Part 4 (1/2)

7.

The Many Faces of Leibniz In the dispersed and fractious republic of letters of late-seventeenth century Europe, Leibniz was something like a one-man intelligence agency. From operatives across the continent he regularly received discrete packets of information, which, like a savvy spymaster, he repackaged and distributed back to the network as he deemed appropriate. It is hardly surprising that he was among the first to pick up the alarming signals radiating from Holland about Spinoza.

Leibniz's first reference to his fellow philosopher predates the publication of the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus. In his letter to Thomasius of April 1669, he includes the name of Spinoza on a list of several expositors of Descartes. At the time, Spinoza's sole publication was his Principles of the Cartesian Philosophy Principles of the Cartesian Philosophy, in which his stated aim is to present in logical form the master's chief doctrines. The book does include some strong hints of its author's personal views, however, and Leibniz's dismissive a.s.sertion that Spinoza, along with the other expositors, had done little more than repeat Descartes's arguments is hasty. (In fact, it suggests that the young German had not read the work he cites-which is not altogether surprising: at the age of twenty-two, Leibniz could hardly have been expected to master the works of all the authors he mentions in this letter to Thomasius.) One year later, Leibniz copied the text of his letter to Thomasius almost word for word into the preface for another work. Among the various minor edits: Spinoza's name disappears entirely from the doc.u.ment.

The emendation is easy enough to explain. In between Leibniz's two versions of the text, Spinoza published his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus. The first of many to attack the book in print, as it turns out, was none other than Professor Thomasius. The ”anonymous treatise on the freedom of philosophizing,” Leibniz's tutor declaims in his review, is a ”G.o.dless” work.

Leibniz did not hesitate to show his colors. In September 1670, he congratulates Thomasius: ”You have treated this intolerably impudent work on the liberty of philosophers as it deserves.”

From one of his Dutch agents, Leibniz soon learned-if he did not know already-the ident.i.ty of the anonymous author of the Tractatus. Tractatus. In April 1671, Professor Johann Georg Graevius of the University of Utrecht informs him that ”last year was published a most pestilent book, whose t.i.tle is In April 1671, Professor Johann Georg Graevius of the University of Utrecht informs him that ”last year was published a most pestilent book, whose t.i.tle is Discursus TheologicoPoliticus Discursus TheologicoPoliticus [ [sic]...which opens the window wide to atheism. The author is said to be a Jew, name of Spinoza, who was thrown out of the synagogue on account of his monstrous opinions.”

Leibniz promptly replies: ”I have read Spinoza's book. I deplore that a man of such evident erudition should have fallen so low.... Writings of this type tend to subvert the Christian religion, whose edifice has been consolidated by the precious blood, sweat, and prodigious sacrifices of the martyrs.”

Evidently, Leibniz was keen to join the chorus of informed opinion on Spinoza. But here in his reply to Graevius he strikes two notes that seem slightly out of tune in the symphony of denunciation. Unlike most of his outraged colleagues, Leibniz indicates with phrases like ”a man of such evident erudition” that he has high regard for the intellectual gifts of the author of the Tractatus Tractatus. Second, typically, Leibniz focuses his concern on the effects of Spinoza's arguments (e.g., subverting the Christian religion), and not on their truth.

Leibniz continued the a.s.sault on Spinoza in correspondence with the great theologian Antoine Arnauld. In a letter of October 1671, he complains about ”the terrifying work on the liberty of philosophizing” and ”the horrible book recently published on the liberty of philosophizing”-both unambiguous references to Spinoza's Tractatus Tractatus. As he so often did, Leibniz here simply held up a mirror to his addressee: Arnauld, as Leibniz would easily have guessed, thought that the Tractatus Tractatus was ”one of the most evil books in the world.” Interestingly, in his letter Leibniz carefully picks his way around the actual name of Spinoza. Evidently, he did not want the powerful Parisian to know that he knew the ident.i.ty of the anonymous author of the revolting treatise-although Professor Graevius had in fact pa.s.sed along that information six months previously. was ”one of the most evil books in the world.” Interestingly, in his letter Leibniz carefully picks his way around the actual name of Spinoza. Evidently, he did not want the powerful Parisian to know that he knew the ident.i.ty of the anonymous author of the revolting treatise-although Professor Graevius had in fact pa.s.sed along that information six months previously.

