Arabella gently removed her arm from his and begged his pardon. She was quite unable to supply him with the information he required. She knew nothing of any little bottles or powders.
She returned to the concert with much less agreeable feelings than she had taken away.
“Odious, odious little man!”
28
The Duke of Roxburghe’s library
November 1810—January 1811
At the end of 1810 the Government’s situation was about as bad as it could possibly be. Bad news met the Ministers at every turn. The French were everywhere triumphant; the other great European powers who had once combined with Britain to fight the Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte (and who had subsequently been defeated by him) now discovered their mistake and became instead his allies. At home, trade was destroyed by the war and men in every part of the kingdom were bankrupted; the harvest failed two years together. The King’s youngest daughter fell ill and died, and the King went mad from grief.
The war destroyed every present comfort and cast a deep gloom over the future. Soldiers, merchants, politicians and farmers all cursed the hour that they were born, but magicians (a contrary breed of men if ever there was one) were entirely delighted by the course events were taking. Not for many hundreds of years had their art been held in such high regard. Many attempts to win the war had ended in disaster and magic now seemed the greatest hope Britain had. There were gentlemen from the War Office and all the various boards and offices of the navy who were most anxious to employ Mr Norrell and Mr Strange. The press of business at Mr Norrell’s house in Hanover-square was often so great that visitors were obliged to wait until three or four in the morning before Mr Strange and Mr Norrell were able to attend to them. This was no very great trial as long as there was a crowd of gentlemen in Mr Norrell’s drawing-room, but woe to the one who was last, for it is never a pleasant thing to have to wait in the middle of night outside a closed door and know that behind the door are two magicians doing magic.1
A story which was circulating at the time (one heard it everywhere one went) was the tale of the Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte’s bungled attempts to find a magician of his own. Lord Liverpool’s spies2 reported that the Emperor was so jealous of the success of English magicians that he had sent out officers to search through all his Empire for some person or persons with magical abilities. Thus far, however, all that they had discovered was a Dutchman called Witloof who had a magic wardrobe. The wardrobe had been taken to Paris in a barouche-landau. At Versailles, Witloof had promised the Emperor that he could find the answer to any question inside the wardrobe.
According to the spies, Buonaparte had asked the wardrobe the following three questions: “Would the baby the Empress was expecting be male?”; “Would the Czar of Russia change sides again?”; “When would the English be defeated?”
Witloof had gone inside the wardrobe and come out with the following answers: “Yes,” “No,” and “In four weeks time”. Every time Witloof entered the wardrobe there was the most hideous noise as if half the demons in Hell were screaming inside it, clouds of little silver stars issued from the cracks and hinges and the wardrobe rocked slightly upon its ball-and-claw feet. After the three questions had been answered, Buonaparte regarded the wardrobe silently for some moments, and then he strode over and pulled open the doors. Inside he found a goose (to make the noises) and some saltpetre (to produce the silver stars) and a dwarf (to ignite the saltpetre and prod the goose). No one knew for certain what had happened to Witloof and the dwarf, but the Emperor had eaten the goose for dinner the following day.
In the middle of November the Admiralty invited Mr Norrell and Mr Strange to Portsmouth to review the Channel Fleet, an honour usually reserved for admirals, heroes and kings. The two magicians and Arabella went down to Portsmouth in Mr Norrell’s carriage. Their entrance into the town was marked by a salute of guns from all the ships in the harbour and all the arsenals and forts that surrounded it. They were rowed about among the ships at Spithead, accompanied by a whole array of admirals, flag officers and captains in their several barges. Other less official boats went too, full of the good citizens of Portsmouth come to look at the two magicians and wave and cheer. On returning to Portsmouth Mr Norrell and Mr and Mrs Strange looked over the dock-yard and in the evening a grand ball was given in their honour at the Assembly Rooms and all the town was illuminated.
The ball was generally reckoned a very delightful affair. There was one slight annoyance early on when some of the guests were foolish enough to make some remarks to Mr Norrell upon the pleasantness of the occasion and the beauty of the ballroom. Mr Norrell’s rude reply immediately convinced them that he was a cross, disagreeable man, unwilling to talk to any one below the rank of admiral. However they found ample compensation for this disappointment in the lively, unreserved manners of Mr and Mrs Strange. They were happy to be introduced to Portsmouth’s principal inhabitants and they spoke admiringly of Portsmouth, of the ships they had seen and of things naval and nautical in general. Mr Strange danced every dance without exception, Mrs Strange only sat out for two and they did not return to their rooms at the Crown until after two o’clock in the morning.
Having got to bed a little before three, Strange was not best pleased to be woken again at seven by a knock on the door. He got up and found one of the inn-servants standing in the hallway.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, “but the port-admiral has sent to say the False Prelate is run upon Horse Sand. He has sent Captain Gilbey to fetch one of the magicians but the other magician has the headach and will not go.”
