Too Many Notes, Mr Mozart

by Bernard Bastable

  As a matter of fact the game of cricket, as improvised by the King (though he had had the foresight to order bats and balls to be brought, including very small bats and soft balls) bore little relationship to the tedious rituals of the village green – this game being very noisy and harmless, as well as a good deal faster. Perhaps it was my memory of those previous games, witnessed in small towns where I had inadvertently got myself stranded after a concert or a recital, but whatever the reason something for a short time sent me off to sleep. I was stretched forward on my stomach like some schoolboy from Eton, the educational establishment nearby, and I remember noticing that the Princess was not far away and that, her mother’s and her governess’s eyes being on the cricket game, she had opened and was reading my note. I met her eye, smiled at her, then my head must have fallen down on to my outstretched arms and I dozed.

  I awoke suddenly, perhaps prodded by a passing foot or aroused by a worrying dream. The Princess was nowhere to be seen. I sat up sharply and turned away from the cricket game, slowly but urgently surveying the expanse of the park. At last I saw her: she was between us and the castle, but she was approaching from behind the figure of George FitzClarence, solitary as he so often was (it almost seemed symbolic of his state), and standing, paper in hand, alternately looking at it, then letting his hand drop and meditating on what he had been reading, or re-reading rather. My first impulse was to jump up and rush over to protect the Princess. At once I told myself that this was absurd: it was I who had sent her on that mission in the first place. My reason was unsettled by my sleep, and by the feeling that I had fallen down on my duty, like a sleeping sentry. Not that I was the only one: Lehzen was fast asleep, and looking round I soon established that neither the Duchess of Kent nor Sir John Conroy was there to keep an eye on the Princess.

  But now I was alert again and could watch. The Princess, so small and delicate, approached him from behind, concealing her stealth with an insouciant manner. She had, I knew from her lessons with me, good eyesight. She stood there, mute, trying to scan the paper, helped by his tallness and her own diminutive size, for when he was not looking at it his hand with the paper in it was not far from her eyes. Something in the set of her shoulders told me that she was frustrated, probably by the fact that the side of the paper presented to her was blank. She stood thoughtful for a moment, and then started round into the man’s view.

  I could, of course, hear nothing, only watch their movements. When he became conscious of her he started and looked down. She spoke to him and he replied: she spoke again and he looked away, then seemed to say something. As soon as he took his eyes off her the Princess’s eyes dropped to the paper in his hand. She went on talking I think, but quite suddenly he looked down, snatched the paper away from her eyes and stuffed it into his pocket. They talked on for a few moments more, then I heard a burst of laughter from George FitzClarence, and he began striding away from her in the direction of the cricket match.

  ‘Sometimes I worry about George,’ said a voice at my side and, turning, I saw that it was the Countess of Erroll, now beautifully awake and contemplating the scene I had just witnessed. I was about to ask her what she meant when I saw that the Princess, who had watched her departing cousin, perhaps telling herself how wonderfully handsome he was, had turned away from us and had begun walking in the direction of the outskirts of the forest.

  I stood up as fast as my old limbs would allow me to, gave a hasty bow to the Countess, and began in the same direction. Even with George FitzClarence well out of the way I was not happy at the thought of the Princess wandering in the shadow of the forest away from all observing eyes. But into the forest she went, and by the time I had reached the path by which she had entered there was not a glimpse to be had of her tiny figure or her pretty white dress. I started in, very uncertain of my course of action. Should I shout, rush to get people to look for her? Would it not seem absurd? A child in a wood is not necessarily in danger. I walked on, trying to cool my agitation. Some way in the paths forked. Which one to take? I am very inexperienced in forests – indeed, I never remember being in one before, in spite of the fact that the final scene of my last, unperformed opera takes place in this very forest. I am a townsman, and I stopped, irresolute.

