Imprimatur

Day the Eighth

18th September, 1683

I awoke the next day gnawed by a certain febrile anxiety. Despite the long-drawn-out reflections in which Atto and I had engaged the night before and the little sleep which I had, yet again, allowed myself, I was perfectly vigilant and ready for action. What I might be able to do was in reality not very clear to me: too many mysteries haunted the inn and their sheer number prevented me from resolving any of them. Threatening or unattainable presences (Louis XIY Colbert, Queen Maria Teresa, Kircher himself) had made their way into the hostelry and into our lives. The scourge of the pestilence had not yet left off from tormenting and terrifying us; some of our guests had, moreover, for days now assumed guises and comportments which were at once indecipherable and enigmatic. As though all that were not enough, the astrological almanack purloined from Stilone Priaso promised disastrous and death-dealing events for the days to come.

As I descended the stairs on my way to the kitchen, I heard the voice of Atto Melani resounding, quietly yet agonisingly:

Infelice pensier, chi tie conforta?

Ohime!

Chi tie consiglia?…*

Atto, too, must have felt confused and discouraged-and that, far more than me! I hastened on my way, deliberately refusing to dwell upon such disheartening thoughts. As usual, I diligently assisted Cristofano in the kitchen and in serving meals. I had prepared snails boiled and lightly fried in oil, with ground garlic, mint, parsley, spices and a slice of lemon; and these were greatly appreciated.

Unhappy thought,

Who can give comfort for't?

Alas!

Who can give counsel?

I worked with a will, almost as though I were sustained by an excess of vital heat. This beneficial disposition of body and soul was crowned by an event as joyous as it was unexpected.

"Cloridia has asked for you," announced Cristofano after luncheon. "You are to go directly to her chamber."

The reason for that call (and this, Cristofano knew) was completely frivolous. I found Cloridia with her bodice half-unlaced and her head bent over the tub, washing her hair. The chamber was inundated with the effluvia of sweet essences. Stunned, I heard her ask me to pour onto her head the vinegar contained in a phial which lay upon her dressing table: later, I learned that she used it to make her tresses more lustrous.

While I went about this, I recalled the doubts which I had entertained about Cloridia's parting words at our previous encounter. Speaking to me of the extraordinary numerological coincidences between her date of birth and that of Rome, she had mentioned a wrong suffered in connection with her return to this city. She had then explained to me that she had found her way to the Donzello by following a certain virga ardentis (or ardent rod) which was also called "trembling" or "protruding". This, also because of the equivocal gesture with which she had accompanied her explanation, I had taken to be an indecent allusion. I had then promised myself that I would find out what she really meant. And now, the same Cloridia had suddenly called me and provided me with the opportunity to put my question.

"Pass me the towel. No, not that one, the smaller coarse linen towel," she commanded me, while twisting her hair.

I obeyed. She wrapped her hair in the cloth, after drying her shoulders.

"Would you comb my hair now?" she asked in honeyed tones. "It is so curly that it is almost impossible for me to disentangle it alone without pulling it."

I was happy to undertake so agreeable a service. She sat with her back to me, still half-free from the laces of her bodice, and explained to me that I should begin at the tips and then work back to the roots of her hair. This seemed to me to be the right time to ask her to recount to me what had brought her to the Donzello, and I reminded her of what she had told me last time that we met. Cloridia agreed.

"Then, what is the ardent or trembling rod, Monna Cloridia? I asked.

"Thy rod and thy staff do comfort me," she recited. "Psalm 22."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Are you not acquainted with this? It is simply a forked hazel branch, about a foot and a half long and a finger's breadth thick, cut not more than one year before. It is also known as the rod of Pallas, the Caduceus of Mercury, Circe's wand, Aaron's rod and Jacob's staff. Then there are other names: the divine, the lucent, protruding, transcendent, cadent or superior rod: all names given it by the Italians who work in the quicksilver mines of Trent and the Tyrol. It is akin to the Augur's Rod of the Romans, who used it in the place of the sceptre; to the rod which Moses used to smite the rock and bring forth water; to the rod of Asahuerus, King of the Medes and Persians, from whom Esther, once she had kissed its tip, obtained all that she asked."

And she plunged into an explanation of rare and lucid doctrine; for, as I well recalled, Cloridia was no mere strumpet, she was a courtesan: and no woman lived who could couple such sublime erudition with the amatory arts.

