“Yes, grandfather.”
“But I do not understand. Lost-hope was a great mansion. This is …” The person who had once been Stephen Black paused. “I do not have a word for what this is.”
“This is a brugh, grandfather! This is the world beneath the hill. Lost-hope is changing! The old King is dead. The new King approaches! And at his approach the world sheds its sorrow. The sins of the old King dissolve like morning mist! The world assumes the character of the new. His virtues fill up the wood and the wold!”
“The new King?” The person who had once been Stephen Black looked down at his own hands. In one was the sceptre and in the other the orb.
The fairy smiled at him, as if wondering why he should be surprized. “The changes you wrought here far surpass any thing you did in England.”
They passed through the opening into a great hall. The new King sat down upon an ancient throne. A crowd of people came and gathered around him. Some faces he knew, others were unfamiliar to him, but he suspected that this was because he had never seen them as they truly were before. For a long time he was silent.
“This house,” he told them at last, “is disordered and dirty. Its inhabitants have idled away their days in pointless pleasures and in celebrations of past cruelties – things that ought not to be remembered, let alone celebrated. I have often observed it and often regretted it. All these faults, I shall in time set right.”1
The moment the spell took effect a great wind blew through Hurtfew. Doors banged in the Darkness; black curtains billowed out in black rooms; black papers were swept from black tables and made to dance. A bell – taken from the original Abbey long ago and since forgotten – rang frantically in a little turret above the stables.
In the library, visions appeared in mirrors and clock-faces. The wind blew the curtains apart and visions appeared in the windows too. They followed thick and fast upon one another, almost too rapid to comprehend. Mr Norrell saw some that seemed familiar: the shattered branch of holly in his own library at Hanover-square; a raven flying in front of St Paul’s Cathedral so that for a moment it was the living embodiment of the Raven-in-Flight; the great black bed in the inn at Wansford. But others were entirely strange to him: a hawthorn tree; a man crucified upon a thicket; a crude wall of stones in a narrow valley; an unstoppered bottle floating on a wave.
Then all the visions disappeared, except for one. It filled one of the tall library windows, but what it was a vision of, Mr Norrell was at a loss to know. It resembled a large, perfectly round, black stone of almost impossible brilliance and glossiness, set into a thin ring of rough stone and mounted upon what appeared to be a black hillside. Mr Norrell thought of it as a hillside because it bore some resemblance to a moor where the heather is all burnt and charred – except that this hillside was not the black of burnt things, it was the black of wet silk or well-shone leather. Suddenly the stone did something – it moved or spun. The movement was almost too quick to grasp but Mr Norrell was left with the sickening impression that it had blinked.
The wind died away. The bell above the stable ceased to ring.
Mr Norrell breathed a long sigh of relief that it was over. Strange was standing with his arms crossed, deep in thought, staring at the floor.
“What did you make of that?” asked Mr Norrell. “The last was by far the worst. I thought for a moment it was an eye.”
“It was an eye,” said Strange.
“But what could it belong to? Some horror or monster, I suppose! Most unsettling!”
“It was monstrous,” agreed Strange. “Though not quite in the way you imagine. It was a raven’s eye.”
“A raven’s eye! But it filled the whole window!”
“Yes. Either the raven was immensely large or …”
“Or?” quavered Mr Norrell.
Strange gave a short, uncheerful laugh. “Or we were ridiculously small! Pleasant, is it not, to see oneself as others see one? I said I wanted John Uskglass to look at me and I think, for a moment he did. Or at least one of his lieutenants did. And in that moment you and I were smaller than a raven’s eye and presumably as insignificant. Speaking of John Uskglass, I do not suppose that we know where he is?”
Mr Norrell sat down at the silver dish and began to work. After five minutes or so of patient labour, he said, “Mr Strange! There is no sign of John Uskglass – nothing at all. But I have looked for Lady Pole and Mrs Strange. Lady Pole is in Yorkshire and Mrs Strange is in Italy. There is no shadow of their presence in Faerie. Both are completely disenchanted!”
