one’s right to censure my work before he shows himself to be more skilled in those matters than I am, and as long as I am recognized by both the King and scholars abroad as knowing something in physics, I will not tolerate a professor or faculty to censor my work.”
Inside these strong words was a thinly veiled pledge of resistance against anyone who would try to bully Uppsala’s playful genius.
Adding a coda that made him sound like a Swedish Galileo, Rudbeck affirmed in no uncertain terms that the business of doctors was to cure not the soul but the body:
Hoffvenius and Rudbeck simply would not back down, nor would the theologians, and the whole affair was about to blow up. As Hoffvenius continued to complain that the theologians acted with a
“I would rather advise Hoffvenius,” Rudbeck said, “to tear up the disputation in pieces, or burn it completely and never write anything at all, than allow it to be censored word for word.” Yet however well Rudbeck made his point, and however much he took up the struggle, he was the only one to speak publicly in Hoffvenius’s defense, and so this first battle of the Cartesian affair must be seen as a defeat for the doctors. Hoffvenius’s work was not allowed to be published, and he had to promise, on pain of penalty, not to teach Cartesian thought again at the university. As for Rudbeck, many professors would not forget his outburst or, for that matter, what he did next.
While the embittered Hoffvenius tried to resign from his position, Olof Rudbeck decided to have some fun at his enemies’ expense. He wrote a short work titled
Stigzelius and the theology faculty decided not to let this “obnoxious prank” pass. This time, though, they did not choose the strategy of beginning the usual official proceedings against what one called “such a formidable opponent.” For Rudbeck was indeed outspoken, dreadfully stubborn, and quite unpredictable in his antics. Their strategy was instead to go behind his back in a rather calculated way, and take their complaint straight to the highest echelons of Uppsala University.
AS THE THEOLOGIANS sought to silence Olof Rudbeck, the academic atmosphere was threatening to take another turn for the worse. A certain fiery-tempered professor just recently hired at the university, Professor of Law Hakan Fegraeus, was very angry with Rudbeck. Among other things, he had never gotten over the fact that Rudbeck had forcefully though unsuccessfully supported his own friend Carl Lundius as a rival candidate for Fegraeus’s professorship.
So, when the university’s financial difficulties became severe in late 1667, and the economic crunch meant that he had not received even a small part of his promised salary, Fegraeus was quick to blame Rudbeck for his plight. A few months later, during the beginning of the winter term of 1668, word reached Rudbeck that this desperate professor was now walking the streets of Uppsala carrying a pistol in his pocket. He displayed it openly and made no secret of his intentions.
Now, Rudbeck had a vivid imagination, but such threats of violence were certainly not to be dismissed as idle talk or early warning signs of delusional paranoia, as some have claimed. One notorious incident the year before had shown how easily tensions at the university could erupt into an outbreak of violence: frustrated students donned masks and went on a rampage of destruction, vandalizing much property, including the houses of some professors. Rudbeck’s brother Petrus was one victim; his front gate was broken off the hinges and tossed into the icy waters of the river Fyris.
More-daring students even stormed the royal palace, leading to a shooting and the serious injury of a couple of guards stationed there. The Swedish government dispatched a small troop of military forces, comprising one lieutenant and thirty-six mercenaries, to restore order and maintain the peace. Many students were expelled from the university, some were sent to the academy prison, and four even received the death penalty. A few months later, though, the government fortunately commuted their sentences; the hooligans were instead expelled from the university and sent on a three-year exile from the Swedish kingdom.
By the spring of 1668, Rudbeck felt it necessary to tell the chancellor of Uppsala University, Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie, about this threat to his life. Horrified at the news, the chancellor acted imme-diately. He called for an investigation, and many meetings in the university council tried to sort through the layers of charges and countercharges. In the end, Professor Fegraeus was forced to apologize, and a few years later he would be encouraged to take another position elsewhere. A real messy situation, this was also a fair indicator of the high levels of tension prevailing at the time.
Feeling more comfort with the stalker chastened and the danger apparently subsiding, Rudbeck had also been tipped off that the theologians intended to complain to the chancellor. His brother Petrus had heard the rumors from one of his colleagues in the theology department and, realizing the seriousness of the situation, warned Rudbeck, giving him the opportunity to address the matter first.
In a letter to the chancellor of the university in early September 1668, Rudbeck affirmed that he had neither directly nor indirectly, publicly nor privately, proclaimed anything whatsoever that would conflict with “religion, good morals, or the common good.” Nowhere did he admit Cartesian sympathies or any wrongdoing, focusing instead on his efforts to avoid “shady transactions.” Very carefully he drew a distinction: he did not agree with the Cartesians when it came to religious matters. As for the theologians’ accusations, Rudbeck asked to hear their specific allegations. “If they think I am guilty, then let them charge me, so I can defend myself.”
This proved a good defense, and things went reasonably well for Rudbeck. In addition to his self-proclaimed innocence and his well-argued case, there was another, probably more influential factor in Rudbeck’s escape. The theology professor Lars Stigzelius saw how things were going and avoided pushing the matter too far. He decided not to press formal charges, surely realizing that such an appeal to higher authority would set a dangerous precedent that might end with the theologians losing the very control of the university that they were fighting so hard to maintain. Deferring judgment to government officials, or even to outside committees of priests, would hardly be a desired outcome to the current situation. Wisely, he would choose caution and moderation.
Rudbeck had emerged from the Cartesian controversy relatively untouched. By no means, however, would this be the last time he would face opposition. As for his enemies in the theology department, this affair only seemed to strengthen their resolve.
ANGER, RIVAL AMBITIONS, and not a little jealousy at Rudbeck’s easy talents added to the simmering resentments, and continued to keep the university split apart. In late 1668 the old opponents raised the stakes, and blamed Rudbeck for mismanaging the university.
His work with the Community House came particularly under fire. Located right in the heart of Uppsala, in the basement of the Gustavianum, the main university building, this was an experimental institution that provided free food and housing for students who otherwise would not have had the opportunity to attend the university.
Forty places were reserved solely for the poor, particularly orphans and children of widows, while another twenty places were given on the basis of academic merit or musical talent. Rudbeck had not been its original founder, as the institution had first started operating in 1594. But after the Community House had fallen on hard times and had been completely abandoned by the 1630s, it was Olof Rudbeck who had been the foremost champion of restarting it. Given his forceful and outspoken support, Rudbeck would also be the person whose fate was most closely linked to its fortunes.
Rudbeck not only succeeded in convincing Uppsala to reopen this Community House in the early 1660s, but typically he decided to improve on the model as well. He opted for expansion, increasing the number of students who would receive free food and housing, and then even extending the number of days of this provision all the way to fifty weeks a year! During the prosperous years, all costs for every student were waived, so as not to cause undue pain for the very poor who could not pay the minimal fee required by the regulations of the original
