Introduction: The Hermetic art unveils divine wisdom as the soul’s path to universal truth, accessible through disciplined reason and faith. This section reflects on the art’s transformative power, urging the adept to overcome sensory barriers and seek the light within.
The Enchanted Fortress of Wisdom
The Hermetic art, as Atwood explains, guards divine wisdom within an “enchanted fortress,” impervious to curiosity or sensory demands. This wisdom, not disproven by external evidence, requires introspective proof, as the ancients’ disciplined inquiry revealed. The “Well of Heraclitus,” where truth lies hidden, invites the adept to probe the soul’s depths, transcending the limitations of modern logic.
Faith, the “loadstone” of hope, guides this journey, as the ancients’ practices—unlike today’s fragmented sciences—united reason with divine insight, awakening the soul to its radiant essence, free from the “thraldom of sense.”
The Call for Rational Faith
The Hermetic art demands a fusion of reason and faith, as Atwood asserts: “Faith is the attracting loadstone which hope pursues.” Unlike modern institutions, which lack transformative rites, the art offers a disciplined path to recreate the mind, dissolving the “inbred evil” of selfishness through divine light. This process, akin to the alchemical dissolution and coagulation, restores the soul to universal harmony.
The adept, through persistent inquiry, overcomes the “manifold evils” of life, as the ancients did, achieving a wisdom that transcends sensory knowledge and aligns with the divine will, promising eternal fulfillment.
The Promise of Universal Truth
The Hermetic art, as Socrates and Democritus suggest, reveals the “Nothing” that is everything—the universal truth within the soul. By abandoning selfhood, the adept becomes a vessel of divine wisdom, as Plato and the Kabalah teach, ruling over the elemental world. This science, unlike empirical knowledge, offers a “crystalline edifice of Light,” uniting all faculties in a harmonious pursuit of truth.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Hermetic art’s call for rational faith, guiding the soul to universal truth. The journey into its modern rediscovery deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
“And now attention!” He opened his mouth wide, put his lower lip tightly to the glass and let the wine gurgle down his throat with a loud belch. “Hell, plague, and whore child!” cursed Finch. “He does it, by the devil’s ear-washes – he does it!” Only a residue was left in the glass, not worth mentioning. But still too much. For before it ran down, Montanus opened his eyes wide, as if in a sudden fright, so that one saw the blood veins swell in the white eyes, and his face became dark blue. Then the boot fell and broke into pieces. The hands let go of it and reached into the air. A gurgling came from the open mouth. And then fat Montanus fell like a sack to the floor, so that the chair, which he was dragging along, crumbled under the weight of his body. Haymon, who had studied medicine for many years and understood some of it, knelt down by him, let his hand rest on the chest of the fallen man for a while, then stood up and groaned, “Died! Apoplexia! Has already gone to Hell, our fat goose-eater. Fiducit!” Sweat stood on his brow. I felt nauseous. But Hercules bent down nimbly, reached into the pockets of the dead man, found the purse and shook a few coins and a Marien ducat onto the table. “There you have your winnings, Nebuchadnezzar”, said Haymon and immediately pushed Finch the silver watch with the chain and the stone. Then he tossed me the pennies and nodded: “Take it! He will never need it!” Then he weighed a ducat in the flat of his hand and said to the suffocated: “Heart brother! This gold fox will be drunk to your memory!” But the dead man gave no answer, and so Haymon shook him a little, so that we heard the wine rumbling in his stomach. “He doesn’t say no!” “And now someone call Venus,” ordered Haymon. “It would be a pity if we left the money for the Manichaeans in the bag. The Jew shall see for himself how he comes to his own, and thus the bear remains firmly tied. – Do not stand there, Mahomet, like a stuck calf, but call Venus to fetch some wine and bring poor Montanus on to some straw in a quiet chamber!” Then I went out into the dark corridor and called out to Venus in a trembling voice.
On the evening of the day when the Jew Lewi told me that my father was no longer going to send any money and that after so many pranks he was now leaving me to my fate, I drank myself crazy and full. Later, the Portuguese came and told us that Phoebus Merentheim had arrived a few days ago and had been employed as a parlor boy by the tall Count Heilsbronn on the Gerbersteig. I left immediately and the entire corona with me. We put a cracked night tile on the head of the stone Roland at City Hall, and on the wall of the beautiful and virtuous Demoiselle Pfisterin, who always had her back turned as we walked languidly by, on the wall just below her window Hercules drew with red chalk a delicate buttocks and wrote with big black letters under it: All the kisses I sent you, connected, you are quite charming! Then we went with many hussahs and hellos over to the city fountain and drove wooden wedges in its four copper dragon tubes, so that the water above, beneath the feet of St. Florian began to bubble. But we courted the mayor on the top five steps of the staircase and stuck a goose tail feather in each pile, because it was said that the Mayoress was dissatisfied with him in puncto puncti. Soon, however, I remembered Phoebus again with his snooty rice soup face, and I urged on to the Gerbersteig. “Shit, Mahomet – take it easy, he won’t run away from you now!” Haymon held me back. “You shall drink his blood today!” For they still had something to do at the pillory. When we arrived at the goose market, the Portuguese had already prepared a paper, a hammer and nails, and while we were keeping watch, he struck the paper against the pillory so that in the morning light everyone could read it and our tormentors and enemies could be recognized: “Shmule Levi, a