Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (24 page)

Mr Segundus found that Mr Honeyfoot had grasped his shoulder and was gently shaking him.

“I beg your pardon!” said Mr Honeyfoot. “But you cried out in your sleep and I thought perhaps you would wish to be woken.”

Mr Segundus looked at him in some perplexity. “I had a dream,” he said. “A most curious dream!”

Mr Segundus told his dream to Mr Honeyfoot.

“What a remarkably magical spot!” said Mr Honeyfoot, approvingly. “Your dream — so full of odd symbols and portents — is yet another proof of it!”

“But what does it
mean
?” asked Mr Segundus.

“Oh!” said Mr Honeyfoot, and stopt to think a while. “Well, the lady wore blue, you say? Blue signifies — let me see — immortality, chastity and fidelity; it stands for Jupiter and can be represented by tin. Hmmph! Now where does that get us?”

“Nowhere, I think,” sighed Mr Segundus. “Let us walk on.”

Mr Honeyfoot, who was anxious to see more, quickly agreed to this proposal and suggested that they explore the interior of the Shadow House.

In the fierce sunlight the house was no more than a towering, green-blue haze against the sky. As they passed through the doorway to the Great Hall, “Oh!” cried Mr Segundus.

“Why! What is it now?” asked Mr Honeyfoot, startled.

Upon either side of the doorway stood a stone image of the Raven King. “I saw these in my dream,” said Mr Segundus.

In the Great Hall Mr Segundus looked about him. The mirrors and the paintings that he had seen in his dream were long since gone. Lilac and elder trees filled up the broken walls. Horse-chestnuts and ash made a roof of green and silver that flowed and dappled against the blue sky. Fine gold grasses and ragged robin made a latticework for the empty stone windows.

At one end of the room there were two indistinct figures in a blaze of sunlight. A few odd items were scattered about the floor, a kind of magical debris: some pieces of paper with scraps of spells scribbled upon them, a silver basin full of water and a half-burnt candle in an ancient brass candlestick.

Mr Honeyfoot wished these two shadowy figures a good morning and one replied to him in grave and civil tones, but the other cried out upon the instant, “Henry, it is he! That is the fellow! That is the very man I described! Do you not see? A small man with hair and eyes so dark as to be almost Italian — though the hair has grey in it. But the expression so quiet and timid as to be English without a doubt! A shabby coat all dusty and patched, with frayed cuffs that he has tried to hide by snipping them close. Oh! Henry, this is certainly the man! You sir!” he cried, suddenly addressing Mr Segundus. “Explain yourself!”

Poor Mr Segundus was very much astonished to hear himself and his coat so minutely described by a complete stranger — and the description itself of such a peculiarly distressing sort! Not at all polite. As he stood, trying to collect his thoughts, his interlocutor moved into the shade of an ash-tree that formed part of the north wall of the hall and for the first time in the waking world Mr Segundus beheld Jonathan Strange.

Somewhat hesitantly (for he was aware as he said it how strangely it sounded) Mr Segundus said, “I have seen you, sir, in my dream, I think.”

This only enraged Strange more. “The dream, sir, was mine! I lay down on purpose to dream it. I can bring proofs, witnesses that the dream was mine. Mr Woodhope,” he indicated his companion, “saw me do it. Mr Woodhope is a clergyman — the rector of a parish in Gloucestershire — I cannot imagine that his word could be doubted! I am rather of the opinion that in England a gentleman’s dreams are his own private concern. I fancy there is a law to that effect and, if there is not, why, Parliament should certainly be made to pass one immediately! It ill becomes another man to invite himself into them.” Strange paused to take breath.

“Sir!” cried Mr Honeyfoot hotly. “I must beg you to speak to this gentleman with more respect. You have not the good fortune to know this gentleman as I do, but should you have that honour you will learn that nothing is further from his character than a wish to offend others.”

Strange made a sort of exclamation of exasperation.

“It is certainly very odd that people should get into each other’s dreams,” said Henry Woodhope. “Surely it cannot really have been the same dream?”

“Oh! But I fear it is,” said Mr Segundus with a sigh. “Ever since I entered this garden I have felt as if it were full of invisible doors and I have gone through them one after the other, until I fell asleep and dreamt the dream where I saw this gentleman. I was in a greatly confused state of mind. I knew it was not me that had set these doors ajar and made them to open, but I did not care. I only wanted to see what was at the end of them.”

