The Play of Animals
Chapter 5: The Psychology of Animal Play
ALTHOUGH the mental accompaniments of play have often been referred to in the preceding chapters, that mention was but cursory, and it is necessary, in summing up, to consider them more fully. First, then, let us recall the position reached in the first two chapters, where the play of young animals formed our principal problem. We there said that if this should be explained satisfactorily, then adult play would not offer any great. difficulty, an assumption warranted by the fact (treated of in the third chapter) that all genuine play is at first youthful play. Even love play, which as we have found can hardly be said to be genuine play, appears in early youth, and when the word play is applied to the acts of grown animals at all it is chiefly with reference to those that are experimental—namely, to games of motion, which are really child's play furnishing practice for the later exercise of important instincts.
For adult animals which are already practised in their plays the Schiller-Spencer theory of surplus energy may apply, though experience of the pleasurableness of play gained in youth is of great importance too. But in youthful play the biological significance of the phenomenon—namely, that it relieves the brain from the finely elaborated hereditary tracts and so furthers
(288) intellectual development— becomes much more prominent than the merely physiological. Indeed, we found it probable that surplus physical energy is not even a condition sine qua non, for in youth the instinct for playful activity is urgent even when there is no surplus of energy. In following out this idea the psychological aspect of the question was touched upon only incidentally, and we found the essential point in the definition of play to be its quality of practice or preparation, either with or without higher intellectual accompaniments, in distinction from the serious exercise of instinct. This is a great advance in so far, but then we often do not know whether even a child is conscious that it is only playing. So it is time to inquire in what the mental accompaniments of play consist, when they are present, and it is apparent from the nature of the question that its answer must be sought in the emotional life.
The feeling of pleasure that results from the satisfaction of instinct is the primary psychic accompaniment of play. There are, indeed, instincts whose exercise is connected with decidedly disagreeable feelings; but instinctive activity as such is usually pleasurable, when psychic accompaniments are present at all. If we accept A. Lehmann's definition of pleasure as a state of temporary harmony between psychic and physical life conditions, we may be sure of its presence in most instinctive activity not marred by the emotions of anger or fear which are sometimes prominent. Since these hindrances are not operative in play, and since also the power of instinct is here exceptionally strong, we may
(289) safely assume that strong feelings of pleasure accompany it.
And, further, energetic action is in itself a source of pleasure. Experiments made with the dynamometer, sphygmograph, pneumatograph, and plethysmograph show that pleasure is accompanied by strengthened muscular activity, quickened pulse-beat and respiration, and increased peripheral circulation. It is not strange, then, that the energetic activity of play with its analogous physical effects is connected with feelings of pleasure. P. Souriau says: " When we indulge in exercise that requires the expenditure of much energy all our functions are quickened, the heart beats more rapidly, respiration is increased in frequency and in depth, and we experience a feeling of general well-being: We are more alive and glad that we are." Very rapid and lively emotions produce "a sort of intoxication and giddiness that are most delightful." Besides these external effects of pleasurable feelings, they are accompanied internally by a heightened excitation of the sensor and motor centres of the cerebrum, much like that produced by concentrated attention—a fact which points to the probable explanation of the physiological side of pleasure by means of the only purely intellectual play of animals, curiosity.
The unconscious connection of emotional accompaniments with intellectual activity is shown still more clearly in that joy in ability or power which has confronted us ac the most important psychic feature of play throughout this whole treatise.
This feeling is first a conscious presentation to ourselves of our personality as it is emphasized by play—a psychological fact which Souriau states in the words " We are more alive, and glad that we are." But it is more than this, it is also delight in the control we have over our bodies and over external objects. Experimentation in its simple as well as its more complicated forms is, apart from its effect on physical development, educative in that it helps in the formation of causal associations. Knowledge of these is arrived at first by means of voluntary movements, and afterward extended in various directions, and playful experimentation is a valuable incentive to such movements. The young bear that plays in the water, the dog that tears a paper into scraps, the ape that delights in producing new and uncouth sounds, the sparrow that exercises its voice, the parrot that smashes his feeding trough, all experience the pleasure in energetic activity, which is, at the same time, joy in being able to accomplish something.
But what is this feeling of joy, in its last analysis? It is joy in success, in victory. Nietzsche has opposed the " struggle for power " to Darwin's " struggle for existence," and however contradictory it may seem to identify the survival of the fittest, which is usually no struggle at all, with a struggle for power, it is certain that striving for supremacy is instinctive with all intelligent animals.
The first object to be mastered is the creature's own body, and this is accomplished by means of experimental and movement plays. This achieved) the animal's spirit of conquest is directed toward inanimate objects, and very easily degenerates into destructiveness. But he
(291) aspires still higher, and attacks other animals in playful chase and mock combats; the fleeing animal will playfully escape from his pursuer. In the other forms of play—building, nursing, and curiosity—the impulses of ownership and subjugation manifest themselves in various ways. Imitative play is full of rivalry, and it is a powerful motive in courtship. It is a satisfaction that can not be attained without effort, and is increased in proportion to the difficulty of overcoming opposition, without which there would be no consciousness of strength. This is just as true in simple muscular coordination as in the solution of the problems of a game of chess.
In short, we see in this joy in conquest a " correlative to success in the struggle for existence;" whether it concerns rivalry among comrades, victory over an enemy, the proof of one's capabilities, or the subduing of an external object.
In view of all this, it seems a very mistaken proceeding to characterize play as aimless activity, carried on simply for its own sake. Energetic exertion may be provocative of pleasure, as we have seen, but it is by no means the only source of the pleasure produced by play. " Disinterested play! " exclaims Souriau in the passage already cited from—" to talk about such a thing is to expose our ignorance. Players are always interested in the result of their efforts." It may be an insignificant aim that inspires us, but there is always some goal that we are striving for, an " end to attain," whose value our imagination usually enhances. " Tell me, if you will, that I am voluntarily deceiving myself; tell me even that I am making myself the dupe
(292) of a conscious illusion. It is true, all the same, that activity for its own sake is not enough for me, and I am not interested in a game unless it excites my amour propre. I must have a difficulty to overcome, a rival to surpass, or at least be able to make progress." Grosse says the same thing: "Play stands as a connecting link between practical and aesthetic attainment. It is distinguished from art by the fact that it strives constantly for the attainment of some external aim, and from work in that its satisfaction arises not from the value of its results, but from the achievement itself." The relation of the three can be illustrated by calling work a line, play a spiral, and art a circle."
