wrong there is more for him to see. The idea of a honeymoon actually enters his head. To his conscious mind the honeymoon presents itself abstractly, almost as a figure of speech, and is in no way related to her who should share it with him. Nevertheless he does connect the idea with his former quests, for he writes to C. that his new discovery is a most desirable acquisition to the kingdom. What, we may ask, can have produced this change of feeling? At first the cause remained obscure, but, as in the preceding history, events have been placed in chronological order, the reader will be in possession of the clue. B., on returning to partial work, is more restless than ever, and more aware that something in his life needs explanation. At this time the second recurrent dream makes its appearance. In this dream B. pictures himself as walking along a narrow path in the dark; there are towering cliffs on one hand and a river on the other; always he is looking for someone, who is hidden round a corner; the water of the river sometimes flows across his path, and then he fears to go on lest there should be no sure foundation under it; occasionally he is irritated and confused by a ray of light which flashes for a moment right into his eyes. From this dream he awakes in a fright.

Knowing what we do now of B.'s history, the interpretation does not present much difficulty. The dark narrow path reveals itself as his path through life. It reminds him of the darkness which he experienced when preaching to his sister and of the darkness which results from his intermittent blindness. The towering cliffs bring to his mind the towering size of the man who had attempted to play with him sexually. Then he thinks of Falstaff, whom he regards as the incarnation of the physical and primitive with his great bulk, his crude jokes and his boasting, but cowardly attitude. Threatening cliffs, great size and the mass of the bed clothes pressing on him make B. think directly of sexuality.

=

=

The water brings suddenly to his mind the stream of generation and he remarks excitedly, “I think of immortality; my children carrying on even when I am dead." (We may here remember B.'s early associations with water urine developing chemical impregnating fluid.) No foundation under the water when it floods over reminds him of the feeling he had at Oxford-"where should I stand if the Bible proved untrue: I should have no foundation in my life." The water evidently requires to be kept in its proper channel, but constantly threatens to break bounds.

The light flashing in his eyes, the dread of which occurs also apart from the dream, brings before him times when he has been, as it were, wilfully blind. "Many times he has been aware of the double-barrelled

feeling of wishing to see things and yet at the same time wishing not to see them"; a feeling which has invariably been accompanied by irritability. Now he thinks of the text, "Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God." The converse of this "if your eyes have been used to look at sin they will never be able to see God"—was a phrase underlined in one of his childish sermons after the Peeping Tom incident. It would seem that the flash of light he so much dreads because of what it may reveal has its origin in the ray of light which reached his childish eyes through the key-hole of the bath-room door. He sought then, yet feared to find, and so it has ever been with him. Only in his fugue did he follow the light at other times so irritating.

There still remains, undiscovered as yet, the person for whom he is looking. Is she (we are surely justified in saying she), like Zoë Bertgang, a living and acceptable reality or merely an unattainable phantom? The determination of this point is of considerable prognostic importance. B.'s history has shown us that the erotic need originally rooted in his mother became largely transferred to his sister, but then failed to progress normally.

In neither of these fixations can the need be satisfied, hence we desire to know if the hidden person in the dream conceals either of them, or if B. has succeeded, unconsciously, in making a further and suitable transference. Here we may recall the sudden change which came over B. on leaving London and going to Church Stretton for the last part of his holiday. Although the whole realm of sexuality lay under a strong taboo B. was obsessed with the idea that he possessed and had a right to what he saw. Actually what he saw was a hilly landscape belonging to someone else, so the feeling of conviction cannot have reference to it, but he also talked of a honeymoon and of adding something new, of supreme importance, to his kingdom.

The day following the analysis of this dream B. opened the interview by saying that, for some time past he had been feeling as though he would soon be at work again, and that he had written last night to a place in North London to ask if there were any chance of his working there. When questioned about this place and as to why he thought of taking up duties there rather than elsewhere he became confused, but then confessed that it was W., the place at which he had spent a part of his holiday with the old family friends. "Since then," said B. excitedly, "the father has died and I feel that I want to go and see them, I mean the girl, again. I have now made up my mind to go and see them. I am looking forward to it immensely. I realise that I want the girl."

Thus did B. become conscious of the identity of the person for whom he was searching. Now also he came to realise the true purport of his fugues, and was anxious deliberately to carry through to its appropriate end the last one which had been cut short at Banbury. B. continued the analysis for a few days longer, during which time he received, in response to his letter, a cordial invitation to stay at W. He now entirely abandoned his repression and had several frank talks with his father, in which he completely satisfied his old craving for confession, so that he went up to London with a clear head though with a palpitating heart. Five days later I received the following letter:

DEAR DOCTOR,

Veni, Vidi, Vici.

Thanks again very much indeed. G. K. is nearly twelve months older than myself but was, as I always dreamed, waiting for me. The first of my friends to whom I shall be able to introduce her is C., who is coming here tomorrow evening. I waited until my third evening here, but could wait no longer. Nothing is settled yet, but I shall probably settle down somewhere in North London.

