My Initial Aversion to Belle Lettres and My Ensuing Conversion. Departure from Berlin. A Stay in Hamburg. I Get Drunk the Way a Bad Actor Shoots Himself. A Foolish Old Woman Falls in Love with Me—and Is Rejected
I DIDN’T FEEL AT ALL drawn to literature and literary criticism. Indeed, I couldn’t fathom how one could make a systematic study out of that which pleases or displeases; I felt at the time that these responses had purely subjective causes.
Once, when I was out strolling with Mendelssohn, our conversation turned to poets. He recommended that I read them. “No, I don’t like reading poets,” I replied. “What, after all, [188] is a poet if not a liar?”
Mendelssohn smiled and said: “So, you agree with Plato, who banished all poets from the Republic. I hope that in time you will change your mind.” This soon happened.
Longinus’ On the Sublime fell into my hands. The examples he took from Homer, and especially the famous part about Sappho, made a very strong impression on me. I thought: This is all silliness, of course, but the images and the descriptions are truly beautiful. Afterward, I read Homer’s works and I had to laugh at the foolish fellow. I said to myself: What a serious expression he wears while telling these tales for children. Yet I gradually started to enjoy reading him. Ossian, on the other hand, whom I read soon thereafter (in German translation, needless to say), I worshipped from the start.1 The solemnity of his style, the powerful economy of his descriptions, the purity of his convictions, the simplicity of the [189] objects he depicted, and, finally, his affinity with Hebrew poetry all delighted me enormously. I also took much pleasure in reading Geßner’s Idylls.
My belletristic friend the Pole, whom I spoke of in the previous chapter, was pleased to see my conversion, for I had earlier challenged him on the value of belle lettres. Once, when my friend read aloud a passage from the psalms as an example of forceful rhetoric—the passage in which King David shows his mastery of cursing (en maître)—I interrupted him: “That’s supposed to be art? My mother-in-law, God bless her, curses a lot better than that when she’s bickering with her neighbor.”2
But now he triumphed over me. Mendelssohn and my other friends were also immensely pleased. They wanted me to concentrate on the humaniora, because one would never [190] be well equipped to serve the world with the products of one’s intellect unless one had done so. But it wasn’t easy to persuade me to take this step. I always rushed headlong into the pleasure of the moment, never thinking about how I could heighten and prolong my experiences by preparing myself for them in the right way.
I soon acquired a taste not merely for studying literature, but also for everything good and beautiful that I could come to understand. I acted on this inclination with unbounded enthusiasm. Having been choked back until then, the drive for sensual pleasure began to demand its due as well.
The initial impetus was this. For quite a while, several men who worked as tutors had been fixtures in the homes of the richest and most elegant families of the Jewish nation.3 They focused on the French language (which was seen at the time as the height of Enlightenment), geography, arithmetic, economics, and such subjects. They had acquired a few highbrow phrases, as well as some vaguely formulated [191] ideas about the more foundational sciences and philosophical systems. As a result, and also because they were practiced in gallantry toward the fairer sex, these men were quite popular. They were generally considered to be clever, capable fellows. When they began to realize that my reputation was growing, and that the admiration for my knowledge and talents had started to eclipse them, they hit upon a strategy for preserving their position by undermining me.
They decided to bring me into their group, treat me in a friendly way, and help me however they could. But their motives were hardly pure. They were hoping that once we were linked, people would be more likely to show them greater respect. In addition, they were hoping that some real philosophical knowledge and scientific expertise would rub off on them. They had heard, after all, of my generosity and my love of free intellectual exchange. Thirdly, they also thought, on the other hand, that they could intoxicate me with the allure of sensual pleasures, given my well-known enthusiasm for whatever I had judged to be good. [192] Their plan was to use this strategy to cool my interest in philosophy and the sciences and alienate me from my other friends (whose friendship had made these men so envious).
And so they extended their invitation, avowed their friendship, assured me of their high regard for me, and requested the honor of my company. Not suspecting anything malicious, I happily accepted their offer. Since I recognized that Mendelssohn and my other friends were too important to spend time with me on a daily basis, the prospect of a new group of friends seemed attractive. Furthermore, I was very pleased to have friends of a middling ilk, with whom I could spend time sans façon and enjoy the pleasures of sociable interaction in a relaxed way. My new friends took me to merry gatherings and taverns, brought me along on excursions, and also to . . .4––all at their own expense. In my jovial mood, I, meanwhile, told them all the secrets of philosophy, explained the most recondite philosophical systems in detail, and corrected [193] their ideas about various areas of human knowledge.
