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, making 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?”
Kotikokura was busy removing the wet confetti which a girl had thrown at him, and dotted his entire face, like colored smallpox.
“It is not a question of homeliness, Kotikokura. Homely women have pleased me. She is not homely.”
Kotikokura grumbled, “Woman,” waving his fist at the invisible perpetrator of the jest.
“She is neither man nor woman! Have you noticed that?” I said a little irritably.
Kotikokura nodded, fearing to disagree.
Another regiment approached in a tumult of trumpets.
“She is like the sphinxes we saw in Egypt, Kotikokura. Impenetrable as stone. No wonder she is a virgin!”
Kotikokura grinned.
“Ah, if Salome were queen! If she drove in a golden chariot through the streets of her capital! Man would grow mad with beauty! Ah, Salome!”
The last horseman galloped past us. The people began pushing in all directions, shouting to one another, exclaiming their last hurrahs.
“And yet, she does resemble Salome,—and that is what angers me, that is what saddens me, Kotikokura.”
Kotikokura, holding his elbows at right angles, cleared the passage. Now and then, some one swore at us, shouting ugly epithets.
“Fool, you nearly cut through me!”
“Draw your sword, rascal!”
“The caricature of a thing we love is distressing, Kotikokura. This is what Salome might have been, had the gods been in a less joyous mood. A twist here, a wrench there,—a passion extinguished, a feminine charm removed… And yet, she must be a great queen. But a woman, alas, she is not!”
Kotikokura continued to clear the way unperturbed.
“But I must forget this woman. I must obliterate her image, that the image of the greater queen may not become distorted in my mind.”
“By Jove, will you not cease pushing?”
“Villain!”
“Scoundrel!”
“Low-bred!”
“Come, Kotikokura, let us not get into useless trouble. Here is a bookshop. Let us enter for a while.”
The owner, a very small man, clean-shaven, red-cheeked, approached us, limping a little, and bowing deeply.
“Have you seen the Queen, gentlemen?”
“Yes.”
“Alas, I could not go. My rheumatism did spite me just on this day! Is Her Majesty as beautiful as our poets claim?”
“She i
s,” I answered.
He raised his eyes, so vague a blue that they appeared nearly white, and sighed profoundly. “Who knows if I shall ever have the joy of gazing upon my Queen?” he exclaimed.
“No doubt you will,” I consoled him.
“Is the gentleman interested in the new edition of Master Shakespeare’s plays?”
“No.”
“In Ben Jonson’s then, assuredly.”
“Why assuredly?”
He smiled, raising his upper lip and keeping it pasted against his gum. “The purchasers of my books seem to be divided into two camps nowadays.”
“Ah!” I answered, resolved to care for neither one. “What I should like, if you permit it, is to look about and perhaps discover something that might interest me.”
“The classics, no doubt. The gentleman is a classicist.”
“Hm, hm!
“I have Cicero and Aristotle and Plato and Marcus Aurelius.”
“Marcus Aurelius?” I asked.
“A fine old edition.”
He climbed on the ladder quickly, like a squirrel, forgetting, evidently, the rheumatism in his leg, and descended, a heavy folio in his arm which he presented to me tenderly, as if it had been an infant on its way to the baptismal font.
I examined the book, seeking the passages which I had heard the Emperor read while his beautiful wife toyed with her slave.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, as I read: ‘Be thou erect or be made erect.’ The eyes of the Empress had closed a little and the fan of the youth had grazed her face…
I seated myself on a bench and continued reading, recalling the while the Emperor, the visitors, the old whispering artist. Kotikokura, seated himself on a rung of the ladder and read, moving his lips, a child’s book with letters almost as tall as fingers.
“Nothing is true!” I shouted rising. “Nothing is true save dust!” The bookseller, taken by surprise, shivered and retreated, grasping his rheumatic leg. Kotikokura dropped his book to the floor.
“Nothing, I tell you! What is Marcus Aurelius but dust? And his wife who betrayed him under his nose, while he preached virtue—dust? And all the lords and ladies that flattered him while he droned monotonously? Dust—dust! Does it not choke you, as it chokes me?”
“Yes, Milord!” he groaned, “all dust. Ouch! What a leg, sir, what a leg!”
“In this you have an illustrious predecessor,” I remarked, “Charlemagne—Charles the Great, Emperor of the West, suffered from rheumatism.”
“Is it true, milord?” he asked, dazed.
“But for a long, long time now, he has been relieved of the torture. Dust does not pain, my friend. Keep that in mind and it will help you greatly.”
“It has already, a little. Will your lordship buy the book?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his hands whose hard hooked nails gave the appearance of eagles’ claws.
As I was about to leave the place, I spied a pamphlet whose covers were black from spots of grease. The title, in Latin, read: “The Wandering Jew—His Trial at Oxford University. His remarks, Opinions and Ideas Expounded, Commented Upon and Analyzed by the Reverend Bishop of Canterbury with annotations by Master Aubrey and Master Battermann, Doctors of Sacred Theology.”
I jerked the book out of the shelf and turned the pages rapidly. No doubt about it! It was the record of my examination by the Bishop in Oxford.
LXXI: FRANCIS BACON, LORD VERULAM—I GO TO THE THEATER—I MEET “MR. W. H.”—THE JEALOUSY OF KOTIKOKURA—ANTONIO-ANTONIA—I LIFT A CURTAIN—THE MASTER THIEF
THE London solicitors were more garrulous than the Irish and their more meticulous knowledge of the law made it less possible for them to reach a conclusion. My plan was to receive a favorable judgment without appearing before the courts in person. What judge was both powerful enough and susceptible enough to gifts to accomplish this? For the time being, it was uncertain. Queen Elizabeth died unexpectedly and the favorites of the new King were as yet unknown.
