I saw an opening.
‘They were indeed happy, prosperous times for me, Your Majesty. I had hoped that with the ending of the wars—’
‘—they would return. So did we all. So do we all. I was wanting, Mr Mozart, to broach to you a little scheme I have in mind for the Coronation season.’
My heart leapt up, as Mr Wordsworth would say. I bent my head looking profoundly interested, because I was.
‘You will agree that English musical life is in need of a tonic, a stimulus?’ he asked. I nodded. How true, I thought: it is in need of a new comic opera by Mozart. ‘Now, what I have in mind is a grand gesture – to invite to this country Signor Rossini.’
Rossini! The brass-bandsman’s son of Pesaro! The musical chatterer! The charlatan of the crescendo! The brainless, birdlike twitterer! My discomposure could hardly have been more complete. I swallowed.
‘He has caught the popular fancy wonderfully, sir.’
‘Exactly,’ the King said complacently, quite oblivious to my reaction. ‘And it would be a great treat for you, wouldn’t it? You would learn so much. But we’d want to keep our end up. I’d rely on you, as our senior composer, to show we’re not short of native talent.’
Native talent! Schweinhund! Is he calling me English? Is he classing me with the Dibdins and the Samuel Wesleys? Does he imagine my name is unknown to the clattering composer from Pesaro?
‘Signor Rossini was kind enough to send me the score of his Barbiere, with some kind and flattering remarks about my Figaro.’
‘Is that so? I am impressed. You know, I did wonder whether we could persuade him to run up an opera for the season. What do you think – eh?’
‘He does have a quite wonderful … facility, sir.’
‘Exactly. He’d do it in no time. A fine new opera by Rossini. Perhaps on an English subject. Or Scottish. Something from Sir Walter, perhaps.’
‘He has recently … done his Lady of the Lake.’
‘Marmion, perhaps, then. Something grand and chivalrous. That would be fitting for the ceremonies I plan. Ah, it’s all most exciting. Perhaps we could have a concert with the two of you. I shall rely on you, Mr Mozart. I shall make sure that you are kept informed of progress.’
And with a gracious inclination of the head he left me – left me fuming inwardly, and wondering at the charm of his manner and the singular offensiveness of his matter. To class me as an English composer, to imply that association with Rossini would be a treat, even an education! I was fuming so wildly (or as wildly as proper comportment at Court would allow) that I neglected to take proper measures of self-protection. There before me was Lady Hertford, all bosom and assertiveness.
‘Ah, Mr Mozart!’
‘Er … My Lady.’
‘An evening to remember. Such wonderful musicality and charm. I would like to show my personal appreciation—’ and to my surprise she produced with great dexterity a purse, handed it to me surreptitiously, and turned her head while I whipped the purse into a pocket with a smoothness born of long practice. ‘The King, you understand, has very many calls on his generosity, and is not always able to reward exceptional service as he would wish to do.’
Ah ha! She was saying I was going to get the usual measly twenty guineas, but that she was willing to top it up. Well – all very acceptable.
‘I am most grateful to—’
She waved thanks aside with her hand.
‘I believe there is talk of an opera season at the Queen’s Theatre next year?’
‘Preparations are under way, My Lady.’
‘Perhaps even a new opera by the great Mozart?’
She smiled, flatteringly and seductively. I was not flattered or seduced.
‘That certainly is the intention. With opera companies intention does not always become reality.’
‘I believe Lord Hertford is to be involved.’
‘I know Mr Popper hopes for his patronage.’
‘I have no doubt he will get it. My husband dotes on opera. I believe, in fact, he is to meet Mr Popper next week at the Queen’s. Will you be there at the meeting?’
‘It is very likely I will be, if plans are to be discussed.’
‘Do please keep me informed, Mr Mozart.’
It was said very meaningfully. I was mystified.
‘Informed, My Lady?’
‘Oh, you know what husbands are like, Mr Mozart!’ she said dismissively. ‘They never think to tell their wives anything. Remember: I shall rely on you to keep me informed of the arrangements.’
