[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew

by Viereck, George Sylvester

  “Thou must tarry until I return.”

  I fled. I was afraid I was becoming mad. When I reached home, Lydia opened her eyes. “Come back to bed, Cartaphilus,” she whispered.

  “I am ill, Lydia. My head aches.”

  She rose, undressed me, and helped me to bed.

  IV: BAD DREAMS—I RECOVER—JERUSALEM IS NORMAL—THE MADNESS OF JOHN—MARY AND THE RAGAMUFFINS

  I WAS in bed for several days, almost steadily asleep. I saw in my dreams the court scene, the crucifixion, John, Mary, Pilate’s wife—but in the most grotesque arrangements. My head was like a vast merry-go-’round.

  On the morning of the third day, I awoke, with a jerk. My headache had disappeared. I was very hungry. Lydia was overjoyed. She kissed me innumerable times, told me how anxious she was about me, what strange things I was talking of in my sleep.

  “What did I say?” I asked.

  “Oh, so many things. You seemed to be afraid of someone’s eyes. You shouted, ‘Away, away!’ oh, I don’t know how many times. Then you cried, ‘Crucify him! Crucify him! I hate him!’ But the worst time, when I was really scared, was when you got off the bed, your eyes closed, and began to sob, ‘I will not tarry. I will not tarry.’ But I knew it would soon pass. I once saw Pilate in a worse condition than this. The Phoenician wine has queer powers. You must promise not to drink so much of it, Cartaphilus.”

  It seemed to me that I was hearing my mother’s voice. She used to admonish me in the same gentle manner. I threw my arms around her neck.

  Lydia was happy.

  “You must be hungry, and I am chattering here. I shall prepare a dinner fit for my lover.”

  I knew that Lydia was my only salvation. I was already thirty years old, had seen and read many things, and I realized that happiness was largely an effortless and spontaneous consolation.

  I took a walk in the city. Jerusalem was normal. I looked into the faces of the people. They seemed supremely unconscious that an event of importance had taken place two days previously.

  I reached the gate of the Temple. John was leaning against it.

  “Isaac– —”

  My blood rushed to my head, but I made believe I did not hear him.

  “Isaac– —”

  I turned around. “My name is Cartaphilus.”

  “As you will. Cartaphilus—the Much-Beloved—He has risen!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jesus has risen from the dead. They have buried him, but He has risen.”

  “No man has ever risen from the dead.”

  “Cartaphilus—Isaac Laquedem—Isaac aforetime—believe me—He has risen!”

  “You are raving.”

  “I am not raving. I saw Him, and they who will not see Him now, will see Him…who knows when? Believe me… Look now, before it is too late.”

  “John, come back to your friend. Let him take care of you, make your career, make you happy…”

  He looked at me very sadly. “I am waiting for the Master. It is to Him I shall go…and as for you… Isaac… You must tarry until He comes again.”

  He sighed. His eyes filled with tears, and he turned his head.

  “You are stark mad!” I shouted, and walked off. It was the intolerable phrase that I wished above all to crush within my memory. How did he know about it? Did the whole city ring with its echo? Was it a trick of the Nazarene’s followers to repeat the same words again and again to frighten the people into belief?

  Refusing to be cowed, I began to whistle, but I soon realized that it was the song the executioner had whistled. My mouth became acid. I decided to go to the garrison, and listen to the ribald jests of my companions. Anything to forget.

  On the way, I saw a number of fishermen whom I recognized as the intimate followers of Jesus. Among them was Mary, badly dressed, and her hair in disorder. She was talking haranguing them.

  “Mary,” I said, “how can you associate with those ragamuffins?”

  “He has risen, Cartaphilus! He has risen!”

  “Both John and you are mad. His eyes have maddened you.”

  “He has risen from his tomb and will be with us again this evening.”

  “If he has risen from his tomb, it was you and your friends yonder that have taken him away and buried him elsewhere.”

  She stared at me.

  “The dead are dead forever.”

  “Don’t you understand, my dear, that you must see Him again tonight, and believe in Him, or else you must tarry– —”

  “You, too? You too speak of my tarrying? He has poisoned you with his nonsense! He has turned the heads of all of you.”

