Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment
Chapter 2: A Further Analysis of the Initial Principle, Part 1
Introduction: The Hermetic art unveils the soul’s essence as the divine spark of Wisdom, transforming it into radiant light through alchemical and Kabalistic principles. This section explores the Initial Principle, the source of all being, and its journey from hidden darkness to divine illumination.
The Kabalistic Foundation
The Kabalah, as described in the Zohar, presents a sublime philosophy where all existence emanates from a single, divine source—Wisdom or the Supreme Crown. Before manifestation, this source is the “Unknown,” an imperceptible essence without form or comprehension. When it begins to manifest, it produces a point of light, evolving into the “Ancient of Days,” a radiant unity containing all things. This white light, pure as a diamond, awakens the soul to divine life, nourishing it like manna in a sacred field.
This vision aligns with biblical imagery: the Apocalypse’s “White Stone” and the snowy glory of the Son of Man. Only those who experientially know themselves can recognize this truth, as the worldly mind is blinded by illusion. The Kabalah’s simplicity reveals the soul’s essence as the foundation of all creation, a spark of divine light hidden in darkness.
The Alchemical Transformation
Alchemists, like Paracelsus, describe this essence as a universal substance, white and pure, where all diversity originates without confusion. Sendivogius calls it the “Water of Life,” a non-wetting vapor as white as snow, while Eirenaeus names it the “Mercury of Philosophers,” a vital essence capable of creation. This substance, though hidden in all things, requires purification to shine forth. As Lucerna Salis states, “Govern your fire carefully, and your matter will whiten like snow, completing the white elixir.”
This transformation mirrors the soul’s journey in the mysteries: from chaotic darkness to radiant clarity. The soul, initially veiled, becomes a “crystalline diaphaneity” through alchemical art, revealing the divine spark within, as seen in myths of Aeneas’ transformation or the Phoenix’s rebirth.
The Divine Essence Unveiled
Boehme describes this essence as a “cloud or darkness” condensed into water, containing all things—celestial and terrestrial. This “Tincture,” a virgin spirit, is the source of growth in all nature, hidden yet manifest, powerful yet passive. It flees from impurity but meets those who seek it with faith. Dionysius calls it the “divine darkness,” incomprehensible yet visible, the true essence that births all creation.
This Initial Principle, the soul’s divine spark, is the Hermetic art’s foundation. Through reason and faith, it is drawn from its abyss, transforming into a radiant vessel of eternal light, uniting the soul with its divine source in harmonious love.
Closing: This chapter unveils the Initial Principle as the soul’s divine spark, purified into radiant light through Kabalistic and alchemical art. The journey into its practical revelation deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred practice.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
IX.
Olga was very surprised when Falk entered.
“Yes, you see, dear Olga, what the devil led you to live above a restaurant? One can come to you at any time of day or night without claiming the help of a night watchman. And below the detectives can set up their camp. He, he—I have a little persecution mania. Suddenly I believe I see a police agent in every person.”
He laughed nervously.
“I even believe that I asked some person who asked if he had the honor to speak with Falk, just think: the great honor to speak with Falk…”
He suddenly stopped.
“You, Olga, I am probably really sick. Just think, I asked the person if he wanted to arrest me…”
Olga laughed, but then looked at Falk worriedly.
“You are really sick. Is your chest bothering you again?” Falk thought deeply.
“I was namely with Czerski,” he said suddenly and looked at her. “What? You with Czerski?”
“That surprises you? He, he, but that was your fault. Didn’t you perhaps believe that I sent the money to get rid of him? And if you believed that, he had to believe it even more. And so I went to him to ask him to go to Isa immediately to free me from the lie… By the way, we parted as friends. The whole time we philosophized very beautifully about the overman, and there I found out that you and he are the only overmen, perhaps there are a few others, a few medics with principles…”
“Did you come to mock me?” She looked at him sadly. “By the way, I didn’t believe for a second that you could send the money out of cowardice, and I thank you also for the honor that you hold me for an overman. I don’t need it, I just want to remain human, simply human.”
“Wonderful answer! Splendid answer. No, really seriously. That is what I should have become too.”
“I didn’t say ‘become,’ but ‘remain.'” He looked at her seriously.
“Yes you—you and Czerski. But I, I would first have to become human to remain human.”
Olga looked at him almost angrily.
“I find your self-accusations and your morbid pleasure in humiliating and slandering yourself quite unbearable. It almost seems to me as if the love brought to you is repugnant to you, and as if you wanted to destroy it in this way.”
“Yes, that is what I want,” he suddenly cried out raging. “That is what I want! You prevent me from being what I am, a scoundrel, a rascal, ha, ha, ha… no, to thunder no scoundrel! Ridiculous! You prevent me from being evil, yes, great in evil, to create through evil. I despise your creating goodness because it always takes the path into evil. Yes, now I feel for the first time how contemptible your goodness and your love is. And I stupid donkey, I run around to all of you and beg you for forgiveness. Why?”
He fell exhausted and stared at Olga.
“Why do you look at me so startled? I am furious at myself because I talked too much with Czerski. I bowed before this person… But it only came in the fever… If only I get well first: I have thought up a hellish plan… You will see, the whole plan is thought out and worked out to the finest detail… I swear to you that I will ruin the whole mining association, he, he, it is a company of twenty million, in ten months at the latest…”
He suddenly started triumphantly.
“I will do that together with Czerski… We are now friends. He is the only person with whom I can do it together. He has suffered horribly. I examined whether he had not got white hair. One gets that namely when one suffers so much. But do you know, Olga, go down and get a bottle of cognac. I am a little sick. Go, go, here you have money; I want to speak with you very long. I want to begin a new life. I will follow Czerski. Czerski is a Christ. He is the purest person—yes, he and you…”
Falk fell into the sofa and brooded. Olga got the cognac. He drank a full glass.
“Strange how that helps. It is really no imagination, but on my organism cognac works enormously stimulating. I probably cannot die at all, for I overcome every illness with cognac.”
He was silent and sank into thoughts.
“You, Olga, you have probably tormented yourself very much because of me?” he asked suddenly.
She did not answer.
“It is bad of me that I keep you near me, but I cannot do without your love, it seems to me as if I would become a new person in your presence.”
“And yet you seek to destroy this love.”
“No, no, you are mistaken,” he said eagerly. “I only get such fear that I could lose it and then I become so desperate—yes, really desperate,” he added slowly.
They were silent for a long time.
He rose in sudden unrest and walked back and forth.
