Introduction: The Six Keys of Eudoxus unlock the alchemical transformation of the soul’s essence into the philosopher’s stone. This section unveils the final three Keys—terrification, fermentation, and multiplication—guiding the adept to divine unity through sacred operations.
The Fourth Key: Terrification of the Spirit
The Fourth Key transforms the soul’s essence, the “great Alchaest,” into a solid earth through gentle boiling. This mercurial water, carrying its own Sulphur, coagulates into a fertile “Land of Promise,” as Hermes instructs: “The power is integral when turned into earth.” The adept must patiently moisten and dry this earth, augmenting its virtue and fertility, as Eudoxus warns: “If marks of coagulation fail, you erred in prior operations.”
This terrification, a reiteration of earlier purifications, ensures the soul’s essence becomes a stable, radiant form, ready for further transformation, marking the completion of the Second Work’s foundation.
The Fifth Key: Fermentation of the Stone
The Fifth Key ferments the Stone with a “perfect body,” creating a medicine of the third order. Like dough leavened with yeast, as Hermes compares, the adept unites the purified essence with a ferment to form a new, potent substance. This process, requiring precise proportions, transforms the Stone into a leaven capable of infinite multiplication, as Eudoxus notes: “The whole confection becomes a ferment for new matter.”
The adept, guided by nature’s laws, ensures the soul’s essence, now a “philosophical paste,” matures into a radiant form, embodying divine potency and ready for further enhancement.
The Sixth Key: Multiplication and Projection
The Sixth Key multiplies the Stone’s virtues through repeated dissolution and coagulation, as Eirenaeus describes: “Join one part of the Perfect Matter with Mercury, and in seven days, its virtue increases a thousandfold.” Each cycle—three days, one day, then an hour—augments the Stone’s power exponentially, creating the “Arabian Elixir.”
For projection, the adept combines the Stone with molten gold or silver, then projects this powder onto purified mercury, transforming it into pure metal. Eudoxus advises gradual projection to avoid loss, ensuring the Stone’s tincture perfects the base metal into divine gold or silver.
Closing: This chapter unveils the final three Keys of Eudoxus, transforming the soul’s essence into the philosopher’s stone through sacred alchemy. The journey into its broader implications 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
I went back again. Dark yellow light fell out from the chamber; a coffin stood on black-covered trestles, on which was a cross of silver, and a high funeral crown, with flitters, colored glass and mirrors. The wax ran and dripped, the candles flickered. The flowers smelled of earth. Muhme knelt by the coffin. “O my Aglajele! My Aglajele!” she cried. That her little face is never to be known! – Is it raining already?” she asked, turning her puffy eyes toward me. “I don’t know.” And then I cried out and cried so wildly that Muhme put her arms around my shoulders and spoke to me. “You must not, boy, you must not – the people are coming!” One could hear feet trampling. People were coming, murmuring. The finch in the hallway jumped from rung to rung in its cage and kept shouting: “Look – look – look – the travel gear!” I stood up. The priest came. He had the sniffles and often pulled out his handkerchief. He had baptized Aglaja and blessed her. Carriages drove up: the Sassens came, the Zochte, the Merentheim, the cuirassiers from the city, Doctor Zeidlow, the old Countess Trettin, the Hohentrapps. A bell rang in the village, tolled; bing – bong – bing – bong. Schoolchildren. Muhme waved to the teacher. I heard how she said, sobbing: “He makes me sing the same song as he did with my blessed little Hans, even though she was already blessed. But she is in white innocence, as it were like a newborn child – God, oh God!” Ursula Sassen and Gisbrechte Hohentrapp embraced her and led her. Then the servants picked up the coffin and carried it out into the rain. It was not far to the cemetery. Crows were sitting in the weeping willows. Crooked old crosses leaned on both sides of the gravel-strewn path. The iron gate of the hereditary burial ground stood open with rust-red insides. Above it was a marble skull with two crossed bones. In its open yawning mouth birds had built a nest. It stood empty and abandoned. On top of the head grew moss like woolly hair. I saw everything. They put the coffin on the ground, and the school sang again. As Muhme had wanted it, a song that is usually only sung for very young children. My cousin Hans was two years old when he died. When little heirs to heaven Die in their innocence, So you don’t forfeit them. They are only there Lifted up by the Father, So that they may not be lost. Then the priest blew his nose and spoke. The old man cried. The eighty-year-old Countess Trettin raised her lace shawl upwards. “Dust to dust -,” said the priest. They carried the coffin down. The footsteps sounded hollow, there was a terrible echo. Voices came from the depths. Something fell with a thud down there in the darkness. The rain rushed harder and harder. The carriages drove in puddles of water. The men tied red handkerchiefs over their hats, and the women put their skirts over their heads when they were outside. My father looked sternly on all sides. The sexton brought him the key to the crypt. “There – now have a drink!” said my father, and the sexton, wet and chattering with his teeth, bowed low. He made a face and ran his hand to his shoulder. He suffered from acute Rheumatism. “Aglaja is freezing -” said a disconsolate voice inside me. “Aglaja-“ The big house was empty when I got home, the corridors silent. There was a whispering in the corners, and the clocks ticked. The stairs creaked in the night, and the wind cried in the chimney. It was a very strange house. So big and so empty. On the dark corridor of the second floor was a Dutch clock with a polished face, on which the moon, sun and stars moved. Above it, the ornate hands went their way. The pendulum swung back and forth with a muffled, wham – wham. After every quarter of an hour, the striking work let its three- note sound be heard as if from far away: Gling-glang-glong. At the end of each hour chimes announced their number. Then a door above the dial opened, and a small brown rooster slid out of it, moving its wooden wings with a groaning sound. His voice was lost. Always an invisible force took him back and closed the door again. At noon, however, an angel with a blue, gold-edged robe appeared instead of the cock and in three stiff jerks lifted a green palm branch. At twelve o’clock at night, however, a dead little girl would appear in place of the angel. So we were told when Aglaja was still alive.
