How she wormed her way into my heart with that judgement!
‘Your Royal Highness is among the very select and distinguished few who appreciate the work,’ I murmured.
‘Caviare to the general!’ she agreed. ‘But what wonderful popular successes the others were! Anyone can have a popular success of the Rossini sort, but a popular success with an opera like Figaro – it was an act of public education. You must introduce little Victoria to the opera: let her play the main airs, then make sure she is taken there.’
‘There is, I believe, an opera by Rossini in preparation at Covent Garden,’ I said sourly. ‘The Cinderella subject. It could be suitable, if they don’t mess around with it.’
‘They will. What a pity my brother is dying. He could have taken her.’ The expression on the Duchess’s face said ‘over my dead body’, but the Princess could not see her, and had turned to Sir John. ‘When my poor brother dies, John, I shall need entire new mourning.’
‘But Your Royal Highness had—’
‘I had new mourning when Fred died, and that’s three years ago, and has done for four foreign royalities since. George is not just a brother, he is the King. So you’ll just have to stump up. And I am very fond of Georgie. All of us girls are. He understood us, and tried to help us. He realised we had needs, and couldn’t forever sit posed in a family group around Mama.’ She turned to me. ‘Papa loved us and thought nothing about us. One wouldn’t have thought that possible, but that’s the truth of it.’
I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with the personal confidences of a princess.
‘His Majesty no doubt had much to exercise his mind,’ I said tactfully.
‘Oh, I loved Papa, and would never abuse him. Especially not to you, Mr Mozart. He was your great benefactor, was he not?’
Those fifty guineas! Those damned fifty guineas! Given to my poor father after a recital the like of which a seven-year-old had never before performed – and given, I am quite certain, because the King’s flunkey misheard ‘fifteen’for ‘fifty’. They were the cause of my father’s fatal decision to stay in this fog-bound bog of insularity, instead of returning to wonderful, artistic, intellectual Austria, our homeland, country of my heart – country where my genius would have been appreciated, instead of constantly slighted!
I was still swallowing down my emotion when Sir John at last handed over the shining seven guineas and began ushering me towards the door.
‘We must not keep you any longer, Mr Mozart. Your girls will be awaiting you.’
‘My – my girls?’ I said in shocked surprise. What lies had people told him about my private life?
‘Your young ladies at Hammersmith. But I suppose you are finished teaching there for the day.’
Outside the cheery oaf of a footman escorted me to the door of the apartment.
‘See you next week,’ he said. ‘Mind what I said about the dibs. If you don’t get it on the spot, you never will.’
I made no reply to him, because I was still digesting the last words of Sir John Conroy. So they had engaged me in mistake for my son, had they? No wonder they had jibbed at the fee. Though wait: they had expressed no surprise at Princess Sophia’s remarks about my operas. Probably they had managed to coalesce in their minds – which were not, assuredly, artistic minds – the two of us into one, and had thought that the composer of Don Giovanni had sunk in his last years to being music teacher at a girls’school. Well, let me not denigrate my own son! It would be no worse than being the largely forgotten, neglected, unperformed composer I have actually sunk to being, with no friend except the good Mr Novello.
I walked home – not bad at seventy-three! – sunk in thought. I really needed to take stock of the position I had suddenly got myself into. I was now committed to investigating the relationship between the Duchess of Kent and Sir John Conroy, and I was doing it at the instigation of her daughter, the Princess Victoria. I had not said I agreed to her suggestion, but I had not repudiated it indignantly. I knew I was going to do it, and she, the little minx, knew I was going to as well. And if I asked myself why, I could only say that I liked the Princess and felt sorry for her.
And because I rather liked investigating things.
That said, the how presented problems that might prove insuperable, and might mean I had to disappoint my little pupil entirely. My visits to the palace would be brief and entirely professional. How could I use them to investigate whether Sir John and the Duchess shared ‘the rank sweat of an enseaméd bed’ (which the Princess doubtless heard about from the uncommonly full text of Hamlet that Mr Braughton had regaled her with, and which had possibly put the idea of her mother’s relationship with Sir John into her sharp little head)?
