Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory
Chapter 1: Introduction to Hermetic Philosophy (Continued)
Nicholas Flammel’s Enduring Legacy
Nicholas Flammel’s story, partly drawn from his Hieroglyphics and Testament, is one of alchemy’s most enduring tales. As late as 1740, evidence of his charitable works—hospitals, chapels, and churches—remained visible in Paris, with alchemical symbols adorning sites like the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents and St. Genevieve’s portal. His writings, including Le Sommaire Philosophique (a French verse with notes in the Theatrum Chemicum), Le Desir Désiré, and Le Grand Eclaircissement, are highly valued, though rare, for their insights into the art.
Other Notable Adepts
The Isaacs, Dutch father and son, were successful alchemists, praised by scientist Herman Boerhaave, who respected their pursuit of occult principles. Basil Valentine, a 15th-century Benedictine hermit shrouded in mystery, is celebrated for simplifying the process of creating the Red Elixir, a significant advancement. Thomas Norton noted the rarity of this achievement:
Many wise men found the White Stone with effort, But few, scarcely one in fifteen kingdoms, Achieved the Red Stone, Requiring the White Medicine first. Even Albertus Magnus and Roger Bacon Lacked full mastery of its multiplication.
Valentine’s works, best preserved in the Hamburg edition, include The Triumphal Chariot of Antimony and Twelve Keys, translated with insightful commentary by Kirchringius. His contributions earned high esteem among alchemists.
Elias Ashmole, a 17th-century English scholar and lover of occult science, compiled the Theatrum Chemicum Britannicum, a collection of English alchemical poetry. His preface and notes reveal his deep understanding, though he humbly admitted, “I know enough to stay silent, but not enough to speak.” He marveled at the art’s “miraculous fruits” but avoided reckless disclosure, wary of adding to the world’s confusion, as he referenced Norton’s critique of those who “prate of Robin Hood’s bow without shooting it.” The collection includes Norton’s Ordinal (1477), a clear guide despite its veiled preliminaries, and works like Pierce the Black Monk and Bloomfield’s Blossoms. George Ripley’s Twelve Gates, however, is criticized for its disorder and deliberate misguidance, though Eirenaeus Philalethes’ commentary, Ripley Revived, clarifies much for the initiated.
Marsilio Ficino, a Renaissance scholar who translated Plato and Hermetic texts, and Pico della Mirandola, who linked alchemy to metaphysics, also contributed to the tradition. Cornelius Agrippa, mentored by Abbot Trithemius, explored alchemy in his Occult Philosophy but later reflected on its dangers in The Vanity of the Sciences. Far from a recantation, this work celebrated universal truth over lesser sciences, though his monastic critics misrepresented it as such. Agrippa wrote, “I could reveal much about this art, but ancient philosophers swore silence. The philosopher’s stone is a sacred mystery, and speaking rashly would be sacrilege.”
The Decline and Persecution of Alchemy
By the 16th century, alchemy’s popularity waned as fraud and greed tarnished its reputation. False alchemists published deceptive books, promoting useless substances like salts or plants, while corrupted editions of masters’ works spread confusion. Social consequences were dire, with wealthy individuals losing fortunes to charlatans. As Norton lamented, “A monk’s false book of a thousand recipes brought ruin and turned honest men false.” Laws, like England’s parliamentary acts and papal bulls, banned transmutation under penalty of death, though figures like Pope John XXII reportedly practiced it secretly.
True adepts suffered alongside impostors. Alexander Sethon, in his Open Entrance, described fleeing persecution across Europe, hiding his knowledge to avoid exploitation: “I possess all things but enjoy none, save truth. The greedy think they’d do wonders with this art, but I’ve learned caution through danger.” Michael Sendivogius faced imprisonment, and others like Khunrath and Von Welling endured hardship, forcing adepts to conceal their identities and work in secret. Some joined the Rosicrucians, a secretive fraternity founded by a German adept trained in Arabian mysteries, as detailed in Thomas Vaughan’s translation of their Fame and Confession.
Later Figures and Legacy
In Elizabethan England, John Dee and Edward Kelly gained notoriety. Kelly, though sometimes reckless, reportedly found a large quantity of transmuting powder in Glastonbury Abbey’s ruins, capable of turning vast amounts of metal into gold. Dee’s diary records Kelly transmuting mercury into gold with a tiny grain, and Ashmole recounts a warming-pan’s copper piece turning to silver without melting. Queen Elizabeth, intrigued, summoned them, but Kelly’s imprisonment by Emperor Rudolph and Dee’s poverty-stricken end in Mortlake cast a shadow over their achievements.
Jakob Böhme, a 17th-century theosophist, offered profound insights in works like Aurora and Mysterium Magnum, clearly explaining the philosopher’s stone’s basis. A manuscript eulogy praises him:
What the Magi sought, Orpheus sang, or Hermes taught, What Confucius or Zoroaster inspired, Böhme’s pages reveal anew, A sacred fire for every age.
Other German adepts, like Ambrose Müller, Herman Fichtuld, and J. Crollius, continued the tradition, as did Michael Maier, whose symbolic works like Symbola Aureae Mensae remain highly valued. Michael Sendivogius’ Novum Lumen Chemicum, translated as The New Light of Alchemy, is a clear yet complex work, requiring study to grasp its deeper meaning.
Eirenaeus Philalethes, an anonymous 17th-century English adept, stands out for his mastery, with works like An Open Entrance and Ripley Revived. Described by his servant Starkey as a learned gentleman, he possessed vast quantities of the White and Red Elixirs but faced persecution, keeping his identity hidden. Thomas Vaughan, under the pseudonym Eugenius Philalethes, wrote luminous treatises like Magia Adamica, focusing on the art’s spiritual essence.
Conclusion
Alchemy’s history reflects a tension between wisdom and greed. True adepts, driven by piety and truth, contrasted with charlatans who fueled skepticism. As Dufresnoy noted, English alchemists like Norton and Philalethes wrote with depth and clarity, earning respect despite foreign skepticism. This chapter sets the stage for exploring alchemy’s deeper principles, distinguishing its sacred science from the distortions of impostors.
Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XVII.
Mikita wandered through Munich as if in a dream. He did everything his friends advised, went wherever they said he should, but he felt things were bad, very bad with him.
Now he had to leave. He would’ve loved to stay in Munich, but he had nothing left to do. And he needed something to do. Anything.
He walked slowly to the station. Yes, he had to go back to Berlin. He really should’ve said goodbye to his friends, but that was so awkward. They’d want to go to the station with him, make jokes, offer kindnesses… no! He had to be alone.
Strange how his thoughts spread out wide! Before, they’d tumble over each other, making it hard to know what he wanted, and now everything was so neatly broad, comfortable, clear.
His voice had grown quiet too.
Only this strange trembling that could seize him for hours, this odd vanishing of consciousness—oh! That was horrific.
He felt fear that it would come back.
Suddenly, he stopped in front of a weapons shop. He recalled the thousand travel stories he’d read in newspapers. It wasn’t impossible that something like that could happen to him. Yes, he could be attacked. Good God! Why shouldn’t what happened to a thousand others happen to him? He laughed quietly to himself.
Yes! Strange, this thinking. He hadn’t skipped a single word.
He saw the manifold weapons in the shop window. How terribly inventive people are!
*To be or not to be*… flashed through his mind.
*To be or not to be*… Now he just needed a fitting cloak and a skull… Damn it all! He’d have to rehearse that in front of a mirror! Little Mikita… marvelous. He’d probably look like the small opera singer Sylva in the garb of the giant hero Siegfried.
He went into the shop.
The first thing that caught his eye was a large tear-off calendar.
April 1—he read the huge letters. *Prima Aprilis*… lots of surprises today.
He asked for a revolver but was so tired he had to sit down.
Was it absolutely necessary to return to Berlin today? Couldn’t he wait until he’d recovered a bit?
Then he perked up again.
Distance is of the utmost importance for love. Falk is gone too. She must’ve been bored the whole time. She always needed someone around her. If he returned now… Why shouldn’t what happened to a thousand others happen to him?
Hadn’t he read in a hundred novels that distance rekindles a fading love!
Good God! Writers aren’t made of cardboard… How beautifully and thoroughly they’ve described it!
He paid for the revolver and left.
One hope replaced another. His steps quickened. He stretched tall. It felt as if new muscles suddenly sprang into action.
And so a restlessness came over him, a tension so great he thought he couldn’t endure the long journey.
A fever began to burn in his brain.
He thought of Isa; he thought of how happy they were, how she loved and admired him. He was the mighty artist she revered in him.
But it wasn’t just the artist. No, no! She loved to nestle against him, to stroke him… Her—her—oh God, how he loved her! How he wasn’t himself, how every thread of his being was knotted with hers—so inseparably…
But of course she got tired, he’d tormented her endlessly with his jealousy, his… his…
Yes, now, now… she was so good. She’d forgiven him everything.
There—yes, there she’d stand, reaching out her hands, throwing herself against his chest: Thank God you’re here! I’ve longed for you so endlessly.
Yes, she’ll do that! he cried out. He knew it for sure.
But… yes! Hadn’t she sent only one brief note in response to his letters, saying she was doing well…
He struck his head.
Oh, you foolish Mikita! What do you know of women? What do you know of their cunning… Yes, of course! How could he torment himself over that? It’s perfectly clear… and it’s right that she punishes me like this…
And he convinced himself with clear, piercing arguments that he’d completely misunderstood everything, that it was just feminine cunning, feminine cleverness… no, no, what did Falk call it… innate selective cunning…
Yes, Falk had a word for everything…
But the closer he got to Berlin, the stronger his unrest grew. The old torment rose again, and the last two hours, he was nothing but a helpless prey to the wildest agony of pain.
He was tormented like an animal! It’s unheard of, what a person must endure—unheard of!
And he paced back and forth in the compartment, jumped and twitched, and then suddenly that horrific trembling seized his whole body, making him think he’d go mad with pain and fear.
