“So: you can make gold. Good. I have long been seeking such as you; what are your conditions?”
I am silent; my eye does not leave the Emperor.
“Or: what do you want?”
“Your Majesty knows well that I, John Dee, Lord of the Manor of Gladhill, do not share the ambitions of mountebanks and alchymical charlatans, who look only to squander the gold the tincture brings them on dissipation. I came to seek counsel from an Imperial adept. – We seek the Stone of Transformation.”
Rudolf puts his head on one side. Now he really does look like an old golden eagle, his head cocked and looking – half awe-inspiring, half unspeakably comic and yet melancholy at the same time – resignedly at the sky, from which he is separated by iron bars. “The Lord of the Skies in Captivity” – the thought comes to me involuntarily.
Finally the Emperor replies:
“Heresy, Sir! – The charm that will transform us is in the hands of God’s Representative on earth; it is called: the Sacrament of Bread.”
It seems half threat, half mockery.
“The genuine Stone, Your Majesty – at least this is my supposition – has one thing in common with the host: neither of them is of corporeal substance.”
“Theology!” says Rudolf wearily.
“Alchymy!”
“Then the ‘Stone’ would have to be a magic injectum that transforms our blood,” murmurs the Emperor, thoughtfully.
“And why not, Your Majesty? Aurum potabile is but a drink that mingles with our blood.”
“You are a fool, Sir,” the Emperor interrupts me brusquely. “Beware that the stone you seek so fervently does not turn into a millstone round your neck!”
Why is it, that at these words from the Emperor, Rabbi Löw’s warnings about misdirected prayers suddenly flash in upon my mind? – – After a long pause, I answer:
“Wherefore whosoever shall eat this bread and drink this cup of the Lord, unworthily, shall be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord.”
Emperor Rudolf shoots out his neck. I can almost hear the beak snap:
“My advice is good, Sir: do as I do and eat and drink nothing that has not been tried by someone else beforehand. The world is full of deceit and poison. Do I know what is in the cup the priest sets at my lips? Could not the body of Our Lord ... dispatch me to Heaven? It would not be the first time – –! Green angels and black shepherds – they are all of the same satanic brood! – – I warn you, Sir!”
A shiver runs down my spine. I remember what people have whispered in my ear here and there, even on my way to Prague. I recall Doctor Hajek’s cautious hints: the Emperor is not always in his right mind, he is ... perhaps ... mad. –
A furtive, sideways glance momentarily meets mine.
“Once more, I warn you, Sir. If you want to transform yourself, transform yourself quickly, that is my advice. The Holy Office takes a keen interest in your ... transformation. It is doubtful, however, whether this interest is quite to your taste; nor whether I can protect you from the attentions of this charitable institution. You must realise: I am a lonely old man. My word does not count for much ...”
The eagle seems to be nodding off. What should I make of it? Rudolf, the Emperor, the most powerful man on earth, the monarch before whom princes, even princes of the Church, tremble, calls himself a weak old man. – – Is it a sham? Is it a trick?
His eyelids almost closed, the Emperor can still read my thoughts on my face. He clears his throat with a derisive cough:
“Become a king yourself, Sir. Your will find it brings nothing but travail. A man who has not found himself, a man who cannot grow a double head like the eagle of the House of Habsburg, should not grasp after crowns – whether they be crowns of this earth or spiritual crowns.”
The Emperor slumps back into his chair like one who has long since exhausted his strength. My head is in a whirl. How does this odd, puzzling old man in the faded chair opposite come to know my innermost secrets? How can he guess ...? And I remember Queen Elizabeth sometimes saying things which could not possibly have come from her mind; things that sounded as if they came from another realm, from one beyond the reach of her conscious mind. – And now: Emperor Rudolf, too! – What is the mystery of those who sit on thrones? Are they shadows of greater beings who wear the crowns “on the other side”? – – –
The Emperor sits up again.
“Tell me about your elixir.”
“If Your Majesty commands it I will hand it over.”
“Good. Tomorrow at the same time,” is the curt reply. “Tell no-one of our meeting today. It is to your own advantage.”
I bow silently and then hesitate. Have I been dismissed? It seems so. The emperor has fallen asleep. I turn to the low door, open it – and shrink back: on the threshold there is a sandy-coloured monster which rises up with a fearsome yawn. A demon from the underworld? A second, more composed glance does not lessen my terror: it is a massive lion, its green cat’s eyes fixed shortsightedly on me; its rough tongue rasps hungrily across its grinning lips.
As I retreat, step by step, the guardian of the threshold languidly moves its massive frame through the door. Now it raises its spine like a cat and now, so it seems, it is ready to pounce on me. I dare not make a sound. I am paralysed by mortal fear: that is no lion! The demonic face grinning out of a red mane ... the bared teeth – next will come a thunderous rumble of laughter; it is ... “The face of Bartlett Greene!” I want to shout, but my voice fails me ...
Then there is a
