Chapter VII: The Search Renewed (2)

“Sir, I’ve been waiting here these two hours for you. You’d better please let me have a word with you before you go in”; and Clide turned into the dining-room, which the servant of the house civilly opened for him. “We’ve been sold. They were off this morning at six. The three started together. They are gone to Berlin--at least so one of the _kellners_ let out to me; the one I spoke to yesterday was coached-up by the landlord and the people themselves, I suppose, for he told me it was Vienna they were gone to; he had a trumped-up story about the _fraulein’s_ mother being taken suddenly ill and telegraphing for them. They are a cunning lot. That piano was a dodge to put us to sleep, sir.”

“What proof have you that they are gone to Berlin? That other man may be mistaken, or lying to order like the rest? I must see the consul and take advice with him. This scoundrel of a landlord shall pay for his lies,” said Clide, beating his foot with a quick, nervous movement on the ground; “he must be forced to speak, and to speak the truth.”

“No need, sir; I’ve found it out without him. I’ve been to the railway. I made believe I was the servant following with luggage that was forgotten, and they told me the train they started by and the hour it arrives, and described them all three as true as life,” said Stanton.

“And it is _she_?”

“Not a doubt of it, sir. As certain as I’m Stanton.” Clide felt nevertheless that it would be well to see the consul; the case was so delicate, so fraught with difficulties on all sides, that it was desirable at any cost of personal feeling to furnish himself with all the information he could get as to how he should now proceed, so as not to entangle things still further.

On hearing his visitor’s strange tale, the consul’s advice was that he should see with his own eyes the person whom he took for granted was his wife, before venturing on any active steps. “The fact is quite clear to you,” he remarked, “and from what you say it is equally clear to me; but the evidence on which we build this assumption would not hold water for one minute before a magistrate. Suppose, after all, it turns out to be a case of mistaken identity; what a position you would be in!”

“That is impossible,” affirmed Clide.

“No, not impossible; highly improbable, I grant you; but such improbable things occur every day. You must have more substantial ground than second-hand evidence and corroborating circumstances to go upon before you stir in the matter, and then you must do nothing without proper legal advice.”

Clide recognized the common-sense and justice of this, and determined to be advised. He started for Berlin, and on arriving there went straight from the railway to the British Embassy, where he obtained a letter from the ambassador to the Minister of Police, requesting that functionary to give the young Englishman every assistance and facility. The minister was going to bed; it was near twelve o’clock; the ambassador’s letter, however, secured the untimely visitor immediate admission, and a civil and attentive hearing. He took some notes down from Clide’s dictation, and promised that all the resources of the body which he controlled should be enlisted in the matter, and as soon as they had discovered where the party they were in pursuit of had alighted, he would communicate with Mr. de Winton.

The latter then went to the hotel, where Stanton had preceded him, and was waiting impatiently for his arrival. The moment he entered the room, Stanton was struck by his pale, haggard look; he had not noticed it on the journey; when the train stopped, they saw each other in the shade or in the dark, and after exchanging a hasty word passed each to his separate buffets and carriages. It was indeed no wonder his master should be worn out after the terrible emotions of the last few days, added to the continued travelling and scarcely any sleep or food, but it did not look like ordinary fatigue.

“You had better go to bed, sir; you’ll be used up if you take on like this; and that won’t mend much,” he said, when Clide, after lighting a cigar, flung himself into a chair and bade Stanton bring him the papers.

“I’ll go to bed presently; bring me the papers,” repeated Clide, and the man left the room.

When he returned he found his master standing up and holding on by the back of his chair as if to steady himself.

“I feel queerish, Stanton; get me some brandy and water; make haste,” he said, speaking faintly.

Instead of obeying him, Stanton forced him gently into the chair, and proceeded to undress him Clide resigning himself passively to it, as if he were in a stupor; he let himself be put to bed in the same way, like a child too sleepy to know what was being done to it.

“I don’t like the looks of him at all,” thought Stanton, as he stole softly out of the room; “if he’s not all right to-morrow, I send for the admiral.”

Clide was not all right in the morning; he was feverish and exhausted, and complained in a querulous way, quite unlike his usual self, of a burning, hammering pain in his head. Stanton sent for a medical man without consulting him. When he said he had done so, Clide gave no sign of displeasure; he did not seem quite to take it in.

“I’ve got fifty thousand toothaches in my skull, Stanton; what the deuce is it, eh?” he cried, tossing from side to side on his pillow. Then suddenly he raised himself:

“Stanton!”

“Yes, sir!”

“You think I’m going to be ill. Don’t deny it; I see it in your face. Perhaps I am; I feel uncommonly odd here”--passing his hand over his forehead--“but I want to say one thing while I think of it: you don’t write a word to any one in England until the doctor says I’m a dead man. Do you hear me speaking to you?”

“Yes, sir; but don’t you think if the admiral…”

“If you attempt to write to him, I’ll dismiss you that very instant!” And his eyes flashed angrily. “You mind what I say, Stanton!”

