Alchymic Journals

by Evan S. Connell

  WE REPORT HOW substances boast the germ by which they flourish, but among metals—excepting gold—this germ resists maturity. Therefore, all these must anticipate decomposition. Skeptics will cling to their philosophy, the incredulous to incredulity. We decline to quarrel. Who would provide mirrors to the blind or entertain the deaf with music?

  WE ARE PERSUADED that lead would turn to gold, granted time, since no metal is conceived immaculate. Nature intends first to create the imperfect, distilling and by degree distilling until she accomplishes perfection, as we observe when beetles or wasps charged with strength crawl out of rotting corpses—albeit misbelievers complain there is fakery, and claim gold could not survive in dross. Yet wise nature labors upward to consummation. Accordingly, the agent to promote such changes must exist. How else could we explain that sweet tractability of blossoms emerging from the rigid husk of insensate seeds? And the phlegmatic worm—what drives him to enclose his body, ultimately to unfold translucent wings?

  THAT THE MAGNUM Opus will be accomplished we have no doubt, since God bequeathed His knowledge of alchymistry to Adam through the medium of Raziel by whose grace it was offered to Enoch, whose preserved bones rest in a private apartment of Cheops’ pyramid. And this authority we no more question than we should analyze the mounting architecture of clouds. O, we have listened to merchants discourse at their stalls how spagyric art is but some thaumaturgic dream of wealth—a vacant invention drawn up for simpletons, vainglorious trumpeting, implausible rubefactions. In fact, we hear them dispute under the nascent moon if its diameter be as great or less than that of a cartwheel and amazement overcomes us. We wonder what should distinguish men from transient shades except the alchymic dream. We wonder if they be not deceived by their own infirmity. Which among them would fix one hour toward the health of his soul?

  WE RECORD HOW Meister Sendivogius achieved his inimitable work before Rudolph the Emperor by converting quicksilver to gold with the aid of negritic dust—attested by that marble tablet affixed to a wall of the room where transmutation took place, bearing this inscription: Faciat hoc quispiam alius quod fecit Sendivogius Polonus. We have listened to disbelievers object and argue, but like blackbirds which start a tune well enough they do not go far with it. We consider them foolish that turn with intolerant haste from authentic art. Monsieur Desnoyers, that once was Secretary to Princess Mary of Gonzaga, testified for the validity of this inscription. Still, cautious scribes take note how the dust or powder may be either red or black—since we are told by the alchymist’s steward that this was so. And he carried it in a miniature box, and with but one grain he could make five hundred ducats or a thousand rix-dollars. And when he traveled he gave the box to his steward to carry on a chain slung around the neck. But most of this black dust he kept in a secret niche carved into a step of his carriage. And foreseeing any danger he would dress up himself as a valet and mounting the coachman’s seat he took the place of his valet who rode inside, and so they proceeded. And to every question we respond by asking if each gelle of water that passes a mill need be verified by the miller.

  WE NOTE HOW Jean Delisle, blacksmith and native to Provence, when he acquired the Philosopher’s Stone permitted visitors to witness an elevation of imperfect mineral to perfection—this miracle attested by M. de Cerisy, Prior of Chateauneuf in the diocese of Riez, who without delay notified the Vicar of Saint Jacques du Hautpas in Paris, expressing his delight that a substance which for generations was thought chimerical had been distilled by a neighboring blacksmith in the parish of Sylabez who could without the slightest difficulty refine silver from rusted buckets and bring forth gold from shovels. M. de Cerisy asserts that now in his possession he has a Nail which is half-iron but half-silver, which he himself created under this blacksmith’s supervision. Scholars write in Latin: Ecce signum. What further proof is necessary?

  NOW THE PHYSITIAN Arthur Dee, who was off-spring of Sir John and intimate of Sir Thomas Browne, swears he played at quoits with gold plates that his father once projected in the garret of their lodging at Prague. And he claims how at various times he examined the Philosopher’s Stone. And says about his father that he did often clarify the shells of eggs—for what purpose he never learnt. And we hear that Sir John was much discussed by the playwright Jonson, who called him Alchymist. And also one Robert Cotton alleges how Sir John did conjure up a pool at Brecknockshire from which a slim gold wedge was fished out. And he could build a mighty storm above, or eclipse the moon, so children dreaded him. Whether such examples be guaranteed is moot. We do but put forth events as they occur.