Jew and a bloodsucker, Abraham Isaac’s son, likewise, Liborius Schmalebank, calls himself a Christian, Gotthelf Titzke, goes to church service every Sunday, Simche from Speyer takes a hundred percent.” We moved on again, and in the dark we shouted at the top of our voices: “Mordio! Firerio! So help us!” until all the windows were lit up and the sleepy city soldiers came trampling down. In the meantime, we were already on our way to the Gerbersteig. “It is as I tell you,” murmured the Portuguese, “Merentheim lives in the same room as the Count of Heilsbronn and is with the Ansbach Student Union.” “Didn’t the Count of Heilsbronn steal the red haired Jule from you, Portugieser?” teased Galenus. “Shut up, or I’ll let out all my water against you, so you’ll drown miserably”, growled the Portuguese angrily. “I have already wiped fifteen of you off my club with two fingers.” “Give peace!” admonished Finch. “Otherwise take your blasphemous speeches before the Committee. – You’d better watch out how little Phoebus will shit his bed linen with fear!” So I stepped forward, just in front of the window, which the Portugieser had pointed out to me, pulled out the little saber and began to wet my feet on the pavement. I shouted at the top of my lungs: “Merentheim! Dog fart! Come out and present yourself! Pereat!” Then the window opened, and a stark naked guy looked out. “Pereat!” I shouted. “Pereat Phoebus Merentheim!” “Camel!” echoed down from above. “What in thunder do I care about your Merentheim who today at two o’clock went to his kin over there?” “I hope you don’t choke on your stinking lie!” I shouted against him. The man above laughed: “You shall have your share, brothers! You just have to be patient, Hans Unknown, until I’ve donned my shirt and have a sword in my hand!” And he slammed the window shut so that the glass shards rained down. But then we saw a little light wandering in the room until it was dark again. We heard footsteps in the corridor; a key turned in the lock, and in the doorway appeared the tall Count Heilsbronn, dressed in shirt, pants and a long sword under his arm and his hat with the scarlet and white feathered cap of the Ansbachers on his head. The moon was just coming out from behind the clouds, and it was light enough to see the wild, scarred face of the old braggart. “All by the rules, Herr Brother!” interposed the Bavarian Haymon as we wanted to quickly draw our blades. “You, Portuguese, serve as second for the Ansbacher Herr and me for Mahomet! Get ready! Go!” I pushed nimbly, but didn’t hit him. He parried as fast as lightning and was at home with all feints. I hit a wrong quarte, because he drove under me and sliced, burning my upper arm. I quickly fell back and struck hard, slid off and stabbed him deep in the chest. The sword fell rattling from his hand. “Stop there!” immediately roared the Portuguese and held his blade in front of me. “That sits,” gurgled Heilsbronner. “A lung foxer.” His pitted face looked green in the moonlight. “Take me – to bed, Herr Brother – to” He fell into Haymon’s arms, spat out quite a bit of bloody foam and rolled his eyes. There was a dark stain in his shirt that spread like spilled ink on a bad piece of paper. “By all the sacraments, help me hold the man,” gasped the Bavarian Haymon. “He makes himself heavy as if -“ We jumped over and took hold. “When I fall asleep, it’s over for me”, whispered the Ansbach man and blew blood again.”The rosary above my bed is moving back and forth by itself. If only I had had my heavy intoxication, you might have long stood there and shouted pereat -“ And shrilly: “It crushes – me – my – heart -“ We lowered him to the ground. I broke out in a sweat. “He’s gone,” shouted the Portuguese. “You take to your heels. The windows are already opening.” From above they shouted. “Damned boys and ragamuffins! Won’t you be quiet down there?” “I want to salt their hams with rabbit shot,” one shouted rudely. We heard many feet pattering, coming closer. The guard ran up. “One of them never moves. – Guard! Guard! Mordio!” clamored a woman. We ran as fast as we could, a jumping stick flew between my feet, so that I would have fallen. Haymon stayed beside me, the other was off. We had heard screaming. He had jumped over a fence and sank deep into a buried cesspool. They had him all ready. “Brother!” The Bavarian Haymon breathed in quickly from the long race and leaned against an old wall. “Your stay here is no more.
Introduction: The Hermetic art unveils the philosopher’s stone as a universal key to truth, uniting mind and matter in divine harmony. This chapter concludes the journey, reflecting on the art’s transformative power and its call for rational inquiry.
The Philosopher’s Stone Unveiled
The Hermetic art, as ancient philosophers attest, crafts the philosopher’s stone from the “Universal Subject,” a pure fire within an ethereal vapor. This stone, perfected through disciplined labor, transmutes not species but their essence, as the adept, humanity’s perfect laboratory, refines the soul’s vitality into divine light. The process, guided by reason and faith, reveals the “true Form of Gold,” a radiant principle of increase.
This art, as Atwood explains, explores the soul’s hidden capacity, uniting the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms within. Through alchemical operations, the adept uncovers the “Ethereal Hypostasis,” a luminous essence that transcends sensory limits, as evidenced by the ancients’ mystical practices.
The Sacred Mysteries and Mesmerism
The Hermetic art connects to ancient mysteries, like those at Eleusis, which were not mere rituals but inductions into divine wisdom. Mesmerism, a modern echo, serves as a “first key” to this temple, opening the soul’s vestibule where the Sphinx’s enigma awaits. Only the philosopher, with rational insight, can navigate this path to the inner halls of light, as Atwood suggests, blending spiritual and material realms in a “confluent harmony.”
The adept’s journey, marked by perseverance and purity, overcomes intellectual and sensory obstacles, proving the stone’s reality through experiential truth, as countless sages have testified.
