His jaw fell.
“Many birds shall perch upon the tree for a while…and fly away. The tree must endure forever.”
The loss of Ulrica pained me more than I had expected. There was a freshness, a purity in her that resembled the perfume of the fields after a rainstorm. I felt that I had not breathed deeply enough, that I had walked by quickly and a little absent-mindedly…and suddenly found myself upon a long, dusty road.
Kotikokura was shaving his body. He had become very skillful, and no longer needed assistance.
“Kotikokura, how long must a man live to learn how to live fully, so that he may not know the meaning of regret?”
Kotikokura grinned. Was he the incarnation of some grotesque sphinx? Did he know the wisdom of the ages, and therefore would not speak?
“Do the gods live in eternity, Kotikokura, because they find mere time insufficient?”
He grinned on.
“Or, is eternity as futile as an hour?”
“Ow-w-w!” Kotikokura tried to shave while looking at me, and cut himself.
“Thought, Kotikokura, generally produces pain,—in one form or another.”
He sucked the wound, and continued to shave, his eyes riveted on the razor.
He had acquired—or so it seemed to me—a much more human appearance. His yellow face, high cheek bones, small eyes, grinning mouth, reminded me of someone I had seen once.
“Who are you, really?”
“Kotikokura,” he answered gravely.
“One is always someone else. What ancestral ghost, swaying in tree-tops, speaks through you? What thoughts can you call your own?”
“Kotikokura.”
“From the beginning of things to the end of things… Kotikokura?”
“Kotikokura.”
“Kotikokura, be unto me as the handful of dust I once threw into the air, which indicated the path I was to take.”
Kotikokura rose and turned about me quickly, raising his knees almost as far as his chin. His gait became slower and slower, until he remained stock-still, his head stretched out. I understood what he meant. He was the dust. He was whirled in the wind for a while, then blown in the direction his head indicated.
“So be it, Kotikokura. The East! Life is circular, and our steps move always about its circumference.”
XXXII: KOTIKOKURA SCRATCHES HIMSELF—A FUNERAL PROCESSION
TO be a Roman was no longer an incomparable honor; no longer a magic word with which to conjure safety and protection. To be a member of any of the Barbarian tribes, however, was just as precarious. To be a Hebrew meant nothing. People had almost forgotten about Jerusalem or Judea. The cross might incur favor or animosity; the ancient gods likewise. The boundaries were no longer well defined; the roads no longer led to accustomed and secure spots.
“What shall we be, Kotikokura, as we travel through this cauldron of uncertainty?” Kotikokura scratched himself. It was his manner of indicating doubt or unconcern.
“Kotikokura, we must change our identity as the chameleon changes the color of its skin…remaining, nevertheless, unchanged… Cartaphilus and Kotikokura, doubters and laughers.”
He grinned.
“We must appear neither rich enough to excite envy, nor so poor that we become contemptible and pathetic.” He grinned. “Let us not seem strong enough to provoke conflict, nor too weak to defend ourselves. Mediocrity, Kotikokura, is the salt of the earth. In mediocrity, all things flourish. Below it they wither; above it they are struck by lightning.”
Kotikokura’s eyes slacked their pace.
“If you are a giant, Kotikokura, you must not rise to your full stature in public, or else the others will become weary of craning their necks to see you, and sooner or later, they will chop your head off that they may equal you in size.”
Nothing seemed as safe and agreeable as being a merchant of mediocre means, traveling to the nearest seaport with a small load of goods. A gentleman of leisure would have been suspected as a spy, and a poor pilgrim might have been forced into slavery. My caravan consisted of two large wagons, drawn by two teams of powerful oxen. I hired drivers, black-skinned men from one of the Roman colonies, who could not be suspected of taking an interest either in the military or political situation. Kotikokura and I rode on horseback. His dress was similar to mine, but of a cheaper material. It was advisable, always, to make him feel my superiority, for equality breeds contempt. He might think not of his advancement, but of my degradation. Did not Jesus, in spite of his democratic preaching, stand apart and remain unidentified with his followers? He had twelve disciples…but he was the master!
