1770: Duke of Mallard
Private papers
It occurs to me again that magic—properly understood—is no more than the disciplined arrangement of appearances. The ignorant call it illusion; the godly call it miracle. Both are wrong, though pleasantly so. My forefathers perceived this early, and their method has served our name for thirty-nine generations: to transform belief itself into an obedient instrument.
The History of the Ancient Dukes of Mallard, that immodest parchment spectacle begun in my grandfather’s reign, describes how one Duke “commanded the tides in order to impress a Queen.” The scribe, of course, meant that he caused to have built a sluice and adjusted the gates when Her Majesty’s barge approached. Yet when the tide obediently withdrew, she elevated us to the peerage of Kent. Governance, they say, is the art of being believed at the correct moment.
For the edification of my heirs, I preserve in these pages a brief account of the devices by which power is maintained, particularly when draped in the silks of wonder.
Gold itself enacts a kind of sorcery. The alchemists once insisted that metals have tempers like men; they would not err if they added that men have shine like metals. Display produces deference. My jeweller in Hanover Square has perfected a technique for embedding small fragments of mirror beneath emeralds, such that the gem’s inner fire multiplies. I wear one upon my cravat when I receive Ministers. They assume the light belongs to me. It does—in effect, if not by nature.
To my private circle, I am known for slight amusements with cards and cups. The Bishop of Salisbury once called it “profane legerdemain.” I invited him to witness a demonstration. With three cups, a dove’s feather, and certain gestures learned from a Genoese conjurer (since hanged for salvation), I produced, from emptiness, the appearance of divine favour. The Bishop subsequently endorsed my proposal for ecclesiastical lands near Bath. Thus faith, when properly ventilated by astonishment, becomes commerce.
The Catechism of Saint Varascius contains a neglected maxim: Miraculum est ratio vestra imperfecta—“A miracle is merely your reason incomplete.” I have found it convenient to keep my reason complete and others’ incomplete. Therein lies jurisdiction.
I have always favoured the myth of Narcissus, not for its moral (which is plebeian), but for its geometry. No pool reflects without depth beneath it. One must always dig the hole before one pours the water. Thus, when I brought young Lord Horbury into my confidences—the most exquisite of my recent possessions—I began with reflection. I mirrored his devotion. Within a month he saw in me an ideal; within two, he was performing tasks of mild treachery at court, convinced he furthered his own destiny. Such transformations, invisible and total, resemble enchantment. They require no wand, only intimacy correctly weighted.
Among the archives of Mallard House, a Latin tract marked De Obumbratione Ducum records the earliest “experiment” of our line. The first Duke arranged mirrors along his hall so cunningly that guests, entering, appeared infinite—a corridor of courtiers. He wrote to his steward: “They will suppose our wealth unbounded because they cannot perceive where it ends.” My ancestors therefore understood that perception is territory, and every kingdom exists inside the observer’s error.
It pleases me to note that I have extended this principle from architecture to policy. Last year’s grain shortage was troublesome only until I persuaded the Gazette to print that I had imported thousands of sacks at my personal expense. None existed. The announcement alone lowered the temperature of the mobs. Illusion reduces fever better than bread ever could. By week’s end the Crown granted me a monopoly to supply what I never possessed. Thus miracles reproduce themselves, if sufficiently publicised.
As for religion, its infrastructure remains the most perfect of enchantments. The priesthood has always borrowed its hand from the magician’s sleeve—transubstantiation being merely the oldest trick well told. I maintain cordial relations with the Archbishop, reminding him, when necessary, that his miracles are more convincing when I finance them. He objects seldom.
Superstition is not to be extinguished but directed. The common man prefers obedience to comprehension; give him splendour and he will call it Providence. I have seen a thousand mouths gape at the lighting of chandeliers and take it for divine confirmation of loyalty. Lanterns are cheaper than justice.
I sometimes imagine our lineage as a procession of travelling illusionists, dressed in coronets instead of motley. We juggle kingdoms, make debts disappear, produce heirs from reluctant wombs, vanish consciences under applause. Each generation improves the routine. I flatter myself that I have added the element of sentiment—a subtler trick. Love, used shrewdly, creates allegiance more profound than fear. I have whispered kingdoms into pliancy.
Tonight, as the moon strikes the north façade, another family motto glimmers above the cornice: Credant, et reges sunt—“Let them believe, and they are kings.” It should, strictly, read Let them believe, and we are. But modesty, like secrecy, is an adornment of great value when worn slightly askew.
The lamps are guttering; it is time to rest. Outside, frost embellishes the lawns in silver maps, profiles of dominion traced by the cold. A perfect illusion—geometry obedient to weather. Tomorrow I shall have the gardeners carve my initials across the whitened grass. It will melt by noon, but briefly, when the sun glances upon it, the world will seem to acknowledge its author.
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