tance he had found the object of his search: the
necessary Eternal Being in and through whom all else existed, among
whose infinite attributes were thought and extension, that made up the
one poor universe known to man; whom man could love without desiring
to be loved in return, secure in the consciousness he was not outside
the Divine order. His book, he felt, would change theology to
theonomy, even as Copernicus and Kepler and Galileo had changed
astrology to astronomy. This chain of thoughts, forged link by link,
without rest, without hurry, as he sat grinding his glasses, day by
day, and year by year: these propositions, laboriously polished like
his telescope and microscope lenses, were no less designed for the
furtherance and clarification of human vision.

And yet not primarily vision. The first Jew to create an original
philosophy, he yet remained a Jew in aiming not at abstract knowledge,
but at concrete conduct: and was most of all a Jew in his proclamation
of the Unity. He would teach a world distraught and divided by
religious strife the higher path of spiritual blessedness; bring it
the Jewish greeting--Peace. But that he was typical--even by his very
isolation--of the race that had cast him out, he did not himself
perceive, missing by his static philosophy the sense of historical
enchainment, and continuous racial inspiration.

As, however, he glanced to-day over the pages of Part Three, "The
Origin and Nature of the Affects," he felt somehow out of tune with
this bloodless vivisection of human emotions, this chain of
quasi-mathematical propositions with their Euclidean array of data and
scholia, marshalling passions before the cold throne of intellect. The
exorcised image of Klaartje van den Ende--raised again by the
landlady's words--hovered amid the demonstrations. He caught gleams of
her between the steps. Her perfect Greek face flashed up and vanished
as in coquetry, her smile flickered. How learned she was, how wise,
how witty, how beautiful! And the instant he allowed himself to muse
thus, she appeared in full fascination, skating superbly on the frozen
canals, or smiling down at him from the ancient balustrade of the
window (surely young Gerard Dou must have caught an inspiration from
her as he passed by). What happy symposia at her father's house, when
the classic world was opening for the first time to the gaze of the
clogged Talmud-student, and the brilliant cynicism of the old doctor
combined