Chapter XVI

 

 

Fatima was sitting between Ormasis and the Doctor. She took advantage of a moment when the latter was making a futile speech about his theory.

“I’ve understood,” she said to the Philosopher in a low voice, “that the closer objects are to one another, the greater is the tendency they have to draw together, but I believe that you’re mistaken, my dear Philosopher. At this very moment, as I offer you this pastry, I am very close to the Doctor, and thus more distant from you; however, it is certainly not the case that I feel a greater tendency to draw closer to him.”

“Charming Fatima, that is a proof that the motor of your divine organs is not subject to the ordinary laws of gravity.”

“In conclusion,” said the Doctor, “the marvelous substance that produces all these metamorphoses is fixed air. It is by virtue of the aid of this fixed air that we have imitated the water of the bad mountain. If metal is calcinated by fire, it is because it is charged with fixed air. If limestone is calcinated by fire, it is because it loses the same fixed air. Nothing is more consequent. And it is not the loss and restitution of aqueous parts to which the effects of quicklime are due, as a few good people have thought.”

“Doctor,” Nadir replied, “as I am one of those good people, sometimes attached to old theories, liberate me, I beg you, from that servitude by means of novelties. To begin with, I have never understood what you mean by ‘fixed air.’ What is fixed air?”

“Fixed air, Sir, is a substance combined in the narrow pores of a substance, which can only escape it with great difficulty.”

“Oh, I understand. What you call fixed air is, therefore, no more fixed than any of the other airs in the world. It is compressed air, bound within an object. Good. For a long time we’ve known what compressed air and free air are. We also know that the air compressed in a body can escape it when the pores of the body are opened by heat, and become free air. All that is not new.”

“Forgive me, Sir; know, then, that fixed air always has the quality of fixed air, that it does indeed pass from one body to another, but that it communicates particular qualities to the other body. For example, when one throws oil of vitriol on to limestone, does not the fixed air that it gives off, and which one can collect, by means of an apparatus in common water, communicate an aerial quality to that water? Is that water not exactly similar to that of the bad mountain?”21

Grasacido, who was already biting his lips in fury, could no longer contain himself. “Of course,” he said, “if one wants water well-impregnated with air, there’s no need to go to such trouble. It’s sufficient to attach a bottle two-thirds full of water to the blade of a windmill. The air traveling rapidly through the atmosphere, which is trapped in that vessel, will penetrate the water by virtue of the motion and partly engage with it. But afterwards, the prisoner, in escaping, will soon renounce the pompous title of fixed air. At any rate, an aerometer will indicate the moment when that water is more salutary than that resulting from your preparations.”

“I beg you not to interrupt me, Sir,” the Doctor resumed, swiftly. “It is to the master of the house that I am addressing myself.”

“Well, my dear Doctor,” Nadir replied, “perhaps I haven’t grasped your idea, but this is what the experiment tells me. I believe that the fall of the vitriolic acid in the pores of the limestone occasions friction, and consequently heat. I believe that the heat in question divides the parts of air and water contained in the limestone, which results in the dilatation and separation knows as effervescence, and, in consequence, the elevation of vapors. All that is quite simple. It’s possible that the water charges itself with a greater quantity of air than it can contain. All well and good—but I cannot induce from it that the air is fixed, or was fixed there. I’m assured that the air is of the same quality as that of the atmosphere, and that by virtue of the rapid movement of effervescence, it has been able to draw with it a few selenitic or acid salts, and if I observe that the water in which the vapors have condensed turns blue litmus paper red, I cannot conclude from it that it is fixed air combining with the water that forms the acids.”

“But do you not recall,” the Doctor replied, “the experiment that made so much noise. One puts thirty ounces of limestone into a retort, and fits a recipient vessel to it by means of a sealed tube. Heat is applied, and yet one can only obtain an ounce and a half of water. It is only on opening the tube of the recipient that on hears escaping, with a hiss, and elastic fluid weighing thirteen ounces. That elastic fluid is fixed air, and if it does not escape the limestone will never be converted into quicklime. It is, therefore, not the removal of water but the removal of fixed air that forms the quicklime. Is that conclusive?”

“Not at all, my dear Doctor. Here, in very simple terms, is the result of your operation. Limestone contains air, but it also contains, essentially, a large quantity of water. Now, when the vessels are sealed, why does distillation only produce a small quantity of water? It is because the vapors, in building up, prevent the evaporation of the remaining aqueous parts, which still have a propensity to combine with the limestone that is in the retort. As soon as one opens the connecting tube, however, those vapors escape, making room for other vapors that also escape. I do not see anything in this experiment but that of the aeolipile,22 in which water rarefied by intense heat escapes with a hiss, although it does not contain a large quantity of air.”