I was standing in this corridor one night. It smelled of apples and the strange wood of the wide linen cupboards on the wall. Deer heads carved from wood hung there. They held white turnips in their mouths and wore antlers that father and grandfather had captured. Certainly a hundred such deer heads were distributed throughout the entire house. One of the deer had been kept tame, held in a fenced area and then released. Later it had killed a fodder servant and the maids said that the blood of the servant still stuck to the antlers. The paint had peeled off the eyeballs of the wooden head, and so he looked down on me with a ghastly white and blind glare. Old Margaret, shuffling through the corridors with her cane and enjoying the bread of mercy, had told me that at the midnight hour of the day the dead walked in the house where they had liked to be during their lifetime. I held in my hand a candelabrum with one of the wax candles that had burned at Aglaja’s coffin a year ago, and waited for her to come. The cupboards cracked, there was a throbbing in the wall, and then it was like a sigh. The wind went over the roof, so that the shingles rattled. When the hour strike was about to begin, the door above the clock face opened, and sure enough out came out a little dead man with hourglass and scythe, turned his skeleton once to the right and once to the left and raised the tiny scythe to strike. “Wham – wham -,” went the pendulum in the pauses of the hoarse chime of the bell. “Aglaja” I called softly and peered down the corridor. Then silently the door of the closet opened, I was standing nearby, and in the uncertain light of the candle I thought I saw an ancient woman with a wrinkled brown face and a large white hood. I staggered to the wall, but when I forced myself with all my courage to look once more I could not see anything but the closed door. Then there was a cough and shuffling footsteps. Something gray and stooped. The candlestick rattled in my hand. But it was only old Margaret who was worried about me and came to see if I was really up there. I held on to her sleeve like a child and told her what I had encountered. She giggled and nodded. “It was the old woman- The great-grandmother of Aglaja Starke, the daughter of the mayor, who had twisted the family tree – on the Krämer side. You have seen rightly, my Melchior, quite rightly. It’s just that she came instead of the young one. She grabbed me by the jacket. I tore myself loose and stumbled down the stairs. In the afternoon Heiner Fessl was executed. He had overheard the magistrate harass his wife, and since he noticed that his wife had given in to the powerful man, he had run from the workshop into the room and had shoved a red-hot iron that was lying in the fire, through the body of the magistrate, so that the strong man had to perish and die miserably. He had cruelly beaten him and likewise the woman. She was dying, people said. – Powerful helpers, who would have taken care of him- were not there, and so they broke the staff for him. At dawn, the man of fear had gone out into the field and had announced it to the ravens, that the flesh of the sinner would be available before sunset. So the executioner’s pigeons were sitting on all the roofs and waiting. Father told me to put on the silk, lavender-grey coat and go with him. “You’re a wimp and a whiner, but you’re no Dronte,” he said. “I’m going to take you to the spa, boy!” I felt sick with fear when I heard from a distance the muffled beat of the drum and the roar of the crowd. All the alleys were full. They had all travelled to see Fessl on the executioner’s cart, and now he was to return. To my comfort, we had to stop quite a distance from the scaffolding, because the crowd did not move and did not take into consideration the rank of my father. “There you see how bold the scoundrels are when there are many of them together,” said my father loudly and angrily. He was appeased, however, when the baker, who had his store there, hurriedly brought us two chairs, so that we could rest for the time being. “What you see will be very wholesome for you,” my father said after a while. “Justice does not work with rose water and sugar cookies. If it did, we noble folk could pound gravel on the roads and give our belongings to the rabble.” In the trees that stood in front of us and lined the square, many people were sitting. Just in front of us squatted an abominable fellow, dressed in the manner of Hessian cattle dealers, in the crown of a linden tree. The sight of him was so repulsive to me, that I had to look again and again.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Sixteen Proclaims how Alraune came to an end. HE slowly went up to his room, washed his wound, bandaged it and laughed at the girl’s shooting ability. “She will learn soon enough,” he thought. “We just need a little target practice.” Then he remembered her look as she ran away. She was all broken up, full of wild despair, as if she had committed a crime. And it had only been an unlucky coincidence–which fortunately had turned out all right–He hesitated–A coincidence? Ah, that was it. She didn’t take it as a coincidence–took it as–fate. He considered– That was certainly it. That was why she was frightened–that was why she ran away–When she looked into his eyes she saw her own image there. That’s what she was afraid of–death, who scattered his flowers where ever her feet trod– The little attorney had warned him, “Now it is your turn.” Hadn’t Alraune herself told him the same thing when she asked him to leave? Wasn’t the old magick working on him just like it had on all the others? His uncle had left him worthless paper–Now they were digging gold out of the rocks! Alraune brought riches–and she brought death. Suddenly he was frightened–now for the first time. He bared his wound once again–Oh yes, there it was. His heart beat right under the tear. It had only been the little movement of his body as he turned, as he pointed to the squirrel with his arm that had saved him. Otherwise– otherwise– No, he didn’t want to die, especially right now because of his mother, he thought. Yes, because of her–but even if she wasn’t there, he wanted to live for himself as well. It had taken many long years to learn how to live, but now he had mastered that great art, which now gave him more than many thousands of others. He lived fully and strongly, stood on the summit and really enjoyed the world and all of its delights. “Fate loves me,” he thought. “It’s pointing with its finger–much more clearly than the words of the attorney. There is still time.” He pulled out his suitcase, tore the lid open and began to pack– How had Uncle Jakob ended his leather bound volume? “Try your luck! It’s too bad that I won’t be there when your turn comes. I would have dearly loved to see it.” He shook his head. “No, Uncle Jakob,” he murmured. “You will get no satisfaction out of me this time, not this time.” He threw his boots together, grabbed a pair of stockings, and laid out a shirt and suit that he wanted to wear. His glance fell on the deep blue kimono that hung over the back of a chair. He picked it up, contemplated the scorched hole that the bullet had made. “I should leave it here,” he said. “A momento for Alraune. She can put it with the other momentos.” A deep sigh sounded behind him. He turned around–She stood in the middle of the room, in a thin silk negligee, looking at him with large open eyes. “You are packing?” she whispered. “You are leaving–I thought so.” A lump rose in his throat but he choked it back down and pulled himself together. “Yes, Alraune, I’m going on a journey,” he said. She threw herself down onto a chair, didn’t answer, just looked at him quietly. He went to the wash basin, took up one thing after another, comb, brush, soap and sponge. Finally he threw the lid shut and locked the suitcase. “Well,” he said forcefully. “Now I’m ready.” He stepped up to her, reached out his hand. She didn’t move, didn’t raise her arm and her pale lips remained shut. Only her eyes spoke. “Don’t go,” they pleaded. “Don’t leave me. Stay with me.” “Alraune,” he murmured and it sounded like a reproach, like a plea even, to let him go. But she didn’t let him go, held him solidly with her eyes, “Don’t leave me.” It felt like his will was melting and he forcefully turned his eyes away from her. But then her lips moved. “Don’t go,” she insisted. “Stay with me.” “No,” he screamed. “I don’t want to. You will put me in the ground like all the others!” He turned his back on her, went to the table, and tore a couple pieces of cotton from the bandage wadding that he had brought for his wound. He moistened them with oil and plugged them solidly into his ears. “Now you can talk,” he cried. “If you like. I can’t hear you. I can’t see you–I must go and you know it. Let me go.” She softly said, “Then you will feel me.” She stepped up to him, lightly laid her hand on his arm and her fingers trembled and spoke – “Stay with me!–Don’t abandon me.” The light kiss of her little hands was so sweet, so sweet. “I will tear myself loose,” he thought, “soon, just one second longer.” He closed his eyes, and with a deep breath savored the caressing touch of her fingers. Then she raised her hands and his cheeks trembled under their gentle touch. She slowly brought her arms around his neck, bent his head down, raised herself up and brought her moist lips to his mouth. “How strange it is,” he thought. “Her nerves speak and mine understand their language.” She pulled him one step to the side, pressed him down onto the bed, sat on his knees and wrapped him in a cloak of tender caresses. With slender fingers she pulled the cotton out of his ears and whispered sultry, loving words to him. He didn’t understand because she spoke so softly, but he sensed the meaning, felt that she was no longer saying, “Stay!”–That now she was saying, “I’m so glad that you are staying.” He kept his eyelids tightly shut over his eyes, yet now he only heard her lips whisper sweet nothings, only felt the tips of her little fingers as they ran across his breast and his face. She didn’t pull him, didn’t urge him–and yet he felt the streaming of her nerves pulling him down onto the bed. Slowly, slowly, he let himself sink. Then suddenly she sprang up. He opened his eyes, saw her run to the door and shut it, then to the window and tightly close the heavy curtains. A dim twilight still flowed through the room. He wanted to rise, to stand up, but she was back before he could move a single limb. She threw off the black negligee and came to him, shut his eyelids again with gentle fingers and pressed her lips on his. He felt her little breast in his hand, felt her toe nails play against the flesh of his legs, felt her hair falling over his cheeks–and he didn’t resist, gave himself to her, just as she wanted– “Are you staying?” she asked. But he sensed it wasn’t a question any more, she only wanted to hear it from his own lips. “Yes,” he said softly. Her kisses fell like the rain in May. Her caresses dropped like a shower of almond blossoms in the evening wind and her loving words sprang like the shimmering pearls of the cascade in the park pool. “You taught me!” she breathed. “You–you showed me what love is–Now you must stay for my love, which you created!” She lightly traced her fingers over his wound, kissed it with her tongue, raised her head and looked at him with crazy, confused eyes. “I hurt you–”she whispered. “I struck you–right over your heart– Do you want to beat me? Should I get the whip? Do what you want!– Tear wounds in me with your teeth–take a knife even. Drink my blood–Do whatever you want–Anything, anything–I am your slave.” He closed his eyes again and sighed deeply. “You are the Mistress,” he thought. “The winner!”
