by Julia Gray
‘One seventh, milady,’ Mr Babbage replies.
‘And why is the machine so named?’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Yes. The Difference Engine is named thus because of the principle on which it is founded: the method of finite differences. In order to produce more or less any kind of arithmetical table, you see, all that is required is a machine that can add orders of difference – provided, of course, that one enters the initial values. Do you... do you see?’
Mamma nods slowly. ‘I do see,’ she says. ‘If one wishes to count: one, three, five, seven, and so forth, then the difference, each time, is two. It is a fixed order of difference.’
All thoughts of James Hopkins forgotten entirely, I edge a little closer to the machine. How nice that it is named for its ability to judge differences; I, Ada, have always adored those small moments in which a difference can be perceived – the windmills on the Continent, for example, or the taste of chocolate. So much can be measured in terms of differences, after all; it seems somehow fitting, and quite brilliant, that Mr Babbage has designed a machine to do exactly that.
‘Multiplication can be done by the same process,’ says Mr Babbage. ‘Multiplication is a form of addition, after all.’
‘Mr Babbage,’ I say. ‘What inspired you to use cogwheels for this machine?’
He looks at me and seems pleased to be able to answer. (See, Mamma, I think. I am pertinent.)
‘Indeed, it’s a perfectly apt question. The nature of the cogwheel seemed indicated from the first, although in fact each wheel has to be made by hand at great expense. What I – and others – have spent on it all so far! I can hardly begin to tell you... Now: each wheel has a certain quantity of “teeth”, as you can see. Those teeth stand for numbers; there are ten fixed positions for each wheel.’
‘Base ten,’ says Mamma, nodding.
‘Exactly. The wheel at the bottom represents the units. The one above, the tens; the one above that, the hundreds, you see. Though not yet thousands, I fear, not on this model. Allow me to show you.’
For a few moments he busies himself, turning a few of the wheels with gentleness and precision. ‘A simple calculation, to begin with,’ he mutters. Now he takes hold of the handle, and the arms of the demonstration piece begin to oscillate, dancing to their own peculiar choreography.
Click... click... click. It is strange music, this; soothing in its repetitions, but startling in its newness.
‘I envisage, one day, a printer,’ says Mr Babbage. ‘For now, results can be read from this display. Here.’
He shows us, and we watch in silent fascination. He performs a variety of calculations for us, raising numbers to their second and third powers, and even – by some wondrous means that I cannot quite fathom – extracting the root of a quadratic equation. I watch the wheels click and whirr – they are quieter than I might have imagined, and feel a silvery thrill unfold across my palms.
‘I do not understand,’ says Mamma. ‘What is preventing you from building the machine proper?’
Mr Babbage says: ‘Dear lady, it is a rather longer story than I fear I have the patience to tell... I first sought funding for the Engine – well, it must be twelve years ago now. I don’t think the Home Secretary, Mr Peel, saw the point of what I wanted to do: he thought the hand-printed mathematical tables were accurate enough, even though we both knew that they were prone to errors. But he referred the matter to the Royal Society. They discussed it and allowed me an initial grant. I took my plans to Europe. They were far more interested. When I returned, I asked the Duke of Wellington for more money. I built a workshop on land that adjoins this property, in the expectation that my machinist, Mr Clement, would come to reside with his family above the workshop, so that he might devote himself fully to the Difference Engine. That he was loath to do. The fellow submitted a bill for work done last year that was, frankly, extortionate. I refused to pay until he agreed to move; he then fired every man in his employment. My hope is that I shall find another machinist, but until an agreement has been made with Clement, I doubt he’ll hand over the pieces of the machine that have already been crafted.’
We listen to this tale of frustration and complexity in silence. Mamma ventures a sympathetic word or two, as Mr Babbage draws his remarks to a close, and he thanks her for her understanding.
‘This whole business,’ he says, ‘has been a fiasco.’
