundamental
theoretical conceptions of psychoanalysis. I must limit myself to this part of the
subject because I am quite unable to place before my audience all that psychoanalysis
means and strives for, all its various applications, its psychology, its theoretical
tendencies, its importance for the realm of the so-called "Geisteswissenschaften," e.g.
Mythology, Comparative Religion, Philosophy, &c. But if I am to discuss certain
theoretical problems fundamental to psychoanalysis, I must presuppose my audience
to be well acquainted with the development and main results of psychoanalytic
researches. Unfortunately, it often happens that people believe themselves entitled to
judge psychoanalysis who have not even read the literature. It is my firm conviction
that no one is competent to form a judgment concerning the subject until he has
studied the fundamental works on psychoanalysis.
In spite of the fact that Freud's theory of neurosis has been worked out in great detail,
it cannot be said to be, on the whole, very clear or easily accessible. This justifies my
giving you a very short abstract of his fundamental views concerning the theory of
neurosis.
You are aware that the original theory that hysteria and the related neuroses take their
origin in a trauma or shock of sexual character in early childhood, was given up about
fifteen years ago. It soon became obvious that the sexual trauma could not be the real
cause of a neurosis, since trauma is found so universally; there is scarcely a human
being who has not had some sexual shock in early youth, and yet comparatively few
have incurred a neurosis in later life. Freud himself soon became aware that several of
the patients who related an early traumatic event, had only invented the story of a so-
called trauma; it had never taken place in reality, and was a mere creation of phantasy.
Moreover, on further investigation it became quite obvious that even a trauma which
had actually occurred was not always responsible for the whole of the neurosis,

although it does sometimes look as if the structure of the neurosis depended entirely
upon the trauma. If a neurosis were the inevitable consequence of a trauma it would
be quite incomprehensible why neurotics are not incomparably more numerous.
This apparently heightened shock-effect was clearly based upon the exaggerated and
morbid phantasy of the patient. Freud also saw that this same phantasy manifested
itself in relatively early bad habits, which he called infantile perversities. His new
conception of the ætiology of a neurosis was based upon this further understanding
and traced the neurosis back to some sexual activity in early infancy; this conception
led on to his recent view that the neurotic is "fixed" to a certain period of his early
infancy, because he still seems to preserve some trace of it, direct or indirect, in his
mental attitude. Freud also makes the attempt to classify or to differentiate the
neuroses, including dementia præcox, according to the stage of the infantile
development in which the fixation took place.
From the standpoint of this theory, the neurotic appears to be entirely dependent upon
his infantile past, and all his troubles in later life, his moral conflicts, and deficiencies,
seem to be derived from the powerful influence of that period. The therapy and its
main preoccupation are in full accord with this view, and are chiefly concerned with
the unravelling of this infantile fixation, which is understood as an unconscious
attachment of the sexual libido to certain infantile phantasies and habits.
This is, so far as I can see, the essence of Freud's theory. But this conception neglects
the following important question: What is the cause of this fixation of the libido to the
old infantile phantasies and habits? We have to remember that almost all persons have
at some time had infantile phantasies and habits exactly corresponding to those of a
neurotic, but they do not become fixed to them; consequently, they do not become
neurotic later on. The ætiological secret of the neurosis, therefore, does not consist in
the mere existence of infantile phantasies, but lies in the so-called fixation. The
manifold statements of the existence of infantile sexual phantasies in neurotic cases
are worthless, in so far as they attribute an ætiological value to them, for the same
phantasies can be found in normal individuals as well, a fact which I have often
proved. It is only the fixation which seems to be characteristic. It is important to
demand the nature of the proofs of the real existence of this infantile fixation. Freud,
an absolutely sincere and thorough empiricist, would never have evolved this
hypothesis had he not had sufficient grounds for it. The grounds are found in the
results of the psychoanalytic investigations of the unconscious. Psychoanalysis
discloses the unconscious existence of manifold phantasies, which have their end root
in the infantile past and turn around the so-called "Kern-complex," or nucleus-
complex, which may be designated in male individuals as the Œdipus-complex and in
females as the Electra-complex. These terms convey their own meaning exactly. The
whole tragic fate of Œdipus and Electra took place within the narrow confines of the
family, just as the child's fate lies wholly within the family boundaries. Hence the
Œdipus conflict is very characteristic of an infantile conflict, so also is the Electra

conflict. The existence of these conflicts in infancy is largely proven by means of
psychoanalytic experience. It is in the realm of this complex that the fixation is
supposed to have taken place. Through the highly potent and effective existence of the
nucleus-complex in the unconscious of neurotics, Freud was led to the hypothesis, that
the neurotic has a peculiar fixation or attachment to it. Not the mere existence of this
complex—for everybody has it in the unconscious—but the very strong attachment to
it is what is typical of the neurotic. He is far more influenced by this complex than the
normal person; many examples in confirmation of this statement will be found in
every one of the recent psychoanalytic histories of neurotic cases.
We must admit that this conception is a very plausible one, because the hypothesis of
fixation is based upon the well-known fact, that certain periods of human life, and
particularly infancy, do sometimes leave determining traces for ever. The only
question is whether this principle is a sufficient explanation or not. If we examine
persons who have been neurotic from infancy it seems to be confirmed, for we see the
nucleus-complex as a permanent and powerful activity throughout the whole life. But
if we take cases which never show any considerable traces of neurosis except at the
particular time when they break down, and there are many such, this principle
becomes doubtful. If there is such a thing as fixation, it is not permissible to base upon
it a new hypothesis, claiming that at times during certain epochs of life the fixation
becomes loosened and ineffective, while at others it suddenly becomes strengthened
and effective. In such cases we find the nucleus-complex as active and as potent as in
those which apparently support the theory of fixation. Here a critical attitude is
peculiarly justifiable, when we consider the often-repeated observation that the
moment of the outbreak of the disease is by no means indifferent; as a rule it is most
critical. It usually occurs at the moment when a new psychological adjustment, that is,
a new adaptation, is demanded. Such moments facilitate the outbreak of a neurosis, as
every experienced neurologist knows. This fact seems to me extremely significant. If
the fixation were indeed real we should expect to find its influence constant, i.e. a
neurosis continuous throughout life. This is obviously not the case. The psychological
determination of a neurosis is only partially due to an early infantile predisposition; it
is due to a certain actual cause as well. And if we carefully examine the kind of
infantile phantasies and events to which the neurotic individual is attached, we shall
be obliged to agree that there is nothing in them specific for neurosis. Normal
individuals have pretty much the same kind of internal and external experiences, and
are attached to them to an even astonishing degree, without developing a neurosis.
You will find primitive people, especially, very much bound to their infantility. It now
begins to look as if this so-called fixation were a normal phenomenon, and that the
importance of infancy for the later mental attitude is natural and prevails everywhere.
The fact that the neurotic seems to be markedly influenced by his infantile conflicts,
shows that it is less a matter of fixation than of a peculiar use which he makes of his
infantile past. It looks as if he exaggerated its importance, and attributed a very great
artificial value to it (Adler, a pupil of Freud's, expresses a very similar view). It would