There was a silence. Strange turned away abruptly.
“It is more than a little odd,” continued Mr Norrell in a tone of wonder. “We have done everything we set out to do, but how we did it, I do not pretend to understand. I can only suppose that John Uskglass simply saw what was amiss and stretched out his hand to put it right! Unfortunately, his obligingness did not extend to freeing us from the Darkness. That remains.”
Mr Norrell paused. This then was his destiny! – a destiny full of fear, horror and desolation! He sat patiently for a few moments in expectation of falling prey to some or all of these terrible emotions, but was forced to conclude that he felt none of them. Indeed, what seemed remarkable to him now were the long years he had spent in London, away from his library, at the beck and call of the Ministers and the Admirals. He wondered how he had borne it.
“I am glad I did not recognize the raven’s eye for what it was,” he said cheerfully, “or I believe I would have been a good deal frightened!”
“Indeed, sir,” said Strange hoarsely. “You were fortunate there! And I believe I am cured of wanting to be looked at! Henceforth John Uskglass is welcome to ignore me for as long as he pleases.”
“Oh, indeed!” agreed Mr Norrell. “You know, Mr Strange, you really should try to rid yourself of the habit of wishing for things. It is a dangerous thing in a magician!” He began a long and not particularly interesting story about a fourteenth-century magician in Lancashire who had often made idle wishes and had caused no end of inconvenience in the village where he lived, accidentally turning the cows into clouds and the cooking pots into ships, and causing the villagers to speak in colours rather than words – and other such signs of magical chaos.
At first Strange barely answered him and such replies as he made were random and illogical. But gradually he appeared to listen with more attention, and he spoke in his usual manner.
Mr Norrell had many talents, but penetration into the hearts of men and women was not one of them. Strange did not speak of the restoration of his wife, so Mr Norrell imagined that it could not have affected him very deeply.
69
Strangites and Norrellites
February–spring 1817
Childermass rode and Vinculus walked at his side. All around them was spread the wide expanse of snow-covered moor, appearing, with all its various hummocks and hills, like a vast feather mattress. Something of the sort may have occurred to Vinculus because he was describing in great detail the soft, pillowy bed he intended to sleep in that night and the very large dinner he intended to eat before he retired there. There was no doubt that he expected Childermass to pay for these luxuries, and it would not have been particularly surprizing if Childermass had had a word or two to say about them, but Childermass said nothing. His mind was wholly taken up with the problem of whether or not he ought to shew Vinculus to Strange and Norrell. Certainly there was no one in England better qualified to examine Vinculus; but, on the other hand, Childermass could not quite predict how the magicians would act when faced with a man who was also a book. Childermass scratched his cheek. There was a faint, well-healed scar upon it – the merest silvery line upon his brown face.
Vinculus had stopped talking and was standing in the road. His blanket had fallen from him and he was eagerly pushing back the sleeves of his coat.
“What is it?” asked Childermass. “What is the matter?”
“I have changed!” said Vinculus. “Loo
k!” He took off his coat and opened his shirt. “The words are different! On my arms! On my chest! Everywhere! This is not what I said before!” Despite the cold, he began to undress. Then, when he was quite naked again, he celebrated his transformation by dancing about gleefully like a blue-skinned devil.
Childermass dismounted from his horse with feelings of panic and desperation. He had succeeded in preserving John Uskglass’s book from death and destruction; and then, just when it seemed secure, the book itself had defeated him by changing.
“We must get to an inn as soon as we can!” he declared. “We must get paper and ink! We must make a record of exactly what was written upon you before. You must search every corner of your memory!”
Vinculus stared at him as if he thought he must have taken leave of his senses. “Why?” he asked.
“Because it is John Uskglass’s magic! John Uskglass’s thoughts! The only record any one ever had of them. We must preserve every scrap we can!”
Vinculus remained unenlightened. “Why?” he asked again. “John Uskglass did not think it worth preserving.”
