Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment
Chapter 1: The Experimental Method and Fermentation, Part 2
Introduction: The Hermetic art seeks wisdom through rational inquiry, unlocking nature’s hidden light within the soul. This section explores the alchemical method of engaging the soul’s essence, purifying it to reveal divine truth, guided by the wisdom of ancient adepts.
Rational Inquiry into Nature
Unlike modern chemistry, which dissects nature’s forms, ancient alchemists approached her as honored guests, seeking her inner light with reverence. Iamblichus notes, “Theurgists consulted the divine intellect for purification and salvation, not trifling matters.” They didn’t chase fleeting phenomena but sought to align with nature’s radiant essence, the “magian circle” of divine harmony, through disciplined contemplation.
This journey begins in the “region of chimeras,” where initial inquiries falter amid illusions. Yet, with a “rectifying spirit,” adepts like Oedipus mastered the soul’s enigmas, tracing vital causes to their divine source. This rational approach, blending experience and reason, unlocks infallible wisdom, far beyond modern science’s external focus.
The Alchemical Method
Basil Valentine advises, “Seek the concealed foundation with your own eyes and hands, building upon the impregnable rock of experience.” Crollius adds, “Through holy preparation and diligent contemplation, one draws greater wonders from nature’s bosom.” Van Helmont echoes, “The Tree of Life is attained through laborious intellectual research.” These adepts emphasize patience and rational inquiry, rejecting mere speculation for tested experience.
Eirenaeus instructs, “Our fire, the true sulphur of gold, is imprisoned in the body. Through our water, it is freed by dissolving the ethereal form, revealing the seed of gold in the Third Menstrual.” This process—joining the soul’s essence (Mercury) with its vital spark (sulphur)—requires profound meditation, precise balance, and mastery of internal fire, guided by symbols like the “Doves of Diana.”
The Separation of Essence
Paracelsus calls separation the “greatest miracle,” achieved through a magical intellect that penetrates the soul’s depths. The Emerald Tablet declares, “Separate the earth from the fire, the subtle from the gross, gently, with sagacity. It ascends to heaven and descends, gaining strength from both.” This is no mechanical act but a spiritual wind, purifying the soul’s essence without foreign admixture, transforming it into a radiant vessel of divine light.
The soul, like Aeneas seeking the golden bough, must navigate entanglements with a prudent mind. Orpheus’ Argonautics urges entering the “Cave of Mercury” with understanding, grasping the hidden essence that yields the Hermetic art’s true matter. Only a lover of wisdom, through disciplined effort, can free this light, subduing the soul’s illusions to achieve divine clarity.
Closing: This section unveils the Hermetic method of rational inquiry, purifying the soul’s essence to reveal divine wisdom. The alchemical practices of fermentation deepen in our next post, promising further revelations of this sacred art.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
“That’s why it must be eliminated, just as one eliminates madmen who commit crimes without knowing it.”
“So only the harmful consequences decide about crime?” “Yes.”
“But suppose you blow up a factory for the sake of the idea and thereby plunge hundreds of families into misery, then you commit a crime because the consequences are criminal.”
“No! For thereby I bring my idea closer to realization and I bring millions happiness. When Christ spread his teaching, he knew very well that thousands of his followers would be sacrificed, so he delivered them to certain ruin to bring millions salvation.”
“You believe in God?” Olga asked absentmindedly. Czerski suddenly fell into great excitement.
“I believe in Jesus Christ, the God-man… But don’t interrupt me. I have the right to it, nature taught it to me. What decides about the pleasantness of a feeling? Not that it is pleasant in itself.
The habituation to opium is very painful at first, only in length becomes pleasure. So only the duration of the same decides about the final nature of the feeling. It is self-evident that the first consequences of a factory explosion are unpleasant, but…”
“So you will shrink from no crime?”
“No, no crime,” he interrupted her eagerly, “I will shrink from no action that guarantees my idea victory.”
“And if your idea is false?”
“It is not false, for it is built on the only truth we have: love.”
“But if your means are false?”
“They cannot be false, for their motives are love. By the way, I don’t want to resort to these means at all, even if I should hold it necessary. I have no program like the anarchists. I want to commit no act of violence so as not to be counted to a party that has violence in its program.”
“Out of vanity?”
“No; out of caution, only out of caution, so that the anarchists, thus a party, do not believe they have the right to regard my act as the consequence of their program.”
“You are ambitious.”
“No! But I am only in my act. I have only one right, and that is: to be. And my being is my act. Yes, I have an ambition if you want to call it so: to be, to be through my act. I am not as soon as I execute foreign commands.”
“Those are old thoughts, dear Czerski.”
“I don’t know if they are old, I got them in prison and so they are my own. I thought them out with great effort. I was not used to thinking as long as I was in the party. Now I have detached myself from everything to be alone and determine my act with my own thoughts.”
“And if you hadn’t got the money from Falk, would you have taken it?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you want to do now?”
“I want to teach people to sacrifice themselves.”
Olga looked at him questioningly.
“To be able to sacrifice oneself: that is the first condition of every act. I will teach the enthusiasm of sacrifice.”
“But to sacrifice oneself, one must first believe in the purpose of sacrifice.”
“No! The sacrifice does not spring from faith, but from enthusiasm. That is it precisely. See, all previous parties have faith but no enthusiasm. No, they have no faith, they have only dogmas. Social democracy has died in dogmatic faith. Social democracy is what every religious community is: it is faithful without enthusiasm. Is there a person who would go into the fire for his God? No! Is there a social democrat who would plunge into ruin without reservation, without hesitation, for his idea? No! They all have the calm, comfortable certainty of faith; their dogmas are iron truths for whose sake one, God knows, need not get excited. But I want to create the fiery, glowing faith, a faith that is no longer faith because it has no purpose, a faith that has dissolved in the enthusiasm of sacrifice.”
