Some years ago his friends in Government had got him the position of Secretary-in-Ordinary to the Office of Supplication, for which he received a special hat, a small piece of ivory and seven hundred pounds a year. There were no duties attached to the place because no one could remember what the Office of Supplication was supposed to do or what the small piece of ivory was for. But then Sir Walter’s friends went out and new Ministers came in, declaring that they were going to abolish sinecures, and among the many offices and places which they pruned from the tree of Government was the Office of Supplication.
By the spring of 1807 it seemed as if Sir Walter’s political career must be pretty much at an end (the last election had cost him almost two thousand pounds). His friends were almost frantic. One of those friends, Lady Winsell, went to Bath where, at a concert of Italian music, she made the acquaintance of some people called Wintertowne, a widow and her daughter. A week later Lady Winsell wrote to Sir Walter: “It is exactly what I have always wished for you. Her mother is all for a great marriage and will make no difficulties – or at least if she does then I rely upon you to charm them away. As for the money! I tell you, my dear friend, when they named the sum that is to be hers, tears sprang into my eyes! What would you say to one thousand a year? I will say nothing of the young person herself – when you have seen her you shall praise her to me much more ably than ever I could to you.”
At about three o’clock upon the same day that Mr Drawlight attended the recital by the Italian lady, Lucas, Mr Norrell’s footman, knocked upon the door of a house in Brunswick-square where Mr Norrell had been summoned to meet Sir Walter. Mr Norrell was admitted to the house and was shown to a very fine room upon the first floor.
The walls were hung with a series of gigantic paintings in gilded frames of great complexity, all depicting the city of Venice, but the day was overcast, a cold stormy rain had set in, and Venice – that city built of equal parts of sunlit marble and sunlit sea – was drowned in a London gloom. Its aquamarine-blues and cloud-whites and glints of gold were dulled to the greys and greens of drowned things. From time to time the wind flung a little sharp rain against the window (a melancholy sound) and in the grey light the well-polished surfaces of tulipwood chiffoniers and walnut writing-tables had all become black mirrors, darkly reflecting one another. For all its splendour, the room was peculiarly comfortless; there were no candles to light the gloom and no fire to take off the chill. It was as if the housekeeping was under the direction of someone with excellent eyesight who never felt the cold.
Sir Walter Pole rose to receive Mr Norrell and begged the honour of presenting Mrs Wintertowne and her daughter, Miss Wintertowne. Though Sir Walter spoke of two ladies, Mr Norrell could perceive only one, a lady of mature years, great dignity and magisterial aspect. This puzzled Mr Norrell. He thought Sir Walter must be mistaken, and yet it would be rude to contradict Sir Walter so early in the interview. In a state of some confusion, Mr Norrell bowed to the magisterial lady.
“I am very glad to meet you, sir,” said Sir Walter. “I have heard a great deal about you. It seems to me that London talks of very little else but the extraordinary Mr Norrell,” and, turning to the magisterial lady, Sir Walter said, “Mr Norrell is a magician, ma’am, a person of great reputation in his native county of Yorkshire.”
The magisterial lady stared at Mr Norrell.
“You are not at all what I expected, Mr Norrell,” remarked Sir Walter. “I had been told you were a practical magician – I hope you are not offended, sir – it is merely what I was told, and I must say that it is a relief to me to see that you are nothing of the sort. London is plagued with a great number of mock-sorcerers who trick the people out of their money by promising them all sorts of unlikely things. I wonder, have you seen Vinculus, who has a little booth outside St Christopher Le Stocks? He is the worst of them. You are a theoretical magician, I imagine?” Sir Walter smiled encouragingly. “But they tell me that you have something to ask me, sir.”
Mr Norrell begged Sir Walter’s pardon but said that he was indeed a practical magician; Sir Walter looked surprized. Mr Norrell hoped very earnestly that he would not by this admission lose Sir Walter’s good opinion.
