by Stuart Clark
She nodded, hugging herself. ‘When do you move to Florence?’
‘The Grand Duke’s litter arrives for me on Thursday. I’ll spend some time settling in and then I am to visit Rome, to present the optical tube to the Jesuits, maybe even to the Pope himself.’
‘How often will you return to the university here?’
‘Hardly ever.’
Marina looked so vulnerable. He lowered himself next to her, feeling the comfortable familiarity of her presence engulf him.
She seemed to feel it too. ‘Why did we never marry?’ she asked.
‘There was no need. Our relationship was never a secret. I acknowledged the children.’
‘But you never let us live with you.’
‘I never saw another woman in all that time. I loved you all too much for that.’
‘Oh, I dare say you’ve been a better parent to Virginia than I, instructing her as if she were a son, teaching her music …’
‘There was nothing more to be gained by marriage.’
‘Especially to a girl with a Venetian accent.’
‘That’s unfair.’
Her expression grew distant. ‘I used to wait with butterflies in my stomach for the Friday boat from Pisa. Every week I was convinced you wouldn’t be there waiting for me at the other dock.’
‘And every weekend I was, until you fell pregnant with Virginia and I moved you here to Padua, so I could be close to you both.’
She glanced around the room. ‘And here I still am, as close as I ever got to living under the same roof – even after Livia and then Vincenzio were born.’
‘How is my boy?’
‘He’s well. Giuseppe is good to him.’
‘I’ve made arrangements to continue transferring money to you for his upkeep.’
She nodded without looking at him.
‘Marina, there’s something else I must tell you. It’s about the girls’ convent. It’s not here in Padua. It’s in San Matteo … in Florence.’
‘Florence!’ Her head swung round.
Galileo got to his feet and leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘You can visit,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Promise me you will find them husbands, Galileo. They mustn’t become nuns, Livia particularly …’
‘The Grand Duke’s court is the best place for me to search.’
‘… she has too much spirit. You’ve always said how alike we are. I couldn’t become a nun.’
‘So I remember,’ said Galileo, calling up a hint of her secret smile and a cascade of intimate memories. The ache inside him blossomed into longing. If only he had not become so busy. His neglect of her and their family was never because he did not care – and for years he had managed to see them at least once a week. ‘Marina …’ He caught himself just in time, before he said something he would regret. He could so easily fall in love with her again. What did he mean again? He had never fallen out of love, just become ever more distracted by his work. Now his reward was a place at the court of Grand Duke Cosimo II in Florence, and with the optical tube he had a real chance of greatness. If he did not take this opportunity, he would hate himself, or, worse, resent Marina. Yet there was no way he could take her with him. She was not used to such circles and grandeur. She had simple needs and would flounder, and that would reflect badly on him. He swirled the last of the brandy and tipped it into his mouth.
The moment hung between them.
‘I didn’t set out to find a replacement for you,’ she said, ‘but you had grown so distant.’
He swallowed the apology that sprang to his lips. ‘I could see that you were attracted to Giuseppe the day he brought those first lenses.’ The truth was that Galileo had quietly encouraged the affair, by arranging for the lens grinder to make his deliveries to Marina’s house rather than to the university where Galileo worked. As the work to develop the optical tube had dragged on, so Marina’s distraction had provided him with time. ‘I don’t blame you,’ Galileo said. ‘You’re the same age as each other, and I grow older every day.’
Galileo avoided polished surfaces now, and had done so ever since the morning he had caught his reflection to see his father’s ghost returned to haunt him. The snow-white streaks in his dark beard and the way his skin had toughened were all too familiar. His dark eyes remained the same but were now set below a thickening brow and tangled eyebrows, also reminiscent of his father’s.
‘I miss you,’ said Marina.
I miss you too, he wanted to say. ‘I ought to go.’
‘Of course,’ she said without conviction, her eyes wide and inviting.