He suddenly fell into an ecstatic state. His eyes shone and his face transfigured itself peculiarly.
“So you speculate on the fanaticism of hate in the masses.”
“Fanaticism of love,” he said radiantly, “fanaticism of love for the infinity of the human race, love for the eternity of life, love for the thought that I and humanity are one, inseparably one…”
He varied the thought in the most diverse expressions.
“I will not say: Sacrifice yourselves so that you and your children become happy, I will teach anew the happiness of sacrifice in itself. Humanity has an inexhaustible capacity to sacrifice itself, but the fat church and fat socialism destroyed that. Humanity has forgotten the happiness of sacrifice in the fat, disgusting dogmatic faith. The last time it tasted it in the great revolutions, in the Commune—purposeless, only out of love for sacrifice, to enjoy once more the infinite happiness of purposeless selflessness… And I will bring this happiness back to memory through my act…”
He suddenly stopped and looked at Olga suspiciously.
“You probably believe I am a mad fantasist?”
“It is beautiful, very beautiful what you said there—I understand you,” she said thoughtfully.
He was silent long.
“Yes, you are right that those are old thoughts,” he said suddenly. “They touch in many ways what Falk expressed at the congress in Paris. I would have liked to kiss his hand then…”
He suddenly became very restless.
“But it did not become a life matter for him. His brain figured it out. His heart caught no fire… No, no—how is it possible to have such thoughts and not perish with shame that one can say all that cold and calm… See, that is the shamelessness of his brain, that it cannot shudder at it. His brain is shameless… He is a—an evil person. He is not pure enough for his ideas. One must be Christ, yes, Jesus Christ, the God of humans, the holy source of willingness to sacrifice.”
“You have changed very much, Czerski. By the way, I didn’t know you. Kunicki slandered you. I will think much about what you said…”
Olga stood up and looked at him shyly.
Over his face lay a transfigured glow. She had never seen anything like it.
“Take care of yourself, Czerski. You look very sick.” “No, I am not sick. I am happy.”
He thought long.
“Yes, yes,” he said suddenly, “yesterday I was still a small person. But now it is over, it is past…”
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Six Deals with how the child Alraune grew up. THE acquisition of the dice cup is mentioned by the Privy Councilor in the leather bound book. From that point on it was no longer written in the distinct and clear hand of Dr. Petersen but in his own thin, hesitating and barely legible script. But there are several other short entries in the book that are of interest to this story. The first refers to the operation taken to correct the child’s Atresia Vaginalis performed by Dr. Petersen and the cause of his untimely demise. The Privy Councilor mentions that in consideration of the savings he had made through the death of the mother and the good help of his assistant doctor through the entire affair he granted a three month summer trip vacation with all expenses paid and promised a special bonus of a thousand Marks as well. Dr. Petersen was extremely overjoyed about this trip. It was the first big vacation he had ever taken in his life. But he insisted upon performing the simple operation beforehand even though it could have easily been put off for a much longer time without any special concern. He performed the operation a couple days before his scheduled departure with excellent results for the child. Unfortunately he, himself, developed a severe case of blood poisoning–What was so astonishing was that despite his almost exaggerated daily care for cleanliness–it was scarcely forty-eight hours later that he died after very intense suffering. The direct cause of the blood poisoning could not be determined with certainty. There was a small wound on his left upper arm that was barely perceptible with the naked eye. A light scratch from his little patient might have inflicted it. The professor remarked how already twice in this matter he had been spared a great sum of money but did not elaborate any further. It was then reported how the baby was kept for the time being in the clinic under the care of the head nurse. She was an unusually quiet and sensitive child that cried only once and that was at the time of her holy baptism performed in the cathedral by Chaplain Ignaz Schröder. Indeed, she howled so fearfully that the entire little congregation–the nurse that carried her, Princess Wolkonski and Legal Councilor Sebastian Gontram as the godparents, the Priest, the sexton and the Privy Councilor himself–couldn’t even begin to do anything with her. She began crying from the moment she left the clinic and did not stop until she was brought back home again from the church. In the cathedral her screams became so unbearable that his Reverence took every opportunity to rush through the sacred ceremony so he and those present could escape from the ghastly music. Everyone gave a sigh of relief when it was all over and the nurse had climbed into the carriage with the child. It appears that nothing significant happened during the first year in the life of this little girl whom the professor named “Alraune” out of an understandable whim. At least nothing noteworthy was written in the leather bound volume. It was mentioned that the professor remained true to his word and even before the child was born had taken measures to adopt the girl and composed a certified will making her his sole heir to the complete exclusion of all his other relatives. It was also mentioned that the princess, as godmother, gave the child an extraordinarily expensive and equally tasteless necklace composed of gold chain and two strands of beautiful pearls set with diamonds. At the center surrounded by more pearls was a hank of fiery red hair that the Princess had cut from the head of the unconscious mother at the time of her conception. The child stayed in the clinic for over four years up until the time the Privy Councilor gave up the Institute as well as the attached experimental laboratories that he had been neglecting more and more. Then he took her to his estate in Lendenich. There the child got a playmate that was really almost four years older than she was. It was Wölfchen Gontram, the youngest son of the Legal Councilor. Privy Councilor ten Brinken relates very little of the collapse of the Gontram household. In