“What is this—the dawn?” one of the guests asked. A few laughed. “Dawn! Dawn!”
“But it is very light,” another one suggested. “The wine of Nero has the power of changing night into day,” someone remarked.
I looked at the open door. “Your Majesty,” I said calmly, “fate has granted your wish. Rome is burning!”
Nero glared at me. I pointed to the columns of smoke embracing the city like serpents. Flames were rising from the seven hills.
“I am lost, Cartaphilus!”
“Fire! Fire!” several guests shouted, rushing out. Poppaea opened her eyes. Nero ran out. I followed him, slowly, unperturbed. I knew that whatever happened to the others, I was immune. For the first time since Jesus had hurled his imprecation against me, I felt that my predicament was not without its benefits. I could be dignified in a crisis that frightened an Emperor.
Poppaea touched my arm. “You are not afraid, Cartaphilus?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Nero is afraid.”
“Are you?”
“I love fire. Like passion it devours.”
The wind, which had set in toward the evening, fanned the fire. The tongues of flame united into gigantic scarlet masses. People rushed to and fro, shouting and wailing.
Nero turned to me. “Is it right for an Emperor to run, Cartaphilus?”
“He can conquer himself even if he cannot conquer the elements,” I answered.
With trembling hands Nero fixed the folds of his garment—and, mastering his impulse to flee, ordered one of the slaves to bring him his harp. “Is not fire beautiful?” he exclaimed, but his voice quivered. “Shall we not celebrate in its honor?”
His teeth chattered.
‘How,’ I thought, ‘could man survive amid the hostile forces of nature without a touch of madness or delusion of grandeur?’
Sporus reappeared, pale, disheveled, his hand bandaged.
“Recite the burning of Troy, Sporus, while I play.”
People running in terror, stopped a moment to listen to the music.
“The monster!” a woman shouted, “He plays the harp! He is roasting our children alive while he plays!”
I do not know whether Nero heard the remarks.
“Cartaphilus, I am immortal now. The world shall remember me by this gesture.”
‘True,’ I thought to myself, ‘the human mind remembers the picturesque, not the essential.’
Hungry for admiration, the Imperator turned to Sporus. He noticed for the first time the boy’s hand.
“Sporus, look at me!” he ordered. The boy obeyed.
“You?”
“You said you wished to consign Rome to the flames– —”
Nero boxed his ears.
Poppaea whispered, “Sporus.”
For the first time the boy seemed to her more than merely the Emperor’s plaything.
Nero, now very serious, listened to the distant grumble from the populace.
“This may mean revolution, Cartaphilus,” he whispered.
An idea struck me. “No, Your Majesty, not if you take my advice.”
“Speak!”
“We should not be overheard, Your Majesty.”
We walked aside.
“Your Majesty, when dealing with angry crowds all logic is futile– —”
“Yes, Cartaphilus.”
“Also their attention should be distracted, should it not?”
“Yes.”
“The Nazarenes– —”
“I have heard of them.”
“Have secret meetings, Your Majesty.”
“That is against the law!”
“To them Rome is secondary to the world, and the Emperor inferior to their God. They deny the Emperor’s divinity. Men who deny the divinity of the Emperor are capable of any iniquity…”
Nero looked at me long.
“The Nazarenes have set fire to Rome!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Their leaders shall be thrown to the lions! Cartaphilus, you are my friend. I shall make you the Governor of a province.”
“What province is comparable to the friendship of Nero?”
X: THE GREAT GOD ENNUI—THE WIND’S WILL
NERO would never forgive me: I had seen him weak. Poppaea could never forget that I had sought no repetition of our ferocious amour. If Nero discovered the singularity of my fate I would not fare well. He would put me to the test. Perhaps it would amuse him to see me swing from a rope for years, without dying; or be flogged for months, and still breathe; or be cut to bits, retaining consciousness. Nero was subtle and insatiable in his curiosity! Or perhaps, angry that I could outlive and outlove him, it would enter his diabolical mind to mutilate me to deprive me of pleasure. I could not face eternity as a eunuch…
The seven hills began to stifle me. I decided to disappear.
I stood at the crossroads and asked: ‘Whither?’ I turned to the east; I turned to the west; to the north, to the south. Whither? Every path was open to me, but I was like a man whose feet are nailed to the ground. At each extremity I saw an enormous figure; squatting, his face between his palms,—Ennui, ubiquitous and everlasting.
It is not enough to live. One must find a purpose, a reason for existence.
What did I desire? What purpose could I make my own? How should I conquer the terrible god who squatted, his face between his hands, at the end of each road?
“Whither?”
A man passed by on a brown donkey. I asked him where the road to my right led to. “All roads lead to Rome,” he smiled and passed on. Was his remark a warning, or an oracle? What did it mean? Should I return to the Eternal City?
What god was entrusted with my well-being? Reason, not faith, was my guidance. That was the cause of my quarrel with Jesus and his disciples. I would not—perhaps could not—believe. I must investigate, weigh, reject…waiting for time and space to expose, hidden like some black pearl, Falsehood, the Kernel of Truth.
