[In the following excerpt, Meisel offers a psychological study of three early works, emphasizing the tensions within Hardy which affected their composition.]

Hardy's life as an architect's pupil in Dorchester when he was twenty was “a triple existence unusual for a young man—what he used to call, in looking back, a life twisted of three strands—the professional life, the scholar's life, and the rustic life, combined in the twenty-four hours of one day, as it was with him through these years” (Life, p. 32). He describes his peculiar situation at the time as the result of the “accident” that he worked in a country town which was just beginning to feel the effects of modern life (“railways and telegraphs and daily London papers”); “yet not living there, but walking in every day from a world of shepherds and ploughmen in a hamlet three miles off, where modern improvements were still regarded as wonders, he saw rustic and borough doings in a juxtaposition peculiarly close” (Life, pp. 31-32).

Hardy's life at this time was an almost literal version of the multiple sensibilities displayed in his early fiction. While the architecture student set about the tasks of church restoration and the like during the working day, the young poet read Greek tragedy in his spare time and reluctantly gave up the study only on the advice of his friend Moule, who urged him to find a means of income in the profession chosen for him. In fact, speculation in the Life suggests that, had Hardy been advised to continue his studies of Greek plays and give up architecture, he might have gone on to the university instead of to London where he sought to further his professional career. Though Hardy's fiction is hardly autobiographical, the flavor of his life as a young man in Dorchester, the admixture of life styles, and the tension between his real situation and his desires read like the novels he was to write.

The early novels—Under the Greenwood Tree, A Pair of Blue Eyes, and Far From the Madding Crowd—span the period from Hardy's last professional connection with architecture in London to his establishment as a successful popular author. Together they represent the initial world of his imagination, with Far From the Madding Crowd, the first of the Wessex novels, symbolizing the crystallization of an independent and complete imaginative universe. The original impulses of the creator of Michael Henchard and Jude Fawley deserve special consideration because the world of these early books forms the fundamental structure of Hardy's entire production in prose. This initial mythology establishes a seminal world in which Jude's fate seems the inevitable outcome of the original pattern. It is as though Hardy's early work defines the distinctively individual aspects of his creations, while the later novels reflect the finally explicit and full-blown statement of the same mind after the experiences of twenty-five years that saw the decline of the Victorian climate.

Hardy the novelist was, above all, a teller of tales. Even after finishing Far From the Madding Crowd, he wrote to Leslie Stephen, his editor at the time:

The truth is that I am willing, and indeed anxious, to give up any points which may be desirable in a story when read as a whole, for the sake of others which shall please those who read it in numbers. Perhaps I may have higher aims some day, and be a great stickler for the proper artistic balance of the completed work, but for the present, circumstances lead me to wish merely to be considered a good hand at a serial.

[Life, p. 100]

Some notes on the writing of fiction recorded in July 1881 indicate the area of his concern in prose:

The writer's problem is, how to strike the balance between the uncommon and the ordinary so as on the one hand to give interest, on the other to give reality.

In working out this problem, human nature must never be made abnormal, which is introducing incredibility. The uncommonness must be in the events, not in the characters; and the writer's art lies in shaping that uncommonness while disguising its unlikelihood, if it be unlikely.

[Life, p. 150]

Hardy's narrative style remained firmly traditional throughout his career as a novelist and points to the central importance of the story itself in all of his fiction. In the early novels, the nature of his imaginative world is clearly reflected in the way character and event are created.

The nature of the existing social and natural order in the idyllic world of Under the Greenwood Tree and Far From The Madding Crowd is one of thoroughgoing community. Hardy “accepts the assumptions of the society that he depicts, and neither apologizes for it nor condescends to it.”¹ But, at the same time, this ordered world unknowingly harbors refugees from the future, doubting and disturbing forces that move secretly within the pastoral landscape until, at crucial moments, their alien character is betrayed. A Pair of Blue Eyes, a highly idiosyncratic departure from the Wessex of the other two early books,² sustains perhaps best of all Hardy's early work the deep and complex array of cross-purposes and disturbed dreams that exist within an apparently consistent world. What he was to write of Jude applies with not a little irony to Hardy himself at this initial period of his career, and to the unknown and complex nature of his early fictional world:

He would accept any employment which might be offered him on the strength of his late employer's recommendation; but he would accept it as a provisional thing only. This was his form of the modern vice of unrest.

