by Stuart Clark
He paid for his haircut and left, eager to reach his next appointment. As he walked the overcast streets, he wondered what others thought when they looked at him. Perhaps they think me close to death. The notion gave him some curious satisfaction. A grand funeral would finally show the doubters what a valued citizen he had been. He conjured pictures of mourning crowds, the Archduke’s arrival in black, and the narration of condolence letters from universities across Europe.
‘Johannes!’ The call broke him from his grim musings. ‘We’re over here.’
Hoffman was standing with a stocky man in a short cape. The stranger favoured Kepler with a polite smile.
‘Allow me to introduce Jan Jessenius, anatomist and fellow advisor to our illustrious Emperor Rudolph II,’ said Hoffman.
‘An honour to meet you, Herr Kepler. I have heard of your great book, though, alas, I have yet to experience the pleasure of reading your Mysterium Cosmographicum.’ His words were warm, but his eyes scrutinised Kepler.
‘The pleasure is mine, Herr Jessenius.’
‘Gentleman, I thought we would take lunch at the inn.’ Hoffman indicated a squat building with a black timber frame, leaning, as if inebriated, on its neighbour for support.
‘Lead on,’ said Jessenius, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.
Inside, they burrowed through the drinkers and searched for a spare table. As they squatted on stools around a battered wooden slab, the conviviality of the place lifted Kepler’s spirits. It was as if the inn were divorced from the troubles of the outside world.
Hoffman leaned towards him. ‘Jan performed the first public dissection of a human cadaver here in the city, not three weeks ago. If I had not seen the lengths of the intestine myself, I would not have believed it.’
‘Thank goodness the day was a cold one – it kept the stench at bay,’ Jessenius added, prompting the men to grin.
‘I have considered turning to anatomy myself,’ said Kepler. ‘I find the resonances between the condition of the individual and the aspects of the heavens fascinating.’
As any learned man knew, the twelve constellations of the zodiac influenced the twelve regions of the body, starting with Aries and the head, face and brain, Taurus and the neck, throat and larynx, and continuing downwards to Pisces and the feet and toes. As the planets passed through these constellations, so they exerted their own power on those areas of the human body: Jupiter brought with it a desire to hunt; Saturn, the blight of melancholia; while Venus stirred the passions. The planets and their ever shifting alignments combined to produce the celestial wind that swayed the human soul, sometimes provoking insight and brilliance, happiness and strength; at others despair and illness, even wickedness if the alignment were adverse.
‘But,’ continued Kepler, ‘my heart is drawn so powerfully to the stars that I cannot help but think astronomy is God’s choice for me.’
A barmaid placed a pie and three pewter plates on the table. Hoffman unsheathed his dagger and levered open the pie’s coffin lid. He and Jessenius both helped themselves to large platefuls of the pink and brown meat, whereas Kepler picked more carefully.
‘I believe that you chose Prague for your exile with an agenda in mind,’ said Jessenius.
‘Indeed. I hope to work with the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe. He has recently taken up residence not far from here, at Benátky Castle.’
‘Why Tycho?’
‘He’s the greatest observational astronomer alive. He has spent his lifetime on the subject and amassed the finest collection of observations in human history.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Jessenius, toying with some meat, ‘but I thought your allegiance was to the Bear, Ursus, the imperial mathematician.’
Kepler felt his cheeks burn. Would this haunt him for ever?
Hoffman looked concerned.
‘I did not give Ursus permission to publish my letter as the prelude to his book,’ said Kepler.
‘But you did write the letter.’ A watchfulness returned to Jessenius’s eyes.
