The Fiery Angel

by Valery Bruisov

  I staked on Emmanuel, trusting to his inventiveness, but Aurelius proved far more cunning in the art of Damiani; and, making his moves slowly and with more forethought, he soon definitely pressed his opponent. Playing without coolness, Emmanuel was angry and would by no means acknowledge himself beaten, but he would probably not have escaped mate, had there not rung suddenly from the room of Agrippa a summons, the sound of his bell. All that were in the room were set in motion: the boys frightenedly whisked behind the door, Maria shuffled after them, Hans rushed upstairs to obey the call, and Emmanuel, making use of the general confusion, shuffled the pieces on the board as if by a momentary impulse, and thus no one could tell how the game would have ended.

  A few minutes later, Hans returned from the teacher and announced that Agrippa had read my letter and was ready to receive me immediately, and that at the same time he summoned to him all his pupils.

  Thus was fulfilled my fondest wish, thus was realised the aim with which I came to Bonn—but already, as I climbed the narrow staircase to the upper storey on which Agrippa’s study was situated, I found myself no longer possessed by the hope of obtaining the solution of those doubts that assailed me, gnawing at me, but only by the curiosity of a traveller inspecting the local sights. In the meantime the pupils took a friendly interest in me and, interrupting each other, gave me various advice on how to conduct myself with Agrippa, reminding me to speak louder, for the teacher was somewhat strained of hearing, or warning me that the teacher loathed monks, or suggesting that I should always address the teacher as “magister doctissime,” and the like. Before the door of the study of Agrippa we had to halt once more, while Hans ran on again, and only after this, at last, the door was opened and I entered the holy of holies.

  The study of Agrippa reminded one at first glance rather of a museum or the library of a monastery—so cumbered over was it with cases laden with books and folders, as well as with stuffed animals and various instruments and appliances of physics; even on the benches and on the floor were strewn manuscripts, designs, papers of all kinds. Here and there reposed layers of dust, or rose a musty smell, but the sun, penetrating through the narrow Gothic window, lit up the scene almost welcomingly and vividly. At a broad desk, also heaped with folios and ledgers, as if himself buried in papers, there sat in a high armchair a man of small stature, not yet aged, lean and clean shaven, with a raspberry-coloured skull cap on his white hair and with a loose gown, edged with fur. I recognised Agrippa, for he was very like his portrait printed on the cover of the book “De Occulta Philosophia”; only the expression of the face seemed to me to be somewhat different: in the portrait it is good-natured and open—but in Agrippa himself there was something contemptuous or fastidious in the features, perhaps because the lips somehow senilely drooped, and the tired lids half concealed the glance of his sharp and lively eyes. At Agrippa’s feet, with its head on his knees, sat his favourite black dog, of medium size, with fuzzy hair and remarkably intelligent, as if human eyes, which, as I learned later, was called “Monseigneur.”

  Entering, I paused with a bow on the threshold, but Agrippa, greeting me with a nod of his head as if he were a ruling monarch accustomed to the granting of audiences, said to me:

  “Welcome, Master Traveller. My friend Hetorpius writes to me of you. In my old age I have few, very few friends left to me, but that is why every word of theirs is a duty to me. Pray be seated and be welcome in this house, though you have brought me bad news.”

  These last words confused me a little, and, taking a place near the desk amongst his pupils, I knew not what to say, but it was Agrippa himself who resumed the conversation. Taking from the desk the introductory letter I had brought, and showing it to us, he delivered, not without rhetoric skill, a whole oration destined apparently for my benefit alone, for in it he communicated nothing new to his pupils:

