“Eventually you all meet; you end up side by side on the same road, and it’s cramped and uncomfortable... but then after that no one else comes for ages again. Things like that happen all the time now. It’s just the times we’re living in. One event tempts out another... and then everything happens all at once. There are lots of signs that the end is nigh, but no one really knows how to interpret them properly,” Peter mused philosophically, swiping at blades of grass with his walking stick as he went.
“I subscribe to the view that the end of the world isn’t located in some specific moment, but is personal instead,” Laurentius countered. “A personal end, as the early theologians used to say. We all die, but no one knows when. It’s the same thing as the end of the world; there is no significant difference.”
“Indeed,” said Peter with a grin, sending a yarrow flower flying with a whack of his stick. “But it still makes you wonder. When you see the misery and wretchedness of the peasants, you can’t help feeling that the end of the world might actually be the best thing for them.”
“But what did those peasants back there say about witchery?” Laurentius asked, changing the subject.
“Oh, some story about a willow king. That Old Nick lives in the hollows of tall willow trees. And that you can spot an evil witch by the look in their eyes. A very muddled story; I couldn’t fully understand it either.”
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
PROFESSOR DIMBERG was leafing through Laurentius’ thesis with a look of concentration on his face, nodding to himself from time to time.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” he commented.
Meanwhile Laurentius was pacing slowly up and down the room, looking at Dimberg’s measuring instruments and apparatus. His fever had risen again, and although he could still think quite lucidly, everything he looked at seemed to be the wrong colour. He had walked with Peter as far as the academy building, and Peter had then directed him to Dimberg. As he departed he told Laurentius that he should be sure to come to the banquet the next day, and the sly expression on his face had suggested that some full-scale revelry was in the offing.
He had given Laurentius a friendly pat on the shoulder and repeated, “Make sure to be there!”
Laurentius’ fever had flared up again after the fright he got by the willow trees, and he could now feel it becoming more and more acute. He knew he should be lying calmly in his room, waiting for the maid to come and light the fire and stuff his mattress full of fresh straw, so that he could sleep, sleep for as long as he was able. But he had no choice: he had to take the examination without fail.
He blinked his eyes and rubbed his temples. The light glaring off the glass objects seemed too bright, and the reflection from the brass ones was too green, like the colour of spring grass. At the same time he could hear a ringing in his ears. He tried to force himself to think calmly and work out the purpose of all the instruments. It was clear that chemistry and astronomy were of personal interest to the professor, and Laurentius spotted several modern devices, including a geometric astrolabe, and in pride of place an impressive twelve-cubit telescope. He only had to hold out a little longer.
“It’s just a shame that you haven’t made use of the latest research,” the professor eventually said.
“I studied Frommann’s tractate on the evil eye quite thoroughly, but I didn’t think it necessary to address all of his views,” said Laurentius, trying to provide as full and clear an answer as possible. But he was aware that his voice sounded odd, as if he were talking through a tube. “In my view his work is based excessively on popular conceptions of the problem; he could have benefited from taking a more scientific approach.”
He had read all of the available literature on the evil eye, but had not reached a clear understanding of the phenomenon. In general, the authors had just presented separate stories; not one of them had come up with a comprehensive scientific theory. But what had been clear from his readings was that eyes do not only communicate their own essence—in that eyes could be seen as being just like all other objects—but also transmit the whole being of their owner, his spiritual condition. That explained the genesis of the saying that the eyes are the “mirror of the soul”. Through the eyes we see the aspects of a person which may remain concealed on a more superficial inspection. The literature claimed that the most ferocious creatures could even kill with one look. Pliny the Elder wrote that there were women born in Scythia called Bythiae who were said to have two pupils in each eye, and that if they got very angry they could kill someone just by looking at him. One could conclude that the presence of two pupils was key, since it was the pupil which contained the virtus visiva, so the essence of the Bythiae’s rage could be transmitted with much greater force than through a single pupil.
“Frommann is very thorough, but he does not provide a full explanation,” said Dimberg in agreement. “I have just arrived back from England, where they are doing tremendous work in the field of occult forces.”
“Oh really?” Laurentius said, relieved that Dimberg appeared to have understood him. Everything he looked at seemed to be shrouded in fog, and his tongue felt like it had been wrapped up in a rag.
Dimberg walked up to the distillation apparatus which was set up on one of the tables, gave one of the flasks a light tap, and with a ceremonial exhalation of breath he declared, “Corpuscles and vapours.”
Laurentius could guess what path their conversation was likely to go down now. Frommann also spoke of vapours and miasma in the context of fascination. But it was of course impossible to fully explain such processes with the theory of vapours. In Laurentius’ view Aristotle’s theory of elements and form offered a much more satisfactory account, which Laurentius had corroborated with his own personal experiences, which had often been far from pleasant. But it would be highly inappropriate to start constructing a theory of fascination based purely on personal experience. If he went down that route he would be lucky to get away with widespread derision; in the worst case he could up in the dock. His defence of his thesis in Leiden had caused problems which had eventually taken on such proportions that Laurentius had questioned whether it would be wise to share his work with anyone again. Of course, there had been nothing written down in the thesis itself for anyone to latch on to—he had incriminated himself while debating with his opponent, during the disputation. It was exactly that kind of rashness which he had now vowed to avoid. He would have to learn to bite his tongue.
