“Anyway, now you are here at last; my severest critic and now my guest. I am not going to let you leave until I have made sure you have had the opportunity to form a clear picture of all my modest abilities. I presume you have brought the object I asked you for. Or have you?” – she laughed as if she had made a joke.
Monomania! was the thought that went through my mind. So she is mad, after all. Why else should she go on about that damned spearhead? – “Spearhead!?” A sudden insight twisted my head round and I stared at the empty fingers of the black statue, curled round nothing! The Cat Goddess!
She is the mistress of the symbol that is so persistently demanded of me! – My head was whirling with guesses, with confused attempts to connect known fact and vague suspicion, with intuitions that suddenly slipped from my grasp: “What did the statue originally have in its hand? You know; of course you know – and I must know, you must tell me ...”
“But of course I know”, was the laughing reply. “Is it really so important? It will be a pleasure to put my modest archaeological knowledge at your service. If you will allow me, then, I will give you a short private lecture. Just like a professor ... a German professor!” – the Princess’ laugh was a sparkling arpeggio; at the same time she clapped her hands in the oriental manner, almost inaudibly. Immediately a Mongol servant appeared in the doorway, silent as a robot. A wave of the hand, and the yellow spectre disappeared, as if swallowed up by the warm half-light of the hanging carpets.
That strange, glowing half-light. It was only at this point that I noticed that the tented room had no window, no obvious source of illumination. I had no time to find out where the soft light came from that bathed the room in a golden, evening glow. It crossed my mind that there might be a blue, daylight lamp such as photographers use concealed somewhere, that was somehow mixed with the light of weaker red and yellow bulbs to create the impression of warm evening twilight. And I noticed a gradual but constant change in the lighting as the red tone gave way to a deeper, greenish glow; I almost felt that it was adjusting to the mood that was slowly developing between the Princess and myself. – – I presume that this was all the product of my imagination.
The servant, in dark livery with baggy trousers over faultless, high-shafted patent leather boots, reappeared without a sound. He was carrying a silver tray on which were silver bowls with black inlay work; “Persian”, I noticed. They were filled with various sweetmeats.
The next moment the Mongol had vanished again; the bowls had been placed between myself and the Princess on a low stool and politeness compelled me to take a piece of the confectionary.
I have not a particularly sweet tooth; I would have preferred a cigarette, if the charming hostess routine was absolutely necessary. So it was with a certain reluctance that I picked up a lump of the sticky oriental stuff and chewed on it as the Princess started:
“So you really want a lecture, my friend? Shall I start with the Thracian goddess Isaïs. You see, along those parts of the Black Sea she is called Isaïs, not Isis. – You find that surprising?”
“Isaïs!” the name had slipped out, or, rather, I think I shouted the word; I had jumped up and was staring at the Princess. But she placed a gentle hand on my thigh and drew me back into my chair.
“It’s nothing more than a vulgar Greek variant of the name Isis and has nothing to do with the revelations of scholarly research, as you seem to think. The Goddess has had to put up with various changes of name as her cult went from temple to temple, from congregation to congregation. The black Isaïs that you can see there, for example –” the Princess pointed to the statue. I just nodded. All I could manage was a murmured, “Excellent”. The Princess probably assumed I was referring to her explanation, though all I had in mind was the sweet I had just finished; one of the ingredients was bitter almonds, which made it more acceptable to the male palate than the usual tasteless cotton wool. Without the Princess having to ask me I took a second piece from the bowl in front of me and popped it in my mouth.
Meanwhile the Princess was continuing:
“However, Black Isaïs has a different ... let us say a different significance as a cult figure than the Isis of the Egyptians. As is well known, in the Mediterranean area Isis became Venus, the mother goddess, the patroness of fertility, of childbearing. Our Thracian Isaïs, on the other hand, appears to the faithful ...” The bright flash of memory that came at this point so blinded me that I could scarcely find the words to exclaim:
“She appeared to me in the cellar vault of Doctor Hajek in Prague when I conjured up the Green Angel with Kelley and Jane! She it was who hovered over the measureless depths of the well-shaft, a prophetic image of my sufferings to come, a bitter portent of how I would come to cherish my hatred of Kelley, my hatred of all that was dear to me!”
The Princess bent forward: “How interesting! So the goddess of black love really appeared to you once? Well, then, you will find what I have to tell you about Black Isaïs all the more easy to understand. Above all, the fact that she rules in the realm of anti-Eros, whose power and extent no-one suspects who has not himself been initiated into
