The Spinoza of Market Street - Isaac Bashevis Singer [42]
"You may have to eat your words, Dr. Margolis," Traybitcher said, interrupting him.
"Spengler was right. Europe is committing suicide."
"We survived Haman and we'll also survive Hitler."
"May it be so. Jews build everything on their faith in survival, but what is the basis of that faith? Oh, let's go ahead and publish the encyclopedia. It won't kill any children."
Of those present some spoke Yiddish, and others a kind of German. One man who had a short white beard and gold-rimmed glasses spoke in Hebrew with a Sephardic accent. There was also a refugee professor from Berlin who wore a monocle in his left eye and looked like a Junker. He bore himself more stiffly than any Prussian Dr. Margolis had ever met and alluded to the Ost-Juden. Dr. Margolis listened with only half an ear. Each of these calculating individuals had his ambitions and his idiosyncrasies. They were after the few zlotys and the tiny bit of prestige the encyclopedia offered. The philanthropist went as far as to suggest that the work be named after him: The Traybitcher Encyclopedia. Yet he had only contributed a negligible part of the expenses. Microbes, Dr. Margolis thought, nothing but microbes. A glob of matter, a breath of spirit. The whole business lasted but an instant, as the prayer book said. Ah, but the rent must be paid and when money was lacking, life could be very bitter. The forces that had created man hadn't stinted on suffering. ... It was getting late, and Morris Traybitcher began to yawn. As usual, the decision was to call another meeting. The guests took their leave, each kissing their hostess' heavy braceleted hands. The elevator was so crowded Dr. Margolis tried to pull in his stomach, and when they arrived at the courtyard, they found the gate locked. The janitor growled at them; a dog barked. Dr. Margolis looked about for a cab, but couldn't find one. The professor from Berlin was becoming impatient.
"Ach," he said, "Warsaw is nothing but an Asiatic town."
But finally a cab did stop for him and he drove away. Dr. Margolis waited so long that he gave up and went in search of a streetcar. He felt bloated, could hardly see in the badly lit street, and went tapping his cane before him like a blind man. At first it seemed that he was sliding downhill, and then he got the impression that it was the sidewalk that was slanting. He sought to find out from a passerby in which direction to go, but the man didn't answer.--I'm going to catch it from Mathilda, he thought. She never stopped preaching to him about the necessity of going to bed early. He began to meditate about her. In the old days she had never interfered in his affairs. She had had her home and her clothes and her spas where she went to drink mineral water. When he attempted to speak to her about philosophy, she had refused to listen; nor had she read the reviews of his work he had showed her. She had avoided everything intellectual. Now that he had lost his ambition, she had become ambitious for him. She read his early writings, and whenever they were invited out, she called him professor, praised him, even sought to explain his philosophy. She repeated his jokes, maligned his enemies, took over his mannerisms. He was shamed by her ignorance and her exaggerated loyalty. Yet none of this prevented her from scolding him at home in the coarsest language. As the Polish proverb says: Old age is no joy. No, old age was merely a parody of one's youth.
Finally, Dr. Margolis found the proper streetcar and rode home. He had to wait interminably for the janitor to open the gate. Panting heavily, he mounted the dark steps and then stopped to rest. His heart pounded, every now and again missed a beat. There was a tugging sensation at his knees as if he were climbing a mountain. He could hear his breath coming in snorts. He wiped the sweat from his brow, unlocked the door, and entered on tiptoes so as not to awake Mathilda. He took off his clothes in the living room leaving only his underpants on. The mirror