The Veil Withdrawn.
Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Mme. Craven, Author Of “A Sister's Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.
XXXIX.
The following day Lando, at an unusually early hour, entered the little sitting-room next my chamber where I commonly remained in the morning. He looked so much graver than usual that I thought he had come to tell me there was some obstacle in the way of his matrimonial prospects. But it was once more of my affairs, and not of his, he wished to speak.
“Dear cousin,” said he without any preamble, “I come at this unusual hour because I wish to see you alone. I have something important to tell you.”
“Something that concerns you, Lando?”
“No, it concerns you and Lorenzo.”
My heart gave a leap. What was he about to tell me? What new hope was to be dashed to the ground?
“Great goodness!” said I, giving immediate utterance to the only object of my mortal terror, “have you come to tell me Donna Faustina is at Naples, and Lorenzo has left me again?”
“Donna Faustina? Oh! no. Would to heaven it were merely a question of her, and that you had nothing more serious to apprehend on Lorenzo's part than another foolish journey, were she to lead him beyond the Black Sea! No, it is not a question of your husband's heart, which preoccupies you more than he deserves, but of his property and yours.”
I breathed once more as I heard these words, and my relief was so visible that Lando was out of patience.
“How singular and unpractical women are!” exclaimed he. “Here you are apparently grown calm because I have reassured you on a point less important in reality than the affair in question.”
“I ought to be the judge of that, ought I not, Lando?” said I gravely.
“Of course. I will not discuss their merits with you. But remember, my dear cousin, if I am correctly informed, it is a question of losing all you possess! Lorenzo has been playing to a frightful degree! He made such good resolutions before me, as he was leaving Paris, that he does me the honor of concealing himself as much from me as from you. He had gone quite far enough before he went to Milan; but, since his return—influenced, I suppose, by a mad wish of diverting his mind from other things, and perhaps of repairing the breaches that had begun to alarm even him—he has added stock-gambling to the rest. Some one heard him say the other day that he expected to triple his fortune, or lose all he possessed. One of the two was indeed to happen. My dear cousin!... he has not tripled it, and the other alternative is seriously to be feared.”
I listened with attention, but likewise with a calmness that was not merely exterior.
“You do not seem to understand,” said he with more impatience than before, “that you are in danger of [pg 768] losing everything you have? Yes, everything!... What would you say, for example,” continued he, looking around, “if you were to see all the magnificence that now surrounds you, and to which you are accustomed, disappear; if this house and all the precious objects it contains were to vanish for ever from your sight?”
“I should say.... But it is of little consequence what I should say or think in such a case. For the moment nothing is lost, and, when our lawsuit in Sicily is once gained, all fear of ruin will be chimerical. Allow me, therefore, to decline meanwhile participating in your fears.”
“Yes, I know you are certain of gaining your cause, as it is in your father's hands. But if some radical change does not take place in Lorenzo's habits, the immense fortune that awaits him will share the fate of that he has just squandered.”
“Therefore, Lando, as soon as the lawsuit is decided, I have formed the plan of inducing him to undertake one of those long journeys to some distant land, such as he has made so many of, and to take me with him. We shall soon come to a region where cards are unknown, and where he will never hear of dice, roulette, or of stocks.”
“Nor of Donna Faustina, either, eh, cousin?” said he, laughing. “But you are not in earnest about banishing yourself in this way for an indefinite period, leaving the civilized world, and sharing the life he leads in these interminable journeys?”
“I shall not hesitate a single instant, I assure you,” replied I warmly. “I shall esteem myself the happiest woman in the world if I can induce him to accede to my wish.”
“Then,” replied he with emotion, “you can really save him; for he now needs a powerful distraction, a complete and radical change, that will really give a new turn to his whole life. Nothing less than this can save him. But you are admirable, Cousin Ginevra, it must be confessed.”
“Wherein, Lando, I beg? In the course of a year you will consider my conduct very natural, and I hope Teresina will be of the same opinion.”
“Perhaps so. But I assure you I intend to take a very different course from Lorenzo. I have done many foolish things, heaven knows; but there is a limit to everything, and I hope never to follow his example.”
“Enough, Lando; you hurt my feelings and distress me.”
He stopped, and soon after went away, leaving me preoccupied with what he had told me, though I was not troubled. Oh! what life, what repose, I found in the secret love that had been made manifest to me! The excitement of my first moment of transport had died away, but I had not become indifferent. I clearly saw the gathering clouds. I felt I was surrounded by dangers of all kinds; but I had nothing of the vague fear often produced by anxiety with respect to the future. What could happen to me? What tempests, what dangers, had I to fear with the clear, unmistakable assurance of an unfailing support, constant assistance, and a love ever faithful and vigilant, and more tender than any human affection—a love that is infinite, which no earthly love can be? We sleep in peace on the stormiest sea when we are sure of the hand that guides us. How much more when we know that hand controls the waves themselves, [pg 769] and can still them at its will!
This conversation with Lando only served to increase my desire to leave Naples, and it was with real joy I saw the day of our departure arrive at last. I was joyfully making my preparations at an early hour in my room, which Lorenzo very seldom entered now, when he suddenly made his appearance. Of course I was doubly moved. But as soon as I glanced at his pale, agitated face, I knew he had come to impart some terrible news. But I only thought of what Lando had communicated, and exclaimed:
“Speak without any fear, Lorenzo. I have courage enough to hear it all.”
But when he replied, it was my turn to grow pale; I uttered a cry of anguish, and fell at his feet, overcome with horror and grief.
My father was no more! At the very hour when he was arranging the final documents for his cause, on the very spot where he so long kept me at his side, he had fallen dead. No one was with him. At the sound of his fall the old servant, who always remained in the next room, hurried to his assistance, but in vain. Nothing could recall him to life!
This blow was terrible—terrible in itself and in its effect on my hopes. In the first place, it put an immediate stop to all my new plans. Lorenzo felt it more necessary than ever to go to Sicily, but now absolutely refused to take me with him. He did not seem to understand how I could desire to go. In his eyes, the sole motive for such a journey no longer existed. I should now only expose myself to the most harrowing grief, which it was his duty to spare me. I did not dare insist on going, for fear of irritating him at a moment when the very pity I inspired might increase the dawn of returning affection I thought I discovered. Besides, I had but little time for reflection. Only a few hours intervened between the arrival of this fatal news and Lorenzo's departure, which left me alone, abandoned to my grief and the bitterness of a disappointment I had not anticipated in the least, mingled with the remembrance of Lorenzo's inexplicable farewell!
It was evident he attributed my tears solely to filial emotion. I had seen him go away so many times without shedding any, that he had no reason to suppose his departure this time caused them to flow almost as much as the calamity that had befallen me. He even seemed surprised that I should insist on accompanying him to the boat and remaining with him till the last minute.
He had no idea how I longed to be permitted to forgive him on my knees; how I wished to implore permission to aid him in breaking the fearful bonds that fettered his noble faculties; to tear off, so to speak, the mask that seemed to change the very expression of his face! Oh! how I longed to save him. How I longed to bring this soul, so closely linked with mine, to itself! The strong desire I once felt, that had been extinguished by jealousy, frivolity, and temptation, now sprang up again with a new force that was never to be destroyed. I was ready for any sacrifice in order to have it realized—yes, even for that of knowing my sacrifice for ever ignored! Not that I did not aspire to win his heart once more! It belonged to me by the same divine right that had given mine to him. I wished to [pg 770] claim it, and I felt that this desire, however ardent it might be, by no means diminished the divine flame within that now kindled all my desires—those of earth as well as those of heaven!
He did not, alas! have any suspicion of all this. And yet, when I raised my eyes in bidding him farewell, he perhaps saw the look of affection and sorrowful regret I was unable to repress; for he looked at me an instant with an expression which made me suddenly thrill with hope! One would have almost said an electric spark enabled our souls to comprehend each other without the aid of words. But this moment was as fleeting as that spark—more transitory than the quickest flash that leaves the night as dark as before!
His face became graver than ever; his brow more gloomy and anxious, as if some terrible thought had been awakened. He continued to gaze at me, as he put up the little straw hat I wore, and, pushing back my hair with the caressing air of protection once so familiar, he kissed my forehead and cheek, and, pressing me a moment against his heart, he uttered these strange words: “Whatever happens, I wish you to be happy, Ginevra. Promise me you will!...”
I had been at home a long time, and seen the last trace of smoke from the steamboat disappear between Capri and the coast beyond Sorrento, without having resolution enough to leave that side of the terrace which commanded the most distant view of the sea. I remained with my eyes fastened on the horizon, looking at the waves, agitated by the mournful sirocco, whose dull, sad moans afar off add so much to the gloom felt at Naples when the bright sun and blue sky are obscured. Elsewhere bad weather is nothing surprising, but at Naples it always astonishes and creates anxiety, as if it were abnormal, as the sudden gravity of a smiling face affects and alarms us more than that of one naturally austere.
I remained, therefore, in my seat, dwelling on my recent hopes, my sudden disappointment and its distressing cause, on Lorenzo's departure without me, his look, his mysterious words, and his affectionate manner as he bade me farewell.
Oh! why, at whatever cost, had I not gone with him? And then I followed him in thought to the dear place I was never to behold again—to the old palace at Messina where I had passed my childhood, happy and idolized, under the eye of her who always seemed to me like some heavenly vision. Beside her I saw my father—“my beloved father.” I uttered these last words aloud, looking, with eyes full of tears, towards the wild gloomy sea that separated me from him in death as it had in life.
At that instant I heard Lando's voice beside me. He had approached without my hearing him. He had a kind heart that redeemed many of his faults, and had come to pity and console me in his way.
“My poor cousin! I am over-whelmed.... What a frightful, irreparable misfortune! I feel as if it concerned me almost as much as you.”
After a moment's pause he continued:
“And what is to be done now? In three days that great trial is to take place and your cause is to be decided! What advocate, good heavens! can be found that can, I will not say equal, but replace, the able and illustrious Fabrizio dei Monti?”
XL.
The first days of mourning, anxiety, and expectation were spent almost entirely alone. I only left the house to go to the convent, and saw no one at home but Stella and my aunt, who, though she resembled her brother but little, loved him tenderly, and was inconsolable at his loss.
A week passed by, and I began to be surprised at not having received any news from Lorenzo. The lawsuit must be over. It was time for him to return, or, at least, for me to receive a letter from him. But none had come, and I remained in this state of suspense a length of time that was inexplicable. At last I received two lines written in haste, not from him, but from my brother:
“I shall arrive the day after this note, and will then tell you everything. Do not lose courage.
“Mario.”
Lando was present when this note arrived, and I read it aloud.
“O heavens!” he exclaimed, “you have lost your cause! That is evident. He tells you so plainly enough!... And I cannot see what he can have worse to tell you.”
