The Veil Withdrawn.
Translated, By Permission, From The French of Madame Craven, Author Of “A Sister's Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.
“The one thing worth showing to mankind is a human soul.”—Browning
I.
September 1, 1871.
It was at Messina, July 15, 18—. I have never forgotten the date. It was just after my fifteenth birthday. The balcony of the room where I was sitting overlooked the sea. From time to time, but more and more faintly, could be heard the noise of the waves breaking against the shore. It was the hour called in Italy the contr' ora—the hour when, in summer, the whole horizon is aflame with the scorching rays of the already declining sun, which are no longer tempered by the gentle wind from the sea that every morning refreshes the shore. The windows, that had been open during the earlier part of the day, were now shut, the blinds lowered, and the shutters half closed. Profound silence reigned within doors and without. For many, this is the hour of a siesta; and for all, a time of inaction and repose.
I was holding a book in my hand, not from inclination or pleasure, but simply through obedience, because I had a lesson to learn. But that was no task. I took no pleasure in studying, nor was it repugnant to me, for I learned without any difficulty. The chief benefit of study was therefore lost on me. It required no effort.
I had not yet even taken the trouble to open my book, for I saw by the clock I had ample time. At six I always went into the garden, which I was not allowed to enter during the heat of the day. There was still an hour before me, and I knew that a quarter of that time would be sufficient to accomplish my task. I therefore remained indolently seated on a low chair against the wall, near the half-open shutter, motionless and dreaming, my eyes wandering vaguely through the obscurity that surrounded me.
The room I occupied was a large salon. The ceiling covered with frescos, and the stuccoed walls brilliantly ornamented with flowers and arabesques, prevented this vast apartment from seeming gloomy or ill-furnished. And yet, according to the tastes I have since acquired, it was absolutely wanting in everything signified by the word “comfort,” which, though now fully understood in our country, has nevertheless no corresponding term in our language. A clumsy gilt console, on which stood a ponderous clock, with an immense looking-glass above, occupied the further end of the room; and in the middle stood a large, round, scagliola table under a magnificent chandelier of Venetian glass. This chandelier, as well as the mirrors that hung around, not for use, but to ornament the walls with their handsome gilt frames and the figures painted on their surface, were the richest [pg 163] and most admired objects in the room. A few arm-chairs systematically arranged, a long sofa that entirely filled one of the recesses, and here and there some light chairs, were usually the only furniture of this vast apartment; but that day a small couch stood near the window, and on it reclined my mother—my charming young mother!—her head resting on a pillow, and her eyes closed. On her knee lay a small book, open at a scarcely touched page, which, with the ink-stand on a little table before her, and the pen fallen at her feet, showed she had been overpowered by sleep or fatigue while she was writing.
My mother at that time was barely thirty-two years of age. People said we looked like sisters, and there was no exaggeration in this. I was already taller than she, and those who saw me for the first time thought me two years older than I really was; whereas my mother, owing to the delicacy of her features and the transparency of her complexion, retained all the freshness of twenty years of age. I looked at her. Her beautiful hair, parted on her pale brow, fell on the pillow like a frame around her face, which looked more lovely than ever to me. There was a deeper flush than usual on her cheeks, and her half-open lips were as red as coral.... I smilingly gazed at her with admiration and love! Alas! I was too much of a child to realize that this beauty was ominous, and that I had much more reason to weep!...
My mother was left an orphan at fifteen years of age without any protector, and poverty would have been added to her other privations had not Fabrizio dei Monti, a friend of her father's, and a celebrated lawyer, succeeded in snatching the young heiress' property from the hands of a grasping relative who had been contending for it. This law-suit had been going on several years, and the result was still doubtful when Count Morani, Bianca's father, died.
He who rendered the young orphan so signal a service was then about thirty-five years old. He was a widower, and the father of two children, to whom he devoted all the time left him by his numerous clients, whom his reputation for ability brought from all parts of Sicily—famed, as every one knows, for the most complicated and interminable law-suits. Fabrizio, after his wife's death, had given up all intercourse with society, except what was imposed on him by the obligations of his profession. With this exception, his life was spent in absolute retirement with an austerity as rare among his fellow-citizens as his long fidelity to the memory of the wife he had lost.
But when, after advocating Bianca's cause, he found himself to be her only protector, he at once felt the difficulty and danger of such a situation, and resolved to place her, without any delay, under the guardianship of a husband of her own choice. He therefore ran over the names of the many aspirants to the hand of the young heiress, and gave her a list of those he thought the most worthy of her.
“You have forgotten one,” said Bianca in a low tone, after glancing over it.
“Whom?” ... inquired Fabrizio in an agitated tone, not daring to interpret the glance that accompanied her words.
Bianca still retained all the simplicity [pg 164] of a child, and the timidity of womanhood had not yet come over her. Accordingly, she said, as she looked directly towards him, that she should never feel for any one else the affection she had for him; and if he would not have her, she would go into a convent, and never be married.
It was thus my mother became Fabrizio dei Monti's wife, and, in spite of the difference of their ages, there never was a nobler, sweeter union. A happier couple could not have been found in the world during the fourteen years that followed my birth. But for several months past, my father had appeared depressed and anxious. Sometimes I could see his eyes blinded by tears as he looked at my mother, but the cause I did not understand. It is true, she often complained of fatigue, and remained in bed for hours, which became more and more prolonged. And now and then she passed the whole day there. But when she was up, as she had been that day, she did not look ill. On the contrary, I never saw her look more beautiful than while I was thus gazing at her with admiration and a love amounting to idolatry....
After remaining for some time in the same attitude, I at length took my book, and endeavored to give my whole attention to my lesson. But the heat was stifling, and, after a few moments, I was, in my turn, overpowered by an irresistible drowsiness, to which I insensibly yielded without changing my position, and soon sank into a profound slumber.
I had been asleep some time, when I was suddenly awakened by a remote, indistinct sound that seemed like the continuation of the dream it had interrupted. This sound was the footsteps of a horse....
I sprang up without taking time for a moment's reflection. I raised the blinds, hurriedly opened the shutters and the window, and sprang out on the balcony.... The room was at once flooded with light and filled with the evening air. The sun had just disappeared, and a fresh breeze fanned my cheeks.... I heard my mother cough feebly, but did not turn back. I was overpowered by one thought, which made me forget everything else—everything!—even her!... I leaned forward to see if I was mistaken. No, it was really he!... I saw him appear at the end of the road that connected our house with the shore. He rode slowly along on his beautiful horse, which he managed with incomparable grace. As he came nearer, he slackened his pace still more, and, when beneath the balcony, stopped, and, taking off his hat, bowed profoundly, the wind meanwhile blowing about the curls of his jet-black hair. Then he raised his eyes, of the color and tempered clearness of agate, and with a beseeching, passionate look seemed to implore me for some favor.... I knew what he meant.... Foolish child that I was! I snatched from my hair the carnation I had placed there an hour before, and threw it towards him!...
At that instant I heard a piercing cry—a cry that still rings in my heart, and the memory of which will never be effaced—“Ginevra!”.... Hurrying in, I found my mother standing in the floor, pale and gasping for breath, with her arms extended towards me.... I instantly realized I had been guilty of an indiscretion which had afflicted and displeased her. I [pg 165] was at once filled with sorrow, and on the point of throwing myself at her feet to beg her forgiveness; but before I had time to speak, or even reach her, she fell back on her couch in a semi-unconscious state that I should have thought a swoon, had not a spasmodic groan from time to time escaped from her breast, and when I did prostrate myself, had she not seized one of my hands, which she continued to hold with a strong grasp in hers....