“All right, sir; you know best what you like about it.”

The excitement seemed to have exhausted his remaining strength; he grew rapidly worse; and when the doctor came, he declared his patient was in for a brain fever that might turn to worse unless the circumstances were specially propitious.

Why should we linger by his bedside? It would be only a repetition of the old story; delirium following on days of pain and restlessness; a long period of anxiety while youth battled with the enemy, now seemingly about to be worsted in the fight, then rising above the disease with unexpected starts, showing how rich and strong the resources of the young frame were. The medical man was not communicative with the valet; he kept his alternations of hope and fear to himself; it was only by scrutinizing the expression of his face as he felt the patient’s pulse that Stanton could make a guess at his opinion. To his eager inquiries on accompanying the oracle to the door, he received the uniform reply that this was a case in which the disease must run its course, when no one could say what a day might bring forth, when much depended on the quality of the patient’s constitution; the one drop of comfort Stanton extracted from him was the emphatic assurance that in this instance the patient had a constitution of gold. The crisis came, and then Stanton, convinced in his inexperienced mind that no mortal constitution could pass this strait, boldly asked the doctor if it was not time to write to the family.

“These things must run their course; in twenty-four hours it will be decided,” was the sententious reply.

Stanton was fain to be content with it, and wait. The day passed, and the night dragged on slowly as a passing bell, until at last the decisive hour came and was passed; then the medical man spoke again.

“He is saved. The worst is now over; he is entering on the period of convalescence.”

The period was long--longer than he had anticipated; for the golden constitution had been fiercely tried and shaken; it was more than two months from the day of Clide’s arrival in Berlin until he was able to leave the hotel. In the meantime, what had become of Isabel, or Mme. Villar, as we shall call her for the present? All that Stanton could ascertain was that she had left Berlin about a week after his master had been struck down, and had gone--so it was said at the hotel where she and her party put up--for a tour in the neighboring spas, after which she was to proceed to St. Petersburg to fulfil an engagement for the season. This was the last link the police had got hold of; but as nobody had taken it up at the time, it was impossible to say how many others had intervened in the two months that had gone by.

It was now late in September. Clide was very weak still, and unfit for a long railway journey, and besides, it was unlikely Mme. Villar would be yet in St. Petersburg, assuming that the story of her going there at all was true. He yielded therefore to the doctor’s advice, and went to recruit himself at the nearest watering-place, after having again seen the authorities at Berlin, and urged them not to let the affair sleep, but to keep a sharp lookout in every direction.

In the first week of October he arrived in St. Petersburg. The city of the Czars looked dreary and desolate enough in these keen autumn days; there was not much movement in its immense market-places--its bald, spacious squares, and high, broad houses standing unsocial and mistrustful, far apart in the wide, noiseless streets; but people were dropping in quickly from day to day from their country-houses, getting out their furs, and settling down for the winter campaign that was at hand; for the foe was marching steadily on them, girt with sullen skies of lead, and tawny mists, and trumpeted by the shrill blast of the north wind, a few strong puffs from whose ice-breathing nostrils would soon paralyze the rivers and lay them to sleep under twenty feet of ice. Clide was weary after his long ride, and was in a mood to be exasperated when, on stepping out of the train, and seeking for their two portmanteaus amongst the heaps of luggage, the porters said they were missing. It was no small inconvenience, for the said portmanteaus contained all their clothes, and nearly all their money.

