Galileo's Lost Message

by D. Allen Henry

  "May I see it?" he asked brusquely, now clearly beyond impatient to satisfy his curiosity, but in his own mind he remonstrated, "What if this is a wild goose chase?" Horrified at the possibility, he realized that the thought of boarding a plane for the return trip was at this moment indeed quite unbearable.

  Tugging him back to reality, she responded enigmatically, "Of course,” and, rising from her chair, she entreated, “Follow me, if you will,” and as she did so, she beckoned him towards the door.

  Pursuing her, he found himself being led to a locked room which she summarily opened. As they stepped inside Paul found that the room was large enough to house quite an assembly of furnishings, but he nonetheless walked directly to the piece in question and began to examine it.

  Nodding her concurrence with his selection, she volunteered, “I knew that you were the right person for this.”

  Having become instantaneously absorbed in his examination of the credenza before him, he inquired vacantly, "Why?"

  "Oh, many reasons - you clearly know your history, but more than that, I believe that you can be trusted."

  Something about the way she said this last made him turn back toward her, and eyeing her doubtfully, he asked, "Just exactly what have you gotten me into, Contessa?"

  "I am afraid the answer to that question depends at least in part on what you determine from your examination," she replied evasively.

  "Yes…I see…" he murmured haltingly and, turning back to the credenza, he rubbed his chin for a few moments and subsequently announced, "Well, it is certainly from the right period of time - close to four hundred years old, if that is what you are wondering. Unfortunately, we have no extant detailed listings of what was in Galileo's house during his lifetime, so I'm afraid that I can neither verify nor deny its authenticity. I'm sorry. I wish I could be of more help"

  "Oh, that's fine. I hadn't really expected you to respond otherwise," she replied patiently.

  Nonetheless intrigued, he suggested, "What makes you think it came from his house, Antonietta?"

  "Well, I bought it at auction from the estate that is across the street from his villa on the Pian dei Giuliani."

  "Oh!" he replied with obvious excitement, "That's where a friend of his lived, if I am not mistaken."

  "Once again, you are quite correct."

  "What other evidence do you have that makes you think it might have once belonged to Galileo?"

  "Actually, I had none whatsoever when I purchased it. Had there been more substantial evidence, it probably would never have been possible for me to purchase it. As I'm sure you well know, anything that belonged to Galileo is now either in a museum somewhere, or it is in the house of some very wealthy collector." At this submission she halted for a moment as if gathering her thoughts, but then she abruptly posited, "I happened to know that his friend lived in the house across the street when Galileo died, and I reasoned that it was quite possible that he would have purloined some ’keepsake’, shall we say, of his world famous neighbor. Accordingly, when the auction was announced, I determined to see what might be available from the house. The credenza you see before you was quite clearly the only piece that could possibly have come from the early seventeenth century. I therefore determined to buy it on pure chance. Fortunately for me, times are tough here in Firenze, and I was able to purchase the piece for two million lira."

  "You were indeed quite lucky. If it does indeed turn out to be Galileo's credenza, it may be worth twenty or thirty times that."

  "Oh, I didn't buy it as an investment. I plan to keep it, but that is not the reason I bought it either. I was hoping that it might produce ‘buried treasure’, as you Americani say."

  "Oh, that's right, you said on the phone that there was a hidden document,” he responded and, now regaining the train of thought, he added, “Where is it?"

  Casting a challenging glance toward the credenza, she suggested, "Surely one such as you can guess.”

  Never one to pass up a challenge, he set to examining the entire credenza, but after a few moments he found himself nonetheless stumped. At length he blurted, "I see nothing untoward," but suddenly contradicting himself, he exclaimed, "Wait a minute, I know, or at least I think I know! During the sixteenth century craftsmen would construct a secret compartment that was specifically designed to hold just a few sheets of paper. The addition was really not a compartment as much as it was two thin pieces of wood placed adjacent to one another in such a way as to appear to be a single piece of wood. The secret documents were to be laid between the two pieces of wood for safekeeping. Those were times filled with intrigue, so that these sorts of things were not uncommon."

  "Perhaps," she responded evasively, "Please continue, Professore."

  "What is this - a game?" he responded. "You already know where the document is, so show me!"

  Giggling in superiority, she replied, "Not on your life! I am enjoying watching you at your profession. Now get on with it, Professore,” and she offered this last with a toss of her head.

  His hangdog glance speaking volumes, he nonetheless turned back to his task with relish. Tapping around on panels for what seemed an eternity, he finally declared that he was relatively certain that the back piece within the left-hand drawer was hollow.

  Observing no reaction whatsoever on her part, he set to the process of determining how he might succeed in removing the telltale piece without damaging the credenza. It turned out to be a simple matter, and when he managed to remove the piece from the casing he could see that it was indeed the item he sought. His heart suddenly leaping into his throat, he laid the wood on the desk top and carefully removed the upper piece. Beneath it rested a single piece of folded and timeworn parchment.

  Paul laid it carefully on the table and, brows furrowed in concentration, murmured, “Please Antonietta, get me some small paper weights. If this is indeed what we think it to be, we must take great care to avoid damaging it.”

