Galileo's Lost Message

by D. Allen Henry

  As if it should have been obvious to her, he posited, “The equations on this other sheet of paper refer to my drawing.”

  Displaying only the thinnest veil of civility, she commanded, “Just skip the mathematical stuff and tell me what all of this means, Professore.”

  Smiling patronizingly at her, he proffered, “That’s what I’m getting to. Remember the last line of the seventh stanza?”

  “Yes, of course. Let me see, ‘And falter on the selfsame day?’, if I’m not mistaken,” she replied knowingly, thereby making it clear to him that she understood the gist of the subject at hand.

  “Exactly! The drawing refers to that!”

  Now verging on bona fide rage, she exclaimed, “This is ridiculous. I know that! But I nevertheless have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  Seeing no way forward other than to make the point directly, he declared, “Galileo predicted when The Leaning Tower of Pisa would collapse!”

  Silence…dead silence, was her only response. Frowning doubtfully at him, she turned her head slightly to one side, in the process allowing the full realization of what he was saying to sink in. It was clear that she thought that he had a screw loose somewhere, but she somehow managed the strength to play along, imparting superciliously, “You don’t say. And when would that be?”

  “The selfsame day! He says so himself right here, and that, my dear, would be the year 2034,” at which he pointed to the Roman numerals in the fifth stanza of the poem.

  “Well, that just clears up everything, doesn’t it!” she blabbered, turning away in the apparent hope that this whole episode would somehow simply disappear. But then, thinking better of it, she continued, querying apprehensively, “And how did you come to this conclusion, Professore?” and this time she used the word professore derisively for the first time in days.

  Ignoring her obvious condescension, he replied, “Right. That is a very good question. But first let me tell you, this calculation that I constructed using his drawing required me to use some very ingenious tools that very few people during Galileo’s time would have been aware of.”

  “Like what?” she replied with little discernible interest.

  Disregarding her malaise, he pressed onward, “Well, he had to use Archimedes’ principle of the lever, but in a very ingenious way that borders on modern statics. Actually, I would go so far as to say, ‘Galileo invented modern statics in order to obtain this proof.’ In that sense he predates Newton. He also had to use Archimedes’ principle of buoyancy in order to estimate the distribution of the loading on the base of the tower. See here? That’s what he’s doing, assuming that the tower was floating on water. And note this arrow here. That’s the resultant of the pressure on the base. In order to calculate the location of that, he would have had to have access to Archimedes’ most important theorem – the location of the center of gravity of a plane intersecting a cylinder. But I digress.

  “So Galileo must have had access to Archimedes’ theorem. No wonder he admired Archimedes so much. He knew something about Archimedes' genius that most of the rest of the world did not know until recently – the theorem in the palimpsest that was later lost. And Galileo is known to have used the term infinity quite freely and often, which was unusual for his time. So he most likely knew about Archimedes’ theorem in the palimpsest.”

  “Okay. That is mildly interesting, but what exactly is your point?” she replied, but by now she was beginning to see what he was saying.

  “Well, basically, Galileo knew how much the tower was tilted in his time, and he knew the rate at which it was leaning further in time. From that and Archimedes' principle of the lever, he was able to predict that the tower would topple in late July of the year 2034.”

  “Huha ha,” Antonietta burst out in uncontrolled giggling, eventually erupting into uncontrolled guffawing.

  “I’m not kidding, Antonietta!” he replied in all sincerity, nonetheless breaking into harmonious chuckling of his own.

  “Oh…I thought you were joking,” she spluttered, and now calming in embarrassment, she added somewhat inanely, “Didn’t he know what day?”

  “Ha! Now YOU’RE joking, Contessa. Actually, I don't really know if he knew the day because of the word selfsame in the poem. After all, he did pose it as a question. And furthermore, he evidently had another event in mind as well, but I have no idea what that event might be.”

  “Oh, of course!” she cajoled absurdly, “Alright then, let's get to work on the other event!”

