Vanbrugh had been remodeling the place in the expectation that the Duke would settle in for a long stay. Much of this work was still in its most brute stages and so Daniel had to be conducted under scaffolding and between piles of bricks and of timbers by a member of Marlborough’s household. But as they got deeper into the building, it became more finished. The Duke’s bedchamber had been done first, and the renovations propagated outwards from there. Before the Grinling Gibbons custom-carved double doors, a maid handed Daniel a large silver bowl full of steaming water, swathed in towels so it would not burn his hands. “Set it down beside my lord,” he was instructed, and the doors were pulled open.
Like a beetle on a glacier the Duke of Marlborough sat in a chair in the white immensity of his bedchamber. Next to him was a table. The stubble on his scalp was dense: obviously it was Shaving-Day, and high time for it; as everyone had now heard, the Duke and Duchess had been held back in Ostend by contrary winds for a whole fortnight. Daniel, knowing no more of levées than any other Englishman, feared for a moment that he was about to be asked to lather the Duke’s skull and scrape off two weeks’ growth. But then he noted a valet standing by, stropping a razor, and understood, with immeasurable relief, that the blade-work would be left to a trained artisan.
Of the half-dozen who had been summoned to the levée, Daniel was the last to arrive—this much he could see even though his eyes were dazzled by August sunshine glancing off many tons of new plasterwork. So lofty was the ceiling that a Natural Philosopher could be forgiven for thinking that the festoons and friezes up along the ceiling had been carved from natural accumulations of snow and ice.
The Duke was in a dressing-gown of something that gleamed and whispered, and his neck had been swaddled in miles of linen in preparation for the shaving. It was as far from Puritan severity as one could possibly imagine. If there were any Tories without, on Pall Mall, who phant’sied that Daniel had come to pass the torch to the next Cromwell, a moment’s glimpse into this room would have extinguished their fears. If Marlborough had come back in triumph to take over the country, he’d do so not as a military dictator but as a Sun King.
Marlborough half rose from his chair and bowed to Daniel—who nearly dropped the bowl. The other five participants in the levée—candle-holders, shirt-bearers, wig-powderers, mostly Earls or better—bowed even deeper. Daniel could still see little, but he could hear snickers as he staggered the last few yards.
“Dr. Waterhouse does not yet know about what was found in Baron von Bothmar’s lock-box to-day,” the Duke hazarded.
“I confess utter ignorance, my lord,” Daniel said.
“The Hanoverian ambassador, Bothmar, brought with him a lock-box that was to be opened upon the death of Queen Anne. It contained orders from his majesty as to how the Realm was to be administered until such time as his majesty could come here to receive the crown, orb, and sceptre,” explained the Duke. “This morning it was opened in the presence of the Council, and read out. The King has named twenty-five Regents to act in his stead until he arrives. You, Dr. Waterhouse, are one of the twenty-five.”
“Bollocks!”
“Oh, it is quite true. And so when we bow to you, my lord, it is to acknowledge your authority as a Regent. You, and your two dozen colleagues, are the closest we have, just now, to a Sovereign.”
Daniel had never been addressed before as “my lord,” and certainly had never guessed that the first person ever to do so would be the Duke of Marlborough. It required some presence of mind not to spill the bowl. But he brought it home, with the help of a guiding hand from the valet, and stepped back, his formal duties completed. The valet rolled a sponge into the bowl, wrung it out, and placed it on the Duke’s head like a soppy crown. The Duke blinked a rivulet out of his eye, elevated his chin, and commenced going through some papers that were on his lap—for apparently one of the attractions of the levée was watching the great man read his mail.
“Grub Street must be ten miles long now,” the Duke remarked, tossing aside one newspaper after another.
“You may soon wish it were a good deal shorter.”
“As may you, Dr. Waterhouse—your new prominence shall make you a Butt for innumerable Shafts.” Marlborough had now cocked his head back so that soap would not run into his eyes, which placed him in the odd position of not being able to see into his own lap. He was groping through the papers there, golden cuff-tassels flailing, occasionally holding something up at arm’s length. “Ah,” he announced, finding today’s Lens, “I give you this, Dr. Waterhouse. Just now, I was reading it aloud to these gentlemen, as we waited for the late arrival—you may read it yourself.”
