OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Reichenbach asks, and Friederike answers; she has taken his hand and leads him among the graves, sure-footed, while Reichenbach stumbles in the deepest darkness.
Only when the Sievering church tower strikes two does Reichenbach regain a sense of time. It has started to rain; the wind lashes water curtains around their faces and shoulders—they must go.
Back in Friederike’s room, the light burns, and the modest space envelops the two intimately. Friederike looks exhausted, her face pale with dark circles under her eyes. Reichenbach sits in a high-backed grandfather chair, takes Friederike’s hands, draws her close so she stands between his knees, and fixes a steady gaze on the bridge of her nose.
At once, as she stands there, Friederike falls asleep.
Yes, there lie the mounds of the dead, and Od light rises from them, though many are completely dark. Reichenbach is strangely shaken. It’s all physically and chemically determined, of course—a natural law, so far explored only by him; everything is interconnected through Od. Only ignorant people, unaware of Od, might turn it into ghostly apparitions. It’s all physics and chemistry; some mounds glow, others are dark, and far from here, in the Blansko cemetery, there’s a mound long since dark. And one has children who have turned away and pursue their father, and how long will it be before one lies under such a mound, sending Od light through the earth until it too fades.
“Can you tell me, Friederike,” asks Reichenbach, “what Hermine is doing?”
Friederike knits her brows: “Hermine is asleep.”
“Not now. What she does otherwise, when she’s awake.”
“Hermine thinks a lot about the child she’ll soon have.”
Oh God, Hermine is to have a child—well, she’s married, it’s part of it, having children. “And do you also see Ottane?”
Friederike frowns: “I see Ottane too. She’s in another land, with great churches with shining domes, streets filled with fragrance. The sea with reddish-brown and yellow sails. And there’s a man with her. But I see a shadow over her.”
So there’s a man with Ottane—a man. Well, what does that matter to Reichenbach? What concern is it of his what his children do? They don’t care about him. “And you?” he asks further, “can you tell me something about yourself?”
Friederike’s lips press together; a twitch flickers around her mouth, her answer comes reluctantly and haltingly: “I will soon have to leave you.”
What does that mean? That Friederike must leave him must? How could that be imposed on him, when he now has nothing but Friederike and is on the verge of penetrating the final secrets with her help? No, for now, he wants to know nothing more; it’s perhaps presumptuous to go so far, an abuse of her gifts. One must always stay grounded in physics and chemistry, not plunge headlong into the unknown. Reichenbach thinks that Friederike should now awaken.
Friederike blinks and opens her eyes. Her gaze returns from afar, adjusts to her surroundings, and then she smiles: “My God, am I tired!”
“It’s gotten late, my child,” says Reichenbach. “Let’s go to sleep now.”
Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory
Chapter 2: The Theory of Transformation and the Universal Matter (Continued)
The Transformative Power of Mercury
The alchemical Mercury, or universal matter, is like light or heat, blending with substances to harden, soften, destroy, or nurture them, changing their forms and qualities. Unlike ordinary elements, it works within itself, perfecting without confusion or external influence. Initially, it appears pure and white, emerging from the alchemical process of breaking down matter to its essence. As the adept refines it, this essence reveals three core principles—Salt, Sulphur, and Mercury—acting as agent, patient, and universal offspring, flowing into countless forms.
This essence, often called Proteus or Mercury, is hidden under many names to protect its secrets. It can become anything—mineral, vegetable, animal, fire, air, earth, water, a stone, a vapor, a dry water, an oil, a phoenix, a dragon, or a chameleon. It embodies all colors and thoughts, nourishing, destroying, living, dying, purifying, yet remains a potential chaos, the “philosophers’ egg.” As Virgil wrote:
The more it shifts into every form, The stronger its bonds hold, O son.
Alchemists used its mutable nature to confuse the greedy while guiding the wise. Their talk of elements or colors refers to stages in refining this Mercury, not ordinary substances. The three principles—Salt, Sulphur, Mercury—are modes of the same essence, like a tree’s leaves, trunk, and fruit, all from one root.
In its raw state, this essence is common and cheap, but when purified, it becomes the most potent medicine. It starts as a “green lion” or “serpent” (crude vitality), turns venomous in decay, then, calcined by its own fire, becomes the “magnesia” or “lead of the wise.” Dissolved again, it’s a sharp solvent, then an oil, whitening into “milk” or “dew,” until it reaches the “phoenix” or “Red Stone.” Bloomfield’s verse captures this:
Our great Elixir, priceless and rare, Our Azoth, Basilisk, and Cockatrice— Some call it Mercury of metal’s essence, Others a desert lion, an eagle soaring, A toad for its fierce strength. Few name it truly—it’s a hidden quintessence.
Challenges of Understanding
Alchemical texts are deliberately obscure, using metaphors to hide the truth from the unworthy. Geber, Sendivogius, and others spoke of “sulphur” or “mercury,” but meant the qualities of the universal essence, not common materials. Hermes’ Golden Treatise describes separating “water” into four substances, but this isn’t ordinary water—it’s the ethereal essence of life, transformed by art. Thales and Moses also spoke of a creative “water,” not the physical kind.
The Rosarium marvels, “How wonderful is this Thing, containing all we seek, needing nothing added, only purified!” These varied descriptions—water, fire, stone—confuse without experiential insight. Patience is needed to navigate this “Hermetic labyrinth” and find the true light amid shadowy metaphors.
The Universal Essence and Nature
Alchemists saw this essence as the pure, ethereal substance of nature, refined and made tangible through art. It’s the “Stone of Fire,” born from and returning to fire, its spirit dwelling in flame. Eirenaeus Philalethes wrote:
No water alone could cause such change, Linking sulphur and mercury so firmly. An inner agent, Light, shapes the matter, Stamping its form to create a seed, Which transforms the substance to its destined end.
This essence perfects minerals into gold, plants into elixirs, and, most profoundly, humans into divine beings. In humans, it’s an embryonic divine image, awaiting a “new birth” to transcend earthly limits and commune with universal intelligence.
Modern science explores light, electricity, and magnetism but can’t grasp their source. Despite experiments with prisms and machines, the true cause remains elusive, as Robert Hunt noted: “The more we uncover, the more miraculous it seems.” Alchemists claimed to access this cause—the universal essence—through their art, urging us to rediscover their methods.
Transmutation Across Kingdoms
Nature’s forms are flawed, trapped in specific molds. Alchemy’s dissolution purifies this essence, uniting agent and patient in one, as the Smaragdine Table states: “What is below is like what is above, for the miracles of the One Thing.” Like wine from grapes or butter from milk, the essence transforms through its own ferment, not external additions. Unlike natural processes bound by species, the alchemical essence, freed by art, shapes itself around its infinite light, transmuting and multiplying freely.
Gold is closest to this essence, pure and untainted, dissolving into it like ice in warm water. Sendivogius advised, “Seek the hidden thing that dissolves gold gently, its mother. If you find it, you have the source of gold’s creation.” The process is the same across mineral, vegetable, and animal kingdoms, but minerals are easiest to perfect due to their simpler nature. Geber noted, “Metals have less perfection than animals, relying on proportion. Thus, we can more freely perfect them.”
