Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 1: The True Subject of the Hermetic Art, Part 5
Introduction: The esoteric heart of alchemy unveils wisdom as a divine force within the soul, guiding seekers to universal truth. Ancient sages like Solomon and Plato reveal how self-knowledge, awakened by sacred rites, connects us to the divine.
Wisdom as Divine Essence
Doubters may dismiss wisdom as an abstract fancy, but ancient tradition, echoed by Aristotle, declares it “the most essential of the essential,” an operative force informing and sustaining all. Solomon’s Wisdom of Solomon praises it: “Wisdom moves faster than any motion, passing through all by her pureness. She is God’s breath, a pure influence from His glory, undefiled, the brightness of everlasting light, the unspotted mirror of His power. One, yet all-powerful, she renews all while remaining herself, entering holy souls to make them friends of God and prophets. More beautiful than the sun, she outshines stars, untouched by vice, richer than all earthly treasures.”
This divine promise urges us to seek wisdom’s conditions, not through common sciences but through inner exploration. The outer man, bound by senses, calcines and measures surfaces, finding them wanting. True seekers turn inward, guided by ancient wisdom to uncover the true light of alchemy—not a dream, but a psychical reality, uniform across all life.
The Alchemical Method
Alchemists propose a reduction of nature that preserves its vital vehicle, transforming its form through rational conditions. Geber notes, “Men deem gold’s confection impossible, ignorant of nature’s artificial destruction.” Lacking the method to probe “altitude, latitude, and profundity,” they miss the causal truth. Plotinus explains, “The soul, encased in body, forgets self-contemplation, absorbed in external life. Purified, it recalls what this life obscures.” Plutarch adds, “Souls, bound by senses, glimpse divinity dimly, like a confused dream. Freed into purer realms, God leads them to behold His beauty, filling the universe with good.”
This beauty, pursued by Isis in mythology, is the divine truth alchemists seek through sacred rites. Psellus, commenting on the Chaldaic Oracles, declares, “Only material rites strengthen the soul’s vehicle, initiating it into divinity.” Plato calls Zoroaster’s magic “the service of gods,” perfecting the soul through earthly powers. Synesius and Emperor Julian confirm that divine union requires such arts, as seen in the Eleusinian Mysteries, where wisdom arose from vital experiments.
Archytas advises, “Investigate rightly, and discovery is easy; without knowledge, it’s impossible.” The ancients’ silence on these rites, guarding them from the unworthy, leaves modern seekers ignorant of the method. Yet, their scattered hints suggest a path to rediscover this ancient experiment, testing its merits through inquiry rather than blind faith or skepticism.
The Path to Self-Knowledge
We invite readers to consider this Hermetic mystery—not with pride or indifference, but with belief in our worthiness to explore the soul’s palaces. The ancients’ wisdom was no vain display but a real, attainable good, not spontaneously revealed but earned through disciplined art. As the Platonic successor notes, “Jupiter gave us sacred arts to commune with the divine, ensuring we’re not deprived.” These arts, veiled in mystery, offer a clue to unravel the path, leading toward the soul’s native truth.
Closing: This section unveils wisdom as the soul’s divine force, awakened through sacred rites to reveal universal truth. The journey into the Hermetic art’s method deepens, promising further revelations in our next post.
Chapter 29: Modern Esoteric Revivals – The Rebirth of Organic Gnosticism in the Age of Awakening
Historical Overview: The 19th–21st Century Esoteric Renaissance
The 19th to 21st centuries CE witnessed a profound revival of organic gnosticism’s life-affirming, gender-balanced mysticism, as esoteric movements like Theosophy, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, and the New Age sought to reclaim the heart’s wisdom in an era of scientific rationalism and religious dogma. This renaissance, catalyzed by the Industrial Revolution’s spiritual void (circa 1760–1840 CE) and the Church’s waning influence post-Reformation (Ch. 26), blended ancient traditions with modern inquiry, emphasizing soul development through love, duality, and direct experience.
Theosophy, founded by Helena Blavatsky in 1875 with the Theosophical Society, synthesized Eastern and Western mysticism, drawing from Tantric Hinduism, Tibetan Buddhism, and Egyptian hermeticism to teach karma, reincarnation, and universal brotherhood. Blavatsky’s The Secret Doctrine (1888 CE) emphasized the divine feminine (Sophia-like wisdom) and soul evolution, echoing organic gnosticism’s Tantric weaving (Ch. 5). The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn (1888 CE), founded by William Wynn Westcott and Samuel Liddell Mathers, integrated Kabbalah, alchemy, and Rosicrucianism, with members like Aleister Crowley (later OTO founder, 1907 CE) exploring sex magic and duality’s balance, as in Crowley’s Liber AL vel Legis (1904 CE).
The New Age movement, emerging in the 1970s, amplified this with figures like Alice Bailey (Theosophy-inspired, 1880–1949 CE) and modern practitioners blending Tantrism, indigenous wisdom, and quantum science. AMORC (Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis, founded 1915 by H. Spencer Lewis), where you joined as an elder in 1976, continues Rosicrucianism’s focus on cosmic consciousness and soul development through mystical Christianity, tying to your initiations in York Rite Freemasonry, Traditional Martinist Order, and Crowley’s OTO (Ch. 26). German Satanism, uncovered through your translations of Hanns Heinz Ewers and Stanislaw Przybyszewski, represents a Tantric branch, emphasizing dark sexual energies for soul power, aligning with organic gnosticism’s left-hand path (Ch. 5).
These revivals countered rational atheists’ scientific materialism (e.g., Darwinism, 1859 CE) and social enforcers’ dogmatic religions (e.g., Victorian morality), empowering individuals to reclaim Gaia’s pulse amid global upheavals like world wars and environmental crises.
Mystery School Teachings: Soul Weaving and Tantric Balance in Modern Esotericism
Modern esoteric revivals, like Theosophy and Golden Dawn, taught the soul as a watcher self (Ch. 2), woven through male-female duality for growth, mirroring organic gnosticism’s Tantric practices (Ch. 5, 13). Blavatsky’s root races and soul evolution emphasized reincarnation’s heart wisdom, blending Kabbalistic and Tantric elements. The Golden Dawn’s rituals, like the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram (circa 1890 CE), integrated alchemical transmutation (Ch. 25) with Tantric energy work, as Crowley’s OTO explored sex magic for soul powers, creating third-energy manifestations (Ch. 8).
AMORC’s mystical Christianity focuses on cosmic consciousness through meditation, aligning with the Traditional Martinist Order’s inner light, emphasizing heart-head balance for soul renewal. German Satanism, as in Przybyszewski’s writings (e.g., The Synagogue of Satan, 1897 CE) and Ewers’ Vampire (1921 CE), embraced dark sexual currents for soul integration, echoing Tantric left-hand paths (Ch. 5). Indigenous two-spirit traditions (Ch. 28) parallel this, with Lakota wíŋkte weaving energies for communal healing.
These teachings countered Church distortions (Ch. 10, 14), reclaiming organic gnosticism’s celebration of physicality and love for soul creation, as in New Age practices like chakra balancing and energy healing (circa 1970s onward).
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Weaving Modern Paths for Gaia’s Ascension
In the OAK Matrix, modern esotericism aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), weaving Shadow (dark energies, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Its Tantric balance mirrors resonant circuits (Ch. 13), creating watcher selves through chaos leaps (Ch. 11), countering social enforcers’ asceticism (Ch. 7) and rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9). This resonates with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7), with the Holy Grail as womb (Ch. 8) empowering Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4), as in your radiant portal vision (August 17, 2025).