Moreover he perceived that at best only copying, patching and imitating went on here; which he fancied to be owing to some temporary and local cause. He did not at that time see that medievalism was as dead as a fern-leaf in a lump of coal; that other developments were shaping in the world around him, in which Gothic architecture and its associations had no place. The deadly animosity of contemporary logic and vision towards so much of what he held in reverence was not yet revealed to him.³ …

While Hardy was no stylistic or technical innovator in the sense that he exploited perspectives or cognitive processes for new approaches to the novel, his sense of story included the recognition of an array of perceptions within his imaginative world. That world lives only when events become important to the characters. An individual's change of fortune affects not only himself but the community as well, whether the character be a member of the community or an outsider—thus, “the writer's art lies in shaping the uncommonness of events while disguising its unlikelihood,” and the poetry of a given scene lies in the reality of those events for the characters. In order to sustain his fictional world, the artist creates an entire social order in which uncommon events may occur with credibility and in which his characters may breathe. But the nature of the events Hardy creates within his world involves the disturbance of the order sustaining those occurrences: here lies the tension within the imaginative environment, a tension he did not at first recognize. This inevitable conflict in the dialectic of character and event is the result of the kinds of characters with which Hardy peopled his world. Those figures who are part of the natural community in his novels—natives of Wessex for the most part—are essentially fixed or non-developing.

The changeless characters of the Wessex world are of both minor and major order; and they are generally set in juxaposition with one or two characters of a more changeful or modern type. The interplay between the two kind of characters is the focus of the struggle that makes the story. Hardy is almost the only modern novelist who makes serious use of this conflict and at the same time preserves full and equal respect for both sets of characters. …

Nature, itself unchangeable and inscrutable, is the norm, the basis of Wessex life. …

Nearest to nature, and therefore most changeless, are the rustics … who throng Hardy's pages. In the rural comedies, like Under the Greenwood Tree and Far From the Madding Crowd, they dominate the scene. Only the vicar, in Under the Greenwood Tree, with his newfangled church organ, and perhaps in a slight way Sergeant Troy in the other novel, foreshadow the kind of disturbance set up by the changeful character.⁴

Davidson's view is extremely useful in defining the nature of the population of Hardy's world; but he is, unfortunately, too cautious in his reading of the early novels. He insists that Hardy wrote in terms of the assumptions of his Wessex world and, thus, against the pattern of his age. But in attempting to unify his theory of the traditional basis of Hardy's fiction, he refuses to entertain the development of the novels seriously and would have difficulty in understanding the more explicit attitudes and conflicts of A Pair of Blue Eyes, as well as of the later Hardy. It seems that the very nature of Hardy's fiction was rooted in an unconsciously perceived set of tensions that find their expression in conceptions like the dissolution of an ordered community in the face of modern disturbance, but which, in the early Wessex works, only gently reveal themselves. …

Although A Pair of Blue Eyes was written directly after Under the Greenwood Tree, it is best to consider Far From the Madding Crowd at this point because it shares the Wessex that has virtually been established in the tale of the Mellstock Quire. A Pair of Blue Eyes, as we have noted, departs from the landscape of Wessex itself and, while thematically it deals with matters almost identical to the other two early works, its curious emphasis is enough to earn it special consideration.

The preface to Far From the Madding Crowd notes “a break of continuity in local history” that occurs in Wessex (or in the corresponding model in the real world—one cannot be sure) shortly after the period of the narrative. The change issues from the supplanting of the class of stationary cottagers in the region by migratory workers, an event which symbolically announces the separation of the native inhabitants from the soil, a rupture in “the indispensable conditions of existence” that were the basis of an entire history and tradition.

