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11 Descartes - The Renewal of Philosophy (Renaissance Lives) - Reaktion Books

This document provides an introduction to René Descartes and his significance as a philosopher. Often called the "father of modern philosophy", Descartes made seminal contributions to metaphysical and epistemological questions that have dominated the field since the early 20th century. While some credit other thinkers like Galileo, Hobbes, Bacon, or Montaigne as initiating modern philosophy, Descartes' works beautifully express many philosophical problems that are still grappled with today. The document discusses how exactly philosophy becomes "modern" and notes that while labels like "medieval" and "modern" are useful historiographically, they do not represent precise distinctions. Overall, it was in the 17th century that something special happened in philosophy with the emergence of new
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© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
100% found this document useful (1 vote)
166 views289 pages

11 Descartes - The Renewal of Philosophy (Renaissance Lives) - Reaktion Books

This document provides an introduction to René Descartes and his significance as a philosopher. Often called the "father of modern philosophy", Descartes made seminal contributions to metaphysical and epistemological questions that have dominated the field since the early 20th century. While some credit other thinkers like Galileo, Hobbes, Bacon, or Montaigne as initiating modern philosophy, Descartes' works beautifully express many philosophical problems that are still grappled with today. The document discusses how exactly philosophy becomes "modern" and notes that while labels like "medieval" and "modern" are useful historiographically, they do not represent precise distinctions. Overall, it was in the 17th century that something special happened in philosophy with the emergence of new
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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de sc a r t e s

☞ Books in the renaissance live s series explore and illustrate the


life histories and achievements of significant artists, rulers, intellectuals
and scientists in the early modern world. They delve into literature,
philosophy, the history of art, science and natural history and cover
narratives of exploration, statecraft and technology.

Series Editor: François Quiviger

Already published
Artemisia Gentileschi and Feminism in Early Modern Europe Mary D. Garrard
Blaise Pascal: Miracles and Reason Mary Ann Caws
Botticelli: Artist and Designer Ana Debenedetti
Caravaggio and the Creation of Modernity Troy Thomas
Descartes: The Renewal of Philosophy Stephen Nadler
Donatello and the Dawn of Renaissance Art A. Victor Coonin
Erasmus of Rotterdam: The Spirit of a Scholar William Barker
Filippino Lippi: An Abundance of Invention Jonathan K. Nelson
Giorgione’s Ambiguity Tom Nichols
Hans Holbein: The Artist in a Changing World Jeanne Nuechterlein
Hieronymus Bosch: Visions and Nightmares Nils Büttner
Isaac Newton and Natural Philosophy Niccolò Guicciardini
John Donne: In the Shadow of Religion Andrew Hadfield
John Evelyn: A Life of Domesticity John Dixon Hunt
Leonardo da Vinci: Self, Art and Nature François Quiviger
Leon Battista Alberti: The Chameleon’s Eye Caspar Pearson
Machiavelli: From Radical to Reactionary Robert Black
Michelangelo and the Viewer in His Time Bernadine Barnes
Paracelsus: An Alchemical Life Bruce T. Moran
Petrarch: Everywhere a Wanderer Christopher S. Celenza
Piero della Francesca and the Invention of the Artist Machtelt Brüggen Israëls
Pieter Bruegel and the Idea of Human Nature Elizabeth Alice Honig
Raphael and the Antique Claudia La Malfa
Rembrandt’s Holland Larry Silver
Rubens’s Spirit: From Ingenuity to Genius Alexander Marr
Salvator Rosa: Paint and Performance Helen Langdon
Thomas Nashe and Late Elizabethan Writing Andrew Hadfield
Titian’s Touch: Art, Magic and Philosophy Maria H. Loh
Tycho Brahe and the Measure of the Heavens John Robert Christianson
Ulisse Aldrovandi: Naturalist and Collector Peter Mason
DESCARTES
The Renewal of Philosophy

s t e v e n na dl e r

R E A K T ION B O OK S
Published by Reaktion Books Ltd
Unit 32, Waterside
44–48 Wharf Road
London n1 7ux, uk
www.reaktionbooks.co.uk

First published 2023


Copyright © Steven Nadler 2023
All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval


system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers

Printed and bound in India by Replika Press Pvt. Ltd

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

isbn 978 1 78914 683 7

cover: Frans Hals, René Descartes, 1649, oil on panel.


Statens Museum for Kunst (smk), Copenhagen.
contents

Introduction 7
1 Man of Touraine 14
2 ‘The great book of the world’ 26
3 A Fabulous New World 53
4 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge 91
5 ‘I think, therefore I am’ 114
6 Loss and Conflict 147
7 The Cartesian Textbook 185
8 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’ 223

chronology 252
References 254
bibliography 275
acknowledgements 279
photo acknowledgements 280
index 281
Introduction

W
hen exactly does philosophy become ‘modern’? There
is no clean beginning or end to the medieval period,
nor is there some year that represents the commence-
ment of the Renaissance. Why, then, should there be a specific
point that marks the start of modernity in philosophy or a single
thinker who can be undisputedly identified as the first modern
philosopher? René Descartes is often called ‘the father of modern
philosophy’, and understandably so. Many of the metaphysical
and epistemological questions that have come to dominate phi-
losophy since the early twentieth century are expressed, quite
beautifully and some for the first time, in his works. But plau-
sible claims to the title could also be made on behalf of such
luminaries as Galileo, Thomas Hobbes, Francis Bacon or Michel
de Montaigne, all of whom made significant, but very different,
contributions to what we now regard as modern philosophical
thinking.
Less well known are the so-called novatores, a loosely defined,
international coterie of figures in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries. These ‘innovators’, united by little more than their
rejection of the traditional Aristotelian natural philosophy that
dominated late medieval and early modern academic and scientific
culture, pursued various different paths to a new way of looking
at the world. The list, usually drawn up by their contemporary
opponents, often named Bernardino Telesio, Francesco Patrizi,

Unknown artist, René Descartes, 17th century, engraving.


descartes 8

Giordano Bruno and Tommaso Campanella in Italy, Jean Bodin


in France, David van Goorle (Gorlaeus) in the Netherlands and
William Gilbert in England, among many others – including,
sometimes, Descartes himself.1
However, we might want to save the founder’s honour for
some figure later than Descartes, one whose thought seems less
entangled with medieval Scholasticism and less informed by
theological assumptions and ostensible religious motivations –
say, Bento (Baruch) de Spinoza, who scandalized his contemporaries
with his radical claims about God, nature and the human being;
John Locke, with his uncompromising empiricist theory of knowl-
edge; or, even later, the sceptical atheist David Hume.
Of course, labels such as ‘medieval’ and ‘modern’ are highly
relative scholarly impositions. (Whereas modern philosophy is
generally agreed to arise in the seventeenth century, the beginning
of ‘modern’ literature and ‘modern’ art is typically situated in
the early twentieth century.) While these terms may be convenient
for organizing the historiography of philosophy, they do not
represent precise and absolute distinctions. What, after all, does
it mean for a philosophy to be ‘modern’? From a trivial historical
perspective, Aristotle is more modern than the pre-Socratic
thinkers Thales (who said that ‘all is water’) and Heraclitus (‘all
is fire’), Descartes is more modern than Aristotle, and Hume is
more modern than Descartes. But chronological posteriority is
neither necessary nor sufficient for intellectual modernity. Being
a philosopher in the nineteenth or twentieth century does not
by itself guarantee that one is more ‘modern’ in one’s thinking
than Hume or Kant in the eighteenth century. In any given his-
torical period there will be philosophical continuity with past
traditions, transitional figures and even some backsliding. The
seventeenth century had its share of ‘medievals’, and some of
Descartes’ contemporaries were just as wedded to the categories
of old-fashioned Aristotelianism as was Thomas Aquinas in the
9 Introduction

thirteenth century. At times, Descartes himself can seem more


like the last of the medieval philosophers than the first of the
moderns. Moreover, the early modern period, like any other, also
had ecumenical types committed to marrying the old and the
new – thinkers such as Pierre Gassendi, a latter-day follower of
Epicurus, or the German polymath Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz,
who, late in the century, sought to reconcile the new science with
the resuscitation of some elements of Aristotelian metaphysics.
Does this desire to accommodate the past make them less
‘modern’?
Still, debates about the meaning of ‘modernity’ aside, there
can be no denying that in the seventeenth century something
special happened in philosophy, broadly construed to include
natural philosophy, or what we now call ‘science’. Roughly between
1600 and 1700, there emerged new ways of thinking about the
world and about the human being’s place in nature, in society
and in the cosmos. This did not happen all of a sudden, and the
way was certainly paved (and often blocked) by earlier thinkers.
It was also conditioned by developments in the historical, political
and religious domains. Continuities abound, and the so-called
age of reason – a somewhat outdated moniker invented to contrast
it with what had been labelled the ‘age of faith’ – was not immune
to the internal dialectical developments and the external influ-
ences that generally govern the history of philosophy. Nonetheless,
there was a remarkable and decisive change – or, better, given
the number of philosophical traditions flourishing in the early
modern era, a series of changes – that took place in the seven-
teenth century. Moreover, the change was in effect a permanent
one. A fairly direct line of descent can be drawn between these
innovations and how philosophy and science are done today;
the ancestry of contemporary physics, for example, clearly lies
in seventeenth-century natural philosophy. By contrast, it is
more difficult to find such affinity between contemporary thought
descartes 10

and medieval Scholastic theories and methods. It really does


not seem unwarranted, in referring to this early modern period,
still to use that other old-fashioned term ‘scientific revolution’
– where ‘science’ is taken to include the study of human nature
as well.
Methodologically, the ‘new philosophy’ (for this is how con-
temporaries often referred to it), despite important differences
among its various strains, involves a general tendency to rely on
reason rather than authority to determine what is and what is
not philosophically and scientifically legitimate. In other words,
the limits of truth are a matter of discovery, not decree. Whether
the alleged authority was supposed to be located in sacred texts,
ecclesiastic or academic dogma, the opinions of the civil sovereign,
or even earlier philosophical traditions (such as Plato and
Aristotle), all must now give way to the independent epistemic
testimony of the human rational faculties. The new philosophy
also involves a commitment to perspicuous and predictively reli-
able causal explanations of phenomena – explanations which,
in turn, are made possible by the evidence of experience, the use
of experiment and, perhaps most radically of all, the application
of mathematics, or at least quantitative models, to nature’s
processes.
Substantively, the new philosophy’s proponents in the sev-
enteenth century are also committed to thinking of most of
nature – and, in the case of some thinkers, all of nature, including
the human mind – as operating on the same basic principles as
artificial machines. The modern philosophers, unlike their medi-
eval predecessors and less progressive contemporaries, regarded
terrestrial and celestial phenomena as constituted by one and
the same kind of matter and governed by the same set of laws.
They believed that all of the visible and invisible events in the
world, no matter how wonderful – the changes we see and the
hidden causes we postulate – are nothing but the motion and rest
11 Introduction

of pieces of matter and alterations in their properties brought


about by contact. At the end of the century, Isaac Newton will
call this fundamental assumption into question when he allows
for mathematically expressed forces in nature that do not operate
‘mechanically’. But before Newton, a significant part of what
made modern philosophy ‘modern’ – what made it new – was a
devotion to the idea that everything in nature could be explained
by the collision, conglomeration and division of parts of matter
of varying size, shape and hardness.
In the search for the origins of modern philosophy, then,
there does seem to be something special about the seventeenth
century. And if there is, lurking somewhere in that century, a work
that constitutes the Ulysses or Les demoiselles d’Avignon of philosophy’s
modernity – a treatise both so original and iconoclastic in its
conception and so extensive in its influence that it effects a kind
of renewal, even a paradigm shift, within philosophy; a treatise
that not only self-consciously represents a break with the prin-
ciples and categories of past thinking but succeeds in setting the
agenda, in substance and in style, for philosophizing for subse-
quent generations – there is no better place to look than the
oeuvre of Descartes.
A Frenchman who spent most of his adult life in self-imposed
exile in the Dutch Republic to pursue his investigations in peace
and quiet, Descartes was indeed a bold innovator. Despite the
fact that, for rhetorical and defensive reasons, he occasionally
disclaimed that label and insisted that his work was not especially
novel, and with all due respect to scholarly efforts to make his
philosophy seem less of a departure from the reigning Aristotelian
paradigm, Cartesian philosophy was indeed a new starting point
for understanding the world. Descartes did not see himself as
continuing the development of any particular tradition, and he
explicitly rejected the philosophy of medieval and early modern
Scholasticism (though he was not above using its vocabulary and
descartes 12

even its conceptual apparatus). As he says, ‘I want people to rec-


ognize the difference that exists between the philosophy I practice
and that which is taught in the Schools.’2 Rather than working
within some well-established, even codified, system, Descartes
sought new methodological, epistemological and metaphysical
bases for the discovery of truth in the sciences.
Among Descartes’ extant philosophical, physical, medical and
mathematical writings, there are several works that stand out in
their time for their avant-garde character. These include two
treatises that most readers today associate with his name – the
Meditations on First Philosophy and the Discourse on Method. There is
also the less familiar but, in the period, more important Principles
of Philosophy, the grand summa of his philosophical system that
Descartes published in 1644 and that he hoped would supplant
the neo-Aristotelian textbooks used in the schools and colleges.
Equally important is an early work that, to readers today, will be
the least familiar of all of Descartes’ writings: The World. This inves-
tigation into ‘all the phenomena of nature’ was totally unknown
to his immediate contemporaries, with the exception of his most
intimate friends, because it was never published in his lifetime.
Descartes began the research that informs his writings some-
what haphazardly, several years after discovering his philosophical
vocation but while still in the process of figuring out how to go
about realizing it. It all started with a number of particular prob-
lems of optics, and the result was supposed to be nothing more
than a compendium of topics in what he called ‘physics’. But over
the course of several years, as one question led to another and his
investigations expanded to cover a greater variety of scientific
subjects, the boundaries of the project swelled immensely. The
goal eventually became, in essence, an explanation of everything,
grounded in secure epistemological and metaphysical foundations.
As the scheme grew, however, so did the apparent risks. What
might have been a small and harmless treatment of the physics of
13 Introduction

light ended up being a series of grand, certainly controversial and


(he suspected) probably heretical treatises that discussed God,
the soul, knowledge, the origins and structure of the cosmos and
the nature of human life.
one
Man of Touraine

A
major theme of the philosophy of the seventeenth-
century French thinker René Descartes is the radical
separation of mind and body. These are, in his view,
two distinct and independent substances; they have absolutely
nothing in common in their respective natures and properties,
and the existence of one does not require the existence of the
other. While the doctrine is not new with Descartes – it goes
back to antiquity – he defended it in a particularly clear and sys-
tematic way, and it was crucial for his grand scientific project.
It thus seems appropriate, and yet not a little ironic, that while
Descartes’ intellectual legacy – the contribution of his mind –
is well established, his life story is bookended by disputes about
his body.
Descartes spent his final days in Stockholm. He had been
summoned to the Swedish capital by Queen Christina to serve
as her philosophy tutor. It was with great reluctance that he left
his comfortable abode in the Dutch Republic, where he had been
residing for most of his adult life, ‘to go live in a land of bears,
among the rocks and ice’.1 Within just a couple of months, rising
early in the morning to give the queen her lessons, Descartes
caught pneumonia and died, on 11 February 1650.
The philosopher’s remains were eventually sent back to France,
sixteen years after his death, and interred in Paris in the church
of Saint-Geneviève-du-Mont. When the church was threatened
15 Man of Touraine

by mobs in 1792, in the wake of the French Revolution, his casket


was supposed to have been dug up and, along with other church
property, taken away for safekeeping. While various works of art
and other items from the church did indeed make it to a sanctuary,
it seems that Descartes’ bones did not. Their exhumation and
transport were but another victim of the turmoil of that time.
Thus, despite the great reburial ceremony of 1819, there is no
telling who now lies in the tomb marked Memoriae renati Descartes
in the church of Saint-Germain-des-Près. Almost certainly it is
not Descartes. The whereabouts of his remains are unknown.
More­­over, something rather important was missing from the
casket that had arrived from Sweden: the skull. Descartes’ head
was said to have been left behind in 1666, and only later sent to
France. It is now, we are told, sitting in a cabinet in Paris’s Musée
de l’homme.2
Questions, albeit less morbid ones, also surround the begin-
ning of the journey of Descartes’ body. The family home of
Joachim Descartes (1563–1640) and his wife Jeanne Brochard
(d. 1597) was in the village of Châtellerault, in the province of
Poitou. However, Joachim, a counsellor for the king in the par-
lement of Brittany, often resided in Rennes for months at a time.
Descartes’ niece Catherine, the daughter of his older brother
Pierre, thus claims that her uncle was ‘conceived among the
Bretons’.3 It is highly unlikely, though, that Jeanne accompanied
her husband on his extended business trips. The philosopher
must have been conceived at home, in Châtellerault. With
Joachim then away for a while, Jeanne and her two older chil-
dren, Pierre (1591–1660) and Jeanne (1593–1641), relocated to
the town of La Haye, in the neighbouring province of Touraine.
There, at the home of her widowed mother, Jeanne Sain, Jeanne
would spend the final months of her pregnancy. The third child
of the Descartes family to survive infancy, to be named René at
his baptism, was born on 31 March 1596. (La Haye itself would
descartes 16

later be rechristened ‘La Haye–Descartes’, in 1802; in 1967 it


became simply ‘Descartes’.)
Provincial rivalries being what they are, Poitou was not so
willing to give up the title to being the birthplace of France’s most
famous philosopher. Thus there emerged in the early nineteenth
century a story about how, on her way to her mother’s home in
La Haye, Jeanne’s carriage went off the road, whereupon she went
into labour in a ditch near a farm named La Sybillière. After
taking a day to recover from her ordeal, she continued on to La
Haye, where the child was baptized. Old myths die hard, and to
this day locals near Châtellerault still refer to Descartes as ‘a man
of Poitou’.4
There is no good reason to believe this convenient tale, other
than devotion to Poitevin honour. It is true that Isaac Beeckman,
whom Descartes would befriend in 1618 while journeying through
the Dutch Republic, refers in his journal several times to Descartes
as ‘from Poitou’ or as ‘Poitevin’.5 But Descartes was, we can be
sure, born in Touraine. After all, he tells his friend Henri Brasset,
secretary to the French ambassador in The Hague, that he is ‘a
man . . . born in the gardens of Touraine’. He also probably spent
a good deal of his childhood in those gardens, at the home of his
grandmother. This is because his mother (along with her baby)
died in childbirth the following year. Curiously, Descartes would
later offer one of his correspondents a different account of his
mother’s death: ‘I was born of a mother who died, a few days
after my birth, from a disease of the lungs, caused by distress.’6
If he did in fact believe that he was partly responsible for the loss
of his mother – was this what he was told by a relative? – it would
have been a heavy burden to bear.
With his mother buried and his father so often in Brittany,
care for the young boy devolved to the many family members
in the vicinity: his grandmother in La Haye, and other grand-
parents, great-uncles and -aunts, and godparents in and around
17 Man of Touraine

Châtellerault. Descartes’ first four years were probably split


between the two towns. But when his father remarried in 1600
– his new wife was Anne Morin de Chavagnes, from Nantes –
and moved to Rennes for good, rather than accompany him so
far from the family lands, Descartes and his siblings moved in
with their maternal grandmother in La Haye.7
Later in life, Descartes would refer to himself as the ‘Sieur
du Perron’, after a small farm in Poitou that he inherited from
his father and which he later sold to finance his intellectual voca-
tion. This is a bit of pretension, since the extended family did
not belong to the old landed nobility, the noblesse d’épée. Rather,
they were members of the noblesse de robe. Their roles and nominal
titles were purchased, not landed. In this period it was possible
to enter the second estate through ‘venal’ office, as a public bureau-
crat or administrator. Local royal counsellors, jurists and tax
officials were among the lucrative positions that could be bought.
They did not come cheap – in some cases upwards of 100,000
livres – but they brought in a good income, and could be passed
down to the sons in the next generation. (Not incidentally, such
positions also exempted one from paying the steep royal taxes.)
Descartes’ father Joachim had a comfortable position in
Brittany as the crown’s legal attaché. Those relatives in Poitou
and Touraine who looked after the young Descartes when his
father was in Rennes also occupied high professional positions,
as lawyers and surgeons or physicians. While Joachim had opted
for a legal career, his father Pierre Descartes, his grandfather Jean
Ferrand and his uncle Jean Ferrand ii were all medical doctors.
In the political, legal and financial domains, a great-uncle on
Descartes’ father’s side, Michel Ferrand, was the lieutenant general
of Châtellerault, while a great-uncle on his mother’s side, Pierre
Sain, was the town’s tax official. One uncle on his mother’s side
was royal counsellor in Poitiers, and another served as a deputy
to the États Généraux. Descartes’ brother Pierre, meanwhile,
descartes 18

would follow in his father’s professional footsteps and also become


a royal counsellor in the Brittany parlement.8
It probably seemed to the young Descartes, and to his family,
that he, too, was destined for a lucrative legal career of some kind.
In the end, though, it was not to be.

Though he was baptized as a Catholic, Henri de Navarre


was raised by his mother in the Protestant faith. After successfully
defending his claim to the French throne against other contend-
ers, however, he formally converted to Catholicism before being
crowned Henri iv in 1594. If this mollifed his many opponents,
their concerns about Henri’s true loyalty were revived just a few
years later when, in 1598, he granted official, if limited, toleration
to Protestants with the proclamation of the Edict of Nantes.
Over the years, both before and after his coronation, Henri
managed to survive several assassination attempts. But fate finally
caught up with him in 1610, when a fanatical Catholic assassin,
maddened by concessions to Huguenots, jumped into the king’s
carriage in Paris and stabbed him to death. Most of Henri’s body
was laid to rest in the Basilica of Saint-Denis, near Paris – all
except his heart, which made the three-day journey by carriage
to the town of La Flèche, in the Loire Valley, where the king had
grown up.
In 1604 the Jesuits established in La Flèche a royal collège or
preparatory school. Henri had expelled the order in 1594, after
one of their members tried to kill him, but allowed them to
return in 1603, and even invited them to open a new educa-
tional institution in one of his chateaus in the area. This school
had a special place in the king’s heart, and so would have the
honour of being its final home.
The Collège royal de la Compagnie de Jésus (La Flèche)
offered a traditional Jesuit curriculum, as set by the order’s Ratio
19 Man of Touraine

studiorum of 1599. The focus was on classical languages and the


liberal arts, broadly construed to include the ‘humanities’ disci-
plines as well as fields now classified as ‘sciences’. The classes in
the nine-year course of study were all conducted in Latin. They
were intended to properly cultivate students – intellectually,
socially and religiously – in order to prepare them for professional
careers and, if such was their vocation, higher studies in the uni-
versity faculties of theology, law or medicine. (Students seeking
to become ordained Jesuit priests could also remain at La Flèche
for an additional three to four years of theology.)
The programme began with a six-year sequence of Latin and
Greek grammar, rhetoric and literature, so that ‘the youths
entrusted to the Society’s care may acquire not only learning but
also habits of conduct worthy of a Christian’.9 The texts were
drawn from both classical antiquity (Homer, Hesiod, Pindar,

Étienne Martellange, Veüe du Collège Royal de la Flèche, 1612, pen and brown ink,
blue wash.
descartes 20

Demosthenes, Thucydides, Plato, Aristotle – including the Poetics


– Cicero, Caesar, Horace, Ovid, Livy, Virgil, Quintilian) and early
Church writings (the Ratio lists saints Gregory of Nazianzus, Basil
and John Chrysostom). After completing this elementary stage,
students moved on to the three-year ‘philosophy’ curriculum,
which involved logic, physics (supplemented by mathematics,
mainly Euclid), metaphysics and moral philosophy, all based
almost exclusively on texts from Aristotle: selections from the
Prior Analytics, On Interpretation, Topics, Physics, On the Soul, On Generation
and Corruption, Metaphysics – ‘passing over the questions on God
. . . which depend on truths derived from revelation’ – and, the
syllabus notes, ‘all ten books of Aristotle’s Ethics’. They also read
commentaries on these works by medieval and early modern
Aristotelians, such as Thomas Aquinas and the sixteenth-century
Jesuits Francisco de Toledo and Pedro da Fonseca.
Classes at La Flèche were primarily lectures by professors,
whose job was to ‘interpret well the text of Aristotle and be
pains­­taking in this’, although afterwards the students were
expected to gather in small groups of about ten and spend half
an hour reviewing on their own the lecture just given.10 This
lecture/discussion format was supplemented once a month by a
disputation, in which students would ‘pose objections’ on a given
topic, to which other students were to respond, followed by an
hour-long argument or debate overseen by a professor or theo-
logian. In both structure and content, it was a classic and conservative
Scholastic education, subject to minor modifications here and
there, and consistent with the Counter-Reformation principles
of the Council of Trent in the sixteenth century. According to the
Ratio’s ‘rules for the professor of philosophy’, the teachers should
have ‘a heart set on advancing the honor and glory of God . . . and
above all lead [students] to a knowledge of their Creator’.11
Among the students being duly edified and who would have
been present at the elaborate ceremony on the occasion of the
21 Man of Touraine

arrival of the king’s heart at La Flèche in June 1610 was Descartes’


older brother Pierre, who had enrolled in the school soon after
its opening and was now in the upper level. By his side, and still
in the elementary classes, was the fourteen-year-old Descartes,
who had left the comfort of his grandmother’s home in La Haye
three years earlier and matriculated at the collège as well, as a
boarding student.12
Whatever may have been Descartes’ experience during his
time at La Flèche, in later years he did not look back fondly on
the education he received from the Jesuits (which was not all that
different from the education he would have acquired at most
French collèges in the first half of the seventeenth century). Writing
in the mid-1630s, he admits that ‘I was at one of the most famous
schools in Europe, where I thought there must be learned men if
they existed anywhere on earth.’ He also recognizes the value of
having been taught the languages essential to participating in learned
discourse in the Republic of Letters and the familiarity with great
literary works he gained as a younger man. ‘I knew that the lan-
guages learned there are necessary for understanding the works
of the ancients; that the charm of fables awakens the mind, while
the memorable deeds told in histories might uplift it and help to
shape one’s judgement if they are read with discretion; that reading
good books is like having a conversation with the most distin-
guished men of past ages.’ This positive assessment should not
be taken at face value, however; there is an undercurrent of irony
here. Referring to the study of rhetoric, poetry, morals and other
topics as taught by the Jesuits, he notes that ‘it is good to have
examined all these subjects, even those full of superstition and
falsehood, in order to know their true value and guard against
being deceived by them.’13
Descartes found even the philosophy lessons at La Flèche
less than illuminating. Despite later telling a correspondent that
‘nowhere on earth is philosophy better taught than at La Flèche,’
descartes 22

he was clearly dissatisfied with the intellectual tools with which


he had been provided by his teachers.14 All they really did, he
notes, was give him ‘the means of speaking plausibly about any
subject and of winning the admiration of the less learned’.15 The
texts and topics he studied and the methods of inquiry he learned
were, to his mind, rather sterile.

When I was younger, my philosophical studies had


included some logic, and my mathematical studies some
geometrical analysis and algebra. These three arts or sci­
ences, it seemed, ought to contribute something to my
plan [of seeking true knowledge]. But on further examin­
ation I observed with regard to logic that syllogisms and
most of its other techniques are of less use for learn­­ing
things than for explaining to others the things one already
knows or even, as in the art of Lully, for speaking without
judgement about matters of which one is ignorant. And
although logic does contain many excellent and true pre-
cepts, these are mixed up with so many others which are
harmful or superfluous that it is almost as difficult to dis-
tinguish them as it is to carve a Diana or a Minerva from
an unknown block of marble.16

Philosophy as taught by the Jesuits was not so much a discipline


of discovering truth as of demonstrating it to others – and even,
through rhetoric, of persuading others of things that were in
fact false. ‘In my college days,’ he would write, ‘I discovered that
nothing can be imagined which is too strange or incredible to
have been said by some philosopher.’17
It is, of course, not unusual for students to complain that
what they are learning in school is useless and out of date. In
this case, such complaints were not without some justification.
After all, in the age of Copernicus, Galileo and Kepler, they were
23 Man of Touraine

studying physics and astronomy from 2,000-year-old treatises,


supplemented by medieval commentaries on these. Aristotle
was still ‘The Philosopher’, and the teachers at La Flèche, who
might add their own clarifications to the assigned texts, were
required to show him due deference. It was explicitly stipulated
in the Ratio that the lecturer ‘shall not depart from Aristotle in
matters of importance, unless he find some doctrine contrary
to the common teaching of the schools or, more serious still,
contrary to the true faith’. He was to be ‘very careful in what he
reads or quotes in class from commentators on Aristotle who
are objectionable from the standpoint of faith’. Above all, the
instructor is to avoid as much as possible quoting anything from
Averroës, a medieval Arabic commentator on Aristotle whose
thought was regarded by the Church as irreconcilable with
Christian dogma, ‘but if he quotes something of value from his
writings he should do so without praising him’. However, the
lecturer ‘should always speak favorably of St Thomas’, that is,
Thomas Aquinas.18

Descartes remained at La Flèche until 1615. If he, like so


many of his relatives, was going to have a place in civil adminis-
tration, he would need a degree in law. This meant matriculating
in a university faculty. Thus that year – again just like his brother
Pierre – he began attending lectures at the University of Poitiers,
where his paternal great-grandfather Jean Ferrand i had been a
rector fifty years earlier. He formally enrolled in May 1616, and
that November he was granted a Bachelor’s degree and, essential
for teaching (should he be so inclined), a licentiate in civil and
canon law. His public defence of forty theses – dedicated to his
maternal uncle René Brochard, king’s counsel in Poitiers, on
topics of testaments and inheritance – was delayed, however,
and not held until December.19
descartes 24

A legal career, perhaps as counsel or magistrate, and the com-


fortable living it afforded was now on the horizon. No doubt
this is what his family expected of him. Descartes, however, had
other ideas.

From my childhood I have been nourished upon letters,


and because I was persuaded that by their means one
could acquire a clear and certain knowledge of all that
was useful in life, I was extremely eager to learn them.
But as soon as I had completed the course of study at
the end of which one is normally admitted to the ranks
of the learned, I completely changed my opinion. For I
found myself beset by so many doubts and errors that
I came to think I had gained nothing from my attempts
to become educated but increasing recognition of my
ignorance.20

The ‘learning’ afforded by an education in classical syllogisms


not only contributed nothing to the search for truth but had a
deadening effect on independent thinking, since it did not
encourage original inquiry.

That is why, as soon as I was old enough to emerge from


the control of my teachers, I entirely abandoned the
study of letters. Resolving to seek no knowledge other
than that which could be found in myself or else in the
great book of the world, I spent the rest of my youth trav-
elling, visiting courts and armies, mixing with people of
diverse temperaments and ranks, gathering various expe-
riences, testing myself in the situations which fortune
offered me, and at all times reflecting upon whatever came
my way so as to derive some profit from it.21
25 Man of Touraine

Enough of books, lessons and rote exercises. It was time for a


real education. By 1618 Descartes had decided that much more
was to be learned through first-hand experience than by reading
dry Scholastic texts or poring over Galenic treatises in medicine.
A journey to other lands, especially, would, he believed, better
allow one to ‘raise his mind above the level of mere book learning
and become a genuinely knowledgeable person’.22
two
‘The great book
of the world’

I
n early 1618 Descartes was a young man in search of
adventure and unsure of his life’s calling. His eclectic
studies – at school and on his own – in science, math-
ematics, philosophy, law and even mysticism had left him
somewhat adrift intellectually, hungry for knowledge but still in
need of direction.
The first stop on Descartes’ edifying itinerary in ‘the great
book of the world’ was the United Provinces of the Netherlands,
or the Dutch Republic. This was a natural destination for someone
of his ambitions and curiosity. Despite its ongoing battle for
independence from Spain, the Republic – at this point less a
sovereign nation than a federation of seven provinces, each with
its own executive and legislative body – had become a major
European centre of trade, science and culture. A laissez-faire
attitude towards commerce and a relatively tolerant intellectual
and religious environment (albeit with differences from one
province to the next) had allowed Holland, Utrecht, Zeeland,
Groningen, Gelderland, Overijssel and Friesland, along with the
territory of Drenthe and the so-called Generality Lands, quickly
to grow into what was perhaps Europe’s most progressive and
cosmopolitan society.
The Republic had several universities: in Leiden, Franeker
and Groningen, all important institutions of humanistic schol­
ar­ship. Decades of innovative engineering had allowed the Dutch
27 ‘The great book of the world’

to build up their urban centres and expand the rural landscape,


in part by reclaiming vast tracts of land from the sea. A powerful
military, especially the navy, held its own against the superpow­
ers of the era (Spain, France and England). Above all, the Dutch
econ­omy flourished through prolific domestic industries, such as
textiles, sugar refining and beer, and a far-flung network of mari­
time and overland trade. To be sure, the so-called Golden Age
was not golden for everyone. There was a significant population
in the provinces living in poverty and struggling to put food on
the table. And throughout the first half of the seventeenth century,
the Dutch economy depended on morally abhorrent colonial
practices, particularly in its treatment of indigenous peoples and
the transportation of enslaved Africans. While the possession of
enslaved people was technically illegal in the Republic, unscrup­
ulous individuals and businesses profited from the slave trade
between Europe, Africa and the Western hemisphere. The im­­
probable success of the fledgling nation, impressive as it was, was
not an entirely innocent enterprise.
Amsterdam, though still in its early years of expansion, was
already a vibrant and diversely populated entrepôt. Bulk and
luxury goods of all kinds from around the world – sugar, spices,
wood, grains, fabrics – passed through its wharves and warehouses,
while people of many nationalities (French, German, English,
Italian, Polish, Russian, North African, even Spanish and
Portuguese Jews, some of whom did in fact own enslaved people),
on business or pleasure, walked the streets along its canals and
filled the markets, cafés and taverns. For someone in the seven-
teenth century intent on studying ‘the great book of the world’
– not to mention applied and theoretical sciences, finance, math-
ematics, manufacturing, medicine and engineering – there was
no better place to start than the Dutch Republic.
Descartes, however, did not pick the best time to go there.
The Twelve-Year Truce with Spain, signed in 1609, was still in
descartes 28

effect when the Frenchman landed in Breda, a fortified town


near the border with the southern Netherlandish provinces,
which were still loyal to the Spanish Habsburg crown. But the
religious and political world of the United Provinces was in tur-
moil and about to undergo one of its periodic, usually brief but
sometimes violent upheavals.
Just a few months after Descartes’ arrival, the leaders of the
Dutch Reformed Church convened the Synod of Dordrecht
(Dort), a seminal event of early modern Dutch history. The
gathering of ministers met from November 1618 to May 1619 to
consider what to do about a heresy they believed to be breeding
among their ranks. They were troubled by the followers of Jacob
Arminius, a theology professor at the University of Leiden. In
1610 these liberal preachers had issued a ‘remonstrance’ in which
they set forth their unorthodox views on a variety of sensitive
theological questions. The Arminians, or ‘Remonstrants’, as
they were called, rejected the strict Calvinist doctrines of grace
and predestination. Where more orthodox theologians insisted
that no one living after the Fall could possibly do good or achieve
eternal blessedness without God’s freely given and unearned grace,
distributed to the elect independent of merit, the Remonstrants
believed that a person had the capacity to contribute through
good actions to his or her own salvation. They also favoured a
separation between matters of faith and conscience (which should
be left to individuals) and matters of politics (to be managed by
civil authorities), and they distrusted and feared the political
ambitions of their conservative Calvinist opponents. Like many
reformers, the Arminians saw their crusade in moral terms. In
their eyes, the true liberating spirit of the Reformation had been
lost by the increasingly dogmatic, hierarchical and intolerant
leaders of the Dutch Reformed Church.1
One of the chief political partisans of the Remonstrant camp
was Johan van Oldenbarnevelt, the advocate or adviser of the
29 ‘The great book of the world’

States of Holland, the province’s governing body, composed of


representatives from the cities and towns. Because of the size and
importance of Holland, whoever was the leader of that province’s
states essentially held the most powerful office in the Republic
after the stadholder, an appointed office traditionally given to a
member of the House of Orange-Nassau and whose authority
extended across several provinces. The stadholder was also the
commander-in-chief of all Dutch military forces and, to many,
a symbol of Dutch unity.
With Van Oldenbarnevelt’s intervention, what was initially
a doctrinal dispute within the Calvinist church and the theology
faculties in the universities quickly became political. The States
of Holland, urged on by Van Oldenbarnevelt, supported the lib-
eralizing demands of the Remonstrants, which antagonized the
ecclesiastic opponents to the Remonstrant cause and their own
secular allies. The Counter-Remonstrant theologians, led by the
Leiden professor Franciscus Gomarus, accused the Arminians of
being covert papists, loyal more to Rome than to the United
Provinces, while Van Oldenbarnevelt’s political enemies saw in
his support for the liberals an opportunity to label him a traitor
working on behalf of the Republic’s Catholic enemies.
In this way, the Remonstrant/Counter-Remonstrant battle
over theology overlapped with conflicting views on domestic
affairs and foreign policy. The opposing camps disagreed on
whether civil authorities had the right to exercise control over
the Dutch Reformed Church and its activities in the public
dom­ain. They also differed on how to conduct the ongoing strug-
gle with Spain and how to respond to recent Protestant uprisings
in France. With the Truce soon to expire, the Remonstrants sought
a negotiated peace with the Spanish crown and wanted to stay
out of French affairs, while the Counter-Remonstrants, always
looking to undermine Catholic influence, were in favour of
continuing the war with Philip iii without compromise and
descartes 30

aiding their Huguenot co-religionists by all available means.


There was frequent, and sometimes quite brutal, persecution of
Remonstrants in a number of Dutch cities, and many Arminian
sympathizers were stripped of their offices and perquisites. By
1617 Holland’s stadholder, Prince Maurits of Nassau, had entered
the fray on the Counter-Remonstrant side. This was a shrewd
poli­­tical move by the prince. He hoped to successfully oppose
Van Oldenbarnevelt’s policies, especially any peaceful overtures
to Spain, as well as to gain support from orthodox religious lead-
ers for his domestic agenda, thereby increasing his own authority
across the Dutch provinces and centralizing political power in
the Republic.
When the delegates to the Synod of Dordrecht met in late
1618, they reiterated their commitment to freedom of conscience
in the Dutch Republic, enshrined in Article Thirteen of the
Union of Utrecht: ‘Every individual should remain free in his
religion, and no man should be molested or questioned on the
subject of divine worship.’ The Counter-Remonstrants controlled
the gathering, however, and made heavy-handed use of their
advantage. They confirmed the dogmas of the Reformed Church
concerning grace and atonement – also known as the Five Points
of Calvinism – and they succeeded in passing a resolution that
restricted public worship and office holding to orthodox Calvinists.
There was a purge of Remonstrants in the church and munici-
palities at all levels. Meanwhile, Van Oldenbarnevelt’s enemies
ruthlessly prosecuted him. In the spring of 1619 he was convicted
of treason and beheaded.
Thus, just as the Catholic Descartes arrived in the Dutch
Republic to broaden his horizons, the generally tolerant young,
not-yet-formally-sovereign nation was seeing an increase in
religious and intellectual intolerance.
31 ‘The great book of the world’

soon after disembarking in the Low Countries, Descartes,


like many other young French noblemen, enlisted in the army
of Maurits of Nassau, now also Prince of Orange. This son of
Willem of Orange (Willem the Silent), the original leader of
the Dutch Revolt, was also a brilliant military man. When he
assumed the stadholdership of Holland, he began introducing
modernizing reforms into the Dutch armed forces and turned
them into a professional soldier corps with the latest in field
discipline and engineering. Maurits was particularly interested
in what science could do for his army, and so this was a good
opportunity for Descartes to study such things as military plan-
ning and the physics of moving bodies, especially projectiles.
While stationed in Breda, Descartes met a slightly older man
named Isaac Beeckman (1588–1637). Though it was a chance
encounter, Beeckman would turn out to be one of the most con-
sequential acquaintances of Descartes’ life. He was a Calvinist
preacher of Counter-Remonstrant persuasion (with a theology
degree from the University of Leiden), a medical doctor (with
a doctorat from the University of Caen) and an accomplished

Adriaen Pietersz van de Venne (follower of ), Prince Maurits Accompanied


by His Two Brothers, Frederick v, Elector Palatine and Counts of Nassau on Horseback,
c. 1625, oil on canvas.
descartes 32

mathematician. As Descartes’ early biographer, Adrien Baillet,


writing in 1670, tells the story, the two men got to know each
other while standing in front of a poster proposing to all and any
a mathematical problem to be solved:

Beeckman was presently in the town of Breda, when


someone unknown posted on the streets a problem of
mathematics to offer it to the learned for them to solve.
The problem was written in Dutch, such that M. Descartes,
who was only recently arrived from France and thus una-
ble to understand the language of the country, could at
least see that it was a problem posed by an unnamed math-
ematician who thought to gain some glory in this way.
Seeing passers-by congregating by this poster, he asked the
first person standing next to him to translate into Latin or
French the substance of its content. The man to whom, by
sheer accident, he addressed this request was willing to give
him this satisfaction in Latin, but only on the condition
that he [Descartes] promised to give him the solution to
the problem, which he thought to be very difficult.2

Baillet relates that not only did Descartes understand the


problem, but, much to Beeckman’s surprise, ‘the young army
cadet’ solved it ‘promptly and with much ease’. The two men
quickly bonded over shared interests in mathematics and sci-
ence. They challenged each other with a variety of problems in
arithmetic, algebra, geometry and physics. Their meetings and
correspondence from late 1618 into the early months of 1619
covered such topics as inertia, the acceleration of falling bodies
(Beeckman challenged Descartes to demonstrate how far a
body of some magnitude falling x distance in one hour will fall
in two hours3), the notorious navigational difficulty of deter-
mining longitudinal position and a variety of pure mathematical
33 ‘The great book of the world’

problems, including cubic equations and what Descartes calls


‘the famous problem of dividing an angle into any number of
equal parts’. 4 Descartes also kept Beeckman informed of his
pro­­gress in studying drawing, military architecture and, most
difficult of all, Dutch. ‘You will soon see what progress I have
made in this language.’5
Among Beeckman’s essential contributions to Descartes’
philosophical development, well before Descartes knew anything
of Galileo’s work – to which, in fact, Beeckman would later intro-
duce him – was the idea that mathematics could profitably be
applied to problems in physics, thereby constituting a hybrid
science that they referred to as physico-mathematica. Moreover, the
physics they both favoured was a corpuscularian one, an anti-
Aristotelian doctrine according to which all bodily phenomena
could be explained solely by the motion and interaction of minute
particles of matter no different in nature from the macroscopic
bodies they composed. Beeckman, with his interest in music, also
inspired Descartes to compose his first written work, a Compendium
musicae. In this treatise, which remained unpublished in his lifetime,
Descartes not only addressed in mathematical terms such topics
as the nature and diversity of sound and ‘the intervals of harmo-
nies, scales and discords [dissonantiarum]’,6 but took up the aesthetic
question of the ‘purpose [finis]’ of music, which, he claimed, is
‘to delight us and move various affects in us’.7
Perhaps Descartes’ most important breakthrough in this early
period under Beeckman’s tutelage is the idea of a ‘completely
new science [scientia penitus nova]’,8 one that will ‘provide a general
solution of all possible equations involving any sort of quantity,
whether continuous or discrete, each according to its nature’.
What he seems to have in mind here is an algebraic approach to
a variety of mathematical problems, whether in arithmetic (with
its discrete quantities), geometry (continuous quantities) or any
other discipline dealing with units or shapes.
descartes 34

I hope I shall be able to demonstrate that certain prob-


lems involving continuous quantities can be solved only
by means of straight lines and circles, while others can be
solved only by means of curves produced by a single
motion, such as the curves that can be drawn with the new
compasses . . . and others still can be solved only by means
of curves generated by distinct independent motions
which are surely only imaginary, such as the notorious
quadratic curve. There is, I think, no imaginable problem
which cannot be solved, at any rate by such lines as these.
I am hoping to demonstrate what sorts of problems can
be solved exclusively in this or that way, so that almost
nothing in geometry will remain to be discovered.9

What these remarks, limited as they are at this point to


mathematics, represent is an early, embryonic manifestation of
Descartes’ lifelong determination to come up with a single
method for resolving problems of any type or to establish an
all-encompassing, quantitatively grounded science. This ambi-
tion will inform, in a general way, Descartes’ later projects, from
the mathesis universalis of the 1620s – which he calls a ‘general sci-
ence that explains everything that it is possible to inquire into
concerning order and measure, without restriction to any par-
ticular subject-matter’10 – to the mathematico-mechanistic
programme in physics of the 1630s and ’40s, a systematic natural
philosophy that will provide explanations for everything in the
cosmos.
Descartes and Beeckman deveoped a warm friendship over
a short period of time. At one point, Descartes tells Beeckman
that ‘you ought not to think that all I care about is science; I care
about you, and not just your intellect – even if that is the greatest
part of you – but the whole man.’11 He ends another letter by
recalling their ‘unbreakable bond of affection’.12 Descartes
35 ‘The great book of the world’

acknowledges his debt to the Dutchman and is well aware of how


their relationship stimulated his intellectual development.

It was you alone who roused me from my state of indo-


lence, and reawakened the learning which by then had
almost disappeared from my memory. And when my
mind strayed from serious pursuits, it was you who led it
back to worthier things. Thus, if perhaps I should pro-
duce something not wholly to be despised, you can rightly
claim it as all your own; and I for my part shall send it to
you without fail, so that you may have the benefit of it,
and correct it into the bargain.13

Alas, the comity did not last. Despite Descartes’ assurance that
there ‘will surely be a lasting friendship between us’, things would
sour in a few years over Descartes’ suspicion that Beeckman did,
in fact, take up the offer to ‘claim it all as your own’. He will accuse
Beeckman of taking undue credit for his, Descartes’, ideas – in
particular, the treatise on music. In a 1630 letter to a friend in
Paris, he expresses his hope that Beeckman ‘will learn not to
deck himself out in someone else’s feathers’.14 This kind of
falling-out with friends or colleagues would be something of a
minor pattern throughout Descartes’ life.

shortly after beeckman returned home to Middelburg (he


would later take up a position as vice principal at the Hieronymus
grammar school in Utrecht), Descartes resumed his travels and
departed for Copenhagen, then down to the German lands.
From mid-1619 until the spring of 1622 he wandered through-
out the principalities, electorates and bishoprics of the Holy
Roman Empire, staying in Frankfurt, Prague, Ulm, Neuburg
and other towns. He may also have served some time in the
descartes 36

Catholic army of Maximilian i, Duke of Bavaria – ‘drafted’, he


would later say, ‘because of the wars that are still being waged
there’.15
It was an eventful three years, with Descartes present in
Frankfurt at the coronation of a Holy Roman Emperor, the
Catholic Ferdinand ii, and possibly witnessing the Battle
of White Mountain of 1620, which ended in the defeat of
Ferdinand’s rival, the Protestant Frederick v, Elector Palatine
and (briefly) king of Bohemia. By the time Descartes returned
to France by way of Poland and Friesland, in 1622, he had seen
a good part of Central Europe, experienced war as a soldier
(although we do not know if he actually participated in any bat-
tles), made significant progress as a mathematician and probably
learned some German on top of his Dutch.
Still, Descartes remained restless. A couple of years after his
return to France, which he spent in Poitou, Paris and Brittany,
Descartes was off again to continue his geographical and intel-
lectual wanderings. He wrote to his older brother Pierre in March
1625 to announce his plans to travel to Italy, ‘a voyage beyond
the Alps [being] of great utility for learning about business,
acquiring some experience of the world, and forming some
habits . . . not had before’. If such a trip did not make him richer,
he added, ‘at least it would make [me] more capable.’16 Before
departing his home in Châtellerault, he sold off some of his inher­­
ited properties, including a house in Poitiers and several farms.
He clearly had no interest in managing any lands or taking up
the social position to which he was entitled, and the money the
sale brought would go far towards financing whatever independ-
ent path in life he ended up choosing.
‘Throughout the following nine years,’ he later wrote, ‘I did
nothing but roam about in the world, trying to be a spectator
rather than an actor in all the comedies that are played out
there.’17 Descartes first went to Italy through Switzerland, taking
37 ‘The great book of the world’

only a couple of weeks in the spring of 1625 to explore what was


for him an exotic land.18 As Baillet describes the journey,

It would have been easy for him to find in Basel, Zurich,


and other cities philosophers and mathematicians capa-
ble of talking with him. But he was more curious to see
the animals, the waters, the mountains, and the air of
each region, with its weather, and generally whatever
was furthest from human contact, in order better to know
the nature of those things that seem the least known to
ordinary scholars [au vulgaire des sçavans].19

Baillet, who has Descartes going to Rome and Florence, is


making a lot of this up. Descartes was in Turin, and possibly Loreto,
to which he had pledged to make a pilgrimage. ‘I intend to go there
on foot from Venice, if this is feasible and is the custom.’20 He
appreciated the intellectual life of Italy, particularly its scientific
communities, although he did not get to meet Galileo, whom he
would later describe as ‘philosophizing much better than most, in
that he abandons as much as he can the errors of the Schools and
tries to examine physical matters through mathematical reason-
ing’.21 He did not like the Italian climate, however. The heat and
humidity of the Mediterranean country in the warm months did
not suit this northern Frenchman. Writing to his friend Guez de
Balzac in 1631, he said: ‘I do not know how you can be so fond of
Italy, where the air is so often pestilent, the heat of the day always
unbearable and the cool of the evening unwholesome, and the
darkness of night a cover for thieves and murderers.’22
There was another friend, also a Frenchman, whom Descartes
had recently got to know in Paris and who would soon be under-
taking his own trip to Italy. The theologian, mathematician and
musical theorist Marin Mersenne was at the centre of a broad
intellectual network, running his own international province within
descartes 38

the larger Republic of Letters. From his quarters in Paris, where


he was a friar in the austere order of Minims, he corresponded
with philosophers, theologians, mathematicians and scientists
across the Continent and England. Mersenne was an acquaintance
of, and collaborator with, some of the greatest minds and leading
personalities of the first half of the seventeenth century – Galileo,
Blaise Pascal, Pierre Gassendi, Antoine Arnauld, Thomas Hobbes
and Constantijn Huygens, among many others.
Mersenne would later function as a kind of midwife to much
of Descartes’ thought. In addition to providing encouragement,
Mersenne helped to edit and usher his writings into print. He
was, in effect, Descartes’ Paris-based philosophical manager and
advisor, and as his literary agent and sentinel Mersenne often
ran interference with correspondents, critics and publishers.
He also enjoyed a fine intellectual fracas and was quite good at

Claude Duflos, Marin Mersenne, before 1727, engraving.