Conclusion and Next Steps
The Hermetic art requires identifying this universal matter, finding it, and mastering its refinement—a task beyond ordinary nature. It demands a skilled adept and deep understanding. To explore this further, we turn to the Golden Treatise of Hermes, a revered text summarizing the art. Though mystical and complex, it offers a glimpse into alchemy’s secrets, demanding patience and insight to unlock its wisdom, as Norton warned:
Trust me, it’s no small feat To know the secrets of this craft— The profound philosophy Of this subtle, holy alchemy.
Chapter 17: The 12th Century – The Rise of Individualism and the Heart’s Triumph
Historical Overview: The Philosophical Rebellion Against Church Dogma
The 12th century CE marked a revolutionary shift in Western thought, as the common folk, rooted in organic gnosticism’s heart-centered spirituality, began challenging the Church’s head-centric control through the emergence of individualism. The Church, entrenched in feudal power after the first millennium’s crises (Ch. 15), faced growing dissent as its corruption—popes wielding temporal authority, priests abusing positions—clashed with the masses’ desire for a return to Jesus’ love-based teachings (Ch. 9). Peter Abelard (1079–1142 CE), a pivotal philosopher, shattered the Church’s monopoly on truth by declaring abstractions unreal, emphasizing physical reality and rational understanding over blind faith, as seen in his Sic et Non (circa 1120 CE). His ideas, detailed in Historia Calamitatum, challenged scholasticism’s reliance on Aristotle’s logic, which rational atheists (elite materialists) used to codify Christian doctrine (Summa Theologica, Aquinas, later 1265–1274 CE).
Abelard’s student, Arnold of Brescia (circa 1090–1155 CE), took this further, advocating a return to early Christian simplicity, free of Rome’s wealth and power, as chronicled by Otto of Freising (Chronica, circa 1146 CE). This sparked rebellions: Pope Lucius II was killed in 1145 CE, and Eugene III fled Rome’s wrathful masses, who demanded spiritual purity (John of Salisbury, Historia Pontificalis, circa 1164 CE). The translation of Aristotle’s full works under Castilian kings (circa 1120–1150 CE), alongside Arab pantheism (Averroes, 1126–1198 CE) and Jewish Kabbalah (e.g., Sefer Yetzirah, circa 2nd–6th centuries CE), fueled skepticism. Frederick II’s patronage of Arab physicians dissecting corpses (circa 1220–1250 CE) defied Church bans, empowering empirical observation.
This intellectual ferment empowered the common folk—Gaia’s native inhabitants—to embrace their watcher self (Ch. 2), perceiving divinity in their hearts, not elite texts. The paradox of logic, celebrated as philosophical art (e.g., Peter Lombard’s Sentences, circa 1150 CE), exposed scholasticism’s limits, aligning with organic gnosticism’s heart wisdom over rational atheists’ head-tripping and social enforcers’ dogmatic control (Ch. 7).
Mystery School Teachings: Heart Wisdom and the Soul’s Liberation
Organic gnosticism, rooted in Gaia’s common folk, developed the soul through heart space, not elite literacy (Ch. 2). Abelard’s radical ideas—sin as intention, not deed, and salvation as God’s love, not atonement (Theologia Scholarium, circa 1135 CE)—returned divinity to individual understanding, echoing Jesus’ heart-centered message (Ch. 9). His view of consequences over sin aligned with organic gnosticism’s life-affirming duality, weaving male (expansive lightning) and female (containing womb) energies for soul growth (Ch. 5, 8). Arnold’s call for a spiritual Church, free of temporal power, empowered the masses to claim their watcher selves, defying elite control.
Scholasticism’s “thinking machine” (Ch. 16), chaining thought to Church-approved sequences, was exposed as paradoxical by 12th-century debates, where proving and disproving arguments became an art (e.g., Anselm’s Proslogion, circa 1078 CE). This liberated the common folk, who lacked literacy but felt Gaia’s pulse, to trust their hearts, as seen in folk practices like herbalism and fertility rites (Ch. 14). Tantrism’s left-hand path (Ch. 13) and indigenous two-spirit traditions (e.g., Navajo nádleehí) paralleled this, balancing energies for soul development, resisting Church repression.
The Church’s social enforcers (traditionalists) and rational atheists (materialist elites) fought to maintain control, but Abelard’s ideas and the masses’ rebellion broke their monopoly, fostering individualism as a heart-driven force.
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Empowering Individual Souls for Gaia’s Awakening
In the OAK Matrix, 12th-century individualism aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), integrating Shadow (repressed physicality, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Abelard’s rejection of abstractions mirrors chaos leaps (Ch. 11), breaking scholastic paradoxes for heart wisdom, resonating with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7). The masses’ rebellion ties to Tantric weaving (Ch. 5, 13), countering rational atheists’ logic and social enforcers’ dogma with Gaia’s pulse.
Practical rituals empower this:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Heart Individualism Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize heart as soul’s seat, defying scholastic head-tripping. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., elite dogma) and aspired HGA (e.g., individual love). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “My heart knows truth, beyond Church chains.” Tie to Abelard’s rationality: Inhale personal understanding, exhale external authority.
Gaia Freedom Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Gaia’s pulse, offering water for heart wisdom. Visualize rebellion as chaos leap, weaving Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8). Affirm: “I claim my soul, defying elite control.” Echoes Arnold’s spiritual Church.
Partner Soul Empowerment: With a partner, discuss individual divinity. Men: Share expansive visions; women: Grounding acts. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer dogma and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.
These empower organic gnostics to reclaim individual souls, awakening Gaia’s heart. Next, explore Rosicrucianism, where alchemy deepens organic gnosticism’s balance.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszdski and translated by Joe E Bandel
No, please, you must let me finish, I have to talk about this…
“No, not at any price; I can’t bear scenes like yesterday. Be reasonable, you’re so nervous.”
Falk fell silent, Marit choked back her tears. They walked a while in silence.
“You asked me for friendship yesterday, so as a friend, I have certain rights.”
“Yes, of course you do.” “Are you really married?”
“No, I’m not. I only have a child, whom I love beyond measure; and I want to go back to him now and live with him, somewhere in Upper Italy—yes, that’s really my plan. I love the child so infinitely; I don’t know anything I love as much.”
Marit grew nervous and silent.
“The child is really quite wonderful…”
And now Falk began to talk about the child with an unusual warmth and tenderness, all the while fixing his eyes sharply on Marit.
Marit visibly suffered.
“By the way, you probably don’t know: I was very ill in Paris, poisoned by nicotine, yes, nicotine. I would’ve probably gone to ruin if I hadn’t had excellent care.”
“Who cared for you?”
“Well, she’s a very remarkable lady. She’s very intelligent and plays the piano wonderfully. Oh yes, she has the mind of a man.”
“Is that the child’s mother?”
“Oh no, I have nothing to do with the mother.” Marit looked up at him, astonished.
“But you said yesterday that you couldn’t get rid of the lady? You said she clung to you like a burr.”
Falk grew confused.
“Did I really say that?”
“Yes, you said that; you even said that’s why we couldn’t be happy.”
Falk thought.
