Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (98 page)

The sunlight was as cold and clear as the note struck by a knife on a fine wine-glass. In such a light the walls of the Church of Santa Maria Formosa were as white as shells or bones – and the shadows on the paving stones were as blue as the sea.

The door to the church opened and a little party came out into the campo. These ladies and gentlemen were visitors to the city of Venice who had been looking at the interior of the church, its altars and objects of interest, and now that they had got out of it, they were inclined to be talkative and filled up the water-lapped silence of the place with loud, cheerful conversation. They were excessively pleased with the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. They thought the facË ades of the houses very magnificent – they could not praise them highly enough. But the sad decay, which build- ings, bridges and church all displayed, seemed to charm them even more. They were Englishmen and, to them, the decline of other nations was the most natural thing in the world. They belonged to a race blessed with so sensitive an appreciation of its own talents (and so doubtful an opinion of any body else's) that they would not have been at all surprized to learn that the Venetians them- selves had been entirely ignorant of the merits of their own city – until Englishmen had come to tell them it was delightful.

One lady, having got to the end of her raptures, began to speak of the weather to the other lady.

"You know, it is a very odd thing, my dear, but when we were in the church, while you and Mr Strange were looking at the pictures, I just popped my head out of the door and I thought then that it was raining and I was very much afraid that you would get wet."

"No, aunt. See, the stones are perfectly dry. There is not a spot of rain upon them."

"Well then, my dear, I hope that you are not inconvenienced by this wind. It is a little sharp about the ears. We can always ask Mr Strange and papa to walk a little faster if you do not like it."

"Thank you, aunt, but I am perfectly comfortable. I like this breeze – I like the smell of the sea – it clears the brain, the senses – every thing. But perhaps, aunt,
ou
do not like it."

"Oh no, my dear. I never mind any such thing. I am quite hardy. I only think of you."

"I know you do, aunt," said the young lady. The young lady was perhaps aware that the sunlight and breeze which shewed Venice to so much advantage, made its canals so blue and its marble so mystically bright, did as much – or almost as much – for her. Nothing could so well draw attention to the translucency of Miss Greysteel's complexion, as the rapid progression across it of sunlight and shadow. Nothing could be so becoming to her white muslin gown as the breeze which blew it about.

"Ah," said the aunt, "now papa is showing Mr Strange some new thing or other. Flora, my dear, would not you like to see?"

"I have seen enough. You go, aunt."

So the aunt hurried away to the other end of the campo and Miss Greysteel walked slowly on to the little white bridge that stood just by the church, fretfully poking the point of her white parasol between the white paving stones and murmuring to erself, "I have seen enough. Oh, I have seen
quite
enough!" The repetition of this mysterious exclamation did not appear to afford her spirits much relief – indeed it only served to make her more melancholy, and to make her sigh more frequently.

"You are very quiet today," said Strange suddenly. She was startled. She had not known he was so close by.

"Am I? I was not aware of it." But she then gave her attention to the view and was silent for several moments. Strange leant back against the bridge, folded his arms and looked very intently at her.

"Quiet," he repeated, "and a little sad, I think. And so, you know, I must talk to you."

This made her smile in spite of herself. "Must you?" she said. But then the very act of smiling and of speaking to him seemed to give her pain and so she sighed and looked away again.

"Indeed. Because, whenever
I
am melancholy you talk to me of cheerful things and cure my low spirits and so I must now do the same for
ou
. That is what friendship is."

"Openness and honesty, Mr Strange. Those are the best foun- dations for friendship, I think."

"Oh! You think me secretive. I see by your face that you do. You may be right, but I . . . That is . . . No, I dare say you are right. It is not, I suppose, a profession that encourages . . ."

Miss Greysteel interrupted him. "I did not mean a fling at your profession. Not at all. All professions have their different sorts of iscretion.
That
, I think, is quite understood."

"Then I do not understand you."

"It is no matter. We should rejoin my aunt and papa."

