He stopped, planted his cane in front of him, and answered: “God must have infinite ways of expressing Himself,—each perfect, self-determined. We know but two—body and mind, equally real, equally true,—constituting as far as we can judge, the whole Substance. From the faintest line to our own bodies, every visible or tangible thing is an expression of the extended or corporeal aspect of God. In the same manner, our minds are but the extended or mental aspect of God. Mind-body—two parallel lines and both the expression of divinity. God is therefore both the animate and inanimate, the living and the dead,—everything that is or ever was or ever can be.”
He straightened up and looked into the distance as if all space had been eliminated and infinitely stretched out before his enraptured gaze.
I could make no remark, ask no questions. His words thrilled me as if the sea in front of us had suddenly changed into a majestic orchestral composition; as if the sky had burst into a luminous white light.
‘Apollonius,’ I thought, ‘Apollonius come to life again. There is no past and no future.’
“Jesus,” he said softly, “claimed to be the Son of God, and so He was, and so was Mohammed and Moses, and so is everyone, every man, every creature, however humble, however powerful, each partaking of the divinity to the extent of his ability and nature. God is everywhere, always. We are not only His sons, we are He. Our finiteness is lost within His infinity, even as the thin stream that trickles down a mountain into a rivulet which flows into the large river, which in turn mingles and becomes the salty depths of this sea.”
We resumed our walk. For a long time, neither of us spoke. Apollonius, his long beard shivering in the breeze, accompanied us, and enveloped us with his white silken robe. ‘Whenever you desire me intensely, I shall be with you.’ He was with me. Life was eternal. There was no death. Jesus, too, was not far off, walking over the waters, perhaps, as his disciples claimed. He had returned but not to destroy me. He was the Son of God, even as all men, even as the birds that flew above our heads.
Spinoza coughed and closed his eyes.
“Master, were it not wiser to return home? The air is very strong here.”
He looked at me and smiled, placing his hand upon my shoulder.
“We must die sooner or later. The fool alone fears that which is inevitable. The wise man looks upon death as a soft cool bed wherein he may rest after the fever of the day.”
“Is it not a pity that man’s life must be so short that he hardly has time to learn how to walk unscathed among the thorns that surround him?”
“Life—death—are synonymous and interchangeable terms. The sun which is setting now in front of us and will soon disappear—does it die because it is no longer visible?”
“Is it possible, master, for a man to live for centuries?”
“Why not? He would partake of the body of God in a greater measure than the rest of humanity.”
“Would you consider endless life a blessing or a curse?”
“I would consider it useless, but not a curse. God inflicts no penalties. The true mind knows nothing of the bondage of time, thinks of no before and no after, has no future, dreads nothing, laments nothing; but enjoys its own endlessness, its own completeness, has all things in all things.”
“Then, Master, the Wandering Jew may not be a myth.”
“The Wandering Jew is truth whether considered as a living entity or a personification of his race. He is the symbol of restlessness and search. Some day, he will find what he seeks, and will no longer wander.”
“What does he seek?”
“God. Everyone, everything seeks God as every drop of rain seeks and, ultimately finds, the sea.”
I pressed his hand. “It is true!”
“The wise man, my friend loves God with a fragment of that very love wherewith God loves Himself and his meditation is not of death but of life, of the Eternal Life whereof he is a part and has ever been and ever will be a part. He is bound as a nut in a shell, but he is the monarch of infinite space. The nightmare of his phantom life has ceased to trouble him.”
The air became chilly. Spinoza wrapped himself tightly in his black cotton robe.
We turned our steps homeward. He quoted parts of his Ethics and explained them by mathematical formulæ. Never since Ali Hasan did mathematics contain so much beauty and wisdom. I did not dare interrupt the flow of his words lest the cup slip from the hand and the precious draft spill upon the sand.
We reached his door. He looked at me for a long time.
“If the way to God seems exceedingly hard, it can nevertheless be reached. All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.”
