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

by George Sylvester Viereck

  What is it thou wouldst have of me?”

  LUCIFER

  “There are pleasant passes of tender grasses

  Where the kine may browse and the wild she-asses,

  Between the hills and the deep salt sea,

  But where is the spot that is branded not

  With the sign of the Beast on thy fair body?”

  LILITH

  “Lord, my Lord, ask thy Scarlet Horde!

  Who spilt my love and my life like wine?

  Who threw my body as bread to swine?

  If my sins in heaven be seventy times seven,

  What between heaven and hell are thine?”

  LUCIFER

  “Lady, where is it thy fancies hover,

  With wolves’ eyes prying restlessly

  For some naked thing that they might discover,

  Some strange new sin or some strange new lover,

  Beyond the lover who lies with thee?”

  LILITH

  “Lord, my Lord, who has struck the chord

  That holds my heart in a spider’s mesh?

  Prince of the soul’s satiety,

  Whence springs that hunger beyond the flesh,

  That only the flesh can appease in me?”

  LUCIFER

  “By the love of a love that is strange as myrrh,

  By the kiss that kills and the doom that smileth,

  By thy cloven hoof and my fiery spur,

  Thou art my sister, the Lady Lilith, I am– —”

  LILITH

  “My brother—Lucifer!”

  LUCIFER

  “I am thy lover, I am thy brother,

  Time cannot prison us, space cannot smother,

  Proudest of Jahveh’s kindred we,

  Whom Chaos, the terrific mother, Begot from stark Eternity.

  “I am the cry of the earth that beguileth

  God’s trembling hosts though they loathe my name,

  The dauntless foe of His loaded game!

  But where is the tomb that had hidden Lilith,

  Of the Deathless Worm and the Quenchless Flame?

  “I hunted thee where the Ibis nods,

  From the Brocken’s crag to the Upas Tree,

  My lonesomeness was as great as God’s

  When He cast us out from His Holy See,

  But now at the last thou art come to me!

  “Let Mary of Bethlehem lord it in Heaven,

  While stringèd beads her seraphs tell,

  (How art thou fallen, Gabriel!)

  Thy bridesmaids shall be the Deadly Seven,

  And I will make thee a queen in Hell!”

  When we finished, Herma wept.

  Salome kissed her upon one cheek, and I upon the other.

  “You are gods. I am but a mortal,” she sighed.

  She stood up with a jerk. “No matter! Tonight we shall be gods. Mesdames et messieurs, we are all gods tonight!…”

  The people applauded.

  “Dust shall burst into flame,” Herma continued.

  “Bravo! Bravo!”

  Herma rang a large gold bell that hung against the wall. Servants appeared with drinks and pipes filled with hashish.

  “Drink and smoke, mesdames et messieurs. Man becomes a god only by intoxication.”

  Baron de Patrin grumbled: “Life is a wind circular and spiral and all things are specks of dust square or triangular.”

  “Come nearer me, Lucifer,” Herma asked. “Let my body be your pillow this night. This night I too shall be a goddess. Tomorrow I am dust and you will desert me…”

  “Hermaphroditus-Hermaphrodita—eternal god—goddess!” I exclaimed.

  “Dance!” Herma commanded.

  An invisible orchestra played.

  The guests began to dance—strange unrhythmical dances. In the smoke that rose from their pipes, they assumed grotesque and unhuman shapes. One man whom I had not seen until then, dressed in a red veil, turned about himself, twisted, rolled upon the floor.

  “The human serpent,” Herma informed me. “He knows the love of all animals and birds and even insects. He has discovered sixty-seven new ways of love, possible, alas, only to one who, like him, can twist himself like a serpent.”

  “Does he also know,” I inquired tantalizingly, “the secret of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged…?”

  Herma looked at me startled. She pressed my hand in a curious way which I assumed to be the secret grip of a strange lodge.

  “Salome, am I once more in Persia? Are you deluding me again? Are these phantoms cast against mirrors?…”

  “Cartaphilus is a child always and always bewildered,” Salome answered in Greek.

  “You speak the language of the gods,” Herma said wearily, her eyes closed. Her lips assumed the smile of La Joconda.