Something hot sparked inside Kepler. ‘And how I regret it now. I was young, guileless and stupid, trying to worm my way into the favour of any astronomer who would give me credit. So, yes, a few years ago I sent Ursus a letter of the utmost praise with a copy of my book; as I did to Tycho; as I did to many others. At the time, I was unaware of their rivalry. Now, I would not hesitate to name Tycho the greater astronomer. He knows this; we have corresponded since. He even praised my work, inviting me to Prague so that we could discuss astronomy. But I was not at liberty to leave my teaching post.’ Kepler scratched his head, desperate to make them believe him. ‘You see the Mysterium is just the beginning. It sets out my belief in Copernican astronomy but not my proof of it. It is infatuation without marriage; a man’s ideas without the womanly curves of a solution. Just as a carpenter needs wood to fashion, so a mathematician needs numbers to shape. In his lifetime Tycho has accumulated more observations than all other astronomers in history put together. With them, I can prove that the Sun is the centre of the Universe – I know it.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I feel the influence of God in my belief.’
A sideways glance passed between Hoffman and Jessenius. When he realised that Kepler had seen the look, Hoffman hastily slid the pie across. ‘Do eat, Johannes, or there will be none left.’
‘I’ve had my fill, thank you,’ Kepler said pointedly. ‘I’ve also written to my old tutor at Tübingen, asking about a professorship there. Perhaps coming to Prague was a mistake.’
‘Patience, friend,’ Jessenius said, wiping his lips with a napkin.
Hoffman placed a hand on Kepler’s arm, guiding him back into the seat.
Jessenius continued. ‘Please accept my apologies for questioning you, but you must understand that Tycho is a law unto himself. If you are to work with him, your loyalty must be beyond reproach.’
Kepler looked from Jessenius to Hoffman, and saw in their faces the reality of the situation.
‘Jan is a close friend of Tycho,’ confirmed Hoffman.
‘Fear not, Johannes,’ said Jessenius, ‘I believe you are a good man and I will take word of your arrival to Tycho.’
‘Sir, may I humbly beg that you not reveal the circumstances of my arrival? You see, it is my hope to collaborate with Tycho as an equal: his observations and my mathematics. Any hint of my plight will make me seem in need of charity. It would destroy my pride.’ If not for the table, Kepler would have sunk to his knees.
Jessenius nodded. ‘I will inform him only of your arrival. The rest is down to Tycho. Be warned, Johannes, no man makes up Tycho’s mind for him.’
4
‘That’ll do,’ said Barbara. ‘Do you want me to stop breathing?’
Anicka tied the laces of her mistress’s stays and helped her into a dark blue dress that flared at the hips and had an embroidered bodice.
‘And the ruff,’ said Barbara, oblivious to the maid’s smirks as she secured the cartwheel of fabric.
‘Come, husband, we should be downstairs by now.’
Kepler reluctantly put down Harmony and blew out his reading flame. He ran a cursory hand through his hair.
‘Better than that.’ Barbara pointed to the brushes on the mantelpiece. Kepler smoothed his hair backwards with the wiry implements. ‘There, am I presentable?’ He was wearing his best black jacket, as befitted a formal occasion, to which Barbara had sewn lace cuffs that picked out the white of his new hose.
‘You’ll do,’ she said.
They made their way downstairs, drawn by voices and music, to where Baron Hoffman’s grand reception room was already full of visitors. Everything sparkled in the candlelight: the wine glasses, the jewellery and the men’s buttons. Gentlemen were in earnest discussion. The women were nodding politely or clustering in little groups of their own to exchange confidences. In the corner of the room, a quartet of musicians plucked and blew their way through a selection of airy melodies.
Their host met them at t
he door. ‘Welcome to the Feast of the Hunters’ Moon.’
‘What better omen for an astronomer’s first weekend in the new city?’ smiled Kepler. The lively babble of conversation enveloped them. Almost at once, men eager to be introduced to the new arrival besieged Kepler. He was driven deeper into the room, leaving Barbara stranded. Self-consciously she scanned the assembly. The women were wearing high collars that plunged downwards to the swell of their décolletages. A further glance around the room confirmed the ubiquity of the fashion; each woman was revealing skin, in fact flaunting it.
‘You must be Mrs Stargazer,’ said one of the guests, older than Barbara but taller and slimmer.
‘Barbara Kepler, madam.’
‘I hear that your husband is a clever man. His arrival is the talk of the town.’
