Who we are remains a mystery to mankind. We are only aware of ourselves, we can only experience ourselves in the particular “package” that faces us in the mirror and which we call our person. How reassuring it is for us to see the parcel labelled: “From: the parents; To: the grave, parcel post from ‘address unknown’ to ‘address unknown’ ”, with varying customs declarations: “registered, value xx” or “samples – of no value” according to our vanity.
In short: what do we parcels know of the contents of the packages? It seems to me that the content can be transformed by the energy source which determines its fluidity. There are quite different beings whose radiance can be glimpsed through our dull clay. ... Princess Shotokalungin, for example? Certainly, she is not what I took her for in my overwrought state; she is, certainly, no ghost! She is just as certainly a woman of flesh and blood, as I am a man of flesh and blood. But Black Isaïs transmits her rays from the other side through the medium of this woman and transforms her into what she was from the very beginning of her being. Each mortal has his god, his demon; and in him, in the words of the Apostle Paul, we live and move and have our being. And within me is John Dee; what difference does it make who John Dee is? Who I am? – There is One who has seen the Baphomet and is to attain the double face or perish.
I suddenly remembered Jane – – that is, Johanna Fromm. The game that fate is playing with us includes names. But this is all according to the law: our names are entered in the Book of Life.
I found Jane – as I will call her from now on, instead of Johanna – awake once more. She was sitting up in bed and smiling strangely to herself and so self-absorbed that she did not even notice I had entered.
She looked beautiful against the pillows; my heart leapt up at the sight, and miraculous was the combination of present affection and age-old union, like the strains of two melodies intertwining. It was almost a shock to recognise how similar this Johanna Fromm is to the Jane I have just left in the Prague of Emperor Rudolf.
I sat with her on the edge of the bed and kissed her. Confirmed bachelor that I am, there is no other thought in my mind than that I am her husband, bound in destiny to my wife Johanna.
And Jane took my presence as a matter of course; she lay there, relaxed in the security of a familiar relationship.
But not the relationship I wanted. Her gentle hand pushed away my more intimate advances. Her expression remained friendly but at the same time had a strange seriousness which separated her feelings from mine. I bombarded her with questions, then more carefully, more cautiously sought the key to her soul, to the torture chambers of her passions. In vain.
“Jane,” I cried, “I too am dazed by the miracle of this ... this reunion” – a shiver ran down my spine – “but now you must wake up to the living present. Take me as it was predetermined you should find me! Let us live! Forget! – And ... remember.”
“I remember.” A gentle smile plays about her lips.
“Then forget!”
“That too, my love. I ... am ... . forgetting –”
Fear tightens my throat, as if a dying soul were gradually slipping away from me:
“Johanna! – Jane!! How strange are the ways of destiny that bring us together again!” She slowly shakes her head: “Not the ways of destiny – the way of sacrifice, my dearest.”
My scalp prickles at the thought. Did Jane’s soul accompany my spirit on its journey into the past? I stammer:
“That is the deception of the Green Angel!”
“Oh no, my love, that is the wisdom of the High Rabbi.” And she smiles so deeply into my eyes that tears, streams of tears dim my sight.
I do not know how long I rested on the gentle rise and fall of her breast until the tears dried up and my taut nerves relaxed, drinking from her deep repose, like a child at its mother’s breast ...
Finally I understood the words she whispered as her hand kept stroking my head:
“It is not easy to tear oneself up, my darling! Roots bleed; it hurts. But it is only the mortal part. On the other side everything is different. At least, my love, that is what I believe. I loved you too much ... once – when is immaterial, love knows nothing of time. Love is also destiny, is that not so? – And yes, I did betray you ... I did betray you then. O God! ...” Her body shook with short, painful spasms, but she ignored them and bravely continued:
“...it must have been my destiny. For it was not my will, not that. As we might say today, it was like the switch on the points: such a small thing, so inconspicuous, and yet it can shift the power of an express train onto another line and send it hurtling off into the distance, to send it home. See, my love, my betrayal of you – of John Dee – was such a switch: and your destiny went rushing along a path to the right, mine to the left. How should the two lines, once they had separated, reunite? Your way was leading you to the – ‘Other’ woman, mine to ...”
“My way was leading me to the ‘Other’ woman!?” I raged; I laughed, I was indignant; I was the victor! – “Johanna, how can you think that of me! My jealous little Jane! You think the Princess could be of any danger to you?!”
Jane started up from the pillows and stared at me blankly.
“Princess? What Princess do you mean? – Oh, yes. the Russian woman.
