University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XXIX
THE ABYSS OF IGNORANCE (1902)

THE years hurried past, and gave hardly time to note their
work. Three or four months, though big with change,
come to an end before the mind can catch up with it.
Winter vanished; spring burst into flower; and again Paris opened
its arms, though not for long. Mr. Cameron came over, and took
the castle of Inverlochy for three months, which he summoned his
friends to garrison. Lochaber seldom laughs, except for its children,
such as Camerons, McDonalds, Campbells and other products of
the mist; but in the summer of 1902 Scotland put on fewer airs
of coquetry than usual. Since the terrible harvest of 1879 which
one had watched sprouting on its stalks on the Shropshire hillsides,
nothing had equalled the gloom. Even when the victims fled to
Switzerland, they found the Lake of Geneva and the Rhine not
much gayer, and Carlsruhe no more restful than Paris; until at
last, in desperation, one drifted back to the Avenue of the Bois
de Boulogne, and, like the Cuckoo dropped into the nest of a
better citizen. Diplomacy has its uses. Reynolds Hitt, transferred
to Berlin, abandoned his attic to Adams, and there, for long summers
to come, he hid in ignorance and silence.

Life at last managed of its own accord to settle itself into a working
arrangement. After so many years of effort to find one's drift,
the drift found the seeker, and slowly swept him forward and
back, with a steady progress oceanwards. Such lessons as summer
taught, winter tested, and one had only to watch the apparent
movement of the stars in order to guess one's declination. The
process is possible only for men who have exhausted auto-motion.
Adams never knew why, knowing nothing of Faraday, he began to
mimic Faraday's trick of seeing lines of force all about him, where
he had always seen lines of will. Perhaps the effect of knowing no

mathematics is to leave the mind to imagine figures—images—
phantoms; one's mind is a watery mirror at best; but, once conceived,
the image became rapidly simple, and the lines of force
presented themselves as lines of attraction. Repulsions counted
only as battle of attractions. By this path, the mind stepped into
the mechanical theory of the universe before knowing it, and entered
a distinct new phase of education.

This was the work of the dynamo and the Virgin of Chartres.
Like his masters, since thought began, he was handicapped by the
eternal mystery of Force—the sink of all science. For thousands
of years in history, he found that Force had been felt as occult
attraction—love of God and lust for power in a future life.
After 1500, when this attraction began to decline, philosophers
fell back on some vis a tergo—instinct of danger from behind,
like Darwin's survival of the fittest; and one of the greatest minds,
between Descartes and Newton—Pascal—saw the master-motor
of man in ennui, which was also scientific: "I have often said that
all the troubles of man come from his not knowing how to sit still."
Mere restlessness forces action. "So passes the whole of life.
We combat obstacles in order to get repose, and, when got, the
repose is insupportable; for we think either of the troubles we
have, or of those that threaten us; and even if we felt safe on every
side, ennui would of its own accord spring up from the depths of the
heart where it is rooted by nature, and would fill the mind with its
venom."

Ennui, like Natural Selection, accounted for change, but failed
to account for direction of change. For that, an attractive force
was essential; a force from outside; a shaping influence. Pascal
and all the old philosophies called this outside force God or Gods.
Caring but little for the name, and fixed only on tracing the Force,
Adams had gone straight to the Virgin at Chartres, and asked Her

to show him God, face to face, as she did for St. Bernard. She
replied, kindly as ever, as though she were still the young mother
of to-day, with a sort of patient pity for masculine dulness: "My
dear outcast, what is it you seek? This is the Church of Christ!
If you seek him through me, you are welcome, sinner or saint;
but he and I are one. We are Love! We have little or nothing to
do with God's other energies which are infinite, and concern us the
less because our interest is only in man, and the infinite is not knowable
to man. Yet if you are troubled by your ignorance, you see
how I am surrounded by the masters of the schools! Ask them!"