"The rod has been used for over two hundred years to discover metals, and for a century, to find water. But everyone knows that. Since time immemorial, however, it has been used to capture criminals and assassins in great numbers in the most distant countries: in the lands of Edom, Sarmatia, Getulia, Gothland, Rhaetia, Raphia, Hibernia, Sleasia, Lower Cirenaica, Marmaris, Mantiana, Confluentia, Prufuik, Alexandria Major, Argenton, Frisia, Gaeta, Cuspia, Livonia, Casperia, Serica, Brixia, Trabezond, Syria, Cilicia, Mutina, Arabia Felix, Malines in Brabant, Liburnia, Slavonia, Oxiana, Pamphilia, Garamantia and finally Lydia, which was formerly known as Maeonia, where flow the rivers Hermes and Pactolus, famed in poesy and song. In Gedrosia, an assassin was even followed for more than forty-five leagues over land and over thirty leagues by sea and arrested at last. With the rod, they had found out the bed in which he had slept, the table where he had eaten, his cooking pots and crockery."

Thus I learned from Cloridia that the mysterious rod works thanks to the porousness of bodies which constantly give off impalpable particles through a process of continual emanation. Somewhere between visible bodies and inconceivable and unintelligible beings there exists a median category of volatile agents, which are rather subtle and active, and are called corpuscles, or particles of matter, atoms or subtle matter.

These corpuscles are most mysterious but exceedingly useful. They may be an emanation of the very substance from which they originate, or else they may be a third substance, which the brain, (the receptacle thereof), distributes through the nerves and muscles to produce the various movements. In other cases, however, such corpuscles are present in the air near to the irradiating matter which uses the air as a vehicle whereby to conduct its own imprint to the absorbent matter.

"That is, for example, how bell and clapper function, imprinting an impulse on the nearby air, which in turn presses against other air, and so on, until it strikes our ear, which registers the sensation of the sound," explained Cloridia.

Now, it was such corpuscles which produced sympathy and antipathy, and even love.

"Indeed, the search for a thief or an assassin will be based upon antipathy. In the market at Amsterdam, I saw a herd of pigs grunt angrily at a butcher the moment that he approached them, all striving to hurl themselves at him, as far as the tethers tied around their necks would allow. This was because those swine had perceived the corpuscles of other pigs which had just been slaughtered by the butcher: corpuscles which impregnated the man's clothing, agitating the air all around him and disturbing the herd of living swine."

For this same reason, I learned (not without surprise) that the blood of a man assassinated, or even only wounded, (or that of a woman who has been violated), flows from the wound in the direction of the malefactor. The spirits and corpuscles which emanate from the blood of the victim envelop the evil-doer and are most strongly agitated because of the horror aroused by so cruel and sanguinary a man, and this makes it easy for the rod to follow suchlike and to find them out.

Yet, even if the act took place indirectly and at a distance, for example, on commission, or in the case of acts and decisions which have been the cause of death or violence for one or many, the rod is able to trace them, always with the proviso that it should start from the place where the crime was committed. The spirit of the guilty is indeed agitated by the mortal alarms to which the horror of so great a crime gives rise, and by the eternal fear of the ultimate torment which, as Holy Scripture says, ever watches at the gates of the wicked.

"'Fugit impius nemine persequente": the impious flee, even when no one follows them," cited Cloridia with unexpected erudition, raising her head and letting her pupils shoot forth darts.

Likewise, it was through antipathy that, if a wolf's tail were to be hung on the wall of a cowshed, the cattle would be unable to eat; that the vine flees the cabbage; that hemlock keeps its distance from rue, and, although hemlock is a mortal poison, it will not be harmful if, immediately after it has been taken, one imbibes the juice of rue. Again, there is irreconcilable antipathy between the scorpion and the crocodile, the elephant and the swine, the lion and the cock, the crow and the owl, the wolf and the sheep, as well as the toad and the weasel.

"But, as I have already said, the corpuscles also produce sympathy and love," continued Cloridia, who then recited:

Vi son nodi segreti, vi son simpatie, il cui dolce accordo fa nelle anime armonie, si che s'amano e I'una e l'altra, e si lasciano avviluppar da questi non so che, che non si posson esplicar.*

"Well, my dear, what we are unable to explain is in fact the corpuscles. According to Giobatta Porta, there is, for instance, great sympathy between the male and the female palm, between the vine and the olive, between the fig and the myrtle. And it is out of sympathy that a maddened bull will grow calm when tied to a fig tree; or an elephant, upon seeing a ram. And know," said she, her voice growing softer, "that according to Cardano the lizard feels sympathy for man, and likes to look upon him and to seek his saliva, which he drinks avidly."

Meanwhile, she had stretched her arms behind her and, grasping the hand that combed her, had drawn me to her side.

"In the same way," she said, as though nothing had taken place, "the affection or secret attraction which we feel imperiously for certain persons from the first time that we encounter them is caused by an emission of spirits or corpuscles from that person which gently make their imprint on the eyes and the nerves, until they reach the brain and make for a sensation of agreeableness."

