Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke
“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!”
“Mrs Bullworth,” said Strange, “pray, calm yourself.”
Mrs Bullworth stopped pacing. She ceased calling down horrible fates upon Mr Lascelles’s head, but still she could hardly have been said to be calm. Her breath came rapidly, she trembled all over and her face still worked furiously.
Strange watched until he judged her enough in command of herself to understand what he wanted to say and then he began, “I am sorry, Mrs Bullworth, but you have been the victim of a cruel deception. This,” he glanced at Drawlight, “person has lied to you. Mr Norrell and I have never undertaken commissions for private individuals. We have never employed this person as an agent to find business for us. I never even heard your name until tonight.”
Mrs Bullworth stared at him a moment and then turning upon Drawlight. “Is this true?”
Drawlight fixed his miserable gaze upon the carpet and mumbled some sort of speech in which only the words “madam” and “peculiar situation” were discernible.
Mrs Bullworth reached up and rang the bellpull.
The maid who had let Drawlight into the house reappeared.
“Haverhill,” said Mrs Bullworth, “remove Mr Drawlight.”
Unlike the majority of maids in fashionable households who are chosen mainly for their pretty faces, Haverhill was a competent-looking person of the middle age with strong arms and an unforgiving expression. But on this occasion she was required to do very little since Mr Drawlight was only too grateful for the opportunity to remove himself. He picked up his stick and scuttled out of the room the moment Haverh
Mrs Bullworth turned to Strange. “Will you help me? Will you do what I ask? If the money is not sufficient …”
“Oh, the money!” Strange made a dismissive gesture. “I am sorry, but as I have just told you, I do not undertake private commissions.”
She stared at him, and then said in a wondering tone, “Can it be that you are entirely unmoved by the misery of my situation?”
“Upon the contrary, Mrs Bullworth, a system of morality which punishes the woman and leaves no share of blame to the man seems to me quite detestable. But beyond that I will not go. I will not hurt innocent people.”
“Innocent!” she cried. “Innocent! Who is innocent? No one!”
“Mrs Bullworth, there is nothing to be said. I can do nothing for you. I am sorry.”
She regarded him sourly. “Hmm, well. At least you have the grace to refrain from recommending repentance or good works or needlework or whatever it is the other fools hold up as a cure for a blank life and a broken heart. Nevertheless I think it will be best for both of us if this interview is brought to a conclusion. Good night, Mr Strange.”
Strange bowed. As he left the room he gave a wistful glance at the mirror above the sopha, as if he would have preferred to depart by that means, but Haverhill held the door open and common politeness obliged him to go through it.
Having neither horse nor carriage, he walked the five miles from Hampstead to Soho-square. On arriving at his own front door he discovered that although it was almost two o’clock in the morning there was a light in every window of the house. Before he could even fish in his pocket for his doorkey, the door was flung open by Colquhoun Grant.
“Good heavens! What are you doing here?” cried Strange.
Grant did not trouble to answer him, but instead turned back into the house and called, “He is here, ma’am! He is quite safe.”
Arabella came running, almost tumbling, out of the drawing-room, followed a moment later by Sir Walter. Then Jeremy Johns and several of the servants appeared in the passageway leading to the kitchen.
“Has something happened? Is something wrong?” asked Strange, gazing at them all in surprize.
“Blockhead!” laughed Grant, striking him affectionately on the head. “We were concerned about you! Where in the world have you been?”
“Hampstead.”
“Hampstead!” exclaimed Sir Walter. “Well, we are very glad to see you!” He glanced at Arabella and added nervously, “I fear we have made Mrs Strange anxious for no good reason.”
“Oh!” said Strange to his wife. “You were not afraid, were you? I was perfectly well. I always am.”
“There, ma’am!” declared Colonel Grant cheerfully. “It is just as I told you. In Spain Mr Strange was often in great peril, but we were never in the least concerned about him. He is too clever to come to any harm.”
“Must we stand in the hallway?” asked Strange. On the way from Hampstead he had been thinking about magic and he had intended to continue doing so at home. Instead, he found a house full of people all talking together. It put him out of humour.
He led the way into the drawing-room and asked Jeremy to bring him some wine and something to eat. When they were all seated he said, “It was just as we supposed. Drawlight has been arranging for Norrell and I to perform every sort of Black Magic you can think of. I found him with a most excitable young woman who wanted me to inflict torments upon her relations.”
“How horrible!” said Colonel Grant.
“And what did Drawlight say?” asked Sir Walter. “How did he explain himself?”
“Ha!” Strange let out a short burst of uncheerful laughter. “He did not say any thing. He simply ran away – which was a pity, as I had a great mind to challenge him to a duel.”
“Oh!” said Arabella suddenly. “It is duels now, is it?”
Sir Walter and Grant both looked at her in alarm, but Strange was too absorbed in what he was saying to notice her angry expression. “Not that I suppose he would have accepted, but I should have liked to frighten him a little. God knows he deserves it.”
“But you have not said any thing about this kingdom, path – whatever it is – behind the mirror,” said Colonel Grant. “Did it answer your expectations?”
