Introduction: The Subtle Work transforms the soul’s essence into divine light, uniting its principles through sacred alchemy. This section unveils the mystical unification of the “Fixt, Variable, and Fugitive,” guided by the Smaragdine Table to manifest the philosopher’s stone.
The Triad of Transformation
The Subtle Work unites the “Fixt, Variable, and Fugitive”—symbolizing body, soul, and spirit—into a radiant essence, as Bloomfield’s Camp of Philosophy describes: “The Dragon slays the Sun and Moon, then rises as glorious Phoebus.” This triple introversion, a circulatory process, transforms the soul’s essence through death and rebirth, culminating in a “fiery form of Light.”
Plotinus explains this as a sudden illumination, where the soul, filled with divine splendor, becomes one with God. The adept, through persistent faith, prepares the soul to receive this light, as Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo invokes: “Bright Phoebus comes, and only the pure behold him.”
The Smaragdine Table’s Wisdom
The Smaragdine Table of Hermes encapsulates the Subtle Work: “That which is above is as that which is below, performing the miracles of the One Thing.” The Sun (divine will) and Moon (receptive soul), carried by the Wind (spirit) and nursed by the Earth (matter), unite through gentle separation of the subtle from the gross. This process, as Hermes declares, ascends from earth to heaven and descends again, integrating superior and inferior strengths to create a radiant, universal essence.
The adept, guided by this wisdom, transforms the soul’s chaotic principles into a crystalline form, achieving the “glory of the whole world” through divine unity.
The Path to Divine Unity
The Subtle Work, as Vaughan notes, requires no manual labor but a silent incubation of divine light, aligning the soul with its eternal source. The adept, like Ulysses beholding Minerva’s lamp, stills the mind to receive divine wisdom, as Trismegistus teaches: “In Divine Silence, the soul becomes the Essence of God.” This unification, the “magistery” of alchemy, manifests the philosopher’s stone, a radiant vessel of universal truth.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Subtle Work’s unification of the soul’s essence into divine light, guided by sacred wisdom. The journey into its practical keys deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
“How do you like it?” she asked him. “Why should the little man be there?” he retorted. She said, “He belongs there!–I didn’t like the golden Cupid–That is for all the other people–I want to have Galeotto, my root manikin.” “Why do you call it that?” he asked. “Galeotto!” she replied. “Wasn’t it him that brought us together?–Now I want him to hang there, to watch over us through the night.” Sometimes they went out riding in the evenings or also during the night if the moon was shining. They rode through the Sieben Gerberge mountain range or to Rolandseck and into the wilderness beyond. Once they found a she-donkey at the foot of Dragon’s Rock in the Sieben Geberge mountain range. People there used the animal for riding up to the castle at the top. He bought her. She was a young animal, well cared for and glistened like fresh snow. Her name was Bianca. They took her with them, behind the horses on a long rope, but the animal just stood there, planting her forelegs like a stubborn mule, allowing herself to be choked and dragged along. Finally they found a way to persuade her. In Kőnigswinter he bought a large bag full of sugar, took the rope off Bianca and let her run free. He threw her one piece of sugar after the other from out of the saddle. Soon the she-donkey ran after them, keeping itself tight to his stirrup, snuffling at his boots. Old Froitsheim took the pipe out of his mouth as they came up, spit thoughtfully and grinned agreeably. “An ass,” he chewed. “A young ass! It’s been almost thirty years since we’ve had one here in the stable. You know, young Master, how I used to let you ride old gray Jonathan?” He got a bunch of carrots and gave them to the animal, stroking her shaggy fur. “What’s her name, young Master?” he asked. Frank Braun told him her name. “Come Bianca,” spoke the old man. “You will have it good here with me. We will be friends.” Then he turned again to Frank Braun. “Young Master,” he continued. “I have three great-grandchildren in the village, two little girls and a boy. They are the cobbler’s children, on the road to Godesberg. They often come to visit me on Sunday afternoons. May I let them ride the ass?–Just here in the yard?” He nodded, but before he could answer the Fräulein cried out: “Why don’t you ask me, old man? It is my animal. He gave it to me!–Now I want to tell you–you are permitted to ride her–even in the gardens, when we are not home.” Frank Braun’s glance thanked her–but not the old coachman. He looked at her, half mistrusting and half surprised, grumbled something incomprehensible and enticed the donkey into the stable with the juicy carrots. He called the stable boy, presented him to Bianca, then the horses, one after the other–led her around behind the farmyard, showed her the cow barn with the heavy Hollander cows and the young calf of black and white Liese. He showed her the hounds, both sharp pointers, the old guard dog and the cheeky fox terrier that was sleeping in the stable. Brought her to the pigs, where the enormous Yorkshire sow suckled her piglets, to the goats and the chicken coop. Bianca ate carrots and followed him. It appeared that she liked it at the Brinken’s. Often in the afternoons the Fräulein’s clear voice rang out from the garden. “Bianca!” she cried. “Bianca!” Then the old coachman opened her stall; swung the door open wide and the little donkey came into the garden at an easy trot. She would stop a few times, eat the green juicy leaves, indulge in the high clover or wander around some more until the enticing call rang out again, “Bianca!” Then she would search for her mistress.