Trembling, I worked on her temples with the comb.

"And do you know something?" she added winningly. "This attraction has the magnificent power of rendering the object of our desires most perfect and most worthy in our eyes." * There are secret ties, there are sympathies, / Whose sweet accord makes harmonies in Souls, / So then they love, and let themselves infolded be / In that I-know-not-what to which they have no key.

No one could ever have seen me as being most perfect, no, certainly not: this I repeated to myself as I struggled to master my violent emotion; yet meanwhile, I could not so much as articulate a single word.

Cloridia leaned her head against my chest and sighed.

"Now you must unravel the hair at the nape of my neck, without however hurting me: there the hair is most entwined but also most fragile and sensitive."

Having said which, she made me sit facing her, on her high bed, and placed her head in my lap, with her face downwards, showing me her neck. Still bewildered and confused, I felt the warmth of her breath upon my groin. I began again to comb her curls. I felt my head completely empty.

"I have not yet explained to you how to use the rod successfully," she began again, slowly, while I felt her find the most comfortable position.

"Remember, first and foremost, that nature has one single mechanism in all its operations and this alone can explain the movement of the rod. One must first of all dip the tip of the rod in some material, if possible humid and warm (like blood or other humours), which has to do with whatever is sought after. This is because touch can sometimes discover what the eyes cannot. Then one takes the rod between two fingers, holding it at the level of the belly. One can also balance it on the back of one's hand, but in my opinion that does not work. One should then proceed in the direction where one thinks what one seeks is to be found. One must walk back and forth, up and down, several times, until the rod rises: and thus, one can be sure that the direction one has taken is the right one. The inclination of the rod is, in fact, the same thing as the inclination of the needle of a compass: it responds to a magnetic attraction. The important thing, with the rod, is never to agitate it brusquely, for that may break the volume of vapours and exhalations coming from the place one seeks and which, by impregnating the rod, cause it to rise in the right direction. Every now and then, it is good to take in one's hands the two horns which are at the base of the rod, but without squeezing too much, and in such a way that the back of the hands faces the ground and taking care that the tip of the rod is always well raised and pointing towards the goal. You should also know that the rod will not move in just anyone's hands. This calls for a special gift and much art. For example, it will not move in the hands of someone whose perspiration is gross, rough and abundant, since such corpuscles will break the column of vapours, exhalations and smokes. It does, however, sometimes happen that the rod may not move even in the hands of someone who has previously used it successfully. (Not that I have ever experienced that, thank heavens.) What may occur is that something alters the constitution of the person handling the rod, causing their blood to ferment violently. Something in the air or food may produce acrid or acid salts. Overwork, staying up late at night or studies may cause perspiration which is excessively acrid and rough and passes from the hands to the interstices of the rod, thus hindering the column of vapours, so that these will not move. This is because the rod acts as a catalyser of the invisible corpuscles, like a microscope. You should see what a spectacle there is when the rod at last attains…"

Cloridia had broken off. Cristofano knocked.

"I thought I heard a cry. Is all well with you?" asked the physician, all out of breath from running up the stairs.

"Nothing to worry about. Our poor little prentice has just hurt himself while he was helping me, but it is a mere trifle. Good day to you, Signor Cristofano, and thank you," answered Cloridia with subtle hilarity.

I had cried out. And now I lay, faint with pleasure and shame, sprawled across Cloridia's bed.

I do not know how long afterwards or in what manner I took my leave. I remember only Cloridia's smile and the tender pat on the head which she bestowed on me before closing the door.

Overwhelmed by the most conflicting sentiments, I slipped down to my chamber like lightning and changed my breeches: I could not run the risk that Cristofano might see me so obscenely soiled. It was a fine warm afternoon and, almost without realising it, I fell asleep half-dressed on my couch.

I awoke after an hour or so. I called on Abbot Melani to see whether he needed anything: in reality, recalling his heartbroken singing that morning, I felt sorry for him and did not wish him to feel alone. Instead, I found him in a good mood:

A petto ch 'adora e solo un bel guardo.

E solo un bel guardo!..^* * To an adoring bosom, / 'tis but a luscious glance. / 'Tis but a luscious glance…

He warbled joyously by way of a salutation. I looked at him without understanding.

"It seems I heard you in the distance, er, suffering this morning. You scared Cristofano, you know. He was in the doorway with me when we heard, up there in Cloridia's tower…"

"Oh, but you must not think, Signor Atto," I parried, blushing, "that Monna Cloridia…"

"But yes, of course," said the abbot, suddenly looking serious, "the fair Cloridia did nothing. 'To an adoring bosom', a bewitching glance suffices, as my master, Seigneur Luigi, so aptly put it."