  I thought I heard a crackle of twigs to my right. I began that way, but very tentatively, for I knew, even as a townsman, that one can easily be misled by the apparent direction of noises. Almost at once I was rewarded by a flash of white in the distance, then by the sight of the little figure walking fast and determinedly in my direction. I stopped, took a deep breath, and made a decision not to make a ‘fuss’, something she would hate. I was troubled to see when she came closer that her charming little pig face was very red, and her eyes were filled with tears – not of sadness, I thought, but of something else I could not identify. Was it anger? Something like shame? She looked as if she wanted nothing more than to find a place where she could hide and have a long, wonderfully relieving cry. But that would not have been a good idea. I held out my hand to her. She looked up at me as if she was seeing me for the first time. Then, without smiling, she took my hand and together we walked in silence along the pathways and out of the forest.

  ‘It’s absolutely disgusting!’ she burst out when we were safely out in the open, her words contrasting with her girlish, bell-like tones.

  ‘Oh?’ I said neutrally.

  ‘There will be no need for you to make any more enquiries, Mr Mozart. I have seen them!’

  ‘I see.’ I took some moments to digest this information. It was a very delicate matter, because it could be thought improper to ask her what she had seen them doing. However, it seemed unlikely, in the context of a well-attended royal picnic, that they were doing very much.

  ‘This was your Mama and Sir John?’ I asked at last.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And they were?–’

  ‘Kissing. Under a tree. So you see I know.‘

  Her face was red, her eyes angry, as if she felt both humiliated and confused by what she had seen.

  ‘You say you know, my dear. But what do you know?’

  ‘That they are lovers.’

  I was in a quandary again. There seemed to be no way of enlightening her about the significance of that phrase without enlightening her on several biological matters of which she was obviously ignorant – and it was hardly my place to do that. After some deliberation I stopped, turned her round to look at me, and said, ‘What you know, my dear, is that they feel affection for each other.’

  ‘Yes – they’re lovers. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘But when you talked to your cousin Prince George you thought love a delightful state.’

  She frowned, more confused than ever.

  ‘But that’s quite different. Of course it seemed a delightful state, because we were talking about young people. But at their age! And in Mama’s position!’

  ‘I’m afraid love pays little regard to age or position.’

  ‘But Mama should certainly pay regard to it. She has already had two husbands. Is that not enough?’

  ‘Your Mama is a healthy and handsome woman.’

  ‘And Sir John is a healthy and handsome man. That does not make it right.‘

  We had come up to where the Baroness Lehzen was sleeping soundly on the grass. I was uncertain what to do, but the Princess, with the familiarity of long experience, shook her awake. She opened her eyes and struggled to a sitting position.

  ‘I am taking the Princess back to the castle,’ I explained. ‘She is a little tired.’

  ‘But how can she have got tired? I have been vatching her all de time.’

  The Princess let out a silvery laugh, kissed her governess (something I would not have cared to do), and we began our long walk back to the castle watched by a very bad-tempered Lehzen. The Princess’s laugh may have betokened a return to her customary mood, but she was by no means ready to leave the subject of her mother. We had not gone many steps before that little ch
in tilted upwards again.

  ‘Mama should forfeit the right to be my guardian!’

  I regretted having to pour cold water on so much of what she said, but I had no alternative.

  ‘That would be a matter for Parliament, and I’m sure they would be very reluctant to separate a mother and daughter.’

  ‘But mothers do lose the right to their children if they are guilty of adulthood.’

  I had noticed before that the Princess tended to confuse adulthood and adultery. I suppose with her family the confusion was natural.

  ‘Adultery is not what you saw, my dear. Adultery is much more serious. Besides, who would become your guardian?’

  ‘The King and Queen, of course!’

  That was a plausible, natural and extremely dangerous notion.

  ‘The King and Queen have many new duties, as well as many older ones in connection with the King’s children.’ (Who, I was beginning to agree with the Duchess, should be kept well out of the Princess’s way.)

  ‘George. Cambridge stays with them almost all the time,’ she said, with an obsessive pursuit of a fixed idea that I was beginning to recognise as part of her character. ‘He says the Queen is very kind and the King is very jolly.’