“Tell me, Olga, have you ever had the feeling that the world is going under? I namely have the feeling suddenly now. It is not the first time. It comes often, and more and more often, yes—perhaps since a year. Hm, it is possible that it is only a ridiculous suggestion from somewhere… I have seen too much misery in the last time. One can namely really get that through suggestion, I think. It lies in the environment, in the air, one reads it off some face… When I was still a student, several of us often came together… we were probably six people… There were hideous debaucheries. We also drank very much. Then suddenly a person got terrible cramps in the middle of drinking. Now imagine: there was a fellow, a jurist, strong as a spruce in the primeval forest. But he sees the one writhing in cramps there, he gets a mad fright and falls into cramps himself… A third begins to scream as in death agony, not like a human, no, they were horrible, animal screams that tore the nerves out of the body… I don’t know what would have happened if the people from the whole house had not run together…”
Falk dried the sweat from his forehead and became pale as a corpse.
“Listen Olga. I must tell you this. It torments me, and I have no person to whom I can say this… I actually don’t know why I should tell you this…”
He looked at her silently. She took his hand. He seemed to suffer horribly.
“Yes, tell me, perhaps it will relieve you.” Falk looked at the floor.
“I namely killed a child…” “What?” Olga started.
“Yes, a girl of sixteen years… I didn’t kill her directly, but—” he looked Olga fixedly in the eyes.
A long pause.
“Tell, tell everything!” Olga collected herself. “You won’t despise me?”
“No!” she said harshly.
“For a whole week I worked on the destruction of this white, pure soul.”
“And you were married?” “Yes.”
He was silent and looked at her fixedly again. Sweat broke out on his forehead again, and his lips trembled.
“It was a thunderstorm, she was alone at home, and then she gave herself to me. I don’t know much more then. I only know that I went home in unspeakable torment, that lightning struck around me, I remember a willow that suddenly stood in flames and fell apart, then I became sick and lay unconscious for a long time.”
“Then you probably did it in the fever?” “No! I got the fever afterwards.”
“And she?”
“She drowned herself the next day when I told her that I was married.”
A long, painful pause ensued.
“I didn’t think much about it. I remember that for a whole year after her death I thought very little about it. But suddenly, when I came here from Paris a year ago, I met her father on the street. He was probably driving with his sick wife to the spa. They were also at the spa then, and there I seduced little Marit…”
Falk got an attack of tormenting fear, his breath stopped and the fever began to rage in him again. He spoke quickly and softly.
“I met him suddenly on the street, then I got a jerk as if struck by lightning. I stood as if nailed, I could not have moved if the sky should collapse over me…”
He laughed hoarsely.
“Yes, naturally, then even less… But I saw the old man, he stared at me as if he wanted to kill me with his gaze. I wanted to look away, but I could not… He had become quite white…”
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Eight Details how Alraune became Mistress of the House of Brinken. WHEN Alraune once more returned to the house on the Rhine that was sacred to St. Nepomuk the Privy Councilor ten Brinken was seventy-six years old. But that was only calendar age. There was no weakness or even the smallest amount of pain to remind him of it. He felt warm and sunny in the old village that was now threatened to be seized by the growing fingers of the city. He hung like a fat spider in the strong web of his power as it extended out in all directions and he felt a light titillation at Alraune’s home coming. She would be a welcome plaything for his whims and equally amusing bait that should entice many more stupid flies and moths into his web. When Alraune came she didn’t appear that much different to the old man than she had been as a child. He studied her for a long time as she sat in front of him in the library and found nothing that reminded him of her father or her mother. The young girl was petite, pretty, slender, narrow-chested and not yet developed. Her figure was like that of a boy’s as were her quick, somewhat awkward movements. He thought she looked like a doll, only her head was not a doll’s head at all. Her cheekbones protruded, her pale thin lips stretched over her little teeth. But her hair fell rich and full, not red like her mother’s, but heavy and chestnut brown like that of Frau Josefe Gontram, thought the Privy Councilor. Then it occurred to him that it had been in that house where the idea of Alraune first originated. He squinted over across where she still sat, observing her critically like a picture, watching her, searching for memories– Yes, her eyes, they opened wide under saucy thin eyebrows that arched across her smooth narrow forehead. They looked cool and derisive and yet at times soft and dreamy, grass green, hard as steel– like the eyes of his nephew Frank Braun. The professor shoved out his broad lower lip. That particular discovery did not please him at all– Then he shrugged his shoulders, why shouldn’t the youth who had first conceived of her not share this with her? It was little enough and very dearly bought considering the round millions that this quiet girl had taken from him– “You have bright eyes,” he said. She only nodded. He continued, “And your hair is beautiful. Wölfchen’s mother had hair like that.” Then Alraune said, “I’m going to cut it off.” The Privy Councilor commanded, “You will not do that, do you hear?” But when she came to the evening meal her hair was cut. She looked like a page, her locks falling in curls around her boy’s head. “Where is your hair?” he cried at her. Calmly she said, “Here.” She showed him a large cardboard box. In it lay the shiny meter long bundles of hair. He began, “Why did you cut it off?–Because I forbid it?–Out of defiance then?” Alraune smiled, “No, not at all. I would have done it anyway.” “Then why?” he enquired. She picked up the box and took out the seven long bundles. Each one was tied and wrapped with a golden cord and there was a little card attached to it. There were seven names on these seven cards, Emma, Marguèrite, Louison, Evelyn, Anna, Maud and Andrea. “Are those your school friends?” He asked. “You cut your hair off to send them a keepsake? You foolish child.” He was angry at this unexpected teenage sentimentalism. It didn’t appeal to him at all. He had imagined the girl much more mature and cold-blooded. She looked straight at him, “No,” she said. “I don’t care about them at all–only”–she hesitated– “Only what?” urged the professor. “Only,” she began again. “Only they should cut their hair off too!” “Why should they?” cried the old man. Then Alraune laughed, “–cut their hair completely off! Much more than I have, right down to the scalp. I’ll write them that I have cut my hair right to the scalp–and then they must do it as well!” “They wouldn’t be that stupid,” he threw back. “Oh yes they will,” she insisted. “I told them that we should all cut our hair off and they promised they would if I did it first. But I forgot all about it and only remembered again when you spoke of my hair.” The Privy Councilor laughed at her, “People promise all kinds of things–but they won’t do them. You alone are the fool.” Then she raised herself up from her chair and came up close to the old man. “Yes they will,” she whispered hotly. “They will do it. They know very well that I will rip their hair out myself if they don’t–They are afraid of me, even when I’m not there.” Stirred up and trembling slightly with emotion she stood there in front of him. “Are you that certain they will do it?” he asked. She answered with conviction, “Yes, absolutely