Henry Woodhope gazed at Mr Segundus as if he did not entirely understand this. “But I still think it cannot be the
same
dream, you know,” he explained to Mr Segundus, as if to a rather stupid child. “What did you dream of?”

“Of a lady in a blue gown,” said Mr Segundus. “I supposed that it was Miss Absalom.”

“Well,
of course
, it was Miss Absalom!” cried Strange in great exasperation as if he could scarcely bear to hear any thing so obvious mentioned. “But unfortunately the lady’s appointment was to meet one gentleman. She was naturally disturbed to find two and so she promptly disappeared.” Strange shook his head. “There cannot be more than five men in England with any pretensions to magic, but one of them must come here and interrupt my meeting with Absalom’s daughter. I can scarcely believe it. I am the unluckiest man in England. God knows I have laboured long enough to dream that dream. It has taken me three weeks — working night and day! — to prepare the spells of summoning, and as for the …”

“But this is marvellous!” interrupted Mr Honeyfoot. “This is wonderful! Why! Not even Mr Norrell himself could attempt such a thing!”

“Oh!” said Strange, turning to Mr Honeyfoot. “It is not so difficult as you imagine. First you must send out your invitation to the lady — any spell of summoning will do. I used Ormskirk.
³
Of course the troublesome part was to adapt Ormskirk so that both Miss Absalom and I arrived in my dream at the same time — Ormskirk is so loose that the person one summons might go pretty well anywhere at any time and feel that they had fulfilled their obligations —
that
, I admit, was not an easy task. And yet, you know, I am not displeased with the results. Second I had to cast a spell upon myself to bring on a magic sleep. Of course I have heard of such spells but confess that I have never actually seen one, and so, you know, I was obliged to invent my own — I dare say it is feeble enough, but what can one do?”

“Good God!” cried Mr Honeyfoot. “Do you mean to say that practically all this magic was your own invention?”

“Oh! well,” said Strange, “as to that … I had Ormskirk — I based everything on Ormskirk.”

“Oh! But might not Hether-Gray be a better foundation than Ormskirk?” asked Mr Segundus.
⁴
"Forgive me. I am no practical magician but Hether-Gray has always seemed to me so much more reliable than Ormskirk.”

“Indeed?” said Strange. “Of course I have heard of Hether-Gray. I have recently begun to correspond with a gentleman in Lincolnshire who says he has a copy of Hether-Gray’s
The Anatomy of a Minotaur
. So Hether-Gray is really worth looking into, is he?”

Mr Honeyfoot declared that Hether-Gray was no such thing, that his book was the most thick-headed nonsense in the world; Mr Segundus disagreed and Strange grew more interested, and less mindful of the fact that he was supposed to be angry with Mr Segundus.

For who can remain angry with Mr Segundus? I dare say there are people in the world who are able to resent goodness and amiability, whose spirits are irritated by gentleness — but I am glad to say that Jonathan Strange was not of their number. Mr Segundus offered his apologies for spoiling the magic and Strange, with a smile and a bow, said that Mr Segundus should think of it no more.

“I shall not ask, sir,” said Strange to Mr Segundus, “if you are a magician. The ease with which you penetrate other people’s dreams proclaims your power.” Strange turned to Mr Honeyfoot, “But are you a magician also, sir?”

Poor Mr Honeyfoot! So blunt a question to be applied to so tender a spot! He was still a magician at heart and did not like to be reminded of his loss. He replied that he
had
been a magician not so many years before. But he had been obliged to give it up. Nothing could have been further from his own wishes. The study of magic — of good English magic — was, in his opinion, the most noble occupation in the world.

Strange regarded him with some surprize. “But I do not very well comprehend you. How could any one make you give up your studies if you did not wish it?”

Then Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot described how they had been members of the Learned Society of York Magicians, and how the society had been destroyed by Mr Norrell.

Mr Honeyfoot asked Strange for his opinion of Mr Norrell.

“Oh!” said Strange with a smile. “Mr Norrell is the patron saint of English booksellers.”

“Sir?” said Mr Honeyfoot.

