Third Journey to Berlin. Failed Plan to Become a Hebrew Author. Journey to Breslau. Divorce
I WENT TO SEE MY OLD FRIENDS MENDELSSOHN, Doctor B., F., J., and L., and since I was now competent in several languages, I asked them to help me find an occupation that accorded with my capabilities. They hit upon the idea that I could produce enlightenment-bringing books in Hebrew for the benefit of Polish Jews still living in darkness (Hebrew being the only language they understood). These great friends of humanity would pay to have the books printed and disseminated within our nation.1
I eagerly accepted this proposal. Now, however, the [233] question arose as to what sort of writings I should start with.2 The excellent men helping me were of differing opinions on this point. J. thought that a history of the Jewish nation would best serve our purpose. Through such a book, the nation would learn about the origins of its religious doctrines and about how the doctrines had become degraded. Here, moreover, Polish Jews would see how ignorance and resistance to reason caused the Jews’ state to fall into decline and the Jews to suffer under the persecution and oppression that followed. J. suggested that I translate Basnage’s History of the Jews from the French.3 He gave me Basnage’s work and requested a sample translation as a sort of test. Everyone, even Mendelssohn, found my performance acceptable. I was all set to start working on my project.
F., however, was of the opinion that we should begin with natural religion and rational morality, since they are the goal of all enlightenment. He therefore advised me to translate Reimarus’ natural theology.4 Mendelssohn kept [234] his opinion to himself, believing, as he did, that no undertakings of this kind would hurt, but also that they wouldn’t much help. I entered into the project not because of my own convictions about it, but because my friends had prevailed upon me to do so.
I was all too familiar with rabbinic despotism, which for centuries has used force of superstition to hold on to its position in Poland, and which, in order to protect its power, has also tried to hinder the spread of truth and light in every possible way. I knew that the Jewish theocracy and national character were so intertwined that getting rid of one would necessarily mean the demise of the other. Thus, I recognized that my efforts at enlightening others would likely be in vain. Still, I accepted the job. My friends wanted to see it done, and I had no other way of supporting myself. Though they hadn’t yet settled on a plan for my project, my friends decided to send me to Dessau, where I would be able to work in peace. [235]
I arrived in Dessau hoping that my friends would come to a definite decision about the course of my work within a few days. I was deceiving myself. As soon as I left Berlin, my friends stopped thinking about the plan. I waited about two weeks. Having heard nothing, I wrote to Berlin:
If you cannot come to a consensus on the plan, then leave the selection to me. My own view is that the enlightenment of the Jewish nation should begin neither with history nor with natural theology and morality. For one thing, these fields are widely accessible, and since Jewish scholars respect only that which demands a great exertion of mental powers, these topics would not foster much respect for systematic scholarship and science in general. Furthermore, these topics would often come into conflict with the scholars’ religious prejudices, and the scholars would therefore be unreceptive to works dealing with them. Finally, the Jewish nation has in truth no actual [236] history, for the nation has almost never been in a political relationship with other nations, and aside from the Old Testament, Josephus, and a few fragments about the persecution of Jews in the Middle Ages, nothing has been written about it.
I concluded that it would be best to start with a field that, as well as being uniquely helpful in developing the mind, has no connection to ideas about religion: mathematics. And so I proposed to produce a mathematics textbook in Hebrew.
F. soon answered that I should pursue this idea. Thus, I set about writing my textbook with all due industry, laying out Wolff’s Latin mathematics,5 and completing the project within a few months. Afterward, I went back to Berlin to present the outcome of my efforts. As soon as I arrived, however, J. delivered the unfortunate [237] news that because of the considerable length of my book, and especially because the copperplates it required would cost so much, he was unable to publish it at his own expense. I could have the manuscript back and do whatever I liked with it.
I complained to Mendelssohn. He felt it wouldn’t be right if I went unrewarded for my labors, but on the other hand, he couldn’t force his friends to pay to publish a book that, given the Jewish nation’s aversion to science (which I myself had acknowledged), had such uncertain prospects. His advice was therefore to have the work published by subscription. Needless to say, I had no choice but to content myself with this tack. Mendelssohn and the other enlightened Jews of Berlin subscribed, and all I received for my trouble was my manuscript and the subscription list. No one thought anymore about our plan.