But as I thought about the difficulties of the investigation a possibility, an avenue of approach, suggested itself. Perhaps the chatty ruffian of a footman could be useful.
I thought, next, about the little princess and her situation. She had made me feel right from the start that I stood almost in loco parentis towards her – an odd relationship for a music teacher to a royal pupil! Probably this was partly her cunning, but probably it was partly due to her feelings of inadequacy, or worse, of her real parent. I considered the people whom I had met at the palace: the Princess Sophia, charming, artistic, a little silly; the Duchess, serious, intense, yet somehow unwise; and then Sir John Conroy …
It was clear that Sir John, if he aimed to stand in loco parentis to the future Queen, was going the wrong way about it. He came very near to implying to me that her wishes and preferences were of no account at all. A domineering but not a sensible man, then, though a superficially attractive one. He could certainly gain an influence over a grown woman, if not young girls. The Princess Sophia had called him ‘John’, though the Duchess had been more cautious and more formal.
Was he the lover of one, or both, of them? That was what I was bidden to find out. But another question had occurred to me while still in his company. The Duchess lived a frugal life, in tatty surroundings. I was willing to bet the Princess Sophia’s circumstances were hardly more luxurious. Yet Parliament had voted a sum – perhaps not a generous but yet a substantial one, for the upkeep of the Duchess and her daughter, and for George III’s daughter.
Could that sum really not buy a style of living better than this? If Sir John was pleasuring them, was he also swindling them?
This thought lasted me till I sank down to a substantial meal in Mr Benbow’s Chop House in the Strand. My account with Mr Benbow had quite recently been settled up (by Mr Novello, it must be said, rather than by any impulsive action of my own), and so he was unusually polite. He was fascinated by my acquaintance with the unknown Princess in Kensington Palace, and pressed me for details – he was himself a father of girls, and considered himself an expert. His interest was increased by the fact (which he said he had heard on the Highest Authority) that the King was sinking. I took no notice. The King had been sinking for so long that even sensible people believed he would go on sinking for ever.
Next morning I was awoken by my maid Susan with the news that he had finally sunk.
3. Majesty
The British people were unusually uninhibited in their expressions of delight at the death of the King. They put off their habitual hypocrisy and were honest in their emotions for once. They had never liked or trusted him. He had given them circuses when what they needed was bread, and in his last years he had retreated into melancholia and hypochondria, and had not even put on any kind of show. The British people were tired of paying his enormous debts, tired of a monarch who was both reactionary and weak. They were yearning for a king who was more accessible, more visible, and above all cheaper.
Which was precisely what they got. If the King’s heir had been the Duke of Cumberland they might have summoned up some show of grief for the dead man out of hatred for his successor. But as it was the Duke of Clarence, all they could express was joy at the change. Even his successor hardly bothered to feign sorrow, and t
he funeral was a jolly, chatty affair, with the enormous coffin largely disregarded. By the time he had been King for a few days William IV was pottering around his capital, greeting and shaking hands with everyone, being kissed by a whore in St James’s, and generally behaving like an amiable grocer who wants to keep in with his customers.
I received a note from Kensington Palace intimating that the death of the King should not alter arrangements for the Princess’s music lessons. It did not surprise or shock me: if the new King did not pretend grief, why should his sister-in-law? I gave the Princess her second lesson, and the Baroness Späth again demonstrated her musicality by dropping off.
‘Have you thought about what I asked you to do, Mr Mozart?’ asked the Princess in a conspiratorial murmur.
‘Very much,’ I replied. ‘Against my better judgement I have decided to do what I can to help Your Royal Highness—’
‘It is not against your better judgement at all!’ protested the Princess Victoria, with an obstinate tilt to her chin. ‘It’s the best judgement you could make.’
‘—provided, I was about to say, you practise like a demon and play for me like an angel.’
She had no problem detecting the twinkle in my eye.
