Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

by Susanna Clarke

  But of all the inhabitants of Venice the one Drawlight desired most as a confidant was Frank. Dr Greysteel’s insults had rankled with him and he had soon determined that the best revenge would be to make a traitor of his manservant. So he sent Frank a letter inviting him to a little wine-shop in San Polo. Somewhat to his surprize, Frank agreed to come.

  At the appointed hour Frank arrived. Drawlight ordered a jug of rough red wine and poured them both a tumblerful.

  “Frank?” he began in a soft, wistful sort of voice. “I spoke to your master the other day – as I dare say you know. He seems a very stern sort of old fellow – not at all kind. I hope you are happy in your situation, Frank? I only mention it because a dear friend of mine, whose name is Lascelles, was saying only the other day how hard it is to find good servants in London and if only someone would help him to a good manservant he believed he would pay almost any money.”

  “Oh!” said Frank.

  “Do you think you might like to live in London, Frank?”

  Frank drew circles on the table with some spilt wine in a considering sort of way. “I might,” he said.

  “Because,” continued Drawlight, eagerly. “if you were able to do me one or two little services, then I would be able to tell my friend of your helpfulness and I am sure he would say immediately that you were the man for him!”

  “What sort of services?” asked Frank.

  “Oh! Well, the first is the easiest thing in the world! Indeed the moment I tell you what it is, you will be eager to do it – even if there were no reward at all. You see, Frank, I fear something quite horrible will soon happen to your master and his daughter. The magician means them a world of harm. I tried to warn your master, but he is so stubborn he would not listen to me. I can scarcely sleep for thinking of it. I curse my stupidity that I could not explain myself better. But they trust you, Frank. You could drop a few hints – not to your master, but to his sister and daughter – about Strange’s wickedness, and put them on their guard.” Then Drawlight explained about the murder of Arabella Strange and the pact with Byron to hold their women in common.

  Frank nodded warily.

  “We need to be on our guard against the magician,” said Drawlight. “The others are all taken in by his lies and deceit – your master in particular. So it is vital that you and I gather up all the intelligence we can so that we can reveal his wicked plans to the world. Now, tell me Frank, is there any thing you have observed, any word the magician let fall accidentally, any thing at all that has excited your suspicions?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” said Frank, scratching his head, “There is one thing.”

  “Really?”

  “I have not told any one else about this. Not even my master.”

  “Excellent!” smiled Drawlight.

  “Only I cannot explain it very well. ’Tis easier to shew you.”

  “Oh, certainly! Where do we go?”

  “Just come outside. You can see it from here.”

  So Frank and Drawlight went outside, and Drawlight looked about him. It was the most commonplace Venetian scene imaginable. There was a canal just before them and on the other side a tawny-coloured church. A servant was plucking some pigeons in front of an open door; their dirty feathers were scattered in a greyish, whitish circle in front of her. Everywhere was a jumble of buildings, statues, lines of washing and flowerpots. And in the distance towered the sheer, smooth face of the Darkness.

  “Well, perhaps not exactly here,” admitted Frank. “The buildings get in the way. Take a few steps forward and you will see it perfectly.”

  Drawlight took a few steps forward. “Here?” he asked, still looking about him.

  “Yes, just there,” said Frank. And he kicked him into the canal.

  A resounding splash.

  Frank lingered a little longer to shout out some reflections upon Drawlight’s moral character, calling him a lying, underhand scoundrel; a low dog; a venomous, cowardly blackguard; a snake; and a swine. These remarks certainly relieved Frank’s feelings, but they were rather lost upon Drawlight who was by this time under the water and could not hear them.

