‘It has, it has. A most satisfactory outcome.’
‘Except for Mr Popper. And for the fact that it still remains to find out how he died.’
‘Oh, I have little doubt about that, Mr Mozart. Digitalis, or one of its derivatives.’
‘But the question remains how he came to ingest – I believe that is the word you use – it, does it not?’
‘Oh, I could have no opinion as to that,’ he said, apparently unconcerned. ‘That is for you to find out, Mr Mozart.’
He bowed a thankful farewell, leaving me with the problem very much as it had been before our conversation. I stood meditating for a few minutes, watching the preparations gathering momentum in the Great Park (it is a very special kind of picnic that needs a posse of groundsmen and cavalry to prepare for it), then turned and made my way back indoors.
Inside the castle preparations for the picnic seemed to have taken over the whole grandiose pile. Footmen and butlers, maids and housekeepers were scurrying hither and thither, like the poet Milton’s thousands who ‘post o’er land and ocean without rest’. The King was bustling about too, giving the impression that he had to supervise everything himself, and was even capable of making the sandwiches if necessary, as very possibly he was. Lady Erroll was watching him with a smile on her face, as if this was something she was very used to from her childhood. The Duchess of Kent was there, fuming with suppressed irritation and doubt, but the King mostly coped with her objections by ignoring them, though he did at one point say in passing, ‘Much better out in the open, you know. No walls or dark corners. She can be watched all the time.’
There were quite obvious ways of countering this argument, but he did not give her the opportunity, merely bumbling on and shouting commands and encouragements to all and sundry, footmen, staff and castle guests. He could have been on the quarterdeck of some rather jolly ship. I noticed that one or two of the footmen, though not all by any means, were losing a layer or two of starchiness and entering into the spirit of the thing. It wasn’t what they were used to under the previous King, but it was quite enjoyable, and when all was said and done the Princess Sophia was right: kingliness is what the King does.
‘Isn’t the King enjoying himself?’ came a wistful voice at my side, and I turned and saw the Princess Victoria.
‘He loves giving pleasure,’ I agreed, ‘which is a nice change. He especially likes giving pleasure to children.’
‘I wish there were more people like that,’ she said meaningfully. ‘All I hear about is duty … It won’t be my duty to be with George Cambridge all the time at the picnic, will it? That would make it a very dull treat.’
‘I’m sure not,’ I said, though I had no idea what the Duchess had in mind for her daughter. ‘It’s a pity we have no actresses to occupy his attention,’ the Princess giggled, ‘but I’m sure you can be with whomever you like.
‘The Countess of Erroll is lovely,’ said the Princess, looking in her direction, the wistful note in her voice again. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I was lovely like that? A new young queen who was also beautiful. It would drive people mad with loyalty to the throne. But I suppose I shall just have to be nice, or virtuous, or good, or something.’
‘Don’t let the King hear you talking about being Queen, or he’ll think you’re numbering his days.’
She threw up her chin.
‘Don’t treat me as entirely foolish and thoughtless, Mr Mozart. Other people do that, but you know better. I do know how to behave.’ The obstinate expression lasted long enough to make an effect. Then she smiled. ‘There, that’s over. I can be terribly grumpy if I try. It’s my only weapon against Mama.’
By about eleven o’clock the bustle had sorted itself out into something like order, and it was time for us all to sally forth. The Duchess of Kent was clearly very reluctant, but there was still some remnant of awe for the new King, and she had to make the best of a bad job. I saw her murmur instructions to Baroness Lehzen, and as we all left the castle, traversed the terrace and went down into the park I saw that Lehzen had the Princess by the hand and was keeping it determinedly in hers. The Princess obviously found this most demeaning, and looked very cross, or grumpy as she would call it. I had the impression, though, that she was biding her time.
