Shea and Artigas - Galileo in Rome

by William R. Shea

  Equally interesting is the postscript: “Let me know as soon as possible, whether the device with the three fish is the printer’s or Galileo’s, and write to tell me what it means.” Riccardi is referring to the title page of the Dialogue, where Aristotle, Ptolemy, and Copernicus are engaged in a conversation on the shore of the sea. At their feet is a device with three dolphins, each gripping the dorsal spine of the one ahead. In Rome someone fancied, with more mischief than wit, that the three dolphins were a veiled reference to the three bees of the Papal arms or to the closed circle of the Barberini cardinals, namely the brother and the two nephews of Urban VIII. This suspicion may have arisen because the three scholars are standing under a canopy where we see five palle or balls, the armourial bearings of the Medici, surmounted by the granducal crown. It was also encouraged by the Latin motto, Grandior ut proles, just above the dolphins. Translated, it means, “I have grown as my family” and could be construed as a criticism of the favors that the pope showered on his relatives. Fortunately for Galileo, the monogram under the dolphins, “GB” with an “L” underneath, stood for G. B. Landini, the name of the printer, and the device of the three dolphins was a commercial sign. Riccardi was greatly relieved to learn that it appeared on nearly all the works that Landini printed and that it had nothing to do with Galileo. It does say something, however, about the ease with which suspicions could be raised when the reputation of the Barberinis was at stake.

  CORRECT, SUSPEND, OR BAN

  How matters looked in Rome can be surmised from a letter that Galileo’s friend Filippo Magalotti wrote to Mario Guiducci in Florence at the beginning of August 1632. The Dialogue, he says, is being examined in order to find out whether it is to be corrected, suspended, or condemned outright. Now the Florentines, who lived in Rome, were in the habit of congregating on feast days in the Church of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini in the via Giulia near the Vatican, and on Monday, 2 August 1632, the feast day of the Knights of St. Stephen, Father Riccardi hastened to the church to see Filippo Magalotti, whom he knew he would find there. He immediately asked for the copies of the Dialogue that had been brought from Florence and promised to return them within ten days. Magalotti replied that the copies had been distributed and that the last, his own, was in the hands of Girolamo Deti, the chamberlain of Taddeo Barberini, another nephew of Urban VIII.

  The books had arrived in Rome more than two months earlier, and it was clearly too late to recall them. Riccardi saw that there was no point in insisting, and he tried to cover things up by declaring that no harm was intended and that he considered Galileo one of his best friends. Nonetheless, he complained about discrepancies between the published book and the manuscript and lamented “the absence, at the end, of two or three arguments that were formulated by the Holy Father himself, and with which the Pope believed he had convinced Galileo that Copernicanism was wrong.” These were missing from the Dialogue and Urban VIII wanted action taken. Magalotti saw Riccardi again at the end of the month, and the priest now admitted that the “two or three arguments” to which he had alluded were really only one, namely the argument about divine omnipotence that had been placed in the mouth of Simplicio, who had been played for a fool during the four days of the Dialogue.

  SLANDERERS AT WORK

  In his letter to Guiducci of 7 August 1632, which we quoted above, Magalotti suggested that if the truth were known, the Jesuits had probably been working in underhanded ways to have the book banned. Magalotti based his conjecture on a remark made by Riccardi, “The Jesuits will persecute him bitterly.” Some Jesuits, such as Father Orazio Grassi and Father Christopher Scheiner, had legitimate grounds to be annoyed with the cavalier treatment they had received at Galileo’s hands, but no surviving document shows that they tried to have his book censured. Riccardi might have meant no more than that the Jesuits would fight Galileo’s ideas tooth and nail in their lectures and in their books, but Magalotti inferred that they would attempt to silence him by having his work placed on the Index. This was probably unwarranted, but it is nonetheless the case that things would have gone more smoothly for Galileo if he had kept on good terms with the Jesuits. Galileo came to see them as the cause of his downfall. For instance, before leaving for Rome in January 1633 he will write to his friend Elia Diodati in Paris:

  I hear from reliable sources that the Jesuit Fathers have managed to convince some very important persons that my book is execrable and more harmful to the Holy Church than the writings of Luther and Calvin. Thus I am sure it will be prohibited, despite the fact that to obtain the license I went personally to Rome and delivered it into the hands of the Master of the Sacred Palace.

  After his trial, in another letter to Elia Diodati on 25 July 1634, Galileo quotes Father Christopher Grienberger, the professor of mathematics at the Roman College, as having confided to one of Galileo’s friends:

  If Galileo had known how to keep on good terms with the Fathers of this College, he would live gloriously in this world. None of his misfortunes would have come to pass and he would have been able to write as he wished about anything, even about the motion of the earth.

  And Galileo’s concludes, “So you see that it is not because of this or that opinion that I have been and continue to be attacked, but because I am not liked by the Jesuits.” This feeling of having been slandered rankled with Galileo to his dying day.