They lay on the lawn under the ash trees. No table–only a large platter lay on the grass covered with a white Damascus cloth. There were many fruits, assorted tid-bits, dainties and sweets among the roses. The wine stood to the side. Bianca snuffled, scorned the caviar and no less the oysters, turned away from the pies. But she took some cake and a piece of ice out of the cooler, ate a couple of roses in between– “Undress me!” said Alraune. Then he loosened the eyes and hooks and opened the snaps. When she was naked he lifted her onto the donkey. She sat astride on the white animal’s back and held on lightly to the shaggy mane. Slowly, step by step, she rode over the meadow. He walked by her side, lying his right hand on the animal’s head. Bianca was clever, proud of the slender boy whom she carried, didn’t stop once, but went lightly with velvet hoofs. There, where the dahlia bed ended, a narrow path led past the little brook that fed the marble pool. She didn’t go over the wooden bridge. Carefully, one foot after the other, Bianca waded through the clear water. She looked curiously to the side when a green frog jumped from the bank into the stream. He led the animal over to a raspberry patch, picked the red berries and divided them with Alraune, continued through the thick laurel bushes. There, surrounded by thick elms, lay a large field of carnations. His grandfather had laid it out for his good friend, Gottfried Kinkel, who loved these flowers. Every week he had sent the poet a large bouquet for as long as he lived. There were little feathery carnations, tens of thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. All the flowers glowed silver-white and their leaves glowed silvery green. They gleamed far, far into the evening sun, a silver ground. Bianca carried the pale girl diagonally across the field and then back around. The white donkey stepped deeply through the silver ocean; the wind made light waves that kissed her hoofs. He stood on the border and watched her, drank in the sweet colors until he was sated. Then she rode up to him. “Isn’t it beautiful, my love?” she asked. And he said sincerely, “–It is very beautiful–ride some more.” She answered, “I am happy.” Lightly she laid her hand behind the clever animal’s ears and it stepped out, slowly, slowly, through shining silver–
“Why are you laughing?” she asked. They sat on the terrace at the breakfast table and he was reading his mail. There was a letter from Herr Manasse, who wrote him about the Burberger mining shares. “You have read in the newspapers about the gold strike in the Hocheifel,” said the attorney. For the greatest part the gold has been found on territory owned by the Burberger Association. It appears very doubtful to me that these small veins of ore will be worth the very considerable cost of refining it. Nevertheless, your shares that were completely worthless four weeks ago, now, with the help of the Association’s skillful press release have rapidly climbed in value and have been at par for a week already. Today, I heard through bank director Baller that they are prepared to quote them at two hundred fourteen. Therefore I have given your stocks over to my friend and asked him to sell them immediately. That will happen tomorrow, perhaps they will obtain an even higher rate of exchange.” He handed the letter over to Alraune. “Uncle Jakob himself, would have never dreamed of that,” he laughed. “Otherwise he would have certainly left my mother and me some different shares!” She took the letter, carefully read it through to the end. Then she let it sink, stared straight ahead into space. Her face was wax pale. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Yes he did–He did know it,” she said slowly. “He knew exactly what he was doing!” Then she turned to him. “If you want to make money–don’t sell the shares,” she continued and her voice rang with conviction. “They will find still more gold–Your shares will climb still higher–much higher.” “It’s too late,” he said lightly. “By this hour the shares have probably already been sold! Besides, are you all that certain?” “Certain?” she repeated. “Certain? Who could be more certain that I?” She let her head sink down onto the table, sobbed out loud, “So it begins–so–” He stood up, laid his arm around her shoulder. “Nonsense,” he said. “Beat that depression out of your brain!– Come Alraune, we will go swimming. The fresh water will wash the foolish cobwebs away. Chat with your mermaid sisters–they will confirm that Melusine can bring no more harm once she has kissed her lover.” She pushed him away, sprang up, stood facing him, and looked him straight in the eyes. “I love you,” she cried. “Yes, I do–But it is not true–the magic does not go away! I am no Melusine, am not the fresh water’s child! I come out of the earth–and the night created me.” Shrill tones rang from her lips–and he didn’t know if it was a sob or a laugh– He grabbed her in his strong arms, paid no attention to her struggling and hitting. He held her like a wild child, carried her down the steps and into the garden, carried her screaming over to the pool, threw her in, as far as he could with all her clothes on. She got up and stood for a moment in amazement, dazed and confused. Then he let the cascades play and a splashing rain surrounded her. She laughed loudly at that. “Come,” she cried. “Come in too!” She undressed and in high spirits threw her wet clothes at his head. “Aren’t you ready yet?” she urged. “Hurry up!” When he was standing beside her she saw that he was bleeding. The drops fell from his cheek, from his neck and left ear. “I bit you,” she whispered. He nodded. Then she raised herself up high, encircled his neck, and drank the red blood with ardent lips. “Now it is better,” she said.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
Then I screamed so loudly that my father let go of him. “The toad can’t stand it, if I chastise the scoundrel,” he said angrily, he will never be a right fellow in his day!” Spurs clanking he went out. I was more afraid of this clink than of anything else. Then they gave me sweets and stroked me. A young maid kissed my bare calves. “Sweet boy!” she said. In a mirror they showed me how a piece of glass had hit me on the root of my nose and tore a small cut between my eyebrows. A scar remained from it.
I was playing in the garden with my little cousin Aglaja, whom I loved very much. I had woven a wreath from black, shiny ball berries, which I placed in her copper-colored hair, which shone golden in the sun. She was the king’s daughter, enchanted in thorny hedges, and I set out to save her. The dragon that guarded her had to be played by black Diana. With clever eyes the dog waited for the new game. Then, accompanied by a maid, the barber came hurriedly through the garden with a brass basin, and a servant appeared at the door of the house, it was Stephan, who shouted at him to hurry. Aglaja threw her wreath of berries to the ground, and the two of us both ran behind her to grandfather’s room, which we were usually only allowed to enter with his special permission. Such visits were always very solemn and only took place on the big holidays of the year or on birthdays, when we had to recite little poems and were given sweets in return. It seemed to both of us a great dare, to go uninvited into the room of the stern old man, but curiosity drove us forward. Grandfather was sitting quietly in his sleeping chair. He wore, as always, a gray-silk sleeve vest with embroidered bouquets of roses, black pants, white stockings and shoes with wide silver buckles. On his watch chain hung a bundle of golden, colored and glittering things, cut things, cut gemstones, corals and seals, which I had sometimes been allowed to play with. In front of him stood my father with bowed head and he did not notice us children at all. When the gaunt barber, dressed in a patched jacket stepped closer, he grabbed him by the arm, his face turned red and he said half aloud: “Next time run faster, damned Kujon, when you do him the honor!” The miserable barber stammered a little, and with his hands flying grabbed his red bandages and switchblade, and pushed grandfather’s sleeve up into the air, touched the eyelids of the upturned eyes with his finger, then felt around on the arm, while he held the basin under it. Thus he waited a while, and then he said shyly: “It is of no use, free- glorious graces – the blood will never flow again!” Then father turned around and stood with his face to the wall. Stephan gently pushed Aglaja and me out the door and whispered, “His Grace has gone to his fathers.” And when we looked at him questioningly, since we could not understand this, he said, “Your grandfather is dead.” We went back into the garden and listened to the noise that soon started in the house. To the right of the hallway was a spacious room in which, as a very small child I remembered seeing my mother being laid out between many candles. This chamber, in which otherwise all sorts of equipment stood, they now cleared out and dragged in large bales of black cloth, which smelled nasty. Grandfather had preferred Aglaja to me, and had given her treats and candy more often than he had given to me. He had kept these good things in a turtle box, which smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. She cried a little, Aglaja, because she was thinking that it would all be over now, when grandfather would go away. But then we both remembered the other box he had, which we were only allowed to look at very rarely. That was his golden snuff box, given to him by the Duke of Brunswick. But on this beautiful, sparkling box, on its lid, there was a second little lid and when this popped open, a very small bird appeared, flashing with green, red and violet stones, which bobbed with the wings and trilled like a nightingale. We could hardly get enough of seeing and hearing it, but grandfather slipped it into his pocket as soon as, after a short while, the lid closed by itself, and told us to be satisfied. I said to Aglaja that now we could look closely at the bird and even feel it, since grandfather was dead. She was afraid to go up, but I took her by the hand and pulled her behind me. No one was in the corridor, and the room was empty. Empty stood the wide armchair in which grandfather had spent his last nights. On the little table next to it were still the bottles with the long notes. We knew that grandfather had always taken the can from the middle drawer. This drawer was made of colored wood decorated with ships, cities and warriors from the old times and on the drawer, which we tried to open, there were two fat Dutchmen who were smoking pipes and being served by kneeling Moors. I pulled at the rings; but not until Aglaja helped me, did we manage to open the drawer. There lay Grandfather’s lace jabots and handkerchiefs, a roll of gold ducats, a large pistol inlaid with gold, and many letters in bundles, shoe buckles and razors, and also the box with the bird. I took it out, and we tried to make the lid jump. But we did not succeed. But while we were working around, the big lid came off, and a thin plate detached itself from it, which concealed something. It was a small picture, which was painted in fine enamel colors. A picture which made us forget the little bird completely. On a small sofa lay a lady with her skirts pushed up, and right next to her was a gentleman with sword and wig, whose clothes were also in strange disorder. They were doing something that seemed to us as strange as it was weird. In addition, the man was being attacked by a little spotted dog, and the lady lying down seemed to laugh. We also laughed. But then we argued very excitedly about what this was. “They are married,” said Aglaja, blushing. “How do you know?” I asked, my heart pounding hard. “I think they are gods…” whispered Aglaja. “I saw a picture, where the gods were like that. But they didn’t have any clothes on.” All of a sudden it was as if in the next room where our dead grandfather lay, the floorboard creaked. We shrunk back, and Aglaja cried out. Then I quickly threw the can into the drawer, pushed it closed and pulled my cousin out of the room. We slid into the garden. “Aglaja…” I said, grabbing her hand. “Are we going to get married like that…?” She looked at me, startled, tore herself away and ran back into the house. Confused and bewildered I went to Stephan, who was cutting roses from the stalks and gathering them in a basket. “Yes, young Herr!” he said. “So it goes with all of us!”