I departed, consumed by the blackest shame, detesting Melani with all my heart.

In the kitchen, I found Cristofano pale and overcome by anxiety.

"The Englishman is in a bad way, a very bad way," he whispered upon seeing me.

"But all the cures which you have dispensed…"

"Nothing. A mystery. My prodigious remedia: all useless. Understood? And Bedfordi is dying. And we shall never get out from here. Done for. All of us, done for." He spoke in fits and starts and his voice sounded unnatural.

On his face I saw with anxiety a pair of tremendous bags under the eyes and a vacant, bewildered expression. His speech was fragmented and he seemed to have lost the use of verbs.

The Englishman's health had indeed never improved, nor had the patient ever regained consciousness. I looked around me; the kitchen was completely upside down. Vases, flasks, lit ovens, alembics and cups of all sorts invaded every surface: tables, chairs, corners, shelves, passages, even the floor. In the fireplace two cauldrons were boiling, and a fair number of cooking pots. I saw with horror chopped up on the fire our best provisions of lard, meat, fish and dried fruit from the pantry, all horribly mixed with unknown, stinking alchemical preparations. On the great table, on the plate rack, on the dresser, and on the pantry shelves lay an endless range of little pots full of oils and piles of powders of many colours. Next to each little pot or heap of powder was a label: Zedoary, Galangal, Long Peppers, Round Peppers, Juniper Berries, Rind of Lemons and of Oranges, Sage, Basil, Marjoram, Laurel Berries, Penny-royal, Gentian, Calamint, Leaves of Elder, Red Roses and White Roses, Spikenard, Cubeb, Rosemary, Mint, Cinnamon, Calamatus Odoratus, Chamidrys Stocis, Meleghetta Maris, Maize,

Thuris Albi, Hepatic Aloes, Wormwood Seeds, Wood of Aloes, Cardamom, Laurel Oil, Galbanum, Gum of Ivy, Incense, Cloves, Comfrey, Nutmeg, White Burning Bush (Dictamnus Albus), Benzoin, New Yellow Wax, Finest Turpentine and Cinders from the fire.

I turned to the physician to request an explanation, but then I held back: pale and seemingly lost to the world, Cristofano wandered confusedly from one side of the room to the other attending to a thousand operations without completing any.

"You must help me. We shall risk all. Bedfordi's accursed tokens have not opened. The disgusting things have not even matured. And so we… we shall slice them clean off!"

"Oh no!" I exclaimed, for I knew well that to cut off tokens before they have matured can be lethal for he sufferer from the pestilence.

"If the worst comes to the worst, he'll die anyway," he cut me short with unusual harshness. "And here is the plan: first, he must puke. But enough of the imperial musk. Something stronger will be needed, for instance, my diaromatic: for distempers both intrinsic and extrinsic. Two drachms on an empty stomach and out with the vomit. It salves the body. It unburdens the head; and it provokes sputum, a sign that it kills all maladies. Recipe!" Cristofano screamed suddenly, causing me to jump. "Fine sugar, ground pearls, musk, saffron, wood of aloes, cinnamon and the philosopher's stone: one mixes all and reduces it to tablets, which are incorruptible. These are miraculous against the pestilence. They refine the gross, corrupted humours which generate the tokens. They comfort the stomach; and they cheer the heart."

Bedfordi was in for trouble, I thought. Yet, on the other hand, what choice had we? Every hope of salvation was vested in Cristofano, and in the Lord God.

The doctor, exhausted by so much agitation, issued repeated commands without giving me the time to execute them, and repeated mechanically the recipes which he must have read in the medical texts.

"Point the second: elixir vitae in order to restore the patient. That enjoyed great success here in Rome in the visitation of '56. It possesses so many virtues: it cures many sorts of grave and malignant infirmities. It is by nature most penetrative. Its virtue is desiccating and it comforts all the places offended by any malady. It preserves all things corruptible, salving catarrh, coughs and tightness of the chest, and other similar complaints. It cures and heals all crude sorts of putrid ulcers and resolves all aches and pains caused by frigidity et cetera."

For a moment, he seemed to vacillate, with his gaze lost in the void. I made to succour him, but suddenly he reprised: "Point the third: pills against the pestilence of Mastro Alessandro Cospio da Bolsena, Imola, 1527: great success. Armenian bolus, terra sigillata, camphor, tormentil, aloes hepatick: four drachms of each; the whole spread with juice of cabbages. And, a scruple of saffron. Point the fourth: medicine for buccal administration of Mastro Roberto Coccalino da Formagine; a great physician in the kingdom of Lombardy, 1500. Recipe! " he again screamed in strangled tones.

