Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment
Chapter 4: Mental Requisites and Impediments, Part 2
Introduction: The Hermetic art demands a pure and disciplined mind to unlock its sacred wisdom. This section explores the mental qualities needed and the obstacles to avoid, emphasizing faith, reason, and moral integrity as keys to divine transformation.
The Path of the True Adept
The Hermetic art, as Norton declares, is a “divine cure” to transform base metals into gold, granted only to those blessed with God’s grace and a virtuous heart. Success requires a stable, rational mind, free from avarice or pride, as Geber warns against those who chase wealth, unable to quicken the “aurific seed” of divine wisdom. The adept must pursue truth with unwavering faith, guided by reason to discern the sacred from the profane.
Eirenaeus illustrates this with a parable of seekers lost in “Cimmerian darkness,” mistaking false lights (ignorance, fantasy) for truth. Only those with disciplined intellect and pure intent can perceive the Hermetic light, aligning their will with divine purpose to unlock nature’s secrets.
The Dangers of Skepticism and Greed
Skepticism, especially the fashionable kind that dismisses the unfamiliar, is a major impediment. Geber condemns those who deny the art’s validity, presuming their limited reason sufficient, as Norton likens them to blind men attempting to paint. Such skeptics, lacking faith, block the path to truth, while the covetous, driven by Mammon, defile the divine light, risking spiritual ruin, as Job warns: “If I have made gold my hope, I have denied God.”
The Hermetic art requires sacrifice—abandoning selfhood for divine truth. Those who cling to greed or fleeting opinions fail to endure the fiery ordeal of wisdom’s purification, as Eirenaeus notes: “The art vanishes from impure hands.”
The Call for Disciplined Faith
The adept must cultivate a serene, diligent mind, as the Tractatus Aureus advises: “Be good, just, and ready to help mankind.” This disciplined faith, rooted in reason, aligns the soul with divine wisdom, transforming it into a radiant vessel. Norton emphasizes secrecy, taught “mouth to mouth” with a sacred oath, to protect the art from misuse, ensuring only the worthy wield its power.
Closing: This chapter unveils the mental requisites of faith and reason, and the pitfalls of skepticism and greed, for mastering the Hermetic art. The journey into its practical secrets deepens in our next post, unveiling further wonders of this sacred pursuit.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
She laughed hysterically and then looked at Janina with wild hate, but only a moment…
“You naturally did not know that he was married… How he lies, ha, ha, ha, how he lies…”
Suddenly Janina’s strength left her. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed.
Isa became very serious; she stood up.
“Did I insult you?” she asked coldly.
But she expected no answer, she went to the bed end where the little one lay, looked at him attentively and then stood in the middle of the room.
“But don’t cry. I did not want to insult you… How beautiful the child is! And you have no guilt… You are only a small, weak girl.”
And again she began to laugh.
Strange that you have a child… How old are you actually? Eighteen? Nineteen? Well, farewell and don’t cry. He will come back, he will come, she raged… I will drive him back to you, immediately—immediately…
“Don’t torment me!” Janina suddenly cried out.
“Torment? Torment? Ha, ha, ha… I will send him here immediately… tout de suite, tout de suite…”
On the street she stood for a long time.
A few street boys went past her, laughed impudently at her and threw obscene words at her.
She looked around timidly and began to go, quick, senselessly quick… “Only not back, only not back, only not back to the liar,”
she murmured softly to herself.
“But my God! what disgusting people live here! Why do you harass me, why do you push me then? What did I do to you?”
She gnashed her teeth in impotent rage.
Suddenly she felt a violent pain. A fellow had run into her and brutally pushed her aside so that she almost fell.
The pain brought her to consciousness.
She began to go slowly, kept close to the wall, she became anxious like a small child, a crying cramp worked its way up in her with all strength, she choked it down with difficulty, but could not prevent the tears from running unstoppably over her cheeks.
Then she came to an empty square, sat down on a bench and calmed herself. And only now everything flew through her brain with visionary clarity and a wild pain began to rage in her. She lost her senses.
And in the moment she collected herself. Geißler will give money. Only away, far, far away from him, Geißler will give money, Geißler, Geißler she repeated incessantly.
She got into a cab and gave Geißler’s address.
The pain raged ever wilder… As if a hell had been unleashed in her… Ha, ha, ha… Mais non, pas du tout; je suis au contraire tres enchantée… très enchantée… These big letters: Isak Isaksohn… No, how comical! Isak Isaksohn… Ha, ha, ha… Falk is a genius. He must improve the race, it is his duty, his duty… Here I can buy fabrics—Friedrichstraße 183, and yes, what was his name? Isak Isaksohn and Friedrichstraße 183…
Then she suddenly felt an unspeakable disgust. The person took her, with the same hands he embraced her as the girl there—with the same mouth he kissed her…
She shook herself. A morbid rage overcame her, it became unbearably tight to her, she would have liked to tear her clothes apart. The disgust choked her ever more violently.
Why did he not drag the woman into my bed?! Ha, ha, ha… He should have done it before my eyes…
She could no longer control herself. She cramped and crawled into herself and stretched up again, she felt an unbearable pain in the breast, in the head, everywhere, everywhere…
Oh que j’ai mal, que j’ai mal… Mon Dieu, que jai mal!
When she entered Geißler’s room, she was seized by a sudden cheerfulness.
“How well you look at me! You are like a small, shy boy… Ha, ha, ha… And you have such a beautiful, soft coat… Well, don’t look at me as if I fell from heaven… I am after all Erik Falk’s legally, legally you understand? on the Mairie of the fifteenth arrondissement in Paris legally married wife…”
She laughed heartily.
Geißler looked at her astonished. But since she laughed so heartily, he laughed with.
“Just think, Walther, we haven’t even greeted each other…” She kept his hand in hers.
“How big and good your hand is! And so warm, so warm.”
“You didn’t meet Erik downstairs?” asked Geißler a little uneasily. “Erik Falk? My husband?” She choked with laughter. “No, no!
My husband, ha, ha, mon mari! quelle drôle idée plus philosophique qu’originale, n’est-ce pas?”
She looked around and sat down. Geißler looked at her helplessly.
“Why do you look at me so sadly? Ah,—ah…” she stood up again… “He was here, he told you everything…”
Geißler turned around and busied himself with the papers.
“Did he tell you about his little son, and about his little mistress? Ha, ha, ha… did he want to lighten his heart with you?”
“Well, you know, Isa, you don’t need to take that so to heart. You are after all a woman, and a man is organized quite differently…”
She had sat down again in the meantime, but suddenly she felt a great fatigue, she was near fainting.
“Give water!”
