Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (43 page)

“Upon my word,” said Colquhoun Grant, “I do not know. But probably not for a very long while.”

The first of the two country gentlemen was a thick-set, solid-looking person with a coat of heavy brown cloth and boots which would have appeared more to advantage at some provincial market than in the fashionable surroundings of the Bedford. The second country gentleman was a limp little man with an expression of perpetual astonishment.

“But, sir,” said the first man, addressing Strange in tones of the utmost reasonableness, “you are talking, not playing. Mr Tantony and I are from Nottinghamshire. We have ordered our dinner but are told we must wait another hour before it is ready. Let us play while you have your chat and then we will be only too glad to give up the table to you again.”

His manner as he said this was perfectly polite, yet it rather rankled with Strange’s party. Everything about him plainly spoke him to be a farmer or a tradesman and they were not best pleased that he took it upon himself to order them about.

“If you examine the table,” said Strange, “you will see that we have just begun. To ask a gentleman to break off before his game is ended — well, sir, it is a thing that is never done at the Bedford.”

“Ah! Is it not?” said the Nottinghamshire gentleman pleasantly. “Then I beg your pardon. But perhaps you will not object to telling me whether you think it will be a short game or a long one?”

“We have already told you,” said Grant. “We do not know.” He gave Strange a look which plainly said, “This fellow is very stupid.”

It was at this point that the Nottinghamshire gentleman began to suspect that Strange’s party were not merely unhelpful, but that they intended to be rude to him. He frowned and indicated the limp little man with the astonished expression who stood at his side. “It is Mr Tantony’s first visit to London and he does not desire to come again. I particularly wished to shew him the Bedford Coffee-house, but I did not think to find the people so very disobliging.”

“Well, if you do not like it here,” said Strange, angrily, “then I can only suggest that you go back home to wherever it is … Nothing-shire, I think you said?”

Colquhoun Grant gave the Nottinghamshire gentleman a very cool look and remarked to nobody in particular, “It is no wonder to me that farming is in such a parlous condition. Farmers nowadays are always upon the gad. One meets with them at all the idlest haunts in the kingdom. They consult nothing but their own pleasure. Is there no wheat to be sown in Nottinghamshire, I wonder? No pigs to be fed?”

“Mr Tantony and I are not farmers, sir!” exclaimed the Nottinghamshire gentleman indignantly. “We are brewers. Gatcombe and Tantony’s Entire Stout is our most celebrated beer and it is famed throughout three counties!”

“Thank you, but we have beer and brewers enough in London already,” remarked Colonel Manningham. “Pray, do not stay upon our account.”

“But we are not here to sell beer! We have come for a far nobler purpose than that! Mr Tantony and I are enthusiasts for magic! We consider that it is every patriotic Englishman’s duty to interest himself in the subject. London is no longer merely the capital of Great Britain — it is the centre of our magical scholarship. For many years it was Mr Tantony’s dearest wish that he might learn magic, but the art was in such a wretched condition that it made him despair. His friends bade him be more cheerful. We told him that it is when things are at their worst that they start to mend. And we were right, for almost immediately there appeared two of the greatest magicians that England has ever known. I refer of course to Mr Norrell and Mr Strange! The wonders which they have performed have given Englishmen cause to bless the country of their birth again and encouraged Mr Tantony to hope that he might one day be of their number.”

“Indeed? Well, it is my belief that he will be disappointed,” observed Strange.

“Then, sir, you could not be more wrong!” cried the Nottinghamshire gentleman triumphantly. “Mr Tantony is being instructed in the magical arts by Mr Strange himself!”

Unfortunately, Strange happened at that moment to be leaning across the table, balanced upon one foot to take aim at a billiard ball. So surprized was he at what he heard that he missed the shot entirely, struck his cue against the side of the table and promptly fell over.

“I think there must be some mistake,” said Colquhoun Grant.

“No, sir. No mistake,” said the Nottinghamshire gentleman with an air of infuriating calmness.

Strange, getting up from the floor, asked, “What does he look like, this Mr Strange?”

