The library at Hurtfew
Autumn 1806-January 1807
SOME YEARS AGO there was in the city of York a society of magicians. They met upon the third Wednesday of every month and read each other long, dull papers upon the history of English magic.
They were gentleman-magicians, which is to say they had never harmed anyone by magic - nor ever done anyone the slightest good. In fact, to own the truth, not one of these magicians had ever cast the smallest spell, nor by magic caused one leaf to tremble upon a tree, made one mote of dust to alter its course or changed a single hair upon anyone's head. But, with this one minor reservation, they enjoyed a reputation as some of the wisest and most magical gentlemen in Yorkshire.
A great magician has said of his profession that its practitioners ". . . must pound and rack their brains to make the least learning go in, but quarrelling always comes very naturally to them",l and the York magicians had proved the truth of this for a number of years.
In the autumn of 1806 they received an addition in a gentleman called John Segundus. At the first meeting that he attended Mr Segundus rose and addressed the society. He began by complimenting the gentlemen upon their distinguished history; he listed the many celebrated magicians and historians that had at one time or another belonged to the York society. He hinted that it had been no small inducement to him in coming to York to know of the existence of such a society. Northern magicians, he reminded his audience, had always been better respected than southern ones. Mr Segundus said that he had studied magic for many years and knew the histories of all the great magicians of long ago. He read the new publications upon the subject and had even made a modest contribution to their number, but recently he had begun to wonder why the great feats of magic that he read about remained on the pages of his book and were no longer seen in the street or written about in the newspapers. Mr Segundus wished to know, he said, why modern magicians were unable to work the magic they wrote about. In short, he wished to know why there was no more magic done in England.
It was the most commonplace question in the world. It was the question which, sooner or later, every child in the kingdom asks his governess or his schoolmaster or his parent. Yet the learned members of the York society did not at all like hearing it asked and the reason was this: they were no more able to answer it than anyone else.
The President of the York society (whose name was Dr Foxcastle) turned to John Segundus and explained that the question was a wrong one. "It presupposes that magicians have some sort of duty to do magic which is clearly nonsense. You would not, I imagine, suggest that it is the task of botanists to devise more flowers? Or that astronomers should labour to rearrange the stars? Magicians, Mr Segundus, study magic which was done long ago. Why should anyone expect more?"
An elderly gentleman with faint blue eyes and faintly-coloured clothes (called either Hart or Hunt - Mr Segundus could never quite catch the name) faintly said that it did not matter in the least whether any body expected it or not. A gentleman could not do magic.. Magic was what street sorcerers pretended to do in order to rob children of their pennies. Magic (in the practical sense) was much fallen off. It had low connexions. It was the bosom companion of unshaven faces, gypsies, house-breakers; the frequenter of dingy rooms with dirty yellow curtains. Oh no! A gentleman could not do magic. A gentleman might study the history of magic (nothing could be nobler) but he could not do any. The elderly gentleman looked with faint, fatherly eyes at Mr Segundus and said that he hoped Mr Segundus had not been trying to cast spells.
Mr Segundus blushed.
But the famous magician's maxim held true: two magicians -in this case Dr Foxcastle and Mr Hunt or Hart ~ could not agree without two more thinking the exact opposite. Several of the gentlemen began to discover that they were entirely of Mr Segundus's opinion and that no question in all of magical scholarship could be so important as this one. Chief among Mr Segundus's supporters was a gentleman called Honeyfoot, a pleasant, friendly sort of man of fifty-five, with a red face and grey hair. As the exchanges became more bitter and Dr Foxcastle grew in sarcasm towards Mr Segundus, Mr Honeyfoot turned to him several times and whispered such comfort as, "Do not mind them, sir. I am entirely of your opinion;" and "You are quite right, sir, do not let them sway you;" and "You have hit upon it! Indeed you have, sir! It was the want of the right question which held us back before. Now that you are come we shall do great things."
Such kind words as these did not fail to find a grateful listener in John Segundus, whose shock shewed clearly in his face. "I fear that I have made myself disagreeable," he whispered to Mr Honeyfoot. "That was not my intention. I had hoped for these gentlemen's good opinion."
At first Mr Segundus was inclined to be downcast but a particularly spiteful outburst from Dr Foxcastle roused him to a little indignation. "That gentleman," said Dr Foxcastle, fixing Mr Segundus with a cold stare, "seems determined that we should share in the unhappy fate of the Society of Manchester Magicians!"
Mr Segundus inclined his head towards Mr Honeyfoot and said, "I had not expected to find the magicians of Yorkshire quite so obstinate. If magic does not have friends in Yorkshire where may we find them?"
Mr Honeyfoot's kindness to Mr Segundus did not end with that evening. He invited Mr Segundus to his house in High-Petergate to eat a good dinner in company with Mrs Honeyfoot and her three pretty daughters, which Mr Segundus, who was a single gentleman and not rich, was glad to do. After dinner Miss Honeyfoot played the pianoforte and Miss Jane sang in Italian. The next day Mrs Honeyfoot told her husband that John Segundus was exactly what a gentleman should be, but she feared he would never profit by it for it was not the fashion to be modest and quiet and kind-hearted.
The intimacy between the two gentlemen advanced very rapidly. Soon Mr Segundus was spending two or three evenings out of every seven at the house in High-Petergate. Once there was quite a crowd of young people present which naturally led to dancing. It was all very delightful but often Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus would slip away to discuss the one thing which really interested both of them - why was there no more magic done in England? But talk as they would (often till two or three in the morning) they came no nearer to an answer; and perhaps this was not so very remarkable, for all sorts of magicians and antiquarians and scholars had been asking the same question for rather more than two hundred years.
Mr Honeyfoot was a tall, cheerful, smiling gentleman with a great deal of energy, who always liked to be doing or planning something, rarely thinking to inquire whether that something were to the purpose. The present task put him very much in mind of the great mediaeval magicians,2 who, whenever they had some seemingly impossible problem to solve, would ride away for a year and a day with only a fairy-servant or two to guide them and at the end of this time never failed to find the answer. Mr Honeyfoot told Mr Segundus that in his opinion they could not do better than emulate these great men, some of whom had gone to the most retired parts of England and Scotland and Ireland (where magic was strongest) while others had ridden out of this world entirely and no one nowadays was quite clear about where they had gone or what they had done when they got there. Mr Honeyfoot did not propose going quite so far - indeed he did not wish to go far at all because it was winter and the roads were very shocking. Nevertheless he was strongly persuaded that they should go somewhere and consult someone. He told Mr Segundus that he thought they were both growing stale; the advantage of a fresh opinion would be immense. But no destination, no object presented itself. Mr Honeyfoot was in despair: and then he thought of the other magician.
Some years before, the York society had heard rumours that there was another magician in Yorkshire. This gentleman lived in a very retired part of the country where (it was said) he passed his days and nights studying rare magical texts in his wonderful library. Dr Foxcastle had found out the other magician's name and where he might be found, and had written a polite letter inviting the other magician to become a member of the York society. The other magician had written back, expressing his sense of the honour done him and his deep regret: he was quite unable - the long distance between York and Hurtfew Abbey - the indifferent roads - the work that he could on no account neglect - etc., etc.
