“A stench of panther” – I told myself again. The Princess’ perfume tickled my senses. I passed my hand across my forehead to calm the rising turmoil and began to speak:
“My dear Princess, your visit, let me repeat, is most welcome. I am not lying when I say that, had you not come, I would have done myself the honour of visiting you.” – I deliberately took my time and paused to observe her. But all I saw was a coquettish Princess inclining her head to me in a dumb show of gratitude. I suddenly had the idea of trying to catch her off her guard, so I went on quickly:
“The reason is that I feel the need to tell you that I have come to understand what you want from me – that I understand your motives ...”
“But I am so glad about that!” exclaimed the Princess impulsively, “I am so extremely glad about that.”
With a great effort I remained impassive; I ignored her interjection, turned a cool, clear eye on her seductive smile and said:
“I know you.”
She nodded expectantly, eagerly, as if pleasantly surprised.
“You call yourself Princess Shotokalungin,” I continued, “you have – or had, it is immaterial – a palace in Yekaterinodar.”
Again an impatient nod.
“Have you not – or did you not once have – a castle in Scotland? Or somewhere in England?”
The Princess shook her head in bewilderment.
“What do you mean? My family has not the least connection with England.”
I gave a cold smile.
“Are you quite sure of that, Lady – – Sissy?”
Now it was my turn to pounce like a panther, and I was trembling with anticipation as to the result. But my fair adversary had herself under better control than I had expected. Visibly amused, she laughed in my face and said:
“How amusing! Am I so like some Englishwoman of your acquaintance? People usually tell me – it may be to flatter me, of course – that my face is most distinctive, and of a pure Circassian shape. Are these the features of a Scot?”
“Perhaps, dear Princess, the flattery of my poor cousin, John Roger, took that form,” – – actually I was going to address her as ‘noble Lady of the Black Cats’, but as I was about to say it I felt a strange resistance in my tongue and so left it unsaid – “but for my part I respectfully submit that your features are not so much Circassian as satanic. I hope you are not offended?”
The Princess almost toppled over backwards with amusement and her supple voice ran up and down the scales in laughter. Then she came to a halt, as if struck by a curious thought, and leant forward as she asked:
“But now I am eager to see where all these original compliments are leading, my friend.”
“Compliments?”
“But of course. Quite an unusual selection of compliments. An English lady! A satanic physiognomy! I would never have thought myself worthy of such fascinating comparisons.”
I tired of the verbal jousting. The tension within me snapped like an overtaut rope. I exploded:
“Enough, Princess, or however you wish to be addressed! Princess of Hell, certainly! I have told you that I know you, do you hear? That I know you! – Black Isaïs can change her dress and her name as she will, there is no mask that can deceive me – me, John Dee!” I leapt up: “You will not thwart the ‘Chymical Marriage’!”
The Princess slowly stood up; I was leaning forward on the desk, looking her steadfastly in the eyes.
But things did not happen as I had expected.
My hypnotic gaze did not exorcise the demon, force it to retreat and disappear in a cloud of smoke – or whatever in the heat of the moment I imagined its effect would be. Nothing of the sort happened; rather, the Princess measured me with an immensely imperious and dismissive stare, scarcely bothering to conceal her scorn, and said after a pause:
“I am not fully conversant with the peculiar ways in which people here behave towards us Russian refugees; for that reason I am a little uncertain as to whether your bizarre words are not the result of some mental derangement. At home, where manners often seem somewhat rough, a gentleman does not receive a lady when he has had too much to drink.”
It was like suddenly finding myself in a cold shower; I spluttered, unable to bring out a word. My face went bright red. Against my will the lifetime habit of politeness towards the opposite sex compelled me to stammer:
“I wish you could understand ...”
“Impertinences are always difficult to understand, sir.”
On a mad impulse I leant forward and grasped her slim hand that was pressed vigorously against the edge of the desk. I pulled it towards me, sensing the sinewy tautness of a hand used to reins and riding crop, and, as if craving pardon, put it to my lips. It was supple and of a normal temperature, with a hint of the exciting, animal perfume that surrounds the Princess; but there was nothing ghostly or demonic about it. The Princess withdrew her hand and raised it in a half-serious threat.
“I can find a better use for this hand than as a vehicle for worthless flattery from a moody cavalier,” she thundered; the gentle smack she gave me on the cheek was also of flesh and blood, even if the blood was blue.
I felt disappointed, empty, as if I had passed unresisted through the phantom of some imagined enemy, and was strangely lethargic after my vain attack on thin air. I became unsure of myself and completely confused. At the same time I could still feel the after-shock of an inexplicable emotion that was in some way connected with the