They had not slept together since Marina invited Giuseppe to her bed. Surprisingly at the time, Galileo had not missed the intimacy but, for some reason tonight, the lost passion was almost unbearable.
Marina slowly opened the front door, then reached up to straighten his hair. Her fingertips sparked against his skin. ‘Age does you no harm, you know. You’re still as handsome as when I first knew you, maybe more so. Distinguished.’
He leaned down and quickly planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Goodbye, Marina.’
18
Rome, Papal States
All that remained of the midday meal was the smell of garlic hanging in the air. Father Grienberger threaded his way through the early afternoon crowds, using his height to see over the bobbing heads of those returning to work. Under his arm he carried a copy of the Astronomia Nova.
He had been feeling heady ever since receiving the book from the Jesuits in Prague, where there had been copies floating around the Imperial Palace. His excitement had quickened when he realised Kepler’s epiphany: ellipses instead of circles. He found himself returning to the book time and time again until he had fixed the new meaning in his head. It was such a simple solution to such a complicated problem. All previous scholars had been hidebound by the unfounded assumption of the perfect circular orbit, the shape given credence only by its antiquity.
In addition, there was the news of Galileo’s discoveries, which had run through the college like a forest fire. Times were changing, Grienberger could feel it, but to assimilate this new knowledge was going to be difficult. He needed advice.
There he is!
Bellarmine was sitting at a small table on a terrace, spooning food from a bowl. His red vestments set him apart from the merchants in their doublets, concluding their lunches over one last glass of wine.
Bellarmine raised the spoon again, a look of serene pleasure filling his face as he savoured the mouthful, and Grienberger thought how silly the cardinal looked relishing food in public. He approached, casting a shadow across the table.
‘Father Grienberger,’ said Bellarmine with surprise.
‘Cardinal Pippe said I would find you here. I wanted to … Is that ice cream?’
‘One of the greatest inventions to have taken place in my lifetime. Sit down and enjoy some with me.’
Somehow the thought of the great theologian slipping out to indulge himself with ice cream was faintly disturbing. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Do at least sit so that I can stop looking up into the Sun at you.’
Grienberger perched, feeling uncomfortable now at being in such a public place and knowing what he had to say. He realised that in his excitement to find Bellarmine, he had not planned how to broach the subject. After a moment he said, ‘Remember when Father Clavius asked you to think about reconciling the new astronomy with theology. Well, the time has come.’
Bellarmine put down his spoon. ‘Explain.’ After listening to Grienberger’s animated explanation, he leaned back. ‘So Kepler stumbles on a mathematical trick to get the right answer. He assumes the Earth moves but cannot find any evidence to prove it. I think we need not concern ourselves,’ he said easily.
‘You don’t understand.’ Grienberger tried again to explain the simplicity of the system, the accuracy of its predictions, the obviousness of it all from a mathematical standpoint, and its reliance on the Sun being the centre of eve
rything. Yet, when Bellarmine’s expression darkened, he stumbled over his words and eventually became tongue-tied. He riffled through the book, placed it in front of Bellarmine, and pointed out a passage.
Piety prevents many people from agreeing with Copernicus out of fear that the Holy Ghost speaking in Scripture will be branded as a liar if we say that the Earth moves and the Sun stands still. But these persons should bear in mind that we learn the most important things with the sense of sight, and therefore cannot detach our speech from the visual sense. Thus, very many things happen every day when we talk the language of the sense of sight even though we know for a certainty that the situation is otherwise.
Bellarmine scowled. ‘What is this gibberish?’
‘There’s more.’ Grienberger thumbed to another passage.
To teach mankind about nature is not the purpose of Holy Scripture, which speaks to people about these matters in a human way in order to be understood by them and uses popular concepts. Why is it surprising then, that Scripture also talks the language of human senses in situations where the reality of things differs from the perception?
‘I have heard enough.’ Bellarmine angrily slapped the pages over until the book was shut. ‘You admire this? Does Father Clavius believe this work?’
