The Fiery Angel

by Valery Bruisov

  For advice, as yet undecided on my course, I visited Glock’s shop; it was already a long time since I had been there and he was very glad to see me, for he was pleased to have in me a humble listener. This time I had to endure a voluble panegyric to Bernard of Treves, one of the few to discover the philosopher’s stone—and only when the foundation of ecstatic words dried up, or perhaps Glock’s throat became parched, did I attack the exposition of my case. With circumspection, I explained that my studies of magic were now nearing their end, that, none the less, the conclusions I had reached differed widely from those generally held, and that, accordingly, before expressing my views in a composition, I should like to subject them for consideration to a true authority in such matters; here I mentioned the name of Agrippa and expressed the supposition that Glock, whose beneficial labours were renowned all over Germany, might be able to give me aid in such a matter.

  To my great surprise, Glock not only received my proposal with no little attention, but expressed readiness to help it, and there and then he promised to secure me an introductory letter to Agrippa from his printer, with whom he, Glock, was on terms of friendship. This promise I accepted as an omen bonum, and I wondered whether it were not the goddess Fortuna herself who had assumed for that day the doddering shape of the old bookseller to help me on my way, as, in the songs of the divine blind poet, the goddess Minerva assumes the shape of the aged Mentor.

  Two days later, Glock kept his promise, and did indeed send me a letter, of which the inscription stood as follows: Doctissimo ac ornatissimo viro, Henrico Cornelio Agrippæ, comprimis amico Godefridus Hetorpius—and then it seemed to me that it would have been even unworthy to withdraw from my enterprise. Of course I was disturbed at having to leave Renata, but by staying at her side I could in no way alleviate the heavy malady that cut her life at its root. I tried to talk over my plan with Renata, but she showed no wish to penetrate the meaning of my words, and begged me with a pitiful sign of the hand not to torment her with explanations, so, shutting my lips tightly, I decided to act at my own risk, went to buy myself a horse and got out from the corner my travelling bag, which had grown all over dust.

  And when, on the very day of my departure, in the early morning, I went into Renata’s room to take my leave, and told her that, though I left, I rode on our joint business, she thus replied to me:

  “We—you and I, can have no joint business together: you are alive, I—dead. Farewell.”

  I kissed Renata’s hand and walked out, as if in truth from a room where stood a coffin and funeral candles smoked.

  Between the towns of Köln and Bonn lay only a few good hours riding along the Emperor’s highway, but as winter weather had set in already, and snow might be expected at any moment, the road was in bad condition, and I had to journey the whole day long, from morning dawn till darkness, not once resting in the village inns, at Godorf, Wesseling, Widdig, Gerzel, and even having almost to spend the night not far away from the town. I should also mention that my new clothes, of dark brown woollen cloth, that I had had made for me in Köln and was wearing for the first time on this visit to Agrippa, reached a very sad state, and even my trusty comrade—the sea-cape that had seen the tempests of the Atlantic, failed to protect them in any way. However, throughout the whole duration of the journey, I was in so brisk a mood as I had not known for a long time, for, having left Renata on the first occasion after several months, it was as though I had recovered my lost self. I experienced the sensation of walking from a dark cellar suddenly into clear light, and my solitary journey along the Rhine to Bonn seemed to me the immediate continuation of my solitary road from Brabant, while the recent days with Renata—seemed like a painful nightmare at one of the wayside halts.

  However, I never forgot the purpose of my journey, and I was pleased with the thought that I was to see Agrippa of Nettesheim, one of the greatest scientists and most remarkable writers of our time. Yielding to the play of imagination, of which everyone is probably aware, I visualised to myself in every detail my visit to Agrippa, and word after word did I repeat mentally the speeches that I intended to address to him, and that I expected to hear in reply, and some of these, not without difficulty, I even composed in Latin. I wanted to believe that I should appear before Agrippa not as an inexperienced disciple, but as a modest young scientist, not devoid of knowledge and experience, but seeking instruction and advice in those highest spheres of science that are as yet not sufficiently elaborated, and among which it is not derogatory to enquire one’s way. I imagined to myself how Agrippa would at first listen to my discourses not without misgiving, then with joyful attention, and how, at last, astonished by my intellect and the rich store of my information, he would ask me with surprise how, at my years, I had yet succeeded in achieving a so rare and many-sided learning, and how I would reply to him that my best guide had been his works. … Not a few other, no less foolish, unbelievable, and simply unthinkable conversations did my childish vanity prompt in me, as it dived suddenly out of the bottom of my soul during the hours of my difficult road along the cold and deserted fields of the Archbishopric.

