Imprimatur

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  Despite some difficulties (as with the learned references to mas­ters of astrological doctrine) I did in the end succeed in understand­ing. And again, I shuddered; for, in the prediction of the revelation of "a hidden Treasure and Outbreaks of subterranean Fires, and Trem­ors, with Terrors and Alarums for Mankind", I recognised clearly the most recent occurrences at the Donzello.

  What was the "hidden Treasure" which was to be brought to light in the first days of the month if not the enigmatic letters hidden in Colbert's study and appropriated by Atto just before the minister's death? It all seemed so clear and terrible in its in­evitability. Above all, the death of Colbert, who surely did not die young, coincided perfectly with the threats to the aged of which the gazette spoke.

  Even the earthquakes and subterranean fires were familiar to me. I could only think of the rumbling which we had at the beginning of the month heard coming from the cellars. The tremendous reverber­ation had made us fear that an earthquake was coming; fortunately, it had left no more trace than a crack in the wall of the stairs leading to the first floor. But Signor Pellegrino almost had a seizure.

  And what could one say about the "great Mortality as a Conse­quence of Battles, and Assaults against the City" as foreseen by Ali and by Leopoldus Austriacus? Who would not see in this the battle against the Turks and the siege of Vienna? The very names of the two great astrologers were disturbingly reminiscent of the Emperor Leopold of Austria and the followers of Mahomet. I grew afraid of reading on and went back to the preceding pages. I stopped at the passage concerning the month of July, in which, as I expected, the Ottoman advance and the beginning of the siege were predicted:

  The Sun in the Tenth House signifies... the Subjection of Peoples, Republics and Neighbours by a stronger bordering Power, as foreseen by Ali...

  At that precise moment, Cristofano knocked on my door. I hid the astrological gazette under the mattress and rushed out. The doctor's call came almost as a relief: the accuracy with which events seemed to have been guessed at by the author of the gazette (especially, sad and violent events) had upset me deeply.

  In the kitchen, while I was preparing luncheon and at the same time assisting Cristofano with the preparation of a number of rem­edies for Bedfordi, I kept turning matters over and over in my mind. I was spurred on by my anxiety to understand: I felt as though I were somehow a prisoner of the planets, and all our lives, in the Donzello as in Vienna, no more than a vain struggle in narrow fore-ordained straits, in some invisible torrent which might bear us where we would perhaps rather not go, while our sad but trusting prayers languished under a black and empty heaven.

  "What rings you have around your eyes, my boy! You have not perchance been insomniac these last few nights?" Cristofano inquired of me. "Insufficient sleep is quite a serious matter: if the mind and the heart remain awake unceasingly, the pores no longer open and allow the evaporation of the humours corrupted by the cares of the day."

  I admitted that I was indeed not sleeping enough. Cristofano then warned me that he could not do without my services, especially now that, with my help, he was at last managing to keep the lodgers in perfect health. And truly, he added in order to encourage me, all had praised the quality of my assistance.

  It was plain that the physician was unaware that I had as yet given no treatment to Dulcibeni, to young Devize or even to Stilone Priaso, in whose company I had, however, spent almost an entire night. And so, the health of at least these three guests was due to Mother Na­ture and not to his remedies.

  Cristofano, however, planned to do more: he set to work on a preparation to make me sleep.

  "All Europe has tried it thousands of times. It restores sleep and is good for most of the body's intrinsic infirmities, as well as heal­ing all manner of wounds. If I were to tell you here and now all the wonders I have wrought with this, you would not believe me," the Tuscan assured me. "It is known as magnolicore, the great liquor; and it is prepared in Venice too, at the Apothecary of the Bear, on Campo Santa Maria Formosa. The process of preparation takes quite some time, but can be completed only in the month of September."

  And, with a smile, he pulled out from his bags, the contents of which had already spilled onto the great kitchen table, a curious clay jar.

  "It is necessary to begin preparation of the magnolicore in the springtime, boiling twelve pounds of common oil together with two of mature white wine..."

  While Cristofano, with his usual extreme meticulousness, listed the composition and miraculous qualities of his preparation, my mind continued to wander.

  "... and now that it is September, we shall add balsamic herbs and a good quantity of Master Pellegrino's finest aqua vitae."

  I awoke abruptly from my thoughts upon hearing this news of the latest spoliation of my master's cellar for apothecary's purposes.

  "My boy, what is it that so preoccupies your heart and your mind?"

  I told him that I had awoken that morning with a sad thought: if, as some affirmed, our lives were governed by the planets and the stars, then all was in vain, including the medicines which Doctor Cristofano himself was preparing with such care. But I at once ex­cused myself, explaining away my ravings as the fruit of fatigue.

  He looked at me with perplexity and I detected a shadow of ap­prehension: "I do not understand how such questionings arose in your mind, but these were no ravings; far from it. I myself take as­trology greatly into account. I know that many physicians deride this science, and to them I reply what Galen wrote, namely that medici astrologiam ignorantes sunt peiores spiculatoribus et homicidis: physicians ig­norant of astrology are worse than speculators and murderers. With­out counting what was said by Hippocrates, Scotus and other most learned writers, whose part I take in deriding my sceptical colleagues in their turn."

