My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew

by George Sylvester Viereck

  III: PROFESSOR BASSERMANN SUSPECTS

  AFTER the repast, Father Ambrose invited the guests into his study, a room lighted with ancient candles in curious holders of bronze and precious wood. The tables were littered with yellow-tinted tomes in many languages. Parchments from Egypt brushed against the most recent treatises from the medical bookshops of Paris. The monk was acquainted with the revolutionary theories of the explorers of the unconscious,—Freud, Adler, and Jung.

  Isaac Laquedem had retired to his room, but his valet, a young Japanese, brought with the compliments of his master, Russian cigarettes wrapped in silk, with the imperial initials.

  “A brand manufactured especially for the Czar!” Professor Bassermann explained.

  Aubrey lit one of the flavored cigarettes of the stranger. Curious Eastern visions rose out of the poppied smoke that curled in fantastic pillars, and colored his remarks to Bassermann and Father Ambrose.

  The Japanese was patiently awaiting further orders. It was not clear whether the youth understood one word of the conversation. For a moment, an intolerably superior smile lit the wrinkles of his odd oriental mouth, but when Aubrey looked again, he saw merely a responsive servant. With a kind nod, Father Ambrose dismissed him, but Professor Bassermann, whose suspicions of the stranger had by no means been allayed, asked him whether he had traveled much with his master.

  “Yes, sir,” the valet grinned.

  “Have you just come from St. Petersburg?”

  “Yes, sir,” the grin broadening to his ears.

  “Do you like traveling?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Yes, sir,” very meekly.

  Professor Bassermann suspected the lad was shamming. He asked other questions timing mentally the promptness of the response. The Oriental, eluding the scholar’s cunning psychological traps, withdrew respectfully, walking with his back toward the door. His step was noiseless, almost that of a cat. The three scholars were still discussing the valet, when Isaac Laquedem reappeared in a velvet smoking jacket. His eyes, a little cynical, a little sad, but shining with an almost uncanny luster, took in the situation.

  “Kotikokura is very useful to me,” he remarked nonchalantly. “I picked him up in the East some years ago.”

  “Does he speak English?” Professor Bassermann fired the question off like a shot.

  “Perfectly.”

  Bassermann looked eloquently at Aubrey. Isaac Laquedem caught his glance.

  “Like all Orientals, Kotikokura has learned the wisdom of silence. He notices everything. He has a marvelous memory, but he never reveals himself even to me. Even I do not know what slumbers in the sub-caverns of his mind.”

  “It is easy enough,” Aubrey remarked, “to rob the brain of its secrets. Psychoanalysis is the key that unlocks the uttermost portals.”

  “I have read a library of psychoanalytic literature,” Father Ambrose remarked, “but its practical application is not clear to me.”

  Aubrey Lowell explained Freud’s theories and his technique. Laquedem listened with grave attention. “Every century or so,” he remarked, “a new idea is discovered. To follow backward every thread in the tangled skein of one’s existence, to detect the little flaws that mar the woof, must be a fascinating experience!”

  “The unconscious mind,” Aubrey added, “never forgets. The circumspect navigator sounding its secrets will find treasures as well as monsters in its mysterious depths. Every brain is a scroll scrawled over many times, but it is possible by patient analysis to decipher much, if not everything, that has gone before.”

  “Unless the tablet itself is destroyed, human ingenuity can extricate the meaning of the original record, irrespective of subsequent interlineations,” Professor Bassermann remarked.

  “Yes,” Aubrey continued, inhaling the smoke of his cigarette voluptuously, “I believe that it is even possible to establish memory reaching beyond the confines of the life of the individual. What are instincts, but inherited race memories?”

  “It is perfectly true,” remarked Professor Bassermann, “that each organism carries within itself the history of its kind from the beginning of all life. But to attempt to conjure up the past stored in the memory cells smacks more of hocus-pocus than of science.”

  “Have you ever experimented in this direction?” Father Ambrose remarked.

