Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (31 page)

However, in London, where the Ministers knew as little of ships and seamanship as Strange, only one thing was clear: Strange had saved a ship, the loss of which would have cost the Admiralty a vast amount of money.

“One thing that the rescue of the
False Prelate
demonstrates,” remarked Sir Walter Pole to Lord Liverpool, “is the very great advantage of having a magician upon the spot, able to deal with a crisis as it occurs. I know that we considered sending Norrell somewhere and were forced to give it up, but what of Strange?”

Lord Liverpool considered this. “I think,” he said, “we could only justify sending Mr Strange to serve with one of the generals if we were reasonably confident of that general shortly achieving some sort of success against the French. Anything else would be an unforgivable waste of Mr Strange’s talents which, God knows, we need badly enough in London. Frankly the choice is not great. Really there is no one but Lord Wellington.”

“Oh, quite!”

Lord Wellington was in Portugal with his army and so his opinion could not be easily ascertained, but by an odd coincidence his wife lived at no. 11 Harley-street, just opposite Sir Walter’s own house. When Sir Walter went home that evening he knocked at Lady Wellington’s door and asked her ladyship what she thought Lord Wellington would say to the idea of a magician. But Lady Wellington, a small, unhappy person whose opinion was not much valued by her husband, did not know.

Strange, on the other hand, was delighted with the proposal. Arabella, though somewhat less delighted, gave her assent very readily. The greatest obstacle to Strange’s going proved to be, to no one’s great surprize, Norrell. In the past year Mr Norrell had grown to rely a great deal upon his pupil. He consulted Strange upon all those matters which in bygone days had been referred to Drawlight and Lascelles. Mr Norrell talked of nothing but Mr Strange when Strange was away, and talked to no one but Strange when Strange was present. His feelings of attachment seemed all the stronger for being entirely new; he had never felt truly comfortable in any one’s society before. If, in a crowded drawing-room or ballroom, Strange contrived to escape for a quarter of an hour, Mr Norrell would send Drawlight after him to discover where he had gone and whom he was talking to. Consequently, when Mr Norrell learnt there was a plan to send his only pupil and friend to the war he was shocked. “I am astonished, Sir Walter,” he said, “that you should even suggest such a thing!”

“But every man must be prepared to make sacrifices for the sake of his country during a war,” said Sir Walter with some irritation, “and thousands have already done so, you know.”

“But they were
soldiers
!” cried Mr Norrell. “Oh! I dare say a soldier is very valuable in his way but that is nothing to the loss the Nation would sustain if any thing were to happen to Mr Strange! There is, I understand, a school at High Wycombe where 300 officers are trained every year. I would to God that I were so fortunate as to have 300 magicians to educate! If I had, then English magic might be in a much more promising situation than it is at present!”

After Sir Walter had tried and failed, Lord Liverpool and the Duke of York undertook to speak to Mr Norrell on the subject, but Mr Norrell could not be persuaded by any of them to view Strange’s proposed departure with any thing other than horror.

“Have you considered, sir,” said Strange, “the great respect that it will win for English magic?”

“Oh, I dare say it might,” said Mr Norrell peevishly, “but nothing is so likely to evoke the Raven King and all that wild, mischievous sort of magic as the sight of an English magician upon a battlefield! People will begin to think that we raise fairy-spirits and consult with owls and bears. Whereas it is my hope for English magic that it should be regarded as a quiet, respectable sort of profession — the sort of profession in fact …”

“But, sir,” said Strange, hastily interrupting a speech he had heard a hundred times before, “I shall have no company of fairy knights at my back. And there are other considerations which we would do very wrong to ignore. You and I have often lamented that we are continually asked to do the same sorts of magic over and over again. I dare say the exigencies of the war will require me to do magic that I have not done before — and, as we have often observed to each other, sir, the practice of magic makes the theory so much easier to understand.”

