At this final statement, the princess burst into delighted giggles, and rushed to the defense of Cupid’s boundless variety. “How can you not see,” she murmured, in a soft, cajoling tone, “that the God of Love is so brilliantly capricious that he could never restrict himself to a fixed and rigid plan, so infinitely imaginative that he need not repeat the same combination twice? Why, for every rule you have named, I can already cite an exception:
“My late Cousin Wladislaw, whose warts outnumbered the stars in the sky, paid court to a woman twice as hideous as himself. A lady of my acquaintance slept fourteen hours a day so that she might dream of her absent lover; then, when he neglected to return, she consoled herself by gorging her stomach with ten stuffed capons. My Aunt Theresa has been the same man’s mistress for sixteen years, yet their passion has not diminished since the first night they spent in each other’s arms.
“Besides,” she continued, winking mischievously as she refilled her visitor’s goblet, “I could tell you about love so strange that your system could never have predicted its occurrence. A courtier of my father’s loved two beautiful sisters equally well, and, driven by misery and indecision, married their widowed hag of a mother in the hope that she would embody both her daughters’ virtues. A dwarfed young girl in my native village was so enamored of a handsome neighbor that she had herself stretched on the rack so that he might find her more attractive. And, only recently, I was forced to dismiss my chief falconer because of his obsessional attachment to my prize hawk.”
“But these bizarre passions cannot really be classed among the works of love,” argued Judah ben Simon. “In fact, they might even be profitably interpreted as additional proof of my scheme.”
“Wait!” cried King Casimir of Poland, interrupting the narrative of this gracious dinner party for the third and final time. “I appreciate the singularity of your hero, of his fascinating hostess, and of his worthy and thought-provoking system. Yet,” he continued, anxious finally to display one area of experience which, he hoped, would exclude and consequently impress the old man, “I am so familiar with this sort of debate, which so often occurs within my own court, that I fear I will soon lose interest.”
“Perhaps that is true,” replied Eliezer, somewhat snappishly. “But perhaps you are not quite so familiar with the way in which this particular discussion ended. For, through a series of events which an innocent old man like myself could not possibly hope to describe, Judah ben Simon’s aristocratic debate on the nature of love was finally resolved between the silken sheets of the Princess Maria Zarembka’s bed.
“The next morning,” the rabbi went on, with a forgiving smile for his red-faced listener, “the mountebank awoke to find himself in the strangest bedroom he had ever seen. For the single candle which had guided their passage from the main hall had not enabled him to perceive that the chamber was decorated in the style of a nomad’s tent. Rough canvas hangings, worn rugs, and crude tapestries covered the walls. Hay straws littered the floor, and charcoal braziers smoked in the corners. The bed was piled high with the skins of long-haired sheep and goats; beneath them, the Princess Maria lay wide awake, staring at Judah ben Simon as if he were a dangerous marauder who had somehow invaded her home.
The young man was equally disoriented until he remembered the pleasures of the night before; then, he laughed warmly, and reached out to stroke the woman’s black hair. “Good morning,” he smiled, hoping to reassure her that she had not bestowed her favors on a lover who would take them for granted. “It would seem that the God of Love has an even greater store of marvels and surprises than I had realized.”
Without pausing to answer him, the noblewoman leaped out of bed and ran from the room.
Almost immediately, the same maid who had come to the inn stumbled into the bedchamber. One look at the naked guest caused her such convulsions of embarrassment that she nearly dropped the heavy silver tray—on which the mountebank eventually found six sweet rolls, a pot of coffee, and a note inviting him to bid his hostess good-by in the main dining room. Judah ate and dressed quickly, then rushed downstairs; but, when at last he came upon the princess, he became so ashamed and self-conscious that he could hardly speak. “I am sorry,” he mumbled haltingly, “for anything I might have done to offend you.”
