“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 misspelt, 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.”
//Susanna Clarke, “Jonathan Strange & 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 misspelt, 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.”
//Susanna Clarke, “Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell”
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