of dreams are there? I don't see how you can classify them, study them."
"Easily enough. I should say that there are three kinds of
dreams--those which represent an unrepressed wish as fulfilled, those
that represent the realization of a repressed wish in an entirely
concealed form, and those that represent the realization of a repressed
wish, but in a form insufficiently or only partially concealed."
"But what about these dream doctors who profess to be able to tell you
what is going to happen--the clairvoyants?"
Kennedy shrugged. "Cruel fakers, almost invariably," he replied. "This
is something entirely different, on an entirely different plane. Dreams
are not really of the future, even though they may seem to be. They are
of the past--that is, their roots are in the past. Of course, they are
of the future in the sense that they show striving after unfulfilled
wishes. Whatever may be denied in reality, we can nevertheless realize
in another way--in our dreams. It's a rather pretty thought."
He paused a moment. "Perhaps the dream doctors were not so
fundamentally wrong as we think, even about the future," he added,
thoughtfully, "though for a different reason than they thought and a
natural one. Probably more of our daily life, conduct, moods, beliefs,
than we think could be traced to preceding dreams."
I began vaguely now to see what he was driving at and to feel the
fascination of the idea.
"Then you think that you will be able to find out from Mrs. Wilford's
dreams more than she'll ever tell you or any one else about the case?"
"Exactly."
"Well, that doesn't seem so unreasonable, after all," I admitted,
going back in my mind over what we had learned so far. "Why did Doctor
Lathrop say he dissented from the theory?"
Kennedy smiled. "Many doctors do that. There's a side of it all that is
distasteful to them, I suppose. It grates on minds of a certain type."
"What's that?"
"The sex aspect. Sex life possesses, according to Freud, a far higher
significance in our mental household than traditional psychology is
willing to admit. And I don't know as I would say I'd go the whole
distance with Freud, either." He paused contemplatively. "Yet there
is much that is true about his sex theories. Take an example. There's
much about married life that can be learned from dreams. Thus, why
John Doe doesn't get along with his wife has always been a matter of
absorbing interest to the neighborhood. Conversation is taken up by
it; yellow journalism is founded on it. Now, psychology--and mainly
dream analysis--can solve the question--often right things for both
John and Jane Doe and set the neighborhood tongues at rest. Sex and sex
relations play a big rôle in life, whether we like to admit it or not."
"I see," I nodded. "Then you think that that's what Lathrop meant when
he said he strongly disagreed with the theory?"
"Without a doubt. That is perhaps the part of the theory from which he
reacted--or said he did. You see, Freud says that as soon as you enter
the intimate life of a patient you begin to find sex in some form. In
fact, he says, the best indication of abnormality would be its absence.
"Sex is one of the strongest of human impulses," Craig continued,
as impersonally as if he were classifying butterflies, "yet the one
impulse subjected to the greatest repression. For that reason it is
the weakest point in our cultural development. However, if everything
is natural there ought to be no trouble. In a normal life, says Freud,
there are no neuroses."
"But how does that all apply in this case?" I asked. "You must mean
that we have to deal with a life that is not normal, here in the
Wilford case."
He nodded. "I was convinced of it, the moment Leslie called on me
here. That was why I was interested. Before that I thought it was just
an ordinary case that had stumped him and I was not going to pull
his chestnuts out of the fire for him. But what he said put it in a
different light. So did what Doyle told me, especially that sonnet he
found. They didn't know it--don't know it yet--won't know it until I
tell them. That doesn't alter the fact that it promises to be a unique
case."
He paced the floor a few moments, as though trying to piece together
the fragments he possessed.
"Let me proceed now with a preliminary psychanalysis, as the Freudians
call it," he resumed, still pacing thoughtfully, "the soul analysis
of Honora Wilford, as it were. I do not claim that it is final. It is
not. But on such information and belief, as the lawyers say, as we have
already, we are warranted in drawing some preliminary conclusions.
They will help us to go on. If any of them are wrong, all we need
to do is throw them overboard. Later, I shall add to that stock of
information, in one way or another, and it may very greatly modify
those conclusions. But, until then, let's adopt them as a working
hypothesis."
