“This cup is too exquisite for the coarse lips of the multitude, but the Church needs money. We shall remember your deed and weave a beautiful legend about the myth of your ancestor. Posterity could do no more—even for Jesus.”
“But Jesus was not a myth, Your Holiness!”
“You believe in the historical existence of Jesus?” the Pope asked with unconcealed amazement.
“Of course, Holy Father.”
He laughed. “Have you never heard of the Hindu god Krishna? Is not Krishna—Christ?”
“But Jesus, Holy Father, actually existed. He was crucified and– —”
“And resurrected too?”
I gazed open-mouthed at the Vicar of Christ, refusing to be entrapped.
“His birth and his existence,” the Pope calmly continued, “are as true as his death and resurrection. The cross itself is a priapic symbol worshiped hundreds of years before Jesus. What warrant have we of Christ’s life? The gospels, written centuries after his supposed death, are a compilation of preposterous nonsense that even a child, allowed to think freely, could puncture and ridicule with ease.
“The Roman writers of the period, addicted to gossip and exaggeration as they were, and ready to pounce upon any picturesque incident, never allude to Jesus. Josephus, the most meticulous of historians, ignores him entirely. Whatever mention of him is found in the later editions of his books, is a clumsy and all too evident interpolation.”
“Your Holiness, can a legend subsist without basis of fact?”
“Imagination is a great architect. The flimsiest material suffices for a magnificent structure. How can a philosopher accept the multitudinous contradictions of the Holy Book? How can he accept an absurdity as colossal as the Trinity?”
He laughed. “There is a tribe in the jungle of Africa, with a triune divinity. The father is a man, the mother a camel, the son a parrot. Their religion is as rational as ours…”
“What is the name of this strange divinity, Holy Father?” I asked, laughing.
“I do not remember. Something like Pha-ta-pha—Yes, it must be that. The words read the same backwards as forwards. That proves the god’s perfection, does it not?”
We laughed.
“Such flimsy pretexts are the foundation of all religions, Count.”
We remained silent.
“How,” the Pope asked suddenly, “could Satan with his poor bag of tricks tempt the Son of God? Why must the Only Begotten Son remind his Father, omniscient and omnipotent, that He is forsaken at the critical moment? ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me!’ I could wring the neck of the idiotic monk who, transcribing the Bible, did not have sense enough to erase from it this unpardonable offense, both against Jesus and Yahweh! The whimpering son of an absent-minded father!”
He struck the table with his fist. The Holy Grail tottered on the Decameron.
“Is a legend strong enough to uphold the Church?”
“The Church is an organization, Count—a vast Empire, composed largely of children. The average man is always a child. For his good, we invent fables and legends and promises, ridiculous and vain. Thus the favorite few may cultivate in peace and ease the fine arts and philosophies. The Church is the guardian of civilization…”
His logic was invincible. I would have gladly agreed with him. Alas, I knew differently! Once more reason failed. The irrational was the truth! Like the sudden flash of lightning which rends a clear sky, I saw before me Jesus, his trial, his crucifixion. And like the thunderclap which follows, I heard: ‘Tarry until I return.’ I closed my eyes. My head turned.
Alexander, proud of his eloquence, continued, but his words seemed to come from a great distance. My ears were smitten by the thunderclaps that frightened me in Jerusalem.
“Jesus is a Hindu divinity. Mary is a less imaginative conception of Venus. The very name of the goddess, risen from the foam of the sea, thrills and intoxicates! Venus—goddess of joy, goddess of beauty! Venus– —” He closed his eyes. His nostrils shivered. He reopened his eyes, and smiled. “Venus has become a mother—a virgin mother!”
The thunderclaps died in the distance. The Pope’s voice sounded clear and convincing.
“Jesus would have fared much better if infidels had presided over the Council of Nicæa! What a mess they made of it, Count! The bigoted Bishops disputed and wrangled and fought, and in their blind passion, they never realized that they included two contradictory genealogies of Jesus in the gospels! They should have edited either Luke’s or Mark’s. Besides, the attempt to trace the descent of Jesus to David, through Joseph, makes the immaculate conception preposterous. Jesus is either the Son of God, or the descendant of David. How can He be both at the same time?”
