Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke
It occurred to him that once upon a time he had been fond of dancing, and so had Arabella. But after the war in Spain he had hardly danced with her – or indeed with any one else. Wherever he had gone in London – whether to a ballroom or Government office – there had always been too many people to talk to about magic. He wondered if Arabella had danced with other people. He wondered if he had asked her. “Though if I did think to ask her,” he thought with a sigh, “I clearly did not listen to her answers – I cannot remember any thing about it.”
“Good God, sir! What are you doing here?”
Strange turned to see who spoke. The one thing he was not prepared for was that the first person he should meet should be Sir Walter Pole’s butler. He could not remember the fellow’s name, though he had heard Sir Walter speak it a hundred times. Simon? Samuel?
The man grasped Strange by the arm and shook him. He seemed highly agitated. “For God’s sake, sir, what are you doing here? Don’t you know that he hates you?”
Strange opened his mouth to deliver one of the clever ripostes but then hesitated. Who hated him? Norrell?
In the complexity of the dance the man was whisked away. Strange looked for him again and caught sight of him on the other side of the room. The man glared furiously at Strange as if he were angry at him for not leaving.
“How odd,” thought Strange. “And yet of course they would do that. They would do the thing you least expected. Probably it is not Pole’s butler at all. Probably it is only a fairy in his likeness. Or a magical illusion.” He began to look around for his own fairy.
“Stephen! Stephen!”
“I am here, sir!” Stephen turned and found the gentleman with the thistle-down hair at his elbow.
“The magician is here! He is here! What can he want?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Oh! He has come here to destroy me! I know he has!”
Stephen was astonished. For a long time he had imagined that the gentleman was proof against any injury. Yet here he was in a condition of the utmost anxiety and fright.
“But why would he want to do that, sir?” asked Stephen in a soothing tone. “I think it far more likely that he has come here to rescue … to take home his wife. Perhaps we should release Mrs Strange from her enchantment and permit her to return home with her husband? And Lady Pole too. Let Mrs Strange and Lady Pole return to England with the magician, sir. I am sure that will be enough to mollify his anger against you. I am sure I can persuade him.”
“What? What are you talking about? Mrs Strange? No, no, Stephen! You are quite mistaken! Indeed you are! He has not so much as mentioned our dear Mrs Strange. You and I, Stephen, know how to appreciate the society of such a woman. He does not. He has forgotten all about her. He has a new sweetheart now – a bewitching young woman whose lovely presence I hope one day will add lustre to our own balls! There is naught so fickle as an Englishman! Oh, believe me! He has come to destroy me! From the moment he asked me for Lady Pole’s finger I knew that he was far, far cleverer than I had ever guessed before. Advise me, Stephen. You have lived among these Englishmen for years. What ought I to do? How can I protect myself? How can I punish such wickedness?”
Through all the dullness and heaviness of his enchantment Stephen struggled to think clearly. A great crisis was upon him, he was sure of it. Never before had the gentleman asked for his help so openly. Surely he ought to be able to turn the situation to his advantage? But how? And he knew from long experience that none of the gentleman’s moods lasted long; he was the most mercurial being in the world. The smallest word could turn his fear into a blazing rage and hatred – if Stephen misspoke now, then far from freeing himself and the others, he might goad the gentleman into destroying them all. He gazed about the room in search of inspiration.
“What shall I do, Stephen?” moaned the gentleman. “What shall I do?”
Something caught Stephen’s eye. Beneath a black arch stood a familiar figure: a fairy woman who habitually wore a black veil that went from the crown of her head to the tips of her fingers. She never joined in the dancing; she half-walked, half-floated among the dancers and the standers-by. Stephen had never seen her speak to any one, but when she passed by there was a faint smell of graveyards, earth and charnel houses. He could never look upon her without feeling a shiver of apprehension, but whether she was malignant, cursed, or both, he did not know.
“There are people in this world,” he began, “whose lives are nothing but a burden to them. A black veil stands between them and the world. They are utterly alone. They are like shadows in the night, shut off from joy and love and all gentle human emotions, unable even to give comfort to each other. Their days are full of nothing but darkness, misery and solitude. You know whom I mean, sir. I … I do not speak of blame …” The gentleman was gazing at him with fierce intensity. “But I am sure we can turn the magician’s wrath away from you, if you will only release …”
“Ah!” exclaimed the gentleman and his eyes widened with understanding. He held up his hand as a sign for Stephen to be silent.
Stephen was certain that he had gone too far. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
“Forgive?” said the gentleman in a tone of surprize. “Why, there is nothing to forgive! It is long centuries since any one spoke to me with such forthrightness and I honour you for it! Darkness, yes! Darkness, misery and solitude!” He turned upon his heel and walked away into the crowd.
Strange was enjoying himself immensely. The eerie contradictions of the ball did not disturb him in the least; they were just what he would have expected. Despite the poverty of the great hall, it was still in part an illusion. His magician’s eye perceived that at least part of the room was beneath the earth.
A little way off a fairy woman was regarding him steadily. She was dressed in a gown the colour of a winter sunset and carried a delicate, glittering fan strung with something which might have been crystal beads – but which more resembled frost upon leaves and the fragile pendants of ice that hang from twigs.