She drank greedily a large glass.
“Ha, ha… I have not seen my husband, no, no, je ne l’ai pas vu depuis cinq jours… Strange preference for my mother tongue. I have almost forgotten it… I was in a hideous, German boarding school… At five o’clock we had to get up… O! brr! But how strong you are and your hand so big and so good.”
She suddenly looked at him fixedly.
“You don’t need to look so mournful. I want no pity. I want money. Give me money,” she said harshly.
He looked at her frightened. “What do you need it for?”
“You are a nice gentleman! Ha, ha, ha. You ask a lady what she needs money for! Just give me money, I have a very bad affair…”
“Isa, be serious for a moment. You don’t want to do stupid things?”
“What do you think?”
“Well listen, Isa. You know very well what you are to me… very bad things are going on with you now… And there you know to whom you should turn… I mean, well—you will not misunderstand me… You know me… But… pas de sentiments, n’est-ce pas? How much do you need?”
“Three, four hundred…”
“I will give you five hundred.”
She did not understand him, stared only at him with growing rapture. Her senses began to confuse.
“How splendid you are!… And give me your big, warm hand… Yes, so, hold me tight, hold me tight… O que j’ai mal, que j’ai mal…”
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Twelve Gives an account of how Frank Braun stepped into Alraune’s world. FRANK Braun had come back to his mother’s house, somewhere from one of his aimless journeys, from Cashmir in Asia or from Bolivian Chaco. Or perhaps is was from the West Indies where he had played revolutionary in some mad republic, or from the South Seas, where he had dreamed fairytales with the slender daughters of a dying race. He came back from somewhere. Slowly he walked through his mother’s house, up the white staircase upon whose walls was pressed frame upon frame, old engravings and modern etchings, through his mother’s wide rooms in which the spring sun fell through yellow curtains. There his ancestors hung, many Brinkens with sharp and clever faces, people that knew where they stood in the world. There was his great-grandfather and great-grandmother–good portraits from the time of the Emperor, then one of his beautiful grandmother–sixteen years old, in the earlier dress of Queen Victoria. His father and mother hung there and his own portraits as well. There was one of him as a child with a large ball in his hands and long blonde child locks that fell over his shoulders. The other was of him as a youth, in the black velvet dress of a page, reading in a thick, ancient tome. In the next room were the copies. They came from everywhere, from the Dresden Gallery, the Cassel and Braunshweig galleries, from the Palazzo Pitti, the Prado and from the Reich Museum. There were many Dutch masters, Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Ostade, Murillo, Titian, Velasquez and Veronese. All were a little darkened with age, but they glowed reddish gold in the sunlight that broke through the curtains. He went further, through the room where the modernists hung. There were several good paintings and some not as good. But not one of them was bad and there were no sweet ones. All around stood old furniture, most of it mahogany–Empire, Directoire or Biedermeir. There was none of oak but several simpler, modern pieces were scattered in between. There was no defined style, simply one after another as the years had brought them. Yet there was a quiet, pervasive harmony that transformed everything that stood there and made it belong. He climbed up to the floor that his mother had given him. Everything was exactly as he had left it the last time he had departed– two years ago. No paperweight had been moved, no chair was out of place. Yes, his mother always watched to see that the maids were careful and respectful–despite all the cleaning and dusting. Here, much more than anywhere else in the house, ruled a chaotic throng of innumerable, abstruse things. They were on the floors and on the walls. Five continents contributed strange and bizarre things to this room that were unique to them only. There were large masks, savage wooden devil deities from the Bismarck Archipelago, Chinese and Annamite flags and many weapons from all regions of the world. Then there were hunting trophies, stuffed animals, Jaguar and tiger skins, huge turtle shells, snakes and crocodiles. There were colorful drums from Luzon, long necked stringed instruments from Raj Putana and crude castings from Albania. On one wall hung a mighty, reddish brown fisherman’s net. It hung down from the ceiling and contained giant star fish, sea urchins, swords from swordfish, silver shimmering tarpon scales, mighty ocean spiders, strange deep-sea fish, mussels and snails. The furniture was covered with old brocade and over it was thrown delicate silk garments from India, colorful Spanish jackets and mandarin cloaks with large golden dragons. There were many gods as well, silver and gold Buddhas of all sizes, Indian bas-reliefs of Shiva, Krishna and Genesha along with the absurd, obscene stone idols of the Tchan tribes. In between, where ever there was a free space on the wall, hung framed glass enclosed images, an impudent Rops, a savage Goya, small drawings by Jean Callots, Crűikshank, Hogarth and assorted colorful cruelties drawn on sheets of paper out of Cambodia and Mysore. Many moderns hung nearby bearing the artist’s name and a dedication. There was furniture of all styles from all cultures, thickly populated with bronzes, porcelains and unending bric-a-brac. All these things were Frank Braun. His bullet killed the polar bear on whose white pelt he now stood. He, himself, had caught the mighty blue shark whose powerful jaws hung there in the net with its three rows of teeth. He took these poisoned arrows and this spear from the savage Buca tribe. A Manchu priest gave him this foolish idol and this tall silver priest’s clothes hanger. Single handedly he had stole this black thunderstone out of the forest temple of the Houdon–Badagri, drank with his own lips out of this Bombita in a Mate blood-brother ritual with the chief of the Toba Indians on the swampy banks of the Pilcomayo. For this curved sword he had given his best hunting rifle to a Malay sultan in North Borneo and for this other long executioner’s sword, his little pocket chess game to the Vice Regent of Shantung. These wonderful Indian carpets were presented to him by the Maharaja of Vigatpuri, whose life he had saved during an elephant hunt and this earthen eight armed Durga, begrimed with the blood of animals and people, he had received from the High Priest of the dreaded Kalis of Kalighat– His life