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.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
She looked at him sharply. “Really?” she said, drawing each word out slowly. “And just what is it that you think would be worth my effort?” He didn’t respond–Didn’t have any answer at the moment. He stood up, shrugged his shoulders and went into the garden. Her laughter sounded behind him. “In a bad mood, Herr Guardian?” That afternoon he sat in the library. Some documents lay in front of him that Attorney Manasse had sent over yesterday. But he didn’t read them. He stared into the air, hurriedly smoking one cigarette after the other. Then he opened a desk drawer and once more took out the Privy Councilor’s leather bound volume. He read slowly and carefully, considering every little incident. There was a knock; the chauffeur quickly stepped inside. “Herr Doctor,” he cried. “Princess Wolkonski is here. She is very upset, screamed for the Fräulein while she was still in her carriage. We thought that perhaps it might be better if you received her first–So Aloys is bringing her here right now.” “Well done!” he said. He sprang up and went to meet the princess. With great effort she squeezed through the narrow door and waltzed her heavy masses into the half darkened hall, which was lit only by the sparse sunlight that came through the green Venetian blinds. “Where is she?” she panted. “Where is the Fräulein?” He took her hand and led her over to the divan. She recognized him immediately and called him by name, but had no intention of getting into a conversation with him. “I want to see Fräulein Alraune,” she cried. “Bring the Fräulein here!” She would not calm down until he rang the servant and instructed him to announce the visit of the princess. Then, for the first time, she consented to listen to him. He asked after the health of her child and the princess related to him, in an immense flood of words, how she had met with her daughter. Not once had she recognized her own mother, had simply sat by the window looking out into the garden, passive and listless. It had been in the old Privy Councilor’s clinic, that fraud, which Professor Dalberg had now turned into an insane asylum, the same building where– He interrupted her, cutting short her flood of words. He quickly grabbed her hand, bent over it and looked with simulated interest at her rings. “Excuse me, your Highness,” he cried quickly. “Where did you ever get this marvelous emerald? Definitely a showcase piece!” “It was a button from the Magnate’s beret of my first husband,” she replied. “It’s an old heirloom.” She prepared to continue her tirade, but he didn’t let her get a word in. “It is a stone of uncommon purity!” he affirmed. “And of remarkable size! I only once saw a similar one, in the royal stud of the Maharajah of Rolinkore–He had it set into his favorite horse’s left eye. For the right it carried a Burmese ruby that was only a little smaller.” Then he told of the hobby of Indian princes, how they gouged out the eyes of their beautiful horses and replaced them with glass eyes or large round highly polished stones. “It sounds cruel,” he said. “But I assure you, your Highness. The effect is amazing when you see such a magnificent animal, when they stare at you with Alexandrite eyes, or glance at you out of deep blue sapphires.” Then he spoke of precious stones, remembering from his student days that she knew quite a bit about jewels and pearls. It was the only thing she was really interested in. She gave him answers, at first quickly and briefly, then became calmer with every minute. She pulled off her rings, showed them to him one after the other, telling him a little story about each one. He nodded attentively. “Now let my cousin come,” he thought. “The first storm is over.” But he was wrong. Alraune had soundlessly come through the door, walked softly across the carpet and set herself down in the easy chair right across from them. “I am so happy to see you, your Highness,” she piped. The princess cried out and gasped for breath, crossed herself, then a second time, in the Orthodox manner. “There she is,” she moaned. “There she sits!” “Yes,” laughed Alraune, “alive and breathing!” She stood up and reached her hand out to the princess. “I am so sorry,” she continued. “My sympathies, your Highness!” The princess didn’t take her hand. She was speechless for a minute, struggled for composure–Then she found herself again. “I don’t need your sympathy!” she cried. “I have something to say to you!” Alraune sat back down, waved lightly with her hand. “Please speak, your Highness.” The princess began. Did the Fräulein know that she had lost her fortune through the machinations of his Excellency? But yes, naturally she knew. The gentlemen had explained every detail to her, explained what she had to do–But she had refused to fulfill her obligation. Did she know what had happened to her daughter? She explained how she had found her in the asylum and what the doctor’s opinion was. She became more excited, her voice swelled, becoming higher and more shrieking. She knew all of that, declared Alraune calmly. The princess asked, what was she now intending to do? Did she intend to walk in the same dirty footsteps