'Of course. Just as though it were the nose. Take a dram of marjoram, half a dram of love-in-a-mist, add a scruple of very finely pounded cloves and white pepper for luck, half a scruple of nutmeg, white hellebore and castor and mix it all to prepare a fine, almost impalpable powder. One must blow several times into the woman's womb with a quill, and that will provoke sneezing marvellously. If that should not prove sufficient, one can throw a paste prepared by mixing the same powder with fat onto hot coals so that it produces smoke to make the womb sneeze. Obviously, it will first be necessary to open up the passage as wide as possible in advance, and that can be done by attaching a sheet tightly to the woman's navel.'
'Excuse me,' interrupted Abbot Melani anxiously, 'are you sure this is not dangerous?'
'Of course not. On the contrary, these are remedies greatly appreciated by women's wombs, just like bringing odours of musk and amber before them: they have the effect of pulling them downwards, for they are attracted by such odours. I am sure that, thanks to such stratagems, the Deputy Steward of Palazzo Spada will soon be calling for me with all haste, as the infant will be about to come into the world.'
'And what if it should not work?'
'It will work. Otherwise I shall make use of some simples which work extremely rapidly because of their occult properties, such as the aquiline stone tied to the thigh, or the doeskin, or seed of porcelain to be drunk mixed with white wine, or even a bitch's placenta pulverised and spread on the vulva; or the skins that serpents leave in March, to be fed into the womb. But this last remedy is less prudent.'
Abbot Melani paled on hearing Cloridia list all those venereal manoeuvres so insouciantly.'When would you expect that…' I began.
'Judging by appearances, as she's so fat, labour should not begin before tomorrow afternoon. Is that too late?'
'No, that will do well. Only, how shall we manage to enter and leave the palace?' asked the Abbot.
'Today, when I go to Palazzo Spada, I shall discreetly gather information and study the situation; tomorrow morning, I shall be able to tell you. There is only one thing you will have to see to on your own: the keys to the rooms.'
'That will not be a problem,' answered Atto with a little smile.
I knew who he had in mind.
Evening the Sixth
12th J ULY, 1700
This time, my work place was in the garden, of course, need I say dressed as a janissary, setting up the artificial lights for the opera galante which was about to be staged. I was to work under the guidance of the Major-Domo, Don Paschatio Melchiorri, who in his turn had been well instructed by the architect of the scenery. The latter had in fact had a rather original idea: to make of these preparations, which were in fact quite unusual, a spectacle in its own right, to attract and entertain the guests while they awaited the start of the performance.
The area had been provided with a work table and, in the middle, a fire, on which a cauldron of water had been put to boil. A group of cardinals drew near, intrigued by these activities.
'We shall now put up various transparent colours for the embellishment of this evening's scenic jest, and first of all the colour sapphire, or sky-blue, which is also the most beautiful,' announced Don Paschatio, resplendent in dress livery, in town crier's tones. I, meanwhile, followed him with a barber's basin and a brass vase under my arms, as well as a shoulder bag.
'Master of the Fowls, take a piece of sal ammoniac from your bag. Rub it on the bottom and the sides of the basin until it is all used up, then add a little water, but very little. The more the salt, the more splendid the colour.'
I obeyed, after which he made me filter the water with a felt pad and pour it into the brass vase. I was astounded to see that the water which came out of this was sapphire-coloured. He then made me pour part of this into two large glass jars of a curious half- moon shape, one half of which was convex, the other concave.'And now,' proclaimed Don Paschatio, 'we shall make Emerald Water.' Thereupon, he drew from the bag a little jar containing a certain yellow powder which looked just like saffron.
He poured a little of this into one containing sky-blue water, stirred it quickly with a spoon and the liquid at once changed colour, becoming green.
We then dissolved some rock alum in the cauldron of boiling water, made it foam and decanted it through a piece of felt into five different containers, the last of which was almost as big as a cauldron.
'And here is the colour ruby,' declaimed Don Paschatio to the bystanders, pouring into the first jar a few drops of highly coloured vermilion wine, which promptly dyed the water a rather bright red.
'And now for the Afghan red!' exclaimed the Major-Domo, pouring red wine and white together into the second jar.
Into the last two containers, he poured a Frascati wine and a little bottle of Marino red.
'And here for you, last but not least, the colour page-grey, and topaz!' said he smugly, while stupefaction was painted on the faces of all those lords and eminences.
'And this?' asked Cardinal Moriggia, pointing at the biggest receptacle.
'This remains as it is: it will reproduce the colour diamond, which is that of the sun in the Greek Islands,' said Don Paschatio, who had never been to Greece and was with some success repeating parrot-fashion the instructions passed down to him by the scenery designer.
With this, the spectacle of the preparation of the colours came to an end. What we were about to accomplish next, explained Don Paschatio, was to be kept out of sight of prying eyes.
'Otherwise, if they discover the trick, there's an end to the wonder of it,' said he, talking furtively. With the help of other servants, we took the jars behind the painted backcloth, representing the countryside in Cyprus. There, we found a wooden panel with holes in it. We positioned the jars so that they filled these holes with their convex sides, standing them on tripod supports. On the concave side, so as better to receive the light, we placed a lamp designed to provide light of constant intensity.
'Lift the biggest container up there,' the Major-Domo ordered me, 'and instead of a lamp, put a big torch behind it. Then, behind that, place a well-polished shaving bowl so that the light from the flame is reflected forward as much as possible.'
Great was my surprise when, emerging from the wings to admire the results of all these preparations, I beheld a lusty sun sparkling like a diamond in the painted Cypriot sky of the back- cloth and shining paternally on fresh, luminous greenery and flowers coloured ruby, red and topaz, while the sapphire glint of the distant sea was capped by the page grey foam of the waves.
The stage had, moreover, been decorated with trees, hills, little mountains, grasses, flowers, fountains and even rustic huts, all fashioned from the finest of many-coloured silk. Thus, the liberality of the munificent Cardinal Spada and the art and skill of the architect, both enemies of ugly parsimony, had led to the destruction of much of the work of the Master Florist, so that all these things might be recreated in silk, making them even more praiseworthy than if they had been natural. The sea was rich in little cliffs, conch shells, sea snails and other creatures, coral trunks of every colour, mother-of-pearl and marine crabs nestling between the rocks, with such a variety of beautiful things that were I to attempt to describe them, I should expatiate for far too long.
The stage was simply lit with pairs of hanging torches, since the spectacle was to begin in the late afternoon when daylight is still bright and generous. Other lamps also gave both actors and spectators not only splendid lights but superb perfumes: bowls of camphor water were suspended above chandeliers or torches, so that, in accordance with the architect Serlio's formulae, they spread gentle glimmers and soft effluvia, thus preparing the hearts and minds of those present for the pleasures of the performance. In the meanwhile, the terraces, furnished with comfortable sateen-upholstered armchairs, had filled with the noble public. I too stopped briefly to admire the stage: obviously, sitting on the ground. From my awkward position, far too much to one side, I could however overhear some of the comments of the guests seated in the front rows. A trio of gentlemen was particularly voluble; I heard them exchanging jokes while the actors were coming on stage.
'The last performance I recall attending was in March, at the Palace of the Chancellery: Scarlatti's oratorio '
