None the less, I harboured no ill-feelings towards Glock, though he did manage to drag a great deal of money out of me and to bore me not a little with his discourses. But he at least provided me with all the books I needed, and in his senile prattle occurred not a few observations not only useful to me, but actually indispensable. I let such expressions in his speech as “wizard’s vinegar,” “the raven’s head,” “the green lion” and “the red lion,” “the sails of Theseus” and other kindred matters quite useless to me slip past my ears, as well as all his stories of the famous alchymists and their fabulous enrichments, but I seized on each of his priceless hints regarding questions of operative magic, carefully remembered all his explanations of magic terminology, and learnt how to extract use from his anecdotes about famous magi, necromancers and theurgists. If I achieved some success in the discipline I was studying, for that I am indebted not a little to this good old man, who, though dreaming of the transmutation of lead into gold, did not forget, however, to mine silver out of the pockets of others by more conventional methods.
These visits of mine to the shop of Glock, which here I have described only shortly, lasted several weeks, but of course I did not waste all that time, but returned home immediately, seating myself at the desk and poring my eyes over the pages of the folios. My zeal for this work was so strong that, no doubt, had I in my time studied the “Sententiae,” “Processus,” “Copulata,” “Reparationes” and all the other text-books with the same diligence, it would not have been my fate to sack the town of the Holy Father with the riotous Lutherans, nor would I have visited the prairies of Anahuac, but passed my life in peacefully reading lectures, as magister, from a pulpit in one of the Universities. Devouring volume after volume, passing from treatise to treatise, learning new mysteries after new mysteries, I yet ever felt myself not fed to the full, like the Scylla of Virgil, and my mind in those days became a sort of swallower of inscribed and printed papers.
In such measure was I carried away by my work, that, for the time being, even the voice of passion died down in me: I looked on Renata with eyes that were somehow more blind, and her words made a lesser impression on me. More—I was in no way prey to worry when, on several occasions, having spent the whole day in meditation and moodiness, she suddenly, without uttering a word, put on her cape and departed for long hours, unknown to me, returning only late at night. I was not disturbed in any way when she began wilfully to mock my work, and wilfully addressed me with insulting words, calling me hard-working but devoid of gifts. Completely given up to research, reasonings, deductions, I felt my soul as if encased alive in a block of ice, I knew that the heart of my love still beat, and that it did not suffer from the fact that its wings were motionless.
One morning, however, after one of her disappearances of this kind, Renata, quite suddenly and as simply as if it were her custom, pushed two chairs to the desk and said to me:
“Well, Rupprecht, it is time to begin work!”
I looked at Renata with surprise and gratitude, kissed her hand and we sat down side by side. From that day—it was at the end of the month of September—we continued the study of secret philosophy and operative magic together.
As I hope that my narrative will not only serve as matter entertaining to the reader, but perhaps be of use and aid to anyone caught in that same snare that entrapped me, so I wish here, in a few short words, to relate what Renata and I learned from the books we read, though, of course, I have no hope of exhausting that immeasurable ocean called the sphere of secret or forbidden sciences.
I presume that it will be permitted to me to set aside the futile tales of theologues and scholists, who think that any given science can be founded on quotations from the Holy Scriptures alone. The writers of that worthless pack express pretensions to know every smallest detail of the demons, their exact number, as well as all their names. Some of these know-alls, for example, affirm that demons are divided into nine categories: the first, where are gathered the false gods, is ruled over by Beelzebub, the second, where are the false prophets, by Python, the third, with the inventors of all evil, by Belial, the fourth, where are the avengers of crimes, by Asmodeus, and so forth. Others communicate the exact hierarchy of the demons, among whom there is, it appears one emperor—Beelzebub, seven kings: Bel, Pursan, Bilet, Paimon, Belial, Asmodeus, Zapan, twenty-three dukes, thirteen margraves, ten counts, eleven praesusi, and a multitude of knights, and all of these are mentioned by their names. A third group pictures the court of the Master of Hell, relating exactly that at the court of Beelzebub the Grand Chancellorship is held by Adramelek, the Treasurer is Astaroth, the Great Chamberlain—Verdelet, the Chaplain-in-Chief—Kamoos, and naming with no less exactitude not only all the ministers of Hell and their lords of battle, but also the envoys of Hell at the various European courts. It is but too obvious that all these constructions are based on general ideas and are a mere imitation of the contemporary construction of a state upon earth, while true science can only be based on experiment, on observation and on the trustworthy evidence of eye-witnesses.
On the other hand, in books really worthy of attention, very often we could find no answers to questions that we might rightfully have proposed, for serious investigators conform not with the curiosity of their readers, but with the limits of their knowledge. For the nature and life of demons is in such measure difficult of study that, to this day, despite the noble and disinterested efforts of scientists old and new, and, moreover, of such colossi of science as Albertus Magnus, the Abbot Trittenheim and Agrippa of Nettesheim—there yet remains in that sphere a great deal uncertain or entirely unknown. Indeed it would be useful to inscribe, at the head of every discussion upon demons, the just words of one of the manuscripts that we read: “To comprehend the nature of demons and their power is as difficult for a human as for an ant to comprehend the philosophy of the universal doctor Thomas Aquinas.”
However, this is the general conception of these matters to which we attained after a diligent and honest study of the library I had collected:
Demons belong to the number of reasoning beings created by God and are divided into three species. The first are named “of heaven” (coelestes), they inhabit the upper spheres and accomplish exclusively the will of God, round whom they revolve, as round a definite centre. The second are named “of the worlds” (mundani), for to them is entrusted the inspection and care of the worlds, and to be distinguished among their number are the demons of Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Sun, Venus, Mercury, the Moon, also of the twelve signs of the Zodiac, the thirty-six celestial decuriae, seventy-two celestial quinariae, and so forth. The third are named “of the earth” (terrestres), and are divided into four orders—fire, water, air and earth—and live permanently amidst human beings, interfering invisibly with our affairs, and, as should of course be expected of them, the demons of fire react for preference upon our mind, those of the air—upon our senses, of the water—upon our imagination, of the earth—upon our body and its lusts. Although not one particle of the earth is free from these demons, yet some of them manifest themselves more in one place, others in another, so that there are yet separately classified the demons of the night and of the day, of the North and of the South, of the East and of the West, sylvan demons, demons of the fields, of the mountains, house demons or familiars. And as regards the total number of demons, the investigators do not agree among themselves upon that question and it can only be said that their number must be very great, surpassing hundreds of millions.
As regards the bodies of demons, there exists wide dissension among the investigators, but one is forced to the conclusion that demons have bodies that are fluid, of thin composition, but immortal, not subject to decay, not in ordinary cases perceptible to our senses—sight and touch—and able to penetrate through all kinds of matter. The bodies of the higher demons, however, composed of the finest ether, are finer than those of the lower demons, into the composition of which enter fire and air, and still finer than those of th
e lowest, which consist of elements of water and earth. To render themselves visible, demons have to form for themselves bodies of firmer substance, adopting the appearance sometimes of a nebulous figure, or of a spirit of fire, or of a bloodless, corpse-like, human being. The body proper of a demon does not require food and therefore has no natural functions, likewise a demon has no sex and does not feel lust, and thus cannot multiply in a natural way. However, for purposes of evil, demons are often enabled to unite bodily with men and women as succubi and incubi, and a demon that appears in one instance as a succubus preserves the seed thus admitted to use in another instance when required to play the part of an incubus.
