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

by George Sylvester Viereck

  “I have had the good fortune of meeting you.”

  “It is rather the other way, then, Count. He who wears it brings good luck to those with whom he comes in contact.”

  “Do you really think it beautiful?”

  “Very.”

  “Well, then, I shall have it cut and made into two rings, and if you will allow me, I shall present each of you with one, so that you may always have good luck or bring good luck to others.”

  “Oh, Count, you are too good to us, really!” they exclaimed, their fingers pecking at my sleeves like small birds.

  “We shall remember you—always,” Antonio said.

  “Whenever we are unaccountably happy, we shall think of you.” Antonia added.

  “Will you think of us, too?” the boy asked.

  “I shall think of you—long after you have forgotten me.”

  “Count, would you like to see the rings our mother gave us before she died?”

  “Oh, yes, Toni, bring the little box.”

  Antonio went out. Antonia placed her small hand in mine and leaned her head against my shoulder.

  “Count…who are you?”

  I was startled.

  “Who are you?”

  I kissed her dark tresses gently, and equally gently removed my hand from hers. This bud was too tender, too beautiful, to be plucked.

  Antonio returned. He opened a small gold box, with two rings livid with exquisite rubies. Centuries of mystery and of passion seemed to slumber in the depths of the stones.

  “How beautiful!” I exclaimed.

  “Mother told us to wear them when we are happy. Shall we not wear them tonight, brother?” And the two rings blazed on the hands of the children, flaming like rose leaves, scarlet like drops of blood.

  Kotikokura snored, his head resting upon one of the dogs, their shadow mingling and forming a bulky elephant whose trunk made a semicircle.

  We talked, intoxicated by something that was not wine. At last nature demanded her toll. The sandman strewed his ware into the golden eyes of the two children. Antonio yawned. Antonia blinked.

  “It is time to retire,” I said.

  They were reluctant, but finally yielded.

  At the door, Antonia threw me a kiss. Antonio raised his hand half-way, checked himself, and blushed.

  I was about to draw the curtains of my bed, when I heard footsteps, hardly heavier than those of a cat, approach. I strained my eyes, but I could see nothing. The hall was very long, and I had time to conjecture.

  A soft-tipped finger pressed against my lips. “Sh…” I moved slowly toward the wall. The bed hardly felt the weight of her.—She pressed her lips on mine.—My hands were many mouths, drinking nectar.—A long kiss.—A pressure of breast against breast, a mingling of lips, a moan…

  Like some white weightless feather which a zephyr wafts about a garden, she rose and disappeared in the blackness of the room.—Thoughts like many-colored confetti fell softly upon my brain, making beautiful patterns which bore no names.– —

  Suddenly, I heard the soft footsteps again. Was she returning? Did her lips ache for another kiss…? Again the pressure of a finger against my lips. “Sh…” Again a kiss, tender and impetuous. Did my hands deceive me? Was not beauty a flame? Was not joy a slow swooning?

  I awoke. I rubbed my eyes and forehead trying to remember something—something incredibly beautiful and delicious. What was it? When did I…? Was it a dream? I felt a pressure against my thigh. The ruby—a frozen drop of flame—on the head of the serpent.

  “Antonia,” I whispered.

  I placed the ring upon my small finger. It fitted perfectly. I rose. Something fell to the floor.

  “The other ring! Antonio?” I placed the ring on top of the other. They melted into one.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We are Toni.’

  ‘Both Toni?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you one or two?’

  ‘We are one and two.’

  ‘Both one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  How incredibly beautiful!

  The Double Blossom of Passim—the almost impossible loveliness of John and Mary in one!

  A courier arrived with a letter from Baron di Martini. Affairs of state compelled him to prolong his absence for a few weeks. Unfortunately, the presence of the “scatterbrains” was also essential. Meanwhile, he would consider it a special favor if I remained his guest.

  “Are the children gone?” I asked.

  “Yes, Count. Early this morning, a messenger from the Duke came to fetch them.”

  “Kotikokura, we must go.”

  He sighed. His eye caught my hand. He grinned. I felt a little uneasy.

