Galileo did not serve his sentence in the prison of the Inquisition, but was confined at the Villa Medici through a kind concession of the Pope, who indeed soon authorised him to return to Florence, to his own home 'in place of prison.' He had been in Rome for almost a year, and the longing for his own city was growing ever more unbearable, despite the support of his friends and frequent letters from Virginia, both of which had allowed him to remain in contact with what was dear to him. On his way back to Florence, he was a guest in Siena of Archbishop Ascanio Piccolomini, pending the definitive authorisation of his return. In the meantime, the sentence of condemnation and the abjuration had been given public reading everywhere, in the presence of the 'largest number of mathematicians and philosophers they could muster', as reported by Guiducci, who had been obliged to attend one of these 'celebrations', as his superiors 'had received orders from Rome.' For fear of perquisition and sequester, Galileo's pupil, Niccolò Aggiunti, and Geri Bocchineri, brother of his daughter-in-law and a devoted friend, had swiftly hidden all of Galileo's writings that might have been found compromising. The atmosphere was still tense.

 

Galileo did not cease to work. No longer allowed to look at the sky, he looked at the earth instead, and nothing had changed in his way of looking at things. At Siena, still in detention, he threw himself into a discussion on the causes of vortices, admitting the existence of the void, 'if not natural, at least violent', a view opposed to another cardinal principle of Aristotelian physics, the horror vacui, nature's abhorrence of the void, which the Church guarded strictly. An anonymous denunciation against him and Archbishop Piccolomini for unsuitable conduct at Siena reached the Inquisition, but fortunately had no consequences. Galileo had in the meantime departed.

 

Back in Florence, he was confined, alone, to his villa at Pian de' Giullari. He resigned himself to an imprisonment ending only in 'the one common to all, narrow and enduring.' In accordance with the Pope's orders, he was not allowed to receive anyone, and certainly not to attend 'academies, meetings of people, gatherings or other similar demonstrations of disrespect.' He could not even go down to the city to see a doctor; every request was refused him, even roughly. The return home thus brought him little relief, and worse came a few months later when, at the age of only thirty-three, Virginia died of a sudden disease. Galileo blamed her death on his trial and on the conflict between a daughter's love and the bonds of her religious vows that must have exhausted her both physically and mentally. He was prostrate with grief, at the mercy of severe psychosomatic symptoms: 'The hernia has returned worse than before; my pulse is made irregular by palpitations of the heart; an immense sadness and melancholy; extreme lack of appetite; hateful to myself, and in short, I feel myself continually called by my beloved daughter.' But from Rome came no pity, no relaxation of the web in which he was caught.

 

And this was not all. Galileo was about to be struck by one of the worst misfortunes that destiny could have reserved for him: blindness. Within a few years' time, he lost the sight of both eyes. Incapable of renouncing his studies, he was obliged to create a network of willing pupils and friends to write for him, read for him, guide him, and see for him.

 

 

You may imagine, Sir - he confided to Elia Diodati, a faithful correspondent in Paris - in wha t affliction I find myself, that this heaven, this earth, this universe, which I by my marvellous discoveries and clear demonstrations enlarged a hundred thousand times beyond that seen by the wise men of bygone ages, henceforeward for me is shrunk into su ch a small space as is filled by my own body.

 

 

The 'endless prison' of Arcetri, isolated and linked to the most painful memories, was increasingly hard for him to bear. His desolate condition of total blindness and growing need of care urged him to ask Rome again for permission to live in his house in the city. The Florentine Inquisition sent a doctor to examine him, who found him 'in such poor condition' as to have 'more the form of a cadaver than that of a living person.' As the risk was now limited, such authorisation could be given. Galileo was granted permission to reside in his house in Florence but was still forbidden to converse with anyone, and certainly not on the motion of the Earth. He could go to Mass on Sunday, but without making contact with anyone. And these were not empty prohibitions. Strict control was exerted over all who entered or left his house, and no one deemed even vaguely threatening to the restrictions was allowed to enter.

 

But Galileo was Galileo. And even in the total disaster that had struck him in his health, his affections, his personal dignity, and that would have crushed all incentive in any other man, he was unable, even had he wished, to abandon his ideas. Already blind, he wrote to the Servite, Fulgenzio Micanzio, one of his closest friends who supported him in his last years:

 

 

In my darkness I am always fantasising, now of this, now of that effect of nature, nor can I, as I would wish, impose peace on my unquiet brain; this agitation does me great harm, keeping me in a state of almost perpetual wakefulness.

