At the last stroke a plain wooden door opens. Wordlessly, a grey-haired servant invites us to enter. Stable boys suddenly appear to take our horses. We are standing in the long, cool hall of the Belvedere Palace. The stench of camphor is choking – the whole room is piled high with glass cases full of strange, exotic specimens: life-size models of savages in bizarre poses going about their bizarre business; weapons; gigantic animals; all kinds of implements; Chinese flags, Indian totem poles; an abundance of curiosities from the Old and the New World. – At a sign from our guide we stop beside the immense nightmare figure of a shaggy woodwight with a satanically grinning skull. Kelley’s bravura has withdrawn to the inmost recesses of his fur. He whispers some nonsense about evil spirits. – I have to smile at the mountebank who does not tremble at all before his own conscience, but cowers in fear at a stuffed gorilla.
But at that very same moment I feel my bowels gripped with a shock of fear as a black ghost floats soundlessly around the corner beyond the ape’s case and a scrawny figure faces us: yellow hands pulling a shabby black gown tight around him and fidgeting under the folds with a weapon – the outline of a short dagger is clear to see; a pale birdlike head lit by yellow eagle’s eyes: – the Emperor!
The thin, creased upper lip is drawn tight over the almost toothless gums but the heavy lower lip hangs slack and bluish over the firm chin. The beady predator’s eye surveys us. He remains silent.
I kneel – just a second too late, it seems. Then, however, as we kneel before him, heads bowed, he waves his hand dismissively:
“Stuff and nonsense. Stand up, if you call yourself honest men. Otherwise go to the devil and do not waste any more of my time.”
Such was the greeting of the Sublime Emperor.
I begin the speech that I had carefully composed long before. I have hardly mentioned the gracious intercession of my mighty Queen when the Emperor interrupts me impatiently:
“Let me see what you can do! My envoys bring me more than enough greetings from other rulers. You claim to possess the tincture?”
“More than that, Your Majesty.”
“What, more?!” Rudolf hisses. “Insolence will get you nowhere with me!”
“It is humility, not presumption, that leads us to take refuge in the wisdom of a High Adept ...”
“I know a little. Enough to warn you not to try to deceive me.”
“I seek only the truth, Your Majesty, not self-enrichment.”
“The truth?!” – a malicious smile flickers across the old man’s face – “I am not such a fool as Pilate to ask you, ‘What is truth?’ What I want to know is, have you the tincture?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Out with it!”
Kelley pushes to the front. He carries the white sphere from St. Dunstan’s grave in a leather bag hidden in the depths of his jerkin:
“If Your most gracious Majesty will only put us to the test!” – his obsequiousness is crude.
“Who is that? Your assistant, your medium, I presume?”
“My colleague and friend, Edward Kelley,” I answer, sensing a spurt of irritation within.
“A quack by trade, I see”, hisses the Emperor. The ancient, eagle eye, weary from having seen too much, scarcely acknowledges the apothecary. The latter grovels like a scolded urchin and is silent.
I try once more: “If Your Majesty would deign to hear me.”
Almost against expectation Rudolf signals to an old servant, who brings a hard folding stool. The Emperor sits down and, with a curt nod, gives me permission to continue.
“Your Majesty wants to know about the tincture for making gold. We have the tincture; but we have – and we are striving for – more; I hope to God that we are worthy of it.”
“What could be more than the philosopher’s stone?” – the Emperor snaps his fingers.
“Wisdom, Your Majesty!”
“Are you canting priests?”
“We seek to be worthy to be counted with Your Majesty amongst the adepts.”
“And what are you counting on?” The Emperor’s tone is mocking.
“On the Angel who commands us.”
“And what kind of Angel is that?”
“It is the Angel ... of the West Gate.”
The Emperor’s eye, that seems to see a world beyond ours, is hooded: “What does this Angel command you do?”
“The two-fold alchymy: the transmutation of mortal to immortal. The way of Elijah.”
“Do you mean to ride up to heaven in a fiery chariot like the old Jew? There was one who tried it before. He broke his neck.”
“The Angel teaches us no fairground tricks, Your Majesty. He teaches us how to preserve the body beyond the grave. I can supply the Imperial lodge of adepts with evidence and proof.”
“Is that all you can do?” – the Emperor seems to be falling asleep. Kelley is becoming impatient.
“We can do more. The stone that we possess can transmute any metal – – –”
The Emperor’s head shoots up: “Proof!”
Kelley pulls out his leather bag. “Your Lordship may command. I am ready.”
“Thou seemest a reckless knave, but of a quicker wit than thy companion!”
I choke back the rising indignation. The Emperor Rudolf is no adept! He wants to see gold made! The vision of the Angel and its gifts, the secret of incorruptibility mean nothing to him, indeed, are a mockery to him. Does he follow the way of the left hand? – – Then the Emperor suddenly says:
“First of all let a man change base metal into gold, that I can hold in my hand, then let him talk to me of angels. A schemer is touched by neither God nor the devil.”
I cannot say why, but his words cut me to the quick. With a swifter movement than would seem possible for such an aged, sickly figure, the Emperor sits up; the neck shoots forward, on it the eagle’s head jerks from side to side,
