The story is told that when Moses Mendelssohn asked Fromet Gugenheim to marry him, she hesitated on account of his being hunchbacked. He thereupon told her that heaven, which makes all marriages, had once given him the privilege of viewing his future bride. And behold, she was somewhat deformed. He then asked God to take the deformity away from her and give it to him, for he wanted nothing to mar her perfection. This impressed Fromet so deeply that she consented immediately.
The chances are that this little tale is the figment of folk imagination. But it is quite true that the romance of Moses and Fromet was a beautiful one. Mendelssohn was over thirty years old when he visited a friend in Hamburg, met Fromet Gugenheim, and fell in love with her. She was neither wealthy nor strikingly beautiful. But she must have had an inner beauty to captivate the heart of the already celebrated Jewish philosopher. The letters Moses wrote to her during the two years of their engagement—as he was in Berlin and she in Hamburg, this was their only method of communication while the necessary steps were being taken to secure Mendelssohn’s residence permit in Berlin—are gems of unaffected love mixed with the deepest moral sensitivity. Heir to the finest elements of traditional Judaism and those of humanistic Germany, equally at home with Lessing and the Talmud, Mendelssohn reveals perhaps nowhere as much as here the harmonious unity of his personality. Ranging from a gentle rebuke for too much reading to the citing of a story about Socrates as an excuse for not sending Fromet a Purim gift, the letters cover all the subjects that would concern two lovers separated from each other.
With the exception of the first letter, which, being addressed to Lessing, was written in German, all the letters to Fromet in this selection were written in Hebrew characters in a kind of Jewish German. Occasionally there are Hebrew expressions and where necessary the English translation has been provided in footnotes.
—Michael Wyschogrod
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To Gotthold Ephraim Lessing
[Berlin, middle of May 1761]
Dearest Friend! Our correspondence has been interrupted long enough. I must now renew it. I could never have kept silent so long had I not made a journey to Hamburg which involved me in a thousand distractions. I visited the theater, I made the acquaintance of scholars, and, something that will surprise you not a little, I committed the foolishness of falling in love in my thirtieth year. You are laughing? Very well! Who knows what may still happen to you? Perhaps the thirtieth year is the most dangerous and you haven’t reached that yet. The female whom I intend to marry has no fortune, is neither beautiful nor learned, and nevertheless, enamored fool that I am, I am so captivated by her as to believe that I can live happily with her. A livelihood, I hope, will not be lacking and I certainly will not permit lack of leisure for study. You will have a full year for the wedding poem but nevertheless your lazy muse must reach once more for its dusty lyre. Otherwise, how can I have an unsung wedding?—So much about my domestic matters which interest you perhaps very little but nevertheless serve as my excuse.
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To Fromet Gugenheim
[Berlin, June 5, 1761]
Dearest Fromet! DO you know that I am beginning to be jealous about your girlfriend? Never did you express yourself so tenderly, never were your sensibilities so true, so natural, as when you wish me luck about the relationship of my friend with your girl-friend. I know of a connection in which you and I participate somewhat and this does not seem to satisfy you with the world as much as the good fortune of your girlfriend. Now everything you see and hear gives you pleasure; now the world seems beautiful to you and its inhabitants friendly and loveable. You are swimming in pure pleasure and, if I am not fooling myself, this friendship has opened your heart for love too, because now you speak of your love more tenderly than ever. I looked into your writing to see whether I could discover any traces of disquiet caused by the postponement of our happiness; and, to tell you the truth, as much as I love you, I would have wished it, but in vain! Friendship alone is the master of your heart and as your friends are happy, so are you. I love you for this that much more and am becoming convinced daily more and more that I was happy in my choice. A heart that cherishes friendship is disposed to everything good.
You write about your diligence in studying French. Dearest Fromet! Please do not overdo this diligence, and protect your health. It is of much too great importance to me. I think I Know your capabilities. You do not have to damage your body in order to improve your soul. Study whatever you like but with moderation and, to make it brief, without ever reading by artificial light during the summer days. I consider this a great abuse, which is against nature, to make use of artificial light in a climate in which the hours of darkness are anyway so few in the summer.
Please inform me, dearest Fromet, about what you are doing currently, what you are reading in German. Did you have Herr de Gastro get you Rousseau’s letters? Did you read some of them and how do you like them? In all seriousness, should I not send you the letters of Catesby1 in German? You must be able to control your urges very much indeed if you can resist the pleasure of reading these letters until you will be able to read them in French. I envy you this philosophic abstention and confess my own weakness.