There was little that was unusual or unexpected in Leibniz's first official responses to Spinoza and his Tractatus Tractatus. The two philosophers, after all, were nothing if not natural enemies. One was the ultimate insider, the other a double exile; one was an orthodox Lutheran from conservative Germany, the other an apostate Jew from licentious Holland. Above all, one was sworn to uphold the very same theocratic order that the other sought to demolish. It would have been very surprising indeed if Leibniz had not declared Spinoza's work ”horrible” and ”terrifying,” as he did to Arnauld.

And yet, Leibniz's next move was was very surprising. Six months after denouncing Spinoza to Graevius, and in the very same month he wrote to Arnauld pretending he didn't even know the name of the author of the very surprising. Six months after denouncing Spinoza to Graevius, and in the very same month he wrote to Arnauld pretending he didn't even know the name of the author of the Tractatus Tractatus, Leibniz took the first step into the labyrinth that would soon come to define his life and work. On October 5, 1671, he addressed a letter to ”Mr. Spinoza, celebrated doctor and profound philosopher, at Amsterdam.” (He was apparently unaware that the worthy sage now lived in The Hague.) ”Ill.u.s.trious and most honored Sir,” he writes. ”Among your other achievements which fame has spread abroad I understand is your remarkable skill in optics.” He goes on to raise some obscure questions in optical theory, and encloses for Spinoza's comment a recent treatise of his on the matter. He asks that Spinoza send any reply through a certain ”Mr. Diemerbroek, lawyer” in Amsterdam.

Spinoza's reply is prompt, courteous, and not particularly encouraging about Leibniz's problems with optical theory. In fact, Spinoza seems to understand very well that the discussion of optics is merely an excuse to make contact. In the postscript to his reply, he gets to the point: Mr. Dimerbruck [sic] does not live here, so I am forced to give this to the ordinary letter-carrier. I have no doubt that you know somebody here at The Hague who would be willing to take charge of our correspondence. I should like to know who it is, so that our letters can be dispatched more conveniently and safely. If the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus has not yet reached you, I shall send a copy if you care to have it. has not yet reached you, I shall send a copy if you care to have it.

Spinoza here shows that he is willing to conduct any future correspondence in a clandestine way, according to Leibniz's wishes, so that both may avoid the risk of publicly exposing their relations.h.i.+p. It is also quite evident that Spinoza clearly a.s.sumes that his correspondent is well aware of the fact that he is the author of the Tractatus Tractatus, and that the point of their exchange is to discuss its contents, and not optics.

Leibniz soon wrote one or more letters to Spinoza. In later correspondence, their mutual friend Georg Hermann Schuller reminds Spinoza that Leibniz ”paid great attention to your Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus and wrote you a letter on the subject, if you will recall.” (The surviving letter, of course, says nothing about the and wrote you a letter on the subject, if you will recall.” (The surviving letter, of course, says nothing about the Tractatus Tractatus.) In reply, Spinoza says: ”I believe I know Leibniz through correspondence.... As far as I can tell from his letters letters, he seems to me to be a man of liberal spirit and versed in all the sciences [emphasis added].” In correspondence since destroyed, then, Leibniz evidently praised the book he elsewhere qualified as ”intolerably impudent” and managed to make Spinoza think he was a ”liberal spirit.” And he did all of this through clandestine communications, so that no one else might discover the exchange.

Curiously, the only one of his colleagues at the time who seems to have sensed something of Leibniz's hidden sympathies was his partner in political adventures, Baron von Boineburg. On the back of a recently discovered copy of the Tractatus Tractatus, in Boineburg's hand, is a list of individuals divided into those deemed ”pro” and ”contra” Hobbes. To be pro-Hobbes, at the time, was to be edgy: a freethinker, a materialist, and possibly a heretic-just like Spinoza, in other words. In Boineburg's estimation, Leibniz was on the side of the pros.

