The Angel of the West Window

by Gustav Meyrink

  We made our way through the bitter cold to Poland. In Warsaw Kelley managed to cure a Voivode of the dropsy in three days with a few grains of St. Deniol’s white powder dissolved in a glass of sweet wine so that we could continue on our way to Prince Lasky with our purse bulging once more. There we were received with great honour and sumptuous hospitality. We spent a year, during which my companion filled his belly and prophesied in his spectral voice all the crowns of Europe to the vain Pole, so that I had to put an end to his deception and insisted we travel on to Prague. And so, after Kelley had squandered almost the whole of our – or, rather, his – ill-gotten gains, we set off from Krakow for Prague and the Emperor Rudolf, to whom I bore a letter of introduction from Queen Elizabeth. And now I am living in Prague with my wife, child and Kelley in the spacious house of His Majesty’s learned personal physician, Doctor Tomas Hajek, in the centre of the Old Town.

  Today, then, is the day, so important for me, of my first audience with the prince among adepts and the adept amongst kings, the mysterious, feared, hated and revered Emperor Rudolf. Beside me, Edward Kelley exudes self-confidence and sets his horse at a tripping canter, as if we were merely on our way to another banquet in Lasky’s wooden castle. But my heart is heavy with foreboding, and I feel the dark nature of the Emperor hanging over me like the black cloud that is just passing across the gleaming facade of the castle above us. At the end of the bridge our horses’ hooves echo as we ride through the gaping maw of a gloomy gatehouse. Behind us, closed off as if by a wall, lies the bright world of ordinary, cheerful folk. Steep joyless alleys climb up silently between houses cowering fearfully against the hillside. Black palaces bar the way, like gatekeepers of the ominous secrets that surround Hradcany Castle. But now the broad esplanade, that the Emperor’s bold architect has blasted out of the hill and wrested from the narrow wooded gorge, opens up before us. Away on a distant hilltop the defiant towers of a monastery rise up. “Strahov!” a voice within me says – Strahov, that conceals, buried alive within its mute walls, many a man who was struck by a fateful bolt from the Emperor’s eyes, and who yet can consider himself fortunate that he did not have to make the nocturnal journey down that other narrow alley to Dalibor’s tower, when he could say farewell for ever to the light of the stars. The houses of the imperial servants are piled up on top of each other, like swallows’ nests on a cliff, each one bracing itself on the one below: at all costs the Habsburgers want to have their German bodyguard close around them; they will not trust themselves to the teeming alien race down there across the Vltava. Hradcany Castle towers above the city, with bristling defences; every gateway echoes with the jingle of spurs, the clash of ever-ready weapons. We ride slowly up the hill; suspicious eyes follow us from the tiny windows above; three times already we have been unexpectedly stopped by guards who suddenly appear as from nowhere to ask us our business; the Emperor’s letter granting us audience is checked again and again. Then we are out on the splendid approach, the city of Prague spread out below us. I look at the view around like a prisoner gazing out on the free world; up here everything seems to be in the tight grip of an invisible hand; up here the summit of the hill has become a prison! The city below seems to lie in a sea of silver dust. Above us the sun smoulders through a misty veil. All of a sudden silver streaks appear in the powdery blue of the sky: flocks of doves circle round in the still air, reflecting the light, and then disappear behind the spires of the Tyn Church. Not a sound ... it is unreal. But I take the doves over Prague as a good omen. The bell of the high-vaulted cathedral of Saint Nicholas below strikes ten; from somewhere within the ramparts of the strong-hold in front of us a sharp, imperative clock repeats the hour with a swift drum-roll: it is high time! The monarch, a fanatical collector of clocks, keeps to the precise second. Woe to anyone who appears late. Another fifteen minutes, I think, and I shall be standing before Rudolf.

  We have reached the top and could set our steeds at a gallop were it not for the halberdiers that block our every step: there is no end to the checks and scrutiny. Finally the bridge over the deer moat thunders beneath our horses’ hooves, and we are trotting across the quiet park of the hermit king.