Melancholy pervaded all things: the sharp cries of migratory birds, the last feeble croaking of frogs, the large yellow vine-leaves dropping, dropping always, to be crushed by the hoofs of the animals and the heavy iron wheels of the wagons– —
“Kotikokura, we are a solitary funeral procession leading the dead year to its grave.”
Kotikokura tried in vain to grin. He was sentimental.
My horse neighed. The oxen bellowed. Kotikokura sighed.
XXIV: THE WALLS OF CHINA—I DO A MIRACLE—A CHINESE APOLLONIUS—FLOWER-OF-JOY
STANDING near the Wall, it was impossible to see the top. It seemed to melt into the sky. We moved away.
“Kotikokura, man is tiny, but he builds high walls.”
He grunted.
“Look at those pretty daisies and blades of grass, Kotikokura, which grow out of the crevices of the stone. Trifles like these proclaim Nature an artist, not merely a colossal ox pulling at the plow of life.”
Kotikokura measured the height of the wall with his eye, his fingertips moving as if they desired to try their prowess.
“No, no, Kotikokura, not that way must we enter this most ancient of countries. Besides, even if you should manage to crawl over, how should I?”
He scratched himself.
“There is a gate a little farther on. Watchman’s eyes are generally weak, and they close at the glitter of gold.”
The gate was narrow, and two yellow giants blocked its passage. At the sight of us, they pointed their long spears. I dropped, as if by error, a handful of gold coins. They looked, but never deigned to stir. They grumbled something which I could not understand; the tone of which, however, augured anything but hospitality. One of them raised his spear into the air and almost touched me. Kotikokura rushed to his throat.
“Stop, Kotikokura!” I commanded. “This is not the way to treat people we wish to visit. Besides, am I not God Ca-ta-pha? Have you no confidence in my power?”
Kotikokura fell on his face. “Ca-ta-pha!”
This disconcerted the watchmen a little. Meanwhile, I looked into the eyes of the one who seemed a trifle more pacific. I waved my hands about his face, and pronounced the word “Sleep” in Chinese, which I had learnt before my arrival “Sleep…sleep…sleep!” The giant began to yawn. “Sleep…sleep.” He stretched out upon the ground and began to snore. The other, frightened, dropped his spear and ran away, screaming.
“Come, Kotikokura, let us enter.”
Kotikokura, dazzled by what I had accomplished, continued to bow and touch the ground. I did not discourage his adoration. “Rise, Kotikokura, and follow me!” I ordered. The Wall was several feet deep, and when we reached the other end, people were running toward us, weapons in their hands, and shouting.
“Lie down, Kotikokura, and do not budge. Fear nothing!” I covered him with a black cloth. I waved my arms, describing large semicircles, reciting the while most dramatically, stanzas from the Upanishads. Two small mirrors concealed in my palms, reflecting the sun, made strange patterns of light. The people, disconcerted, watched.
“Rise, Kotikokura!” I commanded. “Rise!” The body of Kotikokura ascended slowly, steadily. The people, their mouths agape, dropped their weapons. “Return, Kotikokura!” I ordered. The tips of my fingers united. The mirrors shed a milky way, through which Kotikokura descended slowly, almost elegantly. When he reached the ground
, I uncovered him. He looked about, startled, and fell at my feet, calling: “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” The others knelt also, and repeated “Ca-ta-phal Ca-ta-pha!” Like the parrot, Kotikokura proclaimed my apotheosis.
“Go back!” I commanded, pointing with my forefinger. The crowd obeyed.
One elderly man, only, remained. He was dressed in a many-colored silk robe. He smiled and his eyes shone with intelligence. I bowed to him. He returned the greeting. I spoke to him in several of the European languages. He shook his head. I asked him if he knew Sanskrit. He was delighted. He had learnt the language in his youth, when he studied philosophy and the wisdom of Gautama the Buddha.
