We came upon smoking villages and weary women. The steeds of war were stamping through the land. Our guide, a servant of Mung Ling, deserted us to save his wife and his children.
He kissed my hands, and weeping, galloped back.
“Kotikokura, we are destined to remain alone, always.”
Kotikokura pulling at his mustache had the appearance of a gigantic yellow tomcat.
“There is room for everything save for logic, Kotikokura. There has been much kindness and much cruelty upon the earth…but very little intelligence.”
Kotikokura wrinkled his brow like a puzzled dog.
We found ourselves in the midst of a camp of soldiers. We were immediately surrounded, and ordered to dismount. Our hands were tied behind our backs by heavy ropes. Kotikokura’s legs were restless. He bent, ready to run away.
“Do not budge! Ca-ta-pha is with you!”
We were ordered to wait. Two soldiers stood guard. The others went away, to report to their superior. Kotikokura grumbled. “Silence!” I commanded. I wished to know in what camp I found myself, who was the leader, and whom they were fighting. With this information, I could easily extricate myself.
I smiled to one of the soldiers. “It is strange that you treat as enemy the friend of your master.”
“What! Are you the friend of King Attila?”
“Of course, valiant soldier.”
“Are you not the Emperor’s spy?”
I laughed. “Would a spy ride as leisurely into the enemy’s camp as I did? Would a spy travel unarmed?”
The soldiers seemed uncertain, but more kindly disposed. One of them said: “But if you are the Emperor’s spy, you will learn the meaning of torture.” The other grinned.
XXVI: I SMOKE A PIPE WITH ATTILA—TWO MEN WITHOUT A COUNTRY
ATTILA was sitting at a long table, making drawings upon white silk. He placed his chin upon the hilt of his sword, and looked at me. His mustaches, uniting with his beard, hung heavy and low on either side of his face, and his long teeth shone like the ivory tusks of an elephant in the sun. I was determined to employ hypnotism, if necessary, to safeguard myself, but it amused me to try my skill without relying upon occult psychic forces.
“What is your name?”
“Cartaphilus, Your Majesty.”
“Where do you come from?”
“I come from many lands.”
“On the other side of the Wall?”
“Countries in which the people do not even dream of the existence of the Wall, Your Majesty.”
He sighed, and raised his head. “What sort of countries are they, Cartaphilus?”
“They are countries with noble and heroic histories…but on the verge of ruin.”
“Why?”
“Corruption, vice and a false religion called Christianity.”
Attila rose, and walked up and down the room. He was tall and rather heavy. The skin of his face was a few shades lighter than that of his soldiers and his cheek-bones were somewhat less protruding.
“Sit down, Cartaphilus.” He offered me a gigantic pipe.
We smoked in silence for some time.
“You come from many lands, Cartaphilus; which one is yours?”
“I have none, Your Majesty. My country was destroyed and my people dispersed.”
He looked at me not unkindly.
“I, too, have no country, Cartaphilus. I am not absolutely certain who my people are. Perhaps I am a descendant of the kings of your people…”
“Then, Sire, my people are indeed fortunate.”
“Cartaphilus, he who does not possess a country must make one: for himself– —”
“Or else,” I interjected, “wander…always a stranger in every land.”
Attila pulled at his beards.
“Conquer Rome, Sire! Destroy her false, pale-faced god. The Mistress of the World is too old, and Christianity too young to withstand a determined blow.”
The King drew circles upon the silk in front of him. “China is at my feet. I could proclaim myself Emperor…but I hate walls!”
“For a great general, it must be exasperating to find a nation too easily conquered!”
“Cartaphilus, you fathom my feelings… I love valor and glory and hard combat.” He stamped his sword.
“The Romans still love glory, and Christianity is ambitious.”
“These people send messengers at my approach and beg me to be their ruler. I cannot fight open doors…”
“The doors of the Romans are still locked. Your sword shall rattle against them like a thunderclap.”
At dawn, I was ordered to appear again before the King.
“Cartaphilus, Heaven has sent me a sign…this golden chain shall bind at my feet…the world beyond the Wall.”