The answer sounded singularly like the usual answer of British
science which had repeated since Bacon that one must not try to
know the unknowable, though one was quite powerless to ignore
it; but the Virgin carried more conviction, for her feminine lack of
interest in all perfections except her own was honester than the
formal phrase of science; since nothing was easier than to follow her
advice, and turn to Thomas Aquinas, who, unlike modern physicists,
answered at once and plainly: "To me," said St. Thomas,
"Christ and the Mother are one Force—Love—simple, single,
and sufficient for all human wants; but Love is a human interest
which acts even on man so partially that you and I, as philosophers,
need expect no share in it. Therefore we turn to Christ and the
Schools who represent all other Force. We deal with Multiplicity
and call it God. After the Virgin has redeemed by her personal
Force as Love all that is redeemable in man, the Schools embrace
the rest, and give it Form, Unity, and Motive."

This chart of Force was more easily studied than any other possible
scheme, for one had but to do what the Church was always
promising to do—abolish in one flash of lightning not only
man, but also the Church itself, the earth, the other planets, and
the sun, in order to clear the air; without affecting mediæval
science. The student felt warranted in doing what the Church
threatened—abolishing his solar system altogether—in order
to look at God as actual; continuous movement, universal cause,

and interchangeable force. This was pantheism, but the Schools
were pantheist; at least as pantheistic as the Energetik of the
Germans; and their deity was the ultimate energy, whose thought
and act were one.

Rid of man and his mind, the universe of Thomas Aquinas
seemed rather more scientific than that of Haeckel or Ernst Mach.
Contradiction for contradiction, Attraction for attraction, Energy
for energy, St. Thomas's idea of God had merits. Modern science
offered not a vestige of proof, or a theory of connection between
its forces, or any scheme of reconciliation between thought
and mechanics; while St. Thomas at least linked together the
joints of his machine. As far as a superficial student could follow,
the thirteenth century supposed mind to be a mode of force directly
derived from the intelligent prime motor, and the cause of all form
and sequence in the universe—therefore the only proof of unity.
Without thought in the unit, there could be no unity; without
unity no orderly sequence or ordered society. Thought alone
was Form. Mind and Unity flourished or perished together.

This education startled even a man who had dabbled in fifty
educations all over the world; for, if he were obliged to insist on a
Universe, he seemed driven to the Church. Modern science guaranteed
no unity. The student seemed to feel himself, like all his
predecessors, caught, trapped, meshed in this eternal drag-net of
religion.

In practice the student escapes this dilemma in two ways:
the first is that of ignoring it, as one escapes most dilemmas;
the second is that the Church rejects pantheism as worse than
atheism, and will have nothing to do with the pantheist at any
price. In wandering through the forests of ignorance, one necessarily
fell upon the famous old bear that scared children at play;
but, even had the animal shown more logic than its victim, one
had learned from Socrates to distrust, above all other traps, the
trap of logic—the mirror of the mind. Yet the" search for a unit
of force led into catacombs of thought where hundreds of thousands

of educations had found their end. Generation after generation
of painful and honest-minded scholars had been content to
stay in these labyrinths forever, pursuing ignorance in silence, in
company with the most famous teachers of all time. Not one of
them had ever found a logical highroad of escape.

Adams cared little whether he escaped or not, but he felt clear
that he could not stop there, even to enjoy the society of Spinoza
and Thomas Aquinas. True, the Church alone had asserted unity
with any conviction, and the historian alone knew what oceans
of blood and treasure the assertion had cost; but the only honest
alternative to affirming unity was to deny it; and the denial would
require a new education. At sixty-five years old a new education
promised hardly more than the old.

Possibly the modern legislator or magistrate might no longer
know enough to treat as the Church did the man who denied unity,
unless the denial took the form of a bomb; but no teacher would
know how to explain what he thought he meant by denying unity.
Society would certainly punish the denial if ever any one learned
enough to understand it. Philosophers, as a rule, cared little what
principles society affirmed or denied, since the philosopher commonly
held that though he might sometimes be right by good
luck on some one point, no complex of individual opinions could
possibly be anything but wrong; yet, supposing society to be ignored,
the philosopher was no further forward. Nihilism had no
bottom. For thousands of years every philosopher had stood on
the shore of this sunless sea, diving for pearls and never finding
them. All had seen that, since they could not find bottom, they
must assume it. The Church claimed to have found it, but, since
1450, motives for agreeing on some new assumption of Unity,
broader and deeper than that of the Church, had doubled in force
until even the universities and schools, like the Church and State,
seemed about to be driven into an attempt to educate, though
specially forbidden to do it.

