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

by George Sylvester Viereck

  “Is he crazy, do you think?”

  “Maybe he is a spy.”

  “But if a spy, the government would have been after him.”

  “Yes, that’s true. He is just a little off.”

  “Those of you who are unmarried will find beautiful and strong women there. Those of you who have wives and children will get extra wages. Who wants to go to Russia?”

  Several laughed.

  One shouted, “You better go on with your work or I’ll tell the boss.”

  “Who dares to speak to me in that manner?” He raised an enormous log and was about to strike. The people retreated. He dropped the log which rebounded several times.

  “In Russia, your head would have rolled at my feet.”

  “And he wants us to go to Russia,” one laughed.

  The others joined him.

  “Slave on here! You would have become rich in Russia. Fools!”

  He turned his back upon them.

  “Kotikokura, who is this man? Look! We knew him. We saw him.”

  Kotikokura nodded and knit his brow.

  The man walked toward us.

  “Who, Kotikokura?”

  Kotikokura rubbed his chin.

  “Those eyes—that chin—his stature—his strength—who?”

  Just as he was about to turn the corner, I called out: “Attila! Attila!”

  Kotikokura nodded vehemently. The man heard me, stopped in front of us, scrutinized me, and smiled broadly.

  “I am a descendant of Attila. Wherever I pass, I conquer.”

  “You are not a descendant merely, Sire, but Attila himself,” I said, bowing low.

  His eyes, sharp as the points of knives, tried to pierce through me.

  “Is it so difficult to recognize a king, Sire?”

  “Who are you?” he thundered.

  “I am Your Majesty’s servant,” I answered.

  He threw his arms about me and kissed me on both cheeks noisily like the clapping of hands. “Peter Romanoff is your friend. Will you come with me to Russia?”

  “Wherever Your Majesty commands?”

  “Who is that man?” He pointed to Kotikokura.

  “My companion, Sire.”

  Kotikokura made a profound obeisance.

  “I like his face. He looks like one of my people.”

  Kotikokura kissed his hands.

  Peter walked between us, holding our arms.

  “Can you imagine, the fools not willing to go where fortune awaits them? Could they not recognize me? Do I look like a common laborer?”

  “Your Majesty, the sun shines in vain for the blind.”

  “Splendid! You will teach my ministers the art of courtesy. I want to turn my court into a more magnificent palace than that of Versailles. Louis the Fourteenth is splendid. He has taste and manners. He treated me discourteously but—” he raised his arm and waved his fist,—”I shall be the emperor of the world!”

  “Attila!” I exclaimed.

  “I need men. I need a navy. These fools will not come.”

  “They will come, Sire. I shall persuade them.”

  “How can you persuade them when I found it impossible?” he scowled.

  “Your Majesty, the people are accustomed to respect the uniform. I shall talk to them dressed as a high officer of your army. They will come.”

  “You are my friend, my joy, my hope!” he exclaimed, and kissed my cheek.

  He looked at his boots and laughed heartily. “I do not blame the poor devils. Does a great emperor wear muddy boots and a torn coat? Promise them everything, my friend. We need boats and sailors and shipbuilders. Russia shall become the mightiest of nations! She shall conquer the world!”

  The tip of his boot struck a horseshoe. He picked it up.

  “What other monarch can bend this iron?”

  He grasped the shoe with his enormous hands, closed his eyes, and pressed until the points met.

  He threw the shoe away. Kotikokura picked it up and with one movement, unbent the iron until it became a straight line.

  Peter glared at him. “You are a strong man– —”

  Kotikokura grinned.

  “But a poor courtier. Don’t you know that it is dangerous to excel the Tsar?”

  Kotikokura’s chin dropped.

  Peter flung his arms about him and kissed him. “Do not fear. You shall be the commander-in-chief of my bodyguard.”

  Kotikokura bowed to the ground.

  We entered a wine-shop.

  “Wine!” Peter ordered.

  We seated ourselves at a table. Kotikokura filled very tall cups.

  Peter raised his cup. “To Russia!”

  We drank the contents at one gulp. Kotikokura refilled the cups.

  “To Peter, Tsar of Russia!” I toasted.