Adieu, my dear friend! I wish daily to receive from you letters which breathe such true, such tender joy and which reveal the innocence of the heart so clearly. Continue to love me, my dearest friend, and be assured that I will constantly strive to outdo you in love. I am your faithful friend and admirer
Ha-Koton Mausche Mi-Dessau
[the humble Moses of Dessau]
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[Berlin, July 28, 1761]
Very Dearest Fromet! I have made a discovery in your father’s letter which delighted me not a little. The goodly man assures me that his daughter Fromet is as beautiful as she is virtuous. What do you think? Can one believe the word of an honest man? I laughed heartily at his well-meant appraisal. The good Reb Avrohom Gugenheim must know that philosophers, too, love the beautiful. But there he must forgive me. I know his Fromet better than he does. She is beautiful, but not as beautiful as virtuous, not as beautiful as she is tender. I envy you, dearest Fromet, for the fortunate manner in which you are able to express your tender love. Your briefest letters are full of tenderness, full of sensitivity. The language of the heart is your natural language and your noble sentiment takes the place of the frosty wit which disfigures the letters of others so odiously. Continue, dearest and gentlest Fromet, to delight me with your amiable letters. I notice that it is becoming practically impossible for me to take pleasure in a post-day on which I do not write or receive a letter from you. What is man without some pleasure? No, so long as we must be separated let us provide ourselves with the opportunity of thinking of each other as often as possible. It causes me no small pleasure to think: now Fromet is reading my letters, now she is writing to me, now she is irritated at being disturbed, and now she is happy to have found the right expression. . . .
Adieu, my darling, give my regards to your girl-friend, who honored me with a letter that reflected honor on her way of thinking.
Ha-Koton Mausche Mi-Dessau
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[Berlin, September 1, 1761]
Dearest Fromet! That’s what I call defying the actors. In the theater you see a philosopher-in-love making himself ridiculous and you even laugh at him; nevertheless, at the same time you make the decision not to love your philosopher-in-love any the less.
But your philosopher is not in love. That he thinks without interruption about his Gugenheim, that he kisses every line you write, that he wishes nothing so much as to see you happy (particularly through him), that every hour seems to him a year, every step a mile which separates you from him—if you call this being in love, then I am satisfied if you and Madame Gottingen find me ridiculous. In order to revenge myself, I will write a comedy in which female philosophers-in-love will not be spared.
Mausche Mi-Dessau
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[Berlin, November 10, 1761]
Dearest Fromet! I am informed by Reb Salman Emmerich that you very much overdo your diligence in reading, almost abusing it. This I cannot approve at all. What do you wish to accomplish by that? To become a scholar? God save you from that! Moderate learning becomes a lady, but not scholarship. A girl who has read her eyes red deserves to be laughed at. You, my dearest Fromet, must not take refuge in books except in two cases: when your mood needs some diversion which it does not find in social intercourse, and when your heart is in need of strengthening its prompting for good. One of these sicknesses can be helped by medicine, but too much medicine does harm.
Your father, chomi ha-m’juod she-jichje2 will spend shabbos habo olenu l’tauvo im jirze ha-Shem3 with us. Nothing as yet has been decided about his departure. As impatient as he is to see his beloved ones again, he must attend to his affairs here before he can go on. I am strengthened daily in my judgment about him and my love for him increases in equal measure. Farewell, dearest Fromet, and if you want to be diligent at all costs, throw the books away and . . . [manuscript ends here].
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[Berlin, March 9, 1762, Purim]
Dearest Fromet! All give each other presents today and I have nothing to give you, but I will tell you a little story. Once there came to the wise Socrates a student and said: My dear Socrates, everybody who deals with you brings you some present. I have nothing to give you except myself; please do not spurn me. What, said the wise man, do you consider yourself so worthless as to be asking me to accept you? Well, good, I will give you some advice: strive to become so good that your person becomes the most valuable present. That’s the end of my tale. I, too, my dear Fromet, will strive to become so good as to enable you to say that no present I could give you would be better than your sincere
Mausche Mi-Dessau
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1 A French novel by Marie Jeanne Riccoboni entitled Letters [sic] de Milady Catesby.
2 “My father-in-law, may he live.”
3 “The coming Sabbath, may it be for good with God’s help.”
