Chapter 5

My friend, my dearest friend, my own dear love, I, who am dead to love, and see around me The funeral tapers lighted, send this cry Out of my heart to yours, before the end. You told me once you would endure the rack To save my heart one pang. O, save it now! Last night there came a dreadful word from Rome For my dear lord and father, summoning him Before the inquisitors there, to take his trial At threescore years and ten. There is a threat Of torture, if his lips will not deny The truth his eyes have seen. You know my father, You know me, too. You never will believe That he and I are enemies of the faith. Could I, who put away all earthly love, Deny the Cross to which I nailed this flesh? Could he, who, on the night when all those heavens Opened above us, with their circling worlds, Knelt with me, crushed beneath that weight of glory, Forget the Maker of that glory now? You'll not believe it. Neither would the Church, Had not his enemies poisoned all the springs And fountain-heads of truth. It is not Rome That summons him, but Magini, Sizy, Scheiner, Lorini, all the blind, pedantic crew That envy him his fame, and hate his works For dwarfing theirs. Must such things always be When truth is born? Only five nights ago we walked together, My father and I, here in the Convent garden; And, as the dusk turned everything to dreams, We dreamed together of his work well done And happiness to be. We did not dream That even then, muttering above his book, His enemies, those enemies whom the truth Stings into hate, were plotting to destroy him. Yet something shadowed him. I recall his words-- "The grapes are ripening. See, Celeste, how black And heavy. We shall have good wine this year,"-- "Yes, all grows ripe," I said, "your life-work, too, Dear father. Are you happy now to know Your book is printed, and the new world born?" He shook his head, a little sadly, I thought. "Autumn's too full of endings. Fruits grow ripe And fall, and then comes winter." "Not for you! Never," I said, "for those who write their names In heaven. Think, father, through all ages now No one can ever watch that starry sky Without remembering you. Your fame ..." And there He stopped me, laid his hand upon my arm, And standing in the darkness with dead leaves Drifting around him, and his bare grey head Bowed in complete humility, his voice Shaken and low, he said like one in prayer, "Celeste, beware of that. Say truth, not fame. If there be any happiness on earth, It springs from truth alone, the truth we live In act and thought. I have looked up there and seen Too many worlds to talk of fame on earth. Fame, on this grain of dust among the stars, The trumpet of a gnat that thinks to halt The great sun-clusters moving on their way In silence! Yes, that's fame, but truth, Celeste, Truth and its laws are constant, even up there; That's where one man may face and fight the world. His weakness turns to strength. He is made one With universal forces, and he holds The password to eternity. Gate after gate swings back through all the heavens. No sentry halts him, and no flaming sword. Say truth, Celeste, not fame." "No, for I'll say A better word," I told him. "I'll say love." He took my face between his hands and said-- His face all dark between me and the stars-- "What's love, Celeste, but this dear face of truth Upturned to heaven." He left me, and I heard, Some twelve hours later, that this man whose soul Was dedicate to Truth, was threatened now With torture, if his lips did not deny The truth he loved. I tell you all these things Because to help him, you must understand him; And even you may doubt him, if you hear Only those plausible outside witnesses Who never heard his heart-beats as have I. So let me tell you all--his quest for truth, And how this hate began. Even from the first, He made his enemies of those almost-minds Who chanced upon some new thing in the dark And could not see its meaning, for he saw, Always, the law illumining it within. So when he heard of that strange optic-glass Which brought the distance near, he thought it out By reason, where that other hit upon it Only by chance. He made his telescope; And O, how vividly that day comes back, When in their gorgeous robes the Senate stood Beside him on that high Venetian tower, Scanning the bare blue sea that showed no speck Of sail. Then, one by one, he bade them look; And one by one they gasped, "a miracle." Brown sails and red, a fleet of fishing boats, See how the bright foam bursts around their bows! See how the bare-legged sailors walk the decks! Then, quickly looking up, as if to catch The vision, ere it tricked them, all they saw Was empty sea again. Many believed That all was trickery, but he bade them note The colours of the boats, and count their sails. Then, in a little while, the naked eye Saw on the sky-line certain specks that grew, Took form and colour; and, within an hour, Their magic fleet came foaming into port. Whereat old senators, wagging their white beards, And plucking at golden chains with stiff old claws Too feeble for the sword-hilt, squeaked at once: "This glass will give us great advantages In time of war." War, war, O God of love, Even amidst their wonder at Thy world, Dazed with new beauty, gifted with new powers, These old men dreamed of blood. This was the thought To which all else must pander, if he hoped Even for one hour to see those dull eyes blaze At his discoveries. "Wolves," he called them, "wolves"; And yet he humoured them. He stooped to them. Promised them more advantages, and talked As elders do to children. You may call it Weakness, and yet could any man do more, Alone, against a world, with such a trust To guard for future ages? All his life He has had some weanling truth to guard, has fought Desperately to defend it, taking cover Wherever he could, behind old fallen trees Of superstition, or ruins of old thought. He has read horoscopes to keep his work Among the stars in favour with his prince, I tell you this that you may understand What seems inconstant in him. It may be That he was wrong in these things, and must pay A dreadful penalty. But you must explore His mind's great ranges, plains and lonely peaks Before you know him, as I know him now. How could he talk to children, but in words That children understand? Have not some said That God Himself has made His glory dark For men to bear it. In his human sphere My father has done this. War was the dream That filmed those old men's eyes. They did not hear My father, when he hinted at his hope Of opening up the heavens for mankind With that new power of bringing far things near. My heart burned as I heard him; but they blinked Like owls at noonday. Then I saw him turn, Desperately, to humour them, from thoughts Of heaven to thoughts of warfare. Late that night My own dear lord and father came to me And whispered, with a glory in his face As one who has looked on things too beautiful To breathe aloud, "Come out, Celeste, and see A miracle." I followed him. He showed me, Looking along his outstretched hand, a star, A point of light above our olive-trees. It was the star called Jupiter. And then He bade me look again, but through his glass. I feared to look at first, lest I should see Some wonder never meant for mortal eyes. He too, had felt the same, not fear, but