The Movement of Stars (31 page)

Dear Isaac,
Since my last letter, I report that my medal has arrived from Europe
after an exchange of letters among a dizzying array of men in an
exhaustive display of detective work as to the nature of my failure to
adhere to the specific rules of the prize. They managed to clear up the
confusion amongst themselves. I did wonder that no one asked me about
it directly, but being a mere Woman, I suppose they didn’t think I had
anything to contribute to the dialogue.
The Trustees of the Atheneum did offer me my old job back. I declined.
The new building is nothing like the one in which we spent so many
hours, though I suppose an objective observer would say it is a fine
structure. But I no longer feel that my place is there. Certainly my heart
aches each time I consider the time we shared in the old building. Which
brings me to my next bit of news.
I’ve had an invitation to go to Europe for a nine-month journey,
as chaperone to the young daughter of a writer (and patron of the Harvard Observatory), a Mr. Hapwell, and his wife, Lucia. I’ve only met them once, at a dinner, but George and William Bond say they are desperate to have me for the journey—which makes me feel like an expensive valise—but they will pay a generous sum and in addition the Bonds will provide letters of introduction to everyone I care to meet in the astronomy world. They claim that news of my discovery is the talk of every star-gazers’ salon on the Continent, though I cannot see how
or why.
The plan is to travel to London, Paris, Rome, and Florence, which
means I would be able to visit the observatories at Greenwich and at
the Vatican, if I can get permission there; and I might even meet Mary
Somerville as well. The idea of that is both terrifying and great; in case
you don’t remember, she’s among the most revered mathematicians and
astronomers, and currently living in Florence.
Florence! Once I would have shuddered at the idea of crossing the
ocean, disembarking in a city in which I knew no one. So much has
changed in me; today as I left the Atheneum I felt a sudden sharp desire to
do exactly that. It was a longing I have not felt since childhood; I believe
I’ve drawn some courage from the idea of your travels, which in length
and distance dwarf my small journey. But I know they will contribute to
my character and strength, as they have to yours. Edward was always the
one in our family who thrilled to new places, new sights, new people. I
trained my eyes on the Heavens and felt that was enough for me. I do yet
spend the best part of each day in great wonder and awe at that expanse
above us.
But where it once was my roof, my shelter and solace, now it seems
to also be a door. To what I do not know. There is a kind of terror that
sometimes rises in me when I think of what lies ahead, but I hope that in
those moments, thinking of you will continue to bring me both perseverance
and Faith.
I will depart in two weeks’ time and am in hopes to hear from you
before then. I long to hear your voice, even through the poor medium of
parchment and ink. Without it I am less steady. But regardless I remain, Your faithful friend,
Hannah Gardner Price

annah caught her reflection in the wavy glass of a café, and her hand fluttered to her new hat—a close-fitting silk the color of a fawn, with a narrow, deep-blue ribbon edging. It couldn’t have been more different from her old bonnet, in shape or texture, and she couldn’t hide her face behind it. This, according to Lucia Hapwell, was its best feature. The wife of the writer from Cambridge had taken one look at Hannah’s outfit when she’d stepped off the steamer in London and

This particular hat had been a total indulgence, but Mrs. Hapwell had insisted it was subtle and appropriate—not too showy, but “suited for the salon.” Hannah didn’t feel suited for any salon regardless of her headwear, but Mrs. Hapwell promptly marched her from one shop to the next, insisting that she select from what seemed like an absurd number of choices in dress styles, colors, and fabrics, not to mention footwear and stockings. Stockings! Hannah had never before put a thing on her body she hadn’t made herself, and the sensation of the silk against her bare skin felt almost dangerous in its luxury.

She could only imagine what Lydia Hussey would think. So she put Lydia out of her mind: the part of her life when Meeting elders determined what she could or could not wear was over.

That didn’t make deciding such things for herself any easier. It took Hannah hours to decide among a set of dress patterns. She would never be comfortable enveloped in a concoction of ribbons and ruffles, but as she paged through store catalogues and the issues of
Godey’s Lady’s Book
that Mrs. Hapwell had supplied, she slowly compiled a sense of what she might enjoy about contemporary fashions: a neckline that didn’t choke her, for instance, or a choice of colors not restricted to the drabbest corners of the spectrum. The dress fitting itself had nearly mortified her, the seamstress’s calloused hands looping round her waist, her thighs, but the first of the finished products—a deep-green day dress that reminded her of moss, in a soft, draping silk—felt wonderful and, even Hannah had to admit, flattered her complexion.

