He walked up and down for a few minutes, as if to regain his composure.
“Is what you told me the truth, Count?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Then—you are now nearly fifteen centuries old.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
He smiled cynically. “Do you feel the burden of the years?”
“No, Your Holiness.”
He remained silent.
“How could you live so long without being seriously ill without being wounded or scarred?”
“I have been ill, and wounded and scarred, Your Holiness.”
“But you always recuperate?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.” His tone had changed considerably. He seemed annoyed at me, either because he was unable to prove that my statements were lies or because if what I said was the truth, I was incomparably his superior. Alexander VI knew he was mortal.
His silence perturbed me. In order to break it, I said: “Your Holiness, once by accident, I cut off part of my small finger. A hundred years later the finger, healing almost imperceptibly, was restored to its former size. I imagine, therefore, that all severed parts would grow back again, if man lived as long as the crocodile and the tortoise, who are well-nigh immortal.”
“You were circumcised as a boy, I take it?” the Pope asked, raising his left eyebrow, and screwing his lips into a cynical smile.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Well, has beneficent Nature restored that whereof you were deprived?”
I was startled. It had never occurred to me to think of it.
“No, Your Holiness.”
He laughed.
I smiled.
“I am, after all, the Wandering Jew…”
“This is ingenious, Cartaphilus, but it is not the truth.”
I did not answer.
“Not the truth!” he exclaimed. “Acknowledge it!”
I remained silent.
He rang the bell three times. Almost instantly, three officers stood at the doors with drawn swords.
“Tomorrow, we shall see whether you are telling the truth or a lie. The rack will make you speak if I cannot. Besides, it will prove to you most emphatically whether in reality the beneficent forces of Nature can mend your broken limbs, whether you are indeed the equal of the Crustaceans and the Olympians…”
I rose.
“Holy Father, you are jesting. What will the world say if the Vicar of Christ violates the sanctity of the confessional?”
He rose in his turn and placed his hand upon the diamond studded hilt of a small dagger concealed under his robe. He spoke almost gently. “Alexander VI is not a simpleton like your Armenian Bishop. You know too much for the welfare of Christendom…”
“Holy Father, is this the reward for—?” I pointed to the Holy Grail.
“For that we shall make you a beautiful legend. Cardinals shall read masses to your soul when you are dead—if you are dead—for ninety-nine years. No one may live who has listened to all I have told you.”
“I have learned to forget, Your Holiness.”
“Only the dead forget… Besides,” he continued almost caressingly, “you cannot die.” Turning to the officer: “Surrender this man to the Fathers of the Inquisition. Order them to postpone all other trials until they have wrung a confession from him. My secretary will prepare the details of the indictment at once.”
“Holy Father– —” I pleaded.
“Silence, Jew! You ought not to complain. The Inquisition is an instrument perfected by one of your co-religionists—Thomas de Torquemada.”
The officers approached and surrounded me.
“And by the way,” His Holiness added, “he has a valet who is waiting outside. Tickle him also a little to make him speak.”
The officers smiled.
“But first this man—a Jew and an infidel.”
He motioned with his head and reseated himself. I was pulled away unceremoniously. His Holiness fondled the Holy Grail.
LXV: THE HOLY INQUISITION—UNTAPPED RESERVOIRS—A NUN VISITS ME—“DANCE!”—THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF THE SACRED HEART—SALOME BATTLES AGAINST THE MOON
A LONG room. In the center, upon a platform, a round table. In an angle, a bench, the length of a tall man, at one end a pole, at the other a windlass—a simple thing, almost a toy.
A soldier in back of me, the tip of his sword touching my body. At the rack, a colossal individual stricken with elephantiasis—an enormous face, the color of mud, a nose wrinkled like an elephant’s trunk, crossed with heavy red and blue veins, and ears like two open palms. At the table, three stout individuals dressed in black.
