Tycho was not alone in his chagrin. The king and his ministers, to weaken the Rigsraad, used the transfer of fiefs to create animosities among its members and erode the power of the noble families. Tycho’s cousin lost Kronborg Castle and was moved to a castle on the fringe of the kingdom. Erik Lange lost Bygholm, which had already fallen to ruin because of his insatiable alchemical lust. Tycho’s brother Steen lost Munkeliv Abbey, St. Hans Cloister, and Saebygård, and his income and influence were severely reduced.
On Hven, nothing was as it had been. Two fires broke out in the house, though they were extinguished before doing great damage. The peasants were even more restless and uncooperative than usual. Tycho was short of assistants. A set of expensive medallions with his portrait and the Brahe arms and motto that he had commissioned and intended as gifts to friends turned out to be of inferior quality—a seemingly small matter, but they had been part of his plan to restore his honor.
There had been a time when he could have quickly put minor setbacks behind him, but Tycho was an older man now—not so energetic and resilient, more defensive, overwhelmed. As the weeks passed, it seemed increasingly that everything was falling apart, and he was too tired to pick up all the pieces. He became more and more irritable and short on patience. Even so, with his income and energies severely reduced, Tycho was unwilling to take the sensible move of cutting back on research and publishing projects. If the goals he had fought for all his life looked less likely ever to be achieved, that was all the more reason not to let anything drop.
By late winter Tycho’s political and financial position was deteriorating rapidly, and it became abundantly clear that time was running out for his work at Uraniborg and Stjerneborg. He put Longomontanus in charge of rushing the star catalog to completion, expanding it hurriedly from 777 to 1,000 stars and inscribing the positions of all those stars on the great globe. The work was, of necessity, not up to Tycho’s usual standard of precision and verification. Other assistants had the task of taking an inventory and listing all the books in his library. The immediate plan was to close Uraniborg, move to his mansion in Copenhagen, and set up observatory, laboratory, and printing press there. Tycho used as an excuse the need to be on the spot while the diet of the nobility considered his breach-of-promise case against Gellius, but he suspected there would be no return.
The last observation recorded on Hven was on March 15, 1597, the date on which Tycho’s annual pension from the crown was discontinued. His assistants had completed listing the books. After that note, the journal, which had recorded events on Hven and faithfully noted daily weather observations with no break since 1582, fell silent.
Before the move could be completed, a royal patent was issued ordering two royal commissioners, one of whom was Tycho’s brother Axel, to investigate several complaints against Tycho: that he had mistreated his villagers, allowed the pastor of St. Ibb’s to violate the church ordinance of 1539, and committed other unnamed injustices.
The two commissioners found the island in a state of confusion and bustling with activity when they arrived there on April 10. The move to Copenhagen was in progress and did not appear to be temporary. Tycho had packed up everything movable, including the books, his laboratory equipment, printing presses, the great globe, and all the other instruments except the four great Stjerneborg instruments, which could not be disassembled quickly. The packing continued even while Christian Friis and Axel Brahe were meeting the bailiff, alderman, and others assessing the state of Tycho Brahe’s affairs.
April 11 was clear and fair, and it would have been a fine night for viewing the skies, but by dusk Tycho and Kirsten and their six children, along with his assistants, the housekeeper, cook, butler, maids, and other servants, had turned their backs on the exquisite house, the Renaissance gardens just coming into bud, and the observatory of Stjerneborg with its silent instruments shut beneath the wooden covers. The company made their way by carriage, cart, and foot down to the little harbor and sailed away from Hven. Tycho would never again see the house he had designed to reflect the harmony of music or set foot on the soil of the beloved island that had been his home for twenty-one years.