It amazed me not to be able to crush the shrewd and subtle Pope with powerful arguments. “You are surprised, Count, that the Vicar of Christ does not believe in Him? Why shouldn’t a Pope rise superior to his profession?”
‘I must make a dent in the armor of his conceit. I must defeat his logic by facts!’ I thought. ‘Besides, what subtle triumph for me if I, of all men, prove the existence of Jesus to the Bishop of Rome!’
Was it a racial trait which made me anxious to prevail in an argument? Was it vanity? Was it my passion for truth? I cannot tell, but “Your Holiness is mistaken,” I blurted out suddenly. “Jesus lived! I saw him! I spoke to him.”
Alexander laughed. “Many have spoken to Him.”
I shook my head.
“Many have seen Jesus. Our nunneries are crowded with brides of Christ…”
Whatever the consequences of my confession, I would confute and confuse this son of the Borgias.
“If Your Holiness will permit, I shall recount the truth about Jesus.”
He seated himself deeply in his chair, and playing with a diamond studded cross that hung around his neck, listened without interrupting me. Avoiding unnecessary details and sentimental reflections, I told him of my quarrel with Jesus. I described his trial and crucifixion, and in bold strokes, related the major incidents of my life, omitting only my excursion into Africa, Salome and Kotikokura.
When I had finished, he smiled. “In the archives of the Vatican, there is an account by a Bishop– —”
“An Armenian Bishop?” I asked.
“Yes! You have read it, Count.” He laughed, slapping his thighs.
“No, Your Holiness. It was I who confessed to the holy man, on the promise that he would not divulge my secrets.”
“He speaks about this promise, it is true, and he does not disclose the man’s history. He only recounts what was permissible for him to reveal,” the Pope said thoughtfully.
It pleased me that the Armenian Bishop had kept faith with me. I tried to recollect his face, but his features wavered in my mind like a torch in the wind. The face of Apollonius emerged, luminous and superb, instead.
“Ever since the story has become known,” His Holiness resumed, “we are pestered by Wandering Jews. Ordinarily, they are either ranting charlatans or dupes of their fancy. But truly, Count, a man like you—a thinker and a wit—should not indulge in so stale a farce…”
“I am telling the truth, Your Holiness.”
“What is truth?” Alexander yawned. “And how can you prove it?”
“Holy Father, it is difficult to prove the simplest proposition. Mathematics, even, must accept certain premises and axioms, must accept the possibility of drawing a triangle or a circle in a universe which permits neither circles nor triangles to limit its endless flow…”
“You have not mentioned the shoes, Cartaphilus!” His Holiness laughed.
“Shoes?”
“Did you not leave a pair of shoes with the Bishop?”
I searched my memory. “True, Your Holiness, a pair of sandals. My valet forgot them. I had to buy another pair as soon as I reached the first town.”
He laughed uproariously. “Of course. What is the Wandering Jew without the shoes? He must always leave behind him shoes—symbol of his wandering
s and of his father’s profession.”
‘His father’s profession,’ I mused. ‘Can we never extricate ourselves from our ancestors?’
An officer entered, whispered something into Alexander’s ear, and left.
“Ah, you are fortunate indeed! Come to the window, and we shall witness a magnificent spectacle.” The sun was setting; its rays like delicate long fingers bedecked with many jewels, lay languidly upon the garden, making it glitter.
A soldier opened the large brass gate to the west of the garden. Four stallions, two black, two white, dashed in. They galloped about for a few moments, then trotted quietly, their fine heads erect, their step elastic.
The Pope nodded. At one of the open windows of the Vatican, a young man and woman, holding hands, were smiling at the spectacle.