While these passages are conclusive as to the fact that play should never be characterized as aimless activity, Grosse's utterance might very easily give rise to false generalizations. In my opinion, adequate psychological definitions of work, play, and art are not to be produced with such " neatness and despatch " as Grosse attempts.
Play is easy enough to define objectively, as practice in distinction from the exercise of important instincts. But in regard to its psychological accompaniments in the playing subject the case is different. Here we must suppose a progressive development from mere satisfaction of instinctive impulse (where the act is performed neither for its own sake nor for the sake of an external aim, but simply in obedience to hereditary propensity) through what is subjectively considered akin to work, up to make-believe activity with an external aim as its second stage. Finally, as the outward aim gives way
(293) before the pleasure-giving quality of the act itself, the transition to art takes place. At this point the outward aim has but a very slight significance, though never vanishing entirely; for it can not be denied that in artistic execution it regains very considerable importance in an altered form.
Let us take an example that follows all these developmental stages. If a very young puppy is tapped on the nose with the finger, he snaps at it. This is a playful expression of the fighting instinct, where the propensity to obey hereditary impulse is the sole cause for the act, since neither feeling nor an idealized external aim can be alleged as such; it is clearly a reaction to stimulation without higher psychic accompaniments. Going a step further, we will suppose a young dog that chases his brother for the first time and seizes him by the throat. Here the most probable supposition is that subjectively there is no difference between practical activity and this kind of play. The dog has the serious purpose to take the skin in his teeth, to throw his comrade and hold him fast on the ground. It is altogether improbable that he is making believe at first. Here, then, play appears psychologically as quite serious activity, and a little attention to the subject will show that this is a very common condition among human beings. In the third stage the dogs are grown larger and can bite effectively if they choose; nevertheless, they seldom hurt one another in their tussles. A consciousness of make-believe is rising gradually, and to the force of instinct is being added the recollection of the pleasure-giving qualities of play.
(294) Only in this way can we explain the animal's restraining his fighting propensities, beyond a certain limit, though the external aim, the subjugation of his opponent, remains and tries hard to break through these restraints. Now, the full-grown dog romps with his master and the make-believe is fully developed and conscious, for his bite is intentionally only a mumbling, his growl pure hypocrisy. The animal, playing a part as an actor, comes very near to art; henceforth he plays for play's sake with very little external aim, though his disposition to use his strength in earnest as the play grows more exciting, witnesses to the fact that it has not entirely vanished. At this point of the illustration we go to man for our instance.
Suppose instead of the dogs two boys wrestling; here, too, we find the earnest aim to overcome an opponent, and at the same time consciousness that the pleasurable quality of the game can only be preserved by confining the struggle to certain limits and keeping up the pretence. Going on to a wrestling match before spectators the case is much the same, for the likeness to real fighting gained in one way is lost in another, since the most reckless wrestlers are held in check by external restrictions, called " rules of the game." Going on further, we make a great advance if we allow the contestants to arrange it all in advance: " You take a good grip and throw me, but I make a sudden move and get the upper hand," and so on. This, then, becomes pure make-believe, since both wrestlers are playing a part; but we shall find that, just as with the dogs romping with their master, the real aim of conquering an opponent will get the better of these restrictions if a particularly skilful move calls forth loud applause. But to go on with the illustration. Supposing the game carried out ac-
(295) -cording to agreement, is all outward aim done away with? By no means. It reappears in a modified form, in the desire to impress the hearers or spectators, and is at bottom our familiar pleasure in power, delight in being able to extend the sphere of our ability, a motive which should never be underestimated, Even the artist does not create for the mere pleasure of it; he too feels the force of this motive, though a higher external aim to him is the hope of influencing other minds by means of his creations, which, through the power of suggestion, give him a spiritual supremacy over his fellow-creatures. This suggestive effect is his real aim, for while it is true in a sense that the artist should not regard applause by the multitude, but listen rather to the voice in his own breast, it is yet nonsense to say that a great artist has no thought of the effect on others. What is nobler or more kingly than to rule by natural right? Spiritual supremacy is the aim of the highest art, and there is no real genius without the desire for it.
So we find in this pleasure in the possession of power the psychological foundation for all play which
(296) has higher intellectual accompaniments. But it should be remarked that the pleasure is greater when the action involves movements that are agreeable to the senses. Souriau finds an important source of pleasure in movements that overcome resistance. In many movement plays the earth's attraction is the opponent we seek to conquer. The rapid horizontal movement, the leap, the forward motion of a swing, are a mock victory over the force of gravitation. This is a most pregnant idea, and doubtless true essentially, though there is a difficulty in the fact that the backward motion of the swing, the leap into water, and the lightning speed of coasting and skating, all of which depend on the untrammelled action of gravitation, are just as pleasurable. The downward flight of birds, so often referred to in this book, belongs to the same category. Still, this does not disprove Souriau's idea, for, while weight is not actually overcome in these exercises, there is freedom from all the unpleasant effects of weight, such as friction, jarring, etc. All gliding, slipping, rocking, and floating motions give us a peculiar and agreeable feeling of freedom, whether they are contrary to gravitation or not. We are freed from all the little jars and rubs that usually accompany our motions, and are primarily the effect of weight; hence these gliding motions are particularly agreeable to the senses and tend greatly to increase the pleasurableness of play. The same is true of agreeable sounds and colours when they have place in a game.
If pleasure in tile possession of power appears as the most important psychological foundation of play, its highest intellectual expression, its idealization, as it were, proves to be the assuming of a rôle or mock activity in any form. Objectively all play is of this char-
(297) -acter, since it employs an instinct when its actual aim is wanting, but subjectively play is not always sham occupation. It is safer, as we have seen, to assume that the primary forms have none of this. Only when the chase and fighting plays have been so frequently repeated that the animal recognises their pleasurable quality, can we assume that even an intelligent creature begins consciously to play a part. We may be quite sure of it, however, when he uses his weapons guardedly and shows signs of friendship to his opponent, or when he tosses a bit of wood in the air and catches it again. As regards other kinds of play we are only justified in thinking it probable that such a consciousness of shamming is present; that monkeys, for instance, labour under a kind of mock excitement when they indulge their destructive impulses, and that the bird tumbling about in the air has some object when he seems on the point of falling helpless to the earth; that the parrot that knocks on his cage and cries, " Come in! " is consciously making believe; that the wooing bird really plays the agreeable, and that his mate coquettes intentionally, etc.