Weatherbury embodies the agrarian community. The sheep-shearing scene in Bathsheba's barn defines the traditional world in all its unified aspects. The barn “not only emulated the form of the neighborhood church of the parish, but vied with it in antiquity” (p. 164); in fact,

One could say about this barn, what could hardly be said of either the church or the castle, akin to it in age and style, that the purpose which had dictated its original erection was the same with that to which it was still applied. Unlike and superior to either of those two typical remnants of medievalism, the old barn embodied practices which had suffered no mutilation at the hands of time. Here at least the spirit of the ancient builders was at one with the spirit of the modern beholders. Standing before this abraded pile, the eye regarded its present usage, the mind dwelt upon its past history, with a satisfied sense of functional continuity throughout—a feeling almost of gratitude, and quite of pride, at the permanence of the idea which had heaped it up. The fact, that four centuries had neither proved it to be founded on a mistake, inspired any hatred of its purpose, nor given rise to any reaction that had battered it down, invested this simple grey effort of old minds with a repose, if not a grandeur, which a too curious reflection was apt to disturb in its ecclesiastical and military compeers. For once medievalism and modernism had a common standpoint. The lanceolate windows, the time-eaten arch-stones and chamfers, the orientation of the axis, the misty chestnut work of the rafters, referred to no exploded fortifying or worn-out religious creed. The defence and salvation of the body by daily bread is still a study, a religion, and a desire. …

This picture of to-day in its frame of four hundred years ago did not produce that marked contrast between ancient and modern which is implied by the contrast of date. In comparison with cities, Weatherbury was immutable. The citizen's Then is the rustic's Now. In London, twenty or thirty years ago are old times; in Paris ten years, or five; in Weatherbury three or four score years were included in the mere present, and nothing less than a century set a mark on its face or tone. Five decades hardly modified the cut of a gaiter, the embroidery of a smock-frock, by the breadth of a hair. Ten generations failed to alter the turn of a single phrase. In these Wessex nooks the busy outsider's ancient times are only old; his old times are still new; his present is futurity.

So the barn was natural to the shearers, and the shearers were in harmony with the barn.

[pp. 164-166]

The central characters in the novel perform within and against this Wessex landscape. Gabriel Oak, of course, is the quintessential representative of the community. As he tends his flock in the opening scenes of the book, the harmony between man and nature excudes peace: “The sky was clear—remarkably clear—and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse” (p. 9). And while the order of nature is in harmony with man, humanity still retains its uniqueness against the backdrop of the heavens in the form of Oak's flute: “Suddenly an unexpected series of sounds began to be heard in this place up against the sky. They had a clearness which was to be found nowhere in the wind, and a sequence which was to be found nowhere in nature. They were the notes of Farmer Oak's flute” (p. 10). But, in spite of the harmony, the pronouncement might be taken as foreboding. “In making even horizontal and clear inspections we colour and mould according to the wants within us whatever our eyes bring in” (p. 16). The mute tension results from the quiet doubt whether nature is intrinsically ordered, or whether it is man who imposes an order on nature (and thus on himself as well)—an order that becomes an illusion of harmony when his wishes do not supplant his needs.

Even with Oak, the feeling that his inner peace, though sustained throughout the novel despite immense disappointments and troubles, is often precarious is occasioned by his initial responses to Bathsheba and our knowledge that he continues to love her throughout the book: “Having for some time known the want of a satisfactory form to fill an increasing void within him, his position moreover affording the wildest scope for his fancy, he painted her a beauty” (p. 16). The pattern established in Under the Greenwood Tree, the pivotal importance of woman, returns; Oak, like Dick Dewey, never recognizes the wound the community has received through his lover's fall. For Bathsheba, like Fancy Day, succumbs to the external tempter and remains morally infected, even with the apparent reestablishment of peace and order by marriage at the end of the novel.

The poetics of Far From the Madding Crowd follow those of the earlier work; the pattern, of course, continues as well. All the central characters except one are members of the community. Its laws rule that Oak must step aside for Boldwood to court Bathsheba and, as the most thoroughgoing symbol of Weatherbury, Gabriel resigns himself to his fortune not without good will. But the story really begins when the scene is invaded by Sergeant Troy. Ironically, Troy is a native of Weatherbury, while Bathsheba and Oak are not: but the woman-farmer and the shepherd belong to the community as Troy does not. Although Troy's presence alone is disturbing, he seriously influences the world of the novel through his attractiveness to Bathsheba. Again, it is the woman who forms the bridge between the two sensibilities.

