Kepler (16 page)

Kepler

Gasthof zum Goldenen Greif

Prague

July 1611

Frau Regina Ehern: at Pfaffenhofen

O, my dear Regina! in the face of these disasters which have befallen us, words are inapt, and silence the truest expression of feelings. Nevertheless, however things stand with me, you must have an account of these past weeks. If I am clumsy, or seem heartless or cold, I know you will understand that it is sorrow amp; shame which prevent me from expressing adequately all that I feel.

Who can say when was the real beginning of your mother's illness? Hers was a life crowded with difficulties amp; sadness. It is true, she never wanted for material things, however much she would blame me for my lack of success in the great world of society which it was ever her dream of entering. But to have been twice a widow by the age of 22, surely that was hard, as was the loss of our firstborn infants, and now our beloved Freidrich. Lately she had taken to secret devotions, and was never to be seen without her prayer book. Also her memory was not what it had been, and sometimes she would laugh at nothing at all, or suddenly cry out as if stricken. Her envy also had increased, and she was forever bemoaning her lot, comparing herself to the wives of councillors amp; petty court officials, who seemed to move in far greater splendour than she, the wife of the Imperial Mathematician. All this was in her mind only, of course. What could I do?

Her illness of last winter, that fever amp; the falling sickness, frightened me greatly, but she was very brave amp; strong, with a determination which astonished all who knew her. The child's death in February was a terrible blow. When I returned from a visit to Linz at the end of June, I found her ill again. The Austrian troops had brought diseases into the city, and she had contracted spotted typhus, or
fleckfieber,
as they call it here. She might have fought back, but her strength was gone. Stunned by the deeds of horror of the soldiery amp; the sight of the bloody fighting in the city, consumed by despair of a better future and by the unquenchable yearning for her darling lost son, she finally expired, on the 3rd day of this month. As a clean smock was being put on her, at the end, her last words were to ask, Is this the dress of salvation? She remembered you in her final hours, and spoke of you often.

I am gnawed by guilt amp; remorse. Our marriage was blighted from the start, made as it was against our wills and under a calamitous sky. She was of a despondent amp; resentful nature. She accused me of laughing at her. She would interrupt my work to discuss her household problems. I may have been impatient when she went on asking me questions, but I never called her a fool, though it may have been her understanding that I considered her such, for she was very sensitive, in some ways. Lately, due to her repeated illnesses, she was deprived of her memory, and I made her angry with my reminders amp; admonitions, for she would have no master, and yet often was unable to cope herself. Often I was even more helpless than she, but in my ignorance persisted in the quarrel. In short, she was of an increasingly angry nature, and I provoked her, I regret it, but sometimes my studies made me thoughtless. Was I cruel to her? When I saw that she took my words to heart, I would rather have bitten off my own finger than give her further offence. As for me, not much love came my way. Yet I did not hate her. And now, you know, I have no one to talk to.

Think of me, my dear child, and pray for me. I have transferred to this inn-you remember the Golden Griffin?-for I could not abide the house. The nights are the hardest, and I do not sleep. What shall I do? I am a widower, with two young children, and all about is the turbulent disorder of war. I shall visit you, if possible. Would that you could come to see me here, but the perils would be too great. I sign myself, as in the old days,

Papa

Post scriptum.
I have opened your mother's will. She left me nothing. My regards to your husband.

Kunstadt in Moravia April 1612

Johannes Fabricius: at Wittenberg

Greetings, noble son of a noble father. You must forgive me for my long delay in replying to your numerous most welcome amp; fascinating letters. I have been these past months much taken up with business, both private amp; public. No doubt you are aware of the momentous events that have occurred in Bohemia, events which, along with all their other effects, have led to my virtual banishment from Prague. I am here at Kunstadt briefly, at the house of an old acquaintance of my late wife, a good-hearted widow woman who has offered to care for my motherless children until I have found quarters and settled in at Linz. Yes, it is Linz I am bound for, where I am to take up the post of district mathematician. You see how low I am brought.