“In truth,” exclaimed Grasacido, “I do not know how he dares to publicize an experiment whose inconsequentiality I have already demonstrated to him.”

The Doctor pretended not to have heard.

“No, I don’t believe,” Nadir continued, “that in thirty ounces of limestone, there are twelve and a half ounces of air for half an ounce of water. I believe, on the contrary, that there must be twelve and a half ounces of water for half an ounce of air. In fact, if a demi-gross of compressed air in a blowpipe causes such powerful explosions when it is given an issue, how can one imagine that twelve ounces of air compressed in thirty ounces of stone that there will not be explosions when one breaks a few pieces of that stone? But that air has lost its spring, it is said. How can it be that an elastic fluid, ready to escape at the slightest fire, has no spring?”

The Philosopher was chatting to Fatima, while still lending an ear to his pupil’s reasoning. “My dear Ormasis,” Nadir asked him, “What is your sentiment regarding the formation of quicklime?”

“I confess,” Ormasis replied, “that I have the most ancient sentiment in that regard. I believe that the privation of water is the essential characteristic of quicklime. When one soaks the lime in water, the very sudden reunion of the water and the lime, through an infinity of capillary tubes, produces heat; such is the invariable effect of rapid friction; that heat dilates a few parts of air, and that air, suddenly augmented in volume, occasions the separation of the resistant parts. Nothing is more natural. But when the quicklime is simply exposed to air slightly charged with vapors it becomes limestone again, slowly, without heat or noise. Why? Because it charges itself with water gradually, and the internal friction is less rapid. All these principles seem to me to follow.”

“But after all, Sir Philosopher,” the Doctor replied, “you know that chalk renders the most caustic alkaline salts. To what do you attribute those effects?”

“To what, Sir? To natural causes. To changes in the saline forms that result from that reunion—such as, for example, more trenchant angles.”

“Oh, Sir,” Grasacido interjected, “you don’t believe, then, that it is acidum pingue that forms causticum? Pay heed, then, I beg you, to the fact that my acidum pingue is the agent of light, which carries it everywhere.”

“One moment, Sir Chemist, one moment. You are too enlightened not to recognize that the agent of light must be composed of the most volatile and the most mobile parts of nature. Your acidum, however, does not manifest those properties. Firstly, the term ‘acid’ denotes a saline substance that is not among the most volatile. Secondly, acids seen through a microscope present to us a multitude of tiny points, and that form is surely not the most favorable to movement.”

That observation made some impression on the mind of the Chemist. “I agree,” he said, “that I ought to have selected another name, for example circulum pingue. Yes, circulum pingue—that name is far more majestic, and far more interesting; for, to tell you the truth, acidum pingue only signifies sulfur, and that term is not new. But I’m thinking: this circulum pingue will no longer have different latus. It would be necessary that its effects by uniform in all experiments, and that is no longer the case in the order of my theory, whose verity is, moreover, entirely demonstrated. For in the end...”

“Peace, sir, peace,” cried the Doctor. Your acidum pingue, in spite of its latus, cannot be sustained and has been sunk by the following experiment.” To Ormasis, he said: “You shall see whether or not this experiment is victorious in favor of fixed air. One puts lead under an inverted glass bell, plunged into water, and one then calcines part of this lead with a burning-glass. The water-level, which rose in the bell during the operation remains elevated. It is therefore evident that the metal, in being calcinated, has pumped or absorbed a quantity of air equivalent to the volume of water that has risen up. On the contrary, when, under the same bell, one recalls the lead to its metallic state, the water-level falls sensibly, certain proof that the lead has restored the air that it had absorbed. That is irrefutable.”23

The Doctor had pronounced these final words in the most imposing tone. He was triumphant. Grasacido was embarrassed, and pretended to be distracted. Even Nadir seemed struck by this experiment, when the philosopher spoke.

“Sir Doctor, your experiment is faithful, I admit, but is your conclusion? Would you like to hear mine?”

“Willingly, Sir, but I’m convinced that...”

“I hear you. Well, you shall have the pleasure of criticizing me. Firstly, do you not agree that atmospheric air contains a quantity of salts and earthen molecules?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Is it not also demonstrated that the more rarefied a fluid is, the fewer foreign bodies are sustained in the fluid?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“In that case, when air is rarefied by heat, must it not allow to precipitate out the saline and earthen parts that are disseminated within it, and which then no longer form a specific weight with it?”

“Yes, Sir, that follows.”