The York magicians had all looked over the letter and expressed their doubts that any body with such small handwriting could ever make a tolerable magician. Then - with some slight regret for the wonderful library they would never see - they had dismissed the other magician from their thoughts. But Mr Honeyfoot said to Mr Segundus that the importance of the question, "Why was there no more magic done in England?" was such that it would be very wrong of them to neglect any opening. Who could say? - the other magician's opinion might be worth having. And so he wrote a letter proposing that he and Mr Segundus give themselves the satisfaction of waiting on the other magician on the third Tuesday after Christmas at half past two. A reply came very promptly; Mr Honeyfoot with his customary good nature and good fellowship immediately sent for Mr Segundus and shewed him the letter. The other magician wrote in his small handwriting that he would be very happy in the acquaintance. This was enough. Mr Honeyfoot was very well pleased and instantly strode off to tell Waters, the coachman, when he would be needed.
Mr Segundus was left alone in the room with the letter in his hand. He read: ". . . I am, I confess, somewhat at a loss to account for the sudden honour done to me. It is scarcely conceivable that the magicians of York with all the happiness of each other's society and the incalculable benefit of each other's wisdom should feel any necessity to consult a solitary scholar such as myself. . ."
There was an air of subtle sarcasm about the letter; the writer seemed to mock Mr Honeyfoot with every word. Mr Segundus was glad to reflect that Mr Honeyfoot could scarcely have noticed or he would not have gone with such elated spirits to speak to Waters. It was such a very unfriendly letter that Mr Segundus found that all his desire to look upon the other magician had quite evaporated. Well, no matter, he thought, I must go because Mr Honeyfoot wishes it - and what, after all, is the worst that can happen? We will see him and be disappointed and that will be an end of it.
The day of the visit was preceded by stormy weather; rain had made long ragged pools in the bare, brown fields; wet roofs were like cold stone mirrors; and Mr Honeyfoot's post-chaise travelled through a world that seemed to contain a much higher proportion of chill grey sky and a much smaller one of solid comfortable earth than was usually the case.
Ever since the first evening Mr Segundus had been intending to ask Mr Honeyfoot about the Learned Society of Magicians of Manchester which Dr Foxcastle had mentioned. He did so now.
"It was a society of quite recent foundation," said Mr Honeyfoot, "and its members were clergymen of the poorer sort, respectable ex-tradesmen, apothecaries, lawyers, retired mill owners who had got up a little Latin and so forth, such people as might be termed half-gentlemen. I believe Dr Foxcastle was glad when they disbanded - he does not think that people of that sort have any business becoming magicians. And yet, you know, there were several clever men among them. They began, as you did, with the aim of bringing back practical magic to the world. They were practical men and wished to apply the principles of reason and science to magic as they had done to the manufacturing arts. They called it 'Rational Thaumaturgy'. When it did not work they became discouraged. Well, they cannot be blamed for that. But they let their disillusionment lead them into all sorts of difficulties. They began to think that there was not now nor ever had been magic in the world. They said that the Aureate magicians were all deceivers or were themselves deceived. And that the Raven King was an invention of the northern English to keep themselves from the tyranny of the south (being north-country men themselves they had some sympathy with that). Oh, their arguments were very ingenious - I forget how they explained fairies. They disbanded, as I told you, and one of them, whose name was Aubrey I think, meant to write it all down and publish it. But when it came to the point he found that a sort of fixed melancholy had settled on him and he was not able to rouse himself enough to begin."
"Poor gentleman," said Mr Segundus. "Perhaps it is the age. It is not an age for magic or scholarship, is it sir? Tradesmen prosper, sailors, politicians, but not magicians. Our time is past." He thought for a moment. "Three years ago," he said, "I was in London and I met with a street magician, a vagabonding, yellow- curtain sort of fellow with a strange disfiguration. This man persuaded me to part with quite a high sum of money-in return for which he promised to tell me a great secret. When I had paid him the money he told me that one day magic would be restored to England by two magicians. Now I do not at all believe in prophecies, yet it is thinking on what he said that has determined me to discover the truth of our fallen state - is not that strange?" "You were entirely right - prophecies are great nonsense," said Mr Honeyfoot, laughing. And then, as if struck by a thought, he said, "We are two magicians. Honeyfoot and Segundus," he said trying it out, as if thinking how it would look in the newspapers and history books, "Honeyfoot and Segundus - it sounds very well."
Mr Segundus shook his head. "The fellow knew my profession and it was only to be expected that he should pretend to me that I was one of the two men. But in the end he told me quite plainly that I was not. At first it seemed as if he was not sure of it. There was something about me . . . He made me write down my name and looked at it a good long while."
"I expect he could see there was no more money to be got out of you," said Mr Honeyfoot.
Hurtfew Abbey was some fourteen miles north-west of York. The antiquity was all in the name. There had been an abbey but that was long ago; the present house had been built in the reign of Anne. It was very handsome and "square and solid-looking in a fine park full of ghostly-looking wet trees (for the day was becoming rather misty). A river (called the Hurt) ran through the park and a fine classical-looking bridge led across it.
The other magician (whose name was Norrell) was in the hall to receive his guests. He was small, like his handwriting, and his voice when he welcomed them to Hurtfew was rather quiet as if he were not used to speaking his thoughts out loud. Mr Honeyfoot who was a little deaf did not catch what he said; "I get old, sir - a common failing. I hope you will bear with me."
Mr Norrell led his guests to a handsome drawing-room with a good fire burning in the hearth. No candles had been lit; two fine windows gave plenty of light to see by - although it was a grey sort of light and not at all cheerful.
Yet the idea of a second fire, or candles, burning somewhere in the room kept occurring to Mr Segundus, so that he continually turned in his chair and looked about him to discover where they might be. But there never was anything - only perhaps a mirror or an antique clock.
Mr Norrell said that he had read Mr Segundus's account of the careers of Martin Pale's fairy-servants.3 "A creditable piece of work, sir, but you left out Master Fallow thought. A very minor spirit certainly, whose usefulness to the great Dr Pale was questionable.4 Nevertheless your little history was incomplete without him."
There was a pause. "A fairy-spirit called Fallowthought, sir?" said Mr Segundus, "I . . . that is . . . that is to say I never heard of any such creature- in this world or any other."
Mr Norrell smiled for the first time - but it was an inward sort of smile. "Of course," he said, "I am forgetting. It is all in Holgarth and Pickle's history of their own dealings with Master Fallowthought, which you could scarcely have read. I congratulate you - they were an unsavoury pair - more criminal than magical: the less one knows of them the better." "Ah, sir!" cried Mr Honeyfoot, suspecting that Mr Norrell was speaking of one of his books. "We hear marvellous things of your library. All the magicians in Yorkshire fell into fits of jealousy when they heard of the great number of books you had got!"
"Indeed?" said Mr Norrell coldly. "You surprise me. I had no idea my affairs were so commonly known. . . I expect it is Thoroughgood," he said thought- fully, naming a man who sold books and curiosities in Coffee-yard in York.
"Childermass has warned me several times that Thoroughgood is a chatterer ."
Mr Honeyfoot did not quite understand this. If he had had such quantities of magical books he would have loved to talk of them, be complimented on them, and have them admired; and he could not believe that Mr Norrell was not the same. Meaning therefore to be kind and to set Mr Norrell at his ease (for he had taken it into his head that the gentleman was shy) he persisted: "Might I be permitted to express a wish, sir, that we might see your wonderful library?"
