Ada Lovelace , livre ebook

The Conrad Press - Shanee Edwards

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130 pages

English

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Ada Lovelace: the Countess who Dreamed in Numbers' is a carefully researched novel that tells the astonishing story of the real-life young woman who saw the coming of the computer age nearly a century before it occurred. Feisty, rebellious and beautiful, Ada Lovelace, born Ada Byron (1815-1852), was also a genius known for writing the very first computer programs.The only legitimate daughter of poet Lord Byron, a man exiled from England for his scandalous poetry, wild sexual exploits and gambling debts, Ada inherited her father's imagination - much to her mother's horror. Desperate to keep her daughter respectable, Lady Byron tutored Ada rigorously in mathematics, hoping to quash any creative impulses her daughter might have. Ada's life grows more complicated when Lord Byron apparently returns to England. She's thrilled when her father begins to visit her in secret, but will he help or hurt Ada's dream of being recognized as a true scientist?

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Publié par	The Conrad Press
Date de parution	06 mars 2019
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781912924714
Langue	English

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Ada Lovelace
the Countess who Dreamed in Numbers
Shanee Edwards

What is imagination? It renders Earth tolerable; it teaches us to live. It is that which penetrates into the unseen worlds around us, the worlds of science.
–Ada Lovelace

Author’s note
A da Lovelace was born Ada Byron in England on December 10, 1815. Her father was the poet Lord Byron. Ada’s mother, Lady Annabella Milbanke, was a devout Christian who was educated in mathematics, earning her the nickname ‘Princess of Parallelograms’ from her husband. The severely ill-matched husband and wife divorced shortly after Ada was born. To prevent Ada from developing a wild imagination like her father, Annabella narrowly focused Ada’s education on mathematics and science. Ada was kept away from her father, who died in Greece when she was just eight years old.
On June 5 1833, when Ada was just seventeen, she met the inventor Charles Babbage, who was charmed by her beauty, wit and mechanical aptitude. Together, they worked to find funding for his machine, the Analytical Engine, which was the world’s first true digital computer. Ada, who called her own approach to the study of science and mathematics ‘poetical science’, was the first person to understand the enormous and wide-ranging significance a computer would have in human society and culture.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Lord Byron

1
A ll my life, I’ve been terrified my talents would be wasted.
Not only do I have an aptitude for numbers, machines and scientific discovery, but they are my life’s passion. Curious to a fault, independent – no, downright stubborn, I have a mind that constantly questions the world around me. Though it may seem as if these skills would have created a wealth of opportunities for me to build, create and invent exciting new mechanical wonders, there was one simple thing standing in my way: I was a girl.
Standing on the roof of the home where I had lived for nearly all my seventeen years, looking over the edge, feeling the breeze whip through my tangled, auburn hair, I couldn’t help but think what an exciting time it was to be alive. It was 1832 and everyone in England was looking for new ways to harness the power of steam. Steamboats stormed the seas and steam trains rolled over earth, but I knew steam power offered so many more possibilities. The world was changing fast and I wanted to be a leader of that change. Numbers were exciting on their own, but I wanted to apply them to something meaningful, something extraordinary. More than anything, I wanted to harness their power into the science of flying machines in a new field I called Flyology.
For weeks, I had toiled from the early morning until the wee hours of the night on a project I called ‘The Carrier Pigeon Endeavour.’
The Carrier Pigeon was a hand-built air glider intended to allow humans to fly. To make the wings, I stitched together horsehides around a frame I constructed using wood from my old childhood desk that I broke apart. Then, I made a harness to fit my torso out of an old horse saddle. I carefully attached the harness to the wings with leather straps and the glider was finally ready to test. The Carrier Pigeon was an odd-looking contraption, pieced together with scraps of leather, metal hinges and screws, but I was proud of it.
Today I would soar over the tree-lined grounds of my home, Fordhook Manor. Carefully, methodically, I strapped my contraption onto my torso and cinched the straps at both my wrists and shoulders, before pulling the harness straps tightly around my chest.
‘Wish me luck,’ I said to Puff, my ginger kitten, aged three months, who had followed me onto the roof.
With a meow, Puff trotted in the opposite direction, scattering the birds. Their flight sent a breeze toward the fox-shaped weathervane that suddenly pointed eastward. ‘All I need is a little wind,’ I said, and took in a deep breath.
A tingle of excitement ran through my body. I knew that once I leaped off the roof, I would need to keep my legs and torso as straight as possible to prevent drag. I had practised this numerous times by leaping onto my bed, keeping all my joints stiff and rigid.
I took a deep breath and surveyed the horizon in front of me. The sun was high and golden, practically smiling its light down on me through clear blue skies. I could see the grove of oak trees at the edge of our property and visualized myself soaring high over the treetops and beyond. If I were successful today, flying over the English Channel would be my next feat.
A strong gust of wind blew my hair forward. It was time.
Determined, I backed up, squeezed the harness with my fingers, sucked in some air and said a little prayer just to be on the safe side. I then gathered all the courage I could muster and took a giant, running leap off the rooftop.
My feet left the shingles.
I was in the sky.
It was glorious.
As the air rushed beneath my winged body forty feet above the ground, I stiffened my spine and legs, just as I had practised. I spread my arms out wide and straight. The wind whipped through my hair. My heart was pounding, but by God, I was in the air.
I’m flying! I really did it!
Everything looked so small on the ground below. The green rolling hills off in the distance looked like tiny anthills. I felt proud. What an achievement I had made for England! A million possibilities flashed through my mind. The King would want to meet me, of course, and there would be the obligatory visits by countless dignitaries. Mother would be jealous of all the attention I would get, but she would just have to resolve herself to it.
I pushed the thoughts of fame from my mind, though, and refocused myself on flight. I’d been in the air a few seconds already, the most triumphant 3.4 seconds of my life. At 3.5 seconds, however, I knew something was horribly wrong. Instead of thrusting forward, I was suddenly losing altitude – fast.
I panicked. This can’t be happening, I thought. I began flapping my arms, hoping the horsehide wings would catch the wind. I flapped harder and harder, but it was no use. Like a giant, winged acorn, I was falling to the ground. While I knew crashing my flying machine was going to be bad, I never could have imagined exactly how very bad it would be.

