Imprimatur

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  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 exhalat
ions 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.