Grasping Mysteries

by Jeannine Atkins

  Why had she ever thought these trees looked alike?

  Beyond

  BATH, ENGLAND, 1781

  Most double stars are so far away that Caroline

  can’t distinguish the distance between them.

  But with a telescope, what first looked like one star

  sometimes shows itself as two, orbiting each other!

  William spots and Caroline records dozens

  of double stars, enough to suggest that many stars

  come in pairs and that stars do move. The sky

  is not a flat field decorated with constellations,

  but more like an ocean with depths.

  One night William spots a glimmer never reported.

  As nights and weeks pass, its motion

  in relation to surroundings suggests it’s not a star.

  He says, Comets flash in and out of sight,

  but there’s no skirt of light trailing this orb.

  Night after night, he tracks the way it comes and goes

  from view, measures its distance from earth

  until he’s certain he has found a planet never before seen.

  Caroline works out equations that show

  it may be twice as far from earth as Saturn.

  If space holds room for another planet,

  the universe must be like a blanket that keeps

  unfolding, far larger than anyone thought.

  Moving

  Word of the new planet spreads with shock,

  arguments, and finally joy. Learned men

  from the Royal Astronomical Society visiting.

  They ask William to come to London

  to accept a gold medal. William wants to name

  the planet in honor of King George III,

  who sends congratulations and invites him to the palace.

  When William returns, he tells Caroline

  it was decided to keep to the tradition of taking

  planets’ names from mythology.

  Uranus honors the muse of astronomy. His Majesty

  offered me a salary to continue my observations

  and show the wonders above to royalty and their guests,

  he says. We must move closer to Windsor Castle.

  William rents a house with a leaky roof near a river

  that seems to make him ill, though he rubs his face

  and hands with onions to prevent night fever.

  He and Caroline move again to a big house in Slough.

  He shows her around the old stables, says, We can turn

  these into workrooms to make telescopes to sell.

  It’s awfully far from the village. As they walk into the house,

  Caroline remembers the sound of her singing blending

  with others, and may the good Lord forgive her,

  applause, compliments, and making money.

  The landlady said we might borrow a horse.

  Caroline looks from the brother she loves

  to the floors covered with dried and rotting leaves,

  the windows blackened with soot. Housekeeping

  looks endless, but she starts by sweeping ashes

  from the hearth, taking flint from the tinderbox.

  She strikes it on steel, fans the sparks.

  Night Watches

  Winter offers long nights with more time

  to sweep the sky, moving the telescope like a broom

  meant to gather every star. Standing on a platform

  on a ladder by the tall telescope, William calls out numbers

  to Caroline, who sits at a desk set on the ground below.

  She tips a candle to melt ink in a bottle, writes down

  distances and angles in relation to the North Pole.

  Her toes feel frozen even padded

  in fourteen pairs of stockings

  under layers of flannel petticoats and wool skirts.

  William won’t take his eyes off the sky,

  so she feeds him brown bread and cheese.

  Names

  They aren’t as alone as she expected in the house far

  from the main roads. Their landlady, a wealthy widow,

  often walks over to talk about the prices of cotton,

  candles, and tea, topics that seem to interest William

  more than Caroline expected.

  Gentlemen visit to discuss possible life on the moon

  and admire the telescopes William is making.

  Caroline sets scones and jam on the table.

  Some gentlemen interrupt her. Others ignore her.

  Her favorite visitor is Dr. Maskelyne

  from the Royal Observatory, who keeps

  close track of time as told by the stars and moon.

  He and his wife let Caroline hold their baby as he talks

  about women astronomers. Hypatia, Elizabeth Hevelius,

  Maria Agnesi didn’t seek fame or fortune, but worked

  from devotion to their fathers, brothers, or husbands.

  I work out of duty too. Caroline clears dishes.

  There’s so much in the sky. Is it so wrong to wish

  for one small piece of her own? Or at least that William

  would say, Caroline, take a turn looking up.

  Sometimes she wishes he would raise his own teacup

  to his mouth, butter his own toast.

  The Mathematician

  Most mornings Caroline makes coffee, stokes the fire,

  stirs pudding. She brushes down the brown horse,

  hitches on a bridle and saddle, and rides two miles

  to the marketplace. Back home, she works on tables

  and diagrams, adds to an old star atlas, interested

  in what others overlooked. She measures star by star,

  the way she knits stockings stitch by stitch;

  maps the night sky, noting precise locations

  of celestial objects, their size, brightness,

  how they change, and the dates of discoveries.

  She starts with one fact, lets math unlock more.

