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 sh.o.r.es 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.

Jonathan Strange to John SegundusBruxelles Jun. 12th, 1816.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 a.s.sure you of the quiet, good Englishman, who makes no noise and is no trouble to any one . . . 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 a.s.sure 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 complain- ing 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 sh.o.r.es of the lake. He was not alone. There was another poet called Sh.e.l.ley, Mrs Sh.e.l.ley 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 Christ- mas, 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 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 book-seller 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 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 pa.s.sers-by. He talked to himself and the expression of his face changed constantly. Within the s.p.a.ce 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 mollifed 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 The History and Practice of English Magic Magic and then you came back about a week later for another." 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 bra.s.s 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 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, 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 Cooper's Dictionary of Practical Surgery was there at the bottom of the basket but was there at the bottom of the basket but The History and Practice of English Magic The History and Practice of English Magic was gone!" 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?"

MrGreen 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 thoughtful 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 Flim-Flams and Miss Austen's and Miss Austen's Emma Emma. You can see the s.p.a.ce 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 Childerma.s.s. As Murray and Shackleton came in, Mr Edwards looked round with a guilty expression, but Childerma.s.s was just as usual. "Ah, Mr Murray!" he said. "I am glad to see you, sir. This spares me a walk in the rain."

"What is happening?" demanded Mr Murray. "What are you doing?"

"Doing? Mr Norrell is purchasing some books. That is all."

"Ha! If your master means to suppress Mr Strange's book by buying up all the copies, then he will be disappointed. Mr Norrell is a rich man but he must come to the end of his fortune at last and I can print books as fast as he can buy them."

"No,' said Childerma.s.s. "You can't."

Mr Murray turned to Mr Edwards. "Robert, Robert! Why do you let them tyrannize over you in this fashion?"

Poor Mr Edwards looked most unhappy. "I am sorry, Mr Murray, but the books were all disappearing. I have had to give more than thirty people their money back. I stood to lose a great deal. But now Mr Norrell has offered to buy up my entire stock of Strange's book and pay me a fair price for them, and so I . . ."

"Fair?" cried Shackleton, quite unable to bear this. "Fair? What is fair about it, I should like to know? Who do you suppose is making the books disappear in the first place?"

"Quite!" agreed Mr Murray. Turning to Childerma.s.s, he said, "You will not attempt to deny that all this is Norrell's doing?"

"No, no. Upon the contrary Mr Norrell is eager to declare himself responsible. He has a whole list of reasons and will be glad to tell them to any one who will listen."

"And what are these reasons?" asked Mr Murray, coldly.

"Oh, the usual sort of thing, I expect," said Childerma.s.s, looking, for the first time, slightly evasive. "A letter is being prepared which tells you all about it."

"And you think that will satisfy me, do you? Aletter of apology?"

"Apology? I doubt you will get much in the way of an apology."

"I intend to speak to my attorney," said Mr Murray, "this very afternoon."

"Of course you do. We should not expect any thing less. But be that as it may, it is not Mr Norrell's intention that you should lose money by this. As soon as you are able to give me an account of all that you have spent in the publication of Mr Strange's book, I am authorized to give you a banker's draft for the full amount."

This was unexpected. Mr Murray was torn between his desire to return Childerma.s.s a very rude answer and his consciousness that Norrell was depriving him of a great deal of money and ought in fairness to pay him.

Shackleton poked Mr Murray discreetly in the arm to warn him not to do any thing rash.

"What of my profit?" asked Mr Murray, trying to gain a little time.

"Oh, you wish that to be taken into consideration, do you? That is only fair, I suppose. Let me speak to Mr Norrell." With that Childerma.s.s bowed and walked out of the shop.

There was no reason for Mr Murray and Shackleton to remain any longer. As soon as they were out in the street again, Mr Murray turned to Shackleton and said, "Go down to Thames-street . . ." (This was the warehouse where Mr Murray kept his stock.) ". . . and find out if any of Mr Strange's books are left. Do not allow Jackson to put you off with a short answer. Make him shew them to you. Tell him I need him to count them and that he must send me the reckoning within the hour."