2
T here was no time to brace myself for the impact. There wasn’t even time to ask for the Lord to take me should my head be smashed to bits. There was just time to realise I was plummeting like a brick, which created a cold lump of fear in my belly that I’m sure only made me fall faster.
I landed in the hedge not far from where my mother, Lady Annabella Byron, and Dr. Poole, her long-time companion, were seated. As I collided with the bushes, I could just make out that I had travelled a mere six feet. When I hit the spiny, Berberis hedge, my carefully designed wings busted with a loud crunch. All the air was forced out of my chest. I felt my ankle twist.
‘Ow!’ I finally screamed in pain, once I was able to draw oxygen back into my lungs.
‘What in heaven’s name?’ said Mother. ‘Ada?’ she called as she raced over to the hedge. Her honey-coloured ringlets bounced as she ran while lifting the hem of her black silk brocatelle dress. Her face still held a fragile beauty even though it bore a worried expression. Dr. Poole, in a tailored brown jacket and wide cravat, followed right behind.
As I spat the purple Berberis leaves out of my mouth, I had no way to know how many thorns had penetrated my flesh. I did know that the pain in my ankle was increasing and now ran up my entire leg. I squealed in agony as Dr. Poole picked me up, broken wings and all, and rushed me towards the house.
In his mid-fifties, Dr. Poole was a tall man with handsome features, copper eyes and a full amber beard that was peppered with grey hairs. He always smelled clean, with a hint of lemon-mint. Typically, he was a very decisive man, able to solve problems quickly, giving him an air of confidence. If he were ever at a loss for what to do in a particular situation, he would look to scripture to guide him, as was the case in something I call the ‘father/grandfather incident.’ Let me explain.
When I was little, I asked my mother if a father and a grandfather were the same thing. For some reason, the question really got her kettle boiling. She gathered up all my dolls and said she was sending them to shoeless orphans in Ireland who had neither fathers nor grandfathers. I couldn’t stop crying. On the third day of listening to my wretched sobbing, Dr. Poole read Mother a Bible verse from the Book of Mark that said a family splintered by feuding would fall apart. She took it to heart and finally returned my dolls – the orphans went without. Bless their poor little souls and feet.
I must have blacked out for a moment after hitting the Berberis hedge, because the next thing I knew, Dr. Poole had already carried me past the parlor and was well on his way up the staircase. Although I couldn’t see her, Mother mustn’t have been far behind because as we reached the second floor, I heard her bark to our housemaid, ‘Miss Stamp, Ada fell off the roof!’
‘But why