‘Oh yes,’ I said sadly. ‘Quick as lightning.’
‘There you are then. You’ll rake money in – far more than you have done fawning on the nobs and gentry for free hand-outs. You’ll be living on your wits, which is how Homo sapiens should live. And you could, still write your music: you’d have plenty of time for that. Now, what do you say, Mr Mozart? Will you come into partnership with me?’
There was a long, long silence. I was not – do me that justice, dear reader – considering whether to go into partnership with this horrible boy. The thought never crossed my mind. I was thinking over what to do. I had never met his like before: the human creature who is totally devoid of moral sense. I have known criminals, but they have always had a dim understanding of the moral code they are violating. I have known libertines and wastrels – men such as my dear old friend da Ponte – who scorn the moral code of ordinary humanity but construct a new morality for themselves which allows them to do what they do, even approves it as right and admirable. But where a moral sense should be in this lad there was a blank, a terrible blackness. No code of right or wrong – not the Turk’s, the Chinaman’s nor the Red Indian’s – would mean anything to him. He was a moral void.
And he had murdered – quite casually, senselessly, because the woman he was using as a tool would not do his will. As I saw it he had killed her to assert his dominance over her. That being so, he could go on and do it again – and perhaps again and again. There was a terrible responsibility on me. At last I spoke.
‘I cannot at my age become a criminal,’ I said. ‘It is too late. I choose your first alternative.’
‘Very well,’ said Davy, getting up from his haunches. ‘You’re a fool, but so be it. But you agree to be silent as the grave and let me get on with it?’
‘I do. I have little choice. In any case your crimes are your own affair. But you cannot go on committing them from this apartment. That would be too dangerous for you as well as for me. People will be coming here the whole time, including men in Lord Hertford’s employ.’ That was a lie. Few people came to my apartment except musicians and actors, and occasionally Mrs Sackville from Frith Street. ‘You will have to get out, and get out now, under cover of night.’
‘That suits me,’ said Davy, looking around him contemptuously. ‘I’ll be getting a lot better quarters than this in no time. Well, I’m sorry to lose you as a partner, Mr Mozart, but not sorry to have the scheme all to myself. I anticipate being nicely in funds before another week has passed. Ah well: easy come, easy go. I’ll get my jacket, get my few little things, and be on my way. I’ve enjoyed my time here. Very comfortable and civilised, even if not grand. I can weather a night on the streets tonight, and after that there’s plenty of beds I can go to – old Simon Mullins’s if I’m really pressed.’
He had gone into his little bedroom, put on his jacket, and was filling the pockets with his few possessions. My heart stopped when I saw that one of them was a lethal-looking pruning knife. I have never felt so vulnerable in my own place. He was soon ready, and came over. He did not pull out the knife, but I was very conscious which pocket it was in.
‘I’m not going to threaten you, Mr Mozart,’ he said, with a chilling smile. ‘You’re too lily-livered to do anything brave – and crossing me would really be brave, wouldn’t it? Goodbye. Enjoy the rest of your life, kowtowing to the rich and titled. Remember you’ve got more genius in your little finger than they have in their whole bodies. I have too – and I’ll be using it to get up there with them!’
I could not bear to look up at him. He crossed to the door, I heard it slam, and then his footsteps going down the stairs two at a time. I rose and locked the door, keeping his terrible presence at bay, keeping the feel of his evil nature out. Then I went back and sat for a long time in the lamp- and candle-light. This had been a long and terrible night – the most terrible since my dear father died. But I felt that I had to end it by doing something, by making a decision and acting on it. At last I went to my desk. I was annoyed to find only music paper there. I tore off a bit of blank paper at the top of one of the sheets and wrote:
My Lord,
I have made some investigations, and I conclude that Your Lordship will be quite safe in ignoring any demands from the quarter we know of. I believe that the one who makes the demands was the perpetrator of the deed.
I hear that the boy Davy House is back on the London streets, and may perhaps be found in the vicinity of Dover Street, possibly at the house of Simon Mullins.
I have the honour to be
Your Lordship’s humble servant Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart
I sealed it. Then I went to bed, but not to sleep.
18. Rondo Finale
I sent my note to Lord Hertford with a heavy heart. I also sent one to the theatre saying I had a bad cold and would not be directing any performances for some days. I took to my bed on the first day, as a token, but Ann would not have noticed what I did: she was too taken up with grieving at the departure of Davy House. I told her he had gone to try his fortunes up North.
Meanwhile I sketched the principal themes of a new piano concerto, and then began to compose in earnest. A new libretto arrived from Edward Clarkson, as usual with a summary of the story (he knew I wouldn’t bother to read it). It was called Victor and Victoria – a sign that the public imagination is beginning to be exercised by the little Princess in Kensington Palace. Over meals I read the feeble words to the airs and jotted down suitably innocuous tunes. I was not unhappy, particularly as I had the last novel of the late Miss Austen to read.