“Master,” I said, almost in a whisper, “you are weary today. May I come in a day or two again and listen to your words once more?”
He sighed. “Yes, certainly.”
He pressed my hand and entered the house.
I did not wish to be importunate, and let a few days pass before I visited Spinoza again.
“Come, Kotikokura, this time you will accompany me. You, too, must hear the master’s words, limpid as the waters that tumble from a mountain.”
He combed his hair and arranged his cloak. “True, in his presence, we must be annointed and beautiful. He holds communion with God. We are his priests.”
We walked slowly, rhythmically. The sun had passed the meridian and like a vase over-brimming, bent a little, to pour his libation upon the earth, the cupped hands of the universe.
A calm and delicious joy possessed me.
“Kotikokura, we no longer wander strangers in an inimical country. We are the children of God—God Himself.”
“Ca-ta-pha god.”
“Yes, he is god. Kotikokura god also. The sun is god. This butterfly that perches upon the window sill, mistaking it for a meadow, is god. The air we breathe, the water we drink—everything! Life is a perpetual eucharist! Ah, Kotikokura, the curtain of night has been lifted, and the truth is beautiful.”
Kotikokura’s eyes closed half-way, voluptuously.
“I sought logic but found instead irrationality. I sought beauty but found ugliness. I sought life and discovered death. The master, in his few years of existence, without hurry, without despair, sought what every man should seek—God—and found Him infinitely more beautiful than any priest or saint had ever imagined Him. People speak glibly of God’s omniscience and omnipotence, but think of Him as dying upon the cross, as shouting through bushes, as riding upon a camel, as howling across the thunder. Spinoza, out of his own magnificent brain, discovered the true nature of God—timeless, spaceless, all-inclusive. No one is a stranger, no one is homeless. The gates have been thrown wide open, all are welcome, all are within the limitless castle. No Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, no angry judge, no sycophantic angels, no merciless devils. We are all one. An infinite circle embraces us like the white perfumed arms of a new love.”
Kotikokura raised his arms ecstatically to the sun.
“This God requires neither prayer nor bribing. No hosannahs must be sung to His Holy Name. The knees need not bend before Him, or His mercy be invoked. He is not merely a human king a thousandfold enlarged. He is that which is. He is ourselves. He is Ca-ta-pha. He is Kotikokura.”
Kotikokura grasped my arm. We quickened our pace. Our hearts beat like triumphant drums.
On the threshold of Spinoza’s home, the old woman sat, knitting slowly. She was not aware of our arrival. Kotikokura scraped his foot. She looked up. I greeted her. She answered vaguely.
“The Master,” I said, almost in a whisper, “is he in his room? May I see him?”
“The Master,” she answered, “is dead.”
The universe, so beautiful, so vast, so perfect a few minutes previously, shrank to the size of a coffin and God assumed the shape of a worm.
“He was buried yesterday,” and lowering her head, she proceeded to knit, tears trickling upon her hands.
I remained standing, silent for a long while. Then I seated myself next to her.
“The Master called you Little Mother. He loved you.”
She looked at me, her face wrinkled as if a nervous hand had crumpled it.
“I loved him too. He was the gentlest man that ever lived. He did not know the meaning of hate. Even the spiders in his room he would not kill.” She wiped her heavily-rimmed spectacles, wet from tears. “He made these, the Master, and I can see through them as if I still had the eyes of my youth.”
“What has become of the Master’s papers?”
“They are locked in the drawer of his table. His printer will take care of them. So the Master ordered.”
“Did he suffer much before he died?”
“It was during the night that he began to feel ill. I went up.
He smiled and motioned me to approach. ‘Master, shall I bring the priest?’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘it is not necessary. God knows everything.’ I began to weep. ‘Foolish Little Mother.’ he said. ‘Why do you weep? Must not everyone die?’ ‘You are too young, Master.’ ‘There is no time, no past, no future. There is neither death nor life.’ I did not understand him. I am not learned. I am an ignorant woman. I see life and I see death, but I felt what he meant. It was his great goodness that made him say what he said. ‘Sit here near me,’ he said, ‘and knit, Little Mother.’ The whole night I sat up. Towards morning, I fell asleep. When I awoke, he was dead. The doctor came but it was too late.”