Sometimes when he entered the library it seemed as if a laugh came from out of the corners somewhere. The first time he heard it he thought it was Alraune, even though it didn’t sound like her voice. He searched around and found nothing. When he heard it again he became frightened. “That’s Uncle Jakob’s hoarse voice,” he thought. “He is laughing at me.” Then he took hold of himself, pulled himself together. “A hallucination,” he muttered. “And no wonder–my nerves are over stimulated.” He moved about as if in a dream, slouching and staggering, with hanging, drooping movements and listless eyes. But every nerve was taut and overloaded when he was with her–Then his blood raced, where before it had been sickly and barely crawled. He had been her teacher, that was true. He had opened her eyes, taught her every Persian mystery from the land of the morning, every game of the ancients that had made love into a fine art. But it was as if he said nothing strange to her at all, only reawakened her long lost memories from some other time. Often her swift desire flamed and broke out like a forest fire in the summer time before he could even speak. He threw the torch and yet shuddered at the rutting fire that scorched his flesh, engulfed him in feverish passion, left him withered and curdled the blood in his veins. Once as he slunk over the courtyard he met Froitsheim. “You don’t ride any more, young Master?” asked the old coachman. He quickly said, “No, not any more.” Then his gaze met the old man’s and he saw how the dry lips opened. “Don’t speak, old man!” he said quickly. “I know what you want to say to me! But I can’t–I can’t.”
Introduction: The Six Keys of Eudoxus unlock the secret philosophy, transforming the soul’s essence into the philosopher’s stone through precise alchemical operations. This section unveils the first three Keys, guiding the adept through purification, sublimation, and unification to divine light.
The First Key: Purification of the Stone
The First Key opens the “dark prisons” of the soul’s essence, extracting its vital seed—the Sulphur—by uniting it with Mercury, the spirit. Hermes describes this as uncovering a “venerable Stone,” bright and radiant, hidden in the caverns of matter. The adept must “cut off the Raven’s head,” purifying the “Blackest Black” to reveal a white, astral Stone, rich with the “blood of the Pelican.”
This initial purification, achieved through careful dissolution, removes the foul, stinking fumes, transforming the soul’s essence into a resplendent form. The operation, though analogous to later stages, focuses on cleansing the body with the spirit, concluding when the Stone shines with divine whiteness.
The Second Key: Sublimation of Elements
The Second Key dissolves the Stone’s compound, separating its elements philosophically by raising the subtle above the gross. This requires the “Fire of the Wise,” a secret agent that gently sublimates the Stone into a mercurial water, as Hermes notes: “The vine of the Wise becomes their Wine.” The adept, through meditation and prayer, seeks this divine fire, which transforms earth into water, water into air, and air into fire, preparing the “great Lunaria” for fixation.
This sublimation, achieved without violence, yields a viscous “Pontick Water,” the rectified Water of Life, marking the end of the Second Key’s delicate distillation.
The Third Key: Unification of Principles
The Third Key, the longest operation, unites the soul, spirit, and body—Salt, Sulphur, and Mercury—into a nobler substance. The adept distills the Stone’s water, leaving a “dead, black earth” that holds the Fixed Salt, the “Blood of our Stone.” By repeatedly washing this earth with its own water, as Cosmopolite advises, the adept reconciles fire and water, uniting Adam (body) and Eve (spirit) in a perfect form.
This process, likened to wine’s rectification into alcohol, transforms the Stone into a radiant essence, animated by the “Fiery Essence” that completes the Third Key’s sacred union.
Closing: This chapter unveils the first three Keys of Eudoxus, purifying and uniting the soul’s essence into divine light. The journey into the remaining Keys 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
“Mean -, that’s what they call the fifth container in the salt ponds into which the sea water flows for the extraction of the salt.” “Good,” nodded the teacher, smiling mischievously. “He himself knows it, but as an appendage of the Noblesse in this school I call him sot, paresseux et criminel! Get him out of the seat, so that he gets what he deserves as the representative of the ignorant noblesse!” I turned pale with rage. This excess of injustice against the poor boy, the only one who knew the rare and hardly used word, seemed to me outrageous. I nudged Sassen, but he only shrugged his shoulders, and Phoebus looked up in the air as if it were none of his business. Hesitantly, Klaus Jägerle emerged from the bench. Thick tears stood in his eyes. Glowing red with shame, he fiddled with his waistband…. “Faster! Expose his derriere!” screeched the school fox and bobbed with the square ruler, “so that in place of nobility he gets his proper Schilling!” Horrified, I saw Klaus drop his trousers. Two poor, skinny legs appeared beneath a gray, frayed shirt. The teacher grabbed him with a splayed claw. That’s when I jumped out of my bench. “You’re not going to hit Jägerle, Monsieur!” I shouted. “I won’t permit it…” “Ei, ei!” laughed the man, “this will immediately show you…” He pressed down the willing head of the poor boy and struck a blow. Then I jumped at the teacher’s throat. He cried out with a gasp and kicked at me with his feet. We fell to the floor. The bench toppled over, and ink flowed over us. The other students whooped with joy and stomped their feet. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my right hand. He had bitten me, with his ugly, black tooth stumps. I hit him in the face with my fist. Blood and saliva spurted from his mouth. A hand grabbed me by the collar and pulled me up into the air. I looked into a coarse, good-natured face under a chubby gray wig. The principal. “Have you gone mad, Domine? – Rise, Herr!” he shouted at the bleeding teacher. “He wants to kill me!” screeched the latter. “Baron Dronte, you will leave the school immediately!” The principal said, pointing to the door. Klaus Jägerle still stood humbly with his head bowed and his thin, trembling legs, not daring to pull up his pants without permission.
