When I was thirteen I made a simple Cabalistic calculation following the procedure described by our great-uncle, basing it upon the letters of Sasha’s name and the birthday we shared. I was probably angry at my brother for some reason I can’t remember, because by invoking the mysteries of numerology I determined that Sasha would meet a tragic death shortly after his seventeenth birthday.
The following day with equal parts of doubt and self-assurance, though oblivious to both, I told my great-uncle the results of my calculation. He was the only one I could report them to. He was my favorite and my confidant, even though he wasn’t really a member of our family. I felt a deeper connection with him than with any of my real blood relatives—Mother and Father, Grandmother and Grandfather, and Sasha. No matter how kind and generous they were, there was still an impenetrable barrier between us, one that excluded questions and confidences. But with my great-uncle it was different.
I’ve carried memories of those experiences with me throughout my life. Don’t ask me why. Many times I’ve forgotten things I wanted to remember. At other times, images from the past come to me thick and fast, accompanied by random words, bright lights, or even smells. All of this occurs without any attempt on my part to evoke them; they’re just suddenly there.
I saw a glint of surprise and fright in my great-uncle’s eyes. His face crumpled and he took me into his arms. Completely taken aback, I looked up and saw that he had tears in his eyes. He smiled and said I must have made a mistake in my calculations.
And of course, he was right. Somewhere a tiny little error in arithmetic had slipped into my calculations. Because Sasha never reached his sixteenth birthday.
ABRABANEL BEN ISRAEL’S enthusiastic letter of recommendation had a positive effect. Respected seats of learning in Europe began to take an interest not only in Bento but in both of the Spinoza brothers. The brothers received attractive offers of professorships. Bento turned down an invitation from Heidelberg. Benjamin couldn’t understand why.
Bento told his brother he was unwilling to sacrifice his freedom to express his views. The role of a wide-ranging thinker suited him best. He was happy with his life exactly as it was. He refused to become anyone’s lackey. He was free to live as he chose and set his own pace. No one could oblige him to hire himself out or peddle his thoughts to the rich and powerful. He would never in his life agree to such a thing.
“A brotherhood of wandering scholars has crisscrossed Europe for hundreds of years,” Bento declared. “They have differed from one another, but each has been a restless spirit, seeking and moving on. The wide-ranging thinker is capricious, a comet who goes where he likes, lives a solitary life, and chooses his own path. That’s exactly the life for me.”
Benjamin was unmoved. “Good intentions can result in hasty decisions and rash actions,” he answered. “I think it would do you good to be attached to some place. The simple acceptance of a public post doesn’t mean you have to choose between the norms of others and your own principles—”
“My dear brother!” Bento cut him short. “Plato says that if a man devotes himself to worldly affairs and still comes away with clean hands, it’s a miracle. You know me and you know that whenever tempting offers lure me to ambition, I spurn them and resolutely plod off in the opposite direction.”
“Unlike you,” Benjamin said, “I’ve never been able to remain idle for more than a few hours at a time. My life is centered on my family and the pleasure of collecting and systematizing knowledge, searching through the labyrinth of all the different views in this apparently confusing and insubstantial universe. When all is said and done, your worries about losing your freedom of thought don’t make sense to me. I believe that man’s inherent freedom is entirely compatible with accepting employment as a teacher.”
BENJAMIN HAD THE IMPRESSION that one chapter in his life was coming to an end and another was beginning. Mafalda enthusiastically encouraged him to accept an academic appointment, enjoy the acclaim, and profit from the fruits of his labors.
And thus it was that he moved with his family to Freiburg, the city of one of Europe’s leading universities, an institution with a hierarchy like no other, that employed the most renowned professors of the German-speaking world. It had six faculties, eighty professors, two thousand students, a library of four hundred thousand books, an observatory, and a botanical garden with exotic plants.
ONE WEEK followed another as the autumn ebbed away. December came and snow lay deep on the ground. Benjamin began to see that for the first time in his life he had managed to free himself from his brother. He told Mafalda he was almost ashamed at the sense of liberation arising from the physical distance between him and his brother and his enthusiastic involvement in his teaching. He felt almost giddy. She told him he had changed. When he asked her what she meant, she simply gave him a warm, approving look and went on her way. After that evening’s playful encounter in bed, which was, by the way, fantastic and in fact better than ever, she explained that his face now was more serene and relaxed. He smiled with a bemused expression but knew in his heart that she was right. They nestled together as usual and fell asleep.
ANNIE CAMPSIE-SMITH, Benjamin’s British biographer, describes how in Freiburg he occupied himself with writing a practical guide to the problems of moral philosophy. Many saw it as pathbreaking. Other philosophers of his day were accustomed to writing in a prose style far removed from the lives of their readers. In contrast, Benjamin used plain language and offered concrete examples. His approach was effective and yielded results.
The Berlin book publisher Adalbert Althardt read excerpts from the work and was enthusiastic. He promised to pay an honorarium of fifteen florins per page. A publishing date was negotiated. Expectations rose, but the work was never completed. Today it is regarded as lost.
