by John Crowley
Smith
From: “Thea”
To: “Smith”
Subject: him
what you havent ever checked his website i mean the production company website i would if i were you even if I was scared actually today i did you never told me hes so good looking but he looks like he knows it that whole david bowie thing going on but with the farseeing eyes man he might be a phony tho i know hes awful i hate him but he does good things did you know hes making a film now about east timor recreating an awful massacre when east timor wanted freedom well i bet you know
anyway hes not coming back
t
From: “Smith”
To: “Thea”
Subject: RE:him
That’s him. The pervert. I do look. I just don’t tell you.
The Difference Engine is the most amazing thing. It weighs tons, really tons. You can’t stand in front of it without thinking about how intense they were in the past, to have thought up and designed and then built a thing so heavy and so perfect, I mean so finely made that you can make the whole mechanism move with one hand. The guy showed me. You set these wheels etched with beautiful little numbers, and then you turn the handle, and the columns of numbers turn, and these arms turn other columns as they carry numbers over and add them (all this whole thing does is add!) and it makes this slick sound that grips your head or your heart or some part of you—if you like the sound of slick machines turning their parts.
But of course Babbage didn’t build it—these guys at the science museum built it—Babbage never finished it, he dropped it and went on to design an even better machine, the Analytical Engine, that could be programmed, with punch cards, like an old computer. You know all this, I’m just thinking out loud, okay? So what would a long program of punch cards look like, I asked him. If somebody had written one out, back then. And he didn’t really know, or he thought it could look like a lot of things, that the whole process had never reached that stage.
He was pretty snippy about Ada as a mathematician—he says she really contributed nothing much to the thinking about the Analytical Engine—but he did say that it was she and not Babbage who saw the possibilities, that the Engine could be a manipulator of symbols, and not just of numbers—a “generalized algebra machine,” this guy said. That’s the importance of her insight that the Analytical Engine could weave algebraic patterns just like a Jacquard loom could weave birds and flowers. (Jacquard’s loom wove patterns determined by a sequence of punch cards—that’s where Babbage got the cards idea.) It all depended on the instructions. And that’s really the concept of a computer.
See what I’m wondering? Georgiana’s rushing ahead, she’s not wondering, she’s sure we have a computer program written by Ada Augusta, Countess of Lovelace. But what if she’s right.
I’m faxing you a couple of pages of the math. Tell me what you think.
S
From: “Thea”
To: “Smith”
Subject: Log
okay I got the fax no its not a log table guess again anyway why are we sure its hers
t
From: “Smith”
To: “Thea”
Subject: RE:Log
What do you mean guess again? You guess again, you’re the numbers guy. If it isn’t logs what is it? And does it have something to do with the Analytical Engine? If you go to the Web site there’s a link to Ada’s description of the Analytical Engine, and the little tiny sample set of instructions you might give it—“the first computer program,” we say.
I don’t know this thing is hers. I just think it is and hope it is. I hope, I hope this is something. The Ada written stuff from the trunk, if that’s hers, is very faint and hard to read. Dead person talking: you have to listen hard, and be quiet.
S
From: “Lilith”
To: “Smith”
Subject: ’Sup
Smith:
Wow, glad you’re there and that everything is going so well! Great to hear your voice! Isn’t Georgiana great? I really hope you guys get along. I knew you were the one to do this, I just had the feeling, you know how I get the feeling? Well I had the feeling. But now listen. She tends to get a little vague. When she was here and it all started she used to wander a little. Like she had a lot of stories she thought were real important but they tended to sort of flow, you know? So one led to another before the first one ended. All I’m saying is she took a lot of listening to. I really trust you to be able to bring this off with her but you know there’s all the regular stuff too to do on the site that nobody can do but you, we all run around like chickens with our heads cut off, and we want you back. But no pressure, just do this with her. I love you babe.
Lilith
From: “Smith”
To: “Thea”
Subject: Chicken
Thea—Did you ever think about this—people use comparisons that don’t mean anything to them because they’ve never seen the thing they’re using to compare with. I mean: People say we’re running around like chickens with our heads cut off but they’ve never seen a chicken with its head cut off. It’s like what they really need is a comparison to show what a chicken with its head cut off is like. That chicken with its head cut off ran around like Sondra (Lilith) Mackay after a double espresso and a bad phone call. See what I mean?
S
From: “Thea”
To: “Smith”
Subject: RE:Chicken
yeah like i heard on tv somebody said somebody else was mad as a wet hen i have never seen a wet hen i can sort of imagine it like my mom you know hey thats funny that wet hen looked as mad as my mom when a cop stopped her the 2nd time in a day we shd make a list
btw my mom called the other night couldnt get a lot out of her boy i hate hanging up on her when theres nobody here
t
From: “Smith”
To: “Thea”
Subject: Coming
Okay here’s what I’m going to do. I’m floundering here and Georgiana is like very confused. She still doesn’t want to take any of this to any experts. I’m starting to think maybe she is profoundly weird, no matter how together and bright she seems. I need to know what the hell this stuff is. I’m going to scan the mathematical stuff and put it on a CD and send it to you; you tell me what it is.