  Kotikokura raised his cup. “To Ca-ta-pha, god!”

  Peter drank but looked at me for an explanation.

  “My friend invokes God to bless the Tsar and his country.”

  Peter crossed himself and drank another cup. His face flushed, twitched, as if a fly were pestering it.

  “What is your name, my friend, and what is your nationality?”

  “Once my name was of great consequence and people trembled at it. Now I have none. I await Your Majesty’s baptismal. And my nationality? I am a Russian!”

  He looked at me, his fine lips pouting, his small mustache shivering.

  “You are of royal blood.”

  He rose, poured some wine over my head. “In the name of Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, and His servant, Peter Romanoff, Tsar of Russia, I baptize you Prince Daniel Petrovich,—for you are as wise as the prophet Daniel and I make you my son. You shall be my chief minister.”

  I kissed his hand over which a few drops of the wine trickled.

  “Permit me, Sire, to be your shadow, rather than your minister.”

  “So be it.”

  His Majesty poured some wine over Kotikokura’s head.

  “In the name of Jesus Christ, our Saviour, and His servant, Peter Romanoff, Tsar of Russia, I baptize you Duke Samson Romanovich,—for you are as strong as Samson and the adopted son of the House of Romanoff. You are the commander-in-chief of the Tsar’s bodyguard.”

  Kotikokura kissed his hand.

  The Inn keeper laughed, considering it all the farce of drunken men.

  “Chop his head off, Duke!” the Tsar commanded.

  Kotikokura rose, drew his knife, and was about to jump at the man’s throat.

  “Stop!” I shouted, and turning to the Tsar, I continued, “Sire, we are on foreign soil.”

  Peter kissed us both. “I merely wished to test your fidelity. Samson, you acted as you should. It is not for you to question my orders. You are my strength. And you, Daniel, have done your duty well. You are my wisdom. You must not allow anger to overcome your master. I am proud of both of you. The Lord Jesus has sent me the two men needed for my country.”

  We all crossed ourselves and proceeded with our drinks.

  Peter’s eyes closed and he began to snore.

  “Is there a bed here?” I asked the Inn keeper.

  “Yes, upstairs.”

  “Samson, let us take His Majesty to bed. It is not well for an emperor to expose himself to the ridicule of the rabble.”

  Kotikokura lifted the colossal body of the emperor and carried him up the stairs, placing him gently on the bed. He removed his boots and smoothed his pillow. Peter opened his eyes and stood up.

  “Once more have I tested you, my dear friends. I only pretended to sleep. Your wisdom, Daniel, is incomparable, and so are your strength and faithfulness, Samson. Approach, that I may kiss you both.”

  He kissed us.

  “Bring me a woman, Samson. It is not well for a monarch to sleep alone.”

  Kotikokura made a movement to go.

  “Where are you going, Samson?” I asked. “Do you forget the fate of monarchs in the hands of strange women?”

  “Splendid, Daniel! Splendid, Samson!�
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  Peter rose, stretched, and yawned.

  “I no longer doubt you. I needed three signs of your wisdom and fidelity and I obtained them. We cannot remain here overnight. My royal guard is in revolt at Moscow. They have allied themselves with the nobles and churchmen who are horrified at my new ideas. They call them German ideas.”

  “They are your ideas, Sire. Ideas have no validity unless they take root in a strong man’s soul.”

  “Splendid, Daniel! Those traitors hate me because I wished to civilize them; they hate me because I ordered their beards shaved,—their beards full of lice and vermin. They hate me because I introduced tobacco, good manners, and sensible clothing. They call me Anti-Christ!”

  “Anti-Christ!” I laughed.

  “We go back at once! And oh, the revenge!” He stretched himself. “The sweet revenge! Samson, you will be busy.”

  Kotikokura grinned and danced.

  “But you must not let me forget myself entirely, Daniel, even if I get so exasperated at your words of prudence that I order Samson to chop your head off.”

  The arrival of Peter at Moscow occasioned a universal panic. The conspirators so vociferous, so arrogant, during his absence, scurried off like frightened mice. This dismay was largely due to a rumor that I had caused to be spread from town to town as we were reaching the Capital, that the Emperor was returning with a vast army of German, Dutch, and English mercenaries whose new guns and cannons were capable of bombarding places from a distance of many miles.

