THE MENDELSSOHN EPOCH.
Renaissance of the Jewish Race--Moses Mendelssohn--His Youth--
Improves Hebrew Style--Lessing and Mendelssohn--Mendelssohn's
Writings--The Bonnet-Lavater Controversy--Kölbele--The
Burial Question--Reimarus--Anonymous Publication of his
Work--Lessing's "Nathan the Wise"--Mendelssohn in "Nathan"
--Mendelssohn's Pentateuch--Opposition to it--The "Berlin
Religion"--Montesquieu--Voltaire--Portuguese Marranos in
Bordeaux--Isaac Pinto--His Defense of Portuguese Jews--
Dohm and Mendelssohn--Joseph II of Austria--Michaelis--
Mendelssohn's "Jerusalem"--Wessely: his Circular Letter--
Mendelssohn's Death.
1750-1786 C. E.
Can "a nation be born at once"--or can a people be regenerated? If the
laboriously constructed organism of a nation has lost vitality, if
the bonds connecting the individual parts are weakened, and internal
dissolution has set in, even the despotic will which keeps the members
in a mechanical union being wanting; in short, if death comes upon a
commonalty in its corporate state, and it has been entombed, can it
be resuscitated and undergo a revival? This doom has overtaken many
nationalities of ancient and modern times. But if in such a people
a new birth should take place, _i.e._, a resurrection from death
and apparent decomposition, and if this should occur in a race long
past its youthful vigor, whose history has spread over thousands of
years,--then such a miracle deserves the most attentive consideration
from every man who does not stolidly overlook what is marvelous.
The Jewish race has displayed miraculous phenomena, not only in
ancient days, the age of miracles, but also in this matter-of-fact
epoch. A community which was an object of mockery not merely to the
malicious and ignorant, but almost more to benevolent and cultured
men; despicable in its own eyes; admirable only by reason of its
domestic virtues and ancient memories, both, however, disfigured beyond
recognition by trivial observances; scourging itself with bitter irony;
of which a representative member could justly remark, "My nation has
become so estranged from culture, that the possibility of improvement
is doubtful"--this community nevertheless raised itself from the
dust! It revived with marvelous rapidity from its abjection, as if a
prophet had called unto it, "Shake thyself from the dust; arise ...
loose thyself from the bands of thy neck, O captive daughter of Zion!"
And who caused this revival? One man, Moses Mendelssohn, who may be
considered the incarnation of his race--stunted in form, awkward,
timid, stuttering, ugly, and repulsive in appearance. But within this
race-deformity breathed a thoughtful spirit, which only when misled
pursued chimeras, and lost its self-esteem only when proscribed. No
sooner did it understand that it was the exponent of the truth, than it
dismissed its visionary fancies, its spirit transfigured the body, and
raised the bent form erect, the hateful characteristics disappeared,
and the scornful nickname of "Jew" was changed almost into a title of
honor.
This rejuvenescence or renaissance of the Jewish race, which may be
unhesitatingly ascribed to Mendelssohn, is noteworthy, inasmuch as
the originator of this great work neither intended nor suspected
it; in fact, as already remarked, he almost doubted the capacity
for rejuvenescence in his brethren. He produced this altogether
unpremeditated glorious result not by means of his profession or his
public position. He was not a preacher in the wilderness, who urged
the lost sons of Israel to a change of mind; all his life he shrank
from direct exercise of influence. Even when sought after, he avoided
leadership of every kind with the oft-repeated confession, that he was
in no way fitted for the office. Mendelssohn played an influential part
without either knowing or desiring it: involuntarily, he aroused the
slumbering genius of the Jewish race, which only required an impulse
to free itself from its constrained position and develop. The story of
his life is interesting, because it typifies the history of the Jews in
recent times, when they raised themselves from lowliness and contempt
to greatness and self-consciousness.
Moses Mendelssohn (born at Dessau, August, 1728, died in Berlin,
January 4, 1786) was as insignificant and wretched an object as almost
all poor Jewish children. At this time even infants seemed to possess a
servile appearance. For quick-witted boys there was no period of youth;
they were early made to shiver and shake by the icy breath of rough
life. They were thus prematurely awakened to think, and hardened for
their struggle with unlovely reality. One day Mendelssohn, a weakly,
deformed lad in his fourteenth year, knocked at the door in one of
the gates of Berlin. A Jewish watchman, a sort of police officer, the
terror of immigrant Jews, who was ordered to refuse admission to those
without means of subsistence, harshly addressed the pale, crippled boy
seeking admission. Fortunately, he managed bashfully to stammer out
that he desired to enroll himself among the Talmudical pupils of the
new rabbi of Berlin. This was a kind of recommendation, and enabled him
to dispense with a full purse. Mendelssohn was admitted, and directed
his steps towards the house of the rabbi, David Fränkel, his countryman
and teacher, who had shortly before been called from Dessau to the
rabbinate of Berlin.
He took an interest in the shy youth, allowed him to attend his
rabbinical lectures, provided for his maintenance, and employed him in
copying his Commentary to the Jerusalem Talmud, because Mendelssohn
had inherited a beautiful handwriting as his only legacy from his
father, a writer of scrolls of the Law. Even if Mendelssohn learnt from
Fränkel nothing besides the Talmud, yet the latter exerted a favorable
influence upon the mind of his disciple, because his method, exercising
itself upon virgin soil, the Jerusalem Talmud, was not so distorted,
hair-splitting, and perverse as that of most expounders of the Talmud,
who made the crooked straight, and the straight crooked. Mendelssohn's
innate honesty and yearning for truth were not suppressed or hindered
by his first teacher, and this was of value.
Like the majority of Talmud disciples (Bachurim) Mendelssohn led the
life of poverty which the Talmud in a measure makes a stipulation for
study:--
"Eat bread with salt, drink water by measure, sleep upon the
hard earth, live a life of privations, and busy thyself with
the Law."
His ideal at this time was to perfect himself in the knowledge of the
Talmud. Was it chance that implanted in Berlin the seed destined to
produce such luxuriant fruit? Or would the result have been the same,
if he had remained with Fränkel in Dessau, or if the latter had been
called to Halberstadt, or Fürth, or Metz, or Frankfort? It is highly
improbable. Retired though Mendelssohn's life was, yet a fresh breeze
was wafted from the Prussian capital into the narrow chambers of his
Rabbinical studies. With the accession of Frederick the Great, who
besides war cultivated the Muses (though in a French garb), literary
dilettanteism, French customs, and contempt for religion began to
grow into fashion among Berlin Jews. Although their condition under
Frederick was restricted, yet, because several became wealthy, the new
spirit did not pass over them without leaving an impression, however
inadequate and superficial. An impulse towards culture, the spirit
of innovation, and imitation of Christian habits began to manifest
themselves.
A Pole first introduced Mendelssohn to the philosophical work of
Maimuni, which for him and through him became a "Guide of the
Perplexed." The spirit of the great Jewish thinker, whose ashes had
lain in Palestine for more than five hundred years, came upon young
Mendelssohn, inspired him with fresh thoughts, and made him, as it
were, his Elisha. What signified to Mendelssohn the long interval of
many centuries? He listened to the words of Maimuni as if sitting
at his feet, and imbibed his wise instruction in deep draughts. He
read this book again and again, until he became bent by constant
perusal of its pages. From the Pole, Israel Zamosc, he also learned
mathematics and logic, and from Aaron Solomon Gumpertz a liking for
good literature. Mendelssohn learned to spell and to philosophize at
the same time, and received only desultory assistance in both. He
principally taught and educated himself. He cultivated firmness of
character, tamed his passions, and accustomed himself, even before he
knew what wisdom was, to live according to her rules. In this respect
also Maimuni was his instructor. By nature Mendelssohn was violent and
hot-tempered; but he taught himself such complete self-mastery that, a
second Hillel, he became distinguished for meekness and gentleness.
