When she was my age, thirty-five years earlier, she, too, had been introduced into Society, but in Edinburgh rather than London. “I reveled in it,” she told me, “all of it—the parties, the balls, attending the theatre and concerts, paying calls on friends, and, of course, the innocent flirtations.”
“I think a woman can enjoy both mathematics and a fine country-dance,” I said, remembering the sheet music Mr. Babbage had left on the table to prompt the Duke of Wellington to recall the Difference Engine whenever he attended a ball. “I certainly do.”
“And why not? Music is quite mathematical, you know. I’ve often thought of music as the marriage of mathematics and poetry—”
My ordinarily poised mentor seemed to stumble over the word. She paused and studied me for a moment, as if judging its effect on me. It struck me then that she was one of the few people of my acquaintance who never asked me about my father or rhapsodized about his poetry, how meaningful they found it, how it had shaped them, how they would always associate certain poems with particular times or experiences in their own lives. I wondered why she had not. Perhaps she did not care for my father’s poetry. Perhaps she refrained because of what I had said when we first met, that I would prefer to be known for my own accomplishments. Perhaps my mother had told her of her desire to rid me of any poetical impulses because of the dangerous Byron blood that flowed through my veins.
“‘The marriage of mathematics and poetry,’” I mused, determined to prove that I dared speak the word, that it held no power over me. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a more apt description of music.”
Mrs. Somerville smiled, her searching gaze grew relieved, and the tension of the moment passed.
On another occasion she told me about her first husband, Samuel Greig, whom she had married when she was twenty-four. He was an officer in the Russian navy when they met, but her parents, fearing he would take her to live in Russia and they would never see her again, consented to their marriage only after he was appointed the Russian consul in London. Within two years Mrs. Somerville bore him two sons—Woronzow Greig was the eldest; his younger brother was no longer living—but it was not motherhood that curtailed her studies. Even though Captain Greig had been well aware of her intellectual interests, after they married, he expected her to abandon mathematical pursuits and devote herself entirely to the duties of wife and mother. “He had a very low opinion of the capacity of our sex,” she said, her piercing gaze turning regretful, “and had neither knowledge of, nor interest in, science of any kind.”
“I cannot bear to think of a brilliant mind such as yours repeatedly stifled by men,” I said, impassioned. “Fathers and husbands seem to be the bane of every intelligent woman’s life.”
Except my mother’s, I realized suddenly. For all his faults, my father had never expected my mother to abandon her intellectual pursuits.
“Not all fathers and husbands deserve such censure,” Mrs. Somerville said, almost as if she could read my thoughts. “Let us not forget that it was my uncle who encouraged me to learn Latin and history, and my mother who was absolutely opposed to it.”
I nodded, conceding the point, but I felt a knot tightening in my stomach. I had thought that I should marry a gentleman who was interested in mathematics and science simply to improve the quality of our conversations, since we would be thrown together so often and would need to talk or go mad from boredom. It had never occurred to me that my future husband might forbid me to study.
When Mrs. Somerville told me that Captain Greig died three years after they married, my first feeling was relief, but I remembered to murmur condolences. She returned to Scotland with their two young sons and soon became well established in Edinburgh intellectual circles, befriending scientists, novelists, and statesmen. For the first time in her life, no one restricted her studies, and even in mourning, her intellect and imagination thrived.
Five years later, in 1812, she married Dr. William Somerville, her first cousin. “Dr. Somerville had read and traveled widely as an army doctor,” she said, “and he approved of education for women.”
“I would imagine that made all the difference in the world.”
“Yes, Miss Byron. It made all the difference then, and still does today.”
I nodded, understanding her unspoken warning. I would not forget it. How thankful I was that I had a fortune of my own, and therefore more choices. I did not hope to marry for love and passion—that dream had perished when Wills was lost to me—but I did long for friendship, companionship, and mutual respect. I could not imagine marrying any man who would demand that his bride relinquish something so essential to her very being as mathematics and science were to mine, but I would be a fool not to be watchful and wary.