‘Oh, I’ll try!’ she said, playing with exaggerated expressiveness. ‘But I expect I’ll practise like an angel and play for you like a demon.’
That was about all we said that was germane to the matter, and I was unable to pursue at that visit the avenue of enquiry I had decided on because the scruffy footman was off-duty on the day of the lesson.
On the day succeeding my plans were further altered, and in a surprising way. I received a note from Lord Egremere, telling me that the new King and his family, having removed themselves with remarkable speed to Windsor, were holding an intimate party for family and friends the following Saturday to which he was invited. The Queen was most anxious, Lord Egremere said, that I should be one of the guests, and should give a short recital.
If he’d said the King wanted me to play I wouldn’t have believed him. Hornpipes on a penny whistle were about the extent of his musical cultivation by all accounts. The Queen, however, was an unknown quantity, and everyone was disposed to think well of her in their general pleasure at having a queen again, and a respectable one at that. It did surprise me that I had an unknown admirer among the Royal Family that I had hitherto known nothing of. Where royalty is concerned these things tend to get around. If I had known that she admired my music I would have used the information in the only sensible way possible – to gain credit. Still, I swallowed my doubts and agreed to play.
Lord Egremere has aged. Of course I have aged too, and in many ways my life has slowed down and simplified itself. I seldom lead the orchestra at the Queen’s Theatre or anywhere else, though I still give recitals when I am asked. Lord Egremere, however, walks with great difficulty, using two sticks, frequently grimacing with pain. When I contrast this with my own mobility I give thanks for my frugal way of life (enforced by my frugal finances), and my chaste habits.
Lord Egremere, the moment I got into his coach, showed he was enormously puffed up and excited by the King’s invitation.
‘It means that he wants to hold out the hand of friendship to the Whigs,’ he said, signalling to the coachman to continue on our way. ‘He wants to be King to the whole nation.’
I did not remind him that similar things were said of the late King at the time of his accession. The hopes had been as evanescent as winter sunshine. But Lord Egremere positively bounced with optimism, and I could only hope it was justified. The country had had term after term of Tory rule, sinking further and further into scruffiness and lawlessness. Most men of goodwill felt there must be hope for the Whigs and Reform at last.
‘We must hope that the royal goodwill is lasting,’ I said cautiously.
‘Oh, it will be, it will be. Say what you like about the new King, he is straight. Doesn’t have the brains to dissimulate. And he was very sound on the Catholic Question. Oh no, he won’t be a bar to reform.’
As the coach sped on towards Windsor I fervently hoped he was right, and made no further attempts to dampen the poor old chap’s high spirits.
The new King’s jollity and democratic ways had not yet effected any change in the stiff formality of Windsor Castle – and its staff. However, as soon as the posse of functionaries had led us to the Green Drawing Room we could see the royal geniality at close quarters, and we had to agree that it made an immense difference to the atmosphere of court life. Though everyone was naturally wearing mourning, there was a buzz of talk and laughter, and everything was more relaxed than I would have conceived possible. At the centre of things was the King himself – plump, red, with his pineapple head bobbing excitedly, going round to everyone, shaking hands, kissing the pretty women, exchanging platitudes, opinions, jokes and gossip. He darted here and there with no idea of formality or precedence, and when he spotted Lord Egremere he charged over as if they were the oldest friends in the world, though I was convinced they barely knew each other.
‘And this is Mr Mozart, is it?’ he said, when they had exchanged greetings, turning in my direction. His voice was far from mellifluous, but one warmed to geniality. I bent over his hand. ‘Pooh – don’t bother with that. Shake hands like a man. Saw one of your pieces once. The Jolly Tar. Very tuneful and pretty. Not much like naval life, though.’
‘I’m sure it was not, Your Majesty,’ I said deprecatingly. ‘I just write the music.’
‘Of course – that’s how it’s done, isn’t it? Another feller writes the words and you just set them to tunes. Used to know a lot about the theatre when … Pay you well for that, do they?’ He roared with laughter when I shook my head. ‘Nice tunes they were, anyway.’