“My esteemed friend,” he said, smiling, “the levitation was beautifully done. I have read about this strange phenomenon, but I have never had the pleasure of witnessing it.”
“I am happy to meet so wise a man.”
“Wisdom is a rare flower. It is sufficient for a man to just breathe a little of its exquisite perfume.”
“I have read the words of Kong-Fu-tze, the greatest of philosophers. Anxious to meet the people whom he taught so wisely, I risked my life and the life of my faithful servant.”
He smiled. “You have noticed, my learned Master, that the people are not apt scholars. I suspect that wisdom is rare among the people everywhere.”
“You are right, excellent friend.”
“There are, however, in each generation, and in every locality, a handful of men who love truth…”
“I shall esteem it a favor beyond recompense, if I am allowed to speak with that handful of men who live in this city.”
The Chinaman’s lips curled into a smile. “Accept the hospitality of my humble roof.”
I bowed, and thanked him profusely. “I am most anxious to be converted to the teaching of Kong-Fu-tze.”
“Kong-Fu-tze desires no converts. It suffices to quaff his wisdom…”
‘Apollonius!’ I thought suddenly, ‘except for the slanting eyes… The tall stature, the white beard, the slow intelligent gestures of the arms are unmistakable…’ I scrutinized him. He smiled politely.
“Forgive me,” I said “your words recalled and recaptured the voice of a friend…”
“Living or dead?”
“Alas! He died…if he died…at Ephesus, at the age of one hundred. I tried to discover in your face, the beloved features of my friend.”
“Wherever one goes, one always discovers one’s friends.”
My host begged me to make myself comfortable in his library.
We smoked.
I watched the smoke, my eyes half closed. The shadow it threw upon the opposite wall assumed the shape of a woman.
“Are the women of your country desirous to afford pleasure?”
“The wiser ones among them make a devout study of the ways of pleasure.”
“I should like to meet such a student.”
“You shall, Cartaphilus.”
She pushed gently the door of my room and looked in. I pretended to be asleep. She entered, and on tiptoes, much lighter than a cat, approached me. With the corner of one eye I observed her,—a tiny creature with a face hardly larger than a doll’s, illumined by two long eyes that seemed to be dreaming something weird, or merely reflecting the strange smile that appeared and vanished in rapid succession about her mouth.
I opened my eyes. She bowed. “Has Flower-of-Joy disturbed Cartaphilus, Master of Wisdom?”
“Flower-of-Joy has entered more gently than a ray of the sun, and disturbed Cartaphilus no more than the perfume that leaves the heart of a flower and mingles with the air he breathes.”
“Cartaphilus is beautiful and wise and Flower-of-Joy fears she cannot delight him.”
“Her very presence is a great delight to him.”
“Flower-of-Joy is a little tired. May she lie down with Cartaphilus?”
“Flower-of-Joy will be as a dainty dream that visits him in his sleep.”
She was a bit of chiseled ivory, animated by the seven devils that Jesus drove out of Magdalene.
Like a labyrinth made of deeply perfumed flowers, within which one wanders certain at every turn to discover an issue, but always finding that it is merely another bend, was the pleasure she afforded me.
Mung Ling greeted me, as always, most cordially. He apologized for having sent me an inexperienced girl.
“Inexperienced?”
He smiled, closing his eyes. “When I was a young man, Cartaphilus, and lived in the Capital, pursuing my studies, I discovered the meaning of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged…”
I thought it was merely an old man’s exaggeration of his youthful delights, but nevertheless decided to visit the Capital. ‘Unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged!’ His words stirred ancient echoes in my brain. My thoughts returned to Jerusalem. I heard Aurelia’s soft voice insinuate the very phrase.
“Your fine phrase is worth a long trip, excellent Mung Ling,” I remarked.
XXV: TAXES AND PLAGUES—STONY FINGERS—I GO—A PRISONER OF ATTILA—KOTIKOKURA PULLS HIS MUSTACHES
THE people were clamorous in their complaints against the tax-collectors. The harvests had been very poor, but neither the Governor nor his subordinates showed any clemency. Even the few fistfuls of rice and the small portions of dried, salted fish were dwindling from the hands of the coolies and the small merchants. Many refused to work. If it was one’s fate to starve, why add to it the pain of labor?