But in case the making believe can not always be established, it is useful to remember that actual deception is not rare among the higher animals. Any one who has had much to do with dogs will not doubt for a moment that this is true. I once saw one drop a piece of bread that he would not eat, on the ground and lie down on it. Then with an air of great innocence pretend to be looking for it. The Mullers tell of a pointer that shammed sleep after he had licked all the clabber out of a bowl. Levaillant suspected his mon-
(298) -key, " Kees," of stealing eggs. " So I hid myself one day to watch, when the cackling of the hens proved that they had laid. Kees was sitting on a cart, but as soon as he heard the first cackle he jumped down to get the egg. When he saw me he stood still at once and affected an attitude of great indifference, swayed on his hind legs for a while, and tried to look very artless. In short, he used every means to put me off the track and conceal his intentions." Tame elephants evince remarkable talents in this direction, which are utilized in capturing others. Sir E. Tennent describes a female elephant who excelled in this game. "She was a most accomplished decoy, and evinced the utmost relish for the sport. Having entered the corral noiselessly, carrying a mahout on her shoulders with the headman of the noosers seated behind him, she moved slowly along with a sly composure and an assumed air of easy indifference; sauntering leisurely in the direction of the captives, and halting now and then to pluck a bunch of grass or a few leaves as she passed," etc.  When a pair of wolves fall upon a flock the female often draws the attention of the dogs to herself and lets them chase her while the male seizes the prey.  K. Russ says after describing the diseases of parrots: " Some of the cleverest and best-talking birds will sham sickness in a manner that seems incredible. Careful scientific observation,
(299) however, has convinced me of the fact. The bird shows every symptom of disease and lies on the side or stomach, breathing heavily. All this while his master or some one else is in the room, but as soon as he finds himself alone or has reason to think so he appears quite normal and no longer ill. I believe that the explanation of this is that the spoiled pet has noticed that illness excites sympathy, and tender, pitying tones are pleasant to him. Perhaps a slight indisposition or a little pain caused the first complaint, and he has kept it up for the sake of being petted. To cure this unfortunate habit of deception it is only necessary to be a little hard-hearted and not take any notice of the pretended suffering, keeping him as cheerful and busy as possible."
When we see deception used so effectively to serve practical ends, examples of which are very common, as every student of psychology can testify, it can hardly be doubted that there is in all probability more consciousness of shamming in play than we have any means of demonstrating.
But such a consciousness bears the closest relation to artistic invention, as the following passage from Konrad Lange will show: " If, then, aesthetic performance of children, as well as of primitive peoples, can be proved to have its origin in the play impulse, the next question is whether the same thing is true among animals, and many observations point to an affirmative answer. I will not dilate on this point, only mentioning in passing that many zoologists believe that certain plays of animals have the character of illusions. Dogs playing with a bone, treat it like prey; cats will do the
(300) same with a pebble or ball of yarn. Dogs that are violently excited at the opening of an umbrella or the sight of an empty mouse-trap must experience emotions similar to those of the child at play with his doll or a man at a theatre or admiring a work of plastic art. It is impossible to be certain how far the stimulus to such play is purely sensuous and how much consciousness of illusion is present. But it seems to be the general opinion of scholars that there is less of unconscious reflex movement in it than in a recognised illusion play. To establish this would be to gain a very important argument for the significance of conscious illusion in the enjoyment of art; for it is clear that a developmental force that was operative before the evolution of man has a greater claim to be considered the central cause of the gratification that art gives than any number of forces that are not common to the lower animals, however large their part in such gratification may be." 
But before going on we must inquire more particularly what plays this conscious self-deception appears in. Lange, in his fine work Die künstlerische Erziehung, here distinguishes four classes of plays among children-movement plays, sense plays, artistic plays, and rational plays. Artistic play is the only one in which conscious self-deception appears, and there it forms an analogue to artistic creation and aesthetic enjoyment.
The artistic plays of children are principally dramatic, the child personating its parents or others: even lifeless objects may take part: the table will do for a house, while the footstool is a dog, and so on. Other forms, such as the epic play, where stories or pictures
(301) are acted out, are outside the sphere of the animal psychologist, but he is interested in those directly connected with the imitative arts. Since Lange, both here and in a later article, has found conscious self-deception also in the other arts, I think it is admissible to include it among the other plays, always with the proviso that consciousness of the sham character of the act is not necessarily present, but may be. The feature common to all animal play is that instinct is manifested without serious occasion. Now, when the animal knows that there is no serious occasion, and yet goes on playing, we have conscious self-deception. It seems to me that this is the case with most of the play of animals, though not with equal certainty; perhaps least of all in imitative play. If we take the dog's play with a stick, for instance, as an example of conscious mock activity, we see that there is no imitation in it, because it is done without a model. 
Glancing over the various kinds of play, can we say that the animal pretends to follow a serious aim when he merely experiments, as when he runs about in a movement play, or springs after a block of wood as if it were prey, or scuffles with his comrade, or amuses himself with building, or treats a young animal of some other kind like a doll, or playfully imitates another, or displays curiosity, or practises his courtship arts? Now, it is evident that the probability of conscious makebelieve is a variable quantity in these cases. It seems to by quite certain in the frequently repeated hunting and fighting games, less so in experimentation, move
(302) -ment plays and courtship, and least so in building, curiosity, and imitative play. What makes this difference? Probably the fact that in many plays there is not only sham activity, but also a sham object as well, which, we assume, the intelligent animal recognises as such, while in other cases this is wanting. If we could be certain that apes treat lifeless objects as dolls, this act would be in the foremost rank of illusion plays; if other animals would choose a fixed object as the goal of their races, this too would be most important. But we can not be sure of these things, for speech is wanting to these creatures. The child that puts on his father's hat and says, " Now I am papa," proves that his is not mere instinctive imitation, and that he is conscious of the make-believe, while the monkey that imitates his master has no way of assuring us of the character of his actions. Still less can we ascertain whether the play of masses of animals, which we regard as imitative, is characterized by that absorption of the individual by the mass that is so essential to such play among men.