Thus, he commanded me to prepare a decoction of black hellebore, sienna, colocynth and rhubarb.

"The buccal medicine of Mastro Coccalino, we shall administer to him up his arse. Thus, it will encounter Mastro Cospio's pills half — way, and together they will get the better of that disgusting plague. And we shall win, yes, we shall win!"

We then ascended to the chamber where Bedfordi lay more dead than alive; and there I collaborated, not without horror, in putting into practice all that Cristofano had excogitated.

At the end of the cruel operation, the chamber resembled a knacker's yard: vomit, blood and excrement, all mixed in puddles, in itself the most disgusting and foul-smelling of spectacles. We proceeded to excise the tokens, spreading on the wounds vinegary syrup with oleum philosophorum, which, according to the doctor, would relieve the pain.

"And last, we bandage the wounds with wax plaster gratia dei," concluded Cristofano, panting rhythmically.

And I indeed prayed that we should be aided gratia Dei, by the grace of God, which we so dearly needed. The young Englishman had in no way reacted to the therapy. Indifferent to everything, he had not even been moved to groan with pain. We stared at him, awaiting some sign, whether good or bad.

With clenched fists, Cristofano gestured that I should hasten with him to the kitchen. All bathed in sweat and muttering to himself, he began roughly to pound a great quantity of aromas. He mixed them all and put them to boil in the finest aqua vitae in a retort, over a wind furnace which gave a very slow fire."Now, we shall have water, oil and phlegm. And all separated the one from the other!" he announced emphatically.

Very soon the vessel began to fill with a milky distillate, which then turned smoky and light yellow. Cristofano then changed receptacles, pouring this white water into a well-plugged iron vase.

"First, water of balsam!" he exclaimed, shaking the vase with exaggerated and grotesque joy.

He increased the fire under the retort, in which there had remained a boiling liquid which turned into an oil as black as ink.

"Mother of balsam!" announced Cristofano, pouring the fluid into a flask.

He then augmented the fire to the maximum, until all the substance came out from the retort. "Liquor of balsam: miraculous!" he rejoiced savagely, handing it to me in a bottle, together with the two other remedies.

"Shall I bring it to Bedfordi?"

"No!" he screamed, outrageously, pointing his index finger upwards as one might with a dog or a small child, and inspecting me from head to toe.

His eyes were narrowed and bloodshot: "No, my boy, this is not for Bedfordi. It is for us. All of us. Three excellent aquae vitae. The finest!"

In my hand, he placed the twisted flask, still hot, and with rustic frenzy poured himself a glass of the first liquor.

"But what are these for?" I asked, intimidated.

His sole response was to refill his glass and again pour it down his throat.

"For buggering fear, ah, ah!" swallowing a cup of the third aqua vitae and filling it for the fourth time.

He then forced me to make a mad toast with the empty retort which I held in my hand.

"Thus, when they bear us all off to die in the pest-house, we shall not even realise it, ah, ah, ah!"

Having said which, he threw the glass over his shoulder and emitted a couple of vigorous belches. He endeavoured to walk, but his legs became entangled. He fell to the ground, horribly white in the face, and at last lost his senses. Seized by terror, I was about to call for help, when I restrained myself. If panic were to spread, the situation in the hostelry would descend into chaos; and we should then run the risk of being discovered by the watchman on guard. So I ran to enlist the help of Abbot Melani. With great care (and great effort) we succeeded in carrying the doctor up to his own chamber on the first floor almost without making any noise. I told the abbot of the young Englishman's agony and of the state of confusion into which Cristofano had fallen before collapsing.

The doctor meanwhile lay pale and inert on his bed, panting noisily.

"Is it the death rattle, Signor Atto?" I asked with a knot in my throat.

Abbot Melani leaned over and studied the patient's countenance.

"No: he is snoring," he replied amusedly. "Besides, I have always suspected that Bacchus had a hand in physicians' nasty mixtures. What's more, he has been working too hard. Let him sleep, but we shall keep an eye on him. One can never be too prudent."

We sat beside the bed. Speaking under his breath, Melani again asked after Bedfordi. He seemed very worried. The horrendous prospect of the pest-house was becoming ever more tangible. We reviewed, and rejected, the possibility of escaping through the underground galleries. Sooner or later, we would be recaptured.

Disconsolate, I tried to think about something else. So it was that I remembered that Bedfordi's chamber had still to be cleaned of the sick man's filth. I signalled to Atto that he could find me in the Englishman's chamber, next door, and went there to fulfil my unpleasant task. When I returned, I found Atto blissfully dozing in his chair. He slept with folded arms and his legs stretched out onto the chair which I had left vacant. I leaned over Cristofano. He was sleeping heavily and his face seemed already to have recovered a little colour.

