Finding Atlantis: A True Story of Genius, Madness, and an Extraordinary Quest for a Lost World

16

THE ELYSIAN FIELDS

What cared we for outward visions, when Agamemnon, Achilles, and a thousand other heroes of the great Past were marching in ghostly procession through our fancies?

—MARK TWAIN, THE INNOCENTS ABROAD

ON MAY 13, 1685, the dispute over the controversial collection of reviews was finally resolved. An order from King Charles XI freed Rudbeck personally from the clutches of the censor. One of Count de la Gardie’s well-placed contacts had promised to help and did in fact manage to secure this royal exemption. Rudbeck’s merits, according to the official statement, had earned him this special privilege, as someone whose “integrity and experience assured that his work does not contain anything harmful, irritating, and offensive.” Rudbeck had won, at least the first battle. But the College of Antiquities immediately prepared another way to discredit the jolly nemesis who had invaded their turf.

Johan Hadorph and Claes Arrhenius, the true leaders of the college, shifted from censorship to public attack. In a letter to the university council, unsigned yet bearing the official seal of the college, the scholars accused Rudbeck of belittling their antiquarian work. They followed with a second letter to the university chancellor, criticizing Rudbeck’s bad taste in publishing self-praise, a presumptuous and misleading enterprise that could, if necessary, be countered with a publication of the work’s many flaws.

As additional ammunition, Hadorph also planned to print a peculiar historical manuscript that had long lain unfinished. Titled Dissertation on the Hyperboreans, this was a treatise penned by the esteemed poet and lethargic first president of the College of Antiquities, Georg Stiernhielm. In this work, Stiernhielm had outlined many of his arguments about the Hyperboreans, a people he believed had once lived in Sweden and had spoken the world’s oldest language. Ironically, Hadorph had never liked the work. He printed the dissertation, it seems, only to show how much Rudbeck owed to his predecessors. During the tense spring and summer of 1685, Stiernhielm’s posthumous, uncompleted, and unrevised manuscript went to press.

Rudbeck knew this work well and had certainly been influenced by its claims about the Hyperboreans. There is even reason to suspect that Verelius had loaned him the manuscript in the early days of the search, something that would have helped him as he entered the field of classical studies. But Rudbeck had gone much further in his conclusions than Stiernhielm or other patriotic historians. His search had culminated in a spectacular vision of the lost civilization of Atlantis and in his indefatigable efforts to bring the wide variety of theories together, more or less, into one unified picture of ancient Sweden. Still, by printing this work, Hadorph hoped to deflate Rudbeck’s overblown esteem, and to show that Atlantica was not as breathlessly original as its admirers believed.

So, if the efforts of the censor had failed, then perhaps an attack on Rudbeck’s credibility would succeed. Publication of Stiernhielm’s manuscript and the latest accusations against Rudbeck were two features of the college’s campaign to tarnish his reputation. Rudbeck was likened to the crow in the Aesop’s classic fable who pretended to be a peacock, a plain bird achieving his impressive appearance only by relying on borrowed plumage. Unfortunately, too, with his many loans, he had gotten it all wrong, producing an erroneous monstrosity. Rudbeck should have stuck to medicine, his first profession. Surely “a deeper and truer history,” Arrhenius wrote, could be written, and supported by state funds.

The College of Antiquities, its leaders believed, was doing just that, illustrating the history of Sweden with erudite treatises that far surpassed the “fables and errors” that decorated the pages of Rudbeck’s Atlantica. Indeed, with confidence in the merits of their own work, it is not difficult to understand why the antiquarians deeply resented Rudbeck’s printing of the testimonia, particularly the letter by the priest Sithellius. How wrong this monk must have seemed, praising Rudbeck’s achievements while unfairly dismissing their own. How inappropriate it had been for him to suggest that the college’s budget be used to finance Rudbeck’s search. And printing such a letter only seemed to confirm their suspicions: Rudbeck secretly harbored designs on their funding.

When the college filed an official complaint against this alleged scheming, Rudbeck read the charges with amazement, and wrote of his reaction, “I began, from the very first to the end, to smile, as if I had drunk the best liquor. I could never have imagined that such a letter would come from a College.”