“Alas,” said the Nottinghamshire gentleman, “I cannot give you any precise information upon that point. Mr Tantony has never met Mr Strange. Mr Tantony’s education is conducted entirely by letters. But we have great hopes of seeing Mr Strange in the street. We go to Soho-square tomorrow expressly for the purpose of looking at his house.”

“Letters!” exclaimed Strange.

“I would think an education by correspondence must of a very inferior sort,” said Sir Walter.

“Not at all!” cried the Nottinghamshire gentleman. “Mr Strange’s letters are full of sage advice and remarkable insights into the condition of English magic. Why, only the other day Mr Tantony wrote and asked Mr Strange for a spell to make it stop raining — we get a great deal of rain in our part of Nottinghamshire. The very next day Mr Strange wrote back and said that, though there were indeed spells that could move rain and sunshine about, like pieces on a chessboard, he would never employ them except in the direst need, and he advised Mr Tantony to follow his example. English magic, said Mr Strange, had grown up upon English soil and had in a sense been nurtured by English rain. Mr Strange said that in meddling with English weather, we meddled with England, and in meddling with England we risked destroying the very foundations of English magic. We thought that a very striking instance of Mr Strange’s genius, did we not, Mr Tantony?” The Nottinghamshire man gave his friend a little shake which made him blink several times.

“Did you ever say that?” murmured Sir Walter.

“Why! I think I did,” answered Strange. “I believe I said something of the sort … when would it have been? Last Friday, I suppose.”

“And to whom did you say it?”

“To Norrell, of course.”

“And was there any other person in the room?”

Strange paused. “Drawlight,” he said slowly.

“Ah!”

“Sir,” said Strange to the Nottinghamshire gentleman. “I beg your pardon if I offended you before. But you must admit that there was something about the way in which you spoke to me which was not quite … In short I have a temper and you piqued me. I am Jonathan Strange and I am sorry to tell you that I never heard of you or Mr Tantony until today. I suspect that Mr Tantony and I are both the dupes of an unscrupulous man. I presume that Mr Tantony pays me for his education? Might I ask where he sends the money? If it is to Little Ryder-street then I shall have the proof I need.”

Unfortunately the Nottinghamshire gentleman and Mr Tantony had formed an idea of Strange as a tall, deep-chested man with a long white beard, a ponderous way of speaking and an antiquated mode of dress. As the Mr Strange who stood before them was slender, clean-shaven, quick of speech and dressed exactly like every other rich, fashionable gentleman in London, they could not at first be persuaded that this was the right person.

“Well, that is easily resolved,” said Colquhoun Grant.

“Of course,” said Sir Walter, “I will summon a waiter. Perhaps the word of a servant will do what the word of a gentleman cannot. John! Come here! We want you!”

“No, no, no!” cried Grant, “That was not what I meant at all. John, you may go away again. We do not want you. There are any number of things which Mr Strange could do which would prove his incomparable magicianship far better than any mere assurances. He is after all the Greatest Magician of the Age.”

“Surely,” said the Nottinghamshire man with a frown, “that title belongs to Mr Norrell?”

Colquhoun Grant smiled. “Colonel Manningham and I had the honour, sir, to fight with his Grace the Duke of Wellington in Spain. I assure you we knew nothing of Mr Norrell there. It was Mr Strange — this gentleman here — whom we trusted. Now, if he were to perform some startling act of magic then I do not think you could doubt any longer and then I am sure your great respect for English magic and English magicians would not allow you to remain silent a moment longer. I am sure you would wish to tell him all you know about these forged letters.” Grant looked at the Nottinghamshire gentleman inquiringly.

“Well,” said the Nottinghamshire gentleman, “you are a very queer set of gentlemen, I must say, and what you can mean by spinning me such a tale as this, I do not know. For I tell you plainly I will be very much surprized if the letters prove to be forgeries when every line, every word breathes good English magic!”

“But,” said Grant, “if, as we suppose, this scoundrel made use of Mr Strange’s own words to concoct his lies, then that would explain it, would it not? Now, in order to prove that he is who we say he is, Mr Strange shall now shew you something that no man living has ever seen!”

