Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (8 page)

All the assurances that Mrs Wintertowne begged for — and did not get — from Mr Norrell, Mr Norrell was now anxious to bestow upon Sir Walter who clearly did not want them. From his sanctuary in the drawing-room Sir Walter nodded and then, when Mr Norrell still lingered, he called out hoarsely, “Thank you, sir. Thank you!” And his mouth stretched out in a curious way. It was, perhaps, meant for a smile.

“I wish with all my heart, Sir Walter,” called out Mr Norrell, “that I might invite you to come up with me and to see what it is I do, but the curious nature of this particular magic demands solitude. I will, I hope, have the honour of shewing you some magic upon another occasion.”

Sir Walter bowed slightly and turned away.

Mrs Wintertowne was at that moment speaking to her servant, Robert, and Drawlight took advantage of this slight distraction to pull Mr Norrell to one side and whisper frantically in his ear: “No, no, sir! Do not send them away! My advice is to gather as many of them around the bed as can be persuaded to come. It is, I assure you, the best guarantee of our night’s exploits being generally broadcast in the morning. And do not be afraid of making a little bustle to impress the servants — your best incantations if you please! Oh! What a noodle-head I am! Had only I thought to bring some Chinese powders to throw in the fire! I don’t suppose that you have any about you?”

Mr Norrell made no reply to this but asked to be brought without delay to where Miss Wintertowne was.

But though the magician particularly asked to be taken there alone, his dear friends, Mr Drawlight and Mr Lascelles, were not so unkind as to leave him to face this great crisis of his career alone and consequently the three of them together were conducted by Robert to a chamber upon the second floor.

8
A gentleman with thistle-down hair

October 1807

There was no one there.

Which is to say there was someone there. Miss Wintertowne lay upon the bed, but it would have puzzled philosophy to say now whether she were someone or no one at all.

They had dressed her in a white gown and hung a silver chain about her neck; they had combed and dressed her beautiful hair and put pearl-and-garnet earrings in her ears. But it was extremely doubtful whether Miss Wintertowne cared about such things any more. They had lit candles and laid a good fire in the hearth, they had put roses about the room, which filled it with a sweet perfume, but Miss Wintertowne could have lain now with equal composure in the foulest-smelling garret in the city.

“And she was quite tolerable to look at, you say?” said Mr Lascelles.

“You never saw her?” said Drawlight. “Oh! she was a heavenly creature. Quite divine. An angel.”

“Indeed? And such a pinched-looking ruin of a thing now! I shall advise all the good-looking women of my acquaintance not to die,” said Mr Lascelles. He leaned closer. “They have closed her eyes,” he said.

“Her eyes were perfection,” said Drawlight, “a clear dark grey, with long, dark eyelashes and dark eyebrows. It is a pity you never saw her — she was exactly the sort of creature you would have admired.” Drawlight turned to Mr Norrell. “Well, sir, are you ready to begin?”

Mr Norrell was seated in a chair next to the fire. The resolute, businesslike manner, which he had adopted on his arrival at the house, had disappeared; instead he sat with neck bowed, sighing heavily, his gaze fixed upon the carpet. Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight looked at him with that degree of interest appropriate to the character of each — which is to say that Mr Drawlight was all fidgets and bright-eyed anticipation, and Mr Lascelles all cool, smiling scepticism. Mr Drawlight took a few respectful steps back from the bed so that Mr Norrell might more conveniently approach it and Mr Lascelles leant against a wall and crossed his arms (an attitude he often adopted in the theatre).

Mr Norrell sighed again. “Mr Drawlight, I have already said that this particular magic demands complete solitude. I must ask you to wait downstairs.”

“Oh, but, sir!” protested Drawlight. “Surely such intimate friends as Lascelles and I can be no inconvenience to you? We are the quietest creatures in the world! In two minutes’ time you will have quite forgotten that we are here. And I must say that I consider our presence as absolutely essential! For who will broadcast the news of your achievement tomorrow morning if not Lascelles and myself? Who will describe the ineffable grandeur of the moment when your magicianship triumphs and the young woman rises from the dead? Or the unbearable pathos of the moment when you are forced to admit defeat? You will not do it half so well yourself, sir. You know that you will not.”

“Perhaps,” said Mr Norrell. “But what you suggest is entirely impossible. I will not,
cannot
begin until you leave the room.”

