Meanwhile, the man continued reading, reading a strange and new version of the life of Cartaphilus, Wandering Jew, Anti-Christ.
Where was Kotikokura? Was he tried separately? Had he escaped? Had he, like some wild animal, scented the danger awaiting him?
The man read on. Soon he would stop—and then—no, Cartaphilus must not surrender without a struggle! But the soldier’s sword touched my back, and the monstrous individual stood erect beside the rack.
The ring of Antonio and Antonia! The ring! The ring! Why did this word reverberate in my mind?
The ring!
I turned it on my finger. A ray of the sun played upon it. It glittered like a small lamp in a dark cellar. One of the three judges looked at it, fascinated. The ring! The word rose from a great depth, as a bucket rises from a well—heavy and overbrimming.
The ring!
He continued to look at it, his lids motionless.
“Save yourself, Cartaphilus! Save yourself!” Was it my own voice? Was it the voice of another? A fierce determination took possession of me. The desire to live, to rescue my body from the claws of the Inquisition, flared up with primordial intensity. Fear vanished. My strength multiplied. I was no longer a man, but an army.
“These,” the voice—this time clearly within me—cried, “are mortals, Cartaphilus. You are the stuff of which the stars are made…!”
I stretched forth my arms and fastened my look upon the Inquisitor at the left. The man blinked and tried to turn his head. He struggled. The tension was plainly tangible. I continued to concentrate upon him. The rays of the ring pierced his eyes. Suddenly he succumbed. His head dropped like a toy and he began to breathe with the regularity of a sleeper.
The man in the center droned on, without raising his head.
The Inquisitor on his right rose suddenly, and raised his arm to utter a malediction. I could almost hear the words: “Demon! Jew!” His fiery eyes sank into mine for a moment. In spite of the most desperate resistance, I held him. ‘Cartaphilus’ I shouted within myself, ‘Hold him! Hold fast.’ I summoned new reserves out of the depths of myself, as one wrenches a root deeply buried in the earth. An irresistible power, an overwhelming will-to-be, raw, invincible, like life itself, rose from its hiding place in the last layer of my being.
“Sleep!” I commanded. “Sleep! Sleep!” My eyes burned into his. The ring splashed him with fire. Suddenly, no longer a man but an automaton, he breathed deeply, reseated himself, placed his head upon his arm, and snored.
The Chief Inquisitor looked up, astounded. I waved my hands. I recited a passage from the Vedas to distract his attention from his two colleagues. Catching his eyes, I sucked them into mine. His self disappeared in the whirlpool. He struggled like a drowning man, but the waves of energy emanating from me robbed him of his senses. His eyes became as glass.
“Order the soldier who stands behind me to drop his sword and leave,” I whispered.
“Leave!” he commanded. The soldier obeyed.
“Order the Executioner to depart!”
“Depart!” he reiterated.
The executioner departed.
“Now sleep! Sleep!”
He closed his eyes and reclined in his chair.
I breathed heavily through my mouth, like a man who climbs a steep hill, a load upon his back. But I was not exhausted. New strength had flowed into me from the untapped reservoirs of my life—the life of centuries.
The three men, snoring mechanically, looked like crows, their heads half-hidden between their wings.
For the moment I was safe. The bayonet did not pierce my back, nor did the monster in red glare at me, his enormous nose shivering and creasing like an elephant’s trunk. But I was still within the chamber of the Holy Inquisition and outside, doubtless, were the sentinels of the Pope. Maybe Alexander himself, preceded by silver trumpets, was on his way to the court-room! I had to decide upon immediate means of escape.
As I was weighing one thing and another, half accepting, half rejecting, the door opened. A nun, heavily hooded so that hardly more than the lashes of her eyes and the tip of her nose were visible, entered. She looked about furtively.
Where had I seen her, and when? That gait…that carriage! Who was she? The nun approached me and lifted her veil.
“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed. I opened my eyes so wide that they hurt me. “Kotikokura, my friend! Is it possible?” I embraced him. He kissed my hands. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha, my master!” His eyes filled with tears.