“For the Master’s sake, I wish you would do me a favor, Little Mother.”
“What favor can a poor old woman like me do?”
“I want you to take this purse that your last days may not weigh too heavily upon you.”
I placed the purse in her lap.
“No, no, sir. I cannot accept it.”
“For his sake, Little Mother.”
“But I have done nothing to deserve this money.”
“You have indeed. You have been good to the wisest and best of men while others misunderstood and maligned him.”
“No, sir. I cannot– —”
“Had he had money, would he not have given it to you?”
“Yes, he would, I am sure.”
“This is his money. You must take it.”
I rose. She was about to rise also. I pressed her down gently.
“I beg of you, Little Mother.”
She looked at me for a long minute, kissed my hand, and made the sign of the cross.
“May Jesus repay you for this, sir.”
“Jesus has paid me in advance. It is because of him that I had the good fortune of meeting the Master.”
I took Kotikokura’s arm and we walked slowly homeward. “Jesus, Spinoza, Ca-ta-pha,—all Jews and all denied by their people! Strange race giving birth to gods whom they do not recognize, whom they crucify, stone and stab. Stranger still that Spinoza whom I only saw once should have made me realize that I no longer hate Jesus, that he is of my blood, that he is my friend! Who, indeed, should know him and love him if not Ca-ta-pha?”
A dove, white as a handful of snow, descended from one of the houses and settled at our feet.
“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed, “Jesus lives.”
“He lives and Spinoza lives and Apollonius and all those who thought beautiful thoughts, whose hearts beat in harmony with the universe, with God.”
Kotikokura raised his arms toward the sun and uttered the prayer of his tribe.
“The sun is the Father, the Earth his beloved Daughter, conceived immaculate, by His eternal wisdom. Hail Sun, Father of us all!” I exclaimed.
“Ca-ta-pha… Ca-ta-pha… Ca-ta-pha.” Kotikokura uttered, facing the sun.
I communed in silence with the World Spirit. My soul was one with the universe.
LXXVI: AT THE DOCK OF SAARDAM—THE HUMOR OF THE TSAR—KOTIKOKURA FORGETS—I BUILD A CITY—THE EMPIRE OF GOLD
WE were standing at the dock of Saardam, watching the work of the shipbuilders.
Suddenly, one of them, a man of gigantic proportions, waved his arm and spoke to the rest in a strange jargon, a mixture of German, Dutch and Russian, but quite comprehensible nevertheless.
“Who of you wants to go to Russia? The Tsar will pay you ten times your wages here. He will give you full protection, will let you keep your religion, and your customs.”
The rest looked up, some smiling, a few waving their fingers about their temples to indicate that he was raving.
“He has been saying this since he came to work a week ago,” said one.
“Yes, every day he says the same thing.”
“Is he crazy, do you think?”
“Maybe he is a spy.”
“But if a spy, the government would have been after him.”
“Yes, that’s true. He is just a little off.”
“Those of you who are unmarried will find beautiful and strong women there. Those of you who have wives and children will get extra wages. Who wants to go to Russia?”
Several laughed.
One shouted, “You better go on with your work or I’ll tell the boss.”
“Who dares to speak to me in that manner?” He raised an enormous log and was about to strike. The people retreated. He dropped the log which rebounded several times.
“In Russia, your head would have rolled at my feet.”
“And he wants us to go to Russia,” one laughed.
The others joined him.
“Slave on here! You would have become rich in Russia. Fools!”
He turned his back upon them.
“Kotikokura, who is this man? Look! We knew him. We saw him.”
Kotikokura nodded and knit his brow.