  “Hetorpius, in introducing you “—he said—” writes me at the same time that he dare not print my ‘Apologetic Letter to the Senate of Köln,” and that, in general, no printing house in Köln will accept it beneath its presses! I recognise the usual weapons of my antagonists, for their wiles have persecuted me my whole life long! In Antwerpen the local scientists succeeded in obtaining an interdiction preventing me from practising as a medicus, though I had administered to the people in the time of the plague when all the other physicians of the town were fled in every direction! In Köln I was prohibited from delivering lectures though in Dola, Torino and Pavia, I had had more listeners than all the other magisters together. The Emperor, in whose service I was as historiographer, found it unnecessary to pay me my remuneration and at Brussels my creditors flung me into jail for my debts! Lastly, whenever I try to publish my works yet worse thunder falls upon me: in Paris one of my books was burnt at the condemnation of the Sorbonne, and in Germany its printing was opposed by the inquisitor himself, who scorned the privilege granted me. Against my writings clamour and howl doctors, licentiates, teachers, bachelors, rhetoricians of all colours, and all the uncountable crowd of idlers in cassocks, hoods and mantles, barefooted and in sandals, black, white, grey and of every coat: in one word all the makers of syllogisms and the hired sophists, whose eyes truth blinds like those of owls. But I do not fear attack, I shall know how to defend myself both from open accusations and hidden calumnies. Now they prevent me from causing to be printed a letter, restrained to a considerable degree. What of it, then? I shall write another, merciless, add to it vinegar and mustard, but reduce the oil, and shall yet publish it in another town, in London if need be, if need be, in Constantinople!”

  By delivering these thundering diatribes in my presence, Agrippa, no doubt, hoped that through me they would become known to various circles of people, for he took me for a friend of Hetorpius. But I, seeing the necessity to answer, replied with circumspection, that I did not take it upon myself to be judge of the dispute between Agrippa and the clerics, nor, still less, of his dispute with His Majesty the Emperor, but that, of course all the persecutions of which he spoke were an honour to him, for against an insignificant person, not the inquisition, nor the theologues, nor the scientists would have directed their attacks.

  Profiting by a moment’s silence, Aurelius reminded the teacher that I had come with a definite purpose, to ask his advice. Agrippa, as if he only just recollected about me, turned to me and, angrily throwing Hetorpius’ letter on the desk, asked:

  “What is it then, young friend, that you desire of me? In what way can Agrippa, who is, as you see, hunted like a fox by a pack of hounds, be of service to you?”

  I hastened to reply that I felt myself like Marsyas questioned by Apollo, and that I could plead forgiveness for my audacity only in the fame of Agrippa, spread over the whole of Europe, and in the fact that, for the elucidation of questions not answered in books, one could apply, in the whole of Germany, only to his knowledge, his intellect, his experience. Further, I related, some circumstances in my private life had led me to engage in operative magic, that, from amongst the books written on this subject, I could not but single out the composition of Agrippa, and that, having studied all that was set out in his book, I yet found a multitude of points dark to me, and desired to enquire of each the explanations of the author himself.

  Agrippa, having heard me, frowned and said with vexation:

  “It must be that if you have read my work, you have not done so very attentively, or have not properly understood that which is written, otherwise you would not turn to me with such questions! In my foreword it is stated, clearly and firmly, that the magus must not be a superstitious man, nor a sorcerer, nor a demonist, but a sage, a priest and a prophet. I regard as true magi, the Sibyl who prophesied of Christ in the times of paganism, and those three kings who, having learned from the miraculous cosmic mysteries of the birth of the Saviour of the World, hastened with gifts to the manger-cradle. Whereas you, apparently, like the majority, seek in magic not a means to the mysterious knowledge of nature, but sundry cunning means to bespoil y
our neighbours, to seek riches, to enquire about to-morrow’s day: but for such knowledge it is necessary to go to magicians and charlatans, and not to a philosopher. My book ’On the Philosophy of the Occult’ was written by me in youth and contains many imperfections, and, what is more, it provides only a survey of all that has been said about magic, so that the searching mind may trace in it all the branches of that science, but never have I advised anyone to plunge himself into experiments in goety, dark and deserving of discouragement! “

  Seeing that Agrippa shirked a direct answer, I made up my mind, none the less, to force him to one, even if by heroic measures, and accordingly I spoke thus to him:

