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292 to feel and to find agreement with self and with the universe, and to be raised to, and sustained in, serenity by it. Our consciousness of harmony or discord with our assigned nature; the belief that this consciousness is given us, which man as a mere instinct calls conscience—"

"Conscience is a stocking that fits any foot. The savage strikes his father dead when he is old and infirm, and thinks it his conscientious duty; the Jew's conscience reproaches him when he eats the flesh of swine, and the Catholic beats his breast when he has neglected mass."

So spoke old Van den Ende, who then suddenly entered. Spinoza quietly replied that no man could reason away conscience. That pure conscience which merely exists in the feelings, and which men have dressed in all manner of external shapes, must often be liable to deception; but that inner voice which enters our consciousness, which tells us so plainly when we have acted in opposition to the laws of our nature and the universal order, is as undeniable and reliable as our knowledge of our own existence."

"Yes, my dear father," said Olympia; "shall always be grateful to Herr von Spinoza for the many great ideas which he has imparted to us."

She then explained to her father the leading ideas of what had just been said. Spinoza had now and then to add something, but on the whole he saw

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Rh with inexpressible pleasure how completely Olympia had entered into the grounds of his views. This pleasure did not long remain undisturbed, for the laughter of old Van den Ende annoyed him extremely.

"Do you remember the saintly Christopher in the asylum at Milan, of whom I told you?" he said. "He would suit you very well; he, too, was of a piece with God. Ha, ha, ha! There is yet something excellent left to laugh at."

Spinoza's whole soul rose against these words. Mockery is the deadliest poison to kill the seed of life in a growing character or a growing idea. Our philosopher, however, was sufficiently strong already to blunt and turn off with little trouble all the pointed arrows that Van den Ende discharged at his speculations. Spinoza felt strangely touched when Olympia said to him at parting:

"I am now quite grateful to the rain for having confined us to four walls. I do not think such connected trains of thought as you have given us could arise, or be expressed, in the freedom of nature; color, sound and fragrance would protest against it, for that we must be alone and at home. The wise Greeks did not attain to it because they lived and taught in the open air. Come to-morrow to our Buiten; Socrates and Plato await you among the green bushes."

Spinoza had not time to explain what a singular

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294 echo this expression awoke in him, for he recollected that the Rabbis ordain: "When two go together to speak of the Revelation (the Thora), and one says, 'Look how beautiful that field is, how beautiful that tree'—he has committed a deadly sin."

Does the highest thought demand abstraction from the outer world?

The two friends left the house in silence; Cecilia met them just in front of it.

"You too must say, 'He that is able to receive it let him receive it'" (Matt. xix. 12), said Oldenburg; Spinoza pressed his hand and they separated.

After such a discussion he was obliged to go to the synagogue.

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title: Spinoza: A novel/Chapter 16


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E LAGCHLUST" was the inscription over the entrance to the Van den Ende's country house outside the Utrecht Gate, with its freshly-painted doors and window shutters; it was neat and modest, and gave evidence, in the laying out of the garden, the well-covered espaliers, rich flower-beds and shady groves, of the Dutch character, which, failing in the beauties of mountainous country, found means by higher culture to give their plains a quiet beauty of their own.

We meet our familiar companions here in the open air at last, Olympic gods hidden in the bushes, and above them all on a soft green lawn the bust of Democritus attracted all eyes.

To-day the garden and house did not seem to answer to their name. No desire to laugh was apparent. A peculiar feeling of depression seemed to possess them all.

Kerkering and Van den Ende walked away to a distant path in animated conversation; the two friends joined Olympia and Cecilia. Olympia bade Spinoza lay his cares aside; his father's illness was

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Rh steals the seed grain and does not raise anything upon the field, he is to be arrested and upon conviction of the offence shall for every 100 "gan" pay 60 "gur" of grain to the owner.

256. If [he cannot pay the penalty] his township does not care to pay it for him, he is to be left on that farm among the cattle.

257. The rate of pay for a field laborer is 8 "gur" of grain annually for his services.

258. If anyone hires an ox tender he is to pay him 6 "gur" of grain a year.

259. If anyone steals a water wheel from the field he is to give the owner 5 shekels of money upon proof of his guilt.

260. If he steals a dipping bucket or a plow he is to give 3 shekels of money to the owner upon proof of his guilt.

261. If anyone hires a shepherd to graze out cattle and small animals he is to give him 8 "gur" of grain a year [in compensation for his labor].

262. If anyone. . . . . . a beef or a sheep. . . . . . [tablet defaced].

263. If he [one to whom a beef or sheep is loaned] ruins the beef or sheep that was loaned him, he is to return to the owner a beef for a beef and a sheep for a sheep.

264. If a shepherd who has been intrusted with cattle and small animals for grazing purposes has received the wages that were determined upon [as compensation for his services], damages the beef or small cattle and makes the increase by birth smaller, he shall be accountable to the owner, according to the wording of the agreement for increase and profit.

265. If a shepherd who has been intrusted with cattle and small animals falsifies the natural increase or sells the increase for money, he is to be arrested and [upon conviction thereof] shall return 10 fold the cattle or small animals [so claimed to exist] to their owner.

266. If in a stable a beef is injured by an act of God or a lion [wild beast] the shepherd shall make oath to his lack of fault and produce the injured animal to its owner [and thence go in peace].

267. If a shepherd through his negligence causes injury to cattle in the stable, the shepherd shall compensate the owner in cattle and small animals to the extent of the damage, which he has caused in the stable [to the owner's property].

268. If anyone hires an ox for the purpose of threshing he shall pay for the hire thereof 20 "ka" of grain [for that threshing period].

269. If he hire an ass for threshing purposes the rate of hire is 20 "ka" of grain [for that threshing period].

270. If he hires a young animal for threshing purposes the rate of hire is 10 "ka" of grain [for that threshing period].

271. If anyone rents an ox, wagon and driver, he is to pay 180 "ka" of grain per day [for the use thereof].

272. If anyone hires a cart alone he is to give 40 "ka" of grain per day [for the use thereof].

273. Anyone hiring a laborer shall give him [for his services] from every new year to the fifth month [at the rate of] 6 Grochen of money per day and from the sixth month to the end of the year he is to pay him [at the rate of] 5 Grochen per day.

274. Anyone employing a workman who is a member of an association shall pay him at the rate of 5 Grochen; a potter's (?) wages shall be 5 Grochen, a tailor's wages shall be 5 Grochen, the wages of a. . . . . . (?)


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296 certainly not serious. He should give himself up to the serene enjoyment of nature for the present.

"Your King Solomon," she continued, "must have been very fortunate to understand the speech of all birds and beasts; he must have been so much at home with nature."

"Perhaps he was too much at home therein, and that is why he said all is vanity," interposed Oldenburg.

"I do not miss Solomon's skill in my enjoyment of nature," said Spinoza. "Nature would annoy me if she were eternally chattering to me of all her doings, and never left me to myself."

He had no second thought in saying these words, but Oldenburg and Cecilia looked at each other in embarrassment as they listened to them, for Olympia often had somewhat of the lecturing tone common to most teachers, who, from the habit of seeing pupils stand before them in mute attention, carry their explanations and expositions into conversation also.

Olympia, however, had not the faintest idea of such an application of this speech. She applied it rather to their parting words of the previous day.

"I cannot bear to enjoy nature alone," she said. "When I felt myself carried away into other worlds by the enjoyment of pure sight, I involuntarily grasped at my side to press some friendly hand in mute sympathy."

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88 Grochen, the wages of. . . . . . (?) Grochen, the wages of a. . . . . . (?) Grochen, the wages of a carpenter shall be 4 Grochen, the wages of a rope-maker (?) shall be 4 Grochen, the wages of a. . . . . . (?) Grochen, the wages of a mason shall be (?) Grochen, per day.

275. If anyone hires a ship [from another] he is to give for the use of the ship for each day, 3 Grochen of money as rent.

276. If he hires a freight ship he is to give 2½ Grochen per day.

277. If anyone hires a ship of 60 "gur" [capacity] he shall give $$\mathrm \tfrac{1}{6}$$ shekel of money a day as rent therefor.

278. If anyone buys a male or female slave, and before the end of the month the bênu-sickness attacks the slave, he shall give the slave back to the vendor and shall receive back from the vendor the money that he has paid [for the slave].

279. If anyone buys a male or female slave and a claim is laid to them [by a third party] the vendor selling without right so to do is responsible both to the owner and purchaser.

280. If anyone buys male or female slaves in a foreign country, and he goes into that country and the owner recognizes his male or female slave; if the male or female slaves are children of a common country he is to return them without paying money damages [being called upon to pay damages to the owner].

281. If they [the slaves] come from another country the purchaser shall make oath as to the amount of money he paid for the slaves, and the owner shall thereupon pay back to the purchaser the money which he has paid [for the slaves] and take the male or female slaves into his possession again.

282. If a slave says to his master, "You are not my master," and is proven guilty of this [of falsifying in respect thereto], his owner may cut off his ear.