As if Mendelssohn divined it to be his mission to purify the morals
and elevate the minds of his brethren, he, still a youth, contributed
to a Hebrew newspaper, started by associates in sympathy with him for
the purpose of ennobling the Jews. The firstlings of his intellect are
like succulent grass in the early spring. He abandoned the ossified,
distorted, over-embellished Hebrew style of his contemporaries, which
had debased the Hebrew language into the mere mumbling of a decrepit
tongue. Fresh and clear as a mountain-stream the Hebrew outpourings of
Mendelssohn welled forth. Philosophical-religious views pervaded these
early works, not only where he desired to depict trust in God and the
inefficacy of evil, but also the rejuvenescence of nature in her spring
vesture, and the delight of the pure mind of man at this beautiful
change. The school of suffering through which he had passed for so
many years, instead of dragging him down, had awakened, elevated,
and ennobled his spirit. His struggles for a livelihood ceased when
he obtained the situation as tutor in a rich family (that of Isaac
Bernard), which, though not over-lucrative, sufficed for his frugal
habits. His journeyman days were, however, not yet at an end. The old
and the new, tradition and original views agitated his mind; clearness
and self-consciousness were to flow into it from another source.
To the great minds which Germany produced in the eighteenth century
belongs Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. He was the first free-thinking man
in Germany, probably more so than the royal hero Frederick, who had
indeed liberated himself from bigotry, but still had idols to whom he
sacrificed. With his gigantic mind, Lessing burst through all bounds
and regulations which depraved taste, dry-as-dust science, haughty
orthodoxy, and pedantry of every kind had desired to set up and
perpetuate. The freedom that Lessing brought to the Germans was more
solid and permanent than that which Voltaire aroused in depraved French
society with his biting sarcasm; for, his purpose was to ennoble,
and his wit was only a means to this end. Lessing wished to exalt
the theatre to a pulpit, and art to a religion. Voltaire degraded
philosophy into light gossip for the drawing-room.
It was an important moment for the history of the Jews, when these
two young men, Mendelssohn and Lessing, became acquainted. It is
related that a passionate lover of chess, named Isaac Hess, brought
them together at the chess-board (1754). The royal game united two
monarchs in the kingdom of thought. Lessing, the son of a pastor, was
of a democratic nature: he sought the society of outcasts, and those
despised by public opinion. As shortly before he had mixed with actors
in Leipsic, and as afterwards he associated with soldiers in Breslau,
so now he was not ashamed to converse in Berlin with despised Jews. He
had before this dedicated the first-fruits of his art, which to him
appeared the highest art, to the pariah nation. By his drama, "The
Jews," he desired to show that a Jew can be unselfish and noble, and he
thereby aroused the displeasure of cultivated Christian circles. The
ideal of a noble Jew which Lessing had in mind while composing this
drama, he saw realized in Mendelssohn, and it must have pleased him to
find that he was not mistaken in his portraiture, and that reality did
not disprove his dream.
As soon as Lessing and Mendelssohn became acquainted, they learned
to respect and love each other. The latter admired in his Christian
friend his ability and unconstraint, his courage and perfect culture,
his overflowing spirit, and the vigor which enabled him to bear a new
world upon his broad shoulders; and Lessing admired in Mendelssohn
nobility of thought, a yearning for truth, and firmness of character
based upon a moral nature. They were both so imbued with lofty
nobility of mind that the one prized in the other whatever perfection
he could not attain to equally with his friend. Lessing suspected
in his Jewish friend "a second Spinoza, who would do honor to his
nation." Mendelssohn was completely enchanted by Lessing's friendship.
A friendly look from him, he confessed, had such power over his mind
that it banished all grief. They exerted perceptible influence upon
each other. Lessing, at that time a mere "Schöngeist," as it was
termed, aroused in Mendelssohn an interest for noble forms, æsthetic
culture, poetry, and art; the latter in return stimulated Lessing to
philosophical thought. Thus they reciprocally gave and received, the
true relationship in a worthy friendship. The bond of amity became so
strong, and united the two friends so sincerely, that it lasted beyond
the grave.
The stimulus that Mendelssohn received from his friend was
extraordinarily fruitful both for him and for the Jews. It maybe
said without exaggeration that Lessing's influence was greater in
ennobling the Jewish race than in elevating the German people, due to
the fact that the Jews were more eager for study and more susceptible
to culture. All that Mendelssohn gained by intercourse with his
friend benefited Judaism. Through his friend, who by reason of a
genial, sympathetic nature exerted great attraction upon talented
men, Mendelssohn was introduced into his circle, learned the forms
of society, and threw off the awkwardness which was the stamp of the
Ghetto. He now devoted himself zealously to the acquisition of an
attractive German style--a difficult task, as the German language
was strange to him, and the German vocabulary in use among Jews was
antiquated and misleading. Nor had he any pattern to follow; for,
before Lessing enriched German style with his genius, it was unwieldy,
rugged, and ungraceful. But Mendelssohn overcame all difficulties. He
withdrew, as he expressed it, "a portion of his love from the worthy
matron (philosophy), to bestow it upon a wanton maiden (the so-called
_belles-lettres_.)" Before a year's intimacy with Lessing elapsed, he
was able to compose in excellent form his "Philosophical Conversations"
(the beginning of 1755), in which he, the Jew, blamed the Germans,
because, misapprehending the depth of their own genius, they bore the
yoke of French taste: "Will, then, the Germans never recognize their
own worth? Will they always exchange their gold for the tinsel of
their neighbors?" This rebuke was applicable even to the philosophical
monarch Frederick II, who could not sufficiently scorn native talent,
nor sufficiently admire that of foreign lands. The Jew was more German
than most of the Germans of his time.
His patriotic feelings for Judaism did not suffer diminution thereby;
they were united in his heart with love for German ideals. Although he
could never overcome his dislike to Spinoza's revolutionary system,
yet in his first work he strove to save the latter's birthright in
the new metaphysics. The "Philosophical Conversations" Mendelssohn
handed to his friend, with the jesting remark that he could produce
something like Shaftesbury, the Englishman. Without his knowledge
Lessing had them printed, and thus contributed the first leaves to
his friend's crown of laurel. Through Lessing's zeal to advance him
in every way, Mendelssohn became known in the learned circle in
Berlin. When a "Coffee-house of the Learned," for an association of
about one hundred men of science, was established in the Prussian
capital, hitherto deficient in literary interests, the founders did
not pass over the young Jewish philosopher, but invited him to join
them. Every month some member delivered a discourse upon a scientific
subject. Mendelssohn, however, was prevented from reading in public by
modesty and an imperfection of speech; he presented his contribution
in writing. His essay was called an "Inquiry into Probability," which
must replace certainty in the limited sphere of human knowledge.
While it was being read aloud, he was recognized as the author, and
was applauded by the critical audience. Thus Mendelssohn was made a
citizen in the republic of literature, took an active part in the
literary productions of the day, and contributed to the "Library of the
Fine Arts," which had been founded by his friend Nicolai. His taste
became more refined every day, his style grew nobler, and his thoughts
more lucid. His method of presentation was the more attractive because
he seasoned it with incisive wit.
That which the Jews had lost through the abasement of thousand years of
slavery, Mendelssohn now recovered for them in a short space of time.
Almost all, with the exception of a few Portuguese and Italian Jews,
had lost pure speech, the first medium of intellectual intercourse,
and a childish jargon had been substituted, which, a true companion
of their misfortunes, appeared unwilling to forsake them. Mendelssohn
felt disgust at the utter neglect of language. He saw that the
Jewish corrupt speech contributed not a little to the "immorality of
the average man," and he hoped for good results from the attention
beginning to be paid to pure language. It was one of the consequences
of the debasement of language, that the German and Polish Jews had
lost all sense of form, taste for artistic beauty, and æsthetic
feeling. Oppression from without and their onerous duties, which had
reduced them to veritable slaves, had banished from their midst these,
together with many other, ennobling influences. Mendelssohn recovered
these lost treasures for his brethren. He acquired so remarkable a
sense for the beautiful, that he was afterwards recognized by the
Germans as a judge in questions of taste. The perverse course of study
pursued by the Jews since the fourteenth century had blunted their
minds to simplicity. They had grown so accustomed to all that was
artificial, distorted, super-cunningly wrought, and to subtleties,
that the simple, unadorned truth became worthless, if not childish
and ridiculous, in their eyes. Their train of thought was mostly
perverted, uncultivated, and defiant of logical discipline. He who
in a short time was to restore their youthful strength, so schooled
himself that twisted methods and thoughts became repugnant to him.