When Mr Murray arrived back at Albermarle-street he found three young men loitering in his shop. They shut up their books the moment they saw him, surrounded him in an instant and began talking at once. Mr Murray naturally supposed that they must have come upon the same errand as Mr Green. As two of them were very tall and all of them were loud and indignant, he became rather nervous and signalled to the office-boy to run and fetch help. The office-boy stayed exactly where he was and watched the proceedings with an expression of unwonted interest upon his face.

Some rather violent exclamations from the young men such as, "Desperate villain!" and "Abominable scoundrel!" did little to rea.s.sure Mr Murray, but after a few moments he began to understand that it was not he whom they were abusing, but Norrell.

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," he said, "but if it is not too much trouble, I wonder if you would do me the kindness of informing me who you are?"

The young men were surprized. They had supposed they were better known than that. They introduced themselves. They were Strange's three pupils-in-waiting, Henry Purfois, William Hadley-Bright and Tom Levy.

William Hadley-Bright and Henry Purfois were both tall and handsome, while Tom Levy was a small, slight figure with dark hair and eyes. As has already been noted, Hadley-Bright and Purfois were well-born English gentlemen, while Tom was an exdancing-master whose forefathers had all been Hebrew. Happily Hadley-Bright and Purfois took very little notice of such distinctions of rank and ancestry. Knowing Tom to be the most talented amongst them, they generally deferred to him in all matters of magical scholarship, and, apart from calling him by his given name (while he addressed them as Mr Purfois and Mr Hadley-Bright) and expecting him to pick up books they left behind them, they were very much inclined to treat him as an equal.

"We cannot sit about doing nothing while this villain, this monster destroys Mr Strange's great work!" declared Henry Pur- fois. "Give us something to do, Mr Murray! That is all we ask!"

"And if that something could involve running Mr Norrell through with a very sharp sabre, then so much the better," added William Hadley-Bright.

"Can one of you go after Strange and bring him back?" asked Mr Murray.

"Oh, certainly! Hadley-Bright is your man for that!" declared Henry Purfois. "He was one of the Duke's aides-de-camp aides-de-camp at Waterloo, you know. There is nothing he likes better than dashing about on a horse at impossible speeds." at Waterloo, you know. There is nothing he likes better than dashing about on a horse at impossible speeds."

"Do you know where Mr Strange has gone?" asked Tom Levy.

"Two weeks ago he was in Geneva," said Mr Murray. "I had a letter from him this morning. He may be still there. Or he may have gone on to Italy."

The door opened and Shackleton walked in, his wig hung with drops of rain as if he had decorated it with innumerable gla.s.s beads. "All is well," he said eagerly to Mr Murray. "The books are still in their bales."

"You saw them with your own eyes?"

"Yes, indeed. I dare say it takes a good deal of magic to make ten thousand books disappear."

"I wish I could be so sanguine," said Tom Levy. "Forgive me, Mr Murray, but from all I ever heard of Mr Norrell once he has set himself a task he works tirelessly at it until it is accomplished. I do not believe we have time to wait for Mr Strange to come back."

Shackleton looked surprized to hear any one p.r.o.nounce with such confidence upon magical matters.

Mr Murray hastily introduced Strange's three pupils. "How much time do you think we have?" he asked Tom.

"A day? Two at the most? Certainly not enough time to find Mr Strange and bring him back. I think, Mr Murray, that you must put this into our hands and we must try a spell or two to counteract Norrell's magic."

"Are there such spells?" asked Mr Murray, eyeing the novice-magicians doubtfully.

"Oh, hundreds!" said Henry Purfois.

"Do you know any of them?" asked Mr Murray.

"We know of of them," said William Hadley-Bright. "We could probably put a fairly decent one together. What an excellent thing it would be if Mr Strange came back from the Continent and we had saved his book! That would rather make him open his eyes, I think!" them," said William Hadley-Bright. "We could probably put a fairly decent one together. What an excellent thing it would be if Mr Strange came back from the Continent and we had saved his book! That would rather make him open his eyes, I think!"

"What about Pale's Invisible What-D'ye-Call-It and Thingumajig?" asked Henry Purfois.