“I understand,” I said.
“What?” Salome asked.
“I had not grasped your image at first, nor its profound significance.”
“Always the ponderous slowness of the male.”
“And…have your experiments been successful?”
“Partially only. I must combat not only a biological law, but woman’s ignorance and her fear. In spite of all I shall conquer! Woman shall be free! Woman shall be man’s equal! Then only will their union be beautiful and perfect; then only shall the love of Cartaphilus and Salome be consummated. No, my friend, I must remain. You, however, must go—and at once.”
“At once?”
She nodded. “This painting of the virgin hides a secret iron door. When it is opened, you will step into a boat always anchored there. Salome is a good general. She plans her retreat as carefully as her advance. The man who drove you here—deaf and dumb, and faithful as a dog—will row you across the Tiber. He will have food and clothing for you. You will be two small merchants traveling through the country. Disappear as quickly as possible from Rome and Italy. The Pope’s spies are already instructed to capture you. You have hurt the vanity of a Borgia, but we shall outwit him. The Borgias are, after all, mere children. Could they live as long as we—what prodigious monsters they might become, or who knows—what prodigious saints! However, we have no time to lose.”
She raised the painting and unlocked the secret door.
“Farewell, Cartaphilus.”
“Since it must be—farewell, Salome.”
We embraced. She opened the door. Was it the setting sun or the magnificence of Salome’s hair which cast the golden reflection upon the water?
We stepped into the boat. Salome made the sign of the cross over us. “God speed.”
The Tiber beat lazily against our boat. The hills opposite were masses of clouds nailed against the sky.
LXVI: DARLINGS OF THE GODS—STIRRING THE ASHES—BIRDS ON THE WING
“KOTIKOKURA, we are indeed the darlings of the gods. I do not know whether we are shielded from torture because of the love they bear us, or more likely—for some sinister ulterior purpose.”
Kotikokura’s eyes glowed with green fire, like an animal’s in the dark.
“Maybe the high gods reward me because I defended my Enemy before his own vicar. I must insist upon his existence, for if he does not exist, I am not even a wraith!”
I remained silent. My last sentence reverberated in my brain and rolled upon my tongue.
“Kotikokura, how strange that I never considered this! If he does not exist, I do not exist either…and you are but the shadow of my dream…”
Kotikokura knitted his brow, not understanding.
“He must exist!”
Kotikokura nodded, unconvinced.
“We are, perhaps, two sides of the same medal,” I remarked, musingly, “and perhaps, for this very reason, we never see eye to eye…but must remain forever incomprehensible to each other.”
Kotikokura rubbed his nose, perplexed. He had never quite grasped my relationship to Jesus. “Some day, perhaps, the metal will melt in the alembic of love or disaster. Some day the two may be one…”
Kotikokura’s eyes darted to and fro.
“But this is mere poetry, no doubt, my friend, induced by my happiness of having escaped from the clutches of the amiable Vicar of Christ. I shall never tempt the Devil—or a Pope—again!”
Kotikokura grinned.
“I yearn to be once more a tranquil water, running securely between its two banks. Let us go beyond the Danube, Kotikokura.
Let us see what the Barbarians have accomplished. Do you remember Ulrica, Kotikokura?”
He nodded.
“What a delightful creature she was! Where is she today? Less than a pinchful of the dust we tread upon; less than the foam that dots the sharp point of a wave in mid-sea; less than the echo of one word uttered between two hills; less than the wind stirred by a butterfly’s wing…”
Kotikokura’s eyes were covered with a thin film.
“The Pope was right: the soul is the daughter of fear. Man disappears utterly like a bird in flight…”
Kotikokura nodded.
“We, too, are transitory, Kotikokura. However long we endure, we shall seem to Eternity only as birds on the wing, lingering awhile over the tops of trees or describing a few wide circles over the surface of a lake, the tips of our wings barely scratching the water…”
Kotikokura wiped his eyes.
