But it was just the same as the first time I tried to read in its darkly shining surfaces. The coal in my hand remained a lump of coal.
Then I remembered Lipotin and his incense. I leapt up and soon found the red sphere, but it was empty, completely empty and useless.
At the same moment I noticed the onyx bowl in which we had heated the incense. Had Jane, with the instinctive action of a housewife, cleaned it out? No, there was still a dark brown crust left by the magic drug. From that moment on there was no more calm reflection; it was as if I were acting under compulsion. I grasped the lamp and poured some spirit from it into the bowl. As it flared up the thought passed through my mind: Perhaps what I am doing is not so stupid – perhaps there is a little left ...
The flame soon died down. There was a tiny glowing ember amongst the ashes. A thin column of smoke rose up.
Quickly I leant over the bowl and breathed deeply. The smoke tasted even more acrid than before as I felt it spread down to my chest. Disgusting! Unbearable! Will it be possible for me on my own, without outside help, to cross the threshold of suffocation and reach the other side? Should I call Jane? Ask her to hold my head fast over the bowl, unwavering as I suffocate? The red-capped “Lipotin” did it with a grip of iron, but Jane?! Calling on all my reserves of strength and determination, I clenched my teeth against the upsurge of nausea ... “Do or Die!” – the watchword of my ancestors suddenly came back to me, the motto of the Dees!
Then the terrible shudders of the death throes. Scraps of thought course through my veins: it is like drowning in shallow water. – Do or die! – Suicide in a wash-basin ... only hysterical women can manage that, I once heard it said. Well done, hysterical women, then! I am only a man and it seemed damned difficult to me. Damned difficult ... aah! Help! Save me! ... There he is ... a long way off ... the red-capped monk, gigantic ... the Master of Initiation ... he doesn’t look at all like Lipotin ... he is raising his hand, his left hand ... he is going behind me ... all at once I plunge down into the realm of the dead.
When I staggered to my feet, the back of my head ringing with pain, the poison seeming to penetrate every fibre of my body, all that was left in the stinking bowl was ashes. I had to collect my scattered wits before I remembered what the purpose of it all was: I grabbed the coal scrying glass and stared at its polished surface. A feeling of calm came over me: for the second time, and all on my own, I had passed through the portals of death.
Then I saw myself sitting in a car going backwards, the boot first then the bonnet and the radiator, racing in ghostly silence along the river. On either side of me sat Jane and Assja Shotokalungin. Both were looking straight ahead; not an eyelid, not a muscle in their faces moved.
The ruins of Elsbethstein flew by. “The fountain of life,” I said to myself. Clouds of fine white steam rose from the courtyard. On top of the high tower stood the mad old gardener, waving at us. He waved his arm violently in a north-westerly direction and then pointed at himself, as if to say: First of all over there and then ... back to me.
“Damn,” whispered a voice inside me, “the old man doesn’t know I have returned to my true self, Doctor John Dee.” But if that’s the case, it occurred to me, how is it that Princess Assja Shotokalungin is sitting here beside me? I glanced at her. Next to me was – the dark bronze idol of the Thracian cult of Isaïs, holding the mirror and the spear and bending towards me, naked – naked and in an attitude that set all my senses on fire. My reason desperately tried to reassert its control: once more the Cat Goddess is trying to ensnare me in the tentacles of lust. Must I succumb, whether I want to or not? Am I no longer master of my own body? What is it that compels my mind’s eye to keep on seeing the Princess as she never appeared to me in the flesh. I refuse! I refuse! I refuse to share the fate of my cousin, John Roger.
The youthful goddess with the firm, glistening skin threw me an indescribable glance. It combined the unapproachable majesty of a goddess with the seductive accessibility of a woman: a slight, sensual tautening of the breasts, a voluptuous stretching of the limbs, profound contempt in her enigmatic expression, ruin glinting from the slits of her eyes, the stench of panther ...
The limousine has long since acquired a sharp-edged keel and dived down through a froth of green waves. We speed along through the green water, impossible to say how deep below us, how high above us it stretches, impossible to tell which way is up, which down.