  The human serpent twisted about the violet-haired Baroness, forming with her a bizarre and lascivious pattern.

  The shoe adorant convulsed at the feet of Salome.

  “Life is a wind– —” the voice drawled out in back of us.

  “Greater love has no man,” Narcissus whispered, making eyes at himself. Narcissa was still lost in the contemplation of her lilied loveliness.

  Mademoiselle Fifi leaned languorously against the Chief of Police. The Chief of Police, in the scarlet dress embroidered with silk, with cushions to supply the breasts which nature denied him, ogled a lackey passing with a tray of cordials.

  My eyes became dim. The lights danced among the dancers who seemed motionless. The music retreated—retreated—like the band of an army, passing by a window and continuing its march.

  I felt warm flesh pressing against mine. Herma lay between Salome and me. “Salome,” I whispered, my words coming into my mouth from an immense distance, “Salome!”

  “Cartaphilus!”

  “Must always a dream or another human form, however lovely, interfere between Salome and Cartaphilus?”

  “When Salome conquers the moon—Cartaphilus shall conquer Salome.”

  Something beat against my ear like a bass drum—bang, bang, bang! I could not open my eyes. Bang-bang-bang! I must see—I must! Bang-bang-bang! I must! Bang, bang! I opened my eyes wide, wide, for fear they would close again.

  It was morning. The sun pierced vainly through the curtained windows. All about me, men and women snored and groaned or lay still, like dead. Herma slept, her face bloated, her lips frozen into an ironic grin. Salome was gone!

  Bang, bang, bang! Some one was knocking furiously at the door. No one moved. The servants had disappeared. I rose, tottered to the door, and opened it.

  Kotikokura, wild-eyed, his sword drawn, was ready to strike.

  “Kotikokura!” I exclaimed.

  “Ca-ta-pha!” His sword dropped. “Ca-ta-pha!” He embraced me.

  “This is the enchanted palace of Persia, Kotikokura,” I grumbled.

  He took me in his arms like a child and placed me in a carriage. I fell asleep. When I awoke again, Kotikokura administered cognac and iced oranges.

  “What has happened, Kotikokura? Where have I been?”

  He explained that he suddenly became aware that I had disappeared from the salon of the Marquise. Nobody had seen me go. He shouted: Where is Ca-ta-pha, god Ca-ta-pha? Everybody laughed. He rushed out, upsetting several men and women. He looked for me at the hotel and at the cafe’s,—everywhere indeed where I was accustomed to go. He feared foul play. He had heard of spies and kidnappers. He rushed about the streets, calling out: “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” He stopped carriages, peered into windows, and finally returned to the hotel. I had disappeared! Meanwhile, day was breaking. He was desperate and commenced to search once more.

  Finally, a lady, heavily veiled, stopped him, and pointed out the house where I was.

  “It was Salome!” I exclaimed.

  His jaw dropped.

  “Dear old Kotikokura, best of friends and companions! What would I do without you?”

  Kotikokura began to dance.

  A lack
ey brought in a letter.

  “From Salome, Kotikokura”

  “Mon cher Lucifer,

  Kotikokura, the most faithful of creatures”—Do you hear that Kotikokura?

  Kotikokura grinned, his eyes luminous like a cat’s. “…must have taken care of you. Do you remember anything as grotesque as last night? Mon ancien, mon ami! Do not remain very long in Paris. The storm is rising. It is not safe.

  “Before leaving, however, see Dr. Benjamin Franklin, inventor, publicist, statesman, and possessor of twenty-seven mistresses and several illegitimate children, which is not a mean record for a representative of a new country.

  “Help him carry on the revolution. It may be that the New World will be a more habitable place than the old one. I doubt it. But let us try. Besides, you will lose nothing. Your banking system is splendidly organized. Rothschild is very clever. You have chosen well.

  “Poor Herma! When she wakes up, she will find neither you nor me. A god-goddess for one night. But what a god—what a goddess, Cartaphilus!

  “I am leaving for the Pampas, where I hope to create a more perfect being than Herma. I shall communicate with you as soon as I wish you to visit me. Meanwhile, take care of yourself and of your charming monster.

