Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

by Susanna Clarke

  This was interesting enough to tempt the servant called Jeremy all the way into the room. He stood and listened.

  “Are all the walls so thin?” continued the magician. “Do you suppose there can be something wrong with them?”

  Jeremy knocked on the wall which divided the house from its neighbour. It responded with as dull and quiet a sound as any stout, well-built wall in the kingdom. Making nothing of this, he said, “I do not hear any thing, sir. What were they saying?”

  “I believe I heard one of them call the other stupid and ugly.”

  “Are you sure, sir? It is two old ladies that live upon that side.”

  “Ha! That proves nothing. Age is no guarantee of any thing these days.”

  With this remark the magician appeared suddenly to grow tired of this conversation. He turned back to his book and started reading.

  Jeremy waited a moment and then, since his master appeared to have forgotten all about him, he went away again.

  “I have not thanked you yet, sir,” said Stephen to the gentleman, “for these wonderful gifts.”

  “Ah, Stephen! I am glad I have pleased you. The diadem, I confess, is your own hat transformed by magic. I would have greatly preferred to give you a real crown, but I was entirely unable to lay my hand upon one at such short notice. You are disappointed, I dare say. Although now I come to think of it, the King of England has several crowns, and rarely makes use of any of them.”

  He raised his hands in the air and pointed upwards with two immensely long white fingers.

  “Oh!” cried Stephen, suddenly realizing what the gentleman was about. “If you think of casting spells to bring the King of England here with one of his crowns – which I imagine you do, since you are all kindness – then I beg that you will spare yourself the trouble! I have no need of one at the moment, as you know, and the King of England is such an old gentleman – would it not perhaps be kinder to let him stay at home?”

  “Oh, very well!” said the gentleman, lowering his hands.

  For lack of any other occupation, he reassumed his abuse of the new magician. Nothing about the man pleased him. He ridiculed the book he was reading, found fault with the make of his boots, and was entirely unable to approve of his height (despite the fact that he was exactly the same height as the gentleman with the thistle-down hair – as was proved when they both happened to stand up at the same time.)

  Stephen was anxious to return to his duties in Harley-street, but he feared that if he left them alone together then the gentleman might start throwing something more substantial than paper at the magician. “Shall you and I walk to Harley-street together, sir?” he asked. “Then you may tell me how your noble actions have moulded London and made it glorious. That is always so very entertaining. I never grow tired of hearing about it.”

  “Gladly, Stephen! Gladly!”

  “Is it far, sir?”

  “Is what far, Stephen?”

  “Harley-street, sir. I do not know where we are.”

  “We are in Soho-square and no, it is not far at all!”

  When they reached the house in Harley-street the gentleman took a most affectionate farewell of Stephen, urging him not to feel sad at this parting and reminding him that they would meet again that very night at Lost-hope. “… when a most charming ceremony will be held in the belfry of the Easternmost Tower. It commemorates an occasion which happened – oh! five hundred years ago or so – when I cleverly contrived to capture the little children of my enemy and we pushed them out of the belfry to their deaths. Tonight we will re-enact this great triumph! We will dress straw dolls in the children’s blood-stained clothes and fling them down on to the paving stones and then we will sing and dance and rejoice over their destruction!”

  “And do you perform this ceremony every year, sir? I feel sure I would have remembered it if I had seen it before. It is so very … striking.”

  “I am glad you think so. I perform it whenever I think of it. Of course it was a great deal more striking when we used real children.”

  27

  The magician’s wife

  December 1809–January 1810

  There were now two magicians in London to be admired and made much of and I doubt if it will come as much surprize to any one to learn that, of the two, London preferred Mr Strange. Strange was everyone’s idea of what a magician ought to be. He was tall; he was charming; he had a most ironical smile; and, unlike Mr Norrell, he talked a great deal about magic and had no objection to answering any body’s questions on the subject. Mr and Mrs Strange attended a great many evening- and dinner-parties, and at some point in the proceedings Strange would generally oblige the company with a shew of one of the minor sorts of magic. The most popular magic he did was to cause visions to appear upon the surface of water.1 Unlike Norrell, he did not use a silver basin which was the traditional vessel for seeing visions in. Strange said that really one could see so little in a basin that it was scarcely worth the trouble of casting the spells. He preferred instead to wait until the servants had cleared the dishes off the table and removed the cloth, then he would tip a glass of water or wine over the table and conjure visions into the pool. Fortunately his hosts were generally so delighted with the magic that they hardly ever complained of their stained, spoilt tables and carpets.