But because philosophical thinking can’t simply be drummed into someone’s head, and also because these gentlemen possessed no special aptitude for it, they couldn’t make any real progress through lessons of this kind. Once I had noticed how things stood with them, I made no secret of my opinion of their intellects. Nor did I hide the fact that I enjoyed their company mainly for the meat, the wine, and so on. This rather derisive treatment wasn’t especially to their liking. But they took it in stride. Since they wouldn’t be able to achieve everything they’d wanted to through our relationship, they would try to achieve at least part of what they had hoped for.
Behind my back, they gave my eminent friends exaggerated reports about my least important actions and utterances, claiming, for example, that I had considered Mendelssohn a philosophical hypocrite, thought of others as lightweights, was promoting dangerous philosophical systems, and was very committed to Epicureanism (as though [194] they were true Stoics!). They even began to openly try to undermine me. Of course, their campaign against me had consequences.
It also happened that my more respectable friends had observed that in my studies, I simply followed my inclinations instead of holding to a set plan. They suggested that I study medicine, but they couldn’t convince me to take that step.
I realized that the theory of medicine contains many auxiliary sciences, each of which could be mastered only by a specialist. In addition, I saw that a particular genius and faculty of judgment, both of them rare, are needed for the practice of medicine. Most doctors exploit the ignorance of the public. They spend the customary few years at a university, where they have the opportunity to attend all sorts of lectures. But they go to only a few of them. In the end, they use money and powers of persuasion to induce someone else to write a dissertation for them. Thus their path into the medical profession is an easy one. [195]
I had, as I have mentioned, a great love of painting. However, my friends advised me not to devote myself to this form, for I was no longer young and would not have the patience needed for the precise work that painting requires.
Finally, someone recommended that I study the art of pharmacy. Because I already had some knowledge of physics and chemistry, I decided to act on the idea. But I never intended to make practical use of my expertise; I wanted only to acquire theoretical knowledge. And so instead of directly participating in order to master techniques, I was content to simply watch the important chemical processes. I thus learned the art of pharmacy without becoming a pharmacist. After my three-year apprenticeship, H.J.D. gave Madame Rosen—in whose pharmacy I had studied—the sixty thalers she had been promised. I received a certificate [196] documenting that I had learned the art of pharmacy, and everything seemed to be in order.
Yet this course of study, or rather, my way of pursuing it, did a great deal to further alienate my friends. In the end, Mendelssohn summoned me. He told me about my friends’ mounting frustration, then proceeded to enumerate its causes. My life had no direction whatsoever. I had rejected or thwarted all of my friends’ attempts to help. I had been spreading dangerous ideas and philosophical systems. My manner of living was thought to be dissolute. My reputation was that of an ardent devotee of sensual pleasure.
I countered the first reproach by reminding him that from the very beginning, I had explained to my friends that my special upbringing had left me uninterested in practical undertakings and made me prefer the quiet, contemplative life. Moreover, this life could both satisfy my natural inclinations and serve as a means of supporting myself (e.g., by teaching). “As [197] to the second point,” I continued, “my opinions and philosophical systems are either true or false. If they are true, then I don’t know how knowledge of the truth could be harmful. If they are false, then let people refute them. I have revealed my views only to A., B., C., and D., who, as enlightened men, seek to transcend all prejudice. Yet it isn’t the harmful character of my views that has led these men to turn against me; rather, it’s their inability to understand my ideas and their desire to avoid the humiliation of admitting this. As to the third reproach, I say to you, Herr Mendelssohn, nothing less than: We are all Epicureans. Moralists can give us merely the rules of prudence, or of using the appropriate means to achieve a given end. But they cannot prescribe the ends themselves.
“Still,” I added, “I realize now that I must leave Berlin. Where will I go? It doesn’t matter.” And with that, I bid Mendelssohn farewell. He gave me a letter testifying in very strong terms to [198] my abilities and talents and wished me a safe trip.