The officials were very civil, however, and assured the travellers that their luggage would be forthcoming next day. There was nothing for it but to console themselves with this promise, and go on to the hotel. Clide then gave his purse to Stanton and bade him go out and purchase such things as were indispensable for the night. The valet accordingly set off, accompanied by an English waiter who volunteered to interpret for him, and Clide sallied forth for a stroll along the Neva, that still flowed high and free between its broad quays. He walked on and on, forgetting time, as was his habit, until lassitude recalled him to his senses, and he looked around him and began to wonder where he had strayed to. He had drifted far beyond his intention, and now found himself on an island where handsome villas amidst groves and long avenues were to be seen on every side. Happily a drosky passed empty at the moment; he hailed it, gave the name of his hotel, and drove home. Stanton had not yet returned. This was odd, for his interpreter had come back an hour since, and said that the valet, after doing all his commissions, had lingered behind merely to see the quays, saying he would follow in ten minutes. It was impossible he could have lost his way, for the hotel was in sight. The fact was, Stanton had had an adventure. He happened to be crossing the bridge when he noticed a man bestriding the parapet at the other end, swinging from side to side, and apostrophizing the lamp-post with great earnestness. Stanton watched him as he walked on, mentally wondering how long this social position would prove tenable, when the man gave a sudden lunge, and was precipitated with a shriek into the water. There were several foot-passengers close to the spot; they rushed towards the parapet, and began screaming to each other in Russian and gesticulating with great animation, hailing everybody and everything within sight, but no one gave any sign of doing the only thing that could be of avail, namely, jumping in after the drowning man. The unfortunate wretch was struggling frantically, and gasping out cries for help whenever he got his head above the water. There was a stair running down from the quay, where boats were moored to rings in the wall. Stanton saw this; he was a capital swimmer; so, without stopping to reflect, he pulled off his coat, flew down the steps, and plunged in. A loud cheer rang all along the parapet, then a breathless silence followed; the two men in the water were wrestling in a desperate embrace; Stanton had the Russian by the collar, and the latter with the suicidal impulse of a drowning man, was clutching him wildly, and dragging him down with all his might. Happily, he was no match for the Englishman’s sinewy arms; Stanton shook himself free with a vigorous effort, swam out a few yards, then he turned and swam back, caught the drowning man by the hair, and drew him on with him to the steps. A thundering salvo greeted his achievement; the group had now swelled to a crowd, and a score of spectators came tumbling down the steps gabbling their congratulations, and, what was more to the purpose, helping the hero to lift the rescued man on to the steps, and then haul him up to the landing-place. Stanton broke through the press to snatch up his coat, and was elbowing his way out, when two individuals, whom he rightly took for policemen, came up to him, and began to hold forth volubly in the same unintelligible jargon. Stanton only understood, by their pointing to some place and clutching him by the shoulder, that they wanted him to accompany them. With native instinct, Stanton suspected they were proposing a tribute of admiration to him in the shape of a bumper at the tavern; but he was more intent on his wet clothes, and, thanking them by signs, indicated that he must go in the opposite direction, shouting meanwhile, at the very top of his lungs, “Hôtel Peterhof! I’m going to Peterhof!” But the policemen shook their heads, and still pointed and tugged, until, finding further expostulation useless, one of them took a stout grip of Stanton’s collar and proceeded to drag him on, _nolens volens_. The British lion rose up in Stanton “and roared a roar.” He levelled his clenched fist at the aggressor’s chest, struck him a vigorous blow, and in language more forcible than genteel bade him stand off. But the Russian held on like grim death, gabbling away harder than ever, and pointing with his left thumb to the _spit_ on his own breast, and then touching the corresponding spot on Stanton’s wet shirt; but Stanton would not see it. He doubled up his fist for another blow, when the other policeman suddenly caught him by both arms, and pinned his elbows as in a vise behind his back. The crowd had gone on swelling, and now numbered several hundred persons; they crushed round the infuriated Englishman, who stood there the picture of impotent rage, dripping and foaming and appealing to everybody to help him. At this juncture a carriage drove up; the coachman stopped to know what was going on; and great was Stanton’s joy when he heard a voice cry out to him in English: “You must go with them; they won’t hurt; they are going to give you a decoration for saving a man’s life.”

“Confound their decoration! What the devil do I want with their decoration? Tell them I’m not a Russian!”

“They know that, but it don’t matter; the law is the same for natives and foreigners,” explained the coachman.

“Hang it, I’m not a foreigner; what do you take me for? I’m an Englishman!” protested Stanton.

“Don’t matter; you must be decorated; you may as well do it, and be done with it.”

“But look at my clothes, man! I’m as wet as a drowned rat!”

“Served you right! What business had you jumping into the water after a fool that wanted to drown himself?”

“I wish I’d let him,” said Stanton devoutly; “but just you tell these chaps to let me go or else they’ll ’ear of it; tell them my master will go to the ambassador and get them flogged all round; tell them that, and see what comes of it.”

“No good. The law is the law. Good morning to you; take a friend’s advice, and keep your skin dry next time”; and, nodding to Stanton, he touched his horses and was off at a pace.

There was nothing for it but to resign himself to his fate. Stanton ceased all resistance, and let himself be led to the altar where glory awaited him in the form of a yellow _spit_. He was marched on to a large, barrack-like building; two sentries were mounting guard over its ponderous iron gate. He passed through them and was marched from bureau to bureau, addressed by several officials in every tongue under the sun, it seemed to him, till they came to the right one, requested to record his name, age, and state of life in several ominous-looking books, and on each occasion was embraced and shaken hands with by the presiding genius of the bureau; at last he was brought into the presence of a gold-laced and highly decorated individual, who handed him a written document, very stiff and very long, and with this a knot of ribbon. Stanton without more ado was stuffing both into the pocket of his soaked pantaloons, when the gold-laced gentleman exclaimed with friendly warmth, “Oh! you must permit me to place the _spit_ upon your breast!” Upon which the Englishman recoiled three steps with a scowl of disgust, and bade him do it if he dared. The official, apparently surprised to see his polite offer met so ungraciously, forbore to press it, and demanded the fee. “The fee!--what fee?” He explained that a fee was always paid on receipt of a decoration. Stanton declined paying it, for the substantial reason that he had no money; his luggage had been lost on the railway; so had his master’s. The polite gentleman was very sorry to hear of their misadventure, but the law was inexorable--every man who performed that noble feat of saving a Russian’s life should be decorated, and the decoration involved a fee.

