by David King
Despite that particular mishap, indicative of his ambitions as well as his willingness to take risks to achieve them, Rudbeck felt a strong sense of pride for and perhaps even entitlement to the ancient manuscripts housed in Uppsala’s library. They had played a pivotal role in his discovery of Atlantis, and they seemed to have an almost unlimited potential for leading this curious hunter to new findings in his remarkable search. But now, with Professor Schütz’s new authority over the ancient manuscripts and other library holdings, the atmosphere was about to change.
The first thing that Schütz would do was to order an immediate recall of library materials. All books and manuscripts were to be returned at once in his sweeping reform of the library procedures. There was to be a complete overhaul of the old, relaxed system, with its indulgence of professors like Rudbeck who ordered books by proxy, sent assistants to fetch them, and then carelessly lost the “tickets” or receipts documenting the transaction. But before Schütz could make his reforms, and indeed before he could do anything in his new job at all, he had to reckon with some unusual resistance. According to official complaints, Olof Rudbeck had hidden the keys to the library.
This childish prank hardly seemed becoming for a professor of Rudbeck’s stature, as his critics were quick to point out. On another occasion just a few years before, too, when his enemy Professor Arrhenius was selected as rector of Uppsala, Rudbeck had infuriated the authorities by hiding university keys. On the other side of that locked door were all the musical instruments, many of which Rudbeck had donated to the university and now refused to allow in the inauguration, normally the most stately event on the university calendar. Professor Arrhenius was installed with pomp, though little fanfare, in that conspicuously silent ceremony.
Why was Rudbeck going around hiding keys, this time to the university library? As his critics saw it, Rudbeck was showing his usual lack of good judgment and again behaving in an outrageously inappropriate manner. Rudbeck, of course, explained it otherwise: Verelius had turned the keys over to him on his deathbed, one of his last wishes, literally, being that Rudbeck should hang on to them until an official inventory could be taken of the library stock. So this act of desperation, an obvious attempt to release some bottled-up frustration, was, Rudbeck said, intended to preserve the integrity of the library and honor the wish of his dying friend.
At any rate, with Schütz finally secure in his post by the end of February, the recall of the library books began in the middle of March 1682. Rudbeck protested. There was no possible way to write the book he intended, the second volume of Atlantica, without significant access to these sources. He could not simply return them because that would destroy the delicate order arranged in his study, he said, in another attempt to stall for time. Now Rudbeck had come across a man just as stubborn as he was, and Schütz would not back down. Besides, he would never forget his frivolous hazing.
JOINING SCHüTZ’S TAUNTING circus was an influential member of the College of Antiquities, Johan Hadorph, who years before had caused so much trouble for Curio, when the printer was fired, fined, and sent for a brief stay in the local prison. Hadorph was a formidable opponent who made no secret of his disdain for Atlantica, with its wild conclusions and eccentric methods.
For Rudbeck’s Atlantica was causing concern at the college, and it was not simply because of some annoyingly outlandish claims. Rudbeck’s vision was drawing increasing praise among readers. In some circles the adoration was really over the top. Uppsala students returned with reports of unrestrained enthusiasm they had encountered on their travels on the Continent. One student told of meeting a gentleman in Germany with a magnificent library. After the student complimented him on his taste, the host asked if he would like to see something more impressive. He escorted the young man into a secret chamber that held only two books: the Holy Bible and Rudbeck’s Atlantica.
Rumors of such overwhelming praise were floating around in the courts and salons of the kingdom, and they began to rankle the members of the college. Hadorph and his colleagues had also worked very hard on their antiquarian works, though they seemed to draw only a fraction of this attention. Atlantica, however, threatened more than just a fragile self-esteem.
Whereas the antiquarian scholars tended to take a more sober approach, based on a more cautious methodology and a more restrained use of source material, Rudbeck was relying on his overwhelming confidence in his intuition to find astonishing solutions to some of the oldest and most intricate “riddles” of the ancient world. His powerful creative mind helped him make some dazzling combinations of history and myth, just as his stubborn determination made sure he pursued each lead to virtual exhaustion. Pieces of the great Swedish puzzle were being fitted together with frightening ease. Rudbeck’s towering “cloud castle” soared higher and higher. Worse still, as the antiquarians feared, his “fables and errors” were attracting increasing devotion in some circles.
As Rudbeck declared that the gods and goddesses of classical mythology were Swedish, his enemies grew impatient with the increasingly outrageous claims.
All of this had a direct impact on the College of Antiquities, which, in the early 1680s, stood in a precarious situation. The budget was insecure, the small salaries of its members were still for the most part unpaid, and rumor had it that some influential figures were heard speculating that the annual funds for the struggling research institution might be better served financing Olof Rudbeck’s detestable tragicomic search for Atlantis.
ALMOST IMMEDIATELY AFTER taking office, Schütz began looking through the accounts of the library, and stumbled across some serious problems. There were many contradictions, unexplained omissions, numbers refusing to add up. It was a total mess. Most of the problems had existed for a long time, dating back to sloppy accounting and embezzlement by librarians during the booming 1650s. Verelius had been shocked when he took over in 1679, and in his desperation he had recruited Olof Rudbeck to help sort out the chaos.