Be that as it may, there is the strongest probability that the playing animal has this conscious self-deception. The origin of artistic fantasy or playful illusion is thus anchored in the firm ground of organic evolution. Play is needed for the higher development of intelligence; at first merely objective, it becomes, by means of this development, subjective as well, for the fact that the animal, though recognising that his action is only a pretence, repeats it, raises it to the sphere of conscious self-illusion, pleasure in making believe— that is, to the threshold of artistic production. Only to the threshold, however, for to such production belongs the aim of affecting others by the pretence, and pure
(303) play has none of this aim. Only love play shows something of it, and in this respect it is nearest to art.
Coming now to inquire into the psychology of the subject yet more closely, we will consider two important points: 1. Divided consciousness in make-believe. 2. The feeling of freedom in make-believe. They are closely connected.
1. Divided Consciousness in Make-believe.
A close examination of this conscious self-illusion, which is the highest psychic phenomenon of play, shows that it is a very peculiar condition of mind. I have described it briefly in my work on aesthetics: " I know quite well that the waterfall whose motion I am watching does not feel any of the fury that it seems to show, and yet I remain a captive to the thought that this is so. I see through the illusion, and still give myself up to it." Something of the same idea, too, is contained in Schiller's words: " It is self-evident that we are here speaking only of aesthetic appearance (Schein) which we distinguish from reality—and yet not logically so, as when one thing is mistaken for another. We like it because it is show, and not because we mistake it for anything else. In other words, we play with it, and this contrasts it with real deception." 
It appears, then, that play, when it rises to conscious self-deception, produces a strange and peculiar
(304) division of our consciousness. The child is wholly absorbed in his play, and yet under all the ebb and flow of thought and feeling, like still water under windswept waves, he has the knowledge that it is only a pretence, after all. Behind the sham I, that takes part in the game, stands the unchanging I of real life, which regards the sham I with quiet superiority.
If now we ask how this phenomenon is related to the other condition of mind known to us, we find that it occupies a position between the ordinary waking state of consciousness and the abnormal conditions of hypnosis and hysteria, which is rather daringly called double personality. 
Many things, it is true, in our waking life suggest a divided consciousness, but the cleft is not so deep as in the abnormal condition. I am not now speaking of the alternation of two psychic existences—that phenomenon is perhaps best illustrated in the everyday life of many heads of families who are unsupportable tyrants at home, while at the club they are the very types of a "jolly old boy "—but I refer rather to simultaneously existing divisions of consciousness, examples of which are not uncommon with us. We may state the case somewhat in this way: It is a formulated scientific fact that a certain economy governs our consciousness. It takes note of but a limited number of the countless physiological stimuli that continually set our brains
(305) into activity. We know, further, that human consciousness does not reveal all its store at once, for the mental field of vision is like the optical, in that a part of our store of knowledge is pre-eminent, while all the rest is grouped about the mental view-point (Wundt). I have called this the " monarchical character of consciousness." But it seems in general, if not always, that the psychic fringe outside of the mental viewpoint has a certain independence. If we figure the former as a peak, the latter will form neighbouring hills. But how do they arise? In normal cases they are formed from the débris of former intellectual operations, which may have been insignificant as psychic phenomena, but are important by reason of their close connection with habits that have become reflex from constant repetition. Thus, when our consciousness becomes full of ideas that are only loosely connected with our habitual I,  it too becomes a neighbouring peak,  and so a simple and normal division of consciousness is effected. Condillac recognised this fact and expressed it with the greatest clearness. He says: " When a geometer is intensely occupied with the solution of a problem, external objects continue to act on his senses and the habitual I responds to their impressions. It walks him about Paris, avoiding obstacles while the reflective I is entirely absorbed in the solution." 
In order to make the relation between these two I's, in normal cases, clearer, I cite two commonplace examples from Dessoir: " A friend calls and tells me something that necessitates my going out with him. While he relates the most interesting occurrences I am getting ready to go. I put on a fresh collar, turn my cuffs, fasten the buttons, pull on my coat, get the door key, and even glance in the mirror. All this time my attention is occupied with my friend's narrative, as repeated questions prove. Once in the street, it suddenly occurs to me that I have forgotten the key. I hurry back, look in every nook and corner, and at last feel in my pocket, where, of course, I find it. As I join my friend, he says: "If you had told me what you wanted, I could have told you that I saw you take the key out of a drawer and put it in your pocket. How can any one be so absent-minded?" Still more remarkable are the apparently rational automatic movements that we perform mechanically, though they tend to accomplish results that we later acknowledge as our unconscious purpose. An official, for example, sets out in the morning and walks a long distance without once having the idea of his destination enter his mind. But as soon as an acquaintance meets him and inquires why he is out so early, he replies without reflection that he must be at the office."
Let us now take a simple example from the sphere of hypnotic research. " In the sitting of April 30, 1888," says Dessoir, " the first experiment was made with our principal subject, Herr D-. He received the post-hypnotic suggestion that he should resume the condition as soon as I had clapped my hands seven-
(307) -teen times. When he awoke, Dr. Moll engaged him in lively conversation, while I clapped my hands softly, and at irregular intervals, fifteen times. Being asked then whether he had heard my hands striking together, D denied it, and, besides, asserted that he did not know what he was to do after the seventeenth clap; but as soon as it sounded he automatically obeyed the order." To this is added: " As D had declared that he did not know of the clapping, we put a pencil in his hand with the remark that the hand would write how many times I had clapped. D laughed incredulously, went on with his conversation, and did not notice that the pencil wrote ` 15' with slow strokes —indeed, he would not admit afterward that he had done it" 
I follow up this simple instance with a very remarkable one. Pierre Janet made the following experiment with his subject Lucie: During the hypnosis he laid five sheets of white paper on her knee, two of them being marked with a cross. These two he told her she could not see when she awoke. On awaking, she was surprised to see the papers on her lap, and Janet told her to give the sheets to him. She took up those not marked, and declared when asked that there were no more. The marks must have been noted by her "subliminal consciousness" while not suspected by the ordinary one. Janet proceeds: " This supposition was strengthened by complicating the experiment as follows: I put the subject to sleep once more, and placed twenty small slips, all numbered, on her knee. Then I said to her, 'You can not see the papers marked with multiples of three.' When awakened, she showed
(308) the same forgetfulness and the same surprise at finding the papers. I asked her to give them to me one by one; she handed me fourteen, leaving six untouched; these six bore the multiples of three. I am convinced that she did not see them." In the first of these examples, those taken from everyday life, the division of consciousness is unimportant. When I converse on an interesting theme and at the same time dress myself, brush my hair, wash myself, take a key from the basket, etc., without being able to remember it afterward, it is not at all improbable that my consciousness wandered many times during the talk to the habitual acts. In the hypnotic cases we can not suppose any such glancing off of waking consciousness; there is a deep gorge between the principal and the neighbouring peaks. There are in the same brain two related but independent dynamic complexes.
