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If they be two, they are two so

As stiffe twin compasses are two,

Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show


To move, but doth, if th’other doe.
And though it in the center sit,

Yet when the other far doth rome,

It leanes, and hearkens after it,

And growes erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to mee, who must

Like th’other foot, obliquely runne;

Thy firmnes drawes my circle just,

And makes me end, where I begunne.
Roberto listened, his eyes fixed on Lilia, who had her back to him, and he decided that through all eternity he would be for Lilia the other foot of the compass, and that he would learn English in order to read other works by this poet, who so well interpreted his tremors. In those days no one in Paris would have wanted to learn so barbarous a language, but ac­companying d’lgby back to his inn, Roberto realized that the foreigner had difficulty expressing himself in good Italian de­spite his travels on the Peninsula, and felt humiliated at not having sufficient mastery of a tongue essential to every edu­cated man. They determined to frequent each other and to make each reciprocally fluent in the other’s native language.

Thus a firm friendship was born between Roberto and this man, who proved to be rich in medical and naturalist knowledge.

D’lgby had had a dreadful childhood. His father, involved in the Gunpowder Plot, had been executed. Through an uncommon coincidence, or perhaps the consequence of impenetrable emotions, d’lgby had devoted his life to the study of another powder. He had traveled much, first for eight years in Spain, then for three in Italy where, another coinci­dence, he had known Roberto’s Carmelite tutor.

D’lgby was also, evidence of his corsair past, a good swords­man, and a few days later he was to amuse himself fencing with Roberto. That day there was also a musketeer with them, who began by challenging an ensign of the company of cadets: it was all in fun, and the fencers were very careful, but at a certain point the musketeer essayed a prime with too much vigor, forcing his opponent to react with a beat, and so he was wounded in the arm, a very ugly wound.

Immediately d’lgby, with one of his garters, bound the arm to keep the veins closed, but in a few days’ time the wound threatened to turn gangrenous, and the surgeon said the arm would have to be cut off.

At this point d’lgby offered his services, warning them, however, that they might consider him a meddler, though he asked all to trust him. The musketeer, who did not know where to turn, replied with a Spanish proverb: “Hagase el mi-lagro, y hagalo Mahoma.”

D’lgby then asked him for something stained with the blood from the wound, and the musketeer gave him a piece of the cloth that had protected his arm until that day. D’lgby had them bring him a basin of water, and into it he poured a vitriol powder, which quickly dissolved. Then he put the cloth in the basin. Suddenly the musketeer, who had been distracted in the meanwhile, gave a start, clutched his wounded arm, and said that the burning had ceased, and he was actually feeling a cool sensation on the wound.

“Good,” d’lgby said. “Now you have only to keep the wound clean, bathing it every day in salt water, so that it may receive the correct influence. And I will expose this basin, during the day at the window, and at night at the corner of the hearth, so that it will remain at a moderate temperature.”

When Roberto attributed the sudden improvement to some other cause, d’lgby, with a knowing smile, took the cloth and held it at the fire, and immediately the musketeer resumed his groans, until the cloth was again soaked in the solution.

The musketeer’s wound healed in a week.

I believe that, in a time when disinfection was perfunctory, the mere fact of washing the wound daily was itself sufficient cause of healing, but Roberto cannot be reproached if he spent the next days questioning his friend about that treatment, which moreover reminded him of the Carmelite’s feat he had witnessed as a child. Except that the Carmelite had applied the powder to the weapon that had caused the harm.

“True!” d’lgby replied. “The dispute about the unguentum armarium, the weapon salve, has been going on for a long time, and the great Paracelsus was the first to speak of it. Many use a thick grease, and insist that it acts best on the weapon. But, as you can understand, a weapon that has wounded and a cloth that has bound the wound are the same thing, because the powder must be applied where there are traces of the blood. Many, seeing the weapon treated in order to alleviate the effects of the blow, think of some magical operation, whereas my Powder of Sympathy derives from the operations of nature!”

“Why is it called Powder of Sympathy?”