BENJAMIN WOULD STAND behind his lectern, eyes half closed, and speak of formulating the principles of philosophy with an approach similar to that of geometry, deducing them from abstract definitions. He spoke in a low voice but he could be heard clearly throughout the lecture hall. He set out his ideas with an infectious enthusiasm.
He often spoke of God. He emphasized that God has no cause or origin. He posited that God is immanent, not transcendent. The God he was describing had little in common with the gods of Christianity or Judaism. His God had no human qualities and could not be imagined as a father or creator.
Benjamin stressed that man can never love something that he understands completely. He held that love is based on the stimulating sensation that a thing is beyond one’s comprehension.
He also spoke of shared existence, courage and health, money and charity, physical activity and pleasure. He insisted that when a human being enjoys life, he approaches perfection and divine nature.
“A cheerful disposition can never be excessive; it is always a good thing,” he admonished his audience. “And melancholy is always bad.”
He boldly asserted that fear was worse than anything else, especially when it arose from ignorance and superstition, the sort of fear used by so many of the powerful to enforce moral codes. He believed that morality must be based upon justice, which is commensurate with a greater value: the good. It was his adamant view that without an understanding of the good, rulers cannot fulfill their responsibilities.
Benjamin made no secret of his view that instruction in philosophy was more than systematic training in ratiocination. It was also—and just as much—a kind of shaping of the character, a process of molding personality. Study was only a means of achieving a greater insight into fundamental moral values that are unchanging and universal.
Students were so enthused by Benjamin’s incisive exposition that most of them broke into applause at the end of his lectures and left the room beaming with good humor.
THE DEAN of the university lived near Benjamin’s residence, and they spent many a late evening engrossed in stimulating conversations. The dean was awed by Benjamin’s intellect and often praised his ability to communic
ate his original thinking to the students. But he offered a friendly warning, because he knew that Benjamin’s ideas could shock people. Before this no one in Freiburg had articulated such daring propositions. He admonished the philosopher to maintain a certain reserve, for if he pushed his speculations about temporal power any further along these lines, they would drift away into the make-believe world of utopia. And if his manuscripts should fall into the hands of the church, there would probably be hell to pay.
IT WASN’T LONG before the Catholic authorities became concerned. German bishops who were members of the secret order Societas Jesu began to hear worrying reports about Benjamin’s lectures. Spies sent out to collect evidence came back with a great deal of explosive material. The informers testified under oath that Benjamin had argued strongly that an erroneous understanding of God was the root of the lack of spiritual freedom and that Catholic interpretation of biblical texts sanctioned intolerance and oppression.
The spies’ accounts prompted great indignation among the bishops. They refused to countenance a Jew’s berating of Christ’s church. Their strong preference would have been to keep the trial short and promptly light a bonfire beneath this heretic who denied the teachings of Jesus. It was unfortunate that such a proceeding was not feasible in Freiburg. But the bishops were crafty conspirators.
Balthasar von Uhrs, grand master of the lodge and renowned as a zealous servant of God, took upon himself the task of leading the attack. He promised to apply several tried-and-true tactics. The bishops felt reassured, and they rubbed their hands, certain of victory. They knew that the grand master was well acquainted with the church’s arsenal of weapons against its foes. With murderous aspect von Uhrs wrote out a bill of charges in which he accused Benjamin of atheism and claimed that his philosophy was nothing but occultism. The grand master exhorted the prince elector of the city to summon the Jewish heretic to trial for propagating false doctrine.
KONRAD VON HOHENWEILER was no stranger to Benjamin’s world of ideas. He even shared a number of the philosopher’s views concerning religion and power. He had inherited the title of prince elector from his father and therefore had no choice in his own life and duties, but he took little pleasure in his secular power. He ruled Freiburg reluctantly and never put his whole heart into it.
The prince elector’s annoyance grew as he read through the letter from the grand master. He had long been aware that the bishops’ exalted words about love and fine talk about justice were frequently a cover for duplicity, threats, and blackmail. He waved away von Uhrs’s most serious charges as weak and unsubstantiated. He felt almost insulted by the grand master’s attempt to stigmatize the philosopher with transparent insinuations and obviously false assertions that anyone could see through.
The prince elector had found it necessary to deal with von Uhrs in various other connections. He considered the grand master far less intellectually qualified than the man’s predecessor. Nor was he impressed by the man’s character; he perceived him as a haughty, fanatical, and despotic individual, far less unblemished than the bishop and his supporters painted him. He concluded that instead of damning Benjamin as a dangerous heretic, the letter of accusation revealed the true face of its author. The prince’s own private conclusion was that von Uhrs had devoted considerably more attention to his mistress than he had to the contents of the philosopher’s works.
In order to avoid disturbing the delicate balance of powers in Freiburg, however, the prince elector was obliged to accede to certain of the church’s demands, even though they were often unreasonable. As for this attack on Benjamin Spinoza, he decided not to give in. He wrote in reply to von Uhrs that he found no cause to institute legal action against the philosopher, but he would require him to reply to the charges.