They were nearly of the same height, had the same raven-black hair, large dark-brown eyes, which they squinted a little, due to the light or to myopia. Their noses were strongly aquiline, rapacious as the beaks of birds of prey. Their lips, heavy and shapeless, pouted in perennial mockery. Debauchery was beginning to erase the more delicate lines of their chins. Their foreheads, rising above their heads like superimposed structures, radiated remarkable intelligence and unsavory subtlety.
Cæsar and Lucretia Borgia were undeniably their father’s children.
His Holiness waved his hand. Cæsar answered the greeting by a similar gesture. Lucretia threw him a kiss. The young woman glanced at her incestuous companion,—a significant glance, pregnant with meaning. Cæsar crushed her hand violently. She closed her eyes, and clenched her teeth.
‘Poppaea!’ I thought.
His Holiness opened a little his mouth, and breathed deeply. I no longer doubted the rumor of the libidinous ties which united the Holy Father with his unholy family.
Meanwhile, the gate opened once more and two mares, as vigorous and proud as the stallions, rushed in. The latter stopped in their easy perambulation, sniffed and neighed noisily.
The mares ran to a corner of the garden as if seeking shelter. The stallions approached them. They ran away a short distance, and stopped again. The stallions dashed toward them. One of them touched a mare with the tip of his muzzle. The others rushed at him and bit him. He turned upon them, biting, kicking.
A terrific battle ensued. Blood and thick foam streamed to the ground. The hoofs, striking the earth, scattered sparks. The mares looked on tranquilly, chewing the sparse blades of grass, that grew between the crevices of stones.
A white stallion fell, his legs in the air. His enormous belly was ripped. The other three continued their warfare, neighing and snorting and stamping their hoofs. A black stallion looked up. Realizing, suddenly, the reason of the battle, he dashed toward the mares. His head was covered with blood and muddy foam, and his wet mane hung in clusters over his eyes. He pawed the ground and neighed vociferously.
One of the mares ran away. The other faced him for a while, then ran in a circle. He followed her, but not too closely for at every few steps, she made a threatening gesture.
The circles, however, became smaller and the kicking less vigorous. Suddenly the stallion reared into the air. The mare remained still accepting the virile tribute of her conqueror.
The two remaining stallions were struggling wearily until, exhausted, one fell, his large tongue licking the great red wound from which oozed a thin stream of blood. The other breathed deeply, shaking his head violently to relieve himself of a heavy mass of foam. The second mare passed by. He neighed, lowered his head as if tossing an imaginary horn intended to pierce a foe. She turned as if attempting to dash away. His teeth caught her mane…
Pope Alexander and his children observed with glistening eyes the performance of the most ancient of cosmic rites. Alexander remained at the casement for some time, then turning to me said, his voice hoarse and trembling, “How beautiful! Alas, the gods have not made man to enjoy himself!”
Tall and grim, the Pope’s secretary entered. “Your Holiness, it is time for Mass.”
“Tell the Cardinal to celebrate Mass today. I am not well.”
“Saint Peter’s is filled with people.”
“I have spoken. Go!”
The secretary retired slowly, lips tightened in a gesture of disgust. At the door, he turned once more and made the sign of the cross.
Alexander smiled sardonically, more Pan than Pope.
I looked at his feet, half expecting to see hoofs under the white satin shoes!
“What strength!” he continued, as if he had never been interrupted. “What a magnificent motion! And the charming coquetry of the mares! How many women are as capable of arousing such passion? What sustaining power! For how many women would we sacrifice our lives…?”
He walked up and down for a few minutes, as if to regain his composure.
“Is what you told me the truth, Count?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Then—you are now nearly fifteen centuries old.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
He smiled cynically. “Do you feel the burden of the years?”
“No, Your Holiness.”
He remained silent.
“How could you live so long without being seriously ill without being wounded or scarred?”
“I have been ill, and wounded and scarred, Your Holiness.”
“But you always recuperate?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.” His tone had changed considerably. He seemed annoyed at me, either because he was unable to prove that my statements were lies or because if what I said was the truth, I was incomparably his superior. Alexander VI knew he was mortal.