Mr Segundus was certain that Norrell would refuse, but instead Mr Norrell regarded them steadily for some moments (he had small blue eyes and seemed to peep out at them from some secret place inside himself) and then, almost graciously, he granted Mr Honeyfoot's request. Mr Honeyfoot was all gratitude, happy in the belief that he had pleased Mr Norrell as much as himself.
Mr Norrell led the other two gentlemen along a passage - a very ordinary passage, thought Mr Segundus, panelled and floored with well-polished oak, and smelling of beeswax; then there was a staircase, or perhaps only three or four steps; and then another passage where the air was somewhat colder and the floor was good York stone: all entirely unremarkable. (Unless the second passage had come before the staircase or steps? Or had there in truth peen a staircase at all?) Mr Segundus was one of those happy gentlemen who can always say whether they face north or south, east or west. It was not a talent he took any particular pride in - it was as natural to him as knowing that his head still stood upon his shoulders - but in Mr Norrell's house his gift deserted him. He could never afterwards picture the sequence of passageways and rooms through which they had passed, nor quite decide how long they had taken to reach the library. And he could not tell the direction; it seemed to him as if Mr Norrell had discovered some fifth point of the compass -not east, nor south, nor west, nor north, but somewhere quite different and this was the direction in which he led them. Mr Honeyfoot, on the other hand, did not appear to notice any thing odd.
The library was perhaps a little smaller than the drawing-room they had just quitted. There was a noble fire in the hearth and all was comfort and quiet. Yet once again the light within the room did not seem to accord with the three tall twelve-paned windows, so that once again Mr Segundus was made uncomfortable by a persistent feeling that there ought to have been other candles in the room, other windows or another fire to account for the light. What windows there were looked out upon a wide expanse of dusky English rain so that Mr Segundus could not make out the view nor guess where in the house they stood.
The room was not empty; there was a man sitting at a table who rose as they entered, and whom Mr Norrell briefly declared to be Childermass, his man of business.
Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus, being magicians themselves, had not needed to be told that the library of Hurtfew Abbey was dearer to its possessor than all his other riches; and they were not surprized to discover that Mr Norrell had constructed a beautiful jewel box to house his heart's treasure.
The bookcases which lined the walls of the room were built of English woods and resembled Gothic arches laden with carvings. There were carvings of leaves (dried and twisted leaves, as if the season the artist had intended to represent were autumn), carvings of intertwining roots and branches, carvings of berries and ivy - all wonderfully done. But the wonder of the bookcases was nothing to the wonder of the books. The first thing a student of magic learns is that there are books about magic and books of magic. And the second thing he learns is that a perfectly respectable example of the former may be had for two or three guineas at a good bookseller, and that the value of the latter is above rubies.5 The collection of the York society was reckoned very fine - almost remarkable; among its many volumes were five works written between 1550 and 1700 and which might reasonably be claimed as books of magic (though one was no more than a couple of ragged pages). Books of magic are rare and neither Mr Segundus nor Mr Honeyfoot had ever seen more than two or three in a private library. At Hurtfew all the walls were lined with bookshelves and all the shelves were filled with books. And the books were all, or almost all, old books; books of magic. Oh! to be sure many had clean modern bindings, but clearly these were volumes which Mr Norrell had had rebound (he favoured, it seemed, plain calf with the titles stamped in neat silver capitals). But many had bindings that were old, old, old, with crumbling spines and corners.
Mr Segundus glanced at the spines of the books on a nearby shelf; the first title he read was How to putte Questiones to the Dark and understand its Answeres.
"A foolish work," said Mr Norrell. Mr Segundus started - he had not known his host was so close by. Mr Norrell continued, "I would advise you not to waste a moment's thought upon it."
So Mr Segundus looked at the next book which was Belasis's Instructions. "You know Belasis, I dare say?" asked Mr Norrell.
"Only by reputation, sir," said Mr Segundus, "I have often heard that he held the key to a good many things, but I have also heard - indeed all the authorities agree - that every copy of The Instructions was destroyed long ago. Yet now here it is! Why, sir, it is extraordinary! It is wonderful!"
"You expect a great deal of Belasis," remarked Norrell, "and once upon a time I was entirely of your mind. I remember that for many months I devoted eight hours out of every twenty-four to studying his work; a compliment, I may say, that I have never paid any other author. But ultimately he is disappointing. He is mystical where he ought to be intelligible - and intelligible where he ought to be obscure. There are some things which have no business being put into books for all the world to read. For myself I no longer have any very great opinion of Belasis."
"Here is a book I never even heard of sir," said Mr Segundus, "The Excellences of Christo- Judaic Magick. What can you tell me of this?"
"Ha!" cried Mr Norrell. "It dates from the seventeenth century, but I have no great opinion of it. Its author was a liar, a drunkard, an adulterer and a rogue. I am glad he has been so completely forgot."
It seemed that it was not only live magicians which Mr Norrell despised. He had taken the measure of all the dead ones too and found them wanting.
Mr Honeyfoot meanwhile, his hands in the air like a Methodist praising God, was walking rapidly from bookcase to bookcase; he could scarcely stop long enough to read the title of one book before his eye was caught by another on the other side of the room. "Oh, Mr Norrell!" he cried. "Such a quantity of books! Surely we shall find the answers to all our questions here!"
"I doubt it, sir," was Mr Norrell's dry reply.
The man of business gave a short laugh - laughter which was clearly directed at Mr Honeyfoot, yet Mr Norrell did not reprimand him either by look or word, and Mr Segundus wondered what sort of business it could be that Mr Norrell entrusted to this person. With his long hair as ragged as rain and as black as thunder, he would have looked quite at home upon a windswept moor, or lurking in some pitch-black alleyway, or perhaps in a novel by Mrs Radcliffe.
Mr Segundus took down The Instructions of Jacques Belasis and, despite Mr Norrell's poor opinion of it, instantly hit upon two extraordinary passages.6 Then, conscious of time passing and of the queer, dark eye of the man of business upon him, he opened The Excellences of Christo-Judaic Magick. This was not (as he had supposed) a printed book, but a manuscript scribbled down very hurriedly upon the backs of all kinds of bits of paper, most of them old ale-house bills. Here Mr Segundus read of wonderful adventures. The seventeenth-century magician had used his scanty magic to battle against great and powerful enemies: battles which no human magician ought to have attempted. He had scribbled down the history of his patchwork victories just as those enemies were closing around him. The author had known very well that, as he wrote, time was running out for him and death was the best that he could hope for.
The room was becoming darker; the antique scrawl was growing dim on the page. Two footmen came into the room and, watched by the unbusiness- like man of business, lit candles, drew window curtains and heaped fresh coals upon the fire. Mr Segundus thought it best to remind Mr Honeyfoot that they had not yet explained to Mr Norrell the reason for their visit.
As they were leaving the library Mr Segundus noticed something he thought odd. A chair was drawn up to the fire and by the chair stood a little table. Upon the table lay the boards and leather bindings of a very old book, a pair of scissars and a strong, cruel-looking knife, such as a gardener might use for pruning. But the pages of the book were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, thought Mr Segundus, he has sent it away to be bound anew. Yet the old binding still looked strong and why should Mr Norrell trouble himself to remove the pages and risk damaging them? A skilled bookbinder was the proper person to do such work.
