I was waiting for the lluvias to remind me—do you first hear the rustle, the distant hiss of rain crossing the lake and making its way up the hills, or does it start with that special lovely smell, that unique earthy perfume? I have guessed that it might be both: the smell might come from the wetting of the dust on the leaves and grasses, not actually the smell of rain itself, but something more— the welcome beginning of the clean-up, with rivulets running and distinctly brown drips falling from the leaves, the completion of which requires several rains (and don’t even bother with the hose, only the rains will do, and one of them an all-nighter) before the garden really shines. Anyway, something to do with both earth and rain.
And that is more or less the case – rain on earth I found out, and there’s a word for it. How could this be an obscure piece of knowledge? Maybe you all know the word and it’s just obscure to me? We certainly all know that wonderful smell.
“Petrichor,” that’s the name. I don’t really care for it: petrichor, petrichor. Really, it’s not the right word for that transient miracle. It’s not beautiful. You know they say “cellar door” is the most beautiful English sound—probably Francophiles say that. Petrichor in French is le petrichor. Maybe if I imagine it in French, I can grow to like it. But no, I’d have to do that r I’ve never even managed once,twice. Out of the question.
Petrichor is derived from the Greek: petros, meaning stone, and ichor, the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods, blood of a sort. Australians Joy Bear and Richard Thomas were able to get the smell from stones after a long complex process. They coined the name in 1964 to replace “argillaceous odor,” previously used. Argillaceous—relating to clay. Instead, those Australians preferred blood from a stone. I had liked to think of the odor coming from the dust—what but ground clay, and what that but geologically degraded stone—on my banana leaves. I suppose we’re close to the same page in the end.
Anyway, here’s Miriam Webster: petrichor: “a distinctive, earthy, usually pleasant odor that is associated with rainfall especially when following a warm, dry period and that arises from a combination of volatile plant oils and geosmin released from the soil into the air and by ozone carried by downdrafts.” I’ll note, places such as England where precipitation normally occurs every few days, making for a green and pleasant land, are largely bereft of petrichor. Here we are blessed. Warm, dry followed by rain—that’s us.
Let’s address geosmin, a molecule associated with beets and beans and earth, which the human nose can detect at 5 parts per trillion. (If you mess around in Google long enough, you’ll learn that humans are 200,000 times more sensitive to smelling geosmin in air than sharks are at smelling blood in water. I’m content to spend the rest of my days Google-adjacent.) Seems geosmin comes from dead bacterium in the soil. After a dry period, the first rain dissolves the bacteria’s chemicals; bubbles of geosmin are released into the air in a fine aerosol, and when you mix in ozone, you get your ravishing perfume. Note that ozone is also involved in the smell of sun-dried laundry. Nothing better—except perhaps the smell of rain.
Lucien came awake all at once. Morning. He had collapsed across his bed perhaps three hours ago after Vivienne had finally been released from her agitation and had eased into sleep. It was here! He leapt to his feet and rushed out to the balustrade of the veranda. The garden seemed to tremble in anticipation, the sky was violet, lovely coolness embraced him. A drop. Another. And the smell! The smell!
Vivienne loves this! He rushed down the veranda to her room. In the gloom, he saw her lying quietly on the narrow bed and Rukmini slumped in her chair.
“Vivi, Vivi” he called softly, “Wake up, darling.” Rukmini sat up with a guilty start, but Vivienne didn’t stir. Lucien crossed the room; touched the pale cheek; recoiled, clasped the unyielding shoulders… A cry of both realization and furious denial erupted from him. He collapsed beside her. “Oh, Vivi! It’s here. The rain! Smell it! Breathe! One more breath! You love it so much! Angel, just one more breath…”
As he sobbed, petrichor filled the room.
Okay, okay. Sorry. A bit overwrought, not to mention out of left field. Just wondering how that newly formed word would sound in a story. Have I stacked the deck? Or does it sound as uncomfortable to you as it does to me?
A very recent word, petrichor—1964. Of course, sometimes we’re on the bus in an instant—groovy, grok?—but surely, in the evolution of languages, it must often take some time for the aura of a new word to become bright enough to illuminate meaning as the old one did or to make visible a concept never before named. Juliet says a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and while her desperate attempt to render moot the difference between Capulet and Montague is technically correct, we have also not hesitated to consider, as best we can, sound along with meaning and to make them suit one another—so it would seem when we consider the languages we have created. Rose: that might be sound so suitable to the ineffable delight of the sight and smell of the object it denotes that it verges on sound we might make in the throes of love. But petrichor? Those hard plosive consonants, “p” and “t” expelled vigorously through the lips? The Australians were going for stone, petros, and the “p” and “t” suited. But the smell has nothing hard about it. We’re not talking kimchee here.
I’m afraid saying “petrichor” will be nothing more to me than a way to slow down a too-jovial dinner party. I am glad for the knowledge—bacteria, geosmin, ozone—don’t misunderstand—but if we are to replace “the smell of rain,” with the perfect word, I think we’ll have to try again.
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