“Who can teach me how to pray aright?”
“To pray aright ... the only man who can do that is one who was sacrificed at birth and made sacrifice ... a man who is not only circumcised but also knows that he is circumcised and knows the Name backwards and forwards.”
Anger spurts up within me; the Rabbi’s words tear open a hole and the old Jewish pride shines through. I cut him short:
“I will tell you, Rabbi: I am too old and too advanced in the teachings of the wise to have myself circumcised.”
An incomprehensible smile lights up the depths of the adept’s eyes.
“You do not want to let yourself be circumcised, your Honour! That is it! The wild apple tree does not want to let itself be pruned and what does it bear? Crab apples!”
I sense a hidden dimension beneath the Rabbi’s words. I have a vague feeling I am being offered a key, I only need to grasp it. But at the moment my irritation at the Jew’s proud speech has the upper hand. My reply is defiant:
“My prayer is not without direction. I may set the string askew, but an angel holds my bow and guides my arrow.”
The Rabbi looks up sharply:
“An angel? What kind of an angel is it?”
I describe the Angel of the West Window. I make a great effort to enable him to visualise the Green Angel that advises us and that has promised to reveal the formula to us the day after tomorrow.
Suddenly the Rabbi’s face dissolves into a wild laugh. Yes, a laugh; there is no better word for it and yet it is different from human laughter. It is like the agitated fluttering of the Egyptian ibis when it sees a poisonous snake nearby. Surrounded by the wild tangle of hair that dances up and down on the Rabbi’s birdlike head the tiny yellow face contracts until it is a star formed of myriad lines radiating from a round black hole that is laughing, laughing, laughing; one long yellow tooth wobbles grotesquely in the black cavern ... mad! is the thought that comes to me. – “Mad!”
Restlessness, an uncontrollable restlessness drives me up the castle steps. – Up here in the German quarter I am well known as the alchemist from England who has the freedom of the castle. My steps are always watched, but up here I can go where I like; I need the quiet alleys and tree-lined paths; I need seclusion, I need to keep away from Kelley, the bloodsucker that has attached itself to my soul. – – I lose my way in the maze of alleyways: I find myself standing before one of the houses glued to the wall of the fortress and above a gothic entrance I see a stone carving of Jesus at the well with the woman of Samaria. And on the trough is written:
Deus est spiritus. – Deus est spiritus – God is spirit. Yes, He is spirit, not gold! – Kelley wants gold, the Emperor wants gold. I want ... do I want gold, too? My wife had held my little son Arthur out towards me, saying: “How shall I feed your child when the purse is empty?” And I saw that the jewelry that she used to wear about her neck was no longer there. Jane had sold her own possessions, piece by piece, to save us from the debtor’s prison, from disgrace, from destruction.
Deus est spiritus. – I have prayed spiritually and corporeally. Have I shot my arrow into God’s ear? Is the Rabbi right? Is the Rabbi always to be found sitting at the well of eternal life to comfort the drawer of water, the weary soul? Gold will not flow, a prayer for gold will not fly. – Without thinking, I ask a woman coming out of the gate:
“What is it called here?” – I want to know the name of the street.
The woman, who saw where my eye was fixed, replies:
“At the sign of the Golden Fountain, sir”, and goes on her way.
I can see Emperor Rudolf in the Belvedere leaning against one of the tall glass cases in which an eskimo, wrapped up in furs and tied all round with leather belts to which rows of little bells are attached, is going about some business. The wax model with its slanting, oily glass eyes is holding, in hands that are far too small, a triangle and other, unknown implements. “A shaman,” a voice behind him says.
Beside Rudolf appears a tall man in a black cassock. He bows awkwardly, visibly reluctant to adopt a suitably respectful attitude before the Emperor. A red skull-cap reveals the cardinal. I realise immediately who it is: towering above the Emperor and with the corners of his mouth drawn up in a fixed smile is the Papal Legate, Cardinal Malaspina. The Cardinal is speaking calmly, impressing something on His Majesty; his lips open and close with the precision of a scallop shell. Gradually I start to pick up what he is saying:
“And so Your Majesty cannot avoid the accusation of the unthinking plebs that You shower Your favours on magicians and grant such who are suspected – justly suspected indeed – of being in league with the devil freedom of abode, and more, in Your Majesty’s most Catholic country.”
The eagle profile jerks forward:
“Stuff and nonsense! The Englishman can make gold, and making gold is a most natural art. You priests cannot stop the march of the human spirit; the more it uncovers of the profane secrets of nature, the greater reverence it shows for the sacred mysteries of God ...”
“ – and finally realises that all is grace,” the Cardinal finishes the sentence. The Emperor’s yellow eyes disappear completely behind the torpid leathern lids. There is the merest tremor of mockery perceptible on the heavy lower lip. The corners of the Cardinal’s fastidious lips rise even higher in consciousness of superiority:
“Whatever we think about making gold, this English gentleman
