By David G Anderson
Illuminated by a brilliant light, Silent Sky is intensely affixed between the fissures of the universe where time and space persist. It’s an elucidating light which only the brightest star can share. In true Hidden Figures-type fashion, “Silent Sky gives us a somewhat transcendental account of a slice of Henrietta Leavitt’s life from 1900 to 1920 and provides glimpses into the excitement of discovery…and human need to drive forward with our endeavors in the face of oppression or lack of recognition” (James C. Van Ooret, Because Wonder Will Always Get Us There Directing Silent Sky [Mankato: Minnesota, State University, 2021]). Our impassioned and brilliant protagonist informs us, “I have fundamental problems with the state of human knowledge! Who are we, why are we here—where are we” (Lauren Gunderson. Silent Sky, [Dramatists Play Service Inc.], 12)?
Playwright Lauren Gunderson thoroughly entertained the Utah Shakespeare Festival in the 2019 season with her play The Book of Will. She is, “…one of the most produced playwrights in America since 2015, topping the list thrice including 22/23” (<https:// www.laurengunderson.com/bio>). In Silent Sky Gunderson gives us a glimpse at the true story of Henrietta Leavitt, the deaf daughter of a Congregational Church minister. She is the paradox personified, female and a scientist, a decade before women had the right to vote. Rather than a handicap, her deafness becomes an indispensably-priceless tool. Henrietta is totally devoted to her passion––astronomy––perhaps at the expense of the relationships of people she cares about most. Though laser-focused on her career, Henrietta struggles with making sense of other life matters: family, faith, and love. Her journey tutors that at the multi-directional intersection of faith, starlight, art, music, and physics, she and we can discover our places in the universe. Paralleling that intersection is also an avenue called love.
“Heaven’s up there they say. Pearly clouds, pearly gates, they say. They don’t know much about astronomy, I say. The science of light on high. Of all that is far-off and lonely and stuck in the deepest dark of space. Dark but for billions and billions of…Exceptions. And I insist on the exceptional” (Gunderson, 9). Henrietta’s opening monologue anchors her sensibilities regarding heaven and the afterlife, perceptibly favoring a scientific rather than religious nature. Einstein’s theory of relativity––broached repeatedly throughout the play––is also a central principle of how Henrietta views the afterlife. She weighs, “Mass and energy are just different forms of the same thing. They shift back and forth forever. So nothing’s gone. It just shifts” (Gunderson, 38).
Early in the play, Henri (Henrietta’s nickname) excitedly responds to Dr. Pickering’s (head astronomer at the Harvard College Observatory) job invitation. Upon arrival, she is disappointed to learn that her position is that of a lowly “computer,” a woman who uses math and physics to map the stars from photographic plates. Peter Shaw, the only male in the play, exemplifies the small-minded misogynistic forces that impede Henrietta. His buffoonish orientation is unintentionally condescending. She asks Peter when she can use the world-famous Great Refracting Telescope. Peter informs her, “Well, you can’t” (Gunderson, 17). Totally shocked, Henri learns that the telescope is accessed only by men. Peter explains that he is “…Dr. Pickering’s apprentice––Junior Fellow in Astronomical Research, summa cum laude, Mathematics and Physics” (Gunderson, 14). The quick-witted Henrietta retorts, “If you spot me I’ll swoon…Mr. Shaw, I also graduated summa cum laude, from Radcliffe, which is basically Harvard in skirts and lucky for us the universe doesn’t much care what you wear…” (Gunderson, 14-15). As she is on the verge of walking off the job, Annie Cannon and Williamina Fleming appear on the scene to show Henri their place of work––a small airless office, sans any scientific equipment, but commonly shared with other women who are known as Pickering’s “harem.”
Annie is the no-nonsense director of the “computers” at the Observatory. She is also a suffragette, espousing and demonstrating women’s rights. Williamina Flemming, the dedicated employee and earliest “harem” member, is the one-liner-comic-relief of the play. Henri, Annie, and Williamina become steadfast soulmates and are authentic historical characters in this drama. These three heroines live for their work and deviously hide their virtuosity from the male-dominated stargazing domain. “So we’re a lot of things, but at present we are cleaning up the universe for the men. And making fun of them behind their backs. It’s worked for centuries” quips Williamina (Gunderson, 20).
