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No total eclipse can last much longer than seven minutes, because of Earth’s persistent turning on its axis and the Moon’s unwavering march along its orbit. But totality of the briefest duration affords sufficient reason for scientific expeditions and curious individuals to travel halfway around the world, even if they have seen one or more eclipses before.
At totality, when the Moon is a pool of soot hiding the bright solar sphere, and the sky deepens to a crepuscular blue, the Sun’s magnificent corona, normally invisible, flashes into view. Pearl and platinum-coloured streamers of coronal gas surround the vanished Sun like a jagged halo. Long red ribbons of electrified hydrogen leap from behind the black Moon and dance in the shimmering corona. All these rare, incredible sights offer themselves to the naked eye, as totality provides the only safe time to gaze at the omnipotent Sun without fear of requital in blindness.
Moments later, the shadow of the Moon passes and the natural world order is restored by the ordinary grace of the Sun’s familiar light. But visions of the eclipse persist among viewers, as though a miracle had been witnessed. Is it an accident that the Solar System’s lone inhabited planet possesses the only satellite precisely sized to create the spectacle of a total solar eclipse? Or is this startling manifestation of the Sun’s hidden splendour part of a divine design?
* (#ulink_bcfeb616-7bdf-5f51-8350-94526198f031) Discarded comet dust litters interplanetary space, and when the Earth trundles into a patch of it, the particles that fall through the atmosphere are incinerated, appearing as isolated ‘shooting stars’ or whole showers of meteors.
* (#ulink_396ec487-5960-5dda-9999-8a3875f7476d) Degrees K, for Kelvin, are the same size as degrees Celsius (or centigrade) – almost double the value of Fahrenheit degrees. However the Kelvin scale starts lower, at −273 °C, or ‘absolute zero’, the point at which all motion ceases, and has no upper limit, which makes it useful for describing the temperatures of stars.
3 MYTHOLOGY (#uf0e64d53-d53d-5bc9-8396-ce7bc70dc08e)
The planets speak an ancient dialect of myth. Their names recall all that happened before history, before science, when Prometheus hung shackled to that cliff in the Caucasus for stealing fire from the sky, and Europe was not yet a continent but still a girl, beloved by a god, who beguiled her disguised as a bull.
In those days Hermes – or Mercury, as the Romans renamed the Greek messenger god – flew fleet as thought on divine errands that earned him more mentions in the annals of mythology than any other Olympian: after the goddess of the harvest lost her only daughter to the god of the underworld, Mercury was sent to negotiate the victim’s rescue, and drove her home in a golden cart pulled by black horses. When Cupid got his wish, making Psyche immortal and therefore fit to marry him, it was Mercury who led the bride into the palace of the gods.
The planet Mercury appeared to the ancients, as it appears to the naked eye today, only on the horizon, where it coursed the twilight limbo between day and night. Swift Mercury either heralded the Sun at dawn, or chased after it through dusk. Other planets – Mars, Jupiter, Saturn – could be seen shining high in the sky all night for months on end. But Mercury always fled the darkness for the light, or vice versa, and hastened from view within an hour’s time. Likewise the god Mercury served as a go-between, traversing the realms of the living and the dead, conducting the souls of the deceased down to their final abode in Hades.
Myth may have conferred the god’s name on the planet, because it mirrored his attributes, or perhaps the observed behaviour of the planet gave rise to legends of the god. Either way, the union of planet Mercury with divine Mercury – and with Hermes, and the Babylonian deity Nabû the Wise before him – was sealed by the fifth century BC.
The persistent image of Mercury, lean and hell-bent as a marathon runner, personifies dispatch. Wings on his sandals urge him on, spurred faster by the wings on his cap, and the magic powers of his winged wand. Although speed tops the panoply of his powers, Mercury also gained fame as a giant-killer (after he slew thousand-eyed Argus) and as the god of music (because he invented the lyre, and his son, Pan, fashioned the shepherd’s pipe of reeds), god of commerce and protector of traders (for which he is remembered in words like ‘merchant’ and ‘mercantile’), of cheats and thieves (since he stole herds from his half-brother Apollo on the very first day of his life), of eloquence (having given Pandora the gift of language), as well as of cunning, knowledge, luck, roads, travellers, young men in general, and herdsmen in particular. His snake-entwined wand, the caduceus, has invoked fertility or healing or wisdom over the ages.