of her father? Oh, there was a fine scoundrel. You couldn’t find a finer or more cunning blackguard in any book. Now he had his just reward. She continued screaming and yelling about his Excellency, saying everything that came to her tongue–She screamed that Olga’s sudden attack had been because of the failure of her mission and not wanting to come back. Alraune had made things worse by enticing her friend of many long years away from her. She believed that if the Fräulein would now help, not only would her fortune be saved, but her child as well, when she heard the news. ‘I’m not asking,” she screamed. “I’m demanding! I demand what is rightfully mine. You have done this wrong, you, my own Godchild, and your father. Now make it right again, as much as you possibly can–It is a shame that I must be the first to tell you this–But you will have it no other way.” “What is there left to save?” Alraune said softly. “As far as I know, the bank collapsed three days ago. Your money is gone, your Highness!” She stressed the ‘gone’–You could hear the bank notes fluttering in all directions. “That doesn’t matter,” declared the princess. “The Legal Councilor told me that almost twelve million of my money was invested into that rotten bank. You will simply give me those twelve million out of your own money. That will be nothing to you–I know that very well!” “Is that all?” said Fräulein ten Brinken. “Are there any more commands, your Highness!” “Many more,” cried the princess. “You will inform Fräulein Gontram that she is to leave your house immediately. She will go with me to my poor daughter. I promised to bring her along the next time I came. Especially now, so she can share the news that this sad misfortune has been made right. It will have a very good effect on the countess–Perhaps a sudden recovery. I won’t reproach Fräulein Gontram in any way over her ungrateful behavior or continue pointing out your own behavior to you. I only wish this affair to be settled immediately.” She fell silent, took a deep breath after the tremendous exertion of her long speech. She took her handkerchief, fanned herself, and wiped the thick drops of sweat that beaded on her bright red face. Alraune stood up briefly, made a slight bow. “Your Highness is too gracious,” she piped. Then she remained quiet. The princess waited awhile, then finally asked, “Well?” “Well?” the Fräulein came back in the same tone of voice. “I’m waiting, –” cried the princess. “So am I, – ” said Alraune. Princess Wolkonski moved back and forth on the divan, whose old springs sagged heavily under her weight. The way she was pressed into her mighty corset, which even now formed the huge masses into some type of shape, made it difficult for her to breath or even move. Her breath came short and unconsciously her thick tongue licked her dry lips. “May I be permitted to have a glass of water brought for you, your Highness?” twittered the Fräulein. She acted as if she had not heard. “What do you intend to do now?” she asked solemnly. Alraune spoke with infinite simplicity, “Absolutely nothing.” The old princess stared at her with round cow eyes, as if she could not comprehend what the young thing meant. She stood up, confused, took a few steps, looked around as if she were searching for something. Frank Braun stood up, took the carafe of water from the table, filled a glass and gave it to her. She drank it greedily. Alraune stood up as well. “I beg to be excused, your Highness,” she said. “May I be permitted to convey your greetings to Fräulein Gontram?” The princess went up to her, seething, full of repressed anger. Now she is going to burst, thought Frank Braun. But she couldn’t find the words, searched in vain for a beginning. “Tell her,” she panted. “Tell her that I never want to lay eyes on her again! She is no better a woman than you are!” She stamped with heavy steps through the hall, gasping, sweating, and waving her mighty arms in the air. Then her glance fell on the open drawer. She saw the necklace that she had once given her Godchild, a gold chain with pearls and set with diamonds around the fiery lock of the mother’s hair. A triumphant look of hatred flew over her bloated features. She quickly tore the necklace out of the drawer. “Do you know what this is?” she screamed. “No,” said Alraune calmly. “I’ve never seen it before.” The princess stepped up right in front of her. “So that scoundrel of a Privy Councilor embezzled it from you– just like him! It was my present to you, Alraune, as my god-child!” “Thank you,” said the Fräulein. “The pearls are very pretty, and the diamonds too–if they are real.” “They are real,” screamed the princess. “Like this hair that I cut from your mother!” She threw the necklace into the Fräulein’s lap. Alraune took the unusual piece of jewelry, weighed it thoughtfully in her hand. “My–mother?” she said slowly. “It appears that my mother had very beautiful hair.” The princess placed herself solidly in front of her, putting both hands solidly on her hips. She was matter of fact, like a washerwoman. “Very beautiful hair,” she laughed. “Very beautiful! So beautiful that all the men ran after her and paid an entire Mark for one night’s sleep with her beautiful hair!” The Fräulein sprang