Somewhat reassured, I had just squatted on a corner of the bed when I heard a sound of muttering. It was Atto. Uncomfortably installed on two chairs, his sleep was agitated. His hanging head oscillated rhythmically. With his fists folded against his chest he tugged at the lace of his cuffs, while his insistent moaning reminded one of an angry little boy facing a parent's reproof.

I listened intently: with his breathing troubled and uncertain, almost as though he were on the point of sobbing, Atto was speaking in French.

"Les barricades, les barricades..? he moaned softly in his sleep.

I recalled that Atto, when he was barely twenty, had fled Paris during the tumults of the Fronde with the royal family and his master, Le Seigneur Luigi Rossi. Now he babbled of barricades: perhaps in his sleep he was reliving the rebellion of those days.

I wondered whether I should not awaken him and free him from those ugly memories. Carefully, I got out of bed and brought my face close to his. I studied it. This was the first time that I was able to scrutinise Atto from so near, without coming under his vigilant and censorious eye. I was moved by the abbot's countenance, puffed up and stained by sleep: the cheeks, smooth and just beginning to sag, were redolent of the eunuch's solitude and melancholy. An ancient sea of suffering in the midst of which the proud and wayward dimple strove still, like one shipwrecked, to keep afloat, demanding the reverence and respect due to a diplomatic representative of His Most Christian Majesty. I felt my heart tighten, but was suddenly torn from my reverie.

‘Barricades… mysterieuses, mysterieuses. Barricades. Mysterieuses. Les barricades.. Abbot Melani suddenly murmured in his sleep.

He was raving. Inexplicably, however, those words troubled me. Whatever could those barricades be in the mind of Abbot Melani? Barricades mysterieuses. Mysterious. What did those two words remind me of? It was as though the concept was not new to me…

Just then, Atto gave signs of waking. He no longer seemed in the least weighed down by suffering, as he had only moments before. On the contrary, upon seeing me, his face broadened at once into a smile and he chanted:

Chi giace nel sonno non speri mai Fama.

Chi dorme codardo e degno che mora…

"Thus Le Seigneur Luigi, my master, would have upbraided me," he jested, stretching and scratching himself here and there. "Have I missed anything? How is our physician?" he then asked, seeing me so pensive.

"There is nothing new, Signor Atto."

He who lies sleeping

lays no claim to Fame

He who cravenly sleeps

is worthy of death.

"I feel that I owe you an apology, my boy," said he, a moment later.

"What for, Signor Atto?"

"Well, perhaps I should not have teased you as I did, when we were in my chamber this afternoon; concerning Cloridia, I mean."

I replied that no apologies were necessary; in reality, I was as surprised as I was pleased by Abbot Melani's admission. With a more amiable disposition, I then recounted all that Cloridia had explained to me, dwelling especially upon the magical and surprising science of numbers, in which the destiny of each one of us is concealed. I then proceeded to tell him of the investigative powers of the ardent rod.

"I understand. The ardent rod is (how should I put it?) an unusual and fascinating subject," commented Atto, "in which Cloridia is surely well versed."

"Oh, you see, she was washing her hair and called for me to help comb it out," said I, ignoring Atto's subtle irony.

O biondi tesori inanellati, chiome divine, cori, labirinti dorati…

He exclaimed to me, singing sotto voce. I blushed, at first in anger and shame, but then was at once overcome by the beauty of that aria, now utterly devoid of any accent of scorn.

… tra i vostri splendori

M’e dolce smarrire la vitae morire…

I let the melody transport me to thoughts of love: I lulled myself in the image of Cloridia's blonde and curly tresses, and I remembered her sweet voice. In my heart, I began to wonder whatever had brought Cloridia to the Donzello. It had been the ardent rod, that much she had told me. She had then added that the rod is moved by "antipathy" and by "sympathy". Which, then, had it been for her? Had she come to the inn following the trail of someone who had done her a grave wrong and upon whom she may perhaps have wished to take revenge? Or (oh, delicious thought!) had Cloridia come, guided * O blonde treasures / Rings curled upon rings, / Divine tresses, choirs, / Golden labyrinths!.. Amidst your splendours / It is sweet to me to lose / My life, and die… by that magnetism which leads us to find love and to which, it seems, the rod is rather sensitive? I began to daydream that perhaps it was so…

Su tutto allacciate, legate, legate gioir e tormento!..*

Atto's song, in tribute to the golden tresses of my courtesan of the honey-coloured skin, was in counterpoint to my thoughts.

