Lipotin, who not unnaturally could make no sense of the old man’s last reply, raised his eyebrows at us and was trying to think up some cunning, probing question, when abruptly the old man started to talk, hastily, almost as if driven by some machinery like an automaton. Some cogwheel must have been released, setting in motion a memory which whirred on of its own accord:
“Yes, yes; then I surfaced out of the green water. Yes, yes; rose straight up to the surface. And I walked, walked, walked until I heard of the Queen at Elsbethstein. Yes, I came here, thank God. I am a gardener, yes, yes. And I dug ... until ... thank God. And now I keep the garden tidy for the Queen, as I have been told. So that she will be glad when she comes, you understand? That is not difficult to understand, is it? Nobody should be surprised at that, should they?”
At these words an inexplicable tremor ran through me. I grasped Jane’s hand as if a squeeze from it could help protect or support me. Lipotin’s cynical features twisted themselves – or so it seemed to me, at least – into a fanatical expression of blind sadistic lust. He pressed the old man:
“And won’t you tell us who your lady is. Perhaps we can give you news of her.”
The old man shook his head violently, but his straggly-haired skull wobbled uncontrollably in all directions so that it was impossible to tell whether he intended to express agreement or disagreement. His hoarse croaking could have just as well been a denial as an outburst of mad laughter.
“My Lady? Who knows my Lady? You, I should think, Sir” – he turned to me and then to Jane – “you know her; and you, young lady, I am sure you know her very well, your face tells me that. Yes, your face tells me that. You ... you ...”
He wandered off into incomprehensible mutterings whilst his gaze bored into Jane’s eyes with the expression of one who is desperately trying to bring some memory back to mind.
Involuntarily she took a swift step towards the mad old gardener, or whatever he was, and immediately his trembling hand grasped at her dress, catching the coat hanging loosely round her shoulders. He clutched it fervently, and such a beatific expression came over his features that it seemed for a moment as if his brain had cleared. But the moment of clarity went as quickly as it had come and the expression of indescribable emptiness returned to his face.
I could see by the look on Jane’s face that she too was making every effort to awaken some memory that was sleeping in the inner depths, but with no greater success. I assume that she asked her question just to fill the embarrassing silence, so uncertain did her voice sound:
“Whom do you mean by your Lady, my friend? You are wrong if you think I know her. And I am sure this is the first time I have ever seen you, either.”
The old man kept shaking his head as he stammered:
“No, no, no; what are you saying! I’m not wrong. No, no, I know better – and you, young lady, you know ...,” he spoke swiftly and with a mysterious urgency and his gaze was directed into the empty air, as if that was where he saw Jane’s face, instead of right in front of him, “... you know: Queen Elsbeth rode out hunting for a husband when all thought she was dead. Queen Elsbeth drank of the water of life! I am waiting for her here ... they told me I have been waiting since ... I saw her ride off out of the West, where the water is green, to find her bridegroom. One day she will rise from the earth when the waters flow. She will rise from the green waters, just as I did, just as you have, young lady ... yes, yes, just as we all have ... . You know as well as I do: she is the enemy of the lady there! Yes, yes, I have heard all about it! We gardeners come across all sorts of things, hee, hee! when we are digging. Oh yes, I know, the enemy wants to obstruct Queen Elsbeth’s wedding. And that’s why I have to wait so long until I pick the bride’s posy. But that doesn’t matter. I can wait. I’m still young. And you are young too, young lady, and you know our enemy. Oh yes you do or I’m very much mistaken. No, no, I don’t make mistakes, not I, young lady.”
The sad encounter with the mad old gardener of Elsbethstein was beginning to become embarrassing. It was true that the old man’s confused ramblings did seem to make a kind of sense – at least to my prejudiced ears – that somehow fitted in with the mysterious and fantastic events I had been through. But what does one not see or hear as a secret revelation of the voice of nature when the heart is full and wants to hear?! The most likely explanation was that the old madman was weaving experiences of his own, which had engraved themselves on his mind, with the popular legends about Elsbethstein into a crazy, half real, half imaginary garland.
Suddenly, from one of the dark corners of the hearth, the old man took up an object which reflected the dying rays of the sun in a fiery glitter and held it out to Jane. Lipotin’s head shot forward like a vulture’s. A hot current coursed through my veins too:
In his claw-like fingers the old man held a dagger with a long handle. A noble example of the sword-smith’s art with a short, broad and obviously still dangerously sharp blade, it was of a metal unknown to me and a strange bluish-white in colour; the general shape was that of a spearhead. The haft seemed to