‘Well,’ says Mamma, as we journey home. ‘I think I have understood the basic principles of his machine. Such uniformity of function. And, apart from the handle, fully automated. I am impressed. I could see, Ada, that you were too.’
I would like to demur, just for the thrill of irritating her, but I cannot in all good conscience do that. Instead, I say: ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’
Mamma chatters on in her precise way, recounting the evening’s events as though to describe them to one who had been absent. I let her talk. The thunderous roll of the cab wheels is quite distinct from the smooth operation of Mr Babbage’s machine. It wasn’t just the beauty of the thing that kept my eyes fastened to it, mapping every rotation, every ripple; its real beauty was its inhuman accuracy. Pictures appear in my head of ships crossing ice-strewn waters without fear, safe in the knowledge that their navigators are in possession of flawless numerical tables with which to steer them...
‘It is a shame that Mr Babbage cannot build the fully-sized machine,’ I say.
I am thinking again of Flyology; of the anguish I suffered when I realised that I would not be able to build my own flying machine. It is a sad thing indeed when a dream is prevented from coming to fruition.
Then I add, ‘He seems the sort of man who will not allow such setbacks to deter him. I wonder... I do think, Mamma, that he will find a way.’
Although I shall not meet Mr Babbage again for some time, I shall not forget this first glimpse of the demonstration piece. Its motions have imprinted themselves on the fabric of my brain; as we journey home, I close my eyes, and realise that I can still see those wheels turning.
Piccadilly, London
September 1833
I am attending a dance – another one; I have gone to so many that I have lost count of them – and since there does not seem to be anyone interesting to talk to here, I have slipped away from the crowd in search of silence. I try various rooms on the ground floor of the house in Piccadilly – it belongs to a distant friend of my mother’s – before settling on a deserted drawing room. The fire is unlit, and the room is cold; wishing I had a shawl, I wander around the room, looking for something to occupy my thoughts. The sound of a waltz echoes faintly from another part of the house.
The walls are hung with woven silks in delicate floral patterns of red and blue. Once, a year ago, I might not even have noticed the wall-hangings. But now, every time I see a richly-embroidered silk or piece of brocaded upholstery, the same thing happens: I don’t just see the fabric itself, and the workmanship; I see the machine that was used so successfully in its working, and then, without fail, think of the designer of that machine. I imagine him as a child (for it is always a man), and try to guess at his habits, his childish games and whims.
What was it about Joseph Marie Jacquard – the peculiar balance of brilliance – that made him come up with his loom? I think he must have been a good mathematician. To envisage a system in which punched cards can inform a visual design requires a mind that understands complex calculations. But he wasn’t just a mathematician; he also understood fabric, which seems the opposite of mathematical, somehow, all soft waves and gentle folds. I wonder if it was the combination of those things that provided the magical formula for his creation. Could have there been something more, besides?
And then there’s Mr Babbage, who longs to have the wherewithal to make his Difference Engine a reality. On the night I saw it, I was unable to sleep for thinking about it, and now, three months later, I am thinking about it still. I would like
very much to see it again. I have asked Mamma if she might write to Mr Babbage, but she has not done so. I believe that she did not quite appreciate what the machine represented: yes, it can count mechanically, but more than this, it shows that we can use machinery to further scientific pursuits in ways that hithertofore we have perhaps only dreamed about.
In other words: if Mr Babbage can design a machine that can perform accurate calculations by means of the finite order of differences, then what else can be designed? What else can be done?
I imagine Mr Babbage as a young boy, nudging beads on an abacus into ever-more-intricate configurations, puzzling at their potential, testing their limits. What do they have in common, Mr Babbage and Mr Jacquard? There must be something... something that is not explained by mere intellect, or deep knowledge... I puzzle and puzzle over it, before I think that I begin to see. It is the ability to look beyond the scope of what is currently possible, as though diving into deep water and opening one’s eyes, ready to take in all the wonder of the ocean floor. It is the ability to connect two ideas together – two ideas that might, on the surface, have little to do with each other, but somehow can be partnered in a way that conjures magic. It’s similar, really, to what a good writer, a good poet, can do with a metaphor.