The year that has passed has been the worst I have ever known; I pray I shall never see another such. Who would believe that so many misfortunes could befall a man in so short a time? I lost my beloved son, and then my wife. You would say, this were enough, but it seems that when disasters come, they come in dreadful armies. It was the entry of the Passau troops to Prague that brought the diseases which took from me my little son amp; my wife; then came the Archduke Matthias amp; his men, and my patron amp; protector was toppled from his throne: Rudolph, that poor, sad, good man! I did my best to save him. Both sides in the dispute were much influenced by star prophecies, as soldiers
amp;
statesmen always are, and, as Imperial Mathematician amp; Court Astronomer, my services were eagerly sought. Although in truth my best interests would have been served had I thrown in my lot with his enemies, I was loyal to my lord, and went so far as to pretend to Matthias that the stars favoured Rudolph. It was to no avail, of course. The outcome of that battle was determined before it began. Following his abdication in May, I remained at Rudolph's side. He had been good to me, despite all, and how could I abandon him? The new Emperor is not hostile to me, and only last month went so far as to confirm me in my post of mathematicus. Matthias, however, is no Rudolph; I shall be better off in Linz.

I shall be better off: so I tell myself. At least in Upper Austria there are people who value me amp; my work. That is more than can be said of my fellow countrymen. Perhaps you know of my efforts to return to Germany? Recently I turned again to Frederick of Württemburg, begging him to grant me, if not a professorship of philosophy, at least some humble political post, in order that I might have some peace amp; a little space in which calmly amp; quietly to pursue my studies. The Chancellor's office was not unsympathetic, and even suggested I might be put in line for the chair of mathematics at Tübingen, since Dr Mästlin is old. The Consistory, however, took a different view. They remembered that, in a former petition, I had been honest enough to warn that I could not unconditionally subscribe to the Formula of Concord. Also they dragged out the old accusation that I lean toward Calvinism. The end of it all is that I am finally rejected by my native land. Forgive me, but I hereby consign them all to the pits of Hell.

I am 41, and I have lost everything: my family, my honoured name, even my country. I face now into a new life, not knowing what new troubles await me. Yet I do not despair. I have done great work, which some day shall be recognised for its true value. My task is not yet finished. The vision of the harmony of the world is always before me, calling me on. God will not abandon me. I shall survive. I keep with me a copy of that engraving by the great Dürer of Nuremberg, which is called Knight with Death amp; the Devil, an image of stoic grandeur amp; fortitude from which I derive much solace: for this is how one must live, facing into the future, indifferent to terrors and yet undeceived by foolish hopes.

I enclose an old letter which I found unposted among my papers. It concerns matters of scientific interest, and you should have it, for I fancy it will be some little time before I have the heart to turn again to such speculations.

Your colleague, Joh: Kepler

Prague
December 1611

Johannes Fabricius: at Wittenberg

Ah, my dear young sir, how happy I am to hear of your researches into the nature of these mysterious solar spots. Not only am I filled with admiration for the rigour amp; ingenuity of your investigations, but also I am carried back out of these hateful times to a happier period of my own life. Can it be only five years ago? Lucky I, who was the first in this century to have observed these spots! I say this, not in an attempt to steal your fire, if I may put it thus (nor even do I mean tojoin the tiresome controversy between Scheiner amp; Galileo over the priority of the discovery), but only to convince myself that there was a time when I could happily, and, one might say, in innocence, pursue my scientific studies, before the disasters of this terrible year had befallen me.

