King of Morning, Queen of Day Page 2
I have checked your calculations of rotation, angular momentum, velocity, and periodicity against my own observations (forgive my presumption in so doing), and have found that my figures correspond with yours to a high degree of accuracy. However, I am at a loss to furnish some hypothesis which might account for a rotational period of twenty-eight minutes but a maximum luminosity period of only two and three-eighths seconds. In our orderly universe, as strictly controlled and timetabled as Great Southern Railways, such paradoxical behaviour is deeply offensive to we gentlemen of astronomy. Any hypothesis you might provide to explain this phenomenon would find wide general appreciation, and, should such a time arrive when you might wish to make it public, the lecture theatre at the Society is at your disposal. For the meantime I once again congratulate you on your achievement and encourage you to return to your studies.
Yours Sincerely,
Sir Greville Adams
Emily’s Diary: March 18, 1913
ALONE IN MY SMALL bower, I write, a dell among the woods of Rathfarnham. A secret place, a private place, a place where I am enfolded by tree branches like caring arms. A woman in green; this is my leafy bower. It took me a long time to find my place among the trees on the hillside, so close to Cross and Passion that I can almost reach out to touch the chimney pots, yet whole worlds away from Latin and Greek and French irregular verbs. Here I can be on my own, all alone, and lie down on the soft green moss and let my mind roam. Out across the land it goes, ripping up the fields and farms and houses of Rathfarnham, sowing in their place tall green trees—noble oaks and beeches. Look! There goes Cross and Passion, chimney pots and all, torn up and thrown away. Where it was is a gentle glen lit by shafts of soft sunlight, and deer look up, startled nostrils twitching, sniffing the air for the scent of the hunter. And here in my green bower, I am the poet–queen, dreaming of odes and lays and love songs, idylls and elegies and laments for mighty sons fallen in gory battle.
If the Sisters ever found me here, there’d be such trouble. But then Emily’s always in trouble, isn’t she? Trouble trouble trouble. They just can’t leave me alone to be and do what I want. Well, only one more week in that cold old dormitory that smells funny, as if things have been locked up and–left to die and rot, and then I’ll be home for two weeks. Two weeks, such bliss! I know I’ll miss the other girls, but in Craigdarragh the daffodils will be tall and golden on the lawn and the blackthorn will be blooming, and the may, and the alder, there will be birds singing in Bridestone Wood and all the trees will be putting on their newest green, all for me. I’m glad I’m spring born, when the earth is being born, too. I love it the years when Easter falls so I can have my birthday at Craigdarragh. I wonder, will Mummy have a party for me? I wonder, if I asked her nicely, would she allow boys to come? Parties are no fun without boys.
From the Private Notebooks of Constance Booth–Kennedy: March 23, 1913
THE SPRING IN DUBLIN! Most miraculous of seasons! Especially after the dreariness of February. Honestly, it never seemed to end this year. Twelve months of February; wind, cold, and sleet. Dismal. But how uplifting to see the early blossom in St. Stephen’s Green and the new, bold green on the trees along Merrion Road. Even that Dublin wind, which, blowing in off the Irish Sea in midwinter, can strip the black lead from the palings around Trinity College, seemed as gentle and refreshing as a zephyr. And I am glad to see that Caroline is as refreshed and renewed by the change of season and scenery as I. Her spirits visibly rose by the mile on the train to Amiens Street Station, and since arriving in the capital, why, what a transformation! Once again (and not before time, I think), she is the gay and vivacious creature I recall so well from school days. I know for a certainty she will be the toast of all Dublin at the reading tonight: here’s to Mrs. Caroline Desmond, the lady poetess of Drumcliffe! Her visit to the Gaelic Literary League is long overdue. Edward, though quite a dear in his own wee way, can be the most infuriating of men, especially when he goes into one of those trancelike states of his and, for days on end, shuffles around the house and gardens in carpet slippers muttering arcane abracadabras which we are meant to treat with a hushful reverence due deep musings upon the higher mysteries of the universe. This time it is some aery–faery nonsense about travellers from another star riding through space on the tail of a comet. No wonder poor Caroline was so easy to prise away from home. The man is getting worse, I declare.
