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

by Viereck, George Sylvester

  Kotikokura stiffened up, his head thrown back.

  “Not quite so much, Kotikokura. Man should not be always looking at the stars. One’s eyes should watch the solid earth. All good things grow out of the earth, Kotikokura; the stars generate mad dreams, harmful for those who harbor them.”

  A man was standing upon the steps leading to the Capitol. About him was gathered a large multitude. Some shouted: “Maxentius! Maxentius!” Others, in greater numbers, drowned their voices: “Constantine! Constantine!”

  “He alone will rule who believes in Jesus!” exclaimed the man, making the sign of the cross. “The cross shall conquer!”

  I saw many crossing themselves; others frowned; some grumbled, but no one assaulted the speaker, no one even hissed him.

  “Is Jesus the new god of war? Has Mars been replaced?” I asked.

  “Jesus is the only god. The rest are idols.”

  Not even this answer disturbed the populace.

  “Is not Jesus one of the gods of the Pantheon?”

  “Jesus is god of the world, and he who believes in Jesus shall conquer the world.”

  I made a careful investigation of the military situation. Constantine was stronger and cleverer than Maxentius, it was universally recognized. The armies of both leaders were encamped within three or four miles of Rome, and it was but a matter of days now before they would strike the final blow. I decided to join Constantine.

  “It is always advisable, Kotikokura, to side with the strong, for the gods favor them.” He grinned and bowed. I had taught him by this time the necessary rules of etiquette. He learned very rapidly, and imitated perfectly.

  “He who draws the sword shall perish by the sword,” Jesus taught. Did not this also refer to nations and religions? If Constantine should win because he had drawn the sword in the name of Christianity, should not Christianity perish by the same gesture?

  “Things are most illogical, Kotikokura, and yet, an intelligent man must act as if life were governed by reason.”

  I shaved Kotikokura’s back, and blackened it. Upon it, with my chemical, I drew the sign of the cross, and underneath it, I wrote: In hoc signo vinces! “In this sign thou shalt conquer.” I ordered him to dress again. “Kotikokura, I am making you immortal, perhaps.” His back itched him, and he scratched himself. “No, you must not do that until I allow you.” He bowed.

  The hillock that faced Constantine’s army was almost perpendicular, and terminated in a sharp point. The night was darker than usual. “Things favor us, Kotikokura. I depend upon your agility. Climb the hill, and stand with your back turned. Do not move until I call you. I shall remain at the base.”

  In a few moments, Kotikokura appeared upon the peak, or rather merely the cross and the words I had written. They dazzled and shivered against the sky like a new and splendid constellation. I was almost prompted myself to bend my knee in adoration and exclaim: “I believe!”

  Suddenly Constantine’s camp flamed with the lights of many torches. I knew that Kotikokura’s back had accomplished its work. “Come down, Kotikokura!” Almost instantly, as if he had flown, Kotikokura stood grinning before me. I ordered him to dress again, and follow me home.

  Near the Capitol, many people were kneeling. I asked the reason for it.

  “Have you not seen the great miracle?”

  “What great miracle?”

  “The sky shone with stars in the shape of the cross.”

  “Really?”

  “I have never seen or heard of such a marvelous thing.”

  “I am a Roman. I believed in the gods of my forefathers, but this very hour I have become a Christian.”

  “The whole world shall become Christian now, for do not the same stars shine everywhere, and who, having seen what we have seen, will continue to doubt?”

  I felt uneasy. Had my ruse defeated my very purpose? “We shall see, Kotikokura, if a religion that preaches love can long exist by the sword.” Kotikokura grinned, and scratched himself violently. “You may scratch as much as you wish now. You have become history.”

  I bent over the balustrade of my balcony. To my right, the Bosphorus rose in jerky waves, tipped with foam, like some angry giant cat spitting; to my left an immense cross of gold glittered over the ancient Greek temple; while below me, massed on both sides of the street, the multitude awaited the Emperor’s arrival at the New Rome, Constantinople. The silver trumpets and the cymbals could already be heard by the keener ears. People exclaimed: “They are coming!” in Greek, Latin, and several dialects.