  “All in good time, my dear contessa. But first, we must complete the tale of The Leaning Tower. It seems that our Galileo is the first person in history to use scientifically rigorous methods to predict an event far into the future. That is not an altogether insignificant revelation. Until now that honor had been reserved for Sir Edmund Halley, who scientifically predicted the return of Halley’s Comet a century in advance, although there is evidence that the Chinese, Indians, and even the Persians were able to predict solar eclipses with astonishing accuracy.”

  “I think that the keyword here is scientifically, if I am not mistaken,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  “Spoken like a scientist, and just so. Since the year 2034 has not yet occurred, and furthermore, The Leaning Tower has not yet fallen, we must wait and see.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I do not intend to wait around,” she remonstrated, but then she added, “So, do you think that Galileo’s prediction could be even remotely correct? Might The Leaning Tower actually fall in 2034?”

  “I suppose that it could, but frankly, I doubt it.”

  “So you think he was wrong?” she responded.

  Seeing that she was hopeful that he also viewed the entire supposition as ridiculous, as she obviously did, he felt forced to counter with, “No, not at all. I think that his methodology was sound, and that is what is important, at least from the scientific viewpoint. In his method, he was nearly a hundred years ahead of his time. However, it is unlikely that his predicted date of collapse of the tower is accurate.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “For the simple reason that The Leaning Tower has been repeatedly tampered with and propped up, Antonietta,” he replied concisely. “As we discussed yesterday, the tower has been closed to tourists since 1990, because the tilt has become perilously large. And as you know, there have been a number of attempts to mitigate the tilt, most of them unsuccessful. Thus far the only solution that has slowed the tilt has been to load the high side of the base with lead weights, and this has slowed the progression somewhat. From the standpoint of Galileo’s prediction, all of the forms of human intervention since his passing would serve to reduce the accuracy of his prediction, as they could not have been anticipated in his analysis. Be that as it may, his approach to the problem was revolutionary, and perhaps even accurate had not buffoons such as Mussolini interceded.”

  “Mussolini?”

  “Yeah, he had concrete pumped into the foundation in the 1930’s in an attempt to slow the rate of tilt.”

  “Okay, I get the picture – you’re very impressed with Galileo’s method for predicting the collapse of the Tower. Now, might we move on to the rest of the puzzle, Professore?”

  Eyeing her forlornly, he admitted, "Oh, that. Unfortunately, I have no idea what the rest of the puzzle is about yet."

  Chapter 6

  Vallombrosa

  Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades high overarched imbower.

  -John Milton (1608-1674)

  1579

  Vincenzo Galilei descended from the carriage, and without so much as glancing at the tranquil setting that surrounded him, he strode headlong into the abbey. Once inside he proceeded directly to the rector’s office. Entering without bothering to knock, he announced imperiously to the lone monk within, “I am Vincenzo Galilei, father of Galileo. I would like to see him, please.”

  The monk stood up and bowed submissively, saying, “Yes,
of course sir. I am Brother Sebastian. If you will wait a few moments I shall find out where Signore Galileo is at this instant.”

  “Thank you,” the senior Galilei replied, and at this he sat down to await the monk’s return. He waited a few minutes, but in his current state of agitation that was far too long, so that by the time the monk had returned he was nearing a state of rage.

  The monk was accompanied by the Abbott, who held out his hand and said politely, “Welcome, Signore Galilei. I am Brother Ferdinando. We have heard much about your musical exploits from your son Galileo. It is a great honor to have someone of your status visit us here at the abbey.”

  Suppressing his irritation as best he could, Vincenzo responded brusquely, “Thank you Brother Ferdinando. I am here to visit my son. May I please see him immediately?”

  “Yes, of course, Signore Galilei,” the Abbott replied. “But I should inform you that he has an infection. It is perhaps a serious one, an infection of the eyes.”

  “What? Why was I not informed of this?”

  The Abbott responded with supplication, “He just contracted it, sir. And we did send word, but it is most likely in transit to Firenze at this moment.”