Poor Drawlight! He could not force the magician to begin the magic against his will, but to have waited so long to see some magic and then to be excluded! It was almost more than he could bear. Even Mr Lascelles was a little disappointed for he had hoped to witness something very ridiculous that he could laugh at.

When they had gone Mr Norrell rose wearily from his seat and took up a book that he had brought with him. He opened it at a place he had marked with a folded letter and placed it upon a little table so that it would be to hand if he needed to consult it. Then he began to recite a spell.

It took effect almost immediately because suddenly there was something green where nothing green had been before and a fresh, sweet smell as of woods and fields wafted through the room. Mr Norrell stopped speaking.

Someone was standing in the middle of the room: a tall, handsome person with pale, perfect skin and an immense amount of hair, as pale and shining as thistle-down. His cold, blue eyes glittered and he had long dark eyebrows, which terminated in an upward flourish. He was dressed exactly like any other gentleman, except that his coat was of the brightest green imaginable — the colour of leaves in early summer.

“
O Lar!
” began Mr Norrell in a quavering voice. “
O Lar! Magnum opus est mihi tuo auxilio. Haec virgo mortua est et familia eius am ad vitam redire vult.
”
¹
Mr Norrell pointed to the figure on the bed.

At the sight of Miss Wintertowne the gentleman with the thistle-down hair suddenly became very excited. He spread wide his hands in a gesture of surprized delight and began to speak Latin very rapidly. Mr Norrell, who was more accustomed to seeing Latin written down or printed in books, found that he could not follow the language when it was spoken so fast, though he did recognize a few words here and there, words such as “
formosa
” and “
venusta
” which are descriptive of feminine beauty.

Mr Norrell waited until the gentleman’s rapture had subsided and then he directed the gentleman’s attention to the mirror above the mantelpiece. A vision appeared of Miss Wintertowne walking along a narrow rocky path, through a mountainous and gloomy landscape. “
Ecce mortua inter terram et caelum!
” declared Mr Norrell. “
Scito igitur, O Lar, me ad hanc magnam operam te elegisse quia
…”
²

“Yes, yes!” cried the gentleman suddenly breaking into English. “You elected to summon
me
because my genius for magic exceeds that of all the rest of my race. Because I have been the servant and confidential friend of Thomas Godbless, Ralph Stokesey, Martin Pale
and
of the Raven King. Because I am valorous, chivalrous, generous and as handsome as the day is long! That is all quite understood! It would have been madness to summon anyone else! We both know who
I
am. The question is: who in the world are
you
?”

“I?” said Mr Norrell, startled. “I am the greatest magician of the Age!”

The gentleman raised one perfect eyebrow as if to say he was surprized to hear it. He walked around Mr Norrell slowly, considering him from every angle. Then, most disconcerting of all, he plucked Mr Norrell’s wig from his head and looked underneath, as if Mr Norrell were a cooking pot on the fire and he wished to know what was for dinner.

“I … I am the man who is destined to restore magic to England!” stammered Mr Norrell, grabbing back his wig and replacing it, slightly askew, upon his head.

“Well, obviously you are
that
!” said the gentleman. “Or I should not be here! You do not imagine that I would waste my time upon a three-penny hedge-sorcerer, do you? But
who
are you? That is what I wish to know. What magic have you done? Who was your master? What magical lands have you visited? What enemies have you defeated? Who are your allies?”

Mr Norrell was extremely surprized to be asked so many questions and he was not at all prepared to answer them. He wavered and hesitated before finally fixing upon the only one to which he had a sensible answer. “I had no master. I taught myself.”

“How?”

“From books.”

“Books!” (This in a tone of the utmost contempt.)

“Yes, indeed. There is a great deal of magic in books nowadays. Of course, most of it is nonsense. No one knows as well as I how much nonsense is printed in books. But there is a great deal of useful information too and it is surprizing how, after one has learnt a little, one begins to see …”

Mr Norrell was beginning to warm to his subject, but the gentleman with the thistle-down hair had no patience to listen to other people talk and so he interrupted him.

“Am I the first of my race that you have seen?”

“Oh, yes!”

This answer seemed to please the gentleman with the thistle-down hair and he smiled. “So! Should I agree to restore this young woman to life, what would be my reward?”

Mr Norrell cleared his throat. “What sort of thing … ?” he said, a little hoarsely.

