160

X

ERRORS

ERRORS of memory are distinguished from forgetting and
false recollections through one feature only, namely, that
the error (false recollection) is not recognized as such but
finds credence. However, the use of the expression “error”
“erring” instead of “falsely recollecting” where the character
of the objective reality is emphasized in the psychic material
to be reproduced—that is, where something other than a
fact of my own psychic life is to be remembered, or rather
something that may be confirmed or refuted through the
memory of others. The reverse of the error in memory
in this sense is formed by ignorance.

In my book The Interpretation of Dreams,¹ I was res-
ponsible for a series of errors in historical, and above all,
in material facts, which I was astonished to discover after
the appearance of the book. On closer examination I found
that they did not originate from my ignorance, but could be
traced to errors of memory explainable by means of analysis.
(a) On page 361 I indicated as Schiller’s birthplace the
city of Marburg, a name which recurs in Styria. The error
is found in the analysis of a dream during a night journey
from which I was awakened by the conductor calling out
the name of the station Marburg. In the contents of the
dream inquiry is made concerning a book by Schiller. But
Schiller was not born in the university town of Marburg but in
the Swabian city Marbach. I maintain that I always knew this.
(b) On page 165 Hannibal’s father is called Hasdrubal.
This error was particularly annoying to me, but it was most
corroborative of my conception of such errors. Few readers

¹Translated by A. A. Brill. The Macmillan Company, New
York; George Allen Company, London.

161

ERRORS

of the book are better posted on the history of the Barkides
than the author who wrote this error and overlooked it
in three proofs. The name of Hannibal’s father was Hamilcar
Barkas; Hasdrubal was the name of Hannibal’s brother as
well as that of his brother-in-law and predecessor in command.

(c) On pages 217 and 492 I assert that Zeus emasculates
his father Kronos, and hurls him from the throne. This
horror I have erroneously advanced by a generation; accord-
ing to Greek mythology it was Kronos who committed this
on his father Uranos.¹

How is it to be explained that my memory furnished me
with false material on these points, while it usually places
the remote and unusual material at my disposal, as the
readers of my books can verify? And, what is more, in
three carefully executed proof-readings I passed over these
errors as if struck blind.

Goethe said of Lichtenberg: “Where he cracks a joke,
there lies a concealed problem.” Similarly we can affirm
of these passages cited from my book: back of every error
is a repression. More accurately stated: the error conceals
a falsehood, a disfigurement which is ultimately based on
repressed material. In the analysis of the dreams there
reported, I was compelled by the very nature of the theme
to which the dream thoughts related, on the one hand, to
break off the analysis in some places before it had reached
its completion, and on the other hand, to remove an indiscreet
detail through a slight disfigurement of its outline. I could
not act differently, and had no other choice if I was at all
to offer examples and illustrations. My constrained position
was necessarily brought about by the peculiarity of dreams,
which give expression to repressed thoughts, or to material
which is incapable of becoming conscious. In spite of this
it is said that enough material remained to offend the more
sensitive souls. The disfigurement or conceal-
ment of the

¹This is not a perfect error. According to the orphic version of the
myth the emasculation was performed by Zeus on his father Kronos.

162

continuing thoughts known to me could not be accomplished
without leaving some trace. What I wished to repress has
often against my will obtruded itself on what I have taken
up, and evinced itself in the matter as an unnoticeable error.
Indeed, each of the three examples given is based on the
same theme: the errors are the results of repressed thoughts
which occupy themselves with my deceased father.

(ad a) Whoever reads through the dream analysed on
page 361 will find some parts unveiled; in some parts he
will be able to divine through allusions that I have broken
off the thoughts which would have contained an unfavourable
criticism of my father. In the continuation of this line of
thoughts and memories there lies an annoying tale, in which
books and a business friend of my father, named Marburg,
play a part; it is the same name the calling out of which
in the southern railway-
station had aroused me from sleep.
I wished to suppress this Mr. Marburg in the analysis from
myself and my readers; he avenged himself by intruding
where he did not belong, and changed the name of Schiller’s
birthplace from Marbach to Marburg.

(ad b) The error Hasdrubal in place of Hamilcar, the
name of the brother instead of that of the father, originated
from an association which dealt with the Hannibal fantasies
of my college years and my dissatisfaction with the conduct
of my father towards the “enemies of our people.” I could
have continued and recounted how my attitude toward my
father was changed by a visit to England, where I made
the acquaintance of my half-
brother, by a previous marriage
of my father. My brother’s oldest son was my age exactly.
Thus the age relations were no hindrance to a fantasy which
may be stated thus: how much pleasanter it would be had
I been born the son of my brother instead of the son of
my father! This suppressed fantasy then falsified the text
of my book at the point where I broke off the analysis, by
forcing me to put the name of the brother for that of the father.

