Arabia Felix Read online

  Von Haven had achieved his end, but he was in no hurry. His journey to Rome was approved in the summer of 1758, but by the spring of 1759 he had got no farther than North Germany. By April he was still only at Frankfurt, where a letter from Bernstorff overtook him, wanting to know what he was doing with his time. By way of explanation, von Haven gave an account of his activities over the last three years, saying rather evasively that he had read such Arabic manuscripts as could be found in the University of Göttingen and had completed a commentary on the prophet Nahum, which he had regrettably had to break off for reasons of health. “Voilà, Monseigneur, what I have achieved in the last three years, in conditions of constant torment, under a threat of war, suffering wretchedly with my health, and in a wretched city. If it had not been that my stay in Göttingen was necessary to fit in with Professor Michaelis’s private interests, I could have spent the last ten months much better in Paris or Rome. But I do not wish to say anything more about that now.” These ambiguous allusions seem to indicate a certain dissension between von Haven and the man who had once recommended him so highly to Bernstorff. But the conclusion of von Haven’s letter was as unambiguous as could be; he had no money left. He was therefore compelled to stay some little time in Frankfurt to wait for an extra grant which Count Moltke had promised to get for him from the King.

  This was written in April 1759. The money was sent from Copenhagen, after which nothing more was heard of von Haven. Bernstorff repeatedly tried to make contact with him by sending letters via Michaelis. But Michaelis had no idea either where the Dane was. In August he reported to the despairing Bernstorff that he could not reach von Haven because, as he put it, von Haven “always forgot to give the addresses of those places to which he intended going.” Now he altogether forgot to write. As late as December Michaelis had not heard from him and reported sadly to Bernstorff: “There is one matter for concern which I cannot conceal from Your Excellency. For a long time I have had no communication from von Haven and nothing at all from Italy. He wrote me from Frankfurt and Strasbourg, but on neither occasion did he divulge either when he intended to leave or where he was making for, so that I have been unable to write to him. Perhaps the best thing would be to try and find out from his relatives in Copenhagen where he is, or if they do not know either, then from those who pay him his grant.”

  The professor’s proposal came too late. He himself knew why it was too late, and that was the reason for his concern. The winter of 1759 was approaching, the remaining members of the party had long ago been selected, and the expedition could set off. In October the Danish ships left Copenhagen for Trankebar as planned, but the expedition was not with them. Its leader, Friedrich Christian von Haven, had vanished without trace.

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  Fortunately, Michaelis had received by way of compensation an affirmative answer from Forsskål, the Swedish scientist whom he had praised so highly to Bernstorff at the beginning of 1759. Peter Forsskål was five years younger than von Haven; like him he was a clergyman’s son, but in everything else the absolute opposite of the indolent Dane. He was born in Helsingfors in 1732, and seems at the age of ten to have enrolled at the University of Uppsala, where he was to study theology. At that time it was not unusual for quite young children to arrive at the university to study; it was nevertheless something of a sensation when, only three years later, young Forsskål showed himself able to compose a fairly long letter in Hebrew. There were no less than three sons and seven daughters in the Forsskål family, and as the years passed the clergyman’s resources became too slender to keep all three sons at the university. From 1744 to 1750 Peter Forsskål had to be content with the instruction he could get at home, where his father taught him Latin, Greek, philosophy and theology.

  But Forsskål does not seem to have missed anything. After taking his examinations in 1751 he was recommended because of his “particularly fine learning” for a scholarship which would give him five years at the University of Uppsala, followed by two years at any foreign university. He was awarded this scholarship; and the following years he spent studying botany under the famous Linnaeus, whom he soon came to regard with an admiration that bordered on idolatry. After this came his foreign tour; his name is to be found inscribed in the register of the University of Göttingen for 13th October, 1753. In Göttingen he intended to read theology, philosophy and Oriental philology under Professor Michaelis, the best-known Oriental scholar of the day, who at that time was only thirty-six years old. Forsskål—who was no great believer—had already abandoned the idea of entering the Church. It was characteristic of his argumentative nature that he now determined to devote his doctoral dissertation to a criticism of Wolffianism, a philosophical doctrine that enjoyed the homage of the entire learned world, including that of his own professors in Göttingen. In spite of this fundamental difference of opinion, Forsskål’s work aroused such attention and admiration that immediately afterwards the twenty-four-year-old doctor had conferred upon him a distinction never before awarded to so young a man: he was elected Corresponding Member of the German Academy of Science.

