Jonathan Strange And Mr Norrell Part 56

"How in G.o.d's name did this happen?" asked Dr Greysteel, sitting up in bed. "Do you think Mr Strange went out and spoke to someone?"

Frank did not know. Out he went again and made some inquiries. It seemed that Strange had not yet stirred from the room at the top of the house in Santa Maria Zobenigo; but Lord Byron (who was the one person in all the city who treated the appearance of Eternal Night as a sort of entertainment) had visited him at about five o'clock the previous evening and had found him still doing magic and raving about candles, pineapples, dances that went on for centuries and dark woods that filled the streets of Venice. Byron had gone home and told his mistress, his landlord and his valet; and, as these were all sociable people much given to spending their evenings among large groups of talkative friends, the number of people who knew by morning was quite remarkable.

"Lord Byron! Of course!" cried Dr Greysteel. "I forgot all about him! I must go and warn him to be discreet."

"I think it's a little late for that, sir," said Frank.

Dr Greysteel was obliged to admit the truth of this. Nevertheless he felt he should like to consult someone. And who better than Strange's other friend? So that evening he dressed carefully and went in his gondola to the house of the Countess Albrizzi. The Countess was a clever Greek lady of mature years, who had published some books upon sculpture; but her chief delight was to give conversazioni conversazioni where all sorts of fas.h.i.+onable and learned people could meet each other. Strange had attended one or two, but until tonight Dr Greysteel had never troubled about them. where all sorts of fas.h.i.+onable and learned people could meet each other. Strange had attended one or two, but until tonight Dr Greysteel had never troubled about them.

He was shewn to a large room on the piano n.o.bile piano n.o.bile. It was richly decorated with marble floors, wonderful statues, and painted walls and ceilings. At one end of the room the ladies sat in a semi-circle around the Countess. The men stood at the other end. From the moment he entered the room Dr Greysteel felt the eyes of the other guests upon him. More than one person was pointing him out to his neighbour. There was little doubt but that they were talking of Strange and the Darkness.

A small, handsome man was standing by the window. He had dark, curly hair and a full, soft, red mouth. It was a mouth which would have been striking upon a woman, but on a man it was simply extraordinary. With his small stature, carefully chosen clothes and dark hair and eyes, he had a little of the look of Christopher Drawlight but only if Drawlight had been fearfully clever. Dr Greysteel went up to him directly, and said, "Lord Byron?"

The man turned to see who spoke. He did not look best pleased to be addressed by a dull, stout, middle-aged Englishman. Yet he could not deny who he was. "Yes?"

"My name is Greysteel. I am a friend of Mr Strange."

"Ah!" said his lords.h.i.+p. "The physician with the beautiful daughter!"

Dr Greysteel, in his turn, was not best pleased to hear his daughter spoken of in such terms by one of the most notorious rakes in Europe, yet he could not deny that Flora was beautiful. Putting it aside for the moment, he said, "I have been to see Strange. All my worst fears are confirmed. His reason is quite overturned."

"Oh, quite!" agreed Byron. "I was with him again a few hours ago and could not get him to talk of any thing but his dead wife and how she is not really dead, but merely enchanted. And now he shrouds himself in Darkness and works Black Magic! There is something rather admirable in all this, do you not agree?"

"Admirable?" said the doctor sharply. "Say pitiable rather! But do you think he made the Darkness? He told me quite plainly that he had not."

"But of course he made it!" declared Byron. "A Black World to match his Black Spirits! Who would not blot out the sun some- times? The difference is that when one is a magician, one can actually do it."

Dr Greysteel considered this. "You may be right," he conceded. "Perhaps he created the Darkness and then forgot about it. I do not think he always remembers what he has said or done. I have found that he retains very little impression of my earlier conversations with him."

"Ah. Well. Quite," said his lords.h.i.+p, as if there was nothing very surprizing in this and that he too would be glad to forget the doctor's conversation just as soon as he could. "Were you aware that he has written to his brother-in-law?"