“Why?” said the Nottinghamshire man. “What will he do?”

Grant smiled broadly and turned to Strange, as if he too were suddenly struck with curiosity. “Yes, Strange, tell us. What will you do?”

But it was Sir Walter who answered. He nodded in the direction of a large Venetian mirror which took up most of one wall and was at that moment reflecting only darkness, and he declared, “He will walk into that mirror and he will not come out again.”

36
All the mirrors of the world

November 1814

The village of Hampstead is situated five miles north of London. In our grandfathers’ day it was an entirely unremarkable collection of farmhouses and cottages, but the existence of so rustic a spot close to London attracted large numbers of people to go there to enjoy the sweet air and verdure. A racecourse and bowling-green were built for their amusement. Bun shops and tea-gardens provided refreshment. Rich people bought summer cottages there and Hampstead soon became what it is today: one of the favourite resorts of fashionable London society. In a very short space of time it has grown from a country village to a place of quite respectable size — almost a little town.

Two hours after Sir Walter, Colonel Grant, Colonel Manningham and Jonathan Strange had quarrelled with the Nottinghamshire gentleman a carriage entered Hampstead on the London road and turned into a dark lane which was overhung with elder bushes, lilacs and hawthorns. The carriage drove to a house at the end of the lane where it stopped and Mr Drawlight got out.

The house had once been a farmhouse, but it had been much improved in recent years. Its small country windows — more useful for keeping out the cold than letting in the light — had all been made large and regular; a pillared portico had replaced the mean country doorway; the farm-yard had been entirely swept away and a flower garden and shrubbery established in its place.

Mr Drawlight knocked upon the door. A maidservant answered his knock and immediately conducted him to a drawing-room. The room must once have been the farmhouse-parlour, but all signs of its original character had disappeared beneath costly French wallpapers, Persian carpets and English furniture of the newest make and style.

Drawlight had not waited there more than a few minutes when a lady entered the room. She was tall, well-formed and beautiful. Her gown was of scarlet velvet and her white neck was set off by an intricate necklace of jet beads.

Through an open door across the passageway could be glimpsed a dining-parlour, as expensively got up as the drawing-room. The remains of a meal upon the table shewed that the lady had dined alone. It seemed that she had put on the red gown and black necklace for her own amusement.

“Ah, madam!” cried Drawlight leaping up. “I hope you are well?”

She made a little gesture of dismissal. “I suppose I am well. As well as I can be with scarcely any society and no variety of occupation.”

“What!” cried Drawlight in a shocked voice. “Are you all alone here?”

“I have one companion — an old aunt. She urges religion upon me.”

“Oh, madam!” cried Drawlight. “Do not waste your energies upon prayers and sermons. You will get no comfort there. Instead, fix your thoughts upon
revenge
.”

“I shall. I do,” she said simply. She sat down upon the sopha opposite the window. “And how are Mr Strange and Mr Norrell?”

“Oh, busy, madam! Busy, busy, busy! I could wish for their sakes, as well as yours, that they were less occupied. Only yesterday Mr Strange inquired most particularly after you. He wished to know if you were in good spirits. ‘Oh! Tolerable,’ I told him, ‘merely tolerable.’ Mr Strange is shocked, madam, frankly shocked at the heartless behaviour of your relations.”

“Indeed? I wish that his indignation might shew itself in more practical ways,” she said coolly. “I have paid him more than a hundred guineas and he has done nothing. I am tired of trying to arrange matters through an intermediary, Mr Drawlight. Convey to Mr Strange my compliments. Tell him I am ready to meet him wherever he chuses at any hour of the day or night. All times are alike to me. I have no engagements.”

“Ah, madam! How I wish I could do as you ask. How Mr Strange wishes it! But I fear it is quite impossible.”

“So you say, but I have heard no reason — at least none that satisfies me. I suppose Mr Strange is nervous of what people will say if we are seen together. But our meeting may be quite private. No one need know.”