be unjust to say that Freud confined himself to the hypothesis of fixation; he also was
conscious of the impression I have just discussed. He called this phenomenon of
reactivation or secondary exaggeration of infantile reminiscences "regression." But in
Freud's conception it appears as if the incestuous desires of the Œdipus-complex were
the real cause of the regression to infantile phantasies. If this were the case, we should
have to postulate an unexpected intensity of the primary incestuous tendencies. This
view led Freud to his recent comparison between the so-called psychological "incest-
barrier" in children and the "incest-taboo" in primitive man. He supposes that a real
incestuous desire has led the primitive man to the invention of a protective law; while
to me it looks as if the incest-taboo is one among numerous taboos of all sorts, and
due to the typical superstitious fear of primitive man, a fear existing independently of
incest and its interdiction. I am able to attribute as little particular strength to
incestuous desires in childhood as in primitive humanity. I do not even seek the reason
for regression in primary incestuous or any other sexual desires. I must state that a
purely sexual ætiology of neurosis seems to me much too narrow. I base this criticism
upon no prejudice against sexuality, but upon an intimate acquaintance with the whole
problem.
Therefore I suggest that the psychoanalytic theory should be liberated from the purely
sexual standpoint. In place of it I should like to introduce an energic view-point into
the psychology of neurosis.
All psychological phenomena can be considered as manifestations of energy, in the
same way as all physical phenomena are already understood as energic manifestations
since Robert Mayer discovered the law of the conservation of energy. This energy is
subjectively and psychologically conceived as desire. I call it libido, using the word in
the original meaning of this term, which is by no means only sexual. Sallustius applies
the term exactly in the way we do here: "Magis in armis et militaribus equis, quam in
scortis et conviviis libidinem habebant."
From a broader standpoint libido can be understood as vital energy in general, or as
Bergson's élan vital. The first manifestation of this energy in the suckling is the
instinct of nutrition. From this stage the libido slowly develops through manifold
varieties of the act of sucking into the sexual function. Hence I do not consider the act
of sucking as a sexual act. The pleasure in sucking can certainly not be considered as
sexual pleasure, but as pleasure in nutrition, for it is nowhere proved that pleasure is
sexual in itself. This process of development continues into adult life and is connected
with a constantly increased adaptation to the external world. Whenever the libido, in
the process of adaptation, meets an obstacle, an accumulation takes place which
normally gives rise to an increased effort to overcome the obstacle. But if the obstacle
seems to be insurmountable, and the individual renounces the overcoming of it, the
stored-up libido makes a regression. In place of being employed in the increased
effort, the libido now gives up the present task and returns to a former and more
primitive way of adaptation. We meet with the best examples of such regressions very

frequently in hysterical cases where a disappointment in love or marriage gives rise to
the neurosis. There we find the well-known disturbances of nutrition, resistance
against eating, dyspeptic symptoms of all sorts, etc. In these cases the regressive
libido, turning away from its application to the work of adaptation, holds sway over
the function of nutrition and provokes considerable disturbance. Such cases are
obvious examples of regression. Similar effects of regression are to be found in cases
where there are no troubles in the function of nutrition, and here we readily find a
regressive revival of reminiscences of a time long past. We find a revival of the
images of the parents, of the Œdipus-complex. Here things and events of infancy—
never before important—suddenly become so. They are regressively reanimated. Take
away the obstacle in the path of life and this whole system of infantile phantasies at
once breaks down and becomes again as inactive and as ineffective as before. But do
not let us forget that, to a certain extent, it is at work influencing us always and
everywhere. I cannot forbear to mention that this view comes very near Janet's
hypothesis of the substitution of the "parties supérieures" of a function by its "parties
inférieures." I would also remind you of Claparède's conception of neurotic symptoms
as emotional reflexes of a primitive nature.
Therefore I no longer find the cause of a neurosis in the past, but in the present. I ask,
what is the necessary task which the patient will not accomplish? The whole list of his
infantile phantasies does not give me any sufficient ætiological explanation, because I
know that these phantasies are only puffed up by the regressive libido, which has not
found its natural outlet into a new form of adjustment to the demands of life.
You may ask why the neurotic has a special inclination not to accomplish his
necessary tasks. Here let me point out that no living being adjusts itself easily and
smoothly to new conditions. The principle of the minimum of effort is valid
everywhere.
A sensitive and somewhat inharmonious character, as a neurotic always is, will meet
special difficulties and perhaps more unusual tasks in life than a normal individual,
who as a rule has only to follow the well-established line of an ordinary life. For the
neurotic there is no established way, for his aims and tasks are apt to be of a highly
individual character. He tries to follow the more or less uncontrolled and half-
conscious way of normal people, not fully realizing his own critical and very different
nature, which imposes upon him more effort than the normal person is required to
exert. There are neurotics who have shown their increased sensitiveness and their
resistance against adaptation in the very first weeks of life, in their difficulty in taking
the mother's breast, and in their exaggerated nervous reactions, &c. For this portion of
a neurotic predisposition it will always be impossible to find a psychological ætiology,
for it is anterior to all psychology. But this predisposition—you may call it "congenital
sensitiveness" or by what name you like—is the cause of the first resistances against
adaptation. In such case, the way of adaptation being blocked, the biological energy

we call libido does not find its appropriate outlet or activity and therefore replaces an
up-to-date and suitable form of adaptation by an abnormal or primitive one.
In neurosis we speak of an infantile attitude or the predominance of infantile
phantasies and desires. In so far as infantile impressions and desires are of obvious
importance in normal people they are equally influential in neurosis, but they have
here no ætiological significance, they are reactions merely, being chiefly secondary
and regressive phenomena. It is perfectly true, as Freud states, that infantile phantasies
determine the form and further development of neurosis, but this is not ætiology. Even
when we find perverted sexual phantasies of which we can prove the existence in
childhood, we cannot consider them of ætiological significance. A neurosis is not
really originated by infantile sexual phantasies and the same must be said of the
sexualism of neurotic phantasy in general. It is not a primary phenomenon based upon
a perverted sexual disposition, but merely secondary and a consequence of a failure to
apply the stored-up libido in a suitable way. I realize that this is a very old view, but
this does not prevent its being true. The fact that the patient himself very often
believes that this infantile phantasy is the real cause of the neurosis, does not prove
that he is right in his belief, or that a theory following the same belief is right either. It
may look as if it were so, and I must confess that indeed very many cases do have that
appearance. At all events, it is perfectly easy to understand how Freud came to this
view. Every one having any psychoanalytic experience will agree with me here.
To sum up: I cannot see the real ætiology of a neurosis in the various manifestations
of infantile sexual development and their corresponding phantasies. The fact that they
are exaggerated and put into the foreground in neurosis is a consequence of the stored-
up energy or libido. The psychological trouble in neurosis, and neurosis itself, can be
considered as an act of adaptation that has failed. This formulation might reconcile
certain views of Janet's with Freud's view, that a neurosis is—under a certain aspect—
an attempt at self-cure; a view which can be and has been applied to many diseases.
Here the question arises whether it is still advisable to bring to light all the patient's
phantasies by analysis, if we now consider them as of no ætiological significance.
Psychoanalysis hitherto has proceeded to the unravelling of these phantasies because
they were considered to be ætiologically significant. My altered view concerning the
theory of neurosis does not change the procedure of psychoanalysis. The technique
remains the same. We no longer imagine we are unearthing the end-root of the
disease, but we have to pull up the sexual phantasies because the energy which the
patient needs for his health, that is, for his adaptation, is attached to them. By means
of psychoanalysis the connexion between the conscious and the libido in the
unconscious is re-established. Thus you restore this unconscious libido to the
command of conscious intention. Only in this way can the formerly split-off energy
become again applicable to the accomplishment of the necessary tasks of life.
Considered from this standpoint, psychoanalysis no longer appears to be a mere

reduction of the individual to his primitive sexual wishes, but it becomes clear that, if
rightly understood, it is a highly moral task of immense educational value.

