Theater of the World

by Thomas Reinertsen Berg

  The map breaks with Ptolemy’s work in the reproduction of the fourth part of the world over in the west. Not only is this the first map to present America as a separate continent–it is also the first on which the name ‘America’ is used. The representation of the southern part of the continent is so strikingly correct that it makes one wonder whether Waldseemüller had access to sources other than Vespucci’s travelogues and the logs of Spanish and Portuguese ships, but if he did, he never mentions them. Along the coast, several rivers and place names are marked, but no names are to be found in the interior–the western areas are a ‘Terra ultra incognita’. At 10 degrees north, the southern part of the continent relinquishes its grip on the northern–America is presented as two large islands. We can see what looks like the Gulf of Mexico and Florida stretching down towards the island of Isabella (Cuba), and here, too, several places along the coast are named, but the western part of the land mass is once again an unknown area. In the north, the continent ends with a straight line and beyond this yet another ‘Terra ultra incognita’.

  Other cartographers copied the map and adopted the name America, including Peter Apian (1520) and Sebastian Münster (1532), but after a time Waldseemüller began to have doubts about both the continent and its name. When his world map for inclusion in the Geography was completed in 1513, he was content to call America ‘Terra incognita’, and on a nautical chart from 1516 went one step further, giving the southern part of America the names ‘Terra papagallis’ (‘Land of Parrots’) and ‘Terra nova’ (‘New Land’), and naming the northern part ‘Terra de Cuba. Asie partis’ (‘Land of Cuba, Part of Asia’).

  Here–as on so many other occasions both before and since–the events of history are steeped in a dark irony. Amerigo Vespucci died in 1512, without ever knowing that an entire continent had been named after him, while the person responsible for this died in 1520–after changing his mind about both the continent’s name, and whether there was actually a continent there at all.

  OLAUS MAGNUS | In the summer of 1527, however, history suddenly brightened once more when Swedish archbishop Olaus Magnus travelled to Antwerp and saw Waldseemüller’s nautical chart. Although Waldseemüller was wrong when he made America a part of Asia, the nautical chart is far more modest than the speculative world map that had described all 360 degrees of longitude–even though a third of the area was unknown; and all the areas up to 90 degrees north–even though most of what lay above 70 degrees north was likewise unknown. Waldseemüller’s nautical chart from 1516 made do with reproducing 232 degrees of longitude–most of America and what we now call the Pacific Ocean was not included. And up in the north, Waldseemüller added a text admitting that he didn’t have a very good overview of the northern areas due to the many contradictory accounts from this part of the world.

  Olaus Magnus had little choice but to accept this apology–on Waldseemüller’s map, the northern regions are little more than a shapeless lump decorated with a four-legged walrus-like creature. Olaus began creating his own map of his part of the world that same year.

  For a man of his time, Olaus was extremely well travelled. He made his first voyage abroad as a teenager, if only as far as Oslo, Norway, and studied in Germany from 1510 to 1517. In the spring of 1518, when he was an appointed canon in Uppsala, Sweden, he received a mission from the Pope–to travel northwards selling indulgences to raise money for the building of St Peter’s Basilica. Olaus rode up the east coast of Sweden to Ångermanland, then west to Jämtland, and over the mountains to Trondheim in Norway, where it is not unthinkable that he may have met Erik Valkendorf, the geographically skilled archbishop of Nidaros, who two years later wrote a description of Finnmark to provide the Catholic Church with a glimpse of life in the north.

  From here, it is difficult to say with certainty where Olaus travelled to next. Did he spend the winter in Nordland, Troms and Finnmark while travelling along the Norwegian coast, or did he only hear about these areas from Valkendorf? Is it true that he was particularly interested in observing the fishing activities around Lofoten and just outside Bergen? Did he see the Moskstraumen tidal eddies and whirlpools with his own eyes? Or did he simply sit in a warm nook by the fire as the archbishop described them? What we do know is that he travelled home via Jämtland, and one midsummer evening in 1519 found himself in Torneå on the border between Sweden and Finland, where Belarusians, Karelians, Sami, Finns, Bjarmians, Swedes and Norwegians met and traded goods. We don’t know how far north Olaus travelled, but he probably visited the chapel at Särkilax, the northernmost outpost in Uppsala Diocese, and from here may have travelled on to Pello, north of the Arctic Circle, where permanent settlements ended. We also know that in 1519 Olaus travelled to Stockholm.