“Oh!” said Strange. “One hears of Mr Norrell in every place where the book trade is perpetrated from Newcastle to Penzance. The bookseller smiles and bows and says, ‘Ah sir, you are come too late! I
had
a great many books upon subjects magical and historical. But I sold them all to a very learned gentleman of Yorkshire.’ It is always Norrell. One may buy, if one chuses, the books that Norrell has left behind. I generally find that the books that Mr Norrell leaves behind are really excellent things for lighting fires with.”

Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot were naturally all eagerness to be better acquainted with Jonathan Strange, and he seemed just as anxious to talk to them. Consequently, after each side had made and answered the usual inquiries ("Where are you staying?” “Oh! the George in Avebury.” “Well, that is remarkable. So are we.”), it was quickly decided that all four gentlemen should ride back to Avebury and dine together.

As they left the Shadow House Strange paused by the Raven King doorway and asked if either Mr Segundus or Mr Honeyfoot had visited the King’s ancient capital of Newcastle in the north. Neither had. “This door is a copy of one you will find upon every corner there,” said Strange. “The first in this fashion were made when the King was still in England. In that city it seems that everywhere you turn the King steps out of some dark, dusty archway and comes towards you.” Strange smiled wryly. “But his face is always half hidden and he will never speak to you.”

At five o’clock they sat down to dinner in the parlour of the George inn. Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus found Strange to be a most agreeable companion, lively and talkative. Henry Woodhope on the other hand ate diligently and when he was done eating, he looked out of the window. Mr Segundus feared that he might feel himself neglected, and so he turned to him and complimented him upon the magic that Strange had done at the Shadow House.

Henry Woodhope was surprized. “I had not supposed it was a matter for congratulation,” he said. “Strange did not say it was anything remarkable.”

“But, my dear sir!” exclaimed Mr Segundus. “Who knows when such a feat was last attempted in England?”

“Oh! I know nothing of magic. I believe it is quite the fashionable thing — I have seen reports of magic in the London papers. But a clergyman has little leisure for reading. Besides I have known Strange since we were boys and he is of a most capricious character. I am surprized this magical fit has lasted so long. I dare say he will soon tire of it as he has of everything else.” With that he rose from the table and said that he thought he would walk about the village for a while. He bade Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus a good evening and left them.

“Poor Henry,” said Strange, when Mr Woodhope had gone. “I suppose we must bore him horribly.”

“It is most good-natured of your friend to accompany you on your journey, when he himself can have no interest in its object,” said Mr Honeyfoot.

“Oh, certainly!” said Strange. “But then, you know, he was forced to come with me when he found it so quiet at home. Henry is paying us a visit of some weeks, but ours is a very retired neighbourhood and I believe I am a great deal taken up with my studies.”

Mr Segundus asked Mr Strange when he began to study magic.

“In the spring of last year.”

“But you have achieved so much!” cried Mr Honeyfoot. “And in less than two years! My dear Mr Strange, it is quite remarkable!”

“Oh! Do you think so? It seems to me that I have hardly done any thing. But then, I have not known where to turn for advice. You are the first of my brother-magicians that I ever met with, and I give you fair warning that I intend to make you sit up half the night answering questions.”

“We shall be delighted to help you in any way we can,” said Mr Segundus, “But I very much doubt that we can be of much service to you. We have only ever been
theoretical
magicians.”

“You are much too modest,” declared Strange. “Consider, for example, how much more extensive your reading has been than mine.”

So Mr Segundus began to suggest authors whom Strange might not yet have heard of and Strange began to scribble down their names and works in a somewhat haphazard fashion, sometimes writing in a little memorandum book and other times writing upon the back of the dinner bill and once upon the back of his hand. Then he began to question Mr Segundus about the books.

Poor Mr Honeyfoot! How he longed to take part in this interesting conversation! How, in fact, he
did
take part in it, deceiving no one but himself by his little stratagems. “Tell him he must read Thomas Lanchester’s
The Language of Birds
,” he said, addressing Mr Segundus, rather than Strange. “Oh!” he said. “I know you have no opinion of it, but I think one may learn many things from Lanchester.”

Whereupon Mr Strange told them how, to his certain knowledge, there had been four copies of
The Language of Birds
in England not more than five years ago: one in a Gloucester bookseller’s; one in the private library of a gentleman-magician in Kendal; one the property of a blacksmith near Penzance who had taken it in part payment for mending an iron-gate; and one stopping a gap in a window of the boys’ school in the close of Durham Cathedral.