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?”
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.