I bowed reverently.
“Stay with me, Cartaphilus. Teach me the roads. Draw the maps for me. Attila is not the leader of wild hordes, but the ruler of a disciplined army.”
‘Jesus of Nazareth,’ I thought, ‘You have vanquished Julian the Apostate. Attila shall conquer you!’
For three days three Ambassadors of the Emperor begged in vain to be admitted to the presence of Attila. The King had not yet finished his plans: my map was not yet completed.
“Is it not sufficient that I do not order their heads chopped off? Let them wait! Attila is busy.”
Finally, at my intervention, he consented to see them and concluded a truce with the Son of Heaven. The Ambassadors were on the point of leaving when I begged them to remain a while longer.
“Attila, magnanimous monarch, may I speak?”
“Speak!”
“Attila must march forward from conquest to conquest. This is the meaning of his life, is it not?”
He nodded.
“Cartaphilus, lacking the passion and might that are in the blood of the great King, must wander from knowledge to knowledge… He too may not remain still.”
Attila nodded.
“If Cartaphilus has helped to save the Celestial Empire, may he travel unmolested from province to province?”
One of the mandarins extended his arm, the rim of the sleeve touching his large ring, whose soft glittering harmonized with the sheen of the silk. “Cartaphilus shall be our honored guest.”
“May he enter the Capital?”
“The gates will swing wide open.”
“In the company of the Ambassadors of the Perfect Emperor?”
“Carried upon the shoulders of His Majesty’s slaves.”
Attila’s voice was as gentle as a woman’s. “Cartaphilus, you must go, even as I must go, that is true. In you, my unrest has a brother. Three days, however, you must spend with me. Three days we shall spend in revelry. Then I shall go forth to conquer the world.”
The Mandarin bowed very deeply before me, his hand heavy with jewels, upon his chest.
I smiled.
“In the capital, Cartaphilus, my excellent friend, you are my guest. Meanwhile, we can travel at leisure. I have already sent several messengers at top speed to inform the Emperor of the good news. I have asked him to make Cartaphilus a Mandarin of the First Order.”
He presented me with a transparent red ruby, as large as a sparrow’s egg.
“The honor is too great.”
“It is not a question of honor, excellent friend, but of comfort…and elegance.”
XXVII: UNENDURABLE PLEASURE INDEFINITELY PROLONGED—THE LORD PROCURER TO THE SON OF HEAVEN—FLOWER-OF-THE-EVENING—THE PALACE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN—I SEEK PERFECTION—SA-LO-ME
“UNENDURABLE pleasure indefinitely prolonged?” To Fo smiled. His eyes closed, until only two thin horizontal lines shone between his lashes. “Cartaphilus is young.”
“To Fo is also young.”
He shook his head.
Our cups, lighter than lotus-leaves, were filled once more with tcha, whose perfume delighted our nostrils while its color soothed our eyes.
“Cartaphilus, I know who will best afford you what you desire.”
“To Fo is a peerless host.”
“The Mistress of the Palace of Pleasure and the Palace of Pain is my friend. She is beautiful and very clever. Since the age of ten she has been a profound student of the mystery of the senses. Because of her great talents, I advised His Majesty to appoint her the teacher of the Large Harem and also of the Small Harem, which must not be mentioned in public, under the penalty of death, and which is guarded by two regiments of giant eunuchs. I am the Lord Procurer of the Son of Heaven…”
I bowed profoundly. He clapped his hands. A slave fell on his face. “Go tell Flower-of-the-Evening that your master will visit her shortly.”
Flower-of-the-Evening raised her head, then bent over me, her small round breasts perfumed with the essence of two hundred flowers.
“Has Flower-of-the-Evening pleased Cartaphilus?”
I bowed assent.
“My pupils, gratified, plucked for you the fruit from the tree of pleasure that is within easy reach… In the subtler arts, where the line between pleasure and torture is finer than the wing of a butterfly, Flower-of-the-Evening trusted only herself…”
Flower-of-the-Evening unlocked for me the secret gardens of delight… Her hands, tiny as the petals of a delicate, yellow rose, caressed me.