"No, wait, Miss Greysteel, it will not do. Who else will put me right, when I am going wrong, if not you? Tell me – whom do you think I deceive?"

Miss Greysteel was silent a moment and then, with some reluctance, said, "Your friend of last night, perhaps?"

"My friend of last night! What do you mean?"

Miss Greysteel looked very unhappy. "The young woman in the gondola who was so anxious to speak to you and so unwilling – for a full half hour – that any one else should."

"Ah!" Strange smiled and shook his head. "No, you have run away with a wrong idea. She is not my friend. She is Lord Byron's."

"Oh! . . ." Miss Greysteel reddened a little. "She seemed rather an agitated young person."

"She is not best pleased with his lordship's behaviour." Strange shrugged. "Who is? She wished to discover if I were able to influence his lordship and I was at some pains to persuade her that there is not now, nor ever was, I think, magic enough in England to do that."

"You are offended."

"Not in the least. Now I believe we are closer to that good understanding which you require for friendship. Will you shake hands with me?"

"With the greatest goodwill," she said.

"Flora? Mr Strange?" cried Dr Greysteel, striding up to them. "What is this?"

Miss Greysteel was a little confused. It was of the greatest importance to her that her aunt and father should have a good opinion of Mr Strange. She did not want them to know that she herself had suspected him of wrongdoing. She feigned not to have heard her father's question and began to speak energetically of some paintings in the Scuola di Giorgio degli Schiavoni that she had a great desire to see. "It is really no distance. We could go now. You will come with us, I hope?" she said to Strange.

Strange smiled ruefully at her. "I have work to do."

"Your book?" asked Dr Greysteel.

"Not today. I am working to uncover the magic which will bring forth a fairy-spirit to be my assistant. I have lost count of how many times I have tried – and how many ways. And never, of course, with the least success. But such is the predicament of the modern magician! Spells which were once taken for granted by every minor sorcerer in England are now so elusive that we despair of ever getting them back. Martin Pale had twenty-eight fairy servants. I would count myself fortunate to have one."

"Fairies!" exclaimed Aunt Greysteel. "But by all accounts they are very mischievous creatures! Are you quite certain, Mr Strange, that you really wish to burden yourself with such a troublesome companion?"

"My dear aunt!" said Miss Greysteel. "Mr Strange knows what he is doing."

But Aunt Greysteel was concerned and to illustrate her point she began to speak of a river that flowed through the village in Derbyshire where she and Dr Greysteel had grown up. It had been enchanted by fairies long ago and as a consequence had shrunk from a noble torrent to a gentle brook and, though this had happened centuries and centuries ago, the local population still remembered and resented it. They still talked of the workshops they might have set up and the industries they might have founded if only the river had been strong enough to supply the power.
³

Strange listened politely and when she had finished he said, "Oh, to be sure! Fairies are naturally full of wickedness and exceedingly difficult to control. Were I successful, I should cer- tainly have to take care whom my fairy – or fairies – associated with." He cast a glance at Miss Greysteel. "Nevertheless their power and knowledge are such that a magician cannot lightly dispense with their help – not unless he is Gilbert Norrell. Every fairy that ever drew breath has more magic in his head, hands and heart than could be contained in the greatest library of magical books that ever existed."
⁴

"Has he indeed?" said Aunt Greysteel. "Well, that is remark- able."

Dr Greysteel and Aunt Greysteel wished Strange success with his magic and Miss Greysteel reminded him that he had promised to go with her one day soon to look at a pianoforte which they had heard was for hire from an antiquarian who lived near the Campo San Angelo. Then the Greysteels went on to the rest of the day's pleasures while Strange returned to his lodgings near Santa Maria Zobenigo.

