Here the account of my ancestor, John Dee, broke off and I abandoned myself to brooding thoughts.
A stench of panther!
I have read somewhere that old things can be charged with a spell, a charm or a curse, which is passed on to anyone who brings such stuff into his house and occupies himself with it. You never know what you are letting yourself in for when you whistle to a stray poodle that happens to cross your path in the twilight. You feel sorry for it and bring it into the warm and before you know where you are, the devil is eyeing you from under the black, curly coat.
Is the same happening to me, the descendant of John Dee, as happened to Doctor Faust? Has John Roger’s legacy brought me within the ambit of an old enchantment. Have I awakened nameless powers that are lodged in these musty papers like beetle larvae in wood?
I am going to interrupt my work on John Dee’s morocco-bound notebook to examine what is happening to me. I must admit that I do so almost unwillingly. I am in the grip of a strange curiosity, a compulsion to continue reading my ancestor’s account of his experiences in prison. It is as if I were reading a novel: I am eager to read on and find out what Bloody Bishop Bonner did to his heretics and what Bartlett Greene meant when he shouted, “The panther comes!”
And yet for days I have had the feeling that in everything that concerns my cousin’s legacy I am – to put it bluntly – obeying a command. I am physically aware of my decision not to impose an order of my own on the strange life story of my English ancestor, right down to the tips of my fingers. As the Janus-head or, if you insist, “Baphomet” commanded me in my dream: I read and write whilst “he guides”. I hardly dare ask myself whether what happened a few moments ago is part of the “guidance”.
Since I started on the task of reconstructing John Dee’s conversation with Bartlett Greene scarcely an hour has passed. And yet I cannot say for sure whether certain sense impressions registered real physical manifestations or whether they were hallucinations, like a shadow event passing through my semi-consciousness. Above all, I wonder at the fact that my room suddenly smelled of panther, or rather, my nostrils were filled with the stench of beasts of prey and with my mind’s eye I saw the rows of cages behind the circus tent with the big cats pacing restlessly up and down.
I started as I heard a hurried knock at the study door.
My response was gruff and unwelcoming – I think I have already mentioned that I hate being disturbed whilst I am working – but the words were hardly out of my mouth before the door was thrust wide open. My housekeeper, whom I have trained in my little ways, stood there timidly, looking horrified, her face a silent plea for forgiveness; but immediately a figure swept imperiously past her, a tall, slender lady in a dark, shimmering dress.
How is it that I come to describe the ‘entrance’ of the lady in such an excessive way, even though she did give the impression of a certain imperious insouciance, of the assurance of one accustomed to giving orders. Written there on the paper, the phrases sound as if they come from the pen of a romantic lady novelist, but they are a fairly accurate description of the immediate impression this unknown lady made on me. A lady of the haut monde, indubitably. Her beautiful, pale face seemed to be straining forward on her neck, searching for something. She walked – she glided rather – past me, coming to a halt by the side of my desk. Her hand, like that of a blind person who has learnt to ‘see’ with his fingertips, groped along the edge of the desk-top, as if looking for support. Finally it came to a rest, and the woman’s whole body seemed to relax, supporting itself on the firmly clenched fist.
It was right next to the silver Tula-ware box.
Her inimitable, natural ease overcame the awkwardness, I might even say strangeness, of the situation with a smile and a few words of excuse, in which the Slav accent was unmistakable. She chatted a while and then posed a question which forced me to gather my confused thoughts:
“... . In brief, I have come to ask a favour. Will you grant it me?”
When an exceptionally beautiful woman deigns to put her pride and grace behind such a request, there is only one possible answer for a gentleman:
“If it lies within my power, then with the greatest pleasure, madam.”
I must have given some such answer, for she shot me a swift glance that was indescribably gentle and that seemed briefly to nestle up against me in passing, like a cat. And her next words vibrated with a slow, gentle, remarkably pleasant laugh:
“I thank you. Do not worry, my request is nothing out of the way. It is very simple. Its fulfilment is merely – a matter – of your – – willingness –” she hesitated.
I hurried to reassure her, “In that case, if you would just tell me – – –”. She immediately understood the meaning of my drawn-out pause and said, “But my card has been lying on your desk for –” again the agreeable, tripping laugh.
Puzzled, I followed the direction of her hand – a slim