Reconciling confusing numbers was for Rudbeck much like reading the “riddles” of ancient mythology, and that was why Verelius had gladly handed him one set of the books. By the time of Verelius’s death, however, Rudbeck was still not done with the most complicated problems in his comprehensive audit. Fresh in his new office, Schütz was understandably eager to get to work. Predictably, given the tenor of their previous encounters, Schütz ordered all the account books returned at once. Rudbeck refused.
He was not done, he reminded Schütz, and he had no desire to stop in the middle of things, especially in view of how much time he had already invested. Worse than that, Schütz seemed, in Rudbeck’s mind, a little too keen to show off the failures of the previous librarians. The reputation of his friends Loccenius, Schefferus, and Verelius would suffer, though they had, Rudbeck was sure, been guilty of little more than inheriting a chaotic situation that they could not bring under control.
When Rudbeck finally finished his account of the library books in 1683, the council approved his reconciliation. All the university officials seemed satisfied, and even the Arrhenius brothers signed their names to the bottom of the audit. But Professor Schütz, who had abstained from the special sessions in the council, was far from pleased. He accused Rudbeck of falsification.
At the sound of this serious allegation, both Jacob and Claes Arrhenius promptly removed their names from the approval. Outraged, Rudbeck demanded to be allowed to defend himself. Schütz, however, did everything he could to prevent Rudbeck from having this opportunity. He obtained, in fact, an official summons from the King’s Judicial Board for Public Lands and Funds, ordering Rudbeck to return every library receipt, bill, and document in his possession. Count Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie tried to protest, emphasizing that Rudbeck should at least be allowed access to the records to defend himself against the irresponsible charges of falsification. Nobody listened to the count.
Stormy sessions followed in the university council during the entire spring of 1684. Strong words were heard from both s
ides, shouting being perhaps a more accurate description. Each party presented its own version of the story, outlining the problems that had plagued the library over the last thirty years. This tense dispute culminated one year later, when Schütz sent two men over with orders to confiscate all of Rudbeck’s account books, and with permission to use force, if necessary. Undisturbed by their threats, Rudbeck tried to stall further, while one of his friends furiously made copies of everything for the defense. After a three-day standoff, Rudbeck finally handed over the books.
The whole complicated affair is perhaps best summed up by the Swedish historian who wrote its authoritative account: “It is completely impossible now to arrive at any certainty in the matter, but Schütz’s information did contain many mistakes, which Rudbeck had already pointed out.”
One thing is sure: had any information been found in the disputed accounts incriminating Rudbeck, official censure and punishment would have been the result.
But Rudbeck had been put on the defensive again, forced to answer many questions about his actions. He was, moreover, appalled by Schütz’s behavior. So was the chancellor, who was moved to write a letter to one of the king’s trusted advisers to complain about the problematic professor. As Count de la Gardie put it, Schütz had formed an alliance and basically usurped power on the council, pushing through policies at will. God, he said, had punished Uppsala with this theologian. Schütz regularly acted without the knowledge or approval of the council, not to mention bypassing the chancellor of the university.
De la Gardie’s comments probably reflect just as much his own frustration and anger, and bitter memories of Schütz’s disregard of the count’s nominal authority, as they do Schütz’s personality. Yet they were stuck with the difficult professor, and unfortunately it was this Professor Schütz who was actually next in line to take the rotating position of rector, one of the most powerful posts in the university. Give Schütz six months, De la Gardie feared, and he would bring the entire university of Uppsala into chaos.
Sure enough, as rector of the university, Schütz would have even more power when he joined Rudbeck’s old enemies Claes and Jacob Arrhenius. Zealous and articulate, Claes, now an aristocrat under the name Örnhielm, was enjoying greater clout and influence. His younger brother, Jacob, had been named treasurer of Uppsala University. He was an austere, ambitious official with an almost fanatical desire to trace problems back to Olof Rudbeck. What they decided to do about the library accounts came as a shock, a “thunderbolt to the unprepared council” and to a university clueless about their secretive planning.
The new rector and his treasurer had managed to secure royal authority to create an “Inquisition Commission” and launch a full-scale investigation of the university. Rudbeck and De la Gardie were bewildered at the king’s announcement, wondering along with the rest of Uppsala about the eerie sense of déjà vu. Would this commission, led by its fiery “grand inquisitor” and meticulous number-cruncher out to reform the university, lead to a reenactment of the Liquidation Commission, with its hunger for scapegoats and its appetite for retribution?
SET TO BEGIN operation in the first month of 1685, the Inquisition was a three-man commission consisting of Rector Schütz, Treasurer Jacob Arrhenius, and a third figure in the background, Professor Wolf. Their expressed aims were to determine the causes of the distresses plaguing the university and to find some immediate solutions. Unofficially, insiders knew that their secret intention was to remove Olof Rudbeck from the scene. In establishing this powerful institution (and certainly without any idea of their intended target), the king had made it perfectly clear that full cooperation would be expected. Anyone who resisted the Inquisition’s authority would meet with a severe punishment that, according to the king’s letter, would serve as a warning to others.