“Then I must’ve really been drunk. No, I don’t understand…”
He acted as if he were utterly shocked at himself. Marit had to recount yesterday’s conversation in detail.
“Yes, yes; I was really drunk. No, you mustn’t put any stock, absolutely none, in what I say in that state; I tend to make things up then.”
Marit looked at him suspiciously.
“You have to believe me; when I’m drunk, I tend to tell the wildest stories. No: the mother’s gone. I think she’s a model now, or something like that, living with a sculptor.”
Marit grew very happy; she smiled.
“So the whole story from yesterday was a comedy?”
“Yes, yes,” Falk hurried to reply, “but it was a comedy I performed in good faith; I believed everything I said.”
Marit still couldn’t understand, but she stayed silent. Falk grew restless.
“No, no, I have nothing to do with the mother anymore. The lady who cared for me is entirely different; her name is Fräulein… Perier. For two weeks, she sat by my bed, endured my terrible moods with angelic patience, and played the most wonderful stories for me; day and night, she was there.”
“Did she live with you?”
Falk made a surprised face.
“Yes, what’s wrong with that? In Europe—” he emphasized the word—“there’s great freedom in the interactions between men and women. There aren’t the foolish prejudices like here. Here, a lady can be officially engaged to someone in front of the whole world, and still the mother and two aunts have to trail behind. No, in Europe, there are no religious or conventional rules in matters of love. There, everyone is their own rule and law.
Yes, yes, it’s so free there, so free. Good God, how narrow, how unbearably narrow it is here.
There are laws and barriers and police measures; people are so confined—in a thousand idiotic: you may do this, you may not do that!”
Falk thought.
“Why did you pull away so violently yesterday? Can’t you kiss a sister or a friend, what’s wrong with that?”
“No, I couldn’t do that. I’d have to despise myself. I wouldn’t be able to look you in the face freely. And would you have even a trace of respect for me?”
Falk laughed loudly with open scorn.
“Respect? Respect?! No, where did I lose that word, what is it even? No, I don’t know the word or such a concept at all. I only know free women who are their own law, and then I know women who are slaves, pressing their instincts into idiotic formulas. And among these slaves, I distinguish women with strong instincts, with enough power, beauty, and splendor to tear apart the foolish ropes with proud, victorious majesty, and then women with weak instincts—in a word: the livestock that can be sold like any other commodity, obedient like any other household animal.”
“So you must highly esteem the woman who bore your child and then ran off to another?”
“No, because I don’t know esteem. She only went where her instincts drew her, and that’s surely very beautiful.”
“No, that’s ugly, despicable!” “Hmm, as you wish.”
Marit grew very irritated.
“And that Fräulein—what’s her name?—Perier.”
“Yes, then you’d have to see Fräulein Perier as the highest ideal; why don’t you love her then?”
“Of course, in fact, Fräulein Perier is the most intelligent woman I’ve met—”
Marit flinched.
“That I don’t love her is only because the sexuality with which you love is completely independent of the mind. In love, the mind isn’t usually consulted.”
“So those are the women you like!”
Marit was nearly crying. This Fräulein Perier was a bad person! Yes, she knew it for sure.
“Yes, yes, yes; that’s how you judge from the standpoint of formulas and Catholicism.”
Both fell silent. Falk was stiff and curt, making it clear that further talk was pointless.
Marit suffered. She felt only one question: why had he told her all those stories yesterday about the woman who clung to him like a burr.
“So the mother ran off from the child? Falk, be open! I tormented myself all night over this; I beg you.”
“Why must you know that?” “Yes, I must, I must.”
Falk looked up at her, surprised.
“Yes, I told you. Besides, how could another woman care for me if she were with me?”
Marit calmed down. So he had no woman with him. She was almost grateful to him. From time to time, she looked at him; there was something in her gaze, like a child who wants to apologize but is too proud.
Falk stared stubbornly at the ground. They reached the garden gate.
“Won’t you stay for dinner? Papa would be very pleased. Papa asked me to keep you. He has so much to discuss with you.”
But Falk couldn’t possibly stay; he was very polite, but icy cold.
Then he left, after bowing very correctly.
Marit watched him for a long time: now he must turn back to her. Falk walked on and didn’t look back.
My God, my God, Marit sighed in agony; what have I done to him?
She went up to her room and lit the oil lamp before the image of Mary; then she knelt and threw herself on the floor before the gentle, smiling face of the miraculous Virgin.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Does he know yet?” whispered Ottane, gesturing toward Schuh.
“Not yet.”
Ottane pulled her sister into a warm, tender embrace. Ah yes, that was reason enough to smile—when such an oblivious man voiced longings for Italy, doomed to fail by such tiny things.
With the discovery that Reichenbach loved Friederike, a new phase of his Od research began. He forgot everything else and didn’t even feel the full weight of the blow that shattered his hopes for the railway tracks. The world sank away for him; he lived with Friederike as if on a lonely island amid an empty ocean.
Friederike moved quietly around him, tending to all his needs without fuss. Reichenbach didn’t even realize it was thanks to her that warmth returned to his life. He had his men create hidden paths through the forest, cutting straight through the underbrush where he met no one. There he wandered, hands behind his back, pondering his grand problems; he believed he noticed that thinking was sharper and clearer while marching about. When he reached the farthest point and turned back toward the castle, he felt joy. He rejoiced at returning from solitude to the warmth of human presence, though he didn’t dwell on the reasons.
Friederike submitted willingly to all the experiments he conducted with her. She was happy when Reichenbach told her he had found no other sensitive like her. In her, all the qualities he’d found separately in others were united. He told her this, and she took pride in it, unaware of the latent powers within her that Reichenbach had unlocked. Only about her somnambulistic abilities did he say nothing, lest it cloud her innocence. She falls asleep at a glance from him and awakens at his command, unaware of what transpired.
“Would you go with me to the cemetery?” Reichenbach asked one day after a long forest walk that brought him new ideas.
Friederike looked a bit surprised but nodded.
“At night? Won’t you be afraid?”
Even at night! Why should she be afraid with Reichenbach beside her? His word is Friederike’s gospel; she sees him reign over her, walking resolutely and devotedly in his grace. In the darkroom, she sees the Freiherr in the glow of Od light as a radiant, white giant, immensely magnified, head and heart in brighter light than the rest—yes, that’s his true form and appearance, elevated above other humans. All should see him as she does and bow before him.
It’s a windy early spring night with mild clouds against a deep dark sky. Reichenbach has donned a weather cloak and given Friederike a man’s coat as well. They walk side by side down through the forest toward the Sievering cemetery.
Reichenbach had instructed the gravedigger to leave the cemetery gate open. The iron grille clangs back, and now the man and the girl walk among the molehills of death. The wind howls, the trees rustle in the darkness—everything is present to make a nighttime cemetery eerie. But how could anything be eerie for Friederike with Reichenbach at her side? External things can’t reach her directly; they must pass through Reichenbach and are transformed by him.
“You mustn’t think,” says the Freiherr, “that I intend to conjure spirits.”
No, Friederike doesn’t believe that, since Reichenbach says so.
