II

Maimon awoke the next morning with a clear and lively mind, and soon

understood that he was sick. "God be thanked," he thought joyfully,

"now I shall remain here some days, during which not only shall I eat

but I may hope to prevail upon some kindly visitor to protect me.

Perhaps if I can manage to send a message to Herr Mendelssohn, he will

intercede for me. For a scholar must always have bowels of compassion

for a scholar."

These roseate expectations were rudely dusked: the overseer felt

Maimon's pulse and his forehead, and handing him his commentary on the

_Guide of the Perplexed_, convoyed him politely without the gate.

Maimon made no word of protest, he was paralyzed.

"What now, O Guide of the Perplexed?" he cried, stonily surveying his

hapless manuscript. "O Moses, son of Maimon, thou by whom I have sworn

so oft, canst thou help me now? See, my pockets are as empty as the

heads of thy adversaries."

He turned out his pockets, and lo! several silver pieces fell out and

rolled merrily in the roadway. "A miracle!" he shouted. Then he

remembered that the elders had dismissed him with them, and that

overcome by his sentence he had put them mechanically away. Yes, he

had been treated as a mere beggar. A faint flush of shame tinged his

bristly cheek at the thought. True, he had partaken of the hospitality

of strangers, but that was the due meed of his position as Rabbi, as

the free passages to Königsberg and Stettin were tributes to his

learning. Never had he absolutely fallen to _schnorring_ (begging). He

shook his fist at the city. He would fling their money in their

faces--some day. Thus swearing, he repocketed the coins, took the

first turning that he met, and abandoned himself to chance. In the

mean inn in which he halted for refreshment he was glad to encounter a

fellow-Jew and one in companionable rags.

Maimon made inquiries from him about the roads and whither they led,

and gathered with some surprise that his companion was a professional

_Schnorrer_.

"Are not you?" asked the beggar, equally surprised.

"Certainly not!" cried Maimon angrily.

"What a waste of good rags!" said the _Schnorrer_.

"What a waste of good muscle!" retorted Maimon; for the beggar was a

strapping fellow in rude health. "If I had your shoulders I should

hold my head higher on them."

The _Schnorrer_ shrugged them. "Only fools work. What has work brought

you? Rags. You begin with work and end with rags. I begin with rags

and end with meals."

"But have you no self-respect?" cried Maimon, in amaze. "No morality?

No religion?"

"I have as much religion as any _Schnorrer_ on the road," replied the

beggar, bridling up. "I keep my Sabbath."

"Yes, indeed," said Maimon, smiling, "our sages say, Rather keep thy

Sabbath as a week-day than beg; you say, Rather keep thy week-day as a

Sabbath than be dependent on thyself." To himself he thought, "That is

very witty: I must remember to tell Lapidoth that." And he called for

another glass of whisky.

"Yes; but many of our sages, meseems, are dependent on their

womankind. I have dispensed with woman; must I therefore dispense with

support likewise?"

Maimon was amused and shocked in one. He set down his whisky,

unsipped. "But he who dispenses with woman lives in sin. It is the

duty of man to beget posterity, to found a home; for what is

civilization but home, and what is home but religion?" The wanderer's

tones were earnest; he forgot his own sins of omission in the lucidity

with which his intellect saw the right thing.

"Ah, you are one of the canting ones," said the _Schnorrer_. "It

strikes me you and I could do something better together than quarrel.

What say you to a partnership?"

"In begging?"

"What else have I to offer? You are new to the country--you don't know

the roads--you haven't got any money."

"Pardon me! I have a thaler left."

"No, you haven't--you pay that to me for the partnership."

The metaphysical Maimon was tickled. "But what do I gain for my

thaler?"

"My experience."

"But if so, you gain nothing from _my_ partnership."

"A thaler to begin with. Then, you see, your learning and morality

will draw when I am at a loss for quotations. In small villages we go

together and produce an impression of widespread misery: we speak of

the destruction of our town by fire, of persecution, what you will.

One beggar might be a liar: two together are martyrs."

"Then you beg only in villages?"

"Oh no. But in towns we divide. You do one half, I do another. Then we

exchange halves, armed with the knowledge of who are the beneficent in

either half. It is less fatiguing."

