The Princess, as if by instinct – until that moment she could not have seen the dagger – turned round to face us. Until then she had stood apart, prodding the crumbling brickwork with her umbrella in bored irritation. In a most unladylike manner she pushed us aside and grabbed at the weapon, her collector’s lust brushing aside all considerations of politeness.
Like lightning the old madman withdrew his arm back to his chest.
A strange sound came from the Princess’ mouth. The only thing I can compare it to is the hissing of a cat facing up to battle. It all passed so quickly that a second later it seemed unreal. Then I heard the old man bleat:
“No, no; not for you, old ... old woman! There, take it young lady. The dagger is for you. I have been keeping it long enough for you. I knew that you would come.”
The Princess did not register the insult which the phrase “old woman” must have contained, especially as she could scarcely be much older than Jane. Perhaps she just ignored it. She stretched out her hand again and offered fabulous and ever increasing sums for the blade. I found the collector’s blind passion to possess the desired object highly amusing. I did not doubt for one second that the old pauper, mad as he was, would accept the offer, especially as such a sum must have been wealth beyond his wildest dreams. But the unexpected happened. What caused it I could not tell. Was it some other, weird spirit that had taken control of a soul that had lost its senses anyway, or did the old madman no longer have any idea of the meaning of riches? Whatever it was, he raised his eyes to the Princess and a horrible expression of insane hatred flickered across his features. Then he screamed at her, his shrill voice cracking:
“Not to you, old ... woman! Not to you, not for all your filthy lucre! Not for all the filthy lucre in the world. There, take it young lady! Quick! The old enemy is here! See her hissing and spitting, see her mouth gape. Grab it quickly! There ... there ... there ... take the dagger! Keep it safe. If the enemy should get it, then that is the end of my Lady, that is the end of the wedding, that is the end of me, poor unworldly gardener that I am. I have kept it until today. I have never betrayed my Lady. I have never told where I had it from. Go now, all of you, go now!”
Jane, as if hypnotised by the strange words, had taken hold of the dagger and with a quick twist of the wrist concealed it in her clothes, out of the reach of the Princess’ hawk-like swoop. My eye caught the dull, flinty gleam of the spear-shaped blade. Like a flash the thought went through my head: the blood-stone of Hywel Dda! The dagger of John Dee! – But there was no time to say it out loud. I looked at the Princess; she had herself under control again. Not a flicker betrayed what must have been going on inside her. I sensed the wild passions raging within, like tigers trying to tear down the bars of their cage.
Lipotin’s behaviour during the whole sequence of events had been bizarre. At first merely curious, at the sight of the dagger he seemed to go mad. “You’re making a mistake,” he had screamed at the old gardener, “a stupid mistake not to give it to the Princess. It’s not a dagger at all, it’s ...” The old man did not even glance at him.
Jane herself behaved in a way I did not understand either. I assumed she would fall into one of her trances, but no sign of it appeared in her eyes. Rather she gave the Princess the sweetest of smiles, even held out her hand to her and said:
“This trivial matter will bring us all the closer together, will it not, Assja Shotokalungin?”
What a way to talk to the Princess! What did Jane think she was doing? To my even greater astonishment, however, the normally so proud Russian aristocrat answered Jane’s rather sudden familiarity with a charming smile, threw her arms around her and kissed her. A sudden voice shouted inside me: Jane, keep hold of the dagger! I hoped she would sense what was in my mind, but, to my horror, she said to the Princess, “I will, of course, let you have the dagger when a suitably ... festive occasion presents itself.”
Not another word could be got out of the old man in his skeleton chair. He just went on chewing his crust of bread with his toothless gums as if he were completely alone. He seemed to have forgotten our presence. A disconcerting old fool.
It was not a talkative group that left the tower by the last light of the setting sun, whose rays were refracted into all the colours of the rainbow by the billowing steam-clouds from the geysers.
On the dark wooden stairs I gripped Jane’s hand and whispered to her:
“Are you really going to give the dagger to the Princess?”
She replied hesitantly; there was something I found alien in her voice:
“Why not, dearest? If she is so desperate for it?”
As we were preparing to drive down from the ruins I turned round for one last look; framed in the gate as in a massive proscenium arch I saw a spectacle I shall never forget: lit by the fiery red of the setting sun and surrounded by crumbling piles of masonry, the flowerbeds of Elsbethstein were a blaze of wild glory. A sudden gust of wind swept the clouds of mist from the geysers across the overgrown park and