When they were seated in the drawing-room again, Mr Honeyfoot addressed Mr Norrell. "What I have seen here today, sir, convinces me that you are the best person to help us. Mr Segundus and I are of the opinion that modern magicians are on the wrong path; they waste their energies upon trifles. Do not you agree, sir?"
"Oh! certainly," said Mr Norrell. "Our question," continued Mr Honeyfoot, "is why magic has fallen from its once-great state in our great nation. Our question is, sir, why is no more magic done in England?"
Mr Norrell's small blue eyes grew harder and brighter and his lips tightened as if he were seeking to suppress a great and secret delight within him. It was as if, thought Mr Segundus, he had waited a long time for someone to ask him this question and had had his answer ready for years. Mr Norrell said, "I cannot help you with your question, sir, for I do not understand it. It is a wrong question, sir. Magic is not ended in England. I myself am quite a tolerable practical magician."
(BookBrowse comment: The footnotes in Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell appear at the bottom of the appropriate and are integral to the context of the novel itself.)
1. The History and Practice of English Magic, by Jonathan Strange, vol. I, chap. 2, pub. John Murray, London, 1816.
2. More properly called Aureate or Golden Age magicians.
3. A Complete Description of Dr Pale's fairy-servants, their Names, Histories, Characters and the Services they performed for Him by John Segundus, pub. by Thomas Burnham, Bookseller, Northampton, 1799.
4. Dr Martin Pale (1485-1567) was the son of a Warwick leather-tanner. He was the last of the Aureate or Golden Age magicians. Other magicians followed him (c.f. Gregory Absalom) but their reputations are debatable. Pale was certainly the last English magician to venture into Faerie.
5. Magicians, as we know from Jonathan Strange's maxim, will quarrel about any thing and many years and much learning has been applied to the vexed question of whether such and such a volume qualifies as a book of magic. But most laymen find they are served well enough by this simple rule: books written before magic ended in England are books of magic, books written later are books about magic. The principle, from which the layman's rule of thumb derives, is that a book of magic should be written by a practising magician, rather than a theoretical magician or a historian of magic. What could be more reasonable? And yet already we are in difficulties. The great masters of magic, those we term the Golden Age or Aureate magicians (Thomas Godbless, Ralph Stokesey, Catherine of Winchester, the Raven King) wrote little, or little has survived. It is probable that Thomas Godbless could not write. Stokesey learnt Latin at a little grammar school in his native Devonshire, but all that we know of him comes from other writers.
Magicians only applied themselves to writing books when magic was already in decline. Darkness was already approaching to quench the glory of English magic; those men we call the Silver Age or Argentine magicians (Thomas Lanchester, 1518-90; Jacques Belasis, 1526-1604:; Nicholas Goubert, 1535-78; Gregory Absalom, 1507-99) were flickering candles in the twilight; they were scholars first and magicians second. Certainly they claimed to do magic, some even had a fairy-servant or two, but they seem to have accomplished very little in this way and some modem scholars have doubted whether they could do magic at all.
6. The first passage which Mr Segundus read concerned England, Faerie (which magicians sometimes call "the Other Lands") and a strange country that is reputed to lie on the far side of Hell. Mr Segundus had heard something of the symbolic and magical bond which links these three lands, yet never had he read so clear an explanation of it as was put forward here.
The second extract concerned one of England's greatest magicians, Martin Pale. In Gregory
Absalom's The Tree of Learning there is a famous passage which relates how, while journeying through Faerie, the last of the great Aureate magicians, Martin Pale, paid a visit to a fairy-prince. Like most of his race the fairy had a great multitude of names, honorifics, titles and pseudonyms; but usually he was known as Cold Henry. Cold Henry made a long and deferential speech to his guest. The speech was full of metaphors and obscure allusions, but what Cold Henry seemed to be saying was that fairies were naturally wicked creatures who did not always know when they were going wrong. To this Martin Pale briefly and somewhat enigmatically replied that not all Englishmen have the same size feet.
For several centuries no one had the faintest idea what any of this might mean, though several theories were advanced - and John Segundus was familiar with all of them. The most popular was that developed by William Pantler in the early eighteenth century. Pantler said that Cold Henry and Pale were speaking of theology. Fairies (as everybody knows) are beyond the reach of the Church; no Christ has come to them, nor ever will- and what is to become of them on Judgement Day no one knows. According to Pantler Cold Henry meant to enquire of Pale if there was any hope that fairies, like men, might receive Eternal Salvation. Pale's reply ~ that Englishmen's feet are different sizes was his way of saying that not all Englishmen will be saved. Based on this Pantler goes on to attribute to Pale a rather odd belief that Heaven is large enough to hold only a finite number of the Blessed; for every Englishmen who is damned, a place opens up in Heaven for a fairy. Pantler's reputation as a theoretical magician rests entirely on the book he wrote on the subject
In Jacques Belasis's Instructions Mr Segundus read a very different explanation. Three centuries before Martin Pale set foot in Cold Henry's castle Cold Henry had had another human visitor, an English magician even greater than Pale ~ Ralph Stokesey - who had left behind him a pair of boots. 'The boots, said Belasis, were old, which is probably why Stokesey did not take them with him, but their presence in the castle caused great consternation to all its fairy-inhabitants who held English magicians in great veneration. In particular Cold Henry was in a pickle because he feared that in some devious, incomprehensible way, Christian morality might hold him responsible for the loss of the boots. So he was trying to rid himself of the terrible objects by passing them on to Pale who did not want them.
From Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke, chapter 1, pages 3-15. Text copyright by Susanna Clarke; illustrations copyright by Portia Rosenberg. All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced without written permission from the publisher, Bloomsbury Press.