It’s the letter I again, I realise, weaving its charms: idea, inspiration, impression, imagination... the words light up like stars in the shadowy room. Invention too. And insight.
If all words were stricken from the dictionary but those, I wouldn’t mind, for as long as we still have ideas, we will flourish.
It seems to me now that we are living in an Age of Ideas. I’ve heard it called a Mechanical Age, and that’s no doubt true, but before the machines – and there are many – came the ideas that sparked their design. Whenever I think of any new marvel of design – the steam train, the sewing machine, the dynamo – I think also of the mind that made it. Take, for example, the Jacquard loom. When I first saw it at the Adelaide with Mary Montgomery, it imprinted itself on me with the ferocity of white-hot iron. The loom changed things for me, in a way that I wasn’t quite aware of at the time, since I was fairly absorbed in my affair of the heart (or whatever it was; certainly, there were body parts involved) when we first went to the Gallery of Practical Science.
And then, as I think about all this, as befits an I-loving Ada, I think also of me. Is it so wrong, so swollen-headed and presumptuous of me, to hope that one day I might be able to design something to rival those machines?
I dream of it.
But I am under no illusions about the fact that if I am ever to achieve anything of the magnitude of a loom, or an engine, then I must work hard. And I must have further instruction. Understandably, perhaps, my mother has not appointed any new tutors for me lately. I correspond with Dr King, and sometimes with Arabella Lawrence and with Dr Frend, and have to content myself with their guidance from afar, but I want to learn different things. I am ready to learn them.
I tell myself that I will know my new teacher when I meet him.
I am just thinking rather fondly of this moment – hoping that it will come sooner rather than later – when I hear someone enter the room. I look around, startled, to see a tall young man with a thatch of golden hair – really absurdly golden, as though he is auditioning for the role of Apollo – smiling at me.
‘Oh,’ he says softly. ‘I didn’t realise that there was anyone in here.’
I bow my head politely. ‘I’m afraid I’m hiding,’ I say.
‘You don’t care to dance?’
‘Not always. It depends on my mood, I suppose,’ I say.
‘Mine also.’ He introduces himself. ‘My name is Charles Knight,’ he says, with a low bow.
‘Ada Byron.’
He smiles; I realise he knows who I am, just as most people seem to know who I am. ‘Would you care to return to the party? We needn’t dance,’ he adds.
I agree to this – after all, why not? I can’t hide from potential suitors for ever – and take his arm, realising with a strange jolt that this is the first proper touch that I have engaged in (dancing not included) since the time of James Hopkins. I can’t resist a comparison between the two. This man is older than Mr Hopkins, and taller, and more confident in himself, for I realise now that James Hopkins was not really a very confident person. He was, for example, far more intimidated by Mamma than I wanted him to be. Does this Mr Knight know everything about me? I wonder. Has he read my father’s poetry? Did he ever hear the rumour – the one that Mamma sought so desperately to suppress? Does he...
I wish that my Ada-brain would, occasionally, turn itself off.
We arrive in time for a quadrille, and some tacit agreement passes between us that we may as well join in. As we dance, Mr Knight talks about himself. He is passionate, he tells me, about the railways. ‘I am keen to invest in them,’ he says. ‘To me, the advent of railway travel is the most significant development of our modern era.’
This kind of talk pleases me, and as the dance progresses in its decorous way we discuss all manner of new developments. We move, after a time, from steam engines to engines of other kinds. I describe to him Mr Babbage’s new machine, and he is all astonishment and interest; at the end of the dance, again by some kind of unspoken mutual agreement, we drift over to the refreshments table and continue to talk.
‘To hear you speak so eloquently of the workings of this engine is most delightful,’ says Mr Knight.
