"Oh, you should go," Drawlight smiled spitefully. "Indeed you should. It is truly wonderful."

Norrell looked anxiously at Strange but Strange did not reply. He had turned his back on them all and was gazing intently at his own portrait.

As the others moved away and began to speak of something else, Sir Walter murmured, "You must not mind his malice."

"Mmmm?" said Strange. "Oh, it is not that. It is the mirror. Does it not look as if one could just walk into it? It would not be so difficult I think. One could use a spell of revelation. No, of unravelling. Or perhaps both. The way would be clear before one. One step forward and away." He looked around him and said, "And there are days when I would be away."

"Where?" Sir Walter was surprized; there was no place he found so much to his liking as London with its gaslights and its shops, its coffee-houses and clubs, its thousand pretty women and its thousand varieties of gossip and he imagined it must be the same for every one.

"Oh, wherever men of my sort used to go, long ago. Wandering on paths that other men have not seen. Behind the sky. On the other side of the rain."

Strange sighed again and his right foot tapped impatiently on Mr Norrell's carpet, suggesting that, if he did not make up his mind soon to go to the forgotten paths, then his feet would carry him there of their own accord.

By two o'clock the visitors had gone and Mr Norrell, who was rather anxious to avoid any conversation with Strange, went upstairs and hid himself away in his little room at the back of the house on the second floor. He sat down at his table and began to work. Very soon he had forgot all about Strange and the library at Hurtfew and all the disagreeable sensations which Drawlight's speech had produced. He was therefore somewhat dismayed when a few minutes later there was a knock at the door and Strange walked in.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir," he said, "but there is something I wish to ask you."

"Oh!" said Mr Norrell nervously. "Well, of course I am always very happy to answer any questions you may have, but just now there is a piece of business which I fear I cannot neglect. I have spoken to Lord Liverpool about our plan to secure the coast of Great Britain from storms by magic and he is quite delighted with it. Lord Liverpool says that every year property to the value of many hundreds of thousands of pounds is destroyed by the sea. Lord Liverpool says that he considers the preservation of property to be the first task of magic in peacetime. As always his lordship wishes it done immediately and it is a great deal of work. The county of Cornwall alone will take a week. I fear we must postpone our conversation until some other time."

Strange smiled. "If the magic is as urgent as that, sir, then I had better a.s.sist you and we can talk while we work. Where do you begin?"

"At Yarmouth."

"And what are you using? Belasis?"

"No, not Belasis. There is a reconstruction of Stokesey's magic or calming stormy waters in Lanchester's Language Language of of Birds Birds. I am not so foolish as to suppose that Lanchester greatly resembles Stokesey but he is the best we have. I have made some revisions to Lanchester and I am adding Pevensey's spells of Ward and Watch."2Mr Norrell pushed some papers towards Strange. Strange studied the papers and then he too began to work.

After a while Strange said, "I recently found a reference in Ormskirk's Revelations Revelations of of Thirty-Six Thirty-Six Other Other Worlds Worlds to the kingdom that lies behind mirrors, a kingdom which is apparently full of the most convenient roads by which a traveller may get from one place to another." to the kingdom that lies behind mirrors, a kingdom which is apparently full of the most convenient roads by which a traveller may get from one place to another."

This would not ordinarily have been a subject to please Mr Norrell, but he was so relieved to discover that Strange did not intend to quarrel with him about the library at Hurtfew that he grew quite communicative. "Oh yes, indeed! There is indeed a path which joins all the mirrors of the world. It was well-known to the Great Mediaevals. No doubt they trod it often. I fear I cannot give you any more precise information. The writers I have seen all describe it in different ways. Ormskirk says it is a road across a wide, dark moor, whereas Hickman calls it a vast house with many dark pa.s.sages and great staircases.3Hickman says that within this house there are stone bridges spanning deep chasms and ca.n.a.ls of black water flowing between stone walls to what destination or for what purpose no one knows." Suddenly Mr Norrell was in an excellent humour. To sit quietly doing magic with Mr Strange was to him the very height of enjoyment. "And how does the article for the next Gentleman's Gentleman's Magazine Magazine come along?" he asked. come along?" he asked.

Strange thought for a moment. "I have not quite completed it," he said.

"What is it about? No, do not tell me! I greatly look forward to reading it! Perhaps you will bring it with you tomorrow?"

"Oh! Tomorrow certainly."