  BEING DUTIFUL CHRISTIAN secretaries we record how Sir Kenelme Digby meditated very much in that he had a most candent mind such as would rake across India, and composed numerous books regarding dark science, and by the help of sympathetic powder which he rubbed on whatever instrument had caused some wound he would cure that injury. Also, he was quite diplomatic while commanding sailors of the Navy during which time he annihilated both Venetians and French. Also, we have heard how during a masked ball the Queen Mother Marie de Medicis so improperly advanced on him that he fled and escaped to Italy. He was gigantic, altogether handsome, and employed graceful elocution which made those knowing him insist he had dropped to earth from the clouds: Lapis lapsus ex caelis. Being counted a Royalist he loitered around prison at Southwark, there strangely diverting himself with formulae which enabled him to transmute many valuable stones—emeralds, sapphires, rubies and the like out of common flint. But also toward the end he came to resemble some hermit with his beard unshorn, and grew faint with debt, wearing a high-crowned hat and a desperate long cloak and would converse in six tongues. That such a life be well or poorly spent exceeds our quarter, being resolved to keep account for men of notable disposition with promiscuous curiosity.

  CONCERNING THE ILLUSTRIOUS Jean de Meung, we have inspected twelve-score musty documents establishing how he issued from a noble family, practiced the arts of astrology and chymistry together with poetics, gracing the court of Philippe le Bel. That he was interred at the Jacobin Church we have no doubt, nor that to these monks he bequeathed a granite cyst, begging their forbearance till the service of his death be concluded—a request they declined to honor, impatiently raising the lid to find not what they expected but a somber library of slates scratched with indecipherable geometries which antiquarians interpret as a disillusioned parable of our Savior’s promise to unify mankind, since for this miracle no date was ordered. Now who shall look on the glass of divinity or tell the hours when to rain? We have most thoughtfully read this masterpiece of Jean de Meung, titled by the alchymist Romaunt de la Rose, in particular those verses 16,914 through 16,997 that withhold from humanity’s intemperate gaze inestimable directions toward fulfillment. Very many will ask the end of hermetic subterfuge. Excellence, we respond, is not cheaply sold.

  WE COULD WITH Pineda in Monarchia Ecclesiastica attribute to 1,040 ancient authors our fountainhead, and so retrieve neglected matter like those magicians which draw up birds or little dogs out of smoke. Arnold do Villa Nova, Ficinus, Reuchlin, Lull, Picus di Mirandola—neither disbelief nor obloquy diminishes the grandeur of their art, as centuries of verdigris do but superficially tarnish Palestinian bronze. Lustrous disquisitions leaven our bleak and perilous extremity.

  HAVE WE NOT forty-two works by Hermes which are both exigent and useful? Thirty-six encompass the vast philosophy of Egypt while six pertain to medicine. Concerning Muslims, Albusarius relates how wisely they have preserved with occult translation the magisteries of Chaldea. Anagogic teachers out of the past enlighten us. We might take to bed by candlelight a Spanish Jew, Isaac de Moiros, Synesius and Theophilus and Abugazel that were African, Alphidius and Rhasis and Rosinus and Hamuel that were Arab, Pontanus that was Fleming, Hortulain that was Scottish—some say English—Gui de Montanor that was French, Pierre Bon de Ferrare from Italy. To an impetuous river of compelling logic all contributed. Still, what is the worth of scholarship, given moral inferiority? D
oes not every age and place make up a world for itself? Now why so? Because the fruits of elements diverge according to place and time. What good has balsam to provinces remote from Arabia? What value to Leipzig has Rhazes, Arnaldus to Swabia? Enough! Like Asiatic sultans that would go hawking after butterflies with sparrows, we misappropriate the hour.

  MEISTER BOERHAVE SPEAKS on some adept whose name is long forgot that brought up suroxydized muriate of quicksilver, promising to catalogue the fusibility of mineral. Many assert this to be Abou Moussah Djafar al Sofi, born to a genteel family of Haman in Mesopotamia. Others allege he was native to Thous in Persia. Scholiasts would with Xerxes flog the Hellespont to submission. We, as conscientious archivists, disdain such strident music, restricting ourselves to the simple nobility of fact.

  WE TAKE NOTE of a solid gold mortar unexpectedly disclosed when the ancient quarter at Kufa was demolished and Al-Azdi’s work-shop stood revealed. We think this artifact must symbolize inimitable abundance. Yet what was once good does not remain so perpetually. Decadent, surfeited, men reach out to brittle and cursory ideas like pilgrims that linger to fondle glass leopards in Musselman bazaars.