  For their part Mr and Mrs Strange were settled in London much to their satisfaction. They had taken a house in Soho-square and Arabella was deep in all the pleasant cares connected with a new home: commissioning elegant new furniture from the cabinetmakers, entreating her friends to help her to some steady servants and going every day to the shops.

  One morning in mid-December she received a message from one of the shopmen at Haig and Chippendale’s Upholstery (a most attentive person) to say that a bronze silk with alternate satin and watered stripes had just arrived in the shop and he believed it might be the very thing for Mrs Strange’s drawing-room curtains. This necessitated a little re-organization of Arabella’s day.

  “It appears from Mr Sumner’s description to be very elegant,” she told Strange at breakfast, “and I expect to like it very much. But if I chuse bronze-coloured silk for the curtains, then I believe I must give up any notion of having a wine-coloured velvet for the chaise-longue. I do not think bronze-colour and wine-colour will look well together. So I shall to go to Flint and Clark’s to look at the wine-coloured velvet again, and see if I can bear to give it up. Then I will go to Haig and Chippendale’s. But that means I will have no time to visit your aunt – which I really ought to do as she is leaving for Edinburgh this morning. I want to thank her for finding Mary for us.”

  “Mmm?” said Strange, who was eating hot rolls and preserves, and reading Curiose Observations upon the Anatomie of Faeries by Holgarth and Pickle.2

  “Mary. The new maid. You saw her last night.”

  “Ah,” said Strange, turning a page.

  “She seems a nice, pleasant girl with quiet ways. I am sure we will be very happy with her. So, as I was saying, I would be very grateful, Jonathan, if you would call upon your aunt this morning. You can walk down to Henrietta-street after breakfast and thank her for Mary. Then you can come to Haig and Chippendale’s and wait for me there. Oh! And could you look in at Wedgwood and Byerley’s and ask the people when the new dinner-service will be ready? It will be scarcely any trouble. It is very nearly on your way.” She looked at him doubtfully. “Jonathan, are you listening to me?”

  “Mmm?” said Strange, looking up. “Oh, entirely!”

  So Arabella, attended by one of the footmen, walked to Wigmore-street where Flint and Clark had their establishment. But on this second viewing of the wine-coloured velvet she concluded that, though very handsome, it was altogether too sombre. So then she walked on, all anticipation, to St Martin’s-lane to behold the bronze-coloured silk. When she arrived at Haig and Chippendale’s she found the shopman waiting for her, but not her husband. The shopman was most apologetic but Mr Strange had not been there all morning.<
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  She went out into the street again.

  “George, do you see your master anywhere?” she asked the footman.

  “No, madam.”

  A grey rain was beginning to fall. A sort of premonition inspired her to look in at the window of a bookseller’s. There she discovered Strange, talking energetically to Sir Walter Pole. So she went into the shop, bid Sir Walter good morning and sweetly inquired of her husband if he had visited his aunt or looked in at Wedgwood and Byerley’s.

  Strange seemed somewhat perplexed by the question. He looked down and discovered that he had a large book in his hand. He frowned at it as if he could not imagine how it had got there. “I would have done so, my love, of course,” he said, “only Sir Walter has been talking to me all this while which has quite prevented me from beginning.”

  “It has been entirely my fault,” Sir Walter hastily assured Arabella. “We have a problem with our blockade. It is the usual sort of thing and I have been telling Mr Strange about it in the hope he and Mr Norrell will be able to help us.”

  “And can you help?” asked Arabella.

  “Oh, I should think so,” said Strange.