Like most of his generation, Adams had taken the word of science

that the new unit was as good as found. It would not be an
intelligence—probably not even a consciousness—but it would
serve. He passed sixty years waiting for it, and at the end of that
time, on reviewing the ground, he was led to think that the final
synthesis of science and its ultimate triumph was the kinetic
theory of gases; which seemed to cover all motion in space, and
to furnish the measure of time. So far as he understood it, the
theory asserted that any portion of space is occupied by molecules
of gas, flying in right lines at velocities varying up to a mile
in a second, and colliding with each other at intervals varying up
to 17,750,000 times in a second. To this analysis—if one understood
it right—all matter whatever was reducible, and the only
difference of opinion in science regarded the doubt whether a still
deeper analysis would reduce the atom of gas to pure motion.

Thus, unless one mistook the meaning of motion, which might
well be, the scientific synthesis commonly called Unity was the
scientific analysis commonly called Multiplicity. The two things
were the same, all forms being shifting phases of motion. Granting
this ocean of colliding atoms, the last hope of humanity, what
happened if one dropped the sounder into the abyss—let it go
—frankly gave up Unity altogether? What was Unity? Why
was one to be forced to affirm it?

Here everybody flatly refused help. Science seemed content
with its old phrase of "larger synthesis," which was well enough
for science, but meant chaos for man. One would have been glad
to stop and ask no more, but the anarchist bomb bade one go on,
and the bomb is a powerful persuader. One could not stop, even
to enjoy the charms of a perfect gas colliding seventeen million
times in a second, much like an automobile in Paris. Science itself
had been crowded so close to the edge of the abyss that its attempts
to escape were as metaphysical as the leap, while an ignorant old
man felt no motive for trying to escape, seeing that the only escape
possible lay in the form of vis a tergo commonly called Death.
He got out his Descartes again; dipped into his Hume and Berkeley;

wrestled anew with his Kant; pondered solemnly over his
Hegel and Schopenhauer and Hartmann; strayed gaily away
with his Greeks—all merely to ask what Unity meant, and what
happened when one denied it.

Apparently one never denied it. Every philosopher, whether
sane or insane, naturally affirmed it. The utmost flight of anarchy
seemed to have stopped with the assertion of two principles, and
even these fitted into each other, like good and evil, light and
darkness. Pessimism itself, black as it might be painted, had been
content to turn the universe of contradictions into the human
thought as one Will, and treat it as representation. Metaphysics
insisted on treating the universe as one thought or treating thought
as one universe; and philosophers agreed, like a kinetic gas, that the
universe could be known only as motion of mind, and therefore
as unity. One could know it only as one's self; it was psychology.

Of all forms of pessimism, the metaphysical form was, for a historian,
the least enticing. Of all studies, the one he would rather
have avoided was that of his own mind. He knew no tragedy
so heartrending as introspection, and the more, because—as
Mephistopheles said of Marguerite—he was not the first. Nearly
all the highest intelligence known to history had drowned itself
in the reflection of its own thought, and the bovine survivors had
rudely told the truth about it, without affecting the intelligent.
One's own time had not been exempt. Even since 1870 friends
by scores had fallen victims to it. Within five-and-twenty years,
a new library had grown out of it. Harvard College was a focus
of the study; France supported hospitals for it; England published
magazines of it. Nothing was easier than to take one's mind in
one's hand, and ask one's psychological friends what they made
of it, and the more because it mattered so little to either party,
since their minds, whatever they were, had pretty nearly ceased
to reflect, and let them do what they liked with the small remnant,
they could scarcely do anything very new with it. All one asked
was to learn what they hoped to do.