The episode led to another falling out with my Berlin friends. As a man with little experience of the world, believing [238] that actions should accord with the laws of justice, I insisted our agreement be honored. My friends, for their part, realized—if only too late—that their vaguely outlined project was doomed to failure, because the costs of producing such long and expensive books were unlikely to be recouped. Given the Jewish nation’s religious, moral, and political condition, its few enlightened members would probably never take the step of studying scientific topics in Hebrew, the language least well suited to representing the sciences. They would simply study the sciences from the original sources. Meanwhile, the unenlightened—who make up the majority—are so in thrall to rabbinic prejudices that they would regard the study of science (even in Hebrew) as forbidden fruit. Besides, they devote themselves exclusively and incessantly to the study of the Talmud and its countless commentaries. [239]
Recognizing all this, I didn’t insist that my book be printed. I wanted merely to be compensated for the work I had put into it. Mendelssohn remained neutral, for he believed that both sides were right. But he did promise to convince his friends to do something else to help me support myself. In the end, not even that came to pass, and I decided to leave Berlin again and relocate to Breslau.
I took letters of introduction with me, but they didn’t do me much good. By the time I made it to Breslau, letters besmirching my reputation had arrived, making a very bad impression on precisely the people my letters of introduction were addressed to. Naturally, I was received coldly. Since I knew nothing about the defamatory letters, I was at a loss to explain this reception. I quickly decided to leave Breslau. [240]
I just happened, however, to make the acquaintance of Ephraim Kuh, the famous poet of the Jewish nation.6 As a learned and noble-minded man, he enjoyed my company so much that he put aside all of his undertakings and amusements and devoted himself exclusively to spending time with me. He enthusiastically recommended me to the rich Jews of the city, describing me as an excellent mind. Once he realized that his endorsements were not being taken seriously, he tried to find out why, and he eventually discovered those friendly letters from Berlin. “Solomon Maimon attempts to spread harmful philosophical systems,” they declared. Being an intelligent man, Ephraim Kuh immediately saw why these accusations were being made, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t disabuse the wealthy Jews of the opinions they had formed based on what they had read.
I admitted to him that during my stay in Berlin, I had felt, as a young an inexperienced man, an irresistible [241] drive to disseminate and communicate the truths that I had recognized. But I also made it clear that experience had made me much wiser, that I now went about my work with the utmost tact and caution. The accusation in the letters was thus baseless.
Frustrated over my rather fraught situation, I decided to introduce myself to various Christian scholars. My hope was that through their recommendations, I could win an audience with the wealthy people of my own nation. I was again worried that my poor German would not be equal to the challenge of expressing what I wanted to say, so I wrote a short essay, aphoristically presenting my thoughts on the most important philosophical topics, and I brought the essay to a well-known professor: Professor Garve.7 I gave him a brief description of what I was planning to do, then handed him my aphorisms to look over. We had a friendly discussion, after which Professor Garve produced a favorable testimonial about me. He also orally recommended me, quite forcefully, to the rich banker Herr Lipmann [242] Meier, who provided me with a monthly stipend and spoke to other Jews about my plight.
Gradually, my situation improved. Many young Jews sought my company, among them the middle son of Aaron Zadig. My humble person delighted him so much that he wanted to have the pleasure of learning about the sciences and philosophy from me. He asked his father to pay for the instruction, and this affluent, enlightened, and sensible man, who wanted his children to have the best German education and spared no expense for it, happily agreed to.
Herr Zadig summoned me and proposed that I lodge with him and receive a modest honorarium, in exchange for which I would spend several hours a day giving his middle son lessons in physics and belle lettres, plus an hour of instruction in arithmetic. I was extremely pleased to accept. Not long afterward, Zadig asked whether I might like [243] to teach his children Hebrew and basic mathematics, subjects they had been learning from a Polish rabbi named Manoth. But it seemed wrong to me to inflict hardship on this poor man, who had a family and had done a satisfactory job. And so I declined. Rabbi Manoth retained his job, and I began mine.
I had a hard time pursuing my own studies in this house. For one thing, there was a lack of books. For another, I lived together in a room with the children and was constantly being disturbed by their lessons with other tutors. The rambunctious demeanor of these young people clashed, moreover, with my own, which had become quite serious. As a result, minor instances of misbehavior annoyed me greatly, and I was often unable to work. It was with social interaction that I sought to fill out my time. I frequently called on Heiman Lisse, a small, corpulent [244] man with an enlightened outlook and a cheerful disposition. With him and other affable brothers, I whiled away my evenings, chatting, joking, and playing games. I sat in coffeehouses during the day.