The determination of law of the ever wise King Hammurabi, who taught the country proper law and the pious institutions. Hammurabi, the protecting King, am I. Men, whom Bêl gave me, the government of whom Marduk has given me, I did not flee from; I was not dilatory, I furnished them with residences of peace, I opened steep passes, I let light shine out from them, with a mighty weapon which Zamama and Istar loaned me, with a keen glance which Ea determined for me, with the wisdom which Marduk gave me; I routed out the enemies above and below [north and south], I subjugated the earth, I furnished the country with well-being, the inhabitants of the residences with life and safety, I did not tolerate a disturber of the peace; the great gods called me, I am the good shepherd [sovereign], whose staff [scepter] is straight [just], the good shadow [umbrella], which is spread over my city; at my breast I nurse the inhabitants of the land Sumer and Akkad [Babylonia], in my protection I let them rest in peace, in my wisdom I harbored them that the strong should not injure the weak, to make safe widows and orphans; I have rested in Babylon, I have rested in the town of Babylon, the town of Anu and Bêl their head. In Sagila the temple whose foundations stand firm as heaven and earth, I have in order to speak the right of the land, to determine the matters of conflict, to heal the injuries of, my valuable words I have inscribed upon my memorial stone, upon my image, erected as a king of justice, who rises above the kings of the city am I.


text: Category:German literature

title: Category:German literature


text: Talk:South Australian Advertiser/Obituary/John Davis


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 is a deception produced through syllogism, and this happens in two ways, in those things which are primarily present, or not present; for it happens either when one simply apprehends the being present, or not being present, or when he obtains this opinion through syllogism: of simple opinion, then, the deception is simple, but of that which is through syllogism, it is manifold. For let A not be present with any B individually, if then A is concluded to be present with B, assuming C as the middle, a person will be deceived through syllogism. Hence it is possible that both propositions may be false, but it is also possible that only one may be so, for if neither A is present with any C, nor C with any B, but each proposition is taken contrary, both will be false. But it may be that C so subsists with reference to A and B, as neither to be under A nor universally (present) with B, for it is impossible that B should be in a certain whole, since it was said that A is not primarily present with it; but A need not be universally present with all beings, so that both propositions are false. Nevertheless, we may assume one proposition as true, not either of them casually, but the proposition A C, for the proposition C B will be always false, because B is in none; but A C may be (true), for instance, if A is present individually, both with C and B, for when the same thing is primarily predicated of many things, neither will be predicated of neither; it makes no difference however if it (A) be not individually present with it (C).

The deception then of being present, is by these and in this way only, (for there was not a syllogism of being present in another figure,) but the deception of not being present with, is in the first and middle figure. Let us first then declare in how many ways it occurs in the first, and under what propositional circumstances. It may then happen when both propositions are false, e. g. if A is present individually with C and B, for if A should be assumed present with no C, but C with every B, the propositions will be false. But (deception) is possible, when one proposition is false, and either of them casually; for it is possible that A C may be true, but C B false; A C true, because A is not present with all beings, but C B false,


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Rh No one answered; each one looked at the ground. Oldenburg had for some time perceived the relations arising between Olympia and Spinoza by their occasional glances and turns of speech. He was diplomatist enough to believe he could employ these intercepted secret messages towards founding a friendly compromise without an open explanation.

"What do you say," he said, "to Queen Christina of Sweden having presented her crown and sceptre to her cousin, not, as we at first supposed, to garland herself merely with the poet's laurel, but to deck her brows with the myrtle wreath?"

"What!" exclaimed Olympia; "is Queen Christina going to be married?"

"Commercial advices arrived yesterday from Rome, in which it is decidedly affirmed that the daughter of Gustavus Adolphus will return to the bosom of the one true Church, in order to be able to marry her High-Chamberlain Monaldeschi."

"Indeed Queen Christina has cast off all earthly considerations freely and unrestrainedly to partake of the blessings of our faith," said Cecilia in a gentle voice, and no one contradicted her.

"If the daughter of Gustavus Adolphus has done this," said Olympia after a pause, "that she might belong wholly to the man of her choice, the deed is above all reproach; love is a bond which ought to loosen all earlier ones. How simply and truly it is

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298 expressed in the Bible where it says, 'For her sake leave father and mother.' The question here is only whether the obedience of the so-called weaker sex goes so far as to make the sacrifice hers in this case. Christina of Sweden has certainly done enough by her abdication; is it not rather the man's duty to take this unpleasant step instead of hers? If he would not do it he would be unworthy of, and lost to, her love, and her step would be censurable."

"But if such a step were in opposition to his own convictions?"

Olympia did not answer and looked at the ground.

Spinoza hesitated whether to join in the conversation or not, for he had partly penetrated Oldenburg's intention. As Olympia, however, here looked at him with an entreating and inquiring glance, he replied:

"If Monaldeschi were the cause of her abdication, and knew it, he had taken upon himself responsibilities towards the Queen, and nothing ought longer to prevent him from agreeing to her wishes in everything; but if insuperable objections existed for him, he ought, as a man of honor, to have rejected the connection from the beginning, as one whose obligations he neither could nor would fulfil. I might make a more general application of this event. The reformed ministers of this country

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 because it is impossible that C should be with B, with nothing of which A is present; for otherwise the proposition A C will be no longer true, at the same time, if both are true, the conclusion also will be true. But it is also possible that C B may be true, when the other proposition is false, as if B is in C and in A, for one if must necessarily be under the other, so that if A should be assumed present with no C, the proposition will be false. It is clear then, that when one proposition is false, and also when both are, the syllogism will be false.

In the middle figure, however, it is not possible that both propositions should be wholly false, for when A is present with every B, it will be impossible to assume any thing, which is present with every individual of the one, but with no individual of the other; but we must so assume the propositions that the (middle) may be present with one (extreme), and not be present with the other, if indeed there is to be a syllogism. If then, when they are thus assumed, they are false, it is clear that, when taken contrarily, they will subsist vice versâ, but this is impossible. Still there is nothing to prevent each being partly false, as if C is with A, and with a certain B; for if it should be assumed present with every A, but with no B, both propositions indeed would be false, yet not wholly, but partially. The same will occur when the negative is placed vice versâ. But it is possible that one proposition, and either of them, may be false, for what is present with every A, will be also with B, if then C is assumed present with the whole of A, but not present with the whole of B, C A will be true, but the proposition C B false. Again, what is present with no B, will not be present with every A; for if with A, it would also be with B, but it was not present; if then C should be assumed present with the whole of A, but with no B, the proposition C


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Rh accept the doctrine of Descartes as the best deduction from Calvin's. Queen Christina, the most zealous follower of this philosopher, who taught her himself, can find proofs in it on which to ground her conversion to the Catholic Church."

"The Catholic religion is the mother Church, and it is a natural impulse to return to it."

"Speak out," said Oldenburg to Spinoza. "I see by the corners of your mouth you wish to answer, If the Catholic Church is the mother, the Jewish is the grandmother Church, and could just as well demand that we should don her vestments. But we will take another example. Turenne is so pre-eminently a field marshal by nature, he will only bear the star of his own faith on his breast, standing in the front, and not in the ranks among the members of the Catholic Church like a common soldier. Is he not right to do so?"

Spinoza noticed the digression as Van den Ende, who had come into the circle with Kerkering, interposed:

"Turenne is a soldier, and soldiers, who hourly risk their lives, do not willingly lay aside their familiar armor; they think this or that superstition has made them shot free; but if once peace were made I do not think it would be difficult to make Turenne turn Catholic."

"Were he capable of loving a girl tenderly and ardently," added Kerkering, "he would soon join

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300 the one saving faith of her possession. It would be cowardice then, when the greatest was at stake, not to be able to conquer a prejudice acquired in the nursery. He who truly loves can only believe in his beloved one; her heart is his church, her words his only revelation, she alone is worthy of his reverence, and nothing is above her. That is the true regeneration that we desire in a maiden's love, which makes us inseparably one with her. Who can think then of the limitations which men place around one another?"

His companions stared in astonishment at Kerkering's words; only old Van dan Ende nodded approvingly, and Olympia said after an awkward pause:

"While we are talking over principles, a poet's mistress, sick unto death, is perhaps dying for such principles."

"Who is that?" inquired Oldenburg.

"The betrothed of your former friend, the poetess Maria Tesselschade, will hardly greet to-morrow's dawn. Did you know Caspar Barläus, Herr von Spinoza?"

"No, Jufrow Olympia, but my old master, Nigritius, who was once insulted by him, has often abused him to me."

"Seven years since," continued Olympia, "I remember it quite well, it was not long after New Year's Day of 1648, they found him in the well

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Rh near the weighing-house quite dead. He had been with his betrothed the evening before. The well was on the way to his own house."

"Had he thrown himself in?"

Olympia nodded assent; she forbore to assent in words.

"He certainly killed himself," Oldenburg remarked; "but it is incomprehensible to me how he could hold fast to Tesselschade for so many long years, and at last, when they were both grown old, take such a desperate step because he could not marry her."

"Why could he not?"

"She was Catholic and he was Protestant; indeed, he had formerly suffered much persecution as a Remonstrant. His whole thoughts were borrowed from the ancient Greek and Roman world, and yet he could not make up his mind for love of Tesselschade to change his form of faith."

"It is ridiculous," added Van den Ende, taking up his daughter's words; "he sang all the stories of the Old and New Testaments, with all the Greek and Roman mythology, and Arcadian pastorals; he could not say a word without parading the whole Olympus; he translated even his own love into the language of Horace."

"It seems to me, dear father," said Olympia, "that Barläus was obliged to translate all his thoughts into Latin in order to understand them

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302 perfectly. Herr von Spinoza, you must read his poems; a soul overflowing with human love is expressed in them. He had a Rubric of his own, Tessalica, in which he sang to his mistress as she sat her horse, and as she sang to her harp, to her ruff and her string of pearls; everything of hers inspired him to poetise. In one ode he sang,

Tessela quae coelo potes deducere lunam, Et tetricos cantu demeruisse Deos—

Do you understand the pun by which he changed the name Tesselschade into Tessela?"

"No."

"In the second Idyl of Theocritus Tessela is an infallible love-charm, the name was given to the plant from which the philter was prepared, but we do not know the plant itself."

"You will always and forever be my instructress," said Spinoza.

"Will you not, when you have found out how, instruct us in magic?" inquired Kerkering.

"You are already an enchanted prince," replied Olympia. " Herr von Spinoza, do you believe in magic?"

