Kepler's Witch Read online

  Device for calculation or not, Copernicus’s theory set Kepler’s mind on fire. Here was the simplicity, the elegance of thought he longed for. Kepler was enough of a Platonist to believe that the universe was simple elegance and was best described by simple, elegant mathematics. Could a good and loving God, a rational God, all-wise and all-knowing, have created the epicyclic nightmare that the Ptolemaic system had become? Kepler doubted it, and yet he fretted. For all his excitement about Copernicus’s cosmos, with its simplicity and elegance, the thought that the earth was no longer the center of the universe worried him. Even if Aristotle didn’t think much of the earth, Christians did. Shouldn’t the place where the Son of God had been born, had lived out his life, and died, the place where he was raised and from which he ascended to the Father be the center of things? Shouldn’t the world of human beings, built in God’s image, be the center? The answers he needed to these questions could not be found in mathematics, but in metaphysics and theology. Like Melanchthon, Kepler expected that the human mind and God’s mind worked in roughly the same way, because God created humans in God’s own image and likeness.

  For all his doubts, however, Kepler was convinced enough to defend Copernicus to his fellow students, writing one disputation after another, first making physical arguments and then metaphysical ones. In all the emotional turmoil, in 1593 his health problems returned. He still struggled with poor eyesight, and his clumsy and somewhat malformed hands pained him. But now he had headaches, possibly migraines, as well. Emotionally, he felt that honors owed to him were being held back.

  Resistance to the Copernican system was growing throughout Europe, in Catholic and Protestant countries alike. Except for Mästlin, the faculty at Tübingen was decidedly anti-Copernican. One of the favorite arguments of the objectors was that if the earth really moved, why couldn’t the people living on the earth feel it? There should be some perceptual evidence of this motion, one way or another.

  In 1593, Kepler wrote a short dissertation, supported by his friend Christopher Besold, imagining what the earth would look like to people living on the moon. This would be revised several times in his life and finally published as Kepler’s Somnium, his Dream, after his death. The purpose of this dissertation was to demonstrate Copernicus’s idea that the earth moves very rapidly, rotating and revolving around the sun, but the people living on the earth cannot see or feel this. Anyone who looks up at the sky from the earth can see the moon and its motions, so what would happen if someone were standing on the moon? Would they not see the motions of the earth, just as we see the motions of the moon?

  Kepler wanted to present it as a disputation, but Vitus Müller wouldn’t have it. Müller hated Copernicus’s ideas and would not listen, nor would he let the thesis be heard. Though Müller never referred the incident to the general faculty, some of the professors had already begun to wonder if Kepler was suited to the ministry and whether he might be happier doing something else. Some people suspected him of being a crypto-Calvinist. Why did the boy have to go his own way all the time? And this Copernican nonsense of his! Even Magister Mästlin did not go so far. Could the Kepler boy become an embarrassment?

  Then, lucky day, a solution. The Lutherans in Graz were looking for a mathematics teacher. All the way in Austria. People would be sad to see him go. Many people liked the boy and wished him well. But, all the way to Austria.

  LETTER FROM KEPLER TO THE THEOLOGY FACULTY AT TÜBINGEN

  FEBRUARY 28, 1594

  The position of mathematician that is offered to me is in many respects so honorable that I could not decline it, since my parents—I am still under their supervision—are too far away to consult in person, I want to report what my nearby relatives think I should attend to. They asked me to gratefully recognize the great goodwill of the Herr Chancellor and to continue getting him on my good side by diligence in my studies and by an irreproachable lifestyle. Additionally, they agreed with the offer at hand, because so many advisers are of the opinion that I should undertake this journey. There is one thing that is rather dear to them, but that they don’t want to determine themselves and would rather leave to the decision of the theological faculty. They would prefer if I dedicated myself to theology, as have my classmates who have thus far been encouraged to this end, and once the work is completed devote myself to the church. I am not speaking particularly about studies of the holy sciences, which I have been blessed to enjoy up to now. And still, whatever shall become of me, if the good Lord warrants me a healthy mind and freedom, I would never consider interrupting this. Rather, my relatives imagine, since my age and stature are not yet fit for a pulpit, that I would easily, by way of a letter written by the Herr Chancellor to Pastor Zimmerman in Graz, have the opportunity to practice church services and by reading of the Holy Scriptures and other authors to further my studies.