That evening Arabella entered the drawing-room of her house in Soho-square and was somewhat surprized to discover that the carpet was now covered with small pieces of paper upon which were written spells and notes and fragments of Norrell's conversation. Strange was standing in the middle of the room, staring down at the papers and pulling his hair.

"What in the world can I put in the next article for the Gentleman's Gentleman's Magazine Magazine?" he demanded.

"I do not know, my love. Has Mr Norrell made no suggestion?" Strange frowned. "For some reason he thinks it is already done."

"Well, what about trees and magic?" suggested Arabella. "You were only saying the other day how interesting the subject is and very much neglected."

Strange took a clean sheet of paper and began rapidly scribbling notes upon it. "Oak trees can be befriended and will aid you against your enemies if they think your cause is just. Birch woods are well known for providing doors into Faerie. Ash-trees will never cease to mourn until the Raven King comes home again.4 No, no! That will never do. I cannot say that. Norrell would have a fit." He crumpled up the paper and threw it in the fire. No, no! That will never do. I cannot say that. Norrell would have a fit." He crumpled up the paper and threw it in the fire.

"Oh! Then perhaps you will listen for a moment to what I have to say," said Arabella. "I paid a visit to Lady Westby's house today, where I met a very odd young lady who seems to be under the impression that you are teaching her magic."

Strange looked up briefly. "I am not teaching any one magic," he said.

"No, my love," said Arabella patiently, "I know that you are not. That is what makes it so extraordinary."

"And what is the name of this confused young person?"

"Miss Gray."

"I do not know her."

"A smart, stylish girl, but not handsome. She is apparently very rich and absolutely wild for magic. Everybody says so. She has a fan decorated with your pictures yours and Mr Norrell's and she has read every word that you and Lord Portishead have ever published."

Strange stared thoughtfully at her for several seconds, so that Arabella mistakenly supposed he must be considering what she had just said. But when he spoke it was only to say in a tone of gentle reproof, "My love, you are standing on my papers." He took her arm and moved her gently aside.

"She told me that she has paid you four hundred guineas for the privilege of being your pupil. She says that in return you have sent her letters with descriptions of spells and recommendations of books to read."

"Four hundred guineas! Well, that is odd. I might forget a young lady, but I do not think I could forget four hundred guineas." A piece of paper caught Strange's eye and he picked it up and began to read it.

"I thought at first that she might have invented this story in order to make me jealous and cause a quarrel between us, but her mania does not seem to be of that sort. It is not your person she admires, it is your profession. I cannot make head nor tail of it. What can these letters be? Who can have written them?"

Strange picked up a little memorandum book (it happened to be Arabella's housekeeping book and nothing to do with him at all) and began to scribble notes in it.

"Jonathan!"

"Mmm?"

"What should I say to Miss Gray when I see her next?"

"Ask her about the four hundred guineas. Tell her I have not received it yet."

"Jonathan! This is a serious matter."

"Oh! I quite agree. There are few things as serious as four hundred guineas."

Arabella said again that it was the oddest thing in the world. She told Strange that she was quite concerned upon Miss Gray's account and she said she wished he would speak to Miss Gray so that the mystery might be resolved. But she said all this for her own satisfaction, since she knew perfectly well that he was no longer attending to her.

A few days later Strange and Sir Walter Pole were playing at billiards at the Bedford in Covent-garden. The game had come to an impa.s.se impa.s.se as Sir Walter had begun, as usual, to accuse Strange of transporting billiard b.a.l.l.s about the table by magic. as Sir Walter had begun, as usual, to accuse Strange of transporting billiard b.a.l.l.s about the table by magic.

Strange declared that he had done no such thing.

"I saw you touch your nose," complained Sir Walter.

"Good G.o.d!" cried Strange. "A man may sneeze, mayn't he? I have a cold."

Two other friends of Strange and Sir Walter, Lieutenant-Colonel Colquhoun Grant and Colonel Manningham, who were watching the game, said that if Strange and Sir Walter merely wished to quarrel then was it entirely necessary for them to occupy the billiards table to do it? Colquhoun Grant and Colonel Manningham hinted that there were other people more interested in the game itself who were waiting to play. This, developing into a more general argument, unfortunately led two country gentlemen to put their heads round the door and inquire when the table might be free for a game, unaware that on Thursday evenings the billiards room at the Bedford was generally considered to be the personal property of Sir Walter Pole and Jonathan Strange and their particular friends.

"Upon my word," said Colquhoun Grant, "I do not know. But probably not for a very long while."