"No, I did not know that."

"He has instructed the fellow to come to Venice to see his dead sister."

"Do you think he will come?" asked Dr Greysteel.

"I have not the least idea!" Lord Byron's tone implied that it was somewhat presumptuous of Dr Greysteel to expect the Great- est Poet of the Age to interest himself in such matters. There was a moment or two of silence and then he added in a more natural tone, "To own the truth, I believe he will not come. Strange shewed me the letter. It was full of disjointed ramblings and reasonings that none but a madman or a magician! could understand."

"It is a very bitter thing," said Dr Greysteel. "Very bitter indeed! Only the day before yesterday we were walking with him. He was in such cheerful spirits! To have gone from complete sanity to complete madness in the s.p.a.ce of one night, I cannot understand it. I wonder if there might not be some physical cause. Some infection perhaps?"

"Nonsense!" declared Byron. "The causes of his madness are purely metaphysical. They lie in the vast chasm between that which one is, and that which one desires to become, between the soul and the flesh. Forgive me, Dr Greysteel, but this is a matter of which I have experience. Of this I can speak with authority."

"But . . ." Dr Greysteel frowned and paused to collect his thoughts. "But the period of intense frustration appeared to be over. His work was going well."

"All I can tell you is this. Before this peculiar obsession with his dead wife, he was full of quite another matter: John Uskgla.s.s. You must have observed that? Now I know very little of English magicians. They have always seemed to me a parcel of dull, dusty old men except for John Uskgla.s.s. He is quite another matter! The magician who tamed the Otherlanders!2 The only magician to defeat Death! The magician whom Lucifer himself was forced to treat as an equal! Now, whenever Strange compares himself to this sublime being as he must from time to time he sees himself for what he truly is: a plodding, earth-bound mediocrity! All his achievements so praised up in the desolate little isle The only magician to defeat Death! The magician whom Lucifer himself was forced to treat as an equal! Now, whenever Strange compares himself to this sublime being as he must from time to time he sees himself for what he truly is: a plodding, earth-bound mediocrity! All his achievements so praised up in the desolate little isle3 crumble to dust before him! That will bring on as fine a bout of despair as you could wish to see. crumble to dust before him! That will bring on as fine a bout of despair as you could wish to see. This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality. mortality." Lord Byron paused for a moment, as if committing the last remark to memory in case he should want to put it in a poem. "I myself was touched with something of the same melancholia when I was in the Swiss mountains in September. I wandered about, hearing avalanches every five minutes as if G.o.d was bent upon my destruction! I was full of regrets and immortal longings. Several times I was sorely tempted to blow my brains out and I would have done it too, but for the recollection of the pleasure it would give my mother-in-law."

Lord Byron might shoot himself any day of the week for all that Dr Greysteel cared. But Strange was another matter. "You think him capable of self-destruction?" he asked, anxiously.

"Oh, certainly!"

"But what is to be done?"

"Done?" echoed his lords.h.i.+p, slightly perplexed. "Why would you want to do any thing?" Then, feeling that they had talked long enough about someone else, his lords.h.i.+p turned the conversation to himself. "Upon the whole I am glad that you and I have met, Dr Greysteel. I brought a physician with me from England, but I was obliged to dismiss him at Genova. Now I fear my teeth are coming loose. Look!"4 Byron opened his mouth wide and displayed his teeth to Dr Greysteel. Byron opened his mouth wide and displayed his teeth to Dr Greysteel.

Dr Greysteel gently tugged on a large, white tooth. "They seem very sound and firm to me," he said.

"Oh! Do you think so? But not for long, I fear. I grow old. I wither. I can feel it." Byron sighed. Then, struck by a more cheerful thought, he added, "You know, this crisis with Strange could not have come at a better time. I am by chance writing a poem about a magician who wrestles with the Ineffable Spirits who rule his destiny. Of course, as a model for my magician Strange is far from perfect he lacks the true heroic nature; for that I shall be obliged to put in something of myself."