  “Cartaphilus, you loved me even as I loved you. Our love was beautiful. For the sake of that love, join us! Be among those who are saved!”

  She looked at me, but her eyes were the eyes of Jesus.

  “Go away!” I shouted furiously to hide a strange uneasiness. “Go back to your ragamuffins!”

  V: PRINCESS SALOME YAWNS—THE PARABLE OF THE QUEEN BEE—I ANOINT MYSELF WITH PERFUME—THE PRINCESS COMMANDS—THE MASKED PARAMOUR

  THE Governor summoned me to appear at once. Princess Salome, stepdaughter of the late King Herod, famous for her beauty and for strange amorous adventures, had arrived in Jerusalem.

  “You shall be her guard of honor, Cartaphilus,” he said, “you speak not only Latin and Hebrew, but the one language that like a spear, pierces the armor of the mightiest princess.”

  The Governor sat in an arm-chair, his right foot hugely bandaged. “I cannot tell whether the gods are merely playful, Cartaphilus, or take delight in nothing as much as in torturing man.”

  Pilate’s wife entered. She had become thinner, and as she smiled, the edges of her eyes massed into tiny hills of wrinkles.

  The left wing of the palace was reserved for the Princess Salome and her suite. I appointed a company of soldiers, in charge of a young lieutenant to guard the gate, while, according to the arrangements made by the Governor, I awaited Salome and her orders in the immense hall which faced the artificial lake in whose waters gold and silver fish glistened like jewels.

  Lydia was a little uneasy, and made me promise to beware the lures of the Princess, of whom she had heard the cruelest stories.

  “Am I not a Roman soldier, my dear?”

  “No soldier is a match for woman, Cartaphilus,” she answered very seriously.

  Her jealousy did not displease me. I promised her eternal love, and made sport of the wiles of all other women. But as the door of the bed-chamber opened slowly, my heart beat with an unaccustomed violence, and I forgot completely both Lydia and my martial valor.

  Salome remained standing upon the threshold—a luminous figure—a sun motionless upon the peak of a mountain.

  I saluted. “I am Captain Cartaphilus. The Governor has done me the great honor of appointing me guard of honor to Her Highness, Princess Salome.”

  She nodded. Her mouth opened slightly, allowing an instant’s glow of her teeth—diamonds breaking through a rose. The glitter of her eyes and her burnished hair merged with the green and scarlet jewels studding the coronet. She walked to the throne in the center of the hall. Her steps were tiny and measured in the manner of Egyptian ladies, and the gems of her slippers made aureoles about her feet. Her bare arms covered with bracelets the shapes of crocodiles, balanced slowly and rhythmically. Her breasts, full-blown, were encased in two golden bowls, the centers of which were surmounted by large rubies.

  I stood at attention.

  “Are the roads in Jerusalem safe for chariots, Captain?”

  “There are several roads, Princess, expressly built for them.”

  “That is well. It is my desire to ride in a chariot today.”

  I lingered, hoping that Salome would deign to speak of other matters, but she remained silent, playing with a piece of jade the shape of a tortoise, which hung as a pendant from her gold necklace. The jade was green, but her eyes were greener still. They were like a sea of green fire.

&nbs
p; Delicately, but unmistakably, Princess Salome yawned. I was piqued. Instinctively rather than consciously, I decided to avenge myself. I saluted, and left.

  Pilate had told me that Salome was well-read and conversed brilliantly, but while we rode in the chariot, I tried in vain to engage her to speak. I quoted philosophy, recited poetry and invented epigrams. She smiled vaguely, asked what the distance was from Jerusalem to Nazareth, the size of the Roman army of occupation, the names of the principal rivers of Palestine.

  She evidently considered me a bore and yet even in the most exclusive circles of the Roman society, I had the reputation of a wit and a man more than usually attractive to women. What had she discovered in me that made her snub me?

  I yearned to hate her, to mock her, but the slightest touch of her robe, thrilled me with unendurable desire.

  I accompanied the Princess to the various places of interest in Jerusalem and the surrounding towns. She listened condescendingly to my remarks on the history, the poetry, the legends.

