The closing words of the Autobiography themselves awaken the desire to know the sequel of the author's life, and it seems therefore appropriate to finish the narrative by the sketch of a few facts derived mainly from the little volume of Maimoniana, to which reference has been made in the preface.

It is perhaps scarcely necessary to state that Maimon's life to the very end continued to retain the stamp it bore throughout the whole period described in the preceding chapters. That stamp had apparently been impressed on it even before he left Poland; and the Western influences, under which he came in Germany, never altered essentially the character he brought with him from home.

Even in its external features his life enjoyed no permanent improvement. Fate had indeed been somewhat hard upon a man of so much genuine culture and sensibility. Still the chronic poverty, which filled the largest cup of suffering in his life, was due not wholly to circumstances: it was partly his own nature or habits that kept him a pauper. This is all the more remarkable, that there is perhaps no work of moral or religious instruction which attaches more importance than the Talmud to industrial pursuits.[67] Saturated as his mind was with Talmudic lore, and disciplined as his early years had been by Talmudic training, Maimon could not be ignorant of the advantage which the spiritual life derives from financial independence on others; and it might therefore have been expected of him that, like many of the great rabbis, and Spinoza and Mendelssohn too, he would have devoted himself to some remunerative occupation, however humble. This would not have been impossible even in Poland, where the Jews were subject to no disability excluding them from the common industries of the country; and from the Autobiography it appears that, even at an early period of his life, he was more than half aware that his poverty was due, not wholly to the imperious demands of a higher culture, but to a somewhat selfish indolence.[68] In Germany, with its more advanced civilisation, it would have been much less difficult for him to make a tolerable living at some employment. The Autobiography shows that he was very generously received by a large circle of influential friends, who took a great deal of pains to secure for him a position of independence, and that they abandoned their effort only when they found it in vain. From the Maimoniana also it appears that some of the most eminent men of his time continued to tender their friendly services. Among others, Plattner, Schultze (Aenesidemus), and even Goethe, made advances towards Maimon in a way that was not only very flattering, but might have been very helpful, if he had so chosen.[69] But he never got rid of the habit, which he had acquired in Poland, of depending on others; and the low standard of comfort, to which he had accustomed himself, left him without sufficient stimulus to seek an escape from his pauperised condition.

His condition, therefore, never improved. He continued during his later years to work at various literary employments; but the remuneration he obtained for these was never sufficient for his subsistence. His works appealed to a very limited public. He had consequently often to go a-begging for a publisher, and to content himself with what slight honorarium the reluctant publishers chose to give.[70] The literary hack-work, of which he was obliged to do a good deal, brought him no better return. That sort of labour was probably as poorly paid in Berlin at the time as in the Grub Street of last century. He was therefore at times reduced to utter beggary. Many of his earlier friends, as appears from the Autobiography, had lost patience with him; and some, who had helped him before, when he was forced by sheer starvation to apply to them afterwards, treated him as a common beggar, dismissing him with a copper in charity (Zehrpfennig), and at times with unnecessarily cold, even insulting language.[71] If we add to this the fact, that his irregular habits often made him the victim of unscrupulous men,[72] it will not seem surprising that he sometimes fell into a bitter tone and harsh judgments about his friends,[73] or that he was apt occasionally to burst out into pretty strong language of general misanthropy.[74]

Perhaps Maimon might have risen out of the chronic destitution, to which he seemed doomed, if he had cultivated in any degree the virtue of thrift. But thriftlessness, as the Autobiography shows, had been an hereditary vice in his family, at least for two generations before him; and though he gives vivid pictures of its pitiable results in the households of his grandfather and father, he never made any effort to rise above it himself. Whenever he obtained any remuneration for his work, instead of husbanding it economically till he obtained more, he usually squandered it at once in extravagancies, often of a useless, sometimes of a reprehensible kind.[75] He points out in his first chapter, that his grandfather might have been a rich man if he had kept accounts of income and expenditure. But his friend Wolff, has to confess that, good mathematician as Maimon was, he never seemed to think of the difference between plus and minus in money-matters.[76] With such a character one of Maimon's friends was not far from the truth, when on a fresh application for assistance, he dismissed him, too harshly perhaps, with the blunt remark, "People like you there is no use in trying to help."[77] Certainly help was not to be found in Maimon himself, and it is difficult to see how he could have avoided the chance of a miserable death by actual starvation, had it not been that a generous home was at last opened to him, where he closed his days in comfort and peace.