The antiquarians, Rudbeck charged, had distorted the words of the priest’s letter beyond all recognition, and derived meanings that were in no way intended. He did not want the college’s money, nor did he wish to hinder their work in any way. In fact, Rudbeck recalled his many services on behalf of the college, promoting its members, supporting their research travels, drawing the designs for their planned building, and even being the one who suggested the very foundation of the institution. This assertion, though, Hadorph would vehemently dispute, claiming the honor for himself, which in turn ignited yet another source of tension between the two antiquarians.

Interestingly, when Rudbeck started to investigate matters for himself, he learned that some members of the college had no idea about the actions done in their name. Even its president, Professor Axelhielm, was surprised to hear of the attack. He claimed that he had been bypassed for years (and records show that his salary had actually been written out of the college’s budget). Given this scenario, hinting of underlying dissension and intrigue, Rudbeck asked the chancellor to request that the plaintiffs sign the accusation personally. In this way he hoped to lure the disgruntled out from hiding under the authority of the college, an institution that he felt had been hijacked by some of its most domineering personalities.

But Rudbeck had never wanted their money, he emphasized. He wanted to claim only funds made available by the tryckeritunna, a special tax that had a complicated history. Designed as a tax on priests and parishes to raise money to publish the Swedish Bible, the famous Gustav Vasa Bible that cemented the kingdom’s Reformation, the tryckeritunna (literally the “printing bushels”) had been renewed in 1612 in efforts to fund another edition of the Scripture. But this time, when the Bible appeared (1618), the tax was not abolished. The king, Gustavus Adolphus, decided to use the fund for other purposes, including the publication of historical and literary works. Naturally the people paying the tax resented financing expensive books about ancient history. By the 1640s, the tax was allowed to fade away.

As for the college, its claims on this fund were quite recent, gained just a few years before, in 1674, when the defunct tax had again been revived, thanks to the successful lobbying of Johan Hadorph. He wanted the tax to support the college, its research activities, and its library, as well as to fund a team of copyists, artists, engravers, and woodcutters. Unfortunately for the college, what looked like a new, steady source of income had quickly dried up, an early casualty of the war with Denmark. The first year of its awarding would indeed be the last, that is, until Hadorph once again succeeded in having the tenuous rights reasserted in January 1682.

So the college’s claim was effectively only three years old, and, even then, fiercely disputed. The archbishop had in fact protested the decision to award the tryckeritunna to the college, speaking on behalf of the parishes forced to pay the very unpopular tax. Those parishes resented taxation without representation. They had much preferred to use their own money for their own purposes, such as the schools, the poor, and the Church. A comparison of the salaries enjoyed by members of the College of Antiquities and the local vicars who were forced to pay the tax made the issue even more charged with emotion. Hadorph earned about 1,600 daler silvermynt a year (officially 2,200 daler) as an antiquarian, while many vicars made only about three hundred.

As for printing the praises of his Atlantica, Rudbeck stood by his action. He had never asked for any monetary gain, aristocratic titles, or membership in the prestigious College of Antiquities. The scholarly world’s appreciation for the discovered Atlantis was his real salary. In this light, Rudbeck also defended the monk’s outspoken comments about the relative merits of Sweden’s historical works, writing, “I can’t see that he [Sithellius] has sinned in that he desired something more to be completed of my work … and if he has sinned in this regard, then so have many others.”

Sithellius was far from the only one to think in these terms, preferring Atlantica to the more obscure and dense antiquarian tomes. Privately Rudbeck confided to Count de la Gardie that he had been rather cautious, choosing not to print the more uninhibited praise he had received. He had not, for instance, published the words of the French ambassador, who, next to the Bible, preferred reading no other book than Atlantica. Moreover, less flattering portraits of the College of Antiquities could easily have been included, if Rudbeck had wanted.

All the college’s critiques, Rudbeck concluded, essentially boiled down to an attempt to reassert its privileged position, and its desired control over the antiquarian arena. The college, on the other hand, saw Rudbeck as an author of fables unjustly maneuvering to gain its income. The judge in this dispute, it turns out, would be Count de la Gardie. Although stripped of his castles, his wealth, and most of his status, he had one position of authority left: chancellor of Uppsala University. De la Gardie would now have to decide between the competing parties: Atlantica, which he had patronized, and the college he had founded.