Most English gentlemen who come to Italy nowadays write poems or descriptions of their tour, or they make sketches. Italians who wish to rent apartments to these gentlemen are well advised to provide them with rooms where they can pursue these occupa- tions. Strange's landlord, for example, had set aside a shadowy little chamber at the top of his house for his tenant's use. It contained an ancient table with four carved gryphons to serve for its legs; there was a sea-captain's chair, a painted wooden cupboard such as one might find in a church and a wooden figure two or three feet tall, which stood upon a pillar. It represented a smiling man holding something round and red in his hand, which might have been an apple, might have been a pomegranate or might have been a red ball. It was difficult to imagine quite where this gentleman could have come from: he was a little too cheerful for a saint in a church and not quite comical enough for a coffee- house sign.

Strange had found the cupboard to be damp and full of mildew and so he had abandoned it and placed his books and papers in heaps about the floor. But he had made a sort of friend of the wooden figure and, as he worked, he constantly addressed remarks to it, such as, "What is your opinion?" and "Doncaster or Belasis? What do you suggest?"
⁵
and "Well? Do you see him? I do not," and once in tones of extreme exasperation, "Oh! Be quiet, will you?"

He took out a paper on which he had scribbled a spell. He moved his lips as magicians do when they are reciting magic words. When he had finished, he glanced about the room as though he half-expected to find another person there. But whom- ever it was that he hoped to see, he did not see them. He sighed, crumpled the spell into a ball and threw it at the little wooden figure. Then he took another sheet of paper – made some notes – consulted a book – retrieved the first piece of paper from the floor – smoothed it out – studied it for half an hour, pulling at his hair all the while – crumpled it up again and threw it out the window.

A bell had begun to toll somewhere. It was a sad and lonely sound which made the hearer think of wild forlorn places, dark skies and emptiness. Some of these ideas must have occurred to Strange because he became distracted and stopped what he was doing and glanced out of the window as though to reassure himself that Venice had not suddenly become an empty, silent ruin. But the scene outside was the usual one of bustle and animation. Sunlight shone on blue water. The campo was crowded with people: there were Venetian ladies coming to Santa Maria Zo- benigo, Austrian soldiers strolling about arm-in-arm and looking at everything, shopkeepers trying to sell them things, urchins fighting and begging, cats going about their secret business.

Strange returned to his work. He took off his coat and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. Next he left the room and returned with a knife and a small white basin. He used the knife to let some blood from his arm. He put the basin on the table and peered into it to see if he had got enough, but the loss of blood must have affected him more than he supposed because in a moment of faintness he knocked the table and the bowl fell upon the floor. He cursed in Italian (a good cursing language) and looked around for some- thing to wipe up the blood.

It so happened that there was some white cloth lying bundled up on top of the table. It was a nightshirt which Arabella had sewn in the early years of their marriage. Without realizing what it was, Strange reached out for it. He had almost grasped it, when Stephen Black stept out of the shadows and handed him a rag. Stephen accompanied the action with that faint half-bow that is second nature to a well-trained servant. Strange took the rag and mopped up the blood (somewhat ineffectually), but of Stephen's presence in the room he appeared to know nothing at all. Stephen picked up the nightshirt, shook out the creases, carefully folded it up and placed it neatly on a stool in the corner.

Strange threw himself back into his chair, caught the damaged part of his arm upon the edge of the table, swore again and covered his face with his hands.

"What in the world is he trying to do?" asked Stephen Black in a hushed tone.

"Oh, he is attempting to summon me!" declared the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. "He wishes to ask me all sorts of questions about magic! But there is no need to whisper, my dear Stephen. He can neither see nor hear you. They are so ridiculous, these English magicians! They do everything in such a roundabout way. I tell you, Stephen, watching this fellow try to do magic is like watching a man sit down to eat his dinner with his coat on backwards, a blindfold round his eyes and a bucket over his head! When did you ever see
me
perform such nonsensical tricks? Draw forth my own blood or scribble words on paper? Whenever I wish to do something, I simply speak to the air – or to the stones – or to the sunlight – or the sea – or to whatever it is and politely request them to help me. And then, since my alliances with these powerful spirits were set in place thousands of years ago, they are only too glad to do whatever I ask."