  The Kremlin was empty, save for some old serfs who, uncertain of what was transpiring, and unconcerned, continued to tend the gardens and to scrape slowly, drearily, the mud which the boots of the noblemen had left behind.

  The Emperor seated himself upon the throne, Kotikokura in the garb of a general, heavily medaled on his left, and myself at his right. At the various entrances, officers stood at attention, their swords drawn.

  “There must be no mercy, Prince,” Peter thundered. “We are in Russia now. My people understand only the knout and the sword.”

  “We shall respect the customs of the land.”

  “Samson, I have given you your medals in advance of your deeds. See that I am not compelled to tear them off your chest, skin and all.”

  Kotikokura stiffened up and stamped his enormous sword.

  I almost regretted having accompanied this strange and terrible Monarch. The affair, however, promised to be a huge comedy, and I could not refrain from taking a part in it. Kotikokura was superb in his new attire. Did he take his new position seriously? Would he deny Ca-ta-pha, preferring the mastership of a mortal monarch? Could he serve two masters? Sooner or later, there would be a crisis, I was certain. Despots weary of their favorites. I must warn Kotikokura. He was but a child.

  The Patriarch, the chief of the Strelitzes and several Boyars, appeared. They formed a semicircle about the throne.

  Peter glared at them in silence for a long while, then stood up and pointing his forefinger at them, exclaimed, “Traitors to your God, your Emperor, and your Country!”

  They fell upon their faces, grumbling words of mercy.

  “Grunting hogs, bearded and dirty! You thought you could outwit and outpower Peter Romanoff. In his absence, you turned his palace and his country into puddles of mud in which you wallowed, planning the while to rid yourself of your lawful master, divinely appointed!”

  “Mercy, Little Father,” several grumbled.

  “How dare you ask for mercy?”

  The Patriarch raised his head. “Be unto us like Jesus, Master of all of us, Little Father!”

  “Judas!” the Emperor shouted, and unsheathing his sword, severed the priest’s head with one blow. The blood jutted out of his neck like some fantastic fountain.

  “Duke!” he commanded Kotikokura, “let this scoundrel’s head be placed upon a spike over the roof of the palace as a warning to others whose hearts may harbor treachery. Do the same to the rest of these wretches! Throw their carcasses to my dogs!”

  “Little Father! Mercy! Mercy! We are not guilty! We were misled! Little Father!”

  “Take them out! They stink like a litter of hogs.”

  Kotikokura waved his sword. A bugle sounded. A company of soldiers appeared. They dragged the corpse and the bodies of the rest who were too limp to move. Kotikokura followed gravely, his sword and medals dazzling in the sun, which shone calmly through the stained glass.

  I summoned an officer.

  “Perfume!” I commanded.

  He brought a large bottle of perfume.

  “Your Majesty,” I said, “Pilate who could not endure the smell of the rabble, washed his hands with perfume at the trial of Jesus; and Nero—the lover of the beautiful—maligned and misunderstood by vulgar historians, found the essence of flowers invigorating and delightful.”

  Peter cupped his hands, which I filled to the brim. He washed his face, and breathed deeply through his mouth.

  “Daniel Petrovich! You will civilize us! Ah! Ah!”

  He smelt the tips of his fingers for a long while.

  “I am pleased to hear you say that Nero was not a monster, but a man who loved the beautiful. Great emperors are always misunderstood.”

  “The shriveled blade of grass complains against the splendor of the sun. The descendants of the men whom you have ordered beheaded, may proclaim their great Emperor a monster.”

  Peter smiled. “The descendants of these men will not gossip about me. They will not live long enough for that.

  “My people do not respect me, Daniel Petrovich, if I do not chop their heads off.”

  Kotikokura entered, followed by two officers, immensely tall. They remained at attention.

  “Duke, have you carried out my instructions?”

  Kotikokura nodded.

  “Are the heads of the scoundrels upon the roof of my palace?”

  Kotikokura nodded.

  “Let us go and see them, Prince.”

  Kotikokura and the officers preceded. His Majesty took my arm.