“What is the meaning of this attire?” I asked.
He placed his forefinger to his lips and gave me a bundle. I opened it. Within it was a nun’s attire. In a few minutes, I was as orthodox a nun as walked the streets of Rome. Kotikokura made a gesture of admiration. “Oh, wait a minute, Kotikokura! One must not run away so unceremoniously from one’s host—if one’s host is the Pope.”
Upon the back of the scroll which contained the indictment for high crimes against me, I wrote in large letters: “To His Holiness, Pope Alexander VI from the Wandering Jew.” I put the scroll into one of my shoes which I carefully placed on the rack.
I looked at my judges. Suddenly the word “dance” reverberated through my mind. I approached the table.
“Dance!” I commanded. “Dance! Dance!” I repeated.
The Holy Inquisitors lifted their heads slowly, opened their eyes, and descended from the platform.
“Dance, dance!”
They raised their robes in the manner of elegant ladies and began to dance—a weird, disjointed, savage dance. In Kotikokura the dance aroused tribal reminiscences. He looked bewildered. His legs shivered.
The Convent of the Flaming Heart was situated upon a hillock, a few miles to the west of the Eternal City—a beautiful white building, surrounded by vineyards.
The driver urged the horses upward the narrow path that led to the stone gate.
“Is Salome here?” I whispered to Kotikokura.
He nodded.
‘Salome a nun—in a convent,’ I mused, smiling. ‘But not half so strange as the fact that Cartaphilus and Kotikokura are nuns!’ I looked at Kotikokura and it was with the utmost difficulty that I restrained myself from bursting into hilarious laughter.
We descended from the carriage. The driver opened the gate. A nun approached.
“The Mother Superior awaits you.”
We walked in silence in the large garden and were led into a waiting-room.
“The Reverend Lady will be here presently.”
A small door, almost that of a cell, opened to our right and Salome appeared. She raised her eyes and made the sign of the cross.
“Salome!” I exclaimed.
She placed her forefinger to her lips.
“In my cell, we shall be able to speak without being overheard. Follow me!”
Her cell was a large room whose window faced the Tiber. A crucifix of excellent workmanship hung from one of the walls. Underneath it, several shelves crowded with books and manuscripts. At an angle, test tubes and other delicate instruments. Here and there, a flower vase, a statuette, a painting.
She closed the door behind us.
“Salome!” I exclaimed again. I pressed her to my heart.
“I am an Abbess, Cartaphilus, and you a nun. We should be colder and more distant in our dealings.”
She laughed a little.
“Salome an Abbess!” I laughed in my turn.
“It is not so strange, Cartaphilus. Since I cannot be Pope and rule mankind, I can at least rule my nuns and pursue my studies. The nuns are obedient. Unlike the Pope’s subjects they do not rebel. Many are intelligent and beautiful. Unsoiled by the rude hand of man, they tremble at my touch. Their cheeks blossom at a glance. If Eros visits their dreams, they consider themselves wicked sinners. They kneel before me, place their heads upon my knees, and weep. My hand comforts them…”
Salome closed a little her eyes, and remained silent for a while. “Besides,” she said smiling, “Holy Orders enabl
ed me to reciprocate your courtesy. Without my assistance, you would have suffered some unpleasant experience.”
“How did you know of my presence in Rome?”
“How did you not know of mine?”
“Salome is incomparable always.”
“You ascribe my knowledge to feminine intuition, Cartaphilus?”
I smiled, for such a thought had flitted through my brain.
“If intuition knows more than reason, it is superior to reason,” I remarked.
“It was not intuition, but reason. You are incorrigible and unchangeable, Cartaphilus! You still consider woman only a little higher than the animals. Feminine intuition seems to you an impersonal, unreasoned thing, akin to animal instincts.”
I was about to object, but she raised her forefinger to her lips. ‘An Abbess,’ I thought, ‘but a remarkably charming one, nevertheless.’
“What you call feminine intuition is a more sublime form of reason. Woman omits several intermediary steps in the chain of reasoning and arrives at her conclusion more rapidly than man with his clumsy masculine intellect. Bewildered and piqued, man dubs the swift processes of her logical mind—intuition.”
