I shook my head. “I am probably twice your age. I have lived more than a century and still my vitality continues to burn with undiminished intensity.”
He frowned, then smiled, his eyes almost closing. “I hope your years have brought you joy.”
“Joy is the sister of pain,” I remarked, careful not to arouse his jealousy. Man might be envious of anything that another possesses—even his cross!
“I am very lonesome, Doctor. My friends die, and I remain to mourn always.”
He looked at me quizzically, still uncertain if I was telling the truth, or if I was jesting. Perhaps he doubted my sanity, although miracles were commonplaces in India.
“Lonesomeness, Doctor, is a canker that gnaws at the heart.”
He sighed sympathetically.
“Doctor, is there a means by which I could communicate my vitality to another?” The Doctor pulled at his beard and coughed, at a loss for an answer. “My companion, because of the friendship he bears me, is willing to brave fate with me, to walk with me to the end, if there is an
end…”
“Friendship is a priceless jewel,” he remarked sententiously.
“If you can devise some way by which I can give half of my life to my friend I shall make you as rich as a Rajah,” I continued quickly.
He waved his hands. “That is a mere incident. I serve Truth and Science first.”
“Is there a way, Doctor?” I asked anxiously.
“I am not certain.”
“Wisdom always wavers at first– —”
“Perhaps…” He spoke to himself. “Perhaps…”
“– —but triumphs in the end. Am I not right, Doctor?”
After a long silence, he said: “I must meditate for nine days; for nine days I must read the secret books of India and of Egypt; for nine days still, consult the stars, and go into a long trance. On the last day of the full moon, I shall know definitely if I can conscientiously take your case.”
“Very well. Meanwhile, I know that books are expensive, and the stars will not allow themselves to be consulted, save by means of costly charts. Therefore, permit me, Doctor, to ease your task.”
I filled his hand with silver.
He thanked me. “Buddha will be propitious.”
The physician received us gleefully. “I have found it! I have found it!” He pulled at his long beard, until the pain made his eyes tear. I pressed the hand of Damis.
We seated ourselves. The physician told us, in minute details, about the labor and pains he had endured to learn the mystery I sought. He had fasted, thirsted, fallen into a long trance, and nearly became blind over charts and books.
“Your reward, Doctor, shall be proportionate.”
He was indignant. “Is it for this I was working? Are not Science and Truth supreme? Are they not a reward in themselves?” He seemed so sincere in his expostulation that I almost believed him.
“Shall it be said, however, that Science and Truth remained unrewarded?” I asked.
“That is another matter, sir, and it depends upon you.”
“Science and Truth shall have both honors and gold.”
He bowed until the tip of his beard touched the ground. We were silent for a while. Then he began again. “Where is the spirit of life housed? In the blood. Remove a few jars of the red elixir from the body,—does not man die? Is it not because the blood is hot that we are young; and when the blood freezes, like water in winter, are we not old? And how do we live once more in our children, if not through the blood? The blood is the man. Blood is the symbol and the truth of Life!”
I nodded.
“Therefore, if your blood fills this young man’s veins,—he will partake of your life.”
“It seems logical,” I said.
“It is the truth of all the Buddhas. It is a great discovery, and the stars are propitious.”
“When can this transfusion of my blood into my friend’s veins take place?”
“At once, if you will. I have prepared a couch in my other room. You will both stretch out upon it. I shall open a vein in his arm, and a vein in yours, and let the stream of your blood trickle into his body.”
I looked at him somewhat unconvinced.
“Have you ever performed such an operation before?”
“Several times, but for other reasons. The quantity of blood tapped from your body need not be large. The intermingling of your life and his will be sufficient. The marriage of the blood will be consummated.”
I kept silent.
“No other leech in all India would undertake this operation.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he whispered mysteriously, “I found the method in the Book of Forbidden Lore.”
“Will you permit me to consult with my friend for a few moments?”
“Certainly.”