"Then the beneficent have to give twice over."

"They have double merit. Charity breeds charity."

"This is a rare fellow," thought Maimon. "How Lapidoth would delight

in him! And he speaks truth. I know nothing of the country. If I

travel a little with him I may learn much. And he, too, may learn from

me. He has a good headpiece, and I may be able to instil into him more

seemly notions of duty and virtue. Besides, what else can I do?" So,

spinning his thaler in air, "Done!" he cried.

The beggar caught it neatly. "Herr Landlord," said he, "another glass

of your excellent whisky!" And, raising it to his lips when it came,

"Brother, here's to our partnership."

"What, none for me?" cried Maimon, crestfallen.

"Not till you had begged for it," chuckled the _Schnorrer_. "You have

had your first lesson. Herr Landlord, yet another glass of your

excellent whisky!"

And so the philosopher, whose brain was always twisting and turning

the universe and taking it to pieces, started wandering about Germany

with the beggar whose thoughts were bounded by his paunch. They

exploited but a small area, and with smaller success than either had

anticipated. Though now and then they were flush, there was never a

regular meal; and too often they had to make shift with mouldly bread

and water, and to lie on stale straw, and even on the bare earth.

"You don't curse enough," the beggar often protested.

"But why should one curse a man who refuses one's request?" the

philosopher would persist. "Besides, he is embittered thereby, and

only the more likely to refuse."

"Cork your philosophy, curse you!" the beggar would cry. "How often am

I to explain to you that cursing terrifies people."

"Not at all," Maimon would mutter, terrified.

"No? What is Religion, but Fear?"

"False religion, if you will. But true religion, as Maimonides says,

is the attainment of perfection through the knowledge of God and the

imitation of His actions."

Nevertheless, when they begged together, Maimon produced an

inarticulate whine that would do either for a plea or a curse. When he

begged alone, all the glib formulæ he had learnt from the _Schnorrer_

dried up on his tongue. But his silence pleaded more pitifully than

his speech. For he was barefooted and almost naked. Yet amid all these

untoward conditions his mind kept up its interminable twisting and

turning of the universe; that acute analysis for which centuries of

over-subtlety had prepared the Polish Jew's brain, and which was now

for the first time applied scientifically to the actual world instead

of fantastically to the Bible. And it was perhaps when he was lying on

the bare earth that the riddle of existence--twinkling so defiantly in

the stars--tortured him most keenly.

Thus passed half a year. Maimon had not learnt to beg, nor had the

beggar acquired the rudiments of morality. How often the philosopher

longed for his old friend Lapidoth--the grave-digger's son-in-law--to

talk things over with, instead of this carnal vagabond. They had been

poverty-stricken enough, those two, but oh! how differently they had

taken the position. He remembered how merrily Lapidoth had pinned his

dropped-off sleeve to the back of his coat, crying, "Don't I look like

a _Schlachziz_ (nobleman)?" and how he in return had vaunted the

superiority of his gaping shoes: "They don't squeeze at the toes." How

they had played the cynic, he and the grave-digger's son-in-law,

turning up with remorseless spade the hollow bones of human virtue! As

convincedly as synagogue-elders sought during fatal epidemics for the

secret sins of the congregation, so had they two striven to uncover

the secret sinfulness of self-deceived righteousness.

"Bad self-analysis is the foundation of contentment," Lapidoth had

summed it up one day, as they lounged on the town-wall.

To which Maimon: "Then, friend, why are we so content to censure

others? Let us be fair and pass judgment on ourselves. But the

contemplative life we lead is merely the result of indolence, which we

gloss over by reflections on the vanity of all things. We are content

with our rags. Why? Because we are too lazy to earn better. We

reproach the unscholarly as futile people addicted to the pleasures of

sense. Why? Because, not being constituted like you and me, they live

differently. Where is our superiority, when we merely follow our

inclination as they follow theirs? Only in the fact that we confess

this truth to ourselves, while they profess to act, not to satisfy

their particular desires, but for the general utility."

"Friend," Lapidoth had replied, deeply moved, "you are perfectly

right. If we cannot now mend our faults, we will not deceive ourselves

about them, but at least keep the way open for amendment."