CHAPTER IX
ON SOME CRUCIAL POINTS IN PSYCHOANALYSIS[176]
Correspondence between Dr. Jung and Dr. Loÿ appearing in
"Psychotherapeutische Zeitfragen." Published by Dr. Loÿ, Sanatorium L'abri,
Territet-Montreux, Switzerland, 1914.

I

From Dr. Loÿ.
12th January, 1913.
What you said at our last conversation was extraordinarily stimulating. I was
expecting you to throw light upon the interpretation of my own and my patients'
dreams from the standpoint of Freud's "Interpretation of Dreams." Instead, you put
before me an entirely new conception: the dream as a means of re-establishing the
moral equipoise, fashioned in the realm below the threshold of consciousness. That
indeed is a fruitful conception. But still more fruitful appears to me your other
suggestion. You regard the problems of psychoanalysis as much deeper than I had
ever thought: it is no longer merely a question of getting rid of troublesome
pathological symptoms; the analysed person gets to understand not his anxiety-
experiences alone, but his whole self most completely, and by means of this
understanding he can build up and fashion his whole life anew. But he himself must
be the builder, the Analyst only furnishes him with the necessary tools.
To begin with, I would ask you to consider what justification there is for the original
procedure of Breuer and Freud, now entirely given up both by Freud himself and by
you, but practised by Frank, for instance, as his only method: I mean "the abreaction
of the inhibited effects under light hypnosis." Why have you given up the cathartic
method? More particularly, has light hypnosis in psychocatharsis a different value
from suggestion during sleep, long customary in treatment by suggestion? that is, has
it only the value which the suggestionist contributes, or does it claim to possess only
the value which the patient's belief bestows upon it? Or, again, is suggestion in the
waking-state equivalent to suggestion in hypnoidal states? This Bernheim now asserts
to be the case, after having used suggestion for many years exclusively in hypnosis.
You will tell me we must talk of psychoanalysis, not of suggestion. But I really mean

this: is not the suggestion, by means of which the psychocatharsis in the hypnoidal
state produces therapeutic effects, (modified naturally, by the patients' age, etc.) the
main factor in the therapeutic success of the psychocatharsis? Frank, in his
"Affektstörungen," says: "these partial adjustments of effect, suggestibility and
suggestion, are almost altogether omitted in the psychocathartic treatment in light
sleep, in so far as the content of the reproduced presentations is concerned." Is that
really true? Frank himself adds: "How can meditation upon the dreams of youth in
itself lead to the discharge of the stored-up anxiety, whether in hypnoidal states or
under any other conditions? Must one not suppose, with much greater probability, that
the anxiety-states would become more pronounced through such concentration upon
them?" [I have noticed that myself, and much more than I at all liked.] One does
indeed say to the patient: "First we must stir up, then afterwards comes peace." And it
does come. But does it not come in spite of the stirring-up process, because gradually,
by means of frequent talks under light hypnosis, the patient gets such confidence in
the doctor that he becomes susceptible to direct suggestion, and that produces at first
improvement and finally, cure? I go still further: in an analysis in the waking-state, is
not the patient's belief that the method employed will cure him, coupled with his ever-
growing trust in the doctor, a main cause of his cure? And I ask even further: in every
systematically carried-out therapeutic treatment, is not faith in it, trust in the doctor, a
main factor in its success? I will not indeed say the only factor, for one cannot deny
that the physical, dietetic and chemical procedures, when properly selected, have a
real effect in securing a cure, over and above the obvious effect of their indirect
suggestion.

II

From Dr. Jung.
28th January, 1913.
With regard to your question as to the applicability of the cathartic method, the
following is my standpoint: every method is good if it serves its purpose, including
every method of suggestion, even Christian Science, Mental Healing, etc. "A truth is a
truth, when it works." It is quite another question whether a scientific physician can
answer for it to his conscience should he sell little bottles of Lourdes-water because
that suggestion is at times very useful. Even the so-called highly scientific suggestion-
therapy employs the wares of the medicine-man and the exorcising Schaman. And
please, why should it not? The public is not even now much more advanced and
continues to expect miracles from the doctor. And truly those doctors should be
deemed clever—worldly-wise in every respect—who understand the art of investing

themselves with the halo of the medicine-man. Not only have they the biggest
practices—they have also the best results. This is simply because countless physical
maladies (leaving out of count the neuroses) are complicated and burdened with
psychic elements to an extent scarcely yet suspected. The medical exorcist's whole
behaviour betrays his full valuation of the psychic element when he gives the patient
the opportunity of fixing his faith firmly upon the doctor's mysterious personality.
Thus does he win the sick man's mind, which henceforth helps him indeed to restore
his body also to health. The cure works best when the doctor really believes in his
own formulæ, otherwise he may be overcome by scientific doubt and so lose the
correct, convincing tone. I, too, for a time practised hypnotic suggestion
enthusiastically. But there befell me three dubious incidents which I want you to note:
—
1. Once there came to me to be hypnotised for various neurotic troubles a withered
peasant-woman of some fifty years old. She was not easy to hypnotise, was very
restless, kept opening her eyes—but at last I did succeed. When I waked her after
about half an hour she seized my hand and with many words testified to her
overflowing gratitude. I said: "But you are by no means cured yet, so keep your
thanks till the end of the treatment." She: "I am not thanking you for that, but—
(blushing and whispering)—because you have been so decent." So she said, looked at
me with a sort of tender admiration and departed. I gazed long at the spot where she
had stood—and asked myself, confounded, "So decent?"—good heavens! surely she
hadn't imagined, somehow or other.... This glimpse made me suspect for the first time
that possibly the loose-minded person, by means of that notorious feminine (I should
at that time have said "animal") directness of instinct, understood more about the
essence of hypnotism than I with all my knowledge of the scientific profundity of the
text-books. Therein lay my harmlessness.
2. Next came a pretty, coquettish, seventeen-year-old girl with a harassed, suspicious
mother. The young daughter had suffered since early girlhood from enuresis nocturna,
which, among other difficulties, hindered her from going to a boarding-school abroad.
At once I thought of the old woman and her wisdom. I tried to hypnotise the girl; she
laughed affectedly and prevented hypnosis for twenty minutes. Of course I kept quiet
and thought: I know why you laugh; you have already fallen in love with me, but I
will give you proof of my decency in gratitude for your wasting my time with your
challenging laughter. I succeeded in hypnotising her. Success followed at once. The
enuresis stopped, and I therefore informed the young lady later that, instead of
Wednesday, I would not see her again for hypnosis till the following Saturday. On
Saturday she arrived with a cross countenance, presaging failure. The enuresis had
come back again. I remembered my wise old woman, and asked: "When did the
enuresis return?" She (unsuspecting), "Wednesday night." I thought to myself, There it
is again, she wants to show me that I simply must see her on Wednesdays too; not to
see me for a whole long week is too much for a tender, loving heart. But I was quite