“Damis,” I said, “I believe his idea is the true one, for I, too, have long ago come to a similar conclusion. My blood must mingle with yours, that you may partake of my life.”
“Yes, Cartaphilus.”
“Damis, are you still willing to risk—immortality? The marriage of our spirits, alas, may be shorter-lived than the marriage of our blood…”
“Cartaphilus, Apollonius was as a father to me; you are my brother. I cannot face the future alone. I need you as the vine needs the oak. Let me lean against you forever!” His pale features were flushed, his eyes were restless like torches reflected in water that is stirred. “Unless,” he added suddenly, “you think I will be a burden– —”
“Your delicate weight shall be as natural to me and as pleasurable as upon my shoulders is the weight of my head.”
I turned to the leech.
“We are ready.”
He asked us to strip, and offered us a potion. “This will deaden the pain, although I expect it to be very slight.”
We stretched out upon the couch. He looked at us, took our pulse, examined our eyes, tested each limb. Over Damis he stopped much longer, troubled by the boy’s epicene beauty. His aged hands trembled. ‘His senses are not dead,’ I thought. “My friend is very handsome,” I whispered. He looked at me guiltily. “Yes, very handsome.”
Damis was asleep. The potion and the loss of blood had weakened him. I was quite conscious, and felt no pain, save a tiny itching sensation. The little doctor had bandaged our arms to stop the flow of the blood. Seeing that I watched him, he made many curious motions and mumbled extravagant sounds. I smiled. I had lived long enough to know that every trade had its tricks.
“Is my friend still asleep, Doctor?” I asked.
“I shall wake him now.”
He touched him gently over the face. Damis did not stir. He shook him, at first lightly, then a little more energetically. Damis remained stock-still. He rubbed his temples, tickled the soles of his feet, pricked him with a needle. All in vain.
“What is wrong, Doctor?” I asked, jumping up. He did not answer, but pressed his ear against the heart, and applied a small metal object to the nostrils. He glared at me.
“What is the trouble?” I shouted. “Quick, tell me!”
“You have killed him. Your blood is poison,” he hissed.
“I killed him! You scoundrel, it was your potion– —”
“My potion?”
“Yes, your potion.”
“The drug was harmless, mainly water.”
I hurled him against the wall, where he crouched, groaning and grumbling, “Your blood is poison! Your blood is poison!”
I bent over Damis. His features were pinched and his limbs had already the rigidity of a corpse. “Damis, Damis,” I wept. “Damis, do you not hear me? Cartaphilus calls you, Damis,—my friend!”
The physician did not dare to move from the spot. I rushed at him again. “Fool!” I shouted. “You consulted the stars, and went into trances…and now, look! See what you have done! You have killed him! You have killed my friend!”
“How should I know that your blood is poison? The stars did n
ot mention that, nor the voice in the trance.”
“My blood is poison?”
“Look at him, look at your minion! He is turning black!”
It was true. I covered my face with my hands. ‘Your blood is poison!’ The sentence maddened me. It seemed like the echo of another sentence years ago that had rung in my ears, with the violence of a storm.
“Help me carry him out.”
We placed the corpse upon a pile of wood, sprinkled it with perfumes and aromatics. The red fangs of the fire devoured the body of him to whom the gift of life was the gift of death.
I turned to go. The physician held my arm. “Go away!” I shouted. “Clumsy fool!”
“Am I to get no reward for my labors?”
I glared at him. He followed me. “Master, Master! Are you breaking your promise?”
“What promise?”
“My fee!”
“Impudent wretch!” I walked on. He followed me, mumbling, “Was it my fault that your blood– —?”
Before he could finish the sentence, I struck him on the mouth. He fell. “You have killed me!” he shouted. I threw a purse at him. He rose, seized it, and ran off with the agility of a young animal.