With Professor Thomasius, Leibniz remained much more circ.u.mspect. Inexplicably, he waited ten months after learning the ident.i.ty of the author of the Tractatus Tractatus before letting his erstwhile tutor in on the news. On January 31, 1672, he finally wrote to Thomasius: ”The author of the book...you exposed, in your brief but elegant refutation, is Benedict Spinoza, a Jew thrown out of the synagogue on account of his monstrous opinions, as one writes to me from Holland. For the rest, [he is] a man of very great learning, and above all, an eminent optician and maker of remarkable lenses.” Here Leibniz suggests that he knows the ident.i.ty of the author of the before letting his erstwhile tutor in on the news. On January 31, 1672, he finally wrote to Thomasius: ”The author of the book...you exposed, in your brief but elegant refutation, is Benedict Spinoza, a Jew thrown out of the synagogue on account of his monstrous opinions, as one writes to me from Holland. For the rest, [he is] a man of very great learning, and above all, an eminent optician and maker of remarkable lenses.” Here Leibniz suggests that he knows the ident.i.ty of the author of the Tractatus Tractatus only through his contacts in Holland. He neglects to mention to his former mentor that he recently had the matter confirmed by the author himself, who some months previously offered to send him a copy of his book. only through his contacts in Holland. He neglects to mention to his former mentor that he recently had the matter confirmed by the author himself, who some months previously offered to send him a copy of his book.

Leibniz presented yet another, even more parsimonious version of the truth about Spinoza to Albert van Holten, a fellow defender of the faith. In late 1671, van Holten writes: ”The Jew Spinoza, who bears a most inauspicious name...will be thrashed by the intellectuals, as he deserves.” In his response of February 27, 1672, Leibniz says: ”That Spinoza is the author of [the Tractatus Tractatus], it seems to me, is not certain.” But, of course, Leibniz-writing a month after his last letter to Thomasius and four months after hearing back from Spinoza-knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Spinoza was the author of the Tractatus Tractatus. Why did he suddenly deploy yet another subterfuge, this time apparently to protect the atheist from the man who wanted him ”thrashed”?

A missive to another of his friends quickly belies the notion that Leibniz secretly wished to s.h.i.+eld the celebrated and profound philosopher of The Hague from attack. On March 8, 1672, just days after fending off the thrasher, Leibniz writes to Professor Spitzel, a stalwart Calvinist, to encourage him to savage the Tractatus Tractatus: You have seen without doubt the book published in Belgium, of the t.i.tle: Libertas philosophandi Libertas philosophandi. The author, one says, is a Jew. He puts forward a critique, learned, to be sure, but full of venom against...the authority of the sacred Scriptures. Piety urges that he should be refuted by a man of solid learning in oriental letters [i.e., Hebrew], such as you....

Again, the incorrect citation of the t.i.tle of Spinoza's book, like the implication that Leibniz knows that Spinoza is a Jew only because ”one says” it is so, is intended to suggest that the writer's relation with the Jew in question is far more distant than is in fact the case. Furthermore, it now appears that Leibniz believes that Thomasius's refutation of Spinoza was not ”elegant” enough and altogether too ”brief,” contrary to what he had earlier told his tutor, for, now he wants someone else to wield the hatchet with greater vigor. Spitzel, it turns out, was not interested in the a.s.signment; in his reply, he refers Leibniz back to Thomasius's review.

WHY DID LEIBNIZ write to Spinoza? Why would he have risked his job-and perhaps more-in this way? write to Spinoza? Why would he have risked his job-and perhaps more-in this way?

In part, Leibniz approached Spinoza in the same spirit that he first contacted Hobbes, Arnauld, Oldenburg, and all the other luminaries of the republic of letters. His self-appointed mission was to become the grand conciliator of the entire known universe of thought, the chief erudit erudit of Europe. Spinoza, whatever the critics said, had suddenly emerged as a very large part of that universe, and Leibniz could not afford to forgo contact with the latest supernova in the intellectual firmament. Nor could he avoid seeing Spinoza as something of a rival in the quest for recognition. Leibniz's overture to the philosopher of The Hague, in brief, was the fruit of his ambition and his careerism. of Europe. Spinoza, whatever the critics said, had suddenly emerged as a very large part of that universe, and Leibniz could not afford to forgo contact with the latest supernova in the intellectual firmament. Nor could he avoid seeing Spinoza as something of a rival in the quest for recognition. Leibniz's overture to the philosopher of The Hague, in brief, was the fruit of his ambition and his careerism.