“No, no. By no means,” murmured Sir Walter politely.
“The misapprehension under which you labour,” said Mr Norrell, “by which I mean, of course, the belief that all practical magicians must be charlatans – arises from the shocking idleness of English magicians in the last two hundred years. I have performed one small feat of magic – which the people in York were kind enough to say they found astounding – and yet I tell you, Sir Walter, any magician of modest talent might have done as much. This general lethargy has deprived our great nation of its best support and left us defenceless. It is this deficiency which I hope to supply. Other magicians may be able to neglect their duty, but I cannot; I am come, Sir Walter, to offer you my help in our present difficulties.”
“Our present difficulties?” said Sir Walter. “You mean the war?” He opened his small black eyes very wide. “My dear Mr Norrell! What has the war to do with magic? Or magic to do with the war? I believe I have heard what you did in York, and I hope the housewives were grateful, but I scarcely see how we can apply such magic to the war! True, the soldiers get very dirty, but then, you know,” and he began to laugh, “they have other things of think of.”
Poor Mr Norrell! He had not heard Drawlight’s story of how the fairies had washed the people’s clothes and it came as a great shock to him. He assured Sir Walter that he had never in his life washed linen – not by magic nor by any other means – and he told Sir Walter what he had really done. But, curiously, though Mr Norrell was able to work feats of the most breath-taking wonder, he was only able to describe them in his usual dry manner, so that Sir Walter was left with the impression that the spectacle of half a thousand stone figures in York Cathedral all speaking together had been rather a dull affair and that he had been fortunate in being elsewhere at the time. “Indeed?” he said. “Well, that is most interesting. But I still do not quite understand how …”
Just at that moment someone coughed, and the moment that Sir Walter heard the cough he stopped speaking as if to listen.
Mr Norrell looked round. In the furthest, most shadowy corner of the room a young woman in a white gown lay upon a sopha, with a white shawl wrapped tightly around her. She lay quite still. One hand pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Her posture, her stillness, everything about her conveyed the strongest impression of pain and ill-health.
So certain had Mr Norrell been that the corner was unoccupied, that he was almost as startled by her sudden appearance as if she had come there by someone else’s magic. As he watched she was seized by a fit of coughing that continued for some moments, and during that time Sir Walter appeared most uncomfortable. He did not look at the young woman (though he looked everywhere else in the room). He picked up a gilt ornament from a little table by his side, turned it over, looked at its underneath, put it down again. Finally he coughed – a brief clearing of the throat as though to suggest that everyone coughed – coughing was the most natural thing in the world – coughing could never, under any circumstances, be cause for alarm. The young woman upon the sopha came at last to the end of her own coughing fit, and lay quite still and quiet, though her breathing did not seem to come easily.
Mr Norrell’s gaze travelled from the young lady to the great, gloomy painting that hung above her and he tried to recollect what he had been speaking of.
“It is a marriage,” said the majestic lady.
“I beg your pardon, madam?” said Mr Norrell.
But the lady only nodded in the direction of the painting and bestowed a stately smile upon Mr Norrell.
The painting which hung above the young lady shewed, like every other picture in the room, Venice. English cities are, for the most part, built upon hills; their streets rise and fall, and it occurred to Mr Norrell that Venice, being built upon the sea, must be the flattest
, as well as the queerest, city in the world. It was the flatness which made the painting look so much like an exercise in perspective; statues, columns, domes, palaces, and cathedrals stretched away to where they met a vast and melancholy sky, while the sea that lapped at the walls of those buildings was crowded with ornately carved and gilded barges, and those strange black Venetian vessels that so much resemble the slippers of ladies in mourning.
“It depicts the symbolic marriage of Venice to the Adriatic,” said the lady (whom we must now presume to be Mrs Wintertowne), “a curious Italian ceremony. The paintings which you see in this room were all bought by the late Mr Wintertowne during his travels on the Continent; and when he and I were married they were his wedding-gift to me. The artist – an Italian – was then quite unknown in England. Later, emboldened by the patronage he received from Mr Wintertowne, he came to London.”