 

 

Passages in manuscript of a text written by Galileo had been circulating in Europe for some years, passed from hand to hand in secret. Acceding to the urgent requests to publish it that he received from many places in Italy and beyond, and undoubtedly thinking also of some kind of liberation from the oppression he was under, Galileo began to conduct complicated negotiations through friends and acquaintances in places where greater freedom could be expected: Venice, Toulouse, Lyon and Germany. Many knew of this, but none spoke of it. And it was not going to be easy; what printer would willingly take the financial risk of publishing a new work by an author over whose head hung severe prohibitions? Landini earlier had found himself in trouble over the Dialogue. The Elzevier, printers in Leyden, agreed to undertake publication. Among the most famous publishers of the time in Europe, they were happy to ignore any prohibition by the Inquisition, thanks to the freedom of thought and expression permitted in their country, and probably also to their well-established position. In 1638 they printed the Discorsi e dimostrazioni matematiche intorno a due nuove scienze attenenti alla mecanica et i movimenti locali [Discourses and Ma thematical Demonstrations concerning Two New Sciences pertaining to Mechanics and Local Motions], dedicated to Count François de Noailles. Afraid of worsening his position, already balanced on a knife-edge, Galileo pretended that the publication was an initiative of the Elzevier, undertaken without his knowledge, news of which had come to him as a sudden surprise, since he had decided, 'confused and dismayed by the misfortunes others of his works had suffered', not to publish any more. The instinct for self-preservation had accustomed him to such strategies. The Discourses was a sequel to the Dialogue in the discussion of ideas and had the same cast of characters, including the embarrassing Simplicio, who had however become less silly and thus less a target for mockery. But the former internal consistency was lacking. Here, old and new material relating to his study of physics coexisted without amalgamation, at times lacking unitary connection. The lines of exposition were continually interrupted by digressions. The appendix even included his boyhood studies on the centres of gravity of solids. Incapable of working as before owing to poor health and final blindness, Galileo had not been able to take all his investigations to the same depth, and had made use of a wealth of experience acquired throughout his life at different stages of knowledge and intellectual maturity. This was nonetheless still a level unattainable for most of his colleagues, and Galileo remained the great philosopher of method. One of the two new sciences, the one pertaining to M echanics, studied the 'resistance of solid bodies to being broken.' What is it that keeps the parts of a solid body joined together, in such a way as to remain united when it is possible to divide them? Galileo replied by hypothesising a structure of matter made up of infinite and continuous atoms, with infinite voids interposed among them, which allow them to be broken into finite parts. And to explain this concept he used geometric examples, where the atoms were points, because the behaviour of matter complied with these same laws. For the Aristotelians, who thought the problem could be solved with the horror vacui theory, Galileo still had lessons about the workings of the world and, in opposition to the concept of a non-autonomous nature, adduced the principle that 'nothing is against nature except the impossible.' Everything that exists is in nature by the very fact of its existence, including man, who is not something other than nature but a part of it, nor, certainly, is it for him to theorise about what is pleasing to nature and what is repellent.

 

The second of the new sciences, Local M otions, also contained surprises. Galileo understood that motion and rest are states of bodies that remain unaltered until changed by some external contingency. He understood (thanks also to the inclined plane) that bodies, whatever their nature, fall through a void at the same velocity, and that the different times of falling observable in daily experience depend on the greater or lesser resistance opposed to their different weights. He understood that 'the natural motion of falling bodies accelerates constantly' and the increase in velocity occurs in relation to the time that elapses and not to the space covered, as he had been believed in the past. He understood numerous minor questions regarding the properties of the infinite, burning glass, the speed of light, condensation and rarefaction, and the fall of projectiles. But above all he understood that neither logic alone, (while serving to verify the consequences of demonstrations but certainly not to discover them in the great quantity of things), nor experience alone, (too variable), was sufficient to establish a science of physical phenomena. What was needed was an effort of abstraction from the 'accidents' and the 'impediments' of matter to grasp the mathematical laws that govern nature and then to see their practical application, 'with those limitations that experience ... will teach.' [a1]

 

The great classifiers of complete world systems, such as Descartes, did not like the Discourses, with all those 'effects of nature' assembled from here and there. Those who were satisfied with a more modest approach to the study of physics, such as Bonaventura Cavalieri, found in the Discourses an 'immense sea' of 'uncommon and challenging information, any aspect of which is enough to overwhelm anyone, however clever he may be.' Among Galileo's persecutors there was no disquiet, despite the presence of geometry, atoms and the void. Galileo, by now the shadow of himself, was no longer alarming.

