The horror crackled over my head like St. Elmo’s fire. I heard a half-stifled cry from my own mouth, steadied my stumbling feet and turned my staring eyes to the door once more – my overwrought nerves must have played a trick on me: the servant, who was still there, was indeed tall and blond. A European, at any rate, a German servant amongst all the Asian riff-raff but, apart from a vague similarity it was, after all ... not ... my cousin, John Roger.
And then 1 saw something else. At first, because I was still recovering from the shock at the sight of the servant, I merely registered the fact that the black statue of the Thracian Isaïs was now holding in the curled fingers of its right hand the end of a spear. –
I took a couple of steps towards the altar and saw that the broken-off fragment of the shaft as well as the spearhead itself was made of black syenite – just as was the statue itself. Stone had merged with stone, it was all hewn from one block of stone, as if the attribute had never left the Goddess’ hand. It was only after I had made sure that I was not mistaken that I remembered – and the force of it was like a hammer-blow to the head – that earlier the clutching hand of the statue had been empty! How did the spearhead come to be in the stone fist?!
But there was no time for further reflection on the matter.
The servant’s announcement to which the Princess had given a gesture of acceptance concerned a visitor who was waiting outside. I heard Assja’s soft voice:
“What has made you so silent, my friend? For minutes now you have just been staring into space and not paying the least attention to my learned account of the Thracian cult. I flatter myself that I am as interesting a speaker as any German professor – and you fall asleep in the middle of my lecture?! Where are your manners, my friend?”
“I ... Did I ...?”
“Yes indeed! You fell fast asleep, my friend. I will try” – the Princess’ peals of laughter cascaded over me again – “I will try to salvage a little of my shattered pride by assuming your interest in the finer details of Thracian art and culture was merely feigned. Of course in that case all my scholarly efforts were in vain ...”
“I don’t know what to say, Princess,” I stammered, “I am confused ... please forgive me ... but I can’t have just imagined it ... the statue of the lion-headed Isis over there, for example ...” – beads of sweat were dripping from my forehead. I had to mop my brow with my handkerchief.
“Of course! It’s much too warm in here,” the Princess cried in her vivacious manner. “Forgive me, my dear, I’m just too fond of the heat. – In that case I’m sure you will be happy to go to another room to meet the visitor who has just been announced?”
I suppressed my startled question in order not to admit too openly that I had slept, but the Princess seemed to understand it all the same.
“It is Lipotin who is waiting in the other room. I hope you are not angry with me for not sending him away; he is a mutual acquaintance?”
Lipotin! Only now did I feel I had fully recovered my senses, my spiritual strength. I cannot find a better way of putting it than to say that I felt I had risen from the bottom of ... where was the greenish light that had filled the room a moment ago? – Behind where the Princess was reclining a heavy khilim rug had been half drawn back; she leapt up and opened a concealed window. Motes of golden dust danced in the warm afternoon sunshine.
As far as I could, I forced myself to ignore the storm of doubts, questions and self-accusation the events of the afternoon had raised and accompanied the Princess into the next room, where Lipotin was waiting. He came to meet us and greeted us warmly.
“I am eternally sorry, Madam”, he began, “to find I have disturbed you the first time you have received a visitor whom I know you have long expected in vain. But I am sure that anyone who has once seen these venerable rooms will not miss any opportunity to repeat the visit. My congratulations, sir!” Still suspicious, I tried – without success – to spot any glance or gesture of collusion between the two. In the clear light of this ordinary drawing room the Princess was quite the lady of the house greeting an old friend. Even her strikingly well-cut dress seemed to me, elegant as it was, no longer as unusual as before; I saw now that it was made from silk brocade – rare, it is true, but not supernatural.
With a swift smile the Princess took up Lipotin’s words:
“On the contrary, Lipotin, I am afraid our mutual friend has formed a most unfavourable impression of his hostess. Just imagine: I insisted on giving him a lecture – he fell asleep, of course!”
The conversation sparkled with laughter and teasing banter on all sides. The Princess insisted she had forgotten one of the first principles of female hospitality: she had forgotten – yes, really, forgotten – to have the coffee sent in! And all because she could not resist the opportunity to parade her own learning, which was, after all, only second-hand, in front of a connoisseur such as her guest. One should always remember to provide one’s audience – one’s victims – with a stimulant before lecturing at them. Amidst all the badinage I felt a blush spread over my face as I remembered the fantasies I had indulged in during the minutes when the lady of the house
