Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

  Two hours after Strange’s departure Mr Norrell and Lascelles left Hanover-square in Mr Norrell’s carriage. Three servants accompanied them and they had every appearance on embarking on a long journey.

  The following day, Strange, as whimsical and contradictory as ever, was inclined to regret his break with Mr Norrell. Mr Norrell’s prediction that he would never again have any one to talk to about magic continually presented itself to his mind. He had been rehearsing their conversation. He was almost certain that all Norrell’s conclusions concerning John Uskglass were wrong. As a consequence of what Mr Norrell had said he had developed a great many new ideas about John Uskglass, and now he was suffering all the misery of having no one to tell them to.

  In the absence of a more suitable listener he went and complained to Sir Walter Pole in Harley-street.

  “Since last night I have thought of fifty things I ought to have said to him. Now I suppose I shall have to put them in an article or a review – which will not be published until April at the earliest – and then he will have to instruct Lascelles or Portishead to write a repudiation – which will not appear until June or July. Five or six months to know what he would say to me! It is a very cumbersome way of conducting an argument, particularly when you consider that until yesterday I could simply have walked to Hanover-square and asked him what he thought. And I am certain now to get no sight nor smell of the books which matter! How is a magician to exist without books? Let someone explain that to me. It is like asking a politician to achieve high office without the benefit of bribes or patronage.”

  Sir Walter took no offence at this peculiarly uncivil remark, but charitably made allowances for the irritation of Strange’s spirits. As a schoolboy at Harrow he had been forced to study magical history (which he had loathed) and he now cast his mind back to discover if he remembered any thing which might be useful. He found that he did not remember much – as much, he thought wryly, as might half-fill a very small wine-glass.

  He thought for a moment or two and at last offered the following. “It is my understanding that the Raven King learnt all there is to know of English magic without the aid of any books – since there were none at that time in England – and so perhaps you could do the same?”

  Strange gave him a very cool look. “And it is my understanding that the Raven King was the favourite foster-child of King Auberon, which, among other trifles, secured him an excellent magical education and a large kingdom of his own. I suppose that I could take to loitering in out-of-the-way copses and mossy glades in the hopes of being adopted by some fairy royalty but I rather think that they might find me a little tall for the purpose.”

  Sir Walter laughed. “And what shall you do now, without Mr Norrell to fill your days for you? Shall I tell Robson at the Foreign Office to send you some magic to do? Only last week he was complaining that he is obliged to wait until all the work for the Admiralty and the Treasury is done before Mr Norrell has any time to spare for him.”

  “By all means. But tell him it cannot be for two or three months. We are going home to Shropshire. Both Arabella and I have a great desire to be in our own country and now that we need not consult the convenience of Mr Norrell, nothing remains to prevent our going.”

  “Oh!” said Sir Walter. “But you are not going immediately?”

  “In two days’ time.”

  “So soon?”

  “Do not look so stricken! Really, Pole, I had no idea you were so fond of my company!”

  “I am not. I was thinking of Lady Pole. It will be a sad change for her. She will miss her friend.”

  “Oh! Oh, yes!” said Strange, a little discomfited. “Of course!”

  Later that morning Arabella made her parting visit to Lady Pole. Five years had made very little difference to her ladyship’s beauty and none at all to her sad condition. She was as silent as ever and as indifferent to every pain or pleasure. Kindness or coldness left her equally unmoved. She passed her days sitting by the window in the Venetian drawing-room in the house in Harley-street. She never exhibited the least inclination for any occupation and Arabella was her only visitor.

  “I wish you were not going,” said her ladyship, when Arabella told her the news. “What sort of a place is Shropshire?”

  “Oh! I fear I am a very partial judge. I believe that most people would agree that it is a pretty place with green hills and woods and sweet country lanes. Of course we shall have to wait for spring to enjoy it completely. But even in winter the views can be very striking. It is a peculiarly romantic county with a noble history. There are ruined castles and stones planted on the hilltops by who knows-what people – and being so close to Wales it has often been fought over – there are ancient battlefields in almost every valley.”