Barbara stopped short. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes, another for Rudolph’s inner circle, no doubt.’
‘The Emperor?’
‘He collects thinkers the way a small boy hunts for spiders. I say! Is that what they are wearing in Graz these days?’ She favoured Barbara with an unnerving smile. ‘I haven’t seen such a ruff in Prague for years. Still, it’s good to know the old ideas live on in other places.’
Barbara touched the starched fabric standing proud of her neck by some four inches, each point culminating in a bead. She forced herself to laugh as though she had been caught in a moment of forgetfulness. ‘I am unused to Prague’s customs, having only just arrived.’
‘Oh, my dear, a little rustic charm is welcome. It reminds us who we are.’ Again that smile flashed.
‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ Barbara ignored her companion’s puzzled expression and retreated to the quiet hall, all but tearing the ruff from her neck. Flushed with embarrassment, she was about to thrust the offending garment behind a chair cushion when another thought struck her. She loosened the drawstring on her chemise and tugged down the neckline as much as she dared. Then she turned the ruff around, so that the opening was in front of her throat and tucked the open ends underneath the shoulders of her bodice, forcing the ruff to stand up like a collar. Catching her faint reflection in a windowpane, she squared her shoulders and returned to the party.
She spied her acquaintance and walked straight up to her. ‘I’m back,’ said Barbara.
She received a cold look at first but watched it transform into surprise and then warmth as the older woman registered Barbara’s altered appearance. ‘I am Frau Dietrich. Now, let me introduce you to my friends.’
In the gentlemen’s quarter, Kepler sipped a rich wine, delighted to be drinking from glass rather than pewter. The cut crystal felt so much cleaner on his lips. One day, he thought, Barbara and I will have a small set just like these.
‘My dear friend, I trust the book is to your liking.’
There was no mistaking the voice of Hans Georg Hewart von Hohenburg.
‘Hans, how good to see you again,’ said Kepler.
The Bavarian Chancellor was a short man, no taller than Kepler, but carried himself much straighter to give the illusion of height. As always, he was in the best of clothes; this evening clad in an exquisite jacket in maroon velvet and brilliant white hose. Every blond hair on his head had been brushed strictly into place. But when Hewart thought no one was looking, he was in the habit of sucking on his bottom lip, as if chewing over some conundrum.
Kepler noticed how delicately Hewart held his glass by the stem, and readjusted his own ham-fisted grip. ‘The book is a revelation and an inspiration all in one. I can scarcely set it down. And what of the book I recommended to you?’
Hewart smiled. ‘Ah … I’m afraid I’ve let you down. I can understand so little of what Copernicus writes that I’ve given up. He puts in so many epicycles that I just cannot picture the convoluted motions – all the planets whirling through the heavens so. To my thinking, it is scarce improvement on Ptolemy.’
‘Copernicus over-complicates his system but his basic idea is sound.’
‘Can the Sun truly be at the centre of everything?’
Kepler drew closer. ‘A growing number of us think so. There is an astronomer in Italy named Galileo …’
‘A Catholic?’ Hewart’s voice rang with pride.
‘An astronomer,’ said Kepler by way of refusing the distinction. ‘He writes to me, signing himself one Copernican to another. Yet he will not speak out in favour of the system as I’ve urged him to do.’
Hewart tugged at his goatee. ‘What holds him back?’
‘We cannot yet prove that Earth moves. Until we can, I fear there will always be support for the old ideas.’
‘But how could you measure such a thing?’
‘Simply. If the Earth orbits the Sun, the North Star will appear to move during the year.’
Hewart looked at him blankly.
‘Here, hold your finger in front of your face and close one eye. Where’s your finger against the background.’
‘In front of the lute player.’
‘Now look through the other eye.’
‘It’s moved; it is to the left of him now, but I haven’t moved my finger.’ He swapped eyes again, testing the new discovery.
‘Precisely, it’s called parallax. Your finger has remained stationary but it appears to have moved against the more distant objects because you have changed your vantage point. The same will happen to Earth. Every six months we look out from the other side of our orbit. All someone needs to do is measure the position of the North Star at six-monthly intervals and see it change.’