“In that case, Sir Doctor, the pores of a metal being opened by heat, is it not evident that the salts that are precipitated into the pores of that metal can cause divisions and separations there—in sum, what is called calcination?”

“Yes, Sir, I confess that that is possible; but why does the water-level rise in our glass bell when the metal is calcinated there?”

“Nothing is more natural. It is because the portion of air enclosed in the bell, being deprived of its saline and earthen molecules, no longer weighs as heavily on the surface of the water.”

“In truth,” the Doctor said. “I’m almost tempted to believe…but no, that’s too simple. Besides, when one exposes powdered charcoal with the calcined metal under the same glass bell, why does the water level drop as the same time as the calcined metal resumes is metallic state?”

“It’s because the saline materials that the calcined metal contains, uniting with a larger quantity of phlogiston, become more volatile, and rise up in the bell. Then the air in the bell, charged with these salts, exercises a more considerable pressure and caused the water-level to drop. Don’t you think, Sir Doctor, that these chemical and physical explanations are more satisfying than the supposition of an air condensed by heat?”

Grasacido had regained courage, but he was more concerned to overturn his adversary’s than establish his own. “That’s not all,” he said to Ormasis. “Not only is it claimed that air can be fixed in a body with the aid of heat, but it’s also claimed that it becomes volatile by the increase of the same aid. Oh, Sir Philosopher, judge! What physics! It has, however, been necessary to resort to the ridiculous in order to adapt to that theory the experiment of mercury enclosed in a glass vessel, which successively loss and regains its fluidity by virtue of different degrees of heat. That experiment has administered a death-blow to fixed air.”

“And you,” said the furious Doctor, “how have you adjusted your flanks, your latus, to rationalize that experiment? It is, in fact, your explanation in that regard which is pitiful.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” the Philosopher said to them. “You both have talents. I’m sure that you hold one another in esteem. It is, therefore, only a question of reaching an understanding. Is there no means of reconciling you? Sir Chemist, when we have reasoned for some time together about phlogiston, you will see that it is unnecessary to admit an acidum pingue, and you will recognize, with the Doctor, that air acts considerably upon all bodies. You, Sir Doctor, without having recourse to the existence of a fixed air, a special air, which would, so to speak, be a new element, will have reason to assure yourself that air is one of the great motors in nature, but you will recognize with the Chemist that light acts powerfully on all bodies.”

Grasacido listened to Ormasis considerately. The Doctor, more rebellious, became angry with the Philosopher. “Sir,” Ormasis replied, calmly, “I am only seeking to instruct myself, and if your opinions can augment my feeble enlightenment, even if you offer them to me ill-temperedly, they will be no less precious to me.”

“Well, Sir,” said the Doctor, a trifled chastened, “explain to me how the mercury calcined by heat can resume its fluidity by means of the augmentation of the heat?”

“Nothing simpler, my dear Doctor. It’s because the percussion of light, being more powerful, then removes the salts fallen into the mercury. That might seem to you to be contradictory, but there is a very simple experiment applicable to this object. Let us throw into cold water little wooden balls a little lighter than the water; they will float on the cold water. If we heat the water, they will fall to the bottom, because the water, dilated by the heat, will become specifically lighter than the balls. But if we boil that water, then a percussion proportionally more considerable than the dilatation of the water will lift up those same balls. Do you understand, my dear Doctor? Apply that experiment yourself, and reflect, at the same time, that, if water can never be condensed by heat, the same law must exist for the other fluids in Nature. At any rate, I do not expect you, in that regard, to adopt my principles; I only ask you for an explanation of yours.”

“But in the end, Sir Philosopher,” the Doctor retorted, “how can one not be seduced by the admirable experiments on fixed air that kill animals? All those little mice stifled by the fixed air of a candle, the plants, and the washing with water that rectify that air—is not all of that marvelous?”

“My dear Doctor, in order to respond to those experiments on the claimed fixed air—fixed air to which it has then been necessary to grant saline distinctions—here is a scene that I once witnessed.

“I was in the home of a scientist. He was one of those sane men who meditate calmly and who never fall prey to transports of enthusiasm. Two famous partisans of fixed air arrive. ‘Our dear dreamer’—that is what he called himself—‘we have come to tell you some quite extraordinary verities. We have found that coal vapors, woody gases, the mephitic vapors of mines and the vapors of fermentation all originate from fixed air.’ Immediately, he takes us into his physics laboratory. They do experiments; they reason. My man watches the experiments tranquilly; says that he does not perceive anything new, and thinks in silence. They become impatient; they press him to explain.

