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

by George Sylvester Viereck

  “The youth intrigues me, my Lord.”

  Lord Verulam called Willie. He jestingly admonished the youth about his morals, pinched his cheek and prophesied the gallows for him.

  “There is more romance and less pain upon the gallows, my Lord, than in a lingering death upon a bed,—the fate of great magistrates.”

  “Wretch!” the Lord exclaimed.

  “I shall tie the noose around your neck myself.”

  “What, my Lord, could be sweeter! The honor robs death of its sting.”

  The Lord laughed, pinched Willie’s check again, shook my hand and left.

  “Your acting was inimitable,” I said.

  Willie smiled and thanked me.

  “I have not seen your equal on the stage.”

  The lad blushed a little, closed and opened his eyes slowly. I looked intently at him. Was it Antonio or Antonia? Had they mingled at last into one?

  “You will forgive me, my lad,” I said, “if I scrutinize your face. You resemble most strangely a brother of mine whom I loved exceedingly.”

  Willie looked at me. “Your eyes are like mine.”

  “My brother—Antonio—resembled me.”

  “Antonio! What a pretty name!”

  “Will you allow me to call you by that name?” I asked. “It thrills me—the memory.”

  “Do please call me Antonio. It’s delicious. And since you are my brother, how shall I call you?”

  “Cartaphilus.”

  “Cartaphilus? What a strange and beautiful name!”

  “It means the Much Beloved in Greek, Antonio.”

  He winked slightly. “Is it merited?”

  “You are wicked, Antonio. His lordship tells me that your reputation is scandalous. The other Antonio,” I added jestingly, “was a good and virtuous youth.”

  The boy looked at me sadly.

  “Forgive me, Antonio. I did not mean to hurt you.” I pressed his hand, small and white, almost a child’s.

  “I thought that being my brother, you would know me better, Cartaphilus.”

  I remained silent.

  “Why do people misinterpret everything, Cartaphilus? Even so wise a man as Lord Verulam. Only Master Will knows the soul. He knows– —”

  Piqued by a sudden sense of jealousy, I said, “Cartaphilus knows his brother better than Master Will.”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes!” I insisted. “And to make amends for his awkwardness and folly, he will buy his brother the finest cloak in London—a silver sword, and a bracelet of gold.”

  The lad clapped his hands gleefully.

  ‘Antonia,’ I thought.

  His face clouded suddenly. “My brother is mocking my poverty. Yes, I am but an actor—an outcast from respectability, and my cloak is neither over-beautiful nor over-new.” He made a step away from me.

  “Antonio!” I exclaimed. I looked deeply into his eyes, as if piercing his very soul.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  He returned the look, the long lashes of his black eyes touching and parting slowly. He sighed.

  “Why do you wish to buy presents for me?”

  “Are you not my brother? Shall I not celebrate our reunion after such a long absence? Give me your hand and tell me that you too rejoice that we have found each other again.”

  He squeezed my hand.

  We walked arm in arm, discussing the theater, morals, life. I had never met so precocious a youth. Antonio? Yes, but more still. Antonia? Yes, but more still. The two combined,—boy and girl, man and woman. Thus must Salome have been in the first bloom of her loveliness! Thus she must be again, if she overcomes the moon!

  Behind us, two boys carried the things I had bought for my new friend.

  “But I have known you only a few hours, Cartaphilus.”

  “Really? Do you believe in your heart that you have known me only a few hours?”

  “I do not know. Just now, I had the feeling that you were indeed my brother—What do I say? Dearer than a brother—one I had known not only from the moment I drew breath, but from some distant endless past, from the beginning of all things.”

  “You are right. You have known me always, for always I thought of you, Antonio,—always—and in my mind you were born centuries before you drew your first breath.”

  What strange emotion indeed drew me to this boy? He seemed dearer to me than Damis, more lovable than John. I pressed his arm which, though firm, had the soft contours of a girl’s.

  “Who are you, Cartaphilus?” he asked me, almost in a whisper.