A lovely young Italian girl pa.s.sed by. Byron tilted his head to a very odd angle, half-closed his eyes and composed his features to suggest that he was about to expire from chronic indigestion. Dr Greysteel could only suppose that he was treating the young woman to the Byronic profile and the Byronic expression.

1 German for magician.

2 A somewhat poetical name for fairies.

3 Lord Byron is speaking of Great Britain.

4 See Byron's letter to Augusta Leigh, October 28th, 1816.

57.

The Black Letters1 December 1816 Santa Maria Zobenigo, Venice Jonathan Strange to the Reverend Henry Woodhope Dec. 3rd, 1816. Dec. 3rd, 1816.My dear Henry,You must prepare yourself for wonderful news. I have seen Arabella. I have seen Arabella. I have seen her and spoken to her. Is that not glorious? Is that not the best of all possible news? You will not believe me. You will not understand it. Be a.s.sured it was not a dream. It was not drunkenness, or madness, or opium. Consider: you have only to accept that last Christmas at Clun we were half-enchanted, and all becomes believable, all becomes possible. It is ironic, is it not, that I of all people did not recognize magic when it wrapped itself about me? In my own defence I may say that it was of a quite unexpected nature and came from a quarter I could never have foreseen. Yet to my shame other people were quicker-witted than me. John Hyde knew that something was wrong and tried to warn me, but I did not listen to him. Even you, Henry, told me quite plainly that I was too taken up with my books, that I neglected my responsibilities and my wife. I resented your advice and on several occasions gave you a rude answer. I am sorry for it now and humbly beg your pardon. Blame me as much as you want. You cannot think me half so much at fault as I think myself. But to come to the point of all this. I need you to come here to Venice. Arabella is in a place not very far distant from here, but she cannot leave it and I cannot go there at least [several lines expunged]. My friends here in Venice are well-meaning souls, but they plague me with questions. I have no servant and there is something here which makes it hard for me to go about the city un.o.bserved. Of this I shall say no more. My dear, good Henry, please do not make difficulties. Come straightaway to Venice. Your reward will be Arabella safe and well and restored to us. For what other reason has G.o.d made me the Greatest Magician of the Age if not for this? I have seen her and spoken to her. Is that not glorious? Is that not the best of all possible news? You will not believe me. You will not understand it. Be a.s.sured it was not a dream. It was not drunkenness, or madness, or opium. Consider: you have only to accept that last Christmas at Clun we were half-enchanted, and all becomes believable, all becomes possible. It is ironic, is it not, that I of all people did not recognize magic when it wrapped itself about me? In my own defence I may say that it was of a quite unexpected nature and came from a quarter I could never have foreseen. Yet to my shame other people were quicker-witted than me. John Hyde knew that something was wrong and tried to warn me, but I did not listen to him. Even you, Henry, told me quite plainly that I was too taken up with my books, that I neglected my responsibilities and my wife. I resented your advice and on several occasions gave you a rude answer. I am sorry for it now and humbly beg your pardon. Blame me as much as you want. You cannot think me half so much at fault as I think myself. But to come to the point of all this. I need you to come here to Venice. Arabella is in a place not very far distant from here, but she cannot leave it and I cannot go there at least [several lines expunged]. My friends here in Venice are well-meaning souls, but they plague me with questions. I have no servant and there is something here which makes it hard for me to go about the city un.o.bserved. Of this I shall say no more. My dear, good Henry, please do not make difficulties. Come straightaway to Venice. Your reward will be Arabella safe and well and restored to us. For what other reason has G.o.d made me the Greatest Magician of the Age if not for this?

