[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew

by Viereck, George Sylvester

  Kotikokura measured the height of the wall with his eye, his fingertips moving as if they desired to try their prowess.

  “No, no, Kotikokura, not that way must we enter this most ancient of countries. Besides, even if you should manage to crawl over, how should I?”

  He scratched himself.

  “There is a gate a little farther on. Watchman’s eyes are generally weak, and they close at the glitter of gold.”

  The gate was narrow, and two yellow giants blocked its passage. At the sight of us, they pointed their long spears. I dropped, as if by error, a handful of gold coins. They looked, but never deigned to stir. They grumbled something which I could not understand; the tone of which, however, augured anything but hospitality. One of them raised his spear into the air and almost touched me. Kotikokura rushed to his throat.

  “Stop, Kotikokura!” I commanded. “This is not the way to treat people we wish to visit. Besides, am I not God Ca-ta-pha? Have you no confidence in my power?”

  Kotikokura fell on his face. “Ca-ta-pha!”

  This disconcerted the watchmen a little. Meanwhile, I looked into the eyes of the one who seemed a trifle more pacific. I waved my hands about his face, and pronounced the word “Sleep” in Chinese, which I had learnt before my arrival “Sleep…sleep…sleep!” The giant began to yawn. “Sleep…sleep.” He stretched out upon the ground and began to snore. The other, frightened, dropped his spear and ran away, screaming.

  “Come, Kotikokura, let us enter.”

  Kotikokura, dazzled by what I had accomplished, continued to bow and touch the ground. I did not discourage his adoration. “Rise, Kotikokura, and follow me!” I ordered. The Wall was several feet deep, and when we reached the other end, people were running toward us, weapons in their hands, and shouting.

  “Lie down, Kotikokura, and do not budge. Fear nothing!” I covered him with a black cloth. I waved my arms, describing large semicircles, reciting the while most dramatically, stanzas from the Upanishads. Two small mirrors concealed in my palms, reflecting the sun, made strange patterns of light. The people, disconcerted, watched.

  “Rise, Kotikokura!” I commanded. “Rise!” The body of Kotikokura ascended slowly, steadily. The people, their mouths agape, dropped their weapons. “Return, Kotikokura!” I ordered. The tips of my fingers united. The mirrors shed a milky way, through which Kotikokura descended slowly, almost elegantly. When he reached the ground, I uncovered him. He looked about, startled, and fell at my feet, calling: “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” The others knelt also, and repeated “Ca-ta-phal Ca-ta-pha!” Like the parrot, Kotikokura proclaimed my apotheosis.

  “Go back!” I commanded, pointing with my forefinger. The crowd obeyed.

  One elderly man, only, remained. He was dressed in a many-colored silk robe. He smiled and his eyes shone with intelligence. I bowed to him. He returned the greeting. I spoke to him in several of the European languages. He shook his head. I asked him if he knew Sanskrit. He was delighted. He had learnt the language in his youth, when he studied philosophy and the wisdom of Gautama the Buddha.

  “My esteemed friend,” he said, smiling, “the levitation was beautifully done. I have read about this strange phenomenon, but I have never had the pleasure of witnessing it.”

  “I am happy to meet so wise a man.”

  “Wisdom is a rare flower. It is sufficient for a man to just breathe a little of its exquisite perfume.”

  “I have read the words of Kong-Fu-tze, the greatest of philosophers. Anxious to meet the people whom he taught so wisely, I risked my life and the life of my faithful servant.”

  He smiled. “You have noticed, my learned Master, that the people are not apt scholars. I suspect that wisdom is rare among the people everywhere.”

  “You are right, excellent friend.”

  “There are, however, in each generation, and in every locality, a handful of men who love truth…”

  “I shall esteem it a favor beyond recompense, if I am allowed to speak with that handful of men who live in this city.”

  The Chinaman’s lips curled into a smile. “Accept the hospitality of my humble roof.”

  I bowed, and thanked him profusely. “I am most anxious to be converted to the teaching of Kong-Fu-tze.”