That, I knew, could prove to be the most important lesson Mrs. Somerville would ever teach me.
I spent many happy and enlightening hours in Mrs. Somerville’s company. Chelsea was on the outskirts of London, quite remote, and sometimes if we attended a concert or lecture together, she would invite me to spend the night. In time I became quite good friends with her two daughters and her son Woronzow, who lived in Yorkshire and had recently become a barrister.
Mrs. Somerville was also very good friends with Mr. Babbage, of course, and as my mother was often disinclined to attend his soirées, Mrs. Somerville frequently offered to escort me. I enjoyed Mr. Babbage’s soirées more than any other social gathering, and I had attended many of the finest in Society. Mr. Babbage was humorous and intelligent, with an insatiable intellectual curiosity that compelled him to investigate an astonishing variety of topics in every conceivable field of study. With a pleased, proud smile he indulged my repeated requests to examine the Difference Engine, both the demonstration model displayed in the special dustless room in his house and the full-scale version in progress, if that was the proper term for a project that had stalled indefinitely, in the workshop out back.
So fascinated was I by the magnificent machine, and so eager to understand all its mysteries, that I sometimes could be thoughtless of my dear mentor, taking advantage of her friendship with Mr. Babbage to call on him between soirées. By midsummer, I hardly ever visited Mrs. Somerville without nonchalantly suggesting that we drive out to Dorset Street to call on our mutual friend. One afternoon in early July, I tested her patience so much that she rebuked me, albeit gently, for behaving as if her friendship was valuable to me only inasmuch as it granted me access to him.
“That isn’t so,” I protested. “In fact, when I first met Mr. Babbage, I valued him as a friend mostly because I hoped he would introduce me to you!”
Mrs. Somerville laughed, and she told me that she understood and that I must forgive her for chastising me. I quickly assured her that there was nothing to forgive, but although we parted as cheerfully as ever, as I rode home to Mayfair, I had time to reflect and to regret. Mrs. Somerville had always been unfailingly kind and patient with me, even when I was at my most enthusiastic and vexing. If she felt slighted, then I had surely slighted her, although I had not meant to.
As soon as I reached home, I hurried to my mother’s study, took up paper and pen, and dashed off a letter to my mentor.
Tuesday Evening, 8 July 1834
My Dear Mrs Somerville,
I am very much concerned that I must have seemed to you very presuming for always suggesting that we go to Dorset Street when I come to visit you, and I assure you I never meant to be so impudent. Nothing but my great interest in the Difference Engine could have made me so, I believe. But I think you must be fond enough of these sort of things to sympathize with my eagerness about them. I am afraid that when a machine, or a lecture, or anything of the kind, comes in my way, I have no regard for time, space, or any ordinary obstacles. This is the only excuse I can offer, and I regret that it is a poor one, but I trust you will always tell me whenever I encroach on your very great kindness.
Believe me eve
r,
Your sincerely obliged
A. Ada Byron
I spent an anxious few days awaiting her reply, and I felt faint with relief when she wrote to invite me to tea, saying nothing of the incident. Our friendship continued without interruption, but I was mindful for the first few weeks not to suggest that we call on Mr. Babbage. When we finally did ride out together to see him again, it was at Mrs. Somerville’s suggestion.
By that time, the political winds had shifted once more, and Lord Melbourne had become prime minister.
I knew that my mother had been writing to her cousin, and that he never failed to respond promptly and cordially. My heart raced with the certainty that this could be Mr. Babbage’s best hope, and I longed to be the agent of his triumph. “Mama, would you please speak to Lord Melbourne on Mr. Babbage’s behalf?” I pleaded. “What good are family connections if we don’t use them to help our friends? And it’s not only Mr. Babbage I’m thinking of. Consider the benefit to the entire country, to commerce and science and industry, if his engine is finally completed!”
