Skip to main content

Galileo’s Telescope

Museo Galileo
We were still working our lead in Florence in pursuit of that elusive Ceylon Sapphire taken from the Paris boutique. However, Peridot wanted some time away from the case. He always reminded me that the science of deduction includes time to allow the subconscious to process the facts. It was no accident we would visit the famous telescope; Peridot's agenda for our trip was becoming quite clear. Florence was a treasure trove of history just waiting to be explored.

"This telescope, my boy, is over 400 years old," said my friend Hercule Peridot. We stood over an enclosed glass encasement at the Museo Galileo in Florence, Italy. "It is the very instrument that Galileo Galilee used to discover the moons of Jupiter. Thus changing the accepted view of the cosmos.”

The telescope was about three feet long and consisted of a central tube with separate housings at either end for the objective and the eyepiece. The tube was formed by joining strips of wood. It was covered with brown leather and gold tooling.

In a rather excited state, Peridot tilted his head, raised his right index finger, and cleared his throat, “If my memory serves me, in the early 17th Century, most Europeans accepted the Roman Catholic Church's account of creation, which placed our planet at the center of the universe.” My colleague paused to collect his thoughts,  “Galileo’s telescope, invented in 1609, overturned this idea by allowing the scientist to observe moon-like phases in the planet Venus, which could only be explained by a sun-centered solar system.” 

The displays contained many rare astronomical instruments – including the objective lens created by the scientist and the only two existing telescopes built by Galileo himself.

After a quick search on my mobile device, I discovered that "Thanks to Galileo’s careful record keeping, craftsmen worldwide have recreated Galileo’s telescope for museums, and replicas are now sold for amateurs and collectors as well!"

"Absolutely, the replica we've seen at the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles is authentic. This original has held up quite well, wouldn't you say," said Peridot.

After leaving the museum, we strolled the cobblestone streets and found a quaint outdoor caffè.

“How about an espresso?” said Peridot.

Once seated, in my haste, I blurted out, “What about this American, this amateur art collector who contacted Monsieur Rossi? What about his involvement? Should we not contact him either?”

Peridot leaned back in his chair with a cup and saucer in hand. He tipped his tiny cup and smiled, “Yes, yes - patience, my boy; the gem business is not transient. We have the opportunity to examine rare and beautiful objects at our leisure. Time is on our side; let’s simply allow the events to unfold and enjoy this savory treat. Why, just moments ago, I received an e-mail from Mr. Richard Leyland. Seems our American friend has confirmed an early dinner”. . .

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

The Yellow Legal Pad

In this episode, the Art of Refiring July 1st is staring me in the face, less than two weeks away. For years, retirement seemed like something that happened to other people. Suddenly, it's on my calendar. I've been thinking a lot about the dreaded "R-word" lately. Not because I'm worried about having enough to do. Quite the opposite. What fascinates me is this strange paradox: Why does retirement make so many of us nervous, while having a job—even one that regularly drives us crazy—somehow feels comforting? Let's be honest. Most of us spend years complaining about meetings that should have been emails, reply-all disasters, impossible deadlines, and that one coworker who insists on microwaving leftover fish in the breakroom. Yet when the idea of walking away finally arrives, we hesitate. I think I've figured out why. A career isn't just a job. It's a highly structured coping mechanism. For forty-plus years, somebody else has basically decided what I...

The Big Rip and the First Tee

The telescope (Celestron) sits quietly under its cover, temporarily blinded by Southern California's annual meteorological hostage situation – June Gloom. Somewhere above that thick gray ceiling, photons that began their journey before humans appeared are streaming across the cosmos, only to be intercepted by a marine layer that seems to have veto power over astronomy. Instead of observing the universe, I find myself imagining – The End of Everything (Astrophysically Speaking) by physicist Katie Mack. According to modern cosmology, the universe may eventually end in a Big Rip, a Big Crunch, Heat Death, Vacuum Decay, or some other catastrophe that sounds suspiciously like a rejected heavy-metal album title. Astrophysicists spend their careers calmly discussing the possibility that reality itself could suddenly cease to exist because a quantum field had a bad day. It's a remarkable way to start a Saturday morning. One moment you're contemplating the ultimate fate of spacetime...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...