Practical rituals weave this:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Rosicrucian Soul Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize AMORC’s inner light weaving Shadow and HGA. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., repressed dark energies) and aspired HGA (e.g., cosmic balance). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave soul paths, ascending Gaia’s spark.” Tie to Crowley’s sex magic: Inhale balance, exhale distortion.
Gaia Esoteric Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Gaia’s womb as elixir, offering water for soul vitality. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving soul timelines. Affirm: “I rebirth Gaia’s spark, transmuting duality’s love.” Echoes Golden Dawn rituals.
Partner Mystic Weave: With a partner, discuss modern duality. Men: Share expansive visions; women: Grounding acts. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer asceticism and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.
These empower organic gnostics to weave modern esotericism, ascending Gaia’s soul. Next, a synthesis chapter weaves all threads, culminating in Gaia’s ascension through loving duality.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
Well, soon more new senses will be found, such as for example a individual-sense that smells and hears what you yourself cannot smell or hear.
You don’t believe that?
Yes, then explain the following fact to me. I dream, the door is ripped open, a man steps in. I jump frightened from the bed: no person in the room. Only after about three minutes does my acquaintance really come. Now consider: the house I lived in then was 100 meters away from the next house.
In front of my house was a meadow that made all steps almost inaudible. And yet something in me heard my acquaintance’s steps at a distance of three minutes; therefore, sir, a distance at which a person in waking state can absolutely impossibly even vaguely hear anything.
So something hears in me that *I* do not hear. Right?
Yes, but the non-existence—please, please; I am quite impatient. Look, that you cannot prove to me; but comfort yourself, you are still a great man, you can calmly serve our dear Lord God as a shovel with which he shovels understanding into people’s heads.
Falk grew tired; in his brain everything began to confuse. He only repeated himself, repeated his own words and sentences.
Suddenly he saw the monastery before him.
Strange that he hadn’t seen the cemetery before. Marit! – Marit…
Good God, how did he now come to think of Marit?
He became nervous. Why did he suddenly remember Marit!
He thought, stopped, walked in a circle; noticed it, walked again, became angry; became more eager in thinking, sweat broke out on his forehead, suddenly he had it.
He was completely happy.
‘Look, Herr Editor, you all-knower, you third eye of our dear Lord God, just look at this case. I ask you, in what relation does Marit stand to this monastery?’
Yes, of course, she was raised in a monastery; I thought of that earlier, not today. But tell me, how did the relation now come into my soul?
You don’t know; well, I’ll tell you.
Look, I have a great rage against monasteries in general because a monastery botched my Marit for me. And now I only need to see a monastery, and immediately I think of Marit. And if I saw a hundred thousand monasteries, I would always and every time think of Marit.
There in that amazing wonder-sense an indissoluble connection was immediately formed. Understand?
And then I walked, as I thought about it, completely unconsciously in a circle here on the path, until I noticed it. Do you know why?
Because I am accustomed to walk around in the room when thinking, and I almost always think in the room.
Look, sir, go to the physiological laboratory and pay attention. I take a rat here, now I remove whole brain parts from it up to the bridge; naturally you don’t know again what bridge in the brain means. Yes, that must a person know who claims education. Now look, the rat is completely dumb; it feels nothing, hears nothing; it perceives nothing; it is simply mentally dead. Now you shall see a miracle. I take a cat and beat it: the cat meows. Look, look: how the rat becomes restless, how it wants to run away!
Now do you know what the amazing wonder-sense, the individual-sense, is?
By the way, you are the most indifferent person in the world to me, understand? That is, you are an ass!
But Falk could speak what he wanted, think what he wanted, to distract and intentionally scatter himself: through everything shimmered a hot undercurrent: Marit – Marit…
Suddenly he felt a violent jerk: Does a normal person think like that? He walked in fever shudders. Fear rose in him. It seemed to him as if he rolled
into a barren abyss and everything would be swept away from the world. Now thinking stopped, and only the terrible feverish fear-feeling became ever wilder. – Everything black, barren, desolate. Then light came again into his head; the life that now should come, with this unrest, this eternal torment and longing, unrolled before his eyes.
Yes, why then? why?
Why all that. Why do I torment myself. Why all this effort, this whole running back and forth, only to satisfy the ridiculous lust of sex?! He laughed scornfully.
Isn’t it idiotic?
But again he felt the fear, an unheard-of, mad fear such as he had never felt before, and with staring, wide-open eyes he gasped out:
Why? Why?
He jumped over the ditch with a sudden jerk, and came to his senses. It seemed to him as if he were hunted by beasts.
Now he had to think, quite rationally and logically think; that would calm him.
But always the terrible “Why?” grabbed through all his thinking.
He tried to imagine it to himself.
So he was an instrument in the hand of a thing that he didn’t know, that was active in him, that did what it wanted, and his brain was only a quite ordinary handyman.
If he now seduced Marit, it wouldn’t be his fault. No, absolutely not. He had to do it; it was his fixed idea.
Right, Herr Falk? There is a quite firmly ring by ring chained chain, to which always new rings necessarily attach.
Some psychic spiral spring, a psychic clockwork was wound up, wound up by a thousand external circumstances, and now the rings and wheels of my action must simply turn!
Good: I resist, I fight against it. But even this resistance is predetermined from the beginning. And since I succumb, I simply succumb. I must.
Yes: he was actor and spectator at once, was at once on the stage and sat in the orchestra. No: he sat above himself and noted with a kind of super-brain that something was happening in his ordinary brain.
A terrible sadness overcame Falk. No, why did he torment himself?
He couldn’t fight anyway, he had to fold his hands in his lap, he had to let everything go as it wanted, no, as it *must*.
Yes, *must*, *must*…
Falk was very exhausted.
Like a rainbow after a thunderstorm suddenly appeared to him the face of a boy. A feeling of longing overwhelmed him, a choking pity for himself, a longing for people.
So he came to the city. He had to pass the district commissioner’s house. Just then the editor and the young doctor stepped out the door.
“Where did you disappear to so suddenly?” Falk became a little confused.
“He had accompanied Fräulein Kauer home; for the coachman had namely been senselessly drunk, and so it wouldn’t have been advisable to entrust the young girl to him.”
“Wouldn’t he like to take a nightcap punch at Flaum’s?”