Given his response, appearing in the middle of June 1685, the choice was not that difficult to make. The tone was set from the very beginning of the letter. Addressing himself to the “College in Upsala,” De la Gardie was making explicit his hurt feelings about the college’s past behavior. Immediately after the count had fallen from power, losing the chancellorship of the realm and his vast wealth in the liquidation, the College of Antiquities had sought out new, more influential patrons. It had even—without De la Gardie’s approval or knowledge—moved its headquarters away from Uppsala.

De la Gardie proceeded to denounce how disgracefully the college had acted, “prostituting” its honor and selling itself so cheaply for the satisfaction of some private vendettas. Indeed it was not the entire college he now addressed, but rather only one or two offending scholars who had acted in its name, Hadorph and Arrhenius.

He was now really tired of all the scandalous insults he had heard about Olof Rudbeck, “impertinent and untrue judgments” enviously spread by members of the college. At the same time, De la Gardie did not approve of how the priest Sithellius had brushed aside the antiquarian’s efforts, or of Rudbeck’s indiscretion in printing the rebuff. Rudbeck had acted without caution or better judgment, something to which the count had never quite grown accustomed over the years in dealing with the flamboyant medical doctor.

Yet De la Gardie could not see how the printing of the letter had injured or reasonably upset the college. As a matter of fact, he hoped what the professors of the college said about themselves was true: namely that they wrote Swedish history with integrity, diligence, and industry. But despite their claims and their annual subsidies, the count added, “you cannot deny that for many years nothing has come to fruition.” The only praiseworthy antiquarian works, he added, had been written by Olof Rudbeck.

Count de la Gardie announced his plan to go straight to the king’s advisers and seek royal protection for Rudbeck, a man the college had long blamed and pursued without good reason. He would make sure that His Majesty was well informed of their “impertinent and indefensible behavior.”

THE COLLEGE, HOWEVER, could not take the count’s threats very seriously anymore. He was a fallen giant, humiliated and discredited. Far from distressed, Hadorph only increased his efforts to publish the catalog of errors, and wrote to his fellow antiquarian Claes Arrhenius advising him to stand firm, thereby robbing Rudbeck of the joy of feeling triumphant.

One month after the count uttered his threat to take the matters to a higher authority, Uppsala learned the fate of its printer Henrik Curio. After the case had spent ten years festering in law courts, Sweden’s highest court, the Svea Hofrätt, rendered its judgment in the now notorious legal battle. Curio had lost his suit, and his post.

Effective immediately, Uppsala’s printer would be turned out of office, ordered to repay the three hundred riksdaler (six hundred daler silvermynt) in loans for purchasing equipment, and forced to return all the machines in the condition in which he had received them. Even though De la Gardie’s own son was serving as chief justice, the court had upheld the council’s position completely. Curio would never see the nine hundred daler silvermynt that Rudbeck had promised, insisting that he had the university’s permission to make the offer, though the council had always denied it.

In Rudbeck’s eyes, the university had acted shamelessly. All of Curio’s “troubles and pains” suffered on behalf of the academy were now harshly repaid. Tossed out of his position, with few prospects in a country that had only a few viable presses, Curio’s future was, to say the least, uncertain. There was little hope he could pay back the additional three hundred riksdaler that he owed the university.

Rudbeck looked around for ways to help, hoping to arrange some agreement whereby Curio could start rebuilding his future. Perhaps he could repay the large fines with printed books, because, as Rudbeck said, “he does not have any other property.” This request, though, was refused, with one of the strongest and most outspoken opponents being Rudbeck’s nemesis, Professor Henrik Schütz.

