Finding Atlantis: A True Story of Genius, Madness, and an Extraordinary Quest for a Lost World

by David King

  The Viking sagas also helped clarify the reasons why the Atlanteans tied the bulls in the sacred grove, a situation that Plato never explained. The binding of the bulls, Rudbeck concluded, was carried out to make them “half-crazy” and ensure more of a challenge in the ritual hunt.

  And the fact that no such golden chain or wall now existed in this location did not mean that none had existed there before. Many sources had reported the elaborate golden decorations, and it was a well-known fact that this temple had been plundered of its riches in the Middle Ages, after the introduction of Christianity and the gradual demise of the pagan religion. Yet, centuries after this disappearance, Rudbeck was making the shocking revelation that some remains of the great temple of Atlantis had actually survived. Astonishingly, according to Rudbeck, they were visible in plain sight.

  Standing in the middle of the plain near the sacred grove and sacred spring was a very old structure, one of the first Christian churches in Sweden and the seat of the first archbishopric in the kingdom. Built over the course of many years in the middle of the twelfth century, Old Uppsala Church still stands today as one of Sweden’s oldest sites. And Rudbeck believed not only that this church was built on the grounds of the demolished pagan temple, but that its construction had incorporated many of the temple’s materials. Bits and pieces of Atlantis were, in other words, to be found in the walls of the old church.

  Many times over the next few years, Rudbeck and some fellow enthusiasts would come to Old Uppsala and chip away at the old walls, “so loose in places that [chunks of Atlantis] could be taken out with the fingers.” On one outing with a classics professor, Anders Norcopensis, and the vice-librarian, Professor Wallerius, the scholarly ensemble searched “every nook and cranny.” They found much evidence in the walls of gold, silver, and copper having been combined with the limestone, presumably by talented Atlantean goldsmiths. Next time, when Rudbeck was back with one of his students, the engraver Petrus Törnewall, they found a large, crooked, rusty nail containing scattered specks of pure gold.

  This may not sound like a lot, but the traces of gold in the rusty old nails would be more than enough to keep Rudbeck pressing on at Old Uppsala. And when he started looking near the sacred grove, he found an “unspeakable amount of jawbones, teeth, and feet of horses, pigs, oxen, and dogs burned and unburned.” This finding, Rudbeck said, “gave us good reason to search further.”

  WHILE RUDBECK HAPPILY wrote in December 1674 that he planned to begin printing his book in less than two months, he would soon learn that the celebrations were a bit premature. For in the meantime, his loyal printer Henrik Curio had been sacked.

  The process of removing this alleged slacker had begun at the end of 1674, with the official inquiries and inventories turning into a full-fledged trial. Some of Uppsala’s most distinguished theologians, Rudbeck’s old adversary Lars Stigzelius among others, were leading the prosecution. They were joined by prominent members of the College of Antiquities, Johan Schefferus and Johan Hadorph, who were quite upset by the slow progress and the poor results at the press. Representing the defense was a young man named Ingo Rudbeck, Olof’s cousin and at that time a student training to become a lawyer.

  Finally aware and genuinely concerned that the situation had moved beyond mere warnings and rumors of dismissal, Rudbeck wrote a long letter to De la Gardie pleading on behalf of his printer and friend. Curio had managed to publish many excellent works from Uppsala’s scholars. Johan Schefferus, Johan Loccenius, and Olaus Verelius had all seen their works produced with success by the printer, despite the slim financial resources and rather unenviable working conditions.

  When Curio had arrived at the Uppsala press, for instance, he had found that the previous book printer, Johannes Pauli, had illegally sold the equipment. The journeymen apprentices were “ready to kill each other,” with one stealing the movable block letters and floating them on the black market. Curio encountered a host of other unexpected obstacles, including Professor Johan Hadorph, who was keeping his cows in a nearby university building. So if the books were now deemed of poor quality, an embarrassment, then the university should share much of the blame for not providing better facilities. Then Rudbeck admitted his own responsibility for the state of affairs.