That had been the first of a series of lessons in city life, from commandeering a driver to making conversation at what felt to Hannah like harrowing speed. Mrs. Hapwell had insisted that Hannah accompany her to a half dozen salons and suppers, theater outings and tea parties, before deeming her ready to deliver her own letters of introduction.

But standing in front of the enormous wooden door at her destination, clutching the envelope that George had entrusted to her, Hannah felt anything but ready to present herself. Before she could decide whether it would be worse to stay or flee, the door was hurled open as if by an angry elf, and there was Mary Somerville herself, a diminutive figure with a nimbus of white hair, bristling with energy at six and sixty.

“Come in, please. Come in!” she commanded. “Albertina has the afternoon off, but thankfully she left something for us, so we shan’t starve. Come! Close the door firmly, it sticks.”

Hannah obeyed, then trotted down the long hallway after her hostess, feeling the urge to tiptoe so she wouldn’t scuff the floorplanks. They looked to be five hundred years old— like the door, like the Duomo, like everything in Italy Hannah had seen so far. It made her feel her own age acutely, and she wondered again why such an accomplished person had even made time to meet with her.

Mrs. Somerville led Hannah into what could only be her study. The walls were papered in a deep scarlet, with worn rugs scattered about that looked as if they’d undergone an army of boots and slippers. A stack of books teetered on the small mahogany desk. On the small table between two overstuffed and uncomfortable chairs, a tea tray rested, two cups already poured out. A series of quills, inkpots, and tips were lined up on the desk at precise angles to the books and the blotter, and Hannah was relieved by this humble evidence of a familiar impulse to order.

Mrs. Somerville pointed Hannah into a chair and poured her a cup of tea before saying a single word more. A cascade of her accomplishments paraded across the bookshelves:
The Mechanism of the Heavens . . . On the Connexion of the Physical Sciences . . .
a half dozen prominent journal articles. The very notion of a planet beyond Uranus. All from the mind of this woman. It was awesome and terrifying, like being in the throne room of scientific progress.

“Tell me about your comet, then, Miss Price,” Mrs. Somerville demanded the instant she’d settled on the other chair. “It was the talk of the Continent last summer, you know.”

