“Jane! Jane!” again I tried to pray inwardly for help, for I could feel my inner resistance crumbling, as if an upward spurt of flame were burning the post supporting a vine heavy with grapes.
My appeal was in vain. I could sense that Jane was far from me, immeasurably far; perhaps she lay in a deep sleep, helpless herself, in a trance, cut off from any earthly communication with me.
Then I became furiously angry with myself. “Weakling! Coward! Already a eunuch? Preparing for the same end as a Thracian neophyte? Pull yourself together! Rely on your own strength, on your own self-control. Self-control is what is at stake in this satanic struggle! Control over your own will is what they want to take from you! It is no use praying to the Mother – or to her incarnation in any woman – to be saved you must exercise your own will, otherwise you will be wearing the woman’s clothes, you will be a priest of the Cat Goddess, whole or not.”
Assja Shotokalungin was calmly continuing her dissertation:
“I hope I have managed to make it clear to you that in the Thracian cult of Isaïs candidates for the priesthood found their self-control put to the test mercilessly. For the key idea behind the religion is that the salvation of the world and the destruction of the demiurge comes not from the abandonment and betrayal of self in the procreative, erotic urge but solely from the hatred of the sexes for each other, which is the real mystery of sex. The arcane wisdom of the cult of Isaïs teaches that the attraction which the vulgar feel for their opposite sexual pole and which they dignify with the false designation of ‘love’ is the odious means by which the demiurge ensures the continued existence of the common herd. ‘Love’ is base, mean; for ‘love’ robs both man and woman of the sacred principle of the individual self and thrusts both into the impotence of a union from which the only awakening is a rebirth in the lower world whence they came and ever will come. Love is mean; hatred alone is noble!” – The eyes of the Princess were fixed on me with a fiery glow which ignited my heart like an electric spark detonating dynamite.
Hatred! My heart burnt white-hot with hate for Assja Shotokalungin. She stood there naked before me, taut as a giant cat about to pounce, an enigmatic smile playing about her lips, apparently listening for something.
With an effort I contained the tumult within my chest and regained control of my tongue, although I could only whisper: “Hatred! That is the truth, woman! Would I could say how I hate you!”
“Hate!” she whispered sensuously. “Hate! Beautiful! At last you are on the right road, my friend. Hate me! Aah, I can feel it flowing, but only tepidly ...” – a maddeningly disdainful smile flitted across her face.
“Come to me!” I tried to shout but my throat would scarcely obey.
The smooth, voluptuous fur of the cat-woman before me twitched lasciviously:
“What are you going to do to me, my friend?”
“Strangle you! I am going to strangle you, murderer, demon, hellcat!” my breath came in gasps, my breast and neck were constricted, as if by iron rings; I felt that if I did not destroy the creature in front of me immediately annihilation would be my lot.
“You are beginning to take pleasure in me, my friend; I can feel it,” she breathed huskily.
I prepared to leap at her but I found it was impossible; my feet were rooted to the floor. So: play for time, calm down, gather strength. With a supple movement the Princess took a step towards me.
“Not yet, my friend.”
“Why not?” screamed a voice from within me, a voice that was scarcely audible, so hoarse was it with senseless anger and – desire.
“You do not yet hate me enough, my friend,” purred the Princess.
At this the paroxysm of disgust and hate suddenly turned into a miserable, creeping fear, and just as suddenly my throat cleared and I cried:
“What do you want of me, Isaïs?”
The naked woman answered calmly, lowering her voice in gentle persuasion:
“To erase your name from the Book of Life, my friend!”
A new outburst of scorn and self-confidence once more swept away the fear; this feeling of assurance neutralised for the moment the cold onset of paralysis. With a mocking laugh I said:
“Me?! I will destroy you, you ... thing from the blood of butchered cats! I will not rest; I will stick to your trail, follow the scent that you leave behind you. Panther, you have already been wounded; wherever you run, my hate will pursue you, man-eater, until I put a bullet through your heart.”
The Princess nodded, her thirsty gaze fixed on mine.
Consciousness slipped from me for a brief eternity. – – –
When, with an indescribable effort of will, I managed to tear myself from this state of lethargic paralysis, the Princess was no longer standing naked between the altar and the bookcase; rather she was lying, fully clothed, on the divan and was just directing a languid gesture of confirmation in the direction of the door.
Instinctively I turned round.
There in the doorway, dressed in the Princess’ livery, pale
