Immediately facing Laquedem’s chair, Professor Bassermann placed his traveling dictograph which, more precise than a stenographer, was to record every word that would escape the lips of the subject as well as every question of the scientific inquisition. On the table, near his chair, the Professor placed a chronometer that would register mechanically the time elapsing between question and answer. By this simple expedient, it would become evident if Laquedem was answering the questions in a straightforward manner or if he shammed. The least hesitation would be recorded instantly by a little curve.
Professor Bassermann also placed before him a gauge with a rubber tube to measure the pressure of the blood. Any emotion that conceals itself from the scrutiny of the closest observer is recorded in the pressure of the blood as it pounds from the heart to the brain. The terror that neither blanches nor reddens the cheek, the remembered lust, the mental strain recalled, but unuttered, appear in the lines of the psychologist’s chart.
All these devices of science Professor Bassermann and Aubrey explained to Father Ambrose who, being familiar with the theory underlying the various laws, found it no difficult matter to appreciate the cunning of each delicate mechanism.
Isaac Laquedem appeared preceded by Kotikokura who carried a box of cigars for his master with the same air of importance, as if he had been a court chamberlain bearing the crown jewels of a king. Laquedem was dressed in black. He was wearing his velvet smoking jacket which caressed his figure snugly. His hair, not brushed back as on previous occasions, betrayed a propensity toward curliness.
Kotikokura, an exaggerated imitation of his employer, affected the extreme London style of the period antedating the World War, trousers encircling tightly legs which to Aubrey remotely suggested something furtive and simian. His white vest and the rolled lapels of his coat served as an admirable frame for his yellow head. The cravat harmonized exquisitely with sleeve kerchief and socks. His manners were perfect and his carriage was modeled on that of Isaac Laquedem. He was a yellow caricature of his master.
At a word from Laquedem, the valet left. He was gone before one realized that the door had closed behind him. For a moment Aubrey had the weird impression that Kotikokura had crept out of the room on all fours.
Laquedem calmly lit a cigarette. He seated himself on one of the chairs sinking deeply into the velvet cushions and puffed little spirals of smoke to the ceiling.
Professor Bassermann commanded: “Relax! Relax entirely!”
“Are you going to hypnotize me?” Laquedem asked.
“No, I merely want to ease your mind. Imagine that you are going to sleep. Don’t resist my questions. Answer spontaneously and say whatever comes into your head.”
“But isn’t that hypnotism?”
“No. You will presently fall into a state of repose resembling sleep; you will give me, so to speak, the key to your soul. I shall unlock door after door until I open the gate of the unconscious. But first, we must lull to sleep the inhibitions which are posted like sentries at the threshold of the conscious mind. No thought escapes unchallenged by them. Upon every shadow that leaves the caverns of the nether brain, they fasten a mask, to protect it from recognition before it can merge into consciousness.”
He spoke slowly, monotonously, all the while gazing steadfastly into the calm eyes of Isaac Laquedem.
Professor Bassermann had hypnotized many people. It was his claim that every person was susceptible to hypnosis. But the quiet smile that quivered about the lips of the stranger rasped his sensitiveness. It had been his original intention to lull Laquedem into a mild state of semi-consciousness, but he now strained every nerve to impose his will upon the subject.
The Professor’s face twitched with exertion. Beads of cold perspiration appeared on his spacious forehead. Several minutes passed in this mental duel. The tension between the two minds was tangible in the room. It seemed to creep up and down the ornate pillars. It sank into the carpet, it laid its hold upon everyone present.
Laquedem never moved. His pupils plunged like a knife into the eyes of Professor Bassermann. The latter, overcome by a sudden faintness, held his hand to his head. He resolutely shut his eyes and turned away. Another minute and the great psychologist would have been hypnotized by his subject!
To hide his confusion, Professor Bassermann lit one of Laquedem’s cigars. Laquedem smiled. “Don’t you remember, Professor, that we met almost like this before?”
“I recall no such meeting.”
“Oh, yes. It was in England.”