Yet there was more to it than that. There is good reason to suspect that Spinoza's hardheaded critique of revealed religion found a sympathetic listener in Leibniz. It is a fact worthy of notice that, although he lived in a century noted for its Bible thumping, Leibniz rarely bothered to cite the scriptures in his philosophical works. His grandest aim, after all, was to build the respublica Christiana respublica Christiana on a foundation of pure reason, not of biblical interpretation. According to Eckhart, furthermore, the philosopher often claimed that he saw nothing in the New Testament ”that is not part of simple morality,” and he frequently described himself as a ”priest of nature”-sentiments that are clearly in tune with those of the author of the on a foundation of pure reason, not of biblical interpretation. According to Eckhart, furthermore, the philosopher often claimed that he saw nothing in the New Testament ”that is not part of simple morality,” and he frequently described himself as a ”priest of nature”-sentiments that are clearly in tune with those of the author of the Tractatus Tractatus.

Perhaps the most intriguing link between the two philosophers may be found in those sections in the Tractatus Tractatus in which Spinoza outlines the contents of a desirable ”popular religion.” The essence of the creed Spinoza proposes to sell to the ma.s.ses is the belief that ”there is a Supreme Being who loves justice and charity and whom all must obey in order to be saved, and must wors.h.i.+p by practicing charity and justice to their neighbor.” Spinoza's exoteric religion, it turns out, bears a striking resemblance to the theological doctrines concerning G.o.d, justice, and charity that Leibniz so strenuously advocates in his own work as ”advantageous” and ”useful” to humankind. In fact, though Spinoza himself stops short of providing the details, it would not be implausible to suggest that the central tenet of the exoteric ”religion” most suitable for ensuring good behavior within Spinoza's modern ideal of a free republic might well be the principle of charity combined with the doctrine of metaphysical individualism-i.e., the belief in the sanct.i.ty of the individual-that lies at the core of all of Leibniz's thought. in which Spinoza outlines the contents of a desirable ”popular religion.” The essence of the creed Spinoza proposes to sell to the ma.s.ses is the belief that ”there is a Supreme Being who loves justice and charity and whom all must obey in order to be saved, and must wors.h.i.+p by practicing charity and justice to their neighbor.” Spinoza's exoteric religion, it turns out, bears a striking resemblance to the theological doctrines concerning G.o.d, justice, and charity that Leibniz so strenuously advocates in his own work as ”advantageous” and ”useful” to humankind. In fact, though Spinoza himself stops short of providing the details, it would not be implausible to suggest that the central tenet of the exoteric ”religion” most suitable for ensuring good behavior within Spinoza's modern ideal of a free republic might well be the principle of charity combined with the doctrine of metaphysical individualism-i.e., the belief in the sanct.i.ty of the individual-that lies at the core of all of Leibniz's thought.

Behind the unexpected exoteric parallels, too, one may glimpse some further, esoteric links between the two philosophers who first exchanged letters in the autumn of 1671. Leibniz's very way of thinking-in particular, his unalterable commitment to the guidance of reason-compelled him to embrace some of the radical notions first expressed in an oblique way in the Tractatus Tractatus. In May 1671-the same month in which he informed Professor Graevius that he had read Spinoza's deplorable book-Leibniz penned a thoughtful letter to a friend named Magnus Wedderkopf concerning the nature of G.o.d. If we accept that G.o.d is omniscient and omnipotent, he writes, then we are bound to conclude that G.o.d ”decides everything,” that is, that he is ”the absolute author of all.” In the book Leibniz had just finished reading, Spinoza writes that ”whatever occurs does so through G.o.d's...eternal decree” and that as a result ”Nature observes a fixed and immutable order” and ”nothing happens in Nature that does not follow from her laws.”

