The Spinoza Problem (7 page)

T
wo weeks later Alfred stood at one end of Herr Epstein’s long table looking for instructions from the headmaster, who, today, looked larger and fiercer than ever. Herr Schäfer, much smaller, his face grave, gestured for Alfred to begin his recitation. Taking a last look at his copy of Goethe’s words, Alfred stood and announced, “From the autobiography of Goethe,” and began:

“‘The mind which worked so decisively upon me and had so great an influence on my whole manner of thinking was Spinoza. After I had looked about throughout the world in vain for a means of cultivating my strange nature, I came at last upon the Ethics of this man. I here found a sedative for my passions; there seemed to open for me a wide and free view over the material and mortal world.’”

“So, Rosenberg,” interrupted the headmaster. “What is it that Goethe got from Spinoza?”

“Uh, was it his ethics?

“No, no. Good Lord, didn’t you understand that the
Ethics
is the name of Spinoza’s book? What is Goethe saying he got from Spinoza’s book? What do you think he means by ‘a sedative for my passions’?”

“Something that calmed him down?”

“Yes, that’s part of it. But continue now—that idea will come up again very shortly.”

Albert recited to himself for a moment to recapture his spot and began:

“‘But what especially fastened me to Spinoza was the boundless interest which shone—’”

“Disinterest—not interest,” barked Headmaster Epstein, who was following every word of the recitation closely in the notes. “‘Disinterest’ means not being attached emotionally.”

Alfred nodded and continued:

“‘But what especially fastened me to Spinoza was the boundless disinterest which shone forth from every sentence. That marvelous expression: ‘He who loves God rightly must not desire God to love him in return,’ with all the premises on which it rests and all the consequences which follow from it, filled my whole power of thought.’”

“That’s a difficult passage,” said the headmaster. “Let me explain. Goethe is saying that Spinoza taught him to free his mind from the influence of others. To find his own feelings and his own conclusions and then act upon them. In other words, let your love flow, and do not let it be influenced by the idea of the love you may get in return. We could apply that very idea to election speeches. Would Goethe make a speech based on the admiration he would get from others? Of course not! Nor would he say what others want him to say. You understand? You get that point?”

Alfred nodded. What he truly understood was that Headmaster Epstein had a deep resentment toward him. He waited until the headmaster gestured for him to continue:

“‘Further, it must not be denied that the closest unions follow from opposites. The all-composing calmness of Spinoza was in strong contrast with my all-disturbing activity. His mathematical method was the opposite of my poetic feelings. His disciplined way of thought made me his impassioned disciple, his most decided worshipper. Mind and heart, understanding and feeling, sought each other with a necessary affinity, and hence came the union of the most different natures.’”

“Do you know what he means here by the two different natures, Rosenberg?” Headmaster Epstein asked.

“I think he means mind and heart?”

“Exactly. And which is Goethe and which Spinoza?”

Alfred looked puzzled.

“This is not just an exercise in memory, Rosenberg! I want you to understand these words. Goethe is a poet. So which is he, mind or heart?”

“He is heart. But he also had a great mind.”

“Ah, yes. Now I understand your confusion. But here he is saying that Spinoza offers him balance that allows him to reconcile his passion and bursting imagination with the necessary calmness and reason. And
that
is why Goethe says he is Spinoza’s ‘most decided worshipper.’ You understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now continue.”

Alfred hesitated, signs of panic in his eyes. “I’ve lost my place. I’m not sure where we are.”

“You’re doing fine,” interjected Herr Schäfer, in an effort to calm him down. “We know it’s hard to recite with so many interruptions. You may check your notes to find your place.”

Alfred took a deep breath, scanned his notes briefly, and continued:

“‘Some have represented the man as an atheist and considered him reprehensible, but then they also admitted he was a quiet, reflective man, a good citizen, a sympathetic person. So Spinoza’s critics seem to have forgotten the words of the Gospel, ‘By their fruits, you shall know them’; for how can a life pleasing to men and God spring from corrupt principles? I still remember what calm and clearness came over me when I first turned over the pages of the Ethics of that remarkable man. I therefore hastened to the work again to which I had been so much indebted, and again the same air of peace floated over me. I gave myself up to the reading and thought, when I looked into myself, that I had never beheld the world so clearly.’”

Alfred exhaled deeply as he finished the last line. The headmaster signaled him to take his seat and commented, “Your recitation was satisfactory. You have a good memory. Now let’s examine your understanding of this last section. Tell me, does Goethe think Spinoza is an atheist?”

Alfred shook his head.

“I didn’t hear your answer.”

“No sir.” Alfred spoke loudly. “Goethe did not think he was an atheist. But others thought he was.”

“And why did Goethe disagree with them?”

“Because of his ethics?”

“No, no. Have you already forgotten that
Ethics
is the name of Spinoza’s book? Again, why did Goethe disagree with Spinoza’s critics?”

Alfred trembled and remained silent.

“Good Lord, Rosenberg, look at your notes,” said the headmaster.

Alfred scanned the final paragraph and ventured. “Because he was good and lived a life pleasing to God?”

“Exactly. In other words it is not what you believe or say you believe, it is how you live that matters. Now, Rosenberg, a last question about this passage. Tell us again, what did Goethe get from Spinoza?”

“He said he got an air of peace and calmness. He also says he beheld the world more clearly. Those were the two main things.”

