“What a sorry victory for Jesus, Salome!”
“All victory is sorry…”
“Save only– —” I looked steadily into her eyes—“the conquest of Salome.”
She shook her head and tapped me on my shoulder.
“I must go, Cartaphilus.”
“May I go with you?”
“No. The time is not yet ripe. We must still seek…and must seek alone.”
“What?”
“I do not know. Perhaps that which when found is not worth the seeking.”
We remained silent.
“Salome, what shall it profit a man to be a thousand years old, if he cannot understand more than at thirty?”
“What are a thousand years, Cartaphilus? Only to those who live one generation or two, a thousand years seems a very long stretch of time. To us, ten thousand years are no longer than ten thousand days.”
“Ten thousand days are long without you…”
“Farewell, Cartaphilus!” She barely touched my cheek with her lips.
“Since you command it,—farewell, Salome, Queen of Women!”
She kissed my other cheek.
“Even in hell, Cartaphilus would be gallant.”
“And Salome a Queen, even in hell.”
We set out the next morning by the road I had taken at my first departure from Jerusalem. The second evening, as we reached the foot of a rocky hill, we saw two men fighting desperately, their faces covered with blood, their clothing torn to shreds. At our approach, they stopped, caught their breaths for a while, and were about to begin once more.
They were two brothers fighting over a piece of silver. I asked them for information as to the roads, and rewarded them each with a purse. When they were out of sight, I laughed heartily. Kotikokura looked at me, puzzled.
“Kotikokura, my friend, this is the most delicious bit of irony I have witnessed for some time,—not the desire of the two brothers to kill each other. That is as old as Cain and Abel…”
I examined the ground.
He looked at me puzzled.
“Wait…first let me ascertain if I am right.”
I scrutinized the stars, studied a map, made some calculations on a piece of parchment.
“Yes, this is it.”
Kotikokura tied our horses to trees.
“Help me roll away this small rock. And now, Kotikokura, you will see why I told you to bring a spade. Clear off this mud and dust. We can work with perfect freedom here. Nobody, save two silly brothers trying to murder each other for a silver coin, would think of passing this way.”
The mud and dust was so deep that for awhile I thought I had made an error in my calculations. At last, however, the spade struck something metallic. I was elated.
“Kotikokura, what if rocks become as overgrown with mud and debris, during the course of years as people with superstitions and prejudices? The stars are at their ancient posts, and mathematics is eternal. We shall be guided by both. We cannot but find what you will see presently.”
I inserted a key into the iron trapdoor, which opened readily in spite of its rust.
“Follow me, Kotikokura.”
We descended a few steps.
“Pull this cord. The door will shut over us. We must not take any useless risk.”
We descended a few more steps, and turned to the right. Guided by the light of my lamp, we finally reached an alcove. I turned a knob, and a small door opened. I pushed my hand within it, and brought out three iron boxes, which I unlocked. Kotikokura’s mouth opened wide, as if his lower jaw had suddenly dropped away from the rest of his face.
“Look, Kotikokura!” I raised and dropped fistfuls of jewels. “Diamonds and sapphires, and pearls and rubies that blind your eye and burn your hand! Play with them awhile, Kotikokura. It is a delicious sensation. What skin of woman rejoices as much as this?”
He touched the stones lightly as if afraid of being burned indeed.
“In this third box, I have gold coins. They are of far less value than the jewels just now, but when they become ancient enough, they may surpass them. He who lives long enough can never be poor, Kotikokura.”
Kotikokura’s eyes continued to be riveted upon the jewels.
“Those two brothers nearly killed each other for one silver coin, while underneath their feet, there was the wealth of a dozen kings!” I took only one of the coffers. “We shall leave the others here. We may need them some day. I shall teach you how to find this spot and others, Kotikokura. You may have to ransom me some day, or save a precious part of your own precious skin.”
He grinned.
