by Amy Brill
And, most important, there was the women’s belief that with the knowledge of the Heavens that Hannah offered, they could—and would—contribute something, as she did. This belief was proof that times were changing. Colleges for women had begun to spring up, though Oberlin in Ohio was said to be on the verge of bankruptcy, and had only graduated a handful of women to date. The others were in such far-flung locations, they seemed mere abstractions. At least they offered more than teacher training—though, as Hannah had noted to Millicent, not one had a proper course in astronomy.
As she rounded the corner of Federal, she ducked her head to avoid eye contact with a clutch of pedestrians; then she was approaching the Atheneum, and she dragged her feet as she neared the steps. Hannah hesitated, wondering if she should turn around and go home. Instead, she sat down on the step, her back to a shining white column. She looked up. It soared to the height of the building, gleaming to the portico. atheneum was leafed in gold, glinting in the morning light.
At the sight of it, Hannah felt as if she might cry, a great sorrow welling up for everything that had been lost with the old building. In each stately letter she saw a piece of her former self: her livelihood and her treasures, her favorite books and pamphlets, her inkwell and swiveling chair.
Images flickered across her mind like illustrations from that life: Here was the widow Ramsay, trailing through the stacks like a ghost, the hem of her skirt dredging dust from the floorboards. There were the Adams twins, fighting over the current issue of the Youth’s Companion. Those boys were nineteen years of age now; they’d recently gone to California, toting new brides like toy trains. Hannah saw in her mind the hidden novels of upright Friends; the flowery notes of lovesick girls left behind in pattern books and poetry volumes; and finally—as if in answer to everything that could be learned from books— Isaac stretched out upon a bench, his beautiful eyes gazing up at the soaring ceiling. It has a greatness of air.
The world on and beyond the Island, in questions and answers, parchment and ink, history and philosophy. The ritual of minute interactions that lent a shape and meaning to her days she hadn’t understood until it was taken from her.
She blinked at the gold lettering again, and a question flickered, then resolved.
Shall I die here?
It was a bizarre thing to think on; Hannah rarely, if ever, contemplated her own end. Death came for everyone, without explanation or warning. The sensation of her mother bending over her, holding something up for Hannah to see, washed over her, and she bowed her head, fighting back tears. Strange, how a memory could rise from the depths of one’s past, like the mythical phoenix. Edward had been there, too, she thought, though the image remained blurry. She imagined him and Mary now, surrounded by a hard bright expanse of desert. Heat rising in waves from the blazing white stones of Jerusalem, the city hoarding her ancient mysteries. Would he continue his journeys indefinitely? She imagined that his restlessness would settle. Time did surge ahead, but it was not a river emptying into a sea, to churn infinitely. There would be an end to her days—to all their days.
The door to the Atheneum opened, and Hannah jumped to her feet as Dr. Hall stepped out and waved to someone leaving in the opposite direction. When he saw her, he froze, then straightened his back and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Hannah Price,” he said, nodding and waving her up the steps with a regal flourish. “I’m pleased thee is here.”
When she got close enough, he held out his hand, and though she towered over him, she took it. His grip was claw-like. The lines on his face had deepened. He looked old.
Dr. Hall ushered her into the huge main room of the bright building as if there had never been a break between them. He held his head up like a proud groom bearing home his bride.
But if this was home, she barely recognized it. The new space was as light as the old one had been dark. Windows that spanned from the floor to the ceiling brought the day into the room, and Hannah scanned the half-empty shelves that lined the walls for something familiar. Nothing was reminiscent of the old Atheneum except a few familiar journals scattered across the reading tables, and a wide wooden desk similar to Miss Norris’ old one.
Even the head librarian seemed out of place in her long dark dress amid the bright new pillars and beams. Like a player on the wrong stage, Hannah thought as she followed Dr. Hall into the center of the room.
Then familiar figures swooped in from every corner. Here came Miss Norris, and Mr. Hillbright and Mr. Coffey and Mr. Starbuck; apparently, every trustee of the Atheneum had found some reason to be on hand that afternoon, and they hurried to offer explanations, which blurred together. Mr. Hillbright said he’d read her account of the comet’s passage and been shocked that no one in Europe had seen it first; Mr. Starbuck wished to know if the King of Denmark’s medal had arrived yet; Mr. Coffey noted that he’d once had tea in London with the King’s chargé d’affaires. Miss Norris fanned herself with a pamphlet.