I first observed the phenomenon of solar spots in May of 1607. For weeks I had been earnestly observing Mercury in the evening sky. According to calculations, that planet was to enter into lower conjunction with the sun on May 29th. Since a heavy storm arose in the evening of the 27th, and it seemed to me this aspect would be the cause of such disturbance in the weather, I wondered if perhaps the conjunction should be fixed earlier. I therefore set to work to observe the sun on the afternoon of the 28th. At that time I had rooms at Wenzel College, where the Rector, Martin Bachazek, was my friend. A keen amateur, Bachazek had built a little wooden tower in one of the college lofts, and it was to there that he amp; I retired that day. Rays of the sun were shining through thin cracks in the shingles, and under one of these rays we held a piece of paper whereon the sun's image formed. And lo! on the shimmering picture of the sun we espied a little daub, quite black, approximately like a parched flea. Certain that we were observing a transit of Mercury, we were overcome with the greatest excitement. To prevent error, and to make sure it was not a mark in the paper itself, we kept moving the paper back amp; forth so that the light moved: and everywhere the little black spot appeared with the light. I drew up a report immediately, and had my colleague endorse it. I ran to the Hradcany, and sent the announcement to the Emperor by a valet, for of course this conjunction was of great interest to His Majesty. Then I repaired to the workshop of Jost Burgi, the court mechanic. He was out, and so, with one of his assistants, I covered a window, letting the light shine through a small aperture in a tin plate. Again the little daub appeared. Again I sought verification for my report, and had Burgi's assistant sign it. The document lies before me on my desk, and there is the signature:
Heinrich Stolle, watchmaker-journeyman, my hand.
How well I remember it all!

Of course, I was wrong, as so often; it was not a transit of Mercury I had witnessed, as you know, but a
sunspot.
Have you, I wonder, a theory as to the origin of this phenomenon? I have witnessed it often since that day, yet I have not decided to my own satisfaction what is the explanation. Perhaps they are a form of cloud, as in our own skies, but wonderfully black and heavy, and therefore easily to be seen. Or maybe they are emanations of burning gas rising from the fiery surface? For my own part, they are of the utmost interest not in their cause, but in that, by their form amp; evident motion, they prove satisfactorily the rotation of the sun, which I had postulated without proof in my
Astronomia nova.
I wonder that I could do so much in that book, without the aid of the telescope, which in your work you have put to such good use.

What should we do without our science? It is, even in these dread times, a great consolation. My master Rudolph grows stranger day by day: I think he will not live. Sometimes he seems not to understand that he is no longer emperor. I do not disabuse him of this dream. How sad a place the world is. Who would not rather ascend into the clear amp; silent heights of celestial speculation?

Please do not take my bad example to heart, but write to me soon again. I am, Sir,

yours, Johannes Kepler

Gasthof zum Goldenen Greif

Prague

September 1611

Frau Regina Ehern: at Pfaffenhofen

Life, so it used to seem to me, my dear Regina, is a formless amp; forever shifting stuff, a globe of molten glass, say, which we have been flung, and which, without even the crudest of instruments, with only our bare hands, we must shape into a perfect sphere, in order to be able to contain it within ourselves. That, so I thought, is our task here, I mean the transformation of the chaos without, into a perfect harmony amp; balance within us. Wrong, wrong: for our lives contain us,
we
are the flaw in the crystal, the speck of grit which must be ejected from the spinning sphere. It is said, that a drowning man sees all his life flash before him in the instant before he succumbs: but why should it be only so for death by water? I suspect it is true whatever the manner of dying. At the final moment, we shall at last perceive the secret amp; essential form of all we have been, of all our actions amp; thoughts. Death is the perfecting medium. This truth-for I believe it to be a truth-has manifested itself to me with force in these past months. It is the only answer that makes sense of these disasters amp; pains, these betrayals.

I will not hold you responsible, dear child, for our present differences. There are those about you, and one in particular, I know, who will not leave in peace even a bereaved amp; ailing man in his hour of agony. Your mother was hardly cold in her grave when that first imperious missive from your husband arrived, like a blow to the stomach, and now
you
write to me in this extraordinary fashion. This is not your tone of voice, which I remember with tenderness amp; love, this is not how you would speak to me, if the choice were yours. I can only believe that these words were dictated to you. Therefore, I am not now addressing you, but, through you, another, to whom I cannot bring myself to write directly. Let him prick up his ears. This squalid matter shall be cleared up to the satisfaction of all.