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

by Viereck, George Sylvester

  “Death and Life,” he remarked, addressing his pupils, “are two facets of the same jewel—sleeping—waking. What reason is there, then, to seek either Death or Life? …Seek rather freedom from both!”

  The girl sobbed. Her mother and her lover helped her rise. She hid her face in her hands. The people dispersed. No one remained, save a dog, who wagged his tail lustily for a few moments, and ran away. Apollonius was walking silently, his hands clasped behind him. Damis walked on his right. The master looked at me.

  “Master,” I said, “how can such a miracle be accomplished? How can you resurrect the dead?”

  “To recall a person from death into life is no more miraculous than to arouse him from sleep. Dying and living are equally mysterious and equally simple,” Apollonius replied.

  “But you are thwarting Nature, master. All living things must die.”

  “Are you sure?” Apollonius responded, looking strangely at me. His eyes, like the eyes of Jesus, seemed to penetrate the core of my being. He added, “Life and death depend upon a slight readjustment-balance. The skillful merchant may lift or lower either side, by adding or subtracting a tiny weight.”

  Apollonius had replied to my unspoken question.

  My mysterious fate presented itself to me in a different angle, much simpler, much less marvelous. It was almost commonplace. I felt for the time being, neither sad nor joyous. I was neither a man in plight nor a man specially favored. Life and death were too much akin.

  Apollonius said, guessing my thought, “Life and death, my son, are one. They are different beats of the same rhythm.”

  We reentered.

  “Master,” I asked, “can a man find his soul in the space of a single life?”

  “It is not a question of finding, my friend, but of seeking.”

  “Why seek, then, that which cannot be found?”

  “That which can be found…is it worth the seeking?”

  XIII: DAMIS, APOLLONIUS AND JESUS—THE DOUBLE BLOSSOM OF PASSION—“CARTAPHILUS DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”—“SEEK—AND PERHAPS—YOU SHALL FIND.”

  BEYOND my name, the Master asked me nothing. Our minds met where the accidents of flesh were meaningless.

  Damis was the favorite disciple. Apollonius considered him as a son. But he was as dear to me as he was to the Master. Hand in hand we walked for hours, discoursing on the remarks of Apollonius, trying to grasp his subtleties. Frequently, I would call him “John.” He would smile.

  “Why do you call me John, Cartaphilus?”

  “I can think of no name half as beautiful for you as John.” I preferred not to tell him my story—for the time being, at least. Damis had learnt from his master the art of discretion.

  “Perhaps something of our ancient prejudices still linger in our souls,” Apollonius once said. “Perhaps we might be inconsiderate enough to judge a man by his race or ancestry. It is better to know nothing of him, except as he appears to us in manner and speech.”

  Apollonius was fond of the full moon. “The sun is too strong for our eyes; the earth is beneath our feet, and we cannot see it; the moon allows us to understand the meaning of the cosmic harmony. She does not attempt to convince us of her glory by either scorching or blinding us.”

  I looked at Apollonius. He squatted on his doorstep as radiant as the moon and as unperturbed.

  “Master, have you ever heard of Jesus?”

  “Yes, in our youth—we were of exactly the same age—we were both the disciples of the same master in Thibet.”

  “In Thibet?” I asked surprised.

  “Yes.”

  This, then, accounted for the long absence of Jesus from Jerusalem. He never spoke about it even to his intimate friends. ‘A god,’ I thought, ‘must be mysterious.’ Addressing Apollonius, I said,—”Master, do you know that Jesus has become a god?”

  Apollonius smiled. “He was always ambitious. Has he many followers, Cartaphilus?”

  “Yes, but they are, with few exceptions, recruited exclusively from the very poor. To follow him, a man must relinquish his wealth. A rich man, according to one of his parables, can no more enter his Heaven than a camel can pass through the eye of a needle.”

  “How characteristic!” Apollonius remarked with an amused smile. “Always a Jew! Only a Jew—albeit a philosopher or a god—would attach so much importance to wealth as to make its denial the basis of salvation.”