The man walked toward us.
“Who, Kotikokura?”
Kotikokura rubbed his chin.
“Those eyes—that chin—his stature—his strength—who?”
Just as he was about to turn the corner, I called out: “Attila! Attila!”
Kotikokura nodded vehemently. The man heard me, stopped in front of us, scrutinized me, and smiled broadly.
“I am a descendant of Attila. Wherever I pass, I conquer.”
“You are not a descendant merely, Sire, but Attila himself,” I said, bowing low.
His eyes, sharp as the points of knives, tried to pierce through me.
“Is it so difficult to recognize a king, Sire?”
“Who are you?” he thundered.
“I am Your Majesty’s servant,” I answered.
He threw his arms about me and kissed me on both cheeks noisily like the clapping of hands. “Peter Romanoff is your friend. Will you come with me to Russia?”
“Wherever Your Majesty commands?”
“Who is that man?” He pointed to Kotikokura.
“My companion, Sire.”
Kotikokura made a profound obeisance.
“I like his face. He looks like one of my people.”
Kotikokura kissed his hands.
Peter walked between us, holding our arms.
“Can you imagine, the fools not willing to go where fortune awaits them? Could they not recognize me? Do I look like a common laborer?”
“Your Majesty, the sun shines in vain for the blind.”
“Splendid! You will teach my ministers the art of courtesy. I want to turn my court into a more magnificent palace than that of Versailles. Louis the Fourteenth is splendid. He has taste and manners. He treated me discourteously but—” he raised his arm and waved his fist,—”I shall be the emperor of the world!”
“Attila!” I exclaimed.
“I need men. I need a navy. These fools will not come.”
“They will come, Sire. I shall persuade them.”
“How can you persuade them when I found it impossible?” he scowled.
“Your Majesty, the people are accustomed to respect the uniform. I shall talk to them dressed as a high officer of your army. They will come.”
“You are my friend, my joy, my hope!” he exclaimed, and kissed my cheek.
He looked at his boots and laughed heartily. “I do not blame
the poor devils. Does a great emperor wear muddy boots and a torn coat? Promise them everything, my friend. We need boats and sailors and shipbuilders. Russia shall become the mightiest of nations! She shall conquer the world!”
The tip of his boot struck a horseshoe. He picked it up.
“What other monarch can bend this iron?”
He grasped the shoe with his enormous hands, closed his eyes, and pressed until the points met.
He threw the shoe away. Kotikokura picked it up and with one movement, unbent the iron until it became a straight line.
Peter glared at him. “You are a strong man– —”
Kotikokura grinned.
“But a poor courtier. Don’t you know that it is dangerous to excel the Tsar?”
Kotikokura’s chin dropped.
Peter flung his arms about him and kissed him. “Do not fear. You shall be the commander-in-chief of my bodyguard.”
Kotikokura bowed to the ground.
We entered a wine-shop.
“Wine!” Peter ordered.
We seated ourselves at a table. Kotikokura filled very tall cups.
Peter raised his cup. “To Russia!”
We drank the contents at one gulp. Kotikokura refilled the cups.
“To Peter, Tsar of Russia!” I toasted.
Kotikokura raised his cup. “To Ca-ta-pha, god!”
Peter drank but looked at me for an explanation.
“My friend invokes God to bless the Tsar and his country.”
Peter crossed himself and drank another cup. His face flushed, twitched, as if a fly were pestering it.
“What is your name, my friend, and what is your nationality?”
“Once my name was of great consequence and people trembled at it. Now I have none. I await Your Majesty’s baptismal. And my nationality? I am a Russian!”
He looked at me, his fine lips pouting, his small mustache shivering.
“You are of royal blood.”
He rose, poured some wine over my head. “In the name of Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, and His servant, Peter Romanoff, Tsar of Russia, I baptize you Prince Daniel Petrovich,—for you are as wise as the prophet Daniel and I make you my son. You shall be my chief minister.”
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 45