I could only wonder at him. It was startling in the extreme to consider
the possibilities to which this new science of dreams might lead, as he
proceeded to illustrate it by applying it directly to a concrete case
which I had seen.
"You recall what Leslie told us, what Mrs. Wilford told us, and what
Doctor Lathrop later confirmed--her dream of fear?" Craig went on.
"At present, I should say that it was a dream of what we call the
fulfilment of a repressed wish. Dreams of fear are always important.
Just consider fear for a moment. Fear in such a dream as this nearly
always denotes a sexual idea underlying the dream. In fact, morbid
anxiety means surely unsatisfied love. The old Greeks knew it. Their
gods of fear were born of the goddess of love. Consequently, in her
dream, she feared the death of her husband because, unconsciously, she
wished it."
I was startled, to say the least. "But, Craig," I remonstrated, "the
very idea is repulsive. I don't believe for a moment she is that kind
of woman. It's impossible."
"Take this idea of dream-death of one who is living," ignored Kennedy.
"If there is sorrow felt, then there is some other cause for the dream.
But if there is no sorrow felt, then the dreamer really desires the
death or absence of the person dreamed about. Perhaps I did put it a
little too sweepingly," he modified; "but when all the circumstances
are considered, as I have considered them in this case already, I feel
sure that the rule will apply here."
"Better not tell that to Doyle," I remarked. "Judging by his attitude
toward Honora Wilford, he'd arrest her on sight, if he knew what you
just said."
"I shall not tell Doyle. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing to
Doyle. I haven't indicted her--yet."
Turning the thing over in my mind, I found it even more and more
distasteful, and I could not resist expressing myself rather strongly
to that effect.
"I expected to have you quarrel with that conclusion," smiled Kennedy,
calmly. "People always do, until they understand. Let me explain
more fully what I mean. Remember, first, that in childhood death is
synonymous with being away. And many of our dreams are only survivals
of childhood, like the falling dreams. Take the night-shirt dream. I
suppose that, in common with some other millions of mortals, you have
dreamed of traveling on the Subway, we'll say, lightly clad. No one
noticed it."
"Yes," I laughed. "Only, finally I knew it--and how I have sneaked back
home by deserted streets, afraid to be seen. Yet, when I met any one,
as you say, the person didn't seem to be embarrassed--not a tenth as
much as I."
"It speaks well for you," nodded Kennedy, with mock gravity. "If you
had felt that others saw and knew your shame, it would mean something
entirely different. As it is, it is simply one of those survivals of
childhood in which there is no sense of shame over nakedness. Other
people don't show it, either. But, later in life, you learned shame.
That's where your psychic censor comes in and makes you sneak home by
the byways and hedges. And, still, others don't feel as you do about it
in the dream. If they did, I'm afraid it might show your moral sense
a bit perverted. However, that's just an illustration of what I mean
when I say that the death-dream may often be a childhood survival."
I listened without comment, for Craig was interesting, now.
"To get back to the case we have," he resumed. "Take, for example, a
girl who sees in her dream that her mother is dead. It may mean many
things. But perhaps it means only that she wishes her mother away so
that she may enjoy some pleasure that her strict parent by her presence
denies. That's a more or less parallel case, you see."
Even though I was now more willing than before to admit the
interpretation as applied to Honora Wilford, I was not prepared to
admit the theory. Though I said nothing about it, I was afraid that
such dream analysis was pointing too strongly to Honora herself as
one who unconsciously wished her husband out of the way. The idea
repelled me at the same time that it fascinated. I realized what wide
possibilities it opened.
"Of all dreams," continued Kennedy, "anxiety-dreams are among the
most interesting and important. Anxiety may originate in psychosexual
excitement--the repressed libido, or desire, as the Freudians call
it. Neurotic fear has its origin in sexual life and corresponds to a
libido, or desire, which has been turned away from its object and has
not succeeded in being applied."
"That may be true," I admitted, "but don't you think it's a bit raw to
accuse Honora of desiring the death of Vail Wilford just because she
didn't love him? I'd hate to be a juryman in a case like that!"
