‘They tell me the fruit is good for the body.’
‘Thank you, Benedict.’
The philosopher sits at the table and looks across at the shrunken woman wrapped in a long fur robe.
How old she has become, he thinks, as if her radiance left the flesh with the death of her husband. But still an unstoppable spirit seems to burn beneath the skin, the indomitable will of Felix van Jos, the shy fierce-eyed youth he once taught. Although she is a remarkable individual, she suffers for her abnormality, her fragile feminine form unable to substain the ferocity of her masculine intellect, he notes. It is this will that is making her sick, she is burning up from within. He was right about the physiognomy of the female mind, he reassures himself, yet marvels at the way her husband loved her regardless. Remembering, he reaches across to take her worn hand paternally.
‘I am not here just as the Good Samaritan. I have also come to tell you that I think I may have found you a publisher.’
Not daring to hope, Ruth looks away. ‘That I cannot believe. I myself have sent the manuscript at great expense to a dozen or so, even beyond the borders of the Netherlands. Not one will consider it.’
‘Jan Rieuwertsz will publish. He has published several of my works, including Theologico-politicus, he is a man dedicated to the illumination of scientia nova. He will publish under your own title, The dangers of birthing hooks, a treatise on gentler methods of midwifery, and believes he will receive interest from the medical faculties of both Leiden and Oxford.’
Ruth, tears welling up, coughs into a handkerchief and covers her brimming eyes. Spinoza pretends not to notice.
‘How shall I be able to thank you?’
‘You can thank me by taking better care of yourself, Ruth. Now you have the responsibility of a child and of a burgeoning career as a published medic.’
‘I am not a child, I am a man.’
Jacob stands at the door, playing hoop in hand. He stares at the small dark man who has invaded his home.
‘Jacob, it is impolite not to bow. Especially to a great man like Dr Spinoza who is a friend to both your father and myself.’
The young boy cocks his head at the name Spinoza, it is a name he has heard his mother utter in reverent tones to her associates, a name that comes from that mysterious past he can barely remember, the diminishing crystal ball of his childhood and the memory of his father, tall and fair, a flush of excitement transforming his serious demeanour at the mention of this man.
Coughing, Ruth turns back to Spinoza. ‘Forgive my son, he is quick to defend his mother.’
‘As he should be. Come here, my boy. Let me look at you in the light.’
Dragging his feet, Jacob walks towards the philosopher, who tilts his face up.
‘I see that you are both your mother and your father. A beautiful but dangerous collision of two worlds. Do you remember your papa?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you will recall that he was a brave and courageous man who was not afraid to speak out for his beliefs.’
‘And I shall be the same.’
‘An admirable ambition for a six year old.’
‘Are you the same Spinoza that is in our bookcase?’
Spinoza laughs as Ruth blushes. ‘I suspect so. I should wish to be in many bookcases but there are few who dare to read my words.’
‘I will when I am bigger! I’m frightened of nothing!’
‘Fear has its place, but you will learn that in good time. Now go and play, I must speak with your mother alone.’
Ruth stands slowly, coughing again with the effort.
‘Obey Dr Spinoza, but be back before dark.’
Jacob takes a last curious look at Spinoza then turns on his heel. The philosopher bursts out laughing.
‘He has very well-fashioned attitudes for his age.’