  “Why then, teacher, having investigated carefully the spheres of magic and found there only delusions, did you not endeavour to divert others from fruitless occupation with that science, but on the contrary, hasten to publish a work that you yourself considered imperfect? It may be, perhaps, that it was composed by you in your youth, but do not forget that you added to it two forewords written quite recently, and in which you speak of magic with great reverence, and do not in any way reveal your contemptuous attitude towards it. Do you not thereby offer a great temptation to knowledge-seeking readers, and will I not be right if I remind you of the words of the Evangel that as for him who shall lead astray but one of these little ones, it were better for him that he should have a millstone hanged about his neck and be drowned in the depth of the sea?”

  During my speech, Aurelius made sign to me with his eyes for me to desist, but I am not accustomed to remain outlaughed, and I spoke calmly to the end. Agrippa, also, was cut to the quick by my words, and his appearance underwent a sudden change, for his self-assurance and arrogance became as if extinguished, and he said to me with irritation:

  “I had weighty reasons for publishing my composition, of which you, young man, have probably not the slightest inkling. To explain these to you would be quite out of place, apart from the fact that a special oath forbids me to touch upon certain questions among the uninitiated.”

  The sternness of the answer could only increase my insistence, and I, who had not feared to put questions to the Ruler of the Sabbath, certainly did not withdraw before the wrath of Agrippa of Nettesheim. Continuing to press him, I at once flung at him a new question, and to me it seemed as if my clear voice rattled like a pair of dice, leaping on the table for some decisive stake:

  “Magister doctissime! But I do not claim that you disclose to me your arcane secrets! Only, being one of those tempted by your book, I but, with all modesty, ask that you answer me, what is the nature of magic, truth or delusion, science or no?”

  Agrippa glanced up at me, but I did not lower my eyes before his, and while our two glances were harnessed together I experienced a feeling as if, hand in hand, we both stood upon the edge of an abyss. For a moment I believed that now—now, Agrippa was about to tell me something singular and inspired—but, lo, already before me again there sat in a high armchair an aged scientist, in a loose gown and framboise skull-cap, who, having mastered his indignation, replied to my impertinent questions in a voice a trifle, a shade irritated, but firm and even:

  “There are two kinds of science, young man. One is that which is practised nowadays in Universities, which peers into each object separately, tearing the whole flower of the cosmos into its component parts, into root, stem, and petal, and which, instead of knowledge, provides syllogisms and commentaries. In my book ‘On the Uncertainty of Knowledge,’ a book that cost me many years of labour but brought me only mockery and accusations of heresy, there is explained fully what I call pseudo-science. Its adepts—the pseudo-philosophers—have fashioned out of grammatica and rhetoric instruments for their own false deductions, changed poetry into childish fabrication, based upon arithmetic, foolish divination and a music that corrupts and weakens instead of fortifying, turned politics into an art of deceits, while theology they use as an arena for logomachy, for a battle of words devoid of any meaning. It is these very pseudo-philosophers who have also distorted magic, which the ancients considered as the peak of human knowledge, to such an extent that in our days naturalistic magic is become no more than recipes for poisons, sleeping-draughts, fireworks and the like, and ceremonial magic—merely advices upon how to enter into commerce with the lower forces of the spiritual world, or how to make use of them piratically and unawares. As I will never tire of disputing and ridiculing false science, so I will always denounce false magic. And yet in a human being there is nothing more noble than his faculty of thought, and to rise by power of thought to the contemplation of substances and of God Himself—that is the perfect aim of life. It must, in fine, be remembered always that everything in this world is directed to one end, everything revolves around one point, and through this point everything is connected, one with another, everything is in determined clear connection with its fellow: stars, angels, men, animals, herbs! One soul animates the Sun in its race round the earth, the heavenly spirit submissive to the will of God, tormented Man, and the simple stone that rolls down the mountain slope—and only by a varying degree of intensity does this soul manifest its permeation of varying kinds of matter. The science that studies and examines all these cosmic relationships, that establishes the connections between all the varying kinds of matter and the routes along which they exercise influence upon each other, this science is magic, the true magic of the ancients. It sets as its task the co-ordination of the blind life of the investigator’s soul, and, as far as possible, of other souls as well, with the divine plan of the Creator of the World, and it demands for its fulfilment an exalted life, a pure faith and a mighty will, for there is no mightier force in our world than will, which is able to achieve the impossible and to perform miracles! True magic is the science of sciences, the complete incarnation of the most perfect philosophy, the solution of all mysteries, attained through the revelations of the initiated of different centuries, different countries, and different peoples. Of this magic, young friend, it seems you have learned hitherto nothing at all, and, in conclusion of our conversation, I would have you turn from divinations and sorceries to the true stream of knowledge.”