LXVII: THE JOY OF LIVING—THE FRIAR OF WITTENBERG TALKS ABOUT LOVE—CHRIST AND ANTI-CHRIST—KOTIKOKURA’S ADVENTURE—A FINE NOSE FOR SULPHUR—I RAISE A STORM
TWO gentlemen, traveling unostentatiously at random, wherever a boat might sail or a coach drive, squandering months and years with the prodigality of early youth. Ah, the joy of locomotion! The delight of being unrooted!
“Once I bewailed the fact that I had neither a country nor a speech nor a name. Once I mourned the length of my days. Man should live a man’s span of years, I argued—then sink into eternal sleep. Ah, the joy of living on and on!”
Kotikokura grinned.
“I am happy, Kotikokura! I am happy that I have neither country nor name. I am happy to be alive…” Kotikokura began to dance. “Dance, my friend, dance upon the tombs of a million generations! We are Life—all else is Death!”
Kotikokura took my hand and whirled me about.
Out of breath, we seated ourselves upon a rock.
“Listen, Kotikokura! Listen to the tinkling of the sheep’s bells! Listen to the shepherds’ call! We are in Arcady, Kotikokura!”
He slapped his thighs.
A man, carrying a long cane, stopped before us.
“Do the gentlemen require a guide to climb the Jungfrau this morning?”
I shook my head.
“Every traveler likes to make the ascent…”
“Has he whose shoes I saw this morning in your museum climbed to the top?”
He seemed not to understand for a while, then grinned, raising his upper lip.
“The Wandering Jew? They say. he came from the other side of the mountain.”
“Does he really have such enormous feet? Why, they seem to be three times as large as mine.”
“Why not, sir? Think of his travels!”
His seriousness unarmed me.
“Have you seen him?” I cried.
“My grandfather heard his voice one night. He howled like a wolf whose leg has been caught in a trap: ‘I am the Cursed One! I am the Cursed One!’ In the morning they found his shoes in front of the Church door. They seemed nailed to the ground. The Lord would not permit him to desecrate His House.”
“Did he continue his journey barefooted?”
“The Devil must have given him another pair of shoes. The Devil always takes care of his own.”
I was about to ask whether God did likewise with His own, but I desisted.
We reached a little inn, set snugly between the rocks. The inn-keeper invited us into the garden. At a table opposite ours a young Augustine monk, his arm about the waist of the waitress, sang, waving his cup in tune.
Upon seeing us, the girl blushed, and rushed into the house. The friar raised his cup and addressed us.
“To your health, gentlemen!”
We raised ours. “To yours, frater!”
I begged him to sit at our table. He brought his cup. I filled it. We drank to each other’s health once more.
“They have splendid beer here,” I said in Latin.
“And a waitress who would delight Gambrinus himself,” he remarked.
“For a friar,” I said, “your frankness is most engaging.”
“Jesus nowhere forbids love,” the monk insisted.
“He did not. That is so. Nor did he prohibit drink, I can assure you of that.”
He looked at me, a little uncertain. His eyes were blue and candid as a child’s.
“You speak a perfect Latin. Are you a cleric?�
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I smiled. “No, I am a retired gentleman with a hankering for scholarship.”
“Many a nobleman nowadays takes to learning. The new invention of Gutenberg– —”
“Gutenberg?” I queried.
“The printing press, sir, the printing press. It makes it possible to obtain a hundred copies of a book at a small cost. It enables everybody to judge for himself the works of the masters.”
“Are you referring to the movable type?”
“Exactly. I was certain you knew…”
“Why, in China, hundreds of years ago, I saw a machine of this nature.”
“My dear sir—not hundreds of years ago!”
“Yes, yes.”
He laughed heartily. “You saw—hundreds of years ago—in China—?”
“Did I say ‘I saw?’ ”
He nodded.
I laughed in my turn. “I meant that I saw the drawing of a printing press invented hundreds of years ago in China. I am by no means certain that to spread knowledge indiscriminately is a benefit to mankind.”
He wiped his finely curved lips with the back of his palm and looked at me, his brow knit.
“Am I speaking to an enemy or to a spy?”
“I have not even had the pleasure of knowing your name, frater.”