  Not only was he the one who had persuaded Curio to come to Uppsala, but he had also promised an attractive salary and a workable printing budget, neither of which the university actually saw fit to grant. In fact, the issue of the unpaid salary would blow up in its own right into a nasty side quarrel between Rudbeck and some Uppsala professors on the university council who simply denied that he had the right to make such an offer. The salary never materialized, and now Curio was unceremoniously turned out with few prospects in the current economic conditions.

  Rudbeck’s concern seems so strong that, at times, one can only wonder if he rushed up the plans to publish his book as part of an immediate and desperate attempt to save his friend. He knew how much De la Gardie had come to value his quest. Should anything threaten its well-being, such as the trouble with Curio, then perhaps the chancellor would intervene and protect the future of the historic search for Atlantis.

  At any rate, Rudbeck’s letters were to no avail, and neither were the efforts of his cousin Ingo. The defense was inexperienced, but even so, the merits of the case seemed decidedly in the favor of the prosecution. By the conclusion of the trial, speedily ended in January 1675, Curio had been officially dismissed from his duties, and ordered to return the entire press to the university in the same way that he had received it, in addition to paying a three-hundred-riksdaler fine. In a related case, brought on by the antiquarian Hadorph and one prominent theologian, Curio was sentenced to fourteen days in prison (for falsely accusing the prosecution of tampering with its key evidence).

  “They wanted his throat,” Verelius said of Curio’s accusers. The printer had lost easily, and the prospects of a successful appeal were small. Given the strength of the prosecution, it is not hard to imagine the Swedish supreme court simply affirming this verdict. What Rudbeck decided to do next was, to say the least, surprising.

  In an age when legal rights depended largely on one’s position in society, Rudbeck first removed himself from the protection of university law. By virtue of his shipping company, he signed himself instead under the less privileged jurisdiction of the town law. Then Rudbeck persuaded Curio to sue him personally, that is, for failing to keep the terms of their agreement. And Rudbeck, now under Uppsala town law, would in turn sue the university for breaking its contractual obligations.

  It was a very clever move that seemed to solve many problems at once, stealing the thunder from the prosecution and shifting the thrust of the debate onto an issue in which Rudbeck’s and Curio’s chances of victory were at least not hopeless. Most important, Rudbeck’s juggling of jurisdictions would buy some valuable time, and allow Curio to remain at his post as long as the court cases were pending. By then, Rudbeck’s discovery of Atlantis would almost certainly be printed, and Curio would perhaps even enjoy a happy retirement.

  Postponing an inevitable defeat, Rudbeck had found a brilliant solution to their predicament. But, typically, it showed an outrageous disregard for his fellow professors who wanted a more conscientious printer, and, unfortunately for Rudbeck, stirred a hornet’s nest of resentment.

  The university had not faced such a brazen challenge to its authority in recent memory, and it had certainly never been sued by one of its own professors. Even Count de la Gardie, Rudbeck’s most trusted supporter, was furious. As chancellor of the university, the count sent a letter full of uncommon passion and anger, denouncing Rudbeck’s complete lack of judgment, and threatening, ominously, that he would not tolerate such unabashed disrespect. The count’s words were so strong that Rudbeck’s many enemies reveled, and the effects on Rudbeck were unmistakable:

  All my troubles, worries, sicknesses and sorrows that I have had since my childhood up to this day, and all the ill will my enemies wi
sh me, have never moved my heart to hate, or caused sickness, or tears to break out, [because] by virtue of God’s Grace I have been able to consider all that vanity, and meet it with the heart’s patience and a glad face; but the letter I received from Your Excellency’s graceful and always comforting hands now from Läckö was more difficult for me than all that… .

  Rudbeck tried to apologize, claiming that he had been completely oblivious of the uproar he had created. He had no idea how serious his offense was, or how passionately the university would react. He was only, he said, trying to support his friend, and do what he thought was right.