  “No,” Aubrey replied, “psychoanalysis demands intense concentration. A perfect analysis, according to orthodox Freudians, requires three years. Even a preliminary sounding of the subconscious takes several months. Besides, the subject must be thoroughly in sympathy with the experiment.”

  “Time is heavy on your hands here,” Father Ambrose added. “It will be weeks—maybe months—before you receive your visa. I am most anxious to be present at such an investigation. Even a preliminary study would be a fascinating experience. But where could we obtain a subject for the experiment?”

  He unconsciously gazed at the stranger. Professor Bassermann caught the direction of his glance. He whistled softly to himself and then, as if seized by a sudden idea, he remarked: “Perhaps Mr. Laquedem would be willing to reveal his secrets to three stern priests of science?” His distrust of the stranger was evident in his words.

  Isaac Laquedem smiled. “Professor Bassermann with the penetration of his remarkable mind has read my thoughts, for I was just about to volunteer my services.”

  IV: PROBERS OF THE SOUL

  THE next morning at ten o’clock, Father Ambrose and Aubrey, assisted by Professor Bassermann, completed the preparations for their experiment. The library, always somber, was artificially darkened.

  Chairs were so placed that the subject would gaze directly into the eyes of his questioner. Aubrey, Bassermann, and Father Ambrose were not concealed, for that would have distracted Isaac Laquedem’s attention, but they were so placed as not to intrude themselves upon his field of vision.

  Immediately facing Laquedem’s chair, Professor Bassermann placed his traveling dictograph which, more precise than a stenographer, was to record every word that would escape the lips of the subject as well as every question of the scientific inquisition. On the table, near his chair, the Professor placed a chronometer that would register mechanically the time elapsing between question and answer. By this simple expedient, it would become evident if Laquedem was answering the questions in a straightforward manner or if he shammed. The least hesitation would be recorded instantly by a little curve.

  Professor Bassermann also placed before him a gauge with a rubber tube to measure the pressure of the blood. Any emotion that conceals itself from the scrutiny of the closest observer is recorded in the pressure of the blood as it pounds from the heart to the brain. The terror that neither blanches nor reddens the cheek, the remembered lust, the mental strain recalled, but unuttered, appear in the lines of the psychologist’s chart.

  All these devices of science Professor Bassermann and Aubrey explained to Father Ambrose who, being familiar with the theory underlying the various laws, found it no difficult matter to appreciate the cunning of each delicate mechanism.

  Isaac Laquedem appeared preceded by Kotikokura who carried a box of cigars for his master with the same air of importance, as if he had been a court chamberlain bearing the crown jewels of a king. Laquedem was dressed in black. He was wearing his velvet smoking jacket which caressed his figure snugly. His hair, not brushed back as on previous occasions, betrayed a propensity toward curliness.

  Kotikokura, an exaggerated imitation of his employer, affected the extreme London style of the period antedating the World War, trousers encircling tightly legs which to Aubrey remotely suggested something furtive and simian. His white vest and the rolled lapels of his coat served as an admirable frame for his yellow head. The cravat harmonized exquisitely with sleeve kerchief and socks. His manners were perfect and his carriage was modeled on that of Isaac Laquedem. He was a yellow caricature of his master.

  At a word from Laquedem, t
he valet left. He was gone before one realized that the door had closed behind him. For a moment Aubrey had the weird impression that Kotikokura had crept out of the room on all fours.

  Laquedem calmly lit a cigarette. He seated himself on one of the chairs sinking deeply into the velvet cushions and puffed little spirals of smoke to the ceiling.

  Professor Bassermann commanded: “Relax! Relax entirely!”

  “Are you going to hypnotize me?” Laquedem asked.

  “No, I merely want to ease your mind. Imagine that you are going to sleep. Don’t resist my questions. Answer spontaneously and say whatever comes into your head.”

  “But isn’t that hypnotism?”

  “No. You will presently fall into a state of repose resembling sleep; you will give me, so to speak, the key to your soul. I shall unlock door after door until I open the gate of the unconscious. But first, we must lull to sleep the inhibitions which are posted like sentries at the threshold of the conscious mind. No thought escapes unchallenged by them. Upon every shadow that leaves the caverns of the nether brain, they fasten a mask, to protect it from recognition before it can merge into consciousness.”