Her manner of speech was as stately as her person. After each sentence she paused to give Mr Norrell time to be impressed by the information it contained.
“And when my dear Emma is married,” she continued, “these paintings shall be my wedding-present to her and Sir Walter.”
Mr Norrell inquired if Miss Wintertowne and Sir Walter were to be married soon.
“In ten days’ time!” answered Mrs Wintertowne triumphantly.
Mr Norrell offered his congratulations.
“You are a magician, sir?” said Mrs Wintertowne. “I am sorry to hear it. It is a profession I have a particular dislike to.” She looked keenly at him as she said so, as though her disapproval might in itself be enough to make him renounce magic instantly and take up some other occupation.
When he did not she turned to her prospective son-in-law. “My own stepmother, Sir Walter, placed great faith in a magician. After my father’s death he was always in the house. One could enter a room one was quite sure was empty and find him in a corner half hidden by a curtain. Or asleep upon the sopha with his dirty boots on. He was the son of a leather tanner and his low origins were frankly displayed in all he did. He had long, dirty hair and a face like a dog, but he sat at our table like a gentleman. My stepmother deferred to him in all she did and for seven years he governed our lives completely.”
“And your own opinion was disregarded, ma’am?” said Sir Walter. “I am surprized at that!”
Mrs Wintertowne laughed. “I was only a child of eight or nine when it began, Sir Walter. His name was Dreamditch and he told us constantly how happy he was to be our friend, though my brother and I were equally constant in assuring him that we considered him no friend of ours. But he only smiled at us like a dog that has learned how to smile and does not know how to leave off. Do not misunderstand me, Sir Walter. My stepmother was in many ways an excellent woman. My father’s esteem for her was such that he left her six hundred a year and the care of his three children. Her only weakness was foolishly to doubt her own capabilities. My father believed that, in understanding and in knowledge of right and wrong and in many other things, women are men’s equals and I am entirely of his opinion. My stepmother should not have shrunk from the charge. When Mr Wintertowne died I did not.”
“No, indeed, ma’am,” murmured Sir Walter.
“Instead,” continued Mrs Wintertowne, “she placed all her faith in the magician, Dreamditch. He had not an ounce of magic in him and was consequently obliged to invent some. He made rules for my brother, my sister and me, which, he assured my stepmother, would keep us safe. We wore purple ribbons tied tightly round our chests. In our room six places were laid at the table, one for each of us and one for each of the spirits which Dreamditch said looked after us. He told us their names. What do you suppose they were, Sir Walter?”
“I have not the least idea in the world, ma’am.”
Mrs Wintertowne laughed. “Meadowlace, Robin Summerfly and Buttercup. My brother, Sir Walter, who resembled myself in independence of spirit, would often say in my stepmother’s hearing, ‘Damn Meadowlace! Damn Robin Summerfly! Damn Buttercup!’ and she, poor silly woman, would plead very piteously with him to stop. They did us no good those fairy spirits. My sister became ill. Often I went to her room and found Dreamditch there, stroking her pale cheeks and unresisting hand with his long yellow unclean fingernails. He was almost weeping, the fool. He would have saved her if he could. He made spells, but she died. A beautiful child, Sir Walter. For years I hated my stepmother’s magician. For years I thought him a wicked man, but in the end, Sir Walter, I knew him to be nothing but a sad and pitiful fool.”
Sir Walter turned in his chair. “Miss Wintertowne!” he said. “You spoke – but I did not hear what it was you said.”
“Emma! What is it?” cried Mrs Wintertowne.
There was a soft sigh from the sopha. Then a quiet, clear voice said, “I said that you were quite wrong, Mama.”