The man in the center reading, reading accusations against me. Jew, blasphemer, mocker of Jesus, the Pope and the Holy Church, enemy of all Christian institutions, false claimant to the French nobility, plunderer of holy relics—reading, reading—
What would be the final judgment? Would I be burned at the stake? Would I become a mass of blisters and raw flesh, unable to live, incapable of death? Would I be ordered to the rack, my members torn from their sockets, my flesh cut into shreds, while consciousness persisted in each writhing nerve? Would I be buried alive, to feed, living, the worm that dieth not?
Should I confess or refute the crimes and sins attributed to me? Which meant less torture?
Never had I been in such imminent danger, not even when the cenaculum of Charlemagne tried me for heresy and bribery. Then, I had a flicker of hope,—the Emperor might remember my services, he needed my drugs to relieve his pain. The Borgias knew neither mercy nor gratitude.
Meanwhile, the man continued reading, reading a strange and new version of the life of Cartaphilus, Wandering Jew, Anti-Christ.
Where was Kotikokura? Was he tried separately? Had he escaped? Had he, like some wild animal, scented the danger awaiting him?
The man read on. Soon he would stop—and then—no, Cartaphilus must not surrender without a struggle! But the soldier’s sword touched my back, and the monstrous individual stood erect beside the rack.
The ring of Antonio and Antonia! The ring! The ring! Why did this word reverberate in my mind?
The ring!
I turned it on my finger. A ray of the sun played upon it. It glittered like a small lamp in a dark cellar. One of the three judges looked at it, fascinated. The ring! The word rose from a great depth, as a bucket rises from a well—heavy and overbrimming.
The ring!
He continued to look at it, his lids motionless.
“Save yourself, Cartaphilus! Save yourself!” Was it my own voice? Was it the voice of another? A fierce determination took possession of me. The desire to live, to rescue my body from the claws of the Inquisition, flared up with primordial intensity. Fear vanished. My strength multiplied. I was no longer a man, but an army.
“These,” the voice—this time clearly within me—cried, “are mortals, Cartaphilus. You are the stuff of which the stars are made…!”
I stretched forth my arms and fastened my look upon the Inquisitor at the left. The man blinked and tried to turn his head. He struggled. The tension was plainly tangible. I continued to concentrate upon him. The rays of the ring pierced his eyes. Suddenly he succumbed. His head dropped like a toy and he began to breathe with the regularity of a sleeper.
The man in the center droned on, without raising his head.
The Inquisitor on his right rose suddenly, and raised his arm to utter a malediction. I could almost hear the words: “Demon! Jew!” His fiery eyes sank into mine for a moment. In spite of the most desperate resistance, I held him. ‘Cartaphilus’ I shouted within myself, ‘Hold him! Hold fast.’ I summoned new reserves out of the depths of myself, as one wrenches a root deeply buried in the earth. An irresistible power, an overwhelming will-to-be, raw, invincible, like life itself, rose from its hiding place in the last layer of my being.
“Sleep!” I commanded. “Sleep! Sleep!” My eyes burned into his. The ring splashed him with
fire. Suddenly, no longer a man but an automaton, he breathed deeply, reseated himself, placed his head upon his arm, and snored.
The Chief Inquisitor looked up, astounded. I waved my hands. I recited a passage from the Vedas to distract his attention from his two colleagues. Catching his eyes, I sucked them into mine. His self disappeared in the whirlpool. He struggled like a drowning man, but the waves of energy emanating from me robbed him of his senses. His eyes became as glass.
“Order the soldier who stands behind me to drop his sword and leave,” I whispered.
“Leave!” he commanded. The soldier obeyed.
“Order the Executioner to depart!”
“Depart!” he reiterated.
The executioner departed.
“Now sleep! Sleep!”
He closed his eyes and reclined in his chair.
I breathed heavily through my mouth, like a man who climbs a steep hill, a load upon his back. But I was not exhausted. New strength had flowed into me from the untapped reservoirs of my life—the life of centuries.
The three men, snoring mechanically, looked like crows, their heads half-hidden between their wings.
