Baruch's life during the last nineteen years had been
such that he was still young, and he desired more than ever, because
not so blindly as he desired it when he was a youth, the tender,
intimate sympathy of a woman's love. It was singular that, during
all those nineteen years, he should not once have been overcome. It
seemed to him as if he had been held back, not by himself, but by
some external power, which refused to give any reasons for so doing.
There was now less chance of yielding than ever; he was reserved and
self-respectful, and his manner towards women distinctly announced to
them that he knew what he was and that he had no claims whatever upon
them. He was something of a philosopher, too; he accepted,
therefore, as well as he could, without complaint, the inevitable
order of nature, and he tried to acquire, although often he failed,
that blessed art of taking up lightly and even with a smile whatever
he was compelled to handle. 'It is possible,' he said once, 'to
consider death too seriously.' He was naturally more than half a
Jew; his features were Jewish, his thinking was Jewish, and he
believed after a fashion in the Jewish sacred books, or, at anyrate,
read them continuously, although he had added to his armoury
defensive weapons of another type. In nothing was he more Jewish
than in a tendency to dwell upon the One, or what he called God,
clinging still to the expression of his forefathers although
departing so widely from them.
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