  Sweden was experiencing turbulent times. Christian II, king of Denmark-Norway, took control of the country in 1520 with the support of the Swedish archbishop, but was overthrown in 1523 by Gustav Vasa, who worked to bring about the Reformation. Despite the fact that Olaus remained faithful to the Catholic Church, Vasa asked him to participate in negotiations with the merchants in Lübeck and the Netherlands regarding access to Swedish ports, probably because the king knew Olaus had a good overview of the Swedish coastline and so would be able to defend the country’s interests. Olaus therefore arrived in Antwerp in the summer of 1527, where Abram Ortel had been born on 14 April that same year, and from there journeyed on to Gdansk, where he started work on the map that would give the continent a more accurate idea of the northern regions.

  In Poland, Olaus met his old friend the cartographer Bernard Wapowski, and made the acquaintance of Nicolaus Copernicus, who sixteen years later would write De revolutionibus orbium coelestium (On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres), in which he proved it is the Earth that moves around the Sun, and not vice versa. Gdansk was buzzing with seafarers and merchants who were familiar with the Baltic Sea, and Wapowski had obtained a map that showed all the trade routes between the Baltic region, Finland and Sweden. In a letter to a friend, he also expressed his thanks for a map of Denmark, Sweden and Norway he’d been permitted to borrow. In Gdansk, Olaus sat down to combine all this information with the experience he’d gained from his travels–and began to draw.

  In 1537, Olaus left Poland for Italy, and in Venice two years later borrowed 440 ducats to finance the printing of his map. But the Carta marina et descriptio septentrionalium terrarum (Marine Map and Description of the Northern Lands) is more than just a map–in the tradition of the medieval mappæ mundi, it also acts as a kind of illustrated encyclopedia, providing information about the Nordic countries’ peoples, kings, fauna, religion and natural resources. In 1555, the map was followed by a large work about the history of the Nordic peoples, which explained many of the map’s illustrations. ‘Here you may see a woman, her hair loose, aiming arrows,’ wrote Olaus to explain an image of a couple hunting in Finmarchia, ‘nor is it any wonder, because those who live under the celestial Pole find in the huge compass of their forests such rich abundance of game that the men alone would not suffice to hunt them down if their womenfolk did not race to their sides. Therefore the women join the chase with the same swiftness as the men, perhaps even with greater.’ In Helgeland, people are described as burning fish on their fires: ‘Horum pisciu capitibus utitur loco lignorum’ (‘These fish heads are used instead of wood’), wrote Olaus, explaining that fish was so abundant that the heads could be used for firewood.

  On Olaus’s map, parts of the Baltic Sea are covered by ice–including the Gulf of Finland, where we see two armies, one from ‘Moscovie pars’, about to enter into combat. This is a reference to a battle that occurred in 1495, when the Muscovites attempted to conquer Viborg by riding over the ice.

  The first printed map of the Nordic region was included in a Geography printed by German cartographer Nicolaus Germanus in 1482. Ptolemy’s Scandinavian islands have grown larger and are attached to the mainland, if at a rather imaginative location; Finland is not included, but Norway features the cities of
Nodrosia, Bergensis and Stavangerensis. The mythical island of Thule has moved south-west of the Norwegian coast, and Engronelant (Greenland) north of the Nordic region. ‘Mare congelatum’ means ‘The frozen sea’. The map has been drawn on a slope to simulate the spherical globe.