  Surrounded by ancient oaks, the green copper roof of the airy Belvedere rises before us like a huge upturned ship’s hull. We jump down from our horses.

  The first things to attract my eye are the stone reliefs on the balustrade of the loggia formed by delicate arches around the Belvedere: there is Samson wrestling with the lion and, opposite, Hercules overcoming the Nemean lion. They are the symbols that the Emperor chooses to guard the entrance to his ultimate refuge. It is well known that the lion is his favourite animal and that he has trained a huge African lion as a pet with which he likes to frighten even his intimates. – – All around it is deserted and silent. No-one to receive us!? A bell with a note like a crystal goblet sounds the quarter. Clocks even here!

  At the last stroke a plain wooden door opens. Wordlessly, a grey-haired servant invites us to enter. Stable boys suddenly appear to take our horses. We are standing in the long, cool hall of the Belvedere Palace. The stench of camphor is choking – the whole room is piled high with glass cases full of strange, exotic specimens: life-size models of savages in bizarre poses going about their bizarre business; weapons; gigantic animals; all kinds of implements; Chinese flags, Indian totem poles; an abundance of curiosities from the Old and the New World. – At a sign from our guide we stop beside the immense nightmare figure of a shaggy woodwight with a satanically grinning skull. Kelley’s bravura has withdrawn to the inmost recesses of his fur. He whispers some nonsense about evil spirits. – I have to smile at the mountebank who does not tremble at all before his own conscience, but cowers in fear at a stuffed gorilla.

  But at that very same moment I feel my bowels gripped with a shock of fear as a black ghost floats soundlessly around the corner beyond the ape’s case and a scrawny figure faces us: yellow hands pulling a shabby black gown tight around him and fidgeting under the folds with a weapon – the outline of a short dagger is clear to see; a pale birdlike head lit by yellow eagle’s eyes: – the Emperor!

  The thin, creased upper lip is drawn tight over the almost toothless gums but the heavy lower lip hangs slack and bluish over the firm chin. The beady predator’s eye surveys us. He remains silent.

  I kneel – just a second too late, it seems. Then, however, as we kneel before him, heads bowed, he waves his hand dismissively:

  “Stuff and nonsense. Stand up, if you call yourself honest men. Otherwise go to the devil and do not waste any more of my time.”

  Such was the greeting of the Sublime Emperor.

  I begin the speech that I had carefully composed long before. I have hardly mentioned the gracious intercession of my mighty Queen when the Emperor interrupts me impatiently:

  “Let me see what you can do! My envoys bring me more than enough greetings from other rulers. You claim to possess the tincture?”

  “More than that, Your Majesty.”

  “What, more?!” Rudolf hisses. “Insolence will get you nowhere with me!”

  “It is humility, not presumption, that leads us to take refuge in the wisdom of a High Adept ...”

  “I know a little. Enough to warn you not to try to deceive me.”

  “I seek only the truth, Your Majesty, not self-enrichment.”

  “The truth?!” – a malicious smile flickers across the old man’s face – “I am not such a fool as Pilate to ask you, ‘What is truth?’ What I want to know is, have you the tincture?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Out with it!”

  Kelley pushes to the front. He carries the white sphere from St. Dunstan’s grave in a leather bag hidden in the depths of his jerkin:

  “If Your most gracious Majesty will only put us to the test!” – his obsequiousness is crude.

  “Who is that? Your assistant, your medium, I presume?”

  “My colleague and friend, Edward Kelley,” I answer, sensing a s
purt of irritation within.

  “A quack by trade, I see”, hisses the Emperor. The ancient, eagle eye, weary from having seen too much, scarcely acknowledges the apothecary. The latter grovels like a scolded urchin and is silent.

  I try once more: “If Your Majesty would deign to hear me.”

  Almost against expectation Rudolf signals to an old servant, who brings a hard folding stool. The Emperor sits down and, with a curt nod, gives me permission to continue.

  “Your Majesty wants to know about the tincture for making gold. We have the tincture; but we have – and we are striving for – more; I hope to God that we are worthy of it.”

