When they were seated in the drawing-room again, Mr Honeyfoot addressed Mr Norrell. “What I have seen here today, sir, convinces me that you are the best person to help us. Mr Segundus and I are of the opinion that modern magicians are on the wrong path; they waste their energies upon trifles. Do not you agree, sir?”
“Oh! certainly,” said Mr Norrell.
“Our question,” continued Mr Honeyfoot, “is why magic has fallen from its once-great state in our great nation. Our question is, sir, why is no more magic done in England?”
Mr Norrell’s small blue eyes grew harder and brighter and his lips tightened as if he were seeking to suppress a great and secret delight within him. It was as if, thought Mr Segundus, he had waited a long time for someone to ask him this question and had had his answer ready for years. Mr Norrell said, “I cannot help you with your question, sir, for I do not understand it. It is a wrong question, sir. Magic is not ended in England. I myself am quite a tolerable practical magician.”
2
The Old Starre Inn
January–February 1807
As the carriage passed out of Mr Norrell’s sweep-gate Mr Honeyfoot exclaimed; “A practical magician in England! And in Yorkshire too! We have had the most extraordinary good luck! Ah, Mr Segundus, we have you to thank for this. You were awake, when the rest of us had fallen asleep. Had it not been for your encouragement, we might never have discovered Mr Norrell. And I am quite certain that he would never have sought us out; he is a little reserved. He gave us no particulars of his achievements in practical magic, nothing beyond the simple fact of his success. That, I fancy, is the sign of a modest nature. Mr Segundus, I think you will agree that our task is clear. It falls to us, sir, to overcome Norrell’s natural timidity and aversion to praise, and lead him triumphantly before a wider public!”
“Perhaps,” said Mr Segundus doubtfully.
“I do not say it will be easy,” said Mr Honeyfoot. “He is a little reticent and not fond of company. But he must see that such knowledge as he possesses must be shared with others for the Nation’s good. He is a gentleman: he knows his duty and will do it, I am sure. Ah, Mr Segundus! You deserve the grateful thanks of every magician in the country for this.”
But whatever Mr Segundus deserved, the sad fact is that magicians in England are a peculiarly ungrateful set of men. Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus might well have made the most significant discovery in magical scholarship for three centuries – what of it? There was scarcely a member of the York society who, when he learnt of it, was not entirely confident that he could have done it much better – and, upon the following Tuesday when an extraordinary meeting of the Learned Society of York Magicians was held, there were very few members who were not prepared to say so.
At seven o’clock upon the Tuesday evening the upper room of the Old Starre Inn in Stonegate was crowded. The news which Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus had brought seemed to have drawn out all the gentlemen in the city who had ever peeped into a book of magic – and York was still, after its own fashion, one of the most magical cities in England; perhaps only the King’s city of Newcastle could boast more magicians.
There was such a crush of magicians in the room that, for the present, a great many were obliged to stand, though the waiters were continually bringing more chairs up the stairs. Dr Foxcastle had got himself an excellent chair, tall and black and curiously carved – and this chair (which rather resembled a throne), and the sweep of the red velvet curtains behind him and the way in which he sat with his hands clasped over his large round stomach, all combined to give him a deeply magisterial air.
The servants at the Old Starre Inn had prepared an excellent fire to keep off the chills of a January evening and around it were seated some ancient magicians – apparently from the reign of George II or thereabouts – all wrapped in plaid shawls, with yellowing spider’s-web faces, and accompanied by equally ancient footmen with bottles of medicine in their pockets. Mr Honeyfoot greeted them with: “How do you do, Mr Aptree? How do you do, Mr Greyshippe? I hope you are in good health, Mr Tunstall? I am very glad to see you here, gentlemen! I hope you have all come to rejoice with us? All our years in the dusty wilderness are at an end. Ah! no one knows better than you, Mr Aptree and you, Mr Greyshippe what years they have been, for you have lived through a great many of them. But now we shall see magic once more Britain’s counsellor and protector! And the French, Mr Tunstall! What will be the feelings of the French when they hear about it? Why! I should not be surprized if it were to bring on an immediate surrender.”