Moreover, I continued in my musings upon love, those moments of… relaxation: had not Cloridia graciously bestowed them upon me, without ever a mention of money, (unlike that painful previous episode when I had consulted her concerning dreams)?

While I was thus engrossed, and Atto was so caught up in the vortex of song as no longer to hold back the flood of his voice, Cristofano opened his eyes.

He looked at the abbot with narrowed eyes, without however interrupting him. After a moment of silence, he even thanked him for having helped him. I heaved a sigh of relief. From his expression and his colouring, the doctor seemed to have recovered. His diction, again fluent and normal, soon reassured me as to the state of his health. This had been a mere passing crisis.

"Your voice is still splendid, Signor Abbot Melani," commented the physician, as he rose and adjusted his clothing. "Although it was somewhat imprudent on your part to allow the other guests on this floor to hear you. Let us hope that Dulcibeni and Devize do not wonder what you were doing singing in my chamber."

After once again thanking Abbot Melani for his attentive assistance, Cristofano moved in my company towards the room next door, in order to visit poor Bedfordi, whilst Atto returned to his own chamber on the second floor.

Bedfordi lay immobile as ever. The doctor shook his head: "I fear that it is time to inform the other guests of this unfortunate young man's plight. If he should die, we must avoid panic breaking out in the hostelry."

We agreed that we should first warn Padre Robleda, so that he could administer Extreme Unction. I avoided mentioning to Cristofano that once, when requested by me, Robleda had refused to administer the

All put up and tied,

Tied, tying together

Joy and torment!.. holy oil to the young Englishman, treating him as a Protestant, who was thus excommunicated.

Thus we knocked at the Jesuit's door. I foresaw all too well the reaction of the cowardly Robleda to our bad news: anxiety, stammering and, above all, noisy scorn for Cristofano's attitude. To my surprise, none of that came to pass.

"How come that you should not have tried to cure Bedfordi through the use of magnetism?" Robleda asked the physician, as soon as he had finished explaining the sad situation to him.

Cristofano remained speechless. Robleda then reminded him that, according to Father Kircher, the whole of creation was dominated by magnetism, so much so that the learned Jesuit had devoted a book to explaining the entire doctrine, clarifying once and for all that the world is nothing more than a great magnetic concatenation at the centre of which is God, the first and the one original magnet, towards Whom every object and every living being tends irremediably. Is not love (both human and divine) an expression of magnetic attraction? Indeed, is not every kind of fascination? The planets and the stars are, as all know, subject to reciprocal magnetism; but the celestial bodies are also inhabited by magnetic force.

"Well, yes," intervened Cristofano, "I do know the example of the compass."

"… which, of course, aids navigators and travellers to orient themselves; but there is far more to it."

What should we say of the magnetism exercised upon the waters by the sun and the moon, so evident from the tides? And, in plants, the universal vis attractiva is clearly to be found: the vegetal magnetic force triumphs in the barometz, said Robleda, as no doubt the doctor well knew.

"Mmm, yes indeed…" said Cristofano, hesitantly.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Well, my boy," said the Jesuit, adopting a paternal tone, "this is the celebrated plant from the lands of Tartary, which senses magnetically the presence of nearby sheep and then produces miraculous flowers in the form of sheep."

Analogous is the behaviour of the heliotropes, which magnetically follow the path of the sun (like the sunflower, from which Father Kircher had fashioned an extraordinary heliotropic clock) and that of the selenotropic plants, whose blossoms follow the moon instead.

Animals, too, are magnetic: while leaving aside the all too well-known examples of the torpedo and of the fisher frog, which attract and paralyse their prey, animal magnetism is clearly observable in the anguis stupidus, the enormous American serpent which lives immobile below ground and attracts prey to itself, mostly deer, which it calmly proceeds to envelop in its coils and to swallow, slowly dissolving in its mouth their flesh and even their hard horns. And, is not the faculty magnetic whereby the anthropomorphic fish, also known as sirens, attract unfortunate mariners into the waters?

"I understand," retorted Cristofano, slightly confused, "but our task is to cure Bedfordi, not to devour or to capture him."

"And do you perhaps believe that medicinal remedies do not act through their magnetic virtue?" asked Robleda, with skilful rhetoric.

"I have never heard of anyone being cured in that way," I observed dubiously.