Your brother, SSanta Maria Zobenigo, Venice Jonathan Strange to the Reverend Henry Woodhope Dec. 6th, 1816. Dec. 6th, 1816.My dear Henry,I have been somewhat troubled in my conscience since I wrote to you last. You know that I have never lied to you, but I confess that I have not told you enough for you to form an accurate opinion of how matters stand with Arabella at present. She is not dead but . . . [12 lines crossed out and indecipherable] . . . under the earth, within the hill which they call the brugh brugh. Alive, yet not alive not dead either enchanted enchanted. It has been their habit since time immemorial to steal away Christian men and women and make servants of them, or force them as in this case to take part in their dreary pastimes: their dances, their feasts, their long, empty celebrations of dust and nothingness. Among all the reproaches which I heap on my own head the bitterest by far is that I have betrayed her she whom my first duty was to protect.Santa Maria Zobenigo, Venice Jonathan Strange to the Reverend Henry Woodhope Dec. 15th, 1816. Dec. 15th, 1816.My dear Henry,It grieves me to tell you that I now have better grounds for the uneasiness I told you of in my last letter.2 I have done everything I can think of to break the bars of her black prison, but without success. There is no spell that I know of that can make the smallest dent in such ancient magic. For aught I know there is no such spell in the whole English canon. Stories of magicians freeing captives from Faerie are few and far between. I cannot now recall a single one. Somewhere in one of his books Martin Pale describes how fairies can grow tired of their human guests and expel them without warning from the I have done everything I can think of to break the bars of her black prison, but without success. There is no spell that I know of that can make the smallest dent in such ancient magic. For aught I know there is no such spell in the whole English canon. Stories of magicians freeing captives from Faerie are few and far between. I cannot now recall a single one. Somewhere in one of his books Martin Pale describes how fairies can grow tired of their human guests and expel them without warning from the brugh brugh; the poor captives find themselves back home, but hundreds of years after they left it. Perhaps that is what will happen. Arabella will return to England long after you and I are dead. That thought freezes my blood. I cannot disguise from you that there is a black mood upon me. Time and I have quarrelled. All hours are midnight now. I had a clock and a watch, but I destroyed them both. I could not bear the way they mocked me. I do not sleep. I cannot cannot eat. I take wine and something else. Now at times I become a little wild. I shake and laugh and weep for a time I cannot say eat. I take wine and something else. Now at times I become a little wild. I shake and laugh and weep for a time I cannot say what what time; perhaps an hour, perhaps a day. But enough of that. Madness is the key. I believe I am the first English magician to understand that. Norrell was right he said we do not need fairies to help us. He said that madmen and fairies have much in common, but I did not understand the implications then, and neither did he. Henry, you cannot conceive of how desperately I need you here. Why do you not come? Are you ill? I have received no replies to my letters, but this may mean that you are already on the road to Venice and this letter may perhaps never reach you. time; perhaps an hour, perhaps a day. But enough of that. Madness is the key. I believe I am the first English magician to understand that. Norrell was right he said we do not need fairies to help us. He said that madmen and fairies have much in common, but I did not understand the implications then, and neither did he. Henry, you cannot conceive of how desperately I need you here. Why do you not come? Are you ill? I have received no replies to my letters, but this may mean that you are already on the road to Venice and this letter may perhaps never reach you.

"Darkness, misery and solitude!" cried the gentleman in high glee. "That is what I have inflicted upon him and that is what he must suffer for the next hundred years! Oh! How cast down he is! I have won! I have won!" He clapped his hands and his eyes glittered.

In Strange's room in the parish of Santa Maria Zobenigo three candles were burning: one upon the desk, one upon the top of the little painted cupboard and one in a wall-sconce by the door. An observer of the scene might have supposed them to be the only lights in all the world. From Strange's window nothing could be seen but night and silence. Strange, unshaven, with red-rimmed eyes and wild hair, was doing magic.

Stephen stared at him with mingled pity and horror.

"And yet he is not so solitary as I would like," remarked the gentleman, in a displeased tone. "There is someone with him."

There was indeed. A small, dark man in expensive clothes was leaning against the little painted cupboard, watching Strange with an appearance of great interest and enjoyment. From time to time he would take out a little notebook and scribble in it.

"That is Lord Byron," said Stephen.