A house party at Windsor Castle picnicking in the Great Park was a little like a family in a less grand residence picnicking in their back yard. However, the park was large enough for there to be plenty of spots for all tastes and pursuits – sunny spots and shady spots, open places and secret places. True to his remarks to the Duchess the King chose open lawn to set out the cloths and hampers. In any case his weather-beaten complexion showed that he liked the sun (it could not still be weather-beaten from his sea-going days), but this liking was not shared by the more genteel members of his court: ladies shielded their milky complexions under large hats and veils, and one could even see fine gentlemen making for the shade of trees. A tanned skin would never do: it might suggest that one worked in the open air!
The Princess was not after all to be burdened with the company of George Cambridge. He attached himself to the Queen, being a great favourite of hers, and they got round them a little knot of Erroll grandchildren. The King devoted himself to the very small FitzClarences, watched delightedly by the Princess Victoria.
‘What you have to watch for on picnics,’ he was telling them, ‘are the creepy-crawlies.’
‘What’s keepy kawlies, Grandad King?’ asked a fine-looking little boy.
‘Creepy-crawlies are things that live in the earth, little tiny creatures, and they love sandwiches and buns and all good things like that, and when we open the hampers and sit down to eat they come creepy-crawling out of the earth –’ he was on his knees, suiting the action to the words – ‘and they sniff jam sandwiches and the icing on currant buns and they come creepy-crawling over to have their share.’
And he snatched an imaginary currant bun from the hands of the little FitzClarence boy. The Princess Victoria laughed heartily, and the little FitzClarences crowed with delight. I saw the King looking, rather pathetically, to his son for approval, but George FitzClarence was brooding some feet away, and showed no sign of noticing what was going on around him. I have seldom known anyone who spent so much time within himself.
I came up behind the Baroness Lehzen, standing some feet away, her eyes watching everything that was going on in the little group through wire spectacles perched on a nose so sharp it could serve as a chisel.
‘The Princess is enjoying herself, Baroness,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘It is good from time to time.’
‘It is good for her to have children to play with, too, instead of adults.’
‘It is good,’ she agreed. ‘It is not easy.’
‘Oh?’
‘There is not many childrens who are on an equality with her.’
‘Don’t you think children make their own equality?’
She shook her head solemnly.
‘That is not good. She must think of her future, of her duty, of her great position.’
I refrained from demurring, but the idea of a child sitting around thinking of her duty, her future and her great position the whole time was a daunting one.
‘At any rate she can enjoy herself today. Watched over by us.’
She bridled visibly.
‘I shall vatch her. It is not necessary you concern yourself, Mr Mozart.’
‘Two watchdogs are better than one,’ I said equably, ignoring her obvious jealousy.
As it happened my own attention was diverted at that moment. I saw coming towards us from the gate in the railings just beyond the Long Walk – the gate that led to the town of Windsor – the Princess Sophia and the man I now knew to be her son: she was talking unconstrainedly. He appeared to listen, but his eyes went everywhere, whether to take in the details of the royal picnic or looking for someone or something specific I could not tell.
This was a blow. I looked towards the Ki
ng but he, by popular demand, was doing a repeat performance as a creepy-crawly, to immense applause. In any case I don’t suppose he would have welcomed any looks of reproach I might direct at him. Kings come to like applause and approbation, and they are liable to withdraw favour from those who don’t give it to them. I was too little used to royal patronage, too sensible of the tangible benefits flowing from it, to risk its being withdrawn.
‘I had assumed the picnic was to be restricted to guests at the castle,’ I murmured to Baroness Lehzen. ‘But that gentleman is certainly not one of them.’
She looked in the direction I pointed, clearly not knowing who or what he was, or possibly (which was very worrying) not being able to see who it was.
‘I shall be on vatch for everyone,’ she pronounced complacently. ‘It is necessary.’
I, having no more than the usual number of eyes, found that I had to make a choice as to who I watched. My task was made easier, however, by the fact that the King gestured to the flunkeys who were in attendance (they did not include the Bishop – bishops don’t go on picnics), and the hampers were opened, plates and glasses were placed around the shining white table-cloths, and the guzzling part of the picnic began in earnest.
