Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (71 page)

Just before twilight they entered a chilly, stony, little square with a well at its centre. It was a curiously blank and empty place. The ground was paved with ancient stones. The walls were pierced with surprizingly few windows. It was as if the houses had all been offended by something the square had done and had resolutely turned their backs and looked the other way. There was one tiny shop that appeared to sell nothing but Turkish Delight of an infinite number of varieties and colours. It was closed, but Miss Greysteel and Aunt Greysteel peered into the window and wondered aloud when it might open and whether they would be able to find their way back to it.

Strange walked about. He was thinking of nothing in particular. The air was very cold — pleasantly so — and overhead the first star of evening appeared. He became aware of a peculiar scraping sound behind him and he turned to see what was making it.

In the darkest corner of the little square something was standing — a thing the like of which he had never seen before. It was black — so black that it might have been composed of the surrounding darkness. Its head or top took the form of an old-fashioned sedan chair, such as one might occasionally see conveying a dowager about Bath. It had windows with black curtains pulled across. But beneath the windows it dwindled into the body and legs of a great black bird. It wore a tall black hat and carried a thin, black walking-stick. It had no eyes, yet Strange could tell it was looking at him. It was scraping the tip of the walking-stick across the paving stones with a horrible jerking motion.

He supposed he ought to feel afraid. He supposed that he ought perhaps to do some magic to try and fend it off. Spells of dispersal, spells of dismissal, spells of protection flowed through his brain but he somehow failed to catch hold of any of them. Although the thing reeked of evil and malevolence, he had a strong sense that it was no danger to himself or any one else just at present. It seemed more like a sign of evil-yet-to-come.

He was just beginning to wonder how the Greysteels bore with this sudden appearance of horror in their midst when something shifted in his brain; the thing was no longer there. In its place stood the stout form of Dr Greysteel — Dr Greysteel in black clothes, Dr Greysteel with a walking-stick in his hand.

“Well?” called out Dr Greysteel.

“I … I beg your pardon!” Strange called back. “Did you speak? I was thinking of … of something else.”

“I asked you if you intended to dine with us tonight!”

Strange stared at him.

“What is the matter? Are you sick?” asked Dr Greysteel. He looked rather probingly at Strange as if he saw something in the magician’s face or manner he did not like.

“I am perfectly well, I assure you,” said Strange. “And I will dine with you gladly. I should like nothing better. Only I have promised Lord Byron that I will play billiards with him at four.”

“We should find a gondola to take us back,” said Dr Greysteel. “I believe Louisa is more tired than she admits to.” (He meant Aunt Greysteel.) “Where do you meet his lordship? Where shall we tell the fellow to take you?”

“Thank you,” said Strange, “but I shall walk. Your sister was right. I am in need of fresh air and exercise.”

Miss Greysteel was a little disappointed to find that Strange was not to return with them. The two ladies and the magician took a somewhat prolonged leave of each other and reminded each other several times that they were all to meet again in a few hours, until Dr Greysteel began to lose patience with them all.

The Greysteels walked off in the direction of the
Rio
. Strange followed at a distance. Despite his cheerful assurances to Dr Greysteel, he was feeling badly shaken. He tried to persuade himself that the apparition had been nothing more than a trick of the light, but it would not do. He was obliged to admit to himself that what it most resembled was a return of the old lady’s madness.

“It is really most aggravating! The effects of the tincture seemed to have worn off entirely! Well, pray God, I do not need to drink any more of it. If this fairy refuses to serve me, I shall simply have to find another way of summoning someone else.”

He emerged from the alley into the clearer light of the
Rio
and saw that the Greysteels had found a gondola and that someone — a gentleman — was helping Miss Greysteel into it. He thought at first that it was a stranger, but then he saw that this person had a head of shining thistle-down hair. He hurried to meet him.

“What a beautiful young woman!” said the gentleman, as the gondola pulled away from the quayside. His eyes sparkled with brilliance. “And she dances most delightfully, I expect?”

“Dances?” said Strange. “I do not know. We were supposed to attend a ball together in Genoa, but she had the toothach and we did not go. I am surprized to see you. I had not expected that you would come until I summoned you again.”

