Childermass got no further. Everyone began speaking at once. The former members of the York Society were dismayed to find that they had left their comfortable firesides to come here and be lectured by a servant. But while these gentlemen were unburdening themselves of their indignation, most of the newcomers were affected quite differently. They were all either Strangites or Norrellites; but not one of them had ever laid eyes on his hero and to be seated in such proximity to a person who had actually known and spoken to him wound them up to an unprecedented pitch of excitement.
Childermass was not in the least discomfited by the uproar. He simply waited until it was quiet enough for him to speak and then he said, “I have come to tell you that the agreement with Gilbert Norrell is void. Null and void, gentlemen. You are magicians once more, if you wish to be.”
One of the new magicians shouted out to know if Strange were coming. Another wished to know if Norrell were coming.
“No, gentlemen,” said Childermass. “They are not. You must make do with me. I do not think Strange and Norrell will be seen again in England. At least not in this generation.”
“Why?” asked Mr Segundus. “Where have they gone?”
Childermass smiled. “Wherever magicians used to go. Behind the sky. On the other side of the rain.”
One of the Norrellites remarked that Jonathan Strange was wise to remove himself from England. Otherwise he would have certainly been hanged.
The excitable young man with the light-coloured hair retorted spitefully that the whole pack of Norrellites would soon find themselves at a grave disadvantage. Surely the first principle of Norrellite magic was that everything must be based upon books? And how were they going to do that when the books had all disappeared with Hurtfew Abbey?5
“You do not need the library at Hurtfew, gentlemen,” said Childermass. “Nor yet the library in Hanover-square. I have brought you something much better. A book Norrell long desired, but never saw. A book Strange did not even know existed. I have brought you John Uskglass’s book.”
More shouting. More uproar. In the midst of all of which Miss Redruth appeared to be making a speech in defence of John Uskglass, whom she insisted upon calling his Grace, the King, as if he were at any moment about to enter Newcastle and resume the government of Northern England.
“Wait!” cried Dr Foxcastle, his loud, important voice gradually overpowering first those nearest him, and then the rest of the assembly. “I see no book in this rogue’s hands! Where is it? This is a trick, gentlemen! He wants our money, I’ll be bound. Well, sir?” (This to Childermass.) “What do you say? Bring out your book – if indeed it exists!”
“On the contrary, sir,” said Childermass, with his long, dark, one-sided grin. “I want nothing of yours. Vinculus! Stand up!”
In the house in Padua the first concern of the Greysteels and their servants was to make Mrs Strange as comfortable as they could; and each had his or her own way of doing it. Dr Greysteel’s comfort chiefly took a philosophical form. He searched his memory for examples from history of people – particularly ladies – who had triumphed over adverse circumstances, often with the help of their friends. Minichello and Frank, the two manservants, ran to open doors for her – often whether she wanted to go through them or not. Bonifazia, the maid, preferred to treat a year’s sojourn in Faerie as if it had been rather a severe sort of cold and brought her strengthening cordials throughout the day. Aunt Greysteel sent all over the town for the best wines and the rarest delicacies; and she purchased the softest, down-filled cushions and pillows, as if she hoped that by laying her head on them Arabella might be induced to forget all that had happened to her. But of all the various sorts of consolation that were offered her, that which seemed to suit Arabella best was Flora’s company and Flora’s conversation.
One morning they were sitting together at their needlework. Arabella put down her work with a gesture of impatience and went to the window. “There is a spirit of restlessness upon me,” she said.
“It is to be expected,” said Flora, gently. “Be patient. In time your spirits will be what they were before.”
“Will they?” said Arabella, with a sigh. “Truth to own, I really do not remember what I was like before.”
“Then I will tell you. You were always cheerful – tho’ often left to your own devices. You were hardly ever out of temper – tho’ often severely provoked. Your every speech was remarkable for its wit and genius – tho’ you got no credit for it and almost always received a flat contradiction.”
Arabella laughed. “Good Heavens! What a prodigy I was! But,” she said with a wry look, “I am not inclined to put much trust in this portrait, since you never saw me.”