The children were best at the guzzling, of course. There were indeed jam sandwiches and sticky currant buns, as well as every kind of cake, biscuit and sweet pastry imaginable: gingerbread, treacle sponge, seed cake, fruit cake and unlimited sweetmeats. It was no doubt very bad for them, which was why they enjoyed it so much. The adults were less wholehearted in entering into the spirit of the party. The patés and the cold tongue and the game pie were all delicious – I was eating, in fact, at Windsor as I had never eaten in my life before – but they were not the sort of adults who were used to picnics or could be easy at them. The gaiety was forced and spasmodic, and we spent much time commenting on the uproarious joy of the children, whose fun was led by the King and Queen, who seemed more able than anyone to forget their Great Position. I was fortunate in sitting next to Princess Sophia rather than, say, Lord Howe, who stuck out like a spider at a flies’ feast.
‘Don’t William and Adelaide do this sort of thing well?’ the Princess commented to me in low tones. ‘If only their little girl had lived.’
I dared to sound out her opinion of her fellow residents at Kensington.
‘Yes, they would certainly be more sympathetic parents than … some others,’ I said. She smiled understandingly.
‘The poor Duchess tries, but much too hard, and she never will take advice to let up, give Victoria more freedom, more company she can be a little girl with.’ She paused, then added, ‘Though she probably thinks it’s absurd that I should be offering advice about bringing up children.’ My eyes involuntarily went to the figure of Tom Garth at the next cover. ‘Ah, you know?’
‘The King did … mention the relationship.’
‘I expect everyone knows.’
‘Baroness Lehzen didn’t seem to know who he was.’
‘Lehzen is single-minded and rather stupid. Her only interest is Princess Victoria. One day she will become a great nuisance … William means well, of course, and thinks he is giving me a great treat, but really you know we have nothing to say to each other. Nothing in the world. I found that yesterday, when he came – reluctantly – on to the terrace with me. I chattered on, he tried to respond, but we had nothing in common. Not even a shared past, which is what most parents and children have. When we were watching your little piece he had much more to say to George FitzClarence, and I would have felt hurt, but then I thought: but it’s perfectly natural – they do have plenty in common.’
At that moment I caught a glance – a glance of complicity – from Tom Garth on one side of the table-cloth next to ours to George FitzClarence on the other. A line of Shakespeare sprang to my mind – another line such as probably did not get into the Princess Victoria’s edition of the Bard:
‘Now, gods, stand up for bastards!’
13. Lessons in Love
There is this to be said for royal picnics, even when the participants are a stiff-necked lot they have not been frequent enough to develop an etiquette of their own, so that by and large one can do pretty much what one wants. The natural progression of eating and then sleeping, which is difficult or impossible at a formal banquet, can come about quite naturally at a picnic.
The wine had been light, but of a superb quality, and the King knocked it back enthusiastically.
‘Damned good wine!’ he would say, looking around him for approval. ‘Better than I’ve ever been able to afford. There’s this to be said for m’brother: he had taste. Damned expensive taste, but good.’
Accordingly, when the last traces of the wonderful comestibles were being cleared away by the army of silent footmen, and even as the Queen was fussing around him and talking about possible chills and the dampness getting on his chest, the King lay back on the grass and in a couple of seconds was snoring contentedly. A great many of the adult members of the party followed suit.
I would have liked to be one of those, but I felt too keenly my obligation to keep guard over the Princess Victoria. Baroness Lehzen too, though it was clear that sun and wine had produced a desperate desire to nod off, battled to stay awake and keep watch. The Duchess battled a similar inclination, watching the children’s games and frolics, her mouth set in a straight, hard line as she realised she was powerless to prevent her daughter playing with the little Errolls and FitzClarences – was far from sure, probably, which they were.
