Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (62 page)

Strange merely bestowed a contemptuous smile on both Willises. But he was acting more confident than he felt. The truth was he was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable. Whatever magic had just been done, had not been done by him.

1 In
The
Life
of
Jonathan
Strange
, John Segundus discusses other ways in which he believes Strange's later actions were influenced by the Duke of Wellington.

2 The likelihood was that neither did Ormskirk. He had simply written down a spell that someone else had told him or that he had found in another book. This is a perennial problem with the writings of the
Argentine
magicians. In their anxiety to preserve any scrap of magical knowledge, they were often obliged to set down what they themselves did not understand.

3 This pool and the line of trees were all that remained of a vast ornamental garden planned by King William III which had been begun, but never completed. It had been abandoned when the cost proved far too great. The land had been allowed to return to its former state of Park and meadow.

33
Place
the
moon
at
my
eyes

November 1814

I
T WAS MOST mysterious. Could someone in the Castle be a magician? One of the servants perhaps? Or one of the Princesses? It did not seem likely. Could it be Mr Norrell's doing? Strange pictured his tutor sitting in his little room upon the second floor at Hanover-square peering into his silver dish, watching all that had happened and finally driving away the Willises with magic. It was possible, he supposed. Bringing statues to life was, after all, something of a speciality of Mr Norrell's. It had been the first magic to bring him to the public notice. And yet, and yet . . . Why would Mr Norrell suddenly decide to help him? Out of the kindness of his heart? Hardly. Besides there had been a dark humour in the magic which was not like Norrell at all. The magician had not merely wanted to frighten the Willises; he had wanted to make them ridiculous. No, it could not be Norrell. But who then?

The King did not seem in the least fatigued. In fact he was more inclined to dance and skip about and generally rejoice over the defeat of the Willises. So, thinking that further exercise would certainly do His Majesty no harm, Strange walked on.

The white mist had erased all detail and colour from the landscape and left it ghostly. Earth and sky were blended together in the same insubstantial grey element.

The King took Strange's arm in a most affectionate manner and seemed to have quite forgot that he disliked magicians. He began to talk about the things that preoccupied him in his madness. He was convinced that a great many disasters had befallen Great Britain since he had become mad. He seemed to imagine that the wreck of his own reason must be matched by a corresponding wreck of the kingdom. Chief among these delusions was the belief that London had been drowned in a great flood. ". . . and when they came to me and said that the cold, grey waters had closed over the dome of St Paul's Cathedral and that London was become a domain of fishes and sea-monsters, my feelings are not to be described! I believe I wept for three weeks together! Now the buildings are all covered in barnacles and the markets sell nothing but oysters and sea-urchins! Mr Fox told me that three Sundays ago he went to St Vedast in Foster-lane where he heard an excellent sermon preached by a turbot.
¹
But I have a plan for my kingdom's restoration! I have dispatched ambassadors to the King of the Fishes with proposals that I should marry a mermaid and so end the strife between our two great Nations! . . ."

The other subject which preoccupied His Majesty was that of the silver-haired person whom only he could see. "He says he is a king," he whispered eagerly, "but I believe he is an angel! With all that silver hair I think it very likely. And those two Evil Spirits — the ones you were talking to — he has been abusing them most horribly. It is my belief he has come to smite them and cast them into a fiery pit! Then, no doubt, he will carry you and me away to glory in Hanover!"

"Heaven," said Strange. "Your Majesty means Heaven."

They walked on. Snow began to fall, a slow tumble of white over a pale grey world. It was very quiet.

Suddenly the sound of a flute was heard. The music was unutterably lonely and mournful, but at the same time full of nobility.

Thinking that it must be the King who was playing, Strange turned to watch. But the King was standing with his hands at his side and his flute in his pocket. Strange looked around. The mist was not dense enough to hide anyone who might have been standing near them. There was no one. The Park was empty.

"Ah, listen!" cried the King. "He is describing the tragedy of the King of Great Britain. That run of notes there! That is for past powers all gone! That melancholy phrase! That is for his Reason destroyed by deceitful politicians and the wicked behaviour of his sons. That little tune fit to break your heart — that is for the beautiful young creature whom he adored when he was a boy and was forced by his friends to give up. Ah, God! How he wept then!"

Tears rolled down the King's face. He began to perform a slow, grave dance, waving his body and his arms from side to side and spinning slowly over the ground. The music moved away, deeper into the Park and the King danced after it.

Strange was mystified. The music seemed to be leading the King in the direction of a grove of trees. At least Strange had supposed it was a grove. He was almost certain that a moment ago he had seen a dozen trees — probably fewer. But now the grove had become a thicket — no, a wood — a deep, dark wood where the trees were ancient and wild. Their great branches resembled twisted limbs and their roots tumbling nests of snakes. They were twined about thickly with ivy and mistletoe. There was a little path between the trees; it was pitted with deep, ice-rimmed hollows and fringed with frost-stiffened weeds. Pale pinpricks of light deep within the wood suggested a house where no house ought to be.

"Your Majesty!" cried Strange. He ran after the King and caught him by the hands. "Your Majesty must forgive me, but I do not quite like the look of those trees. I think perhaps that we would be as well to return to the Castle."

