“Not only their faces,” I replied, “but also their necks.”
He smiled.
Two black eyes peered at us from behind the curtain of a window. Was it one of the Rajah’s wives? The Rajah’s enormous belly shook with suppressed excitement. Touching the rug before the throne three times with my head, I departed.
My elephant had carried me several miles beyond Delhi when suddenly I heard someone shouting. A man ran towards me waving his hands. His body heaved grotesquely and he wiped the foam from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand.
“My mistress, Princess Asi-ma, is more beautiful than the full moon in whose reflection the leaves of the great palm trees carve their gorgeous patterns.”
“I doubt it not.”
“Her love for my new master whose word brought rain to the city is deeper than the seas.”
“Your new master accepts both you and the Princess.” We were silent for a while.
“If Buddha is propitious, and we can escape the Rajah’s men, my mistress shall be my master’s wife.”
“Your master’s joy is great.”
“If not, we shall all three be crushed by the elephant’s paws, for the Rajah wished to marry my mistress, himself.”
“Is it permissible for a brother to marry his sister?”
“The Rajah’s sword is very sharp, Master.”
I knew now what face had peered at me from behind the curtain.
Asi-ma approached us, and knelt before me. I raised her, and looked at her. “You are indeed more beautiful than the full moon.” She lowered her lids. Her skin was much lighter than that of the pure Hindu type. Her hair, however, was as black and lustrous. Her breasts were full-blown, as well as her hips, although she could hardly have been more than about fifteen or sixteen years old. She turned to her slave. “Ra-man, have you delivered my message to our master?”
“I have.”
“Come,” I said. “We have no time to linger, Asi-ma, adorable child.”
The two of us mounted one elephant while Ra-man mounted another, and we galloped away.
When we reached the harbor, we descended from our animals. Ra-man ran ahead of us. We followed slowly in the same direction, my arm tightly wound about Asi-ma’s waist. The time we had ridden together, her head upon my chest, sufficed to endear her to me. Ra-man waved to us. We approached. A small sailboat was anchored at some distance, but a rowboat scratched its nose gently against the shore. We entered into it. The slave rowed vigorously so that in a few moments we reached the boat. Ra-man jumped into it, lifted Asi-ma, and assisted me. I helped him raise the rowboat, and in another moment we were sailing.
“Look! Look!” exclaimed Asi-ma. “They just missed us.” She laughed like a little child. On the shore, a number of armed men upon elephants looked in our direction, and either waved their hands or shook their fists, I could not tell.
“Make me your wife, Cartaphilus.”
“You are my wife.”
“Make me, now…now…” She drew my head to her lips and kissed me. “Now… Cartaphilus.”
I pointed to Ra-man.
“He is not a man. It does not matter if he sees.”
“Asi-ma, you are a great joy to me.”
“Undress me, Cartaphilus.”
I was a little clumsy, and at one or two points, perplexed. She laughed, and clapped her hands, but would not help me. She stood at last in the full reflection of the moon, more dazzling than that cold divinity.
“Asi-ma, beloved!”
I spread a lion’s skin on the deck, and laid her down gently upon it. For a long while I caressed her. Her body was as smooth as the surface of a still lake. Her breasts were tinged with thin blue veins, which appeared and vanished under her skin. She drew me to her. I relaxed my grip.
The reflection of the moon danced upon us with her soft, silver feet, then lay quietly over us like a head that sleeps. Ra-man, his arms crossed, looked silent and thoughtful as a sphinx.
“Cartaphilus, you were my husband before.”
I did not answer.
“Don’t you remember, beloved…long, long ago? And you will be again…and again…until we are one in Nirvana.”
“Yes, Asi-ma.”
I tried in vain to find any resemblance between her and Lydia, or any of my mistresses. Only the perfume of her hair reminded me of someone whose face I could not recollect.