"In yours," he replied hastily. Oldenburg shook his head disapprovingly.

"You have forgotten one main point in the love

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 however it should be required to show that D is not with E, because C is with every D, but with no, or not with every, the medium will never fall external to E, and this is with what it need not be present. As to the third mode, it will never proceed external to that from which, nor which it is necessary to deny.

Chapter 24
one demonstration is universal, but another particular, one also affirmative, but the other negative, it is questioned which is preferable, likewise also about what is called direct demonstration, and that which leads to the impossible. Let us first then consider the universal and the particular, and having explained this, speak of what is called direct demonstration, and that to the impossible.

Perhaps then to some considering the matter in this way, the particular may appear the better, for it that demonstration is preferable, by which we obtain better knowledge, for this is the excellence of demonstration, but we know each thing better when we know it per se, than when through something else, (as we know Coriscus is a musician, when we know that Coriscus is a musician rather than when we know that a man is a musician, and likewise in other things,) but the universal demonstrates because a thing is something else, not because it is that which it is, as that an isosceles triangle (has two right angles), not because it is isosceles, but because it is a triangle,) but the particular demonstrates because a thing is what it is, if then the demonstration per se is preferable, and the particular is such rather than the universal, particular demonstration would be the better. Besides, if the universal is nothing else than


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Rh Story of Barläus," he said. "Do you recollect that, in the epistle dedicatory prefixed to his poems, he maintains that the three L's are incompatible with matrimony, Libri, Liberi and Libertas, as they do not co-operate well? Poor fellow, he wrote epithalamiums for all the world, and could not have a wedding of his own."

"He wrote a lovely Carmen on the wedding of my Uncle Overbeck, in Hamburg," Kerkering threw in. Oldenburg continued:

"If a truly sublime and thoroughly poetic soul had dwelt in Barläus, and the professor not peeped out from every hole and corner in him, the denied possession of his Tesselschade and his own pure love for her alone might have made him become as a fragrant garden of heavenly poetic bloom. If Dante had embraced his Beatrice, if Laura had cooked bread-soup for Petrarch, never would the one have raised himself to be the Homer of the Christian cosmography by his immortal canzones, and the eternal harmony of Petrarch's sonnets would have been drowned in the cries of fretful children. Poetry is not the vulture of fable that perpetually consumes life; it is the flame from which the phoenix springs rejuvenescent, and with uninjured flight soars heavenward. For individual men, as well as for struggling humanity, the highest possession would be disgust and death, or happy delirium."

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304 "What! can this be Herr Oldenburg?" asked Olympia in astonishment.

"That is a very original idea. Then monks and nuns, in their self-renunciation, are the chosen army of poets."

"You want to put me in the wrong by a clever sophistry," answered Oldenburg, "but I am not so stupid. I only affirm that a man of truly great mind must not cling with his whole vitality to any one arbitrarily idealized person; if he does so he has fallen from God to man, and he dies the death of a man, for he is coffined between the hard boards of every-day regrets and necessities. Ay, even could he be free, and find his self-created ideal realized, he would be obliged to fly from it."

"I am also of your opinion," said old Van den Ende; "the gods could not have more effectually punished Pygmalion than when they granted his prayer. Such a marriage must be barren."

"There are no ideals on earth and can be none," said Oldenburg in an animated tone; "foolish is he who seeks such, and still more foolish is he who believes he has found them. They may live in us, and hover above us in glorified memories. How infinitely great is Dante when he sings his pure, refined love!"

"There was a time when you thought otherwise," said Olympia.

"I think so still. I myself have no claim to the

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Rh highest crown of humanity; as I am live thousands of the great multitude; I must surrender myself prisoner. But if I see a friend, gifted with an exalted and commanding mind, letting himself be imprisoned within the four walls of commonplace, bowing his great mind to serve a self-created idol, I would spurn him from me; for he thus becomes a traitor to the greatness and majesty of his calling; but if he can keep that ideal, which has never perfectly appeared to his consciousness, pure and high, I esteem him happy."

"A sad martyrdom it is to which you condemn the higher minds," said Olympia.

The shades of night were falling; they separated.

Spinoza accompanied Olympia home. She hung on his arm. He did not know how he had gained courage and good fortune for such close communion. Old Van den Ende took care of Cecilia. Olympia and Spinoza followed in silence. When they came to the roadside house Olympia said:

"Look, there is the well in which the weak, good-natured Barläus drank his death. Would it not have been more reasonable and manly to give up his faith than his life?"

"We have not given ourselves either faith or life," answered Spinoza. "Suicide of either one or the other is cowardly and weak; strength lies in bearing one and the other; deny yourself for them, or learn to free them." Olympia was silent.

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306 "This diplomatic obtrusive mediation enrages me," she said after a pause, "that Oldenburg thought to effect so artfully to-day. A third, who disturbs a tender relation with a word, originates estrangements and misunderstandings which but for him would never have arisen, or would much sooner have been extinguished."

"I am glad you think so," said Spinoza, and bit his lips in violent mental conflict. "Dear Olympia," he continued, "I have struggled with all my might, but I am not so strong as you think. I fall if you do not grant me your hand, or rather if you do not withdraw it from me. I cannot say the word that my heart would speak to you, but I conjure you, send me from you; never, never must we belong to one another."

Olympia pressed his arm closer to her, her voice trembled, both hands were clasped.

"What!" she asked. "Why not? Have we nailed Christ to the cross? What does it matter to us what a fanatical crowd did thousands of years ago? Have you risen to such a height of intellect to be frightened by a form to which men have bound themselves? Have you not told me a hundred times you loved and reverenced the spirit of Christ as that of the Saviour of the world? Would to God our relative positions were reversed! Joyfully would I follow you to the altar. Where love is

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Rh perjury cannot be. Or shall I hasten to the synagogue, and be baptized by the Rabbis?"

"Dear Olympia, if you but knew the force of the pain which now rends my heart you would not speak to me so. It would be perjury, naught else, if I swore to accept knowingly any other faith. Thanks to progressive development I can declare myself free from the form of faith into which I was born, and can build up for myself a view of higher things as nature gives the hand to my powers of mind. I can and will be withheld by no personal consideration from speaking out, and living according to my convictions of faith and opinion; a religious community in which I have been placed by chance of birth cannot hinder me therefrom. But it is otherwise wilfully to enter such. The new community could justly ask me, What draws you to us if it is not Truth? You have no longer a claim to influence in the old, or in the newly accepted sanctuary. I know the sophisms well enough that are suggested to us: you merely follow the form, your intellect is still free. But it is and ever will be perjury, and durst I, a perjurer, ever take the word truth on my lips without blushing? My unhappy countryman Uriel Acosta, of whom I have told you before, thus ended his life by a dreadful suicide, because he had already committed the suicide of his intellect by recantation. He must have

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308 to himself despicable, and unworthy of life in face of that truth. Yes and no were worth nothing to him; they had become meaningless." Olympia was silent; she pressed one hand to her eyes, and allowed herself to be blindly led by Spinoza. He continued in an agitated voice:

"I return your question: Have we thus climbed these heights of intelligence to allow ourselves to be conquered by an inclination which must be the source of infinite trouble to us? I fought long, but I must at last speak to you frankly and honorably; from this hour henceforward let us forget and lay aside all that we were to each other and that we wished to be. It is yet time. Separation and a strong will may enable us again to find peace. We have loved, that is enough. Seek with another the happiness I dare not offer, cannot offer."

His tongue refused to go on; he was obliged to stop. Olympia's hand trembled in his.

"I am not ashamed to confess I have thought it over," said she. "You can become a Christian without any denial of your convictions; I have even consulted the passage for you. Do you know that the root of your new views lies in the words of John? 'Hereby we know that we dwell in Him and He in us, because He hath given us of His spirit.' Indeed, without any inconsistency you must be a Christian."

"Why do you not quote the preceding verse,"

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Rh answered Spinoza, "which has so close an application to our case? 'If we love one another God dwelleth in us, and his love is perfected in us.' But reflect; if some results of my process of thought agree with the Christian views of the world, must I therefore swear to the Church creed? Perhaps that would be the result contemplated by Justus Lipsius, who, as you know, wrote a book called De Constantia (on constancy), and changed his faith every two years."

"I thought you were more independent, but I see Oldenburg has perverted you too," said Olympia in a cutting tone. "You strive after the glory of Dante, but I am no Beatrice, and will not be. Oh, it is too bad! You will throw yourself into active life; a youthful affection is easily forgotten then. Perhaps you will jest over it, while I—what does it matter if I fade away in grief?"

"Dear Olympia," interposed Spinoza, "your own heart must blame you for such words. Reflect a moment; what could I offer you? Nothing but a poverty-stricken life of self-denial. If I could forswear the faith of my fathers, if I could live wholly for you alone—be wholly yours ..."

"Schalom Alechem, Rabbi Baruch, you need not be in haste. Maariph is ended," a harsh voice interrupted their conversation. Spinoza turned

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, knows more in regard to the being inherent than he who knows particularly, hence too the universal is better than the particular demonstration. Moreover if there is one certain definition, and no equivocation, the universal will not subsist less, but rather more than certain particulars, inasmuch as in the former there are things incorruptible, but particulars are more corruptible. Besides, there is no necessity that we should apprehend this (universal) to be something besides these (particulars), because it shows one thing, no more than in others which do not signify substance, but quality, or relation, or action, but if a person thinks thus, it is the hearer, and not demonstration, which is to blame.

