Nobody seemed to know what Pantheism was. Mr. Propart smiled when you
asked him and said it was something you had better not meddle with. Mr.
Farmer said it was only another word for atheism; you might as well have
no God at all as be a pantheist. But if "pan" meant "all things," and
"theos" was God--
Perhaps it would be in the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_. The Encyclopaedia
told you all about Australia. There was even a good long bit about Byron,
too.
Panceput--Panegyric--Pantheism! There you were. Pantheism is "that
speculative system which by absolutely identifying the Subject and Object
of thought, reduces all existence, mental and material, to phenomenal
modifications of one eternal, self-existent Substance which is called by
the name of God.... All things are God."
When you had read the first sentence five or six times over and looked up
"Subject" and "Object" and "Phenomenal," you could see fairly well what
it meant. Whatever else God might be, he was not what they said,
something separate and outside things, something that made your mind
uncomfortable when you tried to think about it.
"This universe, material and mental, is nothing but the spectacle of the
thoughts of God."
You might have known it would be like that. The universe, going on inside
God, as your thoughts go on inside you; the universe, so close to God
that nothing could be closer. The meaning got plainer and plainer.
There was Spinoza. ("Spinning--Spinoza.") The Encyclopaedia man said that
the Jewish priests offered him a bribe of two thousand florins to take
back what he had said about God; and when he refused to take back a word
of it, they cursed him and drove him out of their synagogue.
Spinoza said, "There is no substance but God, nor can any other be
conceived." And the Encyclopaedia man explained it. "God, as the infinite
substance, with its infinity of attributes is the _natura naturans_. As
the infinity of modes under which his attributes are manifested, he is
the _natura naturata_."
Nature naturing would be the cause, and Nature natured would be the
effect. God was both.
"God is the immanent"--indwelling--"but not the transient cause of all
things" ... "Thought and Extension are attributes of the one absolute
substance which is God, evolving themselves in two parallel streams, so
to speak, of which each separate body and spirit are but the waves. Body
and Soul are apparently two, but really one and they have no independent
existence: They are parts of God.... Were our knowledge of God capable of
present completeness we might attain to perfect happiness but such is not
possible. Out of the infinity of his attributes only two, Thought and
Extension, are accessible to us while the modes of these attributes,
being essentially infinite, escape our grasp."
So this was the truth about God. In spite of the queer words it was very
simple. Much simpler than the Trinity. God was not three incomprehensible
Persons rolled into one, not Jesus, not Jehovah, not the Father creating
the world in six days out of nothing, and muddling it, and coming down
from heaven into it as his own son to make the best of a bad job. He was
what you had felt and thought him to be as soon as you could think about
him at all. The God of Baruch Spinoza was the God you had wanted, the
only sort of God you cared to think about. Thinking about him--after the
Christian God--was like coming out of a small dark room into an immense
open space filled with happy light.
And yet, as far back as you could remember, there had been a regular
conspiracy to keep you from knowing the truth about God. Even the
Encyclopaedia man was in it. He tried to put you off Pantheism. He got
into a temper about it and said it was monstrous and pernicious and
profoundly false and that the heart of man rose up in revolt against it.
He had begun by talking about "attempts to transgress the fixed
boundaries which One wiser than we has assigned to our intellectual
operations." Perhaps he was a clergyman. Clergymen always put you off
like that; so that you couldn't help suspecting that they didn't really
know and were afraid you would find them out. They were like poor little
frightened Mamma when she wouldn't let you look at the interesting bits
beyond the place she had marked in your French Reader. And they were
always apologising for their God, as if they felt that there was
something wrong with him and that he was not quite real.
But to the pantheists the real God was so intensely real that, compared
with him, being alive was not quite real, it was more like dreaming.
Another thing: the pantheists--the Hindu ones and the Greeks, and Baruch
Spinoza--were heathen, and the Christians had tried to make you believe
that the heathen went to hell because they didn't know the truth about
God. You had been told one lie on the top of another. And all the time
the truth was there, in the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_.
Who would have thought that the Encyclopaedia could have been so
exciting?
The big puce-coloured books stood in a long row in the bottom shelf
behind her father's chair. Her heart thumped when she gripped the volumes
that contained the forbidden knowledge of the universe. The rough morocco
covers went Rr-rr-rimp, as they scraped together; and there was the sharp
thud as they fell back into their place when she had done with them.
These sounds thrilled her with a secret joy. When she was away from the
books she liked to think of them standing there on the hidden shelf,
waiting for her. The pages of "Pantheism" and "Spinoza" were white and
clean, and she had noticed how they had stuck together. Nobody had opened
them. She was the first, the only one who knew and cared.