  He affirmed again how he felt partly responsible for Curio’s misfortunes, and could not pay the fines himself—not, that is, “without bringing my wife and children into ruin.” This letter also shows one of the first signs of Rudbeck’s changing disposition, from the strong, self-confident, and enthusiastic achiever to what some historians have called a tendency to hypochondria and paranoia—a tendency that had perhaps been there all along, only concealed underneath his cheery and vivacious personality.

  “Now that I am in my last days, and have so sickly a constitution,” Rudbeck cried out, “I fear that God the Highest will not wait much longer before He takes me away from here.” This was no mere melodramatic pose or appeal to pity, both of which he had certainly mastered. He really seemed to feel that he was falling into worse health, and, often during times of crisis, that he was on the verge of death.

  Further, he would see enemies everywhere, gossiping, spreading malicious rumors, and plotting to bring him down, just as they had done before in front of the university, and seemed to be doing again with their attack on his friend Henrik Curio. They must also, he surmised, be behind De la Gardie’s unexpected anger. Rudbeck’s feelings of persecution and fear of imminent death were easily magnified by his inventive mind. All these anxieties only added to the pressing sense of hurry that was driving his lifelong quest for the lost civilization.

  9

  TWELVE TRUMPETS, FOUR KETTLEDRUMS, AND A BAG OF GOLD

  Now that I was free, and my own master, I supposed that I could do anything, achieve anything. I had only to take one leap, and I could rise and fly through the air.

  —JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU, CONFESSIONS

  RUDBECK’S COMBINATION OF talent, charm, and groveling would win back the favor of Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie with stunning speed. For the count had a weak spot for avoiding unpleasant conflict and an even weaker spot for the clever professor. The count, it seemed, had an almost unlimited tolerance for Rudbeck’s shenanigans.

  De la Gardie was certainly in a very different position than were the professors who had to deal with Rudbeck on a day-to-day basis. Given his political influence, economic power, and social status, De la Gardie had the luxury of admiring Rudbeck’s extraordinary gifts. He could afford to look away when his favorite professor slipped up, acting in some rash if not also irresponsible ways.

  Many scholars at Uppsala, by contrast, did not appreciate Rudbeck’s complete disregard for the rules, deeply resenting his lawsuit, his support of the sloppy printer, his flirtations with Cartesian thought, and of course the decreases in salaries that were so closely linked to his carefree building spree. Still others were probably just threatened by Rudbeck’s abilities, which, together with his lack of humility, sometimes made him look like an annoying, reckless show-off who did as he pleased. And when he got into trouble, as he was bound to do, De la Gardie would come to the rescue.

  So, once again, despite Rudbeck’s scandalous behavior in suing the university, De la Gardie listened, forgave, and forgot. Rudbeck’s offense was overshadowed, in the count’s mind at least, this time by his latest spectacular discovery. The count was thrilled with the hunt for Atlantis, and did not wish to see Rudbeck hindered in any way, least of all by something as trivial as a lack of funds.

  A longtime patron of Swedish antiquities, De la Gardie promised financial assistance to help cover Rudbeck’s printing costs. He sent over stacks of paper, right away, for the first printing of the images to accompany the texts, which, as Rudbeck planned, would be extravagant.

  Detailed maps of Atlantis were to show the capital, the temple, and the racetrack. Representations of the layers of humus around the old burial mounds were also being cut, pictorially confirming the great age of Sweden. Rudbeck’s ambitions would soon be growing here as well, preparing not just images, but life-size reproductions of the objects he had found and which were housed in his makeshift curiosity cabinet, a seventeenth-century predecessor to the private museum.

  Nails, rings, ax heads, swords, drums, and castration knives would all be lauded as artifacts of Atlantis. Some of his gifted mathematical students, including the experienced College of Antiquities draftsman Petrus Törnewall, were hard at work helping prepare the woodcuts and copper engravings that De la Gardie was so generously funding. The count was once again, as Rudbeck said, “his greatest admirer,” offering timely advice, support, and encouragement. He also promised to praise the merits of the work to the king.