It went badly for me when father kicked the groom with his foot and hit him, who was writhing and whimpering on the ground. In pity, I tore the whip out of my father’s hand and flung it far away. Instead, I was now sitting in an attic of our house with water and bread. In the chamber was nothing but a pile of straw in the corner and a stool on which I could sit. Every day my father came, slapped me hard across the face and forced me to speak a Bible verse in a loud voice: “For the wrath of man strives and spares not in the time of vengeance. And look to no person to make reconciliation, or to receive it, even if you want to give it.” When I had spoken the verse, I received a second slap in the face. I let it all wash over me and was full of hatred. Today was the fifth and last day of punishment. Quietly a key turned in the door lock. I knew that it could not be my father. It was Aglaja. My defiance against the world prevented me from giving in to the sweet joy that I felt at the sight of her. Lovely and blushing, she stepped in her white, blue-flowered dress over the threshold of the gloomy and dusty attic room. Her face was childlike and of indescribable charm. Her spotless skin shone milky white, lifted by the copper red of her hair. I knew well how dearly she loved me, and in my solitude and distress I too thought only of her, day and night. But there was enough evil in me to make me want to plunge her into suffering, too. “What do you want here?” I growled. “Why don’t you go to my Lord father – make yourself a dear child with him! You can just beat it, go away, you!” Her eyelashes trembled, and her little mouth began to quiver. “I just wanted to bring you my cake…” she said softly, holding out a large piece of cake to me. I snatched it out of her hand, threw it on the ground and stepped on it with my foot. “So!” I said. “Go and tell Frau Muhme, or my father, if you like!” She stood quite motionless, and I saw how slowly two tears ran from her beautiful gray eyes. Then she went to the corner, sat down on the straw bed and wept bitterly. I let her cry, while my own heart wanted to burst in my chest. But then I could not stand it any longer. I knelt down to her and stroked her hair. “Dear, dear Aglaja…” I stammered, “forgive me – you are the only one here whom I love…” Then she smiled through her tears, took my right hand in hers and brought it to her young breast. And I thought of how once at night, in a dark, fearful urge, I had crept into her room and, by the light of the night lamp, I had lifted her blankets to see her body just once. She had awakened and had looked at me fixedly until I had crept out of the room, seized by remorse and fear. As if she had guessed what I was thinking about, she suddenly looked at me and whispered: “You must never do that again, Melchior!” I nodded silently, still holding one of her small breasts. My blood surged in pounding waves. “I want to kiss you with pleasure -” she said then and held out her sweet, soft lips to me. I kissed her clumsily and hotly, and my hands strayed. “Don’t – oh don’t -” she stammered, and yet she nestled tightly in my arms. Then somewhere in the house a door opened and slammed shut with a bang. Spurs clanked. We moved apart. “Will you always love me, Aglaja?” I begged. “Always,” she said, looking me straight in the eyes. And suddenly she began to cry again. “Why are you crying?” I urged her. “I don’t know – maybe it’s because of the cake -” she said, smiling to herself. I picked up the trampled and soiled pastry from the floor and ate it. “Maybe it’s also because I won’t be with you for long.” The words came out of her mouth like a breath. I looked at her in dismay. I did not understand her. “Don’t pay any attention to me,” she laughed suddenly. “Even if it’s true, I’ll always come back to you!” She pressed a quick kiss on my mouth, smoothed her clothes and quickly ran out of the attic room. “Aglaja! Stay with me!” I cried in sudden fear. I was suddenly so afraid. But I heard only the hard clatter of her high heels on the stairs. An autumn fly buzzed on the small, cobweb-covered window restlessly. In the sooty, torn nets hung decomposed beetles, empty butterflies, and insect corpses of all kinds. – The fly wriggled. The buzzing sound became high. Slowly, out of a dark hole crawled a hairy spider with long legs, grasped the fly, and lowered its poisonous jaws into its soft body. – The buzzing became very high – the death cry of a small creature. Suddenly I saw that the spider had a terrible face. I ran to the door and banged on the wood with both fists. “Aglaja!,” I screamed. “Aglaja!” No one heard me.
We had been working under the blue sky, in the warm, deep sunshine; we had been helping to harvest the fruit from the big field behind the house. The plums were dripping with sweetness. They tasted like wine. We could not get enough. The greengage that we touched were even more delicious. They melted in the mouth. In the evening Aglaja cried out in pain. At midnight she was dead. The house was filled with cries of lamentation. Father locked himself in his study. The maids were wailing in their aprons. Aglaja was dead. I was just walking back and forth, picking up things without knowing what I had picked up; I leaned for a long time, without thinking about anything, with my head against a carved doorpost until the pain woke me up, drank water from a watering can. The days, the days went by. Without beginning or end. Crying everywhere. I watched them clearing out the chamber in the corridor and bring out the black cloths. How they cut asters and autumn roses and made wreaths, sobbing and smearing their wet faces with their earthy hands. I stroked the handle of the chamber, a handle that had been worn thin from much use, and you hurt yourself on it if you were careless. But when they were inside nailing the cloths to the walls and brought the candlesticks from out of the silver chamber, as the footsteps of people carrying something heavy, came down the stairs, I ran in the fallen leaves of the garden. Mists were drifting and it was dripping. The beautiful time was gone. The last day was over. I saw a blue ground beetle and stepped on it. Yellowish intestines spilled out of its small body, the legs twitched, contracted silently and stiffly. So I did no differently than my father did when he beat people. I had to cry, all alone on a bench of cold stone. Once in the summer the stone had been so hot that Aglaja and I had tried to see who could keep their hand on it longer. Her white hand had been so delicate that she got a blister. – A cold drop fell from the sky onto my forehead.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
They swam around–Then he went into the house, brought her a cloak. And when they turned to go back, hand in hand, under the copper beeches she said: “I thank you, my love!” They lay naked in the red afterglow. Their bodies, that had been one through the hot afternoon hours, fell apart–Broken and crushed by their caresses, their fondling and sweet words, like the flowers, like the tender grass, over which their love storm had broken. The firebrand lay dead, had devoured itself with greedy teeth. Out of the ashes grew a cruel, steel hard hatred. They looked at each other–now they knew that they were mortal enemies. The long red lines on her thighs now seemed disgusting and unseemly to him, the spittle ran in his mouth as if he had sucked a bitter poison out of her lips. The little wounds that her teeth and her nails had torn hurt and burned, swelling up– “She has poisoned me,” he thought. “Like she once did Dr. Petersen.” Her green gaze smiled over at him, provoking, mocking and impudent. He closed his eyes, bit his lips together, and curled his fingers into fists. Then she stood up, turned around and kicked him with her foot, carelessly and contemptuously. He sprang up at that, stood in front of her, their glances crossed– Not one word came out of her mouth, but she pouted her lips, raised her arm, spit at him, slapped him in the face with her hand. Then he threw himself at her, shook her body, whirled her around by her hair, flung her to the ground, kicked her, beat her, choked her tightly by the neck. She defended herself well. Her nails shredded his face, her teeth bit into his arm and his chest. And with blood foaming at their mouths, their lips searched and found each other, took each other in a rutting frenzy of burning desire and pain– Then he seized her, flung her several meters away, so that she fainted, sinking down onto the lawn. He staggered a few steps further, sank down and stared up into the blue heavens, without desire, without will–listening to his temples pound–until his eyelids sank– When he awoke, she was kneeling at his feet, drying the blood out of his wounds with her hair, ripping her shift into long strips, bandaging him skillfully– “Let’s go, my love,” she said. “Evening falls.” Little blue eggshells