“What should they do?”
“Love one another and keep the Commandments, as it says in the Bible.”
“And you say that?!” cried Pfeill in astonishment. “You who have studied all systems of philosophy from Lao Tse to Nietzsche! Who was it who invented these `Commandments’? Some mythical prophet, some supposed miracle-worker. How do you know he wasn’t just a madman? Don’t you think that in five thousand years our good shoemaker Klinkherbogk will be surrounded by the same legendary nimbus, providing his name has not been long forgotten by then?”
“Certainly, providing his name has not been long forgotten by then”, was Sephardi’s simple reply.
“So you assume there is a God enthroned in majesty above mankind and guiding our destinies? Can you demonstrate that with any kind of logic?”
“No, I can’t. Nor do I want to. Don’t forget, I’m a Jew; I mean not just a Jew by religion, but also a Jew by race, and as such I keep on returning to the old God of my fathers. It is in the blood and the blood is stronger than any logic. My reason, it is true, tells me that my belief is leading me astray, but then my belief tells me that my reason is leading me astray.”
“And what would you do if, as has happened to Klinkherbogk, a being should appear and dictate to you what you were to do?” Eva wanted to know.
“Try to cast doubt on his message. If I managed to do that, then I would not follow his counsel.”
“And if you did not succeed?”
“There would be only one logical conclusion: to obey.”
“I would not do that, even then”, said Pfeill.
“A cast of mind such as yours would merely have the effect of ensuring that a being from the world beyond such as Klinkherbogk’s - let us call it his ‘angel’- would never appear to you; but he would give silent commands that you would nevertheless obey, in the firm conviction, however, that you were acting completely on your own initiative.”
“It might be the opposite”, Pfeill objected. “You might imagine God was speaking to you through the mouth of a phantom with a green face while in fact it was you yourself.”
“Where is the real difference?” replied Sephardi. “What is a message, after all, but a thought dressed in spoken words? And what is a thought? A word unexpressed. At bottom no different from a message. Are you quite certain that an idea that you have was indeed born within you and is not a message from somewhere else? I for my part consider it just as likely that mankind does not father ideas; we are merely more or less sensitive receivers for all the ideas that, for argument’s sake, let us say the earth generates. The fact that one and the same idea so frequently occurs to different people at the same time speaks volumes for my theory. If that should happen to you, of course, you would just say you had the idea first of all and the others had just ‘caught’ it from you. But I would say that you were merely the first to receive this thought, that was in the airlike a wireless message, because you possess a more sensitive mind; the others received it in just the same way, only later. The more vigorous and self-assured a person is, the more they will tend to think they themselves created any great idea they have; the weaker and more pliable, the more likely they are to believe it was the result ofoutside inspiration. Basically both are right. Please, don’t ask me how that can be; I do not want to have to start on a complex explanation of a central psyche, common to all mankind. As far as Klinkherbogk’s vision of the green face is concerned - whether it is a message or an idea is, as I have explained, the same thing - I would refer you to the scientifically-proven fact that there are two kinds of person: those who think in words and those who think in images. Let us assume Klinkherbogk has spent his whole life thinking in words and suddenly a completely new idea, for which there is as yet no word, wants to force its way into his mind, to `occur’ to him, so to speak; how else could this idea reveal itself than through the vision of a speaking image that is trying to find a bridge to him; in Klinkherbogk’s case, as in yours and that of Mijnheer Hauberrisser, as a man or a portrait with a green face?”
“Would you allow me to interrupt for a moment?” asked Hauberrisser. “As you mentioned just after you came in while you were telling us about your visit to Klinkherbogk, Juffrouw van Druysen’s father called the man with the green bronze face the `ancient wanderer who will not taste death’; the vision I had in the Hall of Riddles said something similar and Pfeill believed he had seen the portrait of the Wandering Jew, that is, of a similar being whose origin lies deep in the past. How do you explain this remarkable agreement, Doctor Sephardi? Is it a `new’ idea which we cannot formulate in words but only understand through an image that appears to our inner eye? My belief, however childish it may sound to you, is that it is one and the same ghostly creature that has entered our lives.”
“That is what I believe as well”, said Eva quietly.
Sephardi thought for a moment. “The agreement which I am supposed to `explain’ seems to me to prove that it is the same `new’ idea which tried to force itself on all three of you, to explain itself to you or, perhaps, is still trying. The fact that the phantom appeared in the mask of an ancient wanderer through the years means, I think, nothing less than that some knowledge, some insight, perhaps even some exceptional spiritual gift, which existed in a long-departed age of the human race, was known and then forgotten, wishes to renew itself and is revealing its arrival in the world in a vision granted to a few chosen ones. Do not misunderstand me, I am not saying that the phantom could not be some independently-existing being; on the contrary, I maintain that every idea is such a being. And Eva’s father also said, ‘He - our forebear - is the only person who cannot be a ghost’.”
“Perhaps by that my father meant that the forebear was a being that had already achieved immortality. Don’t you think so?”
Sephardi rocked his head from side to side. “When people become immortal, my dear, they remain as an everlasting thought, and it is immaterial whether they enter our minds as an image or a word. If those who are alive on the earth at the time are incapable of grasping - or `thinking’ - them, that doesn’t mean they die; they just move far away from us. And to return to my argument with Baron Pfeill: I repeat, as a Jew I cannot get away from the God of my fathers. At bottom the religion of the Jews is a religion of deliberately-chosen weakness; it puts its hope in God and the coming of the Messiah. I know there is also a path of strength Baron Pfeill indicated it. The goal remains the same and in both cases it cannot be recognised until the end is reached. Neither the one nor the other path is wrong in itself; it only becomes disastrous when a weak person or one who, like myself, is full of longing, chooses the path of strength, or a strong person the path of weakness. In the past, at the time of Moses, when there were only ten Commandments, it was relatively simple to become a Tsadik Tomin, a just and perfect man; today it is impossible, as every Jew knows who attempts to keep all the ritual laws. Today we need God’s help, or we Jews cannot follow the path. Those who bemoan the fact are foolish; the path of weakness has simply become easier and more complete, and that means that the path of strength is clearer, for no one who knows himself, will stray onto the way where he does not belong. The strong do not need a religion any more, they can walk upright, without the support of a stick; those who only think of food and drink similarly have no need of religion - not yet. They do not need the stick for support because they are not walking, they are fixed to the spot.”
“Have you never heard of the possibility of controlling thought, Doctor Sephardi?” asked Hauberrisser. “I do not mean it in the everyday sense of so-called self-control, that would be better described as the repression of an upsurge of feeling and so on. I have in mind the papers that I found and thatPfeill talked about a while ago.”
Sephardi gave a start, even though he seemed to have expected, or even feared, the question; he glanced quickly at Eva. He pulled himself together, but it was noticeable that he was having to force himself to speak.
“Mastery over thought is an ancien
t heathen path to truly transcending humanity. Not to become the Ubermensch the German Philosopher Nietzsche spoke of, 1 know little about that and what little I do know horrifies me. Overthe last few decades a certain amount of information about the `Bridge to Life’ - that is the real name for this dangerous path - has reached Europe from the East, but fortunately it is still so little that no one who does not possess the basic keys could make anything of it. But that little has been enough to send many thousands, especially in England and America, wild with curiosity to learn this magic path, for that is what it is. An extensive literature has grown up, or been exhumed, there are dozens of swindlers of all races going round pretending to be initiates, but fortunately there’s not one of them who really knows what he’s talking about. People have set off in droves for India and Tibet without realising that the secret has long since been lost there. Even today people refuse to accept it. They find something there that has a similar name, but it is something else that ends up by taking them back to the path of weakness, that I mentioned before, or to Klinkherbogk’s delusions. The few original manuscripts on it that are still extant sound very straightforward but in fact they lack the key, which is the surest kind of fence to protect the mystery. There was at one time a `Bridge to Life’ among the Jews as well, the fragments concerning it that I know of date from the eleventh century. One of my ancestors, a certain Solomon Gebirol Sephardi, whose life is missing from our family chronicle, recorded them in veiled comments in the margin of his book, Mekor Hayim, and was murdered because of them by an Arab. The complete secret is said to be preserved by a small sect in the East whose members wear blue coats and, surprisingly, derive their origin from Europeans who emigrated there, disciples of the old fraternities of the golden and the rosy crosses. They call themselves Parada, that is, `One who has swum over to the other side’.”