Next to me sat Phöbus Merentheim and Thilo Sassen. We three were the most distinguished. Behind us squatted Klaus Jägerle, the whipping boy. He was allowed to study with us, was given food, and if we didn’t know something, punishment was carried out on him. His mother was a washerwoman and his father wove baskets, although he only had one arm. The other arm was cut by an enemy horseman, when he was protecting Thilo’s severely wounded father with his body. In return Klaus was allowed to study with us and to come to the table at noon. Klaus was very industrious, shy and depressed, and had to put up with everything that his classmates cooked up when they were in an exuberant mood. He was almost worse off than the hunchback son of the grocer Isaaksohn, they had once put him at the door and spat in his face one after the other, so that the disgusting juice, mixed with his tears, ran down his new gentleman’s sport coat. I was in great fear because I had learned nothing. For before me stood the small, poisonous teacher of French in his inky, tobacco-colored jacket with the bent lead buttons, the goose quill behind his ear, talking through his Spaniol-filled nose. His pale face was full of freckles and twitched incessantly. In his left hand he held a book, and he waved the black-rimmed knotted index finger of his right hand in front of my face. He always did it that way. All of a sudden, after he had studied our faces maliciously for a while, he would go after one of the students like a vulture and always found the most insecure out. It was his habit, to vocabulaire at the beginning of the lesson, that is to say, he threw a few French words in the victim’s face, which had to be translated immediately. This time he had chosen me. “Allons, monsieur-,” he hissed. “Emouchoir-. Tonte- Mean. – At once! Quickly!” I was startled and stammered: “Emouchoir – the fly tonguing, tonte – the Sheep shearing – mean… mean, that is – that is -“ He neighed with delight. “Ah – you don’t know, Cher Baron?” “Mean -, that is –“ “Assez! Sit down!” He bleated, and his little black eyes sparkled with amusement. Slowly he took a pinch from his round horn can, ran back and forth with two fingers under his pointed nose and then poked the can at my neighbor. “Herr Sassen! – Not either? – Merentheim? Also not? – Jägerle, stand up and say it!” Poor Klaus jumped up as if like a feather and said in a thin voice:
Introduction: The Hermetic art’s Subtle Work transforms the soul’s essence into divine light through a sacred, threefold process. This section unveils the refined alchemy of uniting principles, guided by celestial wisdom, to manifest the philosopher’s stone.
The Sacred Regeneration
The Subtle Work, as Khunrath describes, reduces the soul’s ternary—body, soul, spirit—to a unified essence through divine regeneration. St. Paul’s testimony in Hebrews frames this as Christ’s light purging sins, uniting all in divine glory. The adept, as Trismegistus instructs, nurtures the “seed of regeneration” within, allowing the Spirit of God to incubate the soul’s essence without manual labor, as Vaughan notes: “The work is performed by an invisible Artist.”
This process, likened to baptismal regeneration, transforms the soul’s chaotic principles into a celestial form, as the Chaldaic Oracles declare: “The Monad rules the Triad, cherishing the Earth in Fire.” The adept, guided by faith, aligns with this divine light, transcending mortal limits.
The Unity of Principles
The Subtle Work unites the animal, vegetable, and mineral principles into a single essence, as Norton’s Ordinal advises: “Join in one persons Three.” This mirrors the creation narrative, where God’s Spirit moves over the waters to birth light. The adept, as Vaughan explains, navigates a “double nativity”—visible and invisible—through sublimations and purifications, transforming the soul’s essence into a radiant, incombustible form.
The Odyssey’s allegory of Minerva’s golden lamp illuminates this: the soul’s essence, freed from sensory turmoil, shines with divine clarity. Trismegistus emphasizes a “Divine Silence,” where the mind, stilled, merges with God’s essence, completing the alchemical union.
The Celestial Harmony
The Subtle Work culminates in the “Septenary,” a sacred unity of three principles and four elements, as Khunrath’s enigma reveals: “All things in all, universally known and possessed.” This celestial harmony, like Solomon’s temple adorned with gold, reflects the soul’s transformation into a divine vessel. The adept, guided by the “Fiery Letters of the Law,” as the Book of Jezirah describes, crafts a luminous form, uniting heaven and earth in eternal light.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Subtle Work’s sacred transformation, uniting the soul’s essence with divine light. The journey into its final revelations deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
The magician: “O Sheikh, I am going to the other world; procure for me a right in the hereafter!” The Sheikh: “I can give you one piece of advice; If you follow it, it will be for your salvation.” Turkish legend “When the angel of death touches your heart, the soul leaves its narrow house, faster than lightning. If it can take its memory along with it, it remains aware of its sins. This is the path to purity and that of the entrance to God.” Secret Doctrine of the Beklashi
What I am writing down here, hoping that it will fall into the right hands according to the will of God I, Sennon Vorauf, have experienced in that physical existence which preceded my present life. These memories have come to me by a special grace beyond that transformation which is called death. Before I realized this, I suffered from them and thought they were inexplicable, agonizing kinds of dreams. Besides, however, I also had to go through all kinds of shocks of an unusual kind. It happened, for example, that the striking of an old clock, the sight of a landscape, a fragrance, the melodies of a song, or even a mere association of words would assail me most violently with the thought, that I would have quite certainly already once heard, seen, breathed in, or somehow experienced it before. I was in this or that place, which I saw in my present life for the first time, and already had once been there. Yes, often enough, in conversation with new acquaintances, I was struck by the idea that I had already been in very special relations with them. Since it was impossible for me to understand before the onset of this realization, it was also impossible for me to provide explanations for the indescribably exciting movements of my mind and emotions, much to the grief of my parents, which often led into hours of brooding, the unknown cause of which disturbed them not a little. But through frequent repetition and the ever sharper imagery of the story I became aware, even as a boy, that they were nothing more than reflections of fates which my soul had suffered in another body, namely before the birth of my present body; moreover, these “Dreams” represented experiences that were completely alien to my current circle of experiences and frighteningly distant from my present circle of thoughts. I had never heard of such things or even read about