The Angel of the West Window Page 21

  I can feel the promise burning down on my head – and the curse. I know what is necessary and I am ready. I have learnt much, John Dee, from the books you wrote to refresh your own memory, and I assure you, noble spirit of my blood, that the memory is still fresh! – Your goal is in good hands, John, and it is the decision of my own free will that you are me! – – –

  Bartlett Greene could hardly wait for me to awake to myself! Not long ago he was here, standing behind my desk, in the belief that the mystical union between myself and his prey, John Dee, was already consummated. That was foolish, Bartlett Greene. You sought evil and worked for good, just as you devils of the left hand always do. You only speeded up my awakening, Bartlett Greene, you opened my eyes and sharpened them to the wiles of your ancient mistress from Scotland and to the abyss of the black cosmos. I welcome you, Lady of the Cat, always the same in your many guises! – Black Isaïs, Sissy, Princess Assja Shotokalungin. I know you. I have followed your way through timelessness from the moment you became a succubus feeding off my unfortunate ancestor until the day you sat here and demanded the spearhead of me. Behind her demand was a magic suggestion which I did not understand because it remained hidden from me. She cannot destroy the woman still sleeping within me, the royal “Elizabeth”, because the magic future cannot be harmed as long as it has not become present, but she desires to take possession of the active male principle in me, and so to foil the coming “Chymical Marriage”! There will come a final reckoning between us!

  Friend Lipotin offered his services before I could understand him. He called himself a descendant of the “Tutor to the Czar”. He called himself, if only implicitly, Mascee. So be it; for the meantime I will believe him.

  And what of my drowned friend Gärtner? I will ask the green glass, Lipotin’s present here in front of me, and I know that Theodor Gärtner will step out from the mirror with a smile on his face, light himself a cigar, lean back comfortably in his chair and say, “Don’t you know me any more, John, old friend? Me, your friend Gardner, your assistant? Who warned you? Who unfortunately warned you in vain? But we know each other now, don’t we, and this time you will listen to my advice?!”

  The only one missing is Edward Kelley, the charlatan with the cut off ears, the seducer, the medium: the man from John Dee’s age who in our century has become a cancer that has multiplied a thousand times and grows and grows, even though it has no self any more. The medium! The bridge to the beyond and to Black Isaïs!

  I am curious to see when this Kelley will bow his way into my life so that I can tear the mask of time from his face! – I am ready for anything, Kelley, whether you appear as a ghost in true spiritualist manner or as a vagrant prophet preaching in the street outside.

  And that leaves: Elizabeth. – – –

  I must admit that I am seized with a fit of trembling which makes it impossible for me to write down the thoughts beginning to surface in my mind. My brain is in turmoil. However hard I try, all my thoughts, all my ideas disappear into a swirl of mist when my mind turns to “Elizabeth”. – –

  That was the point I had reached in my reflections – reflections part confident, part despairing – when I was surprised by the sound of a violent altercation, which started out by the front door and grew louder as it approached my room.

  Then I recognised the two competing voices: the brusque and imperious exclamations of Princess Shotokalungin, falling like whip-cracks, and the gentler but no less obstinate tones of my housekeeper, Frau Fromm, who was conscientiously obeying my orders.

  I leapt up: the Princess in my apartment! The Princess who only recently had sent a message through Lipotin that she was expecting me to return her visit. ‘Princess Shotokalungin’! – what am I saying? No: the demon of the gruesome rite of ‘Taghairm’, the enemy from the very beginning, the ‘Lady Sissy’ of my cousin, John Roger, the woman of the waning moon; she is coming back onto the attack.

  A wild joy surged through my veins, setting each nerve-end alight: welcome, welcome, you come to the ignominy of defeat, ghost-woman! – I am in the mood – I am ready! -

  And with a few quick steps I was at the door; I pulled it open and called out, making the reproach in my voice as mild and friendly as possible:

  “It’s all right, Frau Fromm! You can let the lady enter. I’ve changed my mind. I’m quite happy to receive her. – Do come in!”