In other houses, too, I soon became a familiar figure, especially in the homes of one Bortenstein and a banker, Simon, both of whom showed me much kindness. Everyone tried to persuade me to devote myself to medicine, something I had become very much opposed to. Yet when I considered the circumstances and saw that I had few other options for supporting myself, I let myself be persuaded. Professor Garve recommended me to Professor Morgenbesser, whose medical lectures I actually attended for a while. In the end, I could not overcome my dislike of the art of medicine, and I gave up this course of study as well.
I gradually came to know other Christian scholars, primarily several [245] worthy teachers at the local Jesuit college and also the late Lieberkühn,8 whose talents, outstanding character, and affection for humanity won him the esteem he so richly deserved.
I didn’t quite abandon my attempt to publish books in Hebrew. I translated Mendelssohn’s Morning Hours into Hebrew, and I sent a few pages of my translation to Isaac Daniel Itzig as a way of putting my work to the test.9 But I received no answer, for this excellent man was simply too busy to spend time on matters beyond his immediate concerns. I produced another book in Hebrew as well: a work of natural philosophy according to Newtonian principles.10 I have kept the manuscript to this day, as I have all my writings in Hebrew. [246]
In the end, I wound up in a wretched situation in Breslau, too. Zadig’s children entered into business—which had been the expectation all along—and no longer needed lessons. Meanwhile, my other means of support gradually dried up. Since I now had to find other ways to provide for myself, I turned to teaching. I explained Euler’s Algebra to one young man,11 instructed a pair of children in the basic elements of German and Latin, and so on. But none of this lasted, and soon I was back in lamentable circumstances.
It was just then that my wife and eldest son arrived from Poland. My wife’s upbringing and the circumstances of her life had been crude, but she had the courage of an amazon, as well as plenty of common sense. She demanded that I return home with her on the spot, without recognizing how impossible it would be for a man like me, a man who had been in Germany for some years, who had extricated himself from the fetters of superstition and religious prejudice, who had shed his raw manners [247] and way of living, and who had greatly expanded his knowledge, to voluntarily return to his former barbaric and miserable state, throw away all the forms of thought he had acquired, and subject himself to rabbinic rancor over the slightest utterance of an independent idea or deviation from ceremonial law. I told her that going home wasn’t possible right away. I would first have to talk to my friends, both here and in Berlin, about giving me a fund of several hundred thalers, so that I wouldn’t be dependent on my religious relatives in Poland.12 But my wife didn’t care about any of that. She countered what I said with an ultimatum. If I didn’t leave with her immediately, she would divorce me. Forced to choose the lesser of two evils, I agreed to the divorce.
Meanwhile, I had to provide my guests with room and board, as well as act as their guide during their stay in Breslau. I did both, introducing my son—more than my wife—to the differences [248] between life here and life in Poland. With the help of some passages from the More Newochim, I also tried to show him that enlightening the mind and reforming religious customs would bring much more good than bad. More than that, I tried to convince my son to stay with me. I promised him that with my help, along with the support of some friends, he would be able to develop his fine natural talents in Germany, and that he would use them more effectively here.
But my wife took him to see several orthodox Jews, whose advice she thought it best to rely on. These men counseled her to push for a divorce. And under no circumstances should she let my son stay. Furthermore, she should not reveal her decision until she had gotten enough money from me for household purposes. Then [249] she could part ways with me forever and return home with her booty. This wonderful advice was followed to the letter. After I had given my wife the twenty ducats I had managed to collect from my friends, and had told her that we would have to go to Berlin to get the rest of the sum needed, she began to make trouble. Finally, though, she said that divorce would be the best thing for us, because I would never be able to live happily with her in Poland—nor she with me in Germany.
She was, I felt, absolutely right. Still, it was sad for me to lose a wife I had once loved. Yet I also wanted deal with the matter properly. So I told my wife that I would agree only to a divorce demanded of me by a court.
