Too Many Notes, Mr Mozart

by Bernard Bastable

  ‘Oh, Mr Mozart, it was wonderful! The most exciting thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life! If only they could do it all over again.’

  ‘My d – … Your Royal Highness,’ I resumed, more circumspectly, ‘must remember that actors and singers are only human. They need rest. Singers must never strain their voices.’

  ‘Of course. I must not be incon … inconsiderate – is that right? But oh! They were wonderful!’

  ‘We must hope that this is the first of many visits to the theatre for you.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so! I must be very sober and serious in my talking about it with Mama and Lehzen. That’s the way to manage them, isn’t it? But oh, it was so thrilling! And you are a wonderful musician, Mr Mozart. Quite the equal of Mr Mendelssohn!’

  On my opening my mouth to protest at this insult she giggled, then followed demurely the rest of the company, who were adjourning to the main Drawing Rooms, where the refreshments that should have been al fresco were laid out. The day outside was breezy and changeable, but some of the company had already taken glasses and plates out to the East Terrace. I thought of following suit, but mindful of my pledge to the Duchess I decided to wait to see what the Princess Victoria did. I very much considered myself one of her several guardians. At that moment she was being bowed to and talked to by Lord Melbourne.

  ‘Now Melbourne knows how to talk to a young gel,’ said an unmistakable voice at my elbow. I turned and bowed to the King. ‘Odd, because he’s had damned bad luck with women himself. Should have locked her up, that wife of his – throwing herself at that poet chappie! But a nice man, damned nice feller. I had to ask the Duke of Wellington – Prime Minister and all that – but he’s no more idea of how to talk to a child than a brick wall has. If he can’t drill and parade them he doesn ‘t know what to do with them.’

  ‘Probably,’ I said, ‘he was seldom at home when his own children were young.’

  ‘That’s it. That’s what you have to do – play with them, wipe their noses.’ He drew his own finger across his own nose. ‘She loved your little piece, Mr Mozart. Enraptured. So was I. Took me back, I can tell you. It was just the piece for a child of that age. Ah – Lord Grey!’

  And off he trotted, perpetually perambulating, perpetually chattering. But he had had an effect on court functions. This was a much more relaxed and friendly occasion than his brother had ever managed to hold, even at Brighton, where informality was supposed to rule. If forced to choose between George’s stateliness and William’s indiscriminate sociability, I would plump every time for the latter. And I would feel confirmed in my choice by the sight of the footman-Bishop, who even as the thoughts were going through my head was gazing at the throng with lofty disapproval, as if the stage-coach had dropped him by mistake in Sodom or in one of Mr Robert Owen’s Socialist communities.

  My charge was now talking to the Duke of Wellington. In spite of King William’s strictures both seemed to be easy and confident, though the physical distance beween his head and hers was immense. Certainly the Princess did not seem overawed. Probably she was telling him how to win battles.

  My glance strayed. Princess Sophia was surrounded by men. It seemed as if that was her natural state, which must have made her life under the tyranny of her mother a terrible trial. Sir John Conroy was one of the men, and she was talking animatedly to him, sometimes turning her head to seek agreement from George FitzClarence, who looked preoccupied – perhaps withdrawn to his dream world where he could be Prince of Wales – and just nodded now and then. There was another man there, but I could only see his back, and it was a surprise a minute or two later to see that the Princess Sophia detached him from the group, and the two of them headed towards the terraces – in his case, I thought, a trifle reluctantly. It was the shifty young man who had been sitting beside her for the play. So he was, presumably, not a discontented tradesman at all. What, I wondered, was he?

  These pictures are fixed in my mind by what happened a few minutes later. When I looked back towards the body of the room I saw that the Duchess of Kent was talking to Lord Grey and Lord Melbourne in an unusually friendly and animated way. They had been friends, I remembered, of her late husband, who had trifled with radical notions in his later years. The coming woman and the coming politicians, I thought. It was widely believed that the Duke of Wellington’s ministry could not last long, and then the Whigs would come into their own – and perhaps she with them. The Duke, in fact, came over to join the group with the apparently easy friendliness of aristocratic political foes. The Duchess immediately lost the ease and friendliness of her own demeanour. Silly woman, I thought.