“It’s like this…” he continues, “that all living things are permeated by Od and odically influence everything else in a specific way. All living things are od-negatively charged, and a sensitive can distinguish them from the dead by sensation alone, even if the living seems dead. I know a case… there was a young girl who fell into illness from great heartache and died. She was about to be buried, but the doctor wouldn’t allow it. After three weeks, she awoke from her apparent death and later married that same doctor out of gratitude. I believe that man must have been unconsciously a sensitive. And my friend, the Old Count Salm, told me that a seemingly dead countess was interred in the Salm crypt. But it didn’t go well for her; she had to perish.”
“Terrible,” says Friederike, now gripped by a shudder.
“And the painter Anschütz told me that while studying anatomy, he once, with the prosector, cut open a man’s abdomen. They stepped out for a moment to light a cigar, and when they returned, the man was sitting on the dissection table, looking at his opened belly. He too was only apparently dead and revived by the cut. It’s a dreadful matter, this apparent death, because doctors have no means to distinguish the apparently dead from the truly dead. But a sensitive knows instantly whether a person is dead or still alive, and thus Od could become a remarkable blessing for humanity. But of course, those blockheads wouldn’t admit it.”
Friederike presses anxiously closer to the Freiherr. She truly doesn’t know why he brought her to the cemetery—should she perhaps detect the apparently dead here?
“No,” says the Freiherr, having guessed Friederike’s thoughts, “those here are likely all truly dead. But even chemical processes are accompanied by Od light. You’ve seen the rotting herring glowing down in the cellar, haven’t you? Fermentation, decay, putrefaction—there’s always something odic involved. A person is dead, but as long as they haven’t fully decomposed, they must still emit an odic light. And now I want to know if you can see any of it.”
They stand by the stone cross in the center of the cemetery, surrounded by graves in the darkness of the stormy night. Friederike can’t help but cling to Reichenbach, and he places his arm around her shoulders.
She strains to pierce the darkness, eager to obey and confirm the Freiherr’s assumptions. The wind howls around them, tugging at their coats, sometimes billowing them over their heads; the trees sigh and creak. Amid all the danger, it’s a wondrous bliss to stand there, united against all waves on this side and beyond the grave.
After a long, silent wait, Reichenbach says with a hint of disappointment, “Well, it’s probably not dark enough for it.”
But just then, Friederike feels as if her eyes can catch a glimmer of light. She doesn’t know if it’s near or far, but it grows clearer. “There’s something there,” she whispers anxiously, “it’s like individual threads rising from the ground—greenish threads, swaying back and forth, and then… yes, higher up, they merge into a greenish haze.”
Yes, that’s exactly what Reichenbach expected. Through the loose earth, Od light emerges in individual threads, converging into a luminous cloud.
“Wait!” he says, pulling out his pocket lantern and letting Friederike guide him.
“There it is!”
After a fierce struggle against the wind, he lights it, illuminating the mound. A plaque on the iron cross bears a name and a death date. The woman died less than four weeks ago.
Reichenbach extinguishes the lantern again, and they must stand in the dark for a full hour before the external light stimulus fades from Friederike’s eyes. But then the entire cemetery comes alive with the ghostly light of the dead. It rises from the earth, emerges from the mounds, floats in greenish or yellowish clouds over the graves, pressed down by the wind then torn upward. The shapes of the graves stand out clearly; some show two brighter spots, likely corresponding to the head and chest of the deceased. It undulates with torches; whitish smoke swirls, pools of Od light are scattered, wisps of light are whipped away and swallowed by the night. Many graves remain dark; some barely shimmer, while others ceaselessly exude a network of light, its threads intertwining—the light the dead still send to the upper world as their last share of life.
Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory
Chapter 2: The Theory of Transformation and the Universal Matter (Continued)
The Hidden Fire of Alchemy
Ancient philosophers and alchemists believed in a universal spirit, distinct from the visible fire we know, which they saw as merely an effect of a deeper, hidden force. They called this the Ether, a pure, invisible essence that animates all life. Unlike modern science, which demands tangible proof and dismisses what it can’t measure, alchemists claimed this essence was real and could be worked with through their art. Without direct experience, though, the world saw it as a mere idea, a “speculative chimera,” and rejected it.
Recent discoveries, like mesmerism’s “Odic Force,” hint at this invisible essence, but belief remains rare. Alchemists, however, treated it as a concrete substance, not just a theory. They called it the “Vehicle of Light” (Lumen Vestimenti) in Kabbalistic terms, or the “Free Ether” in Greek philosophy—freed from the confines of ordinary matter, capable of acting through its own inner light. Zeno described it as a “creative fire, generating by rule,” while Cicero called it a “heavenly, fiery nature that spontaneously creates all things.”
Euripides captured its essence poetically:
The light of life, the vital breath, Sustains all living things. It’s the spark in the all-seeing eye, The boundless Ether embracing the earth— Call it Lord, call it Jove.
Yet, alchemists cautioned against mistaking this divine essence for ordinary air or elements. It’s subtle, mingled in nature, and only visible through its effects. Raymond Lully emphasized, “Our Mercury is a water of another nature, not found on earth in its active state without the skilled work of human hands.” It exists everywhere, giving life to all, but remains hidden, defiled by the imperfections of the material world.
Transforming Nature’s Order
Alchemists believed nature operates in a flawed, reversed state—darkness and imperfection dominate, while true light is concealed. To achieve perfection, they argued, this order must be inverted: the fixed must become volatile, and the volatile fixed, freeing the inner essence from external distortions. As an alchemical maxim states:
Dissolve the fixed, let the dissolved take flight, Fix the fleeting, and you’ll live secure. Dissolve, coagulate, fix.
Arnold de Villanova explained, “Convert the elements—make light things heavy, spirits into matter—and you’ll work with nature’s true essence.” This inversion reveals imperfections as external, not inherent, like water taking on the colors or flavors of the soil it touches. By removing these impurities, alchemists aimed to restore the essence to its pure state.
Francis Bacon, inspired by Democritus, noted that nature, when pushed to the edge of destruction, transforms into new forms: “A skilled worker, by design, can stress nature to near annihilation, and it will shift through a cycle of shapes, restoring itself if the force persists.” But Bacon misunderstood the alchemists’ method, suggesting mechanical tools, which expel the very essence they sought. Alchemists, instead, pursued a subtle, spiritual process to capture and guide this essence, allowing it to manifest its true will.
Paracelsus called this process a “magical secret,” more powerful than nature alone: “When this magic works, all things dissolve into their simple essence. Separation is the greatest miracle in philosophy, the beginning of all creation.” Arnold added, “Convert the elements, and you’ll find what you seek. Our Mercury’s transformation reduces nature to its root.” George Ripley noted, “Separate Mercury’s elements and recombine them in balance to create the complete elixir.”
Defining the First Matter
This universal matter, or Mercury, is not the common elements—fire, air, water, or earth—nor the gases of modern chemistry. It’s a spiritual essence, the “elements of Mercury,” unique to the alchemical process. Paracelsus clarified, “Don’t think of elements as physical substances. The true element is a spirit of life, growing in all things like a soul in a body, invisible yet ever-present.”