Denied the opportunity to pay with his only available currency, Curio was in serious trouble, and Rudbeck tried once more “to carry his friend on his back.” The plan was somehow to establish Curio as a printer and help him start working again, with the hope of earning enough income to support his family and pay the large fines to the university. The only question was how. If there was any chance of accomplishing this feat, Curio would need to hire some help. A minimum of two assistants would be needed to work the presses, a fraction of the staff at the university offices, when Curio, his wife, Disa, five apprentices, and a servant girl had run the operation. But even here the council balked. The university treasurer, Jacob Arrhenius, flatly refused Curio’s request to hire any assistants until Curio first repaid his debts.

Taking the setbacks personally as usual, Rudbeck now had the added discomfort of feeling partly to blame for the ugly affair. It was mainly his enemies who were taking out their frustrations on his printer, just as they would soon be doing with his translator, Anders Norcopensis, who was also subjected to censorship. Rudbeck wanted desperately to find a way to help Curio and his family.

So one hundred copies of his Atlantica were pawned at twenty daler kopparmynt apiece, raising a total of two thousand daler kopparmynt (almost seven hundred daler silvermynt) for the cause. Curio followed suit, selling some of his stock of books to professors in town, netting an additional fifteen hundred daler kopparmynt (a fraction of their worth). Rudbeck also started selling his musical instruments. Even more generously, Rudbeck invited the printer and his family to move into the little stone house in his yard. There, Curio could hopefully open shop and work as Rudbeck’s personal printer.

To the shock of his enemies, Rudbeck’s grand scheme looked as if it might actually work. On October 6, 1685, King Charles XI did in fact grant Curio the right to publish, no mean feat in an age when royal sanction was a heavily guarded instrument in the Crown’s efforts to control the press. Curio was also granted the right to import any new equipment from the Continent, free of the hefty customs tolls. Count Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie had after all been able to help, playing a large role in securing Curio the same privileges enjoyed by other printers and booksellers in the kingdom.

And over the next few years, Henrik Curio would again work as a printer in Uppsala. For a time he even rivaled the university press, because finding a successor to him was proving more difficult than the council had originally thought. It took time and intricate negotiations, and in the end the university had to grant a higher salary and better conditions to lure a new printer to town. After ten years of bitter litigation, reaching the highest court of the land and resulting in a heartbreaking loss, Curio’s press had, in the end, only moved a few blocks away.

From this newly sanctioned press in the stone house in Rudbeck’s yard, the two friends would publish many Norse sagas, including Saint Olof’s Saga, Arrow-Odd, Kaetil Haeng, and Egil’s Saga. A very early lexicon of Old Norse, which Verelius was working on until his death, was also published in 1691. In his spare time Rudbeck would often stop by the press, checking on its progress and tinkering with its equipment. He would even devise special blocks for printing the runic script. Rudbeck was indeed enjoying his work, being, as he put it, a “midwife” for the Norse sagas.

Now, with a press in place, Rudbeck was again trying to find a way to raise money for the continuation of his adored Atlantica project. As obsessed as ever with perfecting his theory, Rudbeck had many more clues to chase down, and more evidence to accumulate, about the lost world of Atlantis. Indeed a plethora of discoveries was still to be made, but, as Rudbeck lamented, there was no money to sustain the search. He could not simply rely on De la Gardie’s generosity or his own resources, both of which were severely reduced, if not almost depleted. Frustrated yet not without hope, Rudbeck would be busy seeking alternative ways to pay for his book.

He tried securing loans from the Stockholm city treasury, hoping to repay the sum with copies of his book. When the city politely turned down the offer, claiming that it could not afford such a venture, Rudbeck toyed with publishing the work in the “English way,” by selling subscriptions to gentlemen before publication. Some money came, too, as loans from admiring readers, including four hundred daler kopparmynt from the witch hunter Anders Stiernhöök. De la Gardie somehow found some funds, and a student society contributed a five-hundred-daler-kopparmynt loan. There was even talk of trying to make money from a tobacco company, and Rudbeck, always optimistic, still hoped that his passenger boat service might turn enough of a profit to help defray the exorbitant costs of the project.

Then, after wild swings of fortune, Rudbeck received a letter in early October 1685 that would change the nature of his search. King Charles XI had been appalled to learn how relentlessly Rudbeck had been pursued and how ruthlessly he had been treated. Less than half a year after removing him from the authority of the censor, the king now released him from the hounds of the Inquisition. After all the efforts of Schütz, Arrhenius, and the commission, they had not found any misdeed. Rather, it seems that their investigations had backfired, giving Rudbeck the opportunity to show how much he had sacrificed for the university.