“It is best to wait, Kotikokura. Are you not of my opinion?”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Meanwhile, let us travel about the country, learn its customs and habits. When we are away from here, we may find it necessary to call ourselves Englishmen. We must not arouse any doubt.”
Upon our return, I discovered that Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, a philosopher whose work I had read and admired, had been appointed Chief Solicitor of the Crown.
I wrote him a long letter in which I praised his great contribution to philosophy, and begged him to accept, as a token of my profound appreciation, a watch, the shape of a little book, studded with precious stones, the work of a Florentine artist.
The Lord’s reply was an epistolary masterpiece. He invited me to Gray’s Inn where, despite his position, he was still constrained to live.
The Lord’s kindliness and simplicity were equal to his greatness. He thanked me profusely for my gift, the most appropriate and opportune conceivable, and particularly agreeable since it came from Florence, the most beautiful of cities which he had visited in his youth. I thanked him for the praises he had accorded my city which my ancestor, a man of the same name as I, Baron di Martini, had helped to enrich by his remarkable work in history and by his love for art.
“The Florentines, like the Athenians of old,” Bacon said, sighing a little, “are the only true patriots. We do not understand the meaning of patriotism. Mere allegiance to King and Flag is not patriotism. A man should identify himself with his country, should merge into it as a tiny stream merges into a river. Greater still is the patriotism which flows beyond the frontier of one nation, uniting with the limitless sea of mankind.”
He twisted his short red beard and bit its tip. His eyes, round almost as an owl’s, stared into the distance.
“I discard all philosophies which consider the world ex analogia hominis and not ex analogia mundi. Philosophers, even Aristotle at times, prefer to proclaim their own abstract notions as truth. They never take the trouble to observe. They prefer to close their eyes tightly and speak of light in terms of the darkness in which they live. I consider philosophy a human and a practical thing.”
His round eyes seemed to grow rounder still.
His words thrilled me. Had man at last awakened from the lethargy of futile scholastic argumentations? Was he endeavoring to see truth, to love reality?
“Man,” he continued, “can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of Nature; beyond this, he neither knows anything nor can do anything.”
Who was this man, this oracle of truth? Apollonius? No! Apollonius partook of divinity. This man was mortal, of the earth. One after another I passed in review the great men I had known. No—he was a new pattern—destined, perhaps, to recreate the mind of man. Francis Bacon—I must remember him—and see how future generations would assay his philosophy.
“In my main work, ‘The Novum Organum,’ he said, “I elucidate the questions we are discussing.”
“I am most anxious to see the work.”
“Alas, who knows whether I shall ever complete it? I have been laboring at it nearly all my life but– —” he stopped, sighed, and pulled one hair out of his beard.
“Is it a matter of health, my Lord?”
“Health, too, but mainly duties that occupy my time—duties and debts. I beg your pardon, Baron. I have no right to burden you with my troubles.”
“On the contrary, my Lord. You honor me greatly. Perhaps, too, if it is merely a matter of money– —”
“Merely a matter of money, Baron? Money! People speak so glibly about it. Money—is it not the basis of all reality?”
“The lack of money,” I answered, “is a greater reality than its possession.”
He smiled.
I considered this the most favorable moment of broaching the matter of my suit.
Lord Verulam listened attentively and meditated. “Give me a few days’ time to consider this, Baron. I believ
e it can be adjusted—not so easily, perhaps, but it can be.”
He looked at me, his round eyes blinking a little. We understood each other. He glanced at his watch which hung around his neck by a golden chain, also my gift. Then, once more philosopher and man of the world, Bacon directed the conversation into other channels.
“Ah, it is time for the play. Is the Baron interested in the theater?”
“Life’s distorted reflection in the mirror of art always amuses me.”
“Will Shakespeare of the Globe Theater is putting on ‘Romeo and Juliet’ today, a charming play, though too sentimental. Master Willie Hewes is positively enchanting as Juliet. So consummate is his acting one can hardly believe he’s a boy. Would you care to see the performance?”
I accepted the invitation.
The play pleased me mildly. The plot which I had read in several Italian stories, was hackneyed, the end decidedly stupid. But Master Willie Hewes was exquisite.
When had I seen a youth so handsome, so delicately fashioned? Where had I heard so musical a voice? Who in my memory compared with him? Walhallath? John? Damis? He was as beautiful as they, but more piquant. Perhaps it was the rôle he was playing or the glamor of the lights that enhanced his fascination.
Who was Willie Hewes? Suddenly some one or something tugged at my sleeve and whispered into my ear: “Toni.”
“Toni!” I repeated aloud. But Toni’s hair had been black. He was a Toni whose hair had turned to gold.
His Lordship looked at me, chafing a little in the stiff ruffle about his neck. He noticed my agitation.
“How do you like the lad, Baron?” he asked with a smile.
“Willie Hewes, my Lord, resembles a younger brother of mine who died years ago.”
“Should you desire it, Baron, I shall ask Willie to join us over the punch bowl. He is quite a manly fellow, swears, drinks, fences, and makes love to the wenches. If the lad were less enamored of Shakespeare, he could choose a titled lady for his bride. But his strange passion– —”
“A youth’s whim, my lord. Besides, is not this Shakespeare the playwright?”
“Yes, of course. Willie’s love may be a reflex of his admiration. Meanwhile, however, the scandal sears his character. I told him so, but he would not listen to me. He recited the sonnets Shakespeare dedicated to him. They are not shocking to a classical scholar, but they make ribald tongues wag in London. However,” Bacon laughed, “I nearly fell in love with the lad myself.”
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 41