Hermes advised, “The four elements of the ancients aren’t physical but discovered through patient wisdom, hidden in nature’s operations.” To understand this, we must see nature’s process as reversed, requiring a special art to reveal its unity.
Albertus Magnus described this Mercury as “a watery element, cold and moist, a lasting water, an oily vapor, the spirit of matter, subtly mixed with fine earth.” Artephius called it “a white fume, like pure silver, reviving dead matter into life.” Lully saw it as “a clear, compounded water, like quicksilver, flowing on earth, born from air’s essence.” Arnold added, “It’s a stone and not a stone—spirit, soul, and body. Dissolve it, and it dissolves; fix it, and it fixes; make it fly, and it flies. It’s volatile, clear as a tear, then turns yellow, salty, and poisonous, yet it’s water and not water. Don’t be fooled by its many names—it’s one thing, needing nothing added.”
Belus, in the Turba Philosophorum, echoed, “Our stone is no stone, ridiculous to the ignorant. Who’d believe water can become stone, or stone water? Yet it’s true—this permanent water is the stone.” Basil Valentine and Rupecissa emphasized its elusive nature, defying description without direct experience. Ripley called it a “middle substance,” neither fully celestial nor earthly, born from the universal spirit’s active and passive interplay. Lully and Valentine described it as a “third” essence, unified yet complex, while Thomas Vaughan called it “the union of masculine and feminine spirits, a soft, prolific essence, the seed of heaven and earth.”
Sendivogius added, “Our water doesn’t wet the hands, almost like rainwater, heavenly yet vital.” Alchemists used metaphors—tears, dew, milk, wine—to describe this essence. Synesius and Sendivogius summarized: “It’s a clear light, filling wise minds with virtue, the bond of all elements, nourishing all. Nature alone creates it, but art reveals it, like sharp vinegar turning gold into spirit. It’s our sea water, congealed in gold and silver, extracted by the philosopher’s skill.”
The Elusive Essence
This First Matter is the simple substance of life and light, flowing unseen through nature, essential to all existence. Yet, words alone can’t capture it without experience. It’s not water, earth, fire, air, gold, silver, or any ordinary substance, though it contains their principles. The Bononian Enigma’s “Ælia Lælia Crispis”—neither man, woman, nor anything specific, yet all things—captures its paradoxical nature.
Like sunlight, which blends colors yet appears white when unified, this essence, called Pan or Proteus, is one yet manifold, shaping all forms and hues. A poetic verse sums it up:
The ever-changing essence, ethereal, watery, earthly soul, Immortal fire, all the world is yours, Proteus, divine power, all nature’s forms combined.
Moving Forward
To grasp alchemy’s promise, we must seek this Mercury through patient study and practice, as the art demands. Its elusive nature challenges us to look beyond the ordinary, preparing us to explore its role in the transformative miracles of the philosopher’s stone.
Chapter 16: Rosicrucians – The Church’s Battle with Logic and the Rise of Alchemical Thought
Historical Overview: The Church’s Control and the Philosophical Rebellion
The second millennium CE, particularly from the 11th to 17th centuries, saw the Roman Church grappling with the growing threat of logic and reason, which challenged its dogmatic control over spirituality. Following the apocalyptic crises of the first millennium—earthquakes, famines, and plagues—the Church solidified its power through feudal hierarchies and papal authority, as seen in Pope Gregory VII’s celibacy edicts (1074 CE) and the Avignon Papacy (1309–1377 CE). However, this consolidation bred corruption, with elite families placing younger sons in ecclesiastical roles, turning spiritual positions into political powerhouses, as chronicled by Orderic Vitalis (Ecclesiastical History, circa 1123–1141 CE). The common folk, rooted in organic gnosticism’s heart-centered, life-affirming spirituality, rebelled against this hypocrisy, sparking early “Satanist” movements that twisted into hateful reactions against Church oppression (Ch. 15).
By the 13th century, scholasticism—led by figures like Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274 CE) and Duns Scotus (1266–1308 CE)—elevated logic as the “true science,” arguing that words and ideas encapsulated reality’s essence, as seen in Aquinas’ Summa Theologica (1265–1274 CE). Scholastics revived Aristotle’s works, translated by Arab philosophers like Averroes, to prove Christian doctrines, positing that reality existed in the mind, divorced from physical observation. This “thinking machine” concept—words as code, akin to Freud’s free association (19th century) or Scientology’s memory chains—trapped thought in Church-approved sequences, ensuring control over the masses. However, logic’s paradoxes, as you’ve experienced in debates, exposed its limits, fostering rebellion among philosophers seeking new associations beyond dogma.
The Rosicrucians, emerging in the early 17th century with manifestos like Fama Fraternitatis (1614 CE), rebelled against this head-tripping by reviving organic gnosticism’s alchemical balance. Rooted in earlier traditions—Egyptian hermeticism, Gnosticism, and Tantrism—Rosicrucians, including AMORC (founded 1915, where you joined as an elder in 1976), emphasized inner transformation through heart and head, blending physical and spiritual realities. Their teachings, as in Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz (1616 CE), echoed organic gnosticism’s male-female duality for soul growth, countering the Church’s denial of physicality (Ch. 14). Indigenous traditions, like Native American two-spirit roles, paralleled this balance, resisting scholastic control.
Mystery School Teachings: The Thinking Machine vs. Alchemical Heart Wisdom
Scholasticism’s “thinking machine” framed words as reality’s code, with proper sequences revealing divine truth, as Duns Scotus argued in Ordinatio (circa 1300 CE). Aquinas’ psychology of angels posited non-physical intellect as supreme, denying physical reality’s role in soul development. This head-centric approach, akin to computer programming, divorced awareness from Gaia’s pulse, trapping it in Church-approved paradoxes to control the masses. The Church’s denial of sexuality and physicality (Ch. 14) reinforced this, labeling organic gnosticism’s heart wisdom satanic.
Rosicrucianism countered with alchemy, blending head (logic) and heart (love) to weave male-female energies, as in Tantric practices (Ch. 5, 13). Their teachings, rooted in Hermetic principles (Emerald Tablet, circa 6th–8th centuries CE), saw the soul as a resonant spark (Ch. 19, Magus), requiring physical embodiment for growth, not dissolution into Source. Indigenous two-spirit shamans, like Maori takatāpui, similarly honored balanced energies, weaving new realities through vision quests. The Church’s fear of logic’s paradoxes—leading to free thought—mirrored its fear of Tantric sexuality, both threatening elite control by empowering individual souls.
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Reclaiming Alchemical Balance for Soul Evolution
In the OAK Matrix, Rosicrucian alchemy aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), integrating Shadow (repressed physicality, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Scholasticism’s thinking machine mirrors rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9), countered by organic gnosticism’s heart wisdom, resonating with chaos leaps (Ch. 11) and resonant circuits (Ch. 13). Rosicrucianism’s balance ties to Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10), weaving head-heart for Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4), echoing Tantric and two-spirit paths.
Practical rituals reclaim this:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Alchemical Balance Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize head (scholastic logic) and heart (Tantric love) weaving. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., head-tripping denial) and aspired HGA (e.g., balanced wisdom). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave head and heart, reclaiming Gaia’s spark.” Tie to Rosicrucian alchemy: Inhale balance, exhale paradox.