How is it, then, with conscious self-illusion? Here self-forgetfulness, the losing sight of the habitual I, is, as a rule, more pronounced than in the earlier instance. The child goes about his play very differently from a man engaging in conversation, and many observers testify that playing animals often become blind and deaf to approaching danger, so great is their absorption. But, on the other hand, conscious connection with real life is not so completely broken as in the negative or positive hallucinations of hypnotism, for the sham occupation does not at any tune become so absorbing that it can not be changed at will to the reality. Thus it is that division of consciousness as it appears in play forms the medium between the two groups of phenomena which we have considered. Play-
(309) -ful activity is perhaps more like that resulting from certain dreams. Only a part of the content of many dreams has any relation to the personal consciousness of the dreamer, while the rest appears as something apart, not belonging to him. For example, Von Steinen dreamed while he was living among the naked tribes of central Brazil that he appeared in European society where all the guests were without clothes. He was rather surprised, but was easily satisfied when somebody told him, " Everybody does it." Here is a dialogue between the dream I and the waking consciousness which criticises the dream phenomena; the two spheres are so widely separated that they appear as I and you. But dreams that do not allow this are still more like conscious self-deception. We often dream, for example, that we must prepare for some examination that we have already passed, but the waking consciousness quickly interferes with the information that we stood it long ago.  If we could show that the dream pictures were not enforced upon our waking consciousness, and that it saw through their shamming and
(310) enjoyed the deception, we should be very near the psychological conditions of conscious play.
If, then, in conscious make-believe, in the young dog, for example, that begs his mistress to reach out her foot and then falls upon it with every sign of rage, but never really biting it, the connection between the pretended I and the real I underlying it is preserved in spite of the division of consciousness, the important question to us is concerning the nature of this connection. We might suppose it to be a kind of oscillation from one sphere to the other. Using a commonplace but excellent illustration, it would be like the circus rider who stands with legs wide apart on two galloping horses and throws his balance from one to the other. Lange has expressed the same idea in regard, primarily, to artistic enjoyment, but so as to include play-illusion also; in his book on Künstlerische Erziehung he speaks of the " oscillation between appearance and reality," and regards it as the very essence of aesthetic enjoyment. In a passage on conscious self-deception he goes still further: "Artistic enjoyment thus appears as a variable floating condition, a free and conscious movement between appearance and reality, between the serious and the playful, and since these feelings can never coincide, but must always be at variance, we may adopt the figure of a pendulum. The subject knows quite well, on the one hand, that the ideas and feeling occupying him are only make-believe, yet, on the other hand, he continues to act as if they were serious and real. It is this continued play of emotion, this alternation of appearance and reality, or reason and emotion, if you like, that constitutes the essence of aesthetic enjoyment." 
I am fully convinced of the truth of the central proposition of this luminous passage, the more since I have come to a similar conclusion in investigating the relation of the sublime to the comic. But a close examination proves it to be doubtful whether this oscillation between a condition of self-deception and the consciousness of it should be regarded as always a quality of play. Lange seems to me to go too far in making it essential to esthetic and play enjoyment of all kinds. Self-observation reveals a high degree of satisfaction in long-continued play, during which the real I, as Hartmann justly says, remains quietly in the background and does not assert itself. I do not believe that boys romping together often realize the unreality of their contests while the game is going on; and if we are witnessing the prison scene in Faust our intense enjoyment may last through it all, and our real ego be entirely lost sight of. Only when the curtain falls do we return with a long breath to reality and "come to." Our return to waking consciousness is accomplished more by a sudden leap than by oscillation, and the higher our enjoyment the more rarely do we make the leap.
It will be seen that Lange's proposition is supported less by observation than by logic; he tries to prove his theory of oscillation by the unthinkableness of the reverse. " Since the feeling for reality, on the one hand, and for the apparent can never coincide," he thinks this motion must be regular, but in view of what we know of divided consciousness this seems to me improbable. The examples cited above show that two entirely differ-
(312) -ent psychic processes may run parallel, that there may be a separate subliminal consciousness acting with entire independence. When, for instance, the seventeen handclaps were registered obediently to post-hypnotic suggestion, the waking consciousness took no note of the count. However, there often seems to be a kind of unconscious connection, like a subterranean wire leading from the subliminal to the waking consciousness, that can not be accounted for by the ordinary change from one state to the other. Even in the deepest absorption, when for a long time there is no recollection of the real ego, we do not substitute appearances for reality. A simple hypnotic experiment of Moll's will illustrate the fact of such a connection: " I told X in the hypnotic state that when he awoke he should lay an umbrella on the floor. When he did awake I told him to do what he chose, and at the same time I gave him a folded paper, on which I had written what he would do. He carried out the suggestion, and was amazed when he read the paper. He declared that he thought he was doing something this time that had not been suggested." In a case like this the idea of the act must come over from the subliminal consciousness without the subject's suspecting whence it comes. Emotions, too, may be conveyed in the same way. The subject laughs on awaking, as has been suggested during hypnosis, without knowing that he is obeying a command, and finds some other reason for it. 
Still more remarkable are Binet's observations of hysteria with partial anaesthesia. For example, the right hand is wholly without sensation, but only so for the waking consciousness, for it grasps a pencil without the patient's seeing or knowing it, finishes a sentence, and even corrects an error intentionally made by the experimenter. There must, then, be a consciousness for which the hand is not anaesthetic,
Many of Binet's experiments indicate that here, too, an unconscious connection exists between the two states of consciousness; hysterical patients may leave visual images corresponding to impressions made on the subliminal consciousness. " If, for example, some familiar object, like a knife, is brought into contact with a hand without sensation, the person knows nothing about the form of the knife, about pain inflicted, etc., but all these latent sensations produce their optical counterpart in the sphere of the first consciousness—namely, the visual image of a knife." 
