Galileo's Lost Message

by D. Allen Henry

  “It is only a matter of time, you see. Man will see the stars ever more clearly with each passing day. The dam has broken, and now it will flood over our planet, shrinking our place in the world little by little, bit by bit, day by day. And in time, mankind will escape our planet, and we will go to the stars. We will go out there, beyond the ‘crystal spheres’ of Kepler. And that is only the beginning, my pupil. That is only the beginning. We will build vast engines, and we will use them to power mankind. We will go vast distances in a single day, and someday, we will even fly, like the birds do in the sky!”

  Vincenzo had heard these rantings before – the old man was obviously becoming senile. Surely it was best to humor him as he neared the end of his existence. “Si, professore. I can see that your vision reaches far beyond my own. Could I perhaps ask a question regarding your last vision?”

  “Yes, certainly, Vincenzo,” the elderly man replied patronizingly.

  “How, sir, do you propose that we will fly?”

  “Ah, I’m glad you asked that, Vincenzo! A very good question! I have been thinking on that question for more than half of my life, but much more so lately,” and, placing his fingertips together, he expounded, “You see, birds behave according to the square-cube law, Vincenzo. I should think that would be obvious.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vincenzo replied agreeably, having no idea what the Great Man was talking about.

  Paying no attention, Galileo rushed onwards impatiently, “You see, the weight of a bird is proportional to the volume of the bird, but the force with which the bird can push downwards with its wings so as to rise and thereby overcome its own weight is only proportional to the surface area of the bird’s wings. Ergo, the larger the bird, the more massive the wings need to be, while the bird itself must be more and more gossamer as it grows in size!” and he said this last with great aplomb, flapping his arms, as if he could see the bird in his mind’s eye.

  “Yes, sir, I think I see, but how will a man be able to do such a thing? We weigh so much more than does a bird!”

  “Ah, you have hit on the conundrum, Vincenzo! I have been thinking on that problem, and I think that the force the bird exerts downwards is directly proportional to the speed with which the bird flies. The faster the bird flies, the greater the force exerted downwards by its wings. So a man, because he weighs so much more than a bird, will have to fly very fast, my son, very fast indeed!”

  Vincenzo doubted the possibility of this last pronouncement, but he knew better than to press the Great Man onward, because there was no stopping him once he became animated, and he was on this occasion clearly excited. Thus, Vincenzo chose to remain silent.

  Galileo sat for a few moments, the enthusiasm slowly draining from him. Calming himself, he uttered sociably, “Come, let us not become too engaged in the sublime, Vincenzo. As I said - all in good time my boy. However, I wonder if you would be so kind as to write a letter for me. Would you mind, Vincenzo?”

  “I would be honored, Professore. I am always happy to write letters on your behalf.” Vincenzo wondered to himself who this one would be written to. The Holy See would have to see anything transcribed by him before it was allowed to leave the villa. Besides, the old man had no friends left. Those who had not turned against him had all died by now, including nearly everyone in his family.

  Taking up quill and ink, Vincenzo inquired, “To whom shall I address it, Professore?”

  “Well, actually, it is not a letter at all, my boy. It is rather, a small poem. Something that I have been contemplating in my spare time, which as you well know is limitless. It is just a poem for myself, you see, Vincenzo.”

  “Oh, yes, I see…” he replied eagerly, but suddenly realizing the absurdity of it, Vincenzo blurted, “But professore, you cannot read it, so why would you want to have it written down?”

  “Ha,” Galileo replied knowingly, “I suspected that you would ask that question - very perceptive, my boy, very perceptive. I will respond to you by saying what is the obvious – I suspect that I am not long for this world.”

  “But no, Sir! Do not utter such an unthinkable thought! You will have many more years to enjoy here in your garden, I am certain of it.”

  “Yes, that may be, my son, but I have already had eight long years to enjoy my garden, and I assure you that I have explored it to the utmost dimensions that are humanly possible,” and at this he gazed out over the garden, as if he could actually see it still. Continuing, he now proselytized, “My pupil, Vincenzo, my time is near. Trust me on this point. I want to be prepared when my time arrives. I wish to carry with me my last will to The Pearly Gates. There being no one here on Earth to hear my case, I wish to present my best position to St. Peter, when we are met face to face. I dare not fall speechless on such a momentous occasion, my son.”

  “But you cannot see, sir!” Vincenzo replied dimly.

  “Ah, yes, my son, that is a fact. But when I reach The Gates to Heaven, I assure you, I shall most certainly be able to see the glory of God. So please, take up your quill, and write my will, without so much as a tiny deviation from my words…please!”

  Taking a piece of parchment in hand, he began transcribing as Galileo dictated to him. Unfortunately, as the dictation progressed he lost track of the train of thought of the poem as, struggling to keep up with his professore, he could focus on nothing more than the transcription itself.

  At one point Galileo halted for a moment and inquired, “Are you getting all of this down, Vincenzo?”

  By then hopelessly lost, Vincenzo had somehow managed to write down every word exactly as it had been spoken, thereby permitting him to announce proudly, “Yes, Professore, yes, I have it all just so, exactly as you have spoken.”

  “Excellent,” Galileo replied, who without so much as a moment’s hesitation set off yet again at breakneck pace. When the dictation of the poem was complete the Great Man asked Vincenzo to read it back to him in its entirety. At the completion of Vincenzo’s reading, Galileo placed his fingertips together, uttering a single word, “Perfetto!”

  Vincenzo smiled silently in response, proud that he had managed to transcribe the entire poem correctly. Unfortunately, the Great Man immediately asked for the parchment. Vincenzo, desperate to have a chance to read the verses over one more time, felt powerless to deny the old man his request. While it was true that he had been instructed to never allow the old man to write anything unchecked, this small departure seemed in no way harmful. There was indeed no possible avenue for Galileo to spirit his “will” outside the walls of the villa. And for all that, to Vincenzo it sounded like nothing more than the babblings of a senile old man.

  Tucking the sheet of paper discretely within his tunic, Galileo announced abruptly, “And now, let us continue our lesson!”

  That Night

  Galileo arose in the cool of the night, the silence within the villa enveloping him like an impenetrable fog. As he commenced his labor, he contemplated with amusement how this was one circumstance wherein sightlessness was surely a blessing in disguise. After nearly four years enshrouded in total blindness, he was still surprised that no one had thought to maintain watch over him at night. Indeed, the night had become his salvation, his trusted ally, the time when he made his greatest strides, for only the blind know the light that is hidden within darkness.

  Now, using practiced patience, he carefully disassembled the concealed partition in his credenza, patiently removing the wooden panel that would be the final resting place for his penultimate revelation. Would it be found? How long before someone stumbled onto it? How long would the world await the final discovery of Galileo? These questions weighed mightily on his somnolent reverie.

  He carefully appended his signature at the bottom of the poem and patiently awaited the ink to dry. Next he gently folded the message so that it would fit between the two thin slats of wood. He then placed an additional small strip of paper within, knowing that it would form a tiny but nonetheless important clue for the discoverer. He dared
not include the other two sheets of paper within the hiding place. Although he was forced to hide these in an even more covert location, he was confident that the clues secreted within the poem would surely guide the finder to the two additional documents.

  Thus, as he had carefully planned over many months, he took his favorite telescope in his hands and carefully unscrewed the lens cap on the end, drawing out a thin sheet of lacquered linen that was used as a non-reflecting liner inside the lengthy tube. He then slowly wrapped the two remaining sheets around the linen and reinserted the entire assemblage into the barrel of the telescope.

  Reattaching the lens cap, he quietly recounted to himself, “There, that will have to do.” His last offering to humankind properly concealed, he leaned back in his chair. Though exhausted by the completion of this most intricate means of disclosure, he contemplated with satisfaction the enormity of this, the final and most assuredly the most significant scientific accomplishment of his life.