Isa received him with a cold, embarrassed smile. She was busy packing.
With a jolt, Mikita felt a clear, icy clarity.
He could just as well leave, but he was so exhausted he had to sit down.
Isa turned away.
“You!” he suddenly shouted hoarsely at her, without looking.
He couldn’t go on. On the table, he saw a pair of green silk stockings. Some hidden, sexual association stirred in him, he grabbed the stockings and tore them to pieces.
Isa looked at him with contempt. Now she finally found the courage.
“What do you want from me? I don’t love you.” She tested whether she could say it.
“I don’t love you. You’re completely foreign to me…”
She wanted to add something about Falk, but she couldn’t. She saw that doglike, submissive quality in him.
He became repulsive to her.
She said something else, then he heard nothing more. He went out to the street.
He’d read somewhere that in such moments you understand nothing, but he’d understood everything, so clearly, so distinctly. She didn’t even need to say it.
Why was the street so empty?… Aha! It was Sunday, and everyone went out to the countryside… Sunday… *prima Aprilis*—afternoon—he looked at his watch—six in the afternoon… *To be or not to be*—Yes, if I stand before the mirror with a Hamlet cloak and a skull in hand, I’d have to mention the fact of time in the final monologue.
He could never have imagined he’d think so clearly, so calmly, so rationally before his end…
Yes—Garborg was right. Once you know you must inevitably die, you’re completely calm.
Yes, yes… writers are always the ones who… He walked very slowly, but now he stopped.
That foolish boy had irritated him for a while. Yes, for some time he must’ve been watching him.
He was probably going to a girl, wanted small feet, and had bought boots too tight. And now he had to stop every moment, and to mask his corns, he pretended to look at shop windows.
There—there… now he stopped again!
A sudden rage seized Mikita against this foolish boy. He approached him with a stern expression.
“You, young sir, got some mighty corns, huh?”
The young man looked at him, stunned, then grew angry, deep red with rage.
Mikita felt afraid.
“That’s vile insolence!” the young man shouted.
Mikita shrank fearfully. “Sorry… you know… wax mood-rings in the watch…”
He hurried away.
God, how unkind people become—they yell at me, plague me, torment me to the blood—yes… *saigner à blanc*…
Yes, he felt tears running down his cheeks.
Come on, Mikita! A lot of bad things have happened to you, but you don’t need to cry… Damn it! Pull yourself together!
He grew angry.
Foolish man with your sentimental comedies! Why are you sniveling? Sensing some beautiful sex nearby that’s making you all teary? Huh? The beautiful sex… yeah, right!…
He went up to his studio and locked the door.
He looked at a painting. That hideous distortion! How hadn’t he noticed? He had to fix it right away!…
He grabbed a brush, but his hand flailed aimlessly.
He went mad, seized the painting in senseless rage, and tore it to pieces.
Then he threw himself on the sofa. But he sprang up again, as if possessed by a thousand devils.
“Isa!” he cried out—“Isa!”
He began to laugh. A laughing fit, choking him.
He rolled on the floor. He banged his head against the floorboards, grabbed a chair, smashed it to pieces, a frenzy of destruction raging in him.
When he came to, it was night.
He was exhausted. His mind was unhinged.
Only one thing, the last thing: Yes, God, what was it, what was he supposed to do?
Suddenly, he felt something heavy in his pocket.
Aha! Yes, right! Right… He wandered around the room, searching, repeating endlessly: Yes, right, right…
That was it! The revolver in his pocket must’ve chafed the skin on his leg. It burned so. Sit down! Right? That was probably the right thing.
How the calm hurt!
He took the revolver; it took a long time to load it. His hands no longer obeyed his will.
He got very angry.
Of course, sit down first. That was the most important thing. He sat down.
In the heart? Sure! That was a good idea. You usually shoot a millimeter higher and get cured! Heh, heh…
Suddenly, he fell into aimless brooding, forgetting everything.
All at once, he heard singing in the courtyard. A sudden unrest seized him. He gripped the revolver tightly.
Quick! Quick!
Something whipped him into a terrible unrest. In one second, he wouldn’t be able to do it.
And with a sudden jolt, he shoved the weapon deep into his mouth and pulled the trigger…
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Despite all this recognition, Schrötter argues, one must confront Reichenbach where he has strayed into a realm governed by imagination and whim.
Reichenbach can hardly believe his ears; he wants to interrupt the speaker immediately, point to his meticulously kept protocols, but he restrains himself.
On what evidence, Schrötter continues, is this entire Od hypothesis based? On the testimony of nervous, weak, or sick individuals—whom the Freiherr calls sensitives.
Frowns and disapproving looks ripple through the assembly. Schrötter has conjured a shadow—the shadow of Hofrätin Reißnagel. Reichenbach feels it distinctly, as this shadow swirls out of the hall and passes over him.
Such people, Schrötter suggests, are easily excitable in their imagination, especially when, as Reichenbach does, one deals primarily with women, and one need only tell them what to feel or see for them to believe they truly do.
“Can you say,” Reichenbach cries indignantly, “that I influence my sensitives?”
Schrötter dismisses this with a shake of his head. “Have you ever been able to confirm odic phenomena from your own perception?”
“I’m not sensitive myself,” Reichenbach shouts. “Must a doctor who describes the symptoms of a disease have experienced it himself?”
“Childbed fever!” says a voice from the back rows—the same voice that interrupted earlier. It gains some success again; heads turn, and a smirk spreads across the enlightened listeners’ faces. Yes, Semmelweis—that’s a similar case; it’s an excellent interjection, highlighting the intellectual kinship of these two men who have entangled themselves in untenable claims. But then the amused faces force themselves back into the seriousness and dignity of the assembly.
“What Baron Reichenbach calls Od,” says Schrötter, jabbing his index fingers into the air, “is entirely subjective in origin. And even if that weren’t the case, the assumption of a previously unknown natural force is entirely superfluous; these so-called odic phenomena can be explained partly by magnetism, partly by electricity…”
Reichenbach can no longer hold back: “Magnetism is something different,” he shouts, “electricity is something different, and Od is something else entirely.”
Professor Schrötter shakes his head again, gently and admonishingly. This kind of outburst, like a tavern brawl, is entirely against the customs and traditions of this distinguished assembly. Here, people are accustomed to letting each other finish, weighing arguments and counterarguments with care and deliberation—a basic tenet of scientific decorum.
“Certain phenomena can also be explained by the known animal magnetism,” Schrötter begins again. “Even Mesmer…”
But in Reichenbach, all regard for the distinguished assembly has collapsed. He feels himself in a state of self-defense. “Mesmerism is merely a special case of Od,” he thunders angrily.
Now Professor Schrötter can go no further. No civilized debate is possible with this shouter, who lacks all sense of good manners. Schrötter withdraws his arm from his coat tails and sits down.
But another rises in his place—a gaunt clerical figure with a sallow face and a hawk-like nose. He gobbles like a lean turkey and drags invisible wings behind him on the floor. “I would like,” he says, “to emphasize from the Church’s standpoint, with all due rigor, that we strictly condemn the superstitious notions of spiritualists, and that we are averse to all mysticism. The Od doctrine of Herr von Reichenbach is mysticism of the darkest origin and stands in opposition to the teachings of the Church. And when Herr von Reichenbach speaks of spirit appearances…”
Reichenbach shows no reverence even for the Church’s vote; he dares not let even a cleric finish. The battle is as good as lost; he no longer fights for victory but only for an honorable retreat. “I am a physicist, Eminence,” he interjects, “and as a physicist, I tell you that all corpses of dead animals emit Od light. —And perhaps,” a new idea strikes him, “one can even derive the word ‘corpse’ from the term ‘light.’”
It’s a blunder that linguists and Germanists, present today, immediately catch. This is their domain, where they’re at home, and something unheard of happens in these sacred halls—a burst of laughter erupts, an unrestrained, gleeful laughter at this misstep.
Then the voice from the back rows speaks again. It shouts, louder and more defiantly than before, a single word into the hall: “Swindle!”
A whip crack stuns Reichenbach; he flinches. Now he has finally spotted the interrupter, crouching behind the backs of those in front, who has been spitting venom at him. It’s Doctor Eisenstein—Doctor Eisenstein, that nobody, that sycophant he dismissed for overstepping his bounds. A base, pitiful revenge has claimed Reichenbach as its victim. “Gentlemen!” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow, “this is a word has been cast that attacks my honor and sullies my name. I stand too high above such accusations to settle publicly with their author. Let his own conscience pronounce judgment. I have by no means worked only with women; I see men in this assembly whom I have involved in my experiments and whom I call as witnesses to testify to how it was conducted—men from your own ranks, whose word you will find beyond reproach…”
His gaze sweeps over the rows of seats, picking out individuals—the physicist Natterer, the botanist Unger, the anatomist Ritter von Perger. They were present, are somewhat sensitive themselves, and can vouch that Reichenbach stands with clean hands, that his experiments were conducted with utmost care. Now one of them must rise and honor the truth.
Silence. They remain seated, shrinking awkwardly, squirming under his gaze, but they dare not confess. They don’t want to be exposed as gullible followers of a man already half-outcast before the Areopagus of science.
Sweat pours in streams from Reichenbach’s forehead. It’s over; they have abandoned him. “Gentlemen,” he says, and his pride rears up even in collapse, “I remind you only of a word from Schopenhauer. The solution to every problem passes through three stages until its acceptance: in the first, it seems ridiculous; in the second, it is fought; and in the third, it is taken as self-evident. You, gentlemen, have not yet spoken the final word; you haven’t even reached the second stage because your capacity for understanding doesn’t extend that far. I confidently leave the decision to the future.”
It’s outrageous, the audacity this arrogant man displays. He dares to criticize the comprehension of this highly esteemed assembly, questioning the jurisdiction of this scientific tribunal over his own matters. Now order breaks down; it’s no longer possible to hold back. A murmur of voices surges against the pale, sweating man at the lectern.