We remained thus for some minutes without my being able to leave her to call for assistance, though the frightful change in her face filled me with inexpressible terror as well as the keenest anguish. I withdrew my hand at last, and threw my arms around her neck, exclaiming repeatedly amid my sobs: “Forgive me! Answer me! Oh! tell me that you forgive me!...” She made no reply, however, but by degrees she returned to herself and grew calm. Then, taking me in her arms, she held me a long time closely embraced, as if she felt there was no safety for me anywhere else, and longed in some way for the power of taking me once more into her maternal breast, that I might live with her life, or die if she died!...
O Almighty God! the prayer that then rose from her heart in behalf of her poor child thou alone didst hear! But when I recall all the errors of my past life and thy wonderful mercy towards me, I feel it was in answer to that prayer thou hast bestowed on me so many benefits! I know that at that instant a new source of grace was opened to me never to be exhausted—a look of mercy vouchsafed that nothing has ever extinguished!...
My mother still remained speechless, but her respiration became more and more regular, though, alas! still too rapid, and her features resumed their usual appearance. But her bright color had given place to a deadly paleness, and a large dark ring encircled her sweet, expressive eyes, now fastened on me with a look I had never read there before. She bent down and kissed me, and I felt two great tears fall on my forehead, as her pale lips murmured these words:
“O my God! since it is thy will I should die and leave her behind me, I commit her to thy care. Watch over her, I pray thee, better than I have done.”
“Die!” ... my mother die!... I sprang up with a sudden, violent bound, as if smitten to the heart, and stood motionless like one petrified. A frightful vision appeared before me!... a vision I had not been prepared for by the slightest apprehension, or anxiety, or suspicion. Notwithstanding the too precocious development of my sensibilities, there was something child-like in my peculiar temperament that had blinded my eyes, now so suddenly opened! I tried to recall the words I had just heard, but my mind grew confused, and was conscious of nothing but a sharp pang I had never yet experienced, but the cause of which had faded from my remembrance. I turned away, perhaps with the vague thought of calling assistance, perhaps to close the window, but staggered, as if dizzy, and fell to the ground behind the curtain of the window.
At that instant the door opened. I heard the mingled voices of my father and several other persons. Some one sprang forward, exclaiming: “The window open at this late hour!... Who could have [pg 166] been so imprudent?” Then I was conscious that they were gathering around my mother. My father took her up in his arms, and carried her out of the room.... No one had perceived me in the increasing obscurity, as I lay on the floor, half concealed by the curtain. I had not fainted, but I was in a partially insensible state, incapable of any clear notions except the wish to lose all consciousness of suffering in a sleep from which I should never awake!...
II.
I know not how long I remained in this condition. When I opened my eyes, the moon was shining so brightly that the room was as light as day. I rose up, and threw a terrified glance around. Everything in the moonlight wore an ominous aspect, and I shuddered as my eyes fell on the couch and the white pillow on which I had seen my mother's face resting. What had happened?... A long time seemed to have elapsed, and I felt as if on the edge of an abyss—an abyss of sorrow into which I was about to be precipitated. O my God! was it a mere dream, or was it a frightful reality? I could not tell. I soon became conscious of an excruciating pain in my head, and my teeth began to chatter with a violent chill. I rose up to go out, but it was only with the greatest difficulty that I reached my mother's couch, on which I threw myself in despair, burying my face in the pillow where she had reposed her dear head. I burst into sobs, and this explosion of grief afforded me momentary relief.
I then attempted to leave the room, and was proceeding towards the door, when my attention was attracted to something that had fallen on the floor. It was my mother's little book, the silver clasp of which glittered in the light of the moon. I picked it up, and had just concealed it, when the door opened, and my sister Livia (my father's [pg 167] oldest daughter) appeared with a light in her hand.
“Gina!” she exclaimed, “how you frightened me! What are you doing here, child, at this late hour? I thought you were in the garden. How long have you been here?”
I made no reply. I felt as if I should die of mortification, should any one learn what had taken place before my mother's ill turn; but Livia did not repeat her question. She was pale and preoccupied, and her eyes were red with weeping.
What could have happened? My heart throbbed with suspense, but I had not courage enough to ask a single question. She had come for the pillow left on the couch, and seemed to be hunting for something she could not find. Perhaps it was my mother's note-book, which at night she always laid on a table beside her bed. But I did not give it to her. I wished to restore it myself, and, though generally frank with Livia, said nothing about finding it. Agitated as I was, I felt that this little book was a treasure that belonged solely to me—a treasure of which I must never allow any one to deprive me. She made me hold a light to aid her in her vain search, but, not finding it, she took the rest of the things on the stand, and left the room. I followed her, and we walked along together through the gallery that led to my mother's chamber, which was at the end.
This gallery, or, rather, open loggia, looked down on the inner court of the old palace we lived in, and extended entirely around it. The landing of the principal staircase to the first story connected with the gallery, was precisely opposite the place where we were, when, all at once, we heard in that direction a sound—confused at first, and then more distinct—of chanting and the measured steps of several people, mingled with the constant ringing of a bell. Presently a bright light shone through all that side of the gallery, and through the arches we saw a long procession appear, and proceed around towards the door directly before us, ... the door of my mother's chamber.... Livia knelt down, and made a sign for me to do the same, but I remained standing, my eyes staring wide open before me in a kind of stupor. I saw the long file of white penitents as they came with lighted torches in their hands; then appeared the canopy under which walked Don Placido, my mother's aged confessor, carrying the Divine Host in a silver Ciborium.... I could see his long, white beard, his bowed head, his sad, recollected look, and that was all. In an instant the truth flashed across my mind; then everything vanished.
This new shock followed the other so quickly that it caused a deeper and more dangerous swoon; and when I was taken up senseless, and carried to my chamber, it was with the fear that this fatal night would be the last for the daughter as well as the mother....
I have no recollection of what took place for a long while after. I only remember that, opening my eyes one day, I saw Ottavia (my mother's nurse, who had brought me up) beside my bed. I recognized [pg 168] her, and stammered a few words.... She murmured: “Blessed be God!” but did not add another word. A thousand thoughts rushed across my mind, but I could not analyze them, and the one which might seem of the least importance was that which I gave utterance to first.
“My mother's book,” ... I said repeatedly.
Ottavia, without speaking, at once raised the lid of a large ebony coffer that stood on the table not far from my bed, and took out the little book with the silver clasp. She held it up, and then replaced it in the box, which she locked. Turning to me, she put her finger on her lips. I obeyed the sign, and remained silent, but I slept no more till evening. By degrees my mind grew clear, and my confused recollections distinct. The fever that had brought me so near to death's door now abated, and from that day my convalescence was rapid. But the chief thing that renewed life and strength restored, was the faculty of suffering, and comprehending in all its fulness the reality of my misfortune.