39 ‘The great book of the world’

stirring up debates. This included inciting others to raise their


objections to Descartes’ theories.
Descartes needed the irreplaceable Mersenne in good form,
and so when, years later, he heard that the priest would soon be
heading south, he warned him to take care in terms that recall
the report he had given Balzac. Italy, he said, is ‘a country that is
very unhealthy for the French. Above all, one should eat very little
there, for their meats are too nourishing.’23
After his sojourn in Italy, Descartes returned to France by way
of the mountainous Piedmont region.24 While going over the Suse
Pass near the French border during the spring thaw, he witnessed
an avalanche. Writing in his 1637 treatise on meteorology about
the nature of thunder in storms, he said:

I remember having seen sometime ago, in the Alps,


around the month of May, when the snows were warmed
and made heavier by the sun, the slightest movement of
the air was sufficient to cause a great mass suddenly to
fall, which was called, I believe, avalanches, and which,
echoing in the valleys, closely imitated the sound of
thunder.25

Descartes was back in Paris by the summer of 1625, where


he stayed – aside from another brief sojourn in Brittany – until
late 1628. He had come a long way from the Jesuit-trained but
aimless young man with a law degree. He was still unsure as to
how he would make his living – his inheritance and income from
the sale of properties was not sufficient to ensure a long-term
livelihood – and he may yet have been considering a position as
a counsellor in royal service.26 But by the mid-1620s Descartes
did at least have a better sense of his true vocation.
descartes 40

The ‘revelation’ – this is what Descartes calls it – came to


him one night early in his travels, in November 1619, when he
was holed up, alone, in a warm room sheltering from the cold.
He was still in Germany, either Neuburg or Ulm,

where I had been called by the wars not yet ended there.
While I was returning to the army from the coronation
of the Emperor, the onset of winter detained me in quar-
ters where, finding no conversation to divert me, and
fortunately having no cares or passions to trouble me,
I stayed up all day in a stove-heated room [poële], where
I was completely free to converse with myself about my
own thoughts.27

As to what happened that night, all we have from Descartes


himself is the cryptic statement that ‘I had a dream involving the
Seventh Ode of Ausonius, which begins Quod vitae sectabor iter
[What path of life shall I follow]?’28 Baillet, on the basis of a now-
lost Latin manuscript notebook by Descartes, provides further
details of this dream and two others.29
In the first dream, Baillet reports, Descartes was walking along
a road when some shadows or spirits (fantômes) frightened him
and forced him to head to the left rather than continue to the
right along his path, ‘because he felt a great weakness on his right
side’. Suddenly, a strong gust, a kind of whirlwind (tourbillon), spun
him around three or four times on his left foot. He was in danger
of falling when he saw an open gate leading to a college, which he
entered to take a rest and heal his infirmity. As he was heading to
the college’s chapel to pray, he saw someone he knew but failed
to acknowledge him. When he turned around to go back and
make up for his incivility, the mighty wind returned and blew him
aside. At the same time, he saw another person who called out to
him by name ‘in a friendly and welcoming manner’ and gave him
41 ‘The great book of the world’

something that looked like a melon from a foreign country to take


to some ‘Monsieur N.’ What was especially surprising was that
the wind that had caused Descartes so much trouble did not seem
to disturb the other people now around him, ‘who stood up straight
and firm on their feet’. At this point Descartes woke up, and was
afflicted with a strong pain that he attributed to ‘the operation of
some evil genius [mauvais génie] seeking to beguile him’.
After a couple of hours lying awake and reflecting on the
goods and evils of the world, Descartes fell back asleep and had
a second dream. This time he dreamt that he heard a sharp, loud
sound, ‘which he took for a thunderclap’. This woke him up,
whereupon he saw many sparks flying about the room. This was
not unusual, Baillet relates Descartes as saying, as he was used
to waking up in the middle of the night with ‘sparkling eyes’,
and so it did not trouble him much.
No sooner had he fallen back asleep ‘in a fairly great calm’
than Descartes had a third, quite different dream. Rather than
being alarming, this third vision seemed to Descartes to bear
providential significance. In the dream, he came upon a book,
un Dictionnaire, lying on a table. He was pleased by this, since ‘he
hoped it could be useful to him.’ However, the dictionary suddenly
disappeared and was replaced by another volume, a collection of
poems by a variety of authors from antiquity. When he opened
the book, it went right to a page with a verse that read Quod vitae
sectabor iter? (What path of life shall I follow?). An unknown man
then appeared, offering him a piece of paper with a poem on it
that began with the words Est & Non (It is and it is not) and recom­
mending it to him highly. Descartes replied that he was familiar
with the piece, that it was one of the Idylls of the Latin poet
Ausonius. He wanted to show the stranger that it was, in fact, in
the collection he was now holding, which he thought he knew
well, but had some trouble finding it. The man asked Descartes
how he happened to possess that book, but Descartes could not
descartes 42

tell him. He finally found Ausonius poems in the book, but not
the one that began with Est & Non. He told the man that there is
an even ‘more beautiful’ poem by Ausonius that begins with Quod
vitae sectabor iter? Descartes tried to find this poem in the book,
but instead came upon several engraved portraits. He explained
that the book was not the same edition as the one he was familiar
with. Suddenly, the books and the man all disappeared.
Baillet says that Descartes, still asleep and in a new dream
state, set to interpreting the last dream. The disappearing dic-
tionary was, he believed, ‘all the sciences brought together’, while
the poetry anthology represented ‘a collection of philosophy and
wisdom’. As for the poem beginning Quod vitae sectabor iter?, it was
the ‘good counsel of a wise person, or even moral theology’.
Once he was finally awake, Descartes continued with his
interpretation of the ‘sweet and very agreeable dream’: the
poetry in the volume represented ‘revelation and enthusiasm,
of which he did not despair of seeing himself favored’. The piece
Est & Non, a Pythagorean verse, stood for truth and falsehood in
human knowledge and the sciences. The upshot, he concluded
(in Baillet’s words), was that ‘the spirit of truth, by means of
this dream, wanted to open up for him the treasures of all the
sciences.’ It was an omen as to what the rest of his life held in
store if only he chose the right path (iter vitae). The first two,
rather unpleasant, dreams, however, were warnings against a life
of passivity – no doubt what Socrates would have called ‘an
unexamined life’.
In his extant note, Descartes says only that ‘in the year 1620,
I began to understand the fundamental principles of a wonder-
ful discovery.’30 Baillet, providing only a bit more clarity, describes
what was revealed through the dreams as ‘the foundations of an
admirable science’.31 These foundations, it will later emerge, lay
not in the reading of books or the wandering of foreign byways,
but through careful reflection on the nature of knowledge and
43 ‘The great book of the world’

a scrutiny of the capacities of the human mind as it tries to


understand both abstract realities (the ‘eternal truths’ of math-
ematics) and the natural world. In his later review of this period
of his life, Descartes recalls that ‘after I had spent some years
pursuing these studies in the book of the world and trying to
gain some experience, I resolved one day to undertake studies
within myself too and to use all the powers of my mind in choos-
ing the paths I should follow.’32
It is unclear whether what Descartes seeks at this point is
simply a reliable method for resolving all manner of mathemat-
ical and scientific problems; substantive first principles that will
ground knowledge generally; or, as we find in his writings over
three decades, both. Descartes’ ultimate goal was truth – in as
many theoretical and practical domains as possible, and in the
search for which ‘I found myself as it were to become my own
guide.’33 Such a project is not to be undertaken casually, through
a reliance on custom and habit, haphazard experience or raw
introspection, but systematically, under the guidance of pro­
ven rules of inquiry. Only then, Descartes notes, can he be sure
of ‘attaining the knowledge of everything within my mental
capacities’.
By the mid-1620s Descartes, at nearly thirty years old, was
secure in his choice of vocation. It was a certainty that never
wavered. Again, in hindsight, from the vantage point of his first
published treatise, he says that

I consider myself very fortunate to have come upon cer-


tain paths in my youth which led me to considerations
and maxims from which I formed a method whereby, it
seems to me, I can increase my knowledge gradually and
raise it little by little to the highest point allowed by the
mediocrity of my mind and the short duration of my life.
descartes 44

His success so far has only boosted his confidence, and he expects
even greater results in the future.

[W]hen I cast a philosophical eye upon the various activ-


ities and undertakings of mankind, there are almost none
which I do not consider vain and useless. Nevertheless,
I have already reaped such fruits from this method that
I cannot but feel extremely satisfied with the progress
I think I have already made in the search for truth, and
I cannot but entertain such hopes for the future as to
venture the opinion that if any purely human occupa-
tion has solid worth and importance, it is the one I have
chosen.34

Paris in the seventeenth century was unsurpassed


as a centre of philosophical and scientific activity. The Dutch
Republic, and especially Amsterdam, as we have seen, had its
attractions for the intellectually curious; it is not hard to under-
stand why the young Descartes thought to begin his pursuit of
wisdom there. But the much larger Parisian scholarly commu-
nity benefited from established institutions, abundant resources
and high-level support. Despite occasional efforts at repression
by the city’s parlement, often at the urging of theologians at the
Sorbonne ever on guard against freethinking and subversive
ideas, the innovative pursuit of new knowledge flourished in the
city’s colleges, university faculties, academies and salons.
Paris held great allure for the period’s philosophers, mathema­
ticians, physicists, astronomers, engineers and chemists, not to
mention poets, dramatists and humanist scholars. Throughout
the century, the city attracted such important foreign philosopher-
scientists as Thomas Hobbes from England, Christiaan Huygens
from the United Provinces, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz from
45 ‘The great book of the world’

Germany and Giovanni Cassini from Italy. With the support of


royal and private patronage, and as the base for the far-reaching
networks of Mersenne and others, Paris – like Rome, Florence,
Bologna, London, Oxford, Leiden, Salamanca and other great
epicentres of traditional learning and new inquiry – was home
to a flourishing intellectual milieu. Indeed, as the century pro-
gressed, and certainly by the 1670s, everyone who was anyone
in philosophy and the sciences wanted to be there.
It was during his return to France between 1625 and 1628, as
he settled into the fertile and creative environment of Paris, that
Descartes was finally able to devote serious and sustained atten-
tion to mathematical projects, both general (such as how to use
arithmetical equations to solve geometrical problems) and par-
ticular (finding proofs for specific theorems). He also set to work
on theoretical and empirical topics in optics, including a formu-
lation of the law of refraction and experiments to determine the
physical nature of light. (Much of this material would appear in
the treatises Geometry and Dioptrics, published along with the
Discourse on Method in 1637.) At the same time, Descartes could
apply himself to elaborating that foundational method he was so
sure would lead to philosophical and scientific knowledge.
This was also the period when Descartes developed a clearer
conception of what truth itself must look like. Baillet, our source
once again, tells a story of Descartes attending a gathering in Paris,
in either 1627 or 1628, of ‘learned and inquisitive persons’ at the
home of the Papal Nuncio, Cardinal Guidi di Bagni, to hear a
lecture by a scientist named Nicolas de Villiers, Lord of Chandoux.35
According to Baillet’s narrative – which is based on a 1631 letter
from Descartes to Étienne de Villebressieu and a lost manuscript
by Descartes’ friend Claude Clerselier – Chandoux, no less than
other modern thinkers, ‘sought to escape from the yoke of [medi-
eval] Scholasticism’ and argued on behalf of a ‘new philosophy
. . . established on unassailable foundations’. His presentation was
descartes 46

roundly applauded by the assembled company, which included


Cardinal Pierre de Bérulle, founder and head of the French
Congregation of the Oratory, a Catholic community of priests
and lay brothers. The guests approved of Chandoux’s refutation
of the sterile and uninformative ‘philosophy ordinarily taught
in the Schools’. The lone holdout in the audience was Descartes.
When one of Descartes’ friends noticed his reticence and asked
him why he did not join the others in praising the lecturer,
Descartes replied that while he appreciated Chandoux’s attack
on Scholastic philosophy, he was not pleased by the man’s will-
ingness, despite his claim to have found ‘unassailable foundations’,
to settle for mere probability in the quest for knowledge.

He added that when it was a matter of people easy-going


enough to be satisfied with probabilities, as was the case
with the illustrious company before which he had the
honour to speak, it was not difficult to pass off the false
for the true, and in turn to make the true pass for the false
in favour of appearances. To prove this on the spot, he
asked for someone in the assembled group to take the
trouble to propose whatever truth he wanted, one among
those that appear to be the most incontestable.

Someone stepped up to the challenge, Baillet says, whereupon


Descartes, ‘with a dozen arguments each more probable than
the other’, proved to the assembled company that the proposi-
tion they all thought true was false. Then, with equally plausible
reasoning, Descartes demonstrated that a proposition that they
were convinced was false is true.

[Descartes] then proposed a falsehood of the sort that is


ordinarily taken to be most evidently false, and by means
of another dozen probable arguments, he brought his
47 ‘The great book of the world’

hearers to the point of taking this falsehood for a plau-


sible truth. The assembly was surprised by the force and
extent of the genius that M. Descartes exhibited in his
reasoning, but was even more astonished to be so clearly
convinced of how easily their minds could be duped by
probability.

When asked whether he knew of some other, better means


for avoiding sophisms and error and arriving at truth – that is,
real, absolutely certain knowledge and not mere probability –
Descartes replied that he knew none more infallible than the one
he had himself been using, adding that ‘he derived it from the
foundations of mathematics.’ He claimed that there was not any
truth that he could not clearly demonstrate with ‘a knowledge
and certainty equal to that produced by the rules of arithmetic’
using only the principles of his own method, ‘for all kinds of
propositions of any nature and any kind there can be’.36
What that method or ‘art of reasoning well’ involved, at least
in these Paris years, is explained in Descartes’ first philosophical
treatise, the Rules for the Direction of the Mind (Regulae ad directionem
ingenii). The Rules contains a method for ‘directing the mind
with a view to forming true and sound judgements about what-
ever comes before it’.37 The work is, in effect, a manual for how
to achieve absolutely certain knowledge in any discipline. Its prin­­
cipal idea – one that informs all of Descartes’ writings – is that
few things are beyond the grasp of the human intellect as long as
the mind is well guided and not merely engaging in ‘aimless and
blind inquiries’.
At the core of Descartes’ method are reliable rules for em­­
ploying the intellectual operations that he calls ‘intuition’ and
‘deduction’. Intuition is the mind’s grasp of a relatively simple,
self-evident and indubitable truth, whether it be a single fact or
concept or the necessary connection between two concepts or
descartes 48

propositions. One intuits, for example, that one exists, that one
is thinking and what a triangle is, as well as any relatively simple
mathematical, logical or conceptual relations between just a few
items, such as ‘1 + 1 = 2’ or ‘p implies q’.

By ‘intuition’ I do not mean the fluctuating testimony of


the senses or the deceptive judgement of the imagina-
tion as it botches things together, but the conception of
a clear and attentive mind, which is so easy and distinct
that there can be no room for doubt about what we are
understanding . . . Intuition is the indubitable concep-
tion of a clear and attentive mind which proceeds solely
from the light of reason.38

The certainty of intuition lies in its immediacy. In intuition,


something is taken in ‘at one glance’. Deduction, however, is a
train of reasoning that consists in multiple steps of intuition.
It is ‘the inference of something as following necessarily from
some other propositions which are known with certainty’. So
long as one proceeds in the sequence from one proposition to
the next via intuition and thereby grasps the necessary con­
nections between them, then, no matter how many steps are
involved, deduction preserves the certainty of its constituent
intuitions. If one intuits that p implies q, that q implies r and that
r implies s, then one deduces that s follows from p.

Even if we cannot take in at one view all the intermediate


links on which the connection depends, we can have
knowl­­edge of the connection provided we survey the
links one after the other, and keep in mind that each link
from first to last is attached to its neighbor. Hence we are
distinguishing mental intuition from certain deduction
on the grounds that we are aware of a movement or a
49 ‘The great book of the world’

sort of sequence in the latter but not in the former, and


also because immediate self-evidence is not required for
deduction, as it is for intuition.39

A deduction can, in fact, be reduced to an intuition. All it takes


is running through the series of intuited necessary connections
often enough so that one can hold them all in a single mental
act, ‘passing from the first to the last so swiftly that memory is
left with practically no role to play, and I seem to intuit the whole
thing at once’.40 With enough practice, one can eventually intuit
that s follows from p.
Intuition and deduction play a primary role in mathematics,
which represents the paradigm of absolutely true knowledge
given its method of starting with clear and distinct first principles
(in mathematics, these would be axioms and definitions) and
proceeding by lucid demonstrations to indubitable proofs of
theorems (‘certain and evident cognitions’). Descartes notes that
‘of all the sciences so far discovered, arithmetic and geometry
alone are . . . free from any taint of falsity or uncertainty.’ This is
because ‘the deduction or pure inference of one thing from another
can never be performed wrongly by an intellect which is in the
least degree rational.’ Arithmetic and geometry are ‘much more
certain than other disciplines’ in that ‘they alone are concerned
with an object so pure and simple that they make no assumptions
that experience might render uncertain; they consist entirely in
deducing conclusions by means of rational arguments.’41
Descartes is confident, however, that other sciences – in fact,
all of ‘human wisdom’ – can, through his method, acquire the
same degree of certainty as mathematics, well beyond the mere
probabilities provided by other modes of reasoning. Early in the
Rules, he introduces the term mathesis universalis (universal mathe­
matics), essentially a science of proportions.42 It is not mathematics
per se but rather an extension to other disciplines of the kind of
descartes 50

methodical and symbolic reasoning on discrete and continuous


quantities that is so successful in arithmetic and geometry. ‘Ordin­
ary mathematics is far from my mind here, it is quite another
discipline I am expounding . . . this discipline should contain the
primary rudiments of human reason and extend to the discovery
of truths in any field whatsoever.’ Arithmetic and geometry, but
also astronomy, music, optics and mechanics are all disciplines
of mathesis because they deal with ‘questions of order or measure,
and it is irrelevant whether the measure in question involves
numbers, shapes, stars, sounds or any other object whatsoever’.43
As he would later put it, regarding ‘all the special sciences com-
monly called “mathematics”’, it is clear that ‘despite the diversity
of their objects, they agree in considering nothing but the relations
or proportions that hold between these objects.’44
The method that Descartes endorses in the Rules and that
informs any proper mathesis is simply a matter of proceeding
through intuitions and deductions according to an order proper
to the subject at hand.

By ‘a method’ I mean reliable rules which are easy to apply,


and such that if one follows them exactly, one will never
take what is false to be true or fruitlessly expend one’s
mental efforts, but will gradually and constantly increase
one’s knowledge till one arrives at a true understanding of
everything within one’s capacity.45

The first step in the method involves breaking down complex


problems into simpler constituent problems, and these into yet
simpler ones, until one arrives at some basic elements that are
accessible to intuitions. These most basic elements are typically
what Descartes calls ‘simple natures’, and include such things as
thought, extension or matter, motion or rest, and power. Then,
reversing the order, one starts from the intuition of the simple
51 ‘The great book of the world’

natures and uses them to resolve the questions at the next level
up, and so on, until one finally arrives at a resolution of the original
complex question.
One of Descartes’ early achievements in optics, for example,
was his discovery of the ‘anaclastic’, or the curve of a line which,
through refraction, will focus incoming parallel rays of light so
that they intersect at a single point. A crucial matter for the
proper construction of lenses, it requires knowing the relation
between the angle of incidence and the angle of refraction as light
passes across the boundary between two different media (for
example, from air to water) – that is, the law of refraction.46 But
knowing this relation depends upon knowing how a ray of light
is bent or refracted as it crosses the boundary between media,
which in turn depends on knowing the way light as a natural
power passes through transparent media, which presupposes
knowing something about light as a natural power, which, finally,
requires one to know what a natural power is. Once one grasps,
via intuition, the nature of natural power and how it is manifest
in the action of light, progress is possible in understanding why
light behaves the way it does when passing through this or that
medium, and this will eventually allow for the derivation, in
mathematical terms, of the law of refraction and the anaclastic
curve.47
Another feature of the method involves translating the
elements of a problem – numbers or geometrical concepts,
physical bodies, relationships of various sorts – into concrete,
two-dimensional quantities. To take a simple case, the number
1 would be represented by a single line segment of length x, and
the number 2 as two line segments each of the same length, and
thus the sum of 1 + 2 would clearly appear as three distinct line
segments. The advantage of this symbolic representation is that
it is easier to make ‘simple and straightforward comparisons’
and draw conclusions from visualized magnitudes (points, lines,
descartes 52

shapes) than from abstract concepts or ordinary empirical


phenomena. The imagination plays a key role here, as it is the
faculty that depicts things in simplified form as ‘bare figures’.
This allows for commensurability among diverse items. By put-
ting things of different natures into the same quantitative
format, the equalities, differences and proportions can be more
distinctly perceived. Through such figurative modelling, difficult
problems in physics, for example, can be handled by the more
tractable processes of addition, subtraction, multiplication and
division.

The preceding rules show us how to abstract determinate


and perfectly understood problems from particular sub-
jects and to reduce them to the point where the question
becomes simply one of discovering certain magnitudes
on the basis of the fact that they bear such and such a
relation to certain given magnitudes.48

Descartes worked on the Rules for nearly a decade – putting it


aside, picking it up again to make revisions and additions – and
it shows. The text is a bit of a puzzle, and it is difficult to iden-
tify the strata of composition and the various, not always
coherent, strands of thought. 49 Descartes himself eventually
saw the limitations of the project and gave it up. He abandoned
the incomplete manuscript and it was never published in his
lifetime.50 He was perhaps eager to get on with actually pursuing
his research and elaborating a philosophical system. But his
epistemological concern with a reliable method for discovering
truth and certainty in the sciences remained a lifelong project
and informs many of his later philosophical writings.
three
A Fabulous New World

S
oon after Descartes’ death in Stockholm in 1650,
inventories were made of his manuscripts and other
items, both those he had taken with him to Sweden and
those left behind in Holland.1 Among the notebooks, draft papers
and correspondence listed in Stockholm by his friend Pierre
Chanut (1601–1662), the French ambassador to the Swedish
queen’s court, are several abandoned or unpublished works, includ-
ing the Rules for the Direction of the Mind and the treatise on music.
There are three pages titled ‘On the Constituent Parts of the
Lower Stomach’, a sheet of parchment labelled ‘The Remedy and
Virtue of Medicaments’ and a note on irrational numbers.
What is not in Chanut’s catalogue is the manuscript of
Descartes’ first serious approach, from decades earlier, to laying
out his philosophical system of nature.2 Several fair copies of the
work, which Descartes never published, were circulating in the
1650s, in France and elswhere. The original, however, was not
with the philosopher’s belongings in Sweden. It may have been
among the items he had entrusted to his Dutch friends for safe-
keeping, or perhaps it was simply lost.

Descartes says that during the years that he was working


on the Rules, in the 1620s, he made a concerted effort at conven-
tionality, ‘appearing to live like those concerned only to lead an
descartes 54

agreeable and blameless life, who take care to keep their pleasures
free from vices, and who engage in every honest pastime in order
to enjoy their leisure without boredom’. But the public life of
leisure was only a cover for more private and ambitious interests.
All the while he never stopped ‘pursuing my project, and I made
perhaps more progress in the knowledge of truth than I would
have if I had done nothing but read books or mix with men of
letters’.3
Paris may have held many attractions for a philosopher, but
the city was not very conducive to Descartes’ project. Nor would
anywhere else in France be much better. In his native milieu,
with its family obligations (including what must have been pres-
sure from his father and brother to find himself a respectable
occupation) and interruptions – from friends, colleagues, even
inquisitive strangers – there were too many distractions for a
scientist intent on making progress in the knowledge of nature.
Reflecting back many years later, he wrote:

As many people know, I lived in relative comfort in my


native country. My only reason for choosing to live else-
where was that I had so many friends and relatives
whom I could not fail to entertain, and that I would
have had little time and leisure available to pursue the
studies which I enjoy and which, according to many
people, will contribute to the common good of the
human race. 4

Descartes felt he had no alternative but to leave his home-


land once again and go abroad. His departure from France in
1629 was thus motivated not by curiosity and wanderlust but
by a desire for peace and quiet, and above all for the intellectual
freedom to pursue his research undisturbed. His destination, as
it had been ten years earlier, was the United Provinces of the
55 A Fabulous New World

Netherlands. Writing in the Discourse on Method a few years later,


while living in Amsterdam, he says that

as I was honest enough not to wish to be taken for what


I was not, I thought I had to try by every means to become
worthy of the reputation that was given me. Exactly eight
years ago this desire made me resolve to move away from
any place where I might have acquaintances and retire to
this country, where the long duration of the war has led
to the establishment of such order that the armies main-
tained here seem to serve only to make the enjoyment of
the fruits of peace all the more secure.

It was not only the order and security of the Dutch Republic
that made it an attractive locale for Descartes. The small terri-
tory, still fighting for independence, was among the most densely
populated of Europe; and waterlogged Amsterdam, where
Descartes lived for a time, while much smaller than Paris, was a
fairly congested and hectic city. The difference was that the Dutch,
among whom Descartes had few acquaintances, were, he says,
so focused on going about their own business that they had little
interest in the doings of a French intellectual abroad.

Living here, amidst this great mass of busy people who


are more concerned with their own affairs than curious
about those of others, I have been able to lead a life as
solitary and withdrawn as if I were in the most remote
desert, while lacking none of the comforts found in the
most populous cities.5

Descartes simply wanted to be left alone and devote as much of


his time as possible to his work, and that was exactly what he
could do among busy Dutch neighbours.
descartes 56

His voluntary exile turned out to be permanent. Descartes


never again made his home in France, and he rarely returned there,
making only a few short visits. He ended up spending most of
his adult life in the Netherlands, with his residence alternating
between cities and the countryside. The commercial bustle of a
city afforded him the anonymity and freedom from everyday dis-
ruptions by family and friends that he greatly desired but that he
could not enjoy in Paris. While living in Amsterdam, he noted that

in this large town where I live . . . everyone but myself


is engaged in trade, and hence is so attentive to his own
profit that I could live here all my life without ever being
noticed by a soul. I take a walk each day amid the bus-
tle of the crowd with as much freedom and repose as
you could obtain in your leafy groves, and I pay no more
attention to the people I meet than I would to the trees
in your woods or the animals that browse there. The
bustle of the city no more disturbs my daydreams than
would the rippling of a stream.6

During his early years in the Republic, Descartes changed


address frequently. After a brief stay in a castle in Franeker, a
university town in the far north, he lived in Amsterdam for six
months, then in Leiden for two months (perhaps because it was
home to the leading Dutch university), then, one year later, back
in Amsterdam until the summer of 1632. This was followed by
almost two years in Deventer, a town in the eastern province
of Overijssel. In March 1634 he moved back to Amsterdam,
settling for a year in a house on the Westermarkt.
To protect his privacy throughout these moves, he asked
Father Mersenne back in Paris not to reveal his location to anyone.
‘I do not so much care if someone suspects where I am, just as
long as he does not know the exact place.’7 He even suggested that
57 A Fabulous New World

Mersenne engage in a little deception to put would-be visitors


off his trail. ‘If someone asks you where I am, please say that you
are not certain because I was resolved to go to England.’8
The subterfuge worked, at least for a while, and Descartes
found the ‘time and leisure’ he sought to immerse himself in
research. Having left purely methodological topics behind, he was
able to make great progress on an ambitious scientific treatise in
which he hoped to provide an account of ‘all of nature’, includ-
ing the heavens, the earth and even the human being, body and
soul. He was ready to publish part of the work in 1633 and sent
a copy to Mersenne for his review. However, something scared
him off. In the end, he decided to abandon the project. It would
not appear in print until fourteen years after his death.
What was it that had so alarmed Descartes that he was will-
ing to write off many years of labour that he believed would lead
not just to a better understanding of the universe – its origins,
its constituent bodies, its rich variety of phenomena – but to
the transformation of philosophy itself?

The church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva in Rome sits


close by the Pantheon, in the district of the city known as the
Campus Martius (Field of Mars). Its name comes from the fact
that the earliest Christian church on the site was built over (sopra)
the ruins of a temple believed at the time to have been dedicated
to the Roman goddess of wisdom. The plain, even austere facade
of Santa Maria sopra Minerva belies the ornate gothic interior,
with its soaring vault and richly coloured arches and ceiling.
Construction began in 1280, but the building was not completed
until the mid-fifteenth century, under the direction of Cardinal
Juan de Torquemada, the uncle of history’s more familiar
Torquemada, Tomàs, Spain’s notoriously brutal Grand Inquisitor
who would stop at nothing in his campaign to root out heresy.
descartes 58

By the early seventeenth century, the Dominican convent


attached to Santa Maria sopra Minerva was regularly providing
its own service to the intellectual purification of the Roman
Catholic domain. It was the local headquarters of the Supreme
Sacred Congregation of the Roman and Universal Inquisition,
also known as the Holy Office. The members of this august and
fearsome authority were charged with not only policing doctri-
nal matters but pursuing any perceived threats, theological or
otherwise, to the Catholic faith. In the spring of 1633 they were
once again meeting in the convent’s rooms, this time to decide
the fate of a seventy-year-old scientist from Florence.
One year earlier Galileo Galilei had published his Dialogue
Concerning the Two Chief World Systems. Sponsored by the Lincean
Academy in Rome and dedicated by Galileo to his Medici employer
– his official title was ‘Philosopher and Chief Mathematician to
the Most Serene Grand Duke of Tuscany’ – this work was, despite
diplomatic and disingenuous disclaimers by Galileo, an extended
brief on behalf of the Copernican heliocentric model of the cosmos.
It was also, therefore, part of the case against the Ptolomaic geo-
centric model, which the Catholic Church had been defending
with increasing vigour in the light of recent astronomical discov-
eries and new debates about the relationship between the Bible
and scientific truth. Galileo went ahead with the publication of
this work despite the fact that he had been warned by the Church
many years earlier not to teach or defend the Copernican theory.9
The ‘Galileo Affair’ cannot be reduced to a single famous
event – the 1633 trial and conviction of a scientist by the Catholic
Church. Rather, it is a complex series of episodes stretching over
two decades and involving a varied cast of characters and a host
of philosophical, theological, philological and religious issues. It
was not simply a clash between two competing views of the nature
of the universe, but included profound theoretical differences
over the relationship between science and religion, the status of
59 A Fabulous New World

Scripture as a source of knowledge and the proper method for


interpreting the holy texts. Even the nature of truth itself was in
question, as well as who had the authority to decide what was a
matter of faith and what was a matter of reason. All of this conflict
was exacerbated by social and political factors both within the
Church hierarchy and in its relationship to secular authorities,
domestic and foreign.10
It all began in 1610 when Galileo published The Starry Messenger
(Sidereus nuncius). In this short book, he reveals some of the remark-
able discoveries he had made with (as the title page proclaims)
‘the aid of a spyglass lately invented by him’ – that is, by means
of a refracting telescope that he had constructed himself and
that was a significant improvement over earlier models. Galileo
describes the ‘variety of elevations and depressions’ that he saw
on the surface of the moon, which are especially visible around
the boundary between the moon’s illuminated and dark sides.
These are taken as evidence that, contrary to the prevailing theory
that celestial bodies are made of a different and more perfect
matter from terrestrial ones, the lunar surface is in fact composed
of ordinary matter and, like the surface of the earth, is rough,
with mountains and valleys. Galileo also argues that the weak
illumination often seen on the dark side of the moon (‘the moon’s
secondary light’) does not shine out of the moon itself; nor does
it come directly from the sun or Venus. Rather, it is the sun’s
illumination of the moon’s bright side being reflected back on to
the moon’s dark side by the earth, and it varies according to how
close the moon is to the sun. Perhaps most stunningly, Galileo
also describes how, over the course of several nights, he observed
three ‘starlets’ around Jupiter that appear to change their position
relative both to the planet and to each other. These, he concludes,
are moons that orbit Jupiter – he names them the Medicean
Planets, in honour of his patron – just as the moon revolves
around the earth.
descartes 60

These discoveries do not amount to demonstrative proof of


the truth of the Copernican system, as Galileo well knew. But he
did see them as compelling evidence in favour of that theory, in
part because they cause difficulties for both the Ptolomeic alter-
native and the Aristotelian assumptions about the nature of the
heavens that support it. The ‘earthshine’ on the moon, Galileo
notes, counts ‘against those who argue that the earth must be
excluded from the dancing whirl of stars . . . We shall prove that
the earth is a wandering body,’ just like the others.11 Similarly,
the moons around Jupiter show that the earth is not unique in
terms of being the centre of orbit of other bodies. This, Galileo
says, should be a ‘fine and elegant argument for quieting the
doubts’ of those would-be partisans of the Copernican system
who were nonetheless reluctant to accept that there should be
only one celestial body that has an orbiting satellite while going
through an annual revolution around the sun. ‘Now we have not
just one planet rotating about another while both run through
a great orbit around the sun; our own eyes show us four stars
which wander around Jupiter as does the moon around the earth,
while all together trace out a grand revolution about the sun in
the space of twelve years.’12
Later that year, Galileo added even more evidence to the
Copernican brief when he discovered with his telescope that
Venus goes through phases, just as the earth’s moon does. These
changes in the planet’s illumination all but confirmed that it
revolves around the sun, not the earth. While this would be con-
sistent with the planetary system defended by the late sixteenth-
century Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe – according to whom
the planets revolve around the sun while the sun, the moon and
the fixed stars revolve around the earth – it cannot be accounted
for under the standard Ptolomaic model.
In The Starry Messenger, Galileo calls the sun ‘the center of the
universe’,13 and suggests some of the advantages of the Copernican
61 A Fabulous New World

system, though he is still cautious about calling it anything other


than an ‘hypothesis’. At the very least, it does a better job of account-
ing for the observable phenomena in the heavens. Just three years
later, though, when he published a series of letters under the title
‘History and Demonstrations Concerning Sunspots and Their
Phenomena’, Galileo unequivocally and publicly endorsed the
heliocentric account of the cosmos as the true one. His Aristotelian
opponents knew from their own observations about the dark
spots that appear to be on the surface of the sun. They argued,
how­­ever, hoping to preserve the perfection and immutability of
this brightest of heavenly bodies, that these were in fact small
planetary objects between the earth and the sun. Galileo coun-
tered with conclusive evidence that the spots were not like planets
at all: that they are either ‘contiguous with’ the surface of the sun
or separated from it by a very small distance (much like the earth’s
clouds).14 Moreover, the changes and apparent motions in the
spots show that the sun rotates on its axis and they are carried
around with it.
Galileo now had no scruples about proclaiming that all of this
data ‘harmonizes admirably with the great Copernican system,
to the universal revelation of which doctrine propitious breezes
are now seen to be directed towards us, leaving little fear of clouds
or crosswinds’.15 Indeed, in his 1615 letter to the Grand Duchess
Christina, he can tell her that ‘as to the arrangement of the
parts of the universe, I hold the sun to be situated motionless
in the center of the revolution of the celestial orbs while the
earth rotates on its axis and revolves about the sun.’16
There was growing concern within the Catholic Church’s
congregations charged with purity of faith and doctrine over new
publications in favour of Copernicanism and the contentious
debates they were generating. The cardinals were willing to accept
the use of the Copernican system as a ‘hypothesis’ useful for
practical purposes, such as navigation and calendrical calculation.
descartes 62

But, wedded as the Church was to the Aristotelian-Ptolomaic


system, they were not willing to tolerate campaigns on behalf of
the truth of any contrary theory. This commitment was based
both on philosophical and theological reasons and on Scripture.
Many dogmas of Catholicism set by the Council of Trent (1545–
63), including some of its most important sacraments (such as
Eucharistic transubstantiation), were grounded in principles of
Aristotelian physics and metaphysics; thus any novel scientific
claims that threatened to undermine those philosophical principles
was taken to be a threat to Catholic theology as well.
The geocentric account of the cosmos also appeared to the
guardians of Catholic orthodoxy to be unambiguously pro-
pounded by Holy Scripture. The Psalms were read to endorse
geocentrism when they describe the sun as ‘like a groom coming
out of his chamber; It rejoices like a strong person to run his
course,’ and relate how God ‘established the earth on its foun-
dations so that it shall never totter’ (104:5). The author of
Ecclesiastes says that ‘the earth remains forever,’ while ‘the sun
rises and the sun sets’ (1:4–5). The most famous passage, and
the one most often used by the Ptolomeists, comes from the
Book of Joshua (10:12–13). The Israelites have the upper hand
in battle against the Amorites, and Joshua wants the day to be
extended so there will be more time to finish off the enemy. He
directs his plea to God:

‘Sun, stand still at Gibeon,


And moon, at the Valley of Aijalon!’
So the sun stood still, and the moon stopped,
Until the nation avenged themselves of their enemies
...
And the sun stopped in the middle of the sky and did
not hurry to go down for about a whole day.
63 A Fabulous New World

How could Copernicans possibly make sense of such texts if the


sun does not in fact move across the sky in a diurnal orbit around
the earth?
The immediate aggravating factor that, in 1616, finally
prompted the Holy Office to take action was not so much Galileo’s
writings – although its officers were aware of his views and gave
his letters on sunspots a close examination – but a treatise by Paolo
Antonio Foscarini titled A Letter Concerning the Opinion of the
Pythagoreans and of Copernicus About the Mobility of the Earth and the Stability
of the Sun. Foscarini’s goal was to show that the Copernican system
is consistent with both the Bible and Catholic theology, and he
made use of Galileo’s recent discoveries to bolster the case for
the truth of the heliocentric account.
This was too much for the Inquisition and its sister body, the
Congregation of the Index of Prohibited Books. The Holy Office
condemned Copernicus’ theory. Its assessors determined that
the proposition that ‘the sun is the center of the world and com-
pletely devoid of local motion’ is ‘foolish and absurd in philosophy,
and formally heretical’, while the proposition that ‘the earth is
not the center of the world, nor motionless, but it moves as a
whole and also with diurnal motion . . . receives the same judg-
ment in philosophy, and in regard to theological truth it is at
least erroneous in faith’.17 They judged these cosmological claims
to be contrary both to divine Scripture and to the true Christian
faith. Foscarini’s book was condemned and placed on the Index,
along with Copernicus’ On the Revolution of the Celestial Spheres and
other works supportive of the heliocentric account, ‘to prevent
the emergence of more serious harm throughout Christendom’.18
Galileo was treated more gently. He was given a private warning
by the powerful Cardinal Robert Bellarmine, who was conveying
an ultimatum from the pope. Galileo was ordered ‘to abandon
completely the aforementioned opinion that the sun stands still
at the center of the world and the earth moves, and henceforth
descartes 64

not to hold, teach, or defend it in any way whatever, either orally


or in writing’.19 That is, he must not present Copernicanism as
a true theory; if he must discuss it – and it is unclear whether he
is permitted to discuss it at all – he must treat it only as a ‘hypoth-
esis’ that can account for the observed phenomena in the heavens.
Galileo promises to obey, although he and the Inquisition’s judges
will later disagree over what were in fact the terms to which he
agreed.
This is where things stood, more or less, when Galileo brought
out his Dialogue in 1632. In this new book, Galileo publicly goes
further than ever before. The Dialogue describes, in great detail,
the essential elements and structure of a Copernican cosmos; and
if Galileo had in fact been forbidden by Bellarmine from even
discussing the theory, then the work is certainly a violation of the
1616 order. But in the Dialogue Galileo is no longer considering
heliocentrism merely ‘hypothetically’. He is clearly arguing for it.
Over the course of the four-day conversation that takes place
between Salviati, Sagredo and Simplicio, the reader is treated to
an extensive and compelling case on behalf of the new planetary
system, one which employs all the evidence that Galileo had been
compiling over two decades.
In the guise of Salviati, Galileo reprises arguments from his
earlier works – on sunspots, the phases of Venus, the moons
of Jupiter, the mountains on the surface of the moon and so on
– against an Aristotelian cosmology and in favour of Copernican­
ism. He now claims to be able to ‘deduce’, from astronomical
observations and with the help of some fundamental principles
of physics (including the law of inertia), that the sun and not
the earth is the centre of the ‘celestial revolutions’. Equally dam-
aging to the old system, Galileo’s telescopic results also confirm
that the heavens are not eternal and incorruptible, given the
appearance of new stars and spots that come and go on the face
of the sun.
65 A Fabulous New World

Galileo (Salviati) also addresses various objections raised


against the heliocentric view – for example, using his physics to
explain why bodies do not go flying off an earth that is spinning,
and why an object falling from a tower does not land far to the
west from the base of the tower being carried along eastwards
by the earth’s rotation.
On the dialogue’s Fourth Day, Galileo presents what he
regarded as the most direct and persuasive evidence in favour of
the diurnal motion of the earth. He reprises material from a text
that he had written, as a private letter, in 1616, and has Salviati
argue that the only plausible explanation for the daily changes
of sea level with the tides is the motion of the earth. The planet’s
rotation causes the water to surge back and forth, just like the
water in a container in motion.
The cardinals were stunned that Galileo would have the
audacity to violate the presumed terms of his agreement with
Bellarmine (who had died in 1621). After reports on the Dialogue
were commissioned by the Inquisition, Galileo was summoned to
its chambers in Rome for interrogation. The Florentine astron-
omer insisted on the ‘purity of my intention’ and protested that
‘I neither did hold nor do hold as true the condemned opinion
of the earth’s motion and the sun’s stability.’20 He offered the
incredible disclaimer that he in fact meant to refute the Copernican
system, not to teach or defend it (although he admits he can
understand why an innocent reader might have come away with
that impression).
His judges were not persuaded. On 22 June 1633, they issued
their ruling. Galileo, they declared, ‘has rendered [himself] vehe-
mently suspected of heresy, namely, of having held and believed
a doctrine which is false and contrary to the divine and Holy
Scripture; that the sun is the center of the world and does not
move from east to west, and the earth moves and is not the center
of the world’. He was ordered to ‘abjure, curse, and detest the
descartes 66

aforementioned errors and heresies, and every other error and


heresy contrary to the Catholic and Apostolic Church’. Moreover,
they sentenced the elderly scientist to imprisonment, although this
was subsequently commuted to house arrest. As for the Dialogue
on the Two Chief World Systems, the Inquisitors proclaimed it to be
‘prohibited by public edict’.21
Galileo’s fate would have serious repurcussions for Descartes’
plans finally to publish something.

Soon after landing in the Dutch Republic in the spring of


1629, Descartes began working on a variety of topics in natural
philosophy. For the next four years, he would be occupied both
with questions as general as the origin of the cosmos, the nature
of matter and the laws of motion, and with detailed causal expla-
nations for particular phenomena, including such mysterious
effects as gravity, magnetism and the tides. He would also address
a number of problems in optics and the science of light and
achieve some expertise in anatomy and understanding the work-
ings of the human body – what he calls ‘all the main functions
in man’.
The initial impetus for this broad set of investigations was
an unusual atmospheric event that Descartes heard about that
first summer in the Netherlands. Two luminous spots had recently
been witnessed on opposite sides of the sun, looking like sec-
ondary suns sitting on a ring or halo around the sun itself.
Intrigued, Descartes asked Mersenne in Paris to send him another
description of the parhelia, which had been first reported in
Rome. He was set on determining what this strange occurrence
was and why it should happen. In October he wrote to Mersenne
that ‘I was investigating the cause of the phenomenon which
you write about in your letter. Just over two months ago one of
my friends showed me a very full description of the phenomenon
67 A Fabulous New World

and asked me what I thought of it.’22 Descartes believed, though,


that he could not respond to this query until he had a deeper
understanding of the nature of light, its behaviour as it passes
through various media and a host of other optical and atmospheric
effects. Indeed, he tells Mersenne, ‘before I could give him my
answer I had to interrupt my current work in order to make a
systematic study of the whole of meteorology.’
Thus the beginning of what Descartes called ‘a little treatise
on the topic’, one that will have the additional benefit of offering
readers ‘a specimen of my philosophy’. This work on optical and
atmospheric questions would deal not just with the constitution
and action of light, but with a wide variety of luminous phenom-
ena. Subsequent letters to Mersenne mention the corona seen
around the flame of a candle, the apparent colours of bodies and
– since it was also to be a work of meteorology, broadly construed
to include some of what now falls under astronomy – sunspots,
the luminescence of clouds, the formation of rainbows and the
brightness of light emanating from stars and the moon relative to
their position on the horizon. Descartes even planned to investi­
gate ‘how the whiteness of bread remains in the Blessed Sacrament’
after the miracle of Eucharistic transubstantiation – when the
bread has been changed into the body of Christ – since it is an
example of how colour is a matter of the way in which light is
reflected off the surface of a body and received by the eyes.23
One thing led to another, however, and already by November
the project had grown significantly in scope, expanding well
beyond merely a ‘discourse on colors and light’. Descartes informed
Mersenne that he was now intent on providing an exhaustive
account of ‘all sublunary phenomena in general’, and that his book
would be delayed by at least a year. ‘Rather than explaining just
one phenomenon I have decided to explain all the phenomena
of nature, that is to say, the whole of physics.’24 With a new title
in hand, Descartes was now investigating for ‘my Physics’ the
descartes 68

acceleration of falling bodies, employing a rudimentary concept


of inertia (‘the motion impressed on a body at one time remains
in it for all time unless it is taken away by some other cause’25), as
well as related topics in ballistics (‘whether a stone thrown with
a sling, or a ball shot from a musket, or a bolt from a crossbow,
travels faster and has greater force in the middle of its flight than
it has at the start’).26 Still, he continued to refer to the project in
April 1630 as ‘the little treatise I have begun’, and even suggests
to Mersenne that it will be ‘a discourse which will be so short that
I reckon it will take only an afternoon to read’.
By November 1630, though, Descartes had come to terms
with the fact that this still only ‘half finished’ project would be
much longer and take more time than he had estimated. He
anticipated having a complete draft in three years, and hoped
Mersenne would then carefully review it, making any necessary
corrections, and place it with a publisher.27 ‘My little treatise’ and
‘my Physics’ is now ‘my World’. The new working title better cap-
tures the global scope of its subject-matter. What he had earlier
referred to as ‘the discourse explaining the nature of colours and
light’ is now just one part of a grandly ambitious work that, years
after Descartes’ death, will be published as Le Monde.
The expansion of the project and the extension of its timeline
was due to the fact that Descartes decided that, beyond optics,
even beyond terrestrial physics, he needed to discuss cosmology,
astronomy, animal physiology, the human body and even the
human soul. Reflecting back on the origins of this project some
years later, he notes that ‘fearing that I could not put everything
I had in mind into my discourse, I undertook merely to expound
quite fully what I understood about light.’ But the phenomena of
nature, all composed of the same matter and obeying the same sets
of laws, are not so discrete. Thus, while the nature and behaviour
of light continued to be a unifying topic,
69 A Fabulous New World

I added something about the sun and fixed stars, because


almost all light comes from them; about the heavens,
because they transmit light; about planets, comets and
the earth, because they reflect light; about terrestrial
bodies in particular, because they are either coloured or
transparent or luminous; and finally about man, because
he observes these bodies.28

Descartes was wavering about whether and how to include


a discussion of living bodies, and especially human beings. In
June 1632, writing from Deventer in the province of Overijssel,
he tells Mersenne that he is finished with everything he has to
say about inanimate bodies, and now ‘I have been trying to decide
whether I should include in The World an account of how animals
are generated.’ He has resolved at this point not to, ‘because it
would take me too long’.29 Still, he feels he needs to say something
about living beings, since the operations of merely animate bodies
– that is, living bodies that are not also endowed with souls – are
not fundamentally different from those of inanimate bodies; they
are all made of the same matter and function according to the
same kinetic principles.
With human beings, things are a bit more complicated. On
the one hand, the human body itself is just another animate (living)
body, and so what Descartes says about living bodies in general
will apply as well to the human body. On the other, human phys-
iology is especially complex and, for obvious reasons, important;
Descartes has a great interest in medical matters and in the aetiology
and treatment of disease. Then there is the fact that the human
body is also united with a soul, an immaterial substance that does
not operate according to the principles of physics, even when it
interacts with the body. Thus, when Descartes tells Mersenne in
June that ‘I have finished all I had planned to include in [my
treatise] concerning inanimate bodies. It only remains for me to
descartes 70

add something concerning the nature of man,’ it is unclear whether


he is talking only about the human body and its purely physical
operations, or about the complete human being – a mind–body
union. It is also unclear where exactly the discussion of ‘the nature
of man’, whatever it may include, belongs in his World.
Just a few months later, Descartes had reached a little more
clarity on all of this. He told Mersenne in November 1632 that

my discussion of man in The World will be a little fuller


than I had intended, for I have undertaken to explain all
the main functions in man. I have already written of the
vital functions, such as the digestion of food, the heart
beat, the distribution of nourishment, etc., and the five
senses. I am now dissecting the heads of various animals,
so that I can explain what imagination, memory, etc.,
consist in.30

Descartes seems to have decided that the discussion of the human


being will form a separate treatise (or, possibly, a pair of treatises)
within the larger project of The World. First, he will deal the human
body merely ‘as a machine’,31 distinct from the treatment of light
and the ways it affects and is affected by inanimate bodies, and
will show ‘what structure the nerves and muscles of the human
body must have’ in order to function as it does.32
Then there is the question of the human soul and its relation­
ship to the human body. His discussion should include both
effects in the soul caused by its connection to the body (pains,
pleasures and sensory perceptions such as colour, taste and sound)
and effects in the body caused by the soul (voluntary motions of
bodily parts). Also at stake is the problem of how to determine
when a body is in fact endowed with a soul and when it is only a
material automaton, animate in the sense of living but composed
of matter alone, such as is the case with vegetative matter and
71 A Fabulous New World

non-human animals – as Descartes will later put it, ‘how we can


know the difference between man and beast’.33
Finally, there is the soul itself and its purely intellectual or
rational functions: that is, its nature, existence and operations as
a substance ontologically distinct from and independent of the
body. That Descartes was at work on such purely spiritual and
metaphysical topics, and even drafted an essay on them to include
in The World, either as the final element in the second part of the
treatise or as a separate essay, is evident from the summary of his
1632 labours that he later offers in the Discourse on Method. He recalls
that ‘I described the rational soul, and showed that, unlike the
other things of which I had spoken, it cannot be derived in any
way from the potentiality of matter, but must be specially created.’34
He says that he explained in what he wrote how the soul is not
‘lodged in the human body like a helmsman in his ship’, but rather
is intimately joined with the body, although separable from it, as
it must be in order to enjoy immortality after death.
In the end, what Descartes had by early 1633 was a two-part
dissertation. Part One, eventually to be called Treatise on Light (Traité
de la lumière), would use the phenomenon of light to lead an inves-
tigation of inanimate bodies in the celestial and terrestrial realms
solely according to the principles of his physics, including an account
of the origin and structure of the cosmos. Part Two, Treatise on Man
(Traité de l’homme), concerned ‘animals, and in particular men’, and
it was devoted to showing how the human body (like any animal
body) operates on purely mechanical principles, without any
functions that may be related to mind or thought.35 The discussion
of ‘the rational soul’, both by itself and in its relation to the human
body, initially intended for a Part Three, would appear only in
several of his later works: the Meditations on First Philosophy, the Principles
of Philosophy and especially the Passions of the Soul.36
descartes 72

The doctrines in The World are informed by a new theory


of nature and a new approach to understanding the phenomena
of the heavens and the earth. It is a vastly different kind of science
than the Aristotelian variety that had dominated schools across
Europe for centuries up to Descartes’ era and that still enjoyed
ecclesiastic support from both Catholic and Protestant authorities.
Its partisans therefore had to tread carefully.
For Aristotelians, the proper objects of scientific inquiry were
what they called ‘substances’. They sought especially to understand
the properties that substances have and the changes they undergo.
A substance, which in its primary sense is simply any particular
existing individual (a rock, a tree, a horse, a human being), is a
com­­pound ‘hylomorphic’ entity consisting of matter (hyle) and
form (morphé). The matter gives the substance its materiality and
its ‘thisness’, its numerical and spatial discreteness with respect
to other substances. The form, however – an immaterial, soul-like
item that unites with the matter – gives the substance its ‘what-
ness’, its identity as a being of such and such a kind. The form,
which is the more active constituent of the substance, is causally
responsible for all the qualities by which a thing is what it is and
for all the characteristic behaviours it exhibits. When a parcel of
matter is informed by the form ‘horse’, for example, the result is
a particular horse that looks and acts in horse-like ways. Its shape,
its tendency to trot or gallop, its whinnying, are all generated by
the form.
Forms are distinguished as substantial or accidental according
to whether the properties and activities they ground are essential
or accidental to the substance. The substantial form of human
being imposes on the particular matter it informs just those prop-
erties essential to being a human: animality and rationality.37 The
other features or powers belonging to an individual that distin-
guish it from other members of the same species – in a human
being, these would be hair, eye and skin colour, height and so on
73 A Fabulous New World

– result from any number of accidental forms also informing the


same matter.38
Under an Aristotelian hylomorphic metaphysics, moreover,
any account of how a substance undergoes alteration and even
a complete change of nature necessarily involves specifying deter-
minate forms. Because the forms are responsible for the substance
being what it is and acting as it does, a change or alteration in a
substance occurs when that substance loses or acquires some
form(s) or another. (In substantial change, whereby a thing is
transformed into something of another kind altogether, the mate-
rial substratum loses one substantial form and gains another. In
the more common case of alteration, the substance remains what
it is essentially but undergoes some change in one or more of its
accidental properties – its colour or shape – through the loss and
gain of accidental forms.)
This general model of explanation is also at work in Aristotelian
physics and informs the Scholastic account of the dynamic behav-
iour of bodies in motion and rest. Aristotle had identified four
species of fundamental elements or primary bodies, out of which
all the matter of physical bodies is composed: fire, air, water and
earth. Each of these four elements is in turn generated from a
combination of two out of four primary qualities – heat, cold,
dryness and moisture – which determine the nature of that ele-
ment. Fire, for example, is made up of heat and dryness. As the
primary qualities combine in various proportions in the elementary
bodies and thus in the macroscopic physical bodies for which
those elementary bodies provide the matter, they account in part
for the observable behaviour of things in the world. The properties
and effects of ordinary fire – its power to burn or dry other bodies
– are explained by the preponderance in it of the element fire
and thus of that element’s primary qualities of heat and dryness.
This was the general metaphysical and physical schema of
Thomas Aquinas and other medieval Aristotelians. In late Latin
descartes 74

Scholasticism of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries


– in works by Francisco Suarez, Eustachius a Sancto Paulo and
the Jesuit authors of the Coimbrian Commentaries on Aristotle
(so called because they were produced at the University of
Coimbra in Portugal) – one still finds an unwavering commit-
ment to the hylomorphic doctrine of substance and the theory
of elements and qualities. At the same time, there is an expansion
in the number of primary qualities from four to six, with the addi­­
tion of two motive qualities – heaviness (gravitas) and lightness
(levitas) – as well as an increase in the use of additional ‘sensible’
qualities to explain natural phenomena. These were all called
‘real qualities’ and ‘virtues’, and practically every sensible and
insensible property or behaviour in bodies was to be explained in
terms of a body’s possession of the relevant form or quality. The
forms and qualities, endowed with active powers, were regarded
as the efficient causes of their respective visible and invisible
effects. Thus the real quality ‘heat’ (calor) begets sensible warmth
in a body or that body’s power of warming another body, and
the quality ‘dryness’ (siccitas) begets sensible dryness or the power
to dry. A swan is white (albus) because of the presence of ‘white-
ness’ (albedo) in it, while gold is yellow because its matter is
informed by the quality ‘yellowness’.
Even so-called occult powers such as magnetism and gravity,
whose operations are undetectable, are amenable to this kind of
explanatory schema. The lodestone affects iron the way it does
because it has the ‘attractive quality’ or ‘magnetic virtue’.39 A heavy
body falls towards the earth because it is endowed with the
form ‘heaviness’. As the Coimbrian commentators put it, ‘since
heavy and light things . . . tend towards their natural places,
there must be some means present in them . . . by the power of
which they are moved. This can be nothing other than their
substantial form and the heaviness and lightness which derives
from it.’40
75 A Fabulous New World

A model of science that operated by infusing bodies with


spiritual forms and qualities defined by the phenomena they are
supposed to explain easily lent itself to critique and ridicule.
Progressive early modern philosophers, including Descartes,
found such explanations trivial and useless. It is totally uninform­
ative to be told that the reason why a body fell was because it was
‘heavy’, or that an object was white because it contained ‘whiteness’.
The Scholastics, he notes,

have all put forward as principles things of which they


did not possess perfect knowledge. For example, there is
not one of them, so far as I know, who has not supposed
there to be weight in terrestrial bodies. Yet although expe-
rience shows us very clearly that the bodies we call ‘heavy’
descend towards the centre of the earth, we do not for
all that have any knowledge of the nature of what is called
‘gravity’, that is to say, the cause or principle which makes
bodies descend in this way.41

In other words, the explanations offered by Aristotelian Scholastics


are no explanations at all. They simply take the property to be
explained (‘heavy’) and make it part of the explanation (‘heav-
iness’). A famous parody of this technique was offered by Molière
in his 1673 play Le Malade imaginaire. When Thomas, a candidate
in medicine, is asked at his degree disputation to explain why
opium causes sleep, he responds: ‘Because it has the dormitive
virtue, which makes one sleep.’ The chorus of examiners enthu-
siastically applaud him and welcome him into ‘our learned body’.42
Despite these explanatory shortcomings, the philosophical
paradigm of late Scholasticism remained orthodoxy within the
colleges and universities in the first half of the seventeenth century.
Scholars continued to defend neo-Aristotelian views in meta-
physics and traditional (not to mention religiously safe) doctrines
descartes 76

of nature in their lectures and textbooks designed to mould


young minds, such as the students at La Flèche. While there was
no shortage of anti-Aristotelians, novatores (innovators) critical
of the old way of doing things, they needed to keep a low profile
lest they fall afoul of the academic, ecclesiastic and civil authorities.
In 1624 four Parisian scholars were in fact condemned for their
disparaging treatment of Aristotelian philosophy in a placard
announcing an upcoming disputation. Among other things, they
critiqued the hylomorphic makeup of physical bodies. The
Parlement of Paris forced the scholars to cancel the event, and
the theology faculty at the Sorbonne declared their proposed
theses heretical and forbade them from ever teaching again. In
the wake of their trial, the University of Paris formally banned all
anti-Aristotelian discussions. (Descartes’ friend Mersenne took
the side of Aristotle in this affair and condemned the would-be
disputants as ‘charlatans’.43)
This event had a chilling effect on philosophical discourse
in the university’s faculties for some time, but it did not stop the
promotors of more progressive thinking from pursuing their
researches. Theoreticians and experimentalists continued to
oppose sterile medieval theories as they sought a clear, illuminat­
ing and pragmatic understanding of phenomena. Descartes
himself was already partial to the mechanistic, corpuscularian
conception of nature during his time with Beeckman, and it
informs his dis­­cussion of the body’s role in sensation and imag-
ination in the Rules for the Direction of the Mind. But it is only in The
World that we first find a broad elaboration of his natural
philosophy.
In Descartes’ universe, there are no soul-like or spiritual
entities such as forms or real qualities inhering in natural bodies.
Writing some years later, he reminds Mersenne that ‘I do not
suppose there are in nature any real qualities which are attached to
substances, like so many little souls to their bodies.’44 There are
77 A Fabulous New World

human souls united with human bodies, but everything else –


including the human body itself – is pure matter. Moreover, the
matter that composes bodies, celestial and terrestrial, is homo-
geneous throughout the cosmos. There are not basic elements
differing in nature from each other, and gone is the ‘quintessence’
or fifth element that, in the medieval cosmological system, made
up the universe beyond our earthly realm. There is only one kind
of material stuff, and it is simply three-dimensional extension.
Cartesian matter does come in different sizes and volumes, and
Descartes refers to ‘elements’ of the first, second and third kind,
a purely quantitative designation that depends on the degree of
rarefaction and ‘subtlety’. (Matter of the first kind is the smallest
and most fluid; matter of the second kind is ‘middling’ in size; and
matter of the third kind is larger and moves more slowly.) But it
makes no difference whether it is the matter of the heavens or
the matter of our world; it is all just extension. There are no phe-
nomena of nature that cannot be explained solely by the motion,
rest, collision, conglomeration and separation of microscopic and
visible parts of this universal matter.