  Rummaging around within a drawer, she pulled out some polished rocks, which she handed to him. Picking one up, he examined it inquisitively and mumbled to himself, “I’m not even going to ask what this is about,” at which he proceeded to unfold the paper ever so cautiously.

  At length he observed, “There’s something inside it.” Subsequently peeking between the folds as he separated them, he exclaimed, “Oh, I see. It’s another piece of paper, obviously from the same batch,” and as he said this last, he gently tugged a smaller piece of paper out and pushed it aside. Placing rocks on the four corners of the now unfolded larger piece of paper, he then proceeded to examine it more carefully. As expected, it was written in Italian.

  At this point Antonietta inquired breathlessly, "Is it Galileo's handwriting?"

  "No," he replied distractedly, his attention still focused squarely on the paper before him.

  "Oh," was all Antonietta could say, but after a moment she slumped down, completely deflated.

  Failing to notice her dejected reaction, Paul continued his implacable examination.

  At length, Antonietta mumbled disconsolately, "I'm so sorry, Professore. I was sure it was Galileo's handwriting. I’m afraid I've brought you all this way for nothing!"

  Having ignored her lamentation, he abruptly grasped her in an impromptu hug and crowed excitedly, "Yeehah! It's a riddle. I love riddles!"

  Shocked by this inappropriate display, Antonietta tore herself from his grasp and, stepping back, she frowned at him in utter dismay. Her irritation heightened by his bizarre admission, she blurted, "What are you, some sort of game freak? What do you say in the United States - a geek?"

  At this, Paul exclaimed lugubriously, "No, Contessa! And don't look at me like that. I assure you that you picked the right person when you called me. The document was not written by Galileo. It's even better!"

  "What! What do you mean?" she responded, her eyes now bulging in anticipation.

  An infectious grin spreading across his face, he posited, "The document was written by Galileo's pupil, S
ignore Vincenzo Viviani!"

  Crossing her arms in apparent confusion, she inquired, "Why does that make it better?"

  "Signore Viviani was Galileo's assistant only for the last three years of his life. Galileo went completely blind in 1637!"

  "Yes, of course. I know he was blind," Antonietta replied in obvious irritation but, realization slowly dawning on her, she stammered, "Ah…wait a minute…I think I see. Galileo would have written it himself had he been able to see, but Galileo could not write himself during the last four years of his life. So if I understand correctly, Galileo would have had to employ Signore Viviani to write everything on his behalf, right?"

  "Exactly!" Paul replied knowingly.

  "But wait a minute," she repeated, "Just because Galileo didn't write this, it doesn't mean that he in fact dictated it."

  "Oh, but indeed it does," he replied gleefully, "I am quite certain that this is a message from the great Galileo himself. There is simply far too much circumstantial evidence here for it to be otherwise.”

  “How so?”

  “It is speculated that Signore Viviani, though hired by the Grand Duke of Tuscany, may have been planted by the Holy See to spy on Galileo. Blind and known to be paranoid, Galileo would most certainly have been reticent to trust Viviani. We also know that Galileo was very fond of labyrinthine writings such as this. We may therefore conclude that this poem contains a clandestine message that Galileo desperately wanted to convey beyond the walls of his villa.”

  Contemplating momentarily, he subsequently hypothesized, "Suppose that you were a genius, and that you were at the end of your life, and you were blind and cut off from the world. More importantly, suppose that you were desperate to pass on one last flash of brilliance to the world. How would you attempt to communicate with the outside world?"

  "Oh…I see...." she murmured wistfully. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she suggested, “So he had to devise a way to get by Signore Viviani. But why didn't he just tell a family member? They were allowed to visit, weren't they?"

  "They were almost all dead by then,” he responded. The pair then fell silent, lost in the moment, but he then took up again with, “Antonietta, it seems that you are the very fortunate possessor of a poem that is quite possibly the last writing of Galileo. Unfortunately, his circumstances required him to place it in the form of a riddle that is so convoluted that we may never know the true meaning of it."

  "What exactly is a riddle?" she asked.

  "It means a writing that has a hidden meaning,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  Her face lighting up, she posited, "Ah, uno rompicapo! So you think that our Galileo duped Signore Viviani into transcribing what appeared to him to be some mindless little poem, but that in reality it had a hidden meaning?"

  “Exactly,” he responded, “Now, suppose we set to the task of translating it to English so that I may better appreciate the hidden meaning within,” and so saying, the pair set to their appointed task. Within a few hours they had painstakingly translated the document to English to the best of their combined abilities. It read as follows:

  Tis said that dark must dull the mind,

  But one man’s dark is bright as day.

  Still, all too soon this light shall fade,

  Thus pray these lines reveal the way-

  The quill alight with fear and haste.

  Now learn herein with stanzas seven

  The end result shall lead to heaven

  Fruit of life - one filled with strife -

  And born with ardor for each soul

  One need endure till timed to ripe.

  First pilgrims shouldst ye be in turn

  Each ending in a tomb of fame

  Commence ye with the Dome inventor

  Thence on to unseen Abbey founder

  Next back to whence your trek commenced

  Thence sea she called back the pope

  Thereafter to the tomb of numbers

  Then overhead the utmost next

  Followed by the Wolf’s admirer

  Endeth with the Lion to The Great.

