OHN FLEMING, lumberman, was the victim of a form of fear that had been part of him since he could remember, against which he struggled in vain, a fear that oppressed and depressed him with the dread of being known as “yellow.”
This was the fear of high places. It came upon him with a swift rush of vertigo, a paralysis of nerves, a flood of nausea that left him a clammy, trembling wretch, clinging for safety or crawling to it, his manhood broken down, shame driving him to solitude.
None doubted his courage in the crew with which he worked after he came back from the war. He had won citations there, risen to a sergeantcy. In the trenches he had known fear of another kind, born of an active imagination—the instinct to run and hide, the terror of sudden death. This he had conquered, banished it utterly, as thousands of high-strung comrades had done.
It was only when he was on a height, suddenly conscious of it, that the Thing attacked him, vanquished him before he could rally his will against it. He could birl a log, ride it through white water, leap from one to another with absolute coordination, without a suggestion of giddiness. His fear did not interfere with his work, he was acknowledged one of the best of the crew; yet he knew that it lurked within him, biding its time, a demon that could turn him in a moment from a man of splendid body, of superb efficiency, into an abject, trembling coward, an object to be laughed at, pitied, scorned.
It came to him in dreams sometimes, the fear of falling—falling to some frightful doom. He would wake sweating and shivering, hoping that he had not called out and betrayed himself. After he came back from the war he hoped that he had acquired strength to overcome it, but the dreams recurred and he felt that the weakness was still there.
He talked about it with the Company doctor one day, a kindly, elderly man. After his confession he sat in the chair across from the other, miserably awaiting a verdict.
The doctor relit his pipe, puffed gravely, manner and voice sympathetic.
“You're the victim of a phobia, son,” he said. “There's a long name for it I'll not inflict upon you. The scientific names of ailments always make them sound worse than they are.
“It's a common and sound theory that all things come to us through our senses, rousing emotions to which man, as opposed to the beast, applies reason. The brain cells summon memory. In a coward these recollections may stimulate the emotion of fear, in a bully, those of hatred, You are neither.
“In the trenches you won out with the rally of pride and patriotism, the desire to prove yourself brave. A man may hear or see something that causes him to fly into a rage, but he tells himself that it is not wise to do so. He uses discretion. His conscious self controls the automatic functions of his subconscious.
“But there ate certain phenomena, such as this fear of yours, that are inherent, protoplasmic, handed on through the generative cells; persistent, though they may not manifest themselves in every generation. Terror of darkness, horror of snakes, your own fear of high places. It may come down from ancestors who lived in trees, or perched in them after sundown for fear of prowling monsters, waking night after night in the fancied danger, or the actual danger; of falling. Our cousins, the apes, still have it. It attacks simultaneously, paralysing your ganglia, short-circuiting your nerves, eliminating brain processes. It isn't anything to be ashamed of, any more than near-sightedness.”
“That's an explanation of it,” said Fleming. “What I want to know is can I get the best of it?”
The doctor's pine had gone out while he was talking. He lit a match, regarded the flame contemplatively before he applied it.
“If,” he said between puffs, “you were stimulated by some complex emotion or ambition strong enough to control your subconscious and this was threatened by your phobia, I should say that you had a good chance of mastering it, of rallying your will to assume leadership while the other forces offset each other. And, once having won out, the chances are good that the thing might vanish, at least diminish.
“In the meantime,” he rose and came over to Fleming, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder, “why worry about it? You don't have to climb trees or walk along cliffs in your present job. If you know a lion is certain to attack you, you keep from jungles and menageries. My advice to you is to stop bothering about it, don't herd the thought or memory of it—and stay on the ground. Outside of this, you're a hundred per cent normal. I wish I had your physique. Good luck to you.”