  Out in the Norwegian Sea, Olaus has included some digs at the Reformation. On the southern tip of the Faroe Islands, a safe harbour is shown behind a cliff shaped like a monk; swimming just to the west of this is a threatening sea monster with a wild boar’s head, sharp tusks, dragon feet and eyes on its flank–the Protestant sea swine. According to Olaus, this creature was observed in 1537–the year in which the Reformation was completed in Denmark-Norway. Olaus had obtained information about the sea swine from the Italian pamphlet Monstrum in Oceano, which stated that the creatures had been observed off the coast of Germany, ‘along which shore there also roam very many monsters which have devised for themselves new laws of the Christian faith and religion.’

  The kings at various locations around the map have each been allocated a quote from the Bible, and a similar pattern is evident here: the Catholic kings have been given quotes that are full of praise; the Protestant kings quotes filled with condemnation. But Norway is an exception–partly because Norway had no king at the time. The quote allocated to the Norwegian king–‘Nemo accipiat coronam tuam’ (‘No one may seize your crown’)–must reflect the fact that Olaus viewed Norway as an independent country.

  In 1539, the Carta Marina was without a doubt the best available map of the Nordic region. Five years earlier, German humanist Jacob Ziegler had published a map that was a clear improvement on its predecessors; he placed the Nordic region in the correct north–south orientation, provided fairly accurate distances, with Vvardhus and Asloia at around 70 and 60 degrees north and included Finland as a separate country, rather than an appendage of Sweden. The representation of Finland was not particularly accurate, however; Denmark extended towards Stafanger and Bergis, Funen and Zealand were dissolved into small islands, Copenhagen was not included, Iceland extended from north to south, and Greenland was attached to northern Norway. Compared to that created by Olaus, Ziegler’s map appears rather primitive.

  The Carta Marina has Denmark snugly positioned between Norway in the north and Sweden in the east; the islands in the Baltic Sea are fairly accurately represented, as is Finland. In the north the Scandinavian peninsula bends off towards the west without linking up with Greenland, showing that it is possible to sail there, and Iceland has its correct east–west shape. But Olaus’s original map enjoyed only a short lifetime–probably because it was printed in such low numbers. And perhaps demand for such a gigantic map of the remote Nordic region–as large as 170 by 125 centimetres–wasn’t so great. A smaller version, published by the Italian Antonio Lafreri in 1572, was more popular, and it was Lafreri’s version that most people became familiar with. Olaus’s scaled-down folio edition of his history book also received more widespread attention than his original map–the book was a huge success, and translated into and published in many languages, including Dutch in Antwerp. Here, the folio map would be studied by a renowned cartographer, who to the best of his ability would draw a map of the northern regions for inclusion in what would become the world’s first modern atlas.

  ORTELIUS | Abram Ortel was twelve years old when the Carta Marina was published; this was also the year his father died. Surviving accounts from those who knew him portray him as an earnest young man who took his studies seriously, and everyone seems to have agreed that Abram remained calm, friendly and thoughtful throughout his life–the only thing that disturbed his mild temperament was being interrupted while reading, perhaps because the time he wasn’t forced to spend working and earning money was so precious. At some point during his youth–we don’t know exactly when–he became an apprentice to an engraver who made maps.

  Antwerp’s first printing house opened in 1481, and by the time young Abram had started his apprenticeship the city had sixty-eight printing houses, forty-seven booksellers and 224 typographers and publishers.

  At this time, the printing houses were replacing their woodblocks with copper plates. Copper made it possible to reproduce far greater detail and was a more durable material, although more expensive and labour-intensive–the drypoint technique used to engrave the pattern on to the copper plates required a skilled hand. In 1547, Abram became a member of the Sint-Lucasgilde, the Guild of Saint Luke, a city guild for artists, engravers and printers–but not as an engraver. He joined the guild as a map colourist–afsetter van carten. He never engraved maps himself.

  As a member of the guild, Abram Ortel was not only permitted to Latinise his name to Abraham Ortelius; he could also run his own business. Following in his father’s footsteps, he founded a shop where he bought and sold antiques, books, coins, art, prints and curiosities. He specialised in maps and items relating to geography and history, as these were the subjects he was most passionate about.