“Then what in the name of the furies do you want me to do?” cried the exasperated Stanton; “I can’t coin any, can I?”

No; this was not a practical alternative, but very likely his master could devise one; he would have no difficulty in getting credit for the amount; any one in St. Petersburg would be happy to accommodate a milord with so small a sum, or indeed any sum.

Stanton had nothing for it but to write a line to the Peterhof explaining his pitiable position, and entreating his master to come to the rescue without delay.

It was late in the evening when this missive was handed to Clide. The landlord, with the utmost alacrity, placed the coffers of the Peterhof at his disposal, and sent for a carriage to convey him to the scene of his valet’s distress.

“If ever any one catches me saving a Russian fellow’s life again may I be drowned myself!” was Stanton’s ejaculation as he shut his master into the cab, and drove home with the _spit_ in his pocket.

This little incident gave Clide some food for reflection, and aroused in him a prudent desire to make some acquaintance with the ways and customs of Muscovy before he went further. A little knowledge of the code which included such a very peculiar law as the aforementioned might prove not only desirable but essential, before he entangled himself in its treacherous meshes. A paternal government might have its advantages, but clearly it had its drawbacks. Russia was almost the only spot in the so-called civilized world that he had not explored in the course of his wanderings, so the people and their laws were as unknown to him practically as the people and the laws of the Feejee Islands. He had gone once as far as Warsaw with the intention of pushing on to Russia, but what he saw in the Polish city of her spirit and national character sickened and horrified him; he turned his back on the scene of her cruelty and demoralizing rule, and went down to Turkey. There at least barbarism reigned with a comparatively gentle sceptre, and wore no hypocrite’s mask. He had not furnished himself with a single letter of introduction to St. Petersburg. It never entered into his imagination when leaving London that he should want any; he did not dream that the will-o’-the-wisp he was chasing would have led him so far. But he was here now, and he must find some one to steer him safe through quicksands and sunken rocks.

There was no doubt an English lawyer in the city to whom he could safely apply. The landlord of the Peterhof gave him the address of one. It was a Russian name, but he assured Clide that it was that of the English lawyer of St. Petersburg, who managed all the law affairs of English residents. Clide went to this gentleman’s office, and found a small, urbane little man, who spoke English with a very pure accent and fluently, but with Muscovite written on every line of his face. It was of no consequence, however, as he showed his client in the first few questions he put that he was in the habit of dealing with English people and transacting confidential and intricate cases for them. The present one he frankly admitted was without precedent in his legal experience, and his advice to Clide was pretty much the same as the consul’s, reinforced, however, by a rather startling argument.

“You must first prove beyond a doubt that it is not a case of mistaken identity, and, even when this is done, you have to consider whether it is expedient to run the risks that must attend any active proceedings against the persons in question. Let us consider the facts as they stand, setting aside possible antecedents. The lady is engaged here for the season. I can guarantee that much. I heard her repeatedly last year, and the announcement, on the night of her last appearance, that she was to return next season, was received with an enthusiasm that I cannot describe. She is, therefore, an established favorite with the public. This in itself is a fact fraught with danger to any one seeking to molest her--I use the word from the point of view of the public--any person interfering with so important a branch of their pleasure as the opera would expose himself to disagreeable consequences. The government is paternally anxious that the people should be amused. It is not wise to thwart a paternal government.… The Czar, moreover, has shown decided appreciation of this prima donna. He condescended to receive her into the imperial box and himself clasp a costly diamond bracelet on her arm. He and the rest of the royal family are to be present at her first reappearance. No one, be they ever so guilty, can be attacked with impunity while under the favor of the imperial smile. A paternal government is not trammelled by the conventionalisms and routine that check the action of other forms of government; it acts promptly, decisively. If you meddle in this matter rashly, you may find yourself in very unpleasant circumstances.”

“I should agree with all you say if I were a subject of the Russian government,” said Clide, “but I am an Englishman; surely that makes a difference?”

The lawyer smiled grimly.

“I would not advise you to count upon it for security. I have known some Englishmen whose nationality did not prove such a talisman as they expected.”

“You mean that they have been imprisoned without offence or trial, treated like Russian subjects?” Clide’s lip curled under his moustache as he emitted the monstrous proposition.

“I mean to give you the best advice in my power,” returned the urbane lawyer with unruffled coolness. “You have come to me for counsel. You are free to follow it or not as you see good.”

“So far, you have given me only negative advice. You tell me what I must not do; can you tell me nothing that I can and ought to do?” said Clide.

“For the present, I can only urge you to be prudent. One rash act may precipitate you into a still worse dilemma than the present. See this lady for yourself, and see the man who accompanies her. I do not advise you to speak to them, nor even to let them know of your presence here, still less of your intentions. The man, from what you already know of him, is likely to be an unscrupulous fellow, a dangerous enemy to cope with. He--on account of his pupil or niece--has patrons in high place. If he got wind of your designs, he might frustrate them in a manner … that … that you don’t foresee.…” The lawyer paused, and bent his sharp green eyes on Clide with a meaning that was not to be misunderstood.