So they had encouraged each other to clearer vision and nobler living.

And from such companionship to have fallen to a _Schnorrer's_! Oh, it

was unendurable.

But he endured it till harvest-time came round, bringing with it the

sacred season of New Year and Atonement, and the long chilly nights.

And then he began to feel tremors of religion and cold.

As they crouched together in outhouses, the beggar snoozing placidly

in a stout blouse, the philosopher shivering in tatters, Maimon saw

his degradation more lucidly than ever. They had now turned their

steps towards Poland, every day bringing Maimon nearer to the

redeeming influence of early memories, and it was when sleeping in the

Jewish poorhouse at Posen--the master of which eked out his

livelihood honorably as a jobbing tailor--that Maimon at length found

strength to resolve on a breach. He would throw himself before the

synagogue door, and either die there or be relieved. When his

companion awoke and began to plan out the day's campaign, "No, I

dissolve the partnership," said he firmly.

"But how are you going to live, you good-for-nothing?" asked his

astonished comrade, "you who cannot even beg."

"God will help," Maimon said stolidly.

"God help you!" said the beggar.

Maimon went off to the school-room. The master was away, and a noisy

rabble of boys ceased their games or their studies to question the

tatterdemalion, and to make fun of his Lithuanian accent--his _s_'s

for _sh_'s. Nothing abashed, the philosopher made inquiries after an

old friend of his who, he fortunately recollected, had gone to Posen

as the Chief Rabbi's secretary. The news that the Chief Rabbi had

proceeded to another appointment, taking with him his secretary,

reduced him to despair. A gleam of hope broke when he learnt that the

secretary's boy had been left behind in Posen with Dr. Hirsch Janow,

the new Chief Rabbi.

And in the event this boy brought salvation. He informed Dr. Hirsch

Janow that a great scholar and a pious man was accidentally fallen

into miserable straits; and lo! in a trice the good-hearted man had

sent for Maimon, sounded his scholarship and found it plumbless,

approved of his desire to celebrate the sacred festivals in Posen,

given him all the money in his pockets--the indurated beggar accepted

it without a blush--invited him to dine with him every Sabbath, and

sent the boy with him to procure him "a respectable lodging."

As he left the house that afternoon, Maimon could not help overhearing

the high-pitched reproaches of the Rabbitzin (Rabbi's wife).

"There! You've again wasted my housekeeping money on scum and

riff-raff. We shall never get clear of debt."

"Hush! hush!" said the Rabbi gently. "If he hears you, you will wound

the feelings of a great scholar. The money was given to me to

distribute."

"That story has a beard," snapped the Rabbitzin.

"He is a great saint," the boy told Maimon on the way. "He fasts every

day of the week till nightfall, and eats no meat save on Sabbath. His

salary is small, but everybody loves him far and wide; he is named

'the keen scholar.'" Maimon agreed with the general verdict. The

gentle emaciated saint had touched old springs of religious feeling,

and brought tears of more than gratitude to his eyes.

His soul for a moment felt the appeal of that inner world created by

Israel's heart, that beautiful world of tenderest love and sternest

law, wherein The-Holy-One-Blessed-Be-He (who has chosen Israel to

preach holiness among the peoples), mystically enswathed with

praying-shawl and phylacteries, prays to Himself, "May it be My will

that My pity overcome My wrath."

And what was his surprise at finding himself installed, not in some

mean garret, but in the study of one of the leading Jews of the town.

The climax was reached when he handed some coppers to the housewife,

and asked her to get him some gruel for supper.

"Nay, nay," said the housewife, smiling. "The Chief Rabbi has not

recommended us to sell you gruel. My husband and my son are both

scholars, and so long as you choose to tarry at Posen they will be

delighted if you will honor our table."

Maimon could scarcely believe his ears; but the evidence of a

sumptuous supper was irrefusable. And after that he was conducted to a

clean bed! O the luxurious ache of stretching one's broken limbs on

melting feathers! the nestling ecstasy of dainty-smelling sheets

after half a year of outhouses!

It was the supreme felicity of his life. To wallow in such a wave of

happiness had never been his before, was never to be his again.

