She had. My watch said seven fifty-two.
I had been home for less than ten minutes.
All this happened yesterday evening precisely as I have recorded it on these pages. It seems that I am being drawn ever deeper into the hidden chain linking my life with the fate of John Dee, my ancestor. And now the “Green Glass” he spoke about in his diary is in my hand.
And where did I get the green mirror from?
It came from Lipotin’s junk shop; it was given to me as a “memento of his native land”. From which native land? From the land of the Russian Czar, of Ivan the Terrible? A gift from the great-grandson – how many times removed? – of Mascee, the “Tutor to the Czar”!?
But who was Mascee?
Nothing easier than to coolly, calmly look for the answer in John Dee’s notebooks: Mascee was the evil spirit behind the Ravenheads, the uprising of the mob; he it was who brought the messages and fatal gifts from the loathsome chief of the Ravenheads, from that desecrator of graves and murdering fire-raiser, Bartlett Greene, the spawn of Isaïs, the destroyer, the eternal tempter and arch-enemy, the redbeard in the leather jerkin – who was sitting here at my desk only yesterday! So Bartlett Greene is present, is here; the enemy of John Dee and now my enemy! And he it was – through Lipotin – who smuggled the green mirror into my possession.
But I will beware of the orders that come from the mirror. The strange thing is that the first person to come out of the mirror was my friend Theodor Gärtner. And he came as a friend, to give warning, to help! Should I doubt him? Is something trying to confuse me?
Oh, how I am abandoned, alone on this mountainous ridge of consciousness, wherever I look down there are precipices – on both sides – precipices of madness which threaten to engulf me, should I make the slightest false step.
Once more I am urged by a longing to immerse myself in John Dee’s papers, to gain from them a clearer insight, to wring from them confirmation of my own fate. This dangerous curiosity has grown, I can feel it, into an obsession, which I can no longer resist. It has become my destiny. I will not know peace until this destiny has fulfilled itself; the placid stream of my existence must mingle with the great river of my kindred that flowed underground, as it were, until it gushed forth at my feet and now bears me away – – –
I have made my arrangements accordingly.
For the next few days Frau Fromm has strict orders that I am not to be disturbed by any visitors. I am not expecting any friends; a recluse like myself has no friends. And the other visitors? Oh, how clearly can I sense them all waiting in the wings. I will deny them entry! Thank God, I already know what they want from me.
For that reason I also gave Frau Fromm particular orders that a Herr Lipotin, of such and such an appearance, is to be turned away. A lady, whatever her name – “Princess Shotokalungin” for example – is to be turned away.
It was odd, too: when I described the appearance and looks of the Princess to my new housekeeper, who is timid and strangely shy, she started to tremble noticeably and her pretty little nostrils twitched, as if she could already scent the undesirable visitor. She assured me with nervous emphasis that she would respect my wishes in every particular, that she would be most careful and take every step possible to ensure that no visitor should even get past the storm door.
She was so eager that I looked up and, thanking her briefly, for the first time looked more closely at my new companion. She is of middle height, with a delicate, girlish figure; and yet there is something in her eyes, in her being, that prevents me from describing her appearance as virginal or even as youthful. Her look is strangely old, veiled and distant. You feel as if it is constantly shying away from itself, or from the immediate environment, at which it is compelled to direct itself.
As I observed her, I was made uneasy by a vague sense of the vulnerability of my isolation such as I had felt in all its piercing sharpness for the first time yesterday evening; I was also reminded of how I was surrounded by strange beings and dark influences such as Bartlett Greene. As I thought of him I felt his terrible nearness and, like a worm in the fruit, a thought crawled its way into my mind: is this Frau Fromm another of these phantoms? Has a ghost hidden itself in this young woman and forced its way into my threatened existence in the guise of a housekeeper?
It may be that I looked at Frau Fromm, as she stood there in front of me, longer and with closer scrutiny than her reticent character could bear – she certainly blushed violently and once more started to tremble uncontrollably. And she gave me such an anxious look that I felt embarrassed when it occurred to me what she was probably thinking I had in mind. So I shook off all foolish thoughts and tried to erase the unfortunate impression as quickly as possible by scratching my head with calculated absent-mindedness, mumbling a few words about lack of time and need to be alone, and asking her once more to understand how important it was for me to be shielded from unwelcome distractions.
She looked past me, and said in an expressionless voice:
“Yes. That is why I have come.”
I found the answer puzzling. Again I seemed to feel “links”. I asked, more vehemently than I had intended:
“You had some purpose in taking this position? You know me?”
She shook her head gently:
“No, I know nothing about you. It is probably just chance that has brought
