problem presents difficulties, to take up a second problem, just as it
is easier to crack two nuts together instead of separately. Accordingly
we are confronted not merely with the problem: How can painful and
fearful dreams be the fulfilments of wishes? but we may also, from our
discussion so far, raise the question: Why do not the dreams which show
an indifferent content, but turn out to be wish-fulfilments, show this
meaning undisguised? Take the fully reported dream of Irma’s injection;
it is in no way painful in its nature, and can be recognised, upon
interpretation, as a striking wish-fulfilment. Why, in the first place,
is an interpretation necessary? Why does not the dream say directly what
it means? As a matter of fact, even the dream of Irma’s injection does
not at first impress us as representing a wish of the dreamer as
fulfilled. The reader will not have received this impression, and even I
myself did not know it until I had undertaken the analysis. If we call
this peculiarity of the dream of needing an explanation _the fact of the
distortion_ of dreams, then a second question arises: What is the origin
of this disfigurement of dreams?
If one’s first impressions on this subject were consulted, one might
happen upon several possible solutions; for example, that there is an
inability during sleep to find an adequate expression for the dream
thoughts. The analysis of certain dreams, however, compels us to give
the disfigurement of dreams another explanation. I shall show this by
employing a second dream of my own, which again involves numerous
indiscretions, but which compensates for this personal sacrifice by
affording a thorough elucidation of the problem.
_Preliminary Statement._—In the spring of 1897 I learnt that two
professors of our university had proposed me for appointment as
Professor extraord. (assistant professor). This news reached me
unexpectedly and pleased me considerably as an expression of
appreciation on the part of two eminent men which could not be explained
by personal interest. But, I immediately thought, I must not permit
myself to attach any expectation to this event. The university
government had during the last few years left proposals of this kind
unconsidered, and several colleagues, who were ahead of me in years, and
who were at least my equals in merit, had been waiting in vain during
this time for their appointment. I had no reason to suppose I should
fare better. I resolved then to comfort myself. I am not, so far as I
know, ambitious, and I engage in medical practice with satisfying
results even without the recommendation of a title. Moreover, it was not
a question whether I considered the grapes sweet or sour, for they
undoubtedly hung much too high for me.
One evening I was visited by a friend of mine, one of those colleagues
whose fate I had taken as a warning for myself. As he had long been a
candidate for promotion to the position of professor, which in our
society raises the physician to a demigod among his patients, and as he
was less resigned than I, he was in the habit of making representations
from time to time, at the offices of the university government, for the
purpose of advancing his interests. He came to me from a visit of that
kind. He said that this time he had driven the exalted gentleman into a
corner, and had asked him directly whether considerations of creed were
not really responsible for the deferment of his appointment. The answer
had been that to be sure—in the present state of public opinion—His
Excellency was not in a position, &c. “Now I at least know what I am
at,” said my friend in closing his narrative, which told me nothing new,
but which was calculated to confirm me in my resignation. For the same
considerations of creed applied to my own case.
On the morning after this visit, I had the following dream, which was
notable on account of its form. It consisted of two thoughts and two
images, so that a thought and an image alternated. But I here record
only the first half of the dream, because the other half has nothing to
do with the purpose which the citation of the dream should serve.
I. _Friend R. is my uncle—I feel great affection for him._
II. _I see before me his face somewhat altered._
_It seems to be elongated; a yellow beard, which surrounds it, is
emphasised with peculiar distinctness._
Then follow the other two portions, again a thought and an image, which
I omit.
The interpretation of this dream was accomplished in the following
manner:
As the dream occurred to me in the course of the forenoon, I laughed
outright and said: “The dream is nonsense.” But I could not get it out
of my mind, and the whole day it pursued me, until, at last, in the
evening I reproached myself with the words: “If in the course of dream
interpretation one of your patients had nothing better to say than ‘That
is nonsense,’ you would reprove him, and would suspect that behind the
dream there was hidden some disagreeable affair, the exposure of which
he wanted to spare himself. Apply the same thing in your own case; your
opinion that the dream is nonsense probably signifies merely an inner
resistance to its interpretation. Do not let yourself be deterred.” I
then proceeded to the interpretation.
