‘Hmmm – Gluck, ain’t it? Gluck’s never popular, not here, not anywhere. Not as you were once popular, Mr Mozart.’
I bowed complacently, hoping he wasn’t confusing me with someone else.
‘I remember as a boy,’ he went on, ‘how they were all singing that Turkish thing—’
‘The Ladies of the Harem.’
‘How did it go, now? “Long live Bacchus, may he prosper, Bacchus was a worthy man”.’
A 64-year-old does not like the works of his nonage quoted back at him as if they were his masterpiece. Mr Popper’s voice and tuning were in any case intolerable, and I cut in quickly:
‘That was truly a wonderful success. I shall aim for something similar with my new piece.’
‘Will you? With the Donne Whatsit? Do please, dear Mr Mozart.’ He had not been so polite to me since the year of Trafalgar. ‘And will there be parts for Mme Ardizzi and Mme Pizzicoli?’
‘For them and several other ladies. And of course a wonderful role for a bass.’
‘For a bass?’
‘England is the country of bass singers. We must try to find one we can teach Italian to.’
‘It begins to sound wonderful, like the turning of a new page. We shall need patrons, of course, and backers.’
‘Have you thought of Lord Egremere? He is always most generous to musicians and musical enterprise.’
Mr Popper shook his head.
‘Not with the present rural poverty and discontent in the South. And why would a Whig celebrate the Coronation of the new King? He ditched them and they despise him.’
‘Then what about the Marquess of Hertford—’
‘Husband of the King’s—’
‘—great friend. Yes. He has an ear.’
‘Not always an open-handed gentleman,’ said Mr Popper dubiously.
‘Not always,’ I agreed, remembering that I was moderately indebted to him. ‘But someone who likes the feeling of being a patron – likes the respect accorded a benefactor. And he certainly appreciates good music. He subscribed to my last set of symphonies.’
‘Hmm. Well, I shall use the period of closure to write letters. To the ladies and their managers, of course, but also to rich and aristocratic potential patrons.’
‘Write them, my dear sir, but best not send them just yet – not those to the backers.’
‘Why not? Oh yes: too soon, of course. The aristocracy will feel bound to be grief-stricken at the death of a King. You too, Mr Mozart. You must feel it more than most of us. He was a great benefactor of yours, wasn’t he?’
Oh, those accursed fifty guineas! They seem to have entered folk history. But I did not contradict him. I withdrew, leaving my poison to do its work. Knowing what I do about the destructive power of a determination to present Italian opera, I suppose I should have felt guilty.
In fact I felt more elated than I had done in years.
2. A Little Night Music
So for the first few months of the new reign, while everybody was wondering what Prinny would do about this and that (and finding that as a rule he would do remarkably little), letters were flying to and from Italy, Vienna and Paris, as Mr Popper attempted to put together an opera company worthy of the name. I meanwhile went on in my usual way, writing music for William and Susan, Alice and Frederick, or perhaps The Maid of Moscow or The Wizard of Wolverhampton – whatever little piece I was occupied with for the Queen’s Theatre. These I called my left-hand pieces: the airs were a sort of musical diarrhoea which flowed out without effort or involvement on my part. I never read the whole book, out of concern for my sanity, but merely got the sense of each of the airs and simple concerted pieces (not always easy, admittedly, granted the quality of the poets employed by Mr Popper) and let appropriate music flow out. The income from such burlesques, which I augmented by directing them regularly to keep the players and singers in trim, kept me in beefsteak and wine and the occasional pretty new waistcoat. With my right hand and the best part of my time I was composing real music: the symphony for the Royal Philharmonic Society which the good Mr Novello claimed was my 105th, and of course Le Moglie Allegre di Windsor or whatever I finally decided to call it.
Mention of waistcoats prompts me to note that mourning for the late King was put off with remarkable dispatch. A general feeling that he had in effect been dead before he died led to all ranks of polite society resuming their normal dress before February was out. It was said that even at Court mourning was hardly more than token and there no doubt Prinny (a notably unfilial son) led the way. Things might have been different if the old Queen had been alive, but she had died of dyspepsia two years before.