A dance was at that moment starting up. No one appeared to claim the fairy woman’s hand, so upon an impulse Strange smiled and bowed and said, “There is scarcely any one here who knows me. So we cannot be introduced. Nevertheless, madam, I should be greatly honoured if you would dance with me.”
She did not answer him or smile in return, but she took his proffered hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance. They took their places in the set and stood for a moment without saying a word.
“You are wrong to say no one knows you,” she said suddenly. “I know you. You are one of the two magicians who is destined to return magic to England.” Then she said, as if reciting a prophecy or something that was commonly known, “And the name of one shall be Fearfulness. And the name of the other shall be Arrogance … Well, clearly you are not Fearfulness, so I suppose you must be Arrogance.”
This was not very polite.
“That is indeed my destiny,” Strange agreed. “And an excellent one it is!”
“Oh, you think so, do you?” she said, giving him a sideways look. “Then why haven’t you done it yet?”
Strange smiled. “And what makes you think, madam, that I have not?”
“Because you are standing here.”
“I do not understand.”
“Did not you listen to the prophecy when it was told to you?”
“The prophecy, madam?”
“Yes, the prophecy of …” She finished by saying a name, but it was in her own language and Strange could not make it out.4
“I beg your pardon?”
“The prophecy of the King.”
Strange thought back to Vinculus climbing out from under the winter hedge with bits of dry, brown grass and empty seed pods stuck to his clothes; he remembered Vinculus reciting something in the winter lane. But what Vinculus had said he had no idea. He had had no notion of becoming a magician just then and had not paid any attention. “I believe there was a prophecy of some sort,
“Fail.”
Strange blinked in surprize. “I … I do not think … Fail? No, madam, no. It is too late for that. Already we are the most successful magicians since Martin Pale.”
She said nothing.
Was it too late to fail? wondered Strange. He thought of Mr Norrell in the house in Hanover-square, of Mr Norrell at Hurtfew Abbey, of Mr Norrell complimented by all the Ministers and politely attended to by the Prince Regent. It was perhaps a little ironic that he of all people should take comfort from Norrell’s success, but at that moment nothing in the world seemed so solid, so unassailable. The fairy woman was mistaken.
For the next few minutes they were occupied in going down the dance. When they had resumed their places in the set, she said, “You are certainly very bold to come here, Magician.”
“Why? What ought I to fear, madam?”
She laughed. “How many English magicians do you suppose have left their bones lying in this brugh? Beneath these stars?”
“I have not the least idea.”
“Forty-seven.”
Strange began to feel a little less comfortable.
“Not counting Peter Porkiss, but he was no magician. He was only a cowan.”5
“Indeed.”
“Do not pretend that you know what I mean,” she said sharply. “When it is as plain as Pandemonium that you do not.”
Strange was once again perplexed what to reply. She seemed so bent upon being displeased. But then again, he thought, what was so unusual about it? In Bath and London and all the cities of Europe ladies pretended to scold the men they meant to attract. For all he knew she was just the same. He decided to treat her severe manner as a kind of flirtation and see if that soothed her. So he laughed lightly and said, “It seems you know a great deal of what has passed in this brugh, madam.” It gave him a little thrill of excitement to say the word, a word so ancient and romantic.
She shrugged. “I have been a visitor here for four thousand years.”6
“I should be very glad to talk you about it whenever you are at liberty.”
“Say rather when you are next at liberty! Then I shall have no objection to answering any of your questions.”
“You are very kind.”
“Not at all. A hundred years from tonight then?”
“I … I beg your pardon?”
But she seemed to feel she had talked enough and he could get nothing more from her but the most commonplace remarks upon the ball and their fellow-dancers.
The dance ended; they parted. It had been the oddest and most unsettling conversation of Strange’s life. Why in the world should she think that magic had not yet been restored to England? And what was all that nonsense about a hundred years? He consoled himself with the thought that a woman who passed much of her life in an echoing mansion in a deep, dark wood was unlikely to be very well informed upon events in the wider worlds.
He rejoined the watchers by the wall. The course of the next dance brought a particularly lovely woman close to him. He was struck by the contrast between the beauty of her face and the deep, settled unhappiness of her expression. As she raised her hand to join hands with her partner, he saw that her little finger was missing.
“Curious!” he thought and touched the pocket of his coat where the box of silver and porcelain lay. “Perhaps …” But he could not conceive any sequence of events which would result in a magician giving the fairy a finger belonging to someone in the fairy’s own household. It made no sense. “Perhaps the two things are not connected at all,” he thought.
But the woman’s hand was so small and white. He was sure that the finger in his pocket would fit it perfectly. He was full of curiosity and determined to go and speak to her and ask her how she had lost her finger.
The dance had ended. She was speaking to another lady, who had her back to him.
“I beg your pardon …” he began.
Instantly the other lady turned. It was Arabella.
She was dressed in a white gown with an overdress of pale blue net and diamonds. It glittered like frost and snow, and was far prettier than any gown she had possessed when she lived in England. In her hair were sprays of some tiny, star-like blossoms and there was a black velvet ribbon tied around her throat.
