Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (112 page)

The interior of the coffee-house was a welcome refuge from the chill, damp, January air. It was warm and smoky - a little gloomy perhaps, but the gloom was a comfortable one. The brown- painted walls and ceiling were darkened with age and tobacco smoke, but they were also made cheerful by the glitter of wine bottles, the gleam of pewter tankards, and the sparkle of highly varnished pottery and gold-framed mirrors. A damp, indolent spaniel lay on the tiles in front of stove. It shook its head and sneezed when the tip of Dr Greysteel's cane accidentally brushed its ear.

"I ought to warn you," said Dr Greysteel after the waiter had brought coffee and brandy, "that there are all sorts of rumours circulating in the town concerning Mr Strange. People say he has summoned witches and made a servant for himself out of fire. You will know not to be taken in by such nonsense, but it is as well to be prepared. You will find him sadly changed. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise. But he is still the same at heart. All his excellent qualities, all his merits are just what they always were. Of that I have no doubt."

"Indeed? But tell me, is it true he has eaten his shoes? Is it true that he has turned several people into glass and then thrown stones at them?"

"Eaten his shoes?" exclaimed Dr Greysteel. "Who told you that?"

"Oh! Several people - Mrs Kendal-Blair, Lord Pope, Sir Galahad Denehey, the Miss Underhills . . ." The little man rattled off a long list of names of English, Irish and Scottish ladies and gentlemen who were currently residing in Venice and the sur- rounding towns.

Dr Greysteel was astounded. Why would Strange's friends wish to consult with these people in preference to himself? "But did you not hear what I just said? This is exactly the sort of foolish nonsense I am talking about!"

The little man laughed pleasantly. "Patience! Patience, my dear Doctor! My brain is not so quick as yours. While you have been sharpening yours up with anatomy and chemistry, mine has languished in idleness." He rattled on a while about how he had never applied himself to any regular course of study and how his teachers had despaired of him and how his talents did not lie in that direction at all.

But Dr Greysteel no longer troubled to listen to him. He was thinking. It occurred to him that a while ago the little man had begged to introduce himself, yet somehow he had neglected actually to do it. Dr Greysteel was about to ask him his name when the little man asked a question that swept everything else from his mind.

"You have a daughter, do you not?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The little man, apparently thinking Dr Greysteel was deaf, repeated the question a little louder.

"Yes, I have, but . . ." said Dr Greysteel.

"And they say that you have sent her out of the city?"

"They! Who are they? What has my daughter to do with any thing?"

"Oh! Only that they say she went immediately after the magician went mad. It seems to shew that you were fearful of some harm coming to her!"

"I suppose you got this from Mrs Kendal-Blair and so forth," said Dr Greysteel. "They are nothing but a pack of fools."

"Oh, I dare say! But
did
you send your daughter away?"

Dr Greysteel said nothing.

The little man put his head first on one side and then on the other. He smiled the smile of someone who knows a secret and is preparing to astound the world with it. "You know, of course," he said, "that Strange murdered his wife?"

"What?" Dr Greysteel was silent a moment. A kind of laugh burst out of him. "I do not believe it!"

"Oh! But you must believe it," said the little man, leaning forward. His eyes glittered with excitement. "It is what everybody knows! The lady's own brother - a most respectable man - a clergyman - a Mr Woodhope - was there when the lady died and saw with his own eyes."

"What did he see?"

"All sorts of suspicious circumstances. The lady was bewitched. She was entirely enchanted and scarcely knew what she did from morning to night. And no one could explain it. It was all her husband's doing. Of course he will try to use his magic to evade punishment, but Mr Norrell, who is
evoured
, quite
evoured
with pity for the poor lady, will thwart him. Mr Norrell is determined that Strange shall be brought to justice for his crimes."

Dr Greysteel shook his head. "Nothing you say shall make me believe this slander. Strange is an honourable man!"

"Oh, quite! And yet the practice of magic has destroyed stronger minds than his. Magic in the wrong hands can lead to the annihilation of every good quality, the magnification of every bad one. He defied his master - the most patient, wise, noble, good . . ."