awe, As if his hand were laid upon the veil Between this world and heaven. Then . . . I, too, saw, Small as the smallest bead of mist that clings To a spider's thread at dawn, the floating disk Of what had been a star, a planet now, And near it, with no disk that eyes could see, Four needle-points of light, unseen before. "The moons of Jupiter," he whispered low, "I have watched them as they moved, from night to night; A system like our own, although the world Their fourfold lights and shadows make so strange Must--as I think--be mightier than we dreamed, A Titan planet. Earth begins to fade And dwindle; yes, the heavens are opening now. Perhaps up there, this night, some lonely soul Gazes at earth, watches our dawning moon, And wonders, as we wonder." In that dark We knelt together . . . Very strange to see The vanity and fickleness of princes. Before his enemies had provoked the wrath Of Rome against him, he had given the name Of Medicean stars to those four moons In honour of Prince Cosmo. This aroused The court of France to seek a lasting place Upon the map of heaven. A letter came Beseeching him to find another star Even more brilliant, and to call it _Henri_ After the reigning and most brilliant prince Of France. They did not wish the family name Of Bourbon. This would dissipate the glory. No, they preferred his proper name of Henri. We read it together in the garden here, Weeping with laughter, never dreaming then That this, this, this, could stir the little hearts Of men to envy. O, but afterwards, The blindness of the men who thought themselves His enemies. The men who never knew him, The men that had set up a thing of straw And called it by his name, and wished to burn Their image and himself in one wild fire. Men? Were they men or children? They refused Even to look through Galileo's glass, Lest seeing might persuade them. Even that sage, That great Aristotelian, Julius Libri, Holding his breath there, like a fractious child Until his cheeks grew purple, and the veins Were bursting on his brow, swore he would die Sooner than look. And that poor monstrous babe Not long thereafter, kept his word and died, Died of his own pent rage, as I have heard. Whereat my lord and father shook his head And, smiling, somewhat sadly--oh, you know That smile of his, more deadly to the false Than even his reasoning--murmured, _"Libri, dead, Who called the moons of Jupiter absurd! He swore he would not look at them from earth, I hope he saw them on his way to heaven."_ Welser in Augsburg, Clavius at Rome, Scoffed at the fabled moons of Jupiter, It was a trick, they said. He had made a glass To fool the world with false appearances. Perhaps the lens was flawed. Perhaps his wits Were wandering. Anything rather than the truth Which might disturb the mighty in their seat. "Let Galileo hold his own opinions. I, Clavius, will hold mine." He wrote to Kepler; "You, Kepler, are the first, whose open mind And lofty genius could accept for truth The things which I have seen. With you for friend, The abuse of the multitude will not trouble me. Jupiter stands in heaven and will stand, Though all the sycophants bark at him. In Pisa, Florence, Bologna, Venice, Padua, Many have seen the moons. These witnesses Are silent and uncertain. Do you wonder? Most of them could not, even when they saw them, Distinguish Mars from Jupiter. Shall we side With Heraclitus or Democritus? I think, my Kepler, we will only laugh At this immeasurable stupidity. Picture the leaders of our college here. A thousand times I have offered them the proof Of their own eyes. They sleep here, like gorged snakes, Refusing even to look at planets, moons, Or telescope. They think philosophy Is all in books, and that the truth is found Neither in nature, nor the Universe, But in comparing texts. How you would laugh Had you but heard our first philosopher Before the Grand Duke, trying to tear down And argue the new planets out of heaven, Now by his own weird logic and closed eyes And now by magic spells." How could he help Despising them a little? It's an error Even for a giant to despise a midge; For, when the giant reels beneath some stroke Of fate, the buzzing clouds will swoop upon him, Cluster and feed upon his bleeding wounds, And do what midges can to sting him blind. These human midges have not missed their chance. They have missed no smallest spot upon that sun. My mother was not married--they have found-- To my dear father. All his children, then, And doubtless all their thoughts are evil, too; But who that judged him ever sought to know Whether, as evil sometimes wears the cloak Of virtue, nobler virtue in this man Might wear that outward semblance of a sin? Yes, even you who love me, may believe These thoughts are born of my own tainted heart; And yet I write them, kneeling in my cell And whisper them to One who blesses me Here, from His Cross, upon the bare grey wall. So, if you love me, bless me also, you, By helping him. Make plain to all you meet What part his enemies have played in this. How some one, somehow, altered the command Laid on him all those years ago, by Rome, So that it reads to-day as if he vowed Never to think or breathe that this round earth Moves with its sister-planets round the sun. 'Tis true he promised not to write or speak As if this truth were 'stablished equally With God's eternal laws; and so he wrote His Dialogues, reasoning for it, and against, And gave the last word to Simplicio, Saying that human reason must bow down Before the power of God. And even this His enemies have twisted to a sneer Against the Pope, and cunningly declared Simplicio to be Urban. Why, my friend, There were three dolphins on the titlepage, Each with the tail of another in its mouth. The censor had not seen this, and they swore It held some hidden meaning. Then they found The same three dolphins sprawled on all the books Landini printed at his Florence press. They tried another charge. I am not afraid Of any truth that they can bring against him; But, O, my friend, I more than fear their lies. I do not fear the justice of our God; But I do fear the vanity of men; Even of Urban; not His Holiness, But Urban, the weak man, who may resent, And in resentment rush half-way to meet This cunning lie with credence. Vanity! O, half the wrongs on earth arise from that! Greed, and war's pomp, all envy, and most hate, Are born of that; while one dear humble heart, Beating with love for man, between two thieves, Proves more than all His wounds and miracles Our Crucified to be the Son of God. Say that I long to see him; that my prayers Knock at the gates of mercy, night and day. Urge him to leave the judgment now with God And strive no more. If he be right, the stars Fight for him in their courses. Let him bow His poor, dishonoured, glorious, old grey head Before this storm, and then come home to me. O, quickly, or I fear 'twill be too late; For I am dying. Do not tell him this; But I must live to hold his hands again, And know that he is safe. I dare not leave him, helpless and half blind, Half father and half child, to rack and cord. By all the Christ within you, save him, you; And, though you may have ceased to love me now, One faithful shadow in your own last hour Shall watch beside you till all shadows die, And heaven unfold to bless you where I failed.