During the fall of 1685, King Charles XI also came through with some promised royal subsidies, awarding Rudbeck some eight hundred daler silvermynt. The royal funds would later even be extended to a regular payment to the scholar. No less than two hundred riksdaler (four hundred daler silvermynt) would be given every year to ensure the publication of Atlantica. Following many years of economic hardship and distress, Rudbeck felt that the clang of coins was preferable to the sound of beautiful music. The year that had begun with such frightening omens ended better than he could have possibly hoped.

THE BLOWS FROM his enemies had been parried, and Rudbeck’s hunt for Atlantis was, for the first time in his life, on solid financial footing. Such an unexpected turn of events enabled him to pursue his quest with all the enthusiasm of earlier times, although the recent trials had naturally drained some of his vigor. At least he was now free to investigate the mysteries of the ancient world as he saw fit, no longer forced to stay closely within the limits of monetary constraint. As he neared his fifty-fifth birthday, Rudbeck’s ambitions soared, and his work swelled, and, in the end, the sequel would be even larger than the first volume.

One of the main goals in publishing the second volume was of course informing the world of the latest news about Atlantis. Rudbeck had found the comments and criticisms from readers particularly useful, helping him further refine some of the rough edges of his theories. Louis XIV’s royal geographer offered some additional support for Rudbeck’s vision of Atlantis, pointing to a discussion in Aelianus’s Varia Historia between the satyr Silenus and King Midas that made Atlantis sound even more Swedish. Another scholar, Andreas Müller, a German orientalist in Berlin, had read Atlantica with amazement, and wondered if the Swedes had not in fact reached China.

China was in vogue in the 1680s, the decade that would see the ancient philosopher K’ung-fu Tzu first enter into Western consciousness, his name translated into the Latinate form Confucius. Müller was immersed in the discussions about China, stemming largely from his contacts with pioneering Jesuit missionaries in the forbidden land. When he read Atlantica, Müller was amazed at the many similarities between the Chinese and Swedish civilizations. He sent Rudbeck a list of ten comments and questions including “whether you think navigating through the north to China was an impossibility.”

Rudbeck would take up this question with great enthusiasm. The National Library in Stockholm has one of Rudbeck’s personal maps, full of measurements, calculations, and notes in the margins, showing how seriously he looked into this possibility. He was reading Marco Polo, following along in the medieval Venetian merchant’s travels in the East, and paying close attention to the descriptions of customs, perhaps signs of a surviving Swedish presence. In volumes III and IV of Atlantica, the horizons expanded further, with Rudbeck taking the Swedes all the way to the banks of the Indus River, where the Swedish Buda, a figure in medieval Norse manuscripts, supposedly gave rise to the Buddha. He was also examining travel reports of the New World in the West, convinced that the Swedes had crossed the Atlantic well before Christopher Columbus (and also well before Leif Ericsson and the Viking expeditions). Similarities between words guided him in these days, with etymology rising even higher in the hierarchy of evidence and in his undisciplined speculation based on words.

The highlight of the volume, though, was elaborating on the Swedish legacy still present in the ancient Mediterranean. Worship of Sun, Moon, and Earth were considered, with wild speculations on how Swedish classical mythology really was. In one remarkable chapter, running some three hundred pages, Rudbeck discussed an array of classical myths that he believed could be explained only if they had originated in the far north. The phoenix, the elusive bird of red fire consuming itself only to be reborn of its own ashes, was a representation of the sun—its death in the wintertime, when it did in fact disappear for months, and then its return in the summer, constantly above the horizon.

