On Wednesday morning David was in an office in the city. He sat
forward on the edge of his chair, and from time to time he took out
his handkerchief and wiped his face or polished his glasses, quite
unconscious of either action. He was in his best suit, with the tie Lucy
had given him for Christmas.
Across from him, barricaded behind a great mahogany desk, sat a small
man with keen eyes and a neat brown beard. On the desk were a spotless
blotter, an inkstand of silver and a pen. Nothing else. The terrible
order of the place had at first rather oppressed David.
The small man was answering a question.
"Rather on the contrary, I should say. The stronger the character the
greater the smash."
David pondered this.
"I've read all you've written on the subject," he said finally.
"Especially since the war."
The psycho-analyst put his finger tips together, judicially. "Yes. The
war bore me out," he observed with a certain complacence. "It added a
great deal to our literature, too, although some of the positions are
not well taken. Van Alston, for instance--"
"You have said, I think, that every man has a breaking point."
"Absolutely. All of us. We can go just so far. Where the mind is strong
and very sound we can go further than when it is not. Some men, for
instance, lead lives that would break you or me. Was there--was there
such a history in this case?"
"Yes." Doctor David's voice was reluctant.
"The mind is a strange thing," went on the little man, musingly. "It
has its censors, that go off duty during sleep. Our sternest and often
unconscious repressions pass them then, and emerge in the form of
dreams. But of course you know all that. Dream symbolism. Does
the person in this case dream? That would be interesting, perhaps
important."
"I don't know," David said unhappily.
"The walling off, you say, followed a shock?"
"Shock and serious illness."
"Was there fear with the shock?"
David hesitated. "Yes," he said finally. "Very great fear, I believe."
Doctor Lauler glanced quickly at David and then looked away.
"I see," he nodded. "Of course the walling off of a part of the
past--you said a part--?"
"Practically all of it. I'll tell you about that later. What about the
walling off?"
"It is generally the result of what we call the protective mechanism of
fear. Back of most of these cases lies fear. Not cowardice, but perhaps
we might say the limit of endurance. Fear is a complex, of course.
Dislike, in a small way, has the same reaction. We are apt to forget
the names of persons we dislike. But if you have been reading on the
subject--"