  Her daughter was being pressed to take wine by the King. The Queen was standing nearby, and immediately tried to dissuade him, but the King in certain moods was not to be deflected, and he took a full glass of claret from a nearby flunkey and pressed it into his niece’s hands. She humoured him and sipped it, and was polite enough not to make a face. The King was happy with that, and pottered off, chuckling contentedly.

  When the first shot rang out I seemed to jump two feet in the air. So did everyone else. By the time the second shot came all the fine ladies and gentlemen in the room (as well as Mr Popper) were scurrying hither and thither. I darted as fast as my old legs would carry me in the direction of the Princess Victoria, but the Duchess of Kent was younger and faster, and was across the room and in front of her daughter in a trice. She looked grateful for my presence of mind, however, and I turned to the window, for the shot had seemed to come from the terraces or the park beyond. Some in their agitation had hidden behind chairs or sofas, among them Mr Popper, still others had scurried out of the room. After the first shock was over, however, and seeing that no one had been hurt, several of the men and the Countess of Erroll with them had gone over to the windows, and now I went to join them. Gradually more and more, in spite of the continuing gunshots, sensed there was no danger, and went to enjoy the spectacle. Spectacle it certainly was.

  On horseback, around the paths that intersected the terrace gardens, rode a fearsome figure in a cavalry uniform I did not recognise, with mutton-chop whiskers covering much of his face and … Oh God! … and a vacant eye-socket that gave his face a fearsome appearance. It was when he turned towards us and I saw the socket that I knew who it was, knew it was someone I had had more than enough to do with in my lifetime. As we watched he turned towards the castle, smiling evilly, and raised his pistol again. Bang! And then bang-bang again. In the gardens, I now saw, were the Princess Sophia and the rascally-looking man – he cringing back, she looking on with calm amusement. The horseman rode in their direction, laughed, and then fired again.

  ‘M’brother Ernest,’ said the King calmly, from among the ranks of his guests crowded at the windows. ‘Damn’fool, as usual. Should be locked away.’

  The fearsome figure looked towards the castle once more, threw back his head and laughed a laugh more fearsome than a howl, then turned away from the gaping courtiers, spurred his horse, and rode off in the direction of the great park.

  ‘Thinks he’s in pantomime,’ said the King, in great disgust. ‘Come away and forget him. M’sister-in-law insisted I didn’t invite him. That’s what this is all about. Only shows how right she was. Very sensible.’ She was standing with her daughter just behind him, and he patted her arm and put a hand on Victoria’s shoulder. ‘Had no intention of inviting him anyway. Don’t like him near me. Gives me the horrors. Gives everyone the horrors. Particularly a little gel, eh? Ugly, one-eyed devil looking at her as if he’d like to eat her up? Give her nightmares. So this is what he does. Damn’fool trick. Come along. Don’t let it spoil the party. The sun’s coming out. Let’s go out into the park.’

  He took the Queen’s arm, and to set an example began towards the terraces. Some followed him, others did not care to risk the possibility of the Duke of Cumberland returning to play an encore. The Duchess of Kent was among the latter. I saw her go over to Sir John Conroy, almost dragging the Princess, and as I dr
ew near, as I took care to, I heard the word ‘risk’.

  ‘Here ve vould be imprisoned for the rest of the visit,’ I heard the Duchess say, in a low but urgent voice. ‘Thankfully the man vould be prevented from entering the castle, especially after this display, but who is to prevent him coming back to the park? The King is right: he should be in Bedlam. I could not let Victoria even take a valk on the terrace.’

  Sir John shook his head, dubious.

  ‘There is no sense in that. Kensington Palace is as public as Windsor. The fact that both are so public guarantees that no outrage of the kind you fear could take place.’

  ‘But if the man concerned is mad—?’

  He bent forward.

  ‘Remember our purpose. With the King in his present benevolent mood we may get a settlement for Victoria beyond our wildest dreams.’