“Ah, but I have been thinking about your proposal that we do magic together! And I now perceive it to be an excellent plan!”

“I am pleased to hear it,” said Strange, suppressing a smile. “But tell me something. I have been trying to summon you for weeks. Why did you not come before?”

“Oh! That is easily explained!” declared the gentleman, and he began a long story about a cousin of his who was very wicked and very jealous of all his talents and virtues; who hated all English magicians; and who had somehow contrived to distort Strange’s magic so that the gentleman had not known of the summons until last night. It was an exceedingly complicated tale and Strange did not believe a word of it. But he thought it prudent to look as if he did and so he bowed his acceptance.

“And to shew you how sensible I am of the honour you do me,” finished up the gentleman, “I will bring you any thing you desire.”

“Any thing?” repeated Strange, with a sharp look. “And this offer is — if I understand correctly — in the nature of a binding agreement. You cannot deny me something once I have named it?”

“Nor would I wish to!”

“And I can ask for riches, dominion over all the world? That sort of thing?”

“Exactly!” said the gentleman with a delighted air. He raised his hands to begin.

“Well, I do not want any of those things. What I chiefly want is information. Who was the last English magician you dealt with?”

A moment’s pause.

“Oh, you do not want to hear about that!” declared the gentleman. “I assure you it is very dull. Now, come! There must be something you desire above all else? A kingdom of your own? A beautiful companion? Princess Pauline Borghese is a most delightful woman and I can have her here in the twinkling of an eye!”

Strange opened his mouth to speak and then stopt a moment. “Pauline Borghese, you say? I saw a picture of her in Paris.”
²
Then, recollecting himself, he continued, “But I am not interested in that just at present. Tell me about magic. How would I go about turning myself into a bear? Or a fox? What are the names of the three magical rivers that flow through the Kingdom of Agrace?
³
Ralph Stokesey thought that these rivers influenced events in England; is that true? There is mention in
The Language of Birds
of a group of spells that are cast by manipulating colours; what can you tell me about that? What do the stones in the Doncaster Squares represent?”

The gentleman threw up his hands in mock surprize. “So many questions!” He laughed; it was clearly meant to be a merry, carefree laugh, but it sounded a little forced.

“Well then, tell me the answer to one of them. Any one you like.”

The gentleman only smiled pleasantly.

Strange stared at him in undisguised vexation. Apparently the offer did not extend to knowledge, only objects. “And if I wanted to give myself a present, I would go and buy something!” thought Strange. “If I wanted to see Pauline Borghese, I would simply go to her and introduce myself. I do not need magic for that! How in the world do I …” A thought struck him. Out loud he said, “Bring me something that you gained from your last dealings with an English magician!”

“What?” said the gentleman, startled. “No, you do not want that! It is worthless, utterly worthless! Think again!”

Clearly he was much perturbed by Strange’s request — though Strange could not tell why he should be. “Perhaps,” he thought, “the magician gave him something valuable and he is loath to give it up. No matter. Once I have seen what it is, and learnt what I can from it I shall give it back to him. That ought to persuade him of my good intentions.”

He smiled politely: “A binding agreement, I think you said? I shall expect it — whatever it is — later this evening!”

At eight o’clock he dined with the Greysteels in their gloomy dining-hall.

Miss Greysteel asked him about Lord Byron.

“Oh!” said Strange. “He does not intend to return to England. He can write poems anywhere. Whereas in my own case, English magic was shaped by England — just as England herself was shaped by magic. The two go together. You cannot separate them.”

“You mean,” said Miss Greysteel, frowning a little, “that English minds and history and so forth were shaped by magic. You are speaking metaphorically.”

“No, I was speaking quite literally. This city, for example, was built in the common way …”

“Oh!” interrupted Dr Greysteel, laughing. “How like a magician that sounds! The slight edge of contempt when he speaks of things being done in the common way!”

“I do not think that I intended any disrespect. I assure you I have the greatest regard for things done in the common way. No, my point was merely that the boundaries of England — its very shape was determined by magic.”