This came to pass. I was called before the court, and after my wife had presented her reasons for requesting a divorce, the judge said: “We cannot do anything in this case but [250] advise you to divorce.” To this I replied: “We haven’t come here to ask for advice, but to get a ruling from a judge.” At that, the head of the court stood up from his seat (so that what he said wouldn’t have the force of a ruling), approached me with the legal code in hand, and pointed to the following passage: “A vagabond who abandons his wife for years, without writing to her or sending her money, should be compelled by a court to grant his wife a divorce when he is found.”13
“It is not for me, “ I answered, “to compare this case to mine. That is your responsibility as a judge. So take your seat again, and give your ruling as a judge.” The chief judge alternately blanched and blushed, stood up and sat back down, as the judges exchanged glances. Finally, the chief judge began angrily [251] inveighing against me. He called me an execrable heretic and cursed me in the Lord’s name. I let him fume and walked away. Thus, the strange proceedings ended. Everything remained the same as before.14
When my wife realized that such tactics would get her nowhere, she turned to pleading, and finally I relented, with the condition that the chief judge who had thundered all those curses would not be the one to preside over the divorce. After the divorce, my wife and son went back to Poland.
I remained in Breslau for a time, but with my situation there steadily growing worse, I decided to return to Berlin. [252]
1 Maimon would not have been alone in such endeavors. His erstwhile patrons seem to have been thinking of him along the lines of the Haskala popularizer Mendel Lefin (1749–1824) or Barukh Schick, who famously published a Hebrew translation of the first six books of Euclid’s Elements in Uqlides (The Hague, 1780). On Lefin, see Nancy Sinkoff, Out of the Shtetl: Making Jews Modern in the Polish Borderlands (Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2004); For Schick, David Fishman, Russia’s First Modern Jews: The Jews of Shklov (New York: New York University Press, 1996).
2 For Maimon, enlightenment was primarily the propagation of scientific and mathematical knowledge (an endeavor that was grounded in his radical Maimonideanism, and its conception of human perfection), while Mendelssohn’s friends aimed at making East European Jews into reasonable approximations of the contemporary German bourgeoisie.
3 Basnage, Histoire des Juifs, depuis Jesus-Christ jusqu’a present. The Hague, 1716.
4 Reimarus, Abhandlungen von den vornehmsten Wahrheiten der natürlichen Religion. Hamburg, 1781.
5 Probably, Wolff, Elementa matheseos universae (“Elements of General Mathematics”). 2 vols. Halle: 1713–15. The manuscript of Maimon’s translation is lost.
6 The nineteenth-century German-Jewish novelist Berthold Auerbach depicted this friendship in Dichter und Kaufmann: ein Lebensgemälde aus der Zeit Moses Mendelssohn (Stuttgart, 1860). Küh had suffered a nervous breakdown after he was identified as a Jew subject to special taxes by a Saxon customs official and later (like Maimon) flirted with conversion while attacking the local Jewish establishment, so his advocacy probably didn’t help Maimon. For an interesting short account of Küh’s life, see Sander Gilman, Jewish Self-Hatred (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986), pp. 115–21.
7 Christian Garve (1742–98), a philosopher, translator, and bookseller. He was author of an influential and critical review of the first edition of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason.
8 Probably, Philipp Julius Lieberkühn (1754–88), a scholar and educator, who served as the Rektor of the Elisabethen-Gymnasium in Breslau.
9 Isaac Daniel Itzig (1750–1806), an educator and the son of Daniel Itzig (1723–99), an influential Prussian Court Jew and patron of the Haskala. Maimon quotes extensively from his Hebrew translation of Mendelssohn’s Morgestunden in Giva’t ha-Moreh, but the complete translation is not extant.
10 Ta’alumoth Hochma [Mysteries of Wisdom], Breslau 1786. Currently held by the Bodleian Library, Oxford (MS Mich.186).
11 Euler, Vollständige Anleitung zur Algebra. 2 vols. St. Petersburg: 1770.
12 While exact value conversions are difficult, it is clear that “several hundred thalers,” would not suffice for Maimon to support a family for a significant period of time. However, little in this account gives one the sense that Maimon was serious about the possibility.
13 See Shulhan Arukh, Even ha-Ezer, 70, sec. 3.
14 Maimon refrains here from telling the reader who is unfamiliar with the Jewish laws of divorce that a wife cannot unilaterally divorce her husband, and a husband cannot be forced to divorce his wife, though significant pressure may be brought to bear upon him. Bluma Goldstein discusses this episode at length in Enforced Marginality: Jewish Narratives on Abandoned Wives (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of Californal Press, 2007), ch. 2.