Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (76 page)

“Nothing is more likely,” said the Duke.

“But why?” asked another.

“I have not the least idea. In the Peninsula we learnt not to question him. Sooner or later it would become clear that all his incomprehensible and startling actions were part of his magic. Keep him to his task, but shew no surprize at any thing he does. That, my lords, is the way to manage a magician.”

“Ah, but you have not heard all yet,” said the First Lord of the Admiralty eagerly. “There is worse. It is reported that he is surrounded by Constant Darkness. The Natural Order of Things is overturned and a whole parish in the city of Venice has been plunged into Ceaseless Night!”

Lord Sidmouth declared, “Even you, your Grace, with all your partiality for this man must admit that a Shroud of Eternal Darkness does not bode well. Whatever the good this man has done for the country, we cannot pretend that a Shroud of Eternal Darkness bodes well.”

Lord Liverpool sighed. “I am very sorry this has happened. One could always speak to Strange as if he were an ordinary person. I had hoped that he would interpret Norrell’s actions for us. But now it seems we must first find someone to interpret Strange.”

“We could ask Mr Norrell,” suggested Lord Sidmouth.

“I do not think we can expect an impartial judgement from that quarter,” said Sir Walter Pole.

“So what ought we to do?” asked the First Lord of the Admiralty.

“We shall send a letter to the Austrians,” said the Duke of Wellington with his customary decisiveness. “A letter reminding them of the warm interest that the Prince Regent and the British Government will always feel in Mr Strange’s welfare; reminding them of the great debt owed by all Europe to Mr Strange’s gallantry and magicianship during the late wars. Reminding them of our great displeasure were we to learn that any harm had come to him.”

“Ah!” said Lord Liverpool. “But that is where you and I differ, your Grace. It seems to me that if harm does come to Strange, it will not come from the Austrians. It is far more likely to come from Strange himself.”

In the middle of January a bookseller named Titus Watkins published a book called
The Black Letters
which purported to be letters from Strange to Henry Woodhope. It was rumoured that Mr Norrell had paid all the expences of the edition. Henry Woodhope swore that he had never given his permission for the letters to be published. He also said that some of them had been changed. References to Norrell’s dealings with Lady Pole had been removed and other things had been put in, many of which seemed to suggest that Strange had murdered his wife by magic.

At about the same time one of Lord Byron’s friends — a man called Scrope Davies — caused a sensation when he let it be known that he intended to prosecute Mr Norrell upon Lord Byron’s account for attempting to acquire Lord Byron’s private correspondence by means of magic. Scrope Davies went to a lawyer in Lincoln’s Inn and swore an affidavit in which he stated the following. He had recently received several letters from Byron in which his lordship referred to the Pillar of Constant Darkness which covered the Parish of Mary Sobendigo [sic] in Venice, and to the madness of Jonathan Strange. Scrope Davies had placed the letters on his dressing-table in his rooms in Jermyn-street, St James’s. One evening — he thought the 7th of January — he was dressing to go to his club. He had just picked up a hairbrush when he happened to notice that the letters were skipping about like dry leaves caught in a breeze. But there was no breeze to account for the movement and at first he was puzzled. He picked up the letters and saw that the handwriting on the pages was behaving strangely too. The pen-strokes were coming unhitched from their moorings and lashing about like clothes-lines in a high wind. It suddenly came to him that the letters must be under the influence of magic spells. He was a gambler by profession and, like all successful gamblers, he was quick-witted and cool-headed. He quickly placed the letters inside a Bible, in the pages of St Mark’s Gospel. He told some friends afterwards that, though he was entirely ignorant of magical theory, it had seemed to him that nothing was so likely to foil an unfriendly spell as Holy Writ. He was right; the letters remained in his possession and unaltered. It was a favourite joke afterwards in all the gentlemen’s clubs that the most extraordinary aspect of the whole business was not that Mr Norrell should have tried to acquire the letters, but that Scrope Davies — a notorious rake and drunk — should possess a
Bible
.

59
Leucrocuta, the Wolf of the Evening

January 1817

On a morning in the middle of January Dr Greysteel stepped out of his street-door and stood a moment to straighten his gloves. Looking up, he happened to observe a small man who was sheltering from the wind in the doorway opposite.