Dr Greysteel sniffed. “I am not sure of this. Give me an example.”

“Very well. There once was a very fine town stood on the coast of Yorkshire whose citizens began to wonder why it was that their King, John Uskglass, should require taxes from them. Surely, they argued, so great a magician could conjure up all the gold he wanted from the air. Now there is no harm in wondering, but these foolish people did not stop there. They refused to pay and began to plot with the King’s enemies. A man is best advised to consider carefully before he quarrels with a magician and still more with a king. But when these two characters are combined in one person, Why! then the peril is multiplied a hundred times. First a wind came out of the north and blew through the town. As the wind touched the beasts of the town they grew old and died — cows, pigs, fowls and sheep — even the cats and dogs. As the wind touched the town itself houses became ruins before the very eyes of the unhappy householders. Tools broke, pots shattered, wood warped and split, brick and stone crumbled into dust. Stone images in the church wore away as if with extreme age, until, it was said, every face of every statue appeared to be screaming. The wind whipped up the sea into strange, menacing shapes. The townspeople, very wisely, began to run from the town and when they reached the higher ground they looked back and were just in time to see the remains of the town slip slowly under the cold, grey waves.”

Dr Greysteel smiled. “Let the government be who they may — Whigs, Tories, emperors or magicians — they take it very ill when people do not pay their taxes. And shall you include these tales in your next book?”

“Oh, certainly. I am not one of those miserly authors who measure out their words to the last quarter ounce. I have very liberal ideas of authorship. Anyone who cares to pay Mr Murray their guinea will find that I have thrown the doors of my warehouse wide open and that all my learning is up for sale. My readers may stroll about and chuse at their leisure.”

Miss Greysteel gave this tale a moment or two of serious consideration. “He was certainly provoked,” she said at last, “but it was still the act of a tyrant.”

Somewhere in the shadows footsteps were approaching.

“What is it, Frank?” asked Dr Greysteel.

Frank, Dr Greysteel’s servant, emerged from the gloom.

“We have found a letter and a little box, sir. Both for Mr Strange.” Frank looked troubled.

“Well, do not stand and gape so. Here is Mr Strange, sat just at your elbow. Give him his letter and his little box.”

Frank’s expression and attitude all declared him to be tussling with some great perplexity. His scowl suggested that he believed himself to be quite out of his depth. He made one last attempt to communicate his vexation to his master. “We found the letter and the little box on the floor just inside the door, sir, but the door was locked and bolted!”

“Then someone must have unlocked and unbolted it, Frank. Do not be making mysteries,” said Dr Greysteel.

So Frank gave the letter and box to Strange and wandered away into the darkness again, muttering to himself and inquiring of the chairs and tables he met on the way what sort of blockhead they took him for.

Aunt Greysteel leaned over and politely entreated Mr Strange to use no ceremony — he was with friends and should read his letter directly. This was very kind of her, but a little superfluous, since Strange had already opened the paper and was reading his letter.

“Oh, aunt!” cried Miss Greysteel, picking up the little box which Frank had placed on the table. “See, how beautiful!”

The box was small and oblong and apparently made of silver and porcelain. It was a beautiful shade of blue, but then again not exactly blue, it was more like lilac. But then again, not exactly lilac either, since it had a tinge of grey in it. To be more precise, it was the colour of heartache. But fortunately neither Miss Greysteel nor Aunt Greysteel had ever been much troubled by heartache and so they did not recognize it.

“It is certainly very pretty,” said her aunt. “Is it Italian, Mr Strange?”

“Mmm?” said Strange. He glanced up. “I do not know.”

“Is there anything inside?” asked Aunt Greysteel.

“Yes, I believe so,” said Miss Greysteel, beginning to open it.

“Flora!” cried Dr Greysteel and shook his head sharply at his daughter. He had an idea that the box might be a present which Strange intended to give to Flora. He did not like this idea, but Dr Greysteel did not think himself competent to judge the sorts of behaviour in which a man like Strange — a fashionable man of the world — might consider himself licensed to indulge.