  Her hand pivots as she follows the rotation of planets,

  including Earth, whose movement creates the shadows

  we call night and the brighter tilt of day. She teaches

  herself calculus, which divides movement

  into smaller and smaller steps, useful to fit

  the sky’s great circles onto paper.

  Mathematics reaches like a wand that sweeps stars

  to her desk, where she unfolds the light.

  Escaping from Darkness

  SLOUGH, ENGLAND, 1786

  William leaves to deliver a telescope

  to a German university, which gives Caroline,

  now thirty-six, more time with the sky.

  In the yard, she hitches her skirt and petticoats

  above her ankles and climbs the ladder by the tall telescope.

  Her foot falls asleep. Her neck aches.

  No one can count all that shimmers above,

  but mathematics suggests the enormity

  and whispers when and where to look

  for something never before seen.

  Stars make her feel both lost and found.

  One night she sees a nebula, a milky cloud

  that’s not on any charts. Another night

  she spots brilliance that wasn’t there yesterday.

  A comet splits the darkness, giving a glimpse

  of the faraway, brushing gold behind.

  Caroline writes down the comet’s location

  and the time, calculates the differences between

  the household clock and the celestial clock,

  which reflects the four-minute switch in position

  stars make each night.

  Just before sunrise, birds chatter and chirp.

  Caroline sings harmony as stars bow from sight.

  Firsts

  In the morning, Caroline addresses an envelope

  to the secretary of the Roy
al Astronomical Society.

  She dips the tip of a goose feather in ink:

  As you are a friend of my brother’s, I venture

  to trouble you with the hope that my observation has merit.

  She notes the location of the comet in relation

  to three numbered stars, writes that her brother

  is out of the country. She wants to make it clear

  that she wasn’t shirking sisterly duty

  and also that she didn’t need his help. She concludes:

  I am, Sir, your most humble servant, Caroline Herschel.

  The letter becomes the first paper by a woman

  to be read at the Royal Astronomical Society.

  The letter about what will be called the first lady’s comet

  is the core of the first report

  by a woman published in a scientific journal.

  Caroline riffles through the pages to see her name again.

  She hums a tune no one has heard, imagining

  a chorus thickening each note, and twirls.

  Unseen

  Another comet arcs through the black sky,

  showering shine that disappears into darkness.

  Caroline writes a note to Dr. Maskelyne

  at the Royal Observatory, announcing her second comet.

  Then she measures sugar to make gooseberry jam.

  Not many days later, Caroline opens an envelope

  edged with black and learns that her mother has died.

  She cries because her mother never saw the sky

  as she does: grand, friendly, wide as curiosity.

  Because her mother never truly saw her daughter.

  Alone

  At fifty years old, William proposes to their landlady.

  He tells Caroline, Mary and I will keep two houses.

  I’ll come here to use the telescopes, and you can stay.

  I’ll arrange to send you money each month.

  Caroline doesn’t want to be beholden

  or go back to washing clothes or even making hats.

  She’s not a girl with her face half-covered with cloth,

  more aware of what she’s hiding than what she wants to see.

  It’s time I’m paid for my astronomical work, she says.

  The king gives you a salary, William. I want one too.

  The Beauty of Wages

  King George III and Queen Charlotte are impressed

  with the first lady’s comet.

  They hope Caroline might find more such tributes

  to the empire and agree to pay her for her work.

  Caroline becomes the first woman given

  a salary for scientific research. Shouldn’t bells ring,

  trumpets blare, and dancers twirl in the street?

  The world is quiet.

  The Comet Hunter

  Caroline moves her bed to a room over an old stable

  by the house, spends almost every night on the flat roof.

  Since she knows most of the intricate sky by heart,

  she can swiftly notice unusual movement,

  such as from a comet, which, coming from beyond,

  gives clues about the depths of space.

  Most nights Caroline sees nothing new.

  Her long skirt billows in the wind. She sings to stay awake.

  As she dips her pen in ink, her eyes adjust

  from the dark sky to pale paper, because they must.

  She won’t ever have an assistant.

  She spots another comet! Then goes to bed,

  curls up her legs, rests the side of her face on her hands

  until pale morning comes. She writes a report

  she sends to Dr. Maskelyne at the Royal Observatory.

  A few days later, she breaks the sealing wax on an envelope.

  Dear Miss Caroline: Congratulations on the sighting,

  though I implore should you spot another,

  please hasten with such news. As you know,

  comets are named after those who first spot them,

  which in fact means an astronomer whose claim

  first reaches an official. I fear this comet

  was first reported in France.

  Next time, do not use the penny post.

  The Aunt

  Night ends day, each with a new chance to behold

  what’s beyond. Stars keep Caroline company.

