laid no yoke upon
belief, only on conduct? was no reason-confounding dogma? only a
revealed legislation? A Jew gave his life to the law and his heart to
Germany! Or France, or Holland, or the Brazils as the case might be?
Palestine must be forgotten. Well, it was all bold and clever enough,
but was it more than a half-way house to assimilation with the
peoples? At any rate here was a Polish brother's artillery to
meet--more deadly than that of Lavater, or the stupid Christians.

Again, but with acuter anxiety, he awaited Mendelssohn's reply.

It came--an invitation for next Saturday afternoon. Aha! The outworks
were stormed. The great man recognized in him a worthy foe, a brother
in soul. Gratitude and vanity made the visit a delightful
anticipation. What a wit-combat it would be! How he would marshal his
dialectic epigrams! If only Lapidoth could be there to hear!

As the servant threw open the door for him, revealing a suite of
beautiful rooms and a fine company of gentlefolks, men with powdered
wigs and ladies with elegant toilettes, Maimon started back with a
painful shock. An under-consciousness of mud-stained boots and a
clumsily cut overcoat, mixed itself painfully with this impression of
pretty, scented women, and the clatter of tongues and coffee-cups. He
stood rooted to the threshold in a sudden bitter realization that the
great world cared nothing about metaphysics. Ease, fine furniture, a
position in the world--these were the things that counted. Why had all
his genius brought him none of these things? Wifeless, childless,
moneyless, he stood, a solitary soul wrestling with problems. How had
Mendelssohn managed to obtain everything? Doubtless he had had a
better start, a rich father, a University training. His resentment
against the prosperous philosopher rekindled. He shrank back and
closed the door. But it was opened instantly again from within. A
little hunchback with shining eyes hurried towards him.

"Herr Maimon?" he said inquiringly, holding out his hand with a smile
of welcome.

Startled, Maimon laid his hand without speaking in that cordial palm.
So this was the man he had envied. No one had ever told him that
"Nathan der Weise" was thus afflicted. It was as soul that he had
appealed to the imagination of the world; even vulgar gossip had been
silent about his body. But how this deformity must embitter his
success.

Mendelssohn coaxed him within, complimenting him profusely on his
writings: