not yet read that fascinating seventeenth century satirical romance in which the author, the Abbe de Montfaucon de Villars, was undoubtedly poking fun at the occultists. Ironically enough, the modern Rosicrucians have taken the b-b-b-book seriously and use it as their B-B-Bible. In this delicious capolavoro, the Comte discourses with the author, somewhat after the fashion of . . . Well, certainly such works as W. H. Mallock's New Republic and Aldous Huxley's Crome Yellow stem from this book.
The Comte recommends marriage with one of the immortal beings who people the elements rather than with a human; he advises cohabitation with the nymphs who swim in the water, the gnomes who inhabit the earth, the sylphs who fly in the air, or the salamanders who thrive in the fire. Campaspe, I am convinced, has married a salamander and has embraced his element. She b-b-b-burns like a clear white flame, using our emotions for fuel. Wherever there is passion, Campaspe's incandescence increases, but she remains faithful, under all circumstances, to her salamander. Occasionally, in one of her soaring flights, she drops a fiery feather, and some poor mortal mistakes it for the living bird.
But I have married a mortal, Campaspe objected.
Your children are salamanders, was the Duke's final word.