Even the miracle of my own existence did not make me believe in the supernatural. Somewhere there was a mystery; but I refused to worship it. I refused to call it God, or the Son of God, merely because it baffled my reason.
Waving my fist in the air, I exclaimed: “Jesus, did you imagine you could frighten me into belief? Did you imagine you could persuade me by some trick of hypnotism, by the subtle power of certain words? My defiance shall outlive your curse! I am he who does not believe! I am he who accepts no truth as final!”
The sky was very red. Two clouds above me seemed to shape themselves into a fiery cross. Did my words provoke such anger in heaven? I racked my memory to discover how the sky had looked previous to my harangue. I could not tell. I could only doubt and speculate. Doubt—always doubt—yes, that would be the symbol of my life: doubt never assuming the hue of certainty, certainty always dissolving into doubt!
But whither?
I raised a bit of dust, and threw it into the air. The wind blew it to the east. “It is the hand of God!” I exclaimed.
I laughed.
XI: I ENTER DELHI ON AN ELEPHANT—A FAITHFUL SERVANT—THE LEVITATION—MY FRIEND THE FAKIR—I BECOME A MAGICIAN
I ENTERED Delhi, riding on an elephant. The driver walked ahead of the animal, shouting. “Make way for my master! Make way for my master!” The elephant flapped his great ears and raised his trunk toward me. I fed him on small hazel nuts. He was as gentle and playful as a young dog. I had bought him some months previous from a blind merchant, and I became very fond of him. I hired the driver the same day, upon the recommendation of a shopkeeper. The man was worthy of the beast. He was as kind and as sportive, and, with the exception of a few phrases, as taciturn. I was frequently tempted to feed him on hazel nuts.
At the crossroads, a crowd of people encircled a very dark-skinned man, with a long white beard, who waved a black cloth and uttered incomprehensible sounds mingled with prayers from the Upanishads. At his feet, a shrub was rising. He sprinkled water upon it, whil
e continuing his incantation and the waving of the cloth. The trunk spread into branches upon which blossomed large leaves. When the tree reached his knees, the man stopped, breathed deeply several times, and mopped his face.
“Make way for my master!”
“Wait! Wait! Don’t disperse the people. I want to see more of this.”
The driver helped me jump off the elephant, which turned around and struck my arm gently with his trunk. I filled it with the nuts. “Take him to the empty space yonder, and wait until I come. But be careful,” I whispered into his ear. “My valuables are in that sack.”
Animal and man skipped off. I watched them for a few moments, delighted, and mingled with the crowd. The fakir drove several swords into the ground, and asked a boy to stretch out upon the hilts. He covered the body with a black cloth, and motioned to the people to make room. For several minutes, he uttered queer sounds, discoursed on life and death, prayed, all the time waving his arms to east, west, north and south.
The body began to rise slowly, constantly, until it overtopped us all. It remained in the air a few moments, then descended, as leisurely as it had risen. The man removed the cloth, rubbed the boy’s forehead and nostrils, made strange gestures over him. The boy opened his eyes, looked about bewildered, and jumped off the swords. The spectators laughed. The fakir bowed profoundly and passed around a wooden bowl. The people dispersed.
“I amuse them; I make them laugh, and they do not give me enough to eat.”
“Is it possible?”
“See for yourself.”
He showed me the bowl which was almost empty.
“I know a place, my friend, where you would be considered a god, if you performed miracles of this sort.”
“Where is it? I am not as old as I seem and can travel for days without tiring.”
“Crucifixion, however, is apt to precede apotheosis.”
He looked at me and smiled. “The penalty is disproportionate to the honor, I fear, sir.”
“You are wise.”
He was about to go. “Wait. Since you do not wish to become a god…do you wish at least, to make money?”
He bowed very profoundly. “At your service.”
“I come from very far off countries. I am a man of leisure, have nothing to do. If you should care to teach me some of your tricks– —”
“Not tricks, sir, I beg you…art.”
“Art…it would be a most entertaining way of spending my time and a means of amusement for my friends.”
“It is not easy to teach, sir.”
“Does it not depend upon the reward you obtain?”
“My master is wise.”
“My servant and my elephant await me yonder. Come along.”
We reached the spot, but I saw neither elephant nor servant. “Strange. I ordered my man to wait for me here but– —”
We walked up and down. We looked into the distance.
After an exhaustive search, I came to the conclusion that my very gentle elephant and my gentler servant had disappeared.
“There are many such rascals around here,” the old man suggested.
“You can’t imagine how faithful he seemed.”
“He only awaited his opportunity. If you wish it, I can direct you to the authorities, who will search for the rascal.”
“Are they very severe with thieves?”
“No…they merely cut off their hands.”
“I prefer not to find him.”
He looked at me for a long while. “You are not a Hindu, and probably not a Buddhist. How can you be so humane?”
“Other religions and philosophies also teach charity.” He shook his head.
I had told my servant that all my valuables were in the sack. As a matter of fact, however, I had nothing there, save some clothing and a few trifles. I wished to direct his attention from where I really kept my valuables, for I never stretched to its limits the elastic faculty of man’s honesty.