  It was thus that Cristofano, while busying himself with preparing the magnolicore in accordance with the recipe, informed me that it was even thought that the Black Death had been brought about by a conjunction of Saturn, Jupiter and Mars which occurred on 24th March, 1345, while the French pox was thought to have been caused by the conjunction of Mars and Saturn.

  "Membrum ferro ne percutito, cum luna signum tenuerit, quod membro illi dominatur" he declaimed. "That signifies: may every chirurgeon avoid amputating that member which corresponds to the sign of the zodiac in which the moon is situated that day, especially if the moon is in opposition to Saturn and Mars, which planets are malefic for health. For example, if the birth or, in other words, the horoscope of the patient predicts a negative issue to a certain malady of his, the physician my reasonably attempt to save him, applying cures on the days which the stars indicate as most opportune."

  "So, to each constellation in the zodiac there corresponds a part of the body?"

  "Certainly. When the moon is in Aries, and Mars and Saturn are in opposition, one must postpone any operations to be performed on the head, the face and the eyes; in Taurus, on the neck, the nape or the throat; in Gemini, on the shoulders, the arms and the hands; in Cancer, on the chest, the lungs and the stomach; in Leo, on the heart, the back and the liver; in Virgo, on the belly; in Libra, on the shins, the loins, the navel and the intestines; in Scorpio, on the bladder, the penis, the backbone, the genitals and the anus; in Sagittarius, on the thighs; in Capricorn, on the knees; in Aquarius, on the legs; in Pisces, if I am not mistaken, on the feet and the heels."

  He added that the most suitable time for a good purgation was when the moon is in Scorpio or in Pisces. One should, however, avoid administering a medicine when the moon, in the ruminant signs, is in conjunction with a retrograde planet, because there is a risk that the patient might vomit it up and suffer from other harmful impairments.

  '"With the moon in signs ruminant, in the sick, symptoms extravagant,' as was taught by the learned Hermes. And," he concluded, "that is especially valid this year, when in spring and in winter, there were four retrograde planets, three of them in ruminant signs."

  "But then our lives are no
more than a struggle between the planets."

  "No, on the contrary, this simply shows that with the stars, as with all else in creation, man may shape his fortune or his ruin. It is up to him to make good use of the intuition, intelligence and wisdom which God has given him."

  He explained to me that, in his experience as a physician, plan­etary influences indicated a tendency, a disposition, an inclination, never a predetermined path.

  Cristofano's interpretation did not deny the influence of the stars, but reaffirmed the judgement of men and above all the supremacy of the divine will. Little by little, I felt relieved.

  I had in the meanwhile completed my duties. For luncheon, I had cooked a bread-soup with rice flour, pieces of smoked sturgeon, lemon-juice and, lastly, an abundant sprinkling of cinnamon. But as a few hours remained before the mealtime, Cristofano let me go: not, however, before handing me a bottle of his magnolicore with the injunction to drink barely a drop thereof and to sprinkle some on my chest before going to bed, so as to inhale its health-giving vapours and enjoy a good sleep.

  "Do not forget that it is also excellent for curing wounds and all pains; excepting, however, the lesions caused by the French pox which, if anointed with the magnolicore, will occasion the most acute spasms."

  I was climbing back up the stairs, when from the first floor, I heard the echo of Devize's plucked notes: he was again performing the rondeau which so charmed me and which seemed so wonderfully to pacify the soul of every one of us.

  Arriving on the second floor, I heard my name whispered. I turned to the corridor and glimpsed Abbot Melani's red stockings through his barely open doorway.

  "I need your syrup. Last time, it did me much good," he called out with a clear voice, fearing that Cristofano might be in the off­ing, while with frenetic gestures he indicated that I was to enter his chamber where, rather than the administration of a syrup, important news awaited me.

  Before closing the door behind me, the abbot inclined a delighted ear to capture the echo of the rondeau.

  "Ah, the power of music," he sighed ecstatically.

  He then moved with swift steps to his writing desk: "Let us get down to business, my boy. Do you see all this? In these few papers, there is more work than you could ever imagine."

  Spread out on the table was the mass of manuscript notes which I had seen him put away with a certain apprehension on the occasion of my last visit.

  He explained to me that he had for some time been writing a guide to Rome for French visitors, since he considered that those which were available in trade were neither suited to travellers' needs, nor did they do justice to the importance of the antiquities and works of art which were to be admired in the papal capital. He showed me the last pages which he had written in Paris, in a close, tiny hand. This was a chapter dedicated to the Church of Saint Athanasius of the Greeks.

  "And so?" I asked in surprise, as I took a seat.

  "I had hoped to make use of my free time during this sojourn in

  Rome to complete my guide-book. This morning, I was just sitting down to work on it when I had a revelation."