XV: GOD OR DEMON—I AM STILL A MAN—THE RAJAH’S SISTER ASI-MA—NUPTIALS AT SEA
I DID not leave my room for a long while. I do not know what perturbed me more: the loss of Damis, or the knowledge that my blood was accurst. Was I fated to slay those I loved? Was my love a serpent, whose fangs are fatal? Must I wander henceforth uncompanioned and loveless? I walked up and down my room, talking to myself in all the languages I knew.
It struck me that I did not even possess a language quite my own. “Who am I, what am I?” I shouted, and the walls answered, “Stranger! Wanderer!” I envied the pariah who dared to call himself by his true name, who could mention the place and date of his birth, without fear or confusion.
“A human being,” I expostulated, “has significance alone in time and space. He can be neither a star, whirling in infinity, nor a feather blown about by whimsical winds.” I thought of Jesus, and a great hatred overcame me. “Who was he to impose upon me a life suitable for a god or a demon, but not for a man? By what right, natural or supernatural, did he wish this doom upon me? We shall be enemies,” I shouted, “eternal enemies!”
My nature had become very elastic, however, and I could pass rapidly from despair to a rational understanding. ‘After all,’ I thought, ‘had you been like other men, Cartaphilus, you would have turned to dust long ago, after dragging your body through wearisome years of decrepitude and pain. What have you lost that you cannot replace? Love? Is not one love the antidote of another? And if your blood be poison, if you are brother to the rattlesnake, Cartaphilus, what of that? The serpent is not venomous to its mate. Find the mate to whom your blood is a balm.
‘What have you known of love? What have you known of life? Ten times the span of man’s life are not sufficient to slake your thirst for knowledge. Time is your ally. He will bring back all your loves, even Damis, even Mary and John. Time holds for you under the cloak of the years, unimaginable delights. Apollonius the Tyanean, has said that a great, a supreme love waits for you in some far away corner of the corridor of infinity,—a love which will be both Mary and John. You shall yet find it, Cartaphilus.
‘You can laugh at the sands as they run through the hour glass. You need not hurry. You can walk through life with slow, deliberate steps,—an aristocrat in the midst of slaves!’
Nothing consoled me save thought. This sharp blade that hurt most men, was like a cool, smooth hand caressing me. In Reality, I found the Great Fiction which other people endeavor to snatch from Illusion.
‘Cartaphilus,’ I said to myself, ‘if your life is suitable only for a god or a demon—be a god or a demon!’
I soon discovered that I was still human. Drouth was parching India. In vain the priests sacrificed victims to the implacable gods. Moved to pity, I tried my arts as a rainmaker. It was one of the lesser tricks which I had learned in the house of Apollonius. I do not know whether natural causes or my incantations produced the rain, but I was regarded by the natives as their saviour. This made my position unpleasantly conspicuous and aroused the jealousy of the Rajah.
“Miraculous coincidences,” he remarked, to me, as he bade me farewell, “sometimes save the faces of prophets and of kings.”
“Not only their faces,” I replied, “but also their necks.”
He smiled.
Two black eyes peered at us from behind the curtain of a window. Was it one of the Rajah’s wives? The Rajah’s enormous belly shook with suppressed excitement. Touching the rug before the throne three times with my head, I departed.
My elephant had carried me several miles beyond Delhi when suddenly I heard someone shouting. A man ran towards me waving his hands. His body heaved grotesquely and he wiped the foam from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand.
“My mistress, Princess Asi-ma, is more beautiful than the full moon in whose reflection the leaves of the great palm trees carve their gorgeous patterns.”
“I doubt it not.”
“Her love for my new master whose word brought rain to the city is deeper than the seas.”
“Your new master accepts both you and the Princess.” We were silent for a while.
“If Buddha is propitious, and we can escape the Rajah’s men, my mistress shall be my master’s wife.”
“Your master’s joy is great.”
“If not, we shall all three be crushed by the elephant’s paws, for the Rajah wished to marry my mistress, himself.”
“Is it permissible for a brother to marry his sister?”
“The Rajah’s sword is very sharp, Master.”
I knew now what face had peered at me from behind the curtain.