With his refined appreciation for the simple, the beautiful, and the
true, he acquired a profound understanding of biblical literature,
whose essence is simplicity and truth. Through the close layers of
musty rubbish, with which commentaries and super-commentaries had
encumbered it, he penetrated to the innermost core, and was able to
cleanse the beautiful picture from dust, and to understand and render
comprehensible the ancient Revelation as if it were a new one. Though
not gifted with the ability of expressing his thoughts poetically or
rhythmically, he had a delicate perception of the poetic beauties
of every literature, especially of those in the holy language. And
what formed the crowning-point of these attainments was, that his
moral views were characterized by extreme delicacy; he was painfully
conscientious and truthful, as if there flowed through his veins
the blood of a long series of noble ancestors, who had chosen for
their life's task all that is honorable and worthy. Almost childlike
modesty adorned him, modesty quite remote however from self-despising
subservience. He combined in himself so many innate and hardly acquired
qualities, that he formed a striking contrast to the caricatures which
German and Polish Jews of the time presented. There was but one feeling
wanting in Mendelssohn--and this deficiency was detrimental to the
near future of Judaism. He lacked an appreciation for history, for
things petty on close view, but great in perspective, for the comic
and tragic course of the human race during the progress of time. "What
do I know of history!" he observed, in half-apologetic, half-scornful
tones; "whatever is called history, political history, history of
philosophers, I cannot understand." He shared this deficiency with his
prototype Maimuni, and infected his surroundings with it.
Some of his brilliant qualities shone out from Mendelssohn's eyes and
features, and won him more hearts than if he had striven to gain them.
Curiosity about "this Jew" began to be aroused even at the court of
Frederick the Great. He was considered the embodiment of wisdom. The
dauntless Lessing infused such courage into him, that he ventured to
criticise in a periodical the poetical works of the Prussian sovereign,
and gently hint at their faults (1760). Frederick the Great, who
regarded verse-making as poetry, and dogmatism as philosophy, worshiped
the Muse in the court language of the day, thoroughly despised the
German tongue, at this time pregnant with real poetry, and mocked at
intellectual treasures sacred to solid thinkers. Mendelssohn, the Jew,
felt hurt at the king's hatred of German, as well as by his superficial
judgments. However, as one dare not tell the truth to monarchs, he
cleverly, through the trumpet of praise, emitted a soft note of blame,
clear enough to the acute reader.
Skillfully as Mendelssohn had concealed his censure of the king, yet
a malicious courtier, the preacher Justi, discovered it, and also
the name of the fault-finder, and denounced him, "a Jew, who had
thrown aside all reverence for the most sacred person of His Majesty
in insolent criticism of his poetry." Suddenly, Mendelssohn received
a harsh command to appear on a Saturday at Sans-Souci; an act in
accordance with the coarseness of the age. Full of dread, Mendelssohn
made his way to Potsdam to the royal castle, was examined, and asked
whether he was the author of the disrespectful criticism. He admitted
his offense, and excused himself with the observation, that "he who
makes verses, plays at nine-pins, and he who plays at nine-pins, be he
monarch or peasant, must be satisfied with the judgment of the boy who
has charge of the bowls as to the merit of his playing." Frederick was
no doubt ashamed to punish the Jewish reviewer for his subtle criticism
in the presence of the French cynics of his court, and thus Mendelssohn
escaped untouched.
Fortune was extraordinarily favorable to this man, unwittingly the
chief herald of the future. It gave him warm friends, who found
true delight in exalting him, though a Jew, in public opinion. It
secured for him a not brilliant, yet fairly independent situation
as book-keeper in the house where he had hitherto held the toilsome
position of resident tutor. It bestowed on him a trusty, tender, and
simple life companion, who surrounded him with tokens of devoted love.
Fortune soon procured a great triumph for him. The Berlin Academy had
offered a prize for an essay upon the subject, "Are philosophical
(metaphysical) truths susceptible of mathematical demonstration?"
Modestly Mendelssohn set to work to solve this problem. He did not
belong to the guild of the learned, had not learnt his alphabet until
grown up, at an age when conventionally educated youths have their
heads crammed with Latin. When he became aware that his friend, the
young, highly-promising scholar Thomas Abt, was also a competitor, he
almost lost courage, and desired to withdraw. Still his work gained
the prize (June, 1763), not alone over Abt, but even over Kant, whose
essay received only honorable mention. Mendelssohn obtained the prize
of fifty ducats and the medal. The Jew, the tradesman, had defeated
his rivals of the learned guild. Kant's disquisition went deeper into
the question, but that of Mendelssohn had the advantage of clearness
and comprehensibility. "He had torn the thorns from the roses of
philosophy." Compelled to acquire each item of his knowledge by great
labor, and having only with difficulty become conversant with the
barbarous dialect of the schools, he did not content himself with dry
formulæ, but exerted himself to render intelligible, both for himself
and others, metaphysical conceptions and truths. This circumstance
gained him the victory over his much profounder opponent. His essay,
which together with that of Kant was translated into French and Latin
at the expense of the Academy, earned for him assured renown in the
learned world, which was enhanced by the fact that the prize-winner was
a Jew.
In the same year (October, 1763), he received a distinction from King
Frederick, characteristic of the low condition of the Jews in Prussia.
This honor was the privilege of being a protected Jew (Schutz-Jude),
_i. e._, the assurance that he would not some fine day be expelled from
Berlin. Hitherto, he had been tolerated in Berlin only as a retainer
of his employer. The philosophical King Frederick sympathized with
the antipathy of his illustrious enemy Maria Theresa to the Jews, and
issued anti-Jewish laws worthy of the Middle Ages rather than of the
eighteenth century, so boastful of its humanity. He wished to see the
Jews of his dominions diminished in number, rather than increased.
Frederick's "general privilege" for the Jews was an insult to the age.
Marquis d'Argent, one of Frederick's French courtiers, who in his
naïveté could not conceive that a wise and learned man like Mendelssohn
might any day become liable to be driven out of Berlin by the brutal
police, urged Mendelssohn to sue for the privilege of protection, and
the king to grant it. However, a long time elapsed before the dry
official document granting it reached him. At last Mendelssohn became a
Prussian "Schutz-Jude."
The philosophical "Schutz-Jude" of Berlin now won great success
with a work, which met with almost rapturous admiration from his
contemporaries in all classes of society. Two decades later this
production was already obsolete, and at the present day has only
literary value. Nevertheless, when it appeared, it justly attained
great importance. Mendelssohn had hit upon the exact moment to bring
it forward, and he became one of the celebrities of the eighteenth
century. For almost sixteen centuries Christianity had educated the
nations of Europe, governed them, and almost surfeited them with belief
in the supernatural. It had employed all available means to effect
its ends, and finally, when the thinkers awakened from their slumber
induced by its lullabies, to inquire into the certainty secured by this
announcement of salvation which promised so much, serious people said
with regret--whilst sceptics chuckled with brutal delight--that it
offered delusive fancies in the place of truth.
In serious compositions, or in satires, the French thinkers of the
eighteenth century--the whole body of Materialists--had revealed
the hollowness of the doctrine, in which the so-called civilized
peoples had found comfort and tranquillity for many centuries. The
world was deprived of a God, the heavens were enshrouded in mist;
all that had hitherto seemed firm and incapable of being displaced
was turned topsy-turvy. The doctrine of Jesus had lost its power
of attraction, and become degraded in the eyes of the earnest and
thoughtful to the level of childish fables. Infidelity had become a
fashion. With the undeifying of Jesus appeared to go hand-in-hand
the dethronement of God, and doubt of the important dogma of the
immortality of the soul, which Christian theology had borrowed from
Greek philosophy and, as always, adorning itself with strange feathers,
had claimed as its original creation. Thereupon depended not merely the
confidence of mankind in a future existence, but also the practical
morals of the present. If the soul is mortal and transient, they
thought in the eighteenth century, then the acts of man are of no
consequence! Whether he be good or evil, virtuous or criminal, on the
other side of the grave there was no retribution. Thus, after the long
dream of many centuries, the civilized portion of mankind again fell
into the despondency prevalent in the Roman society of the empire;
they were without God, without support, without moral freedom, without
stimulus to a virtuous life. Man had been degraded to a complicated
machine.
Mendelssohn was also biased by the prejudice that the dignity of man
stands and falls with the question of the immortality of the soul.