Again, if demonstration is a syllogism, showing the cause and the why, the universal indeed is rather causal, for that with which any thing is essentially present, is itself a cause to itself, but the universal is the first, therefore the universal is cause. Wherefore the (universal) demonstration is better, since it rather partakes of the cause and the why, besides up to this we investigate the why, and we think that then we know it, when this is becoming, or is, not because something else (is), for thus there is the end and the last boundary. For example, on what account did he come? that he might receive money, but this that he might pay his debts, this that he might not act unjustly, and thus proceeding, when it is no longer on account of something else, nor for the sake of another thing, then we say that he came, and that it is, and that it becomes on account of this as the end, and that then we especially know why he came. If then the same occurs, as to all causes and inquiries into the why, but as to things which are so causes as that for the sake


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310 round; it was Chisdai, who, without awaiting a response, went on shaking his head.

"Did that man hear what I said?" asked Spinoza.

"I think not," answered Olympia; "but it is horrible that such Medusa faces can speak familiarly to you. That decides it; a higher duty has its claims. I will not desert you. I hate renunciation; it is nothing but hypocritical cowardice; it would be unworthy of yourself and of me."

They had arrived at the Van den Ende's house. Spinoza would have taken his leave.

"You must come in with us," said Olympia.

"You can hardly imagine how dreary it seems to me when I have gone through great agitation of mind out of doors to go in alone where the familiar walls seem altered and strange. Everything is a burden to me. I think I shall die of restlessness and inexpressible longing. Generally I then play the organ until I find rest in perfect stupefaction. Come in with me, I entreat you."

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text: Spinoza: A novel/Chapter 17

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 last, (I call the first that which is indeed itself predicated of something else, but nothing else of it). If then these things are so, the progression must stop in negation, for the not being present is demonstrated triply, since either B is present with every individual with which C is, but A is present with none with which B is. In B C therefore, and always in the other proposition, it is necessary to proceed to immediates, for this proposition is affirmative. With regard to the other however it is clear, that if it is not present with something else prior, for instance, with D, it will be requisite that this (D) should be present with every B. Also if again it is not present with something else prior to D, it will require that to be present with every D, so that since the upward progression stops, the downward progression will also stop, and there will be something first with which it is not present. Moreover if B is with every A, but with no C, A will be with no C; again, if it is required to show this, it is evident, that it may be demonstrated either through the superior mode, or through this, or through the third, now the first has been spoken of, but the second shall be shown. Thus indeed it may demonstrate it, as, for instance, that D is present with every B, but with no C, if it is necessary that any thing should be with B, and, again, if this is not present with C, something else is present with D, which is not present with C, wherefore since the perpetually being present with something superior stops, the not being present will also stop. But the third mode was if A indeed is present with every B, but C is not present, C will not be present with every A; again,


text: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Amathusia


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 of which, we thus especially know, in other things also we then chiefly know, when this no longer subsists because another thing does. When therefore we know that the external angles are equal to four right angles, because it is isosceles, the inquiry yet remains, why because isosceles, because it is a triangle, and this because it is a rectilinear figure. But if it is this no longer on account of something else, then we pre-eminently know, then also universally, wherefore the universal is better. Again, by how much more things are according to the particular, do they fall into infinites, but the universal tends to the simple and the finite, so far indeed as they are infinite, they are not subjects of science, but so far as they are finite they may be known, wherefore so far as they are universal, are they more objects of scientific knowledge, than so far as they are particular. Universals however are more demonstrable, and of things more demonstrable is there pre-eminent demonstration, for relatives are at one and the same time more, whence the universal is better, since it is demonstration pre-eminently. Besides, that demonstration is preferable, according to which this and something else are known, to that, by which this alone is known, now he who has the universal knows also the particular, but the latter does not know the universal, wherefore even thus the universal will be more eligible. Again, as follows: it is possible rather to demonstrate the universal, because a person demonstrates through a medium which is nearer to the principle, but what is immediate is the nearest and this is the principle; if then that demonstration which is from the principle is more accurate than that which is not from the principle, the demonstration which is in a greater degree from the principle, is more accurate than that which is from it in a less degree. Now the more universal is of this kind, wherefore the universal will be the better, as if it were required to demonstrate A of D, and the media should be B C, but B the higher, wherefore the demonstration through this is more universal.


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Rh see that the gratification is mutual. Do not, however, devote all your time to me; there will be hundreds of young people whom you do not know, and you may form profitable acquaintances. If by any chance we get separated do me the favour of making my house the first place of call. The Central Executive has had the kindness to give me a residence exactly opposite the principal entrance to the Metropolitan Museum.'

Quietly and gently our great express comes to a stand, and we get out. We have no need to trouble about our luggage; it will be taken care of by the officials until we want it. No thieves will steal it; even in the great metropolis there are no prisons. The platform we step on is composed of springy rubber, and the footways in the streets of the port—Port Howard as it is called—are of the same material. It is pleasant to walk upon, and the feet make no sound.

My elderly companion, whom I now know as having a world-wide fame as a mathematician, Andrew Grayson, takes the lead, and in a few minutes we find ourselves in a great hostel with some thousand guests. We find that a vessel leaves in an hour and another in two days, but that the former has to call at two southern ports while the latter goes direct. My companion decides for me; we will wait two days. There are some objects of interest he desires to show me.

It is late in the afternoon. We had partaken of dinner in the train. There was still a couple of hours before dark, but not time for any extended excursion. My companion, whom I discovered to have a weakness, pardonable in a man of his age, for warmth and quiet, elected to rest in his cosy sitingroom. I went out for a walk by the sea shove. It was my first view of the ocean. I had read of it and seen sea pictures, the work of some of the first artists of our planet, but I did not realise the vastness of the scene until brought face to face with it.

Its ceaseless motions impressed me most strangely. It was never still; it appeared like an awful monster having a life of its own. Of course I knew that each time the moon passed over it caused a small tide, and that the outer satellite passed over once in thirty hours causing another, and that occasionally the ocean was acted upon by both at once. There are men of science who say that if we were deprived of our satellites our two great oceans would stagnate and kill us all by their putridity.

I spent hours by the sea shore, and saw how my journey had displaced the constellations. The Southern Cross and the Darkened Window were barely above the horizon, and the moons were both passing overhead. The little one suddenly dropped into the shadow of its primary. I went to my hostel, and full of new and strange thoughts, went to sleep.

Early next morning my friend Grayson asked me to accompany him to one of the sights of Port Howard. I was ready and willing, and in a few

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 this will be demonstrated either through the above-mentioned modes, or in a similar manner, in those modes the progression stops, but if thus, it will again be assumed that B is present with E, with every individual of which C is not present. This again, also, will be similarly demonstrated, but since it is supposed that the downward progression stops, C also, which is not present with, will evidently stop.

Nevertheless, it appears plain, that if it should not be demonstrated in one way, but in all, at one time from the first figure, at another from the second or the third, that thus also the progression will stop, for the ways are finite, but it is necessary that finite things being finitely assumed should be all of them finite.

That in negation then the progression stops, if it does so in affirmation, is clear, but that it must stop in them is thus manifest to those who consider logically.

Chapter 22
things predicated therefore as to what a thing is, this is clear, for if it is possible to define, or if the very nature of a thing may be known, but infinites cannot be passed through, it is necessary that those things should be finite which are predicated with respect to what a thing is. We must however speak universally thus: a white thing we may truly say walks, also that that great thing is wood; moreover, that the wood is great, and that the man walks, yet there is a difference between speaking in this way and in


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ECILIA was praying in the next room before her crucifix. Spinoza sat silently near Olympia; her hand rested close to his, but he did not attempt to clasp it. Dreamily and reflectively the two lovers looked long at each other in silence.

"When I am so exalted to the very highest point of rapturous spiritual enjoyment," said Olympia, "I feel nothing but longing for death. Now, borne so far above all small annoyances, now I would that I might die. So near and akin to the Highest, I should be absorbed into his being."

"Formerly, when I was still capable of such religious raptures, I was often possessed by such a desire for death," replied Spinoza. "We might, perhaps, find the explanation of this sensation in the Talmudist legend that Moses died of a kiss, in that God the Lord recalled his soul to himself in a kiss."

Olympia was taken by surprise at this strange turn. Was this mind always absorbed in its investigations, or did he wish by such parables to veil the ardent wish of his heart, and yet to explain it? Formerly their exchange of thoughts had been easy;

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312 now they sat mutely together and did not know what to say to one another. At Spinoza's desire Olympia sang the ballad he had surprised her while singing the first time he saw her. She sang the refrain

"You are my own true wife, No other shall be my own for life"

with such melting tenderness, and drew out the notes of the organ by which she accompanied herself into such long-drawn sighs that Spinoza painfully missed the repose which the song had once given to his agitated heart. It was with difficulty that he refrained from clasping her to him and sealing the melodious spring of song with a kiss. He could trust himself no longer, so he took his hat and went away. Olympia took the lamp and lighted him down the steps, but without a word. Below Spinoza held out his hand; she laid her curly head on his breast; he embraced her; her heart beat violently under his hand.

"Dear Olympia," he said, "I conjure you by all that is holy, love me not; I am not worthy of it."

"I must love you," she said. "Command my heart to cease beating. I cannot leave you!" Her voice trembled; he pressed her closer to his breast, and held her fast with an ardent kiss. He then tore himself from her embrace and rushed out. Olympia sprang warbling up the steps and cried in

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text:
Mary Louise/Chapter 23

That evening, as Sarah Judd was sitting in her room reading a book, her work for the day being over, she heard a succession of little taps against her window-pane. She sat still, listening, until the taps were repeated, when she walked straight to the window, drew the shade and threw tip the sash. O'Gorman's face appeared in the opening and the girl put a hand on each of his cheeks and leaning over kissed him full upon his lips.

The man's face, lighted by the lamp from within the room, was radiant. Even the fat nose was beatified by the love that shone in his small gray eyes. He took one of her hands in both of his own and held it close a moment, while they regarded one another silently.