“Miss Price and I have some business to attend to, as I’m sure everyone is aware,” Dr. Hall intoned, and at once the trustees nodded and backed away in unison, as if at court. Hannah followed Dr. Hall across the smooth planked floor in the direction of an alcove in the north corner. As they passed the children’s section, Hannah remembered the Grimm brothers’ tale about the brother and sister abandoned in the woods, trapped by a witch in her house of sweets. She’d always discouraged the children from reading fairy tales. There was no improvement in it. And they scared the young ones. But now she remembered that the little girl had freed them both, in the end. Maybe she should have encouraged the children to read it after all.
Dr. Hall opened a door into a dim room no bigger than a closet. One tiny window high above let a square of light in. An elaborate teak desk and two matching chairs took up most of the space. She wondered where he’d acquired them. There were hardly any books on the shelves. Had public funds purchased these luxuries?
“Do sit down,” Dr. Hall said, stepping aside so that Hannah could get in, then squeezing past the edge of the desk to get into the ornate chair behind it. She wondered if his feet even touched the floor. The walls of the room were as bare as an interrogation chamber.
“Is this your office?” she asked, folding her hands together in her lap.
“Well, not exactly. It’s a space I make use of when I need to conduct business. In my official capacity, that is.” He picked up a letter-opener from his desk and examined the edge, then placed it down again. It had a carved eagle at the top.
“Atheneum business must keep you quite busy,” she said, unsure of where to look. Her hand drifted toward her face, and she sat on it so she wouldn’t bite her nails.
“I should say so.”
There was an awkward pause. Then they both tried to speak at once.
“I hope that—” Dr. Hall said.
“I’m afraid I don’t—” Hannah said at the same time.
He held up his hands as if quieting a classroom of unruly students.
“As thee has deduced, Hannah, I’ve asked thee here as a matter of Atheneum business.”
Hannah clasped and unclasped her free hand. You’re not a student, she reminded herself. She pressed her face to her shoulder, inhaling her own particular scent. Wool and woodsmoke, apples from the cider she pressed last week. It was grounding.
“We’re quite pleased with the new building,” Dr. Hall said. “It was completed in just over six months. Though the collections are severely lacking.” His eyebrows veed together in disapproval.
“I saw that you’ve acquired a few recent journals,” Hannah offered, trying to find something positive to say.
“True. But that’s only because of personal connections.” He tilted his head at Hannah and raised a finger as he tried to recall something. “Did thee happen to read upon the Bonds’ most recent discovery?”
“Do you mean the eighth satellite of Saturn? I haven’t read upon it yet. But I was able to look through the Great Refractor myself w
hen I last visited.” She shivered at the memory.
“Did thee? That’s stupendous. Stupendous, Hannah.” Dr. Hall’s eyes glowed with genuine awe, and Hannah felt embarrassed at what now seemed like a boast. Whatever his flaws, Dr. Hall was her elder; he’d worked on higher mathematics his entire life, but the best he had to show for it was a school textbook used by a handful of primaries in Northern Massachusetts and a trusteeship at the Atheneum. He sat behind the desk, but she had surpassed him, and he knew it. It couldn’t be easy for him. Perhaps it was his thwarted ambition, rather than lust, that had fueled his awful behavior in the first place. That would be easier for her to believe; it allowed at least a crumb of empathy.
“Perhaps thee could visit Cambridge one day,” Hannah offered. “I’m certain the Bonds would be honored to have you.”
He stiffened.
“My work here keeps me extremely busy.”
“Of course,” Hannah said, wishing she could take back her words, the entire excursion. What had she hoped for? Some acknowledgment, an apology, something to right his betrayal? It was clear no such thing was forthcoming.
“That brings us to the business at hand,” Dr. Hall said.
His face was clear and stern again, all traces of vulnerability and wonder gone as if through a trapdoor.
This is what it was like for Isaac, she thought. Just trying to know my true feelings.
“We—the Trustees—are in hopes that thee will consent to return to work here as the Head Curator and lead our campaign to rebuild our collections. We’re certain that thy diligence and close knowledge of our former holdings suit thee for the position. Will thee accept?”
Time seemed to slow, so that each of his words hung in the air like clothes on a line. Specks of dust danced in the light coming through the small window. They went in every direction, with no apparent order. Yet there must be an order to them, as there was to all things in the Universe. According to Newton’s laws, identical forces worked upon each speck of dust, each human being—upon her and upon Dr. Hall, and upon Isaac, too. Her mind spun. Were they no different from each other than from a tree stump or a rock on their spinning orb in the darkness of infinity? Would their Creator have made them thus?