up. The blood drained out of her face in an instant, but she quickly laughed again and said calmly and scornfully: “You are getting old, your Highness, old and childish.” That was the end. Now there was no going back for the princess. She broke loose with ordinary, infinitely vulgar language like a drunken Bordello Madam. She screamed, howled and obscene filth poured out of her mouth. Alraune’s mother was a whore, one of the lowest kind, who gave herself away for a Mark and her father was a miserable rapist and murderer whose name was Noerrissen. She knew all about it. The Privy Councilor had paid the prostitute money and purchased her for his vile experiment, had inseminated her with the semen of the executed criminal. That was how Alraune had been created and she, herself, had injected the loathsome semen into Alraune’s mother. She, Alraune, the stinking fruit of that experiment, was sitting there now–right in front of her!–A murderer’s daughter and a prostitute’s child! That was her revenge. She went out triumphant, with light steps, swollen with the pride of a victory that made her ten years younger. She slammed the door loudly as she closed it. Now it was quiet in the large library. Alraune sat in her chair, a little pale. Her hands played nervously with the necklace, faint movements played around the corners of her mouth. Finally she stood up. “Stupid stuff,” she whispered. She took a few steps, then calmed herself and stepped back up to her cousin. “Is it true, Frank Braun?” she asked. He hesitated a moment, stood up and said slowly: “I believe that it is true.” He stepped over to the writing desk, took up the leather bound volume and handed it to her. “Read this,” he said. She didn’t speak a word, turned to go. “Take this too,” he cried after her and handed her the dice cup that had been fashioned out of her mother’s skull and the dice that had been created out of her father’s bones.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Waking in a glorious resolve, sweat-soaked, he heard fists pounding his door. He stood in the doorway, shirt flapping, blinded by a lantern’s glare. Someone ordered him to rise quickly, speaking of a ladder, ropes, a pickaxe, and a shovel from the tool shed behind the house. It might’ve been Schiereisen. He had to dress; it seemed urgent. When Rotrehl was ready and Schiereisen explained the task, he wasn’t overly surprised. It felt like a continuation of his adventurous dreams, his mind brimming with Cossacks and battle scenes, making him eager to follow. Soon, they descended the hill, armed with ladder, ropes, pickaxe, and shovel, like treasure hunters or conjurers, cloaked in night’s mantle. Stars began to adorn that mantle. Clouds had cleared, and the night grew bright. Warm mist rose from wet grass, spreading a thin, white fog over the meadows. Midnight had long passed; in the east, night’s veils thinned, stars peering large and anxious through dawn’s weave. Light welled from the earth. At her bedroom window, Helmina stood in a gray travel dress, a small handbag ready. She sometimes brushed her forehead, turning to check if the sounds she heard were in her ears and blood or from outside. At times, she thought someone approached along the corridor, pausing at her door. Then she heard breathing—the breath of sleepers, a whole castle asleep while she alone watched, ready to flee. Short, quick breaths stood out, those of children in their beds. For a moment, Helmina distinguished them, then they merged back into the collective slumber’s weave. She made no effort to hear them again. Motherly tenderness was alien to her; her soul knew nothing of it. She preferred solitude, connected to others only through her senses. She stared into a new world, seeking the extraordinary. Was it power, a searing, ruinous, blissful passion? She didn’t know. It flowed darkly within her, driving her, and she yielded without resistance. Sometimes, she felt not herself but part of a cruel force spilling over the world… She stood thus for two hours, staring at the bridge deep in shadow, awaiting the signal. Her mocking lips grew thinner, pressed tighter. Perhaps Fritz Gegely wouldn’t come. Maybe he’d only boasted, shirking the deed, and she’d have to leave without him. He was merely a bridge, but if he failed her, after so many defeats, she’d be utterly crushed. This waiting was unbearable. Lorenz would be furious. Time slipped away; they could’ve been far gone. Half an hour more. Then Helmina must leave, with or without Gegely. But the signal came. On the bridge, an electric lighter flashed thrice, three seconds each, like a firefly. Helmina grabbed her bag, glancing around the room. She left not as a victor… only her hate remained. Cautiously, she stepped out, unlocked a secret door in the corridor, and descended a narrow, musty staircase to the forecourt. It was safer; someone might be on the main stairs. She crept across the courtyard to the gate tower, opening the small door in the large gate. It wouldn’t budge at first, rarely used and swollen. She yanked the lock with all her strength, tearing her delicate gloves. Finally, she slipped out, leaving the door ajar. Gegely stood under the chestnut trees. “Where were you so long?” she asked, furious. “Forgive