She gazed at him with an odd expression – an expression in which surprize was mixed with wariness, delight with disbelief. “Jonathan! Look, my love!” she said to her companion. “It is Jonathan!”
“Arabella …” he began. He did not know what he meant to say. He held out his hands to her; but she did not take them. Without appearing to know what she did, she withdrew slightly and joined her hands with those of the unknown woman, as if this was now the person to whom she went for comfort and support.
The unknown woman looked at Strange in obedience to Arabella’s request. “He looks as most men do,” she remarked, coldly. And then, as if she felt the meeting were now concluded, “Come,” she said. She tried to lead Arabella away.
“Oh, but wait!” said Arabella softly. “I think that he must have come to help us! Do not you think he might have?”
“Perhaps,” said the unknown woman in a doubtful tone. She stared at Strange again. “No. I do not think so. I believe he came for another reason entirely.”
“I know that you have warned me against false hopes,” said Arabella, “and I have tried to do as you advise. But he is here! I was sure he would not forget me so soon.”
“Forget you!” exclaimed Strange. “No, indeed! Arabella, I …”
“Did you come here to help us?” asked the unknown woman, suddenly addressing Strange directly.
“What?” said Strange. “No, I … You must understood that until now I did not know … Which is to say, I do not quite understand …”
The unknown woman made a small sound of exasperation. “Did you or did you not come here to help us? It is a simple enough question I should think.”
“No,” said Strange. “Arabella, speak to me, I beg you. Tell me what has …”
“There? You see?” said the unknown woman to Arabella. “Now let you and me find a corner where we can be peaceful together. I believe I saw an unoccupied bench near the door.”
But Arabella would not be persuaded to walk away just yet. She continued to gaze at Strange in the same odd way; it was as if she were looking at a picture of him, rather than the flesh-and-blood man. She said, “I know you do not put a great deal of faith in what men can do, but …”
“I put no faith in them at all,” interrupted the unknown woman. “I know what it is to waste years and years upon vain hopes of help from this person or that. No hope at all is better than ceaseless disappointment!”
Strange’s patience was gone. “You will forgive my interrupting you, madam,” he said to the unknown woman, “though I observe you have done nothing but interrupt since I joined you! I fear I must insist on a minute’s private conversation with my wife! Perhaps if you will have the goodness to retire a pace or two …”
But neither she nor Arabella was attending to him. They were directing their gaze a little to his right. The gentleman with thistle-down hair was just at his shoulder.
Stephen pushed through the crowd of dancers. His conversation with the gentleman had been most unnerving. Something had been decided upon, but the more Stephen thought about it, the more he realized he had not the least idea what it was. “It is still not too late,” he muttered as forced his way through. “It is not still too late.” Part of him – the cold, uncaring, enchanted half – wondered what he meant by that. Not too late to save himself? To save Lady Pole and Mrs Strange? The magician?
Never had the lines of dancers seemed so long, so like a fence barring his way. On the other side of the room he thought he saw a head of gleaming, thistle-down hair. “Sir!” he cried. “Wait! I must speak with you again!”
&n
The magician called out his wife’s name. He hastened towards a dark door as if he intended to dash off into the house in search of her.
“Wait!” cried the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. The magician turned and Stephen saw that his face was black with anger, that his mouth was working as if a spell were about to explode out of him.
The gentleman with the thistle-down hair raised his hands. The great hall was filled with a flock of birds. In the blink of an eye they were there; in the blink of an eye they were gone.
The birds had struck Stephen with their wings. They had knocked the breath out of him. When he recovered enough to lift his head, he saw that the gentleman with the thistle-down hair had raised his hands a second time.
The great hall was full of spinning leaves. Winter-dry and brown they were, turning in a wind that had come out of nowhere. In the blink of an eye they were there; in the blink of an eye they were gone.
The magician was staring wildly. He did not seem to know what to do in the face of such overwhelming magic. “He is lost,” thought Stephen.
The gentleman with the thistle-down hair raised his hands a third time. The great hall was full of rain – not a rain of water, a rain of blood. In the blink of an eye it was there; in the blink of an eye it was gone.
The magic ended. In that instant the magician disappeared and the gentleman with the thistle-down hair dropped to the floor, like a man in a swoon.
“Where is the magician, sir?” cried Stephen, rushing to kneel beside him. “What has happened?”
“I have sent him back to Altinum’s sea colony,”7 he said in a hoarse whisper. He tried to smile, but seemed quite unable. “I have done it, Stephen! I have done what you advised! It has taken all my strength. My old alliances have been stretched to their utmost limit. But I have changed the world! Oh! I have dealt him such a blow! Darkness, misery and solitude! He will not hurt us any more!” He attempted a triumphant laugh, but it turned into a fit of coughing and retching. When it was done he took Stephen’s hand. “Do not be concerned about me, Stephen. I am a little tired, that is all. You are a person of remarkable vision and penetration. Henceforth you and I are no longer friends: we are brothers! You have helped me defeat my enemy and in return I shall find your name. I shall make you King!” His voice faded to nothing.