Then he gave a little beckoning signal and the girl turned to slip on a light coat, for the nights were chill on the mountain. Afterward she unfastened her outside door and joined the detective, who passed an arm around her and led her to one of the benches on the bluff.

The new moon was dim, but a sprinkling of stars lit the sky. The man and girl were far enough from the Lodge not to be overheard.

"It's good to see you again, Josie," said O'Gorman, as they seated themselves on the bench. "How do you like being a sleuth?"

"Really, Daddy," she replied, "it has been no end of a lark. I'm dead sick of washing other folks' dishes, I confess, but the fun I've had has more than made up for the hard work. Do you know, Dad, I had a session with Nan Shelley one day, and she didn't have much the best of it, either, although she's quick as a cat and had me backed off the map in every way except for the matter of wits. My thoughts didn't crumble much and Nan was good enough to congratulate me. She knew, as soon as I did, about the letter the crippled girl found in a book, but I managed to make a copy of it, while Nan is still wondering where it is hid. I'm patting myself on the back, Dad, because you trained me and I want to prove myself a credit to your training. It's no wonder, with such a master, that I could hold my own with Nan Shelley!"

He gave a little amused laugh.

"You're all right, Josie dear," he replied. "My training wouldn't have amounted to shucks if you hadn't possessed the proper gray matter to work with. But about that letter," more seriously; "your telegram told me a lot, because our code is so concise, but it also left a good deal to be guessed at. Who wrote the letter? I must know all the details in order to understand it properly."

"It's all down in my private shorthand book," said Josie O'Gorman, "but I've never dared make a clear copy while Nan was so near me. You can't read it, Dad, and I can't read it to you in the dark; so you'll have to wait."

"Have you your notebook here?"

"Always carry it."

He drew an electric storage-lamp from his pocket and shielded the tiny circle of light with his coat.

"Now, then," said he, "read the letter to me, Josie. It's impossible for anyone to see the light from the house."

The girl held her notebook behind the flap of his coat, where the lamp shed its white rays upon it, and slowly read the text of the letter. O'Gorman sat silent for some time after she had finished reading.

"In all my speculations concerning the Hathaway case," he said to his daughter, "I never guessed this as the true solution of the man's extraordinary actions. But now, realizing that Hathaway is a gentleman to the core, I understand he could not have acted in any other way."

"Mrs. Burrows is dead," remarked Josie.

"I know. It's a pity she didn't die long ago."

"This thing killed her, Dad."

"I'm sure of it. She was a weak, though kind-hearted, woman and this trouble wore her out with fear and anxiety. How did the girl—Mary Louise—take her mother's death?"

"Rather hard, at first. She's quieter now. But—see here, Dad—are you still working for the Department?"

"Of course."

"Then I'm sorry I've told you so much. I'm on the other side. I'm here to protect Mary Louise Burrows and her interests."

"To be sure. I sent you here myself, at my own expense, both to test your training before I let you into the regular game and for the sake of the little Burrows girl, whom I fell in love with when she was so friendless. I believed things would reach a climax in the Hathaway case, in this very spot, but I couldn't foresee that your cleverness would ferret out that letter, which the girl Irene intended to keep silent about, nor did I know that the Chief would send me here in person to supervise Hathaway's capture. Mighty queer things happen in this profession of ours, and circumstances lead the best of us by the nose."

"Do you intend to arrest Mr. Hathaway?"

"After hearing that letter read and in view of the fact that Mrs. Burrows is dead, I think not. The letter, if authentic, clears up the mystery to our complete satisfaction. But I must get the story from Hathaway's own lips, and then compare his statement with that in the letter. If they agree, we won't prosecute the man at all, and the famous case that has caused us so much trouble for years will be filed in the office pigeonholes and pass into ancient history."

Josie O'Gorman sat silent for a long time. Then she asked:

"Do you think Mr. Hathaway will come here, now that—now that—"

"I'm quite sure he will come."

"When?"

"To-morrow."

"Then I must warn them and try to head him off. I'm on his side, Dad; don't forget that."

"I won't; and because you're on his side, Josie, you must let him come and be vindicated, and so clear up this matter for good and all."

"Poor Mary Louise! I was thinking of her, not of her grandfather. Have you considered how a knowledge of the truth will affect her?"

"Yes. She will be the chief sufferer when her grandfather's innocence is finally proved."

"It will break her heart," said Josie, with a sigh.

"Perhaps not. She's mighty fond of her grandfather. She'll be glad to have him freed from suspicion and she'll be sorry—about the other thing."

Sarah Judd—otherwise Josie O'Gorman—sighed again; but presently she gave a little chuckle of glee.

"Won't Nan be wild, though, when she finds I've beaten her and won the case for Hathaway?"

"Nan won't mind. She's an old hand at the game and has learned to take things as they come. She'll be at work upon some other case within a week and will have forgotten that this one ever bothered her."

"Who is Agatha Lord, and why did they send her here as principal, with Nan as her maid?"

"Agatha is an educated woman who has moved in good society. The Chief thought she would be more likely to gain the friendship of the Conants than Nan, for poor Nan hasn't much breeding to boast of. But she was really the principal, for all that, and Agatha was instructed to report to her and to take her orders."

"They were both suspicious of me," said the girl, "but as neither of them had ever set eyes on me before I was able to puzzle them. On the other hand, I knew who Nan was because I'd seen her with you, which gave me an advantage. Now, tell me, how's mother?"

"Pretty chirky, but anxious about you because this is your first case and she feared your judgment wasn't sufficiently matured. I told her you'd pull through all right."

For an hour they sat talking together. Then Officer O'Gorman kissed his daughter good night and walked back to the Bigbee house.

title: Mary Louise/Chapter 23


text:
Mary Louise/Chapter 24

Irene was a great comfort to Mary Louise in this hour of trial. The chair-girl, beneath her gayety of demeanor and lightness of speech, was deeply religious. Her absolute faith sounded so cheering that death was robbed of much of its horror and her bereaved friend found solace. Mary Louise was able to talk freely of "Mamma Bee" to Irene, while with Aunt Hannah she rather avoided reference to her mother.

"I've always longed to be more with Mamma Bee and to learn to know her better," she said to her friend; "for, though she was very loving and gentle to me while I was with her, she spent most of her life caring for Gran'pa Jim, and they were away from me so much that I really didn't get to know Mamma very well. I think she worried a good deal over Gran'pa's troubles. She couldn't help that, of course, but I always hoped that some day the troubles would be over and we could all live happily together. And now—that can never be!"

Irene, knowing more of the Hathaway family history than Mary Louise did, through the letter she had found and read, was often perplexed how to console her friend and still regard honesty and truth. Any deception, even when practiced through the best of motives, was abhorrent to her nature, so she avoided speaking of the present affliction and led Mary Louise to look to a future life for the motherly companionship she had missed on earth.

"That," said she, "is the thought that has always given me the most comfort. We are both orphans, dear, and I'm sure your nature is as brave as my own and that you can bear equally well the loss of your parents."

And Mary Louise was really brave and tried hard to bear her grief with patient resignation. One thing she presently decided in her mind, although she did not mention it to Irene. She must find Gran'pa Jim and go to him, wherever he might be. Gran'pa Jim and her mother had been inseparable companions; Mary Louise knew that her own present sorrow could be nothing when compared with that of her grandfather. And so it was her duty to find him and comfort him, to devote her whole life, as her mother had done, to caring for his wants and cheering his loneliness—so far, indeed, as she was able to do. Of course, no one could quite take the place of Mamma Bee.

She was thinking in this vein as she sat in the den with Irene that Saturday afternoon. The chair-girl, who sewed beautifully, was fixing over one of Mary Louise's black dresses while Mary Louise sat opposite, listlessly watching her. The door into the hall was closed, but the glass door to the rear porch was wide open to let in the sun and air. And this simple scene was the setting for the drama about to be enacted.

Mary Louise had her back half turned to the hall door, which Irene partially faced, and so it was that when the door opened softly and the chair-girl raised her head to gaze with startled surprise at someone who stood in the doorway, Mary Louise first curiously eyed her friend's expressive face and then, rather languidly, turned her head to glance over her shoulder.

The next moment she sprang to her feet and rushed forward.

"Gran'pa Jim—Oh, Gran'pa Jim!" she cried, and threw herself into the arms of a tall man who folded her to his breast in a close embrace.

For a while they stood there silent, while Irene dropped her eyes to her lap, deeming the reunion too sacred to be observed by another. And then a little stir at the open porch door attracted her attention and with a shock of repulsion she saw Agatha Lord standing there with a cynical smile on her lovely face. Softly the sash of the window was raised, and the maid Susan stood on the ground outside, leaned her elbows on the sill and quietly regarded the scene within the den.

The opening of the window arrested Colonel Weatherby's attention. He lifted his head and with a quick glance took in the situation. Then, still holding his granddaughter in his arms, he advanced to the center of the room and said sternly, addressing Agatha:

"Is this a deliberate intrusion, because I am here, or is it pure insolence?"

"Forgive us if we intrude, Mr. Hathaway," replied Agatha. "It was not our desire to interrupt your meeting with your granddaughter, but—it has been so difficult, in the past, to secure an interview with you, sir, that we dared not risk missing you at this time."

He regarded her with an expression of astonishment.

"That's it, exactly, Mr. Weatherby-Hathaway," remarked Susan mockingly, from her window.

"Don't pay any attention to them, Gran'pa Jim," begged Mary Louise, clinging to him. "They're just two dreadful women who live down below here, and—and—"

"I realize who they are," said the old gentleman in a calm voice, and addressing Agatha again he continued: "Since you are determined to interview me, pray step inside and be seated."