"Raw? Is it?" repeated Kennedy. "That is, is it in a dream? Just
dissociate dreams from facts, Walter. Take the case. You see, that
fits splendidly so far with what we know of her--her secret regard for
Shattuck surviving after the broken engagement; her apparent coldness;
her very real lack of feeling for her husband; the superficiality of it
all; love not really felt, but shown because the world must see and it
was the proper thing for her to show--even if in her heart she did not
feel it."
"I know all that," I insisted. "But, perhaps, after all, Lathrop may
have some right on his side. Must one incriminate oneself by dreams?"
Kennedy shook his head. "Often dreams that are apparently most harmless
turn out to be sinister, if we take the pains to interpret them. All
have the mark of the beast. For instance, practically all so-called
day dreams of women are erotic in their inception. Those of men may be
so, but quite as often are likely to be dreams of ambition more than
of love. One cannot say that this distinction will always be. It is
hard to predict what may happen in the future. Perhaps modern social
conditions may change the very nature of woman--perhaps her ambition
for a 'career' may submerge her emotional life. But--well, I doubt it.
A few years don't wipe out the evolution and instincts of countless
ages. Besides, Nature can be trusted to take care of herself. Sexless
women won't have children--then after whom will the next generation
after them take?"
"But is that all there is to the dream theory?" I asked, nodding
agreement on Kennedy's prediction.
"Not a bit of it. Even those brief dreams that she has told will bear
hours of study and analysis. Building up her true, inward character
is like laying mosaic. You add here a bit, there a bit, here a stone
of one color, there of another. It takes patience and study. When the
pieces are all fitted together the picture will be very different from
what even an intimate friend thinks; yes, different from what she
herself in her own inmost heart thinks herself to be."
He paused a moment, as though turning the dreams over in his mind to
see whither they led.
"There's another feature of her dream I want to call your attention
to," he went on, "and that is the crowd as she fled from the bull.
Crowds in dreams usually denote a secret. Whatever her true feelings
toward Shattuck, she believes them to be locked in her own heart.
Again, when she was pursued across the field she said she could feel
the hot breath of the beast as he pursued her. From that I would assume
at least that she knows that Shattuck loves her. Then she stumbled
and almost fell. That can have but one meaning--her fear of becoming
a fallen woman. But she caught herself and ran on, in the dream. She
escaped."
"What of the dream about Lathrop?" I asked.
"We'll take that up later and try to interpret it. I am not sure of
that one, myself. As for the others, I don't mean to say that I've put
a final interpretation on them, either. Some things, such as I've told
you, I know. But there are others still to be discovered. Just now the
important thing is to get an understanding of Honora herself."
He took a turn up and down the floor of the laboratory.
"Honora Wilford," he said, slowly, at last, "is what the specialists
would call a consciously frigid, unconsciously passionate woman."
He paused significantly, then went on: "I suppose there have been
many cases where an intellectual woman has found herself attracted
almost without reason toward a purely physical man. You find it in
literature continually--in the caveman school of fiction, you know. As
an intellectual woman, Honora may suppress her nature. But sometimes,
we believe, Nature will and does assert herself."
Kennedy considered the laboratory impatiently.
"No package from Leslie yet. I hardly know what to
do--unless--yes--that is the thing, now that I have had time to think
this all out. I must see Mrs. Wilford again--and alone."
IV
THE "HESITATION COMPLEX"
Honora Wilford was still in the apartment where we had left her under
the watchful care of one of Doyle's men.
Undoubtedly she felt no disposition to stir out, for if she went out it
was certain that she would have gone under the most galling espionage.
It must have been maddening to a woman of her temperament and station
in life to find herself so hedged about by restriction. Doubtless it
was just that that Doyle had intended, in the hope that the strain to
which he subjected her by it would shake her poise.
Nevertheless, she received us with at least outward graciousness.
Perhaps it was that she recognized some difference in the treatment
which Kennedy accorded her over that from those whom Doyle had seen fit
to place in charge of the apartment where once she had been mistress.
At any rate, I thought she acted a bit weary and I felt genuinely sorry
for her as she received us and questioned us with her eyes.
"I've been very much interested in those dreams of yours," remarked
Kennedy, endeavoring not to betray too much of the source of his
information, for obvious reasons. "Doctor Leslie has told me of some of
them--and I tried to get Doctor Lathrop to tell me of the others."
