The Mysterium Cosmographicum finally came out in December 1596, and by February 1597 Kepler had returned home and had found out the awful truth—while he was away, he let his bride slip through his fingers. He shouldn’t have been away so long. What does it say about the ardor of a suitor who is off traveling in foreign lands for seven months? Old Jobst had had second thoughts about the boy. While Kepler was in Swabia, his gentlemen delegates had continued their negotiations and had finally been successful. They sent word on to Swabia. While in Tübingen, Kepler heard from Papius, his old friend who had been rector at the Lutheran Stiftschule in Graz when he arrived, that the family had agreed and that all was well. The bride was his.
He had been looking forward to this marriage for more than half a year, but then, on his arrival in Graz, he noticed that no one had stepped up to congratulate him on his upcoming marriage. He wondered about this and feared some disaster, when a friend pulled him aside and told him that it was true, the Müllers had canceled the marriage. In spite of Kepler’s nobility and his newfound notoriety, he simply didn’t make enough money to satisfy old Jobst. Kepler took sick with an irritated gall-bladder and depression. “Rage, audacity,” he wrote in his journal. “The position of the stars is powerful, calling out passion, hurt, and fever.”9
In the seventeenth century, marriage was never an affair between the bride and groom alone, but a complex political dance between two families. And not just them—the whole community got involved. Public sentiment was so strongly in favor of Kepler, the jilted bridegroom, that whenever the Müllers showed their faces in public, they had to put up with sniggers and ridicule, satiric verses and unkind humor. Moreover, the church authorities paid a visit to the Müllers and, in good Lutheran fashion, instructed them on their duties. Eventually, old Jobst caved. The marriage was on once again. Poor Kepler, caught in the whirlwind of an off-and-on-again love, was turned round, first by joy, then by depression, then by joy once again. Just as he had come to accept the fact that he would not be married to Barbara, the marriage was back on. “That is how little control each man has over his future,” he wrote to Mästlin.
Then something happened that added a touch of vinegar to Kepler’s relationship with his old teacher. In March, just a month before Kepler’s wedding, Mästlin sent a dyspeptic letter to Kepler, complaining about how much time and effort he had given to the publication of Mysterium Cosmographicum, so much so that he had neglected his own work, his fiery critique of the new calendar, that papist invention designed to subvert the spiritual independence of good Lutherans everywhere. Kepler didn’t agree with his old teacher and told him so in a return letter, for Kepler was not only a mathematician and astronomer, but also a historian, and he knew the history of the Gregorian calendar better than his teacher. His view was practical to the core.
The European calendar used by Christians throughout the Middle Ages had first been commissioned by Julius Caesar, whose astronomers and soothsayers had informed him that the year was 3651/4 days long. The problem was that Caesar’s astronomers and soothsayers were wrong. The year is not 3651/4 days long, but a few minutes shorter than that. The Council of Nicea (325) set down the rules for determining Easter based on the first day of spring, the equinox, but then later, in the middle of the Dark Ages, St. Gregory of Tours (544–595) wrote that these calculations were becoming a problem, because the equinox kept creeping backward, moving earlier one day every 128 years. In 750, the Venerable Bede reported that the equinox was now occurring three days earlier than the date set by the Council of Nicea. Eventually, said Bede, they would be celebrating Easter in January. Finally, the great medieval astronomer John Holywood, otherwise known as Sacrobosco, whose treatise, later called The Sphere of Sacrobosco, became the touchstone for all medieval astronomy, calculated that the observed year was 11 minutes and 14 seconds shorter than the Julian year.
Various solutions were put forth, but nothing actually happened until the sixteenth century, when Pope Gregory XIII handed the entire mess to Father Christoph Clavius, the famous Jesuit astronomer, commentator on The Sphere of Sacrobosco, and later adviser to Galileo Galilei. In papal circles Clavius was the local hero and certainly one of the great astronomical minds of the day. Clavius took an earlier solution proposed by Aloysius Lilius and simplified it, saying that the last year of each century should be a leap year only if that year was divisible by 400, years such as 1600 and 2000. This still left standing a morsel of error in the calendar, but since this came to only one day in 3,333 years, Clavius thought it was good enough. The pope agreed, and published his bull Inter Gravissimas, which decreed that October 4, 1582, would then jump to October 15 to reset the calendar, which would henceforth, in perpetuity, follow Clavius’s worthy scheme.
