As for herself, she had not yet conquered the Moon, which being feminine, was too clever and too subtle. But in time she would ensnare the reluctant goddess.
The new generation of nuns was less beautiful and less intelligent. At any rate, they no longer interested her and being an Abbess, a century old, demanded certain proprieties which displeased her.
This letter was to inform me that she had set out on a journey. Where? Well,—could not Cartaphilus guess as Salome guessed his whereabouts?
A few more admonitions, some critical remarks about Man, regards to Kotikokura, her arch-enemy, and a kiss for me– —.
“Kotikokura, Salome sends you regards.”
He shrugged his shoulders, but I detected a twinkle of delight in his eyes.
“You must acknowledge that no woman approaches her in beauty and wisdom, Kotikokura.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Be truthful, my friend.”
He turned his face to the wall.
“You are like the ostrich, Kotikokura,—or at least as the ostrich of the proverb. You will not face reality. How human! Does man ever struggle for truth? No, he struggles, sacrifices his life and happiness for his opinions, which in his heart of hearts he knows to be false.”
Kotikokura drew with his finger the alphabet upon the wall.
“Kotikokura, where is Salome?”
He continued his invisible writing.
“If I only knew!”
I walked up and down the room, thinking, debating.
“Kotikokura, I have it! I have it! She has gone to Africa.”
Kotikokura looked at me.
“She is weary of Europe. Where would she go if not Africa?”
Kotikokura’s eyes darted to and fro.
“At any rate, what place can you imagine more appropriate for us two, Kotikokura?”
He bent almost in two.
“Be erect, or be made erect, Kotikokura! What does this atavistic gesture mean?”
He straightened up.
“Let us go back to Africa,—the cradle of the Universe! Come, High Priest of Ca-ta-pha!”
He bowed three times to the ground and made the sign of the Camel, the Parrot and Ca-ta-pha by dividing his body into three cardinal points.
“Kotikokura, look!” I gave him my telescope, a recent invention of a Hollander.
“Do you see that church surmounted by a cross?”
He nodded.
“Is it not on the spot where the temple of Ca-ta-pha stood?”
He returned my telescope.
Our camels trudged slowly forward.
“Do you know what this means, my ancient friend?”
He looked at me, his face drawn.
“It means that our enemy has conquered. I am a god no longer; you no longer a high priest.”
“Ca-ta-pha god always!” he exclaimed, half sobbing.
“And Kotikokura, his high priest. But where are the people who worship us?”
Kotikokura began to weep. His tears fell, darkening the sand.
“Be brave, my friend! This is the history of all things. They blossom for a while, then wither, and other things usurp their place.”
He continued to weep.
“I have more reason to weep than you. For was I not a god feared and worshiped? Was I not he who made the universe? Did not people tremble at my name?”
“Ca-ta-pha god always.”
“Only in your memory and in the dim subconsciousness of my people.”
Kotikokura waved his fist.
“It was not their fault, I am certain. The eloquence of the sword and the whip persuaded them. What are gods, after all, Kotikokura? Frail blossoms upon the Tree of Life, they succeed one another always. The Tree remains.”
He wept on.
“Kotikokura, you will soon turn the desert into a garden by your tears.”
He endeavored to grin but could not.
Two natives, dressed as priests and blacker than their garments, carrying a tall wooden cross, were followed by men and women singing and beating tom-toms.
“Hearken, Kotikokura! The song is the self-same song they intoned for me. The words are altered. The melody has remained intact. We are not dead! Our souls live in the new body!”
Kotikokura was about to jump off the camel. His hands twitched.
“No, no, my friend! You must learn to lose gallantly and accept the inevitable. This is the meaning of intelligence and the secret of happiness.”
The procession disappeared in the woods. We approached a tree.
“Wait a minute, Kotikokura. There is something carved upon this tree.”
I read: “No matter, Cartaphilus! Other gods have died before you. Other queens have been dethroned. Other high priests have been defrocked. Farewell. Salome.”
“She always precedes us, Kotikokura, and always knows our paths and our emotions. I am afraid of her.”
Kotikokura pouted.
“But the fear of her, Kotikokura, is more exquisite than all other love, all other joy.”
Kotikokura descended from the camel and carved upon a tree next to one on which Salome had carved her message:
“Wicked people—die—god Ca-ta-pha lives—lightning—broil you—devour you—cursed—high priest—Kotikokura.”
“Let us rest, Kotikokura, before we turn back for we have nothing more to do here. Give me my pipe and some opium, not tobacco.”
In the fumes that rose and curled gracefully, I saw—who was it—Willie or Salome? My eyes closed slowly. The smoke, white and dazzling like a lake beneath the rising sun, descended upon me.—”Salome, Salome!” Her lips pressed into my lips—her body mingled with mine.
I woke with a start.
“Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!”
“What is the trouble, Kotikokura?”
“Look, look!”
The church was in flames. The cross upon it blackened and fell.
Bells rang, tom-toms beat, people screamed.
“You set fire to the church, Kotikokura, did you not?”
He shook his head.
“Who then?”
“Ca-ta-pha—god—lightning.”