Mr Honeyfoot had a great deal more to say of the same sort; he had prepared a speech in which he intended to lay before them all the wonderful advantages that were to accrue to Britain from this discovery. But he was never allowed to deliver more than a few sentences of it, for it seemed that each and every gentleman in the room was bursting with opinions of his own on the subject, all of which required to be communicated urgently to every other gentleman. Dr Foxcastle was the first to interrupt Mr Honeyfoot. From his large, black throne he addressed Mr Honeyfoot thus: “I am very sorry to see you, sir, bringing magic – for which I know you have a genuine regard – into disrepute with impossible tales and wild inventions. Mr Segundus,” he said, turning to the gentleman whom he regarded as the source of all the trouble, “I do not know what is customary where you come from, but in Yorkshire we do not care for men who build their reputations at the expence of other men’s peace of mind.”
This was as far as Dr Foxcastle got before he was drowned by the loud, angry exclamations of Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus’s supporters. The next gentleman to make himself heard wondered that Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot should have been so taken in. Clearly Norrell was mad – no different from any stark-eyed madman who stood upon the street corner screaming out that he was the Raven King.
A sandy-haired gentleman in a state of great excitement thought that Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus should have insisted on Mr Norrell leaving his house upon the instant and coming straightway in an open carriage (though it was January) in triumph to York, so that the sandy-haired gentleman might strew ivy leaves in his path;1 and one of the very old men by the fire was in a great passion about something or other, but being so old his voice was rather weak and no one had leisure just then to discover what he was saying.
There was a tall, sensible man in the room called Thorpe, a gentleman with very little magical learning, but a degree of common sense rare in a magician. He had always thought that Mr Segundus deserved encouragement in his quest to find where practical English magic had disappeared to – though like everyone else Mr Thorpe had not expected Mr Segundus to discover the answer quite so soon. But now that they had an answer Mr Thorpe was of the opinion that they should not simply dismiss it: “Gentlemen, Mr Norrell has said he can do magic. Very well. We know a little of Norrell – we have all heard of the rare texts he is supposed to have and for this reason alone we would be wrong to dismiss his claims without careful consideration. But the stronger arguments in Norrell’s favour are these: that two of our own number – sober scholars both – have seen Norrell and come away convinced.” He turned to Mr Honeyfoot. “You believe in this man – any one may see by your face that you do. You have seen something that convinced you – will you not tell us what it was?”
Now Mr Honeyfoot’s reaction to this question was perhaps a little strange. At first he smiled gratefully at Mr Thorpe as if this was exactly what he could have wished for: a chance to broadcast the excellent reasons he had for believing that Mr Norrell could do magic; and he opened his mouth to begin. Then he stopped; he paused; he looked about him, as if those excellent reasons which had seemed so substantial a moment ago were all turning to mist and nothingness in his mouth, and his tongue and teeth could not catch hold of even one of them to frame it into a rational English sentence. He muttered something of Mr Norrell’s honest countenance.
The York society did not think this very satisfactory (and had they actually been privileged
to see Mr Norrell’s countenance they might have thought it even less so). So Thorpe turned to Mr Segundus and said, “Mr Segundus, you have seen Norrell too. What is your opinion?”
For the first time the York society noticed how pale Mr Segundus was and it occurred to some of the gentlemen that he had not answered them when they had greeted him, as if he could not quite collect his thoughts to reply. “Are you unwell, sir?” asked Mr Thorpe gently. “No, no,” murmured Mr Segundus, “it is nothing. I thank you.” But he looked so lost that one gentleman offered him his chair and another went off to fetch a glass of Canary-wine, and the excitable sandy-haired gentleman who had wished to strew ivy leaves in Mr Norrell’s path nurtured a secret hope that Mr Segundus might be enchanted and that they might see something extraordinary!
