My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew

by George Sylvester Viereck

I knelt. The Emperor bade me rise. His voice was sharp and thin, curiously out of harmony with his enormous body and his short, heavy neck.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Isacus, Your Majesty. I was born in Rome, a descendent of the early martyrs who were burnt and tortured for their love of Jesus. Several of my ancestors are buried in the catacombs. Early—in childhood, almost—I heard the Lord command me to travel to all parts of the world, and preach His Holy Word. I have been in every country of Europe, Asia and Africa. I studied the mysteries of drugs in India, and of the stars in Arabia, and everywhere I preached the truth of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “In Arabia, Isacus, I have a great friend, Haroun-el-Raschid, Caliph of Bagdad. Although an infidel, he is a man of courage and heart. Have you met him?”

  “He sends greetings to the Great Emperor of the West, and this large ruby, whose scarlet symbolizes brotherly love.”

  The Emperor showed the jewel to his guests, while eulogizing the Caliph.

  “Tell me, Isacus, is it true that you speak all languages?

  “It is, sire.”

  “My friends who are masters of various languages, will speak to you, and see if it is really possible for one man to possess as much knowledge as you claim.”

  The Emperor’s companions addressed me in several languages. I answered each in the tongue he selected. The sounds we uttered made the Emperor laugh uproariously.

  Suddenly the Emperor’s face twitched. His enormous hand gripped his leg. The rest stopped midway in their laughter and drinking, and looked at one another, distressed.

  “You are a doctor, Isacus?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Can you relieve my atrocious pain?”

  “Your Majesty, I have brought with me strange and secret drugs from Samarkand, the country of marvels. With the help of our Lord Jesus I shall relieve your pain.”

  “Try your drugs, Isacus.”

  I massaged the Emperor’s leg, whispering passages from the Vedas and invoking Jesus and Mary.

  Gradually, Charlemagne’s face relaxed, and he breathed freely.

  I was offered a cup of wine, and we drank the Emperor’s health.

  “Will the cure be permanent, Isacus?”

  “I dare not hope it, sire.”

  “How long must the treatment continue?”

  “It is not possible to say, Your Majesty, but at least a year or two.”

  “You shall remain with us, Isacus.”

  His Majesty’s rheumatism necessitated frequent massages. He showered me with gifts and praises, and had I been ambitious, he would have included high honors.

  “You are a fool, Isacus, not to desire a bishop’s mitre.”

  “I aspire to no higher honors than to serve my sovereign.”

  “You have served me well. My leg is much better. Though the pain has not disappeared entirely, I have not had any violent attack since good fortune sent you to the gate of my palace.”

  “Lord Jesus be praised!”

  The Emperor struck me lightly on the back, and bade me accompany him into the garden.

  “What is your opinion, Isacus,—should the Emperor be the head of the Church or should he relegate his spiritual authority to the Pope?”

  “It is very difficult to rule a great empire, Your Majesty.”

  “It is.”

  “Should the Emperor be concerned as well with the souls of men?”

  “Perhaps not. But who should be supreme,—the Pope or the Emperor?”

  “Is it not self-evident, great King? The sword is mightier than the cassock.”

  “You are the only man of the Church who holds this opinion.”

  “I am not ambitious, Your Majesty.”

  A young woman whose hair glittered in the sun like gold that’s poured from one vessel into another, was walking slowly, bending now and then over a flower. The Emperor whispered: “Is it a sin to love one’s own sister, Isacus?”

  “It is not a sin, but a duty, sire.”

  “I mean—as a man loves a woman.”

  “In Egypt it was considered sacrilege for a royal brother not to marry his sister. Thus the dynasty was kept undefiled.”

  “Very interesting,” the Emperor remarked, his eyes following hungrily the slim figure, whose blue silk gown fluttered a little in the breeze, like an enormous leaf.

  “The daughters of Adam and Eve, our first parents, were the wives of Cain and Abel, their brothers,” I added.

  “You are learned indeed, Isacus. I had never thought of this before. I always wondered how they had populated the world. But,” he added after a while, “would the Pope approve of this—now?”

  “The Pope? The Emperor can make and unmake popes. Laws, Your Majesty, are for the people, dispensations for Kings. If the Pope does not admit this, he must learn the lesson…”

  “I shall teach him his place! “ Charlemagne shouted, his voice breaking like a thin needle.

  This was what I sought—to instil in Charlemagne a desire to dominate the Church, without being part of it. Thus sooner or later the two powers would clash and destroy each other. The proverb about a house divided against itself still held true.

  My position at the Court was all the more important and influential because of its indeterminate character. I was merely a monk, officially,—but in reality, I was His Majesty’s physician and chief adviser in scholastic and political matters: also frequently in religious controversies. It became very soon apparent that I was impervious to bribes of all kinds. My enemies sent maidens, delicate and voluptuous, to gain my confidence. When the feminine messengers failed, the subtle priests entrusted their mission to ingratiating and complaisant young men. When those seductions proved equally ineffective it was whispered about that I was a eunuch.

  My experiments with a balloon inflated by gas proved my undoing. It gave the church a pretext to accuse me of witchcraft, and to rob me of my wealth.

  Even the Emperor resented the invention which, crossing the borders with impunity, reduced the might of princes to nothing.

  Once more I fled.

  XLI: WHITHER?—THE NEW JEW—THE LAND WHERE MEN WEAR SKIRTS—A CLUE

  FOR a long while I lived among prostitutes and beggars. I experienced stark poverty, even hunger. It was a new, and therefore not unwelcome sensation. I regained wealth, however, by being a saint and dwelling in a tower curing the lame and the blind in the name of the Cross.

  Two generations passed. Once more I was a rich man. Fortune, like an obedient bitch, comes to him who waits.

  Weary of incense and sanctity, I sailed upon the Mediterranean! Oh beautiful sea, eternal and unchanging, and unperturbed! Cartaphilus may also be eternal, but he must change always, and always in his heart must be a storm and a great wind, and now and then, a shipwreck.

  Whither? To what part was the boat sailing? What did it matter? All things were relative,—time, space, and Cartaphilus. Cartaphilus more than all else. Just now, he was a Greek of Constantinople, a merchant of moderate means and moderate tastes.

  Several merchants, tried to interest me in their business, promising me great fortunes. One in particular was persistent. He was a very handsome Arab, who had read much and travelled extensively. What he desired to do, if only he could obtain sufficient funds and a partner as clever and as presentable as I, was to open an establishment—very exclusive and elegant, of course—where men and women could find delectation.

  “Nothing is as profitable in this world, sir, as sex and religion. A young man like you,” he added, “must be very careful how he invests his money.”

  I smiled. “I am older than you think.”

  He scrutinized me. “Not one day older than thirty.”

  “True. But is not thirty a sufficient age for understanding?”

  He laughed. “I am thirty-five. You would be astounded how much I had to learn—and lose—from thirty to thirty-five.”

  “What then would you call the age of reason?”

  “Thirty-fiv
e.” The Arab alternated his remarks about business with pungent aphorisms about life and women.

  “The Koran is right. Woman must always be man’s slave. He must crack the whip, else– —” he laughed. “They say that in Africa there is a nation where men wear skirts. Imagine that! A nation ruled by woman, where men are women’s slaves, where female chieftains have harems of males!”

  “What is the religion of this country?” I asked.

  “They worship a parrot.”

  ‘A parrot,’ I mused. ‘Women having harems of men.’ How much was truth, how much invention?

  “In Africa, you said?”

  “Just beyond the desert.”

  ‘Just beyond the desert—a woman ruler and a parrot god.’ Something within me cried out: ‘Salome—Kotikokura.’

  The Arab pulled me aside and showed me a ring with a small opal. “Anyone who wears this is bound to be lucky, for it was worn by the Prophet’s nephew—may he be blessed forever! I shall present it to you for a trifling sum.”

  He mentioned a price about ten times greater than its actual value. I had learned enough from him to pay for my lesson. “It fits your finger as if it had been made expressly for you. You are the Man of Destiny.”

  “What destiny?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Who knows?” Walking off, he muttered in Hebrew: “What fools these Gentiles are! “ I was startled. This Arab was a Jew—the new Jew, the Jew that had drifted from Palestine—but nevertheless, a Jew!

  Meanwhile, something much more important occupied my mind. Was it possible to find both Kotikokura and Salome again?

  Who but Salome would think of establishing a matriarchy, with a harem of men? Where would Kotikokura go, if not to his native land? Curiosity, vanity, natural instinct, would prompt him to revisit Africa. Also, perhaps, the feeling that I would seek him where I had originally found him.

  Was it possible that so much joy awaited me? I turned the ring about my finger. Would it really bring me good luck? Life was illogical. If two bits of wood nailed in opposite directions could work miracles, why not this ring?

  XLII: THE SACRED PARROT—MASCULINE REVOLT—SALOME’S SACRILEGE—THE HIGH PRIEST OF CA-TA-PHA—THE SEX OF GOD

  I BOUGHT camels and hired four experienced drivers who had crossed the desert several times. I asked them whether they had heard about the country where men were the slaves of women and a queen ruled. They answered that beyond the desert everything was possible.

  I bought a young parrot, whom I taught to say.—”Carr-tarr-pharr…” and perch upon my camel’s head. The drivers were much amused at my whim, and made many puns on the word.

  With the exception of a mild sandstorm, the passage was uneventful and suited my mood exceedingly. One morning, the drivers pointed ahead of us. “Look, Prince! Smoke! We have reached the end of our journey.”

  I paid them what we had agreed upon, to which I added valuable gifts. I kept only my camel and the parrot and one day’s food and water. The other animals and the rest of the provisions I allowed the men to take back with them.

  I waited until sunset, and having painted the sun upon my turban, the moon upon the camel’s forehead and dotted the parrot’s beak as of yore, I began my ride in the direction of the smoke.

  As I approached, I heard the violent beating of an iron kettle and I saw many men run from various directions. I thought it advisable to hide within hearing distance. A large tree served my purpose admirably. The parrot was asleep, and the camel, weary from the travel, did not stir.

  A man waved his arms violently, and shouted at the top of his voice. The rest formed a circle about him. “How long will you endure the tyranny of this terrible queen and of her women?”

  The language was that of my tribe, with the exception of a few words, which seemed a corruption of some European tongue.

  “Are you such cowards indeed? Are you not men?”

  “Yes, yes!” growled the others.

  “Has not God Ca-ta-pha made man in His image?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Woman is an unclean animal!”

  “True! True!”

  “Have we not found comradeship more pleasant than the love of our women?”

  “More! More!”

  “Shall we obey the order to become the fathers of their children?”

  “No! No! By the Sacred Parrot, a thousand times, no!”

  “Should we not rather die?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Can you forget the great history of our country, as our old men tell it to us, from generation to generation? Can you forget that Ca-ta-pha, Supreme God of Heaven, came Himself among us?”

  “We shall never forget!”

  “Has He not commanded man to rule woman?”

  “He has!”

  “Was He a man or a woman?”

  “A man!”

  “Shall you violate his commandment?”

  “Never! Never !”

  Meanwhile, more men came, some of them carrying long spears, others hatchets. In the reflection of the fire, which was burning a little away from them, they appeared like animated black shadows of invisible people,

  “Have they not tortured us enough? Have they not tickled hundreds to death? Have they not given us refuse to feed upon?”

  “True! True!”

  “Her knives!”

  “Her spears, chief!”

  “Her sorceries!”

  “What of it? If we are defeated, we can at least refuse to be fathers!”

  “Right! Right!”

  “How can we refuse to beget their children?”

  “Her virgins inflame our passion…”

  “The Queen’s wines and spices set our blood on fire…”

  “The Queen’s instruments of pleasure incite the flesh in spite of itself…”

  “We formed a Sacred Band to resist her enchantments. Emasculate yourselves to assert your manhood! Better castrates than slaves!”

  “Better castrates than slaves!”

  Knives flashed.

  One man laughed hysterically.

  “Who laughs?”

  No one answered.

  From the distance several men shouted, “Chief! Chief!”

  The Chief shouted back, “Hurry, brothers, hurry!”

  The men approached.

  “The Queen…has driven .. . the High Priest out of the Temple.”

  “What!”

  “Is it true?”

  “She has broken the altar!”

  “She has outraged the Keeper of the Holy Camel.”

  “Hear, men!”

  “She has opened the cage of the Sacred Bird.”

  “She shall not live!”

  “She cannot live!”

  “Heaven will strike her blind!”

  “She proclaims herself God!”

  “Sacrilege!”

  “Ca-ta-pha will destroy us all!”

  “Death to the Sorceress.”

  “The High Priest is coming with the sacred image of Ca-ta-pha!”

  “Here he is! Here he is!” some shouted.

  Kotikokura, dressed as a Bishop, carrying in his hand an immense golden image of a rider upon a camel, upon whose head perched an open-mouthed parrot, approached pompously, preceded and followed by several priests. All men dropped on their faces, calling out: “Ca-ta-pha!”

  I did not know whether to shout for joy or to laugh uproariously. My parrot, awakened by the noise and hearing my name pronounced, screeched: “Carr-tarr-pharr!… Carr-tarr-pharr!…”

  There was a deadly silence.

  I struck the camel’s back with my open palm and the animal, half asleep, trudged slowly toward the people, who at my approach, began to roar and howl and shout. They beat their faces with their fists, rolled upon the ground, kissed the camel’s hoofs.

  “Carr-tarr-pharr! Carr-tarr-pharr!…”

  The frightened parrot screeched, flying from the camel’s forehead to a bush and back again.

  “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha
!” the people repeated ceaselessly.

  Kotikokura saw me.

  “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha! My Master!”

  He gave the image to one of the priests, helped me descend from the animal, and embraced me, weeping on my chest. I called him endearing names. He turned to the men, who, seeing how I treated their High Priest, remained stock-still, their mouths and eyes wide open, their bodies bent.

  “Look! Ca-ta-pha! God has come… Ca-ta-pha… God!” Kotikokura exclaimed.

  The men howled: “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha! God!”

  They rolled upon the ground, struck one another’s back; several turned somersaults.

  Weary of their infernal vociferation, I ordered them to stand aside, silent, while I discussed with their spiritual ruler, what means to take against the terrible Queen who violated the customs of the tribe by her refusal to sleep for eight days with the corpse of her chief male concubine, and who desecrated my holy house.

  “Kotikokura, how did you disappear? Where have you been, Kotikokura, my friend,—my brother?”

  Kotikokura growled and chattered inarticulate sounds. He danced about me, embraced me, kissed my hands, kissed the camel’s nose. His tiara, tilted now to one side, now to the other. A hundred years of civilization had fallen off him like a scab, and he resembled, for the moment, his aboriginal self.

  The others, unable to restrain themselves, and besides, seeing Kotikokura’s jubilation, began to dance. They made a large circle about me, and jumped, their legs reaching their chins. Two of them beat the iron kettle and sang hymns to my glory. The parrot screeched from time to time my name, to which they never failed to answer. Exhausted, finally, they dropped upon their hands, growling quietly.

  “Who is this Queen, Kotikokura?” I asked, my voice trembling a little.

  “Salome.”

  I had expected to hear the word, and yet, it almost gave me the vertigo. I grasped Kotikokura’s arm to steady myself.

  “Salome wants to be God in place of Ca-ta-pha. She must die.”

  “Do you forget, Kotikokura, that she cannot die?”

  He scratched his nose violently.

  “She is one of us, Kotikokura, whatever she may do.”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes, yes, Kotikokura. Besides, is not Ca-ta-pha here? Shall not he bring justice? Is he not God?”