  “Kong-Fu-tze desires no converts. It suffices to quaff his wisdom…”

  ‘Apollonius!’ I thought suddenly, ‘except for the slanting eyes… The tall stature, the white beard, the slow intelligent gestures of the arms are unmistakable…’ I scrutinized him. He smiled politely.

  “Forgive me,” I said “your words recalled and recaptured the voice of a friend…”

  “Living or dead?”

  “Alas! He died…if he died…at Ephesus, at the age of one hundred. I tried to discover in your face, the beloved features of my friend.”

  “Wherever one goes, one always discovers one’s friends.”

  My host begged me to make myself comfortable in his library.

  We smoked.

  I watched the smoke, my eyes half closed. The shadow it threw upon the opposite wall assumed the shape of a woman.

  “Are the women of your country desirous to afford pleasure?”

  “The wiser ones among them make a devout study of the ways of pleasure.”

  “I should like to meet such a student.”

  “You shall, Cartaphilus.”

  She pushed gently the door of my room and looked in. I pretended to be asleep. She entered, and on tiptoes, much lighter than a cat, approached me. With the corner of one eye I observed her,—a tiny creature with a face hardly larger than a doll’s, illumined by two long eyes that seemed to be dreaming something weird, or merely reflecting the strange smile that appeared and vanished in rapid succession about her mouth.

  I opened my eyes. She bowed. “Has Flower-of-Joy disturbed Cartaphilus, Master of Wisdom?”

  “Flower-of-Joy has entered more gently than a ray of the sun, and disturbed Cartaphilus no more than the perfume that leaves the heart of a flower and mingles with the air he breathes.”

  “Cartaphilus is beautiful and wise and Flower-of-Joy fears she cannot delight him.”

  “Her very presence is a great delight to him.”

  “Flower-of-Joy is a little tired. May she lie down with Cartaphilus?”

  “Flower-of-Joy will be as a dainty dream that visits him in his sleep.”

  She was a bit of chiseled ivory, animated by the seven devils that Jesus drove out of Magdalene.

  Like a labyrinth made of deeply perfumed flowers, within which one wanders certain at every turn to discover an issue, but always finding that it is merely another bend, was the pleasure she afforded me.

  Mung Ling greeted me, as always, most cordially. He apologized for having sent me an inexperienced girl.

  “Inexperienced?”

  He smiled, closing his eyes. “When I was a young man, Cartaphilus, and lived in the Capital, pursuing my studies, I discovered the meaning of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged…”

  I thought it was merely an old man’s exaggeration of his youthful delights, but nevertheless decided to visit the Capital. ‘Unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged!’ His words stirred ancient echoes in my brain. My thoughts returned to Jerusalem. I heard Aurelia’s soft voice insinuate the very phrase.

  “Your fine phrase is worth a long trip, excellent Mung Ling,” I remarked.

  XXV: TAXES AND PLAGUES—STONY FINGERS—I GO—A PRISONER OF ATTILA—KOTIKOKURA PULLS HIS MUSTACHES

  THE people were clamorous in their complaints against the tax-collectors. The harvests had been very poor, but neither the Governor nor his subordinates showed any clemency. Even the few fistfuls of rice and the small portions of dried, salted fish were dwindling from the hands of the coolies and the small merchants. Many refused to work. If it was one’s fate to starve, why add to it the pain of labor?

  Fishermen, with baitless lines, were sitting at the shore of the river, their thin legs up to the knees in water; the sma
ll merchants, their shops closed, reclining upon the threshold, gossiped with their neighbors across the narrow alleys; the coolies wandered about like lean dogs or cats, seeking among the refuse something to eat.

  The Governor sought to subdue them by force. He imprisoned whole families; sold children into servitude; put men to torture. An obstinate silence supervened. People grinned or frowned, but said nothing. They understood one another perfectly. The newlyborn were carried hastily to the shore of the river and left to die and decompose in the sun. The stench was becoming unendurable. It was rumored, hardly above a whisper, but which chilled like the half-motionless shadow of a venomous snake, that some men and women had died of the plague.

  “What should a man do, Mung Ling,—stay among the people or go away?”

  “Kong-Fu-tze, the Incomparable, said that when law and order prevail in the Empire, the man of sincerity and love is in evidence. When it is without law and order, he withdraws.”

  “While the storm is raging,

  The fragile, sensitive butterfly

  Hides deeply among the hospitable petals

  Of the lotus-flower,

  His tremulous wings pasted

  Tip to dazzling tip.”

  We were silent for some time. Kotikokura pulled my sleeve, and bade me listen.

  Soldiers on horseback were galloping through the street, and men and women shouted after them. “Thieves!” “Thieves!” “Murderers!” “Wolves!”

  Mung Ling nodded. “Sooner or later a river breaks its dikes.”

  “Will you accompany me, Mung Ling? Let us go to the Capital.”

  “How kind you are, Cartaphilus, and how can I have the heart to refuse your offer?”

  “Will you come then?”

  He shook his head. “I remember a poem of an ancient master.

  He was speaking of the uselessness of taking too much care of one’s self.” He stopped awhile, then recited:

  “The rose

  However nurtured

  Must wither

  Crushed

  Between the stony fingers

  Of the inevitable Autumn.”

  “I am too old, Cartaphilus, to care where I die.”

  “Apollonius,” I whispered.

  He smiled, ordered his servant to light his pipe, and addressed Sing Po, who was meditating, his head between his hands.

  “May I disturb you, Sing Po, pride of all poets?”

  “How can Mung Ling ever disturb me?”

  “Do you remember the two verses you once wrote to Gen Hsin, who complained that one could no longer keep his soul intact…that the days of beauty had passed away?”

  Sing Po wrinkled his forehead.

  “Our friend is like a bird…sings, delights his hearers, and flies on…unaware of the joy he has afforded.”

  “Mung Ling knows how to praise better than all men, and his words are as delicious as wine.”

  “This is what Sing Po answered Gen Hsin, the skeptic:

  “On the crests of turbulent waves

  Petals of roses ride.”

  Outside the tumult increased. Kotikokura gripped my arm. “Do not fear, Kotikokura, Ca-ta-pha shall protect you.”

  He grinned.

  Mung Ling placed his hands upon my shoulders. “Farewell, Cartaphilus.”

  I looked at him astonished.

  “It is time for us to separate, alas! You must go, dear friend.”

  “Always Cartaphilus must go, Mung Ling…always.”

  “Man is like the wind, Cartaphilus.”

  “Like the wind…it is true, Mung Ling.” I remained silent for a few moments, pressing his hands. “But the wind, Mung Ling, at times blows through a garden and is impregnated with a rare perfume.”

  Mung Ling turned his face away.

  “Can a man hide himself, Sing Po? Can a man hide himself?” I asked.

  “That is exactly what Kong-Fu-tze asked, Cartaphilus. He, too, was a wanderer…”

  “What do we seek always, Mung Ling?”

  “Ourselves. We cannot hide, and yet we cannot find ourselves, Cartaphilus.”

  I twirled the tips of my long mustaches. Kotikokura pulled at the few sparse threads that dotted his upper lip. “It is not well to look too different from the others, particularly in times of revolution, Kotikokura.”

  We came upon smoking villages and weary women. The steeds of war were stamping through the land. Our guide, a servant of Mung Ling, deserted us to save his wife and his children.

  He kissed my hands, and weeping, galloped back.

  “Kotikokura, we are destined to remain alone, always.”

  Kotikokura pulling at his mustache had the appearance of a gigantic yellow tomcat.

  “There is room for everything save for logic, Kotikokura. There has been much kindness and much cruelty upon the earth…but very little intelligence.”

  Kotikokura wrinkled his brow like a puzzled dog.

  We found ourselves in the midst of a camp of soldiers. We were immediately surrounded, and ordered to dismount. Our hands were tied behind our backs by heavy ropes. Kotikokura’s legs were restless. He bent, ready to run away.

  “Do not budge! Ca-ta-pha is with you!”

  We were ordered to wait. Two soldiers stood guard. The others went away, to report to their superior. Kotikokura grumbled. “Silence!” I commanded. I wished to know in what camp I found myself, who was the leader, and whom they were fighting. With this information, I could easily extricate myself.