Shallow pates might prate, he told himself, but what pleasure of the

intellect could ever equal that of the senses? Could it possibly

pleasure him as much even to fulfil his early Maimonidean ideal--the

attainment of Perfection? Perpending which problem, the philosopher

fell deliciously asleep.

Late, very late, the next morning he dragged himself from his snug

cocoon, and called, in response to a summons, upon his benefactor.

"Well, and how do you like your lodging?" said the gentle Rabbi.

Maimon burst into tears. "I have slept in a bed!" he sobbed, "I have

slept in a bed!"

Two days later, clad--out of the Rabbitzin's housekeeping money--in

full rabbinical vestments, with clean linen beneath, the metamorphosed

Maimon, cheerful of countenance, and godly of mien, presented himself

at the poorhouse, where the tailor and his wife, as well as his whilom

mate--all of them acquainted with his good fortune--expected him with

impatience. The sight of him transported them. The poor mother took

her babe in her arms, and with tears in her eyes begged the Rabbi's

blessings; the beggar besought his forgiveness for his rough

treatment, and asked for an alms.

Maimon gave the little one his blessing, and the _Schnorrer_ all he

had in his pocket, and went back deeply affected.

Meantime his fame had spread: all the scholars of the town came to see

and chop theology with this illustrious travelling Rabbi. He became a

tutor in a wealthy family: his learning was accounted superhuman, and

he himself almost divine. A doubt he expressed as to the healthiness

of a consumptive-looking child brought him at her death the honors of

a prophet. Disavowal was useless: a new prophet had arisen in Israel.

And so two happy years passed--honorably enough, unless the

philosopher's forgetfulness of his family be counted against him. But

little by little his restless brain and body began to weary of these

superstitious surroundings.

It began to leak out that he was a heretic: his rare appearances in

the synagogue were noted; daring sayings of his were darkly whispered;

Persecution looked to its weapons.

Maimon's recklessness was whetted in its turn. At the entrance to the

Common Hall in Posen there had been, from time immemorial, a stag-horn

fixed into the wall, and an equally immemorial belief among the Jews

that whoso touched it died on the spot. A score of stories in proof

were hurled at the scoffing Maimon. And so, passing the stag-horn one

day, he cried to his companions: "You Posen fools, do you think that

any one who touches this horn dies on the spot? See, I dare to touch

it."

Their eyes, dilating with horror, followed his sacrilegious hand. They

awaited the thud of his body. Maimon walked on, smiling.

What had he proved to them? Only that he was a hateful heretic, a

profaner of sanctuaries.

The wounded fanaticism that now shadowed him with its hatred provoked

him to answering excesses. The remnant of religion that clung, despite

himself, to his soul, irritated him. Would not further culture rid him

of the incubus? His dream of Berlin revived. True, bigotry barked

there too, but culture went on its serene course. The fame and

influence of Mendelssohn had grown steadily, and it was now at its

apogee, for Lessing had written _Nathan Der Weise_, and in the

tempest that followed its production, and despite the ban placed on

the play and its author in both Catholic and Protestant countries, the

most fanatical Christian foes of the bold freelance could not cry that

the character was impossible.

For there--in the very metropolis--lived the Sage himself, the David

to the dramatist's Jonathan, the member of the Coffee-House of the

Learned, the friend of Prince Lippe-Schaumberg, the King's own

Protected Jew, in every line of whose countenance Lavater kept

insisting the unprejudiced phrenologist might read the soul of

Socrates.

And he, Maimon, no less blessed with genius, what had he been doing,

to slumber so long on these soft beds of superstition and barbarism,

deaf to that early call of Truth, that youthful dream of Knowledge?

Yes, he would go back to Berlin, he would shake off the clinging mists

of the Ghetto, he would be the pioneer of his people's emancipation.

His employers had remained throughout staunch admirers of his

intellect. But despite every protest he bade them farewell, and

purchasing a seat on the Frankfort post with his scanty savings set

out for Berlin. No mendicity committees lay in wait for the prosperous

passenger, and as the coach passed through the Rosenthaler gate, the

brave sound of the horn seemed to Maimon at once a flourish of triumph

over Berlin and of defiance to superstition and ignorance.