Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (132 page)

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 bed- chamber 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 April 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 here 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 en- chantment. 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.

1 For years afterwards the people of Clun said that if you stood, slightly upon tiptoes, close by a particular tree in winter at full moon and craned your neck to look between the branches of another tree, then it was possible still to see Ashfair in the distance. In the moonlight and snow the house looked very eerie, lost and lonely. In time, however, the trees grew differently and Ashfair was seen no more.

2 This is by no means unusual as the following passage from
The Modern Magician
(Autumn, 1812) shews. "Where is Pale's house? Where Stokesey's? Why has no one ever seen them? Pale's house was in Warwick. The very street was known. Stokesey's house faced the cathedral in Exeter. Where is the Raven King's castle in Newcastle? Every one who saw it proclaimed it to be the first house for beauty and splendour in all the world — but has any one ever seen it in the Modern Age? No. Is there any record of it being destroyed? No. It simply disappeared. All these houses exist somewhere, but when the magician goes away or dies, they disappear.
He
may enter and leave as he pleases, but no one else may find them."

3 Many of the new magicians applied to Lord Liverpool and the Ministers for permission to go and find Strange and Norrell. Some gentlemen were so thoughtful as to append lists of equipment, both magical and mundane, which they thought they might need and which they hoped that the Government would be kind enough to supply. One, a man called Beech in Plymouth, asked for the loan of the Inn is killing Dragoons.

4 This slander was not entirely discredited until Arabella Strange herself returned to England in early June 1817.

5 There are very few modern magicians who do not declare themselves to be either Strangite or Norrellite, the only notable exception being John Child- ermass himself. Whenever he is asked he claims to be in some degree both. As this is like claiming to be both Whig and Tory at the same time, no one understands what he means.

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.

A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

Susanna Clarke lives in Cambridge.
This is her first novel.

A NOTE ON THE TYPE

The original punches of the types cut by John Baskerville of Birmingham were sold by Baskerville's widow to Beaumarchais and descended through various French foundaries to Beberny & Peignot. Some of the material survives and is now at the Cambridge University Press. Baskerville has been called the first of the transitional romans in England. Compared with Caslon there is more differentiation of thick and thin strokes, the serifs on lower-case letters are more nearly horizontal and the stress nearer the vertical.