And she steamed away, leaving me considerably relieved. She had no designs on my virtue. She had merely been indulging in the amorous small-change of Court life under George IV (where amorous gestures are perhaps more frequent than amorous acts, remembering the age and figures of most of his courtiers). Her attentions in fact had a quite different motive: she wanted me to spy on her husband, and was willing to pay for my information. I postponed any feeling I might have of being insulted until I had made sure of the extent of her generosity, which I guessed by the weight of the purse to be something in the order of forty guineas or so.
I sipped my glass of wine – a white German wine I could not identify because I was by no means used to wine of such superlative quality. People came up one after another to compliment me on the concert – very kindly, and with as much graciousness as an English aristocracy can be expected to muster. I looked for my friend Lord Egremere, whom I had seen at dinner and in the audience at the concert. He was some feet away from me, talking to the King. The King, rumour had it, was wooing the Whigs. Everybody, still, seemed a little on tenterhooks, expecting something … I was just wondering what it could be when a footman came up to the King, bowed low, and presented him with a note on a silver plate. The King looked at Lady Hertford, took the note, read it, and swore in a low voice. The two talked for a moment or two, then the King left the Drawing Room in as much discomposure as was compatible with his wonderfully graceful manner.
I looked around me. Everyone seemed to know what news must have been brought to the King. I went over to Lord Egremere. Around us there were signs that supper was forgotten and the assembly was breaking up.
‘What has happened, My Lord? Is there bad news?’
‘Very bad, though only what everyone has been expecting.’
‘Put me out of my suspense. Has Napoleon escaped from St Helena?’
‘Worse than that. The Princess has landed at Dover.’
I frowned, uncomprehending.
‘The Princess?’
‘The Brunswickian. The Queen – only they don’t call her that here. The King’s wife has landed at Dover.’
The evening was indeed coming to a premature end. I made my way up to my bedroom under a distant tiny cupola smiling with satisfaction.
Nemesis had struck with unusual promptitude. The King had been punished for his boorish insensitivity. That night, for the first time for many years, Prinny and his appalling wife would be sleeping within the same sea-girt isle.
3. The Impresario
I was bidden to the meeting at the Queen’s Theatre the following Thursday in a little note from Mr Popper asking if I could ‘make it convenient’ to be there at eleven o’clock, when ‘the Lord Hertford’ would also be present. Something in the wording of the note suggested that Popper was beginning to suffer not only from the cringe to the rich and powerful which is endemic to those proposing to put on an opera season, but also from the delusions of grandeur which are the concomitant risk. It was something that the presenter of Janet and Michael and Nicholas and Kate had been only mildly prone to.
When I arrived at the Queen’s the Lord Hertford was already comfortably ensconced there in Popper’s office, seemingly mightily at home for an aristocrat. The British aristocracy are usually rather good at slumming it in artistic surroundings, which is only fair considering how artists are expected to slum it in pokey ante-rooms when invited to play in their grand mansions. Lord Hertford is an elegant, elderly man
with a cool but apparently open manner. The effect that he makes on people is very different to that of his formidable wife but this may be deceptive: it is noticed they are generally united in their aims and ambitions, which are seldom for the general good and usually for the Hertfords’ good. He and I are old friends, however, and we exchanged the handshake (I don’t know if I mentioned before that I am indebted to him) while he complimented me on my concert before the King at Brighton. When these preliminaries were over I sat down at my ease, though Mr Popper looked as if he thought I should have asked My Lord’s permission. He preferred to stride fussily up and down, rubbing his hands.
‘Everything is in train,’ he said, puffing out his little cheeks, reminding me of some farm bird being fattened for the table.‘Things are shaping up very nicely indeed.’
‘You have had replies from Italy?’ asked Lord Hertford.
‘I have indeed. Both Mme Ardizzi in Naples and Mme Pizzicoli in Venice. So that’s capital – a great advance. We shall, if all goes well, have a season of stars. It seems it is only a matter of negotiating their fees.’
‘What is the catch?’ I asked.
‘Eh?’
‘What operas do they want specially put on for them?’