  LET AMANUENSES BRED to the exercise of pedantic study register how Mohammed-Ebd-Secharjah Aboubekr Arrasi after three decades squandered on musical composition exchanged frivolous pleasure for recondite medicine and philosophy. His treatise on mineral elevation he presented to Emir Almansour, Prince of Khorassan, who generously replied with a gift of one thousand gold dinars and the request that he provide a demonstration for the Court. We find parchments affirming that this attempt was undertaken without success. No precious minerals resulted. Then the Emir attacked the alchymist—belaboring him, striking him brutally so that he went blind. Nevertheless he lived to be one hundred and died impoverished after writing two hundred and twenty-six illuminating manuscripts. What is alchymistry but an incomplete volume without words? What is it if not a mystic rose—a petal of the cosmic flower?

  WE ASK OURSELVES what of that Musselman pedagogue and chymist Jabir ibn Hayyan with his exploration of acids and varnishes. We marvel at such a copious brain because we read in Aquarium Sapientum how if a man responding to any gift vouchsafed him by Allah should wax covetous—then will his gift slide apart as though it were not his to keep, sliding out of his grasp. And wonder assails us how so little wealth could be recovered from furnace ash—one gold turnip seed to validate the Opus. Such trifling evidence disturbs us. Might this be the extent and culmination of joyous labor? Was it only to philosophers that Dame Nature accorded her secret for compounding wealth? Jabir ibn Hayyan expired at Tus with the Book of Mercy beneath his pillow, a matter which speaks for itself. Ah! Once again we digress.

  NOW WE HAVE learned from Suidas how the Emperor Diocletian ordered every anagogic document burnt at the public market, thinking thereby to thwart or obstruct Egyptian alchymists whose skill at confecting gold levied troops against Rome. By his odious act Diocletian attempted to extinguish an art, which we believe constitutes rape against our sensibilities, and each event cannot but leave to posterity its eviternal trace or pattern.

  DOES THE RAGING sun spiraling overhead exult at our progress? We suspect vainglorious men inscribe their histories on some codex rescriptus. We point out the prophet Zoroaster rejecting all men save those avid for knowledge, who lived on a mountain behind a curtain of celestial fire. Then appeared a mighty king accompanied by his mightiest lords and all of them supplicants, and the prophet came out of the fire to greet them, and prayed, and offered a sacrifice on behalf of Persia. And when his body was consumed by a thunderbolt they vowed to preserve his ashes, but thoughtless descendants neglected this office. Subsequently the empire declined and broke apart and contributed to an earth already corrupt its ounce of corruption. Unless through parable or sign, what declares a truth? We ourselves, being indifferent to wasteful metaphysic, simply record the ascent or decline of remarkable days. All else we bequeath to the hand of a majestic Overseer.

  WE HAVE KNOWN hermeneutes penalized for their simplicity, yet we watch them move close to God. And what mockeries they make against us may be hurled back upon the world at Judgment Day. Olaus Borrichius points to the lightning flash that disclosed a manuscript of Basilius Valentinus concealed within a pillar of the abbey church at Erfurt. Now, whether this be construed as a meaningless inadvertent eidolon or threatening apologue and reprimand, we plead much ignorance. As pious secretaries we devote our thought to Christian cosmography—being mindful that when Jehovah descends to judge and to censure or praise what we have done He will follow a conflagration like a pillar walking across the hills from the sea with dazzling radiance, and those that look to the core will fall down blinded.

  RECENTLY HAVE WE made a most arduous journey to Fulham Church that we might view the sculpted sarcophagus of Sampson Norton where inexpressible disciplines speak privately to the initiate from shadows cast by marble foliage. There did we contemplate with quiet satisfaction the cockleshell atop Saint James’ hat. And we reflected upon that Musselman, Geber, whose perplexing symbols angered and mystified this world of avaricious mortals disposed to incontinent dreams. And we recalled of Harpocrates that with one hand concealing his mouth he represented secrecy, which is sustained by silence but with revelation grows weaker until the emblem vanishes.