lay on the path. He searched in the bushes, found the plundered nest of a crossbill. “Those pesky squirrels,” he cried. “There are far too many in the park. They will drive out all of our song birds.” “What should we do?” she asked. He said, “Shoot a few.” She clapped her hands. “Yes, yes,” she laughed. “We will go on a hunt!” “Do you have some kind of a gun?” he asked. She considered, “No, –I believe there are none, at least none that we can use–We must buy one–But wait,” she interrupted herself, “The old coachman has one. Sometimes he shoots the stray cats when they poach.” He went to the stables. “Hello Froitsheim,” he cried. “Do you have a gun?” “Yes,” replied the old man. “Should I go get it?” He nodded, then he asked, “Tell me old man. Do you still want to let your great-grandchildren ride on Bianca? They were here last Sunday–but I didn’t see you setting them on the donkey.” The old man growled, went into his room, took a rifle down from the wall, came back, sat down quietly, cleaning it and getting it ready. “Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to answer me?” Froitsheim chewed with dry lips. “I don’t want to,” he grumbled. Frank Braun laid a hand on his shoulder, “Be reasonable old man, say what is on your heart. I think you can speak freely with me!” Then the coachman said, “I will accept nothing from the Fräulein–don’t want any gifts from her. I receive my bread and wages–for that I work. I don’t want any more than that.” Frank Braun felt that no persuasion would help getting through his hard skull. Then he hit upon an idea, threw in a little bait that the old man could chew on– “If the Fräulein asked something special of you, would you do it?” “No,” said the stubborn old man. “No more than my duty.” “But if she paid you extra,” he continued. “Then would you do it?” The coachman still didn’t want to agree. “That would depend–” he chewed. “Don’t be pig headed, Froitsheim!” laughed Frank Braun. “The Fräulein–not I–wants to borrow your gun to shoot squirrels–That has absolutely nothing to do with your duty, and because of that–do you understand, in return–she will allow you to let the children ride on the donkey–It is a trade. Will you do it?” “Yes,” said the old man grinning. “I will.” He handed the rifle over to him, took a box of cartridges out of a drawer. “I will throw these in as well!” he spoke. “That way I’ve paid well and am not in her debt–Are you going out riding this afternoon, young Master?” he continued. “Good, the horses will be ready around five-o’clock.”–Then he called the stable boy, sent him running out to the cobbler’s wife, his granddaughter, to let her know that she should send the children up that evening– Early the next morning Frank Braun stood under the acacia that kissed the Fräulein’s window, gave his short whistle. She opened, called down that she would be right there. Her light steps rang clearly on the flagstones, with a leap she was down from the terrace, over the steps, into the garden and standing in front of him. “Look at you!” she cried. “In a kimono? Do people go hunting like that?” He laughed, “Well, it will do just fine for squirrels– But look at you!” She was dressed as a Wallenstein hunter. “Holk Regiment!” she cried. “Do you like it?” She wore high yellow riding boots, a green jerkin and an enormous grayish green hat with waving plumes. An old pistol was stuck into her belt and a long sabre beat against her leg. “Take that off,” he said. “The game will be terrified of you if you go hunting like that.” She pouted her lips. “Aren’t I pretty,” she asked. He took her into his arms, quickly kissed her lips.“You are charming, you vain little monkey,” he laughed. “And your Holk hunting outfit will do just as well as my kimono for squirrels.” He unbuckled the sabre and the long spurs, laid her flintlock pistol aside and took up the coachman’s rifle. “Now come, comrade,” he cried. “Tally ho!” They went through the garden walking softly, peering through the bushes and into the tops of the trees. He pushed a cartridge into the rifle and cocked it. “Have you ever shot a gun before?” he asked. “Oh yes,” she nodded. “Wőlfchen and I went together to the big church fair in Pützchen. We practiced there in the shooting gallery.” “Good,” he said. “Then you know how you must hold it and aim it.” There was a rustling over them in the branches. “Shoot,” she whispered. “Shoot! There is one above us!” He raised the rifle and looked up, but then let it down again. “No, not that one,” he declared. “That is a young one, scarcely a year old. We will let it live for a while longer.” They followed the brook until it came out of the birch trees into the meadow. Fat June bugs buzzed in the sun, yellow butterflies swung over the daisies. Whispering sounds were everywhere, crickets chirping, bees buzzing, grasshoppers jumped at their feet in giant leaps. Frogs croaked in the water and above–a little lark rejoiced. They walked across the meadow to the copper beeches. There, right on the border, they heard a frightened chirping, saw a little hen flutter out of the bushes. Frank Braun crept quietly ahead, looking sharply. “There is the robber,” he murmured. “Where?” she asked. “Where?” But his shot already cracked–a heavy squirrel fell down from the tree trunk. He raised it up by the tail, showed her where the bullet had hit. “It won’t plunder any more nests!” he said. They hunted further through the large park. He shot a second squirrel in the honeysuckle leaves and a third gray squirrel in the top of a pear tree. “You always shoot!” she cried. “Let me have the gun once!” He gave it to her, showed her how to carry it, let her shoot into a tree trunk a few times. “Now come!” he cried. “Let’s see what you can do!” He pushed the gun barrel down. “Like this,” he instructed. “The muzzle always points toward the ground and not into the air.” Near the pool he saw a young animal playing in the path. She wanted to shoot right away, but he called for her to sneak up a few more steps. “Now you’re close enough, let him have it.” She shot–the squirrel looked around in astonishment, then quickly sprang up a tree trunk and disappeared into the thick branches. A second time didn’t go much better–She was much too far away. But when she tried to get closer, the animals fled before she could get a shot off. “The stupid beasts,” she complained. “Why do they stand still for you?” She appeared charming to him in her childish anger. “Apparently because they think I am their friend,” he laughed. “You make too much noise in your leather riding boots, that’s what it is! Just wait, we will get closer.” Right by the mansion, where the hazel bushes pressed against the acacias, he saw another squirrel. “Stay here,” he whispered. “I will drive it out to you. Only look there into those bushes and when you see it, whistle so I will know. It will turn when you whistle–then shoot!” He went around in a wide arc, sneaking through the bushes. Finally he discovered the animal on a low acacia, drove it down, and chased it into a hazel thicket. He saw that it was going in the right direction toward Alraune so he backed up a little and waited for her whistle. But he didn’t hear it. Then he went back in the same arc and came out on the wide path behind her. There she stood, gun in hand, staring intently into the bushes and a little off to her left–scarcely three meters away, the squirrel merrily played in the hazel thicket. “It’s over there,” he called out softly. “Over there, up a little and to the left!” She heard his voice, turned quickly around toward him. He saw how her lips opened to speak, heard a shot at the same time and felt a light pain in his side. Then he heard her shrill despairing scream, saw how she threw the gun away and rushed toward him. She tore open his kimono, grabbed at the wound with both hands. He bowed his head, looked down. It was a long, but very light surface wound that was scarcely bleeding. The skin was only burned, showing a broad black line. “Get the hangman!” he laughed. “That was close!–Right over the heart.” She stood in front of him, trembling, all of her limbs shaking, scarcely able to stand up. He supported her, talked to her. “It’s nothing, child. Nothing at all! We will wash it out with something, then moisten it with oil–Think nothing of it!” He pulled the kimono still further back, showed her his naked chest. With straying fingers she felt the surface wound. “Right over the heart,” she murmured. “Right over the heart!” Then suddenly she grabbed her head with both hands. A sudden fear seized her, she looked at him with a horrified gaze, tore herself out of his arms, ran to the house, sprang up the stairs–
Introduction: The Subtle Work transforms the soul’s essence into divine light, uniting its principles through sacred alchemy. This section unveils the mystical unification of the “Fixt, Variable, and Fugitive,” guided by the Smaragdine Table to manifest the philosopher’s stone.