  “Battlefields!” said Lady Pole. “I know only too well what that is like. To glance out of a window and see nothing but broken bones and rusting armour everywhere one looks! It is a very melancholy sight. I hope you will not find it too distressing.”

  “Broken bones and armour?” echoed Arabella. “No, indeed. Your ladyship misunderstands me. The battles were all long ago. There is nothing to see – certainly nothing to distress one.”

  “And yet, you know,” continued Lady Pole, scarcely attending to her, “battles have been fought at some time or other almost everywhere. I remember learning in my schoolroom how London was once the scene of a particularly fierce battle. The people were put to death in horrible ways and the city was burnt to the ground. We are surrounded by the shadows of violence and misery all the days of our life and it seems to me that it matters very little whether any material sign remains or not.”

  Something changed in the room. It was as if cold, grey, beating wings had passed over their heads or as if someone had walked through the mirrors and cast a shadow into the room. It was an odd trick of the light which Arabella had often observed when she sat with Lady Pole. Not knowing what else to attribute it to, she supposed it must be because there were so many mirrors in the room.

  Lady Pole shivered and pulled her shawl tighter round her. Arabella leaned forward and took her hand. “Come! Fix your thoughts upon more cheerful objects.”

  Lady Pole looked at her blankly. She had no more idea how to be cheerful than to fly.

  So Arabella began to talk, hoping to distract her for a time from thinking of horrors. She spoke of new shops and new fashions. She described a very pretty ivory-coloured sarsenet she had seen in a window in Friday-street and a trimming of turquoise-coloured bugle beads she had seen somewhere else which would match the ivory sarsenet beautifully. She went on to relate what her dressmaker had said about bugle beads, and then to describe an extraordinary plant that the dressmaker possessed which stood in a pot on a little iron balcony outside the window and which had grown so tall in the space of a year that it had entirely blocked up a window on the floor above belonging to a candlestick-maker. Next came other surprizingly tall plants – Jack and his beanstalk – the giant at the top of the beanstalk – giants and giant-killers in general – Napoleon Buonaparte and the Duke of Wellington – the Duke’s merits in every sphere of life except in one – the great unhappiness of the Duchess.

  “Happily, it is what you and I have never known any thing of,” she finished up, a little breathless, “to have one’s peace continually cut up by the sight of one’s husband paying attentions to other women.”

  “I suppose so,” answered Lady Pole, somewhat doubtfully.

  This annoyed Arabella. She tried to make allowances for all Lady Pole’s oddities, but she found it rather hard to forgive her her habitual coolness towards her husband. Arabella could not visit at Harley-street as often as she did without being aware of how very devoted Sir Walter was to Lady Pole. If he ever thought that any thing might bring her pleasure or ease her sufferings in the slightest, then that thing was done in an instant, and Arabella could never observe without a pang the very meagre return he got for his pains. It was not that Lady Pole shewed any dislike towards him
; but sometimes she scarcely seemed to know that he was there.

  “Oh! But you do not consider what a blessing it is,” said Arabella. “One of the best blessings of existence.”

  “What is?”

  “Your husband’s love.”

  Lady Pole looked surprized. “Yes, he does love me,” she said at last. “Or at least he tells me that he does. But what good is that to me? It has never warmed me when I was cold – and I always am cold, you know. It has never shortened a long, dreary ball by so much as a minute or stopped a procession through long, dark, ghostly corridors. It has never saved me from any misery at all. Has the love of your husband ever saved you from any thing?”

  “Mr Strange?” smiled Arabella. “No, never. I am more in the habit of saving him! I mean,” she added quickly, since it was clear that Lady Pole did not understand her, “that he often meets with people who wish him to do magic on their behalf. – Or they have a great-nephew who wishes to learn magic from him. – Or they believe they have discovered a magic shoe or fork or some such nonsense. They mean no harm. Indeed they are generally most respectful. But Mr Strange is not the most patient of men and so I am obliged to go in and rescue him before he says something that he had much better not.”