“Has Cartaphilus known pleasure more delectable than my caress?”
“He has not,” I lied.
“We have exhausted the two hundred and sixty ways of love, Cartaphilus. I have revealed to you the thirteen ways that are known only to the Emperor…but I have not yet revealed the ultimate secret.
“Cartaphilus, Flower-of-the-Evening knows seven more ways of pleasure, ways that are unknown even to the Emperor himself—the secret of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged.” She stopped to see the effect of her words upon me. “I have kept the secret as a nuptial gift for my lover.”
Her hands continued to caress me.
“Cartaphilus, no mere man could dwell unscathed in the Palace of Pain and the Palace of Pleasure uninterruptedly for seven months as you have done. A giant would have perished on the wheels of its pleasure; its pain, no less exquisite, would turn a demigod into a wraith of himself. Whence do you draw your strength? Who are you?”
“I am…Cartaphilus.”
“No…you are more than Cartaphilus…you are…a god…or a demon.”
I laughed.
“Cartaphilus, do you not desire to discover the seven ultimate ways of pleasure, the final essence of the perfume of joy? Flower-of-the-Evening shall teach you the secret ways of love…but Cartaphilus must initiate Flower of the Evening into his secret.”
“What secret?”
“How to remain young always, and always strong, and always beautiful.”
“How should he know all that?”
“He knows! He knows!”
I remembered how I answered the hetaera of Jerusalem, and how she fled out of the room, insulting and cursing me. The intervening centuries had taught me better. I was determined to learn the secret of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged.
“I know, it is true, and I shall teach you how to remain always young, always strong, always beautiful.”
She clapped her hands, and pressed herself upon me.
“Flower-of-the-Evening will startle her master with unimaginable delight.”
We remained silent for a while.
“What is the drug, Cartaphilus?”
“Not a drug. Drugs are but man’s invention. A god needs no drugs.”
She listened, her mouth open.
I whispered mysteriously. “Every seven years Cartaphilus shall visit Flower-of-the-Evening at the first hour of dawn. Every seven years Cartaphilus shall renew with his caress the beauty and strength and youth of Flower-of-the-Evening.”
For seven days Flower-of-the-Evening taught me the seven ultimate ways of love and the meaning of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged. Each day wrenched a sharper pain into a more exquisite joy…
To Fo congratulated me. “Flower-of-the-Evening is generally inclined to be cynical about men, but she speaks of you with unequivocal satisfaction.”
“Flower-of-the-Evening is the most perfect blossom of feminine loveliness…”
To Fo dipped his fingers in perfume, and twisted his mustache.
We smoked our pipes and drank the delicate tcha.
“Are there no other ways, of delighting the senses, admirable To Fo?”
To Fo laughed. “Cartaphilus is insatiable.”
“But do you not suspect some inconceivable pleasure beyond the delectable thirteen… ?”
“Impossible. They exhaust every possible source of pleasure.”
I smiled. Flower-of-the-Evening then had not lied to me. I was the only man to whom she had revealed the ultimate thrill of passion, the final essence of joy.
To Fo read a few poems. I watched him, my eyes half closed. His beard was becoming quite gray; his hand, as he held the manuscript, seemed a trifle emaciated and the knuckles too large.
“To Fo, your youth is dead.”
I praised his work, and we spoke leisurely about life and glory and happiness.
“Are you happy, Cartaphilus?”
“I am not, To Fo.”
“Perhaps it is my fault. Is there anything I have omitted? Am I a careless host?”
“You are the most perfect of hosts. My unhappiness lies within, not without. I still seek…”
“What are you seeking?”
“Something beyond pleasure and beyond pain. The technique of love, however perfect, still leaves unslaked the hunger of the soul…”
“What is the soul, Cartaphilus?”
“I do not know; I only know its hunger… “
To Fo shook his head.
“Perhaps you are seeking something for which the world has not yet discovered a name…”
“In my youth, To Fo, I had an incomparable love.”
“In youth, love is always incomparable.”
“If we drink the cup to the dregs, then we may be satisfied…but if the cup is snatched from our lips, our thirst is never afterward quenched.”
