London
June 1833

There are moments, aren’t there, when everything changes...

Those moments are often most clearly definable with hindsight. At the time, we don’t realise what is happening; it’s only later that we look back and appreciate that we have witnessed something of importance. Sometimes, however, we do realise. Take, for example, the first time I saw my father’s portrait. I was only young, but even then, I knew that it marked a stepping stone along the path to finding out more about him – since, at the time, I knew so little. There are other examples: my first glimpse of Lake Geneva; the moment I saw the poor, dead crow and knew that one day someone would surely find a way to design a flying machine... and, perhaps, the moment I looked down from an upstairs window and saw the tailcoated figure of my shorthand tutor, and knew that he was a person I would want to know better.

Yes: life is full of such moments, if you keep watch for them.

At a party that is otherwise indistinguishable from so many similar parties – a mixture of the usual dukes and dignitaries – I meet, for the first time, Mr Charles Babbage. I believe that I hear his voice first of all – gruff, a little lion-like – occupying a register all of its own. He is talking, as far as I can make out, about the benefits of silence – an odd conversational choice for a crowded gathering. Looking for the speaker, I see him, in the middle of an attendant cluster: broad-chested, thick-necked – yes, really rather like a lion.

‘That is Mr Babbage,’ says Mamma. ‘I have lately been reading his book, Reflections on the Decline of Science in England. He proposes a more formal attitude towards research, and laments the lack of funding for science from the government and the Royal Society. It was most interesting.’

It doesn’t take her long to arrange an introduction. We move a little way away from the rest of the party, where the noise is rather less intense, and for some time I say little, preferring to observe the exchanges between Mamma and Mr Babbage – two people of repute making what they will of each other. Typical formulaic phrases and pleasantries are exchanged, but in Mr Babbage I get the impression almost at once of a man who cares little for formulae. There is a fascinating energy about him; I watch the way his eyes dart this way and that, following whatever flickers of light or movement might momentarily entice him; he rolls sometimes onto his heels, and rocks a little back and forth before settling himself once more upon the ground; his hands play patterns against his sides, as though an invisible piano is concealed somewhere about his person. He has an interesting way of speaking: he is brusque and excitable, like a child in anticipation of presents, and sometimes interrupts himself mid-sentence.

‘The Difference Engine, my dear lady,’ he is saying. ‘It is rather a preoccupation of mine, and has been – yes, it has been for some time. Tell me, Lady Byron – what do you understand by the term “counting machine”?’

Mamma pauses for thought; I know that she will not want to sound ignorant. ‘A mechanical device for calculation,’ she replies carefully. ‘Pascal created one, did he not?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ says Mr Babbage. ‘The “Pascaline”, as it was known – Pascal invented it in order to assist his father with tax calculations. It was a small machine. Used a wheel mechanism. Then there was Leibniz – all this was a hundred and fifty years ago, perhaps more, mind you – his machine could add, subtract, multiply and divide – more than Pascal’s could do. Couldn’t advance from nine hundred and ninety-nine to a thousand, though.’

Mamma nods.

‘Neither machine amounted to anything much,’ says Mr Babbage. ‘Now, when I was in Paris – twelve, thirteen years ago – and you must recall, dear lady, that on the Continent they really do give scientific thinking the importance that it deserves... I heard tell of an “arithmometer” – all of France was talking about it, or so it seemed. The designer was one Charles de Colmar. His was a machine along the lines of Leibniz’s model. It could perform all the operations – although subtraction was done using complements, of course – simply by turning a handle. Oh, very pretty indeed, some people thought – something to have in your drawing room, a clever little showpiece for one’s guests! But no: no, it was so much more than that. On that visit to Paris all those years ago, I realised how essential such a device would be. Think to yourself, dear lady – if anyone, working in any field, from science to commerce to accountancy to navigation to astronomy, required a particular mathematical figure, what would they do? Why, they would need to look it up in a handwritten chart. Now, there are plenty of those, done by human hand – clergymen, schoolteachers with a bit of time to spare. But what do you think the issue might be with such a chart?’

‘Errors,’ I say, at once.

Mr Babbage beams at me. ‘Yes, Miss Byron, just so! The charts are riddled with discrepancies – I have tested this hypothesis and I can assure you that it is true. The human brain, after all, is not a machine. But imagine – just imagine – a world in which these calculations are performed automatically – perfectly – with no errors. My dear friend Herschel very nearly died in a shipwreck in 1819; would that shipwreck have happened at all if the navigator had been able to calculate longitude and lunar distances with faultless accuracy? I think not! No; it is not an exaggeration to assert that lives will be saved by automatic calculation – by my Difference Engine, indeed.’

Now that I have grown more accustomed to the stop-start patterns of Mr Babbage’s speech, I can see that he is an illuminating speaker. In just a few minutes, he has persuaded me – and Mamma too, I am sure – of the importance of such a machine.

‘And you are in the process of building this Difference Engine?’ asks Mamma.

‘Indeed I am... that most certainly is my intention. Yes. But it’ll need money. A good deal of it.’

‘Have you received much funding from the government?’

‘Quite a bit, yes – but not enough.’

They are both speaking quite fast; Mr Babbage refers to Robert Peel, the Home Secretary, and to the Duke of Wellington, our Prime Minister. Sums are mentioned. As they talk, I try to imagine a counting machine such as Mr Babbage says that he is trying to build. What would it look like? A steam-powered abacus floats into my head, its beads glinting with metallic promise. I want more than anything to see it for myself: this physical realisation of Mr Babbage’s ideas.

And just as I am thinking this, Mr Babbage says abruptly: ‘I’ve a demonstration piece at home, Lady Byron. I would dearly like to show it to you.’

‘And we,’ says Mamma, making sure that I am very much a part of her pronoun by indicating me with a sweep of her arm, ‘would be charmed to see it.’