I took leave of my other friends as well, thanking them, briefly but sincerely, for the kindness they had shown. One of my friends was very struck by how tersely I said goodbye to him: “Be well, my dear friend. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” It seemed to this prosaically poetical but otherwise excellent man that my formulation was too short and too dry, given all the displays of friendship he had brought forth. And so he said to me, noticeably displeased: “Is this all you learned in Berlin?” But I didn’t answer him. I simply walked away, bought a ticket on the Hamburg carriage, and left.
When I arrived in Hamburg, I went to a merchant for whom S. L. had given me a letter of introduction. The merchant received me in the most welcoming way, [199] inviting me to join him at his table for as long as I stayed in the city. Given that this man knew how to do just one thing—make money—and that knowledge and science didn’t especially interest him, he must have been so generous simply due to my recommendation, or because he felt obliged to do his correspondent a favor. But since I didn’t cut the kind of figure you would want to be seen with, and also because I knew nothing about business, he wanted to get rid of me as soon as he could. He asked me where I wanted to travel to from Hamburg. When I answered Holland, he gave me the advice that with this being the best time of year for making the journey, I should hurry up with my trip.
I therefore bought a ticket on a ship leaving for Holland. I had to wait several weeks, though, for the ship to depart. For traveling companions, I had a pair of barber’s apprentices, a tailor’s apprentice, and a shoemaker’s. They laughed at everything, argued energetically, and sang all kinds of songs. But I couldn’t [200] take part in any of this, because they barely understood the language I spoke. In addition, they made fun of me in all sorts of ways. I patiently endured it all.
The ship sailed down the Elbe without difficulties, until it reached a village at the point where the river flows into the North Sea, a few miles from Hamburg. Due to unfavorable winds, we had to remain there for six weeks. The crew and the remaining passengers went into the local tavern, where they drank and gambled. I was too sick for that, so sick in fact that I nearly despaired of getting well. Finally, a good wind came, the ship set sail on the North Sea, and on the third day, we arrived in Amsterdam.
A boat approached the ship to bring the ship’s passengers into the city. I didn’t trust the Dutch boatman at first, not wanting to wind up in a deathtrap (I had been warned about the dangerous ships in Hamburg). But the [201] captain of the ship assured me that he knew this particular boatman well, and I should have no qualms about putting myself in his hands. Thus I entered the city. I didn’t know anyone there, but I had heard about a man living in The Hague from an excellent Berlin family—this man had brought over a house tutor whom I happened to know from Berlin. So I set off for The Hague on a cargo barge.
Here I arranged to lodge with a poor Jewish woman. I was still resting, trying to recover from my trip, when a tall, haggard man walked in, wearing filthy clothes and with a short pipe dangling from his mouth. Without noticing me, he proceeded to speak with the innkeeper. Finally, she said to him, “Herr H., there’s a guest here from Berlin. Talk to him.” H. turned to me and asked: “Who are you? What are you doing in Holland?” In keeping with my inveterate candor and love of truth, I told him I was from Poland, that my love of philosophy and the sciences had led me to spend several years [202] in Berlin, and that I had come to Holland with the aim of working, should the opportunity arise. As soon as he realized that he had a scholar before him, he began to bring up various philosophical and mathematical topics (he had done a lot of work in the latter field). He had found in me a man after his own heart, and we became friends on the spot.
Afterward, I went to see the family tutor I knew from Berlin. He described me to his employer as a person of great talents, one highly regarded in Berlin and outfitted with excellent letters of introduction. Because this employer respected both his tutor and everything else that came from Berlin, he invited me for a meal at his home. My appearance suggested nothing special, and I was, moreover, still utterly exhausted from my sea journey. Thus I cut an odd figure at the table; indeed, the employer didn’t know what to make of me. But he set great store [203] by both Mendelssohn’s written recommendation and also his own tutor’s oral one. Suppressing his bemusement, he invited me to eat at his home during my stay.
He had invited his brothers-in-law—sons of B., a man had won fame through his wealth and charitable works—to come that evening, too. As scholars, they would be able to provide a better assessment of my abilities. We discussed an array of Talmudic subjects and even topics from the Kabbalah as well. When they saw that I was an initiate in the secrets of Jewish mysticism, and that I was able to explain passages they had deemed inexplicable and solve other stubborn problems, they came to the conclusion that they were in the presence of a great man.