resolved to give no help to such annoying romancing, so I said, "To continue the
hypnosis would be quite wrong under these circumstances. We must drop it for quite
three weeks, to give the enuresis a chance to stop. Then come again for treatment." In
my malicious heart I knew I should then be on my holiday and so the course of
hypnotic treatment would come to an end. After the holidays my locum tenens told me
the young lady had been there with the news that the enuresis had vanished, but her
disappointment at not seeing me was very keen. The old woman was right, thought I.
3. The third case gave my joy in suggestion its death-blow. This was the manner of it.
She was a lady of sixty-five who came stumbling into the consulting-room with a
crutch. She had suffered from pain in the knee-joint for seventeen years, and this at
times kept her in bed for many weeks. No doctor had been able to cure her, and she
had tried every possible remedy of present-day medicine. After I had suffered the
stream of her narrative to flow over me for some ten minutes, I said, "I will try to
hypnotise you, perhaps that will do you good." She, "Oh yes, please do!" leaned her
head on one side and fell asleep before ever I said or did anything. She passed into
somnambulism and showed every form of hypnosis you could possibly desire. After
half an hour I had the greatest difficulty in waking her; when at last she was awake
she jumped up: "I am well, I am all right, you have cured me." I tried to make timid
objections, but her praises drowned me. She could really walk. Then I blushed and
said, embarrassed, to my colleagues: "Look! behold the wondrously successful
hypnotic therapy." That day saw the death of my connection with treatment by
suggestion; the therapeutic praise won by this case shamed and humiliated me. When,
a year later, at the beginning of my hypnotic course, the good old lady returned, this
time with the pain in her back, I was already sunk in hopeless cynicism; I saw written
on her forehead that she had just read the notice of the re-opening of my clinic in the
newspaper, that vexatious romanticism had provided her with a convenient pain in the
back so that she might have a pretext for seeing me, and again let herself be cured in
the same theatrical fashion. This proved true in every particular.
As you will understand, a man possessed of scientific conscience cannot endure such
cases without embarrassment. There ripened in me the resolve to renounce suggestion
altogether rather than to allow myself passively to be transformed into a miracle-
worker. I wanted to understand what really went on in the souls of people. It suddenly
seemed to me incredibly childish to think of dispelling an illness with charms, and
that this should be the only result of our scientific endeavours for a psychotherapy.
Thus for me the discovery of Breuer and Freud was a veritable deliverance. I took up
their method with unalloyed enthusiasm and soon recognised how right Freud was,
when at a very early date, indeed so far back as the Studien ueber Hysterie, he began
to direct a searchlight upon the accompanying circumstances of the so-called trauma. I
too soon discovered that certainly some traumata with an obvious etiological tinge are
opportunely present. But the greater number appeared highly improbable. So many of
them seemed so insignificant, even so normal, that at most one could regard them as

just providing the opportunity for the neurosis to appear. But what especially spurred
my criticism was the fact that so many traumata were simply inventions of phantasy
which had never really existed. This perception was enough to make me sceptical
about the whole trauma-theory. (But I have dealt with these matters in detail in my
lectures on the theory of psychoanalysis).[177] I could no longer suppose that the
hundred and one cathartic experiences of a phantastically puffed-up or entirely
invented trauma were anything but the effect of suggestion. It is well enough if it
helps. If one only had not a scientific conscience and that impulsion towards the truth!
I found in many cases, especially when dealing with more mentally gifted patients,
that I must recognise the therapeutic limitations of this method. It is, of course, a
definite plan, and convenient for the doctor, since it makes no particular demands
upon his intellect for new adaptations. The theory and practice are both of the
pleasantest simplicity: "The neurosis is caused by a trauma. The trauma is abreacted."
When the abreaction takes place under hypnotism, or with other magical accessories
(dark room, peculiar lighting, and the rest), I remember once more the wise old
woman, who opened my eyes not merely to the magic influence of the mesmeric
gestures, but also to the essential character of hypnotism itself. But what alienated me
once for all from this relatively efficacious indirect method of suggestion, based as it
is upon an equally efficacious false theory, was the perception I obtained at the same
time that, behind the confused deceptive intricacies of neurotic phantasies, there
stands a conflict, which may be best described as a moral one. With this there began
for me a new era of understanding. Research and therapy now coincided in the attempt
to discover the causes and the rational solution of this conflict. That is what
psychoanalysis meant to me. Whilst I had been getting this insight, Freud had built up
his sexual theory of the neurosis, and therewith had brought forward an enormous
number of questions for discussion, all of which I thought deserved the profoundest
consideration. Thus I have had the good fortune of co-operating with Freud for a long
time, and working with him in the investigation of the problem of sexuality in
neurosis. You, perhaps, know from some of my earlier work that I was always dubious
somewhat concerning the significance of sexuality.[178] This has now become the
exact point where I am no longer altogether of Freud's opinion.
I have preferred to answer your questions in rather non-sequent fashion. Whatever is
still unanswered, let me now repeat: light hypnosis and complete hypnosis are but
varying grades of intensity of unconscious attraction towards the hypnotist. Who can
here venture to draw sharp distinctions? To a critical intelligence it is unthinkable that
suggestibility and suggestion can be excluded in the cathartic method. They are
present everywhere and are universal human attributes, even with Dubois and the
psychoanalysts who think they work on purely rational lines. No technique, no self-
deception avails here—the doctor works, nolens volens—and perhaps primarily—by
means of his personality, that is by suggestion. In the cathartic treatment, what is of
far more importance to the patient than the conjuring up of old phantasies is the being

so often with the doctor, and having confidence and belief in him personally, and in
his method. The belief, the self-confidence, perhaps also the devotion with which the
doctor does his work, are far more important things to the patient (imponderabilia
though they be) than the recalling of old traumata.[179]
Ultimately we shall some day know from the history of medicine everything that has
ever been of service; then perhaps at last we may come to the really desirable therapy,
to psychotherapy. Did not even the old materia medica of filth have brilliant cures?—
cures which only faded away with the belief in it!
Because I recognise that the patient does attempt to lay hold of the doctor's
personality, in spite of all possible rational safeguards, I have formulated the demand
that the psychotherapeutist shall be held just as responsible for the cleanness of his
own hands as is the surgeon. I hold it to be an absolutely indispensable preliminary
that the psychoanalyst should himself first undergo an analysis, for his personality is
one of the chief factors in the cure.
Patients read the doctor's character intuitively and they should find in him a human
being, with faults indeed, but also a man who has striven at every point to fulfil his
own human duties in the fullest sense. I think that this is the first healing factor. Many
times I have had the opportunity of seeing that the analyst is successful with his
treatment just in so far as he has succeeded in his own moral development. I think this
answer will satisfy your question.