me… she couldn’t sleep… I had to wait… only a quarter-hour ago…” “Forward!” They were halfway down the castle hill when the gate was flung open. Schiereisen leapt out, followed by Jérome Rotrehl, clutching rope and spade as if someone had thrust them into his hands and fled. Both men’s faces, hands, and clothes were smeared with mud, crusted with clay, speckled with white patches of lime or mortar. Schiereisen saw the two figures vanish into the early morning’s dusk at the chestnut alley’s end. They ran along the road, and soon he heard a sound—a nerve-shredding, whipping noise, the sputter of a car readying to drive. It drummed into the dawn’s silence, like handfuls of peas hurled against this glassy hour. Schiereisen gauged the distance from the alley’s mouth. He sprinted down the hill, first driven to pursue, to halt the fugitives. Near the bottom, he stopped abruptly, planting his feet, fists in his pockets. No—she should flee. The car’s starting roar sounded. Good… it’s right… He finished his descent slowly, regulating his breath with closed lips. On the bridge, the car was gone. He broke into a trot, wanting to confirm who Helmina fled with. The road stretched through the valley, rising in wide curves to the highlands. A steep, direct climb could cut off its loops. Schiereisen plunged into the woods, scrambling between trees, hooking from one to another at steep spots. His lungs expanded, filling his chest, pushing his heart to his throat. Sweat poured from his brow, carving furrows through mud and grime, mixing a sticky paste that tightened his skin. Several times, he felt he couldn’t go on. But his immense resilience drove him, making the impossible possible. He reached the forest’s edge, where he’d first met Helmina, standing in dense shrubs, their dampness cloaking his steaming body. For a moment, all was still, branches swaying softly. Seconds passed. Then the car’s sputter burst in, sudden, as it rounded a sound-catching forest bend. Schiereisen knew he could’ve stopped it— stepping into the road, Browning raised, an effective warrant. But he stayed hidden. The car roared up, shooting around the final curve, snorting, racing uphill at full power… gone ten heartbeats later. Schiereisen saw its occupants clearly: Helmina, Herr Gegely—husband of the sick woman—and Lorenz at the wheel. The detective began his return. Near the house, he met Rotrehl, lugging the gear alone. Seeing his summer guest, the violin-maker stopped, staring. His mind was saturated with the past hours’ events, unable to grasp more. Bewilderment wrapped him in soft veils. He could only shake his head. “Come, Napoleon,” Schiereisen said, taking the ladder. “Don’t think we’ve lost the battle. We’ll sleep a little now. Later, I’ll explain everything.”
Introduction: The Hermetic art transforms the soul’s essence through the “Gross Work,” a manual process of purification. This chapter unveils the practical labor of dissolving and refining the First Matter, guiding the adept to divine light through persistent effort.
The Manual Operation
The Gross Work, as Basil Valentine describes, begins with “operation of the hands,” a diligent labor that purifies the soul’s essence, the First Matter. This manual process, distinct from mere theory, reveals the hidden light within, as the adept dissolves the spirit’s impurities to expose its radiant core. Valentine emphasizes, “Operation shows how all things may be brought to light, while experience confirms the work.”
This labor, though seemingly simple, is arduous, requiring unremitting attention. Unlike mesmerism or chloroform, which temporarily access the spirit, the Hermetic art purifies it through a “linear way” of dissolution, using the hand as the “instrument of instruments” to refine the volatile essence into a stable, divine form.
The Alchemical Dissolution
The purification process, as Albertus Magnus instructs, involves dissolving the “occult Nature” or “Brass” to make it pure, through repeated cycles of dissolution, distillation, and fixation. Lully notes, “The Mercury of philosophers comes not but by ingenuity and manual operation.” This labor transforms the gross, impure spirit into a subtle, penetrating essence, as Vaughan explains: “Nature cannot dissolve herself; she needs sagacious handicraft.”
The adept must overcome the “Brazen Wall” of the soul’s impurities, grinding and refining the spirit to remove its “heterogeneous superfluities.” This work, as Eirenaeus warns, is no mere recreation but a “labor of Hercules,” demanding sweat and perseverance to achieve the divine transformation.
The Path to Divine Light
The Gross Work prepares the soul’s essence for divine light, as Arnold teaches: “Dissolve the Stone in its own Mercury to reduce it to its first Matter.” This process, requiring skill and patience, aligns the adept with divine will, transforming the soul into a radiant vessel. The labor, though tedious, yields a “tinging spirit,” a purified essence that reflects the cosmic harmony, as described in the Rosarium: “Grind, cook, and be not weary.”
Closing: This chapter unveils the Gross Work, the manual purification of 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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