But it didn’t take long for their admiration to turn to hatred. Apropos of the Kabbalah, they told me about a man who had been living in London for many years and could perform miracles using the Kabbalistic formulas.5 [204] I expressed some skepticism, but they assured me that they had witnessed the man’s feats during his stay in The Hague. I replied that as a philosopher, I didn’t doubt the truth of their story, but perhaps they hadn’t investigated the matter thoroughly enough and had accepted certain preconceived notions as facts. I added that I would continue to doubt the effects of the Kabbalah until someone could prove that they were inexplicable through the familiar laws of nature. This position they considered heresy.
At the end of the meal, I was given the wine cup so that I could say the customary blessing over it. I declined this honor, adding that I wasn’t doing so out of feigned embarrassment about speaking in front of a group. For in Poland, I had been a rabbi and had given many sermons and held many disputations before large audiences. I was ready to prove this, I stated, by presenting a daily public lecture. But I felt the prayer I was being invited to say was a function of an anthropomorphic system of theology; [205] it was nothing other than my love of truth and abhorrence of self-contradiction that made it impossible for me to say it.
With this claim, I had exhausted their patience—and then some. They cursed me as a damned heretic and decided it would be a mortal sin to tolerate my presence in a Jewish home. My host was no philosopher, but he was a reasonable, enlightened person, and he took little notice of these imprecations. My modest talents mattered more to him than my piety. The guests left right after the meal, full of indignation. All their subsequent attempts to dislodge me from the house of their brother-in-law would remain fruitless.
I stayed in the house for about nine months, leading a life of complete independence but also extreme reclusion. I had no occupation or true social interaction. [106] But I cannot pass over in silence a remarkable event, remarkable both psychologically and morally.
Lacking nothing except an occupation aligned with my strengths, I became depressed in Holland, as is natural. My weariness often led me to think of suicide, of putting an end to a life that had become a burden to me. But whenever I was about to act, my love of life always regained the upper hand. During the festival of Haman6, I ate and drank prodigiously, as is customary among Jews. This was at the house where I was taking my meals. When the feasting was over at about midnight, I set out for the house where I was lodging. Holland is of course full of canals, and walking alongside one, I had the feeling that this was an opportune moment for carrying out the resolution I had formed many times. My life has become a burden to me, I thought to myself. At present, I am provided for, but how will things look in the future? How will [207] I support myself then? After all, I’m of no practical use in the world. Calm deliberations had repeatedly led me to decide to end my life; it was just cowardice that had kept me from going through with it. But now that I’m standing, thoroughly intoxicated, on the edge of a deep grave, this can happen in a blink of an eye with no difficulty at all.
Soon, I was leaning over the canal about to throw myself into it, but only the upper part of my body obeyed the command of my soul, which must have been counting on the lower part to refuse. I stood that way for some time, upper body bending over the water and legs rooted firmly to the ground. A passerby might have thought that I was paying the water a compliment. This hesitation destroyed my whole resolution. I felt like someone who is supposed to swallow his medicine, but lacks the requisite courage and keeps picking up his bowl of medicine only to put it back down. Finally, I had to laugh at myself, for what [208] was driving me to suicide was actual abundance in the present and merely imagined scarcity in the future.(a) I gave up my resolution and went home, putting an end to the tragicomic scene.
I feel obliged to mention another comical scene as well. A former beauty of about forty-five lived in the Hague (‘s-Gravenhage) in those days, earning her living by teaching French. One day, she [209] visited me in my room. She introduced herself, told me of her irresistible longing for scholarly conversation, and promised that for this reason, she would visit me quite often. She said that it would be an honor if I in turn visited her.
I was happy to accept her offer and went to see her a number of times. We got to know each other better through frequent conversations about philosophy, belles lettres, and such topics. I was still married, and nothing about his woman attracted me with one exception: her passion for learning. I thought only about what we were discussing. But she, who had long been a widow, was smitten with me: She said so herself. With looks as well as words, she began to send me romantic signals. I found it all very funny. I couldn’t believe that a woman might fall seriously in love with me, so I took what she said as airs and affectation. However, she [210] became increasingly serious, brooding at times during our conversations and occasionally breaking out in tears.