“You mean that the government would connive at or assist him in some personal violence to me?”

“I mean to advise you honestly. I might put you off with a sham, or lay a trap for you; I should be well paid for it. But I traffic as little as possible in that sort of thing, and _never_ with an English client.” It was impossible to doubt the genuine frankness in this assurance, coupled as it was with the implied admission that the lawyer was less incorruptible to native clients. Clide was convinced the man was dealing fairly by him.

“And when I have seen them both, and thus put a seal on certainty--what next?”

“Wait until the season is over; then follow them to their next destination, out of Russia, and take counsel with a shrewd legal man of the place. My own opinion is that your wisest course would be to do nothing until you can attack the affair in England: the mere fact of being a foreigner puts barriers in the way of the law for helping you anywhere; but, as you value your liberty, don’t interfere with a prima donna who is in favor with the Court of St. Petersburg--it were safer for you to play with fire.”

Clide laid a large fee on the lawyer’s green table, and wished him good morning.

He hesitated as he was stepping into his fly. Should he go to the British Embassy, and lay the whole story before Lord X----, and so place one strong barrier between him and the monstrous possibilities with which the lawyer had threatened him? He stood for a moment with his hand on the door, which Stanton was holding open for him; his forehead had that hard line straight down between the horizontal bars over his eyes that had once so scared Franceline. “To the hotel!” he said, slamming the door, and Stanton jumped up beside the coachman.

They had gone about a hundred yards when the window was pulled down in front, and Clide called out: “To the British Embassy!”

The horse’s head was turned that way. While they were rattling over the stones, Clide was arguing his change of resolution, and trying to justify it. “I will burn my ship and take the consequences. What balderdash he talked about the danger of letting the man know of my intentions! How the deuce could they harm me? If I were a Russian, no doubt; but the government would hardly run their neck into such a noose as assault or imprisonment of a British subject for the sake of a popular prima donna! Pshaw! I was an idiot to mind him.”

The coachman pulled up before the British Embassy. Two private carriages stopped at the same moment, gentlemen alighted from them and ran up the steps. Stanton held the door open for his master, but Clide did not move; he sat with his head bent forward, examining his boots, to all appearance unconscious of his valet’s presence.

“Here we are, sir; this is the Embassy,” said Stanton. But Clide sat dumb, as if he were glued to the seat. At last, starting from his revery, he said “Home!” and flung himself back in the carriage.

“That fever has left him a bit queer,” thought Stanton, as he closed the door on his capricious master.

“What a fool’s errand it would be!” muttered Clide to himself; “and what have I to say to Lord X----? If it _should_ turn out to be a case of mistaken identity.… The lawyer’s advice is after all the safest and the most rational.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

SPACE.

II.

It is of the utmost importance in the philosophical investigation in which we have engaged to bear in mind that the power by which we attain to the knowledge of the intrinsic nature of things is not our imagination, but our intellect. The office of imagination is to form sensible representations of what lies at the surface of the things apprehended; the intellect alone is competent to reach what lies under that surface, that is, the essential principles of the thing, and their ontological relations. This remark is so obvious that it may seem superfluous; but our imagination has such a power in fashioning our thoughts, and such an obtrusive manner of interfering with our mental processes, that we need to be reminded, in season and out of season, of our liability to mistake its suggestions for intellectual conceptions. What we have said about absolute space in our past article shows that even renowned philosophers are liable to such mistakes; for nothing but imagination could have led Balmes, Descartes, and many others, to confound absolute space with the material extension of bodies. As to relative space, the danger of confounding its intellectual notion with our sensible representation of it, is, perhaps, less serious, when we have understood the nature of absolute space; yet, here too we are obliged to guard against the incursions of the imaginative faculty, which will not cease to obtrude itself, in the shape of an auxiliary, upon our intellectual ground.

Absolute space cannot become relative unless it be extrinsically terminated, or occupied, by distinct terms. Hence, in passing from the consideration of absolute space to that of relative space, the first question by which we are met is the following:

Is absolute space intrinsically modified or affected by being occupied? or, _Does the creation of a material point in space entail an intrinsic modification of absolute space?_

The answer to this question cannot be doubtful. Absolute space is not and cannot be intrinsically affected or modified by the presence of a material point, or of any number of material points. We have shown that absolute space is nothing else than the virtuality of God’s immensity; and since no intrinsic change can be conceived as possible in God’s attributes or in the range of their comprehension, it is evident that absolute space cannot be intrinsically modified by any work of creation. On the other hand, nothing can be intrinsically modified unless it receives in itself, as in a subject, the modifying act; for all intrinsic modifications result from corresponding impressions made on the subject which is modified. Thus the modifications of the eye, of the ear, and of other senses, result from impressions made on them, and received in them as in so many subjects. But the creation of a material point in space is not the position of a thing in it as in a subject; for, if absolute space received the material point in itself as in a subject, this point would be a mere accident; as nothing but accidents exist in a subject, and since it is manifest that material elements are not accidents, it is plain that they are not received in space as in a subject.