  The water had hit him like a blow, stinging his whole body and knocking the breath out of him. He fell through murky depths. He could not swim and was certain he would drown. But he had not been in the water more than a few seconds when he felt himself plucked up by a strong current and borne away at great speed. By some accident the action of water brought him to the surface every now and then and he was able to snatch a breath. Moment after moment he continued in a state of the most abject terror, quite unable to save himself. Once the racing water bore him up high and for an instant he saw the sunlit quayside (a place he did not recognize); he saw white, foaming water dashing at the stones, soaking people and houses; he saw people’s shocked faces. He understood that he had not been driven out to sea, as he had supposed, but even then it did not occur to him that the current was in any way unnatural. Sometimes it carried him on vigorously in one direction; sometimes all was confusion and he was certain that his end was upon him. Then suddenly the water seemed to grow tired of him; the motion ceased upon the instant and he was thrown up on to some stone steps. He was vaguely aware of cold air and buildings around him.

  He drew in great, shuddering, body-racking breaths of air and, just as it became easier to breathe, he vomited up quantities of cold salt water. Then for a long time he simply lay there with his eyes closed, as a man might lie upon a lover’s breast. He had no thought of any thing at all. If any desires remained in him, then they were simply to lie there for ever. Much later he became aware, firstly, that the stones were probably very dirty and, secondly, that he was fearfully cold. He began to wonder why it was so quiet and why no one came to help him.

  He sat up and opened his eyes.

  Darkness was all around him. Was he in a tunnel? A cellar? Under the earth! Any of these would have been quite horrible since he had not the least idea how he had got there or how he was going to get out again. But then he felt a thin, chill wind upon his cheek; he looked up and saw the white, winter stars. Night!

  “No, no, no!” he pleaded. He shrank back against the stones of the quay, whimpering.

  The buildings were dark and utterly silent. The only live, bright things were the stars. Their constellations looked to Drawlight like gigantic, glittering letters – letters in an unknown alphabet. For all he knew the magician had formed the stars into these letters and used them to write a spell against him. All that could be seen in any direction was black Night, stars and silence. There was no light in any of the houses and, if what Drawlight had been told was true, there were no people in any of the houses. Unless, of course, the magician was there.

  With great reluctance he stood up and looked around. Nearby was a little bridge. On the other side of the bridge an alley disappeared between the high walls of dark houses. He could go that way or he could chuse the pavement by the side of the canal. It was frosted with starlight and looked particularly eerie and exposed. He chose the alley and darkness.

  He crossed the bridge and passed between the houses. Almost immediately the alley opened out into a square. Several other alleys led away from the square. Which way should he go? He thought of all the black shadows he would have to pass, all the silent doorways. Suppose he never got out! He felt sick and faint with fear.

  There was a church in the square. Even by starlight its façade was a monstrous thing. It bulged with pillars and bristled with statues. Angels with outspread wings held trumpets to their lips; a shadowy figure held out its arms beneath a stone canopy; blind faces gazed down at Drawlight from dark arches.

  “How do I know the magician is not there?” he thought. He began to examine each black figure in turn to see if it was Jonathan Strange. Once he had begun, it was difficult to stop; he fancied that if he looked away for a moment one of the figures would move. He had almost persuaded himself that it was safe to walk away from the church when something caught h
is eye – the merest possible irregularity in the deep blackness of the doorway. He looked closer. There was something – or someone – lying on the steps. A man. He lay stretched out upon the stones as if in a swoon, face down, with his arm thrown over his head.

  For several moments – oh! but it seemed like an eternity! – Drawlight waited to see what would happen.

  Nothing happened.

  Then it came to him in an instant: the magician was dead! Perhaps in his madness he had killed himself! The sense of joy and relief was overwhelming. In his excitement he laughed out loud – an extraordinary sound in all the silence. The dark figure in the dark doorway did not stir. He drew closer until he was leaning over the figure. There was no sound of breathing. He wished that he had a stick to poke it.

  Without warning, the figure turned over.

  Drawlight gave a little yelp of fright.

  Silence. Then, “I know you!” whispered Strange.

  Drawlight tried to laugh. He had always employed laughter as a means to placate his victims. Laughter was a soothing thing, was it not? All friends together? But all that came out of his mouth was a queer braying sound.

  Strange stood up and took a few steps towards Drawlight. Drawlight backed away. In the starlight Drawlight could see the magician more clearly. He could begin to trace the features of the man he had known. Strange’s feet were bare. His coat and shirt hung open and he had clearly not shaved in days.