The Triad of Transformation
The Subtle Work unites the “Fixt, Variable, and Fugitive”—symbolizing body, soul, and spirit—into a radiant essence, as Bloomfield’s Camp of Philosophy describes: “The Dragon slays the Sun and Moon, then rises as glorious Phoebus.” This triple introversion, a circulatory process, transforms the soul’s essence through death and rebirth, culminating in a “fiery form of Light.”
Plotinus explains this as a sudden illumination, where the soul, filled with divine splendor, becomes one with God. The adept, through persistent faith, prepares the soul to receive this light, as Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo invokes: “Bright Phoebus comes, and only the pure behold him.”
The Smaragdine Table’s Wisdom
The Smaragdine Table of Hermes encapsulates the Subtle Work: “That which is above is as that which is below, performing the miracles of the One Thing.” The Sun (divine will) and Moon (receptive soul), carried by the Wind (spirit) and nursed by the Earth (matter), unite through gentle separation of the subtle from the gross. This process, as Hermes declares, ascends from earth to heaven and descends again, integrating superior and inferior strengths to create a radiant, universal essence.
The adept, guided by this wisdom, transforms the soul’s chaotic principles into a crystalline form, achieving the “glory of the whole world” through divine unity.
The Path to Divine Unity
The Subtle Work, as Vaughan notes, requires no manual labor but a silent incubation of divine light, aligning the soul with its eternal source. The adept, like Ulysses beholding Minerva’s lamp, stills the mind to receive divine wisdom, as Trismegistus teaches: “In Divine Silence, the soul becomes the Essence of God.” This unification, the “magistery” of alchemy, manifests the philosopher’s stone, a radiant vessel of universal truth.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Subtle Work’s unification of the soul’s essence into divine light, guided by sacred wisdom. The journey into its practical keys deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
“How do you like it?” she asked him. “Why should the little man be there?” he retorted. She said, “He belongs there!–I didn’t like the golden Cupid–That is for all the other people–I want to have Galeotto, my root manikin.” “Why do you call it that?” he asked. “Galeotto!” she replied. “Wasn’t it him that brought us together?–Now I want him to hang there, to watch over us through the night.” Sometimes they went out riding in the evenings or also during the night if the moon was shining. They rode through the Sieben Gerberge mountain range or to Rolandseck and into the wilderness beyond. Once they found a she-donkey at the foot of Dragon’s Rock in the Sieben Geberge mountain range. People there used the animal for riding up to the castle at the top. He bought her. She was a young animal, well cared for and glistened like fresh snow. Her name was Bianca. They took her with them, behind the horses on a long rope, but the animal just stood there, planting her forelegs like a stubborn mule, allowing herself to be choked and dragged along. Finally they found a way to persuade her. In Kőnigswinter he bought a large bag full of sugar, took the rope off Bianca and let her run free. He threw her one piece of sugar after the other from out of the saddle. Soon the she-donkey ran after them, keeping itself tight to his stirrup, snuffling at his boots. Old Froitsheim took the pipe out of his mouth as they came up, spit thoughtfully and grinned agreeably. “An ass,” he chewed. “A young ass! It’s been almost thirty years since we’ve had one here in the stable. You know, young Master, how I used to let you ride old gray Jonathan?” He got a bunch of carrots and gave them to the animal, stroking her shaggy fur. “What’s her name, young Master?” he asked. Frank Braun told him her name. “Come Bianca,” spoke the old man. “You will have it good here with me. We will be friends.” Then he turned again to Frank Braun. “Young Master,” he continued. “I have three great-grandchildren in the village, two little girls and a boy. They are the cobbler’s children, on the road to Godesberg. They often come to visit me on Sunday afternoons. May I let them ride the ass?–Just here in the yard?” He nodded, but before he could answer the Fräulein cried out: “Why don’t you ask me, old man? It is my animal. He gave it to me!–Now I want to tell you–you are permitted to ride her–even in the gardens, when we are not home.” Frank Braun’s glance thanked her–but not the old coachman. He looked at her, half mistrusting and half surprised, grumbled something incomprehensible and enticed the donkey into the stable with the juicy carrots. He called the stable boy, presented him to Bianca, then the horses, one after the other–led her around behind the farmyard, showed her the cow barn with the heavy Hollander cows and the young calf of black and white Liese. He showed her the hounds, both sharp pointers, the old guard dog and the cheeky fox terrier that was sleeping in the stable. Brought her to the pigs, where the enormous Yorkshire sow suckled her piglets, to the goats and the chicken coop. Bianca ate carrots and followed him. It appeared that she liked it at the Brinken’s. Often in the afternoons the Fräulein’s clear voice rang out from the garden. “Bianca!” she cried. “Bianca!” Then the old coachman opened her stall; swung the door open wide and the little donkey came into the garden at an easy trot. She would stop a few times, eat the green juicy leaves, indulge in the high clover or wander around some more until the enticing call rang out again, “Bianca!” Then she would search for her mistress.
