So this is what it is like to play cosmic pinball. The worlds move, and sometimes they line up. Then you find yourself staring up the tube of blackness that is the moon’s shadow, a sudden hole in the sky during a total solar eclipse.

Such moments have left their marks on human consciousness — like the monoliths in the classic movie, “2001: A Space Odyssey” — since before history was recorded.

Few eclipses have had more impact on modern history than the one that occurred on May 29, 1919, more than six minutes of darkness sweeping across South America and across the Atlantic to Africa. It was during that eclipse that the British astronomer Arthur Eddington ascertained that the light rays from distant stars had been wrenched off their paths by the gravitational field of the sun.

That affirmed the prediction of Einstein’s theory of general relativity, ascribing gravity to a warp in the geometry of space-time, that gravity could bend light beams. “Lights All Askew in the Heavens,” read a headline in this newspaper.

Eddington’s report made Einstein one of the first celebrities of the new 20th century and ushered in a new dynamic universe, a world in which space and time could jiggle, grow, warp, shrink, rip, collapse into black holes and even disappear. The ramifications of his theory are still unfolding; it was only two years ago that a rippling of space-time — gravitational waves produced by colliding black holes — was discovered.

But the first step wasn’t easy. How it happened illustrates that even the most fundamental advances in science can be hostage to luck and sometimes divine inspiration.

The bending of light by gravity was the most stunning and obvious prediction of Einstein’s theory. Astronomers had been trying to detect the effect at solar eclipses since before he had even finished formulating the theory. Nature and politics did not always cooperate.

One of the earliest to try was Erwin Finlay-Freundlich, an astronomer at the Berlin Observatory who was to become a big Einstein booster. Freundlich led an expedition to the Crimea in 1914 to observe an eclipse, but World War I began and he was arrested as a spy before the eclipse occurred. A team from the Lick Observatory in California did make it to the Crimean eclipse — but it rained.

“I must confess that I never before seriously faced the situation of having everything spoiled by clouds,” said William W. Campbell, the team’s frustrated leader. “One wishes that he could come home by the backdoor and not see anybody.”

Worse, Lick’s special eclipse camera was impounded by the Russians and not returned in time for the next eclipse, in Venezuela in 1916.

The next big chance to prove Einstein correct came in 1918, when the moon’s shadow tracked right up the Columbia River between Washington State and Oregon. Lick sent another team of observers, but their camera was still not back from the Crimea and their improvised optics fell short, leaving the stars looking like fuzzy dumbbells as darkness fell.

So the universe was still up for grabs in March 1919, when Eddington and his colleagues set sail for Africa to observe the next eclipse. Astronomically, the prospects were as good as they could get. During the eclipse, the sun would pass before a big cluster of stars known as the Hyades, so there ought to be plenty of bright lights to see yanked askew.

Eddington was the right man for the job. A math prodigy and professor at Cambridge, he had been an early convert to Einstein’s new theory, and an enthusiastic expositor to his colleagues and countrymen.

A story went that he was once complimented on being one of only three people in the world who understood the theory. Admonished for false modesty when he didn’t respond, Eddington replied that, on the contrary, he was trying to think of who the third person was.

General relativity was so obviously true, he said later, that if it had been up to him he wouldn’t have bothered trying to prove it.

But it wasn’t up to him, due to a quirk of history. Eddington was also a Quaker and so had refused to be drafted into the army. His boss, Frank Dyson, the Astronomer Royal of Britain, saved Eddington from jail by promising that he would undertake an important scientific task, namely the expedition to test the Einstein theory.

Eddington also hoped to help reunite European science, which had been badly splintered by the war, Germans having been essentially disinvited from conferences. Now, an Englishman was setting off to prove the theory of a German, Einstein.

According to Einstein’s final version of the theory, completed in 1915, as their light rays curved around the sun during an eclipse, stars just grazing the sun should appear deflected from their normal positions by an angle of about 1.75 second of arc, about a thousandth of the width of a full moon.

According to old-fashioned Newtonian gravity, starlight would be deflected by only half that amount, 0.86 second, as it passed the sun during an eclipse.

A second of arc is about the size of a star as it appears to the eye under the best and calmest of conditions from a mountaintop observatory. But atmospheric turbulence and optical exigencies often smudge the stars into bigger blurs.

So Eddington’s job, as he saw it, was to ascertain whether a bunch of blurs had been nudged off their centers by as much as Einstein had predicted, or half that amount — or none at all. It was Newton versus Einstein.

No pressure there.

And what if Eddington measured twice the Einstein deflection?, Dyson was asked by Edwin Cottingham, one of the astronomers on the expedition. “Then Eddington will go mad and you will come home alone,” Dyson answered.

To improve the chances of success, two teams were sent: Eddington and Cottingham to the island of Principe, off the coast of Africa, and Charles Davidson and Andrew Crommelin to Sobral, a city in Brazil. The fail-safe strategy almost didn’t work.