i know a man who suffered a great deal from his wife’s moods. no matter how much he tried he could never please her. if he was happy and contented she called him “mr. frivolous” and would say what a fine figure he’d cut in a punch and judy show; if, on the contrary, cares troubled him and his face betrayed his anxiety, she called him “old grouch” and railed at him for making her life bitter. if he wanted to go to the theatre, she thought they ought to stay home; if he longed for the peace of the home, she egged him on to take part in all sorts of senseless pastimes. is it any wonder that the poor man became “nervous”? that he lost his peace of mind and his hitherto imperturbable good humour?
in those painful days his comfort was his quiet daughter who seemed to be in all respects the opposite of her moody mother. he sought sanctuary with her, and over and over again she had to listen to his cries for peace.
finally his nervous condition got so bad that a physician had to be consulted. the physician being fully aware of the patient’s domestic relations did not have to consider very long and ordered the sick man to take a trip. more [pg 116]easily prescribed than done. for our patient had one very bad habit: he could not be alone. it was a cruel punishment for him to have to look after his small daily wants away from home. what was he to do? his wife would gladly have gone along with him. but there were numerous objections to that. besides, the wise physician would not hear of it. in this quandary the distressed man thought of his gentle, affectionate, young daughter. everybody rejoiced at this happy solution; the anxious physician, the jealous wife, and, not least, the sensible daughter who had not yet seen anything of the world and whose secret dreams of youth had been disturbed by the erratic educational methods of her mother, in which exaggerated love and pitiless sternness alternated.
great excitement marked the time for departure. mother changed her plans ten times over. first she wanted to drop everything and accompany her husband; then she wanted to induce the unhappy husband to give up the trip, and so on. finally the time for departure arrived. they were on the platform at the station and were saying the last good-byes. mother had an unlimited number of things to say and suggestions to make. then the conductor gave the last warning and there was no time to lose. through the little window the happy father and the still happier daughter looked out on the source of their woes who had been suddenly converted into an inexhaustible [pg 117]fountain of tears. was she so grieved because the objects upon whom she was wont to project the discontent of her unresting heart were gone? with a sudden movement she wiped away her tears and called after her daughter in stentorian tones: “freda, now you’ll take the place of your mother! remember that!”—what else she said was lost in the din of the moving train whose shrill whistle drowned the asthmatic woman’s commanding tones. during the next few seconds they waved their last greetings and then the scene so painful to all was over.
father and daughter looked at each other, their faces beaming. for a little while, at any rate, they would be free and have nothing else to do but to enjoy life. the mother’s last words rang in their ears. involuntarily the man smiled and remarked tenderly to his daughter: “well—i shall be curious to see how my little sunshine will take her mother’s place.” the little one looked at her father seriously and replied: “papa, i shall try to do so to the best of my power, surely.” and deep within her she rejoiced at the thought that strangers might think her really the young wife of this fine-looking man.
after a few minutes freda began to complain that it was getting very cold. “there is a draught! it’s terribly cold!” the anxious father at once closed the window. after a little while she complained that the compartment was unbearably stuffy. why had not the [pg 118]conductor assigned them a more spacious one? had papa given him a tip? she had been told by a friend who had just returned from a wedding trip in italy that conductors are respectful and accommodating only to those who give liberal tips. she was not so inexperienced as a certain papa seemed to think. if he gave the man the tip they would surely be transferred to a more comfortable car. somewhat irritated, the father complied with his daughter’s wish. after considerable trouble they were transferred from their small cosy compartment in which they could sit alone, to a large one into which a stout elderly gentleman entered at the next station and plumped himself down beside them. freda had an insurmountable repugnance to fat old gentlemen. she reproached her father; he had not given the conductor a large enough tip.
why waste words? after a few hours the poor man saw only too clearly that his daughter was bent on taking her mother’s place in the true sense of the word. she pestered him with her moods and gave him not a minute’s rest. he tried to console himself with the thought that freda was not herself owing to the excitement of the last few days, and that she would soon be [pg 119]herself again. vain hope! the girl was as if transformed. from a quiet, amiable child, she had become a moody, fractious torment. the trip which had been intended as a cure became an unmitigable torture. for at home he knew how to adapt himself quietly to his wife’s tyranny. but here, away from home, he was constantly getting into all sorts of unpleasant situations. finally, he pretended to be too sick to continue the trip and after a few days they returned home.
i have narrated this tragic-comical history in such detail because it makes the meaning of “identification” clearer than any definition could. what had happened to the young girl to transform her so quickly? her mother had enjoined her to take her place. she had to some extent taken upon herself her mother’s duties. she identified herself with her mother. she played the role of mother exactly as she had for years seen it played at home, though, in secret, she had disapproved of her mother’s conduct. this identification nullified her own personality and replaced it with another.