But the two magicians were too different in temperament ever to come to an agreement upon such a point. Strange spoke of braving the danger in order to win glory for English magic. His language and metaphors were all drawn from games of chance and from war and were scarcely likely to find favour with Mr Norrell. Mr Norrell assured Mr Strange that he would find war very disagreeable. “One is often wet and cold upon a battlefield. You will like it a great deal less than you suppose.”

For several weeks in January and February 1811 it seemed as if Mr Norrell’s opposition would prevent Strange’s going to war. The mistake that Sir Walter, Lord Liverpool, the Duke of York and Strange had all made was to appeal to Mr Norrell’s nobility, patriotism and sense of duty. There is no doubt that Mr Norrell possessed these virtues, but there were other principles which were stronger in him and which would always counter any higher faculty.

Fortunately there were two gentlemen at hand who knew how to manage matters rather better. Lascelles and Drawlight were as anxious as every body else that Strange should go to Portugal and in their opinion the best method to achieve it was to play upon Mr Norrell’s anxiety over the fate of the Duke of Roxburghe’s library.

This library had long been a thorn in Mr Norrell’s side. It was one of the most important private libraries in the kingdom — second only to Mr Norrell’s own. It had a curious, poignant history. Some fifty years before, the Duke of Roxburghe, a most intelligent, civilized and respectable gentleman, had chanced to fall in love with the Queen’s sister and had applied to the King for permission to marry her. For various reasons to do with court etiquette, form and precedence the King had refused. Heart-broken, the Duke and the Queen’s sister made a solemn promise to love each other for ever and never upon any inducement to marry any one else. Whether the Queen’s sister kept her side of the bargain I do not know, but the Duke retired to his castle in the Scottish borders and, to fill his lonely days, he began to collect rare books: exquisite illuminated mediaeval manuscripts and editions of the very first printed books produced in the workshops of men of such genius as William Caxton of London and Valdarfer of Venice. By the early years of the century the Duke’s library was one of the wonders of the world. His Grace was fond of poetry, chivalry, history and theology. He had no particular interest in magic, but all old books delighted him and it would have been very odd if one or two magical texts had not found their way into his library.

Mr Norrell had written to the Duke a number of times begging to be allowed to examine and perhaps purchase any books of magic which the Duke possessed. The Duke, however, felt no inclination to satisfy Mr Norrell’s curiosity and, being immensely wealthy, he did not want Mr Norrell’s money. Having been true to his promise to the Queen’s sister through many a long year, the Duke had no children and no obvious heir. When he died a large number of his male relatives were seized by a strong conviction that they were the next Duke of Roxburghe. These gentlemen took their claims before the Committee of Privileges of the House of Lords. The Committee considered and came to the conclusion that the new Duke was either Major-General Ker or Sir James Innes, but as to which of them it might be the Committee was not quite certain and it settled itself to consider the matter further. By early 1811 it had still not come to a decision.

On a cold, wet Tuesday morning Mr Norrell was seated with Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight in the library at Hanover-square. Childermass was also in the room, writing letters to various Government departments upon Mr Norrell’s behalf. Strange had gone to Twickenham with Mrs Strange to visit a friend.

Lascelles and Drawlight were speaking of the lawsuit between Ker and Innes. One or two seemingly random allusions upon Lascelles’s part to the famous library caught Mr Norrell’s attention.

“What do we know of these men?” he asked Lascelles. “Have they any interest in the practice of magic?”

Lascelles smiled. “You may be easy on that score, sir. I assure you the only thing that Innes or Ker cares for is to be Duke. I do not think I have ever seen either of them so much as open a book.”

“Indeed? They do not care for books? Well, that is most reassuring.” Mr Norrell thought for a moment. “But supposing one of them were to come into possession of the Duke’s library and chanced to find some rare magical text upon a shelf and become curious about it. People are curious about magic, you know. That has been one of the more regrettable consequences of my own success. This man might read a little and find himself inspired to try a spell or two. It is, after all, exactly how I began myself when as a boy of twelve I opened a book from my uncle’s library and found inside a single page torn from a much older volume. The instant I read it, the conviction took hold of me that I must be a magician!”

