Enchantress of Numbers

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  I was particularly sensitive to the question of whether the author’s voice—my voice—would be perceived as masculine or feminine, because I knew this would influence how the information and analysis I offered would be measured. While I bristled at the unfairness of it all, I was reluctant to reveal that the author of the Notes was a woman, because that might diminish the value of the work in the minds of more prejudiced readers.

  “Although I don’t wish to proclaim who has written it, I have to sign it somehow,” I worried aloud to William one sultry, humid evening as we walked together through the woods around Ockham Park, seeking relief from the oppressive heat as the sun declined to the horizon. “It’s necessary, if only to distinguish my work from Menabrea’s. Then, too, I wish to individualize my work, so that anything else I may produce in the years to come can be identified as work of the author of the Notes.”

  William smiled. “You’re not so proud of your work that the thought of ‘Translated with Notes by Ada Byron King, Countess of Lovelace,’ appearing on the title page holds no appeal for you?”

  “Perhaps a bit,” I confessed, “but then—don’t you see?—suddenly attention would be riveted by the fact that this work was produced by Lord Byron’s daughter. People will regard it as a curiosity, as they have always regarded me. I want my work to be judged on its own merits, and I want nothing to distract from the significance of the Analytical Engine. If that were to happen, all my toil would be for nothing.”

  “To think that all this time, I’ve believed that you sought fame,” he teased.

  “Fame for my work, perhaps,” I conceded. “As long as my work is respected, I don’t care if any but my closest friends and family are aware that I’m the author of it. I think I prefer a more anonymous sort of fame, if that isn’t an oxymoron.”

  “Anonymous fame,” William mused. “Sounds much better than the usual sort. Why don’t you use your initials, then? A.A.L., for Augusta Ada Lovelace.”

  I mulled it over, imagining how it would appear on the printed page. “Yes. Yes, I think that would be the very thing.”

  With that fraught issue resolved, I began to look forward with increasing excitement and anticipation to the publication of the translation and Notes, which collectively had come to be called the Memoir, in the fashion of the time. This could indeed be my magnum opus, I thought, or better yet, the first of many Great Works of mathematics and science, the one that launched me into a career as impressive and enduring as Mary Somerville’s. She was a far more brilliant mathematician than I would ever be, but that did not mean I could not shine just as brightly in my own sky.

  In writing the Memoir, I had discovered something astonishing about myself—that my genius resided in my ability to synthesize abstract ideas, to marry the intellect and the imagination into a new kind of insight. That was why I understood the capabilities of the Analytical Engine even better than its inventor did. That was why I had never been able to repudiate my father, despite the ominous warnings about the bad Byron blood that had been drummed into my consciousness since childhood. All my life I had been told that I must choose between my mother or my father, the intellect or the imagination. Now I knew that I was nothing without both.

  Despite searing headaches and debilitating ailments of the stomach, through fatigue and pain, I labored over the final proofs with zealous joy, mindful of my swiftly approaching completion date. Mr. Taylor and his co-editor, William Francis, were eager to publish the Memoir, its featured article, in time for the next meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science in September. Convinced that I would find no more opportune moment to bring my first scientific child into the world, I was determined to have it ready.

  My proofreading was more than halfway complete when my work was interrupted by an urgent request from Mr. Babbage. He had written a stern, forthright, third-person account of his grievances with the government, establishing point by point his criticism of the manner in which various officials and departments had handled the development and funding of his engines. “Please review this statement and return to me with comments, if you have any, with all speed,” he requested in an accompanying note, his curtness emphasizing his great haste.

  I regretted taking time away from the proofs, but Mr. Babbage had always put my requests for reviews before all other obligations, and I felt that I must respond in kind. Fortunately, the document was not particularly long or complex, although the strident tone occasionally made me wince, a fact I noted in the margins. I returned the statement to him that same afternoon, along with a note recommending caution and wishing him well.

  Mr. Babbage’s request cost me very little time, and soon thereafter, I finished proofreading the Memoir and arranged for it to be safely delivered to the offices of Taylor’s Scientific Memoirs. A strange melancholy settled upon me then, for I felt both exultant and bereft. I looked forward to the forthcoming publication, of course, and after that, I expected the ensuing accolades to lead to more assignments for A.A.L., but until then, the empty hours stretched ahead of me, waiting to be filled.

  My first priority was my patient family, whom I had neglected in my preoccupation with the Memoir. I visited my mother at Fordhook for a few days, and then William and I took the children to Ashley Combe, a journey that had become delightfully swift and easy since the Great Western Railway had opened a branch line to Bridgwater in 1841. The blessed peace and solitude of our Somerset estate was a welcome remedy for my exhaustion and strain, and after I had enjoyed a good rest, I joined my husband and children in romps through the gardens, long walks along the seashore, and exhilarating horseback rides through the forest.

  In the first week of August, we returned home to Ockham Park refreshed and happy, but my contentment was spoiled soon after we crossed the threshold. A letter from Mr. Babbage awaited me, and in the first of many angry, indignant lines, he inexplicably urged me to withdraw the Memoir from Taylor’s Scientific Memoirs.