Strange shook his head. “I do not have the words to describe it. All that Norrell and I have done is as nothing in comparison! And yet we have the audacity to call ourselves magicians! I wish I could give you an idea of its grandeur! Of its size and complexity! Of the great stone halls that lead off in every direction! I tried at first to judge their length and number, but soon gave up. There seemed no end to them. There were canals of still water in stone embankments. The water appeared black in the gloomy light. I saw staircases that rose up so high I could not see the top of them, and others that descended into utter blackness. Then suddenly I passed under an arch and found myself upon a stone bridge that crossed a dark, empty landscape. The bridge was so vast that I could not see the end of it. Imagine a bridge that joined Islington to Twickenham! Or York to Newcastle! And everywhere in the halls and on the bridge I saw his likeness.”
“Whose likeness?” asked Sir Walter.
“The man that Norrell and I have slandered in almost everything we have written. The man whose name Norrell can hardly bear to hear mentioned. The man who built the halls, canals, bridge, everything! John Uskglass, the Raven King! Of course, the structure has fallen into disrepair over the centuries. Whatever John Uskglass once used these roads for, it seems he no longer needs them. Statues and masonry have collapsed. Shafts of light break in from God-knows-where. Some halls are blocked, while others are flooded. And I will tell you something else very curious. There were a great number of discarded shoes everywhere I went. Presumably they belonged to other travellers. They were of a very ancient style and much decayed. From which I conclude that these passages have been little frequented in recent years. In all the time I was walking I only saw one other person.”
“You saw someone else?” said Sir Walter.
“Oh, yes! At least I think it was a person. I saw a shadow moving along a white road that crossed the dark moor. You must understand that I was upon the bridge at the time and it was much higher than any bridge I have ever seen in this world. The ground appeared to be several thousand feet beneath me. I looked down and saw someone. If I had not been so set upon finding Drawlight, I would certainly have found a way down and followed him or her, for it seems to me that there could be no better way for a magician to spend his time than in conversation with such a person.”
“But would such a person be safe?” asked Arabella.
“Safe?” said Strange, contemptuously. “Oh, no. I do not think so. But then I flatter myself that neither am I particularly safe. I hope I have not missed my chance. I hope that when I return tomorrow I will find some clue as to where the mysterious figure went.”
“Return!” exclaimed Sir Walter. “But are you sure …?”
“Oh!” cried Arabella, interrupting. “I see how it is to be! You will be walking these paths every moment Mr Norrell can spare you, while I remain here in a condition of the most miserable suspense, wondering if I am ever to see you again!”
Strange looked at her in surprize. “Arabella? Whatever is the matter?”
“The matter! You are set upon putting yourself in the most horrible danger and you expect me to say nothing about it!”
Strange made a sort of gesture of combined appeal and helplessness, as if he were calling upon Sir Walter and Grant to bear witness how exceedingly unreasonable this was. He said, “But when I told you I was going to Spain, you were perfectly composed, even though a vicious war was raging there at the time. This, on the other hand, is quite …”
“Perfectly composed? I assure you I was nothing of the kind! I was horribly afraid for you – as were all the wives and mothers and sisters of the men in Spain. But you and I agreed that you had a duty to go. And besides, in Spain you had the entire British Army
“I beg your pardon, but I know exactly where it is! It is the King’s Roads. Really, Arabella, I think it is a little late in the day to decide you do not like my profession!”
“Oh, that is not fair! I have never said a word against your profession. I think it one of the noblest in the world. I am proud beyond measure of what you and Mr Norrell have done and I have never objected in the least to your learning whatever new magic you saw fit – but until today you have always been content to make your discoveries in books.”
“Well, no longer. To confine a magician’s researches to the books in his library, well, you might just as well tell an explorer that you approve his plan to search for the source of, of – whatever it is those African rivers are called – on the condition that he never steps outside Tunbridge Wells!”
Arabella gave an exclamation of exasperation. “I thought you meant to be a magician not an explorer!”
“It is the same thing. An explorer cannot stay at home reading maps other men have made. A magician cannot increase the stock of magic by reading other men’s books. It is quite obvious to me that sooner or later Norrell and I must look beyond our books!”
“Indeed? That is obvious to you, is it? Well, Jonathan, I very much doubt that it is obvious to Mr Norrell.”
Throughout this exchange Sir Walter and Lieutenant-Colonel Grant looked as uncomfortable as any two people can who inadvertently find themselves witnesses to a little outburst of marital disharmony. Nor was their situation improved by the consciousness that just at present neither Arabella nor Strange was feeling particularly well disposed towards them. They had already had to endure some sharp words from Arabella when they had confessed their part in encouraging Strange to perform the dangerous magic. Now Strange was directing angry glances at them, as if he wondered by what right they had come to his house in the middle of the night and put his usually sweet-tempered wife out of temper. As soon as there was any thing like a pause in the conversation, Colonel Grant muttered something incoherent about the lateness of the hour and about their kind hospitality being more than he deserved and about wishing them all good night. But then, as no one paid the slightest attention to his speech, he was obliged to continue where he was.