Lord Liverpool was not sympathetic. “The generals may do as they wish, Mr Norrell. The Government does not interfere in military matters, as well you know.1 The generals have employed Mr Strange as their magician for a number of years and they see no reason to stop simply because you and he have quarrelled. As for the East India Company I am told that its officials applied to you in the first place and that you declined to help them.”
Mr Norrell blinked his little eyes rapidly. “My work for the Government – my work for you, my lord – takes up so much of my time. I cannot, in conscience, neglect it for the sake of a private company.”
“And believe me, Mr Norrell, we are grateful. Yet I need scarcely tell you how vital the success of the East India Company is to the prosperity of the Nation and the Company’s need for a magician is immense. It has fleets of ships at the mercy of storms and bad weather; it has vast territories to administer and its armies are continually harassed by Indian princelings and bandits. Mr Strange has undertaken to controul the weather around the Cape and in the Indian Ocean and he has offered advice on the best use of magic in hostile territories. The Directors of the East India Company believe that Mr Strange’s experience in the Spanish Peninsula will prove invaluable. It is yet another demonstration of Britain’s sore need for more magicians. Mr Norrell, as diligent as you are, you cannot be everywhere and do everything – and no one expects that you should. I hear that Mr Strange has taken pupils. It would please me immensely to hear that you intended to do the same.”
Despite Lord Liverpool’s approval, the education of the three new magicians, Henry Purfois, William Hadley-Bright and Tom Levy, progressed no more smoothly than Strange’s own six years before. The only difference was that whereas Strange had had Norrell’s evasiveness to contend with, the young men were continually thwarted by Strange’s low spirits and restlessness.
By early June the first volume of The History and Practice of English Magic was finished. Strange delivered it to Mr Murray and it surprized no one when, on the following day, he told Henry Purfois, William Hadley-Bright and Tom Levy that they must defer their magical education for a while as he had decided to go abroad.
“I think it an excellent plan!” said Sir Walter as soon as Strange told him of it. “A change of scene. A change of society. It is exactly what I would prescribe for you. Go! Go!”
“You do not think that it is too soon?” asked Strange anxiously. “I shall be leaving Norrell in possession of London so to speak.”
“You think we have such short memories as that? Well, we shall make every endeavour not to forget you in the space of a few months. Besides, your book will be published soon and that will serve as a standing reminder to us all of how ill we get on without you.”
“That is true. There is the book. It will take Norrell months to refute forty-six chapters and I shall be back long before he is finished.”
“Where shall you go?”
“Italy, I think. The countries of southern Europe have always had a strong attraction for me. I was often struck by the appearance of the countryside when I was in Spain – or at least I believe I would have found it very striking had it not been covered in soldiers and gunsmoke.”
“I hope you will write occasionally? Some token of your impressions?”
“Oh! I shall not spare you. It is the right of a traveller to vent their frustration at every minor inconvenience by writing of it to their friends. Expect long descriptions of everything.”
As often happened these days, Strange’s mood darkened suddenly. His light, ironic air evaporated upon the instant and he sat frowning at the coal-scuttle. “I wondered if you …” he said at last. “That is, I wish to ask you …” He made a sound of exasperation at his own hesitancy. “Would you convey a message to Lady Pole from me? I would be most grateful. Arabella was greatly attached to her ladyship and I know she would not have liked me to leave England without sending some message to Lady Pole.”
“Certainly. What shall I tell her?”
“Oh! Simply give her my heartfelt wishes for her better health. Whatever you think best. It does not matter what you say. But you must say that the message is from Arabella’s husband. I wish her ladyship to understand that her friend’s husband has not forgotten her.”
“With the greatest goodwill,” said Sir Walter. “Thank you.”
Strange had half-expected that Sir Walter would invite him to speak to Lady Pole himself, but Sir Walter did not. No one even knew whether her ladyship was still at the house in Harley-street. There was a rumour circulating the Town that Sir Walter had sent her to the country.