His silence perturbed me. In order to break it, I said: “Your Holiness, once by accident, I cut off part of my small finger. A hundred years later the finger, healing almost imperceptibly, was restored to its former size. I imagine, therefore, that all severed parts would grow back again, if man lived as long as the crocodile and the tortoise, who are well-nigh immortal.”
“You were circumcised as a boy, I take it?” the Pope asked, raising his left eyebrow, and screwing his lips into a cynical smile.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Well, has beneficent Nature restored that whereof you were deprived?”
I was startled. It had never occurred to me to think of it.
“No, Your Holiness.”
He laughed.
I smiled.
“I am, after all, the Wandering Jew…”
“This is ingenious, Cartaphilus, but it is not the truth.”
I did not answer.
“Not the truth!” he exclaimed. “Acknowledge it!”
I remained silent.
He rang the bell three times. Almost instantly, three officers stood at the doors with drawn swords.
“Tomorrow, we shall see whether you are telling the truth or a lie. The rack will make you speak if I cannot. Besides, it will prove to you most emphatically whether in reality the beneficent forces of Nature can mend your broken limbs, whether you are indeed the equal of the Crustaceans and the Olympians…”
I rose.
“Holy Father, you are jesting. What will the world say if the Vicar of Christ violates the sanctity of the confessional?”
He rose in his turn and placed his hand upon the diamond studded hilt of a small dagger concealed under his robe. He spoke almost gently. “Alexander VI is not a simpleton like your Armenian Bishop. You know too much for the welfare of Christendom…”
“Holy Father, is this the reward for—?” I pointed to the Holy Grail.
“For that we shall make you a beautiful legend. Cardinals shall read masses to your soul when you are dead—if you are dead—for ninety-nine years. No one may live who has listened to all I have told you.”
“I have learned to forget, Your Holiness.”
“Only the dead forget… Besides,” he continued almost caressingly, “you cannot die.” Turning to the officer: “Surrender this man to the Fathers of the
Inquisition. Order them to postpone all other trials until they have wrung a confession from him. My secretary will prepare the details of the indictment at once.”
“Holy Father– —” I pleaded.
“Silence, Jew! You ought not to complain. The Inquisition is an instrument perfected by one of your co-religionists—Thomas de Torquemada.”
The officers approached and surrounded me.
“And by the way,” His Holiness added, “he has a valet who is waiting outside. Tickle him also a little to make him speak.”
The officers smiled.
“But first this man—a Jew and an infidel.”
He motioned with his head and reseated himself. I was pulled away unceremoniously. His Holiness fondled the Holy Grail.
LXV: THE HOLY INQUISITION—UNTAPPED RESERVOIRS—A NUN VISITS ME—“DANCE!”—THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF THE SACRED HEART—SALOME BATTLES AGAINST THE MOON
A LONG room. In the center, upon a platform, a round table. In an angle, a bench, the length of a tall man, at one end a pole, at the other a windlass—a simple thing, almost a toy.
A soldier in back of me, the tip of his sword touching my body. At the rack, a colossal individual stricken with elephantiasis—an enormous face, the color of mud, a nose wrinkled like an elephant’s trunk, crossed with heavy red and blue veins, and ears like two open palms. At the table, three stout individuals dressed in black.
The man in the center reading, reading accusations against me. Jew, blasphemer, mocker of Jesus, the Pope and the Holy Church, enemy of all Christian institutions, false claimant to the French nobility, plunderer of holy relics—reading, reading—
What would be the final judgment? Would I be burned at the stake? Would I become a mass of blisters and raw flesh, unable to live, incapable of death? Would I be ordered to the rack, my members torn from their sockets, my flesh cut into shreds, while consciousness persisted in each writhing nerve? Would I be buried alive, to feed, living, the worm that dieth not?
Should I confess or refute the crimes and sins attributed to me? Which meant less torture?
Never had I been in such imminent danger, not even when the cenaculum of Charlemagne tried me for heresy and bribery. Then, I had a flicker of hope,—the Emperor might remember my services, he needed my drugs to relieve his pain. The Borgias knew neither mercy nor gratitude.
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 38