The Spinoza Problem (28 page)

Friedrich took his book back from Alfred and flipped through the pages. “It’s divided into five parts,” he pointed out. “‘On God,’ ‘On the Nature and Origin of the Mind,’ ‘On the Origin and Nature of the Emotions,’ ‘On Human Bondage,’ ‘Of Human Freedom.’ It’s the fourth section, ‘On Human Bondage,’ that interests me the most because it has the most relevance to my field. Earlier I said that I’ve not thought of him since we last met, but as we talk, I realize now that’s not true. Quite frequently, as I read or listen to psychiatry lectures or talk with patients, I ruminate about Spinoza’s vastly unappreciated influence on my field of psychiatry. And the fifth part, ‘On the Power of the Understanding, or Of Human Freedom,’ also has relevance to my work and
should have interest for you. This is the part that I imagine was the most beneficial for Goethe.”

“A couple of thoughts about the first two parts—” Friedrich glanced at his watch. “They are for me the most difficult and most abstruse sections, and I’ve never been able to understand every concept. The major point is that everything in the universe is a single eternal substance, Nature or God. And never forget he uses the two terms interchangeably.”

“Mentions of ‘God’ litter every page?” asked Alfred. “I didn’t think he was a believer.”

“Lot of controversy about that. Many refer to him as a pantheist. My professor preferred to call him a devious atheist, repeatedly using the term ‘God’ to encourage seventeenth-century readers to keep reading. And to prevent both his books and his person from being consigned to flames. For sure he is not using ‘God’ in the conventional sense. He rails against the naïveté of humans’ claim they are made in God’s image. Somewhere, I think in his correspondence, he says that if triangles could think they would create a triangular god. All anthropomorphic versions of God are just superstitious inventions. To Spinoza, Nature and God are synonyms; you might say he naturalizes God.”

“So far I don’t hear anything about ethics.”

“You have to wait until parts four and five. First he establishes that we live in a deterministic world loaded with obstacles to our well-being. Whatever occurs is a result of the unchanging laws of nature, and we are part of nature, subject to these deterministic laws. Furthermore, nature is infinitely complex. As he puts it, nature has an infinite number of modes or attributes, and we humans can only apprehend two of them, thought and material essence.”

Alfred asked a few more questions about the
Ethics
, but Friedrich noted that he seemed to be straining to keep the conversation going. Choosing his time carefully, Friedrich ventured an observation. “Alfred, it is wonderful for me to remember and discuss Spinoza with you. But I want to be sure I haven’t missed anything. As a therapist I’ve learned to pay attention to hunches that pass through my mind, and I have a hunch about you.”

Alfred’s eyebrows raised. He waited expectantly.

“I have a hunch that you came to speak not only about Spinoza but also for some other reason.”

Tell him the truth
, Alfred said to himself.
Tell him about your tightness. About your inability to sleep. About being unloved. About always being an outsider apart from, rather than a part of.
But instead he said, “No, it’s been great to see you, to catch up, to learn more about Spinoza—after all, how often does one stumble upon a Spinoza tutor? What’s more, I have a good story for the paper. If you can supply me with some medical reading on shell shock, I will write the story on the train ride to Munich and put it in next week’s edition. I’ll send it to you.”

Friedrich walked over to his desk and rifled through several journals. “Here’s a good review in the
Journal of Nervous Diseases
. Take the issue with you, and mail it back when you’re finished with it. And here also is Eugen’s address.”

As Alfred slowly, somewhat reluctantly, started to rise, Friedrich decided to try one last thing—another device he had learned from his own analyst and that he had often used with patients. It rarely failed.

“Stay a moment, Alfred. I’ve one last question. Let me ask you to imagine something. Close your eyes and imagine leaving me now. Imagine walking away from our talk, and then imagine sitting on the long train ride to Munich. Let me know when your imagination is there.”

Alfred closed his eyes and soon nodded readiness.

“Now, here’s what I’d like you to do. Think back upon our talk tonight, and ask yourself these questions: Do I have any regrets about my talk with Friedrich? Were there important issues I did not raise?”