He kept on talking for some time, but I did not listen to him. I read the note over and over again. Why had not Lorenzo written? Why was Mario coming, and why did he not say Lorenzo was to accompany him? Why did he not even mention his name?... I did not dare acknowledge to myself the terrible fear that passed through my mind; but I recalled his mysterious words, his look, his voice, and his whole manner when he bade me farewell, and everything assumed an ominous look. A possibility flashed across my mind which I did not dare dwell on for fear of losing my reason, and, with it, the blessed remembrance that was the only support of my life! I suffered that night as I had not suffered since the hours of grief and remorse that followed the death of my mother!
The next day, at a late hour, I at last perceived the boat from Sicily slowly coming up the bay, struggling against a violent out-wind; for, after a long continuation of fine weather, now came a succession of dismal, stormy days, such as often cast a gloom over the end of spring at Naples. My first impulse was to go to meet Mario at the landing; but I changed my mind, and concluded to remain at home, that I might be alone when I should receive the news he was bringing me.
I found it difficult, however, to control my impatience, for I had to wait nearly an hour longer. But at last I heard his step on the stairs; then my door opened, and he made his appearance. What I experienced when I saw he was really alone showed to what an extent I had flattered myself Lorenzo would return with him. I gazed at him without stirring from my seat, without the strength to ask a single question. He came to me, took me in his arms with more tenderness than he had ever shown in his life, and when he kissed me I saw his eyes were filled with tears.
“Lorenzo! Where is Lorenzo?” I exclaimed as soon as I could speak.
“Be calm, sister,” said he—“be calm, I beg of you.... I will tell you the whole truth without the slightest evasion.”
“But before anything else, tell me where Lorenzo is, and why he did not come with you.”
“Ginevra, I cannot tell you, for I do not know yet. I am quite as ignorant as you what has become of him.”
At this reply the beating of my heart became so violent that I thought I should faint away; but I struggled to overcome the anguish that seized me, and said in a hoarse voice:
“At least, tell me all you know, Mario, without delay or reticence.”
Mario drew from his pocket a letter carefully sealed, but still seemed to hesitate about giving it to me. But I recognized the writing, and cut short all explanation by snatching it from his hands, and ran to a seat in the most retired corner of the room, where I could read it at my ease, and my brother could not guess its contents by my face till it should suit me to communicate them.
“Ginevra, you will doubtless have learned, before opening this letter, that I have lost my cause—in other words, that I am ruined, irrevocably ruined. I had a presentiment of this when the only one who could bring it to a favorable issue was taken away by death at the critical moment; and when I embraced you at my departure, I felt convinced I was bidding you adieu for ever.... Whatever I may be, this word will no doubt startle you. Though the loss of a very bad husband is by no means irreparable, you will shudder, I am sure, at the thought of all so desperate a state of affairs may render me capable of, and the most fearful of extremities has already crossed your mind, I have no doubt. Well, you are not wrong. I confess it was my intention, and you may be glad to know it was you who caused me to change it. Yes, Ginevra, the thought of you occurred to my mind, and I was unwilling to add another horrible remembrance to those I had already left you, and render a catastrophe, already sufficiently terrible, still more tragical. It would, however, have restored you to liberty, and permitted your young life to resume its course and find a happiness I can no longer promise you. This thought furnished an additional reason to all those suggested by despair; but the sweet, suppliant look you gave me, the inexplicable, celestial expression you wore when we separated, arrested me. The remembrance of that look still haunts me. What did you wish to say to me, Ginevra? What had you to ask me? What could be the prayer that seemed to hover on your lips! I can repair nothing now. The past is no longer in my power, and the future is blighted. The captivating charm of your beauty has not been powerful enough to enable me to overcome myself. It is now too late, as you see yourself. All is over. My faults have led to the most fatal consequences. I have only to endure them, whatever they may be. I resign myself to the struggle, then. The very word stimulates me, for to struggle is to labor, and work I love to excess! Why did I not give my whole soul up to it instead of other things! Ah! if the past could only be restored!... But let us return to the present. I will work, then; yes, work, Ginevra, to gain my livelihood. However great a sybarite I have appeared, and am, I am equal to it. I can and will labor, but far from you—separated from you. Thanks to your brother's generosity and the means still at my disposal, [pg 773] which will be communicated to you, this great reverse will entail no privation on you. This is my only hope, my only comfort; for, after having clouded the fairest portion of your life, to invite you to participate in the bitterness of my misfortunes would make me despise myself and fill me with despair. Be happy, therefore, if you do not wish me to put an end to my life. And now adieu. This word is used for a brief absence, for the separation of a day. What will be the length of ours?... A lifelong one, apparently.... May my life be short, that I may not long deprive you of your freedom!
“Ginevra, you are young, you are beautiful. You are calculated to love and please, and, however unfaithful and inconstant I have been, I am jealous! But I leave you without fear, under the protection of that something mysterious and incomprehensible within you that is a safeguard to your youth and beauty! I have forfeited the right to love and protect you, but I know and venerate you as a holy, angelic being. Ginevra, I ought to say, I wish I could say, forgive me; but that word is vain when it is a question of the irreparable. I shall do better, then, to say—forget me!
Lorenzo.”
While I was reading this letter with eager interest, Mario remained in the place where I left him, his face buried in his hands, absorbed in sad reflections. I approached him. He instantly looked up.
“Well, sister,” said he anxiously, “have you any idea from this letter where Lorenzo has gone?”
“No.”
“No?... And yet you look calm and relieved. What other good news could there be in the letter?”
What good news!... I was really embarrassed to know what reply to make to his question. I was relieved, to be sure. My heart beat with a certain joy, but it would not do to say so; nor could I have made Mario comprehend the reason, for nothing, in fact, could be more serious than my position.
“No good news,” I replied. “His letter contains nothing cheering, assuredly, for it announces the loss of his lawsuit, which your note had prepared me for. And Lorenzo seems to bid me an eternal fare-well, as if he imagined I should allow him to separate my life entirely from his! That remains to be decided. But in order to know what I ought to do, you must tell me everything that has happened, Mario, without any restriction.”
Mario had hoped to be able to avoid telling me the whole truth, but at this appeal made no further attempt at concealment, and was grateful to me for the courage which lightened so painful a duty.
Lorenzo arrived at Messina, persuaded in advance that my father's death was the signal of his ruin. But when the cause was decided against him, he remained apparently very calm. During the evening he had a long conversation with Mario, in which he occupied himself in making arrangements that would secure my comfort, placing at my disposal all he had left, and accepting the generous offer of my brother, who now refused to profit by the renunciation of my right to a portion of my father's property which I had made at the time of my marriage. Lorenzo, during this conversation, repeatedly expressed the desire this storm might [pg 774] pass over my head without affecting me.
The following morning Mario received a package containing the substance of this conversation, regularly signed and sealed, and a sealed letter addressed to me, without any other explanation. My brother waited till the hour appointed by Lorenzo the night before for a meeting, but he did not make his appearance; and when Mario went in search of him, he learned he had taken his departure in the night without leaving any trace of the direction he had taken. Two boats had left Messina during the night, one for the Levant, and the other for America. But, notwithstanding all the precautions taken by Lorenzo to prevent any one from knowing which way he had gone, Mario thought he had embarked on the latter of these two boats.
Lorenzo had ordered the steward that had always been in his employ to aid my brother in the execution of his wishes and whatever was to be done in consequence, either in Sicily or Naples. But he had not revealed to him, any more than to me or my brother, his personal affairs, or the place to which he was going.
After listening to this account with the utmost attention, I requested Mario to leave me alone a few hours, that I might reflect on all I had heard, and consider at my leisure what course I ought to pursue. I felt indeed the need of collecting my thoughts in solitude and silence; but above all ... oh! above all! I longed to be alone, that I might fall on my knees and bless God!
Yes, bless him with transport! The fear, the horrible, intolerable fear, that had taken hold of my mind, was for ever removed by the contents of Lorenzo's letter. Regret, if not repentance, for his faults was betrayed in every line he wrote. The manly energy of his character, too, was manifest throughout. As to what related to me, I felt touched, and more proud of the tender, confiding, respectful interest he expressed, than of all the passionate fervor of his former language. And I blessed heaven for not being unworthy of it. Finally, finally, the words, “I will work to gain my livelihood,” made my heart leap with joy; for I saw it put an end to the dangerous, indolent, pernicious life of the past, and held out a hope of regeneration and salvation—a salvation physical, moral, present, future, eternal! It really seemed impossible to feel such a hope could be paid for too dearly!
I remembered, however, that I should have to discuss my affairs with Mario, and perhaps with Lando also, whose heart was extremely moved by this catastrophe; and I endeavored, before meeting them again, to moderate a joy that would have appeared inexplicable, and, at the very time when I was more reasonable than I had ever been in my life, would have rendered me in their estimation extravagant in my notions, and without any practical sense as to the things of the world.
XLI.
When I saw Mario again, therefore, I thanked him affectionately for his generosity, but declared I would not accept the restoration of the inheritance I had renounced at the time of my marriage with the [pg 775] Duca di Valenzano. Livia had done the same on entering the convent. Mario was, and should remain, my father's only heir. I was determined not to allow any change in this arrangement. I had great difficulty in overcoming his resistance; and when I could not help remarking that the sacrifices which awaited me would cost me but little, he stopped me by saying I had not yet made the trial, and insisted I should take no immediate resolution with regard to the matter.
“Very well,” said I, “if it is your wish, we will discuss the point at a later day. Let us confine our attention for the moment to what is of much more importance. You know very well we cannot long remain ignorant where Lorenzo is, and as soon as we know I shall go to him.”
“Go to him?”
“Do you doubt it?”
Mario looked at me with surprise, and was silent for an instant. Then he said:
“Sister, Lorenzo's conduct has been so notorious that, notwithstanding the solicitude I acknowledge he manifested for you at our last interview, no one would be astonished at your remaining among your friends and availing yourself of the means he has used to deliver you from the consequences of his folly.”
“Accept this beautiful villa, which he wishes to except from the sale of his property?... Surround myself with the comforts you have together provided me with, and leave him—him!—alone, poor, struggling against the difficulties of beginning a new life?... Really, Mario, if you believe I would consent to this, it is a proof that, though you are less severe than you once were to your poor little sister, you are not altogether just to her.”
Mario took my hand, and kissed it with emotion.
“Pardon me, Ginevra; I confess I did not think you were so generous or so courageous!”
Courageous!... I was not so much so as he thought. A hope had risen in my heart which would have rendered poverty itself easy to endure, and even in such a case I should not have been an object of pity. But here there was no question of poverty. My sight was clearer than that of Mario or Lando, and I was, in fact, more sensible than either of my two advisers. It was only a question, at most, of a temporary embarrassment. Lorenzo's land, the valuable objects accumulated in his different houses, and the sale of all my diamonds, would suffice, and more than suffice, to fill the pit dug by his extravagance, however deep it might be. Besides, his talents alone, as soon as he chose to turn them to account, excluded all fear of actual poverty. The mere name of Lorenzo with which he signed all his productions had long been familiar to the art-world, and consequently he would not be obliged to strive for a position.