Asi-ma approached us, and knelt before me. I raised her, and looked at her. “You are indeed more beautiful than the full moon.” She lowered her lids. Her skin was much lighter than that of the pure Hindu type. Her hair, however, was as black and lustrous. Her breasts were full-blown, as well as her hips, although she could hardly have been more than about fifteen or sixteen years old. She turned to her slave. “Ra-man, have you delivered my message to our master?”
“I have.”
“Come,” I said. “We have no time to linger, Asi-ma, adorable child.”
The two of us mounted one elephant while Ra-man mounted another, and we galloped away.
When we reached the harbor, we descended from our animals. Ra-man ran ahead of us. We followed slowly in the same direction, my arm tightly wound about Asi-ma’s waist. The time we had ridden together, her head upon my chest, sufficed to endear her to me. Ra-man waved to us. We approached. A small sailboat was anchored at some distance, but a rowboat scratched its nose gently against the shore. We entered into it. The slave rowed vigorously so that in a few moments we reached the boat. Ra-man jumped into it, lifted Asi-ma, and assisted me. I helped him raise the rowboat, and in another moment we were sailing.
“Look! Look!” exclaimed Asi-ma. “They just missed us.” She laughed like a little child. On the shore, a number of armed men upon elephants looked in our direction, and either waved their hands or shook their fists, I could not tell.
“Make me your wife, Cartaphilus.”
“You are my wife.”
“Make me, now…now…” She drew my head to her lips and kissed me. “Now… Cartaphilus.”
I pointed to Ra-man.
“He is not a man. It does not matter if he sees.”
“Asi-ma, you are a great joy to me.”
“Undress me, Cartaphilus.”
I was a little clumsy, and at one or two points, perplexed. She laughed, and clapped her hands, but would not help me. She stood at last in the full reflection of the moon, more dazzling than that cold divinity.
“Asi-ma, beloved!”
I spread a lion’s skin on the deck, and laid her down gently upon it. For a long while
I caressed her. Her body was as smooth as the surface of a still lake. Her breasts were tinged with thin blue veins, which appeared and vanished under her skin. She drew me to her. I relaxed my grip.
The reflection of the moon danced upon us with her soft, silver feet, then lay quietly over us like a head that sleeps. Ra-man, his arms crossed, looked silent and thoughtful as a sphinx.
“Cartaphilus, you were my husband before.”
I did not answer.
“Don’t you remember, beloved…long, long ago? And you will be again…and again…until we are one in Nirvana.”
“Yes, Asi-ma.”
I tried in vain to find any resemblance between her and Lydia, or any of my mistresses. Only the perfume of her hair reminded me of someone whose face I could not recollect.
XVI: I BUY A VILLA—I WATCH THE STARS—“TIME IS A CAT, CARTAPHILUS”—ASI-MA WEEPS
AFTER a few days of sailing, we landed in a small town situated upon a hill that had the shape of a sharp cone. I bought a villa with a large orchard, and built a high, stone wall around it. I was weary of the world and longed for seclusion.
“Asi-ma, my wife, here let us spend the rest of our days in love-making, and peace.”
“I am the slave of Cartaphilus.”
‘The rest of your days, Cartaphilus?’ I thought. ‘Who knows how many more there will be?’ “I have brought a little gift to my husband.” She clapped her hands. “Ra-man, where is the casket?”
Ra-man placed before me a gold casket, an exquisite piece of workmanship. “Open it, Cartaphilus.” I opened it. It was filled almost to the brim with jewels—the crown jewels of the Rajah.
“Asi-ma, I will not accept your gift. I have enough wealth.”
She did not answer, but played with the jewels, raising them in half-fistfuls and letting them drop back in tiny cascades. “Cartaphilus does not love his wife.”
“How can she say that?”
“He scorns her gift, for which she nearly lost her life.”
“She herself was a gift beyond compare.”
“Is not what she possesses part of herself? Why should he scorn any particle of her?”
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 9