"Why, yes," the mother replied. "He is passionately fond of them, and I tell him some every day."
"And what, may I ask, are the stories that you tell to him most frequently?"
"'Jack the Giant Killer' is one. He is also particularly fond of 'The Boy Who Did Not Know How to Shiver.'"
"Well, madam," said the physician, gravely, "I must ask you either to stop telling him fairy tales or to choose for him fairy tales with less gruesome elements in them. He is a boy of nervous temperament, and, figuratively speaking, he has been poisoned by the fear-images that are so abundant in the stories he has heard. Take him out into the open air, turn his thoughts to other things, and be more discreet in your choice of reading matter for him. Unless you do this, there is danger that he will yet suffer from something far more serious than night terrors."
The truth of this last statement may be concretely re-enforced by another citation from recent medical experience—the case, not of a young boy, but of a man of thirty, who came to Doctor Brill with a remarkable story.
"Ever since my boyhood," he related, "I have fainted at seeing blood. Now I feel weak and dizzy, and sometimes I faint outright, at anything which merely brings into my mind the thought of blood. I am afraid to talk to certain people because they are likely to speak about accidents which make me think of blood. The sight of a man who looks like a doctor suggests an operation, and at once I feel faint. On one occasion I fainted away while my blood pressure was being taken. It was not that I was afraid of having my blood pressure taken; it was simply that the word 'blood' brought on the usual attack. You do not appreciate the difficulty I have in telling you all this. Every time I mention the word to you I have to get a grip on myself. I fear I must seem very weak and foolish, but I cannot overcome the horror I feel. Unless you help me, I do not know what I shall do. I cannot go on this way indefinitely."
In answer to Doctor Brill's questions, he insisted nothing had occurred in his life that could give rise to his "phobia," or morbid dread of blood. He had been in no bad accident, had undergone no serious surgical operation, had witnessed no sanguinary scenes of any sort.
"Nevertheless," Doctor Brill assured him, "there is a logical reason for your abnormal fear. It is evidently buried deep in your mind; but there are ways of getting at it, and get at it we must."
Psychological analysis, patiently carried on for many days, ultimately brought the truth to light. His phobia, it appeared, had its real starting point in early childhood, and, not least, in certain sensational fairy stories read to him by a nurse when he was quite young—stories which he himself continued to read at a later age.
"These bloody and horrible stories," to quote Doctor Brill, "made a strong impression upon him. He would form fancies about them on going to sleep at night, substituting himself for the hero."