  Twice every year, a book fair was held in Frankfurt, attracting people from all across Europe–from Basel, London, Prague and Rome–including printers and booksellers, authors looking for a publisher, publishers looking for authors, and anyone who was interested in obtaining the most up-to-date maps based on the latest information from travellers returning from distant lands. Swarms of people descended on the part of the city between the St Leonhard church and the river, particularly on Buchgasse–Book Street–with its tightly packed rows of stalls occupied by booksellers and purveyors of maps. Abraham Ortelius also came here, both to buy new items and to sell his wares.

  MERCATOR | It was in Frankfurt, in 1554, that Abraham Ortelius struck up a friendship with the greatest cartographer of the age–Gerardus Mercator. Ortelius looked up to Mercator even before their meeting–Ortelius was twenty-eight years old and not yet particularly well known, while the 43-year-old Mercator was a celebrated academic, globe maker and cartographer who was read across Europe whenever he published a new work. According to Ortelius, Mercator was ‘the Ptolemy of our times.’ Their meeting in Frankfurt signalled the start of a long friendship, and the pair exchanged letters and shared geographical information with one another for the rest of their lives.

  Mercator was born slightly further down the River Scheldt, in the small town of Rupelmonde, twenty kilometres south of Antwerp. When he met Ortelius, he was dividing his time between Duisburg, the German city to which he had moved after being imprisoned in the Netherlands for religious reasons, and Leuven, where he worked at the university. His father had been a poor shoemaker who died young; his mother had passed away shortly after. Mercator was actually born Gerard Kremer, but was given the name Mercator upon admission to the university under the same scheme for poor students that had enabled Gemma Frisius to attend. Frisius became Mercator’s tutor when Mercator began to study mathematics, astronomy and cosmography, and in 1536 the pair collaborated to make a globe commissioned by the king of Spain.

  As far back as antiquity, Strabo had believed that the best way to replicate the Earth was on a globe–the Earth is of course round, and any attempt to replicate it on a flat surface necessitates the sacrificing of certain geographical truths. But a globe provides little space for details of the kind you need to navigate a coastline or to find the route from one city to another. Globes are also much more expensive to produce than flat maps on paper.

  Over the years, globes had been made out of metal, wood and paper, with the image drawn or engraved directly onto the sphere. In the 1500s, the first sphere to be created from papier mâché was made–this was then covered with a layer of plaster and varnished. Paper strips featuring a drawing of the world were then glued on top of the dried varnish as carefully and accurately as possible.

  The paper strips were the most difficult part of this process–the technique required the printing of twelve concave strips that would fit together and form a complete image after being glued to the globe’s surface. As mountain ranges, coastlines, rivers and borders often cro
ssed several strips, there was a significant risk of distortions in the final product, and engravers knew that names should be placed on individual strips wherever possible. Painstaking care then had to be taken when gluing the strips into place to avoid wrinkles, misalignment and gaps.

  Before starting work on their globe, Mercator and Frisius consulted all the latest maps. Olaus Magnus’s map would not be published until the following year, so they used Ziegler’s when drawing the northern regions–which at least meant that Finland was included on a globe for the first time in history.

  Scholars had also recently begun to understand that the Mediterranean took up a smaller portion of the Earth’s surface than the more than 60 degrees of longitude allocated to it by Ptolemy. But reducing the size of the Mediterranean would also result in Spain becoming smaller. This was not something the king of Spain was likely to look upon with favour–Charles V had high hopes that this globe would show the Spanish Empire in all its glory. From a safe distance away in Paris another cartographer, Oronce Finé, had already reduced Spain to half its Ptolemaic size on his 1531 world map, but Frisius and Mercator chose to play it safe and follow Ptolemy’s dimensions.

  As always, Asia was a work in progress–the eastern areas of the continent were being redrawn almost every year. In 1522, the survivors of Ferdinand Magellan’s expedition had returned home to Spain, and the crew’s accounts had resulted in the world’s largest island, Taprobane–which according to travelogues from the time of Alexander the Great was situated where the small island of Sri Lanka is today–being moved far to the west, as nobody had seen any trace of it in the location it was said to occupy.