“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 Childermass. “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 Childermass, 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 Childermass, 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? A letter 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 Childermass 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 Childermass 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 reassure 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 ex-dancing-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 Purfois. “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 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 glass 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 pronounce 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 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.
“I know what you mean,” said William Hadley-Bright.
“A really remarkable procedure of Dr Pale’s,” Henry Purfois informed Mr Murray. “It turns a spell around and inflicts it upon its maker. Mr Norrell’s own books would go blank or disappear! Which is, after all, no more than he deserves.”
“I am not sure Mr Strange would be so delighted if he came back and found we had destroyed England’s foremost magical library,” said Tom. “Besides in order to perform Pale’s Invisible Reflection and Protection we would have to construct a Quiliphon.�
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“A what?” said Mr Murray.
“A Quiliphon,” said William Hadley-Bright. “Dr Pale’s works are full of such machines for doing magic. I believe that in appearance it is something between a trumpet and a toasting fork …”
“… and there are four metal globes on top that go round and round,” added Henry Purfois.
“I see,” said Mr Murray.
“Building a Quiliphon would take too long,” said Tom, firmly. “I suggest we turn our attention to De Chepe’s Prophylaxis.4 That is very quick to implement and, correctly done, should hold off Norrell’s magic for a while – long enough to get a message to Mr Strange.”
Just then the door opened and an untidy-looking fellow in a leather apron entered the shop. He was somewhat discomfited to find the eyes of all the room upon him. He made a little bobbing bow, handed a piece of paper to Shackleton and quickly made his escape.
“What is it, Shackleton?” asked Mr Murray.
“A message from Thames-street. They have looked inside the books. They are all blank – not a word left upon any of the pages. I am sorry, Mr Murray, but The History and Practice of English Magic is gone.”
William Hadley-Bright stuck his hands in his pockets and gave a low whistle.
As the hours progressed it became clear that not a single copy of Strange’s book remained in circulation. William Hadley-Bright and Henry Purfois were all for calling Mr Norrell out, until it was represented to them that Mr Norrell was an elderly gentleman who rarely took exercise and had never been seen with a sword or a pistol in his hand. There were no circumstances under which it would be fair or honourable for two men in the prime of life (one of them a soldier) to challenge him to a duel. Hadley-Bright and Purfois accepted this with a good grace, but Purfois could not help looking hopefully about the room for a person of equal decrepitude to Mr Norrell. He gazed speculatively at Shackleton.
Other friends of Strange appeared to condole with Mr Murray and give vent to some of the fury they felt at what Mr Norrell had done. Lord Portishead arrived and gave an account of the letter he had sent to Mr Norrell breaking off their friendship and the letter he had sent to Lascelles resigning as editor of The Friends of English Magic and cancelling his subscription.
“Henceforth, gentlemen,” he told Strange’s pupils, “I consider myself as belonging solely to your party.”
Strange’s pupils assured his lordship he had done the right thing and would never regret it.
At seven o’clock Childermass arrived. He walked into the crowded room with as much composure as if he were walking into church. “Well, how much have you lost, Mr Murray?” he asked. He took out his memorandum book and picked up a quill from Mr Murray’s desk and dipped it in the ink.
“Put your book away again, Mr Childermass,” said Mr Murray. “I do not want your money.”
“Indeed? Be careful, sir, how you let these gentlemen influence you. Some of them are young and have no responsibilities …” Childermass gave a cool glance to Strange’s three pupils and to the several officers in uniform who stood about the room. “And others are rich and a hundred pounds more or less is nothing to them.” Childermass looked at Lord Portishead. “But you, Mr Murray, are a man of business and business ought to be your first consideration.”
“Ha!” Mr Murray crossed his arms and looked triumphantly at Childermass with his one good eye. “You think I am in desperate need of the money – but, you see, I am not. Offers of loans from Mr Strange’s friends have been arriving all evening. I believe I might set up a whole new business if I chose! But I desire you will take a message to Mr Norrell. It is this. He will pay in the end – but upon our terms, not his. We intend to make him pay for the new edition. He shall pay for the advertisements for his rival’s book. That will give him greater pain than any thing else could, I believe.”
“Oh, indeed! If it ever happens,” said Childermass, drily. He turned towards the door. Then he paused and, staring for a moment at the carpet, seemed to debate something within himself. “I will tell you this,” he said. “The book is not destroyed however it may seem at present. I have dealt my cards and asked them if there are any copies left. It seems that two remain. Strange has one and Norrell the other.”
* * *
For the next month London talked of little else but the astonishing thing that Mr Norrell had done, but as to whether it were the wickedness of Strange’s book or the spitefulness of Mr Norrell which was most to blame, London was divided. People who had bought copies were furious at the loss of their books and Mr Norrell did not help matters by sending his servants to their houses with a guinea (the cost of the book) and the letter in which he explained his reasons for making their books disappear. A great many people found themselves more insulted than ever and some of them immediately summoned their attorneys to begin proceedings against Mr Norrell.5
In September the Ministers returned from the country to London and naturally Mr Norrell’s extraordinary actions formed one of the main topics of conversation at their first meeting.