  “Your brother, Antonio.”

  “My brother is the strangest man I have ever laid my eyes upon. He is more beautiful than the moon which lies upon the crystal pillow of the lake. His language is as sugared as Shakespeare’s.”

  “Do not speak of Shakespeare, Antonio!”

  “You are jealous, Cartaphilus,” he laughed.

  “I am.”

  “I am happy that you are jealous! I see that you are, after all, a man.”

  “And you, Antonio?”

  “I am…a…woman.”

  “What did you say, Antonio?”

  He laughed uproariously. “Should it not be so—a man—a woman?

  Always that. All plays, comedies, tragedies—what are they but a man and a woman, seeking or avoiding each other?”

  “You are an actor always.”

  “And you, Cartaphilus, are you not an actor?”

  “Yes. You have guessed my nature. I am an actor, with many parts.”

  “And your latest—the brother of Antonio. Is it not so?”

  “Is it a comedy or a tragedy, Antonio?”

  “The difference between the two is very slight. Shakespeare often turns his tragedies into comedies. By a slight twist here, a change there—presto, a comedy has become a tragedy and vice versa. Romeo and Juliet he first conceived as a comedy. Romeo marries his sweet-heart. And there was an epilogue too in which—” Willie smiled sadly. “No, that was really too gruesome. The epilogue showed them as husband and wife, quarreling and hating each other. It was Shakespeare’s own life. He could not endure it. It was too horrible.”

  “Is Shakespeare very unhappy?”

  “Very.”

  “This is why you love him.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I wish I were unhappy, Antonio…”

  “You will never be unhappy, Cartaphilus. You have the temperament of an actor. You will always be able to change your part if it becomes too unpleasant.”

  This youth’s intuition was uncanny. He knew me as well as I knew myself after centuries of meditation!

  Upon seeing Willie, Kotikokura became gloomy. I detected a murderous twitch in his hands. Willie sensed his animosity and straight-way began to placate him. He called him a hundred endearing names. He wrestled with him, patted his face, ruffled his hair. Kotikokura, bewildered, began to grin.

  “I have brought you a toy—a little dog in the shape of a youth, to play with, Kotikokura. Have you seen anything or any one more delicious than this creature?”

  Kotikokura relented.

  “Besides, do you not recognize him? He is Antonio, Kotikokura. Look at him.”

  Kotikokura stared, surprised.

  “Antonio resurrected. He is our little friend of Florence.”

  “Kotikokura!” Willie exclaimed. “Kotikokura! What a name! What a strange, beautiful, funny, ridiculous, charming, gorgeous, fantastic, terrible, devilish, divine, uproarious, sad, merry name! Kotikokura! Kotikokura!” Willie jumped upon his neck. “You are the dearest, best, most horrible creature in the world! You are Pan, Caliban, Ariel.”

  Kotikokura began to dance. Antonio joined him. “Come, Cartaphilus, dance! What is life but a dance,—grotesque and magnificent at the same time? Dance!”

  Carried away by the merriment, we danced until out of breath, we fell in a heap upon the floor.

  “I am thirsty, Cartaphilus,” Antonio whispered.

  “Kotikokura, win
e!”

  Kotikokura filled our cups. We drank to beauty that is truth, as Toni had drunk—so long ago. Was this a dream, a play by Master Will Shakespeare or reality?

  “Oh, I forget,” Antonio rose with a jerk. “My new garments! I must try them on.”

  “By all means, little brother.”

  “I do not like to be naked in the presence of other people,” he said seriously.

  “Not even in mine?”

  “Please– —”

  “We shall not embarrass you then, Antonio. Dress in that room behind the curtain while Kotikokura and I drink another cup together.”

  “No peeping,” Antonio warned.

  “I swear it.”

  Kotikokura poured himself a cup of wine, emptied it at one gulp, and repeated the process three times. He wished to forget something, to drown some emotion. Was it love for the youth or hatred or jealousy? Very likely, a mingling of all these emotions, too entangled and irritating. He stretched out upon the floor and snored promptly.