“Oh ho!”
“That’s an insolent overreach!”
“You can’t expect our clear-sighted century to take such fantasies seriously.”
“Yes, yes, leave it to the future.”
In these sacred halls, where the spirit of tolerance and consideration usually prevails, never has it been so chaotic as today. And it scarcely needs the heckler to remove the last inhibitions.
He shouts: “‘Speak of the devil, and he appears!’”
The reference to earlier events isn’t entirely clear, but the word doesn’t miss its mark. Reichenbach himself used it before; they remember, they don’t pause to consider if it fits or not—it allows all interpretations and triggers laughter. Laughter slaps Reichenbach in the face; laughter buries him and his Od.
Amid the tumult, Reichenbach gathers his papers together and leaves. He walks through the rows of seats with his head held high. He scorns the idea of slipping out through the small exit behind the lectern; he departs through the front, straight through the hall, exiting via the main entrance.
Schrötter hurries after him; he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. He wants to make clear to the Freiherr that it was no personal attack but a deliberate defense of scientific objectivity that compelled him to contradict. But the Freiherr is already down the stairs; it’s evident that attempting to appease him now would be risky. With a touch of regret and thoughtfulness, Schrötter remains upstairs and lets the Freiherr go.
It’s strange how, amid inner darkness, the feet seem to find their way on their own. One walks and walks without accounting for it, and suddenly one stands before a destination, realizing they sought it without knowing.
Suddenly, Reichenbach also stands before the stage door of the Burgtheater, facing the poster and reading behind the wire mesh: “First Reappearance of the Heroine Therese Dommeyer as The Maid of Orleans.” And that, indeed, is the answer to the question Reichenbach meant to ask when his feet carried him here unbidden.
So she’s back; she has completed her guest performance tour and resumed her activities in Vienna.
That was the question he came to ask, and here stands the answer behind the wire mesh of the poster board.
Groups of actors and actresses mill about the stage door, chatting and smoking. He threads through them, holding his breath, and knocks on the sliding window of the stage porter.
Where might Madame Dommeyer be found?
The stately guardian of the Muses’ temple looks down at the stranger. Madame Dommeyer is in the house, occupied with rehearsal.
So! Good! Thanking him, Reichenbach steps back; the carriage has followed slowly and stops before the Burgtheater. Reichenbach signals Severin to wait and settles into a small inn, from whose window he can keep the stage door in view.
What would the Herr Baron like—perhaps a glass of young wine and a goulash or some beef?
It doesn’t take long; the wine and beef sit untouched before him when Therese Dommeyer glides out of the stage door. Someone inquired about her, the stage porter reports; the carriage over there seems to belong to him.
Therese Dommeyer nods indifferently; since her return to Vienna, many older gentlemen have been pressing themselves on her. It’s as if these old men have a keen sense, knowing the moment Therese steps back onto Viennese soil that the path is clear. Yes, even the strongest feelings of joy fade; the exuberant dearest joy of passion dulls with habit. As long as there are obstacles, as long as the struggle persists, all that is desired is crowned with heavenly roses; one feels they might perish if the longing endures, but unrestricted fulfillment breaks the spell. Who truly knows their own heart? Such is life.
Freiherr von Reichenbach hurries out of the small inn. Ah, so the Freiherr von Reichenbach is the old gentleman—truly, he has become an old man; just a few months ago, he was better preserved.
He requests the honor of driving Therese home in his carriage.
Why not? She sweeps into the carriage, spreads her skirts, nods to her colleagues—well, hardly has she arrived, and she’s already being picked up in a carriage.
Only a meager spot remains for the Freiherr beside her. He makes himself small, presses into the corner, inquires about her destination, her successes.
Oh God, Therese remembers she promised to send him greetings from her journey. Naturally, she didn’t; she completely forgot there was a Freiherr von Reichenbach. He shouldn’t remind her of it—she’ll give him an answer anyway.
Therese is sullen and mistrustful, reporting her successes only sparingly—perhaps they weren’t even up to par, falling short of what she believes she’s entitled to claim.
“I have a request for you!” says the Freiherr.
Oh, is that it again—this same story? Well, Reichenbach will be astonished by what he’s about to hear. She leans back in the carriage, bracing herself for defense.
“Go ahead, speak,” she says, not exactly encouragingly.
“It’s like this… it concerns the Od, my scientific reputation. You must know that my research has been questioned. I must muster everything to crush my opponents. I’m preparing for the final battle.”
My God, the Od—this tedious Od—hasn’t the Freiherr tired of this harebrained nonsense yet?
“My witnesses have abandoned me; my sensitives have withdrawn, especially now. If you were to step forward—you, who stand at a widely visible height and are known throughout the city… if you were to vouch for me and say, ‘This is how it is,’ then people would listen. They would take the matter seriously again. You are highly sensitive, though even with you, some things remain unclear and contradict other findings…”
“I believe it,” Therese laughs outright.
“I mean,” the Freiherr continues, somewhat embarrassed, “they are only minor deviations that, upon closer examination, can be reconciled with the other facts. Why shouldn’t you…”
Therese is in no mood to be gentle: “Why? Because your whole Od is utter nonsense!”
A glowing corkscrew bores into Reichenbach’s chest, ripping his heart out with a jerk.
His lips tremble with age; the clatter of the carriage window shatters like the blare of trumpets.
“Yes… and because I’ve never seen or heard the slightest thing of what you’ve asked of me. So, now you know, and leave me out of your damned Od!”
A tear in the curtain from top to bottom, a temple collapse, a tempest of the Last Judgment. Who is this strange woman sitting beside Reichenbach in the carriage?
“Well, no hard feelings… I can’t be part of something like this. And thanks for the ride. I’m home.” She taps on the window; Severin turns, nods into the carriage, and leaps from the box to open the door for Therese. Therese has no idea what a devoted admirer she has in Severin; when the Baron is in the city, he misses none of her performances. He’d gladly lay Persian carpets under her delicate feet. Now, knowing she’s in the carriage behind him, he feels as if he’s transporting the Austrian crown jewels. He’s overjoyed she’s back from her tour and gazes at her, utterly enchanted.
When he turns back to his master, he’s startled by the gray, haggard face resting on the red velvet backrest.
“Are you unwell, gracious sir?” he asks with concern.
“No… no… take me home,” says the Freiherr, his tongue slightly heavy.
Chapter 12: Norse Traditions – The Slippery Slope of Gnosticism and the Dualist Divide
Historical Overview: Gnosticism, Manichaeism, and the Rise of Dualist Tensions
The 2nd century CE marked a turbulent era for spiritual thought, as Gnosticism and Manichaeism grappled with dualism’s implications, influencing early Christianity while diverging from its roots. Gnostic texts, such as the Gospel of Philip (circa 180–350 CE) and Pistis Sophia (circa 300–400 CE), emerged in Egypt and Syria, postdating Jesus but blending Hellenistic, Jewish, and Egyptian ideas. Manichaeism, founded by Mani in Persia (216–274 CE), spread from Europe to China by the 4th century, becoming the world’s most widespread religion at its peak, with teachings of matter as evil and spirit as good, emphasizing baptism and reincarnation. Known as “Christians of St. John the Baptist” in some regions, Manichaeans viewed the world as satanic, a doctrine that infiltrated early Christianity despite Augustine’s later rejection of it (he was a Manichaean for nine years before converting, circa 373 CE).
Dualism splintered: destructive Gnosticism framed good vs. evil as a battle destroying life, while organic gnosticism celebrated male-female balance for soul growth through love (Ch. 9). Zoroastrianism (circa 1500–600 BCE), the state religion of Persia, bridged to goddess religions with its emphasis on order (asha) and chaos (druj), later personified as Ahura Mazda vs. Ahriman in the Avesta (circa 1200–600 BCE). It celebrated life, with one path of truth and accountability at judgment, influencing Judaism and Christianity (e.g., messianic figures, ethical dualism).
Literacy’s cognitive leap (Ch. 2, circa 3200 BCE) birthed the watcher self, enabling soul concepts, but the Church co-opted this, suppressing uneducated masses’ access to gnosis. Early Christianity assimilated Manichaean baptism and world-as-evil views, as seen in anti-materialist strains (e.g., Pauline epistles, Romans 7:18–24), despite Jesus’ life-celebrating message (John 10:10). The Church’s anti-sexual stance, evident in Tertullian’s condemnations (circa 200 CE), aimed to control soul development by denying Tantric energies (Ch. 5), reserving gnosis for elites while demonizing goddess traditions (Ch. 10).
Norse völvas (seeresses, circa 8th–11th centuries CE), as shamanic women wielding seidr magic, continued organic gnostic threads in Scandinavia, balancing male-female roles amid Viking patriarchy, as described in the Voluspa (Edda, 13th century CE).
Mystery School Teachings: Dualism’s Slippery Slope and Organic Balance
Mystery schools navigated dualism’s divide: destructive Gnosticism/Manichaeism viewed matter/evil vs. spirit/good as a life-destroying battle, personifying chaos as Satan and denying world’s sanctity, influencing Christianity’s anti-materialist strains (e.g., original sin, world as fallen). Organic gnosticism, rooted in goddess religions’ male-female balance, celebrated life and soul growth through love relationships, as in Zoroastrianism’s asha (order) fostering truth and world-improvement without a devil (early Avesta).
Mandaeism (circa 1st–3rd centuries CE, Mesopotamia), another dualist faith, emphasized good-evil split and baptism but faded, reinforcing the slippery slope: uneducated masses, developing watcher selves via literacy (Ch. 2), were manipulated by elites to deny Tantrism (Ch. 5), reserving soul power for control. Norse völvas countered this, practicing seidr (fate-weaving magic) with prophetic visions, balancing Odin’s male wisdom in Voluspa.
The Church’s assimilation of Manichaean elements—baptism, world as evil—shifted religions from life celebration to death focus, suppressing organic gnosticism’s heart wisdom (Ch. 9) for patriarchal head-tripping.
