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.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Eighteenth Chapter Ruprecht woke with uneasy feelings. The joyful uplift of yesterday’s afternoon and evening had given way to deep despondency. A heavy weight pressed on him again. His talk with Schiereisen had rolled boulders over his soul, blocking light and air. He saw it was impossible to live alongside Helmina any longer. Something must be done… but the worst was not knowing what. Should he warn Helmina about Schiereisen? That would make him complicit in her crimes. Could he let Schiereisen continue his probe and catch her unawares…? Should he let events unfold, taking their outcome as divine judgment? Tormented and drained, he went to breakfast. Only the children and Miss Nelson were there. Sitting across from the Englishwoman, he had a strange sensation. As she sat—black, slender, composed, ever equable—she seemed the axis of all events in the castle. A link between poles, unmoving yet the spine of all motion around her. With a surge, he resolved to regain his composure. He pushed back his chair and left to speak with Helmina. The chambermaid said the mistress hadn’t called for her. It was nearly eight; she should be up. His knocks went unanswered. The door was locked. Suddenly, as he stood with his ear to the wood, a wedge drove into his mind. Ah… she played me, saw through Schiereisen, knew of my talk with the detective yesterday—she’s fled! He stood motionless a moment, then called old Johann, ordering a crowbar, pickaxe, or similar tool. Until the servant returned, Ruprecht stood like a sentinel before the door. His composure returned; his nerves relayed clear sensations, his thoughts focused on the immediate. Johann brought a pickaxe. Ruprecht wedged its blade into the door’s lower gap, pressed it firm, and with one heave, tore the door from its hinges, crashing it into the room. Johann followed, horrified. Helmina was gone. Her bed untouched. The window open, morning sunlight on white pillows and blue silk coverlet. Ruprecht searched the room… no letter, no explanation. Behind him stood an old man, broken, swaying, crushed by a temple’s sudden collapse. Schiereisen entered. Ruprecht turned, and one glance at the detective’s face grasped the event’s meaning. “You can go, Johann,” he said. “Tell the staff the mistress has left.” When Johann was gone, Ruprecht approached Schiereisen. “You already know what’s happened?” The detective nodded. “Yes… I know. I was present at your wife’s departure. Uninvited, of course.” “You saw Helmina? You were there? I don’t understand… and you didn’t arrest her? Why didn’t you stop her? You suspect her gravely…” “Yes… you see, Herr Baron, I could’ve detained her. Perhaps! Certainly! I was about to… but I didn’t. Why? I’m proud to be your friend, Herr Baron.” “For my sake?” “Yes… it wasn’t entirely dutiful… but perhaps aligns with my duty. I’m here on behalf of Herr Peter Franz von Zaugg, the late Herr Dankwardt’s brother- in-law. His main concern is proving Frau Helmina seized the deceased’s assets through a crime, to renew certain inheritance claims. I’ve fulfilled that commission as far as possible. But I also have a duty to the public—to neutralize dangerous criminals like your wife and Lorenz. I’ll fulfill that too. But for you, I delayed it.” “Delayed? You’ll still pursue Helmina?” “Yes. I’ve given her a head start. By ten, two of my agency’s men arrive. At ten, I’ll take up Frau Helmina’s trail. Chance, luck, or my skill will decide. I’ll do everything to apprehend her then. Relentlessly! But I had to give her that head start… I owed it to our friendship… I know you love this woman.” “You’re mistaken,” Ruprecht said calmly. “I no longer love her. But I couldn’t betray her. You’ll agree…” Schiereisen studied Ruprecht’s face. “So,” he said slowly, “you don’t love Helmina anymore… well, then…” “Did you know of her escape plan?” “No… it was an intuition. I hear a noise in the night, like someone rattling a door. My senses are sharp in such hours. I hear it, leap to the garden door… I see someone tampering with the small tower gate… my instinct was to seize them. I creep along the walls, but before I reach it, the door opens… someone slips out. I rush forward… it’s Helmina.” “You were in the castle last night?” “Yes… I was in the castle.” Before Ruprecht’s eyes flickered a cinematograph’s chase again. He steadied himself, adjusted a lever, and focused. “You searched?” “And found,” Schiereisen replied calmly. Ruprecht flinched. “Yes… I got to the secret’s core,” Schiereisen continued. “I finally did the obvious, what I should’ve done long ago. The simplest, most necessary things come last. Last night, I entered the old tower, where all events pointed.” Ruprecht gripped the bedpost’s knob with an iron fist, silent. “I see you know what I found,” Schiereisen said. “It wasn’t easy. Jérome Rotrehl helped