The Spinoza of Market Street - Isaac Bashevis Singer [41]
Dr. Margolis grinned.
"Our old age is already here. Do you think we'll live as long as Methuselah?"
"I don't expect to die just yet."
"All right, all right, close the door and leave me in peace. Just don't interfere in my affairs."
He heard the door slam, found his matches and lit a cigar. He inhaled the bitter smoke deeply and read three more sentences which he also disliked. The very last statement he couldn't even recognize as his. If it hadn't been in his handwriting, he would have assumed someone else had written it. It sounded trite. The syntax was faulty. The words had no relevance to what was under discussion. Dr. Margolis sat with his mouth open. Had it been a dybbuk who was responsible? He began to shake his head as though there was something supernatural involved. He recalled a sentence from Ecclesiastes: "And further, by these, my son, be admonished: of making books there is no end." Evidently even then there had been too much scribbling. He remembered the bottle of cognac in his bookcase.
"I think I'll have a sip. At this point it can't do me any harm."
Days passed and Dr. Margolis could not decide what to do. The more he worked on the manuscript, the more confused he became. It had some good ideas in it, but the structure was poor and there was a general limpness to the work. He tried cutting, but there was no cohesion to the paragraphs he kept. The book should be entirely rewritten, but he no longer had the required energy. Recently his hands had begun to tremble. His pen skipped and blotted; he omitted letters and words. He even found misspellings and apparently he had forgotten German. Occasionally he caught himself using Yiddish idioms. What was more, he had developed the habit of dozing off as soon as he sat down to work. At night he would lie awake for hours, his brain strangely alert. He would make imaginary speeches, think up strange puns, and argue with such celebrities as Wundt, Kuno Fischer and Professor Bauch. But during the day he tired quickly. His shoulders would sag and his head would nod. He would dream he was in Switzerland--penniless, hungry, homeless, about to be deported by the authorities. "Perhaps, Mathilda is right after all and I am getting senile," Dr. Margolis said to himself. "The brain is indeed a machine and it does wear out. Possibly the materialists are correct after all." The perverse thought crossed his mind. In a world where everything was topsy-turvy, Feuerbach might even be the Messiah.
That evening Dr. Margolis went to a meeting. It concerned a Hebrew encyclopedia which had been begun years before in Berlin. Now that Hitler had become Chancellor, the editorial board had moved to Warsaw. The truth was that the entire undertaking was absurd. Neither the funds nor the contributors were available. In addition, Hebrew still lacked the technical terminology for a modern encyclopedia. But the board would not give up the plan. They had found a rich patron willing to contribute money. And so a few refugees supported themselves through the enterprise. Well, it was all just a question of sponging, Dr. Margolis remarked to himself. . . . But, nevertheless, there could be no harm in spending a few hours in such a gathering. The meeting was to be held in the donor's house and Dr. Margolis traveled there by taxi. He rode upstairs in a paneled elevator, and once inside he found himself seated at the head of the table. The host, Morris Traybitcher, a small man with a bald head, pink cheeks, and a pointed belly, introduced him first to his giant of a wife and then to his daughters, bleached blondes in dresses with low necklines. Dr. Margolis conversed with the wife and daughters in broken Polish. Tea, jam, pastries, liqueurs were served and, though Dr. Margolis had already had his dinner, these delicacies stimulated his appetite. He smoked his wealthy host's Havana cigars, ate, drank, meanwhile trying to clarify the difficulties involved in publishing such an encyclopedia.
"Forgetting the other problems for a moment, there's Hitler himself who isn't