  Florence Airport - 1997

  Paul Woodbridge murmured, “Grazie,” and, retrieving his passport from the customs agent, he proceeded to the baggage return area. Somewhat refreshed by the first class accommodation on the overnight flight, he quickly retrieved his luggage and ambled apprehensively toward the green customs aisle, wondering to himself if the contessa would be awaiting him outside customs as promised.

  He needn't have worried. The moment the opaque glass doors swung open, he made eye contact with a striking woman who smiled broadly and waved to him. Visibly impressed with his first sight of the Contessa, he murmured to himself, "Hmmm…this is going to be interesting.”

  He strode affably up to her, at which point she grasped him in a friendly embrace and kissed him on one cheek. Any onlooker would have thought they were old friends. Greeting him thusly, she immediately gushed in rapid-fire staccato, “Buongiorno, Professore Woodbridge! How was your flight? Was it very bad for you? You certainly look none the worse for wear. And the Tuscan weather has certainly obliged you!”

  Suddenly observing his discomfort at her precipitous preamble, she blushed, threw him an entrancing smile, and turning to the young man next to her, she continued without so much as even pausing to catch her breath, “Oh, I'm sorry, this is my son, Marco. Marco, this is Professore Woodbridge."

  Still recovering from her impromptu speech, Paul nevertheless managed to smile politely and shake Marco's hand, replying in English, "Pleased to meet you, Marco."

  It was indeed a gorgeous day in Firenze, a welcome change from the drab gray of late winter that he had so recently escaped in Cleveland. And predictably, the drive along the autostrada in the contessa's Alfa Romeo brought back a plethora of memories for Paul - so many adventures in his beloved adopted country over the years.

  Unfortunately, Marco's driving was not to Paul's liking. Marco had apparently been taught to drive in Naples, in Paul’s opinion the birthplace of what he termed “speed demonism”. Nonetheless, they managed to exit the A1 unharmed, and Paul was surprised to find that it was the Galluzzo exit. "Where exactly do you live, Contessa Floridiana?" he queried in anticipation.

  "Signore Professore, we live in Arcetri, but of course. I thought that you knew!" she responded with animation.

  "What!" he answered in disbelief. "No. No, I didn't know. Well, this is certainly a surprise! And would it be too much to presume that you also live near Galileo's house?"

  "Actually, yes, everyone who lives in Arcetri is not far from Galileo's house. We live on the Via di San Michele a Montepaldi. Do you know it?" she queried in response.

  "Yes. Yes, of course. It's not far at all from Galileo's house," at which he halted for a moment, but subsequently murmured to himself, "Soooo, the plot thickens."

  "Pardon?" the Contessa responded.

  Anxious to begin filling in the loose ends, he inquired, "Oh, nothing, I was just thinking aloud. So what exactly is your connection with Galileo, Contessa?"

  "Please, call me Antonietta. I am not really a contessa anyway."

  "And by all means, please, call me Paul,” and, his curiosity continuing to mount, he added, "And why do you say that you are not a contessa?"

  "My goodness, where do I begin?” she responded, “Allora, I married young, much too young. But I suppose it was not a mistake because here is Marco, the joy of my life. I was divorced three, no, almost four years ago. I should have done so long ago, but I had to build up my nerve. You see, divorce is frowned upon in Italy."

  "Yes, I am aware of that," he replied succinctly.

  Now well up into the hills above Firenze, the Alfa turned into a driveway, and Marco punched a button on a brick column to open the rather ornate gate blocking the driveway. The villa was not overly sumptuous, but it was nevertheless impressive.

  On seeing the grounds, Paul volunteered with discernible elation, "This is quite impressive!”

  Catching his eye, she responded, "Thank you, Paul. It is comfortable for me. I grew up near here, so it is also convenient for me. You see, I received it as a part of the divorce settlement."

  "Ah, I see," he replied pleasantly, but he really didn't see at all. Still, there was plenty of time to sort out that part. Since she appeared to be forthcoming, he determined to patiently await further insight.