  Soothed by the Abbott’s silky manner, the elder Galilei inquired, “Just how serious is it?”

  “Oh, he will fully recover within a few days, I am sure, Signore,” the Abbott replied imperturbably. “Please, Signore Galilei, if you will follow me, I will take you to the infirmary where he is resting at present.”

  Hearing this, Vincenzo followed the Abbott down the arched hallway to a large room with several beds, but with only a single patient therein.

  “Galileo, your father is here to see you,” the Abbott said as he came alongside Galileo’s bed. The boy was trussed up with bandages over his eyes so that he could not tell who his visitors were.

  “Papa, is that you?” Galileo called out, clearly in a state of darkened misery.

  “Yes, my son. It is your father,” and, taking Galileo within his embrace, he thereby demonstrated his extreme concern for his son’s current state. “How do you feel, Galileo?”

  “A little tired, but otherwise I’m okay, Papa, except for my eyes, of course.”

  “Can you see, Galileo?”

  “Oh, yes, Papa. Yes, of course, but they told me that I needed to have bandages in order to rest them.”

  “Alright, then,” his father replied. “Let’s have a look,” at which he gently began removing the bandages. Seeing this the Abbott started forward but, apparently thinking better of it, he halted and watched the scene unfold before him.

  Removing the bandages, Vincenzo could tell that Galileo’s eyes were swollen and red but otherwise undamaged. “Can you see me, my son?”

  “Yes, of course,” the boy replied.

  The elder Galilei grabbed his offspring in yet another taut hug, obviously relieved to see him all in one piece. The boy smiled with relief at this and the elder Galilei released his son, in so doing tousling his hair in a paternal gesture. “There, there, Galileo. It’s good to see you, my son!”

  “Yes, Papa, I am glad to see you, too.”

  Vincenzo then turned to the Abbott and announced bluntly, “I’m afraid that I must take my son, Brother Ferdinando. I do not like the look of this infection. I want to take him to see my doctor in Firenze.”

  “Sir, that is not necessary. We are perfectly able to take care of him here in the abbey.”

  “That may be, but a father cannot stand by when his son is ill. You understand I’m sure.”

  “Yes, of course,” the Abbott replied, all too aware that he could not stop Signore Galilei from taking his son with him. “When can we expect him to return? Will he be back in time for his investiture into the Faith? Tis in two weeks’ time.”

  “Yes, if he is well by then. If not, I will send you word,” Vincenzo replied curtly.

  Shortly thereafter father and son climbed into the carriage in preparation, at which the Abbott said, “God speed, Signore Galilei. We will see you soon, Galileo!” but the carriage was already moving.

  Moments later Galileo asked, “Father, will I be well enough to attend my investiture, do you think?”

  “Galileo, my son, I am afraid that you will not.”

  “Why?” the boy inquired in confusion.

  “My son, you are never going back to Vallombrosa. You are not going to be a member of the Vallombrosan order. You will never be a monk. I will not allow a son of mine to waste his life in such a menial pursuit.”

  “But why, Papa? I love it there. I love Vallombrosa!”

  “I know, my son. I know that you do. It will be hard, but in time you shall forget.”

  By now Galileo was sniffling loudly, “Why, Papa? I don’t understand.”

  “My son, please do not cry. You will someday thank me for this. You are destined for greatness. I see it in you. You must follow your destiny, my boy.”

  In response Galileo could only ponder silently.

  Pisa - 1997

  Antonietta took the steering wheel, propelling the Alfa forward over narrow and sinuous roadways, deftly maneuvering the pair into the very heart of Tuscany. The drive into the countryside was serenely spectacular, the highway winding through the forested and rolling hills, eventually arriving where Antonietta was born – in the village of Vinci.

  “It’s quite lovely,” Paul volunteered as they gradually came to a halt directly in the center of the village.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” she responded absently, “One doesn’t notice so much when it is one’s own heritage, but I could see where you would find it impressive. For my part, I couldn’t wait to get away from here when I was growing up.”

  Surprised at her response, Paul asked, “Why?”