III

From Dr. Loÿ.
2nd February, 1913.
You answer several of my questions in a decidedly affirmative sense. You take it as
proved that in the cures by the cathartic method the main rôle is played by faith in the
doctor and in his method, and not by the "abreaction" of real or imaginary traumata. I
also. Equally I am at one with your view that the cures of the old materia medica of
filth, as well as the Lourdes cures, or those of the Mental Healers, Christian Scientists
and Persuasionists, are to be attributed to faith in the miracle-worker, rather than to
any of the methods employed.
Now comes the ticklish point: the augur can remain an augur so long as he himself
believes the will of the gods is made manifest by the entrails of the sacrificial beast.
When he no longer believes, he has to ask himself: Shall I continue to use my augur's
authority to further the welfare of the State, or shall I make use of my newer, and (I

hope) truer convictions of to-day? Both ways are possible. The first is called
opportunism; the second the pursuit of truth, and scientific honour. For a doctor, the
first way brings perhaps therapeutic success and fame; the second, reproach: such a
man is not taken seriously. What I esteem most highly in Freud and his school is just
this passionate desire for truth. But again, it is precisely here that people pronounce a
different verdict: "It is impossible for the busy practitioner to keep pace with the
development of the views of this investigator and his initiates." (Frank,
"Affektstörungen Einleitung.")
One can easily disregard this little quip, but one must take more seriously one's self-
criticism. We may have to ask ourselves whether, since science is an undivided, ever-
flowing stream, we are justified in relinquishing on conscientious grounds any method
or combination of methods by means of which we know cures can be achieved?
Looking more closely at the fundamental grounds of your aversion to the use of
hypnosis (or semi-hypnosis, the degree matters nothing) in treatment by suggestion,
(which as a matter of fact every doctor and every therapeutic method makes use of
willy-nilly, no matter what it is called), it is clear that what has disgusted you in
hypnotism is at bottom nothing but the so-called "transference" to the doctor, which
you, with your unalloyed psychoanalytic treatment, can get rid of as little as any one
else, for indeed it plays a chief part in the success of the treatment. Your insistence
that the psychoanalyst must be answerable for the cleanness of his own hands—(here I
agree with you unreservedly)——is an inevitable conclusion. But, after all, does
anything more "augurish" really cling to the use made of hypnosis in
psychotherapeutic treatment, than to the quite inevitable use made of the "transference
to the doctor" for therapeutic ends? In either case we must perforce "take shares" in
faith as a healing agent. As for the feeling which the patient—whether man or woman
—entertains for the doctor, is there never anything in the background save conscious
or unconscious sexual desire? In many cases your view is most certainly correct; more
than one woman has been frank enough to confess that the beginning of hypnosis was
accompanied by voluptuous pleasure. But this is not true in all instances—or how
would you explain the underlying feeling in the hypnotising of one animal by another,
e.g. snake and bird? Surely you can say that there the feeling of fear reigns, fear which
is an inversion of the libido, such as comes upon the bride in that hypnoidal state
before she yields to her husband wherein pure sexual desire rules, though possibly it
contains an element of fear. However this may be, from your three cases I cannot draw
any ethical distinction between the "unconscious readiness towards the hypnotist" and
the "transference to the doctor" which should avail to condemn a combination of
hypnotism and psychoanalysis as a method of treatment. You will ask why I cling to
the use of hypnotism; or rather of hypnoidal states. Because I think there are cases that
can be much more rapidly cured thereby, than through a purely psychoanalytic
treatment. For example, in no more than five or six interviews I cured a fifteen-year-
old girl who had suffered from enuresis nocturna from infancy, but was otherwise

thoroughly healthy, gifted, and pre-eminent at school: she had previously tried all
sorts of treatment without any result.
Perhaps I ought to have sought out the psychoanalytic connexion between the enuresis
and her psychosexual attitude and explained it to her, etc., but I could not, she had
only the short Easter holidays for treatment: so I just hypnotised her and the tiresome
trouble vanished. It was a lasting cure.
In psychoanalysis I use hypnosis to help the patient to overcome "resistances."
Further, I use light hypnosis in association with psychoanalysis, to hasten the advance
when the "re-education" stage comes.
For example, a patient afflicted with washing-mania was sent to me after a year's
psychocathartic treatment by Dr. X. The symbolic meaning of her washing-ceremonial
was first made plain to her; she became more and more agitated during the
"abreaction" of alleged traumata in childhood, because she had persuaded herself by
auto-suggestion that she was too old to be cured, that she saw no "images," etc. So I
used hypnosis to help her to diminish the number of her washings, "so that the
anxiety-feeling would be banished"; and to train her to throw things on the ground and
pick them up again without washing her hands afterwards, etc.
In view of these considerations, if you feel disposed to go further into the matter, I
should be grateful if you would furnish me with more convincing reasons why
hypnotic treatment must be dispensed with; and explain how to do without it, or with
what to replace it in such cases. Were I convinced, I would give it up as you have
done, but what convinced you has, so far, not convinced me. Si duo faciunt idem, non
est idem.
Now I want to consider another important matter to which you alluded, but only
cursorily, and to put one question: behind the neurotic phantasies there stands, you
say, almost always (or always) a moral conflict which belongs to the present moment.
That is perfectly clear to me. Research and therapy coincide; their task is to search out
the foundations and the rational solution of the conflict. Good. But can the rational
solution always be found? "Reasons of expediency" so often bar the way, varying with
the type of patient, for instance children, young girls and women from "pious"
catholic or protestant families. Again that accursed opportunism! A colleague of mine
was perfectly right when he began to give sexual enlightenment to a young French
patient, a boy who was indulging in masturbation. Whereupon, like one possessed, in
rushed a bigoted grandmother, and a disagreeable sequel ensued. How to act in these
and similar cases? What to do in cases where there arises a moral conflict between
love and duty (a conflict in married life)?—or in general between instinct and moral
duty? What to do in the case of a girl afflicted with hysterical or anxiety symptoms,
needing love and having no chance to marry, either because she cannot find a suitable
man or because, being "well-connected," she wants to remain chaste? Simply try to

get rid of the symptoms by suggestion? But that is wrong as soon as one knows of a
better way. How to reconcile these two consciences: that of the man who does not
want to confine his fidelity to truth within his own four walls; and that of the doctor
who must cure, or if he dare not cure according to his real convictions (owing to
opportunist-motives), must at least procure some alleviation? We live in the present,
but with the ideas and ideals of the future. That is our conflict. How resolve it?