Unfortunately the pursuit of ignorance in silence had, by this
time, led the weary pilgrim into such mountains of ignorance
that he could no longer see any path whatever, and could not even
understand a signpost. He failed to fathom the depths of the new
psychology, which proved to him that, on that side as on the
mathematical side, his power of thought was atrophied, if, indeed,
it ever existed. Since he could not fathom the science, he could
only ask the simplest of questions: Did the new psychology hold
that the ψυχή—soul or mind—was or was not a unit? He
gathered from the books that the psychologists had, in a few cases,
distinguished several personalities in the same mind, each conscious
and constant, individual and exclusive. The fact seemed
scarcely surprising, since it had been a habit of mind from earliest
recorded time, and equally familiar to the last acquaintance who
had taken a drug or caught a fever, or eaten a Welsh rarebit before
bed; for surely no one could follow the action of a vivid dream,
and still need to be told that the actors evoked by his mind were
not himself, but quite unknown to all he had ever recognized as
self. The new psychology went further, and seemed convinced
that it had actually split personality not only into dualism, but
also into complex groups, like telephonic centres and systems,
that might be isolated and called up at will, and whose physical
action might be occult in the sense of strangeness to any known
form of force. Dualism seemed to have become as common as
binary stars. Alternating personalities turned up constantly, even
among one's friends. The facts seemed certain, or at least as
certain as other facts; all they needed was explanation.

This was not the business of the searcher of ignorance, who felt
himself in no way responsible for causes. To his mind, the compound
ψυχή took at once the form of a bicycle-rider, mechanically
balancing himself by inhibiting all his inferior personalities, and sure
to fall into the sub-conscious chaos below, if one of his inferior
personalities got on top. The only absolute truth was the sub-conscious
chaos below, which every one could feel when he sought it.

Whether the psychologists admitted it or not, mattered little
to the student who, by the law of his profession, was engaged in
studying his own mind. On him, the effect was surprising. He
woke up with a shudder as though he had himself fallen off his
bicycle. If his mind were really this sort of magnet, mechanically
dispersing its lines of force when it went to sleep, and mechanically
orienting them when it woke up—which was normal, the
dispersion or orientation? The mind, like the body, kept its unity
unless it happened to lose balance, but the professor of physics,
who slipped on a pavement and hurt himself, knew no more than
an idiot what knocked him down, though he did know—what the
idiot could hardly do—that his normal condition was idiocy,
or want of balance, and that his sanity was unstable artifice. His
normal thought was dispersion, sleep, dream, inconsequence; the
simultaneous action of different thought-centres without central
control. His artificial balance was acquired habit. He was an
acrobat, with a dwarf on his back, crossing a chasm on a slackrope,
and commonly breaking his neck.

By that path of newest science, one saw no unity ahead—
nothing but a dissolving mind—and the historian felt himself
driven back on thought as one continuous Force, without Race,
Sex, School, Country, or Church. This has been always the fate
of rigorous thinkers, and has always succeeded in making them
famous as it did Gibbon, Buckle, and Auguste Comte. Their
method made what progress the science of history knew, which
was little enough, but they did at last fix the law that, if history
ever meant to correct the errors she made in detail, she must
agree on a scale for the whole. Every local historian might defy
this law till history ended, but its necessity would be the same
for man as for space or time or force, and without it the historian
would always remain a child in science.

Any schoolboy could see that man as a force must be measured
by motion, from a fixed point. Psychology helped here by suggesting
a unit—the point of history when man held the highest

idea of himself as a unit in a unified universe. Eight or ten years
of study had led Adams to think he might use the century 1150–
1250, expressed in Amiens Cathedral and the Works of Thomas
Aquinas, as the unit from which he might measure motion down,
to his own time, without assuming anything as true or untrue,
except relation. The movement might be studied at once in philosophy
and mechanics. Setting himself to the task, he began
a volume which he mentally knew as "Mont-Saint-Michel and
Chartres: a Study of Thirteenth-Century Unity." From that
point he proposed to fix a position for himself, which he could label:
"The Education of Henry Adams: a Study of Twentieth-Century
Multiplicity." With the help of these two points of relation, he
hoped to project his lines forward and backward indefinitely, subject
to correction from any one who should know better. Thereupon,
he sailed for home.