Mercury and his fellow travellers called attention to themselves by moving among the fixed stars, which earned them the name ‘planetai’, meaning ‘wanderers’ in Greek. The orderliness of their motions brought ‘cosmos’ out of ‘chaos’ in the same language, and inspired an entire lexicon for describing planetary positions. Just as the gods’ names still cling to the planets, Greek terms such as ‘apogee’, ‘perigee’, ‘eccentricity’ and ‘ephemeris’ endure in astronomical discussions. The first observers to coin such words fill a roster of ancient heroes, from Thales of Miletus (624–546 BC), the founding Greek scientist who predicted a solar eclipse and questioned the substance of the universe, to Plato (427–347 BC), who envisioned the planets mounted on seven spheres of invisible crystal, nested one within the other, spinning inside the eighth sphere of the fixed stars, all centred on the solid Earth.* (#ulink_638c0761-f303-55d6-9963-44569a6d2e6c) Aristotle (384–322 BC) later raised the number of celestial spheres to fifty-four, the better to account for the planets’ observed deviations from circular paths, and by the time Ptolemy codified astronomy in the second century AD, the major spheres had been augmented further by ingenious smaller circles, called ‘epicycles’ and ‘deferents’, required to offset the admitted complexities of planetary motion.
‘I know that I am mortal by nature, and ephemeral,’ says an epigraph opening Ptolemy’s great astronomical treatise, the Almagest, ‘but when I trace at my pleasure the windings to and fro of the heavenly bodies I no longer touch earth with my feet: I stand in the presence of Zeus himself and take my fill of ambrosia, food of the gods.’
In Ptolemy’s model, Mercury orbited the stationary Earth just beyond the sphere of the Moon. The impetus for motion came from a divine force exterior to the network of spheres. More than a millennium later, however, when Copernicus rearranged the planets in 1543, he argued that the mighty Sun, ‘as though seated on a royal throne’, actually ‘governs the family of planets’. Without specifying the force by which the Sun ruled, Copernicus ringed the planets round it in order of their speed, and set Mercury closest to the Sun’s hearth because it travelled the fastest.
Indeed, Mercury’s proximity to the Sun dominates every condition of the planet’s existence – not just its tantivy progress through space, which is all that can be easily gleaned from Earth, but also its internal conflict, its heat, heaviness, and the catastrophic history that left it so small (only one-third Earth’s width).
The pull of the nearby Sun rushes Mercury around its orbit at an average velocity of thirty miles per second. At that rate, almost double the Earth’s pace, Mercury takes only eighty-eight Earth-days to complete its orbital journey. The same Procrustean gravity that accelerates Mercury’s revolution, however, brakes the planet’s rotation about its own axis. Because the planet forges ahead so much faster than it spins, any given locale waits half a Mercurian year (about six Earth-weeks) after sunrise for the full light of high noon. Dusk finally descends at year’s end. And once the long night commences, another Mercurian year must pass before the Sun rises again. Thus the years hurry by, while the days drag on for ever.
Mercury most likely spun more rapidly on its axis when the Solar System was young. Then each of its days might have numbered as few as eight hours, and even a quick Mercurian year could have contained hundreds such. But tides raised by the Sun in the planet’s molten middle gradually damped Mercury’s rotation down to its present slow gait.
Day breaks over Mercury in a white heat. The planet has no mitigating atmosphere to bend early morning’s light into the rosy-fingered dawn of Homer’s song. The nearby Sun lurches into the black sky and looms enormous there, nearly triple the diameter of the familiar orb we see from Earth. Absent any aegis of air to spread out and hold in solar heat, some regions of Mercury get hot enough to melt metals in daylight, then chill to hundreds of degrees below freezing at night. Although the planet Venus actually grows hotter overall, because of its thick blanket of atmospheric gases, and Pluto stays altogether colder on account of its distance from the Sun, no greater extremes of temperature coexist anywhere in the Solar System.