“R. is my uncle.” What does that mean. I have had only one uncle, my
uncle Joseph.[AF] His story, to be sure, was a sad one. He had yielded
to the temptation, more than thirty years before, of engaging in
dealings which the law punishes severely, and which on that occasion
also it had visited with punishment. My father, who thereupon became
grey from grief in a few days, always used to say that Uncle Joseph was
never a wicked man, but that he was indeed a simpleton; so he expressed
himself. If, then, friend R. is my uncle Joseph, that is equivalent to
saying: “R. is a simpleton.” Hardly credible and very unpleasant! But
there is that face which I see in the dream, with its long features and
its yellow beard. My uncle actually had such a face—long and surrounded
by a handsome blond beard. My friend R. was quite dark, but when
dark-haired persons begin to grow grey, they pay for the glory of their
youthful years. Their black beard undergoes an unpleasant change of
color, each hair separately; first it becomes reddish brown, then
yellowish brown, and then at last definitely grey. The beard of my
friend R. is now in this stage, as is my own moreover, a fact which I
notice with regret. The face which I see in the dream is at once that of
my friend R. and that of my uncle. It is like a composite photograph of
Galton, who, in order to emphasise family resemblances, had several
faces photographed on the same plate. No doubt is thus possible, I am
really of the opinion that my friend R. is a simpleton—like my uncle
Joseph.
I have still no idea for what purpose I have constructed this
relationship, to which I must unconditionally object. But it is not a
very far-reaching one, for my uncle was a criminal, my friend R. is
innocent—perhaps with the exception of having been punished for knocking
down an apprentice with his bicycle. Could I mean this offence? That
would be making ridiculous comparisons. Here I recollect another
conversation which I had with another colleague, N., and indeed upon the
same subject. I met N. on the street. He likewise has been nominated for
a professorship, and having heard of my being honoured, congratulated me
upon it. I declined emphatically, saying, “You are the last man to make
a joke like this, because you have experienced what the nomination is
worth in your own case.” Thereupon he said, though probably not in
earnest, “You cannot be sure about that. Against me there is a very
particular objection. Don’t you know that a woman once entered a legal
complaint against me? I need not assure you that an inquiry was made; it
was a mean attempt at blackmail, and it was all I could do to save the
plaintiff herself from punishment. But perhaps the affair will be
pressed against me at the office in order that I may not be appointed.
You, however, are above reproach.” Here I have come upon a criminal, and
at the same time upon the interpretation and trend of the dream. My
uncle Joseph represents for me both colleagues who have not been
appointed to the professorship, the one as a simpleton, the other as a
criminal. I also know now for what purpose I need this representation.
If considerations of creed are a determining factor in the postponement
of the appointment of my friends, then my own appointment is also put in
question: but if I can refer the rejection of the two friends to other
causes, which do not apply to my case, my hope remains undisturbed. This
is the procedure of my dream; it makes the one, R., a simpleton, the
other, N., a criminal; since, however, I am neither the one nor the
other, our community of interest is destroyed, I have a right to enjoy
the expectation of being appointed a professor, and have escaped the
painful application to my own case of the information which the high
official has given to R.
I must occupy myself still further with the interpretation of this
dream. For my feelings it is not yet sufficiently cleared up. I am still
disquieted by the ease with which I degrade two respected colleagues for
the purpose of clearing the way to the professorship for myself. My
dissatisfaction with my procedure has indeed diminished since I have
learnt to evaluate statements made in dreams. I would argue against
anyone who urged that I really consider R. a simpleton, and that I do
not credit N.’s account of the blackmail affair. I do not believe either
that Irma has been made seriously ill by an injection given her by Otto
with a preparation of propyl. Here, as before, it is only the _wish that
the case may be as the dream expresses it_. The statement in which my
wish is realised sounds less absurd in the second dream than in the
first; it is made here with a more skilful utilisation of facts as
points of attachment, something like a well-constructed slander, where
“there is something in it.” For my friend R. had at that time the vote
of a professor from the department against him, and my friend N. had
himself unsuspectingly furnished me with the material for slander.
Nevertheless, I repeat, the dream seems to me to require further
elucidation.
I remember now that the dream contains still another portion which so
far our interpretation has not taken into account. After it occurs to me
that my friend R. is my uncle, I feel great affection for him. To whom
does this feeling belong? For my uncle Joseph, of course, I have never
had any feelings of affection. For years my friend R. has been beloved
and dear to me; but if I were to go to him and express my feelings for
him in terms which came anywhere near corresponding to the degree of
affection in the dream, he would doubtless be surprised. My affection
for him seems untrue and exaggerated, something like my opinion of his
psychic qualities, which I express by fusing his personality with that
of my uncle; but it is exaggerated in an opposite sense. But now a new
state of affairs becomes evident to me. The affection in the dream does
not belong to the hidden content, to the thoughts behind the dream; it
stands in opposition to this content; it is calculated to hide the
information which interpretation may bring. Probably this is its very
purpose. I recall with what resistance I applied myself to the work of
interpretation, how long I tried to postpone it, and how I declared the
dream to be sheer nonsense. I know from my psychoanalytical treatments
how such condemnation is to be interpreted. It has no value as affording
information, but only as the registration of an affect. If my little
daughter does not like an apple which is offered her, she asserts that
the apple has a bitter taste, without even having tasted it. If my
patients act like the little girl, I know that it is a question of a
notion which they want to _suppress_. The same applies to my dream. I do
not want to interpret it because it contains something to which I
object. After the interpretation of the dream has been completed, I find
out what it was I objected to; it was the assertion that R. is a
simpleton. I may refer the affection which I feel for R. not to the
hidden dream thoughts, but rather to this unwillingness of mine. If my
dream as compared with its hidden content is disfigured at this point,
and is disfigured, moreover, into something opposite, then the apparent
affection in the dream serves the purpose of disfigurement; or, in other
words, the disfigurement is here shown to be intended: it is a means of
dissimulation. My dream thoughts contain an unfavourable reference to
R.; in order that I may not become aware of it, its opposite, a feeling
of affection for him, makes its way into the dream.