In thinking along such lines, Leibniz recognizes that he now faces a ”hard conclusion”: He must acknowledge that the sins of a sinner-he names Pontius Pilate-are ultimately attributable to G.o.d: ”For it is necessary to refer everything to some reason, and we cannot stop until we have arrived at a first cause-or it must be admitted that something can exist without a reason for its existence, and this admission destroys the demonstration of the existence of G.o.d and of many philosophical theorems.” There is no clearer statement of one of Leibniz's core commitments: the world must be reasonable reasonable, that is, everything must have a reason, and even G.o.d must partic.i.p.ate in this chain of reasons. The principle of sufficient reason binds everything together in a chain of necessity; its iron grip must begin with G.o.d and include even all those things we call evil, too.

But the same commitment to reason, understood in a certain way, is the very foundation of Spinoza's philosophy, too. The challenge of showing that his own conception of G.o.d does not not lead directly to Spinozism would come to dominate all of Leibniz's mature philosophy. Even in his letter to Wedderkopf, he indicates an awareness of the danger he courts. In the closing paragraph he warns his friend: ”But this is said to you; I should not like to have it get abroad. For not even the most accurate remarks are understood by everyone.” Many years later, perhaps fearing that his earlier remarks might be too well understood, Leibniz took the trouble to dig up the letter and scrawl in the margins: ”I later corrected this.” lead directly to Spinozism would come to dominate all of Leibniz's mature philosophy. Even in his letter to Wedderkopf, he indicates an awareness of the danger he courts. In the closing paragraph he warns his friend: ”But this is said to you; I should not like to have it get abroad. For not even the most accurate remarks are understood by everyone.” Many years later, perhaps fearing that his earlier remarks might be too well understood, Leibniz took the trouble to dig up the letter and scrawl in the margins: ”I later corrected this.”

Leibniz spent his life trying to correct the error, yet he never quite erased the suspicion that he was just showing the pretty side of some hideous ideas borrowed from another. To be sure, it would be naive to imagine that Leibniz and Spinoza fell neatly into putative roles as, respectively, the exoteric and esoteric philosophers of modernity. But, even in the days of their first exchange, there was already at least a hint of the possibility that, far from being pure contraries, Leibniz and Spinoza were two very different faces of the same philosophical coin, always looking in the opposite directions as they spin through the air, yet always landing in the same place.

LEIBNIZ'S BEHAVIOR AROUND the time of his first contact with Spinoza inevitably raises a question about the extent of his duplicity. That Leibniz was practiced in deceit and manipulation seems undeniable. When he praised the the time of his first contact with Spinoza inevitably raises a question about the extent of his duplicity. That Leibniz was practiced in deceit and manipulation seems undeniable. When he praised the Tractatus Tractatus to Spinoza and d.a.m.ned it to Arnauld, he must have been lying to someone. Was he pathological? to Spinoza and d.a.m.ned it to Arnauld, he must have been lying to someone. Was he pathological?

Leibniz is almost unequaled among the great philosophers of western history in the degree of mistrust that he has inspired. Some historians have concluded that he was indeed a scoundrel-a self-serving careerist masquerading as one of humanity's great benefactors. Bertrand Russell, for example, accuses him of debasing his genius in the quest for ”cheap popularity.” Eike Hirsch's recent biography opens with a depressing confession: ”The more I got to know Leibniz, the more he seemed to me all-too-human, and I quarreled with him. For he often struck me as boastful, sometimes downright petty, and at those times he seemed to me to be driven by ambition or even addicted to money and t.i.tles.” The suspicions have afflicted not just historians, but some of the philosopher's contemporaries, too. Leibniz had a talent for making enemies. Many (though certainly not all) of his peers thought there was something sneaky about the man.

In recent times, however, a phalanx of Leibniz scholars has risen to the philosopher's defense, explicitly rejecting the portrait drawn by Russell and others. The same biographer who laments Leibniz's cra.s.s ambition, for example, claims to see in his ”weaknesses” a way to know his ”greatness” as a ”visionary of the truth.” What Russell describes as pandering the scholar Christia Mercer now labels ”the rhetoric of attraction”-that is, the n.o.ble effort to adjust one's message to one's listeners' needs and abilities so as to ”attract” them to the correct view. ”It is always risky to speculate on motives,” concludes the scholar Nicholas Rescher, ”but in my own mind there is no doubt that the aspirations which actuated [Leibniz] were, in the main, not those of selfishness but of public spirit.”