lay in these rooms, every mussel, every colored rag, reminded him of long past memories. There lay his opium pipes, over there the large mescal can that had been hammered together out of Mexican silver dollars. Near it was the small tightly locked container of snake venom from Ceylon and a golden arm band–with two magnificent cat’s eyes–it had once been given to him by an eternally laughing child in Birma. He had paid many kisses for them– Scattered around on the floor, piled on top of each other, stood and lay crates and trunks–twenty-one of them. They contained his new treasures–none had been opened yet. “Where can I put it all?” he laughed. A long Persian spear stretched through the air across the large double window. A very large, snow white Cockatoo sat on it. It was a Macassar bird from South Africa with a high flamingo red crest. “Good morning Peter!” Frank Braun greeted him. “Atja Tuwan!” answered the bird. He climbed solemnly over the spear and down to his stand. From there he clambered onto a chair and down to the floor, came with bowed stately strides up to him, climbed up onto his shoulder, spread out his proud crest and flung his wings out wide like the Prussian eagle. “Atja, Tuwan! Atja, Tuwan!” he cried. The white bird stretched out his neck and Frank Braun scratched it. “How’s it going, little Peter?–Are you happy that I’m back again?” Frank Braun climbed halfway down the staircase, stepped out onto the large covered balcony where his mother was drinking tea. Below, in the garden, the mighty chestnut trees glowed like candles, further back, in the monastery garden, lay an ocean of brilliant snow- white flowers. Brown robed Franciscans wandered under the laughing trees. “There is Father Barnabas!” he cried. His mother put her glasses on and looked, “No,” she answered. “That is Father Cyprian.” A green amazon squatted on the iron railing of the balcony and as soon as he set the Cockatoo down, the cheeky little parrot came rushing up to it. It looked comical enough, walking sideways, like a shuffling Galatian peddler. “All right,” he screamed. “All right–Lorita real di España e di Portugal!–Anna Mari-i-i-i-i-a!” He pecked at the large bird, which just raised his crest and softly said, “cockatoo”. “Still saucy as ever, Phylax?” Frank Braun asked. “Every day he gets saucier,” laughed his mother. “Nothing is safe from him anymore. He would love to chew up the entire house.” She dipped a piece of sugar in her tea and gave it to the bird on a silver spoon. “Has Peter learned anything,” he asked. “Nothing at all,” she replied. He only speaks his soft, “’Cockatoo’, along with some scraps of Malay.” “Unfortunately you don’t understand any of that,” he laughed. His mother said, “No, but I understand my green Phylax much better. He loves to talk, all day long, in all the languages of the world– always something new. Sometimes I lock him up in the closet, just to get a half hour of peace.” She took the amazon, who was at that moment strolling across the middle of the table and attacking the butter, and set the struggling bird back up on the railing. Her brown hound came up, stood on its hind legs and rested its little head on her knee. “Yes, you are here too,” she said. “Would you like some tea?” She poured tea and milk into a little red saucer, broke off some white bread and a piece of sugar, putting them in it as well. Frank Braun looked down into the wide garden. Two round hedgehogs were playing on the lawn and nibbling at the young shoots. They must be ancient–he, himself, had once brought them out of the forest, from a school picnic. The male was named Wotan and the female, Tobias Meier. But perhaps these were their grandchildren or great-grandchildren–then he saw the little mound near the white, blooming magnolia bush. There he had once buried his black poodle. Two large yuccas grew there now, in the summer they would bloom with hundreds of white, resounding bells. But now, for spring, his mother had planted many colorful primroses there. Ivy and other wild vines crawled up the high walls of the house, all the way up to the roof. There, twittering and making noise were the sparrows. “The thrush has her nest over there, can you see?” asked his mother. She pointed down to the wooden trellis that led from the courtyard into the garden. The round nest lay half-hidden in ivy. He had to search before he finally found it. “It already has three little eggs,” he said. “No, there are four,” his mother corrected him. “She laid the fourth one this morning.” “Yes, four,” he nodded “Now I can see all of them. It is beautiful here mother.” She sighed and laid her old hand on his. “Oh yes, my boy–it is beautiful–if only I wasn’t so lonely all the time.” “Lonely,” he asked. “Don’t you have as many visitors as you used to?” She said, “Oh yes, they come every day, many young people. They look after this old lady. They come to tea and to dinner. Everyone knows how happy I am when someone comes to visit me. But you see, my boy, they are still strangers–you aren’t.” “Well now I’m here,” he said and changed the subject, described the various curiosities that he had brought back with him, asked her if she wanted to be there when he unpacked. Then the girl came up bringing the mail that had just arrived. He tore his letters open and glanced fleetingly at them. He paused, looked at one more closely. It was a letter from Legal Councilor Gontram that briefly communicated what had happened at his uncle’s house. There was also a copy of the will and his expressed wish that Frank Braun travel over as soon as possible to put the affairs in order. He, the Legal Councilor, had been court ordered to act as temporary executor. Now that he, Frank Braun, was once more back in Europe he begged him to take up his obligation.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Sixteenth Chapter A kind chance had led Ruprecht to a charming secret. A chance, playful and teasing like a putto, to which he could’ve blown kisses. Ruprecht had driven a stretch along the Kamp valley toward the Schaumburg ruin. They’d stopped by a weathered forest bench, where Hedwig rummaged through her purse for small necessities—handkerchief, mirror, and the like. Later that day, Ruprecht returned alone to the bench. Something urged him: Go back! As he strolled closer, he spotted a tiny, slim book lying there. It was a forgotten calendar, and Ruprecht opened it joyfully to see if Hedwig’s days were marked with the same ordinary numbers and names as others’. He felt her calendar must be extraordinary, with unique saints marching through her year. He found a page highlighting days to do kind things for friends. Ruprecht’s name topped the list by March 7.