mightily. You may know there’s an opening high in the tower. We climbed in. It was fascinating. The tower’s filled with rubble, always risking being crushed. Recently, many obstacles were added. We crawled under a stone slab balanced on its edge. A fingertip’s touch, and it falls. A perfect mousetrap. But we pressed deeper. Finally, we reached a vault far below. Nothing there. I wasn’t fooled. We searched on, finding the hiding place— carefully crafted, like Egyptian kings’ tomb chambers… Yes, there were bodies to hide. Three. You understand. Caustic lime was used, recently… well, let’s leave it. We know why Jana ‘met with misfortune,’ don’t we? I’d reached my goal. Then… discovering Helmina’s flight… was a bonus.” “And you let her escape… what can I say…” The bedpost creaked in Ruprecht’s grip. Schiereisen placed a hand on his shoulder, his gaze kind and concerned. “You know,” he said with a half-smile, “at first I thought… well, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d warned Helmina.” “I said nothing of our talk.” Schiereisen nodded. “I know. It was clear the moment I reached the gate. You told her nothing! Her flight was long planned. A stranger waited for her outside.” “Lorenz!” “No! Lorenz was below, with a car. It was another.” Ruprecht stood firm, his gaze steady. He asked sharply, demandingly. “I hope you’re not mistaken, that you no longer love Helmina,” Schiereisen said. “If that’s true, it’s good for you. The man who waited was Fritz Gegely. He fled with her—” “Fritz Gegely!” Ruprecht said. The connection eluded him at first, then one thought pushed through the chaos… “I must go to her… he’s gone… I must go to her…” He ran off, grabbed his hat, and raced down the stairs. Schiereisen kept pace. Ruprecht’s sudden unraveling, his composure shattered, made the detective feel he couldn’t leave him alone. He had no explanation. Halfway, on the bridge, a messenger met Ruprecht, summoning him to Hedwig. The Red Ox chambermaid was distraught, stammering her message. Her outrage matched her pity for the abandoned woman, knotting within her. Men were such vile scum, and Schorsch would hear it today. Hedwig lay pale in her wheelchair by the open window, bathed in morning sunlight, her hands covering a paper. She turned toward the door, a halo around her light hair. Ruprecht seized her hand. “Hedwig!” he said, voice trembling from deep within. “Yes!” she replied, no further words needed between them. She handed him the letter Fritz Gegely had left. Ruprecht read: “I may bring grief and pain upon you, my Hedwig, yes, I know, but I cannot do otherwise. Don’t judge me; try to understand. A new love has entered my life, a new sun has risen, I must chart a new course. I must… it’s more compelling than death. I find it unworthy of an honest man to hide what the brutality of events makes all too clear: I could no longer bear life with you. I loved you, you know that. But now life tears me from you. Life and my great duty to myself. I am an upright man, great strength is in me, but by your side, I couldn’t stay upright, my flight couldn’t soar. I feel my creative force fading. My Marie Antoinette would’ve been my only work. I can’t endure that. Your presence is a constant reminder of humiliation. I must find another world, free of these reminders. I must fly again. I’ve been told you’ve rekindled an old friendship. That eases my parting. I know you have solace. Farewell.” Ruprecht placed the letter back on the blanket over Hedwig’s knees. She looked up at him, resigned to her fate, more bewildered than outraged or sad. Schiereisen quietly left the room. He knew enough now; a great relief washed over him. The plump landlady stopped him outside with indignant questions and exclamations. Word had spread that Helmina had vanished, and wild speculations raced. A carriage rolled down the village street, stopping at the Red Ox. Two strangers alighted and greeted Schiereisen. “You’re punctual, thank you,” the detective said. “We’ll begin at once.” Ernst Hugo had rushed through his visit to his elderly mother in Linz. She found little joy in her son this time. He was restless, irritable, his thoughts elsewhere. Her small concerns—Linzer acquaintances, relatives—were mere annoyances, and he struggled to feign interest in her tales of engagements, financial losses, and wayward sons. What was happening in Vorderschluder? He’d left the field to another for forty-eight hours. A few vacation days remained, then duty’s jaws would swallow him. He couldn’t imagine how he’d cope, already losing his mind after two days away. He and Helmina must reach a decision before he returned to Vienna. Fritz Gegely was an intruder on prior claims, shifting love’s boundaries. He had to be neutralized. Ernst Hugo resolved to cast aside decorum and expose the Heidelberg theft.