  V

  In Many Respects So Honorable

  Where a position as a mathematics teacher opens at the Lutheran school in Graz, and Kepler takes the position with some fear.

  THE FACULTY AT TÜBINGEN wished him well, even while they fumed about him. Who could deny the boy’s sincerity? Even so, their patience was wearing thin. Poor Kepler was naïve and had little idea about the trouble his enthusiasm had caused. He could not have understood the hand-wringing he induced in the orthodox people around him by his willingness to soldier on with new ideas while others held back. If only he hadn’t insisted on arguing publicly for Copernicus, they said. If only, like Mästlin, he had been more circumspect. From the day Kepler left the university, therefore, he would never find his way home again. Kepler’s far-ranging mind had slipped the narrow bonds of Tübingen’s orthodoxy, in both theology and science.

  Unfortunately, Kepler was a genius born half a century too late, at a time when the reformation was finding its feet. Perhaps it was his incessant support of Copernicus, or perhaps it was his scruples about the Formula of Concord, but either way, when Georg Stadius, the teacher of mathematics at the new Lutheran high school in Graz, in the foothills of Austria, died suddenly, the faculty at the Tübingen Stift found a solution to the Kepler problem. Kepler had already received his master’s degree and was three and a half years into his theological studies with one half year to go, when the local authorities in Graz sent word requesting a new mathematics teacher. The Tübingen faculty held a secret meeting, and they agreed—this was perfect. Everyone knew how adept Kepler was in that subject, how solid his horoscopes were, and if this worked out, his new appointment would keep him out of the pulpit.1 In his journal for that year, Kepler mentioned his hopes for another appointment then being negotiated for him in Württemberg, but then suddenly, on January 18, a few weeks past the Feast of Epiphany, like a new star the Graz appointment appeared above him. By February, the university faculty had decided.

  Because Kepler was a scholarship student, he had to get the permission of the duke to take any assignment at all, let alone one far from home. For some time, he had watched other students at the Stift bristle at the thought of leaving the duchy for assignments in far-off countries, and as he wrote in his journal several years later, he had decided that if such a position were offered to him, he would accept it, and gratefully. But now they were asking him to give up the ministry, to take a position he had never expected. Certainly he liked mathematics but all his life he had set his course on service to God and to the church. Was this new job a failure?

  When Kepler waffled about his new good fortune, Hafenreffer pushed him. The appointment had to be accepted as soon as possible. Was Kepler going to complain about the distance, as others had? Was Kepler afraid? Perhaps there was some pride in this? A mathematics teacher did not have the prestige that a preacher had, so this new appointment may have been a disappointment. Still, what they offered was an honorable position, and he could not decline it without people thinking he was arrogant. What should he do? He could not easily consult his mother or his grandparents, because they lived too far away. Weil der Stadt was at least
a fast two-day walk, and Leonberg was farther than that. His relatives who lived nearby—Kepler does not specify—advised him to stay on the good side of the Herr Chancellor, to do whatever the Chancellor wanted him to do, and to live an exemplary life. They advised him to take the position in Graz because so many smart people seemed to think he should go there. Perhaps, they said, he was too young for a pulpit, and maybe even too short. And probably too thin, not imposing enough, as a preacher should be.

  By early March, Kepler walked to Stuttgart to see the duke, and on the way stopped at Weil der Stadt to see his grandfather Sebald, who listened kindly, nodded, gave him good travel advice, and sent him on to Stuttgart, where on March 5, the duke received him. Duke Friedrich was a plain man, round and stubby in the face, with hound-dog eyes, a high forehead, and a crown of curly blond hair cut close to his head. He received Kepler in the palace kindly, asked a few questions about the position, gave his permission along with promises of support, and then sent him on his way. After all, what else could the duke do? No ruler should second-guess his own staff.