If you find it strange that, in explaining these elements,


I do not use the qualities called ‘heat’, ‘cold’, ‘moisture’
and ‘dryness’ – as the philosophers do – I shall say to you
that these qualities themselves seem to me to need expla-
nation. Indeed, unless I am mistaken, not only these four
qualities but all the others as well, including even the
forms of inanimate bodies, can be explained without
the need to suppose anything in their matter other than
the motion, size, shape and arrangement of its parts.45

In The World, Descartes asks us to imagine God in the begin-


ning creating a single, undifferentiated mass of matter extended
indefinitely in all directions. When God then introduces motion
descartes 78

into that extension, it gets broken up ‘into as many parts and


shapes we can imagine . . . wholly in the diversity of the motions’.
Initially these parts are vortices or ‘swirls’ of matter, each circu-
lating around a centre. Some vortices are massive, and constitute
the heavens that carry around planets; others are quite small,
and belong to the sublunary realm. Individual bodies of what-
ever size are parcels of matter whose parts are ‘so closely joined
together that they always have the force to resist the motions of
the other bodies’. 46 (One implication of the identification of
matter with extension is that there are no voids, no spaces without
matter; what appears to be empty space is, by virtue of being
extended in three dimensions, a body, even if it is not a visible
body. This is an aspect of his physics that Descartes only hints
at here. He says: ‘I do not wish to insist that there is no vacuum
at all in nature. My treatise would, I fear, become too long if I
undertook to explain the matter at length.’47 However, he will
explicitly argue for the impossibility of a vacuum in a later work.)
According to this schema, God does not actually create any-
thing in particular other than the matter and motion or introduce
any order or arrangement to things. But because the operations
of an eternal and immutable God are themselves eternal and
immutable, the quantity of matter and motion in the universe
must remain constant; neither matter nor motion can suffer any
increase or decrease. There must also be a certain regularity to
the ways in which the parts of matter, once established, interact.
Thus, the world will be governed by three general laws:

(1) A law of inertia, which states that ‘each particular part


of matter always continues in the same state unless collision
with others forces it to change its state.’
(2) A law governing the transfer of motion in collision
between bodies, whereby no body can give to another body
any motion except by losing as much of its own motion at
79 A Fabulous New World

the same time; nor can it take away any motion from another
body unless its own motion is increased by the same amount.
(3) A law of rectilinear motion, according to which all
tendency to motion in a body is to continue moving in a
straight line, even if the body, because of the impingement
of other bodies, is forced to move in a circular pattern.

With these laws of nature in place, the motions of matter are,


Descartes insists, ‘sufficient to cause the parts of this chaos to
disentangle themselves and arrange themselves in such a good
order that they will have the form of a quite perfect world – a
world in which we shall be able to see not only light but also all
the other things, general as well as particular, which appear in the
real world’.48 In short, God’s role in creation is scaled back con-
siderably. Most of what we find in the world around us – the
bodies we see and their ongoing interactions – is the consequence
only of matter, motion and laws. The visible universe was generated
by and operates on purely mechanistic principles, with all pheno­
mena explained solely by the motion and contact of parts of
matter of varying sizes and shapes.
Thus celestial bodies move around the centre of their heaven
not because of some attractive power operating over great dis-
tances, but because they are swept along by the vortex of finer
matter within which they are embedded (‘just as boats that
follow the course of a river’). And the falling of a body to the
ground is explained not by a spiritual occult form or quality in
the body that moves it towards its natural resting place; nor does
it happen by some mysterious force acting on the body over
empty space. Rather, gravity is the result of a downward pressure
exerted on terrestrial bodies by the smaller, quicker and therefore
upward-moving microscopic bodies – the ‘more subtle matter’ –
of the first element of the heaven surrounding the earth. As for
light, the topic that initiated the undertaking of the treatise, it is
descartes 80

only an impulse that the rotational motion of a body composed


of the first element (such as the sun) communicates through the
minute corpuscles of a material medium. When that impulse
finally reaches the human eye, it is communicated to the brain
by way of the optic nerve, and subsequently translated by the
soul into a luminous perception.
Another central tenet of the Aristotelian philosophy was
that all knowledge ultimately has an empirical source and derives
either immediately or mediately through sense experience. ‘There
is nothing in the intellect that was not first in the senses’ was a
common Scholastic refrain. And for the Aristotelian, the world
revealed by that experience was pretty much as the senses reported
it to be. The colours and other sensible properties that bodies
appear to have are really in those bodies (‘whiteness’, ‘redness’,
‘warmth’). For Descartes and other mechanists, however, the
evidence of the senses is unreliable. They do not reveal the world
as it truly is. The colours we perceive and the warmth we feel
are just the soul’s response to motions (stimulations) in the
brain caused by external bodies. In the bodies themselves, colour
is nothing but the way in which the size and shape of the outer­
most corpuscles of a body form a texture that reflect the impulses
of light in a particular way, affecting the trajectory and spin of
the medium’s corpuscles. What we feel as warmth is, in the body
itself, merely an increased motion of the minute corpuscles
composing it.
A mechanistic explanation of sensible qualities and their
perception in the human mind through the motion of imper-
ceptible bodies is certainly not new with Descartes. The doctrine
goes back to the ancient atomism of the Epicureans. In Descartes’
time, Galileo argued in his 1623 treatise The Assayer that while
most people believe that ‘heat is a real phenomenon or property
or quality that actually resides in the material world by which we
feel ourselves warmed’, in fact
81 A Fabulous New World

those materials that produce heat in us and make us feel


warm . . . are a multitude of minute particles having cer-
tain shapes and moving with certain velocities. Meeting
with our bodies, they penetrate by means of their ex­
treme subtlety, and their touch as felt by us when the pass
through our substance is the sensation we call ‘heat.’

Heat as a feeling, colour as a visual experience and many other


sensible qualities, Galileo insisted, have ‘no real existence save
in us’. 49
Because the topic of sensation concerns the human being,
Descartes reserves most of his discussion of this for the second
treatise composing of The World, the Treatise on Man. Much of this
work is taken up with the most basic functions of a living human
body, those that occur whether or not that body is united with a
soul.
In the Aristotelian philosophy, while only human beings had
a rational soul, the organic internal processes and basic motions
of the human body were explained through the introduction of
lower-level souls (forms) into the body’s matter. Generation,
growth, the circulation of the blood, the digestion of food and so
on depended on the vegetative soul, which was present in all living
things, whether animal or plant. Sensory perception and the active
movement of the body were a function of the sensitive soul, which
informed the bodies of all animals, human and non-human.
Descartes, continuing his attack on substantial and accidental
forms, and hylomorphism generally, dispenses with all such non-
rational souls. The human body he describes is no less a kind of
machine than other animate and inanimate bodies. In its ordi-
nary operations, it is simply a collection of material parts moving
and interacting with each other and with other bodies according
to the laws of nature.
descartes 82

We see clocks, artificial fountains, mills and other similar


machines which, even though they are only made by men,
have the power to move of their own accord in various
ways. And, as I am supposing that this machine [the
human body] is made by God, I think you will agree that
it is capable of a greater variety of movements than I
could possibly imagine in it, and that it exhibits a greater
ingenuity than I could possibly ascribe to it.50

Through empirical investigation involving dissection and other


modes of experimentation, supplemented by logical reasoning
– including, presumably, ‘intuition’ and ‘deduction’ – Descartes
carefully determined the structure of the human skeleton, mus-
culature and organs and the actions of its circulatory, respiratory,
nervous and digestive systems.
Key to practically all of the body’s functioning – the internal
motions that regularly maintain it, its passive and active responses
to external stimuli, and its interactions with the soul – are what
Descartes calls ‘animal spirits’. These are ‘a very fine wind, or
rather a very lively and very pure flame’ – they are not spiritual
at all, but a highly rarefied vapour produced from the blood by
the separation of its finer parts. The spirits are transported through-
out the body by the channels that contain and protect the nerves,
which are simply tiny fibres connecting the extremities of the
body to the brain. The body moves when the muscles are inflated
by the spirits sent there by the brain or deflated as the spirits
depart. In instinctive motions – for example, flinching at the
sight of a threat – the spirits are stimulated in a purely mechanical
manner, as their minute parts are pushed in this or that direction
by other bodily parts in motion, which in turn are responding to
the impression caused by an external body. The human body in
this case acts similarly to that of a sheep that flees at the sight of
a wolf; the sheep’s turning around and running away is a purely
83 A Fabulous New World

mechanical response, a matter of motions in muscles generated


by the image of the predator in the sheep’s optical apparatus.
Descartes compares the role of the animal spirits in the human
body to the air that is forced through the pipes of an organ by a
bellows, or to the water that, through a hydraulic system, moves
animated statues such as those in the French king’s estate at
Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

You may have observed in the grottoes and fountains of


the royal gardens that the force that drives the water
from its source is all that is needed to move various
machines, and even to make them play certain instru-
ments or pronounce certain words, depending on the
particular arrangements of the pipes through which the
water is conducted.51

Of course, the human being is more than a machine operating


on strictly mechanical principles. The human body is united with
a soul.

I hold that when God unites a rational soul to this


machine, as I intend to explain later on, He will place its
principal seat in the brain and will make its nature such
that the soul will have different sensations depending on
the different ways in which the nerves open the entrances
to the pores in the internal surface of the brain.52

The animal spirits are, in fact, always responding to or affecting


one particular part of the brain: the pineal gland, which Descartes
locates right at the brain’s centre. It is the position and motion
of this gland that directs the spirits that flow through it into the
pores of the brain that are the endings of the nerve channels,
and through these into the limbs and sense organs.
Interior of the brain, with nerve endings and the pineal gland in the centre, from
Traité de l’homme (1664).
The sensation of heat, from Traité de l’homme.
descartes 86

In sensory awareness – whether through sight, touch, smell,


hearing or taste – other bodies impinge, either directly or through
a medium, on the exterior of the human body. The motions caused
on the surface of the human body constitute a kind of kinetic
isomorphic image of that external body. The image is communi­
c­ated by the spirits in the nerve channels to the brain, where they
impress the image on the brain’s interior surface by causing its
pores to open or close in that same pattern. Spirits flowing to
this pattern on the brain’s interior surface from the pineal gland
maintain the image as they cause the gland to move in this or
that way, which in turn stimulates the soul to have this or that
sensation or idea. This is how we perceive things and have other
kinds of sensations in their presence. Thus, in tasting salt, ‘the
tiny fibres that make up the marrow of the nerves of the tongue
and which serve as the organ of taste in this machine’ are easily
moved in different ways by the particles of salt, whose shape and
size affect the tongue differently from particles of brandy.53 When
those motions terminate in the brain and, by means of the animal
spirits, determine the particular movement of the pineal gland,
we experience the salty sensation.
It is crucial to Descartes’ account of human experience that,
as much in the case of a salty or sweet taste as in the perception
of red or blue or the sound of a musical note, there is no resem-
blance whatsoever between ‘our sensations and the things that
produce them’. He reminds us, right at the beginning of The World,
that ‘words . . . bear no resemblance to the things they signify,
and yet they make us think of those things’; likewise, ‘why could
Nature not also have established some sign which would make
us have the sensation of light, even if the sign contained nothing
in itself which is similar to this sensation?’54 The motions in the
brain (pineal gland) are a kind of natural sign that, on the occasion
of their occurrence, stimulate the mind to ‘interpret’ them and
produce the appropriate qualitative sensory experience.
87 A Fabulous New World

There are many other topics of physics, cosmology and human


physiology addressed in the two treatises constituting The World:
the origin and arrangement of stars (including the sun), the rev-
olutions and rotations of planets and their moons, the paths of
comets, the tides (which for Descartes are an effect of the moon’s
position), the beating of the heart, the breaking down of food in
digestion, the structure of the eye and the perception of distance,
emotions like joy and sadness, memory, and even dreams.
The Cartesian universe as described in the two treatises com-
posing The World functions like a grand mechanical structure. Its
various parts – animal, vegetable and mineral – all operate, actively
and passively, according to basic and perspicuous physical principles
that can (in theory) be captured in mathematical, or at least quan-
titative, terms. This general picture of nature, in one form or
another, grounds all of the great and progressive philosophy and
science of the seventeenth century, from Galileo’s physics to Robert
Boyle’s corpuscular chemistry to John Locke’s theory of knowledge
to the later mechanics of Christiaan Huygens, Gottfried Wilhelm
Leibniz and Isaac Newton.55

There are various other topics that Descartes had envi-


sioned including in ‘my treatise on physics’. He wrote to Mersenne
in 1630 to say that ‘I shall discuss a number of metaphysical
questions,’ including a doctrine that would stir up a good deal of
controversy.
The abstract, necessary and universal truths of logic, math-
ematics, metaphysics and even ethics were long regarded by
philosophers and theologians as ‘eternal’. They were said to have
an independent, uncreated existence, not unlike what Plato
attributed to his ethereal ‘Forms’. The laws of identity and
non-identity, the essence of a triangle and the geometric truths
that follow from it, and (at least according to many philosophers)
descartes 88

the nature of justice – all of these were typically assumed to be


eternally true, independent not only of human beliefs and
desires but of the will of God as well. God, no less than human
beings, could not violate the law of non-contradiction; nor could
God give a triangle more than three sides. Descartes, by contrast,
insisted that such truths, like the laws of nature and other con-
tingent truths about existing things in the world, were established
by God at creation. He tells Mersenne that

the mathematical truths which you call eternal have been


laid down by God and depend on him entirely no less
than the rest of his creatures. Indeed, to say that these
truths are independent of God is to talk of him as if he
were Jupiter or Saturn and to subject him to the Styx and
the Fates. Please do not hesitate to assert and proclaim
everywhere that it is God who has laid down these laws
in nature just as a king lays down laws in his kingdom.56

Though created, the laws in question remain eternal because


God’s will, though absolutely free and undetermined, is itself
eternal and immutable and thus does not change.
For Descartes, such a doctrine was essential to safeguarding
divine omnipotence, ‘the greatness of God’. If the eternal truths
were independent of God, then they would represent a limitation
on God’s power by subjecting God to a kind of external rational
necessity. God would be just as bound by the laws of mathematics
or metaphysics as we are. In a follow-up letter to Mersenne a
month later, he further defends his view by arguing that the rela-
tionship between the will and the understanding in God is not at
all what it is in human beings. In finite rational creatures, the will
and the understanding are distinct faculties of the mind. The
role of the will is to provide a judgement – either an affirmation
or rejection – of the ideas that the understanding puts before it.
89 A Fabulous New World

A person believes that 1 + 1 = 2 when his will, faced with that


proposition, assents to it. The simplicity of God’s nature, how-
ever, does not allow for distinct faculties. The ‘mind’ of an infinite
being bears no resemblance whatsoever to the human mind.
Thus in God will and understanding are one and the same thing,
and for God to understand that 1 + 1 = 2 is for God to will that
1 + 1 = 2. ‘In God, willing and knowing are a single thing in such
a way that by the very fact of willing something he knows it and
it is only for this reason that such a thing is true.’57
Mersenne, naturally, was puzzled by this strange view. ‘You ask
me’, Descartes wrote to his friend, ‘by what kind of causality God
established the eternal truths. I reply: by the same kind of causality
as he created all things, that is to say, as their efficient and total
cause . . . You ask also what necessitated God to create these truths;
and I reply that he was free to make it not true that all the radii of
the circle are equal – just as he was free not to create the world.’58
Descartes remained committed to this unorthodox doctrine
throughout his philosophical career. He was also aware of the
trouble it might have caused him. After all, in what sense can a
metaphysical or moral truth be necessary if it is created and there-
fore contingent? Thus, while he encourages Mersenne ‘to assert
and proclaim everywhere that it is God who has laid down these
laws in nature just as a king lays down laws in his kingdom’ and
‘to tell people as often as the occasion demands’, he adds: ‘provided
you do not mention my name’.59 In the end, he did not include
it in The World.
Another metaphysical topic that Descartes had promised to
address in The World but that does not appear in the extant version
– nor is it obviously the subject of any of the manuscripts in the
Stockholm inventory – is ‘the rational soul’. As we have seen,
according to his remarks in the Discourse on Method, he did indeed
write that projected third part.60 This treatise on the soul, though,
is long lost. So is the ‘little treatise of Metaphysics’ that, in a letter
descartes 90

from late 1630, Descartes tells Mersenne ‘I began when in Friesland


[that is, Franeker, mid-1629], in which I set out principally to
prove the existence of God and our souls when they are separate
from the body, from which their immortality follows.’61 However,
much of what Descartes apparently had put in these essays about
God and the soul do appear in his later works, especially the
Meditations on First Philosophy. Such spiritual questions would come
to occupy more and more of Descartes’ attention in the coming
years, as he sought to offer not just explanations of particular
natural phenomena but secure metaphysical foundations for his
entire philosophical and scientific enterprise.
four
Rebuilding the House of
Knowledge

E
ven after settling for good in the United Provinces,
Descartes never gave up his peripatetic ways. Between
1629 and 1632 he changed domicile often, moving
between at least six different cities and towns. When he began
work on material related to The World, he was living in Franeker,
where he matriculated in the Arts Faculty at the university. By
the time he was ready to see the treatise in print, in late 1633, and
after several relocations – including a short stay in Leiden and
three separate residencies in Amsterdam – he had been dwell-
ing for a couple of years in the countryside outside Deventer,
another university town, where his friend Henricus Reneri was
newly appointed to the chair in philosophy. Over the next ten
years, seeking to maintain the solitude he desired for his work,
he would rarely stay in the same place for more than two years.

It was now, in the early 1630s, over a decade since the truce with
Spain had expired. Though the Dutch Republic enjoyed de facto
sovereignty, it had not yet been granted formal independence;
this would have to wait until 1648, with the Peace of Westphalia
and the signing of the Treaty of Münster, which ended the Thirty
Years War. Meanwhile, Philip iv, who had inherited the Spanish
and Portuguese thrones from his father, was still eager to regain
his family’s rebellious northern territories. The resumption of
descartes 92

hostilities in 1621, and especially the reimposition of Spanish


embargoes against Dutch shipping, had sent the Dutch econ-
omy (and national morale) into an extended slump. The cost
of fighting was enormous – both the army and the navy had to
be increased – and a substantial drain on the Republic’s coffers.
Nonetheless, the Dutch managed to hold their own militarily
and would soon recover economically. Moreover, the domestic
political situation had grown less fraught since 1625, when stad-
holder Maurits of Nassau died and was replaced by another son
of Willem i, Frederik Hendrik. The new stadholder was not
only a more tolerant and cultivated person than Maurits, but
politically more astute. He did not share his half-brother’s
Counter-Remonstrant fervour. Indeed, Frederik Hendrik was
known to be friendly to the Arminian camp and was willing to
provide it some protection, up to a point. He knew to walk a
fine line between bringing Remonstrants in from the cold and
not antagonizing their more orthodox theological opponents.
Under his shrewd leadership, the councils of a number of cities
– including Amsterdam – were soon back in Remonstrant hands.
The Counter-Remonstrants were not happy about this, but there
was little they could do. Religious friction continued, as it would
for most of the rest of the century, with the fortunes of each
camp rising or falling in part according to how well the country
fared in its various wars with Spain, England and France. But by
the early 1630s things had certainly quieted down.
Along with a degree of domestic peace, Frederik Hendrik’s
stadholdership also opened a period of cultural blossoming. The
arts, both visual and literary, flourished, not least under patronage
from the stadholder’s court in The Hague, with the tasteful guid-
ance of the prince’s wife, Amalia van Solms. ‘History’ paintings
(depicting stories from the Bible, mythology and ancient and
recent history), portraits, landscapes, marine scenes and genre
pictures were being produced at an extraordinary rate by artists
93 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

catering to both wealthy and middle-class patrons. The recent


recession had not been without some effect on the art world,
especially the size, prices and even the subjects of paintings. As
one historian puts it, while canvases and panels became smaller
and the chromatic range more limited, ‘the elegant “garden parties”
and “Merry Companies” of the Truce era receded, to be replaced
by battle views, skirmishes, and genre scenes featuring soldiers
in taverns, brothels and guardrooms.’1 Still, despite the economic
contraction, there really was no significant decline either in the
demand by Dutch burghers for pictures to hang in their homes,
businesses and meeting halls or in the ability of Dutch artists to
adapt to changes in that demand.
The literary scene, too, fared well under the new regime.
There was a relatively high level of literacy in Dutch society, and
poetry and drama by such celebrated writers as Jacob Cats, Pieter
Cornelisz Hooft2 and Joost van den Vondel – none of whom
shied away from political themes – kept readers entertained and
edified. Mean­­while, the bookshops of Amsterdam and some of
the province’s other cities, taking advantage of the more lenient
– or, better, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ – policy in Holland, teemed with
works in many languages that were unavailable elsewhere. Dutch
publishers flooded the European market with literature that had
been or would be banned by civil and ecclesiastic authorities in
France, England, Spain and the German and Italian states. Authors
of radical political works, of tracts promoting religious dissent,
atheism and libertinism, and of erotic novels all took advantage
of the relative freedom of the press in the Republic. Even treatises
of natural science that broke with the reigning Aristotelian par-
adigm were available at printer-booksellers such as Hondius,
Blaeu and the famous Leiden house of Elzevir.3
The climate of relative toleration did not mean that one
should not be careful, and Descartes knew this. He was justifiably
concerned about how his novel theories in The World would be
Michiel Jansz. van Mierevelt (workshop of ), Frederik Hendrik, Stadholder of Holland,
c. 1632, oil on canvas.
95 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

received by those who were less open-minded in such matters,


especially religious authorities. As he speculated on the origin
of the cosmos, he risked being drawn into treacherous debates
about whether the universe is created or eternal, finite or infinite.
By rejecting Aristotelian metaphysics and the modes of explan­
ation employed in its physics, he was also ruling out ways in

Michiel Jansz. van Mierevelt (copy after), Amalia van Solms, c. 1632,
oil on panel.
descartes 96

which theologians had long accounted for various doctrines of


the faith. Scholastic theories that used the forms and qualities of
Arisotelian hylomorphism to explicate Church mysteries – such
as the Incarnation and the transubstantiation of the Eucharistic
host – had practically become as much a part of Catholic dogma
as the mysteries themselves. For this reason, Descartes considered
publishing the treatise anonymously. ‘I wish to do this principally
because of theology, which has been so subordinated to Aristotle
that it is almost impossible to explain another philosophy without
it seeming initially to be contrary to faith.’4
To Descartes’ conservative religious contemporaries, however,
the most striking and problematic feature of The World – had he
published it – would have been his rejection of the geocentric
model of the universe in favour of Copernican heliocentrism.
There is no mistaking the cosmological arrangement in the work.
The sun sits squarely at the centre of the vortex that contains,
and causes the revolutions of, the earth and other planets that
move around it. Nor is it the only luminous body that has orbiting
planets.

Even though all [the planets] tend towards the centres


of the heavens containing them, this is not thereby to say
that they could ever reach those centres. For as I have
already said, these are occupied by the sun and the other
fixed stars . . . Thus, you see that there can be different
planets, at varying distances from the sun . . . The mat-
ter of the heaven must make the planets turn not only
around the sun but also around their own centre.5

Descartes knew that he was treading on dangerous ground.


The heliocentrism is, in part, the reason why he decided to
present his overall account of the universe in purely hypothetical
terms, ‘as if my intention were simply to tell you a fable’.6 He
97 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

says in the treatise that he is not describing this actual world, the
one that the Bible tells us God created. Rather, he is talking
about ‘another world – a wholly new one which I shall bring
into being before your mind in imaginary spaces’.7 He hoped
that by presenting his Copernican cosmology as a counterfactual
fiction – the way a cosmos might be constructed – he would be
afforded some protection from theological critics who would
otherwise attack him for expounding a doctrine that was regarded
by the Catholic Church as ‘contrary to Holy and Divine Scripture’.
Besides, did not the Catholic Church allow the discussion of
heliocentrism, so long as it was considered merely a ‘hypothesis’
and not presented as the truth?
Descartes’ faith in his ruse was shaken when, in November
1633, as he was about to send The World to Mersenne for publication
‘as a New Year’s gift’, he learned about the recent condemnation of
Galileo. He was already somewhat familiar with Galileo’s general
theories in physics, although it is unlikely that at this point he knew
any of the Italian’s works at first hand. Just a year before, in late
1632, he had remarked to Mersenne that ‘what you tell me about
the calculation which Galileo has made concerning the speed at
which falling bodies move . . . bears no relation to my philoso-
phy.’ Mersenne, benefitting from the wide European intellectual
network of which he was the centre, apparently had read Galileo’s
new treatise soon after its publication that year. He explained
to Descartes Galileo’s view that all bodies fall at the same rate
regardless of their material or weight (and assuming their fall is
not affected by the friction of any medium). Descartes insists that
this cannot be right. ‘According to my philosophy there will not
be the same relation between two spheres of lead, one weighing
one pound and the other a hundred pounds, as there is between to
spheres of wood, one weighing one pound and the other a hundred
pounds . . . he [Galileo] makes no distinction between these cases,
which makes me think that he cannot have hit upon the truth.’8
descartes 98

Descartes’ interest was sufficiently piqued, however, and he


wanted to know what Galileo had to say about the ebb and flow
of the tides, which he knew (from Mersenne) is also discussed
in the Dialogue on Two Chief World Systems. But in his rural retreat,
outside Deventer, the work was not so easily obtainable. This may
explain why it was not until a year later that he went to look for
a copy. It was quite a revelation when he learned why he could
not find one.
After searching in vain in bookstores in Amsterdam and
Leiden, he was told that Galileo’s book had been burned in Rome
and that Galileo had been convicted by the Catholic Church of
heresy and punished. Descartes was shocked by the news. He told
Mersenne that ‘I was so astounded at this that I almost decided to
burn all my papers or at least to let no one see them. For I could
not imagine that he – an Italian and, as I understand, in the good
graces of the Pope – could have been made a criminal for any
other reason than that he tried, as he no doubt did, to establish
that the earth moves.’ Descartes concedes that if that view is
false, then ‘so too are the entire foundations of my philosophy’.
The heliocentric model ‘is so closely interwoven in every part
of my treatise that I could not remove it without rendering the
whole work defective’.9 Moreover, Descartes reminded his friend,
Galileo himself had used the manoeuvre of presenting that model
as a mere hypothesis; if that did not save a Florentine who was
friendly with the pope, it was unlikely to save Descartes. Rather
than incur the wrath of the Church, Descartes decided not to
publish The World after all. ‘I have decided to suppress the treatise
I have written and to forfeit almost all my work of the last four
years in order to give my obedience to the Church, since it has
proscribed the view that the earth moves.’ Many years later, he
would remind Mersenne that ‘the only thing that has stopped me
publishing my Philosophy up to now is the question of defending
the movement of the earth.’10
99 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

This was not so much an act of faithful obedience by a devoted


Catholic as a safe and self-interested tactic within Descartes’
general strategy to preserve his ‘repose and peace of mind’.11 It
is unlikely that the Church’s censors would have been taken in
by Descartes’ rhetorical strategy anyway. His remark in The World
that, though he has couched his narrative as a fiction, ‘the truth
will not fail to manifest itself sufficiently clearly’ made it fairly
transparent what he was doing.12

By early spring 1634, after two years in Deventer, Descartes


was on the move again. There was a year in Amsterdam, then
several months each in Utrecht and Leiden. Finally, Descartes
settled in for two and a half years near Alkmaar, just north of
Haarlem, possibly in one of the several villages of Egmond
(Egmond-Binnen, Egmond aan den Hoef or Egmond aan
Zee). He apparently liked being near the North Sea, and would
make his home along the Dutch coast for much of the rest of
his life.
Despite the close call in 1633, Descartes continued preparing
his research for publication. Now, however, he was separating
detailed empirical investigations of particular phenomena from the
grander, and more contentious, physical and theological principles
and cosmological speculations that, in The World, provide their
foundations. ‘I thought it convenient for me to choose certain
subjects which, without being highly controversial and without
obliging me to reveal more of my principles than I wished, would
nonetheless show quite clearly what I can, and what I cannot,
achieve in the sciences.’13 The result was a series of essays that
presented his work in geometry and his findings in optics and
meteorology. He published these in 1637, accompanied by a sub-
stantial introductory treatise in which he reviewed his overall
philosophical and scientific project.
descartes 100

The first of these essays, called simply Dioptrics (La Dioptrique),


is essentially both a truncated and an expanded version of the
Treatise on Light. Whereas in The World Descartes’ discussion of the
constitution and behaviour of light and related questions was set
in the framework of (‘deduced’ from) more general physical
principles – the nature of matter, its division into ‘elements’, the
laws of motion and rest and so on – in the Dioptrics he asks his
reader simply to accept certain assumptions about what light is
and how it acts. In a letter to Mersenne, Descartes says, ‘You ask
if I regard what I have written about refraction as a demonstra-
tion. I think it is, in so far as one can be given in this field without
a previous demonstration of the principles of physics by meta-
physics – which is something I hope to do some day but which
has not yet been done.’ But he reminds his correspondent that,
in general, ‘people are satisfied if the author’s assumptions are
not obviously contrary to experience and if their discussion is
coherent and free from logical error, even though their assump-
tions may not be strictly true.’14 To be sure, Descartes does believe
that his conditional assumptions are true; he just does not want
to stir up any hornets’ nests at this point.

I have called them ‘suppositions’ simply to make it known


that I think I can deduce them from the primary truths I
have expounded; but I have deliberately avoided carrying
out these deductions in order to prevent certain ingenious
persons from taking the opportunity to construct, on what
they believe to be my principles, some extravagant philos-
ophy for which I shall be blamed.15

Descartes’ most general assumption or hypothesis in the


Dioptrics is, of course, a mechanistic one, identical to the theory
of light in The World: light is an impulse travelling from a luminous
body through a material medium. Its properties are now presented,
101 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

however, through a series of mundane analogies. Just as the motion


at one end of a walking stick is directly and immediately conveyed
to the other end, so the impulse that is light passes through the
corpuscles of a medium instantaneously. And like the wine that
moves through a vat of grapes being crushed, flowing freely along
certain determinate paths until it exits through holes at the bottom
of the barrel, so goes the propagation of light.

Thus, all the parts of the subtle matter that are in contact
with the side of the sun that we are looking at, tend in a
straight line towards our eyes at the same instant that
we open them, without some hindering others, and even
without being hindered by the larger parts of matter of
transparent bodies that are between the two [the sun and
the eye].16

None of this requires Descartes, at least at this point, to go into


much detail and establish anything certain about the physical
constitution of light and the media through which it passes.

Thus, not having here any occasion to speak about light


except to explain how its rays enter the eye and how they
can be deflected by the diverse bodies they encounter,
there is no need for me to try to say anything about its
true nature. I believe it will suffice if I make use of two
or three comparisons that will aid in conceiving it in that
manner that to me seems most useful in explaining all of
its properties that experience reveals to us, and for deduc-
ing, subsequently, all the others that are not so easily
noticed.17

Descartes’ method here is clear. There are phenomena to be


explained. These include the reflection and refraction of light
descartes 102

and the perception of colours. Assume, then, a certain hypothesis


about what light is and how it behaves, using familiar everyday
processes (a blind man walking with a stick, crushing grapes in
winemaking, tennis balls hit by rackets) to make that hypothesis
perspicuous. Then show how, given that hypothesis, the phe-
nomena are in fact explained with great clarity. Even better if the
hypothesis allows for predictions of additional observations that
are borne out through controlled experiments. This lends expe-
riential support to, and even confirms, the truth of the hypothesis
– in this case, an assumption about the corpuscular nature of
light and the mechanics of its propagation. In one of the other
1637 essays, Meteors (Les Méteores), Descartes concedes that

It is true that, since the knowledge of these things depends


on general principles of nature, which, as far as I know, have
not yet been well explained, I need at the beginning to
make use of some suppositions, just as I did in the Dioptrics.
But I will try to make them so simple and so easy that you
will have practically no difficulty in believing them, even
if I have not demonstrated them.18

The theory about light that informs the Dioptrics may not have
the demonstrable certainty that it would have were it deduced
from ‘first principles’ of metaphysics and physics. But Descartes
has, at this point, decided to scale back his theoretical ambitions
in order to present his scientific findings to the public.
Having stipulated some general features of light, Descartes
then goes on to show how explanatorily rich his hypothesis is.
Once he provides a demonstration of the geometrical principles
of reflection and refraction and elucidates the structure of the
eye and the mechanisms of perception, he can explain the ways
in which hyperbolic and elliptical lenses – like the lens of the eye
itself – refract rays of light. This, in turn, is used in his description
103 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

of how telescopes function. Descartes even provides an account


of how properly to cut glass lenses.
In the Meteors, too, Descartes avoids grounding his account
in more universal principles of nature. He told his friend, the
French Jesuit priest Antoine Vatier, who taught at La Flèche and
who had been reading the new essays, that

I cannot prove a priori the assumptions I made at the


beginning of the Meteors without expounding the whole
of my physics; but the observational data which I have
deduced necessarily from them, and which cannot be
deduced in the same way from other principles, seems to
me to prove them sufficiently a posteriori.19

The corpuscular ‘assumptions’ and optical theories of the


Dioptrics inform Descartes’ discussion of various atmospheric
phenomena. These include clouds and other ‘vapours and exha-
lations’, which arise from the agitation of the fine material in
terrestrial bodies by the sun or some other heat source, ‘just as
the dust in the countryside rises up when it is merely pushed and
agitated by the foot of some passer-by’.20 Similarly, wind is the
agitation of the minuscule particles composing the air, which in
turn are generated through the rarefication of water. When these
particles condense and contract into larger, visible parts, they
form mists and clouds. Snow, rain and hail occur when the size
and weight of these parts exceed the resistance of the air corpuscles
that keep them from descending to the earth.
One of the final chapters of the treatise deals with the rainbow:
the atmospheric causes of its manifestation and of the arrange-
ment of its colours. Descartes regards this as among his more
exciting discoveries and promotes his explanation of ‘so remarkable
a wonder of nature’ as proof that his method leads to ‘knowledge
not possessed by those whose writings we have’.21 We see a rainbow
descartes 104

– whether in the sky or in the spray of a fountain – when light


rays reach the human eye after multiple refractions and reflections
through the water droplets suspended in the air. As for the dif-
ferent colours, Descartes concludes, after experimenting with a
flask of water and a prism, that this is a function of differences
in the ratio between rotation and tendency to rectilinear motion
among the fine particles through which the impulse composing
the rays passes.

The nature of the colours . . . consists only in the fact that


the parts of the subtle matter that transmits the action
of the light tend to rotate with more force than move in
a straight line, in such a way that those that tend to rotate
much more strongly cause the colour red, while those
that tend only a little more strongly cause yellow.22

From a philosophical perspective, the most interesting of the


publications of 1637 is the relatively short quasi-autobiographical
and theoretical treatise that introduces the scientific essays. The
original title Descartes envisioned was rather unwieldy: The Plan
of a Universal Science, which is capable of raising our nature to its highest
degree of perfection, together with the Dioptrics, the Meteors and the Geometry,
in which the author, to give proof of his Universal Science, explains the most
abstruse topics he could choose, and does so in such a way that even persons who
have never studied can understand them.23 In what he eventually called
simply Discourse on Method (Discours de la méthode) Descartes narrates
his intellectual itinerary as he rejected the science of probable
conjectures that satisfied others and turned to the pursuit of
truth in the form of absolutely certain cognitions. While the
Discourse is a step back from the earlier, more ambitious treatise
‘which certain considerations prevent me from publishing’ – that
is, The World – it nonetheless presents in summary form many of
the ideas that Descartes had already broached in that work, as
The rainbow, from Les Météores (1637).
descartes 106

well as in the Rules for the Direction of the Mind. He reviews the
guidelines of the method he had laid out many years earlier in
the Rules. He also summarizes the metaphysical, epistemological
and theological reflections that he has recently engaged in and
would in just a few years write up and publish as the Meditations
on First Philosophy.
His project, he claims, is analogous to that in which one rebuilds
a house. First you must tear down the old structure – in this
case, it means ridding the mind of its old and dubious opinions,
both the naive beliefs of ordinary common sense, some of which
may indeed be true but lack proper justification, and the more
sophisticated but false theories of Aristotelian Scholasticism.
Then, following a proper order of construction, one establishes
new, more solid foundations upon which to erect the edifice. If
that edifice is a body of knowledge, and if it is truly to be secure
and to have the absolute certainty of scientia, the foundations
upon which it rests must consist in epistemology – whereby one
discovers what knowledge is, and whether and how it is possible
– and metaphysics, which, for Descartes, includes knowledge of
God, the soul and the most general principles of reality. To clarify
what he has in mind, Descartes is willing to reveal some things in
the Discourse that he had previously kept to himself, albeit without
going too far. In a letter to Mersenne just before publication, he
reports that ‘I have also inserted a certain amount of metaphysics,
physics and medicine in the opening Discourse in order to show
that my method extends to topics of all kinds.’24
Of course, he notes, while one is rebuilding a house ‘you need
some other place where you can live comfortably while building
is in progress.’ Thus in the Discourse Descartes recalls how, while
engaging in these abstract philosophical exercises, he also adopted
what he calls ‘a provisional moral code’, so as to continue func-
tioning in the ordinary activities of life without disruption,
and – just as important – without drawing attention to himself.
107 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

This code, somewhat reminiscent of ancient Stoic philosophy,


stipulates:

First, to obey the laws and customs of my country, hold-


ing constantly to the religion in which by God’s grace
I had been instructed from my childhood, and govern-
ing myself in all other matters according to the most
moderate and least extreme opinions . . . Second, to be as
firm and decisive in my actions as I could . . . Third, to try
always to master myself rather than fortune, and change
my desires rather than the order of the world . . . And
finally, I decided to review the various occupations which
men have in this life in order to try to choose the best.

On this last point, Descartes decided that ‘I could do no better


than to continue with the very one [occupation] I was engaged
in, and devote my whole life to cultivating my reason and advanc-
ing as far as I could in the knowledge of the truth, following the
method I had prescribed for myself.’25
In the Discourse, as earlier, Descartes describes his growing
frustration with both the traditional and antiquated learning of
the Schools and the scepticism about the possibility for real knowl-
edge adopted by many of his contemporaries. He especially
emphasizes how important it is to ‘raise the mind above things
which can be perceived by the senses’ and conceived by the imag-
ination. As he has shown in the Dioptrics, sensory appearances are
misleading as to the true nature of things. They have led ordinary
people and, more seriously, philosophers to conclude quite naively
that the properties that objects in the world seem to have really do
belong to them – that the colours they see and the heat and cold
they feel are real qualities in physical objects, rather than being
merely sensory effects in the mind of the perceiver caused by the
motions among the finer parts of material things. Knowledge
descartes 108

about the world can, Descartes insists, come only by moving beyond
the confused testimony of the senses, by ignoring what is obscure
and confused in the raw visual, tactile, auditory and olfactory
evidence with which we are constantly bombarded to get to a
scientific core that is conceptually pure and composed only of
‘clear and distinct’ elements. This is achieved through the intellect
and the proper and critical use of our reasoning faculties.
Descartes’ emphasis on the intellect and reason, his quest for
absolute certainty and his continued use of the term ‘deduction’ to
describe an essential part of his method have given rise to the notion
that he was a kind of arch-‘rationalist’ who rejected any appeals to
experience and experiment as an aid to acquiring knowledge of
the world. A not-uncommon mischaracterization of Cartesian
science in popular literature, and even in some early scholarship,
is that it is an entirely a priori affair – that not just the universal
principles of nature but even the detailed explanations of particular
phenomena are deduced (in the contemporary, strictly logical sense)
from axiomatic starting points. On this reading, the senses and
experience have no role to play in the scientific enterprise.
Descartes’ methodological remarks in the Discourse, mostly
summarizing how he proceeded in The World, clearly give the lie
to such a caricature. It is true that Descartes’ metaphysics – his
account of the existence and nature of the soul, his proofs for the
existence of God, even his demonstration of the most general
laws of nature regarding motion and rest – proceeds strictly
by logical deduction through concepts without any empirical
input. Moreover, empirical results can never falsify those first
principles and what follows immediately from them: the impos-
sibility of a vacuum, for example, is established on metaphysical
grounds according to the nature of matter, and is thus immune
to experimental refutation. But Descartes makes it clear that,
when it comes to the specific causal mechanism behind this or
that phenomenon in the world, to the real details of nature,
109 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

observation and experimentation are absolutely crucial. Here is


the all-important passage from the Discourse:

I noticed, regarding observations, that the further we ad­­­


vance in our knowledge, the more necessary they become.
At the beginning, rather than seeking those which are
more unusual and highly contrived, it is better to resort
only to those which, presenting themselves spontane-
ously to our senses, cannot be unknown to us if we reflect
even a little.

What this initial, uncritical gathering of data is supposed to do


is provide one with a basic familiarity with things – that there
are bodies, that they appear to have certain properties (some of
which they may not in fact really have), that they relate to each
other in certain ways – and thereby establish what there is to be
explained. Such observations are ‘common to all men’ and appear
to be nothing but the spur to inquiry. The method of investigation
and explanation itself, however, begins at a more conceptual, even
a priori level.

First, I tried to discover in general the principles or first


causes of everything that exists or can exist in the world.
To this end I considered nothing but God alone, who cre-
ated the world; and I derived these principles only from
certain seeds of truth which are naturally in our souls. Next,
I examined the first and most ordinary effects deducible
from these causes. In this way, it seems to me, I discovered
the heavens, the stars, and an earth; and on the earth, water,
air, fire, minerals, and other such things which, being the
most common of all and the simplest, are consequently the
easiest to know. Then, when I sought to descend to more
particular things, I encountered such a variety that I did
descartes 110

not think the human mind could possibly distinguish the


forms or species of bodies that are on earth from an infin-
ity of others that might be there if it had been God’s will
to put them there.

This is the point at which things turn empirical, at least in


Descartes’ telling (if not in his actual process of discovery).26
First, careful observation and description is required to compile
a catalogue of the phenomena in the visible world that require
explanation. Because there are many different ways, consistent
with the general principles, in which the observed phenomena
might be brought about – many possible underlying causal mech-
anisms – one must appeal to experiments to discover the true
causes of those ‘effects’, that is, to figure out just how these par-
ticular things connect with the more general things and be
‘deduced’ from (explained by) them.

Consequently, I thought the only way of making these


bodies useful to us was to progress to the causes by way
of the effects and to make use of many special observa-
tions. And now, reviewing in my mind all the objects that
have ever been present to my senses, I venture to say that
I have never noticed anything in them which I could not
explain quite easily by the principles I had discovered. But
I must also admit that the power of nature is so ample
and so vast, and these principles so simple and so general,
that I notice hardly any particular effect of which I do not
know at once that it can be deduced from the principles
in many different ways; and my greatest difficulty is usu-
ally to discover in which of these ways it depends on them.
I know no other means to discover this than by seeking
further observations whose outcomes vary according to
which of these ways provides the correct explanation.27
111 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

What Descartes offers here is an approximation of the


hypothetico-deductive method in modern science. On the back-
ground of established theoretical principles that constrain the
kinds of entities and processes which can appear in explana-
tions, one frames hypotheses that ‘save the phenomenon’. Each
hypothesis is then used to make predictions: if the proposed
mechanism is the underlying cause of the phenomenon, then
what other effects should be observed? These predictions are
tested through controlled experiments. If the predictions do
not bear out, then the hypothesis is falsified. Ideally, in the end
all but one of the explanations – presumably the true one –
will be eliminated.
Beyond questions of method proper and a summary of his
epistemological and metaphysical speculations, Descartes also
addresses an issue raised by his studies in anatomy. Because the
human body operates on purely mechanical principles, being no
less of a ‘machine’ than non-human animals, what distinguishes
the human being from other creatures is the presence of a soul
operating in and through that body. But how does one know
that there is indeed a soul united to a body? Were one to come
across an automaton built to resemble and move just like a human
being, how could one determine that this was not a real, ensouled
human being?
For Descartes, the problem of ‘other minds’ is settled through
readily detectible linguistic habits.

If any machine bore a resemblance to our bodies and


imitated our actions as closely as possible for all practical
purposes, we should still have two very certain means of
recognizing that they were not real men. The first is that
they could never use words, or put together other signs,
as we do in order to declare our thoughts to others.
descartes 112

The machine in question might be able to utter single words,


string them together into sentences and even respond to queries
such as ‘Does this hurt?’ But, Descartes insists, ‘it is not conceiv-
able that such a machine should produce different arrangements
of words so as to give an appropriately meaningful answer to
whatever is said in its presence, as the dullest of men can do.’ It
is the flexible and creative use of language that indicates, not
with absolute certainty but with at least a reliably high degree
of probability, that we are in the presence of real human being
and not a robot.
An additional consideration is the limited capacity of the
automaton to respond to new and unforeseen circumstances
through its behaviour. The machine can do only what it has been
programmed to do, while a rational human being has the ability
to act and respond in original and practically infinite ways.

Even though such machines might do some things as


well as we do them, or perhaps even better, they would
inevitably fail in others, which would reveal that they
were acting not through understanding but only from
the disposition of their organs. For whereas reason is a
universal instrument which can be used in all kinds of
situations, these organs need some particular disposition
for each particular action; hence, it is for all practical pur-
poses impossible for a machine to have enough different
organs to make it act in all the contingencies of life in
the way in which our reason makes us act.28

These same criteria mark the difference between human beings


and non-human animals. ‘Magpies and parrots can utter words
as we do, and yet they cannot speak as we do: that is, they cannot
show that they are thinking what they are saying.’29 This is sup-
posed to prove not just that non-human animals lack reason,
113 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge

but that they do not have souls at all and are merely mechanical
automata – natural machines, but machines nonetheless.

Descartes was concerned about the reception awaiting


the Discourse and its essays. He had a pretty good sense that they
would not meet with universal approval. He told Mersenne,
who was assisting in finding a publisher, ‘I would rather not put
my name on it.’30 And the first edition was indeed published, in
Leiden, without Descartes’ name on the title page. Still, he wanted
to make sure that these works were accessible and widely read,
which explains his choice to compose them, like The World, in
French rather than Latin. ‘If I am writing in French, my native
language, rather than Latin, the language of my teachers, it is
because I expect that those who use only their natural reason
in all its purity will be better judges of my opinions than those
who give credence only to the writings of the ancients.’31 Descartes’
intention was ‘to prepare the way and to test the waters’ for his
‘treatise on physics’ – that is, a more complete presentation of
his philosophical system, including the metaphysical and physical
foundations that would take the particular explanations of natural
phenomena now presented in a hypothetical manner and establish
them with all due certainty.32
As it turned out, the treatises that appeared in 1637, Descartes’
first publications, did succeed in bringing him to the attention of
the learned world – for better and, in terms of the controversies
that followed, for worse.
five
‘I think, therefore I am’

L
ife along the coast of the Netherlands suited Descartes
quite well. Writing to Mersenne in 1638 from the
village of Egmond-Binnen, he notes that,

just between us, there is nothing more contrary to my


designs than the air of Paris, with the infinite distractions
[divertissements] that are inevitable there; and as long as I
am allowed to live in my own way, I will always stay in the
countryside, in some country where I cannot be disturbed
by visits from my neighbors, as I do here in a corner of
North Holland. It is this reason alone that made me pre-
fer this country to my own, and I am now so accustomed
to it that I have no desire to change it.1

A few years later, he tells his friend Claude Picot that he has
found in Egmond ‘a solitude . . . as peaceful and with as much
sweetness as he has ever had’.2 While the Republic may have lost
some of the charm that originally brought him there, he admits
to Picot, still, he could spend the rest of his life in this quiet part
of the world.3
The solitude was especially good for Descartes’ ongoing sci-
entific investigations. As an experimentalist, he now had the
leisure, space and means to pursue the observations in anatomy
and botany he needed to help advance and confirm his theories.
115 ‘I think, therefore I am’

He monitored the growth of plants in the garden of his small


house. And because he was living in a rural community, he had
ready access to animals, living and dead. Descartes worked with
chickens and studied the formation of embryos in their eggs, and
he performed vivisection on the heart of a rabbit to study the
circulation of the blood.4 He also arranged for local butchers to
kill pregnant cows so that he could study the development of their
foetuses. ‘I arranged for them to bring me more than a dozen
wombs in which there were small calves, some as big as mice, others
like rats, and yet others like small dogs, in which I was able to
observe many more things than in the case of chickens because
their organs were larger and more visible.’5
Although his time in Egmond would be interrupted by moves
to Santpoort, another coastal village that was close by Haarlem
and where he lived from January 1639 to April 1640, a year-long
residency in Leiden (from April 1640 to April 1641) and two
years in Endegeest, back up near Alkmaar (from April 1641 to
May 1643) – as well as several trips to Paris and Brittany to take
care of family affairs – he would always return to the Egmond
area. It was, Descartes had decided, the ideal setting for a natural
philosopher who was more intent on serious scientific work than
seeking a reputation and the honours conferred by polite society.