“You have not offended me at all,” she replied. “That is just the problem. And now, if you will consent to keep me company while I finish the remainder of my breakfast, I will tell you a story which may help you comprehend my motives.
“When I was fifteen years old,” began the noblewoman, when her guest was seated, “a gang of bandits invaded our family estate. Within a few hours, they had terrified the cowardly royal guards into submission, ransacked our mansion, and beaten my father and brothers to death with barbed whips. The ghastly sights of that morning so stunned and shocked me that two days elapsed before I realized that I myself was among the booty which the gigantic bandit chieftain was bearing off to his mountain hideout.
“In the beginning, I did nothing but curse my captors and spit in their faces; the coarse, brutal robbers, who dressed in swatches of fur and wore their matted hair halfway down their backs, would surely have retaliated, if their captain had not ordered them to leave me in peace. Gradually, however, when the icy winter wind began to shriek through the barren hills, sheer loneliness made me consent to share in their drunken revels and their feasts of roasted horsemeat, to learn to ride bareback on their frothing steeds, and even to help them plan their future raids. At last, at the end of February, I took to warming myself beneath the heavy skins of my protector’s bed.
“But I mean just that,” insisted the princess, noting her listener’s curious look. “For I did not let him have my body. Remember: I was fifteen then, a virgin, with dreams of a pale, perfumed prince who would someday touch me with his cool hands. And I could not bring myself to abandon these dreams for such a muscular and strong-smelling reality.
“For some reason, the bandit obeyed my wishes. Who knows why men act as they do? But, even though he saw that I was also struggling against myself, the waiting and frustration did him no good. He grew distracted, nervous, absent-minded, less boisterous in answering his men when they taunted him about my uselessness.
“Finally, he could stand it no longer. Late one night, on the eve of their long-awaited raid on the city of Cracow, he drank three jugs of wine, and, responding to the jeers of his companions, came charging towards me, in the midst of the camp.
“His pistol was inches from my heart; my legs went numb with panic. Nevertheless, driven by instinct and fear, I threw back my shoulders and tried to make my scant one hundred pounds of flesh seem as stiff and imposing as possible.
“Shoot me if you want!” I screamed. “My virtue will protect me from your bullets!”
“At this point,” sighed the princess, “any man of good society would have seen me for the idiot I was; he would have sneered, turned his back, and stalked away. But my bandit lover flew into a rage, and, shutting his eyes, fired at my breast.
“To this day,” she continued, after a short pause, “I cannot understand what happened. Everyone saw the gun’s flare, and heard the report. I cringed against the pain, but only for a moment, for I was not hit.
“Perhaps the pistol misfired; perhaps my would-be murderer was too drunk to hit his mark. Perhaps,” she smiled, “I was shielded by my virtue. But none of these explanations even occurred to the bandits, who immediately decided that they were in the presence of a witch. Mumbling with terror, they saddled their horses, and set out on their ill-fated invasion of Cracow.
“Two weeks later, when they still had not returned for their belongings, I knew that my robber chieftain was dead, and that I had loved him more than I would ever love again.
“Throughout that spring, I remained alone in the mountains to mourn him; in June, I stole a horse, and rode home. But my mother and sisters, who had finally adjusted to their bereavement, were disturbed by the sight of my face, which re
minded them of that tragic day. They refused to believe that I had preserved my innocence, and despaired of finding me a suitable husband. Therefore, they suggested that I retreat to the Carpathians for a short, recuperative rest, and I have been here ever since.”
Judah Ben Simon kept silent for what seemed to him a suitable interval, then spoke in a kind and gentle tone. “You are not the only woman who, after a night like ours, has awoken with a strong desire to speak of her first love,” he said. “Yet, though your story has moved and fascinated me, I cannot see how it justifies your hasty exit from our bed.”
