[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew

by Viereck, George Sylvester

  “In what way?”

  “There will be neither slaves nor masters, neither rich nor poor, neither– —”

  Salome laughed. “It is inconceivable, Cartaphilus, how a man who has lived for nearly two thousand years can still harbor such youthful illusions. How many messiahs have we not seen and heard! Truly your glands must function with the accuracy of a clock.”

  We laughed.

  “No, caro mio, only a new superhumanity deserves our consideration.”

  “I remember once some years ago, I met a scholar and a poet whose name was—let me see—Nietzsche, of course. A great poet and a great scholar. He lived alone upon the top of a hill—a thin, sickly individual with an enormous head. He spoke in ditherambs, like an Athenian god. ‘Superman! Superman!—A new humanity!’ I asked him: ‘But master, if at last the superman appears in truth, what joy will it be to us men? The superman will lock us in cages and exhibit us to the youthful superman as we exhibit the monkeys. What delight is there in being an inferior animal?’

  “He rubbed his forehead and covered his eyes, which could not withstand the light of the sun. ‘Perpetually create new values, new vistas, new heights! Let your purpose be a sword! Overcome yourself! Go beyond good and evil! Beyond life! Beyond death!’ he exclaimed.

  “He grasped my arm. He was overcome with vertigo. I led him back to his room and left shortly after.”

  “Nietzsche understood, Cartaphilus. He understood the meaning of creation!” Salome exclaimed. “I should have met him. I shall accomplish what he hoped. I shall mother the Superman and the Superwoman.”

  “Salome, you are the Eternal Mother. This enables you to visualize your dream. You love the child before it is born. You create him mentally before he is created in truth. But I am the Eternal Father. I must learn to love my progeny. The child must exist before it can gain my affection.”

  “Perhaps that is true, Cartaphilus,” Salome said, thoughtfully.

  “It is for this reason, no doubt, that I prefer the great men who are already alive to the supermen who dwell in the poet’s brain, or the homunculae in the womb of creation…”

  Kotikokura, arm in arm with the majordomo, passed us, followed by the tortoise whose efforts at speed were a pity to behold, and two monkeys who jumped like drunken grasshoppers. The procession made us laugh. I related Kotikokura’s adventure in the salon of Madame du Deffand.

  “He is becoming more and more human,” Salome remarked.

  “Perhaps he is the superman of the future. Who knows to what mental stature he will grow within the next ten thousand years?”

  “It is not such a wild notion as it may seem, Cartaphilus. He grows slowly. That is a good sign. We grew too rapidly. What difference is there really between Cartaphilus and Salome in the time of Pilate and now? At most, a mellowing, a ripening, a tolerant outlook.”

  “Is not all this a dream, Salome? Have we really lived as many centuries as it seems to us? Have we not, by some strange mathematics, calculated days as years?”

  Salome sighed a little.

  “I have not visited the Garden of Eden today. Will you accompany me?” she asked.

  “Cartaphilus does not exist for himself. He is but the shadow of his Love…”

  “And Salome is becoming so enamored of her shadow that she may feel as lonesome without him.”

  “How long will she drag her shadow after her as a futile train, O Queen?”

  “Look, look! It is climbing the tree like a squirrel.”

  “Both shadows, Salome, interlaced like branches. Is it symbolic, ma très chère?”

  She nodded.

  “If I seem to walk Salome, it is an illusion. I am flying. My feet have turned into wings.”

  She pressed my arm. “Come, Cartaphilus.”

  The Garden of Eden had a different complexion. Colors, sounds, perfumes had changed.

  “When at last my experiment proves successful,” Salome exclaimed, “the earth shall not be the monotonous singsong of an old woman which it is today. It shall be the mad dance of a young girl who– —”

  She was interrupted by a shrill cry.

  “Let us see what has happened, Cartaphilus,” she said anxiously.

  In a corner of the garden, a small monkey was rolling in agony upon the ground. A gigantic carnivorous rose released its grip over the animal and resumed its normal posture. Blood dripping out of its chalice, reddened the long powerful stalk.