The drastic contrasts between day and night make up for the lack of seasonal changes on Mercury. The planet experiences no real seasons, since it stands erect instead of leaning on a tilted axis the way Earth does. Light and heat always hit Mercury’s equator dead on, while the north and south poles, which receive no direct sunlight, remain relatively frigid at all times. In fact, the polar regions probably harbour reservoirs of ice inside craters, where water delivered by comets has been preserved in perpetual shadow.
Mercury usually eludes observation from Earth by hiding in the Sun’s glare. The planet becomes visible to the unaided eye only when its orbit carries it far to the east or west of the Sun in Earth’s skies. During such ‘elongations’, Mercury may hover on the horizon every morning or evening for days or weeks. It remains difficult to see, however, because the sky is relatively bright at those times, and the planet so small and so far away. Even as Mercury draws closest to Earth, fifty million miles still separate it from us, which is quite remote compared to the Moon’s average distance of only a quarter of a million miles. Moreover, the illuminated portion of Mercury thins to a mere crescent as the planet approaches Earth. Only the most diligent observers can spot it, and only with good fortune. Copernicus, caught between the miserable weather in northern Poland and the reclusive nature of Mercury, fared worse than his earliest predecessors. As he grumbled in De Revolutionibus, ‘The ancients had the advantage of a clearer sky; the Nile – so they say – does not exhale such misty vapours as those we get from the Vistula.’
Copernicus further complained of Mercury, ‘The planet has tortured us with its many riddles and with the painstaking labour involved as we explored its wanderings.’ When he aligned the planets in the Sun-centred universe of his imagination, he used observations made by other astronomers, both ancient and contemporary. None of those individuals, however, had sighted Mercury often enough or precisely enough to help Copernicus establish its orbit as he had hoped.
The Danish perfectionist Tycho Brahe, born in 1546, just three years after Copernicus’s death, amassed a great number of Mercury observations – at least eighty-five – from his astronomical castle on the island of Hven, where he used instruments of his own design to measure the positions of each planet at accurately noted times. Inheriting this trove of information, Brahe’s German associate Johannes Kepler determined the correct orbits of all the wanderers in 1609 – ‘even Mercury itself.’
It later occurred to Kepler that although Mercury remained hard to see at the horizon, he might catch it high overhead on one of those special occasions, called a ‘transit’, when the planet must cross directly in front of the Sun. Then, by projecting the Sun’s image through a telescope onto a sheet of paper, where he could view it safely, he would track Mercury’s dark form as it travelled from one edge of the Sun’s disk to the other over a period of several hours. In 1629 Kepler predicted such a ‘transit of Mercury’ for November 7, 1631, but he died the year before the event took place. Astronomer Pierre Gassendi in Paris, primed by Kepler’s prediction, prepared to watch the transit, then erupted into an extended metaphor of mythological allusions when the event unfolded more or less on schedule and he alone witnessed it through intermittent clouds.
‘That sly Cyllenius,’ wrote Gassendi, calling Mercury a name derived from the Arcadian mountain Cyllene, where the god was born,
introduced a fog to cover the earth and then appeared sooner and smaller than expected so that he could pass by either undetected or unrecognized. But accustomed to the tricks he played even in his infancy [i.e., Mercury’s early theft of Apollo’s herds], Apollo favoured us and arranged it so that, though he could escape notice in his approach, he could not depart utterly undetected. It was permitted me to restrain a bit his winged sandals even as they fled. […] I am more fortunate than so many of those Hermes-watchers who looked for the transit in vain, and I saw him where no one else has seen him so far, as it were, ‘in Phoebus’ throne, glittering with brilliant emeralds.’* (#ulink_9a944ae6-b7ac-559c-83a7-303bb278eba0)
Gassendi’s surprise at Mercury’s early arrival – around 9 a.m., compared to the published prediction of midday – cast no aspersions on Kepler, who had cautiously advised astronomers to begin searching for the transit the day before, on November 6, in case he had erred in his calculations, and by the same token to continue their vigil on the 8th if nothing happened on the 7th. Gassendi’s comment about the small size of Mercury, however, generated big surprise. His formal report stressed his astonishment at the planet’s smallness, explaining how he at first dismissed the black dot as a sunspot, but presently realized it was moving far too quickly to be anything but the winged messenger himself. Gassendi had expected Mercury’s diameter to be one-fifteenth that of the Sun, as estimated by Ptolemy fifteen hundred years before. Instead, the transit revealed Mercury to be only a fraction of that dimension – less than one-hundredth the Sun’s apparent width. The aid of the telescope, coupled with Gassendi’s sighting Mercury silhouetted against the Sun, had stripped the planet of the blurred, aggrandizing glow it typically wore on the horizon.
