Enchantress of Numbers

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  A ripple of laughter went up from the others. “In a manner of speaking,” said Mr. Lyell, grinning. I nodded politely but did not return his smile. I admired his scientific brilliance but did not like his lecherous leer, which he inflicted on any remotely attractive woman who crossed his path. He had married two years before, but wedlock had done nothing to cure him of this annoying habit.

  “Politics, Miss Byron,” Mrs. Somerville kindly clarified.

  “Oh, I see. I prefer a horse race,” I said lightly, mostly to amuse Mr. Babbage.

  It worked, for he ceased pacing and smiled at me. “Politics and horse racing. There are times I do not know which involves the riskier gamble.” A few chuckles rose, but as I glanced around the room, I glimpsed only somber, tense faces. “A rumor is circulating that earlier today Lord Melbourne resigned as prime minister at the request of the king.”

  “I had not heard that,” I said, startled, but of course there was no reason I should have. My mother and Lord Melbourne corresponded, but they were not so close that he would have informed her of his resignation before telling his political colleagues.

  “If Lord Wellington takes over as prime minister, this could be very good for you,” Mr. Dickens reminded Mr. Babbage.

  “Yes, and not only for me.” Mr. Babbage resumed pacing, but he halted at the window and gazed outside, although night had fallen and I doubted he could see beyond his own reflection. “Lord Wellington is impressed with the Difference Engine, and he has told me himself that he believes it would be useful to the military. If he becomes prime minister, he could get the money flowing with a single word. When the Difference Engine proves itself, and I am confident it will, the government will be more amenable to funding other scientific research, other remarkable machines.” He turned to face his guests, his eyes shining. “We could be on the verge of a second Industrial Revolution.”

  “So much depends upon one singular political appointment,” said Mrs. Somerville.

  “The duke is a war hero and a statesman,” I said, looking to her and to Mr. Babbage for confirmation. “He served as prime minister before. Would he not be the most likely choice?”

  “He would be, if not for Peel,” said Mr. Babbage acidly.

  I recognized the name, but I needed another moment to understand Mr. Babbage’s sharp tone. Then I remembered: Sir Robert Peel had been the home secretary when Mr. Babbage first announced the invention of the Difference Engine, and Lord Peel had dismissed it as a foolish and potentially dangerous contraption, despite the endorsement Mr. Babbage had received from the Royal Society.

  “Many believe that Peel has emerged as the new leader of the Tories,” said Mr. Lyell, directing his explanation to me. I did not take offense. Not only was I the youngest person in the room; I was the only one asking questions, and no doubt I also looked the most bewildered.

  “Yes, but Peel is abroad,” said Mr. Dickens, “and perhaps he will stay there.”

  “If Peel becomes prime minister, he will kill my engine,” said Mr. Babbage. “All the funding will disappear. He’ll probably send me a bill for the funds already disbursed.”

  “Could he do that?” I asked.

  “He wouldn’t, Miss Byron.” Mrs. Somerville hesitated. “At least, I don’t believe he would. It’s highly improbable.”

  “He wouldn’t,” said Mr. Lyell stoutly, and a chorus of reassuring assent filled the library, although Mr. Dickens said nothing, but only shook his head and frowned, skeptical. I made an effort to add my voice to those encouraging Mr. Babbage, but I was sick with worry. The Difference Engine meant the world to me, and it was painful and outrageous to think that something as trivial as which gentleman would fill a political post, even the highest in the land below the sovereign, could determine its fate.

  The following morning at breakfast, I asked my mother if she knew anything about the rumors swirling about Lord Melbourne, but she knew no more than Mr. Babbage did. Then, two days later, the story broke in the press: Lord Melbourne had indeed resigned, and Lord Wellington had taken over as prime minister. My joy was short-lived, however, for it soon came out that Lord Wellington actually had declined the post and had consented only to lead a caretaker government until a new prime minister could be appointed. Sir Robert Peel’s supporters had already dispatched messengers to Italy to urge him to return to England with all speed.