‘Ah well … Mme Ardizzi expresses a wish for La Vestale, and Mme Pizzicoli for Il Re Teodoro – Paisiello, I believe. And the Viennese lady, as I remember you predicted, Mr Mozart, especially requests Iphigénie en Tauride.’
‘None of those are operas we could easily mount for just a few performances,’ I pointed out.
‘Not easily, no.’ The cunning look of the impresario came into his eyes. ‘Of course they might be found to be impossible to mount when the time came.’
‘When the ladies are here and the season well under way,’ I agreed. ‘Similar discoveries have been made in the past. It has been made clear to the ladies, has it, that they are to have parts in my Le Donne Allegre?’
‘Oh yes.’ There came over him a shuffling air, equally characteristic of the opera impresario. ‘Mme Hubermann-Cortino expressed herself delighted at the prospect of singing in a new piece by such a consummate musician.’
‘And the other ladies?’
‘Ah … Mme Ardizzi said nothing on the subject … Er, Mme Pizzicoli – I’m sorry to have to say it, my dear sir – said she wondered that we should be performing a work by such a stale composer as you – I use her own words, of course.’
I immedialtely conceived a feeling of warmth for Mme Hubermann-Cortino, clearly a singer of great discernment, and a German to boot, and an aversion to the Italian ladies, whose voices were doubtless as empty as their heads. Bird song and bird brains almost invariably go together in operatic prima donnas. My Lord Hertford hurried in with soothing words.
‘No one who heard your last symphony for the Philharmonic Society could conceivably find you dated, my dear Mozart. The lady clearly hasn’t heard your recent works.’
‘I think she has heard La Clemenza di Tito,’ said Mr Popper sourly. Talk of my last opera, written for the victorious sovereigns after Waterloo, whom it bored prodigiously, always puts me in a tetchy humour which Mr Popper, who lost a deal of money on the opera, knows very well. I was clearly only at the meeting to be shown my place. His next remark was not calculated to mollify me.
‘I have heard rumours of a visit by Rossini.’
‘A whim of the King’s,’ said Lord Hertford dismissively.
‘I have heard rumours of a commission for an opera from him.’
‘A pipe-dream,’ said My Lord in the same manner. ‘The man is notoriously lazy.’
‘But capable of great bursts of activity,’ returned Popper. ‘There are still nine months before the Coronation, My Lord.’
‘You should not believe the stories of operas being dashed off in three days,’ I said with some irritation. ‘Operas cannot be dashed off in three days. It is physically impossible. The man has a genius for publicity.’
‘Besides,’ said Lord Hertford expansively, ‘who would put it on? Covent Garden?’
We all sniggered.
‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘The place hasn’t been a serious musical theatre for years. And since they increased the prices no one can afford to go.’
‘Where else would it be performed but here at the Queen’s?’ asked Mr Popper. I knew immediately what that would mean for the production of my new opera. Before I could speak Lord Hertford hurried in with emollient words.
‘It would hardly be possible to produce new works by Mr Mozart and Signor Rossini in one short season,’ he said. ‘And we are undoubtedly honoured by the prospect of mounting Mr Mozart’s piece at the Queen’s. By the by, Popper, you should give some thought to changing the name of this place. When we put on Mozart’s piece we’ll certainly be hoping for the attendance of the King. And you can hardly expect him to come to a theatre called the Queen’s.’
He had succeeded in changing the subject. Mr Popper was interested.
‘It was named after his respected mother,’ he said pompously. ‘But I confess the thought had occurred to me. I was outside Alderman Wood’s yesterday morning…’
I should explain, should this account come to be read by future generations, that Queen Caroline had made a triumphant progress from Dover to London and was now lodged at the home of one of her most vociferous supporters, a man called Alderman Wood. This last was a loud-mouthed trouble-maker, and the Queen’s move was as unwise a one as could be expected even of her. However the mob streamed to the place to roar their support, and the Queen’s many appearances before them to acknowledge support increased their enthusiasm beyond all bounds.
‘Ah,’ said Lord Hertford, leaning forward much intrigued. ‘And how was Her Majesty – Her Royal Highness, I should say – looking? It is many years since I had the … interesting experience of seeing her.’
‘I tell you, Mr Lord,’ said Mr Popper with feeling, ‘the counter of a Manchester tallow-chandler’s would not be graced by her presence behind it. She is fat, rouged, deplorably dressed and her manners are of the most vulgar and familiar. It is difficult to believe that she was a Princess.’
‘German,’ said Lord Hertford. ‘The princelings of that country combine petty tyranny with democratic manners and plebeian standards of cleanliness.’ I fumed! Are not Austria and Germany one? Are they not My Country? Lord Hertford, more sensitive than his lordly manner might lead one to expect, actually noticed. ‘Oh, sorry, Mozart. Forgot you were a bit of a Hun yourself. But the Princess does no credit to your nation. For my part I always took care not to stand to windward of her.’
‘Certainly the King will not want to be reminded of her by the name of this theatre,’ I said, to avoid further aggravation. Hun! ‘What could it be changed to?’
Mr Popper held up his hand.
‘I said the thought occurred to me. I did not say I had decided on it. You did not see the mob at Alderman Wood’s, My Lord. They would not take kindly to anything that smacked of an insult to her. Mark my words, we’re in for a period of mob rule, and while the fuss lasts I’m not going to consider changing our name.’
For once something Mr Popper said made sense. Lord Hertford nodded gravely.
‘A very good point, and a sobering thought. As a matter of fact they’ve been to my house already. Threw a lot of stones, but no great harm done. Now, about that other business, Popper – the girl I brought along with me.’
I pricked up my ears.
‘Ah yes, of course …’ Mr Popper lost his brief authority of manner. He was obviously anticipating that Lord Hertford was expecting a quid pro quo for his promised financial support. ‘Well, I’m very happy to hear her, My Lord … I can make no promises, of course.’
‘Nor would I believe any you made. There are many considerations other than musical talent that you have to take into account when you are casting your pieces, that I know. But there are small parts, and she might be kept in reserve, in case of sickness…’
‘By all means. Let’s have
her in.’
Lord Hertford got up, so I did.
‘I thought you should hear her in the theatre, Popper. She is essentially a creature of the theatre. If we could go through to the Circle…’
‘Very well, My Lord. You will accompany her, Mr Mozart?’
‘No need, no need,’ said Lord Hertford, waving his hand. ‘She has her own accompanist with her. I am particularly anxious that Mr Mozart should hear her in the best possible circumstances.’
So we trooped through to the foyer, where a young lady and gentleman were waiting. I was flattered by Lord Hertford’s special consideration for me, but I was also anxious to get a good look at the young lady from close to. However a poke bonnet and a demure demeanour prevented me. The young gentleman was a handsome, well-set-up sprig. Lord Hertford directed the pair through the stalls and towards the stage.
When we got to the Circle and took our seats in the front row the young man was sitting down at the fortepiano which was in the pit. He set up his music and improvised a few flourishes at the keyboard.
‘Ee – tha’s got a raight tinny instrument thee-ar!’
The young lady emerged from the wings. Gone were the poke bonnet, and gone too any trace of the demure demeanour. She had a striking figure, excellent carriage and she walked on to the stage as if she was born on it – taking command of it and filling it. If I call her beautiful that will perhaps convey the wrong impression, but she had fine raven tresses and strong features that would tell well on stage. And she was right about the fortepiano.
‘Ee, well: needs must when t’devil drives. Médée’s aria from Act III of Médée. Cherubini.’
The cheekiness with which she added the composer’s name was wonderful. For here was an oddity: she was to sing part of an opera that had never been heard in London. It was much admired in France – I much admired it myself, within reason. Yet, unless she had travelled on the Continent the young lady could only know it by the score. A musical and sophisticated young lady, then, whose Yorkshire accent was some kind of joke on us. When I looked back at the stage she was crouched there in an attitude of rage, desperation and despair, and as her pianist tried to coax the requisite passion out of his poor instrument she began sculpting the phrases of Monsieur Cherubini to express the torn nature of that terrible creature, swaying between mother-love and a desire for the most frightful revenge of all.
Dead, Mr Mozart Page 3