II

(_Scheiner writes to Castelli, after the Trial._)

What think you of your Galileo now, Your hero that like Ajax should defy The lightning? Yesterday I saw him stand Trembling before our court of Cardinals, Trembling before the colour of their robes As sheep, before the slaughter, at the sight And smell of blood. His lips could hardly speak, And--mark you--neither rack, nor cord had touched him. Out of the Inquisition's five degrees Of rigor: first, the public threat of torture; Second, the repetition of the threat Within the torture-chamber, where we show The instruments of torture to the accused; Third, the undressing and the binding; fourth, Laying him on the rack; then, fifth and last, Torture, _territio realis_; out of these, Your Galileo reached the second only, When, clapping both his hands against his sides, He whined about a rupture that forbade These extreme courses. Great heroic soul Dropped like a cur into a sea of terror, He sank right under. Then he came up gasping, Ready to swear, deny, abjure, recant, Anything, everything! Foolish, weak, old man, Who had been so proud of his discoveries, And dared to teach his betters. How we grinned To see him kneeling there and whispering, thus, Through his white lips, bending his old grey head: _"I, Galileo Galilei, born A Florentine, now seventy years of age, Kneeling before you, having before mine eyes, And touching with my hands the Holy Gospels, Swear that I always have believed, do now, And always will believe what Holy Church Has held and preached and taught me to believe; And now, whereas I rightly am accused, Of heresy, having falsely held the sun To be the centre of our Universe, And also that this earth is not the centre, But moves; I most illogically desire Completely to expunge this dark suspicion, So reasonably conceived. I now abjure, Detest and curse these errors; and I swear That should I know another, friend or foe, Holding the selfsame heresy as myself, I will denounce him to the Inquisitor In whatsoever place I chance to be. So help me God, and these His Holy Gospels, Which with my hands I touch!"_ You will observe His promise to denounce. Beware, Castelli! What think you of your Galileo now?

