by Julia Gray
Does that not explain almost every action she has ever taken? The long absences when I was an infant... The lessons that I was subject to from an early age; the harsh punishments and grudging rewards; the cold smiles and closed-down conversations... The Furies who watched my every move... The love affair they put a stop to with no thought at all for my feelings or desires... The way my mother always tried to change the way my brain worked – the people she enlisted to help her do so! Miss Stamp, and Dr King, and Mr Frend... those constant efforts to trammel, and organise, and contain... writing to Mr Murray to make sure that I could never publish a book...
It is making me ill, and I know that it is making me ill, and yet I cannot stop thinking about it all. I feel like Pandora, who lifted the lid so innocently on a chest full of evils and watched in helpless horror as they crawled out into the world. Despite an outward calm that I force myself to present – I do not want the attention of any of her physicians – I am ablaze with inward noise, a storm cloud of ill-contained feeling. I wake with headaches that remind me of my early childhood – hard slices of pain that seem to cleave my head in half. On occasion, I open a book and try to read, then realise that I cannot see the words because they have melted into a messy triplicate. I sleep badly. The summer-soft contentedness of the Buxton hotel seems to belong to a very distant past.
London
October 1834
‘How are you finding London life?’ asks Mary Montgomery.
It is October now. We have just been to the Royal Institute, where we attended a lecture on chemistry. Since the weather is fine, we are walking now across St James’ Park, talking of the lecture at first, and then about London life in general.
‘I am glad to be in town,’ I tell her. ‘There is more to see, and more to do.’
‘But you must look on Fordhook as home, and miss it.’
I bite my lip, withholding a surge of bitterness. I don’t know that I think of anywhere as home nowadays; how can I? Sometimes I think about telling Mary how I feel – my theories about my mother, what happened between my parents, everything – but there is so much to tell, and for all that she is a mentor of mine, she is foremost my mother’s friend. It would not be safe to tell her, and I do not think that I would feel better if I did. Sometimes I feel as though there is so much feeling walled up inside me that it wouldn’t be safe for anyone around me if I were to let it out.
The worst of my theories – the one I hide inside the smallest, darkest compartment of my soul – is that my mother is actually responsible for the death of my father. The principle upon which this is based is the scientific one of cause and effect: she treated him with coldness and sought to control him; he was unable to live with her in those circumstances; wanting to be free to write his verses, he was forced to flee the country rather than subject her to a humiliating public separation with both parties living in England; with no one to look after him but a single valet, his health suffered, as anyone’s would if they were living alone abroad.
And then, as a consequence, he died...
No: I will not share this with Mary Montgomery. I blink, forcing the thoughts somewhere deep inside myself. Then I say: ‘Mr Babbage and Mrs Somerville are both in London, and I am glad to spend more time in their company. And yours too, of course, dearest Mary.’
The leaves are every shade between umber and gold. Fire colours. The sky is a warm pinkish orange in the late afternoon. Nature’s secrets are there to be discovered, if only one can find the key to open each little mother-of-pearl box. A carriage rattles by; three young men, all elongated elegance, nod to me and Mary as they pass. We are not walking quickly, and yet I suddenly find that I am breathless. Not wanting to let Mary know that anything is wrong, I press a hand to my side and hope that my energy will be renewed. But before long I have slowed to a halt. Mary urges me to sit down on a bench; I do so. My head is the weight of a planet; I let it fall into my hands, leaning my elbows on my knees.
‘Ada,’ says Mary Montgomery. ‘You are not well.’
‘I am as well as I ever have been,’ I say.
‘Your mother doesn’t think so.’
‘My mother,’ I say, ‘knows nothing about me. Nothing, nothing at all.’
I look sideways at Mary Montgomery, expecting her to react strongly to this statement. But instead she is looking ahead, perplexed. Then she reaches for my hand, helping me to my feet. ‘There’s something happening,’ she says. ‘Are you well enough to walk?’