  The clarity of the idea startled me.

  We continued watching the moon for a long time in silence.

  “Master, I have been with you for an entire year. You have been as a deep and an inexhaustible fountain of delight to me. I would lower an empty bucket into it, and always it would return filled to the brim with wisdom that cooled and refreshed me.”

  “The water sought the throat as eagerly.”

  “Master, I have traveled in many lands and have seen many things. I have loved and lived much.”

  He nodded.

  “I see before me a dreary desert of years, a desert without end. Can life offer me nothing except repetition?”

  “Time, Cartaphilus, is elastic. It may be stretched or it may be shortened.”

  “Alas, Master, time must stand still for me—perhaps forever.”

  He looked at me.

  “What is the difference between a man condemned to die on the morrow and ourselves, except that our sentence is indefinite?”

  “No, no! I am not speaking in metaphors. I must actually tarry on earth for thousands of years, maybe until the end of time.”

  He was interested, but not startled.

  “Is it not a strange thing, Master?”

  “All things are strange, Cartaphilus. But tell me what powerful factor disarrayed so violently the processes of your being?”

  Apollonius listened to my extraordinary recital. The moon thinned and became amorphous like the torn fragment of a cloud. The sun rose silently, as if on tiptoes, afraid perhaps of the Great Dark that had so recently devoured it. I spoke on, omitting nothing. A young water-carrier passed by, and offered us sweets and cool water.

  “Master, am I not accursed?”

  “Life is not an evil, Cartaphilus, nor is death. No one is really ever born, no one really dies. There is but one Life, and of that we all partake—to a lesser or greater degree.”

  “How had Jesus the power to inflict this upon me?”

  “I have seen greater marvels, Cartaphilus. Jesus, too, has seen. The subtle powers that govern the life and death of the body may be arrested or paralyzed, by a shock. People die of fear or of joy. Is it inconceivable for the reverse process to occur? The shock that can end life, by acting upon the chemistry of our being, may intensify or prolong it…”

  “Will he ever appear again, Master? Must I tarry until he is reborn?”

  “In infinity the same note is sounded again and again in the identical pitch. The same type recurs.”

  ‘Infinity!’

  Apollonius looked at me critically. “Tell me, Cartaphilus, would you really relinquish life if it were possible? Do you want to die?…”

  “Is it possible?”

  “Only if your passion for death is greater than your passion for life.”

  “I am no longer certain, Master.”

  “Then you must carry your fetters, Cartaphilus, or if you please, your garland. Make it a garland of roses,” Apollonius continued. , “Be not afraid of yourself, Cartaphilus. Be strong!”

  “Can we be strong? Are we not tossed about by the whim of an irrational fate?”

  “The will is both free and not free. If you fling a dead leaf into the air, it is carried hither and thither without volition. If you toss a bird upward, the wind may hamper its flight and dash its brains against a rock, but while life persists it will struggle: its will modifies the wind’s will. The average man is a leaf tossed hither and thither. He who has lifted the veil from the face of life resembles the bird. He cannot dominate but, within limits, may direct his fate.”

  “Master,” I said,
“the bird has no conception of boredom; he rapturously sings the same note forever. He has no purpose beyond existence. But a man…must not a man’s life have a purpose, Master, if he is to escape from the clutches of the great God Ennui?”

  “Even so.”

  “What purpose can last centuries? Can knowledge, for instance, suffice?”

  “Knowledge is repetitious. One lifetime suffices to recognize its sameness.”

  “Love, Master?”

  “The difference between one love and another becomes finer and finer, until it disappears.”

  “Hate, Master?”

  “Hate may be mightier than love, but hate dies out like a fire. Time is a great sea.”

  “What then…what then, Master??’

  Apollonius meditated. “Have you not spoken of John and Mary, Cartaphilus?”

  “Yes.”

  “You loved both.”

  “Both.”