Hence the creation of any number of material points in space implies nothing but the _extrinsic_ termination of absolute space, which accordingly remains altogether unaffected and unmodified. Just as a body created at the surface of the earth immediately acquires weight, without causing the least intrinsic change in the attractive power which is the source of all weights on earth, so does a material element, created in absolute space, acquire its ubication without causing the least intrinsic change in absolute space which is the source of all possible ubications. A material element has its formal ubication inasmuch as it occupies a point in space. This point, as contained in absolute space, is virtual; but, as occupied by the element, or marked out by a point of matter, it is formal. Thus the formality of the ubication consists in the actual termination and real occupation of a virtual point by an extrinsic term corresponding to it.

The formal ubication of an element is a mere relativity, or a _respectus_. The formal reason, or foundation, of this relativity is the reality through which the term ubicated communicates with absolute space, viz., the real point which is common to both, though not in the same manner, as it is _virtual_ in space, and _formal_ in the extrinsic term. A material element in space is therefore nothing but a term related by its ubication to divine immensity as existing in a more perfect manner in the same ubication. But since the formality of the contingent ubication exclusively belongs to the contingent being itself, absolute space receives nothing from it except a relative extrinsic denomination.

Some will say: To have a capacity of containing something, and to contain it actually, are things intrinsically different. But absolute space, when void, has a mere capacity of containing bodies, whilst, when occupied, it actually contains them. Therefore absolute space is intrinsically modified by occupation.

To this we answer, that the word “capacity,” on which the objection is built up, is a mischievous one, no less indeed than the word “potency,” which, when used indeterminately, is liable to opposite interpretations, and leads to contradictory conclusions.

The capacity of containing bodies which is commonly predicated of absolute space, is not a passive potency destined to be actuated by contingent occupation; it is, on the contrary, the formal reason of all contingent ubications, since it contains already in an infinitely better manner all the ubications of the bodies by which it may be occupied. To be occupied, and not to be occupied, are not, of course, the same thing; but it does not follow from this that space unoccupied is intrinsically different from space occupied; it follows only, that, when space is occupied, a contingent being corresponds to it as an extrinsic term, and gives it an extrinsic denomination. In other terms, everything which occupies space, occupies it by ubication. Now every ubication is the participation in the contingent being of a reality which absolute space already contains in a better manner. Consequently, the capacity of containing bodies, which is predicated of space, already _contains actually_ the same ubications, which, when bodies are created, are formally attributed to the bodies themselves.

This answer is, we think, philosophically evident. But, as our imagination, too, must be helped to rise to the level of intellectual conceptions, we will illustrate our answer by an example. Man has features which can be reflected in any number of mirrors, so as to form in them an image of him. This “capacity” of having images of self is called “exemplarity,” and consists in the possession of that of which an image can be produced. Hence, man’s exemplarity actually, though only virtually, contains in itself all the images that it can form in any mirror; and when the image is formed, man’s exemplarity gives existence to it, but receives nothing from it, except a relative denomination drawn from the extrinsic term in which it is portrayed. In a like manner, God’s omnipotence, and his other attributes, are mirrored in every created thing, and their “capacity” of being imitated in a finite degree arises from the fact that God’s attributes contain already in an eminent manner the whole reality which can be made to exist formally in the contingent things. Hence, when these contingent things are created, God gives existence to them, but receives nothing from them, except a relative denomination drawn from the extrinsic terms in which his perfections are mirrored. In the same manner, too, when a material element is created, it receives its being, and its mode of being in space, that is, its ubication, which is a finite image or imitation of God’s infinite ubication; but it gives nothing to the divine ubication, except the extrinsic denomination; just as the image in the mirror gives nothing to the body of which it is the image, but simply borrows its existence from it.

From this it follows that material elements are in space _not by inhesion, but by correlation_, each point which is formally marked out by an element corresponding to a virtual point of space, to which it gives an extrinsic denomination. The said correlation consists in this, that the contingent term, by its formal mode of existing in the point it marks out, really imitates the eminent mode of being of divine immensity in the same point; and from this it follows again, that whatever new reality results from the existence of a material element in space, belongs entirely to the element itself, and constitutes its mode of being.

The relation between the contingent being as existing formally in its ubication, and divine immensity as existing eminently in the same ubication, is called “presence.”