  “It is the gift of the children.”

  Then, discreetly as ever, Kotikokura made preparations for our departure.

  “Before I go I must see a goldsmith who will make two rings of this one—one for Antonio and one for Antonia. Alas, Kotikokura, we shall never see the children again—at least, never as they were…last night…never. Ah, the perfect hour of youth is more frail than the outer rim of the moon when the dawn kisses her lips!”

  LXIV: MAN A RHEUMATIC TORTOISE—I TAKE STOCK OF MYSELF—I BRING THE HOLY GRAIL TO ALEXANDER VI—I DISCUSS THEOLOGY WITH THE POPE—THE HOLY FATHER AND HIS UNHOLY FAMILY—I AM TALKATIVE—ALEXANDER ASKS A QUESTION—TRAPPED

  KOTIKOKURA and I walked along the shore of the Tiber which, heavy with recent rain, moved ponderously like a man newly enriched. Lonesomeness made me shiver with a sudden chill. I took Kotikokura’s arm and felt comforted a little. Strange that this queer being—captured almost like a wild animal in the African jungle—was my only companion.

  Fourteen centuries! What profound change had occurred in me? I remained bewildered among my thoughts. I had learned divers magics, sciences, languages and philosophies. I had witnessed the rise and fall of emperors and civilizations. I had seen the colossal growth of Christianity—its physical power and its spiritual weakness. I had learned the meaning of history and the meaning of legend, and how truth and fiction mingled irrevocably together. I had experienced innumerable shades of love from grossest sensuality to a touch so vague that it would hardly graze the tip of a butterfly’s wing. Beggar, saint, prince, monk, god and devil, I had lived a thousand lives.

  What new paths had I discovered? How was I different from Cartaphilus, the young captain in the Roman army of occupation in Jerusalem at the time when the young Jewish carpenter was condemned to die on the cross? Under changing masks I remained myself. In spite of all, I was still Cartaphilus!

  What, then, was the purpose of traversing so long a road? Would sixty or seventy years have sufficed? Was everything relative in a world that would not or could not remain still for a fraction of a second?

  Yes, that was my discovery: things only seemed, there was neither truth nor lie, neither good nor evil, neither God nor Devil.

  “There is neither life nor death,” said Apollonius. “The feet that tread upon the dust and the trodden dust are not as different as they seem. Life and death are one!”

  Progress? There was no progress. For every step forward humanity takes one step back. Man hurls his ideas far ahead of him, like golden discs, but he himself crawls onward like a rheumatic tortoise.

  “Kotikokura, have I changed much since you first met me—you remember, in Africa—long, long ago?”

  He shook his head.

  “Am I still the same?”

  “Ca-ta-pha god always.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Kotikokura. Does not a tree, once grown to maturity, remain unchanged, even if it lives two thousand years? Time merely draws circles about its trunk to indicate that he has forgotten nothing and no one, that he still is the punctilious slave of Eternity, who sits unmoved upon the peak of the universe, and within whose shadow all things are.”

  Kotikokura nodded.

  “You, however, have changed considerably, Kotikokura. You are hardly recognizable. They even mi
stook you once or twice for my younger brother.”

  Kotikokura grinned.

  “When you reach maturity, will you become Ca-ta-pha?”

  He laughed.

  “Would that please you greatly?”

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Is Ca-ta-pha the highest peak to which man may aspire?”

  He nodded.

  “Then has Ca-ta-pha simply turned about himself, when he believed that he was climbing the staircase to the stars?”

  “Ca-ta-pha god.”

  “So be it then! Let Ca-ta-pha turn and turn, like the sun—and by turning, radiate light! Kotikokura shall be his moon—the reflection of Ca-ta-pha and”—Kotikokura grinned—”grin as a moon should.”

  His Holiness Alexander VI, was financially embarrassed. The money received from the sale of indulgences fell far below expectations. Italy was overtaxed. Beyond the Alps, the people groaned and grumbled. Still, he had made a vow to finish the inner buildings of the Vatican during his lifetime. Who could tell how suddenly the Scissors of Time would snap the thread? Bricks and marble and cement remained like hills of debris in the yard of the Vatican, while the walls gaped and the rain splashed upon the foundation.

