As I go on my way, one street follows another in a natural progression; and yet I feel under some kind of compulsion. I feel as if it is all a dream and yet it is certainly not a dream; it is just the same for Johanna Fromm who can walk round Prague – – if she wishes.
Johanna Fromm? Who is that? My housekeeper, of course! How can I ask! Johanna Fromm is my housekeeper. – – But – – I am John Dee!? John Dee, who is on his way to visit Rabbi Low, the friend of Emperor Rudolf!
With that I am already in the Rabbi’s low, bare chamber and talking to him. The only furniture is a seat of woven straw and a deal table. Fairly high in the wall there is a tiny alcove in which the Rabbi is sitting – or rather half standing, half leaning, like the mummies in the catacombs – staring fixedly at the geometrical diagram of the “cabbalistic tree” drawn in chalk on the wall opposite. He scarcely looked down as I entered.
The Rabbi is bowed, though it is unclear whether it is with hoary age or the effect of the massive weight of the low, smoke-blackened beams of his house. He seems to be of gigantic stature. The yellow skin of his head is criss-crossed by a maze of wrinkles. His face is like that of a bird of prey and reminds one of the Emperor’s, only his head is much smaller, his profile more sharply hawk-like. The prophet’s face seems scarcely larger than my fist, hidden in a tangle of hair – impossible to say where that of the head ends and the beard begins. Deep-set, merry eyes glitter below heavy, bushy brows. The abnormally tall, incredibly slim body of the Rabbi is clad in a neat, clean black silk caftan. His shoulders are hunched, his hands and feet in constant, expressive movement, as is the custom with Jews of the Levant.
We talk of the tribulations of ignorant men seeking the divine mysteries and of the purpose of earthly life.
“We must force Heaven’s hand,” I say and remind the Rabbi of Jacob wrestling with the angel.
The Rabbi replies:
“Your Honour is right. The hand of God can be forced through prayer.”
“I am a Christian; I pray with my heart and with all the strength of my soul.”
“And for what, your Honour?”
“For the Stone!”
The rabbi slowly rocks his head from side to side, like a melancholy Egyptian marsh heron.
“Prayer has to be learned.”
“What do you mean, Rabbi?”
“Your Honour is praying for the Stone. That is right. The Stone is good. The main thing, however, is that your prayer strikes God’s ear.”
“How should it not?” I exclaim. “Do I pray without faith?”
“Faith?” the Rabbi rocks from side to side, “What use is faith to me without knowledge?”
“You are a Jew, Rabbi;” it slips out before I can stop it.
The Rabbi’s eyes glitter:
“A Yid. Truly spoken, your Honour. – Why then do you ask a Jew about the ... mysteries? Prayer, your Honour, is the same art the world over.”
“Certainly you speak the truth there, Rabbi,” I say, bowing to him, for I regret my cursed Christian pride.
The Rabbi laughs, but only with his eyes.
“The Goyim can shoot with the crossbow and the arquebus. An art it is, your shooting, a marvel it is how you aim and hit the mark. But can you pray as well? A marvel how seldom you aim ... true and hit the mark!”
“But Rabbi! A prayer is not a ball from a rifle barrel!”
“And why not, your Honour? A prayer is an arrow at God’s ear. If it strikes its target, then the prayer is heard. Every prayer is heard – must be heard, for prayer is irresistible ... if it hits.”
“And if it misses?”
“Then the prayer drops back down like a lost arrow, sometimes hits the wrong mark, falls on the ground like Onan’s seed or ... is caught by the ‘Other One’ and his servants. Then they answer the prayer ... after their own fashion!”
“By which ‘Other One’?” I ask, my heart filled with fear.
“By which ‘Other One’?” repeats the Rabbi. “By Him who ever watches between Above and Below. By the Angel Metraton, the Lord of a Thousand Faces ...”
I understand and tremble. What if my arrow fly not true?
The Rabbi’s gaze is on the far distance. He continues:
“One should not pray for the Stone without knowing what it signifies.”
“The Stone signifies the truth!”
“The truth –?” the Rabbi mocks just as the Emperor did. I imagine I will hear him continue, “I am not such a fool as Pilate ...” – But the high adept remains silent.
“What else can the Stone signify?” I press him, unsure in my heart.
“That cannot be learnt. It is something your Honour must feel, in your heart.”
“I know that to find the Stone one must look within oneself, but ... it must then be prepared externally and is called the elixir.”
“Beware, my son,” whispers the Rabbi, with a sudden change of tone towards me that freezes me to the marrow. “Beware when you pray and plead for the Stone! Mark well the arrow and the target and the shot! Beware that you do not receive the false Stone from a false shot! The rewards of prayer can be terrible.”
“Is it so difficult to pray aright?”
“Immensely difficult it is, your Honour. Your Honour is right. It is immensely difficult to