Mästlin hated the idea. He was not alone in this. All over Europe, people belittled this reform, and Mästlin headed the pack. Suddenly, Protestant and Catholic differences became all-important. Mästlin was not about to let the pope in Rome tell good Lutherans how to count time. He took to the intellectual streets, writing four diatribes against the calendar. Since the first one helped him get his professorship at Tübingen, his course was set. Intellectual fur flew all over Europe between Mästlin and various Jesuits defending Clavius, including Clavius himself. Attacking the calendar reform had become a bit of a cottage industry for Mästlin, and he was on his fifth diatribe when he turned aside for a time to work on Kepler’s book. Too much time, according to Mästlin. After Mysterium Cosmographicum came out, he wrote that letter to Kepler, and Kepler, in typically undiplomatic fashion, wrote back:
What is half Germany doing (I ask)? How long does it mean to hold aloof from the rest of Europe? For what are we waiting?…It is 150 years since astronomers demanded legislation for some correction, and Luther himself demanded it…. Now one correction has been made; no one can easily introduce another into a small part of Europe without great disturbance. Therefore, either the old form must be retained or the Gregorian accepted. But which?…The states have proved their independence of the pope for almost twenty years; let that suffice. He already sees that we may, if we wish, retain the old calendar. If we choose to emend it in the same was as he did, it is not because we are forced to do so, but because it seems good to us to do so…. It is a disgrace to Germany that they who discovered the art of reformation should alone remain unreformed.10
This did not sit well. Mästlin did not respond immediately, but as years passed, his relationship with Kepler diminished, partly because of time and separation and partly because of old pique. Here was Kepler, his old student made good, now a famous man, and he had turned on Mästlin, his teacher. Over the years, Kepler tried to return to Swabia, to attain a position teaching at his old university, but was rebuffed each time. Bit by bit, Mästlin pulled away, until in the time of Kepler’s greatest need, only a few years away, he turned silent. His letters never came. He sent nothing, no reply; there was only a dull, sullen silence.
Kepler saw none of this at first, because he was too often adept at not noticing. His wedding plans marched on, and for a time he was happy. In the midst of his happiness, however, dark clouds begin to form, a wisp here, a puff there. Old Jobst was not the only one to have had doubts. Kepler too fretted about the wedding. Though he loved Barbara, he was overwhelmed by the expense of the wedding celebration, much of which he had to pay himself. On April 9, only a few days before the wedding, he wrote again to Mästlin: “The state of my affairs is continually such that, if I should die within one year, no one could leave greater mayhem behind. I have to pay large expenses out of my own pocket, for it is the local custom to celebrate a wedding most glamorously.”
But money alone was not his greatest concern. What will happen to his hopes to return to Swabia and take up the ministry? “I shall surely be tied and chained to this place, whatever happens to our school, for my bride has property, friends and a rich father here.”11 Once he married Barbara, Graz would be his home. Although Barbara’s money would never be his personally,
part of his task in life would be to manage her money, lands, and estates along with his own. If Kepler was the irresistible force, Barbara was the immovable object. The Counter-Reformation was coming in force—everyone knew this. It was already there in the company of the Jesuits, in the person of the archduke. Kepler knew as well as anyone that life in Graz could get warm indeed for a staunch Lutheran. If he married Barbara, with all her lands, his future could, indeed would, include a difficult choice between Barbara’s desire to remain in her home and his own Lutheran faith. Kepler could not quit the land just to return to Swabia, to his own homeland, or to finish his studies for the ministry. If he married Barbara, he would be a family man, with responsibilities; he no longer had the freedom of his single youth.