Rising to a peak in popularity, Rudbeck was enjoying his own day in the sun. Adventurers, meanwhile, pledged to continue his chivalric quest. One Uppsala student, classicist Gustaf Peringer, for example, made an arduous ride of over one thousand kilometers to the far north and confirmed Rudbeck’s veritable bonanza of discoveries about Atlantis. He saw Tethis Fiord, the home of the Titan Tethys, as well as Atle’s Fiord, named after, he agreed, King Atle, or Atlas. The northern ports of Atlantis were also identified, as were Jupiter’s marsh, Torneå (Thor’s River), and other provocative place-names. Nearby, too, were the Atlas Mountains of mythology, the high plateaus where the famed Hyperborean stargazers first understood the riddles of the heavens and created the world’s oldest solar calendar. Here indeed in the cold, mountainous north was the “blazing fire” of Swedish ingenuity, where the pioneer Swedes had created classical Greek mythology.

From all around Europe, visitors flocked to see the sights of Atlantis, some hoping to receive a guided tour from the “oracle of the north” himself. This had not happened before, and Rudbeck noted in jest that there was something of a minor tourist industry. Visitors were shown what was effectively touted as one of the greatest sites in the world, older than the Pyramids, more significant than the Parthenon.

On one such occasion, in the spring of 1699, a Polish diplomat received the Rudbeckian welcome. The guest is not specifically named, though it was probably F. G. Galetzski, a representative of Augus-tus II, the king of Poland (and father of at least 354 acknowledged illegitimate children).

With the guests scheduled to arrive on a Saturday night in late April, Rudbeck and his fellow hosts waited eagerly to receive them. The tables were set, and all preparations made, but no one came. Then, late Sunday night, hardly a day or a time anyone expected a visitor, a student serving as a lookout rode back to Uppsala in a hurry. The Polish entourage was seen on the road from Stockholm and was very soon to arrive in town. The advance warning allowed enough time to notify the designated hosts and prepare at least some basic welcome. Rudbeck joked, “It fell upon old Rudbeck, that he would release his sweet lady from their midnight hug to cook and stew.”

But since the Polish ambassador went straight to bed, the real ceremonies did not begin until the next morning. After seeing Uppsala Cathedral and the relics of the country’s patron saint, Saint Erik, the guest officially met Rudbeck, who stood out among the brightly clad gentlemen in wigs with his black clothes and white collar, his long hair flowing naturally on his shoulders. When the Polish visitor learned that this old-fashioned man was the author of Atlantica, a book he owned and valued very much, the diplomat unleashed so many “titles of honors and held such a stately speech” that Rudbeck joked that he thought he had been mistaken for “a Roman cardinal.” Galetzski made such a big deal over him that Rudbeck laughed, saying, “No one will have to do it after my death.”

Escorting the guest through town, Rudbeck showed him the Gustavianum, the anatomy theater, and the library treasures with the Gothic Bible and manuscripts. They continued to the exercise house, built by Rudbeck, used for fencing, riding, and now also for the new comedy theater attached for student productions. Then they went up the hill to the palace because the diplomat wanted to see where Queen Christina had abdicated the throne. A grand feast followed that showed just how playfully and passionately Rudbeck continued to embrace life.

Guests were served by the twelve tallest Uppsala students Rudbeck could find—Hyperborean waiters with “beards down to the knees.” Each toast to the king, the country, and the future was accompanied by a round of fire from the massive cannons Rudbeck had, for the occasion, stationed in the chancellor’s yard. Festive as they were, the salvos did somewhat frighten the guests, and almost caused the diplomat’s wife to faint. The music was of course arranged by Rudbeck, who also served as conductor with an orchestra of lutes, oboes, and violins of all sorts. Later a small orchestra played in the botanical garden, accompanied at strategic intervals, once again, by Rudbeck’s favorite cannons. After the five-hour celebration, the party culminated with a trip to Atlantis.

At this point the almost seventy-year-old Rudbeck was tired, and so his son Olof junior and Professor Lundius gave the tour of the sites, presumably showing the sacred spring, the grove, the temple, the racetrack, the place of human sacrifice, and the other discoveries. This appears to have been the common itinerary, given what is known about Rudbeck’s tours with other visitors, including Sweden’s crown prince and future king Charles XII. The diplomat and his entourage were both impressed and grateful. “I do not know,” Rudbeck said, “if my wife has kissed me so much in a year.”