  I smiled to one of the soldiers. “It is strange that you treat as enemy the friend of your master.”

  “What! Are you the friend of King Attila?”

  “Of course, valiant soldier.”

  “Are you not the Emperor’s spy?”

  I laughed. “Would a spy ride as leisurely into the enemy’s camp as I did? Would a spy travel unarmed?”

  The soldiers seemed uncertain, but more kindly disposed. One of them said: “But if you are the Emperor’s spy, you will learn the meaning of torture.” The other grinned.

  XXVI: I SMOKE A PIPE WITH ATTILA—TWO MEN WITHOUT A COUNTRY

  ATTILA was sitting at a long table, making drawings upon white silk. He placed his chin upon the hilt of his sword, and looked at me. His mustaches, uniting with his beard, hung heavy and low on either side of his face, and his long teeth shone like the ivory tusks of an elephant in the sun. I was determined to employ hypnotism, if necessary, to safeguard myself, but it amused me to try my skill without relying upon occult psychic forces.

  “What is your name?”

  “Cartaphilus, Your Majesty.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “I come from many lands.”

  “On the other side of the Wall?”

  “Countries in which the people do not even dream of the existence of the Wall, Your Majesty.”

  He sighed, and raised his head. “What sort of countries are they, Cartaphilus?”

  “They are countries with noble and heroic histories…but on the verge of ruin.”

  “Why?”

  “Corruption, vice and a false religion called Christianity.”

  Attila rose, and walked up and down the room. He was tall and rather heavy. The skin of his face was a few shades lighter than that of his soldiers and his cheek-bones were somewhat less protruding.

  “Sit down, Cartaphilus.” He offered me a gigantic pipe.

  We smoked in silence for some time.

  “You come from many lands, Cartaphilus; which one is yours?”

  “I have none, Your Majesty. My country was destroyed and my people dispersed.”

  He looked at me not unkindly.

  “I, too, have no country, Cartaphilus. I am not absolutely certain who my people are. Perhaps I am a descendant of the kings of your people…”

  “Then, Sire, my people are indeed fortunate.”

  “Cartaphilus, he who does not possess a country must make one: for himself– —”

  “Or else,” I interjected, “wander�
�always a stranger in every land.”

  Attila pulled at his beards.

  “Conquer Rome, Sire! Destroy her false, pale-faced god. The Mistress of the World is too old, and Christianity too young to withstand a determined blow.”

  The King drew circles upon the silk in front of him. “China is at my feet. I could proclaim myself Emperor…but I hate walls!”

  “For a great general, it must be exasperating to find a nation too easily conquered!”

  “Cartaphilus, you fathom my feelings… I love valor and glory and hard combat.” He stamped his sword.

  “The Romans still love glory, and Christianity is ambitious.”

  “These people send messengers at my approach and beg me to be their ruler. I cannot fight open doors…”

  “The doors of the Romans are still locked. Your sword shall rattle against them like a thunderclap.”

  At dawn, I was ordered to appear again before the King.

  “Cartaphilus, Heaven has sent me a sign…this golden chain shall bind at my feet…the world beyond the Wall.”

  I bowed reverently.

  “Stay with me, Cartaphilus. Teach me the roads. Draw the maps for me. Attila is not the leader of wild hordes, but the ruler of a disciplined army.”

  ‘Jesus of Nazareth,’ I thought, ‘You have vanquished Julian the Apostate. Attila shall conquer you!’

  For three days three Ambassadors of the Emperor begged in vain to be admitted to the presence of Attila. The King had not yet finished his plans: my map was not yet completed.

  “Is it not sufficient that I do not order their heads chopped off? Let them wait! Attila is busy.”

  Finally, at my intervention, he consented to see them and concluded a truce with the Son of Heaven. The Ambassadors were on the point of leaving when I begged them to remain a while longer.

  “Attila, magnanimous monarch, may I speak?”

  “Speak!”

  “Attila must march forward from conquest to conquest. This is the meaning of his life, is it not?”