My mother was no more. She did not live to see the morrow of the day when she embraced me for the last time. My father's agitated face revealed this terrible fact more clearly even than the mourning he wore.... But I did not learn the details of her last hours till a long time after the day when, for the second time, he lost the light of his fireside. Knowing the keen impetuosity of my disposition, a violent explosion of grief had been anticipated. But it was not so. On the contrary, I fell into a state of gloomy silence that gave rise to fresh anxiety to those who had so long trembled for my life.
The physician, however, advised my father, my sister Livia, and Ottavia, who took turns at my bedside, to leave everything to time without attempting to oppose me. I therefore passed day after day without appearing to notice their presence. But on other days, I silently made some sign of gratitude, which would bring a smile to my father's pale face. Then Livia would embrace me, saying: “Courage, bambina![67] Try to love God's holy will.” Or Ottavia, as she used to do when I was only four years old, would hold up the silver cross on her cornelian rosary, which I always looked at with pleasure. And when they saw me kiss it for the first time, they began to hope, in spite of my silence, for the return of my reason. But my eyes would become fixed again, and I would cease to recognize any one. And when my pillow was found wet with my tears, as was often the case, the physician would say: “That is a good sign; let her weep. It is a relief she needs.” But days passed, and my mental condition remained the same.
My strength nevertheless returned. I was able to get up, and several times I walked a few steps on the terrace leading from my chamber without any injury. But nothing could break the unnatural silence that transformed into an inanimate statue the girl whose excessive vivacity and unrestrained liveliness had sometimes disturbed, sometimes enlivened, the whole house, filling it throughout with the sense of her presence.
One day I was sitting on my terrace, looking off over the gulf, when Ottavia approached, and, as usual, began to talk with the vain hope of [pg 169] drawing forth some reply. I generally listened in silence, but that day a new train of thought came into my mind, which I felt the power of pursuing clearly, calmly, and with a certain persistence that proved my physical strength was at last beginning to triumph over the kind of mental paralysis which made my convalescence seem like a new phase of my disease.
Ottavia had placed a number of books on a small table beside me. She knew nothing of them but the covers, but she offered them to me one by one, hoping to induce me to read—a diversion it was desirable I should take to. At last I shook my head, and for the first time pushed away the book she offered me. Then I spoke, and the sound of my voice was a joyful surprise to my faithful attendant:
“No, Ottavia, not that one. I want another book, and that alone—the one you put away there,” with a gesture and glance towards the further end of my chamber.
Ottavia understood me, but hesitated between the joyful hope of my cure awakened by my reply, and the fear of causing fresh excitement which might bring on another relapse. But after all the means that had been used to rouse me from the state of apathy into which I had fallen, it did not seem prudent to oppose that which I had chosen myself. She therefore obeyed my request, and, without any reply, opened the ebony coffer where she had put my mother's book, as if it were a relic, and placed it in my hands.
“Thank you, Ottavia,” I said. And putting my arms around her neck, I kissed her, causing big tears of joy to roll down her cheeks. “And now leave me, I beg of you; leave me alone for an hour.”
She hesitated a moment, and looked at me uneasily, but then complied as before with my wish, and, after seeing that I was sheltered from the sun and wind, noiselessly left the balcony through my room.
I then kissed the cover of the book I held in my hand, and opened it with awe. It seemed to me I was about to hear my mother's voice from the depths of the tomb!
III.
May 15, 18—
——Ginevra! It is to her I consecrate these pages—the child that at once fills my heart with inexpressible anxiety and the tenderest affection—the child whom I love so dearly, but whom my hands perhaps are too feeble to guide. And yet I shudder at the thought of leaving her behind me. My strength, however, is rapidly failing, and I feel that my poor child will soon be left alone.
Alone! This word may seem harsh to you, Fabrizio mio, and, lest this should meet your eye, I will explain my meaning.
I know you have as tender a heart as mine, and your prudence is far greater; but, to tell you the truth, you likewise are too fond of her! You know how many times I have taken her from your arms to make room for poor Livia, so often grieved by your involuntary forgetfulness, but not offended with her little sister, because she too, like every one else, felt that Ginevra from her infancy had the power of charming every eye and heart around her!...
But though to Livia you were sometimes indifferent, you were never severe, whereas, though generally too indulgent to Ginevra, when you detected some fault in her, I have often seen you inclined to go from one extreme to another, and been obliged to beg you to leave the correction to time or to her mother.
She has grown up, as she is, in our midst, like one of the flowers of our clime which put forth their beauty almost without cultivation, rejoicing our hearts and our eyes, and intoxicating us all with the perfume of her grace and caressing affection.
O yes! it is nothing but intoxication, and I have perhaps yielded to it with too much delight; but I repeat it, it is I alone, among all who have loved her, whose delight has been unmingled with blindness.
Perhaps this was because (pardon me, Fabrizio) I loved her more than any one else, and because the affection of a mother has something divine in its clearness of vision. I see this charming child, to whom I have given birth, as she is. I understand her real nature. I look into her pure soul as into the limpid waters of some beautiful lake. But clouds are now passing over its surface. Others are rising and gathering, and I tremble to think a storm may some day rise up to overwhelm and crush her!
June 1.
This is Ginevra's fifteenth birthday. I will describe her, not only as she appears to me, but to every one else.
She is slender and graceful in form, and an inch or two taller than I. There is an habitual sweetness and languor in her large, brown eyes; but when they are suddenly lit up with surprise, wonder, or any other unexpected emotion, they glow with wonderful expression [pg 170] and brilliancy. Her hair, of a golden hue which is as beautiful as it is rare in our country, parts on a pure white brow which forms almost a continued straight line with a nose of perfect regularity, so that her profile would be quite faultless were not her mouth larger than is consistent with the standard of classical beauty. But this blemish is redeemed by the expression of her mouth, sometimes grave and thoughtful enough to excite anxiety, sometimes half open with a child-like smile, and often extended with hearty laughter, like that of a peasant, displaying two beautiful rows of small, white teeth.
And now, O my child! I would with the same sincerity describe the lineaments of your soul, which is far dearer to me than your face—yes, dearer to me than my own life, or even than yours!
In the inner recesses of this soul—and I thank God for it!—is hidden, even from her, a jewel of purity and truth which it would be far easier to crush than deface. Then, like a strong wind that cannot shake this foundation, but seeks entrance through every pore, beats a loving nature that cannot be denied its food, which is the predominant trait in her character. Passing over her other good qualities and her defects, and speaking merely of her outward appearance, it must be confessed that she manifests the excessive vanity of a child, and a want of reflection that would be surprising in a girl of ten years old, mingled with a passionate ardor that would excite anxiety in one of twenty!
Such is my poor child—such are the attractive but alarming traits that constitute the peculiar nature she has inherited.
O Almighty God! ... two more years of life, ... that I may watch over her till the day I am able to entrust her to the care of some one she can regard with the true devotion of a wife!
Alas! this desire is consuming my life. It is shortening my days. It is hastening my end, which I regard with calmness when I merely consider myself, but which fills me with terror when I think only of her.
June 15.
It was your wish, Fabrizio, and I yielded to it. But it was not without repugnance I saw her go to this ball. You say your sister will watch over her; but I know Donna Clelia better than you. She has no eyes but for her own daughters, and will think she has done her duty to Ginevra by seeing, when she arrives, that her dress has not been crumpled on the way, and, at her return, that she has lost none of her ribbons. She will separate her from her own daughters, you may be sure, lest she eclipse them, and leave her alone—alone in the gay world where she appears for the first time.... You smiled when you saw her ready to start. You whispered with pride that a lovelier creature never was seen.... Ah! Fabrizio, at that moment how I wished she were less charming, or, at least, that her beauty could be hidden from every eye!...