  THE ENQUIRY CONTINUES

  When Riccardi was unable to secure the eight copies of the Dialogue that Magalotti had distributed in Rome, he wrote to the Florentine inquisitor on 7 August 1632 to find out how many had been printed and where they had been sent “in order that steps may be taken to get them back.” He even allowed himself a personal comment, which is entirely to his credit, “Comfort the author and tell him to keep his spirit up.”

  On 15 August 1632, Ambassador Niccolini informed the secretary of state in Florence that a commission had been appointed to examine Galileo’s book. It was said to be composed of a number of persons who were not well disposed toward him, and Niccolini suggested to Cardinal Francesco Barberini that the commission include “neutral” members. The cardinal replied evasively and would say no more than that he would transmit the request to the pope. The matter was treated in great secrecy, but a friend (almost certainly Riccardi) inform ed the ambassador that they did not intend to ban the book but only to change a few words.

  Shortly thereafter, Ambassador Niccolini received a strongly worded letter from the Florentine secretary of state, who said that he was writing as directed by the grand duke. This was the usual way of conveying that the matter was serious. There can be little doubt that Galileo was behind this letter in which the grand duke expresses his astonishment that a book that was revised and approved two years earlier should now give rise to difficulties. In order to see clearly in the matter, the grand duke requested that the charges be put in writing, as is normal in any judiciary procedure.

  As soon as he received this letter at the end of August, Niccolini rushed to the office of Cardinal Francesco Barberini, who received him in a friendly but reserved fashion. He would make no comments beyond saying that the ambassador should have a word with Riccardi, who had obviously been summoned to explain himself. Placed in a tight spot, Riccardi had tried to exculpate himself by saying that Galileo had not followed his instructions and had forced his hand.

  FRIENDS AT COURT

  Our main source of information about developments in Rome is Filippo Magalotti, who at 73 was still a vigorous man about town. He was also a relative of the Barberinis and as such a person of influence. He enjoyed writing letters, and his correspondence with Mario Guiducci, Galileo’s young disciple, is full of local color. On 4 September 1632, Magalotti wrote that he had given Father Riccardi three sheets on which the device of the three dolphins of the Florentine printer Landucci appeared. “Riccardi was overjoyed,” he wrote, “and said that this could prove extremely useful to our friend,” meaning of course Galileo.

  Magalotti also read out to Riccard
i part of a letter that he had received from Guiducci in which Galileo was described as eager to conform in every way with what might be decided in Rome. He did not read, however, the passage in which Guiducci added that the book had been sent all over Europe. This would have annoyed the Roman authorities, who assumed that on account of the plague only a few copies had been distributed.

  It is an indication of Magalotti’s prestige and self-assurance that he took it upon himself to raise the issue of the 1616 ban on Copernicanism. He told Riccardi that he was not far from believing that if the evidence had been carefully weighed the decree might not have been made. To which Riccardi replied that if he had been a member of the Congregation of the Index at that time he would have objected to the book being condemned or banned. In the course of the conversation, Magalotti mentioned that Galileo had written very sensibly about Copernicanism and Scripture in his Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina. Riccardi had not seen it and asked for a copy. When Magalotti brought his own, Riccardi started reading the Letter on the spot. His first reaction was that Galileo had gone too far, and he wanted to know why the Letter had not been published. Magalotti made the obvious reply that the Decree of 1616 precluded any possibility of publication. A few days later, on 4 September 1632, when Riccardi had read the entire Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina and was more relaxed, he wanted Magalotti to understand that, as he had told Ambassador Niccolini a few days earlier, “he was only a servant, whose job was to do what the authorities decided.” If only Galileo had been more willing to do as told, everything would have worked out, he lamented.

  Magalotti’s advice to Guiducci and Galileo was the fruit of personal experience and consisted in the recommendation not to act precipitously and to drag things out. Let sleeping dogs lie. At the most, Ambassador Niccolini might speak to Riccardi or even to Cardinal Francesco Barberini, “but never to the Pope,” he added, “for reasons that I do not have to enter.” Magalotti also wrote to Galileo about the commission that was to examine his Dialogue. Although he was not certain as yet who the members were, he thought he could allay Galileo’s worst fears:

  Even if the majority of the Commission held that the said opinion is false, I do not believe that they would want to have it declared as such by the supreme authority. This is what I am told by those who are accustomed to work with the Holy Office where matters concerning doctrine are usually considered . . . In any case, they all agree that unless there is extreme urgency or a declaration of an Ecumenical Council, nothing will be decided either for or against it.

  No one at the Holy Office believed that the motion of the Earth had been or was likely to be formally condemned. Such condemnations were usually reserved for doctrinal matters at the heart of Christian belief, for instance, errors concerning the divinity of Christ. An ecumenical council might be necessary for such a radical decision, and it was not expected that the pope would want to go that far. In brief, no formal act of the magisterium of the Church was expected. Furthermore, the experts who worked at the Holy Office knew full well that books placed on the Index might be removed at some later date.

  The officials, however, had only a limited knowledge of what Galileo was trying to do, and they seem to have been ignorant of his Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina. They had no idea that a new physics and a new astronomy were being born, and they did not anticipate that natural science would raise issues that had not entered the minds of theologians. They could not guess that one day Galileo would be celebrated as the father of modern science and that they would be regarded as petty and narrow-minded. In retrospect, we know that Galilean physics was the wave of the future. They could not.