  ‘I’m sure they are, my dear. They both love children. But a natural bond is a natural bond, and mother and daughter should not be separated unless there is a very good reason.’

  ‘There is good reason.’ She saw from my face that I did not agree with her, and she was conscious that she was entering on to ground of which she felt very uncertain. She modified her attitude. ‘Well, if I can’t go and live with the King and Queen, I shall at least get my own way with Mama.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I shall tell her what I saw and she will have to let me do as I want.’

  I raised my eyebrows and shook my head, feeling the most awful wet blanket.

  ‘Well, Your Royal Highness, I will not deny that you have a very powerful weapon.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Mozart. I know I do.’

  ‘But a good commander does not use his cannon in a minor skirmish. He saves it for the big battle. Ask the Duke of Wellington if you don’t believe me – but don’t, for heaven’s sake, tell him why you are asking.’

  She giggled – a good sign – and thought about this as we toiled up on to the terraces of the castle.

  ‘You mean that I should not tell her what I saw until there is a very important matter in which I need to get my own way?’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean,’ I replied, hoping fervently that she would hoard the knowledge so well that the important matter would not arise until after she had come of age. ‘But we have been talking about this so much that you have not told me about George FitzClarence and your talk with him.’

  It was not to be. We were nearing the east front, and by that mysterious communication between servants (I knew not whether this was innate and habitual to the Windsor staff or induced by special instructions of the King) word of our impending arrival had been transmitted to Mrs Hattersley, who now issued forth to take charge of the Princess as if she were at best long-lost or at worst had been kidnapped.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Elspeth,’ said the Princess, but the fuss at least served to disguise from her loyal but officious servant her troubled state of mind.

  Discontentedly I roamed the castle, where lounged members of the party who had shirked the picnic – playing billiards in obscure parts of the old pile, or gossiping in gilded corners. I was surprised when I strayed into the Waterloo Chamber to be buttonholed by the Duke of Wellington, who had never before favoured me with a word in his life (most appropriate setting for him, as he was probably surveying the portraits of old friends and enemies whom he very likely despised equally and impartially). He is a man who knows no more of music than the King – in his case his knowledge is probably limited to marches as the King’s is to hornpipes and shanties. But talk to me, in his stiff way, he did, and we were soon joined by Lord Melbourne, who I suspect had left the picnic as soon as he saw the Princess coming away.

  ‘The Princess enjoyed herself?’ he enquired solicitously, and soon we were deep in the topic that was making me such a popular visitor to the castle.

  ‘I was saying to Mr Mozart yesterday,’ said Lord Melbourne, addressing the Duke, ‘that it will be such fun when she is Queen. And I shan’t live to see it!’

  ‘Still less I,’ said the Duke. ‘Unless the King’s asthma takes him off early.’

  ‘I think a court presided over by the Duchess of Kent would not be great fun,’ I ventured. The Duke and Lord Melbourne looked at one another.

  ‘A Regency for the Duchess is not to be taken for granted,’ said the Duke. ‘Whatever the complexion of the government.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ agreed Lord Melbourne. ‘There’s Sussex and there’s Cambridge.’

  ‘The Duke of Cambridge is the only one of the Dukes who has never been a millstone round the public neck,’ said the Duke. Then, remembering he was talking to me, he added, quite mendaciously, ‘Except the King, of course. Cambridge has brains and he has feelings that do him credit.’

  ‘Do you know the Princess’s sentiments concerning a Regency?’ Lord Melbourne asked me.

  ‘The Princess had very much rather the question never arises,’ I said, as forcibly as I could. ‘She feels the awkwardness of it acutely, particularly if things are done in her name of which she does not approve.’

  ‘Sensible as well as great fun,’ said Lord Melbourne. ‘Long may she live and reign.’

  ‘And save us from the Duke of Cumberland,’ said the Duke feelingly.