IN GRAZ, later that same month, on April 27, Johannes Kepler and Barbara Müller were wed in a splendid celebration at Barbara’s own residence. In spite of Kepler’s less than sanguine mood as the date drew near, the days and weeks that followed were happy for them. Barbara was only twenty-three, two years younger than he. A miniature portrait made at the time (see color plate section) shows her looking somewhat older than her age, with lovely, intelligent eyes, a sweet mouth, and a prominent nose. Contemporary descriptions called her pretty and plump. Kepler had grown extremely fond of Barbara’s seven-year-old daughter Regina and treated her as his own child. Barbara was soon expecting another baby.
Not long after the wedding, the first copies of Kepler’s book arrived from the printers. It was a slim volume with a long title: Prodromus Dissertationum Cosmographicarum, Continens Mysterium Cosmographicum, de Admirabili Proportione Orbium Coelestium, deque Causis Coelorum Numeri, Magnitudinis, Motuumque Periodicorum Genuinis & Proprijs, Demonstratum, per Quinque Regularia Corpora Geometrica (The Introduction to the Cosmographical Essays, Containing the Cosmographical Mystery of the Marvelous Proportion of the Celestial Spheres, and of the True and Particular Causes of the Number, Size, and Periodic Motions of the Heavens, Demonstrated by Means of the Five Regular Geometric Bodies). For convenience, that title is usually abbreviated to Mysterium Cosmographicum, or simply Mysterium. Looking back from old age, Kepler commented that this small book was the point of departure for the path his life would take from that time on.fn1 He might justifiably have said the same with regard to its watershed significance for all of science, for though the polyhedral theory was erroneous, Kepler had been the first, and would be the only, scientist until René Descartes (in the 1630s and ’40s) to insist on physical explanations for celestial phenomena. In the words of Owen Gingerich, “Seldom in history3 has so wrong a book been so seminal in directing the future course of science.”
Kepler hastened to send copies to other scholars, requesting their opinions. Galileo Galilei, then teaching at the University of Padua, was not yet well known and perhaps not known at all to Kepler, and Mysterium probably came into his hands purely by serendipity through a third person. But Galileo wrote to Kepler4 that though he had read only the preface so far, he was looking forward with pleasure to reading the rest. He also mentioned that he had been a Copernican for some years but not admitted it publicly for fear of the ridicule of his colleagues. In a return letter written in his most exuberant style, Kepler urged Galileo to espouse Copernicanism openly, for “would it not be better5 to pull the rolling wagon to its destination with united effort?” He also begged for Galileo’s opinion of Mysterium: “You can believe me, I prefer a criticism even if sharp from a single intelligent man to the ill-considered approval of the great masses.” Galileo did not reply. There would be no further correspondence between them for thirteen years.
Among other scholars to whom Kepler sent copies of his book, the reception was mixed. Mästlin agreed with him entirely. Johannes Praetorius, a professor from Altdorf who responded favorably at first, changed his mind on closer reading and declared that astronomy “could derive no profit6 from these speculations. The planets’ distances should be found by observation”; they meant nothing beyond that. Professor Georg Limnäus from Jena was overjoyed that someone was “reviving the Platonic art7 of philosophizing.”
In his correspondence with Limnäus, Kepler requested information concerning a famous Danish astronomer, Tycho Brahe. Limnäus’s reply mentioned that Nicolaus Reimers Bär was a “specialist”8 who had “spent some time with” Brahe. Fatefully, Limnäus failed to add that there was antagonism between Tycho and Bär.
Bär, or “Ursus,” as he had latinized his name (ursus is Latin for Bär, or in English, bear), had risen dramatically in the world since his visit to Hven. Using false credentials, he had
contrived to ingratiate himself with Rudolph II, emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, who was always eagerly on the lookout for a good astrologer. So successful had Ursus’s ploy been that he was now ensconced as imperial mathematician at Rudolph’s court in Prague. In spite of his status, Ursus was not one of the scholars to whom Kepler originally sent copies of Mysterium, but Ursus noticed the book listed in the Frankfurt catalog and wrote to Kepler requesting a copy.
