In his ethics and system of life, as
well as in his religion, there was the same intolerance of a
multiplicity which was not reducible to unity. He seldom explained
his theory, but everybody who knew him recognised the difference
which it wrought between him and other men. There was a certain
concord in everything he said and did, as if it were directed by some
enthroned but secret principle.
He had encountered no particular trouble since his wife's death, but
his life had been unhappy. He had no friends, much as he longed for
friendship, and he could not give any reasons for his failure. He
saw other persons more successful, but he remained solitary. Their
needs were not so great as his, for it is not those who have the
least but those who have the most to give who most want sympathy. He
had often made advances; people had called on him and had appeared
interested in him, but they had dropped away. The cause was chiefly
to be found in his nationality. The ordinary Englishman disliked him
simply as a Jew, and the better sort were repelled by a lack of
geniality and by his inability to manifest a healthy interest in
personal details. Partly also the cause was that those who care to
speak about what is nearest to them are very rare, and most persons
find conversation easy in proportion to the remoteness of its topics
from them. Whatever the reasons may have been, Baruch now, no matter
what the pressure from within might be, generally kept himself to
himself.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125