‘Your Majesty could do with some fine music for your coronation,’ said Lord Egremere. The King went redder and spluttered.
‘Coronation? Who says I have to be crowned? A lot of mummery. If they insist on it I’ll write a note to the Archbishop saying it’ll be the day after next, and then I’ll walk down to the Abbey and he can clap the crown on my head and that’ll be that. There’ll be none of the damned medieval nonsense there was last time. Sacrilegious, if you ask me. If they want music you can write’em a hymn tune, eh, Mr Mozart? Any good at hymn tunes?’
‘I haven’t often been called upon for them,’ I admitted.
‘Can’t be difficult. Simple words, simple metres. “God Save the King” can’t have taken much writing, can it?’
‘The Queen may want a more elaborate coronation than you have in mind, sir,’ said Lord Egremere.
‘Humph! Adelaide’s a good woman. She does what she’s told. Ah – Lord Grey! …’
And he dashed off, duty done, to chat away in a high-speed rattle to the prominent Whig peer whose star was in the ascendant.
‘The Dutch had William the Silent. We seem to have William the Never Silent,’ I murmured to Lord Egremere.
Now that the King had moved on we had time to look about us. King William, jogging around from person to person, naturally made one centre of the glittering assembly. The other, still centre was the new Queen. She sat calmly in one of the splendidly uncomfortable chairs, looking as if she would like to have a piece of embroidery with her, so as to have something to do with her hands. Her mourning dress was a fine black silk, with no style about it at all. She was a plain, gentle, conventional-looking woman, sliding into middle-age, anxious to do the right thing, and to be liked. I had no doubt she did what she was told. My Connie would have thought that a poor epitaph, but times change … Near to the Queen were her lady-in-waiting, one or two lords and ladies that I recognised, and a group of young people, notably good-looking and lively, who seemed to know the Queen much better than anyone else, and to behave quite freely in her presence.
‘The FitzClarences,’ murmured Lord Egremere. ‘Their time has come, and they mean to make the most of it while it lasts.’
I looked at them with
renewed interest: the King’s bastard brood by Mrs Jordan, an actress I had not known well – she was one of Sheridan’s company at Drury Lane – but one whom I admired enormously. Her children certainly had her good looks. At this point the Queen looked up, seemed to recognise me, and beckoned Lord Egremere over to introduce us.
‘Ah, Mr Mozart,’ she said, in clear, slightly painstaking English, as I was bowing. ‘You will be so kind as to play for us later on?’
‘I shall be happy to, Your Majesty,’ I said.
‘I am so fond of your music,’ she said, but in a vague, almost an embarrassed way. I realised at once that she was lying, and didn’t like lying.
‘Is your music very old-fashioned?’ asked one of the pretty young ladies around her.
‘Elizabeth! How can you be so rude?’
‘Oh, but Mama, Mr Mozart is not a young mail, and does not pretend to be one, unlike the late King.’
‘I am indeed very old, Lady Erroll,’ I said, recognising the one FitzClarence I had seen before – one who had been very much in Society since her marriage. ‘And my music is indeed old-fashioned. But perhaps, as with furniture, good quality transcends fashion.’
‘A very good answer!’ said the Queen.
‘But of course every new generation wants to like something different from their parents,’ I went on.
‘So sad, so silly,’ sighed the Queen.
‘Not at all, Mama Queen,’ said a lowering, handsome man, who looked to be the eldest of the FitzClarences. ‘Perfectly natural that what we like now is not what you liked in your youth. And that what you liked is not what my father liked in his youth.’
‘Well, well,’ said the Queen, rising and leading the way over to a superb grand piano. ‘I think, George, we will ask Mr Mozart to play before anyone mentions Rossini. I am told that Rossini is not to be talked about in his presence.’
As the Queen approached the instrument the voices in the room fell silent one by one, until only the King’s voice was to be heard, telling an embarrassing story about a lady who was probably in the room. Then that was stilled, the Queen inclined her head to me, and I sat down and began to play.
Too Many Notes, Mr Mozart Page 3