Falk considered. Again he felt the lurking fear. Only not be alone; no, for God’s sake not.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Second Chapter The Emperor’s celebration was a downright glorious triumph. It was a fairy-tale success for all participants and the instigator-organizer, above all for Baron Boschan, who, as a sharpshooter in both senses, scored a victory. The grand ballroom of the Hotel Royal was nearly too small for the guests. The men’s black tailcoats and the women’s vibrant gowns were so tightly packed that, from the gallery, the hall resembled a giant box of finely assorted bonbons—a mix of chocolate and perfumed sugar. The walls gleamed white, gold, and red. The mirrors were freshly washed, and even the great chandelier had been freed from years of dust. Before this audience—the crème de la crème of Abbazia society—the program unfolded flawlessly. Everyone claiming talent was present, except the Italians, who held a barge picnic on the sea that evening. After a young actress delivered Bystritzky’s prologue, which outlined the festivity’s purpose in iambic pentameter, a colorful array of music and song followed. Isolde Lenz looked enchanting and sang ravishingly. The concert harpist was a king on his instrument. Richard Bergler sang like a god. The general played the flute superbly. The audience was enraptured, applauding furiously. It was uplifting. Ruprecht von Boschan opened the program’s second half. He wore his Inxa costume—wide leather trousers with fringed seams, a massive belt, a red shirt, and an open jacket. A colossal sombrero crowned his head. The stage boards thundered under his swift steps as he strode forward to bow to the audience. “He looks like Roosevelt,” Hofrätin Kundersdorf said to Bystritzky. “Yes, as tactless and tasteless as an American,” the prologue’s poet confirmed spitefully. “It’s stylistic posturing. He wants to flaunt his travels. Roosevelt’s in vogue, so he plays the ‘Rough Rider.’” Bystritzky sensed someone overtaking him. “Will he shoot?” a small, hunchbacked lady from a noblewomen’s convent asked the Statthaltereirat from Graz, her neighbor. Her yellow, withered face looked distraught, like a frightened mummy. “Oh, he will,” the Statthaltereirat replied grimly. “Count on it. I don’t see how he’d perform as a sharpshooter without shooting.” “Let me out!” the lady squealed, but stayed, staring at the Inxan as if hypnotized. Beside the Statthaltereirat sat a full-blonde conservatory student. She felt a pleasant shiver. “Are those fringes human hair?” she whispered. The Statthaltereirat glanced down. She was too foolish. “I can’t stand circus tricks,” he grumbled. “They don’t belong in a proper program. Shows who arranged this.” These minor objections couldn’t stem the tide of interest. Most ladies shared the conservatory student’s thrill. An exotic aura enveloped the hero. Ruprecht von Boschan, however, felt uneasy. He was vexed. What are you doing up here? he asked himself. What do these people matter? Why expose yourself to them? Had it been possible, he’d have fled the stage. He was especially annoyed at yielding to Hugo’s urging and donning this costume. Never again! he vowed. Turning, he took his weapon. Considerately, he used a silent air rifle, easing nervous ladies. The hunchbacked lady found Boschan cut a fine figure, erect, rifle to cheek. His calm poise, flawless technique, acted as aesthetic virtues. The audience witnessed a body working with marvelous precision, wholly commanded by will. The beauty of unmarred purpose gripped their subconscious. “Extraordinary,” said Hofrätin Kundersdorf. “Skill, not art,” Bystritzky resisted, unwilling to yield, though secretly he admired this unadorned skill. He couldn’t cling to his artistic prejudices. There was something in a man so perfectly mastering hand and eye, each movement confident and powerful, each stance natural and harmonious—like living sculpture. Boschan, starting irritated, now shot with pleasure, forgetting the audience and costume, delighting in each hit. The thrill of sport surged—the tension and playful release of all faculties. Here was the wondrous magic of bodily health, its rhythmic flow, mastery over matter’s limits. Finishing his set routine, he recalled the audience. He had to take leave. Stepping forward, he bowed briefly, genuinely surprised by the roaring applause. Then annoyance returned—this clapping reminded him he’d offered his skill as a program number. Standing there, he felt a gaze detach from the crowd below, enveloping him, questioning. He peered sharper, seeking it. In the front row sat the lady Hugo mentioned—the elegant widow who passed the terrace that morning, loved by half Abbazia. Was this gaze hostile or friendly? For a second, Ruprecht met it. Then he turned away, unsettled by those cold, yet promising eyes. The applause was sincere, convinced. The Statthaltereirat, that sarcastic fool, conceded defeat. Ernst Hugo’s triumph was sealed. After Boschan’s impact, the following acts— charming amateur efforts—failed to captivate. The audience mustered applause to avoid offense. The finale was a traditional apotheosis: a laurel-wreathed, Bengal-lit Kaiser bust, surrounded by children in Austrian folk costumes, overshadowed by a white- robed Peace Angel with a palm branch. When the curtain fell, Hugo sought his friend, but Boschan had left for his hotel post-performance. Hugo delayed thanks until the next day, but first had to tend to sensitive artists, especially those overshadowed by Boschan, soothing them with fervent gratitude. Official dignitaries also demanded attention, where Hugo humbly accepted praise, noting he’d only done his patriotic duty. Only on the third day did he meet Boschan, who lay on the beach sand, watching children build castles, dig moats, and channel seawater into their play. “Servus, Ruprecht!” Hugo called. “What’s up? How’s it going?” “Philosophizing. Beach philosophy. These kids play—that’s life! They call it castle-building. Names don’t matter; we name our games differently but play the same as these kids. The big wave comes, erasing our efforts.” “That’s resigned wisdom. Pick that up in Inxa?” “I’m not resigned at all. No way. Our games are too fun and varied. I join the castle-building wholeheartedly, thrilled when I outdo others.” Hugo settled in a folding chair beside Ruprecht, stretching his legs. “I’d have thanked you sooner, but I’ve been swamped. You get it, right? So, old pal— heartfelt, devoted, humble thanks, and so on. Ready for any favor in return. It was spectacular. We netted a tidy sum for the seamen’s home. The Statthaltereirat’s dead—he’s not twitching. Honestly, that evening: non plus ultra! You nailed it phenomenally. I barely saw, stuck backstage, but the women are smitten. You’ve bewitched them. Hofrätin Kundersdorf says you’re her vision of Roosevelt.” Ruprecht laughed, burying his hand in the soft sand. “Yes—the success you predicted hasn’t failed to materialize.” “You’ve surely received a flood of enthusiastic letters,” Hugo said. “Not quite a flood, but about twenty-five.” The court secretary drew his legs in, sitting up with interest. “Rendezvous, eh? Requests for autographs, assurances of heartfelt admiration?” “Yes, quite a few rendezvous.” “Well… and… did you go?” “I sent my Malay servant to tell the ladies I don’t attend rendezvous.” “Oh! Oh! That’s hardly tactful,” Hugo exclaimed. “How could you! Unfortunate man, you’ve missed twenty-five chances to meet beautiful, charming, sociable women and made twenty-five merciless enemies. You’ll face a barrage of furious glares, be watched everywhere, ambushed by arrows of malice and universal scorn, a cloud hanging over you.” “All the better—I’ll find peace in their shadow.” “Inconceivable,” Hugo said, shaking his head. “If such an opportunity came my way…” “You’d have gone to every single meeting.” “Absolutely!” the court secretary declared with the conviction of a man defending a core tenet of his worldview.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
