WH

I. THE INVITATION OF THE QUEEN.

1. Christina of Sweden.

HEN Chanut went to Stockholm in the latter part of the autumn of 1645, the daughter of Gustavus Adolphus had sat for a year on the throne of Sweden. She was nineteen years old, in the zenith of her fortune and power, heiress of a powerful kingdom, and daughter of a man who united the fame of a hero with the glory of a martyr. The love and hopes of her people were fixed upon her, and the first measures of her reign seemed to realize the latter in a high degree. She was still young and unspoiled: her will was as yet master of those bizarre impulses, that capricious and fickle nature, that false and theatrical thirst for greatness, to which she lightly and blindly sacrificed her great destiny. The first princess of the North, both through her political and personal importance, and able to maintain this position, she became of her own accord a vagrant and adventurous woman, and did every thing in her power to make herself unworthy of her father. Her mental powers were in full bloom when Chanut sought to interest her in Descartes; and that which seemed peculiar and unbridled in her nature could be attributed to an excess of youthful vigor, and to that too masculine education which she had received according to the wish of her father. She was passionately fond of hunting, and gratified her taste for it with the best hunters. She was a bold and skilful rider, easily remaining in the

saddle ten hours without dismounting from her horse. She preferred the dress of a man, and despised every adornment. She had hardened her body by fatigue, and strengthened it by a simple and hardy mode of life. She was not only queen in name, but knew how to command; and she was so familiar with the business of the state, so independent in her decisions, so obstinate in their execution, that she made the members of her council feel her superiority. Her literary tastes and her intellectual interests were of a masculine character. She was fond of serious books and conversation, read daily some pages of Tacitus, spoke Latin, and studied Greek. Her exterior betrayed her restless and excitable spirit the expression of her face and the tone of her voice changed quickly as she spoke. Hers was not a religious nature, although she was interested in religious questions, and ready to consider objections from any quarter. She was, therefore, particularly interested in the theoretical aspects of religion and morals, and often took or gave the opportunity for discussing such subjects in conversation. Thus it hap pened that one day, during a conversation with Chanut, who was full of admiration for the queen, she proposed the fol lowing questions: In what does the nature of love consist? Can love to God result from our natural knowledge? Which is worse, excess in love or in hate? The content as well as the aphoristic style of the questions is very characteristic of the philosophical tastes of the queen. Chanut thought that no one could solve these problems better than Descartes, and wrote to him accordingly.

2. Philosophical Letters. Descartes answered from Egmond, Feb. 1, 1647, in a cheerful mood. This "Letter on Love" was the first conversation, as it were, in which Descartes indirectly, and from a distance, engaged with the queen of Sweden; for that she should read it was Chanut's intention in asking for the opinion of the philosopher. The letter is a little masterpiece, a real cabinet picture; and any connoisseur of the philosopher, knowing nothing of its author

ship, or the occasion of its writing, but familiar only with its ideas, the course of its investigations, and the choice of its expressions, would immediately exclaim, "A genuine Descartes!" He wrote no other work so limited in extent (it does not exceed the limits of an ordinary letter), in which he can be better understood, on the supposition that one knows how to read between the lines of a philosopher.

He distinguished intellectual love from that of passion, and then determined the nature of love in general, by an analytical inquiry: it consists in this, that we imagine an object whose presence or possession gives us pleasure, whose absence or loss gives us pain. We, therefore, desire this object with all the strength of our wills: we wish to be united, or form one whole with it, ourselves to be but a part of this whole. Love is necessarily united with pleasure, pain, and desire. These four directions of the will depend upon the nature of the soul proper, without union with the body. They are contained in the need for knowledge, which belongs to a thinking being. As thinking beings, we love the knowledge of things, feel pleasure when we have it, and pain when we are deprived of it, and, therefore, strive to possess it. Nothing is obscure here. Only the desire for knowledge moves our soul. We know what we love and desire, what rejoices us, and what afflicts us. The joys and sorrows of intellectual love, therefore, are not passions, but clear ideas. The love which is of the nature of passion or of sense, first arises when those clear ideas become obscured by the union of the soul with the body. There are bodily states or changes with which certain desires in our soul are coincident, although there is no resemblance or connection between them. In this way arise the obscure desires of sense and passion, which seek certain objects, and shun others; the possession of those gives pleasure, the presence of these, pain; those are loved, these are hated. Pleasure and pain, love and hate, are the four fundamental forms of the desires of sense, the elementary passions out of which, by composition and modi

fication, all the rest arise. They are the only passions to which we are subject before birth, since they are active even in the nourishment of the embryonic life. Intellectual love coincides with the need for knowledge of our thinking nature; that of passion has its roots in the needs for nourishment of our organic nature. There is a conception of desirable objects (intellectual love) without bodily excitation, and without passion; and in like manner passion can exist without knowledge. There is love without passion, and passion without love. In the usual acceptation of the term, both are united in human love. Soul and body are united in such a manner that particular activities of thought and will accompany particular organic states, and mutually summon each other, like thoughts and words. Thus, the conception of desirable objects or love finds its involuntary bodily expression in the increased activity of the heart, and the more rapid circulation of the blood. This love which is both of soul and body, this union of intellection and passion, constitutes the feeling concerning whose nature the queen inquired.

From this it seems to follow that God, too exalted to be accessible, and too spiritual to be brought before our minds by means of the senses, can never be an object of love in the light of natural knowledge, since the representation of the Godhead to the senses is either the mystery of incarnation, as in Christianity, or the error of idolatry, as in the religions of paganism, where one, like Ixion, embraces a cloud instead of a goddess. Yet by deep reflection, the idea of God can become love, and, indeed, the most powerful of all passions, if we recognize in God the origin, and, therefore, the goal, of our mental life. But we must not regard this goal as a kind of becoming-divine, otherwise we fall into a dangerous error, which is not loving God, but desiring his divinity. Rather, we recognize in God the origin, not merely of our souls, but of the whole universe, which does not need to be a sphere in order to find its ground and stability in God alone.

This knowledge of the omnipotent will is so sublime that it fills us with joy, and with the effort to humbly follow the will of God. Therein consists the true love of God, illuminated by natural knowledge; and it is so powerful that it takes possession, even of the heart and nerves. The feel

ing of reverence does no harm to the feeling of love, but unites with it the wish to sacrifice one's self for the beloved object. Even friendship is capable of sacrifice; much more, patriotism. The more exalted the object of our love, the more joyous and willing is the subordination of ourselves; and there is, therefore, no obstacle to the union of the deepest love and reverence in the same feeling. Chanut himself, said Descartes, could best testify to the truth of this, since he experienced it. "If I asked you on your conscience, whether you love that noble queen near whom you now live, you might persist in saying that you feel for her only admiration, homage, reverence; but, in spite of it, I should maintain that your feeling is an ardent affection, since, as often as you speak of her, there flows from your mouth such a torrent of admiring words, that, as much as I believe you (I know your love of truth, and have heard of it from others), I am convinced you could not describe her with such animation if she had not excited your affections, and warmed your heart. Indeed, it is impossible to be so near such a luminary without being warmed by it."

Which is worse, an excess of love, or an excess of hate? The more our benevolence suffers through a passion, and our contentment decreases, and the more our pernicious excesses increase, the worse is the passion. There is no doubt that hate nourishes wickedness, while it poisons even kind natures; that it is a miserable and tormenting feeling, destitute of any real satisfaction, for the pleasure of hate is demoniacal,, belonging to evil spirits in the place of torment. But as to pernicious excesses, the greater excess is also the worse. We must, therefore, inquire which of the two passions is in general more inclined to excess? And Descartes' answer is,