  Cold and tired, but still in possession of my spirits, I reached the gates of Bonn after the third bell had already sounded from the tower, in complete darkness, and obtained a laisser-passer from the night watch not without difficulty, so I was unable to be very particular about the choice of my night shelter and eagerly accepted a room in the first hostelry that came handy, I seem to remember, under the sign of “The Golden Vine.”

  On the morning of the following day, the host came to me, as is the custom in small hostelries, ostensibly to enquire whether I were in need of anything, but rather for curiosity, to worm out of the new guest who he be. I greeted him not without gladness, for I had to make enquiries about where Agrippa lived, and, apart from that, I was pleased to show that I came to visit so important a man. And as the host proved a native of long standing, I heard from him, apart from the intelligence about the street where the house of Agrippa stood, also the town gossip concerning the latter:

  “How should we not know Agrippa?” said the host. “Every one of our urchins knows him from long since and, to tell the truth, shuns him! Little good is spoken of him, and very much that is evil. They say that he practises Black Arts and consorts with the Devil. … In any case he sits like a barn-owl in his nest, and sometimes does not show himself on the streets for weeks on end. That he cannot be so very good-a man may be judged from the fact that he has brought two of his wives to the grave and that the third, a bare month gone by, has just divorced him. However, I trust your kindness may excuse me if he be your good acquaintance, for I speak only from hear-say, and what will not folk say in their chatter! One cannot hear the half of it!”

  I hastened to assure him that I had no friendship with Agrippa, but only monetary transactions, and the host, reassured, but lowering his voice, began to relate to me all manner of fables concerning the illustrious guest of his town. Thus he related that Agrippa always kept several familiar demons who lived with him in the guise of dogs; that Agrippa read of all that happened at the various ends of the earth upon the disc of the moon, and thus knew all the news without messengers; that, possessing the secret of the transformation of metals, he often settled his accounts with coins that had all the appearance of fair ones, but later reverted to pieces of horn or dung; that he would show to noblemen all their future in a magic mirror; that in his young days, when attached to the person of the Spanish general Antonio de Leyva in Italy, he secured by magic means success to his chief in all undertakings; that once Agrippa was seen finishing a public discourse in the town of Freiburg at ten o’clock in the morning exactly, at the same moment as, already, he was beginning another public discourse many miles away, in the town of Pontimussae—and a great many other equally doubtful stories.

  I listened to these foolish tales with pleasure, not because I believed them, but because I thought it flattering to be going to the house of so remarkable a man. And wh
en, by my calculations, the hour propitious for the visit had arrived, once more arranging my clothes, I left the hostelry with a proud air, and as I walked along the street, I wished secretly that the passers-by might notice whither I was bound. Remembering now these vain dreams of mine, I cannot but smile, bitterly and sadly, for Fate, that toys with a man as a cat with a mouse, contrived to laugh at me with fine cruelty. Instead of the rôle of triumphator, assigned to me by my amour-propre, it condemned me to play rôles far less honourable: those of a street brawler, a senseless wine-bibber, and a schoolboy whom his teacher reprimands.

  By the indications given me, I quite easily found the house of Agrippa—at the edge of the town, near the wall itself, rather large, though only three-storied, with many outbuildings, ancient, forbidding, and entirely detached from any other houses. I knocked at the door, then, not obtaining an answer, repeated my knocking, and at last, pushing open the door, which proved to be unlocked, I entered a vast and empty hall and, guided by the sound of voices, penetrated further, into a second room. There, by a broad table, round a tureen containing some steaming viand, sat chattering and laughing gaily four young men whom I took for house servants. Hearing the squeak of the opening door, they stopped talking and turned to me, and from under the table there rose and came forth, growling and baring their teeth, two or three thoroughbred dogs.

