Part 48 (1/2)

Strange was not alone in wis.h.i.+ng to go abroad. It had suddenly become very fas.h.i.+onable. 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 Derbys.h.i.+re 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 lords.h.i.+p. 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 lords.h.i.+p. 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 lords.h.i.+p 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 was.h.i.+ng 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 was.h.i.+ng 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?”