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Fourteen Describes how Frank Braun played with fire and how Alraune awoke. THAT evening the Fräulein didn’t come to dinner, only allowed Frieda Gontram to bring in a little tea and a few cakes. Frank Braun waited awhile for her, hoping that perhaps later she would come down. Then he went to the library and reluctantly took up the documents from the writing desk. But he couldn’t bring himself to read them, put them down again and decided to drive into the city. Before he left he took the last little mementos from out of the desk drawer, the piece of silk curtain cord, the card and four-leaf clover with the bullet holes through them and finally the alraune manikin. He packed everything together, sealed the brown paper package and had it sent up to the Fräulein. He attached no written explanation to it– Everything would be explained to her inside the leather bound volume that bore her initials. Then he rang for the chauffeur and drove into the city. As he expected, he met Herr Manasse in the little wine pub on Cathedral Square. Stanislaus Schacht was with him. He sat down with them and began to chat. He got into a deep discussion with the attorney about legal questions, debating the pros and cons of this and that lawsuit. They decided to turn a few of the doubtful cases over to the Legal Councilor for him alone. He would bring them to some acceptable compromise. Manasse believed that a victorious settlement could be reached with the others. In some of the cases Frank Braun calmly suggested they simply acknowledge the claim, but Manasse refused. “Never acknowledge–even if the opponent’s demands are as clear as day and justified a hundred-fold!” He was the straightest and most honest attorney in the county courthouse, one that always told his clients the truth, right to their face. In front of the bar he might remain completely quiet but he would never lie–and yet he was way too much a lawyer not to have an innate hatred of recognizing an opponent’s claim. “It only costs us more,” Frank Braun objected. “So what!” barked the attorney. “What does that have to do with it?–I tell you, one never knows–there is always a chance…” “A legal one–perhaps–” answered Frank Braun. “–but–” He fell silent. There was no other way for the attorney. The Court determined justice–what ever it said was just, even how it decided. Today it would be just–and totally different after a couple of months in the higher courts. Nevertheless, the Court gave the final decision and it was sacred–not the parties involved. To recognize a claim yourself, without such a decision, was usurping the right of the Court. As an attorney Manasse was partial to his own clients. He desired the judge to be impartial, so it was an abomination to him to make such a decision for his own party. Frank Braun smiled. “As you wish,” he said. He spoke with Stanislaus Schacht, listened as this friend of Dr. Mohnen talked of all the others that had been there as students with him. “Yes, Joseph Theyssen has been a Government Advisor for some time now and Klingel Hőffer is a professor at Halle–he will be the new chair for Anatomy, and Fritz langen–and Bastian–and–” Frank Braun listened, turned the pages of this living directory of German nobility that knew everyone. “Are you still enrolled?” he asked. Stanislaus fell silent, a little offended. But the attorney barked, “What! Didn’t you know? He passed his doctoral exam–five years ago.” “Really–five years ago!” Frank Braun calculated backward, that must have been in his forty-fifth, no, forty-sixth semester. “Well,” he said. He stood up and reached out his hand, which the other heartily shook. “Allow me to congratulate you, Herr Doctor!” he continued. “But–tell me–what are you doing now?” “Yes, if he only knew!” cried the attorney. Then chaplain Schrőder came. Frank Braun stood up to greet him– “Back in the country again?” cried the black suited priest. “We must celebrate!” “I am the host,” declared Stanislaus Schacht. “He must drink to my doctor’s degree.” “And with me to my newly becoming a vicar,” laughed the priest. “Let’s share the honor then, if it’s alright with you, Dr. Schacht.” They agreed and the white haired vicar ordered a 93 Scharzhofberger, which the wine pub had placed in stock on his recommendation. He tested the wine, nodded with satisfaction and toasted with Frank Braun. “You have it good,” he said, “sticking your nose into every unknown place on land and sea. Yes, we can read about them in the newspapers–but we must sit at home and console ourselves with the fact that the Mosel still always produces a good wine–You certainly can’t get this label out there!” “We can get the label,” he said, “but not the wine– Now Herr Reverend, what have you been up to?” “What should I be up to?” replied the priest. “One just gets themselves angry. Our old Rhine is always becoming more Prussian. But for relaxation one can write rotten pieces for the Tűnnes, Bestavader, Schâl, Speumanes and the Marizzebill. I have already