 

Galileo did not allow his power of reasoning to become inactive. Even when occupied with matter and motion, how could he forget the Moon? He had spent his last moments of sight observing the phenomenon of libration in an attempt to understand why, in its entire period of rotation, we see a portion larger than the exact half of its surface. To the Moon he dedicated his last text, the Letter to Prince Leopold, written in 1640. Why is it that, when we see only a segment of the Moon, the part in shadow appears lit by a faint greyish light? Irritated by the Aristotelian, Fortunio Liceti, who, continuing to believe the Moon capable of retaining light, could not accept a Moon made up of clods and dust, and attributed the phenomenon to the sun's rays striking the surrounding 'ether', Galileo saw in the phenomenon simply the reflection of the Earth's surface lit up by the Sun. And Liceti was subjected to the biting criticism of old, which however did not keep him from publishing the Letter as appendix to his own reply. Galileo was already totally blind, but of this terrestrial Moon, revealed in the finest detail, he retained an indelible memory.

 

But not even his memories were to last for long; severely weakened by fever and racking pains that had tormented him for weeks, Galileo died on the night of January 8th, 1642, watched over only by those pupils who at their own risk had refused to abandon him. He was never to know of the universal acclamation of his work, which would have meant so much to him, and which came only posthumously, making him one of the mythical figures of free thought. The philosopher and scientist left us a new concept of the world, which is now ours, a concept, whether we realise it or not - having experienced nothing else - of modernity. Of Galileo the man there survives the affectionate portrayal by Vincenzo Viviani, who must be pardoned if his objectivity as a historian has been somewhat veiled by a filial love and boundless admiration for the genius of his master.

 

 

Signor Galileo was jovial and cheerful in appearance, especially in his later years; of stocky build, just height, by nature of a sanguine and phlegmatic complex ion, very strong, but debilitated owing to his great labours and troubles, of both mind and spirit, so that he was often reduced to a state of languor…

 

Although he delighted in the quiet and solitude of his villa, he always loved the conversation of virtu ous people and friends, by whom he was visited daily and honoured with delicacies and gifts. With them he was often pleased to dine and, although sober and moderate, he was joyful on these occasions, delighting especially in the taste and variety of wines from every country, with which he was always well provided …

 

He disliked meanness much more than prodigality. He spared no expense in experimenting and observing in order to obtain information of new and admirable importance. He spent liberally in raising the spirits of the depressed, in receiving and honouring foreigners, in administering the necessary commodities to people without means who excelled in some art or profession, supporting them in his own home until a suitable place could be found for them …

 

Signor Galileo was not ambitious of the honours of the masses, but of the glory by which he could be distinguished from them. Modesty was ever his companion; conceit and arrogance were unknown to him. In his adversity he was steadfast, and courageously suffered the persecutions of his adversaries. He was easily moved to anger, but even more easily beca me calm. In conversation he was always most amiable, expressing a wealth of important ideas and judgements in discussing serious matters, and being quick-w itted and amusing in pleasant discourse…

 

He was gifted by nature with remarkable memory; and greatly enjoying poetry, he knew by heart, among the Latin authors, much of Virgil, Ovid, Horace and Seneca, and among the Tuscans almost all of Petrarch, all th e rhymes of Berni, and almost the whole poem of Lodovico Ariosto, who was always his favourite author, celebrated above the other poets, and whom he compared in many places to Tasso… He spoke of Ariosto with various expressions of esteem and admiration; an d when asked his opinion on the two poems of Ariosto and of Tasso, he at first refused to compare them, declaring that comparisons were odious, but then, obliged to reply, said that Tasso seemed to him more beautiful, but that he liked Ariosto more, adding that the former spoke mere words, and the latter spoke of real things.