He therefore undertook to restore this belief to the cultured world,
to discover again the lost truth, to establish it so firmly and ward
off materialistic attacks upon it so decisively, that the dying man
should calmly look forward to a blissful future and to felicity in the
after-life. He composed a dialogue called "Phædon, or the Immortality
of the Soul." It was to be a popular book, a new doctrine of salvation
for the unbelieving or sceptical world. Therefore he gave to his
dialogue an easily comprehensible, attractive style, after the pattern
of Plato's dialogue of the same name, from which he copied also the
external form. But Plato supplied him with the mere form. Mendelssohn
caused his Socrates to give utterance to the philosophy of the
eighteenth century through the mouth of his pupil, Phædon.
His starting-point, in proving the doctrine of the immortality of the
soul, is the fact of the existence of God, of which he has the highest
possible certainty. The soul is the work of God, just as the body is;
the body does not actually perish after dissolution, but is transformed
into other elements; much less, then, can the soul, a simple essence,
be decomposed, and perish. Further, God has acquainted the soul with
the idea of immortality, has implanted it in the soul. Can He, the
Benevolent and True One, practice deception?
"If our soul were mortal, then reason would be a dream, which
Jupiter has sent us that we may forget our misery; and we would
be created like the beasts, only to seek food and die."
Every thought inborn in man must for that reason be true and real.
In demonstrating the doctrine of immortality, Mendelssohn had another
noble purpose in view. He thought to counteract the malady of talented
youths of the day, the Jerusalem-Werthers, who, without a goal for
their endeavors, excluded from political and elevating public activity,
lost in whimsical sentimentality and self-created pain, sank to
thoughts of suicide, which they carried out, unless courage, too,
was sicklied over. Mendelssohn, therefore, in his "Phædon" sought
to inculcate the conviction, that man, with his immortal soul, is a
possession of God, and has no manner of right to decide arbitrarily
about himself and his life, or about the separation of his soul from
his body--feeble argumentation, but sufficient for that weakly,
effeminate generation.
With his "Phædon," Mendelssohn attained more than he had intended
and expected, viz., "conviction of the heart, warmth of feeling," in
favor of the doctrine of immortality. "Phædon" was the most popular
book of its time, and was perused with heart and soul. In two years it
ran through three editions, and was immediately translated into all
the European languages, also into Hebrew. Theologians, philosophers,
artists, poets, such as Herder, Gleim, and Goethe, then but a youth,
statesmen, and princes--men and women--were edified by it,
reanimated their depressed religious courage, and, with an enthusiasm
which would to-day appear absurd, thanked the Jewish sage who had
restored to them that comfort which Christianity no longer afforded.
The deliverance by Mendelssohn, the Jew, was as joyfully welcomed by
the world grown pagan, as in an earlier epoch that effected by the
Jews, Jesus and Paul of Tarsus, was welcomed by the heathens. His
contemporaries were delighted both with the contents and the form,
with the glowing, fresh, vigorous style, a happy, artistic imitation
of Plato's dialogues. From all sides letters of congratulation poured
in upon the modest author. Everyone of the literary guild who passed
through Berlin eagerly sought out the Jewish Plato, as one of the
greatest celebrities of the Prussian capital, to have a word with
him. The Duke of Brunswick seriously thought of securing the services
of Mendelssohn for his state. The Prince of Lippe-Schaumburg treated
him as a bosom friend. The Berlin Academy of Sciences proposed him as
a member. But King Frederick struck the name of Mendelssohn off the
list, because, as it was said, he desired at the same time to have
the Empress Catherine admitted into the learned body, and she would
be insulted in having a Jew as a companion. Two Benedictine friars--
one from the convent of Peter, near Erfurt, the other from the convent
of La Trappe--addressed Mendelssohn, the Jew, as the adviser of
their conscience, for instruction in moral and philosophical conduct.
The book "Phædon," out of date in twenty years, as remarked above,
raised its author to the height of fame. He was fortunate, because he
introduced it to the world exactly at the right moment.
An incident vexatious in itself served to exalt Mendelssohn to an
extraordinary degree in the eyes of his contemporaries, and to invest
him with the halo of martyrdom. John Caspar Lavater, an evangelical
minister of Zürich, an enthusiast who afterwards joined the Jesuits,
thought that he had found in Mendelssohn's intellectual countenance a
confirmation of his deceptive art, the reading of the character and
talents of a man from his features. Lavater asserted that in every
line of Mendelssohn's face the unprejudiced could at once recognize the
soul of Socrates. He was completely enchanted with Mendelssohn's head,
raved about it, desiring to possess a well-executed model, in order to
bring honor upon his art. Mendelssohn having caused his Phædon to speak
in so Greek a fashion that no one could have recognized the author as a
Jew, Lavater arrived at the fantastic conclusion that Mendelssohn had
become entirely estranged from his religion. Lavater had learned that
certain Berlin Jews were indifferent to Judaism, and forthwith reckoned
Mendelssohn amongst their number. There was the additional fact that,
in a conversation reluctantly entered upon with Lavater, Mendelssohn
had pronounced calm, sober judgment upon Christianity, and had spoken
with a certain respect of Jesus, though with the reservation, "if Jesus
of Nazareth had desired to be considered only a virtuous man." This
expression appeared to Lavater the dawning of grace and belief. What if
this great man, this incarnation of wisdom, who had become indifferent
towards Judaism, could be won over to Christianity! This was the train
of thought which arose in Lavater's mind after reading "Phædon."
Ingenuous or cunning, he spread his net for Mendelssohn, and thus
showed how ignorant he was of his true character. About this time, a
Geneva professor, Caspar Bonnet, had written in French a weak apology,
entitled "Investigation into the Evidences of Christianity against
Unbelievers." This work Lavater translated into German, and sent to
Mendelssohn, with an awkward dedication, which looked like a snare
(September 4, 1769). Lavater solemnly adjured him to refute publicly
Bonnet's proofs of Christianity, or, if he found them correct, to do
"what sagacity, love of truth, and honesty would naturally dictate,
what a Socrates would have done, if he had read this treatise, and
found it unanswerable." If Lavater had been really acquainted with the
secrets of the heart, as he prided himself, he would have understood
that, even if Mendelssohn had severed all connection with Judaism,
Christianity was still more repugnant to him, and that sagacity, that
is to say, regard to profit and the advantages of a pleasant existence,
was altogether lacking in his character. Lavater did not desire to
expose him before the public, but he wished to create a sensation,
without thinking what pain he was causing the shy scholar of Berlin.
Mendelssohn later had reason to thank Lavater for having through
thoughtlessness or pious cunning drawn him out of his diffidence and
seclusion. Mendelssohn had indeed expressed his relations to Judaism
and his co-religionists so vaguely that onlookers might have been
misled. In public life he was a philosopher and an elegant writer, who
represented the principles of humanity and good taste, and apparently
did not trouble about his race. In the darkness of the Ghetto he was a
strictly orthodox Jew, who, apparently unconcerned about the laws of
beauty, joined in the observance of every pious custom. Self-contained
and steadfast though he was in reality, he seemed to be a twofold
personality, revealing the one or the other as he was in Christian
or in Jewish society. He could not stand up in defense of Judaism
without, on the one hand, affronting Christianity by his philosophical
convictions, and, on the other, showing, if ever so lightly, his
dissatisfaction with the chaotic traditions of the synagogue, and so
offending the sensibility of his co-religionists and quarreling with
them. Neither of these courses, owing to his peace-loving character,
entered his mind. He would have been able to pass his life in an
attitude of silence, if Lavater's rude importunity had not dragged
him out of this false position, altogether unworthy of a man with
a mission. Painful as it was to reveal his innermost thoughts
upon Judaism and Christianity, he could not hold his peace at this
challenge, without being considered a coward even by his friends. These
reflections weighed heavily upon him, and caused him to take up the
glove.
He skillfully carried on the contest thus forced upon him, and was
ultimately victorious. At the end of 1769, in a public letter addressed
to Christendom and Lavater, its representative, Mendelssohn in the
mildest form wrote most cutting truths, whose utterance in former times
would inevitably have led to bloodshed or the stake. Mendelssohn had
examined his religion since the days of his youth, and found it true.
Philosophy and _belles-lettres_ had with him never been an end, but the
means to prepare him for testing Judaism. He could not possibly expect
advantage from adherence to it; and as for pleasure--
"O my worthy friend, the position assigned to my
co-religionists in civil life is so far removed from all free
exercise of spiritual powers, that one's satisfaction is not
increased by learning the true rights of man. He who knows
the state in which we now are, and has a humane heart, will
understand more than I can express."