The Call for Rational Inquiry
The Hermetic art, unlike fragmented modern sciences, unites moral and physical realms, as Atwood argues, offering a causal science that transcends sensory evidence. It demands a philosopher of “antique mould,” ardent for wisdom, to pursue truth through disciplined inquiry. The stone’s light, kindled within, radiates to overcome ignorance, promising a universal truth that aligns with divine will.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Hermetic art’s universal significance, uniting mind and matter in divine light. The journey into its modern relevance deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Silentium!” he shouted. All was silent. “As a mule you came from your mother’s apron, and as foxes and the future night terrors of the Philistines, you have entered the sacred halls of the Amicist Order, immature and foul-smelling, but partaking of our grace. We do not want to leave you to the pathetic institutions of the compatriot societies, which will be in the next hostel lurking on chaises and mail coaches, and we do you the honor of not even asking you about your obscure origin. Do you want to be alone and without a distinguished comitat, as a mockery of all right lads, or shall the high Order solemnly escort you in as members?” Finch and I looked at each other. Already on the trip we had decided to join one of the student unions because we knew very well that the lonely and defenseless could not be happy because of being stepped on, being pushed off the sidewalk and otherwise jostled. After all, it did not matter to us which brotherhood took us in, and since it happened that way, the Amicist order was all right for us. So we nodded and said that we would like to be counted among the high Order. A violent trampling with the feet took place. This is how the applause for our decision was expressed. “Omnes ad loca!” cried the tall one. “And you Foxes, just stand still!” All sat down and one of them, about our age, ran to the door and roared with all his lung power: “Cerevisiam!” Immediately a bumping and rumbling started. Two bartenders rolled in a stately barrel, placed it on the collar and tapped it. The girl with the messy hair carried such a number of mugs in each hand, that one would have thought she had twenty…fingers. They were filled and overflowing with foam, and placed in front of everyone. “Out, profane pack!” shouted the tall one again and hit the tabletop with his club. The servants and the maid hurriedly trudged away from there. “Come to me, foxes!” he commanded. They grabbed us, roughly enough, and brought us in front of him at the other end of the table. “Put your hands on this death’s head and the crossed blades and swear!” We obeyed and willingly recited an oath to him, in which we pledged our allegiance to the enlightened and high Amicist Order until death and unbreakable loyalty to its members, brotherly love and help of all kinds, and to other people the deepest secrecy. If we broke our oath, our chest would be pierced by sharp steel and our faces would become like that of the skull on whose boney dome our fingers lay for the oath. “I am the Bavarian Haymon,” said the tall one. Profanely, I am called the Baron Johann Treidlsperg from Landshut. But what are your names?” We gave our names, and one wrote them in a booklet, which was bound in crimson, yellow and blue. “Bend your heads,” Hans ordered. We did so. In the next moment, each of us had beer running down our faces, necks and shoulders from overturned jugs. When we looked up coughing and spitting, under the thunderous laughter of about fifteen lads who were in the room, we were given our Order names. They called me “Mahomet” and Finch “Nebuchadnezzar”. Then we had to sit astride the chairs. The others lined up in a long row behind us, and in front of us rode the Bavarian Haymon around the table, helping us with his spurred legs, while everyone sang a song: “The fox wants to go out of the hole, There stands a green hunter outside of it. Where from, where to, you young fox. Today you do the last jump. And I’ll do my last dance, Kiss me, hunter, under the tail. The hunter did not do it And had to let the little fox run. Yee-haw, yee-haw, yee-haw! Optima est cerevisia!” Then it was on to hugging and kissing. On our hats, which were too new for the Amicists were therefore bent and pierced many times, Then they put the tricolored hats on us. Again, the one they called “Portugieser” had to go to the door and shout, “Coenam!” And with great speed came a large wooden platter with roasted chicken, rice with raisins and hot wine sauce, baked fish with green salad and ducat noodles with sugared brandy. Then the scrawny thing was allowed to stay in the room and had enough to do with dodging ankles and pouring beer mugs. “This epicurean feast is provided to Mahomet and Nebuchadnezzar by the illustrious Order”, announced Haymon and ordered us, moreover, to drink a full measure for the good of the entire brotherhood, without stopping. “And lest I forget,” he shouted in the commotion. “to the brave postman who brought you here so beautifully to the ‘Beer sack’ with his coach, each will dedicate a hard thaler!” Over the daily life of the carouser and wild parties I forgot everything in a few months. Our favorite place was the “Kind Prince”, where they served heavy brown beer and good Mosel. The Bavarian Haymon had already returned from the first intoxication to sobriety and had spread his spurred boots on the table where the stars of the spurs tore holes in the dirty tablecloth. The shirt stood open over his hairy chest, and his sleeves were rolled up, but he did not take off his hat with the feather trim from his head. The Portuguese lay with his head on the tabletop and snored. Finch or Nebukadnezar sat bent over on a chair in the corner and puked back the wine he had drunk so that it stank sourly and foully in the whole room. Hercules, a weak little man from Meissen, had caught a louse, let it crawl around on a plate and laughed beyond all measure. Montanus knuckled with me. He had the terrible pig. Again he knocked the leather mug on the table and gaped with watery eyes at the throw: Five-three-one. “Pregnant fleece – tripod – polyphemus”, he bellowed with joy. “Gimme that mammon!” I had only thrown five in the whole. With his hand, he raked in my last ten silver pennies and clapped his hands on the sweaty shirt of his fat belly with joy. “Venus! Where is the old sow?” he then shouted toward the door. The old waitress came. She wore a wooden nose on her face by two ribbons that ran across her forehead, and was grizzled all over. We called her Venus. What she was called by her real name, she probably no longer knew herself. “Bring the boot, the big one, with Mosel wine, Dearest of hearts!” ordered Montanus. Finch came to the table. He was white in the face from puking so much and smelled from the throat. “You have to eat sometimes, Nebuchadnezzar. -” puffed Montanus. “You only drink all the time and eat nothing. That makes ulcers in your stomach, brother, like happened to Gideon of blessed memory. All his blood jumped out of his mouth and that was the end of him.” Finch burped and pointed to the table. “Ei, brother, say, why are you so tenderly concerned and yet you have stolen from poor Mahomet his aunt’s money? Spend some of it!” Venus came and placed the large glass-boot before the fat man. It held three full measures of wine. Montanus caressed the vessel, let a sound that came from under the table, and laughed muffledly: “What I buy – I will also drink! Alone, most estimable!” “Drink alone?” Finch’s eyes grew round. “That’s what the stupid devil from the cathedral at Cologne believes.” “If you bet your sword with the gold-inlaid Toledo blade, then I’ll swallow the boot in one go!” bellowed the fat man. Finch wiggled toward the sleeping Portugieser and gave Hercules a rib-bump. The Bavarian Haymon came closer and helped to wake up the snoring Portuguese. “Wake up, open your little eyes, brother pants- full – you shall be a booze judge!” The Portuguese raised his head, grunted, and ran all ten fingers into his frizzy hair. “I got lice – damn!” he yawned. Hercules burst into a silent laugh. He knew where the vermin that had crawled into the sleeping man’s hair came from. The Bavarian Haymon was appointed judge. “Here we go!” he slurred. “Huh – brr!” Finch waved his hands between them. “The mastiff has bet nothing against his boozing. What are you putting on the table, your belly?” Then Montanus pulled a thick silver watch out of his pocket; a short chain hung from it, and on the chain hung a polished ball of carnelian stone. “This here!” he said. “Go, go!” everyone now shouted. “Drink up!.” Montanus stood up instantly in spite of his heaviness. The soft, monstrous belly hung over the waistband of his bulging pants. “Until the nail test!” resisted Finch, who was in fear for his beautiful blade. “Will suck yellow ox milk to my end, if a drop remains in the glass,” the fat man boasted, raising the boot glass with both hands.