  The situation was still unsettled when I next visited Mr. Babbage with Mrs. Somerville not quite two weeks later. “My funding must come through while Lord Wellington is in charge or it will probably not come at all,” he said, the strain evident in the furrow of his brow, the rough quality to his voice. I suspected he was still finding sleep elusive, and I worried for him.

  I listened, increasingly apprehensive, as Mr. Babbage and Mrs. Somerville debated the reasons for the frustratingly sporadic nature of the support for his work. “Perhaps the world is simply not ready for a machine as revolutionary as the Difference Engine,” she suggested.

  “The world is never ready for any innovation,” he grumbled. “The vast majority of people stubbornly cling to the past until people possessing foresight and a sense of adventure break a trail and bring them into the future.”

  “Perhaps your adventurers might be more successful if they tried to lead the people forward gently rather than dragging them against their will.”

  Mr. Babbage actually laughed. “A fair point, Mrs. Somerville, but I cannot overstate the urgency compelling me to complete my work. If I don’t develop the Difference Engine, someone else will, if not here in Britain, then on the Continent. I don’t think any of us want this new industrial revolution to belong to the French or to the Germans, allowing foreign nations to reap the first benefits of increased production and efficiency and obliging unlucky Englishmen to glean whatever we can from trips abroad.”

  Mrs. Somerville and I agreed that time was of the essence, but there was nothing we could do to compel Lord Wellington to make funding Mr. Babbage’s work a priority within his caretaker government. And as the weeks passed, it seemed increasingly likely that Sir Robert Peel would assume the role of prime minister as soon as he returned to England.

  In December, my nineteenth birthday came and went, marked by a heavy snowfall that kept me indoors with my harp, my books, and Mr. Babbage’s notes and illustrations. Although we did not receive the news until the following morning, my birthday also marked the end of Lord Wellington’s brief term as prime minister of the caretaker government and the first day of the government of the new prime minister, the Right Honorable Sir Robert Peel. Lord Wellington had become the leader of the House of Lords, and Lord Melbourne had succeeded him as leader of the opposition. My mother’s cousin still possessed a great deal of influence and authority, but less than before, and I could not help but silently berate my mother for squandering her brief opportunity to appeal to him on Mr. Babbage’s behalf.

  Although the political storm was still thundering, the heavy snows passed and the roads were clear again in time for my mother and me to attend a dinner party at Mr. Babbage’s home five days later. Mrs. Somerville would be there, and several other friends we had met at his soirées, and I might have been tempted to go alone on horseback or skis rather than miss it.

  Mr. Babbage was animated and cheerful when he greeted us at the door, more so than he had been in weeks. I had expected to find him disgusted, outraged, or depressed about the ascendancy of Sir Robert Peel, and I surmised that he must have some other exciting news to share. He was fairly bursting with it by the time we had all gathered around the table, and he wasted no time in idle chat but got straight to the point. “I have made an important discovery,” he declared. “I have fired the first salvo in what shall be a revolution of thought and technology.”

  I felt a thrill of excitement as the rest of us exchanged glances around the table. “What is it?” I asked. “Have you solved the problem of repeating decimals?”r />
  “Not entirely, but I now know how I shall eventually solve it. It was, in fact, working upon that problem which opened up this new horizon to me.”

  “What horizon is that?” asked Mr. Dickens.

  “I have conceived of an entirely new machine,” said Mr. Babbage, his face alight with triumph. “It will far surpass anything I intended for the Difference Engine, solving equations that until now have been considered unsolvable. I call it the Analytical Engine.”

  I felt a curious surge of emotions, elation intermingled with astonishment. The Difference Engine was so magnificent, how could anything surpass it?

  My mother deliberately sipped her water and set down her glass. “Mr. Babbage, do you mean to say that after all the time, effort, and expense you have invested into the Difference Engine, you now intend to abandon it and chase after a new invention?”

  “Of course he doesn’t mean that.” I hesitated and turned a wary look upon Mr. Babbage, whose enthusiasm, I had learned, sometimes compelled him to ignore more pragmatic concerns. “You don’t, do you?”