  ‘Amen to that,’ agreed Lord Melbourne. ‘We on our side have no reason to love him.’

  ‘Nor we on ours,’ said the Duke, with that unanimity of feeling that Cumberland always evokes. ‘He was insufferable about Catholic Emancipation. And he made the last months of the late King’s life a complete misery.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there was ever much prospect of their being very happy.’

  ‘That doesn’t excuse him badgering a dying man.’

  ‘True. If the Duke were heir to the throne both parties would really have to come together to save the nation from him.’

  So there I was mixing with the Highest in the Land and discussing the character of the Heiress Presumptive and the next heir after her! Strange transformation in my fortunes! We went on for some time, but soon the picnicking party drifted back, and it was time to dress for dinner. I was pleased but not altogether surprised to find on the little table in my bedroom, tucked under my bowl and my jug of lukewarm water, a note. It was addressed in a spluttering pen on the envelope ‘M.D.O.F.’ I took this to mean My Dear Old Friend, and was flattered and unworried by the thought that, in the circumstances, Old could only signify ‘aged’. I opened it and read.

  ‘The schocking seen that I witnessed in the forest today put out of my head the matter you wanted me to find out about. The paper in Goerge Fitsclarence’s hand was some sort of copie from a rejister, as of birth or a death perhaps. But I could not see it close, and to see it at all I had to go round and talk to him. I askt him if he was enjoying the picnic, and he said that his children were enjoying it very much and picnics were for children. Saying which he looked at me and his expresion was not nice, as if he hated me (as pehaps he may, I being lejitimate and he NOT!) Then he looked away quickly so I could not see his face, and that was when I saw the paper. I said he seemed to have a lot to consem him, and he said he did. Then he saw me pearing at the paper and snatched it away. I said was it matters of state that conserned him (tho I knew it could not be, he having no posishion) and he looked at me and said you might say that, and then he thought and said yes, you could say this will be very much a matter of state.

  Then he burst out into his horrible laugh which I do not like at all, and walked away (rather rudely).

  I hope I have done well, M.D.O. F.

  Yours greatfully

  She did not sign it. I su
ppose she hoped that, if it were found,

  it could be thought to be from any of the great ladies at the castle.

  But on the whole I thought she had done very well indeed.

  14. Shadows of the Past

  I went down to dinner that night, the last dinner of the duchess’s stay at the castle, with new confidence. I was conscious as always that I was not so well dressed (though natty) as the rest, not so well groomed, not so exquisitely perfumed. But I also knew that the King’s patronage of me and reliance on me – and I suspected there was a great deal of conjecture as to its cause and its nature – had made me a figure to be noted, even courted. I was no longer a mere hanger-on to the theatrical performers.

  I was placed at table between Lord Erroll and Lord Melbourne, both figures of consequence, you will note. Talk was freer that evening, perhaps loosened by the picnic, or by the fact that people were imperceptibly getting to know each other better, and even the courtiers were shaking down into the more free-and-easy manners of the new reign. The fact that talk was more general enabled me to have a short but sotto voce conversation of a ‘business’nature with Lord Melbourne.

  ‘My Lord, do you remember the time when the present King began his … association with the mother of his children?’

  He looked at me with the look of a shrewd politician – that is the look that says every question has a motive behind it.

  ‘Hardly. I remember talk. But I was a mere boy at the time. You yourself will remember better, Mr Mozart.’

  There is a streak of vanity in my Lord Melbourne that made him emphasise his greater youth, though I think I can say without fear of contradiction that few people observing us would suspect a difference of twenty or so years between us. Lord Melbourne is a handsome but not young fifty-or-so-year-old. Perhaps the fact that I had the happiest of marriages to my dear Connie, while Lord Melbourne was yoked to a demented maenad, the paramour of Lord Byron, accounts for our appearances as men very much of the same age.

  ‘But you, My Lord, mingled in aristocratic circles, where his doings were likely to be the subject of comment.’