  Rome felt the tension of her master.

  Alexander intrigued me. He wore his sins—incest, sodomy, murder—gracefully like a cloak. His extraordinary political sagacity, his love for the arts, were woven into the pattern. I was anxious to meet the vicar of Christ and Priapus!

  “Kotikokura, having gathered fame, let us profit thereby.”

  Kotikokura looked at me, a thousand questions dancing in his eyes.

  “The great-grandson of Count de Cartaphile shall profit by the exploits of his ancestor.”

  Dressed in ancient armor, inlaid with crosses, and accompanied by Kotikokura, I rode solemnly upon a tall white horse through the main streets of Rome.

  People gathered in clusters whispering, or followed us at a respectable distance. Some knelt, many crossed themselves, or bowed deeply. For three days, I repeated my silent and peaceful conquest of the city. On the fourth morning, I stopped at the gate of the Vatican, and begged admittance to the Holy Father. Meeting some resistance, I bribed my way to his door.

  Kotikokura remained outside with our horses.

  The Pope’s study overlooked his gardens, and from the open window came the delightful perfume of violets and lilacs. His Holiness was sitting at a long table whose massive legs were carved in the shape of young bulls, the coat of arms of the Borgias. A large copy of the Decameron, illuminated and encrusted, occupied the center of the table. His Holiness was dressed in white from head to foot. There was devouring curiosity in his eyes, but also irony played like lightning about his lips and chin, and his large wide forehead radiated intelligence.

  I knelt. He lifted slightly his foot encased in a gold-embroidered white slipper. I kissed the sharp point. He made the sign of the cross over me and bade me rise.

  “Are you indeed the great-grandson of Count de Cartaphile?”

  “I am, Your Holiness—this is the very armor he wore when he delivered the Holy Tomb from the hands of the Infidels.”

  The Pope nodded. But something about his lips told me that he was skeptical. I liked him for it, foreseeing an interesting mental skirmish, such as I had not enjoyed for a century.

  “I have brought with me the Holy Grail, the cup out of which our Saviour drank at the Last Supper. My ancestor kept it hidden in a secret vault, which no one could unlock save he who lived a life that was truly Christ-like. Seven years, Holy Father, I spent in prayer and fasting. One morning, the vault miraculously opened by itself. The glory of it made me swoon. When I regained consciousness, the Holy Cup, filled to the brim with red wine, was in my hand. I drank it, and my body which had been emaciated from starvation, suddenly felt lithe and powerful as a youth’s.”

  Alexander continued to smile enigmatically. “It is well to live a Christian life, and the rewards are many and great. May I see the Holy Grail, Count?”

  The cup was a fine piece of Eastern workmanship—jade studded with emeralds. The Pope fondled it in his plump hands. He closed his eyes a little. I could not help thinking that he compared the sensation to the touch of a woman’s breast.

  “It is indeed beautiful, Count, and he who made it was an artist.”

  “The Lord Himself inspired his hands.”

  He raised his left brow and smacked his lips, as Nero was in the habit of doing. “Every true artist, Count, is inspired by the Lord, even if he paints the manhood of a faun or the breasts of a Diana.”

  I yearned to tell him: “Magnificent Pagan!” but for the time being, my rôle was that of a perfect Christian. I smiled, pained a little.

  He laughed. “Count, you must not take words too literally. I mean that all art is divine.”

  “Yes, Holy Father.”

  He placed the Holy Grail upon the Decameron.

  “Beauty is beauty everywhere.”

  “Your Holiness, the Holy Grail is not only beautiful. It possesses miraculous power. Anyone drinking a drop of wine out of it, or merely touching it with his lips, regains youth and strength.”

  The Pope raised the cup to his lips.

  “Provided,” I continued, “his life be as pure and undefiled as a child’s.”

  “Of course,” he smiled, replacing the cup upon the table.

  “Holy Father, it would be selfish for me to keep so precious a thing for myself.”