Strange was not alone in wishing to go abroad. It had suddenly become very fashionable. For far too long the British had been confined to their own island by the war with Buonaparte. For far too long they had been forced to satisfy their desire to look upon new scenes and curious people by visits to the Scottish Highlands or the English Lakes or the Derbyshire Peak. But now the war was over they could go to the Continent and see mountains and shores of quite a different character. They could view for themselves those celebrated works of art which hitherto they had only seen in books of engravings. Some went abroad hoping to find that it was cheaper to live on the Continent than at home. Some went to avoid debts or scandal and some, like Strange, went to find a tranquillity that eluded them in England.
Bruxelles
Jun. 12th, 1816.
Jonathan Strange to John Segundus
I am, as far as I can tell, about a month behind Lord Byron.2 In every town we stop at we discover innkeepers, postillions, officials, burghers, potboys and all kinds and sorts of ladies whose brains still seem somewhat deranged from their brief exposure to his lordship. And though my companions are careful to tell people that I am that dreadful being, an English magician, I am clearly nothing in comparison to an English poet and everywhere I go I enjoy the reputation – quite new to me, I assure you – of the quiet, good Englishman, who makes no noise and is no trouble to any one …
It was a queer summer that year. Or rather it was no summer at all. Winter had extended its lease into August. The sun was scarcely seen. Thick grey clouds covered the sky; bitter winds blew through towns and withered crops; storms of rain and hail, enlivened by occasional displays of thunder and lightning, fell upon every part of Europe. In many ways it was worse than winter: the long hours of daylight denied people the consolation of darkness which would have hidden all these miseries for a while.
London was half empty. Parliament was dissolved and the Members of Parliament had all gone to their country houses, the better to stare at the rain. In London Mr John Murray, the publisher, sat in his house in Albermarle-street. At other times Mr Murray’s rooms were the liveliest in London – full of poets, essayists, reviewers and all the great literary men of the kingdom. But the great literary men of the kingdom had gone to the country. The rain pattered upon the window and the wind moaned in the chimney. Mr Murray heaped more coals upon the fire and then sat down at his desk to begin reading that day’s letters. He picked each letter up and held it close to his left eye (the right being quite blind and useless).
It so happened that on this particular day there were two from Geneva in Swisserland. The first was from Lord Byron complaining of Jonathan Strange and the second was from Strange complaining of Byron. The two men had met at Mr Murray’s house a handful of times, but until now they had never got acquainted. Strange had visited Byron at Geneva a couple of weeks before. The meeting had not been a success.
Strange (who was just now in a mood to place the highest value upon matrimony and all that he had lost in Arabella) was unsettled by Byron’s domestic arrangements. “I found his lordship at his pretty villa upon the shores of the lake. He was not alone. There was another poet called Shelley, Mrs Shelley and another young woman – a girl really – who called herself Mrs Clairmont and whose relationship to the two men I did not understand. If you know, do not tell me. Also present was an odd young man who talked nonsense the
entire time – a Mr Polidori.”
Lord Byron, on the other hand, took exception to Strange’s mode of dress. “He wore half-mourning. His wife died at Christmas, did she not? But perhaps he thinks black makes him look more mysterious and wizardly.”
Having taken an immediate dislike to each other, they had progressed smoothly to quarrelling about politics. Strange wrote: “I do not quite know how it happened, but we immediately fell to talking of the battle of Waterloo – an unhappy subject since I am the Duke of Wellington’s magician and they all hate Wellington and idolize Buonaparte. Mrs Clairmont, with all the impertinence of eighteen, asked me if I was not ashamed to be an instrument in the fall of so sublime a man. No, said I.”
Byron wrote: “He is a great partisan for the Duke of W. I hope for your sake, my dear Murray, that his book is more interesting than he is.”
Strange finished: “People have such odd notions about magicians. They wanted me to tell them about vampyres.”