XVI: I BUY A VILLA—I WATCH THE STARS—“TIME IS A CAT, CARTAPHILUS”—ASI-MA WEEPS
AFTER a few days of sailing, we landed in a small town situated upon a hill that had the shape of a sharp cone. I bought a villa with a large orchard, and built a high, stone wall around it. I was weary of the world and longed for seclusion.
“Asi-ma, my wife, here let us spend the rest of our days in love-making, and peace.”
“I am the slave of Cartaphilus.”
‘The rest of your days, Cartaphilus?’ I thought. ‘Who knows how many more there will be?’ “I have brought a little gift to my husband.” She clapped her hands. “Ra-man, where is the casket?”
Ra-man placed before me a gold casket, an exquisite piece of workmanship. “Open it, Cartaphilus.” I opened it. It was filled almost to the brim with jewels—the crown jewels of the Rajah.
“Asi-ma, I will not accept your gift. I have enough wealth.”
She did not answer, but played with the jewels, raising them in half-fistfuls and letting them drop back in tiny cascades. “Cartaphilus does not love his wife.”
“How can she say that?”
“He scorns her gift, for which she nearly lost her life.”
“She herself was a gift beyond compare.”
“Is not what she possesses part of herself? Why should he scorn any particle of her?”
I remembered what Apollonius had said in reference to Jesus. Was I still so much a Jew that property mattered to such a degree? Did not my refusal to accept the jewels indicate what importance I really attached to their value? Had her gift been a flower, say, or a trinket, should I have refused?
“My dear, I accept your gift.”
“Ra-man, Ra-man! Cartaphilus accepts my gift.”
I was happy. With the exception of Hindu philosophers, who initiated me into many of the greater mysteries of the East, and one or two shipowners, with whom I invested some capital, my house was closed to the outer world.
I studied the pathways of the stars. I watched the growth of my trees and flowers. One hundred and twenty different species of birds sang for me; deer gamboled at my approach; an elephant extended his great trunk to be filled with nuts,—and at my feet, like a magnificent lioness, purring delicious nonsense mingled with profound wisdom, stretched out lazily my beloved, my wife.
Asi-ma was standing before the tall, Corinthian silver mirror which I had recently imported for her.
“Cartaphilus, look!” she cried.
“What is it?”
“Cartaphilus, does the mirror lie?”
“Not if it tells you how beautiful you are.”
“The mirror tells me something else; alas its voice is more honest but less honeyed than yours.”
“Then we shall break the mirror, my love. It is blind, and its tongue is poisoned with falsehood.”
“Look, Cartaphilus! See how Time has scratched the edges of my eyes; and also the edges of my lips; and here…look…look at this long scratch upon my throat! Time is a cat, Cartaphilus.”
Her eyes were studded with two, hard tears, which must have smarted her, for she tightened her lids. “How shall a cat scratch a little kitten? Besides, I know a positive cure for this.”
“What, Cartaphilus?”
“My kisses have the power of erasing all such scratches.”
“Kiss me!”
I kissed her eyes and her lips. “Now look in the mirror, Asi-ma!”
She looked for a while, then covered her face with her hands. “Time is mightier than your kisses.”
I took her on my lap and tried to console h
er. I called her a dozen pet names, I jested, I was serious, I promised her endless affection, I assured her that she was capable of perennial beauty. She wept quietly, uninterruptedly.
“What a child you are, Asi-ma! What does it matter if you have a few scratches? Besides I see none.”
“Must I wait until you notice them, Cartaphilus?”
“What do you mean?”
She did not answer. I did not press her. I feared her decision. I knew that although she had been a slave to my desires, she was capable of obstinate resolution. As long as she had not yet pronounced the words, however, I still hoped it was possible to comfort her. I thought of a new transfusion of blood, but “your blood is poison” struck against my ears like the blow of a fist.
“Besides, my dear, am I not getting older, also? Does not Time scratch my face as well?” I asked.
“No, Cartaphilus. You never grow older. You are a god; you brought rain to the city.”
“That…that…was merely a coincidence.”