this is a phenomenon that takes the most surprising forms among the victims of hysteria. but it would be erroneous to think that it occurs only among hysterics. almost all persons, especially women, succumb to the seductive power of identification. i wonder if it is because of this that all of us secretly bear a measure of neurosis with us throughout life! at home, freda might have concealed her hysteria as a kind of reaction to her mother’s conduct. it was only when she had to play the mother’s role that the neurosis, in consequence of an unconscious affect, became manifest. it is [pg 120]thus that epidemics of hysteria break out. if a neurosis is capable of transferring an affect, it can arouse another, slumbering neurosis. for to-day we know, from bleuler’s studies, that suggestion is not the transference of an idea but an affect.
the phenomenon that the above case brings out so clearly and unequivocally may be seen in everyday life behind various motives, catchwords, tendencies, and strivings. notwithstanding these disguises the eye of the investigator will not find it difficult to recognize the mechanism of identification and the element of the neurosis in the normal person. but if this is so everybody is neurotic. let us not get excited about this conclusion. there is no such thing as a normal human being. what we call disease and abnormality are only the highest peaks of a mountain chain that rises to various heights above the sea-level of the normal. every person has his weak spots, physical and psychical. we can reckon only relative heights, never the absolute, inasmuch as a standard of the normal is really never at our disposal.
there is no difficulty in finding illustrations of the process of identification in the so-called normal. take, for example, the valet of the nobleman. how thoroughly imbued he is with his master’s pride of ancestry! with what imperturbable scorn he looks down upon the common rabble! it never enters his mind that he is one of the masses. he has no glimmer of [pg 121]appreciation of the absurdity of his airs, because the mechanism of identification has clouded his intellect and an emotion has strangled his logic. he even gives verbal expression to his feeling of identification. he seems to have become fused into a unity with his master, for he submerges his individuality, his ego, and on every occasion speaks of “we” and “us.”
“we are starting south to-day,” he announces to the neighbours. “we shall stay home,” he declares oracularly to visitors.
we see the same thing in the school child. it takes a little time before he can free himself from the influence of his teachers and of the school. not infrequently he cannot do so owing to the permanent fixation of his identification with them. horace’s “jurare in verba magistri” (i.e., to echo the sentiments of one’s master) is nothing but the result of a completely successful identification. one who cannot free himself from this affect and substitute for the confident “we” of the school the uncertain “i” of individuality can never hope to become an independent personality.
some feelings, such as so-called party spirit, pride of ancestry, solidarity, national pride, etc., are only identifications. the german identifies himself with his great national heroes, e.g., schiller, goethe, bismarck, etc., and is then as proud of being a german as if that implied that he had himself been responsible for their great achievements. the well-known and almost [pg 122]ridiculous pride of the englishman is only the product of an extreme identification. but, as a matter of fact, the british government also identifies itself with the humblest of its subjects and protects him in whatever corner of the earth he may happen to be. the officer who takes great pride in his regiment, the pupil who is all enthusiasm for the colours of his school, and the ordinary citizen who can see no element of goodness in any but his own political party, all bear witness to the great power of identification. it is in this way that socialism has become such a tremendous power. not because it furnishes the proletariat with a dream of a happier future, not because it has supplied it with a religion. (the church supplies this want better.) no! only because it has enabled the individual, the weak one, to feel himself one with a tremendous majority, to identify himself with an organization that is world-wide. socialism is the triumph of identification and the death-knell of individualism.
the most beautiful instance of identification is furnished by love. one who is in love has completely identified himself with the beloved. “two souls with but a single thought; two hearts that beat as one.” has not rückert designated his beloved as his “better self”? (or kletke’s very popular song: “what is thine and what is mine?”) a lover almost literally transfers his whole ego into another’s soul. he projects all his yearning upon that [pg 123]one object. he is oblivious of his mistakes until the identification is over. then the intoxicating dream, too, is over.
with the aid of identification a lover can transfer his passion upon any object that stands in some sort of relationship to his beloved. it is in this way that fetichism sometimes results. that is why love for a woman so easily leads to a love for her kindred. there is a slavic proverb which says: “he who loves his wife also cherishes his mother-in-law.” and, on the other hand, a discontent with one’s wife is often concealed behind a stubborn hatred of her relatives. in many instances the feeling against mothers-in-law cannot be interpreted in any other way.
thus there runs through the soul of mankind an endless chain of identifications ranging from the normal to the pathological. the child that puts its father’s hat on its head identifies itself with him just as certainly as the lunatic who thinks himself napoleon. both have realized their wishes. but there is this difference between them: in the normal the identification is held under control by the force of facts, whereas in the lunatic the identification has suffered a fixation. a delusion is frequently only a wholly successful identification in the interests of the desire to escape from painful realities. delusion and truth are plastic conceptions. who could presume to define where truth ceases and delusion begins? from [pg 124]schopenhauer’s point of view our whole world-philosophy might be said to be only a process of identification. and truth is nothing but the transference of our own limited knowledge upon the outer world.