Mr Murray was sorry to find that his two authors could not agree better, but he reflected that it probably could not be helped since both men were famous for quarrelling: Strange with Norrell, and Byron with practically everybody.3
When he had finished reading his letters, Mr Murray thought he would go downstairs to the bookshop. He had printed a very large number of copies of Jonathan Strange’s book and he was anxious to know how it was selling. The shop was kept by a man called Shackleton who looked exactly as you would wish a bookseller to look. He would never have done for any other sort of shopman – certainly not for a haberdasher or milliner who must be smarter than his customers – but for a bookseller he was perfect. He appeared to be of no particular age. He was thin and dusty and spotted finely all over with ink. He had an air of learning tinged with abstraction. His nose was adorned with spectacles; there was a quill pen stuck behind his ear and a half-unravelled wig upon his head.
“Shackleton, how many of Mr Strange’s book have we sold today?” demanded Mr Murray.
“Sixty or seventy copies, I should think.”
“Excellent!” said Mr Murray.
Shackleton frowned and pushed his spectacles further up his nose. “Yes, you would think so, would you not?”
“What do you mean?”
Shackleton took the pen from behind his ear “A great many people have come twice and bought a copy both times.”
“Even better! At this rate we shall overtake Lord Byron’s Corsair! At this rate we shall need a second printing by the end of next week!” Then, observing that Shackleton’s frown did not grow any less, Mr Murray added, “Well, what is wrong with that? I dare say they want them as presents for their friends.”
Shackleton shook his head so that all the loose hairs of his wig jiggled about. “It is queer. I have never known it happen before.”
The shop door opened and a young man entered. He was small in stature and slight in build. His features were regular and, truth to tell, he would have been quite handsome had it not been for his rather unfortunate manner. He was one of those people whose ideas are too lively to be confined in their brains and spill out into the world to the consternation of passers-by. He talked to himself and the expression of his face changed constantly. Within the space of a single moment he looked surprized, insulted, resolute and angry – emotions which were presumably the consequences of the energetic conversations he was holding with the ideal people inside his head.
Shops, particularly London shops, are often troubled with lunatics and Mr Murray and Shackleton were immediately upon their guard. Nor were their suspicions at all allayed when the young man fixed Shackleton with a piercing look of his bright blue eyes and cried, “This is treating your customers well! This is gentility!” He turned to Mr Murray and addressed him thus, “Be advised by me, sir! Do not buy your books here. They are liars and thieves!”
“Liars and thieves?” said Mr Murray. “No, you are mistaken, sir. I am sure we can convince you that you are.”
“Ha!” cried the young man and gave Mr Murray a shrewd look to shew he had now understood that Mr Murray was not, as he had first supposed, a fellow customer.
“I am the proprietor,” explained Mr Murray hurriedly. “We do not rob people here. Tell me what the matter is and I will be glad to serve you in any way I can. I am quite sure it is all a misunderstanding.”
But the young man was not in the least mollified by Mr Murray’s polite words. He cried, “Do you deny, sir, that this establishment employs a rascally cheat of magician – a magician called Strange?”
Mr Murray began to say something of Strange being one of his authors, but the young man could not wait to hear him. “Do you deny, sir, that Mr Strange has put a spell upon his books to make them disappear so that a man must buy another? And then another!” He wagged a finger at Shackleton and looked sly. “You are going to say you don’t remember me!”
“No, sir, I am not. I remember you very well. You were one of the first gentlemen to buy a copy of The History and Practice of English Magic and then you came back about a week later for another.”
The young man opened his eyes very wide. “I was obliged to buy another!” he cried indignantly. “The first one disappeared!”
“Disappeared?” asked Mr Murray, puzzled. “If you have lost your book, Mr … er, then I am sorry for it, but I do not quite understand how any blame can attach to the bookseller.”
“My name, sir, is Green. And I did not lose my book. It disappeared. Twice.” Mr Green sighed deeply, as a man will who finds he has to deal with fools and feeble-minded idiots. “I took the first book home,” he explained, “and I placed it upon the table, on top of a box in which I keep my razors and shaving things.” Mr Green mimed putting the book on top of the box. “I put the newspaper on top of the book and my brass candlestick and an egg on top of that.”