  WE DOUBT IT could be an intent of art to enrich the illiterate or sacrilegious, no more than flatulent mechanics be ordained to shear and sack and market the Golden Fleece. What merchant is appointed to benefit through harvesting and selling baskets of luminous apples from the Hesperides? Why would we vouchsafe to brutal minds what they could not interpret? We reflect upon Jakob Böhme wandering in a cave at Old Seidenberg near Görlitz who saw at his feet an ivory coffer overflowing with coins and rubies and tourmalines and emeralds and sapphires and pearls. And as he told his companions about these riches they wondered that he took nothing for himself. And flinging up their hands because they were blind with greed, they rushed into the void where reverberations of emptiness met them. Then full of rage they charged the philosopher with delusion. By virtue of this we see how the ambitions of artless men prove turgid. We note their hostility to a benevolent mind. We register with sorrow the paltry nature of their concept.

  WE HEAR OF a lamp in the tomb of Cicero’s daughter Tullia which has flickered without interruption since the regency of Julius Caesar, nurtured by some liquid defying analysis. And we have inspected a burning lamp excavated near Alestes inscribed by the hand of a forgotten Roman: Maximus Olybius. And we have been informed of the mystifying Bononian Enigma. Now we are told of Hermolaus Barbarus who comments on water known to ancient hermeneutes, depicting one which is divine or ethereal, called Scythian Latex, that expends its spirit laboring toward the absolute distillation of liquefied gold and is alleged by Khunrath to burn with serene persistence. This we assume to be that irreducible thrice-blessed elixir by whose light the Magisterium illuminates eternal tenebrity while disclosing nothing.

  HOW SHOULD THE Adept prepare his lodestone of bodily health and temporal felicity? There is but one method, as we learn from the Sophie Hydrolith. One catholicon must be recombined with nebulosity after purgation, the fulfillment achieved by Pontic Water which is more luminous than amethyst or diamond. Thus did Noah construct an ark, Moses a tabernacle, Solomon a temple. This was how a golden snow wrought by Vulcan’s art fell on the city of Rhodes—which is not the gold of vulgar pharmacists.

  WHY WOULD A Novice scatter precious hours on fugitive wealth if he has been adequately instructed? Thomas Aquinas laboring at imperfect matter informs us how metamorphosis is plausible because we discern no autonomy in the government of elements. But he would direct enquiry to a higher purpose than elevating the mineral republic. And we approve. Conscientious historians distinguish lovers of mammon from lovers of truth.

  NOW WE LEARN of beakers filled with gold traveling from fire to fire at the laboratory of some Cambridge professor called Isaac Newton. Essences are said to gro
w outward like branches but through continuous circulation are persuaded to dissolve. This we compare to the craft of a skilled geometrician who by one stroke from his compass could describe a right line, yet rather traces a circuit or a different path. Mayhap our foreign chymist goes chasing the nonexistent light. Mayhap he defines no miracle superior to the next nor believes one element subservient. We ask what follows that could accord with the discipline or gospel of mystic art. Basil Valentine reminds us how a man with a quantity of flour will make dough, and he that has prepared dough will find his oven to bake it. Now we do but register with absolute fidelity what we collect, feeling content at the shape of the leaf.

  RARE NEWS HAVE we regarding a parchment scroll from the hand of Thomas Charnock measuring eleven English feet in length by nine inches breadth, uncovered at his house in Combwich. It is said that six panels of the entrance to his work-shop were painted by this alchymist with very ingenious emblems, albeit coarsely drawn and tinted, suggesting some equivocal relation to the Opus. Also, by the hearth lay an instrument of queer design which he would use while attending the fire. And there is said to be a very ancient woman that remembers his daughter who supervised the work, but neglected her task one warm night so the flame went out. Charnock’s experiment seems forgot although many suspect he had cast a Brazen Head which was prepared to speak. Now such deformity could occur, we admit, yet as cautious scribes we make our reservation.

  ARE WE NOT streaked with imagination among rudimentary idols? Do we not join sects and cultivate doubt and sow misbelief? Are we not dissident, vehement? Are we not quick at judgment? Pelican, ambix, aludel and retort. Trowel, tongs, sand-glass, drug-jar, croslet, beaker, sieve, bellows, spatula and funnel. Filter, pestle, mortar, crucible, flask, athanor, Philosophic Egg where art is born—upon this premise would we circumscribe the intersection of mankind. Bred to fractionate accumulations while riven by the pulse of life, squandering power on useless urgencies, invidious, undecided, men at their quotidian labor fly back and forth, winged seeds tossed by contrary wind.