At the end was a date, noted: “Oh dear—twenty- eight! Getting old!” That date was just three days away. Ruprecht pocketed the calendar, keeping the secret to himself. Those three days, he wore a constant smile. Only with Helmina did his joy fade. He withdrew, avoiding her touch. Her mocking face went unheeded. Seeing her, he recalled a nocturnal trek through forgotten vaults and a glimpse through a tower wall. A shudder gripped him. On the morning of the festive day, he hurried to the garden at dawn, plucking the loveliest roses— pale yellow, pure white, lilac-tinged—and bound them together. Hesitantly, he added a single deep purple rose to the center. In his study, he wrote a letter. Dear, dear gracious lady! Who told me it’s your birthday today? Suppose it was a kind summer breeze, a white cloud in the blue sky, or the Kamp, my close confidant. I won’t betray the good friend who shared it. I even know your age. But I’ll strive to forget it, if you wish. On such days, one feels generous, especially someone as good as you. Grant me two requests: kindly accept these roses and the small box accompanying them. Second: come this afternoon with your husband to our castle. Let’s celebrate your birthday a little, better at home than in a village inn, even one as fine as the Red Ox. You’ll come, won’t you? I want to tell you today how grateful I am. You’ve reshaped my life on new foundations. Through you, I’ve discovered a new world. A great error has fallen away. From the tangled snare of senses, I’ve climbed to clearer heights. Until now, I saw life’s essence in asserting the self—standing victorious, foes crushed beneath, forcing the defiant to my will, smiling amid dangers. That was my greatest prize. But through you, I’ve learned: not this endless struggle is life’s highest joy, not this constant hostility, but surrender, giving oneself… I owe that to you. Today, I must say it. The fight and tension are over… Oh, you’ll come, won’t you? Your Ruprecht. Finishing the letter, he called old Johann to deliver it with the roses and a small box containing a pearl necklace. But as Johann reached the door, Ruprecht called him back. Hedwig shouldn’t receive this letter. It was too candid—a confession and an accusation. A venomous vapor rose from it. No, Ruprecht wouldn’t cloud these summer days or disturb Hedwig’s serene joy. He imagined her leaving Vorderschluder— everything gray, icy. He wanted to savor each present day, not summon dark questions or fears. She knew, without words, his gratitude. Hadn’t her eyes, the day after Rosenburg’s miracle, pleaded: No more of that? He tore the letter to bits and wrote another, light and jesting to the end. Opening the box, he admired the pearls again—large, softly gleaming, perfectly round on lilac silk. He’d bartered them from Indian divers, deeming them worthy of Hedwig. At breakfast, he told Helmina he’d invited the Gegelys for the afternoon. She laughed scornfully, learning it was Hedwig’s birthday. Ruprecht barely restrained himself from lashing out before the children and Miss Nelson. A thought, restless in the shadows lately, flared into harsh light. Helmina was in his power. One clenched fist, and she’d be destroyed. A fierce revulsion surged… he rose and left, almost ashamed, as if his face betrayed his wretchedness. Near noon, crossing the courtyard, he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Schiereisen hurrying after him, buttoned tightly in a black frock coat as he’d once been in his yellow overcoat. He looked rosy and cheerful, moved by the joy of reunion. It struck Ruprecht he hadn’t seen Schiereisen in ages. “An eternity, dear Baron,” the scholar said, looping his arm through Ruprecht’s with clumsy familiarity, his guileless blue eyes beaming. “Where I’ve been?” he chattered loudly, climbing the stairs beside Ruprecht. “Following my old Celts, tracking a lead. My work’s nearly done—I’ve found splendid new material. I think they’ll be pleased with me.” They sat in the Indian room. The prayer wheel caught Schiereisen’s eye. He took it from the wall, letting it clatter on his lap. His delight wasn’t wholly feigned; he was genuinely fond of Ruprecht. “You look splendid,” he said, “healthy, strong. I must say, last time I was here, you worried me. But you’ve recovered remarkably… Yes! I’ve been in Germany, a bit in France too. Now I have all I need.” “You make me curious about your work. When will it appear?” Schiereisen studied the prayer wheel, reading its Buddhist mantra: Om mani padme hum… “My work! When will it appear? That depends solely on you now.” He spoke with sudden gravity. Ruprecht knew the reckoning had come. “On me? I don’t understand! I can’t assist you in any way.” Schiereisen ignored the deflection. “Oh, but I’m counting on you. You can’t deny me your help. I can call on you in the name of truth and justice.” “Is it necessary to invoke such weighty terms?” Ruprecht asked, still attempting a smile. “I’d rather reach my goal with you than without.” “You must see I can’t help. What do I know of ancient Celts?” “Let’s drop the Celts. I needn’t tell you this isn’t about them.” Ruprecht fell silent. Continuing to evade was absurd. He asked, hard and firm, “What do you want from me?” “I hear your valet Lorenz is gone.” “Yes, he resigned and left a few days ago for a new post.” “And you don’t know where he is now?” “No… I didn’t ask. I let my people go when they wish, without troubling them.” “Haven’t you wondered why Lorenz left?” “No!” Trying one last time to steer the talk, Ruprecht asked, “Do you really find a servant’s departure so significant?” “Yes,” Schiereisen said. “This man’s exit is very meaningful. I suspect a surprise awaits us.” “What kind?” “I don’t know. It’s a pity we no longer have him here. It’s almost unsettling to know he’s out there, behind me. Did he sense suspicion and slip away in time? I’d rather have him under my eye, where I could watch him.” “You speak like a tamer of a vicious beast.” “Dear Baron, let’s be frank. I believe you trust me. Must I prove my credentials? You know as well as I that Lorenz murdered your servant Jana. If I didn’t neutralize him then, it was only because I had a greater task. I didn’t want to spoil it.” “What led you to believe Lorenz committed a murder?” Schiereisen had anticipated that by speaking plainly and revealing himself, he’d find Ruprecht equally open and trusting. Now he felt like someone who walks a long way to meet another, only to find them unmoved from their spot. He began to regret not keeping his mask. Irritated, he said, “Please follow me closely for a moment. You’ll agree my suspicions are well-founded, my conclusions sound. Your servant Jana dies under odd circumstances. The judicial commission investigates and finds nothing remarkable. Jana fell through a wooden bridge in a remote part of the castle at night. A young, agile man, surely with enough presence of mind in such a moment to attempt self-preservation, to grab something at the last second. That’s strange, isn’t it? Shouldn’t there have been a cry, the scream of a falling man…? I examined that ill-fated bridge. You were there and must have noticed what struck me. There was a trace of sawdust—a child could deduce the accident was staged. The already decayed planks were sawed through. But that’s not all. I found a spot on the old wood, cleared of dust and recently washed with water. For what purpose, if not to erase a trace? A tiny clue showed what that trace was: a small blood splash, overlooked on the dark wood. Your experience as a hunter and traveler is my ally. You can’t pretend not to understand. How does blood appear at the fall site in such an accident, unless a struggle, a murder, preceded it? Wouldn’t the blood otherwise be only on the stones below? Taken together, one can only conclude Jana was killed and thrown from the bridge to feign an accident. Now, who’s the culprit? Why was the Malay murdered? He was devoted to you. His virtues, as you once told me, were loyalty and discretion. He existed not as an individual but as your tool—a projection of your will, an extension of your arm. A strike against him was a direct blow at you. Someone aimed to hit you by stopping him from carrying out your order.” “Stop!” Ruprecht said. “That conclusion’s wrong!” Swept by the marvelously precise, steel- braced reasoning, Ruprecht felt only the thrill of a vigorous nature in a perilous game. He forgot his deep involvement, seeing himself as an object among others. Schiereisen smiled, satisfied that he’d captivated Ruprecht. By objecting here, the Baron admitted the rest was correct. “Good!” Schiereisen continued. “So he wasn’t acting on your orders. That’s not decisive. But he surely undertook his nocturnal errand in your interest, whether you knew it or not. What interest could you have had in Jana prowling the castle’s remotest part at night? He was utterly honest, so no shady motives fit. Nor was it a love affair. I know he spurned the castle and village girls, who were quite fond of him. So, as I said, he went somewhere for you. Why at night, in secret? We don’t know—it’s a mystery. Let’s call it a big X for now. May I have a glass of wine?”
Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment
Chapter 4: Mental Requisites and Impediments, Part 1
Introduction: The Hermetic art demands a pure and disciplined mind to transform the soul’s essence into divine light. This chapter explores the mental qualities and obstacles for those pursuing this sacred science, emphasizing wisdom, faith, and moral integrity.
The Qualities of the Adept
Geber, in his Sum of Perfection, outlines the mental requisites for mastering the Hermetic art. Success requires a sharp, searching intellect, capable of probing nature’s deepest principles with subtlety and reason. The adept must possess natural sagacity, free from fantasy or impulsiveness, to discern truth from illusion. A stable mind, grounded in rational inquiry, is essential to navigate the complexities of this sacred science.
Geber stresses that the art is not for those with weak or corrupted faculties—whether physical or mental. A soul swayed by fleeting opinions, clouded by imagination, or lacking discernment cannot achieve the divine transformation. Only those with clarity and perseverance can uncover the “true Radix,” the root of alchemical wisdom.
The Impediments of the Mind
Many obstacles hinder the pursuit of Hermetic science. Geber identifies those with “stiff necks”—lacking ingenuity or curiosity—who fail to explore nature’s depths. Others, driven by fantasy, mistake illusion for truth, their minds clouded by “fumosities.” Some are fickle, shifting beliefs without reason, unable to sustain the disciplined focus required. Worst are those who deny the art’s validity or seek it for greed, fearing to sacrifice personal gain for divine truth.
The greatest danger, as the Book of Enoch warns, lies in misusing alchemical knowledge for selfish ends. Such minds, led by “Mammon,” defile the divine light, turning sacred wisdom into sorcery. True adepts, guided by piety, reject these profane motives, ensuring the art remains a holy pursuit.
The Path of Purity and Faith
The Hermetic art demands a heart free from avarice, pride, or deceit, as Job declares: “If I have made gold my hope, I have denied the God above.” Only through faith, humility, and moral integrity can the adept align with divine wisdom. This science, as Norton’s Ordinal emphasizes, is a “singular grace” bestowed on those proven worthy, taught “mouth to mouth” with a sacred oath to protect its sanctity.
Closing: This chapter unveils the mental requisites and impediments for mastering the Hermetic art, emphasizing purity and faith. The journey into its practical secrets deepens in our next post, unveiling further wonders of this sacred pursuit.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XIII.
In the early morning Falk was awakened.
A gentleman was waiting in the salon on a very important matter. “Aha!” said Falk and dressed quickly.
When he entered the salon, he saw a person who bowed stiffly and extremely ceremoniously.
“From Kunicki? Isn’t that so? Well?”
He listened impatiently and distractedly to the other’s well-set speech.
“Severe demand? Yes, naturally. Just give your address, I will send my second to you. Only for God’s sake no stiffnesses, no ceremonies. Otherwise the conditions are quite indifferent to me. Naturally shoot to unconsciousness. Only no ceremonies…”
The stranger looked at Falk strangely, bowed and went.
“That is splendid, splendid.” Falk rubbed his hands cheerfully. Then he began to walk slowly up and down in the salon.
Suddenly a hot longing for Isa seized him. To tell her everything, to take her on his hands, to press her to him, so that they would become one in the raging elan of love.
But in the next moment a picture that hung over the piano chained him.
The sky: a row of broad, glaring stripes that lay unbalanced next to each other. Broad, brutal stripes; the whole like a wild cry of despair… And a beach with a long pier. Two people on the pier: she in a white dress. One actually saw only this white dress, and this white spot in the middle of the despair orgy of the sky looked like something horribly mysterious, something that made the nerves sick with curiosity and mad horror. He sucked himself with his whole soul into this white dress: That is she, the doom, the white lightning, the dancing world in chaos.
He looked away and examined with most tense attention a wilted orchid.
So he had to find a second now—naturally Geißler. He had no other. He no longer had a single person.
He searched long for his hat, went to Isa’s bedroom, listened, went quietly around again…
Now he had to go, otherwise he would no longer find Geißler at home.
Scarcely had he gone when Isa entered his room. She had fever in the night and nightmare. She wanted to speak with him, to calm herself…
She was very astonished when she no longer found him. She stood sadly, then sat down and looked around the room.
The room suddenly seemed so strange and so uncomfortable to her. She believed she clearly felt the sick, feverish atmosphere of this room… Everything lay confused together, on the desk she saw a large, colorfully scribbled sheet of paper.
She held the sheet in her hands and looked as if sunk before her. The sheet was written from bottom to top only with one word in the most varied typefaces: Ananke.
An indefinite torment constricted her heart. It became so sultry to her. She felt a deep sadness. It seemed to her as if her whole happiness had suddenly passed.
She actually did not understand where all this depression came from? She began to distract herself with all possible thoughts, but she could not get rid of the irritating unrest.
She collected herself, went into her bedroom and dressed slowly.
Suddenly the maid came in.
“A gentleman wishes to speak with you.” She handed Isa a card: Stefan Kruk.
Isa read and read the card. But that is impossible. Hadn’t Kruk fled from Germany? He is after all sentenced to several years in prison… A growing unrest began to hunt in her head. A confusion of thoughts shot through her brain. The feeling of something unusual filled her with sudden fright. She hurried and was hardly able to finish her toilet.
When she entered the salon, she saw Kruk quite unusually pale with wild, red eyes.
Isa stopped frightened.
“What is it? What is it?” she asked stammering.
“Where is your husband?”
She heard his hoarse voice tremble violently.
“He went away. But how do you come here, how could you expose yourself to this danger?”
Kruk looked at her as if he did not know where he was, as if he had forgotten himself.
Isa recoiled frightened.
“Your husband is a scoundrel,” he cried raging. “He dishonored my sister…”
Isa heard a few more words: mistress, bastard, seducer, then she understood nothing more.
Kruk came to his senses. He saw how all blood had left her face, how her lips became blue… She swayed, he caught her.
She came to quickly.
“My husband has a child now, now… a few weeks ago with your sister? Your… sister?! Child?”
She looked at him absently and stammered incessantly the word child… then she jumped toward him.
“That is impossible! Impossible…”
She grasped her head and walked a few steps. “A child!…”
She suddenly started.
“I must see it, I must see it… It is impossible. No, no…” She ran around.
“Why don’t you say a word? Say then that it is impossible… Oh God, oh God… So look for my hat, quick, my hat… How is that only possible… Ha, ha, ha, he asked me what I would say to it… Grand Dieu, c’est impossible… How pale you are, how dark… Just come quick, quick…”
She no longer knew what she did and what she said.
Only down in the cab did she come to her senses. They spoke no word with each other.