  JESUIT REACTIONS

  One of the copies that Magalotti had brought to Rome had gone to a Jesuit professor at the Roman College, and both Father Grienberger and Father Scheiner had seen it by September 1632, when Benedetto Castelli’s teaching assistant, Evangelista Torricelli, asked them about it. Grienberger said he liked the book but was not convinced. Scheiner mumbled a few words of praise but added that the argument was difficult to follow because of the large number of digressions, and that he did not want to discuss it because Galileo had behaved so badly toward him.

  What role Scheiner played in Galileo’s woes is a matter of conjecture. Those who did not like the Jesuits spread the rumor that they had instigated the trial. As happened on other occasions, the Jesuits were credited with less charity than they displayed and more political power than they possessed. This is not to say that Scheiner did not try very hard to prove Galileo wrong or that he did not gloat when Galileo got into trouble. Less than a month after Galileo’s condemnation, he completed a book to prove that the Earth was at rest and embarked on a defense of traditional astronomy against Galileo. “To this we are exhorted,” he wrote to a friend, “by the Pope, the General of our Order [the Jesuits], his Assistants, and everyone who chooses the right path.” While Urban VIII may have expressed the hope that astronomers would teach Galileo a lesson, there is no evidence that he ever spoke to Scheiner. As far as the general of the Jesuits was concerned, he was anxious to discourage his members from becoming involved in public controversy. Scheiner undoubtedly saw himself as redressing a wrong, but the “exhortation” he thought he was answering was probably wishful thinking. From what we know from his writings, he was as keen to blow his own trumpet as was Galileo.

  Another Jesuit, Orazio Grassi, is also mentioned as having plotted against Galileo. When replying to Galileo for attacking his work on the comets, Grassi claimed that someone who defended atomism would be hard put to explain how, in the Eucharist, the substance of bread becomes the substance of the body of Christ while the species of color, taste, and so on remain unchanged. Grassi wanted to show that Galileo was a bad philosopher, but there is no evidence that he wanted Galileo’s head. Shortly after Galileo’s condemnation, in a letter of 22 September 1633 to Girolamo Bardi, who had just been appointed professor of philosophy at the University of Pisa, Grassi declared that he was very sorry about Galileo’s trials and that he had always been fonder of his rival than Galileo had been of him. “When I was asked last year in Rome,” he continues,

  what I thought about his book on the motion of the Earth, I did my best to placate those were against him and show them the value of the arguments that he proposed, so that some of them marveled that I should speak so favorably of someone who disliked me and had even offended me. Galileo caused his own ruin by thinking too highly of himself and despising others. You should not be surprised if everybody plots against him.

  Girolamo Bardi was a young man of thirty and not a particular friend of Galileo or his circle. Grassi was simply trying to be generous and fair: Galileo had good arguments, but he had antagonised his opponents by treating them the way he handled Simplicio in the Dialogue. No wonder he stirred up such animosity.

  THE POPE CRACKS DOWN

  On 4 September 1632 Ambassador Niccolini had a stormy audience with the pope, who broke out “in an outburst of rage” against Galileo, but even more so against Giovanni Ciampoli, who had told him that everything was fine when he had not even read the book! The pope also took Riccardi to task but was willing to make allowances because the friar had been tricked. Niccolini then tried, as he had been instructed by the grand duke, to obtain that Galileo be notified of the charges against him. The pope answered that the Holy Office was not an ordinary court of law. It studied the case, and if the accused was found guilty he was told to recant. When Niccolini urged his request, Urban replied impatiently: “This kind of information is never given out in advance to anyone. Such is not the procedure. Besides, he knows very well where the difficulties lie if he wants to, since I discussed them with him, and he heard them from myself.”

  Niccolini now tried another tack: Since the Dialogue was officially dedicated to the grand duke of Tuscany by someone who worked for him, might it not be wise to use clemency and hush the matter up? The pope answered that he had banned works dedicated to himself that even had his nam
e on the cover. Furthermore the grand duke, as a Christian prince, should help punish “what causes great prejudice (among the worst ever conceived) to religion.” But a book that has been approved should not be prohibited without at least hearing the author, insisted Niccolini. “This is the best Galileo can hope for,” replied the pope, who confirmed that a special Commission of Enquiry had been created “to study every detail, word by word, because this is the most perverse thing that one can have to deal with.”

  In the highly emotional atmosphere of this papal audience two issues were at stake: one religious, the other political. They were distinct but related. In describing the religious implications of what Galileo wrote, the pope used exceptionally strong language and claimed that they were not only bad but perverse. This was said “in an outburst of rage,” as Niccolini reported, but since the term was repeated a couple of times, it cannot be dismissed as a mere hyperbole. But why such a fuss over a scientific hypothesis that Urban VIII, when still a cardinal, had been willing to see condemned not as a heresy but as a rash opinion? Urban VIII would even have preferred if the decree banning Copernicanism had not been published. Did someone convince him after 1616 that the motion of the Earth was really pernicious? If so, on what grounds?