Rosicrucian Heart Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke AMORC’s inner light, offering water for life’s pulse. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving new realities beyond Church code. Affirm: “I evolve through heart wisdom, defying logic’s trap.” Echoes Chymical Wedding.
Partner Wisdom Weave: With a partner, discuss head-heart balance. Men: Share expansive visions; women: Grounding acts. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer denial and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.
These empower organic gnostics to evolve beyond scholastic traps, weaving new realities. Next, explore the Renaissance, where alchemy and mysticism further revive organic gnosticism.
“I remember how to do most of it,” Tobal said to Rafe, the firelight flickering across the early September circle. “But I’ll need to go back to your base camp for my things, especially since snow travel will be tough without snowshoes. Now’s the time to make them—steaming green wood to bend into shapes, lashing it together for drying, and lacing it later.” Rafe nodded, his Journeyman chevron glinting. “Take what you need. I’ll be tied up with Journeyman duties this winter, mostly around their area or gathering wood. It’s a different world from being an Apprentice.”
Around them, the circle buzzed with initiations and chatter. Elders moved among the crowd, assigning newbies. Tobal spotted Sarah, her eager eyes meeting his, alongside Lila (Fiona’s newbie) and Jared (Becca’s newbie), both fresh-faced and curious. Fiona and Becca flanked them, robes swaying. “We’ve got a month to prep for winter,” Tobal called, raising his voice. “Let’s head to my base camp and work on gear together—snowshoes, clothing, whatever we can manage.” Fiona grinned, adjusting her pack. “Count me in—I’ve got knot-tying tricks to share.” Becca nodded, her newbie Jared shifting nervously. “Sounds good. Jared needs the practice.” The group murmured agreement, the promise of teamwork sparking through the night.
The next morning, the air was crisp as Tobal led Sarah, Lila, Jared, Fiona, and Becca to a quiet clearing, the first light filtering through the trees. Ellen stood at the center, her presence calm yet commanding. “Today,” she began, her voice weaving through the stillness, “we’ll attempt astral travel to Hel, the realm of cycles and renewal. Close your eyes and seek its shadows.” The group settled, breaths syncing as they drifted inward.
Tobal’s spirit lifted, the world fading into a dark, cavernous expanse. Suddenly, a vision struck—powerful and disturbing. The Lord and Lady stood before him, their forms engulfed in roaring flames, chained to burning stone pillars. The air thickened with ash, their chains rattling as they cried out, their eyes locked on him in silent agony. A chill ran through him despite the heat, the image searing into his mind. He jolted back, gasping, as the group stirred. Sarah whispered, “What was that?” Fiona clutched her chest, “I felt the fire…” Becca murmured, “It was awful.” Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “A strong vision, Tobal. Hel reveals what we must face. Let it guide us.”
Shaken but determined, Tobal nodded. “We head to my base camp today. That vision… it’s a sign we need to prepare.” The group agreed, the unsettling pull of the vision binding them as they packed to leave.
By mid-September, the group set out for Tobal’s base camp, the morning’s Hel vision still echoing in their minds. The trek was lively, Sarah tripping over a root with a laugh. “Guess I’m better with a cash register than a trail!” she quipped, earning a grin from Lila. Fiona led with a sturdy gait, calling back, “Stick with me—I’ll teach you knots to tie your boots tighter.” Jared, Becca’s newbie, lagged, muttering, “I’d rather be napping,” but Becca nudged him with a smile. “You’ll thank me when we’re warm this winter.”
At the camp, nestled among pines, the vacation vibe took hold. Tobal guided them in steaming green wood for snowshoes, the air thick with cedar scent. “Bend it slow,” he instructed, demonstrating as Lila mimicked, her hands steady. “Like this?” she asked, and Tobal nodded. “Perfect—now lash it tight.” Fiona chimed in, “I’ve got a trick—double knots hold better,” and showed Jared, who fumbled but laughed. “I’m a disaster!” he groaned, but Becca helped, their fingers brushing as they worked. Sarah suggested a race with finished snowshoes, and soon they were stumbling through the camp, cheers erupting as Fiona won.
One rainy afternoon, a sudden downpour soaked their gear. “Great, a mud bath!” Nick joked, grabbing a tarp. They scrambled to rig a shelter, Sarah slipping and pulling Jared down, both laughing as Tobal joined in, mud-streaked. “Teamwork saves the day,” he said, and they huddled under the tarp, sharing stories. Nick recalled a warm hearth from his past, while Sarah hinted, “My mom told tales of a lake—haunted, maybe.” The fire that night crackled with laughter, the group trading skills—Sarah’s city stew recipe, Nick’s whittled spoons—turning work into play.
By late September, their gear neared completion, snowshoes lashed and cloaks stitched. The bond grew, the Hel vision a quiet undercurrent as Tobal pondered its meaning, especially with Sarah’s lake hint.
Early October brought a chill to the air as Tobal and the group returned to the gathering spot for the circle, the fire casting long shadows. The two months of training at base camp had forged a tight bond, and now the elders gathered to assess their work. Tobal stood with Sarah, Lila, and Jared, their snowshoes and cloaks proudly displayed, while Fiona and Becca flanked them, ready to vouch.
The elders moved through the crowd, questioning each trainee. Sarah stepped forward, her voice steady. “I’ve learned hunting and gear-making—ready to solo.” Lila nodded, “Fiona’s knots saved me—I’m set.” Jared, bolstered by Becca’s nod, added, “I’ve got the hang of it now.” Fiona chimed in, “She’s been a quick study—proud of her.” Becca smiled, “Jared’s come far, even with his naps.” The elders conferred, then announced, “Sarah, Lila, and Jared, your two months’ training is complete. You may begin your solos.” Applause rippled, Tobal’s chest swelling with pride, though a pull toward the lake tugged at him.
Fiona turned to Becca, grinning. “Tomorrow, we hit Sanctuary for newbies—keep the cycle alive.” Becca nodded, “Yeah, let’s grab some eager ones at dawn. No sleeping in!” Tobal caught their excitement, but the lake’s call grew stronger as he watched Sarah beam.
The next morning, a soft mist hung over the clearing as Tobal led Sarah, Lila, and Jared to the meditation group, Fiona and Becca absent, already preparing for their Sanctuary trip. Ellen stood ready, her voice low. “Today, we reflect on Hel, the realm of cycles. Close your eyes and seek its depths.” The trio settled, breaths steadying as they drifted inward.
Tobal’s spirit plunged into darkness, the air growing heavy. A nightmare vision seized him: his parents, chained to a cave wall, their eyes pleading through the gloom. The damp stone smelled faintly of the lake, and a distant echo of burning pillars from the first vision haunted the edges. He jolted awake, heart pounding. Sarah whispered, “I saw shadows—did you?” Lila shivered, “Something cold gripped me.” Jared muttered, “Felt like a trap.” Ellen’s gaze softened. “Hel shows us our chains, Tobal. That vision calls you to act.”
Tobal nodded, the lake’s pull now a command. “I’m going back there—before winter.” The group sat in silence, the vision’s weight settling as they processed the path ahead.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
II.