  I asked politely:

  “May I see Doctor Agrippa of Nettesheim, who, I am informed, resides in this house?”

  One of those at his midday meal, a tall, strapping lad with the features and accent of an Italian, rudely shouted at me in reply:

  “How dare you enter a strange house without knocking? This is neither a beer shop nor the Town Hall! Begone, before we show you the way to the door!”

  This shout was so much contrary to my expectations that it acted upon me like a slap on the face—at once I lost control over myself and, in an outburst of irresponsible anger, shouted in reply words equally sharp and unwise, which ran something as follows:

  “You are mistaken, friend, in saying that I entered without knocking! But in this house, it seems, the lackeys tipple instead of attending to their duties! Go, enquire of your master how you should receive his guests, for here is an introductory letter to him from one of his friends.”

  My words had a most violent effect. One of those sitting jumped up with furious curses and flew at me with clenched fists, overturning the bench, another rushed to his support, a third on the other hand tried to restrain his comrades, while the dogs began to attack me with barking and growling. I, seeing myself unexpectedly involved in an inglorious brawl, drew my tried sword from its sheath, and retreated towards the wall, brandishing it and declaring that I should spit through anyone who approached to within the nearness of a thrust. For a few minutes it all reminded me of the halls of King Ulysses before the beginning of the slaughter of the suitors, and it might easily have happened that, owing to the inequality of forces, I might have paid with my life for my arrogance, and no one, of course, would have paid any concern to the murder of an unknown passer-by.

  Fortunately, however, the quarrel had a more peaceful issue, for the voices of the more reasonable prevailed, convincing us that we had no cause for a bloody encounter. One of the young men, called, as I soon learned, Aurelius, caused us to separate, by delivering to us the following speech:

  “Master traveller and my comrades! Do not permit the god of strife—Mars—to triumph in this house, dedicated to the goddess of wisdom—Minerva! Master traveller is at fault for treating us like servant-folk, but we too are guilty, in that we greeted a noble gentleman thus contemptuously and impolitely—let us therefore offer each other mutual apologies, and discover what be the reason for the misunderstanding, soberly, as befits thinking people.”

  To tell the truth I was glad of this turn to the affair, which saved me from a purposeless, yet dangerous fight, and, having grasped that I saw before me not the servants of Agrippa, but his pupils, I politely explained to them once more the object of my visit, named myself, showed the introductory letter, and explained that I had come from another town especially to hold converse with Agrippa.

  Aurelius answered me:

  “I do not know whether you will succeed in seeing the teacher. He has a custom of working in his study without leaving it for several days and nights on end, and no one in the house dares to worry him during that time, so that even his meals and drink are left for him in an adjoining room. There are put for him also all the letters that are sent to him, so, if you will hand us yours, we shall include it in that number.”

  After a declaration in such terms, there was nothing better left for me to do than to hand over to Aurelius the letter from Hetorpius and make my bow, satisfied that thus happily had solved itself my first adventure in the house of Agrippa, an adventure in which I had not played an entirely dignified part. It must be, however, that that day belonged to the number of unlucky days, dies nefasti, for Aurelius and I both took it into our heads to smooth over the traces of the stupid quarrel, forgetting the proverb that he who tries to win back loses doubly. First Aurelius persuaded all his comrades to shake hands with me, and one by one he introduced them:

  “This one,” he said, pointing to the one with whom my exchange of words began, “is the eldest of us, hailing from Italy, and we call him Emmanuel; as one who was born in the South he is irascible and unrestrained; this—is little Hans, the youngest among us, and not only by name is he Iohann, but also by the love the teacher bears him; and this one is a capable fellow, a brain and a fist of which there are few, by name Augustin; and, lastly, you see before you myself—Aurelius, a meek man, as you yourself have seen, and therefore hoping to inherit the earth.”