Looking around, I realise that she is right – people are moving more rapidly past us than they should be, some streaming towards whatever is taking place beyond the park gates, and others streaming just as quickly away from it... I can hear shouts and screams, as though some kind of monster has risen out of the Thames.
‘Ada, no. It could be dangerous,’ says Mary.
‘I want to see,’ I protest, setting off in the same direction as the crowd. I look at the sky and realise that the colour is no mere sunset: something is on fire. Something big.
Mary calls to a tall gentleman who is coming the other way so fast that he is likely to knock someone over or trip in his haste. ‘What is happening, please?’
‘Fire! The Palace of Westminster is on fire,’ he shouts, already vanishing into the gathering shadows.
We emerge from the park into a glut of people that seems to be growing larger by the second, like a swarm of flies around rotting flesh. A chain of soldiers keeps them from getting too close. A rose glow – what I had mistaken for an early sunset – emanates from the top of the Palace of Westminster, where Parliament gathers. Slipping free of Mary, I move to join the crowd. Two ladies of middle age are clutching each other’s arms and wailing dramatically, like a Greek chorus. Little boys with grubby faces dart to and fro, trying to get past the soldiers, uttering exclamations of wonder and glee.
A chimney-sweep is chuckling to himself. ‘They’ll let us sweep it now, I’ll bet a guinea,’ he says.
‘Oh, what flames!’ says someone, bursting into half-hysterical laughter.
And suddenly I am laughing too – horribly, ecstatically – and the laugh that is falling from my throat sounds nothing at all like me, Ada. I am transformed, a fire-banshee, squealing with all the ecstasy of a demon that feeds on fire. I laugh so much that my ribs ache from it, and only when Mary reaches me and digs her fingers into my arm do I realise that I am also crying.
She propels me backwards, out of the crowd. ‘Ada! What are you thinking? People will notice you—’
‘They won’t notice anything but the fire,’ I say, but I am already feeling embarrassed and guilty; I shouldn’t have done that; I shouldn’t have allowed her to see me do it. But oh, those flames, those extraordinary flames... and the vault of heat that rose from the palace roof... I felt something – something indescribable – as I stared at those flames: it was as though a part of me were also on fire, and I felt all the pain of it, and the ecstasy also. I was Ada no longer; I was a phoenix, reborn, reforged... it was as though a little valve had been opened inside of me, releasing something that had been trapped for the longest time.
If my father had been there, surely, surely he would have laughed, just as I did, at the sight of it.
My lips move automatically, reciting another of his poems, one fit for the occasion:
‘The palaces of crowned kings – the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,
And men were gather’d round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face.’
Dorset Street, London
November 1834
Mr Babbage is holding another of his Saturday-evening soirées. I am attending with Mary Somerville; Mamma is not present (her health, she says, will not allow it). There is the usual mix of people, including a young journalist named Mr Dickens whom
I have never met before. Mr Dickens writes political sketches and has covered many aspects of the recent electoral campaigns. I enjoy talking to him – he has rather piercing brown eyes, and gives the impression of deep thought. Our discussion becomes political in nature.
‘What do you think of our new Prime Minister?’ I ask him.
‘Mr Peel is a fine old English gentleman,’ he replies, in wry tones that suggest he might think quite the reverse.
Mr Babbage interjects. ‘Know him fairly well. He gave me my first lot of funding. Doubt if he’ll give me any more.’
‘Oh, but he must,’ I say. ‘He has to understand what you are hoping to do.’
‘Miss Byron,’ says Mr Babbage. ‘Sometimes I fear that I don’t understand what I am trying to do.’
I know Mr Babbage well enough now to understand that these sudden dips and peaks in his spirits are to be expected. I say: ‘Tell me about the new machine you are thinking of designing.’
He brightens at once. ‘As you know, I was more or less exhausted by everything to do with the wretched Difference Engine – been feeling that way for some time, what with all the disagreements with Clement, my machinist, and the government and everything else.’