I was more interested in their parents, or rather one of them. Lady Erroll was sleeping beautifully on a grassy bank, while her husband was playing a quarrelsome game of poker with two other gentlemen and making the air fragrant with his excellent cigar. But George FitzClarence was standing under a tree a little way into what remained of the forest – standing on the other side of the trunk, away from the company, so that I only knew it was he because the shoulders of his distinctive and dashing blue coat were visible. I was convinced there was also someone else there, but of him or her I could get no glimpse. I kept my eyes on the tree behind which he was standing, only occasionally switching to Princess Victoria, who had left the tumbling group of small children and was exchanging dutiful words with George Cambridge. I was convinced I could hear a faint trickle of conversation from the forest, then a distant laugh which was not George FitzClarence’s desperate, almost maniacal laugh. A blue-clad arm was suddenly visible, putting something into the pocket of the coat. Then a shape disappeared further into the depths of the forest, and FitzClarence came out from the shadow of the trees, standing for a moment, almost posing, on the edge of the grass. Pictures could have been painted of him by Sir Thomas Lawrence or Sir David Wilkie: The Hope of the Nation, or The King’s Heir. If only …
His shoulder relaxed, his head was let off duty, and he turned away from the company, took from his pocket a folded sheet of paper and began to study it intently. I found I desperately wanted to find out what it was.
A thought occurred to me: the Princess, so tiny and quiet, might well be able to discover what I almost certainly could not manage. I took out a tiny notebook I keep with me to note down musical ideas when they occur to me (still they occur to me, after nearly seventy years’composing!) and wrote:
M. D. It would interest me extremely to find out what is in the paper which George FitzClarence has been reading so intently.
Mr. M.
M.D. was my improvised code for ‘my dear’. I thought the Princess would puzzle it out, and enjoy doing it. It did occur to me that I might be putting her in a position of danger, but I dismissed the idea: I would watch her every movement. She was by now back with the rest of the children, playing a vigorous game of Ring o’ Roses with a clutch of the King’s grandchildren. I tore the page from my notebook and concealed it in my hand.
‘De Princess will get tired and overheated, ma’am,’ I heard Lehzen call to the Duchess of Kent. I thought that one thing the little girl n
eeded was to get tired and overheated now and then, but I immediately stood up.
‘I will fetch her.’
Black look from the Baroness Lehzen.
By the time I came up to the noisy knot of children they were approaching another climax of the Ring, and they all fell down with a tremendous soprano roar. The Princess was flushed and laughing. I bent my head towards her.
‘Your governess thinks that you may be getting tired and overheated, Your Royal Highness.’
She pushed out her lower lip still further.
‘Oh, bother Lehzen!’ she began, but I gave her a slow and significant wink and held out my hand. She put her hand into mine, and I heard a little chuckle as she felt the folded paper in the palm. She gave no more trouble about joining the grown-ups, merely saying conversationally, ‘I wouldn’t have thought it possible but I had a most interesting conversation with George Cambridge about being in love. It seems a most deightful state of mind, from his account. Have you been often in love, Mr Mozart?’
I was saved from the need to reply: the last roar of the children as they all fell down had arounsed the King from his noisy slumbers.
‘What? What?’ he said, sitting up and looking around him. ‘You’ve been asleep, m’dear,’ he said to his Queen, who was sitting quietly beside him, probably wondering how to prevent the damp going to his chest. Then the King gave a loud laugh. ‘May have nodded off m’self.’ He stood up and strode over to the children. ‘Cricket, eh? Time for cricket, don’t you think? We always had cricket at Bushey.’
I don’t know what you think about cricket. To me it is a peculiarly English (or Englishly peculiar) game. I don’t see any other nation or race taking it up (I gather it is never played in the former colonies of America, where the climate is much more suitable for it). However, I suppose it is preferable as a sport to prize-fighting, around which the patronage of the late Lord Byron has put a false romantic aura, but which to my mind is a reversion to barbarism.
Too Many Notes, Mr Mozart Page 13