I, Ada Read online

  I nod, listening. I was so unwell during the time to which she is referring that I had no knowledge of it until recently. I missed so many episodes – domestic incidents, and chapters in Mamma’s life, such as this first attempt at a school – that I feel sometimes as though I am a student of history, poring over a primer of the years I lost to my illness. King George died two years ago, and his brother William is now on the throne. The electoral system has been transformed by the Reform Bill; Mamma told me of the rioting that broke out all over England when the bill was rejected by the House of Lords. Before I fell ill, I wasn’t much interested in politics; now, though, I am starting to see how politics is the loom on which the fabric of the lives of ordinary people is woven. It is machinery, and it must be challenged to work well, and altered if it does not work well.

  ‘Why Ealing, Mamma?’ I say. I’ve always wondered at her insistence on this particular location. I like it – it’s romantic and verdant and overlooks the metropolis of London from its westerly viewpoint just as Hampstead does, from the north – but I’ve never known why Mamma so much wanted to come here.

  ‘Because this place is a natural garden – almost a Garden of Eden, if you like. I know it may not seem so, on a cold day, but here – long ago – the hungry people of London were fed by its gardeners. Its natural position overlooking the city and its expanse of fertile land made it an ideal site. But after the Napoleonic blockade was lifted – just around the time of your birth – the place became rife with unemployment. Ealing was suddenly full of wild young men – wayward vagrants with no meaningful occupation. They need training, Ada, and a clear sense of purpose.’

  The carriage deposits us at the church hall. Mamma is nervous; she is pretending not to be, but I recognise the way that she licks her bottom lip from time to time, and the short, shallow breaths that she takes as she trots up the steps. Still, she is grace and assurance personified as we enter the hall, to find a sizeable council of parishioners seated at a round table. In their inky top hats, the men are dignified and distant, the women, in their gloves and bonnets, the epitome of formality likewise. I don’t know any of them, though it is likely that these people are the richest and most influential dignitaries of Ealing. Then there are the clergymen, just as severely dressed, and not a smile to be seen on a single countenance.

  ‘Lady Byron,’ says a pewter-haired man with a corpulent frame.

  ‘This is my daughter, Ada,’ Mamma says, to no one in particular.

  I think I can guess at the outcome of this meeting already. But if Mamma too is made uneasy by the atmosphere, which rivals the weather outside in frostiness, then she hides it well. ‘I can hardly conceal my excitement,’ she says, ‘in putting forth this proposal. At last, we will be able to address the prevalent problems among the young people of Ealing – vagrancy, unemployment, delinquency and disenchantment. With a school that prizes purpose and practicality above all else, we will offer training in agricultural methods, ways in which they can earn their living... skills that they can put to use, for the rest of their lives – drawn closely from the methods of Pestalozzi and Dr Fellenberg. If we can simply—’

  Somebody – an elderly man with a face as lined as sheet-music – interrupts her. ‘But these are foreigners. Pestalozzi, Fellenstein...’

  ‘Fellenberg,’ Mamma says.

  ‘Why should their principles be of any interest to young Englishmen? It seems an absurd idea.’

  ‘That is not our only reservation,’ says another man. ‘You make no mention of corporal punishment in your outline of the school’s methods.’

  ‘I have visited the institute at Hofwyl twice,’ says Mamma. ‘The children manage their own behaviour; there is no need for corporal punishment.’

  ‘I don’t see how you could possibly keep order without corporal punishment,’ says a dry-voiced woman in an opulent cloak.

  ‘But at Hofwyl—’

  Now a clergyman, lip quivering, and scarcely able to speak due to his palpable indignation, pipes up. ‘Lady Byron,’ he says. ‘In addition to the objections raised by others, what seems to me, on reading your plans, quite shocking, is that you do not intend the school to follow any kind of religious teaching.’

  Mamma says: ‘I wish the school to be open to children of all belief, or to children of no belief at all.’