“Indeed? That is most interesting,” said Lascelles, in tones of complete boredom. “But it is hardly, I think, likely to happen to Innes or Ker. Innes must be in his seventies and Ker about the same. Neither man is in search of a new career.”

“Oh! But have they no young relatives? Relatives who are perhaps avid readers of
The Friends of English Magic
and
The Modern Magician
? Relatives who would seize upon any books of magic the instant they laid eyes upon them! No, forgive me, Mr Lascelles, but I cannot regard the advanced age of the two gentlemen as any security at all!”

“Very well. But I doubt, sir, if these young thaumatomanes
³
whom you describe so vividly will have any opportunity to view the library. In order to pursue their claim to the dukedom, both Ker and Innes have incurred vast legal expenses. The first concern of the new Duke, whoever he may be, will be to pay off his lawyers. His first act upon entering Floors Castle will be to look around for something to sell.
⁴
I shall be very much surprized if the library is not put up for sale within a week of the Committee giving its decision.”

“A book sale!” exclaimed Mr Norrell in alarm.

“What are you afraid of now?” asked Childermass, looking up from his writing. “A book sale is generally the thing most calculated to please you.”

“Oh! but that was before,” said Mr Norrell, “when no one in the kingdom had the least interest in books of magic except me, but now I fear a great many people might try to buy them. I dare say there might be accounts in
The Times
.”

“Oh!” cried Drawlight. “If the books are bought by someone else you may complain to the Ministers! You may complain to the Prince of Wales! It is not in the interests of the Nation that books of magic should be in any one’s possession but your own, Mr Norrell.”

“Except Strange,” said Lascelles. “I do not think the Prince of Wales or the Ministers would have any objections to Strange’s owning the books.”

“That is true,” agreed Drawlight. “I had forgot Strange.”

Mr Norrell looked more alarmed than ever. “But Mr Strange will understand that it is proper for the books to be mine,” he said. “They should be collected together in one library. They ought not to be separated.” He looked about hopefully for someone to agree with him. “Naturally,” he continued, “I shall have no objection to Mr Strange reading them. Everyone knows how many of my books — my own precious books — I have lent to Mr Strange. That is … I mean, it would depend upon the subject.”

Drawlight, Lascelles and Childermass said nothing. They did indeed know how many books Mr Norrell had lent Mr Strange. They also knew how many he had withheld.

“Strange is a gentleman,” said Lascelles. “He will behave as a gentleman and expect you to do the same. If the books are offered privately to you and you alone, then I think you may buy them, but if they are auctioned, he will feel entitled to bid against you.”

Mr Norrell paused, looked at Lascelles and licked his lips nervously. “And how do you suppose the books will be sold? By auction or by private transaction?”

“Auction,” said Lascelles, Drawlight and Childermass together.

Mr Norrell covered his face with his hands.

“Of course,” said Lascelles, slowly as if the idea were just occurring to him at that moment, “if Strange were abroad, he would not be able to bid.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Would he?”

Mr Norrell looked up with new hope in his face.

Suddenly it became highly desirable that Mr Strange should go to Portugal for a year or so.
⁵

29
At the house of José Estoril

January—March 1811

“I have been thinking, sir, that my leaving for the Peninsula will be the cause of many changes in your dealings with the War Office,” said Strange. “I am afraid that when I am gone you will not find it so convenient to have people knocking at the door at all hours of the day and night, asking for this or that piece of magic to be performed forthwith. There will be no one but you to attend to them. When will you sleep? I think we must persuade them to some other way of doing things. If I can be of any assistance in arranging matters, I should be glad to do so. Perhaps we should invite Lord Liverpool to dine one evening this week?”

“Oh, yes indeed!” said Mr Norrell in high good humour with this proof of Strange’s considerateness. “You must be there. You explain everything so well! You have only to say a thing and Lord Liverpool understands immediately!”

