The Fiery Angel (22 page)

“First answer me”—he said to me—“are you related to us by the basic inclinations of your spirit? Are you animated, as we are, by hatred of the Beasts of the East and of the West? Have you accepted, as your first and final guide, the emblem of the Son of God, lit by the light? Do you thirst to rise to the Gates of Heaven, along the seven steps of lead, tin, brass, iron, bronze, silver and gold?”

In truth, I understood little of all these strange questions, but similar expressions were no novelty for me who had just recently perused a multitude of books on magic, and, though the hour seemed to me the most important of my life, I was unable to master a sly temptation that beckoned me to discover how far the initiated understand each other. Recalling a few mysterious expressions I had encountered in the “Paemandra” and compositions of a like kind, I tried to reply to Heinrich in the language of his speech, and I took the greatest care that my words should have no relation to his, for this peculiarity I had noted in all the mysterious questions and answers. I said:

“The emerald tablet of Hermes Trismegistus announces that that which is above resembles that which is below. But the pentagram, with its head pointing up, manifests the victory of the ternion over the binary, of the spirit over the flesh; and with its head pointing down—the victory of sin over good. All numbers are mysterious, but for preference the units express the divine, the tens—the heavenly, the hundreds—the earthly, the thousands—the future. How think you then that I should have come to you if I had not known how to distinguish the upper abyss from the lower abyss?”

No sooner had I uttered these quite empty words, than I regretted my joke, for Heinrich rushed at me with the trustfulness of a child, and exclaimed in such ecstasy as if I had disclosed to him something remarkable and previously unknown:

“Ah, you are right, you are right! Of course! Of course! I understood at once that we were talking to the same purpose! And I was in no sense trying to test you! I only desired to warn you that, on the road to which you strive to attain, there are more thorns than sweet berries. The truth of truths is not opened at our secret meetings, like some little casket. The first word we address to the novice is—sacrifice. Only he who longs to sacrifice himself can become a disciple. Have you thought of the forerunners: the light Osiris slain by the dark Typhan? the god-like Orpheus torn to pieces by the Bacchantes? the divine Dionysius killed by the Titans? our Balder, the son of light, who fell by the arrow of the cunning Loki? Abel, murdered by the hand of Cain? Christ crucified? Two hundred years ago the Knights of the Temple paid with their lives for the highness of their aims and for the nobility with which they said to the rulers: ‘Thou shalt be king only while thou shalt act justly.’ Vergilius Maro describes the two doors from the world of shadows: the first is of ivory, but through it fly out only deceitful spirits, the second is of horn. I ask you only—do you pass through the door of lesser splendour by your own free choice?”

Heinrich spoke all this with a passionate eagerness, pronouncing each word as though it were especially precious to him, or as though it were now rising to his lips for the first time in his life. Looking at this half-youth, half-child, in whom there was so much inner fire that an infinitesimal cause, like the light-hearted questioning of a stray traveller, was sufficient to fan it into tongues of flame—I felt wilting and dying in me all my hatred of him, all my malevolence. I listened to the remarkable roulades of his voice, that seemed to open before me blue, far-off vistas, looked into his eyes, that, as it seemed to me, despite the animation of his speech, remained sad as though holding in their deeps despair that had plunged therein—and felt like a snake that crawls from under a stone to bite, but is magicked by the tune of an African charmer. There was a moment when I was almost ready to exclaim: “Forgive me, Count, I have unworthily been mocking you!” But, checking my thought with horror on so dangerous a path, I shouted to myself “beware!” and hastened to take control over my soul, as a horseman over a runaway horse. And immediately, to give myself an opportunity of recovering my composure, I threw out another few words to Heinrich, saying to him:

“I fear no trials, for I have long been unable to endure the knowledge freely accessible to us, which, in the expression of one sage, involves the assimilation of the scientist to his science,
assimilatio scientis ad rem scitam
. I seek that knowledge spoken of by Hermes Trismegistus as a wise sacrifice of soul and heart. And is it for him who seeks to fear roadside thorns?”

