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

by Viereck, George Sylvester

Luther did not answer. He bent his head. The breeze ruffled his thick curls. Suddenly, he began to make very short, deliberate steps, as if counting them.

  “It is God’s will, else He would not permit you to cross my path.”

  “I shall give you my gold, on one condition– —”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “That this transaction remain a secret forever between us.”

  He seemed reluctant.

  “It is my penance for an ancient sin.”

  “Very well. You shall explain when we meet Lord Jesus face to face.”

  It was dawn. Luther slept peacefully, as a child, his fists closed.

  “Kotikokura,” I whispered, “come!”

  We walked away on tiptoes. At a sufficient distance, I said, “Kotikokura, we are now in sight of Wittenberg. It is safer for us not to be in the company of a man who will make history. We must change our direction.”

  He nodded.

  “Whither shall we wend our enormous feet, Kotikokura?”

  He scratched his nose.

  “Italy—Spain—France?”

  He shook his head.

  “We might go to the new countries to the east of us, but they say the inhabitants are still savage.”

  I meditated for a while.

  “I have it, Kotikokura!”

  He grinned.

  “We have never been across the channel.”

  He did not comprehend.

  “The channel, my friend, separates Europe from England, and permits the latter to enjoy peace while the former is in the throes of endless conflicts. They have a great university in England—Oxford. I shall drain the paps of wisdom for a while.”

  He grinned.

  “I am serious, Kotikokura. I know more than Dr. Faust who sold his soul to the Devil, but I must organize my knowledge. I have been neglectful of late—these several centuries. I have not read enough what the sages have written. I must learn their opinion of man and the universe. And you—it is about time you learned how to read and write, Kotikokura.”

  He made a grimace.

  “You must! You heard Luther say that knights are becoming scholars. You have reached the age– —”

  “No! No!”

  “What? You prefer to remain ignorant and illiterate?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “You think life is sufficient.”

  He nodded.

  LXVIII: KOTIKOKURA SUCKS A LEMON—WE CROSS THE CHANNEL—KOTIKOKURA LEARNS TO WRITE

  KOTIKOKURA, yellower than the lemon he was sucking, bent over the boat’s railing, not precisely for the purpose of watching the tumult of the waves.

  “Come, Kotikokura, it is better for us to walk briskly up and down the deck, inhaling the strong air than to shake like melancholy willow trees at the edges of lakes.”

  He looked at me, and endeavored, but in vain, to grin. His upper lip shivered a little and the edges of his front teeth glittered like white lights immediately extinguished.

  I took his arm and we made long strides—ten forward, ten backward. “Count, Kotikokura—one-two-three-four, and you will forget the crazy tossing of the boat.”

  He mumbled, “One—two—three.”

  “One—two—three—four—five,” he grumbled.

  “The gods invented seasickness to protect the English. Don’t stop counting or your nausea will seize you again.”

  “Six—seven—eight—nine—ten.”

  “It is more difficult to conquer that corner of the earth than all Europe combined.”

  “One—two—three—four—five—”

  “One—two—three—”

  Kotikokura pulled his arm away and bent over the railing. Then he leaned against me, placing his head wearily upon my shoulder. I caressed it. “Only a while longer, Kotikokura. We who have seen centuries pass can laugh at the discomfort of hours!”

  He grinned weakly.

  “Hold my arm, Kotikokura, or we may lose each other in this artificial night.”

  We made small careful steps, our hands in front of us, as if descending into a dark cellar.

  “Are those mountains or houses that we are approaching? Is that a horse ripping his form through the gray veil, or two elephants riding on top of each other? Are those torches or stars moving in space? This is a fairyland, Kotikokura, and the people must be strange dreamers. Indeed, they say that there are great poets and philosophers here.”

  The fog thinned and ripped in various places. It crawled out of the branches of the trees; it rose from the hats of people like smoke out of chimneys; it swept the ground like a phantom broom. Some obstinate shreds, laboring under the illusion of weight, clung to a fence or a wall, diminishing, thinning.