If the examination of Judaism had not produced results favorable to it,
what would have chained him to a religion so intensely and universally
despised, what could have prevented him from leaving it? Fear of his
co-religionists, forsooth? Their secular power was too insignificant to
do any harm.
"I do not deny that I have noticed in my religion certain human
additions and abuses, such as every religion accepts in course
of time, which unfortunately dim its splendor. But of the
essentials of my faith I am so firmly and indisputably assured,
that I call God to witness that I will adhere to my fundamental
creed as long as my soul does not assume another nature."
He was as opposed to Christianity as ever, for the reason which he had
communicated to Lavater verbally, and which the latter should not have
concealed, namely, that its founder had declared himself to be God.
"Yet, for my part, Judaism might have been utterly crushed
in every polemical text-book, and triumphantly arraigned in
every school composition, without my ever entering into a
controversy about it. Without the slightest contradiction from
me, any scholar or any sciolist in subjects Rabbinic might have
constructed for himself and his readers the most ridiculous
view of Judaism out of worthless books which no rational Jew
reads, or knows of. The contemptible opinion held of Jews
I would desire to shame by virtue, not by controversy. My
religion, my philosophy, and my status in civil life are the
weightiest arguments for avoiding all religious discussion, and
for treating in public writings of truths equally important to
all religions."
Judaism was binding only upon the congregation of Jacob. It desired
proselytes so little, that the rabbis had ordained that any person who
offered to unite himself to this religion was to be dissuaded from his
design.
"The religion of my fathers does not care to be spread abroad;
we are not to send missions to the two Indies or to Greenland,
to preach our belief to remote nations. I have the good fortune
to possess as friends many excellent men not of my creed. We
love each other dearly, and never have I said in my heart,
'What a pity for that beautiful soul!' It is possible for me to
recognize national prejudices and erroneous religious opinions
among my fellow-citizens, and nevertheless feel constrained to
remain silent, if these errors do not directly affect natural
religion or natural law (morality), but are only accidentally
connected with the advancement of good. It is true that the
morality of our actions does not deserve the name, if based
upon error.... But as long as truth is not recognized, as long
as it does not become national, so as to work as powerful
an effect upon the great mass of the people as ingrained
prejudice, the latter must be almost sacred to every friend of
virtue. These are the reasons that religion and philosophy give
me to shun religious disputes."
Besides, being a Jew, he had to be content with toleration, because in
other countries even this was denied his race. "Is it not forbidden,
according to the laws of your native city," he ask Lavater, "for your
circumcised friend even to visit you in Zürich?" The French work
of Bonnet he did not find so convincing, he said, as to cause his
convictions to waver; he had read better defenses of Christianity
written by Englishmen and Germans; also it was not original, but
borrowed from German writings. The arguments were so feeble and so
little tending to prove Christianity that any religion could be
equally well or badly defended by them. If Lavater thought that a
Socrates could have been convinced of the truth of Christianity by this
treatise, he only showed what power prejudice exerts over reason.
If the evangelical consistory, before whom Mendelssohn offered to lay
his letter for censorship before printing it, did not regret granting
him permission to print whatever he pleased, "because they knew his
wisdom and modesty to be such that he would write nothing that might
give public offense," still he undoubtedly did give offense to many
pious persons.
Mendelssohn's epistle to Lavater naturally made a great sensation.
Since the appearance of Phædon, he belonged to the select band of
authors whose works every cultivated person felt obliged to read.
Besides it happened that the subject of the controversy was attractive
at the time. The free-thinkers--by no means few at this time--
were glad that at last some one, a Jew at that, had ventured to
utter a candid word about Christianity. Owing to his obtrusiveness
and presumptuous advocacy of Christianity, Lavater had many enemies.
These read Mendelssohn's clever reply to the zealous conversionist
with mischievous delight. The hereditary prince of Brunswick, who,
as said above, was charmed with Mendelssohn, expressed (January 2,
1770) his admiration, that he had spoken "with such great tact and so
high a degree of humanitarianism" upon these nice questions. Bonnet
himself, less objectionable than his servile flatterer, admitted
the justice of Mendelssohn's cause, and complained of Lavater's
injudicious zeal. A letter of his dated January 12, 1770, was almost
a triumph for Mendelssohn. He said that his dissertation, with which
Lavater had desired to convert the Jew, had not been addressed to
the honorable "House of Jacob," for which his heart entertained the
sincerest and warmest wishes; much less had it been his intention
to give the Jewish philosopher a favorable opinion of Christianity.
He was full of admiration for the wisdom, the moderation, and the
abilities of the famous son of Abraham. He indeed desired him to
investigate Christianity, as it could only gain by being subjected
to a close inquiry by the wise son of Mendel. But he did not wish
to fall into Lavater's mistakes, and make it burdensome for him.
However, in spite of his virtuous indignation, Bonnet perpetrated a
bit of knavery against Mendelssohn. Lavater himself was obliged in
a letter to publicly beg Mendelssohn's pardon for having placed him
in so awkward a position, entreating him at the same time to attest
that he had not intentionally been guilty of any indiscretion or
perfidy. Thus Mendelssohn had an opportunity of acting magnanimously
towards his opponent. On the subject proper under dispute, however, he
remained firm; he did not surrender an iota of his Judaism, not even
its Talmudical and Rabbinical peculiarities, and with every step his
courage grew.
Mendelssohn did not wish to let pass this propitious opportunity of
glorifying Judaism, which was so intensely contemned, and make it
clear that it was in no way opposed to reason. Despite the warnings
of timid Jews, to allow the controversy to lapse, so as not to stir
up persecutions, he pointed out with growing boldness the chasm which
Christianity had dug between itself and reason, whereas Judaism in
its essence was in accord with reason. "The nearer I approach this so
highly-esteemed religion," he wrote in his examination of Bonnet's
"Palingénésie," "the more abhorrent is it to my reason." It afforded
him especial delight when strictly orthodox Christians thought that
they were abusing Judaism by declaring it to be equivalent to natural
religion (Deism).
"Blessed be God, who has given unto us the doctrine of truth.
We have no dogmas contrary to, or beyond reason. We add
nothing, except commandments and statutes, to natural religion;
but the fundamental doctrines of our religion rest upon the
basis of understanding." "This is our glory and our pride, and
all the writings of our sages are full of it."
Frankly Mendelssohn spoke to the hereditary prince of Brunswick of the
untenability of Christian, and the reasonableness of Jewish, dogmas. He
thought that he had not yet done enough for Judaism.
"Would to God, another similar opportunity were granted me; I
would do the same.... When I consider what we ought to do for
the recognition of the sanctity of our religion."
Those who had not wholly parted company with reason declared
Mendelssohn to be in the right, and his defense to be just. They beheld
with astonishment that Judaism, so greatly despised, was yet vastly
superior to celebrated, official, orthodox Christianity. Through its
noble son, Judaism celebrated a triumph. The unhappy ardor of Lavater,
and the refined yet daring answer of Mendelssohn for a long time
formed the topic of conversation in cultured circles in Germany, and
even beyond its borders. The journals commented upon it, and noted
every incident. Anecdotes passed backwards and forwards between Zürich
and Berlin. It was said that Lavater had asserted that if he were
able to continue for eleven days in a state of complete holiness and
prayer, he would most positively succeed in converting Mendelssohn to
Christianity. When Mendelssohn heard this saying--whether authentic
or not it is characteristic of Lavater--he smilingly said, "If I am
permitted to sit here in my armchair and smoke a pipe philosophically,
I have no objections!" There was more talk of the contest between
Mendelssohn and Lavater than of war and peace. Every fair brought
pamphlets written in German and French, unimportant productions, which
did not deserve to live long. Only a few were on Mendelssohn's side,
the majority took the part of Christianity and its representatives
against the "insolence of the Jew," who did not consider it an honor to
be offered admission into the Christian community.
The worst of these was by a petty, choleric author, named John
Balthasar Kölbele, of Frankfort-on-the-Main, who, from hatred of the
Jews, or from distemper of body and soul, hurled such coarse insults
against Mendelssohn, the rabbis, the Jews, and Judaism, that his very
violence paralyzed his onslaught. Kölbele had on a previous occasion
attacked Mendelssohn, and jeered at him by means of a lay figure in
one of his forgotten romances. He desired to write, or said that
he had written, an "Anti-Phædon" against Mendelssohn's "Phædon."