All doorways in Venice are picturesque — and sometimes the people who linger in them are too. This fellow was rather small and, despite his evident poverty, he seemed to possess a strong degree of foppishness. His clothes were exceedingly worn and shabby-looking, but he had tried to improve them by shining whatever could be shone and brushing what could not. He had whitened his old, yellowing gloves with so much chalk that he had left little chalky fingerprints upon the door beside him. At first glance he appeared to be wearing the proper equipment of a fop — namely a long watch-chain, a bunch of watch-seals and a lorgnette; but a moment’s further observation shewed that he had no watch-chain, only a gaudy gold ribbon which he had carefully arranged to hang from a buttonhole. Likewise his watch seals proved to be nothing of the sort; they were a bunch of tin hearts, crosses and talismans of the Virgin — the sort that Italian pedlars sell for a frank or two. But it was his lorgnette which was best of all — all fops and dandies love lorgnettes. They employ them to stare quizzically at those less fashionable than themselves. Presumably this odd little man felt naked without one and so he had hung a large kitchen spoon in its place.

Dr Greysteel took careful note of these eccentricities so that he might amuse a friend with them. Then he remembered that his only friend in the city was Strange, and Strange no longer cared about such things.

Suddenly the little man left the doorway and came up to Dr Greysteel. He put his head on one side and said in English, “You are Dr Greyfield?”

Dr Greysteel was surprized to be addressed by him and did not immediately reply.

“You are Dr Greyfield? The friend of the magician?”

“Yes,” said Dr Greysteel, in a wondering tone. “But my name is Greysteel, sir, not Greyfield.”

“A thousand apologies, my dear Doctor! Some stupid person has misinformed me of your name! I am quite mortified. You are, I assure you, the last person in the world to whom I should wish to give offence! My respect for the medical profession is boundless! And now you stand there in all the dignity of poultices and pulse-taking and you say to yourself, ‘Who is this odd creature that dares to address me in the street, as if I were a common person?’ Permit me to introduce myself! I come from London — from Mr Strange’s friends who, when they heard how far his wits had become deranged, were thrown into such fits of anxiety that they took the liberty of dispatching me to come and find out how he is!”

“Hmm!” said Dr Greysteel. “Frankly I could have wished them more anxious. I first wrote to them at the beginning of December — six weeks ago, sir! Six weeks ago!”

“Oh, quite! Very shocking, is it not? They are the idlest creatures in the world! They think of nothing but their own convenience! While you remain here in Venice — the magician’s one true friend!” He paused. “That is correct, is it not?” he asked in quite a different voice. “He has no friends but you?”

“Well, there is Lord Byron …” began Dr Greysteel.

“Byron!” exclaimed the little man. “Really? Dear me! Mad,
and
a friend of Lord Byron!” He sounded as if he did not know which was worse. “Oh! My dear Dr Greysteel. I have a thousand questions to ask you! Is there somewhere you and I can talk privately?”

Dr Greysteel’s street-door was just behind them, but his distaste for the little man was growing every moment. Anxious as he was to help Strange and Strange’s friends, he had no wish to invite the fellow into his house. So he muttered something about his servant being in town on an errand just now. There was a little coffee-house a few streets away; why did they not go there?

The little man was all smiling acquiescence.

They set off for the coffee-house. Their way lay by the side of a canal. The little man was upon Dr Greysteel’s right hand, closest to the water. He was talking and Dr Greysteel was looking around. The doctor’s eyes happened to be directed towards the canal and he saw how, without warning, a wave appeared — a single wave. This was odd enough in itself, but what followed was even more surprizing. The wave rushed towards them and slopped over the stone rim of the canal and, as it did so, it changed shape; watery fingers reached out towards the little man’s foot as if they were trying to pull him in. The moment the water touched him, he leapt back with an oath, but he did not appear to notice that any thing unusual had occurred and Dr Greysteel said nothing of what he had seen.

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 brownpainted 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 surrounding 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
devoured
, quite
devoured
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 remember 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 Drawlight. 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 informers.

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, drinking wine and brandy, and doing magic 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. Drawlight 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.”