The ‘quieter and more tranquil life’ that Descartes


found in the Republic and valued so highly, however, was now
subject to frequent and often unwelcome distractions.6 Despite
publishing the Discourse on Method and its scientific essays anon-
ymously, there was little secret as to who the author was. Descartes
had copies sent to various academic, scientific and mathematical
circles in the United Provinces and France in order to solicit
comments. He also made sure that the texts were sent to French
Jesuits, in the hope that they might see fit to adopt them in their
descartes 116

schools as a replacement for the Aristotelian works in their


curriculum. All this only ensured that Descartes would now,
besides receiving the recognition for his discoveries that he
craved, be inundated with correspondence from both partisans
and critics. Then again, in the Discourse itself he asks ‘all who have
any objections to take the trouble to send them to my publisher,
and when he informs me about them I shall attempt to append
my reply at the same time, so that readers can see both sides
together, and decide the truth all the more easily’.7
Among the first to respond was Libert Froidmont (Fromondus),
a conservative philosopher and theologian in the southern Low
Countries with anti-Copernican credentials who would soon be
appointed to a chair in Bible Studies at the University of Louvain.
In the autumn of 1637 Froidmont pressed Descartes on a number
of issues, including his account of the circulation of the blood.
Descartes was familiar with William Harvey’s 1628 book An
Anatomical Exercise Concerning the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Animals,
in which Harvey argues that the heart has an intrinsic ‘faculty’
of beating, which causes the blood to move throughout the body.
Descartes agreed with Harvey that the circulation of the blood
is generated by the heart. In the Discourse, however, he claims that
the beating of the heart is due not to some innate power in that
muscle, but rather to the swelling of the blood that is heated by
the heart (as a kind of ‘fire’), which swelling causes the heart
itself to expand. When that blood cools and contracts as it moves
from one chamber to another, the heart, too, contracts.8 Froidmont
objected that Descartes’ account was highly implausible. ‘It would
take the heat of a furnace to rarify the drops of blood sufficiently
rapidly to make the heart expand.’ He was also concerned that
Descartes’ elimination of substantial forms and reduction of the
body’s functions to mechanical operations, in both animals and
humans, ‘will perhaps open the way for atheists to deny the pres-
ence of a rational soul even in the human body’.9
117 ‘I think, therefore I am’

Descartes’ reply to Froidmont was perfectly courteous. Writing


to their intermediary Vopiscus Fortunatus Plemp (Plempius), a
Dutch physician in Amsterdam who was a friend of Descartes’
– though they would later have a falling out – he expresses his
appreciation for ‘the care with which he [Froidmont] has read my
book’ and ‘the judgement of a man so gifted, so learned in the
topics I treated’.10 Apparently, though, Froidmont found Descartes’
responses to his objections a little testy. Descartes later tells Plemp
that ‘I am surprised that he should conclude from them that I was
annoyed or irritated by his paper.’11 He was only responding in
kind to what he took to be the ‘hard things’ that Froidmont had
said, having concluded that ‘he liked that style of writing . . . I was
afraid he might enjoy the game less if I received his attack too
gently and softly.’12
Overall, Descartes seems not to have been prepared for the
more vehement criticisms that came his way, and he did not accept
them with much grace. The Dioptrics, for one, received harsh treat-
ment from the French mathematician Pierre de Fermat. Mersenne
had sent a copy of the work to Fermat, who deserves equal credit
with Descartes for the development of analytic geometry and
the use of algebraic equations to solve geometric problems. Fermat
objected to Descartes’ claim that the laws of motion apply in the
same way to both the actual motion of bodies and their ten­­d­
ency to motion, which is central to Descartes’ account of the
behaviour of light. ‘I doubt’, Fermat says in a letter to Mersenne,
‘that the inclination to motion must follow the laws of motion
itself, since there is as much difference between the one and
the other [that is, tendency to motion and motion] as there is
between potency and act.’13 He also found fault with Descartes’
proffered demonstration of the sine law of refraction. And while
he admired Descartes’ directions on the cutting of lenses, he
wished that ‘the foundations on which they are established were
better proven than they are. But I apprehend that they lack truth
descartes 118

as much as proof.’ Fermat’s summary judgement of the Dioptrics


is captured by his suggestion that Descartes was ‘groping about
in shadows’.14
Descartes was taken aback by this critique from someone he
did not know. He accused Fermat of not understanding his argu-
ments, and even of failing to ‘listen to reason’. ‘It cannot reasonably
be doubted that the laws that govern movement, which is the
actuality, as he says himself, must govern also the tendency to
move, which is the potentiality of the same actuality.’15 Meanwhile,
Mersenne, who liked to stir up debates, sent Descartes a copy of
Fermat’s treatise De maximis et minimis, et de inventione tangentium linearum
curvarum (On Maxima, Minima and on Finding Tangents of Curved
Lines), to which Descartes replied that ‘I would be happy to say
nothing about the writing that you have sent me, in so far as I
could not say anything that would be to the advantage of the person
who wrote it.’16 Nonetheless, he was able to point out ‘manifest
errors’ in Fermat’s calculations of the tangent to a parabolic curve.
Among those who came to Fermat’s defence in this dispute
was the formidable Gilles Personne de Roberval, holder since
1634 of the Ramus Chair of Mathematics at the Collège de France.
Roberval insisted that Descartes failed to understand Fermat’s
method of calculating tangents in his treatise, and that therefore
the objections which he sent to Fermat were ‘absurd’. ‘If Monsieur
Descartes had well understood the method of Monsieur de Fermat
. . . he would have ceased to admire how this method has so many
defenders and would admire the method itself.’17 Descartes in
turn treated Roberval with condescension. In a letter to Mersenne
in July 1638, Descartes calls Roberval ‘as vain . . . as a woman who
attaches a ruby to her hair in order to appear more beautiful’. As
for Fermat, he says in the same letter that ‘I am completely dis-
gusted with his discussion; I find nothing reasonable in anything
he says.’18 Referring to both Fermat and Roberval, Descartes
confessed to the French mathematician Claude Mydorge that
119 ‘I think, therefore I am’

‘I despise those who intend to denigrate my Geometry without


understanding it.’19 He resented the way they had criticized his
work in mathematics and optics, and blamed their attacks on
malice and jealousy.

As for M. [Fermat], his way of treating me confirms


entirely my opinion that I have had from the start, that
he and those in Paris have conspired together to try to
discredit my writings as much as they could; perhaps

Rolland Lefebvre (Lefèvre), Pierre de Fermat, 1640–75, oil on canvas.


descartes 120

because they were afraid that, if my Geometry became


fashionable [estoit en vogue], then whatever little they learned
from the Analysis of Viete [the mathematician François
Viète] would be mocked.20

Descartes, perhaps regretting his tone, soon wrote somewhat


apologetically to Fermat, by way of Mersenne, requesting for-
giveness on the grounds that he did not know who he was. ‘I ask
him very humbly to forgive me and to believe that I did not know
him.’21 Descartes would also patch things up somewhat with
Roberval in the early 1640s during one of his visits to Paris. The
truce was short-lived, however, and the two would be at logger-
heads again within a few years.
Despite encouraging others to send him their objections to
his work – something Descartes would do throughout his career,
usually through the mediation of Mersenne or another confidant
– he clearly did not take criticism well. He had thin skin, but also
an arrogance and brutal honesty that he was not shy about exposing
in public. In the Discourse he notes that

I have already had frequent experience of the judge-


ments both of those I held to be my friends and of some
I thought indifferent towards me, and even of certain
others whose malice and envy would, I knew, make them
eager enough to reveal what affection would hide from
my friends. But it has rarely happened that an objection
was raised that I had not wholly foreseen, except when
it was quite wide of the mark. Thus I have almost never
encountered a critic of my views who did not seem to be
either less rigorous or less impartial than myself.22

Writing to Mersenne soon after receiving Fermat’s objections,


he says that ‘I am happy when I see that the strongest objections
121 ‘I think, therefore I am’

that are made to me are not worth the weakest ones that I have
made to myself.’23

Descartes’ view of many of the objections that he received to


his 1637 writings was that they were based on an inadequate under-
standing of his philosophy. He attributed the mistakes of his critics
to their ignorance of the physical and metaphysical foundations
of his scientific work. He knew, of course, that he bore most of
the responsibility for this by withholding The World from publi-
cation. But, he often insisted, had his critics been able to read
that treatise and understand the bigger picture, they would have
recognized how well grounded his theories were. Unfortunately,
aside from the brief summary that he offers in Part Four of the
Discourse concerning the metaphysical reflections he had been
en­­­gaging in for some years – and he admits to Father Vatier that
what he wrote there was ‘obscure’ and ‘the least worked out
sec­tion of the whole book’, but ‘the publisher was becoming im­­
patient’24 – the readers of the essays on optics and meteorology
could not possibly see how the assumptions in the scientific essays
were cap­­­able of being confirmed by being systematized with first
principles. After telling Vatier that he could not prove a priori the
assumptions he had made at the beginning of the Meteors ‘without
expounding the whole of my physics’, he reassures his friend that
‘I could deduce them in due order from the first principles of my
metaphysics.’ However, he continues, ‘as concerns the publication
of my Physics and Metaphysics, I can tell you briefly that I desire it
as much or more than anyone, but only under certain conditions,
without which I would be foolish to desire it.’ He suggests that ‘if
[my Physics] ever sees the light of day, I hope that future generations
will be unable to doubt what I say.’25
If among those ‘certain conditions’ clearing the way for pub-
lication was the Church changing its mind on heliocentrism,
descartes 122

then they would not obtain for some time. Nonetheless, others
continued to press Descartes to publish what he had to say
concerning the ‘first principles of my metaphysics’. Two of his
closest friends, Mersenne and Constantijn Huygens, secretary
to stadholder Frederik Hendrik, were among the more insistent.
(Descartes had sent to Huygens a copy of the Discourse and essays
immediately after their publication, so that he might pass them
on to the Prince of Orange.) Writing to Descartes in November
1637, Huygens ‘begs to inspire you to continually share your

Jan Lievens, Constantijn Huygens, c. 1628–9, oil on panel.


123 ‘I think, therefore I am’

writings with the world’.26 Two years later, he beseeches Descartes


to ‘bring The World into the world [mettre le Monde au monde]’.27
Even Descartes’ critics wanted to see what Descartes was holding
back. Jean-Baptiste Morin, a professor of mathematics at the
Collège de France, admired Descartes’ mathematical work but
had problems with a number of details in his theory of light. For
one thing, Morin, who was relatively sympathetic to the mechan­
istic doctrine, did not accept Descartes’ characterization of the
‘subtle matter’ through which light was transmitted. Nor did he
think that the motion of luminous bodies could travel through
that medium as far as our eyes in order to cause us to see light.28
He even wonders how Descartes could not have anticipated the
harsh treatment that his ‘hypothetical’ physical writings would
receive.

In what concerns mathematics, men will only admire the


subtlety of your mind, and as for physics, I think that you
will not be surprised if there are people who contradict
you. For having reserved the knowledge of the univer-
sal principles and notions of your new Physics (whose
publication is passionately desired by all the learned)
and grounding your reasonings only on comparisons, or
suppositions, whose truth is at least dubious, this is to
sin against the first precept of your method.29

Ultimately, all the pleading worked. By 1640 Descartes


realized that it was time to return to the ‘little treatise’ that he
had begun soon after arriving in the Dutch Republic and in which,
he had said at the time, he was ‘able to discover the foundations
of physics . . . and prove metaphysical truths in a manner which
is more evident than the truths of geometry’.30 After expanding
the treatise in light of his studies in the intervening years, filling
descartes 124

out the arguments and preparing for the inevitable objections,


he was finally ready to present to the public the foundations of
his philosophy. Coy until the very end, Descartes would not let
even friends know about his plans. He said to Huygens in July
1640 that ‘I am astonished that you have been told that I was
going to publish something on metaphysics . . . your information
must be quite inaccurate.’31 Nonetheless, just a few months later,
Descartes wrote to Mersenne to tell him that ‘I am sending you
my work on metaphysics . . . so that I can make you its godfather
and leave the baptism to you.’32 It was the Minim priest’s duty
to bring the manuscript to the printer and shepherd it through
the publication process.
Just as Galileo had played an incidental role in Descartes’
decision to suspend his plans regarding The World, one wonders
whether he may also have unwittingly contributed to Descartes’
decision now to publish both the metaphysical treatise and, a few
years later, a textbook of his entire philosophical system. In late
1638 Descartes read Galileo’s new work, Discourses and Mathematical
Demonstrations Concerning Two New Sciences. The Italian scientist’s
courage to continue with his work, despite being under house
arrest and once again contesting philosophical orthodoxy, may have
inspired Descartes to put aside his fears. He tells Mersenne that

I find he [Galileo] philosophizes much more ably than is


usual, in that, so far as he can, he abandons the errors of
the Schools and tries to use mathematical methods in the
investigation of physical questions. On that score, I am
completely at one with him, for I hold there is no other
way to discover the truth.

Still, he remained quite critical of many of Galileo’s findings in


mechanics and his calculations regarding falling bodies. The
problem, he notes, is that ‘he [Galileo] has not investigated matters
125 ‘I think, therefore I am’

in an orderly way, and has merely sought explanations for some


particular effects, without going into the primary causes in nature;
hence, his building lacks a foundation.’33
Descartes was not going to make the same mistake; his building
would rest on solid ground. As he informs Mersenne, ‘these six
Meditations contain all the foundations of my physics,’34 and
with the help of his friend he would make sure that the interna-
tional philosophical community was well informed as to what
these were. Published in Paris in 1641, the Latin treatise that for
a long time Descartes called simply ‘my Metaphysics’ was now
Meditations on First Philosophy (Meditationes de prima philosophia). It would,
over time and along with the Discourse on Method, become his most
widely read work.
What Descartes understood by ‘the foundations of my phys-
ics’ was twofold. First, there is epistemology, the task of which
is to establish what exactly true knowledge is and whether and
how it is possible. Descartes wanted to show that an absolutely
certain understanding of the world can, in principle, be achieved
and the means by which it is best pursued. The epistemological
endeavour of the Meditations must therefore address the challenge
of scepticism, or the view that absolutely certain knowledge is not
possible by creatures such as we are, with limited cognitive faculties
and subject to varied conditions in a world that is constantly in
flux. According to many sceptics of Descartes’ time, the best we
can hope for in science and even ordinary life are probabilities.35
Scepticism first flourished as a philosophical school in antiq-
uity. It enjoyed a comeback in the sixteenth century with the
rediscovery and translation of the Outlines of Pyrrhonism, in which the
Greek thinker Sextus Empiricus (second century ce) presented a
wide variety of arguments to undermine confidence in our ability
to acquire objective knowledge of the world and certainty in the
abstract sciences. Optical illusions (a stick that is straight appears
bent when half-submerged in water); familiar variations in, and
descartes 126

errors of, sense and reasoning; disagreements between people


over matters of taste; differences in mores across cultures – such
considerations, ancient and modern sceptics suggested, should
make us wary of any claims to absolute truth in empirical and
intellectual affairs. Michel de Montaigne (1533–1592), for one,
in the longest of his essays, the ‘Apology for Raymond Sebond’,
rehearsed these various ‘tropes’ of scepticism for the purpose of
dulling the allure of dogmatism and encouraging self-examination
and humility in human affairs. By the early seventeenth century,
this ‘Pyrrhonian’ revival – so called after the ancient sceptic Pyrrho
of Elis – was growing in popularity among European intellectual
circles in France, England and elsewhere.36
Beyond addressing sceptical concerns about the possibility
of knowledge, Descartes intended the six parts of the Meditations
also to serve as a progressive exercise that draws us away from a
reliance on the senses for knowledge of the way the world really
is. While science – even, as we have seen, of the Cartesian vari-
ety – cannot succeed without experimentation, its starting point
must, he insisted, lie in the intellect alone. The epistemology of
the Meditations is thus, in effect, a counter to the naive confidence
in sense experience found among the unphilosophical masses and
the more sophisticated empiricist methodology of Aristotelian-
Scholastic science.
Second, the foundation of Descartes’ physics includes meta-
physics. In the strict sense, for Descartes, this is an investigation
of spiritual matters, namely God and the soul, the ostensible
main topics of the Meditations.37 After all, the subtitle of the first
edition of the work states ‘in which the existence of God and
the immortality of the soul is demonstrated’. But Descartes also
considers some very general principles about body and the physical
world. All of this constitutes the real content of ‘first philosophy’.
As he explains to Mersenne, ‘I do not confine my discussion to
God and the soul, but deal in general with all the first things
127 ‘I think, therefore I am’

to be discovered by philosophizing.’38 Descartes wants to show


what he, using reason alone and his own method of inquiry, can
discover about mind, matter and their Creator, and how the most
basic understanding of such general things can lead to other,
even more useful knowledge. Once established, these certain and
indubitable foundations for science – his science – will in turn
ground a general theory of nature (physics in the broad sense)
and particular scientific explanations of natural phenomena that
constitute the individual sciences.
Writing a few years after the publication of the Meditations,
Descartes employs the metaphor of a tree to explain how he sees
the entire structure of human knowledge: ‘The whole of philos-
ophy is like a tree. The roots are metaphysics, the trunk is physics,
and the branches emerging from the trunk are all the other
sciences, which may be reduced to three principal ones, namely
medicine, mechanics, and morals.’39 In the Meditations, Descartes
tends primarily to the roots of the tree of knowledge, ‘which
contains the principles of knowledge, including the explanation
of the principal attributes of God, the non-material nature of
our souls and all the clear and distinct notions which are in us’.40
Before these most basic truths can become evident and cer-
tain to Descartes, as he narrates his cognitive itinerary in the
work, he must first undertake a kind of intellectual cleansing
and reorientation. Descartes tells the reader in the ‘Synopsis’
that serves as a preliminary summary for the Meditations that one
of his goals is to ‘free us from all our preconceived opinions and
provide the easiest route by which the mind may be led away
from the senses’.41 He wants, first, to empty the mind of all and
any dubitable opinions and prejudices (some of which were
acquired in childhood) that may hinder proper inquiry into
nature, and then to redirect our attention from the confusing
testimony of sense experience towards the clear and distinct
ideas of the intellect.
descartes 128

The starting point of this process is the so-called methodical


doubt. Progressing in a systematic manner, Descartes will consider
all of his mind’s contents, all of his beliefs and judgements, in
order to see if there is something, anything, that is not merely a
haphazardly acquired opinion (whether it be true or false) or
ungrounded prejudice but real knowledge, an absolute certainty.
His strategy in using the method of doubt is to play the sceptic
to as radical a degree as possible – not for the sake of undermining
human knowledge but in order to beat the sceptic at his own
game. If Descartes can show that there are certain unassailable
beliefs even for someone who is in the midst of an extreme scep-
tical crisis, where everything is subjected to the possibility of
doubt, no matter how remote, then the reconstruction of the
edifice of knowledge, especially scientific knowledge, can begin
on a secure basis. Descartes was fond of comparing this procedure
to more familiar sorts of activities. There is, as we have seen, the
analogy of tearing down a house and rebuilding it from the ground
up because its foundations were unstable. He also says it is like
going through a barrel of apples to see if there are any that have
gone bad whose rot might spread to the good fruit.

Suppose [a person] had a basket full of apples and, being


worried that some of the apples were rotten, wanted to
take out the rotten ones to prevent the rot from spread-
ing. How would he proceed? Would he not begin by
tipping the whole lot out of the basket? And would not
the next step be to cast his eye over each apple in turn,
and pick up and put back in the basket only those he saw
to be sound, leaving the others?

In the first stage of his project, Descartes will tip over the contents
of his mind,
129 ‘I think, therefore I am’

to separate the false beliefs from the others, so as to pre-


vent their contaminating the rest and making the whole
lot uncertain. Now the best way they can accomplish this
is to reject all their beliefs together in one go, as if they
were all uncertain and false. They can then go over each
belief in turn and re-adopt only those which they recog-
nize to be true and indubitable.42

He concedes that this is not an easy thing to do. It requires an


uncomfortable degree of reflection and critical self-examination.
However, Descartes says at the beginning of the Meditations, it is
something that must be undertaken at some point, if only to see
what one does know and, more importantly, can know. ‘I realized
that it was necessary, once in a lifetime [semel in vita], to demolish
everything completely and start again right from the foundations
if I wanted to establish anything at all in the sciences that was
stable and likely to last.’43
Descartes begins the First Meditation by noting that many
things that people ordinarily and uncritically take to be certain
can in fact be subjected to doubt. There are, for example, the
simple (and easily resolvable) doubts about objects that arise when
they are perceived under less than ideal circumstances. It is easy
to mistake the size or shape of something when it is seen at a
distance or through a fog. The lesson here is that the senses are
not always to be trusted, that not everything they report about the
external world is true. ‘From time to time, I have found that the
senses deceive, and it is prudent never to trust completely those
who have deceived us even once.’ These kinds of errors are not
very serious, though, and one can guard against them through
careful examination of what the senses are reporting and under
what conditions.
Still, there are many other beliefs about the world that even
the most careful and critical observer ordinarily accepts as certain.
descartes 130

These constitute some of the core beliefs of common sense, such


as that one has a body, that there is an external world composed
of many other bodies, and that things in that world are basically
as they appear to be under optimal observational conditions.
‘Although the senses occasionally deceive us with respect to
objects which are very small or in the distance, there are many
other beliefs about which doubt is quite impossible, even though
they are derived from the senses – for example, that I am here,
sitting by the fire, wearing a winter dressing-gown, holding this
piece of paper in my hands, and so on.’ What could be more
certain than that there is a world out there made up of familiar
objects?
And yet, Descartes continues, even these apparently certain
beliefs can be put into doubt. It is a highly implausible doubt, to
be sure, but for the sake of completeness every possibility must
be examined. In this case, all that is required is to remember the
deceptive character of dreams, in which fantasies are mistaken for
reality. ‘How often, asleep at night, am I convinced of just such
familiar events – that I am here in my dressing-gown, sitting
by the fire – when in fact I am lying undressed in bed!’ Perhaps,
Descartes suggests, he is only dreaming that he is sitting by the fire,
holding a piece of paper, or even has a body. In this case it would
all be an illusion and these most evident beliefs would in fact be
false. The experiences of dream-life are so realistic, so much like
what is ordinarily considered to be waking life, that one cannot tell
whether one is awake or dreaming; thus, on any given occasion,
what one takes to be a waking experience of independent reality
may not be such. Or, to put the doubt another way, let it be granted
that one knows when one is awake and when one is asleep. But
because of the phenomenological, qualitative similarity – the
experiential vividness, the composition of things, their shapes
and colours, and so on – between dreams (which are known to
be illusory) and waking life (which is believed to be veridical),
131 ‘I think, therefore I am’

how can one be certain that the appearances of waking life are
not also illusory?44 Dream experiences are not to be trusted, so
why should any more credence be given to waking experiences,
since the two kinds of experience are so much alike? The level of
doubt thus deepens, and Descartes’ confidence in the senses as a
source of knowledge about the world diminishes as he continues
his quest for something certain.
And yet, he notes, even if one’s experiences are all dreams,
or no more veridical than dreams, must there not at least be a
world out there, an external realm of things that, if not exactly
resembling the items presented in sensory experience, are none-
theless sufficiently like them to serve as the basic materials out of
which one’s illusory perceptions are constituted? Where would
the stuff of dreams come from if there were not at least something
outside the mind that is their ultimate causal source?

It surely must be admitted that the visions which come in


sleep are like paintings, which must have been fashioned
in the likeness of things that are real, and hence that at
least these general kinds of things – eyes, head, hands,
and the body as a whole – are things which are not imag-
inary but are real and exist. For even when painters try
to create sirens and satyrs with the most extraordinary
bodies, they cannot give them natures which are new in
all respects; they simply jumble up the limbs of differ-
ent animals.45

Or perhaps, Descartes continues, there are not even such ‘general


kinds of things’ in an external world, and maybe no external
world at all. Even so, surely there can be no doubting the reality
of ‘even simpler and more general things’, such as bodily nature
in general, or extension, shape, size and number. These are the
most basic and abstract items imaginable. Moreover, they do not
descartes 132

require the existence ‘in nature’ of anything, since they seem to


be only simple and objective concepts discovered by the under-
standing. So, Descartes says, let it be granted that all those sciences
that depend on the actual existence of things in nature are now
uncertain – ‘that physics, astronomy, medicine, and all other
disciplines which depend on the study of composite things are
doubtful’. Still, he suggests, mathematics, at least, as well as other
purely rational disciplines that require only such simple concepts
as number and extension, ‘which deal only with the simplest
and most general things, regardless of whether they really exist
in nature or not’, would appear to remain true and certain. ‘For
whether I am awake or asleep,’ Descartes says, ‘two and three
added together are five.’
However, if the project of the First Meditation is to be pursued
thoroughly and consistently to the end, even these apparently
most certain truths have to be put to the test in order to see if
there might be any conceivable reason for doubting them. Are
the principles of mathematics in fact real, objective and absolute
truths, as they seem to be, or simply compelling fictions concocted
by the mind? This is where Descartes takes the epistemological
exercise to what he calls a ‘metaphysical’ level. 46 For he now enter-
tains the radical possibility that, while he may have been created
by an omnipotent God – and this is not yet certain either, but
appears to be only ‘a long-standing opinion’ – still, because he
lacks any firm knowledge about this God, he presently has no
compelling reason to believe that his divine creator has not made
him such that he regularly goes astray even in matters where he
thinks he has ‘the most perfect knowledge’. How, Descartes asks,
can he be sure that he is not wrong ‘every time I add two and
three or count the sides of a square, or in some even simpler
matter, if that is imaginable?’ For all Descartes knows at this
point, God, or whoever his creator may be, is malicious and thus
has intentionally given him a faulty and deceptive mind, a rational
133 ‘I think, therefore I am’

faculty that, even when used properly and carefully, produces


only false beliefs. Descartes may feel compelled to believe that
two plus two equals four, because his intellect tells him it is so.
But maybe, just because his intellect has its origin in an all-
powerful and deceptive deity and therefore is systematically
unreliable, that proposition is in fact not true.
Descartes suggests that this kind of doubt is even more com-
pelling if the origin of my being lies not in the creative activity
of some God but simply in the random forces of nature. Let us
then assume, he says, ‘that I have arrived at my present state by
fate or chance or a continuous chain of events, or by some other
means; yet since deception and error seem to be imperfections,
the less powerful they make my original cause, the more likely it
is that I am so imperfect as to be deceived all the time.’47 It is
immaterial whether Descartes was created by a God of unknown,
and possibly vicious, character, or whether his being is the result
of natural happenstance. Either scenario raises serious doubts
about the reliability of his faculties, including reason itself. For
all Descartes knows, he is deceived even with respect to those
things that seem to him to be the most certain – such as his belief
that there is an external world, or the truths of mathematics.
Perhaps, because of his congenitally and inherently defective
nature, nothing at all that Descartes thinks to be true, no matter
how subjectively certain he may feel about it, really is true. ‘I am
finally compelled to admit that there is not one of my former
beliefs about which a doubt may not properly be raised.’
By the end of the First Meditation, Descartes’ descent into
sceptical doubt is complete. Some of the doubts are generated
by highly improbable and fantastic considerations. At one point,
in order to reinforce the uncertainty engendered by the case
of dreams – the force of habit is strong, he says, and it is hard
‘not to slide back into my old opinions’ – he even considers
the possibility, reminiscent of Don Quixote’s ‘Evil Enchanter’,
descartes 134

that all of his sensory experiences are merely ‘phantasms’ and


illusions generated by an all-powerful evil deceiver, a ‘malicious
demon [genius malignus]’ intent on deceiving him.48 Nonetheless,
Descartes insists that these considerations, however unlikely,
need to be taken seriously in this philosophical moment if he is to
discover something that is absolutely certain and immune to any
doubt whatsoever, for the purpose of re-establishing the edifice
of knowledge on perfectly sound foundations. While there may
certainly be, among the things that Descartes had believed, many
that really are true, he needs to come up with some reliable way
to distinguish these from what is false or doubtful.

By the end of the First Meditation, the epistemic model


of common sense, with its naive reliance on sense experience and
unjustified confidence in reason, has been broken down. With
the Second Meditation, the rebuilding begins. Even in the midst
of radical sceptical doubt, Descartes immediately comes upon a
first irrefutable truth. There is one thing that he can know with
absolute certainty: ‘I am, I exist [ego sum, ego existo].’ (The more
famous phrase, ‘I think, therefore I am,’ made its first appearance
several years earlier, in French in the Discourse as ‘je pense, donc
je suis’; the familiar Latin rendering, ‘ego cogito, ergo sum’, comes
later, in the Principles and in the 1644 Latin translation of the
Discourse.) The belief in one’s own existence is indubitable, com-
pletely immune to any sceptical suspicion whatsoever. One cannot
possibly doubt one’s own existence, no matter how hard one
tries. In fact, the harder one tries, the more convinced one will
be that one exists. The mere fact that I am thinking is sufficient
to establish for myself that I am, regardless of what I happen to
be thinking – even if I am thinking that I do not exist, and even
if I am contemplating the possibility that I am being tricked by
an evil demon.
135 ‘I think, therefore I am’

But there is a deceiver of supreme power and cunning


who is deliberately and constantly deceiving me. In that
case I too undoubtedly exist, if he is deceiving me; and
let him deceive me as much as he can, he will never bring
it about that I am nothing so long as I think that I am
something. So after considering everything very thor-
oughly, I must finally conclude that this proposition, I am,
I exist, is necessarily true whenever it is put forward by me
or conceived in my mind.49

At the same time, these reflections establish something essen-


tial about the ‘I’ who is thinking and who cannot but conclude
that he exists. Through the ‘I am, I exist’ argument, Descartes
realizes, also with absolute certainty, that he is a thinking thing,
an individual who has a great variety of thoughts, beliefs, feelings,
desires and so on. This, too, cannot be doubted. ‘What then am I?
A thing that thinks. What is that? A thing that doubts, understands,
affirms, denies, is willing, is unwilling, and also imagines and has
sensory perceptions.’50 All of these are activities of his thinking.
They are conscious states whose presence and whose status as his
own cannot possibly be doubted. At this point, Descartes has no
solid reason for believing that he is anything but a thinking thing.
He does not yet know whether he also has a body, or whether it
is in fact a body that is doing all this thinking; the existence of
material and external things has not yet been re-established with
any certainty, and his own essence is still unknown. But for now,
he can be indubitably sure – even if his faculty of thought was
created by an evil deceiver – that he is at least a thinking thing,
or mind.
(This shows why ‘I am being deceived, therefore I am’ or ‘I
doubt, therefore I am’ – dubito, ergo sum – is just as good an argu-
ment, and serves Descartes’ purposes just as well, as ‘I think,
therefore I am’: to be deceived or to doubt is to think. By contrast,
descartes 136

‘I am in my bed, therefore I am’ would not work: the premise of


this argument has been rendered uncertain by the sceptical
doubts of the First Meditation, and so the conclusion, even if it
follows necessarily from the premise, must be equally uncertain.
However, ‘I think I am in my bed, therefore I am’ or ‘I believe
I am in my bed, therefore I am’ would work; the premise in each
of these is absolutely certain, since one cannot possibly doubt
that one is thinking or believing something.)
Now what makes his own existence so certain and indubitable,
Descartes discovers, is that he perceives it with the utmost ‘clarity
and distinctness’. He can thus formulate the ‘general rule’ that
‘whatever I perceive very clearly and distinctly is true.’ Yet how
can he be confident that this principle is correct? How can he
know that his faculty for clear and distinct perception – that is,
reason or intellect itself – is reliable and is the source not merely
of some subjective feeling of certainty, but of real and objective
truth? After all, what if that faculty was given to him by an evil
deceiver? Descartes recognizes the psychological fact that when
he is actively in the throes of perceiving something clearly and
distinctly (such as ‘1 + 2 = 3’), he cannot bring himself to doubt
it. But when he is no longer actually attending to the proposition
and the demonstration in its favour, especially when the subject
is a bit more complex than simple arithmetic – for example, the
proof of the Pythagorean theorem – room for doubt creeps in.
He may remember, quite correctly, that he once perceived the
matter clearly and distinctly while going through the proof; but
now, in the absence of that persuasive clear and distinct perception
itself, he can wonder whether it is indeed an indubitable truth,
since he can now doubt the veracity of his faculty for clear and
distinct perception.
The next step in the argumentative progress of the Meditations
is thus a crucial one. Descartes insists that the certainty of his own
existence as a thinking thing leads, as well, to the absolute certainty
137 ‘I think, therefore I am’

of the existence of God. And once Descartes knows that he (along


with his rational faculty) was in fact created by this true God –
once he knows that the author of his being is an omnipotent and
perfectly good and benevolent deity who would never want to
see him be systematically led astray – he has established something
of great epistemological and metaphysical importance.
Descartes offers several arguments for God’s existence. All
of them take their start – as they must, given Descartes’ current
epistemic situation – from something that he discovers indubi-
tably to be in his mind, namely, the idea of God. While he can
still, at this point, doubt whether there is anything in an external
world corresponding to the thoughts he has, he cannot possibly
doubt that he, as a thinking thing, has those thoughts. And among
the many thoughts that Descartes is certain that he has is the
idea of an infinite, all-perfect being. Moreover, the fact that a
thinker has an idea of such a being is, like any fact, something
that needs an explanation, a causal explanation that must be suf-
ficient to account for every feature of the effect.
Descartes insists that a finite, created being such as himself
could not possibly be the cause of the idea of an infinite, eternal
being. This is because a being that is merely finite could not,
through its own resources, be the origin of the notion of a being
that is infinite. The proposed cause of an effect must, Descartes
insists, ‘contain as much reality’ as the effect, since ‘something
cannot arise from nothing, and what is more perfect – contains
in itself more reality – cannot arise from what is less perfect.’
This is as true for the content of an idea as it is for an actually
existing thing, since ‘the mode of being by which a thing exists
. . . in the intellect by way of an idea, imperfect though it may be,
is certainly not nothing, and so it cannot come from nothing.’51
Not only does a finite being not have enough reality in itself to
bring an infinite being into existence, it does not have enough
reality in itself to generate even the idea of a being that is truly
descartes 138

infinite. Descartes concludes that the only possible explanation


for the idea of God in his mind must be that there really is such
an infinite being who has all the attributes represented in the
idea and who, when creating Descartes, endowed his mind with
that clear and distinct idea, like ‘the mark of the craftsman
stamped on his work’.
Employing a version of the a priori ‘ontological argument’,
one that is quite different from that first used by Anselm of
Canterbury in the eleventh century, Descartes also argues that
it is impossible to clearly and distinctly conceive of God as not
existing. The idea of God – which is ‘the most clear and distinct’
of all of the ideas that Descartes discovers in his mind – is the
idea of a supremely perfect being. But a supremely perfect being
must necessarily have all perfections (otherwise it would not be
the supremely perfect being). Existence, Descartes insists, is ‘a
supreme perfection’. Therefore, the idea of God necessarily implies
the thought that God exists.

It is quite evident that existence can no more be sepa-


rated from the essence of God than the fact that its three
angles equal two right angles can be separated from the
essence of a triangle, or than the idea of a mountain can
be separated from the idea of valley. Hence it is just as
much of a contradiction to think of God (that is, a su­­
premely perfect being) lacking existence (that is, lacking
a perfection), as it is to think of a mountain without a
valley.52

In other words, to insist that ‘God does not exist’ is to put forward
a proposition that is as logically contradictory and inconceivable
as the proposition that ‘a triangle does not have three angles.’
Through these arguments, Descartes comes to realize that
the careful use of his rational thinking, working on the ideas he
139 ‘I think, therefore I am’

indubitably finds within himself, leads him inexorably to the


conclusion that ‘I cannot think of God except as existing,’ and
that his, Descartes’, being as a thinking thing has its origin not in
some malicious demon or in the random forces of nature but in
an infinitely perfect being. Even in the midst of the most radical
sceptical doubts, Descartes cannot but conclude that God exists
and that it is God who created him.
Moreover, he continues, God cannot be a deceiver. This is
because God is necessarily wise and good. An infinitely perfect
being must have all perfections, and wisdom and goodness are
perfections. Thus an infinitely perfect being would never pro-
duce a creature whose rational faculties are so inherently faulty
that he is systematically deceived whenever he uses them prop-
erly; nor would such a being interfere with the operation of
those faculties so as to lead their owner astray. Such malicious
intentions are ‘impossible’ for God, ‘for in every case of trickery
or deception some imperfection is to be found’.53
Descartes’ intellect now has a divine guarantee. His faculty
of clear and distinct perception has been vindicated. With the
absolute certainty that he is a thinking thing who was created
by an omnipotent and benevolent deity, the overwrought scep-
tical doubts of the First Meditation about his rational faculties
and the beliefs they generate can be dismissed. Knowledge is
possible. At the end of the Fifth Meditation, he says that

I see plainly that the certainty and truth of all knowledge


depends uniquely on my knowledge of the true God, to
such an extent that I was incapable of perfect knowledge
about anything else until I knew him. And now it is
possible for me to achieve full and certain knowledge
of countless matters, both concerning God himself and
other things whose nature is intellectual, and also con­
cern­ing the whole of that corporeal nature [extension
descartes 140

or spatial dimension] which is the subject matter of pure


mathematics.54

Descartes can now be confident that whenever he employs his


intellect properly he will not go wrong. As long as he proceeds
with sufficient care and attentiveness and affirms only what he
clearly and distinctly perceives to be true – only what he appre-
hends with such compelling evidence that his will cannot withhold
its assent – he will reach truth. Descartes concludes the Fourth
Meditation by saying:

every clear and distinct perception is undoubtedly some-


thing, and hence cannot come from nothing but must
necessarily have God as its author . . . So today I have
learned not only what precautions to take to avoid ever
going wrong, but also what to do to arrive at the truth.
For I shall unquestionably reach the truth, if only I give
sufficient attention to all the things which I perfectly
understand, and separate these from all the other cases
where my apprehension is more confused and obscure.55

What Descartes learns from his epistemological foray, with reason


now validated by divine benevolence, is that the proper use of his
faculties can give him not just beliefs, but true and justified beliefs
– that is, knowledge. He no longer has any reason, however fan-
tastic or unlikely, to doubt that one plus one really does equal
two. The most important rule is to avoid precipitate judgement
and give credence only to what one has irresistible, epistemically
justificatory reasons to believe. One can then be sure that what
one believes is not only subjectively certain in the sense of psy-
chologically compelling, but objectively certain and true. Descartes
offers this principle as an essential guide to any philosopher or
scientist sincerely looking to make progress in his inquiries.
141 ‘I think, therefore I am’

At the same time, he warns that atheists can never achieve


the absolute certainty that is available to believers. This is because
atheists cannot have the confidence in their rational faculties
that comes from knowing that those faculties were created by an
omnipotent, non-deceiving God.56 The atheist will, like all people,
believe many things that happen to be true, along with many
things that happen to be false. But because the atheist denies the
existence of God, he can never be justified in knowing that those
beliefs are true, and thus can never have real knowledge.
Having done his epistemological groundwork, Descartes can
now proceed immediately to discover a number of additional
truths. Among the first things he can be certain of after the exist-
ence and veracity of God is a basic metaphysical fact, one that
he knows will be essential to the foundations of his physics. There
is, he now recognizes through clear and distinct concepts, a real
and radical distinction in nature between mind and body. Mind
is a simple, immaterial substance whose fundamental nature is
thought or thinking; body is a composite, material substance
whose fundamental nature is extension. The two substances have
absolutely nothing in common, and the one can exist inde-
pendently of the other.

Simply by knowing that I exist and seeing at the same


time that absolutely nothing else belongs to my nature
or essence except that I am a thinking thing, I can infer
correctly that my essence consists solely in the fact that I
am a thinking thing . . . I have a clear and distinct idea of
myself, in so far as I am simply a thinking, non-extended
thing; and on the other hand I have a distinct idea of body,
in so far as this is simply an extended, non-thinking thing.

Because, Descartes notes, ‘everything which I clearly and dis-


tinctly understand is capable of being created by God so as to
descartes 142

correspond exactly with my understanding of it’, he knows as


well that if he can clearly and distinctly conceive of one thing
without the other, he can justifiably conclude that ‘the two things
are distinct, since they are capable of being separated, at least
by God.’ Now thought or mind can be clearly and distinctly con-
ceived without conceiving of body, and body or matter can be
clearly and distinctly conceived without thought. Accordingly,
he concludes, ‘it is certain that I am really distinct from my body
and can exist without it.’57 From ‘I exist’ to ‘I am a thinking thing’
to ‘I am a thinking thing that can exist without a body,’ Descartes
has made considerable metaphysical progress since the Second
Meditation.
Mind and body differ not only in essence, but therefore in
the kinds of properties of which each is capable. Because the
nature of mind and the nature of body are mutually exclusive,
the modifications or ‘modes’ of one cannot belong to the other.
The modes of minds or thinking things are thoughts or ideas:
perceptions and volitions, purely mental activities; minds do not,
and cannot, have shape, size, spatial location or motion. Bodies
or material things, however, because they are not minds or souls,
cannot have thoughts; they lack mental life altogether. Bodies
are non-thinking, extended (spatial) substances. Their proper-
ties include size and shape, motion and rest, and indefinite
divisibility into parts.
Descartes is now, by the Sixth Meditation, also ready to put
to rest the doubts of the First Meditation concerning the existence
of bodies. He can be reasonably certain that there is in fact an
external world. The non-deceiving God who created him has
clearly given him a strong natural propensity to believe in such a
world on the basis of the data of his senses. For example, he can-
not help but judge that his visual experiences ‘are produced by
corporeal things’, and that if he is awake and sees a tree it must
be because there is a tree causing that perception. If there were
143 ‘I think, therefore I am’

no world of corporeal things actually and ordinarily producing


such experiences, then a demonstrably benevolent God would,
in giving him such a propensity, have led him astray, which (he
insists) is absurd. ‘I do not see how God could be understood
to be anything but a deceiver if the ideas [of sense] were trans-
mitted from a source other than corporeal things. It follows that
corporeal things exist.’58
However, the external world whose existence has been rein-
stated by Descartes is not, qualitatively, the same external world
in which he, in the persona of the philosophically naive medi-
tator at the beginning of this long exercise, once believed. One
of the things that Descartes has learned over the course of the
Meditations is that the reports of the senses are not to be trusted
regarding the true natures of things. The working assumption
of The World, that the bodies that exist outside the mind do not
really have the colours, sounds, tastes and other sensory qualities
that they are ordinarily perceived to have, is now more than just
a ‘hypothesis’. Descartes shows in the Meditations that all that
he perceives clearly and distinctly to belong to bodies, and to
corporeal nature in general – and thus all that he, through the
divine guarantee, is justified in attributing to physical things –
are purely mathematical properties: shape, size, divisibility and
mobility. This is because the clear and distinct idea of body or
matter consists only in extension, or three-dimensional space.
Since he is now to judge things only according to the clear and
distinct ideas of the intellect and affirm only what he perceives
with supreme, unimpeachable and irresistible evidence, he must
look beyond the confused, obscure and misleading testimony of
the senses and believe that external bodies consist in extension
alone. All the other properties that seem to belong to bodies and
that make up the richness of our sensory experience are – just
like the pains and pleasures that bodies often cause in us – only
perceptions in the mind brought about by the motions of matter.
descartes 144

Among those bodies in the external world, Descartes rec-


ognizes that there is one in particular to which he, as a thinking
thing, is deeply related. With the uncertainty of the First and
Second Meditations dispelled, he may now conclude that he
does indeed have ‘a body that is very closely joined to me’. Mind
may be different from and independent of matter, but that does
not preclude their being united in a human being. ‘There is
nothing that my own nature teaches me more vividly than that
I have a body, and that when I feel pain there is something wrong
with the body, and that when I am hungry or thirsty the body
needs food and drink, and so on.’ More than a simple and indif-
ferent juxtaposition of two things, the mind’s union with the
body is a rather intimate one, or so ‘nature’ – Descartes’ God-
guaranteed propensities – leads him to believe:59 ‘Nature also
teaches me, by these sensations of pain, hunger, thirst, and so
on, that I am not merely present in my body as a sailor is present
in a ship, but that I am very closely joined and, as it were, inter-
mingled with it, so that I and the body form a unit.’60 Somehow,
despite their radical disparity, the mind and the body whose
union constitutes a human being engage in an immediate and
mutual causal relationship: some mental events cause motions
in the body (such as the voluntary movements of a limb), and
some motions in the body bring about events in the mind (for
example, a sensation of pain). Descartes’ best explanation of this
fact is that the correspondence between the two substances is
the result of a divine institution – God has so providentially
created the nature of mind and body that certain motions do
give rise to certain thoughts, and vice versa – and thus testimony
to ‘the power and goodness of God’.
145 ‘I think, therefore I am’

The metaphysical mind–body distinction (which later


philosophers call ‘dualism’) so central to the Meditations can
certainly contribute to establishing the soul’s immortality, as
promised in the work’s original subtitle.61 Descartes does not
really fulfil this promise in the text. Nonetheless, the ground-
work has been laid. In response to Mersenne’s concern about
the absence of any explicit discussion of the issue, he writes:

You say that I have not said a word about the immortality
of the soul. You should not be surprised. I could not prove
that God could not annihilate the soul, but only that it
is by nature entirely distinct from the body, and conse-
quently is not bound by nature to die with it. This is all
that is required as a foundation for religion, and is all that
I had any intention of proving.62

In the Meditations itself, Descartes claims only that an immaterial


mind is not subject to the decay and decomposition that inevi-
tably affects the material body, and so it is naturally capable of
surviving the latter’s demise and existing without it. To Mersenne,
though, he goes further and concludes that ‘the mind, in so far
as it can be known by natural philosophy, is immortal.’ The only
reason why a soul would perish is if God chose to destroy it.
Descartes told his friend Guillaume Gibieuf (1591–1650),
a Catholic priest and theologian in France who he hoped would
help him secure for his new treatise the approval of ‘the gentle-
men of the Sorbonne’ – the theological faculty of the University
of Paris – that ‘it is the cause of God that I have undertaken to
defend.’63 But Descartes’ main concern in the Meditations, no more
than in the Discourse and its accompanying essays, is not Christian
apologetics; rather, it is science. His metaphysics empties the
bodily realm of all spiritual or mind-like elements. There are no
Aristotelian active, immaterial forms, qualities or powers in the
descartes 146

physical world. The only truly animated body in nature – the only
body endowed with a soul (anima) – is the human body. Mind–
body dualism thus does important work on behalf of Descartes’
scientific project. The exhaustive and exclusive distinction of mind
and body – everything is either mental or physical, and everything
is either mental or physical – provides the right metaphysical
foundation for the mechanistic picture of the world. Whatever
takes place in the physical world is and must be explained by
material principles alone.
six
Loss and Conflict

I
n the autumn of 1640 Descartes was putting the fin-
ishing touches on the Meditations. He would soon send
the manuscript to Huygens in The Hague, who in turn
would convey it to Mersenne in Paris. Descartes trusted Mersenne
to bring the book to press, and even gave him carte blanche to
do some editing. ‘I am very much indebted to you for the care
you are taking of my book of metaphysics,’ he wrote in December
1640, ‘and I give you a free hand to correct or change whatever
you think fit.’1
He initially wanted to have only a small number of copies
printed, as a preview run, to send to some theologians ‘for their
opinion of it’. What Descartes sought, in fact, was their approval,
or at least to find out what they might find objectionable from a
religious perspective. ‘I have no fear that it contains anything that
could displease the theologians, but I would have liked to have
the approbation of a number of people so as to prevent the cavils
of ignorant contradiction-mongers.’ He was concerned, though,
that copies of the book would end up in the hands of ‘almost
everyone who has any curiosity to see it; either they will borrow
it from one of those to whom I send it, or they will get it from
the publisher, who will certainly print more copies than I want’.2
In the end, Descartes asked Mersenne to circulate the manu­
s­cript among some ‘learned critics’, including philosophers and
theologians with whom the Minim friar was personally acquainted
Record of the baptism of Descartes’ daughter.
149 Loss and Conflict

or at least knew by reputation. Mersenne was to collect their


objections, especially – and despite Descartes’ confidence that
it contained nothing of which the ecclesiastics, Catholic or
Reformed, might disapprove – on topics that could potentially
be problematic. ‘I will be very glad if people put to me many
objections, the strongest they can find, for I hope the truth will
stand out all the better from them.’3
Between receiving Descartes’ manuscript of the Meditations
in November 1640 and the publication in Paris of the first
edition in August 1641, Mersenne took care to invite, collect
and forward objections to this metaphysical and epistemological
exercise. Descartes, for his part, was occupied with composing
responses to them. It was in the midst of these preparations that
Descartes was hit with the deepest tragedy of his life.
His daughter, only five years old, died.
While living in Amsterdam, from the spring of 1634 to the
spring of 1635, Descartes had rented rooms in the home of Jacob
Thomasz Sergeant. Sergeant, an Englishman who lived at 6 Wester­­
markt, close by the Westerkerk and just behind the present-day
Anne Frank House, was a French teacher and bookseller. He had
a servant named Helena Jansdr van der Stroom (d. 1683). 4 On 19
July 1635, most likely in Deventer, 21-year-old Helena gave birth
to a girl. In the record of the baptism, which also took place in
Deventer, the father is listed as ‘Reyner Jochems’ (René, Joachim’s
son) – that is, Descartes.5 The child’s given name was Fransintge,
the Dutch diminutive of Francine. It is unclear how the baptism
was arranged, since the Reformed Church typically did not baptize
children born out of wedlock.
According to Baillet, Descartes was rather secretive about
the whole affair. He says that Descartes refused to acknowledge
publicly either his relationship with Helena or his fatherhood,
and suggests that perhaps it was out of shame. ‘The marriage of
Monsieur Descartes is, for us, one of the most secret mysteries
descartes 150

of the hidden life he led outside his country far from his relatives
and friends. There is nothing more agreeable with the profession
of a philosopher than the freedom of a celibate.’6
Despite Baillet’s reference to a ‘secret marriage’ that was, he
says, ‘a stain on his [Descartes’] celibacy’, we know that Descartes
and Helena did not marry.7 In fact, she would wed someone else
in just a few years – a Jan Jansz van Wel, from Egmond – with
Descartes acting as witness and providing a generous dowry of
six hundred guilders for her.8 Descartes, Helena and Fransintge
do appear at least to have lived together from autumn 1637 until
1639, in Santpoort, near Haarlem. In a letter to an anonymous
recipient of 30 August 1637, Descartes, writing from Egmond,
says that ‘I spoke yesterday with my hostess to see if she would
accommodate my niece [that is, daughter] here and how much
she wanted me to pay for that. She told me, without any delib-
eration, that I should bring her whenever I wanted, and that we
could easily come to some agreement as to price, since it was
indifferent to her whether she had one child more or less to care
for.’ Apparently, he was hoping to bring Helena as well, and was
setting up a position for her as servant to his hostess. ‘It should
be arranged for Helena to come here as soon as possible.’9
Baillet, a bit of a French chauvinist, also reports (probably
wishfully) that Descartes was planning at some point to send his
daughter to France, ‘in order to procure for her a suitable educa-
tion’ and where she could live with some members of his family
‘and be raised with piety under great exemplars’.10 Alas, it was not
to be. Fransintge died on 17 September 1640, while she and Helena
were in Amersfoort. She succumbed to scarlet fever after three
days. Though Descartes was in Leiden, seeing to preparations on
the Meditations, he may have made it back in time. He was, Baillet
says, heartbroken over the loss. ‘He wept for her with a tenderness
that showed him that the true philosophy does not extinguish the
natural. He proclaimed that she, by her death, left him with the
151 Loss and Conflict

greatest regret that he had ever felt in his life.’11 Descartes seems
to have kept his mourning to himself, however. Even during
Fransintge’s illness, just days before her death, he was preoccupied
with other matters. On 15 September, he was writing to Mersenne
from Leiden to thank him for the advice he had given him regarding
‘my treatise of Metaphysics, in which I believe I have hardly omitted
anything necessary for demonstrating the truth’, and responds to
some technical questions about fountains and other ‘machines’,
the speed of missiles and ‘the subtle matter’ surrounding the earth,
among other scientific topics.12 There is no mention whatsoever
in the letter to his good friend regarding the child’s condition. In
later correspondence, there is not a word about Helena, and only
one oblique, but touching, reference to the loss of his daughter.13
Writing in 1641 to Alphonse Pollot (1602–1668), a member of
the stadholder’s entourage in The Hague who it seems had also
recently lost someone close (his brother), Descartes says

I have just learned the sad news of your loss, and though
I do not undertake to say anything in this letter which
could have any power to soften your pain, I still cannot
refrain from trying, so as to let you know at least that I
share what you feel. I am not one of those who think that
tears and sadness are appropriate only for women, and
that to appear a stout-hearted man one must force one-
self to put on a calm expression at all times. Not long ago,
I suffered the loss of two people who were very close to
me, and I found that those who wanted to shield me from
sadness only increased it, whereas I was consoled by the
kindness of those whom I saw to be touched by my grief.14

As far as we know, this is the only occasion in writing in which


Descartes shared his sorrow over Fransintge – as well as over
the death of his father, Joachim, who passed away just a month
descartes 152

after his daughter – with someone else. Descartes’ grief was


clearly a very private affair.