During one of our exchanges, we turned our attention to the topic of love. Proceeding with my usual candor, I said that I could love a woman only for her winning feminine qualities (beauty, charm, a soothing nature, etc.). Whatever else a woman might have (talent, erudition, etc.) would elicit merely admiration, not love. The woman attacked this view with both a priori reasons and empirical examples, drawn primarily from French novels. While she attempted to correct my conception of love, I remained unconvinced, and because the woman was taking her facial expressions and sighs to an extreme, I stood up and said good-bye. Having walked me to the door, she grasped my hand and didn’t want to let go. I asked sharply: “Madame, what is wrong with you?” [211] She replied in a trembling voice: “I love you.”
When I heard this laconic declaration of love, I began to laugh violently. Still laughing, I tore myself from her grasp and ran away. She was heartbroken. A while later, she sent me the following letter:
Dear Sir,
I was greatly mistaken about you. I took you to be a man with noble ideas who forms refined impressions. But I now see that you are a true libertine. All you care about is pleasure. You only like women for their beauty. A Madame Dacier, who studied all the Greek and Latin authors, translated them into her native language, and enriched them with learned annotations—someone like that would not give you pleasure. Why? Because she wasn’t pretty. You, who are otherwise so enlightened, should be ashamed of yourself, sir, for harboring such pernicious principles. And [212] if you refuse to reconsider, then tremble before the prospect of a scorned love avenged.
I answered as follows:
Dear Madame,
You are mistaken, as the result proves. You call me a true Epicurean. With this, you pay me a great compliment. For if I despise the title “Epicurean,” I am, on the contrary, quite proud to be a “true Epicurean.” I admit that I like a woman’s beauty. Because beauty can be enhanced through other talents, I can appreciate those talents, but only as a means to the main end. On the other hand, I can admire a woman for her talents, but not love her, as I have already explained in person. I greatly respect Madame Dacier’s erudition: She might have fallen in love with the Greek men present at the siege of Troy, [213] always hovering around her as they were, and she may have expected to be loved by them in return—but other than that, nothing. As to your vengeance, Madame, I remain unafraid of it. Time, which destroys all things, has ruined your weapons, too, namely your teeth and your nails. Your . . .
With that, the bizarre love affair came to an end.
I saw that there was nothing more for me in Holland. The main goal of Dutch Jews is, after all, to make money, and they have no real inclination for scholarly inquiry. Furthermore, because of my inadequate Dutch, I couldn’t teach in any field. And so I decided to return to Berlin. I intended to travel by way of Hamburg, but had the chance to travel by land to Hannover. There I went to see M., a rich man (but one who does not even deserve to enjoy his own wealth). I showed him Mendelssohn’s letter of introduction and described my desperate circumstances. He carefully read the letter—written by a certain Moses Mendelssohn [214]—called for ink and a quill, and without saying a word wrote on the letter: “I, Herr M., hereby vouch for the complete accuracy of what Herr Mendelssohn has written in praise of Herr Solomon.” Thereupon he dismissed me.—[215]
1 These poems, which caused an international literary sensation in the late eighteenth century, were not by an ancient Gaelic poet named Ossian but rather by their publisher, the Scottish poet James Macpherson.
2 Presumably something like “May his children be orphans / His wife a widow.” (Ps. 109:9). Maimon’s jest alludes to the famous passage in the Zohar 3:152a in which Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai is quoted as saying that if the Torah merely consisted in ordinary stories and words, then “we could compose a better Torah right now.”
3 On the class of young maskilim at the time, see Shmuel Feiner, The Jewish Enlightenment (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), especially pp. 76–79.
4 The coy ellipsis is meant to indicate brothels.
5 This was Hayyim Samuel Jacob Falk (1708–82), on whom see Michael Oron, Rabbi, Mystic or Impostor? The Eighteenth Century Baal Shem Tov of London, trans. Edward Levin (London: Littman, 2017).
6 I.e. Purim.
a [Maimon] Love of life, or the drive for self–preservation, appears to increase rather than diminish as one’s means of supporting oneself decreases, and as the uncertainty in one’s life grows. For necessity spurs us to greater activity, which in turn brings about a greater passion for life. But if poverty and material need become overwhelming, desperation results: that is, the sense that supporting oneself is impossible. The inevitable consequence of such desperation is suicidal impulses. In sum, obstacles to satisfying the passion for life can make this passion more intense, but if they render satisfying the passion impossible, they will produce despair.