That request was not Kepler’s first contact with Ursus. A year and a half earlier, in November 1595, at the urging of a supervisor in Graz who praised Ursus highly, Kepler had written to tell him about his polyhedral theory. It was not characteristic of Kepler to be dishonest in his dealings, but on this occasion, in a flourish of ill-considered disingenuity, Kepler had written, “The little knowledge I have in astronomy I acquired with you, that is, with your books, as my teacher.”9 In fact, Kepler had never read Ursus’s books. His letter also declared, “I love your hypotheses,” and he closed with the words, “Take care of yourself, for the sake of the stars and our science, O Pride of Germany!” signing himself, “Your excellency’s pupil.” Kepler would live to regret that hyperbole. Ursus’s hypotheses—with which Kepler certainly did not agree (he admitted later in the letter), no matter how much he “loved” them—were those that had the Sun orbiting a motionless Earth and the other planets orbiting the Sun. In other words, Tycho Brahe’s system.
Ursus had not troubled to reply to Kepler’s letter, but he had not discarded it either. Learning about Mysterium, he recognized a delicious opportunity: This obsequious young fool, this Kepler, was no longer a nobody. He had authored a book. Ursus saw that he could strengthen his claim that the “Tychonic system” was his invention by reprinting Kepler’s adulatory letter in his own forthcoming book De Astronomicis Hypothesibus (On Astronomical Hypotheses), a vitriolic attack on Tycho. To scholars who read the book, it would appear that Kepler had entered the contest on Ursus’s side.
Kepler had no way of knowing why in May 1597, a year and a half after he had first written Ursus, Ursus was suddenly so friendly, addressing Kepler as “most distinguished man”10 and “esteemed friend.” Kepler innocently sent Ursus not one but two copies of Mysterium, requesting that he pass one on, if the opportunity arose, to Tycho Brahe.
IN THIS SAME late spring of 1597, Tycho was facing a fresh set of problems in Copenhagen. Though by and large Uraniborg and the University of Copenhagen had maintained a relationship that was useful to both—with the university sending some of its most promising students, such as Longomontanus, to Uraniborg to take advantage of the opportunities there—Tycho had some jealous enemies among the university faculty. Now his presence in the city, in a mansion with an observatory that no university could match, provoked afresh the resentment of men who argued that Tycho’s research drained the university of financial support and its ablest students.
The animosity came not only from astronomers but also from theologians who were pleased to see him at bay. Tycho found himself in the crossfire between two warring schools of Lutheran theology, the Philippists, who were enthusiastic about the study and advancement of science, and the Gnesio-Lutherans, who were less so. There were other differences, including their attitude toward marriage. Particularly relevant for Tycho and Kirsten, the Philippists tolerated mutual pledges of betrothal that did not involve a church wedding, while the Gnesio-Lutherans strongly supported the royal ordinance of 1582 that had already caused Tycho to stop taking Communion.
Leaving the island also did not mean leaving behind the problem of Tycho’s tenants. The report of the two royal commissioners led to a summons to court. Tycho and the peasants of Hven were to appear before the king himself. This time the peasants’ charges had more to do with Tycho’s relationship with the church of St. Ibb’s than with their own oppression. Perhaps they were aware that maintenance of church property had been an issue between Tycho and the king before, and that there were also problems between Tycho and theologians at the university. The villagers accused Tycho of letting the church deteriorate and pocketing incomes and tithes for himself, of expropriating glebe lands, tearing down parsonage buildings, underpaying the pastor, and appointing and dismissing pastors at whim. Exorcism had been omitted from the ritual of baptism at St. Ibb’s, and Tycho had not corrected this omission. Tycho countercharged that the peasants had maliciously damaged the Stjerneborg instruments. The proceedings were discontinued pending further investigation.