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Reclaiming Organic Gnosticism’s Loving Dualism
In the OAK Matrix, Gnosticism’s slope aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), integrating Shadow (destructive dualism’s chaos) and Holy Guardian Angel (organic balance’s harmony) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Destructive dualism mirrors social enforcers’ death worship (Ch. 7), countered by organic gnosticism’s life-affirming path, resonating with chaos leaps (Ch. 11, Magus) and resonant circuits (Ch. 13). Zoroastrian truth ties to Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10), celebrating world-improvement via heart. Norse völvas echo Tantrika power (Ch. 5), weaving timelines through seidr.
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.”
Dualism Balance Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize destructive dualism (good-evil battle) vs. organic (male-female love). Journal refused Shadow (e.g., life’s denial) and aspired HGA (e.g., balance). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I choose life’s loving path.” Tie to Zoroastrian asha: Inhale truth, exhale conflict.
Völva Vision Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Norse völvas, spinning a thread (seidr symbol) for fate-weaving. Visualize heart wisdom manifesting timelines, countering Manichaean world-hate. Affirm: “I weave organic gnosis, reclaiming soul’s joy.” Echoes Voluspa.
Partner Heart Exchange: With a partner, discuss organic vs. destructive Gnosticism. Men: Share expansive visions (e.g., life celebration); women: Grounding acts (e.g., womb creation, Ch. 8). Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer dualism and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.
These empower organic gnostics to navigate the slope, reclaiming loving dualism. Next, explore indigenous traditions, where two-spirit roles echo organic balance amid global suppressions.
Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory
Chapter 1: Introduction to Hermetic Philosophy (Continued)
The True Adepts and Their Motives
True alchemists, though rare, stood out as exceptional figures, celebrated despite criticism and misunderstanding. Their writings reveal pure motives—truth, morality, piety, and intelligence—unlike the reckless greed of false alchemists. Albertus Magnus, described as “great in magic, greater in philosophy, greatest in theology,” passed his wisdom to his disciple, Thomas Aquinas, a brilliant and saintly scholar.
Aquinas wrote extensively on transmutation, openly discussing his and Albert’s successes in the secret art in works like Thesaurus Alchimiae, dedicated to Abbot Reginald. He stated clearly, “Metals can be transformed from one to another, as they share the same fundamental substance.” Despite attempts by some to downplay his claims for the sake of his intellectual reputation, Aquinas’s writings, such as De Esse et Essentia, leave no doubt about his commitment to alchemy. He urged caution, advising, “Do as I taught you in person, not in writing, for it would be wrong to reveal this secret to those who seek it for vanity rather than its true purpose. Guard your words, don’t cast wisdom before the unworthy, and focus on salvation and preaching Christ, not chasing temporary wealth.” His works sometimes veil details to protect the art’s higher spiritual goals, which went beyond merely creating gold.
Arnold de Villanova’s skill was also undeniable, supported by contemporary accounts of his transmutations. Jurist John Andreas and others, like Oldradus and Abbot Panormitanus, praised his rational and beneficial work. His numerous writings, including the Rosarium Philosophicum and Speculum, are highly regarded, published in collections like the Theatrum Chemicum. Alain de l’Isle, another adept, reportedly obtained the elixir, though his key treatise was excluded from his main works due to prejudice. His commentary on Merlin’s prophecies, tied to alchemical secrets, survives in the Theatrum Chemicum.
Raymond Lully and the Spread of Alchemy
By the late 14th century, alchemy’s popularity surged as respected figures like Raymond Lully confirmed its reality with tangible results. Lully, a well-traveled missionary known for his Christian zeal, learned alchemy late in life, possibly from Arnold de Villanova. His endorsements carried weight, as he was no cloistered scholar but a public figure. John Cremer, Abbot of Westminster, spent 30 years struggling with the cryptic texts of earlier adepts until Lully’s fame reached him. Cremer sought Lully in Italy, gained his trust, and learned the art’s methods, inspired by Lully’s pious and charitable life.
Cremer invited Lully to England, where King Edward II, eager for wealth, welcomed him. Lully agreed to produce gold for the king’s crusades, reportedly transmuting 50,000 pounds of quicksilver, lead, and tin into pure gold in the Tower of London. He later wrote, “I converted at one time 50,000 pounds weight of quicksilver, lead, and tin into gold.” However, the king broke his promise, imprisoning Lully to force more production. Cremer, outraged, recorded this betrayal in his Testament. Lully escaped, and the gold was minted into coins called Nobles of the Rose, noted for their exceptional purity, as described by Camden and others. Later, during repairs at Westminster, workers found transmuting powder left by Lully, enriching them, as reported by scholars like Olaus Borrichius and Dickenson.
Lully’s writings, like those of other adepts, are deliberately obscure to deter greedy seekers. His Theoria et Practica is among the best, though its coded language requires deep study. With over 200 works attributed to him, Lully’s contributions remain significant, despite debates about his late embrace of alchemy.
The Frenzy and Fall of Alchemy
By this time, alchemy’s possibility was widely accepted, drawing people from all walks of life—popes, cardinals, kings, merchants, and craftsmen. Thomas Norton’s Ordinal of Alchemy captures this fervor:
Popes, cardinals, bishops, and kings, Merchants burning with greed, and common workers, All sought this noble craft. Goldsmiths believed due to their trade, But brewers, masons, tailors, and clerks joined in, Driven by presumption, yet often deceived. Many lost their wealth, yet clung to hope, But without deep wisdom, they found only scorn. This subtle science of holy alchemy Is the profoundest philosophy, not for fools.
The art’s public success fueled a frenzy, with greed often overshadowing wisdom. False alchemists, lacking true knowledge, deceived others or themselves, tarnishing the art’s reputation. Fraudulent books spread confusion, promoting salts, nitres, or random plants as the key, while corrupted editions of masters’ works added errors. As Norton lamented, “A monk wrote a book of a thousand false recipes, causing loss and turning honest men false.”
This led to social chaos, with merchants losing fortunes to tricksters. By the 14th and 15th centuries, England’s Parliament and papal bulls banned transmutation, threatening death. Yet, figures like Pope John XXII, who issued such bans, reportedly practiced alchemy to enrich the treasury. Secret experiments continued, driven by both philosophers and rogues.
Nicholas Flammel’s Legacy
Among the most compelling stories is that of Nicholas Flammel and his wife Pernelle, whose humble beginnings, sudden wealth, and charity made them legends. Flammel, a Parisian scrivener, recounted in 1413:
I, Nicholas Flammel, born in 1399, learned little Latin due to my parents’ poverty, yet God blessed me with understanding. After their death, I earned a living copying texts. By chance, I bought a gilded book for two florins, not of paper but tree bark, with a brass cover engraved with strange letters, perhaps Greek. Its pages, written in neat Latin, were marked every seventh leaf with painted figures. Unable to read it, I sought help. A Jewish scholar I met while traveling explained its hieroglyphs. Returning home, I worked for three years, studying and experimenting, until I found the first principles. On January 17, 1382, with Pernelle, I turned a pound and a half of mercury into silver, better than mined. On April 25, I made gold, softer and purer than common gold. I did this three times, with Pernelle’s help, who understood it as well as I. We depicted our process on a chapel door in Paris, giving thanks to God.
Flammel found joy not in wealth but in nature’s wonders, seen in his vessels. Fearing Pernelle might reveal their secret, he was relieved by her wisdom and restraint. Together, they founded 14 hospitals, three chapels, and seven churches in Paris, and similar works in Boulogne, all adorned with symbols of the art, veiled to guide only the wise. Flammel believed the philosopher’s stone transformed not just metals but the soul, turning evil into good and inspiring piety.
Chapter 11: Celtic Druidism – The Massacre at Stonehenge and the Birth of Arthurian Mysticism
Historical Overview: Stonehenge as Sacred Center and the Feast of the Long Knives
Stonehenge, a monumental stone circle on Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire, England, constructed between 3000 and 2000 BCE, stands as a testament to ancient Britain’s spiritual ingenuity. Recent archaeological discoveries illuminate its role as a unifying ritual site: the 2024 revelation that the Altar Stone originated from northeast Scotland (750 km away) suggests Stonehenge was a national monument, symbolizing communal bonds across vast distances. Excavations in 2020 uncovered massive Neolithic pits two miles northeast, indicating a sprawling sacred landscape hosting thousands for ceremonies like Beltaine, a festival of fire and fertility central to Druidic practice. While Stonehenge predates the Iron Age Druids (circa 500 BCE–500 CE), their repurposing of it as a temple is supported by Roman accounts (e.g., Tacitus, Annals 14.30, 61 CE) and 17th-century antiquarians like John Aubrey and William Stukeley.
Druids, the priestly class of Celtic society, emerged from Proto-Indo-European (PIE) cultures of the Pontic-Caspian steppes (4500–2500 BCE), where horse domestication birthed the world’s first mounted warriors, including women, as evidenced by Sarmatian kurgan burials (600 BCE–450 CE). PIE languages evolved into Celtic, spawning Druidic culture across Gaul, Britain, and Ireland. The Sarmatians, a nomadic steppe people, influenced Britain via Roman auxiliaries: in 175 CE, 5,500 Sarmatian horsemen were stationed there, with remnants at Ribchester until 400 CE, flying dragon standards and worshiping swords plunged into mounds—rites possibly inspiring Arthurian legends like Excalibur. Eidol, Earl of Gloucester and potential Druid high priest, may have been a Sarmatian descendant, explaining his outsider status in the massacre narrative.
The Feast of the Long Knives (472 CE), chronicled in the Gododdin (circa 6th–7th centuries CE, attributed to bard Aneirin), marks the catastrophic betrayal of Druidic culture. Translated by Edward Davies in 1809, the Gododdin—a series of elegies—details a week-long Beltaine festival at Stonehenge, where Saxon leader Hengist colluded with British High King Vortigern to slaughter 360 nobles, Druids, and bards. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (473 CE) notes Hengist’s “immense booty,” likely Stonehenge’s sacred treasures, including the Holy Grail as a Druidic womb-cauldron (Ch. 8). Stonehenge was not just stones but a fortified community with bards’ quarters, an avenue, and a cursus (a raised ritual platform), hosting thousands for the festival.
