Shipyards on Saturn
For Barrington Bayley.
Huygens is tired of solving mathematical problems by correspondence. He decides not to write to Pascal today. He wants to get his hands and eyes dirty instead. There is no better way of doing this than building a new telescope and staring at the furthest known planet. So he abandons his desk, with its bottles of ink and rolls of parchment, and makes his way to the attic workshop.
He greets his new mistress on the stairs. She is sweeping the steps with a broom. At least he assumes it is her. When they are hermetically sealed in black garments, he can never be sure. For a long time, women have been little more than ovals under bonnets, with sometimes a smile to disrupt the geometry.
“No loving tonight, Clara,” he informs her. “I’m busy with Saturn.”
She barely acknowledges the instruction, but when he has gone she crosses herself. Her friends had warned her. She has read about similar cases. A rich man of private means, the friend of many leading figures of the day, driven to seek forbidden knowledge. Now here is proof of the rumours. Her master is an adept of the dark arts. He is a Saturnist! She frowns. That doesn’t sound right.
In the attic there are no altars, skulls or hooded cloaks. But lenses in racks burn like the knees of devils.
The turning of the sails outside is reassuring. How utterly normal to live in a windmill! It is a temporary abode for him, but its rhythms give him pleasure as he begins work.
This telescope will be more powerful than his previous efforts. His methods of grinding lenses are superior to those of his rivals. The year is 1655. What better time to discover something wonderful in the sky? He removes his wig, dabs his brow with a frilly cuff. Not since he rejected many of the Cartesian tenets concerning the identification of extension has he felt this excited. And not until he achieves a definite solution to the problem of collisions in perfectly elastic bodies, applying the principle that in any such system the centre of gravity can never rise of its own accord above its initial position, will he feel this excited again. That’s for sure.
He whistles as he selects a suitable tube. One of those modern tunes by the composer Heinrich Schütz, from an opera destined to be lost. He is anything other than a traditionalist, despite his love for the old synthetic techniques in mathematics. No, he likes new music and other fresh things. Linen, fruit, mornings, as well as concepts. He whistles an opera not yet lost and the melody is conducted through the tube he lifts to check for dents. The motes of dust dance like stabs of pain in a recurrent illness.
When the telescope is ready, he swings it toward a skylight. He doesn’t bear tripods any malice, but pulleys and strings ensure that the ceiling and rafters also make a contribution to science. He scuffs star charts on the floor as he moves back.
Each skylight is dedicated to a different segment of sky, cutting through the larger constellations as if a myth and its attendant tales can be served in slices like fruit pudding. Saturn is yellow and steady among the twinkling stars. A slow, remote glow, yet conspicuous on the velvet backdrop, pale gold, electrum: the colour of Egyptian thrones and Edam cheese, or the crumbs of such cheese in the navel of a naked maid, perhaps a mistress, after breakfast in bed.
As he adjusts the focus, he remembers details of his life to date. It’s not usual for him to have autobiographical episodes, but they don’t hurt. And if they do, a poultice may be called for.
Born in The Hague in 1629. Educated at the University of Leiden and later at the College of Breda. An insatiable appetite for mechanics, algebra, astronomy and physics, demonstrated at an early age, served him well when he first visited Paris and involved himself in the highest intellectual circles and ellipses. His best work is still ahead of him. His theories on light will be outstanding.
His reverie is cut short. He gasps at what he sees.
“It has a moon,” he explains in due course.
His new mistress is sweeping around him. He is smoking his pipe on a chair in front of the hearth and reading his mail.
Through the open door, the fields stretch to the horizon. Somewhere beyond, Clara must be still running home. The sea is held back by dykes. Windmills deal with any leakage. Funny how bread and pumps are thematically connected! There is no formula for that.