She shook her head. “You have been since the beginning of things, and will continue forever, Cartaphilus.”
“You exaggerate my age a little, beloved.”
“No.”
We remained silent for a long time. I knew that she was planning what to do, and how to break the news to me.
“There is a full moon tonight, Cartaphilus.”
“Yes, my love.”
“That is a good omen.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight you shall make me your wife again under the moon, like the first time, beloved, and…and at dawn…I shall go away.”
“Go away?”
“I shall go back among the people that become old like myself. I shall marry, and have a child whom I shall name after you, Cartaphilus.”
“Asi-ma, your words are like so many daggers that stab my heart.”
She ruffled my hair playfully. “Those were the words you always spoke when we parted.”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“At every incarnation, after I had been your wife, when Time scratched my face, and I told you I was leaving, you always used the same words.”
“Asi-ma, that is only a dream.”
“You said even that.”
“Asi-ma, it is you who are a goddess.”
“No, not yet. At some future incarnation, you shall make me a goddess, Cartaphilus, and I shall remain with you always. But the day has not come yet.”
“Asi-ma, my dear, my perfect wife…since it is the will of Buddha that we separate, it is not you, but I, who must go.”
She thought for a while. “Yes, that is true. I had forgotten. It is always you who must go. You must wander about until we meet again.”
“Where and when shall I meet you again?”
“Who knows? It may be ten thousand miles from here. It may be ten thousand years…”
I opened the gate. Asi-ma accompanied me to the roadway. She threw herself into my arms.
“Farewell, Cartaphilus! “
“Farewell, my Much Beloved!”
“You must go on, Cartaphilus.”
Where had we met before? Had I lived other lives before I was Cartaphilus? Was the vista behind me as unending as the road, before me? Shuddering, I drew my cloak about me.
XVII: CAR-TA-PHAL, PRINCE OF INDIA—MARCUS AURELIUS—FAUSTINA TOYS—JESUS IN THE PANTHEON—THE FEMALE WORSHIPER
ONCE more I stood at the crossroads on the outskirts of Rome. I remembered the remark of the man made to me long ago: “All roads lead to Rome.” The man had turned to dust by this time; Nero, Poppaea, Sporus, Nero’s Golden House,—all dust. But all roads still led to Rome, and I, Cartaphilus, was still living, still young! I felt exalted.
The sun was setting very slowly, and like long streams of pollen dropping silently from some crushed, gigantic flower, its rays gilded the world. The day’s heat, dispersing in the cool breezes, scattered a perfume of grass and flowers and vine leaves.
This time it pleased me to enter the Eternal City neither as a Roman citizen nor as a Jew. I was Car-ta-phal, a Hindu Prince. In a splendid chariot and dressed in the Hindu fashion, with a belt and a turban glittering with jewels, I dashed into Rome. The sparks danced about the hoofs of my horses like small stars, and the populace, blasé and sophisticated, gaped in awe and admiration. Their Emperor was a philosopher affecting the black garb, but their instinct was for magnificence and display.
I succeeded in gaining the ear of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius by presenting him with rare manuscripts from the East. He invited me to hear him read one of his essays on virtue.
The reading room of the imperial Palace was poorly lit. Marcus Aurelius could not endure any glaring light. The large statues about the walls mingled their shadows, making curious and grotesque patterns. The guests were reclining on the couches, or standing in small groups, talking. I walked from one statue to another, approaching or standing at distance, feigning admiration. As a matter of fact, they were chiefly imitations from the Greek, and too bulky.
“Rome,” sighed an elderly artist, Apollodorus the sculptor, “is no longer the Rome of our fathers. The Christians are destroying our love of beauty. Even,” he whispered cautiously, “the Imperator’s philosophy has been influenced by them.”
“To what do you attribute this hatred for art?”
“They are really Hebrews whose god hates images.”
“Are the Hebrews a source of danger?”
“The Hebrews,” he laughed, “are no longer a nation.”
“Is that possible?”