The narrative begins with Vortigern, elected High King to fend off Picts, Scots, and Saxons, negotiating peace with Hengist and Horsa, granting them Thanet. Hengist’s daughter Rowena married Vortigern, securing Kent without its owner’s consent, sparking unrest. Britons elected Vortimer, Vortigern’s son, to expel Saxons, but Rowena poisoned him. Hengist returned with 300,000 men, proposing a peace meeting at Stonehenge’s Beltaine (May 1, 473 CE). Secretly, Vortigern agreed to betray his nobles, marking Vortimer’s champions in purple robes for slaughter. Saxons hid knives, and at Hengist’s signal—killing the chief bard—360 Britons were massacred, with Eidol alone surviving, killing seventy Saxons and later beheading Hengist. The temple’s treasures were plundered, and Druidism collapsed, with St. Patrick’s burning of 300 Druid manuscripts in Ireland (432–461 CE) sealing its fate.
Debates persist about the Gododdin’s setting (some propose Catraeth, circa 495–500 CE) and Aneirin’s authorship, but Davies’ meticulous linguistic analysis supports Stonehenge, corroborated by 2023 studies of the text’s archaic Celtic layers. The Mabinogion (11th–14th centuries CE), particularly tales like “Culhwch and Olwen” and “Peredur,” preserves three surviving Druid branches, weaving organic gnostic wisdom into Arthurian legend, with Eidol as a proto-Arthur and Stonehenge as the “round table.”
Mystery School Teachings: Druidic Equality, the Grail’s Loss, and Arthurian Hope
Druid teachings, rooted in organic gnosticism, celebrated nature’s sacredness and gender equality, with bandrui (female Druids) leading alongside men in rituals like Beltaine’s purifying fires, as described in Gododdin’s elegies: “On Monday they praised the holy ones in the presence of the purifying fire.” These rites honored Gaia’s life-death-rebirth cycle, echoing Minoan and Samothrace warrior-goddess cults (Ch. 5), where women channeled fertility and battle energies. The Holy Grail, as a womb-cauldron, symbolized Tantric creation (Ch. 8), mixing male (photon/lightning) and female (magnetic matrix) energies for soul and timeline manifestation. Its loss in the massacre severed this power, reflecting social enforcers’ (Saxons, Church) anti-life agenda to dominate Gaia’s native inhabitants (Ch. 11).
Literacy’s watcher self (Ch. 2), birthed by proto-writing (Vinča, 5300–4500 BCE), was preserved in Druid oral traditions, with bards like Aneirin weaving cryptic songs to safeguard wisdom under Saxon captivity. The Gododdin’s fragmented elegies, sung by Aneirin as a prisoner, encode the massacre’s horror—chief bard’s death, purple-robed champions slain—while hinting at rebirth through Eidol’s survival. Samothrace mysteries (7th century BCE–4th century CE), possibly carried by Sarmatians, blended warrior-goddess rites with Druidic equality, fading with Druidism’s fall around 400 CE.
The massacre was a chaos point, rupturing Druid resonance but seeding Arthurian myths. The Mabinogion’s tales—“Culhwch and Olwen” (heroic quests), “Peredur” (Grail-like cauldron quests), and “Manawydan fab Llŷr” (wisdom’s survival)—preserve Druidic branches, portraying Arthur as Eidol’s mythic echo, a Promethean resistor promising Gaia’s return. The Grail, lost in the plunder, became the quest object, symbolizing the organic gnostics’ suppressed feminine matrix, awaiting rediscovery.
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Reclaiming the Grail and Druidic Resonance
In the OAK Matrix, the Stonehenge massacre is a chaos leap (Ch. 11, Magus), shattering Druidic resonant circuits (Ch. 13) but birthing Arthurian hope for Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4). The Grail as womb-cauldron aligns with Oganesson’s matrix (Ch. 20), containing fragments for soul creation via Tantric duality (Ch. 5). Druid equality resonates with true Ego integration (Intro, Individual), merging Shadow (primal life joys, Radon, Ch. 26) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24). Eidol’s stand mirrors Adeptus Major sacrifice (Ch. 6), serving life against social enforcers’ death worship (Ch. 7), aiming for Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10).
Practical rituals revive this:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Massacre Memorial Meditation (Weekly, 20 minutes): Visualize Stonehenge’s circle as round table, honoring slain Druids. Journal refused Shadow (massacre’s gore as life’s cycle) and aspired HGA (rebirth harmony), merging in Oganesson’s womb. Affirm: “From blood, I reclaim Grail’s power.” Tie to Gododdin: Inhale loss, exhale renewal.
Beltaine Fire Ritual (Seasonal, May 1): By oak, light a small fire or candle, invoking Beltaine’s purifying flame (Fortune’s description). Offer herbs for life’s joy, visualizing massacre as chaos point birthing Arthur’s return. Affirm: “I defend Gaia’s temple, uniting Pan’s ecstasy and divine light.” Echoes Samothrace rites.
Partner Grail Quest: With a partner, discuss Gaia’s renewal. Men: Share expansive visions (e.g., Arthurian rebirth); women: Grounding acts (e.g., womb creation, Ch. 8). Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for Grail manifestation. Solo: Balance enforcer destruction and gnostic life in Gaia’s heart.
Arthurian Rebirth Ritual: By oak, invoke Eidol as proto-Arthur, holding an acorn as Grail symbol. Visualize Stonehenge’s fire rekindling Druid wisdom, merging watcher self (Ch. 2) with Mabinogion’s surviving branches. Affirm: “As Arthur returns, I rebirth Gaia’s spark.”
These rituals empower organic gnostics to reclaim Druidic resonance, countering patriarchal destruction. Next, explore Norse völvas, whose shamanic power continued the feminine mystic tradition.
Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XV.
Falk sat in his hotel room, brooding.
Why had he even come here? He could just as well have tormented himself in Berlin.
It must be six days now?
He reflected. Yes, he’d been here six days.
But now he couldn’t take it anymore. No, impossible. Yes, he had to state, without any self-pity, simply as a bare fact, that he couldn’t endure this torment any longer. He would surely go to ruin. Every day, something in him broke that was whole yesterday, every day his disgust for life grew—and this pain…
To go to ruin over a woman? He, the artist, he… Ha, ha, ha… As if it weren’t better to go to ruin over a woman than over some idiotic stroke, or typhoid, or diphtheria…
Oh, you foolish Iltis! How shallow you are! At least I go to ruin over myself; I go to ruin over what makes up my innermost soul’s structure. And she, yes, she: that’s me, me, whom you’ve never seen, whom I only now recognized in myself.
He couldn’t finish the thought…
Go to ruin over your drunkenness or persecution mania if you think that’s more worthy of a man—I go to ruin over myself…
But why the devil go to ruin? I want to be happy—I want to live…
He suddenly lost the thread of thought. His mind had been so scattered lately.
He sat and sat, noticing he was completely numb. He forced himself to think.
Hmm; he’d never done anything without controlling himself. Yes, the first two days, he still had himself in hand. He worked on her with conscious means…
Good God! That ridiculous swan story! How stupidly made up, how clumsy… brash, yes, brash…
And then came the vortex, the whirl… His brain began to spin around itself, circling faster and faster into the abyssal funnel of sexuality…
The dance—the dance…
He suddenly saw a spiderweb in the corner. He stared at it long and intently, but his eyes closed.
Yes, he was tired, terribly tired, he felt a tearing in his limbs… Yes, three—no, four hours he’d walked, to kill the pain with exhaustion, to sleep without that wretched poison, that morphine…
Now he had to fix his eyes on a shiny object. He stared at the brass doorknob for a while.
He only felt tears running down his cheeks…
It was a glorious autumn day. Bright, clear noon. He looked at the tall tower of the Redeemer Church in Copenhagen. Mikita stood beside him, waving his handkerchief.
Farvel! Farvel! he heard shouted, but he saw no people. Suddenly, he noticed a tearful young man beside him. He was probably headed to Stettin for a wholesale business…
How many nautical miles did this steamer make in an hour? You!—Mikita excitedly pointed out an English coal steamer.
Two cabin boys were boxing as if they’d gone mad. He saw them leap at each other like roosters. In an instant, they became a tangled heap rolling on the deck, then breaking apart and rolling again. Then he saw them spring up and start again with renewed fury. He saw fists flying back and forth, then they tumbled down the cabin stairs, reappeared, and again he saw the heap rolling on the deck…
Falk woke up, opened his eyes, and closed them again.
“You, Erik, look at this marvelous night on the water and this shimmering—this glowing… Good God, if you could paint that!”
“You dear fellow!”
And they sat and drank. The night was so black. They sat close together.
And suddenly, a frenzy seized them. They grabbed each other. He lifted Mikita up, wanting to throw him overboard. But Mikita was nimble. He slipped under his arms and grabbed his legs. Desperately, Falk pounded Mikita’s head with his fists, but Mikita didn’t care, he carried him, yes, he wanted to throw him into the sea, now they were at the railing, now… now… Then he got something hard under his feet. He threw his whole body over Mikita, making him buckle, with one grip he seized his hips, and with a terrific thrust: Mikita flew overboard in a wide arc.
Falk woke up.
He stood in the middle of the room with clenched fists. He came to himself.
A wild hatred burned in him, a savage urge to fight. Overboard! Overboard!
He clenched his teeth. He was cold. He paced back and forth.
Who would rob him of his happiness, for whose sake should he go to ruin?!
Gradually, he calmed down.
It became clear to him now: one had to go overboard, him or Mikita.
She no longer loved Mikita! What did Mikita want from her? Who was Mikita anyway? He’d been with him at school, starved with him—and yes, what else? What more?
He sat down and let his head hang limply.