His whole gall was vented in a letter to "Mr. Mendelssohn upon the
affair of Lavater and Kölbele" (March, 1770). Against the assertions
of Mendelssohn as to the purity of Judaism, he brought forward the
calumnies and perversions of his brother in feeling, Eisenmenger.
Mendelssohn's pure, unselfish character was known in almost all
cultivated and high circles of Europe. Nevertheless, Kölbele cast
the suspicion upon him of adhering to Judaism from self-interest,
"because a Jewish bookkeeper is in a better position than a Christian
professor, and the former besides derives some profit from attendance
in the antechambers of princes." To Mendelssohn's asseveration that
he would cling to Judaism all his lifetime, the malignant fool or
libeler rejoined, "How little value Christians attach to the oath of a
Jew!" Mendelssohn disposed of him in a few words in the postscript of
a letter addressed to Lavater. Nothing more was required; Kölbele had
condemned himself. Mendelssohn profited by these vilifying attacks,
inasmuch as respectable authors, who in their hearts were not a little
irritated by his independent and bold action, left him in peace,
rather than be associated with Kölbele. Mendelssohn emerged victorious
from this conflict, trifling only at first sight, which had lasted for
nearly two years; he rose in public opinion, because he had manfully
vindicated his own religion.
It had brought upon him also the reproaches of pious Jews. That which
his discernment had feared took place. From love of truth he had
publicly declared, that he had found in Judaism certain human additions
and abuses, which only served to dim its splendor. This expression
offended those who reverenced every custom, however un-Jewish, as
a revelation from Sinai, because it was sanctified by time and the
code. The entire Jewish world, including the Berlin community, with
the exception of the few who belonged to Mendelssohn's circle, would
not admit that rust had accumulated upon the noble metal of Judaism.
He was therefore questioned on this point, probably by Rabbi Hirschel
Lewin, and asked for an exact explanation of the phrase. He was very
well able to give a reply, which probably satisfied the rabbi, who was
no zealot. But his orthodoxy was still suspected by the strictly pious
people whom he termed "the Kölbeles of our co-religionists." He was
obliged to exculpate himself from the imputation of having pronounced
the decisions of Talmudical sages "as worthless trash." Young Poles,
adventurous spirits, thirsting for knowledge, "with good minds, but
confused thoughts," both pure and impure elements, forced themselves
upon Mendelssohn, and brought him into bad repute. The majority had
broken not alone with the Talmud, but also with religion and morality;
they led a dissolute life, and considered it the mark of philosophy
and enlightenment. Out of love to mankind and independent thought,
Mendelssohn entered into relations with them, held discussions with
them, advanced and aided them, which also cast a false light upon
his relations to Judaism. The frivolity and excesses of these young
men were imputed to him, and they were regarded as his protégés and
disciples.
He soon gave occasion for an increase of this suspicion. The Duke of
Mecklenburg-Schwerin, to avoid the dangers of premature interment,
had in a mild, fatherly way (April, 1772) forbidden the Jews of his
land to bury the dead at once, according to Jewish usage. Jewish piety
towards the deceased, which forbids keeping the dead above the earth
long enough for decomposition to set in--a feeling petrified in
the ritual code--was affronted by this edict, as though the duke
had commanded disregard of a religious practice. The representatives
of the congregations of Schwerin supplicated Jacob Emden, of Altona,
the aged champion of orthodoxy, to demonstrate from Talmudic and
Rabbinic laws, that prolonged exposure of a corpse was an important
infringement of Jewish law. Emden, who knew his inability to compose
a memorial in German, referred the people of Schwerin to Mendelssohn,
whose word had great influence with princes. They followed his advice.
How astounded were they to learn, from a letter of Mendelssohn's (May,
1772), that he agreed with the ducal order, that the dead should not
be buried before the third day; because, according to the experience
of competent physicians, cases of apparent death were possible; and
that it was right, in fact, compulsory, to rescue human life in spite
of the most stringent ordinances of the religious code! Mendelssohn
proved besides that in Talmudical times precautions were taken for the
prevention of hasty burial in doubtful cases. His opinion was, with
the exception of one blunder, faultlessly elaborated in the Rabbinical
manner. Nevertheless, true to his peaceful, complaisant nature, he
sent the formula of a petition to the duke to mitigate the decree.
Emden, however, in his orthodox zeal, stamped this disputed question
almost as an article of faith. A custom so universal among Jews, among
Italians and Portuguese as well as Germans and Poles, could not be
lightly set aside. Not much value was to be attached to the sayings
of doctors. Mendelssohn's Talmudical proofs were not conclusive. In
a letter Emden gave him clearly to understand that he was reproving
him for his own benefit, to remove the suspicion of lukewarm belief,
which he had aroused by his evil surroundings. Thus arose petty discord
between Mendelssohn and the rigidly orthodox party, which afterwards
increased.
Meanwhile, his friend Lessing, just before his death, had
unintentionally stirred up a storm in Germany which caused the Church
to tremble, and, under the spell of discontent and an artistic
impulse, he had glorified Mendelssohn, together with all Jews, in a
perfect poetic creation. The first cause of this tempest, which shook
Christianity to its core, was Mendelssohn's dispute with Lavater.
Lessing was so indignant at the certainty of victory assumed by
the representative of Church Christianity that he had strenuously
encouraged his Jewish friend to engage in valorous conflict.
"You alone dare and are able to write and speak thus upon
this matter, and are therefore infinitely more fortunate than
all other honest people, who cannot achieve the subversion of
this detestable structure of unreason otherwise than under the
pretense of building a new substructure."
He did not suspect that even then he was holding a thunderbolt in
his hands, which he would soon be in a position to hurl against
the false gods who thought that they had conquered heaven. During
his restless life, which corresponded to his constantly agitated
spirit, Lessing came to Hamburg, where he made the acquaintance of
the respected and free-thinking family of Reimarus. Hermann Samuel
Reimarus, a profound inquirer, indignant at the fossilized and
insolent Lutheran Christianity of the Hamburg pastors, had written
a "Defense of the Rational Worshipers of God," in which he rejected
every revealed religion, endeavoring to secure to reason the rights
denied it, and depreciating particularly the founder of Christianity.
Reimarus, however, had not courage to utter boldly what he recognized
as true, and lay bare publicly, in accordance with his convictions,
the weaknesses of the dominant religion. He left this treatise, which
contained dangerous and inflammatory material, to his family and to a
secret order of free-thinkers, as a legacy. Eliza Reimarus, a noble
daughter worthy of her father, handed fragments of this incendiary
manuscript to Lessing, who read them with interest, and thought
of publishing them. However, he had not sufficient confidence in
himself to give a decision upon points of theological discussion,
and, therefore, sent these fragments to his Jewish friend, who was
capable of judging them. Mendelssohn did not, indeed, find this work
very convincing, because the author, embittered by the credulity of
the Church, had fallen into the opposite error of advocating the most
spiritless form of infidelity, and, according to the shortsighted
view of that age, of finding only petty intrigues in great historical
movements. Despite Mendelssohn's judgment, his friend continued to
think that this book would be of service in humiliating the Church. He
seriously thought of hurling the inflammatory writings of Reimarus,
under a false name, at the Church. But the Berlin censorship would
not allow them to be printed. Then Lessing formed another plan. His
position as superintendent of the ducal library of Brunswick in
Wolfenbüttel permitted him to publish the manuscript treasures of this
rich collection. In the interest of truth he perpetrated a falsehood,
asserting that he had discovered in this library these "Fragments of
an Unknown," the work of an author of the last generation. Under this
mask, and protected by his immunity from censorship in publishing
contributions "to history and literature from the treasures of the
library at Wolfenbüttel," he began to issue them. He proceeded step by
step with the publication of these fragments. The first installments
were couched in an entreating tone, asking for support of the religion
of reason against the religion of the catechism and the pulpit. He then
ventured a step further--to prove the impossibility of the miracles
upon which the Church was based, and especially to make apparent the
unhistorical character and incredibility of the resurrection of Jesus,
one of the main pillars of Christianity, with which it stands and
falls. Finally, Lessing produced the most important of the fragments
at the beginning of 1778, "Upon the Aim of Jesus and His Disciples."