“Oh! That is easily agreed!” cried the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. “My wishes are the most moderate things in the world. Fortunately I am utterly free from greed and sordid ambition. Indeed, you will find that my proposal is much more to your advantage than mine — such is my unselfish nature! I simply wish to be allowed to aid you in all your endeavours, to advise you upon all matters and to guide you in your studies. Oh! and you must take care to let all the world know that your greatest achievements are due in larger part to me!”

Mr Norrell looked a little ill. He coughed and muttered something about the gentleman’s generosity. “Were I the sort of magician who is eager to entrust all his business to another person, then your offer would be most welcome. But unfortunately … I fear … In short I have no notion of employing you — or indeed any other member of your race — ever again.”

A long silence.

“Well, this is ungrateful indeed!” declared the gentleman, coldly. “I have put myself to the trouble of paying you this visit. I have listened with the greatest good nature to your dreary conversation. I have borne patiently with your ignorance of the proper forms and etiquette of magic. And now you scorn my offer of assistance. Other magicians, I may say, have endured all sorts of torments to gain my help. Perhaps I would do better to speak to the other one. Perhaps he understands better than you how to address persons of high rank and estate?” The gentleman glanced about the room. “I do not see him. Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

“The other one.”

“The other what?”

“Magician!”

“Magici …” Mr Norrell began to form the word but it died upon his lips. “No, no! There is no other magician! I am the only one. I assure you I am the only one. Why should you think that … ?”

“
Of course
there is another magician!” declared the gentleman, as if it were perfectly ridiculous to deny anything quite so obvious. “He is your dearest friend in all the world!”

“I have no friends,” said Mr Norrell.

He was utterly perplexed. Whom might the fairy mean? Childermass? Lascelles?
Drawlight?

“He has red hair and a long nose. And he is very conceited — as are all Englishmen!” declared the gentleman with the thistle-down hair.

This was no help. Childermass, Lascelles and Drawlight were all very conceited in their ways, Childermass and Lascelles both had long noses, but none of them had red hair. Mr Norrell could make nothing of it and so he returned, with a heavy sigh, to the matter in hand. “You will not help me?” he said. “You will not bring the young woman back from the dead?”

“I did not say so!” said the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, in a tone which suggested that he wondered why Mr Norrell should think
that
. “I must confess,” he continued, “that in recent centuries I have grown somewhat bored of the society of my family and servants. My sisters and cousins have many virtues to recommend them, but they are not without faults. They are, I am sorry to say, somewhat boastful, conceited and proud. This young woman,” he indicated Miss Wintertowne, “she had, I dare say, all the usual accomplishments and virtues? She was graceful? Witty? Vivacious? Capricious? Danced like sunlight? Rode like the wind? Sang like an angel? Embroidered like Penelope? Spoke French, Italian, German, Breton, Welsh and many other languages?”

Mr Norrell said he supposed so. He believed that those were the sorts of things young ladies did nowadays.

“Then she will be a charming companion for me!” declared the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, clapping his hands together.

Mr Norrell licked his lips nervously. “What exactly are you proposing?”

“Grant me half the lady’s life and the deal is done.”

“Half her life?” echoed Mr Norrell.

“Half,” said the gentleman with the thistle-down hair.

“But what would her friends say if they learnt I had bargained away half her life?” asked Mr Norrell.

“Oh! They will never know any thing of it. You may rely upon me for that,” said the gentleman. “Besides, she has no life now. Half a life is better than none.”

Half a life did indeed seem a great deal better than none. With half a life Miss Wintertowne might marry Sir Walter and save him from bankruptcy. Then Sir Walter might continue in office and lend his support to all Mr Norrell’s plans for reviving English magic. But Mr Norrell had read a great many books in which were described the dealings of other English magicians with persons of this race and he knew very well how deceitful they could be. He thought he saw how the gentleman intended to trick him.

“How long is a life?” he asked.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair spread his hands in a gesture of the utmost candour. “How long would you like?”

Mr Norrell considered. “Let us suppose she had lived until she was ninety-four. Ninety-four would have been a good age. She is nineteen now. That would be another seventy-five years. If you were to bestow upon her another seventy-five years, then I see no reason why you should not have half of it.”

“Seventy-five years then,” agreed the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, “exactly half of which belongs to me.”