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

by Viereck, George Sylvester

  Don Ricardo mentioned a price. I raised my hands and laughed a little. “Don Ricardo,” I said, “thinks me Midas himself.”

  He praised the jewels, bade me examine them closely, related the history of some, including the necklace which he attributed to a Moorish Empress.

  “Señor,” he said, “I am not capable of bargaining. Abraham, the Jew, will conduct the negotiations.”

  “Very well, señor. I need at least a week or two to dispose of certain properties before I can even propose a sum.”

  We exchanged greetings.

  For three weeks, Abraham pitted his wits against mine. He sweated, breathed heavily, swore in Hebrew and in Spanish, cringed and threatened. I was determined to vanquish him.

  “Señor, you are cleverer than a hundred Jews combined!” he exclaimed.

  I smiled. “The cleverness of the Jew is largely an illusion and a Christian superstition. By the way, Abraham, is it true that the Queen intends to drive all Jews out of her dominions?”

  “Her Majesty knows best what is just.”

  “Where could the Jews go if they are driven out?”

  He sighed. His small eyes glistened with tears. “The Lord of Israel will discover new lands for His People. Perhaps India—if Colón is right.”

  ‘This is still another reason why I must buy these jewels,’ I thought.

  “The country which drives out her Jews does not fare well, señor. Egypt perished, and other nations too. We may be hated and made slaves. We have sinned in the sight of God, but to be driven out– —” He sighed. “Her Majesty knows best.”

  ‘And I shall know still better,’ I thought. ‘I shall see whether in truth a country can prosper without its Jews.’

  The negotiations were finally terminated and Cristóbal Colón was provided with funds.

  “Meanwhile, Kotikokura, we must continue our travels. We shall hear of the Admiral’s success or his failure when the time is ripe.”

  LVI: GILLES DE RETZ IN PARIS—TREVISAN DOES A MIRACLE—I DISCUSS THE ELIXIR OF LIFE WITH GILLES DE RETZ—“YOU ARE MY BROTHER”—BLUEBEARD’S WIFE—MY PUPIL ANNE

  CHARLES VI was no longer seated precariously upon the edge of his throne, the English no longer menaced France with an invasion, and the ashes of the Maid of Arc were cold and sparkless. The Parisians could devote themselves to the brewing of the elixir which would give them eternal youth and the Philosopher’s Stone. Everybody toyed with magic. Thirty thousand sorcerers were reputed to be in Paris.

  Every morning someone whispered into someone’s ear that by nightfall, his formula would be perfected, that the last and thinnest veil that separated mankind from the Great Truth would be pierced.

  Meanwhile, the Seine flowed on.—At night, the stars slumbered upon it; at noon, the sun sprawled upon it; and from time to time, barges and boats cut across its breast, like long blunt knives.

  Riding on a black charger, Monsieur Gilles de Laval, Lord of Retz and Maréchal de France, arrived in Paris. Two hundred horsemen followed him. A bishop, a dean, vicars, arch-deacons, and chaplains preceded. They were dressed luxuriously in robes of scarlet and furs, according to rank, and carried crucifixes of gold and silver, encrusted with jewels. Twenty-five choristers sang litanies and triumphant marches.

  The snow fell steadily, and Gilles de Retz, either unwilling to wet his face, or deep in meditation, kept his head upon his chest. Only his beard was visible,—a magnificent growth of hair, metallic in its blueness and combed like an Assyrian monarch’s.

  Bernard Trevisan, of Padua, magician and alchemist, had invited the Lord to his castle, on the outskirts of the capital, situated so close to the shore of the Seine, that its shadow head downward forever bathed in its waters.

  Gilles de Retz came to Paris to sell the seignory of Ingrande, in spite of the protest of his presumptive heirs, to obtain funds for his experiments and his household. But perhaps more important to the Maréchal was the promise of Trevisan to perform the famous miracle of Albertus Magnus—the change of seasons; also his desire to meet me. I had introduced myself to Trevisan, to Nicholas Flamel, whose real age no one knew, and to Francis Prelati, a countryman of Trevisan, deeply versed in black magic, as an adept from India.