  Sitting on the throne was Charles XI, still at this time a young, inexperienced, and remarkably insecure monarch. The worldly Italian diplomat Lorenzo Magalotti described his first encounter with the new king on his visit in 1674. He was told to avoid engaging the king in conversation, so as not to embarrass or perplex him, or otherwise cause him any discomfort in trying to think of a response. Unexpectedly, however, the king offered his hand to the Florentine nobleman. Obeying convention, the diplomat kissed it. The flustered king then acted in a distinctly unroyal manner: he fled the room. Two years on the throne had not changed Sweden’s ruler, who still appeared “shy and afraid of everything.” “It looks as if he does not dare to look someone in the face, and he moves as if he walked on glass,” Magalotti concluded.

  Knives, ax heads, and other artifacts supposedly of Atlantis were on display in Rudbeck’s museum.

  Charles XI has not been remembered as Sweden’s most cultured monarch, either. Despite high ambitions for his studies, one of the most grandiose plans ever devised for a Swedish prince, his education was “shamelessly neglected.” Observers regularly noted that his progress was slow. He confused letters, reversed numbers, and spelled atrociously. The governor charged with overseeing his education, Christopher Horn, had hardly taken up his position with zest. He was given a room in the royal palace, where, instead of teaching, he indulged, his critics said, in eating, drinking, and displaying “all the qualities which incompetence can bring.”

  But the emphasis on the king’s total lack of learning is very much overplayed. It also seems at least partly based on a misunderstanding of Charles XI’s dyslexia, a condition he almost certainly had. Like many in his situation, the king would compensate with some exceptional talents in other areas. He excelled in hunting, riding, and outdoor activities, even collecting enough wild animals to open his own zoo in the Stockholm palace. He looked completely different when he sat on a horse. No longer timid, shy, reserved, or full of insecurity, Charles XI, on such occasions, as Magalotti put it, “really looks like a king.”

  Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie had known the monarch well, having led the regency government since 1660, when the crown prince was only four years old. Relying on years of trust, the count put in a good word for Rudbeck, and this was certainly a favorable moment for winning the king over to the extraordinary quest. In fact, Charles XI had just told De la Gardie how much he hated to turn away any good citizen who came in search of assistance. Given his potential, Rudbeck would surely be classified as one of these good citizens, and his search deemed worthy of royal support.

  By a happy coincidence, Rudbeck was soon to come to the king’s attention in his own memorable way. Although Charles XI had assumed power in 1672, he was not officially crowned until September 1675. For this occasion, Rudbeck, the discoverer of Atlantis, was asked to arrange the decorations and festivities in Uppsala Cathedral. Hurriedly the university was whipped into shape for the r
oyal coronation. The Gustavianum was turned into a “house of nobility,” the piles of trash beside the river were moved out of sight, and Rudbeck himself transported the dung piles near the horse stalls in the exercise hall to more secluded gardens.

  No one knew it at the time, but this was to be one of the last great baroque ceremonies of Sweden’s imperial age. And Rudbeck put on quite a show. He wrote the music for the king’s coronation—and then sang the piece himself in Uppsala Cathedral in such a way that his thundering voice was said to overpower some twelve trumpets and four kettledrums playing with all their might.

  Sure enough, the performance made a lasting impression on the young king. Reportedly, Rudbeck’s emphasis on the loud and the bombastic was well advised, as Charles XI was then learning to play the drums, and seemed totally engrossed in what Rudbeck called his “little noise.” Every time the king came to Uppsala for the rest of his life, it was said, he insisted on hearing Olof Rudbeck sing. More immediately, the king pledged additional funding, some five hundred daler silvermynt, for Rudbeck’s adventure.

  The same degree of success during the coronation, however, cannot be said for Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie. In the initial moments before the procession into the cathedral, the count’s horse reared and threw him to the ground. The brand-new crimson velvet and ermine-trimmed robes unveiled on that occasion were stained, and De la Gardie’s wig was tossed into the mud. The imperial orb fell out of his grip, banged on the cobblestones, and dented on impact. De la Gardie regained his composure for the rest of the ceremony, but the man who liked so much to party went home uncharacteristically early that night.