The Angel of the West Window

by Gustav Meyrink

  It seemed as if Assja Shotokalungin sensed the mistake she had made. She broke off, relocked the case with a moody jangle of keys and murmured a few meaningless phrases as she hustled us out of the gallery. Already turning away, she hardly seemed to be listening to Lipotin’s half-serious objection:

  “But what will our friend think of me, Princess? He will think that, because I hinted to you that I had discovered a legal heir to the estate of the highly respectable descendants of Hywel Dda, I planned to rob him of a family heirloom that I presumed had come to him like a pigeon home to roost. But I am completely innocent of anything of the kind, my dear lady, even though the Shotokalungin family has employed me for forty years now to seek and recover the lost centre-piece of the family collection, wherever it be, whatever the cost. My forefathers were performing similar services for my lady’s ancestors, as far back as the days of Ivan the Terrible, but that is irrelevant as far as my personal respect for your ladyship is concerned. – But I can see that you are a little tired from showing us round the collection, Princess, and here am I chattering on like this. I will come to the point: my instinct for antiques has never yet let me down. When, after all these years, I saw again the empty case that used to contain the dagger I had such a definite presentiment that we would come across the blade in the near future that I almost interrupted you.” – He turned to me: “It is one of my little quirks, you see, a superstition of my profession, one of the mysteries of heredity down an almost endless chain of forebears – they all spent their time searching for relics, antiques, traces of old curses and old blessings – that enables me to sense like a truffle-hound when a discovery is near, whether the nearness is one of time or of space. The question is, do I approach the things I seek, or do they come to me, drawn by my desire, or whatever you may call it? The cause is immaterial: I can sense, scent when I will find them. And, dear Princess, I scent – may Mascee, the Tsar’s tutor, flay me alive if I am wrong – I scent the dagger, the spearhead of your ancestors ... of the ancestors of both of you, if you will permit me to say so ... I can smell ... can scent it nearby ...”

  Lipotin’s chattering, which, I must admit, had a cynical and rather crude suggestiveness that I found mortifying, accompanied us out of the long gallery and back into the room where we had been before; and there I had the distinct impression that the Princess wanted us to leave.

  That corresponded to my wishes entirely; after I had thanked her I was about to add that it was high time for me to go, when the Princess, in a much more lively tone than was to be expected after our rapid exit from the gallery, suddenly asked our forgiveness for her temperamental behaviour. She, too, she said, had felt surprisingly weary; her sleepiness was obviously a punishment for the way she had teased me. She supposed it came from the stale air and smell of camphor that was inevitable in such rooms. However, she rejected the usual suggestion that she should have a lie down almost angrily and cried:

  “What I need is fresh air! I’m sure you feel the same, don’t you? How is your headache? If I only knew where to suggest we go – my car is at our disposal ...”

  Lipotin interrupted her, clapping his hands like a schoolboy on a treat:

  “If you have the Lincoln why don’t we all go up to see the geysers?”

  “Geysers? What geysers? Here? We’re not in Iceland, you know,” I asked in surprise. Lipotin laughed:

  “Haven’t you heard that some hot springs have suddenly erupted, out near the lower slopes of the mountains a few days ago. In the ruins of Elsbethstein Castle. The locals spend all their time crossing themselves, it’s supposed to fulfil some old prophecy, though exactly what it says, I don’t know. What is remarkable is that these hot springs bubble up right in the middle of the inner court of Elsbethstein, where a former mistress of the castle, the so-called English Elsbeth, is supposed to have drunk of the water of life. Anyway, it’s good publicity for the health spa they’ll soon be setting up there.”