Do you remember the assertion of a queen of France about which we were conversing only a few days since? You thought it too severe, but to me it only seems reasonable; for it gives expression to the most earnest wish of my heart. O yes! like her, I would rather see the child I love so passionately—a thousand times [pg 171] rather—see her die than contract the slightest stain!...
The hours are passing away, and I must seek calmness in prayer. I feel as if in this way I shall still be able to protect her....
Clelia promised to bring her home at eleven. The clock has just struck twelve, and she has not yet arrived....
June 25.
I have been ill for a few days past, and unable to write. To-day I feel somewhat better, and, though my mind has been greatly disturbed, will try to collect my thoughts.
I was not deceived in my presentiment. I thought the day of the ball would be a fatal one, and I was not mistaken. As I said, at midnight she had not returned. I awaited her arrival with increased anxiety of mind, lying awake a whole hour after that, listening to every sound, and repeatedly mistaking the noise of the sea for that of the carriage bringing her home.... At last, about half-past one, I heard the rumbling of the wheels, and presently recognized her light step in the gallery. She passed my door without stopping, and had arrived at her own chamber, when Ottavia, who had been sitting up with me, went after her to say I was not yet asleep, if she wished to come and bid me good-night. As she entered the door, the light in Ottavia's hand shone across her face. It was by no means the same as at her departure. The excitement of dancing, and the fatigue of remaining up to so unusual an hour, were doubtless sufficient to account for her disordered hair, her pale face, and the striking brilliancy of her eyes; but her troubled look, her trembling lips, and the care she took to avoid looking me in the face when she fell on my neck, showed there was something more which I must wait till another day to question her about....
July 1.
To continue the account interrupted the other day:
I know everything now, for she never deceives me. She is always as sincere as she is affectionate. Yes, she had scarcely entered the ball-room before she was, as I foretold, separated from her cousins, and left in a group of young ladies, who, treating her as a mere child, immediately proposed she should take a seat at a table where there were sweetmeats and games. Just then the orchestra began a dance, and the two oldest of the group stationed themselves in front to attract the attention of those in search of partners, while a third kept Ginevra in her seat by showing her pictures, and patronizingly promising in a whisper to dance with her presently. But at the sound of the music, Ginevra could not be restrained from springing up and advancing to look at the preparations for the dance. This change of position attracted the observation of a young gentleman who was slowly entering the room with an absent air without appearing to wish to take any part in the dance.
“There is Flavio Aldini,” said one of the young ladies; “he will not condescend to come this way. He looks upon us as mere school-girls, and only dances with those ladies whose elegance has already made them the fashion.”
“I never saw him before, but he looks very much as I supposed from the description I had of him. Is he not said to be engaged to a rich heiress?”
“He? No; he does not dream of marrying, I assure you. I tell you he never looks at us young ladies.”
“And yet, my dear, he seems to be looking rather earnestly in this direction now.”
She was right. At that very moment, the person of whom they were speaking eagerly approached the place where Ginevra was standing, and, without glancing at her companions, accosted her, begging she would give him the pleasure of being her partner in the quadrille about to begin.
This was a triumph for my poor Ginevra, and all the greater after the vexation caused by her companions' patronizing airs. She went away radiant—intoxicated.... Hitherto she had been petted as a child; now she suddenly realized how much admiration a woman can inspire, and this knowledge, like a mischievous spark, fell from the look and smile of Flavio Aldini into her very heart!
Flavio Aldini! You will understand, Fabrizio, the terror I felt at the mere name of this presuming fellow; so well calculated, alas! to please young eyes like hers, and capable of taking advantage of the impression he could not help seeing he had made on her inexperience....
How agitated the poor child was in repeating all his dangerous compliments! And how flattering to her pride a success that attracted the attention of every one in the room, and made her an object of envy to those who had just humiliated her by their condescension!... I allowed her to go on.... I was glad, at all events, to see she did not manifest the least shade of deception—the usual consequence of vanity—but I trembled as I listened!
He begged for the little bunch of flowers she wore in her bosom. She was strongly tempted to grant his request, and was only prevented from doing so by the fear of being observed.
July 5.
I have not been able to continue. I have been growing weaker and weaker, and can only write a few lines at a time without fatigue. Since the 15th of June, I have been constantly worried and anxious. I cannot bear for her to leave me now for a single instant. I want to keep her constantly under my eyes and near my heart. Yesterday I saw her start at the sound of a horse passing under the balcony. To-day she was standing there with her eyes dreamily turned towards the road that connects our house with the shore.... I called her, and she listened as I talked kindly to her, hoping to give a new turn to her thoughts, instead of trying to check them by remonstrances. She is easily influenced and guided by kindness but it is difficult to make her yield to authority. Oh! there never was a child who needed more than she the tender guidance of a mother!...
But let thy will, O God! be done. Help me to say this without a murmur. Let me not forget that my love for her is nothing—nothing at all—in comparison with that.
July 15.
It is only with great effort I can write to-day. I do not know as I shall be able to write more than a few lines. But I wish to remind you once more, Fabrizio, of the conversation we had yesterday evening. Who knows but it was the last we shall ever have in this world! My time here is short. Do not forget my request. Lose no time in uniting her to some one she can love and will consent to [pg 173] be guided by. Though still young, he should be several years older than she, in order to inspire her with respect, which is so sweet when mingled with affection, as no one knows better than I, Fabrizio. Has not the mingled respect and love with which you have filled my heart constituted the happiness of my life? I would bless you once more for this, as I close. I have not strength enough to continue.... I must stop.... And yet I would speak once more of her—of my Ginevra—my darling child. I would implore you to be always mild and patient with her, and if ever....
Here the journal ended!... Oh! what a torrent of recollections rushed across my mind at the sight of this unfinished page! This little book falling from her hand, ... her slumbers, ... her terrible awakening, ... her incoherent words, her last embrace, my despair! All this I recalled with poignant grief as I pressed my lips to the lines written by her dying hand. I shed a torrent of tears, but this time they were salutary tears. I had already severely expiated my error, for it was only my deep sorrow for having embittered the last hours of my mother's life, and perhaps, O fearful thought! of hastening her end, that had given so dark a shade to my grief, and filled me with a despair akin to madness. I was now stronger, calmer, and wiser, and felt I could yet repair my fault by fulfilling my mother's wishes, and this thought brought the first ray of comfort that penetrated my heart. I made many new resolutions in my mind, and felt I had firmness enough to keep them.
To Be Continued.
The Principles Of Real Being. V. Intrinsic Principles Of Complex Beings.
The primitive beings of which we have treated in a preceding article imply nothing in their constitution but what is strictly necessary in order to exist in nature; and therefore they are physically simple—that is, not made up of other physical beings, though they are metaphysically compounded, because their intrinsic principles are so many metaphysical components. Those beings, on the contrary, the entity of which is not strictly one, besides the three principles common to all primitive beings, involve in their constitution other components, either physical or metaphysical. Such complex beings are either substantial or accidental compounds. We propose to investigate in the present article the general constitution of substantial compounds, then of accidental compounds; and lastly we shall inquire into the principles of the attributes and properties of complex, as well as primitive, beings.
