Trips to Königsberg, Stettin, and Berlin, to Further My Understanding of Humanity
HAVING GROWN TIRED of my work as a tutor, I quit and was now on my own. My material situation quickly grew desperate. Nor was I in any position to satisfy my desire for systematic and scientific knowledge where I was living. So I decided to go to Germany to study medicine and other sciences.
Now the question became: How I could travel so far?
I knew that some merchants in my town would be traveling to Königsberg in Prussia [260] soon. But because they were merely acquaintances, I couldn’t expect them to let me come along at no cost. After much deliberating, I formulated a plan.
I had a friend who was a very learned and pious man, greatly esteemed by all the Jews in the town. I told him about my goal, and I asked him for advice. I laid out my material circumstances, explaining that because I had dedicated myself to understanding God and his works, I was no longer suited for most normal occupations. What I especially impressed upon him was that I been supporting myself as an instructor of the Holy Scripture and the Talmud, which, according to the edicts of several rabbis, shouldn’t really be permitted. This was why I wanted to study medicine, a profane art; moreover, I would be helping not only myself in doing so, but also all of the Jews in the region. There was no real doctor in the area, and those who [261] presented themselves as such were the most ignorant barbers whose “cures” were often fatal.
My reasoning had an extraordinary effect on this pious man. He sought out one of the merchants—he knew them all—and conveyed the importance of my strivings. He prevailed upon the merchant to take me with him to Königsberg and even to pay my way. The merchant could not refuse the request of such a righteous man.
And so I traveled to Königsberg with this Jewish merchant. When I arrived there, I visited H., the local Jewish doctor, told him of my intention to study medicine, and asked him for advice and support. He was busy with his work and had no time for a proper conversation. In addition, he couldn’t understand me very well. His solution was to send me to talk with some of the students who were living as lodgers in his house.
When I revealed my ambitions to these young men, they [262] had a good laugh—and why not? Imagine a Polish-Lithuanian man of twenty-five or so, outfitted with an extremely thick beard and torn, filthy clothing, speaking a grammatically deficient mix of Hebrew, Yiddish-German, Polish, and Russian, and presenting himself as capable of understanding German and being knowledgeable in several fields of scholarship. What were these young men to think?
They began to have some fun at my expense. They handed me Mendelssohn’s Phaedon, which had happened to be lying on a table, and said that I should read from it.1 I read pitifully (as a result of how I had taught myself German, as well as because of my bad accent), and laughter broke out once more. Still, they asked me to explain what I had read. I did so in my customary style. Since they couldn’t understand me, the young men told me to translate what I had read into Hebrew. [263]
This I did on the spot. The students, who understood Hebrew, were astonished. They now saw that I had not only comprehended the words of the famous author, but was also capable of expressing them effectively in Hebrew. Thus they began to take an interest in me. During my stay in Königsberg, they gave me food and old clothes. They gave me advice as well, suggesting that I should go to Berlin, where I would have the best chance of realizing my goal.
They recommended that I travel from Königsberg to Stettin by ship, the most practical course in light of my circumstances. It would be easy to get from Stettin to Frankfurt an der Oder, and from there to Berlin.
And so I went by ship, with nothing more to eat than some toasted bread, a few herrings, and a flask of brandy. The young students had said that the journey would last ten days—two weeks at most. This prophecy would prove false. [264] Due to unfavorable winds, the trip took five weeks.
It isn’t hard to imagine the conditions I had to endure. Aside from the crew and me, there was only one other passenger on the ship: a woman who incessantly sang spiritual songs to console herself. I understood as little of the crew’s Pomeranian-German as they did of my Polish-Yiddish-Lithuanian. Not once did I get to enjoy a warm meal. And I had to sleep in a storage room on full, hard sacks. On top of all that, the ship was in danger several times. Naturally, I was seasick more often than not.
We arrived, finally, in Stettin. I was told that from there to Frankfurt an der Oder was a short walk. But if you are a Polish Jew in the most desperate shape, without a penny to buy food and unable to understand the local language, how can you manage any trip, even just a couple of miles? [265]
But it had to be done. I left Stettin, and then, overwhelmed by the thought of how miserable my situation was, I sat down beneath a linden tree and began to weep bitterly.
However, my despair soon abated. I summoned my courage and began walking on. After a few miles, I arived at an inn, utterly exhausted—this was around evening. It happened to be the day before the Jewish day of fasting that comes in August.2 My situation was as sad as any you could imagine. I was dying of hunger and thirst, and I was supposed to spend all of the next day fasting. I didn’t have a penny to my name or anything of value to sell.
After brooding for a long time, I finally realized that in my travel sack I still had the iron spoon I had brought onboard the ship. I took out the spoon and asked the innkeeper to accept it in exchange for some bread and beer. At first he refused, but after a lot of pleading on my part, he agreed to give me a glass of sour beer for [266] the spoon. Having no real options, I accepted the deal. I drank my glass of beer and went out to the stalls to sleep in the hay.
In the morning, I continued my journey. First, though, I asked where the Jews lived, so that I could go to a synagogue and be among my brothers, singing lamentations about the destruction of Jerusalem.
This is what I in fact did. Around midday, after the praying and singing, I sought out the local Jewish schoolmaster and struck up a conversation. Recognizing that I was a full rabbi, he took an interest in me. He arranged for me to get my dinner that evening from a Jew, and he gave me a letter of introduction to take to the schoolmaster in the next town, describing me as a great Talmudist and honorable rabbi.