We can attain our object sooner by turning now to E. von Hartmann's Aesthetics. I have already referred to his doctrine that the make-believe ego derives aesthetic satisfaction from pretence, while the real ego stands quietly in the background. But besides these apparent feelings we have also real feelings, while we enjoy aesthetic pleasure—namely, our real delight in the apparent. This real pleasure that belongs, as such, to the obscured real ego, now comes over into the sphere of the
(314) play ego. " So it comes about that the happiness produced by aesthetic enjoyment appears as something objective, belonging to the play-scene, and not as a condition of the beholder's soul. It is like a great ocean of bliss on which he floats and moves about at will, having no further influence than to stir it a little, just as a bather gives himself up to passive enjoyment in the encompassing element."
This appears best in the contemplation of supreme beauty which produces aesthetic pleasure depending on sensuous pleasure. Here sensuous pleasure, an emotion belonging to the real ego and susceptible of physiological explanation, has come, by means of an unconscious connection, into the sphere of make-believe, and lent to the object that divine effulgence which is an attribute of absolute beauty. 
We see, then, that there are many ways and occasions for the use of this unconscious connection between the two states of consciousness, and we must suppose that even in the most absorbing play a constant influence is mutually exerted between them. But what is the character of this influence? It would, of course, be easiest to say that, though the real ego is hidden, it manages to convey its own idea, "This thing is not real," into the sphere of the play-ego. But Lange's objection answers this; he says that while it is possible for a fraud and faith in it to exist side by side in two separate consciousnesses, it is inconceivable that they could be present simultaneously in one and the same sphere. He is Tight, and if we observe ourselves carefully we will find that it is as far from the truth as
(315) is the theory of regular oscillation. Neither in intense artistic enjoyment nor in genuine play does the conscious thought, " This is only a sham," present itself to us. When I said above, in agreement with many others, " I see through the deception, and yet give myself up to it," the actual working of consciousness was, by the bluntness of logical expression, very imperfectly described. For when self-observation assures me that I have given myself up to the illusion, and yet there was no alternation with reality, the logical conclusion arrived at afterward must be that I consciously saw through the sham while I was enjoying it.
The influence proceeding from the real ego is, then, something quite different from this. The fact that in play the apparent does not alternate with the real does not prove that we have a conscious knowledge of the pretence. The solution of the problem seems to me to lie in the simple fact that consciousness of the apparent is from the outset, and, in spite of all similarity, quite different from consciousness of the real; and I find the final ground for this difference in nothing less than the fact that we recognise ourselves as the cause of the pretence . This brings us again to the idea of joy in being a cause; the real I feels itself to be the originator of the make-believe images and emotions which it calls forth voluntarily, and this feeling of being a cause glides over unconsciously to the world of illusion and gives to it a quality not possessed by reality. Reality oppresses
(316) us with a sense of helplessness, while in the world of illusion we feel free and independent. There is no need to say, "This is not real," for every idea and feeling that forms part of the illusion bears the stamp ipse feci, and can not be confused with reality. Only when the consciousness of being a cause leaves the obscured real ego does such confusion take place, and then the mind's condition ceases to be playful and becomes pathological.
Let us take an instance of the dangerous trifling with the emotional nature, so common in our day, when a nervous and excitable person arouses his emotions without any real cause. Marie Baschkirtzew writes at the age of thirteen years: " Can it be true? I find everything good and beautiful, even tears and pain. I love to weep, I love to despair, I love to be sad. I love life in spite of all, I wish to live. I must be happy, and am happy to be miserable. My body weeps and cries, but something in me that is above me enjoys it all." Can we suppose that the unhappy young girl had the clear idea amid her storm of emotion, " These feelings have no real cause," and that she created from this knowledge this strange ecstasy of pain? Is it not much more probable that this feeling was wanting during the rush of emotion, and that what produced the ecstasy was the feeling of pleasure in being a cause that came over from the real I, the feeling that all this agitation was not contrary to her will but produced by herself; in other words, the feeling of being active and not passive, the feeling of haying produced a Sublimated kind of reality through her own psychic activity? Only afterward comes the logical formulation, " My sorrows, my joys, and my cares have no existence "an idea that is not present in the first gush of feeling, and
(317) if it were, would only increase the pain instead of changing it into a subject for rejoicing.
I believe, therefore, that in genuine absorbing play the oscillation from appearance to reality is an unnecessary as well as an improbable hypothesis. The idea unrecognised by consciousness gliding over from the real ego, that the whole world of appearance depends on ourselves, that we create it from material within us, is sufficient to prevent our mistaking the make-believe for reality, without, however, making it necessary for us clearly to hold the difference in mind  This conclusion brings us to a second point, which we may now consider, finding in it a more definite answer to the question.
2. The Feeling of Freedom in Make-believe.
Connecting the idea of freedom with that of makebelieve brings us back to Schiller. There are two kinds of temperament belonging to genius. The one strives for what is attainable, the other for what is not. Schiller says: " The one is noble by reason of attainment, the other in proportion as he approaches infinite greatness." He himself belongs to the second class; he with Michelangelo and Beethoven are types of the eternally striving and struggling genius straining for the unattainable, in whom the artist's gift is nourished by
(318) gleams from the lamp of life itself." Schiller's youthful philosophy disclosed this principle of his nature. Above the actual world, with its suffering, above "this dream of warring frogs and mice," this life of frivolity, a lofty spiritual world rises in glorious perfection, to which he ascribes the fulfilment of every ideal of love, friendship, joy, and freedom. But this beautiful world, already threatened by Voltaire, vanished before the chill breath of the destroyer of ideals—Kant. Schiller expressed his pain in the loss of the ideal in his Gods of Greece. That noble blooming time of Nature represents to him the flowering of his own youthful idealism; and when he bewails " all the fair blossoms falling before the blasts of winter," much that is personal is hidden in the words.
The ideal is only a dream, a beautiful chimera, but need not, therefore, be lost to us, for we may still enjoy the ideal in play; and with this conception, the poet rises to new flights which open the classic period of his creation.