them somewhere or otherwise experienced them. I began to record these “dreams” of my own accord and thereby achieved that from then on in certain favorable moments I had the so-called wakefulness to remember such memories with extraordinary accuracy. More and more clearly and coherently from these “lucid dreams” (as I called them in my case) the overall picture of a life emerged that I had lived before this under the name of a German nobleman (I will call him here Baron Melchior von Dronte), had lived and ended, when his body fell to the transformation of death and then became free to be my soul as Sennon Vorauf. In the peaceful and blessed life filled with inner peace, which I lead, the retrospective view of the wild and adventurous existence of Melchior von Dronte broke through in a disturbing, confusing and frightening way. What he was guilty of was my guilt and if he atoned, he atoned for the soul that came back, for his and therefore my soul. I am fully aware that many people will read this book with incredulous smiles, and perhaps in some places at times with disgust and revulsion. But at the same time I hope that the number of people of deeper feeling will be large enough not to let this writing perish. To those who are able to remember details from previous forms of existence, who are conscious of a previous life, I would like to dedicate this book to them; I would like to make this book their own. Just as I have replaced the real name I had with “Dronte”, I have replaced those of various persons, whose descendants are still alive, with invented names. Moreover I touch here the fact that I have called people “Dronte” in this life, whom I knew from the time before my death. Most of them were not at all aware of a previous existence. Nevertheless, there were moments and occasions with them, in which clearly recognizable flashes of memory flared up in them in a flash of recognition, without them having succeeded in determining the source of such disturbing feelings or having the ability to hold on to them. I am certainly not saying anything new to those who, like me, have brought parts of an earlier consciousness into the new life. The raw, crude and often coarse nature of the following biography of a life, I could not in truth love, as unpleasant and hurtful some of it may seem. I was not to embellish and smooth out the terrible clarity with which the memories surfaced in me, and thus to write a pleasantly readable book. Everything had to remain the way it was as it formed from a time whose spirit was different from ours. However, from the deepest, most personal feeling this book should speak to the immortality of the soul, and this confession is to possibly awaken this confession in others. Above all, I am inspired by the hope that those who believe in the wandering of the soul after the death of the body will not be given completely worthless indications in this book. Others who have not yet progressed on the path that I have walked, may still at least read it for the sake of its colorful content. I remember very clearly an incident from my fifth year of life. I had been undressed, as always, and lay in my pink lacquered, shell-shaped child’s bed. The warm summer evening wind carried the chirping of many insects into the room, and the wax candle in a silver candelabra flickered. It stood on a low cabinet next to the glass lintel, under which the “Man from the East”, or the “Ewli”, as he was also called, was located. This was a span-high, very beautifully formed figure, which a relative, who was in the service of a Venetian, had brought from there as a gift from the nobility. It was the figure in wax of a Mohammedan monk or dervish, as an old servant often told me. The face had the sweetest expression for me. It was completely wrinkle-free, light brownish and with gentle features. Two beautiful dark eyes shone under a jet-black turban, and around the softly curved lips a small black beard could be seen. The body was in a brown-red robe with long sleeves, and around the neck the dervish wore a necklace of tiny amber beads. The two fine wax hands were on arms hanging down with the palms turned forward, equal-ready to receive and welcome anyone who should approach. This immensely delicate and artistically executed piece in wax and fabrics was highly valued in my family, and for that reason alone, it had been placed under a glass dome to protect it from dust and unskilled hands. I often sat for hours in front of this expensive figurine for unknown reasons, and more than once I had the feeling as if the dark eyes were animated by being alone with me, as if there was a faint trace of a gentle, kind smile around its lips. That evening I could not fall asleep. From the fountain in the courtyard came the sound of water splashing and the laughter of the maids washing and splashing each other and with similar shenanigans teasing each other. Also the cicadas and crickets in the meadows surrounding the mansion were making noise. Between all that sounded the muffled sounds of a French horn, on which one of the forest boys was practicing a call. I climbed out of bed and walked around the room. But then I began to be afraid of the moment when old Margaret came into my room every night to put out the light in case I fell asleep with it on, and I went back to my bed. Just as I was about to climb over the edge of the bed shell with my bare legs, it was as if a voice softly called my name. I looked around frightened. My eyes fell on the man from the Orient. I saw very clearly how he raised one arm under the glass bell and beckoned to me. I began to cry with fright, looking steadfastly at the little figure. Then I saw it very clearly for the second time: he waved his hand at me very hastily and commandingly. Trembling with fear, I obeyed; in the process tears streamed unstoppably down my face. I would have loved to scream out loud. But I didn’t dare, for fear of frightening the little man, who was now very much alive and waving more and more fiercely, in anger, such as my father, whose short one-time wave was not only for me, but for all the inhabitants of the house, an order that had to be obeyed. So I went, crying silently, towards the cabinet on which the waving dervish stood. I had almost reached him, despite my anxious hesitant steps, when something terrible happened. With a horrible roar and in a cloud of dust, debris and splinters, the ceiling of the room collapsed over my shell bed. I fell to the floor and screamed. Something flew whizzing through the air and smashed the glass dome and the waving man made of wax into a thousand shards and pieces. A brick that had flown over me. I screamed at the top of my lungs. But there was screaming all over the house, outside at the well and everywhere, and the dogs in the kennel howled. Arms grabbed me, pulled me up from the earth. Blood was running into my eyes, and I felt a cloth being pressed against my forehead. I heard the scolding, agitated voice of my father, the wailing of old Margaret and the moaning of a servant. My father hit him with a with a stick and shouted: “You donkey, why didn’t you report that there were cracks in the ceiling? I’ll beat you crooked and lame…!”
