Arrogance, lust, prodigal squandering of unaccustomed wealth, puffed-up self-importance, tawdry ostentation: like gaseous bubbles in a marshy pool, these are the things that rise to the surface from the depths of Kelley’s dark soul, released by the Angel’s gold. The man with the cut-off ears is a tolerable companion in times of poverty, a master at making do, a virtuoso of survival; but now, abundantly wealthy for the second time, there is no holding him in his gross debauched frenzy of prodigality. –
God does not want riches to be spread about the earth, for it is the abode of swine.
Whether I want to or not, I feel a compulsion to visit the narrow alleys of the Jewish quarter down by the Vltava, where the Rabbi mocked my belief in the Angel with his wild, crazed laughter, and, with his one yellow stump of a tooth, laughed me out of his chamber and out of all reverence for my cherished belief.
I am standing outside one of the tower-like gatehouses of the dark ghetto. I am unsure which road to take when a voice whispers to me from the blackness of the archway: “Over here! This is the road that will take you to your goal.” I follow the invisible guide.
In the dark entrance I am suddenly surrounded by a group of unknown men. Speaking in whispers, they shepherd me into a passageway, through an iron-studded door into a long, half-lit corridor where our feet send up clouds of dust from the rotten floorboards. The passage is lit from occasional apertures high up in the walls. Fear starts to crawl over my skin: I have fallen into a trap. – I stop: What do they want of me? The figures pushing me forward are masked and armed. One seems to be the leader. He lifts his mask. His face is that of an honest soldier.
He says, “By command of the Emperor.”
I shrink back.
“Arrested? Why? I remind you I am under the protection of the Queen of England!”
The officer shakes his head and points to the end of the corridor:
“There is no question of arrest, sir. The Emperor wishes to see you and has His reasons for keeping your visit a secret. Follow us.”
The corridor descends perceptibly. The last of the daylight disappears. The wooden planks under our feet give way to slimy, slippery mud. The walls beside me are rough-hewn, damp and give off a smell of decay. Suddenly we stop. My companions mutter amongst themselves. I start to prepare myself for a swift, cruel execution. I am beginning to suspect that we are in the underground passage which, popular rumour has it, runs from the Old Town, beneath the Vltava and up to the Castle. People whisper that when it was completed, all the workers who had dug it were drowned in the tunnel, so that they could not reveal the secret exits.
Then, suddenly, a torch flares up, several torches. In their light I can see that we are proceeding along a kind of mine gallery. From time to time massive beams support the arched roof that has been cut through the bare rock. From time to time there is a sound like a distant rumble of thunder somewhere above our heads. For a long, long time we make our way through the unbearably musty stench of the tunnel. Countless rats dart between our legs. Every step wakes strange crawling things from the rubble and cracks in the walls. Bats singe their fluttering wings on the smoky torches.
Finally the tunnel begins to rise again. In the distance a bluish light flickers. The torches are put out. When my eyes are adjusted to the darkness again I see that the men put them into iron rings let into the wall. Then I can feel wood under my feet again. The incline becomes steeper, sometimes there are steps. God knows where we are, where we will surface. But then the daylight reappears: “Halt!” Two men strain to lift an iron trapdoor. We climb out and find ourselves in a cramped, grubby kitchen: we emerge from the stove as from a well-shaft. It must be the dwelling of some menial, so tiny is the room and the door through which we go into a narrow hallway. Immediately I am pushed into another tiny chamber, which I enter alone. My escort disappears without a sound.
In front of me, in a huge winged armchair taking up half of the room is the Emperor, dressed just as he was when I saw him that first time in the Belvedere.
Beside him an open window full of gillyflowers is bathed in the warm gold of the afternoon sun. You might almost call it a cosy den. From the moment you enter it gives you a sense of comfort, pleasure and relaxation. Looking round, I almost have to laugh – it is the kind of room that ought to have a goldfinch singing in a cage – after my march through the gloomy, eerie tunnel under the Vltava where every stone seemed to whisper: Murder.
The Emperor greets me with a wordless nod and waves away my deep bow. He orders me to sit opposite him in an equally comfortable chair. I obey. The room is filled with silence. Outside the old trees rustle in the breeze. A glance out of the window only serves to increase my confusion: Where am I? That is no part of Prague that I know. Sheer cliffs rise up behind the treetops, that scarcely reach the window. We must be in a house in a gorge or mountain ravine? “The Stag Moat!” says an inner voice.
Slowly the Emperor sits up in his chair.
“I have had you brought here, Master Dee, because I have heard that you have had some success in making gold – unless you are the most cunning of tricksters, that is ...”
My silence says louder than words that I am above any insults from one who, by his