  Dumbfounded, I read on, but his request made absolutely no sense even after I had read the letter a second time. His outrage had something to do with the diatribe against the government he had asked me to review in July, something about how Mr. Francis had refused to run it unsigned and had the audacity to suggest that it appear as a separate pamphlet. “In consideration of our longstanding friendship,” Mr. Babbage thundered, “I trust you will respond to this insult by informing the Editors that you forbid them to publish the Memoir.”

  Aghast, I stared at the letter in disbelief. How could he even think of canceling the Memoir when it might finally win him the financial support he desperately needed? How could he ask me to withdraw my Great Work from publication after I had toiled over it for so long and when I had such high hopes for how it might establish me as a mathematician? I felt as if I had been thrown into the midst of a fierce argument and had been forced to choose a side before I could even discover the cause of their discord.

  Strangely, there was no letter from the journal offices, and so, my heart thudding with apprehension, I wrote to Mr. Wheatstone, Mr. Taylor, and Mr. Francis. I assured them that I had no intention of pulling the Memoir but that I must know what on earth could have prompted Mr. Babbage to make such an astonishing demand.

  They replied immediately, because time was of the essence, and the story they told was as bewildering and outrageous as it was unexpected. Unbeknownst to me, Mr. Babbage had submitted his statement to the editors with instructions to publish it as a preface to my translation and notes. Mr. Francis had been reluctant to comply, since the statement was unsigned, and would therefore suggest that I was its author. Mr. Taylor should have ruled on the matter, but he was abroad, so Mr. Babbage had sent Charles Lyell as his representative to negotiate with Mr. Francis and Mr. Wheatstone. They offered several options, all of which advised publishing the statement separately from my Memoir and making it clear that I had not written it. Mr. Wheatstone even generously offered to sig
n the statement if Mr. Babbage would not put his name to it. All of these options Mr. Babbage refused.

  Shocked and furious, I insisted that they must not publish Mr. Babbage’s statement with my Memoir, and that under no circumstances should his diatribe be attributed to me. “I cannot believe him,” I told William, who seemed angry and indignant but not surprised. “Why would he do this to me? Why would he do this to himself? Is his hatred for Sir Robert Peel truly that much greater than his desire to see the Analytical Engine built?”

  “His stubbornness and pride have always been his undoing,” said William. “You are absolutely right to stand up to him.”

  My feelings of betrayal and outrage so overwhelmed me that I took a day to reflect and compose myself before writing to Mr. Babbage. Even then, I could not contain my anger. “No power should induce me to lend myself to any of your quarrels, or to become in any way the medium through which you express them,” I declared. “I shall myself communicate directly with the editors on the subject, as I do not choose to commit a dishonorable breach of engagement, even to promote your advantage, and in this case, it would be neither for your advantage nor my own to withdraw the Memoir from publication.” I told him that I intended to write to him again, very strongly and very soon, regarding “some points in which I consider you mistake your own interests,” but that I would not do so until it was clear how the matter would ultimately be resolved. “Be assured that I am your best friend,” I wrote, impassioned, “but that I never can or will support you in acting on principles which I conceive to be not only wrong in themselves, but suicidal.”

  Mr. Babbage’s reply was immediately forthcoming. He was furious, and he accused me of betraying him, and he condemned me in the harshest of terms. I was quite certain that he would never forgive me, and my heart ached with sorrow and regret.

  The next day I wrote to my mother to apologize for not writing since we had returned from Ashley Combe, blaming the recent unpleasantness for my neglect. “I have been harassed and pressed in a most perplexing manner by Mr. Babbage’s conduct,” I wrote, still stinging from his angry rebuke. “We are, in fact, at issue. I am sorry to have to come to the conclusion that he is one of the most impracticable, selfish, and intemperate persons I have ever met. I do not anticipate an absolute alienation between us, but there must ever be a degree of coolness and reserve, I believe, in the future.”

  A week went by, and with each passing day my regret grew that Mr. Babbage and I should part company on such angry terms after all we had accomplished together. I believed in his genius, and I believed that his engines would accomplish everything he had promised and then some, but he seemed perpetually determined to sabotage himself just as he approached his goal.

  He was too proud, I knew, to approach me with apologies. If we were to reconcile, I would have to petition him. It was unfair and ridiculous that I should be obliged to do so; he had wronged me, not the other way around, and although I wanted his friendship, he needed mine. My translation and notes would be published regardless of his objections, and so whatever advancement to my career was destined to result from it, that would be mine regardless of whether Mr. Babbage and I were estranged. But for his part, it seemed very clear to me that unless a caring friend intervened, he would continue to churn furiously in place without progressing forward, like a cart stuck in deep mud.

  I had invested too much time and passion in Mr. Babbage’s engines to simply throw my hands in the air, stride away, and leave him to grow old and bitter among his unrealized dreams. I wanted to see the Analytical Engine built for his sake, and for Britain’s, and yes, for my own. But above all, I cherished his friendship too dearly not to try to salvage it.