“I’m sure Lord Melbourne is besieged by enough petitioners already without me clamoring for his attention,” my mother said. “I’ve told you, Ada, if I ever do beg a favor from my cousin, it will be for your sake or mine, and only because I have no other recourse.”
I knew it would do no good to badger her, so I acquiesced.
As the Season drew to a close at summer’s end, my mother announced her plans for us to travel in the north of England, where we would visit friends, explore the natural beauty of the countryside, and tour several newly constructed factories. My mother wanted to learn about recent advancements in industrial technology, as well as the condition of the workers, so she could better prepare the students of her industrial schools for the labor of the future. I thought this was an excellent idea, and I was curious to see how these machines—strong, hardworking, tirelessly productive—would compare to Mr. Babbage’s elegant, ingenious Difference Engine.
We were both in good spirits as we set out for the Midlands, determinedly so, for we would be spending a great deal of time together in close quarters, and disagreements would make the carriage claustrophobic. My mother had brought some books on educational theory to read on the trip, and I had brought a few mathematics texts and the latest issue of the Edinburgh Review, which included a favorable article on Mr. Babbage’s Difference Engine. I was not sure if the technical details would make sense to someone who had never seen the demonstration model in action, but if nothing else, I hoped the article would incite enough interest in the scientific community that the government would at last be induced to release his long-awaited funds.
Sometimes my mother and I took turns reading aloud from novels or the newspaper, but more often we dozed or admired the changing landscape through the windows. One morning, as we rambled along the road from Bakewell to Buxton, we approached a man walking ahead of us. Even from a distance he seemed familiar to me, and as we overtook him, my mother gave a start. “Good heavens, that’s Sir John Hobhouse.”
I craned my neck to look back, and upon seeing his face, I knew my mother was right. “What would he be doing out here, I wonder,” I mused as I watched him stride along with his walking stick in hand.
“Who knows?” said my mother dismissively. “Nothing good, I’m sure.”
I frowned slightly, thinking of Lady Byron’s kind, encouraging remarks about thinking for myself. “Should we offer him a ride?”
“Absolutely not.” I must have looked surprised, and she would never want to seem ungenerous, for she quickly added, “We’ve left him too far behind and it would be inconvenient for the driver to stop here. Besides, he’s probably out taking the air by choice. He can afford a carriage, if he wanted one.”
Bewildered, I watched as she settled back against the seat, and then I again peered out the window at the spare figure swiftly receding behind us. I muffled a sigh, knowing it would do no good to argue.
Soon thereafter the road passed through the beautiful wooded grounds of a lovely estate, and I was entranced by the play of sunlight through the leaves, the sparkling rush of a swift creek beside the road, a herd of deer gracefully crossing a meadow. “What an exquisite place,” I exclaimed. “Do we know the people who live here?”
“Of course we do,” my mother replied, her own gaze riveted on the passing scenery. “This is Halnaby, the seat of the Milbanke baronets. Your grandfather was the sixth baronet, and his nephew, Sir John Peniston Milbanke, became the seventh upon his death.”
“This estate was ours?”
“Not ours. My father’s.” A wistful shadow passed over her face. “Do you see that road, on the left? So many times, I could not guess how many, I rode my pony along it when I was a child.” She paused. “Your father and I spent our honeymoon here.”
“You did?” Little wonder she had never spoken of it to me.
“Yes, for three weeks in January of 1815. It looked quite different in winter than it does now in late summer, but it was still very beautiful, all shrouded in pure white snow and glistening with ice.”
I waited, but she said nothing more, and when she pressed her lips together and inhaled sharply, I knew that she would not welcome questions from a curious daughter. We did not stop to call on our Milbanke relations, so I was left to wonder.
No other sites we passed prompted such revealing reminiscences from my mother, except when we stopped overnight at the homes of her friends along the way, but the cheerful memories they shared of their girlhood exploits never included my father. Onward we traveled, and as we drew closer to our destination, my thoughts turned from the past to the future, which seemed to be rushing forward to meet us with invigorating speed.