  Lipotin’s casual anecdote set off within me a tangle of indistinct echoes; I was going to ask him about this “English Elsbeth” since I, who was born here, had never heard of any such legend connected with Elsbethstein Castle, but everything went too quickly and, anyway, I was still suffering from a distinct tiredness, my brain was still sluggish as you might expect when recovering from a faint – I was tempted to write: narcosis. The quick-fire chatter went over my head and I only caught up with the conversation when the Princess asked me directly whether I would like to spend the rest of the afternoon on an outing in her car to Elsbethstein – it would, she said, be the best thing for a muzzy head.

  The only thing that made me hesitate was the thought of Jane; I had promised to be back by now. The image of Jane suddenly dominated my mind, and it seemed the moment had come when I ought to express publicly for the first time what was only the logical consequence of my recent experiences and new attitudes. I did not spend time thinking about it, indeed, I almost blurted out:

  “Your invitation to take a trip out into the countryside is, as you might say, just what the doctor ordered, it would restore my shattered nerves somewhat. However, I will have to refuse your kind invitation unless – I hope you will not mind my asking – unless my ... fiancée can accompany us; she expects me back any moment now.”

  I gave the Princess and Lipotin no opportunity to express their mild surprise, but rushed on:

  “You both know my fiancée already, it is Frau Fromm, the lady who ...”

  “Ah, your housekeeper?” cried Lipotin, genuinely taken by surprise.

  “Yes, my housekeeper,” I said with a certain relief, covertly watching the Princess. Assja Shotokalungin shook my hand and gave the gently mocking laugh of an old comrade as she said:

  “I’m so pleased for you, my friend. So it is only a comma and certainly nothing like a full stop?!”

  I could not understand this odd remark; I assumed it was some kind of joke and answered with a laugh. Immediately I felt the laugh was false and a cowardly betrayal of Jane, but again the rapid train of events swept on without me and the Princess continued:

  “There is no greater privilege than to share in the happiness of a happy couple for a few hours. Thank you for your suggestion, my friend. It looks like being a charming afternoon.”

  From then on everything seemed to take place at heightened speed. In a second we were outside the garden gate climbing into the purring limousine. With a shock, I recognised the chauffeur at the wheel: it was John Roger! – No, of course not John Roger. It was the one of the Princess’ servants who stood out amongst the orientals because of his height and European features. Naturally the Princess would not want some wild Mongol as a chauffeur.

  In a flash we were parked outside my house. Jane seemed to have been expecting us. To my secret astonishment she showed no sign of surprise or hesitation when I told her who was below and that we all planned an outing together along the farther bank of the river. She was excited by the idea and got dressed and ready in an astonishingly short time.

  Thus began the memorable trip to Elsbethstein.

  Even the meeting between the two women as Jane got into the car went differently from how I would have imagined it. The Princess, as ever, was bright and charming with a hint of mockery in her voice; but Jane was in no way awkward and embarrassed, as I might have feared, not at all overwhelmed by suddenly finding herself in this rather strange situation. Quite the contrary. She greeted the Princess with polite reserve, but with a strange, joyful sparkle in her eye. Her thanks to the owner of the car sounded almost like the calm acceptance of a challenge.

  The first thing that struck me when we were all sitting in the wide and luxurious limousine was a certain nervous note in the Princess’ laugh which I had never heard before. As she pulled a shawl around her shoulders it almost seemed as if she felt a slight chill.

  But my attention was immediately drawn to the chauffeur and the speed he drove at as soon as the suburbs were behind us. It scarcely seemed to be driving, more a kin
d of gliding, smooth and silent and completely free of the jolting that I would have expected from a country road full of potholes. A glance showed that the needle of the speedometer was on ninety miles an hour and still rising. The Princess did not seem to notice; certainly she said nothing to the chauffeur who sat motionless at the wheel, as if lifeless. I looked at Jane; she was coolly watching the landscape go by out of the window. Her hand lay, relaxed and still, in mine; clearly she was not in the least surprised by the mad speed we were travelling at.

  Soon the needle was on ninety-five and creeping up towards a hundred. Then I too was overtaken by a complete indifference to the outward sense impressions of the journey: the sharp crack with which the leaves of roadside trees whipped past, the fleeting glimpses of a dizzying procession of pedestrians, carts and other vehicles which we overtook with a wail of the horn.

  I gradually sank into a silent reverie, thinking back over the events of the past few hours. Next to me the Princess’s proud profile stared at the landscape rushing wildly past. She sat there like a bronze idol; her face had the expression of a panther poised over its unsuspecting prey: supple, smooth coated and . . naked. – I pressed my eyes shut, trying to wipe away the film blurring my vision: in vain; I still saw the naked advocate of the sensuous esoteric cult of Isaïs, preaching the erotic pleasures of hatred, of unfathomable, white-hot hatred. Once more I felt the urge to coil my fingers round the throat of this demonic cat-woman and abandon myself to an orgy of hate and fury. A glow of fear crept though my veins and I prayed fervently to ... Jane; as if she were not sitting there hand in hand with me in the speeding car, but were far distant, like a goddess high above the stars, like a mother, inaccessible in heaven.

  At that moment a shock gripped my whole body with a jolt of terror: a cart towing tree-trunks in front of us! Two cars approaching from either direction and we racing towards them at a hundred miles an hour! No time to brake! The road too narrow! A steep drop on either side!

  The driver! He’s still sitting at the wheel, totally unmoved. Has he gone mad? He’s accelerating up to a hundred and ten! Overtake on the left? Impossible! The road is blocked by the three vehicles. So he’s going to edge out to the – right! My mind screams: He’s mad! He’ll have us over the side! Another second and we’ll be spiked on the tree-trunks over-hanging the back of the cart, better to crash down the precipice! There! The right-hand side of the car is hovering over the yawning abyss with the foaming torrent raging between the rocks below! –

  There was scarcely a yard of road left outside the forestry truck as we overtook with only the left-hand wheels on the road: our furious speed kept the car up and saved us from falling.

  A quick glance back: the tangle of cars is far behind us, hardly visible any more in the cloud of white dust. “John Roger” is still sitting at the wheel, unmoved, as if it were all child’s play. “Only the devil could drive like that,” I think, “or a living corpse.” And once more we are purring along past swishing three-foot thick sycamore trees.

  Lipotin laughed:

  “A pretty brisk drive, what? If good old gravity hadn’t been taking forty winks, then ...”

  Slowly, with the stinging of pins and needles, the blood returned to my numbed limbs. I must have been grimacing as I replied:

  “A little too brisk for ordinary flesh and blood like mine.”

  Once more I fell prey to deep suspicion of my companions, even though it was clear to the eye that this trip through familiar countryside was all too real. In spite of all that I told myself, this suspicion included Jane as well. Were these really living human beings that I was sharing the car with? Could they be dead? Spectres from a world that has long since ceased to exist? – –

  The Princess turned to me with a mocking expression:

  “You are afraid?”

  I chose my words carefully. It had not escaped me that since the beginning of the journey Assja Shotokalungin had shot a number of concerned glances in the direction of Jane, who was sitting next to her. That was something new in her. I was tempted to probe a little, so I answered with a similar smile:

  “Not that I am aware of. Unless it is catching amongst friends. I couldn’t help noticing that you seem uneasy about something yourself.”

  The Princess twitched perceptibly. We thundered underneath a bridge, making any answer impossible. Instead of the Princess, Lipotin shouted into the wind:

  “I wouldn’t have thought the lady and gentleman would be arguing about who is more afraid instead of enjoying the healthy, refreshing air! Anyway: no need for fear when you travel with me. In our family an excessively undramatic manner of coming into the world and leaving it is hereditary.”

  After a short while Jane said quietly:

  “How can anyone be afraid who is following his own way? Only someone who resists his fate will feel fear.”

  The Princess remained silent. Her face was smiling, but I, and I alone, could see it darken for a split second with the flickering shadow of some inner storm. Then she tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder:

  “Why are we going so sluggishly, Roger?”

