The Spinoza of Market Street - Isaac Bashevis Singer [32]
It suddenly struck Dr. Yaretzky that while he'd been philosophizing, someone had lowered the curtain--he'd undoubtedly been observed. He felt ashamed. It would be gossiped about among the Jews that he loitered at windows.
He began to stride away hastily, almost running. His thoughts ran with him. He remembered that when he'd first come to town, the rabbi's beard had been blond, not white, and the rabbi's wife?--she'd still had a houseful of youngsters to raise. Had so many years passed? Does one change this quickly from youth to old age? And how old was he, Yaretzky? Would he too soon grow gray? And how long does life last? If it were true what he'd recently read in a medical magazine, he had fourteen years of life left. But how long is fourteen years? The past fourteen years had flown by like a dream. He couldn't exactly say where.
Something within Dr. Yaretzky began to rebel. "Is this my fate? Is this my purpose? Fourteen more years to creep to patients, then fall dead like a dray horse? How can I resign myself to this? No, better a bullet in the temple! But, conceding that the world-will is not blind--this opens innumerable possibilities. An all-seeing Will--is God. The rabbi, this would mean, is no fanatic at all. He has his philosophy. he believes in a seeing universe, rather than a blind one. All the rest is tradition, folklore. Apparently the powers of creation try to achieve variety in the shapes of their creatures, as well as in their behavior.
"Assuming this to be true, what must I do? Return to the church? Become a Jew? Stop seducing my patients? Because if the cosmos sees all, it can also punish. . . . No, I must put all this nonsense out of my head. From here on, it's but one more step to religious positivism.--But why am I running like this? And where?" All at once Dr. Yaretzky saw that he was at the widow's estate. His feet seemed to have brought him here of their own volition. "What am I doing? What am I looking for? Someone will surely see me! Am I going out of my mind?" But even while cautioning himself, he walked up to the gate leading into the courtyard. There was no watchman about, and the gate was unlocked. Unhesitatingly, he pushed it open and walked inside. "Suppose the dogs attack me? They'll mistake me for a prowler." Incautious, abandoned, he was like a drunk to whom awareness of his condition does not bring sobriety. He walked stealthily, like a boy raiding an orchard. He was searching for something, he did not know what.
Why were the dogs so still? Were they sleeping? Everything had been left unattended . . . The house emerged, its windows black. "She isn't here!" something within him said. He followed the path which led to the back of the house, the garden and the fields. Dr. Yaretzky had once visited the estate to treat an ailing farm hand, a long time ago. Although the moon was still shining, there was a pre-dawn silence in the air. The frogs and crickets grew still. The trees seemed petrified. The world held its breath, awaiting daybreak. Dr. Yaretzky felt as if everything within him had also ceased to function. He moved like a phantom. He was awake, but dreaming. He walked past a barn, sheds, a stack of hay. Suddenly he heard a moan and at that instant a shallow pit materialized. He forgot