Heinrich seized upon these words as upon a precious discovery and, as if able to speak endlessly on any subject, at once poured himself out in a long and again inspired speech. And again, without my wishing it, the phrases of this speech, delivered with an eagerness fit to convince and talk round his best friend, imprinted themselves in my memory so sharply that it is not difficult for me to resurrect them, almost word for word.

“I understand you, I understand you”—he said—“only you are still mistaken in supposing it is within our power to hand out true knowledge, like a gift. Mystic knowledge is called so not because it is being wilfully concealed, but because it is of its nature hidden, in symbols. We have no peculiar truth, but we have emblems bequeathed to us as a heritage by antiquity, by that first people of the earth that lived in commerce with God and His angels. That people knew not the shadows of matter, but matter itself, and thus the symbols they left behind exactly express the substance of being. Eternal Justice required that, since we had lost this direct knowledge, we should attain bliss through the font of blindness and ignorance. But now we must unite all that has been gathered by our reason to the revelations of antiquity, and only of that union will come perfect knowledge. But believe me, a pure soul and a pure heart will help in this matter more than all the counsels of the wise. Virtue—that is the true philosopher’s stone.”

At this point in his speech, Count Heinrich made pause, then, with a changed face and slightly wandering glance, he added, softly and in measure:

“You too are aware that the days and the hours are fulfilled. You too, when silence comes, hear the sound of the opening of the gates. Softly, softly, hark! Do you hear—the steps are approaching! Do you hear—the leaves are falling from the trees?”

These last words of Heinrich he pronounced in a voice that died away, making sign to me to keep silence, all tense, as if he really heard the sound of steps and the noise of falling leaves, and, bending to me, near, so near, his eyes, large and maddened, so that I felt alarmed and ill at ease. I tore my gaze away from Heinrich’s gaze, and, suddenly recoiling against the back of the bench, I changed my tone and said to him firmly and harshly:

“Enough, Count, now I understand all that I wished to know.”

Heinrich looked at me uncomprehending and enquired:

“What have you understood and what did you wish to know?”

I replied:

“I have finally discovered that you are a deceiver and a charlatan, who has somewhere stolen the shreds of mystic knowledge and makes use of these stolen goods to pose an an initiate and a master.”

At this unexpected attack, Heinrich involuntarily rose from the bench and, continuing to stare straight at me, made a few paces forward, as if desirous of demanding explanation of me. I waited without moving, not lowering my eyes, but before reaching me, Heinrich subdued his emotion and said humbly:

“If you think thus, we have naught to talk about! Farewell! …”

But I, urging myself down the slope, shouted at him:

“Now it is you who are mistaken, thinking that you will pay thus cheaply for a deceit! There are sacred matters that may not be made a jest, and words that may not be uttered in vain! I call you to answer, Count Heinrich von Otterheim!”

Heinrich answered me with a face of fury:

“Who are you to come to me and suddenly address me in that tone? I shall not listen to you!”

I replied solemnly:

“Who am I? I am—the voice of your conscience and the voice of revenge!”

As I spoke thus, I showed myself the eyes of Heinrich and reminded myself that Renata loved them, his hands, and told myself that she had kissed them, all his body, and tried to imagine how she had caressed it with ecstasy. As if with a huge bellows I blew up in my soul the fire of jealousy, and, like a general to his soldiers, I gave to my words the command: “courage!”

Meanwhile Heinrich, probably thinking me a madman, said to me: “We shall speak later!”—and desired to leave the room. But I, in fear that if I did not make use of this meeting it might not repeat itself, barred his way and shouted, this time in earnest passion:

“You, who speak of virtue, you I accuse of dishonour! I accuse you of having behaved towards a lady in a manner unbefitting to a knight! You carried away a maiden to your castle by deceit for your base, and perhaps even criminal purposes. You then spurned her and abandoned her. And when here, in the street, she begged you for indulgence, you insulted her in a way in which no man should insult a woman. I throw you my glove, and you will take it up, if you be a knight!”