certain.” Then the same certainty grew in him as well and he didn’t even wonder why. “So why did you do it then?” he asked. In an instant she was transformed. All her strangeness had disappeared and she was once more just a moody and capricious child. “Well,” she laughed shortly and her little hands stroked the full bundles of hair. “Well, you see–it’s like this. It hurts me, this heavy hair, and I sometimes get headaches from it. I also know that short hair looks good on me but it doesn’t look good on them at all. The senior class of Mademoiselle de Vynteelen will look like a monkey house! The other students will scream at them and call them fools and Mademoiselle will scold them. The new Miss and the Fräulein will scream at them and scold them as well.” She clapped her hands together laughing brightly with glee. “Will you help me?” she asked. “How should I send them?” The Privy Councilor said, “Individually, as samples of no value and have them registered.” She nodded, “Alright, that’s what I will do!” During the evening meal she described to him how the girls would look without their hair. The tall rangy Evelyn Clifford had thin straight light blonde hair and full-blooded Louison always wore her brown hair pinned up turban style. Then there were the two Rodenberg Countesses, Anna and Andrea. Their long curly locks encircled their hard bony Westfalen skulls. “With all their hair gone,” she laughed, “they will look like Meerkats! Everyone will laugh when they see them.” They went back to the library. The Privy Councilor helped her get the things she needed, got her cardboard boxes, twine, sealing wax and postage stamps. Then he smoked his cigar, chewing half of it while watching her write her letters, seven little letters to seven girls in Spa. The old family crest of the Brinkens was on the top of each letter, John of Nepomuk, patron Saint and protector against floods, was in the upper field, below was a silver heron fighting with a serpent–The heron was the heraldic animal of the Brinkens. He looked at her and a faint itch crept over his old skin. Old memories began to grow in him, lustful thoughts of half-grown boys and girls–She, Alraune, was both a boy and a girl. Moist spittle dribbled down from his fleshy lips, soaking into the black Havana. He squinted over at her, eager and full of trembling desire. In that minute he understood what it was that attracted people to this slender petite creature like the little fish that swim after the bait and don’t see the hook. But he could see the sharp hook very well and thought he knew a way to avoid the hook and still consume the sweet morsel– Wolf Gontram worked at the Privy Councilor’s office in the city. His foster father had taken him out of school after one year and stuck him in a bank as an apprentice. There he had forgotten everything he had so laboriously learned at school. He settled into his job and did just what was demanded of him. Then when his apprenticeship came to an end he went to the Privy Councilor’s office to work as a secretary. It was a strange business, being a secretary for his Excellency. Karl Mohnen, Ph.D. four times over, was office manager and his old boss found him useful enough. He still went through life looking for the right person to get married to. Wherever he went he made new acquaintances and hung out with the new set. But it never led to anything. His hair was long gone but his nose was still as good as always–he was always sniffing around for something, a woman for himself or a business opportunity for the Privy Councilor–and he was good at it. A couple of accountants kept the books in order well enough to keep things going and there was a room that bore the sign “Legal Business”. Legal Councilor Gontram and Herr Manasse, who had not yet been promoted to Legal Councilor, sometimes spent an hour in it. They took care of the Privy Councilor’s ample lawsuits as they handsomely multiplied. Manasse took the hopeful ones that would end in a victory and the old Legal Councilor took the bad ones, prolonging them and postponing them until finally bringing them to an acceptable compromise. Dr. Mohnen had his own office as well. Wolf Gontram sat in this office as his protégé and he sought to educate the boy in his own way.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Oh,” Schiereisen resisted, “I can’t just, unannounced…” “Yes, you can,” Ruprecht laughed, “come on.” He took Schiereisen’s arm, ushering him out. Downstairs, Rotrehl and Rauß stepped out the door. Rotrehl bowed stiffly; Rauß glared at Ruprecht, his gaze a mix of scorn and fanatical hate. Ruprecht untied his horse from the fence, walking beside Schiereisen down the hill. The village below began ringing noon. The sound arched grandly, brazenly over the valley, rising into the sunlight, fading among spring sky’s lamb-white clouds. Again and again, it swelled upward, resonant and brazen, filling the world. “It’ll end,” Rauß said venomously. “All this—the ringing, praying, processions, banners… until workers’ battalions march, thundering over the earth, and the proletariat sweeps away all that didn’t heed in time. No capital, no titles, no ‘Herr von’… all must go… him down there too…” Rotrehl gave no reply, staring skyward, as if chasing the newspaper slogans’ flutter. “You, Krampulljon,” Rauß said, grabbing Rotrehl’s collar, “don’t dawdle. Join us. You’re a proletarian too, even with your little house. We must stand against exploiters. Farmers are too dumb to see it. Who do those cider-heads toil for? After taxes and usurers’ interest, what’s left? Barely enough to live. And the gentry fund church banners! In our time… instead of pensions or hospitals… or roads… We’ll make ‘em pay. That banner’ll cost ‘em dear.” Rotrehl shook his Napoleonic head. “I’m not for such things. Leave me out. I’m neither for banners nor proletarians. I don’t belong here… my French blood…” “Keep your French blood,” Rauß roared, furious. “Let it sour, your French blood… you… clown.” He seemed ready to punch Rotrehl but thought better, yanked his cap’s brim forward, spat left and right, and stormed off. Rotrehl stood petrified, unable to move. What was this, when people disrespected even bloodlines? Where was the world headed? He’d never faced such a thing. Regaining himself, he fumbled for his pipe with trembling hands, stuffed it, and lit it. After a few puffs, he forgot to smoke, the pipe dangling limply between his teeth… Slowly, he entered his room, stood before Napoleon’s lithograph, and searched its features anxiously, fearing it had heard the blasphemy. Frau Helmina had fun with the lunch guest Ruprecht brought. She recognized the comical man who’d leapt before her carriage from the woods. A scholar straight from a caricature—ponderously formal, his clumsy solemnity failing to hide his insecurity. His meticulous shoe-cleaning before entering a room was a spectacle. He clung to carpets, dreading bare floors. When introduced, Helmina slyly noted they’d already met, making Schiereisen blush and stammer apologies. She let him flounder, offering no help, her smiling silence relentless. Ruprecht stepped in—he didn’t want the man crushed. Something drew him to this simple soul, a liking, a wish to connect with someone he could talk to. Trust began to sprout. At the table, Helmina watched her guest’s anxious care to avoid blunders. He glanced left and right, touching no utensil until he saw its use. Lorenz and old Johann served. Lorenz kept his iron mask; Johann, too well-bred, hid his recognition. Schiereisen nodded awkwardly at Johann, unsure if he should acknowledge the tie. A prime specimen, Helmina thought. After the meal, Ruprecht showed the Celt scholar his library, between the study and the Indian temple. Schiereisen came alive, rifling books, climbing ladders to upper shelves, rummaging eagerly, red- faced, muttering a monologue more for himself than Ruprecht. He splashed in tomes and folios like a