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Fifteen Tells how Alraune lived in the park. HE didn’t write his mother on that day, or the next, pushed it off for another week and further–for months. He lived in the large garden of the Brinkens, like he had done when he was a boy, when he had spent his school vacations there. They sat in the warm green houses or under the mighty cedars, whose young sprouts had been brought from Lebanon by some pious ancestor, or strolled under the Mulberry trees, past a small pool that was deeply overshadowed by hanging willows. The garden belonged to them that summer, to them alone, Alraune and him. The Fräulein had given strict orders that none of the servants were permitted to enter, not by day or by night. Not once were the gardeners called for. They were sent away into the city, charged with the maintenance of her gardens at her villas in Coblenz. The renters were very happy and amazed at the Fräulein’s attentiveness. Only Frieda Gontram used the path. She never spoke a word about what she suspected but didn’t know. But her pinched lips and her evasive glance spoke loudly enough. She avoided meeting him on the path and yet was always there as soon as he was together with Alraune. “What the blazes,” he grumbled. “I wish she was on top of mount Blocksberg!” “Is she bothering you?” asked Alraune. “Doesn’t she bother you?” he retorted. She replied, “I haven’t noticed. I scarcely pay any attention to her.” That evening he encountered Frieda Gontram by the blossoming blackthorns. She stood up from her bench and turned to go. Her gaze held a hot hatred. He went up to her, “What is it Frieda?” She said, “Nothing!–You can be satisfied now. You will soon be free of me.” “Why is that?” he asked. Her voice trembled, “I must go–tomorrow! Alraune told me that you didn’t want me here.” An infinite misery spoke out of her glance. “You wait here, Frieda. I will speak with her.” He hurried into the house and came back after a short time. “We have thought it over,” he began, “Alraune and I. It is not necessary that you go away–forever. Frieda, it’s only that I make you nervous with my presence–and you do the same for me, excuse me for saying it. That’s why it would be better if you go on a journey–only for awhile. Travel to Davos to visit your brother. Come back in two months.” She stood up, looked at him with questioning eyes that were still full of fear. “Is that the truth?” she whispered. “Only for two months?” He answered, “Certainly it’s true. Why should I lie Frieda?” She gripped his hand; a great joy made her face glow. “I am very grateful to you!” she said. “Everything is alright then–as long as I am permitted to come back!” She said, “Goodbye,” and headed for the house, stopped suddenly and came back to him. “There is something else, Herr Doctor,” she said. “Alraune gave me a check this morning but I tore it up, because–because–in short, I tore it up. Now I will need some money. I don’t want to go to her–she would ask–and I don’t want her to ask. For that reason–will you give me the money?” He nodded, “Naturally I will–Am I permitted to ask why you tore the check up?” She looked at him, shrugged her shoulders. “I wouldn’t have needed the money any more if I had to leave her forever–” “Frieda,” he pressed, “where would you have gone?” “Where?” A bitter laugh rang out from her thin lips. “Where? The same place Olga went! Only, believe me, doctor. I would have achieved my goal!” She nodded lightly to him, walked away and disappeared between the birch trees. Early, when the young sun woke him, he came out of his room in his kimono, went into the garden along the path that led past the trellis and into the rose bed. He cut white Boule de Neige roses, Queen Catharine roses, Victoria roses, Snow Queen roses and Merveille de Lyon roses. Then he turned left where the larches and the silver fir trees stood. Alraune sat on the edge of the pool in a black silk robe, breaking breadcrumbs, throwing them to the goldfish. When he came she twined a wreath out of the pale roses, quickly and skillfully making a crown for her hair. She threw off her robe, sat in her lace negligee and splashed in the cool water with her naked feet–She scarcely spoke, but she trembled as his fingers lightly caressed her neck, when his soft breath caressed her cheek. Slowly she took off the negligee and laid it on the bronze mermaid beside her. Six water nymphs sat around the marble edge of the pool pouring water out of jugs and urns, spraying thin streams out of their breasts. Various animals crept around them, giant lobsters, spiny lobsters, turtles, fish, eels and other reptiles. In the middle of the pool Triton blew his horn as chubby faced merfolk blew mighty streams of water high into the air around him. “Come, my friend,” she said. Then they both climbed into the water. It was very cold and he shivered, his lips became blue and goose bumps quickly appeared on his arms. He had to swim vigorously, beat his arms and tread water to warm his blood and get accustomed to the unusual temperature. But she didn’t even notice, was in her element in an instant and laughing at him. She swam around like a little frog. “Turn the faucet on!” she cried. He did it. There, near the pool’s edge, by the statue of Galatea, light waves came from the water as well as three other places in the pool. They boiled up a little, growing stronger and higher, climbing higher and higher, until they became enormous sparkling cascades of silvery rain, higher than the spouting streams of the mermen. There she stood between all four, in the middle of a shimmering rain, like a sweet boy, slender and delicate. His long glance kissed her. There was no blemish in the symmetry of her limbs, not the slightest defect in this sweet work of art. Her color was in proportion as well, like white marble with a light breath of yellow. Only the insides of her thighs showed two curious rose colored lines. “That’s where Dr. Petersen perished,” he thought. He bent down, kneeled and kissed the rosy places. “What are you thinking about?” she asked. He said, “ I’m thinking that you are the fairy Melusine!–See the little mermaids around us–they have no legs, only long, scaly fish tails. They have no souls, these nymphs, but it is said that sometimes they love a human, some fisherman or wandering knight. They love him so much that they come out of the water at high tide, out onto the land. Then they go to an old witch or shaman–that brews some nasty potion they have to drink. Then the shaman takes a sharp knife and begins to cut into the fish tail. It is very painful–very painful, but Melusine suppresses her pain. Her love is so great that she doesn’t complain, doesn’t cry out, until the pain becomes so great she loses consciousness. But when she awakes–her little tail is gone and she goes about on two beautiful legs–like a human–only the scars where the shaman cut are still visible.” “But wasn’t she always still a nymph?” she asked. “Even with human legs?–And the sorcerer could never create a soul for her.” “No,” he said. “He couldn’t do that, but there is something else they say of nymphs.” “What do they say?” she asked. He explained, “She only has her strange power as long as she is untouched. When she drowns in the kisses of her lover, when she looses her maidenhood in her knight’s embrace–then she looses her magic as well. She can no longer bring river gold and treasures but the black sorrow that followed her can no longer cross her threshold either. From then on she is like any other child of man–” “If it only was!” she whispered. She tore the white crown from her head, swam over to the mermen and Triton, to the water nymphs and threw the rose blossoms into their laps– “Take them, sisters–take them!” she laughed. “I am a child of man–” An enormous canopy bed stood in Alraune’s bedroom on low, baroque columns. Two pillars grew out of the foot and bore shelves that shown with golden flames. The engraved sides showed Omphale with Hercules in a woman’s dress as he waited on her, Perseus kissing Andromeda, Hephaestus catching Ares and Aphrodite in his net– Many tendrils of vines wove themselves in between and doves played in them–along with winged cherubs. The magnificent ancient bed, heavily gilt with gold, had been brought out of Lyons by Fräulein Hortense de Monthy when she became his great-grandfather’s wife. He saw Alraune standing on a chair at the head of the bed, a heavy pliers in her hand. “What are you doing with that?” he asked. She laughed, “Just wait. I will soon be finished.” She pounded and tore, carefully enough, at the golden figurine of Amor that hovered at the head of the bed with his bow and arrow. She pulled one nail out, then another, seized the little god, twisted him this way and that–until he came loose. She grabbed him, jumped down, laid him on top of the wardrobe, took out the Alraune manikin, clambered back up onto the chair again with it and fastened it to the head of the bed with wire and twine. Then she came back down and looked critically at her work.
Introduction: The Hermetic art’s Subtle Work elevates the soul’s purified essence into divine light through a refined, threefold process. This chapter unveils the delicate transformation, guided by sacred wisdom, to manifest the philosopher’s stone.
The Threefold Path of Transformation
The Subtle Work, as Khunrath’s enigma suggests, operates in three realms—sensory, natural, and supernatural—each a stage in the soul’s ascent. The adept navigates these through careful operations, as Norton warns: “Great need hath he to be a clerk that would discern this subtle work.” The process, veiled by adepts to protect its sanctity, transforms the “Philosophic Salt” into a radiant essence, requiring deep understanding of nature’s principles.
The Egyptian fable of Isis and Osiris illustrates this: Osiris, slain by Typhon, is restored by Isis, symbolizing the soul’s essence resurrected through divine love. This mirrors the alchemical conversion of elements, purifying the First Matter into a luminous form, as Aristotle’s four causes—essence, matter, motion, and purpose—guide the adept to the divine end.