  Thus, when Forsskål returned home to Uppsala in the autumn of 1756 he was already a distinguished man in distinguished circles. For some time after his return he devoted himself to refuting the criticisms directed against his doctoral dissertation in Germany and in Sweden, and showed by his answers that he was a sharp and ruthless polemicist. Forsskål had rapidly become famous; now almost equally rapidly he reached the point where, one by one, enemies revealed themselves in what had otherwise been a well-disposed audience. He was clever, and for this he could be excused; but he knew he was clever, and this was unforgivable. A few years later he exposed himself to further attack by presenting another controversial dissertation, this time to the faculty in Uppsala. Those who had felt themselves slighted now hit back. The dissertation came back by return with a brief note to the effect that his request to have it printed had been refused.

  With this new dissertation Peter Forsskål had ventured to put forward certain points of view considerably more heretical than any mere criticism of Wolffianism—which no ordinary person knew anything about, anyway—and in so doing he set himself up against a group of powerful people far more dangerous than the amiable professors of Göttingen. The dissertation was composed partly in Latin and partly in Swedish and was called Thoughts on Civil Liberty. When he wrote it, there was no longer an absolute monarchy in Sweden; but any new literature was nevertheless subject to scrutiny by the Government, or in other words by “The Hats.” The censorship of all manuscripts by the Chancery Council meant that free expression was supervised even more closely than in the days when the Swedish king enjoyed absolute power.

  Under this one-party dictatorship Forsskål now put forward his defence of civil liberty, formulated in twenty clearly defined theses. He began by declaring that, after life itself, nothing can be dearer to a man than liberty. The sole danger to that liberty came from those who by office, rank or wealth had become all-powerful in the country, for they could misuse the power already acquired to increase their privileges at the expense of others. Even in many republics paying official lip-service to the name of freedom, the majority of people had become the slaves of the ruling class. The power of the king, therefore, was more dangerous than the power of the people. Under Charles XII Sweden had been bled white, of men, materials and money; yet people still maintained that this hero had defended his fatherland. But he had not defended it; he had ruined it. The one defence against such usurpation of power was freedom to complain openly about anything that ran counter to the general good. Civil liberty therefore consisted in limited governmental power and unlimited freedom of expression. Here, too, could be found the Government’s best safety, in so far as compulsion merely resulted in unrest and the use of force. It was better for the public to express their dissatisfaction by the pen than by the sword. Freedom can only be preserved by freedom.

  Short and to the point. Altogether too much so. The faculty refu
sed to print the dissertation, hoping thereby to stamp out the spark that might have caused an explosion. But the obstinate and confident Forsskål had no intention of giving up at the request of a few university administrators. Immediately after receiving their rejection, he turned on the very headquarters of the enemy, and lodged a complaint with the Chancery Council itself about the faculty’s action. Naturally Sweden’s supreme instrument of censorship at once confirmed the faculty’s decision. The dissertation contained dangerous ideas and could not be printed. Forsskål refused to accept the Chancery Council’s decision and entered a complaint, which was rejected without comment. Forsskål refused to accept this rejection and wrote again, offering to alter everything in his manuscript which the Chancery Council found erroneous. This suggestion was also rejected. Forsskål wrote a third letter, requesting a detailed account of the irregularities he was supposed to have committed, and repeating his offer of correcting any mistakes which could be shown to have been made in his dissertation. This letter was also rejected. After this, Forsskål went over to open war. He made an agreement independently with a printer to publish his manuscript in Swedish. On 23rd November, 1759, his Thoughts on Civil Liberty was published by Salvius in Uppsala in an edition of 500 copies. As soon as the last copy came from the press, Forsskål personally collected the entire edition and distributed it that same afternoon among his students at the University of Uppsala.