  “Too small, too many secrets, too many –how do you say in English – bocche libere.”

  “Ha, blabber mouths!” he replied with a snort.

  Standing on the street within the ostensibly ancient setting, she gestured towards her surroundings with one hand, “Not to mention constant broken pipes, leaky roofs, and poor electrical services. I look back now and I realize that it wasn’t far removed from The Middle Ages. I’m sure that’s fine, if you like that sort of thing,” and at this she pursed her lips and, thereby signaling a change of subject, she suggested with palpable reticence, “Look, would you mind? I need to see my mother for a few minutes.”

  Having by her demeanor anticipated something grave, he exclaimed with evident relief, “Oh! No, not at all. I can just sit here in the main square and watch the world go by. There is no place I would rather be at this moment, Antonietta. Whereas you are fortunate that your blood is Italian by birth, mine is merely by choice.”

  At this she smiled with genuine warmth and, shaking her head slightly, she replied gently, “That’s not what I meant, but it’s nice of you to say nonetheless.”

  Clearly befuddled, he blubbered, “Sorry. What did you mean, Antonietta?”

  “I was asking you to come with me, you dear idiotic professore!”

  “Ah!” he replied with genuine delight. “Why, of course! I would be honored to meet your mother.”

  “Va bene,” she replied brightly, “Just one thing, Paulo – she is very old. She could be, how do you say it - crotchety. She has her moods, you see…”

  “Oh, right, not a problem. I shall take care,” he responded with sympathetic resolve.

  Having trudged up a steep ancient street barely wider than an oxcart, Antonietta rang a doorbell implanted within a decrepit stone wall. “Mama, sono io, Antonietta,” she spoke into a microphone.

  “Si, sono qui, mia figlia, ti vengo,” was the muffled response from within. Antonietta, recognizing her mother’s voice, pulled a key from her purse and unlocked the door, pushing it inwards with apparent effort.

  Entering, she offered candidly, “This is the house I grew up in. Please, follow me if you will.”

  Entering the apartment, Paul observed that despite the evident age, it wa
s possessed of a certain old world charm. Antonietta led him to the kitchen, where her mother sat quietly peeling carrots, a picture of domesticity straight out of another era.

  At the sight of Antonietta the elderly lady looked up and, carefully placing her knife on the table, she smiled with perfect serenity. She then held out her arms for the obligatory hug from her daughter. “Mia cara, vieni qui!”

  At this Antonietta leaned forward, embraced her mother pleasantly, and turned to introduce her companion. “Mama, this is Paulo, my friend from America.” Having completed her brief introduction, she turned to Paul and said, “She doesn’t speak English, Paulo.”

  Paul stepped forward to the table and held out his hand, whereupon the elder lady took his hand in both of hers and, awarding him a sprightly grin, she exclaimed with evident gusto “Benvenuto, Paulo!” Though her grasp was frail, it was nonetheless firm, the sparkle in her eyes entrancing.

  “Mille grazie, signora, mille grazie,” he smiled back at her, warming immediately to her infectious compassion.

  Turning towards Antonietta, the elderly lady proffered, “Suo Italiano è perfetto!”

  Antonietta smiled, replying, “Si, mama, e mezzo Italiano, penso.”

  For the second time in a week Paul had been accorded the title of half-Italian. “Perhaps two halves make a whole,” he thought contentedly to himself. In any case, he felt quite honored.

  The ice thus broken, the three settled in for a lovely chat about everything and nothing, the type of conversation that parents have with their children when they are proud of them, when they know that they have somehow succeeded with their greatest challenge in life.

  All too soon the hour slipped away and, as Antonietta’s mother was in need of her rest, it was time to be moving on. The farewell was at once happy and sad, with Paul promising to visit again soon.

  Antonietta went ahead to unlock the door, and as he turned to leave, Antonietta’s mother grabbed him by the sleeve, and said in English, “I-a see-a much-a my-a son-a. Take-a good-a care-a mia figlia. You-a promeese-a?”