The Sacred Fire of Purification
The Subtle Work refines the soul’s essence with a “secret Fire,” as Lully describes, dissolving the “Red Salt” into a mercurial water. This fire, ignited by divine will, purifies the soul’s volatile spirit, as Vaughan notes: “The fiery soul rejoices with its spouse, revealing the occult treasury.” The adept, like a refiner, purges impurities, as Malachi’s prophecy declares: “He shall sit as a refiner’s fire, purifying the sons of Levi.”
This process, requiring precise control, transforms the soul into a “crystalline diaphaneity,” uniting it with the eternal, as the Tractatus Aureus instructs: “Pour forth thy Fire upon the Foliated Sulphur, and the King comes forth from the Fire.”
The Divine Monarchy
The Subtle Work culminates in the “Divine Monarchy,” where the soul, as the “Elect One,” merges with the universal essence. The Book of Enoch envisions this as mountains melting before the divine light, symbolizing the soul’s transcendence. The adept, guided by faith, becomes a vessel of divine wisdom, as John testifies: “The Word of Life was made manifest, and we have seen it.”
Closing: This chapter unveils the Subtle Work’s transformation of the soul’s essence into divine light through sacred fire. The journey into its final stages deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Taking leave of his mother the evening before departure—he planned to stay at a hotel to avoid disturbing her at night—she looked into his eyes. “What’s wrong, Ernst?” she asked. “I think you’re deeply in love…” “Nonsense, Mother,” he replied. She shook her head. “No, dear, you can’t deny it… I see it. You’re changed. Why tell me nothing?” Ernst Hugo felt it might’ve been better to confide in her about his doom. But it was too late. He denied it and tore himself away. On the journey, his unrest grew worse. This passion had seized him like fate, roaring through him, tearing him along, gnawing his core with a vulture’s greedy beak. He yearned for something good, wise, calm, but knew it was a land he’d never reach. The train’s rattling rhythm fused with him; he felt one with this raging beast, yet it seemed they didn’t move, trapped in an endless screw. He traveled half the night. Early morning brought him to Sankt Pölten. The summer sun had risen, peering over the station’s shoulder. Ernst Hugo paced, shivering. He glanced at the officials’ apartment windows. A curtain stirred. A hand with a watering can appeared, tending flowerpots by an open window. He pictured a bedroom filled with fresh night air, a bed of white linen and lace, a blue silk coverlet. He clenched his teeth, fists balled. The express to Salzburg–Munich pulled in, panting on the tracks. Doors clattered open and shut; conductors scurried; sleepy waiters carried breakfast coffee along the cars. Ernst Hugo ignored the bustle, ensnared in his thoughts, wrestling them, unable to break free. They attacked like wolves. The station’s tumult ebbed. Conductors closed doors, signaling each other… then three people burst from the first-class waiting room, racing across the tracks to the train. A broad-shouldered giant led, carrying two bags, followed by a lady and a gentleman… Ernst Hugo caught a fleeting glimpse. An eternity later, a jolt: it was Helmina… Lorenz ahead… and the man beside her, Fritz Gegely, dressed as an Englishman in proper travel attire. Later, studying psychology, Ernst Hugo saw this moment as a case of delayed action between decision and execution. He lunged too late. A conductor had opened a carriage door; the three boarded in frantic haste, and the train began to move. It glided past Ernst Hugo, a gray, blurring ribbon… a vast emptiness remained where he stood. It heated from within, radiating white-hot fury… seeping into him, swelling into boundless rage. So, Frau Helmina had run off with Herr Gegely, poet of Marie Antoinette, the Heidelberg manuscript thief. Splendid. What else could he think? They’d boarded at the last moment to avoid interception. Good that he’d seen them; he could at least tell Ruprecht Helmina looked lively and eager. That was all left for him to do. Soon, his train departed. Ernst Hugo sat in his corner, brimming with hate, fury, outrage, and despair. Like a Leyden jar charged with electricity, sparking at the slightest touch. At Gars station, he asked two men who’d wired for a carriage to let him ride to Vorderschluder. They were taciturn, silently smoking, watching blue smoke trails flutter into the kind summer morning. Ernst Hugo squeezed into the opposite corner, hat over his eyes, pretending to sleep. At the Kamp bridge, he alighted, thanked them hastily, and raced up the castle hill. He hurled his question like a stone at the first person he met. Yes, of course… the mistress had left… the Baron was in the village. Ernst Hugo laughed scornfully and ran back down. He kept seeing a bedroom filled with fresh night air… Now he must find Frau Gegely, fling his news in her face. Someone should writhe… The Red Ox’s plump landlady filled the doorway pleasantly. Nearby, three men conversed quietly. Ernst Hugo recognized his carriage companions and the Celt scholar he’d seen with Ruprecht. He charged at the landlady. “Is Frau Gegely upstairs?” he asked. “Yes!” she replied, not budging from the door, as if planted to guard. “I must speak with her. I have to tell her something.” He moved to rush past. Schiereisen approached with a polite greeting. “I’d ask you, Herr Secretary, not to go up now. The poor woman…” That was the spark nearing the Leyden jar. The discharge followed. “I know… I know,” Hugo screamed, “but I must tell you I saw them together. I saw them, understand? It’ll please her when I tell them.” Schiereisen gripped Hugo’s wrist firmly. “Where?” he asked urgently. “Where? Sankt Pölten… Salzburg express… and so on… who knows… they’re off into the world.” Ten clear chimes rang from the church tower. Schiereisen released Hugo’s wrist and turned to his companions. “Let’s go… to the telegraph office…” His blue eyes gleamed like iron; his face, every muscle, pulsed with resolve. “Now we’ll show what we can do.” As the three hurried off, Ernst Hugo collapsed, shrinking… his fingers fumbled beside him; then he turned, drifting slowly through a fog. Ten days later, Schiereisen returned from his hunt to Vorderschluder. His first stop was the castle. He found Ruprecht with Hedwig in the garden. Her wheelchair stood under a wild vine arbor. Maurerwenzel slept in the arbor’s shade. Frau Hedwig walked, leaning on Ruprecht’s arm and a cane, slowly in bright sunlight. Two rose hedges lined their path. A miracle had occurred. Schiereisen honored it by not mentioning it. He doffed his hat, waiting until they turned and saw him. Hedwig started… Schiereisen saw her grip Ruprecht’s arm tighter. “Herr Schiereisen is back,” Ruprecht murmured. “Herr Schiereisen… will you hear him, Hedwig? … It’s better…” “No… no… I’ll hear him now. I must know. Mustn’t I?” She put on a brave, resolute face. “Well, then… if she wishes… You can speak, Schiereisen. I’ve told her everything; she knows all.” Schiereisen still held his hat. His broad skull arched powerfully, eyes shadowed under strong brows. “Have you found a trace…?” Ruprecht asked, as Schiereisen didn’t speak at once. “They’re not yet caught, but they’re ours. They’re still on the Atlantic.” “And how did you…? Speak. See, we’re prepared and can hear it all.” “It wasn’t entirely easy… though they clearly didn’t expect pursuit. They’d have been more cautious otherwise. Why bore you with details? They headed to Le Havre, after various zigzags that cost us some effort.” “And then they boarded a ship?” “Yes… we arrived too late to stop them. But it’s hard to hide today… wireless telegraphy, you know? We sent a Marconi telegram at once, and they’ll return on the next steamer.” “Him too? Have you had him arrested as well?” Schiereisen donned his Panama hat, his face now shadowed. “No…” he said hesitantly, “not him… why? We… please, stay calm, gracious lady. We