With this enormous authority, largely without clear limits, and backed by the power of the absolute king, the Inquisition forced Olof Rudbeck to account for his early activities at Uppsala. No one else would be hounded like him. The commission demanded detailed accounts of events that, at the time, were almost thirty years in the past. Rudbeck answered with a long and considered testimony describing his earliest connections to the university, including his days as a student, his invitation to Queen Christina’s court, the royal scholarship to the Netherlands, and the circumstances surrounding the establishment of the botanical garden and anatomy theater. This defense was not the end but only the beginning of the ordeal.
Two weeks later the Inquisition Commission ordered an official explanation of Rudbeck’s work with the botanical garden: a full account of its budgets, its legal status, its benefits, and the use of its materials since its founding and association with the university. Drafted on February 14, the letter ordered Rudbeck to gather all the materials and deliver his defense to the commission no later than March 1.
This investigation of the botanical garden shows the emerging pattern. The Inquisition would issue a statement requiring Rudbeck to respond at great length to some very broad subject that took place many years in the past and sometimes stretched over a significant span of time. When Rudbeck’s defense arrived, almost invariably showing how much he had given of his time and services (and sometimes also materials), the Inquisition would pour over every sentence, and then, once again, issue another sweeping request, granting very little time to gather all the materials. Rudbeck’s many other activities at the university were also slated to be scrutinized:
Anatomy theater March 3
Waterworks project March 3
Exercise house March 7
Community house March 7
Factory and mill March 9
New library March 12
College of Antiquities building March 19
As if the many demands and the early deadlines did not make the task hard enough, access to university records was denied. Access to the minutes of the council meetings was also forbidden. When Rudbeck asked for permission to use them between 7:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m., when no official would need them, the commission refused this as well. Rudbeck declared, ironically, that if he could not vouch for the honor of the professors on the Inquisition, he would believe that they were trying to make him convict himself.
No matter how nonchalant he tried to be, the terrible stresses of the Inquisition took their toll on the aging professor. The work was grueling, and the threat, backed by royal decree, serious. Each of the thirteen investigations called for a long, detailed, and carefully written defense. To comply, Rudbeck had to spend almost every waking hour laboring at his desk. Moreover, an accident several months before, when a castle gate crashed down on his carriage, had triggered vertigo, causing him to suffer from periodic onslaughts of dizziness. For a man who had long seen enemies everywhere, real and imagined, his worst fears had come to life. He started to see his health fail, and sense that he was, again, in his last days, “every hour nearer to sickness and the grave.”
AS THE INQUISITION looked into every conceivable aspect of Rudbeck’s long relationship with the university, the front lines of the conflict were unexpectedly reopened elsewhere. Along with his elevation to the leadership of the university library, Professor Schütz was given another influential post: inspector typographiae, a title that gave the professor royal authority to scrutinize all printed materials produced in the Swedish kingdom. During the spring of 1685, Schütz decided to exercise this right.
Professor Schütz had heard that Rudbeck was about to print some unflattering comments about the College of Antiquities. What Rudbeck was in fact printing was a short but controversial collection of overwhelmingly positive reviews of his Atlantica, which his friends had assiduously accumulated over the last six years. He was hoping to drum up publicity and increase sales, and at the same time probably vent some frustration at the way he had been treated. He wanted to defend his reputation, once and for all. Schütz, by contrast, did not see it that way at all. He deplored the outrageous “bad taste” of printing such self-praise, and he particularl
y resented one letter that he heard would be included.
This entry, written by a monk named Sven Sithellius, not only praised Atlantica in radiant terms, but also emphasized, very bluntly, how much it surpassed the entire body of work that had so far been written about the Swedish past, including, by implication, everything from the state-funded College of Antiquities. In fact, the monk went on to propose that some special funding enjoyed by the college would be more profitably invested in Rudbeck’s more noble and valuable quest. Such comments no doubt irked the college; the belligerent words played further on their anxieties about their already meager budgets and uncertain future.
So, in the first week of April 1685, Schütz stormed the press, imposed his authority as inspector typographiae, and demanded an immediate halt to Curio’s machines. He literally ripped the sheets out of the hands of the printer, sealed them up, and took them to the university authorities, acting, as Rudbeck said, like “prosecutor, judge, and executioner all at once.”
Arrhenius, Hadorph, and other enemies of Rudbeck at the college were elated at how decisively the censor had acted. To them, the shameless self-promotion, the underhanded insult to their honor, and the calculated appeal for royal subsidies all deserved, even demanded, such an action. Rudbeck, of course, protested the censorship, complaining that such an intrusion into his affairs was unwarranted. It was just another abuse of power, and a thinly veiled attempt by the opposition to maintain their control over the past. Besides, if the efforts to stop publication of his testimonia succeeded, Rudbeck knew what the “incompetent and passionate censors” had in mind for his Atlantica.