  “Lilith, Regina.”

  I remained pensive. I could not remember the embraces of Herma. Had I been enchanted by the ludicrous circus? Had I foregone godly pleasure? I tried to recollect. I remembered I protested against her—I called out: “This is not what I yearn for! You are neither Mary nor John! Go away!” I ran. Herma pursued me. “Help! Help! Monsieur le Chef de Police!” Suddenly, I noticed a tall pole with a yellow top. I climbed quickly. Herma fell and wept. I laughed.

  “Kotikokura, oh that we may never find what we seek!”

  He helped me descend from the bed.

  “I am sick, Kotikokura.”

  “Sick of the wine?”

  “Sick of the earth…”

  “No, no!”

  “Pan—you love the earth too much.”

  He gave me another cool drink into which he mixed cognac and orange juice.

  “Bacchus!”

  He began to dance.

  I laughed heartily.

  LXXXI: TWO PARALLEL LINES MEET—THE GARDEN OF SALOME—HOMUNCULA—A CENTURY IN RETROSPECT—ADVENTURES IN THE NEW WORLD—THE WOMB OF CREATION—A SIMIAN ABELARD—I PLAY CHESS—THE BLACK KING AND THE RED KING—THE LAST INGREDIENT—ULTIMATE MEANINGS—KOTIKOKURA SNORES

  SALOME was standing at the tall bronze gate, waving her hand. In the reflection of the setting sun, she dazzled like a luminous body—a lake on fire or a full moon surrounded by a magnificent aureole. She was the snowy peak of a mountain, surmounted by a golden crown, a cataract of white roses, the foam of a gigantic wave congealed, a dream carved in stone.

  “Gallop faster, Kotikokura, or she will disappear. She is Fata Morgana.”

  We whipped and urged our horses and in our haste, we drove past her. Salome laughed, and ran a little to meet us. She embraced me, pressing me tightly to her breast.

  Kotikokura stood a little aside.

  “Come here, you little monster!” Salome ordered.

  He approached her like a boy who is guilty of a misdemeanor. She embraced him.

  “You are old enough, Kotikokura, to behave better.”

  Kotikokura kissed her hand.

  She took our arms and led us back to the gate of her inaccessible dominion. Meanwhile, a host of men and women whose faces were hidden by their enormous sombreros, ran from all sides, took care of our horses, and rushed to meet the long caravan which was approaching slowly.

  “What is that, Cartaphilus?” Salome asked.

  “My belongings and my gifts to the incomparable queen.”

  She looked at me a little perplexed.

  “I have come to stay, Salome. The Wandering Jew must have a spot to call his own. This is the twentieth century. He has exhausted all countries. The Zeppelin and the airplane make a jest of distance. I shall stay here for a century, perhaps forever…”

  “Don’t be too sanguine,” she said, pressing my arm.

  “Even in the most romantic novels or among the Anglo-Saxons, no hero waits more than two thousand years for his wedding night.”

  “Incorrigible as ever and as ever, arrogant.”

  “And more than ever in love with you.”

  “Kotikokura, you should have taught your master patience and modesty.”

  “Ca-ta-pha god.”

  “In a godless world, there is still one believer,” she smiled.

  “And in an unromantic world, there is still one lover,” I added.

  “You are Don Quijote and not the Wandering Jew.”

  “No, not Don Quijote,” I protested. “I saw him wandering about with Sancho Panza and their donkeys. He was a charlatan, a reformer of the kind one meets in America. He derived much profit from his grotesque notions, and the blows he received were much exaggerated by Cervantes who desired to arouse pity in the hearts of his readers. Sancho Panza, poor fellow, lived in the world of illusions attributed to his master. He believed in chivalry and in his master and received as recompense, rebukes and sarcasm from the latter, and the ridicule of every succeeding generation that reads the book.”

  “Sancho Panza reminds me of Kotikokura. He too believes in his master and his master’s illusions and as reward, he obtains– —”

  “His master’s love,” I interrupted.

  “Ca-ta-pha god,” Kotikokura insisted.

  Salome laughed and looked at me. Her eyes were like green stars.