Mr Segundus sighed and said, “I thank you. I am not ill, but this last week I have felt very heavy and stupid. Mrs Pleasance has given me arrowroot and hot concoctions of liquorice root, but they have not helped – which does not surprize me for I think the confusion is in my head. I am not so bad as I was. If you were to ask me now, gentlemen, why it is that I believe that magic has come back to England, I should say it is because I have seen magic done. The impression of having seen magic done is most vivid here and here …” (Mr Segundus touched his brow and his heart.) “And yet I know that I have seen none. Norrell did none while we were with him. And so I suppose that I have dreamt it.”
Fresh outbreak of the gentlemen of the York society. The faint gentleman smiled faintly and inquired if any one could make any thing of this. Then Mr Thorpe cried, “Good God! It is very nonsensical for us all to sit here and assert that Norrell can or cannot do this or can or cannot do that. We are all rational beings I think, and the answer, surely, is quite simple – we will ask him to do some magic for us in proof of his claims.”
This was such good sense that for a moment the magicians were silent – though this is not to say that the proposal was universally popular – not at all. Several of the magicians (Dr Foxcastle was one) did not care for it. If they asked Norrell to do magic, there was always the danger that he might indeed do some. They did not want to see magic done; they only wished to read about it in books. Others were of the opinion that the York society was making itself very ridiculous by doing even so little as this. But in the end most of the magicians agreed with Mr Thorpe that: “As scholars, gentlemen, the least we can do is to offer Mr Norrell the opportunity to convince us.” And so it was decided that someone should write another letter to Mr Norrell.
It was quite clear to all the magicians that Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus had handled the thing very ill and upon one subject at least – that of Mr Norrell’s wonderful library – they did seem remarkably stupid, for they were not able to give any intelligible report of it. What had they seen? Oh, books, many books. A remarkable number of books? Yes, they believed they had thought it remarkable at the time. Rare books? Ah, probably. Had they been permitted to take them down and look inside them? Oh no! Mr Norrell had not gone so far as to invite them to do that. But they had read the titles? Yes, indeed. Well then, what were the titles of the books they had seen? They did not know; they could not remember. Mr Segundus said that one of the books had a title that began with a ‘B’, but that was the beginning and end of his information. It was very odd.
Mr Thorpe had always intended to write the letter to Mr Norrell himself, but there were a great many magicians in the room whose chief idea was to give offence to Mr Norrell in return for his impudence and these gentlemen thought quite rightly that their best means of insulting Norrell was to allow Dr Foxcastle to write the letter. And so this was carried. In due time it brought forth an angry letter of reply.
Hurtfew Abbey, Yorkshire,
Feb. 1st, 1807
Sir—
Twice in recent years I have been honoured by a letter from the gentlemen of the Learned Society of York Magicians soliciting my acquaintance. Now comes a third letter informing me of the society’s displeasure. The good opinion of the York society seems as easily lost as it is gained and a man may never know how he came to do either. In answer to the particular charge contained in your letter that I have exaggerated my abilities and laid claim to powers I cannot possibly possess I have only this to say: other men may fondly attribute their lack of success to a fault in the world rather than to their own poor scholarship, but the truth is that magic is as achievable in this Age as in any other; as I have proved to my own complete satisfaction any number of times within the last twenty years. But what is my reward for loving my art better than other men have done? – for studying harder to perfect it? – it is now circulated abroad that I am a fabulist; my professional abilities are slighted and my word doubted. You will not, I dare say, be much surprized to learn that under such circumstances as these I do not feel much inclined to oblige the York society in any thing – least of all a request for a display of magic. The Learned Society of York Magicians meets upon Wednesday next and upon that day I shall inform you of my intentions.
Your servant
Gilbert Norrell
This was all rather disagreeably mysterious. The theoretical magicians waited somewhat nervously to see what the practical magician would send them next. What Mr Norrell sent them next was nothing more alarming than an attorney, a smiling, bobbing, bowing attorney, a quite commonplace attorney called Robinson, with neat black clothes and neat kid gloves, with a document, the like of which the gentlemen of the York society had never seen before; a draft of an agreement, drawn up in accordance with England’s long-forgotten codes of magical law.