It was merely a question, therefore, of the relinquishment of all this display, this magnificence, this overwhelming profusion of superfluities, and all the luxuries of life that now surrounded me. Ah! I did not dare tell them what I thought of such sacrifices! I did not dare speak of my indifference, which greatly facilitated their task, however, and still less did I dare reveal the cause, for fear of being accused of madness, and that at a time when they should have considered it a proof of the beneficial effects of supernatural influences on ordinary life. I contented myself, [pg 776] therefore, with merely explaining the reason why my situation seemed to me by no means desperate. They were relieved to see me take things in such a way, and from that moment the necessary changes, so painful, in their estimation, were undertaken without any delay, though without haste, without fear, without concealment, and all the so-called great sacrifices began to be accomplished.
It would be difficult to render an account of all I experienced during the following days and weeks. All I can say is that I felt as if my shackles and barriers one by one were removed, and at every step I breathed a purer air!... Does this mean I had become a saint, aspiring to heroic sacrifices and utter renunciation? Assuredly not. I repeat it, I could have no illusion of this kind. I clearly comprehended that this catastrophe, which seemed so terrible to others, which Lorenzo considered beyond my strength to bear, and would have thrown him into an excess of despair, only tore off the brilliant exterior of my life. But I had often experienced a confused, persistent desire at various times and places to be freed from this outer husk, and I now began to understand a thousand things that heretofore had been inexplicable in the bottom of my soul.
The magnificence that surrounded me belonged, however, to my station, and all this display was not without reason or excuse; but I felt it impeded my course, and, as a pious, profound soul[180] has said of happiness itself, in striving to attain the true end, it only served to lengthen the way!
There was, then, neither courage nor resignation in this case. I was reasonable and satisfied, as every human being is who in an exchange feels he has gained a thousand times more than he has lost! The only anxiety I now felt was to discover the place to which Lorenzo had betaken himself. I did not in the least believe he had gone either to the Levant or America, but every means seemed to have been used by him to defeat our efforts to discover him. One of the two boats that left Messina the night of his departure was to touch at Marseilles on the way. Reflection and instinct both assured me he had proceeded no further, but from that place had gone where he could most easily resume his labors and begin his new life. In this respect Rome or Paris would have equally suited him, but it seemed improbable he had returned to Italy. It was therefore to Paris I directed my search, and I wrote Mme. de Kergy to aid me in finding him.
Perhaps I should have hesitated had Gilbert been at home; but he was absent, absent for a year, and before his return I should have time to reflect on the course I ought to pursue, perhaps ask the advice of his mother herself, to whom, meanwhile, I made known my present situation, my wishes, my projects, and the extreme anxiety to which I hoped with her assistance to put an end.
It was not long before I received a reply, and it was much more favorable than I had ventured to hope. Her large, affectionate heart seemed not only to comprehend fully what I had merely given her an outline of, but to have penetrated to the bottom of mine, and divined even what I had not attempted to say. I felt I had in her a [pg 777] powerful support. Her inquiries were promptly and successfully made, and the result was what I had foreseen. Lorenzo was really in Paris, in an obscure corner of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He had narrow quarters adjoining a large studio, where he had already begun to work. “His celebrity is too great for him to remain long concealed,” wrote Mme. de Kergy; “besides, the very thing he is aiming at would prevent all possibility of his remaining long incognito. Several of his friends have already found him out and called to see him, but he has only consented to receive one of them, whose counsels and assistance are indispensable. This gentleman is also a friend of ours. I have learned through him that as soon as your husband gets under way in his work, he intends to enter into communication with those he has left, and probably with you, my dear Ginevra; but he persists in his intention of remaining by himself, and not allowing you to share his lot. He thinks he has arranged everything so you can continue to live very nearly the same as before, with the exception of his presence, which, he says, he has done nothing to make you desire. You will have some difficulty in overcoming his obstinacy in this respect; you will find it hard to induce one who is so sensible of his wrongs towards you to accept the heavy burden of gratitude. All the sacrifices he imposes on himself will cost him far less than to consent to those you are so ready to make for him. Men are all so. Be patient, therefore; be prudent, and have sufficient thoughtfulness and feeling to manifest your generosity in such a way that he will perceive it as little as possible....”
It was the easier to follow Mme. de Kergy's advice that the course she wished me to pursue would be strictly sincere. I wrote him, therefore, without affectation or restraint, what my heart dictated, but I wrote in vain; my first and second letters remained unanswered. The third drew forth a reply, but it contained a refusal of my wishes which betrayed all the motives indicated by my aged friend. Alas! to make others accept forgiveness is often a thousand times more difficult than to obtain it ourselves!
I was not discouraged, however. I made preparations for my departure, as if he had sent for me, and I awaited impatiently the time, without the least doubt as to its arrival, determined to find some means of hastening it, should the delay be too much prolonged.
XLII.
While so much apparent, as well as real, gloom was gathering around my path, there was no diminution in the interior brightness of my soul; which was only manifested, however, by an activity, and at the same time tranquillity, that greatly surprised my brother and all my friends, especially my aunt, whose agitation was extreme.
I will not say that Donna Clelia felt in the least that pleasure at the misfortunes of others attributed by a great satirist to all mankind, but the change in our respective situations which now afforded her an opportunity of pitying and protecting instead of envying me, was by no means displeasing to her pride or kindness of heart.
She offered me the most unlimited hospitality. She wished to establish me in her palazzo on the Toledo, and give up the largest of her spacious drawing-rooms to my sole use. She did not comprehend how I could remain in my house when it was being stripped of all the magnificence that had placed me, in her eyes, on the very pinnacle of happiness. But I refused to the last to leave my chamber and the terrace, with its incomparable view, the privation of which I should have felt more than anything else. I remained, therefore, in the corner (a very spacious one, however) of my beautiful home I had reserved for myself, encouraged by Stella, who, without surprise or wonder, comprehended my motives, and assisted me in making preparations for my departure. She always brought Angiolina with her, which added to our enjoyment; for she continually hovered around, enlivening us with her prattle. So, in spite of the sadness of my position, I was able, without much effort, to rise above my dejection and gloom.
Weeks passed away, however, and, though I had not renounced the hope of overcoming Lorenzo's obstinacy, I began to grow impatient, and was thinking of starting without his consent; for it seemed to me, when once near him, he could not refuse to see me. This uncertainty was the most painful feature of my present situation, and the rainy season, meanwhile, added its depressing influence to all the rest. But to disturb my peace of mind and diminish my courage would have required a trial more severe and painful than that.
The sky once more became clear, and we were at length able to return to the terrace, from which we had so long been banished by the rain. The clumps of verdure in the garden, the perfume of the flowers, the blueness of the mountains, sea, and sky—in short, all nature seemed to atone by her unusual brilliancy for having been so long forced to veil her beautiful face. But Stella, instead of being charmed and transported, as usual, with the prospect, looked gravely and silently around for some time, then, with a sudden explosion of grief, threw herself on my neck.
“Ginevra, what will become of Angiolina and me when you are gone?... Ah! I ought to love nobody in the world but her!”
She sat down on one of the benches on the terrace, and took up the child, who had not left us an instant during the day, to play, as she usually did. And when Angiolina, with her eyes full of tears, begged her to prevent her dear Zia Gina from going away, all Stella's firmness gave way for an instant, and she burst into tears.
Oh! how strongly I then felt, in my turn, the difference there is between the sacrifice of exterior objects and the interior sacrifices that rend the soul! The infinite love that tempers all the sufferings of this world exempts no one from these trials. I might even say it increases them, for it enlarges the capacity of our affection and pity: it makes us fully realize what suffering is, and gives it its true meaning.
I could not, therefore, look at Stella in her present mood without being overcome by a sadness I had never felt before at the thought of our separation. Her tears, which she was generally so well able to suppress, continued to flow, as she rocked her child in silence. She remained thus without uttering a word, even in reply to my questions, [pg 779] until little Angiolina, after quietly weeping a long time, fell into a heavy, profound sleep in her mother's arms.
It was the first time I had ever known Stella to lose courage. Mine failed me at the sight, and this hour—the last we were to pass together on the terrace so full of pleasant associations, and so often trod by Angiolina's little feet—this hour was sad beyond all expression, and in appearance beyond all reason. The serenity of the soul, like the sky of Italy, is thus obscured at times by clouds that trouble and afflict the more because the light they veil is habitually so bright and serene! Neither Stella nor I, however, were disposed to believe in presentiments. Besides, our sadness was too well founded to be surprising. Nevertheless, something darker hovered over us than we foresaw at the moment: the morrow already threw its gloom over this last evening!
The sun was going down. Stella suddenly started from her reverie and awoke Angiolina. It was time to take her home. But the child's eyes, generally so bright, were now heavy. She hardly opened them when I approached to embrace her. Her little mouth made a slight movement to return my kiss, and she fell asleep again immediately. Her mother, surprised, and somewhat alarmed at her unwonted languor, hastily wrapped a shawl around her to protect her as much as possible from the evening air, and carried her away.
The following day, of sorrowful memory, rose bright and radiant for me; for when I awoke, I found a letter from Lorenzo awaiting me—a letter which put an end to all my perplexities, and justified, beyond all my hopes, the confidence with which I had expected it.
“Ginevra, you have prevailed. I venture at last to beg your forgiveness, for your letters have inspired the hope of some day meriting it. I no longer fear, therefore, to meet you again. Come! It is my wish. I am waiting for you.
“Lorenzo.”
These last lines contained the surest promise of happiness I had ever received in my life, and I kissed them with tears. I longed to start that very hour, and it will not seem surprising now that I looked around the sumptuous dwelling I was about to leave for ever without regret, and even at the enchanting prospect my eyes were never weary of gazing at! It was by no means these exterior objects that inspired the deep, unalterable joy of my soul. I did not owe to them the vision of happiness I thought I now caught the first ray of. My only regret, therefore, was that I could not start as soon as I wished. All my preparations were made, and I longed to take my departure at once. But I had to wait three days before the first boat on which I could embark would leave for Marseilles—a delay that seemed so long! Alas! I was far from foreseeing how painful and short I should find them!
Stella had passed every day with me for the last few weeks, and I now awaited her arrival to communicate my joy. But the usual hour for her to come had gone by. She did not appear. I was surprised at this delay, and, instead of waiting any longer, I proceeded on foot to her house, which was only at a short distance from mine. The previous evening had left me no anxiety, and its sadness had been dispersed with the joy of the morning.
When I arrived, I found the door open. No servant was there to announce me. I went through the gallery, a large drawing-room, and a cabinet, without meeting a person. At length I came to Stella's chamber, where Angiolina also slept in a little bed beside her mother's. I entered.... Oh! how shall I describe the sight that met my eyes! How express all my feelings of amazement, pity, affection, and grief!
My dear, unhappy Stella was seated in the middle of the room with her child extended on her knees, pale, motionless, and apparently without life!