Introduction: The Six Keys of Eudoxus unveil the philosopher’s stone as a divine gift, transcending material wealth to grant spiritual immortality. This section concludes with the stone’s promise of universal harmony, guiding the adept to eternal unity.
The Divine Gift of Immortality
The philosopher’s stone, as Helmont and Solomon suggest, grants not just wealth and health but a “manifest token of divine favor,” promising immortality. Unlike Midas, who sought earthly gold, the adept, enlightened by the stone’s wisdom, despises temporal gains for the eternal light, as Deuteronomy warns: “Beware lest thou forget the Lord thy God, who brought thee into a Good Land.”
This divine gift, achieved through the Six Keys, transforms the soul into a radiant vessel, free from human ills and aligned with the “Fourth Monarchy” of truth and peace, prophesied as the reign of divine intellect.
The Path of Humility and Faith
The adept’s journey, as Job and the Kabalah teach, requires humility and self-ablation: “I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes.” By renouncing selfish desires, the soul transcends the “dual selfhood,” uniting with the divine will, as Revelations promises: “To him that overcometh, I will grant to sit with me in my throne.” This path, marked by trials and perseverance, mirrors the alchemical process of purifying the soul’s essence into eternal light.
The stone’s creation, a reflection of Christ’s redemption, requires the adept to align with divine purpose, ensuring the work’s sanctity and avoiding the pitfalls of pride and greed.
The Eternal Circle of Wisdom
The Hermetic art, as the Book of Jezirah suggests, completes a circle: “The line returns to its beginning, and their union is Eternity.” This “Ethereal Hypostasis,” the soul’s radiant essence, rises above sense and reflection, becoming the “true Christian Philosopher’s Stone.” Through rational inquiry and faith, the adept achieves universal harmony, as Solomon declares: “Wisdom is better than rubies, and those who seek her early shall find her.”
Closing: This chapter unveils the philosopher’s stone as a divine gift of immortality and harmony. The journey into its modern applications deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Finale It is late in the summer, the hollyhocks now raise their heads away from the stalks. The mallows scatter their dull tones in tired colors, pale yellow, lilac and soft pink. When you knocked my love, the spring was young. When you entered through the narrow gate into my dream garden the swift little swallows were singing their welcome to the daffodils and the yellow primrose. Your eyes were blue and kind and your days were like heavy clusters of light blue wisteria dropping down to form a soft carpet. My feet walked lightly there through the sun glistening pathways of your arbor–Then the shadows fell and in the night eternal sin climbed out of the ocean, coming here from the south, created out of the glowing fires of the desert sands. She spewed forth her pestilent breath in my garden strewing her rutting passion beneath her veil of beauty. Wild sister, that’s when your hot soul awoke, shameless, full of every poison. You drank my blood, exulted and screamed out from painful tortures and from passionate kisses. Your marvelous sweet nails that your little maid, Fanny, manicured grew into wild claws. Your smooth teeth, glowing like milky opals, grew into mighty fangs. Your sweet childish breasts, little snow-white kittens, turned into the rigid tits of a murderous whore. Your golden curls hissed like impassioned vipers and the lightning that unleashed all madness reposed in your soft jeweled eyes which caught the light like the glowing sapphire in the forehead of my golden Buddha. But gold lotus grew in the pool of my soul, extended themselves with broad leaves upon the vast shallows and covered the deep horrors of the whirling maelstrom. The silver tears that the clouds wept lay like large pearls upon their green leaves, shining through the afternoons like polished moonstones. Where the acacia’s pale snow once lay the laburnum now throws its poisonous yellows–There, little sister, I found the great beauty of your chaste sins and I understood the pleasures of the saints. I sat in front of the mirror, my love, drank out of it the over abundance of your sins while you slept on summer afternoons, in your thin silk shift on white linen. You were a different person, my dear, when the sun laughed in the splendor of my garden–sweet little sister of my dream filled days. You were an entirely different person, my dear, when it sank into the sea, when the horrors of darkness softly crept out of the bushes–wild, sinful sister of my passionate nights–But I could see by the light of day all the sins of the night in your naked beauty. Understanding came to me from out of the mirror, the ancient gold framed mirror, which saw so many games of love in that wide turret room in the castle of San Costanzo. The truth, which I had only glimpsed in the pages of the leather bound volume, came to me from out of that mirror. Sweetest of all are the chaste sins of the innocent. That there are creatures–not animal–strange creatures, that originate out of villainous desires and absurd thoughts–that you will not deny, my love, not you. Good is the law; good are all the strict rules. Good is the God that created them and good is the man that carefully observes them. But there is the child of Satan who with arrogant hands brazenly rips the eternal laws from their appointed place. The Evil One, who is a mighty Lord, helps him–that he might create out of his own proud will–against all nature. His work towers into the heavens– and yet falls apart and in its collapse buries the arrogant fool that conceived it– Now I write this for you, sister, this book–I ripped open old, long forgotten scars, mixed their dark blood with the bright and fresh blood of my latest torments. Beautiful flowers grow out of such soil, fertilized by blood. All that I have told you, my love, is very true–yet I take it from the mirror, drink out of its glass the realizations of my latest experiences and apply them to earlier memories and original events. Take this book sister. Take it from a wild adventurer who was an arrogant fool–and a quiet dreamer as well–Take if from one, little sister, that has run closely alongside such a life–