“Then shall I write to his lordship?”

“Yes, do! Do!”

It was the first week of January. The date of Strange’s departure was not yet fixed, but was likely to be soon. Strange sat down and wrote the invitation. Lord Liverpool replied very promptly and the next day but one saw him at Hanover-square.

It was the habit of Mr Norrell and Jonathan Strange to spend the hour before dinner in Mr Norrell’s library and it was in this room that they received his lordship. Childermass was also present, ready to act as clerk, counsellor, messenger or servant just as circumstances should require.

Lord Liverpool had never seen Mr Norrell’s library and before he sat down he took a little turn about the room. “I had been told, sir,” he said, “that your library was one of the Wonders of the Modern World, but I never imagined any thing half so extensive.”

Mr Norrell was very well pleased. Lord Liverpool was exactly the sort of guest he liked — one who admired the books but shewed no inclination to take them down from the shelves and read them.

Then Strange said, addressing Mr Norrell, “We have not spoken yet, sir, about the books I should take to the Peninsula. I have made a list of forty titles, but if you think it can be improved upon I should be glad of your advice.” He pulled a folded sheet from a jumble of papers on a table and handed it to Mr Norrell.

It was not a list to delight Mr Norrell’s soul. It was full of first thoughts crossed-out, second thoughts crossed-out and third thoughts put in at angles and made to wriggle around other words that were in the way. There were ink blots, titles misspellt, authors misnamed and, most confusing of all, three lines of a riddle-poem that Strange had begun composing as a farewell-present for Arabella. Nevertheless it was not this that made Mr Norrell grow pale. It had never occurred to him before that Strange would need books in Portugal. The idea of forty precious volumes being taken into a country in a state of war where they might get burnt, blown up, drowned or dusty was almost too horrible to contemplate. Mr Norrell did not know a great deal about war, but he suspected that soldiers are not generally your great respecters of books. They might put their dirty fingers on them. They might tear them! They might — horror of horrors! — read them and try the spells! Could soldiers read? Mr Norrell did not know. But with the fate of the entire Continent at stake and Lord Liverpool in the room, he realized how very difficult it would be — impossible in fact — to refuse to lend them.

He turned with a look of desperate appeal to Childermass.

Childermass shrugged.

Lord Liverpool continued to gaze about him in a calm manner. He appeared to be thinking that the temporary absence of forty books or so would scarcely be noticed among so many thousands.

“I should not wish to take more than forty,” continued Strange in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Very wise, sir,” said Lord Liverpool. “Very wise. Do not take more than you can conveniently carry about.”

“Carry about!” exclaimed Mr Norrell, more shocked than ever. “But surely you do not intend to take them from place to place? You must put them in a library the moment you arrive. A library in a castle will be best. A stout, well-defended castle …”

“But I fear they will do me little good in a library,” said Strange with infuriating calmness. “I shall be in camps and on battlefields. And so must they.”

“Then you must place them in a box!” said Mr Norrell. “A very sturdy wooden box or perhaps an iron chest! Yes, iron will be best. We can have one made specially. And then …”

“Ah, forgive me, Mr Norrell,” interrupted Lord Liverpool, “but I strongly advise Mr Strange against the iron chest. He must not trust to any provision being made for him in the carts. The soldiers need the carts for their equipment, maps, food, ammunition and so on. Mr Strange will occasion the Army the least inconvenience if he carries all his possessions on a mule or donkey as the officers do.” He turned to Strange. “You will need a good, strong mule for your baggage and your servant. Purchase some saddlebags at Hewley and Ratt’s and place the books in them. Military saddlebags are most capacious. Besides, on a cart the books would almost certainly be stolen. Soldiers, I am sorry to say, steal everything.” He thought for a moment and then added, “Or at least ours do.”