第一卷 诺雷尔先生
第一章 赫特菲的图书馆
1806年秋－1807年一月
从前在约克城有一个魔法师协会。他们每个月的第三个星期三都会聚在一起，相互阅读有关英国魔法史的冗长乏味的论文。
他们都是绅士魔法师，也就是说他们从未用魔法伤害过任何人――也从未凭魔法有过些微的与人为善。实际上，这些魔法师们从未施过一句咒语，也从未用魔法来做过哪怕是晃动树上的一片叶子、改变一粒微尘的运行轨迹甚或是拂动别人头上的一丝头发这样的小事。不过尽管有这样一点小小的美中不足，他们还是享有约克郡最有智慧、最具魔力绅士的美誉。
有一位伟大的魔法师在谈到他的职业时曾经说过：它的从业者“……必须绞尽脑汁虚心学习，但他们之间也会很自然地发生争论,”[①]多年来约克的魔法师们已经证明了这句话的正确性。
1806年的秋天，魔法师们接纳了一位新绅士：约翰·塞贡德斯。塞贡德斯先生在他第一次参加的聚会上起身发言，先是恭维了魔法师们著名的历史：他列举了很多曾是约克魔法师协会成员的著名魔法师和历史学家。他暗示自己一来到约克就很自然而然地听说了这个协会。他还提醒他的听众：北方的魔法师总是要比南方的更受尊重。塞贡德斯先生说自己研习魔法已有些年头，了解所有古代伟大魔法师的历史。他阅读了有关魔法的最新书籍，甚至自己还对这些书籍数量上的增加作了些微末的贡献。但是最近他开始困惑：为什么自己在书中读到的这些高超魔法在街头再也看不到、在报纸上再也不被提及了？塞贡德斯先生说，他希望知道为什么现代的魔法师们只会纸上谈兵。简而言之，他想知道为什么英国再也没有真正的魔法出现了。
这是个世上最普通的问题。每个英国的孩子迟早都会向自己的家庭教师、学校老师或家长问及这个问题。但即便是约克魔法师协会最博学的会员也一点都不喜欢有人提它。原因在于：他们也和别人一样，不知道该怎么回答。
约克魔法师协会的主席（名叫福柯思卡斯尔博士）向约翰·塞贡德斯解释说这个问题本身就是错误的：“它假定魔法师有义务施展魔法，这显然很荒谬。我想，您一定不会认为植物学家有义务设计出更多的花卉，或者天文学家要费力重排星辰的位置。塞贡德斯先生，魔法师就是研究古代魔法的人，您怎么还能指望更多？”
一位有着暗蓝色眼睛、穿着暗色衣服的老绅士（塞贡德斯先生总也弄不清他的名字到底是哈特还是亨特）黯然地说无论任何人怎么想，一个绅士就是不能施展魔法。魔法是街头术士假装出来的，为的是窃取孩子们口袋里的便士。魔法（从实践的角度而言）已经大大衰落了。它总是和社会的底层联系在一起。它是那些胡子拉碴的邋遢鬼、吉普赛人以及强盗们的亲密伙伴；它是那挂着肮脏黄色窗帘的凌乱房间里的常客。噢！不！一个绅士决不能施展魔法。一个绅士可以去研究魔法的历史（没有比这更高贵的事情了），但是他不可以施展一丁点魔法。这位老绅士用他那慈父般的黯淡双眼看着塞贡德斯说，他希望塞贡德斯先生没有在尝试施展咒语。
塞贡德斯脸红了。
然而，诚如那句著名的魔法师格言所说：两个魔法师――在这里是福柯思卡斯尔博士和哈特或亨特先生――同意的事情，总会有两个以上的魔法师反对。一些绅士们发觉自己完全同意塞贡德斯先生的观点，而且认为在所有的魔法学术问题中，没有比这个更重要的了。塞贡德斯先生的主要支持者是一位名叫霍尼伏特的绅士。这位先生五十五岁，鹤发童颜，性情友善，令人愉悦。随着双方的交流变得越来越尴尬，而福柯思卡斯尔博士也开始讥讽塞贡德斯先生，霍尼伏特先生好几次转向塞贡德斯，悄声说着诸如此类的安慰话：“别理他们，先生。我完全同意您的观点”；“您是很正确的，先生，别让他们动摇了您”；以及“您一语击中要害！真的，先生！以前我们总担心提问的正确性，这使得我们踌躇不前。现在您来了，我们该做些大事情了。”
从他脸上那深受感动的表情不难看出，这些话塞贡德斯听了倍觉感激。“我恐怕已经变成了不受欢迎的人，”他悄声对霍尼伏特先生说道。“可那不是我的本意。我本来是期待着这些绅士们的高见的。”
开始塞贡德斯先生觉得很沮丧，但是福柯思卡斯尔博士一句非常恶意的攻击使他有些愤慨。“那位绅士，” 福柯思卡斯尔博士一边说，一边冷冷地盯着塞贡德斯先生，“似乎认为我们应该遭受和曼彻斯特那些魔法师同样的厄运！”
塞贡德斯先生把头倾向霍尼伏特先生说道：“我没想到约克郡的魔法师们是如此的冥顽不化。如果魔法在约克郡都不受欢迎，我们还能指望哪儿？”
霍尼伏特先生对塞贡德斯先生的好意并未仅限于那个夜晚。他邀请塞贡德斯先生到自己位于海彼得门的家中作客，自己和妻子以及三个漂亮的女儿作陪，大家享受了一顿丰盛的宴席。作为一个单身而且并不富有的绅士，塞贡德斯先生自然是欣然赴宴。宴后霍尼伏特小姐弹奏了钢琴，
两位绅士间的亲密友谊迅速发展。很快，塞贡德斯先生每周都要有两三个晚上在海彼得门的那户人家度过了。年轻人扎堆聚在一起，自然就要跳舞。舞会当然也非常令人愉快，不过霍尼伏特先生和塞贡德斯先生还是经常会溜出去讨论那个他们俩都真正感兴趣的问题：为什么英国再也没有魔法出现了？但是，讨论归讨论（经常会持续到次日凌晨两三点钟），关于问题的答案，他们还是毫无进展。也许这种情况不足为奇，因为各种各样的魔法师、文物研究者和学者们思考这个问题已经超过二百年了。
霍尼伏特先生身形高大，神采奕奕，脸上总是带着微笑，充满活力。他总是喜欢干点什么，要不就是在计划点什么，也不管否有用。眼下这个问题总是让他想起那些伟大的中世纪魔法师[②]，一旦他们遇到似乎无法解决的难题，就会隐遁一年零一天，只留一两个精灵仆人服侍自己，然后总能在最后关头找到答案。霍尼伏特先生对塞贡德斯先生说，在他看来，他们俩最好也仿效一下那些了不起的魔法师们。这些魔法师有的去了最与世隔绝的地方，要么在英格兰，要么在苏格兰，还有爱尔兰（魔法在这里最强盛）；有的则干脆离开这个尘世，现在的人们都不清楚他们去了哪里，又做了什么。霍尼伏特先生并没有建议走得太远，实际上他压根也不想出远门，因为现在是冬季，路很糟糕。然而他还是坚信他们应该出门找什么人问问。他对塞贡德斯先生说，他二人的讨论已经开始变得乏味了，听听新鲜的观点一定会大有好处。但是由于没有现成的目标，霍尼伏特先生很失望。就在这时，他想起了另一位魔法师。