She had the feeling of a black, cool shadow over her brain, she laughed convulsively, sank together and again a desire to laugh suddenly overcame her.
She looked at Kruk almost roguishly.
“I recognized you immediately—I saw you twice in Paris… Oh, how you have changed, and how boundlessly pale you are… Mais c’est terrible, c’est terrible!”
She looked with mad glances out the window.
Suddenly she heard the rolling of another cab behind her back, the noise deafened her, she saw nothing more and heard nothing, repeated only quite mechanically: c’est terrible!
Finally the cab stopped, and immediately behind it another cab stopped. Kruk suddenly came into an unspeakable unrest…
In the moment when Isa had stepped out of the cab, she saw two men throw themselves on Kruk.
“In the name of the law…”
Kruk drew the revolver lightning fast, but in a moment he was thrown to the ground from behind…
A crowd formed. Isa stepped hastily into the hallway.
She supported herself against the wall so as not to fall. A dizziness raged in her. She sought convulsively to fight against it. Then she looked fixedly up the shining stair rail, heard a shouting on the street and saw a few children run past.
She looked around confused.
What did she want here?… Visit Erik’s mistress? Ha, ha… Great God! Erik’s mistress…
She collected herself and stepped into the courtyard. She stopped as if spellbound.
In a window of the courtyard ground floor she saw a pale, desperate face. The girl carried a child on her arm.
The two women stared at each other.
C’est elle! Isa said to herself half-aloud. She saw how the other recoiled in highest fright.
Isa went in. She knocked.
The door was opened fearfully and only half.
“But let me in…” she almost violently pushed Janina back… “I want to do nothing to you, only the child…”
She entered Janina’s room.
“But don’t tremble so, I really want to do nothing to you…” She laughed nervously… “Mais, c’est drôle… this little girl: Erik’s mistress, ha, ha, ha… Sit down then, you are pale, you will fall… God, how thin, how miserable you are. He sucked all your blood… And the little one there is your child, Falk’s child…”
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Intermezzo Perhaps your quiet days, my blonde little sister, will also drop like silver bells that ring softly with slumbering sins. Laburnums now throw their poisonous yellow where the pale snow of the acacias once lay. Ardent clematis show their deep blue where the devout clusters of wisteria once peacefully resounded. Sweet is the gentle game of lustful desire; yet sweeter to me are all the cruel raging passions of the nighttime. Yet even sweeter than any of these to me now is sweet sleeping sin on a hot summer afternoon. –She slumbers lightly, my gentle companion, and I dare not awaken her. She is never more beautiful than when she is sleeping like this. In the mirror my darling sin rests, near enough, resting in her thin silken shift on white linen. Your hand, little sister, falls over the edge of the bed. Your slender finger that carries my gold band is gently curling. Your transparent rosy nails glow like the first light of morning. Fanny, your black maid, manicured them. It was she that created these little marvels. And I kiss your marvelous transparent rosy nails in the mirror. Only in the mirror–in the mirror only–only with loving glances and the light touch of my lips. They will grow, if sin awakes, they will grow, become the sharp claws of a tiger, tearing my flesh– Your head rises out of the pillow, surrounded by golden locks. They fall around it lightly like flickering golden flames that awaken at the first breezes of early morning. Your little teeth smile out from your thin lips, like the milky opals in the glowing bracelet of the moon Goddess. And I kiss your golden hair, sister, and your gleaming teeth–in the mirror–only in the mirror–with the soft touch of my lips and with loving glances. For I know that if ardent sin awakes the milky opals will become mighty fangs and the golden locks become fiery vipers. Then the claws of the tigress will tear at my flesh, the sharp teeth bite dreadful, bloody wounds. Then the flaming vipers will hiss around my head, crawl into my ears, spray their venom into my brain, whisper and entice with a fairy tale of savage lust– Your silken shift has fallen down from your shoulder, your childish breasts smile there, resting, like two white newborn kittens, lifting their sweet rosy noses into the air. I look up at your gentle eyes, jeweled blue eyes that catch the light, that glow like the sapphire on the forehead of my golden Buddha figurine. Do you see, sister, how I kiss them–in the mirror? No fairy has a lighter touch. –For I know well, when she wakes up, my eternal sin, blue lightening will flash out of her eyes. It will strike my poor heart, making my blood boil and seethe, melting in ardent desire the strong chains that restrain me, till all becomes madness and then surges the entire– Then hunts, free of her chains, the raging beast. She overpowers you, sister, in furious frenzy. Your sweet childish breasts become the giant breasts of a murderous fury–now that sin has awakened–she rends in joy, bites in fury, exults in pain and bathes in pools of blood. But my glances are still silent, like the tread of nuns at the grave of a saint. Softer yet is the light touch of my lips, like the kiss of the Holy Ghost at communion that turns the bread into the body of our Lord. She should not awaken, should remain peacefully sleeping–my beautiful sin. Nothing, my love, is sweeter to me, than pure sin as you lightly sleep.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Helmina and Gegely stepped onto the balcony alone. Below, white villas with green shutters lazed in the sun; across the tangled valleys, Dreieichen’s pilgrimage church gleamed. The land breathed calmly, steeped in strong confidence. “You’re in a foul mood today,” the poet said. “Oh… I’ve had troubles. Silly matters. Thinking about them only gives me a headache. Money issues, losses that hit me.” She leaned her arms on the balustrade, gazing at the landscape. Fritz Gegely grew feverishly aroused. Her beauty glowed, deep as a southern sea. As always, when poised to surrender to desire, he felt: Am I not a poet? The rightful owner of all beauty? “Why not confide in me?” he asked, trembling, stepping close. She looked at him, surprised. “Why should you claim special trust? I have Ruprecht to tell, if I felt the need to speak.” Gegely waved a hand, as if to erase the name just spoken. “Why hold that against me? I don’t believe you. I’m a psychologist. I see you and Ruprecht are fundamentally estranged. He’s a man of straight lines. But you’re multifaceted, vibrant, not summed up in a word.” “If I didn’t want to confide in Ruprecht… I have Hugo and the Major. Old friends. Don’t you think they’d be thrilled…?” She smiled deeply into his gaze. “Nonsense!” he snapped, angry. “Those two… do they even count? I insist I’m the only one… don’t you see? What proof do you need…? I haven’t known you as long as your other friends. But does that matter? Some wrestle a lifetime for insight. For others, it comes in a