BENJAMIN WAS NOT particularly disturbed by von Uhrs’s letter. The fact that he had fallen into disfavor with the Catholic bishops bothered him hardly at all. His friend the dean worried that Benjamin would end his days punished and in disgrace, and he counseled Benjamin to retract a number of his harshest statements and offer an apology. Benjamin was open to any advice offered in a spirit of respect and consideration. But in this particular matter he refused to heed it.
“A man can put up with a great deal,” he replied to his friend, “but not with an affront to self-respect and personal honor.”
He found that the bishops were conducting themselves more like a pack of howling dogs than as spiritual leaders. But he would not allow von Uhrs’s mendacious and hate-filled pamphlet to remain unanswered, so he composed a piece in which he deployed all of his dialectical ability, elegantly defended his own views, and powerfully refuted every point contained in the grand master’s accusation, never lapsing into rant or getting into unrelated matters.
THE PRINCE ELECTOR took the time to read Benjamin’s defense carefully. What made the greatest impression on him was not the philosopher’s intelligence or clear vision but rather his spirit and honorable conduct, the fact that he had the courage to confront the religious authorities as well as to admit a new perspective by conceding certain weak points in his own logic.
Once the prince had finished studying the text he issued a proclamation to all of Baden-Württemberg declaring that Benjamin Spinoza was above all suspicion of impiety and the charges of blasphemy against him were unfounded.
IT WAS SPRINGTIME, warm and full of light, but von Uhrs was in a black mood. He had suffered an enormous loss of prestige. His fat body foundered, saliva drooled from his mouth, and he hung his bald head. He feared that the catastrophic defeat might prompt his destitution as grand master at the next meeting of the company.
His hatred for Benjamin Spinoza grew with every passing minute and filled him with new energy. He immediately began a number of covert manipulations. He wrote flattering letters to some of the bishops; to others he circulated dark, bombastic comments about the mockery, derision, and affronts to which the church had been exposed by the ignorant prince elector.
Von Uhrs opened their next meeting with a theatrical coup calculated to gloss over his failure and redeem his credibility. He declared that he had proof that the Jew Spinoza was in contact with evil demons that had deranged the senses of Konrad von Hohenweiler.
The bishops were aghast. They exchanged astonished glances. The grand master explained that the decision of the prince elector had been dictated by those demons. The clergy need not be concerned by this temporary setback. What difference were a few months, he said, when the church is eternal?
A young bishop from Regensburg, the most quick-witted of the assembly, immediately proposed to declare the insolent Jew Spinoza the greatest threat to pure doctrine in all the German-speaking states. An outburst of applause greeted his proposal. With a formal vote they unanimously gave the grand master a free hand. Two of the more senior bishops cautioned him to proceed deliberately and with great care.
The bishops concluded the meeting with a thunderous anthem of praise to the Lord.
BALTHASAR VON UHRS lost no time. He hired two burglars to break into Benjamin’s house one day when the family was out. They were capable and efficient, and they knew exactly what to look for. They entered the shuttered residence, thoroughly searched all the rooms, opened cabinets, pulled out drawers, and dumped the contents on the floor, looking for hidden manuscripts and any other compromising material. After searching every nook and cranny and going through the contents of every drawer several times, the burglars returned empty-handed to their patron.
AT THE NEXT conclave of the Societas Jesu the grand master stressed to his fellow conspirators in the clergy that godliness itself was at stake. He insisted that the Jew Spinoza’s heretical teachings had opened a horrific abyss and stressed that the pious and righteous had to use all their forces to counter the loathsome attacks on the truth of God’s teachings. He expressed deep dismay that the Jew could not be dragged to the bonfire as a warning and example to others, and he spoke of the need to tighten the thumbscrews further. He proposed a new
plan.
The prelates listened attentively. Some of them nodded in agreement with the leader’s sage advice.
A Bavarian priest of impressive rotundity stood up and reported that in his parish a pig with seven legs had been born and a newborn had emerged with its feet turned backward. He feared these were portents of impending catastrophes unleashed by the evil Jew, and he declared that it was vitally important to follow the grand master’s plan. A colleague beside him stood up and reported that in his home city of Cologne an elderly woman had given birth to a hermaphrodite; the male member looked like that of a horse and the female parts resembled an enormous shell, and the newborn’s body was entirely covered with down. A third bishop took it upon himself to inform them that in his diocese a nun had given birth to twins. He decried this as a sign of the extent of contemporary depravity and declared that such decadence had to be resisted.
One of the bishops rose, approached Balthasar von Uhrs, kissed his ring as a sign of devoted admiration, and declared that the grand master would prevail not only in that conflict but also in all other campaigns he led against the enemies of the Catholic faith.
The assembly was unanimous that Spinoza had to be discredited and dragged down from his pedestal. After the meeting the bishops instructed Catholic priests throughout the German-speaking region to warn the people the next Sunday that the professor of philosophy in Freiburg had conversed with devils and was capable of bending demons to his will.
BECAUSE HE WAS a Jew, Benjamin was fair game, an ideal target for a church intent on persecuting those of different opinions. Their calumnies could not shake his standing at the university. The authorities did not require him to recant and refused to ban him from his profession.
The Elixir of Immortality Page 29