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
I did not answer, but inside the rage ate at me. Then Diana jumped at my hand and grabbed it playfully with her teeth, as if she wanted to make up with me. She always did that when I scolded her or was otherwise in a bad mood. Then a sudden anger seized me, and I bent down for a large stone. The dog believed, she was now going to play the beloved game of fetch and crouched, whimpering with joy, ready to jump. With all my might I threw the heavy, angular stone at her and hit her in the ribs with a dull sound. The bitch fell, emitted a howling, high-pitched scream, and then wailed in shrill tones, unable to rise, her pitiful, horrified gaze fixed on me. “Die, you bitch,” I screamed and lowered my hand. Phoebus and Thilo, who were to blame for this, immediately drew back from me. “Your father’s best and perforce trained bird-dog -” said Sassen, and the other added that crudeness against a noble animal was unworthy of a Nobleman. The bitch tried to get up, collapsed and came up again. Hunched over and whimpering she crawled towards me, tried to reach my hand with her red tongue to lick it. “Come!” said Phoebus to Thilo, and walked with him, walking away from me with obvious contempt. Then I sat down between the vines and took the bitch’s head in my lap. Blood flowed from her fine nose onto my light robe. Her eyes were directed at me plaintively, begging for help. Her body trembled, the little legs twitched as if in spasm. Aglaja’s white hand had so often rested on the black silky hair of the beautiful head. “Diana!” I cried, “Diana!” She pulled her lips from her white teeth. She laughed in this way. Once again she tried to lick my hand. Then in her eyes came a green, glassy glow, her body convulsed. I stroked her in deathly agony, calling, coaxing — she no longer moved. A blood bubble stood motionless in front of her nose. No more breath came — “This beast will bring her lament before God on the Last Day, and God will also give her His justice, like any other creature”, a deep voice spoke. I looked around with veiled eyes. The old tusker was standing next to me, and the sun wove a terrible golden glow around his snow-white head.
My father had returned from the hunt and went with ringing spurs up and down in the room. The floor creaked under his riding boots. I looked steadfastly at his green coat with the silver braid. When he turned around, I saw the tightly twisted braid. This braid was merciless, black, stiff, insensitive, a symbol of his nature. “Lout, pray!” he thundered again. “You have dared, in front of the street rabble, to hit Phöbus Merentheim in the face, to the amusement of the scum of craftsmen and other fellows? Hey?” “He said that my mother, before her marriage, was bed warmer to the Duke of Stoll-Wessenburg,” I blurted out and looked my father in the eye. “You don’t hear and listen to that kind of thing,” hissed my father and became dark red in the face. “And remember: Do not disgrace princely blood! You will ask the young Count Merentheim for forgiveness, lad!” I did not understand him. Was he serious? “Answer me,” he cried. “Never,” I said, “I will not.” “Damn dog! Swine! So I’ve got problems again with another of the duke’s huntsmen, and I can wipe my mouth. I need the intercession of old Merentheim, you wretched knave. Do you understand me now? Will you or will you not?” “No.” He raised his hand, but lowered it again. With a heavy step he left the room. In the afternoon he sent for me. He sat in the same chair in which grandfather had died, and next to him on the table was a half-empty wine bottle. The room was blue with tobacco smoke. “Stand here,” he said, pointing in front of him. “Tomorrow I’ll send you to high school, so you’ll be out of my sight. And so that you know the truth, whether your mother was once the mistress of the noble lord, I don’t know. But in any case, she has given this property to me. Whether you come from my loins or from those of Serenissimi or whether even that windbag of court poets in one of the duke’s Venetian overnight parties – that scribbler whom Heist later shot down in a duel, only God knows. I almost want to believe the latter, for from a true and right nobleman you have nothing in you of the old bread and butter. Now you know what Merentheim wanted to rub your nose in. You may have that in you. Process as you wish. I have nothing for sentiments. Everything is as it is, and nothing can be dismissed. The Jew Lewi will give you the money for school every month; there is nothing more, now or ever. If you go to the dogs through partying and drunkenness, like many a nobleman, I or Serenissimus or the hunted down court poet had a son. You can save yourself the trouble of writing because I don’t read letters and other written or printed stuff, although I once learned to do so. If you come back to me as a real cavalier, then I will assume that you are from my seed. And now troll yourself away!” I wanted to say something, but the words died on my lips. Slowly I turned around. A glass flew after me, smashing against the wall. Angrily, my father shook his fist at me as I looked around once more, and in his eyes there were bloody red veins. Below, old Stephan stood and muttered: “Don’t believe a word the Herr Junker says! Your mother was a saint and is enthroned in God’s countenance!” Then I fell around the neck of the faithful servant and cried out for my mother as if I could call her from the grave.
