We mounted the animals and galloped away. The flames rose high and in the dawn appeared, like a setting sun overtaken suddenly by day.
Kotikokura took his flute and began to play.
“Nero!” I exclaimed.
LXXIV: THE BROKEN VESSEL—EUROPE IS SICK—THE NEW PROPHET
WE continued our journey, sadly, silently. Now and then, Kotikokura grumbled menaces and anathemas, waving his fists.
The camel-drivers whom we had left some miles away from our destination, to await our possible arrival within three days, were jubilant at our unexpected return. They kissed our hands, patted our animals, and blessed Allah and Mohammed, his true Prophet.
A snake showed his head out of the sand and vanished again.
“Look, Kotikokura! Do you remember?”
He knit his brows.
“Was it not the snake that perpetuated our friendship? Had he not bitten me, you would not have partaken of my blood. By this time, you would be less tangible than the sand our camels tread upon, leaving their zigzag imprints. As for me, I should have missed the most faithful of all companions.”
He pulled my hand to his lips and kissed it.
“There is neither absolute evil nor absolute good, Kotikokura. Venom may become divine ichor, and nectar cut the entrails like the sharpest of vinegars.”
He nodded. “Let us make the snake the coat of arms of the noble and ancient house of Kotikokura.” He rubbed his hands.
“Kotikokura, once Christianity was a vase too strong for any hammer. That the vase was not beautifully fashioned or acceptable to logic, is another matter. At least, it stood erect and motionless in a world of storms and hurricanes. But the vessel has been shattered to bits. Whatever essence it contained has been spilled and mingled with the mud. Each country, city, and petty community has placed upon its altar a fragment, shapeless, meaningless, and worships it, calling it the full vessel, the only true one. Whoever speaks of another fragment or recalls the full vessel, risks excommunication and the rack.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“It is more difficult to travel through Europe than to pirouette among eggs. We must be extremely wary, Kotikokura. We must imitate with utmost precision, every word and every gesture. Christianity has become more intricate than the Chinese language, and a sound placed slightly higher or lower on the Chromatic scale is an unpardonable blasphemy.”
Kotikokura nodded sadly.
“Jesus, my ancient countryman, is it not distressing to be god? Jesus, if I do not believe in you, at least I do not mock you as your believers mock you. If I do not worship you, I do not blaspheme you as your followers blaspheme you. You should not be the god of these barbarians, who love the sword more than they love you. You should have remained among your own or, better still, gone among the gentle Chinese or Hindus. They would not have mutilated your words.
“The Lamb has strayed among the wolves who worship him, but they worship him in their own fashion!” Kotikokura listened, his eyes darting to and fro,
We traveled slowly and cautiously, adopting the dress, the religion, the customs of the various countries. We shouted hurrah with the people on the public square upon the passing of soldiers or royalties. We crossed ourselves properly in the churches and upon general religious festivities. Our names and our appearances changed with the changing countries. We were clean-shaven. We wore pointed beards, full beards, mustachios.
“Each nation is clamoring for justice, Kotikokura. Do you know what it means by justice? It means a sharper sword. It means the ability to crush its neighbors. Each one prays to the Lamb. Do you know what the prayer is? “Make us more ferocious than tigers; more powerful than lions! Let our teeth be sharper than the teeth of all others, that we may tear our enemies to bits! Grant us victory, O Lord! We shall bring as sacrifice to Your Holy Name, O Perfect Lamb, the bleeding flesh of the vanquished!’ ”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Do not imagine, however, Kotikokura, that Europe will die because of its iniquities. Only in legends, such as the Bible, iniquity kills. In reality, only a grain of justice, of love, of intelligence, of freedom is required for existence, and that grain always exists by force of circumstances and despite religions or the volition of man. Europe will not die, for that would imply a logic which life does not possess.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“But if it will not die, it is nevertheless covered with ugly ulcers like a leper and the stench is unbearable,—particularly here in Germany. This poor country, once the seat of strength and robustness, has become the pleasure-ground of wild beasts and birds of prey. Let us not linger too long.”
Kotikokura nodded sadly.
“They say that there is still one country in Europe which has retained civilization and freedom.”
He looked at me inquiringly.
“Holland. I overheard, while you were engaged in fondling a kitten, two students who believed themselves safe since they spoke in Latin in an inn frequented by coachmen and soldiers, that in the capital of that country, there lives a man whose work in philosophy is beautiful and illuminating. They say he is a Jew, a polisher of lenses, who has refused to become a professor at the University or accept money from the prince. On the crest of a hill of dung, now and then a rose blossoms. Such is the strange way of life. The glory of a civilization is but the achievement of a few rare souls. The rest is manure.
“Let us seek out this new prophet.”
LXXV: I DISCUSS GOD WITH SPINOZA—NEW VISION—APOLLONIUS WALKS WITH US—I MAKE MY PEACE WITH JESUS
HOLLAND seemed, in truth, a more comfortable place than the rest of Europe. The inhabitants had recently proved their personal prowess and the advantage of their geographical situation to an astounded world. If it was not characteristic of their stolid nature to show much enthusiasm and exuberance, one breathed, at any rate, an air of confidence and quiet happiness. The small houses, white wood or brick, were spotless in their cleanliness. The men sat upon the thresholds, raised sufficiently to allow a comfortable posture and smoked enormous pipes in silence. The women spun at the open windows. In the distance, at every angle of the compass, the mills turned ceaselessly, glittering in the sun like dull mirrors.
People of a dozen religions lived if not lovingly together,—something which could hardly be expected—at least without murdering one another.
Nevertheless, being a foreigner and therefore naturally suspected—for man has this in common with the dog that strangeness intimidates and enrages him—I preferred not to ask freely for the whereabouts of a philosopher once excommunicated by his own people and generally considered, if not an atheist, at least a vague and indifferent believer.
From an old bookseller, I discovered that Benedictus Spinoza, finding Amsterdam unsuitable to his health, had for some time now been living at The Hague, if indeed he was still living.
“We must not linger too long, Kotikokura. Our sage seems to be of a very delicate constitution. It would be a pity to reach him after his departure from this troubled, superstition-devoured earth.”
At The Hague, a lens polisher informed me that the renegade lived on the outskirts of the city, taking greater care of his lungs than of his lenses.
An old woman, clean as if she too had been whitewashed and scrubbed like the houses, scrutinized me for a long minute.
“The master is in his room,” she said, pointing to the attic. “He has been writing for the last two days steadily. He should not do it. He is not feeling very well.”
“It is true, then,” I said, “that his lungs are not strong.”
She sighed. “It is, sir. And it is a pity. He is the best man in the world, whatever the others may say. He has lived with us for two years and never have I heard an unkindly word. And as for religion, whenever I beg him to come along to church, he accompanies us. He does not blaspheme or mock. It is not true, sir. He– —”