  And he told me how, four years previously, in this very Church of Saint Athanasius, he had had a bizarre and unexpected encounter. After examining the noble fagade which was the work of Martino Longhi, he had gone inside and was admiring a fine canvas by Trabaldesi in a side chapel. Suddenly, with a shudder, he became aware of the presence of a stranger by his side.

  In the penumbra, he saw an aged priest who, from his headdress could be identified as a Jesuit. He was rather bent and a prey to a slight but incessant trembling of the trunk and the arms. He leaned on a cane but was supported on either side by two young servant girls who helped him to walk. His white beard was carefully trimmed and the lines on his forehead and cheeks were mercifully fine and few. His eyes were blue and as piercing as two daggers, suggesting that, a few years earlier, he would have lacked neither sharp wits nor a ready tongue.

  The Jesuit fixed Atto in his gaze and, with a weak smile, pro­nounced the following words: "Your eye... is indeed magnetic."

  Abbot Melani, vaguely disquieted, glanced questioningly at the two girls accompanying the old priest. The pair, however, remained silent, as though they dared not speak out without the old man's permission.

  "The magnetic art is most important, in this vast world," con­tinued the Jesuit, "and if you also master gnomonic catoptricks or the new specular horologiography, you may be spared every coptic prodromous symptom."

  The two servant girls remained silent, but were plainly dismayed, as though this embarrassing situation had arisen before.

  "If, then, you have already undertaken the iter extaticus coelestis," the old man resumed with a hoarse voice, "you will need neither Maltese astronomical observatories nor physico-medical Scrutinies, for the great art of light and shade, dissolved in the diatribe of the prodigious cruces and in the poligraphia nova will give you all the arithmology, musurgy and phonurgy that you may need."

  Abbot Melani had remained silent and motionless.

  "But the magnetic art cannot be learned, because it is part of hu­man nature," the aged prelate then argued. "Magnets are magnetic. Yes, that is indeed so. But the vis magnetica also emanates from vis­ages. And from music. And this, you know."

  "Do you recognise me, then?" Atto had asked, thinking that the old man might know that he was a singer.

  "The magnetic power of music, you may see in the tarantulas," continued the stranger, as though Atto had not spoken. "It can cure tarantism, and can cure much else. Have you understood?"

  And, without giving Atto time to respond, the old man suc­cumbed to a bout of almost silent laughter which made him quake from within, in a crescendo of spasms. The trembling shook him vigorously from head to foot, so much so that his youthful escorts had to struggle to prevent him from losing his balance. This mad outburst of hilarity seemed at times to border on suffering and monstrously deformed his features, while tears ran copiously down his cheeks.

  "But take care," the Jesuit raved on, struggling to speak. "The magnet also lies concealed in Eros, whence sin may arise, and you have the magnetic eye; but the Lord does not want sin, no, the Lord does not want that," and he raised his stick clumsily, trying to strike Abbot Melani.

  At that point, the two servant girls restrained him and one of them calmed him, leading him to the door of the church. Several churchgo­ers, distracted from prayer, looked curiously at the scene. The abbot stopped one of the two girls: "Why did he come to me?"

  The girl, overcoming the natural shyness of simple people, ex­plained that the old man often accosted strangers and importuned them with his lucubrations.

  "He is German. He has written many books, and now that he is no longer his own master, he keeps repeating their titles. His colleagues are ashamed of him, he keeps confusing the living and the dead, and they rarely let him out. But he is not always in that state: I and my sister, who usually accompany him on his walks, find that at other times he has all his wits about him. He even writes letters, which he gives us to send."

  Abbot Melani, after initially being irritated by the old man's aggression, was in the end softened by this sorry tale.

  "What is his name?"

  "He is known to many in Rome. His name is Athanasius Kircher."

  Such was my surprise that I trembled from head to foot."Kircher? But was that not the Jesuit man of science who you said had found the secret of the plague?" I exclaimed excitedly, recalling how the guests at our inn had discussed Kircher animatedly at the beginning of our imprisonment.

  "Exactly," Atto confirmed. "But perhaps the time is ripe for you to know who Kircher really was. Otherwise, you would not understand the rest of the story."

  And so it was that Atto Melani helped me to understand how re- splendently Kircher's star and that of his infinite doctrine once shone in the firmament and how for many years every single word of his was treasured as the wisest of oracles.

  Father Athan
asius Kircher spoke twenty-four languages, many of them learned after lengthy sojourns in the Orient, and he had brought with him to Rome many copies of Arabic and Chaldean manuscripts, as well as a truly vast exposition of hieroglyphs. He also had a profound knowledge of theology, metaphysics, physics, medicine, mathemat­ics, ethics, aesthetics, jurisprudence, politics, scriptural interpretation, moral theology, rhetoric and the combinatory art. Nothing, he was wont to say, is more beautiful than the knowledge of the totality, and he had indeed, in all humility and ad maiorem Dei gloriam revealed the gnomonic mysteries and those of polygraphy, magnetism, arithmology, musurgy and phonurgy and, thanks to the secrets of the symbol and of analogy, he had clarified the abstruse enigmas of the kabbala and of hermeticism, reducing them to the universal measure of primal sapience.