short sentences he describes how death finally grew tired of the game he was playing in the white house on the Rhine and in one year wiped away the mother and three of her sons. The fourth boy, Joseph, at the wish of his mother had been taken by Reverend Chaplain Schröder to become a priest. Frieda, the daughter, lived with her friend, Olga Wolkonski, who in the meantime had married a somewhat dubious Spanish Count and moved to his house in Rome. Following these events was the financial collapse of the Legal Councilor despite the splendid fee he had been paid for winning the divorce settlement for the princess. The Privy Councilor puts down that he took the boy in as an act of charity–but doesn’t forget to mention in the book that Wölfchen inherited some vineyards with small farm houses from an aunt on his mother’s side so his future was secure. He remarks as well that he didn’t want the boy to feel he had been taken into a stranger’s house and brought up out of charity and compassion so he used the income from the vineyards to defray the upkeep of his young foster-child. It is to be understood that the Privy Councilor did not come up short on this arrangement. Taking all of the entries that the Privy Councilor ten Brinken made in the leather bound volume during this time one could conclude that Wölfchen Gontram certainly earned the bread and butter that he ate in Lendenich. He was a good playmate for his foster-sister, was more than that, was her only toy and her nursemaid as well. The love he shared with his wild brothers for living and frantically running around transferred in an instant to the delicate little creature that ran around alone in the wide garden, in the stables, in the green houses and all the out buildings. The great deaths in his parent’s house, the sudden collapse of his entire world made a strong impression on him–in spite of the Gontram indolence. The small handsome lad with his mother’s large black dreamy eyes became quiet and withdrawn. Thousands of boyish thoughts that had been so suddenly extinguished now snaked out like weak tendrils and wrapped themselves solidly like roots around the little creature, Alraune. Whatever he carried in his young breast he gave to his new little sister, gave it with the great unbounded generosity that he had inherited from his sunny good-natured parents. He went to school in the city where he always sat in the last row. At noon when he came back home he ran straight past the kitchen even though he was hungry. He searched around in the garden until he found Alraune. The servants often had to drag him away by force to give him his meals. No one troubled themselves much over the two children but while they always had a strange mistrust of the little girl, they took a liking to Wölfchen. In their own way they bestowed on him the somewhat coarse love of the servants that had once been given to Frank Braun, the Master’s nephew, so many years before when he had spent his school vacations there as a boy. Just like him, the old coachman, Froitsheim, now tolerated Wölfchen around the horses, lifted him up onto them, let him sit on a wool saddle blanket and ride around the courtyard and through the gardens. The gardener showed him the best fruit in the orchards; cut him the most flexible switches and the maids kept his food warm, making sure that he never went without. They thought of him as an equal but the girl, little as she was, had a way of creating a broad chasm between them. She never chatted with any of them and when she did speak it was to express some wish that almost sounded like a command. That was exactly what these people from the Rhine in their deepest souls could not bear–not from the Master–and now most certainly not from this strange child. They never struck her. The Privy Councilor had strongly forbidden that, but in every other way they acted as if the child was not even there. She ran around–fine–they let her run, cared for her food, her little bed, her underwear and her clothes–but just like they cared for the old biting watchdog, brought it food, cleaned its doghouse and unchained it for the night. The Privy Councilor in no way troubled himself over the children and let them completely go their own way. Since the time he had closed the clinic he had also given up his professorship, keeping occupied with various real estate and mortgage affairs and even more with his old love, archeology. He managed things as a clever and intelligent merchant so that museums around the world paid high prices for his skillfully arranged collections. The grounds all around the Brinken estate from the Rhine to the city on one side, extending out to the Eifel promontory on the other were filled with things that first the Romans and then all their followers had brought with them. The Brinkens had been collectors for a long time and for ten miles in all directions any time a farmer struck something with his plowshare they would carefully dig up the treasure and take it to the old house in Lendenich that was consecrated to John of Nepomuck. The professor took everything, entire pots of coins, rusted weapons, yellowed bones, urns, buckles and tear vials. He paid pennies, ten at the most. But the farmer was always certain to get a good schnapps in the kitchen and if needed money for sowing, at a high interest of course–but without the security demanded by the banks. One thing was certain. The earth never spewed forth more than in those years when Alraune lived in the house.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
They discussed the year’s events. Hugo extracted Helmina’s promise to attend every festivity. The afternoon passed. They took a short drive. The weather had cleared, the thinning clouds hinting at the sun. Hugo wished to prolong the day, but evening approached, they returned to the castle, dined, and his departure loomed. “I feel so at ease here, madam,” Hugo sighed. “You may return if you enjoyed it,” Helmina smiled. Then she excused herself. The fresh air had tired her, she had a headache, and wished to retire. The men adjourned to Ruprecht’s study. “A cigar, a glass of wine, eh?” Ruprecht suggested, ringing the bell. The Malay appeared at the door. “Tell Lorenz to fetch a bottle of 1882 Schönberger,” Ruprecht said. “Lorenz isn’t here.” “Oh, right—he’s on leave. Linz, or somewhere. Get the keys and fetch it yourself. You’ll find it. It’s at the back of the cellar, red-sealed.” Meanwhile, Hugo surveyed the study’s furnishings. At the café’s regular table, they had an