Nevertheless, we progressed slowly.
“Your Majesty,” I said one day, “however sedulously a man endeavors to repair a house that is fallen into ruins, he will find always walls crumbling, the ceiling leaking, the cellar infested with vermin and rats. It is wiser to build anew…”
Peter was in the habit of thinking quickly.
“Where shall I build my new house?”
“On the Baltic, sire.”
He undid one of his medals, a cross studded with diamonds, which he wore upon his chest, and pinned it upon mine.
“Let us drink to St. Petersburg, the new capital of Holy Russia.”
The insight I gained into world politics through the wars and the treaties of Peter made me realize that Europe would be ruled, in the future, neither by armies and navies nor, before very long, by monarchs, but by wealth. The bankers were becoming the potentates of the world. The Tsar, influenced by courtesans and monks, considered my idea visionary and derogatory to his divinely appointed authority.
I founded banks at my own risk. With the aid of a few men of affairs, chiefly Jews of Spanish and Portuguese descent, I established wide financial ramifications. The credit and the currency of the Emperor were weapons in my hands. Peter never dreamed that I, not he, was the real master of Russia!
Russia alone, however, was unsafe. I needed expansion,—a great net to capture all nations. If I controlled the world’s money, I could never lose. No one could win without me. Life was a lottery in which I held all numbers!
Peter grown stout, gouty and tormented by pains in the groin, drowned his troubles in vast quantities of vodka. He proclaimed himself the Patriarch of the Holy Synod. The slightest deviation from his whims was not alone an insult to the crown, but to God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. About his neck he wore an immense black cross of wood. He counted rosaries until he fell asleep.
The symptoms indicated too clearly the end of his reign. His successors would not relish the favorite of a predecessor. The moment for my departure had come.
“Kotikokura,” I said one day, “we have been estranged for too long a time. Your love for the Tsar has snapped the golden band that united us two. I never could imagine a blow powerful enough for that. I was mistaken!”
He shook his head.
“What! Did you only pretend a greater loyalty to the Emperor than to Ca-ta-pha?”
He nodded.
I looked into his eyes. “Kotikokura, are you still my ancient friend? Do medals and swords and position mean less to you than my love?”
He threw himself at my feet. I raised him and embraced him.
“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed, shaking his shoulders. “You have returned to your friend! Never was Ca-ta-pha happier!”
“Kotikokura—happy—” he grumbled, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Ca-ta-pha—god!”
“Well, we shall forget all about it. What are a few years in a life as long as ours? An hour of unpleasantness—that is all.”
He nodded.
“Now, however, it is time for us to leave this half-barbarous nation to her fate. Our Tsar is no longer the charming man who won our hearts in Holland. Tomorrow, dressed as two ordinary noblemen, we leave for the West.”
Our departure was hardly noticed. My shadowy position had become more shadowy for some time. Indeed, it was difficult to know who was in power and who merely wore the trappings of officers. My banks, however, were firmly established. They were owned by myself under many names,—a much safer way.
As we crossed the frontier into Sweden, I raised my arms and breathed deeply.
“Let us thank the Eternal God, the God of Spinoza, that we escaped whole from the jaws of the Bear. Few have accomplished that feat!”
Kotikokura doubled up and made the sign of my godhood.
LXXVII: THE THRONE OF THE GOLDEN CALF—I MAKE A DEAL WITH MAYER-ANSELM ROTHSCHILD
“KOTIKOKURA, Ca-ta-pha shall rule man more truly than all the other gods for he shall be the master of his bread and of his roof. Ca-ta-pha shall be worshiped by every man, woman, and child. For as soon as he is able to articulate words and until he utters his last sound, man worships money. Ca-ta-pha shall be the god of money!”
“Ca-ta-pha god always.”
“You were right, Kotikokura. You guessed the true nature of your master. What if his worshipers supplanted him by the cross? The whole world shall bend the knee and pray—oh, how fervently! They shall worship the Golden Calf, but the Golden Calf shall be my puppet. I am its master!
“Where are your medals, Kotikokura?”
Kotikokura lowered his head.
“I did not mean to reprimand you, my friend. I need your medals. They will serve as passports for us, and open many doors. For a long time to come, we shall be Russian noblemen. Russia is still a land of mystery and legend. Anything I may care to tell, will be believed—not because I am Ca-ta-pha, the oldest man in the world, he who has seen empires rise and fall and religions in their cradles and in their coffins—but because I am a Russian.”
Kotikokura undid his belt which was closely lined with medals of all shapes.
“You were indeed the favorite of the Tsar, Samson Romanovich.”
Kotikokura grinned.
“From now on, you will play a less gorgeous but very much safer part. It is better, I assure you, to stand firmly upon the ground than to balance yourself on the tip of the highest branch of a tall tree.”
We laughed heartily and our laughter soldered together once more firmly the band that united us.
I was walking along the River Main in Frankfort, meditating on the words of Spinoza and the meaning of life when someone tapped me gently on the arm. I turned around. A little man with a sharp nose, sharp eyes, sharp pointed beard and a sharp protruding belly, bowed deeply.
“Ich bitte um Verzeihung,” he said in a sharp voice.