“Am I, my love?” Mrs Wintertowne, whose character was so forceful and whose opinions were handed down to people in the manner of Moses distributing the commandments, did not appear in the least offended when her daughter contradicted her. Indeed she seemed almost pleased about it.
“Of course,” said Miss Wintertowne, “we must have magicians. Who else can interpret England’s history to us and in particular her northern history, her black northern King? Our common historians cannot.” There was silence for a moment. “I am fond of history,” she said.
“I did not know that,” said Sir Walter.
“Ah, Sir Walter!” cried Mrs Wintertowne. “Dear Emma does not waste her energies upon novels like other young women. Her reading has been extensive; she knows more of biography and poetry than any young woman I know.”
“Yet I hope,” said Sir Walter eagerly, leaning over the back of his chair to speak to his betrothed, “that you like novels as well, and then, you know, we could read to each other. What is your opinion of Mrs Radcliffe? Of Madame d’Arblay?”
But what Miss Wintertowne thought of these distinguished ladies Sir Walter did not discover for she was seized by a second fit of coughing which obliged her to struggle – with an appearance of great effort – into a sitting position. He waited some moments for an answer, but when her coughing had subsided she lay back on the sopha as before, with looks of pain and exhaustion, and closed her eyes.
Mr Norrell wondered that no one thought to go to her assistance. There seemed to be a sort of conspiracy in the room to deny that the poor young woman was ill. No one asked if they could bring her anything. No one suggested that she go to bed, which Mr Norrell – who was often ill himself – imagined would be by far the best thing for her.
“Mr Norrell,” said Sir Walter, “I cannot claim to understand what this help is that you offer us …”
“Oh! As to particulars,” Mr Norrell said, “I know as little of warfare as the generals and the admirals do of magic, and yet …”
“… but whatever it is,” continued Sir Walter, “I am sorry to say that it will not do. Magic is not respectable, sir. It is not,” Sir Walter searched for a word, “serious. The Government cannot meddle with such things. Even this innocent little chat that you and I have had today, is likely to cause us a little embarrassment when people get to hear of it. Frankly, Mr Norrell, had I understood better what you were intending to propose today, I would not have agreed to meet you.”
Sir Walter’s manner as he said all this was far from unkind, but, oh, poor Mr Norrell! To be told that magic was not serious was a very heavy blow. To find himself classed with the Dreamditches and the Vinculuses of this world was a crushing one. In vain he protested that he had thought long and hard about how to make magic respected once more; in vain he offered to shew Sir Walter a long list of recommendations concerning the regulation of magic in England. Sir Walter did not wish to see them. He shook his head and smiled, but all he said was: “I am afraid, Mr Norrell, that I can do nothing for you.”
When Mr Drawlight arrived at Hanover-square that evening he was obliged to listen to Mr Norrell lamenting the failure of all his hopes of succeeding with Si
r Walter Pole.
“Well, sir, what did I tell you?” cried Drawlight. “But, oh! Poor Mr Norrell! How unkind they were to you! I am very sorry for it. But I am not in the least surprized! I have always heard that those Wintertownes were stuffed full of pride!”
But there was, I regret to say, a little duplicity in Mr Drawlight’s nature and it must be said that he was not quite as sorry as he professed to be. This display of independence had provoked him and he was determined to punish Mr Norrell for it. For the next week Mr Norrell and Mr Drawlight attended only the quietest dinners and, without quite arranging matters so that Mr Norrell would find himself the guest of Mr Drawlight’s shoemaker or the old lady who dusts the monuments in Westminster Abbey, Mr Drawlight took care that their hosts were people of as little consequence, influence, or fashion, as possible. In this way Drawlight hoped to create in Mr Norrell the impression that not only the Poles and Wintertownes slighted him, but the whole world, so that Mr Norrell might be brought to understand who was his true friend, and might become a little more accommodating when it came to performing those small tricks of magic that Drawlight had been promising for many months now.
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 9