fish in water, visibly at ease. Ruprecht watched, smiling. “Hope you find something useful,” he said. “Come whenever you like. Use the library freely. Take your time.” After an hour, Schiereisen, sweat-soaked and spent, collapsed onto a chair by a stacked pile of books. “Yes—I must come often. There are splendid old things here…” “I believe Count Moreno laid the library’s foundation. Some of his collection likely remains.” “Is this the Moreno crest?” Schiereisen asked, opening a dusty copperplate volume with a stamp on its first page. “Yes… Herr Dankwardt was keen on Indian philosophy. That’s my interest too. I know the land and try to understand it, though I’m just a dilettante. Here’s the Indian temple he set up.” Schiereisen followed Ruprecht into the adjacent room, inspecting everything with polite attention, but his heart wasn’t in it. It clung to ancient Celts, leaving no room for other peoples. As Ruprecht explained, animating painted landscapes and odd artifacts with memories, Jana entered, reporting a messenger from a distant farm with urgent news. His gaze shifted from his master to the guest. Ah, Schiereisen thought. The Malay, the Indian, as they call him. He saved his master once. I’d know what he knows. That look—like a wary dog, sizing up anyone near. He’s guarding his lord. Ruprecht excused himself for the pressing matter, leaving with Jana. Schiereisen darted back to the library, diving into his books. Dust swirled in small clouds. He searched the shelves again. Earlier, behind the hefty Theatrum Europaeum, he’d spotted a slim booklet, the most vital of all. It outshone every weighty Celtic tome. He’d nudged it out slightly to find it later. It was a manuscript, neatly bound in red leather, adorned with baroque gold-pressed arabesques. The first page held a watercolor view of Vorderschluder Castle, sober but precise. The second bore the title: Singular and Curious Description of the High-Count Moreno’s Castle at Vorderschluder, Particularly of All Hidden Passages, Stairs, Rooms, Secret Doors, and Other Noteworthy Features, Compiled and Brought to Light on the Occasion of His High-Count Grace Louis Juan de Mereus’s Fiftieth Birthday by Adam Zeltelhuber, Count’s Tutor, 1681. A seventeenth-century tutor’s work. Schiereisen owed Zeltelhuber gratitude. Honor his memory! He couldn’t resist a quick peek. The text included neat plans and cross-sections, marked with letters and measurements, foolproof. A priceless find. Hearing steps, Schiereisen slipped the booklet into his breast pocket. Ruprecht found the Celt scholar amid thick folios, wreathed in century-old scholarly dust.
Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment
Chapter 1: The Experimental Method and Fermentation, Part 7
Introduction: The Hermetic art purifies the soul’s essence through a fiery battle of transformation, emerging as divine light in the “Bath of Diana.” This section unveils the alchemical process of dissolving illusions to reveal the soul’s radiant quintessence, a sacred union of spirit and matter.
The Bath of Diana
The alchemical process, symbolized as the “Bath of Diana,” emerges from the soul’s inner conflict, where the pure spirit rises from chaos. Eirenaeus describes the soul’s essence as “Mercury,” a dry water flowing with secret fire, distinct from common mercury. This vital essence, akin to all metals, holds the potential for divine creation but lies dormant until purified. Through art, the adept reduces its impurities, uniting it with “true sulphur” to revive it as a healing essence—the philosopher’s stone.
This transformation, like Aeneas bathing in the river Numitius or Midas in the Pactolus, washes away mortality to reveal divine radiance. Myths of Adonis’ blood turning into roses or Medea’s herbs reviving Jason symbolize this rebirth, where the soul’s chaotic nature is refined into a “crystal fountain” of eternal light.
The Green Lion’s Triumph
The soul’s purification requires confronting its “original sin,” a rebellious force alchemists call the “Green Lion” or “Typhon.” This impure essence, though necessary, must be subdued through dissolution. Hermes instructs, “Remove the cloud from the water, the blackness from the sulphur, and death from the dross.” Maria adds, “This poison, resolved into subtle water, coagulates into pure silver.” The process mirrors heroic myths: Hercules burning on his pyre or the Phoenix rising from ashes, transforming the soul into a radiant, incombustible spirit.
Synesius declares, “The quintessence of our stone is the glorious soul, drawn from its mine by our art, engendering itself.” This radiant essence, the “sparkling firmament,” eclipses all but divine reason, uniting the soul with its source in a harmonious dance of love.
The Alchemical Miracle
This sacred art reveals a “spring of wealth,” a “Tree of Life” that heals all griefs. The soul, once trapped in Saturn’s prison, emerges as a vapor shining like pearls, a divine spark transcending earthly limits. Helvetius marvels, “This mystery, found in Jehovah’s center, is the miracle of the world.” The alchemical process, blending reason and divine fire, transforms the soul into a vessel of eternal light, as myths of Apollo, Pegasus, and the Hesperides’ gardens illustrate the soul’s ascent to divine perfection.
Closing: This section unveils the Hermetic art’s purification through the Bath of Diana, transforming the soul into divine light. The journey into Kabalistic insights deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred practice.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
VIII
In the hallway he suddenly remembered that he had met a spy earlier. He lit a match, looked around everywhere, but he could discover no one.
Perhaps he had been mistaken, or, yes—perhaps a persecution mania was beginning to develop… He felt cold shivers run down his back. That was probably the fever again.
He walked and walked without knowing where he actually wanted to go. He thought.
Home? What for? To see people who tormented him through their love? No! He wanted no more love. That was repugnant to him. He could not see that. Everything came only from being loved. He had the cursed little pity for the few people who loved him. His heart was narrow, his interests were petty and yet he was born for something great. That is why his other, his great soul now took revenge, which kissed Czerski’s hand in ecstasy, naturally only to shame the small Falk.
But he did not let himself be shamed. What should he actually be ashamed of? Ha, ha, ha…
Then a dull, sick melancholy befell him, he stopped and looked thoughtfully at the ground.
A new life? No, he no longer had the strength for that; it would probably not be better than it is now. No, no; better that it ended.
Isa? Isa? Between him and her stood her past life: the other who separated them was always there…
He groaned.
And how much happiness she could have given him!
No, nonsense! Ridiculous that he sought a reason in that. He was simply falling apart. His psychic constitution was not calculated for all these experiences, it was too fine and crumbled under all this brutality.
What did he actually want in life anymore?
His art? He, he… I was an artist… I had to create because I had to. And I created. But suddenly in the middle of writing the idea overcomes me, what for? I see the people before me, I see the whole world that I let arise and I suddenly find all that so terribly ridiculous. And I ask you, dear Czerski, how can one create then?! For that one needs faith too, and perhaps another faith, the faith in posterity…
He laughed loudly.
Oh, he would gladly give the whole posterity together with the whole present to the first best servant for his bit of animal happiness, yes the whole world, the coming and the past and a piece more…
Humanity? To make it happy? But then one must also make it knowing at the same time… Why not rather let humans return to the animal: the knowing human cannot become happy.