  Frau Fromm shrank back as the Princess swished past her towards me, breathing deeply and audibly as she turned her irritation into a gently mocking greeting:

  “I am quite astonished, my dear friend, to find you living in such strict retirement! But penitent or saint, I still think you can make an exception for a friend who has been longing to see you. Don’t you agree?”

  Frau Fromm was still leaning against the wall, glassy eyed and scarcely breathing – some inner chill sent repeated tremors through her body; I signalled to her that all was well and with a wave of the hand invited the Princess into my study. Just as I was closing the door behind me I saw Frau Fromm raise her hands towards me with a sudden movement. I nodded to her again, with a smile that said she was not to worry.

  Then I was sitting opposite Princess Shotokalungin.

  She bubbled with charming reproaches: I must have misunderstood her determination the last time we had met and avoided her for that reason and that would be why I had not kept my promise to visit her. It was difficult to get a word in. I brushed aside her flattery with a brusque but still just polite wave of the hand. For a moment silence reigned in the room.

  “A stench of panther” – I told myself again. The Princess’ perfume tickled my senses. I passed my hand across my forehead to calm the rising turmoil and began to speak:

  “My dear Princess, your visit, let me repeat, is most welcome. I am not lying when I say that, had you not come, I would have done myself the honour of visiting you.” – I deliberately took my time and paused to observe her. But all I saw was a coquettish Princess inclining her head to me in a dumb show of gratitude. I suddenly had the idea of trying to catch her off her guard, so I went on quickly:

  “The reason is that I feel the need to tell you that I have come to understand what you want from me – that I understand your motives ...”

  “But I am so glad about that!” exclaimed the Princess impulsively, “I am so extremely glad about that.”

  With a great effort I remained impassive; I ignored her interjection, turned a cool, clear eye on her seductive smile and said:

  “I know you.”

  She nodded expectantly, eagerly, as if pleasantly surprised.

  “You call yourself Princess Shotokalungin,” I continued, “you have – or had, it is immaterial – a palace in Yekaterinodar.”

  Again an impatient nod.

  “Have you not – or did you not once have – a castle in Scotland? Or somewhere in England?”

  The Princess shook her head in bewilderment.

  “What do you mean? My family has not the least connection with England.”

  I gave a cold smile.

  “Are you quite sure of that, Lady – – Sissy?”

  Now it was my turn to pounce like a panther, and I was trembling with anticipation as to the result. But my fair adversary had herself under better control than I had expected. Visibly amused, she laughed in my face and said:

  “How amusing! Am I so like some Englishwoman of your acquaintance? People usually tell me – it may be to flatter me, of course – that my face is most distinctive, and of a pure Circassian shape. Are these the features of a Scot?”

  “Perhaps, dear Princess, the flattery of my poor cousin, John Roger, took that form,” – – actually I was going to address her as ‘noble Lady of the Black Cats’, but as I was about to say it I felt a strange resistance in my tongue and so left it unsaid – “but for my part I respectfully submit that your features are not so much Circassian as satanic. I hope you are not offended?”

  The Princess almost toppled over backwards with amusement and
her supple voice ran up and down the scales in laughter. Then she came to a halt, as if struck by a curious thought, and leant forward as she asked:

  “But now I am eager to see where all these original compliments are leading, my friend.”

  “Compliments?”

  “But of course. Quite an unusual selection of compliments. An English lady! A satanic physiognomy! I would never have thought myself worthy of such fascinating comparisons.”

  I tired of the verbal jousting. The tension within me snapped like an overtaut rope. I exploded:

  “Enough, Princess, or however you wish to be addressed! Princess of Hell, certainly! I have told you that I know you, do you hear? That I know you! – Black Isaïs can change her dress and her name as she will, there is no mask that can deceive me – me, John Dee!” I leapt up: “You will not thwart the ‘Chymical Marriage’!”

