Galileo's Dream (10 page)

The book was published in March of 1610. The first printing sold
out within the month. Copies circulated throughout Europe. Indeed its fame was worldwide. Within five years word came that it was being discussed at the court of the Chinese emperor.

Despite this literary and scientific success, the Galilean household was still running at a loss, with Galileo's time also massively overcommit-ted. He wrote to his friend Sagredo,
I'm always at the service of this or that person. I have to eat up many hours of the day—often the best ones—in the service of others. I need a prince
.

On May 7, 1610, he wrote a follow-up inquiry to Vinta. He did not beat around the bush, but made it an explicit letter of application, a real piece of rhetoric. He requested a salary of a thousand florins a year, and sufficient free time to bring to completion certain works he had in progress. Glancing up at the dusty workbooks on the shelf to make sure he forgot nothing, he made a list of what he hoped to publish if he were given the time:

—which is in fact my greatest invention, he did not add—a single device that allows one to make all of the military calculations I have already
mentioned plus also the division of lines, the solution of the Rule of Three, the equalization of money, the calculation of interest, proportional reduction of figures and solids, extraction of square and cube roots, identification of the mean proportionals, transformation of parallelepipeds into cubes, determination of proportional weights of metals and other substances, description of polygons and division of circumferences into equal parts, squaring of the circle or any other regular figures, taking the batter of scarps on walls—in short it was an omnicalculator, able to make any computation you could want, despite which hardly anyone has noticed its existence, and even fewer bought one, so stupid was the common run of humanity!

But that was not germane, even though the reaction to his compass still galled him and was one of the events driving this whole move back to Florence. It wasn't a good subject to bring up, so he only moved to his conclusion:

—such as they are, being for the most part grossly overpaid Peripatetic idiots!

Reading over the final flourishes, and looking at the red leather of their best spyglass yet, embossed in gold with typical Florentine and Medici figures, it seemed to him that the opportunities being offered to any potential patron were too great to decline. What an application! Even the transport case into which everything was loaded for the Florentine courier was beautiful. Who could say no to such a thing?

And, in fact, on May 24, 1610, a reply from Vinta came to the house behind the church of Santa Giustina, the house on Via Vignali where they had all lived and worked together for eighteen years.
Grand Duke Cosimo
, Vinta wrote,
accepts your services
.

Galileo wrote to accept the acceptance on May 28. On June 5, Vinta wrote back, confirming that his title would be “Chief Mathematician of the University of Pisa and Philosopher to the Grand Duke.”

Galileo wrote back in turn, asking that his title be revised to “Mathematician and Philosopher to the Grand Duke.”

He also requested that he be absolved of any further obligation to his two brothers-in-law arising from defaults on dowry payments for his sisters. That would allow him to go home without the inconvenience of embarrassing lawsuits from those disgusting chiselers, or the possibility of arrest. He would go up to them in the streets and say to them, “I am mathematician and philosopher to the Grand Duke, go fuck yourselves.”

And all this was agreed to in his formal appointment of July 10, 1610. The new service to Cosimo was to begin in October. It was understood to be a lifetime appointment.

He had a Prince.

The move from Padua to Florence was complicated, and what had never been more than controlled chaos at Hostel Galileo fell into utter chaos. Among other more practical tasks, Galileo had to deal with a lot of hard feelings in Padua and Venice. Many of the Venetian pregadi were outraged to hear he was walking out on his acceptance of their recent offer, calling it gross ingratitude and worse. The procurator Antonio Priuli was particularly bitter. “I hope I never lay eyes on that ungrateful asshole again!” he was said to have shouted, and of course this was quickly reported to Galileo. And it wasn't just Priuli; the anger was widespread. It was obvious Venice would never again offer him employment. He had cast his lot with Florence, and, people said grimly, it had better go well for him there, or else.

Galileo gritted his teeth and forged on with the chores of the move. This reaction was to be expected, it was just part of the price he had to pay to get patronage. It was a sign that the Venetians had valued him and yet taken advantage of him, and knew it and felt guilty about it, and as people would always rather feel angry than guilty, the transmutation of the one to the other had been easy. It had to be his fault.

He focused on practical matters. Merely boxing up the contents of
the big house took weeks, and just at a time when his astronomical work was at a crucial point. Happily that was night work, so that no matter the loud and dusty tumble of days, he could always wake up after an evening meal and a nap, settle down on his stool, and make his observations through the long cool nights. This meant forgoing sleep, but as he had never been much of a sleeper anyway, often existing for months at a time on mere snatches, it did not really matter. And it was all too interesting to stop. “What must be done can be done,” he would say hoarsely to Mazzoleni as he flogged them through the afternoons. “We can sleep when we're dead.” In the meantime, he slept whenever it was cloudy.

The household therefore avoided him in the morning, when he was often abusive, and even at the best of times a bit befuddled and melancholy. He would throw things at anyone foolish enough to bother him in the couple of hours it took to pull himself together, and out of what looked like deep sleep he could kick with vicious accuracy.

