At first I could hardly conceal from the others the storm of contending ideas and feelings that all this set off within me; but I was also immediately aware that it was essential to do so. The last mists hiding the fate of my ancertor, John Dee, of my cousin, John Roger, and of myself, were blown away. A wild joy, a wild impatience, a haphazard – and therefore dangerous – bubbling up of all my thoughts, ideas and plans threatened to run away with my tongue, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I managed to preserve the mask of the polite visitor pretending to a lively interest in the fairy-tales of a past, superstitious age.
At the same time I was shocked by the expression of devilish malice on the Princess’ face when she spoke of the sadistic pleasure of the collector who experiences an almost sensual lust in keeping shut away in futile sterility an object which, if it were allowed to fulfil its purpose in the world, could play a decisive role in someone’s destiny, save their life or their soul. I found it loathsome that it was precisely the knowledge that such opportunities were being denied that added the real spice to the pleasure of collecting that the Princess had cynically revealed as her own: to find one’s highest pleasure in emasculating the virile power of fate, in killing the fruit in the womb of providence, in rendering infertile the fecund force of magic in the world!
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