We returned, Kotikokura covered the trapdoor with the debris, and stamped upon it. He smoothed the place with a spade. Everything was peaceful. Only our horses were impatient. We mounted them and galloped away.
XLVII: THE ISLE OF BLISS—I MEET AN ARMENIAN BISHOP—KOTIKOKURA GROWLS—MY HEART IS IN MY MOUTH—THE ILL-TEMPERED SON OF AN IRASCIBLE FATHER
“WHAT trees! What flowers! What a sky! The moon must be three times the size of all other moons I have ever seen,—and the people, Kotikokura, how generous, how kind, how honest! They never asked us who we are, where we come from, why we stop here. They offered us this little house and a bower of a thousand flowers. They have given us food and these garlands and leaves, which they call cloves. Tomorrow, we shall be given each a beautiful virgin as a wife.”
Kotikokura danced, his head upon his chest like a goat.
“You have known the joy of woman, Kotikokura, but you have never known the comfort of a wife. A good wife is the very bread of life. A bad wife…nothing is quite comparable to her. But can you imagine a shrew among these charming people?”
He shook his head.
“Alas, whether a woman be good or bad, she must inevitably become old. The lips that were red and full as cherries become pale and thin like parchment; the teeth that dazzled like small pearls in the sun turn yellow and drop out; the breasts that just filled the cupped hand, hang heavy and loose or become shrivelled and wrinkled. Alas, Kotikokura, that is the fate of a wife.”
Kotikokura’s eyes glistened, one tear in each.
“It is very fortunate, however, my friend, that women resemble one another very much, and one may supplant the other.”
Kotikokura grinned.
“Have you noticed, my friend, that these people have no religion, no churches, no bishops, or high priests? They greet the rising and the setting sun—symbols of Life and Death—a most beautiful and rational habit. Hail Life! Farewell Life!”
Kotikokura continued his goat-like dance. I took his hand, and we danced together. Many natives gathered about us, clapped their hands, kept time with their feet, and soon formed a large circle about us, imitating us.
How long did we live upon this island? Was it centuries or merely years? I could not tell. Our days passed on as smoothly, as noiselessly, as the river that faced our home. I had forgotten everything,—even Salome, even Jesus. It was like an exquisite dream that barely touches our sleep, but which makes us sleep longer and more profoundly.
One day, however, as I was sitting on my threshold, I was awakened with a start, as if someone had struck my head a violent blow. On the side of one of the hills, I saw the shadows of three men and three large crucifixes.
“Kotikokura, we are not destined, it seems, to live here peacefully forever, like those great trees which no one, for the last twenty generations, has ever remembered as young saplings bent by winds. Look! “
Kotikokura rose, his head forward. I pulled him down.
“The Christian Church, not content with the misery and ignorance and cruelty it has brought upon the people of Europe, must spread cruelty and misery everywhere—even upon this beautiful little island, uncharted on any map.”
Kotikokura placed his head between his palms, and his elbows on his knees.
“But we shall not let them spoil these people, Kotikokura. We shall tell our friends to beware of them, to shun them like leprosy.”<
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Kotikokura opened and closed his fists.
“I fear, however, that our struggle will be futile, for after the visit of the monks, the Pope always sends armies. If the people are not persuaded by sermons, they must accept the eloquence of the sword!”
I warned the gentle natives not to listen to the words of the missionaries,—a bishop from Armenia accompanied by two monks. I told them that they were more ferocious than tigers, and sooner or later, they would destroy their homes and kill them. The people hid themselves in their houses or in bushes, and ran away at the sight of the Christians. I watched intently the movements of the Bishop. He was a man of about fifty or sixty, dressed in a white silk robe, in the manner of the Orientals, and wore a headgear that was nearly a turban. He reminded me of Mung-Ling and Apollonius, except that his eyes were clouded and sad, and his mouth too thin. Because of this resemblance, I suspected a good deal of kindness and intelligence in the man.