arts-and-crafts enthusiast skilled in style comparisons, giving Hugo a rough sense of Gothic, Renaissance, and Rococo to prove his cultured credentials. Here were charming relics: a heavy cabinet with carved columns and armored men on its doors; a desk with dainty, curved legs and an oddly uncomfortable top, fit only for brief love notes, not serious work. For that, Ruprecht used a cozy Biedermeier desk, its genial polish beside a sleek black filing cabinet with lapis lazuli and marble-lined drawers, supported by two gilded, snarling griffins. “Ancestral heirlooms,” Hugo said. “The castle’s full of them.” “Yes… some are exquisite. Next visit, I’ll show you a Wenzel Jamnitzer goblet. Dankwardt even started a medal and seal collection. I know too little about it.” “These pieces likely came with the castle from earlier owners?” “Not many. The Counts of Moreno, from whom Helmina’s first husband bought it, stripped it bare. Later owners were collectors, gradually bringing things back.” “Fine pieces… truly! They hold their own. The whole castle…” “Yes, the castle’s worth seeing.” “You’re a lucky man… and your wife…” Hugo stretched in his seventeenth-century armchair. “You have a delightful wife.” Ruprecht glanced at him briefly, saying lightly, “You haven’t fallen for her, have you?” A reassuring laugh should’ve followed, but it sounded forced. “It’d be no wonder,” Hugo said, then continued, “Tell me, aren’t you ever jealous of your wife’s past? You’re her fourth husband.” “It’s not my way. I find that kind of jealousy absurd.” “But in this castle… everything must remind you of your predecessors.” “It wasn’t entirely pleasant at first. Life’s a ceaseless flow, washing away past impressions quickly. The past clings more to dead things. These furnishings and rooms reflect my predecessors far clearer. In Helmina, they’re dissolved, swept away by life.” “Haven’t you thought of building a new home? One where… only you exist?” “Helmina’s attached to these walls… oddly so. She craves city lights, glamour, noise—she had a wild Carnival. But this castle holds her. She always returns. She’d never agree to live elsewhere. And… I find this grim house intriguing. It has charm… it’s, how to say… an adventure, a romantic danger…” Ruprecht’s nonchalance emboldened Hugo, tempting him to play with fire. “And the present… I mean, Helmina’s present?” “I don’t follow.” “Aren’t you jealous of that?” “Oh, I’m pleased when people pay Helmina tribute. Besides, I’m certain of her.” He’s insufferable, Hugo thought, fuming, and it’s maddening that he’s right. Jana returned with bottles, fetched glasses from the armored-men cabinet, and poured. Ruprecht took a cigar box from a filing cabinet drawer. Hugo glimpsed a revolver inside. “You’re armed,” he said. “Even here?” “Old habit,” Ruprecht smiled. “In Alaska, I worked months with a rifle beside me…” As Ruprecht raised his glass to toast Hugo, he noticed dirty smudges, like wet earth, on Jana’s white turban. “Bumped your head, Jana?” he asked. “I fell, Master,” the Malay replied. “Water’s seeped into the cellar, washing it out a bit…” “Hope the bottles don’t float away.” Hugo hadn’t heard, spreading the subscription sheet before Ruprecht, who signed. “Enough?” the castle lord asked. “Oh, you’re an angel. Thank you. Truly, I name you chief patron, top of all sponsors… I’ll honor you somehow, just need to think how.” Hugo launched into his anthology, its hopes, its prospects for recognition from high places. His wine-fueled imagination bloomed like a Jericho rose. This anthology would be an event. All notable authors would contribute. Bystritzky had connections, even inviting Gegely, though that awkward incident… “Ah, Gegely,” Ruprecht said, suddenly animated after listening politely. “I’ve heard nothing of him lately. I don’t read papers—waste of time. What’s our famous poet up to?” Hugo slapped the chair’s smooth arms. “You really don’t know? Nothing about Gegely… my God, it was a European scandal…” “I swear, I know nothing…” “Well, Gegely… it’s unthinkable… psychologists are baffled. Our great Gegely, our hope, our pride, poet of Marie Antoinette… what do you think? He… he took a manuscript from Heidelberg’s university library… let’s say, accidentally.” Oh, the thrill of breaking such news first, asserting one’s importance. It was a hearty delight, a bold affirmation of self. How it shook his friend. Ruprecht paled, his brow damp. “Is it possible…” he stammered, “he stole…?” “Well—stole? Legally: yes. Psychologically: a momentary lapse.” What bliss to cause such a stir. Gegely, another carefree glutton for wealth, ignorant of the grind of being rank-bound, salary-tied. “How could it happen?” Ruprecht asked, still reeling. “No idea what possessed him. He could’ve bought such scraps by the dozen at an antiquarian’s. It kicked up a storm… a European scandal, as I said. They tried to save him, of course… spun theories about the phenomenon… and finally draped a nice veil over it…” “What happened to him?” “He was put in a sanatorium… a ‘U’ became an ‘X,’ as such cases go. You’ll see… Bystritzky invited him to contribute to the anthology before this happened. It’s awkward now. If he sends something, can we accept it?” “Poor woman,” Ruprecht said thoughtfully, swirling his wine. “Frau Hedwig… yes, terrible for her!” A sudden, delicious thrill hit Hugo. A memory surged. “Frau Hedwig, the blonde… say, didn’t you once…?” He squinted gleefully. “It hurt you deeply, didn’t it, when Gegely took her from you? You were smitten. Still think of her?” “Oh, come now!” Ruprecht said softly, stiffening in resistance. “A youthful acquaintance. It was long ago… I pity her… having to endure that.” He stood, pulling out his watch. “If you want to catch your train, it’s high time to leave.” Hugo regretted leaving his scene of triumph. He’d have savored it longer. Ruprecht escorted him to the courtyard. They lingered, shivering, in the renewed rain. The carriage emerged from the stable, its dim lights casting trembling patches at their feet. The horses snorted, restless, loath to leave the warm stable. The courtyard felt like a pit’s bottom, darkness rising in steep walls around them. “Well, thanks for everything,” Hugo said, climbing in. “Hand-kiss to your wife. So… our anthology? What do you think…” He poked his pinky through his overcoat’s buttonhole. “How’d this suit me?” “Splendidly!” Ruprecht replied evenly. “You were born for a medal…” “Here’s hoping!” Hugo laughed, closing the carriage door. The carriage arced around Ruprecht and out the gate.
Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment
Chapter 1: The Experimental Method and Fermentation, Part 1
Introduction: The Hermetic art now turns to the practical alchemy of the soul, purifying its vital essence to awaken divine wisdom. This chapter unveils the experimental method, rooted in Paracelsian principles, to transform the universal spirit within humanity.
The Alchemical Foundation
Greek philosophers viewed the soul not as an abstract concept but as a substantial essence, freed from material constraints through inner work. Alchemists, building on this, treat the soul as the “first matter” of their art, a divine spark capable of miraculous transformation. Unlike modern chemistry’s external focus, this Hermetic experiment seeks to reveal the soul’s hidden light, as seen in the mysteries’ Theurgic rites (Part II, Chapters 3–4).
The soul’s natural state is clouded by sensory illusions, its divine light obscured. Alchemists, like the Greeks, aim to purify this essence, observing its transformation through experimental practice. This process, veiled in secrecy, is the heart of the Hermetic art, promising wisdom and immortality through self-knowledge.
The Sphinx as Symbol
The Egyptians placed the Sphinx at Isis’ temple, symbolizing the soul’s dual nature—animal instincts and human reason. Its wings represent imagination’s power to elevate the soul to divine heights. In alchemy, this “phantastic spirit” is the universal essence, both material and spiritual, the raw material of transformation. As Vaughan notes, “A nature invisible, the substance of our mastery,” this essence is worked upon itself, joining “self to self” to conquer and renew its divine potential.
Modern mesmerism glimpses this essence, revealing the soul’s inner life, but lacks the art to refine it. Alchemists, unlike mesmerists, mastered this spirit, solving its riddles like Oedipus defeating the Sphinx, entering the temple of truth through disciplined inquiry.
The Method of Purification
The Hermetic experiment begins with theory, as Vaughan advises: “Add reason to experience, employ mind as well as hands.” Unlike modern science’s slow accumulation of facts, alchemists sought direct experience of spiritual causes, diving into the soul’s depths to uncover its light. Job’s imagery captures this: “There is a vein for silver, a place for gold, and stones of sapphires. Wisdom’s path, hidden from all living, is known only to God, who decrees the fear of the Lord as its beginning.”
Crollius explains, “Physic and pyrotechny are inseparable. The true medicine, bound in man like milk in a nut, must be freed from impurities through fire.” This fire, the “Antimony” of adepts, is the soul’s vital spark, purified to flow as a “pure panacea” from the divine source, healing body and mind.
Closing: This chapter introduces the Hermetic experiment, purifying the soul’s essence to reveal divine wisdom. The practical methods of this sacred art unfold further in our next post, deepening the alchemical journey.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
V.
“Are you sick, Czerski?” Olga was very worried.
Czerski stared at her. It was as if he had only now noticed that she was there.
“No, I am not sick. But what brings you to me?” “Do you want to undertake an agitation trip?” Czerski’s face suddenly brightened.
“I have been thinking about that for three days.”
“I have money for you and the instruction that you should travel immediately.” He became sullen.
“I want no instructions, I travel when I want.”
“But the money is made available to you only on the condition that you travel immediately.”
“Why immediately?”
“There is a large book transport at the Russian border that you must get to Russia in two days at the latest. They have been waiting there for a month.”
“I want to perform no services for any party. I have nothing to do with a party. I am myself a party.”
Olga looked at him thoughtfully.
“Have you really now become completely an anarchist?”
“I am neither an anarchist nor a socialist, because I myself am a party.”
“But you have views that are shared by the anarchist party.”
“That concerns me nothing, that certain views accidentally bring me close to this or that party, but for that reason I do not want to admit that this or that party claims me as its member.”
He was silent thoughtfully. “So you don’t want to?”
“Are there any other conditions attached to the money?”
“No.”
He considered.
“Well, I can for all I care transport the stuff over. But I repeat that I care nothing for instructions, that I will obey no commands, that I stand outside every party and recognize no program.”
“Those are peculiar disclosures you make to me, but I am to deliver the money to you under all circumstances.”
Czerski looked at her suspiciously.
“Tell me, Fräulein, the money was sent by Falk?” “How do you know that?”
“I spoke to him yesterday.” “You spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
He thought long.
“Falk loves his wife very much?” “Yes.”
“How can it happen that he has a mistress at the same time? I racked my brain about it all night.”
Olga looked at him a little startled. Had his mind really suffered?
“A mistress you say? That is surely not possible.” “Yes, a mistress… My former fiancée.”
“Fräulein Kruk?”
“Yes. He has a son with her. She has just risen from childbed.”
Olga became very confused. She looked at him startled, then suddenly noticed her agitation, tried to hide it, her hands trembled and she felt all the blood flow to her heart.
Czerski seemed to notice nothing. He walked up and down and brooded.
“Well, one overcomes that,” he said finally. “That is a pain, a great pain, but one overcomes it. At first, when she stopped her visits to the prison, I suffered very much… Yes, very much suffered,” he repeated thoughtfully… “But I have overcome it. It is also good so. Now nothing more stands between me and the idea…”
He was silent for a while.
“When I was released three days ago, it came over me again. Yesterday a rage against Falk suddenly seized me, I wanted to insult and abuse him, but then with a jerk I got the fear that something could step between me and the idea, and I overcame it again. It is good so, very good…”
Falk probably wants to get rid of me… He really should have no fear of me. Calm him if you meet him…
He suddenly fixed his eyes sharply on Olga.
“Do you believe that Falk sent the money to get rid of me?”
“When did you speak to him?” “Yesterday.”
“Well, then I don’t believe it at all. He was by the way only waiting for you to be released. He values you immensely.”