This sick, mad longing for her he’d never felt before…
Overboard! Him or me.
The vortex seizes us both, one to happiness… only one to happiness…
And that’s me!
He stretched tall.
He saw the elk before him, the trembling, blood-splattered victor. And an unprecedented unrest seized him.
He tore open his clothes and buttoned them again. He searched for money, rummaged through all his pockets, couldn’t find it, raged, ran around, sweat beading on his forehead.
He had to go to her now. He had to. He couldn’t bear it anymore. And he threw himself over the bed, tossing everything around, and finally found his wallet under the pillow.
If only it’s not too late, if only it’s not too late… He looked at his watch. It had stopped.
He rang the bell frantically.
The waiter hurried up. “When does the train to Berlin leave?”
“In about an hour.”
“Quick, quick, the bill. Hurry, for God’s sake…”
When Falk arrived in Berlin, it was already late in the evening.
It suddenly became clear: he had to go to Mikita’s.
Yes, he had to tell him openly that he shouldn’t deceive himself, that Isa no longer loved him, and if she hadn’t told him, it was probably only to spare him the pain as long as possible, she pitied him…
Yes, he had to tell him openly. It was endlessly awkward.
But why? Mikita was a complete stranger to him.
But the closer he got to Mikita’s apartment, the heavier it felt.
No! He couldn’t tell Mikita that.
He tried to recall what Mikita had once meant to him, how he had loved him…
He could hardly breathe.
He stood indecisively outside Mikita’s apartment.
Yes, he had to, he had to… or… oh God! Yes, then he’d have to go back.
And he relived the horrific torment of those six days. Horrible! Horrible! he murmured.
He went up.
“Is Mr. Mikita at home?”
“No! He’s gone to Munich.”
Falk stood on the stairs. He couldn’t grasp the happiness. This happiness!
He repeated it again, but he couldn’t feel joy. And now to Isa—to Isa!
He thought only of her. He tried to imagine how she’d receive him, he thought of a thousand little details he’d noticed about her, he thought intensely, convulsively, to drown out something in him that wanted to speak, that resisted and fought against this great happiness.
Then suddenly: He mustn’t go to Isa! He had to wait until Mikita returned. He had to tell him everything, so Mikita wouldn’t accuse him of cowardice, wouldn’t say he’d seduced his bride behind his back.
Yes! He had to wait.
But that was impossible for him—physically impossible. Now everything in him was stretched to the breaking point; one more thousandth of a millimeter, and it would collapse.
Why had he come back?
As long as he could bear the torment, he’d stayed away and fought bravely and been good, but then…
He pulled himself together sharply.
No, enough of arguments now! He’d do what he had to do, even if ten, a thousand feelings resisted… God, yes, he didn’t deny that each of those feelings carried a certain degree of necessity, but in the end, the final, mighty, inevitable necessity always won!
And he thought it through to the finest detail, but he didn’t feel happier.
Deep in the background, he felt a dull fear, an embarrassed, shameful pain, and then he felt everything merge into one feeling, an endlessly sad feeling of not being himself, of not belonging to himself.
He passed a clock. He flinched sharply.
In a quarter of an hour, the door would be locked, then he couldn’t see her. Not today… He groaned.
Now you must decide. You must. You must.
He felt a painful tension in every fiber, every muscle. He walked faster and faster.
No, no! No more thinking, no more; now I must go to her… Come what may…
He still thought, still tried to fight, but he knew he’d do it anyway.
And then: with a jolt, he threw all thoughts from his mind and quickly climbed the stairs.
But as he was about to ring, that paralyzing fear gripped him again. He put his finger to the electric bell button several times but didn’t dare press it. Then he leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly so heavy. He went down a few steps, counting them; then he heard the jingle of keys below, and all at once, he recalled his necessity, the final necessity that must always win.
He went back up and rang. A maid opened the door.
“Is Fräulein Isa…”
“Fräulein Isa is not receiving; she’s forbidden anyone to be let in…”
“But tell her I must speak to her…” He almost shouted it, not knowing why.
At that moment, a door opened: Isa stood in the hallway.
Falk walked toward her; without a word, they entered the room.
They took each other’s hands and both trembled.
Then she threw her arms around his neck and wept loudly.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
In the grand assembly hall of the Academy of Sciences, a distinguished audience is gathered today. The great luminaries of science are all present; they don’t want to miss this occasion—not always do they come with such eager anticipation as today, when Freiherr von Reichenbach is to deliver a lecture on his Od. Often enough, it’s merely a tedious duty; they attend serious and beneficial discussions but yawn in advance. Today, however, they smile, knowing it will be entertaining. Freiherr von Reichenbach is in everyone’s people’s mouths—the whole city is talking about him, less for his Od and more for other matters.
“Say, have you also received that lithographed letter he sent to all his friends?”
“A kind of wanted poster, after his daughter and a certain Karl Schuh.”
“A public accusation!”
“But that’s the Schuh with the light paintings. A talented man, he works in a chemical factory. Certainly not the blackguard the Freiherr paints him as.”
“Say, can you understand the man? Normally, one washes dirty laundry quietly at home, but Reichenbach airs it for all the world to see.”
“A passionate nature! A man who can’t bear not getting his way.”
“Just like with his Od.”
“But one doesn’t accuse one’s daughter of consorting with an adventurer in a public circular letter.”
“And that she nearly emptied all the chests when she left his house and left keys to half-empty rooms behind.”
“That’s not true. Reichenbach writes of two loads she took. I know her brother; he told me it was no more than two hand carts with her clothes and linens.”
“I can only think he’s upset because he’s not making progress with his Od, and now his domestic troubles have completely unhinged him.”
And then, after everything has been thoroughly discussed at length, Reichenbach arrives. He’s a bit late, giving the luminaries of science time to finish their gossip—the gossip he himself turned into a public matter to show he has nothing to hide. After the self-destruction of recent weeks, he’s in a festive mood today. This is the day of his triumph; he will compel the men of science with the force of his words and the logic of facts to acknowledge his research results and cheer for him. Against the dark backdrop of his personal distress, his fame as a discoverer will shine all the brighter.
At the door, Professor Schrötter, the Academy’s general secretary, greets him.
“What do you say to Liebig?” he asks first thing.
So they already know—Reichenbach dislikes being reminded of it; yes, malice always spreads with the speed of wind, while praise and recognition lag far behind.
It’s unpleasant to be reminded of this setback at the outset; the wound still stings. But Reichenbach merely smiles and says offhandedly, “What can you do? He wanted to make a splash with his inaugural lecture at Munich University and chose my Od as a sacrificial lamb. Scholars often slaughter their best friends to get themselves talked about.”
“Liebig was entirely for you at first. He published your papers in his Annals. How do you explain the turnaround?”
“How do I explain it?” snorts Reichenbach contemptuously. “Some gentlemen visited me, on their way to the naturalists’ convention in Wiesbaden. They also chose to learn about my experiments. I led them into the darkroom, but they saw no Od light. None of them were sensitive, and besides, they were too impatient to wait the necessary time. Then they went to Liebig in Munich and mocked the Od and me. It’s always easy to laugh when you don’t understand something. But it seems to have made an impression on Liebig.”
“Still,” hesitates Schrötter, “his attack has been noticed.”
Reichenbach tightens his resolve: “By the way, I was in Karlsbad with Berzelius, who puts Liebig in his pocket, and Berzelius is entirely on my side.”
They take their seats, and Hofrat Rokitansky, the vice president, opens the proceedings. A protocol is read, a foundation charter is announced, and several new decrees follow, though the assembly pays only moderate attention. Only when Reichenbach steps to the lectern do heads lift and expressions sharpen.
Reichenbach’s gaze surveys the densely packed audience. There they sit below—indifferent, malicious, envious, curious—come to see how he will hold up. He knows they’re all thinking of the scandal in his house, of Liebig’s defection. But his conviction stands like a steel pillar within him; he is bathed in the light of holiest certainty. Today, he will rise and crush all resistance. He has even summoned opposition, awakened enmities, so that his elevation will shine all the brighter.
Then Reichenbach begins to speak. He starts with an overview of his experiments; he has conducted thousands of trials, identified one hundred and sixty sensitives—men and women of all classes and ages. He has examined animal bodies and supposedly dead matter.
Reichenbach overlooks a faint cough at this challenge to a widely accepted view. Is matter not dead, then? He straightens: “The result of these investigations is the unerring certainty of a force permeating the entire universe, which I have named Od, derived from the Sanskrit root Va, meaning ‘to blow’ or ‘to waft,’ just as the same root becomes Wudan, Wotan, Odin in Old Germanic, signifying the air god, the wafter. Truly, this dynamis acts throughout the cosmos, wafting through the greatest and the smallest. Heavenly bodies, humans, animals, plants, stones—all emit Od, all are permeated by Od; Od is the life principle of the animate and inanimate world.”
The tufts of hair on either side of his forehead blaze—not in anger this time, but in enthusiasm. They rise and seem to spark with crackling energy. Some think to themselves that whatever may be undesirable, petty, or unpleasant about Reichenbach the man, now, as he stands before his audience, swept away by his idea, one cannot help but find him grand and admirable—even if his worldview rests on delusion and error. Some say this to themselves, but far more find the fire of his rapture out of place here, where facts—sober, research-based facts—usually hold sway. They are suspicious of a lecture with so much passion.
Perhaps Reichenbach senses this, for he now reins in his fervor. He is, first and foremost, a physicist and chemist, isn’t he? And so he intends to speak only as a physicist and chemist. Now he constructs his system before the audience—the convictions drawn from endless experimental series, meticulously recorded in his diaries and soon to be accessible to the public in his comprehensive work, The Sensitive Human. He speaks of the odic polarity and the odic dynamics of the human body, of odic transitional states, of crystals, magnets, odic emotional and visual phenomena, of odic manifestations of smell, taste, and hearing, of conductivity, of Od linked with living organisms—the Biod, of the Od active in the sun—the Heliod…
It’s a wealth of connections, insights, and assertions in which Reichenbach is entirely at home, but which bewilder and overwhelm his listeners.