  I felt a slight shock: the chauffeur was called Roger!? An eerie coincidence!

  The man at the wheel nodded and the whole car started to sing. The speedometer leapt up to a hundred and twenty and swung wildly to and fro before sticking at some outrageous speed. I looked at Jane: if I die, let it be in her arms.

  How we managed to reach the top of the steep and incredibly bumpy track to the ruin of Elsbethstein will always remain a mystery to me. The only explanation I can think of is that we flew up. The tremendous power and solid construction of the limousine made the miracle possible. It was certainly the first car that had ever been seen up there.

  We were quickly surrounded by workmen – dripping figures emerging like beings of the underworld from the drifting clouds of hot steam; they leant on their spades and mattocks, marvelling at our arrival, before a fizzing backcloth of spurting geysers. We wandered silently round the pleasantly wooded ruins and I was struck by the sense of design in the arrangement of the bushes, as if some gardener had created the delightful vistas through the trees down into the depths of the valley. The half overgrown flowerbeds beside the massive, crumbling walls formed a strange, romantic contrast. It was like walking through an enchanted garden where moss-covered statues without arms or heads suddenly popped up, as if placed there by some fairy to frighten or tease the visitors. Then there was a fissure in the rock, and, glistening in the depths, the foaming current.

  Someone asked:

  “Who can it be who keeps this ravishing disorder in such beautiful order?”

  No-one knew.

  “Didn’t you tell us about a legend connected with Elsbethstein, Lipotin? Something about a lady of the castle called Elsbeth, who drank of the water of life here?”

  “Someone or other told me something of the kind, yes”, said Lipotin dismissively; “I couldn’t remember the whole story any more. It just came to me this afternoon; I intended it more as a joke.”

  “We could ask one of the workmen in the courtyard”, remarked the Princess, casually.

  “It’s an idea.”

  We made our way slowly back to the inner courtyard.

  Lipotin took out his ivory cigarette case and offered it to one of the workmen.

  “Who does the ruin actually belong to?”

  “Nobody.”

  “But it must belong to somebody!”

  “Nobody. Ask the old gardener in there!” muttered one of the group and continued to clean his spade with a wooden splint as carefully as if it had been a surgical instrument. The others laughed and exchanged knowing looks.

  One young lad looked longingly at the cigarette case, and when Lipotin held it out to him he became talkative.

  “He’s not quite right in the head, the old man. He pretends he’s the castle steward, but nobody takes him seriously, he’s just not quite right in the head. I think he’s a gardener or something like that
, at least he’s always digging up the ground. He’s not from hereabouts. And ancient. My grandfather knew him. Nobody knows where he came from. Ask him yourself.” The young workman suddenly dried up; the mattocks thumped into the earth again, once more the spades heaved clods of earth out of the ditch. Not another word could be got out of the workers.

  We set off for the keep, Lipotin in the lead. A door of rotten wood held together with rusty wrought iron bands guarded the entrance. When we pushed it open it screeched like some animal startled out of a deep sleep. A decrepit old oak staircase, that had clearly once been richly decorated with carvings, led up into a blackness barred with slanting strips of light falling from above.

  Lipotin squeezed through an arched entrance, whose massive wooden door was half off its hinges, into a kind of kitchen. We followed.

  I started:

  There in the skeleton of an armchair – there were still strips of leather hanging down – lay the corpse of a white-haired old man. On the broken stove was a cracked earthenware pot with a little pool of milk in the bottom. Next to it was a mouldy crust of bread.

  Suddenly the old man, whom I had assumed was dead, opened his eyes and stared at us.

  At first I thought my eyes must be deceiving me: the old man was dressed in rags which had buttons with a coat of arms on them and a few gold threads so that they looked like a livery from a former century; together with his yellow face as dried as a mummy’s this all suggested we were in the presence of a corpse, long since forgotten and decayed.