“But he is a scoundrel. Yes, he is a scoundrel.”
“No, he is not. He is it as little as you.” Olga spoke coldly and repellingly.
Czerski looked at her attentively for a while, but answered nothing. He walked thoughtfully up and down again.
“The forged bull from Pope Pius for agitation in the countryside was written by Falk?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes.”
“Very well done. Very well, but I don’t believe he is serious about it. He plays with the idea. He experiments. He probably wants aesthetic sensations?”
Olga was silent.
“Isn’t it? You know him very well… See, you don’t answer, you are silent… He, he… he seeks danger, I can imagine that he would go to prison with joy, not because he believed in the thing, but because he thought to find atonement for his sins in it.”
Czerski became more and more animated.
“I got letters from him earlier, many letters. Oh, he is sharp and clever. He has hate and much, perhaps very much love, I revered him, but I see now that it is all only despair. He wants to save himself, he seeks convulsively for salvation, but he can believe in nothing… Yes, he is very clever, I wanted to insult him yesterday, I forced myself to insult him, but he is clever and malicious. Yes, malicious…”
Czerski suddenly broke off. “Do you want tea?”
“Gladly.”
He prepared the tea thoughtfully.
“Have you spoken to Fräulein Kruk in the last days?”
“Yes. As soon as I came out of prison, I went to her… She doesn’t know that he is married.”
“No?” Olga started in horror.
“No! He lied. His whole life is only a chain of lies…”
Olga fell into great unrest. It became hard for her to stay longer with Czerski, she stood up.
“I can’t wait for the tea after all.”
“Oh, stay a little. I was alone for a year and a half. It is so dear to me to have a person around me.”
He looked at her pleadingly.
Olga collected herself and sat down again.
“You are very sad, Fräulein… Yes, we all expected something else from him… Hm; actually it is very good that he sent the money. How much is it?”
“Five hundred marks.”
“That is much, very much. With that one can accomplish much…” They were silent for a while.
“Is it true what Kunicki claims, that you together with Stefan Kruk broke open the city treasury near here?”
“Completely true.”
“So you approve of anarchist practice?”
“If the idea requires it, all means are holy. That is by no means an anarchist invention. By the way, we didn’t steal the money, but took it rightfully. And that is a great difference. We acted in full consciousness of the legality of our act.”
“So you say that one may steal as soon as the idea requires it?”
“No steal, no; I didn’t say that. You come there to the juridical concept of crime. But as soon as I say I do right, and as soon as I have the faith and the holy conviction that I do right, understand, a faith that allows not the slightest doubt, then the theft is precisely no theft, no crime anymore.”
“But you accuse the state of crimes. Don’t you believe that the state does everything it does with good conscience? Don’t you believe that it feels justified in delivering the working class to the exploitation of capitalism? Consequently the state is no criminal because the criterion of bad conscience is missing.”
“Subjectively the state is no criminal, provided it is convinced of the legality of its action, which I don’t believe, but it becomes it objectively because the consequences of its actions are criminal.”
“But if the motives are good, the state cannot be made responsible for the damage.”
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Ninth Chapter Court Secretary Ernst Hugo was brewing a grand scheme. He felt it was time to step forward, to draw the world’s gaze upon him. People should speak of Ernst Hugo. It needed to be something colossal, like that Abbazia festival, but on a vastly grander scale. Something monumental—striding like Behemoth, towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, roaring like the Minotaur, forcing all to turn and look. Hugo rummaged through his historical and biblical knowledge, pulling open every drawer of his learning for comparisons. It had to be surprising, distinctive, unprecedented. The Emperor’s jubilee year had arrived. Here was a chance to shine, to catch his superiors’ eyes. He’d shown his Hofrat newspaper clippings of the Abbazia event, earning a nod of approval. Now, he aimed for something no mere nod could dismiss. Ernst Hugo just didn’t know what… That was the only hitch. He racked his brain until his skull seemed to crack. A grand procession was being planned, festive performances, jubilee foundations—tributes of all kinds. He needed something extraordinary to stand out. At the artists’ café where he was a regular, Hugo finally shared his woes with friends. A gaggle of young men and two actresses shouted ideas. A sculptor, hoping to fame with a complex lovers’ statue titled Ardor, suggested a monument. A painter proposed a vast circular painting of the Battle of Custoza. A young baron, included for his recent inheritance, thought living tableaux would do. Bystritzky, the poet, stirred his black coffee, fishing out a half-dissolved sugar cube to pop on his tongue. “You aristocrats,” he said, “always the same… when asked, it’s ever: living tableaux. Fits every occasion. Weddings: Gretchen at the spinning wheel… christenings: Gretchen at the spinning wheel… imperial honors: Gretchen at the spinning wheel…” “We could do something else,” the baron countered. “Like: Austria blessing her children…” “Sure, so the children start brawling. I’ve a better idea. We compile an anthology… an anthology of Austrian poets, got it? We all pitch in: I’ll edit, Franzl does the book design and illustrations, Prandstetter handles newspaper ads and writes reviews, the ladies can recite from it at every chance. And Secretary Hugo signs as publisher, raising the funds.” Hugo pondered. An anthology wasn’t special, not unique. Bystritzky dispelled his doubts: it would be an exceptional, singular anthology, its presentation the pinnacle of book artistry. Each copy a jewel of unparalleled allure. The others backed Bystritzky’s plan, except the sculptor, excluded from it. Hugo was finally persuaded. “When the festival’s waves have ebbed,” he declared with flourish, “and nothing remains of the celebrations but cinematographic reels, this book will endure… it will permeate cultured circles, a living testament to Austria’s spirit in this momentous