"Indeed?" she queried merely, her large eyes bent on Kennedy in doubt,
although she did not betray any trepidation about the subject.
"I wonder whether you would mind writing them down for me?" Craig
asked, quickly.
"I've already done so once for Doctor Lathrop," she answered, as though
trying to avoid it.
"Yes," agreed Kennedy, quickly; "but I can hardly expect him to let me
see them--professional ethics and all that sort of thing, you know,
forbid."
"I suppose so," she replied, with a little nervous smile. "Oh, if you
really want me to do so, I suppose I can write them out again, of
course--write them the best I can recollect."
"It would be of great assistance indeed, I can assure you," encouraged
Kennedy.
Honora, without another demur, walked over to a little writing-desk
which seemed to be her own. Kennedy followed and placed a chair for
her. Then he stepped back, though not so far but that he could watch
her.
A moment she paused, toying with her fountain-pen, then began to write.
"My most frequent dream is a horrible one," she began, writing in a
firm hand, although she knew that she was observed and was weighing
every word and action. "I have dreamed ever so many times that I saw
Vail in a terrific struggle. I could not make out who or what it was
with which he struggled."
At this point she seemed to hesitate and pause. I saw that Kennedy was
carefully noting it and every mood and action she exhibited. Then,
after a moment, gathering herself together again, she wrote on:
"I tried to run to him. But something seemed to hold me back. I could
not move."
Again she paused, then very slowly began to write on another line.
"Then the scene shifted like a motion picture. I saw a funeral
procession and in the coffin I could see a face. In all my dreams it
has been the face of Vail."
As she finished, she seemed now to be struggling with her emotions.
The more I saw of Honora Wilford, the more I was unable to resist the
fascination of studying her. She was a woman well worth study--a woman
of baffling temperament, high-strung, of keen perception, yet always
in the face of even such circumstances as these keeping herself under
seemingly perfect control.
Always I found myself going back again to my original impression of
her. Somehow, indefinably, I felt that there was something lacking
in this woman's life. Was it, as I had believed at first, "heart"? I
wondered whether, after all, there had been lacking in this woman's
life some big experience, whether ever she had really loved. I knew
well what would have been the answer one might have received if she had
been questioned. She would have pointed immediately to her married life
as proof that she had loved--at least once upon a time. And yet, was it
proof? Had she loved Vail Wilford deeply?
The fact was that I did not, could not feel entirely unsympathetic
toward her. Somehow, I felt, it could not have been entirely her fault,
that she must have been the victim of circumstances or prejudices over
which she had no control. At any rate, I determined that whatever lay
at the bottom of it all was well worth our study and discovery. I hoped
that the case would last. I wanted to see its development, and, if by
any chance it was possible, the development of Honora herself, for I
felt that once the gap, whatever it was and however it had arisen in
her life, was closed she would be a most wonderful woman.
At times when I thought of the manner of Doyle and his men toward her,
it made me boil over. As for Kennedy, it was different. I did not
understand Craig in this matter. Yet I knew him better than perhaps any
one else. Whatever lay back of Craig's actions, always I knew there was
sympathy. Some may have thought him cold, but I knew better. Kennedy
had always represented to me science with a heart. As for Doyle--he was
neither.
Kennedy's voice recalled me to the matter of immediate importance
before us.
"There was also that dream of Doctor Lathrop about which you told me,
in which he appeared as a lion," suggested Kennedy, as she stopped
writing and handed him what she had written. "This is very good--just
what I want, as a matter of fact. Won't you write that other dream for
me, also?"
With an air of resignation, as though she felt she was in our hands and
had determined that her acts would be above criticism, she turned again
to her desk, picked up the pen she had laid down, and wrote on a fresh
sheet of paper:
"In the dream I seemed to be going along a rocky path. It was narrow,
and as I turned a bend there was a bearded lion in the way. I was
terribly frightened. I woke up."
She began a new line and added: "The lion seemed to have a human face.
It seemed to resemble Doctor Lathrop."
