Outside his classes he avoided socializing with fellow students aside from Dirk, soon to be off to medical school and, of course, the precocious and adorable Clara Maria. Yet generally, after a short period, he slipped away even from them, preferring the company of the two hundred weighty, musty volumes in van den Enden’s library.
Aside from his interest in the fine paintings displayed in the shops of art dealers in the small streets branching off of the town hall, Bento had little affinity for the arts and resisted van den Enden’s attempts to increase his aesthetic sensibility in music, poetry, and narrative. But there was no resisting the schoolmaster’s passionate devotion to the theater. Classical drama can be appreciated, van den Enden insisted, only if read aloud, and Bento dutifully participated with the other students in dramatized class readings, even though he was too self-conscious to speak his lines with sufficient emotion. Generally twice a year van den Enden’s close friend, the director of the Amsterdam Municipal Theater, permitted the academy to use its stage for major productions before a small audience of parents and friends.
The production in the winter of 1658, over two years after the excommunication, was Eunuchus, by Terence, with Bento assigned the role of Par-menu, a precocious slave. When he first looked over his lines, he grinned as he came to this passage:If you think that uncertain things can be made certain by reason, you’ll accomplish nothing more than if you strived to go insane by sanity.
Bento knew that van den Enden’s wry sense of humor was undoubtedly at play when he assigned him this role. He had been persistently chiding Bento for his hypertrophied rationalism that left no space for aesthetic sensibility.
The public performance was splendid, the students played their roles with zest, the audience laughed often and applauded long (though they understood little of the Latin dialogue), and in high spirits Bento left the theater walking arm in arm with his two friends, Clara Maria (who had played Thais, the courtesan) and Dirk (who had played Phaedria). Suddenly out of the shadows stepped a frenzied, wild-eyed man brandishing a long butcher knife. Screaming in Portuguese, “Herege, herege!” (“Heretic, heretic!”), he lunged at Bento and slashed him twice in the abdomen. Dirk grappled with the attacker, knocking him to the ground, while Clara Maria rushed to Bento’s aid, cradling his head in her arms. Of slight build, Dirk was no match for the attacker, who flung him off and quickly fled into the darkness, knife in hand. Van den Enden, a former physician, rushed to examine Bento. Noting the two gashes in the heavy black coat, he quickly unbuttoned it and saw that his shirt, also slashed, was splotched with blood, but the wounds themselves were only skin deep.
In a state of shock, Bento, with the support of van den Enden and Dirk, was able to walk the three blocks home and slowly make his way up the stairs to his room. With much gagging he swallowed a valerian draught prepared by the schoolmaster physician. He stretched out and, with Clara Maria sitting by his bed and holding his hand, soon lapsed into a deep twelve-hour sleep.
The following day disorder reigned in the household. Early in the morning municipal authorities appeared at the door seeking information about the attacker, and later two servants arrived bearing notes from outraged parents criticizing van den Enden not only for staging a scandalous play about sexuality and transvestism but also for permitting a young woman (his daughter) to play a role—and of a courtesan at that. The schoolmaster, however, remained remarkably placid—no, more than placid—he was amused by the letters and chuckled at how tickled Terence would have been by these outraged Calvinist parents. Soon his jocularity calmed the family, and the schoolmaster returned to teaching his Greek and classics courses.
Upstairs in the garret, Bento remained racked with anxiety and could barely tolerate the gripping pressure in his chest. Again and again he was assaulted by visions of the assault, the cries of “Heretic!,” the gleaming knife, the pressure of the knife cutting through his coat, his fall to the ground under the weight of the assailant. To calm himself, he called upon his customary weapon, the sword of reason, but on this day it was no match for his terror.
Bento persisted. He tried to slow his breathing with long deliberate breaths and deliberately conjured up the fearful image of his attacker’s face—heavily bearded, wide-eyed, and frothing like a mad dog—and stared directly at him until the image dissolved. “Calm yourself,” he murmured. “Think only of this moment. Waste no energy on what you cannot control. You cannot control the past. You are frightened because you imagine this past event occurring now in the present. Your mind creates the image. Your mind creates your feelings about the image. Focus only on controlling your mind.”