  Back in Tübingen, Superintendent Gerlack, along with some good friends, loaned Kepler 50 gulden for the journey. “I cannot hide the fact that, after my appointment to come to Graz, as I was preparing for the journey from Tübingen, I had to borrow 50 gulden from the university as well as from some good friends to pay for the necessary travel costs. I promised to faithfully return such money by way of my cousin Jaeger, who accompanied me to Graz.”2 A few days later, on March 13, 1594, when Kepler was twenty-two years old, he bought a horse and he and his cousin set out for Ulm, where they would catch a barge heading down the Danube River to Linz (where years later he would live while his mother was on trial for witchcraft), and then travel overland once again, by wagon this time, to Graz.

  Travel was better than it had been. Throughout the long feudal period, rule was always local—duchies, counties, cities, towns, villages—with local constabularies and local men at arms. In the wide-open lands in between there were bandits, cast-off men, and even women preying on those unfortunate enough to travel. Often, highway robbery was a family business. For safety, people moved about in bands, with hired bodyguards if they had any money, with knives and cudgels if they did not. Pilgrims traveled in large groups for mutual protection. Some larger towns and cities provided escort services along major roads, at least to the end of their jurisdiction. After that, people were on their own. At the end of the High Middle Ages and into that part of history we call the Renaissance, which is really the tail end of the medieval world, duchies and counties and principalities widened, became grander and more complex, and the spaces in between shrank. The number of bandits shrank accordingly, but still waxed and waned with the changing political tides. And there were always gypsies about. Even in Kepler’s day, travel was not something people did lightly. Even with his cousin along, a young man, especially a short, slight young man, the kind of young man who played girls’ parts in school plays, setting out with 50 gulden in his pocket would be an easy mark. Best to rely on the grace of God and a fast horse.

  This particular young man also brought along a troubled mind. Kepler and Jaeger arrived in early April, and Kepler was counting his money. “The index of my travel expenses incurred thus far for me and my travel companion from March 24 to date: From Tübingen to here for meals, exchange, tolls, and other necessities total 311/2 gulden. Also, my lodging with Stephan Kirschner, in Schmidgasse, cost 5 gulden. Since I do not know how long my cousin will have to stay here in order to learn the necessary information to make his report back home, I want to include my cousin’s expenses as well.”3 By April 21, the school paid him 60 gulden for his travel expenses, which allowed him to send the 50 back with his cousin. And then, on April 25, he suffered a bout of Hungarian fever and was in bed for two weeks. All the time, his mind churned. Would he ever return to the ministry? How could he find his purpose, his calling by God, in this new twist of his life? What’s more, in his pocket he carried a letter from friends and the leaders of the Lutheran community back home, a letter that might cause problems for him in the future, though he kept his feelings in check. He wrote in his journal for 1594: “At the same time, I had brought along a Uriah letter that determined a bride for me. I, however, had brought my love along, and for a while, I was calm.”4

  What was this Uriah letter, and what was this love? In the Bible Uriah the Hittite was the husband of Bathsheba and an officer in the army of David. David betrayed Uriah by sending a letter along with him, supposedly a commendation or recommendation, but David’s general, according to the king’s instruction in the letter, had Uriah placed on the front lines, where he was killed. Apparently, Uriah could not read. In Kepler’s time, a Uriah letter meant either bad news, or a recommendation letter damning the bearer with faint praise, or, as in Kepler’s case, a letter that could be useful to the bearer, but not really welcomed by him. Perhaps he perceived that his friends, teachers, and family were setting him up, that they wanted him to settle in Graz, be a good citizen, and make no trouble. It would not have been out of custom for them to do so. A young man needed guidance, and just about everyone who knew him believed they were the right ones to provide it.

  What, then, was this love he brought with him, this love that calmed him, at least for a time? Perhaps it was his passion for philosophy, mathematics, and astronomy, his passion for the life of the mind. Perhaps again it was simply his human capacity to love, to find the hand of God in the twists and turns of his life. If given a wife by the Lutheran community, a good Lutheran woman, a helpmate in this world, and a companion throughout his preparation for the next, then he would have brought his love with him, his capacity to love her, whoever she might be, even if their marriage meant that he would never return home, never finish his training for the ministry, never find a pulpit or a church or a congregation in his life.