Now there is nothing left of the green waters except a small circular lake which I am looking back at with great concentration. Like a tunnel entrance it gradually reduces in size amidst the deepest darkness.
Then I have the feeling of rising to the surface; of rising to the surface of a deep well-shaft surrounded by a parapet of white stone with immeasurable depths yawning below me. Above the edge of the well-shaft drifts the nebulous form of the bronze Thracian Isaïs. With a malevolent smile she points downwards with the broken-off spearhead. She holds the mirror aloft as she appears to sink. It is as if the tiny, circular green lake is gleaming at the bottom of the well.
Is it the Goddess herself who drew me here? Here? Where am I?
I have not fully formulated the question when a shock cuts through me. There, right in front of me in the semi-darkness – – Jane, my wife! I can see her troubled gaze. She is wearing a dress from the time of Queen Elizabeth and I know that she is the wife of John Dee – the John Dee who I am myself. It is the awesome well in the cellar of my host, Doctor Hajek, in Prague and she is about to throw herself into it. It is the night following the command of the Green Angel and I, with breaking heart but obedient to my oath, have had to hand over my wife Jane, my only love, to Edward Kelley, my blood brother, that he should enjoy – o what torment! – the same conjugal rights. It has broken her spirit.
No time to think about that. I jump up to pull Jane back, my old man’s knee gives way, I slip, scream, see the insane, dead look in the eyes of my beloved, my violated wife – and the blood freezes in my veins as I witness the terrible fall; the farewell of my despairing wife is something that can never be purged from my soul.
My mind is numb, as if my brain were dead. One thought penetrates to semi-consciousness: my heart is cut up into seventy-two pieces. The well-shaft, the awesome well-shaft! Paralysed, I sense rather than see the circular gleam of the mirror of Isaïs ...
With all sensation gone from my legs, I climb the ladder out of the cellar. Every rung groans: “alone ... alone ... alone ... alone ...” A head appears through the opening of the trapdoor: a distorted face, the face of a criminal at the gallows, the face of Kelley, the man with the cut-off ears.
My first thought is: he will take hold of me and push me down; he will throw me down the shaft to join Jane.
I do not care, indeed, I long for it. –
He does not move. He lets me finish my precipitous climb, lets me crawl out of the void onto firm ground. Step by step he backs away from me, as if from a ghost. The lust for revenge, which the miserable coward is so frightened of, has died within me.
He stammers something about coming to save her about women being over-excitable ...
In a toneless voice I say: “She is dead. She has gone down into the abyss to prepare the way for me. On the third day she will rise again to ascend into heaven and sit at the right hand of God, whence she will come to judge the murderers in this life and the next ...” then I hear the insane blasphemies my lips are repeating and am silent.
God will not – I think, but it’s a lame excuse – hold a soul in such distress responsible for these blasphemies. Would that I were already resting on ...
Kelley heaves a sigh of relief. Becomes bolder. Slides up to me cautiously and offers me his slimy condolences:
“Brother, her sacrifice – and yours – has not been in vain. The holy Green Angel ...”
I look across to Kelley, my eyes burning; the first pain I feel in my numb body is in my eyes. “The Angel!” I exclaim and a wild surge of hope fills me: has the promised Stone be
en granted? Then ... perhaps ... with God all things are possible ... miracles have occurred ... the daughter of Jairus rose from the dead. The Stone of Transformation can work miracles in the hand of one who uses it with the true faith! Jane?! Is she less than the daughter of Jairus? Aloud I cry: “Has the Angel brought the Stone?”
Kelley is all eagerness:
“No, no, not the Stone, not yet ...”
“The key to the book?”
“N-no, that neither. But red powder: gold, fresh gold. And he has promised more, much more ...”
A cry tears its way out of my tormented heart:
“Did I sell my wife for gold, thou cur?! Slug! Cheapjack!”
Kelley jumps back. I see my clenched fists drop limply to my sides. Nothing will obey me any more. I want my hands to murder, but they are paralysed. I cannot find the command that will compel them to obey. A laugh, bitter as gall, rattles my throat:
“No need to fear, thou of the cut-off ears; I will not kill my instrument ... I intend to question the Green Angel face to face.”