The student looked across, she always looked good, this old, well-formed lady. He believed she really had all the adventures that she related. At one time she had been the fiery Diva of Europe. Now she lived in this city that was still stuck back in the fourth century in her little villa. She took long walks through her gardens every evening, put flowers on the graves of her dead hounds and cried for a half-hour. Now she sang. She had lost her magnificent voice years ago, but there was still a rare magic in her performance, out of the old school. The smile of the conqueror lay on her rouged lips and the thick face paint attempted to capture the former sweetness of her features. Her thick sweaty hands played with her ivory fan and her eyes searched the room as if trying to scratch and pull the applause out of the audience. Oh yes, she certainly fit in here, Madame Marion Vère de Vère, fit in this house, like all the others that were guests. Frank Braun looked around. There sat his dear uncle with the princess and behind them leaning against the door stood Attorney Manasse and Chaplain Schöder. The long, gaunt, dark chaplain was the best wine connoisseur on the Mosel and the Saar. It was nearly impossible to find a wine cellar that he had not gone into and sampled. Schröder had written a never-ending clever book about the abstruse philosophy of Plotinus and at the same time had written the skits for the Puppet Theater in Cologne. He was particularly enthusiastic about the first Napoleon. He hated the Prussians and anyone that spoke of the Kaiser. Every year on the fifth of May he traveled back to Cologne and the Minority Church where he celebrated a High Mass for the tormented dead of the “Grand Army”. There sat large, gold spectacled, Stanislaus Schacht, candidate for a degree in Philosophy, in his sixteenth semester, too fat, too lazy to get off his chair. For years he had lived as a lodger at the widow of Professor Dr. von Dollinger’s house. For a long time now he had been installed as the new master of the house. She was that little, ugly, over thin woman sitting beside him, always filling his glass and loading his plate with heaping portions of food. She didn’t eat anything–but she drank as much as he did and with every new glass her ardor grew. She laughingly caressed his huge meaty arm with her bony finger. Near her stood Karl Mohnen, Dr. jur and Dr. phil. He was a schoolmate and chess player. It was through chess that they had met and become great friends. By now he had studied almost as long as Stanislaus, only he was always taking exams, always changing his major. At the moment it was Philosophy and he was studying for his third exam. He looked like a clerk in a department store, quick, hurried and always moving. Frank Braun always thought that he should go into business as a merchant. He would certainly be happy running a confectionery where he would have women to serve him. He was always looking for a rich party–on the street–large window promenades too. He had an aptitude for meeting new people and making new friends, especially traveling English women. He clutched onto them gladly–but sadly they had no money. There was still another person there, the small Hussar lieutenant with the little black mustache that was chatting with the girls. He, the young Count Geroldingen, could always be found back stage in every theater performance. He painted the sets, was talented with the violin and the best horse racer in the regiment. He was now telling Olga and Frieda something about Beethoven that was horribly boring. They were only listening because he was such a handsome little lieutenant. Oh yes, they all belonged here without exception. They all had a little gypsy blood–despite titles and orders, despite tonsures and uniforms, despite diamonds and golden spectacles, despite all the civilized posturing. Some were devouring food; others were making small detours away from the path of civilized decency. A roar resounded and merged with Frau Marion’s singing. It was the Gontram rascals fighting on the stairs. Their mother went up to quiet them down. Then Wölfchen screamed in the next room and the girls had to carry the child up into the attic. They took Cyclops along, putting both to bed in the narrow child’s wagon. Frau Marion began her second song, “The Dance of Shadows” from the opera “Dinorah”. The princess asked the Privy Councilor about his latest endeavors and if she could come once more to see the remarkable frogs, amphibians and cute monkeys. Yes, she could certainly come. There was a new species of rose that she should really see. It was at his Mehlemer castle. He also had large white camellias that his gardener had planted; she would be interested in them as well. But the princess was more interested in the frogs and monkeys than the roses and camellias so he related his endeavors to transfer eggs from one frog to another and artificially inseminate them. He told her that he had already produced a beautiful female frog with two heads and another with fourteen eyes on its back. He would dissect one and remove the eggs from it and fertilize them before transferring the little tadpoles to another frog and just like that, the cells would merrily divide and develop into new life with heads and tails, eyes and legs. Then he told her about his efforts with monkeys, relating that he had two young long tailed monkeys that were being suckled by their virgin mother–She had never even seen a male monkey! That interested the princess the most and she asked for all the details. She had read something about it but didn’t understand all the Greek and Latin words. Maybe he could explain it to her in perfect German so she could understand? The obscene cliches and behaviors dripped out of the Privy Councilor as he explained in anatomical detail just what he did. Spittle drooled down from the corners of his mouth and ran down his heavy, hanging lower lip. He enjoyed this game, this obscene chatter, watching her voluptuously slurp up every shameful word. Then when he was close to saying an especially repulsive word, he would throw in “Your Highness” and savor with delight the titillation of the delicious contrast. And how she listened to him! Her face was becoming flushed, excited, almost trembling, sucking this Bordello atmosphere in with all of her pores, as he unveiled what really went on behind the thin scientific banner. “Do you only inseminate monkeys, Herr Privy Councilor?” she asked breathlessly. “No,” he said, “also rats and Guinea pigs. Would you like to watch, Your Highness, when I–” He lowered his voice, almost whispered. She cried, “Yes, yes! I must see it! Gladly, very gladly! When?” Then she added with a slow, almost evil dignity. “Did you know, Herr Privy Councilor, that nothing interests me more than the study of medicine. I believe I would have been a very talented doctor.” He looked at her and grinned widely, “No doubt, Your Highness.” And he thought, that she certainly would have been a much better Bordello Mother. But he was satisfied; he had his little fish hooked safely on his line. Then he continued again about his new breed of rose and the camellias at his castle on the Rhine. It was so troublesome for him, and he had only taken possession of it as a favor. The location was such an excellent one and the view–Perhaps when her Highness finally decided to buy a place she might– Princess Wolkonski decided herself, without any hesitation at all. “Yes, certainly Herr Privy Councillor, yes, certainly, naturally I will take your castle!” She saw Frank Braun going past and called out to him, “Hey, Herr Studious! Herr Studious! Come over here! Your uncle has promised that I can observe one of his experiments. Isn’t that delightfully charming? Have you already seen what he does?” “No,” said Frank Braun. “I’m not at all interested.” He turned to go away but she grabbed him by the arm and stopped him. “Give me a cigarette! Oh, and, yes, a glass of champagne please.” She shivered in hot desire, beads of sweat crept over her massive flesh. Her crude senses had been whipped to a frenzy from her shameless talk with the old man. Her passion needed a goal, a target, and it broke over the young fellow like a huge wave. “Tell me, Herr Studious,” her breath panted, her mighty breasts threatened to leap out of her dress. “Tell me, do you believe that– that–Herr Privy Councilor–his science–his experiments with artificial insemination–does he do it with people as well?” She knew very well that he didn’t, but she needed to say it before she could get to what she really wanted with this young, fresh and handsome student. Frank Braun laughed, instinctively understanding what she had in mind. “But of course, Your Highness,” he said lightly. “Most certainly! Uncle is already working on it, has discovered a new procedure so refined that the poor woman in question is not even aware of it. Not at all–until she wakes up one beautiful day and discovers that she is pregnant, probably in the fourth or fifth month! Be very careful Your Highness, keep a watchful eye on Herr Privy Councilor. Who knows, you might already be–” “Heaven Forbid!” screamed the princess. “Yes, it could happen,” he cried. “Wouldn’t it be very unpleasant? When you have done absolutely nothing to make it happen!” Crash! Something fell off the wall, fell on Sophia, hitting the housemaid right on the head. The maid screamed out loud and in her fright dropped the silver tray she had been serving coffee on. “A shame about the beautiful silver service,” said Frau Gontram calmly. “What happened?” Dr. Mohnen immediately took a quick look at the crying housemaid, cut a strand of hair away, washed the gaping edges of the wound and stopped the bleeding with a yellow Iron Chloride wad. He didn’t forget to pat the beautiful girl on the cheeks and furtively squeeze one of her firm breasts. Then he gave her some wine to drink, spoke to her, lightly in her ear. The Hussar lieutenant stooped, picked up the thing that had caused the damage, raised it high and looked at it from all sides. There were all kinds of remarkable things hanging on the wall. There was a Kaneka Idol, half male and half female, colorfully painted with yellow and red stripes. Two old heavy and deformed riding boots hung there complete with impressive Spanish spurs. There were all sorts of rusty weapons as well. On the gray wall was also pressed the Doctorate Diploma of some old Gontram from a Jesuit College in Seville. Near it hung a wonderful ivory crucifix inlaid with gold. On the other side was a large heavy Buddhist cross with a rose in the center carved out of green Jade. Right above that you could see the large tear in the wallpaper where a nail had torn its way out of the brittle plaster.