were too late… for your husband. It’s not our fault.” “My God… what are you saying… he’s…” “Yes… he met with misfortune, gracious lady. In his hotel… they weren’t staying together, and Helmina… likely to mislead any pursuers, if followed… he took his own life in his room… poisoned.” Hedwig let out a soft cry and closed her eyes. So this was the end. “You don’t believe it, Schiereisen!” Ruprecht said after a pause. He’d reflected, feeling unvarnished truth would heal more than this notion, which he saw spawning subtle torments of conscience for Hedwig. “Tell us honestly what you think.” “You’re right, Herr Baron! I don’t believe it. It was all cleverly done. But Fritz Gegely had no reason to kill himself. And… we know he withdrew nearly his entire fortune from his Vienna bank. He carried it, not wanting to transfer it to America and betray himself. Well… all the money’s gone…” Hedwig, shuddering with horror, threw herself against Ruprecht’s chest. He stood still, his arms gently, protectively around her neck. A freeing sob rose from her depths, a releasing weep… her trembling fingers calmed, nestling trustingly against his shoulders. He looked straight ahead… gravely into the future. “Now we must face the trial…” he said softly, “the trial and all that. We must…” He turned his gaze to Schiereisen. “Tell Herr von Zaugg I’m ready to vacate the castle anytime. Anytime! His claims are sacred to me. I’ve always seen myself as a steward here. I’ll stay as long as he wishes… to hand over the estate in good order. Meanwhile, I’ll find something in my homeland… ground that’s mine…” He bent to Hedwig again. She raised her head. Fear and horror lingered on her pale face, but Schiereisen saw a timid tenderness in Ruprecht’s gaze soften it all. He turned and walked slowly from the castle garden, past where Jana was found, through the gate Helmina had fled. A certainty flowed in him like a broad, calm river: these two were good and tightly bound; no turmoil or pain, no upheaval ahead, could shake their happiness, radiant with the future. He paused on the bridge beside the stone John, gazing into the water. And smiled… One could forgo the bit of thanks perhaps earned.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
He nodded, but she fell silent again. “So,” he began, “did you read the leather bound volume?” “Yes,” she said. She took a deep breath, looked at him. “So, am I only a joke that you once made, Frank Braun?” “A joke?” he returned. “–An–idea, if you will–” “And I suppose it was funny enough,” she laughed out loud. But that’s not why I waited here for you. I want to know something entirely different. Tell me. Do you believe it?” “Do I believe what?” he answered. “If everything happened like Uncle relates in the leather bound volume? Yes, I believe that.” She shook her head impatiently. “No, that’s not what I mean. Naturally that is true–why would he lie in his book?–I want to know whether you also believe–like my–my–that is–your uncle did–That I am a different type of creature, different from other people, that I–am now, that I am, what my name implies?” “How shall I reply to your question?” he said. “Ask any medical doctor–he will certainly say that you are just as good a human being as anyone else in the world, even if your first appearance was a little unusual–He would add, that all the other details are pure coincidence and unimportant, the–” “That means nothing to me,” she interrupted. “For your uncle these little details were most important. Basically it doesn’t matter if they are or not. I want to know if you share his opinion? Do you believe as well that I am a strange creature?” He remained silent, searched for a reply, didn’t know how he should respond. He did believe it–and then again he didn’t– “You see–” he began finally. “Speak,” she urged. “Do you believe that I am your insolent joke–that took form? Your idea, which the old Privy Councilor threw into his crucible, which he cooked and distilled, until something came out that now sits before you?” This time he didn’t hesitate, “If you put it that way, yes, that’s what I believe.” She laughed softly, “I thought so–and that’s why I waited up for you tonight, to cure you of this vanity as soon as possible. No, cousin, you didn’t throw this idea into the world, not you–not any more than the old Privy Councilor did.” He didn’t understand her. “Then who did?” he asked. She reached under the pillow with her hand. “This did!” she cried. She lightly tossed the little alraune into the air and caught it again, caressed it lovingly with nervous fingers. “That there? Why that?” he asked. She gave back, “Did you think about it earlier–before the day the Legal Councilor celebrated the communion of the two children?” “No,” he replied. “Certainly not.” But then this thing fell down from the wall, that was when the idea came to you! Isn’t that true?” “Yes,” he confessed. “That is how it was.” “Now then,” she continued, “so the idea came from outside somewhere and entered into you. It was when Attorney Manasse gave his lecture, when he recited like a school book and explained to all of you what this little alraune was and what it meant–That’s when the idea grew in your brain. It became so large and so strong that you found the strength to suggest it to your uncle, to persuade him to carry it out, to create me. Then, if I am only an idea that came into the world and took on human form, it is also true that you, Frank Braun, were only an agent, an instrument–no more than the Privy Councilor or his assistant doctor. No different than–” She hesitated, fell silent, but only for a moment. Then she continued– “than the prostitute, Alma and the rapist-murderer whom you all coupled–you and Death!” She laid the little alraune on the silk cushions, looked at it with an almost loving glance and said,” You are my father: You are my mother. You are what created me.” He looked at her. “Perhaps it was so,” he thought. Ideas whirl through the air, like the pollen from flowers and play around before finally sinking into someone’s brain. Often they waste away there, spoil and die–Only a few find good rich soil– “Perhaps she is right,” he thought. His brain had always been a fertile planting place for all kinds of foolishness and abstruse fantasies. It seemed the same to him, whether he was the one that once threw the seed of this idea into the world–or whether he was the fertile earth that had received it. But he remained silent, left her with her thought. He glanced over at her, a child, playing with her doll. She slowly stood up, not letting the little manikin out of her hands. “There is something else I want to tell you,” she spoke softly. “But first I want to thank you for it, for giving me the leather bound volume and not burning it.” “What is it?” he asked. She interrupted herself. “Should I kiss you?” she asked. “I could kiss–” “Was that all you wanted to say, Alraune?” he said. She replied, “No, not that!