This was not perhaps as perfectly comprehensible as the man intended, and Strange suspected that, even if he had been rather more awake, he would not have understood it. Nevertheless it was clear that something had occurred and that he was required to go somewhere. “Tell Captain Whatever-it-is to wait,” he said with a sigh. “I am coming.”
He dressed and went downstairs. In the coffee-room he found a handsome young man in a captain’s uniform who was pacing up and down. This was Captain Gilbey. Strange remembered him from the ballroom – an intelligent-seeming man with pleasant manners. He looked greatly relieved to see Strange and explained that a ship, the False Prelate, had run upon one of the shoals at Spithead. It was an awkward situation. The False Prelate might be got off without serious damage or she might not. In the meantime the port-admiral sent his compliments to Mr Norrell and Mr Strange and begged that one or both of them go with Captain Gilbey to see if there was any thing that they could do.
A gig stood outside the Crown with one of the inn-servants at the horse’s head. Strange and Captain Gilbey got into it and Captain Gilbey drove them briskly through the town. The town was beginning to stir with a certain air of hurry and alarm. Windows were opening; heads in nightcaps were poking out of them and shouting down questions; people in the street were shouting back answers. A great many people seemed to be hurrying in the same direction as Captain Gilbey’s carriage.
When they reached the ramparts, Captain Gilbey halted. The air was cold and damp and there was a fresh breeze blowing off the sea. A little way out a huge ship was lying on her side. Sailors very small and black and far away could be seen clinging to the rail and clambering down the side of the ship. A dozen or so rowing boats and small sailing vessels were crowded around her. Some of the occupants of these boats appeared to be holding energetic conversations with the sailors on the ship.
To Strange’s unnautical eye, it looked very much as if the ship had simply lain down and gone to sleep. He felt that if he had been the Captain he would have spoken to her sternly and made her get up again.
“But surely,” he said, “dozens of ships go in and out of Portsmouth all the time. How could such a thing happen?”
Captain Gilbey shrugged. “I am afraid it is not so remarkable as you suppose. The master might not be familiar with the channels of Spithead, or he might be drunk.”
A large crowd was assembling. In Po
rtsmouth every inhabitant has some connexion with the sea and ships, and some interest of his own to preserve. The daily talk about the place is of the ships going in and out of the harbour and the ships that lie at anchor at Spithead. An event such as this was of almost universal concern. It drew not only the regular loungers of the place (who were numerous enough), but also the steadier citizens and tradesmen, and of course every naval gentleman who had leisure to go and see. A vigorous argument was already taking place over what the master of the ship had done wrong, and what the port admiral must do to put it right. As soon as the crowd understood who Strange was and what he had come to do, it was glad to transfer the benefit of its many opinions to him. Unfortunately a great deal of nautical language was employed and Strange had at best an indistinct impression of his informants’ meaning. After one explanation he made the mistake of inquiring what “beating off” and “heaving to” meant, which led to such a very perplexing explanation of the principles of sailing that he understood a great deal less at the end of it than he had at the beginning.
“Well!” he said. “The chief problem is surely that she is on her side. Shall I simply turn her upright? That would be quite easy to accomplish.”
“Good Lord! No!” cried Captain Gilbey. “That will not do at all! Unless it is done in the most careful manner imaginable her keel would almost certainly snap in two. Everybody would drown.”
“Oh!” said Strange.
His next attempt to help fared even worse. Something somebody said about a fresher breeze blowing the ship off the sandbank at high water caused him to think that a strong wind might help. He raised his hands to begin conjuring one up.
“What are you doing?” asked Captain Gilbey.
Strange told him.
“No! No! No!” cried the Captain, appalled.
Several people seized Strange bodily. One man started shaking him vigorously, as though he thought that he might in this way dispel any magic before it took effect.
“The wind is the from south-west,” explained Captain Gilbey. “If it grows stronger, it will batter the ship against the sands and almost certainly break her up. Everybody will drown!”
Someone else was heard to remark that he could not for the life of him understand why the Admiralty thought so highly of this fellow whose ignorance was so astonishing.
A second man replied sarcastically that he might not be much of a magician but at least he danced very well.
A third person laughed.
“What is the sand called?” asked Strange.
Captain Gilbey shook his head in an exasperated fashion to convey that he had not the least idea what Strange was talking about.
“The … the place … the thing on which the ship is caught,” urged Strange. “Something about horses?”
“The shoal is called Horse Sand,” said Captain Gilbey coldly and turned away to speak to someone else.
For the next minute or two no one paid any attention to the magician. They watched the progress of the sloops and brigs and barges around the False Prelate and they looked to the skies and talked of how the weather was changing and where the wind would be at high water.
Suddenly several people called attention to the water. Something odd had appeared there. It was a large, silvery something with a long, oddly-shaped head and hair like long pale weeds waving behind it. It seemed to be swimming towards the False Prelate. No sooner had the crowd begun to exclaim and wonder about this mysterious object than several more appeared. The next moment there were a whole host of silvery shapes – more than a man could count – all swimming towards the ship with great ease and speed.
“What in the world are they?” asked a man in the crowd.