‘Porcupine,’ I thought. ‘One must not touch this man.’
“By whom have I the honor of being addressed?” I asked.
“I am Mayer-Anselm Rothschild, the banker.”
“I am Prince Daniel Petrovich.”
“I know.”
He reminded me of Abraham with whom I had done business in the matter of the jewels of Queen Isabella. But gone was the old humility. He was, unwittingly perhaps, the first of the new dynasty—the dynasty of money.
There was something so poignant, so dynamic in this little man, that I withdrew a little.
He smiled. “People are generally afraid of me. My friends call me the Living Sword. But Prince Daniel Petrovich certainly does not fear Mayer-Anselm Rothschild.”
“On the contrary, sir, he is pleased to make your acquaintance.”
I gave him my hand which he kissed. His chapped lip, or his beard, pricked me like a needle.
“Prince, I have a proposition which may interest you.”
“What is it?”
“We cannot speak freely here. Would His Highness care to take the trouble of visiting me at my office?”
I hesitated a moment.
“Really, Prince, it is worth while.”
His voice had become soft and oily, as if he had withdrawn his needles.
“Very well. I shall come.”
He rubbed his hands vigorously, standing on tiptoe. He hailed a carriage and we drove to a shop over which a red sign with the word banker swung lightly.
“I am not more than twenty-five, Prince, although I look much older,” Rothschild said, as soon as we were seated at a table. “But this is because I have thought and worked so hard. I know you are not against youth. Indeed, I understand that most of the men you engage are young.”
“It is true.”
“The older generation does not understand the new world which is growing in front of their noses.” He lowered his voice. “You are not prejudiced against Jews. Many of your best men are Jews.”
“I find the Jews cleverer, readier to accept new conditions, and contrary to current opinion, honest.”
Rothschild nodded and sighed. “How we Jews have been maligned, Your Highness! There are, of course, dishonest men among us as there are among all nations, but is it conceivable that a people persecuted and hated as the Jews could have long continued to do business with the Gentiles, if they had not been at least as honest as the latter?”
“The Jew was not originally as clever as he is now, Rothschild. The persecution that you bemoan sharpened his wits.”
“Perhaps. But it really is unbearable at times,” he answered sadly.
“No matter. The Jew will conquer and dominate!” I exclaimed.
“Is that a jest, Prince?”
“It is the truth and a fine piece of irony besides. The Jew will control the money of the world. He who controls a man’s money, controls his life. While the Jew will be persecuted and hounded, he will rule the destiny of mankind.”
He remained silent, looking at me furtively. He was endeavoring to understand why I was interested in the Jews and whether I was sincere. Unable to reach a conclusion, he sighed.
“Do not fear, Rothschild. I conceal no trap.”
“I do not fear, Your Highness. A Jew must have courage to live.”
We spent several days discussing plans and measures for gigantic investments. This young man’s mind was as sharp as his physique.
I entrusted him with a large sum of money. “Rothschild, I have confidence in you.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“You will succeed. Your descendants, if they are as intelligent as you– —”
“I am married to a woman of character and intelligence, Prince.”
“Good! Your descendants will be wealthier than kings.”
He bowed.
“Rothschild, we may or may not meet again. You will feel my influence. I shall work in silence, invisible. Let it seem always that you are the sole master. Never let my name cross your lips.”
“Never, Prince.”
“Extend our business to the end of the earth, Rothschild. Consider the world an angry steed which we must ride. Underneath our yoke, he may foam and fret but will obey nevertheless.”
Rothschild grinned, his teeth set.
“They say that King Frederick of Prussia is amenable to humor and wisdom.”
“So they say.”
“I must visit him then.”
Rothschild sighed.
I smiled. “You cannot overcome your Jewish instinct. You would like to mingle with the great of the earth while your wife struts about, smothered in jewels.”
Rothschild closed his eyes. “Prince, I cannot deceive you. It was this I sighed for.”
“Well, my friend, it will happen—to you, or to your descendants. But whether this will help the Jews or not, I cannot tell.”
“The Jew is bound to be misunderstood, Your Highness. If he is humble, he is kicked about. If he is vain, he is despised. If he is poor, he is beaten; if he is rich, he is menaced. It is better to be rich and vain. Menace and hate do not hurt as much as the tip of a boot and a whip.”
LXXVIII: FREDERICK PLAYS CHESS—THE TABACKS COLLEGIUM—THE KING’S MONKEY—I QUARREL WITH VOLTAIRE—VOLTAIRE’S FAUX PAS
“KOTIKOKURA, this is Sans-Souci. Sans-Souci may be but a bit of irony for which His Majesty is famous. However, it is interesting that he refused to admit me on the strength of my Russian title, but invites me most cordially because I speak all the languages of Europe and because I studied philosophy at Oxford.”
Kotikokura scratched his nose.
Frederick the Second was playing chess. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at me, nodded vaguely, and continued his game. Suddenly, he struck the table and shouted. “General, you have forgotten your rules of war. This move is inadmissible.”
The general, an elderly man, bald to the neck but making up for his lack of hair by two long side beards which reached to his chest, replied in a bass voice, contrasting comically with the King’s falsetto: “As Your Majesty commands.”