“When I was fifteen years old,” the princess explained patiently, “I gave my heart, but held on to my body like a miser. Now, though I give my body a thousand times over, I will keep my heart set aside for that one man, for I do not want to be prodigal with the only thing I ever gave him. For this reason, I am terribly afraid to spend too long in the company of a guest who pleases me. And that is why I must now ask you to leave my house forever.
“But,” she continued, turning her smiling face towards him, “I am certain that the citizens of Kuzman have little to offer traveling mountebanks in the way of financial reward, and I would hate for you to leave our town with so little to show for your efforts. Therefore, so that you may at least have the pleasure of one more good meal before your departure, I am extending you this invitation to dine tonight at the home of my friend, the Countess Catherine Landowska.”
Grateful for this second chance to improve his lot, Judah ben Simon rose from the table, bid the princess a gracious farewell, and hurried back to the inn for a few more hours of sleep. Thus, it was not until that night, when the mountebank discovered the exterior of the Countess Catherine’s mansion to be an exact replica of the Princess Maria’s, that he first began to comprehend the damage which his spirit had sustained.
Chilled by cold waves of anxiety, he hesitated at the bottom of the steep carriageway, wondering if the evening’s entertainment was to be another witty play of discomfort and deception, in which he would again be cast as the fool. These thoughts so undermined Judah’s confidence that he would surely have retreated to the village, if a sudden fancy had not entered his mind and enabled him to find a source of hope in the very familiarity of the thick stone walls.
“By now,” he muttered, attempting to fire up his courage as he climbed the cobbled path, “I have had some experience with houses like this one, and with the sort of women who inhabit them. I am no longer the blundering simpleton whom they can intimidate with their stylized debates and fancy manners.”
As soon as Judah reached the threshold of the dining room, however, he realized that none of last night’s lessons would help him at the countess’s table. For, despite a certain similarity in decorative style, no two rooms could have seemed so different as those of the aristocratic neighbors.
The same muted tapestries covered the walls; the same narrow table occupied the center of the hall. But, in contrast to the pale, silvery phosphorescence of the princess’s public apartments, those of her friend gleamed like a bracelet of burnished gold. Here, the chandeliers were set with thousands of tiny candles; the brass had been replaced with delicate china, the dull pewter dishes had been supplanted by plates of sparkling crystal; and the goblets of dark claret had given way to pitchers of bubbling champagne.
Once again, however, the atmosphere of the room owed less to its furnishings than to the presence of its owner. And, if the mood and appearance of the Princess Maria had suggested a smoky topaz, then the Countess Catherine Landowska could only have been described as a diamond of unspeakable brilliance. Blue-eyed, fair-skinned, with high cheekbones and long, blond hair curled into ringlets, the lady seemed a perfect Slavic beauty. Her body was frail and doll-like, her nose slightly snubbed; her small, heart-shaped mouth wore a flirtatious smile.
“Perhaps,” thought Judah ben Simon, as she rushed forward to take his hand, “this one will prove less dignified and aloof, more open, simple and direct.”
But this impression was soon dispelled when the countess led him to the table, and began to speak.
“I have been told that you are a fellow of keen intelligence,” she said, “a mountebank and a man of science. Therefore, I am sure that no one could be better qualified to tell me this: what is it that we catch and throw away, that we cannot catch and keep?”
Unnerved by this peculiar form of greeting, her guest was unable to imagine any fit response, until, recalling his conversation with the Princess Maria, he turned to his hostess with a knowing grin. “Can you be referring to love?” he murmured suggestively. But the smile froze on his lips when he found the lady staring at him as coldly as if he had uttered the most shocking obscenity.
“No,” she replied. “That is not even a remote possibility.”
“Then I am afraid I do not know,” he said, feeling more and more bewildered.
“Ah, well,” sighed the countess after a while, “I suppose it was unfair of me to begin with such a difficult question, an unsolvable riddle which is said to have driven the great poet Homer to a death of sheer frustration. Now, to resume on an easier and more congenial note, let me pose you another: what was four weeks old at the birth of Cain, yet has since grown no older?”