I stayed in my apartment for ten days. When I was bored from want of occupation I wrote a few eleemosynary letters for future use, just to keep my hand in. When at last I went to the theatre I took a carriage there and back. I rehearsed the company, put some energy and discipline back into the performances, then I went home. I wished I knew if I was safe from the murderous impulses of Davy House, but this was hardly something I could bring up with Lord Hertford or Mr de Fries.
Gradually however I regained confidence. I walked to the theatre and to my usual taverns and eating houses. I still had the greater, part of Lord Hertford’s eighty guineas, and Mr Novello had paid me generously for my 105th symphony. I had money to spend, and I spent it. I agreed to go to my daughter Theresa in Canterbury for Christmas, though I find the English celebrations of that holy and joyful time pallid and lifeless compared to those that take place in my dear German homeland.
My life was returning to normal.
It was nearly a month after I had ejected Davy from my life that I had any sort of conversation with Mr Popper. Conversation with Mr Popper is something I normally avoid, but a talk about the forthcoming opera season was becoming a necessity. I had the impression that decisions were being taken, arrangements made, that I had not been consulted about, or even informed of. I had some time to spare after a rehearsal and I dropped into his office to tell him that I had finished composing the airs to Victor and Victoria. He gave every sign of being optimistic for its success.
‘Capital, capital!’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘We must build on the success of The Call to Arms. We could have it on stage by February. Is it an attractive story?’
I shrugged.
‘I have no idea. As attractive as usual, I suppose.’
‘You will have your fun, Mr Mozart.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, well, things seem to be going well now, after our little difficulties.’
‘They do?’
‘Oh yes. Lord Hertford tells me that he is sure any problems in connection with that unfortunate matter are at an end.’
‘I see.’ And I did see, and – God forgive me – I was relieved. ‘But the problems of the opera season—’
‘Problems, Mr Mozart?’
‘The departure of Mme Hubermann-Cortino.’
‘Solved, my dear sir! I had a letter only yesterday from Mme Pizzicoli. She says she is delighted to hear that the prejudices of the English against her fellow cou
ntrymen have abated, and she will be delighted to travel here to sing in the Coronation opera season.’
‘The woman is a bird-brain.’
‘Since when has that harmed a prima donna?’ Mr Popper asked, quite reasonably. ‘I have written offering her very generous terms. I shall write to Mme Ardizzi too, renewing my offer.’
‘I see,’ I said, foreseeing struggles ahead. ‘I imagine each of the ladies will require a special production centred around herself.’
‘They will. They always do. Mme Pizzicoli mentions The Barber of Seville. That should present no problems. If we have to do La Vestale for Mme Ardizzi, so be it. A few Roman columns and a lot of nightdresses should do the trick.’
I coughed.
‘Mme Hubermann-Cortino was to sing my Countess.’
Mr Popper gazed at the floor. I caught the sound of feet shuffling on bare floor-boards.
‘Ah yes. Sad for you. Still, water under the bridge…’
‘What do you mean?’
He looked up, gazing into my eyes with managerial shamelessness.
‘Well, Mr Mozart, the production of Figaro was to be a special tribute to the genius of Mme Hubermann-Cortino, as you well know. Without her there would be no point.’
‘No point!’
‘Lord Hertford, alas, is having to be a little careful at the moment. Someone has alerted Lady Hertford to the money he is spending on the season. Quite apart from … anything else.’
My heart sank.
‘Anything else?’
There was the sound of shoe leather on the floor-boards again.
‘Oh, just an impression, Mr Mozart.’
‘What impression, Mr Popper?’
‘Just an impression that you’re not entirely popular with Lord Hertford at the moment.’
That completed my discomfiture. My worst suspicions were confirmed, and I had only myself to blame: I had written to Lady Hertford, I had shielded Davy House.
‘Has any … reason been given for this, Mr Popper?’
‘None at all,’ he said airily. ‘It hasn’t been discussed. It’s just an impression as I say.’
I knew why I was not popular. Lord Hertford had made the right connection that I had intended him to make in my note – that the blackmail attempt was the work of Davy House – and he had acted accordingly. But he had made another connection too: that until I had realised what he was up to I had been hiding Davy. The fact that he was right about this too did not lessen the blow. I had no doubt I had given the game away by my reaction to Davy’s note. By my lack of guile, and by my terrible misjudgments of people, I had ruined the chances of my lovely old opera.
‘But then there’s the question of the new opera,’ I said.
‘Ah, well, yes. We’ll certainly hope to do something with that,’ said Popper, palpably not re-emerging from his shuffling phase.
‘Hope?’
‘Much will depend on the public, of course. Will the favour they have shown The Call to Arms spill over on to a new full-length work by you?’
‘The two pieces shouldn’t be mentioned in the same breath!’ I protested.
‘Ah, I can understand your feelings,’ lied Mr Popper.‘But remember I haven’t seen anything of the new piece. And your operas have not always been to the taste of the British public.’