By August of 1641 the book was in print. This first edition,


published by Michel Soly in Paris, included both the Meditations
and six sets of objections and Descartes’ replies, with the debate
taking up considerably more space than the original text. The
volume was prefaced by a flattering dedicatory letter to ‘the Dean
and Doctors of the sacred Faculty of Theology at Paris’ – that
is, the Sorbonne – whom Descartes calls ‘the greatest tower of
strength to the Catholic Church’. This was part of his continued
effort to get what he calls their ‘verdict’ on the work, and especially
their approbation and protection.
The objections that Descartes received from clerics and the-
ologians focused mainly on his discussion of God. The author of
the first set of objections was Johan de Kater (Caterus), a Catholic
priest in Alkmaar. De Kater worried that Descartes’ alleged proofs
for God’s existence do not succeed. He suggests that the a priori
‘ontological’ proof, based on the idea of God necessarily containing
the perfection of existence, shows only that the two concepts
(‘God’ and ‘existence’) are linked, not that ‘the existence is any-
thing actual in the real world’ and, thus, that God truly exists.15
The second set of objections, ostensibly from ‘theologians and
philosophers’ but composed mostly by Mersenne himself, raise
the question of why the presence of the idea of an infinite being
(God) in a finite mind necessarily entails that that infinite being
must exist as the cause of that idea. Could not an individual
simply take the idea of ‘some degree of perfection’ and increase
it ‘an indefinite number of degrees and thus positing higher and
higher degrees of perfection up to infinity’ finally arrive at the
idea of an infinite being? Furthermore, the objector (Mersenne)
continues, considering Descartes’ claim that God cannot be a
153 Loss and Conflict

deceiver, why might not deception be perfectly compatible with


God’s providential goodness? ‘Cannot God treat men as a doctor
treats the sick, or a father his children? In both these cases there
is frequent deception though it is always employed beneficially
and with wisdom.’16
By far the most important philosophical points, and the most
contentious exchanges, occur in the third, fourth and fifth sets of
objections, which came from three individuals who already were
or soon would be major figures on the seventeenth-century intel-
lectual scene. The English philosopher Thomas Hobbes (1588–
1679) first met Mersenne in the mid-1630s, during his travels on
the Continent. In late 1640 he ended up back in Paris, this time
as a royalist exile during the English Civil War. (He would remain
in the French capital until 1651.) As a member of Mersenne’s circle,
he received a copy of the Meditations with great interest. However,
his response to the work was quite hostile. He took par­­ticular issue
with Descartes’ mind–body distinction. He grants that ‘the thing
that thinks is the subject to which mind, reason or intellect belong,’
and that we cannot ‘conceive an act without its subject . . . of
knowing without a knower, or of thinking without a thinker’. But,
he insists, ‘it seems to follow from this that a think­­ing thing is
something corporeal. For it seems that the subject of any act can
be understood only in terms of something corporeal or in terms
of matter.’ Moreover, what Descartes calls ‘ideas’ are, Hobbes claims,
in fact only concrete, material images in the brain. This is as true
of the idea of God as of any external object, and we arrive at this
idea only through construction and expansion on the basis of our
sensory ideas of external objects.
There is little common ground between Hobbes and Descartes.
They are both vigorous critics of Scholastic philosophy and par-
tisans of the new mechanistic science. But where Descartes is
committed to an unbridgeable ontological divide between mind
and matter, Hobbes is a materialist who, in his own writings,
descartes 154

dismisses the notion of an immaterial substance (such as a soul).


In his most important work, the political treatise Leviathan, he
proclaims that ‘substance and body signify the same thing; and there-
fore, substance incorporeal are words which, when they are joined
together, destroy one another, as if a man should say an incorporeal
body.’17 Hobbes is also an empiricist. He rejects Descartes’ view
that there are certain ideas ‘innate’ in the mind, whether as fully
formed concepts or as native propensities to think certain things.
‘Concerning the thoughts of man . . . the original of them all is that
which we call Sense. (For there is no conception in a man’s mind

John Michael Wright, Thomas Hobbes, c. 1669–70, oil on canvas.


155 Loss and Conflict

which hath not at first, totally or by parts, been begotten upon the
organs of sense.)’18 Among Descartes’ innate ideas is, of course,
the idea of God. Hobbes denies not only the innateness of such a
concept, but that there is anything like the idea that Descartes
relies on in his proofs of God’s existence. ‘There is no idea or
conception of anything we call infinite.’19 Of Hobbes, Descartes
says to Mersenne, ‘I am very surprised that, although from the
way he writes the author shows himself to be an intelligent and
learned man, he seems to miss the truth in every single claim which
he puts forward as his own.’20 He soon decides, as he and ‘the
Englishman’ are simply talking past each other, that ‘the best thing
would be for me to have nothing more to do with him, and, accord-
ingly, avoid answering him. For if his temperament is what I think
it is, it will be hard for us to exchange views without becoming
enemies.’21
A more productive set of objections came from a freshly
minted theologian in Paris. Antoine Arnauld (1612–1694) was
the youngest of twenty children in a prominent family of the
noblesse de robe. Various members of the family were deeply embed-
ded in the Jansenist movement, an austere theological reform
faction within French Catholicism. Inspired by the writings of
Cornelius Jansen (1585–1638), a Flemish theologian and Bishop
of Ypres, the Jansenists adopted a strong doctrine of efficacious
grace, whereby God’s salvific aid was freely distributed indepen­
dently of individual merit or effort and could not be refused
or misused. They also advocated a rather strict penitential disci-
pline, including occasional deprivation of the sacraments, in
response to what they saw as the lax morality of their arch-
enemies, the Jesuits. Jansenists would suffer persecution from the
French eccle­­­siastic establishment and secular authorities, as
well as from Rome, for their ‘unorthodox’ views. Arnauld him-
self would eventually flee France and spend much of his adult
life in exile in the southern Netherlands.
descartes 156

In early 1641 Arnauld was still working on his doctorate at the


Sorbonne when he received the Meditations from Mersenne. This
was no doubt a calculated move by Descartes’ friend to gain an
ally from within the theology faculty. The strategy would work,
at least with respect to Arnauld, if not his colleagues.
Arnauld had one of the keenest analytic minds of his era, and
it shows in his objections. He divides these into three sections. In
the first, ‘The Nature of the Human Mind’, directed at the Second
Meditation, he raises the problem of how it follows from the fact
that one is unaware that anything else belongs to one’s essence

Pierre Drevet, after Jean Baptiste de Champaigne, Antoine Arnauld, 1696,


engraving.
157 Loss and Conflict

that nothing else – like a body – really does belong to one’s


essence. The most that can be concluded with certainty from
such a premise, Arnauld insists, is ‘that I can obtain some knowl-
edge of myself without knowledge of the body’, but not that there
is a ‘real distinction in existence between mind and body’.22
In the section ‘Concerning God’, Arnauld objects to a particular
premise in Descartes’ proof for the existence of God in the Third
Meditation. God, he says, cannot be regarded as ‘self-caused’ in
the sense of standing to Himself as an efficient cause, since an
efficient cause must be distinct from and prior to its effect. ‘Since
every effect depends on a cause and receives its existence from
a cause, surely it is clear that one and the same thing cannot
depend on itself or receive its existence from itself.’23 God would
have to exist before He existed in order to cause His own exist-
ence, which is absurd. The only meaningful sense in which God
is self-caused, Arnauld insists, is a ‘negative’ sense, whereby God’s
being does not derive from something other than God.
Arnauld’s most famous objection to Descartes’ overall strategy
in the Meditations – one that has generated an enormous amount
of discussion in the scholarly literature – is the apparent circu-
larity of using reason to prove God’s existence and benevolence
when God’s existence and benevolence are required by Descartes,
in his sceptical pose, to validate the use of reason in the first place,
as a reliable guide to truth. Arnauld puts the point succinctly yet,
it seems, fatally.

I have one further worry, namely how the author avoids


reasoning in a circle when he says that we are sure that what
we clearly and distinctly perceive is true only because God
exists. But we can be sure that God exists only because we
clearly and distinctly perceive this. Therefore, before we
can be sure that God exists, we ought to be able to be sure
that whatever we perceive clearly and distinctly is true.24
descartes 158

Finally, in the section ‘Points Which May Cause Difficulty


to Theologians’, Arnauld highlights a problem that later does,
indeed, cause very serious difficulties to theologians. He is con-
cerned that Descartes’ theory of body and matter is inconsistent
with the Catholic dogma of the Eucharist enshrined by the Council
of Trent. The Council had ruled at its Thirteenth Session, in
1551, that ‘by the consecration of the bread and wine a change is
brought about of the whole substance of the bread into the sub-
stance of the body of Christ our Lord, and of the whole substance
of the wine into the substance of his blood.’25 Because Descartes
has emptied the material world of sensible qualities such as colour,
taste and smell, leaving behind only extension and its modes
(shape, size, motion and rest), his philosophy appears to Arnauld
to be incompatible with the standard explication of transub­
stantiation in the sacramental host. Catholic theologians since
the Middle Ages had explained transubstantiation – whereby
there is a ‘real’ and not merely symbolic presence of Christ in
the sacraments – with the use of Aristotelian forms and qualities.
On the account favoured by the followers of Thomas Aquinas,
the substance of the bread of the host is, through God’s miracle
on the occasion of the priest’s utterance of the words hoc est corpus
meus, converted into Christ’s body; on the account preferred by
the followers of Johannes Duns Scotus, the substance of the bread
is annihilated and replaced by Christ’s body. In both cases, though
the bread-substance is no longer there after consecration, the
accidental forms or real qualities of the bread (its visual appear-
ance, its odour, its flavour) remain. This is why, despite being
Christ’s body, the host looks, smells and tastes like bread. This
Scholastic account, over time, became so intimately connected
with the Catholic dogma itself that it practically became one of
its tenets.26
On Descartes’ metaphysics, however, such a real and inde-
pendent existence of accidents without their original substance
159 Loss and Conflict

is ruled out in principle. The bread is nothing but a particularly


shaped parcel of extension, minute particles of matter organized
in a certain way. There is no appearance, smell or taste to be
miraculously suspended without its underlying (bread) substratum.
Arnauld’s questions on this point – and they appear only in
the second edition of the Meditations – drew Descartes, reluctantly,
into dangerous theological terrain. Dealing with ‘truths of rev-
elation’ (as opposed to truths of reason) was something that he
tried to avoid as much as possible. However, he recognized the
force of Arnauld’s point and needed to address the problem,
especially if he was not to alienate the ‘learned doctors of the
Sorbonne’. Thus, after a half-hearted attempt to clarify that ‘I
have never denied that there are real accidents,’ Descartes makes
a bold effort to reconcile his metaphysics with the real presence
of Christ in the host. What affects the senses in perception, he
says, is only the superficies of a body – the texture formed by the
outermost particles of matter, with all of its microscopic nooks
and crannies. ‘For contact with an object takes place only at the
surface, and nothing can have an effect on any of our senses except
through contact.’ Therefore, in transubstantiation, if the substance
of Christ’s body is confined by God within material ‘boundaries’
or dimensions that exactly match those that had characterized
the now-absent bread, ‘it necessarily follows that the new sub-
stance [Christ’s body] must affect all our senses in exactly the
same way as that in which the bread and wine would be affecting
them if no transubstantiation had occurred.’27 Christ’s body
looks, smells and tastes like bread because it has taken on an
extension identical to that of bread and so affects our senses as
bread does.
Arnauld certainly did not intend to get Descartes into trouble,
but ultimately that is what happened. Descartes would later, in
a 1645 letter to the Jesuit priest Denis Mesland, offer a somewhat
different account of transubstantiation. Just as the particles of
descartes 160

bread that we ingest in ordinary eating become a part of us


because they congeal with the parts of our body that are united
with our souls – a kind of ‘natural transubstantiation’ in diges-
tion, he calls it – so the miracle of the host occurs when the
matter of the bread gets ‘informed by his [Christ’s] soul simply
by the power of the words of consecration’ and thereby becomes
Christ’s body.28
Descartes feared that this philosophical foray into revealed
theology would be ‘shocking’, and he was right. It is fairly certain
that when the Catholic Church placed Descartes’ writings on its
Index of Prohibited Books in 1663, ‘until they are corrected [donec
corregantur]’, it was Descartes’ attempt at explaining transubstan-
tiation in a novel way that was the aggravating factor.29 Arnauld
himself, who simply wanted to have clarification on this matter,
was not sufficiently reassured. The topic came up again several
times in their subsequent correspondence. One thing that both-
ered Arnauld is that if Christ’s body takes on the exact extension
of bread, then, given Descartes’ identification of a body with its
extension, it is bread! Descartes replied that he preferred not to
answer this question in writing.30
Descartes’ failure to satisfy Arnauld on this count did not
diminish the Jansenist’s enthusiasm for the new philosophy. While
Arnauld believed that Cartesians were better off acknowledging
the inexplicability of this mystery of the faith, he would none-
theless go on to become one of the staunchest, if more cantankerous
and controversial, defenders of Descartes’ philosophy in the second
half of the century.31 Descartes, in turn, was impressed by the
young Sorbonniste. He was generally disappointed by the quality of
the objections he had received so far. He tells Mersenne that ‘the
objectors seem to have understood absolutely nothing of what I
wrote.’32 But of Arnauld he says that ‘he has put me greatly in his
debt by producing his objections. I think they are the best of all
the sets of objections, not because they are more telling, but because
161 Loss and Conflict

he, more than anyone else, has entered into the sense of what I
wrote.’33 In a rare moment of humility, he concedes that he has
changed several things in the Meditations, ‘thus letting it be known
that I have deferred to his judgement’.34
Descartes was less taken by the objections lobbed against him
by another prominent philosopher. Pierre Gassendi (1592–1655)
was a French Catholic priest from Provence. He was also, some-
what incongruously for a man of faith, a devotee of the Epicurean
philosophy and contributed to the revival of that ancient system
in the seventeenth century.35 Gassendi was, like Hobbes, a member
of Mersenne’s intellectual coterie and a defender of the mecha-
nistic philosophy of nature against the Aristotelians. Unlike
Descartes, however, who insisted on the infinite divisibility of
extended bodies and the identification of body with space (thus
rendering a vacuum metaphysically impossible), Gassendi was,
in keeping with his Epicureanism, an atomist. There were, he
claimed, fundamental, invisible and indivisible particles of matter
moving in a void; the collision, aggregation and separation of
these ‘atoms’ explained the nature of bodies and the observable
phenomena.
Much of Gassendi’s assault on Descartes’ Meditations is
informed by his empiricist theory of knowledge. Gassendi had
little confidence in the ability of the human intellect to discover
the true essences of things. Rather, knowledge comes through
the senses, and all we can really grasp through them are appear-
ances. He thus accepts a mitigated sceptical stance towards our
capacity to understand the world around us.36 One can know
how things seem, and on the basis of that pursue a probabilistic
science devoted both to uncovering regularities in nature and
to formulating and testing hypotheses about hidden corpus-
cular causes. Gassendi is confident that the best, ‘most likely’
explanatory theory of the way the world works is the atomist
mechanistic one. But, given the limitations of our faculties, we
descartes 162

cannot know with absolute certainty how things really are in


their innermost nature.
Unlike Hobbes, Gassendi was not a thoroughgoing materialist.
He distinguished between a corporeal soul in human beings, com­­
posed of a very fine concatenation of atoms that accounts for our
vegetative and sensory functions, and an incorporeal (and immor-
tal) soul, which accounts for our higher cognitive powers. This
did not prevent him from having serious reservations about the
kind of mind–body dualism that he found in Descartes, prim­arily
on epistemological grounds. In both his long set of objections
to the Meditations and a later, even longer critique, the Disquisitio

Claude Mellan, Pierre Gassendi, c. 1637–8, engraving.


163 Loss and Conflict

metaphysica (Metaphysical Inquiry, 1644), whose subtitle was


‘Doubts and Instances Against the Metaphysics of R. Descartes
and His Responses’, Gassendi attacks Descartes’ conviction that
he has discovered the essence of the mind as an immaterial sub-
stance. He agrees that the mind or soul is a ‘thinking thing’; this
is evident through the testimony of introspection. But he is not
willing to say that we can know what the essence or inner substance
of the mind is. Nor does he see that Descartes has provided any
real explanation of how the mind functions. What is missing is
a perspicuous account of thinking substance that reveals what
thinking really is.

When you go on to say that you are a thinking thing, then


we know what you are saying; but we knew it already, and
it was not what we were asking you to tell us. Who doubts
that you are thinking? What we are unclear about, what
we are looking for, is that inner substance of yours whose
property is to think. Your conclusion should be related to
this inquiry, and should tell us not that you are a thinking
thing, but what sort of thing this ‘you’ who thinks really is.
If we are asking about wine, and looking for the kind of
knowledge which is superior to common knowledge, it will
hardly be enough for you to say ‘wine is a liquid thing, which
is compressed from grapes, white or red, sweet, in­tox­­­icat­­
i­­ng’, and so on. You will have to attempt to inves­ti­gate and
somehow explain its internal substance, showing how it
can be seen to be manufactured from spirits, tartar, the
distillate, and other ingredients mixed together in such and
such quantities and proportions. Similarly, given that you
are looking for knowledge of yourself which is superior to
common knowledge (that is, the kind of knowledge we
have had up till now), you must see that it is certainly not
enough for you to announce that you are a thing that thinks
descartes 164

and doubts and understands etc. You should carefully


scrutinize yourself and conduct a kind of chemical inves-
tigation of yourself, if you are to succeed in uncovering
and explaining to us your internal substance. If you pro-
vide such an explanation, we shall ourselves doubtless
be able to investigate whether or not you are better known
than the body whose nature we know so much about
through anatomy, chemistry, so many other sciences, so
many senses and so many experiments.37

It might seem easy to accuse Gassendi of making a category


mistake here. After all, Descartes wants to say that, because of the
essential differences between mind and body and thus the unbridge-
able gap between mental and mechanical explanations, we cannot
possibly provide a mechanistic or ‘chemical’ investigation of the
mind’s activities. But this would seem to miss Gassendi’s point.
What he is demanding from Descartes is not literally a mechanistic
account of thinking. Rather, he wants an account of thinking that
makes the essence of the mind and the generation of its properties
as clear as a mechanistic or chemical account does for wine and
its properties. Such an account of thinking need not be framed in
terms of matter and motion, but it must do the same kind of expla­
natory work and incorporate the study of thought into the domain
of the natural (but not necessarily the physical) sciences. It is an
important challenge that Gassendi issues here, a request for the
scientific basis of the mind’s activities – perhaps an early expression
of the so-called hard problem of consciousness38 – and it is a shame
that Descartes does not take it more seriously.39 Of course, given
Gassendi’s sceptical stance, he is also certain that it is a request that
Descartes, or anyone else, cannot possibly satisfy.
The best we can do, Gassendi believes, is to think of the nature
of the mind by way of analogy with body. He is not claiming that
the mind is a body or material thing. He is simply insisting that
165 Loss and Conflict

Descartes has not proven that it is an immaterial thing. Although


he argues elsewhere that reason can provide probable knowledge
of the mind’s immateriality, this is something we can know for
certain only by faith.40

Why is it not possible that you are a wind, or rather a


very thin vapour, given off when the heart heats up the
purest type of blood, or produced by some other source,
which is diffused through the parts of the body and gives
them life? May it not be this vapour which sees with the
eyes and hears with the ears and thinks with the brain . . .
You reach the conclusion that thinking belongs to you.
This must be accepted, but it remains for you to prove
that the power of thought is something so far beyond the
nature of a body that neither vapour nor any other mobile,
pure and rarefied body can be organized in such a way as
would make it capable of thought.41

The problem of ‘thinking matter’ – whether a purely material


system, properly structured, could either naturally give rise to
thought or, at least, be endowed with thought by God – occupied
philosophical minds in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
It is a question that intrigued Leibniz, Boyle and Locke, among
others.42 Gassendi thought that the corporeality of the mind is,
if not impossible, rather unlikely. But his point in the Fifth Set
of Objections to the Meditations is only that Descartes’ arguments
do not establish the human soul’s immateriality. ‘You still have
to prove that being capable of thought is inconsistent with the
nature of body.’43
Gassendi raises a number of other problems for Descartes’
dualist metaphysics, some of which would prove to cause ongoing
trouble for Cartesian philosophy. How, for example, are thoughts
or ideas in an immaterial mind supposed to be able to represent
descartes 166

and thus make known material bodies? Material images at least


resemble the physical objects they represent. But there can be
no resemblance whatsoever between a material body and an
immaterial thought. ‘If it [the mind] lacks parts, how will it
manage to represent parts? If it lacks extension, how will it rep-
resent an extended thing?’44
Even more problematic is the question of mind–body inter-
action. There appear to be causal relations between motions in
the body and thoughts in the soul. When the body is damaged,
there is a feeling of pain; when one wills to move one’s arm, the
arm moves. But the only intelligible model of causality, Gassendi
seems to assume, is the mechanical one, which requires local
contact: bodies pushing other bodies. An immaterial soul, how-
ever, has no extension, no physicality and no motion, so how
could it come into contact with the body and move it? ‘Given
that you move many of your limbs’, Gassendi asks, ‘how could
you accomplish this unless you were in motion yourself? . . . Since
it is you who cause [sic] your limbs to move, and they never assume
any position unless you make them do so, how can this occur
without movement on your part?’45 Some degree of ontological
likeness is thus required not only for representation, but for
causation as well.

How can there be effort directed against anything, or


motion set up in it, unless there is mutual contact between
what moves and what is moved? And how can there be
contact without a body when, as is transparently clear by
the natural light, ‘naught apart from body, can touch or
yet be touched’?46

It is hard to see, Gassendi continues, how on Descartes’


principles there can even be a union between mind and body in
a human being. As we have seen, Descartes had suggested that
167 Loss and Conflict

the mind is ‘intermingled’ with the body. Gassendi does not


understand how this is possible.

You will have to explain how that ‘joining and, as it were,


intermingling’ or ‘confusion’ can apply to you if you are
incorporeal, unextended and indivisible . . . for there can
be no intermingling between things unless the parts of
each of them can be intermingled . . . Must not every union
occur by means of close contact? And, as I asked before,
how can contact occur without a body? How can some-
thing corporeal take hold of something incorporeal so as
to keep it joined to itself? And how can the incorporeal
grasp the corporeal to keep it reciprocally bound to itself,
if it has nothing at all to enable it to grasp or be grasped?47

These are the earliest statements of the so-called mind–body


problem facing Cartesian dualism, a problem that Descartes’
seventeenth-century followers tried to address in various ways, and
that would haunt the philosophy of mind down to the twenty-first
century.48 Descartes himself was not very troubled by it, at least at
first. He never really responded to this particular objection in his
initial replies to Gassendi. Later he did write to his good friend
and eventual literary executor Claude Clerselier (1614–1684)
to say only that ‘the whole problem contained in such questions
arises simply from a supposition that is false and cannot in any
way be proved, namely, that if the soul and the body are two
substances whose nature is different, this prevents them from
being able to act on each other.’49
Gassendi’s objections were the longest of all, and they clearly
rubbed Descartes the wrong way. Things did not get off to a good
start, with Gassendi sarcastically addressing Descartes as ‘O Mind’,
and Descartes returning the favour by calling Gassendi, whom
he took to be a materialist, ‘O Flesh’. The tone of the debate only
descartes 168

degenerates from there, with Descartes complaining about


Gassendi’s ‘tedious and repetitious assertions’ and accusing him
of ‘using the imagination to examine matters that are not within
its proper province’. Any careful reader will see, Descartes con-
cludes, ‘that he should not judge how many arguments you
[Gassendi] have from the number of words you produce’.50
Interestingly, Descartes was much less dismissive of the chal-
lenge of accounting for mind–body union and causal interaction
when the problem was raised for him a few years later. The change
in his demeanour might have been partly due to the fact that his
correspondent this time was a princess.

If, during his earlier travels in Germany and his time with
the Catholic army of the Duke of Bavaria, Descartes was present
at (and even participated in) the Battle of White Mountain in
1620, he unwittingly observed (and perhaps helped facilitate)
the downfall of the father of someone who would become a close
friend and confidant.
Frederick v was the Elector of the Palatinate – one of the
principalities charged with selecting the emperor of the Holy Roman
Empire – and the leader of the Protestant Union. In 1618, with
sectarian conflicts roiling the region, the Protestant states of
Bohemia rebelled against the sitting emperor, Matthias, and their
king-elect and Matthias’s designated successor, Ferdinand ii, both
Catholics from the House of Habsburg. (Among the Bohemians’
first steps was to throw two of Ferdinand’s representatives out
of a third-storey window, in the famous ‘Defene­s­­tration of Prague’.)
The Bohemian crown was then offered to Frederick, who accepted
it in the summer of 1619. Matthias had died that March, and so,
just a few days after Frederick’s coronation, Ferdinand was elected
Holy Roman Emperor. Among the new emperor’s first acts was
to send his army and the forces of the Catholic League into
169 Loss and Conflict

Bohemia to restore his rule there. Frederick soon lost the support
of many of his Protestant allies, and his remaining forces were
soundly defeated at White Mountain, near Prague. Frederick and
his wife Elizabeth Stuart, daughter of James i of England, fled
their German lands. By 1621 they were settled in the Dutch
Republic, where they were offered refuge in The Hague by the
stadholder, Prince Maurits of Nassau. It was a family affair, as
Maurits was Frederick’s maternal uncle (Frederick’s mother was
Louise Juliana of Nassau, a daughter of Willem the Silent and
thus Maurits’s sister).
Among the many children of Frederick and Elizabeth – now
nicknamed the ‘Winter King and Queen’ because of the brevity
of their Bohemian reign – was a brilliant and learned daughter,
Elisabeth (1618–1680), erstwhile princess of Bohemia and the
Palatinate.51 In the late 1620s, after a few years under the protec­
tion of her sister Charlotte, who was married to the Elector of
Brandenburg, Elisabeth joined her parents in The Hague. It was
from their Dutch court that, in the spring of 1643 and with the
help of Descartes’ friend Pollot, Elisabeth, who knew Latin, ini-
tiated a long-term correspondence with the author of the
Meditations.
In her first letter to Descartes, in May 1643, Elisabeth gets
right to the point. She immediately raises the problem of mind–
body relations.

I ask you please to tell me how the soul of a human being


(it being only a thinking substance) can determine the
bodily spirits, in order to bring about voluntary actions.
For it seems that all determination of movement hap-
pens through the impulsion of the thing moved, by the
manner in which it is pushed by that which moves it, or
else by the particular qualities and shape of the surface
of the latter. Physical contact is required for the first two
descartes 170

conditions, extension for the third. You entirely exclude


the one [extension] from the notion you have of the
soul, and the other [physical contact] appears to me
incompatible with an immaterial thing.52

Descartes, writing from Egmond aan den Hoef, responds to


Elisabeth’s query with much more patience than he showed in
his non-response to the same question from Gassendi. ‘I can
say with truth that the question your Highness proposes seems
to me that which, in view of my published writings, one can most

Gerard van Honthorst, Elisabeth of Bohemia, 1636, oil on canvas.


171 Loss and Conflict

rightly ask me.’53 He explains that in the Meditations he was more


concerned with proving the distinction of mind and body and
with how the mind thinks than with their union and how the
mind can act on and be acted upon by the body. But now he is
happy to help her understand this latter set of issues.
There are, he says, three ‘primitive notions’ on which all our
knowledge of mind and body is formed. The first is the notion of
extension, through which we can understand all the properties
and powers of bodies and which serves as the basis for inquiries
in physics. The second is the notion of thought, which regards the
soul alone, its perceptions and volitions. Neither of these primitive
notions can help us understand the relationship between mind and
body. For example, we should not try to understand mind–body
interaction on the model of body–body interaction. For that,
rather, we call upon a third primitive notion, which concerns the
union of mind and body and ‘on which depends that [notion] of
the power the soul has to move the body and the body to act on the
soul, in causing its sensations and passions’.54 It is this conception,
Descartes says, that philosophers have used, falsely, to explain how
gravity works. The real quality of ‘heaviness’ that the Scholastics
attributed to bodies was supposed to be an immaterial cause united
with the body that, by some means other than physical contact,
made it fall to the earth. He suggests that Elisabeth think of the
mind–body union and interaction in precisely the same way.
The princess does not find any of this very illuminating.
Indeed, she says, it simply begs the question. She cannot conceive
of any mode of causal interaction other than the mechanistic one,
which requires bodily contact. Moreover, she rightly observes that
the exact same difficulty of understanding how an immaterial
thing can act on a material thing applies to the case of Scholastic
gravitation by way of a ‘real quality’ as to the case of Cartesian
mind–body union. ‘I admit’, she says, ‘that it is easier for me to
concede matter and extension to the soul than to concede the
descartes 172

capacity to move a body and to be moved by it to an immaterial


thing.’55
Descartes explains in a subsequent letter that the first two
primitive notions belong to ‘the pure understanding’ alone. We
know what extension and thought are through the intellect
working on those concepts. The mind–body relation, however,
is ‘known very clearly by the senses’. Thus one should not try to
understand how mind can act on body and vice versa by way of
intellectual inquiry. Rather, ‘it is in using only life and ordinary
conversations and in abstaining from meditating and studying
those things which exercise the imagination that we learn to
conceive the union of the soul and the body.’56 In other words, if
one wants to know about the union and interaction between
mind and body, it is better simply to pay attention, through
introspection, to what is going on within oneself.
But, Elisabeth protests, all that such sensory and volitional
experience can tell her is that the mind and the body do interact,
and this is something of which she was already perfectly aware.
What she wants to know is how this is possible if the mind is an
immaterial substance. ‘I find that the senses show me that the
soul moves the body, but they teach me nothing (no more than
the understanding and the imagination) of the way in which it
does so.’57 Perhaps, she suggests, there is more to the soul than
Descartes is willing to allow, something like extension that, while
not necessary for thinking itself, allows the soul to move and
respond to the body.
Descartes and Elisabeth would engage in a philosophically
rich correspondence – with occasional meetings in person – for
the next six years, until Descartes left the United Provinces for
Sweden. In nearly sixty letters – a volume exceeded only by
Descartes’ correspondences with Mersenne and Huygens – they
covered a large range of topics. The metaphysical question of
mind–body relations never really arose again, although they
173 Loss and Conflict

often discussed how one’s mental state (especially beliefs) can


affect one’s physical health, and vice versa. Descartes, avoiding
the hard problem of interaction, simply explains that ‘the con-
struction of our body is such that certain movements follow in
it naturally from certain thoughts.’58 They also reviewed various
mathematical and scientific matters, including rather specific
explanations of phenomena in mechanistic physics and chemis-
try. In a letter of August 1644 Descartes told Elisabeth that

even if we were to admit that particles of water and those


of quicksilver [mercury] were of the same size and shape
and that their movements were similar, to explain how
quicksilver ought to be much heavier than water, it suf-
fices to suppose only that each particle of water is like a
little cord which is very soft and very loose and that those
of quicksilver, having fewer pores, are like other little
cords which are much harder and tighter.59

Much of their correspondence, though, is devoted to the


emotions and mental and physical health. Descartes sympathet-
ically informs Elisabeth that ‘the most common cause of a
low-grade fever’, from which she seems to have been suffering,
‘is sadness.’ He cites how

the stubbornness of fortune in persecuting your house


continually gives you matters for annoyance which are
so public and so terrible that it is necessary neither to
conjecture very much nor to be particularly experienced
in social matters to judge that the principal cause of your
indisposition consists in these.60

Elisabeth, in turn, thanks Descartes for the comfort he provides in


the midst of her family’s travails. ‘Your letters, when they do not
descartes 174

teach me, always serve as the antidote to melancholy, turning my


mind from the disagreeable objects that come to it every day to
the happiness that I possess in the friendship of a person of your
merit, to whose counsel I can commit the conduct of my life.’61
This discussion of well-being led, naturally, to ethics and the
pursuit of happiness. They compare notes on Aristotle, Seneca
and Epictetus, and it is in Descartes’ letters to Elisabeth – as well
as in his late treatise The Passions of the Soul, which he wrote at her
prompting – that we find his views on moral philosophy. ‘True
happiness’, he tells her, ‘consists . . . in a perfect contentment of
mind and an internal satisfaction that those who are the most
favoured by fortune ordinarily do not have and that the sages
acquire without fortune’s favour.’ The means to achieving this
contentment requires a person merely to follow three fairly simple
rules:

The first is that he always try to make use of his mind as


well as he can, in order to know what must be done, or
not done, in all the events of life. The second is that he
have a firm and constant resolution to execute all that
reason advises him to do, without having the passions or
appetites turn him away from it. It is the firmness of this
resolution that I believe ought to be taken to be virtue . . .
The third is that, while he so conducts himself as much
as he can in accordance with reason, he keep in mind that
all the goods he does not possess are, each and every one
of them, entirely outside of his power.62

Descartes has clearly profited from his reading of Seneca and


Epictetus. His definition of virtue as firmness in the resolution
to abide by the dictates of reason and pursue only those goods
to which that faculty directs us; his reminder that most of the
goods of this world are subject to fortune and thus beyond our
175 Loss and Conflict

control; and his recommendation that we should therefore focus


more on our judgements and attitudes towards things, which are
in our control, and accept calmly whatever God brings our way
– all of this clearly recalls the ethical doctrines of the ancient
Stoics, which were enjoying a revival in the seventeenth century.63
God does indeed bring all things our way, Descartes reminds
Elisabeth, including the things that depend on our wills and,
apparently, even the volitions themselves. This led her to inquire,
in a series of letters in the autumn of 1645, how such universal
providence might be reconciled with any kind of meaningful free-
dom in human beings. ‘Since we feel ourselves to have [free will],
it seems that it is repugnant to common sense to think it dependent
on God in its operations as well as in its being.’ Her assumption
is that for the will to be free, it must be undetermined by causes,
especially an omnipotent divine cause. ‘I confess to you as well
that even though I do not understand how the independence of
our will is no less contrary to the idea we have of God than its
dependence is to its freedom, it is impossible for me to square
them.’64
Descartes is not very troubled by the conundrum. ‘The inde-
pendence that we experience and feel within us and that suffices
for rendering our actions praiseworthy or blameworthy is not
incompatible with a dependence that is of another nature, accord­
ing to which all things are subject to God.’ He helps himself,
though, by changing the terms of the problem somewhat and
referring not so much to God’s omnipotence or causal power as
to God’s omniscience. A king who knows that two of his subjects
who are mortal enemies will inevitably fight if he orders them
both to a place where he also knows they will necessarily encoun-
ter each other does not take away their freedom and responsibility
for the duel that follows; the king’s foreknowledge of what will
happen and his actions in arranging the circumstances so that
it does happen does not compel the two men to do what they do.
descartes 176

‘His knowledge, and even his will to determine them there in


this manner, do not alter the fact that they fight one another
just as voluntarily and just as freely as they would have done if
he had known nothing of it.’ Similarly, God’s foreknowledge of
how human beings will choose to act in certain circumstances,
and even God’s having originally put those inclinations in them
and so disposing conditions around them such that they do act
on those inclinations, does not constrain or compel them to so
act, and thus does not detract from the freedom of their choice.65
Still, Descartes admits elsewhere, an understanding of how
divine providence leaves the human will free is beyond our finite
intellects. ‘We can easily get ourselves into great difficulties if we
attempt to reconcile . . . divine preordination with the freedom
of the will, or attempt to grasp both of these things at once . . .
We cannot get a sufficient grasp of [God’s infinite power] to see
how it leaves the free actions of men undetermined.’66
In the dedicatory letter to the Principles of Philosophy (Principia
philosophiae) of 1644, Descartes says to Elisabeth that

the outstanding and incomparable sharpness of your


intelligence is obvious from the penetrating examination
you have made of all the secrets of these sciences, and
from the fact that you have acquired an exact knowledge
of them in so short a time. I have even greater evidence
of your powers – and this is special to myself – in the fact
that you are the only person I have so far found who has
completely understood all my previously published
works. . . . Your intellect is, to my knowledge, unique in
finding everything equally clear; and this is why my use
of the term ‘incomparable’ is quite deserved.

Even making allowance for the exaggerated encomiums charac-


teristic of early modern book dedications, it is clear that Descartes’
177 Loss and Conflict

respect for Elisabeth as a fellow intellectual is sincere. Were the


two more than just colleagues in the Republic of Letters? More
than just good friends? Elisabeth never married; an arrangement
with Ladislav iv, king of Poland, fell apart when Elisabeth refused
to convert to Catholicism. The difference in social rank between
her and Descartes – she was royalty, after all – makes a romantic
relationship unlikely.67

In November 1641, shortly after the appearance of the Meditations


in Paris, Descartes wrote to Mersenne to inform him that the
work was now also being printed in Amsterdam. The problem
was that the exclusive permission (privilège) granted to Michel
Soly was enforceable only within France. This left the door open
for publishers elsewhere to come out with their own pirated
editions. To forestall this, and also to be able to make corrections
to the work, Descartes commissioned a Dutch publisher to
produce a second edition.

One of my friends had told me that several houses [in


the United Provinces] wanted to publish [my Meditations],
and that I could not stop it, since the licence to publish
owned by Soli is valid only for France, and they are so free
here that even a licence for the States would not hold
them back. So I preferred there to be one publisher who
would undertake it with my approval and my correc-
tions, and who by advertising the project would stop the
plans of others; this seemed better than letting an edition
come out without my knowledge, which would be found
to be full of mistakes.

Descartes gave the exclusive permission to the firm run by


Louis Elzevir in Amsterdam, ‘on condition that he does not send
descartes 178

any copies to France so as not to do any wrong to Soli [sic]’. Not


that Descartes was very happy with his collaboration with Soly.
‘I have no cause to be very satisfied with Soli: it is now three
months since the book was published and he has still not sent
me any copies.’68
The second edition came out later than expected, in the spring
of 1642, due to ‘the negligence of the publisher’.69 The volume
contained not only corrections to the first edition, but a new
subtitle; instead of ‘In which the existence of God and the immor-
tality of the soul are demonstrated’, it read ‘In which the existence
of God and the distinction of the human soul from the body are
demonstrated’. Descartes apparently came to realize that he does
not, in fact, demonstrate the soul’s immortality in the work,
although he does lay the metaphysical groundwork for it. Descartes
now also included something that he had kept out of the first
edition: his engagement with Arnauld’s questions about transub-
stantiation. His speculations on a topic so sensitive among Catholics
would be less risky in a book published in a Protestant land.70
The second edition had an additional, seventh set of objections
as well, from the Jesuit Pierre Bourdin (1595–1653), a professor
of mathematics at Clermont College in Paris. These came to
Descartes unsolicited; he says, ‘I certainly do not remember ever
having asked the writer for his opinion.’ At first, they were not
entirely unwelcome. Descartes thought that engaging Bourdin
might help in his campaign to gain an endorsement of the work
from the Jesuit camp and increase the chances of his writings
being added to the curriculum in their schools – ideally, to replace
the Scholastic textbooks then in use. Once he started reading
Bourdin’s objections, however, he quickly realized that this was
not going to be a productive discussion.
The exchange with Bourdin is almost as long as the one with
Gassendi. And to Descartes, it was just as annoying, perhaps
even more so. Bourdin says he is addressing Descartes’ ‘method
179 Loss and Conflict

for investigating truth’, but most of his comments are on the


procedure of doubt of the First Meditation and the start of the
reconstruction of knowledge in the Second Meditation. Some
of Bourdin’s complaints, while not tactfully put, are not entirely
un­­­reasonable, and were taken up by later critics. This includes
his protest that in the First Meditation Descartes has played
the sceptic all too well and taken doubt to such an extreme that
he actually leaves himself with no means to climb back out of
the hole he has dug and establish a solid body of knowledge.
‘The method goes astray by failing to reach its goal, for it does
not attain any certainty. Indeed, it cannot do so, since it has itself
blocked off all the roads to the truth . . . your method cuts its
own throat or cuts off all hope of attaining the light of truth.’ By
the end of the First Meditation, in other words, Descartes seems
to have fatally undermined the ability of reason to resolve the
epistemological crisis into which he has drawn himself. As Bourdin
puts it, ‘everything is doubtful . . . and hence we have nothing
left which will be the slightest use for investigating truth.’71
Descartes was not impressed. He sees the long attack on what
is really just a propadeutic exercise in the Meditations as a hack job.
Bourdin is mocking, derisive, condescending and dismissive.
Referring to one of the ‘rules’ of Descartes’ method of doubt,
whereby anything even remotely dubitable should in fact be
doubted, he proclaims that ‘if anyone were to understand the rule
in the sense just described and wanted to use it in order to discover
what is true and certain, he would be wasting his time and effort by
working without any reward, since he would no more achieve his
goal than its opposite.’72 Turning, then, to Descartes’ discovery of
his first absolutely indubitable truth, ‘I am, I exist,’ Bourdin remarks
sarcastically ‘This is excellent, my distinguished friend! You have
found your “Archimedean point”, and without doubt you can now
move the world if you so wish. Look: the whole earth is already
shaking.’ As for Descartes’ general strategy, Bourdin says: ‘Permit
descartes 180

me here to admire your skill once again. In order to discover what


is certain, you make use of what is doubtful. To bring us out into
the light, you order us down into the darkness.’73
Needless to say, Descartes did not see Bourdin’s objections as
worthy of a respectable member of the Society of Jesus, one whom
he had hoped would give his treatise an honest and constructive
examination. Descartes finds his rambling commentary to be
thoroughly disingenuous. The French Jesuit misrepresents his
arguments and does not take his epistemological project seriously.
Descartes had a hint that this would be the case well beforehand.

When, some eighteen months ago, I saw a preliminary


attack of his against me which, in my judgement, did not
attempt to discover the truth but foisted on me views
which I had never written or thought, I did not hide the
fact that I would in future regard anything which he as
an individual produced as unworthy of a reply.74

Initially under the impression that Bourdin’s objections were


composed ‘at the instigation of the Society as a whole’, he now
sees that it would be ‘a sin to suspect that this work was produced
by men of such sanctity’. It is too full of quibbles, sophisms, abuse
and ‘empty verbiage’. Nonetheless, Descartes felt that since
Bourdin was a representative of the Jesuits – ‘a society which’,
he adds ‘is very famous for its learning and piety’ – he should
take the trouble to read the objections and do his best to reply
to his cavils.
Descartes decided to write, as well, to Bourdin’s superior,
Father Jacques Dinet (1584–1653), the head of the Jesuits in
France. Dinet had been prefect of studies at La Flèche when
Descartes was a student there. Part of the purpose of the letter
was to complain about Bourdin. ‘I thought that what I had before
me was not just one man’s essay but the balanced and careful
181 Loss and Conflict

assessment that your entire Society had formed of my views.


When I read the essay, however, I was astounded to realize that
I would have to revise my view completely.’ Anyone reading
Bourdin’s piece, he says, would have to ‘regard this essay as having
been written with such bitterness as would be unseemly for a
layman, let alone one whose vows require him to be more virtuous
than ordinary men’.75 While the Seventh Replies are a harsh retort
to Bourdin, Descartes reassures Dinet that they should certainly
not be taken as directed at the Jesuits themselves.

The essay which the Reverend Father [Bourdin] has


produced makes it quite clear that he does not enjoy the
health and good sense which are to be found elsewhere
in your Society. We do not think less of the head, or the
whole person, just because there may be malign humours
infecting his foot or finger, against his will and through
no fault of his own.76

More important, though, was Descartes’ wish to inform Dinet


of ‘something of the philosophy which I am writing at the
moment’ – namely, the Principles of Philosophy, a work in which he
will ‘submit to the public the sum total of my few reflections
on philosophy’ – and to defend himself against some very public
criticisms he was lately receiving. He wants to assure this Jesuit
leader that ‘there is no need to fear my opinions will disturb the
peace of the Schools’ and that, ‘since one truth can never be in
conflict with another’, his philosophical views pose no threat to
theological orthodoxy. Despite several times referring to his
philosophy in the letter as ‘the new philosophy’, he does not want
his theories to be regarded as novelties. Fully aware of the paradox,
he proclaims that ‘everything in peripatetic [Aristotelian-
Scholastic] philosophy . . . is quite new, whereas everything in
my philosophy is old.’ Whatever Aristotle himself may have said,
descartes 182

his views were and continue to be controversial. Moreover, his


philosophy seems to change depending on ‘the fashion in the
Schools, and hence it is exceedingly new, since it is still being
revised every day’.77
Descartes anticipated that his letter to someone so high up
among the Jesuits might make possible the inroads with that order
that clearly were not going to come through Bourdin. Towards
the end of the letter he expresses to Dinet his desire that ‘you
will take my views under your protection . . . Since you are in
charge of that section of the Society which can read my work
with particular ease since a substantial proportion of it is written
in French, I am convinced that you are particularly well placed
to help in this matter.’78 Either way, Descartes says in closing, he
would be grateful if the good Father would let him know ‘the
verdict that you and your members reach’.
It is unclear how successful Dinet was in gaining a positive
hearing for Descartes among the Jesuits, either for the Meditations
or, later, for the Principles of Philosophy. He would, however, organize
a meeting in Paris between Descartes and Bourdin in the autumn
of 1644, during one of Descartes’ periodic visits to France. It
was a cordial encounter, and the two men were able to reconcile
somewhat and put the bad feelings behind them. Descartes even
sent Bourdin a dozen copies of the just-published Principles so he
could distribute them among other members of his order.79 At
the same time, Descartes made the rounds of Paris and did his
own lobbying work among Jesuit acquaintances, hoping to rely
on his credentials as a Jesuit-educated scholar. He even wrote to
one of his former teachers at La Flèche, Father Etienne Charlet,
to let him know of his dream that one day ‘they [the Jesuits] will
find in it [his philosophy] so many things that will appear true to
them, and that can easily be substituted for the common opinions
[that is, Aristotelian philosophy], and serve advantageously in
explaining the truths of the faith’.80
183 Loss and Conflict

The licence to print a book, or privilège, was one thing. It was


essentially a copyright within a particular domain conferred by
the secular authorities – in France, the king. Securing an approbation
from a theology faculty was an entirely different thing, but, in some
respects, no less important. Where a privilège provides one with
financial protection and intellectual property rights, an approbation
provides one with ecclesiastic protection. It essentially proclaims
that there is nothing theologically objectionable about this work.
Did Descartes receive for the Meditations the approbation from
the Sorbonne that he so desperately desired and for which he
seems to have lobbied vigorously? Scholarly opinion is divided
on this. On the one hand, the title page of the Paris edition
does declare that it is published Cum Privilegio et Approbatione
Doctorum, ‘With privilege and the approval of the learned doctors
[of the Sorbonne]’. (Such a royal privilege and Sorbonne approval
would be meaningless for the Amsterdam edition, published in
a Protestant republic, which is why it is not indicated on the title
page of that edition.) The Paris edition also, as we have seen,
contains a laudatory dedicatory preface to doctors of the Sorbonne.
Now a manuscript copy of the Meditations was presented to
the theological faculty in the summer of 1641, and a review of its
contents was commissioned. Because there was no subsequent
condemnation, it has been claimed that the examiners did indeed
approve the work, albeit one month after it was actually published.
Moreover, the argument goes, no reputable printer would have
dared put out a book whose title page proclaimed ‘cum appro­
batione’ if approval had not in fact been obtained.81 Nonetheless,
some scholars continue to insist that the effort to gain Sorbonne
approval failed.82
By 1644, however, any trouble that might come Descartes’
way from French Catholic theologians was of less concern than
more immediate and dangerous threats that he was facing from
within Reformed circles in the United Provinces.
seven
The Cartesian Textbook

B
etween April 1641 and May 1643, Descartes was living
in the castle of Endegeest, just outside of the univer-
sity town of Leiden. The French physician and scholar
Samuel Sorbière (1615–1670), writing in 1642 after a visit to
Descartes, notes that the philosopher ‘lives near Leiden in a com-
fortable retreat, like another Democritus. He is taken up with
his speculations and he communicates his thoughts and experi-
ences to no mortal, except to Picot and to a chemist from Leiden,
Hogeland. He will publish his Physics in two years time.’1 Around
the same time, Descartes himself told Huygens that ‘I am philo­
sophizing here [in Endegeest] very peaceably and in my usual
way, that is, without rushing.’2
What neither Sorbière nor Descartes mentions is that the
peace and quiet of Descartes’ country retreat was now being
disrupted in a most unpleasant way. He was in the early stages of
a series of quarrels that would make things very difficult for him
for the next several years and would lead him to think seriously
of leaving the Dutch Republic altogether.

If the discourse on method and its accompanying essays


had introduced Descartes to the European intelligentsia as a
major, albeit not uncontroversial, thinker, the Meditations only
increased his fame (or, to some, his infamy). He was now gaining

Jan Lievens, René Descartes, 1644–9, chalk on paper.


descartes 186

adherents, most notably in Dutch university arts and medical


faculties. Cartesian metaphysical and physical principles were
on their way to becoming the century’s scientific paradigm, at
least among progressive and independent minds. Later natural
philosophers, such as Leibniz and Newton, would be able to offer
their theories only against the background of, and in explicit
opposition to, Cartesian science. This growing influence of
Descartes’ ideas was a matter of great concern to many academic
and ecclesiastic authorities.
As we have seen, Descartes believed, with unreasonable opti-
mism, that his philosophy had a chance of being adopted in schools
and universities to replace that of Aristotle. This explains why,
even before finishing the Meditations, he started work on a broad
presentation of his entire system, from metaphysics to physics,
including detailed causal explanations of a variety of celestial and
terrestrial wonders, ‘in an order which makes it easy to teach’.
The ‘Physics’ to which Sorbière refers is Descartes’ Principles of
Philosophy (which Descartes himself, throughout his writings,
refers to as ‘ma physique’). Descartes was nearing completion of
this textbook that, he hoped, would finally satisfy all those who
clamoured to know how everything fitted together, and especially
how his mechanistic accounts of light, gravity, magnetism, com-
bustion, tides and other phenomena could be ‘deduced’ from the
most general principles of nature, which in turn are secured by
indubitable metaphysical starting points. The Principles – which
Descartes finished after moving ‘near Alkmaar op de hoef [that
is, Egmond aan den Hoef], where I have rented a house’3 – includes
a good deal of material that he had hoped to publish in The World
(in French) a decade earlier, before the condemnation of Galileo.
In fact, he describes his work on the Principles as a matter of ‘teaching
[The World] to speak Latin’.4
Descartes knew the Scholastic textbook tradition well. He had
studied from these compendia and summae philosophiae when he was
187 The Cartesian Textbook

at La Flèche. In the winter of 1640–41, in order to prepare himself


for the objections to his Meditations that he expected to receive
from theologians and despite his general disinclination to read
the books of others, he took some time to reacquaint himself with
a number of ‘the most commonly used’ of such works, particularly
by Jesuit authors.5 The typical Aristotelian textbook, used for
teaching in the liberal arts curriculum in preparatory colleges and
university faculties – for example, the Summa philosophiae quadripartita
by the French theologian Eustachio a Sancto Paulo (a member of
the Feuillants, a Cistercian order), which Descartes was busy read­­
ing that winter and even referred to as ‘the best book of its kind
ever made’6 – was divided by broad philosophical topics. Thus the
four parts of Eustachio’s Summa were Logic, Ethics, Physics and
Metaphysics. Descartes’ own four-part summa philosophiae follows
this model, sort of. He reversed the order of metaphysics and phys­
ics. Moreover, while there are some propositions of a moral or
ethical nature in the work, he replaced logic with a preliminary
discussion of the method and theory of knowledge – essentially,
a detailed review of his epistemological progress in the Meditations
towards clear and distinct ideas and the proper use of the will,
only now presented more in the style of a systematic treatise than
as a series of first-person, meditative reflections.7
Because Descartes’ primary aim in the Principles is to present
in full the metaphysical principles that he had long held back,
along with the physics for which they provide the justificatory
foundations, he is concerned in Part One (‘The Principles of
Human Knowledge’) and the early articles of Part Two (‘The
Principles of Material Things’) to elaborate on the conceptions
of mind and body that he introduced in the Discourse and the
Meditations. He is especially careful now to explain the basic
ontology that underwrites the mind–body dualism.
Mind and body are, he insists once again, two distinct kinds
of substance, where ‘substance’ is now defined – following a
descartes 188

tradition going back to Aristotle – as ‘nothing other than a thing


which exists in such a way as to depend on no other thing for its
existence’.8 A substance is an ontologically independent, individual
thing, something that exists by itself and can be conceived by
itself. Strictly speaking, only God, the infinite being, is a substance,
since God does not depend on anything else for his existence.
However, Descartes grants that the term ‘substance’ is not univocal,
and there are also finite substances – things that depend only on
God for their existence and are independent from each other.
Each substance has its own ‘principal attribute’ or essential
nature, which makes it the kind of stuff it is. For the mind, that
principal attribute is thought, which Descartes now identifies in
terms of consciousness: ‘By “thought” I understand everything
which we are aware of as happening within us, in so far as we
have awareness of it.’9 Body, however, is, as he discovered in the
Meditations, nothing but extension; to be a body is simply to be
spatially dimensional.10 It follows that the properties that belong
to thought and the properties that belong to extension are radically
dissimilar and mutually exclusive: ‘There are various modes of
thought such as understanding, imagination, memory, volition,
and so on; and there are various modes of extension, or modes
which belong to extension, such as all shapes, the positions of
parts, and the motions of the parts.’11 Sensations (such as colour,
warmth and pain), just like emotions and appetites, belong to
thought; they are not ‘real things existing outside the mind’.12 Sense
perception, Descartes warns once again, ‘does not show us what
really exists in things, but merely shows us what is beneficial or
harmful to man’s composite nature’.13 The only properties really
existing in bodies are shape, size, position and motion or rest.
Bodies, in other words, are merely geometrical entities, with actually
existing bodies also endowed with impenetrability.
If body is nothing but extension, Descartes continues, then,
as he had suggested in The World and now explicitly argues, there
189 The Cartesian Textbook

is neither truly empty space nor atoms, ‘pieces of matter that are
by their very nature indivisible’. Any three-dimensional space –
any extension – is a body, and any corpuscle of matter, no matter
how small, just because it is extended in three dimensions, can
be further divided.14
What does in fact break the material plenum up into parts,
and thereby introduce physical diversity into the universe, is motion.
This is where the great number and variety of individual bodies
comes from. ‘All the variety in matter, all the diversity of its forms,
depends on motion.’15 Different bodies are simply different ways
in which matter is in motion and rest. And any particular body is
the body it is because it is a collection of material parts that are
at rest, or at least a consistently stable position, relative to each
other but in motion relative to surrounding bodies. By ‘motion’,
Descartes means only the transference of a body from the vicinity
of one set of bodies that are in immediate contact with it to the
immediate vicinity of another set of bodies; in other words, nothing
other than the change of position of a parcel of matter relative
to other parcels of matter.
Much of this would have been familiar to readers of The World
(had there been any at the time – not even Mersenne saw a copy),
the Discourse and the Meditations, only now presented and argued
for in greater detail. But in the metaphysical parts of the Principles
Descartes also lays out in programmatic form some of the basic
theoretical parameters that are to guide scientific inquiry. Perhaps
the most important of these is the elimination of teleology, or
‘final causes’, from explanations in natural philosophy. A final cause
is the end towards which some thing or process is purposively
moving or at which some action aims. An Aristotelian botanist
would say that the final cause of an acorn’s development is the
full-grown oak tree, and the final cause of an athlete’s training is
victory in competition. For certain medieval and early modern
theologians, the final cause of God’s creation of the cosmos is his
descartes 190

own glory. According to Descartes, however, appeals to God’s


purposes or to any kind of goal-orientated behaviour within nature
– like Aristotelian bodies ‘seeking’ their natural resting place, or
things behaving or having the properties they do for the sake of
achieving some end – have no place in physics. Explanations are
to be framed solely in terms of what we have seen the Aristotelians
call ‘efficient causation’, whereby an effect follows simply and
necessarily from the nature, power and activity of a causal agent.