  It was time for Arabella to be thinking of leaving and she began upon her goodbyes. Now that they might not meet again for many months she was particularly anxious to say something cheerful. “And I hope, my dear Lady Pole,” she said, “that when you and I next meet you will be a great deal better and perhaps able to go out into society again. It is my dearest wish that one day we shall see each other at a theatre or in a ballroom …”

  “A ballroom!” exclaimed Lady Pole in horror. “What in the world should make you say that? God forbid that you and I should ever meet in a ballroom!”

  “Hush! Hush! I never meant to distress you. I forgot how you hate dancing. Come, do not weep! Do not think of it, if it makes you unhappy!”

  She did her best to soothe her friend. She embraced her, kissed her cheek and her hair, stroked her hand, offered her lavender-water. Nothing did any good. For several minutes Lady Pole was entirely given over to a fit of weeping. Arabella could not quite understand what the matter was. But then again, what understanding could there be? It was part of her ladyship’s complaint to be put in a fright by trifles, to be made unhappy by nothing at all. Arabella rang the bell to summon the maid.

  Only when the maid appeared, did her ladyship at last make an effort to compose herself. “You do not understand what you have said!” she cried. “And God forbid that you should ever find out as I have. I shall try to warn you – I know it is hopeless, but I shall try! Listen to me, my dear, dear Mrs Strange. Listen as if your hopes of eternal salvation depended upon it!”

  So Arabella looked as attentive as she possibly could.

  But it was all to no end. This occasion proved no different from any other when her ladyship had claimed to have something of great importance to communicate to Arabella. She looked pale, took several deep breaths – and then proceeded to relate a very odd story about the owner of a Derbyshire leadmine who fell in love with a milkmaid. The milkmaid was everything the mine-owner had ever hoped for, except that her reflection always came several minutes too late into a mirror, her eyes changed colour at sunset and her shadow was often seen dancing wild dances when she herself was still.

  After Lady Pole had gone upstairs, Arabella sat alone. “How stupid of me!” she thought. “When I know very well that any mention of dancing distresses her beyond measure! How can I have been so unguarded? I wonder what it was that she wished to tell me? I wonder if she knows herself? Poor thing! Without the blessing of health and reason, riches and beauty are worthless indeed!”

  She was moralizing to herself in this strain, when a slight noise behind her caused her to look round. Immediately she rose from her seat and walked rapidly towards the door with hands outstretched.

  “It is you! How glad I am to see you! Come! Shake hands with me. This will be our last meeting for a long time.”

  That evening she said to Strange, “One person at least is delighted that you have turned your attention to the study of John Uskglass and his fairy-subjects.”

  “Oh? And who is that?”

  “The gentleman with the thistle-down hair.”

  “Who?”

  “The gentleman who lives with Sir Walter and Lady Pole. I told you before.”

  “Oh, yes! I remember.” There was a silence of some moments while Strange considered this. “Arabella!” he suddenly exclaimed.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you have still not learnt his name?” He began to laugh.

  Arabella looked annoyed. “It is not my fault,” she said. “He has never said his name and I have never remembered to ask him. But I am glad you take it so lightly. I thought at one time that you were inclined to be jealous.”

  “I do not remember that I was.”

  “How odd! I remember it quite distinctly.”

  “I beg your pardon, Arabella, but it is difficult to be jealous of a man whose acquaintance you made a number of years ago and whose name you have yet to discover. So he approves of my work, does he?”

  “Yes, he has often told me that you will never get anywhere until you begin to study fairies. He says that that is what true magic is – the study of fairies and fairy magic.”

  “Indeed? He seems to have very decided views upon the subject! And what, pray, does he know about it? Is he a magician?”

  “I do not think so. He once declared that he had never read a book upon the subject in his life.”

  “Oh! He is one of those, is he?” said Strange, contemptuously. “He has not studied the subject at all, but has managed to devise a great many theories about it. I meet with that sort very often. Well, if he is not a magician, what is he? Can you at least tell me that?”