Sephardi paused for a moment; he seemed to have reached a point in his account where he had to call on all his reserves of strength to proceed any farther.
He dug his fingernails into the flesh of his palms and stared silently at the floor.
Finally he pulled himself out of his reverie, gave Hauberrisser and then Eva a steady look and said in a toneless voice,
“If, however, a man should succeed in crossing the `Bridge of Life’, then it would be a great good fortune for the world. It is almost more than if asaviour were sent. Only there is one thing that is essential: he cannot reach the goal alone, he needs a …. female companion. It is only possible, if at all, by a combination of male and female forces. Therein lies the secret meaning of marriage which has been lost to mankind for thousands of years.” His voice gave way, and he stood up and went to the window, to conceal his face from the others. When he continued, his voice appeared calm again. “If I can help the pair of you at all with my meagre knowledge of these matters, you have only to ask.”
His words struck Eva like a bolt of lightning. Suddenly she understood what had been going on inside him. Tears welled up in her eyes.
It was obvious that Sephardi, with the keen eye of one who spent his whole life shut away from the outside world, had become aware of what was happening between Hauberrisser and Eva even before they had. But what could have impelled him so brutally to expose the tender shoots of their mutual love to the cold air, forcing its natural development by his almost brusque insistence on an immediate declaration?
Had his honesty not been above all doubt, she would inevitably have interpreted it as the cunning attempt of a jealous rival deliberately to tear the delicate web between them, even as it was being spun.
Or was it perhaps the heroic decision of a man who knew he was not strong enough to bear the gradual separation from the woman he secretly loved, preferring to bring matters to a head himself rather than fighting against it?
But gradually the feeling forced its way into her mind that there was some other cause forhis precipitate action, something connected with his knowledge of the `Bridge of Life’, about which he had given such a deliberately pithy reply. Swammerdam’s words about destiny suddenly breaking into a gallop came into her mind, she could almost hear him saying them. The previous evening, as she had stared down from the railing into the dark waters of the canal, she had suddenly felt the courage to follow the old man’s advice and call on God. And was all this that was happening now the result? So soon? She felt terrified by the fear that it was so. The scene with the dark bulk of the Church of St. Nicholas, the sunken house with the iron chain and the man in the boat trying to conceal himself from her flitted timidly throughhermind likethememory of abad dream.
Hauberrisser was standing silently at the table, leafing excitedly through a book. Eva felt it was up to her to break the awkward silence. She went to him, looking him steadily in the eyes, and said,
“What Doctor Sephardi has just said should not cause embarrassment between us, MijnheerHauberrisser, they arethe words of a friend. Neither of us can know what fate has in store for us. At the moment we are still free, at least I am, and if life is to bring us together then we cannot change that, nor would we want to. I see nothing unnatural, nothing to be ashamed of, in openly considering the possibility. Tomorrow I shall return to Antwerp; I could postpone the journey, but I think it better if we do not meet for some time. I would not like to be prey to the feeling that you or I had acted on impulse in tying a knot which it would be very painful to have to untie later on. From what Baron Pfeill has said I gather that you are lonely. So am I. May I take with me the feeling that that is no longer so and that there is one whom I can call my friend and with whom I share the hope of finding a path that will lead us beyond the everyday world? And our friendship”, she turned with a smile to Sephardi, “will continue as ever, I hope?”