Principles of substantial compounds.
By substantial compound we mean a compound of which the components are distinct substances uniting in one essence or nature. Such a compound is a physical one, inasmuch as it is made up of physical components; for substances are complete beings, and each of them has its own distinct and individual existence in the physical order of things.
This definition of substantial compound is very different from that which the scholastics drew from their theory of substantial generations. But since chemistry has shown, and philosophical reasoning based on facts confirms, that what in such a theory is called the “generated substance” is only a compound of substances, it must be evident that our substantial compound, as above defined, does not, in fact, differ from theirs, but is the same thing viewed under a different light. Perhaps, if the schoolmen had thought that bodies were possibly but the result of the composition of many permanent substances, they would not have called them substantial, but only natural, compounds; yet, since the epithet “substantial” has been originally adopted, and is still commonly applied to compounds which we know actually to contain many distinct substances, we cannot keep the word “substantial” without giving it such a meaning as will answer to the real nature of the things it qualifies. Nevertheless, should the reader prefer to apply the epithet “substantial” to that compound only which consists of matter and substantial form interpreted in accordance with the Peripatetic system, then the compounds of which we treat might be called natural, or essential, compounds, or compound natures. So long, however, as such compounds are called “substances,” we think we have the right to apply to them the epithet “substantial.”
The immediate principles of substantial compound are three, as in the primitive being: to wit, act, term, and complement; but they are of a different nature, as we are going to explain. Two cases are to be examined. For the physical parts, which unite to make one compound nature, sometimes rank all alike as material constituents of the compound, as in water, iron, silver, and other natural bodies; but at other times one of the constituent substances stands forth in the character of a form, as the human soul in the body, all the parts of the body remaining under it, and making up the complete material constituent of the compound nature.
In the first case, the physical components taken together constitute the adequate potential term or the compound nature; because, as they are all alike material constituents, they are all alike potential respecting their composition; and thus they are all equally liable to be tied together by physical action. The specific composition will be the act of the compound essence; for it is such a composition that formally binds together those physical components into one specific compound. Finally, the actual bond of the components, brought about by their composition, will be the actuality of the compound nature—that is, its formal complement.
That these three constituents differ very materially from those of a primitive being is evident: for, in a primitive being, the term is a pure potency that receives its first actuation; whilst in the compound nature it consists of a number of actual beings which are no longer potential respecting their first actuation, but only with regard to [pg 175] their composition, which gives them a second and relative actuation in the compound. Again, the act, in the primitive being, is a product of creation, calculated to give the first existence to its term; whilst in the compound nature it is the product of actions interchanged between the components, and gives them, not to exist, but to be united so as to form a new specific essence. Lastly, the complement, in a primitive being, is the existence of a thing absolutely one, whilst in the compound nature it is the existence of a thing whose oneness is altogether relative.
In all compounds of this kind—viz., whose form is their composition—the components are, of course, physical beings, as we have stated; but their composition is only a metaphysical entity. Indeed, we are wont to call it “physical composition”; but we do not mean that it is a physical being; we only mean that it is the composition “of physical beings.” We know that formal composition is that by which the components are formally bound with one another; and we know also that the components are thus bound in consequence of their mutual actions, and that such actions cannot be conceived to be complete in nature, except inasmuch as they are received in their proper subjects—viz., in the components themselves. And therefore the composition which is styled “physical” is, of its own nature, only an incomplete and metaphysical entity; and, in a like manner, the actuality of the physical compound is not a physical being, as it cannot be found outside of that of which it is the result.
But a compound of the kind just mentioned is sometimes intended for an end which cannot be attained without the concurrence of a higher principle. Then, by the introduction of this new principle, a second kind of substantial compound arises, in which one of the components (the higher principle) ranks as the formal, and the others as the material, constituent of the compound nature. Such is the case with our own bodies; which, to fulfil the ends for which they are organized by nature, besides their bodily constitution and organism, require the infusion of a distinct principle of life. Hence the formal constituent of man, and of all animals too, is the principle of life, or the soul; whilst his material constituent is the body, with its organic constitution.
That the body is a physical being and a substance there is no doubt; and that the soul also is a physical being and a substance distinct from the body is conclusively shown in all good treatises of anthropology. The soul and the body are therefore two physical components, and make up a physical compound. The animal life, however, which is the result of the animation of the body by the soul—and is, therefore, the complement of the compound—is not a third physical component, but a metaphysical entity; and thus of the three principles which constitute the animal, the first and the second only are to be reckoned as physical parts.
And now, since we have stated that the constituents of compound natures may have either a physical or only a metaphysical entity, we must further inform our readers that a great number of authors are wont to consider all the real constituents of physical beings as so many physical entities. But we would say that in this they are mistaken; for although it is evidently true that the constituent principles of a physical [pg 176] being have a physical existence in the being to which they belong, it cannot be inferred that therefore all such principles must be called physical beings; as some of them can neither have an independent existence nor be even conceived without referring to their correlative principles. Thus the act and the term of a primitive being are both entitatively less than physical beings; for the first being we find in the physical order is that which arises out of them. It is not, therefore, the same thing to say that a being is physically real, and to say that it is made up of physical realities. The first assertion may be true, and the second false; because a thing which is one has only one existence, and nevertheless implies three principles; whence it appears that it is impossible to conceive each of the three principles as having a distinct existence. And since that which has no distinct existence in nature is not a physical being, accordingly the principles of primitive physical beings are not physical, but only metaphysical, realities.
We have further to remark that the act and the term, even when they are complete physical entities, in their manner of principiating the compound nature always behave towards one another as incomplete entities, inasmuch as their principiation is always of a metaphysical, and never of a physical, character. To speak first of those compound essences whose form is composition, we observe that the physical components of such essences are indeed in act, absolutely speaking, but, with regard to the composition, they are simply in potency: and since it is in this last capacity that they enter into the constitution of the compound nature, it is evident that they contribute to its constitution only inasmuch as they have a claim to further actuation. For to be potential respecting any kind of composition means not only that the parts might be duly disposed to undergo such a composition, but moreover that they are already disposed and related to each other in that manner which imperatively calls for such a composition. Consequently, the components, when thus disposed, constitute a potency which needs actuation, and stands, with respect to the form of composition, in the same relation in which any term stands with respect to its essential act. It is, therefore, manifest that the said components, though they are physical entities, behave as metaphysical principles in their material principiation of a compound essence. As for the composition itself, we have already seen that it is always a metaphysical constituent.
In the same manner, the soul and the body are indeed physical beings, absolutely speaking, and, therefore, independent of one another so far as their existence is concerned; but the body is informed and vivified, not inasmuch as it exists in its absolute actuality, but inasmuch as it is potential respecting animal life—that is, inasmuch as its organic composition imperatively claims a soul. And similarly the soul is a vivifying form, not inasmuch as it is something absolute in nature, but inasmuch as it naturally requires completion in the body for which it is created and to which it is actually terminated. It therefore appears that the soul and the body, in their principiation of the animal, behave towards one another as metaphysical principles.
