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

by George Sylvester Viereck

  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 pleased 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.

  Catherine sighed. “Sister, I am weary. I must go back.”

  “Very well, dear. I shall accompany you.”

  “No, no, I beg you. Remain a while longer with the Prince. You need air…and conversation.” She smiled.

  She kissed Anne, bent a little her knee before me, and left. I was not displeased. The matter that interested me most at the moment could not be discussed in the presence of so ethereal a being…

  “Shall we take that road, Madame? It seems to lead away from the smoke and the noisy merrymaking that takes place in the castle.”

  “My brother-in-law will never be persuaded to abandon his whim of being the provider of the riff-raff of the world.”

  “Riff-raff?”

  “Alchemists, charlatans, visionaries, gypsies, what not. Is it well for a Maréchal of France to associate with such people?”

  I did not answer.

  “My poor sister is distressed. She occupies the tower to escape the din. Even there she finds little rest. All night she is awakened by red lights moving about in the castle and by huge shadows behind curtained windows. In her condition the excitement is most untimely.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “No, but she expects a baby…”

  “She could pose for the Madonna…”

  “She is worthy of the comparison. There was never a purer soul than hers. She was intended for a nun.”

  “Why should not exquisite delicacy dedicate itself to love?”

  “The Maréchal is too busy with other things. Men of his type should not marry.”

  “Your sister loves the Maréchal?”

  “She loves him too well…”

  Anne bent over a bud and smelled it. I caught a glimpse of the magnificent valley that separated her breasts. An irresistible impulse to grasp and crush them in my hands possessed me. I tightened my fists until my nails cut into the flesh. I remembered the Bath of Beauty. I remembered Ulrica and Asi-ma and Flower-of-the-Evening,—round breasts and pear-shaped, tiny and full. Why should I tremble before the invisible breasts of this woman? Was it merely Youth and Spring? Or was it because I could only see the valley that divided their loveliness?…

  Anne looked up. “Smell this bud, Prince. It is intoxicating, as if the whole spring were encased in its tiny body.”

  I bent. My face almost t
ouched hers. I breathed deeply, but not of the bud. I moved my head, until my lips met hers. I pressed into them. She did not withdraw. I lowered my face until it touched her breast. Anne uttered a stifled cry. She straightened up. I grasped her in my arms. “Anne,” I whispered, “Anne, I love you.” Her face was flushed. She breathed heavily, her eyes nearly shut.

  I placed my arm around her waist and we walked in silence to a bench hidden among the bushes. She stretched out upon it. Her white gown and her immobility gave her the appearance of a statue.

  “Anne,” I whispered. “Anne.” Her name thrilled me. My heart beat violently against my chest. “Anne.” I covered her body with kisses.

  “It is time for me to go to the tower,” she whispered. “Catherine is waiting for me.”

  “We must meet again, Anne.”

  “Yes.”

  LVII: THE LABORATORY OF GILLES DE RETZ—GILLES CHALLENGES GOD—BIRTH PANGS OF HOMUNCULUS—THE FEARS OF CATHERINE—THE SECRET LOVE OF GILLES DE RETZ

  THE Maréchal invited me into his laboratory. Francis Prelati at Padua, assisted by six apprentices, was engaged over ill-smelling crucibles. The laboratory, except that it was much larger, resembled very closely that of Trevisan.

  Prelati greeted me cordially, but somewhat pompously. It was our first meeting since Master Bernard had coaxed roses out of the snow. Prelati was still a young man, clean-shaven and tall. He talked about alchemy and physics with the same tricks of language as his friend Trevisan.

  He convinced the Maréchal that before long fabulous riches would leap at his command out of the crucible.

  Gazing out of the window I saw Kotikokura, followed by several dogs, dash by.

  “Your friend the High Priest,” Gilles remarked, “prefers the company of my animals to mine.”

  “His vow not to speak for a year, upon which depends the expiation of a great sin, makes him fear the company of man. If he utters one word before the time, he will have to resume his penance from the beginning.”

  “Cartaphilus,” he said suddenly, “in your company I have a curious sensation. I feel,” he placed his palm upon his forehead, “I feel…as if all the ages were surging about me. Have we lived once before, and were you then my friend…?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Are we born or reborn, Cartaphilus?”

  “We are links in a chain…”

  “I want to destroy—that chain, to begin life anew, without the superstitions of our ancestors, without inevitable decay and old age and death. I want to create new life…that owes nothing to progenitors.”

  He grasped my arm tightly and looked at me intently. His eyes rolled a little backward. His beard seemed so blue, I almost believed he dyed it in some strange chemical.

  “You are competing with God…”

  “Why not?”

  He raised his forefinger upon which shone an amethyst the shape of a serpent. “Within ten more days Homunculus will be ready for the arcanum. The spagyric substances I imprisoned in a glass phial are beginning to pulsate. Come!”

  He unlocked a door which led into a small room like a monk’s cell. Upon one of the walls was a crucifix upside down; upon another, the signs of the Zodiac. In a corner, a heap of dung over which large flies buzzed. The air was stifling like that of a stable.

  “My Homunculus,” he said proudly, “is prospering within it.” He pointed to the heap of manure.

  “How can man be born out of dung?”

  “Why not? It is the womb of the earth. But heat and manure are not sufficient, Cartaphilus. That is true. For forty days I shall feed him on the arcanum of…human blood. I have discovered the perfect combination. Maimonides failed because he could not obtain the pristine, the virginal blood of children… I, Gilles de Retz, Maréchal de France, obtain from God or the Devil whatever is needed…”

  What did he mean by the virginal blood of children?

  We walked out. I breathed deeply, many times.

  “Cartaphilus, who are you?” the Maréchal asked again suddenly.