How the dinner went after that Mr Norrell knew very little. He was dimly aware that Strange and his lordship talked a great deal and laughed a great deal. Several times he heard Strange say, “Well, that is decided then!” And he heard his lordship reply, “Oh, certainly!” But what they were talking about, Mr Norrell neither knew nor cared. He wished he had never come to London. He wished he had never undertaken to revive English magic. He wished he had stayed at Hurtfew Abbey, reading and doing magic for his own pleasure. None of it, he thought, was worth the loss of forty books.

After Lord Liverpool and Strange had gone he went to the library to look at the forty books and hold them and treasure them while he could.

Childermass was still there. He had taken his dinner at one of the tables and was now doing the household accounts. As Mr Norrell entered, he looked up and grinned. “I believe Mr Strange will do very well in the war, sir. He has already out-manoeuvred you.”

On a bright, moonlit night in early February a British ship called
St Serlo’s Blessing
¹
sailed up the Tagus and landed at Black-horse square in the middle of the city of Lisbon. Among the first to disembark were Strange and his servant, Jeremy Johns. Strange had never been in a foreign country before and he found that the consciousness of being so now and the important military and naval bustle that was going on all around him was quite exhilarating. He was eager to begin doing magic.

“I wonder where Lord Wellington is,” he said to Jeremy Johns. “Do you suppose any of these fellows will know?” He looked with some curiosity at a vast, half-built arch at one end of the square. It had a very military appearance and he would not have been at all surprized to learn that Wellington was somewhere at the rear of it.

“But it is two o’clock in the morning, sir,” said Jeremy. “His lordship will be asleep.”

“Oh, do you think so? With the fate of all Europe in his hands? I suppose you may be right.”

Reluctantly, Strange agreed that it would be better to go to the hotel now and look for Lord Wellington in the morning.

They had been recommended to a hotel in Shoemaker-street which belonged to a Mr Prideaux, a Cornishman. Mr Prideaux’s guests were almost all British officers who had just returned to Portugal from England or who were waiting for ships to take them on leave of absence. It was Mr Prideaux’s intention that during their stay at his hotel the officers should feel as much at home as possible. In this he was only partly successful. Do whatsoever he might, Mr Prideaux found that Portugal continually intruded itself upon the notice of his guests. The wallpaper and furnishings of the hotel might all have been brought originally from London, but a Portuguese sun had shone on them for five years and faded them in a peculiarly Portuguese manner. Mr Prideaux might instruct the cook to prepare an English bill of fare but the cook was Portuguese and there was always more pepper and oil in the dishes than the guests expected. Even the guests’ boots had a faintly Portuguese air after the Portuguese bootboy had blacked them.

The next morning Strange rose rather late. He ate a large breakfast and then strolled about for an hour or so. Lisbon proved to be a city well provided with arcaded squares, elegant modern buildings, statues, theatres and shops. He began to think that war could not be so very dreadful after all.

As he returned to the hotel he saw four or five British officers, gathered in the doorway, conversing eagerly together. This was just the opportunity he had hoped for. He went up to them, begged their pardon for interrupting, explained who he was and asked where in Lisbon Lord Wellington might be found.

The officers turned and gave him a rather surprized look as if they thought the question a wrong one, though he could not tell why it should be. “Lord Wellington is not in Lisbon,” said one, a man in the blue jacket and white breeches of the Hussars.

“Oh! When is he coming back?” asked Strange.

“Back?” said the officer. “Not for weeks — months, I expect. Perhaps never.”

“Then where will I find him?”

“Good God!” said the officer. “He might be anywhere.”

“Don’t you know where he is?” asked Strange.

The officer looked at him rather severely. “Lord Wellington does not stay in one place,” he said. “Lord Wellington goes wherever he is needed. And Lord Wellington,” he added for Strange’s better understanding, “is needed
everywhere
.”

Another officer who wore a bright scarlet jacket liberally adorned with silver lace, said in a rather more kindly tone, “Lord Wellington is in the Lines.”

“In the Lines?” said Strange.