  He looked at me, closing his left eye.

  “It belongs to all Christendom.”

  The Pope meditated, one palm upon the table, the other upon his leg.

  “How can the religion of our Lord Jesus flourish unless all believers pay Peter’s pence to Saint Peter?”

  He continued to remain pensive.

  “Holy Father, if the world hears of the cup which works miracles, sacrifices will roll like a flood into the Papal exchequer.”

  The Pope stood up. His weight did not diminish his stature. He was taller than Nero, but shorter than Charlemagne. He walked over to the window, breathed deeply, caressed his robe.

  “Count, are you the only one who knows of the story of the Holy Grail?”

  “Yes, Your Holiness, but by this time, Rome certainly knows of my existence. Rome and the world will listen to my tale.”

  “How so?”

  “For three days, Your Holiness, clad in this armor, I rode through the city upon a white charger. The people are much intrigued. If it becomes known that a descendant of Count de Cartaphile has come to the Eternal City to bring to the Father of Christendom the Lord’s Cup at the Last Supper, the four corners of the earth will reverberate with thanksgiving.”

  He interrupted me.

  “So be it!”

  We remained silent for a while.

  “And what reward do you expect, Count?”

  “Reward?”

  “It is in the nature of man to demand payment.”

  “Your blessing, Holy Father, is the only reward I crave.”

  He scrutinized me. “You make yourself suspicious, my son.”

  “Suspicious?”

  “You ride through the city on a white charger, dressed in armor.

  You bring me a precious cup of splendid oriental workmanship. You insist upon its miraculous power. No, it can hardly be that you desire no other reward save my blessing.”

  “I am the true descendant of Count de Cartaphile who saved the Tomb.”

  “That is a fairy-tale, and I am inclined to think that you are aware of it, Count.”

  His perspicacity pleased and astonished me.

  “Count, it is better to make the people believe than to believe oneself. An actor who really feels his part is not half the artist, nor half as effective as one who has learned his rôle perfectly, and gives the illusion of feeling. I prefer to deal with an intelligent scoundrel rather than with a zealot. The scoundrel, at least, has his price.

  “Zealots are a great source of dange
r and infernal bores. Only recently, I was constrained to order the burning of Savonarola, Prior of San Marco in Florence. He was a scholar and a pious man, but lacking in humor as a man upon the rack. I was sorry to consign him to the flames, but he was undermining the structure of our Church. Besides, his implacable hatred of life revenged itself upon beauty. One statue is worth more than a hundred priors…”

  He reseated himself. “Well?” he asked.

  “Your Holiness, I am not a zealot nor do I bequeath the Holy Grail for any other purpose except that of enriching the Church. I am satisfied to bask in her glory. I should also like to bequeath to your Holiness the ancient armor worn by my sire– —”

  The Pope laughed. “I hope sincerely that you are merely acting. A man capable of such jests delights me immensely. Who are you?”

  His eyes, hidden a little in the heavy bags of flesh, darted sharp short rays. He was certainly keener than Nero, taught in all the delicate nuances of the sophistry of the Church, and accustomed, like the rest of his family to subtle intrigues. It would not be so easy to extricate myself from his suspicion, but the elements of danger added zest to the conversation. I was prepared for everything. The Borgias were famous for the poisons they administered to their prisoners and to their guests—candarella, a mixture of arsenic, quicksilver and opium. I had hidden a powerful antidote in the gold cross on my chest.

  “Who are you?” Alexander reiterated.

  “I am Count de Cartaphile, Your Holiness.”

  He shook his head. “I know the genealogy of the Holy Roman Empire. There never was a Count de Cartaphile except, of course, in the legends of the Church.”

  I smiled. “It certainly would be neither proper nor indeed prudent to contradict Your Holiness.”

  “Fear nothing. You are my guest. Accept at least this much in return for your precious gifts.”

  “Holy Father, no greater honor has ever been mine.”

  “You bribed my officer, did you not, Count?”

  This time I was really startled.

  He laughed. “Am I not right?”

  “Holy Father, I– —”

  “Do not fear, my son. I am your Father Confessor.”