  Sleep is a yearning to disappear from the earth, a temporary death without which man could not continue to live. That was why I, deathless, could endure life. I died every day for a while.

  Willie Hewes was still dressing himself. I could hear now and then a movement, a creaking of the floor. A desire to see the youth naked possessed me. Was he as handsome as the other Antonio? Was his skin as white? Was his body as exquisitely shaped? And there was something else too,—something I could not explain, a curious uneasiness. Did he really feel embarrassed? How unusual for an actor! Did not Bacon say that the youth was known for his escapades with wenches, that his reputation at the Globe Theater was not that of a modest youth?

  I promised I would not “peep.” I might arouse his displeasure. It would be a pity. At the beginning of friendship, it might prove disastrous.

  But even while these ideas crossed and recrossed my brain, my hand lifted carefully a corner of the curtain.

  The long Venetian mirror reflected in gorgeous nakedness—not Antonio, but Antonia—the most beautiful of girls—two small breasts round as apples, a throat as firm and smooth as marble, hips and arms and a torso dazzling like the morning sun. The body was firmly knit as a boy’s, but rounded delicately, giving the illusion of softness. The hair, curled and cut at the nape of the neck, resembled that of a Grecian statue.

  “Antonia,” I whispered.

  Willie turned around and caught her breath. By an ancient instinct, she covered with one arm her breasts, with the other her femininity. Her face flushed, her lips parted.

  “Cartaphilus! Did you not swear– —?”

  I entered the room. “I swore, but I am happy I perjured myself. Antonia, my dearest, my loveliest maiden!”

  She hid her head upon her bosom and sobbed quietly.

  I embraced her. “Is it not infinitely more delectable to find that Antonio is Antonia?”

  “Everybody will hear of it now and I shall have to leave the theater. I shall have to be merely a woman. No more for me the joy and the recklessness of a boy!”

  “How can you think that, my love? If Antonia desires to be Antonio, shall Cartaphilus frustrate her wish? How much more poignant her beauty, vacillating between boy and girl…”

  She raised her head, and wiped one tear that hung midway between the eyelash and the cheek.

  She clasped my head and looked into my eyes.

  “Is it right for Cartaphilus to love his sister?”

  I seated her on my knee upon the edge of the bed and as I fondled her delicately with my lips and fingers, I recounted my experience with the two Florentine children.

  “Cartaphilus is not your brother, Antonia. He was never your brother. He was always your lover. Antonia desired to be Antonio. She said she had been intended for a man. And now, at last, she is—and yet is not—a man. Is there anything more exquisite in all the world than Antonia-Antonio—Toni—both in one?”

  She pressed my lips against hers, biting them a little with the edges of her teeth.

  I continued to enlarge upon the episode of the twins. Before I finished my tale, she had fallen asleep in my arms. I placed her gently upon the bed. I undressed and joined her.

  My first passionate caress awakened her.

  Will,” she whispered. She looked at me. “Forgive me, Cartaphilus—I love you.”

  “And not Shakespeare?”

  “When I am with Cartaphilus—no.”

  “Toni!”

  She stood up suddenly. “Where is Kotikokura?”

  “Do not fear, my love. He is fast asleep. Besides, he never intrudes.”

  “He is a dear fellow. I like him greatly. There is something of the wild forests about him. If Will saw him he would put him into a play.”

  “Tell me what prompted you to disguise yourself as a boy?”

  “It was the only way I could be near him, since the law does not permit our sex to appear on the stage.”

  “But Shakespeare knew your sex?”

  “Not at first…”

  “He loved you…”

  “Yes… He was completely bewildered…at first, but in his heart of hearts he suspected my secret.”

  “How do you know?”

  She pouted. “Because he poured his soul into his sonnets.” Her lips moved, caressing each word affectionately.

  “And for a woman wert thou first created,

  Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting

  And by addition me of thee defeated

  By adding something to my purpose nothing.”