  He spoke slowly, monotonously, all the while gazing steadfastly into the calm eyes of Isaac Laquedem.

  Professor Bassermann had hypnotized many people. It was his claim that every person was susceptible to hypnosis. But the quiet smile that quivered about the lips of the stranger rasped his sensitiveness. It had been his original intention to lull Laquedem into a mild state of semi-consciousness, but he now strained every nerve to impose his will upon the subject.

  The Professor’s face twitched with exertion. Beads of cold perspiration appeared on his spacious forehead. Several minutes passed in this mental duel. The tension between the two minds was tangible in the room. It seemed to creep up and down the ornate pillars. It sank into the carpet, it laid its hold upon everyone present.

  Laquedem never moved. His pupils plunged like a knife into the eyes of Professor Bassermann. The latter, overcome by a sudden faintness, held his hand to his head. He resolutely shut his eyes and turned away. Another minute and the great psychologist would have been hypnotized by his subject!

  To hide his confusion, Professor Bassermann lit one of Laquedem’s cigars. Laquedem smiled. “Don’t you remember, Professor, that we met almost like this before?”

  “I recall no such meeting.”

  “Oh, yes. It was in England.”

  “Indeed?”

  “At Oxford.”

  “I was there only once as a student.”

  “Oh, no, no. It was long before that. In the year sixteen hundred and—” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “I forget the year.”

  Was the stranger dreaming? Perhaps he was after all in a semi-hypnotic condition. Professor Bassermann examined the pupils. They were clear. There was no sign of suspended consciousness.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  The stranger shrugged his shoulders. Father Ambrose looked at him with startled eyes.

  “I think he is shamming,” Bassermann softly whispered to Aubrey.

  “No, I think there is a certain antipathy between him and you that breaks the thought current. Let me try.”

  He did not attempt to put Laquedem to sleep with his unaided eyes, but used a glittering ring, a strange device showing a serpent, the symbol of infinity and of knowledge.

  Perhaps the struggle with Bassermann had exhausted Laquedem’s power of resistance; perhaps the caressive stroke of Aubrey’s fingers against his temples overcame his resistance. Laquedem’s lids trembled, then a gentle haze veiled the flame of his vision. His breath came heavily like that of a sleeper, his pulse beat against the wrist with subdued regularity. The cigarette fell from his hands, burning a hole in the carpet. His hands dropped. The pupils were still visible through the half-closed lids.

  Isaac Laquedem was asleep.

  At that moment, a little yellow head peered into the room. Kotikokura was on guard, to see that no harm befell his master. A glance at the group seemed to reassure him and he disappeared again, unseen, with the stealthiness of one who has lived for a long time in the jungle. Only Laquedem’s left hand stirred slightly for a moment. It was as though an invisible message of assurance had passed from him to his yellow valet.

  When Aubrey gently began his invasion into the mind of Isaac Laquedem, Kotikokura sat in the cell appointed for him, softly chattering to himself. Then he fetched a safety razor with a gold handle and began to shave not only his face, but his arms and his wrists which were disfigured by an ungainly growth of stubborn hair.

  Professor Bassermann felt Laquedem’s pulse. “He is asleep,” he said.

  Father Ambrose touched Laquedem’s forehead making, by habit, the sign of the cross. The sleeper reacted violently. A groan rose to his lips. He clutched his hands convulsively. But a few strokes from Aubrey recomposed his trembling nerves.

  Isaac Laquedem was no longer asleep. Aubrey made no attempt to prolong the hypnotic spell. Hovering in a state between waking and sleeping, peculiar to psychoanalysis, Laquedem’s thoughts, like flights of birds, darting hither and thither, could alight where they pleased.

  Nevertheless, he replied alertly to every question put to him by Aubrey. He also replied, though less quickly, to questions put to him by the others. A curious relief betrayed itself in his features, as slowly drawn out of the depth of memory, his story unfolded itself before the astounded ears of the three men.

  THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MR. ISAAC LAQUEDEM

  I: I WITNESS THE TRIAL OF JESUS—MADAME PILATE’S RECEPTIONS—I QUARREL WITH JOHN

  THE day set for the trial of Jesus was mild and cool. I dressed myself carefully in my new uniform of a Roman Captain, an honor unique for a Hebrew boy.

  The streets were crowded with pedestrians and riders on donkeys. The Jews in constant fear of persecution or oppression, grasped any occasion, however insignificant, of making merry or at least of vociferating. It was this, and not the fact that a matter of colossal importance was about to take place, that brought large multitudes to the Court. The same need for excitement and noise made them shout afterwards: “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

  The people entertained no hatred for Jesus. They had seen many erratic prophets. Peculiar claims to divinity or royalty rather amused than angered them. But this was a rare privilege,—to see a prophet taken seriously by the priests, and actually brought to trial.

  The Courtroom was already filled. I recognized a few officers who invited me to join them, but I preferred to remain alone in a corner. Two young men near me were talking in Latin, and changed immediately to Hebrew, taking me for a Roman, no doubt. They were tall, thin, wore short beards, and their dress was a compromise between the Roman toga and the Hebrew kaftan.

  “Whatever,” remarked the older of the two, “our love for our country may be, we must acknowledge that Jerusalem produces no artists.”

  “If only,” replied the other, “our ancestors had accepted the Golden Calf in place of the tablets…”

  “Yes, we should have had artists instead of priests, for we certainly do not lack ability.”

  “The priests are a plague, but I prefer them to the reformers. I prefer them because they are corrupt. Beauty may grow on the soil of corruption even as the rose feeds on ordure. But reformers, being obstinate, ignorant boors, are always at war with Beauty. Did you ever hear the fellow whom the priests are dragging before the Governor?”

  “Yes, on two occasions.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He hides the poverty of his thought under a cloak of parables. A paradox conceals his lack of logic. ‘Love your enemy!’ he says. What lack of pride! How typical of slaves! Strength and hate are brothers. Indeed, it is more important to hate than to love indiscriminately. Jesus of Nazareth speaks as a slave preaching to slaves!”

  “Why do they take him seriously? If he is crucified, he may become a source of danger. Some poet may write a song about him, em
bellishing his philosophy and his ancestry.”

  “He calls himself the Son of God…”

  “I should like to go away from Jerusalem to Athens or Rome– —”

  “So should I.”

  “Any place indeed, where one does not meet so many sons of God.”

  Pilate entered, followed by two Roman officers. He seated himself upon the judgment seat and breathed heavily for several moments. He was becoming too stout and tired rapidly. The Jews glanced furtively at him. They had heard all sorts of fantastic stories about his cruelties and his orgies. The Romans, however, looked at him smilingly. A few of the officers nodded.

  Procla, the wife of Pilate, came in unnoticed, and hid behind a pillar near her husband. She was slim and tall. Her eyebrows, several shades darker than her hair, contrasted vividly with her pale face. Her lips were always red, her hands moved restlessly.

  “Bring in the prisoner,” Pilate commanded.

  Jesus was brought in by a soldier. He was dressed in tatters and on his head he wore a withered wreath. The populace hissed. Some called out: “King! King!” An old woman spat. Jesus showed no emotion. His blue eyes were fixed beyond Pilate.

  “Silence!” Pilate ordered.

  “What is this man’s guilt?” he asked of the High Priest, a stout individual, gaudily dressed.

  “He blasphemes against our faith.”

  “Words, words, vague words! Is he guilty of any concrete transgression against the law?”

  “He calls himself king, Pilate.”

  “He speaks in metaphors,” Pilate yawned, bored. “I do not find him guilty.”

  “He is guilty! He is guilty!” shouted the populace.

  “You hear it, Pilate,” the High Priest added. “He is guilty. It is the truth.”

  “Truth? What is truth?” Pilate asked, addressing Jesus.

  “Everyone that is of the truth heareth my voice,” answered Jesus gently.

  “He blasphemes again. Blasphemer! Traitor!” shouted the people.