Hauberrisser took the hand she held out to him and kissed it. “Eva - do not be angry if I use your first name - I will not even ask you not to go, to stay in Amsterdam. It shall be the first sacrifice I make for you, that I lose you on the very same day when you…”
“If you would give me the first proof of yourfriendship”, Eva interrupted, “then please stop talking about me. I know that what you are about to say will not be an empty formula, said out of mere politeness, but still, please do not finish the sentence. I would prefer to leave it to time to tell us whether we canbe more than friends to each other.”
Baron Pfeill had stood up when Hauberrisser began to speak and was about to make an unobtrusive exit, so as not to be in the way. He realised, however, that Sephardi could not follow without having to push past the couple, so he went to the small round table by the door and picked up the newspaper. The very first lines he read made him exclaim in horror, “There was a murder in the Zeedijk last night!” Concentrating on the essentials, he hurriedly read out the article to the others,
“MURDERER ALREADY FOUND
Since our report in the afternoon edition, the following facts have emerged:
It was before first light when Jan Swammerdam, a wellknown local entomologist, went to unlock the door to the attic where Klinkherbogk lived. For reasons that have not yet been established, he had locked it from outside the previous evening, but when he arrived he found the door wide open and on the floor the blood-soaked corpse of Kaatje, Klinkherbogk’s little granddaughter. The shoemaker, Klinkherbogk, had disappeared, likewise a large sum of money which, according to Swammerdam’s statement, he had had with him the previous evening.
Suspicion immediately fell on a shop assistant who worked in the same building. A witness came forward who claimed to have seen him on the darkened landing with a key at the door of the attic. He was arrested at once, but was released when the real murderer gave himself up to the police.
The police are working on the assumption that the murderer first of all killed Klinkherbogk and then his granddaughter, who must have been woken up by the noise. The body must have been thrown out of the window into the canal which has been dragged, but so far without result. At that point it is over ten feet deep and the bottom is soft
mud.
The murderer has made a statement, but it is very confused, and the police are not ruling out the possibility that the crime was committed while he was mentally deranged. He admits to having stolen the money, which was presumably the motive for the crime. It is thought that the money, a sum of several thousand guilders, was given to the shoemaker by a well-known spendthrift-let this serve as a warning againstthe dangers of rash and excessive charitable gestures.”
Pfeill let the newspaper sink as he nodded sadly to himself.
“And the murderer? Who was it?” Eva quickly asked. “That terrible negro, I’m sure.”
“The murderer?” Pfeill turned the page. “Ibe murderer is … here it is, `The man who confessed to the murder was an old Russian Jew by the name of Egyolk who runs a liquor store in the same building. It is high time that the area around the Zeedijk was etc., etc.’ …”
“Simon the Crossbearer?” exclaimed Eva in shocked surprise. “I could never believe he would wilfully commit such a horrendous crime.”
“Not even in a state of mental derangement”, murmured Doctor Sephardi.
“So you think it was the shop assistant, the one they call Ezekiel?”
“No more likely than Egyolk. At most he had a skeleton key and intended to enterthe attic in orderto steal the money but was prevented at the last moment. The negro was the murderer, it’s as plain as a pikestaff.”
“But then what in heaven’s name can have impelled old Lazarus Egyolk to confess to the crime?”
Doctor Sephardi shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps it was an attack of hysteria brought on by the initial shock; when the police came, he thought Swammerdam had murdered Klinkherbogk and wanted to sacrifice himself for him. One glance was enough to tell me that he’s not normal. Do you remember, Eva, what old Swammerdam said about the power that resides in names. Egyolk only needs to have borne his spiritual name of Simon for a sufficient length of time and it is not impossible that he was just waiting for the opportunity to sacrifice himself for another. I am even of the opinion that Klinkherbogk, before he was murdered himself, killed the little girl in a fit of religious mania. It is well known that he practised the name of Abram for years; if, instead, he had repeated the word Abraham to himself, the disastrous playing-out of the sacrifice of Isaac would never have occurred.”
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