plundered Plautus and Terence in their entirety for Peter Millowwitsch’s puppet theater in Cologne–Now I’m doing it to Holberg. And just think, that fellow–Herr Director, he calls himself today–now pays me royalties–Another one of those Prussian inventions.” “Be happy about it!” growled Attorney Manasse. “By the way, he’s also published on Iamblicos.” He turned to Frank Braun, “And I tell you, it is a very exceptional book.” “Not worth talking about,” cried the old vicar. “Only a little attempt–” Stanislaus Schacht interrupted him. “Go on!” he said. “Your work lays out the foundation of the very essence of the Alexandrian school. Your hypothesis about the Emanation Doctrine of the Neo-Platonists–” He went on, lecturing like an argumentative Bishop at the high council. Here and there he made of few considerations, gave his opinion, that it wasn’t right the author based his entire work on the three cosmic principles that had been previously established. Couldn’t he have just as well successfully included the ‘Spirit’ of Pophyrs?” Manasse joined in and finally the vicar as well. They argued as if there was nothing more important in the entire world than this strange monism of Alexander, which was based on nothing other than a mystical annihilation of self, of the “I”, through ecstasy, asceticism and theurgy. Frank Braun listened silently. “This is Germany,” he thought. “This is my country–” It occurred to him that a year ago he had been sitting in a bar somewhere in Melbourne or Sidney–with him had been a Justice of the Supreme Court, a Bishop of the High Church and a famous doctor. They had disputed and argued no less ardently than these three that were now sitting with him–But it had been about whom was the better boxer, Jimmy Walsh of Tasmania or slender Fred Costa, the champion of New-South Wales. But here sat a little attorney, who was still being passed over for promotion to Legal Councilor, a priest that wrote foolish pieces for a puppet theater, that had a few titles of his own, but never a parish, and finally the eternal student Stanislaus Schacht, who after some fourteen years was happy to have his doctor’s degree and now didn’t know what to do with himself. And these three little poor wretches spoke about the most abstract, far-fetched things that had nothing at all to do with their occupations. And they spoke so easily, with the same familiarity as the gentlemen in Melbourne had conversed about a boxing match. Oh, you could sift through all of America and Australia, even nine-tenths of Europe–and you would not find such an abundance of knowledge– only–it was dead. He sighed, it was long dead and reeked of decay–really, the gentlemen didn’t even notice! He asked the vicar how it was going with his foster son, young Gontram. Immediately Attorney Manasse interrupted himself. “Yes, tell us Herr Reverend–that’s why I came here. What does he write?” Vicar Schröder unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out his wallet and took a letter out of it. “Here, read for yourself,” he said. “It doesn’t sound very encouraging!” He handed the envelope to the attorney. Frank Braun threw a quick glance at the postmark. “From Davos?” he asked. “Did he inherit his mother’s fate as well?” “Unfortunately,” sighed the old priest. “And he was such a fresh, good boy, that Josef, absolutely not meant for the priesthood though. God only knows what he would have studied, or I would have allowed him to study if I didn’t wear the black robe. But I promised his mother on her deathbed. By the way, he has already gone as far in his studies as I have–I tell you–he passed his doctoral exam–summa cum laude! I obtained a special dispensation for him through the ArchBishop, who has always been very benevolent towards me personally. He helped me a lot with the work about Iamblichos–yes, he could really become something! Only–unfortunately–” He hesitated and slowly emptied his glass. “Did it come so suddenly, Herr Reverend?” asked Frank Braun. “You could say that,” answered the priest. “It first started with the psychological shock of the sudden death of his brother, Wolf. You should have seen him outside, at the cemetery. He never moved from my side while I gave my sermon, stared at the enormous garland of blood red roses that lay on the coffin. He held himself upright until the ceremony was ended, but then he felt so weak that Schacht and I had to downright carry him. In the carriage he seemed better, but at home with me he once more became entirely apathetic–The only thing I could get out of him at all that entire evening was that now he was the last of the Gontram boys and it was his turn next. This apathy would not yield and from that hour he remained convinced that his days were numbered, even though a very thorough medical examination gave me a lot of hope in the beginning. But then it went rapidly. From day to day you could see his decline–now we have sent him to Davos–but it appears that his song will soon be over.” He fell silent, fat tears stood in his eyes– “His mother was tougher,” growled the attorney. “She laughed in the Reaper’s face for six long years.” “God grant her soul eternal peace,” said the vicar and he filled the glasses. “We will drink a silent toast to her–in her memory.” They raised the glasses and emptied them. “The old Legal Councilor will soon be entirely alone,” observed Dr. Schacht. “Only his daughter appears to be completely healthy– She is the only one that will survive him.” “The attorney grumbled, “Frieda?