“But why should you change all of a sudden? There is no rhyme or reason in it!”
“There is every sort of reason,” said Vinculus. “I was a Prophecy before; but the things that I foretold have come to pass. So it is just as well I have changed – or I would have become a History! A dry-as-dust History!”
“So what are you now?”
Vinculus shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I am a Receipt-Book! Perhaps I am a Novel! Perhaps I am a Collection of Sermons!” He was excessively diverted by these thoughts and cackled to himself and capered about some more.
“I hope you are what you have always been – a Book of Magic. But what are you saying? Vinculus, do you mean to tell me that you never learnt these letters?”
“I am a Book,” said Vinculus, stopping in mid-caper. “I am the Book. It is the task of the Book to bear the words. Which I do. It is the task of the Reader to know what they say.”
“But the last Reader is dead!”
Vinculus shrugged as if that were none of his concern.
“You must know something!” cried Childermass, growing almost wild with exasperation. He seized Vinculus’s arm. “What about this? This symbol like a horned circle with a line through it. It occurs over and over again. What does it mean?”
Vinculus pulled his arm away again. “It means last Tuesday,” he said. “It means three pigs, one of ’em wearing a straw hat! It means Sally went a-dancing in the moon’s shadow and lost a little rosy purse!” He grinned and wagged a finger at Childermass. “I know what you are doing! You hope to be the next Reader!”
“Perhaps,” said Childermass. “Though I cannot, for the life of me, tell how I shall begin. Yet I cannot see that any one else has a better claim to be the next Reader. But whatever else happens, I shall not let you out of my sight again. Henceforth, Vinculus, you and I shall be each other’s shadow.”
Vinculus’s mood soured upon the instant. Gloomily he dressed himself again.
Spring returned to England. Birds followed ploughs. Stones were warmed by the sun. Rains and winds grew softer, and were fragranced with the scents of earth and growing things. Woods were tinged with a colour so soft, so subtle that it could scarcely be said to be a colour at all. It was more the idea of a colour – as if the trees were dreaming green dreams or thinking green thoughts.
Spring returned to England, but Strange and Norrell did not. The Pillar of Darkness covered Hurtfew Abbey and Norrell did not come out of it. People speculated upon the probability of Strange having killed Norrell, or Norrell having killed Strange, the different degrees to which each deserved it, and whether or not someone ought to go and find out.
But before any one could reach a conclusion concerning these interesting questions the Darkness disappeared – taking Hurtfew Abbey with it. House, park, bridge and part of the river were all gone. Roads that used to lead to Hurtfew now led back upon themselves or to dull corners of fields and copses that no one wished to visit. The house in Hanover-square and both Strange’s houses – the one in Soho-square and his home in Clun1 – suffered the same queer fate. In London the only creature in the world who could still find the house in Soho-square was Jeremy Johns’ cat, Bullfinch. Indeed, Bullfinch did not appear to be aware that the house was in any way changed and he continued to go there whenever he wished, slipping between number 30 and number 32, and everyone who saw him do it agreed that it was the oddest sight in the world.2
Lord Liverpool and the other Ministers said a great deal publicly about their regret at Strange and Norrell’s disappearance, but privately they were glad to be relieved of such a peculiar problem. Neither Strange nor Norrell had proved as respectable as they once had seemed. Both had indulged in, if not Black Magic, then certainly magic of a darker hue than seemed desirable or legitimate. Instead, the Ministers turned their attention to the great number of new magicians who had suddenly sprung up. These magicians had performed scarcely any magic and were largely uneducated; nevertheless they promised to be every bit as quarrelsome as Strange and Norrell themselves, and some means of regulating them would quickly have to be found. Suddenly Mr Norrell’s plans for reviving the Court of Cinque Dragownes (which had seemed so irrelevant before) were found to be of the utmost pertinence.3
In the second week of March a paragraph appeared in the York Chronicle, addressed to former members of the Learned Society of York Magicians, and also to any one who might wish to become a member of that society. It invited them to come to the Old Starre Inn on the following Wednesday (this being the day upon which the society had traditionally met).