And I’m going to write to my father and ask him to help. After all he was a college professor once and this was his field, what he knew about. So I’m going to.
S
From: “Thea”
To: “Smith”
Subject: RE:Coming
SMITH DONT WRITE TO THAT BASTARD I MEAN IT ITS LIKE CHECKING INTO HELL JUST TO GET KURT COBAINS AUTOGRAPH OR SOMETHING WHAT ABOUT ALL THAT THERAPY ITS NOT WORTH IT EVEN IF HES SO SMART THAT HE CAN TELL YOU SOMETHING WHICH HE PROBABLY ISNT EVEN YOU NEVER WROTE HIM BEFORE WHEN THINGS MATTERED A LOT MORE THAN THIS SO DONT NOW
I LOVE YOU
T
TO THE READER
Inasmuch as the world has long evinced the greatest interest in every scrap of writing associated with my father’s name, an interest that has not diminished appreciably in the twenty years that have now passed since his death; and since every person, who ever had occasion to converse with him or to overhear his remarks, has eagerly rushed his remembrance into print, no matter how slight the acquaintance, or trivial the matter, it may seem wonderful that a large number of pages from his hand could have survived until now without notice—and, in consequence, doubts as to their authenticity, or at the very least, a justifiable curiosity as to their provena
nce, may arise. Therefore I deem it my duty to give a brief account of how the following tale came into my hands, and why it only now comes before the reader—and if such a reader does indeed one day come to exist, and his eyes do indeed now fall upon my words, and upon his, he may trust that, whatever my interest in this matter has been, it is not pecuniary, or to seek celebrity for myself; for if ever his words and mine see the light of day, I shall be dead.
It may indeed be questioned, whether such a Work as this one is, containing passages—nay, entire ranges of subject—which can neither redound to the Author’s credit, nor without offence be put into the hands of a general readership, be worth preserving. In the present instance there is the additional question of the Work’s bearing upon the Author’s own history, therefore upon the vexed and much-bruited questions of his culpability at a certain crossroads of his life, one to which I was myself a blissfully ignorant witness. It should be remembered that certain parties deeply concerned in that history, including Lady Byron his wife, assembled together upon the Author’s death, and jointly agreed to put into the fire the Memoirs he had written, containing his own version of events as well as stories of his foreign adventures, which, though he had willingly committed them to paper, cannot but have harmed his memory, as well as injuring those others intimately concerned. Ought not the partial and unpolished Work now in my hands meet a similar fate? I can only answer that perhaps it ought, but that I myself cannot so consign it, as I could not myself have given his Memoirs to the flames; those of stronger fibre than myself have done, and must in future do, that service for Lord Byron, if service it be.
To my story:
In the years before and after the upheavals of 1848 I was privileged to know, through the good offices of my honoured friend Charles Babbage, several of the men in the circle around the sacred figure of Mazzini. Mr Babbage was always a friend of Liberty and the advancement of Man, and he delighted in the company of these men of Italy, who, exiled from their native land only for having its best interests at heart, were at times suspected and annoyed by the government of this land as well. Signor Silvio Pellico, Count Carlo Pepoli, and a man who became my special friend, Signor Fortunato Prandi: in the company of such men I heard of the regard in which my father was and still is held in their native land, and what he undertook in behalf of Italy, when he was residing in that country. It was from one of this number—I will not name him even posthumously, not because he requires a cloak of anonymity for any dishonourable action, but simply because from the beginning a secrecy was enjoined upon me in this endeavour that I will not now break—that I first learned of the existence of a manuscript, purported to be the work of Lord Byron, though in prose not verse, of which no other copy exists. According to the tale I was told—the truth or falsity of which I cannot now adequately examine—an Italian occasionally in the company of Lord Byron in the period of his residence in Ravenna acquired this manuscript, either by gift or other means; at some later time he consigned it to another, and this second possessor had recently revealed its existence to the gentleman who now told me of it. I asked if his acquaintance possessed the papers still. He did. I further asked if this gentleman had considered depositing them with Lord Byron’s executors, with the firm of John Murray, his publishers, or otherwise delivering them up to his heirs and assigns. The man had so considered, he said, and might have done, but for a number of difficulties. The chain of events that had led to his possession of the manuscript could be interpreted as the reception of stolen property, an imputation that could only be strengthened by the length of time he had held it without informing anyone. Moreover the possessor believed (my informant said) that the manuscript was of such value that it could be traded for money, of which the Republican cause was badly in need, and therefore he was loath to bring it to the attention of those who might claim it by right, without compensation. It was this obstacle which my interlocutor put before me. He would, he said, by any means he might, acquire this relict of my father, which by the laws of men and of Heaven belonged to me and to my children, and ask nothing in return, for himself or any other party or cause, no matter how worthy; but he begged me before enlisting his aid in this action to think first of the commotion that would immediately ensue upon any attempt to wrest the manuscript—containing who knew what—from the present possessor.