Guessing motives, however, is not just risky, as Rescher says; in this case, it may miss the more interesting point. With Leibniz, there were always ulterior motives. He almost never made explicit all of the reasons for any of his actions. The aspiration to promote the general good; the desire to be seen to promote the general good; the quest for truth; the yearning for recognition; the love of money and t.i.tles; compet.i.tive rivalry; and sheer, untrammeled curiosity-all of these impulses and others typically shuffled around in the background of whatever it was that Leibniz said he was doing at any one point in time. Behind some of his apparently selfish motives one may often discover some public-spirited ones; and the inverse, unfortunately, is also true. And yet, as one peels back each layer of purposivity to arrive at the next, the suspicion grows that the process will never end-that there is no self-consistent package of intentions that explains the complex totality of Leibniz's behavior. The truly disconcerting prospect is that, at the end of the day, one will find not a ”mean” spirit, but no spirit at all.

The alarming fact about Leibniz is not that he did not always tell the truth, but that he was, in a certain sense, const.i.tutionally-or perhaps metaphysically-incapable of telling the truth. In his handling of his first contact with Spinoza, to cite the most pressing example, what we observe is not straightforward duplicity, but a much more complex phenomenon that deserves the name ”multiplicity”-that is, showing a variety of related but mutually incompatible faces, none of which seems to enjoy the privilege of being entirely ”true” or entirely ”false.” From Leibniz's multidirectional correspondence on the subject of Spinoza, we may conclude neither that he was an anti-Spinozist intending to lure the sage of The Hague into a trap, nor that he was a crypto-Spinozist who concealed his true ident.i.ty from his orthodox colleagues. Rather, he was-always to some degree, depending on the listener, the context, and the particular purposes in play-a subtle and indeterminate mixture of both. As Lewis White Beck has said, he was ”all things to all men” but the price paid for such omnidexterity was that he was no one thing to everybody.

Leibniz's apparent corelessness stands for a fundamental philosophical problem, a quandary that reaches to the foundations of his system of philosophy. In the metaphysics he later presented to the world, Leibniz claimed that the one thing of which we can all be certain is the unity, permanence, immateriality, and absolute immunity to outside influence of the individual mind. In identifying the mind as a ”monad”-the Greek word for ”unity”-he positioned himself in direct opposition to Spinoza, whose allegedly materialist philosophy of mind he adamantly rejected. And yet, the philosopher who made the unity of the individual the fundamental principle of the universe was himself incomparably fragmented, multiplicitous, exposed to the influence of others, and impossible to pin down. How could a monad be so multifarious, not to say nefarious?

AT THE SAME time that he was juggling his many perspectives on the Spinoza affair, the mult.i.tasking Leibniz was also energetically pus.h.i.+ng the Egypt Plan toward its logical conclusion. On January 20, 1672, Baron von Boineburg sent a letter to Arnauld's nephew Pomponne, the French foreign minister, expressing his desire to consult with Louis XIV in person concerning a secret proposal of gravest consequence. The real author of the letter, of course, was Leibniz. Taking care not to reveal his mysterious plan, the writer teases the French sovereign with a list of twenty-two incredible advantages that he would gain from said plan. (For example: the plan will make Louis the ”master of the seas” and it will please both churches and all nations in Europe, with the notable exception of the abominable Dutch.) time that he was juggling his many perspectives on the Spinoza affair, the mult.i.tasking Leibniz was also energetically pus.h.i.+ng the Egypt Plan toward its logical conclusion. On January 20, 1672, Baron von Boineburg sent a letter to Arnauld's nephew Pomponne, the French foreign minister, expressing his desire to consult with Louis XIV in person concerning a secret proposal of gravest consequence. The real author of the letter, of course, was Leibniz. Taking care not to reveal his mysterious plan, the writer teases the French sovereign with a list of twenty-two incredible advantages that he would gain from said plan. (For example: the plan will make Louis the ”master of the seas” and it will please both churches and all nations in Europe, with the notable exception of the abominable Dutch.) On February 12, the bemused Pomponne sent back an equally vague expression of possible interest in whatever it was that was preoccupying the Germans.

No more encouragement was required. On March 4, Boineburg let the Elector of Mainz know that he was sending Leibniz to Paris. Boineburg himself would stay behind to attend to some other matters. The youthful privy counselor of justice immediately made preparations for his top secret mission to the French capital.

