Doctor Copernicus (31 page)

“Herr von Lauchen, we are honoured. In these remote parts we are not often visited by the famous—O yes, indeed, I have heard of you, although I confess I had not imaged you to be so
young. May I enquire what matter it is that brings you here to Heilsberg?”

He had kept me waiting three days for an audience: I was not impressed by his honeyed words. I bent on him a level gaze and said:

“I came, Bishop, to speak with you.”

“Ah yes? I am flattered.”

“Flattered, sir? I fail to see why you should feel so. I have not come on this journey, to this . . . this place, to flatter anyone.”

That put a dent in his urbanity. It is not every day that a Bishop is spoken to thus. His smile disappeared so swiftly, I swear I heard the swish of its going. However, he was not at a loss for
long; he chuckled softly, and rising said:

“My dear sir, that suits me well! I dislike flatterers. But come now, come, and I shall show you something which I think will interest you.”

The company rose as we left the hall, and at the door Dantiscus bethought himself, and turned with an impatient frown, meant I’m sure to win my Lutheran approval, and daubed upon the air a
negligent blessing. In silence we climbed up through the castle to his study, a long low room with frescoed walls, again in blue and gold, situated in a tower in the north-west wing, where a window
gave on to what I realised must be the selfsame expanse of sky which Copernicus commanded from his tower way off in Frauenburg. I was startled, and for a moment quite confused, for here was the
very model of an observatory that, before coming to Prussia, I had imagined Copernicus inhabiting. The place was stocked with every conceivable aid to the astronomer’s art: globes of copper
and bronze, astrolabes, quadrants, a kind of tri-quetrum of a design more intricate than I had ever seen, and, in pride of place, a representation of the universe exquisitely worked in gold rods
and spheres, at which I gaped with open mouth, for it was based upon the Copernican theory as propounded in the
Commentariolus.
Dantiscus, smiling, pretended not to notice my consternation,
but went to a desk by the window and from a drawer took out a book and handed it to me. Another shock: it was the
Narratio prima
, crisp as a loaf and smelling still of the presses and the
binding room. Now the Bishop could contain himself no longer, and laughed outright. I suppose my face was something to laugh at. He said:

“Forgive me, my friend, it is too bad of me to surprise you thus. I suppose this is the first you have seen of your book in print? Tiedemann Giese—whom you know, I think?—was
kind enough to send me this copy. The messenger arrived with it only yesterday, but I have been through it in large part, and find it fascinating. The clarity of the work, and the firm grasp of the
theory, are impressive.”

Giese! who frothed at the mouth when he spoke the name of Dantiscus; who had warned me of this man’s treachery, of his plot against Copernicus and how he had for years tormented our
domine praeceptor
; this very Giese had sent, on his own initiative, this most extraordinary of gifts to our arch enemy. Why? From nowhere, the words came to my mind:
what is it they
require of me?
But then I chided myself, and put away the formless suspicions that had begun to stir within me. To be sure, there must be a simple explanation. Probably old bumbling Giese,
imagining himself a cunning devil, had thought the attempt to melt this hard heart worth the hiring of a messenger to carry his gift post-haste to Heilsberg. I was not a little affected by the
fancy, and wondered if my first impression of Tiedemann Giese had been mistaken, if he was not, after all, a kind and thoughtful fellow, anxious only to further my
magister’s
fortunes.
O Rheticus, thou dolt! The Bishop was still talking, and as he talked he moved among his instruments, laying his hands upon them lightly, as if they were the downy heads of his bastards he were
caressing. He said:

“This room, you know, was once the Canon’s, when he was secretary to his late uncle, my predecessor, here at Heilsberg. I am but an amateur in the noble science of astronomy, yet I
possess, as you see, some few instruments, and when I came here first, and was seeking a place to house them, it seemed only fitting that I should choose this little cell, resonant as it is,
surely, with echoes of the great man’s thoughts. I feel I chose wisely, for these echoes, do you not think, might touch the musings of a humbler soul such as I, and perhaps inspire
them?”

No, I thought nothing of the sort; the place was dead, a kind of decorated corpse; it had forgotten Copernicus, the mark of whose grey presence had been painted over with these gaudy frescoes. I
said:

“Sir, I am glad you have brought up the subject of my
domine praeceptor
, Doctor Copernicus, for it is of him that I wish to speak to you.”

He paused in his pacing, and turned upon me again his keen, careful glance. He seemed about to speak, but hesitated, and instead bade me continue. I said:

“Since his Lordship, Bishop Giese, has been in communication with you, he will, perhaps, have told you that I, along with Doctor Copernicus, have spent some months past at the
Bishop’s palace at Löbau. What he will not have told you, I fancy, is the purpose of our visit there.” Here I turned away from him, so as not to have to meet his eyes during what
came next; for I am not a good liar, it shows in my face, and I was about to lie to him. “We travelled to Löbau, sir, to discuss in peace and solitude the imminent publication of the
Doctor’s book,
De revolutionibus orbium mundi
, a work which you may already have heard some mention of.”