flash.” Helmina brushed her forehead. Something new stood before her. She saw her power over this man she disdained—a firm foothold, a hook for a rope. She needed time. “Be quiet,” she said hastily. “They’re coming. We’ll talk later. Tonight, in the birch grove behind the castle. I’ll see if I can trust you.” After the tour, they reunited in the tournament courtyard and dined outdoors. Old Johann had packed the car’s provision basket to the brim— enough for a week. Two bottles of champagne were included. The group’s mood didn’t quite harmonize. Each clung to a private world, sharply walled from neighbors. Hedwig was quietly, blissfully pensive, smiling to herself. Ruprecht was serious, thoughtful, his gaze resting on Hedwig, but his ease was gone. He startled occasionally, scanning for mocking or envious glances. Helmina seemed pensive too, but restless, her effort to hide it making her moodier and more demanding than usual. Fritz Gegely played his poet-Browning role poorly, flaunting his grandeur to Helmina, while Ernst Hugo watched suspiciously, unable to shake the sense they’d already reached an understanding. Only the children and the Major frolicked freely across divides. Miss Nelson sat by, slender, discreet, silent, adjusting the children’s dresses or offering a quiet admonition. The champagne was drunk. No one knew to whose honor until Ernst Hugo called, “What we love shall live!” “Not original,” Fritz Gegely said, “but always good. Let’s toast!” Hugo thought he caught a subtle wink, a fleeting spark in their eyes—an optical telegraph between Helmina and Gegely. He wanted to pull Ruprecht aside, warn him of the false friend. But he couldn’t. He had no proof beyond jealous instinct. Hugo was in poor spirits. His jubilee anthology wasn’t gaining expected acclaim, overshadowed by other works. The praise amounted to a dim flicker, not the blazing fame he’d hoped for. Somehow, this disappointment fused with his dislike of Gegely, as if he alone bore the blame. The afternoon passed lazily, marked by hammocks. Helmina and Hedwig lay in swaying nets, the men beside them. Time flowed. Toward evening, the Major suggested walking to the train station. “Watch—it’ll be fun. It’s Saturday. The husbands arrive from Vienna… You must see how eagerly they’re awaited. It might do some marriages—or life—good if spouses met only weekly.” Rosenburg station was lively. Women stood in clusters, children darted among them. The train’s distant whistle pierced the air—a mix of long trills, short, wild bursts, and shrill, breathless cries. The steam whistle raged. The train roared in with a savage howl. The waiting women smiled and nodded to each other. The Major laughed heartily. “It’s always like this,” he said. “The whistles are signals: one long, two short—Herr Meier’s coming. Three quick trills—Herr Freudenfeld’s aboard. If Herr… Kohne, say, is on, the engineer plays an opera. Each gets a quarter of wine. The wives know at once if they can rejoice. Yes, my dear, love is inventive.” Two hands met on the wheelchair’s backrest. Ruprecht’s gaze asked timidly. Hedwig smiled wistful calm into his heart. They returned home, weary from the sun and mild breeze. The children slept—Lissy on Hedwig’s shoulder, Nelly in Ruprecht’s lap. Dusk fell. “In an hour, it’ll be dark,” Helmina said. Fritz Gegely understood. They parted at the bridge. Entering her room, Helmina found Lorenz waiting in the dark. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said. “Already?” “Yes… I resigned, and your husband said I can go whenever, if I’ve found a better post. I wanted to smash his face. I’ll end up at him if I stay longer. The sooner I leave, the better… so tomorrow. There’s nothing left to do here. I’ll stay nearby, ready when Anton calls. I’ll fetch you then…” “You don’t trust me…? Anton wants me escorted.” “Ridiculous! But it’s better this way.” “Don’t bother, my dear. You think I won’t go with you. But I’m done here. I’m giving up Vorderschluder. New goals beckon.” In the dark, she approached the large mirror, trying to see her form in the glass, faintly lit by fading twilight. Lorenz was silent a moment. “Helmina,” he said, “you’re a sensible woman. I’ll admit, we weren’t sure you’d come. We thought you’d be foolish… I’m glad we were wrong.” He lit a lamp. If someone entered, he shouldn’t be found so intimately with Helmina in the dark. “I can’t say how Ruprecht bores me. He moons at that Hedwig’s wheelchair like a slaughtered calf. Now he compares her to me—I’m the evil spirit, she’s the bright angel. Damn it, my stomach turns watching them. Well, it won’t last long… so you’re leaving tomorrow?” “Yes.” “Then you can do me one last service tonight.” “What?” Helmina smiled sweetly. “Be my escort… oh, it’s a romantic tale, a love adventure, Lorenz! What, you’re stunned? I have a rendezvous in the birch grove. You’ll guard a private hour.” “I truly don’t know what to say,” Lorenz said. “You’re starting a new love affair. What’s wrong with that ass of a court secretary? And… it’s dangerous. If your husband finds out, he might forget his good manners and get nasty.” But Helmina cupped Lorenz’s smooth chin. “You fool! Who’s thinking of the court secretary? It’s someone else. Yes—gape all you like. Fritz Gegely, the poet, is at my feet.” “Him! I thought he was glued to his wife’s wheelchair.” “Oh? Fooled you too? God knows, you’re all so easy to dupe. No, my dear, good Fritz Gegely is an eagle in a cage. He wants out. Or rather, he’s a peacock. His life’s purpose is to strut before the world… with rustling plumage. It won’t take much effort… and he has heaps of gold. You know, I’d rather not show up empty-handed.” Lorenz sank into wide-eyed awe. “That’s outrageous… brilliant,” he muttered. “You’re a genius, Helmina! Forgive us for misjudging you. I must kiss you.” “No, don’t!” Helmina fended him off. “Why? Shame on such urges among colleagues! I’m going to dinner now. In half an hour, I’ll retire. You’ll wait for me behind the garden. And then—hunter’s luck!”
Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment
Chapter 3: The Manifestation of the First Matter, Part 6
Introduction: The Hermetic art transforms the soul’s essence, the First Matter, into divine light through faith and thought, uniting it with eternity. This section unveils the mystical journey where the soul’s spark becomes a radiant vessel of universal truth, guided by sacred wisdom.
The Power of Divine Thought
The Zohar declares, “Thought is the principle of all, initially unknown, unfolding into spirit and intelligence.” This divine thought, the First Matter, emerges from chaos into light, as Pimander instructs: “Increase yourself to immeasurable greatness, transcending time and body, to understand God.” Through faith, the soul aligns with this divine thought, becoming one with the eternal source, a radiant spark of cosmic wisdom.
This faith, not blind but vibrant, leads the soul beyond sensory limits to perceive the “Substant Unity” of all creation. The Sybil’s prophecy, “The invisible Word becomes palpable and germinates as a root,” captures this transformation, where the soul’s essence blooms into divine light through persistent effort.
