She is working on her first novel, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.
Allhope Rectory, Derbyshire
To Mrs. Gathercole Dec. 20th, 1811
Madam,
I shall not try your patience by a repetition of those arguments with which I earlier tried to convince you of my innocence. When I left you this afternoon I told you that it was in my power to place in your hands written evidence that would absolve me from every charge which you have seen fit to heap upon my head, and in fulfilment of that promise I enclose my journal. And should you discover, madam, in perusing these pages, that I have been so bold as to attempt a sketch of your own character, and should that portrayal prove not entirely flattering, then I beg you to remember that it was written as a private account and never intended for another’s eyes.
You will hear no entreaties from me, madam. Write to the Bishop by all means. I would not stay your hand from any course of action which you felt proper. But one accusation I must answer: that I have acted without due respect for members of your family. It is, madam, my all too lively regard for your family that has brought me to my present curious situation.
I remain, madam, yr. most obedient & very humble Sert.
From the Journals of Alessandro Simonelli
I am beginning to think that I must marry. I have no money, no prospects of advancement, and no friends to help me. This queer face of mine is my only capital now and must, I fear, be made to pay; John Windle has told me privately that the bookseller’s widow in Jesus-lane is quite desperately in love with me, and it is common knowledge that her husband left her nearly £15 thousand. As for the lady herself, I never heard anything but praise of her. Her youth, virtue, beauty, and charity make her universally loved. But still I cannot quite make up my mind to it. I have been too long accustomed to the rigours of scholarly debate to feel much enthusiasm for female conversation — no more to refresh my soul in the company of Aquinas, Aristophanes, Euclid, and Avicenna, but instead to pass my hours attending to a discourse upon merits of a bonnet trimmed with coquelicot ribbons.
Dr. Prothero came smiling to my rooms this morning. “You are surprised to see me, Mr. Simonelli,” he said. “We have not been such good friends lately as to wait upon each other in our rooms.”
True, but whose fault is that? Prothero is the very worst sort of Cambridge scholar: loves horses and hunting more than books and scholarship; has never once given a lecture since he was made Professor, though obliged to do so by the deed of foundation every other week in term; once ate five roast mackerel at a sitting (which very nearly killed him); is drunk most mornings and every evening; dribbles upon his waistcoat as he nods in his chair. I believe I have made my opinion of him pretty widely known and, though I have done myself no good by my honesty, I am pleased to say that I have done him some harm.
He continued, “I bring you good news, Mr. Simonelli! You should offer me a glass of wine — indeed you should! When you hear what excellent news I have got for you, I am sure you will wish to offer me a glass of wine!” And he swung his head around like an ugly old tortoise, to see if he could catch sight of a bottle. But I have no wine, and so he went on, “I have been asked by a family in Derbyshire — friends of mine, you understand — to find them some learned gentleman to be Rector of their village. Immediately I thought of you, Mr. Simonelli! The duties of a country parson in that part of the world are not onerous. And you may judge for yourself of the health of the place, what fine air it is blessed with, when I tell you that Mr. Whitmore, the last clergyman, was ninety-three when he died. A good, kind soul, much loved by his parish, but not a scholar. Come, Mr. Simonelli! If it is agreeable to you to have a house of your own — with garden, orchard, and farm all complete — then I shall write tonight to the Gathercoles and relieve them of all their anxiety by telling them of your acceptance!”
But, though he pressed me very hard, I would not give him my answer immediately. I believe I know what he is about. He has a nephew whom he hopes to steer into my place if I leave Corpus Christi. Yet it would be wrong, I think, to refuse such an opportunity merely for the sake of spiting him.
I believe it must be either the parish or matrimony.
I was this day ordained as a priest of the Church of England. I have no doubts that my modest behaviour, studiousness, and extraordinary mildness of temper make me peculiarly fitted for the life.
I travelled by stagecoach as far as Derby. I sat outside — which cost me ten shillings and sixpence — but since it rained steadily I was at some trouble to keep my books and papers dry. My room at the George is better aired than rooms in inns generally are. I dined upon some roast woodcocks, a fricassee of turnips and apple dumplings. All excellent but not cheap and so I complained.
My first impressions were not encouraging. It continued to rain, and the country surrounding Allhope appeared very wild and almost uninhabited. There were steep, wooded valleys, rivers of white spurting water, outcrops of barren rock surmounted by withered oaks, bleak windswept moorland. It was, I dare say, remarkably picturesque, and might have provided an excellent model for a descriptive passage in a novel, but to me who must now live here, it spoke very eloquently of extreme seclusion and scarce society characterised by ignorant minds and uncouth manners. In two hours’ walking I saw only one human habitation — a grim farmhouse with rain-darkened walls set among dark, dripping trees.
I had begun to think I must be very near to the village when I turned a corner and saw, a little way ahead of me in the rain, two figures on horseback. They had stopped by a poor cottage to speak to someone who stood just within bounds of the garden. Now I am no judge of horses, but these were quite remarkable; tall, well-formed, and shining. They tossed their heads and stamped their hooves upon the ground as if they scorned to be stood upon so base an element. One was black and one was chestnut. The chestnut, in particular, appeared to be the only bright thing in the whole of Derbyshire; it glowed like a bonfire in the grey, rainy air.
The person whom the riders addressed was an old bent man. As I drew near I heard shouts and a curse, and I saw one of the riders reach up and make a sign with his hand above the old man’s head. This gesture was entirely new to me and must, I suppose, be peculiar to the natives of Derbyshire. I do not think that I ever before saw anything so expressive of contempt, and as it may be of some interest to study the customs and quaint beliefs of the people here, I append a sort of diagram or drawing to shew precisely the gesture the man made.
I concluded that the riders were going away dissatisfied from their interview with the old cottager. It further occurred to me that, since I was now so close to the village, this ancient person was certainly one of my parishioners. I determined to lose no time in bringing peace where there was strife, harmony where there was discord. I quickened my steps, hailed the old man, informed him that I was the new Rector and asked him his name, which was Jemmy.