“I am Martin Luther. In Germany, the mention of my name causes a storm.”
“Your scholarly attainments, I am certain, deserve– —”
“No! Martin Luther is the enemy of the Pope!”
“Ah?”
“Do you know who I am now?”
“A man of great courage and of great mind,” I answered quietly. “You need not fear me.”
He remained silent.
“It is not a simple matter, however, to fight the Vatican, frater.”
“David slew Goliath.”
I nodded, unconvinced.
“I will translate the Bible into German. Every Christian shall read the words of Jesus. The words of Jesus will blast Anti-Christ in the Vatican…”
“To the Pope the Church is an empire—not a religion.”
Luther waved his fist many times. “If it is that, then we have the right to dethrone the monarch. We have the right to secede from the empire. Germany for the Germans!”
‘Mohammed’ rang in my ears. ‘If Martin Luther finds his Abu Bekr,’ I thought, ‘no Pope can withstand him.’
“If Germany disclaims the Vatican, will she build a Vatican of her own?” I asked.
“The Pope needs Christ, but Christ needs no Pope.”
I was not thrilled. Why did I not offer my gold and my services? This German monk could be a powerful weapon in my immemorial battle with Jesus. What could destroy the Nazarene more effectively than a schism? A house divided against itself must crumble. I could awaken Mohammedanism from its lethargy. I could remind it of Allah and his Prophet. I could stir up racial memories in Mecca and in Medina.
Alas! The salt of victory had lost its savor. The sword was placed into my hand, but I had not the desire to wield it. Vainly I endeavored to discover clearly the origin of my quarrel with Jesus. Vainly I tried to revive the ancient anger of my heart. My memory was a heap of ashes. Of the great conflagration that once surged within me, a few sparks only dim and cold, rose wearily out of the ashes…
Was Jesus my enemy? Had He ever been my enemy? Was the Armenian Bishop right, perhaps, that his apparent vindictiveness was love in disguise…?
But even as a man who, weary from much walking, finds it difficult to sit at once, so the ancient impetus, the ancient gesture persisted. ‘Even’ I said to myself, ‘if my quarrel with Christ no longer envenoms my life, let Christianity perish. Encourage the fist that strikes against its walls!’
I rose and raised my cup. “To Germany and to freedom from the bondage of Anti-Christ!”
Luther rose in his turn, and clinked my cup.
Several peasants, men and women, entered, laughing and singing. They shouted into the shop: “Beer! Beer!”
The Inn keeper and the waitress ran in and began counting the people.
“A barrel! A barrel!” they demanded.
The Proprietor rolled in a barrel.
A tall middle-aged man approached our table.
“We are celebrating my son’s return from the army. Will the gentlemen join us?”
The merrymaking lasted until dawn. Luther danced and sang and discoursed on the beauty of women. Whenever the waitress appeared, he pinched her cheeks and congratulated her on her manifold delectable parts.
“Frater, is concupiscence a sin?” I asked.
He laughed, and immediately after grew angry. “Having made sex a sin, the Church created the orgy. Concupiscence is no sin, my friend. Sex is God’s blessing. Jesus forgave Magdalene but he drove the money-lenders from His Father’s House.”
Mary Magdalen—Mary, my great, my beautiful love! It was so long since I had pronounced her name. It rang in my ear, more mellow than the sheep’s bells I had heard in the morning.
“In der Woche zwier im Jahr hundertvier,
Schadet weder dir noch mir,”
declaimed Luther robustly. Everybody laughed, repeating the verses again and again, and promising to tell them to every one.
I became aware suddenly that Kotikokura had disappeared with the buxom waitress. I had noticed that Kotikokura and she had eyed each other. I rose and walked quietly into the rear of the garden. Suddenly, I heard a stifled cry. I waited motionless.
“My bear! My lion!”
‘Doña Cristina,’ I thought, and could not refrain from laughing.
There was a quick scurrying of feet. The waitress ran into the house, somewhat disarranged. Kotikokura walked directly into me.
“Whither, my lion? My bear? Why the hurry?”