“‘Gentlemen,’ he replies, ‘I was reflecting on the immense multiplicity of odors produced by plants and flowers, and, being unable to attribute that odiferous variety solely to proportions of your fixed air. I therefore went back to simpler ideas. I imagine that all odors whatsoever are merely the contact of emanations from bodies that strike our sense of smell, for all the senses are reducible to one alone, which is touch. I imagine, of course that air is the vehicle of these emanations. I imagine that the air is more or less charged with these emanations. I imagine that these emanations can have an infinite variety of forms, and, in consequence, occasion a considerable variety of sensations. I imagine that these emanations, being highly phlogisticated, might kill an animal that breathes them in, because phlogiston in movement, breathed by an animal, easily penetrates the pores of the lungs, and gives such an activity to the circulation of the blood that it eventually decomposes if a prompt remedy is not administered.

“‘I also imagine that the animal truck by these emanations, being exposed promptly to a current of free air, receives the relief, not only of air, but of aqueous vapors contained in the air, and sufficiently divided to penetrated into the pores of the lungs and reduce the movement of the phlogiston. I imagine by the same reasoning that the air agitated with the water loses its harmful character, because water diminishes the movements of phlogiston, and besides, the majority of these emanations will be condensed or changed in form. The exudation of plants can also produce the same effects.

“‘I imagine, therefore, that what you call ‘mephitic air’ consists of tiny bodies emanated by different substances. Some scientists call them ‘miasmas.’ I call them ‘emanations,’ but it comes to the same thing, and we need not occupy ourselves with words. I imagine that the air charged with a quantity of these emanations is what is called pestilential air. I imagine that people of a humid temperament, and whose blood and humors are more acidic, are less subject to the mortal maladies that result from them. I also imagine that acids promptly rectify that contagious air, because they temper the movement of phlogiston and inhibit its effects.

‘‘Here is a very tangible example. Sulfur in mass is nothing other than phlogiston whose movement is enfeebled by an acid. Rub a rose with sulfur and it does not change color, but as soon as the sulfur is reduced to vapors, the phlogiston that it gives off promptly bleaches the rose; a proof that this effect is due to phlogiston is that on rubbing the rose again with an acid, the rubbed places recover the red color. One must believe, however, that the phlogiston that is given off is adherent to acid parts; if it were not, the air containing those emanations would be much more dangerous to breathe. We have the proof of that in the fact that, if sulfur in which there is a large quantity of acid is introduced into an alkali, the vapor exhaled is slightly warmed and entirely mortal.

“‘I finally imagine, Gentlemen, by virtue of convincing experiments, and even more so by the evidence of reasoning, the true principle of the effects that you claim to explain to me by means of an agent more incomprehensible than the effects—which is to say, your fixed air. Thus, permit me not to believe that heat can condense the air that is in a vessel, curl itself up in a body and there form a substance that is invisible, and yet as weighty as your fixed air would be. And if, according to you, it is an error to believe that heat could never condense air, allow me my error.’

“Do you know, my dear Doctor, what the response was of the partisans of fixed air? They look at one another. ‘Let us admit,’ they said, ‘in good faith, that the terms fixed air and elastic fluid, are nothing but the animated expressions of an agreeable delirium.’”

“I agree,” said the Doctor, “that if I renounced fixed air, I would adopt your ideas, but not those of Grasacido.”

“And I agree,” replied Grasacido, “that if I renounced my acidum pingue, I would adopt this gentleman’s ideas in their entirety, but never Fixoventi’s dreams.”

“Of dreams,” the Doctor added, “there’s certainly one... How, with regard to me, a Doctor…your superior...”

“Not you,” Grasacido retorted. ‘I know of no superior in the world but the man who is wiser than I am.”

“Gently, gently, Gentlemen,” Ormasis put in. “There are amiable women here who might not be amused by acidum pingue, nor fixed air, nor phlogiston. Let us admire those charming hands, which will pop the corks of that champagne.”

Indeed, Mirza, Fatima, Laure and Sophie, each attacking her bottle, understood one another so well that the four pops occurred at the same time.

That sparkling liquid has more virtues than people think! Oh, Mahomet, you who forbade wine to Muslims, for having been the witness of a bloody scene of which it was the cause, had you been present at that dinner, the prohibition would have been rescinded from your Quran. Believe it. The Doctor and Grasacido were reconciled in good faith, and swore eternal amity. Such was the epoch of that reconciliation.

The frothy wine escaped in great waves.

“I confess,” said the Doctor, considering these effects, that this is fixed air become very elastic.”

“Oh, agree,” replied Ormasis, “that light alone has been able to penetrate these bottles since the wine was sealed within them, and that it is, therefore, the percussion of light that has divided and dilated the air that is presently producing that effervescence.”