Once up, groaning and yawning on his bed, he broke his fast on leftovers, then took a walk in his garden. Pulled a few weeds, plucked a lemon or a cluster of grapes, then went back in to face the day: the move, the correspondence, the students, the accounts, the catering. A long dinner or supper usually included sugared ravioli, veal, great pies filled with pork, chicken, onions, garlic, dates, almonds, saffron and other spices, then also salads and pasta, all washed down with wine and ending with chocolate or cinnamon. At night, everyone else would collapse into bed while he went out to the terrazzo alone and made his observations, using spyglasses they had constructed back in the spring; there would be no more improvements made until he was settled in Florence.

But before that, of course, there was Marina to attend to. Ever since she had gotten pregnant, Galileo had provided her with the funds to rent and keep a little house on the Ponte Corvo, around the corner from his place, so that he could sometimes drop off the girls on the way to his lectures at Il Bo. Now Virginia was ten, Livia nine, and Vincenzio four. They had spent their whole lives between the two houses, although the girls were mostly in Galileo's big place, being taken care of by the servants. Now decisions had to be made.

Galileo stumped down to the Ponte Corvo unhappily, readying himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing. He was a barrel of a man
with a red beard and wild hair, but now he looked small. At moments like these, he could not help remembering his poor father. Vincenzio Galilei had been the most henpecked, pussy-whipped pancake of a husband in the history of mankind. He had felt the lash daily; Galileo had seen it with his own eyes. Marina was nothing compared to the old dragon, who was an educated woman and knew just where to stick the knives. Indeed, Giulia was even now a more fearful presence to Galileo than Marina, no matter Marina's black gaze, her cobalt-edged tongue and thick right arm. He had heard so many harangues in his life he was an expert at them, a connoisseur, and there was no doubt the old rolling pin was champion of the world. His father's hung head, the tightness at the corners of his mouth—the way he would pick up his lute and hit its strings, playing tunes double time and fortissimo, even though this only served as accompaniment to Giulia's dread arias, which were louder by far than the lute—these scenes were all too clear in Galileo's mind, if he did not avoid them.

And yet here he had gone and done the same thing as his dad. Probably it was a mistake to couple with a younger woman, as they both had; no doubt it led to some fundamental imbalance, or just the natural contempt of youth for age. In any case, here he was, another Galilei standing at the door about to get thrashed, hesitating to knock. Fearful to knock.

He knocked. She answered with a shout, knowing by the rap who it was.

He entered. She kept the place clean, there was no doubt of that. Perhaps she did it to emphasize the paucity of furniture, or the confusion and squalor of his place. In any case there she stood in the kitchen doorway wiping her hands, as beautiful as ever, even though the years had been hard on her. Black hair, black eyes, a face that still caught Galileo's breath; the body he loved, her hand on her hip, washcloth flung over her shoulder.

“I heard,” she told him.

“I figured you would.”

“So—what now?”

She watched him, expecting nothing. It wasn't like the time he had explained what their arrangement would be, sitting on the fondamenta in Venice with her five months pregnant. That had been hard. This was merely awkward and tedious. They hadn't been in love for
many years. She was seeing a man out near the docks on the canal—a butcher, he thought it was. He had what he wanted. Still, that look, that time in Venice—it shot through into this time too, it was still there between them. He had a particular sensitivity to looks, no doubt the result of growing up with Medusa for a mother.

“The girls will come with me,” he said. “Vincenzio is too young. He still needs you.”

“They all need me.”

“I'm taking the girls to Florence.”

“Livia won't like it. She hates your place. It's too loud for her, there are too many people.”

Galileo sighed. “It will be a bigger place. And I won't be taking in students anymore.”

“So now you're a court creature.”

“I am the prince's philosopher.”

She laughed. “No more compasses.”

“That's right.”

They both went silent, thinking perhaps about how his compass had been an ongoing joke between them.

“All right then,” she said. “We'll be in touch.”

“Yes, of course. I'll keep paying for this place. And I'll need to see Vincenzio. In a few years he'll move to Florence too. Maybe you can move to Florence then too, if you want.”

She stared at him. She could still flay him with a look. The tightness at the corners of her mouth reminded him of his father, and he felt a stab of remorse, thinking that maybe now he was the Giulia. A horrible thought—but there was nothing for it but to nod and take his leave, the back of his neck crawling under the heat of that fiery gaze.

All during this time he continued to make his nightly observations, and to spread the word concerning the usefulness of his glass. Occhialino, visorio, perspicillum—different people called it different things, and he did, too. He sent excellent glasses to the Duke of Bavaria, the Elector of Cologne, and Cardinal del Monte, among other nobles of court and church. He was now in the service of the Medici, of course, but the Medici would want the capabilities of his glass advertised
to as many of the powers in Europe as possible. And it was important to establish the legitimacy of what Galileo had reported in his book by having it confirmed in other places by influential figures. He had heard there were people like Cremonini refusing to look through a glass, and others claiming his new discoveries were merely optical illusions, artifacts of the instrument itself. Indeed, he had suffered an unfortunate demonstration in Bologna, when he had tried to show the famous astronomer Giovanni Magini the Medicean Stars, and only been able to see one himself—which may have been because three were behind Jupiter, but it was a hard case to make, especially with the odious Bohemian climber Martin Horky there smirking at every word, obviously delighted that things weren't going as planned. Afterward he heard that Horky had written to Kepler telling him that the visorio was a fraud, useless for astronomy.