A character like that of Maimon implied a general irregularity of life,—an absence of that regulation by fixed rules of conduct, which is essential to wellbeing. He was not indeed unaware of the importance of such regularity. "I require of every man of sound mind," he said one day, "that he should lay out for himself a plan of action." No wonder that this requirement leads his friend to remark, that it seemed to him as if Maimon's only plan of life had been to live without any plan at all.[78]

The irregularity of his habits is strikingly seen in his want of method even at his literary work. Notwithstanding the technical culture he gave himself in early life in drawing, he seems never to have reached any degree of muscular expertness. Wolff remarked his awkwardness in handling his pen, and his inability to fold a letter with tolerable neatness.[79] In other respects also he was careless about those mechanical conveniences by which mental work is usually facilitated. He was commonly to be seen working at a very unsteady desk, one leg of which was supported by a folio volume.[80] He did not even confine himself to any particular place for work. Apparently he spent more of his day in public taverns than in his private lodging, and he might often be seen amid the distraction of such surroundings writing or revising proofs, while, as a consequence, his papers sometimes were mislaid and lost, and his work had all to be done over again. It was said of the Autobiography itself that it had been written on an alehouse bench.[81] He could never understand how any man could do intellectual work by rule; and therefore, though he had to make his living as best he could by literature, he never formed the habit of reserving one part of the day for work. He commonly worked in the morning, at least in his morning, and that, his friend acknowledges, was not very early;[82] but this itself was evidently no fixed rule. Probably for the same reason he never adopted the plan, which authors find so serviceable, of first sketching an outline of a work before it is written out in detail. "I have," he said one day, "given up, with good result, the habit of making a draught beforehand. You are not, by a long way, so careful about your work when you know that you are going to write it over again; you neglect many a thought, do not write it down, because you believe that it will occur to you again in copying out, which frequently does not happen."[83] It is clear, however, that, his opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, his writings suffered from his unmethodical habits. "The fact," says the most competent of judges on this subject, "that Maimon is far from having attained the recognition which his importance deserves, may be accounted for by the defective condition of his writings. His extraordinary acuteness was designed, but was not sufficiently cultivated, to give to his investigations the light and the force of methodical exposition. He wrote with most pleasure in his Talmudic fashion, commenting and disputing, without proper sifting and arrangement of his materials. To these defects must be added the faults of his style. It is surprising that he learned to write German as he did. In his writings there are passages in which the thought bursts out with really resplendent power, and actually forces the language, even plays with it, in turns of expression that take you by surprise. But a German author he never became; and as a philosophical author he wanted a certain sense of order that is indispensable for exposition. He can sometimes formulate very well, but cannot systematise, and hence his most important opinions, in which the whole meaning of his position rests, are often in the course of his writings found in passages the least lucid and the least prominent."[84]

It is perhaps only saying the same thing of Maimon in another form, that he had no mechanical memory, that consequently he was apt to forget the names of persons and of places, sometimes could not remember the name of the street where he lived, or the day or even the month; and it is not therefore surprising that he often injured himself by neglecting all sort of engagements.[85] It may be readily inferred that he was particularly negligent about all engagements and regulations bearing upon the mere externals of life. That a man of his condition and character must have been unusually careless about his personal appearance, follows as a matter of course, and therefore we may pass over the references of Wolff to peculiarities of Maimon's dress. He was usually to be seen out of doors clad in an overcoat which had evidently not been made for himself, and which, we may suspect, was intended as a convenient covering for the defects of under-garments, his boots bearing the weather-stains of many days, and his beard often showing that for a good while he had forgotten his engagement with his barber. In the latter years of his life he abandoned the use of a wig, as well as of powder in his hair, at a time when these changes must have been regarded as rather daring innovations on prevalent fashion. But in all his surroundings he showed what, for a man of his intellectual attainments, seems a most astonishing disregard of sanitary cleanliness and the comfortable decencies of life. The state of his lodging must have raised a shudder in any one sensitive to disorder or uncleanliness. He acknowledged that he was constantly at war with the housemaid on this subject, as he could never bear to have his room swept and dusted, and he complained of the perpetual annoyance to which he was exposed in Amsterdam from the excessive scruples of the people in regard to tidiness.[86] It may fairly be suspected that the annoyance was considerably greater, as it was more justifiable, on the other side. His habits in this respect clung to him to the last, and it was evidently difficult to keep his surroundings tolerable even in the comparatively sumptuous home in which he closed his days.