Grienberger nodded gravely. ‘The mathematics of it, yes. The theological justification is down to you.’
‘It is heresy. The Holy Spirit did not lie when dictating the Bible. Tell me, what do you know about an astronomer called Galileo? The Inquisition is hearing disturbing things about him. He’s sending “glass tubes” to nobles throughout the Italian peninsula and beyond, currying favour by claiming to see new planets. He’s apparently putting other discoveries in coded messages. Yet, he’s sending nothing to Rome. What are we to make of this behaviour?’
A serving maid approached the table, intent on clearing away Bellarmine’s bowl. He made to stop her but realised that his ice cream had melted. He slid the bowl towards her and his look of displeasure intensified.
‘Can we even believe his discoveries? I have heard that Father Scheiner in Ingolstadt is saying that the results are nothing but trickery, that he has seen through one of these but can see nothing.’
Grienberger chided himself for being so hasty in seeking Bellarmine’s help. He had hoped to keep the next piece of information secret for a little longer, at least until the Jesuit craftsmen had succeeded in their work, but he could see that there was only one thing that would satisfy Bellarmine now. ‘Come with me, cardinal.’
In Grienberger’s office was a long thick tube that had been carefully split lengthwise and opened out on his desk; inside it were a pair of convex lenses, one at either end of the tube.
‘This is all that one of Galileo’s optical tubes is?’ asked Bellarmine.
Grienberger nodded. ‘We intercepted it en route to the Duke of Bavaria.’ He picked up the lenses and handed them one by one to Bellarmine, who lifted them to his eye and waved them around trying to get them to focus.
‘Pure glass, no tricks,’ said Bellarmine. ‘Have you seen the things that Galileo describes?’
‘From the roof of the college before we took the tube to pieces. They are real. We’re now making our own optical tubes. We’ll rebuild this one and send it on to the Duke. We have arranged for it to be loaned to Johannes Kepler.’
Bellarmine looked warily at Grienberger, who explained. ‘Kepler has been asking Galileo to provide him with the instrument, but Galileo has refused, making the excuse that he needs them for princes. It’s as if he has something to hide. Father Guldin has agreed to make the arrangements in Prague. He was a Lutheran before converting to us so Kepler might view him sympathetically.’
Bellarmine replaced the lenses. ‘You should think yourself lucky that Cardinal Pippe is not here: doing favours for Lutheran heretics …’
‘We still hope to attract him to our ranks. From what I hear, Prague grows more unstable by the day.’
‘Indeed, but would we want Kepler any more? We may end up converting him just to tie him to a stake in the market square.’ Bellarmine rubbed his baggy eyes. ‘Father Grienberger, I must know what we are dealing with. I trust the evidence of my eyes in preference to the pen-strokes of a Lutheran, no matter how eminent you say he is. As for Galileo …’
Grienberger spoke quickly. ‘We have already invited him to Rome. We’re as anxious to meet him and understand his agenda as you.’
‘When were you going to tell the Inquisition this? Oh, no matter, when does he arrive?’
‘We expect him sometime in the next few weeks.’
‘Good. Let us see what Kepler makes of Galileo’s findings – and let us see for ourselves what Galileo has to say. But tread carefully, Father Grienberger, you’re on dangerous ground.’
19
Prague, Bohemia
1610
The splintered wood pulled at the soles of Kepler’s stockinged feet as he tiptoed up the stairs. In one hand, a feeble candlelight writhed in the draught from the attic rooms. In the other, he held a wooden tripod, and a most precious leather tube containing a pair of ground glass lenses.
It was the Duke of Bavaria’s optical tube; he had arrived at court carrying the instrument, and for as long as the anxious political negotiations continued, Kepler could make use of it. The Duke’s Chancellor, Hewart von Hohenburg, had brought the tube to him, carefully explaining that a Father Guldin had pointed out Kepler’s need.
Father Guldin. The Jesuits again.