But all these well-honed formulae that he had been compiling in his notebook did nothing to slow his pounding heart. He continued attempting to soothe himself with reason: “Remember that everything in Nature has a cause. You, Bento Spinoza, are an insignificant part of this vast causal nexus. Think of the assassin’s long trajectory, the long chain of events that led inevitably to his attack.” What events? Bento asked himself. Perhaps inflammatory speeches by the rabbi? Perhaps some misery in the assailant’s past or present personal life? Upon all these thoughts Bento mused as he paced back and forth in his room.
Then a soft knock sounded. Within a step of the door, he reached and opened it instantly, to find Clara Maria and Dirk standing in the doorway, their hands touching, their fingers intertwined. They instantly drew their hands apart and entered his room.
“Bento,” said a flustered Clara Maria. “Oh, you’re up and walking? Only an hour ago we knocked, and when you didn’t open, we looked in, and you were so deep asleep.”
“Uh, yes, it’s good to see you up,” said Dirk. “They haven’t caught the maniac yet, but I had a good look at him, and I’ll recognize him when they catch him. I hope they put him away for a long time.”
Bento said nothing.
Dirk pointed at Bento’s abdomen, “Let’s take a look at the wound. Van den Enden asked me to check on it.” Dirk approached closer and signaled to Clara Maria to leave them.
But Bento instantly stepped back and shook his head. “No, no. I’m all right. Not just now. I’d rather be alone for a while longer.”
“All right, we’ll be back in an hour.” Dirk and Clara Maria glanced quizzically at one another as they left the room.
Now Bento felt even worse: those hands touching and pulling apart lest he see them—that intimate glance between them. Only a few minutes ago these were his two closest friends. Only last night Dirk had saved his life; only last night he had adored Clara Maria’s performance, enchanted by her every movement, every flirtatious gesture of her lips and flutter of her eyelids. And suddenly now he felt hatred toward both of them. He had been unable to thank Dirk or even utter his name or thank Clara Maria for sitting with him last night.
“Slow down,” Bento murmured to himself. “Back away and look at yourself from a great distance. Look at how your feelings whirl about in a frenzy—first love, now hate, now anger. How fickle, how capricious are passions. Look at how you are tossed, first here, then there by the actions of others. If you want to flourish, you must overcome your passions by anchoring your feelings to something unchangeable, something eternally enduring.”
Another knock on the door. The same soft knock. Could it be her? Then her melodious voice, “Bento, Bento, can I come in?”
Hope and passion stirred. Bento felt instantly buoyant and forgot all about the eternal and the unchanging. Perhaps Clara Maria would be alone, changed, remorseful. Perhaps she would take his hand again.
“Come in.”
Clara Maria entered alone holding a note in her hand. “Bento, a man gave me this for you. A strange, agitated, rather short man with a heavy Portuguese accent who kept looking up and down the street. I think he’s a Jew, and he’s waiting for an answer in front by the canal.”
Bento snatched the note from her extended hand, opened it, and read it quickly. Clara Maria watched with much curiosity: never before had she seen Bento devo
ur anything so ravenously. He read it aloud to her, translating the Portuguese words into Dutch.Bento, I’ve heard about last night. The whole congregation knows of it. I want to see you today. It’s important. I’m standing close to your place in front of the red houseboat on the Singel. Can you come? Franco
“Clara Maria,” Bento said, “he is a friend. My one remaining friend from my old life. I must go to see him. I can make it down the stairs.”
“No, Papa said you must not climb stairs today. I’ll tell your friend to return in a day or two.”
“But he stresses ‘today.’ It must be related to last night. My wounds are merely scratches. I can do it.”