‘I only hope that Mr Babbage will secure the required funding to be able to build it,’ I say.
‘Has the government given him much?’
‘A good deal, I believe – some nine thousand in grants, to say nothing of the costs of the machinist.’
‘Nine thousand! Why, you could build a battleship with that,’ says Mr Knight.
‘He has been plagued with other difficulties besides money.’
Mr Knight smiles ruefully. ‘Ah, yes. It’s odd, isn’t it, how the most generous provision is never enough. Perhaps your mother will take an interest in the project?’
At this moment, I actually see Mamma on the other side of the ballroom. As usual, she is eating something – I never knew anyone with a more insatiable appetite than hers – and dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘Mamma? Oh, she is indeed very interested,’ I say. ‘It was she who took me to meet Mr Babbage, earlier this year.’
‘Lady Noel Byron is well-known for her intellect,’ replies Mr Knight. He smiles again, broadly, easily. We look at each other. I am quite attracted to him – it’s the air of self-assurance, I think, and that Apollonian demeanour. Mr Knight goes on: ‘And – who knows? Perhaps Mr Babbage will also find in her a benefactress.’
Mamma hasn’t seen me yet, and I can’t resist allowing the conversation to go on a little longer. It is a delicious feeling – I think, for some reason, of the Cooking with Gas demonstration I once witnessed at the Adelaide with Mary Montgomery. Those flames that danced so enticingly as they roasted the pigeon. Now I imagine twirling a lazy forefinger ever closer to those flames, daring them to scorch my skin.
‘I would be most pleased to see you again, Miss Byron,’ says Mr Knight.
I, Ada, have attended enough soirées in my first Season to be well able now to spot the sort of man who would steal from church altars if he thought nobody was watching. Such a man, without doubt, is Mr Knight. There is indeed a twinkle in his eye that is quite impossible to miss: glassy, leering, what Mamma described once as ‘a particular gleam’. There have been other clues: his mentioning of my mother’s money, several times, in a talk that has only lasted about twenty minutes; the fact that he sought me out in an empty room, pretending that it was a chance meeting.
It is time to extract myself from an encounter that I have been prolonging solely for my own amusement.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘I—’
‘Ada.’
&n
bsp; It’s quite incredible how much weight Mamma can get into two syllables, sometimes. I turn around, and there she is.
I am very used to being stared at by my mother at dances, and very able to translate her range of expressions. There’s the mildly approving smile when I am ‘behaving myself’ and speaking to the right kind of person. There’s the slanted left brow and pursed lips when there is some aspect of my being that is in want of improvement. And there’s the other look – which manages to be both curiously blank and full to bursting-point of emotion at the same time – that is currently crossing her face. That look tells me this: Mamma does not like Mr Knight.
She extracts me, with as much vigour and flapping of hen-like wings as the Furies used to show in their days of constant vigil at Fordhook. Once we are safely out of earshot of my gold-headed interlocutor, she says: ‘Ada, I expected better of you.’
‘What is wrong with Mr Knight?’ I say innocently. ‘I realise the man has no title, but—’
‘The man is a renowned fortune hunter. Not to be trusted.’
‘Oh, Mamma, I am sorry,’ I say, feigning contrition. ‘I hadn’t any idea.’
‘That,’ says Mamma, ‘is a great shame. As I said, Ada, I expected better of you.’
Fordhook, Ealing
February 1834
All through the autumn and winter last year, I waited; through Brighton balls and sojourns at spa towns and cathedral concerts; smiling upon unsuitable young men with that particular gleam in their eye, and other young men, more suitable, whom I should instantly forget... and other young men still, who perhaps wanted to dance with me only so that they could relate the encounter at a later date – young men who would never in a hundred years truly wish to associate themselves with the most vulgar woman in all England... yes: through all of this, I waited for the teacher to appear. The one that I was sure would come, if only I were patient enough.