“Salome is subtler than the Holy Father.”
“If the Holy Father had been a woman, he would not have excluded from his reasoning the possibility of your escape. His ‘intuition’ would have been disastrous for you.”
“How well for me, Madre Perfetta, that he is merely a man!”
Salome smiled and caressed my hands. “You must be hungry and thirsty.”
She offered me wines and sweets.
“But tell me explicitly, Salome, what happened? How were you able to rescue me?”
“There is less mystery in this than it seems and much more reason than instinct. I saw you ride through the city as an ancient knight, and if I had not seen you, I would have heard about it. Every one spoke of the strange visitor…”
I rubbed my hands, pleased at my prank, in spite of its aftermath.
“Cartaphilus is a child always, delighted with toys. I understood you desired to attract the attention of His Holiness. I knew a visit to Alexander would not pass without some unpleasantness. Your masculine conceit, intensified by your Jewish propensity for argumentation, would, I was certain, make you boast of matters whose secret only a woman knows how to keep.”
I smiled. “That’s contrary to the world’s opinion. A woman’s tongue– —”
Salome, irritated, interrupted me. “Well, I watched and listened closely. When I saw Kotikokura waiting for you at the gate of the Vatican, I knew that the moment for immediate action had arrived. Bribery discovered for me that you were to be tried as a Jew and a blasphemer. Bribery made it possible for Sister Kotikokura to visit you. Bribery allowed you to escape. Bribery will induce forgetfulness…”
“And the Pope? How is it that he was not present at the trial?”
“He was detained by a French Ambassador who recounted some magnificent anecdotes of intrigue and murder, but Alexander VI would have witnessed your torture. That would have interested him more than the Ambassador’s tales.”
“Salome, you are the Goddess of Wisdom and Beauty!” I knelt before her. She made the sign of the cross above my head.
“Salome, has not the time come for us to travel together? We can protect and comfort each other. Infinity is in sight. The parallel lines of our lives must join at last…”
She shook her head. “I must remain here for years, perhaps for centuries, under one guise or another. This place affords me silence and a sanctuary for meditation and for my experiments. I shall not be free until I liberate my sex from the slavery of the moon…”
I looked, not understanding, although I dimly remembered the remark of Gilles de Retz that Joan of Arc was not a slave of the moon.
“It is the moon’s tyranny that makes woman man’s inferior—the scarlet sacrifice the chaste goddess demands of every woman, whoever she may be—peasant, princess, or abbess. She accepts no scapegoat, she admits no ransom—save age. In pain and discomfiture, every daughter of Eve must pay bloody tribute to the moon’s cold and virginal majesty. Yes, before woman can be man’s equal—or his superior—we must overthrow the governance of the moon…!”
Her voice had an unusual pathos. For the first time, I realized to the full the tragedy of being a woman—the tragedy and the courage. I looked at Salome. Her face had the tenderness of a madonna.
“I understand,” I said.
“What?” Salome asked.
“I had not grasped your image at first, nor its profound significance.”
“Always the ponderous slowness of the male.”
“And…have your experiments been successful?”
“Partially only. I must combat not only a biological law, but woman’s ignorance and her fear. In spite of all I shall conquer! Woman shall be free! Woman shall be man’s equal! Then only will their union be beautiful and perfect; then only shall the love of Cartaphilus and Salome be consummated. No, my friend, I must remain. You, however, must go—and at once.”
“At once?”
She nodded. “This painting of the virgin hides a secret iron door. When it is opened, you will step into a boat always anchored there. Salome is a good general. She plans her retreat as carefully as her advance. The man who drove you here—deaf and dumb, and faithful as a dog—will row you across the Tiber. He will have food and clothing for you. You will be two small merchants traveling through the country. Disappear as quickly as possible from Rome and Italy. The Pope’s spies are already instructed to capture you. You have hurt the vanity of a Borgia, but we shall outwit him. The Borgias are, after all, mere children. Could they live as long as we—what prodigious monsters they might become, or who knows—what prodigious saints! However, we have no time to lose.”