“No, Papa placed you in my care. I forbid it. I’ll bring him up here. I’m sure Papa would approve.”
Bento nodded. “Thank you, but take care that the streets are clear—no must one see him enter. My excommunication forbade any Jew to speak to me. He must not be seen visiting.”
Ten minutes later Clara Maria returned with Franco. “Bento, when shall I return to escort him out?” Receiving no answer from the two men entirely absorbed in staring into one another’s eyes, she discreetly departed. “I’ll be in the next room.”
At the sound of the door closing, Franco approached and clasped Bento firmly by the shoulders. “Are you all right, Bento? She tells me you’re not wounded badly.”
“No, Franco, a couple of scratches here”—pointing to his belly—“but a very deep gash here,” pointing to his head.
“It’s such a relief to see you.”
“For me, too. Here, let’s sit down.” He gestured toward the bed, where they sat while Franco continued.
“At first news went through the congregation that you were dead, struck down by God. I went to the synagogue, and the mood there was exultant—people were saying that God had heard their cries and delivered his justice. I was beside myself with anguish, and it was only when I spoke to police officials searching the neighborhood for the assassin that I learned you were wounded and, of course, not by God but by a crazy Jew.”
“Who is he?”
“No one knows. Or at least, no one says they know. I’ve heard he is a Jew who has just arrived in Amsterdam.”
“Yes, he’s Portuguese. He screamed ‘Herege’ when he attacked me.”
“l heard that his family was killed by the Inquisition. And perhaps he had a special grievance against ex-Jews. Some ex-Jews in Spain and Portugal have become the Jews’ greatest enemies: priests who gain rapid promotion by helping Inquisitors see through subterfuge.”
“So, now the causal network becomes clearer.”
“Causal network?”
“Franco, it is good to be with you again. I always like the way you stop me and ask for clarification. I mean simply that everything has a cause.”
“Even this attack?”
“Yes, everything! All is subject to the laws of Nature, and it is possible, through our reason, to grasp this chain of causality. I believe this is true not only for physical objects but for everything human, and I am now embarking on the project of treating human actions, thoughts, and appetites just as if they were a matter of lines, planes, and bodies.”
“Are you saying that we can know the cause of every thought, appetite, whim, dream?”
Bento nodded.
“Does that mean we can’t simply decide to have certain thoughts? I can’t decide to turn my head one way and then another way? That we have no simple free choice?”
“I do mean exactly that. Man is a part of Nature and therefore subject to Nature’s causative network. Nothing, including us, in Nature can simply choose capriciously to initiate some action. There can be no separate dominion within a dominion.”
“No separate dominion in a dominion? I’m lost again.”
“Franco, it’s over a year since we last spoke, and here I am immediately talking philosophy instead of finding out everything about your life.”
“No. Nothing is more important to me than to speak like this with you. I am like a man dying of thirst coming upon an oasis. The rest can wait. Tell me about a dominion within a dominion.”
“I mean that since man in every way is a part of Nature, it is incorrect to think that man disturbs, rather than follows, the order of Nature. It is incorrect to assume that he, or any entity in Nature, has free will. Everything we do is determined by either outside or inside causes. Remember how I demonstrated to you earlier that God, or Nature, did not choose the Jews?”
Franco nodded.
“So, too, is it true that God did not choose mankind to be special, to be outside of Nature’s laws. That idea, I believe, has nothing to do with natural order but instead comes from our deep need for be special, to be imperishable.”
“I think I’m grasping your meaning—it is a gigantic thought. No freedom of will? I’m skeptical. I want to dispute it. You see, I think I’m free to decide to say, ‘I want to dispute it.’ Yet I have no arguments to offer. By the next time we meet I’ll have thought of some. But you were talking about the assassin and the causal network when I interrupted you. Please continue, Bento.”
“I think it is a law of Nature to respond to entire classes of things in the same way. This assassin, probably maddened by grief for his family, heard that I was an ex-Jew and classified me with other ex-Jews who harmed his family.”