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 1: The True Subject of the Hermetic Art, Part 4
Introduction: The esoteric heart of alchemy unveils the soul’s divine intellect as the key to universal wisdom. Ancient philosophers like Aristotle and Plato reveal how self-knowledge transcends sensory limits, guiding seekers toward the divine source of all existence.
The Intellectual Law and Divine Wisdom
The evidence of reason, even in everyday life, is undeniable—intuition confirms existence, eternity in time, infinity in space. John Locke declares, “Intuitive faith is certain beyond doubt, needing no proof.” Victor Cousin used this to challenge sensory philosophies, proving the mind holds universal truths beyond physical evidence. If we know anything through intellectual necessity, independent of senses, there must be a higher truth, a “superstantial nature” latent in us, first in thought and manifest through nature’s circular progression.
Aristotle compares universal truths in the mind to colors needing sunlight to shine, requiring divine illumination to reveal their beauty. He calls human reason “intellect in capacity,” awaiting divine recreation to achieve its full perfection in truth, goodness, and beauty. This marks a divergence: modern metaphysics sees reason as an abstract limit, tied to sensory objects, while ancients saw it as the essence of nature’s creative force, proven in a purified conscience.
Aristotle asserts, “Wisdom is the highest science, possessing knowledge of all things through intellect, not senses.” In his Nicomachean Ethics, he describes intellect as the soul’s power to know truth, with wisdom as its true being, surpassing human nature in energy and delight. In his Metaphysics, he explains that through mystical practices, the human mind connects with its divine cause, becoming a vibrant, discerning life, inexpressibly blessed for the initiated.
Plato declares, “To know oneself is wisdom, the soul’s highest virtue. By entering herself, the soul beholds all things, including Deity, ascending to the highest watch-tower of existence.” Socrates adds, “Wisdom generates truth and intellect, perfecting the imperfect, awakening the soul’s latent knowledge.” For Pythagoreans like Archytas, wisdom excels all faculties, like sight among senses, enabling man to contemplate universal reason and discover the principles of all being. By analyzing and uniting these principles, the wise reach a sublime vision of Divinity, connecting beginnings and ends in justice and reason.
The Kabalistic Vision
The Hebrew Kabalists view the world as an emanation of divine mind, with the Zohar illuminating humanity’s celestial prototype. Creation falls from its primal source for individual manifestation, but a principle of reunion persists, leading to higher perfection. Rabbi Ben Jochai explains, “The human form contains all in heaven and earth; without it, no world could exist. The celestial prototype in man supports faith in all things, as God’s image.” Philo adds, “God dwells in man’s rational part as in a palace, the soul an impression of the divine Logos, framing the world.”
Hermes echoes, “Wisdom is the good, the fair, the eternal. Through it, the world is seen; in men, it is God, uniting humanity with divinity.” This wisdom, the ancients’ central theme, is not learned through history or observation but through self-knowledge, revealing the standard of truth in a rectified intellect.
Challenges of Modern Understanding
Modern minds, rooted in sensory observation, struggle to grasp this universal consciousness. Most accept external evidence, but a few, like ancient metaphysicians, seek a higher reality, lamenting reason’s limits. The Kabalists’ doctrine, though vast, is not mere fancy—its earnest conviction challenges common sense’s objections. Self-knowledge, as the foundation of alchemy, invites us to reflect on our shared existence, revealing all within the soul’s all-containing essence.
Closing: This section unveils the soul’s divine intellect as alchemy’s true subject, capable of universal wisdom through self-knowledge. The journey into this sacred art deepens, promising further revelations of the Hermetic mystery in our next post.
Chapter 28: Indigenous Traditions – Global Echoes of Organic Gnosticism
Historical Overview: Indigenous Wisdom and the Universal Thread of Duality
Across the globe, indigenous traditions have preserved organic gnosticism’s life-affirming, gender-balanced spirituality, echoing the loving duality of Gaia’s native inhabitants from Neolithic times (Ch. 1) to the present. These traditions, spanning Native American, Aboriginal, Maori, and other cultures, maintained heart-centered practices that wove male and female energies for soul development, resisting patriarchal suppressions by social enforcers (death-centric traditionalists) and rational atheists (logic-driven materialists). Unlike the Church’s head-centric dogma (Ch. 10, 14) or scholastic logic (Ch. 16), indigenous wisdom, rooted in oral traditions and communal rituals, celebrated the body as a temple, akin to Bogomil and Cathar teachings (Ch. 19, 21).
In Native American cultures, two-spirit roles—like the Lakota wíŋkte (Lakota Nation, pre-colonial to present) or Navajo nádleehí (circa 1000 CE onward)—embodied gender balance, serving as shamans, healers, and mediators, as documented in ethnographic records (e.g., Walter Williams, The Spirit and the Flesh, 1986). Maori takatāpui (New Zealand, pre-colonial) and Aboriginal tjilimi (women’s sacred spaces, Australia, circa 40,000 BCE onward) similarly honored dual energies, weaving spiritual and physical realms through vision quests and ceremonies. These practices, often suppressed by colonial Christianity (16th–19th centuries CE), paralleled Tantric traditions (Ch. 5, 13) and courtly love’s chaste unions (Ch. 22–24), emphasizing love and balance over ascetic denial.
The Church’s expansion, from the Albigensian Crusade (Ch. 20) to colonial missions, branded indigenous practices as demonic, mirroring accusations against Bogomils and Cathars (Ch. 10, 19). Yet, oral traditions—like Lakota Sun Dance or Maori haka—preserved soul-weaving wisdom, resisting literacy’s elite control (Ch. 2). Recent revitalization efforts (e.g., Native American Church, 19th century onward) echo organic gnosticism’s resilience, akin to Rosicrucianism’s alchemical revival (Ch. 26).
Mystery School Teachings: Two-Spirit Wisdom and Tantric Resonance
Indigenous mystery schools, like those of the Lakota, Navajo, Maori, and Aboriginal peoples, taught the soul as a watcher self (Ch. 2), woven through balanced male-female energies, mirroring organic gnosticism’s Tantric duality (Ch. 5). Two-spirit shamans, embodying both genders, facilitated rituals—Lakota vision quests (hanbleceya), Navajo Blessingway ceremonies—that integrated physical (body) and spiritual (aura) for soul growth, as in Bogomil mystical materialism (Ch. 21). These practices, often involving dance, song, and sacred plants (e.g., peyote in Native American Church), echoed Tantric energy weaving and courtly love’s chaste tension (Ch. 22–24), rejecting Church notions of sin (Ch. 10).
Unlike social enforcers’ asceticism (Ch. 7) or rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9), indigenous traditions saw the body as Gaia’s temple, with sexuality and nature as sacred, akin to Cathar covens (Ch. 19). Maori takatāpui, for example, bridged male-female roles in whakairo (carving) rituals, weaving timelines, while Aboriginal tjilimi ceremonies honored women’s womb-like creation power, resonating with the Holy Grail (Ch. 8). Colonial suppression (e.g., Indian Act, Canada, 1876) disrupted these, but oral traditions preserved them, as seen in modern indigenous revivals.