  She discovers more comets, trailing

  sprays of light, fading like memory at the edges.

  Soon after she spots her fifth comet,

  William and Mary welcome a son. Caroline loves

  holding the small bundle of trust and curiosity.

  She’s even happier watching John learn to crawl,

  later hearing short questions roll from his mouth.

  When John is three, she defends him to his parents

  when he draws geometric shapes on walls and climbs

  the scaffolding around the tall telescope his father built.

  Soon she sets up games and experiments

  with teacups, canister tops, and pepper shakers.

  The little boy she affectionately calls Sir John

  often plays near her feet while she adds stars

  and nebulae to outdated almanacs.

  John stacks books into towers, looks through

  some for pictures of constellations. He pretends

  he’s Capricorn the goat or Orion the hunter.

  His favorite is Cancer the crab. Crooking his arms,

  wiggling his spread fingers,

  he exclaims, We’re going to the ocean!

  Yes. Soon. In August. Caroline wasn’t invited

  on this holiday. She kisses him. You’re beautiful and smart.

  I know. The little boy returns to star charts,

  which interest him more than words.

  Jam

  A JOURNEY FROM SLOUGH, ENGLAND, AUGUST 14, 1797

  What shines beyond what can be seen?

  On the flat roof, Caroline, who was first,

  or once second, to spot seven comets,

  now sees a bright blur that may be another.

  She needs another night to be certain,

  but the following evening, rain falls

  onto the thatched roof, bringing out the scent of straw.

  Shortly after midnight, the rain stops. She looks again.

  Caroline hums “Hallelujah,” naps on the sofa

  for an hour, then takes out her best parchment.

  The post won’t come for hours.

  She winds a scarf around her hat,

  saddles the horse, and shouts, Run!

  The horse gallops or trots over dirt roads

  until stars fade, the sky turns paler,

  and birds wheel over meadows. They pass men

  loading baskets of cabbages or tins of milk onto wagons.

  She stops by a well so the horse can drink,

  then at an orchard, where farmers pick plums.

  One agrees to sell her a hatful of cherries,

  since she doesn’t have a basket or sack.

  She eats them for breakfast, spitting out the pits.

  By the time she reaches London, both she and the horse

  are tired. But they’ve gone twenty miles

  and can make it six more to Greenwich. She rides

  over a curved bridge, looking down at washerwomen

  wading in the river Thames. A grand clock tolls.

  Then she’s back on a dirt road that winds through a forest.

  Finally reaching a moat, Caroline tugs the reins.

  As the big gate is drawn, ducks swarm and scuttle.

  Caroline slides off the horse,

  hugs his damp neck, asks a stable boy

  to fetch a bucket of water. She knocks on the door.

  Her hands shake as she tells Dr. Maskelyne the news.

  You are my worthy sister in astronomy,

  he exclaims, then invites her to share tea

 
; with his wife and their daughter, now nine years old.

  Caroline wishes she’d saved some cherries.

  Her legs are sore. She slips off her shoes

  and puts a stockinged foot on the floppy-eared dog

  dozing under the table. Could what women call “vain”

  be what men call “pride”? She reaches

  for another roll from a basket,

  spreads it with a second spoonful of jam.

  Her Book of Observations

  When John is grown and studies the sky,

  Caroline takes some time from her own research

  to record his findings as she had for his father.

  Later she encourages the young man in his choice

  to study math in college,

  then to marry a kind, curious woman

  who’s quite dazzled by his aunt. The family sails

  to southernmost Africa to see stars hidden

  beyond the horizon, which John observes and records.

  Caroline adds these findings to her charts,

  which show 560 new fixed stars, hundreds of double stars

  where there had been merely a dozen on old maps.

  She creates the first catalog of dark nebulae,

  which suggest that stars and the universe change.

  What shines is born, transforms, and flickers out.

  Where have the comets she first spotted gone?

  She doesn’t need to know. Mystery is delicious.

  Home

  Caroline is hailed as the first woman to discover a comet,

  the first woman to earn a salary for scientific research.

  The Royal Astronomical Society praises her catalogs

  of stars and nebulae and awards her a gold medal,

  the first given to honor a woman’s work.

  Now seventy-eight, Caroline still signs her letters:

  Humbly, yours. She’s a sister, aunt, daughter,

  assistant, and astronomer, who created

  new ways to know the distances between stars.

  A girl who was warned not to expect much

  saw more of the universe than almost anyone before her.

  Caroline Herschel makes the sky, vast as wonder, home.

  MAKING CHANGE WITH CHARTS, PART I

  FLORENCE