  He leisurely turned his bracelet. “It is doubtful whether you will ever find a purpose which will run parallel to Time’s strange zigzag.”

  I sighed.

  “And yet if a purpose should be robust enough and capable of a long endurance, would it not suffice?”

  “It would, Master.”

  He combed his beard, twisting the end into a sharp point. “In Damis you see something of John. Even in Poppaea you caught a glint of Mary. All types reintegrate. All return, with infinite variations.

  “The ideal you seek is neither Mary nor John, but a synthesis of both, a double blossom of passion, combining male and female, without being a monster… If you could find John and Mary in one, Cartaphilus, so that touching Mary, you might feel the thrill of John…and speaking to John, you might hear the voice of Mary…would it not rejoice you, Cartaphilus?”

  “It would be the supreme felicity, a devastating joy—a divine surprise, an inconceivable rapture.”

  My head turned, my ears rang. I shivered. “Yes, Master. Yes. That is what I desire…that is what, in his heart, every man yearns for. Master, you are wise beyond wisdom.”

  Apollonius smiled. “But Master, is it possible? Is it possible to find them both in one?”

  “All things are possible, Cartaphilus. The World Spirit, in his ceaseless experiments, may evolve your dream… Seek…and perhaps…you shall find.”

  “Did you not say, Master, ‘that which may be found is it worth the seeking?’ ”

  “There are many truths, Cartaphilus, and every truth carries within itself its own contradiction.”

  He rose and walked into the room.

  Damis, seated in the semi-darkness behind us, had listened to my story without uttering a sound.

  “Damis,” I said, “you have heard my recital, but you have said nothing.”

  “Cartaphilus, why was John’s love not great enough to embrace both Jesus and you?”

  “The Jewish God is a jealous God,” I replied. “Jesus inherited the jealous strain from his Father… He enjoined children to forsake their fathers, and lovers their sweethearts, before accepting them as his followers. He recognized no human tie. ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’ was his reply to his own mother when she upbraided him for his selfishness.”

  “Our Master makes no conditions. He demands nothing. I love both him and you.”

  Tenderly I took his hand in mine. Then, weary beyond endurance, I placed my head upon his chest. “Damis, let me sleep.”

  “Sleep, Cartaphilus.”

  When I awoke, Apollonius was standing over us, pale, his head bent upon his chest. In his right hand, he held a tall staff, the large branch of a cherry-tree, planed and surmounted by a gold knob, the shape of several snakes huddled together.

  “My children, the time has come when I must depart.”

  “Master!” we both exclaimed.

  “The day has come. I must go.”

  “Whither?” Damis asked.

  “Wherever the spirit leads my feet.”

  “Master, must you conceal the path even from those that love you?”

  “If a man cannot conceal his life, should he not at least conceal his death?”

  “Master, speak not of death!”

  “Life is a symbol. Death is a symbol.”

  Damis threw himself into his arms. “Master!”

  I kissed his hands.

  “Apollonius, although we are of the same age, I think of you as my father…a father whom I love. I understand better than Damis what you mean. You must go. Damis, make not our Master’s departure difficult.”

  “Shall we meet again, Master?” Damis asked.

  “The moon begins as a crescent and grows until it becomes a perfect disk. The clouds tear it, then, and smother it, until it vanishes. But the moon is born again…and grows again…eternally. Is it the same moon always—or is it a new one?”

  When we looked up, the white head of Apollonius was disappearing in the distance.

  XIV: DAMIS FALLS ASLEEP—ETERNAL COMRADES—THE MARRIAGE OF THE BLOOD—“YOUR BLOOD IS POISON!”

  TOWARD morning, Damis fell asleep in my arms. He clutched at me, muttering: “Don’t go! Don’t go!” I do not know whether his invocation was addressed to Apollonius or to me. He woke up with a jerk, and looked about, bewildered. “The Master is gone, Cartaphilus,” he said hopelessly.

  “Your loneliness is not comparable to mine, Damis.”