  The guests were invited into the garden where the table was set for the banquet. The snow had stopped falling, but the ground and the trees were thickly covered with it. The Count of Raymond was indignant and threatened to leave.

  Trevisan smiled. “Everything will be well, Count. May I ask you for a little patience?” The guests, shivering, seated themselves,—the Maréchal at the head of the table, Trevisan at his right, and I at his left.

  Gilles de Retz was sad. His face, pale and devastated by thought and debauchery, retained traces of an almost unearthly beauty, and his eyes still possessed a child-like wonderment. At moments, they darted a curious, almost maniacal light. His proximity pleased me. Was it his animal magnetism or was it some forlorn memory of the past? He had not uttered a word. His voice might have solved the riddle for me. The voice revealed to me at times, like lightning, the whole personality.

  Bernard Trevisan rose, closed his eyes in meditation, and stretched slowly his right arm. Suddenly a scepter, studded at intervals with rubies and emeralds, rose from the depths of the earth, balancing itself gently, until his hand grasped it.

  He opened his eyes, and smiled enigmatically. The guests applauded, whispering words of admiration to one another.

  Trevisan raised the staff above his head and waved it three times to each of the cardinal points of the compass. Then he stamped the ground with it nine times in measured beats, uttering words of the Kabala mingled with sounds whose origin I could not guess for the moment.

  The guests riveted their attention upon his movements, breathless.

  ‘A little hypnotism,’ I thought, ‘is always a serviceable thing.’

  Bernard Trevisan exclaimed in a commanding voice, that seemed to come from the depths of a barrel: “Retire, Winter! Release thy grip! Retire! Let it be Summer!”

  The snow disappeared. The trees grew heavy with green leaves. Birds perched upon the bushes. A breeze charged with perfume floated about our faces.

  The guests rose, applauded vehemently, and shouted: “Long live Bernard Trevisan! Long live Bernard Trevisan!”

  Gilles de Retz embraced the magician. “Bernard Trevisan, you are indeed the Supreme Master of the greatest Art!”

  The voice of the Maréchal was mellow and gentle, tinged a little with sorrow.

  Nicholas Flamel congratulated the host. “But, master, I notice that not one bird either chirps or sings. In the summer, the birds are pleasantly noisy.”

  Bernard was nonplussed. He pulled at his short beard, and waved nervously his staff. The guests became impatient. A few coughed significantly.

  I moved away from the rest, clapped my hands several times and commanded—“Birds, sing! Birds, sing!”

  The birds began to chirp and sing. The guests stared at me in astonishment. Gilles de Retz grasped my hands and looked intently into my eyes, as if seeking something within them that he had lost or forgotten.

  Bernard bowed before me. “Prince, you are the master of us all.” Turning to the rest, be extolled the esoteric wisdom of India, compared to which all Occidental knowledge was child’s play. He drank to my health. The banquet became a celebration in my honor.

  The next day, at the side of Gilles de Retz I rode triumphantly through the city of Paris.

  To prevent Kotikokura from inadvertently betraying his ignorance of India, I introduced him as a Buddhist high priest under an oath of silence for a twelvemonth. He walked amid the priests as an honored guest.

  “Prince,” Gilles addressed me, “your ability to make the birds sing proves the superiority of your magic.”

  “My lord exaggerates. Bernard Trevisan is world-famous. One of his former disciples at Marseilles recounted to me marvels performed by the master that I cannot hope to equal.”

  “Fame increas
es in proportion to distance, Prince. Bernard’s most striking accomplishment is the change of seasons, which we witnessed last night, and you added the final, the supreme magic ingredient from the treasure trove of the East.”

  “And Nicholas Flamel, Monsieur le Maréchal? I hear he has discovered the Philosopher’s Stone…”

  Gilles de Retz laughed. “He is an old scoundrel, and his Philosopher’s Stone is a charming fiction.”

  “Fiction?”

  “He acquired immense wealth by exorbitant usury, and to account for it, that the courts might not prosecute him, he spread the rumor that he possessed the Philosopher’s Stone.”

  “That was ingenious. And what they say about his great age—is it also fiction, monsieur?”

  “That I do not know.” Gilles looked at me, his eyes darting the strange light.

