For weeks I was the guest of Lavinius, an enormously wealthy patrician. He introduced me to the Imperator. I translated Nero’s poems into Hebrew and Chaldean and gained his favor by flattery. I was prejudiced against the Imperator because his face was red and covered with pimples, but I was fascinated by the Empress Poppaea. Was it her finely etched nose, was it her lips, indented at each corner, making two exquisite dimples, was it her voluptuous posture revealing the dazzling fragment of a breast that made me whisper ‘Mary’? And Sporus, the Emperor’s minion, how his large blue eyes gazed directly into the distance. ‘John!’ Was it an illusion? Was it my loneliness that invested with similitude unrelated things?
It was bruited in Rome that Poppaea was a Jewess. I do not know. Judaism was the one topic that we avoided when we exchanged confidences. Nevertheless it is possible that the consciousness of our racial consanguinity established a secret tie between myself and the Empress.
Nero, after one of his vulgar banquets reeking with drink and retching with food, disappeared in the vomitorium to relieve angry nature with the aid of a peacock feather. He did not return. The guests departed. I found myself alone with the Imperatrix. She was reclining on the sofa as was her wont, and Sporus sat at her feet. The boy, concerned about the health of his imperial Master, to whom he was deeply devoted, kissed her hand, bowed to me, and walked out.
The Empress made a sign to two slaves who were standing at the door with arms crossed, a mode learned in Egypt. Making deep obeisance the two eunuchs closed the door behind them.
Poppaea’s eyes smiled. Her lips curled like the hungry petals of a carnivorous flower. The message of her blood to mine made her silence eloquent. My blood rushed to my head.
Did she mean to accept me as her lover? Should I, Cartaphilus, the shoemaker’s son, venture to touch the Empress of the world?
Apparently Poppaea, imperial even in her love-making, preferred to make the advances. She caressed my cheek and pressed her finger-tips against my eyelids. The tumult in our blood leaped over the abyss that separated the cobbler’s son and the Empress. Poppaea drew me gently upon the couch. She caressed my body. What cruel divinity interfered? Was it too great a privilege to touch the Mistress of Rome? What secret sense of inferiority stopped the onrush of the blood? Perhaps the very aggressiveness of her passion paralyzed mine…
In a sheet of flame, yet incapable of quenching the fire, I beat my fists against the couch. My limbs trembled as if a sudden spell had been cast upon them. Impotent to break the ensorcelment, I cursed in Hebrew and in Latin. I raged against myself, but my wrath was of no avail. Flushed and ashamed, I whispered, “Poppaea, Poppaea, I do not understand.”
She made no answer. Her eyes glistened. Her teeth clenched. The futility of my gestures became tiresome and, no doubt, ridiculous, for suddenly she burst into laughter.
Her laughter unleashed wild beasts in my bosom.
White with anger, no longer master of myself, I struck her brutally across her imperial mouth. I grasped her arms roughly, leaving upon them, like wounds, the imprint of my hand. My passion, expending itself in fury, I shouted obscene insults. Poppaea’s bosom shook, but no longer with laughter.
“Strike me, Cartaphilus, strike hard! “
She groaned, her eyes closed, her mouth opened.
A drop of blood, falling upon my hand like a red petal, brought me to my senses. “Forgive me, Poppaea.” The features of the Imperatrix relaxed. She opened her eyes.
“Cartaphilus, I love you.” Her voice was unexpectedly strident.
“Hurt me, crush me,” she gasped.
I rushed out of the palace. The night was cool, the stars hung in thick clusters like grapes. To my left I could hear the Tiber beat softly against the shores like a dog lapping.
The tempest aroused by the Empress raged in my brain for hours after I had reached my home.
My slave, a young girl from Damascus, brought in my night-robes.
“Wine!” I commanded. When she brought the wine, I ordered her to remain. She trembled. She had never seen me in such a mood.
“Don’t be afraid. Come, drink with me!” I poured a cup for her. “You will share my couch, tonight. Are you glad?”
“Whatever pleases my master, pleases me.”