There, too, I was received rather well. The most respected and wealthiest Jew in the town invited me to join him for the Sabbath meal. When I went to the synagogue, I was given the best [267] place. And I was shown all the signs of honor to which a rabbi is entitled. After the service, the wealthy Jew brought me to his home, and gave me the best seat at his table—namely, between himself and his daughter. She was about twelve years old and had done herself up beautifully.
I began to hold forth as a rabbi, delivering a very learned and edifying discourse. And the less the gentleman and the madam understood of what I said, the more divine the discourse seemed.
Suddenly, I noticed to my dismay that the girl’s face had twisted into a disagreeable expression. At first, I didn’t understand why, but when I turned my gaze to myself—and to my filthy, shabby beggar’s clothes—the mystery was solved. She had good reason to be upset. How could she not be? I hadn’t once put on a fresh shirt [268] since leaving Königsberg about seven weeks earlier; I had been compelled to sleep at inns on the same bare straw that who knows how many other poor people had slept on; and so on.
Now that my eyes had been opened, I saw the awful extent of my wretchedness. But what should I do? How could I get myself out of this execrable state? Feeling troubled and sad, I took my leave of these good people and continued on my way to Berlin. All the while, I had to struggle against every kind of privation and misery.
At last, I reached the city. Here I would be able to solve my problems and realize my dreams, or so I believed. Alas, I was sadly mistaken.
As is well known, Jewish beggars are not tolerated in Berlin, so the local Jewish community had built a house at the Rosenthaler gate where the poor would be taken in and Jewish [269] elders could find out about their circumstances. Depending on the result of the interview, the poor arrivals were either granted entrance into the city—if they were sick or looking for work—or sent on. I, too, was taken to this house, filled partly with sick people, partly with indolent rabble. It took a while for me to find someone I could discuss my situation with.
Finally, I noticed a man who, judging by his clothes, must have been a rabbi. I went up to him and was overjoyed to discover that he was, in fact, a rabbi, quite well known in Berlin. We talked about all kinds of things, and since I am a very candid person, I told him about the path my life had taken in Poland. I also revealed that I intended to study medicine in Berlin, showed him my commentary on the More Newochim, etc. He noted all this and seemed quite [270] interested in me. But then, he abruptly disappeared.
The Jewish elders finally arrived around evening. Everyone present was called before them and asked why he had come to the city. When it was my turn, I said quite openly that I wanted to live in Berlin in order to study medicine. The elders immediately rejected my request, handed me a penny to buy bread, and moved on. The reason why was none other than the following.
The rabbi I spoke of earlier was an orthodox zealot. After he had gotten a sense of my ideas and plans, he went into the city and told the elders about my heretical convictions. I was planning, after all, to publish a new edition of the More Newochim outfitted with my commentary, and not only did I want to study and practice medicine, I also wanted to immerse myself in the study of science and broaden my knowledge. [271]
Orthodox Jews regard this last objective as dangerous, potentially harmful to both religion and good morals. They were convinced that I was especially at risk, being one of those Polish rabbis who, rescued by a happy accident from the slavery of superstition and perceiving the light of reason, have suddenly cast off their chains.
This is a well-founded fear, at least to some extent. Such rabbis are like people who have long been starving and then happen upon a table decked out with good things to eat. They will greedily dig in and gorge themselves until they are overstuffed.
Being refused permission to stay in Berlin left me thunderstruck. Just when I was so close to it, the way to the ultimate fulfillment of all my hopes and wishes was suddenly blocked. I felt like Tantalus.3 And I didn’t know what to do.
The way the man in charge of the poor house treated me was especially hard to take. Acting on instructions from his superiors, he insisted on a speedy departure and [272] did not let up until he saw me outside the gate.
Once there, I threw myself on the ground and began to cry bitterly.
It was a Sunday, and as on most Sundays, many people were strolling outside the gate. Most of them paid no attention to the wailing worm. But to a few sympathetic souls, I was a conspicuous sight. They asked me why I was so despondent. I answered them, but they couldn’t understand me, in part because of my unintelligible language and in part because of all the interruptions resulting from my weeping and sobbing.
I was so shattered that I became ill with a high fever. The soldier on guard reported this to the poor house, and the man in charge came out and brought me back inside. I stayed there overnight, hoping only that my illness would take a turn for the worse. That way, I could force them to let me stay in the house for a long time, during [273] which I would get to know a number of people. Through their patronage, I might obtain permission to live in Berlin—these were my hopes.
Alas, they were false ones. The next day, I woke up feeling healthy and free of fever. And so I had to leave. But where was I to go? I had no idea.
I set off down the first road I came to, putting myself in the hands of fate. [274]
1 Phädon was first published by Moses Mendelssohn in 1767, approximately three years before this incident, and was an instant success. The book was a kind of adaptation of the Platonic dialogue Phaedo, which updated its arguments for the immortality of the soul in modern philosophical terms, earning Mendelssohn the sobriquet “the Socrates of Berlin.” Koenigsberg was an early center for the Haskala, in part because Jews were allowed to attend the university (Markus Herz, for instance, studied medicine there).
2 That is, the 9th of Av, commemorating the destruction of the first and second Temples in Jerusalem.
3 In Greek mythology, Tantalus was, of course, condemned to stand beneath a tree whose fruit always eluded his grasp. As with Maimon’s other classicisms the reference is straightforward and should be contrasted with the subtlety and erudition of his rabbinic allusions.