  “What could be more than the philosopher’s stone?” – the Emperor snaps his fingers.

  “Wisdom, Your Majesty!”

  “Are you canting priests?”

  “We seek to be worthy to be counted with Your Majesty amongst the adepts.”

  “And what are you counting on?” The Emperor’s tone is mocking.

  “On the Angel who commands us.”

  “And what kind of Angel is that?”

  “It is the Angel ... of the West Gate.”

  The Emperor’s eye, that seems to see a world beyond ours, is hooded: “What does this Angel command you do?”

  “The two-fold alchymy: the transmutation of mortal to immortal. The way of Elijah.”

  “Do you mean to ride up to heaven in a fiery chariot like the old Jew? There was one who tried it before. He broke his neck.”

  “The Angel teaches us no fairground tricks, Your Majesty. He teaches us how to preserve the body beyond the grave. I can supply the Imperial lodge of adepts with evidence and proof.”

  “Is that all you can do?” – the Emperor seems to be falling asleep. Kelley is becoming impatient.

  “We can do more. The stone that we possess can transmute any metal – – –”

  The Emperor’s head shoots up: “Proof!”

  Kelley pulls out his leather bag. “Your Lordship may command. I am ready.”

  “Thou seemest a reckless knave, but of a quicker wit than thy companion!”

  I choke back the rising indignation. The Emperor Rudolf is no adept! He wants to see gold made! The vision of the Angel and its gifts, the secret of incorruptibility mean nothing to him, indeed, are a mockery to him. Does he follow the way of the left hand? – – Then the Emperor suddenly says:

  “First of all let a man change base metal into gold, that I can hold in my hand, then let him talk to me of angels. A schemer is touched by neither God nor the devil.”

  I cannot say why, but his words cut me to the quick. With a swifter movement than would seem possible for such an aged, sickly figure, the Emperor sits up; the neck shoots forward, on it the eagle’s head jerks from side to side, searching for prey; finally it nods at the wall.

  Suddenly a concealed door opens before our eyes.

  A few seconds later we are standing in the Emperor’s tiny laboratory. It is well supplied with all kinds of equipment. The crucible sits over a well-stoked fire. Everything is soon made ready. With a practised hand the Emperor himself carries out the assistant’s tasks. With a gruff threat, he refuses any attempt to help. His suspicion is boundless. The meticulous precautions he takes would be the despair of any trickster. It is impossible to deceive the Emperor. Suddenly there is a faint clash of weapons. Behind the hidden door – I can sense it – lurks death. Rudolf deals summarily with any wandering mountebanks who dare to try and hoodwink him.

  Kelley goes pale and looks at me for help. I can sense what is going through his mind: What if the powder fails now?! He is seized by the vagabond’s fear ...

  Lead is bubbling in the crucible. Kelley unscrews the sphere, the Emperor keeping a suspicious eye on him. He touches the sphere; Kelley hesitates; the eagle’s beak strikes:

  “I am no thief, pill-pedlar! Give it to me.”

  Rudolf subjects the grey powder in the sphere to a long and searching examination. The mocking cast of his lips gradually relaxes; the bluish lower lip sags to his chin. The expression on the eagle’s face becomes thoughtful. Kelley indicates the dosage. The Emperor carries out every instruction precisely and conscientiously, like a well-trained laboratory assistant: he makes it a fair test.

  The lead is liquid. Now the Emperor adds the tincture and the projection has been made according to the rules: the metal begins to froth. The Emperor pours the “Mother” into the cold bath. With his own hand he lifts the lump up to the light: there is a gleam of pure silver.

  The leafy garden shimmers in the afternoon heat as Kelley and I ride through, exhilarated, almost cocky. Kelley jingles the silver chain that the Emperor put around his neck this morning. The words of the Emperor were: “Silver for silver; gold for gold, Doctor Quack. The next time will come the test whether you made the powder and whether you can make it again. The crown – note this well – is only for the adept: chains indicate ... chains.”