“I believe, in fact,” said the Doctor, after having drunk the glass of wine that had been presented to him, “that light acts on all bodies, and that it plays a major role in fermentations.”

“I also see,” replied Grasacido, “that air acts in an infinity of operations.”

“Well,” retorted the Doctor, having swilled a second glass of wine, “we were only arguing about words, then.”

“In truth,” replied Grasacido, “I believe that we ought to be ashamed of our disputes.”

“Well, my dear Grasacido,” said the Doctor, taking a third glass, “it’s a means of reconciling ourselves.”

“Yes,” Grasacido replied, seizing the opportunity, “it’s a means of forgetting everything that is past. To your health.”

“To yours. But, my friend,” the Doctor continued, “we’re forgetting to drink to the health of our benefactresses, who are serving us so generously.”

“That’s true, Grasacido continued. “Ladies, accept our thanks.” And the fourth glass had already succeeded the third.

One cannot imagine the pleasure experienced not only by Nadir’s wives, but the Physicist, Nadir and even Ormasis, in seeing the diverting scene that presented itself. The cheerful women served the two Bacchic athletes assiduously, and took care never to leave their glasses empty.

“Oh!” cried the Doctor, “this is surely an attack—but no matter; how can one resist he impulsion of a beautiful arm? The air, further deprived of its spring, will soon become elastic.”

“And are the eyes not the primary agents of light?” Grasacido added. By comparison with those eyes, my acidum pingue is merely a sot.”

“My word,” said the Doctor, swilling another glass of wine, “we were great fools, me with my fixed air and you with your acidum pingue.”

“I agree,” Grasacido replied. “But one has certain ideas…and then it is necessary to sustain them. A certain reputation, you understand... To your health, my dear superior.”

“What, my friend,” the Doctor said. “You remember…it was just a joke, and...”

“For myself,” said Grasacido, “I bear no grudge.”

“Drink, then, to my health.”

“Agreed.”

“My dear Doctor, “it’s necessary to be frank when one is a friend. Well, your fixed air is really a superior thing, although I’ve said a hundred times that you were nothing but a charlatan.”

“And in the depths of my soul, my dear Grasacido, I thought the invention of acidum pingue admirable, although I’ve said a hundred times that you were an imbecile. Hold on…let’s suppose…that I have fixed air in my glass, and you have acidum pingue. Let’s switch glasses. See how much esteem I have for you. I drink it…never have I tasted anything so good.”

“Oh, my friend,” said Grasacido, “what courtesy!” He stood up, and immediately fell back in his chair. “Damn!” he continued. “I want to embrace you.”

“Me too,” replied the Doctor, performing the same ceremony.

“It’s singular,” Grasacido went on, “how securely one is held here. They’re gentle chains…can you sing, my friend.”

“No,” the Doctor replied. “It’s said that a scientist ought not to sing, and that gravity...” He made further efforts to get up, and continued: “But bodies are grave here, damn it...”

“What are you trying to do, Doctor?”

“Embrace you, my friend.”

The two friends were facing one another. They raised themselves up sufficiently to take one another by the hand, and let go almost immediately. That transport of amity broke the two glasses that were in front of them. The misfortune was soon repaired.

“Oh,” said the Doctor, “they are the two eggs of Castor and Pollux from which our amity is hatching out, of which…these...ladies…are…the vivifying…suns. You see, my friend, how weak I am.”

“Yes, truly,” Grasacido replied. “I particularly liked that Turkish saraband you were making with words.”

“Oh yes,” said the Doctor, “yes…yes…wait…there was a certain beautiful woman to whom I declared my languishing passion with majesty:

 

O you who burn me with a brilliant flame

You have the snuffer, lend it to me, Madame.

 

“Agree that that’s beautiful…the brilliant flame, the snuffer. I won’t seek to versify, myself, all those unknown gods of fable. No, I prefer things that one ordinarily finds close at hand…snuffers…how naïve that is.”

“Yes,” replied Grasacido. “Snuffers—admirable. Oh, my dear friend, you’re a great poet. For myself, I want to play a tune on the harpsichord.” He tried to rise to his feet again. “But I want us to embrace.”

Grasacido stood up, and fell back, but in falling back on his armchair a little too far forward, he slipped, and found himself lying under the table, without doing himself any harm. At the same moment, the Doctor, seeking to embrace his friend, headed in the same direction, and found himself amicably beside him. The others got ready to pick them up, but Nadir, perceiving that they were already sleeping peacefully, gave the order that pillows should be slid underneath them, and while they were tranquilly brooding fixed air and acidum pingue, the company went for a walk in the gardens.