Johanna Fromm? Who is that? My housekeeper, of course! How can I ask! Johanna Fromm is my housekeeper. – – But – – I am John Dee!? John Dee, who is on his way to visit Rabbi Low, the friend of Emperor Rudolf!
With that I am already in the Rabbi’s low, bare chamber and talking to him. The only furniture is a seat of woven straw and a deal table. Fairly high in the wall there is a tiny alcove in which the Rabbi is sitting – or rather half standing, half leaning, like the mummies in the catacombs – staring fixedly at the geometrical diagram of the “cabbalistic tree” drawn in chalk on the wall opposite. He scarcely looked down as I entered.
The Rabbi is bowed, though it is unclear whether it is with hoary age or the effect of the massive weight of the low, smoke-blackened beams of his house. He seems to be of gigantic stature. The yellow skin of his head is criss-crossed by a maze of wrinkles. His face is like that of a bird of prey and reminds one of the Emperor’s, only his head is much smaller, his profile more sharply hawk-like. The prophet’s face seems scarcely larger than my fist, hidden in a tangle of hair – impossible to say where that of the head ends and the beard begins. Deep-set, merry eyes glitter below heavy, bushy brows. The abnormally tall, incredibly slim body of the Rabbi is clad in a neat, clean black silk caftan. His shoulders are hunched, his hands and feet in constant, expressive movement, as is the custom with Jews of the Levant.
We talk of the tribulations of ignorant men seeking the divine mysteries and of the purpose of earthly life.
“We must force Heaven’s hand,” I say and remind the Rabbi of Jacob wrestling with the angel.
The Rabbi replies:
“Your Honour is right. The hand of God can be forced through prayer.”
“I am a Christian; I pray with my heart and with all the strength of my soul.”
“And for what, your Honour?”
“For the Stone!”
The rabbi slowly rocks his head from side to side, like a melancholy Egyptian marsh heron.
“Prayer has to be learned.”
“What do you mean, Rabbi?”
“Your Honour is praying for the Stone. That is right. The Stone is good. The main thing, however, is that your prayer strikes God’s ear.”
“How should it not?” I exclaim. “Do I pray without faith?”
“Faith?” the Rabbi rocks from side to side, “What use is faith to me without knowledge?”
“You are a Jew, Rabbi;” it slips out before I can stop it.
The Rabbi’s eyes glitter:
“A Yid. Truly spoken, your Honour. – Why then do you ask a Jew about the ... mysteries? Prayer, your Honour, is the same art the world over.”
“Certainly you speak the truth there, Rabbi,” I say, bowing to him, for I regret my cursed Christian pride.
The Rabbi laughs, but only with his eyes.
“The Goyim can shoot with the crossbow and the arquebus. An art it is, your shooting, a marvel it is how you aim and hit the mark. But can you pray as well? A marvel how seldom you aim ... true and hit the mark!”
“But Rabbi! A prayer is not a ball from a rifle barrel!”
“And why not, your Honour? A prayer is an arrow at God’s ear. If it strikes its target, then the prayer is heard. Every prayer is heard – must be heard, for prayer is irresistible ... if it hits.”
“And if it misses?”
“Then the prayer drops back down like a lost arrow, sometimes hits the wrong mark, falls on the ground like Onan’s seed or ... is caught by the ‘Other One’ and his servants. Then they answer the prayer ... after their own fashion!”
“By which ‘Other One’?” I ask, my heart filled with fear.
“By which ‘Other One’?” repeats the Rabbi. “By Him who ever watches between Above and Below. By the Angel Metraton, the Lord of a Thousand Faces ...”
I understand and tremble. What if my arrow fly not true?
The Rabbi’s gaze is on the far distance. He continues:
“One should not pray for the Stone without knowing what it signifies.”
“The Stone signifies the truth!”
“The truth –?” the Rabbi mocks just as the Emperor did. I imagine I will hear him continue, “I am not such a fool as Pilate ...” – But the high adept remains silent.
“What else can the Stone signify?” I press him, unsure in my heart.
“That cannot be learnt. It is something your Honour must feel, in your heart.”
“I know that to find the Stone one must look within oneself, but ... it must then be prepared externally and is called the elixir.”