‘You say that Copernicus complicates his system … Can it be simplified?’ Hewart asked.
Kepler nodded, setting off miniature waves in his wine. ‘The key is beauty. Ptolemy and Copernicus both present ugly systems of motion that no man can keep in his head. The true movement of the planets will be a simple elegant dance – beautiful even. How could the heavens be otherwise?’
‘You look flushed. Has the wine disagreed with you?’
‘I am fighting a poor humour, that is all.’ Kepler raised his free hand. His forehead was clammy again. His vision started to blur. ‘We travelled through so much country on the way here, there is no telling what miasmas we encountered.’
‘My dear friend, let us sit you down.’ But Hewart’s eyes were drawn away.
Kepler followed the gaze and saw Jessenius approaching. ‘I’ll be alright.’ He took a deep breath and pulled himself straighter. Alongside Jessenius was a young man, tall and well built, with intense pale eyes and a walk that bordered on a swagger. He was dressed in green velvet with black hose and held steady a long sword, sheathed at his side.
‘Johannes, allow me introduce the Junker Franz Tengnagel, one of Tycho’s assistants. He brings word from Benátky Castle.’
‘Herr Kepler,’ said the young man in clipped tones, thrusting forth a sealed letter.
Hesitating at first, Kepler took the letter and slipped a finger under the seal. Blinking to clear his vision, it was difficult to read Tycho’s extravagant handwriting despite the mass of candles that poured light around the room.
‘Well, let us share in your news,’ Hewart encouraged.
Kepler skimmed the words again, took a deep breath. ‘I am welcome to be his companion in observing the heavens.’
‘Then we recharge our glasses,’ said Hewart, ‘and drink in your honour.’
‘We ride to Benátky the day after tomorrow,’ said Tengnagel. It sounded like an order.
After the toast, Kepler slipped out to read the letter more carefully. His surroundings had begun to assume an unreal edge, as if he were looking at them through old panes of glass. Yet Tycho’s words were imprinted on his mind. You will come not so much as a guest but as a very welcome friend and highly desirable participant and companion in our observations of the heavens. Kepler’s cheeks became suddenly damp with tears, and his body began to tremble. He leaned back against the wall, feeling the corner of an ornate mirror-frame press into his back.
> When the peculiar exorcism had run it course, he wiped his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. His mind was clear. The hallway looked normal again. Then a labouring voice caught his attention. It called his name, though more in statement than in greeting. A large man was tottering near the staircase. He was bound into a suit of silver-grey cloth, rolls of fat bulging between the strapping that held the seams closed. His bald head emerged from a ring of blubber.
‘I am Nicholas Reimers Ursus, Mathematicus to his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Rudolph. You perhaps know me best as The Bear.’
Kepler caught his breath. Ursus, The Bear. ‘You caused me trouble, sir, publishing my private letter as if I sided with you against Tycho Brahe, the prince of astronomers.’
Ursus snorted, seemingly amused. ‘The prince of astronomers, you say? I worked as one of your “prince’s” subjects, just as I hear you are about to do. Be warned, he is not what you think.’
‘He has gathered the finest astronomical observations in the history of mankind.’
‘For all his work, Tycho is an anchor to progress. Who cares about his arrangement of the planets – or my one? Both are wrong. You know that as well as I do.’
Kepler nodded cautiously.
The Bear squeezed out his words between ragged gasps. ‘I’m under no illusion about my worth as an astronomer. I’m no great asset to history. Neither is Tycho. He will squander the measurements, if you let him, and the new thinking will never come. You’re his best hope for immortality. Examine everything you thought you knew; leave no assumption unchallenged. If it cannot be proved, it can be changed. I’m too old to put this insight to use but you … you are different from any man I have encountered before. You are original. Your Mysterium proves that. I published your letter without your consent – that is true – but not to cause you trouble. It was so that those yet to come will see the praise you once lavished on me.’