They lay on the lawn under the ash trees. No table–only a large platter lay on the grass covered with a white Damascus cloth. There were many fruits, assorted tid-bits, dainties and sweets among the roses. The wine stood to the side. Bianca snuffled, scorned the caviar and no less the oysters, turned away from the pies. But she took some cake and a piece of ice out of the cooler, ate a couple of roses in between– “Undress me!” said Alraune. Then he loosened the eyes and hooks and opened the snaps. When she was naked he lifted her onto the donkey. She sat astride on the white animal’s back and held on lightly to the shaggy mane. Slowly, step by step, she rode over the meadow. He walked by her side, lying his right hand on the animal’s head. Bianca was clever, proud of the slender boy whom she carried, didn’t stop once, but went lightly with velvet hoofs. There, where the dahlia bed ended, a narrow path led past the little brook that fed the marble pool. She didn’t go over the wooden bridge. Carefully, one foot after the other, Bianca waded through the clear water. She looked curiously to the side when a green frog jumped from the bank into the stream. He led the animal over to a raspberry patch, picked the red berries and divided them with Alraune, continued through the thick laurel bushes. There, surrounded by thick elms, lay a large field of carnations. His grandfather had laid it out for his good friend, Gottfried Kinkel, who loved these flowers. Every week he had sent the poet a large bouquet for as long as he lived. There were little feathery carnations, tens of thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. All the flowers glowed silver-white and their leaves glowed silvery green. They gleamed far, far into the evening sun, a silver ground. Bianca carried the pale girl diagonally across the field and then back around. The white donkey stepped deeply through the silver ocean; the wind made light waves that kissed her hoofs. He stood on the border and watched her, drank in the sweet colors until he was sated. Then she rode up to him. “Isn’t it beautiful, my love?” she asked. And he said sincerely, “–It is very beautiful–ride some more.” She answered, “I am happy.” Lightly she laid her hand behind the clever animal’s ears and it stepped out, slowly, slowly, through shining silver–
“Why are you laughing?” she asked. They sat on the terrace at the breakfast table and he was reading his mail. There was a letter from Herr Manasse, who wrote him about the Burberger mining shares. “You have read in the newspapers about the gold strike in the Hocheifel,” said the attorney. For the greatest part the gold has been found on territory owned by the Burberger Association. It appears very doubtful to me that these small veins of ore will be worth the very considerable cost of refining it. Nevertheless, your shares that were completely worthless four weeks ago, now, with the help of the Association’s skillful press release have rapidly climbed in value and have been at par for a week already. Today, I heard through bank director Baller that they are prepared to quote them at two hundred fourteen. Therefore I have given your stocks over to my friend and asked him to sell them immediately. That will happen tomorrow, perhaps they will obtain an even higher rate of exchange.” He handed the letter over to Alraune. “Uncle Jakob himself, would have never dreamed of that,” he laughed. “Otherwise he would have certainly left my mother and me some different shares!” She took the letter, carefully read it through to the end. Then she let it sink, stared straight ahead into space. Her face was wax pale. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Yes he did–He did know it,” she said slowly. “He knew exactly what he was doing!” Then she turned to him. “If you want to make money–don’t sell the shares,” she continued and her voice rang with conviction. “They will find still more gold–Your shares will climb still higher–much higher.” “It’s too late,” he said lightly. “By this hour the shares have probably already been sold! Besides, are you all that certain?” “Certain?” she repeated. “Certain? Who could be more certain that I?” She let her head sink down onto the table, sobbed out loud, “So it begins–so–” He stood up, laid his arm around her shoulder. “Nonsense,” he said. “Beat that depression out of your brain!– Come Alraune, we will go swimming. The fresh water will wash the foolish cobwebs away. Chat with your mermaid sisters–they will confirm that Melusine can bring no more harm once she has kissed her lover.” She pushed him away, sprang up, stood facing him, and looked him straight in the eyes. “I love you,” she cried. “Yes, I do–But it is not true–the magic does not go away! I am no Melusine, am not the fresh water’s child! I come out of the earth–and the night created me.” Shrill tones rang from her lips–and he didn’t know if it was a sob or a laugh– He grabbed her in his strong arms, paid no attention to her struggling and hitting. He held her like a wild child, carried her down the steps and into the garden, carried her screaming over to the pool, threw her in, as far as he could with all her clothes on. She got up and stood for a moment in amazement, dazed and confused. Then he let the cascades play and a splashing rain surrounded her. She laughed loudly at that. “Come,” she cried. “Come in too!” She undressed and in high spirits threw her wet clothes at his head. “Aren’t you ready yet?” she urged. “Hurry up!” When he was standing beside her she saw that he was bleeding. The drops fell from his cheek, from his neck and left ear. “I bit you,” she whispered. He nodded. Then she raised herself up high, encircled his neck, and drank the red blood with ardent lips. “Now it is better,” she said.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
Then I screamed so loudly that my father let go of him. “The toad can’t stand it, if I chastise the scoundrel,” he said angrily, he will never be a right fellow in his day!” Spurs clanking he went out. I was more afraid of this clink than of anything else. Then they gave me sweets and stroked me. A young maid kissed my bare calves. “Sweet boy!” she said. In a mirror they showed me how a piece of glass had hit me on the root of my nose and tore a small cut between my eyebrows. A scar remained from it.
I was playing in the garden with my little cousin Aglaja, whom I loved very much. I had woven a wreath from black, shiny ball berries, which I placed in her copper-colored hair, which shone golden in the sun. She was the king’s daughter, enchanted in thorny hedges, and I set out to save her. The dragon that guarded her had to be played by black Diana. With clever eyes the dog waited for the new game. Then, accompanied by a maid, the barber came hurriedly through the garden with a brass basin, and a servant appeared at the door of the house, it was Stephan, who shouted at him to hurry. Aglaja threw her wreath of berries to the ground, and the two of us both ran behind her to grandfather’s room, which we were usually only allowed to enter with his special permission. Such visits were always very solemn and only took place on the big holidays of the year or on birthdays, when we had to recite little poems and were given sweets in return. It seemed to both of us a great dare, to go uninvited into the room of the stern old man, but curiosity drove us forward. Grandfather was sitting quietly in his sleeping chair. He wore, as always, a gray-silk sleeve vest with embroidered bouquets of roses, black pants, white stockings and shoes with wide silver buckles. On his watch chain hung a bundle of golden, colored and glittering things, cut things, cut gemstones, corals and seals, which I had sometimes been allowed to play with. In front of him stood my father with bowed head and he did not notice us children at all. When the gaunt barber, dressed in a patched jacket stepped closer, he grabbed him by the arm, his face turned red and he said half aloud: “Next time run faster, damned Kujon, when you do him the honor!” The miserable barber stammered a little, and with his hands flying grabbed his red bandages and switchblade, and pushed grandfather’s sleeve up into the air, touched the eyelids of the upturned eyes with his finger, then felt around on the arm, while he held the basin under it. Thus he waited a while, and then he said shyly: “It is of no use, free- glorious graces – the blood will never flow again!” Then father turned around and stood with his face to the wall. Stephan gently pushed Aglaja and me out the door and whispered, “His Grace has gone to his fathers.” And when we looked at him questioningly, since we could not understand this, he said, “Your grandfather is dead.” We went