The frank confessions of the Autobiography reveal the fact, that the irregularity, which characterised the life of Maimon, sometimes led to a breach of the weightier matters of the law. The habit, which he began in Poland, of seeking relief from external discomfort and internal wretchedness in alcoholic stimulation, grew upon him afterwards; and as his health began to fail, he used to treat his various complaints by a liberal allowance of various wines and beers which he supposed adapted to their cure.[87] The liberal allowance was very apt, especially in the evenings, to exceed all reasonable moderation; and the sleepy inhabitants of Berlin were not infrequently disturbed by the half-tipsy philosopher, as he wended his way unsteadily homewards at unseasonable hours, discoursing on all sorts of speculative themes in disagreeably loud tones that were occasionally interrupted by the expostulations of a night-watchman.[88]

The peculiarly undisciplined manners of Maimon were occasionally shown in violent outbursts of various feelings. Too frequently it was an irritable temper that gave way. The slightest provocation, even the loss of a game at chess,[89] was apt to cause a painful explosion; and then his language was certainly far from being restrained by those usages which are found essential to the pleasantness of social intercourse.[90] The uncontrollable violence of these outbursts was amusingly exhibited in the fact, that sometimes he could not command the intellectual calm requisite for thinking and expressing himself in his acquired German, and, even though it might be a Gentile with whom he quarrelled, he fell back on his JudÆo-Polish mother tongue, which came to him as if by natural instinct.[91] It is but fair, however, to add that these outbursts were often merely the unusually forcible, but not altogether unjustifiable, utterances of an honest indignation at wrong.[92]

For this strangely educated man, who in his outward manners seemed to remain a somewhat rude child of nature, was after all ready to yield, not only to an unkindly irritability, but also to the more genial emotions. It is pleasing, for example, to know that he had a particular fondness for animals; and his pets were allowed in his lodging liberties which, however objectionable to a tidy housemaid, showed at least the essential gentleness of his heart. Tutored as he was himself in the severest school of poverty, it is also pleasing to know that he cherished a kindly sympathy for the poor, and was ever ready to help them as he could, sometimes at the cost of no small sacrifice to himself.[93] The finer sensibilities of his nature were also easily touched by music. Though he had no musical culture, and used to regret that he had had none, an old Hebrew melody, long after he had broken off all connection with the Jews, could move him so deeply that he was obliged, even in company, to seek relief in tears.[94] For in the uncontrolled simplicity of his nature he allowed his feelings to find their natural vent without much restraint from circumstances; and therefore he was seen at times in the theatre excited to loud sobbing by a tragedy, or to boisterous laughter over a comedy.[95]

Nor is it to be regarded as an unpleasant feature of his character, but rather as an indication of a wholesome check on the general irregularity of his life, that, even after he had thrown off all the peculiar restraints of his national religion, he clung with evident fondness to many of those rabbinical habits which he had cultivated in his earlier years. From Fischer's account of the style of Maimon's works we have seen how his intellectual work was affected by his Talmudic studies. The criticism is evidently just. Maimon himself had met with it, and acknowledged its justice. He protested indeed that it did not affect the truth of his speculations, though he evidently felt its disadvantages, and laboured at times to acquire a more methodical style.[96]

The rabbinical habits of Maimon, however, were most quaintly seen in peculiarities of outward manner. Gesticulations customary in the study of the Talmud he was seen to adopt not infrequently when he forgot himself in the earnestness of conversation, or when in a company he fell into a brown study, or even in the studies of his retirement. Thus in reading Euler's mathematical works or any other book which required great attention, he would fall into the Talmudic singsong and rhythmical swing of the body.[97]

It is noteworthy also, that, with all the unrestrained rudeness which often characterised his manners, Maimon was not without a certain dignified courtesy; and when the occasion demanded it, he could turn a polite phrase as prettily as the most accomplished gentleman.[98] There was, moreover, in Maimon an intrinsic shyness which must have gone a long way to soften the less amiable side of his social character.[99] Then it is evident that his conversation, in his better moods at least, had a charm which made him a welcome guest in any company. Thus, amid all that may have been repulsive at times, there must have been in Maimon's character a good deal to attract the friendly companionship of others. The Autobiography itself, as well as Wolff's little book, shows that Maimon enjoyed as much as he desired of the cultured society of his time. Being naturally shy, indeed, he rather shrank from company in which intercourse is regulated by a somewhat rigid social code; and the desire of freedom from such restriction often drove him into company of a much more objectionable kind. He also seems to have entertained a strong dislike to any excessively demonstrative affection. He himself was rather curt in his expressions of courtesy or friendliness towards others, contenting himself generally, on meeting them, with a familiar nod. The lifting of the hat appeared to him meaningless, and a deliberate embrace "in cold blood" was intolerable.[100] Yet in many instances the attachment of his friends was marked with an unusual degree of warmth, and brought many an hour of sunshine to a life which otherwise would have been shadowed with insufferable gloom.