A splendid reply! I should have answered that to Czerski. He stopped again.
What did he say? He had written to Stefan?
A paralyzing fright shot through his limbs. Written to Stefan… He had not understood it at first, he only heard the words… He now felt an unheard-of desire to go to Czerski and smash him with his fists, to twist his neck.
But in the next moment he had forgotten his rage. Only a feeling of trembling fear whipped the blood back into his heart. He breathed heavily and became very weak.
He walked on, but something heavy weighed on his chest as if a world had fallen down on him.
So it could by God not go on. That would destroy him completely. And he had to live, he had to become happy for Isa’s sake.
A strange energy poured into his brain. He began to walk with large steps and thought of her glory—yes, sun-like glory… Oh, if he had lived millions of years, they would still have shrunk into the second in which he looked into her eyes for the first time, so he would have spread over the whole world, so he would still have crept into this one glance, the one long glance of her love…
He, he—that was thought very beautifully, very beautifully… He started.
The disgusting picture rose in him again: she in a foreign embrace…
He crouched anxiously. Only that not, no, no!
He caught himself beginning to whistle a street melody. He had to become calm.
Yes, quite calm.
Right! A cigarette. Naturally, naturally. He stopped.
What time could it be now? Well, not yet half past ten. Yes, then… he lit the cigarette deliberately—then I could perhaps go to Olga… Chat a bit about humanity, about ideals… She is so good, and I need so much goodness…
Suddenly a strange idea fixed itself in his brain. He felt surrounded by detectives, perhaps in the next moment he would be arrested…
His fear grew foaming, he was so dazed by it that he could not think. He suddenly became so certain. The certainty that he would be arrested in the next moment brought him to despair.
He looked cautiously in all directions. It was dark on the street, he could not see well. There suddenly: not far from him stood a man. Falk trembled, but collected himself immediately and began to consider. Naturally it was a detective, only how should he get rid of him? He turned around, walked past him and looked at him sharply. The other seemed not to notice Falk and walked on.
Falk laughs scornfully.
This ridiculous trick! naturally only to lull me into security and suddenly appear in the decisive moment.
What should he do now?
Get into a cab? But what would that help?
He entered a restaurant, ordered beer and took a newspaper in front of him.
Immediately after him a man entered, sat down opposite him and observed him, as it seemed to Falk, with a strange impudence.
Falk looked away from his newspaper a few times, but each time their eyes met.
It was unbearable. A wild despair seized him, he threw the newspaper away, sat down broadly and began to examine the stranger scornfully.
Suddenly his heart stopped.
The stranger rose and walked toward him. Falk jumped up.
But the person doesn’t look like a spy at all. He is quite anxious and humble, it shot through his head.
“I have the honor to speak with Herr Falk?”
“Do you want to arrest me? Then not here, come to the street.”
Falk trembled and supported himself on the table.
The stranger looked at him astonished. Their eyes met in a long, questioning glance.
“I did not understand you,” the stranger finally said. Falk came to his senses and rubbed his forehead.
“Are you following me?”
“No! I met you by chance, quite by chance, I live nearby. I did seek you though, I wanted to speak with you.”
Was the man lying, did he want to lure him into a trap?
“So you have no direct arrest warrant? Well, if you want to speak with me, come to me.” Falk laughed scornfully. “I am not in the mood for such conversations now. Isn’t that so? You want something about my participation in the strike? He, he, come to me, then we will talk about it…”
Falk had to sit down, his heart beat so violently, his head was bursting full of blood.
The stranger looked at him with growing astonishment, but Falk stood up, paid and went.
On the street he breathed a sigh of relief. The whole scene suddenly seemed to him a few years distant in his thoughts. It seemed to him as if he had survived a danger…
He, he—that was strange, but everything in life is strange. What is not strange? he asked with a sick smile. He felt his facial muscles distort. What is not strange? Ha, ha, ha… The fear the man had of me. Naturally it was no spy. Absolutely no spy. Perhaps a person I saw somewhere once in society, with whom I even drank brotherhood; perhaps I told him that he was the most splendid person on earth, perhaps I told him that he was my only friend, the first person I met in my life.
Falk laughed long, almost convulsively.
To whom have I not said that? Is there a single person to whom I have not said that?
Ha, ha, ha; now the fellow will run around the whole city and tell that he met Falk in a quite neglected state, Falk was quite confused and spoke crazy talk… Ha, ha, ha…
He suddenly remembered that he wanted to go to Olga. He was quite nearby.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
It wasn’t long before she received her deserved punishment for denying her good mother. By the next day Alraune had already told all the students about her mother’s cheese shop and it cost a lot of effort to again win back the respect which she lost throughout the Institute. But things were much worse for Alraune’s schoolmates then they were for the instructors. There was not one student in the entire school that had not suffered because of her. Strangely enough it appeared that every new bit of mischief seemed to make her even more popular. She made a point to sacrifice everyone that appeared to stand against her until they were all on her side. She was more popular than any of the other girls. Fräulein Becker reported some of the worst cases to the Privy Councilor and they were mentioned in the leather volume. Blanche de Banville had just returned from vacation with her parents in Picardy. The hot-blooded fourteen-year-old had fallen head over heels in love with her cousin who was the same age as she was. She wrote to him from Spa as well and he answered, addressing her letters B.d.B., hold at post office until claimed by addressee. Then he must have found something better to do with his time, in any case no more letters came. Both Alraune and little Louison knew about her secret. Naturally Blanche was very unhappy and cried through entire nights. Louison sat with her and tried to comfort her. But Alraune declared that it was wrong to console her, her cousin had been unfaithful and betrayed her. Now Blanche needed to die of unrequited love. That was the only way to repay her false lover and make things right. Then for the rest of his life he would be tormented by the furies. She knew several famous stories where it had been like that. Blanche was agreeable to the dying part but it did not go well. Food always tasted good to her despite her great pain. That’s when Alraune declared that if Blanche couldn’t die of a broken heart she must find some other way to bring it about. She recommended a dagger or a pistol–but they didn’t have either one. Blanche could not be persuaded to jump out the window, push a hatpin into her heart or hang herself. She just wanted to swallow something, nothing else. Soon Alraune had some new advice. There was a bottle of Lysol in Mlle. de Vynteelen’s medicine chest–Louison must steal it. Unfortunately there was only a little bit left in the bottle so Louison had to scratch the phosphorus heads off a couple