The little man, trailing adjectives, seemed no longer to remem- ber what he meant to say; he was distracted by Dr Greysteel's penetrating observation of him.

Dr Greysteel sniffed. "It is a curious thing," he said slowly. "You say that you are sent by Mr Strange's friends, yet you have neglected to tell me who these friends are. It is certainly a very particular sort of friend that voices it everywhere that a man is a murderer."

The little man said nothing.

"Was it Sir Walter Pole, perhaps?"

"No," said the little man in a considering tone, "not Sir Walter."

"Mr Strange's pupils, then? I have forgot their names."

"Everybody always does. They are the most unmemorable men in the world."

"Was it them?"

"No."

"Mr Norrell?"

The little man was silent.

"What is your name?" asked Dr Greysteel.

The little man tipped his head one way and then another. But finding no way of avoiding such a direct question, he replied, "Drawlight."

"Oh, ho, ho! Here's a pretty accuser! Yes, indeed, your word will carry a great deal of weight against an honest man, against the Duke of Wellington's own magician! Christopher Drawlight! Famed throughout England as a liar, a thief and a scoundrel!"

Drawlight blushed and blinked at the doctor resentfully. "It suits you to say so!" he hissed. "Strange is a rich man and you intended to marry your daughter to him! Where is the honour in that, my dear Doctor? Where is the honour in that?"

Dr Greysteel made a sound of mixed exasperation and anger. He rose from his seat. "I shall visit every English family in the Veneto. I shall warn them not to speak to you! I am going now. I wish you no good morning! I take no leave of you!" And so saying, he flung some coins upon the table and left.

The last part of this exchange had been loud and angry. The waiters and coffee-house people looked curiously at Drawlight as he sat alone. He waited until there seemed little chance of meeting the doctor in the street and then he too left the coffee-house. As he passed along the streets, the water in the canals stirred in the oddest way. Waves appeared and followed him, occasionally making little darts and forays at his feet, slopping over the brim of the canal. But he observed none of this.

Dr Greysteel was as good as his word. He paid visits to all the British families in the city and warned them not speak to Draw- light. Drawlight did not care. He turned his attention to the servants, waiters and
gondolieri
. He knew from experience that this class of person often knew a great deal more than the masters they served; and if they did not, why!, he was able to rectify that situation by telling them something himself. Soon a great many people knew that Strange had murdered his wife; that he had tried to marry Miss Greysteel by force in the Cathedral of Saint Mark and had only been prevented by the arrival of a troop of Austrian soldiers; and that he had agreed with Lord Byron that they should hold their future wives and mistresses in common. Drawlight told any lie about Strange that occurred to him, but his powers of invention were not great and he was glad to seize upon any little half-rumour, any half-formed thought in the minds of his infor- mers.

A
gondoliero
introduced him to a draper's wife, Marianna Segati - Byron's mistress. Through an interpreter, Drawlight paid her a world of compliments and told her scandalous secrets about great ladies in London, who, he assured her, were nowhere near as pretty as herself. She told him that, according to Lord Byron, Strange kept to his room, drinkingwine andbrandy, anddoingmagic spells.None of this was very interesting, but she did tell Drawlight the little she knew about the magician in Lord Byron's poem; how he consorted with wicked spirits and defied the gods and all humankind. Draw- light conscientiously added these fictions to his edifice of lies.

But of all the inhabitants of Venice the one Drawlight desired most as a confidant was Frank. Dr Greysteel's insults had rankled with him and he had soon determined that the best revenge would be to make a traitor of his manservant. So he sent Frank a letter inviting him to a little wine-shop in San Polo. Somewhat to his surprize, Frank agreed to come.

At the appointed hour Frank arrived. Drawlight ordered a jug of rough red wine and poured them both a tumblerful.

"Frank?" he began in a soft, wistful sort of voice. "I spoke to your master the other day - as I dare say you know. He seems a very stern sort of old fellow - not at all kind. I hope you are happy in your situation, Frank? I only mention it because a dear friend of mine, whose name is Lascelles, was saying only the other day how hard it is to find good servants in London and if only someone would help him to a good manservant he believed he would pay almost any money."