“Oh, madam! You have quite misunderstood Mr Strange’s character! Nothing in the world would please him so much as an opportunity to shew the world how he despises your persecutors. It is entirely upon your account that he is so circumspect. He fears …”

But what Mr Strange feared the lady never learnt, for at that moment Drawlight stopt suddenly and looked about him with an expression of the utmost perplexity upon his face. “What in the world was that?” he asked.

It was as if a door had opened somewhere. Or possibly a series of doors. There was a sensation as of a breeze blowing into the house and bringing with it the half-remembered scents of childhood. There was a shift in the light which seemed to cause all the shadows in the room to fall differently. There was nothing more definite than that, and yet, as often happens when some magic is occurring, both Drawlight and the lady had the strongest impression that nothing in the visible world could be relied upon any more. It was as if one might put out one’s hand to touch any thing in the room and discover it was no longer there.

A tall mirror hung upon the wall above the sopha where the lady sat. It shewed a second great white moon in a second tall dark window and a second dim mirror-room. But Drawlight and the lady did not appear in the mirror-room at all. Instead there was a kind of an indistinctness, which became a sort of shadow, which became the dark shape of someone coming towards them. From the path which this person took, it could clearly be seen that the mirror-room was not like the original at all and that it was only by odd tricks of lighting and perspective — such as one might meet with in the theatre — that they appeared to be the same. It seemed that the mirror-room was actually a long corridor. The hair and coat of the mysterious figure were stirred by a wind which could not be felt in their own room and, though he walked briskly towards the glass which separated the two rooms, it was taking him some time to reach it. But finally he reached the glass and then there was a moment when his dark shape loomed very large behind it and his face was still in shadow.

Then Strange hopped down from the mirror very neatly, smiled his most charming smile and bid both Drawlight and the lady, “Good evening.”

He waited a moment, as if allowing someone else time to speak and then, when no one did, he said, “I hope you will be so kind, madam, as to forgive the lateness of my visit. To say the truth the way was a little more meandering than I had anticipated. I took a wrong turning and very nearly arrived in … well, I do not quite know where.”

He paused again, as if waiting for someone to invite him to sit down. When no one did, he sat down anyway.

Drawlight and the lady in the red gown stared at him. He smiled back at them.

“I have been getting acquainted with Mr Tantony,” he told Drawlight. “A most pleasant gentleman, though not very talkative. His friend, Mr Gatcombe, however, told me all I wished to know.”

“You are Mr Strange?” asked the lady in the red gown.

“I am, madam.”

“This is most fortunate. Mr Drawlight was just explaining to me why you and I could never meet.”

“It is true, madam, that until tonight circumstances did not favour our meeting. Mr Drawlight, pray make the introductions.”

Drawlight muttered that the lady in the red gown was Mrs Bullworth.

Strange rose, bowed to Mrs Bullworth and sat down again.

“Mr Drawlight has, I believe, told you of my horrible situation?” said Mrs Bullworth.

Strange made a small gesture with his head which might have meant one thing or might have meant another thing or might have meant nothing at all. He said, “A narration by an unconnected person can never match the tale told by someone intimately concerned with the events. There may be vital points which Mr Drawlight has, for one reason or another, omitted. Indulge me, madam. Let me it hear from you.”

“All?”

“All.”

“Very well. I am, as you know, the daughter of a gentleman in Northamptonshire. My father’s property is extensive. His house and income are large. We are among the first people in that county. But my family have always encouraged me to believe that with my beauty and accomplishments I might occupy an even higher position in the world. Two years ago I made a very advantageous marriage. Mr Bullworth is rich and we moved in the most fashionable circles. But still I was not happy. In the summer of last year I had the misfortune to meet a man who is everything Mr Bullworth is not: handsome, clever, amusing. A few short weeks were enough to convince me that I preferred this man to any one I had ever seen.” She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “Two days before Christmas I left my husband’s house in his company. I hoped — indeed expected — to divorce Mr Bullworth and marry him. But that was not his intention. By the end of January we had quarrelled and my friend had deserted me. He returned to his house and all his usual pursuits, but there was to be no such revival of a former life for me. My husband cast me off. My friends refused to receive me. I was forced back upon the mercy of my father. He told me that he would provide for me for the rest of my life, but in return I must live in perfect retirement. No more balls for me, no more parties, no more friends. No more any thing.” She gazed into the distance for a moment, as if in contemplation of all that she had lost, but just as quickly she shook off her melancholy and declared, “And now to business!” She went to a little writing-table, opened a drawer and drew out a paper which she offered to Strange. “I have, as you suggested, made a list of all the people who have betrayed me,” she said.