‘They loved The Enchanted Violin.’
‘They did,’ conceded Popper.
‘And they’ll love this one too. I have at last found the right title for it.’
‘You have?’ said Popper without interest.
‘Yes. All the ones I’ve toyed with were too long and lacking in bite. I shall call it Falstaff.’
There was a semi-breve of silence.
‘You will call it what?’
‘Falstaff. It came to me when I was sick. I know it’s been used by dear old Salieri, but his is not a piece anyone plays any more. It’s much better than any of the ones I’ve been toying with.’
‘Am I to take it,’ asked Mr Popper, at his most absurdly pompous, ‘that this new opera of yours deals with Sir John Falstaff?’
‘Of course it does,’ I said in astonishment. ‘You’ve heard all the translations I’ve been trying of The Merry Wives of Windsor.’
‘You don’t imagine I understand Italian, do you, Mr Mozart?’
‘I thought you might understand “Windsor”.’
‘Not when you pronounce it “Weeensor”.’ He drew himself up to his full five foot five. ‘Well, I must say I’m surprised at you, Mr Mozart.’
‘Surprised?’
‘That you could have thought of inflicting such an opera on me for the Coronation season.’
‘But you haven’t heard a note of it!’
‘I don’t need to. The mere fact of the central figure being a grotesquely fat and bibulous man is enough to tell me it is entirely unsuitable. The fact that it is a play where he tries to make love to a variety of women at the same time makes it totally impossible. The public would take it as a deliberate insult to the King. The Merry Wives of Windsor – the King’s principal home! Either they would be shocked or they would be delighted. In either case royal patronage of the season would be out of the question.’
I looked at him in dumbfounded consternation. I had never for a moment thought of that. For once in his inglorious life Mr Popper was right.
‘So all my hopes for my new opera…’
‘Dead, Mr Mozart.’ He said it with horrible satisfaction. ‘And you have only yourself to blame.We shall have to think of something else. That’s a decision I shall take out of your hands. As a foreigner you obviously have no idea what is suitable. I will talk to Mr Clarkson. Off the cuff I would say that Il Matrimonio Segreto would be ideal. Charming little piece, very easy on the ear, not too heavy, unlike … Good day, Mr Mozart.’
And he bustled off.
I turned and walked out of the theatre. I felt I had to drag my limbs as I began the walk to Henrietta Street. My whole world was shattered. All the hopes and expectations I had been building for my entrancing new opera had been rudely demolished. I felt a total distaste for the opera house, for opera managers and all their works. Mr Popper may have been right about the unsuitability of Falstaff as a subject for Coronation year, but he had just been looking for an excuse. If not that it would have been some other. I had toiled for him for years, directing rubbish, composing meretricious pieces to words beneath contempt, only at the end of my life to be treated worse than a cleaner or a doorman. My dreams for Falstaff were over. It would never be performed. Probably the good Mr Novello would not even be interested in publishing it.
I decided this was the end. I probably had only a few years left in me, but I certainly did not want to spend them in the opera house. I would retire, go and live in the North, with my son, or near him. In the North I was appreciated. The North was wonderfully cheap. I could live by my music there, as I could not in fashionable London.
If only they wouldn’t keep mentioning Messiah…
But I could put up with that, because up there I would be surrounded by musical people, people who appreciated me. And up North there was not an opera house to be found. I would be free at last. I could shake the dust of opera houses from my feet for ever.
Probably.
Because a thought occurred to me. Mr Popper was quite right about It Matrimonio Segreto: it is the sort of light, insubstantial piece that would be suitable for a Coronation season. Except for one thing: the subject of a clandestine marriage was an even worse subject to play before the King than mine of a bibulous, amorous glutton. The King’s early and secret marriage to Mrs Fitzherbert, that good and much-wronged lady, had dogged him for years. That was why his subjects still shouted ‘Mr Fitzherbert’ at him.
Mr Popper’s lack of Italian had let him down again.
And if Mr Popper went ahead with his plan, got his cast together, and then, if, just before the season someone (me, if necessary, but I could probably arrange for someone else to do it) should point out
to him the impossibility of this particular subject, then I could step in with my Figaro. Not Don Giovanni (unsuitable subject yet again!) but Figaro. Or even that wonderful yet economical piece Così – that divine piece that the cloth-eared English stayed away from in droves when it was first produced.
My steps became lighter. I looked round at passing Londoners, at bankers and whores, noblemen and thieves, and I smiled on them in anticipation of a delightful manoeuvre, skillfully executed, leading to one of my real pieces reaching the stage again.
By the time I reached home I was infused with that lunatic optimism which, against all likelihood, against all experience, against all reason, buoys up those who are condemned to spend a life sentence working in the opera house.
Copyright
First published in 1995 by Little, Brown and Co.
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Dead, Mr Mozart Page 19