  There is, at this, an audible gasp of horror. It is news to me; Mamma is a religious woman – the school of Christianity that she follows is called Socinianism – but I can see, I think, why she has said what she has said. She does not wish to close the door to anyone of any belief. This is admirable; I wonder why these people cannot see it, even though they are church people.

  ‘Lady Byron,’ says the first of the elderly men. ‘Although we commend the good intentions that clearly underlie your propositions, we are not able to countenance any funding for such an undertaking as you propose.’

  Mamma gets to her feet. I do the same. We are being dismissed. Then Mamma turns, taking in the whole of the room, and I hear in her voice a passion and emotion that I seldom hear, that lend a richness to her tone, like a fire lit in a cold grate.

  ‘People are starving,’ she says. ‘The degree of separation between the richest of the upper classes and those who exist in a state of poverty is one that cannot be borne. Industries are changing; agriculture is changing; education must change too, or else it will not be able to support the people who need it most.’

  Mamma is quiet on the journey home, and I summon the courage, after a little while, to ask her whether she had any real expectation of a favourable response to her scheme. She sighs. ‘You are right, Ada,’ she says. ‘Given my commitment to allowing children of any belief to attend the institution, I could not have expected the clergy to welcome my proposals. Perhaps, too, the principles on which my scheme is based are simply too different in nature to what those people understand by the concept of “education”. And yet... I am seeking a solution to the problem of delinquency in Ealing, and as such I hoped that they would offer some form of support – it is a shared problem, after all. But it does not matter. My resolve is not lessened in the slightest. I shall use my own money – I have plenty of it.’

  Unsurprisingly, Mamma proves as good as her word, and immediately sets about directing – with all her customary zeal – some of her considerable fortune into the school that she eventually names Ealing Grove. The first headmaster she chooses is not suitable – he does not enjoy taking orders from a woman. As is her wont, she treats this as only a minor setback, and before long has secured another man, a Mr Atlee, far better-suited to the post. There are not many pupils at first, but those that do attend seem happy and purposeful and intent on their learning. This much is clear to me on my first visit. Ealing Grove reminds me, in so many ways, of Hofwyl. Mamma has even arranged for the development of some allotments – long, narrow strips of land which can be cultivated – where the children are instructed in various agricultural skills.

  ‘Why can’t I be a pupil here?’ I say to her, half-jokingly, as we wander through the allotments together, watching the children at work.

  ‘You aren’t what I would define as in need,’ says Mamma, stepping delicately over a rake.

  ‘A teacher, then. I’m sure I know enough about some things, like French, for example, and—’

  ‘Ada,’ says Mamma. ‘You will never be a teacher.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You haven’t the temperament, for a start.’

  ‘I have been educated to such an extent,’ I point out, ‘that it seems a shame for me not to use it in some way. Do you not think so?’

  ‘My parents gave me the best education possible too,’ replies Mamma. ‘But not so that I should have to enter a profession. No: the point is that you should be acquainted deeply with a range of subjects, from languages to mathematics, without, of course, neglecting art and music and current affairs. It is important
to know as much as possible about the world in which you live. And for you, moreover, the intellectual discipline is highly beneficial. You do not need to use it, as you say; it will be useful regardless. And one day, Ada, the benefits of your academic instruction will be quite clear. You will have the clarity of mind to know what you are doing is right; to try to make a difference to the community around you, as I myself endeavour to do.’

  ‘But what am I meant to be?’ I persist, although I know what she is going to say.

  ‘You’ll be a wife and mother, Ada. And a very good job you’ll do of it too.’

  This she says so simply, so matter-of-factly, that at first, I accept it as some kind of universally acknowledged truth. But it sparks something in me – a little wisp of silvery flame – and as we continue our walk, I begin to think: Why must I be a wife and a mother? Why must I do only this, and nothing more?

  We don’t discuss it further, but once I have started upon this thought, I find that I can’t let it go, and return to it in the way that Puff might worry at a ball of wool. There must be something else, I think, that I can do with my life.

  Surely, surely, there must be.