“When we first employed Mr Norrell to do magic on our behalf,” said one, “we had no idea of permitting him to intrude his spells into people’s houses and alter their possessions. In some ways it is a pity that we do not have that magical court he is always proposing. What is it called?”
“The Cinque Dragownes,” said Sir Walter Pole.
“I presume he must be guilty of some magical crime or other?”
“Oh, certainly! But I have not the least idea what. John Childermass probably knows, but I very much doubt that he would tell us.”
“It does not matter. There are several suits against him in the common courts for theft.”
“Theft!” said another Minister in surprize. “I find it very shocking that a man who has done the country such service should be prosecuted for such a low crime!”
“Why?” asked the first. “He has brought it upon himself.”
“The problem is,” said Sir Walter, “that the moment he is asked to defend himself he will respond by saying something about the nature of English magic. And no one is competent to argue that subject except Strange. I think we must be patient. I think we must wait until Strange comes back.”
“Which raises another question,” said another Minister. “There are only two magicians in England. How can we decide between them? Who can say which of them is right and which is wrong?”
The Ministers looked at each other in perplexity.
Only Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister, was unperturbed. “We will know them as we know other men,” he declared, “by the fruits that they bear.”6
There was a pause for the Ministers to reflect that the fruits Mr Norrell was currently bearing were not very promising: arrogance, theft and malice.
It was agreed that the Home Secretary should speak to Mr Lascelles privately and ask that he would convey to Mr Norrell the extreme displeasure of the Prime Minister and all the Ministers at what Mr Norrell had done.
There seemed no more to be said, but the Ministers were unable to leave the subject without indulging in a little gossip. They had all heard how Lord Portishead had severed himself from Mr Norrell. But Sir Walter was able to tell them how Childermass – who up to this moment had seemed like his master’s shadow – had distanced himself from Mr Norrell’s interests and spoken to Strange’s assembled friends as an independent person, assuring them that the book was not destroyed. Sir Walter sighed deeply. “I cannot help thinking that in many ways this is a worse sign than all the rest. Norrell never was a good judge of men, and now the best of his friends are deserting him – Strange is gone, John Murray and now Portishead. If Childermass and Norrell quarrel there will only be Henry Lascelles left.”
Strange’s friends all sat down that evening and wrote him letters full of indignation. The letters would take two weeks to reach Italy, but Strange moved about so much that it might be another two weeks before they found him. At first Strange’s friends felt confident that the inst
ant he read them he would immediately set out for England in a blaze of anger, ready to contend with Norrell in the courts and the newspapers. But in September they received news which made them think that perhaps they would have to wait a while after all.
As long as Strange had been travelling towards Italy he had seemed generally to be in good spirits. His letters had been full of cheerful nonsense. But as soon as he arrived there his mood changed. For the first time since Arabella’s death he had no work to do and nothing to distract him from his widowed state. Nothing he saw pleased him and for some weeks it seemed that he could only find any relief for his misery in continual change of scene.7 In early September he reached Genoa. Liking this place a little better than other Italian towns he had seen, he stayed almost a week. During this time an English family arrived at the hotel where he was staying. Though he had previously declared to Sir Walter his intention of avoiding the society of Englishmen while he was abroad, Strange struck up an acquaintance with this family. In no time at all he was writing letters back to England full of praise for the manners, cleverness and kindness of the Greysteels. At the end of the week he travelled to Bologna, but finding no pleasure there he very soon returned to Genoa to remain with the Greysteels until the end of the month when they all planned to travel together to Venice.
Naturally, Strange’s friends were very glad that he had found some agreeable company, but what intrigued them most were several references in Strange’s letters to the daughter of the family, who was young and unmarried and in whose society Strange seemed to take a particular pleasure. The same interesting idea occurred to several of his friends at once: what if he were to marry again? A pretty young wife would cure his gloomy spirits better than any thing else could, and best of all she would distract him from that dark, unsettling magic he seemed so set upon.
There were more thorns in Mr Norrell’s side than Strange. A gentleman called Knight had begun a school for magicians in Henrietta-street in Covent-garden. Mr Knight was not a practical magician, nor did he pretend to be. His advertisement offered young gentlemen: “a thorough Education in Theoretical Magic and English Magical History upon the same principles which guided our Foremost Magician, Mr Norrell, in teaching his Illustrious Pupil, Jonathan Strange.” Mr Lascelles had written Mr Knight an angry letter in which he declared that Mr Knight’s school could not possibly be based upon the principles mentioned since these were known only to Mr Norrell and Mr Strange. Lascelles threatened Mr Knight with exposure as a fraud if he did not immediately dismantle his school.
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