Mr Robinson arrived in the upper room at the Old Starre promptly at eight and seemed to suppose himself expected. He had a place of business and two clerks in Coney-street. His face was well known to many of the gentlemen.
“I will confess to you, sirs,” smiled Mr Robinson, “that this paper is largely the work of my principal, Mr Norrell. I am no expert upon thaumaturgic law. Who is nowadays? Still, I dare say that if I go wrong, you will be so kind as to put me right again.”
Several of the York magicians nodded wisely.
Mr Robinson was a polished sort of person. He was so clean and healthy and pleased about everything that he positively shone – which is only to be expected in a fairy or an angel, but is somewhat disconcerting in an attorney. He was most deferential to the gentlemen of the York society for he knew nothing of magic, but he thought it must be difficult and require great concentration of mind. But to professional humility and a genuine admiration of the York society Mr Robinson added a happy vanity that these monumental brains must now cease their pondering on esoteric matters for a time and listen to him. He put golden spectacles upon his nose, adding another small glitter to his shining person.
Mr Robinson said that Mr Norrell undertook to do a piece of magic in a certain place at a certain time. “You have no objection I hope, gentlemen, to my principal settling the time and place?”
The gentlemen had none.
“Then it shall be the Cathedral, Friday fortnight.”2
Mr Robinson said that if Mr Norrell failed to do the magic then he would publicly withdraw his claims to be a practical magician – indeed to be any sort of magician at all, and he would give his oath never to make any such claims again.
“He need not go so far,” said Mr Thorpe. “We have no desire to punish him; we merely wished to put his claims to the test.”
Mr Robinson’s shining smile dimmed a little, as if he had something rather disagreeable to communicate and was not quite sure how to begin.
“Wait,” said Mr Segundus, “we have not heard the other side of the bargain yet. We have not heard what he expects of us.”
Mr Robinson nodded. Mr Norrell intended it seemed to exact the same promise from each and every magician of the York society as he made himself. In other words if he succeeded, then they must without further ado disband the Society of York Magicians and none of them claim the title “magician” ever again. And after all,
said Mr Robinson, this would be only fair, since Mr Norrell would then have proved himself the only true magician in Yorkshire.
“And shall we have some third person, some independent party to decide if the magic has been accomplished?” asked Mr Thorpe.
This question seemed to puzzle Mr Robinson. He hoped they would excuse him if he had taken up a wrong idea he said, he would not offend for the world, but he had thought that all the gentlemen present were magicians.
Oh, yes, nodded the York society, they were all magicians.
Then surely, said Mr Robinson, they would recognize magic when they saw it? Surely there were none better qualified to do so?
Another gentleman asked what magic Norrell intended to do? Mr Robinson was full of polite apologies and elaborate explanations; he could not enlighten them, he did not know.
It would tire my reader’s patience to rehearse the many winding arguments by which the gentlemen of the York society came to sign Mr Norrell’s agreement. Many did so out of vanity; they had publicly declared that they did not believe Norrell could do magic, they had publicly challenged Norrell to perform some – under such circumstances as these it would have looked peculiarly foolish to change their minds – or so they thought.
Mr Honeyfoot, on the other hand, signed precisely because he believed in Norrell’s magic. Mr Honeyfoot hoped that Mr Norrell would gain public recognition by this demonstration of his powers and go on to employ his magic for the good of the nation.
Some of the gentlemen were provoked to sign by the suggestion (originating with Norrell and somehow conveyed by Robinson) that they would not shew themselves true magicians unless they did so.
So one by one and there and then, the magicians of York signed the document that Mr Robinson had brought. The last magician was Mr Segundus.
“I will not sign,” he said. “For magic is my life and though Mr Norrell is quite right to say I am a poor scholar, what shall I do when it is taken from me?”
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 3