Assigned to map the Magellanic Cloud, Henri notes a not-so-random pulsating in the Cepheid stars, relative to their brilliance. Imbued with excitement, she convinces Annie to let her continue working in this vein after hours.
Apparent to everyone except the romantically-naive Henri, Peter Shaw is smitten (clearly a scientific term) with this new “computer,” and starts inventing excuses to visit the “harem.” That the object of his affection is noticeably light years ahead of him in intellect is not lost on him.
PETER: “Ladies of the Logbook.”
ANNIE: “By God you’d better have a supernova on those plates.”
WILLIAMINA (To Henrietta): “You know he’s here for you?”
HENRIETTA: “What?”
ANNIE: “MR.SHAW. There is an inverse relationship between time lost on your rounds and the life of my overqualified staff…”
PETER: “See you tomorrow.”
ANNIE: “Sweet boy––I’m going to shoot him.”
WILLIAMINA: “Just so we’re all clear: He fancies you.”
HENRIETTA: “Can we talk about anything else, please…Although I do admire his persistence. And gait. He has a nice gait.” (Gunderson 24-25)
Perhaps a complication/distraction for Henri, she finds herself indecisive at that multi-directional intersection––from an avid researcher and theoretician to struggling with feelings of infatuation, to a caring daughter and sister who answers the bell when a family crisis surfaces. Gunderson candidly infers that until her relationship with Peter is determined and its ambiguity ascertained, Henri will be unable to solve the secret of the Cepheids.
At the brink of astronomical discovery and working through most-foreign feelings of love, Henri is summoned home to Wisconsin by her ever-attentive sister Margaret. Their father had suffered a stroke. After a year, their father’s health wanes, and he passes.
A fourth heroine is Margaret Leavitt, an accomplished pianist, serving as the foil or counter-note to Henri. In true Victorian fashion, Margaret embodies home and family and epitomizes the fetters of patriarchal traditions––everything Henri cannot. Margaret and Peter are brilliant fictional devices Gunderson creates to drive the plot and give life and immediacy to the play.
Ironically, it’s while at home listening to Margaret practice, that Henri realizes that the pulsating of the Cepheids is tonal and patterned. This breakthrough-scientific epiphany will have great significance in the world of astronomy. Ahh––through her persistence, we have art intersecting with science, and music intersecting with physics, all encompassed within a brilliant-starlit silent sky. Henri’s real-life discovery of “The Period-luminosity Relationship in Pulsing Cepheids” became the key instrument in measuring intergalactic distances, posthumously recognized by notables Gosta Mittag and Edwin Hubble.
Anxious to resume work on her discovery, she is informed by Peter that her work has been handed off to a group of men for further study. Dismayed, she demands of her colleagues “If we’re not finding the largest truth then what are we doing? What have we spent our time doing” (Gunderson, 47)? Exasperated, Henri’s desire is not only in the recognition of her discovery but with her corresponding data. Pestering questions linger throughout the play––for cast and audience––Which is worse? Having your work ridiculed as boring/routine? Or your discovery broadcast to the firmaments but the crediting endued to the man for whom you work?
In a reflective Act 2 scene 2, Henri muses on faith, perhaps answering questions postulated earlier. In a letter to Peter, “I used to think that to be truly alive I needed answers. I needed to know. But all this does not in fact need to be known…Because the real point…is seeing something bigger. And knowing we’re a small part of it…Because thank God there’s a lot out there bigger than me” (Gunderson, 50).
“You asked God a question and He answered” cries Margaret (Gunderson, 55). Henri acknowledges; it’s God who authors science and, when observing His creations through the lens of knowing who He is, it’s as wonderous and beautiful as the expanse of the glittering universe. The answers per the playwright: we are His children, attempting good works––here on a speck in the universe called earth.