He seemed not to notice the sarcasm of that last, for he stared at me for a moment, and then, to my astonishment and indeed alarm, he made a rush at me with outstretched arms. I confess he gave
me a fright, for he was grinning like a maniac, which made that great beak of a nose of his dip most horribly, until the tip of it was almost in peril from those big bared teeth, and for an instant
it seemed as though he were about to fall upon and savage me. However, he only clapped his hands upon my shoulders, crying:

“Why, sir, this is splendid news!”

“Eh?”

“How have you managed to persuade him? I may tell you, I have for years been urging him to publish, as have many others, and without the least success, but here
you
come from
Wittenberg and win him round immediately. Splendid, I say, splendid!”

He stepped back then, evidently realising that this shouting and back-slapping was not seemly behaviour for a Bishop, and smiled his little smile again, though somewhat sheepishly. I said:

“It is good to find you so apparently pleased to hear this news.”

He frowned at the coldness of my tone. “Indeed, I am very pleased. And I say again, you are to be congratulated.”

“Many thanks.”

“Pray, no thanks are due.”

“Yet, I offer them.”

“Well then, thanks also.”

“Sir.”

“Sir.”

We disengaged, and shook our blades, but I, making a sudden advance, dealt him a bold blow.

“I have been told, however, Bishop, that Rome would not be likely to greet with great enthusiasm the making public of this work. Have I been misinformed?”

He looked at me, and gave a little laugh. He said:

“Let us have some wine, my friend.”

Thus ended the first round. I was not displeased with my performance so far; but when the wine arrived, like a fool I drank deep, and very soon I was thinking myself the greatest swordsman in
the world. That wine, and the hubris it induced, I blame for my subsequent humiliation. Dantiscus said:

“My dear von Lauchen, I begin to see why you have come to Heilsberg. Can it be, you think me less than honest when I say, hearing the news you bring with you today, that I am overjoyed? O,
I well know the Canon thinks I hate him, and would, though God knows why, prevent him, if I could, from publishing his book. All this, I see, he has told you. But, my friend, believe me, he is
mistaken, and does me grave injustice. To these his charges, I reply just this—come, let me fill your cup—has he forgot how I, this six years past, have ever sought to have him speak,
and publicise his theory?
Meinherr
von Lauchen, truth to tell, I am weary of the man, and cannot help but feel rebuffed when you arrive here and reveal that winning his agreement took but a
word from you!”

I shrugged, and said:

“But what, my Lord, about this Schillings woman, eh? It’s said you accuse him of taking her to bed—and she his cousin! I think, my friend, instead of love you bear him
malice.”

He hung his head.

“Ah, that. Distasteful business, I agree. But,
Meinherr
, as Bishop of this See, it is my solemn duty to ensure that Mother Church’s clergy shall abjure all vice. What can I
do? The man insists on keeping in his house this cousin-mistress. And anyway, the matter is deeper than you know, as I, if you will listen, shall quickly show. First, the times are bad; the Church,
my friend, fears all that Luther wrought, and must defend her tarnished reputation. Second, it’s not the learned Doctor Nicolas at whom my shot is mainly aimed, but one Sculteti, Canon of
Frauenburg also—a treacherous fellow, this one. Not only does he live in sin, but also he plots against the Church here, and puts out false reports. Besides, he’s involved with the
Germans—ahem! More wine? But this is not germane to my intention, which is that you should know I love the learned Doctor, and would go to any lengths to spare him pain. And please! do not
think evil of our Church. All these . . . these petty matters all are due to badness in the times. They are but passing madness, and will pass, while certain to endure is the Canon’s
master-work, of this I’m sure. And now, my friend, a toast: to you! to us! and to
De revolutionibus
!”

I drained my cup, and looked about me, and was vaguely surprised to find that we had left the tower, and were standing now in the open air, on a high balcony. Below us was the courtyard, filled
with searing lemon-coloured light; odd foreshortened little people hurried hither and thither about their business in a most humorous fashion. Something seemed to have gone wrong with my legs, for
I was leaning all off to one side. Dantiscus, looking more than ever like a besotted Italian-ate princeling, was still talking. Apparently I had stopped listening some time before, for I could not
understand him now very well. He said:

“Science! Progress! Rebirth! The New Age! What do you say, friend?”

I said:

“Yesh, O yesh.”