  “A simian Abelard, paying his sanguine tribute to a floral Héloise.” I suggested.

  Salome wavered between indignation and amusement.

  “There is no reason, ma bien aimèe, why a monkey may not turn monk, and why a rose—possessor of a relique prècieuse–may not compose immortal letters in the shape of magnificent perfume.”

  “It would be a delight to see Cartaphilus a monk,” Salome said, her voice slightly irritable. “You are incorrigible! Pick up the little victim.”

  “He is immoral, Salome. I am surprised you pity him. The rose in her virginal purity– —”

  “Stop chattering, Cartaphilus. Let us carry him out and see if we can save his life.”

  “Come, my poor little monk! What business did you have in the Garden of Eden anyway? Only snakes luxuriate in such places. Had you read the Bible faithfully, you– —”

  “I do not understand how he got in here,” Salome remarked.

  “He must have strayed between your lovely feet, Salome. He is thoroughly wicked, I assure you—or at least, he was. For the sake of his immortal soul, nothing better could have happened to him, for nothing is half so productive of moral habits as the inability to be immoral.”

  We walked quickly out of the garden, the monkey groaned in my arms.

  “Kotikokura!” I called. “Kotikokura!”

  Kotikokura appeared in three leaps.

  “Kotikokura, my ancient friend, I bring you a sinner permanently repentant.” He took the monkey in his arms. The animal stopped moaning, and licked Kotikokura’s face. Kotikokura’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Kotikokura, watch closely this move. It is a most excellent one.”

  Kotikokura bent his head until he nearly touched the board. I raised slowly one of the pawns, carved out of amber, and painted red, and placed it a square forward.

  “A simple move, Kotikokura, and apparently without consequences. Moreover, because of it, the red castle is lost to the Black Queen. Ah, but watch!”

  Kotikokura knit his brow, his eyes darting to and fro.

  “The Red Knight dashes to this side, captures this Black Knight. In three, moves, well-calculated and infallible, he will appear galloping before the Black King; at the same time, from the top of this castle, we shall bombard the thick of the army; while from this angle, the Red Queen will emerge, in a blaze of light. The Black King will hear the deafening shout of victory—’Checkmate! Checkmate!’ He will be swept off the board, and—”

  Salome, dressed in a Japanese kimono dazzling with many jewels, and carrying a parasol upon which was embroidered a magnificent eagle, wings outspread, approached, making tiny steps.

  “The Queen! The Queen!” I exclaimed. “Kneel, Kotikokura!”

  We knelt.

  “For some reason or another I have never been able to master chess thoroughly, Cartaphilus.”

  “A patience, too great for a woman, is required for this game.”

  Salome smiled. “Of course, woman must create and accomplish. Man is a drone.”

  “Great destinies are shaped by his idleness.”

  “A consolation for a masculine weakness. Man is so busy finding excuses for his shortcomings, that he has no time to eradicate them.” Kotikokura offered her his seat. He remained standing behind her, holding the parasol over her head.

  “Do not let me disturb you, Cartaphilus. Continue your game.”

  “This is more than a mere game of chess, carissima. I am planning in an objective manner, my last, my most daring, most comprehensive campaign.”

  �
�And what is this most daring, most comprehensive campaign, if I may ask?”

  “The civilized world is divided sharply into two camps,—capital and labor. Labor, which you remember as a cringing slave, has risen to the grandeur of a monarch. The struggle between the two forces will be a grandiose spectacle, out of which Labor, the Red King, will emerge triumphant!”

  “Why so enthusiastic, Cartaphilus? Are you a workman, anxious to increase your wages?” Salome asked ironically.

  “I am weary of the old world, Salome. Besides, I wish to be the leader of the force which must conquer. I have become accustomed to lead,—to own the world. I prefer not to be the deposed sovereign.”

  “And should Labor, contrary to your expectation, be defeated?”

  “Then I shall play with the Black King.”

  “Whatever happens, I win. My rule is permanent. There are not, as Disraeli, the most brilliant Jew of the last century, intimated to me, two hundred men who rule the world. There is only one! The two hundred men are my agents. Among them, there are representatives of all nations, but the majority are children of Israel. Many partnerships, many aliases and corporations conceal my identity.”