The fact here recognised might be of universal applicability. As the
examples in Section III. have shown, there are dreams which are
undisguised wish-fulfilments. Wherever a wish-fulfilment is
unrecognisable and concealed, there must be present a feeling of
repulsion towards this wish, and in consequence of this repulsion the
wish is unable to gain expression except in a disfigured state. I shall
try to find a case in social life which is parallel to this occurrence
in the inner psychic life. Where in social life can a similar
disfigurement of a psychic act be found? Only where two persons are in
question, one of whom possesses a certain power, while the other must
have a certain consideration for this power. This second person will
then disfigure his psychic actions, or, as we may say, he will
dissimulate. The politeness which I practise every day is largely
dissimulation of this kind. If I interpret my dreams for the benefit of
the reader I am forced to make such distortions. The poet also complains
about such disfigurement:
“You may not tell the best that you know to the youngsters.”
The political writer who has unpleasant truths to tell to the government
finds himself in the same position. If he tells them without reserve,
the government will suppress them—subsequently in case of a verbal
expression of opinion, preventatively, if they are to be published in
print. The writer must fear _censure_; he therefore modifies and
disfigures the expression of his opinion. He finds himself compelled,
according to the sensitiveness of this censure, either to restrain
himself from certain particular forms of attack or to speak in allusion
instead of direct designations. Or he must disguise his objectionable
statement in a garb that seems harmless. He may, for instance, tell of
an occurrence between two mandarins in the Orient, while he has the
officials of his own country in view. The stricter the domination of the
censor, the more extensive becomes the disguise, and often the more
humorous the means employed to put the reader back on the track of the
real meaning.
The correspondence between the phenomena of the censor and those of
dream distortion, which may be traced in detail, justifies us in
assuming similar conditions for both. We should then assume in each
human being, as the primary cause of dream formation, two psychic forces
(streams, systems), of which one constitutes the wish expressed by the
dream, while the other acts as a censor upon this dream wish, and by
means of this censoring forces a distortion of its expression. The only
question is as to the basis of the authority of this second instance[AG]
by virtue of which it may exercise its censorship. If we remember that
the hidden dream thoughts are not conscious before analysis, but that
the apparent dream content is remembered as conscious, we easily reach
the assumption that admittance to consciousness is the privilege of the
second instance. Nothing can reach consciousness from the first system
which has not first passed the second instance, and the second instance
lets nothing pass without exercising its rights and forcing such
alterations upon the candidate for admission to consciousness as are
pleasant to itself. We are here forming a very definite conception of
the “essence” of consciousness; for us the state of becoming conscious
is a particular psychic act, different from and independent of becoming
fixed or of being conceived, and consciousness appears to us as an organ
of sense, which perceives a content presented from another source. It
may be shown that psychopathology cannot possibly dispense with these
fundamental assumptions. We may reserve a more thorough examination of
these for a later time.