And then there was more wine, and more talk, and music and a deal of laughter, and I grew merrier and merrier, and thought what a capital fellow after all was this Dantiscus, so civilised, so
enlightened; and later I was feasted amid a large noisy company, which I addressed on divers topics, such as Science! and Progress! and the New Age! and all in all made an utter fool of myself. At
dawn I awoke in a strange room, with a blinding ache in my head, and longing for death. I crept away from the castle without seeing a soul, and fled Heilsberg, never to return.

What was I to think now, in sickeningly sober daylight, of this Dantiscus, who had plied me with drink and flattery, who had feasted me in his hall, who had toasted the success of a publication
for which, so Giese would have it, he wished in his heart nothing but abject failure? After much argument with myself, I decided that despite all he was a scoundrel—had he not ordered a
burning of books? had he not threatened Lutherans with fire and the rack? had he not hounded without mercy my
domine praeceptor
? No amount of wine, nor flattery, nor talk of progress, could
obliterate those crimes. O knave! O viper! O yesh.

*

Before I leave this part of my tale, there is something more I must mention. To this day I am uncertain whether or not what I am about to relate did in reality take place. On
the following day, when I was well out on my flight from Heilsberg, and was wondering, in great trepidation, if Dantiscus, finding me gone without a word, might think to send after me, and drag me
back to another round of drinking and carousing, suddenly, like some great thing swooping down on me out of a sky that a moment before had been empty, there came into my head the memory, I call it
a memory, for convenience, of having seen Raphaël yesterday at the castle—Raphaël, that laughing lad from Löbau! He had been in the courtyard, surrounded by that lemon-coloured
sunlight and the hither and thithering figures, mounted on a black horse. How clearly I remembered him!—or imagined that I did. He had grown a little since last I had seen him, for he was at
that age when boys shoot up like saplings, and was very elegantly got up in cap and boots and cape, quite the little gentleman, but Raphaël for all that, unmistakably, I would have known him
anywhere, at any age. I see it still, that scene, the sunlight, and the rippling of the horse’s glossy blue-black flanks, the groom’s hand upon the bridle, and the slim, capped and
crimson-caped, booted, beautiful boy, that scene, I see it, and wonder that such a frail tender thing survived so long, to bring me comfort now, and make me young again, here in this horrid place.
Raphaël. I write down the name, slowly, say it softly aloud, and hear aetherial echoes of seraphs singing. Raphaël. I have tears still. Why was he there, so far from home? The answer, of
course, was simple, viz. the boy had brought my book from Löbau. Yet was there not more to it than that? I called his name, too late, for he was already at the gate, on his way home, and
Dantiscus, taking me by the arm, said:
friend, you should be careful
, and gave me a strange look. What did he mean? Or did he speak, really? Did I imagine it, all of it? Was it a dream,
which I am dreaming still? If that is so, if it was but a delusion spawned by a mind sodden with drink, then I say the imagining was prophetic, in a way, as I shall demonstrate, in its place.

*     *     *

I
returned home then to Wittenberg, only to find to my dismay that it was no longer home. How to explain this strange sensation? You know it well,
I’m sure. The university, my friends and teachers, my rooms, my books, all were just as when I had left them, and yet all were changed. It was as if some subtle blight had contaminated
everything I knew, the heart of everything, the essential centre, while the surface remained sound. It took me some time to understand that it was not Wittenberg that was blighted, but myself. The
wizard of Frauenburg had put his spell on me, and one thing, one only thing, I knew, would set me free of that enchantment. After my ignominious flight from Heilsberg, all interest in
Copernicus’s work had mysteriously abandoned me, despite the lie I had told Dantiscus regarding the imaginary triumph I had scored at Löbau; for I had now no intention of continuing my
campaign to force Copernicus to publish. I say that interest in his work abandoned me, and not vice versa, for thus it happened. I had no hand in it: simply, all notion of returning to Frauenburg,
and joining battle with him again, all that just departed, and was as though it had never been. Had some secret sense within me perceived the peril that awaited me in Prussia? If so, that warning
sense was not strong enough, for I was hardly back in Wittenberg before I found myself in correspondence with Petreius the printer. O, I was vague, and wrote that he must understand that there was
no question now of publishing the main work; but I was, I said, preparing a
Narratio secunda
(which I was not), and since it would contain many diagrams and tables and suchlike taken direct
from
De revolutionibus
, it was necessary that I should know what his block-cutters and type-setters were capable of in the matter of detail et cetera. However, despite all my caution and
circumlocutions, Petreius, with unintentional and uncanny good aim, ignored entirely all mention of a second
Narratio
, and replied huffily that, as I should know, his craftsmen were second
to none where scientific works were concerned, and he would gladly and with confidence contract to put between boards Copernicus’s great treatise, of which he had heard so many reports.