IV

From Dr. Jung.
4th February, 1913.
You have put me in some perplexity by the questions in your yesterday's letter. You
have rightly grasped the spirit which dictated my last. I am glad you, too, recognise
this spirit. There are not very many who can boast of such tolerance. I should deceive
myself if I regarded my standpoint as that of a practical physician. First and foremost I
am a scientist; naturally that gives me a different outlook upon many problems. In my
last letter I certainly left out of count the doctor's practical needs, but chiefly that I
might show you on what grounds we might be moved to relinquish hypnotic therapy.
To remove the first objection at once, let me say that I did not give up hypnotism
because I desired to avoid dealing with the basic motives of the human soul, but rather
because I wanted to battle with them directly and openly. When once I understood
what kind of forces play a part in hypnotism I gave it up, simply to get rid of all the
indirect advantages of this method. As we psychoanalysts see regretfully every day—
and our patients also—we do not work with the "transference to the doctor,"[180] but
against it and in spite of it. It is just not upon the faith of the sick man that we can
build, but upon his criticism. So much would I say at the outset upon this delicate
question.
As your letter shows, we are at one in regard to the theoretical aspect of treatment by
suggestion. So we can now apply ourselves to the further task of coming to mutual
understanding about the practical question.
Your remarks on the physician's dilemma—whether to be magician or scientist—bring
us to the heart of the discussion. I strive to be no fanatic—although there are not a few
who reproach me with fanaticism. I contend not for the application of the
psychoanalytic method solely and at all costs, but for the recognition of every method
of investigation and treatment. I was a medical practitioner quite long enough to
realise that practice obeys, and should obey, other laws than does the search after
truth. One might almost say practice must first and foremost submit to the laws of

opportunism. The scientist does great injustice to the practitioner if he reproaches him
for not using the "one true" scientific method. As I said to you in my last letter: "A
truth is a truth, when it works." But on the other hand, the practitioner must not
reproach the scientist if in his search for truth and for newer and better methods, he
makes trial of unusual ways. After all, it is not the practitioner but the investigator, and
the latter's patient, who will have to bear any injury that may arise. The practitioner
must certainly use those methods which he knows how to use to greatest advantage,
and which give him the best relative results. My tolerance, indeed, extends, as you
see, even to Christian Science. But I deem it most uncalled for that Frank, a practising
doctor, should depreciate research in which he cannot participate, and particularly the
very line of research to which he owes his own method. It is surely time to cease this
running down of every new idea. No one asks Frank and all whom he represents to
become psychoanalysts; we grant them the right to their existence, why should they
always seek to cut ours short?
As my own "cures" show you, I do not doubt the effect of suggestion. Only I had the
idea that I could perhaps discover something still better. This hope has been amply
justified. Not for ever shall it be said—

"The good attained is oft of fairer still
The enemy, calling it vain illusion, falsehood's snare."

I confess frankly were I doing your work I should often be in difficulties if I relied
only on psychoanalysis. I can scarcely imagine a general practice, especially in a
sanatorium, with no other means than psychoanalysis. At Dr. Bircher's sanatorium in
Zürich the principle of psychoanalysis is adopted completely by several of the
assistants, but a whole series of other important educative influences are also brought
to bear upon the patients, without which matters would probably go very badly. In my
own purely psychoanalytic practice I have often regretted that I could not avail myself
of the other methods of re-education that are naturally at hand in an institution—this,
of course, only in special cases where one is dealing with extremely uncontrolled,
uneducated persons. Which of us has shown any disposition to assert that we have
discovered a panacea? There are cases in which psychoanalysis operates less
effectively than any other known method. But who has ever claimed psychoanalysis
should be employed in every sort of case, and on every occasion? Only a fanatic could
maintain such a view. Patients for whom psychoanalysis is suitable have to be
selected. I unhesitatingly send cases I think unsuitable to other doctors. As a matter of
fact this does not happen often, because patients have a way of sorting themselves out.
Those who go to an analyst usually know quite well why they go to him and not to
some one else. However, there are very many neurotics well suited for
psychoanalysis. In these matters every scheme must be looked at in due perspective. It
is never quite wise to try to batter down a stone wall with your head. Whether simple
hypnotism, the cathartic treatment, or psychoanalysis shall be used, must be
determined by the conditions of the case and the preference of the particular doctor.
Every doctor will obtain the best results with the instrument he knows best.
But, barring exceptions, I must say definitely that for me, and for my patients also,
psychoanalysis proves itself better than any other method. This is not merely a matter
of feeling; from manifold experiences I know many cases can indeed be cured by
psychoanalysis which are refractory to all other methods of treatment. I have many
colleagues whose experience is the same, even men engaged exclusively in practice. It
is scarcely to be supposed that a method altogether contemptible would meet with so
much support.
When once psychoanalysis has been applied in a suitable case, it is imperative that
rational solutions of the conflicts should be found. The objection is at once advanced
that many conflicts are intrinsically incapable of solution. That view is sometimes
taken because only an external solution is thought of—and that, at bottom, is no real
solution at all. If a man cannot get on with his wife he naturally thinks the conflict
would be solved if he were to marry some one else. If such marriages are examined
they are seen to be no solution whatsoever. The old Adam enters upon the new

marriage and bungles it just as badly as he did the earlier one. A real solution comes
only from within, and only then because the patient has been brought to a new
standpoint.
Where an external solution is possible no psychoanalysis is necessary; in seeking an
internal solution we encounter the peculiar virtues of psychoanalysis. The conflict
between "love and duty" must be solved upon that particular plane of character where
"love and duty" are no longer in opposition, for indeed they really are not so. The
familiar conflict between "instinct and conventional morality" must be solved in such
a way that both factors are taken satisfactorily into account, and this is only possible
through a change of character. This change psychoanalysis can bring about. In such
cases external solutions are worse than none at all. Naturally the particular situation
dictates which road the doctor must ultimately follow, and what is then his duty. I
regard the conscience-searching question of the doctor's remaining true to his
scientific convictions as rather unimportant in comparison with the incomparably
weightier question as to how he can best help his patient. The doctor must, on
occasion, be able to play the augur. Mundus vult decipi—but the cure is no deception.
It is true that there is a conflict between ideal conviction and concrete possibility. But
we should ill prepare the ground for the seed of the future, were we to forget the tasks
of the present, and sought only to cultivate ideals. That is but idle dreaming. Do not
forget that Kepler cast horoscopes for money, and that countless artists have been
condemned to work for wages.

V.

From Dr. Loÿ.
9th February, 1913.
The selfsame passion for truth possesses us both when we think of pure research, and
the same desire to cure when we are considering therapy. For the scientist, as for the
doctor, we desire the fullest freedom in all directions, fullest freedom to select and use
the methods which promise the best fulfilment of their ends at any moment. Here we
are at one; but there remains a postulate we must establish to the satisfaction of others
if we want recognition for our views.
First and foremost there is a question that must be answered, an old question asked
already in the Gospels: What is Truth? I think clear definitions of fundamental ideas
are most necessary. How shall we contrive a working definition of the conception
"Truth"? Perhaps an allegory may help us.