“Again, the name itself could be misleading. Many have spoken of a conformity or sympathy that connects things among themselves. Agrippa says that to excite the power of a star, you must recur to things similar to it, which therefore receive its influence. And he uses the word sympathy to define this mutual attraction. As with pitch, with sulphur, and with oil you prepare wood to receive the flame, thus employing things that conform to the operation of the star, a particular benefit is reflected on the matter properly arranged through the soul of the world. To influence the sun you must act on gold, which is solar by nature, and on those plants that follow the sun, or that fold their leaves and droop at sunset, reopen­ing them at sunrise, like the lotus, the peony, the celandine. But these are old wives’ tales, an analogy of this sort is not enough to explain the operations of nature.”

D’lgby shared his secret with Roberto. The orb or, rather, the sphere of air is full of light, and light is a material and corporeal substance; a notion Roberto accepted willingly, be­cause in the Dupuys’ he had heard that light also was merely a very fine powder of atoms.

“It is obvious that light,” d’lgby said, “issuing incessantly from the sun and shooting off in all directions along straight lines, when it encounters some obstacle in its path, an oppo­sition of solid and opaque bodies, is deflected ad angulos aequales, following another route until it deviates at another angle upon encountering another solid body, and so it continues until it is extinct. As in the royal game of tennis, where a ball driven against a wall rebounds from it to strike the wall opposite and often makes a complete circuit, returning to the point from which it set out. Now what happens when light strikes a body? Its rays rebound, detaching some atomies, some tiny particles, as a ball might carry with it pieces of the fresh plaster from the wall. And as these atomies are formed by the four Ele­ments, the light with its heat incorporates the viscous parts and carries them far off. The proof lies in the fact that if you attempt to dry a wet cloth at a fire, you will see that the rays which the cloth reflects carry with them a kind of watery mist. These vagrant atomies are like riders on winged chargers that go through space until the sun, setting, withdraws its Pegasuses and leaves the riders without a mount. And then they fall again in a mass towards the earth, whence they came. But such phenomena occur not only with reference to light but also, for example, with wind, which is nothing but a great river of similar atomies attracted by the solid terrestrial bodies....”

“And smoke,” Roberto suggested.

“Of course. In London they obtain fire from the coal of the earth brought from Scotland, which contains a great deal of very sharp volatile salt; this salt, transported by smoke, is dispersed into the air, defacing walls, beds, and all light-colored furnishings. When you keep a room closed for some months, afterwards you will find a black dust that covers everything, as you find a white dust in mills and in bakers’ shops. And in spring all flowers seem stained with grease.”

“But how is it possible that so many corpuscles are scat­tered in the air, while the body that emanates them betrays no diminishment?”

“There is diminishment perhaps, as you are aware when you cause water to evaporate, but with solid bodies we are not aware of it, as we are unaware with musk or other fragrant substances. Any body, however small, can always be divided into smaller parts, thanks to which our English dogs, guided by their sense of smell, are able to follow the track of an animal. Does the fox perhaps, at the end of his race, seem smaller to us? Now, it is precisely thanks to such corpuscles that the phenomenon of attraction occurs, which some cele­brate as Action at a Distance, which is not distant and therefore not magic but takes place through the constant intercourse of atomies. And so it is with attraction by suction, such as that of water or wine through a syphon, or the attraction of the magnet on iron, or attraction by filtration, as when you put a strip of cotton in a vessel filled with water, allowing a good length of the strip to hang outside the vessel, and you see the water rise beyond the rim and drip on the ground. And the last attraction is that which takes place through fire, which attracts the surrounding air with all the corpuscles whirling in it, as the water of a river carries along the soil of its bed. And since air is wet and fire is dry, they become attached one to the other. So then, to occupy the space of what is carried away by the fire, more air must come from the vicinity, oth­erwise a void would be created.” “Then you deny the Void?”

“Not at all. I say that as soon as it is encountered, nature tries to fill it with atomies, in a battle to conquer its every region. If this were not the case, my Powder of Sympathy could not act, whereas, on the contrary, experience has shown you that it does. Fire with its action provokes a constant af-fluxion of air, and the divine Hippocrates cleansed an entire province of the plague by having great bonfires set everywhere. Always in time of plague, cats and pigeons are killed and other hot animals, which constantly transpire spirits, so that air will fill the place of the spirits liberated in the course of that evap­oration, causing the plague atomies to attach themselves to the feathers and fur of those animals, as the bread taken from an oven attracts to itself the foam of barrels and as wine spoils if you put bread on the top of the barrel. As, for that matter, when you expose to the air a pound of salt with calcinated and duly fired tartar, which will produce ten pounds of good oil of tartar. The physician of Pope Urban VIII told me the story of a Roman nun who, after too many fasts and prayers, had so heated her body that her bones all dried up. That internal heat, indeed, attracted air that was incorporated in the bones as it does in the salt of tartar, and the air emerged at the point that controls the discharge of the serosity, hence through the bladder, so the poor saint released more than two hundred pounds of urine in twenty-four hours, a miracle that all accepted as proof of her sanctity.”

“But if everything attracts everything, then for what reason do elements and bodies remain separate without the collision of any force with another?”

“Good question. Bodies that have equal weight are more easily joined, and thus oil joins more easily with oil than with water, so we must conclude that what keeps atomies of the same nature firmly together is their rarity or density, as the philosophers you frequent could also easily tell you.”

“And so they have told me, proving it with various kinds of salt, which, however you grind or coagulate them, always resume their natural form, and common salt is always found in cubes with squared facets, and soda niter in columns with six facets, and ammoniacal salt in hexagons, six-pointed, like snow.”

“And the salt of urine forms pentagons, and thus Mr. Da-vidson explains the form of each of the eighty stones found in the bladder of Monsieur Pelletier. But if bodies of analogous form mingle with more affinity, it is logical that they should attract one another with greater strength. Hence if you burn your hand, you will obtain relief of your suffering by holding it for a bit in front of the fire.”

“My tutor once, when a peasant was bitten by a viper, held the head of the viper to the wound...”

“Of course. The venom, which was seeping towards the heart, returned to its chief source, where there was a greater quantity of it. If in time of plague you carry a jar of toad powder, or perhaps a live toad or spider, or even some arsenic, that poisonous substance will attract the infection of the air. And dried onions ferment in the larder when those of the garden begin to grow.”

“And this explains also birthmarks, when the mother craves something and ...”

“Here I would proceed with greater caution. Sometimes analogous phenomena may have different causes, and a man of science must not lend credence to old superstitions. But to return to my powder. What happened when, for a few days, I subjected the cloth stained with our friend’s blood to the action of the Powder? First of all, the sun and the moon, from a great distance, attracted the spirits of the blood found on the bandage, thanks to the heat of the room, and the spirits of vitriol with the blood could not avoid following the same path. On the other hand, the wound continued to expel a great abundance of hot and igneous spirits, thus attracting the circumambient air. This air attracted more air and this at­tracted still more, until the spirits of the blood and the vitriol, dispersed at a great distance, were finally conjoined with that air, which carried with it other atomies of the same blood. Thus the atomies of the blood coming from the cloth met those coming from the wound, expelling the air as a useless encumbrance, and they were attracted to their prime seat, the wound, and, united to them, the spirits of the vitriol pene­trated the flesh.”

“But could you not have applied the vitriol directly to the wound?”

“I could have, as I had the wounded man before me. But what if he had been at some distance? Consider further: if I had applied the vitriol directly to the wound, its corrosive strength would have increased the irritation, whereas trans­ported by the air, it releases only its gentle and balmy com­ponent, capable of arresting the blood. It is used also in collyria for the eyes.”

Roberto listened intently, as in the future he would make good use of that advice, which certainly explains the worsening of his condition.

“On the other hand,” d’lgby added, “you must surely not use normal vitriol, as was formerly the practice, doing more harm than good. For myself I procure a vitriol from Cyprus, and first calcine it in the sun: calcination removes the superfluous moisture, as if reducing it to a concentrated broth; and further, the calcination makes the spirits of this substance suitable for transportation by the air. Finally I add some gum tragacanth, which closes the wound more rapidly.”

