XLVII: THE ISLE OF BLISS—I MEET AN ARMENIAN BISHOP—KOTIKOKURA GROWLS—MY HEART IS IN MY MOUTH—THE ILL-TEMPERED SON OF AN IRASCIBLE FATHER

“WHAT trees! What flowers! What a sky! The moon must be three times the size of all other moons I have ever seen,—and the people, Kotikokura, how generous, how kind, how honest! They never asked us who we are, where we come from, why we stop here. They offered us this little house and a bower of a thousand flowers. They have given us food and these garlands and leaves, which they call cloves. Tomorrow, we shall be given each a beautiful virgin as a wife.”

Kotikokura danced, his head upon his chest like a goat.

“You have known the joy of woman, Kotikokura, but you have never known the comfort of a wife. A good wife is the very bread of life. A bad wife…nothing is quite comparable to her. But can you imagine a shrew among these charming people?”

He shook his head.

“Alas, whether a woman be good or bad, she must inevitably become old. The lips that were red and full as cherries become pale and thin like parchment; the teeth that dazzled like small pearls in the sun turn yellow and drop out; the breasts that just filled the cupped hand, hang heavy and loose or become shrivelled and wrinkled. Alas, Kotikokura, that is the fate of a wife.”

Kotikokura’s eyes glistened, one tear in each.

“It is very fortunate, however, my friend, that women resemble one another very much, and one may supplant the other.”

Kotikokura grinned.

“Have you noticed, my friend, that these people have no religion, no churches, no bishops, or high priests? They greet the rising and the setting sun—symbols of Life and Death—a most beautiful and rational habit. Hail Life! Farewell Life!”

Kotikokura continued his goat-like dance. I took his hand, and we danced together. Many natives gathered about us, clapped their hands, kept time with their feet, and soon formed a large circle about us, imitating us.

How long did we live upon this island? Was it centuries or merely years? I could not tell. Our days passed on as smoothly, as noiselessly, as the river that faced our home. I had forgotten everything,—even Salome, even Jesus. It was like an exquisite dream that barely touches our sleep, but which makes us sleep longer and more profoundly.

One day, however, as I was sitting on my threshold, I was awakened with a start, as if someone had struck my head a violent blow. On the side of one of the hills, I saw the shadows of three men and three large crucifixes.

“Kotikokura, we are not destined, it seems, to live here peacefully forever, like those great trees which no one, for the last twenty generations, has ever remembered as young saplings bent by winds. Look! “

Kotikokura rose, his head forward. I pulled him down.

“The Christian Church, not content with the misery and ignorance and cruelty it has brought upon the people of Europe, must spread cruelty and misery everywhere—even upon this beautiful little island, uncharted on any map.”

Kotikokura placed his head between his palms, and his elbows on his knees.

“But we shall not let them spoil these people, Kotikokura. We shall tell our friends to beware of them, to shun them like leprosy.”

Kotikokura opened and closed his fists.

“I fear, however, that our struggle will be futile, for after the visit of the monks, the Pope always sends armies. If the people are not persuaded by sermons, they must accept the eloquence of the sword!”

I warned the gentle natives not to listen to the words of the missionaries,—a bishop from Armenia accompanied by two monks. I told them that they were more ferocious than tigers, and sooner or later, they would destroy their homes and kill them. The people hid themselves in their houses or in bushes, and ran away at the sight of the Christians. I watched intently the movements of the Bishop. He was a man of about fifty or sixty, dressed in a white silk robe, in the manner of the Orientals, and wore a headgear that was nearly a turban. He reminded me of Mung-Ling and Apollonius, except that his eyes were clouded and sad, and his mouth too thin. Because of this resemblance, I suspected a good deal of kindness and intelligence in the man.

I sat on the threshold of my house one evening. The Bishop, unaccompanied by the monks, approached me. He greeted me very cordially, and began to speak to me with his hands, uttering at the same time sounds that he had learned from the people. He believed he was addressing me in an intelligible language, but the words he uttered were devoid of all meaning. His efforts to make himself explicit seemed so ludicrous that I could not help laughing.

He was not irritated, but on the contrary, laughed with me. I liked him. He seemed so different from the dignitaries of the Church I had known. He seated himself next to me and pointed to the moon, which was unusually beautiful. He made gestures to indicate how happy that made him. I remembered how Apollonius had loved the moon.

He placed his hand upon my shoulder and pointed to the cross which hung about his neck. I shook my head. He did not insist. We remained silent for a long while. He was not impatient.

Suddenly, I said in purest Greek: “Why do you come to torment these people?” He looked at me as a man awakened suddenly from a profound sleep looks at some strange creature sitting at his bedside.

“Who…who speaks in you? Is it Satan or is it an angel?”

“I have seen neither heaven nor hell…”

“By what miracle have you acquired your impeccable Greek? Has the gift of tongues suddenly descended upon you?”

I laughed. “If I told you that God or Satan speaks through me, you would believe me.”

“Before God, all things are possible, my son,” he said quietly. His voice was a melodious echo of Apollonius. ‘The spirit of the Tyanean must be lodging in this man,’ I thought, ‘but distorted by theology and the dark superstitions which now prevail in the world.’

“Though all things are possible, Father, it is always best not to stretch forth our hands for the most far-fetched explanations.”

“Yes, you are right, my son. One should seek the simplest explanations, and the most natural. You are a Greek who, weary of civilization, its iniquities, its futile glamor, has settled here. Now you fear that your peace may be interrupted again.”

I nodded.

“In a sense. I am here for the same purpose,—to forget the indignities heaped upon our Lord Jesus by false teachers, and the selfishness of man. Perhaps here, these simple, kind people will accept the Word of Jesus as it comes undefiled from His lips.”

“They are perfectly happy now. Why disturb them?”

“Life on earth lasts only a day, but in Heaven…or in Hell, it is eternal. Those who do not believe in our Lord cannot dwell in His Heaven.”

“Are there not many mansions in my Father’s House…?”

“True, but the door is barred to all heathens except by the long road of purgatory. Even saintly Plato, and Apollonius the Tyanean, must travel the road of darkness.”

“Apollonius?”

“Yes,—for whatever the ignorant rabble may say, he was a saint. Alas, he was not baptized!”

“Where is he now, Father?”

“In the outer rim of Purgatory, where he knows neither pleasure nor pain. But the Lord will soon shine upon him as a sun, and he will know indescribable joy.”

“I am glad to hear you speak in this manner of Apollonius, my great Master.”

“My Master too.”

I looked at him.

“His mind was too mighty for his heart. It is the heart, not the mind, that saves us.”

“Do you believe that God’s mercy extends to all men?”

“Eventually…certainly. His mercy is limitless.”

“Will it embrace Judas?”

“Even Judas.”

“Even Ahasuerus?”

“Even Ahasuerus—if he accepts the Cross he refused to bear.”