“Not as I command, general, but as the ancient law of chess commands.”
Turning to the others who were sitting around, smoking long porcelain pipes, the new vogue, or snuffing, Frederick continued: “Gentlemen, was not the general’s move inadmissible?”
Several whispered, “Yes, certainly, Your Majesty.”
The King frowned. “Prince,” he said, addressing me, “do you play chess?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, and you were wrong.”
Frederick stood up full length and stared at me.
“How do you know I was wrong, Prince, since you entered after the general had made his move? Besides, you are too far away from the table to see the board…”
“Your Majesty, had you been right, there would have been a vociferous reply to that effect from all these gentlemen, not merely a hardly audible ‘yes, certainly, Your Majesty.’ ”
Frederick laughed. “Prince, you have a sense of humor and an independence of mind which I try to foster in all my friends.”
He stretched out his hand, large but too delicate for his frame. I kissed it.
“Prince Daniel Petrovich of Russia,” he called out to the rest who rose and bowed.
One thin man of uncertain age, yellow and wrinkled, with eyes that darted long rays, sitting apart from the others, chuckled.
His Majesty glanced at him. “Monsieur de Voltaire wants to be noticed, gentlemen. Well, monsieur, why do you laugh?”
Monsieur de Voltaire tightened his thin lips until they vanished and gave him the appearance of an old toothless woman.
“Who can help noticing—the monkey, Your Majesty?” he asked.
The others laughed. His Majesty smiled ironically.
“Monsieur de Voltaire thinks himself very handsome. His good fortune with the ladies tends to strengthen his opinion.”
Voltaire continued to grin.
“Why are you laughing?”
“His Majesty spoke of the independence of mind which he tries to foster in his friends, n’est-ce-pas?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is why I laughed, Sire.”
“Gentlemen,” Frederick addressed the rest, “are you not permitted independence of mind and speech in my company?”
The reply was a long acclamation.
“Voyez-vous, monsieur?”
“Non, Sire, j’entends.”
His Majesty’s nostrils shivered, his fists stiffened over his heavy cane.
“Prince, have you ever heard a citizen speak thus to a monarch?”
I smiled inconclusively.
“But do not forget, Prince, that the citizen is Monsieur de Voltaire whose pen is sharper than a monarch’s sword,” remarked the thin-lipped philosopher.
Several emotions crossed the face of the King.
“Shall we try it, monsieur?” Frederick made believe he was unsheathing his sword. There was general laughter. His Majesty clapped his hands. An officer entered.
“Beer!” he commanded.
We seated ourselves around the enormous fireplace in which crackled and glowed a heavy log whose resin perfumed the place. Two great greyhounds curled themselves around the King’s feet. From the painted bowls of the pipes resting comfortably upon the stomachs of the men, rose grayish smoke, curling into weird patterns.
We emptied many steins of beer and general gaiety prevailed.
Monsieur de Voltaire who abstained from drinking, grinned at intervals.
“Gentlemen, Prince Petrovich can speak every language of Europe.”
“And of Asia, Your Majesty,” I added.
“What! Is that possible?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Gentlemen,” Fredericus Rex addressed the rest,—three officers, two scholars, one cleric, and several noblemen, “you are all learned and masters of many tongues. Can any of you compete with the Prince?”
Turning to me, he said, “Not as a test, Your Highness, but merely de curiosité, vous comprenez.”
“Oui, Sire.”
I was addressed in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, the Western European languages. One spoke to me in Sanskrit, another in Chinese, a third one in Japanese.
I understood that these men were assembled for the purpose of examining me. I answered each one, and every now and then, I turned to the Monarch and related in German or in French, curious customs prevailing in those countries.
Frederick applauded. “You are a marvel, Prince. I do not understand how so young a man could acquire so much knowledge. It is incredible. Inouï, Monsieur de Voltaire, n’est-ce-pas?”
Voltaire grumbled. “Mere memory, Your Majesty.”
Frederick laughed. “Do not mind Monsieur de Voltaire, Prince. He scorns every art in which he is not proficient. He says ‘mere king’ with equal glibness.”
Voltaire grinned.
“The great Rousseau he calls—”
“A jackass,” Voltaire interposed.
“The incomparable Shakespeare—”
“A barbarian.”
“The perfect Boileau—”
“A grocer.”
“Virgil—”
“A burly peasant.”
“Homer—”
“A blind nurse woman putting her grandchildren to sleep with childish and monotonous stories.” “Corneille—”
“A pompous ass dragging a hearse.”
“Racine—”
“A nun.”
“Bossuet—”
“An empty drum.”
“Michael Angelo—”
“The wooden horse of Troy.—Your Majesty, has your monkey performed well today?”
There was much laughter and spilling of beer, the tall grenadiers never forgetting that this was “das Tabaks-Collegium” filled and refilled their pipes ceaselessly.
The conversation turned to religion. I described the ceremonies of the African tribe. My auditors laughed. Frederick chuckled, now and then stroking his graceful hounds or looking into their eyes as if to find there the affection and understanding that he did not find among men.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 46