I sat on the threshold of my house one evening. The Bishop, unaccompanied by the monks, approached me. He greeted me very cordially, and began to speak to me with his hands, uttering at the same time sounds that he had learned from the people. He believed he was addressing me in an intelligible language, but the words he uttered were devoid of all meaning. His efforts to make himself explicit seemed so ludicrous that I could not help laughing.
He was not irritated, but on the contrary, laughed with me. I liked him. He seemed so different from the dignitaries of the Church I had known. He seated himself next to me and pointed to the moon, which was unusually beautiful. He made gestures to indicate how happy that made him. I remembered how Apollonius had loved the moon.
He placed his hand upon my shoulder and pointed to the cross which hung about his neck. I shook my head. He did not insist. We remained silent for a long while. He was not impatient.
Suddenly, I said in purest Greek: “Why do you come to torment these people?” He looked at me as a man awakened suddenly from a profound sleep looks at some strange creature sitting at his bedside.
“Who…who speaks in you? Is it Satan or is it an angel?”
“I have seen neither heaven nor hell…”
“By what miracle have you acquired your impeccable Greek? Has the gift of tongues suddenly descended upon you?”
I laughed. “If I told you that God or Satan speaks through me, you would believe me.”
“Before God, all things are possible, my son,” he said quietly. His voice was a melodious echo of Apollonius. ‘The spirit of the Tyanean must be lodging in this man,’ I thought, ‘but distorted by theology and the dark superstitions which now prevail in the world.’
“Though all things are possible, Father, it is always best not to stretch forth our hands for the most far-fetched explanations.”
“Yes, you are right, my son. One should seek the simplest explanations, and the most natural. You are a Greek who, weary of civilization, its iniquities, its futile glamor, has settled here. Now you fear that your peace may be interrupted again.”
I nodded.
“In a sense. I am here for the same purpose,—to forget the indignities heaped upon our Lord Jesus by false teachers, and the selfishness of man. Perhaps here, these simple, kind people will accept the Word of Jesus as it comes undefiled from His lips.”
“They are perfectly happy now. Why disturb them?”
“Life on earth lasts only a day, but in Heaven…or in Hell, it is eternal. Those who do not believe in our Lord cannot dwell in His Heaven.”
“Are there not many mansions in my Father’s House…?”
“True, but the door is barred to all heathens except by the long road of purgatory. Even saintly Plato, and Apollonius the Tyanean, must travel the road of darkness.”
“Apollonius?”
“Yes,—for whatever the ignorant rabble may say, he was a saint. Alas, he was not baptized!”
“Where is he now, Father?”
“In the outer rim of Purgatory, where he knows neither pleasure nor pain. But the Lord will soon shine upon him as a sun, and he will know indescribable joy.”
“I am glad to hear you speak in this manner of Apollonius, my great Master.”
“My Master too.”
I looked at him.
“His mind was too mighty for his heart. It is the heart, not the mind, that saves us.”
“Do you believe that God’s mercy extends to all men?”
“Eventually…certainly. His mercy is limitless.”
“Will it embrace Judas?”
“Even Judas.”
“Even Ahasuerus?”
“Even Ahasuerus—if he accepts the Cross he refused to bear.”
Unconvinced by his arguments, I was nevertheless touched by the generosity of his spirit.
One of the monks approached. In the chiaroscuro of the moon’s reflection, I thought I saw Damis. My heart beat against my chest like a hammer.
“I shall soon be with you, Francis,” the Bishop called out.
The monk bowed, crossed himself, and walked away.
“A charming fellow—perhaps a trifle too pious and too serious. He even scolds me upon occasions, you understand—not openly, but with a countenance so hurt that I cannot but accept the rebuke.”
“Man needs a thousand years to mellow him.”
“Why live so long, my son? Can one really learn much more in a thousand years than in seventy? Life merely repeats itself.”
“Are seventy years sufficient to understand even one’s self?”
“Neither seventy years nor seventy times seventy, my son,—not until we meet our Lord face to face. Then, in the fraction of a second, we understand all.”