The first of the two country gentlemen was a thick-set, solid-looking person with a coat of heavy brown cloth and boots which would have appeared more to advantage at some provincial market than in the fashionable surroundings of the Bedford. The second country gentleman was a limp little man with an expression of perpetual astonishment.

"But, sir," said the first man, addressing Strange in tones of the utmost reasonableness, "you are talking, not playing. Mr Tantony and I are from Nottinghamshire. We have ordered our dinner but are told we must wait another hour before it is ready. Let us play while you have your chat and then we will be only too glad to give up the table to you again."

His manner as he said this was perfectly polite, yet it rather rankled with Strange's party. Everything about him plainly spoke him to be a farmer or a tradesman and they were not best pleased that he took it upon himself to order them about.

"If you examine the table," said Strange, "you will see that we have just begun. To ask a gentleman to break off before his game is ended well, sir, it is a thing that is never done at the Bedford."

"Ah! Is it not?" said the Nottinghamshire gentleman pleasantly. "Then I beg your pardon. But perhaps you will not object to telling me whether you think it will be a short game or a long one?"

"We have already told you," said Grant. "We do not know." He gave Strange a look which plainly said, "This fellow is very stupid."

It was at this point that the Nottinghamshire gentleman began to suspect that Strange's party were not merely unhelpful, but that they intended to be rude to him. He frowned and indicated the limp little man with the astonished expression who stood at his side. "It is Mr Tantony's first visit to London and he does not desire to come again. I particularly wished to shew him the Bedford Coffee-house, but I did not think to find the people so very disobliging."

"Well, if you do not like it here," said Strange, angrily, "then I can only suggest that you go back home to wherever it is . . . Nothing-shire, I think you said?"

Colquhoun Grant gave the Nottinghamshire gentleman a very cool look and remarked to n.o.body in particular, "It is no wonder to me that farming is in such a parlous condition. Farmers nowadays are always upon the gad. One meets with them at all the idlest haunts in the kingdom. They consult nothing but their own pleasure. Is there no wheat to be sown in Nottinghamshire, I wonder? No pigs to be fed?"

"Mr Tantony and I are not farmers, sir!" exclaimed the Nottinghamshire gentleman indignantly. "We are brewers. Gatcombe and Tantony's Entire Stout is our most celebrated beer and it is famed throughout three counties!"

"Thank you, but we have beer and brewers enough in London already," remarked Colonel Manningham. "Pray, do not stay upon our account."

"But we are not here to sell beer! We have come for a far n.o.bler purpose than that! Mr Tantony and I are enthusiasts for magic! We consider that it is every patriotic Englishman's duty to interest himself in the subject. London is no longer merely the capital of Great Britain it is the centre of our magical scholarship. For many years it was Mr Tantony's dearest wish that he might learn magic, but the art was in such a wretched condition that it made him despair. His friends bade him be more cheerful. We told him that it is when things are at their worst that they start to mend. And we were right, for almost immediately there appeared two of the greatest magicians that England has ever known. I refer of course to Mr Norrell and Mr Strange! The wonders which they have performed have given Englishmen cause to bless the country of their birth again and encouraged Mr Tantony to hope that he might one day be of their number."

"Indeed? Well, it is my belief that he will be disappointed," observed Strange.

"Then, sir, you could not be more wrong!" cried the Nottinghamshire gentleman triumphantly. "Mr Tantony is being instructed in the magical arts by Mr Strange himself!"

Unfortunately, Strange happened at that moment to be leaning across the table, balanced upon one foot to take aim at a billiard ball. So surprized was he at what he heard that he missed the shot entirely, struck his cue against the side of the table and promptly fell over.

"I think there must be some mistake," said Colquhoun Grant.

"No, sir. No mistake," said the Nottinghamshire gentleman with an air of infuriating calmness.

Strange, getting up from the floor, asked, "What does he look like, this Mr Strange?"

"Alas," said the Nottinghamshire gentleman, "I cannot give you any precise information upon that point. Mr Tantony has never met Mr Strange. Mr Tantony's education is conducted entirely by letters. But we have great hopes of seeing Mr Strange in the street. We go to Soho-square tomorrow expressly for the purpose of looking at his house."

"Letters!" exclaimed Strange.

"I would think an education by correspondence must of a very inferior sort," said Sir Walter.