She did not shed a tear; she did not utter a word. She raised an instant her large eyes, which were unusually dilated, and looked at me. What a look! O God! it expressed the grief that mothers alone can feel, and which no other on earth can surpass!... I fell on my knees beside her. Angiolina still breathed, but she was dying. She opened her beautiful eyes a moment.... A look of recognition crossed them.... They turned from her mother to me, and from me to her mother, and then grew dim. A convulsive shudder ran over her, and it was all over. The angel was in heaven. The mother was bereft, for this life, of her only child!...
The longest years cannot efface the memory of such an hour, and time, which at last subdues all grief, never gave me the courage to dwell on this. Mothers who have been pierced by such a sword cannot speak of it; others dare not. The woman who has no child, in the presence of one who has just lost hers, can only bend in silence and respect before the sovereign majesty of grief!
I will merely state, with respect to what preceded, that the drowsiness of the child the night before was a symptom of the violent malady which suddenly attacked her in the middle of the night. After abating towards day, it came on again an hour later, and kept increasing without any relaxation to the end.
As for me, who had given Angiolina the place that had remained vacant in my heart, the excess of my grief enabled me to form an estimate of hers whose heart was filled with far greater anguish at being so suddenly robbed of her all by death. I shuddered at the thought of a sorrow greater than mine, and did not dare dwell on my own troubles in the presence of a grief that cast into the shade all the sufferings I had ever witnessed before. What a remedy for the imaginary or exaggerated woes of life it is to suddenly be brought to witness the reality of the most terrible of misfortunes!
What a price was I now to pay for the journey I had so long looked forward to—the reunion I had longed for with so many prayers and obtained by so many efforts!
To leave Stella in her affliction was a trial I had not anticipated, and one which the most imperious duty alone could have induced me to consent to. I had to do it, however, but not till I had succeeded in gratifying the only remaining wish of her broken heart—“to leave the world for a few months, that she might be alone, free to abandon herself entirely to the dear, angelic memory of her lost joy....”
Stella uttered no complaint. Her grief was mute. But she had expressed this desire, and it was granted. Livia obtained a place of retreat for her in a part of her convent that [pg 781] was not cloistered. It was there I left her, in the shadow of that sweet sanctuary, near the tenderest, strongest heart she could have to lean on, in presence of the magnificent prospect before her, and beneath the brilliant canopy of that glorious sky, beyond which she could follow in spirit the treasure she had been deprived of, but which she felt sure of some day finding again!
XLIII.
I was filled with solemn emotion when, having taken leave of my brother and all the friends who had accompanied me on board, I at length found myself alone with Ottavia on the deck of the boat, gazing at the receding mountains, hills, villas, and the smiling, flowery shores of the Bay of Naples as they vanished away. Two years had scarcely flown since the day when this prospect met my eyes for the first time. But during this short period so many different feelings had agitated my heart, and so many events had crossed my path, that the time seemed as long as a whole life.
Joys and sorrows, ardent hopes and bitter deceptions, severe trials, dangerous temptations, a deadly struggle, grace—to crown all! grace luminous and wonderful—had all succeeded each other in my soul. And to all these remembrances was now added the new sorrow which set on these last days a mournful, heartrending seal! The death of a child, it is true, would seem to the indifferent to seriously wound no heart but its mother's. Mine, however, bled profusely, and the sudden death of the angelic little creature I had so much loved, as well as the separation that so soon took place, cast an inexpressible gloom over the hour of departure I had so eagerly longed for, and which I had obtained at the price of sacrifices which till now had not seemed worthy of being counted. Truly, the words already quoted do not apply less to earthly affections than to the divine love that overrules them and includes them all: “There is no living in love without some pain or sorrow.” This is indubitable. The more tender the affection, the more exquisite the suffering it entails. But by way of recompense, in proportion as these cruel wounds are multiplied, the never-failing supreme love affords a remedy by revealing itself more and more fully, and thereby supplying the place of all these vanished joys. This love alone assures the promise, the pledge, of their restoration and immortal duration!
Therefore, whatever the sadness of this hour; whatever the desolation of heart with which I gazed at the convent on yonder height where I had just parted from Stella and my sister with so many tears—in short, whatever the emotions of all kinds that seemed combined to overwhelm me, I felt, in spite of them, I lived a truer, freer life than when for the first time, surrounded with illusions and deceitful hopes, I crossed this bay in all the intoxication of radiant happiness!
These thoughts, and many others of a similar nature, passed through my mind while the boat was rapidly cleaving the waves, and little by little the last outline of the coast of Italy faded away and finally disappeared from my eyes for ever.
Night came on, the stars appeared, but I remained in the place where I was, without being able to make up my mind to leave it.
This solitude of the sea—more profound than any other—speaks to the soul a language peculiar to itself. I listened to it with undivided attention, blessing God for having inclined me to hear his voice, to give heed to no other during the period of inaction and repose which separated the portion of my life just closed from that which was about to commence under new and unknown circumstances.
I did not stop at Marseilles, for I was impatient to arrive at my journey's end. And yet, in spite of the summons I was now obeying, I was not without anxiety as to the reception I should meet with. I knew the mobility of Lorenzo's feelings, and that the letter I had so recently received from him was not a sure guarantee of the disposition in which I should find him. In fact, when I met him on my arrival at the station, I did not at first know what to think. He was pale, agitated, and gloomy, and could scarcely hide the suffering his face expressed much more clearly than joy at seeing me again. I felt the arm tremble on which I was leaning, and I remained silent, confounded, and anxious. He hurried me through the crowd, placed me in a carriage, made Ottavia take a seat beside me, then closed the door with an air of constraint, saying he wished to arrive before me.
At first I was astonished at finding myself so suddenly separated from him, after barely seeing him for a moment. But I saw, by the embarrassment and painful agitation he manifested, what was passing in his mind, and was extremely affected. Poor Lorenzo! it was not in this way he had once led his young bride beneath his roof. This was not the future he then took pleasure in depicting, or what he had promised. The immense change of fortune he had undergone was now for the first time to be realized by the wife he had outraged, and from whom he did not dare expect an affection which would overlook all and render every sacrifice light. I felt he regretted now that he had consented to my coming.
After a long drive we at last came to the end of a street at the extremity of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where we entered a small court, and the carriage stopped before a door of very unpretending appearance.
But the house to which it gave access, covered on the outside with climbing plants that concealed the reddish tint of the walls, had a picturesque appearance seldom found in any house in Paris, large or small. Lorenzo, with his artistic eye, had discovered it, and understood also how it should be arranged interiorly. Consequently, when he ushered me into a salon opening into a little parterre filled with flowers, beyond which rose the trees of an adjacent garden, which made it seem like some rural solitude; when he took me all over the ground-floor, where everything was simple, but nothing vulgar; when on all sides I found evidences both of his taste and his solicitude for me; above all, when I saw in his cabinet and studio all the indications that he had resumed his habits of assiduous labor and serious study, so great a joy filled my heart and beamed from my eyes that he could no longer feel any doubt, and I saw the cloud that veiled his brow totally disappear.
“Is it possible?... Is it true?” said he. “You are satisfied, Ginevra? And I can welcome your presence without remorse?”
I was affected to tears.
“I assure you,” said I, with a sincerity of accent that could not be mistaken, “this so-called great catastrophe has only taken away the things I did not care for: it gives me here all I love, and nearly everything I desire.”
I looked at him hesitatingly, not yet knowing how far to go. But his look inspired me with courage, and I continued, with emotion:
“Tell me, in your turn, that you regret nothing, that my presence suffices, and I pledge you my word, Lorenzo, this hour will be the happiest of my life.”
Instead of replying directly, he knelt down beside the little divan where I was sitting, and I saw his eyes beaming with the expression that once used to flash from them for an instant, not uncertain and transitory as then, but calm, stable, and profound.
“Ginevra,” said he, “in assuring you to-day that my reason has been restored to me, that I have for ever recovered from my detestable aberration, that I again look upon you as I did when you first effaced every other image, that I love you as much, yes, a thousand times more than ever, this is not saying enough, this is not telling you what you would perhaps listen to far more gladly than all this.”
I opened my eyes and looked steadily towards him. He felt my soul was trying to read his, and he continued in a low, agitated tone:
“You have made me love in you what is better than yourself. Listen to me.... Long years of indifference had effaced the memory of divine things I had been taught in my childhood. Did you think they could ever be recalled? I had never felt the slightest desire. It is you, Ginevra, who caused their return. Can you realize it?”
O my God! this hour was too happy for earth! It left me only one wish more. It realized to the fullest extent all the cherished dreams of the past, and made me touch at last the summit (alas! always threatening and uncertain) of earthly happiness! No cloud has ever obscured the bright, blessed remembrance! No suffering, no trial, has ever checked the effusion of gratitude I still feel, and which will be eternal!
It will not be difficult to understand that, in this new state of things, our life speedily and sweetly resumed its course. Strange to say, this calm, simple life, exempt from splendor, luxury, and worldly éclat, was the precise realization of the secret desire I had always cherished in my soul, the signification of which had been revealed to me in that great day of grace which I may call that of my true birth!
It would, therefore, have been an absurdity to speak of sacrifice in the situation in which I now found myself. But Lorenzo did not yet see things in the same light.
“I acknowledge,” said he one day, after some weeks had passed by—“I acknowledge we lack nothing essential, that the waifs from our wreck even afford us a comfortable support, but I wish more than that for you, my Ginevra. I must work for the means of restoring all my folly has deprived you of. The public receives my productions with marked favor. They have all been sold at a fabulous price, except one which I will never part with. Let me alone, therefore, and I promise you the day shall arrive when I [pg 784] will place on your brow a diadem even more brilliant than the one you have lost.”
I made a quick gesture, and was about to express the repugnance such a prospect inspired. But I stopped. It was better, no matter in what way, he should be stimulated by some object to be attained by the laborious efforts to which he devoted all his faculties. I allowed him, therefore, to dream of the jewels he would adorn me with, and enlarge on his plans for the future, while I was sitting beside him in his studio, sometimes reading to him, and sometimes becoming his model again. Whenever he spoke in this way, I smiled without trying to oppose him.
Mme. de Kergy and Diana hastened to see me the day after my arrival. We continued to meet almost daily, and I found in their delightful society the strongest support, the wisest counsels, and an affection which inspired almost unlimited confidence.
As to Gilbert, he was still absent, and not expected to return till the autumn of the following year.
When his mother gave me this information, my first feeling was one of relief. It seemed to me my relations with his family were simplified by his absence, and I could defer all thought as to what I should do at his return. But, when I saw my dear, venerable friend secretly wipe away a tear as she spoke of her son; when she added in a trembling voice that such a separation at her age was a severe trial which afflicted her more than any she had ever known; when Diana afterwards came to tell me with a full heart that Gilbert's absence was shortening her mother's days, oh! then my heart sank with profound sorrow, and I felt an ardent, painful desire to repair the evil I had caused—an evil which (whatever may be said) is never altogether involuntary!
