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

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A CARTESIAN WITCH HUNT

I have a theory that scientists and philosophers are sublimated romanticists who channel their passions in another direction.

—CHARLIE CHAPLIN, MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY

AFTER MAKING ITS way through several continental centers of learning, a dreaded outbreak started to appear in Uppsala in the 1660s. The cause of concern was a new “suspect philosophy” known as Cartesianism—a highly controversial school of thought that led to some of the fiercest clashes that ever raged in the turbulent academic world of the “scientific revolution.”

Drawing its name from the Latin form of René Descartes’ name, Renatus Cartesius, the Cartesian doctrine threatened to upset many cherished beliefs. Fundamentally this was a deterministic system that envisioned the universe as a machine. In this pure world of matter and motion, animals were soulless and unthinking automata. Human beings worked like machines as well, statues equipped with the power of reason. Like other types of matter, humans, animals, and all forms of life were whirling about in motion in a larger universe which was conceived of as a giant vortex, and which in turn consisted of an infinite number of other vortices. From the whirls of the tiniest particles to the largest planetary sweeps, Descartes had brought the heavens and earth together under the same single set of laws, with no center, no limits, and, many said, no place for God.

As if that were not troubling enough, such radical notions took place in the context of Descartes’ exciting new method, which excelled in overturning traditions. His entire philosophical edifice was built on what he called a “method of doubt.” After abandoning all previous knowledge, dismissing it as empty, “vain and useless,” and then casting it “wholly away,” the philosopher put his method to use challenging everything else—that is, until he found something that simply could not be doubted. The result was one of the famous lines in philosophy: “I think, therefore I am” (and at the same time, one of the most punned upon: from the college T-shirt “I drink, therefore I am,” to the skeptic’s quip about modern gullibility, “I am, therefore I think”).

But Descartes’ concept was the kernel of his larger system, providing an unassailable foundation from which he would construct his broad vision of the world. At its heart, Cartesianism was a rational, deterministic philosophy that built on this method of doubt, emphasizing the strict necessity of proof, and proceeding through the investigation of cause and effect to reach “clear and distinct” propositions. Not surprisingly, this methodical approach appealed greatly to natural philosophers, who were inclined to logical and mathematical thinking.

No surprise, either, that this doctrine excited emotions in one of the most passionate centuries in modern history. Despite fierce denials by Cartesians, many theologians suspected that Cartesian thought ultimately challenged sacred scripture and the very basis of religious faith. When the Cartesian natural philosophers responded that they could use reason “to prove God,” this also seemed repulsive, and secretly subversive.

Watching this radical vision of a machine-universe, best understood by using a method of doubt and apparently leading only to cryptic creeds, the Uppsala theology department had good reason to be alarmed. At stake, too, was its long-established authority at the university, where it had enjoyed a frankly privileged position. The department had long exerted a great influence over everything from selecting staff to examining materials for publication to teaching the theology classes that were mandatory for all degree candidates.

In many ways the Cartesian philosopher was a real threat to this established order—and the battle over this heretical metaphysics was waged as if it were a life-and-death struggle.

WITH THE HIGHLY esteemed theologian Lars Stigzelius leading the charge, the theologians went after individuals who were suspected of harboring Cartesian sympathies. Well trained in logical discourse himself, Stigzelius was teaching Aristotelian logic at the university when Olof Rudbeck was a boy playing the gallant Spanish knight on his hobbyhorse. Stigzelius began by complaining of the imbecillitas animi, or feebleness of mind, that had recently struck the academy.

The problem emanated, the theologians said, from the medical faculty, particularly some of the young professors, who were almost certainly the first Swedes to import Cartesian thought. Many Uppsala doctors had studied at Leiden University, a hotbed for the dangerous philosophy. The leading medical authorities, Olof Rudbeck and Petrus Hoffvenius, had both studied there, and they were now accused of being the first Cartesians in Sweden, that is, after René Descartes himself.

One of the first occasions for this inevitable showdown, and the incident that first brought Rudbeck into the proceedings, came quite early. The jovial “Don Juan of doctors,” and good friend to Rudbeck, Petrus Hoffvenius issued a dissertation in the spring of 1665 with a blatantly Cartesian veneer. The theologians rallied, and requested that the troublesome medical doctor receive a scolding.

Claiming that he could not bear the arrogance of Hoffvenius’s accusers, Olof Rudbeck came to the medical professor’s defense. It was a peculiar situation, he said, to see scholars so vehemently opposed to Hoffvenius’s treatise when in fact very few of them had ever read the work, or would even have understood it had they tried. “They had not even looked at the index of topics on the title page,” Rudbeck observed.