year.” “Bravo!” cried the painter. Prandstetter seized Hugo’s hand, murmuring approval, as one does with ministers promising much. Hugo had the waiter bring a sheet of blank paper and, using a new volume of Bystritzky’s poetry, drew the fateful grid of subscription lines. The baron was made to sign first, opening the dance. With this dagger, Hugo prowled through Carnival. He brandished it at every chance, against all comers. Mid-lively chat, he’d produce it with a few words. A paralyzing hush of enthusiasm followed. One by one, they took the offered gold fountain pen, glancing covertly at prior entries, and wrote the sum they could muster. Hugo noted most lived by proverbs. “A scoundrel gives more than he has,” said every third. “Little, but heartfelt,” was common too. Latinists, to the pen’s scratch, intoned, “Bis dat, qui cito dat.” Charming and frequent was, “Mr. Would-Be plans, but Mr. Can’t delivers.” It was like a cornerstone laying, each feeling obliged to say something apt with the hammer’s strike. This Carnival was Hugo’s busiest yet. For his lofty goal, he couldn’t miss a social event. The sheet filled with signatures and figures, but the insatiable Bystritzky insisted it wasn’t enough. At the Vienna City Ball, amid the throng of dancers, Hugo spotted Frau Helmina. He trailed her through the crowd, pouncing the moment her partner moved to escort her to her seat. It was a waltz on soft clouds. Helmina lay pliant in his arms. Hugo burned. He felt the lit hall, swirling music, gallery carpets, flower nooks, and bronze statues were all for him. “I had no idea you were here,” he said, leading her to a side room where Ruprecht von Boschan sat with Major Zivkovic and two other officers. Helmina laughed. “Oh—I must recover from Krems. I danced there last Saturday.” She gave a lively account of the ball, her laughter like the delicate chime of champagne glasses raised in merry toast. Ruprecht was as exuberant as Helmina. His robust joy was evident, his footing sure. His eyes held a bold, calm gaze. Every word sang with zest for life. It was an extraordinarily cheerful evening. They danced eagerly at first. By morning, the conversation grew so light, refined, and sparkling that the dusty, stuffy ballroom lost its draw. The sense of floating persisted here. They spoke refined nonsense, bacchic wit bubbling from Helmina’s lips… As Hugo stood in dawn’s gray light before his door, fumbling with an aluminum key in the lock’s innards, he realized he’d forgotten to wield his dagger. “Oh, I won’t let you off,” he muttered. “I’ll get you. It’s a chance… a splendid chance… Always leave a bridge…” The next Sunday, he traveled to Vorderschluder. He could hardly wait to see Gars’s long ruinous castle front. It wasn’t far then. After some effort, he found a carriage. From the rising road, the Kamp valley’s forests stretched below. Thaw had set in, mist rising like smoke from the heavy black woods. On the rolling high plain, Wolfshofen’s scattered farmsteads shimmered through thin blue veils. Vorderschluder’s towers rose from a ridge. The road dipped back to the Kamp, bypassing its curve. Hugo found Frau Helmina alone. “I’m intruding, madam,” he said, kissing her hand. “What must you think… I should’ve announced myself, no?” “Oh, I’m fond of pleasant surprises,” Helmina said graciously. “My husband’s out, of course… You’re just in time to keep me company.” “I’m at your service.” Hugo was slightly flustered. “Tell me about Vienna, then.” “It’s still where you left it, but a bit forlorn. You should always be there, madam. The city dims without you. It’s mere memories now.” “You think I could boost tourism?” “You can do anything you wish.” Hugo reveled in his boldness, swept away by fervor. His tributes grew warmer. Her smiling attention seemed more than courtesy—it was encouragement. The demonic air Abbazia attributed to Helmina was merely a woman’s curiosity, testing how far a man would dare. She’d see he was no coward. Lost in this, Hugo faltered, and when the little Empire clock on the mantel chimed twelve silver notes and Helmina said, “Ruprecht will be here soon,” he fell to his knees, showering her hand with kisses. “Stand up, Herr Secretary,” Helmina said with gentle firmness. “What do you think of me?” “I think nothing—I only know I love you.” “No, no, please… stand up, I insist.” She pushed him back. “What are you doing? Ruprecht’s your friend. Shouldn’t we… remain friends?” “Of course!” Hugo looked up at her calm face, unmarred by surprise. “If I’m to trust you, end this scene.” Hugo obeyed, rising. “That’s right. See, if I ever need a friend, I’ll turn to you. I’m sure you’d help me. Now, let’s chat.” She’d barely begun when Ruprecht arrived. He greeted the court secretary with warm cordiality. Hugo froze, thinking of his recklessness. How easily he could’ve been caught. Helmina’s demonic gentleness had made him forget all danger. During the meal, he regained his composure. “You don’t even know why I came?” he asked. “I’m glad you did,” Ruprecht replied politely. “You might be less thrilled to hear I’m here to tap you. You’ve been generous before—dangerous move. Now I’m back… I need money…” Hugo unveiled his plan, displaying his subscription list, touting the project and the notable contributors already secured. Ruprecht, naturally, agreed to contribute.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Intermezzo All sins, my dear girl, are brought here by the hot south wind from out of the desert. Where the sun burns through endless centuries there hovers over the sleeping sands a thin white haze that forms itself into soft white clouds and floats around until the desert whirlwinds roll them and form them into strange round eggs that contain the sun’s blazing heat. There the basilisk slinks around through the pale night. In a strange manner the moon, the eternally infertile moon, fathered it. Yet its mother, the desert sand, is just as infertile as the other is. It is the secret of the desert. Many say it is an animal but that is not true. It is a thought that has grown where there is no soil or no seed. It sprang out of the eternally infertile and took on a chaotic form that life can not recognize. That is why no one can describe this creature. It is fashioned out of nothingness itself. But what the people say is true. It is very poisonous. When it eats the blazing eggs of the sun that the whirlwinds create in the desert sands purple flames shoot out of its