Over the next several decades, precise measuring devices mounted on improved telescopes helped astronomers pare Mercury close to its acknowledged current size of 3,050 miles across, or less than one three-hundredth the actual diameter of the Sun.
By the end of the seventeenth century, mystic and magnetic attractions among the Sun and planets had been replaced with the force of gravity, introduced by Sir Isaac Newton in 1687 in his book Principia Mathematica. Newton’s calculus and the universal law of gravitation seemed to give astronomers control over the very heavens. The position of any celestial body could now be computed correctly for any hour of any day, and if observed motions differed from predicted motions, then the heavens might be coerced to yield up a new planet to account for the discrepancy. This is how Neptune came to be ‘discovered’ with paper and pencil in 1845, a full year before anyone located the distant body through a telescope.
The same astronomer who successfully predicted Neptune’s presence at the outer margin of the Solar System later turned his attention inward to Mercury. In September of 1859, Urbain J. J. Leverrier of the Paris Observatory announced with some alarm that the perihelion point of Mercury’s orbit was shifting ever so slightly over time, instead of recurring at the same point in each orbit, as Newtonian mechanics required. Leverrier suspected the cause to be the pull of another planet, or even a swarm of small bodies, interposed between Mercury and the Sun. Returning to mythology for an appropriate name, Leverrier called his unseen world Vulcan, after the god of fire and the forge.
Although the immortal Vulcan had been born lame and ever walked with a limp, Leverrier insisted his Vulcan would hasten around its orbit at quadruple Mercury’s speed, and transit the Sun at least twice a year. But all attempts to observe those predicted transits failed.
Astronomers next sought Vulcan in the darkened daytime skies around the Sun during the total solar eclipse of July 1860, and again at the August 1869 eclipse. Enough scepticism had developed by then, after ten fruitless years of hunting, to make astronomer Christian Peters in America scoff, ‘I will not bother to search for Leverrier’s mythical birds.’
‘Mercury was the god of thieves,’ quipped French observer Camille Flammarion. ‘His companion steals away like an anonymous assassin.’ Nevertheless the quest for Vulcan continued through the turn of the century, and some astronomers were still pondering the whereabouts of Vulcan in 1915, the year Albert Einstein told the Prussian Academy of Sciences that Newton’s mechanics would break down where gravity exerted its greatest power. In the Sun’s immediate vicinity, Einstein explained, space itself was warped by an intense gravitational field, and every time Mercury ventured there, it sped up more than Newton had allowed.
‘Can you imagine my joy,’ Einstein asked a colleague in a letter, ‘that the equations of the perihelion movement of Mercury prove correct? I was speechless for several days with excitement.’
Vulcan fell from the sky like Icarus in the wake of Einstein’s pronouncements, while Mercury gained new fame from the role it had played in furthering cosmic understanding.