"Not at all!" cried the Nottinghamshire gentleman. "Mr Strange's letters are full of sage advice and remarkable insights into the condition of English magic. Why, only the other day Mr Tantony wrote and asked Mr Strange for a spell to make it stop raining we get a great deal of rain in our part of Nottinghamshire. The very next day Mr Strange wrote back and said that, though there were indeed spells that could move rain and sunshine about, like pieces on a chessboard, he would never employ them except in the direst need, and he advised Mr Tantony to follow his example. English magic, said Mr Strange, had grown up upon English soil and had in a sense been nurtured by English rain. Mr Strange said that in meddling with English weather, we meddled with England, and in meddling with England we risked destroying the very foundations of English magic. We thought that a very striking instance of Mr Strange's genius, did we not, Mr Tantony?" The Nottinghamshire man gave his friend a little shake which made him blink several times.

"Did you ever say that?" murmured Sir Walter.

"Why! I think I did," answered Strange. "I believe I said something of the sort . . . when would it have been? Last Friday, I suppose."

"And to whom did you say it?"

"To Norrell, of course."

"And was there any other person in the room?"

Strange paused. "Drawlight," he said slowly.

"Ah!"

"Sir," said Strange to the Nottinghamshire gentleman. "I beg your pardon if I offended you before. But you must admit that there was something about the way in which you spoke to me which was not quite . . . In short I have a temper and you piqued me. I am Jonathan Strange and I am sorry to tell you that I never heard of you or Mr Tantony until today. I suspect that Mr Tantony and I are both the dupes of an unscrupulous man. I presume that Mr Tantony pays me for his education? Might I ask where he sends the money? If it is to Little Ryder-street then I shall have the proof I need."

Unfortunately the Nottinghamshire gentleman and Mr Tantony had formed an idea of Strange as a tall, deep-chested man with a long white beard, a ponderous way of speaking and an antiquated mode of dress. As the Mr Strange who stood before them was slender, clean-shaven, quick of speech and dressed exactly like every other rich, fashionable gentleman in London, they could not at first be persuaded that this was the right person.

"Well, that is easily resolved," said Colquhoun Grant.

"Of course," said Sir Walter, "I will summon a waiter. Perhaps the word of a servant will do what the word of a gentleman cannot. John! Come here! We want you!"

"No, no, no!" cried Grant, "That was not what I meant at all. John, you may go away again. We do not want you. There are any number of things which Mr Strange could do which would prove his incomparable magicianship far better than any mere a.s.surances. He is after all the Greatest Magician of the Age."

"Surely," said the Nottinghamshire man with a frown, "that t.i.tle belongs to Mr Norrell?"

Colquhoun Grant smiled. "Colonel Manningham and I had the honour, sir, to fight with his Grace the Duke of Wellington in Spain. I a.s.sure you we knew nothing of Mr Norrell there. It was Mr Strange this gentleman here whom we trusted. Now, if he were to perform some startling act of magic then I do not think you could doubt any longer and then I am sure your great respect for English magic and English magicians would not allow you to remain silent a moment longer. I am sure you would wish to tell him all you know about these forged letters." Grant looked at the Nottinghamshire gentleman inquiringly.

"Well," said the Nottinghamshire gentleman, "you are a very queer set of gentlemen, I must say, and what you can mean by spinning me such a tale as this, I do not know. For I tell you plainly I will be very much surprized if the letters prove to be forgeries when every line, every word breathes good English magic!"

"But," said Grant, "if, as we suppose, this scoundrel made use of Mr Strange's own words to concoct his lies, then that would explain it, would it not? Now, in order to prove that he is who we say he is, Mr Strange shall now shew you something that no man living has ever seen!"

"Why?" said the Nottinghamshire man. "What will he do?"

Grant smiled broadly and turned to Strange, as if he too were suddenly struck with curiosity. "Yes, Strange, tell us. What will you do?"

But it was Sir Walter who answered. He nodded in the direction of a large Venetian mirror which took up most of one wall and was at that moment reflecting only darkness, and he declared, "He will walk into that mirror and he will not come out again."

1 This portrait, now lost, hung in Mr Norrell's library from November 1814 until the summer of the following year when it was removed. It has not been seen since.

The following extract from a volume of memoirs describes the difficulties experienced by Mr Lawrence (later Sir Thomas Lawrence) in painting the portrait. It is also of interest for the light it sheds upon the relationship of Norrell and Strange in late 1814. It seems that, in spite of many provocations, Strange was still struggling to bear patiently with the older magician and to encourage others to do the same.