“Ah, don’t you know? Their capital was burnt to the ground, and they were dispersed. It was about time.”
“Jerusalem has been razed to the ground?”
“Yes, some years ago.”
“And their temple—I heard the Hebrews had a marvelous temple– —”
“We are building a temple to Jove on its site. If I were not so old, I would be sent to administer the work.”
I turned my face away. My eyes had filled with tears. Jerusalem…the Temple…burnt…and my people dispersed. All, all of us, wanderers like Cartaphilus!
The Emperor entered, his arm about the waist of the Empress. Everything was average about him. He was neither tall nor short; neither stocky nor thin; neither homely nor handsome. Even his hair was a mixture of gray and black, and his eyes were an indefinite brown that easily changed to gray. The Empress, Faustina, on the contrary, had very pronounced features: a sharp nose, sharp chin and black eyes that seemed sharp as daggers. Her teeth, as she smiled, were white as a young animal’s.
Marcus Aurelius seated himself on a throne at an angle of the room, and Faustina upon another one opposite him. Behind her cushioned chair stood a young slave with black curls and long slumberous lashes, waving a fan of white ostrich feathers. The Emperor did not like to be fanned, saying that a Stoic endured heat as well as cold, imperturbably. Apollodorus, who reclined on the couch next to me, whispered: “He catches cold too easily, that’s the reason, and he sneezes like a thunderclap.”
I made believe I did not hear him.
The Emperor began to read. His voice, too, had nothing distinctive, neither pleasing nor displeasing, running in a straight line somewhere between a bass and a tenor, except occasionally when it rose to a pitch and broke abruptly. Then he would clear his throat and begin again in a straight line.
“Everything which is in any way beautiful is beautiful in itself, and terminates in itself, not having praise as part of itself. Neither worse than nor better is a thing made by being praised,” continued the Emperor.
The Empress yawned. She motioned to the slave that fanned her to come to her right.
“Thou art a little soul, bearing about a corpse, as Epictetus used to say.”
Faustina’s right hand dropped leisurely over the chair and touched the boy.
The boy shivered.
“Does another do me wrong? Let him look to it. He has his own disposition, his own activity.”
The slave continued to fan his mistress, obedient to his training.
“Thou canst pass thy life in an equable flow of happiness, if thou canst go by the right way, and think and act in the right way.”
The Empress turned her head. This compelled the boy to move nearer.
The boy trembled.
The Empress smiled.
“Neither the labor which the hand does nor that of the foot is contrary to nature, so long as the foot does the foot’s work and the hand the hand’s.”
The fan almost dropped from the boy’s hand.
“Be thou erect, or be made erect.”
The boy straightened up as if in obedience to the Imperial command. His face was flushed but he still maintained his courtierlike demeanor. However, as he moved, the fan for a moment touched the face of the Empress.
“Different things delight different people.”
The Empress yawned. The boy bit his lips till they bled. The fan fluttered, tipped somewhat, and like a butterfly alighting on a rose, touched her breast lightly.
“Whatever one does or says, I must be good.”
Faustina was not listening to Marcus Aurelius. Amused by the perturbance of her toy she again, almost negligently, brushed the lad with her fingertips.
“Men will do the same things, nevertheless, even though they should burst.”
The boy’s heart must have been near bursting. He almost swayed, but he did not dare to interrupt the fan’s rhythmic motion.
Faustina continued to tantalize the lad.
“When thou wishest to delight thyself, think of the virtues of those who love with thee.”
Suddenly the gleam in the eyes of Faustina went out like a lamp. Her hand dropped slowly.
The Emperor arose. The audience exclaimed, “Magnificent! Profound! Unequaled!”
Marcus Aurelius motioned to the Empress to lead the guests into the banquet hall. Lazily the Empress draped her garments. The boy knelt at her feet. She ignored him. He crawled after her.
“Augusta! Faustina!”
The Empress looked straight ahead. The boy had ceased to exist.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 9