“You are a poet yourself, Doctor?”
“Oh, no, I am a physician practising psychotherapy.”
“Such people are our most modern poets. For they give our knowledge of the unconscious, or rather the subconscious, its perceptible form, and the subconscious world, which is now firmly established, produces our psychic existence. We will have a game of baccarat afterwards, shall we not?”
“Agreed!”
The hypnotic subject was about to begin her test. A doctor led her forward and threw her into a hypnosis in which she would recall her wonderful recollections. On the first evening, as Count Told informed Mabuse in an awestruck whisper, she had related her mental experiences during her first attempts to walk.
While the Count was speaking he felt an unnatural warmth stealing over the back of his head. He turned round, but there was nothing behind him save the tapestried wall, upon which pictures of the old school, to which he was quite indifferent, were hanging.
The patient did not respond to the hypnotist’s suggestions. She did indeed fall into a state of trance, but all the spectators could see that gradually the expression of her eyes indicated that she was returning from a far-off view, until suddenly they looked straight ahead and were wide awake again, awake and indignant.
“Someone is tormenting me,” she said.
“No one is tormenting you,” said the hypnotist in a monotonous and measured tone. “We are guiding you to the early home of your youth—one, two, three … you are sleeping—one, two … you are sleeping!”
He passed his hand slowly and lightly over her forehead, continuing to count, “Three … one … two … where are you now?—how old are you?”
“I am ten months and three days old.”
“What did your mother do this morning when she took you out of the cradle?”
“She unwrapped me and hurt me and … and …” She breathed a deep sigh, then awoke suddenly and said, “There is someone here who ought to go away. Who is tormenting me?”
“We can obtain no results today. There are some disturbing influences which I do not recognize and therefore cannot remove,” said the hypnotist.
The Privy Councillor approached Mabuse. “How would it be, Doctor, if you were to make an attempt? After the tests of your power which I have already seen, I think we can promise to get rid of these disturbing influences,” he said.
Mabuse declared himself willing to try, at any rate, though he could not vouch for the result, as he was suffering from a slight chill which affected his head. He at once took a short step towards the medium, however, and they saw that she moved slightly in his direction as if attracted by a magnet. Mabuse did not utter a word, but he let his glance wander over part of her body. The girl became even paler than before, if possible, and although she made no movement, it was easy to see that she struggled against something invisible, that her resistance grew quickly weaker and that her eyes fell before him.
Then Mabuse said in a rapid and violent tone: “You are lying in swaddling clothes. Your arms are bound fast to your side. You are six months old. It is evening, and you are crying. Why are you crying?”
And from the heavy body of this girl, sleeping with wide-open eyes, there came a piping, fretful voice: “I have a pain in my stomach.”
“That is only wind. You’ve had too much to drink. Who gave it you?”
“I got it from the breast of a woman,” answered the baby voice.
“Do you love that breast?”
Then the girl grew deathly white, and into the childish voice there crept a piercing and angry note, “No.”
“What did you want to do?”
“I wanted to bite it with my gums!”
“Why?”
Then the girl was seized with trembling, which passed over her whole body, and Mabuse said, “Every minute that prolongs this endangers her life. I must bring the experiment to an end!”
He laid the girl down on a sofa, and with reassuring movements he released her from sleep and bathed her face, and when she came to herself again recommended her being put to bed.
The conversation now turned upon Mabuse’s experiment, and everyone was asking questions, speculating on what she would have said.
“That was a fairytale,” said Told; “a fable of the preconscious existence! Doctor, you are a genius. But what did she want to say that made her tremble so?”
A lady came forward with the same question on her lips, but Mabuse’s eyes sought the Countess, and she, too, came forward to ask. Then Mabuse answered, “She wanted to say, ‘Because I hated her so!’ ”
The Countess shrank back and the others were silent, painfully affected. Then the Countess leaned forward, saying coldly, “A baby cannot hate!”
“How do you know that?” asked Mabuse roughly.
“I know it … of myself,” she replied.
“Then you can rejoice over yourself, for you are not only a genius at recollection, but also an angel in disposition!” retorted Mabuse sarcastically.
Conversation broke the company up into little groups. Count Told alone remained silent. There was still that unnatural warmth at the back of his head. He looked behind him, and he felt his head; there was nothing there. He went to