  Immediately behind the trumpeters, who served primarily to disperse the crowds, came with deliberate, proud steps the Christian High Priest, recently appointed by Constantine. He was dressed in a white silk robe with gold stripes; in his right hand he carried a large golden crucifix, studded with precious stones, the gift of the Emperor. He seemed to be of pure Roman blood, and looked more like a soldier than a martyr or a man versed in the mysteries of the spirit. On either side two boys were scattering incense, and behind him about forty or fifty priests, in white silk robes, but without the gold stripes, and carrying crosses, chanted an old Hebrew homily in Latin words.

  Although doubtless many of the spectators were not Christians, everybody made the sign of the cross. Had not the Imperator proclaimed Christianity the State religion? Besides, there was a rumor that the priests employed spies, and that unbelievers were to expect punishments as severe as the Christians had received at their hands, when the Roman gods were in power.

  Several officers of the Imperial Guard, erect and almost motionless on their horses, carried tall banners on which were painted the cross with the words: In hoc signo vinces.

  “Kotikokura!” He appeared almost instantly. “Look! Do you remember?” His eyes darted to and fro. “The Cross…have you forgotten?” He did not understand. I burst out laughing. “Of course not. How could you remember? You never saw it! You flamed like a heaven, but you only saw the darkness in front of you.” Kotikokura grinned.

  The Emperor, reclining upon a couch, a diadem upon his head and a mass of jewels upon his hands and arms, was carried by four giants. Vivat Imperator! Vivat!

  The great dark hand of night covered the Bosphorus and hid the cross upon the Greek temple. Over it hung, like a scimitar, the crescent moon, tipped with a star.

  XXII: MY VINEYARD ON THE RHINE—ULRICA—ROME IS A WITCH JEALOUS OF YOUTH—THE TREE MUST ENDURE FOREVER—KOTIKOKURA GRINS—LIFE IS CIRCULAR

  THE Rhine barely stirred, and our boat glided upon it, lightly, like a giant feather dropped by some mythological eagle. For a long time, I continued to see the tall, wooden fence that surrounded my vineyards. I remembered the dingy shop of my father and the poverty I had endured in my childhood. My present wealth delighted me, like the fragrant wines that my slaves squeezed out of the grapes.

  My childhood! Strange! It seemed as if it had just been; as if it recently merely turned a corner. Had centuries really passed? Was it only a dream? But if a dream…where were the people I had once known…the kings, the emperors, the empresses, Lydia, Asi-ma, Damis, Poppeae? What boors were stepping upon their dust? Time was a motionless, frozen river, over which shadows flitted and vanished, but I was as a tree congealed within it, and my shadow carved upon its face a permanent pattern.

  In a corner of the boat, Kotikokura curled up like a dog, his face turned toward the sun. Was he, too, a congealed tree; or had he become a branch, as it were, of me?

  Ulrica sang. Her golden hair, coiled into two heavy braids, whose tips rested on her lap, shone like the sun that was setting in back of us. Whom did she resemble? Mary? Perhaps. But she was not as voluptuous. Lydia? She was as sentimental and tender, but at unexpected moments, too haughty or too timid,—a little incomprehensible like the woods she came from.

  “Ulrica, in Rome they would call you a Barbarian.”

  “Rome!” she sneered. “Rome is an old witch, jealous of youth.”

  “Have you not heard, dear, that Rome is eternal?”


  “The city may be eternal, but the people are dying.”

  “What makes you think that the people are dying?”

  “Rome sneers at virtue, Cartaphilus, and no longer believes in the gods.”

  “Rome believes in a new god, Ulrica.”

  “How can a god be new, Cartaphilus? Are not gods older than heaven and earth?”

  “Are you sure, my dear, that the gods live?”

  She looked at me, her blue eyes opened wide, as if scared.

  “May they not all be just…stories? Tales to put to sleep little children?”

  She burst out laughing. “Cartaphilus, you say such fantastic things. You know, at times, I think that you too are a god…maybe Fro…the god of love.”