  “I know you,” whispered Strange again. “You are … You are …” He moved his hands through the empty air as if tracing magical symbols. “You are a Leucrocuta!”

  “A Loo …?” echoed Drawlight.

  “You are the Wolf of the Evening! You prey upon men and women! Your father was a hyena and your mother a lioness! You have the body of a lion; your hooves are cloven. You cannot look behind you. You have one long tooth and no gums. Yet you can take human shape and lure men to you with a human voice!”

  “No, no!” pleaded Drawlight. He wanted to say more; he wanted to say that he was none of those things, that Strange was quite mistaken, but his mouth was too dry and weak from terror; it was no longer able to form the words.

  “And now,” said Strange calmly, “I shall return you to your proper form!” He raised his hands. “Abracadabra!” he cried.

  Drawlight fell to the ground, screaming over and over again; and Strange burst into such peals of laughter – eerie, mad laughter – that he bent double and staggered about the square.

  Eventually the fear of one man and the hilarity of the other subsided; Drawlight realized that he had not been transformed into the horrible, nightmare creature; and Strange grew calmer, almost severe.

  “Leucrocuta,” he whispered, “stand up.”

  Still whimpering, Drawlight got to his feet.

  “Leucrocuta, why did you come here? No, wait! I know this.” Strange snapped his fingers. “I brought you here. Leucrocuta, tell me: why do you spy on me? What have I ever done that is secret? Why did you not come here and ask me? I would have told you everything!”

  “They made me do it. Lascelles and Norrell. Lascelles paid my debts so I could leave the King’s Bench.1 I have always been your friend.” Drawlight faltered slightly; it seemed unlikely that even a madman would believe this.

  Strange raised his head, as if he gave Drawlight a defiant look, but in the Darkness Drawlight could not see his expression. “I have been mad, Leucrocuta!” he hissed. “Did they tell you that? Well, it is true. I have been mad and I will be so again. But since you came to this city I have refrained from … I have refrained from certain spells, so that when I saw you I would be in my right mind. My old mind. So that I would know you, and I would know what I meant to say to you. I have learnt many things in the Darkness, Leucrocuta, and one of them is this: I cannot do this alone. I have brought you here to help me.”

  “Have you? I am glad! I will do any thing! Thank you! Thank you!” But as he spoke Drawlight wondered how long Strange meant to keep him there; the thought turned his heart to water.

  “What is … What is …” Strange appeared to be having difficulty catching hold of his thoughts. He trawled his hands through the air. “What is the name of Pole’s wife?”

  “Lady Pole?”

  “Yes, but I mean … her other names?”

  “Emma Wintertowne?”

  “Yes, that is it. Emma Wintertowne. Where is she? Now?” “They have taken her to a madhouse in Yorkshire. It is supposed to be a great secret, but I found it out. I knew a man in the King’s Bench whose son’s sweetheart is a mantua-maker and she knew all about it because she was employed to make Lady Pole’s Yorkshire clothes – it is very cold in Yorkshire. They have taken her to a place called Star-something – Lady Pole I mean, not the mantua-maker. Stare-something. Wait! I will tell you! I know this, I swear! Starecross Hall in Yorkshire.”

  “Starecross? I know that name.”

  “Yes, yes, you do! Because the tenant is a friend of yours. He was once a magician in Newcastle or York or one of those northern places – only I do not know his name. It seems that Mr Norrell did him an unkindness once – or maybe twice. So when Lady Pole became mad, Childermass thought to mend matters a little by recommending him as a madhouse-keeper to Sir Walter.”

  There was a silence. Drawlight wondered how much Strange had understood. Then Strange said, “Emma Wintertowne is not mad. She appears mad. But that is Norrell’s fault. He summoned a fairy to raise her from the dead and in exchange he gave the fairy all sorts of rights over her. This same fairy threatened the liberty of the King of England and has enchanted at least two more of His Majesty’s subjects, one of them my wife!” He paused. “Your first task, Leucrocuta, is to tell John Childermass what I have just told you and to deliver this to him.”