For the moment I was safe. The bayonet did not pierce my back, nor did the monster in red glare at me, his enormous nose shivering and creasing like an elephant’s trunk. But I was still within the chamber of the Holy Inquisition and outside, doubtless, were the sentinels of the Pope. Maybe Alexander himself, preceded by silver trumpets, was on his way to the court-room! I had to decide upon immediate means of escape.
As I was weighing one thing and another, half accepting, half rejecting, the door opened. A nun, heavily hooded so that hardly more than the lashes of her eyes and the tip of her nose were visible, entered. She looked about furtively.
Where had I seen her, and when? That gait…that carriage! Who was she? The nun approached me and lifted her veil.
“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed. I opened my eyes so wide that they hurt me. “Kotikokura, my friend! Is it possible?” I embraced him. He kissed my hands. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha, my master!” His eyes filled with tears.
“What is the meaning of this attire?” I asked.
He placed his forefinger to his lips and gave me a bundle. I opened it. Within it was a nun’s attire. In a few minutes, I was as orthodox a nun as walked the streets of Rome. Kotikokura made a gesture of admiration. “Oh, wait a minute, Kotikokura! One must not run away so unceremoniously from one’s host—if one’s host is the Pope.”
Upon the back of the scroll which contained the indictment for high crimes against me, I wrote in large letters: “To His Holiness, Pope Alexander VI from the Wandering Jew.” I put the scroll into one of my shoes which I carefully placed on the rack.
I looked at my judges. Suddenly the word “dance” reverberated through my mind. I approached the table.
“Dance!” I commanded. “Dance! Dance!” I repeated.
The Holy Inquisitors lifted their heads slowly, opened their eyes, and descended from the platform.
“Dance, dance!”
They raised their robes in the manner of elegant ladies and began to dance—a weird, disjointed, savage dance. In Kotikokura the dance aroused tribal reminiscences. He looked bewildered. His legs shivered.
The Convent of the Flaming Heart was situated upon a hillock, a few miles to the west of the Eternal City—a beautiful white building, surrounded by vineyards.
The driver urged the horses upward the narrow path that led to the stone gate.
“Is Salome here?” I whispered to Kotikokura.
He nodded.
‘Salome a nun—in a convent,’ I mused, smiling. ‘But not half so strange as the fact that Cartaphilus and Kotikokura are nuns!’ I looked at Kotikokura and it was with the utmost difficulty that I restrained myself from bursting into hilarious laughter.
We descended from the carriage. The driver opened the gate. A nun approached.
“The Mother Superior awaits you.”
We walked in silence in the large garden and were led into a waiting-room.
“The Reverend Lady will be here presently.”
A small door, almost that of a cell, opened to our right and Salome appeared. She raised her eyes and made the sign of the cross.
“Salome!” I exclaimed.
She placed her forefinger to her lips.
“In my cell, we shall be able to speak without being overheard. Follow me!”
Her cell was a large room whose window faced the Tiber. A crucifix of excellent workmanship hung from one of the walls. Underneath it, several shelves crowded with books and manuscripts. At an angle, test tubes and other delicate instruments. Here and there, a flower vase, a statuette, a painting.
She closed the door behind us.
“Salome!” I exclaimed again. I pressed her to my heart.
“I am an Abbess, Cartaphilus, and you a nun. We should be colder and more distant in our dealings.”
She laughed a little.
“Salome an Abbess!” I laughed in my turn.
“It is not so strange, Cartaphilus. Since I cannot be Pope and rule mankind, I can at least rule my nuns and pursue my studies. The nuns are obedient. Unlike the Pope’s subjects they do not rebel. Many are intelligent and beautiful. Unsoiled by the rude hand of man, they tremble at my touch. Their cheeks blossom at a glance. If Eros visits their dreams, they consider themselves wicked sinners. They kneel before me, place their heads upon my knees, and weep. My hand comforts them…”
Salome closed a little her eyes, and remained silent for a while. “Besides,” she said smiling, “Holy Orders enabled me to reciprocate your courtesy. Without my assistance, you would have suffered some unpleasant experience.”