I did indeed bethink myself. What, for instance, would such a manuscript be worth? My father regarded his own manuscripts with a cavalier lack of interest, and often (after ensuring that a fair copy had been made) bestowed the originals on whomever stood by. Though the present age considers the remains of our famous authors to be worth having—certain collectors even paying goodly sums for such things—the amounts are in most cases but inconsiderable. How much good could the likely asking price do in the struggle for Italian freedom? Perhaps, I thought, it was not the provenance so much as the contents of the manuscript that in the possessor’s eyes made it worth acquiring; but of that I could know nothing without personal perusal. How, furthermore, could I be confident—it seemed impossible to be certain—that the monies demanded would actually benefit the cause to which my friends were devoted? If I received assurance on that score, then the acquisition of the manuscript might be considered as simply a means to an end desired in itself, even if the sum were incommensurate with the value of the thing bought. These calculations—and they arose as the operations of a mind stringently logical in its operations, as I may aver few minds are—were akin to those that devotees of the turf are accustomed to make when pondering the imponderables of a race card.
Having come to a conclusion in which I could have confidence, I implored my friends’ assistance. I wished, I said, even if it were unwise for me to negotiate for the papers in my own person, to have at least a look at the present possessor of them; and my informant said that this might be arranged—I could observe, if I liked, an examination of the aforesaid manuscripts in a public place, where I might remain anonymous. The funds wherewith to purchase the papers I could supply from my own resources, and after negotiations to which I was not a party, a sum was named to me, to which I agreed. The meeting-place settled upon, where a first examination would take place, was the Crystal Palace exhibition halls, specifically the Dome of Discovery where Dr. Merryweather’s Tempest Prognosticator was then displayed, an engine which I had in any case a curiosity to see. Accompanied by my trustworthy acquaintance, and a female companion who was uninformed of our intentions, veiled and inconspicuous, I went to the gallery above named at the hour specified. I cannot now say with any certainty what I may have learned of Dr. Merryweather’s interesting device, for all my attention was upon the meeting, at a little distance from where my companion and I stood, of the gentleman engaged for me and the possessor of the manuscripts. The latter was an unprepossessing fellow, grey of hair and slight of frame, a gold ring in his left ear the only mark of the adventurer about him. I can say nothing more about this personage, who after passing to my friend a shabby portmanteau, the contents of which he permitted to be but briefly examined, rose from his seat, and disappeared into the throng. I have never seen him more, nor heard further of his fate.
When I had been assured of the nature of the manuscripts, insofar as my friend was able to ascertain it, I agreed to the payment; and under circumstances dictated by the possessor—again involving a public place, and anonymity—that portmanteau or carpet-bag was acquired on my behalf. I am assured that the sum which that day changed hands was put to the promised uses, but of that also I can furnish no further details. When the bag was later delivered to me, I found inside, wrapped in oiled parchment, the novel upon which you, gentle Reader, in whose existence I shall continue to believe, may now embark, as I did then—I hope with less difficulty than I at first encountered. Many of the pages were foxed and faded, some were out of order, and Lord Byron’s hand was never an easy one for me (I had as a child never been given any of the letters he had written to me, or to my mother; indeed I had never seen his handwritin
g until Mr John Murray presented me with the manuscript of his poem Beppo, when I was a married lady whose morals it was presumed would not be harmed by the poem). At the head of the first page was the title—as I assumed—though it seemed, as I began my first perusal, an odd one indeed, and I wondered—I looked again, and determined that the words were written in a different ink, by a different pen, perhaps at a different time, which caused me to wonder the more.
I told not spouse nor parent what I had, and certainly not the world; and that for reasons which students of my unfortunate family (of whom there is an army, and new recruits daily) will understand. What my father had written was, for that time, mine alone. I set about making a fair copy, even as I learned to read the hand. I shall not describe with what emotions I did so.
I had at that time reached what I may call an epoch in my feelings about my paternal ancestors. Not long before, my husband William, Lord Lovelace, and I had accepted an invitation to visit Newstead, the ancestral seat of the Byrons in Nottinghamshire, now in the possession of Colonel Wildman, once Lord Byron’s schoolfellow at Harrow. There—amid scenes where the father I never knew was wont to roam and to make merry; where his forebears worthy and profligate had lived, and whose incomes they had wasted, in former ages; where nearby stands the little parish church, in whose crypt my father lies with his people—I know not how, but all that I seemed once to have known concerning that troubled and tempestuous spirit, all that I had been taught to think about him—and to hold him guilty of—all vanished, or lifted as cloud; and I knew myself to be, with all my own faults, a Byron too, as was he, with his: and if I could not love him, without charges upon his soul, I could not love myself, or his grandchildren that were my children. In a letter that is quoted in the Life written by Mr Thomas Moore, Lord Byron stated his belief that a woman cannot love a man for himself who does not love him for his crimes. No other love, says he, is worthy the name. Whether or not my own soul is capable of so august an ideal of love, I hold it to be applicable as well to a daughter as to a spouse; and none may hinder me now from aspiring to it.