The King was quite enraptured by the music and did not wish to leave. He grumbled and pulled his arm away from Strange's grasp. Strange caught him again and half-led, half-dragged him back towards the gate.

But the invisible flute-player did not seem inclined to give them up so easily. The music suddenly grew louder; it was all around them. Another tune crept in almost imperceptibly and blended sweetly with the first.

"Ah! Listen! Oh, listen!" cried the King, spinning round. "He is playing for you now! That harsh melody is for your wicked tutor who will not teach you what you have every right to learn. Those discordant notes describe your anger at being prevented from making new discoveries. That slow, sad march is for the great library he is too selfish to shew you."

"How in the world . . ." began Strange and then stopped. He heard it too – the music that described his whole life. He realized for the first time how full of sadness his existence was. He was surrounded by mean-spirited men and women who hated him and were secretly jealous of his talent. He knew now that every angry thought he had ever had was justified and that every generous thought was misplaced. His enemies were despicable and his friends were treacherous. Norrell (naturally) was worst of all, but even Arabella was weak and unworthy of his love.

"Ah!" sighed His Majesty, "So you have been betrayed too."

"Yes," said Strange, sadly.

They were facing the wood again. The lights among the trees — tiny as they were — conveyed to Strange a strong idea of the house and its comforts. He could almost see the soft candlelight falling upon the comfortable chairs, the ancient hearths where cheerful fires blazed, the glasses of hot spiced wine which would be provided to warm them after their walk through the dark wood. The lights suggested other ideas too. "I think there is a library," he said.

"Oh, certainly!" declared the King, clapping his hands together in his enthusiasm. "You shall read the books and when your eyes grow tired, I shall read them to you! But we must hurry! Listen to the music! He grows impatient for us to follow him!"

His Majesty reached out to take Strange's left arm. In order to accommodate him, Strange found that he must move something he was holding in his left hand. It was Ormskirk's
Revelations
of
Thirty-Six
Other
Worlds
.

"Oh,
that
!" he thought. "Well, I do not need that any longer. There are sure to be better books at the house in the wood!" He opened his hand and let
Revelations
fall upon the snowy ground.

The snow fell thicker. The flute-player played. They hurried towards the wood. As they ran, the King's scarlet nightcap fell over his eyes. Strange reached up and straightened it. As he did so, he suddenly remembered what it was that he knew about the colour red: it was powerful protection against enchantment.

"Hurry! Hurry!" cried the King.

The flute-player played a series of rapid notes which rose and fell to mimic the sound of the wind. A real wind appeared out of nowhere and half-lifted, half-pushed them over the ground towards the wood. When it set them down again they were a great deal nearer to the wood.

"Excellent!" cried the King.

The nightcap caught Strange's eye again.

.
.
.
Protection
against
enchantment
.
.
.

The flute-player conjured up another wind. This one blew the King's nightcap off.

"No matter! No matter!" cried the King cheerfully. "He has promised me nightcaps a-plenty when we get to his house."

But Strange let go of the King's arm and staggered back through the snow and the wind to fetch it. It lay in the snow, bright scarlet among all the misty shades of white and grey.

.
.
.
Protection
against
enchantment
.
.
.

He remembered saying to one of the Willises that in order to practise magic successfully a magician must employ the forcefulness of his own character; why should he think of that now?

Place
the
moon
at
my
eyes
(he thought)
and
her
whiteness
shall
devour
the
false
sights
the
deceiver
has
placed
there
.

The moon's scarred white disc appeared suddenly — not in the sky, but somewhere else. If he had been obliged to say exactly where, he would have said that it was inside his own head. The sensation was not a pleasant one. All he could think of, all he could see was the moon's face, like a sliver of ancient bone. He forgot about the King. He forgot he was a magician. He forgot Mr Norrell. He forgot his own name.

He forgot everything except the moon . . .

The moon vanished. Strange looked up and found himself in a snowy place a little distance from a dark wood. Between him and the wood stood the blind King in his dressing-gown. The King must have walked on when he stopped. But without his guide to lean on, the King felt lost and afraid. He was crying out, "Magician! Magician! Where are you?"

The wood no longer struck Strange as a welcoming place. It appeared to him now as it had at first — sinister, unknowable,
nEnglish
. As for the lights, he could barely see them; they were the merest pricks of white in the darkness and suggested nothing except that the inhabitants of the house could not afford many candles.

"Magician!" cried the King.

"I am here, Your Majesty."

Place
a
swarm
of
bees
at
my
ears
(he thought)
.
Bees
love
truth
and
will
estroy
the
deceiver's
lies
.

A low murmuring noise filled his ears, blocking out the music of the flute-player. It was very like language and Strange thought that in a little while he would understand it. It grew, filling his head and his chest to the very tips of his fingers and toes. Even his hair seemed electrified and his skin buzzed and shook with the noise. For one horrible moment he thought that his mouth was full of bees and that there were bees buzzing and flying under his skin, in his guts and his ears.

The buzzing stopped. Strange heard the flute-player's music again but it did not sound as sweet as before and it no longer seemed to be describing his life.

Place
salt
in
my
mouth
(he thought)
lest
the
deceiver
attempt
to
delight
me
with
the
taste
of
honey
or
disgust
me
with
the
taste
of
ashes
.