"Well, it is quite naturally the therapy to be employed where all others have failed," said Robleda in defence of his contention. "What matters is not to lose sight of the laws of magnetism. First, one cures the sickness using every herb, stone, metal, fruit or seed which bears a similarity in colour, form, quality, figure et cetera with the diseased part. One observes the correspondences with the stars: heliotropic plants for solar types, lunar plants for lunatics, and so on and so forth. Then the principium similitudinis: kidney stones, for example, are cured with stones from the bladders of swine or other creatures which enjoy stony environs, such as crustaceans and oysters. The same is true of plants: the chondrilla, for example, the roots of which are covered in nodes and protuberances, are splendid for curing haemorrhoids. Finally, even poisons can act as antidotes; and in the same way, honey is excellent for healing bee stings, spiders' legs are used in poultices against spiders' bites…"

"Now, I understand," lied Cristofano. "Yet I fail to see with what magnetic therapy we should cure Bedfordi."

"But that is simple: with music."

Padre Robleda had not the slightest doubt: as Kircher had most clearly explained, the art of sounds entered too into the law of universal Magnetism. The ancients knew that the different musical modes were able through magnetism to stimulate the soul: the Doric mode inspired temperance and moderation, the Lydian, which was suitable for funerals, moved one to tears and lamentation; the Mixolydian mode aroused commiseration, piety and the like; the Aeolian and the Ionic induced sleep and torpor. If, then, one rubs the edge of a glass with a damp fingertip, it will emit a sound which will be propagated magnetically to all similar beakers placed in the immediate vicinity, thus provoking choral resonance. But the magnetismus musicae also has exceedingly powerful therapeutic capacities, which manifest most markedly in the cure of tarantism.

"Tarantism?" I asked, while Cristofano at last nodded his accord.

"In the city of Taranto, in the Kingdom of Naples," explained the physician, "a species of unusually noxious spider is often to be found, which are therefore known as tarantulas."

Their bite, Cristofano explained, produces effects which are, to say the least, terrifying: the victim first bursts into uncontrollable fits of laughter, ceaselessly rolling and twisting on the ground. He then jumps to his feet and raises his right arm high, as though unsheathing a sword, like a gladiator preparing solemnly for combat, and exhibits himself in a series of ridiculous gesticulations, before yet again casting himself down to the ground in another fit of hilarity. He then pretends again, with great pomp, to be a general or condottiere, whereupon he is seized with an irrepressible thirst for water and coolness, so that if he is given a vase full of water, he will plunge his whole head into it, shaking it frenetically as sparrows do when washing in a fountain. He then runs to a tree and climbs up it, remaining suspended therefrom, sometimes for many days. At last, he lets himself fall to the ground, exhausted and, kneeling bent double, he falls a-groaning and a-sighing and strikes the bare ground with his fists like an epileptic or a lunatic, invoking punishments and misadventures upon his own head.

"But that is terrible," I commented, horrified. "All that, just from the bite of a tarantula?"

"Of course," confirmed Robleda, "and that is without mentioning other extraordinary magnetic effects: the bite of the red tarantula causes the victim to become red in the face, green tarantulas make one turn green, and striped ones likewise cause the victim to come out in stripes, while aquatic ones induce a desire for water, those which dwell in hot places induce choler, and so on and so forth."

"And how is it cured?" I asked, growing curious.

"Perfecting the primitive knowledge of certain peasants from Taranto," said Robleda, rummaging in his drawers and then proudly showing us a leaf of paper, "Padre Kircher prepared an antidote."

He showed us a crumpled half-sheet of paper, covered in notes and pentagrams. We observed him with perplexity and no little suspicion,

"And with what does one play?"

"Well, the Tarantini perform it with tambourines, lyres, zithers, dulcimers and flutes; and, obviously, with guitars, like that of Devize."

"In short," the physician retorted perplexedly, "you are saying that Devize could cure Bedfordi with this music."

"Oh no, this is good only for the bite of the tarantula. We shall have to use something else."

"Another music?" I asked.

"We shall have to use trial and error. We shall leave the choice to Devize. But remember, my sons: in desperate cases, the only true succour comes from the Lord; and," added Padre Robleda, "no one has ever discovered an antidote for the pestilence."

"You are right, Padre," I heard Cristofano say, while obscurely I remembered the arcanae obices. "And I wish to place my entire confidence in the theories of your colleague Kircher."

The physician, as he freely admitted, no longer knew to which saint to address himself; yet, still hoping that his cures might, sooner or later, have a beneficial effect upon Bedfordi, he would not deprive his moribund patient of one last desperate attempt. He therefore informed me that we would, for the time being, delay informing the other guests of the Englishman's desperate condition.

Later, when I was already serving dinner, Cristofano told me that he had set an appointment with Devize for the morrow. The French musician, whose chamber was next to that of Bedfordi, would only have to play his guitar in the Englishman's doorway.

"So, do we take leave of one another until morning, Signor Cristofano?"

"No, I have fixed the appointment with Devize immediately before luncheon. That is the ideal time: the sun is high and the energy of the musical vibrations can spread to the maximum. Good night, my boy."