  “Salome is more beautiful than all illusions, more gorgeous than drug-begotten dreams.” I kissed her throat.

  “Cartaphilus does not wait for his reward,” she said.

  The gate opened wide at our approach. A burly individual bowed to the ground.

  In the center of the garden, a tall fountain rose and fell softly like a long whip that strikes caressingly the back of a cherished animal. In the basin, black swans glided shadow-like. Peacocks spread wide their tails and followed their mistress, reflections of her magnificence. Upon the tall palm trees, small monkeys rushed up and down, screaming. A gigantic tortoise whose back glittered as a strangely polished jewel, moved imperceptibly, its head shaking like a silent bell.

  I looked about, bewildered.

  “Child,” Salome said, stroking gently my cheek, “you fear it is illusion again.”

  “You always guess my thoughts.”

  “No, this is not Persia—and what you see is reality.”

  “So it seemed to me then.”

  “This time you need not fear,” she assured me.

  We entered the palace, a building massive and yet graceful, practical, solid. Here and there, however, were touches of daintiness that bespoke the nature of the owner. A strange mixture of freshness and antiquity pervaded the place which, instead of giving the impression of incongruity, suggested a beautiful harmony, as if time had merely removed the glare and blatancy characteristic of newness, but left all the freshness. I thought of an aged tree whose leaves had the tender greenness of saplings.

  Salome guessed my thought and smiled, pleased.

  “Just like yourself, queen of queens.”

  “And like you too, Cartaphilus. And like this wild creature Kotikokura.”

  “Life is not an evil, Salome.”

  “Perhaps we are dead and that is why we are incorruptible. We live not in time but in eternity.”

  “Are you quoting Spinoza?”

  “You were more fortunate than I. I came some months after his death. The old woman was dying also. She spoke to me of you.”

  “She never knew my name even.”

  “Your name? What name? If I were to discover your whereabouts by your name– —”

  We laughed.

  Salome ordered two servants to undress us and help us with our bath.

  In a corner of the garden, shaded by willow trees and rose bushes, the cool soft waters o
f a lake splashed noiselessly their artificial banks.

  After our ablution in the lake, we were anointed with oils and perfumes as in the time of the kings of Israel, and were offered silken robes and satin slippers, studded with jewels.

  I thought of the glory of Salome rising out of the waters, more fragrant than the roses that hid her from view. Dinner had meanwhile been prepared and the table spread in a ten column portico.

  Kotikokura preferred to eat with the majordomo, the colossus who had opened the gate for us. I was not displeased for I wished to be alone with Salome.

  A youth and a young girl whose skin was as smooth and as black as ebony, dressed in silken garments emphasizing the suppleness of their limbs, waited upon us.

  We reclined on opposite sides of the table on couches, Roman fashion, eating delicate but simple foods, and drinking out of exquisitely chiseled goblets, wines and liqueurs that sparkled like molten jewels.

  At a distance, some one played the lute. The music mingled with the perfume of many flowers and the singing of birds.

  “Salome, this is Paradise and only a god as cruel and as jealous as Yahweh shall drive me out of it.”

  Salome smiled. “Or a goddess as merciless as Princess Salome, daughter of King Herod.”

  “Fortunately, Yahweh is dead and Salome is no longer Princess of Judea.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She is the Goddess of Reason, and Reason knows no cruelty.”

  She laughed. “Strange that Cartaphilus should accept a Goddess of Reason.”

  “Salome is the mother of Beauty.”

  “And Cartaphilus the father of flattery and chivalry.”

  We remained silent, eating the fruits which, like manna, tasted of all delicious things.

  Salome smiled. “My servants believe that you are my bride-groom, come to wed me.”

  “Your servants are attentive and knowing.”

  “Only a month ago, their mistress died and her great granddaughter has inherited her wealth…”

  I knit my brow.

  “Cartaphilus, will you never be able to jump at a conclusion except by a slow and masculine process of ratiocination? I have lived here with few interruptions for a hundred and fifty years nearly, since our strange night at Herma’s. How could that be accomplished save by calling myself my own descendant? To your right, there is a crypt in which are buried my great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my mother. I have raised statues to all of them.”