I have dwelt on what Roberto learned from d’lgby because this discovery was to mark his fate.

It must also be said, to the shame of our friend, that he was fascinated by this revelation not because of any interest in natural science, but only—again and always—through love. In other words, that description of a universe crowded with spirits that unite according to their affinity seemed to him an allegory of falling in love, and he took to frequenting private libraries to seek everything he could find on the weapon salve, which at that time was a great deal, and it would be even more in the years that followed. Advised by Monsieur Gaffarel (in whispers, so the other habitues of the Dupuys, who gave scant credence to these things, could not overhear), he read the ats Magnesia of Kircher, the Tractatus de magnetica vulnerum curatione of Goclenius, the work of Fracastoro, the Discursus de unguento armario of Fludd, and the Hopolochrisma spongus of Foster. He became learned in order to translate his learning into po­etry and to be able one day to shine, eloquent messenger of the universal sympathy, in the same forum where the elo­quence of others humiliated him.

For many months (the duration of his stubborn research, in which time he did not advance a single step along the path of conquest), Roberto practiced a sort of principle of double —indeed, multiple—truth, an idea that in Paris many consid­ered at once foolhardy and prudent. During the day he discussed the possible eternity of matter, and at night he wore out his eyes on the little treatises that promised him—albeit in terms of natural philosophy—occult miracles.


In great enterprises we must seek not so much to create opportunities as to take advantage of those that are offered us. One evening at Arthenice’s, after a heated debate on Astree, the Hostess urged her guests to consider what love and friend­ship have in common. Roberto then took the floor, observing that the principle of love, whether between friends or between lovers, was not unlike the action of the Powder of Sympathy. At the first sign of interest, he repeated the stories of d’lgby, excluding only that of the urinating sainted nun, then he began discoursing on the theme, ignoring friendship and speaking only of love.

“Love obeys the same laws as the wind, and the winds are always influenced by the places from which they come. If they come from gardens of flowers or simples, they may have the scent of jasmine or of mint or of rosemary, and so they make sailors yearn to reach the land that sends so many promises. Not dissimilar are the amorous spirits that intoxicate the nos­trils of the enamoured heart” (and we must forgive Roberto this unfortunate trope). “The loved heart is a lute, which causes the strings of another lute to sound in unison, as the ringing of bells acts on the surface of streams, especially at night, when in the absence of other sound the water generates the same movement that has been generated in the air. What happens to the loving heart is not unlike what happens to tartar, which generates the perfume of roses when it has been allowed to dissolve in the darkness of a cellar during the season of roses, for the air, filled with rose atoms changing into water by the attraction of the salt of tartar, perfumes the tartar. Nor does the beloved’s cruelty avail. A barrel of wine, when the vineyards are in flower, ferments and sends to the surface its white flower, which remains there until the flowers of the vines fall. But the loving heart, more obstinate than wine, when it is bedecked at the flowering of the beloved heart, cultivates its blossom even when the source has dried up.”

He seemed to catch a glance of tenderness from Lilia, and he continued: “Loving is like taking a moon bath. The rays coming from the moon are those of the sun reflected down to us. Concentrating the sun’s rays in a mirror, you strengthen the calefactory force. Concentrating the moon’s rays with a silver basin, you will see that its concave bottom reflects the refreshing rays through the gathering of dew they contain. It seems senseless to wash in an empty basin: and yet you find your hands moist, and it is an infallible remedy for warts.”

“Monsieur de la Grive,” someone said, “love is hardly a cure for warts!”

