The Angel of the West Window

him to transport my soul, but he refused; it would collapse, he said, if he were to do that; it had to cling to his, which had been detached from the earthly body. – How those words made me think of the silver shoe of Bartlett Greene. – Then the Rabbi touched me on the collar-bone – just as the outlaw in the Tower did. And now I can see, can see with the calm, tearless, imperturbable eyes of the old Rabbi: my wife kneeling before Kelley in our chamber at the house on the Ring. She is resisting him, struggling to save my happiness, she thinks, to save the gold and the Angel. Kelley wants to break open the chest and take the book and the spheres, he has an iron bar because the keys are in my keeping. He wants to take his booty and flee from Prague like a thief in the night and leave us in wretched misery. Jane puts her body between him and the chest. She tries to reason with the knave, she pleads with him ... she does not know what she is inviting.

And I ... smile!

Kelley uses every kind of argument. Crude threats alternate with cunning ploys, cold calculation with feigned pity. He makes conditions. Jane agrees to everything. Ever more lustful glances play over the body of my wife. As she kneels before him the kerchief slips to reveal her bosom. Kelley checks her hand. He looks down at her. Desire burns in his cheeks.

And I ... smile.

Kelley raises Jane up. His hands grasp lasciviously, shamelessly. Jane protests, but weakly: her fears for my well-being sap all her strength.

And I ... smile.

Kelley finally agrees: everything that is to be done shall be done according to the orders of the Green Angel. He makes Jane swear that she – like him – will obey the commandment of the Green Angel to death and beyond, whatever He may command. That is, so he says, the only course of salvation. – Jane swears, fear draining the blood from her cheeks.

And I ... smile; but I can feel a tiny point of pain, as of a razor-sharp blade, cutting through the living artery. It is almost like the thrill of death ...

Then, as if I am hovering in the air, I see before me again the furrows of the Rabbi’s ancient, tiny child’s face. He says:

“Isaac, God’s knife was set at thy throat, but the lamb that shall be offered up in thy stead is caught in the thornbush. If ever thou accept a sacrifice, be merciful as ‘He’ was; be merciful like the God of my fathers.”

Darkness glides over me like a wave of moonless nights and I feel the memory of what I have seen with the eyes of the Rabbi’s soul fade and disappear. It seems no more than a bad dream.

In front of me rise wooded hills. I am standing wearily on a rocky ledge, wrapped in my travelling cloak, shivering. A cold dawn is breaking. My guide for the night, some charcoal burner, some woodlander, has abandoned me. I must climb up to where a patch of grey wall is visible through the leafless trees and swirling mists. Now the massive fortress becomes visible: a castle doubly ringed by battlemented ramparts, a long, narrow hall and, jutting out above the sheer rock, the gatehouse; behind it is a low, squat tower with the Habsburg double eagle whirling above it as a huge weathercock. Even higher up, beyond a flower garden, is a huge, angular tower, six stories tall, with windows like the lights of a high, gothic church. A tower, half an impregnable stronghold, half a cathedral containing holy relics: Karluv Tyn – Karlštejn Castle – the charcoal burner called it; the treasury of the Holy Roman Empire; venerable repository and feared custodian of the Imperial jewels.

I descend the narrow path down the cliff. Over there Emperor Rudolf is waiting for me. He sent for me at dead of night, unexpectedly, as secretive as ever, concealing his intentions and requiring completely incomprehensible precautions to be taken. – An enigma of a man! Fear of treachery, suspicion of everyone, contempt for men and hatred of the world have robbed the old eagle of his finest feathers, of love and his natural nobility of character. – What an Emperor! – And what a strange adept! – Is misanthropy the beginning of wisdom? Must the price of initiation be a constant fear of poisoners? These are the thoughts that occupy me as I approach the rocky gorge spanned by the vertiginous drawbridge to Karlštejn.

A room gleaming with gold and precious stones: the Chapel of the Holy Rood in the ‘Citadel’. Behind the altar, this I know, is the walled-up vault where the imperial insignia are hidden.

Before me is the Emperor, dressed, as ever, in his shabby black cloak; in these surroundings the contrast between the rank and power of this man and his outward appearance appears crazier than ever.

I hand over to Rudolf the records I have kept of the “Actions”, the seances we have had with the Green Angel since the first time in Mortlake. Each set of records is signed and witnessed by the participants. The Emperor scans the signatures. The names of Leicester, Prince Lasky, King Stephen of Poland were the first to come to his notice.

He turned to me irritably:

“And what else? Be quick, Sir; the time and place are not such that I can long talk to you without other ears overhearing. The vipers pursue me, even to the resting place of my ancestors.”

I take out the small quantity of the red powder I have been able to keep out of Kelley’s grasp and hand it to the Emperor. His eyes light up. “Genuine!” the slack, old man’s mouth groans; the bluish lower lip flops weakly onto his chin. The adept’s sharp eye has recognised the great Arcanum he holds in his hands – perhaps for