  Suddenly, the sun—like the standard of a conquering army—rose triumphantly over the peak of the citadel of the world.

  The Thames, crowded with barges and small sailboats, flowed tranquilly under the bridge. A few patches of the fog, the size of kerchiefs, still floated on its surface.

  We entered a coffee house. The people were drinking jugs of dark beer, discussing the future of the lands discovered by Christopher Columbus. Several boats had recently left England. Wherever Her Majesty’s flag was planted, that was English ground. Some foretold trouble with Spain; others predicted inconceivable wealth from the New World.

  “Kotikokura, let us clink cups to our success. Without my gold, Columbus would have been unable to equip his ships.”

  Kotikokura clinked.

  “If these lands are really another continent and not merely India, man can drown the errors, the stupidities, the cruelties of his ancestors in the sea, and begin anew, Kotikokura! In life’s comedy man must improvise, rhyme at random, strutting about from one part of the stage to the other. The discovery of Columbus enables him to rehearse his part—to improve his acting. For once the gods are merciful! And yet, Kotikokura, I suspect their kindness…”

  Kotikokura drank his beer and wiped his mouth.

  “To start afresh! That is man’s cry through the ages. Destroy the tree of life, plant a new seed! Poor Bluebeard,—that was the meaning of his gory hocus-pocus. What a horrible seed he planted! Can man tear the roots that bind him to Adam? New lands, Kotikokura—but where are the new people? A New World—but the same race of men!”

  We walked out arm in arm.

  “Kotikokura, tomorrow we leave London for Oxford, to learn the wisdom of the ages. Your infancy is over. You must learn to read and write.”

  Kotikokura grumbled.

  “But my friend, even the Queen of this land knows how to read and write.”

  “Queen—woman.”

  “If necessary, Kotikokura, I shall have to use the birch on you.”

  He looked at me, uncertain whether to take me seriously or not.

  “Don’t grasp your pen as if it were an implement of murder, Kotikokura. Take it gently—thus. It is only the delicate feather that once flourished upon a goose.”

  Kotikokura held the pen between the tips of his forefinger and thumb.

  “Nor so daintily, Kotikokura. The most delicate of ladies requires a little pressure. Does not Aristotle exhort us to seek always the middle course?”

  He threw the pen on the floor and started to run away. I held his arm tightly. “Kotikokura, for shame! You are worse than a five-year old urchin. What is the meaning of this irritability?”

  He grumbled.

  “Pick up your pen and start your page again. You shall have no beer today.”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Pick up your pen!” I ordered.

  He glared at me, but obeyed.

  I raised my arms in despair. “Oh that the High Priest of Ca-ta-pha should disobey his god! Oh, that in my old age—”

  He kissed my hand.

  LXIX: I MEET “THE WANDERING JEW”—I AM MALIGNED—A CROSS-EXAMINATION—BOOTS

  “BY Jove, he is confounding the Bishop!” exclaimed a young man, his black gown flowing about him like an enraged sea. />
  “He is an impostor, Arthur, I tell you. He– —”

  “Impostor?” A third youth interposed.

  “An impostor, I say!” the second insisted.

  Several more students gathered about them, vociferating in Latin and in English.

  “He is the Wandering Jew as truly as I am Arthur Blackmore.”

  I pressed Kotikokura’s arm. “Are they speaking of me, Kotikokura?” I whispered.

  He rubbed his nose.

  Arthur Blackmore touched my elbow. “Milord, do you not believe with me that he is the Wandering Jew?”

  “I regret to say that I have not seen him.”

  “What! Is it possible? For the last three days, the university, the whole town indeed, has been in turmoil.”

  “Where is the man who claims to be the Wandering Jew?” I asked.

  “He will be here shortly. At present, he is in secret conclave with the Bishop. He will be examined publicly today. Will you not come, Milord, and convince yourself?”

  “I shall be delighted to witness the trial,” I said.

  “Here he is now!”

  A man of about fifty, long-bearded, long-haired and sharp-eyed as an eagle, walked between the Bishop and two professors toward the Main Hall.