“I’d be interested to hear more,” he said, prompting Dimberg to continue.
“Robert Boyle offers the clearest and most comprehensible solution here,” began the professor, taking obvious pleasure in the opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge. “Corpuscles are transmitted as vapour from one being’s organism to another, and they then infect it. For example, when someone is bitten by a rabid dog, the corresponding part of the body is infected—namely the head. And thus the corpuscles from the mad dog’s saliva bring about a transformation in the person’s mind. Certain types of corpuscles are capable of...” Dimberg’s voice had risen, and he paused a while for emphasis.
“They are capable, I repeat, of using the principle of sympathy, to cause other things to change and become like them. The transmutation of metal takes place in just the same way, of course, as the Chemist himself has demonstrated. He compared this property to the way in which seeds grow—pay attention, now! Certain corpuscles are capable of seizing and carrying others with them. For example, when a tree grows from a seed, its matter does not derive solely from the seed; it comes from the air, earth and water, but its shape and form are given to it by the spirit concealed in the seed.”
Dimberg spun round theatrically and took a copy of Robert Boyle’s Sceptical Chymist from the bookshelf.
“Have a look for yourself; it’s a splendid work. I strongly advise you to acquaint yourself with it.”
Laurentius nodded. Boyle’s theory was pretty persuasive, although he was aware there were objections to it. “Sympathy is st
ill a very vague concept; it is difficult to comprehend how it might actually operate.”
Dimberg placed the book on the table and took a few paces backwards and forwards. “I agree. The theory has indeed encountered criticism, but it remains the most logical explanation we have. Of course, people have also challenged the theory of gravity because it describes a concealed and apparently occult force. Therefore it cannot be scientific, they say! Just think! But of course they cannot deny that it fits current mathematical models much better than any other theory. I am convinced that it is exactly those kinds of forces which operate between corpuscles. Antipathy, sympathy and gravity.”
He slapped his hand down on the table to empathize his point, causing the flasks and measuring instruments to rattle.
Laurentius nodded. He neither wanted to nor was capable of arguing; Dimberg had stated his position, and was unlikely to back down from it now.
“Very interesting,” he said to indicate his general agreement.
Dimberg smiled triumphantly. “Corpuscular theory currently has the greatest explanatory power. From spirits and souls, to cases of people rising from the dead—everything is explicable in mechanical terms. Absolutely everything!”
Laurentius smiled uneasily. Dimberg should have been asking him about his religious convictions, but Laurentius had the impression that it was the professor’s own ideas which could give rise to questions. Mechanistic theory was not at odds with Lutheran orthodoxy as such; it was just some of the possible ramifications which gave pause for thought.
Dimberg was watching Laurentius, clearly trying to assess his reaction. “I assume you won’t object if I hold on to your thesis for a while? I would like to have a more thorough read of it, and I’m sure that Professor Sjöbergh would like to have a look as well. It appears that you have quite a few interesting thoughts here, even if you do express them in a somewhat vague and muddled fashion. I would advise you to attend Professor Sjöbergh’s private lecture on Friday morning; he is currently dealing with the subject of the soul. You may learn a thing or two. We have no lectures tomorrow owing to the banquet. You’ve been invited, I assume?” Dimberg paused for Laurentius to nod affirmatively. “Very well. But you should definitely be there on Friday. I understand that Sjöbergh is planning to present some new thinking on the subject. I just brought some literature back from England for him, the latest research!”
Dimberg stuck a single finger up into the air and paced around the room in silence like that for a few moments, clearly immersed in thought.
Eventually he came to a standstill and lurched towards Laurentius. “An exceptional pleasure,” he uttered ceremoniously, and squeezed Laurentius’ hand warmly. “You passed the examination brilliantly; welcome to the fraternity of Dorpat Academy.”
Then he pulled his hand away with an equally abrupt movement and stood eyeing it thoughtfully. “Hmm. Your hand is hot. I conclude that you have a fever?”
“Yes,” Laurentius agreed reluctantly. There was no reason for him to try to hide it.
“How do you treat it?” the professor asked.
“I try to counterbalance the hot and damp elements of the fever with willow tincture,” said Laurentius, realizing immediately that he should have said something else, or nothing at all. The adherents of Boyle and Newton definitely considered the theory of the elements to be dated.
“Elements!” Dimberg squawked in amazement. “That is a completely false approach and will only make you more ill. You have to find the spiritus of the ailment. Boyle talks about that as well. The corpuscles which transmit the spirit of the sickness must be destroyed. There is no other way. Complete disintegration, nigredo, is what is required. Before that no change at all can take place.”
Laurentius nodded. “I’m familiar with the basic outlines of that theory, but I must admit that such a view of spirits is not consistent with my convictions.”