Ah! if women would only consider how far their fatal influence sometimes extends, even those who add hardness of heart to their desire to please would become indifferent to the wish. They scarcely hesitate sometimes to sacrifice a man's career, his abilities, his whole existence. Vanity and pride take pleasure in ravages of this kind. But if their eyes could behold the firesides they quench the light of, the maternal hearts they sadden, the families whose sweet joys they destroy, their trophies would seem bloody, and they might be brought to comprehend the words of the Psalmist which I had humbly learned to repeat: Ab occultis meis munda me, et ab alienis parce servo tuo.
Lorenzo's celebrity increased by the productions he now exhibited to the public. The singularity of our position in returning to Paris, under circumstances so different from those which surrounded us when we made our first appearance in the grand monde, drew upon us the attention of this very world which would have enticed us from our retreat. But, thank Heaven! I did not have to exert my influence over Lorenzo to induce him to decline it. His pride would have been sufficient, had not his whole time been absorbed in his labors, and it was even with difficulty he consented to accompany me one evening to the Hôtel de Kergy.
From that time, however, he willingly repeated his visits, attracted by Mme. de Kergy's dignified cordiality and simplicity of manner as well as by the charm of the intellectual circle of which her salon [pg 785] was the centre—a charm he would have always appreciated had he not been under the influence of another attraction. Now there was no counteracting influence, and he took fresh pleasure every evening in going there to repose after the fatigue of the day and seek something more beneficial to his mind than mere recreation.
A person endowed with noble gifts, who returns to the right path after long going astray, experiences an immense consolation in finding himself in his true element. It would, therefore, be impossible to tell how great Lorenzo's joy now was, or how eloquently he was able to express it. And nothing could express the feelings with which I listened to him!
The only shadow of my life at this time was my separation from Stella. A thousand times did I urge her to join me, as she was no longer under any obligation to remain at Naples. I felt that the only possible solace for her broken heart would be to leave the place where she had suffered so much; her courageous soul would find a salutary aliment in the great charitable movement at Paris, at that time in all the vigor of its first impulse, given a few years before. I therefore continually urged her to come, but I begged her in vain. An invincible repugnance to leave the place of refuge where she had hidden her grief prevented her from yielding to my wishes.
Thus passed days, weeks, months, yes, even a whole year and more of happiness. The satisfactory life I had dreamed of was now a reality, and the world I once fancied I could reveal to Lorenzo unaided he had discovered himself. It had been revealed to him by trials, humiliation, and labor. The absolute change in his habits, which Lando had once indicated as the only remedy, had, as he had foreseen, produced a beneficial, efficacious, and lasting effect.
But we know one of the anomalies of the human heart is to expect and long for happiness as its right, and yet to be incapable of possessing it a single day in its plenitude without trembling, as if conscious it was not in the nature of things here below for it to endure a long time.
Lorenzo experienced more than most people this melancholy of happiness, which was often increased by too profound a regret for the errors of his life. It partook of the vehemence of his character, and it was sometimes difficult to overcome the sadness awakened by the remembrance of the past.
“Ginevra,” said he one day, “I am far too happy for a man who merits it so little.”
He said this with a gloomy expression. It was the beginning of spring. The air was soft, the sky clear, the lilacs of our little garden were in bloom, and we sat there inhaling the perfume. He repeated:
“Yes, my life is now too happy—too happy, I feel, to be of long duration.” A remark somewhat trite, which is often thrown like a veil over the too excessive brightness of earthly happiness! But I could not repress a shudder as I listened to it. And yet what was there to fear ... to desire ... to refuse ... when I felt the present and the future were in the hands of Him whom I loved more than anything here below?
To Be Concluded Next Month.
A Bit Of Modern Thought On Matter.
We have now accomplished the first portion of our task, by establishing on good philosophical and physical grounds the fundamental truths regarding the essence and the properties of material substance as such. We might, therefore, take up the second part of our treatise, and begin our investigation about the nature of the metaphysical constituents of matter and their necessary relations, in order to ascertain how far the principles of the scholastic doctrine on matter can nowadays be maintained consistently with the principles of natural science. But we think it necessary, before we enter into the study of such a difficult subject, to caution our readers against some productions of modern thinkers, whose speculations on the nature of material things confound all philosophy, and tend by their sophistry to popularize the most pernicious errors. The number of such productions is daily increasing, owing to the efforts of powerful societies, and the philosophical imbecility of the scientific press and of its patrons. The heap of intellectual rubbish thus accumulated, both in Europe and in America, is quite prodigious; to sweep it all away would be like purging the Augean stable—a task which some new Hercules may yet undertake. We shall confine ourselves to a small portion of that task, by scattering to the winds some plausible quibbles we have lately met with in an American scientific magazine.
J. B. Stallo is the author of a series of articles published in the Popular Science Monthly under the title “The Primary Concepts of Modern Physical Science.” He is a clever writer; but his conclusions, owing to a lack of sound philosophy, are not always correct. Some of them are altogether unfounded, others demonstrably false; and many of them, while attempting to revolutionize science, tend to foster downright scepticism. We shall single out a few of those propositions which clash with the common doctrines of modern physics no less than with the common principles of metaphysics; and we hope to show, by their refutation, the incomparable superiority of our old over his new philosophy.
Indestructibility of matter.—“The indestructibility of matter,” says the writer,[181] “is an unquestionable truth. But in what sense, and upon what grounds, is this indestructibility predicated of matter? The unanimous answer of the atomists is: Experience teaches that all the changes to which matter is subject are but variations of form, and that amid these variations there is an unvarying constant—the mass or quantity of matter. The constancy of the mass is attested by the balance, which shows that neither fusion nor sublimation, neither generation nor corruption, can add to, or detract from, the weight of a body subjected to experiment. When a pound of carbon is burned, the balance demonstrates the continuous existence of this pound in the carbonic acid, which is the product of combustion, and from which the original weight of carbon may be recovered. [pg 787] The quantity of matter is measured by its weight, and this weight is unchangeable.”
So far all is right; but he continues: “Such is the fact familiar to every one, and its interpretation equally familiar. To test the correctness of this interpretation we may be permitted slightly to vary the method of verifying it. Instead of burning the pound of carbon, let us simply carry it to the summit of a mountain, or remove it to a lower latitude; is its weight still the same? Relatively it is; it will still balance the original counterpoise. But the absolute weight is no longer the same.... It is thus evident that the constancy, upon the observation of which the assertion of the indestructibility of matter is based, is simply the constancy of a relation, and that the ordinary statement of the fact is crude and inadequate. Indeed, while it is true that the weight of a body is a measure of its mass, this is but a single case of the more general fact that the masses of bodies are inversely as the velocities imparted to them by the action of the same force, or, more generally still, inversely as the accelerations produced in them by the same force. In the case of gravity, the forces of attraction are directly proportional to the masses, so that the action of the forces (weight) is the simplest measure of the relation between any two masses as such; but in any inquiry relating to the validity of the atomic theory, it is necessary to bear in mind that this weight is not the equivalent, or rather the presentation, of an absolute substantive entity in one of the bodies (the body weighed), but the mere expression of a relation between two bodies mutually attracting each other. And it is further necessary to remember that this weight may be indefinitely reduced, without any diminution in the mass of the body weighed, by a mere change of its position in reference to the body between which and the body weighed the relation subsists.”
The aim of the author is, as we shall see, to prove that “there are and can be no absolute constants of mass”; hence he endeavors at the very outset to shake our opposite conviction by showing that there is no absolute measure of masses. Such is the drift of the passage we have transcribed.
But we beg to remark that absolute quantities may be known to be absolute independently of any absolute measurement. Three kinds of quantity are conceivable: intensive quantity, which is measured by degrees; dimensive quantity, which is measured by distances; and numerical quantity, which is measured by discrete units. Of course dimensive quantity is altogether relative, inasmuch as it entirely consists of relations, and cannot be measured but by relative and arbitrary measures; but intensive quantity, though measured by arbitrary degrees, is altogether absolute, because it consists of a reality whose value is independent of correlative terms. And in the same manner numerical quantity is altogether absolute, because it consists of absolute units, by which it can be measured, absolutely speaking, though we may fail to reach such units, and are then obliged to measure it by some other standard. Now, the mass, or the quantity of matter in a body, is a numerical quantity; for it consists of a number of primitive units, independent of one another for their essence and for their existence, and therefore absolute in regard to their substantial being. Consequently, every mass of matter has an absolute value corresponding to the number of absolute [pg 788] units it contains; and thus every mass of matter is “an absolute constant of mass.” It is true that we have no means of ascertaining the absolute number of primitive units contained in a given mass; hence we are constrained to measure the quantity of matter by a relative measure—that is, by comparing it with an equal volume of another substance, whose density and weight we assume as the measure of other densities and weights. But does our ignorance of the absolute number of primitive units contained in a given mass interfere with their real existence? or, can our method of measuring change the nature of the thing measured?
We are told that “the weight of a body may be indefinitely reduced without any diminution in the mass of the body weighed.” Would not this show that, contrary to the author's opinion, the body weighed possesses “an absolute constant of mass”? We are told at the same time that “the weight of a body is a measure of its mass.” This cannot be true, unless, while the mass remains unchanged, the weight also remains unchanged. Hence the author's idea of carrying the pound of carbon to the summit of a mountain in order to diminish its weight, is inconsistent with the law of measurement, which forbids the employment of two weights and measures for measuring one and the same quantity.
The atomists measure the quantity of matter by its weight, because they know that every particle of matter is subject to gravitation, and therefore that the weights, all other things being equal, are proportionate to the number of primitive particles contained in the bodies. Thus, if a body contains a number, m, of primitive particles, and each of these particles is subject to the gravitation, g, while another body contains a number, m´, of primitive particles subject to the same gravitation, the ratio of the weights of the two bodies will be the same as the ratio of the two masses; for
mg : m´g : : m : m´;
and if the two bodies were carried to the summit of a mountain, where the gravitation is reduced to g´, the weights would indeed be changed, but their ratio would remain unaltered, and we would still have
mg´ : m´g´ : : m : m´.
Hence, whether we weigh two bodies in the valley or at the summit of the mountain, so long as we keep the same unit of gravitation for both, the ratio of their masses remains the same. This shows that the quantity of matter existing in those bodies implies “a constant of mass” independent of the intensity of gravitation, and that the ratio of the two masses is the ratio of two “absolute” quantities—that is, of two numbers of primitive material units.
It is not true, therefore, that the weight is not “the presentation of an absolute substantive entity,” as the author pretends. Weight implies mass and gravitation, and presents the one as subject to the other. Now, the mass is an “absolute substantive entity,” as we have shown. Nor is it true that weight is “the mere expression of a relation between two bodies mutually attracting each other,” as the author imagines. The pound of carbon is a pound not because of an attraction exercised by the carbon upon the earth, but merely because of the attraction exercised by the earth on the mass of the carbon. Were it otherwise, the mathematical expression of weight should contain, besides the mass of the body weighed and the action of gravity upon it, a third quantity representing the action [pg 789] of the body upon the earth, and the gravitation of the earth towards the body.