“Thank you, my lord, I am sure ’twas vastly more amusing than having me here on time.”
“On the contrary, my lord, it is we who ought to amuse you,” said the Duke, and jerked in his chair as the razor planed off a ridge of scar-tissue. His noggin had acquired more than its share of high and low relief as he had overseen the deaths of several hundred thousand English, French, and other soldiers in the wars against Louis XIV. They now lurked below a fortnight’s stubble like shoals under a murky tide, unseen Hazards to the blade’s Navigation.
“What is it I am to read, my lord?” Daniel inquired, reaching out to accept the proffered newspaper.
Marlborough’s eyes—which were uncommonly large and expressive—strayed for a moment to Daniel’s hand. People did not, as a rule, bother to look at Daniel’s hands—nay, neither the left nor the right. They had the full complement of fingers, they had not been branded in the Old Bailey, and they were unadorned—as a rule. But today Daniel wore, on his right hand, a simple ring of gold. Never having worn jewelry before, he was astonished at how this object caught people’s attention.
“A Meditation upon Power,” Marlborough answered, “second page.”
“It sounds meet, if I am as powerful as you say. Pray, who wrote it?”
“That’s the thing,” said Marlborough, “the extraordinary thing. There is a chap who goes by the nom de plume of Peer—”
“He wrote it!?”
“No, but he has discovered in the Clink a Blackamoor, a most remarkable specimen. He is not, of course, a sentient being—but he possesses the singular gift of being able to write and speak exactly as if he were one.”
“I have met him,” Daniel said. His eyes had finally adjusted to where he could make out the byline DAPPA. He glanced up at the Duke, then glanced away, as a thick bead of blood was coming out in front of his right ear and coursing along his jaw-line to stain the linen beneath his chin. The Duke jerked again. “Have a care, sirrah, I did not come hither to perish of lockjaw.”
Daniel scanned the other five attendees, who favored him with excruciating smiles of a sort he’d not seen directed his way since he had been semi-important in the court of James II.
The Duke was bald again. Two valets were hovering behind him with rags, occasionally darting in to stanch gore. The Duke found a hand-mirror, held it up for a moment, and grimaced. “My word,” he said, “is this a shaving or a trepanning?” He set the mirror down hastily, as if a lifetime of musket- and sword-battles had hardly prepared him for this. There was a lot of mail in his lap—more than Daniel received per decade—and it was taking him some time to find what he was looking for. Daniel studied the Duke curiously. John Churchill had been the most beautiful young man in England, perhaps even in Christendom. The divine unfairness endured even now unto the Duke’s sixty-fifth year. He was old, doughy, bald, and bleeding, but he actually did have a noble countenance—far from being true of all nobles—and his eyes were as large and beautiful as ever, unmarred by the sagging flesh and writhen brows that so oft made old Englishmen fearsome to behold.
“Here it is!” he announced, and whacked a letter against his knee a few times, as if this were necessary to get its words stacked up in the correct order. “From your fellow Regent!”
“My lord Ravenscar was also on Bothmar’s list?” Daniel asked, for he had al
ready spotted the handwriting and the seal.
“Oh my word, yes,” said Marlborough, “odds-on favorite to be the next Lord Treasurer, you know. For who knows more about the workings of Bank, Mint, ’Chequer, and ’Change than Ravenscar?” He scanned the letter from Roger. “I shall not read it all,” he assured them. “Greetings, congratulations, et cetera—and he invites me and Mrs. Churchill to attend a soirée at his house on the first of September.” He lifted his eyes from the page and gazed at Daniel, a trace befuddled. “Do you think it is decent to have a party so soon after the Queen’s death, my lord?”
“A month of mourning shall have elapsed, as of September the first, my lord,” Daniel tried, “and I’ve no doubt it shall be a tasteful affair, duly restrained—”
“He promises right here to make his volcano erupt!” This elicited titters from the hitherto silent Five.