  “You called me a god, Ulrica, many years ago…in a far-away country…do you remember?”

  Ulrica kissed my hands. Is she Asi-ma, I wondered? “Do you remember?”

  “I never traveled to a far-away country…and many years ago… I was not born then, Cartaphilus.” She placed her head upon my knee.

  “You were a princess then, Ulrica.”

  “And did you love me then, Cartaphilus?”

  “I loved you then.”

  “Do you love me now?”

  “I love you now.”

  Why did I seek always the past in the present? Was my life of centuries merely the endeavor to capture again and again my first experiences, my initial sensations? The sun disappeared, drawing after it the last semicircle of its reflection that lingered on the edge of the horizon.

  “Dear, when you were the princess of that far-away country, you became my wife on a boat like this.”

  She closed her eyes, and pressed tightly against me.

  “Now that you are a princess of the woods, will you become my wife again…on a boat?”

  “Cartaphilus, am I not your slave; did you not purchase me from a merchant? Am I supposed to have a will?”

  “You are not my slave. I purchased you because you were beautiful, and because you whispered: ‘I love you.’ Do you remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it not true?”

  “It was true.”

  “Are not two lovers as free as monarchs?”

  “Cartaphilus…make me your wife…again.”

  It was true—Rome was dying. The Barbarians were becoming more and more daring. Some day, I was certain, they would attempt to capture the Eternal City. My vineyards lay between them and Rome. The boots of the conquerors spare nothing. A Roman, formerly the Governor of one of the provinces in Asia-Minor, more confident than I, in the prowess of his country’s army, bought my property.

  “Ulrica, I shall soon leave. Will you come with me?”

  “Where?”

  “Perhaps to Rome…perhaps to some farther country. I do not know.”

  She shook her head. “I belong in the woods.”

  “Think it over, my dear. We shall not leave for a few days.”

  “I will not go.” She walked away.

  Kotikokura approached me, out of breath, and pulled my arm.

  “What is the trouble, Kotikokura? What has happened?”

  He uttered some sounds which I could not understand, but I noticed that his hands were covered with blood. “What’s happened? Quick, tell me!”

  He pulled me. “Ulrica! Ulrica!”

  Ulrica lay upon the ground, her head thrown back. A stream of blood was flowing out of her chest, passing over her arm and one of her braids, and making a large, red pool that separated into several branches. In her right hand she held a short sword.

  “Ulrica! Ulrica!” I bent over her. She opened her eyes, already blurred. “Cartaphilus,” she whispered, “when I was a princess, did I also kill myself?”

  “I do not know, Ulrica. I went away.”

  “You always go away.”

  “I am he who wanders forever, Ulrica.”

  She was about to say something, when her mouth filled with blood.

  Kotikokura, bent almost to the ground, groaned.

  “Come, Kotikokura. You must be a man. Men suffer less noisily.” He stood up and stared at me. “Or perhaps, a man should not suffer at all, seeing that he deals with mere shadows that flit across a frozen river.”

  His jaw fell.

  “Many birds shall perch upon the tree for a while…and fly away. The tree must endure forever.”

  The loss of Ulrica pained me more than I had expected. There was a freshness, a purity in her that resembled the perfume of the fields after a rainstorm. I felt that I had not breathed deeply enough, that I had walked by quickly and a little absent-mindedly…and suddenly found myself upon a long, dusty road.

  Kotikokura was shaving his body. He had become very skillful, and no longer needed assistance.

  “Kotikokura, how long must a man live to learn how to live fully, so that he may not know the meaning of regret?”

  Kotikokura grinned. Was he the incarnation of some grotesque sphinx? Did he know the wisdom of the ages, and therefore would not speak?

  “Do the gods live in eternity, Kotikokura, because they find mere time insufficient?”

  He grinned on.

  “Or, is eternity as futile as an hour?”

  “Ow-w-w!” Kotikokura tried to shave while looking at me, and cut himself.

  “Thought, Kotikokura, generally produces pain,—in one form or another.”

  He sucked the wound, and continued to shave, his eyes riveted on the razor.