Disturbed at the turn events were taking in this attack on Hoffvenius, and the implications for the university at large, Rudbeck could not restrain himself. He blurted out, “If this is the way a faculty or a professor will be treated, no honest man will ever be able to write anything for the public good,” then continued, “I recognize no 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: Non curare animam, sed corpus. Rudbeck was, as usual, speaking his mind, clamoring for greater independence for science in Sweden’s oldest university.

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 libido dominandi, “a passion for dominating,” Rudbeck was even more provocative: “If a faculty member shall be allowed to censor another one, then it would be best for the academy to hire little boys as professors.” That way, they could make sure they would hire the best sort of people to perform the childish tasks of censorship, as well as those most suited to laboring in a university subjected to an iron grip.

“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 De principiis rerum naturalium (On the Principles of Natural Things). Behind this impressive scholarly sounding title, Rudbeck penned a hilarious parody of his enemies’ view of the physical world. He coyly pretended to see the light in the darkness of his soul, merrily poking fun at his opponents’ cherished Aristotelian principles of nature while all the time staying carefully within the prescribed orthodox framework. Some laughed at the humor and others were silently amused, but a great number were offended or even outraged at this jest.

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 Håkan 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 Community House.

Understandably, given its ambitious aims and Rudbeck’s efforts to take them even further, this institution often ran at a loss. In many cases it was a great loss—much greater than anyone had expected. When criticized, Rudbeck tried to explain this away as a result of inadequate original estimates, in addition to unforeseen factors that were beyond anyone’s control. The war that broke out between the Dutch and the English in the early 1660s had, for instance, significantly driven up the price of food, especially staples like salt and fish. Others believed the whole thing was a miserable fiasco. Sensing the general will in the chamber, Rudbeck felt that “ ‘the powers that be’ [were] once again trying to take everything from us.”

Knowledgeable insiders were indeed predicting that the Community House would soon suffer a premature death. Besides its economic woes, which were at the center of the debate, Professor Stigzelius attacked it for failing to attract any good students, and bringing instead only a “group of the unlearned.” Rudbeck strongly objected to such fears of flooding the university with illiterates, and countered with a passionate defense that touted the merits of the program. Successes of the Community House, he was pleased to say, were considerable. No less than twenty-one orphans, eight sons of tradesmen, and, remarkably, even seven children of peasants had been able to obtain degrees in this way from the university.

Yet the dreadful economic circumstances persisted, and forced the council to address its future. Rudbeck argued strongly in favor of sustaining the Community House, though by now he was championing a lost cause. Only two other professors joined him, one of them being Olaus Verelius. The Community House was slated to be abolished, gradually reduced in its services until it disappeared completely in 1676.

Such was the story of this odd early experiment with social welfare, well over one hundred years before utopian communities would spring up in Britain, the United States, and elsewhere. It is interesting to note, however, that about 150 years before Marx and Engels started contemplating the plight of the poor and persuading some people to call themselves communists, there was already a Swedish Communitist receiving free food and housing in Uppsala.

Meanwhile, unfortunately for Rudbeck, the university’s income from its properties continued to shrink, falling to about half its bloated early 1660s value. This unpleasant experience gave rise to many grueling decision-making dilemmas, made more taxing as the university had no emergency reserve funds. Many buildings were in need of repair, and stayed that way. Professor Claes Arrhenius, for one, was complaining about how the faculty and students were forced to suffer in this dusty chaos and, worse still, “destroy their clothes.”

With a sense of impending doom, the university urgently called for the creation of a special committee of eight professors to investigate the overall situation at Uppsala University. Arrhenius, a young, ambitious historian, was one professor who scrambled to join this committee.

When he was not appointed, he complained angrily in the council meeting that he had been “passed over as usual.” Although Rudbeck had nothing to do with the election of members, Arrhenius’s stinging remark was, among other things, a reference to Rudbeck’s style of leadership: his cavalier tendency to cut straight through the bureaucratic red tape and bypass the cumbersome official procedures so highly regarded by Arrhenius. At this point Rudbeck could hardly control his fury. He confronted Arrhenius, and demanded to know when, exactly, he had been passed over.