“Exactly. We know that the great Goethe carried a copy of Spinoza’s
Ethics
in his pocket for a year. Imagine that—an entire year! And not only Goethe but many other great Germans. Lessing and Heine reported a clarity and calmness that came from reading this book. Who knows, there may come a time in your life when you, too, will need the calmness and clarity that Spinoza’s
Ethics
offers. I shan’t ask you to read that book now. You’re too young to grasp its meaning. But I want you to promise that before your twenty-first birthday you will read it. Or perhaps I should say, read it by the time you’re fully grown. Do I have your word as a good German?”

“Yes sir, you have my word.” Alfred would have promised to read the entire encyclopedia in Chinese to get out of this inquisition.

“Now, let’s move to the heart of this assignment. Are you fully clear why we assigned you this reading assignment?”

“Uh, no, sir. I thought it was just because I said I admired Goethe above all others.”

“Certainly that is part of it. But surely you understood what my real question was?”

Alfred looked blank.

“I’m asking you, what does it mean to you that the man
you
admire above all others chooses a Jew as the man
he
admires above all others?”

“A Jew?”

“Did you not know that Spinoza was a Jew?”

Silence.

“You have found out nothing about him these last two weeks?”

“Sir, I know nothing about this Spinoza. That was not part of my assignment.”

“And so, thank God, you avoided the dreaded step of learning something extra? Is that it, Rosenberg?”

“Let me put it this way,” interjected Herr Schäfer. “Think of Goethe. What would he have done in this situation? If Goethe had been required to read the autobiography of someone unknown to him, what would Goethe have done?”

“He would have educated himself about this person.”

“Exactly. This is important. If you admire someone, emulate him. Use him as your guide.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Still, let us proceed with my question,” said Headmaster Epstein. “How do you explain Goethe’s boundless admiration and gratitude to a Jew?”

“Did Goethe know he was a Jew?”

“Good God. Of course he knew.”

“But, Rosenberg,” said Herr Schäfer, who was now also growing impatient, “think about your question. What does it matter if he knew Spinoza was a Jew? Why would you even ask that question? Do you think a man of Goethe’s stature—you yourself called him the universal genius—would not embrace great ideas regardless of their source?”

Alfred looked staggered. Never had he been exposed to such a blizzard of ideas. Headmaster Epstein, putting his hand on Herr Schäfer’s arm to quiet him, did not relent.

“My major question to you is still unanswered: how do you explain that the universal German genius is so very much helped by the ideas of a member of an inferior race?”

“Perhaps it is what I answered about Dr. Apfelbaum. Maybe because of a mutation there can be a good Jew, even though the race is corrupt and inferior.”

“That’s not an acceptable answer,” said the headmaster. “It is one thing to speak of a doctor who is kind and plies his chosen profession well and quite another thing to speak in this way of a genius who may have changed the course of history. And there are many other Jews whose genius is well-known. Think about them. Let me remind you of those you know yourself but maybe did not know were Jews. Herr Schäfer tells me that in class you’ve recited the poetry of Heinrich Heine. He tells me, too, that you like music, and I imagine you have listened to the music of Gustav Mahler and Felix Mendelssohn. Right?”

“They’re Jews, sir?”

“Yes, and you must know that Disraeli, the great prime minister of England, was a Jew?”

“I did not know that, sir.”

“Yes. And right now in Riga they are doing the opera of
Tales of Hoffmann
composed by Jacob Offenbach, another born of the Jewish race. So many geniuses. What is your explanation?”

“I can’t answer the question. I will have to think about it. Please may I go, sir? I’m not feeling well. I promise to think about it.”

“Yes, you may go,” said the headmaster. “And I want very much for you to think. Thinking is good. Think about our talk today. Think about Goethe and the Jew, Spinoza.”

A
fter Alfred’s departure, Headmaster Epstein and Herr Schäfer looked at one another for a few moments before the headmaster spoke. “He says he’s going to think, Hermann. What’s the chance of his thinking?”

“Next to zero, I would guess,” said Herr Schäfer. “Let’s graduate him and be rid of him. He has a lack of curiosity that is, most likely, incurable. Excavate anywhere in his mind, and we run into the bedrock of unfounded convictions.”

“I agree. I have no doubt that Goethe and Spinoza are, at this very moment, fast receding from his thoughts and will never trouble him again. Nonetheless I feel relieved by what has just happened. My fears are quelled. This young man has neither the intelligence nor fortitude to cause mischief by swaying others to his way of thinking.”

B
ento stared out the window, watching his brother walk toward the synagogue.
Gabriel is right; I do injury to those closest to me. My choices are horrendous—either I must shrink myself by giving up my innermost nature and hobbling my curiosity, or I must harm those closest to me.
Gabriel’s account of the rage toward him expressed at the Sabbath dinner brought to mind van den Enden’s paternal warning about the growing dangers Bento faced in the Jewish community. He meditated escape strategies from his trap for almost an hour before rising, dressing, making himself coffee, and walking out the back door, cup in hand, to the Spinoza Import and Export Shop.

There he dusted and swept litter through the front door into the street, and emptied a large sack of fragrant dried figs, a new shipment from Spain, into a bin. Sitting at his usual window seat, Bento sipped his coffee, nibbled on the figs, and focused on the daydreams coasting through his mind. He had lately been practicing a meditation wherein he disconnected himself from his flow of thought and viewed his mind as a theater and himself as a member of the audience watching the passing show. Gabriel’s face in all its sadness and confusion immediately appeared on stage, but Bento had learned how to lower the curtain and pass on to the next act. Soon van den Enden materialized. He praised Bento’s progress in Latin while lightly grasping his shoulder in a fatherly manner. That touch—he liked the feel of it.
But, now
, Bento thought,
with Rebekah and now Gabriel turning away, who will ever touch me again?