Still Mercury frustrated observers who wanted to know what it looked like. One German astronomer postulated a dense cloud layer completely shrouding Mercury’s surface. In Italy, Giovanni Schiaparelli of Milan decided to track the planet overhead in daylight, despite the Sun’s glare, in the hope of getting clearer views of its surface. By pointing his telescope upward into the midday sky, instead of horizontally during dawn or dusk, Schiaparelli avoided the turbulent air on Earth’s horizon, and also succeeded in keeping Mercury in his sights for hours at a time. Beginning in 1881, avoiding coffee and whisky lest they dull his vision, and forswearing tobacco to the same end, he observed the planet on high at its every elongation. But the pallor of Mercury against the daytime sky confounded his efforts to perceive surface features. After eight years at this Herculean task, Schiaparelli could report nothing but ‘extremely faint streaks, which can be made out only with greatest effort and attention’. He sketched these streaks, including one that took the shape of the number five, on a rough map of Mercury he issued in 1889.
A more detailed map followed in 1934, drawn as the culmination of a decade-long study by Eugène Antoniadi at the Meudon Observatory outside Paris. By his own admission, Antoniadi saw little more than Schiaparelli, but, being an excellent draughtsman and having a bigger telescope, he rendered his faint markings with better shading, and named them for Mercury’s classical associations: Cyllene (for the god’s natal mountain), Apollonia (for his half-brother), Caduceata (for his magic wand), and Solitudo Hermae Trismegisti – the Wilderness of Thrice-Great Hermes. Although these suggestions have disappeared from modern maps, two prominent ridges discovered on Mercury by spacecraft imaging are now named ‘Schiaparelli’ and ‘Antoniadi’.
Both Schiaparelli and Antoniadi assumed, given the persistence of the features they discerned over long hours of observation, that only one side of Mercury ever came into view. They thought the Sun had locked the little planet into a pattern that flooded one of its hemispheres with heat and light while leaving the other in permanent darkness. Likewise many of their contemporaries and most of their followers up to the mid-1960s believed that Mercury maintained eternal ‘day’ on one side and ‘night’ on the other. But the Sun constrains the rotation and revolution of Mercury according to a different formula: the planet spins around its axis once every 58.6 days – a rate rhythmically related to its orbital period, so that Mercury completes three turns on its axis for every two journeys around the Sun.
The 3:2 pattern affects observers on Earth by repeatedly offering them the same side of Mercury six or seven apparitions in a row. Schiaparelli and Antoniadi indeed beheld an unchanging face of Mercury throughout their studies, and must be forgiven for reaching the wrong conclusion about its rotation, since the planet’s behaviour indulged them in their error.
Throughout the twentieth and into the twenty-first century, Mercury has continued to be a difficult target. Even the Hubble Space Telescope, orbiting above the Earth’s atmosphere, avoided looking at Mercury, for fear of pointing its delicate optics so dangerously close to the Sun, and only one spacecraft has so far braved the hostile heat and radiation of the near-Mercury environment.
Mariner 10, Earth’s emissary to Mercury, flew by the planet twice in 1974 and once more in 1975. It relayed thousands of pictures and measurements of a landscape riddled with crater holes, from small bowls to giant basins. Light or dark trails of debris marked the places where newer assaults had overturned the rubble of the old. Lava that flowed among the impact scars had smoothed over some of the depressions, but overall poor battered Mercury preserved a clear record of the era, ended nearly four billion years ago, when leftover fragments of the Solar System’s creation menaced the fledgling planets.
The most violent attack on Mercury inflicted a wound eight hundred miles wide, which has been named Caloris Basin (‘the Basin of Heat’). The mile-high mountains on Caloris’s rim must have sprung up in response to the massive impact explosion that excavated the Basin, and all around the mountains, further signs of disturbance lay in ridges and rough ground rippling out for hundreds of miles. The collision at Caloris also sent shock waves clear through Mercury’s dense, metallic interior, to set off quakes that lifted the crust on the far side of the planet and cut it to pieces.
Mariner 10 photo montages, which captured less than half of Mercury’s surface, revealed a network of scarps and fault lines that indicate the whole planet must have shrunk to its present dimensions from some larger beginning. When Mercury’s interior contracted, the global crust readjusted itself to fit the suddenly smaller world – like some furtive trick of the god Mercury, disguising himself.