Alfred kept his eyes closed and, after a long silence, slowly nodded. “Well, there is
one
thing . . .”

B
ento wheeled when he heard his name called and saw a disheveled, tearful Franco, who immediately sank to his knees and bowed his head until his brow touched the pavement.

“Franco? What are you doing here? And what are you doing on the ground?”

“I have to see you, to warn you, to beg forgiveness. Please forgive me. Please allow me to explain.”

“Franco, stand up. It’s not safe for you to be seen talking to me. I’m heading to my house. Follow at a distance, and then just come right in without knocking. But first be certain you’re not seen by anyone.”

A few minutes later, in Bento’s study, Franco continued in a tremulous voice, “I just came from the synagogue. The rabbis cursed you. Vicious—they were vicious. I could understand everything because they translated into Portuguese—I never imagined they would be so vicious. They ordered no one to speak to you or look at you or—”

“That’s why I told you it was unsafe to be seen with me.”

“You already knew? How could you? I just came from the synagogue. I ran out immediately after the service.”

“I knew it was coming. It was fated.”

“But you’re a good man. You offered to help me. You did help me. And look what they’ve done to you. Everything is my fault.” Franco fell to his knees again and took Bento’s hand and pressed it to his forehead. “It’s a crucifixion, and I’m the Judas. I betrayed you.”

Bento extricated his hand and placed it on Franco’s head for a moment. “Please stand. I have things to tell you. Above all, you must know
it is not your fault
. They were looking for an excuse.”

“No, there are things you do not know. It is time: I must confess. We betrayed you, Jacob and I. We went to the parnassim, and Jacob told them everything you said to us. And I did nothing to stop him. I just stood there as he talked and nodded my head. And each nod pounded a nail into your crucifixion. But I had to. I had no choice . . . Believe me, I had no choice.”

“There is always choice, Franco.”

“That sounds good, but it is not true. Real life is more complex than that.”

Startled, Bento took a long look at Franco. This was a somewhat different Franco. “Why is it not true?”

“What if you’re faced with only two choices, and both are deadly?”

“Deadly?”

Franco avoided Bento’s eyes. “Does the name Duarte Rodriguez mean anything to you?”

Bento nodded. “The man who tried to rob my family. The man who needed no rabbi’s proclamation to hate me.”

“He is my uncle.”

“Yes, I know that, Franco. Rabbi Mortera told me yesterday.”

“Did he tell you that my uncle offered me two choices? If I agreed to betray you, he would rescue me from Portugal, and then, after I had fulfilled my bargain, he would immediately send a ship to Portugal to rescue my mother, my sister, and my cousin, Jacob’s mother. They are all in hiding and in great danger from the Inquisition. If I refused, he would strand them in Portugal.”

“I understand. You made the correct choice. You saved your family.”

“Even so, that does not erase my shame. I am planning to go back to the parnassim the moment my family is safe and confess that we provoked you into saying the things you said.”

“No, do not do that, Franco. The best thing you can give me now is silence.”

“Silence?”

“It is best for me, for all of us.”

“
Why
is it best? We
did
trick you into saying what you said.”

“But that is not true. I said what I said freely.”

“No, you’re being merciful to me, to assuage my pain. My guilt remains. It was all an act, all planned. I sinned. I deceived you. I caused you great harm.”

“Franco, you did not deceive me. I
knew
you would bear witness against me. I deliberately spoke rashly. I
wanted
you to testify. I’m the one who is guilty of deception.”

“
You
?”

“Yes, I took advantage of you. Worst of all, I did so even though I had an inkling that you and I might be like-minded.”

“You understood right. But our like-mindedness compounds my guilt. When Jacob described your views to the parnassim, I kept silent, whereas I should have shouted at the top of my lungs, ‘I agree with Baruch Spinoza. His views are my views too.’”

“If you had done that, you would have had the worst of all worlds. Your uncle would retaliate, your family would be imperiled, I would still have been excommunicated, and the parnassim would have excommunicated you along with me.”