The writer proceeds: “Masses find their true and only measure in the action of forces, and the quantitative persistence of the effect of this action is the simple and accurate expression of the fact which is ordinarily described as the indestructibility of matter. It is obvious that this persistence is in no sense explained or accounted for by the atomic theory” (p. 708).
We admit that, owing to our inability to determine the absolute number of primitive elements in a body, we resort to the persistence of the weight in order to ascertain the persistence of a certain quantity of matter in the body. But this does not show that the action of forces is the “only measure” of masses. A mass is a number of material units; its true measure is one of such units, and it is only in order to determine the relative number of such units in different bodies that we have recourse to their weights. It is not the quantity of matter that follows the weight of the body, but it is the weight of the body that follows the quantity of matter; and therefore, although we determine the relative quantities of matter by the relation of their weights, it is not the weight that measures the quantity of matter, but it is the quantity of matter that measures the weight. In other terms, the persistence of the mass is merely known through the persistence of the weight, but the persistence of the weight is itself a consequence of the persistence of the mass. Hence the persistence of the mass is perfectly accounted for by the atomic theory, notwithstanding Mr. Stallo's contrary assertion.
He says: “The hypothesis of ultimate indestructible atoms is not a necessary implication of the persistence of weight, and can at best account for the indestructibility of matter if it can be shown that there is an absolute limit to the compressibility of matter—in other words, that there is an absolutely least volume for every determinate mass” (p. 708). Both parts of this proposition are false. The first is false, because the weight of a body is the result of the gravitation of all its particles; and, therefore, it cannot persist without the persistence of the gravitating particles. The second part also is false, because the persistence of the weight implies the persistence of the mass independently of all considerations concerning a limit of compressibility or an absolute minimum of volume. Hence, whatever the author may say to the contrary, it is quite certain of scientific certainty that there can be, and there is, in all bodies, “an absolute constant of mass.”
Atomic theory.—The writer objects to the atomic theory on the ground that it does not explain impenetrability, and that it misconceives the nature of reality. He begins by remarking that “the proposition, according to which a space occupied by one body cannot be occupied by another, implies the assumption that space is an absolute, self-measuring entity, and the further assumption that there is a least space which a given body will absolutely fill so as to exclude any other body” (p. 709). We think that the proposition implies nothing of the kind. The space occupied by one body cannot naturally be occupied by another, because all bodies are made up of molecules which at very small distances repel one another with actions of greater and greater intensities, thus preventing compenetration, while successfully struggling for the preservation of their own individuality. This the molecules can [pg 790] do, whether space can be filled or not, and whether space is a self-measuring entity or not. Hence the remark of the author has no foundation.
But he continues: “The atomic theory has become next to valueless as an explanation of the impenetrability of matter, since it has been pressed into the service of the undulatory theory of light, heat, etc., and assumed the form in which it is now held by the majority of physicists. According to this form of the theory, the atoms are either mere points, wholly without extension, or their dimensions are infinitely small as compared with the distances between them, whatever be the state of aggregation of the substances into which they enter. In this view, the resistance which a body, i.e., a system of atoms, offers to the intrusion of another body is due not to the rigidity or unchangeability of volume of the individual atoms, but to the relation between the attractive and repulsive forces with which they are supposed to be endowed. There are physicists holding this view, who are of opinion that the atomic constitution of matter is consistent with its compenetrability—among them M. Cauchy, who in his Sept Leçons de physique générale (ed. Moigno, Paris, 1868, p. 38), after defining atoms as material points without extension, uses this language: ‘Thus, this property of matter, which we call impenetrability, is explained when we consider the atoms as material points exerting on each other attractions and repulsions which vary with the distances that separate them.... From this it follows that, if it pleased the Author of nature simply to modify the laws according to which the atoms attract or repel each other, we might instantly see the hardest bodies penetrate each other, the smallest particles of matter occupy immense spaces, or the largest masses reduce themselves to the smallest volumes, the entire universe concentrating itself, as it were, in a single point’ ” (p. 710).
We think that the author's notion of the form in which the atomic theory is now held by physicists is not quite correct. The chemical atoms are now considered as dynamical systems of material points, so that the atomic theory is now scarcely distinguishable from the molecular theory. That such a theory “has become next to valueless as an explanation of the impenetrability of matter” is not true. Of course two primitive elements of matter, if attractive, would, according to the theory, as we understand it, pass through one another; as nothing can oppose their progress except repulsion, which is not to be thought of in the case of attractive elements. But the case is different with molecules; for every molecule of any special substance contains a number of repulsive elements, and possesses a repulsive envelope[182] which resists most effectually all attempt at compenetration on the part of other molecules. Hence the impenetrability of bodies (not of matter, as the author says) is a simple result of the molecular constitution of bodies, as explained in the atomic theory of the modern chemists.
That the resistance which a body offers to the intrusion of another body is due “not to the rigidity or unchangeability of volume of individual atoms, but to the relation between the attractive and repulsive forces with which they are supposed to be endowed,” is an obvious truth. We do not see by what kind of reasoning the author can infer from it [pg 791] that “the atomic theory has become next to valueless as an explanation of impenetrability.” We rather maintain that the theory is correct, and that no other theory has yet been found which explains impenetrability without assuming much that philosophy condemns. As to M. Cauchy's views, we remark that, when he defines atoms as “material points without extension,” he does not speak of the chemical atoms, or equivalents, but of the primitive elements of which such atoms or equivalents are composed.
The author says: “The assumption of atoms of different specific gravities proves to be not only futile, but absurd. Its manifest theoretical ineptitude is found to mask the most fatal inconsistencies. According to the mechanical conception which underlies the whole atomic hypothesis, differences of weight are differences of density; and differences of density are differences of distance between the particles contained in a given space. Now, in the atom there is no multiplicity of particles and no void space; hence differences of density or weight are impossible in the case of atoms” (p. 715).
This conclusion would be quite inevitable, if it were true that the atom of the chemists contains no multiplicity of particles and no void space; but the truth is that chemical atoms are nothing but equivalents, or molecules—that is, dynamical systems of material points intercepting void space. Hence the author's argument has no foundation. The very fact that men of science unanimously agree in attributing to different atoms a different weight, should have warned Mr. Stallo that the word “atom” could not be considered by them as a simple material point.
The author in his second article (November, 1873) argues against the actio in distans. We have given his words in one of our own articles, where we undertook to show that actio in distans cannot be impugned with any good argument.[183] The author, however, we are glad to see, honestly acknowledges that “the transfer of motion from one body to another by impact is no less incomprehensible than the actio in distans” (p. 96); which shows that, after having rejected the action at a distance, he is at a loss how to account for any communication or propagation of movement. A little later he quotes a passage of Faraday, which we have given in another place, and in which the English professor considers the atoms as consisting of a mere sphere of power, with a central point having no dimensions. Then he gives his own view of the subject in the following words:
“The true root of all these errors is a total misconception of the nature of reality. All the reality we know is not only spatially finite, but limited in all its aspects; its whole existence lies in relation and contrast, as I shall show more at length in the next article. We know nothing of force, except by its contrast with mass, or (what is the same thing) inertia; and conversely, as I have already pointed out in my first article, we know nothing of mass except by its relation to force. Mass, inertia (or, as it is sometimes, though inaccurately, called, matter per se), is indistinguishable from absolute nothingness; for matter reveals its presence, or evinces its reality, only by its action, its force, its tension, or motion. But, on the other hand, mere force is equally nothing; for, if we reduce the mass upon which a given force, however small, acts, until it vanishes—or, mathematically [pg 792] expressed, until it becomes infinitely small—the consequence is that the velocity of the resulting motion is infinitely great, and that the ‘thing’ (if under these circumstances a thing can still be spoken of) is at any given moment neither here nor there, but everywhere—that is, there is no real presence. It is impossible, therefore, to construct matter by a mere synthesis of forces.... The true formula of matter is mass × force, or inertia × force” (p. 103).
The author is greatly mistaken in assuming that those who consider the atoms (primitive elements) as centres of force totally misconceive the nature of reality. That Faraday, notwithstanding his saying that “the substance consists of the powers,” admits with the power the matter also, is evident from his very mention of the centre of the powers; for such a centre is nothing else than the matter, as we have proved above. He says, indeed, that the nucleus of the atom “vanishes”; but by “nucleus” he means the bulk or the continuous material extension of the atom. This bulk, says he, must vanish, inasmuch as the centre of the powers must be a mere unextended point. He therefore denies, not the matter, but only its intrinsic extension.
Mr. Stallo volunteers to show us “the true root” of all our errors. According to him, we totally misconceive the nature of reality. “All the reality we know,” he says, “is not only spatially finite, but limited in all its aspects.” About this we will not quarrel, for we admit that all created substances are limited; yet we would ask the author whether he thinks that the range of universal attraction has any known limit in space; and, if so, we would further ask where it is; for we admit our full ignorance of its existence. “We know nothing of force,” he continues, “except by its contrast with mass, or, what is the same thing, inertia.” Our readers know that mass and inertia are not the same thing; the mass is a quantity of matter, while inertia is the incapability of self-motion. A writer who can confound the two as identical is not competent to correct our errors and to teach us the nature of reality. As to the contrast of force with mass, we have no objection; yet, while speaking of the nature of things, we would prefer to contrast matter with form rather than force with mass. The term force applies to the production of phenomena, and is usually confounded with action and with movement, neither of which is a constituent of substance; whilst the term mass expresses any quantity of matter from a single element up to a mountain; and thus it does not exhibit with precision the matter due to the primitive material substance.
“Mass, or matter per se, is indistinguishable from absolute nothingness.” Of course, matter per se—that is, without form—cannot exist. In the same manner “mere force is equally nothing”—that is, the material form, which is the principle of action, has no separate existence without its matter. This every one admits, though not on the grounds suggested by Mr. Stallo. “If we reduce,” says he, “the mass upon which a given force, however small, acts, until it vanishes—or, mathematically expressed, until it becomes infinitely small—the consequence is that the velocity of the resulting motion is infinitely great.” We deny this consequence, as well as the supposition from which it is inferred. Masses are numbers of material elements, or units. When such units are reached, the division is at an [pg 793] end, because those primitive units are without dimensions. Hence the extreme limit of the reduction of masses is not an infinitesimal quantity of mass, as the author imagines, but an absolute finite unit; for this unit, when repeated a finite number of times, gives us a finite quantity of mass. But, even supposing that the hypothesis of the author might be entertained (and it must be entertained by all those who consider matter as materially continuous), his consequence would still be false. For, let there be a continuous atom having finite dimensions. If such an atom is acted on, say by gravity, it will acquire a finite velocity. Now, it is evident that, when the atom has a finite velocity, every infinitesimal portion of it will have a finite velocity. Therefore the action which produces a finite velocity in the finite mass of the atom, produces a finite velocity in the infinitesimal masses of which the atom is assumed to consist. The error of the author arises from his confounding quantity of movement with action. A quantity of movement is a product of a mass into its velocity; and evidently the product cannot remain constant, unless the velocity increases in the same ratio as the mass decreases. The action, on the contrary, is directly proportional to the mass; and therefore, in the author's hypothesis, the consequence should have been the very opposite of that which he enounces; that is, the velocity acquired by an infinitesimal mass would still be finite instead of infinitely great. But, as we have said, the hypothesis itself is inadmissible, because only continuous quantity can be reduced to infinitesimals, whilst masses are not continuous but discrete quantities.
