A man, not very tall, but enormously stout, rose suddenly from a table and cup in hand, began to dance about, spilling the ale upon his great stomach which shook like half-frozen jelly. The rest applauded and shouted compliments and vulgarities.
“This is Ben Jonson, Baron,” Bacon laughed.
“If these are gods, what are men?” I asked.
“The reflection of their gods,” he answered.
Ben Jonson whirled about and upset, with the sweep of his arms, the cups upon the table. The guests rose, swearing and challenging one another to duels. I looked once more at Willie Hewes, She was giggling drunkenly.
LXXIII: A LETTER FROM SALOME—I RETURN TO AFRICA—I AM DETHRONED—FLAMES
THE memory of Willie Hewes tortured me. Was it love? Was it disillusion, jealousy, pity?
“Kotikokura, I am tormented.”
Kotikokura made a wry face.
“This place bores me and it bores you too, I notice.”
He nodded.
“Where shall we go? What shall we do?”
He scratched his nose.
“If Salome– —”
A servant interrupted my sentence. He brought me a letter.
“From Salome!” I shouted to Kotikokura.
Kotikokura shrugged his shoulders.
The letter was written in Chinese interspersed with Hebrew and Arabic. She scolded me for having risked my liberty at the Oxford Trial. She called me an irrational child. She upbraided me also for the assistance I gave Luther. He hated the Jews, and favored the burning of witches. Europe had become a cauldron of controversy, stupidity, cruelty and confusion. Why could I not discover something worthier of my age and knowledge than religious wars? But then I was a man, too restless, too impulsive, too romantic to grasp the eternal verities. She loved me, nevertheless, or perhaps because of it. She was still a woman and therefore a mother.
As for herself, she had not yet conquered the Moon, which being feminine, was too clever and too subtle. But in time she would ensnare the reluctant goddess.
The new generation of nuns was less beautiful and less intelligent. At any rate, they no longer interested her and being an Abbess, a century old, demanded certain proprieties which displeased her.
This letter was to inform me that she had set out on a journey. Where? Well,—could not Cartaphilus guess as Salome guessed his whereabouts?
A few more admonitions, some critical remarks about Man, regards to Kotikokura, her arch-enemy, and a kiss for me– —.
“Kotikokura, Salome sends you regards.”
He shrugged his shoulders, but I detected a twinkle of delight in his eyes.
“You must acknowledge that no woman approaches her in beauty and wisdom, Kotikokura.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Be truthful, my friend.”
He turned his face to the wall.
“You are like the ostrich, Kotikokura,—or at least as the ostrich of the proverb. You will not face reality. How human! Does man ever struggle for truth? No, he struggles, sacrifices his life and happiness for his opinions, which in his heart of hearts he knows to be false.”
Kotikokura drew with his finger the alphabet upon the wall.
“Kotikokura, where is Salome?”
He continued his invisible writing.
“If I only knew!”
I walked up and down the room, thinking, debating.
“Kotikokura, I have it! I have it! She has gone to Africa.”
Kotikokura looked at me.
“She is weary of Europe. Where would she go if not Africa?”
Kotikokura’s eyes darted to and fro.
“At any rate, what place can you imagine more appropriate for us two, Kotikokura?”
He bent almost in two.
“Be erect, or be made erect, Kotikokura! What does this atavistic gesture mean?”
He straightened up.
“Let us go back to Africa,—the cradle of the Universe! Come, High Priest of Ca-ta-pha!”
He bowed three times to the ground and made the sign of the Camel, the Parrot and Ca-ta-pha by dividing his body into three cardinal points.
“Kotikokura, look!” I gave him my telescope, a recent invention of a Hollander.
“Do you see that church surmounted by a cross?”
He nodded.
“Is it not on the spot where the temple of Ca-ta-pha stood?”
He returned my telescope.
Our camels trudged slowly forward.
“Do you know what this means, my ancient friend?”
He looked at me, his face drawn.
“It means that our enemy has conquered. I am a god no longer; you no longer a high priest.”
“Ca-ta-pha god always!” he exclaimed, half sobbing.
“And Kotikokura, his high priest. But where are the people who worship us?”
Kotikokura began to weep. His tears fell, darkening the sand.
“Be brave, my friend! This is the history of all things. They blossom for a while, then wither, and other things usurp their place.”
He continued to weep.
“I have more reason to weep than you. For was I not a god feared and worshiped? Was I not he who made the universe? Did not people tremble at my name?”
“Ca-ta-pha god always.”
“Only in your memory and in the dim subconsciousness of my people.”
Kotikokura waved his fist.
“It was not their fault, I am certain. The eloquence of the sword and the whip persuaded them. What are gods, after all, Kotikokura? Frail blossoms upon the Tree of Life, they succeed one another always. The Tree remains.”
He wept on.
“Kotikokura, you will soon turn the desert into a garden by your tears.”
He endeavored to grin but could not.
Two natives, dressed as priests and blacker than their garments, carrying a tall wooden cross, were followed by men and women singing and beating tom-toms.
“Hearken, Kotikokura! The song is the self-same song they intoned for me. The words are altered. The melody has remained intact. We are not dead! Our souls live in the new body!”
Kotikokura was about to jump off the camel. His hands twitched.
“No, no, my friend! You must learn to lose gallantly and accept the inevitable. This is the meaning of intelligence and the secret of happiness.”
The procession disappeared in the woods. We approached a tree.
“Wait a minute, Kotikokura. There is something carved upon this tree.”
I read: “No matter, Cartaphilus! Other gods have died before you. Other queens have been dethroned. Other high priests have been defrocked. Farewell. Salome.”
“She always precedes us, Kotikokura, and always knows our paths and our emotions. I am afraid of her.”
Kotikokura pouted.
“But the fear of her, Kotikokura, is more exquisite than all other love, all other joy.”
Kotikokura descended from the camel and carved upon a tree next to one on which Salome had carved her message:
“Wicked people—die—god Ca-ta-pha lives—lightning—broil you—devour you—cursed—high priest—Kotikokura.”
“Let us rest, Kotikokura, before we turn back for we have nothing more to do here. Give me my pipe and some opium, not tobacco.”
In the fumes that rose and curled gracefully, I saw—who was it—Willie or Salome? My eyes closed slowly. The smoke, white and dazzling like a lake beneath the rising sun, descended upon me.—”Salome, Salome!” Her lips pressed into my lips—her body mingled with mine.
I woke with a start.
“Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!”
“What is the trouble, Kotikokura?”
“Look, look!”
The church was in flames. The cross upon it blackened and fell.
Bells rang, tom-toms beat, people screamed.
“You set fire to the church, Kotikokura, did you not?”
He shook his head.
“Who then?”
“Ca-ta-pha—god—lightning.”
“It is a lie, Kotikokura. You set fire to it. You smell of smoke!”
“Ca-ta-pha god always.”
“We have no time to discuss this matter, however. Let us flee.”