“How did you know of my presence in Rome?”
“How did you not know of mine?”
“Salome is incomparable always.”
“You ascribe my knowledge to feminine intuition, Cartaphilus?”
I smiled, for such a thought had flitted through my brain.
“If intuition knows more than reason, it is superior to reason,” I remarked.
“It was not intuition, but reason. You are incorrigible and unchangeable, Cartaphilus! You still consider woman only a little higher than the animals. Feminine intuition seems to you an impersonal, unreasoned thing, akin to animal instincts.”
I was about to object, but she raised her forefinger to her lips. ‘An Abbess,’ I thought, ‘but a remarkably charming one, nevertheless.’
“What you call feminine intuition is a more sublime form of reason. Woman omits several intermediary steps in the chain of reasoning and arrives at her conclusion more rapidly than man with his clumsy masculine intellect. Bewildered and piqued, man dubs the swift processes of her logical mind—intuition.”
“Salome is subtler than the Holy Father.”
“If the Holy Father had been a woman, he would not have excluded from his reasoning the possibility of your escape. His ‘intuition’ would have been disastrous for you.”
“How well for me, Madre Perfetta, that he is merely a man!”
Salome smiled and caressed my hands. “You must be hungry and thirsty.”
She offered me wines and sweets.
“But tell me explicitly, Salome, what happened? How were you able to rescue me?”
“There is less mystery in this than it seems and much more reason than instinct. I saw you ride through the city as an ancient knight, and if I had not seen you, I would have heard about it. Every one spoke of the strange visitor…”
I rubbed my hands, pleased at my prank, in spite of its aftermath.
“Cartaphilus is a child always, delighted with toys. I understood you desired to attract the attention of His Holiness. I knew a visit to Alexander would not pass without some unpleasantness. Your masculine conceit, intensified by your Jewish propensity for argumentation, would, I was certain, make you boast of matters whose secret only a woman knows how to keep.”
I smiled. “That’s cont
rary to the world’s opinion. A woman’s tongue– —”
Salome, irritated, interrupted me. “Well, I watched and listened closely. When I saw Kotikokura waiting for you at the gate of the Vatican, I knew that the moment for immediate action had arrived. Bribery discovered for me that you were to be tried as a Jew and a blasphemer. Bribery made it possible for Sister Kotikokura to visit you. Bribery allowed you to escape. Bribery will induce forgetfulness…”
“And the Pope? How is it that he was not present at the trial?”
“He was detained by a French Ambassador who recounted some magnificent anecdotes of intrigue and murder, but Alexander VI would have witnessed your torture. That would have interested him more than the Ambassador’s tales.”
“Salome, you are the Goddess of Wisdom and Beauty!” I knelt before her. She made the sign of the cross above my head.
“Salome, has not the time come for us to travel together? We can protect and comfort each other. Infinity is in sight. The parallel lines of our lives must join at last…”
She shook her head. “I must remain here for years, perhaps for centuries, under one guise or another. This place affords me silence and a sanctuary for meditation and for my experiments. I shall not be free until I liberate my sex from the slavery of the moon…”
I looked, not understanding, although I dimly remembered the remark of Gilles de Retz that Joan of Arc was not a slave of the moon.
“It is the moon’s tyranny that makes woman man’s inferior—the scarlet sacrifice the chaste goddess demands of every woman, whoever she may be—peasant, princess, or abbess. She accepts no scapegoat, she admits no ransom—save age. In pain and discomfiture, every daughter of Eve must pay bloody tribute to the moon’s cold and virginal majesty. Yes, before woman can be man’s equal—or his superior—we must overthrow the governance of the moon…!”
Her voice had an unusual pathos. For the first time, I realized to the full the tragedy of being a woman—the tragedy and the courage. I looked at Salome. Her face had the tenderness of a madonna.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 38