Hence all composition of act and potency is, properly speaking, a metaphysical composition; though, when the compound is resolvable into physical parts, the same composition may also, from the physical nature of the components, be rightly styled physical. The difference between a metaphysical and a physical compound does not, therefore, consist in the character of the composition itself, which is always metaphysical, but in this: that the latter can be resolved into physical parts which may and will exist after their separation, whereas the former can be resolved only into metaphysical constituents which are utterly incapable of separate existence.
What precedes refers to the immediate constituents of compound essences. It is evident that every immediate principle, which is a complete being, involves other principles. Hence all compound essences imply some principles which are proximate, and others which are remote. The remote are those by which every primitive component is itself constituted in its individual reality, and from which the components derive their real aptitude to become the material, the formal, or the efficient principle of the compound essence.
Principles of accidental compounds.
We have hitherto shown that all physical beings, whether physically simple or physically complex, involve in their constitution an act, a term, and a formal complement. Nothing more is required to conclude that no physical being can be conceived of as an act without its term, or a term without its act, or a formal actuality not resulting from the concurrence of an act and its suitable term. From this it immediately appears that accidents and accidental modes are not physical beings, and that their existence is necessarily dependent on the existence of some other thing of which they are the appurtenances.
An accident, properly so called, is an act having no term of its own, and, therefore, having no metaphysical essence and no possibility of a separate existence. Accordingly, the term of which it is in need must be supplied by a distinct being already existing in nature; and this is called the subject of the accidental act. Hence no accidental act can be conceived to be without a subject.
And here we must reflect that, as the first actuation of an essential term by its essential act has for its result the actual existence of the individual being, so also any second, or accidental, actuation of the term by an accidental act has for its result an actual mode of existing of the same individual being. From this plain truth we infer that a distinction is to be made between accidental acts, which are properly accidents, and accidental modes, which are only accidentalities. An accident, properly speaking, is that which causes the subject to acquire an accidental actuality, and is always an act; whilst the accidental mode is not an act, but an accidental actuality which results in the subject from the reception of the accidental act.
These general notions being admitted, let us inquire into the principles of accidental compounds. An accidental compound is either a compound of substance and accident or a compound of real essence with something superadded. In the first case, “accidental” means the opposite of “substantial”; in the second case, “accidental” [pg 178] means the opposite of “essential.” Thus a falling body is an accidental compound of substance and its momentum, the momentum being a real accident; whereas a man clothed is an accidental compound of individual human nature and dress; the dress being considered as something accidental as compared with the essence of man, though it is a real substance. And in the same manner a mass of gold is an accidental compound of golden molecules, because each molecule fully possesses the essence of gold independently of any other molecule; whence it follows that the addition of other molecules is accidental as compared with the essence of gold, and only increases the quantity without altering the specific nature of gold. Of course, these other molecules are substances, and it is only their concurrence into one mass that is accidental.
It is plain that the constituent principles of an accidental compound are three—viz., the accidental act which entails a modification of the subject; the subject which receives the modifying act; and the accidental mode of being, or the modification, which results from the reception of the act in the subject.
The subject is always a complete physical being, and, therefore, has its own essential act, term, and complement, independently of all things accidental. It becomes the subject of an accidental act by actually receiving it.
The accidental act which is received in the subject must proceed immediately from the action of some natural or supernatural agent. This is evident; for real receptivity is real passivity, and therefore reception is passion. Now, no passion can be admitted without a corresponding action. Hence all accidental act that is properly and truly received in a subject is the immediate product of action, and its production exactly coincides and coextends with its reception.
Lastly, the mode of being which results from the accidental actuation of the subject is only an accidentality, or an accidental actuality, as we have already remarked, and is predicated of the subject, not as something received in it, but as something following from the actual reception of the accidental act. Hence the substance, or the nature, which is the subject of such accidental modes lies under them, not on account of its receptivity, but on account of the resulting potentiality, which is a proper appurtenance, not of the material term, but of the formal complement of the substance. And, in fact, the complement of all created essence always arises from the actuation of a potential term, and therefore is itself necessarily potential—that is, liable to such accidental changes as may result from any new actuation of the essential term. This resulting potentiality is commonly styled mobility, changeableness, or affectibility, and may be called modal potentiality in opposition to the passive potentiality which is the characteristic of the essential term.
Hence a subject is said to receive the accidental act, but not the accidental mode; and, on the contrary, is said to be affected by the accidental mode, but not by the accidental act. We may say, however, that a subject is modified as well by the act as by the mode, because this expression applies equally to the making of the change (mutatio in fieri) and to the state that follows (mutatio in facto esse).
A subject has, therefore, two distinct manners of underlying: the one on account of its receptivity, the other on account of its affectibility; the one by reason of the passive potentiality of its term, the other by reason of the modal potentiality of its complement. Thus a body, according to its passive potentiality, underlies the act produced in it by a motive power, because it passively receives the motive determination, and, according to its modal potentiality, it underlies local movement, this movement being the immediate result of the determination received. And in a similar manner our soul, inasmuch as it is receptive or passive, underlies the act produced or the impression made in it by a cognizable object; and inasmuch as it is affectible, it underlies the feeling or affective movement, which immediately results from the cognition of the object.
We have said that every accident which is received in a subject and inheres in it must be produced by the action of some agent; and this being the case, it follows that the quantity of the mass of a body, and the quantity of its volume, which are not the product of action, cannot be ranked among the accidents received and inhering in the body; and generally all the accidental modes which arise in the subject, in consequence of the reception of accidental acts, are intrinsic modes indeed, but are not received, and do not properly inhere in their subject; they only result in the subject. Moreover, as all such intrinsic modes immediately arise from the intrinsic reception of accidental acts, it follows that those accidental modes which do not arise in this manner must be extrinsic; and therefore such modes, though they are predicated of their subject, do not inhere in the subject, but only in a certain manner adhere to it. All accidental connotations and relativities belong to this last class.
Hence we gather that predicamental accidents are of different species, and accordingly demand distinct definitions. The accidental act, or accident strictly, is an act received in the subject and inhering in it; the intrinsic mode is an accidental actuality or modification resulting in the subject; the extrinsic mode is a simple connotation or respect arising between the subject and some correlative term. Accordingly, accidental being in general cannot be defined as “that which inheres in a subject”—quod inhæret alteri tamquam subjecto—for this definition does not embrace all accidentalities, but should be defined as “that which clings to a subject”—quod innititur alteri tamquam subjecto, the phrase “to cling to” being understood in a most general sense. This last definition covers all the ground of predicamental accidentalities; for it is, in fact, applicable to all accidental acts, intrinsic modes of being, and extrinsic connotations.
For the same reason, the subject is not to be defined as “that which receives within itself an accidental entity,” but as “that to which an accidental entity belongs,” and, taking the word “subject” in its most general sense, we may also define it, as Aristotle did, to be “that of which anything is predicated.” It is only by this last definition that we can explain the general practice of predicating of everything, not only its accidentalities, but also its attributes and essential properties. Such predications would be impossible, if the notion of subject were restricted to that which receives on [pg 180] itself accidental entities; for attributes are not accidents, and are not received in their subject, but spring forth from its very essence, as we are going presently to show.
When the thing predicated of any subject is an accidental act, then its subject is a subject of inhesion. When the thing predicated is an intrinsic mode, no matter whether essential, substantial, or accidental, then its subject is a subject of attribution. And when the thing predicated is only a connotation or a respect (modus se habendi ad aliud), then its subject is a subject of mere predication.