Imagine a gigantic prism extending in front of the sun, so that its rays are broken up,
but suppose man entirely ignorant of this fact. I exclude the invisible, chemical and
ultra-violet rays. Men who live in a blue-lit region will say: "The sun sends forth blue
light only." They are right and yet they are wrong: from their standpoint they are
capable of perceiving only a fragment of truth. And so too with the inhabitants of the
red, yellow, and in-between regions. And they will all scourge and slay one another to
force their belief in their fragment upon the others—till, grown wiser through
travelling in each others' regions, they come to the harmonious agreement that the sun
sends out light of varying colours. That comprehends more truth, but it is not yet the
Truth. Only when the giant lens shall have recombined the split-up rays, and when the
invisible, chemical and heat rays have given proof of their own specific effects, will a
view more in accordance with the facts be able to arise, and men will perceive that the
sun emits white light which is split up by the prism into differing rays with different
peculiarities, which rays can be recombined by the lens into one mass of white light.
This example shows sufficiently well that the road to Truth leads through far-reaching
and comparative observations, the results of which must be controlled by the help of
freely chosen experiments, until well-grounded hypotheses and theories can be put
forward; but these hypotheses and theories will fall to the ground as soon as a single
new observation or experiment contradicts them.
The way is difficult, and in the end all man ever attains to is relative truth. But such
relative truth suffices for the time being, if it serves to explain the most important
actual concatenations of the past, to light up present problems, to predict those of the
future, so that we are then in a position to achieve adaptation through our knowledge.
But absolute truth could be accessible only to omniscience, aware of all possible
concatenations and combinations; that is not possible, for the concatenations and their
combinations are infinite. Accordingly, we shall never know more than an
approximate truth. Should new relationships be discovered, new combinations built
up, then the picture changes, and with it the entire possibilities in knowledge and
power. To what revolutions in daily life does not every new scientific discovery lead:
how absurdly little was the beginning of our first ideas of electricity, how
inconceivably great the results! Time and again it is necessary to repeat this
commonplace, because one sees how life is always made bitter for the innovators in
every scientific field, and now is it being made especially so for the disciples of the
psychoanalytic school. Of course, every one admits the truth of this platitude so long
as it is a matter of "academic" discussion, but only so long; just as soon as a concrete
case has to be considered, sympathies and antipathies rush into the foreground and
darken judgment. And therefore the scientist must fight tirelessly, appealing to logic
and honour, for freedom of research in every field, and must not permit authority, of
no matter what political or religious tinge, to advance reasons of opportunism to
destroy or restrict this freedom; opportunist reasons may be and are in place
elsewhere, not here. Finally we must completely disavow that maxim of the Middle

Ages: "Philosophia ancilla Theologiæ," and no less, too, the war-cries of the
university class-rooms with their partisanship of one or other religious or political
party. All fanaticism is the enemy of science, which must above all things be
independent.
And when we turn from the search for Truth back once more to therapeutics, we see
immediately that here too we are in agreement. In practice expediency must rule: the
doctor from the yellow region must adapt himself to the sick in the yellow region, as
must the doctor in the blue region, to his patients; both have the same object in view.
And the doctor who lives in the white light of the sun must take into consideration the
past experiences of his patients from the yellow or blue region, in spite of, or perhaps
rather because of, his own wider knowledge. In such cases the way to healing will be
long and difficult, may indeed lead more easily into a cul-de-sac, than in cases where
he has to do with patients who, like himself, have already come to a knowledge of the
white sunlight, or, one might say, when his patient-material has "already sorted itself
out." With such sorted-out material the psychoanalyst can employ psychoanalysis
exclusively; and may deem himself happy in that he need not "play the augur." Now,
what are these psychoanalytic methods? If I understand you aright, from beginning to
end it is a question of dealing directly and openly with the basic forces of the human
soul, so that the analysed person, be he sick or sound or in some stage between—for
health and sickness flow over by imperceptible degrees into one another—shall
gradually have his eyes opened to the drama that is being acted within him. He has to
come to an understanding of the development of the hostile automatisms of his
personality, and by means of this understanding he must gradually learn to free
himself from them; he must learn, too, how to employ and strengthen the favourable
automatisms. He must learn to make his self-knowledge real, and of practical use, to
control his soul's workings so that a balance may be established between the spheres
of emotion and reason. And what share in all this has the physician's suggestion? I can
scarcely believe that suggestion can be altogether avoided till the patient feels himself
really free. Such freedom, it goes without saying, is the main thing to strive for, and it
must be active. The sick man who simply obeys a suggestion, obeys it only just so
long as the "transference to the doctor" remains potent.
But if he wishes to be able to adjust himself to all circumstances he must have
fortified himself "from within." He should no longer need the crutches of faith, but be
capable of encountering all theoretical and practical problems squarely, and of solving
them by himself. That is surely your view? Or have I not understood correctly?
I next ask, must not every single case be treated differently, of course within the limits
of the psychoanalytic method? For if every case is a case by itself, it must indeed
demand individual treatment.
"Il n'y a pas de maladies, il n'y a que des malades," said a French doctor whose name
escapes me. But on broad lines, what course, from a technical point of view, does

analysis take, and what deviations occur most frequently? That I would gladly learn
from you. I take for granted that all "augurs' tricks," darkened rooms, masquerading,
chloroform, are out of the question.
Psychoanalysis—purged so far as is humanly possible from suggestive influence—
appears to have an essential difference from Dubois' psychotherapy. With Dubois,
from the beginning conversation about the past is forbidden, and "the moral reasons
for recovery" placed in the forefront; whilst psychoanalysis uses the subconscious
material from the patient's past as well as present, for present self-understanding.
Another difference lies in the conception of morality: morals are above all "relative."
But what essential forms shall they assume at those moments when one can hardly
avoid suggestion? You will say, the occasion must decide. Agreed, as regards older
people, or adults, who have to live in an unenlightened milieu. But if one is dealing
with children, the seed of the future, is it not a sacred duty to enlighten them as to the
shaky foundations of the so-called "moral" conceptions of the past, which have only a
dogmatic basis; is it not a duty to educate them into full freedom by courageously
unveiling Truth? I ask this not so much with regard to the analysing doctor as to the
teacher. May not the creation of free schools be looked for as one task for the
psychoanalyst?

VI.

From Dr. Jung.
11th February, 1913.
The idea of the relativity of "Truth" has been current for ages, but whether true or not,
it does not stand in the way of anything save the beliefs of dogma and authority.
You ask me, or indeed tell me—what psychoanalysis is. Before considering your
views, permit me first to try and mark out the territory and definition of
psychoanalysis. Psychoanalysis is primarily just a method—but a method complying
with all the rigorous demands insisted upon to-day by the conception "method." Let it
be made plain at once that psychoanalysis is not an anamnesis, as those who know
everything without learning are pleased to believe. It is essentially a method for the
exploration of the unconscious associations, into which no question of the conscious
self enters. Again, it is not a kind of examination of the nature of an intelligence test,
though this mistake is common in certain circles. It is no cathartic method, abreacting
real and phantastic "traumata," with or without hypnosis. Psychoanalysis is a method
which makes possible the analytic reduction of the psychic content to its simplest
expression, and the discovery of the line of least resistance in the development of a

harmonious personality. In neurosis, straightforward direction of life's energies is
lacking, because opposing tendencies traverse and hinder psychological adaptation.
Psychoanalysis, so far as our present knowledge of it goes, thus appears to be simply a
rational nerve-therapy.
For the technical application of psychoanalysis no programme can be formulated.
There are only general principles, and, for the individual case, working rules. (Here let
me refer you to Freud's work in volume I. of the Internationale Zeitschrift für
Ärztliche Psychoanalyse.) My one working rule is to conduct the analysis as a
perfectly ordinary, sensible conversation, and to avoid all appearance of medical
magic.
The leading principle of the psychoanalytic technique is to analyse the psychic
material which offers itself then and there. Every interference on the part of the
analyst, with the object of inducing the analysis to follow some systematic course, is a
gross mistake in technique. So-called chance is the law and the order of
psychoanalysis.
Naturally in the beginning of the analysis the anamnesis and the diagnosis come first.
The subsequent analytic process develops quite differently in every case. To give rules
is well-nigh impossible. All one can say is that very frequently, quite at the beginning,
a series of resistances have to be overcome, resistances against both method and man.
Patients having no idea of psychoanalysis must first be given some understanding of
the method. In those who already know something of it there are very often many
misconceptions to set right, and frequently one has to deal also with many reproaches
cast by scientific criticism. In either case the misconceptions rest upon arbitrary
interpretations, superficiality, or complete ignorance of the facts.
If the patient is himself a doctor his special knowledge may prove extremely tiresome.
To intelligent colleagues it is best to give a complete theoretic exposition. With foolish
and limited persons you begin quietly with analysis. In the unconscious of such folk
there is a confederate that never refuses help. From the analysis of the very earliest
dreams the emptiness of the criticism is obvious; and ultimately of the whole beautiful
edifice of supposedly scientific scepticism nothing remains, save a little heap of
personal vanity. I have had amusing experiences here.
It is best to let the patient talk freely and to confine oneself to pointing out connexions
here and there. When the conscious material is exhausted we come to the dreams,
which furnish us with the subliminal material. If people have no dreams, as they
allege, or if they forget them, there is usually still some conscious material that ought
to be produced and discussed, but is kept back owing to resistances. When the
conscious is emptied then come the dreams, which are indeed, as you know, the chief
material of the analysis.

How the "Analysis" is to be made and what is to be said to patients depends, firstly,
upon the material to be dealt with; secondly, on the doctor's skill; and, thirdly, on the
patient's capacity. I must insist that no one ought to undertake analysis except on the
basis of a sound knowledge of the subject; that necessitates an intimate understanding
of the existing literature. Without this, the work may be bungled.
I do not know what else to tell you beforehand. I must wait for further questions. In
regard to questions of morality and education let me say that these belong to the later
stages of the analysis, wherein they find—or should find—solutions for themselves.
You cannot compile recipes out of psychoanalysis.

VII

From Dr. Loÿ.
10th February, 1913.
You write that a solid knowledge of the psychoanalytic literature is necessary for
initiation into psychoanalysis. I should agree, but with a certain reservation: the more
one reads, the more one notices how many contradictions there are among the
different writers, and less and less does one know—until one has had sufficient
personal experience—to which view to give adherence, since quite frequently
assertions are made without any proof. For example, I had thought (strengthened in
the view by my own experience of suggestion-therapy) that the transference to the
doctor might be an essential condition in the patient's cure. But you write: "We
psychoanalysts do not build upon the patient's faith, rather do we have to deal with his
criticism." And Stekel writes, on the other hand (Zentralblatt für Psychoanalyse, 3rd
year, vol. IV., p. 176, "Ausgänge der psychoanalytischen Kuren"): "Love for the
doctor can become a power essential to recovery. Neurotics never get well for love of
themselves. They recover out of love for the doctor. They give him that pleasure."
Here again, surely, stress is laid on the power of suggestion? And yet Stekel too thinks
he is a psychoanalyst pure and simple. On the other hand, you say in your letter of
Jan. 20th that "the doctor's personality is one of the main factors in the cure." Should
not this expression be translated: "When the doctor inspires respect in the patient and
is worthy of his love, the patient will gladly follow his example and endeavour to
recover from his neurosis and fulfil his human duties in the widest sense"? I think one
can only emerge from all this uncertainty by means of much personal experience,
which will indicate also which way best suits one's own personality and brings the
greatest therapeutic success. This is a further reason for undergoing analysis oneself,
to recognise fully what one is. I was decidedly in agreement with your definition of
psychoanalysis in its first (negative) portion: psychoanalysis is neither an anamnesis

nor a method of examination after the fashion of a test for intelligence, nor yet a
psychocatharsis. In your second (positive) part, however, your definition:
"Psychoanalysis is a method of discovering the line of least resistance to the
harmonious development of the whole personality," seems to me valid for the patient's
inertia, but not for the releasing of the sublimated libido with a view to the new
direction of life. You consider that the neurosis causes a lack of singleness of aim in
life, because opposing tendencies hinder psychic adaptation. True, but will not this
psychic adaptation eventuate quite differently according as the patient, when well,
directs his life either to the avoidance of pain merely (line of least resistance) or to the
achievement of the greatest pleasure?—In the first case he would be more passive, he
would merely reconcile himself "to the emptiness of reality" (Stekel, loc. cit., p. 187).
In the second he would be "filled with enthusiasm" for something or other or some
person or other. But what will determine this choice of his as to whether he will be
passive rather than active in his "second life"? In your view, will the determining
factor manifest itself spontaneously in the course of the analysis, and must the doctor
carefully avoid swaying the balance to one side or other by his influence? Or must he,
if he does not renounce the right to canalise the patient's libido in some particular
direction, renounce the right to be called a psychoanalyst, and is he to be regarded as
"moderate" or altogether as "wild"?[181] (Cf. Furtmüller, "Wandlungen in der
Freudschen Schule," Zentralblatt für Psychoanalyse, vols. IV., V., 3rd year, p. 191.)
But I think you have already answered this question, since in your last letter you
write: "Every interference on the part of the analyst is a gross mistake in technique.
So-called chance is the law and the order of psychoanalysis." But, torn from its
context, perhaps this does not quite give your whole meaning. With regard to detailed
explanation of the psychoanalytic method before the beginning of the analysis, I think
you agree with Freud and Stekel: give too little rather than too much. For the
knowledge instilled into a patient remains more or less half-knowledge, and half-
knowledge engenders "the desire to know better" (than the analyst), which only
impedes progress. So, after brief explanation, first "let the patient talk," then and there
point out connexions, then after the exhaustion of the conscious material, take dreams.
But there another difficulty confronts me which I have already pointed out in our
talks: you find the patient adapting himself to the doctor's tone, language, jargon,
whether from conscious imitation, transference, or even resistance, when he can fight
the analyst with his own weapons; how then can you possibly prevent his beginning to
produce all manner of phantasies as supposedly real traumata of early childhood, and
dreams supposedly spontaneous which are in reality, though not designedly, directly
or indirectly suggested? I then told you that Forel ("Der Hypnotismus") made his
patients dream just what he wanted, and I have myself easily repeated the experiment.
But if the analyst desires to suggest nothing, should he remain silent for the most part
and let the patient speak—except that in interpreting dreams he may lay before the
patient his own interpretation?