On the morning of March 19, having dispatched the last of his initial flurry of letters on the Spinoza affair just eleven days previously, Leibniz hastened for the waiting carriage. The preparations for the journey were made in such secrecy that his friends and family were left uninformed of his plans to leave. Only courtiers of the highest rank knew of the official purpose of his mission. And even they might have been surprised to learn of his unofficial agenda: to storm the citadel of the republic of letters.

Just before leaving, Leibniz had the chance the read the last letter from his sister, Anna Catharina, who had died only weeks previously. In this note, she warned her brother that unsavory rumors about him were circulating in Leipzig. People were saying that he was planning some kind of treachery against the Lutherans. Or maybe he was a spy in the employ of some foreign king. Dark actors in Mainz were on to him, the rumormongers whispered. From the other side of the grave, Anna Catharina fretted that his enemies were plotting to get her brother out of the way with poison.

None of it had any basis in fact, of course-at least, so far as we know. But it is perhaps less surprising than one might have hoped that, as his carriage lurched down the road to Paris, the young man from Leipzig should have been trailing the cloud of suspicions that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

8.

Friends of Friends The air was sweeter in The Hague than in Amsterdam, or so Spinoza maintained. Dominated by the Royal Palace that still occupies its center, the nominal capital of the United Provinces of the Netherlands was a small, wealthy, and sophisticated town of 30,000 inhabitants who, then as today, were better known for their political, military, and bureaucratic connections than their commercial ac.u.men. The English traveler Edward Browne ranked it as ”one of the two greatest villages, or unwalled places, in Europe.” Samuel Pepys, who picked up a number of paintings at discount Dutch prices on his visit in 1660, remarked that ”this is a most neat place in all respects.” The ladies dressed especially well, he noted with pleasure, and just about everybody spoke French.

Spinoza lived in The Hague for the final six years of his life, laboring over his Ethics Ethics, tending to the lung complaint that was in all likelihood aggravated by the gla.s.s dust billowing from his lens-grinding lathe, and fending off the threats that inevitably came the way of a rebel living in plain view. Spinoza's newfound notoriety brought about some somber realignments in the circle of his friends.h.i.+ps. A number of his old friends deserted him or were killed in action-casualties in one way or another of the revolution being fought around the author of the Tractatus Tractatus. New friends came his way, some of whom soon showed that were not entirely deserving of his trust. Among the new companions were the two individuals who ultimately engineered his encounter with Leibniz in 1676.

IF SPINOZA CHERISHED any hopes for increased toleration in the United Provinces as a result of the publication of his treatise on the liberty of philosophizing, those hopes were soon crushed by Louis XIV's armies. The French invasion of Holland in 1672 was a typically gory affair, spreading death and starvation across the Low Countries (not to mention large volumes of muddy seawater, thanks to the use of dikes as defense). any hopes for increased toleration in the United Provinces as a result of the publication of his treatise on the liberty of philosophizing, those hopes were soon crushed by Louis XIV's armies. The French invasion of Holland in 1672 was a typically gory affair, spreading death and starvation across the Low Countries (not to mention large volumes of muddy seawater, thanks to the use of dikes as defense).

In the face of the French onslaught, the Dutch managed to keep their country; but they were not so fortunate with respect to their republic. The mult.i.tudes placed the blame for Louis XIV's heinous act of war on the leaders of the Republic, Johann de Witt, and his brother Cornelis, whom they accused (quite unjustly) of conspiring with the French in the plunder of their land. On an August afternoon in 1672, a surly mob cornered the brothers in the fortress in the center of The Hague. The rabble shot the door down, dragged the de Witts into the street, stripped them naked, clubbed, stabbed, and bit them, hung their (by now hopefully dead) bodies upside down, and hacked them into ”two-penny pieces,” according to the report of a visiting English sailor. Some of the bits of flesh were roasted and served as a treat for the rebellious populace; others were sold as souvenirs. William of Orange-the leader of the royal house that had waited in limbo during the years of the Republic-a.s.sumed the powers of a true monarch, and the Dutch golden age began its inevitable slide into the history books.