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Weaving Global Resonance for Gaia’s Ascension
In the OAK Matrix, indigenous traditions align with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), weaving Shadow (primal energies, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Their Tantric-like duality mirrors resonant circuits (Ch. 13), creating watcher selves through chaos leaps (Ch. 11), countering social enforcers’ asceticism and rational atheists’ logic. This resonates with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7), with the Holy Grail as womb (Ch. 8) empowering Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4), as in your radiant portal vision (August 17, 2025).
Practical rituals weave this:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Two-Spirit Weave Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize indigenous two-spirit shamans weaving male-female energies. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., colonial repression) and aspired HGA (e.g., balanced harmony). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave Gaia’s global soul.” Tie to Lakota wíŋkte: Inhale unity, exhale division.
Gaia Vision Quest Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Gaia’s pulse, offering sage or tobacco for indigenous wisdom. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving soul timelines. Affirm: “I rebirth Gaia’s spark, honoring two-spirit balance.” Echoes Navajo Blessingway.
Partner Harmony Weave: With a partner, discuss indigenous duality. Men: Share expansive visions; women: Grounding acts. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer asceticism and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.
These empower organic gnostics to weave global resonance, ascending Gaia’s soul. Next, explore modern esoteric revivals, continuing this legacy.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
IX.
Falk walked.
He stopped on the path.
Shouldn’t he turn back, take her in his hands and carry her up to her room?
Yes: beg her, only be allowed to kneel before her bed, stammer wild prayers together with her!
Suddenly he examined himself whether this was really an insurmountable desire in him or only the intention to give Marit new suggestions of his great passion.
Yes: did he really have this desire? Or was it even only an autosuggestion?
He examined himself and examined, but he really couldn’t distinguish. He had devised so many plans of how he could conquer her, spoken so many words to himself, fabricated and lied so many feelings, that he could no longer distinguish what was real about it and what—hm, yes, how should he call it—was artificial growth.
The suggestions with which he wanted to influence her became realities, or at least took the forms of real feelings. The words that he had earlier invented with his brain now received sexual warmth: he had played feelings so often until he actually generated them in himself.
It seemed to him as if certain brain regions had created a new blood circulation for themselves. Why then did his heart go into these throbbings when he now repeated love words that he had earlier spoken coldly a hundred times without the slightest trace of spiritual excitement?
Falk lost himself in psychological investigations about the form of a love generated by autosuggestion.
He thought about how he would describe it. Yes, he could think of nothing else, he had to calm his brain.
So: he had an assignment from a psychological journal, yes. *Journal for Scientific Psychology*. How would he now make it clear?
Well: a frequently repeated, in the brain repeated state has linked itself with new blood vessels, acted on them so long that a regular blood circulation arose, and thus the thought-state became a sensual state.
Yes so; that would probably be correct. A sensual effect was generated through pure thought-suggestion.
He heard a carriage roll past close to him. Lanterns burned on the sides, and he saw how the carriage turned at a sharp road curve. Then he saw only the lights move on in rapid course; he followed them until they disappeared in the woods. Involuntarily he had to think of the peat cutter’s will-o’-the-wisps.
Then he looked around. There lay Marit’s house. Yes, he could go in. Perhaps she expected him. Perhaps she would be very happy if he appeared so suddenly now. Perhaps she was walking in the park to cool off. Or had gone to the lake to sit on the big stone where they both had sat together so often, yes; right by the ditch, by the ravine, where the ground all around was so deeply torn open.
Strange this ravine; could it perhaps be an old riverbed? Now he walked; stopped; walked again. His brain was very fatigued;
and yet this peculiar tendency to brood! Again he thought of the psychological essay.
No, that could probably be better used for a novella. So: the man has this autosuggestive love. Bien, good! But now he also has a real love beside it, which he constantly feels, yes quite as one feels a sick organ in one’s body.
So he loves simultaneously, that means he loves both. Only: the one first entered the individual and later the brain, the other took the reverse path, and the eternal in our hero gradually begins to react violently.
Yes, Falk felt clearly how it reacted; but at the same time he felt a great, sated tiredness.
Now Marit was completely indifferent to him again; only a foretaste of sex, and he was already sated.
Tomorrow of course a reintegration would occur; but it was an undeniable fact that he felt sated this evening, yes, this evening of April 28.
So he didn’t love Marit, for he had never felt this with his wife. No; never.
Yes, and the whole time after the embrace just now: He had clearly felt how a kind of hatred, shame, yes, shame, like after a crime, shame before himself and before her, waved back and forth between them.
Was it happiness? No!
Was it pain?
Yes, certainly: Pain and shame! But the real, the non-suggested love, the love that arises because it must arise, the love that has no brain, no thinking organ, only two heart-sacks and an aorta, this love knows no shame.
No, certainly not! He thought of his love affair with his wife. They took each other because they had to take each other, and were happy. – So what is it?
Yes, what is it?
Well, please, Herr Erik Falk: You are accused and accuser at once. You are Herr Falk and Herr X.
So, Herr X, you accuse me that I seduced a girl and thus destroyed her.
Now listen: You are an intelligent man, and I can drive up before you with an arsenal of reasons.
So: *Hors la méthode point de salut*. Methodically and systematically, Herr X!
*Primo* arose in me the suggestion that I must possess this girl. Since a similar suggestion never arose in me before, I must say: This suggestion is extraordinary, and consequently deserves quite special attention.
Falk pedantically examined whether he hadn’t specified something exactly enough.
Yes, so it is an extraordinary suggestion. How it arose, I don’t know. For I can name a thousand things that may have generated it; I sometimes name them too, but I know that my brain lies to me, that I am so to speak the cuckold of my brain, and so I say: the origin of this suggestion I don’t know. I can only recognize its character: it is a sexual suggestion. It was that from the beginning…
Falk thought of a series of feeling-experiences that lay in this direction.
First on the third day of their acquaintance: She had been to the station to throw an urgent letter into the train’s mailbox. He had met her in the city, yes, at the corner house where the watchmaker lives. She became embarrassed and he too. Why did he become embarrassed? He had immediately asked himself astonished. Then he accompanied her and spoke much; yes, what did he speak about exactly? Right, about religion.
‘Halt, there lies an important argument!’
Herr X, please, can you tell me why right from the beginning, without a clear consciousness of the final purpose, I fixated on destroying her religious dogmas?
Yes, please very much, you know me and know that it is absolutely indifferent to me whether a person believes or not. You also know that I rarely speak of my ideas because I consider it unrefined to force suggestions.
Now look, Herr X, before I was conscious of it, my sex already worked in me with consistent logic and argued thus: As long as she has religion, I will never possess her, consequently the religious in her is the first and most important point of attack.
You can really believe me, Herr X, I can assure you that I didn’t think for a moment of possessing the girl before I heard the voice of the blood on that day.
Look, it was right at the cemetery, close under the birch tree whose branches hang over the fence, there I suddenly noticed—something personal may have come into my speech—that my voice got a strange tendency to tip into whispering, into confidential murmuring, and then I felt a peculiar glow around my eyes, and the skin under the eyes I felt lay in little wrinkles, whereby the expression of my eyes gets something faun-like.
I felt this last clearly because I first saw these wrinkles on my father when he fell in love with our governess. Then I completely forgot them, until suddenly three years ago in a kind of vision I saw them clearly before me again. Since then I always think of them.
