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.