“It is a lie, Kotikokura. You set fire to it. You smell of smoke!”
“Ca-ta-pha god always.”
“We have no time to discuss this matter, however. Let us flee.”
We mounted the animals and galloped away. The flames rose high and in the dawn appeared, like a setting sun overtaken suddenly by day.
Kotikokura took his flute and began to play.
“Nero!” I exclaimed.
LXXIV: THE BROKEN VESSEL—EUROPE IS SICK—THE NEW PROPHET
WE continued our journey, sadly, silently. Now and then, Kotikokura grumbled menaces and anathemas, waving his fists.
The camel-drivers whom we had left some miles away from our destination, to await our possible arrival within three days, were jubilant at our unexpected return. They kissed our hands, patted our animals, and blessed Allah and Mohammed, his true Prophet.
A snake showed his head out of the sand and vanished again.
“Look, Kotikokura! Do you remember?”
He knit his brows.
“Was it not the snake that perpetuated our friendship? Had he not bitten me, you would not have partaken of my blood. By this time, you would be less tangible than the sand our camels tread upon, leaving their zigzag imprints. As for me, I should have missed the most faithful of all companions.”
He pulled my hand to his lips and kissed it.
“There is neither absolute evil nor absolute good, Kotikokura. Venom may become divine ichor, and nectar cut the entrails like the sharpest of vinegars.”
He nodded. “Let us make the snake the coat of arms of the noble and ancient house of Kotikokura.” He rubbed his hands.
“Kotikokura, once Christianity was a vase too strong for any hammer. That the vase was not beautifully fashioned or acceptable to logic, is another matter. At least, it stood erect and motionless in
a world of storms and hurricanes. But the vessel has been shattered to bits. Whatever essence it contained has been spilled and mingled with the mud. Each country, city, and petty community has placed upon its altar a fragment, shapeless, meaningless, and worships it, calling it the full vessel, the only true one. Whoever speaks of another fragment or recalls the full vessel, risks excommunication and the rack.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“It is more difficult to travel through Europe than to pirouette among eggs. We must be extremely wary, Kotikokura. We must imitate with utmost precision, every word and every gesture. Christianity has become more intricate than the Chinese language, and a sound placed slightly higher or lower on the Chromatic scale is an unpardonable blasphemy.”
Kotikokura nodded sadly.
“Jesus, my ancient countryman, is it not distressing to be god? Jesus, if I do not believe in you, at least I do not mock you as your believers mock you. If I do not worship you, I do not blaspheme you as your followers blaspheme you. You should not be the god of these barbarians, who love the sword more than they love you. You should have remained among your own or, better still, gone among the gentle Chinese or Hindus. They would not have mutilated your words.
“The Lamb has strayed among the wolves who worship him, but they worship him in their own fashion!” Kotikokura listened, his eyes darting to and fro,
We traveled slowly and cautiously, adopting the dress, the religion, the customs of the various countries. We shouted hurrah with the people on the public square upon the passing of soldiers or royalties. We crossed ourselves properly in the churches and upon general religious festivities. Our names and our appearances changed with the changing countries. We were clean-shaven. We wore pointed beards, full beards, mustachios.
“Each nation is clamoring for justice, Kotikokura. Do you know what it means by justice? It means a sharper sword. It means the ability to crush its neighbors. Each one prays to the Lamb. Do you know what the prayer is? “Make us more ferocious than tigers; more powerful than lions! Let our teeth be sharper than the teeth of all others, that we may tear our enemies to bits! Grant us victory, O Lord! We shall bring as sacrifice to Your Holy Name, O Perfect Lamb, the bleeding flesh of the vanquished!’ ”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Do not imagine, however, Kotikokura, that Europe will die because of its iniquities. Only in legends, such as the Bible, iniquity kills. In reality, only a grain of justice, of love, of intelligence, of freedom is required for existence, and that grain always exists by force of circumstances and despite religions or the volition of man. Europe will not die, for that would imply a logic which life does not possess.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“But if it will not die, it is nevertheless covered with ugly ulcers like a leper and the stench is unbearable,—particularly here in Germany. This poor country, once the seat of strength and robustness, has become the pleasure-ground of wild beasts and birds of prey. Let us not linger too long.”
Kotikokura nodded sadly.
“They say that there is still one country in Europe which has retained civilization and freedom.”
He looked at me inquiringly.
“Holland. I overheard, while you were engaged in fondling a kitten, two students who believed themselves safe since they spoke in Latin in an inn frequented by coachmen and soldiers, that in the capital of that country, there lives a man whose work in philosophy is beautiful and illuminating. They say he is a Jew, a polisher of lenses, who has refused to become a professor at the University or accept money from the prince. On the crest of a hill of dung, now and then a rose blossoms. Such is the strange way of life. The glory of a civilization is but the achievement of a few rare souls. The rest is manure.
“Let us seek out this new prophet.”