  The Hall, constructed like a chapel, was crowded with students and professors. Upon the platform, sat the Bishop and the two professors, one a young man, fair-haired and blue-eyed, who spoke with a slight Irish brogue, the other a huge middle-aged man whose huge bones bore evidence of his Saxon extraction. His head was almost completely bald. The Bishop had the appearance of a man of much culture and kindliness. His face was rubicund, his hair, such as the shears had left, gray.

  The Bishop rose, blessed the congregation, and ordered the Wandering Jew to enter.

  Humble, stooping, the latter appeared and faced the three judges. The small hump on his back was unconvincing to me. His shoes were larger than needed. His grizzly beard covered his face too thickly to allow the study of lips and chin. His nose, very thin and hooked, cast a triangular shadow upon his right cheek.

  “Isaac,” the Bishop said in a voice that suggested the coolness of high hills, “relate publicly what you have told us in private: the story of your quarrel with our Lord Jesus.”

  Isaac bowed. His cavernous voice seemed to rise from a tomb.

  His story was a travesty of mine. He was the son of a shoemaker who, having joined the Roman army, was singled out by Pilate for promotion. At the trial of Jesus he mocked and shouted with the rest: “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”

  Isaac sighed deeply, as if in great contrition. He followed the sorry procession to the Place of Skulls. On the way, as Jesus fell, the cross having become too heavy, Isaac shouted angrily: “Go to your doom! Hurry!” Jesus looked at him. No mortal had such eyes. They were like two burning spears.

  Isaac covered his face with his hands. The audience was breathless. His arms dropped slowly to his side. Jesus hurled his curse: “I shall hurry but thou must tarry until I return.”

  The audience sighed. I shivered. The impostor had resuscitated my tragic experience. I saw the eyes of Jesus. I heard his voice. The storm of my own emotion howled about me.

  Isaac continued. Ever since, he had wandered from one end of the earth to the other, praying for the return of Jesus. Every seventy years, he fell into a trance out of which he awoke as a man of thirty—his age at the time of the crucifixion.

  The Bishop asked him his present age, based on his last transformation. He was only forty, but he looked much older. Alas, the burden of his guilt!

  The judges asked him questions about his experiences, about his health, the manner of earning a livelihood, to all of which he answered very plausibly. They spoke in a dozen languages to him. He understood each. The Bishop seemed convinced.

  The young professor wished to know if he had made any friends, and how it felt to see them die while he continued to live. Isaac wiped his eyes and sighed deeply. The older professor continued to be skeptical. He cross-examined him again and again. But Isaac had rehearsed his part perfectly.

  I felt indignant. I was maligned! Was this the man who fought Jesus? Was this whimpering, melancholy actor the symbol of my race? Had he enacted his part proudly; had he hurled back an anathema,—I would have restrained my tongue. What other nation, scattered and hounded, had resisted annihilation? Greece, Rome, Egypt—all had disappeared from the map. The Jew might needs pretend humility in his daily life. But when brought to court against his Enemy…!

  The trial was nearing its end.

  I stood up with a jerk. “Is it permissible, Your Reverence,” I asked the Bishop, “to put a question to the Jew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isaac,” I said, “what was your father’s name?”

  Isaac looked at me. The suddenness of my question disconcerted him. He shivered a little and remained perplexed.

  “Well, have you forgotten it?” I asked.

  “Abraham,” he answered. “I had not forgotten it; only the memory upset me.”

  “It’s a lie! Your father’s name was Joseph.”

  “Joseph! True, true! I was thinking of my brother.”

  “The Wandering Jew was an only son!”

  The Hall changed into a hive of bees, buzzing noisily. The Bishop stood up. The two professors bent over the pulpit.

  “And your mother’s name—have you forgotten that also?”

  “It is so long ago, sir,” he whimpered.

  “Your mother’s name!” I insisted.

  “Esther,” he answered.