To Fo pulled gently the sleeves of his gorgeous robe, until they covered his hands up to his long, hooked nails, like the curved beaks of birds of prey. Was he conscious of his large knuckles?
“What joy does Cartaphilus seek that Flower-of-the-Evening and her garden cannot afford?”
“I seek unimaginable perfection…”
To Fo, playing with his beard, remained silent for a long while. Did he understand?
“In my youth, Cartaphilus, I heard of a woman, a goddess, who was perfection…the embodiment of all men’s dreams…”
“Yes?” I said anxiously.
“She was as old as the Black Mountain, and as young as the first ray of dawn. Witch or goddess, she passed from country to country. He or she who had the incomparable fortune of meeting her knew the meaning of heaven. But all this is merely legend, Cartaphilus…”
“What was her name?”
“She had many names, as she wandered through the ages. Many have called her Lilith and Ashtoreth, but the name she loved best was: Sa-lo-me.”
“Sa-lo-me!”
“Have you also heard the voice of Sa-lo-me from afar, Cartaphilus?”
“Perhaps.”
“Like a will-o’-the-wisp she flits, in fevered nights through the dreams of youth.”
Salome? Could it be she indeed… Salome…she who scorned me? Salome… Nemesis…the passionate and cruel…the exquisite, the magnificent Daughter of Night! She who beheaded those whom she loved and tortured with her disdain those who loved her? If she lived, who but I was her destined lover? Whom should she love, if not Cartaphilus!
The cup fell out of my hand, and broke.
To Fo smiled. “Her very name makes our hands tremble, Cartaphilus.” After a while he resumed: “The cup always slips…and it always breaks.”
“Kotikokura, we have been long enough in Cathay. Our friends are aging
rapidly; Flower-of-the-Evening has noticed a gray hair in her head; the people have forgotten Attila and the events that invested me with a red ruby and the rank of a Mandarin of the First Order. A guest should leave before the host begins to yawn.”
Kotikokura scratched his head, pulled at his mustache, and grumbled something.
“I understand, Kotikokura, you have made friends here, and feel comfortable. Comfort, however, is our greatest enemy, Kotikokura. When the goose is most comfortable in her warm grease, the time for her slaughter is near. Besides, my friend, Salome is probably in the West. You do not know Salome? She is the… Daughter of Night! She is cruel and beautiful, and disdainful! Like the Queen bee, she destroys those whom she loves!”
Kotikokura grinned.
“She is Lilith, perhaps—mother of demons, or Ashtoreth, goddess of love! We must seek her, Kotikokura.”
Kotikokura placed his hands into his wide sleeves, and bowed.
To Fo accompanied us for several miles. The sun was about to set. He gave me a letter sealed with the Grand Seal of the Dragon from the Son of Heaven, exhorting his fellow sovereigns, as well as his subjects, to respect my wishes.
“Cartaphilus, best of friends, now and then when you will see the sun disappear, drink a cup of wine to To Fo.”
XXVIII: IN QUEST OF THE PRINCESS—MOON, TORTOISE, OR WITCH?
MY eyes sought the faces of all the women I met. Is this Salome? Or this one? Kotikokura imitated me. He squinted his eyes and sighed.
“Are you, too, seeking Salome, Kotikokura?”
He looked at me, his upper lip studded with his sparse hair, trembling.
“Are we running after our own shadows, Kotikokura? Are we in search of that which never was, and never car; be?”
Kotikokura did not hear. An enormous fly persisted in tormenting the tip of his nose.
“If Apollonius were but here, he would console and instruct us. Perhaps his ashes are mixing even now with the dust of the road!”
We stopped at every village, and every town. The Emperor’s letter brought to my feet mayors, governors and generals. Of all I asked: “Have you seen Salome?” Not knowing whom I meant, and guilty perhaps of some secret misdeeds, they would stammer: “No, no, my Lord, we have not heard of Salome.” But when I explained who Salome was, their lips would stretch slowly into a long smile. “Perhaps our poets or our philosophers can inform our Lord. We are so ignorant.”
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 13