Suddenly, the sun—like the standard of a conquering army—rose triumphantly over the peak of the citadel of the world.
The Thames, crowded with barges and small sailboats, flowed tranquilly under the bridge. A few patches of the fog, the size of kerchiefs, still floated on its surface.
We entered a coffee house. The people were drinking jugs of dark beer, discussing the future of the lands discovered by Christopher Columbus. Several boats had recently left England. Wherever Her Majesty’s flag was planted, that was English ground. Some foretold trouble with Spain; others predicted inconceivable wealth from the New World.
“Kotikokura, let us clink cups to our success. Without my gold, Columbus would have been unable to equip his ships.”
Kotikokura clinked.
“If these lands are really another continent and not merely India, man can drown the errors, the stupidities, the cruelties of his ancestors in the sea, and begin anew, Kotikokura! In life’s comedy man must improvise, rhyme at random, strutting about from one part of the stage to the other. The discovery of Columbus enables him to rehearse his part—to improve his acting. For once the gods are merciful! And yet, Kotikokura, I suspect their kindness…”
Kotikokura drank his beer and wiped his mouth.
“To start afresh! That is man’s cry through the ages. Destroy the tree of life, plant a new seed! Poor Bluebeard,—that was the meaning of his gory hocus-pocus. What a horrible seed he planted! Can man tear the roots that bind him to Adam? New lands, Kotikokura—but where are the new people? A New World—but the same race of men!”
We walked out arm in arm.
“Kotikokura, tomorrow we leave London for Oxford, to learn the wisdom of the ages. Your infancy is over. You must learn to read and write.”
Kotikokura grumbled.
“But my friend, even the Queen of this land knows how to read and write.”
“Queen—woman.”
“If necessary, Kotikokura, I shall have to use the birch on you.”
He looked at me, uncertain whether to take me seriously or not.
“Don’t grasp your pen as if it were an implement of murder, Kotikokura. Take it gently—thus. It is only the delicate feather that once flourished upon a goose.”
Kotikokura held the pen between the tips of his forefinger and thumb.
“Nor so daintily, Kotikokura. The most delicate of ladies requires a little pressure. Does not Aristotle exhort us to seek always the middle course?”
He threw the pen on the floor and started to run away. I held his arm tightly. “Kotikokura, for shame! You are worse than a five-year old urchin. What is the meaning of this irritability?”
He grumbled.
“Pick up your pen and start your page again. You shall have no beer today.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Pick up your pen!” I ordered.
He glared at me, but obeyed.
I raised my arms in despair. “Oh that the High Priest of Ca-ta-pha should disobey his god! Oh, that in my old age—”
He kissed my hand.
LXIX: I MEET “THE WANDERING JEW”—I AM MALIGNED—A CROSS-EXAMINATION—BOOTS
“BY Jove, he is confounding the Bishop!” exclaimed a young man, his black gown flowing about him like an enraged sea.
“He is an impostor, Arthur, I tell you. He– —”
“Impostor?” A third youth interposed.
“An impostor, I say!” the second insisted.
Several more students gathered about them, vociferating in Latin and in English.
“He is the Wandering Jew as truly as I am Arthur Blackmore.”
I pressed Kotikokura’s arm. “Are they speaking of me, Kotikokura?” I whispered.
He rubbed his nose.
Arthur Blackmore touched my elbow. “Milord, do you not believe with me that he is the Wandering Jew?”
“I regret to say that I have not seen him.”
“What! Is it possible? For the last three days, the university, the whole town indeed, has been in turmoil.”
“Where is the man who claims to be the Wandering Jew?” I asked.
“He will be here shortly. At present, he is in secret conclave with the Bishop. He will be examined publicly today. Will you not come, Milord, and convince yourself?”
“I shall be delighted to witness the trial,” I said.
“Here he is now!”
A man of about fifty, long-bearded, long-haired and sharp-eyed as an eagle, walked between the Bishop and two professors toward the Main Hall.
The Hall, constructed like a chapel, was crowded with students and professors. Upon the platform, sat the Bishop and the two professors, one a young man, fair-haired and blue-eyed, who spoke with a slight Irish brogue, the other a huge middle-aged man whose huge bones bore evidence of his Saxon extraction. His head was almost completely bald. The Bishop had the appearance of a man of much culture and kindliness. His face was rubicund, his hair, such as the shears had left, gray.
The Bishop rose, blessed the congregation, and ordered the Wandering Jew to enter.
Humble, stooping, the latter appeared and faced the three judges. The small hump on his back was unconvincing to me. His shoes were larger than needed. His grizzly beard covered his face too thickly to allow the study of lips and chin. His nose, very thin and hooked, cast a triangular shadow upon his right cheek.
“Isaac,” the Bishop said in a voice that suggested the coolness of high hills, “relate publicly what you have told us in private: the story of your quarrel with our Lord Jesus.”
Isaac bowed. His cavernous voice seemed to rise from a tomb.
His story was a travesty of mine. He was the son of a shoemaker who, having joined the Roman army, was singled out by Pilate for promotion. At the trial of Jesus he mocked and shouted with the rest: “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”
Isaac sighed deeply, as if in great contrition. He followed the sorry procession to the Place of Skulls. On the way, as Jesus fell, the cross having become too heavy, Isaac shouted angrily: “Go to your doom! Hurry!” Jesus looked at him. No mortal had such eyes. They were like two burning spears.
Isaac covered his face with his hands. The audience was breathless. His arms dropped slowly to his side. Jesus hurled his curse: “I shall hurry but thou must tarry until I return.”
The audience sighed. I shivered. The impostor had resuscitated my tragic experience. I saw the eyes of Jesus. I heard his voice. The storm of my own emotion howled about me.
Isaac continued. Ever since, he had wandered from one end of the earth to the other, praying for the return of Jesus. Every seventy years, he fell into a trance out of which he awoke as a man of thirty—his age at the time of the crucifixion.
The Bishop asked him his present age, based on his last transformation. He was only forty, but he looked much older. Alas, the burden of his guilt!
The judges asked him questions about his experiences, about his health, the manner of earning a livelihood, to all of which he answered very plausibly. They spoke in a dozen languages to him. He understood each. The Bishop seemed convinced.
The young professor wished to know if he had made any friends, and how it felt to see them die while he continued to live. Isaac wiped his eyes and sighed deeply. The older professor continued to be skeptical. He cross-examined him again and again. But Isaac had rehearsed his part perfectly.
I felt indignant. I was maligned! Was this the man who fought Jesus? Was this whimpering, melancholy actor the symbol of my race? Had he enacted his part proudly; had he hurled back an anathema,—I would have restrained my tongue. What other nation, scattered and hounded, had resisted annihilation? Greece, Rome, Egypt—all had disappeared from the map. The Jew might needs pretend humility in his daily life. But when brought to court against his Enemy…!