I nod sagely. I have always wondered whether Mr Babbage’s manner goes against him, sometimes. He isn’t the most tactful of men, and he doesn’t always explain himself well. But now isn’t the time to say such a thing – and, indeed, I couldn’t possibly. I wait for him to continue.
‘Then, in July, I started scribbling. Thinking, as you know, of a machine that could tabulate all functions – using every operation – and that could take the results of a calculation and utilise those resultsfor further calculations. You see?’
‘Yes... yes,’ I say.
‘The image that comes to me is of a serpent eating its own tail,’ says Mr Babbage. ‘Or an engine laying down its own railway tracks, perhaps. Come. I shall show you.’
Mr Dickens is deeply engrossed in conversation with someone else. With great, purposeful strides, Babbage leads me to the room next door. I’ve never seen such a sea of paper as now lies before us – great rectangular sheets littering every surface, each covered in a dense language of sketches and shapes and notations. I move closer to the sea of paper; my hand moves independently of my body, reaching out to touch the edge of one of the sheets. Yes: I can see that this machine represents something very different indeed to its predecessor. He has written labels here and there: leaning even closer, I see the word ‘mill’, and also the word ‘store’ – on the face of it, strange terms indeed, but even as I am thinking this, something at the back of my mind begins ticking over... for surely they remind me of something?
‘The machine will be powered by steam,’ says Mr Babbage. ‘I’ve found a new machinist. A Mr Jarvis. He will, I hope, be of great assistance to me. And less troublesome than Mr Clement. At the moment, Miss Byron, there is a good deal that I do not see... But I have a vision of some kind of device – something you could insert, somehow, into the machine to instruct the engine to perform whatever function is required. I can’t quite conceive of how, but I do think that... yes, it might be possible.’
‘What will you call this machine?’ I say.
‘I mean to call it the Analytical Engine.’
There’s a lump in my throat; clearing it with a small cough, I say: ‘May I... may I borrow some of these plans? I’d like to study them, if I may.’
Mr Babbage looks surprised but not displeased. ‘Why, certainly, Miss Byron. I have duplicates of many of them. Take... let’s see, now – yes. Take this paper, and this one. I believe they will give you as accurate a picture as anything could of what I have in mind.’
When we leave the Dorset Street house, I am clutching a folder, stuffed with papers and tied with string. ‘Oh, Mrs Somerville, I could weep with excitement,’ I say. ‘To be given Mr Babbage’s plans for his new machine... why, I feel very honoured indeed.’
‘And so you should,’ says Mrs Somerville. ‘He thinks very highly of you. And so do I.’
‘Really, it is the most delicious problem,’ I say, as the carriage transports us down the dim gas-lit street. ‘Mr Babbage knows what he wants to achieve, but not how; he believes in himself, and in all that might be possible – and that... that is probably enough. I once had a governess who told me how important it is to believe in yourself. Oh, I am sure that he will manage it one day. It’s the... magical potential of the thing that’s so exciting, isn’t it?’
I am babbling now; not making very much sense.
‘Ada,’ says Mrs Somerville, ‘I noticed earlier that you ate no dinner.’
‘I couldn’t,’ I say. ‘I just don’t feel hungry these days.’
‘Perhaps, but the body needs food. You are becoming very thin.’
This comes as a surprise, and then not a surprise. I have noticed that my hip-bones stick out more than they used to; my wrists are bonier, and my face is more gaunt. I have noticed; I just haven’t cared.
‘You will forgive me, Ada, if I give you some advice,’ says Mary Somerville. ‘As one who is concerned for your well-being, I wonder if you should not give me those plans for safe-keeping. I shall return them to Mr Babbage.’
‘But why?’ I say.
‘Because I think this is all too much for you,’ says Mary Somerville. ‘You would do well to leave these intellectual pursuits for now, and do earthlier things instead.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Such as needlework.’
‘Oh, I cannot think of needlework now,’ I say, but I make an effort with my voice, trying to speak at a more regular pace. I do not want Mrs Somerville to report anything untoward to Mamma. I thank my companion for her consideration, and by the time we part ways, I believe that I have convinced her that my equilibrium is fully restored.