Meanwhile, the forces of the Counter-Reformation were growing all across the Habsburg lands, including Austria, including little Graz. The Lutheran community, always at a disadvantage with the archduke, was beginning to watch the horizon for the coming storm. It would begin with an announcement, a tax on Protestant churches or a banishment of Lutheran preachers from the pulpit. Then it would escalate. The archduke could forcibly convert all Protestants in his territory if he wished, or he could exile them from the region. Either way, life for a good Lutheran would become increasingly difficult.
The Turks were gathering as well. Even as Kepler married Barbara that April 1597, “under pernicious skies,” an army of over six hundred thousand Turks pressed the frontier. Would they attack? In spite of all, Johannes Kepler promised himself on April 12, 1597, “under the hand of the priest” to marry the “honorable, virtuous Frau Barbara.” The wedding ceremony took place a few weeks later, on April 27, in the house of Herr Hartmann von Stubenberg, on Stempelgasse. The Stände, or church authorities, in Steiermark sent a silver cup worth 27 gulden. Kepler made sure they were all invited.
LETTER FROM KEPLER TO MICHAEL MÄSTLIN
JUNE 11, 1598
Presently, our Kaiser’s (Rudolf II’s) reign of power is increasing, notwithstanding all arguments, regardless of the Spanish declaration. Indeed, those from our country would do well do be on the alert. It appears that our Kaiser possesses an Archimedean calculation of motion, which is so slow that the eye barely sees it, but as time goes on a tremendous mass is put into motion. He sits in Prague, without the slightest experience in the art of war, without total power, as was believed before, and still he is accomplishing miracles; he holds the dukes in obligation, has them compliant, obedient. Candidly, he takes royal power upon himself, powerful throughout the centuries. He wearies all through drawn-out wars, so their only greater complaint would be against the enemy. He uses those tools as a basis for undivided power, so that only the subjugation of the Turkish Empire seems to be missing. By what fortunate circumstances he gave Siebenbürgen back to the Austrians, an act admired by all. Yes, we are generally assured that our Kaiser is nominated as third among the heirs of Moscow. In this matter a most brilliant legation has been prepared to achieve that only our heir will be nominated. Only the death of the Moscowitch thwarted the legation. In any event, everybody has to recognize that God blesses the cause of the Kaiser, and still, everywhere in Austria, everything tragic becomes connected to his name.
LETTER FROM KEPLER TO HERWART VON HOHENBERG
DECEMBER 9, 1598
In the month of August, the prelude to the tragedy took place. The town pastor officially prohibited our preachers from all practices of religion, the administration of the sacraments, and the consecration of marriages. He gave as a reason a privilege that all town pastors have had for a long time, and whose fees are reduced when other clergy do the work. The head of the church took our side. The town pastor replied once and again and finally referred to the secular branch. The archduke claimed he has to not only protect us but also his believers, so now he does as requested what before he did out of his own devotion. He decreed that all ordinations be stopped, and that all servants of the church and school in Graz and Judenburg be banished within fourteen days, ordering them to stay away forever from his lands under penalty of death. Such happened on September 20. The church authorities answered that their sole desire is to protect people from violence; the power to let people go is not in their hands, but is a matter of the whole assembly.
Meanwhile, Spaniards were here to accompany the bride of the king. On September 24, the archduke himself ordered us, under penalty of death, to leave his provinces within eight days. For a long time an argumentative correspondence took place between the archduke and the ordained ministers; the latter had called upon the “Assembly,” members from regions around Graz, but because of the unusually severe floods, which occurred in August, not more than thirty came together. In the end, the archduke ordered us in a stern directive to vacate the city by sundown and leave the provinces within seven days under penalty of death. Thereafter we left, scattered toward Hungarian and Croatian areas where the Kaiser rules, leaving behind the wives, in accordance with the advice and order of the “Assembly.” Despite all this we received our salary, in addition to travel money, and were told to bear our fate until an assembly had taken place. We are hoping for this to this day. As for me, I returned after a period of one month, called upon by officials of the archduke, who described me as exempt. Despite this, I requested the archduke declare my servitude as neutral and exempted, for the decree statement was general, so I shall not be in danger while continuing to live in the country. The answer was worded as follows: “His Highness is herewith granting, out of special favor, that the petitioner, notwithstanding the General Dismissal, shall be allowed to remain here. But he shall maintain appropriate modesty everywhere, so that this exception will not be subject to cancellation.”