  “And when he discovered that nature had not been so cruel?…”

  “He was overjoyed. It remained a sweet, shameful secret between us. If my true sex were known, I would be banished from the stage, and the Lord Chamberlain would punish Will. In the eyes of the law we are no better than vagabonds.”

  “Do you like to play the boy, to be his play-boy?”

  She hesitated a minute. Then she said shyly, “Yes.” She blushed “He called me master-mistress of his passion…”

  We spent the rest of the day and the night in the exquisite pleasure-pain of amorous dalliance. At one moment, she reminded me of Antonia, at another of Antonio, and as I fell asleep, she was Salome in the desert.

  When I awoke, the sun glared into the room and Kotikokura raised slowly the curtain.

  I stood up.

  “Where is she, Kotikokura? Where is she?”

  Kotikokura grinned, thinking that I was dreaming. I realized that he had probably never guessed the delectable gender of Willie Hewes.

  “Where is the youth?” I asked, jumping off the bed.

  Kotikokura handed me a letter.

  “Dearest Cartaphilus,

  “If I remained another night with you, I should never be able to go back. I must tear myself away as one tears an arm out of its socket. But it must be done, my love, my brother.

  “Will Shakespeare is the saddest of men and his life is a torture. Without me, what would become of him? He would nevermore write. He needs me.

  “As for me—what does it matter, Cartaphilus? How long more can I be Willie Hewes, or Antonio without suspicion? How long more before—no matter, dearest—my heart breaks! A thousand kisses—and one for Kotikokura.

  “P.S. Forgive me if I do not accept your gifts, save the little chain. I must return to Will Shakespeare as I was before I met and before I loved too much the Much-Beloved…

  “Toni.”

  I turned my face to the wall and wept. Kotikokura wept also.

  LXXII: ENGLAND SMOKES—MERMAID'S TAVERN—WILLIE HEWES GIGGLES

  LORD VERULAM sent a messenger to fetch me. He was very cheerful. He had studied my question carefully. There was a way to silence those preposterous heirs.

  “I found it for you, because your case is just. Never in all my career, did I pronounce judgment in favor of him whom I considered guilty. I have received payments and gifts for my labors, it is true, but never—I swear it by my God and country—have I betraye
d truth and justice.”

  There was a strange pathos in his voice.

  “By the way, Baron, do you smoke?”

  “I have noticed the popularity of the pipe in England. What is it you smoke?” I asked.

  “Tobacco. A plant recently introduced from America. It is the best thing that has come out of the New World.”

  He offered me a pipe. We seated ourselves deeply into our chairs, and blew the smoke upward like chimneys of homes where abundance reigns.

  I thought of Salome and the desert and Flower-of-the-Evening, and as I closed my eyes, the image of Willie Hewes reappeared before me in the glory of her epicene youth.

  Why had she left me for Shakespeare? “Another night with you and I should never be able to go back.”

  “My Lord,” I said suddenly, “what can you tell me about this Master Will Shakespeare?”

  “You have seen his ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ ”

  “Yes, I know. But is he really a genius?”

  Bacon smiled. “The age of geniuses is past, Baron. We must resign ourselves to be people of talent. Master Will is a clever craftsman, but he is a thief. He steals with the unconcern of a child whose conscience has been untutored. ‘Mine,’ he calls out gaily, whenever he comes across something that pleases him. He has done me the honor to borrow from me.”

  “Do you allow this, my Lord?”

  “It amuses me. I hear people praise him: ‘What depth of thought and emotion!’ They really praise me unwittingly. Besides, I have enough ideas to spare for a poor fellow who is hungry for fame as a cat is for mice. If only he would not be so anxious for the applause of the groundlings and torture my ideas and the charming fancy of the Italians into such barbarous forms!

  “My gracious sovereign, Queen Elizabeth—may her soul rest in peace—had a fancy for him and his work. She used to go to his theater masked, and she established his reputation.”