  I laughed.

  “Salome, how curiously false is history! Not long ago, Europe and America were alarmed to the point of hysteria about certain documents discovered in Russia, known as the Protocol of Zion, which purported to be the secret plans of the Jews, trying to rule the world and destroy Christianity.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Only in a sense,—for I am the Protocol. I am the Jew ruling the world! And I am no longer a Jew and do not desire to destroy Christianity.”

  “I cannot understand your interest in the old world, Cartaphilus, but I am not opposed to your campaign which will, no doubt, mean the depopulation of the Earth. It will make room for my new race,—the descendants of Homuncula.”

  “Such a war as I am planning is beyond man’s imagination. You are right, Salome. Blood will rise in great billows like an ocean, whipped by a storm. I have already chosen my tools. Lenin, an aristocrat—this Red King—shall be the monarch of Labor. Mussolini, a man of the people—this Black King—the monarch of Capital. Both are Renegades. Renegades are the most passionate upholders of their new ideas. But first of all, another king,—the White King must be crushed!”

  “Who is the White King?”

  “The greatest potentate of Europe. Favoring neither capital nor labor, he aims to speak for both, and for his people. I must destroy him. I have no hatred against this scion of Charlemagne, but he threatens my rule.”

  “Why indulge in such childish notions of glory, Cartaphilus!” Salome exclaimed.

  “But, O peerless woman, love me, and with one gesture—like this—I shall fling to the earth empires, emperors, continents!”

  I swept with my palm the board, and knelt.

  Kotikokura dropped the parasol and gathered the pieces.

  Salome was sitting in the sun, drying her hair. I approached. Kotikokura in back of me, carrying a golden box, was followed by “Abelard” grown plump and pompous, a velvet cowl upon his head.

  I knelt upon one knee. “Nymph celestial, your earthly lover has a gift for you. Accept it, I pray!” Kotikokura placed the box upon her lap. Salome opened it and uttered an exclamation of joyous surprise.

  “The crown and jewels, O Salome, that Isabella of Spain once wore. I bought them that America might be discovered. America has been discovered and inhabited—and corrupted. No other head in all the world save yours, O love, deserves to wear this precious ornament.”

  Salome’s eyes closed half-way, her lips opened slightly and her chest filled.

  “Aphrodite was never as delectable as Salome. Goddess of Beauty, you are Eros and Aphrodite in one!” I exclaimed, rising and placing the crown upon her head. The majordomo and all the servants came running from various parts of the garden.

  I knelt again and all the rest followed suit. “Abelard” kept one paw in the air like a celebrant ecclesiastic. Salome rose, lifted me, and embraced me passionately. Her lips had the freshness of early morning.

  “My love,” she whispered.

  She clapped her hands. The majordomo approached and lowered his head, pressing against his belly. “A banquet in honor of my bridegroom!” she commanded. The majordomo whistled. The servants scurried about like ants.

  Kotikokura, followed by “Abelard,” walked away slowly. Was he downcast or too moved to congratulate me? “Salome, you said ‘bridegroom’—not husband. Was it intentional?” I asked. “Yes, Cartaphilus. Today we shall celebrate our marriage, but we must postpone its consummation.” “Salome,” I pleaded, “how long shall my lips parch in the desert of my desire?” “Tomorrow or as soon as you can arrange it, you must leave, Cartaphilus.”

  “Impossible!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, you must leave for Europe again. Steinach, in Vienna, you tell me, has isolated the feminine hormone. I need this hormone. I need other endocrine products from his laboratory. Homuncula can never be truly born without perfectly balanced internal secretions. And there is one more ingredient which I lack to complete my conquest of the moon…”

  “I am stunned– —”

  “Think of my lonesomeness when you are gone!”

  “Will you be lonesome, Princess?”

  She pressed me to her heart. Her eyes glittered.

  “It is well, beloved. I obey!”