The effect of my words, which were not thought out, and which by all considerations I should not have said, surpassed my expectations, for Heinrich jerked away from me like a wounded stag, then, in extreme excitement, grasped a book from a lectern and, scarcely aware what he was doing, began to fumble its pages with trembling fingers, then at last turned round, and asked me in a strangled voice:

“I do not know who you are. I can accept a challenge only from one equal to me in station. …”

These words made me lose the last vestige of self-control, for, though I have no reason whatever to be ashamed of my descent from an honest medicus of a small town, yet I felt in Heinrich’s question an undeserved insult, branding me, not for the first time as a matter of fact, as a man not of knightly house. And in this moment I could find nothing more dignified than, drawing back my head, to say with cold pride:

“I am as much a knight as you are, and you will take no shame by meeting me in fair combat. So send your friends to-morrow, at noon to the Cathedral, to make terms with mine. Else it remains for me only to slay you as a coward and one who knows no honour.”

Having uttered these words, I felt how disgraceful it was for me to lie at such a moment, and I was seized with shame and indignation, so that without adding anything I almost ran out of Heinrich’s room, quickly made my way down the sumptuous staircase, and, with an angry gesture, made the servant open the door before me. My face was plunged in the fresh wind of the light winter’s day, and my eyes into the clear blue skies, as into a tank of clear spring water, and I stood for a long time uncertain whether all that had occurred was real. Then I walked along the street, clinging somehow involuntarily to the walls, like a blind man feeling his way. And then suddenly appeared before me the face of Renata, frightened, pale and with dilated pupils. She wanted to ask me something, but I thrust her aside with such force that she almost fell, striking the corner of a house, and I ran on without saying a word.

W
HEN I had traversed several streets and had grown freshened by the movement and the cold, I regained the ability to think clearly and form deductions, and I said to myself:

“Your duel with Count Heinrich is definitely decided. To retreat now would be unthinkable and ignoble. It remains, therefore, only to see that the affair is carried through as satisfactorily as possible.”

Personally, I was never a supporter of duels, which have made such pernicious progress in France in recent times, and though I am familiar with the admirable words of Iohann Reuchlin: “Honour is the most beautiful of our possessions”—I have never been able to accept the view that honour leans upon the point of a sword, and is not based upon nobility in deeds and words. However, in days when even the wearers of crowns did not disdain to send each other challenges to single combat, I did not think it good to decline duels, and in my landsknecht time I appeared in them on more than one occasion. But now the position of affairs was complicated by the fact that, first of all, the challenger, and moreover without any real cause, was I, and, in the second instance, by the fact that the aim I placed before me was that of striking my opponent to death—and all this made my task heavy and hard, as if I were confronted with the duty of an executioner.

At this time I had no doubt whatever that the balance of fortune in the combat would be mine, for, though I had had no occasion to exercise my arm for a considerable time past, I had been one of the best fighters in my ranks with the long sword, while Count Heinrich, being entirely devoted to book studies and philosophical reflections could have had no opportunity (it seemed so to me then) to attain a sufficient perfection in the art of Ponce and Torres. I was dismayed by yet another matter—the fact that, with the exception of old Glock, there was no one in the whole city with whom I was acquainted, and I could not think of anyone to whom I might entrust the parley with the opponent and the arrangements for the encounter with him, according to the custom of duels. After long hesitation, I decided to knock upon the door of one of my old companions of the University, Matthew Wissmann, whose family had resided in Köln for many generations, and whom, therefore, rather than anyone else, after the many years that had passed, I was more likely to find in the same dwelling place as before, at the same old
penates
.

My expectations were not deceived, for it turned out in truth that the Wissmanns still resided in their old dwelling, though it was not easy for me to search out their squat, old-fashioned house, composed of three stories overhanging each other, amidst the new, tall, altogether elaborate houses erected around it by our enterprising age. To my good fortune, Matthew happened to be at home, but I could scarcely recognise the youth who, though he was even then a trifle slow and clumsy, had been not void of parts and, indeed, had been my (though unsuccessful) rival in wooing the pretty wife of the baker—in the stout and staid overgrown tun, with sleepy eyes and a funny beard that left his chin bare, to whom I was led by the servant of the house. Of course he too could hardly recognise the scholar of those happy days, riotous and unbearded, in the man, scorched by the equatorial sun and bitten by the winds of the ocean, but when I told Matthew my name, and reminded him of our past friendship, he genuinely gladdened, his face creased in a good-natured smile, and through the layers of fat there shone the glint of something youthful, like a beam of light through a dull glass.