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Updated: June 28, 2025
Poor Maimon stole a glance at the buxom, blue-eyed matron doing the honors of her salon so gracefully, assisted by two dazzling young ladies in Parisian toilettes evidently her daughters and he groaned at the thought of his peasant-wife and his uncouth, superstition-swaddled children: decidedly he must give Sarah a divorce. "I can't delude myself with such day-dreams," he said hopelessly. "Wait!
Maimon thrilled at the quotation: the fine furniture and the fine company faded, and he saw only the soul of a fellow-idealist to which these things were but unregarded background. "Ah yes," went on Mendelssohn. "You are thinking I don't look like a person who once notched his loaf into sections so as not to eat too much a day.
"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 he trusts that our Lord will not forget the houses and the one in town is only a little one, or the payment of the indemnity to Maimon Botbol, yes, my Lord, or the discharging of the claims. God bless our Lord, and give him victory!
True, his epistles to Lavater were effective enough, there was courage in his public refusal of Christianity, nobility in his sentiment that he preferred to shame anti-Jewish prejudice by character rather than by controversy. He, Maimon, would prefer to shame it by both. But this Jerusalem of Mendelssohn's! Could its thesis really be sustained?
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.
Not that he ever saw her again: his wife and eldest son tracked him to Breslau, but only in quest of ducats and divorce: the latter of which Maimon conceded after a legal rigmarole. But he took no advantage of his freedom.
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 brilliant life of the culture-warrior was closing in gloom wife, child, health, money, almost reputation, gone: the nemesis of genius. At one point a lady strove to concentrate attention upon herself by accusing herself of faults of character. Even Maimon understood she was angling for compliments.
Oh yes, I think we met over a game of chess. Then we wrote an essay on Pope together. Dear Gotthold! What do I not owe him? My position in Berlin, my feeling for literature for we Jews have all stifled our love for the beautiful and grown dead to poetry." "Well, but what is a poet but a liar?" "Ah, my dear Herr Maimon, you will grow out of that. I must lend you Homer.
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