“Indeed?”
“At Oxford.”
“I was there only once as a student.”
“Oh, no, no. It was long before that. In the year sixteen hundred and—” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “I forget the year.”
Was the stranger dreaming? Perhaps he was after all in a semi-hypnotic condition. Professor Bassermann examined the pupils. They were clear. There was no sign of suspended consciousness.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
The stranger shrugged his shoulders. Father Ambrose looked at him with startled eyes.
“I think he is shamming,” Bassermann softly whispered to Aubrey.
“No, I think there is a certain antipathy between him and you that breaks the thought current. Let me try.”
He did not attempt to put Laquedem to sleep with his unaided eyes, but used a glittering ring, a strange device showing a serpent, the symbol of infinity and of knowledge.
Perhaps the struggle with Bassermann had exhausted Laquedem’s power of resistance; perhaps the caressive stroke of Aubrey’s fingers against his temples overcame his resistance. Laquedem’s lids trembled, then a gentle haze veiled the flame of his vision. His breath came heavily like that of a sleeper, his pulse beat against the wrist with subdued regularity. The cigarette fell from his hands, burning a hole in the carpet. His hands dropped. The pupils were still visible through the half-closed lids.
Isaac Laquedem was asleep.
At that moment, a little yellow head peered into the room. Kotikokura was on guard, to see that no harm befell his master. A glance at the group seemed to reassure him and he disappeared again, unseen, with the stealthiness of one who has lived for a long time in the jungle. Only Laquedem’s left hand stirred slightly for a moment. It was as though an invisible message of assurance had passed from him to his yellow valet.
When Aubrey gently began his invasion into the mind of Isaac Laquedem, Kotikokura sat in the cell appointed for him, softly chattering to himself. Then he fetched a safety razor with a gold handle and began to shave not only his face, but his arms and his wrists which were disfigured by an ungainly growth of stubborn hair.
Professor Bassermann felt Laquedem’s pulse. “He is asleep,” he said.
Father Ambrose touched Laquedem’s forehead making, by habit, the sign of the cross. The sleeper reacted violently. A groan rose to his lips. He clutched his hands convulsively. But a few strokes from Aubrey recomposed his trembling nerves.
Isaac Laquedem was no longer asleep. Aubrey made no attempt to prolong the hypnotic spell. Hovering in a state between waking and sleeping, peculiar to psychoanalysis, Laquedem’s thoughts, like flights of birds, darting hither and thither, could alight where they pleased.
Nevertheless, he replied alertly to every question put to him by Aubrey. He also replied, though less quickly, to questions put to him by the others. A curious relief betrayed itself in his features, as slowly drawn out of the depth of memory, his story unfolded itself before the astounded ears of the three men.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MR. ISAAC LAQUEDEM
I: I WITNESS THE TRIAL OF JESUS—MADAME PILATE’S RECEPTIONS—I QUARREL WITH JOHN
THE day set for the trial of Jesus was mild and cool. I dressed myself carefully in my new uniform of a Roman Captain, an honor unique for a Hebrew boy.
The streets were crowded with pedestrians and riders on donkeys. The Jews in constant fear of persecution or oppression, grasped any occasion, however
insignificant, of making merry or at least of vociferating. It was this, and not the fact that a matter of colossal importance was about to take place, that brought large multitudes to the Court. The same need for excitement and noise made them shout afterwards: “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
The people entertained no hatred for Jesus. They had seen many erratic prophets. Peculiar claims to divinity or royalty rather amused than angered them. But this was a rare privilege,—to see a prophet taken seriously by the priests, and actually brought to trial.
The Courtroom was already filled. I recognized a few officers who invited me to join them, but I preferred to remain alone in a corner. Two young men near me were talking in Latin, and changed immediately to Hebrew, taking me for a Roman, no doubt. They were tall, thin, wore short beards, and their dress was a compromise between the Roman toga and the Hebrew kaftan.
“Whatever,” remarked the older of the two, “our love for our country may be, we must acknowledge that Jerusalem produces no artists.”