几年前，约克魔法师协会听到传闻，说约克郡还有一位魔法师。这位绅士住在乡下一个非常偏僻的所在，（据说）他日夜都呆在自己那气派的书房里研读珍稀的魔法书。福柯思卡斯尔博士打听到了这位魔法师的名字和可能的住所，写了一封彬彬有礼的信邀请他加入约克魔法师协会来参加聚会。那位魔法师回信表达了他受宠若惊的荣幸以及深深的遗憾：他实在无法加入――赫特菲修道院到约克路途遥远，路也不算太好走，手头的工作又放不下――等等等等。约克的魔法师们传阅了这封回信，纷纷怀疑一个字迹如此娟秀的人能否成为一名称职的魔法师。然后，带着些许因为无缘一睹那座气派书房而产生的遗憾，他们把那位魔法师抛到了脑后。但是霍尼伏特先生对塞贡德斯先生说，“为何英国再也没有魔法出现了”这个问题实在太重要了，忽视任何找到答案的机会都将是个大错误。谁知道呢？那位魔法师的意见或许就是有价值的。于是他写了一封信，提议说他和塞贡德斯先生很乐意在圣诞节后的星期二下午两点半拜访那位魔法师。很快就有了回信。霍尼伏特先生带着他惯常的好心和友善，马上去找塞贡德斯先生，给他看了那封回信。那位魔法师用他娟秀的字体写道他很乐意
塞贡德斯先生独自留在房间里，手捧着那封信，读道：“……我承认，我有点弄不明白突如其来的荣幸。很难想像，约克的魔法师们能够在协会里分享彼此的快乐和智慧，受益良多，居然需要来咨询我这么一个孤独的学究……”
这封信有种微妙的讽刺意味，似乎字里行间都在嘲弄霍尼伏特先生。塞贡德斯先生觉得霍尼伏特先生应该没有看出来，否则就不会那么兴高采烈地去找沃特斯了，这样想令他感到宽慰。这封信是如此地不友好，塞贡德斯先生觉得他想见见这位魔法师的愿望马上就烟消云散了。好吧，他想道，不管怎样我得去，因为霍尼伏特先生想去――而且，最坏又能怎样呢？我们去看他，然后失望而归，如此而已。
到了约定的那天，风雨交加。大雨在裸露的褐色土地上形成了长长的水洼。湿漉漉的屋顶就像冰冷的石镜。霍尼伏特先生的马车行驶在路上，阴郁寒冷的天空比平日看起来大了许多；而令人觉得踏实的大地，则没有往日那般宽广了。
从第一次见面那晚塞贡德斯先生就想问问霍尼伏特先生，福柯思卡斯尔博士在会上提到的那个曼彻斯特魔法师学会是怎么回事。这会儿正好问问。
“那个协会最近才成立，” 霍尼伏特先生说道，“会员都是些穷修道士、有声望的前商人、药剂师、律师、退休磨坊主，他们略通一点拉丁语，被称作准绅士。我相信他们的协会解体的时候，福柯思卡斯尔博士一定很高兴。他认为那种人根本就成不了魔法师。但是，你知道，他们中还是有几个聪明人的。”和你一样，他们开始的目标就是找回魔法实践。他们是实践者，希望能把理性和科学的法则应用于魔法，就像他们在制造业所做的那样。他们称之为‘理性魔法’。但是这并未奏效。他们气馁了。当然，我们无法因此责怪他们。但是他们把自己幻灭的情绪推而广之，开始认为这世上从古到今根本就不存在魔法。他们说黄金时代魔法师们都是骗子，要么本身就是受骗者。还有乌鸦王不过是北英格兰人为了反抗南方的暴政而捏造出来的（同样身为北方人，他们对此感到同情）。哦，他们的论述非常精妙，我忘了他们是如何解释精灵的了。我说过，他们最终解散了。其中有个人，好像是叫奥布里，想把这些事情全都写下来，出版一本书。但是等到把自己的想法付诸实际的时候，他发现自己身陷一种顽固的忧郁之中无法自拔，根本就开始不了写作。”
“可怜的绅士，” 塞贡德斯先生说道。“也许是生不逢时。现在不是一个魔法和学问的时代，对么，先生？商人春风得意，还有航海家和政客，但没有魔法师。我们的时代已经过去了。”他思忖片刻，说道：“三年前，我在伦敦碰到一个街头魔法师，这家伙是个流浪汉，形容可怖。他劝我说，只要我肯出一大笔钱，作为回报，他保证告诉我一个大秘密。我给了他钱，他告诉我终有一天，有两位魔法师会重振英格兰魔法。现在，虽然我根本不相信什么预言，但正是因为思考了他的话，才使得我去探索我们那失落的魔法王国的真相――这是不是挺奇怪的？”
“你完全正确――预言完全都是一派胡言，” 霍尼伏特先生笑着说道。然后，他似乎突然想起了什么，说道：“我们就是两个魔法师啊！霍尼伏特和塞贡德斯，”他试着念道，好像在憧憬报纸和历史书上会如何出现这两个名字，“霍尼伏特和塞贡德斯――听起来非常顺耳啊！”
塞贡德斯先生摇了摇头：“那家伙知道我就是个魔法师，他只不过是装作认为我就是那两位魔法师中的一个而已。但最后他坦白地告诉我：我并不是。开始他好像不太确定，我身上有些名堂……他让我写下自己的名字，看了很久。”
“我想他是看你身上再也骗不出更多的钱来了而已。” 霍尼伏特先生说道。
赫特菲修道院位于约克西北大约
那位魔法师（名字叫作诺雷尔）在大厅里接见了他的两位访客。他身材瘦小，就像他的字一样。他欢迎两位客人来到赫特菲，声音轻柔，好像不太习惯大声说话。霍尼伏特先生耳朵有些背，听不见他说话。“我老了，先生――一个自然的缺陷。我希望您别见怪。”
诺雷尔先生领着客人来到一间装修考究的客厅，壁炉里火烧得很旺。屋里没有点蜡。两扇精美的窗户提供了足够的照明光线。这种昏暗的光线丝毫也不令人愉快。塞贡德斯先生总觉得房间的什么地方还生着一堆炉火，或是点着一些蜡烛。他不停地转动椅子四下张望寻找它们，但是什么也没发现，只有一面镜子或是古钟。
诺雷尔先生说他拜读了塞贡德斯先生关于马丁·佩莱那些精灵仆人的职业生涯的论文。[③]“那是一部可信的作品，先生。但是您漏掉了法罗索特法师。当然，他是个无关紧要的人物，对于伟大的佩莱博士[④]来说，他是否有用都很成问题。不过您的这部小史缺了他就不算完整了。”
一阵沉默之后，塞贡德斯先生说：“有一位精灵，叫法罗索特？我……可……可我从未听说过这么一位精灵，不管在哪个世界里。”
诺雷尔先生的脸上第一次露出了笑容――一种不易察觉的微笑。“对了，”他说，“我忘了，霍尔加特和皮科只是在关于他们自己和法罗索特法师的交往史著作中才提到了这位精灵，您不太可能读到这些著作。我要恭喜您――他们是一对讨厌鬼――与其说他们是魔法师，还不如说是罪犯：您不知道他们最好。”
“啊，先生！” 霍尼伏特先生大声叫道，以为诺雷尔先生在谈论自己的某一本书。“我们听到了很多有关您那间书房的美妙传闻。约克郡所有的魔法师听说了您拥有的图书数量，都感到万分艳羡！”
“事实上，”诺雷尔先生冷冷地说道，“您让我很惊讶。我没想到自己还这么声名远扬……” 他仔细想了想，说出了一个名字，那人在约克的咖啡馆卖书，喜好传播点小道消息：“我想应该是塔罗古德。丘德马斯警告过我很多次了，塔罗古德是个饶舌的人。”
霍尼伏特先生没太弄明白。如果换作他拥有这么多的魔法书，他肯定乐于谈论这些书、听到别人的恭维和让别人仰慕。他相信诺雷尔先生也是如此。因此，出于为诺雷尔先生提供机会（他认定这位绅士性情羞怯）的好意，他要求道：“请允许我表达一个愿望，我们能去看看您的书房么？”。
塞贡德斯先生以为诺雷尔肯定会拒绝，但并非如此。诺雷尔先生注视了他们片刻（他有着一双蓝色的小眼睛，那样子看起来就像是躲在身体里的某个地方，向外偷偷地窥视着他们），然后，几乎可以说优雅地同意了霍尼伏特先生的请求。霍尼伏特先生不胜感激，高兴地相信自己的提议使得大家皆大欢喜。
诺雷尔先生领着两位绅士走过一个走廊。塞贡德斯先生觉得这是个很普通的走廊，四面镶嵌着打磨精美的橡木，弥漫着蜂蜡的味道。然后他们上了一座楼梯，或许只能算三、四级台阶，又来到另一个走廊，这里的空气更凉爽些，地板用上好的约克石铺就：一切都很不起眼。（如果第二个走廊先于那楼梯或者说台阶而出现呢？还是那里的确是有一座楼梯的？）塞贡德斯先生是那种不管在哪儿都能马上分辨出东南西北的人，这并不值得特别骄傲――只是一种自然的本能而已，就像他知道自己的脑袋还长在肩膀上一样。可是在诺雷尔先生的房子里，塞贡德斯先生的这种天分突然失灵了。最后，他无法描述他们曾经走过的那些走廊和房间的顺序，不确定他们走到那间书房花了多长时间，也辨别不出方向了。似乎诺雷尔先生找到了一个指南针上的第五点：非东、非南、非西、非北，而是某个完全不同的地方，并且正领着他们往那个地方走。另一边，霍尼伏特先生则似乎完全没有意识到有什么古怪。
那间书房似乎要比他们刚刚呆过的客厅略小。壁炉里炉火熊熊，一切都舒适而安静。但是，房间里的光线和那三扇高大的十二格窗户似乎还是不太相称，所以塞贡德斯先生又一次感到不自在：总觉得房间里还应该有别的蜡烛、窗户或炉火，才会如此明亮；而那些窗户外面英格兰特有的濛濛细雨，也使得塞贡德斯先生视野受限，猜不出自己这是身在何处。
房间里并非空无一人。书桌旁坐着一个人，他们进来的时候，那人起身致意。诺雷尔先生简单地介绍说他叫丘德马斯，是他的经纪人。
霍尼伏特先生和塞贡德斯先生自己就是魔法师，深知赫特菲修道院的书房乃是它的主人最可宝贵的财富，因此当看到诺雷尔先生竟修建了一个漂亮的大珠宝箱来珍藏他心爱的宝藏时，他们也丝毫不觉得惊讶。
依墙而立的书柜是用英国木头制成的，装有雕满花纹的哥特式尖顶拱门。花纹雕的有树叶（干枯卷曲的树叶，似乎艺术家想表现季节的是秋天）、缠绕的树根和枝干、浆果和常春藤――全都做工精美。不过这些书柜再好，如果和它们装着的书比起来，就不值一提了。
每个魔法学徒学到的第一件事就是“关于魔法的书”和真正的“魔法书”之间的区别。他们学到第二件事则是，前者你最多能找一个好书商买上两三个几尼（1663年到1813年之间英国发行的金币，价值相当于一镑一先令――译者注）；而后者的价值则要比红宝石还高。[⑤]约克魔法师协会的收藏算起来很不错，甚至可以称得上了不起了。这其中有五本写于1550到1700年间的书或许算得上是“魔法书”（尽管其中一本不过是一堆破纸片而已）。“魔法书”非常珍稀，塞贡德斯先生和霍尼伏特先生从未见过哪个私人书房里有两三本以上的收藏。而在赫特菲这家，所有的墙边都立着书柜，书柜的每一层都摆满了书。而且，所有、或者说几乎所有的书全都是古书，是“魔法书”。哦！的确，有些书的装订很干净、很新，不过那明显是诺雷尔先生重新装订的（看起来，他喜欢用纯色小牛皮包书，再戳上整齐的银色大写书名）。而很多书的装订都非常、非常、非常地古老，书脊和书角都破碎不堪。
塞贡德斯先生扫了一眼身边书架上的书脊。第一个映入眼帘的书名是《如何把问题交给黑暗以及如何理解它给出的答案》。
“一本烂书，”诺雷尔先生说道。塞贡德斯先生一惊，这才发现主人不知何时已经站在自己身边了。诺雷尔先生接着说道：“我建议您不要在这本书上浪费时间。”
于是塞贡德斯先生拿起下一本，是贝拉西的《指导》。
“我敢说，您一定认识贝拉西？” 诺雷尔先生问道。
“只是久闻大名，先生，” 塞贡德斯先生说，“我经常听说他知道很多事情的窍门，我还听说实际上所有的权威专家都认为，《指导》所有的版本都在很久以前就已经被毁。没想到它却在这儿！哎呀，先生。太了不起了！太棒了！”
“您对贝拉西期待很高，” 诺雷尔先生评论道，“我也曾经和您一样。记得有好几个月的时间，我每天都花八个小时来研读他的书。我得说，这是我对一个作者前所未有的恭维。但是最终他令我失望了。在本该清楚明暸的地方，他写得很神秘；而在本应隐晦的地方，他却处理得过于直白。有些东西是不适于写出来昭示天下的。就我个人而言，我对贝拉西已不再有什么好感。”
“这儿有本书我从未听说过，先生，” 塞贡德斯先生说道，“《基督－犹太魔法师的优点》。您能给我介绍一下么？”
“哈！”诺雷尔先生叹道。“这本书写于十七世纪，但我不觉得它怎么样。作者是个骗子、酒徒、色鬼、无赖。我很高兴他已经被彻底遗忘。”
看起来不光是瞧不起在世的魔法师，诺雷尔先生还认为所有已故的魔法师都并非完美。
这个时候，霍尼伏特先生双手举着，就像一个卫理公会派（新教宗派之一，宣称忠于《圣经》，忠于传统信经教义――译者注）教徒在歌颂上帝那样。他快步在书柜间走来走去，停留的时间还不够看清一本书的名字，眼睛就被房间那头的另一本书吸引过去了。“哦，诺雷尔先生！”他喊道。“这么多书！我们肯定能在这儿找到所有问题的答案了！”
“我可不这么想，先生，”诺雷尔先生干巴巴地回答道。
房间里那个经纪人一声轻笑，显然是在笑话霍尼伏特先生。但是诺雷尔先生没有斥责他――既没瞧他，也没说他。塞贡德斯先生想不出，诺雷尔先生有什么事情要委托这个人经纪？这个人头发又粗又长，黑黑的大胡子，看起来他的家像是位于一个暴风肆虐的荒野里，或是潜伏在哪个黝黑的小巷，要不就是在拉德克
虽然诺雷尔先生对雅克·贝拉西评价不高，塞贡德斯先生还是拿起了那本他的《指导》，一下子就被两个精彩段落所吸引。[⑥]之后，他意识到自己不知不觉已看了好一阵子，而且那位经纪人那古怪的黑眼珠一直在盯着他，于是塞贡德斯先生就换了本《基督－犹太魔法师的优点》。（正如他猜想的）这本书不是印刷本，而是一本手稿，字迹潦草仓促地写在各种各样的纸张背面，这些纸张大部分是些古老的酒馆账单。塞贡德斯先生在书中读到了一段神奇的历险记。作者是位十七世纪的魔法师，他用并不纯熟的魔法与强大的敌人斗争，而这是一场人类的魔法师绝对不应该参与的战斗。他在东拼西凑的纸张上潦草记下自己的胜利史，似乎在写作的同时，他的周围已经强敌环伺。作者声称，他深知自己已时日无多，所能做的就是静候死神的降临。