What remaining rules of procedure that were still being respected gave way to a shouting match—a vigorous quarrel that lasted until the chorus of voices was drowned out by Rudbeck’s determined baritone forcing his question again to Arrhenius. No answer. Relentless as ever, Rudbeck asked the question three or four more times. Finally, he burst out, “I hear once again such nonsense that you have been ignored, and when I ask you how, you will not answer me. I shall sing you a different tune… . I have been to Stockholm two times without asking a single penny. You went one time to Ekholm [a village outside Uppsala] and took ten daler compensation.”

This was undoubtedly true, as Rudbeck had made many trips on behalf of the university and had never asked for any compensation, while others seemed to take great efforts to note every possible expenditure. Later, though, Arrhenius would write a long, fawning letter going into ridiculous detail to exonerate himself from Rudbeck’s accusation. He would also explain his silence at that moment in the meeting by claiming that he had not heard the question.

But Rudbeck’s behavior was now working against him. Arrhenius complained that he had been “threatened” when Rudbeck promised to “sing [him] a different tune.” Professors rallied to Arrhenius’s side, asking what right Rudbeck had to treat a colleague in that way. At the very next meeting, too, the council appointed Arrhenius to the new committee. Rudbeck’s outspoken opposition, not to mention his unpredictable outbursts, was making him a dangerous man. And if the new committee had anything to say, he would be an endangered man as well.

THEIR PERFECT OPPORTUNITY would come the very next month. In late June 1670, the university’s chancellor, Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie, was planning a visit to Uppsala to celebrate an official occasion. Hours before his arrival, Stigzelius hustled together enough members of the council to hold a secret meeting. After they carefully drafted a list of grievances, Stigzelius rushed them to the chancellor the very day he arrived in town. Rudbeck’s old nemesis was no longer professor of theology—in February of that year, Lars Stigzelius had been consecrated the new archbishop of Sweden.

Briefed about the situation, De la Gardie opened the meeting of the council the next day. The success of the professors’ ambush is made all too clear by the minutes of the meeting. After hearing some complaints, the chancellor spoke out in an unmistakable reference to Rudbeck: “It is beautiful that one builds; however, it is best if the resources allow for what one builds.” In other words, ratio est, pecunia deest: “reason is there, money is not.”

If we listen to these forceful detractors, the turmoil of the 1660s happened as a result of Rudbeck’s activities alone. There was little understanding, or willingness to consider, any subtle nuances of the matter. How, for instance, the confident and flourishing 1650s had raised expectations beyond realistic capacities; how authorities had swelled the ranks of the university with many new positions—Queen Christina tending to make her appointments to the university first, and inquiring about available funds afterwards, if at all. Other leaders, such as the university chancellor, had also seemed unconcerned about mundane matters like budgets when there was an opportunity for expansion.

Competing with the waves of professors hired with little secure means of adequately funding the positions, Uppsala University’s treasurer Bo Chruzelii was busy pursuing his own line of recklessness. Sloppy accounting and embezzlement of funds had combined, by the time of his death in 1653, to put the university in a potentially hazardous situation that would not easily bear all the extra appointments. So, when the crash came, it was completely unexpected, and the university was totally unprepared.

Now, in the summer of 1670, it was obvious what the problems were, or rather who the problem was. It was also painfully clear that no one would come to Rudbeck’s support. Some colleagues tried to wiggle out of any association, while others sat in silence. To Rudbeck’s dismay, even the chancellor appeared to be under their influence. The talented professor who had offered “blood and sweat” for his university now stood completely alone, both in his defense and in his defeat.

The very next week, July 4, 1670, Rudbeck showed up at the council meeting with a long letter. Despite protests from the council members, Rudbeck obtained permission to read it. Breaking down the charges point by point, he answered every accusation with a detailed account that had not been possible before. The anatomy theater, the botanical garden, the exercise house, the Community House—Rudbeck showed that he had in fact never carried out a single project that did not have the authorization of the council, the chancellor, or the Crown.

The professors were also reminded of what many had conveniently forgotten. In many of those projects, Rudbeck had donated his time, his talent, and indeed much of the materials for their completion. The university had not needed to hire an architect or an on-site manager for the anatomy theater, for instance, because Rudbeck had drafted the designs himself and then led the construction free of charge. The accusation of mismanagement was like a thrust to the heart. Virtually the same pattern applied to many other large projects as well as many other discrete contributions: the donations of musical instruments, the business trips to Stockholm, the seven hundred letters he had written—all of this he had done for the university he loved so dearly. In everything, Rudbeck had neither requested nor received a single Swedish öre.

After delivering this thundering statement, Olof Rudbeck demanded to be released from his administrative duties.