  The coagulated blood of the setting sun mingled with the slowly dripping blood of the severed heads which garlanded the roof of the Kremlin, like a grotesque and horrible wreath. There was something alive in the glaring eyes which had not yet closed and in the heavy beards, shivering like ferns gray, red, and black, in the breeze.

  The Tsar slapped his thighs and laughed uproariously. “Look at the Patriarch, Daniel Petrovich! There he is in the center, his mouth is wide open as if he wanted to swallow a sheep. He was always greedy. Look at the chief Strelitz! Ha, ha, ha! His left eye seems to wink—the panderer! Look at that fellow,—who is he? Let me see—yes, he is Gabriel Gabrilovich, stupid and obstinate as a jackass. Doesn’t he seem to bray! He-haw! He-haw! Ha, ha, ha! Look at the red-bearded fellow. Re is positively laughing, Prince. Watch! Laugh on, you damned wretch,—and may the devils tickle your soles forever!”

  The two officers laughed. Kotikokura grinned. I tried in vain to feel the horror of the situation. It seemed so theatrical and unreal.

  “Are you amused, Daniel Petrovich?”

  “A little.”

  “You are squeamish. The West has an effeminate sense of humor. We Russians can laugh at anything which is really funny. And aren’t they funny? Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

  I smiled drearily.

  “Do you pity them, Daniel Petrovich?”

  “It is ridiculous to pity the dead, Your Majesty.”

  “I pity the dead, Daniel Petrovich. They cannot eat, they cannot drink, they cannot laugh, they cannot kiss women.”

  “Life—death—there is no difference, Sire. All things are within the Great Substance, all things partake of it.”

  “I do not understand.”

  I was treading on dangerous ground.

  “What I meant, Your Majesty, is that after all, you have not robbed them of so much. Tomorrow, in one year, or ten, they would have died without Your Majesty’s gracious assistance. Decapitation may be a boon, a deed of mercy.”<
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  “How?”

  “You have relieved them, perhaps, of some terrible malady—a canker, leprosy,—who knows what fate had in store for them?”

  “That is right and you speak most wisely, Daniel Petrovich. From now on, decapitation shall be reserved for those whose crime is excusable. Real traitors shall suffer deaths infinitely more lingering. I do not wish to be charitable. I do not mean to relieve them from greater pain. Peter Romanoff is not a doctor or a saint. He is the Tsar of Russia!”

  His voice was so imperious and so final in its intonation that I dared not object to his interpretation of my words. I bowed, my right hand upon my chest.

  For three days and three nights Peter gave a feast in the Kremlin.

  Even at the orgies of Nero, I had never seen such abandon—voluptuaries without refinement—mighty drinkers and eaters—Homeric heroes resurrected. The day was for food and wines, the night for endless and promiscuous embraces.

  The grass and flower beds were crushed and destroyed as if Attila’s horsemen had galloped by, and the feathers of torn pillows flew about like a heaven of deplumed angels.

  Never since my Bath of Beauty and Salome’s feast in Persia had I witnessed such unlimited sensuality. The men vied with one another in capacity, the women in endurance. Wagers in gold and slaves and mistresses were made for what seemed incredible prowess of mere human beings.

  Kotikokura outdid three Russians in their feats of endurance. The women gazed at him with terrified desire. He was supremely happy.

  “Kotikokura,” I whispered, as he passed by. For the first time in centuries he did not hear.

  Pathetically sober and disgruntled I watched the fretful pageant.

  Had Kotikokura transferred his affection to a new master? Was he unfaithful to Ca-ta-pha? I drank much to forget this indignity, but the wine did not go to my head.

  Two of Kotikokura’s competitors died from heart failure. One was carried out on a stretcher. The festivities ended with the decapitation of ten of the guests. Five were quartered to boil in oil and six women immured in nunneries for having made in their drunkenness remarks disrespectful to the majesty of the Tsar.

  Peter sedulously endeavored to paint upon Russia the coating of Western civilization.

  Recognizing that clothes and manners determined the mental attitude, Peter was merciless to those who refused to dress in the “German fashion,” clip their beards, refrain from expectorating in the presence of women, or wipe their boots before entering places of worship or offices of the government.