boxes of matches as well. Blanche wrote several farewell letters, one to her parents, the principal and her traitorous lover. Then she drank the Lysol and swallowed the matchheads–They both tasted horrible enough. Just to be certain Alraune had her swallow three packets of needles–She herself, by the way, was not present at this suicide attempt. She had gone to her room under the pretence of being a lookout after Blanche had sworn on the crucifix to follow her instructions exactly. That evening little Louison sat on the bed with her friend. Crying miserably she handed over first the Lysol, then the match heads and finally the packets of needles. Blanche became very ill from these threefold poisons and was soon writhing and screaming in pain. Louison screamed with her and their screams roared through the entire house. Then she ran out of the room and fetched the Head Mistress and the teachers yelling that Blanche was dying. Blanche de Banville did not die. A capable doctor quickly gave her an effective emetic that brought the Lysol, phosphorus and needle packets back up again. Still, one of the needle packets had opened up in her stomach and a half dozen needles had gotten loose. They wandered through her body and in the course of her life came out again in all kinds of places painfully reminding the little suicide of her first love. Blanche lay in bed sick for a long time and had a lot of pain. It appeared that she had been punished enough. Everyone sympathized with her, was good to her and granted her slightest wish. She wished for nothing else but that her two friends that had helped her, Alraune and little Louison, not be punished. She pleaded and begged for so long that the principal finally promised. That was why Alraune was not thrown out of the school. Then it was Hilde Aldekerk’s turn. She loved the Berlin style cakes that were sold in the German confectionery at Place Royal. She claimed she could eat twenty. Alraune bet that she couldn’t polish off thirty. Whoever lost the bet had to pay for the cakes. Hilde Aldekerk won–but she got so sick that she had to stay in bed fourteen days. “Glutton,” said Alraune ten Brinken. “It serves you right!” From that point on the only thing all the little girls called fat, round Hilda was “Glutton”. She howled about it for awhile but then got used to her new nickname and finally became one of Alraune’s most faithful companions, just like Blanche de Banville. Fräulein Becker reported that Alraune had only one time been seriously punished at the school and strangely enough, unjustly. On a full moon night the French teacher stumbled out of her room terrified. She woke the entire household with her screams and yelled that a white ghost was sitting on the balustrade of her balcony. No one would go into her room until they finally woke up the porter who armed himself with a club and went inside. The ghost turned out to be Alraune who was sitting there in her white night gown and staring with wide-open eyes into the moon. She could not say how she got there. The principal took the playing ghost as a very bad prank. Only much later did it come out that the girl had been seen on several different occasions sleep walking under the influence of the full moon. Interestingly enough Alraune accepted this unjust punishment–to copy a chapter out of “Tèlèmaque”–without protest and conscientiously carried it out on a free afternoon. She would have most certainly rebelled and resisted any just punishment. Fräulein Becker concluded, “I fear that your Excellency will not experience much joy from your daughter in the future.” The Privy Councilor replied, “That might well be, but up to now I believe that I am very well satisfied with her.” He did not let Alraune come home for vacation the last two years. Instead he permitted her to travel with her school friends, once to Scotland with Maude McPherson, then with Blanche to her parents in Paris and finally with the two Rodenburgs to their family estate in Münster. He didn’t have any reports from these episodes in Alraune’s life and could only imagine how she occupied herself during these vacations. It was a satisfaction to him to think of how this creature he had created extended her influence outward in ever expanding circles. In the newspaper he read that during the summer in which Alraune was at Boltenhagen the green and white colors of the old Count Rodenberg did exceedingly well at the track and his stud brought in a considerable winnings. He also learned that Mlle. de Vynteelen had received an unexpected inheritance that placed her in the position of needing to close the school so she didn’t take any new students and only kept her old students until they graduated. He attributed both of these things to the presence of Alraune and was half convinced that she brought gold into the other houses she had stayed at, the convent in Nancy, at Reverend McPherson in Edinburgh and the home of the Banvilles on Haussmann Boulevarde. She had made good threefold on her little deviltries. He felt that all these people ought to feel gratitude to his child, this strange girl that went abroad out into the world bringing gifts and strewing roses upon the life paths of all those that had the fortune to meet her. He laughed as it occurred to him that those roses also had sharp thorns capable on inflicting many beautiful wounds as well. “By the way,” he asked Fräulein Becker. “How are things going with your dear mother?” “Why thank you for asking, your Excellency,” she answered. “Mother can’t complain. Her business has grown considerably better during the last few years!” “Really,” said the Privy Councilor and he gave orders that all cheeses, the Emmenthall, Roquefort, Chester and old Höllander, from now on were to be purchased from Frau Becker on Münster Street.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Rotrehl sat by, marveling at the professor’s insatiable curiosity. Like all city folk, he pried into things that weren’t his business. After Johann left, Rotrehl muttered toward the window, “The air’s bad at that castle. I told him, Herr von Boschan, I told him.” Outside, the castle glowed in the evening sun, a thin blood-red cloud drifting over the old tower. Beyond, an apple-green, silken sky shimmered, alive with spring’s voices. When Rotrehl tried to steer conversation to skull measurements and facial features after such visits, he had little luck. Schiereisen gave distracted replies and soon retreated upstairs. Annoyed, Rotrehl locked his door and read late into the night in his French cookbook under Napoleon’s stern, commanding gaze. A week had passed since Schiereisen’s first encounter with Ruprecht. He hadn’t yet visited the castle, forging hooks and sharpening arrows, waiting to fill his quiver. Herr von Boschan, returning from a tenant farm, rode slowly through the woods. Spring stormed the world, unstoppable. All was steeped in blissful yearning. The sky kissed the earth, and the wide earth pressed toward it, longing. Ruprecht’s horse was tamed earth-force. He felt one with the land through it, clasping this young, vibrant world between his thighs. He was lord and victor, a wild zest for life singing in his heart. This battle with a demon was glorious. Compared to past exploits, what matched this drama he was part of? To be with a woman who—if Jana was right— sought his life, and to conquer her repeatedly. A woman who—if Jana was right—was a criminal, as mysterious as the castle hiding corpses in its tower. Life triumphing over horror and danger. Strength enthroned, towering, fate-mastering. The wondrous thrill of daily victory. Ruprecht wouldn’t follow Jana or dwell on his reasons. He’d only heeded