If I keep in mind the idea of the two psychic instances and their
relations to consciousness, I find in the sphere of politics a very
exact analogy for the extraordinary affection which I feel for my friend
R., who suffers such degradation in the course of the dream
interpretation. I turn my attention to a political state in which a
ruler, jealous of his rights, and a live public opinion are in conflict
with each other. The people are indignant against an official whom they
hate, and demand his dismissal; and in order not to show that he is
compelled to respect the public wish, the autocrat will expressly confer
upon the official some great honour, for which there would otherwise
have been no occasion. Thus the second instance referred to, which
controls access to consciousness, honours my friend R. with a profusion
of extraordinary tenderness, because the wish activities of the first
system, in accordance with a particular interest which they happen to be
pursuing, are inclined to put him down as a simpleton.[AH]
Perhaps we shall now begin to suspect that dream interpretation is
capable of giving us hints about the structure of our psychic apparatus
which we have thus far expected in vain from philosophy. We shall not,
however, follow this track, but return to our original problem as soon
as we have cleared up the subject of dream-disfigurement. The question
has arisen how dreams with disagreeable content can be analysed as the
fulfilments of wishes. We see now that this is possible in case
dream-disfigurement has taken place, in case the disagreeable content
serves only as a disguise for what is wished. Keeping in mind our
assumptions in regard to the two psychic instances, we may now proceed
to say: disagreeable dreams, as a matter of fact, contain something
which is disagreeable to the second instance, but which at the same time
fulfils a wish of the first instance. They are wish dreams in the sense
that every dream originates in the first instance, while the second
instance acts towards the dream only in a repelling, not in a creative
manner. If we limit ourselves to a consideration of what the second
instance contributes to the dream, we can never understand the dream. If
we do so, all the riddles which the authors have found in the dream
remain unsolved.
That the dream actually has a secret meaning, which turns out to be the
fulfilment of a wish, must be proved afresh for every case by means of
an analysis. I therefore select several dreams which have painful
contents and attempt an analysis of them. They are partly dreams of
hysterical subjects, which require long preliminary statements, and now
and then also an examination of the psychic processes which occur in
hysteria. I cannot, however, avoid this added difficulty in the
exposition.
When I give a psychoneurotic patient analytical treatment, dreams are
always, as I have said, the subject of our discussion. It must,
therefore, give him all the psychological explanations through whose aid
I myself have come to an understanding of his symptoms, and here I
undergo an unsparing criticism, which is perhaps not less keen than that
I must expect from my colleagues. Contradiction of the thesis that all
dreams are the fulfilments of wishes is raised by my patients with
perfect regularity. Here are several examples of the dream material
which is offered me to refute this position.
“You always tell me that the dream is a wish fulfilled,” begins a clever
lady patient. “Now I shall tell you a dream in which the content is
quite the opposite, in which a wish of mine is _not_ fulfilled. How do
you reconcile that with your theory? The dream is as follows:—
“_I want to give a supper, but having nothing at hand except some smoked
salmon, I think of going marketing, but I remember that it is Sunday
afternoon, when all the shops are closed. I next try to telephone to
some caterers, but the telephone is out of order. Thus I must resign my
wish to give a supper._”
I answer, of course, that only the analysis can decide the meaning of
this dream, although I admit that at first sight it seems sensible and
coherent, and looks like the opposite of a wish-fulfilment. “But what
occurrence has given rise to this dream?” I ask. “You know that the
stimulus for a dream always lies among the experiences of the preceding
day.”
_Analysis._—The husband of the patient, an upright and conscientious
wholesale butcher, had told her the day before that he is growing too
fat, and that he must, therefore, begin treatment for obesity. He was
going to get up early, take exercise, keep to a strict diet, and above
all accept no more invitations to suppers. She proceeds laughingly to
relate how her husband at an inn table had made the acquaintance of an
artist, who insisted upon painting his portrait because he, the painter,
had never found such an expressive head. But her husband had answered in
his rough way, that he was very thankful for the honour, but that he was
quite convinced that a portion of the backside of a pretty young girl
would please the artist better than his whole face.[AI] She said that
she was at the time very much in love with her husband, and teased him a
good deal. She had also asked him not to send her any caviare. What does
that mean?
As a matter of fact, she had wanted for a long time to eat a caviare
sandwich every forenoon, but had grudged herself the expense. Of course,
she would at once get the caviare from her husband, as soon as she asked
him for it. But she had begged him, on the contrary, not to send her the
caviare, in order that she might tease him about it longer.
This explanation seems far-fetched to me. Unadmitted motives are in the
habit of hiding behind such unsatisfactory explanations. We are reminded
of subjects hypnotised by Bernheim, who carried out a posthypnotic
order, and who, upon being asked for their motives, instead of
answering: “I do not know why I did that,” had to invent a reason that
was obviously inadequate. Something similar is probably the case with
the caviare of my patient. I see that she is compelled to create an
unfulfilled wish in life. Her dream also shows the reproduction of the
wish as accomplished. But why does she need an unfulfilled wish?
The ideas so far produced are insufficient for the interpretation of the
dream. I beg for more. After a short pause, which corresponds to the
overcoming of a resistance, she reports further that the day before she
had made a visit to a friend, of whom she is really jealous, because her
husband is always praising this woman so much. Fortunately, this friend
is very lean and thin, and her husband likes well-rounded figures. Now
of what did this lean friend speak? Naturally of her wish to become
somewhat stouter. She also asked my patient: “When are you going to
invite us again? You always have such a good table.”