  Strange took something out of a pocket of his coat and handed it to Drawlight. It appeared to be a small box like a snuff box, except it was a little longer and narrower than snuff boxes usually are. Drawlight took it and put it in his own pocket.

  Strange gave a long sigh. The effort of speaking coherently seemed to exhaust him. “Your second task is … Your second task is to take a message to all the magicians in England. Do you understand me?”

  “Oh, yes! But …”

  “But what?”

  “But there is only one.”

  “What?”

  “There is only one magician, sir. Now that you are here, only one magician remains in England.”

  Strange seemed to consider this for a moment. “My pupils,” he said. “My pupils are magicians. All the men and women who ever wanted to be Norrell’s pupils are magicians. Childermass is another. Segundus another. Honeyfoot. The subscribers to the magical journals. The members of the old societies. England is full of magicians. Hundreds! Thousands perhaps! Norrell refused them. Norrell denied them. Norrell silenced them. But they are magicians nonetheless. Tell them this.” He passed his hand across his forehead and breathed hard for a moment. “Tree speaks to stone; stone speaks to water. It is not so hard as we have supposed. Tell them to read what is written in the sky. Tell them to ask the rain! All of John Uskglass’s old alliances are still in place. I am sending messengers to remind the stones and the sky and the rain of their ancient promises. Tell them …” But again Strange could not find the words he wanted. He drew something in the air with a gesture. “I cannot explain it,” he said. “Leucrocuta, do you understand?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes!” said Drawlight, though he had not the least idea what Strange was talking about.

  “Good. Now repeat to me the messages I have given you. Tell them back to me.”

  Drawlight did so. Long years of collecting and repeating malicious gossip about his acquaintance had made him adept at remembering names and facts. He had the first message perfectly, but the second had descended to a few garbled sentences about magicians standing in the rain, looking at stones.

  “I will shew you,” said Strange, “and then you will understand. Leucrocuta, if you perform these thr
ee tasks, I shall take no revenge on you. I shall not harm you. Deliver these three messages and you may return to your night-hunts, to your devouring of men and women.”

  “Thank you! Thank you!” breathed Drawlight, gratefully, until a horrible realization gripped him. “Three! But, sir, you only gave me two!”

  “Three messages, Leucrocuta,” said Strange, wearily. “You must deliver three messages.”

  “Yes, but you have not told me what the third is!”

  Strange made no reply. He turned away, muttering to himself.

  In spite of all his terror, Drawlight had a great desire to get hold of the magician and shake him. He might have done it too, if he thought it would do any good. Tears of self-pity began to trickle down his face. Now Strange would kill him for not performing the third task and it was not his fault.

  “Leucrocuta,” said Strange, suddenly returning. “Bring me a drink of water!”

  Drawlight looked around. In the middle of the square there was a well. He went over to it and found a horrible old iron cup attached to the stones by a length of rusting chain. He pushed aside the well-cover, drew up a pail of water and dipped the cup into the water. He hated touching it. Curiously, after everything that had happened to him that day it was the iron cup he hated the most. All of his life he had loved beautiful things, but now everything that surrounded him was horrible. It was the magicians’ fault. How he hated them!

  “Sir? Lord Magician?” he called out. “You will have to come here to drink.” He shewed the iron chain by way of an explanation.

  Strange came forward, but he did not take the proffered cup. Instead he took a tiny phial out of his pocket and handed it to Drawlight. “Put six drops in the water,” he said.

  Drawlight took out the stopper. His hand was trembling so much that he feared he would pour the whole thing on the ground. Strange did not appear to notice; Drawlight shook in some drops.

  Strange took the cup and drank the water down. The cup fell from his hand. Drawlight was aware – he did not know how exactly – that Strange was changed. Against the starry sky the black shape of his figure sagged and his head drooped. Drawlight wondered if he were drunk. But how could a few drops of any thing make a man drunk? Besides he did not smell of strong liquor; he smelt like a man who had not washed himself or his linen for some weeks; and there was another smell too – one that had not been there a minute ago – a smell like old age and half a hundred cats.