That it is impossible “to construct matter by a mere synthesis of forces” is undeniable; but there was no need of arguing a point which no one contests. The author should rather have given us his ground for asserting that “the true formula of matter is mass multiplied by force.” This assertion can by no means be made good. All physicists know that mass multiplied by force represents nothing but a quantity of movement; and the author will not pretend, we presume, that matter is a quantity of movement. The true formula of matter is its essential definition; and it is not a mathematical but a metaphysical product, or rather a metaphysical ratio, as we have shown in another place. Material substance is matter actuated by its substantial form, and nothing else.
The author continues thus: “We now have before us in full view one of the fundamental fallacies of the atomic theory. This fallacy consists in the delusion that the conceptual constituents of matter can be grasped as separate and real entities. The corpuscular atomists take the element of inertia, and treat it as real by itself: while Boscovich, Faraday, and all those who define atoms as centres of force, seek to realize the corresponding element, force, as an entity by itself. In both cases elements of reality are mistaken for kinds of reality” (p. 103).
It is rather singular that a man who is so little at home in questions about matter should undertake to point out the fallacies and delusions of the best informed. Is it true that Boscovich, Faraday, and others of the same school, consider force as an entity by itself? And is it true that the corpuscular atomists treat the element of inertia as real by itself? There is much to be said against corpuscular atomists for other reasons, but they cannot surely be accused [pg 794] of maintaining that the element of inertia—that is, the mass of the atom—can exist separately without any inherent power, as they uniformly teach that their atoms are endowed with resisting powers. The accusation brought against Boscovich, Faraday, and others, is still more glaringly unjust. They do not seek to realize force “as an entity by itself”; on the contrary, when they define the atoms as centres of force, they manifestly teach that both the force and its centre are indispensable for the constitution of a primitive atom. And, since by the word force they mean the principle of activity (the form), and in the centre they recognize the principle of passivity (the matter), we cannot but conclude that the accusation has no ground, and that the fallacy and the delusion is on the side of Mr. Stallo himself.
Moreover, is it true that mass and force, or, to speak more accurately, the matter and the form, are nothing more than “the conceptual constituents” of material substance? This the author assumes as the base of his argumentation; yet it is plain that, if the constituents of a thing are only conceptual, the thing they constitute cannot be anything else than a conceptual being—that is, a being of reason. We must therefore either deny the reality of matter or concede that its constituents are more than conceptual. Could not the author perceive that, if mass is a mere concept, and force another mere concept, their alliance gives nothing but two concepts, and that the reality of the external world becomes a dream?
We live in times when men of a certain class presume to discuss metaphysical subjects without previous study and without a sufficient acquaintance with the first notions of metaphysics. One of these first notions is that all real being has real constituents. Such constituents, when known to us, are the object of our conceptions, and consequently they may become conceptual; but they do not cease to be real outside of our mind. Were we to conceive matter as separated from its form, or form as deprived of its matter, nothing real would correspond to our conception; for nowhere can real matter be found without a form, or a real form without its matter. Hence form without matter and matter without form are at best beings of reason. But when we conceive the matter as it is under its form, or the form as it is terminated to its matter, we evidently conceive the real constituents of material substance as they are in nature—that is, as metaphysical realities contained in the physical being. Does it follow that “elements of reality,” as the author objects, “are mistaken for kinds of reality”? By no means. The constituents of physical reality are themselves metaphysical realities, but they are not exactly two kinds of reality, because they belong both to the same essence which cannot be of two kinds. Hence the matter and the substantial form, or, in general, act and potency, notwithstanding their real metaphysical opposition and distinction, are one essence, one kind, and one being. But let us go back to our author.
In his third article (December, 1873) he says: “The ordinary mechanical explanation of the molecular states of matter, or states of aggregation, on the basis of the atomic theory, proceeds on the assumption that the molecular states are produced by the conflict of antagonistic central forces—molecular attraction and repulsion—the preponderance of the one or the other of which gives rise to the solid and gaseous forms, while their balance or equilibrium results in the [pg 795] liquid state. The utter futility of this explanation is apparent at a glance. Even waiving the considerations presented by Herbert Spencer (First Principles, p. 60 et seq.), that, in view of the necessary variation of the attractive and repulsive forces in the inverse ratio of the squares of the distances, the constituent atoms of a body, if they are in equilibrio at any particular distance, must be equally in equilibrio at all other distances, and that their density or state, therefore, must be invariable; and admitting that the increase or diminution of the repulsive force, heat, may render the preponderance of either force, and thus the change of density or state of aggregation, possible, what becomes of the liquid state as corresponding to the exact balance of these two forces in the absence of external coercion? The exact balance of the two opposing forces is a mere mathematical limit, which must be passed with the slightest preponderance of either force over the other. All bodies being subject to continual changes of temperature, the equilibrium can at best be but momentary; it must of necessity be of the most labile kind” (p. 223).
This argument against the atomic theory would be very good, if its premises were not deceptive. Mr. Stallo, unfortunately, relies too much on the terminology of physical writers, which is not always correct. Thus, it is not true that the solid form is the result of an actual preponderance of attraction between the molecules. If attraction prevailed, the molecules would not remain in their relative position, but would move in the direction of the attraction. The truth is that molecules, whether in the solid or in the liquid form, are in equilibrium of position; accordingly, neither attraction nor repulsion actually prevails between them.
Their position of equilibrium is determined by their own constitution, and may change; for the molecules admit of accidental changes in their constitution. Hence the distance of relative equilibrium is not necessarily constant, but changes with the change of state of each molecule. This shows that bodies, whether solid or liquid, can retain their solid or liquid form while subjected to considerable molecular changes, and that therefore neither the solid nor the liquid form is necessarily impaired by “the changes of temperature” or other molecular movements. The molecules of bodies attract each other when their distance is great, and repel each other when their distance has become very small; whence we immediately infer that there is for every kind of molecules a distance which marks the limit of their mutual attraction and repulsion, and that at such a distance the molecules must find their position of equilibrium. A body will be solid when, its molecules being in the position of relative equilibrium, from a small increase of their distance an attraction arises, which does not allow of the molecules being easily separated or arranged in a different order around one another. A body will be liquid when, its molecules being in the position of relative equilibrium, from a small increase of their distance a weak attraction arises, which allows of the molecules being easily separated or easily arranged, without separation, in a different manner around one another. A body will be expansive and fluid when its free molecules are at a distance sensibly less than that of relative equilibrium, and therefore repel each other, and are in need of exterior pressure to be kept at such a distance. But we must not forget that the distance of relative equilibrium varies with the [pg 796] intrinsic dynamical variation of the molecules, and that therefore “the exact balance of the two opposing forces is not a mere mathematical limit,” but is comprised between two mathematical limits determined by the amount of the variations of which each species of molecules is susceptible before settling into a different form.
Having thus disposed of the main argument by which the author wished to show “the utter futility” of the ordinary mechanical explanation of the molecular states of matter on the basis of the atomic theory, we may add a few words concerning Herbert Spencer's argument alluded to by the author. The law of actions inversely proportional to the squares of the distances is true for each primitive element of matter, but it is not applicable to molecules acting at molecular distances, as we have proved in another place.[184] Hence Spencer's argument, which assumes the contrary, is entirely worthless. On the other hand, were the argument admissible, we do not see how the proposition, “The constituent atoms of a body, if they are in equilibrio at any particular distance, must be equally in equilibrio at all other distances,” can justify the conclusion that “their density or state must be invariable.” It seems to us that a change of molecular distances must entail a change of density; but, of course, we are behind our age.
Relativity of material realities.—“It has been a favorite tenet, not only of metaphysicians, but of physicists as well, that reality is cognizable only as absolute, permanent, and invariable, or, as the metaphysicians of the XVIth and XVIIth centuries expressed it, sub specie æterni et abroluti. This proposition,” Mr. Stallo continues, “like so many others which have served as pillars of imposing metaphysical structures, is the precise opposite of the truth” (p. 223). Do you understand, reader? Metaphysicians and physicists of all centuries count for nothing; they were blind, every one of them; but a great luminary has appeared at last, a Mr. J. B. Stallo, whose superior wisdom, if not philosophical infallibility, opens a new era of thought, and dispels the darkness which has been thickening around us up to the present day. Yet even the sun has spots; and Mr. Stallo will permit us to remark that his statement of the metaphysical doctrine of the ancients is not altogether correct. They did not teach “that reality is cognizable only as absolute, permanent, and invariable”; they well knew and taught that there were realities cognizable, both relative and changeable. Substance, of course, was considered by them, and it is still considered by us, as an absolute reality; but they never imagined that the essence of such a reality was cognizable except through its constituent principles as related to one another, and therefore through an intelligible relation. This relation, as intelligible, was considered necessary and invariable, but, as an actual reality in nature, was considered contingent and changeable; the intelligible essence of things was known sub specie æterni, but their existence was known sub specie contingentis. Now, on what ground does Mr. Stallo impugn this doctrine? How does he prove that it is “the precise opposite of truth”? Alas! we should be exceedingly simple were we to expect proofs. Progress consists nowadays of stout assertions on the part of the writer, and of a silly credulity on that of most readers. [pg 797] Hence our author, instead of proving what he had rashly asserted, gives us a strain of other assertions equally rash and ridiculously absurd.
He says: “All material reality is, in its nature, not absolute, but essentially relative. All material reality depends upon determination; and determination is essentially limitation, as even Spinoza well knew. A thing ‘in and by itself’ is an impossibility” (ibid.) Spinoza! a great authority indeed! But we should like to know how the proposition, “Determination is essentially limitation,” can lead to the conclusion that “a thing in itself and by itself is an impossibility.” To make a logical connection between the two propositions, it would be necessary to assume that “nothing finite can be in itself and by itself.” But the assumption is so foolish that even Spinoza, who based on it his revolting system of Pantheism, could never support it except by a false definition of substance, and by giving to the phrases “in itself” and “by itself” an extravagant interpretation, which proved, if not his malice and bad faith, at least his profound philosophical ignorance. Let Mr. Stallo consult any good philosophical treatise on this subject, and he will see how stolid a man must be to fall a victim to the gross sophistry of the Jewish dogmatizer.
What shall we say of the other assertion, “All material reality is, in its nature, not absolute, but essentially relative”? Can anything be relative without at the same time being absolute? Can relation exist without two absolute terms? Relativity connects one absolute thing with another; the things thus connected acquire a relative mode of being, but they do not for that lose their absolute being. Thus Mr. Stallo may be an American citizen without ceasing to be a man, though he cannot be a citizen without being endued with a relation not involved in his nature as roan. So, also, husband and wife are essentially relative; yet we hope the author will not say that the relative Husband annihilates the absolute Man, or that the relative Wife excludes the absolute Woman.