  The Princess slowly stood up; I was leaning forward on the desk, looking her steadfastly in the eyes.

  But things did not happen as I had expected.

  My hypnotic gaze did not exorcise the demon, force it to retreat and disappear in a cloud of smoke – or whatever in the heat of the moment I imagined its effect would be. Nothing of the sort happened; rather, the Princess measured me with an immensely imperious and dismissive stare, scarcely bothering to conceal her scorn, and said after a pause:

  “I am not fully conversant with the peculiar ways in which people here behave towards us Russian refugees; for that reason I am a little uncertain as to whether your bizarre words are not the result of some mental derangement. At home, where manners often seem somewhat rough, a gentleman does not receive a lady when he has had too much to drink.”

  It was like suddenly finding myself in a cold shower; I spluttered, unable to bring out a word. My face went bright red. Against my will the lifetime habit of politeness towards the opposite sex compelled me to stammer:

  “I wish you could understand ...”

  “Impertinences are always difficult to understand, sir.”

  On a mad impulse I leant forward and grasped her slim hand that was pressed vigorously against the edge of the desk. I pulled it towards me, sensing the sinewy tautness of a hand used to reins and riding crop, and, as if craving pardon, put it to my lips. It was supple and of a normal temperature, with a hint of the exciting, animal perfume that surrounds the Princess; but there was nothing ghostly or demonic about it. The Princess withdrew her hand and raised it in a half-serious threat.

  “I can find a better use for this hand than as a vehicle for worthless flattery from a moody cavalier,” she thundered; the gentle smack she gave me on the cheek was also of flesh and blood, even if the blood was blue.

  I felt disappointed, empty, as if I had passed unresisted through the phantom of some imagined enemy, and was strangely lethargic after my vain attack on thin air. I became unsure of myself and completely confused. At the same time I could still feel the after-shock of an inexplicable emotion that was in some way connected with the contact between my lips and the back of the Princess’ hand. A frisson composed of mysterious attraction and sudden fear. My skin crawled at the thought that I had offended a nature so much more delicate, more noble than mine. All at once I felt incredibly foolish, could no longer understand my earlier suspicion – it was an overreaction, almost deranged – could no longer understand myself. I must have cut such a sorry, comical figure in this sudden fit of bewilderment that the Princess gave a short, mocking laugh, which was not without a hint of pity, looked me up and down and said:

  “Touchée, mon ami; I’ve been punished for my forwardness, I see, and now the scores are even I think the best thing would be to call it a day.”

  She made her intention clear with a quick movement in the direction of the door. – I awoke from my daze:

  “No, Princess, I beseech you, do not go! Do not leave in anger! Allow me to correct your opinion of me, of my manners!”

  “My dear friend, it’s only a minor case of hurt pride,” – she laughed as she continued towards the door – “it will pass. Goodbye!”

  I could contain myself no longer.

  “Grant me just a few seconds, Princess, to tell you how foolish I have been – not in my right mind – a complete idiot! But ... you realise, I’m sure, that I’m not a drunkard or a boor. – You don’t know what I have been through these last few hours ... what I have been faced with ... what my brain has had to deal with ...”

  “Just as I thought,” answered the Princess, with genuine sympathy and not a hint of mockery. “It’s quite true what everyone says about German poets; they fill their heads with otherworldly thoughts and incomprehensible fantasies! You ought to get out in the fresh air more, my dear; travel, it will take your mind off them.”

  “It has just been most painfully brought home to me how right you are, Princess,” I answered, and I could hardly control my tongue any more. “There is a piece of writing which is threatening to get out of hand somewhat. I would consider myself fortunate if you would allow me to use my first break from it to pay a call on you – Lipotin suggested you would be happy to receive such a visit – and seek your forgiveness for my behaviour today.”

  The Princess, her hand on the door-knob, turned and gave me a long look; she seemed to hesitate for a moment then gave an amused sigh, which yet managed to sound like the yawn of a big cat, and said:

  “If you insist, that’s agreed, then. But I hope you realise you will be expected to make amends ...”