LXXV: I DISCUSS GOD WITH SPINOZA—NEW VISION—APOLLONIUS WALKS WITH US—I MAKE MY PEACE WITH JESUS
HOLLAND seemed, in truth, a more comfortable place than the rest of Europe. The inhabitants had recently proved their personal prowess and the advantage of their geographical situation to an astounded world. If it was not characteristic of their stolid nature to show much enthusiasm and exuberance, one breathed, at any rate, an air of confidence and quiet happiness. The small houses, white wood or brick, were spotless in their cleanliness. The men sat upon the thresholds, raised sufficiently to allow a comfortable posture and smoked enormous pipes in silence. The women spun at the open windows. In the distance, at every angle of the compass, the mills turned ceaselessly, glittering in the sun like dull mirrors.
People of a dozen religions lived if not lovingly together,—something which could hardly be expected—at least without murdering one another.
Nevertheless, being a foreigner and therefore naturally suspected—for man has this in common with the dog that strangeness intimidates and enrages him—I preferred not to ask freely for the whereabouts of a philosopher once excommunicated by his own people and generally considered, if not an atheist, at least a vague and indifferent believer.
From an old bookseller, I discovered that Benedictus Spinoza, finding Amsterdam unsuitable to his health, had for some time now been living at The Hague, if indeed he was still living.
“We must not linger too long, Kotikokura. Our sage seems to be of a very delicate constitution. It would be a pity to reach him after his departure from this troubled, superstition-devoured earth.”
At The Hague, a lens polisher informed me that the renegade lived on the outskirts of the city, taking greater care of his lungs than of his lenses.
An old woman, clean as if she too had been whitewashed and scrubbed like the houses, scrutinized me for a long minute.
“The master is in his room,” she said, pointing to the attic. “He has been writing for the last two days steadily. He should not do it. He is not feeling very well.”
“It is true, then,” I said, “that his lungs are not strong.”
She sighed. “It is, sir. And it is a pity. He is the best man in the world, whatever the others may say. He has lived with us for two years and never have I heard an unkindly word. And as for religion, whenever I beg him to come along to church, he accompanies us. He does not blaspheme or mock. It is not true, sir. He– —”
The stairs creaked.
“He is coming down, sir.”
Spinoza appeared,—a middle-aged man, his face drawn, his eyes large and brilliant as if they had just looked at a newly-discovered star.
“Master,” the old woman said quietly, “are you feeling well?”
He smiled, coughed drily, and answered, “I am feeling well… Thank you, little mother.”
“You are working too hard. It is not right,” she admonished. “Young people never understand that—”
He placed his hand, long and thin and nearly transparent, upon her shoulder. “Am I young?”
“Of course. But here I am chattering while this gentleman is waiting to see you, master.”
She walked out of the room. Spinoza gave me his hand.
“Master, I come from the end of the earth to see you.”
He smiled. His finely shaped lips curled a little. His eyes closed half-way. “I do not deserve this honor, sir, I am certain.”
“To see a man free from the superstitions that ravage the world is worth a trip from the moon.”
Spinoza played with one of the long black curls that fell over his cheek. “Experience has taught me that all the usual surroundings of social life are vain and futile, seeing that none of the objects of my fears contained in themselves anything either good or bad, except in so far as the mind is affected by them.” He coughed. “But forgive me. I have just quoted a passage from my work. It may be totally irrelevant.”
“On the contrary, master. It is quite relevant and like a precious jewel, has many facets.”
“I wonder, my friend,” he said gently, “if you would care to walk with me along the shore? I love the sea. We come from the sea and shall eventually return to the sea. She is
the Mother.”
We walked silently, leaving imprints upon the sand which the low tide endeavored, but in vain, to reach and fill. Spinoza stopped from time to time to breathe deeply or cough, bending upon his cane. His face was smooth and the two red spots upon his cheeks, the symbol of the fire that consumed his lungs, gave him a youthful appearance. His broad forehead, however, cut by three profound wrinkles, running almost parallel, refuted his youth and if judged by itself gave the impression of great age. His nose, long and sensitive, was Greek rather than Jewish, and his smooth chin, in contrast with the rest of the face, showed that determination essential to one who would remain unperturbed amid the malignity of the people about him.
“Master, have you read of Apollonius?”
“Only here and there. He was one of the few who understood God.”
“God?” I asked, a little ironically. “I thought there were gods but no God.”
He looked at me sadly and nodded. “The many gods do not refute God, my friend.”
“I am older than I seem, master,” I said, “and I have traveled the world over but I have never discovered God.”
“It is not necessary to live very long nor is it essential to travel the world over to discover God. God is everywhere and eternal. Neither time nor space bind Him and the foolishness of the people does not destroy Him. The world is one, and all things in it are parts of one self-evident, self-producing order, one nature which is the Substance, which is God. In it are we all; it makes us what we are; it does what its own nature determines; it explains itself and all of us. It is uncreated, supreme, omnipresent, unchangeable, the law of laws, the nature of natures.”
He coughed.
‘Apollonius,’ I whispered.
“The Substance is eternal, bearing no relation to time. No temporal view of time can exhaust its nature. All things, even those that happened a million years ago are eternally present. There is no before and no after.”
“Is God, an inanimate force or a living intelligence, master?”
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 44