“Beware, my son,” whispers the Rabbi, with a sudden change of tone towards me that freezes me to the marrow. “Beware when you pray and plead for the Stone! Mark well the arrow and the target and the shot! Beware that you do not receive the false Stone from a false shot! The rewards of prayer can be terrible.”
“Is it so difficult to pray aright?”
“Immensely difficult it is, your Honour. Your Honour is right. It is immensely difficult to strike God’s ear.”
“Who can teach me how to pray aright?”
“To pray aright ... the only man who can do that is one who was sacrificed at birth and made sacrifice ... a man who is not only circumcised but also knows that he is circumcised and knows the Name backwards and forwards.”
Anger spurts up within me; the Rabbi’s words tear open a hole and the old Jewish pride shines through. I cut him short:
“I will tell you, Rabbi: I am too old and too advanced in the teachings of the wise to have myself circumcised.”
An incomprehensible smile lights up the depths of the adept’s eyes.
“You do not want to let yourself be circumcised, your Honour! That is it! The wild apple tree does not want to let itself be pruned and what does it bear? Crab apples!”
I sense a hidden dimension beneath the Rabbi’s words. I have a vague feeling I am being offered a key, I only need to grasp it. But at the moment my irritation at the Jew’s proud speech has the upper hand. My reply is defiant:
“My prayer is not without direction. I may set the string askew, but an angel holds my bow and guides my arrow.”
The Rabbi looks up sharply:
“An angel? What kind of an angel is it?”
I describe the Angel of the West Window. I make a great effort to enable him to visualise the Green Angel that advises us and that has promised to reveal the formula to us the day after tomorrow.
Suddenly the Rabbi’s face dissolves into a wild laugh. Yes, a laugh; there is no better word for it and yet it is different from human laughter. It is like the agitated fluttering of the Egyptian ibis when it sees a poisonous snake nearby. Surrounded by the wild tangle of hair that dances up and down on the Rabbi’s birdlike head the tiny yellow face contracts until it is a star formed of myriad lines radiating from a round black hole that is laughing, laughing, laughing; one long yellow tooth wobbles grotesquely in the black cavern ... mad! is the thought that comes to me. – “Mad!”
Restlessness, an uncontrollable restlessness drives me up the castle steps. – Up here in the German quarter I am well known as the alchemist from England who has the freedom of the castle. My steps are always watched, but up here I can go where I like; I need the quiet alleys and tree-lined paths; I need seclusion, I need to keep away from Kelley, the bloodsucker that has attached itself to my soul. – – I lose my way in the maze of alleyways: I find myself standing before one of the houses glued to the wall of the fortress and above a gothic entrance I see a stone carving of Jesus at the well with the woman of Samaria. And on the trough is written:
Deus est spiritus. – Deus est spiritus – God is spirit. Yes, He is spirit, not gold! – Kelley wants gold, the Emperor wants gold. I want ... do I want gold, too? My wife had held my little son Arthur out towards me, saying: “How shall I feed your child when the purse is empty?” And I saw that the jewelry that she used to wear about her neck was no longer there. Jane had sold her own possessions, piece by piece, to save us from th
e debtor’s prison, from disgrace, from destruction.
Deus est spiritus. – I have prayed spiritually and corporeally. Have I shot my arrow into God’s ear? Is the Rabbi right? Is the Rabbi always to be found sitting at the well of eternal life to comfort the drawer of water, the weary soul? Gold will not flow, a prayer for gold will not fly. – Without thinking, I ask a woman coming out of the gate:
“What is it called here?” – I want to know the name of the street.
The woman, who saw where my eye was fixed, replies:
“At the sign of the Golden Fountain, sir”, and goes on her way.
I can see Emperor Rudolf in the Belvedere leaning against one of the tall glass cases in which an eskimo, wrapped up in furs and tied all round with leather belts to which rows of little bells are attached, is going about some business. The wax model with its slanting, oily glass eyes is holding, in hands that are far too small, a triangle and other, unknown implements. “A shaman,” a voice behind him says.
Beside Rudolf appears a tall man in a black cassock. He bows awkwardly, visibly reluctant to adopt a suitably respectful attitude before the Emperor. A red skull-cap reveals the cardinal. I realise immediately who it is: towering above the Emperor and with the corners of his mouth drawn up in a fixed smile is the Papal Legate, Cardinal Malaspina. The Cardinal is speaking calmly, impressing something on His Majesty; his lips open and close with the precision of a scallop shell. Gradually I start to pick up what he is saying:
“And so Your Majesty cannot avoid the accusation of the unthinking plebs that You shower Your favours on magicians and grant such who are suspected – justly suspected indeed – of being in league with the devil freedom of abode, and more, in Your Majesty’s most Catholic country.”
The eagle profile jerks forward:
“Stuff and nonsense! The Englishman can make gold, and making gold is a most natural art. You priests cannot stop the march of the human spirit; the more it uncovers of the profane secrets of nature, the greater reverence it shows for the sacred mysteries of God ...”
“ – and finally realises that all is grace,” the Cardinal finishes the sentence. The Emperor’s yellow eyes disappear completely behind the torpid leathern lids. There is the merest tremor of mockery perceptible on the heavy lower lip. The corners of the Cardinal’s fastidious lips rise even higher in consciousness of superiority:
“Whatever we think about making gold, this English gentleman and his dubious companion has publicly declared that he is not interested in gold and silver but seeks the power of magic in this world and to overcome death in the next. The reports I have are most precise. In the name of our supreme Lord, Jesus Christ, and of His holy representative on earth, I accuse this John Dee and his assistant of meddling in satanic arts, of black and blasphemous magic practices, which are punished with the death of the body and of the soul. The secular arm cannot refuse its office. It would be to the detriment of Christendom. Your Majesty knows what is at stake.”
Rudolf drums with his knuckles against the glass case and mutters:
“Must I deliver up all fools and heathens to the Vatican dungeons and the bonfires lit by the arrogance of priests? The Holy Father knows me and knows what a zealous son and defender of the faith I am; he should not try to force me to be the henchman of his henchmen, who follow my every move. Things might go so far that I would have to sign the death warrant of Rudolf of Habsburg, Holy Roman Emperor with my own hand – for black magic.”
“Your Majesty determines the bounds in all secular matters. You are the judge and you are responsible before God for everything you think worthy of Rudolf of Habsburg ...”
“No insolence, priest!” hisses the Emperor.
Cardinal Malaspina sways back, like a snake before the talons of an eagle. His lips bear a pinched smile: “The servants of the Lord have learnt from their Master to accept mockery and taunts with the praise of God on their lips.”
“And treachery in their hearts!” adds the Emperor.
The Cardinal makes a slow, deep bow:
“Wherever possible we betray the darkness to the light, weakness to majesty, the deceiver to the just condemnation. John Dee and all his entourage are the products of the worst excesses of heresy. He bears the stigma of blasphemy, of the desecration of holy graves and of consorting with proven associates of the Devil. It would grieve the Holy Father in Rome if he found himself compelled to anticipate the secular arm and – at what cost to Imperial authority? – to bring the previous trial of this John Dee forma juris out into the open.”
The Emperor shoots a look of burning hatred at the Cardinal. He does not dare to lash out again with his beak. The eagle has lost the snake. With a hiss he draws his neck back into the darkness of his shoulders.
We are in the back room of our lodgings in Doctor Hajek’s house; I have my arms round Kelley’s neck and the tears are pouring down my cheeks:
“The Angel has saved us! The Angel be praised! The Angel has saved us!! –”
In his hands Kelley is holding the two halves of St. Deniol’s spheres; they are both newly filled to the rim with the precious red and grey powder. The Green Angel brought it, last night in a seance that Kelley held alone with Jane, without informing me. And now I hold the new riches in my trembling hands; but much more important: the Green Angel has kept his word! He has not deceived me; He heard my prayer at the Golden Fountain! – My prayers did not fall to the ground. My prayers struck God’s ear. They struck the heart of the Green Angel of the West Window! – O joy of certitude! – The way has not been in vain, it has not led me astray! In my hands I hold the testimony of the true covenant! -
Now the sufferings of the body are at an end. Now shall the sufferings of the soul and its longing be assuaged!
