‘Not even under torture?’
‘Not even if they rip the bones of my arms from my body.’
And as Detlef stares at her, a great exhilaration rises up from the soles of his feet and burns slowly through his body: the thrilling relief of admission, of being released from the burden of secret inspiration, of notions that he had dismissed as flights of wild fancy until he read those incriminating pieces of parchment, one of which alone could condemn a man to death. A colossal excitement, sexual in its intensity, grips him.
‘De Witt, Spinoza, John Milton, Everard the Leveller and John Lilburne amongst others,’ he tells her, shaking, then wonders what spell she has cast to make him utter such a damning statement.
‘And how does an aristocrat and powerful member of the Catholic church align himself with such radical ideas of humanism and democracy? Could he be a covert supporter of the notion of a republic?’
‘Do you wish to damn me further, Fräulein, or are you just toying with my vulnerabilities?’
‘Rest assured, sir, I never jest. I just have a fatal curiosity.’
‘Fatal indeed. If I am defined by my robe and rank, then I grant you there is a growing paradox within me. Sometimes I wonder why I fought in the Great War, why all those young men were slaughtered. To what purpose? How is it that ideology can divide and destroy men? Why is one man worth more than another by dint of his birthright? It is these debates that have driven me to my secret readings. I find that I have more philosophical ambition than I had calculated upon. It leaves me with a restless soul. Another cleric would be more than satisfied with my position.’
‘The riches towards which your intellect drives you will be far greater and far more rewarding than a bishopric in the Rhineland, that I promise you.’
‘So the prisoner is making promises to the gaoler,’ he replies, amused by her earnestness. Ruth’s intensity is broken by a slight smile before she becomes serious again.
‘Tell me, what have you read of Benedict Spinoza?’
‘I have read his short treatise on God, man and his wellbeing, and I subscribe to his notion, sub specie aeternitatis, that we should look at our own lives under the aspect of eternity, to try to see our problems in light of the place they actually occupy in a universal perspective. In that idea I find great solace, to know that our short lives are finally and undeniably insignificant in the greater realm of the universe,’ Detlef replies hesitantly.
‘We are of shared sentiment then.’
‘It appears so. And as such I am desirous of your liberation.’
‘I am flattered.’
‘Do not be. Even Catholic canons are able to have an appreciation of a rare intellect.’
‘So are you a supporter of the republic?’ she asks.
‘Only at such a time when the common man is educated enough to govern himself. I cannot see it working otherwise.’
‘But a republic where serf is equal to king, where property belongs to a commonwealth—such a nation would educate its people,’ Ruth counters.
‘Perhaps, but I fear that man is inherently unequal in nature and that all the nurturing in the world will never undo this inequality. It is the cruel law of the forest itself, or of the herd or the gambling pit,’ he answers, spurred on by her argument.
‘But without the social experiment of a republic, we are never to know.’
‘You speak a sombre truth. Tell me, is it true that Benedict Spinoza is a Mennonite?’
‘He dwells amongst them at Rijnsburg. They meet weekly in collegia where each is allowed the freedom to voice his hypothesis. Like-minded individuals freely exchanging visions for a new future. Stronger spirits than myself,’ she adds, unable to keep a note of regret from her voice.
‘Fräulein, I will prove your innocence.’
Only then, mustering all the courage he has, does he reach across and take her hand, holding it as paternally as he can despite the lust that bolts through him.
‘And I your valour,’ she replies, looking directly at him.
&nb
sp; Samuel Oppenheimer, Court Jew and purveyor-general to Leopold I, leans over the table and, with the help of a long brass pole with a carved wooden hand fashioned at one end, pushes the model of the English ship, The Diamond, towards the miniature Dutch fleet. Colourfully painted in the red, white and blue of their nation, they sit on a rendition of the North Sea, placed in an arrowhead of advancement. The tall man, in his mid-thirties, his handsome aquiline features denoting an ancient elegance, stands and smooths down the silver curls of his impressive periwig, then flicks back the long lace sleeves which hang past his manicured fingernails.
‘Joseph!’ Samuel calls out.
His son, barely eight, who is curled up on a low settee, jolts himself out of a light sleep.