him by taking a separate bedroom, feigning a nervousness he didn’t feel. Lately, though, his joyous victories sometimes yielded to deep despondency. A lethargy crept into his limbs, settling in. It slunk from the dark, ugly, like a premonition of grave illness. A vile unease stole his confidence. His head throbbed with heavy drilling, as if his skull had softened, a thumb pressing at its crown. His scalp tightened, like over a swelling. At the crown, he felt twitching, burning, as if the skin might peel away, hair and all. Mornings, he felt especially weak and listless. These were bodily states, but he refused to yield. His will broke free, and by day’s end, he banished the gloom. He wouldn’t let his triumph dim. He grew free and strong again. Today’s forest ride had restored his freedom. Bending under the last trees’ branches at the wood’s edge, he saw Rotrehl’s house to his right. That’s where the yellow-overcoat man lived. He hadn’t come to the castle. Perhaps the forest invitation seemed too casual—scholars could be oddly formal at the wrong times, clueless when etiquette mattered. Maybe Herr Schiereisen from Vienna awaited a renewed offer. Fine, he’d get one now. Ruprecht rode along the forest edge to Rotrehl’s house, dismounted, and tied his horse to the garden fence. He passed through budding blooms. Smiling, he read above the door: “Jérome Rotrehl, Violin- Maker.” It was like a blessing, a creed one entered under. On the ground-floor door, he read “Jérome Rotrehl” again. The host was determined to impress his identity on visitors. Voices came from within. Perhaps his tenant was there. Ruprecht knocked. It wasn’t Schiereisen inside, but Rauß, the village ruffian everyone feared. “What do you want, Herr von Boschan?” Rotrehl asked with measured courtesy. He disliked recalling how he’d once spoken too freely about Frau Helmina Dankwardt to Ruprecht, unaware he was her suitor or would be. It felt like a trick played on him, proof of human deceit. “Doesn’t Herr Schiereisen from Vienna live here?” Ruprecht asked. Rauß sat by the window, puffing a Sunday cigar, its end splayed like a broom. He glared at the baron, sullen and hostile, sprawling wider to show he wouldn’t rise for him. With grave demeanor, Rotrehl extended an arm upward, a gesture fit for commanding an army. “Upstairs,” he said, “first floor… you’ll find him home.” Ruprecht climbed the creaking, worn stairs into deep gloom. A door opened above, light spilling down. “My God, it’s you, Herr von Boschan?” Schiereisen said, bowing. “I looked out… saw a horse tied below… wondered who—then you!” Ruprecht reached the top, shaking the scholar’s hand. “I was passing by today and thought I’d check if you got home safe that night…” Schiereisen grabbed Ruprecht’s arm, pulling him into the front room. “This way, please,” he said. “I sleep in there—it’s a mess… The maid hasn’t been yet; Sundays, she’s late… Can’t mind too much, right? Come in. It’s nicer here, with your castle in full… splendor.” Schiereisen’s excitement was clear. He darted about, searching for his coat—he was in shirtsleeves—missing it, though it lay on a chair in plain sight, flung there when he saw Ruprecht. “Pardon me,” he said, “I was just dressing. I’m so surprised… an honor…” Ruprecht stood at the window, looking out. “It’s charming up here. If this house edged closer, I’d worry you could peek into our rooms.” Schiereisen snatched his coat, hurrying into it. His fluster eased, feeling he’d regained propriety’s shore. A worldly man isn’t fazed by a bit of informality, Ruprecht thought, amused. Schiereisen wasn’t worldly. “Yes, I’m quite content,” the scholar said. “I’ll likely stay all summer. My host’s a fine fellow.” “Jérome Rotrehl, Vorderschluder’s Krampulljon! You know he’s an old acquaintance? He was my first guide to local affairs, laid the foundation for my knowledge here.” “We get on well. He’s open… heartfelt… But please, pardon, Herr von Boschan, won’t you sit?” With a sweep, Schiereisen pulled two chairs forward. One had a wobbly back; the other’s straw seat gaped, sprouting prickly spikes. New dismay followed. “Well…” he said, with a horrified smile, “it’s a bit… rustic here…” “Let it be, Herr Schiereisen… tell me, why haven’t you visited the castle yet?” Schiereisen tucked his cuffs into his coat sleeves, adjusting them. “My God,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t know… I reproached myself afterward. I was too forward. One can’t just… It was kind of you to invite me. But when you’re practically ambushed… in the woods, at night, by a total stranger… I didn’t want to seem pushy.” “I figured as much. So, I’m here to renew my invitation.” A halo of delight shone around Schiereisen’s head. “Oh, Herr von Boschan, you’re too gracious. I shan’t fail to take advantage of your kindness…” “Your studies intrigue me,” Ruprecht said. “I’d love to learn from you. This region… I’ve grown fond of it. I’ve traveled widely, but here, one can find a home. It reminds me of Upper Austria, where I spent my youth. Then I left. Now I’ve rooted here again. Everything’s so open, heartfelt, like a face hiding no thoughts. Every stone’s dear to me. I’m wooing this land, wanting to know it deeply. So far, I’ve been consumed with my new role as a farmer, catching up on what I forgot since my student days. You can imagine, traveling far, each mile costs a bit of learning. Now, I’d like to explore this land’s past. It’s like with a beloved woman—you want to know her roots, her ties.” Schiereisen shot Ruprecht a quick, sharp glance. Wasn’t this comparison striking? What did it mean? Was he mistaken, or did a shadow cross Ruprecht’s face—a cloud of disappointment, hidden pain? Warmth rose in Schiereisen. He was glad he’d already cleared this man in his mind. This splendid, upright man had won his affection. If tormented by suspicions, they hadn’t yet surfaced into conscious light. But now wasn’t the time for reflection—the scholar had work to do. “Of course!” he said calmly. “It’ll be an honor to serve you. I’ve had some successes. This area has geographic names undeniably Celtic. The Kamp, for one… farther north, there’s the enigmatic Thaya. Near Rosenburg, a stream joins the Kamp, called Taffa! What does that mean? Then there’s Gars, another such name…” “You know what?” Ruprecht cut in. “Tell me at my place… Come now. Have a spoonful of soup… then rummage in Herr Dankwardt’s library as much as you like…”
Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment
Chapter 1: The Experimental Method and Fermentation, Part 6
Introduction: The Hermetic art confronts the soul’s chaotic essence, purifying it through fiery transformation to reveal divine light. This section explores the alchemical stages of dissolution and renewal, symbolizing the soul’s heroic struggle against its original shadows.
The Soul’s Inner Conflict
As the divine reason stirs the soul’s vital essence, it unleashes a profound inner turmoil, loosening the bonds of earthly life. This is the soul’s confrontation with its original flaw, a self-willed force that ignites passions and illusions. Alchemists describe this as the “Green Lion,” a fierce, devouring power that reduces the soul to a venomous “Black Toad,” its essence corrupted in putrefaction’s depths.
Sendivogius illustrates, “Sal and Sulphur meet at a fountain, battling until Sal wounds Sulphur, from which flows white milk, becoming a great river.” This symbolizes the soul’s essence (Mercury) purified through conflict, flowing as a vital stream. Ripley adds, “The sun passes Noah’s flood, the waters recede, revealing rivers in dry land.” The soul, stripped of illusions, emerges renewed, its chaotic forms dissolved in divine fire.