Agatha shook her head with a smile; Nan Shelley laughed outright and retorted:

"Not yet, Hathaway. We can't afford to take chances with one who has dodged the whole Department for ten years."

"Then you are Government agents?" he asked.

"That's it, sir."

He turned his head toward the door by which he had entered, for there was an altercation going on in the hallway and Mr. Conant's voice could be heard angrily protesting.

A moment later the lawyer came in, followed by the little man with the fat nose, who bowed to Colonel Weatherby very respectfully yet remained planted in the doorway.

"This is—er—er—very unfortunate, sir; ve-ry un-for-tu-nate!" exclaimed Peter Conant, chopping off each word with a sort of snarl. "These con-found-ed secret service people have trailed us here."

"It doesn't matter, Mr. Conant," replied the Colonel, in a voice composed but very weary. He seated himself in a chair, as he spoke, and Mary Louise sat on the arm of it, still embracing him.

"No," said O'Gorman, "it really doesn't matter, sir. In fact, I'm sure you will feel relieved to have this affair off your mind and be spared all further annoyance concerning it."

The old gentleman looked at him steadily but made no answer. It was Peter Conant who faced the speaker and demanded:

"What do you mean by that statement?"

"Mr. Hathaway knows what I mean. He can, in a few words, explain why he has for years borne the accusation of a crime of which he is innocent."

Peter Conant was so astounded he could do nothing but stare at the detective. Staring was the very best thing that Peter did and he never stared harder in his life. The tears had been coursing down Mary Louise's cheeks, but now a glad look crossed her face.

"Do you hear that, Gran'pa Jim?" she cried. "Of course you are innocent! I've always known that; but now even your enemies do."

Mr. Hathaway looked long into the girl's eyes, which met his own hopefully, almost joyfully. Then he turned to O'Gorman.

"I cannot prove my innocence," he said.

"Do you mean that you will not?"

"I will go with you and stand my trial. I will accept whatever punishment the law decrees."

O'Gorman nodded his head.

"I know exactly how you feel about it, Mr. Hathaway," he said, "and I sympathize with you most earnestly. Will you allow me to sit down awhile? Thank you."

He took a chair facing that of the hunted man. Agatha, seeing this, seated herself on the door-step. Nan maintained her position, leaning through the open window.

"This," said O'Gorman, "is a strange ease. It has always been a strange case, sir, from the very beginning. Important government secrets of the United States were stolen and turned over to the agent of a foreign government which is none too friendly to our own. It was considered, in its day, one of the most traitorous crimes in our history. And you, sir, a citizen of high standing and repute, were detected in the act of transferring many of these important papers to a spy, thus periling the safety of the nation. You were caught red-handed, so to speak, but made your escape and in a manner remarkable and even wonderful for its adroitness have for years evaded every effort on the part of our Secret Service Department to effect your capture. And yet, despite the absolute truth of this statement, you are innocent."

None cared to reply for a time. Some who had listened to O'Gorman were too startled to speak; others refrained. Mary Louise stared at the detective with almost Peter Conant's expression—her eyes big and round. Irene thrilled with joyous anticipation, for in the presence of this sorrowing, hunted, white-haired old man, whose years had been devoted to patient self-sacrifice, the humiliation the coming disclosure would, thrust upon Mary Louise seemed now insignificant. Until this moment Irene had been determined to suppress the knowledge gained through the old letter in order to protect the feelings of her friend, but now a crying need for the truth to prevail was borne in upon her. She had thought that she alone knew this truth. To her astonishment, as well as satisfaction, the chair-girl now discovered that O'Gorman was equally well informed.

title: Mary Louise/Chapter 24


text:
Mary Louise/Chapter 25

All eyes were turned upon Mr. Hathaway, who had laid a hand upon the head of his grandchild and was softly stroking her hair. At last he said brokenly, repeating his former assertion:

"I cannot prove my innocence."

"But I can," declared O'Gorman positively, "and I'm going to do it."

"No—no!" said Hathaway, startled at his tone.

"It's this way, sir," explained the little man in a matter-of-fact voice, "this chase after you has cost the government a heavy sum already, and your prosecution is likely to make public an affair which, under the circumstances, we consider it more diplomatic to hush up. Any danger to our country has passed, for information obtained ten years ago regarding our defenses, codes, and the like, is to-day worthless because all conditions are completely changed. Only the crime of treason remains; a crime that deserves the severest punishment; but the guilty persons have escaped punishment and are now facing a higher tribunal—both the principal in the crime and his weak and foolish tool. So it is best for all concerned, Mr. Hathaway, that we get at the truth of this matter and, when it is clearly on record in the government files, declare the case closed for all time. The State Department has more important matters that demand its attention."

The old man's head was bowed, his chin resting on his breast. It was now the turn of Mary Louise to smooth his thin gray locks.

"If you will make a statement, sir," continued O'Gorman, "we shall be able to verify it."

Slowly Hathaway raised his head.

"I have no statement to make," he persisted.

"This is rank folly," exclaimed O'Gorman, "but if you refuse to make the statement, I shall make it myself."

"I beg you—I implore you!" said Hathaway pleadingly.

The detective rose and stood before him, looking not at the old man but at the young girl—Mary Louise.

"Tell me, my child," he said gently, "would you not rather see your grandfather—an honorable, high-minded gentleman—acquitted of an unjust accusation, even at the expense of some abasement and perhaps heart-aches on your part, rather than allow him to continue to suffer disgrace in order to shield you from so slight an affliction?"

"Sir!" cried Hathaway indignantly, starting to his feet; "how dare you throw the burden on this poor child? Have you no mercy—no compassion?"

"Plenty," was the quiet reply. "Sit down, sir. This girl is stronger than you think. She will not be made permanently unhappy by knowing the truth, I assure you."

Hathaway regarded him with a look of anguish akin to fear. Then he turned and seated himself, again putting an arm around Mary Louise as if to shield her.

Said Irene, speaking very slowly:

"I am quite sure Mr. O'Gorman is right. Mary Louise is a brave girl, and she loves her grandfather."

Then Mary Louise spoke—hesitatingly, at first, for she could not yet comprehend the full import of the officer's words.

"If you mean," said she, "that it will cause me sorrow and humiliation to free my grandfather from suspicion, and that he refuses to speak because he fears the truth will hurt me, then I ask you to speak out, Mr. O'Gorman."

"Of course," returned the little man, smiling at her approvingly; "that is just what I intend to do. All these years, my girl, your grandfather has accepted reproach and disgrace in order to shield the good name of a woman and to save her from a prison cell. And that woman was your mother."

"Oh!" cried Mary Louise and covered her face with her hands.

"You brute!" exclaimed Hathaway, highly incensed.

"But this is not all," continued O'Gorman, unmoved; "your mother, Mary Louise, would have been condemned and imprisoned—and deservedly so in the eyes of the law—had the truth been known; and yet I assure you she was only guilty of folly and of ignorance of the terrible consequences that might have resulted from her act. She was weak enough to be loyal to a promise wrung from her in extremity, and therein lay her only fault. Your grandfather knew all this, and she was his daughter—his only child. When the accusation for your mother's crime fell on him, he ran away and so tacitly admitted his guilt, thus drawing suspicion from her. His reason for remaining hidden was that, had he been caught and brought to trial, he could not have lied or perjured himself under oath even to save his dearly loved daughter from punishment. Now you understand why he could not submit to arrest; why, assisted by a small but powerful band of faithful friends, he has been able to evade capture during all these years. I admire him for that; but he has sacrificed himself long enough. Your mother's recent death renders her prosecution impossible. It is time the truth prevailed. In simple justice I will not allow this old man to embitter further his life, just to protect his grandchild from a knowledge of her mother's sin."

Again a deathly silence pervaded the room.

"You—you are speaking at random," said Hathaway, in a voice choked with emotion. "You have no proof of these dreadful statements."

"But I have!" said Irene bravely, believing it her duty to support O'Gorman.

"And so have I," asserted the quiet voice of Sarah Judd, who had entered the room unperceived.

Hathaway regarded both the girls in surprise, but said nothing.

"I think," said Officer O'Gorman, "it will be best for us to read to Mr. Hathaway that letter."

"The letter which I found in the book?" asked Irene eagerly.

"Yes. But do not disturb yourself," as she started to wheel her chair close to the wall. "Josie will get it."

To Irene's astonishment Sarah Judd walked straight to the repeating rifle, opened the sliding plate in its stock and took out the closely folded letter. Perhaps Nan Shelley and Agatha Lord were no less surprised than Irene; also they were deeply chagrined. But O'Gorman's slip in calling Sarah Judd "Josie" had conveyed to his associates information that somewhat modified their astonishment at the girl's cleverness, for everyone who knew O'Gorman had often heard of his daughter Josie, of whom he was accustomed to speak with infinite pride. He always said he was training her to follow his own profession and that when the education was complete Josie O'Gorman would make a name for herself in the detective service. So Nan and Agatha exchanged meaning glances and regarded the freckled-faced girl with new interest.

"I'm not much of a reader," said Josie, carefully unfolding the paper. "Suppose we let Miss Irene read it?"

Her father nodded assent and Josie handed the sheet to Irene.

Mr. Hathaway had been growing uneasy and now addressed Officer O'Gorman in a protesting voice:

"Is this reading necessary, sir?"

"Very necessary, Mr. Hathaway."

"What letter is this that you have referred to?"

"A bit of information dating nearly ten years ago and written by one who perhaps knew more of the political intrigues of John and Beatrice Burrows than has ever come to your own knowledge."

"The letter is authentic, then?"

"Quite so."

"And your Department knows of its existence?"