These remarks apply to all relations, whether merely accidental or founded in the essence of things. Pantheists imagine that creatures cannot have any absolute being, because their being is essentially dependent, and therefore relative. They should consider that a creature is a created being—that is, a being related to its Creator. Such a creature, inasmuch as it is a being, is; and inasmuch as it is related, connotes its Maker. Now, to be and to connote are not identical. The first means existence, the second dependence; the first is perfectly complete in the creature itself, the second is incomplete without a correlative term; and therefore the creature is in possession of absolute being, while it is endued with an essential relativity. Take away the absolute being; nothing will remain of which any relativity may be predicated.
Perhaps the author, when pronouncing that “all material reality is in its nature essentially relative,” alludes to the essential constitution of material realities, and to the essential relation of matter and form. If such is his meaning, the utmost he can claim is that the reality of the form is essentially connected with the matter, and the reality of the matter essentially connected with the form. This every one will concede; but no one will infer that therefore the reality which results from the conspiration of matter and form is not an absolute reality. For as the matter and the form are the principles of one essence, and as their mutual relativity [pg 798] connotes nothing extrinsic to the same essence, but finds in it its adequate consummation, it is evident that the resulting reality is intrinsically complete, and subsistent in its individuality. Hence this resulting reality is an absolute reality; and only as such can it become the subject of relativity, and acquire the denomination of relative.
Our author, entirely taken up by Spinoza's views, proceeds in the following strain: “All quality is relation; all action is reaction; all force is antagonism; all measure is a ratio between terms neither of which is absolute; every objectively real thing is a term in numberless series of mutual implications, and its reality outside of these series is utterly inconceivable. A material entity, absolute in any of its aspects, would be nothing less than a finite infinitude. There is no absolute material quality, no absolute material substance, no absolute physical unit, no absolutely simple physical entity, no absolute constant, no absolute standard either of quantity or quality, no absolute motion, no absolute rest, no absolute time, no absolute space.... There is and can be no physical real thing which is absolutely simple” (p. 225).
This string of blunders needs no refutation, as no reader who has a modicum of common sense can be deceived by what is evidently false. Yet, as to the assertion that “there is and can be no physical real thing which is absolutely simple,” it must be observed that there are two kinds of simplicity, as there are two kinds of composition. A being is physically simple when it is free from physical composition; whilst it is metaphysically simple, if it has no metaphysical components. Now, God alone is free from metaphysical as well as physical composition; and therefore God alone is absolutely simple. Hence, created beings, though physically simple, are always metaphysically compound.
What follows is a curious specimen of Mr. Stallo's philosophical resources. He says: “Leibnitz places at the head of his Monadology the principle that there must be simple substances, because there are compound substances. Necesse est, he says, dari substantias simplices, quia dantur compositæ. This enthymeme, though it has been long since exploded in metaphysics, is still regarded by many physicists as proof of the real existence of absolutely simple constituents of matter. Nevertheless, it is obvious that it is nothing but a vicious paralogism—a fallacy of the class known in logic as fallacies of the suppressed relative. The existence of a compound substance certainly proves the existence of component parts, which, relatively to this substance, are simple. But it proves nothing whatever as to the simplicity of these parts in themselves” (p. 226).
Our reader will ask when and how Leibnitz' enthymeme has been “exploded.” We shall inform him that it has not been exploded, though the attempt has often been made; because in the whole arsenal of metaphysics no powder could be found that would produce the explosion. The enthymeme, therefore, is as good and unanswerable now as it was in Leibnitz' time; and it will be as good and unanswerable hereafter, notwithstanding Mr. Stallo's efforts against it. He says that “it is nothing but a vicious paralogism”; but he himself, while endeavoring to prove this latter assertion, resorts to a paralogism (vicious, of course) which we may call “fallacy of the suppressed absolute.” The existence of a compound proves the existence of its component parts, as the author [pg 799] admits. These parts are either compound or simple. If simple, then there are simple substances. If compound, then they have components; and these parts are again either compound or simple. We must therefore either admit simple substances, or continue our analysis by further subdivisions of the compound substance without any chance of ever coming to an end. But if the analysis cannot come to an end, the compound has no first components; and thus it will be false that “the existence of a compound substance proves the existence of the component parts.” The fallacy of the author consists in stopping his analysis of the compound before he has reached the first components. If the parts he has reached are still compound substances, why does he not examine their composition and point out their components? For no other reason, we presume, than that he did not wish to meet with an absolute substantial unit, which he was sure to find at the end of the process. His argument is therefore nothing but a despicable fraud.
In his fourth article (January, 1874) Mr. Stallo remarks that “the recent doctrine of the correlation and mutual convertibility of the physical forces, as a part of the theory of the conservation of energy, has shaken, if not destroyed, the conception of a multiplicity of independent original forces” (p. 350). Of course, there are men whose convictions can be shaken, or even destroyed, by the sophistic generalizations of the modern school; but there are men also whose convictions rest on too solid a ground to be destroyed or shaken; and these latter have ere now challenged the abettors of the “recent doctrine” to clear up their case with something like logical precision—a thing which modern thinkers must have found impossible, since they have constantly ignored the challenge. We have proved elsewhere[185] that “the mutual convertibility of physical forces,” as understood by the champions of the theory, confounds movement with action and the effects with their causes. The facts on which the theory is based are true; but the theory itself is false, for it attributes to the powers by which the phenomena are produced what exclusively belongs to “the phenomena”, besides deforming the nature of the phenomena themselves by denying the production and extinction of movement. It is plain that such a theory can have no weight in philosophy; and it is no less plain that no philosopher will, for the sake of the new theory, renounce his firm conviction concerning “the multiplicity of independent original forces.”
“I have endeavored,” says the author, “to show that there are no absolute constants of mass; that both the hypothesis of corpuscular atoms and that of centres of forces are growths of a confusion of the intellect, which mistakes conceptual elements of matter for real elements; that these elements—force and mass, or force and inertia—are not only inseparable, as is conceded by the more thoughtful among modern physicists, but that neither of these elements has any reality as such, each of them being simply the conceptual correlate of the other, and thus the condition both of its realization in thought and of its objectivation to sense” (p. 350).
As we have already discussed all the points which the author vainly endeavored to establish, we shall only remind the reader that the matter and the form have no separate existence; and therefore have no reality in nature, unless they are together. The [pg 800] author, therefore, is right when affirming that neither of them has any reality as such; but he is wrong in inferring that they have no reality as united. As action has no reality without passion, nor passion without action, so also matter has no reality without form, nor form without matter; but as action producing passion is real, so also is a form actuating matter; and as passion is no less real than the action whence it proceeds, so matter also is no less real than the form by which it is actuated. Both are, of course, only metaphysical realities.
The author says: “The mathematical treatment of mechanical problems, from the nature of the methods, necessitates the fiction that force and mass are separate and distinct terms” (p. 351). By no means. It is not the nature of the methods, but the nature of the things that compels the distinction of the two terms. Their distinction, therefore, is not a “fiction.” But the author's remark has no bearing on the question of the constitution of matter; for mechanical forces are not substantial forms.
He adds: “A material object is in every one of its aspects but one term of a relation; its whole being is a presupposition of correlates without.... Every change of a body, therefore, presupposes a corresponding change in its correlates. If the state of any material object could be changed without a corresponding change of state in other objects without, this object would, to that extent, become absolute. But this is utterly unthinkable, and therefore utterly impossible, as we have already seen.... Mechanically speaking, all force, properly so-called—i.e., all potential energy—is energy of position.... Whatever energy is spent in actual motion is gained in position; ... thus we are led to the principle of the conservation of energy” (p. 351).
This is a heap of absurdities. If a material object is the term of a relation, it is absolute in itself, as we have shown. Again, the change of a body presupposes only the exertion of active power, and not the change of another body, as the author imagines. That the absolute is unthinkable he has failed to prove. Lastly, mechanical force, properly so-called, is the product of a mass into its velocity, whilst “energy of position” is a myth.[186]
But the author says: “Force is a mere inference from the motion itself under the universal conditions of reality, and its measure, therefore, is simply the effect for which it is postulated as a cause; it has no other existence. The only reality of force and of its action is the correspondence between the physical phenomena in conformity to the principle of the essential relativity of all material existence. That force has no independent reality is so plain and obvious that it has been proposed by some thinkers to abolish the term force, like the term cause, altogether. However desirable this might be in some respects, it is impossible, for the reason that the concept force, when properly interpreted in terms of experience, is valid; and, if its name were abolished, it would instantly reappear under another name.... The reality of force is purely conceptual; ... it is not a distinct and individual tangible or intangible entity” (p. 354).
Here the author treats us to a luxury of contradictions. Force is “a mere inference from motion,” yet it causes motion; for it is active. Hence the causality is a mere inference of its effect. It is therefore the effect [pg 801] that gives existence to its cause, and the cause “has no other existence” than that which may be imbibed in the effect for which it is postulated. What, then, becomes of the “force, properly so-called”—that is, of the potential energy, or of the energy of position, which has no actual effect? Again, “the reality of force, is purely conceptual.” This means that the reality of force is unreal; which would just amount to saying that Mr. Stallo's intellect is unintelligent or that his writings are unwritten. Again, the “reality of force and of its action is the correspondence between the physical phenomena”; but, if the reality of force is merely conceptual, the correspondence between the physical phenomena must be merely conceptual; which would prove that the concept “force,” when properly interpreted in terms of experience, is not valid, though the author maintains the contrary. Moreover, what can the author mean by “the action of force”? Is this action real or unreal? If unreal, it is no action at all; and if real, it implies a real active power. We defy Mr. Stallo to conceive a real action of an unreal force. We are informed that “some thinkers” wish to abolish the term “force,” like the term “cause,” and we are told that this proves how plain and obvious it is that force has no independent reality. This, however, proves only that some so-called “thinkers” are either lunatics or knaves. After all, if force is purely conceptual, as the author pretends, its reality must be denied without any restriction. Why, then, does he deny merely that force has an “independent” reality? Has it any “dependent” reality if it is “purely conceptual”?
But we must come to an end. Mr. Stallo's conclusion is that “the very conception of force depends upon the relation between two terms at least,” and that therefore “a constant central force, as belonging to an individual atom in and by itself, is an impossibility” (p. 355). In this argument the term “force” is used equivocally. It stands for active power in the consequence, while it stands for action or for movement in the antecedent. Hence the conclusion is worthless. “I have shown,” says he, “that there are and can be no absolute constants of mass. And it is evident now that there are similarly no constant central forces belonging to, or inherent in, constants of mass as such” (p. 356). We say in our turn: No, Mr. Stallo, you have not shown what you imagine; and, if anything is evident, it is not that there are no constant central forces, but that philosophical questions cannot be solved without good logic and a clear knowledge of metaphysical principles.