It is necessary to apprehend this fact clearly in order to understand the great ethical power of Schiller's Esthetics, which is for him not merely a new intellectual discipline, but, above all, a new victory of ethical personality. Being denied metaphysical ideals, he directs his whole ethical force to the realm of beauty, and feels that in virtue of his art he is a priest of humanity, whose honour is intrusted to his care. In beautiful unreality he finds again all that he dreamed in vouth, harmony of feeling and impulse, happiness, freedom, and the highest perfection of mankind. His metaphysical idealism comes back to him in the form of aesthetic idealism.
Inquiring more closely into the nature of this ae-
(319) -thetic idealism, we find that it culminates in the feeling of freedom; when indulging in it a man is free—that is to say, he is wholly human only when he plays, for there is no real freedom in the sphere of experience. In real life the man is a plaything of opposing forces. On the animal side of his nature, the sensuous, he is restrained by Nature's laws, while reason forces him to obey imperious moral mandates, and a perfect reconciliation of these forces is impossible. " Between pleasure of the senses and peace of mind man has but a sorry choice." Only in playing and indulging in beautiful dreams can a man find relief from this contention. Schiller expressed this conviction when he was in Mannheim, as far back as 1784. "Our nature," he says, "alike incapable of remaining in the condition of animals and of keeping up the higher life of reason, requires a middle state, where the opposite ends may unite, the harsh tension be reduced to mild harmony, and the transition from one condition to the other be facilitated. The aesthetic sense, or feeling for beauty, is the only thing that can fill this want." And what is the governing idea in this middle state? " This: to be a complete man." By reducing in his play the harsh tension to mild harmony he relieves himself of the double law of Nature and Reason, raises himself to a state of freedom, and so first attains his full humanity. The result achieved in play is " the symbol of his true vocation." 
Schiller says: " The sensuous impulse must be expressed, must attain its object; the form impulse expresses itself and produces its object; but the play im-
(320) -pulse strives to receive as if itself had produced the object, and to give forth what sense is labouring to absorb. The sensuous impulse excludes from its subject all self-activity and freedom; the form impulse excludes all dependence and passivity. But the exclusion of freedom is physical necessity, and the exclusion of passivity is moral necessity. Both impulses constrain the soul, one by natural laws, the other by moral laws. The play impulse, then, uniting them, affects the mind both morally and physically, lifts it above both accident and necessity, and sets man free, physically and morally."  "The term `play impulse' is justified by the usages of language, which signifies by the word play (Spiel) all that is neither contingent subjectively or objectively, nor yet either internally or externally compelled. Thus the mind, by beholding the beautiful, is placed in a happy mean between law and necessity, and relieved from the oppression of either, because it is divided between the two." 
Passing over Schiller's hair-splitting method of establishing the equilibrium between the two opposing impulses—which he suspended like two equal weights in a balance, being still controlled by the old theory of faculties—and without elaborating these ancient ideas, we will rather attempt to translate them into modern psychological language. First, then, Schiller is perfectly right in designating the feeling of freedom as the highest and most important factor in the satisfaction derived from play, and further in finding it closely related to the feeling of necessity. We feel free although we are compelled; this is indeed the very essence of
(321) play. We are compelled, for sham occupation is related to the hypnotic condition in that it treats mere appearance as if it were reality. The make-believe I follows all the turns of playful activity, yielding obedient service to the intellectual and emotional stimuli which they evolve, and yet this compulsion is not like that which oppresses us in actual experience, for the fact is always present to our consciousness that we are the creators of this world of appearances. " The reality of things," says Schiller, " is inherent in them, the appearance of things is man's affair, and the state of mind that is nourished by appearance takes more pleasure in its own activity than in anything that it receives." We are compelled, because we are under the power of an illusion, and we are free because we produce the illusion voluntarily. Indeed, it may safely be said that we never feel so free as when we are playing.
Apart from all transcendental considerations, free activity, regarded from a psychological standpoint, depends on our ability to do just what we wish to do, and on no other ground; this is the positive side, and the negative side is that we have the conviction that we can abstain from the act at any moment that pleases us. The popular idea is correct in calling a man free when he does and leaves undone what he chooses, for the feeling of being at liberty consists in regarding ourselves as the arbiters of our own destiny. Whatever error the theoretical metaphysician may think it necessary to combat in this statement, it remains a psychological fact that we do leave such a feeling, and that it is of incalculable practical significance. Let us see in what it consists. We feel ourselves to be absolute causes
(322) - that is to say, we feel ourselves to be governed entirely by ourselves, by our present will. No "not I " seems to us to influence either our present object or the idea of our former or future experience; we seem to be divided from the all-powerful causal nexus pervading the ages, and to be at liberty to fulfil our present desires unencumbered by circumstances or consequences. We seem, as Kant expresses it, to begin a causal series " self-originated and elemental."
The feeling of freedom is undoubtedly heightened by our conviction that we can desist from an act at any moment. " I am still free " is the same as " I can yet turn back." Here, also, freedom is identical with being an absolute cause, for if I were able only to set an act on foot, but not go on with it, my freedom would vanish as soon as my causality ceased. So the struggle for liberty turns out to be the highest psychic accompaniment of the struggle for life. The instinctive propensity of all living creatures to preserve their independence, to shake off every attempt on individual liberty, culminates in the effort after intellectual liberty. The joy of freedom is the sublimest flight of that pleasure in being a cause, which has occupied so much of our attention.
But where can the feeling of freedom be purer or more intense than in conscious self-illusion in the realm of play? In real life we are always in servitude to objects and under the double weight of past and future. These objects, intelligent and otherwise, for the most part oppose our a ills or assume authority over us. Care for the future torments us and robs us
(323) of our freedom of action. The past, which no more belongs to our living ego, is riveted to us with iron bolts so that we can not escape from it. And where in real life is the feeling that we always might turn backmight step out of the causal series? Perhaps our resolution seems to be free, but as soon as stern realities beset us we fall again under the resistless causal nexus of the universe, and no power on earth can send back the arrow that is loosed from the bowstring. We may well suppose that it was under bitter experience of the inevitableness of necessity that Schiller described Wallenstein's condition with such force of genius. Perhaps the power of the " not I " over the " I " has never been more tragically set forth than in that great monologue, where we see the unlucky stars depriving the hero of his freedom
" Is it possible ?
Is't so ? I can no longer what I would
No longer draw back at my liking, I
Must do the deed because I thought of it ?