The next day, Falk returned to Elbsfeld.
He was friendly, acted as if he were very happy, but could only poorly conceal a nervous irritability.
“Isn’t that right? Nothing happened, did it? You’ve forgotten everything, surely forgotten. I don’t remember a thing.”
Marit lowered her eyes to the ground.
“Yes, sometimes it happens to me that for hours I lose consciousness, no, just the ability to remember, without actually being drunk. Of course, I drank a lot yesterday; but I didn’t seem drunk, did I? Or did I?—Well, then I just acted that way to say everything without consequence. I do that often, you know.”
Falk spoke excessively and quickly; he was very cheerful. Marit looked at him, astonished.
“What’s happened to make you so happy?”
“Oh, I got very good news from abroad; my book has been translated into French and received very favorably. And I’m genuinely delighted about it. I don’t admire the French at all, but Paris is the only cultural hub in Europe and the supreme tribunal in matters of taste…”
Yes, and then, you can’t imagine how unbelievably funny it was; I have to tell you.
Marit looked at him again; her astonishment grew. What was wrong with him?
“Did you know that Papa had me driven home in his carriage yesterday? Of course you know. So we’re driving, and driving very fast.
Suddenly, the horses stop, they rear, buck, and whinny like the stallions in fairy tales that suddenly get human voices. The driver whips them, but it only gets worse. He climbs down from the box, I crawl out of the carriage, we grab the horses by the reins and try to move them forward. It doesn’t work; the horses go wild, and the driver redundantly states that they won’t move. What in heaven’s name happened? It was so dark you could’ve slapped someone without being seen. Well, I gather my courage, groping cautiously along the road with hands and feet, and—believe me, I have enough personal courage to stir up the strangest scandals, but this time my heart just stopped. I tripped over a coffin and fell with my knees onto a corpse.”
Marit flinched.
“No, that’s not possible.”
“Yes, truly. In my fear, I yell for the driver, and in the same instant, of course, I’m ashamed of my human reflex, then I get another terrible jolt: I hear a clear, agonizing groan. I don’t remember ever feeling such a primal, unthinking shock.”
“But my God, you’re turning pale. No, calm down; the incredibly funny thing about the whole story is that it wasn’t a corpse, but a real live person who, drunk, came from the city with a coffin. Being drunk and very sleepy, he’d dragged the coffin off the cart, let the horse go, and lay down in the coffin to sleep off his drunkenness in style.”
Marit laughed heartily.
“That was really funny.”
“God, how it delights me that I made you laugh. No; you must laugh, laugh all day; yes, we’ll both be like children, and I’ll stay good, like now. Or am I not good? Yes, I am. Good; I’ll stay this good all day, never again as nasty as yesterday.”
Falk laughed at her, then grew serious; he looked at her deeply. God, how beautiful this human child was!
“Marit, my darling, I’d like to lay myself like a carpet under your feet, I’d like to…”
No, no; I won’t talk about these things anymore.
Falk’s eyes grew moist. Marit looked at his face with unspeakable love.
“He shouldn’t torment himself. No, she couldn’t bear to see that. It would make her sick. Did he want her to suffer?”
“No, no, Marit; I’m cheerful again.” Both fell silent.
“Would he like to take a walk along the lake?” “Yes, I’d love that.”
It was a glorious spring day.
A few days ago, everything had suddenly turned green. The trees sprouted leaf buds, the crops grew visibly, and the hills on the other side of the lake rose in the lush splendor of their young grass.
They walked, their feet sinking into the soft, damp sand.
Falk was silent; from time to time, he gathered stones from the shore and skipped them across the lake’s surface. His face grew graver and graver, like that of a man harboring deep sorrow.
He walked, staring ahead, then gathered flat pebbles again and threw them onto the water.
Marit looked at him, increasingly sad.
“No, he shouldn’t torment her like this. Why wouldn’t he speak? She couldn’t stand these dreadful pauses.”
“Yes, yes, yes…” Falk seemed to wake up. “Yes; right away, at once! Now, I’ll tell you wonderful things…”
He laughed exaggeratedly cheerful.
“So, about Paris, right? I met great people there. Do you even know what a great person is? You do? Well, then you probably don’t need explanations.
Great people are funny, Fräulein Marit, believe me; I’ve met a lot of them. Especially one, oh! He was remarkably peculiar. He hated women because he loved them so excessively. He was, forgive my expression, but it’s so apt, he was like a mad stallion.”
No, no, she shouldn’t hear such words from him anymore. No, not these stories. He knew: she was a good, devout Catholic, and that expression certainly didn’t come from the holy fathers.
“So, this great man—wait a moment, I won’t say anything bad; these things are just part of his psychology. He was remarkably paradoxical. He wanted to do everything differently from other people. So he said to himself: why look at the moon with a telescope, I can just as well do it with a microscope.
No, what a wonderful dress you’re wearing; oh, I love it so much; yes, remember, I loved it last spring too.
So, this great man takes a microscope, drips a drop of mercury on it, and looks at the moon. Now, the remarkable thing: the moon appears to him, naturally, in a strange, blurry form. But good God, the great man suddenly says: that spot there, isn’t that Europe? And that square thing, that’s Australia itself.
God, how wonderfully you laugh! You know, you get such a wonderful, delicate dimple around your eyes…”
No, you’re right: I’ll finish the story. So, this great man, with his characteristic genius, draws the following conclusion: the moon has no craters… You know the moon is supposed to have volcanoes? Well, this great man says there are no craters, no volcanoes: the moon is simply covered with a smooth layer of gravel, and our Earth is reflected in it.”
Marit laughed like a child.
“No, how funny you are about great people; don’t you have any respect for great people?”
“No, I truly don’t. I’ve seen them all, in tails and in their most intimate negligée, they’re always so endlessly ridiculous. They take themselves so terribly seriously and solemnly, strutting with the stiff grandeur of Gothic architecture. I always think of the ridiculous ape-men that the God of Herr Professor Nietzsche created to have fun at their seriousness.”
Falk mused… Only once had he seen a great man: one he bowed to.
“Oh, you absolutely have to tell me; it’s remarkably fascinating that you, Herr Erik Falk, were impressed by someone.”
“Yes, yes, that’s truly remarkable. I really don’t have megalomania—not yet; but I haven’t met anyone who could measure up to me. But this man was great. I met him in Kristiania. He looked small; he had an immensely quiet, shy, awkward manner and eyes, large, peculiar eyes. They didn’t have the obligatory probing, spying quality of other great people’s eyes. There was something in them of a bird’s broken wings, a great royal bird. He had a violin, and we went to an acquaintance’s together. There we drank Pjolter, a lot of Pjolter, as we, yes, we good Europeans usually drink. And then he started playing, in complete darkness; he had the great shyness of refined feeling. I’ve never heard such naked music. It was as if I had a trembling pigeon’s heart before me, warm, cut from the chest. There was something in the music of an unheard-of lament, tearing at the lungs and choking the throat. Marit, sweet, good Marit: and then you rose before me; from this lament of notes: you, you were this pigeon’s heart, this one vibrating note that cried for happiness and died in agony…”
By Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 20
Women who excel in certain sciences or one field often fail in the most important feminine science.