All demons can enter into commerce with humans, but the celestial demons do so only when they so will or at the Lord’s command, while the earthly demons are too weak and insignificant for their help to be of service to humans, so that magi are accustomed to invoke the worldly demons. To invoke a worldly demon one must know his name, his character and his appropriate incantation. Many demons in conversing with humans have communicated their names, that is how we know of them, for example, the twelve demons of the Zodiac: Malchidaël, Asmodel, Ambriël, Muriël, Verchiël, Gamaliël, Zuriël, Barchiël, Aduachiël, Ganaël, Gambiël, Barchiël. But, in the opinion of investigators, their names can also be calculated artificially: from the Hebrew letters corresponding to the ciphers of the celestial signs, by going through the whole celestial circle by degrees, beginning at the sign of the given demon, when we go upwards we obtain the names of the good demons, when downwards those of the evil ones. The character or seal of a demon consists of his sign joined to the monogram of his name. The sign is formed of six roots, corresponding to the six star longitudes, to which are also adduced the planetary longitudes and the lines connecting them, and the monogram is written out in one of the antique alphabets admitted by the magi—Egyptian hieroglyphics, Old-Hebrew letters, specially altered Latin letters or, finally, in cipher letters. The incantation, which is the chief element of the invocation, is composed by the magus by agreement with the demon, and in the incantation is indicated all the characteristics of the demon as well as a persuasive appeal to appear and perform the request, and the whole is strengthened by the power of the secret names of God.
The force of the incantation resides in the magic significance of figures, which Pythagoras himself has demonstrated and no serious investigator can deny, and in case the whole ritual of the invocation is performed exactly, the name of the demon written out correctly and the incantation pronounced without errors, the demon cannot fail to appear before the magus and cannot fail to obey his command, as a steel needle properly magnetised cannot fail to turn North. It is worthy of present note that various demons have shapes beloved of themselves and in which they usually appear before the invocator. Thus the demons of Saturn appear slim and elegant, with an angry countenance, their complexion is dark, their movements like gusts of wind; before their apparition is seen a surface white as if covered with snow, often they take the shape of a bearded king riding on a dragon, or an old woman leaning on a staff, or a four-faced creature, or an owl, or a scythe, or a juniper tree. The demons of Jupiter appear of middle stature, the body rather sanguine, their complexion is rufous, the movement impetuous, the countenance meek, the speech cringing; before their apparition human beings devoured by lions are often seen; often they take the shape of a being with naked sword riding on a stag, or a man wearing a mitre and in long robes, or a maiden decorated with flowers, or a bull, or a peacock, or a sky-blue robe. The demons of the Moon appear enormous, fat and phlegmatic; their complexion is like a dark cloud, the expression is troubled, the eyes like rubies and full of moisture; they have teeth like boars, are bald and their movements are like the rocking waves of the sea; before their apparition it rains; often they take the shape of a king riding on a hind with a bow in his hands, or a small boy, or an arrow, or a roe-deer, or a huge centipede, and so forth.
Concealed in all these various shapes, the demons enter into conversation with the invocator, speaking his tongue, at first they try to cheat him, but then, if he does not yield to them, they submit to his desires and execute obediently everything possible to their, it must be said, rather limited power.
Such are, on very general lines, the characteristics of demons and the ritual of their invocation.
These data, that I have narrated here on four smallish pages, Renata and I gathered during nearly two months, studying diligently, like the most studious of scholars, to the very end of October. Renata did not know Latin, and consequently the books that were written in that language—and these were a majority—I had to translate to her word for word, but in no wise was her collaboration a burden to me. On the contrary, Renata in many ways facilitated my study, for, with incredible ease, she knew how to explain the concealed meaning of certain statements or to supplement that which was only hinted at in the printed page—this, at the time, I regarded as her serpentine penetration, but I am now prepared to explain it by the fact that this occasion was not the first on which she had approached the sphere of the secret sciences, she knew and had heard of magic operations a great deal that remains unknown to the majority. And I am convinced that it was only these recollections of Renata, together with the chance remarks of Glock, that made it possible for me to master so complicated a science as magic in so short a time as ten weeks.