It is not the final but efficient causes of created things


that we must inquire into. When dealing with natural
things we will never derive any explanations from the
purposes which God or nature may have had in view when
creating them . . . For we should not be so arrogant as to
suppose that we can share in God’s plans.16

This is an important methodological principle of the new


mechanistic philosophy. With the reduction of matter to extension
and the identification of motion as the sole agent of change in
nature, Descartes has now sanctioned the only legitimate terms
of scientific explanation. When inquiring into why certain natural
phenomena come about, one may not appeal to divine providence
or purposiveness within nature. Descartes, good Catholic that
he is, certainly is not claiming that there is no providence in the
cosmos. The correlations of the mind–body arrangement, for
one – feeling pain when one puts one’s hand into fire – are tes-
timony to God’s goodness, as they are established by God for our
own well-being. Indeed, the whole course of nature is the effect
of divine providence. Later, in the Passions of the Soul, Descartes is
careful to note that ‘nothing can possibly happen other than as
Providence has determined from all eternity.’17 But within the
domain of scientific inquiry, nothing is to be explained because
God wished it so or because it exists ‘for the sake of’ anything
191 The Cartesian Textbook

else. Nor, as Descartes has been saying all along, is it acceptable


to introduce any kind of spiritual or vital elements in bodies.
Rather, the explanation of any phenomenon should be framed
solely in terms of the way in which material particles, moving
according to the laws of nature, arrange by impact and adhesion to
produce an organism of a certain complex structure and function
and bring about certain effects.
With the metaphysics in place – the ‘roots’ of the tree of
knowledge – Descartes is prepared to turn to the most general
physical principles of the cosmos (the ‘trunk’), including the mech­
anics of hard and fluid bodies. His first move is to inquire into
the laws of nature of a world created by a God whose essence is
simple, whose activity is immutable, and who is the first and
sustaining cause of motions among bodies. In this transition from
metaphysics to physics in Part Two of the Principles, Descartes
satisfies a promissory note from years before and carries out an
argument only sketchily presented in earlier writings. In the
Discourse, he recalls that

I showed [in The World] what the laws of nature were, and
without basing my arguments on any principle other than
the infinite perfections of God, I tried to demonstrate all
those laws about which we could have any doubt, and to
show that they are such that, even if God created many
worlds, there could not be any in which they failed to be
observed.18

Descartes now, in the Principles, provides a more explicit deduc-


tion and demonstrates, a priori and with absolute certainty,
what the most general laws of nature are (and must be) from
his understanding of the divine attributes alone (although, in
keeping with the stricture against teleology, treating God only
as an efficient cause, without any appeal to divine purposes). For
descartes 192

the discovery of these laws, no controlled experimentation or


even basic observation of the world is necessary. He does not
need to witness apples falling from trees, examine the motions
of the planets or do any mathematical calculations. He does
offer some empirical examples to illustrate the laws – such as
the centrifugal force exerted by a stone being swung around in
a sling as a case of the tendency to rectilinear motion – and
make their content familiar to his readers. But all he really needs
to know to carry out his deduction of these most universal phys-
ical principles is that the cosmos was created by a God having
certain attributes. This theological information, supplemented
by already demonstrated metaphysical claims about matter and
motion, is sufficient to ground a logical derivation of the laws.
(Unlike Newton, Descartes is not really interested in formulating
the precise mathematics of force and motion, but only in specify­
ing in broad quantitative terms very general kinematic rules that
cover the basic movement and interaction of ideal geometric
bodies.)
Descartes begins his deduction of the laws of nature with
the claim that ‘God is the primary cause of motion’ in the uni-
verse who ‘in His omnipotence created matter along with its
motion and rest’. When God created the world out of noth-
ing, he introduced a certain amount of motion into the matter
composing it. With this premise in hand, Descartes believes he
can immediately demonstrate that the most universal law of
nature governs the conservation of motion. This law states that
the total quantity of motion in the universe (measured in any
body as the product of its mass and its speed) is constant and
will never change. Any gain or loss of motion in one part of the
cosmos must be compensated for by an equivalent loss or gain of
motion in some other part. This law follows immediately from
the immutability of God:
193 The Cartesian Textbook

God’s perfection involves not only his being immutable


in Himself, but also his operating in a manner that is
always utterly constant and immutable. Now there are
some changes whose occurrence is guaranteed either by
our own plain experience or by divine revelation, and
either our perception or our faith shows us that these
take place without any change in the creator; but apart
from these we should not suppose that any other changes
occur in God’s works, in case this suggests some incon-
stancy in God.

There are continual changes in the motions of individual bodies


everywhere; some bodies speed up, others slow down and even
come to rest, owing to their collisions. But there can be no change
in the overall quantity of motion in Creation, for this would
imply a change in the immutable creator who first implanted
and now conserves motion in it, which would be absurd. God
does not change his mind or his activity.

God imparted various motions to the parts of matter


when He first created them, and He now preserves all
this matter in the same way, and by the same process by
which he originally created it; and it follows from what
we have said that this fact alone makes it most reasona-
ble to think that God likewise always preserves the same
quantity of motion in matter.19

This same divine immutability, in tandem with the conser-


vation law, provides Descartes with justification for his first
subordinate law of nature, essentially a law of inertia: ‘Each and
every thing, in so far as it can, always continues in the same state;
and thus what is once in motion always continues to move.’ There
is no change unless there is a cause or reason for the change, and
descartes 194

thus no body changes its state of motion or state of rest unless


such change is brought about by an external cause.
Descartes’ argument for this first law, in both the Principles
and The World, is rather opaque, and amounts only to the claim
that because God is immutable, ‘always acting in the same way,
He always produces the same effect.’20 But the underlying reason­
ing seems to be that if there were a spontaneous gain or loss of
motion in a body – a gain or loss not brought about by some
causal interaction with another body – there would be no com-
pensating loss or gain of motion elsewhere. This self-generated
change in motion would therefore be something that appears
out of nowhere, and thus would amount to an increase or decrease
in the total quantity of motion in the universe, which would be
a violation of the conservation law.21
The second subsidiary law of nature is that ‘all motion is in
itself rectilinear.’ All bodies in motion have a natural tendency
to move in a straight line, and they will do so unless their path is
impeded by some other body. Any body that is moving in a circle
(such as a stone in a sling) still has a centrifugal tendency to move
in a straight line away from the centre of the circle it is describing.
(These first two laws of nature formulated by Descartes appear
in Newton’s physics as a single law of inertia.) Descartes says that
‘the reason for this second rule is the same as the reason for the
first rule, namely the immutability and simplicity of the operation
by which God preserves motion in matter.’22
The argument here relies on a principle that was a common­
place among medieval and early modern theologians and phi-
losophers – and Descartes was no exception – namely, that God,
after initially creating the world, must continuously conserve it
from moment to moment to keep it in existence. God, in other
words, is not only a ‘cause of becoming’ (of coming into being;
in Latin, causa secundum fieri) but a sustaining cause, a ‘cause of being’
(causa secundum esse). Were God to cease the creative action by
195 The Cartesian Textbook

which He brought the world into being, the world would cease
to be, much as the light and heat of the sun would disappear were
the sun to stop actively causing it. In this respect, God’s causal
action is fundamentally different from that of a housebuilder
who, having once built a house, no longer needs to act for the
house to persist in existence. This is true not only of the world
at large but of each and every existing thing within it. God’s
activity is required to conserve in being each and every body and
soul he has created. Now when God conserves an individual body,
he takes into account only the motion that is occurring in that
body at a single instant, ‘at the very moment when He preserves
it, without taking any account of the motion which was occurring
a little while earlier’. Therefore, Descartes argues, the tendency
or determination of motion of a body at any given moment can
be only along a straight line, since curvilinear motion requires
reference to at least two moments of motion and the relation
between them.
The third law of nature states that ‘if a body collides with
another body that is stronger than itself, it loses none of its motion;
but if it collides with a weaker body, it loses a quantity of motion
equal to that which it imparts to the other body.’23 Both parts of
this law are simply the application of the universal conservation
of motion principle to collisions between perfectly hard bodies;
the law ensures that in these interactions no overall gain or loss of
motion occurs in the physical world. In order for the collisions and
resulting transfers of motions among bodies to preserve the total
quantity of motion in the universe, any loss or gain of motion in
one part must be compensated for by a reciprocal gain or loss of
motion in another part. If a body collides with another body that
is so much stronger than itself that it cannot move that second
body, then while there is a reason why the first body’s direction
of moving should change, there is no reason why it should lose
any of its motion. And if a body impacts upon a body that it can
descartes 196

move, then its own loss of motion will be equivalent to any gain
of motion by the body being moved.
Still operating in a purely deductive manner, Descartes pro-
ceeds to derive from these three general laws of nature a number

The cosmos and its vortices, from Principia philosophiae (1644).


197 The Cartesian Textbook

of particular ‘rules’ governing the impact of solid bodies and the


transference of motions that result from their collisions. For
example, the first rule says that if two perfectly hard bodies of
equal size and equal speed are moving towards each other in a
straight line and collide, each will rebound in the direction from
which it came without any loss of its speed. The second rule states
that if one body is even slightly larger than the other (both still
moving at the same speed) and thus has a greater overall quantity
of motion (mass × speed), then only the second body will bounce
back and both bodies will move together in the first body’s line
of direction at that body’s original speed.24
All of these laws, which came in for rough treatment later in
the century by Christiaan Huygens, Leibniz and others, state
only abstract tendencies under ideal conditions, in an environment
devoid of friction or elasticity. In reality, however – at least accord-
ing to Descartes – there are no truly empty spaces. Therefore all
bodies move in, with and through a plenum of matter. The material
cosmos, in other words, functions essentially like a fluid. There
are vortices everywhere, such as those described in The World,
with all matter moving only relative to, and displacing, other
matter. This means that there is no body that does not face some
resistance to its motion, and so no actual observations can possibly
confirm the laws. But for Descartes this is irrelevant. He has
demonstrated the laws with deductive rigour from first principles
about God, the creator of nature. That, he insists, is all he needs
to give his natural science absolutely certain foundations.

The metaphysics of God, mind and matter and the laws


of nature presented in Parts One and Two of the Principles are
discovered solely by ‘the light of reason’. On this background,
Descartes can proceed to consider ‘the observable effects and
parts of natural bodies and track down the imperceptible causes
descartes 198

and particles which produce them’.25 In the remainder of the


treatise, Descartes frames mechanistic explanations behind
nature’s diverse phenomena. These explanations are no longer
based on stipulated, freestanding ‘assumptions’, as they were in
The World, but ‘deduced’ – in Descartes’ broad sense of the term,
to include experimental testing – in an unbroken chain of rea-
soning from those higher principles. The explanations also agree
with the observed phenomena. Thus, he claims, they are as ‘true
and certain’ as can be.

If a cause allows all the phenomena to be clearly deduced


from it, then it is virtually impossible that it should not
be true. Suppose, then, that we use only principles which
we see to be utterly evident, and that all our subsequent
deductions proceed by mathematical reasoning; if it
turns out that the results of such deductions agree accu-
rately with all natural phenomena, we would seem to be
doing God an injustice if we suspected that the causal
explanations discovered in this way were false. For this
would imply that God had endowed us with such an im­­
per­­fect nature that even the proper use of our powers of
reasoning allowed us to go wrong.26

Of course, as Descartes had noted in the Discourse, there are many


ways in which the particular features of the universe might plau-
sibly be deduced (explained) from the most general principles.
Any one of different possible mechanisms, each consistent with
the metaphysical and physical foundations and with the obser-
vations, could be at work both in the formation of the cosmos
and underlying any present phenomenon. Descartes says it would
be ‘arrogant for us to assert that we have discovered the exact
truth where others have failed’. Thus, until a sufficient number
of crucial experiments can be carried out that will eliminate
199 The Cartesian Textbook

competing explanations, the specific causes he provides for the


arrangement of the heavens and the facts on earth should be
regarded as only ‘hypothetical’.27
There is more than just epistemic humility at work here.
Descartes needs to be careful, and he knows it – especially as
he considers how the cosmos in its general structure came to
be as it is. As he turns in Part Three to ‘the visible universe’, he
thus gives due recognition in the opening articles to ‘the infinite
power and goodness of God’ and the ‘beauty and perfection of
his works’. He notes that

there is no doubt that the world was created right from


the start with all the perfection it now has. The sun and
earth and moon and stars thus existed in the beginning,
and, what is more, the earth contained not just the seeds
of plants but the plants themselves; and Adam and Eve
were not born as babies but were created a fully grown
people. This is the doctrine of the Christian faith, and
our natural reason convinces us that it was so.28

The reader is further warned that because God’s providential


wisdom exceeds our understanding, we cannot grasp ‘the ends
which God set before himself in creating the universe’. Thus what
he claims to offer is but a hermeneutical cosmogeny that, though
strictly speaking ‘false’, provides a deeper understanding of things
than the biblical account of creation. ‘If we want to understand
the nature of plants or of men, it is much better to consider how
they can gradually grow from seeds than to consider how they
were created by God at the very beginning of the world . . . although
we know for sure that [things] never did arise in this way.’29
Behind Descartes’ strategy to present what is now a metaphys-
ically grounded account of the origin of things – with matter, once
put into motion by God, forming structures according to the laws
descartes 200

of nature rather than God’s will – still as merely hypothetical is


prudence. He is hedging his bets. ‘Our hypothesis’, he concedes,
may not be ‘the exact truth’, but it does have ‘practical benefit for
our lives . . . because we shall be able to use it just as effectively to
manipulate natural causes so as to produce the effects we desire’.30
Such cautious instrumentalism is no doubt a remnant from his
experience with The World and the Galileo affair.
With the theological caveats in place – and their sincerity is
questionable – Descartes proceeds to explain the formation and
evolution of the cosmos and major celestial phenomena involving
the sun, the moon, the stars, comets and planets (both the ‘higher
planets’ – Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn – and the
‘lesser planets’, that is, the moons orbiting the planets). Among
the topics covered are the placement of the different planets
relative to the sun, the spinning of the earth on its axis (which
is caused by the rotational motion of the material vortex in which
the planet is embedded), the motion of comets through the
celestial vortices, and ‘why the moons of Jupiter move so fast
while those around Saturn move so slowly or not at all’. There
is a discussion of why stars seem to appear and disappear, why
comets have tails but planets do not, and an extended account
of sunspots, which he says are nothing other than the conglom-
eration of tiny particles of matter on the surface of the sun into
large masses.
Retreating somewhat from his earlier reluctance to promote
a heliocentric cosmos, Descartes now argues explicitly that
‘Ptolemy’s hypothesis does not account for the appearances.’ He
still cloaks his version of the Copernican theory as a ‘hypothesis
(or supposition that may be false) and not as the real truth.’31
Nonetheless, he insists that it ‘seems to be the simplest of all both
for understanding the appearances and for investigating their
natural causes’. He remains circumspect, however, and relies on
a mere technicality to protect himself from theological censors.
201 The Cartesian Textbook

Strictly speaking, Descartes says, the earth does not move. This
is because it is always in the same position relative to the parts
of the material vortex (or ‘heaven’) that surround it and that,
through their own motion, cause its rotation. Given Descartes’
definition of motion as translation of a body from the vicinity
of immediately surrounding bodies, the earth is immobile with
respect to the minute bodies of its vortex with which it is con-
tiguous, and thus it is stationary.

In the strict sense, there is no motion occurring in the


case of the earth or even the other planets, since they are
not transferred from the vicinity of those parts of the
heaven with which they are in immediate contact, in so
far as these parts are considered as being at rest.32

Nonetheless, the rotational motion of the larger vortex within


which the earth’s own rotating vortex is embedded carries the
earth in revolutions around the sun. A similar mechanism is at
work for the other planets. There is no mistaking Descartes’
preferred cosmology: ‘All the planets’, he notes, ‘are carried
around the sun by the heaven.’33
Finally, in Part Four of the Principles, titled ‘The Earth’, Descartes
considers such terrestrial phenomena as gravity, magnetism, the
nature of water and the ebb and flow of the tides, fire and light-
ning, the formation of mountains, plains and seas, and the process
of sensation in animals and human beings. Everything, of course
– even the so-called occult qualities – takes place according to
the principles of the mechanical philosophy. Thus gravity or heav-
iness is not some mysterious power acting at a distance. Rather,
as explained in The World, it is an effect of larger parts of matter
being forced downwards, towards the earth, by the vigorous motion
of smaller and lighter particles centrifugally moving upwards
through the motion of the vortex. In the article of the Principles
Magnetism, from Principia philosophiae (1644).
203 The Cartesian Textbook

titled ‘How all the parts of the earth are driven downwards by
the celestial matter, and so become heavy’, Descartes explains that

the power which the individual particles of celestial


matter have to move away from the centre of the earth
cannot achieve its effect unless, in moving upwards, the
particles displace various terrestrial particles, thus push-
ing them and driving them downwards. Now all the
space around the earth is occupied either by particles of
terrestrial bodies or by celestial matter. All the globules
of the celestial matter have an equal tendency to move
away from the earth and thus no individual one has the
force to displace any other. But the particles of terrestrial
bodies do not have this tendency to so great an extent.
So whenever any celestial globules have any terrestrial
particles above them they must exert all their force to
displace them.34

It is noteworthy that for Descartes gravity remains a force oper-


ative only on terrestrial bodies. He did not yet realize, as Newton
would later, that gravity operates on all bodies in the cosmos – that
it is the force, for example, that keeps the planets in their orbits.
Similarly, magnetism is not a mystical power of attraction
acting between bodies across empty space and drawing them
together. Rather, it is explained by minute, grooved particles of
matter circulating throughout nature. The differently orientated
grooves on these particles determine the direction of their pas-
sage through the poles of the earth – either south to north or
north to south. As the particles come around the material ether
surrounding the planet to head back into the pole from which
they started, they enter the tiny pores found in iron but not
other bodies.
descartes 204

The magnet attracts iron, or rather, a magnet and a


piece of iron approach each other. For in fact there is
no attraction there. Rather, as soon as the iron is within
the sphere of activity of the magnet, it borrows force
from the magnet, and the grooved particles that emerge
from both the magnet and the piece of iron expel the air
between the two bodies. As a result, the two approach
each other in the same way as two magnets do.35

Matter, motion and impact: for Descartes, and for later partisans
of the mechanistic world picture – whether or not they agree
with Descartes on the constitution of body or the details of
particular explanations – all natural phenomena can be explained
in these simple terms. As he proclaims, ‘I have described this
earth and indeed the whole visible universe as if it were a
machine.’36
There remains, however, a particular item in the world that
escapes explanation by mechanistic principles. The human mind
or soul, being an immaterial substance, is a domain unto itself
and not subject to the deterministic laws that govern the behav-
iour of material things. The faculties of intellect and will operate
according to their own principles. At the same time, the human
soul is intimately connected with the human body, and many
(but not all) mental events are, by divine institution, correlated
in law-like ways with physical events in that body.

A sword strikes our body and cuts it; but the ensuing pain
is completely different from the local motion of the sword
or of the body that is cut – as different as colour or sound
or smell or taste. We clearly see, then, that the sensation
of pain is excited in [the mind] merely by the local motion
of some parts of our body in contact with another body.37
205 The Cartesian Textbook

Descartes’ account of human sensory experience in the


Principles finally brings to the public some of his physiological
views from the Treatise on Man. Motions are communicated from
the body’s extremities to the brain via the nerves, ‘which stretch
like threads from the brain to all the limbs’ and whose channels
are inflated with ‘animal spirits’.38 When these fluid-like spirits
carry the motions to the centre of the brain, they cause a move-
ment there of the pineal gland, which Descartes now calls ‘the
seat of the soul’. The different ways in which this gland is moved
is naturally coordinated with various sensations, emotions and
appetites in the mind. When the gland is moved one way, there
occurs in the mind a feeling of pain referred to some body part;
when it is moved another way, a feeling of warmth, and so on.
The brief discussion of sensation – what Descartes calls ‘a
few observations’ – appears towards the end of Part Four. He
tells the reader that his original plan for the Principles was to
include two additional parts, one devoted to biological phenom-
ena (animals and plants) and one devoted to the human being.
The latter would presumably have been a fuller presentation of
material from the Treatise on Man. It might also have included a
more extensive discussion of the soul alone, including its pas-
sions and actions. However, none of this material on vegetation,
animal or human physiology, or human psychology ever made it
into the Principles. Descartes confesses, towards the end of the
work, that, even at this late point, ‘I am not yet completely clear
about all the matters which I would like to deal with there, and
I do not know whether I shall ever have enough free time to
complete these sections.’39

The Principles is just as ambitious a treatise as Descartes


envisioned The World to be, perhaps even more so. With extraor-
dinary confidence – or what his critics considered impertinent
descartes 206

boldness – Descartes intended his textbook to provide the


metaphysical and physical tools for a thorough understanding
of the celestial and terrestrial realms. In the letter to Abbé Picot
that serves as the preface to the 1647 French translation of the
work, he insists that ‘in order to arrive at the highest knowledge
of which the human mind is capable there is no need to look for
any principles other than those I have provided.’40 Nothing lies
outside the scope of Descartes’ project. Having established the
principles of ‘immaterial or metaphysical things’, and then ‘deduc-
ing’ from these an account of the most general features of the
cosmos and concrete theories to explain a wide range of particular
topics, he boasts that ‘there is no phenomenon of nature which
has been overlooked in this treatise.’41 All of those phenomena
– except for those that take place within the human mind – are
explained solely according to the clear and distinct notions that
inform his philosophy of nature.

This is much better than explaining matters by invent-


ing all sorts of strange objects which have no resemblance
to what is perceived by the senses (such as ‘prime mat-
ter’, ‘substantial forms’, and the whole range of qualities
that people habitually introduce, all of which are harder
to understand than the things they are supposed to
explain). 42

At the same time, and in a rhetorical gesture intended to


forestall his potential critics, he insists that ‘this philosophy
is nothing new but is extremely old and very common . . . in
attempting to explain the general nature of material things I
have not employed any principle which was not accepted by
Aristotle and all other philosophers of every age.’43 True enough,
perhaps; but what Descartes does not say is that he has also not
employed many elements essential to the Aristotelian picture.
207 The Cartesian Textbook

Descartes believed that his philosophy would open up the


world to view and make its operations transparent to human
reason. His explanations cover some of the most puzzling and
opaque processes of nature, and even show why the laws of nature
themselves are what they are. His boldness goes well beyond that
of Galileo just a decade earlier. While the Florentine scientist
played an important role in the mathematization of the study
of nature and was, as we have seen, likewise committed to a cor-
puscularian account of phenomena, he was not interested in an
investigation into the metaphysical foundations of physics. And
though Galileo was occupied, like Descartes, with explaining such
things as sunspots, the earth’s tides and the solidity of bodies, he
did not aspire to provide an exhaustive and systematic account
of the world’s phenomena.
Descartes’ ambitions went too far even for the great scientist
at the other end of the century. Isaac Newton was, compared
with Descartes, a rather reserved natural philosopher. In his own
Principia – the Philosophiae naturalis principia mathematica (Mathematical
Principles of Natural Philosophy) – he focused primarily on the
mathematical laws of bodily forces. In several writings he vigor-
ously remonstrated against making metaphysical or even phyiscal
assumptions and engaging in speculation about the ultimate and
hidden causes of these forces. He was no less committed than
Galileo and Descartes to the corpuscular philosophy of nature, and
was on occasion willing to consider various material mechanisms
behind gravitational attraction. (When pressed, he suggested at
one point that it was the result of a material aether operating on
bodies.) But Newton generally resisted such conjectures that go
so far beyond what is empirically verifiable and mathematically
demonstrable. ‘Hypotheses non fingo’ – ‘I frame no hypotheses’
– he famously says in the General Scholium that appears in the
second edition (1713) of his Principia when discussing the ultimate
causes of nature’s forces.
descartes 208

Hitherto I have not been able to discover the cause of


those properties of gravity from phenomena, and I frame
no hypotheses; for whatever is not deduced from the
phenomenon is to be called an hypothesis; and hypoth-
eses, whether metaphysical or physical, whether of occult
qualities or mechanical, have no place in experimental
philosophy.44

It is clear that with this remark Newton had Descartes’ physics


in mind. Its various hypotheses about mechanical causes, such
as the subtle matter that is supposed to explain gravity by pushing
bodies downwards, are, to Newton’s mind, no more justified
than the occult qualities and other metaphysical hypotheses of
the Aristotelians.
By the end of the Principles, and despite finally showing how
‘the whole of my physics’ rests on metaphysical foundations,
Descartes’ own confidence in the status of his theories appears
to waver. He seems torn between standing by his original ambi-
tion for absolute certainty and settling for something less exalted
and more realistic, a kind of pragmatic certainty. He says that
‘my explanations appear to be at least morally certain . . . that is,
as having sufficient certainty for application to ordinary life,
even though they may be uncertain in relation to the absolute
power of God.’45 But such a concession may be more a formal
expression of piety than a serious epistemological doubt about
what he has accomplished. For Descartes immediately goes on
to say that ‘my explanations possess more than moral certainty.’
Absolute certainty, he notes, ‘arises when we believe that it is
wholly impossible that something should be otherwise than
we judge it to be’. Perhaps, in light of God’s omnipotence, it is
possible, in principle, that things might be different from what
the light of nature has compelled him to believe. However, since
that intellectual faculty has been provided by a benevolent and
209 The Cartesian Textbook

non-deceiving God, ‘[it] cannot lead us into error, so long as we


are using it properly and are thereby perceiving something dis-
tinctly.’ Because Descartes has ‘deduced these results of mine
in an unbroken chain from the first and simplest principles of
human knowledge’, any other explanation of the world is, for all
intents and purposes, unintelligible.46
Still, Descartes closes the Principles with the requisite dis-
claimer. ‘I submit all my views to the authority of the Church.’

When Descartes left France for good in 1628, interrup-


tions from family, friends and even total strangers were not the
only things he was fleeing. In the Dutch Republic, he was able
to put some distance between himself and the less tolerant
intellectual milieu under Louis xiii and his prime minister,
Cardinal Richelieu. He knew the power wielded by the Church
in his Catholic homeland. French theologians who were troubled
by his philosophy and would regard his ideas as inconsistent with
religious dogma could easily – and with royal authority behind
them – make life difficult for him.
By contrast, Frederik Hendrik, the stadholder of Holland at
the time, was the most tolerant and enlightened person to hold
that position in the first half of the century. While the prince
was occasionally at odds with the liberal regents who governed
the towns of this most liberal of the provinces, and while he
was not above colluding with the more conservative Calvinists
when it suited his political purposes, he refused to be beholden
to Reformed ecclesiastics. In the late spring of 1637, Descartes
told Huygens, Frederik Hendrik’s secretary, that ‘I would never
have decided to retire to these provinces and to prefer them to
many other places . . . had I not been persuaded by my great
respect for his Highness [Frederik Hendrik] to entrust myself
entirely to his protection and government.’47
descartes 210

Descartes believed early on that, despite straying from


Aristotelian orthodoxy, and thus at risk of being seen as promoting
novelties in philosophy, he was less likely to be persecuted for
this in Holland. Many years later, he was still certain that, on the
whole, he had made the right choice. Near the end of his time
in the United Provinces, Descartes expressed his overall satis-
faction with the life he had been allowed to lead there. It could
be a relatively peaceful place, especially for a resident foreigner
who was smart enough not to get involved in Dutch political
and religious affairs. In a letter to Brasset in April 1649, Descartes
says that

it was not considered strange if Ulysses left the enchanted


islands of Calypso and Circe, where he could enjoy all
imaginable pleasures, and that he so scorned the song of
the Sirens, in order to go live in a rocky and infertile
country, insofar as this was the place of his birth. But I
[speak as] a man who was born in the gardens of Touraine,
and who is now in a land where, if there is not as much
honey as there was in the land that was promised by God
to the Israelites, there is undoubtedly more milk.48

The Dutch Republic was certainly no paradise. But the freedoms


it offered and the relative laissez-faire attitude in intellectual
matters – especially in the province of Holland – suited Descartes’
purposes well.
Still, even in this tolerant land, where neither Rome nor the
bishops of Paris had any influence, one had to be careful in nav-
igating a complicated and often treacherous theological-political
landscape. The Remonstrant controversy especially, in both its
religious and political dimensions, while somewhat quiescent in
the 1630s and early 1640s, still smouldered. Descartes, unfor-
tunately, was not always careful to keep a low profile, and much
211 The Cartesian Textbook

of his time during his final decade in the Netherlands was taken
up by some very nasty disputes.
Soon after the publication of the Discourse in 1637, Descartes
acquired several admirers in Dutch universities. Among these was
Henricus Regius (Hendrik de Roy, 1598–1679), a professor in
the faculty of medicine at the University of Utrecht. Regius had
obtained permission to teach physics as well, and he used this
opportunity to introduce Cartesian scientific principles in his
lectures. Descartes’ philosophy had already begun appearing in
some of the university’s courses and disputations, but Regius was
bolder than most and quite popular among students. He also went
beyond anything that Descartes himself would have sanctioned.
While Regius’ regular teaching in opposition to ‘the tradi-
tional philosophy’ raised some hackles, the problems in Utrecht
really began with a series of disputations held under his direction.
These were devoted to very Cartesian theses about body and
the material world and the elimination of all spiritual items from
nature other than the human soul. Especially problematic was a
defence of the claim that the union of soul and body in a human
being was only ‘accidental’ rather than ‘substantial’.
Descartes’ dualism of mind and body had to be handled care-
fully, lest one either anchor the soul too much in the body and
thereby undermine its independence and immortality or, at the
other extreme, exaggerate its independence from the body to
the detriment of what theologians traditionally considered the
unity of human nature. At one point, Descartes would caution
Regius that what he is saying about the mutual independence of
mind and body made the union of these two substances in a
human being too much of a merely accidental conjunction rather
than a real union. True, Descartes told Regius, the soul can exist
without the body; indeed, it does so, in its immortal condition
after the death of the body. But in this lifetime, the soul can
properly be described as being – and here Descartes diplomatically
descartes 212

recommends Aristotelian-Scholastic terminology – the ‘substantial


form’ of the body, intimately united with it and dependent on it
for many of its mental states (sensations and passions) and func-
tions. In late 1641, while examining a draft of a disputation
sponsored by Regius, Descartes wrote to his disciple to point out
those things that are likely ‘to give offence to theologians’. Most
important, he warns Regius, is that ‘in your theses you say that
a human being is an ens per accidens [an entity by accident, rather
than an ens per se, or an entity by itself]. You could scarcely have
said anything more objectionable and provocative.’49 If the body
is not truly an essential part of a human being, then the doctrine
of the resurrection of the body, an important element in orthodox
Reformed dogma – and something about which Remonstrants
had reservations – would be undermined.
Among those provoked by Regius’ theses – which he took
to be Descartes’ theses as well – was Gisbertus Voetius (Gijsbert
Voet), an influential Reformed minister in Utrecht and, in 1641,
the rector of the university. Voetius was a conservative firebrand,
a raving Counter-Remonstrant, anti-Catholic and, not least, an
antisemite. He was deeply troubled by Regius’ abandonment of
Aristotelian natural philosophy. In his own series of disputations,
endorsed by the Faculty of Theology, he soundly attacked his
Utrecht colleague for introducing the ‘new philosophy’ into the
studies which he supervised. Suggesting that ‘there is so much
that we do not know’, and that therefore one should be content
with the learning handed down by the Schools, Voetius angrily
accused the Cartesian philosophers in his university of arrogance
and even delusions of divine grandeur in making bold claims to
knowledge about the cosmos.50
Descartes in turn advised Regius on how to deal with his supe-
rior. He suggested that Regius take a respectful, even obsequious
approach – ‘Remember that there is nothing more praiseworthy
in a philosopher than a candid acknowledgement of his errors’
213 The Cartesian Textbook

– and directed him to make some harmless concessions in matters


of language: ‘Why did you need to reject openly substantial forms
and real qualities?’51
Despite recommending that Regius put aside his ego and
take a more conciliatory tack, Descartes was himself growing
annoyed with Voetius. In a subsequent letter to Regius, he offers
a harsh assessment of the rector’s character and the unreasonable
degree of control he exercised in Utrecht. ‘I did not know that
he reigned over your city, and I believed it to be more free . . . I
pity that city that it is so willing to serve so vile a pedagogue and
so miserable a tyrant.’52 It was now Descartes’ battle as much as
Regius’, since it was ultimately his own philosophy (albeit poorly
represented by Regius) that was being maligned. Descartes was
not one to back down, but then neither was Voetius.
Much to Descartes’ vexation, Regius continued to make things
worse. He rejected the cautionary advice of Descartes and of

Anna Maria van Schurman, Gisbertus Voetius, 1647, engraving.


descartes 214

sympathetic but more moderate university colleagues. In February


1642 he made a very public reply to Voetius in the form of a
pamphlet aggressively defending his philosophical principles. In
this Responsio, Regius went on the counterattack and accused the
Aristotelians of atheism and of implying that the human soul, as
the substantial form of the body, is itself material.53
Voetius was apoplectic to be so publicly rebuffed, and by one
of his own professors. This had gone too far. He convened the
university senate and directed it to ask the city council to order
the seizure of all copies of Regius’ pamphlet and to censure the
theories it defended. The Utrecht councillors followed suit, and
in April 1642 they issued a condemnation of the ‘new philoso-
phy’. Meanwhile, the university stripped Regius of his right to
give lectures on physics and restricted his teaching to medicine.
It also forbade the further teaching of Descartes’ ideas.54 The
members of the university’s senate declared that they

reject this new philosophy, first, because it is contrary to


the ancient philosophy which, up to now and for good
reason, has been taught in all the Academies of the
world, and subverts its foundations; and second, because
it turns the youth from the old and good philosophy
and keeps them from achieving the peak of erudition
. . . Therefore it is established that everyone teaching
philos­ophy in this Academy must henceforth abstain
from such [philosophy].55

Descartes had managed, for the most part, to stay personally


out of the dispute. His role to this point, aside from being the
author of the offending philosophical system, was limited to
counselling Regius on how to handle things. Still, he was starting
to feel the heat. In March 1642 he wrote to Mersenne to tell him
about ‘the impudence of Voetius’.
215 The Cartesian Textbook

His great animosity against me comes from the fact


that there is a professor at Utrecht [Regius] who teaches
my philosophy, and his students, having had a taste of
my manner of reasoning, despise the common philos­
ophy so much that they openly mock it. This has excited
an extreme jealousy against him [Regius] by all the other
professors, whose head is Voetius; and every day they
plead with the magistrates to get them to prohibit this
kind of teaching.56

If Descartes truly wanted to remain outside the fray, he made


a serious tactical misstep when, with the second edition of the
Meditations, he published his letter to Father Dinet. Aside from the
complaint about Bourdin, Descartes in this letter recounts at
length his unjust treatment in Utrecht, in the hope of receiving
more considerate treatment by the Jesuits. He defends himself
against the charges of atheism and corrupting the youth ‘with
the principles of this presumed philosophy’,57 as well as the accu-
sation that his philosophy is opposed to the philosophy of the
ancients. Descartes also presents Voetius, referring to him not by
name but as ‘the Rector’, in highly unflattering terms. He suggests
that the theologian never actually read the books he cites in his
attack on Cartesian philosophy, only the tables of contents. He
also calls him ‘malicious’ and ‘grumpy [mordaces]’, and says that now
that, in 1642, Voetius is no longer rector, Utrecht need not deal
with the shame, ignominy and dishonour that he brought to the
university.
Descartes’ letter to Dinet was easily accessible to Dutch
readers, especially after the more provocative parts were trans-
lated that same year. This very public indictment of Voetius
and of the University of Utrecht, which Descartes accuses of
preferring a slavish devotion to tradition over the pursuit of
truth, was not a wise step for someone who wanted only to be
descartes 216

left alone to continue his work and who wished to avoid distract-
ing quarrels. If Descartes thought his missive would put an end
to the matter, he was sorely mistaken. Indeed, the Dinet letter
only exacerbated things.
Voetius commissioned one of his minions, an Aristotelian
professor of logic and physics at Groningen named Martin
Schoock, to compose a response to Descartes’ ‘venomous let-
ter’ and the ‘injuries, sarcasms and lies by which he [Descartes]
tried in vain to taint and tarnish the irreproachable reputation of
Doctor Voetius’.58 Schoock opened a full offensive on Descartes’
philosophy, as well as on his character. With respect to mech-
anistic physics, for example, he argues that there is a radical
difference between the ways in which artificial machines and
natural organisms work, such that the former cannot be used as
a model to understand the latter.

While we cannot deny that, with respect to certain works


of nature, created ex nihilo by God – the omnipotent and
wise architect of everything that exists – one can, in a
certain measure, discover the same structure as that
which is visible in certain machines produced according
to the laws of mechanics, this should not be taken in such
a way as to become the norm and the rule of all the works
of nature, nor lead one to insist that, if one knows per-
fectly the interior of machines, one is thereby immediately
competent with respect to the works of nature.59

Moreover, Schoock claims, not only does Descartes’ master


argument against scepticism fail, but Descartes himself must be
a sceptic and an atheist. ‘While giving the appearance of being
very worried about atheism, he does everything he can to teach
it and disseminate it.’60 Descartes’ demonstrations of God’s exist-
ence are so ‘weak and deceitful’ that they were clearly designed
217 The Cartesian Textbook

intentionally to lead people to conclude that God does not in fact


exist. Descartes is thus, like the infamous atheist Lucilio Vanini
(1585–1619), a man who ‘presents himself as fighting atheism
through Achillean arguments but who, subtly and secretly, injects
the poison of Atheism in those who, because of their weakness
of intellect, cannot discover the snake in the grass’.61 For good
meas­­ure, Schoock insinuates that Descartes has something to
hide in his personal life. ‘It is difficult to understand anything
about his conduct in practical affairs. Who can explain all his
hiding places and his changes of residence?’ Descartes obviously
has a guilty conscience, most likely because of his sexual licentious­
ness. ‘[Descartes] finds his pleasures among the madames whom
he does not hesitate, it seems, to embrace passionately.’62
Descartes was not going to take this lying down. In the spring
of 1643 he countered, perhaps imprudently, with a long (book-
length) and accusatory open ‘letter’ to Voetius (Epistola ad Voetium),
whom he understood to be behind, and perhaps the true author
of, Schoock’s offensive. Descartes insists that the vigour of the
attacks against him are due to the fact that his opponents know
that his philosophy is the true one. He denies once again that he
is an atheist, although he also takes the opportunity to add some
clarifications to his demonstrations of God’s existence. Indeed,
he claims, it is Voetius who is securing the spread of atheism
through his intemperate condemnations. ‘No one will ever again
write against Atheists,’ Descartes says, for fear of receiv­­ing like
treatment from the irascible theologian.63 In Part Seven of the
letter, ‘On the Merits of Gisbert Voetius’, Descartes shows that
he can give as good as he gets when it comes to character assas-
sination. While he claims to be ‘known to be a lover of peace
and quiet above all other things’, Voetius, he says, is ‘exceedingly
contentious, bitter and inappropriate’.64 The theologian also
lacks the one character trait that he appears to value, ‘the most
basic and fundamental of all virtues’: charity. Voetius is nothing
descartes 218

but an ‘arrogant and obstinate [preacher who] does things that


disturb the peace and harmony of the Republic’.65
The affair in Utrecht led to years of trouble for Descartes.
A committee from the city council, to whom Descartes had sent
copies of the Epistola, found it to be libellous. The council sum-
moned him to come to Utrecht and respond to the charge by
providing ‘such verifications of his intentions that he judges to
be useful’.66 Although Descartes, living in Holland, was technically
outside the jurisdiction of the Utrecht magistrates, there were
extradition agreements between the two provinces. Descartes was
sufficiently worried that he asked Henri Brasset to have his supe-
rior, the French ambassador, intervene with the stadholder and
have the summons set aside. By 1645 the Utrecht city councillors
were so tired of the whole affair and the trouble it was causing
that they issued a decree forbidding the printing or dissemination
of books for or against Descartes. The proscription was not consist-
ently enforced, however, and the wrangling continued, with the
fallout consuming a good deal of Descartes’ time and energy well
into the late 1640s.
As for Regius, whose lectures started the whole affair, it seems
that when it came to philosophy he just could not get it right, or
at least to Descartes’ satisfaction. Having argued in 1641 for a
merely ‘accidental’ union of mind and body, he later went to the
other extreme and in his Fundamentals of Physics (Fundamenta physices,
1646) and Explication of the Human Mind (Explicatio mentis humanae,
1647) so deeply embedded the activities of the mind in the body
that it was unclear in what sense it was an independent, and
immortal, substance. There was, he maintained, no natural cause
for the separation of soul from body, not even the death of the
body; we can be certain of the soul’s immortality only by faith
and Scripture.
Descartes was not pleased. He accused Regius of both pla-
giarism (stealing parts of the unpublished Treatise on Man) and
219 The Cartesian Textbook

distorting his views. ‘It appears that everything he wrote was


taken from my writings,’ Descartes charges in the Preface to the
1647 French translation of his Principles. ‘But because he copied
down the material inaccurately and changed the order and denied
certain truths of metaphysics on which the whole of physics must
be based, I am obliged to disavow his work entirely.’67 Writing
to Mersenne in October 1646, he angrily complains that

A few days ago I saw a book which will make me hence-


forth much less free in communicating my thoughts than
I have been hitherto; it is a book by a professor at Utrecht,
Regius, entitled Foundations of Physics. In it he repeats most
of the things I put in my Principles of Philosophy, my Optics
and my Meteorology, and piles up whatever he has had from
me in private, and even things he could only have had by
indirect routes and which I did not want him to be told.
Moreover, he retails all this in such a confused manner,
and provides so few arguments, that his book can only
make my opinions look ridiculous, and give a handle to
my critics in two ways. Those who know that he hitherto
made great profession of friendship with me, and fol-
lowed blindly all my opinions, will blame all his faults on
me. And if I ever decide to publish the views I have not
yet published, it will be said that I have borrowed them
from him, since they will have some resemblance to what
he has written.68

More than disavowing Regius’ book, Descartes would go on


to publish a booklet in which he harshly criticizes his ex-friend’s
writings. In the Comments on a Certain Broadsheet (Notae in programma
quoddam, 1648), he expresses his puzzlement over just what Regius’
inconsistent account of the mind–body union is. He also defends
and explains his own account of innate ideas, which Regius had
descartes 220

rejected in favour of an empiricism. Descartes never meant to


say that there are fully formed ideas actually in the mind; rather,
what is innate or in the mind by its very nature is a propensity
to think certain thoughts and call up specific ideas (such as the
idea of God).69
Any intellectual relationship, much less friendship, between
Descartes and his troublesome disciple was over. ‘I am forced to
admit that I blush with shame to think that in the past I have
praised this author as a man of the most penetrating intelligence,
and have written somewhere or other that “I do not think he
teaches any doctrines which I would be unwilling to acknowledge
as my own.”’70
Meanwhile, no sooner did Descartes feel that he had things
in Utrecht under control – although Voetius continued with his
attacks – than a similar battle over Cartesian philosophy was
brew­­ing in Leiden. This could be more problematic for Descartes
from a legal perspective. Leiden was in the province of Holland,
and so any formal measures taken by that city against Descartes
personally – such as a summons to answer a charge of libel,
should one be issued – would be enforceable.
The trouble in Leiden began, as in Utrecht, when a number
of faculty at the university there started promoting Cartesian
ideas. Adriaan Heereboord (1614–1661), a professor of logic,
argued in a 1644 disputation that only Descartes’ philosophy
offered the possibility of true knowledge of nature. He said that
the Aristotelians were interested in nothing more than slavishly
following their ancient master and in conflating his philosophy
with theology. ‘A monstrous and monastic kind of philosophy
was born which, with its boring and futile sophistries, corrupted
everything.’71 Heereboord and others defended Cartesian method
in philosophical inquiry – beginning with doubt and proceeding
only by assenting to what is known clearly and distinctly – and
the tenets of Cartesian metaphysics and physics.
221 The Cartesian Textbook

The attack on Aristotle in Leiden was received just as it had


been in Utrecht. Conservative academics, led by the Counter-
Remonstrant theologian (and sometime poet) Jacobus Revius
(1586–1658), described the new philosophy as ‘dangerous’ to
faith and morals and accused Descartes’ local partisans of encour-
aging scepticism and freethinking. In 1646 the University of
Leiden senate proclaimed that only Aristotelian philosophy
could be taught and discussed. Descartes’ philosophy was now
officially banned – at least in public lessons – at two Dutch
universities.
Descartes subsequently wrote to the curators at Leiden to
protest some of the personal attacks that had been made against
him by individual professors – he had been called, among other
things, ‘a blasphemer’ – as they battled their Cartesian colleagues.
In an attempt to calm things down, the university curators in May
1647 ordered professors in the faculties of theology and philos-
ophy to cease any and all discussion of Descartes’ philosophy,
pro or con. Furthermore, they wrote to Descartes himself and
requested that he stop causing trouble with his new and contro-
versial opinions. In a letter to Elisabeth, Descartes complained
that in Leiden ‘they are turning a minor disagreement into a
major dispute’ and that the theologians ‘want to subject me to an
inquisition more severe than the Spanish one, and turn me into
an opponent of their religion’.72
The controversy over Descartes’ philosophy continued to
spread, and by the end of the decade rancorous debates erupted
in other universities throughout the Republic – Groningen, for
example. The tranquil life of the mind that Descartes had sought
in his rural Dutch retreat was becoming harder to sustain. It
was enough to make him think twice about remaining in what
was once ‘this peaceful land’ and consider a return to France.
Writing from Egmond Binnen in May 1647, he tells Elisabeth:
descartes 222

As for the peace I had previously sought here, I foresee


that henceforth I may not get as much of that as I would
like. For I have not yet received all the satisfaction that is
due to me for the insults I suffered at Utrecht, and I see
that further insults are on the way. A troop of theologians
[at Leiden], followers of scholastic philosophy, seem to
have formed a league in an attempt to crush me by their
slanders.

He tells the princess that ‘in the event I cannot obtain justice
(and I foresee that it will be very difficult to obtain), I think I
am obliged to leave these provinces altogether.’73
In fact, within the month Descartes was off to Paris and
Brittany, but only for a visit. He went primarily to deal with
some family and financial affairs and to see old friends, although
he also took advantage of the opportunity to oversee work on
the French translation of the Principles. While in Paris, he paid
a call on the mathematician and religious thinker – and one of
Arnauld’s fellow Jansenists – Blaise Pascal (1623–1662). Pascal
showed Descartes the calculating machine he had designed, and
they discussed potential experimental testing of the possibility
of a vacuum. The trip undoubtedly provided a welcome respite
from the unpleasant tangles with Dutch theologians.
Still, despite all the trouble in Utrecht and Leiden – just the
kind of attacks on his philosophy from theologians that he had
hoped to avoid when he left France for the United Provinces
– Descartes very soon missed Holland. It was now his home, and
he had long come to appreciate, even to depend upon, its advan-
tages and pleasures. He kept the trip to France short, and by early
autumn he was back in ‘the happiness of a tranquil and retired
life’ in Egmond-Binnen.
eight
‘A land of bears,
rocks and ice’

B
y the mid-1640s an exhausted and decimated Europe
was ready to put an end to decades of war that had
cost nearly 8 million lives. After several years of nego-
tiations on multiple fronts, delegations from France, Sweden,
the Holy Roman Empire, the Papal States and the Dutch
Republic, along with their allies in smaller principalities and
federations, finally met in the Westphalian towns of Münster
and Osnabrück in 1648 to ratify a series of peace agreements.
What had been a mere thirty years of war for most of those
states was, for the Dutch and the Spanish, eighty years of conflict.
When representatives from the two sides signed their names to
the Treaty of Münster in May 1648, the outcome was not just
peace but the formal recognition of the United Provinces as a
sovereign and independent nation.
Not all of the Dutch provinces had been in favour of coming
to terms with their former overlord. Holland – and Amsterdam
in particular – led the pro-peace camp, but there was opposi-
tion in Utrecht, Zeeland and other quarters on political,
military and economic grounds. They feared, especially, that
their commercial interests would suffer with the reopening of
ports in the southern Low Countries, still loyal to Spain, and
a revival of the Flemish city of Antwerp. In the end, as usual,
Holland and its allies in the peace party prevailed in the States
General.
descartes 224

The preamble to the agreement signed by the Dutch and


Spanish is an impressive document, even given the pro forma
literary ornamentation that diplomacy demands.

In the name of God and in his honor. Let all persons


know that, after a long succession of bloody wars which
for many years have oppressed the peoples, subjects, king-
doms and lands which are under the obedience of the
Lords, King of Spain, and States General of the United
Netherlands, these Lords, the king and the States, moved
by Christian pity, desire to end the general misery and
prevent the dreadful consequences, calamity, harm and
danger that the further continuation of these wars in the
Low Countries would bring in their train . . . and to put in
the place of such baleful effects on both sides a pleasing,
good, and sincere peace.

