John Banville - Doctor Copernicus

— And if that is what is meant by happiness, then I want none of it.

* * *

I am getting on, getting on, yes indeed; I am at Löbau still. My arguments won through in the end, and although it was in his own way, to be sure, and on his own terms, Copernicus capitulated. The first hint that he was ready to negotiate in earnest came when one evening he began out of the blue to babble excitedly about a plan, which he knew, he said, would meet with my enthusiastic approval. I must not think that his unwillingness to publish his modest theories sprang from contempt for the world; indeed, as I well knew (I did?), he bore a great love for ordinary men, and had no wish to leave them in ignorance de rerum natura if there was any way in which he could enlighten them. Also, he had a responsibility toward science, and the improvement of scientific method. Having regard to all this, then, he proposed to draw up astronomical tables, with new rules for plotting star courses, which would be an invaluable aid not only to astronomers but also to sailors and map-makers and so forth; these, when he had prepared them, I could take to my printer at Nuremberg. However, I should understand one thing clearly, that while the computational tables would have new and accurate rules, there would be no proofs. He was well aware that his theory, on which the tables would be founded, would, if published, overturn the accepted notions regarding the movements of the spheres, and would therefore cause a hideous commotion, and he was not prepared to lend his name to the causing of such disturbance (my italics). Pythagoras held that the secrets of science must be reserved for the few, for the initiates, the wise ones, and Pythagoras was an ancient, and he was right. So: new rules, yes, but no proofs to support them.

This would not do, of course, and well he knew it, for as soon as I began to put forward my objections he hurriedly agreed, and said yes, it was a foolish notion, he would abandon it. (I confess that, to this day, I still do not understand why he put forward this nonsensical plan only to relinquish it at once, unless he merely wished to signal to me, in his usual roundabout way, that he was now prepared to compromise.) The subject was closed then, which small detail was not, however, going to deter Giese from voicing his objections, the formulation of which, I suppose, cost him a mighty effort that he was fain to see wasted.

“But Doctor,” he said, “these tables would be an incomplete gift to the world, unless you reveal the theory on which they are based, as Ptolemy, for whom you have such high regard, was always careful to do.”

To that, Copernicus, who had once more retreated dreamily into himself, made an extraordinary answer. He said:

“The Ptolemaic astronomy is nothing, so far as existence is concerned, but it is convenient for computing the inexistent.”

But having said it, he recollected himself, and pretended, by assuming an expression meant to indicate bland innocence but which merely made him look a halfwit, that he was unaware of having put forward a notion which, if he believed it to be true, made nonsense of his life’s work (for, remember, whatever they may say about it now, his theory was based entirely upon the Ptolemaic astronomy — was indeed, as he pointed out himself, no more than a revision of Ptolemy, at least in its beginnings). So profound an admission was it, that at the time I failed to grasp its full significance, and only felt its black brittle wing brush my cheek, as it were, as it flew past. However, I must have perceived that something momentous had occurred, that part of the ramparts had collapsed, for immediately I was on my feet and crying:

“Let me take the manuscript, let me go to Nuremberg. We must act now, or forever keep silent — trust me!”

He did not answer at once. It seems to me now, although I am surely mistaken, that there was a vast audience in the hall that evening, for the silence was enormous, the kind of silence which only comes when the multitude for a moment, its infantile attention captured, stops yelping and goggles with mouth agape at some gaudy, gimcrack wonder. Even Giese held his peace. Copernicus was smiling. I don’t mean grinning, not that grin, but a real smile, faint, quite calm, and full of cunning. He said:

“You say that I must trust you, and of course I do, indeed I do; but the journey to Nuremberg is long, and hazardous in these times, and who can say what evils might not befall you on the way? What if you should lose the manuscript in some misadventure, if it should be stolen, or destroyed? All would be lost then, all my work. This book has been thirty years in the writing.”

What was he about? He watched me with cold amusement (I swear it was amusement!) as I wriggled like a stranded fish in my search for the correct, the only answer to the riddle he had set me. This was different to all that had gone before; this was in earnest. With great care I said:

“Then I shall make a copy of the manuscript, and take it with me, while you retain the original. That way, the safety of the book is assured, and also its publication. I see no further difficulty.”

“But you might lose the copy, might you not, and what then? Rather, here is a plan: go now to Nuremberg, and there write down an account of the book from memory, which I have no doubt you could do with ease, and publish that. ”

“But it has already been done!” I cried. “You yourself have written an account, in the Commentariolus —”

“That was nothing, worse than nothing, full of errors. You must write an accurate account. You see the advantages for us both in this: your name shall gain prominence in the world of science, while the way shall have been prepared for the publication later of my book. You shall be a kind of—” he smiled again “—a kind of John the Baptist, the one who goes before.”

He had won, and he knew it. I bowed my head, signifying defeat.

“I agree,” I said. “I shall write this account, if it is in my power.”

Ah, his smile, that little smile, how well I remember it! He said:

“This is a splendid plan, I think. Do you agree?”

“Yes, yes — but when will you publish De revolutionibus? ”

“Well, when I consider the matter, I see no need to publish, if you ensure that your account is sufficiently comprehensive.”

“But your book? Thirty years?”

“The book is unnecessary.”

“And you intend—?”

“To destroy it.”

“ Destroy it? ”

“Why, yes.”

How simply and cheerfully it was said! How convincing it sounded!

*

Thus was conceived my Narratio prima , which in the thirty-six years since its publication has gained such fame (for him , not for me, whose work it was!). I have not given here a strictly literal account of how I was inveigled into writing it, but have contented myself with showing how cunningly he worked upon my youthful enthusiasm and my gullibility in order to achieve his own questionable ends. That nonsense about going at once to Nuremberg and writing the account from memory was only a part of the trap, of course, a condition on which he could without harm concede, and thereby appear gracious. Anyway, he had to concede, for I had no intention of leaving his side, having heard him threaten (a threat which, I confess, I did not take seriously — but still. .) to burn his book.

I began the writing that very night. Copernicus’s book is built in six parts, each part more intricate, more difficult than the one before. By that time I was thoroughly familiar with the first three, had some grasp of the fourth, and only a general idea of the last two — but I managed, I managed, and the Narratio prima , as you may judge, while it is not so elegant as I would wish, is yet a brilliant piece of work. Who else — I ask it in all modesty — who else could have made such a compressed, succinct account, in so short a time, of that bristling mesh of astronomical theory, who else but I? And was I aided in my herculean labours by the domine praeceptor ? I was not! Each evening, when I had finished work for the day, he came with some flimsy excuse and took away from me the precious manuscript. Did he think I was going to eat it? And how he dithered, and fussed and fretted, and plucked at my sleeve in his nervousness, hedging me about with admonitions and prohibitions. I must not mention him by name, he said. Then how could I proceed? A theory without a theorist? Was I to claim the work as my own? Ah, that made him bethink himself, and he went away and thought about it for a day or two, and came back and said that if I must name him, then let me call him only Doctor Nicolas of Torun. Very well — what did I care? If he wanted to be dubbed Mad Kaspar, or Mandricardo the Terrible, it was all one to me. So I wrote down my title thus: