Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke Read Free Book Online Page B

replied that he did.
    “Indeed? That is most interesting. I myself am fond of a newspaper. But I have little leisure for reading — except such books as come my way in the course of my duties for Mr Norrell. And what sort of thing does one find in a London paper nowadays? — you will excuse my asking, sir, only Mr Norrell, who never looks at a paper of any sort, put the question to me yesterday and I did not think myself qualified to answer it.”
    “Well,” said Mr Segundus, a little puzzled, “there are all sorts of things. What did you wish to know? There are accounts of the actions of His Majesty’s Navy against the French; speeches of the Government; reports of scandals and divorces. Is this what you meant?”
    “Oh yes!” said Childermass. “You explain it very well, sir. I wonder,” he continued, growing thoughtful, “whether provincial news is ever reported in the London papers? — whether (for example) today’s remarkable occurrences might merit a paragraph?”
    “I do not know,” said Mr Segundus. “It seems to me quite possible but then, you know, Yorkshire is so far from London — perhaps the London editors will never get to hear of what has happened.”
    “Ah,” said Mr Childermass; and then was silent.
    Snow began to fall; a few flakes at first — then rather more than a few; until a million little flakes were drifting down from a soft, heavy greenish-grey sky. All the buildings of York became a little fainter, a little greyer in the snow; the people all seemed a little smaller; the cries and shouts, the footsteps and hoofsteps, the creaks of carriages and the slammings of doors were all a little more distant. And all these things became somehow less important until all the world contained was the falling snow, the sea-green sky, the dim, grey ghost of York Cathedral — and Childermass.
    And all this time Childermass said nothing. Mr Segundus wondered what more he required — all his questions had been answered. But Childermass waited and watched Mr Segundus with his queer black eyes, as if he were waiting for Mr Segundus to say one thing more — as if he fully expected that Mr Segundus would say it — indeed as if nothing in the world were more certain.
    “If you wish,” said Mr Segundus, shaking the snow from his cape, “I can remove all the uncertainty from the business. I can write a letter to the editor of The Times informing him of Mr Norrell’s extraordinary feats.”
    “Ah! That is generous indeed!” said Childermass. “Believe me, sir, I know very well that not every gentleman would be so magnanimous in defeat. But it is no more than I expected. For I told Mr Norrell that I did not think there could be a more obliging gentleman than Mr Segundus.”
    “Not at all,” said Mr Segundus, “it is nothing.”
    The Learned Society of York Magicians was disbanded and its members were obliged to give up magic (all except Mr Segundus) — and, though some of them were foolish and not all of them were entirely amiable, I do not think that they deserved such a fate. For what is a magician to do who, in accordance with a pernicious agreement, is not allowed to study magic? He idles about his house day after day, disturbs his niece (or wife, or daughter) at her needlework and pesters the servants with questions about matters in which he never took an interest before — all for the sake of having someone to talk to, until the servants complain of him to their mistress. He picks up a book and begins to read, but he is not attending to what he reads and he has got to page 22 before he discovers it is a novel — the sort of work which above all others he most despises — and he puts it down in disgust. He asks his niece (or wife, or daughter) ten times a day what o’clock it is, for he cannot believe that time can go so slowly — and he falls out with his pocket watch for the same reason.
    Mr Honeyfoot, I am glad to say, fared a little better than the others. He, kind-hearted soul,