It was of the Court that many people were thinking in those early months of 1820, for there was a general feeling that, now Prinny, as we still called him, was King there ought to be feasting, laughter, celebrations – in short that more money ought to flow from the direction of the Court into the outstretched hands of his (for the moment, and somewhat conditionally) loyal subjects. This was a feeling I emphatically shared. Thus it was with a lift of the heart that, one day in early summer, I took from the hand of my little maid a missive which had been delivered to the door by someone ‘terrible grand’, in her words. I saw at once that the coat of arms on the cover was the royal one. When I had cautiously torn it open I found that it was an invitation to play a concert of my own compositions before King and Court at the Pavilion at Brighton on the fifth of June. The invitation courteously invited me to stay the night.
So, the wheel had come full circle: as a child I had played for the new King George III, and as an old man I was to play for the new King George IV. Many men would have felt saddened by this but I must confess that the invitation gave me no sense of staleness or over-familiarity: playing before the Sovereign brought undoubted rewards in the shape of reputation, increased fees, and also in tradesmen’s willingness to extend credit. Dear, necessary credit! It was of course absurd that this should be so, since an appearance at Court cost infinitely more in the purchase of suitable clothes, the redeeming from hock of jewellery etc etc, than it brought in in the way of emoluments. But such was the case, and I was not one to fail to take advantage of it. Eccomi là!
The fifth of June saw me in a carriage with superb coachmen, put at my disposal by the royal mews. It was already clear (I hoped) that things were to be done in the new reign in a quite different style than had been the case when poor old Farmer George was in full possession of his wits. It is true that when I arrived at the Pavilion (which, it occurred to me, would provide a splendid setting for my old piece The Ladies of the Harem) I was shown to a room in the outer and upper reaches of that tinsel extravaganza. It was explained that the clement summer and the new reign had resulted in exceptional numbers of the aristocracy joining the Court. Who was I, a mere artist, to jostle for a good room with the nobility? I must confess that hot water in abundance was brought, and I was asked to talk with an officer of the Court at five o’clock in the North Drawing Room. I went down with some anticipation, but also with the confidence of long (if not recent) experience of performing before royalty for a pittance.
‘Ah, Mr Mozart!’ said a grand, portly and gaudy personage when I was ushered in. He was not the Lord Chamberlain. That was Lord Hertford, with whom I was acquainted through certain pecuniary transactions already mentioned, and through the Benefice Lodge, of which he and I were both members. But Lord Hertford, I later learned, was busy with the King on vital and urgent business, and I had to make do with the Vice Chamberlain. He clapped me familiarly on the shoulder. ‘So glad you could accede to His Majesty’s very special request for a concert of your works.’
I bowed and muttered the usual stuff.
‘Only too honoured by the request, My Lord.’
‘Your acquaintance with the new King goes back many years, I believe?’
Oh yes, many years we went back, the child prodigy and the prodigal child! I remembered an ante-chamber to the concert room at St James’s Palace, wh
ere the young prince, six years my junior, had thrown himself on me, punching and shouting ‘Why should I have to listen to a common German piano-strummer?’ and another when he had tried to ruin my hands by hitting them with all his strength with a ruler. Since he had probably been soundly whipped at the time I decided to let bygones be bygones.
‘It does indeed. To the time when we were both children.’
‘His Majesty has always been most musical. The present impoverished condition of opera in London is most distressing to him, as I’m sure it is to you … Ah, er, Mr Mozart, the King has a little favour to ask of you …’
‘Yes, My Lord?’ (Heart sinking. More play for no more pay.)