back into the garden and listened to the noise that soon started in the house. To the right of the hallway was a spacious room in which, as a very small child I remembered seeing my mother being laid out between many candles. This chamber, in which otherwise all sorts of equipment stood, they now cleared out and dragged in large bales of black cloth, which smelled nasty. Grandfather had preferred Aglaja to me, and had given her treats and candy more often than he had given to me. He had kept these good things in a turtle box, which smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. She cried a little, Aglaja, because she was thinking that it would all be over now, when grandfather would go away. But then we both remembered the other box he had, which we were only allowed to look at very rarely. That was his golden snuff box, given to him by the Duke of Brunswick. But on this beautiful, sparkling box, on its lid, there was a second little lid and when this popped open, a very small bird appeared, flashing with green, red and violet stones, which bobbed with the wings and trilled like a nightingale. We could hardly get enough of seeing and hearing it, but grandfather slipped it into his pocket as soon as, after a short while, the lid closed by itself, and told us to be satisfied. I said to Aglaja that now we could look closely at the bird and even feel it, since grandfather was dead. She was afraid to go up, but I took her by the hand and pulled her behind me. No one was in the corridor, and the room was empty. Empty stood the wide armchair in which grandfather had spent his last nights. On the little table next to it were still the bottles with the long notes. We knew that grandfather had always taken the can from the middle drawer. This drawer was made of colored wood decorated with ships, cities and warriors from the old times and on the drawer, which we tried to open, there were two fat Dutchmen who were smoking pipes and being served by kneeling Moors. I pulled at the rings; but not until Aglaja helped me, did we manage to open the drawer. There lay Grandfather’s lace jabots and handkerchiefs, a roll of gold ducats, a large pistol inlaid with gold, and many letters in bundles, shoe buckles and razors, and also the box with the bird. I took it out, and we tried to make the lid jump. But we did not succeed. But while we were working around, the big lid came off, and a thin plate detached itself from it, which concealed something. It was a small picture, which was painted in fine enamel colors. A picture which made us forget the little bird completely. On a small sofa lay a lady with her skirts pushed up, and right next to her was a gentleman with sword and wig, whose clothes were also in strange disorder. They were doing something that seemed to us as strange as it was weird. In addition, the man was being attacked by a little spotted dog, and the lady lying down seemed to laugh. We also laughed. But then we argued very excitedly about what this was. “They are married,” said Aglaja, blushing. “How do you know?” I asked, my heart pounding hard. “I think they are gods…” whispered Aglaja. “I saw a picture, where the gods were like that. But they didn’t have any clothes on.” All of a sudden it was as if in the next room where our dead grandfather lay, the floorboard creaked. We shrunk back, and Aglaja cried out. Then I quickly threw the can into the drawer, pushed it closed and pulled my cousin out of the room. We slid into the garden. “Aglaja…” I said, grabbing her hand. “Are we going to get married like that…?” She looked at me, startled, tore herself away and ran back into the house. Confused and bewildered I went to Stephan, who was cutting roses from the stalks and gathering them in a basket. “Yes, young Herr!” he said. “So it goes with all of us!”
Next to me sat Phöbus Merentheim and Thilo Sassen. We three were the most distinguished. Behind us squatted Klaus Jägerle, the whipping boy. He was allowed to study with us, was given food, and if we didn’t know something, punishment was carried out on him. His mother was a washerwoman and his father wove baskets, although he only had one arm. The other arm was cut by an enemy horseman, when he was protecting Thilo’s severely wounded father with his body. In return Klaus was allowed to study with us and to come to the table at noon. Klaus was very industrious, shy and depressed, and had to put up with everything that his classmates cooked up when they were in an exuberant mood. He was almost worse off than the hunchback son of the grocer Isaaksohn, they had once put him at the door and spat in his face one after the other, so that the disgusting juice, mixed with his tears, ran down his new gentleman’s sport coat. I was in great fear because I had learned nothing. For before me stood the small, poisonous teacher of French in his inky, tobacco-colored jacket with the bent lead buttons, the goose quill behind his ear, talking through his Spaniol-filled nose. His pale face was full of freckles and twitched incessantly. In his left hand he held a book, and he waved the black-rimmed knotted index finger of his right hand in front of my face. He always did it that way. All of a sudden, after he had studied our faces maliciously for a while, he would go after one of the students like a vulture and always found the most insecure out. It was his habit, to vocabulaire at the beginning of the lesson, that is to say, he threw a few French words in the victim’s face, which had to be translated immediately. This time he had chosen me. “Allons, monsieur-,” he hissed. “Emouchoir-. Tonte- Mean. – At once! Quickly!” I was startled and stammered: “Emouchoir – the fly tonguing, tonte – the Sheep shearing – mean… mean, that is – that is -“ He neighed with delight. “Ah – you don’t know, Cher Baron?” “Mean -, that is –“ “Assez! Sit down!” He bleated, and his little black eyes sparkled with amusement. Slowly he took a pinch from his round horn can, ran back and forth with two fingers under his pointed nose and then poked the can at my neighbor. “Herr Sassen! – Not either? – Merentheim? Also not? – Jägerle, stand up and say it!” Poor Klaus jumped up as if like a feather and said in a thin voice:
Introduction: The Hermetic art’s Subtle Work transforms the soul’s essence into divine light through a sacred, threefold process. This section unveils the refined alchemy of uniting principles, guided by celestial wisdom, to manifest the philosopher’s stone.
The Sacred Regeneration
The Subtle Work, as Khunrath describes, reduces the soul’s ternary—body, soul, spirit—to a unified essence through divine regeneration. St. Paul’s testimony in Hebrews frames this as Christ’s light purging sins, uniting all in divine glory. The adept, as Trismegistus instructs, nurtures the “seed of regeneration” within, allowing the Spirit of God to incubate the soul’s essence without manual labor, as Vaughan notes: “The work is performed by an invisible Artist.”
This process, likened to baptismal regeneration, transforms the soul’s chaotic principles into a celestial form, as the Chaldaic Oracles declare: “The Monad rules the Triad, cherishing the Earth in Fire.” The adept, guided by faith, aligns with this divine light, transcending mortal limits.
The Unity of Principles
The Subtle Work unites the animal, vegetable, and mineral principles into a single essence, as Norton’s Ordinal advises: “Join in one persons Three.” This mirrors the creation narrative, where God’s Spirit moves over the waters to birth light. The adept, as Vaughan explains, navigates a “double nativity”—visible and invisible—through sublimations and purifications, transforming the soul’s essence into a radiant, incombustible form.
The Odyssey’s allegory of Minerva’s golden lamp illuminates this: the soul’s essence, freed from sensory turmoil, shines with divine clarity. Trismegistus emphasizes a “Divine Silence,” where the mind, stilled, merges with God’s essence, completing the alchemical union.
The Celestial Harmony
The Subtle Work culminates in the “Septenary,” a sacred unity of three principles and four elements, as Khunrath’s enigma reveals: “All things in all, universally known and possessed.” This celestial harmony, like Solomon’s temple adorned with gold, reflects the soul’s transformation into a divine vessel. The adept, guided by the “Fiery Letters of the Law,” as the Book of Jezirah describes, crafts a luminous form, uniting heaven and earth in eternal light.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Subtle Work’s sacred transformation, uniting the soul’s essence with divine light. The journey into its final revelations deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
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