Kotikokura, dressed in his gaudiest attire, filled our glasses with solemnity and pomp, while his wife, on tiptoes, her head bent, brought in the food,—a young lamb, slaughtered in the morning, prepared with a dozen vegetables and fruits whose perfume delighted the nostrils of the Bishop.
“My son, I have often noticed that a sensitive palate does not exclude a sensitive soul,” the Bishop remarked, as he helped himself to another plate.
“Apollonius, too, rejoiced in delicate viands.”
“Our Lord Jesus was seen frequently at the table with His disciples,” he added.
I could have related some gossip about Jesus that was current in Jerusalem, but I preferred to discuss my own fate with him—the first man in centuries who was the intellectual equal of Apollonius. I was determined to tell him my story. However, I waited for the most opportune moment.
Kotikokura glared at his wife who, either forgetting, or her toes aching, walked on her soles, making a noise like the slapping of a large tongue against the palate. She did not see him. He uttered a low growl. Frightened, she rushed out of the room, and returned immediately on her tiptoes.
“Your valet is an extraordinary person,” the Bishop whispered.
Kotikokura stood motionless at a distance, approaching the table only from time to time, to refill our glasses. “Father, are you in a mood to hear a strange story?” “I am delighted to listen to you, my son.” We rose. He took my arm, and walked leisurely.
The river flowed on silently as the hours in sleep, and upon it, the moon trembled vaguely, like the wing of a giant butterfly perched upon a flower.
“Father,” I said, “is Jesus God?”
“Of course, my son.”
“Was he not a man when he was crucified?”
“He was both man and God.”
“It is difficult to conceive of such a union.”
“Not at all. I find it very easy.”
“Strange. Some people are born with a predisposition to believe; others are born to doubt.”
“There is much joy in Heaven when those who doubt see the light.”
I smiled ironically.
“You, too, will accept Jesus,” the Bishop gently added, “Jesus is inescapable.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “He is not inescapable,—and I will not accept him!”
The Bishop smiled kindly, drawing his robe tightly about his legs. “Perhaps you have already accepted Him, but are unaware of it…and something inexplicable in you restrains you from confessing it. Our minds are prouder than our hearts,—and less wise…”
“Father, what will always prevent me from accepting Jesus is not inexplicable, but perfectly rational.”
“What is it, my son?”
“I knew Jesus and spoke to him, as I speak to you. He was not a god.”
“Many of us have spoken to Him, and many have found that He is God.”
“I am not speaking in metaphors, Father… I knew Jesus, knew him physically. I broke bread with him. I walked with him, I talked to him even as I talk to you…”
The Bishop rubbed his chin and eyes vigorously. He smiled. “My son, you are pleased to jest.”
“I do not jest, Father.”
“Jesus died twelve hundred years ago. Then you must be more than twelve centuries old…”
“I am…”
“Who– —?”
“I am… Ahasuerus…” The Bishop withdrew a little. He made the sign of the cross. Then, placing his hand upon my shoulder, he said: “Whoever you are, I bless you! “ “You say this, Father, because you still do not believe me.” “You expect me to believe the miracle of your longevity—but you reject the miracle of Christ’s divinity, which millions have found so simple, so natural of acceptance.”
“Truth should be demonstrable.”
The Bishop smiled.
“You of all men should accept His divinity. He made His power manifest in you…”
“I refuse to be bludgeoned into belief by a miracle that defies my reason…”
I looked at him intently. He resembled Apollonius more than ever.
“Father, do you not remember,—long, long ago,—I spoke to you of this? Do you remember?”
The Bishop squinted his eyes and rubbed his forehead several times. “I think… I remember… It seemed, indeed for a moment…that I had really met you before… Memory alas, is a sieve…”
We remained silent for a long time.
“But I beg you, tell me your marvelous experience under the seal of the confessional. Your words shall remain a secret for all time.”
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 24