Troy and Bathsheba meet for the first time very soon after the symbolic scene in the shearing barn, as if to emphasize the coming drama directly in terms of the plot. Their meeting also follows Boldwood's initial display of interest in Bathsheba. Indeed, the ironies work almost identically to those in Under the Greenwood Tree. Just as the choir sings the hymn “Remember Adam's fall, / O thou Man” at Fancy's window, Hardy half-jokingly prefaces Bathsheba and Boldwood's first real encounter with “Adam had awakened from his deep sleep, and behold! there was Eve” (p. 133). And, since the implications of the allusion to the Fall of Man are as serious here as in the earlier work, the use of the reference is similarly displaced in the sequence of action. Bathsheba meets Boldwood early in the same day when she will encounter Troy, just as Dick and the choir see Fancy early in the same evening when the vicar belatedly greets the carolers.⁵ It is also noteworthy that Dick sees Fancy for the first time on the day of a communal event, Christmas eve, in the same way that Boldwood meets Bathsheba on a similarly symbolic instance in terms of the community, the marketplace on a Saturday.⁶

Just before the marketplace encounter, Hardy momentarily illuminates the nature of Bathsheba's behavior as it affects the world of the novel. He also provides a touch of irony in the last words of the paragraph as if to indicate the coming events of the evening and the displaced occurrence of the insight presented:

Material causes and emotional effects are not to be arranged in regular equation. The result from capital employed in the production of any movement of a mental nature is sometimes as tremendous as the cause itself is absurdly minute. When women are in a freakish mood their usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent defect, seemingly fails to teach them this, and hence it was that Bathsheba was fated to be astonished today.

[p. 133]

The artist hints at the revelation of Bathsheba's character that both she and the world of social relationships will experience later in the novel. At the same time, he reestablishes on an explicit basis the nature of his poetics, as character and event work out their seemingly inevitable dialectic. Indeed, his use of the word fated in this passage suggests that atmosphere of doom and inevitability which almost reaches the stature of a law in the later novels and works on a level close to determinism in this early work. The interrelation of Hardy's poetics and the nature of his fictional world occurs as early as Far From the Madding Crowd; but not until the later works does the relation become glaringly explicit.

Bathsheba, like Fancy Day, occupies a position of responsibility with Boldwood that she does not recognize until too late. Even before Troy's arrival in her life, her inability to control her responses portends the far-ranging consequences suggested as early as the meeting at the marketplace. She is potentially a danger to individual suitors before Troy's intrusion renders her a threat to the community as well. “He was altogether too much for her, and Bathsheba seemed as one, who facing a reviving wind, finds it blow so strongly that it stops the breath” (p. 213). But the underlying nature of her character remains inscrutable, a characteristic, it seems, of Hardy's women in general.

Bathsheba loved Troy in the way that only self-reliant women love when they abandon their self-reliance. When a strong woman recklessly throws away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any strength to throw away. One source of her inadequacy is the novelty of the occasion. She has never had practice in making the best of such a condition. Weakness is doubly weak by being new.

[p. 214]

In the turmoil of her anxiety for her lover she had agreed to marry him; but the perception that had accompanied her happiest hours on this account was rather that of self-sacrifice than of promotion and honor.

[p. 315]

While Bathsheba's relationship with Boldwood caused her a grim dejection, her response to Troy is frenzied; marriage and the death of Fanny Robin reduce her to near madness.

Bathsheba's marriage to Troy parallels, if not initiates, a noticeable breakdown in the community. The shearing barn, originally a symbol of the integrity of the community, becomes the symbol of its degeneration once Troy is master of the farm. The harvest feast becomes a drunken spectacle by the end of the evening, while Oak, typically, remains the one true preserver of order. Oak thinks at first that only Bathsheba's corn is exposed to the breeding storm: “All the night he had the feeling that the neglect he was labouring to repair was abnormal and isolated—the only instance of the kind within the circuit of the county” (p. 294). But Boldwood, through his own neglect, has also left his produce exposed to the inclement weather. It is as though an infectious lassitude has spread across the entire region, almost directly accountable to Troy's interference. Yet even the suggested decay of the community becomes irrelevant against the background of nature itself, symbolized by the explosion of the storm; “love, life, everything human, seemed small and trifling in such close juxtaposition with an infuriated universe” (p. 287). That the importance of an event or a perspective is a function of the perceiver was a point with Hardy from the first. He notes in his diary as early as the end of December 1865: “To insects the twelvemonth has been an epoch, to leaves a life, to tweeting birds a generation, to man a year” (Life, p. 55).