After a thirty-year hiatus in exploration, a new mission called MESSENGER (an acronym for MErcury Surface, Space ENvironment, GEochemistry and Ranging) is now en route to Mercury. Launched in August 2004, but unable to fly as quickly or directly as its namesake, the craft will not reach Mercury’s vicinity until January 2008. At first sight of the planet, MESSENGER will start a detailed mapping effort requiring three flybys of Mercury over the following three years, while the spacecraft orbits the Sun, protected under a sunshade made of ceramic cloth. Then, in March 2011, MESSENGER will manoeuvre into orbit around Mercury itself, for a year-long odyssey (as measured in Earth time) to monitor the planet through two of its long days. Circling Mercury rapidly and repeatedly every twelve hours, MESSENGER will function as a new oracle, streaming answers to the questions posed by anxious truth-seekers on Earth.
* (#ulink_6c421903-d38f-5775-b05a-6b88f4f60347) The ancients recognized seven planets: Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn.
* (#ulink_8ac9fc67-5dab-5cde-8893-0996f4e4e598) Gassendi quotes here from Ovid, referring to the Sun god Apollo by his other name, Phoebus.
4 BEAUTY (#uf0e64d53-d53d-5bc9-8396-ce7bc70dc08e)
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, ‘Maud’
Now ‘morning star’, now ‘evening star’, the bright ornament of the planet Venus plays prelude to the rising Sun, or postscript to the sunset.
For months at a time Venus will vault the eastern horizon before dawn and linger there through daybreak, the last of night’s beacons to fade. She begins these morning apparitions close to the Sun in time and space, so that she arrives in a lightening sky. But as the days and nights go by, she comes up sooner and ventures further from the Sun, rising while Dawn is still a distant idea. At length she reaches the end of her tether, and the Sun calls her back, making her rise a little bit later each night, till she again verges on the day. Then Venus vanishes altogether for the time it takes her to pass behind the Sun.
After fifty days, on average, she reappears at the Sun’s other hand, in the evening sky, to be hailed as evening star for months to come. Shimmering into view as the Sun goes down, Venus hangs alone in the twilight. The first few sunsets find her bathed in the afterglow colours of the western horizon, but at length Venus comes to light already high overhead, where she dominates night’s onset. Who knows how many childhood wishes are squandered on that planet before the gathering darkness brings out the stars?
Thou fair-haired angel of the evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves, and, while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver.
William Blake, ‘To The Evening Star’
Hours into the night, Venus still outshines every other light, unless the Moon intrudes to best her. The Moon appears bigger and brighter, by virtue of lying about one hundred times closer to us, though Venus is the larger and the fairer by far. Venus’s shroud of yellow-white cloud reflects light much more effectively than the dun-coloured, dust-covered surface of the Moon. Virtually 80 per cent of the Sunlight lavished on Venus just skitters off her cloud tops and spills back into space, while the Moon beams back a mere 8 per cent.
The remarkable brightness of Venus gains lustre from her nearness to Earth. Venus comes within twenty-four million miles of Earth at closest approach – closer than any other planet. (Mars, Earth’s second nearest neighbour, always stays at least thirty-five million miles away.) Even when Venus and Earth recede as far from each other as possible, separated by more than one hundred and fifty million miles, Venus retains her superlative brilliance for Earthbound observers. On the scale of ‘apparent magnitude’ astronomers use to compare the relative brightness of heavenly bodies, Venus far exceeds the most luminous stars.* (#litres_trial_promo)
What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides,
Thee, Vesper! brightening still, as if the nearer
Thou com’st to man’s abode the spot grew dearer
Night after night?
William Wordsworth, ‘To the Planet Venus’
The nearer Venus draws to Earth, the brighter she appears, naturally enough. Yet as her glow crescendos, the globe of Venus actually diminishes from full to gibbous through quarter and then crescent phase. Like the Moon, Venus appears to change shape as she moves along her orbit, and by the time she reaches her closest, most vivid aspect in our skies, only about one-sixth of her visible disk remains illuminated. But proximity stretches this little sliver to a great length, allowing the perceived brightness of Venus to increase even as she thins and wanes away.