People say the archduke likes my discoveries and Manecchio, his adviser, is in the habit of writing to me, so I enjoy a favorable court. What now, shall I stay? The preachers are expelled from all three countries. Some are hiding privately in castles. If one, however, administers the sacrament to one of the archduke’s subjects, he will also be banished. On November 26 the citizens were advised to visit the town church for baptisms, marriages, and to receive other sacraments and to attend services there. That is why I shall leave. Meanwhile, my wife is attached to her property and the hope for her father’s assets. It appears as if she would have to leave everything behind, even my stepdaughter of eight years, who would soon have to join the papists, after losing her mother. Confusion is everywhere. Therefore, I shall act as before. Also, I will not ask the Duke of Württemberg, before I am not banished entirely. If, on the other hand, there is an appointment in Stuttgart in my future, I will not decline it, nor wish to have it declined. If I should receive an appointment for my “Model of Mysterium Cosmographicum as a Clockwork,” I shall be at liberty to contemplate whether to accept or to decline. It is better perhaps if I act as the mathematician here, as Tycho has done in Denmark, as an individual, work with the written word only or, if the opportunity shall arrive, give lectures, perhaps at a university.
VII
An Archimedean Calculation of Motion
Where the Lutheran community of Graz is persecuted, then banished, and where Kepler, who must choose between his faith and his position, is finally banished with them.
THE RENAISSANCE ENDED BADLY for Rome. Pope Leo X excommunicated Martin Luther and called upon Habsburg Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, King of Spain and Naples, Overlord of the Netherlands, and a good Catholic, to round up Luther and his followers, try them, and execute them as heretics. Charles agreed, but demanded a quid pro quo from the pope.1 The Reformation had already won too many converts, so trying to squash it in Germany might have ignited a civil war. Charles was willing to risk this, but if the pope wanted the emperor’s support, the emperor also wanted the pope’s. Charles planned to attack the French holdings in Italy, especially in Milan, and it would have been convenient, though not strictly necessary, to have had the pope’s blessing. Leo agreed, and Charles attacked Milan, chasing the French back toward the Alps.
Then Leo inconveniently died, and his successor, the Medici pope Clement VII, a suspicious and uncertain man, was not quite the decisive leader his predecessor had been. He vacillated between France and the emperor, landing finally on the side of the French, who wanted to form an anti-imperial league.
The Emperor was livid. The pope had wanted him to punish the Lutherans—so let the Lutherans punish the pope! The emperor’s brother, Ferdinand of Austria, gathered a vast army, an easy twenty-thousand German Landsknechte, low-level knights and warriors, very much like Kepler’s father, Heinrich, and marched them across the Alps into Lombardy. They were not so much an army as a horde of locusts—undisciplined, sadistic, and bent on vengeance against the popish Antichrist. Not to mention the rich booty they hoped to get. Georg von Frundsberg, an old man, red-faced, corpulent, and given to rages, led them down the length of Italy. Rain didn’t stop them. Blizzards didn’t stop them. Nothing stopped them, for their fury against the Antichrist was enormous.
They destroyed one army on the way down, the army of Giovanni delle Bande Nere of the house of Medici, and then met, greeted, and joined up with the imperial army of Habsburg Spain, which had been marching with a force of Italians and even a few Frenchmen, under the rule of the Duke of Bourbon, the traitorous constable of France. The few professional soldiers like the duke quickly learned that they could not control their own men, that the emperor had punched a hole in a dam of religious hatred, and the army they commanded had poured through. Their men, in rags, nearly starved, with half them unable to communicate with the other half, marched on. Clement sent word to the generals offering payment in return for Rome’s safety, but when the men heard about it, they turned on their own leaders and shouted them down—they would not go back without raping and thieving and murdering until they were sated. Raging at their cheek, Georg von Frundsberg had to be carried off on a stretcher after a fit of apoplexy. Now in charge of the army, the Duke of Bourbon looked around himself, a tiny boat caught in a roiling tide, and marched his men on toward the city.
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