  The Duchess was pettish.

  ‘The King is alvays benevolent. He is also feeble-minded, and vould like to treat Victoria as his own. The family has bad blood. With the sole exception of my dear Edvard, all the boys vere either dangerous, mad or simply idiotic. I vant nothing to do vith any of them.’

  I turned away from the Duchess’s selective genealogy, which had recreated her husband, the Mad Martinet of Gibraltar, as the only Saint and brain in the family. I suspected that Sir John would get his way. I suspected he always did – which brought me back to the Princess’s question of what there was between them. They certainly did not talk together as royal mistress and devoted servant.

  As I walked over to greet the group of actors and singers from the Queen’s Theatre, I saw Mr Popper turn away from another group he was pestering over by the fireplace, put his hand to his stomach, then rush, lurching and stumbling towards the door.

  Mr Popper was accustomed to get inebriated after the performance at the Queen’s, so I thought nothing of it at the time.

  8. Positively Last Appearance

  It is odd that you sometimes know when something that concerns you is happening behind your back. Being by nature a rational person, and no enthusiastic seeker after supernatural explanations, I can only think that on this occasion I saw, without consciously noticing, some reflection in the windows of the Crimson Drawing Room, through which I was watching the King and the other company on the terraces, and further away the figures of the Princess Sophia and her young man, together yet slightly apart, rambling towards the rolling expanses of Windsor Great Park.

  Be that as it may, I knew that something was going on, and when I turned round I saw that the episcopal footman was pointing me out to a man in everyday attire – a short, thick-set man, rubbing his hands in distress or as some kind of apology. My immediate thought was that he was a dun or a bailiff (my immediate thought when I see strangers who want to accost me often is), but on reflection I realised that such pests would hardly be allowed to invade a royal reception at Windsor Castle. The man began forward towards me, an expression of great, indeed agonised concern on his face.

  ‘Oh dear, Mr Mozart? My name is Nussey. I am most distressed at having to trouble you at such a time—’

  I had rarely encountered such a determined apologist. I said: ‘Not at all.’

  ‘—but, hmm, a matter of great … great inconvenience renders it imperative. Unavoidable. I wonder if you could be so kind as to accompany me?’

  I looked about me towards the Princess Victoria. She was with her mother and the Queen’s Chamberlain, Lord Howe – hardly company she would have chosen for herself. I raised my eyebrows to the Duchess, signifying my intention, and then left the room with the decidedly obsequious (it is not often anyone is obsequious to me, so it was rather pleasant) man with the North of England accent. We were followed by my least favourite footman (and I don’t like them as a race) up stairs, down corridors, up stairs again. Mr Nussey walked very fast, no doubt not realising (my appearance is still surprisingly youthful) that I am a very old man.

  ‘I should explain, Mr Mozart. I am one of the Royal apothecaries. I attended, I should say,’ (his chest expanded) ‘His Late Majesty in his last illness.’ His self-importance was rather comic, and he looked round to see its effects even as we hurried on. I bowed to hide my face. ‘I was here, ministering in fact to one of the royal attendants when I was called for by a footman … You know a Mr Popper, I believe?’

  ‘Mr Popper?’ I said, my surprise showing on my face. ‘We have been long … acquainted.’

  ‘And he was – is – here with a … a theatre troupe?’

  ‘He is here with a little company from the Queen’s Theatre, in Haymarket, who have been entertaining the royal guests,’ I said with a hint of reproof. Mr Popper’s dignity, on this occasion, was my dignity. ‘The King had the idea of staging a little piece to amuse the Princess Victoria and other younger members of the royal family.’

  ‘I see. And you are a member of the troupe?’

  I swallowed. On such occasions I always want to tell people that I am the greatest living composer in Europe.

  ‘I directed the performance.’

  I tried to remember whether I had written any of the dribble of music the piece contained, but couldn’t. Anyway, I didn’t want to claim the discredit.

  ‘And did you notice Mr Popper after the performance?’