“Baruch Spinoza—”

“Please—Bento now. There is no longer a Baruch Spinoza.”

“All right,
Bento
. Bento Spinoza, you are an enigma. Nothing about today makes sense. Answer one simple question: if you wanted to quit this community, why did you not just leave of your own choice? Why bring such disgrace and catastrophe upon yourself? Why not just move away? Go elsewhere?”

“Where? Do I look Dutch? A Jew cannot just disappear. And think of my brother and sister. Think of how hard it would be to leave them and then keep deciding over and over again to stay away from them. Better this way. And better, too, for my family. Now they no longer have to choose again and again not to talk to their brother. The rabbi’s
cherem
decides for me and for them once and for all time.”

“So you say it is better to hand your own fate to others. Better not to choose, but to force others to make the choice for you? Did you not just say there was always a choice?”

Jolted, Bento looked again at this different Franco, a thoughtful, forthright Franco with no trace of the shy, buffoonish Franco of their previous
meetings. “There is much truth in what you say. How came you to think in such ways?”

“My father, he who was burned by the Inquisition, was a wise man. Before he was forced to convert, he was the main rabbi and advisor of our community. Even after we all became Christians, the villagers continued to visit him to discuss serious life problems. I often sat by his side, and I learned many things about guilt and shame and choice and grief.”

“You, the son of a wise rabbi? So in our meetings with Jacob, you concealed your knowledge and your true thoughts. When I talked of the words of the Torah, you feigned ignorance.”

Franco lowered his head and nodded. “I acknowledge that I played a deceptive role. But, in truth, I
am
ignorant of Jewish things. My father, in his wisdom and his love for me, desired that I not be educated in our tradition. If we were to stay alive, we had to be Christians. He deliberately taught me nothing of the Jewish language or customs because the cunning Inquisitors were so good at spotting all traces of Jewish ideas.”

“And your outburst about the madness of religions? That, too, was pretense?”

“Not in any way! Yes, Jacob’s scheme was for me to voice great religious doubt in order to encourage you to loosen your tongue. But that role was easy—no actor has ever been assigned an easier part. In fact, Bento, it was a great relief to utter those words. I have always concealed my feelings before. The more Christian dogma and stories of miracles I was forced to learn, the more I realized how both the Christian and the Jewish faiths were based on childish, supernatural fantasies. But I could never express this to my father. I could not wound him so. Then he was murdered for hiding Torah pages that he believed contained the very words of God. And again I could say nothing. Hearing your thoughts was so liberating that my sense of deception diminished, even though my honest sharing with you was itself in the service of deception. A complex paradox.”

“I understand exactly. During our talk I, too, felt exhilarated at finally telling the truth about my beliefs. Knowing that I was shocking Jacob did not deter me in the least. Quite the contrary—I confess I rather enjoyed shocking him even though I was aware that dark consequences would follow.”

They fell into silence. Bento’s anguished sense of absolute isolation after Manny, the baker’s son, had shunned him began to fade. This meeting, this
moment of honesty with Franco, touched and warmed him. As was his wont, he did not linger long with feelings but shifted into the observer role and examined his mind, noting especially the mellowness spreading through him. Even full awareness of its fleeting nature did not deter its pleasantness. Ah, friendship! So
this
is the glue that holds people together—this warmth, this loneliness-dispelling state of mind. Doubting so much, fearing so much, revealing so little, he had sampled friendship far too rarely in his life.

Franco glanced at Bento’s packed bag and broke the silence. “You’re leaving today?”

Bento nodded.

“Going where? What will you do? How will you support yourself?”

“Hopefully I head toward an unencumbered life of contemplation. For the past year I’ve been trained by a local lens maker to make lenses for spectacles and, of much greater interest to me, optical instruments, both telescopes and microscopes. My needs are few, and I should be able to support myself easily.”

“You’ll stay here in Amsterdam?”

“For the time being. At the home of Franciscus van den Enden, who operates a teaching academy near the Singel. Eventually I may move to a smaller community, where I can pursue my own study in a quieter setting.”