  “I think I can,” said Arabella in the pleased manner of someone who has made a very clever discovery.

  Strange sat expectantly.

  “No,” said Arabella, “I will not tell you. You will only laugh at me again.”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, then,” said Arabella after a moment, “I believe he is a prince. Or a king. He is certainly of royal blood.”

  “What in the world should make you think that?”

  “Because he has told me a great deal of his kingdoms and his castles and his mansions – though I confess they all have very odd names and I never heard of a single one before. I think he must be one of the princes that Buonaparte deposed in Germany or Swisserland.”

  “Indeed?” said Strange, with some irritation. “Well, now that Buonaparte has been defeated, perhaps he would like to go home again.”

  None of these half-explanations and guesses concerning the gentleman with the thistle-down hair quite satisfied him and he continued to wonder about Arabella’s friend. The following day (which was to be the Stranges’ last in London) he walked to Sir Walter’s office in Whitehall with the express intention of discovering who the fellow was.

  But when Strange arrived, he found only Sir Walter’s private secretary hard at work.

  “Oh! Moorcock! Good morning! Has Sir Walter gone?”

  “He has just gone to Fife House,5 Mr Strange. Is there any thing I can do for you?”

  “No, I do not … Well, perhaps. There is something I always mean to ask Sir Walter and I never remember. I don’t suppose that you are at all acquainted with the gentleman who lives at his house?”

  “Whose house, sir?”

  “Sir Walter’s.”

  Mr Moorcock frowned. “A gentleman at Sir Walter’s house? I cannot think whom you mean. What is his name?”

  “That is what I wish to know. I have never seen the fellow, but Mrs Strange always seems to meet him the moment she steps out of the house. She has known him for years yet she has never been able to discover his name. He must be a very eccentric sort of person to make such a secret of it. Mrs Strange always calls hi
m the gentleman with the silvery nose or the gentleman with the snow-white complexion. Or some odd name of that sort.”

  But Mr Moorcock only looked even more bewildered at this information. “I am very sorry, sir. I do not think I can ever have seen him.”

  40

  “Depend upon it; there is no such place.”

  June 1815

  The Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte had been banished to the island of Elba. However His Imperial Majesty had some doubts whether a quiet island life would suit him – he was, after all, accustomed to governing a large proportion of the known world. And so before he left France he told several people that when violets bloomed again in spring he would return. This promise he kept.

  The moment he arrived upon French soil he gathered an army and marched north to Paris in further pursuit of his destiny, which was to make war upon all the peoples of the world. Naturally he was eager to re-establish himself as Emperor, but it was not yet known where he would chuse to be Emperor of. He had always yearned to emulate Alexander the Great and so it was thought that he might go east. He had invaded Egypt once before and had some success there. Or he might go west: there were rumours of a fleet of ships at Cherbourg ready and waiting to take him to America to begin the conquest of a fresh, new world.

  But wherever he chose, everyone agreed that he was sure to begin by invading Belgium and so the Duke of Wellington went to Brussels to await the arrival of Europe’s Great Enemy.

  The English newspapers were full of rumours: Buonaparte had assembled his army; he was advancing with appalling swiftness upon Belgium; he was there; he was victorious! Then the next day it would appear that he was still in his palace in Paris, never having stirred from there in the first place.

  At the end of May, Jonathan Strange followed Wellington and the Army to Brussels. He had spent the past three months quietly in Shropshire thinking about magic and so it was hardly surprizing that he should feel a little bewildered at first. However after he had walked about for an hour or two he came to the conclusion that the fault was not in him, but in Brussels itself. He knew what a city at war looked like, and this was not it. There ought to have been companies of soldiers passing up and down, carts with supplies, anxious-looking faces. Instead he saw fashionable-looking shops and ladies lounging in smart carriages. True, there were groups of officers everywhere, but none of them appeared to have any idea of pursuing military business (one was expending a great deal of concentration and effort in mending a toy parasol for a little girl). There was a great deal more laughter and gaiety than seemed quite consistent with an imminent invasion by Napoleon Buonaparte.