“An egg?” said Mr Murray.
“A hard-boiled egg! But when I turned around – not ten minutes later! – the newspaper was directly on top of the box and the book was gone! Yet the egg and the candlestick were just where they had always been. So a week later I came back and bought another copy – just as your shopman says. I took it home. I put it on the mantelpiece with Cooper’s Dictionary of Practical Surgery and stood the teapot on top. But it so happened that when I made the tea I dislodged both books and they fell into the basket where the dirty washing is put. On Monday, Jack Boot – my servant – put the dirty linen into the basket. On Tuesday the washerwoman came to take the dirty linen away, but when the bedsheets were lifted away, Cooper’s Dictionary of Practical Surgery was there at the bottom of the basket but The History and Practice of English Magic was gone!”
These speeches, suggesting some slight eccentricities in the regulation of Mr Green’s household, seemed to offer hope of an explanation.
“Could you not have mistook the place where you put it?” offered Mr Shackleton.
“Perhaps the laundress took it away with your sheets?” suggested Mr Murray.
“No, no!” declared Mr Green.
“Could someone have borrowed it? Or moved it?” suggested Shackleton.
Mr Green looked amazed at this suggestion. “Who?” he demanded.
“I … I have no idea. Mrs Green? Your servant?”
“There is no Mrs Green! I live alone! Except for Jack Boot and Jack Boot cannot read!”
“A friend, then?”
Mr Green seemed about to deny that he had ever had any friends.
Mr Murray sighed. “Shackleton, give Mr Green another copy and his money for the second book.” To Mr Green he said, “I am glad you like it so well to buy another copy.”
“Like it!” cried Mr Green, more astonished than ever. “I have not the least idea whether I like it or not! I never had a chance to open it.”
After he had gone, Mr Murray lingered in the shop a while making jokes about linen-baskets and hard-boiled eggs, but Mr Shackleton (who was generally as fond of a joke as any one) refused to be entertained. He looked thoug
htful and anxious and insisted several times that there was something queer going on.
Half an hour later Mr Murray was in his room upstairs gazing at his bookcase. He looked up and saw Shackleton.
“He is back,” said Shackleton.
“What?”
“Green. He has lost his book again. He had it in his right-hand pocket, but by the time he reached Great Pulteney-street it was gone. Of course I told him that London is full of thieves, but you must admit …”
“Yes, yes! Never mind that now!” interrupted Mr Murray. “My own copy is gone! Look! I put it here, between d’Israeli’s Flim-Flams and Miss Austen’s Emma. You can see the space where it stood. What is happening, Shackleton?”
“Magic,” said Shackleton, firmly. “I have been thinking about it and I believe Green is right. There is some sort of spell operating upon the books, and upon us.”
“A spell!” Mr Murray opened his eyes wide. “Yes, I suppose it must be. I have never experienced magic at first hand before. I do not think that I shall be in any great hurry to do so again. It is most eerie and unpleasant. How in the world is a man to know what to do when nothing behaves as it should?”
“Well,” said Shackleton, “if I were you I would begin by consulting with the other booksellers and discover if their books are disappearing too, then at least we will know if the problem is a general one or confined to us.”
This seemed like good advice. So leaving the shop in charge of the office-boy, Mr Murray and Shackleton put on their hats and went out into the wind and rain. The nearest bookseller was Edwards and Skittering in Piccadilly. When they got there they were obliged to step aside to make way for a footman in blue livery. He was carrying a large pile of books out of the shop.
Mr Murray had scarcely time to think that both footman and livery looked familiar before the man was gone.
Inside they found Mr Edwards deep in conversation with John Childermass. As Murray and Shackleton came in, Mr Edwards looked round with a guilty expression, but Childermass was just as usual. “Ah, Mr Murray!” he said. “I am glad to see you, sir. This spares me a walk in the rain.”
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 66