“Ah, I told you to make a list, did I?” said Strange, taking the paper. “How businesslike I am! It is quite a long list.”

“Oh!” said Mrs Bullworth. “Every name will be considered a separate commission and you shall have your fee for each. I have taken the liberty of writing by each name the punishment which I believe ought to be theirs. But your superior knowledge of magic may suggest other, more appropriate fates for my enemies. I should be glad of your recommendations.”

“ ‘Sir James Southwell. Gout,’ “ read Strange.

“My father,” explained Mrs Bullworth. “He wearied me to death with speeches upon my wicked character and exiled me for ever from my home. In many ways it is he who is the author of all my miseries. I wish I could harden my heart enough to decree some more serious illness for him. But I cannot. I suppose that is what is meant by the weakness of women.”

“Gout is exceedingly painful,” observed Strange. “Or so I am told.”

Mrs Bullworth made a gesture of impatience.

“ ‘Miss Elizabeth Church,’ “ continued Strange. “ ‘To have her engagement broken off.’ Who is Miss Elizabeth Church?”

“A cousin of mine — a tedious, embroidering sort of girl. No one ever paid her the least attention until I married Mr Bullworth. Yet now I hear she is to be married to a clergyman and my father has given her a banker’s draft to pay for wedding clothes and new furniture. My father has promised Lizzie and the clergyman that he will use his interest to get them all sorts of preferments. Their way is to be made easy. They are to live in York where they will attend dinners and parties and balls, and enjoy all those pleasures which ought to have been mine. Mr Strange,” she cried, growing more energetic, “surely there must be spells to make the clergyman hate the very sight of Lizzie? To make him shudder at the sound of her voice?”

“I do not know,” said Strange. “I never considered the matter before. I suppose there must be.” He returned to the list. “ ‘Mr Bullworth’ …”

“My husband,” she said.

“… ‘To be bitten by dogs.’ ”

“He has seven great black brutes and thinks more of them than of any human creature.”

“ ‘Mrs Bullworth senior’ — your husband’s mother, I suppose — To be drowned in a laundry tub. To be choked to death on her own apricot preserves. To be baked accidentally in a bread oven.’ That is three deaths for one woman. Forgive me, Mrs Bullworth, but the greatest magician that ever lived could not kill the same person three different ways.”

“Do as much as you can manage,” said Mrs Bullworth stubbornly. “The old woman is so insufferably proud of her housekeeping. She bored me to death upon the subject.”

“I see. Well, this is all very Shakespearian. And so we come to the last name. ‘Henry Lascelles.’ I know this gentleman.” Strange looked inquiringly at Drawlight.

Mrs Bullworth said, “That is the person under whose protection I left my husband’s house.”

“Ah! And what shall his fate be?”

“Bankruptcy,” she said in a fierce, low voice. “Lunacy. Fire. A disfiguring disease. A horse to trample upon him! A villain to lie in wait for him and cut his face with a knife! A vision of horror to haunt him and drive away sleep night after night!” She rose and began to pace about the room. “Let every mean and dishonourable action he ever did be published in the newspaper! Let everyone in London shun him! Let him seduce some country girl who will go mad for love of him. Let her follow him wherever he goes for years and years. Let him become an object of ridicule because of her. Let her never leave him in peace. Let some mistake upon the part of an honest man lead to his being accused of a crime. Let him suffer all the indignities of trial and imprisonment. Let him be branded! Let him be beaten! Let him be whipped! And let him be executed!”