I but amused myself with thinking of it.
The free will tempted me, the power to do
Or not to do it.—Was it criminal
To make the fancy minister to hope ?
Was not the will kept free ? Beheld I not
The road of duty close beside me— but
One little step and once more I was in it !
Where am I?
Whither have I been transported?
No road, no track behind me, but a wall impenetrable. insupportable,
Rises obedient to the spells I muttered
And meant not— my own doings tower behind me.
Stern is the on-look of Necessity.
Not without shudder may a human hand
Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny.
My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom
Once suffered to escape from its safe corner
Within the heart, its nursery and birthplace,
Sent forth into the Foreign, it belongs
Forever to those sly, malicious powers
Whom never art of man conciliated." 
" Stern is the on-look of necessity," says Wallenstein, and " Life itself is stern," cries Schiller in the prologue to the same drama. But" art is brighter and more cheerful." The effect of play is brightness and freedom—so much so that we may say, in real life there is freedom only so long as serious activity is not yet begun—that is, while the man still plays with conflicting motives. What do the advocates of indeterminism mean by freedom? It is to them the ability to choose among various motives; but this choice is nothing but a play in which the man represents to himself now this, now that motive as realized; it is a conscious self-illusion. And only when he has indulged in it does he feel, after the decision is made, that he has. acted freely. Wallenstein's monologue has a special interest in this connection; for, since he found pleasure in amusing himself with the mere thought of royalty and delighted in the illusion, it is clear that for him the feeling of freedom consisted in this play of motives. The word for play in most languages signifies only a pleasurable condition, but the old German word SpiIan, means a light floating movement —that is to say, free activity—giving to the modern word Spielen a primary significance which bears out our analysis. Freed from the causal nexus of the world's event, play
(325) is a world to itself, into which we enter voluntarily and come out when we will. There we seem freed from necessity because in conscious self-illusion we feel ourself to be an absolute cause.
We are now approaching the end of our inquiry. The joy in being a cause having culminated in the highest and most refined of pleasurable feelings — namely, in that of liberty — we find here the deep significance of that division of consciousness which occupied us in the last section. The difficulty of explaining it consists in the fact that in play we take appearance for reality, and still do not confuse it with the actual. In many cases the leaping over of our consciousness to the real I is conceivable, but in the most intense enjoyment this off-shooting of consciousness does not take place, and we must suppose an unconscious connection between the real and play egos that obviates the necessity for this alternation. We have found such a connection in the feeling of being a cause without going into the nature of these psychic adjuncts of make-believe. This is now the place for such an inquiry.
I have throughout this whole treatise spoken not of the idea but of the feeling of being a cause. A conscious idea that we ourselves produce the appearance is as little supposable during intense enjoyment as the idea, "This is only a pretence." What glides over from the real I, and is recognisable by self-observation, is only the feeling of pleasure arising from the consciousness of being a cause and culminating in the feeling of freedom. There are, empirically speaking, no pure feelings that can be distinguished from ideas as such, no abstract pleasure or pain. Feeling is always, in its finer manifestations, the
(326) product of intellectuality, but the intellectual elements are latent and are manifested only in the shading that they impart to the emotions. So is it in the case we are considering. The consciousness of the obscured real ego that has produced  the whole illusion, and so created a free world of appearance above the causal nexus of reality, does not appear conspicuously in the feeling of freedom that oversteps the bounds of the apparent world, but does impart to it a character that distinguishes it from all other pleasurable feelings. This characteristic seems to me to form the barrier that prevents our confusing the make-believe with the real.
The artist always employs some means to prevent such confusion—the frame, for example, in painting and the pedestal for a statue. Theodor Alt includes all such means under the general name of " negative effects," while Conrad Lange calls them "illusion-destroying effects." In play the feeling of freedom subjectively performs the office of these objective means. It gives the whole world of appearance a special colouring, distinguishing it from everything that is real, and rendering it impossible that even in our utmost absorption we should ever confuse the make-believe with the real. As in aesthetic enjoyment, the real pleasure in beholding—which is, after all, only a special case of our general principle—steps over into the apparent
(327) world and changes it into a better and higher one, so in conscious play the whole sham occupation is transformed by the feeling of freedom into something higher, freer, finer, and more luminous, which we can not confuse with the realities of life. The feeling of freedom, then, is the subjective analogue to the objective " destroyers of illusion." Life is earnest, art is playful.
I wish to append to this concluding chapter a brief note. Should a question be raised as to the nature of the artistic production whose germ is present in the animals, the following may serve as an answer: First, there is the commonest of all kinds of play, experimentation, which, with its accompanying joy in the possession of power, may be regarded as the principal source of all kinds of art. We have also found, in the excitement created by musical sounds, an approach to human art. We recall the monkey that took great pleasure in striking on hollow objects. From experimentation in general three specialized forms of play arise, analogous to the human arts, and their differentiation leads us to the three most important principles of the latter. They are courtship, imitation, and the constructive arts, and the three principles involved are those of self-exhibition, imitation, and decoration. These principles are expressed in art as the personal, the true, and the beautiful. There is no form of art in which they are not present together, though one usually dominates, while the others are subsidiary. This is evident even in the animal world. The bird that adorns his nest imitates the example of others, and expresses his personality in the work. The bird that mimics another often effects an improvement in his own song, and indulges in self-exhibition; and the bird that
(328) displays his skill to admiring females does not fail to employ the principles of imitation and decoration. So we find in animals, and especially in birds who, though so distantly related to us, seem by reason of their upright carriage more near, a certain analogy to our own system of arts; indeed, in the simplest phenomena displayed in the animal world we recognise an important suggestion as to the solution of the vexed question of the proper natural division of human arts. The recognition of the three fundamental principles, which are, however, held together to the single one of experimentation, seems to me a gain, as opposed to the one-sidedness of many investigators. This relationship points directly to the fact that all forces efficacious in artistic production are referable to the central idea of play, and therefore to an instinctive foundation. The following table will make this clear
(Joy in being able.)
(Pretence: conscious self-deception.)
|Self-exhibition. Imitation. Decoration.|
|The personal. The true. The beautiful.|
|Imitative arts. Building arts.|
|Dance with Imitative dance. Ornamentation.|
|excitement. Pantomime. Architecture.|
|With Music. Sculpture.|
|man. Lyric poetry. Painting.|