–I only thought I would like to kiss you once. Just in case–But first I want to tell you this, why I waited. Go away!” He bit his lips, “Why?” “Because–because it would be better,” she answered, “for you– perhaps for me as well. But it doesn’t depend on that–I now know how things are–am now enlightened, and I think that things will continue to go as they have–only, I will not be running around blindly anymore–Now I see everything. Soon–soon it will be your turn, and that’s why it would be better if you left.” “Are you so certain of this?” he asked. “Don’t I need to be?” He shrugged his shoulders, “Perhaps, I don’t know. But tell me, why do you want to do this for me?” “I like you,” she said quietly. “You have been good to me.” He laughed, “Weren’t the others as well?” “Yes,” she answered. “They all were. But I didn’t see it. And they–all of them–they loved me–you don’t–not yet.” She went to the writing desk, took a postcard and gave it to him. “Here is a postcard from your mother. It came earlier this evening; the servant brought it up with my mail by mistake. I read it. Your mother is ill–She very much begs you to come back to her.” He took the postcard, stared in front of him undecided. He knew that they were right, both of them, could feel it, that it was foolishness to remain here. Then a boyish defiance seized him that screamed out, “No! No!” “Will you go?” she asked. He forced himself, spoke with a determined voice, “Yes, cousin!” He looked at her sharply, watched every line of her face searching for some movement, a little tug at the corners of her mouth, a little sigh would have been enough, some something that showed him her regret. But she remained quiet and serious. No breath moved on her inflexible mask. That vexed him, wounded him, seemed like an affront and an insult to him. He pressed his lips solidly together. “Not like this,” he thought. “I won’t go like this.” She came up to him, reached out her hand to him. “Good,” she said. “Good–Now I will go. I can give you a goodbye kiss if you want.” A sudden fire flickered in his eyes at that. Without even wanting to, he said, “Don’t do it Alraune. Don’t do it!” And his voice took on her own tone. She raised her head and quickly asked, “Why not?” Again he used her words, but she sensed that it was on purpose. “I like you, Alraune,” he said. “You have been good to me today–many red lips have kissed my mouth–and they became very pale. Now–now, it would be your turn. That is why it would be better if you didn’t kiss me!” They stood facing each other; their eyes glowed hard as steel. Unnoticed, a smile played on his lips. His weapon was bright and sharp. Now she could choose. Her “No” would be his victory and her defeat–then he could go with a light heart. But her “Yes” would mean war and she felt it–the same way he did. It was like that very first evening, exactly the same, only that time was the beginning and opening round. There had still been hope for several other rounds in the duel. But now–it was the end. He was the one that had thrown the glove– She took him up on it. “I am not afraid,” she spoke. He fell silent and the smile died on his lips–Now it was serious. “I want to kiss you,” she repeated. He said, “Be careful! I will kiss you back.” She held his gaze–“Yes,” she said–Then she smiled. “Sit down, you are a little too tall for me!” “No,” he cried out loudly. “Not like that.” He went to the wide divan, laid down on it, buried his head in the cushions, stretched his arms out wide on both sides, closed his eyes. “Now, come Alraune!” he cried. She stepped closer, kneeled by his hips, hesitated, looked at him, then suddenly threw herself down onto him, seized his head, pressed her lips on his. He didn’t embrace her, didn’t move his arms. But his fingers tightened into fists. He felt her tongue, the light bite of her teeth. “Kiss harder,” he whispered. “Kiss harder.” Red fog lay before his eyes. He heard the Privy Councilor’s repulsive laugh, saw the large piercing eyes of Frau Gontram, how she begged little Manasse to explain the little alraune to her. He heard the giggling of the two celebrants, Olga and Frieda, and the broken, yet still beautiful voice of Madame de Vére singing “Les Papillons”, saw the small Hussar Lieutenant listening eagerly to the attorney, saw Karl Mohnen, as he wiped the little alraune with the large napkin– “Kiss harder!” he murmured. And Alma–her mother, red like a burning torch, snow-white breasts with tiny blue veins, and the execution of her father–as Uncle Jakob had described it in his leather bound volume–Out of the mouth of the princess–And the hour, in which the old man created her–and the other, in which his doctor brought her into this world– “Kiss me,” he moaned, “Kiss me.” He drank her kisses, sucked the hot blood from his lips, which her teeth had torn, and he became intoxicated, knowingly and intentionally, as if from champagne or his oriental narcotics– “Enough,” he said suddenly, “enough, you don’t know what you are doing.” At that she pressed her curls more tightly against his forehead, her kisses became hotter and more wild. Now the clear thoughts of day lay shattered, now came the dreams, swelling on a blood red ocean, now the Maenad swung her thyrsos and he frothed in the holy frenzy of Dionysus. “Kiss me,” he screamed. But she released him, let her arms sink. He opened his eyes, looked at her. “Kiss me!” he repeated softly. Her eyes glazed over, her breath came in short pants. Slowly she shook her head. At that he sprang up. “Then I will kiss you,” he cried. He lifted her up in his arms, threw her down struggling onto the divan, knelt down–there, right where she had knelt. “Close your eyes,” he whispered and he bent down– Good, his kisses were good–caressing and soft, like a harp played on a summer night, wild too, yes, and raw, like a storm wind blowing over the North sea. They burned red-hot like the fiery breath out of mount Aetna, ravishing and consuming like the vortex of a maelstrom– “It’s pulling me under,” she felt, “pulling me into it.” But then the spark struck and burning flames shot high into the heavens, the burning torch flew, ignited the altar, and with bloody jowls the wolf sprang into the sanctuary. She embraced him, pressed herself tightly to his breast–I’m burning–she exalted–I’m burning–at that, he tore the clothes from her body. The sun that woke her was high in the sky. She saw that she was lying there completely naked, but didn’t cover herself. She turned her head, saw him sitting up right next to her–naked like she was. She asked, “Will you be leaving today?” “Is that what you want, that I should leave?” he gave back. “Stay,” she whispered. “Stay!”
Introduction: The Hermetic art purifies the soul’s essence through disciplined labor and pure intent, transforming it into divine light. This section explores the Gross Work’s meticulous process, guided by the right motive to unlock nature’s sacred secrets.
The Chameleon of Chaos
The Gross Work begins with the “Chamelion,” the chaotic First Matter containing all potential, as Democritus describes: a raw essence transformed by “Vulcanic action” into a golden form. This purification, driven by the adept’s hands, refines the impure spirit, as Khunrath explains, drawing forth the “Green Lion” and “Vitriol of Venus” from the “Saturnine Hill.” Through careful labor, the soul’s essence becomes a radiant vessel, purified of its “heterogeneous superfluities.”
The adept must avoid premature fixation, as Norton warns: “The philosopher’s work begins only when all is pure.” This process, like a vine yielding wine, transforms the soul’s crude vitality into a luminous form through successive fermentations, guided by divine will.
The Role of Right Motive
The success of the Gross Work hinges on the adept’s motive, as the Apostle Paul notes: “The fire shall try every man’s work.” A pure intention, free from avarice or ambition, aligns with divine truth, ensuring the work’s fruition. Basil Valentine emphasizes that only the “Fiery Bath of Love” separates the good from the evil, purifying the soul’s essence to reflect divine light.
The adept, like Œdipus solving the Sphinx’s riddle, uses rational inquiry to illuminate the soul’s darkened essence, transforming it into a crystalline vessel. This labor, as Vaughan instructs, requires relentless sacrifice of lesser desires to attain the “Divine Perfection.”
The Path to Divine Light
The Gross Work’s purification, guided by faith and perseverance, mirrors the alchemical maxim: “The end depends from the beginning.” By refining the soul’s essence through gentle, deliberate labor, the adept creates a foundation for divine union, as Paul declares: “Ye are the Temple of God.” This sacred process, driven by love and reason, prepares the soul to radiate universal truth.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Gross Work’s purification of the soul’s essence, driven by pure motive and labor. The journey into its advanced stages deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
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