  Sir Walter explained that the British Government had received intelligence that some French ships – possibly as many as ten – had slipped through the British blockade. No one knew where they had gone or what they intended to do when they got there. Nor did the Government know where to find Admiral Armingcroft who was supposed to prevent this sort of thing happening. The Admiral and his fleet of ten frigates and two ships of the line had quite disappeared – presumably he had gone in pursuit of the French. There was a promising young captain, presently stationed at Madeira, and if the Admiralty had only been able to discover what was happening and where it was happening, they would have gladly put Captain Lightwood in charge of four or five more ships and sent him there. Lord Mulgrave had asked Admiral Greenwax what he thought they ought to do and Admiral Greenwax had asked the Ministers and the Ministers said that the Admiralty ought to consult Mr Strange and Mr Norrell immediately.

  “I would not have you think that the Admiralty is entirely helpless without Mr Strange,” smiled Sir Walter. “They have done what they can. They sent one of the clerks, a Mr Petrofax, to Greenwich to seek out a childhood friend of Admiral Armingcroft’s to ask him, with his superior knowledge of the Admiral’s character, what he thought the Admiral would do under such circumstances. But when Mr Petrofax got to Greenwich the Admiral’s childhood friend was drunk in bed, and Mr Petrofax was not sure that he understood the question.”

  “I dare say Norrell and I will be able to suggest something,” said Strange, thoughtfully, “but I think I should like to see the problem on a map.”

  “I have all the necessary maps and papers at my house. One of our servants will bring them to Hanover-square later today and then perhaps you will be so kind as to talk to Norrell …”

  “Oh! But we can do that now!” said Strange. “Arabella does not mind waiting a few moments! You do not mind, do you?” he said to his wife. “I am meeting Mr Norrell at two o’clock and I believe that if I can explain the problem to him straightaway then we may be able to return an answer to the Admiralty before dinner.”

  Arabella, like a sweet, compliant woman and good wife, put all thoughts of her new curtains aside for the moment and assured both gentlemen that in such a cause it was no trouble to her to wait. It was settled that Mr and Mrs Strange would accompany Sir Walter to his house in Harley-street.

  Strange took out his watch and looked at it. “Twenty minutes to Harley-street. Three-quarters of an hour to examine the problem. Then another fifteen minutes to Soho-square. Yes, there is plenty of time.”

  Arabella laughed. “He is not always so scrupulous, I assure you,” she said to Sir Walter, “but he was late on Tuesday for an appointment with Lord Liverpool and Mr Norrell was not best pleased.”

  “That was not my fault,” said Strange. “I was ready to leave the house in good time but I could not find my gloves.” Arabella’s teasing accusation of lateness continued to vex him and on the way to Harley-street he examined his watch as though in hopes of discovering something about the operation of Time which had hitherto gone unnoticed and which would vindicate him. When they reached Harley-street he thought he had it. “Ha!” he cried suddenly. “I know what it is. My watch is wrong!”

  “I do not think so,” said Sir Walter, taking out his own watch and shewing it to Strange. “It is precisely noon. Mine says the same.”

  “Then why do I hear no bells?” said Strange. “Do you hear bells?” he said to Arabella.

  “No, I hear nothing.”

  Sir Walter reddened and muttered something about the bells in this parish and the neighbouring ones being no longer rung.

  “Really?” asked Strange. “Why in the world not?”

  Sir Walter looked as if he would have thanked Strange to keep his curiosity to himself, but all he said was, “Lady Pole’s illness has left her nerves in a sad condition. The tolling of a bell is peculiarly distressing to her and I have asked the vestries of St Mary-le-bone and St Peter if they would, out of consideration for Lady Pole’s nerves, forbear from ringing the church bells, and they have been so obliging as to agree.”

  This was rather extraordinary, but then it was generally agreed that Lady Pole’s illness was a rather extraordinary thing with symptoms quite unlike any other. Neither Mr nor Mrs Strange had ever seen Lady Pole. No one had seen her for two years.