The first article of the treaty announces that ‘this Lord King
[Philip iv of Spain] declares and recognizes that the Lords States
General of the United Netherlands and the respective provinces
thereof . . . are free and sovereign states, provinces and lands
upon which . . . he, the Lord King, does not now make any claim.’
Subsequent articles detail the terms of the peace, including such
contentious matters as trade in the East and West Indies, tariffs
and taxation. Spain lifted the embargoes against Dutch ships,
the Dutch agreed to allow Catholics in their lands to worship
freely, and the two sides settled territorial claims in Flanders and
Brabant, with Spain – despite pressure from some Dutch quar-
ters for a reunification of the northern and southern provinces
– keeping whatever was now in its possession. The treaty also
stipulated that Spanish Catholics who travelled to the Dutch
Republic and Dutch Protestants who travelled to Spain would
each be ‘required to conduct themselves in the matter of public
225 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

exercise of religion with all piety, giving no scandal by word or


deed and speaking no slander’.1
Throughout the Republic, news of independence was received
with jubilation. Celebratory observances were held in The Hague,
Amsterdam and other towns as people gathered to hear public
readings of the treaty. Unfortunately, Frederik Hendrik, who as
stadholder was the supreme commander of Dutch armed forces
during the final two decades of the conflict, could not be present
at any of the festivities. He did not live to see the peace for which
he had so ardently lobbied among the combative Dutch constit-
uencies. In March 1647 the 63-year-old Prince of Orange, under
whose political and military leadership there was remarkable
flourishing of Dutch art and culture in the first half of the cen-
tury, died. The stadholdership of the major provinces of Holland,
Utrecht, Zeeland, Gelderland and Overijssel passed to his son,
the 21-year-old Willem ii, Prince of Orange (and grandson of
Willem the Silent).
The new stadholder had been no fan of peace with Spain,
and accepted it only grudgingly. He would rather have continued
the war, in league with France, not least to regain the Dutch-
speaking lands of the southern Low Countries. His mother, Frederik
Hendrik’s wife Amalia van Solms, however, wished to see an end
to the hostilities through which her husband had so brilliantly
guided the Republic. This split within the family was but a micro-
cosm of a greater and more dangerous division in Dutch society.
The Peace of Münster did not really bring much peace, at least
within the Republic. It was approved by the States General by
only a narrow majority.
Willem ii lacked his parents’ sophistication and taste for high
culture. He was also a bully. Where Frederik Hendrik generally
preferred a conciliatory approach to domestic affairs, his son had
a more aggressive style. Willem’s main adversaries were Holland’s
regents. Amsterdam and Haarlem, especially, were centres of
descartes 226

opposition to Willem’s belligerent policies. Among the more


contentious issues was the size of the army. Willem was at con-
stant loggerheads with the liberal camp, whose leaders wanted
to see a decrease in troops and in military expenditure now that
the long war was over. A large standing army in peacetime was a
drain on the economy, which had only recently begun to recover
from a recession in the 1630s. The stadholder and his Orangist
allies, however, insisted that Dutch homeland security was at
stake. The Republic would not be safe from its enemies without
strongly fortified garrisons along its borders. The robust debate
– carried out in speeches, pamphlets, periodicals and proclama-
tions – was often framed in terms of patriotism, with each side
accusing the other of betraying the Republic and working on
behalf of its adversaries.
Equally critical was the question of religious toleration. Willem
was not an especially pious man, but he was not above catering
to the more conservative elements of the Dutch Reformed
Church when it was to his political advantage. He thus sought
greater confessional uniformity in the Republic, partly for the
sake of centralizing and consolidating his power. Despite the
terms agreed to in the Peace of Münster, he instituted a clamp-
down on Catholicism. Priests were expelled, Catholic chapels
and other institutions confiscated and ‘cleansed’, and worship
forced to go underground, into schuilkerken (hidden churches –
some of which, in fact, were well above ground, in attics).
What was really at stake in these final years of the 1640s was
the political nature of the Dutch Republic itself. What kind of
nation was it going to be: a decentralized federation, with power
primarily in the provincial executive bodies (the States) and a
relatively weak national government, or a unified realm under a
monarch-like ruler? Would true sovereignty lie in the provinces,
where the regent class held sway, or in the generality, dominated
by the stadholder?
227 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

In the summer of 1650, his patience with Holland and the


States party at an end, Willem went on the offensive. The stad-
holder laid siege to Amsterdam with a force of 10,000 soldiers.
The city councils there and elsewhere were once again purged
of anti-Orangist agitators and Remonstrant sympathizers, and
leading regents were arrested and thrown into prison.
The Orangist triumph was short-lived, however. By November
Willem ii was dead, a victim of smallpox. His son Willem iii –
born just after the death of his father – would be in his minority
for quite some time. Not for another 22 years would there be a
stadholder installed in the major provinces. The political pen-
dulum that had swung one way in 1618, under Maurits, now swung
back to the other side. Power devolved to the regents and the
provincial assemblies. For the next two decades the Republic
would enjoy the period of ‘True Freedom’, a stadholderless era
(for most of the provinces) under the national leadership of the
grand pensionary of the States of Holland, Johan de Witt, and
his partisans.2
The brief but repressive regime of Willem ii, and especially
his campaign against Catholics in the United Provinces, had to
be of some concern to Descartes. It was one thing to take on fum­­
ing theologians in the schools. Descartes could hold his own in
intellectual debate. He could even deal with university senates
and city councils that, while formally banning discussion of the
new philosophy, typically dragged their feet when it came to en­­
forcement. But a broad retreat from the relatively tolerant policies
of Frederik Hendrik could spell trouble for an independent-
minded French philosopher who claimed to be willing to ‘bear
public witness to the fact that I am a Roman Catholic’.3 It must
have been especially worrisome to some close friends with whom
Descartes was passing the time during the long, cold Dutch
winters.
descartes 228

In the midst of the turmoil in Utrecht, Leiden and


Groningen, Descartes was able still to take advantage of the
relative peace and quiet in Egmond-Binnen to pursue his phil-
osophical investigations and manage his growing correspondence.
Among other things, he was engaged in revising the Treatise on
Man, expanding it into the ‘description of the functions of animals
and men’ that would turn up in the posthumous inventory of
his papers as a manuscript titled The Description of the Human Body
(La Description du corps humain).4 Like the earlier treatise, this was
an account of the formation and operations of the body without
any participation of a soul.
With each passing year in his isolated quarters, though, the
wintry weather during Europe’s ‘Little Ice Age’ was wearing him
down. Already in March 1641, while still living in Leiden, he had
written to Mersenne that ‘I have plenty of time and paper, but I
do not have any material, if only because winter has begun once
again in this country, and it snowed so much last night that one
can now travel in the street by sled.’5 Now that Descartes was
living in the countryside of North Holland, procuring the amen-
ities of daily life was even more difficult. He was often forced to
put off a journey because of a particularly cold stretch.6 In March
1646, he wrote to Chanut, in Stockholm, that

the extraordinary rigour of this winter has obliged me


to make frequent wishes for your good health and that
of your family; for it is said around here that there has
not been so severe [a winter] since 1608. If it is the same
in Sweden, you will have seen there all the glaciers that
Septentrion [the northern regions] can produce.7

The tedium of the cold months and the solitary philosoph-


ical pursuits in Egmond in the early 1640s were at least relieved
somewhat by visits with friends. Back when Descartes was living
229 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

‘near Alkmaar’, in the mid-1630s, he got to know two Catholic


priests in nearby Haarlem: Johan Albert Ban (1597–1644) and
Augustijn Bloemaert (1584–1659). Their company was now a
source of great pleasure to him, and offered some distraction
from the Voetius affair.
It was Huygens who first introduced Descartes to Ban. The
stadholder’s secretary had a manuscript copy of Descartes’ unpub-
lished Compendium musicae and shared it with the musically inclined
priest. Ban, an accomplished composer and harpsichordist, was
suitably impressed, and sought out the philosopher in his rural
retreat. Descartes told Huygens a few years later that

if you had never said anything good about me, I would


perhaps never have become familiar with any priest in
these parts; for I have got to know only two, one of whom
is Monsieur Ban, whose acquaintance I have acquired
through the esteem that he heard you express over the
little treatise on music that at an earlier time escaped
from my hands.8

Ban, for his part, wrote to William Boswell, secretary to the English
ambassador to the United Provinces, that ‘I had an excellent
opportunity to confer with Descartes, a man, as you know, of
great skill and second to none in natural and mathematical sub-
jects. I received him in my home with a ten-part piece of music,
with voices and instruments . . . He admired it and praised it.’9
Descartes and Ban enjoyed discussing various musical topics,
including intervals and the division of octaves, and they compared
notes over Mersenne’s new system of tuning instruments in his
book Harmonie universelle (1636).
Descartes admired Ban’s personal qualities – ‘so virtuous’,
he called him – and appreciated his skills on the keyboard. The
two were soon joined by Bloemaert, Ban’s ‘intimate friend’, and
descartes 230

the trio formed a regular little floating party. They met frequently
in Haarlem to listen to music and converse over philosophical,
artistic and perhaps religious matters. As Baillet describes it,
‘Descartes left the solitude of Egmond from time to time to go
see [Ban and Bloemaert]; and because they were hardly greater
drinkers or gamblers than he was, the debauchery in which they
ordinarily engaged in together was some musical concert with
which Monsieur Ban was accustomed to regale them.’10 Ban and
Bloemaert, in turn, visited Descartes in Egmond, sometimes
bringing him his mail, since Descartes had instructed Mersenne
and Huygens to address their letters to him by way of Bloemaert.
Reporting on his friendship with these two Dutch Catholics,
Descartes tells Huygens in 1639 that ‘I find them to be such fine
gentlemen . . . so exempt from those qualities which have led
me ordinarily to avoid the society of those of their robe in this
country, that I count their acquaintance among the debts that I
owe you.’ The Dutch need not be troubled simply because they
are priests doing mission work on behalf of the pope, he said.
‘If anyone should be excused [for this crime], I am certain that
there is no one who deserves it more than these two.’ As for
those critics in France who fault Descartes for spending his life
in a Protestant nation that officially forbids Catholic worship,
and that under Willem ii was actively persecuting Catholics,
Descartes replied that the time he spends with these two priests
eases his religious conscience.11
Sadly, Ban died in the summer of 1644. Descartes was in
France at the time, and was told of his friend’s passing by Bloem­
aert upon his return to Holland. Even without the diversion of
Ban’s music, Descartes and Bloemaert continued to spend time
together. There seems to have been a particular warmth in their
fellowship, and the Haarlem priest remained a valued companion
in Descartes’ final years in the country.
231 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

It was during those final years that Descartes set to work


on a treatise inspired by his correspondence with Elisabeth. The
princess had pressed Descartes to explain the human emotions
according to the principles of his philosophy. Her interest was
not purely intellectual. She suffered from a variety of physical
ailments, including gastrointestinal issues and abscesses on her
hands. But what she found especially distressing were the emo-
tional ups and downs in her life, due in no small part to her family.
She attended to her younger sister, Henriette, during a life-
threatening illness. Even more bothersome was the humiliating
behaviour of her brother, Edward.

His folly has troubled the health of my body and the


tranquillity of my soul more than all the misfortunes that
have already come my way. If you take the trouble to read
the newspaper, you could not fail to know that he has
fallen into the hands of a certain group of people who
have more hatred for our house than affection for their
religion, and he has let himself be taken in by their traps
to such a degree as to change his religion and make him-
self a Roman Catholic . . . I must see someone whom I
loved with as much tenderness as I know how to have,
abandoned to the scorn of the world and the loss of his
soul (according to my belief ).12

She asked Descartes, who in effect served as her spiritual


counsellor, to help her towards a better understanding of ‘the
perturbations of the mind’, in the hope that she might thereby
find some relief. ‘I would also like to see you define the passions,
in order to know them better.’13 In his letters to her, Descartes
explained how all those involuntary states of mind caused by
external objects acting on the body and its animal spirits are
‘passions’ in the broad sense of being passive rather than active
descartes 232

mental events; thus all our sensory perceptions are passions. But
passions in the stricter sense – emotions such as joy and sadness,
and whatever may be troubling Elisabeth – are the result of
particularly strong agitations of the spirits.14 He also clarified
that he was not in favour of eliminating the passions altogether,
as some ancient Stoics had advocated. Rather, the key to finding
happiness is to moderate or ‘tame’ the passions, to draw them
away from excess and ‘render them subject to reason’.15
By early 1646 Descartes composed something for Elisabeth’s
benefit, ‘a little treatise’ that, he hoped, would arm her against
a sea of troubles.16 This was most likely the first two parts of what
would eventually be his last publication, The Passions of the Soul (Les
Passions de l’âme). The work presents Descartes’ most sustained dis-
cussion of the relationship between mind and body, and it is
appropriate that he composed it for the person who, more than
anyone else, challenged him to explain their interaction.
In Part One, subtitled ‘the whole nature of man’, Descartes
reviews some of the physiological material on the human body
presented in the Treatise on Man and the Principles. This includes the
variety of ways in which external objects can affect the motions
of the animal spirits and the different kinds of ‘thoughts’ in the
soul that such motions, once they reach the pineal gland, can
stimulate. (Descartes is quite explicit here that ‘the seat of the
passions’ is the brain, not the heart.17) Those thoughts that are
generated not by the soul itself, through the will, but by the body
are all passive perceptions. These include ordinary perceptual
sensations and the ideas of the imagination. But among those
passive thoughts in the soul are a subset that Descartes calls
émotions; ‘because of all the kinds of thought which the soul may
have, there are none that agitate and disturb it so strongly.’18
The key to controlling the emotional passions – as much
as this is possible – is not through will-power alone, at least
not directly. One cannot moderate these passions simply by
233 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

wanting them to be less disturbing. Rather, one must think


about things that are connected, psychologically, with emotions
that one desires and avoid thinking about things that bring about
emotions one wants to avoid.

Our passions cannot be directly aroused or suppressed


by the action of our will, but only indirectly through the
representation of things which are usually joined with the
passion we wish to have and opposed to the passion we
wish to reject. For example, in order to arouse boldness
and suppress fear in ourselves, it is not sufficient to have
the volition to do so. We must apply ourselves to consider
the reasons, objects or precedents which persuade us that
the danger is not great; that there is always more security
in defence than in flight; that we shall gain glory and joy
if we conquer, whereas we can expect nothing but regret
and shame if we flee.19

The right (voluntary) thoughts will generate the right motions


of the pineal gland and thus of the spirits, which in turn will
cause the desired (passive) thoughts in the soul. We can even, in
this way, modify the natural connections between bodily motions
and mental states. An item of food that once caused disgust can,
through training and habituation, become associated with
delight.
The strength of the soul to resist the undesirable passions,
rather than being carried away by them, and enjoy the useful
ones lies in ‘knowledge of the truth’ – in particular, a knowledge
of what is good and what is bad, accompanied by firm judgements
on this basis ‘for the guidance of conduct’. We can thereby come
to associate pleasant feelings with things that are good, and
unpleasant feelings with things that are bad. Armed with rational
knowledge and a resolute will, aided by the imagination, Descartes
descartes 234

concludes, ‘there is no soul so weak that it cannot, if well-directed,


acquire an absolute power over its passions.’20
Parts Two and Three of the treatise are devoted to a catalogue
of the passions, all of which are variations on six ‘primitive’ or
basic passions: wonder, love, hatred, desire, joy and sadness. Thus
esteem and contempt are species of wonder; we esteem or have

Jan Baptist Weenix, René Descartes, c. 1647–9, oil on canvas.


235 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

contempt for something when we wonder at its greatness or


insignificance. Scorn, however, is a form of hatred; shame is an
expression of sadness; and jealousy is ‘a kind of anxiety’ arising
from the desire to preserve the possession of some good.
The Passions of the Soul is essentially Descartes’ moral treatise.
Repeating what he had told Elisabeth in their correspondence,
he declares virtue to be the power to abide by the better judge-
ments of reason and the general capacity to have desirable, rational
thoughts on the appropriate occasions. The individual virtues,
in turn, are just those specific ‘habits in the soul’ to have the par­­
ti­cu­­­­lar right thoughts and, when called for, to bring them into
action. Generosity, for example, is the ‘firm and constant resolu­
tion’ to use one’s freedom well and to ‘undertake and carry out
whatever [one] judges to be best’.21 Courage is the ability to avoid
fear in the face of danger by turning one’s mind away from the
reasons for flight and towards the thought of the security and
honour in resistance.
Moral philosophy in the early modern period, as it was among
the ancients, is concerned not so much with right action and
duties towards others, as it would be for Kant and later thinkers,
as with achieving eudaimonia, one’s own well-being or flourish-
ing. For Descartes, what is essential for achieving this supreme
condition is that mastery of the passions. ‘It is on the passions
alone that all the good and evil of this life depends.’ Of course,
the passions do not always turn out to be beneficial.

The persons whom the passions can move most deeply


are capable of enjoying the sweetest pleasures of this life.
It is true that they may also experience the most bitter-
ness when they do not know how to put these passions to
good use and when fortune works against them. But the
chief use of wisdom lies in its teaching us to be masters
of our passions and to control them with such skill that
descartes 236

the evils which they cause are quite bearable, and even
become a source of joy.22

The passions are all, by their own nature, good, he insists. ‘We have
nothing to avoid but their misuse or their excess.’23

In early 1649 The Passions of the Soul was on its way to being
published in Amsterdam and Paris. In the meantime, Descartes’
views on the emotions, which circulated in manuscript and by
word of mouth, had attracted some notice in high places.
The learned daughter of Gustavus Adolphus ii of Sweden
and Maria Eleonora of Brandenburg, Christina (1626–1689),
was now the queen of Sweden.24 Her exposure to Descartes’
philosophy seems to date only to early 1647. The occasion was a
report by her French physician, François du Ryer, after he had
paid a visit to Chanut, Descartes’ diplomat friend in Stockholm
who would soon be named French ambassador. Ryer had obtained
a copy of something that Descartes wrote in February of that
year in reply to a letter from Chanut. Chanut had asked for
Descartes’ views on love, both the love of other human beings
and the love of God. In Descartes’ long response – Baillet calls it
‘a lovely dissertation on love’ – he distinguishes between a ‘purely
intellectual or rational love’ and love as a passion. The former is
the soul’s clear and distinct perception of some good, whether
present or absent, with which it desires to unite itself, as two
parts of a whole; this kind of love can be in the soul whether or
not it is joined to a body. Love as a passion is a ‘sensual or sensitive’
state of mind that arises because the soul is joined to a body.
Whereas intellectual love is accompanied by knowledge of the
value of its object, love as a passion involves only a ‘confused idea’.
In the ordinary course of things, however, these two kinds of
love often accompany each other. ‘When the soul judges that an
237 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

object is worthy of it, this immoderately disposes the heart to


motions that excite the passion of love.’25 Given the topic at hand,
Descartes also felt the need to provide in his letter to Chanut a
summary of his not-yet-published account of the passions. Ryer
showed his copy of the letter to his philosophically inclined queen,
and it piqued her interest.
Christina, who would later abdicate the Swedish throne,
convert to Catholicism and move to Rome, also took an interest
in Descartes’ account of the extent of the cosmos: was it finite
or infinite. She was concerned that the hypothesis of an infinite
universe, which she took to be Descartes’ view, was contrary to the
Christian religion. In a letter to Chanut intended to address her
qualms, Descartes explains that the attribute ‘infinite’ should be
reserved only for a being that could be demonstrated positively
to be infinite, that is, God. But neither is the universe finite.
Because matter is just extension, beyond any alleged limit or
boundary to the universe there will be more space, and thus more
extension – that is, more matter.

We cannot say that something is infinite without a reason


to prove this such as we can give only in the case of God;
but we can say that a thing is indefinite simply if we have
no reason which proves that it has bounds. Now it seems
to me that it is impossible to prove or even to conceive
that there are bounds in the matter of which the world
is composed.26

A few months later, in September, Christina sought Descartes’


opinion on ‘the supreme good’. Descartes told Chanut that it
was his general policy ‘to refuse to write down my thoughts con-
cerning morality’, for two reasons. ‘One is that there is no other
subject in which malicious people can so readily find pretexts for
vilifying me; and the other is that I believe that only sovereigns, or
descartes 238

those authorized by them, have the right to concern themselves


with regulating the morals of other people.’27 However, since
the request came from a queen, Descartes felt he had sufficient
authorization to put his views down on paper, on the condition
that only Christina and Chanut would see them.
Writing to Christina in November, Descartes explains that,
of course, absolutely speaking, God is the supreme good. But
then there are things that are supreme goods in a relative way
– relative to us, that is, in the sense that ‘our having [them] is a
perfection.’ Moreover, what qualifies as such a relatively supreme
good must be something that we either actually possess or have
the power to possess through our own resources, independently
of good or bad luck. Since goods of the body are all subject to
fortune, the supreme good must be a good of the soul. Now
knowledge is certainly a worthy good of the soul, but whether
or not one has knowledge is often beyond one’s control. Therefore
the supreme good for a human being must be a condition of the
will: its unswerving obedience to reason (rather than to the pas-
sions), ‘which is absolutely within our disposal’. Just as Descartes
had explained earlier to Elisabeth, so he now tells Christina that
the supreme good

consists only in a firm will to do well and the content-


ment which this produces. My reason for saying this is
that I can discover no other good which seems so great
or so entirely within each man’s power. . . . I do not see
that it is possible to dispose it [the will] better than by a
firm and constant resolution to carry out to the letter all
the things which one judges to be best, and to employ all
the powers of one’s mind in finding out what these are.28

What is noteworthy about Descartes’ account is that, once again


– and contrary to ancient eudaimonist theories of ethics, such as
239 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

Aristotle’s – happiness or contentment is not itself the summum


bonum, but only its consequence.
Baillet reports that Christina said she could not properly
assess Descartes’ account of passionate love, ‘because, she said,
having never felt this passion, she could not judge a painting
with­­out knowing the original’.29 Still, the queen was very impressed.

David Beck, Queen Christina of Sweden, 1647–51, oil on canvas.


descartes 240

According to Chanut, who was with the queen when she was
perusing the Principles of Philosophy and who was charged with
helping her understand the finer points of the work, ‘this princess,
who esteems nothing in the world more than truth and virtue,
judges you greatly for the love of the one and the other.’30 Christina
wanted to know more about the philosopher, ‘all the particu­­
lars of his person and his life’.31 Chanut told her what he could.
It was enough to make her want Descartes to become a part of
her circle of intellectuals in Stockholm. Thus, just as The Passions
of the Soul was ready to go to press – both Christina and Elisabeth
had been provided with manuscript copies – it looked as if
Descartes’ quiet life by the North Sea dunes might be coming
to an end.

Descartes had told Chanut in late 1646 that he was not


particularly interested in royal patronage. When he learned that
his friend was planning to present Christina with a copy of the
French translation of the Meditations, he made it clear that ‘I have
never been so ambitious as to desire that persons of that rank
should know my name.’ Nonetheless, he thought that some royal
backing would not be a bad thing to have, given his recent trou-
bles in Utrecht and elsewhere. With the attacks by ‘countless
Schoolmen, who look askance at my writings and try from every
angle to find in them the means of harming me, I have good
reason to wish to be known by persons of greater distinction’.32
What Descartes did not expect was an invitation to join a
monarch’s entourage, much less end up in the northern climes
of Scandinavia. In fact, he remarked to Chanut in 1646 that, with
him in Holland and Chanut in Sweden, there seemed to be little
chance that the two of them would have the opportunity to ‘con-
verse privately’ in the near future. ‘I would count myself extremely
fortunate, I assure you, if I could do this with you; but I do not
Frans Hals, René Descartes, 1649, oil on panel.
descartes 242

think I shall ever go to the places where you are, or that you will
retire to this place.’33 And yet, within three years, Descartes was
packing up most (but not all) of his belongings. In February 1649
Chanut was asked by the queen to issue a formal invitation to
Descartes to come to Sweden, for just a while, until the long Swedish
winter settled in. She wanted him to be her tutor in philosophy,
and especially to provide lessons in Cartesian science.
Descartes was, at least on this occasion, a reluctant traveller.
He told Chanut that he was afraid that on the voyage to Sweden
‘I shall simply find myself waylaid by highwaymen who will rob
me or involved in a shipwreck which will cost me my life.’34 He
certainly did not want to give up the comfortable routine that
had allowed him to carry out his researches without interruption,
something that would be hard to maintain while catering to the
wishes of a queen and dealing with the protocols of a royal court
in a foreign and unfamiliar land. While flattered by the honour,
he much preferred to stay in Egmond, where he could see the
Passions through to publication and work on the planned addi-
tional parts of the Principles. He wavered over whether or not to
accept the invitation. In the spring of 1649 he wrote to Brasset
to express his difficulty in deciding to leave ‘this land in order to
live in a land of bears, rocks and ice’.35
In the end, after months of dithering, and a conversation
with Chanut when the ambassador was passing through the
United Provinces in May 1649, Descartes determined that it was
hard to refuse the offer to be Christina’s philosopher-in-residence
and that, despite his misgivings, he should undertake the journey.
He told Elisabeth a month later that ‘I still intend to go there
[Sweden] provided the queen indicates that she still wishes me
to. A week ago Monsieur Chanut, our resident in that country,
passed through here on his way to France. He spoke so glowingly
of this marvellous queen that the voyage no longer seems so long
and arduous as it did previously.’36 Descartes procrastinated
243 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

further, however, and did not actually embark until the end of
September, just as summer was coming to an end.
Many of Descartes’ Dutch acquaintances were saddened by
his impending departure and apprehensive about how he would
fare in new and strange surroundings. Baillet says that ‘several of
his friends in Holland who wanted to come to Amsterdam [from
where Descartes would sail to Sweden] to say goodbye could not
leave him without expressing their affliction that [Descartes’] pre-
monitions about his destiny gave them.’ He adds that ‘among those
who were most touched . . . was the pious Monsieur Bloemaert,
whom [Descartes] saw in Haarlem on frequent and extended visits
during his time in Egmond.’37 The Catholic priest counted on
Descartes for company and for intellectual stimulation. Perhaps
they still talked about their late friend Ban’s music and reminisced
about his concerts.
Bloemaert decided that he wanted a memento before
Descartes set sail. ‘Monsieur Bloemaert could not let Descartes
leave without taking the liberty of having him captured by a
painter, in order that he might at least find some light consolation
in the copy of an original that he risked losing.’38 The priest was
quite familiar with Haarlem’s art world, as he had an extensive
collection of paintings by local masters. He went with the best
portraitist that the city had to offer. Frans Hals’s oil sketch on
wood panel, almost certainly done from life (and reproduced
on the cover of this book), remains our standard image of the
philosopher and served as a model for numerous copies, including
the one by an anonymous artist now in the Louvre.39

It was supposed to be only a temporary sojourn. Writing to


Elisabeth in March 1649, before his departure, Descartes tells
her that ‘I am counting on passing the winter in that country
and returning only next year.’40
descartes 244

Soon after his arrival in Stockholm, at the beginning of


October, he seems unsure what the arrangement is with Christina.
He informs Elisabeth soon after settling in that ‘I have so far had
the honour of seeing the queen only once or twice.’41 He was appar-
ently at her beck and call, and the summons were unpredictable.
‘[I am] going to the castle only at the times when it pleases her
to give me the honour of speaking with her.’ Unfortunately, those
times did not suit well Descartes’ usual habits. This man who was
reportedly accustomed to lying in bed until late in the morning
was, according to Baillet, expected to attend to the queen in her
library at 5 a.m.42 Still, at this point at least, before the dark Swedish
winter had set in, he did not regard this as a major inconvenience.
‘It will not be hard for me to perform my courtly duties, and that
suits my temperament very well.’43 He seems, moreover, suitably
impressed by Christina’s personality and intellect. He praises her
‘generosity and majesty’ and notes that ‘she is strongly drawn to
scholarly pursuits’, although he is unsure how he can be of help
to her. ‘Because I do not know that she has ever read any philos-
ophy, I cannot judge her tastes in this subject, or whether she
will have time for it.’
In fact, Christina seems to have had very little time for philo­s­­
ophy. She was quite busy with celebrations surrounding the recently
completed Peace of Münster, following the wars in which Sweden
played a major role. Baillet says that she did call upon her new
resident philosopher to compose verses to accompany a ballet,
titled La Naissance de la paix (The Birth of Peace), during those
festivities, although, Baillet reports, she was unable to persuade
him also to participate in the dance.44 Even by mid-January 1650
Descartes complains to his friend Nicolas de Flécelles de Brégy,
the French ambassador to Poland whom he had met while De
Brégy was on a diplomatic mission in Stockholm, that since early
December he has seen the queen ‘only four or five times’. She had
just returned from several weeks away in Uppsala, and he has
Louis-Michel Dumesnil, Queen Christina of Sweden and Her Court (detail showing
Christina listening to Descartes), before 1739, oil on canvas.
descartes 246

not seen her since her arrival, so there has been no opportunity
for philosophical lessons – indeed, for any kind of intellectual
engagement. ‘This makes me think that during the winter here
men’s thoughts are frozen, like the water.’45
As if the idleness and the inconvenient hour at which his
presence in the queen’s library was required did not make life at
court unpleasant enough, it seems that other members of the
queen’s cohort of savants were growing resentful of the famous
Frenchman in their midst. What may have made them especially
jealous was that Christina assigned Descartes a lead role in the
planning of a scholarly institute devoted to ‘the search for truth’,
a kind of Swedish Academy of Sciences, and even had him draw
up the statutes. Baillet reports that one of the ‘regulations’ of
this academy, of which Christina would be the head, was that
membership was reserved for ‘only natural born subjects of this
realm’, presumably leaving Descartes out of luck.46
Writing to Elisabeth in October 1649, after only a couple of
weeks in Sweden, he tells her that ‘I do not think that anything
is capable of keeping me in this country longer than next summer.’47
One can only imagine his state of mind by the middle of a frigid
January.
Unfortunately, he would never leave Sweden to return to his
beloved hermitage in Egmond. In mid-January 1650 Chanut became
sick with a pulmonary infection after an outdoor stroll with
Descartes. The philosopher attended to his friend during his
illness, which lasted for several weeks. No sooner had Chanut
begun to get better than Descartes himself started suffering from
the same symptoms, inflammation of the lungs and a fever. Unlike
the diplomat, he never recovered. Descartes died in Stockholm
on 11 February 1650.
There were rumours that the cause of Descartes’ death was
poisoning, perhaps by his rivals at court for Christina’s favours. 48
Baillet dismisses this as being ‘unworthy of the memory of the
247 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

scholars who attended the queen, and who were men without
malice, for the most part, and who discharged their envy not upon
his [Descartes’] person but upon his philosophy’. Rather, Baillet
insists, Descartes was just worn down by his duties. ‘The true and
sole cause of the illness of Monsieur Descartes was the apportion­
ing of his care between the queen and the sick ambassador, in
the middle of a season hostile to his temperament.’49

The seventeenth century belonged to Descartes. His


philosophy dominated the intellectual life of Europe for fifty
years after his death. From the salons and academies of France,
to the Royal Society and philosophical clubs of England, to Dutch
and German universities, Cartesian metaphysical, epistemolog-
ical and scientific ideas were the inescapable topic of conversation.
They inspired research by partisans and attacks by opponents.
There were Cartesians, orthodox and otherwise, who saw their
mission as defending Descartes’ principles, even if this meant
introducing clarifications, modifications, even corrections and
major expansions into topics where Descartes himself had feared
to tread. Their goal was to render the system more internally co­­
herent and more plausible. This meant not only eliminating
apparent inconsistencies but taking account of recent developments
in physics, biology, physiology and other sciences.50 Addressing
the challenges posed by Gassendi and Elisabeth, they devoted
their efforts to formulating a workable account of mind–body
relations; in some cases this meant a retreat to a deus ex machina and
appealing to God as the true and ubiquitous efficient cause of their
mutually corresponding states. At the same time, second-generation
Cartesians found body–body causation just as problematic to
understand as mind–body causation. After all, if, as Descartes had
insisted, bodies are nothing but pure, passive extension, then they
must be devoid of any dynamic features. Active causal powers
descartes 248

– just the powers that Scholastics accounted for by introducing


into bodies soul-like substantial forms and real qualities – cannot
be properties of mere extension. Coming up with an explanation
of force was a serious challenge for Cartesian physics.51 Meanwhile,
some of Descartes’ more courageous (or perhaps foolhardy) fol-
lowers waded into fraught theological territory by addressing the
difficulties around Eucharistic transubstantiation and the problem
of the status of the eternal truths relative to God’s will.52
Among the Cartesian philosophy’s more prominent con­
temporary critics were the Dutch Jewish thinker Bento (Baruch)
de Spinoza (1632–1677) and the German polymath Gottfried
Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716). Spinoza started out as an expositor
of Descartes’ philosophy but eventually formulated his own highly
original philosophical system, one that scandalized Europe. He
departed in a radical way from the Cartesian notion of substance:
only God is a true substance, he argued, and as such God is iden-
tical to Nature. Everything else – including human beings – is a
‘mode’ of God or Nature. Leibniz, who also seems to have gone
through a Cartesian period, for his part rejected Descartes’ theory
of body on both metaphysical and physical grounds; bodies must
be more than mere passive extension if the phenomena of nature
are to be what they are. He also corrected Descartes’ account of
the most basic laws of nature. He showed, for example, that what
is conserved in the universe is not the total quantity of motion
(mass × speed) but the total quantity of force or kinetic energy
(which he measured as mass × velocity2).
The nail in the coffin for Cartesianism, however, came from
an Englishman. Isaac Newton, as we have seen, eschewed (for
the most part) the kind of speculating (‘hypothesizing’, he called
it) about the metaphysical foundations of the laws of nature
and physical phenomena that was so central to Descartes’ phi-
losophy. He also introduced attractive and repulsive forces ‘acting
at a distance’ between bodies, and substituted absolute motion
249 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

for Descartes’ relative motion. By replacing the kinetics of the


Cartesian cosmos with the dynamics of classical mechanics,
Newton raised the mechanical philosophy to a much more mathe­
ma­tically sophisticated level.53 As Voltaire would write in the 1730s,

A Frenchman arriving in London finds quite a change,


in philosophy as in all else. Behind him he left the world

Laurent Guyot, ‘Jardin Elysée, Vue du Tombeau de Descartes’, engraving from


Alexandre Lenoir, Musée des monuments français, vol. v (1806).
descartes 250

full; here he finds it empty. In Paris one sees the universe


composed of vortices of subtle matter; in London one
sees nothing of the sort . . . According to your Cartesians,
everything is done by means of an impulse that is prac-
tically incomprehensible; according to Mr Newton it is
by a kind of attraction, the reason for which is no better
known.54

Despite Cartesian science being eclipsed by Newtonian


mechanics – and later, of course, by Einsteinian relativity theory
and quantum physics – Descartes was of indisputable influence
in the modern development of both philosophy and science. The
philosophy of mind, for example, has long wrestled with the
mind–body problem bequeathed by Cartesian dualism. Most
philosophers of mind now tend to be materialists rather than
dualists about the mind. They reject the notion of the soul as a
separate, non-physical kind of stuff (the so-called ‘ghost in the
machine’, to use the dismissive phrase of the British philosopher
Gilbert Ryle). Rather, they identify mental states with neurological
and physiological states of the brain. However, the problem of
consciousness – what is it? ‘Where’ is it? How does it arise? – is
part of Descartes’ legacy, and remains intractable. As for science,
to the extent that contemporary physics is still wedded to the idea
that there are fundamental items in nature – atoms, subatomic
particles, ‘strings’ – whose behaviour is governed by laws, it really
is a continuation of the project of the rational, experimental mech­
anical science of the seventeenth century to which Descartes
contributed so much.
Was Descartes ‘the father of modern philosophy’? It depends,
of course, on what is meant by ‘modern’. There were certainly
more radical and original thinkers who might have an equally
plausible claim to the title: Spinoza in the seventeenth century,
Hume in the eighteenth. But there can be no question that
251 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’

Descartes played a crucial role in the renewal of philosophy


(including the philosophy of nature or ‘science’) in the seventeenth
century and did much to put it on more rational foundations. In
very important ways, he helped set the agenda for a good deal of
future philosophizing. But he was one of many, and a more com-
plete picture would situate him among a coterie of major figures
in that period – Hobbes, Spinoza, Boyle, Locke, Leibniz, Newton
– who also made important contributions to that renewal. So,
maybe not the father of modern philosophy, but certainly one of
its parents.
chronolog\

Historical events are indicated by italics.

1596 René Descartes is born on 31 March in La Haye,


Touraine, to Joachim Descartes and Jeanne Sain
1607 Begins schooling at the Jesuit College in La Flèche
1609–21 Twelve Year Truce between Dutch Republic and Spain
1610 Beginning of theological controversy in the Dutch Reformed
Church over Arminians (‘Remonstrants’). Galileo publishes
‘The Starry Messenger’
1616 Galileo is warned by Catholic Church not to promote the
Copernican theory of cosmos
1616 Studies law at the University of Poitiers
1618 Travels to the Low Countries; meets Isaac Beeckman
in Breda; enlists in army of Prince Maurits of Nassau
Composes Compendium musicae
1618 Synod of Dort; Remonstrants expelled from Dutch Reformed Church
1619 Johann van Oldenbarnevelt, Lands Advocate of the States of Holland and
Arminians’ political supporter, executed
1619–22 Travels throughout northern Europe (Denmark, German
states, United Provinces). In Neuburg or Ulm, has the
famous ‘dreams’ (November 1619)
1619–28 Works on Rules for the Direction of the Mind
1621 War with Spain resumes
1623–8 In France (Poitou, Brittany, Paris); travels to Switzerland
and Italy in 1625
1625 Stadholder Prince Maurits dies; Frederik Hendrik becomes stadholder
of Holland and other provinces
1628–49 Settles permanently in the United Provinces (Dutch
Republic) in October 1628; moves among various cities
and towns over the years (including Dordrecht, Franeker,
253 Chronology

Amsterdam, Leiden, Deventer and the coastal villages of


Egmond), with occasional trips back to France
1632–3 Galileo publishes ‘Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems’;
he is condemned by Catholic Church and sentenced to house arrest
1630–33 Works on The World (Treatise on Light and Treatise on Man), which
is abandoned after news of Galileo’s condemnation in Rome
1634–5 Meets Helena Jansdr van der Stroom; their daughter
Fransintge (Francine) is born
1637 Publishes Discourse on Method and essays Geometry, Dioptrics and
Meteors
1640 Fransintge dies of scarlet fever
1641 Publishes Meditations on First Philosophy in Paris, along with six
sets of objections and replies. Beginning of controversy at
the University of Utrecht, with opposition led by the rector
Gisbertus Voetius
1642 Second edition of Meditations published in Amsterdam, with
the seventh set of objections and the letter to Father Dinet.
Cartesian philosophy condemned by the city council of
Utrecht
1643 Publishes Letter to Voetius. Begins correspondence with
Elisabeth of Bohemia
1644 Publishes Principles of Philosophy. New controversy over
Descartes’ philosophy brewing at the University of Leiden
1647 Travels to Paris; meets with Blaise Pascal. University of
Leiden curators forbid discussion of Cartesian philosophy.
Queen Christina of Sweden begins studying Descartes’
works
1647 Frederik Hendrik dies; succeeded by his son Willem ii
1648 Publishes Comments on a Certain Broadsheet, in critical response
to his Utrecht disciple Henricus Regius
1648 Treaty of Münster, end of war between Dutch Republic and Spain; the
United Provinces become a sovereign nation
1649 Willem ii dies; beginning of stadholderless period under the leadership
of Johan de Witt, Grand Pensionary of Holland
1649 Queen Christina invites him to Stockholm to tutor her in
philosophy. Travels to Sweden in October. Publishes Passions
of the Soul
1650 Dies in Stockholm on 11 February
References

Abbreviations
at Oeuvres de Descartes, ed. Charles Adam and Paul Tannery, 11 vols
(Paris, 1974–83)
csm The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, ed. and trans. John
Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff and Dugald Murdoch, 2 vols
(Cambridge, 1984)
csmk The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. iii: The Correspondence,
ed. and trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald
Murdoch and Anthony Kenny (Cambridge, 1991)
g Descartes: The World and Other Writings, ed. and trans. Stephen
Gaukroger (Cambridge, 1998)
m René Descartes: Principles of Philosophy, ed. and trans. Valentine
Rodger Miller and Reese P. Miller (Dordrecht and Boston,
ma, 1983)
s The Correspondence Between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René
Descartes, ed. and trans. Lisa Shapiro (Chicago, il, 2007)

Introduction
1 The label, meant initially as a pejorative, was provided by their
critics, who opposed their innovations in philosophy (and, by impli-
cation, in theology). On the novatores, see Daniel Garber, ‘Novatores’,
in The Cambridge History of Philosophy of the Scientific Revolution, ed. David
Marshall Miller and Dana Jalobeanu (Cambridge, 2022), pp. 35–57;
and on Descartes’ relationship to them, see Garber, ‘Descartes
Among the Novatores’, Res Philosophica, 92 (2015), pp. 1–19.
2 Letter/Preface to the French translation of Principles of Philosophy,
at ix–b.15/csm i.187.
255 References

1 Man of Touraine
1 Descartes to Brasset, 23 April 1649, at v.349/csmk 375.
2 On the fate of Descartes’ body, see Russell Shorto, Descartes’ Bones:
A Skeletal History of the Conflict Between Faith and Reason (New York, 2008).
3 Catherine Descartes, ‘Relation de la mort de M. Descartes’, in
Bibliothèque Politique (Paris, 1745), vol. iii, pp. 238–50 (p. 239).
4 Richard A. Watson, Cogito Ergo Sum: The Life of René Descartes (Boston,
ma, 2007), p. 51.
5 Isaac Beeckman, Journal tenu par Isaac Beeckman de 1604 à 1634, vol. i:
1604–1619, ed. Cornelis de Waard (The Hague, 1939), pp. 237, 244,
257.
6 Descartes to Elisabeth, at iv.220–21/csmk 250–51.
7 See the account of his earliest years in Desmond Clarke, Descartes:
A Biography (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 12–14.
8 On these family professional connections, see Watson, Cogito Ergo
Sum, pp. 43–6.
9 Allan P. Farrell, The Jesuit Ratio studiorum of 1599 (Washington, dc,
1970), p. 62. This is a complete translation of the text of the
Ratio studiorum.
10 Ibid., p. 43.
11 Ibid., p. 40.
12 There is some debate as to when exactly Descartes began at
La Flèche. Most likely it was 1607; this is the date defended in
Geneviève Rodis-Lewis, Descartes: Biographie (Paris, 1995); and Clarke,
Descartes. Descartes’ early biographer Baillet puts it, implausibly, in
1604 (Adrien Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Desartes, 2 vols (Paris, 1691)),
while Stephen Gaukroger (Descartes: An Intellectual Biography (Oxford,
1995) and Watson (Cogito Ergo Sum) claim 1606.
13 Discourse on Method, at vi.5–6/csm i.113.
14 Descartes [to Debeaune], 12 September 1638, at ii.378/csmk 124.
15 Discourse on Method, at vi.5–6/csm i.113.
16 Discourse on Method, at vi.17/csm i.119.
17 Discourse on Method, at vi.16/csm i.119.
18 Farrell, The Jesuit Studio ratiorum, p. 40.
19 The placard of Descartes’ theses was not discovered until 1981,
attached with other papers to the back of an engraving as support.
See the annotated transcription and translation in Jean-Robert
Armogathe, Vincent Carraud and Robert Feenstra, ‘La licence en droit
de Descartes’, Nouvelles de la République des lettres, 8 (1988), pp. 123–45.
descartes 256

20 Discourse on Method, at vi.4/csm i.112–13.


21 Discourse on Method, at vi.9/csm i.115.
22 Descartes [to Debeaune], 12 September 1638, at ii.378/csmk 123–4.

2 ‘The great book of the world’


1 On this, see Leszek Kolakowski, Chrétiens sans Église: La Conscience
religieuse et le lien confessionnel au xviie siècle (Paris, 1969), chap. 2; and
Jonathan Israel, The Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness and Fall, 1477–1806
(Oxford, 1995), pp. 421–75.
2 Adrien Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, 2 vols (Paris, 1691), vol. i,
p. 43. According to J. A. van Ruler, who finds Baillet’s source in the
earlier biographical text by Daniel Lipstorp (1653), the details of
Baillet’s narrative may be fictitious, but Descartes and Beeckman did
in fact meet that same day; see ‘Philosopher Defying the Philosophers:
Descartes’s Life and Works’, in The Oxford Handbook to Descartes
and Cartesianism, ed. Steven Nadler, Tad Schmaltz and Delphine
Antoine-Mahut (Oxford and New York, 2019), pp. 3–24 (p. 11).
3 at x.58–61.
4 See Descartes to Beeckman, 26 March 1619, at x.155/csmk 2.
Beeckman comments on Descartes’ approach to this problem in his
journal entry of 11 November 1619 (Isaac Beeckman, Journal tenu par
Isaac Beeckman de 1604 à 1634, vol. i: 1604–1619, ed. Cornelis de Waard
(The Hague, 1939), p. 237).
5 Descartes to Beeckman, 24 January 1619, at x.152/csmk 1.
6 Descartes to Beeckman, 24 January 1619, at x.153/csmk 1.
Beeckman claims that Descartes wrote the treatise ‘on my account
[mea causa]’; see Beeckman, Journal, p. 257. The treatise was not
published in Descartes’ lifetime.
7 Compendium Musicae, at x.89.
8 Descartes to Beeckman, 26 March 1619, at x.156–7/csmk 2.
9 Descartes to Beeckman, 26 March 1619, at x.156–7/csmk 2–3.
10 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 4, at x.378/csm i.19.
11 Descartes to Beeckman, 24 January 1619, at x.151/csmk 1.
12 Descartes to Beeckman, 24 January 1619, at x.153/csmk 1.
13 Descartes to Beeckman, 23 April 1619, at x.163/csmk 4.
14 Descartes to Mersenne, 18 December 1629, at i.94/csmk 17.
15 Discourse on Method, at vi.11/ csm i.116. He is referring to the Thirty
Years War, which generally (but not exclusively) pitted Catholic
armies against Protestant forces.
257 References

16 The letter is no longer extant, but see Baillet, La vie de Monsieur


Descartes (vol. i, p. 118), who claims to be quoting from it.
17 Discourse on Method, at vi.28/csm i.125.
18 According to research by Erik-Jan Bos, ‘Descartes en Italie: pour
vendre des mulets’, Bulletin Cartésien, 51 (2020), pp. 164–70.
19 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. i, p. 118.
20 Olympica, at x.218/csm i.5.
21 Descartes to Mersenne, 11 October 1638, at ii.380. In this letter,
Descartes says, referring to Galileo, ‘je ne l’ay jamais vu, ny n’ay eu
aucune communication avec luy’ (388).
22 Descartes to Balzac, 5 May 1631, at i.204/csmk 32.
23 Descartes to Mersenne, 13 November 1639, at ii.623.
24 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. i, pp. 117–22.
25 Meteors, at vi.316.
26 Desmond Clarke, Descartes: A Biography (Cambridge, 2006), p. 71.
27 Discourse on Method, at vi.11/csm i.116.
28 at x.216/csm I.4.
29 The account of the dreams and of Descartes’ interpretation of them
is in Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. i, pp. 81–6. This section of
the notebook is titled Olympica. Richard Watson believes that Baillet
is making up most of the material on the dreams (Cogito Ergo Sum:
The Life of René Descartes (Boston, ma, 2007), pp. 109–14).
30 at x.216/csm i.3.
31 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. i, p. 81.
32 Discourse on Method, at vi.10/csm i.116.
33 Discourse on Method, at vi.16/csm i.119.
34 Discourse on Method, at vi.3/csm i.112.
35 The ever-sceptical Watson thinks that Baillet just makes up a lot
of this story (Cogito Ergo Sum, pp. 142–9).
36 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. i, pp. 160–63.
37 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 1, at x.359/csm i.9.
38 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 3, at x.368/csm i.14.
39 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 3, at x.369–370/csm i.15.
40 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 7, at x.388/csm i.25.
41 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 2, at x.364-5/csm i.12.
42 The mathesis universalis appears in Rule 4. However, it may be a
late addition to the text. It does not appear in the contemporary
manuscript recently discovered by Richard Serjeantson (the
‘Cambridge manuscript’), which many believe is an early version
of the work. Scholars are divided on whether mathesis universalis is
descartes 258

the method itself or a substantive body of science, a set of true


propositions discovered through the method. On this, compare
Jon Schuster, Descartes Agonistes: Physico-Mathematics, Method and
Mechanism, 1618–1633 (Dordrecht, 2013) against Daniel Garber,
Descartes Embodied: Reading Cartesian Philosophy through Cartesian Science
(Cambridge, 2001), p. 38 n. 8, and Daniel Garber, ‘Review of Jon
Schuster, Descartes Agonistes: Physico-Mathematics, Method and Mechanism,
1618–1633’, Les Archives du Séminaire Descartes, 23 May 2015.
43 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 4, at x.374/csm i.17.
44 Discourse on Method, at vi.19–20/csm i.120.
45 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 4, at x.371–372/csm i.16.
46 It is now known as ‘Snell’s Law’, after the Dutch astronomer
Willebrord Snell (1580–1626), who also discovered the
mathematical formula but never published it in his lifetime.
47 A nice account of Descartes’ ‘method’ as applied to the problem
of the anaclastic is in Daniel Garber, ‘Descartes and Experiment
in the Discourse and Essays’, in Garber, Descartes Embodied, pp. 85–110
(pp. 87–9).
48 Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule 17, at x.459/csm i.70.
49 A few things have been clarified somewhat, but not completely,
by the Cambridge manuscript.
50 Garber, in Descartes Embodied, argues that the method of the Rules does
inform Descartes’ later work, at least up to the Discourse on Method of
1637.

3 A Fabulous New World


1 The Stockholm inventory is in at x.1–12.
2 It is possible that item X in the inventory, ‘Soixante & neuf
feuillets, dont la suite est interrompue en plusier endroits,
contenans la doctrine de ses principes en françois & non
entierement conformes à l’imprimé latin’ (at x.12), refers
to Le Monde. However, when the inventory was made, in
the early 1650s, there was as yet no published Latin edition
(‘l’imprimé latin’) of the work. Sophie Roux suggests, nonetheless,
that Le Monde may have been one of the manuscripts that Pierre
d’Alibert brought back from Stockholm around 1666; see Sophie
Roux, ‘Une enquête sur Jacques du Roure’, Bulletin cartésien, 50
(2021), pp. 20–30. Moreover, in correspondence with me, she
makes the compelling point that the ‘printed Latin’ work being
259 References

referred to here is the Principles of Philosophy, many of the doctrines


of which were in the earlier text; and so the work in the inventory
might very well be Le Monde.
3 Discourse on Method iv, at vi.30/csm i.126.
4 at viii-b.110–11.
5 Discourse on Method iv, at vi.31/csm i.126.
6 Descartes to Balzac, 5 May 1631, at i.202-3/csmk 31.
7 Descartes to Mersenne, 4 March 1630, at i.125.
8 Descartes to Mersenne, 2 December 1630, at i.191. The ‘subterfuge’
was to be the claim of ignorance. Descartes was, in fact, interested in
going to England to meet with the Hartlib circle there, although he
never made the trip.
9 In May 1616 Cardinal Bellarmine noted that the pope and the
Sacred Congregation of the Index had warned Galileo only that ‘the
doctrine attributed to Copernicus (that the earth moves around
the sun and the sun stands at the center of the world without
moving from east to west) is contrary to Holy Scripture and
therefore cannot be defended or held’; see the document in
Maurice Finocchiaro, ed., The Galileo Affair: A Documentary History
(Berkeley and Los Angeles, ca, 1989), p. 153. The nature of the
warning that Galileo received in 1616 has been subject to different
interpretations ever since Galileo himself claimed that he had not
been forbidden to discuss the Copernican doctrine. On this, see
Finocchiaro, The Galileo Affair, pp. 32–71.
10 For a good discussion of the philosophical and historical
complexities, see the Introduction to Finocchiaro, The Galileo Affair.
J. L. Heilbron, Galileo (Oxford, 2010), is the best recent biography
of Galileo in English, which includes a good general account of the
affair.
11 Galileo Galilei, Discoveries and Opinions of Galileo, ed. Stillman Drake
(Garden City, ny, 1957), p. 45.
12 Ibid., p. 57.
13 Dedicatory Letter to Cosimo ii de Medici, ibid., p. 24.
14 Ibid., pp. 102, 106.
15 Ibid., p. 144.
16 Ibid., p. 177.
17 The text of this assessment is in Finocchiaro, The Galileo Affair, p. 146.
18 Ibid., p. 148. Copernicus’ treatise was put on the Index donec
corrigitur (‘until it is corrected’). Corrections were duly made,
and it was removed from the Index in 1620.
descartes 260

19 The text of this ‘special injunction’ is ibid., p. 147.


20 Galileo’s Second Deposition, ibid., p. 278.
21 The text of the Inquisition’s sentence is ibid., pp. 287–91.
22 Descartes to Mersenne, 8 October 1629, at i.23/csmk 6.
23 Descartes to Mersenne, 25 November 1630, at i.179/csmk 28.
24 Descartes to Mersenne, 13 November 1629, at i.70/csmk 7.
25 Descartes to Mersenne, 13 November 1629, at i.71/csmk 8.
26 Descartes to Mersenne, January 1630, at i.113/csmk 18.
27 Descartes to Mersenne, 25 November 1630, at i.178–9/
csmk 28.
28 Discourse on Method, at vi.42/csm i.132.
29 at i.254/csmk 39.
30 at i.263/csmk 40.
31 Discourse on Method, at vi.56/csm i.139.
32 Discourse on Method, at vi.55/csm i.139.
33 Discourse on Method, at vi.57/csm i.140.
34 Discourse on Method, at vi.59/csm i.141.
35 There is some difference of scholarly opinion over whether the
title Le Monde applies to the whole composed of both treatises
together, or only to the Traité de la lumière. The earliest editions
of these works all use Le Monde only with respect to the Traité de la
lumière. Florent Schuyl’s 1662 Latin edition of the Traité de l’homme
– De homine – and Clerselier’s 1664 French edition of that work
do not have Le Monde in the title. (There was a 1664 edition of Le
Monde de Mr. Descartes ou le Traité de la lumière published by Jacques du
Roure (according to Roux, ‘Une enquête sur Jacques du Roure’).)
Moreover, Clerselier’s 1677 edition containing both treatises has
the following title: L’Homme de René Descartes . . . a quoy l’on a ajouté
Le Monde ou Traité de la lumière du mesme auteur. In Clerselier’s view,
then, only the Traité de la lumière is Le Monde. The editors of csm, the
standard English edition of Descartes’ writings, take his lead, and
reserve The World only for the Treatise on Light. It seems clear from
Descartes’ correspondence, however, that the work he refers to
as ‘mon Monde’ includes both parts. For example, he tells Mersenne
that ‘my discussion of man in The World will be a little fuller than
I had intended, for I have undertaken to explain all the main
functions in man’ (at i.263/csmk 40) – which is precisely what
he does in the Traité de l’homme. The editors of at, still the standard
critical edition of Descartes’ writings, include both treatises under
Le Monde, as have I.
261 References

36 See the summary in Discourse on Method, at vi.40–44/csm i.131–4.


37 In fact, it is a little more complex than this. The human body itself
is a substance whose matter is informed by the substantial form that
makes it a living human body; that human body substance then takes
on the substantial form that is the human soul, which endows it with
rationality and the other human psychic functions.
38 See, for example, Thomas Aquinas, De ente et essentia, sections 17–18.
39 See Duarte Madeira Arrais, Novae philosophiae et medicinae de qualitatibus
occultis, pars prima (Lisbon, 1650), pp. 1–19.
40 Collegium Conimbricense, In octo libros physicorum Aristotelis (Coimbra,
1602), viii.4.i.3.
41 Principles of Philosophy, Preface to the French translation, at ix–b.8/
csm i.182–3.
42 Act 3, third interlude, ll. 58–66.
43 See Roger Ariew and Marjorie Grene, ‘The Cartesian Destiny of
Form and Matter’, Early Science and Medicine, 2 (1997), pp. 300–325
(p. 313).
44 Descartes to Mersenne, 26 April 1643, at iii.648/csmk 216.
45 The World, at xi.25–6/csm i.89.
46 The World, at x i.27/csm i.89.
47 The World, at x i.20/csm i.87.
48 The World, at x i.34–35/csm i.91.
49 Galileo, Discoveries and Opinions, pp. 274–7.
50 Treatise on Man, at x.120/g 99.
51 Treatise on Man, at x.130/ g 107.
52 Treatise on Man, at x.143/ g 119.
53 Treatise on Man, at x.145–6/ g 120.
54 The World, at xi.3–4/csm i.81.
55 There are, of course, important differences among these early
modern scientists. Some of them (Boyle, Locke, Gassendi) are
atomists and others (Descartes and most of his followers) are not.
Leibniz insists on the need for a metaphysical ground of force within
bodies (similar, he admits, to Aristotelian forms), while Descartes
denies this. And Newton, in some contexts, seems to countenance
action at a distance. Nonetheless, in the domain of physics proper,
for all of these thinkers the only relevant considerations are matter
and motion and the mathematical formulation of the laws governing
these.
56 Descartes to Mersenne, 15 April 1630, at i.145/csmk 23.
57 Descartes to Mersenne, 6 May 1630, at i.149/csmk 24.
descartes 262

58 Descartes [to Mersenne?], 27 May 1630, at i.151–2/csmk 25.


The editors of at are uncertain whether this letter is indeed
addressed to Mersenne.
59 Descartes to Mersenne, 19 April 1630, at i.146/csmk 23.
60 Discourse on Method, at vi.59/csm i.141.
61 Descartes to Mersenne, 25 November 1630, at i.182/csmk 29.