"And who is he?"

"A very wicked gentleman, sir. A poet. He quarrelled with his wife and seduced his sister."

"Really? Perhaps I will kill him."

"Oh, do not do that, sir! True, his sins are very great, and he has been more or less driven out of England, but even so . . ."

"Oh! I do not care about his crimes against other people! I care about his crimes against me me! He ought not to be here. Ah, Stephen, Stephen! Do not look so stricken. Why should you care what becomes of one wicked Englishman? I tell you what I will do: because of the great love I bear you, I will not kill him now. He may have another, oh!, another five years of life! But at the end of that he must die!"3 "Thank you, sir," said Stephen, gratefully. "You are all generosity."

Suddenly Strange raised his head and cried out, "I know you are there! You can hide from me if you wish, but it is too late! I know you are there!"

"Who are you talking to?" Byron asked him.

Strange frowned. "I am being watched. Spied upon!"

"Are you indeed? And do you know by whom?

"By a fairy and a butler!"

"A butler, eh?" said his lords.h.i.+p, laughing. "Well, one may say what one likes about imps and goblins, but butlers are the worst of them!"

"What?" said Strange.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair was looking anxiously about the room. "Stephen! Can you see my little box anywhere?"

"Little box, sir?"

"Yes, yes! You know what I mean! The little box containing dear Lady Pole's finger!"

"I do not see it, sir. But surely the little box does not matter any more? Now that you have defeated the magician?"

"Oh, there it is!" cried the gentleman. "See? You had put your hand down upon the table and accidentally hidden it from my view."

Stephen moved his hand away. After a moment he said, "You do not pick it up, sir."

To this remark the gentleman made no reply. Instead, he immediately returned to abusing the magician and glorying in his own victory.

"It is not his any more!" thought Stephen, with a thrill of excitement. "He may not take it! It belongs to the magician now! Perhaps the magician can use it somehow to free Lady Pole!" Stephen watched and waited to see what the magician would do. But at the end of half an hour he was forced to admit that the signs were scarcely hopeful. Strange strode about the room, muttering magic spells to himself and looking entirely deranged; Lord Byron questioned him about what he was doing and the answers that Strange gave were wild and incomprehensible (though quite to the taste of Lord Byron). And, as for the little box, Strange never once looked at it. For all that Stephen could tell, he had forgotten all about it.

1 Strange's later Venetian letters (in particular his letters to Henry Woodhope) have been known by this name since their publication in London in January 1817. Lawyers and magical scholars will doubtless continue to argue over whether or not the publication was legal. Certainly Strange never gave his permission and Henry Woodhope has always maintained that neither did he. Henry Woodhope also said that the published letters had been altered and added to, presumably by Henry Lascelles and Gilbert Norrell. In his The Life of Jonathan Strange The Life of Jonathan Strange John Segundus published what he and Woodhope claimed were the originals. It is these versions which are reprinted here. John Segundus published what he and Woodhope claimed were the originals. It is these versions which are reprinted here.

2 This letter has never been found. It is probable that Strange never sent it. According to Lord Byron (letter to John Murray, Dec. 31st, 1816.) Strange would often write long letters to his friends and then destroy them. Strange confessed to Byron that he quickly became confused as to which he had and had not sent.

3 Byron died of a chill five years later in Greece.

58.

Henry Woodhope pays a visit December 1816 YOU HAVE DONE quite right in coming to me, Mr Woodhope. I have made a careful study of Mr Strange's Venetian correspondence and, aside from the general horror of which you rightly speak, there is much in these letters which is hidden from the layman. I think I may say without vanity that, at this moment, I am the only man in England who is capable of understanding them."

It was twilight, three days before Christmas. In the library at Hanover-square the candles and lamps had not yet been lit. It was that curious time of day when the sky is bright and full of colour, but all the streets are dim and shadowy. Upon the table there was a vase of flowers, but in the fading light it appeared to be a black vase of black flowers.