  Now invisible weapons began to be turned on the man who only wished to defend himself by his pen. The Chancery Council issued a decree for the book to be impounded; and it ordered the rector of the university to round up all the copies. The rector of the university was Carl von Linnaeus. Forsskål’s revered teacher only succeeded in getting hold of seventy-nine copies, which were then burnt. When immediately afterwards Forsskål protested against this confiscation, he was summoned to an interrogation, in the course of which he was requested to recant, and threats were uttered that if he did not do so he would be sent for trial. Forsskål refused to recant a single line. The Chancery Council began to show apprehension about the publicity now being focussed on this obstinate young scholar, and tried to hush the affair up by merely giving him a warning.

  Forsskål noticed the hesitation of his opponents, refused to accept their warning, and on Christmas Eve submitted a petition to the Swedish king in which he gave an exhaustive account of the impounded book, thus lending point to all its more important items of protest. The king disapproved of what Forsskål had written, but he had to content himself with issuing “a deserved and serious reprimand.” There was no appeal from the king’s pronouncement, and after writing in once or twice more, Forsskål had to let the matter drop. But the defeat was only apparent. A few months later, at the Assembly of the Swedish Parliament in 1760, a committee was set up to consider the question of the freedom of the press, and in 1766 censorship in Sweden was lifted. The pen eventually triumphed over the sword. But by then the young champion of the freedom of the press had already been dead for three years.

  During his long struggle with the Swedish authorities, it had always been an advantage for Forsskål that he was in the service of the Danish king. This gave to his person an authority which people were reluctant to ascribe to his ideas. In September 1759, when the battle was at its hottest, the following flattering notice appeared in the pages of the Swedish Mercury (Svenska Mercurius):

  Herr Magister Pet. Forsskål has been invited by His Majesty the King of Denmark to accompany, as Natural Historian, a scholarly expedition set up with the financial support of His Majesty to journey to the East Indies and the Levant, whereby, in addition to the many advantages he will enjoy, he is to have the title and honours of a professor. This is incontrovertible evidence of the Herr Professor’s merit. He combines a profound knowledge of natural history with philology and Oriental languages, so that scholarship will gain doubly from his expedition.

  When in the spring of 1759 Forsskål had accepted the invitation of his former professor to join the Danish expedition, it was only after extended discussions with his father and Linnaeus. The two pulled in opposite directions. Linnaeus had at once perceived unique possibilities of extending his collections, if his admirer were to make this long journey to the Orient; while his father was afraid of the innumerable dangers to which his son would be exposed, and advised him in any case to make a show of reluctance to the eager Michaelis, in order to push the price of his participation in the expedition as high as possible.

  When Peter Forsskål eventually gave his assent his terms were high. From then until the expedition left, he required a sum of 500 Rigsdaler per annum, to be paid to him and back-dated to 1st January, 1759. During the expedition itself, he stipulated the same amount, together with all expenses for accommodation and equipment. In addition he demanded the title of professor, and he also stipulated that on its way to Trankebar the expedition should call at South Africa—a country which for Linnaeus represented a botanist’s paradise and where Forsskål was to have permission to collect plants and seed for his former teacher. Moreover, he insisted that all the members of the expedition should enjoy equal rank; this demand in no way implied any desire for democratic relationships among the members of the party, but simply meant that Forsskål was not prepared to recognise any leader above himself. Finally, he demanded that after the expedition was over he should not only be given a pension for life, but also have the right to use that pension in whatever country it suited him to settle. With respect to the amount of this pension, he wrote to Michaelis that “it is not seemly for me to give any indications in this respect, but royal gifts tend of course to be worthy of kings.”