Kelley hastens to reassure me:
“Oh my brother, that is right; the holy Green Angel can do anything. If he so desires he can bring our ... no, no, I mean: your wife back from the dead.”
My body becomes an animal poised to pounce; I leap forward instinctively, without thinking. My hands grasp Kelley by the throat:
“Bring the Green Angel to me, villain! Bring him to face me and I will spare your life!”
Kelley sinks to his knees.
The picture dissolves into a kaleidoscope of blurred images rushing through my brain; every time I think I can grasp one, it dissolves into mist. Then the screen clears to reveal Kelley in costly garments trimmed with rich furs strutting proudly about the state apartments of Rosenberg’s Palace. He calls himself God’s ambassador who is chosen to bring the secret of the threefold transformation of mankind: not to the common mass, but to the chosen few. And from now on the divine mystery is to have an indestructible earthly temple; and Rudolf, the Holy Roman Emperor, and those of his paladins that are worthy will be the guardians of the new grail.
In a secret, secluded chamber of the Palace, Rosenberg leads Kelley by the hand towards the Emperor, who is awaiting the prophet in an ominously over-excited state.
I have been compelled to join in the solemn procession: Rudolf has commanded just the two of us and Rosenberg into his presence. Rosenberg falls to his knees before the Emperor and washes his hands with tears of joy.
“Your Majesty, the Angel has revealed himself to us; truly, he has revealed himself,” he sobs.
The Emperor can scarcely conceal his excitement. He clears his throat:
“If that is so, Rosenberg, then we will all bow down and worship him, for we have spent our whole lives waiting for the Lord.” – Then, darkly threatening, he turns to us:
“You are three, as were once the Wise Men who brought news of the birth of man’s salvation – and gifts: the one on his knees has brought me the news – may it bring him blessing: you other two wise men – where are the gifts you bring?”
Kelley rushes forward and merely sketches a bow:
“Here; this is the gift the Angel sends to His Majesty, Emperor Rudolf.”
He hands over to Rudolf a golden casket containing twice the amount of the red powder as we possessed when we first arrived in Prague.
Disappointment etches itself on the Emperor’s face; he accepts the casket reluctantly:
“That is a great gift. But it is not the truth I have so long yearned for. Any fool can make gold with it.” He turns his burning eyes on me. I am the ‘Wise Man’ from whom he expects the true, redeeming gift. I tremble with cold as I kneel down, for my hands and my heart are empty. But Kelley raises his voice once more, and his cocky self-assurance is remarkable:
“We have been commanded to hand over for Your Majesty’s inspection the scrying glass that the Angel granted from the storehouse of his grace to his servant, Doctor John Dee, on the night of his first calling. For all mysteries have their orders and ranks of initiation.”
I do not know where it came from, but suddenly the scrying glass, the polished coal of Bartlett Greene with its gold stand, is in my hand. Without a word, I present it to the Emperor. He reaches out for it with a hasty hand, examines it; his lower lip droops:
“What use is this?”
Kelley kneels and fixes his eyes on a spot between the Emperor’s eyes.
Rudolf, receiving no answer, turns with a frown of irritation back to the glistening surfaces of the black crystal. Kelley’s eyes seem to bore into the Emperor’s forehead. In his effort, the sweat drips unnoticed from his brow.
The Emperor sits as if spellbound, holding the glass in both hands. His pupils dilate, like a man in a trance. Suddenly: astonishment, a flutter of pity, anger, horror, trembling expectation, relief, triumph, proud exultation, a tired nod of the eagle’s head and then – – a tear!
A tear in the eye of Emperor Rudolf!
All these emotions follow each other in quick succession across the Emperor’s face. The tension amongst us is unbearable. Finally Rudolf says:
“I thank you, messengers of the world above. It is, indeed, a precious gift and one that gives satisfaction to a man whose head has been consecrated with the holy oil. For not every head that bears a crown in this world will bear it in the next. We will redouble Our endeavours.” The Emperor bows his proud head. I cannot control the sob that rises in my throat to see His Majesty humble himself before the seducer with the cut-off ears.