The Alchemical Rebirth
The alchemical process mirrors this, dissolving the soul’s illusions to reveal its radiant core. As the adept advises, “Work faithfully to dissolve, coagulate, and refine until reason becomes a bright light, immortal and mistress of life.” This is the philosopher’s stone, the “noblest Mercury,” second only to the rational soul, born from the divine fire that transforms chaos into harmony.
The soul, purified through faith and love, becomes a vessel for the divine Word, uniting the infernal and external worlds in a radiant dance. This mirrors the cosmic rebirth, where the invisible becomes visible, as Hesiod’s Chaos births light through Love’s embrace.
The Universal Harmony
This sacred union, where thought and light converge, fulfills the Hermetic quest. The soul, now a “fountain of Universal Nature,” reflects all creation, as the Pimander reveals: “Nothing is impossible when you believe in your immortal essence.” Through this divine thought, the soul becomes eternal, harmonizing with the cosmos in a radiant symphony of love and wisdom.
Closing: This chapter unveils the First Matter’s rebirth into divine light through faith and thought. The journey into its alchemical secrets deepens in our next post, unveiling further wonders of this sacred art.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
No more than the salon anarchist Herr John Henry Mackay… You all preach a peaceful overthrow, a replacement of the broken wheel by a new one while the wagon is in motion. Your whole dogma structure is quite idiotic, precisely because it is so logical, for it is based on the omnipotence of reason. But until now everything has arisen through unreason, through stupidity, through purposeless chance.”
“And you sent Czerski to make the stupidity,” Kunicki sneered.
“I hope with all my soul that he does something terribly stupid. I hope it definitely, and namely in the conviction that the few revolutionaries who were hanged, shot or executed have penetrated a thousand times deeper into the consciousness of the dissatisfied popular masses than your party with the theoretical Marx-Lassallean watered soups can ever penetrate.”
Kunicki laughed scornfully and tried to be quite pointed.
“You know, Herr Falk, after everything I have now heard from you, one could make quite peculiar thoughts about you. Just as I hear you speak now, I heard a lock-spy speak in Zurich.”
Now the moment is here, thought Falk.
“Do you believe that I am a lock-spy?” Kunicki smiled even more maliciously.
“I only emphasize the indeed very strange similarity of your speech…”
In the same moment Falk bent far over the table and slapped Kunicki with full force.
Kunicki jumped up and threw himself on Falk.
But Falk grasped his both arms and clutched them so tightly that Kunicki could not tear himself loose despite the most furious efforts.
Falk became very angry.
“We will not fight here after all. I stand entirely at your disposal if you want satisfaction. By the way, I am stronger than you, you risk very fatal beatings.”
He let him go and pushed him back.
Kunicki looked deathly pale, foam came to his lips. Then he put on his coat and went staggering out of the room without a word.
Falk sat down, Olga remained standing at the window and stared at him. Falk crept back into his brooding.
This silence lasted probably half an hour. Suddenly he stood up.
“He will surely send me a challenge?”
It was like a quiet triumph in his words.
“You wanted it. You provoked him. You forced him to it. And now you triumph over it. You find that this is easier than suicide.”
She laughed nervously and stretched out her hand.
“So you have no more strength, you want it after all. And you said that you love my love, and I believed that you would not do it for the sake of my love. You lied. You love no one.”
“I love you—” said Falk mechanically.
“No, no, you love no one. You love your pain, you love your cold, cruel curiosity, but not me.”
She came into ever greater excitement. Her lips trembled and the eyes became unnaturally wide.
“I love you!” repeated Falk tonelessly.
“Don’t lie, don’t lie anymore. You never loved me. What am I to you? Could you have lived for my sake? You said: stay with me, I need your love, but did you think for a moment that I live only for your sake? You have enough love around you, but whom do I have, what do I have, except your cold, cruel curiosity that chained you to me. Did you think of me now?”
“I always think of you,” said Falk very sadly.
She wanted to say something, but her voice broke, her face froze, and again Falk saw the tears run over the mute face. She turned quickly to the window. But in the next moment she came to him and grasped him with desperate passion by the arms.
“Do you want to die?”
He stared at her as if he had not understood her. “Do you want to die?” she repeated in frenzy. “Yes.”
“Yes?” she cried out. “Yes.”
She let her arms sink.
“I do not love you. I do not love you as I loved you… Why don’t you give me a shilling when you get millions? Are you so poor, are you really so poor…?”
She stepped back and looked at him with tormenting despair.
But in this moment Falk threw himself on his knees, grasped her dress and kissed it with long fervor.
She sank down on him, she grasped his head, she kissed him on his eyes, on his hair, on his mouth. She could not satiate herself on the head she loved so unspeakably with all the torment, with all the painful renunciation.
Suddenly she started up violently and staggered back. “You do not love me!”
Her voice was tired and broken.
Falk did not answer. He sat down, supported his head in both hands and suffered. He had never suffered so.
The impotence of his soul had now completely broken him. There was really no way out anymore. Now his soul became dull, only now and then some indifferent thought flashed up.
Olga sat down on her bed and looked at him fixedly.
He suddenly raised his eyes to her, they stared at each other an eternity, he smiled madly and lowered his eyes.
Suddenly he said, as to himself:
“I slapped him because he is only a louse.”
“You are sick, Falk. Only now do I see that your head is sick.” She looked at him with growing astonishment.
“You were always sick. You are not normal.”
“Not normal?” he asked. “Not normal? You are probably right. I often asked myself if I am not mad in the end. But my madness is different from that of other people… Yes, my head is sick. The disgust kills me…”
He sat with deeply bowed head and spoke very softly.
“The disgust for myself, the disgust for people eats at me like gangrene… I could perhaps have done something, but the senseless debaucheries ate away my will. I went and destroyed and suffered… Oh, how terribly I suffered. But I had to do it, half from a demonic incomprehensible urge. People succumbed to my suggestions… But what should I talk about it. I have talked enough… In the end it is only my vanity that speaks so… It actually pleases me that I had this power… I also repent nothing, perhaps I would start anew if I got fresh strength from somewhere.
He stood up.
“Now I will go. You did me wrong: I loved you very much.”
He bent over her hand and kissed it. The hand trembled violently. At the door he stopped.
“If it goes badly, you understand, Kunicki is a famous shot, yes, then will you now and then look in on Janina?… She was good to me… It is shameful that I had to intervene so deeply in her life…”
He looked at her and smiled strangely. “Will you do that?”
She nodded with her head.
“Well, farewell Olga, and—and… Yes, who knows, perhaps we will not see each other again.”
She stared at him speechlessly and then waved violently with her hand. “Yes, yes… I go.”
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