  “If I can achieve my end without the ingredient or if I can isolate the hormone in my own laboratory, I shall send you a message. You will know that I have emancipated myself and my sex completely from ancient biological fetters. When I am free I shall be yours…”

  “You are the creature predicted by Apollonius, the goal of man’s passionate pilgrimage. I seek neither Mary nor John, but—you, the synthesis of all sex attraction, the perfect Double Blossom of Passion! Hermaphroditus and Hermaphrodita are monsters: you are the ultimate, the unimaginable ideal!”

  “Homuncula’s charms are more seductive than mine…”

  “Homuncula knows neither suffering nor struggle. Her perfection is a gift from you. You have wrung your perfection out of the hands of the gods. However marvelous she may be, you and I, though immortal, belong to the race of men. We are united by indissoluble memories, by immemorial ties.”

  Salomeb eyes moistened.

  “When I am ready I shall send my messenger. You will know by this token that the two parallel lines of our lives have intersected at last. Come back to me then, the only man who ever captured his dream.”

  “– —After two thousand years!”

  “Two thousand years is little time for man to discover himself; for woman to shake off the yoke imposed upon her by a biological accident when the first man and the first woman first crept up from the slime of the sea.”

  “I shall obey, most desirable of your sex, or rather, of the new sex for which the world has not yet invented a name!”

  “When you are in Europe, execute your audacious game. Start your war, move your pawns, save the world, if you can! If the experiment ends in failure and confusion, come back to me. A new creation awaits you here.”

  The train dashed on noisily like a whipped animal, Kotikokura and I smoked cigarettes in silence. “Kotikokura, do you bear me a grudge for being betrothed to the most perfect of women?”

  He shook his head. I pressed his hand.

  “Does not your master deserve a little rest after two thousand years of wandering and disillusion?”

  He nodded sleepily.

  “If only I can get those ingredients or if Salome can distill the elixir of life without them! I am once more a heart-hungry boy!”

  Kotikokura yawned.

  “We must try to understand her, Kotikokura. She is the eternal mother.”

  “Ca-ta-pha eternal god.”

  “And Kotikokura eternal friend. We are the perfect triangle, the meaning of ultimate truth. I have discovered nothing else in twenty centuries…”
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br />   We lit fresh cigarettes.

  “Life is so simple and its essence is love!”

  Kotikokura dozed.

  “I have sought wisdom and happiness in every corner of the world before I discovered this secret. But that digger of ditches who, for one fraction of a second, waved his red handkerchief to us, may have discovered it likewise. Wisdom and happiness are attitudes, not realities. This is a truism and a platitude, Kotikokura. But no truth has reached perfection unless it has become a truism and a platitude, an axiom incontrovertible and beyond explanation. Before that, truth is an epigram, the tour de force of a poet or a philosopher. And this too is a platitude…”

  Kotikokura’s eyes blinked painfully.

  “Yet this, too, is a matter of mood. Love may hide from us the truth of heaven and earth. Hate, the struggle for survival, may be the sole compass of Reality, Kotikokura.”

  Kotikokura grinned feebly.

  “But how shall a man in love think if not platitudinously, seeing that love itself is the quintessence of all platitudes? Perhaps Cartaphilus will lose his own soul, if he returns to his mate. Perhaps the Great God Ennui will prevail in the end. Perhaps, to escape from his clutches, we must migrate to another planet.”

  Kotikokura snored.

  I lit another cigarette.

  The smoke that wound and unwound, like some strange and occult sculptor, shaped the face of my Love.

  “All is vanity save love.”

  The smoke rose to the ceiling, curled about the electric bulbs, and vanished.

  “Love, too, is vanity.”

  Kotikokura gnashed his teeth in his sleep.

  “And the truth of all things is—irony.”

  EPILOGUE: MOUNT ATHOS

  THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ISAAC LAQUEDEM

  FATHER AMBROSE, his cross swinging about his neck, a pair of shoes in one hand and in the other two telegrams, ran, out of breath, toward the wing of the monastery in which Professor Basil Bassermann and Dr. Aubrey Lowell were quartered.

  It was early morning, but already several monks were working in the garden, while others were walking slowly, counting the beads of Christ.