Among all Maimon's friends, the most conspicuous place must be given to the man by whose generous hospitality he was able to close his chequered life amid the comforts of a luxurious home. While he was living in a miserable lodging in one of the suburbs of Berlin, he learned from one of his friends that a Silesian nobleman, Graf Kalkreuth, who had formed a high opinion of his writings, was anxious to make his personal acquaintance. After a good deal of delay, Maimon was at last induced to call upon the Graf at his residence in Berlin. Fortunately he was very favourably impressed with the character of his noble friend; and the friendship thus begun led before long to his taking up his abode permanently with the Graf.[101] The generous consideration which the host displayed for all the eccentricities of his guest, made this arrangement one of the happiest for the poor philosopher, who since his childhood had seldom enjoyed the comforts of a home.

But it is evident that the hardships of his life had at an early period begun to tell upon his constitution, and that this was further shattered by irregular habits in his later years. Symptoms of serious trouble in the lungs excited his alarm in the winter of 1795, and he was induced to seek medical advice. Partly from an unwise scepticism in regard to medicine, partly from his usual failure to adhere to any fixed rule in his conduct, the services of his physicians commonly ended with the consultation; he seldom or never acted on their advice.[102] He lived in indifferent health for five or six years more. When his last illness overtook him, he was living in the house of Graf Kalkreuth at Siegersdorf near Freistadt, in Lower Silesia. The only account of him at this crisis was written by the pastor of Freistadt, for a monthly periodical of the time, entitled Kronos. It forms the close of Wolff's little book; and as it is the only account, it may be of some interest here. The pastor, Herr Tscheggey, had made the acquaintance of Maimon about the year 1795; but their intercourse had become much closer about six weeks before Maimon's death, when he used to visit the pastor two or three times a week. On hearing that Maimon had been confined for some days, the good pastor at once went to see him. He found him in a state of great weakness, unable to leave his room, and besought him earnestly, but in vain, to take medical advice. A few days afterwards he called again, and saw that evidently the end was drawing nigh. Curious to know whether Maimon in this situation would remain true to his principles, he gave the following turn to the conversation, which he professes to report word for word.

"I am sorry to find you so ill to-day, dear Maimon," said the pastor.

"There will perhaps be some improvement yet," replied Maimon.

"You look so ill," his friend proceeded, "that I am doubtful about your recovery."

"What matters it after all?" said Maimon. "When I am dead, I am gone."

"Can you say that, dear friend," rejoined the clergyman, with deep emotion. "How? Your mind, which amid the most unfavourable circumstances ever soared to higher attainments, which bore such fair flowers and fruits—shall it be trodden in the dust along with the poor covering in which it has been clothed? Do you not feel at this moment that there is something in you which is not body, not matter, not subject to the conditions of space and time?"

"Ah!" replied Maimon, "these are beautiful dreams and hopes"——

"Which will surely be fulfilled," his friend broke in; and then, after a short pause, added, "You maintained not long ago that here we cannot reach further than to mere legality. Let this be admitted; and now perhaps you are about to pass over soon into a condition, in which you will rise to the stage of morality, since you and all of us have a natural capacity for it. Why? Should you not wish now to come into the society of one whom you honoured so much as Mendelssohn?"

The zealous pastor says he gave the conversation this turn on purpose, in order to touch this side of the philosopher's heart. After a while the dying man exclaimed, "Ay me! I have been a foolish man, the most foolish among the most foolish—and how earnestly I wished it otherwise!"

"This utterance," observed the pastor, "is also a proof that you are not yet in complete accord with your unbelief. No," he added, taking Maimon by the hand, "you will not all die; your spirit will surely live on."

"So far as mere faith and hope are concerned, I can go a good way; but what does that help us?" was Maimon's reply.

"It helps us at least to peace," urged the pastor.

"I am at peace (Ich bin ruhig)," said the dying man, completely exhausted.

Here Tscheggey broke off the conversation, as the sufferer was evidently unable to continue it. When he rose to leave, Maimon begged him to stay, or at least to come back again soon. He came back the following morning, but found the patient unconscious. At ten o'clock on the same evening—it was the 22nd of November, 1800—this strangely tossed life had reached its haven.

"He died at peace," says the kindly clergyman, "though I do not venture to say from what source the peace was derived. When a few days afterwards I passed the castle of his noble friend, I looked up with sadness to the window of his former room, and blessed his ashes." It is to be regretted that the generous piety of the friendly minister was not universal, and that the ashes of the unfortunate doubter were only with a grudge allowed to find a decent resting-place.