  We walked along the shore of the lake. The sun, about to set, lay wearily over the water, which the fish ripped silently from time to time like sharp knives.

  Salome bent over the orchids and lilies, caressing their pistils and hard petals. A bee buried itself into a flower, and emerged soon, his wings gilded with pollen.

  The Princess sighed.

  “How fortunate are these creatures of the air!” I remarked, “unhindered in their love and in their search for beauty!”

  I expected as usually, a vague smile or an imperceptible nod of the head, but the Princess deigned to speak.

  “Fortunate indeed…these flowers which receive a varied and mingled love from distant fields, carried gracefully upon the glittering backs of the bee and the butterfly! They are spared the indignity, the imposition of a particular male.”

  Her voice had a slight tremor like Mary’s.

  “Do not these flowers yearn perhaps for the exclusive and intense caress of one particular individual?” I asked.

  Salome replied: “It may be that their petals open with a greater joy to the caresses of a particular individual, whose wooing is subtle and exquisite like a zephyr that stirs the wings of a bee.”

  “Cannot a man’s touch be as subtle and as exquisite, Princess?”

  “Man is clumsy. His conceit makes his touch heavy and coarse.”

  Did she direct the remarks to me? Had I been clumsy and conceited?

  “Man does not possess the subtle means of conquering an exquisite love,” she continued.

  “What are the subtle means of conquering an exquisite love, Your Highness?”

  She did not answer my question.

  “Ah, to be indeed…like the bee…to soar…high…high…to be pursued by a thousand lovers…to be finally conquered by one whose wings, powerful and indefatigable, touch tremblingly those of the Queen!”

  “Oh, the incomparable joy of pursuing the Queen!” I exclaimed.

  “Alas, for the conqueror, Captain…for he may not live beyond love’s moment! The Queen demands his sacrifice!”

  “What joy would life hold for him after love’s moment?”

  The Princess looked at me, her eyes half-closed. My knees ached to bend, and my tongue to utter: ‘Sacrifice me, O Princess!’ I restrained myself. ‘Not yet, Cartaphilus! The bee that soars to the dizzy heights of the Queen must be more delicate and more subtle!’

  I anointed myself with rare Egyptian perfumes. My curls glistened from the delicate oils. I covered my arms and fingers with jewels and donned a new uniform, the gift of Pilate. The scabbard of my sword was of heavy gold, the hilt encrusted with lapis-lazuli.

  I dismissed the lieutenant, remaining on guard myself. I walked up and down the great hall, thinking of a subtle and beautiful manner of attack. From time to time, I glanced at myself in the large Corinthian mirror. I was young and handsome!

  ‘Man is clumsy and his conceit makes his touch heavy and coarse.’

  ‘Yes, Princess, but even the bee must possess the conceit of his ability to fly high…high…until his wings touch the tips of the Queen’s wings. Strength is conscious of itself.’

  The door opened, and a very tall and powerful man, whose face was veiled, entered, accompanied on either side by a lady-in-waiting of the Princess. I stopped them. One of the women placed her forefinger to her lips, whispering: “The Princess commands.”

  They broke the wide reflection of the moon which flooded the room, and entered into the royal bedchamber.

  Who was this man? What was the meaning of this intrusion? My plans were crushed under his feet, as a delicate vase under the paws of an elephant.

  Meanwhile, the women walked in and out of the room, carrying delicacies, wines, spices, perfumes. To my inquiries, they whispered mysteriously: “The Princess commands.”

  Someone played upon the harp a sensuous, languorous melody, and another danced.

  The feet that stamped upon the floor, trod upon my heart.

  Who was this man? What mighty prince? What youth of unconquerable beauty? I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a face, ugly and commonplace, crowned with an enormously Jewish nose.

  ‘Cartaphilus, you were vain indeed to believe yourself the glorious king who conquers the Queen! You are but an insignificant captain, a shoemaker’s son, a Jew!’

  The entire night the revelry continued, alternating between laughter and music and dancing, and vague amorous whispers and groans which I could hear as I pressed my ear against the door.

  Again and again I was on the point of dashing into the room, of shouting epithets of abomination and of piercing to the hilt of my sword the body of Salome.