"I am acting under the Department's instructions, sir. Oblige us, Miss Macfarlane," he added, turning to Irene, "by reading the letter in full."

title: Mary Louise/Chapter 25


text:
Mary Louise/Chapter 26

"This sheet," explained Irene, "is, in fact, but a part of a letter. The first sheets are missing, so we don't know who it was addressed to; but it is signed, at the end, by the initials 'E. de V.'"

"The ambassador!" cried Hathaway, caught off his guard by surprise.

"The same," said O'Gorman triumphantly; "and it is all in his well-known handwriting. Read the letter, my girl."

"The first sentence," said Irene, "is a continuation of something on a previous page, but I will read it just as it appears here."

And then, in a clear, distinct voice that was audible to all present, she read as follows:

"which forces me to abandon at once my post and your delightful country in order to avoid further complications. My greatest regret is in leaving Mrs. Burrows in so unfortunate a predicament. The lady was absolutely loyal to us and the calamity that has overtaken her is through no fault of her own.

"That you may understand this thoroughly I will remind you that John Burrows was in our employ. It was through our secret influence that he obtained his first government position, where he inspired confidence and became trusted implicitly. He did not acquire full control, however, until five years later, and during that time he met and married Beatrice Hathaway, the charming daughter of James J. Hathaway, a wealthy broker. That gave Burrows added importance and he was promoted to the high government position he occupied at the time of his death.

"Burrows made for us secret copies of the fortifications on both the east and west coasts, including the number and caliber of guns, amounts of munitions stored and other details. Also he obtained copies of the secret telegraph and naval codes and the complete armaments of all war vessels, both in service and in process of construction. A part of this information and some of the plans he delivered to me before he died, as you know, and he had the balance practically ready for delivery when he was taken with pneumonia and unfortunately expired very suddenly.

"It was characteristic of the man's faithfulness that on his death bed he made his wife promise to deliver the balance of the plans and an important book of codes to us as early as she could find an opportunity to do so. Mrs. Burrows had previously been in her husband's confidence and knew he was employed by us while holding his position with the government, so she readily promised to carry out his wishes, perhaps never dreaming of the difficulties that would confront her or the personal danger she assumed. But she was faithful to her promise and afterward tried to fulfill it.

"Her father, the James J. Hathaway above mentioned, in whose mansion Mrs. Burrows lived with her only child, is a staunch patriot. Had he known of our plot he would have promptly denounced it, even sacrificing his son-in-law. I have no quarrel with him for that, you may well believe, as I value patriotism above all other personal qualities. But after the death of John Burrows it became very difficult for his wife to find a way to deliver to me the packet of plans without being detected. Through some oversight at the government office, which aroused suspicion immediately after his death, Burrows was discovered to have made duplicates of many documents intrusted to him and with a suspicion of the truth government agents were sent to interview Mrs. Burrows and find out if the duplicates were still among her husband's papers. Being a clever woman, she succeeded in secreting the precious package and so foiled the detectives. Even her own father, who was very indignant that a member of his household should be accused of treason, had no suspicion that his daughter was in any way involved. But the house was watched, after that, and Mrs. Burrows was constantly under surveillance—a fact of which she was fully aware. I also became aware of the difficulties that surrounded her and although impatient to receive the package I dared not press its delivery. Fortunately no suspicion attached to me and a year or so after her husband's death I met Mrs. Burrows at the house of a mutual friend, on the occasion of a crowded reception, and secured an interview with her where we could not be overheard. We both believed that by this time the police espionage had been greatly relaxed so I suggested that she boldly send the parcel to me, under an assumed name, at Carver's Drug Store, where I had a confederate. An ordinary messenger would not do for this errand, but Mr. Hathaway drove past the drug store every morning on his way to his office, and Mrs. Burrows thought it would be quite safe to send the parcel by his hand, the man being wholly above suspicion.

"On the morning we had agreed upon for the attempt, the woman brought the innocent looking package to her father, as he was leaving the house, and asked him to deliver it at the drug store on his way down. Thinking it was returned goods he consented, but at the moment he delivered the parcel a couple of detectives appeared and arrested him, opening the package before him to prove its important contents. I witnessed this disaster to our plot with my own eyes, but managed to escape without being arrested as a partner in the conspiracy, and thus I succeeded in protecting the good name of my beloved country, which must never be known in this connection.

"Hathaway was absolutely stupefied at the charge against him. Becoming violently indignant, he knocked down the officers and escaped with the contents of the package. He then returned home and demanded an explanation from his daughter, who confessed all.

"It was then that Hathaway showed the stuff he was made of, to use an Americanism. He insisted on shielding his daughter, to whom he was devotedly attached, and in taking all the responsibility on his own shoulders. The penalty of this crime is imprisonment for life and he would not allow Mrs. Burrows to endure it. Being again arrested he did not deny his guilt but cheerfully suffered imprisonment. Before the day set for his trial, however, he managed to escape and since then he has so cleverly hidden himself that the authorities remain ignorant of his whereabouts. His wife and his grandchild also disappeared and it was found that his vast business interests had been legally transferred to some of his most intimate friends—doubtless for his future benefit.

"The government secret service was helpless. No one save I knew that Hathaway was shielding his daughter, whose promise to her dead husband had led her to betray her country to the representative of a foreign power such as our own. Yet Hathaway, even in sacrificing his name and reputation, revolted at suffering life-long imprisonment, nor dared he stand trial through danger of being forced to confess the truth. So he remains in hiding and I have hopes that he will be able—through his many influential friends—to save himself from capture for many months to come.

"This is the truth of the matter, dear friend, and as this explanation must never get beyond your own knowledge I charge you to destroy this letter as soon as it is read. When you are abroad next year we will meet and consider this and other matters in which we are mutually interested. I would not have ventured to put this on paper were it not for my desire to leave someone in this country posted on the Hathaway case. You will understand from the foregoing that the situation has become too delicate for me to remain here. If you can, give aid to Hathaway, whom I greatly admire, for we are in a way responsible for his troubles. As for Mrs. Burrows, I consider her a woman of character and honor. That she might keep a pledge made to her dead husband she sinned against the law without realizing the enormity of her offense. If anyone is to blame it is poor John Burrows, who was not justified in demanding so dangerous a pledge from his wife; but he was dying at the time and his judgment was impaired. Let us be just to all and so remain just to ourselves.

"Write me at the old address and believe me to be yours most faithfully

E. de V.

The 16th of September, 1905."

During Irene's reading the others maintained an intense silence. Even when she had ended, the silence continued for a time, while all considered with various feelings the remarkable statement they had just heard.

It was O'Gorman who first spoke.

"If you will assert, Mr. Hathaway, that the ambassador's statement is correct, to the best of your knowledge and belief, I have the authority of our department to promise that the charge against you will promptly be dropped and withdrawn and that you will be adjudged innocent of any offense against the law. It is true that you assisted a guilty person to escape punishment, and are therefore liable for what is called 'misprision of treason,' but we shall not press that, for, as I said before, we prefer, since no real harm has resulted, to allow the case to be filed without further publicity. Do you admit the truth of the statements contained in this letter?"

"I believe them to be true," said Mr. Hathaway, in a low voice. Mary Louise was nestling close in his arms and now she raised her head tenderly to kiss his cheek. She was not sobbing; she did not even appear to be humbled or heart-broken. Perhaps she did not realize at the moment how gravely her father and mother had sinned against the laws of their country. That realization might come to her later, but just now she was happy in the vindication of Gran'pa Jim—a triumph that overshadowed all else.

"I'll take this letter for our files," said Officer O'Gorman, folding it carefully before placing it in his pocketbook. "And now, sir, I hope you will permit me to congratulate you and to wish you many years of happiness with your granddaughter, who first won my admiration by her steadfast faith in your innocence. She's a good girl, is Mary Louise, and almost as clever as my Josie here. Come, Nan; come, Agatha; let's go back to Bigbee's. Our business here is finished."

title: Mary Louise/Chapter 26


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Rh a sprightly voice, "Good night, Herr von Spinoza!"

He stood before the house; the door shut behind him. With heavy sighs passed care-laden married couples who endeavored to enjoy the holiday evening in the fresh air; lovers passed with quicker steps and livelier conversation; sailors sauntered on and merrily sang and chorused the old Dutch ballad:

"To eastern lands will I journey, There dwells my sweetest love; Over hill, and over valley, Far over the moorland, There dwells my sweetest love.

"The sun from sight has sunk under; The stars now blink out so clear; I know that I with my loved one, Far over the moorland, Was in that orchard so near.

"The garden door is fastened. And no one can come in, But the nightingales only, Far over the moorland, Who fly from far to come in.

"We must the nightingales fasten Their heads to their feet close to, That they may tell naught to others, Far over the moorland, Of what two sweet lovers there do.

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314 "And though you had thus bound me. My heart is not the less sound; So thus I can yet prattle, Far over the moorland, Of two sweetest lovers' death-wound."

It was a varied throng. Spinoza hardly noticed it.

"Women's ways are indeed unfathomable!" he said to himself. "Did she not feel the infinite depth of that moment? Or did she act with such apparent indifference to all that had passed to hide it quickly from Cecilia? But how could she possibly do it?"

He could not go home in such agitation of mind; he crossed the street, and sat down on the steps of the chapel of St. Olave's. He looked across at Olympia's lighted windows, and often saw her shadow pass backwards and forwards until the light was extinguished. He was almost ashamed of himself, gazing at the windows of his beloved like a sentimental knight, and laughed internally as Tessala occurred to him.