房间里越来越暗。书页上潦草的古代字迹也逐渐看不清了。两个男仆走进房间。那位一点也不像经纪人的经纪人，注视着他们点燃蜡烛，拉上窗帘，给壁炉添了新煤。塞贡德斯先生觉得是时候提醒霍尼伏特先生，该去找诺雷尔先生表明来意了。
在离开书房的时候，塞贡德斯先生发现了一些异常。炉火边有一把椅子和一张小桌子。桌上有木板、书皮和一本非常古老的书，还有一把剪子和一把气势汹汹的刀，就像园丁用来修剪花木的那种。但是那本书的内页都不见了。塞贡德斯先生想，也许诺雷尔先生把它们拿去重新装订了。可是那原来的书皮看起来还很结实，为什么诺雷尔先生要自己冒着毁坏它们的危险而费力取下那些书页呢？应该找一个技术纯熟的书本装订工来做这件事才对。
当他们再次就坐于客厅之后，霍尼伏特先生对诺雷尔先生说道：“先生，今天我在这里看到的一切，令我更加坚信您就是最能帮助我们的那个人。塞贡德斯先生和我认为现代魔法师们走错了路，他们把自己的精力浪费在了无关紧要的事情上。您是否同意我们的观点，先生？”
“哦，当然同意。” 诺雷尔先生回答道。
“我们的问题是，” 霍尼伏特先生接着说道，“曾经在我们这个伟大的国度辉煌一时的魔法，为什么会衰落了？我们想问问，先生，英国为什么再也没有魔法出现了？”
诺雷尔先生那双蓝色的小眼睛一下子变得目光炯炯，他紧紧抿着双唇，似乎在努力克制自己内心深处的某种强烈而隐秘的喜悦之情。塞贡德斯先生觉得，似乎诺雷尔先生已经等了很久，期待着有人能向他提出这个问题，而他也早已准备好了答案。诺雷尔先生说道：“我没法回答您的问题，先生，因为我不理解它。这是个错误的问题，先生。魔法在英国并没有绝迹。我本人，就是一个还算合格的实践魔法师。”
[①]乔纳森·斯特兰奇，《英国魔法的历史与实践》，第一卷第二章，约翰·穆里出版社，伦敦，1816（若无特别注明，均为本书作者自己所加脚注，下同）
[②]更恰当的叫法，是“黄金时代魔法师”。
[③]约翰·塞贡德斯：《佩莱博士的精灵仆人全传――姓名、历史、性格和他们为他所尽的职责》，由北安普敦的书商托马斯·博恩汉姆于1799年出版。
[④]马丁·佩莱博士（1485-1567）是沃里克一位制革匠的儿子。他是最后一位黄金时代魔法师，有很多传人（如格里高利·押沙龙），但关于他们的评价是毁誉参半。佩莱被确信是英国最后一位漫游过仙境的魔法师。
[⑤]正如乔纳森·斯特兰奇的名言告诉我们的：魔法师会因为任何事情而争吵。他们花费了大量的时间和精力来探讨一个难题：这样那样的书卷，哪些才有资格被称作是“魔法书”？但是大多数外行发现了一个简单有效的准则：在英国魔法消失之前写就的书就是“魔法书”；而这之后的书则只能算是“关于魔法的书”。外行们认定一个原则：一本“魔法书”的作者本人应该是一位“实践”魔法师，而不是“理论”魔法师或魔法历史学家。还有比这更合理的原则么？但随之而来的困难是：那些伟大的、我们称之为黄金时代魔法师的人（托马斯·高德布莱斯、拉尔夫·斯托克塞、温彻斯特的凯瑟琳和乌鸦王）的作品很少，或者大多没有保存下来。托马斯·高德布莱斯可能压根就不会写字。而斯托克塞是在老家德文郡的一所小语法学校学的拉丁语，关于他的知识我们都是从别的作者那里得来的。
直到魔法开始衰落的时候，魔法师们才开始写书。那时英国魔法的荣光已经快要归于黑暗。这些魔法师我们称之为白银时代魔法师（包括托马斯·兰切斯特，1518-90；雅克·贝拉西，1525-1604；尼古拉斯·古博，1535-78; 格里高利·押沙龙，1507-99），他们只是魔法的残余火种，身份首先是学者，然后才是魔法师。当然，他们声称自己能施展魔法，有的甚至还有一两个精灵仆人，但看起来他们并非精于此道。一些现代学者甚至怀疑他们是否真的会魔法。
[⑥]塞贡德斯先生读到的第一段，讲述了英国的仙境（有时候魔法师称之为“另一个国度”）。这个神奇的国度位于地狱的远端，因此而著名。塞贡德斯先生听说过一些人间、地狱和仙境这三个王国之间象征性的神奇联系，但从没见过像这本书里写的这样清楚明暸的解释。
第二段是关于英国最伟大的魔法师之一：马丁·佩莱的。在格里高利·押沙龙的《学习的结构》一书中，有一个著名段落，记叙了最后一位黄金时代魔法师马丁·佩莱在漫游仙境的时候，拜访一位精灵王子的故事。和他的同族精灵一样，这位王子有很多名字：尊称、头衔还有笔名。但是通常人们称他为“冷面亨利”。冷面亨利为他的客人准备了一段十分恭敬的长篇欢迎辞，通篇充斥着隐喻和晦涩的暗示。而看起来冷面亨利想说的其实是精灵乃是本性邪恶的生灵，经常不知不觉就做了坏事。对此马丁·佩莱的评价简短而有些高深莫测：并非所有的英国人都长着同样大小的脚。
对于这句话，几百年来人们都摸不着头脑。不过还是有人提出了一些解释，约翰·塞贡德斯对这些理论也都很熟悉。最流行的解释是威廉·潘特勒在十八世纪初期提出的。潘特勒说冷面亨利和佩莱是在讨论神学。（众所周知）仙境在教会势力范围之外，以前没有、将来也不会有基督降临那里――于是，没人知道在审判日降临之际，精灵会面临何种命运。根据潘特勒的说法，冷面亨利意在向佩莱求教：精灵能否和人类一样获得“永恒的拯救”？而佩莱的回答――英国人的脚有不同的尺寸――是在以自己的方式说明并非所有的英国人都会得到拯救。基于此，潘特勒进而推测出佩莱有种很奇特的信仰：天堂只能容纳有限的上帝保佑者；而对于那些被上帝诅咒的英国人，天堂里有一个专为精灵开设的场所可以容纳他们。潘特勒作为一个理论魔法师的声望全都仰仗他这本书了。
在雅克·贝拉西的《指导》一书中，塞贡德斯先生读到了另一种截然不同的解释。在马丁·佩莱踏入冷面亨利的城堡之前三个世纪，还有一位人类访客来过这里――一位甚至比佩莱还要伟大的英国魔法师：拉尔夫·斯托克塞。他在城堡中留下了一双靴子。据贝拉西说，这双靴子很旧，也许斯托克塞因此才没有把它们带走。然而这双靴子却使得城堡中的精灵居民们诚惶诚恐，因为他们对英国的魔法师们都极为尊崇。冷面亨利更是时刻不敢怠慢，因为他生怕弄丢这双靴子会使得他受到某种神鬼莫测的基督教道德上的谴责。所以尽管佩莱并不想要，冷面亨利还是把这双靴子转交给了他以卸下自己身上这个沉重的包袱。