Herein it was explained that Jesus had only desired to announce himself
as the Jewish Messiah and King of the Jews. To this end he had made
secret preparations with his disciples, formed conspiracies to kindle
a revolution in Jerusalem, and attacked the authorities in order to
cause the downfall of the High Council (the Synhedrion). But when this
plan of subversion failed, and Jesus had to suffer death, his disciples
invented another system, and declared that the kingdom of Jesus was not
of this world. They proclaimed him the spiritual redeemer of mankind,
and gave prominence to the hope of his speedy reappearance; thus the
Apostles had concealed and disfigured the original system of Jesus.
This treatment of the early history of Christianity, fairly calculated
to overthrow the whole edifice of the Church, descended like a
lightning-flash. It was sober, convincing, scientifically elaborated,
yet comprehensible by everyone. Amazement and stupefaction were the
effect, especially on the publication of the last fragment. Statesmen
and citizens were as much affected as theologians. Public opinion
upon the matter was divided. Earnest youths about to begin a theologic
career hesitated; they did not care to yield their life's activity
to what was perhaps only a dream, and chose another vocation. Some
affirmed that the proofs against Christianity were irrefutable. The
anonymity of the writer heightened the excitement. Conjectures were
made as to who the author might be; Mendelssohn's name was publicly
mentioned. Only a few knew that this blow had been struck by Reimarus,
revered by theologians, too. The anger of the zealots was discharged
upon the publisher, Lessing. He was attacked by all parties, and had
no companion in arms. His Jewish friend would willingly have hastened
to his assistance, but how could he mix himself up in these domestic
squabbles of the Christians? Among the numerous slanders circulated
by the orthodox about Lessing it was said that the wealthy Jewish
community of Amsterdam had paid him one thousand ducats for the
publication of the Wolfenbüttel fragments. Accustomed to single-handed
combat against want of taste and reason, Lessing was man enough to
protect himself. It was a goodly sight to behold this giant in the
fray, dealing crushing strokes with light banter and graceful skill.
He defeated his enemies one after the other, especially one who was
the type of blindly credulous, arrogant, and malicious orthodoxy, the
minister Göze in Hamburg. As his pigmy opponents could not overcome
this Hercules by literary skill, they summoned to their aid the secular
arm. Lessing's productions were forbidden and confiscated, he was
compelled to deliver up the manuscripts of the "Fragments," his freedom
from censorship was withdrawn, and he was expected not to write any
more upon this subject (1778). He struggled against these violent
proceedings, but he was vulnerable in one point. The greatest man whom
Germany had hitherto produced was without means, and his position
as librarian being imperiled, he was obliged to seek for other means
of support. During one of his sleepless nights (August 10, 1778), a
plan struck him which would simultaneously relieve him from pecuniary
embarrassments and inflict a worse blow than ten "Fragments" upon the
Lutheran theologians. They thundered against him from their church
pulpits; he would try to answer them from his theatre pulpit. The
latest, most mature, and most perfect offspring of his Muse, "Nathan
the Wise," should be his avenger. Lessing had carried this idea in his
mind for several years; but he could not have executed it at a more
favorable time.
To the annoyance of the pious Christians who, with all their bigotry,
uncharitableness, and desire for persecution, laid claim to every
virtue on account of their belief in Jesus, and denounced the Jews,
one and all, as outcasts, Lessing represented a Jew as the immaculate
ideal of virtue, wisdom, and conscientiousness. This ideal he had found
embodied in Moses Mendelssohn. He illumined him and the greatness of
his character by the bright light of theatrical effects, and impressed
the stamp of eternity upon him by his immortal verses. The chief hero
of Lessing's drama is a sage and a merchant, like Mendelssohn, "as good
as he is clever, and as clever as he is wise." His nation honors him
as a prince, and though it calls him the wise Nathan, he was above all
things good:
"The law commandeth mercy, not compliance.
And thus for mercy's sake he's uncomplying:
... How free from prejudice his lofty soul--
His heart to every virtue how unlocked--
With every lovely feeling how familiar....
... O what a Jew is he! yet wishes
Only to pass as a Jew."
A son of Judaism, Nathan had elevated himself to the highest level of
humane feeling and charitableness, for such his Law prescribed. In a
fanatical massacre by Crusaders, ferocious Christians had slaughtered
all the Jews in Jerusalem, with their wives and children, and his
beloved wife and seven hopeful sons had been burnt. At first he raged,
and murmured against fate, but anon he spake with the patience of Job:
"This also was God's decree: So be it!"
In his terrible grief a mounted soldier brought him a young, tender
Christian child, an orphan girl, and Nathan took it, bore it to his
couch, kissed it, flung himself upon his knees, and thanked God that
the lost seven had been replaced by at least one. This Christian maiden
he loved with all the warmth of a fatherly heart, and educated her
in a strictly conscientious manner. Not one religion in preference
to another, still less his own, did he instil into the young soul of
Recha, or Blanche, but only the doctrines of pure fear of God, ideal
virtue, and morality. Such was the representative of Judaism.
How did the representative of Christianity behave? The Patriarch of
Jerusalem, who, with his church, was tolerated in the Mahometan city
by the magnanimous Sultan Saladin, by virtue of a solemnly ratified
treaty, meditates treacherous plans against the sultan, concocts
intrigues against him:
"But what is villainy in human eyes
May, in the sight of God, the patriarch thinks,
Not be villainy."
For Nathan, he desires to kindle a pyre, because he has fostered,
loved, and raised to a lovely, spiritual maiden, a forsaken Christian
child. Without the compassion of the Jew, the child would have perished:
"That's nothing! The Jew must still be burnt."
Daya, another representative of Church Christianity, who knows Recha's
Christian origin, has misgivings when she sees the Christian child
basking in the warm love of a Jew. She is won over from these scruples
by costly presents, but she still contemplates depriving Nathan of
the most precious object to which his soul clings, even though danger
should thereby befall him.
The Templar, Leon of Filnek, represents yet another phase of
Christianity. A soldier and at the same time a cleric, who, spared by
Saladin although he had broken his word, rescues Recha, the supposed
Jewish maiden; he behaves with Christian insolence towards Nathan,
speaking roughly and harshly to him, whilst the latter is pouring forth
heartfelt gratitude for the rescue of his adopted daughter. Then,
gradually, through the wonderful power of love, the Templar lays aside
the coarse, hateful garb of Christian prejudice. In his veins there
flows Mahometan blood. Only the holy simplicity of the friar Bonafides
combines human kindness with monastic ecclesiasticism; but he knows
only one duty--obedience--and at the command of the fanatically
cruel Patriarch would commit the most horrible crimes.
These lessons Lessing preached from his theatre pulpit to
the obdurate minds of the followers of Christ. The wise Jew,
Nathan--Mendelssohn--has arrived at the highest level of human
sympathy; while the best Christian, the Templar, every cultivated
Christian--the Nicolais, the Abts, the Herders--have yet to free
themselves from their thick-skinned prejudices, to attain to that
height. It is a delusion to claim the possession of the one true
religion and the only means of salvation. Who possesses the real ring?
How can the real one be detected from the false? Only by meekness,
heartfelt tolerance, true benevolence, and most fervent devotion to
God; in short, by all those qualities which the official Christianity
of the time did not display, and which were perfectly realized in
Mendelssohn.
In every way Lessing scourged fossilized, persecuting Christianity, and
glorified Judaism through its chief representative. As if this splendid
drama, the beautiful first-fruits of German poetry, was to belong to
the Jews, although given to the world by a Christian poet, a son of
Israel aided its production. Lessing, besieged by theological foes, and
fighting against dire necessity, would not have been able to complete
it, if, during its composition, he had not been enabled to live without
anxiety. He required a loan, and found no helper among the Christians.
Moses Wessely, in Hamburg, the brother of the neo-Hebraic poet,
Naphtali Wessely, who afterwards made a name for himself in Jewish
history, advanced the desired sum, although he was not a wealthy Jew,
and only wished to have the honor of possessing something in Lessing's
handwriting.
Lessing had not been wrong in thinking that this drama would vex pious
Christians much more than ten controversial pamphlets against Göze.
As soon as it appeared (spring, 1779), intense wrath was felt against
the poet, as if he had degraded Christianity. The "Fragments" and his
polemics against Göze had not made him so many enemies as "Nathan."
