Suddenly a concealed door opens before our eyes.
A few seconds later we are standing in the Emperor’s tiny laboratory. It is well supplied with all kinds of equipment. The crucible sits over a well-stoked fire. Everything is soon made ready. With a practised hand the Emperor himself carries out the assistant’s tasks. With a gruff threat, he refuses any attempt to help. His suspicion is boundless. The meticulous precautions he takes would be the despair of any trickster. It is impossible to deceive the Emperor. Suddenly there is a faint clash of weapons. Behind the hidden door – I can sense it – lurks death. Rudolf deals summarily with any wandering mountebanks who dare to try and hoodwink him.
Kelley goes pale and looks at me for help. I can sense what is going through his mind: What if the powder fails now?! He is seized by the vagabond’s fear ...
Lead is bubbling in the crucible. Kelley unscrews the sphere, the Emperor keeping a suspicious eye on him. He touches the sphere; Kelley hesitates; the eagle’s beak strikes:
“I am no thief, pill-pedlar! Give it to me.”
Rudolf subjects the grey powder in the sphere to a long and searching examination. The mocking cast of his lips gradually relaxes; the bluish lower lip sags to his chin. The expression on the eagle’s face becomes thoughtful. Kelley indicates the dosage. The Emperor carries out every instruction precisely and conscientiously, like a well-trained laboratory assistant: he makes it a fair test.
The lead is liquid. Now the Emperor adds the tincture and the projection has been made according to the rules: the metal begins to froth. The Emperor pours the “Mother” into the cold bath. With his own hand he lifts the lump up to the light: there is a gleam of pure silver.
The leafy garden shimmers in the afternoon heat as Kelley and I ride through, exhilarated, almost cocky. Kelley jingles the silver chain that the Emperor put around his neck this morning. The words of the Emperor were: “Silver for silver; gold for gold, Doctor Quack. The next time will come the test whether you made the powder and whether you can make it again. The crown – note this well – is only for the adept: chains indicate ... chains.”
For the present we were dismissed from the Belvedere with this clear threat, but without seeing the armed guards.
From the window of Doctor Hajek’s house on the Old Town Ring where I am quartered with my wife and child I have the most marvellous view of the broad market-place, flanked on the right by the bizarre, jagged towers of the Tyn Church and on the left by the magnificent Town Hall of the defiant burghers. Here there is always a stream of Imperial messengers coming and going. If they are dressed in linen and velvet it means that the Lord of Hradcany Castle needs money; to borrow at a high daily rate of interest. If they come fully armed, it means His Majesty has decided to collect the stipulated sum direct, willy nilly. Relationships between the Habsburgs and Bohemia have always centred on money.
A strange group approaches: a messenger in silk, but followed by a company of armed riders. What trouble do they bring the Burgomaster? – What? Why is the troop not trotting across the square to the broad gate of the Town Hall? – It’s crossing the Ring, straight towards Doctor Hajek’s house!
The Emperor’s emissary, a Privy Councillor called Curtius is here. He demands that I hand over to the Emperor the “proofs”: the Angel’s gifts, my records of our seances, the book from St. Dunstan’s grave! I refuse in no uncertain terms:
“His Majesty refused my offer of proof. First of all he demanded I demonstrate my skill at making gold. Now he wants me to give him the recipe for preparing the Stone. His Majesty will understand that I cannot accede to his request without securities and guarantees.”
“The Emperor commands!” is the simple reply.
“I am sorry; but I must set conditions.”
“It is an order. You risk His Majesty’s displeasure.” – The sound of weapons echoes up from the stone hallway of the house.
“May I remind you that I am a subject of Her Britannic Majesty! The Emperor has a letter from the Queen.”
Curtius adopts a conciliatory tone. The swords and halberds outside are silent.
We haggle like tradesmen. When would I be prepared to hand them over?
“I repeat the request I have already made for a further audience with the Emperor; everything depends on that. I will only commit myself on the word of the Emperor in person.”
Councillor Curtius threatens, bargains, pleads. His reputation is at stake. He has promised to deliver the chicken drawn and trussed. Instead of a chicken he faces a growling wolf.
It is good that that coward Kelley is not here.
The half silken, half iron-clad deputation disappears round the corner of the Town Hall, past the celebrated astronomical clock.
Kelley appears, strutting across the ring, like a heron trying to take off. He comes from the direction of the alleyways where the brothels are. He flutters up the stairs and rushes in:
“The Emperor has invited us?”
“The Emperor has sent us an invitation to stay in the Dalibor tower! Or to dine with his bears in the moat: the flesh of adepts is their favourite food.”
Kelley pales.
“We are betrayed?”
“Not at all. The Emperor simply wants our ... documents.”
Kelley kicks at a chair, like an ill-bred schoolboy.
“Never! I would rather swallow St. Dunstan’s book, just as St. John the Apostle did on Patmos with the Book of Revelation.”
“And what is the situation regarding deciphering the book, Kelley?”
“The Angel has promised me an explanation of the key for the day after tomorrow.”
The day after tomorrow! ... O this eternal day after tomorrow! It sucks at my marrow and burns my brain.
I feel as if I am asleep.
And yet I am not asleep. I am walking through the old streets of the