A quiet restlessness in the hall gradually penetrates his awareness; he glances at the clock, almost startled. He has spoken for two hours; it’s time to conclude. He clenches his fists, as if to hammer his final sentences with all his might into their heads. “You see, gentlemen, the polar oppositions of that natural force which I call Od. On the negative side of Od are life, movement, lightness, and volatility—the spiritual principle; on the positive side are death, stillness, weight, and immobility—the material principle. The right side of the human body is odically negative. Why does man predominantly use his right hand? Why does one escort a lady on the right arm? Why is someone to be honored placed at one’s right? From the unconscious recognition that the right side signifies odic life and spirit. Heavenly bodies, humans, animals, plants, and stones are bearers of Od. What mysteries are revealed to us! Odic radiations from the stars—do they not explain the ancient riddles of astrology, the fate-determining influences of the stars? The Earth itself is odically charged; its North Pole emits reddish light, its South Pole bluish light, and perhaps the auroras are nothing but immense odic discharges of the Earth. Od also provides the key to the mystery of the divining rod. Moving water acts odically, and the sensitive, holding the divining rod, senses hidden springs beneath the Earth through his receptivity to Od. You may think what you will, but the facts of distant influence, remote viewing, and premonition cannot be denied in many cases. Allow me to cite an old proverb: ‘Speak of the devil, and he appears!’ Following a sudden inspiration, you speak of a man you haven’t thought of for years thought of for years. And lo, in the next moment, he turns the corner. It’s his Od radiations that preceded him and awakened the thought of him before you knew of his physical proximity. The unaccountable affections and aversions between people stem from sympathy or opposition of their odic personalities. Yes, I would venture to say that even the manifestations revealed to spiritualists—the so-called spirit appearances—are based on facts of an odic nature.”
A voice interrupts him here, coming from one of the back rows. It says loudly and clearly, “Wizard of Kobenzl!” Though such interruptions are uncommon at this venue, the heckler receives no reprimand; instead, a wave of approving smiles ripples through the rows of faces, followed by a rustling of agreement and nudges.
Reichenbach straightens, trying to fix his gaze on the malicious interrupter, but he can’t pinpoint the source of the shout. “The presence of Od in a body determines its stereoplastic, body-forming power, and thus I believe that even in seemingly dead stone, forces of immense significance may be bound. It is Od that governs the atoms and, within atoms, the arrangement of matter, its transformation, bonding, and splitting. It is Od on which our entire chemistry rests, and perhaps with Od we have reached the hypothetical ether. Odic radiations permeate the entire universe, and I dare to predict that a time is near when all life will be seen as an effect of such radiations.”
Reichenbach has finished; he falls silent, exhausted, but still stands erect, having hurled his fiery thoughts out. He awaits the ignition of a flame in the minds seized by his fire, the applause of those swept away by his boldness.
A shuffle of feet, coughs, the scraping of chairs, a wave of heads from the distinguished assembly below him. He shouldn’t have spoken of astrology, remote viewing, spirit appearances, divining rods, and other spawn of superstition before this esteemed gathering. What is one to say to such nonsense? How should one respond? How dare he present this to the luminaries of science, bearers of enlightenment in this thankfully advanced century?
Reichenbach waits, but the applause doesn’t come. He doesn’t fully grasp it—have they not recognized the overwhelming significance of his discovery? Don’t they see that it reduces all phenomena of nature and life to a single law, a fundamental force?
Someone rises to speak—Professor Schrötter, Reichenbach’s friend. Reichenbach breathes a sigh of relief; a friend, surely he will now make the matter palatable to the assembly. Perhaps he knows best how to address these thickheads. Maybe it was too much fireworks at once for more cautious minds.
Professor Schrötter pushes back the tails of his coat with one arm, as he’s wont to do at the lectern, and raises the other hand in a gesture of professorial insistence. He begins by saying it’s unnecessary to speak of the undeniable contributions of Freiherr von Reichenbach to science in this assembly. With small hand movements, he tosses out names like Paraffin, Creosote, Zaffar, Eupion, Kapnomor into the hall, glances toward the ceiling, traces a semicircle with his hand, and mentions Reichenbach’s research in meteoritics, eliciting approving nods from the scholarly society.
Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory
Chapter 1: Introduction to Hermetic Philosophy (Continued)
Alchemy in Rome and Alexandria
Rome, known for its wealth and military might, didn’t deeply explore the subtle sciences of nature. Still, some evidence suggests alchemical knowledge existed. Pliny recounts Emperor Caligula’s failed attempts to create gold, driven by greed, which yielded excellent but minimal results, causing financial loss. Poets like Virgil, Ovid, and Horace, along with architect Vitruvius, were rumored to dabble in the “black art,” though these claims often carried a negative stigma.
More compelling are the perpetual lamps, artifacts showing Rome’s grasp of chemistry and light’s hidden laws. Described by Pancirollus, these lamps burned without fuel for centuries. St. Augustine noted one dedicated to Venus in his time, unextinguishable. The most remarkable was found in 1500 near Alestes, in the tomb of Tullia, Cicero’s daughter. A farmer uncovered an earthen vessel containing a lamp between two cylinders—one gold, one silver—each filled with a pure liquid that likely sustained the lamp’s glow for over 1,500 years. Inscriptions credited Maximus Olybius, a skilled alchemist, for this feat. The larger urn’s verses read:
Plunderers, don’t touch this sacred gift to Pluto; Its secret is beyond your grasp. Maximus Olybius, with great effort, locked the elements within, Crafted through hidden wisdom. Two urns guard this precious liquid, Preserving the lamp’s eternal light.
The smaller urn warned:
Thieves, keep away with your prying eyes! Leave with your cunning Mercury, winged and wand in hand! This mighty art, sacred to Pluto, endures forever.
These lamps suggest a sophisticated understanding of ethereal substances, possibly a divine or celestial “water” described by Hermolaus Barbarus and others like Democritus and Hermes. This water, a spiritual essence akin to the ether, was said to burn eternally without diminishing, as noted in ancient texts like the Apocalypse of the Secret Spirit of Nature.
Another enigma is the Bononian Enigma, a famous inscription that has puzzled scholars but is claimed by alchemists to describe their universal substance. Found in Bologna, it reads:
Ælia Lælia Crispis Not man, not woman, not both, Not virgin, youth, or elder, Not chaste, not harlot, not modest, but all! Killed not by hunger, sword, or poison, but by all! Not in heaven, earth, or water, but everywhere! Lucius Agatho Priscus Not husband, lover, kin, nor sad, glad, or weeping, Knows and knows not for whom this stands— Not a monument, pyramid, or tomb, but all! A sepulcher without a body, yet the body is the sepulcher!
Alchemists, like Michael Maier and N. Barnaud, interpret this as a riddle about the philosopher’s stone, a substance embodying all opposites, as we’ll explore later.
The Christian Era and Alexandria
In Alexandria, Christian Platonists and theologians engaged with alchemy. St. John the Evangelist is said to have used it to help the poor, creating gold, silver, and gems, as noted by St. Victor. Greek Catholics honored this in a hymn for St. John’s feast day:
He mended broken gems, Gave them to the poor, Turned rods to gold, Made gems from stones, An endless treasure.
Early Christians embraced alchemy’s powers, rooted in sanctity and faith. The apostles established rituals using water, oil, salt, and light, symbolizing real spiritual forces. However, reformers later dismissed these as superstitions, reducing regeneration to mere belief. Meanwhile, some Catholics turned these symbols into idols, missing their deeper meaning and adding their own rituals, leading to division. True understanding, as Thomas Vaughan’s account of early Christian missions to Ethiopia suggests, came from demonstrating faith’s power through healing and transformation.
Alexandria, a hub of philosophy after Christ, hosted thinkers like Plotinus, Philo-Judaeus, Proclus, Jamblicus, Julian, and Apuleius, who explored theurgic arts and Hermetic principles. Hypatia, a brilliant philosopher, taught Synesius, who later became a Christian bishop but remained devoted to alchemy. He wrote a commentary on Democritus and other works, carefully guarding these mysteries from the uninitiated. Heliodorus, Zozimus, Athenagoras, and Archelaus also contributed treatises on the philosopher’s stone, blending mysticism with practical knowledge.
The Arab conquest of Alexandria in 640 CE scattered its scholars, and Caliph Omar’s destruction of its library—burned to heat baths for six months—fulfilled parts of the Asclepian prophecy. Religious fanaticism, both Christian and Muslim, replaced intellectual zeal with dogma, leading to a decline in sacred knowledge. Priests, abandoning conscience, misused mystical powers, causing chaos. The mysteries, no longer holy, were banned, and pursuing the “religion of intellect” became punishable by death. A few wise souls hid their knowledge, preserving it in obscurity.
Alchemy in Arabia and Europe
Alchemy found fertile ground in Arabia, producing figures like Geber, possibly the greatest alchemist after Hermes. His works—Investigation of Perfection, Sum of the Perfect Magistery, and Testament—are revered by adepts like Albertus Magnus and Raymond Lully, though modern chemists often dismiss them as “gibberish,” a term derived from Geber’s cryptic style. Unlike today’s chemistry, Geber worked with a living, universal essence, not lifeless elements, in a laboratory of the human spirit. His writings, deliberately obscure, guide those on the right path while misleading the unprepared.
Rhasis, another Arabian alchemist, gained fame for public transmutations. Roger Bacon, a 13th-century English friar, drew on this tradition, mastering theology, medicine, and metaphysics. He reportedly produced gold by multiplying light through nature’s universal spirit. Persecuted for his discoveries, Bacon hid the practical details, believing such knowledge was too dangerous for the unworthy. His works, like Speculum Alchimiae, carefully veil the art’s secrets, reflecting his later regret for delving into forbidden realms.