“Mr Strange told me. Those are his words.”
“Oh!” said Arabella. She turned her face away.
Flora cast her eyes down and said softly, “When he returns, he will do more to restore you to yourself than any one else could. You will be happy again.” She glanced up.
Arabella was silent for a moment. She said, “I am not sure that we will see each other again.”
Flora took up her needlework again. After a moment she said, “It is very odd that he should have gone back to his old master at last.”
“Is it? There seems nothing very extraordinary in it to me. I never thought the quarrel would last as long as it did. I thought they would have been friends again by the end of the first month.”
“You quite astonish me!” said Flora. “When Mr Strange was with us he did not have a good word to say for Mr Norrell – and Mr Norrell has published the most dreadful things about Mr Strange in the magical journals.”
“Oh, I dare say!” said Arabella, entirely unimpressed. “But that was just their nonsense! They are both as stubborn as Old Scratch. I have no cause to love Mr Norrell – far from it. But I know this about him: he is a magician first and everything else second – and Jonathan is the same. Books and magic are all either of them really cares about. No one else understands the subject as they do – and so, you see, it is only natural that they should like to be together.”
As the weeks went by Arabella smiled and laughed more often. She became interested in everything that concerned her new friends. Her days were taken up with sociable meals, errands and the pleasant obligations of friendship – small domestic matters with which her sore mind and wounded spirit were glad to refresh themselves. Of her absent husband she thought very little, except to be grateful for his consideration in placing her with the Greysteels.
There happened to be a young Irish captain in Padua just then and several people were of the opinion that he admired Flora – though Flora said that he did not. He had led a company of cavalry into the teeth of the severest gunfire at Waterloo; yet his courage all seemed to desert him where Flora was concerned. He could not look at her without blushing and was most alarmed whenever she entered a room. Generally he found it easier to apply to Mrs Strange for intelligence of when Flora might be walking in the Prato della Valle (a beautiful garden at the heart of the city) or when she might next visit the Baxters (some mutual friends); and Arabella was always glad to help him.
But there were some consequences of her captivity which she could not easily shake off. She was accustomed to dancing all night, and sleep did not come easily to her. Sometimes at night she could still hear a mournful fiddle and a pipe playing fairy tunes, compelling her to dance – though it was the last thing in the world that she wanted to do.
“Talk to me,” she would say to Flora and Aunt Greysteel. “Talk to me and I think I can master it.”
Then one or both of them would sit up with her and talk to her of everything they could think of. But sometimes Arabella found that the impulse to movement – any sort of movement – was too strong to be denied, and then she would take to pacing the bedchamber she shared with Flora; and on several occasions Dr Greysteel and Frank kindly sacrificed their own sleep to walk with her in the night-streets of Padua.
On one such night in Ap
ril they were strolling about near to the Cathedral; Arabella and Dr Greysteel were speaking of their departure for England which had been arranged for the following month. Arabella found the prospect of being amongst all her English friends again a little daunting and Dr Greysteel was reassuring her. Suddenly Frank gave an exclamation of surprize and pointed upwards.
The stars were shifting and changing; in the patch of sky above them were new constellations. A little further on was an ancient-looking stone arch. There was nothing exactly unusual in this; Padua is a city full of intriguing doorways, arches and arcades. But this arch was not like the others. Padua is built of mediaeval bricks and consequently many of its streets are a pleasing pink-gold colour. This arch was built of dour, dark northern stones and upon each side was a statue of John Uskglass, his face half-hidden by a cap with raven wings. Just within the arch a tall figure was standing.
Arabella hesitated. “You will not go far?” she said to Dr Greysteel.
“Frank and I shall be here,” Dr Greysteel told her. “We shall not move from this spot. You have only to call us.”
She went on alone. The person within the doorway was reading. He looked up as she approached, with the old, dear expression of not quite remembering where he was or what he had do with the world outside his book.
“You have not brought a thunderstorm with you this time,” she said.