III

_(Castelli writes, enclosing Schemer's letter, to Campanella.)_

What think I? This,--that he has laid his hands Like Samson on the pillars of our world, And one more trembling utterance such as this Will overwhelm us all. O, Campanella, You know that I am loyal to our faith, As Galileo too has always been. You know that I believe, as he believes, In the one Catholic Apostolic Church; Yet there are many times when I could wish That some blind Samson would indeed tear down All this proud temporal fabric, made with hands, And that, once more, we suffered with our Lord, Were persecuted, crucified with Him. I tell you, Campanella, on that day When Galileo faced our Cardinals, A veil was rent for me. There, in one flash, I saw the eternal tragedy, transformed Into new terms. I saw the Christ once more, Before the court of Pilate. Peter there Denied Him once again; and, as for me, Never has all my soul so humbly knelt To God in Christ, as when that sad old man Bowed his grey head, and knelt--at seventy years-- To acquiesce, and shake the world with shame. _He shall not strive or cry_! Strange, is it not, How nearly Scheiner--even amidst his hate-- Quoted the Prophets? Do we think this world So greatly bettered, that the ancient cry, "_Despised, rejected_," hails our God no more?

IV

(_Celeste writes to her father in his imprisonment at Siena_.)

Dear father, it will seem a thousand years Until I see you home again and well. I would not have you doubt that all this time I have prayed for you continually. I saw A copy of your sentence. I was grieved; And yet it gladdened me, for I found a way To be of use, by taking on myself Your penance. Therefore, if you fail in this, If you forget it--and indeed, to save you The trouble of remembering it--your child Will do it for you. Ah, could she do more! How willingly would your Celeste endure A straiter prison than she lives in now To set you free. "A prison," I have said; And yet, if you were here, 'twould not be so. When you were pent in Rome, I used to say, "Would he were at Siena!" God fulfilled That wish. You are at Siena; and I now say Would he were at Arcctri. So perhaps Little by little, angels can be wooed Each day, by some new prayer of mine or yours, To bring you wholly back to me, and save Some few of the flying days that yet remain. You see, these other Nuns have each their friend, Their patron Saint, their ever near _devoto_, To whom they tell their joys and griefs; but I Have only you, dear father, and if you Were only near me, I could want no more. Your garden looks as if it missed your love. The unpruned branches lean against the wall To look for you. The walks run wild with flowers. Even your watch-tower seems to wait for you; And, though the fruit is not so good this year (The vines were hurt by hail, I think, and thieves Have climbed the wall too often for the pears), The crop of peas is good, and only waits Your hand to gather it. In the dovecote, too, You'll find some plump young pigeons. We must make A feast for your return. In my small plot, Here at the Convent, better watched than yours, I raised a little harvest. With the price I got for it, I had three Masses said For my dear father's sake.

V

_(Galileo writes to his friend Castelli, after his return to Arcetri.) _

Castelli, O Castelli, she is dead. I found her driving death back with her soul Till I should come. I could not even see Her face.--These useless eyes had spent their power On distant worlds, and lost that last faint look Of love on earth. I am in the dark, Castelli, Utterly and irreparably blind. The Universe which once these outworn eyes Enlarged so far beyond its ancient bounds Is henceforth shrunk into that narrow space Which I myself inhabit. Yet I found Even in the dark, her tears against my face, Her thin soft childish arms around my neck, And her voice whispering ... love, undying love; Asking me, at this last, to tell her true, If we should meet again. Her trust in me Had shaken her faith in what my judges held; And, as I felt her fingers clutch my hand, Like a child drowning, "Tell me the truth," she said, "Before I lose the light of your dear face"-- It seemed so strange that dying she could see me While I had lost her,--"tell me, before I go." "Believe in Love," was all my soul could breathe. I heard no answer. Only I felt her hand Clasp mine and hold it tighter. Then she died, And left me to my darkness. Could I guess At unseen glories, in this deeper night, Make new discoveries of profounder realms, Within the soul? O, could I find Him there, Rise to Him through His harmonies of law And make His will my own! This much, at least, I know already, that--in some strange way-- His law implies His love; for, failing that All grows discordant, and the primal Power Ignobler than His children. So I trust One day to find her, waiting for me still, When all things are made new. I raise this torch Of knowledge. It is one with my right hand, And the dark sap that keeps it burning flows Out of my heart; and yet, for all my faith, It shows me only darkness. Was I wrong? Did I forget the subtler truth of Rome And, in my pride, obscure the world's one light? Did I subordinate to this moving earth Our swiftlier-moving God? O, my Celeste, Once, once at least, you knew far more than I; And she is dead, Castelli, she is dead.

VI

(_Viviani, many years later, writes to a friend in England_)