(ad c) The influence of the memo-
ry of this same brother

163

is responsible for my having advanced by a generation the
mythological horror of the Greek deities. One of the
admonitions of my brother has lingered long in my memory.
“Do not forget one thing concerning your conduct in life,”
he said: “you belong not to the second but really to the
third generation of your father.” Our father had remarried
at an advanced age, and was therefore an old man to his
children by the second marriage. I commit the error men-
tioned where I discuss the piety between parents and children.

Several times friends and patients have called my attention
to the fact that in reporting their dreams or alluding to them
in dream analyses, I have related inaccurately the circum-
stances experienced by us in common. These are also historic
errors. On re-examining such individual cases I have found
that my recollection of the facts was unreliable only where
I had purposely disfigured or concealed something in the
analysis. Here again we have an unobserved error as a
substitute for an intentional concealment or repression.

From these errors, which originate from repression, we
must sharply distinguish those which are based on actual
ignorance. Thus, for example, it was ignorance when on
my excursion to Wachau I believed that I had passed the
resting-place of the revolutionary leader Fischof. Only the
name is common to both places. Fischof’s Emmersdorf is
located in Kärnthen. But I did not know any better.

Here is another embarrassing but instructive error, an
example of temporary ignorance if you like. One day a
patient reminded me to give him the two books on Venice
which I had promised him, as he wished to use them in
planning his Easter tour. I answered that I had them ready
and went into the library to fetch them, though the truth
of the matter was that I had forgotten to look them up,
since I did not quite approve of my patient’s journey, looking
upon it as an unnecessary interruption to the treatment,
and as a material loss to the physician. Thereupon I made
a quick survey of the library for the books.

164

PSYCHOPATHOLOGY OF EVERYDAY LIFE

One was Venedig als Kunststätte, and besides this I imagined
I had an historic work of a similar order. Certainly there
was Die Mediceer (The Medicis); I took them and brought
them in to him, then, embarrassed, I confessed my error.
Of course I really knew that the Medicis had nothing to
do with Venice, but for a short time it did not appear to me
at all incorrect. Now I was compelled to practise justice; as I
had so frequently interpreted my patient’s symptomatic actions
I could save my prestige only by being honest and admitting
to him the secret motives of my averseness to his trip.

It may cause general astonishment to learn how much
stronger is the impulse to tell the truth than is usually
supposed. Perhaps it is a result of my occupation with
psychoanalysis that I can scarcely lie any more. As often
as I attempt a distortion I succumb to an error or some other
faulty act, which betrays my dishonesty, as was manifest
in this and in the preceding examples.

Of all faulty actions the mechanism of the error seems to
be the most superficial. That is, the occurrence of the error
invariably indicates that the mental activity concerned had
to struggle with some disturbing influence, although the
nature of the error need not be determined by the quality
of the disturbing idea, which may have remained obscure.
It is not out of place to add that the same state of affairs
may be assumed in many simple cases of lapses in speaking
and writing. Every time we commit a lapse in speaking or
writing we may conclude that through mental processes
there has come a disturbance which is beyond our intention.
It may be conceded, however, that lapses in speaking and
writing often follow the laws of similarity and convenience, or
the tendency to acceleration, without allowing the disturbing
element to leave a trace of its own character in the error result-
ing from the lapses in speaking or writing. It is the respon-
siveness of the linguistic material which at first makes possible
the determination of the error, but it also limits the same.

In order not to confine myself exclusively to personal errors

165

I will relate a few examples which could just as well have been
ranged under “Lapses in Speech” or under “Erroneously
Carried-
out Actions,” but as all these forms of faulty action
have the same value they may as well be reported here.

(a) I forbade a patient to speak on the telephone to his
lady-
love, with whom he himself was willing to break off
all relations, as each conversation only renewed the struggling
against it. He was to write her his final decision, although there
were some difficulties in the way of delivering the letter to her.
He visited me at one o’clock to tell me that he had found a way
of avoiding these difficulties, and among other things he asked
me whether he might refer to me in my professional capacity.

