“It is because in a game of chance every man feels that he can force himself to a creative act. Creation, through the principle which underlies all life, draws its force from the parallel powers of volition and accident. By accident we must understand all that is untried, immeasurable, strange, and impossible of expression in itself. This is, too, the mental process of creative work, to which nature has lent a portion of primal force, the work of the artist! Between the poles of volition and accident this power is wielded as in a state of trance. Goethe confessed that to be the case with himself when he was composing his poems. In games of chance there is a like synthesis. Accident gives the player his material--it may be trifling and insignificant, or it may be of dominating power. The player sets his will to work to accomplish a creation of his own from his material.” “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 to-day. There are some disturbing influences which I do not recognize and therefore cannot remove,” said the hypnotist.