“Then tell me.”
The young man clenched his fists and looked for a moment as if he might attack Galileo again. But finally he said, “It was one of the other professors. But do not ask me his name—”
“A colleague! Will one descend that low to stem the flow of truth from my rostrum? You must tell me his name, Salviati!”
But shaking his head, the law student hurried off down the lane.
Two nights later, as Galileo lay sleeping in his small house close by the university, he was awakened by a thump on the wall. He lay listening, but all the sounds he could hear were the distant clop-clop of a mule’s hooves on the paving stones and, from the inn next door, the Padrona talking out loud in her sleep again. But the memory of the thump disturbed him, so presently he rose, lit a candle, and opened the street door.
He saw at once it was empty, and smelled the odor of fresh fish that always blew from the river at this hour. Then, as he turned to close his door, he espied the note upon the sill.
You are warned again — do not break idols in the market place!
Galileo crumped the note in his hand. He looked again up the street as he heard the sound of singing which grew louder and louder until he recognized the voices.
“Vincenzio — Pettirosso,” Galileo cried. “What are you doing here so late?”
Two of his most trusted and promising students appeared out of the shadows and smiled affectionately at him. One of them carried a jug of wine.
“You look troubled to-day, maestro, and we thought you might need cheering up,” said the smaller student, who was called Pettirosso because he was preternaturally fragile-boned and light, like a bird.
“Well, perhaps you are right,” Galileo said. “Come in.”
And while his visitors sat down at the table, the young professor fetched three pottery cups and poured wine freely all around.
“This was just left at my door,” Galileo said at last, throwing the note upon the table. “Did you see anyone upon the street?”
“Not a soul, maestro,” Pettirosso said, reading the note and passing it to Vencenzio. “Who do you think wrote it?”
“At first I thought it was an outsider, but now I think it was a member of the faculty.”
“And why should anyone write thus?”
“The faculty resents the fact that my statements do not accord with their venerable Aristotle’s.” Galileo smiled suddenly. “Tell me, Vincenzio, what do you think I should do? You’re the bold one!”
Vincenzio Barbierini rubbed his hands and scowled. He was a broad fellow, handsome, with long blond hair that curled over his collar. Although he was often vain and given to preening himself over his accomplishments with the meretrices, or loose women of the city, to Galileo he showed only respect and devotion. Indeed, Vincenzio so admired his master that he set himself to copy not only Galileo’s forward-thrusting, inquiring air, but his blunt, uncompromising speech as well.
“You should punish this professor,” he said at length. “I tell you what, maestro, my good companion Pettirosso, who is like my own brother, and I — we will watch first this professor and then that one, and when we find the guilty one, we will tell you.”
“No, no,” Galileo said quickly. “It is better the writer remains anonymous, for if I knew his identity I might be rash enough to attack him.”
“Then what will you do?” Pettirosso asked.
Galileo drained his wine cup before he answered.
“I think,” he said, “I will make a public demonstration. That will teach them they cannot intimidate me with warning notes. Heretofore I have discreetly kept my proofs within the classroom — but now all Pisa shall see the great Aristotle proved wrong in broad daylight!”
“The experiment of the wooden balls!” Vincenzio exclaimed.
“Esattamente! But we shall use iron shot this time — a one-pound shot and a ten-pound shot, and we shall drop them from somewhere high — at least two hundred cubits.”
“From the Baptistry?”
“No. From the Leaning Tower.”
The word of the projected experiment travelled fast. The very next day the rector of the university called Galileo to his chambers, and fingering his white beard he spoke reprovingly.
“Galileo Galilei, I have heard of the public demonstration you plan for next week. Is this wise?”
“Why, sir, when I came here, did you not encourage me to disperse ignorance with the light of truth?”
“True, my boy. But have you never heard that it is dangerous to break idols in the market place?”
Galileo stared at the rector, scarcely believing his ears. Then he pulled the latest note from his pocket and laid it before his superior.
“Did you write this, sir?”
The rector read it with raised eyebrows, and then murmured, “My words were almost the same, weren’t they? But I must have heard someone say them. No, I did not write it, but I would say it is a just warning, against which it would be foolhardy for you to proceed.”
“And do you only warn me, too, sir?” Galileo asked. “Or do you forbid me the right to demonstrate my own discoveries?”
The rector sighed. “No, Galileo Galilei, I cannot do that. You may go ahead with your demonstration if you like, but take care you do not see your hopes buried in the holy ground of the cemetery of Campo Santo!”
The rector’s words echoed in Galileo’s ears on the day of the demonstration, as he stood upon the piazza adjacent to the Campo Santo, waiting for the bells of the Leaning Tower to strike the hour of noon. But he tried to be confident. Hadn’t he and his assistants — just before dawn, while all Pisa was sleeping — conducted the experiment from the tower exactly as he planned to do it today? It was true that someone had probably watched them, since Vincenzio claimed he heard footsteps from the cloister of the Duomo, but nothing had come of it.
Now, with the sun almost at its zenith, professors stood lounging about the square talking and laughing, many of them casting derisive or hostile looks in Galileo’s direction.
Townspeople who doubtless expected some kind of spettacolo were also present — mothers and their small children, idlers, and keen-faced priests whom Galileo hoped were Jesuits, since there were fine scientists among them. In the crowd he espied the gentle old rector and, sitting upon a stone bench close by, in the shade of the Duomo, Giovanni de Medici, his arrogant lips curved in a sneer.
The bells in the tower began to ring twelve o’clock, the laughter and stirring ceased, and all eyes were turned upon Galileo. He waited, however, until the last whisper of the bell tones had faded, and the bell-ringer himself had stepped out through the single, high door at the base of the tower and joined a young man whom Galileo recognized as Paolo Salviati. Then Galileo raised his hands and spoke in a loud clear voice.
“See here, each of my assistants holds an iron ball.” He pointed to Vincenzio and Pettirosso behind him. “One iron ball weighs one pound, the other ten pounds. We shall carry them to the top of the tower and drop them down upon the area below the leaning side, which we have roped off. You who are disciples of Aristotle believe that falling bodies of unequal weight, if dropped from the same height at the same moment, will reach the ground at different times—”
“That’s right,” de Medici called from the crowd, “and the heavier body travels in proportion to its weight.”
“I deny this is true,” Galileo said, “and shall demonstrate the fallacy of Aristotle’s reasoning. Watch!”
Amid a sullen murmur, Galileo strode into the tower followed by Vincenzio and Pettirosso and the trio climbed the six, successive circular staircases which coiled dizzily around a core of empty space and ropes from the belfry.