For several months the old fakir and I retired to a solitary villa, where he taught me many remarkable tricks. In a long life, such as mine, it was well to know things that dazzle the onlookers. I rewarded him handsomely.
“It’s strange,” he said, “you pay to learn what I should gladly forget.”
“That is often the case, my friend.”
“Will you allow me to praise you, sir? You have a marvelous faculty for the art. You should continue with it.”
“Are there better teachers than yourself?”
“Not better, but more accomplished.”
He mentioned several Hindu names. Then scratching his head, “But I’m thinking of another man…the greatest of them all…a Greek…but he is not a fakir like me. He is a saint. His great wisdom and the purity of his life, enabled him to perform miracles—not trifles, such as these. His name is Apollonius the Tyanean.”
XII: APOLLONIUS OF TYANA RAISES THE DEAD—DAMIS THE FAVORITE DISCIPLE
APOLLONIUS was not in. The door to his house being open, I entered nevertheless. A very simple home, a few pieces of furniture, Greek statuary, Hindu vases, and large piles of manuscripts. I seated myself on the floor, my legs under me, and waited. ‘You have always time to wait, Cartaphilus. You need never be in haste.’
It was early afternoon, and the sun basked upon the threshold—a luminous, tamed serpent. I closed my eyes. Peace caressed me like a kind, smooth hand, and I was on the point of falling asleep when two young men broke the reflection of the sun, and entered the room.
I rose and bowed.
“I have come to see the Master. Having found the door open, I took the liberty of entering. Have I transgressed the laws of courtesy?”
“Our master’s door is never closed, and he who seeks truth is welcome always,” answered one of the young men, motioning to me to sit down.
We were silent for a while. “Damis, you were recounting the conversation between our Master and the prisoners.”
“Oh, yes. He touched the arm of the thief, saying: ‘While we live, my friend, we are all prisoners, for the soul is bound to the body and suffers much.’
“ ‘Ah,’ remarked the thief, ‘but we are not all cast into jail. Some of us live in palaces.’
“ ‘He who builds a house,’ replied our master, ‘builds one more prison for himself. Cities are only common prisons and the earth is bound to the ocean as by a chain.’
“ ‘Ah, but life even in prison is very sweet,’ replied the murderer, who is to be quartered tomorrow.
“ ‘True freedom,’ replied our master, ‘consists in loving neither life nor death overmuch.’ The prisoner wept, paying no attention to his words.”
“The people marvel at the miracles of the master but they cannot grasp his thoughts.”
“The people clamor for miracles, not for truth.”
“A philosophy degenerates in proportion to the number of those who embrace it.”
“Still– —”
“I know, my friend. You would like to go among all the nations of the earth and preach the Master’s gospel.”
“I feel in me a great passion…a need to wander, Damis.”
They remained silent. I watched Damis. He was fair, and his traits were delicate. If his nose had not been perfectly Hellenic, his resemblance to John would have been startling. The sun receded until only one thin strip still remained on the threshold. In a few moments, it also slipped silently off.
Apollonius entered. He was tall and thin. His full snow-white beard, hung leisurely upon his chest. His eyes were large and black. He wore a white silk robe and a silver belt of exquisite design. Upon his left wrist he had a wide bracelet studded with a large emerald. He bowed and bade me welcome.
“Master! Master!” some voices shouted at the door.
Apollonius turned, unperturbed. “What is it, my friends?”
“Master!” An elderly woman in mourning, knelt before him. A young man remained standing on the threshold, his head bent.
“Master! Do a miracle!”
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br /> “There are no miracles, woman.”
“Master! Bring my daughter back to life. Only a little while ago she was talking to us, laughing, jesting, when suddenly she placed her hand upon her heart…and fell. We threw water upon her, called the physician, prayed to the gods!… She is dead, master! She is dead!”
“Is she not happier now?”
“No, master. She was to be married in a week. There is the young groom.”
“Master, give life again to my bride, I beg you! We loved each other as no one ever loved.”
The master smiled. “Do you like to be awakened rudely from a profound sleep, young man?”
“Awaken her, awaken her, Master!”
The woman embraced his legs. The young man knelt at the door, weeping.
“Give me back my daughter, Master!” she sobbed.
Apollonius meditated, his eyes half-closed, his left hand protruding from his belt. “Where is your daughter, woman?” he asked at last.
“She is in the cart, outside, Master,” the young man answered.
“Bring her in!”
The corpse was brought in.
Apollonius rubbed the girl’s forehead gently and pressed her limp hands.
The girl’s eyelids trembled; her chest heaved slightly.
“Master! Master!” the mother exclaimed.
Apollonius raised his forefinger, demanding silence. He continued rubbing the girl’s forehead and hands, whispering, “Awake!”
The girl opened her eyes, and. sighed deeply.
The people who had meanwhile gathered at the door, fell upon their faces.
The mother and the bridegroom knelt at the sides of the resurrected girl, mumbling words of endearment. Apollonius stretched out his right hand. His voice, as he spoke, was like the cool waters of a brook, tumbling softly over stones whose edges have been smoothed and rounded.
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 7