Yes, now I knew definitely: it is sex.
And now it grew in me and grew incessantly and gave me no rest, and now I must; yes, I must! why? I don’t know.
Yes, yes, I know you, Herr X: The topic interests you. You want to make your wisdom shine, solve the question and substantiate with reasons.
*Bien*; is good. For I can argue as follows: The woman’s period is dependent on the influence of the moon.
How so? you will ask astonished.
Listen then. The first living being was a sea creature; the moon is known to have a great influence on water, and naturally the influence that acts on the medium will also extend to the living being that lives in this medium. The living being now bequeaths this regularly recurring influence to its descendants as a fully organized property: *quod erat demonstrandum*.
Yes, good, very good. I know that you by no means need to drag such distant reasons… ‘by the hair’ you say? well good, so don’t need to drag by the hair; but even the nearest reasons have the same value.
Falk turned around. It seemed to him as if he heard the editor grinning behind his back: So in the end you believe in the fourth dimension?
‘Yes, you know, Herr Editor, you are a man of positive ideas and positive life course. You are a rationalist and materialist. I honor you and value you very highly; but as long as you can’t prove to me the non-existence of three beings between Us Two—”Us” capitalized because we value each other mutually—yes, as long as you can’t prove that, I also won’t stop admitting the possibility of such a dimension. Because you don’t see it, nor smell, nor hear it? Well, that’s no proof. For one can have a hundred senses in latent state that will later develop in the human race. Do you know, for example, that recently a new sense was found that is titled organ-sense?
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Before, I was a worker in the Simplon Tunnel.” “Not bad, but grueling.” “One must do something for one’s health.” “You made a dazzling entrance yesterday. You’re the darling of Abbazia’s young ladies. If the fervor grows, you’ll get a torchlight parade tonight. That lasso throw was magnificent.” “Why else would I have spent two years in South America if not to learn such tricks?” Hugo settled at the small table between the petrified rolls, tipping his chair on two legs toward Boschan, arm draped over his friend’s seat. “Listen,” he said, “you owe me a favor. You won’t refuse me in the joy of our reunion. You’re moved, I can see it. How long has it been? Shameful, isn’t it? Not even a postcard from the Himalayas.” “It must be something dire you want,” Ruprecht said, “with such a preamble.” “Don’t say no, don’t break your friend’s hopeful heart. Here’s the deal: I’m organizing an Emperor’s celebration tomorrow, August 18. Can’t skip it. If I don’t do it, someone else will. Better me, since I’ve got taste. Big program: Isolde Lenz will sing, Bergler will sing, Walterskirchen will play. I’ve got a court concertmaster too. Andresen from the Burgtheater will recite modern poems. A retired general will play flute, thinking he owes it to Frederick the Great’s memory, as fine a soldier as he. But this program lacks a cornerstone.” “I’m the cornerstone?” “Yes! The World-Tree Ygdrasil of my program. Peter, the rock on which… and so forth. Please, no refusals. The other acts are solid, but you’re something unique, a rare spectacle. I’d be a poor planner to let you slip.” “I’m not keen, my dear.” Ernst Hugo laid a hand on Ruprecht’s knee, overflowing with charm, dripping eloquence, weaving wreaths of flattery. “I won’t let you go till you bless me. If you’re stumped on what to do, I’ll tell them about your Himalayan treks or whatever. Just take the stage. Success is guaranteed. I promise every girl and young woman will fall for you.” “You know that doesn’t tempt me. Women are usually dull.” “Still an ascetic desert saint? Still St. Anthony resisting all temptations?” “Ridiculous—you don’t think I practice abstinence for glory. I had a serious affair with a Japanese girl for a while. And as a Simplon Tunnel worker, I lived with an Italian woman, fighting knife duels over her every other day. That’s something. But your society ladies…! You must slog through flirting first. Flirting’s endlessly tedious.” “If women won’t sway you, do it for me. Years apart, we finally meet, and I’m shamed if my friend denies a small request. Truly, it’s an insult.” “Would it really mean so much if I agree?” “An extraordinary favor.” Hugo paused, eyeing a woman passing below on the promenade. He leaned over the balustrade, clearly trying to catch her notice. “A regal woman,” he murmured, “look at that attire. A little Paris on her. Good Lord! Know her?” “No,” Boschan said, finishing his morning cognac. “She’s a widow, fabulously rich. Half Abbazia’s in love with her. Born to conquer, her specialty’s the demonic, or so say those lucky enough to know her. I’m not among them yet. But back to business: you’d do me a huge favor by joining. There’s a Statthaltereirat from Graz with big ambitions, my serious rival. He nearly beat me to hosting the celebration. You’ll see, that won’t do. I’m up for promotion. Patriotic efforts impress higher-ups. So I outmaneuvered him. But he’ll be a harsh critic. If it’s not tip-top, he’ll flash his ironic smile… make witty jabs… that sarcastic fool!” Before Ruprecht’s eyes, the sea spun, rising in the sun’s climbing glare, shimmering like a vast turquoise, magically binding souls, drawing them in, dissolving petty drives and miseries into great joy. But this planner of patriotic fêtes felt none of it. Ruprecht leaned against a pillar, turning from Hugo. “What a dire conflict,” he said, “what a dramatic tangle! Oh, clashing forces—a struggle for lofty prizes! And all the while, you have the sea before you, in its full splendor, blessed by its beauty.” “How do you mean?” Hugo asked, fixing his water-blue eyes on the sea in surprise. “Well—you’ve invoked our friendship. I suppose I must help you skewer this hostile Statthaltereirat.”