She raised the painting and unlocked the secret door.
“Farewell, Cartaphilus.”
“Since it must be—farewell, Salome.”
We embraced. She opened the door. Was it the setting sun or the magnificence of Salome’s hair which cast the golden reflection upon the water?
We stepped into the boat. Salome made the sign of the cross over us. “God speed.”
The Tiber beat lazily against our boat. The hills opposite were masses of clouds nailed against the sky.
LXVI: DARLINGS OF THE GODS—STIRRING THE ASHES—BIRDS ON THE WING
“KOTIKOKURA, we are indeed the darlings of the gods. I do not know whether we are shielded from torture because of the love they bear us, or more likely—for some sinister ulterior purpose.”
Kotikokura’s eyes glowed with green fire, like an animal’s in the dark.
“Maybe the high gods reward me because I defended my Enemy before his own vicar. I must insist upon his existence, for if he does not exist, I am not even a wraith!”
I remained silent. My last sentence reverberated in my brain and rolled upon my tongue.
“Kotikokura, how strange that I never considered this! If he does not exist, I do not exist either…and you are but the shadow of my dream…”
Kotikokura knitted his brow, not understanding.
“He must exist!”
Kotikokura nodded, unconvinced.
“We are, perhaps, two sides of the same medal,” I remarked, musingly, “and perhaps, for this very reason, we never see eye to eye…but must remain forever incomprehensible to each other.”
Kotikokura rubbed his nose, perplexed. He had never quite grasped my relationship to Jesus. “Some day, perhaps, the metal will melt in the alembic of love or disaster. Some day the two may be one…”
Kotikokura’s eyes darted to and fro.
“But this is mere poetry, no doubt, my friend, induced by my happiness of having escaped from the clutches of the amiable Vicar of Christ. I shall never tempt the Devil—or a Pope—again!”
Kotikokura grinned.
“I yearn to be once more a tranquil water, running securely between its two banks. Let us
go beyond the Danube, Kotikokura.
Let us see what the Barbarians have accomplished. Do you remember Ulrica, Kotikokura?”
He nodded.
“What a delightful creature she was! Where is she today? Less than a pinchful of the dust we tread upon; less than the foam that dots the sharp point of a wave in mid-sea; less than the echo of one word uttered between two hills; less than the wind stirred by a butterfly’s wing…”
Kotikokura’s eyes were covered with a thin film.
“The Pope was right: the soul is the daughter of fear. Man disappears utterly like a bird in flight…”
Kotikokura nodded.
“We, too, are transitory, Kotikokura. However long we endure, we shall seem to Eternity only as birds on the wing, lingering awhile over the tops of trees or describing a few wide circles over the surface of a lake, the tips of our wings barely scratching the water…”
Kotikokura wiped his eyes.
LXVII: THE JOY OF LIVING—THE FRIAR OF WITTENBERG TALKS ABOUT LOVE—CHRIST AND ANTI-CHRIST—KOTIKOKURA’S ADVENTURE—A FINE NOSE FOR SULPHUR—I RAISE A STORM
TWO gentlemen, traveling unostentatiously at random, wherever a boat might sail or a coach drive, squandering months and years with the prodigality of early youth. Ah, the joy of locomotion! The delight of being unrooted!
“Once I bewailed the fact that I had neither a country nor a speech nor a name. Once I mourned the length of my days. Man should live a man’s span of years, I argued—then sink into eternal sleep. Ah, the joy of living on and on!”
Kotikokura grinned.
“I am happy, Kotikokura! I am happy that I have neither country nor name. I am happy to be alive…” Kotikokura began to dance. “Dance, my friend, dance upon the tombs of a million generations! We are Life—all else is Death!”
Kotikokura took my hand and whirled me about.
Out of breath, we seated ourselves upon a rock.
“Listen, Kotikokura! Listen to the tinkling of the sheep’s bells! Listen to the shepherds’ call! We are in Arcady, Kotikokura!”
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 39