But as I climb the stairs to my bedroom, the folder under my arm, I am shaking.
Wimpole Street, London
November 1834
‘Good news, Ada,’ says Mamma, approaching with a letter in her hand. She has the rosy, excited expression that she usually reserves for mutton chops, or syllabub. ‘Mary Somerville has written.’
‘Does Mr Babbage make progress with the building of the new machine?’
‘There is no mention of Mr Babbage,’ says Mamma. ‘I wish you would abandon your fervid interest in it. I have seen you studying the plans – yes, don’t pretend that you haven’t been, Ada.’
A wave of heat rises in me at once. I wish she wouldn’t do that – notice everything. It makes me feel as trapped as a prisoner in Mr Bentham’s panopticon.
‘I must tell you that you are mistaken in your excitement about it,’ Mamma goes on. ‘I am convinced, as I’ve told you before, that Mr Babbage’s ideas are fundamentally unsound. And now: do you not wish to hear what Mrs Somerville has to say?’
‘Very well,’ I say, resigned, wondering inwardly how she could possibly have decided that Mr Babbage’s ideas are unsound.
A dramatic in-breath. ‘Mary’s son Woronzow has identified a suitable candidate for marriage!’ Squinting down at the letter, my mother reads aloud: ‘ “Lord King is an old acquaintance of mine from our Trinity days. He will inherit large estates in both Surrey and Somerset. A tall, genial young man, some eleven or twelve years Ada’s senior, he is quite clearly in want of a wife.” ’
Tall, genial. Is he a giraffe? I am already resolved to hate him. I am very fond of Woronzow, and consider him to have excellent judgement, but he is doing this for Mamma, and not for me. This Lord King will no doubt please the mother and not the daughter; I do not see how he can possibly appeal to both of us. Also, if he is so clearly in want of a wife, why does he not already have one? There must be something wrong with him. I amuse myself by thinking about what this might be.
‘There are other points in his favour too,’ Mamma goes on, �
�apart from wealth and title, both of which are a sine qua non. Firstly, he has lived abroad for some time, and thus will most likely be quite unaware of the... Events of Last Year.’
Mamma has always such difficulty referring to the affair with James Hopkins that her awkwardness about it has infected my own memories of it, and I am now as acutely embarrassed about the shed and everything that went on there as she is herself.
‘What else?’ I say. An ache starts behind my eyes, the kind of hollow burning sensation with which I am only too familiar these days.
‘She... Now, where did... ah. Here it is. “The most amusing part of all this is that Lord King cherishes an affection for all things Byronic that borders on a delightful obsession. Not only does he possess a charming portrait of himself done up to look as much like Lord Byron as possible (which he commissioned while working for Lord Nugent in Corfu); he has also named the fields of his Surrey estate, Ockham Park, after Lord Byron’s poems. I have spoken to Woronzow at length and we both agree: it is impossible to imagine a suitor who could be a better match for our precious Ada than William King.” ’
My mother lays the letter down and beams at me. ‘Well?’ she says.
I am momentarily without the faculty of speech. Then I say: ‘There is no possible way that I will be prevailed upon to marry this man.’
‘Ada, but why not?’
‘For a start, he sounds like a collector. Fields named after my father’s poems – a portrait in the Byronic style – he... he sounds like the kind of man who would lie in wait for Harriet Siddons outside Drury Lane with an autograph-book!’
‘Oh, don’t be absurd—’
‘He wouldn’t be marrying me; he’d be marrying an Idea.’ The longer I think about it, the more furious I feel – that Woronzow, an intelligent man, and Mary, the woman whose intellect I revere more than anyone’s – could have come up with this. ‘He would build a glass case for me, and prod me, and show me off, and watch me for all traits Byronic – those very traits which you have always discouraged in me – and assess me for moral deviance, just as you have always done.’