It is noteworthy that, after joining me in my work, Renata suddenly as it were changed completely, and during the four or five weeks that we laboured together she remained constantly in a pleasant mood and there was none of the usual strangeness in her behaviour. Her zeal and diligence soon exceeded mine, and she spent whole days without tiring, at her book studies from grey morning to black night, forgetting both church services and town festivals. Not seldom did it happen that when I was already dropping with fatigue and my brain refused to take in more, Renata still had no wish to leave the lectern and, reproaching me, opened another tome. She was ready without respite to delve with the spade of reason into the dark mines of the printed pages, night as well as day, and never did her arm weaken in the work, and never was her joy blunted when we brought to light from these depths a new nugget of gold.
However, there was an explanation for this indefatigableness of Renata, for, when she had approached nearer to the secrets of magic, she soon came to believe, blindly and stubbornly as always, that with their help she really would be able to regain the love of her Count Heinrich. But for my part, on the other hand, plunging into the study of the secret sciences, I gradually lost sight of my primary purpose, and was soon quite disinterestedly carried away by my work like a true adept. Overcome by the majesty of those vistas that opened before me—the vistas of the world of demons into which our world of humans is thrust like an islet into the ocean—for a time I forgot about Count Heinrich and about the oath I had given to Renata. I was so happy in sailing, she at my side, upon the seas of books, manuscripts, designs and calculations that, though at last I saw beyond the breakers the shore to which I myself steered the ship, somehow I could not feel rejoicing and I did not hasten to make port. And when, after we had mastered the essentials of ceremonial magic, Renata began to hurry me to apply our knowledge to the matter in hand, for a long time I still found pretext to postpone the decisive day, pleading the insufficiency of that knowledge.
At last, in the first days of the month of November that had crept on us unheeded with its cold winds and long twilights, no objections remained to me and I saw the necessity of yielding to Renata’s insistence. From book and theoretical studies we turned to practice, and undertook the final preparations for the precarious experiment, which were as yet by no means easy, for we had carefully to acquire the rare objects needed, and to make ready, with every precaution, the necessary instruments. In this too, Renata helped me as patiently and as cheerfully, day by day more convinced that the hour of her reunion with Count Heinrich was at hand, and telling me so with extreme heartlessness as if not noticing the t
orment it caused me. While, in me, the closer approached the appointed day, the more there rose in me ill-forebodings like ghosts, and, standing in the corners of my soul, they gloomily nodded their heads both at the words of Renata and at my replies.
It was first suggested that I should act alone as invocator, for Renata believed that participation in the matter would tarnish her soul, which she wanted to keep pure for her Heinrich. I tried to overcome this consideration, pointing out that we were seeking power over the demons not for base gains, but for a good purpose; and that to force the evil spirits to tremble and obey is a worthy deed, not disdained by many of the Holy, as, for example, Saint Cyprian and Saint Anastasius. After some hesitation, Renata agreed with me, but rather, it seemed to me, because she did not entirely trust my abilities as a magus and was afraid that I should either forget, or be unable to perform, something vital. Thus we approached the decisive experiment together, magister cum socio.
I want to describe in all its details the invocation that we performed, so that an experienced and learned man, if this Narrative should fall into his hands, shall be able to determine what we omitted and what, therefore, accounted for the pitiful and miserable failure of our undertaking.
The day we selected, after many discussions, was a Friday, the 13th day of November, because the demons of Friday, which is consecrated to Venus, are especially apt to return women the affections of their lovers; the field of operations was that selfsame closet from which I had attempted my unsuccessful aerial journey to the Sabbath. On this date, we assembled there all we might require for the invocation, and we also took steps to ensure that there should be none other in the whole house that evening except ourselves, for the loud noises might have evoked the suspicions of our Martha. We prepared ourselves for the experiment by forbearance from all food, complete abstinence from wine and the concentration of our thoughts upon our single purpose.
The Fiery Angel Page 11