Diplomacy in Stockholm was, unfortunately, not as successful as the party in Uppsala. A few months after the lively occasion, Poland would join Russia; and the two powers, along with Denmark, would declare war on Sweden. The Great Northern War had begun.

NOW, WITH HIS enemies defeated and rendered powerless by the king’s direct intervention, the last years of Rudbeck’s life were among the most peaceful he had known. His faith in Atlantis remained undiminished, and he kept on looking for evidence, poring over ancient texts for any possible reference to ancient Sweden. By the third volume of Atlantica, published in 1699, Rudbeck had begun the chronology of Atlantis anew, striving in another nine hundred pages to build a stronger foundation.

Rudbeck was also still printing life-size images of the Atlantean knives and coins he had found. After publication of the third volume, he immediately started working on the fourth. He was joined by Olof junior, who had shown interest in the quest in the last few years. Like his father, Olof junior would study medicine, develop a great passion for botany, and then spend the last decades of his life attempting to extend the frontiers of his father’s lost Atlantis. Specifically, the younger Rudbeck was intrigued by the connections among Scandinavian, Asian, and Hebrew languages.

Rudbeck believed that these axes were once wielded by the Amazons, the famed women warriors of classical mythology who originally came from Scandinavia. The names of the most famous Amazon queens were found in Finland, where, incidentally, some Norse sagas had also placed fierce female warriors. Amazon hairstyles, Rudbeck added, lived on among Swedish women.

Olof junior and his sisters continued to work with their father on the botanical work Campus Elysii, which attempted to reproduce every plant in the world. The first volume, dealing with orchids, hyacinths, and tulips, among others, appeared in 1700, and the second, mostly on grasses, the following year. The elaborate illustrations showed the versatile talents of Olof junior, Johanna Kristina, and Vendela. Working so closely with his children, and enjoying the uncharacteristic calm at the university, Rudbeck really seems to have enjoyed the last years of his life, so full of happiness and, evidently, rich family gatherings.

One surviving portrait captures the warmth and peace of this family. It is an evening of music in the parlor. The fireplace crackles in the corner, and the elder Rudbeck sits with a pair of reading glasses on his nose. He sings in his commanding baritone, holding sheets of music in one hand and directing the family choir with the other. His wife, Vendela, sits close beside him, perhaps not very differently from the way she had when they were newlyweds, some forty years before. The sons and daughters crowd around the affectionate couple, each more or less engrossed in the fun. Johanna Kristina and Vendela sing along, while Olof junior plays the clavichord. Gustaf stands in the back with the stylish wig and scarf so playfully mocked by his father. Young Vendela would later marry a man named Petrus Nobelius, thereby making Rudbeck one ancestor of the great Swedish inventor Alfred Nobel, founder of the Nobel Prize.

Looking back on Rudbeck’s extraordinary life and search, it had all corresponded so marvelously. No setback or problem, however insurmountable, had disappointed him for long. His brilliant mind found a way to crack each enigma, and then reconcile it with the larger vision of the past. Rudbeck’s obsession had never lost its grip, making Atlantica, in the words of a nineteenth-century romantic poet, “one of the greatest insanities in the history of the world.” And yet Rudbeck’s madness, he continued, was “infinitely more interesting than all the wisdom of its many critics.”

IN THE EARLY hours of May 16, 1702, a small fire began to burn. The dry air, wooden buildings, and great winds created a deadly combination. Within a few hours the town of Uppsala would be in flames.

The fire destroyed Rudbeck’s house and almost all his possessions, including the inventions, instruments, and discoveries from his excavations. Also burned were his printing press, his curiosity cabinet, some seven thousand completed woodcuts for his Campus Elysii, and almost every single unsold copy of Atlantica. By midday, the Rudbecks were “as rich as they were when they lay in the cradle.”

As his life’s work turned to embers and ash, Rudbeck showed all the strength for which his long journey had prepared him. In some ways this was his finest moment. Far from complaining, losing hope, or succumbing to bitterness, Rudbeck showed the inner strength and wisdom that he always believed had existed long ago in a golden age under the North Star.

True to form, two weeks after the great fire had ravaged three-fourths of Uppsala, Rudbeck entered the council chamber with drawings of plans to rebuild his beloved town.