‘Your concert, as you know, is to be this evening. I had you shown to the North Drawing Room because of the pianoforte.’ He waved a plump, lordly hand in the direction of a Broadwood grand. ‘For if you should wish to – to practice. But His Majesty also wondered, as a way of – of limbering up, as it were—’ he made me sound like a prize-fighter, punching a bag before a contest—‘if you would be willing to – to play during dinner. Pleasant music, as an aid to digestion. An excellent instrument has been placed in the Banqueting Room.’
He faded into silence. So that was it – I was to be reduced to a mere salon pianist, providing music in the background, music to guzzle and slurp and gossip and giggle to. I loathe the fashion of having music going on behind, while attention is really on something else. I call it mush-ick, because it reduces music to a pleasant mush in the back of the mind. I swallowed hard, and thought of royal patronage for the opera season at the Queen’s, perhaps a royal visit to Le Donne Giocose.
‘I would of course be happy to comply with His Majesty’s wishes, My Lord,’ I said.
He breathed a sigh of relief, said he would send a footman to me at half-past five, when the Court were seated at table, and waved his hand again in the direction of the Broadwood. I needed no second bidding, for I was the prey of emotions which I was in the habit of working out of my system at the keyboard. I sat down and played the most aggressive thing I could think of – the first movement of a sonata by my good (but loud) friend, Herr Beethoven. That was what I would like to do to them!
It was about twenty minutes later, when I had modulated to more peaceful feelings and was playing the andante of a sonata of my own – very delicate, peaceful music – that I suddenly became conscious that I was not alone in the room. I cast a look behind me and saw it was a woman listening. She gestured me to continue, but a minute or two later came over and leant over me at the keyboard. I recognised her now: a no-longer-young woman of full figure and somewhat equine features, very grandly dressed but trying (the effort showed) to unbend, to bring herself down to my level. It was someone I had seen before, but never spoken to: Lady Hertford, wife of one of the potential sponsors of the opera season and the … good friend of His Majesty King George IV.
‘So beautiful. One of your own, I believe, Mr Mozart?’
‘Indeed it is, My Lady. Composed last year.’
‘You will be playing it tonight?’
‘I had thought to, My Lady.’
‘So much more suitable than the energetic Mr Beethoven, whom you were playing before.’ She was now leaning forward, making me very conscious of her décolleté gown, and what it was largely failing to conceal. ‘And I believe you have consented to play during dinner?’
‘His Majesty was so kind as to ask me …’
‘I’m sure you will judge admirably what would be most suitable. One would hardly want Mr Beethoven with one of the fish courses. People get uneasy if the music is too loud, and the good German is such a hammerer, is he not? As if the Day of Judgment were always just around the corner. I feel that anything grand or stately is hardly suitable for a meal. On the other hand a little pianissimo is always sure to please.’
She seemed to say it meaningfully, and a dreadful conviction gripped me. She was trying to seduce me! This horse-faced matron was giving me an invitation – me, who have remained chaste since my dear Connie died (except for Mrs Sackville in Frith Street for my absolute physical needs). She was even contrasting – was that it? – the stately and tedious lovemaking of her weighty royal protector with the gentle love-making she might hope for from me! I, a poor musician, was being propositioned by this enormously wealthy lady with a grand mansion near Leeds (a dirty, disagreeable town, my son Charles Thomas tells me, but very musical). And she was old enough to be my elder sister. Every reply I could think of seemed to contain a double meaning.
‘I will remember Your Ladyship’s advice,’ I finally said. A gong sounded. She nodded and glided from the room.
I will pass quickly over events of the next few hours. I was summoned by a footman, who murmured that there would be dinner for me later (leftovers, no doubt, but I consoled myself with the thought that leftovers from a royal table would be very much better than anything I was accustomed to dine on in the normal way). As the brilliant assembly (to adopt the phraseology of the newspapers) progressed towards the Banqueting Hall from the Corridor the footman and I waited down the far end. As the last members of the Court took their places at table we too progressed forward and waited by the doorway. My eye went involuntarily up to the ceiling, to the magnificent chandelier with Chinese dragons, surmounted by sinister-looking exotic foliage which would not be out of place in my opera The Enchanted Violin. At last the lords and ladies were settled, grace was said, and the footmen began scurrying around with salvers and wine bottles. At a signal from the footman I slipped into the Hall, sat myself at another magnificent instrument situated towards the kitchens, and began playing a string of innocuous pieces by Dibdin, Shield, Salieri, Paisiello – each one fading into the next, the musical equivalent of a trickle of urine. Such meretricious rubbish enabled my mind to be occupied in meditation and observation.