Mr Norrell sat by the window with Strange's letters in his hands. Lascelles sat by the fire, regarding Henry Woodhope coolly.

"I confess to having been in a condition of some distress ever since I first received these letters," said Henry Woodhope to Mr Norrell. "I have not known whom to turn to for help. To be truthful I have no interest in magic. I have not followed the fas.h.i.+onable quarrels about the subject. But everyone says that you are England's greatest magician and you were once Mr Strange's tutor. I shall be very grateful to you, sir, for any advice you are able to give me."

Mr Norrell nodded. "You must not blame Mr Strange," he said. "The magical profession is a dangerous one. There is no other which so lays a man open to the perils of vanity. Politics and Law are harmless in comparison. You should understand, Mr Wood- hope, that I tried very hard to keep him with me, to guide him. But his genius which makes us all admire him is the very thing which leads his reason astray. These letters shew that he has strayed much further than I could ever have supposed."

"Strayed? Then you do not believe this queer tale of my sister being alive?"

"Not a word of it, sir, not a word of it. It is all his own unhappy imaginings."

"Ah!" Henry Woodhope sat silent for a moment as if he were deciding upon the relative degrees of disappointment and relief that he felt. He said, "And what of Mr Strange's curious complaint that Time has stopt? Can you make any thing of this, sir?"

Lascelles said, "We understand from our correspondents in Italy that for some weeks Mr Strange has been surrounded by Perpetual Darkness. Whether he has done this deliberately or whether it is a spell gone wrong we do not know. There is also the possibility that he has offended some Great Power and that this is the result. What is certain is that some action upon Mr Strange's part has caused a disturbance in the Natural Order of Things."

"I see," said Henry Woodhope.

Lascelles looked at him rather severely. "It is something which Mr Norrell has striven hard all his life to avoid."

"Ah," said Henry. He turned to Mr Norrell. "But what should I do, sir? Ought I to go to him as he begs me to?"

Mr Norrell sniffed. "The most important question is, I believe, how soon we may contrive to bring him back to England, where his friends may care for him and bring to a rapid end the delusions that beset him."

"Perhaps if you were to write to him, sir?"

"Ah, no. I fear my little stock of influence with Mr Strange all ran out some years ago. It was the war in Spain that did the mischief. Before he went to the Peninsula he was very content to stay with me and learn all I could teach him, but afterwards . . ." Mr Norrell sighed. "No, we must rely upon you, Mr Woodhope. You must make him come home and, since I suspect that your going to Venice could only prolong his stay in that city and persuade him that one person at least gives credit to his imagin- ings, then I most strongly urge you not to go."

"Well, sir, I must confess that it makes me very glad to hear you say so. I shall certainly do as you advise. If you could pa.s.s me my letters I shall trouble you no longer."

"Mr Woodhope," said Lascelles. "Do not be in such a hurry, I beg you! Our conversation is by no means concluded. Mr Norrell has answered all your questions candidly and without reservation. Now you must return the favour."

Henry Woodhope frowned and looked puzzled. "Mr Norrell has relieved me of a great deal of anxiety. If there is any way in which I can serve Mr Norrell, then, of course, I shall be very happy. But I do not quite understand . . ."

"Perhaps I do not make myself clear," said Lascelles, "I mean of course that Mr Norrell requires your help so that he may help Mr Strange. Is there any thing else you can tell us of Mr Strange's Italian tour? What was he like before he fell into this sad condition? Was he in good spirits?"

"No!" said Henry indignantly, as though he thought some insult was implied in the question. "My sister's death weighed very heavily on him! At least at first it did. At first he seemed very unhappy. But when he reached Genoa everything changed." He paused. "He writes no word of it now, but before his letters were full of praise for a young lady one of the party he is travelling with. And I could not help suspecting that he was thinking of marrying again."

"A second marriage!" exclaimed Lascelles, "And so soon after the death of your sister? Dear me! How very shocking! How very distressing for you."

Henry nodded unhappily.