–No, I don’t believe it.” “And why not?” asked Frank Braun. “Because–because–” he began, “–well, why shouldn’t I say it?” He looked straight at Frank Braun, cutting, enraged, as if he wanted to take him by the throat. “You want to know why Frieda Gontram will never grow old?–I will tell you. Because she is now completely caught in the claws–of that damned witch out there!–That’s why–Now you know!” “Witch,” thought Frank Braun. “He calls her a witch, just like Uncle Jakob did in his leather bound volume.” “What do you mean by that, Herr Attorney?” he asked. Manasse barked, “Exactly what I said. “Whoever gets to close to the Fräulein ten Brinken–gets stuck, like a fly in syrup. And whoever is once caught by her–stays there and no amount of struggling will do any good! Be careful, Herr Doctor, I’m warning you! It is thankless enough–to give warnings like this. I have already done it once– without any success–with Wölfchen–now it is you–flee while there is still time. What do you still want here?–It seems to me exactly as if you are already licking at the honey!” Frank Braun laughed–but it sounded a little forced. “Have no fear on my account, Herr Attorney,” he cried–But he didn’t convince the other–and even less, himself. They sat and drank, drank to Schacht’s doctoral degree and to the Priest’s becoming a vicar. They drank as well to the health of Karl Mohnen, of whom no one had heard since he had left the city. “He is lost,” said Stanislaus Schacht. Then he became sentimental and sang melancholy songs. Frank Braun took his leave, went out on foot back to Lendenich–through the fragrant trees of spring – like in the old times. He came across the courtyard, then saw a light in the library. He went in–Alraune sat on the divan. “You here, little cousin?” he greeted. She didn’t answer, waved to him to take a place. He sat across from her, waiting. But she remained silent and he didn’t press her. Finally she said, “I wanted to speak with you.”
Introduction: The Hermetic art’s Gross Work transforms the soul’s essence through careful, deliberate labor. This section unveils the meticulous process of purifying the First Matter, guiding the adept to divine light with patience and precision.
The Art of Gentle Purification
The Gross Work demands slow, gentle labor to avoid disrupting the soul’s essence, as Norton warns: “Excess for a quarter hour may destroy all.” Like butter simmering, not boiling, the adept must triturate the “philosophic Stone” with care, ensuring its subtle essence matures without haste. Basil advises binding the volatile spirit, like a bird, to Mercury’s guidance, preventing it from flying too soon and burning like Icarus.
This deliberate process, as Hermes instructs, involves extracting the “watery corrupted redness” from its obscurity, purifying it through repeated dissolution until it becomes a radiant companion. Haste risks chaos, as the “infernal agent” may resist, causing a schism in the soul’s harmony.
The Labor of Hercules
Eirenaeus calls the Gross Work a “labor of Hercules,” requiring years of sweat and vigilance. Even with a strong theoretical foundation, the adept must toil diligently, as faulty conditions or impatient agents prolong the process. Eirenaeus recounts mastering the art in two and a half years, a rare success, emphasizing that “nothing is achieved without sweating and much labor.”
The adept’s persistence, guided by rational inquiry, reveals the “Lunar Vulcan,” the purified essence that educates the Solar Light. This interplay, as Khunrath notes, transforms the soul into a “petrifaction of the Spirit,” a radiant vessel born from disciplined effort.
The Path to Divine Harmony
The Gross Work aligns the adept with divine will, as Aristotle’s Ethics suggests: focus not on the end but on the means to achieve it. By exploring multiple methods, the adept discovers the “First Cause,” the purified essence that births divine light. This labor, as Vaughan describes, navigates the “stormy seas” of the soul, guided by the beacon of reason to a harmonious union with the eternal.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Gross Work’s deliberate purification, transforming the soul’s essence into divine light. The journey into its advanced stages deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred art.
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