"I cannot leave you, say you. I will not, I dare not leave you, I tell you; have I not pressed your coy, pure lips to mine? You are mine, mine forever. Was not my mother a Moslem, and changed to our faith? Should I have remained a Moslem if by chance I had been born such? But thy father and mother loved each other wholly and uncontrollably at first sight, and as to thee, dost thou

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Rh think Olympia faultless? Hast thou not, flattered by her wild charms, persuaded thyself into a connection that at first appeared to thee so objectionable? A love that must overcome doubt is greater and more enduring than that other that seems as if fallen from Heaven; it is intellectual love. Thou wouldst picture to thyself a life of self-denial. Away with it! She loves thee, and at her side thou wilt find renown and happiness, honor and joy. What will give me back the pleasures that I would cast from me for the sake of truth? Truth! But must I be her slave? I alone, of so many thousands, condemn myself to give up my inborn right to the gay pleasures of life? I will deck truth with the figleaf of orthodoxy, will choose words with double meanings to save superstition; should I not thus serve truth still more? Thou wouldst serve her by lies. No, I would never speak against my convictions, but only shut them close in my breast. And the Catholic confession of faith? Olympia loves me; must I not save her? Some day in happier times it may be otherwise, but now I must obey the times. And thy father and Geronimo—they were believing Jews, but thou?"

Such thoughts disturbed Spinoza's mind, to which the ever-returning chime at the quarter hours in the quiet night made a singular accompaniment. To him life was not measured by the notes from the church tower.

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3l6 Is no other way to be found? ....

He must have sat there a long time, for towards midnight Maessen Blutzaufer and Flyns, arm in arm like two powers holding each other in equipoise, reeling homewards, jested over the poor sinner, who, instead of seeking his mistress, cowered there in the cold night on the hard stones. Spinoza noticed nothing of what went on around him. At last he stood up, and when he looked at the place in which he had remained so long he was forced to laugh against his will; it was the church built on the model of the Temple of Jerusalem.

"Sleep sweetly," he said to himself, as he looked at Olympia's window. "I have watched over thee; thou shalt rest ever at my side."

The bells rang loudly, the organ resounded through the whole building, an innumerable throng filled the Catholic cathedral. Spinoza stood before the altar between Dr. Van den Ende and his daughter. Olympia was in bridal attire. Above, in the gallery, stood Spinoza's father, his garments rent, his countenance pale and stony. High mass began. Cecilia and Olympia knelt down. Van den Ende and Spinoza followed their example. Chisdai and the skeleton of the fat Domine were dressed as acolytes. Chisdai swung the censer, and whenever he made the sign of the cross on his brow, his fingers caught on the bridge of his nose; and when the skeleton did likewise, his fleshless fingers stuck in

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Rh the hole in which his nose once had been; and when they rang the bell, his bare ribs clattered like dry poppy-heads shaken by the wind. High mass was ended. Spinoza advanced alone, and knelt before the priest on the steps of the altar. He cursed the mother who bore him, and the father who had begotten him, because they had not taken him from his birth to the bosom of the one saving faith. A cry of grief was heard from the gallery, and a corpse was carried out. Spinoza repeated the creed in a low voice, inaudible to all but the priest. The priest laid both hands on the head of the candidate, blessed him gently, and sprinkled his brow three times with holy water. The organ broke out in joyous tones.

"Baruch, Baruch!" it now cried, "get up!" It was only a dream. Spinoza lay in his bed, and old Chaje stood before him with a light. He passed his hand over his brow; it was wet with cold perspiration.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Your father is dying; it would break the heart of a stone! The men from the neighborhood are already below."

Baruch sprang hastily out of bed, dressed as much as was absolutely necessary, and ran down stairs; his father must already be very bad, for he heard the men chant in loud chorus, "Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is one God."

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318 As he entered the room his father was repeating the conclusion of the prayer:

"Master of the world! Lord of pardon and mercy, it is by thy grace, my God and my fathers' God, that my thoughts mount to the throne of thy glory, to thy goodness! Look on my trouble, for because of thine anger there is no soundness in my flesh, neither is there any rest in my bones because of my sin. Now, O God of pardon, grant me thy grace, and go not into judgment with thy servant. If this be indeed my hour of death, may the knowledge of thy Unity not leave my lips, as it is written in thy scriptures, 'Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is one God!' I confess before thee, Eternal One, my God and the God of my fathers, God of all spirit and flesh, that my recovery and my death are in thy power. It would be by thy mercy if thou shouldst allow me perfect recovery, and my thoughts and my prayers should mount unto thee like the prayer of Hezekiah in his sickness. But if the hour of my death be indeed come, may my death be the atonement for all the sins of omission and commission which I have sinned and committed in thy sight from the day of my birth. Give me my share in the Garden of Eden, and console me in the future world reserved for the pious. Show me the way of Life, make me full of joy before thy face, for at thy right hand are eternity and glory. Praised

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Page:A Dictionary of the Biloxi and Ofo Languages.djvu/20

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Rh be thou, Eternal, Hearer of prayers. Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit. Thou wilt save me, Eternal God of truth."

Baruch sat down at the bedside of his father whose breath came with ever-increasing difficulty; he clasped his son's hand whose fever heat the cold hand of death could not cool.

"Father!" cried Baruch; he could say no more.

"Pray for me, my son," said his father gently. The rattle became ever louder, every instant they thought his breath must stop; all those assembled cried incessantly:

"Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is one God!"

The sick man prayed with them. He raised his eyes to Heaven, and with the word "one" he gave up his breath; his lips still pressed together, opened as if for a kiss—he was dead.

Rabbi Saul Morteira opened a window as a sign that the soul journeyed to Heaven, and all present repeated:

"Praised be the Righteous Judge!"

Baruch sank from his father's bed to the floor, and pressed the dead hand to his hot brow; from above in another chamber echoed the half suppressed lamentations of Miriam and Rebecca. Those present conversed in low whispers, and were just on the point of going away, when some one was heard to mount the stairs with loud, stumbling haste. The door was thrown open.

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320 "Is he dead?" inquired a voice.

"Hush, silence, Rabbi Chisdai!" answered those present.

"Woe, treble woe to this house!" cried Chisdai. "He alone could have yet saved his Ben sorer umoreh. I heard with my own ears that he meant to turn Christian, and marry a Christian woman."

"If you do not go out this instant," answered Samuel Casseres, "and if you say another such word against my brother-in-law, I will show you the way out. No one invited you."

"You will invite me, and I shall not come," answered Chisdai, as he was shouldered out by the others.

Benjamin von Spinoza had desired in his will that his broken old Spanish sword should be laid in the grave with him; the Rabbis objected for some time to fulfil this desire, whose meaning but few could imagine. Spinoza was obliged to bring forward many authorities from the Talmud before he could see his father's wish fulfilled. Outside in the graveyard, in accordance with old Jewish custom, he was made to kneel down at his father's feet, and beg forgiveness from God and his father for all in which he had sinned against them; then he must tear his garments on the left breast, and when the coffin was lowered, the son must be the

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Rh first to enter the grave, and throw a handful of earth thereon. He did all this with uncertain step and trembling hand; Chisdai sprang forward to support him.

For seven long days Spinoza was obliged to sit on the ground with rent garments and without shoes, and for thirty days he was not permitted to shave his beard; but his outward appearance was not so uncared for and torn as his inward feelings. How often as he rested his elbows on his knees, his face covered with his hands, how often he thought of Olympia. What would become of them?

His greatest trial was a visit from Oldenburg and Meyer, who came just as he was sitting on the ground with his sisters, and the Rabbis were chanting a litany or sort of mass for the dead before the congregation.

He thought much about the free, unfettered life he would make for himself. Desire for rest and contemplative solitude often rose in him like an overwhelming homesickness; he felt imprisoned by the tumult of the world and its ways. And again he saw how his whole former life had been beset by difficulties. He would strive for consistency; should he find it in union with Olympia or not, it was at least a painful consolation that the unmitigated opposition of his father no longer stood between them.

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PINOZA was walking thoughtfully down the Kalverstraat, when some one said, "Ha, ha! how proud we are!"

Spinoza turned round; it was Frau Gertrui Ufmsand who was looking out of her ground floor window.

"How are you?" she said. "You look as sour as vinegar. I have only seen you once in this street since Magister Nigritius died, and that was a fortnight ago. You passed with Olympia van den Ende. I said 'Good evening' twice, but you were better employed, neither of you either heard or saw me. Those were fine times, were they not, when you came every day to the Magister? But you have grown twenty years older since those days. Ah! we have gone through a deal with our apartments since then. First we had a painter, who went to vespers in the church where clinking glasses are the bells, then he would come home a full fool and awake us out of our beauty sleep. Then we had a widow who would have skinned a flint, and looked so sharply after us all day we could hardly breathe before her. It was my

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Rh —he is a queer fellow—who at last gave her notice. I never said anything to her, but said to my Klaas, 'She is a widow, we must excuse her.' The beautiful little room has now stood empty for half a year, and we. have just had it fresh painted; it is all fresh done up, and looks like a little chapel. I never like to go up the stairs to it."

"Geert, be so good as to shut the window, the bits all fly in my eyes. If you want to talk to the gentleman, go out and let him in," cried a gruff voice from inside the room.

"Come in for a bit," said Gertrui shutting the window. Spinoza went in and said he should be glad to take the room, as, to do his work, he must either be in an open place or high up for a good light. The good people thought at first he was jesting, and were greatly rejoiced when they found he was in earnest. Gertrui showed him the little room, on whose floor the fine sand was artistically sprinkled like a lace pattern. The little bed in a recess, like the berth of a ship, was empty.

"Look," said the woman, "that is the old Magister's armchair; I washed and dusted everything; there is not a speck on it now. I can find you everything but a bed; I use all my beds for the apprentices. Here the Magister kept his books; you can put your books there now. Have you the same bad habit as the blessed Magister of laying all your books in sight on the tables, chairs and

title: Page:Auerbach-Spinozanovel.djvu/345


text: Spinoza: A novel/Chapter 18

title: Spinoza: A novel/Chapter 18