Should I goad him on with offers of material help? I must—once more! If I failed this time, I should consider myself vanquished. And if I win—if I win—what indeed should I win? Who knows what new and bloody idol will usurp Heaven, if Christianity dies!
Luther, his right arm in the air, continued, “I am going back to Wittenberg, and upon the gate of the Schlosskirche I shall nail my ultimatum to Anti-Christ. I shall challenge the Fiend to answer my theses!”
“You may divide Christendom…”
“There is more joy in heaven over a handful of real Christians than over a million sellers and buyers of Popish indulgences…”
I remembered the words of Alexander VI. “It is better to deal with scoundrels than with zealots. Zealots have no sense of humor.” This man was a zealot, but he could be merry. He loved woman and wine. ‘To test once more the truth of logic or its utter bankruptcy, I shall help him!’
“Every man will read for himself the Sacred Word of the Lord. I shall translate the Holy Scriptures into the beloved and simple tongue of my fathers. There shall be no more secrecy or mystery…”
“Is it not dangerous to allow the uninitiated to interpret the Scriptures?”
“Far less dangerous than to allow a set of men, many of whom are more ignorant and more stupid than laymen, to misinterpret. The priests have robbed my poor countrymen until they are on the point of starvation. They have browbeaten us until we dare not raise our heads. They have stultified the intelligence of our peasants until they have become more brutish than the beasts of the field.”
The waitress appeared on the threshold. Luther rose and, stretching out his arms, called to her, “My beauty, my dove, come hither!”
A man who could change so rapidly from divine to mundane affairs was destined to achieve greatness—if no accident intervened. Thus, I imagined Mohammed must have dismissed Gabriel the Arch-angel, to embrace his buxom wives.
“Father, you should be more respectful to the cloth you wear,” the waitress admonished.
“Would you want me to remain a fool my lifelong?”
“What do you mean?”
The waitress laughed. The proprietor, who appeared at the moment, applauded. “Bravo! Bravo!”
“Splendid! You must allow me to offer you some wine—half a century old—which, my father brought with him from Cologne.”
Luther walked over to him, shook his hand, and made the sign of the cross over his head.
The bottles were brought and emptied. Luther and I told anecdotes. The proprietor laughed uproariously, slapping his belly.
“Don’t tell me any more, gentlemen! No more, or I shall die laughing.”
“In a few hours, I leave for Wittenberg,” Luther said suddenly, grown pensive, “but whether I shall reach it the Lord knows.”
“Are the roads so dangerous?”
“For Martin Luther.”
“Would you allow me and my friend to accompany you?”
He looked at me. His eyes had the vision of far-away places, as Mohammed’s had of the desert. He placed his hands upon my shoulders, making the sign of the cross over me.
“It is the will of Jesus.”
Long before we reached Germany, we heard the name of Martin Luther, either whispered in praise and hope, or hissed with a curse.
“You are already history, frater.”
He sighed. “I should have preferred to devote my life to writing quietly in my cell.”
“From the clash of desire and disillusion, bursts forth the conflagration of genius.”
We were walking between two rows of immense poplars. Their tops shivered like the plumes on the helmets of warriors, marching in triumph. The rays of the sun, undaunted soldiers, tried to pierce the massive barricade, to crawl between the barbed wire of the leaves, to lasso the forest like a galloping stallion. In vain! The cool shadow stretched peacefully and unconcerned, like a black god, deaf to the futile clamor of the universe.
Luther wiped his forehead with a large kerchief and breathed deeply.
“Should a new Christianity arise from the ashes of the old, would man be allowed in truth to speak his thought?” I asked.
“Even so.”
“Would you abolish the celibacy of the clergy?”
“Nothing in the Holy Bible commands man to live alone. The Lord created all good things for the joy of his children.”
‘This in itself,’ I thought, ‘is worth the effort. Fighting to purify religion, this monk may restore paganism. Perhaps Athens and Rome will be born again in their glory. If it is true that man appears again and again in slightly different guises and incarnations, why cannot whole civilizations return from the grave? Life, the gigantic snake, constantly sheds and re-dons its coat!’
“Frater, I believe in you and in your power.”
He pressed my hand.
“You will purify Christianity and make Europe more habitable. You will bring love and intelligence and freedom.”
“For the glory of Jesus, amen.”
“Will you permit me to have a share in this regeneration? Your struggle will be greater than you suspect.”
He smiled. “There will be such a storm, my friend, as when Lucifer with his host was driven out of Heaven.”
My resolution was made. ‘Ahasuerus is the harbinger of storms. So the legend has it. Let there be storm!’
“Frater, however spiritual and divine our ideas may be, gold is always essential for their execution… I have gold, frater, very much gold.”
He withdrew a little.
I smiled. “Does Martin Luther fear my money? I will donate fifty thousand guilders to equip the Army of Truth and Freedom at Armageddon.”
Luther did not answer. He bent his head. The breeze ruffled his thick curls. Suddenly, he began to make very short, deliberate steps, as if counting them.
“It is God’s will, else He would not permit you to cross my path.”
“I shall give you my gold, on one condition– —”
He raised his eyebrows.
“That this transaction remain a secret forever between us.”
He seemed reluctant.
“It is my penance for an ancient sin.”
“Very well. You shall explain when we meet Lord Jesus face to face.”
It was dawn. Luther slept peacefully, as a child, his fists closed.
“Kotikokura,” I whispered, “come!”
We walked away on tiptoes. At a sufficient distance, I said, “Kotikokura, we are now in sight of Wittenberg. It is safer for us not to be in the company of a man who will make history. We must change our direction.”
He nodded.
“Whither shall we wend our enormous feet, Kotikokura?”
He scratched his nose.
“Italy—Spain—France?”
He shook his head.
“We might go to the new countries to the east of us, but they say the inhabitants are still savage.”
I meditated for a while.
“I have it, Kotikokura!”
He grinned.
“We have never been across the channel.”
He did not comprehend.
“The channel, my friend, separates Europe from England, and permits the latter to enjoy peace while the former is in the throes of endless conflicts. They have a great university in England—Oxford. I shall drain the paps of wisdom for a while.”
He grinned.
“I am serious, Kotikokura. I know more than Dr. Faust who sold his soul to the Devil, but I must organize my knowledge. I have been neglectful of late—these several centuries. I have not read enough what the sages have written. I must learn their opinion of man and the universe. And you—it is about time you learned how to read and write, Kotikokura.”