“Your line of reasoning makes sense, but it must also include the influence of others who may have encouraged him to do this.”
“Those ‘others’ are also subject to the causal network,” Bento said.
Franco paused, nodding his head. “You know what I think, Bento?”
Bento looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“I think this is a lifetime project.”
“In that we are in full agreement. And I am agreeable, most agreeable, to devote my life to this project. But what were you going to say about the influence of others upon the assassin?”
“I believe the rabbis instigated this and shaped your assailant’s thoughts and actions. Rumors are that he is now being hidden in the cellar of the synagogue. I believe the rabbis wanted your death to serve as a warning to the congregation of the dangers of questioning rabbinical authority. I’m planning to inform the police of where he might be hidden.”
“No, Franco. Do not do that. Think of the consequences. The cycle of grief, anger, revenge, punishment, retribution will be endless and ultimately will engulf you and your family. Choose a religious path.”
Franco looked startled. “Religious? How can you use the term ‘religious’?”
“I mean a moral path, a virtuous path. If you desire to change this cycle of anguish, you must meet this assassin,” Bento said. “Comfort him, soothe his grief, try to enlighten him.”
Franco nodded slowly, sat silently as he digested Bento’s words, and then said, “Bento, let’s go back to what you said earlier about your deep wound in your head. How serious is that wound?”
“To be honest, Franco, I am paralyzed by fear. My tight chest feels as if it were going to burst. I can’t calm myself even though I’ve been working on it all morning.”
“Working how?”
“Just what I’ve been describing—reminding myself that everything has a cause and that what happened necessarily happened.”
“What does ‘necessarily’ mean?”
“Given all the factors that have previously occurred, this incident had to occur. There was no avoiding it. And one of the most important things I’ve learned is that it is unreasonable to try to control things over which we have no control. This, I am convinced, is a true thought, yet the vision of this attack returns to haunt me again and again.” Bento paused for a moment as his eyes lighted upon his slashed coat. “Just now it’s occurred to me that the sight of that coat over there on the chair may be aggravating the problem. A big mistake keeping it there. I must dispose of it entirely. For an instant, I thought of offering it to you, but of course you cannot be seen with that coat. It was my father’s coat
and will be easily recognized.”
“I disagree. Getting it out of sight is a bad idea. Let me say to you what I heard my father say to others in very similar situations. ‘Don’t dispose of it. Don’t close off part of your mind, but, rather, do exactly the opposite.’ So, Bento, I suggest that you hang it always in plain view, somewhere you see it at all times to remind you of the danger you face.”
“I can understand the wisdom of that advice. It requires much courage to follow it.”
“Bento, it is essential to keep that coat in view. I think you underestimate the danger of your situation in the world now. Yesterday, you almost died. Surely you must fear death?”
Bento nodded his head. “Yes. Though I am working to overcome that fear.”
“How? Every man fears death.”
“Men fear it to different degrees. Some ancient philosophers I am reading have sought for ways to soften death’s terror. Remember Epicurus? We once talked about him.”
Franco nodded. “Yes, the man who said the purpose of life was to live in a state of tranquility. What was that term he used?”
“Ataraxia. Epicurus believed that the major disturber of ataraxia was our fear of death, and he taught his students several powerful arguments to diminish it.”
“Such as?”
“His starting point is that there is no afterlife and that we have nothing to fear from the gods after death. Then he said that death and life can never coexist. In other words: where life is, death is not, and where death is, life is not.”
“That sounds logical, but I doubt it would offer calmness in the middle of the night when one awakes from a nightmare about dying.”
“Epicurus has yet another argument, the symmetry argument, that may be stronger yet. It posits that the state of nonbeing after death is identical to the state of nonbeing before birth. And though we fear death, we have no dread when we think of that earlier, identical state. Therefore we have no reason to fear death either.”
Franco inhaled deeply. “That catches my attention, Bento. You speak the truth. That argument has calming power.”