  “It’s a lie! Her name was Ruth, as any one can find out by consulting the secret history of Pilate in the library of the Vatican, as I did. You have read diligently the confessions of the Wandering Jew to the Armenian Bishop. You have listened to the rumors and gossip, but over these trifles you trip!

  “Ahasuerus never cringed as you do. That is fable. He was proud and dignified. Nor did he pretend poverty. He was wealthier than kings. You are a fraud, seeking sympathy, notoriety, and a purse.”

  “Impostor! Fraud!” rang through the hall.

  “Besides, was it necessary to stuff your back with a cushion?”

  Several people rushed up to Isaac and tapped his back. I had guessed rightly.

  Isaac knelt before the judges and begged forgiveness.

  “Jesus may pardon you when you tremble before him at the Last Judgment. We, however, cannot forgive the insult to ourselves and the mockery to our Lord,” the Bishop said, and turning to an attendant, he ordered, “Take him out and await our decision.”

  Isaac, beaten and spat upon by the audience, was dragged out.

  My familiarity with the story of the Wandering Jew aroused suspicion. The Oxford professors attempted to entrap me in divers discussions. It tested my ingenuity to escape from the meshes of their cross-examination. I was not in a mood to play with danger, and shook the dust of Oxford off my heels leaving behind me a pair of boots.

  LXX: QUEEN ELIZABETH PASSES—DUST TO DUST—I DISCOVER MYSELF IN A BOOK

  AFTER our departure from Oxford we spent a generation or two in Ireland. Under the name of Baron de Martini I bought an estate, where life flowed on as a small river hidden between two valleys.

  One day a rock was hurled into the quiet waters. An heir of the man from whom I had bought my estate discovered a flaw in the title.

  I determined to go to London to seek justice at the fountain head.

  London fluttered like a young bride. Flags, music, confetti, laughter, and colors—a hundred nuances of red, green, blue, yellow—as if a rainbow had been crumbled and scattered by some absent-minded divinity, or one awaiting nervously the verdict of a goddess he courted.

  London expected the Virgin Queen.

  “Kotikokura, we are fortunate. We have arrived on time. It is a good omen. We shall win our case.”

  Trumpets announced the arrival of Queen Elizabeth. Soldiers urged and pushed the crowds to the two sides of the streets, mak
ing room for the procession. A regiment of cavalry preceded the landau all gilded and dazzling like a setting sun, drawn by six milk-white steeds, arrogant, as if the applause and the hurrahs were intended for them.

  The Queen sat erect as a statue, a coronet upon her head and masses of jewels upon her chest and arms. In her right hand, she held a scepter, in her left a large fan of peacock feathers. It was not possible to tell whether she was thin or stout, for her dress, hoop-like and stiff from the whalebones, occupied nearly the entire carriage, which moved very slowly to allow the people to gaze upon their monarch. From time to time, she nodded slightly to one side or the other.

  The people shouted: “Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!” Many in the front lines knelt; others threw flowers and confetti on the horses or against the wheels, careful not to strike the august occupant.

  For a fraction of a second, her eyes met mine. The procession seemed to whirl about me. I closed my eyes tightly as if to lock within them the impression they had received. When I opened them again, the landau had already passed by, leaving behind it a small hillock of dust.

  “Did you see her eyes, Kotikokura?” I asked nervously.

  Kotikokura shook his head. He had noticed her fan, the largest he had ever seen.

  “They resemble Salome’s, Kotikokura!”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  The royal carriage was followed by less magnificent ones, occupied by officers of the army and navy and ladies of the highest nobility. The people exclaimed from time to time the names of an occupant, and waved their hats.

  I was too perturbed to be interested. Hatred and love, pleasure and disgust, mingled within me, making curious patterns.

  “Her hair,—did you notice, Kotikokura?—also resembled Salome’s, but it was faded, despite the sheen of the oil, and tended to grayness.”

  Kotikokura watched the people throw flowers and ribbons and hats into the air.

  “She has a ruler’s face, Kotikokura. There is no doubt of that,—majestic, serene, wise. But what does she lack? What ingredient in her make-up repels rather than attracts?”