A leisurely dinner at the hotel with a few friends from the Literary League, followed by a short, pleasant walk to University College, and finally, the triumphant reading of her latest collection, should restore a proper perspective to Caroline’s life. Willie will be there. I must introduce him to Caroline. I’m sure he’ll be quite entranced by her. Perhaps the next time he is over in the West I might arrange for a little soiree at Rathkennedy for Caroline, poet to poet. The atmosphere in Craigdarragh is so musty and stifling and scientific.
March 29, 1913
Craigdarragh
Drumcliffe
County Sligo
My Dear Lord Fitzgerald,
Many thanks for your letter of congratulation. It is most gracious of you, especially as I consider myself to have, in a sense, robbed you of your dues; after all, but for your winter sojourn in Nice, it could as easily have been yourself observing through the Clarecourt telescope as I through the Craigdarragh.
Therefore, I feel it only politic to inform you, a fellow astronomer and close colleague, that I have developed a theory on the nature of Bell’s Comet which, I may say without fear of exaggeration, will rock the entire scientific community to its core, not merely the Irish Astronomical Society. Indeed, I have been invited to address my theories to that body on the eighteenth of April. However, with regard to the solidarity between us as brother astronomers in this benighted outpost of the Empire, I feel it is only proper that I should share this hypothesis with you before facing that lions’ den of whippersnappers and ossified intellects in Dublin. Might I therefore extend to you an invitation to visit us here at Craigdarragh; would the fifteenth of April allow sufficient time to amend diaries and make arrangements? Please let me know at your earliest convenience if this date will not serve; it will be no difficulty to arrange another.
I conclude by expressing my fondest hopes that you will be able to visit our humble home. Both Caroline and I extend the warmest welcome, and, as ever, our droughts and prayers are always for your good self and the Lady Alexandra, who is as close to our hearts as to yours,
I remain,
Your Obedient Servant,
Edward Garret Desmond, Ph.D.
Emily’s Diary: April 2, 1913
CRAIGDARRAGH. SINCE CROSSING THE threshold I have gone around hugging every wall, window, and door in the place! Mrs. O’Carolan can hardly believe what she is seeing; she goes around muttering under her breath that she always knew it ran in families. Dear Mrs O’C! I almost hugged her when I saw her waiting on the platform at Sligo Station. Oh dear, the look she would have given me!
It is all as I imagined it on the train up from Dublin. Complete and perfect in every detail, the people, the faces, the places. The people: Mrs. O’Carolan fat and fusty and kind; Mummy a poet and an artist and a tragic queen out of legend all rolled into one; Daddy worried and hurried and so busy with his telescopes and sums I’m sure he’s already forgotten I’m here. And the places: the red of the early rhododendrons, the blue sea, and beyond it, like a cloud, purple Knocknarea. Woods, mountains, waterfall: wonderful! Today I visited the Bridestone up above the woods on the slopes of Ben Bulben. How good it was to be alone and at peace. Up there, with only the wind and the song of the blackbird for company, it is like nothing has changed for a thousand years. It was easy to imagine Finn MacCool and his grim Fianna warriors hunting the leaping stag with their red-eared hounds through the woodland glens, or the sunlight glinting from the spear points of the Red Branch Heroes as they marched to avenge a slain comrade.
Perhaps reality was too much for me after months with
nothing to call upon but my imagination: I could have sworn that I was not alone as I came down from the Bridestone through the green woods; that there were shadowy shapes flitting from tree to tree, unseen when I looked for them, giggling at my foolishness. Ah, well, I have always thought it was an enchanted faery place.
The Bushes
Stradbally Road
Sligo
Dear Mrs. Desmond,
Thank you for inviting Grace to the surprise parry you are holding in honour of Emily’s fifteenth birthday; I am delighted to accept on her behalf. She is looking forward to the twelfth with mounting excitement. A grand and gay time will be had by all, I am certain.