Chapter Two Explains how the idea for Alraune came about. THE sun had already set and the candles were burning on the chandelier in the Festival room as Privy Councilor ten Brinken entered. He appeared festive enough in his dress suit. There was a large star on his white vest and a gold chain in the buttonhole from which twenty small medals dangled. The Legal Councilor stood up, greeted him, and then he and the old gentleman went around the room with threadbare smiles, saying kind words to everyone. They stopped in front of the celebrating girls and the old gentleman took two gold rings out of a beautiful leather case and formally presented them. The one with a sapphire was for blond Frieda and the ruby was for dark Olga. Then he gave a very wise speech to both of them. “Would you like to sit for a spell?” asked Herr Sebastian Gontram. “We’ve been sitting over there for four hours. Seventeen courses! Isn’t that something! Here is the menu, is there anything you would like?” The Privy Councilor thanked him, but he had already eaten. Then Frau Gontram came into the room in a blue, somewhat old- fashioned silk gown with a train. Her hair was done up high. “I can’t eat anymore ice cream,” she cried. “Prince Puckler had Billa put all of it on the cinnamon noodles!” The guests laughed. They never knew what to expect in the Gontram house. Attorney Manasse cried, “Bring the dish in here! We haven’t seen Prince Puckler or fresh cinnamon noodles all day!” Privy Councilor ten Brinken looked around for a chair. He was a small man, smooth shaven, with thick watery bags under his eyes. He was repulsive enough with swollen hanging lips, a huge meaty nose, and the lid of his left eye drooped heavy but the right stood wide open, squinting around in a predatory manner. Someone behind him said: “Good Day Uncle Jakob.” It was Frank Braun. The Privy Councilor turned around; it was very unusual to see his nephew here. “You’re here?” he asked. “I can only imagine why.” The student laughed, “Naturally! But you are so wise uncle. You look good by the way, and very official, like a university professor in proud dress uniform with all your medals. I’m here incognito–over there with the other students stuck at the west table.” “That just proves your twisted thinking, where else would you be sitting?” his uncle said. “When you once–” “Yes, yes,” Frank Braun interrupted him. “When I finally get as old as you, then I will be permitted–and so on–That’s what you would tell me, isn’t it? All heaven be praised that I’m not yet twenty Uncle Jakob. I like it this way much better.” The Privy Councilor sat down. “Much better? I can believe that. In the fourth Semester and doing nothing but fighting, drinking, fencing, riding, loving and making poor grades! I wrote your mother about the grades the university gave you. Tell me youngster, just what are you doing in college anyway?” The student filled two glasses, “Here Uncle Jakob, drink, then your suffering will be lighter! Well, I’ve been in several classes already, not just one, but an entire series of classes. Now I’ve left and I’m not going back.” “Prosit!” “Prosit!” The Privy Councilor said. “Have you finished?” “Finished?” Frank Braun laughed. “I’m much more than finished. I’m overflowing! I’m done with college and I’m done with the Law. I’m going to travel. Why should I be in college? It’s possible that the other students can learn from you professors but their brains must then comply with your methods. My brain will not comply. I find every single one of you unbelievably foolish, boring and stupid.” The professor took a long look at him. “You are immensely arrogant, my dear boy,” he said quietly. “Really?” The student leaned back, put one leg over the other. “Really? I scarcely believe that. But if so, it doesn’t really matter. I know what I’m doing. First, I’m saying this to annoy you a bit–You look so funny when you are annoyed, second, to hear back from you that I’m right. For example, you, uncle, are certainly a shrewd old fox, very intelligent, clever and you know a multitude of things–But in college weren’t you just as insufferable as the rest of your respected colleagues? Didn’t you at one time or another say to yourself that you wanted to perhaps just have some fun?” “Me? Most certainly not!” the professor said. “But that is something else. When you once–Well, ok, you know already–Now tell me boy, where in all the world will you go from here? Your mother will not like to hear that you are not coming home.” “Very well,” cried Frank Braun. “I will answer you.” “But first, why have you have rented this house to Gontram? He is certainly not a person that does things by the book. Still, it is always good when you can have someone like that from time to time. His tubercular wife naturally interests you as a medical doctor. All the doctors in the city are enraptured by this phenomenon without lungs. Then there’s the princess that you would gladly sell your castle in Mehlem to. Finally, dear uncle, there are the two teenagers over there, beautiful, fresh vegetables aren’t they? I know how you like young girls–Oh, in all honor, naturally. You are always honorable Uncle Jakob!” He stopped, lit a cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. The Privy Councilor squinted at him poisonously with a predatory right eye. “What did you want to tell me?” he asked lightly. The student gave a short laugh, “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all!” He stood up, went to the corner table, picked up a cigar box and opened it. They were the expensive cigars of the Privy Councilor. “The smokes, dear uncle. Look, Romeo and Juliet, your brand. The Legal Councilor has certainly not spared any expense for you!” He offered one to the Privy Councilor. “Thank you,” growled the professor. “Thank you. Now once again, what is it that you want to tell me?” Frank Braun moved his chair closer. “I will tell you Uncle Jakob. But first I need to reproach you. I don’t like what you did, do you hear me? I know myself quite well, know that I’ve been wasting my life and that I continue–Leave that. You don’t care and I’m not asking you to pay any of my debts. I request that you never again write such a letter to our house. You will write back to mother and tell her that I am very virtuous, very moral, work very hard and that I’m moving on and such stuff. Do you understand?” “Yes, that I must lie,” said the Privy Councilor. “It should sound realistic and witty, but it will sound slimy as a snail, even to her.” The student looked at him squarely, “Yes uncle, you should even lie. Not on my account, you know that, but for mother.” He stopped for a moment gazing into his glass, “and since you will tell these lies for me, I will now tell you this.” “I am curious,” said the Privy Councilor a little uncertainly. “You know my life,” the student continued and his voice rang with bitter honesty. “You know that I, up until today, have been a stupid youth. You know because you are an old and clever man, highly educated, rich, known by all, decorated with titles and orders, because you are my uncle and my mother’s only brother. You think that gives you a right to educate me. Right or not, you will never do it. No one will ever do it, only life will educate me.” The professor slapped his knee and laughed out loud. “Yes, life! Just wait youngster. It will educate you soon enough. It has enough twists and turns, beautiful rules and laws, solid boundaries and thorny barriers.” Frank Braun replied, “They are nothing for me, much less for me than for you. Have you, Uncle Jakob, ever fought through the twists, cut through the wiry thorns and laughed at all the laws? I have.” “Pay attention uncle,” he continued. “I know your life as well. The entire city knows it and the sparrows pipe their little jokes about you from the rooftops. But the people only talk to themselves in whispers, because they fear you, fear your cleverness and your money. They fear your power and your energy. I know why little Anna Paulert died. I know why your handsome gardener had to leave so quickly for America. I know many more little stories about you. Oh, I don’t approve, certainly not. But I don’t think of you as evil. I even admire you a little perhaps because you, like a little king, can do so many things with impunity. The only thing I don’t understand is how you are successful with all the children. You are so ugly.” The Privy Councilor played with his watch chain. Then he looked quietly at his nephew, almost flattered. “You really don’t understand that?” The student replied, “No, absolutely not at all. But I do understand how you have come to it! For a long time you’ve had everything that you wanted, everything that a person could have within the normal constraints of society. Now you want more. The brook is bored in its old bed, steps here and there over the narrow banks–It is in your blood.” The professor raised his glass, reached it out to him. “Give me another, my boy,” he said. His voice trembled a little and certainly rang out with solemnity. “You are right. It is in the blood, my blood and your blood.” He drank and reached out to shake hands with his nephew. “You will write mother like I want you to?” asked Frank Braun. “Yes, I will,” replied the old man. The student said, “Thank you Uncle Jakob.” He took the outstretched hand and shook it. “Now go, you old Don Juan, call the Communicants! They both look beautiful in their sacred gowns, don’t they?” “Hmm,” said the uncle. “Don’t they look good to you?” Frank Braun laughed. “Me? Oh, my God! No, Uncle Jakob, I am no rival, not today. Today I have a higher ambition–perhaps when I am as old as you are!–But I am not the guardian of their virtue. Those two celebrating roses will not improve until they have been plucked. Someone will, and soon–Why not you? Hey Olga, Frieda! Come on over here!” But neither girl came over. They were hovering around Dr. Mohnen, filling his glass and listening to his suggestive stories. The princess came over; Frank Braun stood up and offered her his chair. “Sit down, sit down!” she cried. “I have absolutely nothing to chat with you about!” “Just a few minutes, your Highness. I will go get a cigarette,” the student said. “My uncle has been waiting all night for a chance to give you his compliments. He will be overjoyed.” The Privy Councilor was not overjoyed about it. He would have much rather had the little princess sitting there, but now he entertained the mother– Frank Braun went to the window as the Legal Councilor and Frau Marion went up to the Grand Piano. Herr Gontram sat down on the piano bench, turned around and said. “I would like a little quiet please. Frau Marion would like to sing a song for us.” He turned to the Lady, “What would you like after that dear Frau?–Another one I hope, perhaps ‘Les Papillions’? or perhaps ‘Il Baccio’ from Arditti?–Give me the music for them as well!”
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