  The sinuous web doth point the way-

  Near circles crossing with the endings

  Each tracing out MS abodes,

  With semblance marked unto his sign.

  Next grasp the tool that saw the moon

  Turn slide round thrice and open wide,

  Therein to find, the web emblazoned

  Image of the blind.

  The end result – a time

  Placed squarely within his sign

  The time of Christ plus M signed twice

  Add X’s three and I four more.

  Thenceforth find Leonardo, count his way

  Eighty paces toward the tilt

  And left (from lantern) eighty more

  The tilt shall be found in the way,

  And falter on the selfsame day?

  Passed by the Sea not long ago

  Heir poet to Verona bard,

  Doth harbor one within the heart

  When naught obstruct right line the stars.

  The brightness must call home the star

  The arc approaching from afar

  Soon after shall the pair collide

  Lord let this lamb not be denied.

  Upon completion of the translation Paul was initially euphoric, but his joy quickly turned to gloom as he realized that he had no earthly idea what the verse was about. Studying it carefully, he observed complacently, “Well, there is one good thing.”

  “Oh, what might that be?”

  His head propped within his hands, he observed, “Galileo is most definitely the author.”

  “Oh, really? How can you be so certain, Professore?”

  “He actually refers to himself within the poem.”

  Frowning doubtfully at him, she blurted, “He does?”

  “Yes, I am certain of it, although once again he has employed practiced deception in order to pass the watchful eye of Viviani. In the third line of the fourth stanza, he refers to 'MS’. We both know who that is – il messaggero stellato - the Starry Messenger - Galileo himself. He dared not include his own initials, and no one else would have thought to use these two letters to identify himself."

  Over the next several hours a pall gradually cast itself over the pair as they slowly recognized the enormous complexity of it all. By late afternoon they had deduced that the long stanza seemed to beckon the reader to undertake a pilgrimage of some sort, but that was the full extent of their discernment to that point.

  Finally, her head resting disconsolately in her hands, Antonietta exclaimed with apparent dismay, “I confess, I was so confused by the time I finished reading it the first time that I failed to pay much attention to the last paragraph. It seems to be rather poignant, does it not?”

  “Yes, it certainly does,” he agreed, “However, we may never completely understand it if we are unable to decipher the preceding verses. Still, what I can say thus far is that it appears that this last verse is not a part of the riddle. Instead, it appears to me to be some sort of prayer to God to protect his soul, although he refers to himself as a star. One would think that a man on his deathbed would express greater humility before God.”

  “I agree,” she put in thoughtfully.

  Scratching his chin in contemplation, he continued, “Similarly, I believe that the first verse is little more than a preamble. Perhaps Galileo initiated the poem that way in order to throw Viviani off the scent. In addition, it appears to me that the second verse is simply informing the discerning reader that there are major clues hidden within the succeeding seven stanzas. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do,” she concurred, “But what do you make of the eighth stanza?”

  He responded thoughtfully, “Well, it being the second to last, it seems to me to be the most important verse in the entire poem. Unfortunately, I have no idea what it means. One thing that jumps out at me though is the last two lines of the second verse. They seem to be saying that it is s
upposed to be difficult, and that to solve it ‘one need endure’.”

  At this he ran his hands through his hair in frustration, abruptly exclaiming, “Oh, hell… it’s just completely baffling!” but, seeing her disapproval of his choice of words, he blurted, “Sorry, I’m just out of sorts. Why I expected it to be easy, I have no idea, but I suppose that I did. I am afraid that our Galileo has stumped me, Contessa.”

  At this Antonietta was silent, but her sly smile was nonetheless not lost on him.

  Rushing to cover his embarrassment at having been outclassed by a man long in his grave, he stumbled onwards, suggesting, “He also seems to be referring to Shakespeare when he says ‘Verona bard’, but what on earth does that have to do with the sea?”

  “Non so, I don’t know,” she responded in like measure, but suddenly bounding to her feet, she exclaimed, “Wait a minute! We’ve forgotten something!” at which she dashed over to the counter and located the nearly forgotten item.

  Thrusting the small slip of paper toward him, she exclaimed, “This!”

  “Oh my...and so we did!” he replied with newfound interest. “Perhaps this little piece of paper holds a clue.”

  Examining it carefully, he discovered that it was a strip of paper that seemed to be composed of seven holes arrayed in a more or less straight line. The spacing between the holes was somewhat uneven, stretching over perhaps half its length, and there was a smear of ink encircling each hole. Completely flummoxed by it, he stared at it silently for what seemed an eternity.

  Finally, Antonietta broke the silence with, “Well, what is it, Professore?”

  Glancing at her in utter bewilderment, he muttered, “You’ve got me. I have absolutely no idea what on earth it is. It seems to only deepen the mystery. There is an ink smear towards one end that seems to be nothing important. I also noticed that three of the edges are cut, but one has been torn along its length, as if he had no knife or scissors to cut it with. After all, he was blind. Perhaps he took a full sheet of parchment and tore it along a sharp edged surface such as the edge of the credenza.”