eyes and its breath becomes hot and heavy with horrible fumes. But the basilisk, pale child of the moon, does not eat all of the vapory eggs. When it is sated and completely filled with hot poison it spits green saliva over the eggs still lying there in the sand and scratches them with sharp claws so the vile slime can penetrate through their soft skin. As the early morning winds arise a strange heaving like moist violet and green colored lungfish can be seen growing under the thin shells. Throughout the land at noon eggs burst as the blazing sun hatches crocodile eggs, toad eggs, snake eggs and eggs of all the repulsive lizards and amphibians. These poisonous eggs of the desert also burst with a soft pop. There is no seed inside, no lizard or snake, only a strange vapory shape that contains all colors like the veil of the dancer in the flame dance. It contains all odors like the pale sanga flowers of Lahore, contains all sounds like the musical heart of the angel Israfael and it contains all poisons as well like the basilisk’s own loathsome body. Then the south wind of mid-day blows in, creeping out of the swamps of the hot jungles and dances over the desert sands. It takes up the fiery creatures of the sun’s eggs and carries them far across the blue ocean. They move with the south wind like soft vapory clouds, like the loose filmy night garments of a priestess. That is how all delightful, poisonous plagues fly to our fair north– Our quiet days are cool, sister, like the northland. Your eyes are blue and know nothing of hot desire. The hours of your days are like the heavy blue clusters of wisteria dropping down to form a soft carpet. My feet stride lightly through them in the glinting sunlight of your arbor. But when the shadows fall, fair sister, there creeps a burning over your youthful skin as the haze flies in from the south. Your soul breathes it in eagerly and your lips offer all the red-hot poisons of the desert in your bloody kisses– Then it may not be to you that I turn, fair sister, sleeping child of my dreamy days–When the mist lightly ripples the blue waves, when the sweet voices of the birds sing out from the tops of my oleander, then I may turn to the pages in the heavy leather bound volume of Herr Jakob ten Brinken. Like the sea, my blood flows slowly through my veins as I read the story of Alraune through your quiet eyes in unending tranquility. I present her like I find her, plain, simple, like one that is free of all passions– But then I drink the blood that flows out of your wounds in the night and it mixes with my own red blood, your blood that has been poisoned by the sinful poisons of the hot desert. That is when my brain fevers from your kisses so that I ache and am tormented by your desires– Then it might well be that I tear myself loose from your arms, wild sister– it might be that I sit there heavily dreaming at my window that looks out over the ocean while the hot southerly wind throws its fire. It might be that I again take up the leather bound volume of the Privy Councilor, that I might once more read Alraune’s story– through your poison hot eyes. Then the ocean screams through the immovable rocks– just like the blood screams through my veins. What I read then is different, entirely different, has different meaning and I present her again like I find her, wild, hot–like someone that is full of all passions!
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 4: The Mysteries Concluded, Part 5
Introduction: The ancient mysteries reach their zenith as the soul unites with the divine, embodying eternal wisdom through sacred rites. This section unveils the transformative power of Theurgic union, transcending earthly illusions to resonate with divine harmony.
The Theurgic Path to Divine Union
Theurgic rites, surpassing mere thought, unite the soul with the divine through sacred symbols. Iamblichus explains, “Divine union comes not from intellectual effort but from ineffable rites and symbols, moved by the gods’ will.” The Chaldaic Oracle declares, “Extend the sparkling fire into the mind’s temples, guiding it to the divine pattern.” These rites awaken the soul’s latent wisdom, aligning its faculties in harmonious order under reason’s rule, unlike the chaotic motives of natural life.
Proclus adds, “The soul, becoming an Intellectual World, meets the Creator, united through pure vision, not opinion or logic. This is the discovery of the divine—a radiant union more beautiful than Elysium’s light.” The soul, shedding all multiplicity, rests in faith, love, and hope, communing with the Ineffable Unknown, where subject and object merge in divine unity.
The Divine Fire of Wisdom
Sendivogius describes fire as the purest element, infused with divine majesty, governing the soul’s rational essence. “God created the soul as a tree of knowledge, clouded by oblivion. Only purity allows it to approach the divine fire, which no mortal can endure without dissolution.” This fire, calm and vital, moves by God’s will, stirring the soul’s faculties into harmony, as a king’s court follows his command. The alchemists’ “Salt of Wisdom” is this purified essence, uniting the soul with the divine source, as Morien tells King Calid, “This mastery is God’s secret, entrusted to prophets.”
Transcending the Sensible World
The soul’s natural life, fragmented by sensory desires, contrasts with the divine harmony of Elysium. Plotinus notes, “In the divine realm, all is diaphanous, light meeting light, each part containing the whole.” The soul, once divided, becomes unified, perceiving all through its radiant essence. Proclus urges, “Remove all variety, let the universe be still within, and commune with the divine.” This is the alchemical stone, a crystalline vessel of eternal light, harmonizing all creation in divine love.
Modern skeptics dismiss the mysteries as mere illusions, but the ancients’ accounts—rooted in experience—reveal a profound reality. The rites, pure in their origin, were guarded to protect their sanctity, ensuring only the worthy accessed divine wisdom. As Epictetus affirms, “The mysteries improve human life,” offering a transformative path to eternal truth.
Closing: Chapter 4 concludes the mysteries, uniting the soul with the divine in radiant harmony. The journey’s practical implications and alchemical secrets unfold further in our next post, revealing new depths of the Hermetic art.
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