  For the present we were dismissed from the Belvedere with this clear threat, but without seeing the armed guards.

  From the window of Doctor Hajek’s house on the Old Town Ring where I am quartered with my wife and child I have the most marvellous view of the broad market-place, flanked on the right by the bizarre, jagged towers of the Tyn Church and on the left by the magnificent Town Hall of the defiant burghers. Here there is always a stream of Imperial messengers coming and going. If they are dressed in linen and velvet it means that the Lord of Hradcany Castle needs money; to borrow at a high daily rate of interest. If they come fully armed, it means His Majesty has decided to collect the stipulated sum direct, willy nilly. Relationships between the Habsburgs and Bohemia have always centred on money.

  A strange group approaches: a messenger in silk, but followed by a company of armed riders. What trouble do they bring the Burgomaster? – What? Why is the troop not trotting across the square to the broad gate of the Town Hall? – It’s crossing the Ring, straight towards Doctor Hajek’s house!

  The Emperor’s emissary, a Privy Councillor called Curtius is here. He demands that I hand over to the Emperor the “proofs”: the Angel’s gifts, my records of our seances, the book from St. Dunstan’s grave! I refuse in no uncertain terms:

  “His Majesty refused my offer of proof. First of all he demanded I demonstrate my skill at making gold. Now he wants me to give him the recipe for preparing the Stone. His Majesty will understand that I cannot accede to his request without securities and guarantees.”

  “The Emperor commands!” is the simple reply.

  “I am sorry; but I must set conditions.”

  “It is an order. You risk His Majesty’s displeasure.” – The sound of weapons echoes up from the stone hallway of the house.

  “May I remind you that I am a subject of Her Britannic Majesty! The Emperor has a letter from the Queen.”

  Curtius adopts a conciliatory tone. The swords and halberds outside are silent.

  We haggle like tradesmen. When would I be prepared to hand them over?

  “I repeat the request I have already made for a further audience with the Emperor; everything depends on that. I will only commit myself on the word of the Emperor in person.”

  Councillor Curtius threatens, bargains, pleads. His reputation is at stake. He has promised to deliver the chicken drawn and trussed. Instead of a chicken he faces a growling wolf.

  It is good that that coward Kelley is not here.

  The half silken, half iron-clad deputation disappears round the corner of the Town Hall, past the celebrated astronomical clock.

  Kelley appears, strutting across the ring, like a heron trying to take off. He comes from the direction of the alleyways where the brothels are. He flutters up the stairs and rushes in:

  “The Emperor has invited us?”

  “The Emperor has sent us an invitation to stay in the Dalibor tower! Or to dine with his bears in the moat: the flesh of adepts is their favourite food.”

  Kelley pales.

  “We are betra
yed?”

  “Not at all. The Emperor simply wants our ... documents.”

  Kelley kicks at a chair, like an ill-bred schoolboy.

  “Never! I would rather swallow St. Dunstan’s book, just as St. John the Apostle did on Patmos with the Book of Revelation.”

  “And what is the situation regarding deciphering the book, Kelley?”

  “The Angel has promised me an explanation of the key for the day after tomorrow.”

  The day after tomorrow! ... O this eternal day after tomorrow! It sucks at my marrow and burns my brain.

  I feel as if I am asleep.

  And yet I am not asleep. I am walking through the old streets of the city of Prague, along the tree-lined rampart that leads to the Powder Gate. The trees are tinged with autumn. It is cool. It must be near the end of October. I pass through the gate into Celetná Street. I intend to cross the Old Town Ring and go down to the Old-New Synagogue and the Jewish Town Hall. I want – no: I have to visit the “High Rabbi” Löw, the miracle-worker. My generous host, Doctor Hajek, arranged our introduction a few days ago. We exchanged a few words about the mysteries...

  As I go on my way, one street follows another in a natural progression; and yet I feel under some kind of compulsion. I feel as if it is all a dream and yet it is certainly not a dream; it is just the same for Johanna Fromm who can walk round Prague – – if she wishes.