  When they arrived at no. 9 Harley-street Strange was anxious to begin looking at Sir Walter’s documents straightaway but he was obliged to curb his impatience while Sir Walter satisfied himself that Arabella would not lack for amusement in their absence. Sir Walter was a well-bred man and greatly disliked leaving any guest alone in his house. To abandon a lady was particularly bad. Strange on the other hand was anxious to be on time for his appointment with Mr Norrell, so as fast as Sir Walter could suggest diversions, Strange was endeavouring to prove that Arabella needed none of them.

  Sir Walter shewed Arabella the novels in the bookcase, and recommended Mrs Edgeworth’s Belinda in particular as being likely to amuse her. “Oh,” said Strange, interrupting, “I read Belinda to Arabella two or three years ago. Besides, you know, I do not think we will be so long that she will have time to finish a three-volume novel.”

  “Then perhaps some tea and seed-cake … ?” Sir Walter said to Arabella.

  “But Arabella does not care for seed-cake,” interrupted Strange, absent-mindedly picking up Belinda himself and beginning to read the first volume, “It is a thing she particularly dislikes.”

  “A glass of madeira, then,” said Sir Walter. “You will take some madeira, I am sure. Stephen! … Stephen, fetch Mrs Strange a glass of madeira.”

  In the eerie, silent fashion peculiar to high-trained London servants, a tall black servant appeared at Sir Walter’s elbow. Mr Strange seemed quite startled by his sudden arrival and stared hard at him for several moments, before he said to his wife, “You do not want madeira, do you? You do not want any thing.”

  “No, Jonathan. I do not want any thing,” agreed his wife, laughing at their odd argument. “Thank you, Sir Walter, but I am perfectly content to sit here quietly and read.”

  The black servant bowed and departed as silently as he had come, and Strange and Sir Walter went off to talk of the French fleet and the missing English ships.

  But when she was left alone, Arabella found that she was not after all in a mood for reading. On looking round the room in search of amusement her eye was caught by a large painting. It was a landscape comprising woods and a ruined castle perched on top of a cliff. The trees were dark and the ruins and cliff were touched with gold by the light of a setting sun; the sky by contrast was full of light and glowed with pearly colour. A large portion of the foreground was occupied by a silvery pool in which a young woman appeared to be drowning; a second figure bent over her – whether man, woman, satyr or faun, it was impos
sible to determine and, though Arabella studied their postures carefully, she could not decide whether it was the intention of the second figure to save the young woman or murder her. When she had tired of looking at this painting Arabella wandered out into the passage to look at the pictures there but, as these were for the most part watercolour views of Brighton and Chelmsford, she found them very dull.

  Sir Walter and Strange could be heard talking in another room.

  “… extraordinary thing! Yet he is an excellent fellow in his way,” said Sir Walter’s voice.

  “Oh! I know who you mean! He has a brother who is the organist at Bath Cathedral,” said Strange. “He has a black-and-white cat that walks about the Bath streets just ahead of him. Once, when I was in Milsom-street …”

  A door stood open, through which Arabella could see a very elegant drawing-room with a great number of paintings that appeared to be more splendid and richly coloured than any she had yet seen. She went in.

  The room seemed to be full of light, although the day was every bit as grey and forbidding as it had been before. “So where does all this light come from?” wondered Arabella. “It is almost as if it shines out of the paintings, but that is impossible.” The paintings were all of Venice3 and certainly the great quantities of sky and sea which they contained made the room seem somehow insubstantial.

  When she had done examining the paintings upon one wall, she turned to cross to the opposite wall and immediately discovered – much to her mortification – that she was not alone. A young woman was sitting before the fire on a blue sopha, regarding her with some curiosity. The sopha had a rather high back, which was the reason Arabella had not observed her before.

  “Oh! I do beg your pardon!”

  The young woman said nothing.

  She was a remarkably elegant woman with a pale, perfect skin and dark hair most gracefully arranged. She wore a gown of white muslin and an Indian shawl of ivory, silver and black. She seemed altogether too well dressed to be a governess and too much at home to be a lady’s companion. Yet if she were a guest in the house, why had Sir Walter not introduced her?