Fishermen, with baitless lines, were sitting at the shore of the river, their thin legs up to the knees in water; the small merchants, their shops closed, reclining upon the threshold, gossiped with their neighbors across the narrow alleys; the coolies wandered about like lean dogs or cats, seeking among the refuse something to eat.
The Governor sought to subdue them by force. He imprisoned whole families; sold children into servitude; put men to torture. An obstinate silence supervened. People grinned or frowned, but said nothing. They understood one another perfectly. The newlyborn were carried hastily to the shore of the river and left to die and decompose in the sun. The stench was becoming unendurable. It was rumored, hardly above a whisper, but which chilled like the half-motionless shadow of a venomous snake, that some men and women had died of the plague.
“What should a man do, Mung Ling,—stay among the people or go away?”
“Kong-Fu-tze, the Incomparable, said that when law and order prevail in the Empire, the man of sincerity and love is in evidence. When it is without law and order, he withdraws.”
“While the storm is raging,
The fragile, sensitive butterfly
Hides deeply among the hospitable petals
Of the lotus-flower,
His tremulous wings pasted
Tip to dazzling tip.”
We were silent for some time. Kotikokura pulled my sleeve, and bade me listen.
Soldiers on horseback were galloping through the street, and men and women shouted after them. “Thieves!” “Thieves!” “Murderers!” “Wolves!”
Mung Ling nodded. “Sooner or later a river breaks its dikes.”
“Will you accompany me, Mung Ling? Let us go to the Capital.”
“How kind you are, Cartaphilus, and how can I have the heart to refuse your offer?”
“Will you come then?”
He shook his head. “I remember a poem of an ancient master.
He was speaking of the uselessness of taking too much care of one’s self.” He stopped awhile, then recited:
“The rose
However nurtured
Must wither
Crushed
Between the stony fingers
Of the inevitable Autumn.”
“I am too old, Cartaphilus, to care where I die.”
“Apollonius,” I whispered.
He smiled, ordered his servant to light his pipe, and addressed Sing Po, who was meditating, his head between his hands.
“May I disturb you, Sing Po, pride of all poets?”
“Do you remember the two verses you once wrote to Gen Hsin, who complained that one could no longer keep his soul intact…that the days of beauty had passed away?”
Sing Po wrinkled his forehead.
“Our friend is like a bird…sings, delights his hearers, and flies on…unaware of the joy he has afforded.”
“Mung Ling knows how to praise better than all men, and his words are as delicious as wine.”
“This is what Sing Po answered Gen Hsin, the skeptic:
“On the crests of turbulent waves
Petals of roses ride.”
Outside the tumult increased. Kotikokura gripped my arm. “Do not fear, Kotikokura, Ca-ta-pha shall protect you.”
He grinned.
Mung Ling placed his hands upon my shoulders. “Farewell, Cartaphilus.”
I looked at him astonished.
“It is time for us to separate, alas! You must go, dear friend.”
“Always Cartaphilus must go, Mung Ling…always.”
“Man is like the wind, Cartaphilus.”
“Like the wind…it is true, Mung Ling.” I remained silent for a few moments, pressing his hands. “But the wind, Mung Ling, at times blows through a garden and is impregnated with a rare perfume.”
Mung Ling turned his face away.
“Can a man hide himself, Sing Po? Can a man hide himself?” I asked.
“That is exactly what Kong-Fu-tze asked, Cartaphilus. He, too, was a wanderer…”
“What do we seek always, Mung Ling?”
“Ourselves. We cannot hide, and yet we cannot find ourselves, Cartaphilus.”
I twirled the tips of my long mustaches. Kotikokura pulled at the few sparse threads that dotted his upper lip. “It is not well to look too different from the others, particularly in times of revolution, Kotikokura.”
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 12