With regard to transport out to Craigdarragh, I have arranged for Grace to travel with the O’Rahilly twins, Jasmine and Briony, in the O’Rahillys’ motor car. Reilly the chauffeur will see to it that they get themselves up to no mischief and are home by a decent hour.
Yours sincerely,
Janet Halloran
April 9, 1913
Clarecourt
Bailisodare
County Sligo
My Dear Edward,
I shall be only too delighted to accept your invitation to Craigdarragh House, and am honoured to learn that I will be the first recipient of the most eagerly awaited event in the astronomical world at the moment, the secret of Bell’s Comet.
However, I fear that the fifteenth is impossible for me. I am required at the House of Lords for the reading of a piece of legislation close to my heart, the Irish Home Rule Bill, and what with trains and steam packets and the like, I must leave on or around the fourteenth. Would the twelfth be acceptable? Please let me know. I am most eager to visit, as this business in London will prevent me from attending the meeting of the Royal Irish Astronomical Society. My intention is to travel on the train which will arrive at Sligo Station at 6:16 P.M. I look forward to seeing you then. Until the twelfth, then, my warmest regards to you, your wife, and your charming daughter.
Sincerely,
Maurice: Clarenorris
Dr. Edward Garret Desmond’s Personal Diary: April 12, 1913
ANOTHER DOMESTIC FURORE! HONESTLY, I am beginning to feel I am no longer master of my own household! I bring the Marquis of Clarenorris home from the station and what do I find? My home and place of work overrun by shrieking, silly schoolgirls! Caroline’s idea—a surprise birthday tea for Emily. Result, the house is in an uproar. Why was I not informed of this? I am quite certain that I notified Caroline of the changed dates of Lord Fitzgerald’s visit. Sometimes she seems to go out of her way to upset my plans and arrangements.
To his endless credit, Lord Fitzgerald showed no embarrassment at the girlish proceedings and indeed took the whole debacle in exceedingly good spirit; nevertheless, I was only too glad to hurry him out to the observatory, where, with the aid of telescope and photographs, I took the opportunity to explain to him my hypothesis concerning this object erroneously named Bell’s Comet. This he received openly and without prejudice, asking me perceptive and informed questions. However, it is more than the Marquis’s favourable ear I must win. I have need of his considerable fortune also, if the second stage of my investigations, which I have tentatively christened Project Pharos, is to be brought to fruition.
Domestic memo: I must remind Mrs. O’Carolan to waken Lord Fitzgerald at six thirty and provide him with a substantial breakfast; the worthy Marquis has far to go tomorrow. Also, I must have a man up from the town to look at the electricals: tonight’s unexpected current failure was somewhat disconcerting, and judging by the shrieks and cries from the drawing room, caused great distress to the young folk at the party.
Memorandum from Mrs. Caroline Desmond to Mrs. Maire O’Carolan
DEAR MRS. O’C,
Another one! Last night, just after supper, for the space of a good thirty minutes or so. Now I know, Mrs. O’C, that you know as much as I do about the mysteries of electricity, which is precisely nothing, but you have the advantage over me in knowing virtually every soul between here and Enniskillen. Would it be possible for you to find among this host of acquaintances and relatives someone who could come and have a look at the wiring or the junction box or whatever is the matter with the infernal thing? I do not, positively not, want a repeat of Tuesday’s catastrophe. First Emily storms out in tears and tantrums muttering how embarrassing it all was, little children’s stuff, and how she’d wanted boys there, like an adult party; not cakes and ginger ale and blindman’s bluff. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth, indeed, Mrs. O’C! And as if that wasn’t enough, the lights go out and I am left trying to calm a roomful of hysterical, screaming girls. The trials of parenthood, Mrs. O’C. That aside, Mrs. O’C, do give it a try, will you? Edward promised to get a man up from town to do something on Wednesday, but you know how utterly useless he is about anything that isn’t a million miles away in the depths of space. If you can’t sort it out, it’ll mean my tedious brother Michael calling out to have a look and going on and on and on about the grand all-electric future the Sligo, Leitrim, Fermanagh, and South Donegal Electrical Supply Company is going to provide for us. The man cannot even change an incandescent bulb!