“If only,” replied the other, “our ancestors had accepted the Golden Calf in place of the tablets…”
“Yes, we should have had artists instead of priests, for we certainly do not lack ability.”
“The priests are a plague, but I prefer them to the reformers. I prefer them because they are corrupt. Beauty may grow on the soil of corruption even as the rose feeds on ordure. But reformers, being obstinate, ignorant boors, are always at war with Beauty. Did you ever hear the fellow whom the priests are dragging before the Governor?”
“Yes, on two occasions.”
“What does he say?”
“He hides the poverty of his thought under a cloak of parables. A paradox conceals his lack of logic. ‘Love your enemy!’ he says. What lack of pride! How typical of slaves! Strength and hate are brothers. Indeed, it is more important to hate than to love indiscriminately. Jesus of Nazareth speaks as a slave preaching to slaves!”
“Why do they take him seriously? If he is crucified, he may become a source of danger. Some poet may write a song about him, embellishing his philosophy and his ancestry.”
“He calls himself the Son of God…”
“I should like to go away from Jerusalem to Athens or Rome– —”
“So should I.”
“Any place indeed, where one does not meet so many sons of God.”
Pilate entered, followed by two Roman officers. He seated himself upon the judgment seat and breathed heavily for several moments. He was becoming too stout and tired rapidly. The Jews glanced furtively at him. They had heard all sorts of fantastic stories about his cruelties and his orgies. The Romans, however, looked at him smilingly. A few of the officers nodded.
Procla, the wife of Pilate, came in unnoticed, and hid behind a pillar near her husband. She was slim and tall. Her eyebrows, several shades darker than her hair, contrasted vividly with her pale face. Her lips were always red, her hands moved restlessly.
“Bring in the prisoner,” Pilate commanded.
Jesus was brought in by a soldier. He was dressed in tatters and on his head he wore a withered wreath. The populace hissed. Some called out: “King! King!” An old woman spat. Jesus showed no emotion. His blue eyes were fixed beyond Pilate.
“Silence!” Pilate ordered.
“What is this man’s guilt?” he asked of the High Priest, a stout individual, gaudily dressed.
“He blasphemes against our faith.”
“Words, words, vague words! Is he guilty of any concrete transgression against the law?”
“He calls himself king, Pilate.”
“He speaks in metaphors,” Pilate yawned, bored. “I do not find him guilty.”
“He is guilty! He is guilty!” shouted the populace.
“You hear it, Pilate,” the High Priest added. “He is guilty. It is the truth.”
“Truth? What is truth?” Pilate asked, addressing Jesus.
“Everyone that is of the truth heareth my voice,” answered Jesus gently.
“He blasphemes again. Blasphemer! Traitor!” shouted the people.
“You hear it, Pilate?”
The air was becoming insufferable. Pilate was feeling drowsy. He longed to be back at the palace, drink cool wine, and read the new edition of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, which amused him greatly.
“Ye have a custom that I should release unto you one at the Passover; will ye therefore that I release unto you the king of the Jews?”
“No, not this man! Barabbas!” shouted a thousand voices. “Crucify him, crucify him!”
Pilate turned his head for a moment and saw Procla. “Ah, my dear, you see it is not possible. I would gladly save him for one of your philosophic receptions, but the rabble, my love– —” He made a gesture of despair. Pilate’s wife did not answer. She made an indefinite motion.
“Take him!” Pilate commanded, and turning to a soldier, “Bring me some perfumed water that I may wash my hands and face.”
“Saviour! Save yourself! Try a miracle! King, look to your crown!”
The people were frantic with joy. They laughed, shouted, parodied the words of Jesus. “ ‘Everyone who heareth my voice– —’ ”
“Who heareth his voice?”
“Where are your chariots, King?”
A cross was dragged through the crowd, and laid upon the back of Jesus. He accepted the burden with the same meekness and unconcern with which he had accepted the judgment.
I pushed through the crowd, and shouted at him, “If you are man, raise your cross and smite them.”