  ‘I saw him stumble out, obviously drunk. Regrettable, no doubt, but hardly the first time that one of the guests has been drunk at a royal party.’

  ‘We must hope that it is that,’ murmured the man dubiously, coming to a stop outside an obscure door. ‘We must indeed hope it.’

  There were sounds, groans, penetrating the thick wood of the door. He opened it and we both went into a small, mean chamber. On the bed was Mr Popper, in an extremity of pain and distress. Holding his hand, trying to administer an emetic, was a woman I recognised as Mrs Hattersley, the Princess’s personal maid. When he opened his eyes and saw me Mr Popper gestured, then collapsed with a terrible cry, holding his stomach.

  I had frequently, in the course of our long and aggravating association, wished a terrible death on Mr Popper. He was one of my least favourite persons in the world, and the one I had least reason to be grateful to. But faced with his agony I took it all back, and wished only for his recovery. Even at the first glance, though, I concluded he was in a death agony. I turned to Mr Nussey.

  ‘What has caused this?’

  ‘What indeed?’ he asked in reply. ‘This is not inebriation. Does he have a weak heart?’

  At any other time I would have replied that it would be news to the company at the Queen’s that he had any heart at all, but not to the sounds of the groans from the bed.

  ‘I believe there have been occasions recently – I am no longer closely associated with Mr Popper’s theatre, so I don’t know the details – when he has had palpitations, turns, small attacks, call them what you will.’

  ‘Then I fear—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I fear he cannot survive.’

  I frowned in something like distress, and I stood for a moment thinking of the course of events since I saw Popper staggering from the Crimson Drawing Room.

  ‘Mr Popper was ill among the company downstairs,’ I said. ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘He was taken ill at the bottom of the main stairway. The footman’ – he gestured in the direction of the Bishop – ‘had him brought here.’

  ‘Was there nowhere nearer?’

  ‘Nowhere … suitable.’

  Nowhere lowly enough to suit the footman’s estimation of Popper’s place in the universe. I could hardly protest, having had an estimate of him pretty close to the deathwatch beetle myself hitherto. Anyway a dingy death in a grand castle seemed oddly appropriate for a theatre manager.

  ‘I don’t quite understand how you came to call on me.’

  ‘He asked for you,’ said Mr Nussey, naively adding, ‘Mrs Hattersley knew of you, otherwise I would not have been able to understand the name he was trying to pronounce.’

  On cue there were
renewed calls from the bed.

  ‘Mr Moz …’

  I went over quickly and almost warmly took his hand.

  ‘Mr Popper, I am most distressed to see—’

  ‘Mr Mozart. It must have been in one of the gl … gl …’

  To my horror his words were interrupted by another terrible cry. Then his head sank back on to the bed and his eyelids looked up to the ceiling as if he was already (unlikely thought) catching his first glimpse of heaven. Mr Nussey elbowed me aside. He felt heart and pulse, then after a minute he stood up.

  ‘It is as I feared.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes.’ The man seemed to be struggling with contrary emotions. ‘What was he trying to say?’

  I felt I had to voice my suspicions at once.

  ‘It’s difficult to tell, but I thought he was trying to say “It was in one of the glasses.”‘

  He seemed to make a decision.

  ‘I fear he may have been saying just that.’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘I think he was trying to say he had been poisoned.’

  Now he had shared his own suspicions he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. I sat down in a chair, shocked at what had happened. My years have inured me to catastrophes and deaths, but not, as yet, to murder – my experience of that was limited, though choice.

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ I said, bewildered. ‘What did he mean, “one of the glasses”? He would only have had one.’

  There was a stirring by the door. I realised that, lurking in the dim corridor, was the footman who had followed us. He ignored me and addressed himself to Mr Nussey.

  ‘It is possible I can be of assistance, sir.’

  ‘Yes, my man?’

  My man! To such a man!

  ‘When the … shooting in the terrace garden occurred, most, people first hid, or went for cover.’ He looked superior, but then it was his habitual expression. ‘Then, when people realised it was … a royal prank –’ his face became ineffably contemptuous – ‘they all crowded over to the windows to see.’