"The two magicians sat for the picture in Mr Norrell's library. Mr Lawrence found Mr Strange to be a most agreeable man and Strange's part of the portrait progressed very well. Mr Norrell, on the other hand, was very restless from the start. He would shift about in his chair and crane his neck as if he were trying to catch sight of Mr Lawrence's hands a futile endeavour as the easel stood between them. Mr Lawrence supposed he must be anxious about the picture and a.s.sured him it went well. Mr Lawrence added that Mr Norrell might look if he wished, but this did nothing to cure Mr Norrell's fidgets.

All at once Mr Norrell addressed Mr Strange, who was in the room and busy writing a letter to one of the Ministers. 'Mr Strange, I feel a draught! I do believe that the window behind Mr Lawrence is open! Pray, Mr Strange, go and see if the window is open!' Without looking up, Strange replied, 'No, the window is not open. You are mistaken.' A few minutes later Mr Norrell thought he heard a pie-seller in the square and begged Mr Strange to go to the window and look out, but once again Mr Strange refused. Next it was a d.u.c.h.ess's coach that Mr Norrell heard. He tried everything that he could think of to make Mr Strange go to the window, but Mr Strange would not go. This was very odd, and Mr Lawrence began to suspect that all Mr Norrell's agitation had nothing to with imaginary draughts or pie-sellers or d.u.c.h.esses but that it had something to do with the painting.

So when Mr Norrell went out of the room Mr Lawrence asked Mr Strange what the matter was. At first Mr Strange insisted that nothing was wrong, but Mr Lawrence was determined to find out and pressed Mr Strange to tell him the truth. Mr Strange sighed. 'Oh, very well! He has got it into his head that you are copying spells out of his books behind your easel.'

Mr Lawrence was shocked. He had painted the greatest in the land and never before been suspected of stealing. This was not the sort of treatment he expected.

'Come,' said Mr Strange, gently, 'do not be angry. If any man in England deserves our patience, it is Mr Norrell. All the future of English magic is on his shoulders and I a.s.sure you he feels it very keenly. It makes him a little eccentric. What would be your sensations, I wonder, Mr Lawrence, if you woke one morning and found yourself the only artist in Europe? Would not you feel a little lonely? Would you not feel the watchful gaze of Michelangelo and Raphael and Rembrandt and all the rest of them upon you, as if they both defied and implored you to equal their achievements? Would you not sometimes be out of spirits and out of temper?' "

From Recollections Recollections of of Sir Sir Thomas Thomas Lawrence Lawrence during during an an intimacy intimacy of of nearly nearly thirty thirty years years by by Miss Miss Croft Croft 2 Francis Pevensey, sixteenth-century magician. Wrote Eighteen Eighteen Wonders Wonders to to be be found found in in the the House House of of Albion Albion. We know that Pevensey was trained by Martin Pale. The Eighteen Eighteen Wonders Wonders has all the characteristics of Pale's magic, including his fondness for complicated diagrams and intricate magical apparatus. For many years Francis Pevensey occupied a minor but respectable place in English magical history as a follower of Martin Pale and it was a great surprize to everyone when he suddenly became the subject of one of the bitterest controversies in eighteenth-century magical theory. has all the characteristics of Pale's magic, including his fondness for complicated diagrams and intricate magical apparatus. For many years Francis Pevensey occupied a minor but respectable place in English magical history as a follower of Martin Pale and it was a great surprize to everyone when he suddenly became the subject of one of the bitterest controversies in eighteenth-century magical theory.

It began in 1754 with the discovery of a number of letters in the library of a gentleman in Stamford in Lincolnshire. They were all in an antique hand and signed by Martin Pale. The magical scholars of the period were besides themselves with joy.

But upon closer examination the letters proved to be love love letters letters with no word of magic in them from beginning to end. They were of the most pa.s.sionate description imaginable: Pale compared his beloved to a sweet shower of rain falling upon him, to a fire at which he warmed himself, to a torment that he preferred to any comfort. There were various references to milk-white b.r.e.a.s.t.s and perfumed legs and long soft, brown hair in which stars became entangled, and other things not at all interesting to the magical scholars who had hoped for magic spells. with no word of magic in them from beginning to end. They were of the most pa.s.sionate description imaginable: Pale compared his beloved to a sweet shower of rain falling upon him, to a fire at which he warmed himself, to a torment that he preferred to any comfort. There were various references to milk-white b.r.e.a.s.t.s and perfumed legs and long soft, brown hair in which stars became entangled, and other things not at all interesting to the magical scholars who had hoped for magic spells.