  After this ambiguous speech, there was nothing else for me to do but, rising, once more ask to be forgiven for the trouble I had caused and take my leave. I threw a last glance in the direction of Agrippa, and of his pupils, crowding round his chair with every demonstration of admiration—and left the room, thinking that I was taking leave of this circle for ever, and not suspecting that I was yet once again to meet the great sorcerer, nor in what strange circumstances!

  On the landing of the staircase, Hans and Aurelius caught me up, desiring probably to make up for the unpleasant impression created by the audience, for they tried by all manner of means to explain away the sternness of Agrippa, saying that he had been very much upset by the letter of Hetorpius. In the short conversation that here took place between us, Aurelius said:

  “I didn’t suspect, not I, that the teacher still secretly believed in magic.”

  And Hans, with the arrogance of youth, added:

  “He is a great man and a scientist, but not of our generation.”

  Both Hans and Aurelius convincingly begged me to remain in Bonn for one day more, assuring me that the teacher would treat me more benevolently on the morrow, but I firmly refused to trouble Agrippa again, especially as I had lost all hope of his assistance in my undertaking. I did, however, thank the two youths for the help they had given me, and Hans amicably escorted me to the door of the house, where, in parting, we gave each other promises to exchange letters.

  On the next day I rode back, heading north. Snow had fallen in the fields and it was rather cold, but the road had improved considerably and riding was far easier than it had been three days before. The horse stepped briskly out over the soft white carpet that covered the hard, frozen earth.

  When, on a later occasion, I carefully thought over all my visit to Agrippa, and attentively considered all his words, I ca
me to the conclusion that not all of them should be given credence. During those short minutes that I stood before Agrippa, an unknown traveller, he had no reasons for opening his soul, for expressing frankly his hidden thoughts on a matter so responsible as magic. It seemed as if he used not even to express them before his pupils, so that their sceptical speeches were perhaps a reflection not of the final opinion of the philosopher, but only of that solitude to which great men, forced to hide themselves even from those nearest them, are ever doomed! And now, after my second meeting with Agrippa, I do not so much as doubt that he believed in magic far more than he ever desired to show, and that maybe it was to this very goety that the hours of his solitary studies were dedicated.

  But all these considerations had not as yet come into my head at the time of my return journey from Bonn. On the contrary, I felt as if the stern words of Agrippa and the sober speculations of Hans had chased away like a fresh wind the fog of the mysterious and miraculous in which I had wandered during the last three months. With genuine astonishment I asked myself how it was that, for a whole quarter year, I had been unable to step out of a circle of demons and devils—I, who was accustomed to the clear and well-defined world of ship’s rigging and military marches. With the same astonishment I sought an answer to the question how it happened that I, who not once heretofore had failed successfully to cure the heart wounds and scratches of the arrows of the little winged god, now found myself bound with such strong shackles to the waist of a woman who rewarded me only with contempt or condescending coldness. Reviewing, not without the colour mounting to my cheeks, my life with Renata, I now found my behaviour absurd and foolish, and was indignant with myself for so slavishly having submitted to the whims of a lady, of whom I did not even know whether she had any right to attention. To justify myself in a measure, I was ready, with considerable inconsequence, to think once more that Renata was maintaining me by her side by means of some magic philtre or spell.