  Fordhook, Ealing

  February 1833

  The occasion of someone new arriving to teach me is a familiar one. It has happened so many times, and I am used to the pattern of it: the breathless, eager governess, armed with her ambitions; the tall, grey-haired man of letters, primed by my mother for wise tutelage. Oh, I have grown very accustomed to it indeed. But when my shorthand tutor finally arrives on a Tuesday morning, I find myself totally unprepared for my reaction to him. A breathless, eager governess he is not, nor grey-haired man of letters; he turns out to be someone far, far more interesting.

  I am waiting at an upstairs window when he arrives, and the first glimpse I have of him is a bird’s one – just as if I were still hiding in the sycamore tree. There he is: a young man – not tall, slightly built, though it’s hard to tell from where I’m standing – walking briskly up the steps to the front door. He moves with confidence: rare for one who has never been here before. He wears a fawn-coloured top hat; the tail of his frock coat flies behind him. Now the bell peals with a great, theatrical clang and Fury the First appears at my elbow.

  ‘Come, Ada. Mr Hopkins is here.’

  Mamma is in the process of subjecting the newcomer to a short interview in the entrance hall. I come down the stairs, mulishly slow, holding up the progress of the Fury who is coming down behind me, and hoping she’ll trip. I also feel shy suddenly, and unsure of myself. I’ve never been tutored by a young man before. The tutor seems unaware of our arrival; he is talking to Mamma, gesticulating as he speaks. He laughs: it’s a rich chuckle that echoes on the marble floor. He has a very straight nose that turns up just at the end, as though drawn by a pencil that was suddenly lifted from the page. Mamma is smiling; she seems pleased by him.

  ‘Do you have far to travel, Mr Hopkins?’ she asks.

  ‘No, no. A pleasant walk across the fields, in Hanger Hill. Our house is the Old Rectory – perhaps a mile or so from here.’

  Mamma says: ‘And here is Ada.’

  At once, Mr Hopkins spins round like a wind-up figurine. The smile broadens; his eyes – they are brown – narrow almost into parallelograms as he does so. He comes towards me, holding out his hand, which I take. ‘What a great privilege it is for me, Miss Byron, to have this opportunity.’

  I look at him, absorbing it all: the tilted nose, the rum-dark eyes, the longish hair, which is the colour of burnt butter beneath his hat. His is a pleasant, intelligent, open face – he is not handsome, precisely, but then I myself am not beautiful. I sense a hovering Fury, realise I haven’t spoken, and mumble indistinctly, ‘I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Hopkins.’

  In my head, though, I do not think of him as Mr Hopkins. He is James.

  Over our first lesson, I find out more. James Hopkins is twenty-two. He is a graduate of the University of London, a secular institution, only recently set up, of which Mamma approves. He has taught shorthand to many young ladies, and enjoys it. He smells nice; this is an unusual thing for me to observe, but he does – it’s not a scent that I can find words to describe, but I like it nonetheless. I find myself quite unable to concentrate on anything he says that pertains to shorthand.

  ‘The Art of Writing,’ he says (he is soft-spoken, and quick in his delivery), ‘is, quite simply, one of the most important things that a young person like you, Miss Byron, can study today.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I say. We are sitting in the library; the door is ajar, and from time to time footsteps are heard marching past, doors swinging shut in other parts of the house. I wish – as I so often wish – that this lesson could take place outside. The trees are wintry spindles and the wind is high, and I would naturally prefer not to be spied on.

  James Hopkins shifts in his chair – he is sitting at the head of the mahogany library table, and I to his left – so that he is almost facing me. ‘Let me ask you another question. What is writing for?’

  ‘It’s for...’ I consider. It’s a good question. I think about all the different kinds of writing that I have, in my shortish life, enjoyed; and the different kinds of writing that I’ve aspired to try myself. I’ve thought a lot about the fact that I love to write, but not necessarily about why. But I’m never silent for long. I think of my father in the Villa Diodati, contemplating the silvery pattern of moonlight on water as he composed his verses. ‘It’s for telling stories,’ I say.

