He can look forwards at times, for he asks,[51] “Is not the having of children the only access to immortality for us all?” Which is certainly an inadequate--no man really “lives again” in his children--yet a better explanation for the general belief in immortality than the extremely psycho-analytic idea that it comes from thoughts and memories of the unborn state. But the mother hypothesis seizes him again when he comes to interpret dreams “about landscapes and localities in which emphasis is ... laid upon the assurance” that one has “been there before.” For he adds, “the locality [indicated] is always the genital organ of the mother.” Freud was born in a little village of Moravia, “inhabited by Slavs,” and “must have understood the Czech language during the first three years of childhood.” Until the end of his third year, his “inseparable” companion was his nephew, John, a boy about a twelvemonth older than himself. John occasionally took advantage of signority, treating the future psychiatrist “very badly”; and the memory of this association has, in his own opinion, “colored” Freud’s relationships with people of his own age ever since. He had, when he was fourteen, the pleasure of playing Brutus to the hated and beloved playmate’s Cæsar--not in Shakespeare’s drama but in Schiller’s poem--the audience being composed of children. Long afterwards he dreams of the event, and connects up the “associations” in characteristic style. The dream-month, it seems, was July--named after the mighty Cæsar himself. Which leads him at once to Brutus’ speech in Shakespeare: “As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoiced at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him.” So old scores are evened, if only in that thing less than a dream--dream-analysis. Freud’s favorite method of taking revenge is in his sleep. Yet there is a certain truculence in his waking character too, a _Schlagerfertigkeit_ which he acknowledges to be his. This seems to owe its origin not so much to the teasing John as to a conversation which took place when Freud was ten or twelve. His father was telling him how, in his own youth, he was walking on a Saturday through a street in the village where Freud was born. “Along comes a Christian,” says the father to the boy, “knocks my cap into the mud with one blow, and shouts, ‘Jew, get off the sidewalk!’” Sigmund asks, “And what did _you_ do?” his eyes big with wonder and the hope for some happy issue. But the father answers simply, “I went into the street and picked up the cap.” Here was born another complex--this time an inferiority complex--with which all right-minded persons must sympathize. Stoutly has he sought to fight it off, to assert himself. But it is easy to see how he has been hurt by the anti-Semitic feeling which from time to time has disgraced Austrian politics; how he hates the white carnations that, in Vienna, are the insignia of the Jew-baiters.