“Whilst mourning our late Queen, we must not omit to celebrate our new King, my lord.”
“Oh, well, since you put it that way, I do believe I will attend,” said the Duke. “I’ve never seen the famous Volcano, you know.”
“It is said to be worth the trip, my lord.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. I shall post an answer presently to the Temple of Vulcan. But if you should happen to see my lord Ravenscar, perhaps at one of the meetings of your Regency Council, you will tell him, won’t you?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Splendid! Now, may I arise, or shall it be necessary to cauterize my wounds?”
With the head-shaving, Daniel’s direct relevance to the leveé had ended. The Duke shifted his attention to others, whose roles it was to present him with shirt, wig, sword, &c. Each of these phases led to some chit-chat that was of essentially no interest to Daniel. Indeed, much of it was incomprehensible, because it was about people whom Daniel didn’t know, or whose identities he could only guess at, as the Duke was referring to them by their Christian names, or in even more oblique ways. Nevertheless, Daniel had the clear sense it would be bad form to excuse himself. He was offered a chair on account of his age, and accepted it. Time passed. His eye drifted to the newspaper.
A MEDITATION UPON POWER
by Dappa
The Liberty of the Clink is as one with all of GREAT BRITAIN in lamenting the passage of our beloved Queen; the Prisoners have swopped their light, gay summer restraints for heavy mourning-fetters, and changed their gray rags for black, and all night long I am kept awake by moans and wails from the dungeons beneath, which proves that the inhabitants of the place are as sensible of the Tragedy, as my lord B—.
A week ago, that man was at the summit of the great mound of corpses that is Politics, and was accounted by many the most powerful in all the land. Since the Queen’s demise, we hear nothing from him, or of him. What has become of B—?
It is an idle question, for no one cares what has become of that man. When people ask it, what they really mean is: what has become of B—’s Power? For a week ago he was agreed to have a great amount of it. To-day it seems he has none. Where has it got to? Many would fain know, for more men desire power than desire gold.
From Herr Leibniz we have heard that there is a Property of bodies called vis viva, and another called the quantité d’avancement, both of which are conserved through all collisions and transformations of a system. The first is equal to the product of the mass and the square of the velocity, and the second is simply the product of the mass and the velocity. At the beginning of time the Universe was endowed with a certain fund of both, which neither waxes nor wanes with time, but is merely exchanged among bodies, like silver pennies in a market-place. Which leads one to ask: is Power like the vis viva, and the quantité d’avancement, i.e., is it conserved by the Universe? Or is it like shares of a stock, which may have great value one day, and be worthless the next?
If Power is like stock-shares, then it follows that the immense sum thereof, lately lost by B—, has vanished like shadows in sunlight. For no matter how much wealth is lost in stock-crashes, it never seems to turn up. But if Power is conserved, then B—’s must have gone somewhere. Where is it? Some say ’twas scooped up by my lord R—, who hid it under a rock, lest my lord M—come from across the sea and snatch it away. My friends among the Whigs say that any Power lost by a Tory, is infallibly and insensibly distributed among all the People; but no matter how assiduously I search the lower rooms of the Clink for B—’s lost Power, I cannot seem to find any there, which explodes that argument, for there are assuredly very many People in those dark salons.
I propose a novel Theory of Power, which is inspired by the lucubrations of Mr. Newcomen, the Earl of Lostwithiel, and Dr. Waterhouse on the Engine for Raising Water by Fire. As a Mill makes Flour, a Loom makes Cloth, and a Forge makes Steel, so, we are assured, this Engine shall make Power. If the Backers of this Device speak truly—and I’ve no reason to deprecate their honesty—it proves that Power is not a Conserved Quantity, for of such Quantities it is never possible to make more. The amount of Power in the world, it follows, is ever-increasing, and the rate of increase grows ever faster as more of these Engines are built. A Man who hoards Power is therefore like a miser who sits on a heap of Coins, in a Realm where the Currency is being continually debased by production of more coins than the market can bear; so that what was a great Fortune when first he raked it together, insensibly becomes a slag-heap, and is found to be devoid of value, when at last he takes it to the market-place to be spent. Thus my lord B—and his vaunted Power-hoard. What is true of him is likely to be true of his lackeys, particularly his most base and slavish followers, such as MR. CHARLES WHITE. This varlet has asserted that he owns me. He phant’sies that to own a Man, is to have Power; yet he has got nothing by claiming to own me, while I, who was supposed to be rendered Powerless, am now writing for a Grub Street newspaper that is being perused by you, esteemed reader.