They had asked for nothing in return, though they must know politeness alone would compel him to send them his observations. As much as he wanted to believe that they were motivated solely by their brotherhood in astronomy, since Grienberger’s attempt to convert him in the wake of Susanna’s birth he could not shake his unease at their patronage. Their fears for Susanna had been entirely unjustified, he thought with some pride. She was strong and clever, with brothers who were equally robust.
He had left his shoes at the bottom of the stairs in the hope of being quiet. Frau Bezold’s footsteps often woke him when she rose early to begin her chores, and the last thing he wanted was to disturb Barbara. For once, she had quietly dropped off to sleep and was now snoring softly in the marital bed.
At the top of the landing, he used his elbow to slip the latch on the back room and crept inside. As he did so, the room filled with movement and an awful wailing. Kepler felt the breath rush from his lungs as the spectre rose into the view. It was a seething mass of bedsheets.
As suddenly as the terrible noise had started, so it stopped, and Kepler found himself staring at a familiar face, old and pinched, topped with a skullcap of muslin that almost hid the wiry crown of grey hair. ‘What are you doing here?’ the face demanded.
‘I prefer to ask you that question, Frau Bezold. This is not your room.’
‘It’s quieter in here at the back. I can sleep better.’ She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. As she did so, a small wooden crucifix escaped the fabric of her nightwear.
Kepler stared, shocked by the Catholic symbol. The housemaid tugged the blanket harder to cover the necklace, as if to remove it from sight would erase significance.
‘Frau Bezold …’ He set down the candle. It flared briefly and then settled to a steady flame again.
‘It’s the only way since Gerhard died. I like to talk to him on Sundays, but when they stopped us going to church … How else could I … Don’t you miss the sacrament?’
‘I’ve learned to live without it.’
‘Well, I can’t. It’s all the same God, isn’t it? They make it easy for you to change, you know. Just go to the church and answer a few questions. It’s not as different as you think.’
Kepler sighed. ‘You must follow your conscience. But you are wrong to think that the two Churches are in any way similar.’
She sniffed loudly, readjusting the blanket again. ‘So, what are you doing in here?’
He almost laughed at h
er defiance. ‘I have the new instrument from Italy.’ He rolled the red leather tube in his hands, admiring its embossed feathers. It felt incongruously light for something so important.
‘Fancy,’ she said. ‘What does it do?’
‘Makes far away things seem closer. They say it reveals new wonders in the heavens.’
‘What good is that? There’s nothing wrong with what we’ve always been taught. Earth lies at the centre with seven heavenly spheres above our heads and seven of the Devil below our feet,’ she recited. ‘How we behave in this life determines whether we go up or down in the next. Why change things?’
‘Because it doesn’t work. Here, hold this,’ he handed her the instrument, ‘and don’t drop it.’
He busied himself with the tripod as she lifted the tube to her eye and swept it around the room. ‘I can’t see a thing.’
He took it back and set it on the tripod, swinging it gingerly to test it was mounted securely. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled open the window, admitting gusts of cold air into the room.
Frau Bezold made a brrrrrr sound. ‘I’m going to bed, it’s too cold.’
‘Aren’t you even slightly curious?’ he indicated the leather tube.
‘What good will it do me?’
‘It will show God’s realm to you. How can you not want to see that?’
‘When you get to my age, you’re glad of every postponement.’ She shuffled from the room.
Kepler aimed the tube at the shining orb of Jupiter but when he squatted to look through, there was nothing but blackness. He nudged the tube. Still blackness. Again and again he tried, the movements becoming a little larger, a little more desperate. Occasionally something would dart across his line of vision, but he could not stop the tube in time to catch it.
He stood up, tight across the shoulders, and wrung his hands to warm them up, then realigned the instrument. This time Jupiter sprang out clearly. Kepler stared in amazement as four dimmer points also solidified in front of his eyes. He wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. The last time he had felt this way was when Barbara gave birth to Ludwig.