Bathsheba wanders tearfully about the countryside after she has spent the night before Fanny Robin's funeral in the woods. The full effect of the events of the novel finds its expression in her perception of the coexistence of contraries in nature. It is man's puzzled response to a scene recognized in all its fullness for the first time:

There was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the as yet unrisen sun attracted her eyes thither. From her feet, and between the beautiful yellowing ferns with their feathery arms, the ground sloped downwards to a hollow, in which was a species of swamp, dotted with fungi. A morning mist hung over it now—a fulsome yet magnificent silvery veil, full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque—the hedge behind it being in some measure hidden by its hazy luminousness. Up the sides of this depression grew sheaves of the common rush, and here and there a peculiar species of flag, the blades of which glistened in the emerging sun, like scythes. But the general aspect of the swamp was malignant. From its moist and poisonous coat seemed to be exhaled the essences of evil things in the earth, and in the waters under the earth. The fungi grew in all manner of positions from rotting leaves and tree stumps, some exhibiting to her listless gaze their clammy tops, others their oozing gills. Some were marked with great splotches, red as arterial blood, others were saffron yellow, and others tall and attenuated, with stems like macaroni. Some were leathery and of richest browns. The hollow seemed a nursery of pestilences small and great, in the immediate neighborhood of comfort and health, and Bathsheba arose with a tremor at the thought of having passed the night on the brink of so dismal a place.

[pp. 347-48]

The notes of Oak's flute early in the novel were an indication that man, no matter what the appearances of the moment, himself imposes a believable order upon nature when his community is intact and his social relationships viable. Thus, the recognition that nature is an impersonal entity, separate from man even when he is a member of an ordered community, suggests the underlying possibilities of doubt and the dissolution of order. The quality of man's perception of nature and the state of his community are inseparable. Far From the Madding Crowd moves from Oak's idyllic sheepherding (where the potential for the later view is implicit) and the shearing episode in the barn, where man and nature are in harmony and the social order intact; through the vision of the storm and indifferent, even hostile, nature on the night of the drunken harvest feast in the same barn; to Bathsheba's disgust and bottomless despair at the sight of the swamp. The violation of Fanny's grave by the flow of rainwater through a gargoyle on the roof of the church drives the change in the perception of nature even further—to the point of its absolute antipathy to man. Even though it continues to serve its purpose of draining water, man's functional intentions for the gargoyle have now taken on destructive tendencies. Hardy is explicit: “The persistent torrent from the gargoyle's jaws directed all its vengeance into the grave” (p. 362).

The perception of a hostile nature also provides, for the first time, an insight into the sensational Troy. While his outlines have been strongly drawn throughout the book and his effect on the Wessex community made clear, it is not until the curtain is drawn back across the entire landscape of the novel that any insight into his character is possible. Troy is granted the equivalent to Maybold's ability to control his actions, a glimpse of self-knowledge. He is, in spite of his present role, still a geographical native to Weatherbury and, in a sense, must involuntarily recognize his effect on the world that bore him with a kind of contrition. His own past has handled him roughly; the story of his life, for all its excitement, is the denial of a home.

Almost for the first time in his life Troy, as he stood by this dismantled grave, wished himself another man. It is seldom that a person with much animal spirit does not feel that the fact of his life being his own is the one qualification which singles it out as a more hopeful life than that of others who may actually resemble him in every particular. Troy had felt, in his transient way, hundreds of times, that he could not envy other people their condition, because the possession of that condition would have necessitated a different personality, when he desired no other than his own. He had not minded the peculiarities of his birth, the vicissitudes of his life, the meteor-like uncertainty of all that related to him, because these appertained to the hero of his story, without whom there would have been no story at all for him; and it seemed to be only in the nature of things that matters would right themselves at some proper date and wind up well. This very morning the illusion completed its disappearance, and, as it were, all of a sudden, Troy hated himself. The suddenness was probably more apparent than real. A coral reef which just comes short of the ocean surface is no more to the horizon than if it had never been begun, and the mere finishing stroke is what often appears to create an event which has long been potentially an accomplished thing.