It was a tedious journey. Every quarter of an hour we had to get off the stagecoach at the behest of the driver and push and clean the wheels with a mud knife. The horses trembled and snorted, and their flanks were covered with foam. And once we had to chuck our suitcases and travel bags and then lift them back onto the roof and tie them up again. With me rode one, who was from Austria, was called Matthias Finch and seemed to be a cheerful man of good manners. His clothes and linen pointed to a son from a decent family. He was not a nobleman. As we approached the city, the coach stopped in front of an inn called “Zum Biersack”. We looked out the window on both sides and noticed that the street was filled with chairs, benches and a long table, at which sat a party of students, looking wild and daring with greased boots, round spurs, feathered hats, and swords. They sat quietly, smoking from long lime pipes, spreading their legs and did not seem to be willing to give way to the mail wagon on the army road. A straggly half-grown thing with bobbing breasts under the cloth ran between this table and the dirty inn, swapping the empty pewter mugs for full ones and shrieking under the coarse grips of the journeymen she had to pass. The driver half turned with a grin and said: “May it please the gentlemen to get off and allow themselves to be welcomed?” “Drive on!” urged Finch. “The road is clear!” “What’s that stinkfox barking about?” rumbled a deep bass voice from the table. The one who had shouted was as bulky and thick as a six-bucket barrel, and his three fold stubbly chin was resting on his badly smudged vest. “Let it be, Montanus,” shouted a tree-tall man with blonde hair and a sharp, crooked nose. “They’ll crawl out of the burrow in time.” Since we saw that nothing could be done with defiance and pounding, and that the others were masters in such things, we came out, but we had enough sense to order the driver to take our travel belongings to the tanner Nunnemann, with whom we had ordered lodging through the messenger. We had hardly crawled out of the yellow box when they also quickly moved the table to the side and told the driver to put the steeds to the trot. He did not need to be told a second time. But two of them took us under their arms and led us into the interior of the house. There they pushed us up the stairs into a long, low room. On a table covered with wet glass curls lay an earthy, yellow skull, which looked as if they had just stolen it from the charnel house, on two crossed swords. They immediately lit two tallow candles in porcelain, placed us at the narrow end of the table, themselves around the table with their hats drawn, shook each other’s hands across the table and sang in rough voices: “The covenant is solemnly sealed By the noble oath of allegiance, Our hearts are unlocked Strike only of true friendship. This sword shall pierce The one who leaves brothers in distress. And, by this leg of the beast! A thousand times he is threatened.” When the song was over, Finch, who had looked at me several times in amazement, spoke up and said: “Gentlemen, forgive us if we would like to know in what illustrious company we have unawares fallen into?” “Insolent stink-fox,” belly-laughed the fat man again, the one they had just called Montanus. In the meantime they had put their hats back on, and I saw that their plumes were carmine, yellow and blue, and the blond one with the vulture nose had also put on a fox tail, which gave him a wild appearance. At Finch’s speech, he pulled his bat out of its scabbard and hit the table with it so violently that it boomed and we were badly frightened.
Introduction: The Six Keys of Eudoxus unlock the philosopher’s stone, a divine gift that transforms and heals through sacred wisdom. This section concludes with the stone’s universal blessings, uniting material and spiritual realms in divine harmony.
The Divine Physician’s Blessings
The philosopher’s stone, as Helmont describes, is a universal medicine wielded by the divine physician, chosen by God to heal with compassion. It fills life with health, riches, and divine favor, as Solomon declares: “Honor the physician, for the Lord created him.” This radiant essence, purified through the Six Keys, expels diseases and curses, bringing consolation and eternal life, as promised in Revelations: “To him that overcometh, I will give the Tree of Life.”
The adept, guided by charity and faith, becomes a vessel of divine light, transforming souls and bodies with the stone’s miraculous virtues, as Van Helmont’s cures of thousands attest.
The Fall and Restoration of Wisdom
Helmont laments the decline of the healing art, where ambition and sloth extinguished charity, separating physicians from surgeons and burying truth in confusion. Yet, the stone’s wisdom, rooted in the “Universal Spirit,” remains accessible to those who seek it with faith, as the Wisdom of Solomon affirms: “Wisdom preserved the righteous, guiding them through trials.”
Mesmerism, a first step toward this ancient wisdom, hints at the divine temple’s foundations, awaiting the adept’s will to resurrect the “Corner Stone” of divine light through persistent inquiry and love.
The Promises of Divine Wisdom
The stone’s blessings, as Revelations promises, include the “hidden Manna” and “White Stone,” granting power, purity, and eternal union with God. Wisdom, as Solomon declares, is “better than rubies,” offering riches, honor, and strength to those who embrace her. The adept, aligned with divine will, wields this universal treasury to uplift humanity, fulfilling the ancient creeds of love and truth.
Closing: This chapter unveils the philosopher’s stone’s divine blessings, uniting material and spiritual realms. The journey into its modern applications deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
She pressed her hot, wet mouth on my hand, but I tore myself away and went swiftly and quietly down the stairs. When I was in the hallway, the Dutch clock struck midnight. The closet creaked. I stopped. “Why don’t you come out?” I said, banging my fist against the closet. But everything remained silent. Only from above came a wailing, pounding sound, as if someone were crying into their pillows.
On Good Friday, I passed by the Catholic Church and peered on all sides, to see whether Lorle was there. But all I saw were people going to church, men, women and children, and every time the gate opened, sad deep sounds blew out. Lorle was the daughter of saddler master Höllbrich, very young, and I had lured her into our park. She wanted to see the tame deer and the fallow deer. And in the feeding hut was where it happened. I had learned many things in the last time, could swallow wine like water, ride behind the hounds and throw girls into the grass. There were some who wept bitterly. Lorle laughed and said, “There had to be a first time-“ While I was waiting, a small and very ragged boy came, looked at me with cunning little eyes and asked, “Are you Baron Dronte?” And when I said yes, he quickly pulled a small violet paper from out of his shirt and slipped it to me. Then he quickly ran away. I was very angry that she had kept me waiting and I remembered that she had also made her little eyes at Thilo, too, when he passed by the workshop. But since I did not want anyone to watch me reading the letter, I went into the church. It was half-dark, and the candle flames sparkled. In front on a triangular candelabra stood many lights, and just as I entered, one was extinguished. And just then they were singing in Latin the crying notes of a psalm, which I understood. It was called: “Jerusalem Jerusalem – return to the Lord your God”. Then I knew that it was the lamentations of the prophet Jeremiah, which I knew from the