I contrasted the writing of this dream with the other. At least there
had been no hesitation in writing this, I observed, whatever that might
mean. Already I was coming to have some respect for the dream theory
which I would have ridiculed only a few hours before Kennedy began to
convince me.
Honora laid down the pen and glanced up rather wearily as Kennedy
ran his eye over what she had written. Much as it all aroused her
curiosity, plainly the whole proceeding on the part of Craig was a
sealed book to her.
"There's just another dream, or, rather, two dreams," he said, in a
moment, "that interested me almost as much when I heard of them.
Doctor Lathrop happened to mention them without telling them and I'd
like to get them from you."
She glanced at him covertly, as much as to say, "So, then, you have
been talking about me to him?" but she controlled whatever remark was
on her tongue and said nothing.
Instead, obediently again, she picked up the pen and wrote, while we
waited and the minutes passed. Only now it seemed that she was writing
more carefully, both taking more time over the actual legibility and
the choice of words.
"I seemed to be attacked by a bull," she detailed. "It was in a great
field and I fled from it over the field. But it pursued me. It seemed
to gain on me."
It was evident that she was not writing this dream with the facility
with which she had set down the others. She paused as she came to the
chase by the bull and seemed to think about what next to say. Then she
wrote:
"It was very close. Then, in my dream, in fright, I ran faster over the
field. I remember I hoped to gain a clump of woods. As I ran I stumbled
and would have fallen. But I managed to catch myself in time. I ran on.
I expected momentarily to be gored by the bull. That seemed to be the
end of the dream--with me running and the bull gaining on me."
She did not pause, however, except to skip a line, but began writing
again:
"Then the dream changed. I seemed to be in the midst of a crowd. In the
place of the bull pursuing me there was now a serpent. It reared its
head angrily and crept over the ground after me and hissed. It seemed
to fascinate me. I trembled and could not run. My terror was so great
that I awoke."
She was about to lay the pen down again, as though glad of the
opportunity, when Kennedy asked, with no intention of stopping so soon,
"Were there not faces on these animals?"
"The faces seemed to be human," she murmured, evasively, still looking
at what she had written for him, and making no effort to amend or
correct it.
"Human?" repeated Kennedy. "Did they bear a resemblance to any one you
know?"
She looked up from the writing and met his eyes directly in a perfectly
innocent stare.
"The faces seemed to be human," she repeated, "but I did not recognize
them."
What did it mean? I knew she was not telling the truth. Kennedy knew
it. Did she know that he knew it? If she did, it had no outward effect
on her.
"It is all very hazy to me," she insisted.
I wondered what had been the reason of her hesitation and her final
decision not to tell us what she had evidently told Doctor Lathrop on
the first telling of the dream. Surely, I reasoned, there must be some
reason back of this concealment. I was forced to be content to wait in
order to question Kennedy to learn what his own impressions were. Any
betrayal now, before her, might entirely upset his nicely laid plans,
whatever they were.
She seemed to expect a further quizzing and to steel herself in
preparation for it. Evidently Doyle's manner and methods had taught her
that.
"Are those all the dreams you can remember?" Craig asked.
I fancied that there was an air of relief in her manner, though she
would not, for the world, have betrayed it before us. For a moment she
thought, as if glad to get away from something that had troubled her
greatly. When she spoke her voice and manner were subdued.
"There is one other," she replied.
"Will you write it?" asked Kennedy, before she had time to change her
mind.
"If you really care to have it."
"Very much," he urged.
Again she turned as though escaping something and wrote:
"I seemed to be walking through a forest with Vail. I don't know where
we were going, but I seemed to have difficulty in getting there. Vail
was helping me along. It was up-hill. Finally, when we got almost to
the top of the hill, I stopped. I did not go any farther, though he
did."
Here again she hesitated, then wrote slowly, "Then I seemed to meet--"
and stopped.
Honora glanced up, saw Kennedy watching her, and turned hurriedly,
adding, "--a woman."
She did not pause after that, but wrote: "Just then she cried that
there was a fire. I turned around and looked. There was a big explosion
and everybody ran out of the houses, shrieking."
"You say you saw a woman?" asked Craig, almost before she had finished
writing. "Who was she?"
"I do not know who she was--a--just a woman."