come to value his quest. Should anything threaten its well-being, such as the trouble with Curio, then perhaps the chancellor would intervene and protect the future of the historic search for Atlantis.
At any rate, Rudbeck’s letters were to no avail, and neither were the efforts of his cousin Ingo. The defense was inexperienced, but even so, the merits of the case seemed decidedly in the favor of the prosecution. By the conclusion of the trial, speedily ended in January 1675, Curio had been officially dismissed from his duties, and ordered to return the entire press to the university in the same way that he had received it, in addition to paying a three-hundred-
“They wanted his throat,” Verelius said of Curio’s accusers. The printer had lost easily, and the prospects of a successful appeal were small. Given the strength of the prosecution, it is not hard to imagine the Swedish supreme court simply affirming this verdict. What Rudbeck decided to do next was, to say the least, surprising.
In an age when legal rights depended largely on one’s position in society, Rudbeck first removed himself from the protection of university law. By virtue of his shipping company, he signed himself instead under the less privileged jurisdiction of the town law. Then Rudbeck persuaded Curio to sue him personally, that is, for failing to keep the terms of their agreement. And Rudbeck, now under Uppsala town law, would in turn sue the university for breaking its contractual obligations.
It was a very clever move that seemed to solve many problems at once, stealing the thunder from the prosecution and shifting the thrust of the debate onto an issue in which Rudbeck’s and Curio’s chances of victory were at least not hopeless. Most important, Rudbeck’s juggling of jurisdictions would buy some valuable time, and allow Curio to remain at his post as long as the court cases were pending. By then, Rudbeck’s discovery of Atlantis would almost certainly be printed, and Curio would perhaps even enjoy a happy retirement.
Postponing an inevitable defeat, Rudbeck had found a brilliant solution to their predicament. But, typically, it showed an outrageous disregard for his fellow professors who wanted a more conscientious printer, and, unfortunately for Rudbeck, stirred a hornet’s nest of resentment.
The university had not faced such a brazen challenge to its authority in recent memory, and it had certainly
All my troubles, worries, sicknesses and sorrows that I have had since my childhood up to this day, and all the ill will my enemies wish me, have never moved my heart to hate, or caused sickness, or tears to break out, [because] by virtue of God’s Grace I have been able to consider all that vanity, and meet it with the heart’s patience and a glad face; but the letter I received from Your Excellency’s graceful and always comforting hands now from Lacko was more difficult for me than all that… .
Rudbeck tried to apologize, claiming that he had been completely oblivious of the uproar he had created. He had no idea how serious his offense was, or how passionately the university would react. He was only, he said, trying to support his friend, and do what he thought was right.
He affirmed again how he felt partly responsible for Curio’s misfortunes, and could not pay the fines himself —not, that is, “without bringing my wife and children into ruin.” This letter also shows one of the first signs of Rudbeck’s changing disposition, from the strong, self-confident, and enthusiastic achiever to what some historians have called a tendency to hypochondria and paranoia—a tendency that had perhaps been there all along, only concealed underneath his cheery and vivacious personality.
“Now that I am in my last days, and have so sickly a constitution,” Rudbeck cried out, “I fear that God the Highest will not wait much longer before He takes me away from here.” This was no mere melodramatic pose or appeal to pity, both of which he had certainly mastered. He really seemed to feel that he was falling into worse health, and, often during times of crisis, that he was on the verge of death.
Further, he would see enemies everywhere, gossiping, spreading malicious rumors, and plotting to bring him down, just as they had done before in front of the university, and seemed to be doing again with their attack on his friend Henrik Curio. They must also, he surmised, be behind De la Gardie’s unexpected anger. Rudbeck’s feelings of persecution and fear of imminent death were easily magnified by his inventive mind. All these anxieties only added to the pressing sense of hurry that was driving his lifelong quest for the lost civilization.
9
TWELVE TRUMPETS, FOUR KETTLEDRUMS, AND A BAG OF GOLD
—JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU,
De la Gardie was certainly in a very different position than were the professors who had to deal with Rudbeck on a day-to-day basis. Given his political influence, economic power, and social status, De la Gardie had the luxury of admiring Rudbeck’s extraordinary gifts. He could afford to look away when his favorite professor slipped up, acting in some rash if not also irresponsible ways.
Many scholars at Uppsala, by contrast, did not appreciate Rudbeck’s complete disregard for the rules, deeply resenting his lawsuit, his support of the sloppy printer, his flirtations with Cartesian thought, and of course the decreases in salaries that were so closely linked to his carefree building spree. Still others were probably just threatened by Rudbeck’s abilities, which, together with his lack of humility, sometimes made him look like an annoying, reckless show-off who did as he pleased. And when he got into trouble, as he was bound to do, De la Gardie would come to the rescue.
So, once again, despite Rudbeck’s scandalous behavior in suing the university, De la Gardie listened, forgave, and forgot. Rudbeck’s offense was overshadowed, in the count’s mind at least, this time by his latest spectacular discovery. The count was thrilled with the hunt for Atlantis, and did not wish to see Rudbeck hindered in any way, least of all by something as trivial as a lack of funds.
A longtime patron of Swedish antiquities, De la Gardie promised financial assistance to help cover Rudbeck’s printing costs. He sent over stacks of paper, right away, for the first printing of the images to accompany the texts, which, as Rudbeck planned, would be extravagant.
Detailed maps of Atlantis were to show the capital, the temple, and the racetrack. Representations of the layers of humus around the old burial mounds were also being cut, pictorially confirming the great age of Sweden. Rudbeck’s ambitions would soon be growing here as well, preparing not just images, but
Nails, rings, ax heads, swords, drums, and castration knives would all be lauded as artifacts of Atlantis. Some of his gifted mathematical students, including the experienced College of Antiquities draftsman Petrus Tornewall, were hard at work helping prepare the woodcuts and copper engravings that De la Gardie was so generously funding. The count was once again, as Rudbeck said, “his greatest admirer,” offering timely advice, support, and encouragement. He also promised to praise the merits of the work to the king.
Sitting on the throne was Charles XI, still at this time a young, inexperienced, and remarkably insecure monarch. The worldly Italian diplomat Lorenzo Magalotti described his first encounter with the new king on his visit in 1674. He was told to avoid engaging the king in conversation, so as not to embarrass or perplex him, or otherwise cause him any discomfort in trying to think of a response. Unexpectedly, however, the king offered his hand to the Florentine nobleman. Obeying convention, the diplomat kissed it. The flustered king then acted in a distinctly unroyal manner: he fled the room. Two years on the throne had not changed Sweden’s ruler, who still