  “And what of Francis Prelati?”

  The Maréchal’s eyes darkened and blazed, but he made no answer.

  We rode in silence.

  “Prince, have your wise men discovered the Philosopher’s Stone?”

  “Our wise men are not interested in wealth. Poverty, they say, is the crown of truth.”

  “I don’t agree with them. Poverty is colorless and breeds monotony. I love luxury and joy and constant change. I must hear the clatter of horses’ hoofs preceding me. I must see the glitter of jewels and gold. I must hear delectable music. My fingers must be thrilled with the smoothness of silk and velvet. I seek not only truth but pleasure—unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged…”

  “Monsieur le Maréchal,” I said, “beauty and truth are one…”

  His face lit up with joy.

  “There must be,” he said a little later, “somewhere a magic formula that renews our youth. The Philosopher’s Stone, which at a touch turns base metals to gold, is but a means, not an end. I need vast fortunes to procure—Eternal Youth…”

  His face clouded again and the two long premature wrinkles deepened.

  “Is it possible to discover the formula, Prince?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” he repeated sadly, “it is always perhaps. And meanwhile, life slips by and youth withers. I am already thirty-four years old, Prince.”

  “I am thirty.”

  “We must hurry, Prince, and discover the secret.”

  We passed out of the last gate of the city and entered into the Bois de Boulogne. The naked branches of the trees formed a wide canopy over which the reflection of the sun made embroideries in red gold.

  “I am glad you are not a Christian, Prince. I love the Church, for it has beauty and legend, but I hate her for her fear of the Ultimate Truth.”

  I made a gesture that I did not comprehend.

  “The Church,” he whispered into my ear, “fears the power of Satan.”

  “Satan?”

  He scrutinized my face. Suddenly he drew from his coat an ivory cross, with the image of a crucified rose. “Prince, from the first moment I saw you, I recognized in you a Rosicrucian. You are not merely a Hindu Prince. You are a seeker as I am,—a seeker of Beauty which is Truth…”

  I made a sign of assent.

  “I am a Rosicrucian, Count,” I remarked, “but I belong to the Eastern rite. Our Grandmaster dwells in the Himalayas inaccessible behind his veil of mystery and of snow.”

  He bowed ceremoniously.

  “The seeker after the ultimate truth,” he continued, “fears neither King nor Pope, neither God nor Devil.” He lifted his fist, delicate and thin, almost a woman’s, and dropped it vigorously at his side.

  “Prince,” he asked, “is there anything in heaven or on earth that you fear?”

  “Yes, ugliness and stupidity.”

  “You are my brother, Prince,” Gilles exclaimed.

  He approached me until the heads of our horses touched. “Are we brothers, Cartaphilus?”

  I pressed his arm.

  Our approach to the Castle of Champtoce was greeted by trumpets and chimes. At the gate, a hundred children, boys and girls dressed in white, showered us with roses and sang “bergerettes.”

  Two servants helped us descend from our steeds. The Maréchal patted the heads and cheeks of the children. “You shall be rewarded according to your deserts, my little ones,” he said tenderly, his voice somewhat husky.

  I was installed in the right wing of the castle which overlooked the garden. Kotikokura, the Hindu High Priest, under vows of silence, shared my suite.

  The next morning the Maréchal invited me to hunt with him.

  His retainers wore sumptuous attire. The horses were bedecked with gorgeous trappings. Two dozen hounds pulled impatiently at their leashes. Gilles de Retz, resplendent in his uniform, greeted me cordially and bade me ride at his side.

  He waved his hand. The trumpets blew. Our black steeds galloped away.

  As we reached the middle of the forest, the Maréchal and I dashed away from the rest. We leaped from our horses. The Maréchal took my arm and we walked slowly.

  “It is not the actual hunting that pleases me,” he said, “but the beauty of the horses and the men, the impatience of the dogs, the flourishes of the trumpets—and the captured animals, still alive, breathing their last, scarlet with their own blood.” My eyes tried to delve into his soul.

  He pressed my arm. “Do you love the sight of blood, Cartaphilus?”

  “The mystery of life is the mystery of the blood.”

  “Cartaphilus, my brother, to you I may with impunity reveal the unrevealable.”

  “Speak!”

  “I do not worship God. I find His work mediocre. The pleasures He offers are like bones, left over at the end of a feast. He is like an archbishop, always admonishing, always warning. Besides, He prefers innocence to experience, stupidity to intelligence, dullness to wit.”

  He looked at me, smiling ironically, intent upon seeing the effect of his words.

  “My lord, what you say is too evident to require demonstration. Alas, there is no other God but God…”

  He stamped his sword and exclaimed. “To the illuminati, we may drop all pretenses. You know there is another God—surpassing the God of Heaven…the god who honors the rebel…”

  “Who?”

  “Satan.”

  “If he is a god, Monsieur le Maréchal, he is also tyrant, and enslaves the soul. We in the East emancipate ourselves from both God and the Devil…”

  “Perhaps you have no need of Lucifer. We need his light. He is the essence of intelligence and wit. He is the spirit of investigation. He teaches us to drink, drink deep, from the Cup of Pleasure and Beauty…”

  “You have merely reversed the order, my lord. You have only changed names. God has become the Devil, and the Devil God.”

  “Having reversed the order, we have changed the entire conception of life. Yahweh has become the Black One, horny and monstrous, and his virtues abhorrent. Satan is luminous and beautiful and Sin the Supreme Good.”

  Two servants approached, carrying upon their shoulders on a pole a young deer. The blood made a thin zigzag line according to the movements of the men. Several dogs followed, barking and stopping from time to time to lap the blood. Their muzzles were red like the noses of drunkards.

  “My lord,” one of the servants addressed Gilles de Retz, “the first trophy.”

  “Good!” His eyes dazzled with a light such as I had seen darting from the eyes of a demon in a temple of Egypt,—a phosphorescent light, a light that resembled the whiteness of knives and swords.

  They placed their burden upon the ground. The animal’s body shivered. The Maréchal jerked out the arrow which protruded half way from the deer’s belly. The animal raised himself and fell back, his legs slightly in the air. Blood splashed the Maréchal’s boots. He breathed heavily and tightened his fists. For a moment his pupils were glazed, his limbs stiffened. Then he relaxed. He patted the dogs beating lightly their sides with his palm. The dogs wagged their tails.

  The Maréchal’s conception of Satan ple
ased me. His intellectual diabolism was a new weapon in my warfare against Jesus.

  Gilles had not yet spoken to me about women. Weird scandals about his affairs were gathering about him like a flock of birds. He had recently wedded Catherine of the House of Thouars.

  Who was Catherine? I never caught even a glimpse of her garments. Was it true that he kept her a prisoner in the tower that rose above the castle, like an immense mitre?

  I walked through the garden. The smoke of roasting oxen and sheep curled above the trees. The Maréchal, despite financial difficulties, would not close his gates to the hundreds of people that came from all parts of the country, and his generosity would not allow any curtailment in food and drinks.

  I heard footsteps in back of me, and turned around. Two women, arm in arm, walked slowly. When they became aware of my presence, they stopped almost frightened. I bowed.

  “Prince Cartaphilus!” one of them exclaimed. “My brother-in-law often speaks to us about you.” Turning to the other woman, “You remember, Catherine, what Gilles– —”

  “Yes, I remember, Anne,” she sighed.

  Her voice had an uncommon sadness about it, and her face seemed almost unearthly.

  Catherine was dressed in a black velvet dress whose high collar touched the chin, and her blond hair was surrounded by a thin gold band, studded with a large emerald.

  “We are taking a walk in the garden, Prince. Will you accompany us?” Anne asked.

  The only resemblance to her sister was her height and her aquiline nose. She was more heavily built; her hair was black; her lips sensuous; and her eyes, gray and languorous, had nothing spiritual about them. She was dressed in a gown of white silk. About her throat was a necklace of pearls.

  “I have read that the women of India possess unusual beauty. Is that true, Prince?” asked Anne.

  I answered, “My memory of the women of India has been eclipsed, madame, since I have had the pleasure of seeing the women of France.”

  Anne blushed and her eyes closed a little.

  ‘The eyes of Flower-of-the-Evening,’ I thought. They stirred my slumbering senses.