  The rays of the sun, like long fingers, caressed the powerful legs of the royal throne. I looked in the mirror. A haggard, drawn face stared back at me. Even my wildest debauches had never left me so completely bedraggled.

  The door of the royal bedchamber opened cautiously. Was it Salome? Had she come to atone for her intolerable cruelty? Had everything been merely a nightmare and an illusion? Was she ready for the nuptial flight, for the honeymoon in the clouds?

  The tall man, who had entered the previous evening, appeared upon the threshold. Was this an illusion indeed? Was he the magnificent prince, the chosen one of Salome,—a Nubian, black as charcoal, heavy-featured, and colossally muscled like a giant bull!

  I drew my sword. “Halt!” I commanded. A woman in back of him, placed her forefinger to her lips: “The Princess commands.” I replaced the sword into the scabbard, and motioned to him to pursue his way. “What subtle means have conquered an exquisite love, 0 Princess?” I asked aloud.

  It seemed to me I heard someone laugh.

  “Daughter of Night and of Evil!” I shouted, and rushed out.

  VI: MY FIRST MARRIAGE—PROCLA ASKS A QUESTION—THE DESPERATION OF LYDIA—THE CURIOUS HETAERA—I CONSULT A LEECH

  LYDIA was a mother to me—a young and desirable mother. She was a slave to my whims. I married her. I tried to persuade myself that it was merely gratitude, although I knew very well that such a sentiment was foreign to me. What I really wished was to force myself by an outward symbol to lead a normal existence. I wished to be able to say to myself: ‘Cartaphilus, forget—forget whatever preceded Lydia, forget John, forget Mary, forget the eyes of Jesus and forget Salome.”

  I wanted children to rediscover myself in them, fresh and pure. I wished to drown the voice that tormented my nerves, with their laughter and noises. But the years passed, and no children came. Lydia, fearing that it was her fault, prayed in the various temples, took drugs, fasted, consulted oracles.

  I felt the need of ceaseless occupation. I engaged in many business ventures, in most of which, by dint of hard work, I succeeded. I became wealthy. I lived in luxury, and for some years, at any rate, I was considered one of the principal citizens of Jerusalem. To Romans I was a Roman. The Jews, except in the most orthodox circles, were grateful, because unlike others who had forsaken the fold, I did not pers
ecute them.

  John and Mary had vanished. My inquiries and searches were all futile. The followers of Jesus were not numerous enough to attract attention, and they remained unmolested.

  Pilate returned to Rome. He had grown old, and bored even with Ovid and with his wife. Whether he really committed suicide afterward, as the rumor had it, or not, I cannot tell. At any rate, I never saw him again. Procla kissed me goodbye.

  “Cartaphilus, what is the secret of your youth?”

  “My wife’s cooking. She is without equal.” I laughed.

  “You jest. This is your habit now with me. Is it because I am getting old? With old ladies one jests; with young ones one sighs. You used to love me once, Cartaphilus.”

  “I love you still, Procla.”

  “How can you? I look like your grandmother.”

  “You are beautiful.”

  “There is nothing more pathetic—and more futile—than being beautiful, but old. I would rather be very homely, and young. What makes you so youthful, Cartaphilus? Is it a racial characteristic? Romans who lead so gay a life would be bald and stout like poor Pilate, and complain, like him, of rheumatism…but you…you have not changed one particle all these years… What is your secret…?”

  “You exaggerate my youth, I am sure; and moreover, you exaggerate your age.”

  She sighed. “Farewell, Cartaphilus. It is no longer in my power to persuade men. Farewell.”

  This was the first time that any one mentioned to me the suspicion that I possessed the secret of youth. Like a brazen drum the words: ‘Thou shalt tarry until I return’ re-echoed in my ears. Had Jesus, by some curious magic, some incomprehensible trick, stopped the flow of sand in the hour-glass for me? Was my body secure from the assaults of age?

  I had strangled my own suspicions. Suddenly, however, it was borne upon me that the words of Jesus or some other thing had wrought in me a curious transformation that made me different from other men. For the first time I seriously reconsidered the strange spell he had pronounced upon me.