As the Duke of Marlborough got dressed and accessorized, he told various of the courtiers to shove off, which they did, with deep bows, and almost tearful gratitude for having been invited; and before the hour of noon, Daniel found himself alone in the bedchamber with the Duke, suddenly formidable in full snow-white periwig, and understated yet shockingly fashionable suit of clothes, and small-sword. They went for a stroll in a rose-garden outside the Duke’s bedchamber, which led to more conversation concerning roses than Daniel was really game for. Not that he didn’t like roses as much as the next chap; but to talk about them was to miss the point.
“I have accepted Ravenscar’s kind invitation,” the Duke finally said, “and moreover I have done so in the presence of those other five, who are among the worst gossips in London—so much so that Roger has probably got wind of it already. But there is a proviso to my acceptance, which I did not mention to them. Neither shall I write it in the very courteous note I’ll presently send to the Temple of Vulcan. I tell it privily to you, and rely upon you to convey it to him.”
“I am ready, my lord,” said Daniel, trying not to let his voice betray a certain here we go again weariness.
“Let me remind you of the agreement on which you and I shook hands, on the night of the Glorious Revolution, as we stood together on the causeway of the Tower.”
“I recollect it clearly, my lord, but there’s no harm in reviewing it.”
“I said I would be your friend if you would help me to understand, or at least to keep track of, the machinations of the Alchemists.”
“Indeed.”
“I flatter myself that I have been of service to you, as occasions warranted, in the twenty-five years since then,” said John Churchill. For now it seemed they were speaking not as Duke and Regent but as John and Daniel.
“Now that you mention it, it is a bit odd that my name turned up on Bothmar’s list.”
“I had many occasions, during and after the War, to sing the praises of certain Englishmen to the Electoral Prince,” John said, “and the high esteem in which you are held by Princess Caroline cannot have hurt
your chances, either.”
“You have done the son of Drake unexpected honor, then,” Daniel said.
“Now, Daniel, since we made our compact, much has changed—Roger’s Juncto re-shaped the country. He placed the world’s leading Alchemist in charge of the Mint. That Alchemist is still there, and shows no sign of faltering. By some accounts he is diligent beyond compare. But reports have reached me concerning the Pyx, and such arcane and eldritch matters as the Solomonic Gold and the Philosophic Mercury and other such semi-occult doings as have no place in this the Eighteenth Century. Now that Anne is gone—may God rest her—and George is coming, I bear upon my shoulders the greatest imaginable responsibilities to help our new King—nay, our new Dynasty—understand what is going on in his Kingdom. I will ensure that the Mint is in the hands of officials sane and competent, and that the coinage is sound. Can Newton be trusted to run the Mint, Daniel? Will he run it as a mill for turning out disks of metal, or as a laboratory for Chiliastic researches? Is he a bloody sorcerer, Daniel? And if so, is he any good at it?”
The Temple of Vulcan
AN HOUR LATER
“WHAT DID YOU TELL HIM?” asked Roger, slightly more fascinated than aghast. He and Daniel were strolling in Roger’s rose-garden, which was ten times the size of Marlborough’s, though not so well located—Roger’s gardeners couldn’t nip over the fence and borrow a spade from the King of England’s.
“I fear I was a bit too evasive for the Duke’s taste,” Daniel answered, after pondering it for some moments. “I assured him that whatever Newton does, he does very, very well, hence if he is a sorcerer, he must be a right clever one.”
The System of the World: Volume Three of the Baroque Cycle Page 84