At two o’clock while he was engaged in composing the letter
of refusal, he interrupted himself suddenly, and said to his
mother, “Well, I have forgotten to ask the Professor whether I
may use his name in the letter.” He hurried to the telephone,
got the connection, and asked the question, “May I speak to the
Professor after his dinner?” In answer he got an astonished
“Adolf, have you gone crazy!” The answering voice was the
very voice which at my command he had listened to for the
last time. He had simply “made a mistake,” and in place of
the physician’s number had called up that of his beloved.

(b) During a summer vacation a school-
teacher, a poor
but excellent young man, courted the daughter of a summer
resident, until the girl fell passionately in love with him,
and even prevailed upon her family to countenance the
matrimonial alliance in spite of the difference in position
and race. One day, however, the teacher wrote his brother
a letter in which he said : “Pretty, the lass is not at all, but she
is very amiable, and so far so good. But whether I can make
up my mind to marry a Jewess I cannot yet tell.” This letter got
into the hands of the fiancée, who put an end to the engage-
ment, while at the same time his brother was wondering at the
protestations of love directed to him. My informer assured
me that this was really an error and not a cunning trick.

I am familiar with another case in which a woman who

166

was dissatisfied with her old physician, and still did not
openly wish to discharge him, accomplished this purpose
through the interchange of letters. Here, at least, I can assert
confidently that it was error and not conscious cunning
that made use of this familiar comedy-
motive.

(c) Brill¹⁾ tells of a woman who, inquiring about a mutual
friend, erroneously called her by her maiden name. Her
attention having been directed to this error, she had to
admit that she disliked her friend’s husband and had never
been satisfied with her marriage.

Maeder²⁾ relates a good example of how a reluctantly
repressed wish can be satisfied by means of an “error.”
A colleague wanted to enjoy his day of leave of absence
absolutely undisturbed, but he also felt that he ought to
go to Lucerne to pay a call which he did not anticipate with
any pleasure. After long reflection, however, he concluded to
go. For pastime on the train he read the daily newspapers.
He journeyed from Zurich to Arth Goldau, where he changed
trains for Lucerne, all the time engrossed in reading. Presently
the conductor informed him that he was in the wrong train—
that is, he had got into the one which was returning from
Goldau to Zurich, whereas his ticket was for Lucerne.

A very similar trick was played by me quite recently.
I had promised my oldest brother to pay him a long-
due visit at a sea-shore in England; as the time was short I felt
obliged to travel by the shortest route and without inter-
ruption. I begged for a day’s sojourn in Holland, but he
thought that I could stop there on my return trip. Accord-
ingly I journeyed from Munich through Cologne to Rotterdam
—Hook of Holland—where I was to take the steamer at
midnight to Harwich. In Cologne I had to change cars;
I left my train to go into the Rotterdam express, but it was
not to be found. I asked various railway employees, was
sent from one platform to another, got into an exaggerated

¹ Loc. cit., p. 191.

² Nouvelles contributions, etc., Arch. de Psych., vi. 1908.

167

state of despair, and could easily reckon that during this
fruitless search I had probably missed my connection.

After this was corroborated, I pondered whether or not
I should spend the night in Cologne. This was favoured
by a feeling of piety, for according to an old family tradition
my ancestors were once expelled from this city during a
persecution of the Jews. But eventually I came to another
decision; I took a later train to Rotterdam, where I arrived
late at night and was thus compelled to spend a day in
Holland. This brought me the fulfilment of a long-
fostered wish—the sight of the beautiful Rembrandt paintings at The
Hague and in the Royal Museum at Amsterdam. Not before
the next forenoon, while collecting my impressions during the
railway journey in England, did I definitely remember that
only a few steps from the place where I got off at the
railroad station in Cologne, indeed, on the same platform, I
had seen a large sign, “Rotterdam—Hook of Holland.” There
stood the train in which I should have continued my journey.

If one does not wish to assume that, contrary to my brother’s
orders, I had really resolved to admire the Rembrandt
pictures on my way to him, then the fact that despite clear
directions I hurried away and looked for another train must
be designated as an incomprehensible “blinding.” Everything
else—my well-
acted perplexity, the emergence of the pious in-
tention to spend the night in Cologne—was only a contrivance
to hide my resolution until it had been fully accomplished.

One may possibly be disinclined to consider the class of
errors which I have here explained as very numerous or
particularly significant. But I leave it to your consideration
whether there is no ground for extending the same points
of view also to the more important errors of judgment,
as evinced by people in life and science. Only for the most
select and most balanced minds does it seem possible to
guard the perceived picture of external reality against the
distortion to which it is otherwise subjected in its transit
through the psychic individuality of the one perceiving it.