  Graz, the capital of Styria, or Upper Austria, was an old town. Like so many others, it started off as a ford across a river, the Mur River, where Roman armies once crossed on campaigns into Germany, and where during the Volkerwänderung, the wandering about of the people, the Teutonic tribes eventually returned the favor. The town was a prehistoric place, a place for trade, if not always a place for a quiet life. After the Romans, the Slavs and the Bavarians in their turn occupied both the ford and the town. Sometime in the early Middle Ages, the people built a small fort on top of a dolomite hill, partly to keep out of the yearly floods and partly to keep away from the next set of invaders. The Slavs were probably the ones who built it, for they eventually named the place—Graz comes from gradec, which means “little fortress.” Eventually, a castle—the Schlossberg—replaced the fortress. Somewhere in the twelfth century, someone mentioned Graz in the imperial chronicles for the first time.5

  Then, in the fifteenth century, Friedrich III, the Habsburg Holy Roman Emperor, abandoned Vienna to the Hungarians and made Graz his new capital. Friedrich was a devotee of the occult and believed with nearly mystical certainty in the power of his own royalty. Through much genealogical sleight of hand, he traced his bloodlines back to Augustus Caesar and to Priam of Troy and was the first to engrave the letters A.E.I.O.U. on everything he owned. For most people, these are just the vowels in order, but for Friedrich, they meant Austriae Est Imperare Orbi Universo, or “Austria (i.e., the Habsburgs) Is Destined to Rule the Whole World.” For all his mystical bravado, however, things had not gone well for him in Vienna. Right from the day of his coronation in 1452, he had been at war with Matthias Corvinus, the king of Hungary, and with his own brother as well. While besieged at the Hofburg by the Viennese people, Friedrich and his family ate their pets, along with a few hapless vultures. While in Graz, Friedrich built up the town, the cathedral, the city center. Little Graz became a city, a fine city but then in 1480, however, perhaps with the coming of the Habsburgs, Graz was devastated by one disaster after another, the “Plagues of God.” First locusts, then the Black Death, then the Turks, and finally, hot on th
e heels of Friedrich, the Hungarians. For all the initial promise, these were not good times.

  Then came the Reformation, and most of Austria followed the “new way,” from the peasants, who had some stake in change, any change, to the local aristocracy, who wanted out from under the iron hand of the Habsburgs. Lutheranism had set the European imagination on fire with a new kind of fervor, a new way of seeing God, the world, and their place in it. The problem in Graz, in all of Austria, was that the Habsburgs had not changed, and by the terms of the Peace of Augsburg, cuius regio, eius religio—“whose the land, his the religion”—the Habsburgs were legally entitled to set the official religion of the country. Still, the law was one thing, and the ability to enforce it was another.6 If most of the people and most of the aristocracy were followers of the new way, it would have been hard for any ruler, however autocratic, to impose the old. When Kepler arrived in Graz on April 11, 1594, Ferdinand II was grand duke, the same Ferdinand who, while Kepler had been studying in Tübingen, had studied with the Jesuits in Bavaria along with the Duke of Bavaria, and the two had determined to bring the True Faith back to their respective homelands.

  Sixteen years before, in 1578, under the Pacification of Bruck, Ferdinand’s father, Charles, had granted the Protestant nobility the right to practice their faith as they saw fit. This was a forced concession, and one that must have galled him. Wasn’t the archduke God’s own appointed representative, blessed and approved by the pope himself? Archduke Charles had to give the nobles and the people what they wanted just to prevent more uprisings. When the old duke died, his widow, the archduchess Maria, of the House of Wittelsbach and the mother of Ferdinand II, decided to take up the banner for the old faith and to prepare her son to do the same. Ferdinand was more than eager to do so. So, when Kepler arrived, he found a world divided, so different from his homeland in Württemberg, where everyone was a Lutheran from the duke to the basest peasant. After his family left Weil der Stadt, Kepler had been surrounded by people who believed as he did, but now there were Lutherans and Catholics all mixed together, balkanized by their respective churches and yet gamely trying to be one people. Instead of peace, the Habsburgs had found that they were sitting on top of a landslide, and the rocks, seemingly so solid, were shifting beneath them.