Galileo’s Idol Published with support of the Susan E. Abrams Fund Galileo’s Idol Gianfrancesco Sagredo and the Politics of Knowledge nick wilding The University of Chicago Press Chicago and London Nick Wilding is assistant professor in the Department of History at Georgia State University. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2014 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2014. Printed in the United States of America 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 1 2 3 4 5 isbn-13: 978-0-226-16697-1 (cloth) isbn-13: 978-0-226-16702-2 (e-book) doi: 10.7208/chicago/9780226167022.001.0001 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wilding, Nick, author. Galileo’s idol : Gianfrancesco Sagredo and the politics of knowledge / Nick Wilding. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-226-16697-1 (cloth : alk. paper)—isbn 978-0-226-16702-2 (e-book) 1. Sagredo, Gianfrancesco, 1571–1620. 2. Galilei, Galileo, 1564–1642. 3. Science— Biography. I. Title. q143.s17w55 2014 509.2—dc23 [B] 2014012022 a This paper meets the requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). Contents Introduction 1 1 The Generation and Dissolution of Images 6 2 Becoming a “Great Magneticall Man” 20 3 Drawing Weapons 38 4 Interceptions 50 5 Interconnections 72 6 Transalpine Messengers 89 7 Masks 117 Conclusion: Science, Intercepted 136 Acknowledgments 139 List of Abbreviations 143 Notes 145 Bibliography 179 Index 193 Plates follow page 138. Introduction Galileo’s Idol is a historical case study of machinations, maneuvers, and masks in the making of early modern scientific knowledge. It pays special attention to the contributions of unacknowledged underground actors such as printers, publishers, forgers, diplomats, politicians and travelers. My book retells a familiar story, that of Galileo’s transformation of the cosmos via the introduction of astronomical telescopic observation, from a new and, I hope, newly productive angle. Rather than taking Galileo as the central voice and protagonist in this narrative, it approaches him askance, from the position of his closest friend, student, and patron, the Venetian patrician Gianfran- cesco Sagredo.1 The raking light supplied by this approach not only casts long shadows, it also helps illuminate certain features not usually visible, and allows us to explore relationships between objects and practices rarely con- sidered together. This tactic is not that of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead to Hamlet ; Galileo still figures large in the narrative, but by coming at him sideways, we can both catch him unawares and observe him in his natu- ral habitat, as it were. The historical contexts produced by and generating this line of inquiry are not limited to those of a single overprivileged relationship; my initial project of writing the history of an early modern scientific friend- ship, based on the rich documentation of Sagredo’s letters to Galileo, has here been eclipsed by a series of complimentary moves based on unexpected discoveries and improvised methodologies. An account of the friendship and, indeed, an intellectual biography of Sagredo remain to be written.2 Instead, this book attempts to capture something of the dynamics of early modern scientific practice in action. My aim is not to propose Sagredo’s inclusion in some canon of scientific revolutionaries, but to contextualize Galileo’s activi- ties in a new way, by viewing him alongside his friend.  introduction In the case of Galileo, there is no laboratory or observatory for us to enter, no space defined as scientific, even were such a term to have existed. When Galileo later imagined a proper space for talking about science, as the settings for his two great dialogues of 163 and 1638, the best he could come up with was Sagredo’s palace (situated not on the Grand Canal, where the family later moved, but up in Castello against the walls of the Arsenal shipyard). Other contemporaries did conceptualize and utilize such spaces, and they have been well studied.3 Instead, in Galileo’s case, we have to identify and follow the material, intellectual, and social tools that he and his assistants, friends, patrons, enemies, admirers, rivals, and students constructed and used. I am less concerned here with telling the story again of the physical construction of the telescope and the observational breakthroughs of the winter of 1609–10, and more interested in trying to reconstruct the processes by which other tools and instruments were made and deployed. I aim to restore something of the social distribution of labor and historical contingency in the making of natural philosophical knowledge. To this end, I have used as wide a variety of sources as possible. Paintings, ornamental woodcuts, epistolary hoaxes, intercepted letters, murder case files: these are not the normal materials for historians of science. This mi- crohistorical case study is intended to investigate an abnormality, or rather, it is intended to challenge the picture that has emerged as dominant and normative, of early modern science as pious, serious, and ecumenical—one might say, as institutionalized. So powerful and perceptive were the original social constructivist studies which provided this picture, especially around central figures of the early Royal Society, that we have forgotten, against their authors’ wishes, that they were also intended as microhistorical analyses, in- herently local and richly descriptive, rather than prescriptive checklists for a new generation.4 Galileo emerges from this book as arrogant, manipulative, and scheming. This much was well known. These adjectives should not be understood as psychological traits, but as cultural resources, borrowed, deployed, and val- ued across a wide range of activities. Such resources are not amassed capital, but are generated in performance. As such, they depend on an audience, or rather, they are generated relationally. Whereas a natural philosopher such as Boyle might plead for toleration and moderation to produce nondogmatic facts, or Hobbes might insist on the right and need for an authoritative voice to stabilize truth, the cases here presented, emanating from a different space, time, and culture, show instead a divisive approach to the art of persuasion. These authors perform for modulated audiences, in curious contracts with variegated interpretative communities. Hoaxes are one of their most highly introduction 3 prized productions, texts that simultaneously appear absolutely sincere to one group and outrageously funny to another—funny precisely because someone else fails to see the humor. Galileo’s Il Saggiatore is perhaps the best example of science in a satiric mode; his Dialogo the most complex, as it writes its victim into its plot. Natural philosophy takes place in fields, in dialect, behind masks, at carnival. It is polemical, rude, satirical, and enjoy- able; it insults, misrepresents, tricks, and ridicules. Even when its setting is a Venetian palazzo, it nearly turns into a fistfight. Only later does it enter the pious space of academies, where monastic and courtly codes of dullness are imposed; and even there, we may have been too quick to miss the jokes. Such works do not rely on a notion of credibility that is socially sanc- tioned, a fixed resource from which the truth of an utterance draws its strength. Rather, they are complex textual performances whose meaning is generated through a series of negotiations and partial releases of informa- tion. The early modern “discreet reader” was ideal but also real. Discernment in locating an author’s motives, subterfuges, identity, or humor was the same skill that allowed one to penetrate the secrets of nature. Wit, rather than sin- cerity, was the highest virtue of this epistemology. Trust was not guaranteed by an author’s name: it was perfectly possible for a pseudonym or an anonym to be more truthful than an onym. Similarly, strong studies in the relationship between print and science have inadvertently created a normative procrustean bed into which quite dif- ferent social relationships have been forced.5 The cases offered here show very clearly that the printer of Galileo’s Sidereus nuncius (Venice, 1610) did not even place his name on its title page, but hid behind a series of masks from a very real threat. The supposed “pirate” second edition from Frank- furt, by contrast, was by a highly reputable publisher. Both editions were probably “authorial,” but they served very different audiences. Readers did not discuss which edition they used, but did understand the work in very dif- ferent ways, depending, in part, on their familiarity with what they deemed similar works. Furthermore, the primacy of print, a point of faith since at least Francis Bacon in its historical agency, no longer seems so secure. Letters and manuscript tracts make up the bulk of most early modern natural phi- losophers’ writing. For many texts they were the only, or privileged, or first, form of publication.6 Patrons have generally been deployed as fixed rungs on a hierarchy up which our aspiring scientist, artist, writer, engineer, or doctor might climb.7 Instead, it might make more sense to consider entire systems of patronage in movement, with no fixed points, only shifting relations. This is more than a restatement of the reciprocity of the gift; it is both an attempt to restore early