the witticism a personal acquaintance, an historical character, or an easily recognised professional or social type.

The second group of questions we asked above, related to the alleged economy of psychic expenditure, the common result, on Freud's view, of all the techniques of wit. According to the theory of pleasure already hinted at, pleasure is the feeling of, or in, relatively unobstructed, positive behaviour, and it is impossible to understand therefore how pleasure can ever result from the absence of behaviour, from not doing something which might have been done. The term 'economy,' in fact, is unfortunately chosen. There is no pleasure whatever to be got out of the mere saving of £100; what is pleasant is the positive behaviour of spending or hoarding, actually or prospectively, the £100 saved. Present economy of psychic expenditure, if it is legitimate to speak in this way at all, is valuable only in so far as it prepares for, or makes possible, future psychic expenditure. It is the future expenditure which may or may not-be pleasant and, apart from that, and from the anticipation of that, the mere saving of the expenditure now is absolutely indifferent. It is not behaviour; it is the absence of behaviour.

Nor has it ever been suggested, so far as I know, by Freud or anyone else, that the secret of the enjoyment of wit now is really anticipation of something that will be done in the future.

The truth is that there is no such economy of psychic expenditure in wit. Words are economised, certainly, but there is no such correlation as Freud supposes between the one kind of economy and the other. He himself admits that the economy is often more apparent than real. It reminds him "of the manner in which many a housewife economises when she spends time and money to reach a distant market because the vegetables can there be had a cent cheaper1." Exactly; the comparison is apt, and it virtually cancels out all the rest of what Freud has to say on economy of psychic expenditure. Take, for example, the play on words. Here one word does duty for two ideas, or, to speak more accurately, two words with the same sound are merged into one. Freud's best example, a very good one, is the famous witticism levelled at Napoleon III, when, immediately after coming to the throne, he confiscated the estates of the House of Orleans; someone said of this act, 'C'est le premier vol de l'aigle.' Now it is to be remembered that Freud insists on the independence of the wit technique, as a source of pleasure. In the present instance he would say, apparently, that we obtain pleasure not merely from the satisfaction of the hostile tendency against Napoleon III, 1 Freud, Wit and its relation to the Unconscious, p. 52.

but also from the form into which the witticism is cast. The bridge of the witticism is the word 'vol,' and, so far as I can make out, Freud would argue that by means of this bridge we pass easily, 'economically,' from the idea of flight to the idea of theft. But examination of our behaviour does not bear out this argument. The witticism was made for people accustomed to French as their native tongue, that is to say, for people speaking and hearing French words almost automatically. Now the fact is that adults, in ordinary conversation and still more in reading, normally hear words of their own language without really listening to them. They have got the habit so firmly set of making straight for the meaning of the words, and fixing their attention there, that the sound of the words practically escapes attention. The sound is acted on, but not attended to. And if, for any reason, we deliberately attend to the sound of the wordsif, for instance, we are phonetists, like Higgins in Mr Shaw's Pygmalion-it is probable that we shall allow the meaning of a great many of the words to escape attention in the same way. To attend to both sound and meaning at approximately the same time requires effort, sometimes considerable effort, as we quickly discover when we are listening to a conversation in a foreign language in which we are not very fluent. And the characteristic thing about the play on words, as about all forms of wit which depend in some measure on the sound of words, is just that we must attend, at approximately the same time, to both sound and meaning. It is not enough to attend to sound alone, since, manifestly, wit must always be understood.

It would seem, therefore, that the exact oppposite of what Freud maintains is true of wit; instead of economising psychic expenditure it demands additional psychic expenditure. And this is in accord with the fact, sufficiently notorious, that wit is unusually fatiguing. There is no more exhausting companion than the novelist who is always scintillating.

Freud has confused brevity with economy. Wit must be brief and 'to the point,' not in order that we shall be saved labour, but, on the contrary, in order that our labour may be increased. The witticism is compressed in order that it may be rather more difficult to understand. Ordinary speech has regular ways, to which we grow accustomed, of marking the connections between ideas. In wit these connections are not regularly marked, and we have to make good the deficiency ourselves. Strictly, that is equivalent to obstructing our behaviour, and therefore a cause, not of pleasure but quite definitely of displeasure. And if the compression is so severe that the witticism fails to be understood in the end, it remains a source of displeasure. But the final understanding of

the witticism saves us from this fate. Pleasure and displeasure are complementary feeling elements; without displeasure there is no pleasure; and pleasure increases in intensity in proportion to the amount of displeasure (the result of obstruction) it has to overcome, provided it does overcome it. If the understanding of a witticism, within a reasonable period of time-undue delay allows interest to be dispersed-enables us to satisfy some sexual or hostile impulse, then the more effort we have had to put forth in the process to get over obstructions, the greater will be the feeling of pleasure in the total behaviour. But pleasure comes from effort, not from the economy of it.

59

ONE HYSTERIC AND "MANY PHYSICIANS,"

OR

AS OTHERS SEE US.

[The following letter, the authenticity of which is vouched for by Dr Millais Culpin, was received by a lady in England from a friend in Canada. A few passages referring to private affairs have been deleted. What is here printed conveys a lesson to all who have to do with those patients who, more than any others, suffer much at the hands of many physicians. ED.]