We must notice, before we go further, that the virtuality of God’s immensity, when considered in relation to the distinct terms by which it is extrinsically terminated, assumes distinct relative denominations, and therefore, though it is one entitatively, it becomes manifold terminatively. In this latter sense it is true to say that the virtuality of divine immensity which is terminated by a certain term _A_, is distinct from the virtuality which is terminated by a certain other term _B_; and when a material point moves in space, we may say that its ubication ceases to correspond to one virtuality of immensity, and begins to correspond to another. Such virtualities, as we have just remarked, are not entitatively distinct, for immensity has but _one_ infinite virtuality. Yet this _one_ virtuality, owing to the possibility of infinite distinct terminations, is capable of being related to any number of distinct extrinsic terms, and of receiving from their distinct mode of existing in it any number of distinct relative denominations. When, therefore, we speak of distinct virtualities of divine immensity, we simply refer to the distinct extrinsic terminations of one and the same infinite virtuality, in the same manner as, when we speak of distinct creations, we do not mean that God’s creative act is manifold in itself, but only that its extrinsic termination to one being, v. gr. the sun, is not its termination to other beings, v. gr. the stars. And in a similar manner, when a word is heard by many persons, its sound in their ears is distinct on account of distinct terminations, though the word is not distinct from itself.

We have explained the origin and nature of formal ubication; we have yet to point out its division. Ubication may be considered either _objectively_ or _subjectively_. Objectively considered, it is nothing else than a _point in space marked out by a simple point of matter_. We say, _by a simple point_ of matter, because distinct material points in space have distinct ubications. Hence, we cannot approve those philosophers who confound the _ubi_ with the _locus_, that is, the ubication with the place occupied by a body. It is true that those philosophers held the continuity of matter; but they should have seen all the same that all dimensions involved distinct ubications, and that every term designable in such dimensions has an ubication of its own independent of the ubications of every other designable term; which proves that the _locus_ of a body implies a great number of ubications, and therefore cannot be considered as the synonym of _ubi_.

If the ubication is considered subjectively, that is, as an appurtenance of the subject of which it is predicated, it may be defined as _the mode of being of a simple element in space_. This mode consists of a mere relativity; for it results from the extrinsic termination of absolute space, as already explained. Hence, the ubication is not _received_ in the subject of which it is predicated, and does not _inhere_ in it, but, like all other relativities and connotations, simply connects it with its correlative, and lies, so to say, between the two.[149]

But, although it consists of a mere relativity, the ubication still admits of being divided into _absolute_ and _relative_, according as it is conceived absolutely as it is in itself, or compared with other ubications. Nor is this strange; for relative entities can be considered both as to what they are in themselves, and as to what they are to one another. Likeness, for instance, is a relation; and yet when we know the likeness of Peter to Paul, and the likeness of Peter to John, we can still compare the one likeness with the other, and pronounce that the one is greater than the other.

When the ubication is considered simply as a termination of absolute space without regard for anything else, then we call it _absolute_, and we define it as _the mode of being of an element in absolute space_, by which the element is constituted in the divine presence. This absolute ubication is an _essential mode_ of the material element no less than its dependence from the first cause, and is altogether immutable so long as the element exists; for, on the one hand, the element cannot exist but within the domain of divine immensity, and, on the other, it cannot have different modes of being with regard to it, as absolute space is the same all throughout, and the element, however much we may try to imagine different positions for it, must always be in the centre, so to say, of that infinite expanse. Hence, absolute ubication is altogether unchangeable.

When the ubication of one element is compared with that of another element in order to ascertain their mutual relation in space, then the ubication is called _relative_, and, as such, it may be defined as _the mode of terminating a relation in space_. This ubication is changeable, not in its intrinsic entity, but in its relative formality; and it is only under this formality that the ubication can be ranked among the predicamental accidents; for this changeable formality is the only thing in it which bears the stamp of an accidental entity.

The consideration of relative ubications leads us directly to the consideration of the relation existing between two points distinctly ubicated in space. Such a relation is called _distance_. Distance is commonly considered as a quantity; yet it is not primarily a quantity, but simply the relation existing between two ubications with room for movement from the one to the other. Nevertheless, this very possibility of movement from one point to another gives us a sufficient foundation for considering the relation of distance as a virtual dimensive quantity. For the movement which is possible between two distant points may be greater or less, according to the different manners in which these points are related. Now, more and less imply quantity.

The quantity of distance is essentially continuous. For it is by continuous movement that the length of the distance is measured. The point which by its movement measures the distance, describes a straight line by the shifting of its ubication from one term of the distance to the other. The distance, as a relation, is the object of the intellect, but, as a virtual quantity, it is the object of imagination also. We cannot conceive distances as relations without at the same time apprehending them as quantities. For, as we cannot estimate distances except by the extent of the movement required in order to pass from one of its terms to the other, we always conceive distances as relative quantities of length; and yet distances, objectively, are only relations, by which such quantities of length are determined. The true quantity of length is _the line_ which is drawn, or can be drawn, by the movement of a point from term to term. In fact, a line which reaches from term to term exhibits in itself the extent of the movement by which it is generated, and it may rightly be looked upon as a track of it, inasmuch as the point, which describes it, formally marks by its gliding ubication all the intermediate space. The marking is, of course, a transient act; but transient though it is, it gives to the intermediate space a permanent connotation; for a fact once passed, remains a fact for ever. Thus the gliding ubication leaves a permanent, intelligible, though invisible, mark of its passage; and this we call a geometric line. The line is therefore, formally, a quantity of length, whereas the distance is only virtually a quantity, inasmuch as it determines the length of the movement by which the line can be described. Nevertheless, since we cannot, as already remarked, conceive distances without referring the one of its terms to the other through space, and, therefore, without drawing, at least mentally, a line from the one to the other, all distances, as known to us, are already measured in some manner, and consequently they exhibit themselves as formal quantities. Distance is the base of all dimensions in space, and its extension is measured by movement. It is therefore manifest that no extension in space is conceivable without movement, and all quantity of extension is measured by movement.