As we have stated that natural accidents cannot exist without a subject, the reader may desire to know how we can account for the accidents which, in the Holy Eucharist, exist without their substances. As a lengthy discussion of this philosophico-theological question would be here quite out of place, we will content ourselves with remarking that the Eucharistic species of bread, as described by S. Thomas and by the ancient scholastics, is not a natural and predicamental accident; and that, therefore, many things may be possible with the Eucharistic species which are not possible with natural accidents. It is not true, in fact, what some have maintained, that in the Holy Eucharist each of the accidents of bread exists without any subject. Theologians acknowledge that the quantity of the bread fulfils the duty of subject with regard to all the other accidents, and consequently that all the other accidents, after the consecration as before, cling to quantity. There is no need, therefore, of assuming color without a subject, or figure without a subject, or weight without a subject. This would simply mean color of nothing, figure of nothing, weight of nothing; which is not a miracle, but an absurdity. To account for the sacramental species, theologians need only to show that the quantity of the bread can exist miraculously without the substance of the bread. This is the only accident which remains without any subject whatever; for the Sacred Body, which ad modum substantiæ—that is, substantively, replaces the substance of the bread—is indeed under that quantity, but it is not affected nor modified by it, and therefore cannot be called its subject in the ordinary sense of the word, though some writers have called it a sacramental subject.
To show that quantity without the substance of which it is the quantity is not an impossibility, we must leave aside the idea that such a quantity is a form inherent in the substance. For the quantity of the mass which alone is destined to become the first subject of all the other accidents is made up of a number of material parts, and therefore is not a form, but a certain amount of actual matter, and fulfils the office of matter, as S. Thomas recognizes, and not that of form, as Suarez and others after him have erroneously assumed. Now, it is evident that as no number can be conceived without units, so neither can a quantity of mass be conceived without its parts; and that, if such parts or units are substances, the quantity of the mass will be nothing less than a number of substances. So long, then, as such a quantity remains, it cannot cease to be a number of substances, unless, indeed, each of the units of which it is made up, and which must always remain, be supernaturally deprived of that which places them formally in the rank of substances. [pg 181] This is, therefore, what must be done, and what is really done by transubstantiation. When, in fact, the words of the consecration are pronounced, and the Sacred Body of our Lord is constituted under the sensible symbol ad modum substantiæ (that is, not only substantially, but substantively), then the substantiality of every particle of the bread is superseded, and, so to say, supplanted by the new substance which lies under each of them, but which leaves intact the constituents of concrete quantity; for “the act and the power of substance,” and “whatever belongs to matter,” remains in each of them, as S. Thomas teaches, in accordance with the common doctrine of the ancient scholastics and of the fathers of the church.
Thus the quantity of the bread remains the same as before, and retains its formal and material constitution, notwithstanding the substantial conversion of the bread into the Sacred Body of our Lord. Had the modern scholastics paid more attention to this last point, they would have seen that the species of bread is none of those natural accidents, whether forms or formalities, which found a place in Aristotle's categories, but is a supernatural accident as perfectly constituted, in its own way, as substance itself, and therefore capable of being kept in existence by God without the help of a natural subject. The reader may infer from these remarks that the philosophical questions about natural or predicamental accidents are altogether distinct from, and independent of, those concerning the sacramental species; and that therefore nothing that philosophers may say about natural accidents can have any direct bearing on the explanation of the Eucharistic mystery.
One thing remains to be said regarding the distinction between accidental and substantial compounds. We have defined the first to be a compound “of substance and accident,” or a compound “of essence and something accidentally superadded to it.” The second we defined to be a compound “of substances uniting in one essence or nature.” But, as we noticed, the authors pledged to the theory of substantial generations admitted of no “substantial” compound but that which was believed to consist of matter and substantial form; and accordingly all compounds the form of which was an accidental entity, say composition, were considered by them as accidental. We observe that composition, though an accidental entity, is nevertheless the “essential” form of the compound, and gives it its “first” actuality. If, then, the compound is a distinct essence, and has a distinct name, and is called a distinct “substance,” as water, iron, gold, etc., its form, though an accident, is an essential constituent of the specific substance.
We cannot at present discuss the question of substantial generations; we only remark that, to avoid all useless disputes about words, a physical compound, when it contains nothing but what is needed for the constitution of its specific nature, may be called Unum per se naturale—i.e., a being essentially one; and when it has something accidentally superadded, it may be called Unum per accidens—i.e., a being accidentally one. This distinction of names, which is familiar to all philosophers, expresses the distinction [pg 182] of the things without having recourse to the terms of “substantial compound” and “accidental compound,” taken in the Peripatetic sense of the words. Thus, whilst the Peripatetics based their distinction between these compounds on a presumed difference between their forms, we draw our own from the presence or absence of anything not belonging to the specific nature of the compound. This we do in accordance with the true spirit of scholastic philosophy, not to say compelled by a philosophical necessity; for we know that the constituent form of a purely material compound, though essential with respect to the compound itself, is only an accident received in the substance of the components, as we may hereafter have an occasion to show. And now let us come to the attributes of complete beings.
Principles of attributes and properties.
All complete beings possess attributes and properties called essential—that is, invariably following the essence to which they belong. It is therefore necessary for us to inquire whether, to account for them, any special principles must be admitted. We can easily show that no new real principle is required besides the principles of the essence, as all the essential attributes and properties[68] of a complete being are fully contained in the real essence of the same as in their fountain-head, inasmuch as they are nothing else than the actuality of the essence considered under different aspects or connotations. It is known, in fact, that the essential attributes of things are said by all philosophers to emanate from the essence, to flow from the essence, to follow from the essence, without any other thing being ever mentioned as their principle; which shows the universality of the doctrine that the essence alone is the adequate source of all its attributes.
And here let us observe that the words principle and source are not synonymous; for a principle is not sufficient, of itself, to principiate anything without the concurrence of other principles, as it does not perfectly contain in itself the whole reality of which it is a principle. The source, on the contrary, contains totally and adequately within itself whatever emanates from it; so that any such emanation, taken separately, is only an imperfect exhibition of the reality from which it emanates, as it presents it only under one out of the many different points of view under which it may be regarded. To say, then, that the essence of a thing is the source of all its attributes is to say that the essence itself alone sufficiently accounts for their origin, their necessity, and their distinction.
That such is the case we shall easily understand by reflecting that all the essential attributes and properties of a thing express the being or actuality of the thing under some special aspect; as to be active, to be passive, to be one, to be simple, etc. Now, to be, or actuality, immediately results from the principles of the essence alone, as we have proved in our last article. Consequently, the essential attributes and properties of anything immediately result from the essential principles of the thing—that is, from its real essence. Thus a being is active inasmuch as the act [pg 183] by which it is can be further terminated; and therefore to be active is nothing more than to have in itself an act further terminable; and activity, or active power in the abstract, is nothing more than the further terminability of the same act. In like manner, a being is passive inasmuch as its intrinsic term is still capable of further actuation; and therefore to be passive is nothing more than to have in itself a term which can be further actuated; and passivity, or passive potentiality in the abstract, is nothing more than the further actuability of the same term. The like may be said of every other attribute. Meanwhile, if we inquire what does terminability, or actuability, add to the thing, we shall soon see that it adds nothing real, but only exhibits the reality of the thing under a special formality as connoting something either intrinsic or extrinsic to it. Thus the terminability of the act simply connotes some term capable of actuation, and the actuability of the term simply connotes an act by which it can be actuated.