Scriptures. Motionless, the canons sat in their carved chairs on both sides of the violet-covered altar, and I recognized the cousin of the Sassen, Heinrich Sassen, among them and wondered at how haggard and austere his face looked in the restless glow of the candles and the golden gleam of the ornaments on the walls. There was a whistling beside me, like mice whistling. There were two old women praying, bent low. And again they began to sing up in the choir with the Hebrew letter that is called Ghimel or the camel. But then the sweet sadness of the pleading song penetrated deeply into my heart and made it open up before God. I thought of how mangy and rejected I must be before the Savior, who had also taken upon himself the bitter agony of death for me, been scourged, spat upon, crowned with thorns, stripped of his poor clothes and nailed naked to the cross. And what was I? In my pocket crackled the letter of a girl whom I had put on the bad road, and in my mouth was the sour taste of yesterday’s wine. I was getting worse and worse, and I already understood it well, to strike a defenseless servant across the face with a riding crop and to chase the old servants up and down the stairs. But then Lorle’s laughing face with its snub nose intervened again between the remorseful thoughts, and in my ear hummed the solemn sounds that came from above, her cheeky little song: “Phillis has two white doves and a golden bird’s nest…” But out of the saucy face of the little girl grew another face, pale and pure, with golden red hair like a halo, and with a fierce, never before felt homesickness, I thought of my dead cousin, Aglaja, whose memory I had held so miserably that now any one was right for me. Then it was suddenly as if dark rays were pressing into my eyes. Slowly, from out of the crowd that was devoutly praying in the nave in front of me, a man approached. It flashed through me as if a glowing drop ran from the top of my head down through my body. The man, who was coming closer and closer, looked at me… His face was without any wrinkles, brownish and beautiful, his eyes deep and dark, of unimaginable goodness. Between the brows there was a horizontal, fine, red scar, like the one I had…in the same place. A small black beard shadowed the upper lip of the soft, noble-cut mouth. A reddish brown robe fell in heavy folds around his slender body. He wore a black turban wound around his head, and a necklace of amber beads. No one seemed to pay attention to him except me. Nobody turned to look at him, and yet everyone avoided him, as if they saw him. “The Lord Jesus,” I stammered, reaching for my heart, which threatened to stand still. I felt as if I had to weep and lie down on this breast, hand myself over to him, to him who knew everything that pushed and drove me, so that he could save me. He knew the way, his feet had walked it. But he passed me by with a look in which was something like sorrow. He passed me by! I stood for a while and could not move. Far out in the room sounded singing and the roar of an organ. Then I got hold of myself, turned around and ran after him, causing enough annoyance among those praying, because my haste had disturbed them from their devotion. But when I stepped out of the gate, the place lay empty. Nobody was to be seen. Only the tobacconist stood next to the wooden Turk in front of the door to his store and looked at me in amazement. I hurriedly asked him about the man in the brown robe. He made a face and said that the incense in the church must have made me dizzy. I was unaccustomed to such Catholic incense. And one who honors the pure gospel should beware of the dazzling works of gold, lights and blue vapor, which they have in such churches of Baal. Let every man beware lest he stumble, even if he is of noble birth. Angrily, he threw his lime pipe onto the pavement, so that it broke, turned his back on me and went into his store. But I walked around the alleys that led to the square and asked about the man. No one knew anything about him. Suddenly I felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck in front of me. I remembered the wax figure that had saved me in my earliest childhood, when the falling ceiling in my room buried my bed. The man from the Orient, Ewli. I pulled Lorle’s letter out of my pocket and tore it into a thousand pieces.
I drifted with Phoebus and Thilo Sassen and we hunted everywhere for women and adventures. Since I spoke to them about the apparition, they laughed at me and teased me for days. They called me the brown monk, as they called the man from the Orient. I had fallen back into my old way of life and was ashamed every time they came at me with their jokes and snide remarks. That day black Diana was barking and full of joy with me being at home and whatever I did, I did not succeed in shooing her away. Because the dog loved me more than anything, no matter how well I treated her. Above the vineyards we knew a house, in which an old tusker lived, feared for his coarseness. He had two young and beautiful daughters, and it was said that they spent the money for their pretty dresses and shoes by being kind to the gentlemen. The boys had often put a straw man on their roof, and the girls in the city pulled their skirts to themselves when they passed by, so as not to touch. But there was also talk that the old man, on days, when he had time to look after the prostitutes, would teach the rude rascals, the beaus of his daughters a lesson. Thus it was said that he had once caught Fritz, the mayor, a real dandy and a womanizer and apron sniffer, with the two of them in the tool shed and had so brutalized him that the young gentleman had spent four days in bed groaning and smeared with lime ointments. Others again thought that it was not so much the beating of the old man, which had made a cure with ointments necessary, but rather a disease of the nobles that Fritze had contracted when he was traveling with an actress in the mail coach. Surely we had not the slightest desire to collide with the foul-mouthed tusker, and all the less so because the house was outside our jurisdiction and the archbishop, to whose property the vineyards belonged, had great affection for the tusker and was only happy when he heard from his little pieces. So we wanted to approach the house unnoticed in the manner of a creeping patrol, to know for the time being how things stood there. Thereby the dog, which could not be removed in any way, was a hindrance and a nuisance. Because in the joy of being able to be with me, Diana jumped around us in great leaps and bounds, and when I was not always paying attention to, she made me by barking loudly at me, which annoyed Thilo and Phoebus beyond all measure. So it happened that our approach completely failed. When we were already close to the house and our eyes on the windows, the bitch made a noise and lured not only the girls but also the old man, who soon realized what kind of polecats were creeping on his hens. He called us whoremongers and good-for-nothings, day thieves, country bumpkins, and knights of the shrubbery and promised to serve us with such unburnt ashes, that our lackeys and chamber pot carriers would have to deal with us for a full week. So we crept down the mountain full of anger and rage. “Next time we will try it without you and that dog-beast of yours, Melchior!” said Thilo. “One who doesn’t even know how to master such a lousy four-legged beast belongs in the children’s room!” added Phoebus.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
