Rudolf drums with his knuckles against the glass case and mutters:
“Must I deliver up all fools and heathens to the Vatican dungeons and the bonfires lit by the arrogance of priests? The Holy Father knows me and knows what a zealous son and defender of the faith I am; he should not try to force me to be the henchman of his henchmen, who follow my every move. Things might go so far that I would have to sign the death warrant of Rudolf of Habsburg, Holy Roman Emperor with my own hand – for black magic.”
“Your Majesty determines the bounds in all secular matters. You are the judge and you are responsible before God for everything you think worthy of Rudolf of Habsburg ...”
“No insolence, priest!” hisses the Emperor.
Cardinal Malaspina sways back, like a snake before the talons of an eagle. His lips bear a pinched smile: “The servants of the Lord have learnt from their Master to accept mockery and taunts with the praise of God on their lips.”
“And treachery in their hearts!” adds the Emperor.
The Cardinal makes a slow, deep bow:
“Wherever possible we betray the darkness to the light, weakness to majesty, the deceiver to the just condemnation. John Dee and all his entourage are the products of the worst excesses of heresy. He bears the stigma of blasphemy, of the desecration of holy graves and of consorting with proven associates of the Devil. It would grieve the Holy Father in Rome if he found himself compelled to anticipate the secular arm and – at what cost to Imperial authority? – to bring the previous trial of this John Dee forma juris out into the open.”
The Emperor shoots a look of burning hatred at the Cardinal. He does not dare to lash out again with his beak. The eagle has lost the snake. With a hiss he draws his neck back into the darkness of his shoulders.
We are in the back room of our lodgings in Doctor Hajek’s house; I have my arms round Kelley’s neck and the tears are pouring down my cheeks:
“The Angel has saved us! The Angel be praised! The Angel has saved us!! –”
In his hands Kelley is holding the two halves of St. Deniol’s spheres; they are both newly filled to the rim with the precious red and grey powder. The Green Angel brought it, last night in a seance that Kelley held alone with Jane, without informing me. And now I hold the new riches in my trembling hands; but much more important: the Green Angel has kept his word! He has not deceived me; He heard my prayer at the Golden Fountain! – My prayers did not fall to the ground. My prayers struck God’s ear. They struck the heart of the Green Angel of the West Window! – O joy of certitude! – The way has not been in vain, it has not led me astray! In my hands I hold the testimony of the true covenant! -
Now the sufferings of the body are at an end. Now shall the sufferings of the soul and its longing be assuaged!
To my question as to the secret of the preparation of the Stone, Kelley replies that the Angel did not reveal it: the gift was sufficient for the present; trust and faith were justified. Another time the rest would be vouchsafed to us, according to our deserts. Watch and pray! God will grant to His own all that they ask for and all that they need.
Jane is beside us, pale and silent, the child in her arms.
I ask her how the glorious seance went. She looks at me, tired and distraught, and replies:
“I cannot say. I do not know. It was – dreadful ...” Astonished, I look across at Kelley: “What has happened to Jane?”
He hesitates. “The Angel appeared in unendurable fire.”
“The Lord God in the burning bush!” is the thought that comes to me, and filled with the warmth of love, I embrace my courageous wife.
The days are a procession of vague images, misty memories between waking and sleeping: throngs and banquets, receptions with the grandees, with nobles decked in rich brocade, diplomats in silk and satin, scholars in dark velvet; riding through the narrow streets of Prague, Kelley always at the head, scattering coins from an ever-open purse amongst the cheering, jostling multitude. We are the talk of Prague, a scandal, a seven-day wonder. The wildest rumours are brought even to our own ears. People assume we are incredibly rich Englishmen who are amusing themselves bamboozling the court and burghers of Prague by pretending to be adepts and alchemists. And that is the most harmless and good-willed of all the stories that are spread about us.
At night, after the glittering feasts and banquets, there are long, exhausting arguments with Kelley. Kelley tumbles into his bed, heavy with wine and the rich Bohemian cooking. I grasp him by the collar, unable to bear the repeated scenes of waste and senseless dissipation any longer, I shake my drunken companion and scream at him:
“You sot! Scum! London guttersnipe! Wake up! Come to your senses! How long do you think this can go on? The grey powder is used up. The red is half finished!”
“The Green ... gr ... een Angel’ll just have to come up with a second helping” – the reply