  On Monday, the fourteenth of August, I composed what turned out to be a sincere, impassioned, sixteen-page letter in which I broached the possibility of mending our ties, while also clearly and firmly establishing the terms according to which I would agree to work with him in the future.

  I began cordially by informing him about the progress of the Notes through the publication process, how the difficult work with the printers was happily concluded, and how I was well satisfied with the Memoir. I then turned to his last letter, the one that had wounded me so deeply. “Your note is such as demands a very full reply from me,” I said carefully, “the writer being so old and so esteemed a friend, and one whose genius I not only so highly appreciate myself, but wish to see fairly appreciated by others.” Still, I could not continue without saying that the less notice I took of that letter, the better, “as it was only worthy to be thrown aside with a smile of contempt.”

  I told him that I understood that I had disappointed him by not withdrawing the Memoir from publication, and that he remained deeply hurt. I explained why my sense of duty, honor, and obligation—not only to him, but also to the editors—would not have permitted me to do otherwise. I hoped in time he would understand.

  “I must now come to a practical question respecting the future,” I told him. “Your affairs have been, and are, deeply occupying both myself and Lord Lovelace. Our thoughts as well as our conversation have been earnest upon them. And the result is that I have plans for you, which I shall either develop, or else throw my energies, my time, and my pen into the service of some other department of truth and science, according to your reply. I give to you the first choice and offer of my services and my intellect. I do beseech you therefore, deeply and seriously, to ponder the question of whether you can subscribe to my conditions.”

  Having forewarned him, I presented my ultimatum: First, if I were to continue working with him, he must leave all practical matters to me, especially when it came to relations with other people. I did not mention Sir Robert Peel by name, but he was foremost in my thoughts.

  Second, when I required Mr. Babbage’s intellectual assistance and supervision, he must focus his whole and undivided attention upon the matter at hand, and he must be more attentive, organized, and careful in our future collaborations than he had been during the writing of the Notes.

  Third, he would place me in charge of managing the business enterprise of the Analytical Engine, in which capacity I would develop plans for funding and constructing it, subject to the approval of a board of friends and colleagues of his own choosing.

  Each of these conditions I elaborated upon in great detail, but my tone was unfailingly earnest, never pedantic or demanding, or so I thought. I brought the letter to a close fondly, with a few remarks about the Bernoulli numbers and an invitation to visit us at Saint James’s Square as well as at Ockham Park, where we planned to be later that month. I hoped to show him how easily we could resume our friendship, as easily as picking up the threads of an interrupted conversation.

  And yet at the very end, I turned wistful. “I wonder,” I wrote, “if you will choose to retain the lady-fairy in your service or not.”

  It was now for Mr. Babbage to decide.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Go, Little Book, from This My Solitude

  August–September 1843

  The next morning I woke with an ache in my heart and the heavy weight of melancholy on my shoulders, but I needed a moment to remember the cause. It pained me to think that I might no longer be welcome at 1 Dorset Street, and that I would play no part in bringing Mr. Babbage’s plans for the Analytical Engine to fruition. Even more dispiriting was the worry that without my help, neither of his engines would ever be constructed.

  My only hope was that his desire to prove to the world that his Analytical Engine was everything he had always promised would overcome his pride, and he would agree to reconcile.

  I went about my usual morning routine subdued and anxious, reminding myself that I should not expect a reply so soon. Finally I could bear the silence no longer, and I decided that if he would not write to me, at least I could still write to him. I took pen in hand and composed a short note about certain revisions I had made to the proofs after our disa
greement. “You will have had my long letter this morning,” I concluded. “Perhaps you will not choose to have anything more to do with me. But I hope for the best, and so I simply write to you as if nothing had passed.”

  I sent the letter off, and paced around the garden disconsolately, and returned to my study to write to my mother. “I am uncertain as yet how the Babbage business will end,” I told her. “He has written unkindly to me. For many reasons, however, I still desire to work upon his subjects and affairs if I can do so with any reasonable prospect of peace. I have written to him therefore, very explicitly; stating my own conditions, without which I positively refuse to take any further part in conjunction with him, upon any subject whatever.”

  I paused there, struck by sudden misgivings. Perhaps I had presented my ultimatum too forcefully. Perhaps I should have sought reconciliation first, and then, when we were friends again, told him, face-to-face and as cheerfully as possible, how I expected our future collaborations to be conducted. But it was too late now to change a single word.

  “If he does consent to what I propose,” I continued my letter, “I shall probably be enabled to keep him out of much hot water; and to bring his engine to consummation. All I have seen of him and his habits the last three months, makes me scarcely anticipate it ever will be, unless someone really exercises a strong coercive influence over him.”

  I wanted that someone to be myself, but that was entirely up to him. How helpless and distressed I felt knowing that my future as a scientist and mathematician depended entirely upon the decisions of someone other than myself!

  By late morning the post had been delivered, but I was deeply grieved to find no letter from Mr. Babbage. By the early afternoon I had quite worn myself out from pacing and worry, and I had almost decided to write to Mr. Babbage again, when the maid announced that the cause of all my consternation was awaiting me in the drawing room.