At table a grand (and mostly corpulent) collection of people guzzled their way through an endless series of courses, served from the most magnificent silver and gold dinner service it has ever been this poor man’s good fortune to see. I found such gluttony depressing (I have ever been proud of my slim figure). At one stage His Majesty caught my eye and inclined his head most gracefully in my direction. It is not surprising that he is called the First Gentleman of Europe (though not in Europe). For all the apparent fellowship and hearty eating I could not rid myself of a feeling that there was some uneasiness at table. There were short silences, and now and again people looked towards the door. The King himself looked towards the door. But there were no untoward interruptions. As dinner – finally – ended I was led away to a small annex, where I was served a meal in solitary splendour. I ate frugally – merely soup, sturgeon, a loin of veal and a few strawberries with a glass of wine.
At half-past eight the audience was seated in the Music Room, a high, crimson and gold room that was calculated to reduce to insignificance any music except the greatest. I was pleased that I was playing only my own. But even I felt rather small as I walked in, sat down and began my concert. I played two sonatas, and a set of Scottish dances which have proved most popular with lady piano-learners, and which I myself still find it amusing to play now and then. The audience was for the most part attentive, though there were inevitably a few talkers at the back of the room – the sort of people for whom more than half an hour of music is too much. His Majesty was quiet during the playing and generous in leading the applause – he behaved admirably. Indeed, he always does behave well on the level of manners, though not always so on the level of morals. It was only on one occasion during the concert that the King’s concentration faltered and then, once again, he looked nervously towards the door.
When the concert was over, with two trivial but pleasant encore pieces warmly applauded as such pieces always are, I made my bows and retired once more to the North Drawing Room, beside the Music Room. I was immediately approached by a footman with a message from the King: he hoped I would join the Court for the informal supper that would now be ta
king place. Supper! After that gargantuan guzzling marathon of gluttony! However the invitation was, for an artist, so great an improvement on the practice of the old King’s Court (where one sometimes felt one was treated on a level with chimney-sweeps and knife-grinders) that I accepted with pleasure – a pleasure slightly diluted by a fear that I might be forced to fend off a more determined assay on my virtue by the redoubtable Lady Hertford.
I had not been ten minutes in the South Drawing Room, receiving the congratulations of the nobility and politicians, when the King made a point of coming over to talk to me.
‘Mr Mozart! Another evening of exquisite pleasure to put us still further in your debt. I shake your hand—’ he did so, warmly—‘I who once tried not to shake but to break it!’
It was beautifully said, and humorously. His manner was singularly sweet and gracious, and though no doubt he condescended, yet there was not a trace of condescension. It was spoken, as far as that was possible, man to man. My heart warmed to him.
‘The damage was slight, and we were both young, Your Majesty.’
‘That the damage was slight I could hear tonight. Such a style of execution – none of the younger men have it. Ah, time passes, time passes: you were no more than a boy then, Mr Mozart.’
There seemed to be some sort of implication that more time had passed for me than had for him. Yet seeing us both close up I do not think the impartial observer would have said that this was what our appearances suggested. The King’s figure, as the purveyors of caricatures have made so horribly plain, was enormous, like a pig’s bladder constricted in a wire cage. And in spite of powder and rouge his face showed very clearly the effects of long years of self-indulgence, both at table and in bed.
‘I feel the passing of the years,’ I said tactfully.
‘Ah, those were palmy days: and so were the days of your wonderful comic operas, before our minds were turned to other, darker things by the French Wars.’
Dead, Mr Mozart Page 2