  These were the most onerous conditions that Michaelis had so far had to put to Bernstorff; even the vanished von Haven had not dared to go so far. In his letter to the Danish minister Michaelis attempted to make light of them. Concerning Forsskål’s right to use his life pension in whatever country he chose to live, Michaelis wrote reassuringly that naturally this country would almost certainly be Denmark; this was a gloss added entirely on his own responsibility, particularly as he had just received a letter from Forsskål in which the latter with his usual undiplomatic arrogance had not sought to conceal the fact that: “I will not subject myself to the very restricted degree of freedom of thought and expression that one finds in Sweden, and probably also in Denmark.” It was with many forebodings that Michaelis sent his petition to Copenhagen; this surely would never go through. Shortly afterwards, a reply arrived from Bernstorff. It would be a pleasure for the Danish king to assist Herr Forsskål to acquire fame and a reputation in the learned world, and to meet his demands.

  So on 21st July, 1759, the Danish minister agreed to Forsskål’s terms. Because of von Haven’s mysterious disappearance, however, no expedition accompanied the ships that sailed for Trankebar that October; and it was not until the following year that Forsskål received word to present himself in Copenhagen in September.

  The last thing he did while he was still in the Swedish capital was to have a portrait painted; it shows a strong-featured and purposeful man, whose eyes beneath their lofty brow coolly return the gaze of the beholder. The facial expression is open but controlled, and there is no sign of benevolence or humour. Only the slightly protruding lower lip suggests that this outward calm conceals a dangerous and quick-tempered nature. The right hand is inserted in the opening of his fur coat, which causes the upper part of his body to lean slightly backwards and gives him an air of dignity and composure, but without the usual pompous self-glorification of portraits of that time. Forsskål is self-assured, but not conceited. It is a picture of a determined and energetic man who is not disposed to be put off by any petty circumstances, and who knows his own worth. Five hundred Rigsdaler a year or nothing.

  When the portrait was finished, Forsskål took leave of his family and friends. Linnaeus hoped that he would send him a cutting of the flowering balsam, so that he could see this tree before he died and catalogue its characteristics. In his
Nemesis Divina he remarks that his pupil stammered the day he came to say good-bye. Linnaeus took that as a bad sign. The same thing had happened with another of his promising pupils, the young Löfling, when he had looked in to say good-bye. Löfling was a botanist, like Forsskål. He died of the ague in harrowing circumstances on an expedition to Cumaná in South America.

  On 29th September, 1760, Peter Forsskål arrived in Denmark, the first of the party to do so; Bernstorff received him “most graciously.” A few days later he was introduced to another of the members, who had left Göttingen on the same day that Forsskål had arrived in Copenhagen. This was a young German surveyor. Forsskål learnt that he was to act as the expedition’s mathematician and astronomer. He was called Carsten Niebuhr. He gave the impression of being very cautious and reserved, almost timid. Forsskål, whose democratic sentiments did not extend to university degrees, greeted him peremptorily and condescendingly. He had already heard something of this star-gazer, and it had not exactly impressed him. So far as he knew, Niebuhr was neither a professor nor a doctor; now it appeared he was not even a magister. He was a surveyor. That was all. And that was nothing.

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  He came from the flat marshlands of Friesland, where he was born on 17th March, 1733, on a small farm by the sea. His father was a farmer like his father before him. Literacy was by no means common in that family; they listened to the minister on Sundays, but for the rest they looked to the earth, in sun and in rain, just as they had done from the dawn of time. The Niebuhrs owned their land, and eked out a poor living in a life made up of dilapidated outhouses, winter fog rolling in from the sea, women who lost their teeth, and children who began to cough. They had never wondered what things were like in Arabia Felix; they had their beasts out in the marshlands, wet cows who gazed mournfully as though regretting that they too could neither read nor write.