With all good wishes from us both,
Yours sincerely,

B.

In such wise did B. find and win the missing princess and thereby secure his long sought kingdom.

The analysis, which thus ended as happily as in the case of Hanold, illustrates Freud's dictum, that "every psycho-analytical treatment is an attempt to free repressed love, which has formed a miserable compromise outlet in a symptom1."

The case of B. differs from that of Hanold in that the person of a physician had to be introduced in order to bring to light and normal function the repressed emotions. With this aspect of the transference I do not propose to deal. Experience shows that analysis is relatively short in duration and happy in outcome when a definite suitable object for the final transference has already been unconsciously selected. It is just on this account that events follow such a swift and satisfactory course in Gradiva; and may we add, here also. A second apparent difference between the case of B. and of Hanold is that so far as the story of the latter carries us his affections had known no other object than Zoë Bertgang, while we have seen in the psychic life of B. how the affections were successively though tardily displaced from mother to sister and only finally to G. K. The latter it will be noted is of the same age and profession as his sister and furthermore her father is dead, so that 1 Delusion and Dream, p. 209.

B.'s actual present home closely resembles the phantasy of his childish days.

This second difference I consider only apparent, and one reason which has prompted me to publish the case of B., is just, that it seems so clearly to throw light upon the type of influence which most probably was at the root of Hanold's repression.

The author of Gradiva states explicitly that Hanold “had not come into the world and grown up in natural freedom but already at birth had been hedged in by the grating with which family tradition by education and predestination had surrounded him1." As the only son of a university professor and antiquarian he was called upon to preserve, if possible to exalt, his father's name, and he clung loyally to this ideal even after the early death of his parents.

Of course, none of us are free from predestination considered as our innate tendencies, or from education as applied both consciously and unconsciously by those who surround us from the moment of our birth. But the early and subtle interplay of these factors is not sufficiently realised. Education is too generally regarded as something which is imparted at school, and if this fails to turn out a satisfactory individual well then heredity is blamed. The subtle moulding of the instinctive tendencies which takes place from our earliest moments is almost entirely overlooked.

We have seen that B.'s repression originated in infancy and therefore would already have been in existence even had his parents died early. The idea of exalting the father's name is a conspicuous feature with B., who also resembles Hanold in ignoring women and dedicating himself entirely to his work. The sublimation chosen by B., namely religion, is far commoner than that of archaeology preferred by Hanold, but in each case the direction of the sublimation follows the family tradition, which by education and predestination hedges in the young man.

The analysis as here presented is of course incomplete, and many obvious side issues present themselves for consideration.

My purpose has been merely to give the main theme-the leit motifin the life of this young man because it illustrates with unusual clearness and intensity a by no means uncommon history. Unfortunately, all such conflicts, even when less intense, do not end so happily as did B.'s. In any case prevention is better than cure, and possibly the greatest merit of psycho-analytical research will, in the not far distant future, lie in its prophylactic rather than in its therapeutic application.

1 Delusion and Dream, p. 25.

J. of Psych. (Med. Sect.) II

19

292

STUDY OF A PHOBIA.

By S. E. HOOPER.

I BELIEVE it is held by most Psycho-Analysts that a Phobia is a reaction to a wish that has been repressed because of its incompatibility with the social mind, and that the fear so strongly felt in these cases is really due to the activity of a dissociated complex. This complex threatens to overwhelm the better self, and it is this ever present tension that engenders the fear. It is asserted that a mental shock is insufficient of itself to produce a phobia, although it may play a secondary part. Whilst then the phobia manifests itself as a fear of some external object or event, in reality it is the fear that would result from the unconscious. wish or wishes becoming known.

Another school holds that a phobia is due to certain mental traumata. A body of emotion has been created which continues with the subject as an enduring legacy from past experience. The fear is this body of emotion projected upon some feature of the external world. It is admitted by adherents of this second theory that, as a result of traumata, a group of mental processes may also have become dissociated, which remain as a permanent effect of the experience. The two theories agree in the notion of dissociation: they differ in their conception of the primary cause. The former asserts that it is a repressed wish, the latter attributes the phobia to mental shock. I do not desire in this paper to take any one side in the controversy, realising that it is a matter for experts only with much experience. I prefer to let the facts speak for themselves.

The phobia which is the subject of this paper was one of storms, and later of any strong wind. The victim of this distressing condition, a married lady aged thirty, with one child, had lived for eight years in a semi-tropical climate. The life here was a very lonely one and there were serious difficulties of a financial nature. During the last six months her health gave way and an intense phobia developed. She returned to England a complete wreck and was under medical treatment for a year subsequently, other symptoms being, "Anaemia, weak and irregular heart-action, general weakness, dim eyesight." When I was first introduced to her she told me that her physician had recently pronounced her