She did not answer my question.
“Ah, to be indeed…like the bee…to soar…high…high…to be pursued by a thousand lovers…to be finally conquered by one whose wings, powerful and indefatigable, touch tremblingly those of the Queen!”
“Oh, the incomparable joy of pursuing the Queen!” I exclaimed.
“Alas, for the conqueror, Captain…for he may not live beyond love’s moment! The Queen demands his sacrifice!”
“What joy would life hold for him after love’s moment?”
The Princess looked at me, her eyes half-closed. My knees ached to bend, and my tongue to utter: ‘Sacrifice me, O Princess!’ I restrained myself. ‘Not yet, Cartaphilus! The bee that soars to the dizzy heights of the Queen must be more delicate and more subtle!’
I anointed myself with rare Egyptian perfumes. My curls glistened from the delicate oils. I covered my arms and fingers with jewels and donned a new uniform, the gift of Pilate. The scabbard of my sword was of heavy gold, the hilt encrusted with lapis-lazuli.
I dismissed the lieutenant, remaining on guard myself. I walked up and down the great hall, thinking of a subtle and beautiful manner of attack. From time to time, I glanced at myself in the large Corinthian mirror. I was young and handsome!
‘Man is clumsy and his conceit makes his touch heavy and coarse.’
‘Yes, Princess, but even the bee must possess the conceit of his ability to fly high…high…until his wings touch the tips of the Queen’s wings. Strength is conscious of itself.’
The door opened, and a very tall and powerful man, whose face was veiled, entered, accompanied on either side by a lady-in-waiting of the Princess. I stopped them. One of the women placed her forefinger to her lips, whispering: “The Princess commands.”
They broke the wide reflection of the moon which flooded the room, and entered into the royal bedchamber.
Who was this man? What was the meaning of this intrusion? My plans were crushed under his feet, as a delicate vase under the paws of an elephant.
Meanwhile, the women walked in and out of the room, carrying delicacies, wines, spices, perfumes. To my inquiries, they whispered mysteriously: “The Princess commands.”
Someone played upon the harp a sensuous, languorous melody, and another danced.
The feet that stamped upon the floor, trod upon my heart.
Who was this man? What mighty prince? What youth of unconquerable beauty? I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a face, ugly and commonplace, crowned with an enormously Jewish nose.
‘Cartaphilus, you were vain indeed to believe yourself the glorious king who conquers the Queen! You are but an insignificant captain, a shoemaker’s son, a Jew!’
The entire night the revelry continued, alternating between laughter and music and dancing, and vague amorous whispers and groans which I could hear as I pressed my ear against the door.
Again and again I was on the point of dashing into the room, of shouting epithets of abomination and of piercing to the hilt of my sword the body of Salome.
The rays of the sun, like long fingers, caressed the powerful legs of the royal throne. I looked in the mirror. A haggard, drawn face stared back at me. Even my wildest debauches had never left me so completely bedraggled.
The door of the royal bedchamber opened cautiously. Was it Salome? Had she come to atone for her intolerable cruelty? Had everything been merely a nightmare and an illusion? Was she ready for the nuptial flight, for the honeymoon in the clouds?
The tall man, who had entered the previous evening, appeared upon the threshold. Was this an illusion indeed? Was he the magnificent prince, the chosen one of Salome,—a Nubian, black as charcoal, heavy-featured, and colossally muscled like a giant bull!
I drew my sword. “Halt!” I commanded. A woman in back of him, placed her forefinger to her lips: “The Princess commands.” I replaced the sword into the scabbard, and motioned to him to pursue his way. “What subtle means have conquered an exquisite love, 0 Princess?” I asked aloud.
It seemed to me I heard someone laugh.
“Daughter of Night and of Evil!” I shouted, and rushed out.
VI: MY FIRST MARRIAGE—PROCLA ASKS A QUESTION—THE DESPERATION OF LYDIA—THE CURIOUS HETAERA—I CONSULT A LEECH
LYDIA was a mother to me—a young and desirable mother. She was a slave to my whims. I married her. I tried to persuade myself that it was merely gratitude, although I knew very well that such a sentiment was foreign to me. What I really wished was to force myself by an outward symbol to lead a normal existence. I wished to be able to say to myself: ‘Cartaphilus, forget—forget whatever preceded Lydia, forget John, forget Mary, forget the eyes of Jesus and forget Salome.”
I wanted children to rediscover myself in them, fresh and pure. I wished to drown the voice that tormented my nerves, with their laughter and noises. But the years passed, and no children came. Lydia, fearing that it was her fault, prayed in the various temples, took drugs, fasted, consulted oracles.
I felt the need of ceaseless occupation. I engaged in many business ventures, in most of which, by dint of hard work, I succeeded. I became wealthy. I lived in luxury, and for some years, at any rate, I was considered one of the principal citizens of Jerusalem. To Romans I was a Roman. The Jews, except in the most orthodox circles, were grateful, because unlike others who had forsaken the fold, I did not persecute them.
John and Mary had vanished. My inquiries and searches were all futile. The followers of Jesus were not numerous enough to attract attention, and they remained unmolested.
Pilate returned to Rome. He had grown old, and bored even with Ovid and with his wife. Whether he really committed suicide afterward, as the rumor had it, or not, I cannot tell. At any rate, I never saw him again. Procla kissed me goodbye.
“Cartaphilus, what is the secret of your youth?”
“My wife’s cooking. She is without equal.” I laughed.
“You jest. This is your habit now with me. Is it because I am getting old? With old ladies one jests; with young ones one sighs. You used to love me once, Cartaphilus.”
“I love you still, Procla.”
“How can you? I look like your grandmother.”
“You are beautiful.”
“There is nothing more pathetic—and more futile—than being beautiful, but old. I would rather be very homely, and young. What makes you so youthful, Cartaphilus? Is it a racial characteristic? Romans who lead so gay a life would be bald and stout like poor Pilate, and complain, like him, of rheumatism…but you…you have not changed one particle all these years… What is your secret…?”
“You exaggerate my youth, I am sure; and moreover, you exaggerate your age.”
She sighed. “Farewell, Cartaphilus. It is no longer in my power to persuade men. Farewell.”
This was the first time that any one mentioned to me the suspicion that I possessed the secret of youth. Like a brazen drum the words: ‘Thou shalt tarry until I return’ re-echoed in my ears. Had Jesus, by some curious magic, some incomprehensible trick, stopped the flow of sand in the hour-glass for me? Was my body secure from the assaults of age?
I had strangled my own suspicions. Suddenly, however, it was borne upon me that the words of Jesus or some other thing had wrought in me a curious transformation that made me different from other men. For the first time I seriously reconsidered the strange spell he had pronounced upon me.
Was it true? Was I really to linger on and on, see friends and things I cherished die and crumble away? Was I to stare into infinity, seeking for him, at whom I shouted ‘I hate you!’? My youth prolonged into eternity seemed to me a much greater catastrophe than the wrinkles of Pilate’s wife which a few years would erase forever.