"Oh!" said Frank.

"Do you think you might like to live in London, Frank?"

Frank drew circles on the table with some spilt wine in a considering sort of way. "I might," he said.

"Because," continued Drawlight, eagerly. "if you were able to do me one or two little services, then I would be able to tell my friend of your helpfulness and I am sure he would say immediately that you were the man for him!"

"What sort of services?" asked Frank.

"Oh! Well, the first is the easiest thing in the world! Indeed the moment I tell you what it is, you will be eager to do it - even if there were no reward at all. You see, Frank, I fear something quite horrible will soon happen to your master and his daughter. The magician means them a world of harm. I tried to warn your master, but he is so stubborn he would not listen to me. I can scarcely sleep for thinking of it. I curse my stupidity that I could not explain myself better. But they trust you, Frank. You could drop a few hints - not to your master, but to his sister and daughter - about Strange's wickedness, and put them on their guard." Then Drawlight explained about the murder of Arabella Strange and the pact with Byron to hold their women in common.

Frank nodded warily.

"We need to be on our guard against the magician," said Drawlight. "The others are all taken in by his lies and deceit - your master in particular. So it is vital that you and I gather up all the intelligence we can so that we can reveal his wicked plans to the world. Now, tell me Frank, is there any thing you have observed, any word the magician let fall accidentally, any thing at all that has excited your suspicions?"

"Well, now that you mention it," said Frank, scratching his head, "There is one thing."

"Really?"

"I have not told any one else about this. Not even my master."

"Excellent!" smiled Drawlight.

"Only I cannot explain it very well. 'Tis easier to shew you."

"Oh, certainly! Where do we go?"

"Just come outside. You can see it from here."

So Frank and Drawlight went outside, and Drawlight looked about him. It was the most commonplace Venetian scene imagin- able. There was a canal just before them and on the other side a tawny-coloured church. A servant was plucking some pigeons in front of an open door; their dirty feathers were scattered in a greyish, whitish circle in front of her. Everywhere was a jumble of buildings, statues, lines of washing and flowerpots. And in the distance towered the sheer, smooth face of the Darkness.

"Well, perhaps not exactly here," admitted Frank. "The build- ings get in the way. Take a few steps forward and you will see it perfectly."

Drawlight took a few steps forward. "Here?" he asked, still looking about him.

"Yes, just there," said Frank. And he kicked him into the canal. A resounding splash.

Frank lingered a little longer to shout out some reflections upon Drawlight's moral character, calling him a lying, underhand scoundrel; a low dog; a venomous, cowardly blackguard; a snake; and a swine. These remarks certainly relieved Frank's feelings, but they were rather lost upon Drawlight who was by this time under the water and could not hear them.

The water had hit him like a blow, stinging his whole body and knocking the breath out of him. He fell through murky depths. He could not swim and was certain he would drown. But he had not been in the water more than a few seconds when he felt himself plucked up by a strong current and borne away at great speed. By some accident the action of water brought him to the surface every now and then and he was able to snatch a breath. Moment after moment he continued in a state of the most abject terror, quite unable to save himself. Once the racing water bore him up high and for an instant he saw the sunlit quayside (a place he did not recognize); he saw white, foaming water dashing at the stones, soaking people and houses; he saw people's shocked faces. He understood that he had not been driven out to sea, as he had supposed, but even then it did not occur to him that the current was in any way
unnatural
. Sometimes it carried him on vigorously in one direction; sometimes all was confusion and he was certain that his end was upon him. Then suddenly the water seemed to grow tired of him; the motion ceased upon the instant and he was thrown up on to some stone steps. He was vaguely aware of cold air and buildings around him.

He drew in great, shuddering, body-racking breaths of air and, just as it became easier to breathe, he vomited up quantities of cold salt water. Then for a long time he simply lay there with his eyes closed, as a man might lie upon a lover's breast. He had no thought of any thing at all. If any desires remained in him, then they were simply to lie there for ever. Much later he became aware, firstly, that the stones were probably very dirty and, secondly, that he was fearfully cold. He began to wonder why it was so quiet and why no one came to help him.