“No, certainly not,” Roberto resumed, by now beyond ar­resting, “but I have given examples that come from base things to remind you that love, too, depends on the powder of cor­puscles alone. Which is a way of saying that love obeys the same laws that govern both sublunary and celestial bodies, save that, of these laws it is the most noble manifestation. Love is born of sight, for it is at first sight that love is kindled: what is love, then, if not an access of the light reflected by the body beheld? Beholding it, my body is penetrated by the best ele­ment of the beloved body, the aerial, which through the me-atus of the eyes arrives directly at the heart. And therefore to love at first sight is to drink the spirits of the beloved’s heart. The great Architect of nature, when He composed our body, set internal spirits in it, like sentinels, so that they could report their discoveries to their general, namely, the imagination, which is the master of the corporeal family. And if it is struck by some object, the result is the same as when we hear viols playing, and we carry their melody in our memory and continue to hear it even in sleep. Our imagination constructs a simulacrum of the object, which delights the lover, if it does not lacerate him because it is, in fact, no more than a simu­lacrum. From this it follows that when a man is surprised by the sight of the lovable person, he changes color, flushes or pales according to whether those ministers, the internal spirits, proceed rapidly or slowly towards the object, to return thence to the imagination. These spirits do not travel only to the brain, but also straight to the heart along the great conduit that carries from it to the brain the vital spirits that there become animal spirits; and along this conduit the imagination also transmits to the heart some of the atomies it has received from the external object, and these atomies produce the ebul­lience of the vital spirits that sometimes expands the heart and sometimes brings it to syncope.”

“You tell us, sir, that love proceeds like a physical move­ment, not differently from the way wine flowers; but you do not tell us why love, unlike other phenomena of matter, is an elective virtue, which chooses. For what reason, then, does love make us slaves of one creature and not of another?”

“This is the very reason why I compared the qualities of love with the principle of the Powder of Sympathy, namely that atomies which are equal and of the same form attract equal atomies! If I were to dust the weapon that wounded Pylades with that powder, I would not heal the wound of Orestes. Thus love unites only two beings who in some way already possess the same nature, unites a noble spirit to a spirit equally noble, and a vulgar spirit to one equally vulgar—as it happens that villeins also love, as do shepherdesses, and we are so instructed by the admirable story of Monsieur d’Urfe. Love reveals a harmony between two creatures that was ordained since the beginning of time, as Destiny had always decided that Pyramus and Thisbe would be united in a single mulberry tree.

“What of unhappy love?”

“I do not believe there is truly an unhappy love. There are only loves that have not yet arrived at perfect fruition, if for some reason the beloved has not received the message coming to her from the eyes of the lover. And yet the lover knows to such a degree which similarity of nature has been revealed to him that, because of this knowledge, he is able to wait, even all his life. He knows that the revelation to both, and their conjunction, can take place even after death, when, the atomies of the two bodies having evaporated as they dis­solve in the earth, the lovers will be united in some heaven. And perhaps, as a wounded man, even unaware that someone is scattering the Powder on the weapon that struck him, enjoys a new health, so countless loving hearts may enjoy a sudden relief of the spirit, unaware that their happiness is the work of the beloved heart, which in its turn has become loving and has thus set in motion the unification of the twin atomies.”

I must say that all this complex allegory held only up to a certain point, and perhaps the Aristotelian Machine of Padre Emanuele would have demonstrated its instability. But that evening everyone became convinced of the kinship between the Powder, which heals a sickness, and love, which can heal but more often causes sickness.

The story of this speech on the Powder of Sympathy and the Sympathy of Love spread through all of Paris, for some months and perhaps longer, with results that we will narrate in due course.

And Lilia, at the end of the speech, smiled again at Roberto. It was a smile of congratulation, or at most of admiration, but nothing is more natural than to believe that one is loved. Roberto interpreted the smile as an acknowledgment of all the letters he had sent. Too accustomed to the torments of ab­sence, he abandoned the gathering, content with that victory. It was an error, and we will see why later. From then on, to be sure, he dared speak to Lilia, but the replies he received were always contradictory. Sometimes she would murmur, “Just as we said a few days ago.” Sometimes, on the contrary, she murmured, “And yet you said something quite different.” Other times, leaving, she would promise, “But we will talk of it later. Keep your word.”

Roberto could not decide if she was absently attributing to him the words and deeds of another, or if she was coyly pro­voking him.

What later befell him drove him to compose those few episodes into a far more disturbing story.





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