To my question as to the secret of the preparation of the Stone, Kelley replies that the Angel did not reveal it: the gift was sufficient for the present; trust and faith were justified. Another time the rest would be vouchsafed to us, according to our deserts. Watch and pray! God will grant to His own all that they ask for and all that they need.
Jane is beside us, pale and silent, the child in her arms.
I ask her how the glorious seance went. She looks at me, tired and distraught, and replies:
“I cannot say. I do not know. It was – dreadful ...” Astonished, I look across at Kelley: “What has happened to Jane?”
He hesitates. “The Angel appeared in unendurable fire.”
“The Lord God in the burning bush!” is the thought that comes to me, and filled with the warmth of love, I embrace my courageous wife.
The days are a procession of vague images, misty memories between waking and sleeping: throngs and banquets, receptions with the grandees, with nobles decked in rich brocade, diplomats in silk and satin, scholars in dark velvet; riding through the narrow streets of Prague, Kelley always at the head, scattering coins from an ever-open purse amongst the cheering, jostling multitude. We are the talk of Prague, a scandal, a seven-day wonder. The wildest rumours are brought even to our own ears. People assume we are incredibly rich Englishmen who are amusing themselves bamboozling the court and burghers of Prague by pretending to be adepts and alchemists. And that is the most harmless and good-willed of all the stories that are spread about us.
At night, after the glittering feasts and banquets, there are long, exhausting arguments with Kelley. Kelley tumbles into his bed, heavy with wine and the rich Bohemian cooking. I grasp him by the collar, unable to bear the repeated scenes of waste and senseless dissipation any longer, I shake my drunken companion and scream at him:
“You sot! Scum! London guttersnipe! Wake up! Come to your senses! How long do you think this can go on? The grey powder is used up. The red is half finished!”
“The Green ... gr ... een Angel’ll just have to come up with a second helping” – the reply is one long belch.
Arrogance, lust, prodigal squandering of unaccustomed wealth, puffed-up self-importance, tawdry ostentation: like gaseous b
ubbles in a marshy pool, these are the things that rise to the surface from the depths of Kelley’s dark soul, released by the Angel’s gold. The man with the cut-off ears is a tolerable companion in times of poverty, a master at making do, a virtuoso of survival; but now, abundantly wealthy for the second time, there is no holding him in his gross debauched frenzy of prodigality. –
God does not want riches to be spread about the earth, for it is the abode of swine.
Whether I want to or not, I feel a compulsion to visit the narrow alleys of the Jewish quarter down by the Vltava, where the Rabbi mocked my belief in the Angel with his wild, crazed laughter, and, with his one yellow stump of a tooth, laughed me out of his chamber and out of all reverence for my cherished belief.
I am standing outside one of the tower-like gatehouses of the dark ghetto. I am unsure which road to take when a voice whispers to me from the blackness of the archway: “Over here! This is the road that will take you to your goal.” I follow the invisible guide.
In the dark entrance I am suddenly surrounded by a group of unknown men. Speaking in whispers, they shepherd me into a passageway, through an iron-studded door into a long, half-lit corridor where our feet send up clouds of dust from the rotten floorboards. The passage is lit from occasional apertures high up in the walls. Fear starts to crawl over my skin: I have fallen into a trap. – I stop: What do they want of me? The figures pushing me forward are masked and armed. One seems to be the leader. He lifts his mask. His face is that of an honest soldier.
He says, “By command of the Emperor.”
I shrink back.
“Arrested? Why? I remind you I am under the protection of the Queen of England!”
The officer shakes his head and points to the end of the corridor:
“There is no question of arrest, sir. The Emperor wishes to see you and has His reasons for keeping your visit a secret. Follow us.”
The corridor descends perceptibly. The last of the daylight disappears. The wooden planks under our feet give way to slimy, slippery mud. The walls beside me are rough-hewn, damp and give off a smell of decay. Suddenly we stop. My companions mutter amongst themselves. I start to prepare myself for a swift, cruel execution. I am beginning to suspect that we are in the underground passage which, popular rumour has it, runs from the Old Town, beneath the Vltava and up to the Castle. People whisper that when it was completed, all the workers who had dug it were drowned in the tunnel, so that they could not reveal the secret exits.
The Angel of the West Window Page 25