We have said that distance is a relation between two terms as existing in distinct ubications; and we have now to inquire what is the foundation of such a relation. This question is of high philosophical importance, as on its solution depends whether some of our arguments against Pantheism are or are not conclusive. Common people, and a great number of philosophers too, confound relations with their foundation, and do not reflect that when they talk of distances as _relative spaces_, they do not speak with sufficient distinctness.

We are going to show that relative space must be distinguished from distances, as well as from geometric surfaces and volumes, although these quantities are also called “relative spaces” by an improper application of words. Relative space is not an intrinsic constituent, but only an extrinsic foundation, of these relative quantities; hence these quantities cannot be styled “relative spaces” without attributing to the formal results what strictly belongs to their formal reason.

What is relative space? Whoever understands the meaning of the words will say that relative space is that through which the movement from a point to another point is possible. Now, the possibility of movement can be viewed under three different aspects. First, as a possibility dependent on the active power of a mover; for movement is impossible without a mover. Secondly, as a possibility dependent on the passivity of the movable term; for no movement can be imparted to a term which does not receive the momentum. Thirdly, as a possibility dependent on the perviousness of space which allows a free passage to the moving point; for this is absolutely necessary for the possibility of movement.

In the present question, it is evident that the possibility of movement cannot be understood either in the first or in the second of these three manners; for our question does not regard the relation of the agent to the patient, or of the patient to the agent, but merely the relation of one ubication to another, and the freedom for movement between them. If the possibility of movement were taken here as originating in a motive power, such a possibility would be greater or less according to the greater or less power; and thus the relativity of two given ubications would be changed without altering their relation in space; which is absurd. And if the possibility of movement were taken as resulting from the passivity of the term moved, then, since this passivity is a mere indifference to receive the motion, and since indifference has no degrees, it would follow that the possibility of movement would be always the same; and therefore the relativity of the ubications would remain the same, even though the ubications were relatively changed; which is another absurdity. Accordingly, the possibility of movement which is involved in the conception of relative space is that which arises from space itself, whose virtual extension virtually contains all possible lines of movement, and allows any such lines to be formally drawn through it by actual movement.

From this it follows that relative space is nothing else than _absolute space as extrinsically terminated by distinct terms, and affording room for movement between them_. It follows, further, that this space is relative, not because it is itself related, but because it is that through which the extrinsic terms are related. It is actively, not passively, relative; it is the _ratio_, not the _rationatum_, the foundation, not the result, of the relativities. It follows, also, that the foundation of the relation of distance is nothing else than space as terminated by two extrinsic terms, and affording room for movement from the one to the other. This space is at the same time absolute and relative; absolute as to its entity, relative as to the extrinsic denomination derived from the relation of which it is the formal reason.

The distinction between absolute and relative space is therefore to be taken, not from space itself, but from its comparison with absolute or with relative ubications. Space, as absolute, exhibits the possibility of all absolute ubications; as relative, it exhibits the possibility of all ubicational changes. Absolute space may therefore be styled simply “the region of ubications,” whilst relative space maybe defined as “the region of movement.”

This notion of relative space will not fail to be opposed by those who think that all real space results from the dimensions of bodies. Their objections, however, need not detain us here, as we have already shown that the grounds of their argumentation are inadmissible. The same notion will be opposed with greater plausibility by those who confound the formal reason of local relations with the relations themselves, under the common name of relative space. Their objections are based on the popular language, as used, even by philosophers, in connection with relative space. We will reduce these objections to two heads, and answer them, together with two others drawn from other sources, that our reader may thus form a clearer judgment of the doctrine we have developed.

_First difficulty._ The entity of a relation is the entity of its foundation. If, then, the foundation of the relation of distance is absolute space, or the virtuality of God’s immensity, it follows that the entity of distance is an uncreated entity. But this cannot be admitted, except by Pantheists. Therefore the relation of distance is not founded on the virtuality of God’s immensity.

This difficulty arises from a false supposition. The entity of the relation is _not_ the entity of its foundation, but it is the entity of the connotation (_respectus_) which arises from the existence of the terms under such a foundation. Likeness, for instance, is a relation resulting between two bodies, say, white, on account of their common property, say, whiteness. Whiteness is therefore the foundation of their likeness; but whiteness it not likeness. On the contrary, the whiteness which founds this relation is still competent to found innumerable other relations; a thing which would be impossible if the entity of the foundation were not infinitely superior to the entity of the relation which results from it.