“You don’t believe that substances and ailments have spirits?” asked Dimberg, raising his eyebrows. “Things have spirits, I tell you! They manifest themselves in many different ways. Fantasy even gives them a form. Next you’ll be telling me that you don’t believe that the soul exists!”
Laurentius shook his head. “Of course I believe in the existence of the soul. There can be no doubt about that.”
Dimberg cast a suspicious glance in his direction, possibly recalling the rules for examining students and realizing that he hadn’t checked Laurentius’ theological views at all.
“And so that soul is immortal?” He asked a probing question.
“The posthumous existence of the soul is clearly explained in the Bible, and what’s more it is scientifically provable,” Laurentius agreed, offering the most conservative theological position he could. Some of the radicals in Leiden had been of the view that the Bible said nothing about the soul existing independently of the body after death. This question of the immortality of the soul was a popular subject of debate in more freethinking circles.
“Hmm? But how do things stand with spirits?” asked Dimberg, refusing to let Laurentius off the hook.
“As you said, fantasy creates them,” Laurence suggested.
“You are mistaken there. Fantasy gives them form, but they exist independently of our fantasy or our sensory perceptions. A number of academics have researched the subject of poltergeists, and our very own Professor Michael Dau has written about them too,” the professor said.
Laurentius bowed. “I confess that I am poorly informed on that aspect of the soul and spirits. But I am happy that it will be possible to receive such expert guidance on the subject at this university.”
Dimberg was clearly content with Laurentius’ last point, and he grunted approvingly. “I presume you are familiar with the lecture programme? This semester I will be speaking on Newton’s mathematical principles and gravity, which are of course vital to understanding the question of the soul. I look forward to seeing you at my lecture next week.”
Laurentius felt unable to continue the conversation much longer. He was sleepy from the fever, and his thought processes had slowed down. But he had heard enough to convince him that Dimberg’s thinking was indeed rather modern and progressive. Laurentius had certainly heard about Newton’s theories when he was in Leiden, but no one there had openly approved of them or included them in the official lecture programme. They favoured Descartes’s philosophy there.
“I am most grateful,” Laurentius said.
Dimberg smiled and started to rummage about in the stacks of papers which covered the table. After a while he fished out a sheet of paper and stood looking at it with a solemn expression on his face.
“On student life and habits,” he informed Laurentius in an official tone of voice. “Make sure to acquaint yourself with it. It won’t do to be lazy. But this evening you must treat your illness. You really must.”
“Indeed I must,” Laurentius repeated. “Would you be able to offer any advice in this respect?”
Dimberg livened up again. “Why, bloodletting of course! To start with you need to overpower the illness’ spirit, to expel and destroy it. We have one barber here who does quite a decent job of that. The bad blood must be drawn out. But in moderation. As Boyle says, excessive bloodletting is not a good idea either. In moderation, do you hear? And following the procedure Boyle advises, take essence of gold, aurum potabile.”
“And how could I get hold of some of that?” asked Laurentius, growing more interested.
Dimberg seemed momentarily lost for words. “Unfortunately he speaks in very general terms on that point,” he added in a quieter voice. Then he turned to face the bookshelf and started inspecting the books, snorting gently to himself. “Very general indeed.” Dimberg peered distractedly at the spines, and Laurentius got the impression that the problem of preparing aurum potabile had been a preoccupation of his for some time now. After rocking back and forth on his heels for a while he turned to face Laurentius again. “But bloodletting is the thing. Moderate bloodletting. That i
s what you must start with. Don’t forget, nigredo is essential at all costs!”
WEDNESDAY EVENING
LAURENTIUS CAME ROUND THE BACK of the church of St John and out onto the main street, and then he headed in the direction of the town hall square. His face was burning from the fever and he felt as tense as a wound-up clock, ticking away as its spring uncoiled. At first he had reacted to Dimberg’s idea of bloodletting just as he would to any other piece of casual advice, but then he realized, much to his own surprise, that he actually intended to go through with it. Tick-tock went the clock, and his feet carried him forward. Following Dimberg’s directions he soon arrived at a building with a red-and-white emblem hanging from a pole outside it, advertising that it was a barber’s shop. According to Dimberg the sauna keepers had recently started offering bloodletting services too, but their equipment was generally filthy, and there were repeated cases of them making their clients even sicker than they had been before. Such practices were therefore banned and the right to perform bloodletting and basic surgical operations was passed to the town’s doctors and barbers. The sauna keepers anyway enjoyed an ill repute, and could often be seen walking about half-naked, and engaging in pandering quite openly. Dimberg had admitted to Laurentius with some regret that they had still not got as far as establishing a modern clinic in Dorpat, even though Below, the professor of medicine, had repeatedly stressed the importance of doing so.
Laurentius took one more look at the scalpel and knife on the emblem, as if wanting to make absolutely sure that this was the right place, and then stepped somewhat warily in. The first things to catch his eye were the shiny polished floor, a dirty sheet with a dark stain on it which was pulled over the table, and the dour-looking man who was sitting there. He was wearing a long overcoat decorated with fashionable embroidery and an ostentatiously high wig, which was curled and powdered.
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