  ‘Always?’

  I hesitate, feeling stupid, and correct myself. ‘Not always, no,’ I say. ‘It’s... it’s for the communication of ideas.’

  There’s that shy-wide smile again; his teeth are wondrously even, although one, on the upper left, is missing. ‘Yes, Miss Byron. That is quite right. Without the communication of ideas, how would we be able to make any progress in society? It all comes down to writing.’

  ‘But is it really an Art?’ I say, wanting to prolong the discussion now.

  ‘That is a good question. Yes, writing is, absolutely, an Art. Let us think about the matter carefully. Imagine that you are at a lecture. Someone is speaking of a new development in...’ He pauses, struggling to think of something.

  ‘The mechanics of... of flying,’ I supply. He looks a little taken aback. I supply an alternative: ‘Or the movement of the planets.’

  ‘The planets! Yes! Very good,’ says James Hopkins. His hands fly apart as he speaks, moving almost in time to his words. He has long-boned hands, expressive ones. For a moment I think about moving my own hand to touch his – but, of course, I don’t do anything of the kind. Behind us, the door creaks, and Fury the Third drifts in, making a pretence of searching for a particular book in the shelves. I know when I am being watched. James Hopkins, meanwhile, does not even notice the intrusion, so focused is he on his discourse. ‘There you are, in the front row, at the lecture. You have been invited to make notes for the speaker. Those notes are to appear in a prestigious publication. You are delighted – immensely proud to have been given such a task. You have a pen and some paper. You are quite ready (or so you think). The lights are dimmed as the speaker takes his place on the podium and the lecture begins. He starts to talk. He speaks fast – much faster than you had anticipated.’

  James Hopkins speaks very fast himself; I cling to each word, absorbing it all as though it were poetry. ‘Alas! You have dropped your pen. A gallant young man to your right picks it up.’ The smile again. ‘You’ve missed a bit, but it doesn’t matter. You will remember it later, you think. The lecture continues. You are writing, writing... faithfully, you copy down what the speaker is saying. But you can’t catch it all; in your efforts to keep up, whole words, and then whole phrases are missed. Soon, the entire transcript becomes devoid of meaning. You leave the lecture hall disheartened, wishing that there could have been some way to capture
those words for posterity. For what good is a half-communicated notion? Why, none at all.’

  He pauses. The dramatic effect is profound. I am gazing at him, mouth half-open, waiting for what comes next. The Fury indulges in a fit of coughing as she carries a pile of books out of the room.

  ‘That,’ says James Hopkins, ‘is why we learn shorthand. Now, Miss Byron, will you take up your own pen, if you please, and write something for me.’

  ‘What should I write?’

  ‘Oh, anything at all; it doesn’t matter what it is.’

  My fingers are not precisely steady as I dip the nib of my pen into the inkwell. I want to think of something clever to write, something that will impress him. A line from a poem of my father’s comes to me, then, and I inscribe it in my best copperplate.

  I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

  ‘How interesting,’ says Mr Hopkins, who has watched me closely. ‘Most people, you know, if invited to write something of their own choosing, simply write their names. You must have an original mind.’

  I can feel my cheeks colouring and wish that I could be more in control of myself than this – as in control as he seems to be. Does he know what it is that I have written? It depends, I suppose, on whether he is acquainted with Byron’s verses. I say: ‘Those are not original words.’

  ‘No, indeed. They are the opening line of “Darkness”, are they not?’

  ‘I... yes, you’re quite right.’ He does know my father’s work. Perhaps everyone does.

  ‘Now, Miss Byron, I have made some observations of the way in which you write,’ says Mr Hopkins. ‘Do not be offended when I say that your posture, when you write, is a little stiff, with too much tension in the shoulders.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘Furthermore: you place too much pressure on the page. The letters are clear and legible, but only because you took great pains to make them so. What would happen, I wonder, if you were to write them fast?’