Ah, see, poor Fromet is
signalling to me. She is tired of being left to battle single-handed.
Would you not like to know M. de Mirabeau? Or let me introduce you to
Wessely--he will talk to you in Hebrew. It is Wessely who does all the
work for which I am praised--it is he who is elevating our Jewish
brethren, with whom I have not the heart nor the courage to strive. Or
there is Nicolai, the founder of 'The Library of the Fine Arts,' to
which," he added with a sly smile, "I hope yet to see you
contributing. Perhaps Fraeulein Reimarus will convert you--that
charming young lady there talking with her brother-in-law, who is a
Danish state-councillor. She is the great friend of Lessing--as I
live, there comes Lessing himself. I am sure he would like the
pleasure of your acquaintance."

"Because he likes outcasts? No, no, not yet," and Maimon, whose mood
had been growing dark again, shrank back, appalled by these great
names. Yes, he was a dreamer and a fool, and Mendelssohn was a sage,
indeed. In his bitterness he distrusted even his own Dissertation, his
uncompromising logic, destructive of all theology. Perhaps Mendelssohn
was right: perhaps he had really solved the Jewish problem. To be a
Jew among Germans, and a German among Jews: to reconcile the old creed
with Culture: to hold up one's head, and assert oneself as an
honorable element in the nation--was not this catholic gathering a
proof of the feasibility of such an ideal? Good sense! What true
self-estimate as well as wit in the sage's famous retort to the
swaggering German officer who asked him what commodity he dealt in.
"In that which you appear to need--good sense." Maimon roused himself
to listen to the conversation. It changed to German under the impulse
of the host, who from his umpire's chair controlled it with play of
eye, head, or hand; and when appealed to, would usually show that both
parties were fighting about words, not things. Maimon noted from his
semi-obscure retreat that the talk grew more serious and connected,
touched problems. He saw that for Mendelssohn as for himself nothing
really existed but the great questions. Flippant interruptions the
sage seemed to disregard, and if the topic dribbled out into
irrelevancies he fell silent. Maimon studied the noble curve of his
forehead, the decided nose, the prominent lips, in the light of Herr
Lavater's theories. Lessing said little: he had the air of a broken
man. The brilliant life of the culture-w