  “I am—He Who Seeks.”

  “Seeks what?”

  “What the Lord de Retz seeks—a newer and more beautiful life, only I seek more slowly… I wait.”

  “I am impatient, Cartaphilus. I cannot wait.”

  He looked at me perturbed.

  That was the difference between us. We were brothers in spirit. But I could develop slowly, remaining sane and balanced. The Maréchal’s feverish endeavors must inevitably prove futile. His ideas burst the bands of reason. A thousand generations of alchemists might discover the Philosopher’s Stone, and create a new humanity… I could wait and see. Poor Gilles must hasten, he must force the lock of mystery or perish without baring the secret. Whatever of truth there might be in each generation, I could learn. Whatever of falsehood, I could unlearn in the next.

  We reached the bench upon which Anne had stretched out in all her beauty. Gilles bade me sit. I was as thrilled as if Anne lay under my touch again. The Maréchal patted my hand and pressed it. His face at that moment, if shaven, would have looked almost like a boy’s.

  “Cartaphilus,” he whispered, “you are he whom I have sought—he who understands—he who knows.”

  He knelt, and taking both my hands, pressed them to his lips. “Stay with me always. Be my brother. Let us take the blood bond between us. Call me Gilles.”

  “Gilles.”

  In the tower, a shadow moved from one window to another, slowly, ceaselessly.

  Gilles looked up. “It is Lady de Retz, Cartaphilus. She is very restless. Frequently, the whole night through, she walks as she does now.”

  “Perhaps she fears you, Gilles.”

  “She fears my beard.” He laughed a little. “Everybody fears it. I know they call me Bluebeard when my back is turned.”

  “Your beard is characteristic of you.”

  “I think so too. A black or a blond beard would not be compatible with my temperament. Perhaps my beard determines my life! Demosthenes became the greatest orator because he stammered. Cæsar became the most fearless of generals because he was an epileptic. The maid Joan saved France—because—because—she was not really a woman.”

  “Not really a woman? “I asked.

  “She never paid the bloody sacrifice that nature exacts every month from woman. She was not a slave to the moon…”

  His brows contracted. From his eyes darted the curious fire that bespoke the strangeness of his mind. He stroked his beard, and combed it with the tips of his delicate fingers, covered with jewels of fantastic designs.

  “She was a witch, a white witch, but a witch, Cartaphilus!—She confessed that she was!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Afterwards she recanted and lied, but once I caught her performing magic rites. She made the spirits speak and obey…” He covered his face with his hands and placed his elbows upon his knees.

  I had heard of the Maid. People spoke of her indifferently or as some half-crazed girl, who claimed to hear voices.

  He placed his palm upon my shoulder. “Cartaphilus, you have loved much. Your very name bespeaks it. Have you not discovered that a man yearns always to recapture again and again the thrill of his first infatuation?”

  “It is true, Gilles.”

  “I love Catherine my wife… She’s beautiful and charming, a delicate bud. But my heart seeks the boy-girl, the witch, Joan of Arc…”

  At the windows of the tower, the shadow continued to pass to and fro. What fear, what anxiety made Catherine so restless? Did she guess the secret of Bluebeard’s love? Had she heard the whispered rumors about his pact with the Evil One? Did she understand the duality of his motives? Was she really afraid of his beard? Were fear and love bedfellows in her heart?

  “I love Joan of Arc, and I, by Hermes, shall snatch her out of heaven or hell.”

  I sympathized with Gilles. His unhappiness resembled mine—Salome, though, not dead, like the Maid, was equally unattainable.

  Gilles de Retz stood up suddenly. He seemed even talle
r than he was. His beard against the background of his black velvet dazzled like amethysts.

  “She will be mine, Cartaphilus! I shall conquer death…!”

  I looked at him inquiringly.

  “I shall invoke her spirit and capture it. She will be mine! She was too proud to accept me in life. She must accept me in death. Her spirit,” he continued, “is obstinate. It is the counterpart of her body. But I am stronger. Francis Prelati, the greatest magus will assist me. We have made our pact with the Prince of Darkness…”

  “I shall be with you, my brother.”

  He grasped my hands and pressed them to his lips.

  I determined to expose the charlatans who had deluded the Maréchal and who devoured his substance.

  “Cartaphilus, I know you are more powerful than my magicians. If they fail, you will not… Meanwhile, I must prepare for the tournament. The Count of Dorsay has challenged me this day to a bout…”

  He smiled. His face assumed a boyish expression. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Which was his true personality? Was his strangeness due to his thwarted love for the Maid? If Joan had reciprocated his affections would he be merely the charming philosopher, the elegant knight?…

  I begged to be left alone to meditate. My meditations were most uplifting.

  I expected Anne.

  LVIII: I BREAK THE MAGIC CIRCLE—THE WHITE WITCH JOAN OF ARC—I CRASH A MIRROR—I WITNESS A MIRACLE—THE FLIGHT OF THE FALSE MAGICIANS

  THE vault was hung round with black curtains. There was no light, save a torch fixed in a high candelabrum. A triangular tripod in the center was surmounted by a bowl out of which a thin smoke, like a line drawn with a hair, arose, filling the air with a strange odor. An altar of white marble supported by four columns terminating in bulls’ feet stood at the left. It was surmounted by a cross upside down, placed upon a serpent in the shape of a triangle.

  Master Prelati was dressed in an ephod of white linen clasped with a single emerald. About his waist was tied a consecrated girdle, embroidered with strange names; upon his breast the talisman of Venus hanging from a thread of azure silk. He wore a high cap of sable. His assistant was dressed in a priestly robe of black bombazine. Gilles de Retz, handsome and defiant, was resplendent in his uniform of Maréchal de France.