Hannah blinked and returned her cup to the saucer, her hand shaking.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” she said. “I can tell you that no one was more surprised than I to find my priority unchallenged.”
“But why should you be surprised?” Mrs. Somerville stared at Hannah. Her gaze felt like a lighthouse beam, clear and cutting. “From what I understand, your diligence—and the quality of your eye—is quite well-known.”
She paused, and clinked her own teacup down on the tray. “No need for modesty here, my dear.”
“I don’t mean to be modest!” Hannah said, wishing she could start over. “Rather, my resources—our instruments—are nowhere near the caliber of those used by other sweepers, and they are no doubt as diligent as myself. We’ve only a Dollond—and not a new one, either.”
Mrs. Somerville didn’t respond, so Hannah leaned closer and raised her voice.
“I meant that the Dollond surprised everyone, especially me.”
Her hostess nodded vigorously.
“Sometimes an old workhorse can surpass a team of colts,” she said, and burst out laughing like a raucous schoolgirl. “But what of the rest?”
“The rest?” Hannah wondered if she was being tested. She swallowed, and reminded herself that she’d been invited.
Mary Somerville waved a slender hand in the air above their heads as if to indicate the whole of the galaxy. “Where does Miss Price turn her gaze these days? Toward the nebulae, I hope. Resolution should be the top priority for every astronomer in the world, I say.”
“Certainly, when I am able—that is, when I visit the Bonds.”
“Ah, William! And his boy.”
“George.”
“Yes. I saw them not a year ago at the international conference. Young Bond was quite interested in image-making. We’ve yet to make the attempt here on the Continent.”
“Indeed he is. In fact, he entrusted me with something to show you.”
Hannah drew a square envelope from the leather folder she’d carried in her trunk from place to place all the months of her journey, then unfolded the paper carefully and held out her treasure with two hands. They shook.
“What’s this?” Mrs. Somerville squinted, then used her hands as levers to rise from the chair. “Can’t see well. Nor hear. But everything else is in order. Come over to the window, dear, and show me.”
Hannah bore the photograph over like a jeweled crown on a satin cushion and laid it carefully on the window seat so Mrs. Somerville could see it in the light.
“It is the very first of those images you speak of,” Hannah said, as slowly and clearly as she was able. “It is a photograph of the stars Mizar and Alcor.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Somerville whispered, leaning close over it. “I see.”
“George took this a month ago. He’s been able to get even clearer images since then. They’re quite wonderful. He’s devoting nearly all his time to spectroscopy—the lenses, of course, and how he might capture the colors of the stars as well as their luminosity.” Hannah heard the pride she felt in her voice. George had found his calling after all these years, and it dovetailed with William’s relief that his son was contributing something he deemed scientifically worthy.
“Splendid!” Mrs. Somerville tapped the photograph lightly with her finger. “The future of knowledge, I predict. Here on the Continent we have the history, the practice, the instruments . . . but you Americans, you have the modern impulse. We must depend on your ingenuity!”
She reached over and squeezed Hannah’s arm, her grip so firm, it sent a jolt through Hannah’s body.
“Now let us go into the rose garden. I must walk each afternoon, lest these bones forget they yet have work ahead of them.”
Hannah trailed behind as Mrs. Somerville listed the varieties she’d grown, their ages and qualities. In the last light of the day, the flowers blazed as if to defy their own transience.
“I had a letter from Dr. Whewell recently,” Mrs. Somerville said. “I cannot abide the amount of time he spends on preposterous ideas. Why shouldn’t another planet be inhabited by reasoned beings? I ask.” She paused, and Hannah realized she was expected to answer.
“I suppose it would be difficult to prove,” Hannah said carefully, not wanting to take sides.
“So what? A higher order of beings might people every corner of the galaxy. The fact that we cannot yet prove their existence shouldn’t encourage working to disprove the very possibility! It’s anathema to truth.”
Hannah shook her head.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Reason is not the only path to enlightenment, my dear. One must have vision! And passion. One must not forsake feeling for fact.” She squinted at Hannah. “Do you have much religious feeling?”
Hannah searched for a truthful answer.
“I did at one time. But my mind is unsettled. My father always quoted Edward Young.”
“ ‘An undevout astronomer is mad.’ ”
“Yes.” Hannah nodded, and her throat tightened, thinking of the tiny window through which she observed her first stars. The metronome ticked close to her ear; she counted seconds for her father. Mrs. Somerville’s clippers snapped dead branches.
“And yet, one must acknowledge the coexistence,” the older wo- man said.
“The coexistence?” Hannah felt strung between the past and the future, a timid girl beside an imposing elder. But she had contributed something; she was here.
“Of uncertainty and faith, my dear. No matter how fervent our passion for the works of our Creator, there will in minds such as our own always exist the potential for that which we cannot understand. For we are limited, are we not? We are simply prisoners in our current form, blown about by our emotions and so forth. It’s a rare individual who can overcome her own Nature—and why should she? If this is our Nature, then I say we must embrace it until the next life.” Mrs. Somerville stepped back to survey the shape she’d made. “ ‘The Heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament showeth forth his handiwork,’ ” she singsonged.
Snip, snip. Two final, slender branches fell to Earth, one at each woman’s feet.
Mrs. Somerville looked up and smiled like an indulgent grandmother, which made Hannah feel even more like a child. Hannah had devoted herself to everything she had been taught—all that she could apply reason to—at the expense of everything else. Forsaking feeling for fact was exactly what had cost her Isaac. What if she had chosen differently?
Mrs. Somerville had children, and a husband, yet she’d made the greatest of contributions. She’d forsaken nothing. Or so it seemed. Of course, her situation was different. Such a union with Isaac would simply not have been possible.
“I expect to hear great things from you, Miss Price,” Mary Somerville called as Hannah went back through the enormous wooden doors. And then, as if she could read Hannah’s thoughts, she added, “Keep your mind open to possibility!”
As she left Mrs. Somerville’s, Hannah felt intimidated and enlivened, as if she had just woken from a powerful dream in which something important had been revealed. It glinted, just out of reach. But it was there.