“Oh, you heard about that, did you?” Strange gave a slightly self-conscious laugh. “That was a little overdone perhaps. Not altogether in the best of taste. I believe I spent too much time in Lord Byron’s society when I was in Venice. I caught something of his style.”
They walked on a little and at every moment new patterns of stars appeared above their heads.
“You look well, Arabella,” he said. “I feared … What did I fear? Oh! a thousand different things. I feared you would not speak to me. But here you are. I am very glad to see you.”
“And now your thousand fears can be laid to rest,” she said. “At least as far as they concern me. Have you found any thing yet to dispel the Darkness?”
“No, not yet. Though, to own the truth, we have been so busy recently – some new conjectures concerning naiads – that we have scarcely had time to apply ourselves seriously to the problem. But there are one or two things in Goubert’s Gatekeeper of Apollo which look promising. We are optimistic.”
“I am glad. I am miserable when I think of you suffering.”
“Do not be miserable, I beg you. Apart from any thing else, I do not suffer. A little perhaps at first, but not now. And Norrell and I are hardly the first English magicians to labour under an enchantment. Robert Dymoke fell foul of a fairy in the twelfth century and thereafter could not speak but only sing – which, I am sure, is not so pleasant as it sounds. And there was a fourteenth-century magician who had a silver foot – which must have been very disagreeable. Besides who is to say that the Darkness may not be of advantage to us? We intend to go out of England and are likely to meet with all sorts of tricksy persons. An English magician is an impressive thing. Two English magicians are, I suppose, twice as impressive – but when those two English magicians are shrouded in an Impenetrable Darkness – ah, well! That, I should think, is enough to strike terror into the heart of any one short of a demi-god!”
“Where will you go?”
“Oh, there are plenty of places. This world is only one among so many, and it does not do for a magician to become too – what shall I say? – too parochial.”
“But will Mr Norrell like it?” she asked, doubtfully. “He was never fond of travelling – not even as far as Portsmouth.”
“Ah! But that is one of the advantages of our particular mode of travel. He need never leave the house if he does not wish it. The world – all worlds – will come to us.” He paused and looked about him. “I had better not go further. Norrell is a little way off. For various reasons to do with the enchantment, it is best that we do not stray very far from each other. Arabella,” he said, with a degree of seriousness unusual to him, “it hurt me more than I could bear to think of you under the earth. I would have done any thing – any thing at all – to fetch you safely out.”
She took his hands and her eyes were shining. “And you did it,” she whispered. They looked at each other for a long moment, and in that moment all was as it used to be – it was as if they had never parted; but she did not offer to go into the Darkness with him and he did not ask her.
“One day,” he said, “I shall find the right spell and banish the Darkness. And on that day I will come to you.”
“Yes. On that day. I will wait until then.”
He nodded and seemed about to depart, but then he hesitated. “Bell,” he said, “do not wear black. Do not be a widow. Be happy. That is how I wish to think of you.”
“I promise. And how shall I think of you?”
He considered a moment and then laughed. “Think of me with my nose in a book!”
They kissed once. Then he turned upon his heel and disappeared into the Darkness.
Acknowledgements
Thanks are first due to the immensely wonderful, much-missed Giles Gordon. I was proud to say he was my agent. I still am.
And special thanks to Jonny Geller for everything since Giles has been gone.
For encouragement when this book began: Geoff Ryman, Alison Paice (also much missed), and Tinch Minter and her writing group, especially Julian Hall.
For encouragement along the way: my parents Janet and Stuart, Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden, Ellen Datlow, Terri Windling and Neil Gaiman whose generosity to other writers never ceases to amaze me.
For everyone who helped with languages: Stuart Clarke, Samantha Evans, Patrick Marcel and Giorgia Grilli. For help with knotty problems of Napoleonic military and naval history: Nicholas Blake (needless to say, the remaining errors are entirely my responsibility). For immensely perceptive comments and suggestions: Antonia Till. For writing books that were continually helpful: Elizabeth Longford (Wellington) and Christopher Hibbert and Ben Weinreb (The London Encyclopedia).
To Jonathan Whiteland, who cheerfully gives his time and expertise so that Macs can run and books be written.