Other medieval luminaries included Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas, Scotus Erigena, Arnold de Villanova, and Raymond Lully, all confessed alchemists. Their works, like Albert’s De Mineralibus and Aquinas’s Libellus de Alchimia, describe the philosopher’s stone with precision, emphasizing rational inquiry over greed. Later figures like John Reuchlin, Marsilio Ficino, Pico della Mirandola, Spinoza, Alain de l’Isle, Merlin, John Trithemius, and Cornelius Agrippa blended alchemy with Neoplatonism and Kabbalah, pushing boundaries of knowledge.
These philosophers, driven by faith and curiosity, transcended ordinary limits, unlike those who faltered before nature’s barriers. Their legacy, often misunderstood by biographers, suffered from skepticism, yet their pursuit of truth through the Hermetic art remains a testament to their vision.
Many seek alchemy, both true and false; The false are countless, rejected by their greed. Among thousands, scarcely three are chosen For this sacred knowledge. — Thomas Norton, Ordinal of Alchemy
Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XIV.
The restaurant “Green Nightingale” was loud and lively.
Iltis sat broad and dignified, as befits a great man, explaining to Mikita why women are far beneath men. He ostentatiously turned his back on a young literati sitting next to him. The day before, there had been an unpleasant scene between them because the young man remarked that Iltis’s hatred of women likely stemmed from more than just theoretical reasons. Whenever a lady appeared in their company, Iltis would start in.
“You see,” said Iltis, “you’re young, and so is Falk. You can’t understand; but just wait until you’ve slogged through ten years of marriage with a woman—” he hissed the last word softly, out of consideration for Isa—“then you’ll see. Here comes dear old Falk with his Yuma women, Chickasaw Indians, and such scientific nonsense; but the fact remains that women are inferior creatures.”
The Infant tried to interject, but Iltis cut him off sharply.
“No, no!… A fact is a fact!” He puffed himself up… “Besides, one shouldn’t be petty with evidence.”
Mikita wasn’t listening. A grief gnawed at him, a shame that whipped his blood into his brain with choking rage.
What’s the point of going on?… It’s all over… He thought of her harshness—her… her… Yes, wasn’t that outright hatred?
How he’d pleaded with her, crawled before her, begged for forgiveness! But she, hm… yes, that icy smile… Didn’t it say: why are you begging, why are you embarrassing me, what do I still have to do with you…
He sighed heavily.
“Well, you don’t seem to be taking it lightly…” Iltis winked. “But allow me, the matter can’t possibly hold up,” the Infant mused, pondering how best to present his counterarguments. Iltis grew highly indignant.
“You mustn’t be petty. Just don’t be petty, or we’ll end up with foolish science. Shall I tell you about my experiences with scientists?”
Why is Falk staying away, Mikita brooded; that wasn’t necessary… Ha, ha, ha, to give me a chance to win Isa back… Cheers, dear Erik; not necessary, not necessary.
But why am I tormenting her? What do I still want from her?… Love? Can you force that? Ridiculous! Ridiculous! How could anyone love him at all, yes, love a man who’s only ridiculous?
He looked over at Isa, who, as usual, sat a bit apart.
But Isa didn’t look at him. She seemed very agitated. Red patches burned on her cheeks, and her eyes darted restlessly around…
The door opened, and the blonde Neocatholic entered.
Isa looked quickly at the door, clearly unable to control herself in that moment; she flinched.
She smiled at the young man, but she couldn’t hide the expression of great disappointment.
Yes, disappointment! Damn it, he wasn’t blind… that’s how people look when they’re disappointed. And that nervous, trembling hint of expectation—expectation! Who’s she expecting? Who? Foolish Mikita, don’t you know who she’s expecting?! Don’t you know why she doesn’t want to be alone with you for half an hour; don’t you know why she’s been dragging you here for three days straight!
He laughed bitterly.
Falk, she’s expecting Falk, heh, heh—Falk! He repeated the name, it surely gave him great pleasure; Falk was his friend, more than that! a brother; he’d surely made a great sacrifice for him, yes, surely… The fiancé who suffers from sentimental idiocies should get his bride, bring his little sheep to safety…
“Hi! Hallo! Hoo!” he roared at Iltis—“To your health!”
Everyone looked around in surprise; that was quite unusual for Mikita.
Mikita pulled himself together.
“To hell with your philosophizing… Woman—man… it’s all nonsense; everything’s nonsense… Let’s be merry! Merry!”
Isa looked at Mikita wearily.
Why was he shouting like that? What was wrong with him now? Who was he jealous of this time?
How foreign that man was to her. How could she ever have loved him? No, she couldn’t take it anymore; she had to end it. Tonight! When he escorts her home—yes, tonight!
How would she tell him? Her heart trembled.
How would she tell him? Calmly and matter-of-factly. Was he blind, couldn’t he help her in this awkward situation? He knew now that she loved Falk. Didn’t he get it yet? She’d shown him so clearly that he meant nothing to her.
Intrusive man! She was afraid to think it, she didn’t dare; but now, suddenly, she had thought it… She was surprised that she felt nothing about it…
Intrusive man! Yes, she felt joy that she could think it without it being painful.
The door creaked again.
Now it’s him for sure, she knew it; she trembled. But it was a stranger.
This was too awful, waiting and waiting like this among all these unpleasant people.
She felt Mikita’s eyes fixed on her, but she avoided looking at him.
God, how indifferent he was to her!
What had Falk been doing these dreadful five days?
Should she go to him? But she didn’t know where he lived. Ask Mikita? No, that wouldn’t do.
She sank into herself.
How could she see him? Why, for heaven’s sake, had she asked him never to see her again?… Oh God, she hadn’t known how much she loved him, how indifferent Mikita was to her, how the whole, whole world only brought her pain.
She was senselessly desperate.
Why was he shouting again? She glanced involuntarily at the empty bottles in front of Mikita.
“Do you even know what love is?”—Mikita was beside himself. “Do you know what sexual pain is? Huh? Do you? Have you ever loved a woman at all?”
Iltis made a dismissive gesture.
“That… that…” Mikita stammered—“the woman birthed the man, that’s enough for her! The woman gives birth, and the man loves. The woman never loves, never; she’s content with giving birth…”
“What? Women love too? What?”
“But women commit suicide for love,” the Infant interjected, “you can read about it in the *Lokal-Anzeiger* every day.”
“What? Suicide? Ask him, just ask him; he knows better—” Mikita pointed at Iltis, who smiled encouragingly—“women commit suicide when they’re pregnant and abandoned by their lovers!”
Mikita slammed his fist on the table. Isa looked at him with boundless contempt.
He was drunk again. How could she ever have loved this man?
An awkward silence fell. Isa’s presence weighed on everyone. It was a bit inconsiderate of Mikita in her presence.
Mikita suddenly fell silent.
He saw it: yes, for the first time, he saw it—that look! He saw it clearly before him.
He let his head sink.
So clear! The look burrowed deeper and deeper into him. He saw the eye within him now, it looked at him… How did it look at him?
If he painted it?… Three steps back… No! Into the corner of the studio—the other one… And now through the mirror… Yes, he couldn’t help it… It was contempt! Great, cold contempt!
For Isa, it became unbearable. She felt a feverish unrest; her heart beat fast and heavy against her corset.
She had to see Falk at all costs, he had to come eventually. He’s here every day; why doesn’t he come these days?
The conversation picked up again.
“Oh, leave me alone with literature; this endless chatter about poets and publishers and publisher prizes really makes one nervous—” Iltis yawned affectedly—“What do you want with Falk? He’s a good guy.”
Isa perked up.
She saw Mikita suddenly straighten. “What? What? Falk?”
“Well, yes,” the Infant lectured, “Falk has talent, I’ll grant that; but it’s still developing, it needs to ripen, to ferment; you don’t know yet how he’ll turn out. He’s searching, he’s still groping…”
“What? Falk groping?…” Mikita laughed with feigned warmth. “You’re priceless… You know, Falk’s the only one who can do something. Falk’s found the new. Yes, Falk can do what you all wish you could—Falk—Falk…”
At that moment, Mr. Buchenzweig approached Isa.
He assumed all this talk must bore a lady, so he wanted to entertain her.
She looked at his smooth, plump, handsome barber’s face. What did this man want?
Yes, Mr. Buchenzweig had the great honor of seeing the gracious Fräulein at the soirée in the presence of Mr. Falk. Mr. Falk is a remarkably interesting man, really the one who interested him most… He only came here to meet him…
“You, Isa,” Mikita called across the table—“did you know Falk left Berlin?”
He fixed his eyes on her intently.
Isa flinched. She felt a sharp pain in her face, a constricting sensation in her chest… she saw Mikita’s wild, malicious, flushed face with wide eyes, then turned mechanically to Buchenzweig.
She wanted to drink a glass of wine; it was empty. Buchenzweig eagerly ran for the waiter.
Everything blurred before her eyes. She saw nothing. She suddenly heard someone speaking; it was Buchenzweig. But she didn’t quite understand what he wanted. She only looked at him, smiled mechanically—the wine was brought. She drank.
“I know Mr. Halbe very well. A remarkably charming man, a great force in our time, which so lacks great talents.”
Isa looked at him. The man suddenly repulsed her. She didn’t know why.
“Excuse me, Mr. Buchenzweig, your company is very pleasant, but I must go home now.”
She approached Mikita.
“I have to go home now.”
“Oh, really?—bored here?” She didn’t listen to him and got dressed.
Again, she saw the repulsive barber’s face of Mr. Buchenzweig. Who did he remind her of? Yes, right, the barber who shampooed her hair.
As they got into the cab, with Iltis gallantly assisting Isa, Mikita shouted to him:
“Wait till I get back! We’ll have a merry night.”
Isa shrugged. Neither spoke a word.
She was paralyzed, unable to think. She was so tired.
Now and then, a desolate despair hit her, then tipped back into this limp exhaustion.
“You, Isa, my exhibition opens in Munich tomorrow.” “Oh, right…”
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