It was already morning, when the slave, exhausted, placed her head upon my chest.
“How strong you are, Cartaphilus!”
‘If Poppaea could only hear you,’ I thought.
“When you rise, my child, you are a free woman.”
“I don’t want to be a free woman. I want to be your slave.”
She fell asleep. Her regular breathing lulled me to sleep as well. The sun was high overhead when we rose.
IX: SPORUS MISUNDERSTANDS—NERO FIDDLES—I BLAME THE NAZARENES
THE Imperator was draping the folds of his robe when I entered. He received me cordially. “Look, Cartaphilus, is this perfect?”
“It is the fold of the statue of a god carved by a master.”
The guests were coming, generally by twos or threes. Nero continued to fix the folds, now and then raising his eyes to notice the effect it produced on the visitors, who seemed entranced.
His arm tired, he seated himself.
We spoke of various matters. The conversation drifted finally to architecture which interested him greatly.
“Alas,” the Emperor remarked moodily, “the Romans prefer to keep their old wooden shanties instead of building magnificent structures of stone and marble. Rome… Rome…the city of lumber! I love stone, Cartaphilus. Eternity lingers in stone. If I had it my way, I would burn Rome and rebuild it…make it a thing of perfect beauty.”
He drank deeply out of his cup as if to drown his regret, and smacked his heavy lips.
Sporus walked out, slim, graceful, cat-like. He was not drunk, but the intoxication of the Imperator had communicated itself to him. His eyes were like torches. At the door, he motioned to three soldiers to follow him. The Imperator did not notice his departure. Poppaea feigned sleepiness to disguise her boredom. The guests were becoming noisy. Their conversation rose and fell like the din of giant insects. Some couples upon the floor interlaced in amorous postures. A few sang. I was weary, and should have gladly taken leave, but the Emperor continued to speak of architecture, of beauty, and of beastly landlords, interested solely in their investments.
“What is this—the dawn?” one of the guests asked. A few laughed. “Dawn! Dawn!”
“But it is very light,” another one suggested. “The wine of Nero has the power of changing night into day,” someone remarked.
I looked at the open door. “Your Majesty,” I said calmly, “fate has granted your wish. Rome is burning!”
Nero glared at me. I pointed to the columns of smoke embracing the city like serpents. Flames were rising from the seven hills.
“I am lost, Cartaphilus!”
“Fire! Fire!” several guests shouted, rushing out. Poppaea opened her eyes. Nero ran out. I followed him, slowly, unperturbed. I knew that whatever happened to the others, I was immune. For the first time since Jesus had hurled his imprecation against me, I felt that my predicament was not without its benefits. I could be dignified in a crisis that frightened an Emperor.
Poppaea touched my arm. “You are not afraid, Cartaphilus?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Nero is afraid.”
“Are you?”
“I love fire. Like passion it devours.”
The wind, which had set in toward the evening, fanned the fire. The tongues of flame united into gigantic scarlet masses. People rushed to and fro, shouting and wailing.
Nero turned to me. “Is it right for an Emperor to run, Cartaphilus?”
“He can conquer himself even if he cannot conquer the elements,” I answered.
With trembling hands Nero fixed the folds of his garment—and, mastering his impulse to flee, ordered one of the slaves to bring him his harp. “Is not fire beautiful?” he exclaimed, but his voice quivered. “Shal
l we not celebrate in its honor?”
His teeth chattered.
‘How,’ I thought, ‘could man survive amid the hostile forces of nature without a touch of madness or delusion of grandeur?’
Sporus reappeared, pale, disheveled, his hand bandaged.
“Recite the burning of Troy, Sporus, while I play.”
People running in terror, stopped a moment to listen to the music.
“The monster!” a woman shouted, “He plays the harp! He is roasting our children alive while he plays!”
I do not know whether Nero heard the remarks.
“Cartaphilus, I am immortal now. The world shall remember me by this gesture.”
‘True,’ I thought to myself, ‘the human mind remembers the picturesque, not the essential.’
Hungry for admiration, the Imperator turned to Sporus. He noticed for the first time the boy’s hand.