  Gravel crackling under the tires, the car drew to a halt in front of the villa. It was a typical two story Italian villa, graced with tall green shutters framing the windows, and painted in that distinctive Umbrian hue that is emblematic of Tuscany. The villa was accented with an ample supply of tall pine trees, thus creating an atmosphere of cool serenity. Here and there one could see the paint cracking, a gutter amiss, or a flower pot overturned, all of which only added to the ethereal appeal.

  Upon entering the villa, Paul was ushered to a spacious bedroom that had been prepared for him. The moment the door was closed behind him, he pulled back the drapes and pushed open the windows in anticipation. There, not two miles distant lay the Santa Maria del Fiori, with Brunelleschi's distinctive herringbone red dome dominating the skyline of Firenze.

  Paul stood motionless, a smile slowly spreading across his features. In his mind, he was at this precise moment positioned perhaps as near to heaven as was humanly possible on Earth. Given what he would have been doing had he not answered the phone the previous morning, he asked himself aloud, "Was that only yesterday?"

  Reluctantly, he dragged himself from his reverie, pondering to himself, “Okay, down to business,” and, summarily showering, he changed to a loose-fitting white dress shirt and jeans. Shortly thereafter, he located the Contessa sipping a cup of tea on the terrace within the garden.

  "My, you look refreshed,” she observed, clearly pleased by his simple and carefree attire, “May I pour you a cup of tea, Professore?"

  "Yes, please," he responded and, taking a seat, he posited, "And now, what can I do for you, Contessa?"

  At this, she almost spilled her coffee in mid-gulp and, placing her cup on the table before her, she snorted, then actually giggled, finally proffering with obvious mirth, "You Americans, you are such a delight!"

  Perplexed by her reaction, he asked, "What did I do?"

  "Oh, nothing. Tis just that we Italians do not possess the instinct to progress quite so quickly. We have a penchant for savoring life. We languish, we partake, we sometimes relish the joy contained within the simple act of doing nothing. One might say, we try to squeeze every drop of pleasure from the simple act of existence that we possibly can."

  "I know that!" he responded defensively, "But in all fairness, you did seem in quite a rush on the phone yesterday,” and, leaning back in his chair, he made a rather feeble attempt to do her bidding. Still, he found himself powerless to avoid admitting, “I still can't believe that was only yesterday!”

  "Well, there you are! Things are moving quite rapidly, even by your standards," she allowed, and she was smiling at the absurdity of such an admission. “Besides, my ploy on the phone seems to have been successful, as here you undeniably are,
Professore!”

  At this it was his turn to laugh. The truth was, he felt himself in no hurry to do anything whatsoever. After all, he contemplated to himself, “How often does one get the chance to sit with a contessa in the garden of a villa overlooking Firenze?” But of course, he already knew the answer to his own question.

  Observing his change of expression, she proffered, "I see you smiling, and I suspect that I know what you are thinking.”

  He peered at her and, curving his mouth into an impish half-smile, he countered, "Well, all I can say is - this beats the heck out of teaching introductory dynamics to a bunch of disinterested twenty year olds who own significantly more expensive cars than I can afford," and at this rather pointless admission they both chortled convivially.

  The comfort level having now advanced significantly for both, the pair managed to settle into mutual silence made perfect by the glass of wine she served him. Accordingly, they languished a few moments, Paul clearly satisfied with their first exchange. Eventually he could no longer contain himself and, gesturing toward the Florentine skyline, he volunteered probingly, "That Brunelleschi was a genius, wasn't he!"

  "Undeniably," she responded forcefully.

  Her evasive answer having divulged nothing whatsoever to him, he attempted a second approach, "I confess - I'm curious. What is it that is so important that you have gone to great expense to bring me here so hastily?"

  "I thought you'd never ask," she replied with a knowing look and playful smile that seemed to him to say, "Impatient American!" Placing her glass of wine on the table, she began, "We have a situation. Yes, that is what I shall call it - a situation. As I mentioned to you on the telephone, I purchased a piece of furniture that I suspected might have belonged to our Galileo. It appears that I may have been correct.”