4 Rebuilding the House of Knowledge


1 Jonathan Israel, The Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness and Fall, 1477–1806
(Oxford, 1995), p. 559.
2 Throughout this book, I use the standard abbreviations for Dutch
patronyms. Thus ‘Cornelisz’ is short for ‘Corneliszoon’ (Cornelis’s
son), and ‘Jansdr’ is short for ‘Jansdochter’ (Jan’s daughter).
3 On the book trade in Amsterdam, see M. M. Kleerkooper and W. P.
van Stockum, De Boekhandel te Amsterdam voornamelijk in de 17e eeuw, 2 vols
(The Hague, 1914–16), as well as, more recently, Andrew Pettegree
and Arthur der Weduwen, The Bookshop of the World: Making and Trading
Books in the Dutch Golden Age (New Haven, ct, 2019).
4 Descartes to Mersenne, 18 December 1629, at i.85–6.
5 The World, at xi.64–9/g 41–5. The diagrams in the work make
the heliocentrism perfectly clear.
6 The World, at xi.48/g 32.
7 The World, at xi.31–2/g 21.
8 Descartes to Mersenne, November or December 1632, at i.262/
csmk 39–40.
9 Descartes to Mersenne, November 1633, at i.271/csmk 41.
10 Descartes to Mersenne, December 1640, at iii.258/csmk 160.
11 Descartes to Mersenne, February 1634, at i.281–2/csmk 41–2.
The work was not published until after Descartes’ death, when
it appeared as two separate treatises: Le Monde ou Traité de la Lumière
(1664) and the Traité de l’homme (1664; a Latin translation was
published first, in 1662).
12 The World, at xi.31/g 21.
13 Discourse on Method, at vi.75/csm i.149.
14 Descartes to Mersenne, 27 May 1638, at ii.141–2/csmk 103.
15 Discourse on Method, at vi.76/csm i.150.
16 Dioptrics, at vi.87.
17 Dioptrics, at vi.83.
18 Meteors, at vi.233.
263 References

19 Descartes [to Vatier], 22 February 1638, at i.563/csmk 87.


20 Meteors, at vi.240.
21 Meteors, at vi.325.
22 Meteors, at vi.333.
23 Descartes to Mersenne, March 1636, at i.339/csmk 51.
24 Descartes to Mersenne, 27 February 1637, at i.349/csmk 53.
25 Discourse on Method, at vi.22–7/csm i.122–4.
26 This is how I read this difficult passage from the Discourse in which
Descartes describes the procedure of investigation in The World. In
practice, things may have been a little more complicated than he says
in his exposition, and are certainly more complicated (and opaque)
in the later Principles of Philosophy, where it is even less clear at what
point Descartes begins arguing hypothetically from phenomena to
causes. My thanks to Daniel Garber for discussing this issue with me;
see also Daniel Garber, ‘Descartes and Experiment in the Discourse
and Essays’, in Daniel Garber, Descartes Embodied: Reading Cartesian
Philosophy through Cartesian Science (Cambridge, 2001), pp. 85–110.
Meanwhile, Stephen Gaukroger has told me that, as he reads The
World, the heavens and so on are not actually discovered a priori.
27 Discourse on Method, at vi.64–5/csm i.144.
28 Discourse on Method, at vi.56–7/csm i.139–40.
29 Discourse on Method, at vi.57–8/csm i.140. See also Descartes to
the Marquess of Newcastle, 23 November 1646, at iv.569–76/
csmk 302–4. Descartes tells the Marquess that ‘I cannot share the
opinion of Montaigne and others who attribute understanding or
thought to animals . . . the reason why animals do not speak as we do
is not that they lack the organs but that they have no thoughts.’ He
also notes that ‘none of our external actions can show anyone who
examines them that our body is not just a self-moving machine, but
contains a soul with thoughts, with the exception of spoken words.’
30 Descartes to Mersenne, March 1636, at i.340/csmk 51.
31 Discourse on Method, at vi.77/csm i.151.
32 Descartes [to ?] at i.370/csmk 58.

5 ‘I think, therefore I am’


1 Descartes to Mersenne, 27 May 1638, at ii.152–3.
2 According to a report by Baillet; see at v.280.
3 According to Baillet; at v.280.
4 Descartes to Plempius, 15 February 1638, at i.526/csmk 81.
descartes 264

5 Descartes to Mersenne, 2 November 1646, at iv.555.


6 This is how he describes his life in Holland in a letter to Constantijn
Huygens, 12 June 1637, at i.638/csmk 60.
7 Discourse on Method, at vi.75/csm i.149.
8 Discourse on Method, at vi.46–55/csm i.134–9.
9 This is Descartes’ paraphrase of Froidmont’s objection, at i.414/
csm i.62.
10 Descartes to Plempius, 3 October 1637, at i.410/csmk 60.
11 Descartes to Plempius, 20 December 1637, at i.475/csmk 76.
12 Descartes to Plempius, 20 December 1637, at i.475/csmk 76.
13 Fermat to Mersenne, April or May 1637, at i.357.
14 Fermat to Mersenne, April or May 1637, at i.355.
15 Descartes to Mersenne, 5 October 1637, at i.451/csmk 74.
16 Descartes to Mersenne, January 1638, at i.486.
17 See Roberval’s text of April 1638, at ii.104–14.
18 Descartes to Mersenne, 27 July 1638, at ii.274–5.
19 Descartes to Mydorge, March 1638, at ii.13.
20 Descartes to Mersenne, 29 June 1638, at ii.193.
21 Descartes to Mersenne, 29 June 1638, at ii.175.
22 Discourse on Method, at vi.68–9/csm i.146.
23 Descartes to Mersenne, 5 October 1637, at i.449.
24 Descartes to Vatier, 22 February 1638, at i.560/csmk 86.
25 Descartes to Vatier, 22 February 1638, at i.561–3/csmk 86–7.
26 Huygens to Descartes, 23 November 1637, at i.462.
27 Huygens to Descartes, 15 May 1639, at ii.679.
28 See Descartes’ paraphrases of Morin’s objections in his letter to
Morin of 13 July 1638, at ii.197–219/csmk 106–11.
29 Morin to Descartes, 22 February 1638, at i.537.
30 Descartes to Mersenne, 15 April 1630, at i.144/csmk 22.
31 Descartes to Huygens, 31 July 1640, at iii.751/csmk 150.
32 Descartes to Mersenne, 11 November 1640, at iii.238–9/
csmk 158.
33 Descartes to Mersenne, 11 October 1638, at ii.380/csmk 124.
34 Descartes to Mersenne, 28 January 1641, at iii.298/csmk 173.
35 On the Meditations as an anti-sceptical project, see Edwin M. Curley,
Descartes Against the Skeptics (Cambridge, ma, 1978).
36 The classic study is Richard H. Popkin, The History of Skepticism
from Erasmus to Spinoza (Berkeley and Los Angeles, ca, 1979).
37 There are many fine and highly detailed scholarly studies of
the Meditations, from very different perspectives. These include
265 References

Janet Broughton, Descartes’ Method of Doubt (Princeton, nj, 2001);


John Carriero, Between Two Worlds: A Reading of Descartes’ Meditations
(Princeton, nj, 2009); Martial Gueroult, Descartes selon l’ordre des
raisons, 2 vols (Paris, 1953); Anthony Kenny, Descartes: A Study of His
Philosophy (New York, 1968); Bernard Williams, Descartes: The Project
of Pure Enquiry (Harmondsworth, 1978); and Margaret Wilson,
Descartes (London, 1978).
38 Descartes to Mersenne, 11 November 1640, at iii.235/csmk 157.
39 Preface to the French translation of Principles of Philosophy, at ix.2.14/
csm i.186.
40 Ibid.
41 Meditations, Synopsis, at ix.2/csm ii.9.
42 Seventh Set of Replies, at vii.481/csm ii.324.
43 Meditations, First Meditation, at vii.17/csm ii.12.
44 These are the two different ways of understanding the dream
argument, suggested (respectively) by how Descartes describes
it in the First Meditation (at vii.19/csm ii.13) and in his recap
in the Sixth Meditation (at vii.77/csm ii.53). The difference is
discussed by Wilson in her analysis of the argument (Descartes,
pp. 13–31).
45 Meditations, First Meditation, at vii.19–20/csm ii.13.
46 Meditations, Third Meditation, at vii.36/csm ii.25. Scholars
now call it ‘hyperbolic’ doubt; the phrase was introduced in
Henri Gouhier, Essais sur Descartes (Paris, 1937).
47 Meditations, First Meditation, at vii.21/csm ii.14.
48 Descartes was a fan of this sort of literature, and Cervantes’s
story may have played an influential role in the way in which
Descartes conceived the doubts of the First Meditation; see
Steven Nadler, ‘Descartes’ Demon and the Madness of Don
Quixote’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 58 (1997), pp. 41–55.
49 Meditations, Second Meditation, at vii.25/csm ii.17.
50 Meditations, Second Meditation, at vii.28/csm ii.19.
51 Meditations, Third Meditation, at vii.41/csm ii.29.
52 Meditations, Fifth Meditation, at vii.66/csm ii.46.
53 Meditations, Fourth Meditation, at vii.53/csm ii.37.
54 at vii.71/csm ii.49.
55 at vii.62/csm ii.43.
56 Second Set of Replies, at vii.141/csm ii.101.
57 Meditations, Sixth Meditation, at vii.78/csm ii.54.
58 Meditations, Sixth Meditation, at vii.79–80/csm ii.55.
descartes 266

59 For a provocative study of Descartes’ account of embodied mind,


and especially what he calls ‘meum corpus’, see Jean-Luc Marion,
Sur la pensée passive de Descartes (Paris, 2013).
60 Meditations, Sixth Meditation, at vii.80–81/csm ii.56.
61 In the second edition, published in 1642, this is changed to: ‘in
which are demonstrated the existence of God and the distinction
between the human soul and the body.’
62 Descartes to Mersenne, 24 December 1640, at iii.266/csmk 163.
63 Descartes [to Gibieuf], 11 November 1630, at iii.238/csmk 158.

6 Loss and Conflict


1 Descartes to Mersenne, 24 December 1640, at iii.265/csmk 163.
2 Descartes to Mersenne, 30 September 1640, at iii.183–4/csmk
153.
3 Descartes to Mersenne, 28 January 1641, at iiii.297/csmk 172.
4 On Helena Jansdr van der Stroom, see Jeroen van de Ven, ‘Quelques
données nouvelles sur Helena Jans’, Bulletin Cartésien, 32, Archives de
philosophie, 67 (2004), pp. 163–6.
5 Desmond Clarke, Descartes: A Biography (Cambridge, 2006), p. 131.
6 Adrien Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, 2 vols (Paris, 1691), vol. ii,
p. 89.
7 Ibid., vol. i, p. ix.
8 For more on Helena’s fate, see Clarke, Descartes, pp. 135–6; and Van
de Ven, ‘Quelques données nouvelles’. Van de Ven also discusses the
dowry (p. 166), as does Richard A. Watson, Cogito Ergo Sum: The Life of
René Descartes (Boston, ma, 2007), p. 188.
9 Descartes [to ?], 30 August 1637, at i.393.
10 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. ii, p. 90.
11 Ibid.
12 Descartes to Mersenne, 15 September 1640, at iii.175–81.
13 Helena, twice widowed, would die in 1683.
14 Descartes to Pollot, January 1641, at iii.278–9/csmk 167.
15 First Set of Objections, at vii.99/csm ii.72.
16 Second Set of Objections, at vii.126/csm ii.90.
17 Leviathan, iii.xxxiv.2.
18 Leviathan, i.i.1–2.
19 Leviathan, i.iii.12.
20 Descartes to Mersenne (for Hobbes), 21 January 1641, at iii.287/
csmk 170.
267 References

21 Descartes to Mersenne, 4 March 1641, at iii.320/csmk 173.


22 Fourth Objections, at vii.197–204/csm ii.139–44.
23 Fourth Objections, at vii.207–14/csm ii.146–50.
24 Fourth Objections, at vii.214/csm ii.150.
25 Council of Trent, Session 13, Chapter 4.
26 On this subject, see Jean-Robert Armogathe, Theologia cartesiana:
L’explication physique de l’Eucharistie chez Descartes et Dom Desgabet,
International Archives of the History of Ideas, 84 (The Hague, 1977).
27 Fourth Replies, at vii.251/csm ii.175.
28 Descartes to Mesland, 9 February 1645, at iv.163–9.
29 When Descartes’ friend Claude Clerselier published his collection
of Descartes’ correspondence in 1657 he did not include this letter
to Mesland, suspecting that its ‘novelties’ would be found ‘suspect
and dangerous’ (Clerselier to Desgabets, 6 January 1672, at iv.170).
30 Descartes to Arnauld, 4 June 1648, at v.194/csmk 355.
31 See Steven Nadler, ‘Arnauld, Descartes and Transubstantiation:
Reconciling Cartesian Metaphysics and Real Presence’, Journal of the
History of Ideas, 59 (1988), pp. 229–46.
32 Descartes to Mersenne, 28 January 1641, at iii.293/csmk 171.
33 Descartes to Mersenne, 4 March 1641, at iii.330/csmk 175.
34 Descartes to Mersenne, 18 March 1641, at iii.334/csmk 175.
35 On Gassendi and early modern Epicureanism, see Catherine
Wilson, Epicureanism at the Origins of Modernity (New York, 2008). On
Gassendi’s philosophy generally, see Antonia LoLordo, Pierre Gassendi
and the Birth of Early Modern Philosophy (Cambridge, 2007).
36 On Gassendi’s ‘mitigated skepticism’, see Richard H. Popkin, The
History of Skepticism from Erasmus to Spinoza (Berkeley and Los Angeles,
ca, 1979); and LoLordo, Pierre Gassendi, pp. 60–72.
37 Fifth Set of Objections, at vii. 276–7/csm ii.192–3.
38 The phrase is from David Chalmers, ‘Facing Up to the Problem of
Consciousness’, Journal of Consciousness Studies, 2 (1995), pp. 200–219.
39 Descartes does, it seems, miss Gassendi’s point and accuse him of
making a category mistake; Fifth Set of Replies, at vii.359–60/csm
ii.248–9.
40 Namely, in his Syntagma philosophicum of 1658.
41 Fifth Set of Objections, at vii.260–62/csm ii.181–3.
42 On this, see John Yolton, Thinking Matter: Materialism in Eighteenth-
Century Britain (Minneapolis, mn, 1984).
43 Fifth Set of Objections, at vii.337/csm ii.234.
44 Fifth Set of Objections, at vii.338/csm ii.234.
descartes 268

45 Fifth Set of Objections, at vii.261/csm ii.182.


46 Fifth Set of Objections, at vii.341/csm ii.237.
47 Fifth Set of Objecctions, at vii.343–5/csm ii.238–9.
48 For studies of mind–body causal and epistemological relations
in Descartes and later Cartesianism, see Richard A. Watson, The
Downfall of Cartesianism, 1673–1712: A Study of Epistemological Issues in Late
Seventeenth-Century Cartesianism (The Hague, 1966); Tad Schmaltz,
Descartes on Causation (Oxford, 2007); Schmaltz, Early Modern
Cartesianisms: Dutch and French Constructions (Oxford, 2017); Steven
Nadler, Occasionalism: Causation Among the Cartesians (Oxford and New
York, 2011); and Sandrine Roux, L’Empreinte cartésienne: L’interaction
psychophysique, débats classiques et contemporains (Paris, 2018).
49 at ix–a.213/csm ii.275.
50 Fifth Set of Replies, at vii.390/csm ii.266–7.
51 For a biography of Elisabeth, see Renée Jeffery, Princess Elisabeth of
Bohemia: The Philosopher Princess (Lanham, md, 2018).
52 Elisabeth to Descartes, 6 May 1643, at iii.661/s 62.
53 Descartes to Elisabeth, 21 May 1643, at iii.664/s 63.
54 Descartes to Elisabeth, 21 May 1643, at iii.666/s 66.
55 Elisabeth to Descartes, 10 June 1643, at iii.685/s 68.
56 Descartes to Elisabeth, 28 June 1643, at iii.692/s 70.
57 Elisabeth to Descartes, 1 July 1643, at iv.2/s 72.
58 Descartes to Elisabeth, 8 July 1644, at iv.65/s 81.
59 Descartes to Elisabeth, August 1644, at iv.137/s 85.
60 Descartes to Elisabeth, 18 May 1645, at iv.201/s 86.
61 Elisabeth to Descartes, 22 June 1645, at iv.233/s 93.
62 Descartes to Elisabeth, 4 August 1645, at iv.264–5/s 97–8.
63 For example, through Justus Lipsius’ De constantia (1583). On
Descartes’ moral philosophy, see John Marshall, Descartes’s Moral
Theory (Ithaca, ny, 1998); and Denis Kambouchner, Descartes et la
philosophie morale (Paris, 2008).
64 Elisabeth to Descartes, 28 October 1645, at iv.323/s 123, and
30 November 1645, at iv.336/s 127.
65 Descartes to Elisabeth, 3 November 1645, at iv.333/s 126, and
January 1646, at iv.352–3/s 130. The analogy with the king is
misleading, of course, since the king, unlike God, does not put those
belligerent inclinations into his two subjects.
66 Principles of Philosophy i.40–41, at viiia.20/csm i.206. For Descartes’
approaches to the problem of freedom, see C. P. Ragland, The Will to
Reason: Theodicy and Freedom in Descartes (Oxford and New York, 2016).
269 References

67 Clarke suggests that Descartes’ interest in her was grounded not in


love but in her potential as a patron (Descartes, p. 274).
68 Descartes to Mersenne, 17 November 1641, at iii.448/csmk 198–9.
69 Descartes to Mersenne, March 1641, at iii.543/csmk 210.
70 This is the plausible explanation offered by Clarke, Descartes, p. 207.
71 Seventh Set of Objections, at vii.529/csm ii.360.
72 Seventh Set of Objections, at vii.463/csm ii.311.
73 Seventh Set of Objections, at vii.479/csm ii.323.
74 Seventh Set of Replies, at vii.452/csm ii.303.
75 Letter to Father Dinet, at vii.564/csm ii.384–5.
76 Letter to Father Dinet, at vii.565/csm ii.385.
77 Letter to Father Dinet, at vii.580–581/csm ii.391–2.
78 Letter to Father Dinet, at vii.602/csm ii.396.
79 See Descartes to Dinet and Descartes to Bourdin, both October
1644, at iv.142–3.
80 Descartes to Charlet, 9 February 1645, at iv.157.
81 Jean-Robert Armogathe, ‘L’Approbation des Meditationes par la
Faculté de théologie de Paris (1641)’, Bulletin Cartésien, 21, Archives de
philosophie, 57 (1994), pp. 1–3.
82 See, for example, Clarke, Descartes, pp. 206–7.

7 The Cartesian Textbook


1 Quoted in Desmond Clarke, Descartes: A Biography (Cambridge,
2006), p. 230. ‘Hogeland’ is Cornelis van Hogeland (1590–1662),
a friend of Descartes’ in Leiden.
2 Descartes to Huygens, 1 September 1642, at iii.792.
3 Descartes to Colvius, at iii.647.
4 Descartes to Huygens, 31 January 1642, at iii.523/csmk 210.
5 Descartes to Mersenne, 30 September 1640, at iii.185/csmk
153–4. Among the Jesuit authors he names are Francisco Toledo
(1552–1596), Antonio Rubio (1548–1615) and the Coimbrian
commentators on Aristotle.
6 Descartes to Mersenne, 11 November 1640, at iii.232/csmk 156.
7 The Principles was originally conceived as a six-part work, including a
Part Five on plants and animals and a Part Six devoted to the human
being; it may be that ethics would have been consigned to this final
part.
8 Principles i.51, at viii–a.24/csm i.210.
9 Principles i.9, at viii–a.7/csm i.195.
descartes 270

10 Principles ii.4, at viii–a.42/csm i.224.


11 Principles i.65, at viii–a.32/csm i.216.
12 Principles i.68, at viii–a.33/csm i.217.
13 Principles ii.3, at viii–a.41/csm i.224.
14 Principles ii.11 and ii.20, at viii–a.46/csm ii.227 and at viii–a.51/
csm i.231.
15 Principles ii.23, at viii–a.52/csm i.232.
16 Principles ii.28, at viii–a.55/csm i.234.
17 Passions of the Soul, ii.145, at xi.438/csm i.380.
18 Discourse on Method, at vi.43/csm i.132. He is referring to what he
does in Le Monde, chap. 7.
19 Principles of Philosophy ii.36, at viii–a.61–2/csm i.240.
20 Le Monde, at xi.43/csm i.96.
21 Garber argues that Descartes intends this law to apply only to
inanimate bodies, so as to allow the human mind (which is not
a subject of motion) to generate motion in its body; see Daniel
Garber, ‘Mind, Body and the Laws of Nature in Descartes and
Leibniz’, Midwest Studies in Philosophy, 8 (1983), pp. 105–33.
22 Principles of Philosophy ii.39, at viii–a.63/csm i.242.
23 Principles of Philosophy ii.40, at viii–a.65/csm i.242.
24 Some of the rules (presented in Principles of Philosophy ii.46–52) are,
as Huygens, Leibniz and even some later Cartesians discovered,
incorrect.
25 Principles of Philosophy iv.203, at viii–a.326/csm i.209.
26 Principles of Philosophy iii.43, at viii–a.99/csm i.255.
27 Principles of Philosophy iii.44, at viii–a.99/csm i.255.
28 Principles of Philosophy iii.45, at viii–a.99–100/csm i.256.
29 Principles of Philosophy iii.45, at viii–a.100/csm i.256.
30 Principles of Philosophy iii.44, at viii–a.99/csm i.255.
31 Principles of Philosophy iii.19, at viii–a.86/csm i.251. The bracketed
words were added in the French edition published in 1647.
32 Principles of Philosophy iii.28, at viii–a.90/csm i.252.
33 Principles of Philosophy iii.30, at viii–a.92/csm i.253.
34 Principles of Philosophy iv.23, at viii–a.213/csm i.269.
35 Principles of Philosophy iv.171, at viii–a.302/m 265.
36 Principles of Philosophy iv.197, at viii–a.321/csm i.284.
37 Principles of Philosophy iv.197, at viii–a.321/csm i.284.
38 Principles of Philosophy iv.189, at viii–a.315–16/csm i.279–80.
39 Principles of Philosophy iv.188, at viii–a.315/csm i.279.
40 at ix–b.11/csm i.184.
271 References

41 Principles of Philosophy iv.199, at viii–a.323/csm i.285.


42 Principles of Philosophy iv.201, at viii–a.324–5/csm i.287.
The bracketed words were added in the French edition
published in 1647.
43 Principles of Philosophy iv.200, at viii–a.323/csm i.286.
44 Isaac Newton, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy and His System
of the World, trans. Florian Cajori, 2 vols (Berkeley and Los Angeles,
ca, 1934), p. 547.
45 Principles of Philosophy iv.205, at viii–b.327/csm i.289–90.
46 Principles of Philosophy iv.206, at viii–b.328–9/csm i.290–91.
47 Descartes to Huygens, 12 June 1637, at i.638.
48 Descartes [to Brasset], 23 April 1649, at v.349.
49 Descartes to Regius, December 1641, at iii.460/csmk 200.
50 Theo Verbeek, Descartes and the Dutch: Early Reactions to Cartesian
Philosophy, 1637–1650 (Carbondale and Edwardsville, il, 1992),
pp. 17–18.
51 Descartes to Regius, January 1642, at iii.492/csmk 205.
52 Descartes to Regius, January 1642, at iii.510.
53 Responsio, sive notae in appendicum ad Corollaria theologico-philosophica viri
reverendi & celeberrimi D. Gisberti Voetii (1642).
54 The text of the condemnation by the University of Utrecht is
cited by Descartes in his letter to Dinet; see at vii.590–93.
55 at vii.592–3.
56 Descartes to Mersenne, March 1642, at iii.545–6.
57 It is interesting to note that these are precisely the charges that
Socrates faced in Athens nearly two millennia earlier.
58 Admiranda methodus novae philosophiae Cartesianae (1643), Preface.
A French translation of the work is in Theo Verbeek, La Querelle
d’Utrecht: René Descartes et Martin Schoock (Paris, 1988), p. 161, along
with other documents relative to the Descartes/Schoock stage
of the Utrecht affair. For an account of Schoock’s arguments,
see Verbeek, Descartes and the Dutch, pp. 20–23. It has often been
suggested that Voetius is actually the author of the work. But
Verbeek, in his important study of the dispute, argues that
‘while the part that Voetius took in the composition of the
Admiranda methodus is considerable, the book, such as it is, is,
without any doubt, written by Schoock’ (La Querelle d’Utrecht, p. 61).
59 Admiranda methodus, ii.9; Verbeek, La Querelle d’Utrecht, p. 245.
60 Admiranda methodus, iv.3; Verbeek, La Querelle d’Utrecht, p. 315.
61 Admiranda methodus, Preface; Verbeek, La Querelle d’Utrecht, p. 160.
descartes 272

Descartes quotes this text from Schoock in his Letter to Voetius


(Epistola ad Voetium), at viii–b.142.
62 Admiranda methodus, Preface; Verbeek, La Querelle d’Utrecht, p. 161.
63 Letter to Voetius, at viii–b.181–2.
64 Letter to Voetius, at viii–b.109–10.
65 Letter to Voetius, at viii–b.111, 116.
66 A French translation of the Dutch document can be found at
at iv.645–6.
67 at ix–b.19/csm i.189.
68 Descartes to Mersenne, 5 October 1646, at iv.510/csmk 295–6.
69 at viii–b.341–69/csm i.294–311.
70 Comments on a Certain Broadsheet, at viii–b.364/csm i.307.
71 Quoted in Verbeek, Descartes and the Dutch, p. 35.
72 Descartes to Elizabeth, 10 May 1647, at v.18/csmk 318–19.
73 Descartes to Elizabeth, 10 May 1647, at v.15–16/csmk 317.

8 ‘A land of bears, rocks and ice’


1 A translation of the text of the treaty is in Herbert H. Rowen,
ed., The Low Countries in Early Modern Times (New York, 1972),
pp. 179–87.
2 Willem Frederik of Nassau, a descendant of Willem the Great’s
brother Count Jan of Nassau, remained stadholder in Friesland,
Groningen and Drenthe.
3 Descartes to Mersenne, March 1642, at iii.542–3/csmk 210.
4 See Descartes to Elisabeth, 31 January 1648, at v.112/s 168.
5 Descartes to Mersenne, 4 March 1641, at iii.332.
6 See the letter to Huygens of 11 March 1646, at iv.786–7.
7 Descartes to Chanut, 6 March 1646, at iv.376–7
8 Descartes to Huygens, October 1639, at ii.583–4.
9 at ii.153. The letter is from 15 January 1638.
10 Adrien Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, 2 vols (Paris, 1691), vol. ii,
p. 17.
11 Descartes to Huygens, October 1639, at ii.583–5.
12 Elisabeth to Descartes, 30 November 1645, at iv.335–6/s 127.
13 Elisabeth to Descartes, 13 September 1645, at iv.289/s 110.
14 Descartes to Elisabeth, 6 October 1645, at iv.310/s 118.
15 Descartes to Elisabeth, 1 September 1645, at iv.287/s 109.
16 Descartes to Elisabeth, May 1646, at iv.407/s 134.
17 Passions of the Soul, i.33, at xi.353/csm i.340.
273 References

18 Passions of the Soul, i.28, at xi.350/csm i.339.


19 Passions of the Soul, i.45, at xi.362–3/csm i.345.
20 Passions of the Soul, i.50, at xi.368/csm i.348
21 Passions of the Soul, iii.153, at xi.445–6/csm i.384. On Descartes’
moral philosophy, see John Marshall, Descartes’s Moral Theory (Ithaca,
ny, 1998); and Denis Kambouchner, Descartes et la philosophie morale
(Paris, 2008).
22 Passions of the Soul, iii.212, at xi.488/csm i.404.
23 Passions of the Soul, iii.211, at xi.485–6/csm i.403.
24 Her father had died in battle in 1632, and though her mother, the
queen, was still alive, she had been declared unfit to serve as regent.
25 Descartes to Chanut, 1 February 1647, at iv.603/csmk 307.
26 Descartes to Chanut, 6 June 1647, at vi.51–2/csmk 320.
27 Descartes to Chanut, 20 November 1647, at v.86–7/csmk 326.
28 Descartes to Christina, 20 November 1647, at v.82–3/csmk 324–5.
29 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. ii, p. 311.
30 Chanut to Descartes, 12 December 1648, at v.254.
31 For Baillet’s account of these events, see Baillet, La vie de Monsieur
Descartes, vol. ii, pp. 310–13.
32 Descartes to Chanut, 1 November 1646, at iv.537/csmk 299.
33 Descartes to Chanut, 1 November 1646, at iv.537/csmk 300.
34 Descartes to Chanut, 31 March 1649, at v.329/csmk 371. For
a discussion of the invitation to Sweden, see Desmond Clarke,
Descartes: A Biography (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 380–84 and
chap. 14.
35 Descartes [to Brasset], 23 April 1649, at v.349/csmk 375.
36 Descartes to Elisabeth, June 1649, at v.359-60/csmk 378.
37 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. ii, p. 387.
38 Ibid.
39 Hals’s original is in the Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen,
Denmark.
40 Descartes to Elisabeth, 31 March 1649, at v.330/s 179.
41 Descartes to Elisabeth, 9 October 1649, at v.429/csmk 382.
42 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. ii, p. 411.
43 Descartes to Elisabeth, 9 October 1649, at v.430/csmk 383.
44 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. ii, p. 395. Watson argues,
however, that Descartes was not the author of the verses; see
Richard A. Watson, Descartes’ Ballet: His Doctrine of the Will and His
Political Philosophy (South Bend, in, 2007).
45 Descartes to De Brégy, 15 January 1650, at v.466–7/csmk 383.
descartes 274

46 For the statutes, see Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. ii,
pp. 412–13.
47 Descartes to Elisabeth, 9 October 1649, at v.431/csmk 383.
48 The rumour circulated in the seventeenth century, but has also
recently been argued for by Theodore Ebert, ‘Did Descartes Die
of Poisoning?’, Early Science and Medicine, 24 (2019), pp. 142–85.
49 Baillet, La vie de Monsieur Descartes, vol. ii, pp. 415–16.
50 On early modern developments in Cartesian physics, the classic
study is Paul Mouy, Le Développement de la physique Cartésienne, 1646–1712
(Paris, 1934).
51 On these issues, see Daniel Garber, Descartes’ Metaphysical Physics
(Chicago, il, 1992); and Steven Nadler, Occasionalism: Causation Among
the Cartesians (Oxford, 2011).
52 On these various developments in Cartesianism in the second half
of the seventeenth century, see Sandrine Roux, L’Empreinte cartésienne:
L’interaction psychophysique, débats classiques et contemporains (Paris, 2018);
and Tad Schmaltz, Descartes on Causation (Oxford, 2002) and Early
Modern Cartesianisms: Dutch and French Constructions (Oxford, 2017).
53 See, for example, Query 31 in the Latin edition of the Opticks (1706).
54 Lettres philosophiques, Lettre xiv, in Voltaire, Philosophical Letters, trans.
Ernest Dilworth (Indianapolis, in, 1961), p. 60.
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acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to those friends and colleagues who helped me through-


out this project, including answering queries, reading through a complete
draft or individual chapters, and offering their comments, corrections and
suggestions. Special thanks to Igor Agostini, Daniel Garber, Stephen Gaukroger,
Denis Kambouchner, Denis Moreau, Sophie Roux, Han van Ruler (who,
despite a bout of covid, went through the entire manuscript), Erik-Jan Bos
and Theo Verbeek. My thanks, as well, to Michael Leaman and Francis Quiviger
for their comments on the manuscript, and especially for welcoming this
volume into their wonderful series.
My work on this book was made possible by research support from the
University of Wisconsin-Madison, including funding through the College of
Letters and Science, the Evjue-Bascom Professorship and the Vilas Research
Professorship (the William F. Vilas Trust).
photo acknowledgements

The author and publishers wish to express their thanks to the below
sources of illustrative material and/or permission to reproduce it. Some
locations of artworks are also given below, in the interest of brevity:

Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris: p. 19; collection of Centraal


Museum, Utrecht (purchase with support by the Vereniging Rembrandt,
1935), photo © Centraal Museum Utrecht: p. 234; Château de Versailles:
p. 245; from René Descartes, Discours de la methode . . . (Leiden, 1637), photo
Library of Congress, Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, Washington, dc:
p. 105; from René Descartes, L’homme . . . et un traitté de la formation du foetus
(Paris, 1664), photos Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris: pp. 84, 85;
from René Descartes, Principia philosophiae (Amsterdam, 1644), photos
Library of Congress, Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, Washington, dc:
pp. 196, 202; collection of Groninger Museum (loan from Municipality of
Groningen, donation Hofstede de Groot), photo Marten de Leeuw: p. 184;
Historisch Centrum Overijssel, Zwolle: p. 148; courtesy Koninklijke Verza­
mel­­
­­­ ingen (Royal Collection of the Netherlands), The Hague, photo ©
Niels den Haan: p. 170; from Alexandre Lenoir, Musée des monuments français,
vol. v (Paris, 1806), photo Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris: p. 249;
Liv­­rust­­­kammaren (The Royal Armoury), Stockholm: p. 239; The Metro-
politan Museum of Art, New York: p. 162; Musée d’art et d’histoire de
Narbonne: p. 119; National Gallery of Art, Washington, dc: p. 6; National
Portrait Gallery, London: p. 154; Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam: pp. 31, 38,
94, 95, 122, 213; Statens Museum for Kunst (smk), Copenhagen: p. 241;
© The Trustees of the British Museum, London: p. 156.
index

Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations

Africa 27 Ausonius, Decimus Magnus


Alkmaar 99, 115, 152, 186, 229 40–42
Amersfoort 150 Averroës 23
Amsterdam 27, 44, 55–6, 91–3,
98–9, 117, 149, 177, 223, 225, Bacon, Francis 7
227, 236, 243 Bagni, Cardinal Guido di 45
anaclastic 51 Baillet, Adrien 32, 37, 40–42,
animal spirits 82–3, 86, 205, 45–6, 149–50, 230, 236, 239,
231–3 243–4, 246–7
animals 69–71, 81, 111–12, 116, Balzac, Guez de 37, 39
201, 205, 228 Ban, Johan Albert 229–30, 243
Anselm of Canterbury 138 Basil of Caesarea 20
Antwerp 223 Beck, David 239
Aquinas, Thomas 8, 20, 23, 73, 158 Beeckman, Isaac 16, 31–5, 76
Aristotelianism 7, 8–9, 11–12, 20, Bellarmine, Cardinal Robert
33, 60, 62, 64, 72–6, 80–81, 63–5
106, 126, 145–6, 158, 161, Bérulle, Cardinal Pierre de 46
181–2, 187, 189–90, 206, 209, Blaeu, Joan 93
211–16, 220–21 Bloemaert, Augustijn 229–30, 243
Aristotle 8, 10, 20, 23, 73–4, 76, blood, circulation of 81, 115–16
96, 174, 181, 186, 188, 206, Bodin, Jean 8
221, 239 body 14, 69–71, 78, 142–3, 153–4,
Arminius, Jacob 28 156, 158, 161, 188–9, 247–8
Arnauld, Antoine 38, 155–61, 156, Bologna 45
178, 222 Boswell, William 229
atheism 93, 116, 141, 214–17 Bourdin, Pierre 178–82, 215
atomism 80, 161–2, 189 Boyle, Robert 87, 165, 251
attribute 188 Brahe, Tycho 60
descartes 282

brain 80–86, 205, 232, 250 Collège Royal de La Flèche 18–23,


Brandenburg 236 76, 103, 180, 182, 186–7
Brasset, Henri 16, 210, 218, 242 Copenhagen 35
Breda 28, 31–2 Copernicanism (heliocentrism)
Brittany 15–18, 36, 39, 115, 222 58–65, 96–8, 116, 121–2, 200
Brochard, Jeanne 15–16 Copernicus, Nicolaus 22, 63
Brochard, René 23 corpuscularianism 33, 76, 80, 87,
Bruno, Giordano 8 102–3, 161, 207
Council of Trent 20, 62, 158
Caesar 20 Counter-Remonstrants 29–31, 92,
Calvinism 28–30, 209 212, 221
Campanella, Tommaso 8
Cartesianism 11, 160, 165, 186, De Brégy, Nicolas de Flécelles 244
220–21, 247–50 deduction 47–50, 82, 100, 108,
Cassini, Giovanni 45 191–2, 198
Cats, Jacob 93 Democritus 185
causation 10, 66, 89, 110, 137, 156, Demosthenes 20
166–8, 171, 175, 190, 194–5, Descartes, Catherine (niece) 15
247 Descartes, Joachim (father) 15, 17,
certainty 47–9, 52, 102, 106, 108, 149, 151
112, 125, 128, 134–5, 139–41, Descartes, Pierre (brother) 15, 17,
157, 162, 191, 208 21, 23, 36
moral certainty 208 Descartes, René
Champagne, Jean-Baptiste de 156 birth 15–16
Chanut, Pierre 53, 228, 236–8, daughter (Fransintge) 149–52
240, 242, 246 death 14–15, 246–7
Charlet, Etienne 182 dreams of 40–42
Charlotte of Bohemia (sister education 18–23
of Princess Elisabeth of family 15–18
Bohemia) 169 travels 26–30, 35–9, 149–50,
Chavagnes, Anne Morin de 17 152, 168, 172, 209–10, 222,
Christina, Grand Duchess of 230, 242–4
Tuscany 61 Descartes, René, works by
Christina, queen of Sweden 14, Comments on a Certain Broadsheet
236–40, 239, 242–7, 245 219
Chrysostom, John 20 Compendium Musicae 33, 229
Cicero 20 Dioptrics 45, 100, 102–3, 107,
Clerselier, Claude 45, 167 117–18
cogito ergo sum argument see Discourse on Method 12, 45, 55, 71,
existence, of self 89, 104–13, 115–16, 120–22,
283 Index

125, 134, 145, 185, 187, 189, 191, religion 26, 28–30, 92,
198, 211 210, 226; see also Calvinism;
Geometry 45, 119–20 Counter-Remonstrants;
Letter to Voetius 217–18 Remonstrants
Meditations on First Philosophy 12, toleration in 26, 28–30, 93,
71, 90, 106, 125–83, 185–9, 209–10, 226–7
215, 240 wars 26–7, 29, 31, 91–2, 225–6
Meteors 102–3, 121
Olympica 40 Edict of Nantes 18
Passions of the Soul 71, 174, Edward of Bohemia (brother
190–91, 232–7, 240, 242 of Princess Elisabeth of
Principles of Philosophy 12, 71, Bohemia) 231
134, 176, 181–2, 186–209, 219, Egmond aan den Hoef 99, 170,
222, 232, 242 186
Rules for the Direction of the Mind Egmond aan Zee 99
47–53, 76, 106 Egmond Binnen 99, 114–15, 150,
Treatise on Light 71, 100; see also 221–2, 228–30, 242–3, 246
The World Eighty Years War 223
Treatise on Man 70–71, 81, 205, Elisabeth, princess of Bohemia
218, 228, 232 169–77, 170, 221–2, 231–2, 235,
The World 12, 68–72, 76–87, 238, 240, 242–4, 246, 247
186, 188, 191, 194, 197, 198, Elzevir (publishers) 93, 147,
200, 201, 205 177–8
Deventer 56, 69, 91, 98–9, 149 emotions 87, 173, 188, 205, 233,
Dinet, Jacques 180–82, 215–16 236
dreams 40–42, 87, 130–33 empiricism 8, 126, 154, 161, 220
Drevet, Pierre 156 Endegeest 115, 185
dualism 14, 141–6, 153–4, 157, England 8, 27, 38, 44, 57, 92, 93,
162–8, 169–73, 187–8, 190, 126, 169, 247
211–12, 250 Epictetus 174
Duflos, Claude 38 Epicureanism 80, 161
Dumesnil, Louis-Michel 245 Epicurus 9
Duns Scotus, Johannes 158 eternal truths 43, 87–9, 248
Dutch Reformed Church 28–30, Eucharist 62, 67, 96, 158–60,
149, 183, 209, 212, 226, 226 178, 248
Dutch Republic Euclid 20
art 92–3 Eustachio a Sancto Paulo 74, 187
economy 27, 92, 224, 226 existence
independence 26, 55, 223–5 of body 142–3
politics 26, 28–30, 92, 223–7 of self 134–6
descartes 284

experiment 10, 45, 82, 102, geometry 32–4, 45, 49–51, 87,
108–9, 192, 198, 222 99, 102, 117, 119–20, 123, 49,
extension 50, 77–8, 131, 159–61, 188, 192
166, 170–72, 188–90, 237, Germany 40, 45, 168–9, 247
247–8 Gibieuf, Guillaume 145
Gilbert, William 8
Ferdinand ii, Holy Roman God
Emperor 36, 168 existence of 90, 108–9,
Fermat, Pierre de 117–20, 119 137–9, 152–3, 155, 157–8,
Ferrand, Jean i 17, 23 216–17
Ferrand, Jean ii 17 goodness of 88, 139, 152–3,
Ferrand, Michel 17 157, 209
Florence 37, 45, 58 immutability of 192–5
Fonseca, Pedro da 20 omnipotence of 88–9, 158,
forms (substantial and accidental) 175–6, 192–5, 208, 216
72–7, 81, 96, 116, 145, 158–9, wisdom of 175–6, 199
189, 206, 211–13, 248 Gomarus, Franciscus 29
Foscarini, Paolo Antonio 63 Goorle, David van (Gorlaeus) 8
Franeker 26, 56, 90, 91 gravity 66, 74–5, 79, 171, 186,
Frank, Anne 149 201, 203, 207–8
Frankfurt 35–6 Gregory of Nazianzus 20
Fransintge see Descartes, René, Groningen 26, 216, 221, 228
daughter Gustavus Adolphus ii, king of
Frederick v, Elector Palatine Sweden 236
and king of Bohemia 31, 36, Guyot, Laurent 249
168–9
Frederik Hendrik, Prince of Haarlem 99, 115, 150, 225,
Orange 92, 94, 122, 209, 229–30, 243
225, 227 Hague, The 16, 92, 147, 151, 169,
freedom 30, 88–9, 175–6, 225
204 Hals, Frans 241, 243
Froidment, Libert happiness 174, 232, 239
(Fromondus) 116–17 Harvey, William 116
heart 70, 87, 116, 165, 232, 236,
Galileo Galilei 7, 22, 33, 37–8, 237
58–66, 80–81, 87, 97–8, heat 73–4, 77, 80–81, 85, 107, 116,
124, 186, 200, 207 165, 195
Gassendi, Pierre 9, 38, 161–8, 162, Heereboord, Adriaan 220
170–71, 178, 247 Henri iv (Henri de Navarre),
Gelderland 26, 225 king of France 18
285 Index

Henriette of Bohemia (sister intuition 47–51, 82


of Princess Elisabeth of Italy 8, 36–7, 39, 45
Bohemia) 231
Heraclitus 8 James i, king of England 169
Hesiod 19 Jansen, Cornelius 155
Hobbes, Thomas 7, 38, 44, 153–5, Jansenism 155, 160, 222
154, 161–2, 251 Jesuits 18–22, 74, 103, 115–16,
Holy Office (Roman Inquisition) 155, 159, 178–82, 187, 215
58, 63–5 judgement 47–8, 88, 128, 140,
Holy Roman Empire 35–6, 168, 175, 233, 235, 236, 238
223 Jupiter 59–60, 64, 88, 200
Homer 19
Honthorst, Gerard van 170 Kant, Immanuel 8, 235
Hooft, Pieter Cornelisz 93 Kater, Johan de 152
Horace 20 Kepler, Johannes 22
Hugenots 18, 30 knowledge 42–3, 45–50, 80,
Hume, David 8, 250 106–9, 125–8, 134, 139–41,
Huygens, Christiaan 44, 87, 197 161, 187, 191, 206, 220, 233,
Huygens, Constantjin 38, 122, 238
124, 147, 172, 185, 209, 229–30
hypotheses 61, 64, 97–8, 100, 102, La Flèche (France) 18–23, 18,
111, 143, 161, 200, 207–8, 248 180, 182, 187,
hypothetico-deductive method 111 La Haye (France) 15–17, 21
Ladislav iv, king of Poland 177
immortality 71, 90, 126, 145, 178, language 112
211, 218 laws 10–11, 45, 51, 64, 66, 68, 76,
impenetrability 188 78–9, 81, 87–9, 100, 108,
Index of Prohibited Books 117–18, 191–9, 204, 207, 216,
(Roman Catholic Church) 63, 248, 250
160 Lefebvre, Rolland 119
inertia 32, 64, 78, 193–4 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 9,
infinite 89, 95, 137–9, 152, 155, 44–5, 87, 165, 186, 197, 248,
161, 188, 191, 199, 237 251
intellect 47, 108, 126, 127, 133, 136, Leiden 26, 28–9, 31, 45, 56, 91,
139–40, 143, 153, 161, 172, 93, 98, 99, 113, 115, 150–51,
176, 204, 208, 217 185, 220–22, 228
interaction (of mind and body) lenses 51, 102–3, 117
69, 82, 166–8, 171–3, 190, Lievens, Jan 122, 185
204, 211–12, 218–19, 232–3, light 45, 51, 102, 104, 117, 123, 186,
236, 247, 250 195, 208
descartes 286

Livy 20 modes 142, 158, 188, 248


Locke, John 8, 87, 165, 251 Molière 75
London 45, 249–50 Montaigne, Michel de 7, 126
Loreto 37 moon(s) 59–60, 62, 64, 67, 87,
Louis xiii, king of France 209 199–200
Louise Juliana of Nassau 169 moral philosophy 127, 174–6, 187,
love 234, 236–7, 239 208, 235, 237–8
Morin, Jean-Baptiste 123
magnetism 66, 74, 186, 201–4 motion 10, 33, 50, 66, 68, 73,
Maria Eleonora of Brandenburg 77–9, 100–101, 108, 117,
(mother of Queen Christina 166, 189–97, 199, 201, 204,
of Sweden) 236 248–9
Mars 200 Münster 91, 223, 225–6, 244
Martellange, Étienne 18 Mydorge, Claude 118
materialism 153–4, 162, 167, 250
mathesis universalis 34, 49–50 Nantes 17
Maurits, Count of Nassau and nerves 70, 82–3, 86, 205
Prince of Orange 30–31, 31, Neuburg 35, 40
92, 169, 227 Newton, Isaac 11, 87, 186, 192, 194,
Maximilian i, Duke of Bavaria 36 203, 207–8, 248–51
medicine 106, 127, 132, 214
Mellan, Claude 162 Oldenbarnevelt, Johan van 28–30
Mercury 200 optics 12, 45, 50–51, 66–8, 99,
Mersenne, Marin 37–9, 38, 45, 103, 119, 121, 219
56, 66–9, 76, 87–90, 97–8, Osnabrück 223
100, 106, 113, 114, 117, 120, other minds 111–13
122, 124–6, 145, 147, 149, 151, Overijssel 26, 56, 69, 225
152–3, 155, 156, 160–61, 172, Ovid 20
177, 214–15, 219, 228, 229–30 Oxford 45
Mesland, Denis 159–60
method 10, 12, 34, 43–5, 47, 49– Paris 14, 15, 18, 36, 37–9, 44–5, 47,
52, 101–11, 118, 127–8, 178–9, 54, 56, 76, 114, 115, 119–20,
187, 190, 220 149, 152, 153, 155, 177, 182, 183,
Middelburg 35 210, 222, 236, 250
Mierevelt, Michiel Jansz. van Pascal, Blaise 38, 222
94–5 passions 171, 174, 205, 212, 231–9
mind 10, 14, 69, 71, 141, 153, 156, Patrizi, Francesco 7
162–74, 187–8, 190, 197, Peace of Münster 91, 223–6, 244
204–5, 206, 218–20, 231–3, Philip iii, king of Spain 29
238, 247, 250 Philip iv, king of Spain 91, 224
287 Index

Picot, Claude (Abbé) 114, 185, Sain, Jeanne 15


206 Sain, Pierre 17
Pindar 19 Salamanca 45
pineal gland 83–4, 86, 205, 232–3 Santpoort 115, 150
planets 59–61, 64, 69, 78, 87, 96, Saturn 88, 200
192, 200–201, 203, 206 scepticism 107, 125–34, 136, 139,
Plato 10, 20 157, 161, 164, 179–80, 216,
Plemp, Vobiscus Fortunatus 117 221
Poitiers 17, 23, 36 Scholasticism 8, 11, 20, 45, 74–5,
Poitou (France) 15–17, 36 106, 153, 158, 171, 178, 181,
Poland 36, 177, 244 186–7, 211, 222, 248
Pollot, Alphonse 151, 169 see also Aristotelianism
Prague 35, 168–9 Schoock, Martin 216–17
Ptolemy, Claudius 200 Seneca 174–5
Ptolomeic system (geocentrism) sensation 47, 81, 83, 85, 86, 144,
58, 60, 62, 200–201 171, 188, 201, 204–5, 212, 232
Pyrrho of Ellis 126 sensible qualities 158, 201, 206
Sergeant, Jacob Thomasz 149
qualities Sextus Empiricus 125
Aristotelian 73–7, 96, 145, Socrates 42
158 Solms, Amalia van 92, 95, 225
occult 201, 208 Soly, Michel 152, 177–8
real 74–7, 158, 171, 213, 248 Sorbière, Samuel 185–6
Quintilian 20 soul 13, 57, 68–71, 77, 80–83, 86,
89–90, 106, 108, 111, 113, 116,
rainbows 67, 103–4 126–7, 145–6, 154, 160, 162–3,
refraction 45, 51, 100–102, 104, 165–7, 169–72, 178, 204–5,
117 211, 214, 218, 228, 231–6, 238,
Regius, Henricus 211–15, 218–20 250
Remonstrants 28–30, 92, 210, see also immortality
212, 227 Southern Netherlands (Southern
Reneri, Henricus 91 Low Countries) 28, 31, 116,
Revius, Jacobus 221 155, 223–5
Richelieu (Cardinal) 209 space 78, 143, 161, 188–9, 197, 237
Roberval, Gilles Personne de 118, Spain 26, 27, 29–30, 57, 91–2, 93,
120 223–5
Rome 29, 37, 45, 57–8, 65–6, 98 Spinoza, Bento (Baruch) de 8,
155, 210, 237 248, 250–51
Ryer, François du 236–7 stars 59–60, 64, 67, 69, 87, 96,
Ryle, Gilbert 250 109, 199–200
descartes 288

Stockholm 14, 53, 89, 228, 236, vacuum 78, 108, 161, 222
240, 244, 246 Vanini, Lucilio 217
Stoicism 107, 174–5, 232 Vatier, Antoine 103, 121
Stroom, Helena Jansdr van der Venne, Adriaen Pietersz van de 31
149–50 Venus 59–60, 64, 200
Stuart, Elizabeth 169 Viete, François 120
Suarez, Francisco 74 Villebressieu, Étienne de 45
substance 14, 72–4, 76, 141, 144, Villiers, Nicolas de (Lord of
154, 158–9, 163–4, 167, 169, Chandoux) 45
187–8, 218, 248 Virgil 20
sun 59–67, 69, 80, 87, 96, 101, virtue 174–5, 235, 240
103, 195, 199–201, 207 Voetius, Gisbertus 212–18, 220,
Sweden 15, 53, 172, 223, 228, 236, 229
240, 242–6 Voltaire 249–50
Swedish Academy of Sciences 246 Vondel, Joost van den 93
Synod of Dordrecht 28, 30 vortices 79, 96, 197, 200–201

teleology 189, 191 Weenix, Jan Baptist 234


Telesio, Bernardino 7 Wel, Jan Jansz van 150
Thales 8 will 88–9, 110, 135, 140, 166, 173,
Thirty Years War 91, 223 175–6, 187, 195, 199, 204,
thought 50, 141–2, 164–6, 171–2, 232–3, 238, 248
188, 232–3, 235 Willem i (Willem the Silent),
Thucydides 20 Prince of Orange 31, 92, 169,
Torquemada, Juan de 57 225
Torquemada, Tomas de 57 Willem ii, Prince of Orange
transubstantiation see Eucharist 225–7, 230
truth 10, 12, 20, 22, 24, 43–7, 52, Willem iii, Prince of Orange 227
54, 58–9, 87–9, 104, 136, 140, Witt, Johan de 227
157, 159, 179, 181, 248 Wright, John Michael 154
Turin 37
Zeeland 26, 223, 225
Ulm 35, 40 Zurich 37
union (of mind and body) 70, 83,
111, 144, 166–8, 171–2, 190,
204, 211–12, 218, 219
University of Poitiers 23
Uppsala 244
Utrecht 26, 99, 210–15, 218–22,
223, 225, 228, 240

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