The pastor of St. Ibb’s, Jens Jenson Wensøsil, fared worse in this round of the investigation than Tycho did. Wensøsil was charged and found guilty of omitting exorcism from the ritual of baptism and failing to punish and admonish Tycho Brahe for living a sinful life with his common-law wife and for missing Communion for eighteen years. The attack on Wensøsil was clearly a thinly veiled attack on Tycho. It was Tycho who had ordered Wensøsil to omit exorcism, thereby revealing his own Philippist rather than Gnesio-Lutheran sympathies. It was Tycho who had chosen not to take Communion and violate the ban having to do with common-law marriages. Crown lawyers knew that attacks on Tycho’s marriage were pointless, for it was legal under the ancient Jutish law to which any nobleman had the right to appeal. Unable to touch Tycho himself, his enemies had brought down the vulnerable pastor instead. Wensøsil was imprisoned in a dungeon for a month and, according to Tycho, “would have been beheaded11 if powerful friends had not intervened.” When Wensøsil emerged, he fled to Tycho’s mansion.
Tycho suffered an even greater indignity than having to defend himself against his peasants before the king or see his pastor take the brunt of the hatred that was intended for him. The town constable came to Tycho’s door in the name of the king, who had a view of Tycho’s mansion from Copenhagen Castle across the water, and ordered Tycho to remove the instruments he had mounted on the bastions and the city walls behind the mansion. Christian claimed they spoiled his view. All work ended at Tycho’s Copenhagen observatory. He became, again, a laughingstock at court.
On June 1 Tycho sent Longomontanus away with a letter of recommendation to future employers. Franz Tengnagel, a young Westphalian nobleman who had been one of Tycho’s assistants since 1595, departed for the Netherlands. The next day, Tycho and his household, still more than twenty people, left Copenhagen.
The long, lumbering column of carriages and heavy wagons took the road south. The carriages carried Tycho and Kirsten, their six children (all but Magdalene were in their teens), and the pastor Wensøsil. The wagons were loaded down with Tycho’s three thousand books, his manuscripts, his laboratory equipment, the printing press, all his astronomical instruments except four in Stjerneborg, household goods, furniture, the family’s clothing and personal belongings, and iron-bound chests containing all their wealth in gold, silver, and jewels. Household servants rode in some of the wagons, and there were armed men on horseback for protection, as well as extra horses and numerous teamsters for hauling, loading, tending the draft animals, prodding them on and off the boats where there was water to cross, wading with them through river fords, and prising wagons out of muddy ditches. Tycho probably also brought along good horses for himself and his two sons, so that they could make periodic checks on the entire length of the caravan.
Tycho was taking his entire life with him, except for two empty mansions and four instruments in an observatory. He had always been somewhat prepared for this contingency, despite outward confidence and a recent dangerous tendency to forget how ephemeral the favor of princes could be. When he ordered his first quadrant at Augsburg, he had had it designed to be easily dismantled, and he had followed that practice ever since except with the four largest instruments. “An astronomer must be cosmopolitan, because ignorant statesmen cannot be expected to value their services,” had been his youthful, prophetic words. More recently, while he had seemed to be struggling to continue at Hven, he had also been making thorough and extensive preparations to make this move and do it in a style befitting a man of his wealth and stature.
Uraniborg stood deserted, an odd, magnificent shell of a house. On the wall where the mural quadrant had been, Tycho’s portrait gazed at nothing. The library shelves were empty, the great globe gone, the alchemical furnaces cold. No water spouted from the fountain at the center of the house. No summons came to the garret rooms through the secret communication system. Beyond the formal gardens, the four great instruments of Stjerneborg gathered dust in the darkness, the wooden roofs that protected them from the elements stayed in place night after night, never pulled back so that the sights could be pointed at the stars. David Pedersen, Tycho’s bailiff, summoned laborers from Tuna each day to maintain the manor and occasionally received aid from representatives of the crown to maintain order, for the peasants of Hven were ready to tear house, gardens, and observatory down stone by stone, use the materials elsewhere, and make the land a pasture again.
Tycho and Kepler Page 20