This curious announcement offended at least as many of the former members of the York society as it pleased. Placed as it was in a newspaper, it could be read by everyone who possessed a penny. Furthermore the author (who was not named) appeared to have taken it upon himself to invite people to join the York society – something which he clearly had no right to do, whoever he was.
When the interesting evening came the former members arrived at the Old Starre to find fifty or so magicians (or would-be magicians) assembled in the Long Room. The most comfortable seats were all taken and the former members (who included Mr Segundus, Mr Honeyfoot and Dr Foxcastle) were obliged to take their places upon a little dais some distance from the fireplaces. The situation had this advantage however: they had an excellent view of the new magicians.
It was not a sight calculated to bring joy to the bosoms of the former members. The assembly was made up of the most miscellaneous people. (“With scarcely,” observed Dr Foxcastle, “a gentleman among them.”) There were two farmers and several shopkeepers. There was a pale-faced young man with light-coloured hair and an excitable manner, who was telling his neighbours that he was quite certain the announcement had been placed in the newspaper by Jonathan Strange himself and Strange would doubtless arrive at any moment to teach them all magic! There was also a clergyman – which was rather more promising. He was a clean-shaven, sober-looking person of fifty or sixty in black clothes. He was accompanied by a dog, as grey-haired and respectable as himself, and a young, striking-looking, female person in a red velvet gown. This seemed rather less respectable. She had dark hair and a fierce expression.
“Mr Taylor,” said Dr Foxcastle to an acolyte of his, “perhaps you would be so good as to go and give that gentleman a hint that we do not bring members of our family to these meetings.”
Mr Taylor scurried away.
From where they sat the former members of the York Society observed that the clean-shaven clergyman was more flinty than his quiet face suggested and that he returned Mr Taylor quite a sharp answer.
Mr Taylor came back with the following message. “Mr Redruth begs the society’s pardon but he is not a magician at all. He has a great deal of interest in magic, but no skill. It is his daughter who is the magician. He has one son and three daughters and he says they are all magicians. The others did not wish to a
ttend the meeting. He says that they have no wish to consort with other magicians, preferring to pursue their studies privately at home without distractions.”
There was a pause while the former members tried, and failed, to make any sense of this.
“Perhaps his dog is a magician too,” said Dr Foxcastle and the former members of the society laughed.
It soon became clear that the newcomers fell into two distinct parties. Miss Redruth, the young lady in the red velvet gown, was one of the first to speak. Her voice was low and rather hurried. She was not used to speaking in public and not all of the magicians caught her words, but her delivery was very passionate. The burden of what she had to say seemed to be that Jonathan Strange was everything! Gilbert Norrell nothing! Strange would soon be vindicated and Norrell universally reviled! Magic would be freed from the shackles that Gilbert Norrell had placed upon it! These observations, together with various references to Strange’s lost masterpiece, The History and Practice of English Magic, drew angry responses from several other magicians to the effect that Strange’s book was full of wicked magic and Strange himself was a murderer. He had certainly murdered his wife4 and had probably murdered Norrell too.
The discussion was growing yet more heated when it was interrupted by the arrival of two men. Neither looked in the least respectable. Both had long, ragged hair and wore ancient coats. However, while one seemed to be nothing more or less than a vagabond, the other was considerably neater in his appearance and had about him an air of business – almost, one might say, of authority.
The vagabonding fellow did not even trouble to look at the York society; he simply sat down upon the floor and demanded gin and hot water. The other strode to the centre of the room and regarded them all with a wry smile. He bowed in the direction of Miss Redruth and addressed the magicians with the following words.
“Gentlemen! Madam! Some of you may remember me. I was with you ten years ago when Mr Norrell did the magic in York Cathedral. My name is John Childermass. I was, until last month, the servant of Gilbert Norrell. And this,” he indicated the man sitting on the floor, “is Vinculus, a some-time street sorcerer of London.”
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 92