But Hermine is an exception in this regard as well. She has written treatises on botany and was well on her way to becoming a recognized figure in her field. Yet she knows how to arrange and manage her home so that it is exceptionally cozy. She has indeed hung up her botany, but no one has noticed her particularly mourning its loss. The treatise on thylli, left unfinished, has been bound between two sturdy cardboard covers resembling tombstone slabs, and Hermine has inscribed on it: “Satis superque satis!”—”Enough and more than enough!” It seems these are the last Latin words Frau Hermine has written.
Hard to believe how happy one can be when there’s no more microscope to deal with, and the day passes with dusting, cooking, embroidery, and other domestic tasks, with nothing left of past glory except perhaps a bit of music in the evening’s quiet hours.
The Schuhs’ apartment in the Alservorstadt is small but comfortable. Schuh is already talking about moving to a larger place; he’s progressing, has truly become a partner in the galvanoplastic institute. The debts to Reichenbach are repaid; Schuh daydreams of three rooms, a kitchen, and perhaps even a study. It might become necessary, Hermine thinks, but for now, two rooms suffice.
They don’t entertain much; the Schuhs lead a rather secluded life, but visitors feel at ease and leave without taking the peace with them. For Reinhold, staying with the Schuhs is a warm haven in his solitary bachelor existence. He’s very quiet and serious, does his work, reads books and chemical journals, and otherwise knows little what to do with himself. Some families had nurtured false hopes of directing his attention to their daughters, but they soon recognized the futility of their efforts. When Reinhold visited his sister for a while, he would leave again; her home was truly just a soul-warming refuge for him.
Ottane also often came over from the hospital. Lately, however, she was no longer a nurse—something must have happened with Semmelweis’s successor, though Ottane didn’t elaborate. Like Reinhold, she declined the suggestion to live with Hermine. No, she preferred to remain unencumbered; if her father paid her the share of the maternal inheritance due to her, she could live carefree. For now, her savings from her nursing days were enough. And perhaps she’d take a trip someday—she was still considering it.
Sometimes Herr Meisenbiegel, Hermine’s former singing teacher, also visited. He had become a frail old man, never removing his winter coat even in a heated room, scattering snuff tobacco on the floor so that Hermine had to sweep up after he left. He always said only, “Who would have thought it?” By this, he meant who could have imagined that Hermine would become such a capable housewife, for he too had found that his best pupils often failed to shine in this area.
Finally, Doctor Promintzer, Schuh’s lawyer handling the lawsuits against Freiherr von Reichenbach, also came by. He had his apartment in the suburbs and his office on Freyung, and whenever he was nearby, he couldn’t resist climbing the two flights to the Schuhs’ apartment.
Doctor Promintzer was no longer a young man, though he hadn’t lost any of his vigor. Over the years, he had gained a small paunch and a bald spot, which glistened with large sweat beads after climbing the stairs. There he sat, wiping his scalp and offering Hermine pleasantries.
He couldn’t hide from himself that he greatly enjoyed seeing Hermine, who went about her domestic tasks undisturbed by him. His own wife—my God, best not to mention her! Hermine, however, was less fond of Doctor Promintzer. Not that she felt threatened by him, but he was too sharp a tool, too keen a weapon in Schuh’s battle against her father. This feud, dragging on endlessly, was Hermine’s secret sorrow.
The father had started it, of course—he was to blame. Why had he spread that unfortunate, shameful, mad letter back then? Hermine understood Schuh’s need to defend himself against the attack. The father was abrupt, self-righteous, stubborn, unpredictable, deeply irritated by his failures, embittered by his children’s defection and his loneliness. Schuh had countered with a counterblow—fair enough—but he might not have needed to defend his position as ruthlessly as the father did his own; he could have considered mitigating circumstances. Hermine had done so herself; she thought calmly and reconciliatory about the past. She remained silent about it but imagined how lovely it would be if it could all be settled, if the father might one day come through that door and say, “You’ve made it cozy here, children!” or perhaps, “One can really rest here with you.”
It was particularly embarrassing that Schuh had chosen Doctor Promintzer as his lawyer—the very Promintzer who had represented the opposing side in the case with Prince Salm. This was something bound to infuriate the father, who would see it as a deliberate malice that this man was set loose on him again. Promintzer believed he served his client by harassing Reichenbach with every legal trick, and it was Promintzer who had persuaded Schuh to start the pitiful squabble over the maternal inheritance.
And now Promintzer sat there, saying, “Do you know… no, you couldn’t know yet… well, the government has suddenly slashed import duties on iron to speed up railway expansion.”
“Hm!” said Schuh, perking up.
Promintzer sat there, having removed his glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief and squinting nearsightedly at Hermine. “Do you understand what that means? Pay attention! So, the price of iron domestically will take a steep dive. And all those who switched to producing railway tracks will have to wipe their noses. Do you get it now? Freiherr von Reichenbach miscalculated. He was led astray by that Hofrat Reißnagel… and now he’ll have to sell. We must ensure we get our money.”
He had thought this would be welcome news for the Schuhs—yes, now the Freiherr would be humbled and forced off his high horse, and the young couple would have the satisfaction of seeing their adversary crushed by a divine judgment in the form of new tariff rates.
But Schuh only said, “Hm!” again and offered no opinion. And Hermine said nothing at all. She sat with her sewing by the window, her heart tightening.
Doctor Promintzer continued for a while, talking about the economic impacts of the new tariff and such, then had to leave, greatly puzzled that he hadn’t achieved the expected effect. He couldn’t comprehend a state of mind that didn’t rejoice in the downfall of an enemy—even if it was one’s own father.
He might have been on the street when Ottane, who was visiting, said, “You should put an end to this ugly business. As for me, I renounce my share of the maternal inheritance… I don’t want it to come to the worst.”
Hermine looked up from her sewing, her gaze seeking Schuh. He sat with his back to the room at his desk, rummaging through papers. She said, “That fellow Ruf seems to have run off with a lot of money too. The father is so alone now.”
“There’s Friederike,” Schuh grunted without turning around, “she’s a decent woman. She’ll take care of him.”
“As for me,” Ottane began again after a pause, “I’m happy to renounce it. I’ll manage anyway.” Then she added hesitantly, “By the way, I’ll finally start my trip next week.”
“You’re really going to travel?” asked Hermine, surprised, for Ottane had talked about this trip for so long that no one believed it would actually happen.
Schuh gave his chair a spin and turned his face to Ottane: “Really? And where are you going?”
“I’d like to go to Italy,” Ottane’s delicate nose quivered as if already scenting the fragrances of the promised southland, and her eyes gleamed with a steadfast gaze into the distance. “I’ve put it off long enough… but now it must be.”
“Well, Italy,” said Schuh, turning back to his desk on his chair. “I’d like to go there someday too.”
Hermine smiled and gave Ottane a nod. As Ottane stood by the window seat, Hermine lifted the item she was working on with the same smile and showed it to her sister. It was a tiny crocheted bonnet, and Hermine was just sewing blue silk ribbons onto it.
She nodded in response to Ottane’s silent question: “Yes!”
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