And, above all, to Colin who did everything else so I could write, who never complained, and without whom it is most unlikely this book would ever have seen the light of day.
Notes
1 The library at Hurtfew
1 The History and Practice of English Magic, by Jonathan Strange, vol. I, chap. 2, pub. John Murray, London, 1816.
2 More properly called Aureate or Golden Age magicians.
3 A Complete Description of Dr Pale’s fairy-servants, their Names, Histories, Characters and the Services they performed for Him by John Segundus, pub. by Thomas Burnham, Bookseller, Northampton, 1799.
4 Dr Martin Pale (1485–1567) was the son of a Warwick leather-tanner. He was the last of the Aureate or Golden Age magicians. Other magicians followed him (c.f. Gregory Absalom) but their reputations are debatable. Pale was certainly the last English magician to venture into Faerie.
5 Magicians, as we know from Jonathan Strange’s maxim, will quarrel about any thing and many years and much learning has been applied to the vexed question of whether such and such a volume qualifies as a book of magic. But most laymen find they are served well enough by this simple rule: books written before magic ended in England are books of magic, books written later are books about magic. The principle, from which the layman’s rule of thumb derives, is that a book of magic should be written by a practising magician, rather than a theoretical magician or a historian of magic. What could be more reasonable? And yet already we are in difficulties. The great masters of magic, those we term the Golden Age or Aureate magicians (Thomas Godbless, Ralph Stokesey, Catherine of Winchester, the Raven King) wrote little, or little has survived. It is probable that Thomas Godbless could not write. Stokesey learnt Latin at a little grammar school in his native Devonshire, but all that we know of him comes from
other writers.
Magicians only applied themselves to writing books when magic was already in decline. Darkness was already approaching to quench the glory of English magic; those men we call the Silver Age or Argentine magicians (Thomas Lanchester, 1518–90; Jacques Belasis, 1526–1604; Nicholas Goubert, 1535—78; Gregory Absalom, 1507—99) were flickering candles in the twilight; they were scholars first and magicians second. Certainly they claimed to do magic, some even had a fairy-servant or two, but they seem to have accomplished very little in this way and some modern scholars have doubted whether they could do magic at all.
6 The first passage which Mr Segundus read concerned England, Faerie (which magicians sometimes call “the Other Lands”) and a strange country that is reputed to lie on the far side of Hell. Mr Segundus had heard something of the symbolic and magical bond which links these three lands, yet never had he read so clear an explanation of it as was put forward here.
The second extract concerned one of England’s greatest magicians, Martin Pale. In Gregory Absalom’s The Tree of Learning there is a famous passage which relates how, while journeying through Faerie, the last of the great Aureate magicians, Martin Pale, paid a visit to a fairy-prince. Like most of his race the fairy had a great multitude of names, honorifics, titles and pseudonyms; but usually he was known as Cold Henry. Cold Henry made a long and deferential speech to his guest. The speech was full of metaphors and obscure allusions, but what Cold Henry seemed to be saying was that fairies were naturally wicked creatures who did not always know when they were going wrong. To this Martin Pale briefly and somewhat enigmatically replied that not all Englishmen have the same size feet.
For several centuries no one had the faintest idea what any of this might mean, though several theories were advanced – and John Segundus was familiar with all of them. The most popular was that developed by William Pantler in the early eighteenth century. Pantler said that Cold Henry and Pale were speaking of theology. Fairies (as everybody knows) are beyond the reach of the Church; no Christ has come to them, nor ever will – and what is to become of them on Judgement Day no one knows. According to Pantler Cold Henry meant to enquire of Pale if there was any hope that fairies, like men, might receive Eternal Salvation. Pale’s reply – that Englishmen’s feet are different sizes – was his way of saying that not all Englishmen will be saved. Based on this Pantler goes on to attribute to Pale a rather odd belief that Heaven is large enough to hold only a finite number of the Blessed; for every Englishmen who is damned, a place opens up in Heaven for a fairy. Pantler’s reputation as a theoretical magician rests entirely on the book he wrote on the subject.
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