Even his friends greeted him coldly, shunned him, excluded him from
the social reunions he loved, and left him to the persecution of his
adversaries. Through this silent excommunication he felt himself
aggrieved, lost more and more of his bright humor and elasticity
of spirit, and became wearied, downcast, and almost stupefied. The
treatment of pious Christians terribly embittered the last year of
his life. He died in vigorous manhood like an aged man, a martyr to
his love of truth. But his soul-conquering voice made itself heard on
behalf of tolerance, and gradually softened the discordant notes of
hatred and prejudice. In spite of the ban placed upon "Nathan," as
well as upon its author, both in Protestant and Catholic countries,
this drama became one of the most popular in German poetry, and as
often as the verses inspired by conviction resound from the stage,
they seize upon the hearts of the audience, loosening the links of the
chain of Jew-hatred in the minds of Germans, who find it most difficult
to throw off its shackles. "Nathan" made an impression on the mind of
the German people, which, despite unfavorable circumstances, has not
been obliterated. Twenty years before, when Lessing produced his first
drama of "The Jews," an arrogant theologian censured it, because it
was altogether too improbable that among a people like the Jews, so
noble a character could ever be formed. At the appearance of "Nathan"
no reader thought that a noble Jew was possible. Even the most stubborn
dared not assert so monstrous an absurdity. The Jewish ideal sage was
a reality, and lived in Berlin, an ornament not alone to the Jews, but
to the German nation. Without Mendelssohn, the drama of "Nathan" would
not have been written, just as without Lessing's friendship Mendelssohn
would not have become what he did to German literature and the Jewish
world. The cordiality of the intimacy between these two friends showed
itself after Lessing's death. His brothers and friends, who only after
his demise realized his greatness, turned, in the anguish of their
loss, to Mendelssohn, as if it were natural that he should be the chief
mourner. And in very sooth he was; none of his associates preserved
Lessing's memory with so sorrowful a remembrance and religious a
reverence. He was beyond all things solicitous to protect his former
friend against misapprehension and slander.
As Mendelssohn, without knowing or desiring it, stimulated Lessing to
create an ideal, and through him helped to dispel the bias against
Jews, so at the same time, without aiming at it, he inaugurated
the spiritual regeneration of his race. The Bible, especially the
Pentateuch--the all in all of the Jews--although very many knew it
by heart, had become as strange to them, as any unintelligible book.
Rabbinical and Kabbalistic expositors had so distorted the simple
biblical sense of the words, that everything was found in it except the
actual contents.
Polish school-masters--there were no others--with rod and angry
gestures, instructed Jewish boys in tender youth to discover the most
absurd perversities in the Holy Book, translating it into their hateful
jargon, and so confusing the text with their own translation, that it
seemed as if Moses had spoken in the barbarous dialect of Polish Jews.
The neglect of all secular knowledge, which increased with every
century, had reached such a pitch that every nonsensical oddity, even
blasphemy, was subtly read into the verses of Scripture. What had
been intended as a comfort to the soul was changed into a poison.
Mendelssohn acutely felt this ignorance and wresting of Bible words,
for he had arrived at the enlightened view that Holy Writ does not
contain "that which Jews and Christians believe they can find therein,"
and that a good, simple translation would be an important step towards
the promotion of culture among Jews. But in his modesty and diffidence
it did not occur to him to employ these means to educate his brethren.
He compiled a translation of the Pentateuch for his children, to give
them a thorough education and to introduce the word of God to them
in an undisfigured form, without troubling (as he observed) "whether
they would continue to be compelled, in Saxe-Gotha, on every journey,
to pay for their Jewish heads at a game of dice, or to tell the story
of the three rings to every petty ruler." It was only at the urgent
request of a man whose word carried weight with Mendelssohn, that he
decided to publish his translation of the Pentateuch into German (in
Jewish-German characters) for Jewish readers. It cost him an effort,
however, to attach his name to it.
He knew his Jewish public too well not to understand that the
translation, however excellently it might be done, would meet with
little approval, unless it were accompanied by a Hebrew exposition.
Of what value to the depraved taste of Jewish readers was a book
without a commentary? From time immemorial, since commentaries and
super-commentaries had come into existence, these had been much more
admired than the most beautiful text. Mendelssohn, therefore, obtained
the assistance of an educated Pole, named Solomon Dubno, who, a
praiseworthy exception to his countrymen, was thoroughly acquainted
with Hebrew grammar, to undertake the composition of a running
commentary. The work was begun by securing the necessary subscribers,
without whom no book could at that time be issued. It became apparent
that Mendelssohn had already many supporters and admirers among his
brethren, within and beyond Germany. His undertaking, which was to
remove from the Jews the reproach of ignorance of their own literature,
and of speaking a corrupt language, was hailed with joy. Most of the
subscribers came from Berlin and Mendelssohn's native town, Dessau,
which was indeed proud of him. From Poland also orders for the
Germanized "Torah" arrived, mostly from Wilna, where Elijah Wilna, to
a certain extent a liberal thinker, and the visionary perversities of
the New-Chassidim had drawn attention to the Holy Scriptures. As a sign
of the times, it may also be noticed that the translation was purchased
by Christians, professors, pastors, court preachers, consistorial
councilors, court councilors, and the nobility. Mendelssohn's Christian
friends were, indeed, extraordinarily active in promoting his work.
Eliza Reimarus, Lessing's noble friend, even collected subscriptions.
Glad as were Mendelssohn's admirers to receive the news of a Pentateuch
translation from his hand, so disturbed were the rigid adherents to
antiquity and obsolete habit. They felt vividly, without being able
to think it out clearly, that the old times, with their ingenuous
credulity--which regarded everything with unquestioned faith as an
emanation from a Divine source--would now sink into the grave.
No sooner was a specimen of the translation published, than the rabbis
of the old school were prejudiced against it, and planned how to keep
the enemy from the house of Jacob. To these opponents of Mendelssohn's
enterprise belonged men who brought honor upon Judaism, not alone by
their Rabbinical scholarship and keen intellects, but also by their
nobility of character. There were especially three men, Poles by birth,
who had as little appreciation of the innovations of the times as of
beauty of form and purity of speech. One of them, Ezekiel Landau (chief
rabbi of Prague, from the year 1752; died in 1793), enjoyed great
respect both within and outside his community. He was a clever man,
and learned in time to swim with the tide. The second, Raphael Cohen,
the grandfather of Riesser (born 1722, died 1803), who had emigrated
from Poland, and had been called from Posen to the rabbinate of the
three communities of Hamburg, Altona, and Wandsbeck, was a firm,
decided character, without guile or duplicity, who as judge meted out
justice without respect to persons, considering justice the support of
God's throne. The third and youngest was Hirsch Janow, a son-in-law of
Raphael Cohen, who, on account of his profound acumen in Talmudical
discussions, was called the "keen scholar" (born 1750, died 1785). His
acute mind was equally versed in the intricate problems of mathematics
as in those of the Talmud. He was thoroughly unselfish, the trifling
income that he received from the impoverished community of Posen he
gave away to the unfortunate; he distributed alms with open-handed
benevolence, and without asking questions whether the recipients were
orthodox or heretics, whilst he himself starved. He contracted debts
to save the needy from misery. Solomon Maimon, a deep thinker, who had
opportunities of knowing men from their worst side, called this rabbi
of Posen and Fürth "a godly man," an epithet not to be considered an
exaggeration from such lips. To these three rabbis a fourth kindred
spirit may be added, Phineas Levi Hurwitz (born 1740; died 1802), rabbi
of Frankfort-on-the-Main, also a Pole, educated in the Chassidean
school. These men, and others who thought like them, and who regarded
the perusal of a German book as a grievous sin, from their point of
view were right in opposing Mendelssohn's innovation. They perceived
that the Jewish youth would learn the German language from the
Mendelssohn translation more than an understanding of the "Torah"; that
the former would strongly tend to become the chief object of study; the
attention to Holy Writ would degenerate into an unimportant secondary
matter, whilst the study of the Talmud would be completely suppressed.
Though Mendelssohn himself enjoyed good repute from a religious point
of view, his adherents and supporters were not invariably free from
reproach. Unworthy men, who had broken with Judaism, and conceitedly
termed themselves Mendelssohnians, were energetic in advancing the sale
of the translation, and thus brought it into suspicion with the rigidly
orthodox party.