The Sleepwalkers (196 page)

At
last,
when
he
had
turned
the
corner
of
fifty,
he
really
settled
down
to
the
task
at
which
he
had
only
nibbled
since
Tycho's
death.
In
December
1623,
he
triumphantly
reported
to
an
English
correspondent:
video
portum
–
"I
can
see
the
harbour";
and
six
months
later
to
a
friend:
"The
Rudolphine
Tables,
sired
by
Tycho
Brahe,
I
have
carried
in
me
for
twenty-two
years,
as
the
seed
is
gradually
developed
in
the
mother's
womb.
Now
I
am
tortured
by
the
labours
of
birth."
²

But
owing to lack of money and the chaos of the Thirty Years War, the
printing took no less than four years, and consumed half of his
remaining energies and life-span.

Since
the
Tables
were
to
bear
Rudolph's
name,
Kepler
found
it
fitting
that
the
printing
should
be
financed
by
payment
of
the
arrears
due
to
him,
amounting
to
6,299
florins.
He
travelled
to
Vienna,
the
new
seat
of
the
Imperial
Court,
where
he
had
to
spend
four
months
to
obtain
satisfaction.
But
the
satisfaction
was
of
a
rather
abstract
nature.
According
to
the
complicated
method
by
which
the
Crown's
financial
affairs
were
transacted,
the
Treasury
transferred
the
debt
to
the
three
towns
of
Nuremberg,
Memmingen
and
Kempten.
Kepler
had
to
travel
from
town
to
town
–
partly
on
horseback,
partly
on
foot
because
of
his
piles;
and
to
beg,
cajole
and
threaten,
until
he
finally
obtained
a
total
of
2,000
florins.
He
used
them
to
buy
the
paper
for
the
book,
and
decided
to
finance
the
printing
out
of
his
own
pocket,
"undaunted
by
any
fear
for
the
future
sustenance
of
wife
and
six
children",
and
though
he
was
forced
"to
dip
into
the
money
held
in
trust
for
the
children
from
my
first
marriage".
He
had
lost
a
whole
year
on
these
travels.

But
this
was
only
the
beginning
of
his
struggles;
the
story
of
the
printing
of
the
Rudolphine
Tables
reminds
one
of
the
Ten
Egyptian
Plagues.
To
begin
with,
Linz
did
not
have
an
adequate
printing
press
for
such
a
major
undertaking;
so
Kepler
had
to
travel
again
to
recruit
skilled
printers
from
other
towns.
When
the
work
at
last
got
going,
the
next
plague
descended
–
a
familiar
one
this
time:
all
Protestants
in
Linz
were
ordered
either
to
embrace
the
Catholic
faith,
or
to
leave
the
town
within
six
months.
Kepler
was
again
exempted,
and
so
was
his
Lutheran
master
printer
with
his
men;
but
he
was
requested
to
hand
over
to
the
authorities
all
books
suspect
of
heresy.
Luckily,
the
choice
of
objectionable
books
was
left
to
his
own
judgment
(which
made
him
feel
"as
if
a
bitch
were
asked
to
surrender
one
of
her
litter")
and,
thanks
to
the
intervention
of
the
Jesuit
Father
Guldin,
he
was
able
to
keep
them
all.
When
the
war
was
approaching
Linz,
the
authorities
asked
Kepler's
advice
how
to
protect
the
books
of
the
Provincial
Library
against
the
danger
of
fire;
he
recommended
packing
them
tightly
into
wine
barrels
so
that
they
could
easily
be
rolled
away
from
the
danger
spot.
Incidentally,
notwithstanding
his
excommunication
(now
final),
Kepler
kept
paying
visits
to
his
beloved
Tuebingen,
the
Lutheran
stronghold,
and
having
a
jolly
time
with
old
Maestlin
–
all
of
which
goes
to
show
that
the
sacred
cows
of
that
bygone
Age
of
Humanism
were
still
held
in
respect
during
the
Thirty
Years
War,
both
in
Germany
and
Italy,
as
the
case
of
Galileo
will
show.

The
third
plague
was
the
garrisoning
of
Linz
by
Bavarian
soldiery.
Soldiers
were
billeted
everywhere,
even
on
Kepler's
printing
shop.
This
led
to
a
rumour
which
spread
through
the
Republic
of
Letters,
and
penetrated
as
far
as
Danzig,
that
the
soldiers
had
melted
down
Kepler's
lead
type
to
make
bullets,
and
pulped
his
manuscripts
for
use
as
cartridge
cases
–
but
luckily
this
was
not
true.

Next,
the
Lutheran
peasantry
rose
in
bloody
revolt,
burnt
down
monasteries
and
castles,
occupied
the
township
of
Wels
and
laid
siege
on
Linz.
The
siege
lasted
for
two
months,
June-August
1626.
There
were
the
usual
epidemics,
and
the
populace
was
reduced
to
living
on
horse-flesh,
but
Kepler
"by
the
help
of
God
and
the
protection
of
my
angels"
was
preserved
from
this
fate.