The jangling of the doorbell interrupts my reading of John Dee’s papers. I open the door. A street urchin hands me a letter from Lipotin.
I dislike being disturbed when I am working and that made me commit what is almost a capital crime in our country: in my irritation I forgot to give the lad a tip. How can I make good my omission? Lipotin only occasionally sends me letters by messenger, but each time it is a different youth. Lipotin must have a wide acquaintance among the waifs and strays of the city. But to his note. Lipotin writes:
1st May. The Feast of St. Socius.
Michael Arangelovich is grateful for the doctor. He feels some relief.
A propos, I forgot to mention that he says you must place the silver box as precisely as possible along the line of the meridian and in such a way that the stylised Chinese wave pattern engraved along the lid runs parallel to the meridian.
What the point of all that is, I really cannot say; as he gave me the message for you, Michael Arangelovich started to cough blood once again and I could ask him no further details.
Clearly the silver box needs to be parallel to the meridian and feels most comfortable in that position. Humour it, if you can! If that sounds mad, then you must excuse me. Someone like myself, who has spent his whole life looking after old – I’m even tempted to write: elderly – things, knows something of their habits, and gets a feeling for the hidden needs and little idiosyncrasies of these pernickety objects. I like to make allowances for them!
I think I can hear you object that you would never find such considerate behaviour in Russia, neither today nor in the past. It is true that of course one maltreats people of no spiritual worth; but beautiful old objects are sensitive.
By the way, as I’m sure you know, the Chinese wave pattern on the Tula-ware box is the old Taoist symbol of infinity, in certain cases of eternity, even. That was just an idle thought that crossed my mind.
Your devoted servant,
Lipotin.
I threw Lipotin’s letter into the waste-paper basket. – –
Hmm. This “present” from the dying Baron Stroganoff is beginning to be a nuisance. I’ll have to dig out my compass and go to the trouble of determining the line of the meridian. I knew it! My desk is at an angle to the line. Respectable antique that it is, my desk has never been so presumptuous as to claim that it only feels comfortable standing along the line of the meridian.
How arrogant is everything that comes from the East. However, there it is, I have placed the Tula box along the meridian. So much for those who would claim that man is master of his fate! And what is the result of my compliance? Everything on my desk, the desk itself, indeed, the whole room with its familiar order – it all now feels lopsided. It seems that it is no longer I but this charming meridian that is in control – or the Tula-ware box. Everything is lopsided in relation to this blasted objet d’art from Asia! I sit lopsidedly at my lopsided desk and what do I see out of the window? The whole district has become “lopsided”.
It can’t go on like this; lack of order disturbs me. Either the box must disappear from my desk or – – – for goodness sake, I can’t rearrange my whole room just to bring it into line with this thing and its meridian!
I sit here staring at the silver sprite from Tula, and I sigh. By St. Patrick’s Purgatory, there is nothing for it; the box is “right”, it has “orientation”, whilst my desk, my room, my whole existence is haphazard, completely without any meaningful arrangement – and I had no idea until today! – – – But why do I torment myself like this?
I am becoming obsessed by the notion that I must immediately “reorientate” my whole flat around my desk. To escape it I quickly grasp the first of John Roger’s papers that comes to hand.
It is a set of notes and excerpts in his angular handwriting, entitled:
“St. Patrick’s Purgatory.”
What on earth is going on inside me that I should have used that oath – which I have never heard before – only a few minutes ago? It appeared on my lips without my having the slightest idea where it came from! But wait! A thought has just struck me; it was ... it is ... I flick furiously back through the manuscript on my desk: it’s there in John Dee’s diary, “John, I beseech thee by St. Patrick’s Purgatory, examine thy soul. Thou must repent thy ways, thou must be reborn in the spirit if thou value my companionship” – that was what John Dee said to his mirror image, “by St. Patrick’s Purgatory, examine thy soul!”
Strange. More than strange. Am I then John Dee’s mirror image? Or my own, even, gazing back at myself, neglected, grimy, befuddled with drink? Is one inebriated if – if one’s house is not – is not aligned to the meridian? I must be dreaming in broad daylight! The musty odour from John Roger’s bundle of papers must have befuddled my senses.
What is this St. Patrick’s Purgatory, then? I pick out a paper at random and – a shiver runs down my spine – in my hand I have the explanation. My cousin, John Roger, had copied out an old legend:
Before he set out on a journey from Scotland to Ireland the holy Bishop Patrick climbed a mountain to fast and to pray. He saw the land around and he saw that it was full of snakes and like poisonous creatures. And he raised his staff and commanded the vipers and creeping things that they withdraw, and they did so. Then came some men to mock him, and he