“Yes.”

Unfortunately this was not quite the clear and helpful explanation that the officer intended it to be. But Strange felt that he had demonstrated his ignorance long enough. His desire to ask questions had quite evaporated.

“Lord Wellington is in the Lines.” It was a very curious phrase and if Strange had been obliged to hazard a guess at its meaning he believed he would have said it was some sort of slang for being drunk.

He went back into the hotel and told the porter to find Jeremy Johns. If any one was going to appear ignorant and foolish in front of the British Army he had much rather it was Jeremy.

“There you are!” he said when Jeremy appeared. “Go and find a soldier or officer and ask him where I shall find Lord Wellington.”

“Certainly, sir. But don’t you want to ask him yourself?”

“Quite impossible. I have magic to do.”

So Jeremy went out and after a very brief interval he returned.

“Have you found it out?” asked Strange.

“Oh yes, sir!” said Jeremy, cheerfully. “There is no great secret about it. Lord Wellington is in the Lines.”

“Yes, but what does that mean?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir! The gentleman said it so naturally. As if it were the most commonplace thing in the world. I thought you would know.”

“Well, I do not. Perhaps I had better ask Prideaux.”

Mr Prideaux was delighted to be of assistance. There was nothing simpler in the world. Mr Strange must go to the Army’s Headquarters. He was certain to find his lordship there. It was a half day’s ride from the city. Perhaps a little more. “As far as from Tyburn to Godalming, sir, if you can picture it.”

“Well, if you would be so good as to shew me on a map …”

“Lord bless you, sir!” said Mr Prideaux, much amused. “You would never find it on your own. I must find a man to take you.”

The person whom Mr Prideaux found was an Assistant Commissary with business in Torres Vedras, a town four or five miles further on than Headquarters. The Assistant Commissary declared himself very happy to ride with Strange and shew him the way.

“Now, at last,” thought Strange, “I am making progress.”

The first part of the journey was through a pleasant landscape of fields and vineyards scattered here and there with pretty little white-painted farms and stone-built windmills with brown canvas sails. Large numbers of Portuguese soldiers in brown uniforms were continually going to and fro along the road and there were also a few British officers whose brighter uniforms of scarlet or blue appeared — to Strange’s patriotic eye at any rate — more manly and warlike. After they had been riding for three hours they saw a line of mountains rising up from the plain like a wall.

As they entered a narrow valley between two of the highest mountains the Assistant Commissary said, “This is the beginning of the Lines. You see that fort there high up on one side of the pass?” He pointed to the right. The “fort" appeared to have started out life as a windmill, but had recently received all sorts of additions in the way of bastions, battlements and gun embrasures. “And the other fort on the other side of the pass?” added the Assistant Commissary. He pointed to the left. “And then on the next rocky outcrop another little fort? And then — though you can’t see it, since today is dull and cloudy — there is another beyond that. And so on and so on. A whole line of forts from the Tagus to the sea! But that is not all! There are two more lines to the north of us. Three lines in all!”

“It is certainly impressive. And did the Portuguese do this?”

“No, sir. Lord Wellington did it. The French mayn’t pass here. Why, sir! a beetle mayn’t pass unless that beetle has a paper with Lord Wellington’s writing on it! And that, sir, is why the French Army sits at Santarem and can get no further, while you and I sleep safe in our beds at Lisbon!”

Very soon they left the road and took a steep and winding lane that led up the hillside to the tiny village of Pero Negro. Strange was struck by the difference between war, as he had imagined it, and war, as it actually was. He had pictured Lord Wellington sitting in some grand building in Lisbon, issuing orders. Instead he found him in a place so small that it barely would have qualified as a village in England.

The Army’s Headquarters proved to be an entirely unremarkable house in a plain cobbled yard. Strange was informed that Lord Wellington had gone out to inspect the Lines. No one knew when he would return — probably not until dinner. No one had any objection to Strange’s waiting — providing he did not get in their way.