Nothing else I had ever seen, except, perhaps, the steam locomotive, emphasized that the future would be fast, powerful, and full of promise as did the factories my mother and I toured that summer. We observed ribbons being made with blurring speed in Coventry and spar being cut at Ashby-de-la-Zouch. In Derby we watched potters toiling at their wheels and women and girls painting chinaware. While I admired the machinery and marveled at how swiftly various goods were produced, my mother spoke to the workers as well as their masters, querying them about working conditions, wages, hours, and whether they were treated respectfully and courteously by their supervisors.
For me, the most fascinating stop on our tour was a cotton-spinning mill on the west bank of the river Derwent in Matlock Bath, Derbyshire. It was powered by the river, not by steam, and in that sense it harkened back to an earlier age, but it boasted a Jacquard loom, which, although it had been first demonstrated in France thirty years before, was still considered new and revolutionary technology. With astonishing swiftness and accuracy, these mechanical looms could weave patterns from simple to very complex, creating fabrics such as brocade, damask, and matelassé. The most elaborate designs, usually woven in fine silk, were nearly indistinguishable from a painting.
I could not say how long I stood and watched the looms at work, enthralled, examining them from one angle and then another, as close as our guide would allow me to approach. I learned that the various designs were created by varying the position of the warp threads, those that are first put lengthwise into the loom. For a plain weave, a raised thread would be followed by a lowered thread in a regular pattern across the desired width of the cloth. More complex weaves could be created by varying the pattern of raised and lowered warp threads—but more elaborate patterns required more time and more attention from the weavers. Silks featuring the most intricate designs, richly detailed images such as still lifes, landscapes, and even portraits, were very popular but tremendously expensive.
What made the Jacquard loom truly ingenious was that the raising and lowering of warp threads was controlled not by a pair of skillful, attentive weavers, but rather by a series of punched cards. Each card corresponded to a single row of the cl
oth, with holes punched through the card to indicate to a system of hooks and harness whether the warp thread in that particular location should be raised or lowered, and what color thread should be used. Thus patterns of astonishing complexity could be flawlessly woven in a fraction of the time a pair of human weavers could accomplish the task. Working a Jacquard loom, we were informed, a single weaver could create figured fabrics twenty-four times faster than two weavers working a traditional loom, creating roughly two feet of luxurious fabric every day.
Simple stiff paper, plain and ostensibly unremarkable, those punched cards were the key to the Jacquard loom’s function. My mother was so impressed with them that she sketched one in her journal, while my gaze shifted from the sequence of punched cards to the flying lines of thread, to the exquisitely patterned fabric falling from the loom. The instructions for the weave were coded into the pattern of holes on the card, and thus the loom could carry them out without any person directly causing it to happen.
If punched cards could control a loom, why not another mechanical device, such as a calculating engine?
After that I could not think of the Jacquard loom without pondering what a similar system of punched cards could do for Mr. Babbage’s Difference Engine. My swiftly dawning awareness of the potential for making extraordinary mathematical calculations—for any sort of logical calculation—set my imagination soaring.
My mother had mistakenly called the Difference Engine a “thinking machine,” but this new machine I imagined, one capable of transcending mere mathematical calculations by employing a system of punched cards—perhaps it would be capable of rational thought, or something that looked very much like it.
If it could be designed, and if it could be built.
Our visit to the Midlands had been a revelation to me, and I could not wait to return to London and discuss my new insight with Mr. Babbage and Mrs. Somerville. But first we stopped in Buxton in Derbyshire to visit my mother’s friend Lady Gosford, who had come to the spa town with her two daughters to take the waters. My mother decided that her health, too, would benefit from the geothermal springs of Saint Ann’s Well, so she arranged lodgings for us and told us that we might remain a fortnight or more, depending upon how she responded to the cure.
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