  Not only did I shake hands with them all, but offered, to our misfortune, as a sign that no misunderstanding remained between us, to drink a quart of wine in one of the taverns. Having consulted among themselves in low tones, the pupils agreed to my invitation and, without delay, the five of us set forth from the house of Agrippa to the hospitable roof of the best hostelry in the town, under the sign of “The Fat Cockerels.”

  When we had taken our seats in the large and, at this yet early hour, quite deserted room of the hostelry, with our glasses in which sparkled the joyful Scharlach-berger, and with each a round of good southern cheese, we soon forgot our recent angry looks at one another. Wine, in the phrase of Horatius Flaccus, explicuit contractæ seria frontis, smoothed the wrinkles of our brows, and our voices grew loud, brisk and cheerful, so that an outside observer might have taken us for ordinary bottle companions, with no secrets dividing us. But in vain did I try to bring the conversation round to mysterious sciences and magic, thinking that the pupils of the great magus would, at their glass, boast of their frequent intercourse with demons—their thoughts were furthest from such matters. Healthy and jolly, they chattered of everything on earth: of the successes of Lutheranism, of their love adventures, of the approaching festivals of Saint Catherine and Saint Andrew with their quaint and amusing ritual—and I felt myself once more a student amidst my long-vanished Kölnian bottle companions. Only young Hans held himself aloof, drank little, and was like a maiden who, out of prudery, says “marching companions” instead of “breeches.”

  When, at last, I began to ask directly of Agrippa and his present life, there rained from all lips complaints I had by no means expected. Augustin confessed that they were now living through a very lean time, and that the teacher was being hard pressed by his creditors, while he had practically no other income besides that from the sale of his works. Aurelius added that, because of this constraint in money matters, Agrippa had been forced to accept service with our Archbishop, and that the latter entrusted him with such unworthy occupations as the organisation of festivals and their supervision. Lastly, Emmanuel with curses attacked the third wife of Agrippa, from whom the latter had just been divorced, saying that all these misfortunes had been brought upon them by that woman, and by all means praising his
late wife, Jeanne-Louise, towards whom he, Emmanuel, had seemingly been not impartial. Emmanuel began also to relate of the good times they had all known in Antwerpen, where Agrippa had flourished under the protection of the now deceased princess Margaret of Austria; when their house had been animated, gay, ever brimming with laughter and jest; when the teacher, his wife, his children and his pupils had composed one friendly family. … Unfortunately the god Bacchus was skipper of our conversation, and the end of the story, not having made port, sank somewhere beneath a storm of unexpected jokes and mockeries from Augustin. One thing only was I able to conclude with certainty: that Agrippa, even if he knew how to make gold for others and how to provide success for others, made no use of his craftsmanship for himself.

  A little while later, however, we headed once more for interesting shores, for my tipsy companions began to press me to tell them on what business I had come to visit Agrippa. I felt unable to say a word about Renata to these care-free fellows, and so I only mentioned shortly that I desired to ask for some advice on questions of operative magic. To my just surprise, this reply was greeted with a unanimous outburst of laughter.

  “Well, friend,” said Aurelius, “you certainly have not hit the mark! You will have to go back laden with the same baggage as that with which you came!”

  “Does, then,” I asked, “Agrippa to such an extent protect his knowledge of the secret sciences and share it so unwillingly?”

  Here Hans intervened in the conversation after having remained silent almost the whole time:

  “How insulting it is,” he exclaimed “that the teacher is always looked upon as a sorcerer! Will Agrippa of Nettesheim, one of the brightest intellects of his century, be ever paying for the infatuation of his youth, and be known only as the author of that weak and unsuccessful book ‘On the Philosophy of the Occult’?”

  Astonished, I pointed out that the book of Agrippa on magic could not be considered in any sense unsuccessful, and that, moreover, it had only just appeared in print, indicating, surely, that the author himself, even now, must acknowledge it as of a certain importance.