  He had acquired—or so it seemed to me—a much more human appearance. His yellow face, high cheek bones, small eyes, grinning mouth, reminded me of someone I had seen once.

  “Who are you, really?”

  “Kotikokura,” he answered gravely.

  “One is always someone else. What ancestral ghost, swaying in tree-tops, speaks through you? What thoughts can you call your own?”

  “Kotikokura.”

  “From the beginning of things to the end of things… Kotikokura?”

  “Kotikokura.”

  “Kotikokura, be unto me as the handful of dust I once threw into the air, which indicated the path I was to take.”

  Kotikokura rose and turned about me quickly, raising his knees almost as far as his chin. His gait became slower and slower, until he remained stock-still, his head stretched out. I understood what he meant. He was the dust. He was whirled in the wind for a while, then blown in the direction his head indicated.

  “So be it, Kotikokura. The East! Life is circular, and our steps move always about its circumference.”

  XXXII: KOTIKOKURA SCRATCHES HIMSELF—A FUNERAL PROCESSION

  TO be a Roman was no longer an incomparable honor; no longer a magic word with which to conjure safety and protection. To be a member of any of the Barbarian tribes, however, was just as precarious. To be a Hebrew meant nothing. People had almost forgotten about Jerusalem or Judea. The cross might incur favor or animosity; the ancient gods likewise. The boundaries were no longer well defined; the roads no longer led to accustomed and secure spots.

  “What shall we be, Kotikokura, as we travel through this cauldron of uncertainty?” Kotikokura scratched himself. It was his manner of indicating doubt or unconcern.

  “Kotikokura, we must change our identity as the chameleon changes the color of its skin…remaining, nevertheless, unchanged… Cartaphilus and Kotikokura, doubters and laughers.”

  He grinned.

  “We must appear neither rich enough to excite envy, nor so poor that we become contemptible and pathetic.” He grinned. “Let us not seem strong enough to provoke conflict, nor too weak to defend ourselves. Mediocrity, Kotikokura, is the salt of the earth. In mediocrity, all things flourish. Below it they wither; above it they are struck by lightning.”

  Kotikokura’s eyes slacked their pace.

  “If you are a giant, Kotikokura, you must not rise to your full stature in public, or else the others will become weary of craning their necks to see you, and sooner or later, they will chop
your head off that they may equal you in size.”

  Nothing seemed as safe and agreeable as being a merchant of mediocre means, traveling to the nearest seaport with a small load of goods. A gentleman of leisure would have been suspected as a spy, and a poor pilgrim might have been forced into slavery. My caravan consisted of two large wagons, drawn by two teams of powerful oxen. I hired drivers, black-skinned men from one of the Roman colonies, who could not be suspected of taking an interest either in the military or political situation. Kotikokura and I rode on horseback. His dress was similar to mine, but of a cheaper material. It was advisable, always, to make him feel my superiority, for equality breeds contempt. He might think not of his advancement, but of my degradation. Did not Jesus, in spite of his democratic preaching, stand apart and remain unidentified with his followers? He had twelve disciples…but he was the master!

  Melancholy pervaded all things: the sharp cries of migratory birds, the last feeble croaking of frogs, the large yellow vine-leaves dropping, dropping always, to be crushed by the hoofs of the animals and the heavy iron wheels of the wagons– —

  “Kotikokura, we are a solitary funeral procession leading the dead year to its grave.”

  Kotikokura tried in vain to grin. He was sentimental.

  My horse neighed. The oxen bellowed. Kotikokura sighed.

  XXIV: THE WALLS OF CHINA—I DO A MIRACLE—A CHINESE APOLLONIUS—FLOWER-OF-JOY

  STANDING near the Wall, it was impossible to see the top. It seemed to melt into the sky. We moved away.

  “Kotikokura, man is tiny, but he builds high walls.”

  He grunted.

  “Look at those pretty daisies and blades of grass, Kotikokura, which grow out of the crevices of the stone. Trifles like these proclaim Nature an artist, not merely a colossal ox pulling at the plow of life.”