Jesus answered without looking at me, “Love your enemies!”
“Love! Love! It is more important to hate,” I answered, remembering the conversation of the young men. The people pressed in front and back of Jesus. The soldiers made a passage-way with their elbows, swearing at the top of their voices. Jesus stumbled under the weight of his cross.
“Why do you hanker for martyrdom if your back is too weak for a wooden cross?” I asked. Somehow I felt his humiliation was my humiliation. It made all Jewry contemptible. My thwarted pity turned to mockery. I was not mocking Jesus alone. I was mocking myself. I was mocking all Judea.
Jesus, paying no attention to his tormentors, flashed a look of anger at me, which struck me like a blow. To regain my composure, I continued, “You are a slave, preaching a slave-creed to slaves!”
“Your crown is falling, King!” several shouted. The wreath fell. Someone raised it, and was about to replace it tauntingly upon the head of Jesus, but it crumbled in his hands.
Many laughed, slapping their thighs.
Procla motioned to me. “Cartaphilus, I must see you this evening!”
I nodded.
The rabble followed Jesus for a little while, jeering and throwing pebbles and refuse at him, but gradually growing weary, began to disperse. Something prompted me to continue. I walked leisurely at a distance, watching the shadow of Jesus and the cross, changing positions and sizes and mingling with each other.
Suddenly from a nearby alley, John emerged, frail, slim, almost boyish, his tawny head disheveled.
“They are taking him! They are taking him!” he cried.
“Well, it’s of his own volition. He deliberately courted disaster!”
“They are taking him,” he whimpered. I placed my hands upon his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. Their blue was clouded; they seemed almost black. He stared at me uncomprehendingly. “John, wake up, don’t you know who I am?”
“They will crucify him!”
“Others have died before him, even gods. But still the world goes on. What is he to you?”
John looked at me, bewildered.
“Have you forgotten our ancient friendship, John?”
“They are taking him to the Place of Skulls!”
“John, answer me,” I almost shouted, “is Cartaphilus nothing to you any more?”
“They will crucify him!” He buried his face in his hands. His curls overflowed both. Their trembling betrayed his
intense agitation.
“What is Jesus to you? Why have you given your heart to him?” I asked bitterly. “You have forgotten Cartaphilus.”
He did not answer.
“John, we have been together since childhood. Hardly a day passed without our seeing each other. We discovered sex together. We discovered love together. We discovered Woman together. Arm in arm we walked, discussing philosophy, declaiming poetry, laughing at the foibles and stupidities of mankind. Our lives mingled like two rivers, each giving magnitude to the other. Our thoughts intertwined like the roots of two trees. How can you leave me so utterly?”
He did not answer.
“And for what reason? For whom?”
“Jesus is the Son of God.”
“The Son of God? He is a carpenter, and a carpenter’s son. You know that, John.”
He looked at me. In his eyes was the meekness of Jesus. I was furious. “You are even imitating his slavish look. We prided ourselves in being freemen. We despised the humility of our people. Have you forgotten that also?”
He looked at me again, and without uttering a word, walked back to the city.
II: MY MISTRESS MARY MAGDALENE—THE EYES OF JESUS—JESUS PUTS A SPELL ON ME—I AM THE SOLE WITNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION—THE EXECUTIONER’S DITTY
AT the turning of the road which marks the limits of Jerusalem, a woman heavily veiled knelt before Jesus, kissing his feet and hands, and sobbing bitterly. The soldier and the executioner, believing her to be his mother, waited a while in patience, but noticing that she seemed reluctant to release their prisoner, they ordered: “Come on, Jew! We have no time to lose.”
They dragged the woman away, and continued their walk. The woman remained with her face in the dust. Curious to know who it was, I approached her, and placed my hand gently upon her head. “Come, come, you must not despair so. And, after all, is it not of his own free will that he carries the cross?”
She did not budge, but her sobbing subsided.
She raised her head. Her hair splashed over her shoulders like a fountain of gold.
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 3