My dear

Feb. 6th, 1921.

I came home from camp in August 1919, feeling that recovery was not far away. I am not sure what happened, but the news of Mr -'s death in September seemed to start a backward trend-not apparent perhaps to every one, but to me it seemed the very best thing in my life had suddenly gone. His letters kept up a living touch, and I just longed to get home and see him again. However, from then I had the most terrible time; in the November Dr H. said he could not bear to see me for three minutes, much less go through with it as I was, week after week. It was then we started to use chloroform for the attacks, and oh, the relief!-Here was something which acted instantly, whereas morphine took at least of an hour, besides which, knowing the tendency of morphine, I only dared take it when life itself was threatened.

From then on I could not get out of bed; excessive trembling, cramping, and heart thumping almost to suffocation; but comparatively easy in between if I remained in bed and just whiffed chloroform if I had to see folk. In March 1920 I had another terrific attack, so violent that I simply tore J.'s waistcoat etc., as the cramps twisted and turned me. Well, he thought I was going home, that time. And the nervous shock knocked him up; for three weeks he was in bed. Since then I have never been without chloroform and morphine at my bedside.

Then came the moving, through which I got fairly well, except that in going a few steps from the auto to the house I once more almost died. I had whisky in one pocket and chloroform in the other, and as J. was trying to carry me up the stairs, perfectly upright and stiff as a tree trunk, I could not breathe and tried to whisper "Whisky"; instead of which a spasm sent it out with a yell, "WHISKY," which, as we were then in a prohibition town, had its funny side.

However, I eventually got landed indoors and into bed, and have not been down the stairs since, except for an ambulance trip, to which I am leading up.

Now dear

do not, for one moment, imagine me a poor suffering piece of humanity, but think of me very much as of yore; saying the most atrocious things and having a good deal of funny times, but with such a subconscious self always at work that I might make the most absurd joke, and go perfectly

rigid, and have chloroform, all within two or three seconds. Once, after a very bad attack, while J. and Dr X. were watching so anxiously (but I know the second the worst is over, by the relaxation) I said, "Doctor, what will you call this on the death certificate?" He looked startled, and said, “Why,” so sympathetically anxious. "Well, because I have just read that Cromwell died from Tertian Bastard Ague, and I don't want anything like that." Well, in a second we were all laughing. "But," said Dr X., "No, I call it Decimated Sclerosis of the Spinal Cord"; so there you have it, up to Aug. 24th, 1920.

Then some of our doctors from overseas came back, and once more Dr X. got busy trying to find someone who might know more about it. First we had a germ specialist, and had a blood test everything negative. So there was no tuberculosis, or any trace of disease. He said, "Muscular, absolutely,will probably leave her as suddenly as it came." I forgot to tell him it had been a long time on the way.

He, in turn, was so much interested that he wanted another returned doctor, at present President of the Medical Society, to see me. He came (Dr B.) and put me through all nervous tests, chloroforming whenever I was too bad. He was inclined to Dr X.'s view of the spinal cord, but would say nothing, as none of the nerves seemed worn out, even to the extremities of the toes they responded all right when I was lying down; but neither doctor attempted to stand me up, although I told them that I could, if they weren't there. Well, Dr B. had met XYZ. overseas, and had invited him to -(Consultant Neurologist to. Practically the highest authority on nerves in the realm). He was sure XYZ. would be interested, as it was so extraordinary. In a few days I went to the hospital in the ambulance, just chloroforming all the way. I couldn't pretend to tell you the horror of the nurses at my daring to have chloroform, and they walked the bottle away, but how they came back on the double quick with it, and how all the doctors left me to it! They did not know who I was; at first I was entered as Dr B.'s patient, and when I tried to explain that I was not there for ordinary treatment, but was privileged as XYZ.'s patient, they all thought I was more than a little touched.

However, Dr B. came in that afternoon, and I was left in peace until Dr X. brought in XYZ. next day. Well, all the morning I almost prayed Dr B. would be with them-but he was so afraid that I should be a little more at ease with him, and he wanted me at my worst, so he stayed away, for which I was very very thankful afterwards. Dr XYZ. shook hands, I put on my very nicest smile and said, "Good morning, doctor. It is very good of you to spare your valuable time to bother with me." "Not at all, Mrs P., if I can do you any good." By this time my sweetest smile was gone, and I was panting like a dog on a summer's day, and jerking away up the bed. Dr B. had purposely refused to give Dr XYZ. any history, so that all his diagnosis would be quite unbiassed. "Tell me, Mrs P., how long have you been like this?" "Five years.' "Five years you have been like this, but not like this all the time?" "No, only if I see people, or if I attempt to do certain things; for instance, if I go to make a cake I can put all the ingredients together, but immediately I go to mix it I go perfectly rigid and cannot move; or perhaps for weeks I can walk about the bedroom, but if I go to step outside the bedroom (even though I count 20 steps across the bedroom and say, 'Well, if I can do 20 steps in the bedroom I can do it in the hall') I cannot; I go into these attacks. And this is nothing; as a rule I tighten so that life itself is threatened." (All this between gasps and spasms