Incidentally, only cold meats and salads for supper, if you please; Emily and I will be over at Rathkennedy House all of today. We hope to be back here by about eight o’clock.
Excerpts from Dr. Edward Garret Desmond’s Lecture to the Royal Irish Astronomical Society; Trinity College, Dublin, April 18, 1913
THEREFORE, LEARNED GENTLEMEN, IT is clearly impossible for these fluctuations in luminosity to be due to the differing albedos of the spinning surfaces of Bell’s Comet, as my mathematical proofs have demonstrated. The only—I repeat, only—explanation for this unprecedented phenomenon is that the emissions of light are artificial in origin.
(General consternation among the Learned Fellows)
If artificial, then we must address ourselves to the disturbing truth that they must, must, gentlemen, be the works of intellects, minds, Learned Fellows, immeasurably superior to our own. It has long been held that we are not the unique handiwork of our Creator, the possibility of great civilizations upon the planets Mars and Venus, and even beneath the forbidding surface of our own moon, has been many times mooted, even in this very lecture hall, by respected gentlemen of science and learning.
(Heckler: “Intoxicated gentlemen of absinthe and bourbon!” Laughter.)
What I am proposing, if I may, Learned Fellows, is a concept of a whole order of magnitude greater than even these lofty speculations. I am proposing that this artifact, for artificial it must be, is evidence of a mighty civilization beyond our solar system, upon a world of the star Altair, for it is from that quadrant of the sky that the object called Bell’s Comet originates. Having ascertained that the object was indeed no lifeless chunk of stellar matter, I attempted to ascertain its velocity. As the Learned Fellows are doubtless all too aware, it is difficult in the extreme to calculate with absolute mathematical precision the velocity of any astronomical phenomenon; nevertheless, with persistence and application, I estimated the object’s velocity to be in the close proximity of three hundred and fifty miles per second.
(Murmurs of amazement from the Learned Fellows)
Moreover, during the four–week period during which I kept the object under daily observation, or as regularly as the climate of County Sligo would permit, this velocity decreased from three hundred and fifty miles per second to one hundred and twenty miles per second. Clearly, the object is decelerating, and from such behaviour only one conclusion is possible—that the object is a spatial vehicle of some form, despatched by the inhabitants of Altair to establish contact with the inhabitants of our Earth.
(Heckler: “Oh, come now!”)
While the exact design of such a spatial vehicle is beyond my conception, I have some tentative suggestions with regard to its motive power. That most estimable Frenchman, M. Jules Verne, has written most imaginatively…
(Heckler: “Not on
e half as imaginatively as you, sir!”)
…thank you, sir, of how a great space gun might propel a capsule around the Moon. Intriguing though this notion is, it is quite impractical as a means to journey from Altair to our Earth. The velocity imparted by such a space gun would not be sufficient for the journey to be completed within the lifetimes of the voyagers.
(Heckler: “Will this lecture be completed within the lifetimes of the Learned Fellows?” Laughter.)
Therefore, I would suggest, if I might do so without interruption, Learned Fellows, that the vehicle accelerates and decelerates through a series of self-generated explosions, of titanic force, which propel the vehicle through transtellar space at the colossal velocities necessary to traverse such an immense distance. Of course, such star-crossing velocities must be shed to rendezvous with our Earth at the completion of the journey, and I would suggest that the immense flarings of light we have all witnessed are the explosions by which this vehicle slows its headlong flight.
(Heckler: “Are we in any seriousness meant to accept these fanciful vapourings over the Astronomer Royal’s reasoned and cogent arguments?”)
Learned Fellows, I cannot with any degree of scientific certainty speculate…
(Catcalls, booing. Heckler; “Scientific certainty? What scientific certainty?”)
…what such a propulsive explosive might be; certainly no earthly explosive would possess sufficient power for its weight to be a practical fuel for such a transtellar journey.