They were much too large to be men and not at all like fish or dolphins.
“They are horses,” said Strange.
“Where did they come from?” asked another man.
“I made them,” said Strange, “out of the sand. Out of Horse Sand, to be precise.”
“But will they not dissolve?” asked one of the crowd.
“And what are they for?” asked Captain Gilbey.
Strange said, “They are made of sand and sea-water and magic, and they will last as long as there is work for them to do. Captain Gilbey, get one of the boats to take a message to the Captain of the False Prelate to say that his men should lash the horses to the ship, as many of them as they can. The horses will pull the ship off the shoal.”
“Oh!” said Captain Gilbey. “Very well. Yes, of course.”
Within half an hour of the message reaching the False Prelate, the ship was clear of the shoal and the sailors were busy putting the sails to rights and doing the thousand and one things which sailors do (things which are quite as mysterious in their way as the actions of magicians). However, it ought to be said that the magic did not work quite as Strange intended. He had not imagined there would be much difficulty in capturing the horses. He supposed that the ship would have plenty of ropes to make the halters and he had tried to regulate the magic so that the horses would be as biddable as possible. But sailors in general do not know much of horses. They know the sea and that is all. Some of the sailors did their best to catch hold of the horses and harness them, but many had not the least idea how to begin or they were too afraid of the silvery, ghostly creatures to go anywhere near them. Of the hundred horses that Strange created only about twenty were eventually harnessed to the ship. These twenty were certainly instrumental in pulling the False Prelate off the sand, but equally useful was the great trough in the sandbank which appeared as more and more horses were created out of it.
In Portsmouth opinion was divided over whether Strange had done something glorious in saving the False Prelate or whether he had merely used the disaster to improve his own career. Many of the captains and officers about the place said that the magic he had done had been of a very showy sort and was obviously intended more to draw attention to his own talent and impress the Admiralty than to save the ship. Nor were they best pleased about the sand-horses. These did not just disappear when their work was done, as Strange had said they would; instead they swam about Spithead for a day and a half, after which they lay down and became sandbanks in new and entirely unexpected places. The masters and pilots of Portsmouth complained to the port-admiral that Strange had permanently altered the channels and shoals in Spithead so that the Navy would now have all the expense and trouble of taking soundings and surveying the anchorage again.
However, in London, where the Ministers knew as little of ships and seamanship as Strange, only one thing was clear: Strange had saved a ship, the loss of which would have cost the Admiralty a vast amount of money.
“One thing that the rescue of the False Prelate demonstrates,” remarked Sir Walter Pole to Lord Liverpool, “is the very great advantage of having a magician upon the spot, able to deal with a crisis as it occurs. I know that we considered sending Norrell somewhere and were forced to give it up, but what of Strange?”
Lord Liverpool considered this. “I think,” he said, “we could only justify sending Mr Strange to serve with one of the generals if we were reasonably confident of that general shortly achieving some sort of success against the French. Anything else would be an unforgivable waste of Mr Strange’s talents which, God knows, we need badly enough in London. Frankly the choice is not great. Really there is no one but Lord Wellington.”
“Oh, quite!”
Lord Wellington was in Portugal with his army and so his opinion could not be easily ascertained, but by an odd coincidence his wife lived at no. 11 Harley-street, just opposite Sir Walter’s own house. When Sir Walter went home that evening he knocked at Lady Wellington’s door and asked her ladyship what she thought Lord Wellington would say to the idea of a magician. But Lady Wellington, a small, unhappy person whose opinion was not much valued by her husband, did not know.
Strange, on the other hand, was delighted with the proposal. Arabella, though somewhat less delighted, gave her assent very read
ily. The greatest obstacle to Strange’s going proved to be, to no one’s great surprize, Norrell. In the past year Mr Norrell had grown to rely a great deal upon his pupil. He consulted Strange upon all those matters which in bygone days had been referred to Drawlight and Lascelles. Mr Norrell talked of nothing but Mr Strange when Strange was away, and talked to no one but Strange when Strange was present. His feelings of attachment seemed all the stronger for being entirely new; he had never felt truly comfortable in any one’s society before. If, in a crowded drawing-room or ballroom, Strange contrived to escape for a quarter of an hour, Mr Norrell would send Drawlight after him to discover where he had gone and whom he was talking to. Consequently, when Mr Norrell learnt there was a plan to send his only pupil and friend to the war he was shocked. “I am astonished, Sir Walter,” he said, “that you should even suggest such a thing!”
“But every man must be prepared to make sacrifices for the sake of his country during a war,” said Sir Walter with some irritation, “and thousands have already done so, you know.”
“But they were soldiers!” cried Mr Norrell. “Oh! I dare say a soldier is very valuable in his way but that is nothing to the loss the Nation would sustain if any thing were to happen to Mr Strange! There is, I understand, a school at High Wycombe where 300 officers are trained every year. I would to God that I were so fortunate as to have 300 magicians to educate! If I had, then English magic might be in a much more promising situation than it is at present!”
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 33