From this it follows that the essential attributes of being are nothing but distinct abstract ratios having their foundation in the principles of the complete being, and presenting its actuality under different aspects. In fact, it is because such a being contains the foundation of all those ratios that our intellect, by looking upon it, is enabled to discover them, and to trace them distinctly to their distinct principles. It thus appears that the true reason why no new real principles are needed to account for the essential attributes of things consists in this, that the whole reality of the attributes already pre-exists in the thing, and that nothing further is necessary, that they may be distinctly conceived, but intellectual consideration.
What we have said of the attributes that have their foundation in the essential principles of being applies equally to qualities which are the immediate result of accidental actuation. Thus, if a material point be acted on, the result of the determination it receives will be velocity. Of course, velocity is an accidental attribute, since it follows from the termination of an accidental act; yet it results as perfectly from that termination as the essential attributes result from the termination of the essential act.
In general, all the objective ratios which immediately follow the constitution of a concrete being need no additional principles, because they are already contained in the entity of the concrete being, in which the intellect finds its ground for their distinct conception. And here let us add two remarks. The first is that all such intelligible ratios identify themselves really, though inadequately, with the concrete entity of which they are predicated; so that between the attribute and its concrete subject there can be but the slightest of metaphysical distinctions. The second is that the essential attributes of a simple being are never really distinct from one another. The reason of this is evident; for such attributes are the simple actuality of a simple being, which does not cease to be identical with itself when it is viewed from different points of view. They admit, however, of a distinction of reason; for when the same thing is considered under different aspects, the distinct concepts that are then formed by the mind evidently exhibit [pg 184] distinct objective ratios, every one of which corresponds to one of those aspects without formally implying the others.
Though we have hitherto spoken of the essential attributes and properties of primitive beings, the doctrine we have expounded is also applicable to those of all substantial compounds. Thus the attributes and properties of a molecule of hydrogen, oxygen, or any other specific compound have the reason of their being in the essential principles of their respective compound, and nothing else is required to account for them, as is evident from the preceding explanations. It is to be observed, however, that in such compounds as owe their being to material composition only, as it is the case with all the molecules of natural bodies, the composition which is the essential form of the compound is not a substantial, but an accidental, determination of the components; and hence it is that each such molecule involves in its essential constitution both substance and accident, and therefore is not exactly a substance, but a natural compound essence. The consequence is that its essential attributes, too, owe their being not only to the component substances, but also to such accidents as are essentially implied in the constitution of the compound. Thus, porosity, compressibility, bulk, etc., which are essential attributes of each molecule as such, have the reason of their being partly in the elements of which they are made up, and partly in the specific form of their composition. Now, this specific form may undergo accidental changes without trespassing the bounds of its species; and those essential attributes which depend on the specific composition may consequently undergo a change in their degree; and since none of those changeable degrees are determinately required by the essence of the molecular compound, it follows that the essential attributes and properties of each molecule, in so far as their actual degree is concerned, are accidental; and accordingly such attributes and properties by their degree belong to the predicament of accidental quality. Such is the case with the attributes of every single molecule of a natural substance.
As for bodies made up of a number of molecules of the same kind, it is evident that all such bodies are accidental compounds, and none of them can have any other essential attributes besides those which are common to their molecules. For the union of equal molecules is the union of integrant parts, and gives rise to no new species, but only to accidental relations, quantity of mass, and quantity of volume; and consequently all the attributes and properties originating in the agglomeration of such integrant parts are simply accidental qualities. Thus liquidity is an accidental quality of water, because it exhibits only the mutual behavior of distinct molecules which, of themselves, and apart from one another, are not liquid, though they have all that is needed to unite in the liquid state. And indeed, if each molecule contains the true essence of water, and yet is not actually liquid, actual liquidity has nothing to do with the essence of water, and therefore is not an essential attribute of water, but an accidental mode resulting from mutual accidental action between neighboring molecules.
There are two cases, however, in [pg 185] which new essential attributes may be found in a body without being found in the component molecules. The first is when the component molecules undergo chemical combination; for in this case such molecules are not merely integrant but constituent, and by their combination a new essence is formed. Now, a new essence gives rise to new essential attributes. Thus sulphuric acid, for instance, has attributes which do not belong to its components.
The second case is when the whole body is only a part of the compound essence—that is, when the specific form of that essence is a distinct substance, as in man and all animals, whose bodies are informed by a soul. In this case, the whole body and all that belongs to its organic constitution is involved in the essence of the perfect compound of which it is a part; and therefore some among the essential attributes of the compound must depend on the very constitution of the body. Thus stature follows from the essential constitution of man, which includes a body having dimensions. But here, again, we must observe that, although to have some stature is an essential attribute of man, to have this stature rather than that is an accidental quality; it being evident that human nature can exist without this determinate stature.
By the preceding remarks we are led to conclude, 1st, that all essential attributes originate in the essential constituents of the nature of which they are the attributes; 2d, that all the accidental attributes or qualities originate in the accidental determinations of the nature of which they are the accidental qualities; 3d, that, in material compounds, those essential attributes which depend on the composition admit of different accidental degrees.
We have only to add that the abstract ratios, through which the attributes and properties of things are conceived, are very frequently styled formalities. Formalities are, generally speaking, either real or logical. A real formality is that which has its being in the reality of things; a logical formality, on the contrary, is that which has no being in real things, but only in our conception.
Real formalities are also called metaphysical degrees. Thus, in Socrates, animality, rationality, individuality, personality, etc., are so many metaphysical degrees. All such degrees express the being of the thing under some particular aspect; as to be animated, to be rational, to be an individual, etc., as we have above remarked.
Real formalities are either absolute or respective. The absolute are those which belong to the thing considered in itself absolutely; as substantiality, oneness, singularity. The respective are those which imply a connotation of something else; as terminability, passivity, cognoscibility. The absolute formalities correspond to the absolute attributes of beings; the respective correspond to the relative attributes—that is, to the properties and qualities of beings.
Real formalities are either positive, negative, or privative. The positive are directly founded on the act, term, and complement of the being; as activity, passivity, and inertia. The negative are real negations affecting the thing; as the mode of substance, which is a negation of sustentation. The privative are real privations, as blindness in man.
We may observe, by the way, that the logical formalities are likewise either positive, negative, or privative. The positive exhibit the thing as a positive element of logical thought; as when man is said to be the subject of a proposition. The negative exhibit the thing as affected by a negation which is not in the thing, but only in our conception of it; as when we say that God's immensity and eternity are distinct; for distinction is a negation of identity, but the distinction in this case is only mental, because those two attributes are the same thing in reality. The privative exhibit the thing as mentally stripped of that which is due to it; as when we consider color, figure, velocity, etc., as formally universal, and therefore as deprived of a subject; for they cannot be deprived of a subject except in our conception.
This is what we had to say about attributes and properties. As we have here and there mentioned inadequate identity, metaphysical distinction, distinction of reason, etc., we will take care to have the meaning of these words accurately explained in our next article, in which we hope to end this our cursory survey of the principles of real being.
To Be Continued.