Watching Venus through a telescope or binoculars every evening over a period of months shows how she gains in height and brightness as her disk shrinks, and vice versa. Little else becomes apparent, however, since none of Venus’s surface features can ever be discerned by sight through her cloud deck. Thus the very clouds that account for her blatant visibility also act to veil her.
Those who know just where to look can sometimes pick out the steady white light of Venus against the light blue background of a fully daylit sky. Napoleon spotted Venus that way while giving a noon address from the palace balcony at Luxembourg, and interpreted her daytime venue as the promise (later fulfilled) of victory in Italy.
On Moonless nights when Venus is nigh, her strong light throws soft, unexpected shadows onto pale walls or patches of ground. The faint silhouette of a Venus shadow, which evades detection by the colour-sensitive inquiry of a direct gaze, often answers to sidelong glances that favour the black-and-white acuity of peripheral vision. But no matter how avidly you hunt the elusive Venus shadow with eyes averted and downcast, your search may still prove vain, while overhead, as though to mock you, the planet’s dazzle mimics the landing beam of an oncoming aeroplane, even triggers police reports of unidentified flying objects.
I stopped to compliment you on this star
You get the beauty of from where you are.
To see it so, the bright and only one
In sunset light, you’d think it was the sun
That hadn’t sunk the way it should have sunk,
But right in heaven was slowly being shrunk
So small as to be virtually gone,
Yet there to watch the darkness coming on-
Like someone dead permitted to exist
Enough to see if he was greatly missed.
I didn’t see the sun set. Did it set?
Will anybody swear that isn’t it? …
Robert Frost, ‘The Literate Farmer and the Planet Venus’
Ancient legends celebrated the beauty of planet Venus by declaring her not only divine but also womanly – perhaps because her visitations generally lasted a significant nine months. Although Venus orbits the Sun in just 224 Earth-days, the Earth’s own orbital motions help govern Venus’s observed behaviour. As seen from the moving Earth, Venus averages 260 days as either morning star or evening star, coinciding with the human gestation period of 255 to 266 days.
The Chaldeans called the planet Ishtar, the love goddess ascending the heavens, and to the Semitic Sumerians she was Nin-si-anna, ‘the Lady of the Defences of Heaven’. Her Persian name, Anahita, associated her with fruitfulness. The dual (dawn and dusk) nature of Venus cast her by turns as virgin or vamp to her worshippers.
Ishtar metamorphosed into Aphrodite, the Greek incarnation of love and beauty. She became the Venus of the Romans, revered by the historian Pliny for spreading a vital dew to excite the sexuality of earthly creatures. In China, Venus blended male and female genders in a married couple consisting of the husband evening star, Tai-po, and his wife, the morning star, Nu Chien.
Only the Mayas and the Aztecs of Central America seem to have seen Venus as consistently male, the twin brother of the Sun. The rhythmic association between Venus and the Sun inspired meticulous astronomical observations and complex calendar reckoning in those cultures, as well as blood rituals to recognize the planet’s descent into the underworld and subsequent resurrection.
In North America, among the Skidi Pawnee, the veneration of Venus involved human sacrifice to ensure her return. The last teenage girl known to have died in such devotions was kidnapped and ceremonially killed on 22 April 1838.
As a symbol of loveliness, Venus figures in three paintings by Vincent Van Gogh. His Starry Night of June 1889, the best-known example, depicts Venus as the bright orb low to the east of the village of Saint-Rémy, during the time the artist’s dementia confined him to an asylum there. Art historians and astronomers have also definitively identified Venus in Road with Cypress and Star, which Van Gogh completed in mid-May 1890, the day before he left Saint-Rémy. A few weeks later, in Auverssur-Oise, near Paris, where he created eighty works in the two months before his suicide, Van Gogh depicted Venus for the last time, inside a scintillating halo, hovering above the west chimney of White House at Night.
Venus voyages … but my voice falters;
Rude rime-making wrongs her beauty,
Whose breasts and brow, and her breath’s sweetness