“To each action there is always an equal and opposite reaction,” Hannah said.
“Newton? I don’t see the connection.” Dr. Hall squinted at her across the desk.
She shook her head.
“I’m thinking about forces,” Hannah said. She folded her arms across her chest. Everything now seemed clear, sharply focused.
“What about them?”
“When I was my father’s assistant, and thy student, my force upon our community—not to mention the rest of the world—was minuscule. I didn’t shape events. I was simply moving in my orbit.”
“The past isn’t relevant to our discussion, Hannah.” Dr. Hall stroked the eagle on his letter-opener with his thumb. His voice suggested that the matter be closed. But his suggestions no longer mattered.
“But it is. I’ll explain.” The idea, sparked, demanded fuel; Hannah let her mind expand to accommodate its light. The room was too small to pace, so she spread her knees apart so she could lean forward.
“As soon as another object—or person, in this case—came into orbit, it— he—acted upon me. My orbit shifted; I changed course.”
Hannah heard her own voice rising, her words falling faster and faster, but she didn’t wish to slow down or stop herself.
“I was compelled to change course, you see. I had to. And I did! Now I see it. I obeyed Mr. Newton’s second law. And then his third: Meeting rejected me, and I in turn rejected Meeting.”
She looked at Dr. Hall, who was staring at her as if she’d just walked into the Atheneum in a red dress that showed her ankles. A moment later, his expression changed; he sat back in his seat and crossed his arms, looking at her with an almost paternal smile.
“Well then, my dear,” he asked, “shall the Atheneum be part of this great Newtonian analogy? Will Miss Price be attracted by our offer of reinstatement?”
Now it was Hannah’s turn to stare, struck dumb by his bemused smirk. Did he find her predicament laughable?
“Hannah,” he said, leaning toward her. “Thee must understand the position of the Trustees: there would have been an outcry from the community if they allowed thee to keep thy position. There was talk— Well, your student was seen here. At night. Things were missing. Out of place.”
“You thought Isaac Martin was a thief? He’d no more steal from the Atheneum than you or I would.” Hannah shook her head. “Is that why you sent that note? You believed I’d entrust a thief with the key to our most beloved institution?”
“It wasn’t my belief. I defended thee.” Dr. Hall’s face lost its pleading look and hardened.
“Defended me from what?”
“From those who made allegations. Insulted thee. Accused thee of behavior unbecoming a representative of this institution. Of our Meeting. And worse.” He tapped his pointer finger upon the table to emphasize his words, as if drumming out a sentence.
Hannah shook her head. It was all clear to her now. She stood up and gripped the edges of the chair, energized, her thoughts unspooling into words.
“The truth is, the force that acted upon me has disappeared, replaced by others that are more attractive. My orbit appears stable once again. The dark menace is past. All traces of the aberration gone. So now I’m welcome. As if nothing ever happened. All will return to how it used to be. Is that what you thought when you asked me here?”
Dr. Hall’s mouth was a thin line, white around the edges. When he spoke, his voice was as smooth as cold marble.
“I thought thee would welcome the opportunity to lighten the stain thee brought upon thy name, and thy father’s, by assisting in the rebuilding of our collections. I assumed thee would be grateful for the generosity and tolerance of those insulted by thy behavior. No amount of accolades or worldly pursuits will replace the loss of thy community. Without it, thee will drift through thy days, filled with regret. I thought thee was smarter than this, Hannah Price.”
An image of Isaac rose: he was commanding a ship, somewhere in the Pacific. Waves rose and fell; he charted a course that would steer his men safely across the open ocean, bring them to faraway continents, bring them riches, bring them home. He sighted all the stars and planets she had shown him: Aldebaran, Regulus, Pollux, Venus.
“Thee is correct,” she said, releasing her hold on the chair, releasing herself forever from whatever had bound her to this place. “I am smarter.”
Then she stood and turned away, opening the little door and floating back through the bright building, past Miss Norris and all the Trustees, past the rack of wide black hats that already looked as if they belonged in a museum, and out into what felt like the beginning of a new day in an unfamiliar place—something she’d once dreaded.
Yet she welcomed it, in her mind and her body, an idea taking root like a mangrove pod drifting, invisible, among the currents until it was bumped or blown upright.
15 September, 1846. Nantucket. via the Franklin 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
&n
bsp; 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