  She gave me a mocking nod and in a moment had slipped out, forestalling any further attempt to hold her up. The door shut in my face and by the time I had gathered my wits, it was too late. A car horn sounded in the street outside.

  I pulled up the window and watched the car disappear.

  If nowadays the dreaded cat-demon of Bartlett Greene, or some Scottish she-devil, insists on paying her calls in a magnificent Lincoln limousine, I asked myself in self-mockery, how can one not fall for her satanic wiles?

  Deep in thought, I closed the window and turned round to find Frau Fromm by the desk where only minutes before the Princess had been standing. In the first moment I felt a shock of horror, for I did not recognise her until I took a step towards her, so changed did both her posture and her expression seem. She stood there, silent and motionless, her features drawn but steadfastly observing my every move, fear in her eyes as she tried to read the expression on my face.

  I quickly suppressed my surprise at her action, remembering my own contradictory orders and feeling instead a little ashamed – though I could not really say why – in the presence of this strangely agreeable young woman whose very presence seemed to purify the air. I rubbed my hand over my face: there was still a faint, provocative hint of the Princess’ perfume, the scent of a wild beast, on my skin.

  I tried to make a joke of it all to Frau Fromm:

  “You’re probably somewhat puzzled by my sudden change of mind, Frau Fromm. You mustn’t mind; it’s my work, you see,” and I gestured towards my desk, a gesture which she followed with exaggerated precision. “An idea that just came to me meant that, unexpectedly, the Lady’s visit was welcome. I’m sure you understand?”

  “Of course I understand.”

  “Well, then, you can see it was not mere caprice ...”

  “The only thing I can see is that you are in great danger.”

  “But Frau Fromm!” I laughed – a somewhat forced laugh, embarrassed by the harsh tone of my housekeeper’s voice. “However did you come you to such strange fancies?”

  “It is not a fancy, sir. It is a matter of life and death for you.”

  Had Frau Fromm had one of her “visions”? Did she have second sight? I went up to her. Her eyes followed me closely and stood up to my gaze. That was not the expression of a woman in a half-trance. I tried to recapture my light tone:

  “What on earth could make you think that, Frau Fromm? The lady – she is, by the way, a Princess Shotokalungin, a Russian refugee from the Caucasus and, I am
sure, suffering the same deprivations as all those persecuted and driven out by the Bolsheviks – the lady need not trouble you; our relationship is not one which – which –”

  “– which you are in control of, sir.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Because you don’t know her!”

  “Do you know the Princess?”

  “I know her!”

  “You ... know Princess Shotokalungin?! That is certainly very interesting.”

  “I – I don’t know her personally.”

  “But –?”

  “I know her ... over there. – The place where it is green when I am there. – Not when the light is bright, as it usually is ...”

  “I don’t quite understand, Frau Fromm. What is green – over there?”

  “I call it the green land. Sometimes I am there. It is as if it were under water and my breathing stops when I am there. It is far below the surface, in the depths of the sea, and everything seems steeped in a greenish light.”

  The Green Land!!! I heard my own voice as if from very far away. The words overwhelmed me with the force of a tidal wave. I stood in a daze, just repeating, “The Green Land!” –

  “Nothing good comes from it; I know that when I am there,” continued Frau Fromm, without changing the almost indifferent, yet strangely harsh and threatening tone of her voice, which still contained a tremor of shyness and repressed fear.

  I shook myself out of my daze and asked with observant concern, like a doctor:

  “Tell me, what has this ‘Green Land’ that you keep on ‘visiting’ to do with Princess Shotokalungin?”

  “She has another name there.”

  The tension was almost unbearable.

  “What name?!”

  Frau Fromm faltered, looked at me absentmindedly, hesitated:

  “I ... I don’t know.”

  “Think, think hard!” – I almost screamed.