The Heroic Sacrifice
This process mirrors heroic myths: Achilles, avenging Patroclus’ death, rises triumphant in radiant armor; Aeneas, honoring Misenus, unlocks the infernal path. The soul’s heroic will, sacrificing its lower nature, dissolves sensory bonds to awaken divine virtue. Palingenius’ verse captures this: “Drown the youth in Stygian waters, dissolve his taint, and a golden spirit rises, perfecting all it touches.” This death and rebirth, the alchemical crucifixion, loosens the soul’s self-will, transforming it into a vessel of divine light.
Böhme advises, “Seek the mystery within, to the Cross. There, Sol and Luna unite; through anguish, they die, reviving in paradise with golden fruits.” This inner crucifixion, where the self-willed essence is mortified, births a new life of divine harmony, free from illusion.
The Divine Light’s Victory
The alchemical stone, emerging from this conflict, is the soul’s radiant essence, the “infinite fortitude” overcoming all. Hermes declares, “Separate the subtle from the gross, gently, with sagacity.” This spiritual wind purifies the soul’s “seed of gold,” revealing universal truth. The soul, once bound in chaos, now radiates divine light, as Job’s imagery illustrates: “Wisdom’s path, hidden from all, is known only to God.”
The alchemists’ “Mercury of Philosophers”—pure, intelligent, living—emerges from this purification, a mirror of divine reason. Eirenaeus instructs, “Our sulphur, trapped in the body, is released by our water, revealing the Third Menstrual—a radiant essence—through patient meditation.”
Closing: This section unveils the Hermetic art’s fiery purification, transforming the soul’s chaotic essence into divine light. The journey into alchemical fermentation deepens in our next post, unveiling further secrets of this sacred practice.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
“But you are fighting windmills. Do you believe that Napoleon is a great person for me? He is only that for you because he showed you with what ruthlessness and brutality one may proceed when it comes to satisfying one’s greed…”
Falk stared at him with feverish tension. But he did not grasp what the other said. And suddenly he saw Czerski’s face as if he had never seen it before!
“Strange, strange,” he murmured, staring incessantly at Czerski. He moved quite close to Czerski and spoke quite softly.
“See, you will commit crimes, no, no! don’t get upset. Understand me correctly, I mean what our society calls crimes. I know it. I suddenly saw it now. I believed you were sick or ate opium, now I know it. How? Suddenly. All at once. All political criminals get the same expression. I saw Padlewski in Paris, you know, he murdered the Russian ambassador… I saw him three hours before…
Falk sat down again. For a moment everything went dark before his eyes. But it passed immediately.
When you murder, you naturally have motives for it. Yes, I know, you have great love and great pity. And in what do the roots of your great pity stick? Only in the greed to realize the purpose you have before your eyes. In what does your greed differ from mine? Ha, ha, you don’t even listen to what I say, your
gaze is a thousand miles from here… Ha, ha, you don’t need to listen to it at all, but just tell me, in what will your crime then differ from mine? In that my crime remains unpunished, and you are punished with death. But I have the torment, and you have the happiness of sacrifice, yes—of sacrifice, Falk cried out.
Czerski started.
“What did you say now?”
“You have the happiness of sacrifice! And I have the torment.” Falk fell exhausted back into the chair.
“Naturally you will say I got all that from Nietzsche. But that is not true. What Nietzsche says is as old as the bad conscience is old…”
He straightened up again, his state bordered on ecstasy.
“You said you spit on all this. Didn’t you say so? Well, approximately so. And I agree with you! This with the overman… Ha, ha, ha… Nietzsche teaches that there is no good and no evil. But why should the overman suddenly be better than the last human? Ha, ha, ha… Why is the criminal more beautiful than the martyr who perishes out of pity? Where does the valuation between beautiful and ugly suddenly come from? Why? Oh, I love great suffering beauty, I love ascetic beauty… Ha, ha; I perhaps loved Janina because she is so extraordinarily thin… What do I know? Everything is nonsense! I spit on all that, I spit on the overman and on Napoleon, I spit on myself and the whole life…”
He looked around confused and suddenly became very serious, but then he began to speak again, quickly, hastily; he tumbled over himself, it seemed to him as if he could not say enough.
“I have told no one what I tell you. I admire you, I love you. Do you know why? You are the only one who has ceased to be himself… Yes, you and Olga—you both. I love you both for the sake of your love. And I love great love. That is the only feeling I love and admire. Don’t you hear how my heart beats, don’t you feel how my temples throb… But to love, one must have your faith, yes, the faith that has no purpose, only love, love, love is!.. He, he, he… I love, I admire, I crawl on my knees before this love that is the great faith. It is
so strange that precisely you, you levellers, you compassionate ones are the overmen! Faith, love makes you so mighty and so strong. I am the human on the extinction list. I am the last human. See: in the Polynesian archipelago there is a wonderful human race that will no longer exist in thirty, fifty years. It is dying out from physical consumption. My race is dying from physical phthisis. The lung of the brain, faith is rotted, eaten away…
Falk suddenly began to laugh.
“Ha, ha, ha… I had a friend. He was also such an overman as I. He was not as strong as I, and so he died from the debaucheries. When he was dead, I went to a café to think about death and to make clear to myself that he was really dead. I met there a fat and greasy medic who had muddled with us. I said to him: Gronski is dead. He thought a little. Then he said: I could imagine that. Why? I said. One must have principles, was the answer. One must have principles. If one has principles, one does not perish. But to have principles, one must believe, believe…
He suddenly straightened up and stood long almost unconscious. “It is my despair that speaks through me,” he finally said…
You are right, Czerski—the whole life, this disgusting life of the worm that eats in the flour, the life of small love… You are the first I have seen who has thrown that away, who has forgotten that… For you there are not these commandments for whose sake I suffer, because you are too great for that…
Falk suddenly seized his hand and kissed it. Czerski jerked violently and tore his hand away.
Falk looked at him long without saying a word, then sat down again. It seemed to him as if the fever had suddenly left him. He also didn’t quite know exactly what he had said or done.
Czerski was unusually pale. “Why did you come here?”
His voice trembled.
Falk looked at him calmly. They looked into each other’s eyes for probably a minute.
“I swear to you,” he finally said, “that I came for no small motives.”
“Is it true?”
“Yes, it is true.”
Czerski walked uncertainly back and forth a few times.
“I retract everything unpleasant I said to you—his voice was very soft, he seemed to have great difficulty fighting down his excitement. You are no scoundrel, Falk. Forgive me that I wanted to insult you.”
He went to the window.
A long pause ensued. Suddenly Czerski turned around.
“I didn’t know you,” he said harshly, “I believed you were unscrupulous… I wrote everything to Janina’s brother because I had promised him to watch over her. And now I have something else to think about.”
“You wrote to Stefan Kruk?” “Yes.”
Falk looked at him indifferently.
“Hm, perhaps you did well… But now farewell Czerski. I am glad that we do not part as enemies.”
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