The people are crowding outside the Church of the Maltese Order in the narrow square in Prague known as the Square of the Grand Prior. The whole of the Malá Strana seems to be on its feet. Everywhere there is a glint of weapons and in the open windows of the palaces the costumes of the nobles watching the approaching spectacle glitter with jewels.
A stately procession leaves the Church of the Maltese Order.
Kelley, now a Bohemian Baron, has just been dubbed Paladin of the Holy Roman Empire by order of the Emperor at the altar of the ancient church.
The procession sets off, led by three heralds in yellow and black, two with long trumpets at their lips, the third bearing the Emperor’s parchment. At every street corner there are fanfares and a reading of the Emperor’s patent for the new baron, “Sir” Edward Kelley from England.
From the balconies and decorated oriel windows of the nobles’ palaces, curious faces look down, pale faces with proud, impenetrable expressions or moved by a flicker of scorn as they acknowledge the latest malicious jibe.
I watch the hubbub from a window of the Nostitz palace. My soul is enveloped in dark thoughts like thick November mists. In vain are all the compliments of Count Nostitz, who has invited me along with Doctor Hajek, about the true pride I have shown in my ancient line of nobility by refusing all such flummery titles, however exalted the hand that grants them. It is all one to me. My wife Jane has gone from me, lost in the green abyss ...
A new strange picture takes over: Rabbi Löw is standing in his favourite posture, his long body leaning against the wall with his fingers spread out behind him, in the tiny room in the Street of the Alchemists. Before him Emperor Rudolf is slumped in a chair; sleeping like a pet cat at his feet is the Barbary lion. The Rabbi and the Cat-King are the best of friends. I am sitting at the little window; outside the trees have almost lost their leaves. Looking down through the bare branches I can see two gigantic black bears peering up, their shaggy heads raised, noses aquiver above red, gaping jaws.
Rabbi Löw rocks back and forth against the wall; then, with a jerky movement, he pulls his hand out from behind his back. He grasps the coal scrying glass that the Emperor holds out to him and looks long and hard at the polished surface. Then he throws his head back so far that his bony Adam’s apple is visible beneath his white beard; his mouth is open in what seems to be a soundless laugh:
“In a mirror a man sees nothing but himself. He who wants to see will see
what he wants in the coal, for the life that was once within it has long since burnt out.”
The Emperor starts up:
“Do you mean the glass is a trick, my friend? I myself saw ...”
The old Jew does not move from the wall. He looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head:
“Is Rudolf a trick? Rudolf has been polished into majesty like a stone, polished hard so that he can reflect the history of the Holy Roman Empire. But neither the majesty nor the stone has any heart.”
My soul is cut to the quick. I look at the High Rabbi and feel the sacrificial knife at my throat ...
Need has been banished from Doctor Hajek’s hospitable house. Gold pours in from all sides. For the favour of being allowed to attend one of Kelley’s seances Rosenberg sends gift after gift, each one more magnificent, more costly than the last. The old count is prepared to sacrifice not only his goods but his whole life to the revelations of the new temple, to the “Lodge of the West Window”.
He has been allowed to accompany us down into Doctor Hajek’s cellar. –
The seance begins in the gloomy cellar. All is just as it was the previous time. Only Jane is missing. I feel as if I am suffocating, so tightly does expectation constrict my throat. Now the Angel must answer for the woman I sacrificed to it.
Rosenberg is trembling all over; he keeps on mumbling prayers to himself.
Kelley is in his seat. He falls into a trance.
Now he has gone. In his place a green glow announces the arrival of the Angel. Rosenberg prostrates himslf in awe before the vision. I can hear his choking sobs: “I have been found worthy ... I have b-been f-found ... worthy ...”
The sobs become a whimper. The Count lies in the dust, babbling like an old man in second childhood.
The Angel turns its icy eye on me. I want to speak, but my throat is dry. The sight is too much for me. I make a supreme effort; I pull all my strength together – once – and again – and again – – in vain! The stony stare paralyses me, paralyses me completely.
The Angel of the West Window Page 33