His eyes glittered like a beast’s of the forest and as he grinned, his teeth looked ominous. But walking back to our table, he assumed a crestfallen appearance.
“Why so sheepish, my bear?” I asked.
“Woman!” he grumbled, as he drank several cups of beer in succession.
“Post coitum omne animal triste,” I said.
Luther did not hear me. Still declaiming the virtues of the daughters of Eve, he hiccoughed:
“In der Woche zwier im Jahr hundertvier,
Schadet weder dir noch mir.”
Kotikokura snored majestically as a lion should. I went into the garden. Luther was writing at a table. I walked on tiptoes anxious not to disturb him. Suddenly, he raised his head and glared at me, shouting: “Apage satanas!” I was too startled to stir.
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” he shouted again, his blue eyes glittering. Raising the wooden inkstand, the shape of a soup bowl, he hurled it at me. I bent quickly, escaping with a scratch upon my cheek.
“Frater,” I asked, “why this violence?”
He squinted and rose with a jerk.
“Forgive me, I beg of you, my friend. I thought… I saw Satan.” He crossed himself. “He often comes to tempt me.”
‘Mohammed,’ I mused, ‘heard angels and Luther sees devils.’
Luther was crestfallen.
“Did I harm you, sir?” He looked at my cheek. “The Lord be praised! Only a tiny scratch! Will you forgive me?”
I extended my hand which he shook several times.
“It is terrible, sir. He pursues me everywhere.”
“Who?”
“The Evil One! Sometimes, he comes in the shape of a cleric. Once, even, he appeared as the Pope, wearing upon his tonsured head the triple crown of Alexander the Sixth. When it suits his whim, he approaches in the shape of a large black cat or dog. One night he stood over my bed as a vampire with long sharp teeth, and a blue beard, dipped in blood; at dawn he comes to me as a young witch, with tempting lips and inviting thighs.”
“And this time…?”
“I thought I saw him in persona–two large horns like a goat’s, a long tail that twirled about his legs, and flames dashing out of his nostrils
. Forgive me—it must have been the beer I consumed last night…and the waitress.”
“The waitress?”
“Yes. The whole night through she tantalized me in my sleep, singing the couplet I recited last evening.”
“If you had yielded to the temptation, master, she would not have tortured you in your sleep!”
He laughed, and bade me sit at his table. I made a gesture, indicating that I did not desire to disturb him. He insisted. “I have just finished an essay. You are a much traveled man whose opinion I value.”
He sprinkled a fistful of sand over the paper and shook it. “Do incubi, succubi and devils really visit human beings?” I asked.
He looked at me in childish wonderment. “Is it possible that you doubt it?”
“I have never seen any.”
“It is because you have not recognized them. They are the subtlest of creatures. I can smell sulphur a mile away…”
“Really?”
“It is only on rare occasions, such as today, that I err.”
“Perhaps not even today, frater,” I smiled.
He laughed. “The Devil is not quite so subtle.” Nevertheless, he threw a rapid glance at my feet.
“Not cloven,” I remarked.
He laughed heartily, rubbing his forehead with vigor.
“This essay,” he said, “is a sort of summary of what I intend to write in the near future. May I read it to you?”
“I am much honored.”
He declaimed the vices, the cruelties, the injustices, the sins of the Pope. I had never listened to a more vivid invective.
“He who dares proclaim this,” I said, “is a man of history.”
“I dare proclaim it and I shall make history!” he exclaimed, raising his right arm. “The Lord Jesus is on my side against the Enemy. Hier stehe ich. Gott helfe mir. Ich kann nicht anders.”
Should I goad him on with offers of material help? I must—once more! If I failed this time, I should consider myself vanquished. And if I win—if I win—what indeed should I win? Who knows what new and bloody idol will usurp Heaven, if Christianity dies!
Luther, his right arm in the air, continued, “I am going back to Wittenberg, and upon the gate of the Schlosskirche I shall nail my ultimatum to Anti-Christ. I shall challenge the Fiend to answer my theses!”
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 39