He stood and meditated—a miserable man. Whither should he go? “He that is accursed, let him be accursed still” (Revelation, xxii, 11), was the pitiless anathema written in this spoliated effort of his newborn solicitousness. A man who has spent his primal strength in journeying in one direction has not much spirit left for reversing his course. Troy had, since yesterday, faintly reversed his; but the merest opposition had disheartened him. To turn about would have been hard enough under the greatest providential encouragement; but to find that Providence, far from helping him into a new course, or showing any wish that he might adopt one, actually jeered his first trembling and critical attempt in that kind, was more than nature could bear.

He slowly withdrew from the grave. He did not attempt to fill up the hole, replace the flowers, or do anything at all. He simply threw up his cards and forswore his game for that time and always.

[pp. 364-65]

During the years of uncertainty about her husband's possible death, Bathsheba's life is the embodiment of the tension that now exists within the community. When Troy is finally killed by Boldwood, his disturbing influence is at least eradicated through action in a manner parallel to Maybold's retraction of his marriage offer to Fancy. But, like the situation at the end of Under the Greenwood Tree, the wound has already been inflicted—the effect on the original order is a mental, or moral, one. In spite of Hardy's attempts to gloss over the irreparable rift, in the form of Boldwood's pardon and Bathsheba's marriage to Oak, events have wrought changes in the very fabric of life. Bathsheba and Oak's love is indeed “strong as death” (p. 457); no other simile could describe it properly. It is a real love, nurtured by experience of the hardest kind. …

Knight [in A Pair of Blue Eyes] is the early version of the later Hardy, the catalyst for a still deeper transformation in the world of the mature novels. It seems that precisely this recognition on Hardy's part caused him to retreat from such a disturbing impulse when he wrote his next book. Knight's secret power was his hold on the artist himself. Maimed but indestructible, his mutation is Troy. Still, his dark knowledge underlies the tension and the abiding wounds in the world of Far From the Madding Crowd. Hardy stood by his attempt at suppression on the cliff in his next novel—“Into the shadowy depths of these speculations we will not follow him.” But the impulse could not be resisted, even in the so-called idyll of Weatherbury, and it returns to drive the artist to answer on a still deeper level. It seems that he

must stand with the average against the exception, he must, in his ultimate judgment, represent the interests of humanity, or the community as a whole, and rule out the individual interest.

To do this, however, he must go against himself. His private sympathy is always with the individual against the community: as is the case with the artist.⁷

The tensions within Far From the Madding Crowd, and even their first whispers in Under the Greenwood Tree, are symptoms of the disturbance; the history of the development of this instinct during Hardy's career as a novelist is the underlying determinant of the course his fiction was to follow. “All the phenomena of the formation of symptoms may be justly described as ‘the return of the repressed.’ Their distinguishing characteristic, however, is the far-reaching distortion to which the returning material has been subjected as compared with the original.”⁸

Notes

1. Donald Davidson, “The Traditional Basis of Thomas Hardy's Fiction,” in Still Rebels, Still Yankees, p. 58.

2. While Under the Greenwood Tree is not a Wessex novel proper, its flavor, as well as its geography, places it in that imaginative environment.

3. Jude the Obscure, pp. 68-69.

4. Davidson, pp. 58-59. Hardy's critics, with few exceptions, seem to align themselves either with the view that he worked in isolation from the climate of the day, or that he was a perfect representative of it. Davidson's apparent misunderstanding of the nature of the world of the early novels stems from his overlooking Hardy's final view of nature in the two books following Under the Greenwood Tree, a view which casts serious doubts on a nonillusory, natural basis for the ordered Wessex community.

5. While Boldwood and Dick are not specifically equated here (Oak finally emerges as Dick's parallel), at this point in the story Oak has given way to the farmer, and thus for the moment passes along his role. In terms of the structure of the community and its violation, Boldwood and Oak are interchangeable.

6. Even here, the parallels are more meaningful than is apparent—the marketplace denotes the functional values of Wessex, which were deemed even more real than the religious values in the shearing scene.

7. D. H. Lawrence, “Study of Thomas Hardy,” in Selected Literary Criticism, p. 183.

8. Sigmund Freud, Moses and Monotheism, in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, 23: 127. All citations from Freud are from the Standard Edition and will hereafter be indicated by title and volume number alone. The phrase the return of the repressed first appeared in Freud's published work in 1896 (Further Remarks on the Neuro-Psychoses of Defense, 3: 170).