“Life is a symbol. Death is a symbol.”
Damis threw himself into his arms. “Master!”
I kissed his hands.
“Apollonius, although we are of the same age, I think of you as my father…a father whom I love. I understand better than Damis what you mean. You must go. Damis, make not our Master’s departure difficult.”
“Shall we meet again, Master?” Damis asked.
“The moon begins as a crescent and grows until it becomes a perfect disk. The clouds tear it, then, and smother it, until it vanishes. But the moon is born again…and grows again…eternally. Is it the same moon always—or is it a new one?”
When we looked up, the white head of Apollonius was disappearing in the distance.
XIV: DAMIS FALLS ASLEEP—ETERNAL COMRADES—THE MARRIAGE OF THE BLOOD—“YOUR BLOOD IS POISON!”
TOWARD morning, Damis fell asleep in my arms. He clutched at me, muttering: “Don’t go! Don’t go!” I do not know whether his invocation was addressed to Apollonius or to me. He woke up with a jerk, and looked about, bewildered. “The Master is gone, Cartaphilus,” he said hopelessly.
“Your loneliness is not comparable to mine, Damis.”
He caressed me shyly, pressing his lips against my cheek delicately like a younger brother.
“Do not carry the past like a chain about your neck, Damis.”
“You speak like the Master.”
“His voice would have been gentler,” I said, “and his words more beautiful.”
“Your voice, too, is gentle, and your words are beautiful, Cartaphilus.”
“Damis, if I could share with you the strange vitality that defies the years! What marvelous vistas would unfold themselves if we wandered, eternal comrades, arm in arm through the centuries!”
“Even if it were possible, Cartaphilus, would it be desirable? Who knows what changes time may work in us? Who knows if our friendship so dear to us now, would not become a chain about our necks?” He remained silent for a while, then continued: “Besides, unlike you, I could not endure the loss of those I cherish. My heart would be bruised. I would pray for death…and death would not come.”
“One learns to forget and to laugh, Damis,” and I laughed almost unwillingly.
Silence descended upon us with brooding wings.
After a while, Damis asked: “Will you ever desert me, Cartaphilus?”
“How shall a man be certain of the future, my friend? Are we the masters of our fate? But if my heart desired ever to fly away from you, would I consider it a joy to make you my traveling companion on my pathway to infinity?”
Damis placed his head upon my shoulder. Again silence nestled about us. “Cartaphilus, is it really possible for you to transfer to another something of the mysterious gift that sets you aside from all human beings?”
“I do not know, Damis. If it were, would you wish to face eternity with me?”
“The thought frightens me, Cartaphilus, but it also lures me. The gift of eternal life may be a blessing to you and to me a curse, and yet who can refuse a drink from the cup of the gods? But am I strong enough to bear the deep darkness and the fierce light of the path where the immortals wander?”
I caressed his head, soft and tawny like John’s. “It is difficult to be strong. The heart, like the athlete’s muscle, does not harden except by blows.” He smiled at me through the tears that rolled down his cheek.
“Come with me, Damis. Let our destinies mingle and merge together!”
“So be it, Cartaphilus.”
A small house on the outskirts of the town was the home of the most celebrated doctor in Delhi. The door was low, and we bent our heads in order to enter.
The doctor was a tiny old man, whose long white beard constituted almost half of him. The physician, satisfied that his services would be handsomely rewarded, begged us to sit down, treated us to sweets and water, and recounted his marvelous deeds. He had given life to the dead, limbs to the crippled, sight to the blind, virility to those shipwrecked on the tides of love.
“But, Doctor,” I finally managed to interrupt him, “can you prolong human life? Can you stretch its span indefinitely…?”
“I have cured people of mortal diseases. Thus their span of life– —”
“Can you make a man live for centuries…?”
He looked at me quizzically. “The gentleman deigns to mock me.”
“Is it not possible?”
“Everything is possible, sir. In medicine, however, one must deal with what is at least probable. Experience is the Father of Knowledge.”
“Is the prolongation of life by divers magics and devices an unknown scientific phenomenon?”
“No, I have heard of a few extraordinary cases of longevity. I cannot see the benefit of such a state, since a man must re-don the garments of the flesh again and again until at last, by saintliness, he enters Nirvana.”
‘Does man pretend to scorn long life,’ I thought, ‘because the grapes are beyond his reach? Does he simply console himself? Or is there in the depths of our being, a will to die as well as a will to live? Does all life yearn for the perfect peace of the womb…?’
“Doctor,” I said smilingly, “I am much older than you.”
He laughed, his beard dancing upon his chin.
“Older perhaps in wisdom, but not in years,” he cackled drily. “Surely you exaggerate your age.”
I remained silent, noting the strange instruments, many-shaped knives and multicolored phials that crowded the room. Pleased by my curiosity, the physician explained their manifold uses.
“Doctor,” I said, “I did not exaggerate when I said that I am much older than you.”
“It is possible to look younger than one’s age,” he answered, straightening up. “I look older than mine.”
I shook my head. “I am probably twice your age. I have lived more than a century and still my vitality continues to burn with undiminished intensity.”
He frowned, then smiled, his eyes almost closing. “I hope your years have brought you joy.”
“Joy is the sister of pain,” I remarked, careful not to arouse his jealousy. Man might be envious of anything that another possesses—even his cross!
“I am very lonesome, Doctor. My friends die, and I remain to mourn always.”
He looked at me quizzically, still uncertain if I was telling the truth, or if I was jesting. Perhaps he doubted my sanity, although miracles were commonplaces in India.
“Lonesomeness, Doctor, is a canker that gnaws at the heart.”
He sighed sympathetically.
“Doctor, is there a means by which I could communicate my vitality to another?” The Doctor pulled at his beard and coughed, at a loss for an answer. “My companion, because of the friendship he bears me, is willing to brave fate with me, to walk with me to the end, if there is an
end…”
“Friendship is a priceless jewel,” he remarked sententiously.
“If you can devise some way by which I can give half of my life to my friend I shall make you as rich as a Rajah,” I continued quickly.
He waved his hands. “That is a mere incident. I serve Truth and Science first.”
“Is there a way, Doctor?” I asked anxiously.
“I am not certain.”
“Wisdom always wavers at first– —”
“Perhaps…” He spoke to himself. “Perhaps…”
“– —but triumphs in the end. Am I not right, Doctor?”
After a long silence, he said: “I must meditate for nine days; for nine days I must read the secret books of India and of Egypt; for nine days still, consult the stars, and go into a long trance. On the last day of the full moon, I shall know definitely if I can conscientiously take your case.”
“Very well. Meanwhile, I know that books are expensive, and the stars will not allow themselves to be consulted, save by means of costly charts. Therefore, permit me, Doctor, to ease your task.”
I filled his hand with silver.
He thanked me. “Buddha will be propitious.”
The physician received us gleefully. “I have found it! I have found it!” He pulled at his long beard, until the pain made his eyes tear. I pressed the hand of Damis.
We seated ourselves. The physician told us, in minute details, about the labor and pains he had endured to learn the mystery I sought. He had fasted, thirsted, fallen into a long trance, and nearly became blind over charts and books.
“Your reward, Doctor, shall be proportionate.”
He was indignant. “Is it for this I was working? Are not Science and Truth supreme? Are they not a reward in themselves?” He seemed so sincere in his expostulation that I almost believed him.
“Shall it be said, however, that Science and Truth remained unrewarded?” I asked.
“That is another matter, sir, and it depends upon you.”
“Science and Truth shall have both honors and gold.”
He bowed until the tip of his beard touched the ground. We were silent for a while. Then he began again. “Where is the spirit of life housed? In the blood. Remove a few jars of the red elixir from the body,—does not man die? Is it not because the blood is hot that we are young; and when the blood freezes, like water in winter, are we not old? And how do we live once more in our children, if not through the blood? The blood is the man. Blood is the symbol and the truth of Life!”
I nodded.
“Therefore, if your blood fills this young man’s veins,—he will partake of your life.”
“It seems logical,” I said.
“It is the truth of all the Buddhas. It is a great discovery, and the stars are propitious.”
“When can this transfusion of my blood into my friend’s veins take place?”
“At once, if you will. I have prepared a couch in my other room. You will both stretch out upon it. I shall open a vein in his arm, and a vein in yours, and let the stream of your blood trickle into his body.”
I looked at him somewhat unconvinced.
“Have you ever performed such an operation before?”
“Several times, but for other reasons. The quantity of blood tapped from your body need not be large. The intermingling of your life and his will be sufficient. The marriage of the blood will be consummated.”
I kept silent.
“No other leech in all India would undertake this operation.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he whispered mysteriously, “I found the method in the Book of Forbidden Lore.”
“Will you permit me to consult with my friend for a few moments?”
“Certainly.”
“Damis,” I said, “I believe his idea is the true one, for I, too, have long ago come to a similar conclusion. My blood must mingle with yours, that you may partake of my life.”
“Yes, Cartaphilus.”
“Damis, are you still willing to risk—immortality? The marriage of our spirits, alas, may be shorter-lived than the marriage of our blood…”
“Cartaphilus, Apollonius was as a father to me; you are my brother. I cannot face the future alone. I need you as the vine needs the oak. Let me lean against you forever!” His pale features were flushed, his eyes were restless like torches reflected in water that is stirred. “Unless,” he added suddenly, “you think I will be a burden– —”
“Your delicate weight shall be as natural to me and as pleasurable as upon my shoulders is the weight of my head.”
I turned to the leech.
“We are ready.”
He asked us to strip, and offered us a potion. “This will deaden the pain, although I expect it to be very slight.”
We stretched out upon the couch. He looked at us, took our pulse, examined our eyes, tested each limb. Over Damis he stopped much longer, troubled by the boy’s epicene beauty. His aged hands trembled. ‘His senses are not dead,’ I thought. “My friend is very handsome,” I whispered. He looked at me guiltily. “Yes, very handsome.”
Damis was asleep. The potion and the loss of blood had weakened him. I was quite conscious, and felt no pain, save a tiny itching sensation. The little doctor had bandaged our arms to stop the flow of the blood. Seeing that I watched him, he made many curious motions and mumbled extravagant sounds. I smiled. I had lived long enough to know that every trade had its tricks.
“Is my friend still asleep, Doctor?” I asked.
“I shall wake him now.”
He touched him gently over the face. Damis did not stir. He shook him, at first lightly, then a little more energetically. Damis remained stock-still. He rubbed his temples, tickled the soles of his feet, pricked him with a needle. All in vain.
“What is wrong, Doctor?” I asked, jumping up. He did not answer, but pressed his ear against the heart, and applied a small metal object to the nostrils. He glared at me.
“What is the trouble?” I shouted. “Quick, tell me!”
“You have killed him. Your blood is poison,” he hissed.
“I killed him! You scoundrel, it was your potion– —”
“My potion?”
“Yes, your potion.”
“The drug was harmless, mainly water.”
I hurled him against the wall, where he crouched, groaning and grumbling, “Your blood is poison! Your blood is poison!”
I bent over Damis. His features were pinched and his limbs had already the rigidity of a corpse. “Damis, Damis,” I wept. “Damis, do you not hear me? Cartaphilus calls you, Damis,—my friend!”
The physician did not dare to move from the spot. I rushed at him again. “Fool!” I shouted. “You consulted the stars, and went into trances…and now, look! See what you have done! You have killed him! You have killed my friend!”
“How should I know that your blood is poison? The stars did not mention that, nor the voice in the trance.”
“My blood is poison?”
“Look at him, look at your minion! He is turning black!”
It was true. I covered my face with my hands. ‘Your blood is poison!’ The sentence maddened me. It seemed like the echo of another sentence years ago that had rung in my ears, with the violence of a storm.
“Help me carry him out.”
We placed the corpse upon a pile of wood, sprinkled it with perfumes and aromatics. The red fangs of the fire devoured the body of him to whom the gift of life was the gift of death.
I turned to go. The physician held my arm. “Go away!” I shouted. “Clumsy fool!”
“Am I to get no reward for my labors?”
I glared at him. He followed me. “Master, Master! Are you breaking your promise?”
“What promise?”
“My fee!”
“Impudent wretch!” I walked on. He followed me, mumbling, “Was it my fault that your blood– —?”
Before he could finish the sentence, I struck him on the mouth. He fell. “You have killed me!” he shouted. I threw a purse at him. He rose, seized it, and ran off with the agility of a young animal.
XV: GOD OR DEMON—I AM STILL A MAN—THE RAJAH’S SISTER ASI-MA—NUPTIALS AT SEA
I DID not leave my room for a long while. I do not know what perturbed me more: the loss of Damis, or the knowledge that my blood was accurst. Was I fated to slay those I loved? Was my love a serpent, whose fangs are fatal? Must I wander henceforth uncompanioned and loveless? I walked up and down my room, talking to myself in all the languages I knew.
It struck me that I did not even possess a language quite my own. “Who am I, what am I?” I shouted, and the walls answered, “Stranger! Wanderer!” I envied the pariah who dared to call himself by his true name, who could mention the place and date of his birth, without fear or confusion.
“A human being,” I expostulated, “has significance alone in time and space. He can be neither a star, whirling in infinity, nor a feather blown about by whimsical winds.” I thought of Jesus, and a great hatred overcame me. “Who was he to impose upon me a life suitable for a god or a demon, but not for a man?
By what right, natural or supernatural, did he wish this doom upon me? We shall be enemies,” I shouted, “eternal enemies!”
My nature had become very elastic, however, and I could pass rapidly from despair to a rational understanding. ‘After all,’ I thought, ‘had you been like other men, Cartaphilus, you would have turned to dust long ago, after dragging your body through wearisome years of decrepitude and pain. What have you lost that you cannot replace? Love? Is not one love the antidote of another? And if your blood be poison, if you are brother to the rattlesnake, Cartaphilus, what of that? The serpent is not venomous to its mate. Find the mate to whom your blood is a balm.
‘What have you known of love? What have you known of life? Ten times the span of man’s life are not sufficient to slake your thirst for knowledge. Time is your ally. He will bring back all your loves, even Damis, even Mary and John. Time holds for you under the cloak of the years, unimaginable delights. Apollonius the Tyanean, has said that a great, a supreme love waits for you in some far away corner of the corridor of infinity,—a love which will be both Mary and John. You shall yet find it, Cartaphilus.
‘You can laugh at the sands as they run through the hour glass. You need not hurry. You can walk through life with slow, deliberate steps,—an aristocrat in the midst of slaves!’
Nothing consoled me save thought. This sharp blade that hurt most men, was like a cool, smooth hand caressing me. In Reality, I found the Great Fiction which other people endeavor to snatch from Illusion.
‘Cartaphilus,’ I said to myself, ‘if your life is suitable only for a god or a demon—be a god or a demon!’
I soon discovered that I was still human. Drouth was parching India. In vain the priests sacrificed victims to the implacable gods. Moved to pity, I tried my arts as a rainmaker. It was one of the lesser tricks which I had learned in the house of Apollonius. I do not know whether natural causes or my incantations produced the rain, but I was regarded by the natives as their saviour. This made my position unpleasantly conspicuous and aroused the jealousy of the Rajah.
“Miraculous coincidences,” he remarked, to me, as he bade me farewell, “sometimes save the faces of prophets and of kings.”
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 8
