The Angel of the West Window

empty promises to renew my faith, to strengthen my soul and persevere in belief and trust in His heavenly messengers and His Green Angel. And yet all the while I know this: a man may expect nothing in the spiritual world unless he possess the unshakeable calm and grandeur of soul of an Elijah or a Daniel in the lion’s den; how else shall he confront the temptation to feel God has forsaken him and there is naught but the gaping abyss before him? What justification have I to invoke the Other World and its shining messengers, miserable worm that I am? I, who am a prey to doubt and despair in spite of the most glorious revelations? I, who begin to feel hate instead of love for them, just because their promises remain unfulfilled? – Does not the Angel speak to me! Should I sink back into the company of the countless blind, unknowing human dwarves who do not even believe such things are possible, let alone have eyes to see their splendour? Has not the sight of the Angel been vouchsafed me a hundred times in his blazing majesty? In his unfathomable mercy did he not reveal to me at the very first meeting his perfect knowledge of all my sorrows, my heart’s unquenchable hopes and my soul’s most secret longings? – And did he not promise to satisfy them all? What more can I ask of the Eternal Being, fool and weakling that I am? Can I not see the signs everywhere around me that God’s power and the mysteries of the hidden world beyond are about to be placed in my hands – if only these hands did not tremble like an old man’s, enough to let the precious gift run through my fingers like sand. Is not sacrifice to the Lord, Christian communion and fervent prayer to the Giver of Life the be-all and end-all of our endeavours to keep the evil spirits away from our sittings? And each time does not an unearthly light, yes: light, announce the fiery messenger? Are not the most secret things made manifest? Does not Kelley speak in tongues, as did the Apostles of the Lord on the Day of Pentecost? I have long established through careful, nay, cunning, trial that Edward Kelley knows scarcely any of the Latin he speaks when the spirit is upon him – not to mention Greek and Hebrew, or even Aramaic! All his speech concerns the noble mysteries of perfection, and often it seems as if the great masters of the ancient world were speaking through the unconscious Kelley – Plato, King Solomon, Aristotle himself, Socrates and Pythagoras.

Greedy for knowledge though I am, I must not let myself be eaten up with impatience, nor despair because the operations that are necessary, according to Kelley’s instructions, to render the spirits visible and audible, are burning a deep hole in my purse. should I stint him when he brings costly ingredients from London at the command of the Green Angel which are necessary to test out the manufacture of the Stone, especially as the formulae in St. Dunstan’s book become darker and more mysterious the farther we progress in our study of it? A further matter is that my house in Mortlake has become a hostelry for many of my former companions, who pour in from all sides because Kelley’s boasting has spread the news of the success of our experiments. I no longer have the strength to put a stop to all this hustle and bustle; I let things take their course; my eyes are fixed on the Stone like a bird on a snake’s. Soon I will not be able to provide for my wife and child, since every day Kelley indulges himself more and more in wine and feasting. I had to give way to him when he demanded that we should use more and more of the red powder to make gold, and in anguish I watch the precious substance daily diminishing. Now all my effort is concentrated on uncovering the secrets of St. Dunstan’s book with the help of the Green Angel’s – dark, too dark – hints, before the “Red Lion” is completely used up.

In the meantime the rumours of necromancy, of nightly visitations and apparitions in my house, have spread far abroad and come to the ears of the court and Queen Elizabeth. Whilst all the marvels reap more mockery and scorn than scholarly interest from the Queen and her great nobles, the reaction of the superstitious rabble to my studies and their results is much more dangerous. The old suspicion that I am engaged in black magic and other satanic arts has been aroused once more and there is much muttering amongst the people. Old enemies scent new opportunities and seek to set in motion their old machinations against me – the much-honoured favourite of the Queen, now fallen into disgrace but still dangerous, the politician of uncertain influence but versed in the intrigues of the court. In short, all the old fears and jealousies of those I have humbled raise their hundred tongues against me and try to destroy me.

And whilst we here, behind closed doors, entreat heaven to lighten the darkness of our understanding, and search for the secret way that can raise men above themselves and free them from the curse of death and their animal nature, outside, beyond the walls of Mortlake Castle, the storms of hell are gathering and all are seeking to encompass my downfall.

Often, o my God, my heart is faint and my belief in my calling wavers. Can it then be true, the accusation that Gardner, the friend who left me in anger, once levelled against me when I contradicted him: that I wanted to grow a mighty oak before I had planted the acorn in the ground. If I knew where to find my friend, I would call him back and, like a child, lay my weary head