  He caressed me shyly, pressing his lips against my cheek delicately like a younger brother.

  “Do not carry the past like a chain about your neck, Damis.”

  “You speak like the Master.”

  “His voice would have been gentler,” I said, “and his words more beautiful.”

  “Your voice, too, is gentle, and your words are beautiful, Cartaphilus.”

  “Damis, if I could share with you the strange vitality that defies the years! What marvelous vistas would unfold themselves if we wandered, eternal comrades, arm in arm through the centuries!”

  “Even if it were possible, Cartaphilus, would it be desirable? Who knows what changes time may work in us? Who knows if our friendship so dear to us now, would not become a chain about our necks?” He remained silent for a while, then continued: “Besides, unlike you, I could not endure the loss of those I cherish. My heart would be bruised. I would pray for death…and death would not come.”

  “One learns to forget and to laugh, Damis,” and I laughed almost unwillingly.

  Silence descended upon us with brooding wings.

  After a while, Damis asked: “Will you ever desert me, Cartaphilus?”

  “How shall a man be certain of the future, my friend? Are we the masters of our fate? But if my heart desired ever to fly away from you, would I consider it a joy to make you my traveling companion on my pathway to infinity?”

  Damis placed his head upon my shoulder. Again silence nestled about us. “Cartaphilus, is it really possible for you to transfer to another something of the mysterious gift that sets you aside from all human beings?”

  “I do not know, Damis. If it were, would you wish to face eternity with me?”

  “The thought frightens me, Cartaphilus, but it also lures me. The gift of eternal life may be a blessing to you and to me a curse, and yet who can refuse a drink from the cup of the gods? But am I strong enough to bear the deep darkness and the fierce light of the path where the immortals wander?”

  I caressed his head, soft and tawny like John’s. “It is difficult to be strong. The heart, like the athlete’s muscle, does not harden except by blows.” He smiled at me through the tears that rolled down his cheek.

  “Come with me, Damis. Let our destinies mingle and merge together!”

  “So be it, Cartaphilus.”

  A small house on the outskirts of the town was the home of the most celebrated doctor in Delhi. The door was low, and we bent our heads in order to enter.

  The doctor was a tiny old man, whose long white beard constituted almost half of him. The physician, satisfied that his services would be han
dsomely rewarded, begged us to sit down, treated us to sweets and water, and recounted his marvelous deeds. He had given life to the dead, limbs to the crippled, sight to the blind, virility to those shipwrecked on the tides of love.

  “But, Doctor,” I finally managed to interrupt him, “can you prolong human life? Can you stretch its span indefinitely…?”

  “I have cured people of mortal diseases. Thus their span of life– —”

  “Can you make a man live for centuries…?”

  He looked at me quizzically. “The gentleman deigns to mock me.”

  “Is it not possible?”

  “Everything is possible, sir. In medicine, however, one must deal with what is at least probable. Experience is the Father of Knowledge.”

  “Is the prolongation of life by divers magics and devices an unknown scientific phenomenon?”

  “No, I have heard of a few extraordinary cases of longevity. I cannot see the benefit of such a state, since a man must re-don the garments of the flesh again and again until at last, by saintliness, he enters Nirvana.”

  ‘Does man pretend to scorn long life,’ I thought, ‘because the grapes are beyond his reach? Does he simply console himself? Or is there in the depths of our being, a will to die as well as a will to live? Does all life yearn for the perfect peace of the womb…?’

  “Doctor,” I said smilingly, “I am much older than you.”

  He laughed, his beard dancing upon his chin.

  “Older perhaps in wisdom, but not in years,” he cackled drily. “Surely you exaggerate your age.”

  I remained silent, noting the strange instruments, many-shaped knives and multicolored phials that crowded the room. Pleased by my curiosity, the physician explained their manifold uses.

  “Doctor,” I said, “I did not exaggerate when I said that I am much older than you.”

  “It is possible to look younger than one’s age,” he answered, straightening up. “I look older than mine.”