“Sporus, look at me!” he ordered. The boy obeyed.
“You?”
“You said you wished to consign Rome to the flames– —”
Nero boxed his ears.
Poppaea whispered, “Sporus.”
For the first time the boy seemed to her more than merely the Emperor’s plaything.
Nero, now very serious, listened to the distant grumble from the populace.
“This may mean revolution, Cartaphilus,” he whispered.
An idea struck me. “No, Your Majesty, not if you take my advice.”
“Speak!”
“We should not be overheard, Your Majesty.”
We walked aside.
“Your Majesty, when dealing with angry crowds all logic is futile– —”
“Yes, Cartaphilus.”
“Also their attention should be distracted, should it not?”
“Yes.”
“The Nazarenes– —”
“I have heard of them.”
“Have secret meetings, Your Majesty.”
“That is against the law!”
“To them Rome is secondary to the world, and the Emperor inferior to their God. They deny the Emperor’s divinity. Men who deny the divinity of the Emperor are capable of any iniquity…”
Nero looked at me long.
“The Nazarenes have set fire to Rome!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Their leaders shall be thrown to the lions! Cartaphilus, you are my friend. I shall make you the Governor of a province.”
“What province is comparable to the friendship of Nero?”
X: THE GREAT GOD ENNUI—THE WIND’S WILL
NERO would never forgive me: I had seen him weak. Poppaea could never forget that I had sought no repetition of our ferocious amour. If Nero discovered the singularity of my fate I would not fare well. He would put me to the test. Perhaps it would amuse him to see me swing from a rope for years, without dying; or be flogged for months, and still breathe; or be cut to bits, retaining consciousness. Nero was subtle and insatiable in his curiosity! Or perhaps, angry that I could outlive and outlove him, it would enter his diabolical mind to mutilate me to deprive me of pleasure. I could not face eternity as a eunuch…
The seven hills began to stifle me. I decided to disappear.
I stood at the crossroads and asked: ‘Whither?’ I turned to the east; I turned to the west; to the north, to the south. Whither? Every path was open to me, but I was like a man whose feet are nailed to the ground. At each extremity I saw an enormous figure; squatting, his face between his palms,—Ennui, ubiquitous and everlasting.
It is not enough to live. One must find a purpose, a reason for existence.
What did I desire? What purpose could I make my own? How should I conquer the terrible god who squatted, his face between his hands, at the end of each road?
“Whither?”
A man passed by on a brown donkey. I asked him where the road to my right led to. “All roads lead to Rome,” he smiled and passed on. Was his remark a warning, or an oracle? What did it mean? Should I return to the Eternal City?
What god was entrusted with my well-being? Reason, not faith, was my guidance. That was the cause of my quarrel with Jesus and his disciples. I would not—perhaps could not—believe. I must investigate, weigh, reject…waiting for time and space to expose, hidden like some black pearl, Falsehood, the Kernel of Truth.
Even the miracle of my own existence did not make me believe in the supernatural. Somewhere there was a mystery; but I refused to worship it. I refused to call it God, or the Son of God, merely because it baffled my reason.
Waving my fist in the air, I exclaimed: “Jesus, did you imagine you could frighten me into belief? Did you imagine you could persuade me by some trick of hypnotism, by the subtle power of certain words? My defiance shall outlive your curse! I am he who does not believe! I am he who accepts no truth as final!”
The sky was very red. Two clouds above me seemed to shape themselves into a fiery cross. Did my words provoke such anger in heaven? I racked my memory to discover how the sky had looked previous to my harangue. I could not tell. I could only doubt and speculate. Doubt—always doubt—yes, that would be the symbol of my life: doubt never assuming the hue of certainty, certainty always dissolving into doubt!
But whither?
I raised a bit of dust, and threw it into the air. The wind blew it to the east. “It is the hand of God!” I exclaimed.
I laughed.