He didn’t move. Again she stood up, ran to the table and came back. She blew quickly on his left breast, then once more and waited, listening to his breathing. Then he felt something cold and sharp slice through his skin and realized it was a knife. “Now she will thrust it,” he thought. But that didn’t seem painful to him. It seemed sweet and even good. He didn’t move and waited quietly for the quick thrust that would open his heart. She cut slowly and lightly. Not very deep–but deep enough that his hot blood welled up. He heard her quick breath, opened his eyelids a little and looked up at her. Her lips were half- open, the tip of her little tongue greedily pushed itself out between her even teeth. Her small white breasts raised themselves quickly and an insane fire shone out of her staring green eyes. Then suddenly she threw herself over him, pressed her mouth to the open wound, drank–drank. He lay there quietly, felt how the blood flowed from his heart. It seemed to him as if she was drinking him dry, sucking all of his blood, not leaving him a single drop. And she drank–drank–through an eternity she drank– Finally she raised her head. He saw how she glowed, her cheeks shone red in the moonlight, and little drops of sweat pearled on her forehead. With caressing fingers she once more tasted the red refreshment from the exhausted well, then lightly pressed a few light kisses on it, turned and looked with staring eyes into the moon– There was something that pulled her. She stood up, went with heavy steps to the window, climbed onto a chair, and set one foot on the windowsill–awash with silvery moonlight. Then, as if with sudden resolve, she climbed down again, didn’t look to the right or to the left, glided straight through the room. “I’m coming,” she whispered. “I’m coming.” She opened the door and went out. He lay there quietly for awhile listening to the steps of the sleepwalker until they lost themselves somewhere in some distant room. Then he stood up, put on his socks and shoes and grabbed his robe. He was happy that she was gone. Now he could get a little sleep. He had to leave, leave now – before she came back. He crossed the hall and headed toward his room, then heard her footsteps and pressed himself tightly into a doorway. But it was a black figure, Frieda Gontram in her garb of mourning. She carried a lit candle in her hand as she always did on her nightly strolls despite the light of the full moon. He saw her pale, distorted features, the hard lines that crossed her nose, her thin pinched mouth, and her frightened, averted eyes. “She was possessed,” he thought, “possessed just like he was.” For a moment he considered speaking to her, to find out if–if perhaps–But he shook his head, no, no. It wouldn’t help. She blocked the way to his room, so he decided to go across to the library and lay down there on the divan. He sneaked down the stairs, came to the house door, slid back the bolt and unhooked the chain. Then he quietly slipped outside and went out across the courtyard. The Iron Gate stood wide open as if it were day. That surprised him and he went through it out onto the street. The niche of the Saint lay in deep shadows but the white stone statue shown brighter than usual. Many flowers lay at his feet. Four, five little lanterns burned between them and it seemed to him as if those little flames the people brought, which they called eternal lamps, wanted to do battle against the light of the moon. “Paltry little lanterns,” he murmured. But they helped him, were like a protection against the cruel, unfathomable forces of nature. He felt safe in the shadows near the Saint where the moon’s own light didn’t penetrate, where the Saint’s own fires burned. He looked up at the hard features of the statue and it seemed to him as if they lived in the flickering light of the lanterns. It seemed as if the Saint extended himself, grew taller, and looked proudly out to where the moon was shining. Then he sang, lightly humming as he had many years ago, but this time ardently, almost fervently. John of Nepomuk Protector against floods Protect me from love! Let it strike another. Leave me in earthly peace John of Nepomuk Protect me from love. Then he went back through the gate and across the courtyard. The old coachman sat on the stone bench in front of the stables. He saw him raise his arm and wave to him and he hurried across the flagstones. “What is it old man?” he whispered. Froitsheim didn’t answer, just raised his hand, pointing upward with his short pipe. “What?” he asked. “Where?” But then he saw. On the high roof of the mansion a slender, naked boy was walking, quietly and confidently. It was Alraune. Her eyes were wide open, looking upward, high above at the full moon. He saw her lips move, saw how she reached her arms up into the starry night. It was like a request, like a burning desire. She kept moving, first on the ridge of the roof, then walking along the eaves, step by step. She would fall, was going to fall! A sudden fear seized him, his lips opened to warn her, to call out to her. “Alr–” But he stifled the cry. To warn her, to call her name–that would mean her death! She was asleep, was safe–as long as she slept and wandered in her sleep. But if he cried out to her, if she woke up–then, then she would fall down! Something inside him demanded, “Call out! Then you will be saved. Just one little word, just her name–Alraune! You carry her life on the tip of your tongue and your own as well! Call out! Call out!” His teeth clenched together, his eyes closed; he clasped his hands tightly together. But he sensed that it had to happen now, right now. There was no going back; he had to do it! All his thoughts fused together forming themselves into one long, sharp, murderous dagger, “Alraune–” Then a clear, shrill, wild and despairing cry sounded out through the night–“Alraune–Alraune!” He tore his eyes open, stared upward. He saw how she let her raised arms drop, how a sudden shudder went through her limbs, how she turned and looked back terrified at the large black figure that crept out of the dormer window. He saw how Frieda Gontram opened her arms wide and stumbled forward–heard once more her frightened cry, “Alraune”. Then he saw nothing more. A whirling fog covered his eyes; he only heard a hollow thud and then a second one right after it. Then he heard a weak, clear cry, only one. The old coachman grabbed his arm and pulled him up. He swayed, almost fell–then sprang up and ran with quick steps across the courtyard, toward the house. He knelt at her side, cradled her sweet body in his arms. Blood, so much blood covered the short curls. He laid his ear to her heart and heard a faint beating. “She still lives,” he whispered. “Oh, she still lives.” He kissed her pale forehead. He looked over to the side where the old coachman was examining Frieda Gontram. He saw him shake his head and stand up with difficulty. “Her neck is broken,” he said. What was that to him? Alraune still lived–she lived. “Come old man,” he cried. “We will carry her inside.” He raised her shoulders a little–then she opened her eyes, but she didn’t recognize him. “I’m coming,” she whispered. “I’m coming–” Then her head fell back– He sprang up. His sudden, raging and wild scream echoed from the houses and flowed with many voices across the garden. “Alraune, Alraune! It was me–I did it!” The old coachman laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder and shook his head. “No, young Master,” he said. “Fräulein Gontram called out to her.” He laughed shrilly, “But I wanted to.” The old face became dark, his voice rang harshly, “I wanted to.” The servants came out of their houses, came with lights and with noise, screaming and talking until they filled the entire courtyard. Staggering like a drunk he swayed toward the house, supporting himself on the old man’s arm. “I want to go home,” he whispered. “Mother is waiting.”
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