Judah ben Simon labored desperately to summon up his few remaining memories of the Rabbi Joseph Joshua’s school, but, in his growing consternation, could think of nothing but the Sin of Adam, and the Exile from the Garden of Eden.
“The moon!” cried the countess, interrupting his puzzled reverie. Although she had begun to giggle, Judah could plainly see the first signs of doubt and impatience beneath her charming smile. For this reason, when the lady offered him a third and presumably final opportunity to redeem himself, he employed more logic and concentration than he had ever applied to his scientific research, in a single effort to find the most likely solution.
“What is it that watches us constantly, though we are afraid to look at it in return?” she asked.
“Death?” he ventured hesitantly, after a silence of almost five minutes.
A mixture of delight and relief flooded the countess’s face. Only then did she clap her hands and order that the servants bring on the meal; only then did she introduce herself, and explain that, over the years, she had developed a passionate fondness for all manner of riddles, enigmas, puzzles, problems, games, and paradoxes.
“For example,” she whispered coyly, “have you ever heard the story of the thirteen Jews?”
“No,” answered Judah tensely, anticipating some racial slur.
“Long ago,” began the lady, leaning forward so that the mountebank could see the tops of her breasts above her dark blue satin gown, “Josephus and twelve companions were pursued into a cave by hostile Romans, and decided that mass suicide would be a nobler fate than certain slaughter. Unfortunately, they were unable to devise an equitable order in which to die, and turned to Josephus, who was striving to invent some means of saving his own life.”
“With the aid of pencil and paper,” interrupted Judah, who, though still perplexed, was beginning to comprehend and join in the spirit of the evening, “I could soon find the great historian a solution.”
“I am sure you could,” purred the noblewoman, her cheeks growing steadily more flushed. “Luckily for Josephus, however, he did not have to wait for you to come along.
“Finishing his computations, he persuaded his friends to form a circle, and eliminate every third man, counting around and around. They would proceed in a clockwise direction, starting from the fellow on Josephus’s left. Naturally, Josephus himself was the last one remaining, and quickly escaped from the cave.”
Thus, as the dinner progressed, the Countess Catherine led Judah ben Simon in a lively discussion of the history and meaning of puzzles. She told him of magic squares, Chinese rings, Alcuin’s ferry, the tower of Brahma, and the great wheat game invented by the Grand Vizier Sissa ben Dahir. She amused him with the riddle of the sixteen larks and that of M
ohammed’s camels; she narrated the legend of the sphynx, and recounted the paradox of Achilles and the tortoise.
Her tone grew steadily warmer, more seductive, so that the mountebank was often unable to perceive any relation between the things she said and the manner in which she said them. After the servants had cleared away the last dishes, she posed the problem of the four jealous husbands in a tone of unmistakable invitation. Judah managed to make use of all his wits and solve it—a feat unmatched by any of the lady’s previous guests. The champagne gradually disappeared; their games became intimate and childish. At last, they investigated the mystery of the hidden treasure, which, amid much laughter and accidental brushing of hands, was finally discovered to be a lavender sachet, concealed beneath the coverlet of the Countess Catherine’s bed.
“The next day,” said the Rabbi Eliezer, “Judah ben Simon awoke to find himself in a room made completely of glass, set in the midst of an elegant formal garden. Trying to remember how he had come to rest in such a peculiar environment, he rolled over on his side—just in time to see the Countess Catherine Landowska escaping through the door.
Cursing his stupidity in having let himself be tricked twice at the same game, Judah threw on his mountebank’s robe and rushed down to the main hall. There, reflected in the mirrored pendants hanging from the chandeliers, the morning sun produced a light far brighter than the thousand candles. This blinding dazzle halted the young man at the door of the room, and, in the few moments which elapsed before his eyes became accustomed to the glare, his fury burned down to a smoldering bitterness.
Judah the Pious Page 17