XI: I ENTER DELHI ON AN ELEPHANT—A FAITHFUL SERVANT—THE LEVITATION—MY FRIEND THE FAKIR—I BECOME A MAGICIAN
I ENTERED Delhi, riding on an elephant. The driver walked ahead of the animal, shouting. “Make way for my master! Make way for my master!” The elephant flapped his great ears and raised his trunk toward me. I fed him on small hazel nuts. He was as gentle and playful as a young dog. I had bought him some months previous from a blind merchant, and I became very fond of him. I hired the driver the same day, upon the recommendation of a shopkeeper. The man was worthy of the beast. He was as kind and as sportive, and, with the exception of a few phrases, as taciturn. I was frequently tempted to feed him on hazel nuts.
At the crossroads, a crowd of people encircled a very dark-skinned man, with a long white beard, who waved a black cloth and uttered incomprehensible sounds mingled with prayers from the Upanishads. At his feet, a shrub was rising. He sprinkled water upon it, while continuing his incantation and the waving of the cloth. The trunk spread into branches upon which blossomed large leaves. When the tree reached his knees, the man stopped, breathed deeply several times, and mopped his face.
“Make way for my master!”
“Wait! Wait! Don’t disperse the people. I want to see more of this.”
The driver helped me jump off the elephant, which turned around and struck my arm gently with his trunk. I filled it with the nuts. “Take him to the empty space yonder, and wait until I come. But be careful,” I whispered into his ear. “My valuables are in that sack.”
Animal and man skipped off. I watched them for a few moments, delighted, and mingled with the crowd. The fakir drove several swords into the ground, and asked a boy to stretch out upon the hilts. He covered the body with a black cloth, and motioned to the people to make room. For several minutes, he uttered queer sounds, discoursed on life and death, prayed, all the time waving his arms to east, west, north and south.
The body began to rise slowly, constantly, until it overtopped us all. It remained in the air a few moments, then descended, as leisurely as it had risen. The man removed the cloth, rubbed the boy’s forehead and nostrils, made strange gestures over him. The boy opened his eyes, looked about bewildered, and jumped off the swords. The spectators laughed. The fakir bowed profoundly and passed around a wooden bowl. The people dispersed.
“I amuse them; I make them laugh, and they do not give me enough to eat.”
“Is it possible?”
“See for yourself.”
He showed me the bowl which was almost empty.
“I know a place, my friend, where you w
ould be considered a god, if you performed miracles of this sort.”
“Where is it? I am not as old as I seem and can travel for days without tiring.”
“Crucifixion, however, is apt to precede apotheosis.”
He looked at me and smiled. “The penalty is disproportionate to the honor, I fear, sir.”
“You are wise.”
He was about to go. “Wait. Since you do not wish to become a god…do you wish at least, to make money?”
He bowed very profoundly. “At your service.”
“I come from very far off countries. I am a man of leisure, have nothing to do. If you should care to teach me some of your tricks– —”
“Not tricks, sir, I beg you…art.”
“Art…it would be a most entertaining way of spending my time and a means of amusement for my friends.”
“It is not easy to teach, sir.”
“Does it not depend upon the reward you obtain?”
“My master is wise.”
“My servant and my elephant await me yonder. Come along.”
We reached the spot, but I saw neither elephant nor servant. “Strange. I ordered my man to wait for me here but– —”
We walked up and down. We looked into the distance.
After an exhaustive search, I came to the conclusion that my very gentle elephant and my gentler servant had disappeared.
“There are many such rascals around here,” the old man suggested.
“You can’t imagine how faithful he seemed.”
“He only awaited his opportunity. If you wish it, I can direct you to the authorities, who will search for the rascal.”
“Are they very severe with thieves?”
“No…they merely cut off their hands.”
“I prefer not to find him.”
He looked at me for a long while. “You are not a Hindu, and probably not a Buddhist. How can you be so humane?”
“Other religions and philosophies also teach charity.” He shook his head.
I had told my servant that all my valuables were in the sack. As a matter of fact, however, I had nothing there, save some clothing and a few trifles. I wished to direct his attention from where I really kept my valuables, for I never stretched to its limits the elastic faculty of man’s honesty.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 6