  He shrugged and spread his hands. “That is my quandary. Do I continue to work on the Difference Engine, which has captivated my imagination for so many years, and has already come so close to completion? Or do I move on to the Analytical Engine, which I know will be the far superior machine?”

  “You ought to complete the project you have already begun,” said my mother. “You have already received grants for it, and you must have something to show for the investment if you ever hope to receive another.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Another grant? I hardly dare hope to receive the outstanding balance I’m still owed on the first.”

  “Lady Byron’s caution is warranted,” said Mrs. Somerville. “I cannot imagine that the chancellor of the exchequer would give you new funding for a second machine when you haven’t yet completed the first and they haven’t reaped any of its promised rewards.”

  “I can hear the complaints already,” said Mr. Lyell. “They will demand that you finish the Difference Engine to prove that you can finish something, and that your machine works as well as you said. Otherwise they will worry that they are throwing good money after bad.”

  Mr. Babbage nodded glumly, and I knew he had hoped that we would all enthusiastically urge him to throw himself headlong into this new project. “What precisely will your Analytical Engine do?” I asked. “How exactly is it different from the Difference Engine?”

  “It will eliminate the problem of compounding inaccuracy, for one,” he said. “Furthermore, as capable and efficient as the Difference Engine is, it is constrained by the necessity to reset the machine for each new set of calculations. All of those initial numbers must be arranged on the cogwheels by hand.”

  Suddenly, I understood—or thought I did. “Instead those instructions could be conveyed to the engine by another means,” I declared. “Punched cards, as in the Jacquard loom!”

  Mr. Babbage paused, wincing ever so slightly. “Punched cards could do it, perhaps, but my intention is to use a revolving drum with raised studs.”

  “Like a musical snuff box?” asked Mrs. Somerville, intrigued, “or a carillon à musique?”

  “Very much so,” said Mr. Babbage, avoiding my gaze, or so it seemed to me. I felt strangely deflated, for I had hoped that he would modify the Difference Engine so that it would accept instructions from punched cards, increasing its capabilities immeasurably. Not only had he decided against that, but he intended to start all over with an entirely new machine, and he had no intention of incorporating my idea into the design.

  The more I reflected, the more I became certain that Mr. Babbage was wrong to disregard my suggestion. Punched cards could be strung together in a virtually unlimited series, but a revolving cylinder would eventually begin to repeat itself. Even a cylinder with a circumference greater than it would be possible for Mr. Babbage’s workshop to accommodate would eventually run out of room, and there the coded instructions would come to an abrupt halt—or rather, they would start over from the beginning.

  But Mr. Babbage’s enthusiasm was contagious, and as he described his Analytical Engine in more detail, not even my disappointment that he had disregarded my suggestion and my misgivings about the limits of revolving cylinders could suppress my excitement for the potential of his new machine. I wished I knew Sir Robert Peel well enough to go to him and personally plead Mr. Babbage’s case. I wished I could borrow from my inheritance and fund his work myself, but my mother would never consent, and Mr. Babbage might be too proud to accept money from a friend.

  Mr. Babbage was not far along enough in his plans to be able to describe the function of the Analytical Engine in precise detail, but his face seemed illuminated from within as he told us how he had felt when the first impressions of his discovery came to him, bit by bit, until the whole was revealed. “It is the same sensation of amazement and expectation one would feel when first apprehending the possibility of building a bridge from the known to the unknown,” he said. “It felt as if I stood on a mountain, with peaks surrounding me on all sides. I gazed down into the valley below and found it shrouded in mist, but as I watched, the mists began to disperse, and I glimpsed a winding river. I could not follow its course, and yet I knew the river must eventually find an egress from the valley. Though it was concealed from view, I knew it must be there, and how to find it.”

  My heart warmed with happiness and pride to hear him describe his inspiration in such poetic terms, but I also felt a stirring of wistful recognition, for his words called to mind how I had felt in childhood when my imagination had first been captivated by Flyology. I wished again, as I had before, that I might discover my own Great Work, my own bridge from the known to the unknown.

  By the time dessert was served, the general consensus among the guests was that Mr. Babbage absolutely must find a way to construct his marvelous Analytical Engine, but he should proceed with caution and respect when seeking funding for it. I knew him well enough even then to understand that this might prove to be a trifle difficult for him. He was a genial friend, a gracious host, and a courteous gentleman, but when he found himself thwarted by obstinate, bewildered bureaucrats who could not grasp the astounding significance of his inventions, he could be somewhat impatient, even caustic. Obviously he was less likely to get money out of the government coffers if he offended the men who disbursed it, but in a heated moment, he could forget that.

  With Christmas swiftly approaching, it seemed unlikely that there would be any political developments either to help or to hinder Mr. Babbage’s cause until the New Year. My mother and I settled in at Fordhook to celebrate the festive season with the Three Furies and a few other friends, one a married couple with a daughter, Agnes, who was close to my age. Agnes adored poetry and pressed her hand to her bosom dramatically each time she crossed the threshold of Fordhook and entered what she called “the sacred abode of Lord Byron,” even though I told her this was a rented house and my father had never lived there. She also had the annoying habit of reciting certain verses from the third canto of Childe Harold whenever she came upon me alone.

  “Did Agnes tell you she is engaged to be married?” my mother had asked me on their first day with us, pausing by my room to inspect me as I dressed for dinner.

  “No, she did not,” I said, glancing at the mirror, adjusting the ringlets framing my face. “She has scarcely stopped reciting poetry since she arrived, so unless the announcement could be made in rhyming couplets—”

  “She’s marrying a baronet,” my mother interrupted. “He has a lovely estate in Shropshire and two thousand pounds.”

  “How nice. I hope they’ll be very happy together.”

  “She’s only two years older than yourself.”

  “Quite elderly, then.”

  “Ada—” My mother sighed and shook her head. “Come down to dinner. Our guests are waiting.”
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br />   She did not bring the subject up again that evening, aside from toasting the bride-to-be at supper. Christmas passed pleasantly enough, and we welcomed the New Year merrily, and soon thereafter our guests departed. I resumed my customary routine of music and study, and I eagerly looked forward to my next trip to London to see what progress Mr. Babbage had made on the Analytical Engine. I was half-afraid that I would find the Difference Engine abandoned and shrouded in dust.

  One afternoon a few days after Epiphany, I was writing to my friends Annabella and Olivia Gosford while my mother sat nearby, attending to her own correspondence. “Your Miss Bettencourt is betrothed,” she remarked, her gaze fixed on a letter that had arrived that morning.

  “She’s not my Miss Bettencourt,” I said, but my heart thumped. “To whom is she engaged?”

  Sighing, she folded the page and set it aside. “The eldest son of the Duke of Rylance.”

  “Oh, yes. I met him.” He was an excellent dancer, as I recalled, and exceedingly handsome. He loved horses, which had endeared him to me, but he had confessed himself to be “a right dullard” when it came to his studies, which disappointed. His title and the vast fortune he would inherit had rendered him the most eligible of all the young gentlemen in Society. “I rather liked him.”

  “If you had liked him more, you could have been a duchess.”

  With a twinge of jealousy that quite astonished me, I realized that one day Miss Bettencourt would outrank me. “Mama, he was never very interested in me, nor I in him.”

  “You could have made more of an effort to capture his interest.”

  “Mama, you know there are certain qualities I seek in a husband—”

  “Yes, so you’ve said.” My mother regarded me with an unsettling mix of sadness and apprehension. “You’ve had two Seasons. It’s time you applied yourself to your duty to marry with the same fervor with which you study mathematics.”

  “But—” My mouth went dry, and I thought of Mrs. Somerville, or Mrs. Greig as she had been, commanded by her husband to relinquish mathematics and science for the duties of wife and mother. “I have not yet met anyone that I think will make me happy. I haven’t met anyone I think I could love.”