Too Many Notes, Mr Mozart Read online

  I had given a start when she talked about service to the Royal Family. How had she found out about the terrible business at the Queen’s Theatre? The truth about that was only known to one or two people. Then I relaxed. The business she was referring to must be the little matter I sorted out for the Duke of Cumberland, a story for which the world is not yet ready.

  ‘Your Royal Highness is referring to—?’

  ‘Uncle Cumberland, and the way you fixed things for him.’

  I gave a little cough of reproof.

  ‘I should prefer to say that I saved the Duke from embarrassment in a certain rather unpleasant matter.’

  ‘You certainly did! Uncle Cumberland should have you permanently with him. He seems to spend his life being-involved in rather unpleasant matters.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I would care to be permanently attached to the Duke of Cumberland,’ I said. I could say that without hesitation. The Duke is one member of the Royal Family that absolutely everyone feels he can speak ill of.

  ‘No, indeed!’ said the Princess feelingly. ‘How he looks at me! I’ve only met him twice but he made me shiver from head to toe. And Mama too. I think that if you can fix things for Uncle Cumberland, you must be a very clever man indeed, Mr Mozart.’

  ‘And was my ability to fix things the reason why you asked for me as your piano teacher?’ I guessed at a hazard. She played on for some moments, thinking how best to answer.

  ‘Not exactly,’ she replied at last, a cunning expression coming into her eyes. ‘And I didn’t ask. I pushed and pressured and did all sorts of things, because they said that fifteen guineas a lesson was outrageous.’

  ‘I put a high price on my service so as to have as few pupils as possible,’ I said. Fearing that I had been tactless, I added, ‘Not every young person is as musical as you, my—’

  ‘My dear. What a shocking liar you are, Mr Mozart. Why I really wanted you was not to fix anything, so much as to find out the truth. That’s what people say you did in the matter involving Uncle Cumberland.’

  ‘Something of the sort,’ I admitted.

  ‘That’s what I want you to do for me,’ she said, a little flush of excitement on her face.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Please, Mr Mozart: find out the truth about Mama and Sir John Conroy!’

  2. The Fat Cat

  A minute or two later the lesson ended, which was probably just as well. The down-at-heel footman came in and announced that the Princess was due to go to Baroness Lehzen ‘For’er’istory.’ I wondered whether the lesson had been strictly timed, so that I could not charge extra. I kissed the Princess’s hand, bowed to the lady-in-waiting (who was probably of some minor German noble order – I have to admit that titles are as common as paunches in that glorious country) and left the room in the company of that insouciant footman.

  ‘Sir John will see you before you go,’ he said chattily. ‘To’and over the cash, if you’re lucky.’ He added, perhaps meaning it kindly, ‘You should hinsist on getting it each time, if you’re wise.’

  My mind, however, was still in a turmoil which had nothing to do with receiving my wages. To be asked by a young girl to spy on her own mother! Should I not have immediately repudiated the suggestion? And even if, for the odious word ‘spy’, one were to substitute some formulation such as ‘enquire into the conduct of’, still normally the request would leave an unpleasant taste in the mouth. Why had I not spluttered my outrage, put her down with an ‘Out of the question’?

  Was it because she was a child, and I am susceptible to children? Was it because she was a princess and ‘like to be’ (as she might have put it) Queen before too long? Or was it because, in her approach to the subject, there was a basic seriousness, a sense of responsibility, a feeling that the power that Sir John Conroy might have in the event of her mother’s Regency would be power that was against all the best interests of the country as a whole?

  My disordered thoughts were terminated by the footman’s knocking at a door in the long corridor and ushering me into a room. It was a largish sitting room, the furniture better than in the entrance hall, but not much – faded and old-fashioned, the sofa badly in need of re-covering. It was a woman’s room, but the room of a woman without any particular skills at home-making. Perhaps home-making was impossible in a place like Kensington Palace. There was a desk over by one of the windows, and at it sat a man. I felt a twinge of something wrong, something inappropriate. I did not feel it right that the Duchess’s Comptroller should sit even temporarily at a desk in her sitting room. It seemed to hint at a relationship between them that was closer, more permanent than that of employer and employee. Perhaps it was my old-fashioned sense of etiquette. Perhaps the Princess Victoria had aroused my suspicions.

  ‘Ah, Mr Mozart,’ the man said, coming over to me, his hand outstretched.

  Sir John Conroy was a man of military bearing, well set up, only just beginning to be fleshy. Why then did I have the impression of a fat cat? His cheeks were plumped out, side-whiskered, and his dark eyes were penetrating. All in all he had the air of a man who was doing very well for himself – an air that contrasted oddly with the shabbiness of the surroundings. He also gave the impression that he was a man who thought very well of himself. One might also say he had an air of fatal over-confidence. I bowed to him.

  ‘Sir John Conroy?’

  ‘Yes. I am the Comptroller of Her Royal Highness’s Household. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Mozart. The lesson went well?’

  ‘It went extremely well,’ I said, gilding the lily a bit, as one does when royalty is in question. ‘There are one or two bad habits that the Princess has acquired from her previous teacher, but once those have been eradicated—’

  ‘We can have great hopes for the future, can we?’ he said, interrupting with a military man’s geniality. ‘Good, good. You feel that the Princess is musical then, do you? Would repay your efforts?’

  ‘Certainly I do.’ Was I, I wondered, being sparing with the truth? My son Charles Thomas, who has moved down from the north to teach at the West Hammersmith College for Young Ladies, and also, I suspect, to keep an eye on my welfare (why else would one move from a region of great musicality to teach the cloth-eared Londoners?), says that a child, particularly a girl, can twist me round her little finger. I did want to continue teaching the young Victoria – quite apart from the incidental benefits of a royal position – prestige, incidental employment, credit. Nevertheless I did sense in the Princess the seeds of a fresh, delightful musicality. Mind you, the present King is musical, in a way. He likes Rossini. A genuinely musical sovereign would be a great boon to the country.

  ‘I suppose you have to convince yourself your pupils are musical,’ said Sir John, with a surface, man-of-the-world geniality that did nothing to disguise the tactlessness of the remark. ‘Now, about your fee—’

  I took an instant decision.

  ‘Ah yes, the fee,’ I said. He looked up at me suspiciously. He thought I was going to raise it, and was preparing to fight. ‘I always in preliminary discussions set the fee on the high side, to discourage run-of-the-mill pupils. When I have a pupil of genuine musical promise, I set the fee at a more … realistic level.’

  ‘Really?’ Sir John suddenly exuded good humour.

  ‘The Princess is, I believe, musical by nature, with a good ear. There is also the natural interest of her position. She could in the future do much for British music. I suggest we set the fee at seven guineas.’

  ‘Done, Mr Mozart!’

  Sir John was clearly a man to whom a few guineas mattered. So, for that matter, was I, but I was conscious of the many advantages involved in being the Princess Victoria’s music master. Sir John rubbed his hands.

  ‘You will not regret this, Mr Mozart. The Princess must have inherited her musical ear from her mother. The Duchess as you know is German, and you Germans are always musical, are you not? If the Princess should inherit the throne in the near future – we will, of course, h
ope that is not her fate! – English music could expect much patronage from the Duchess when she is Queen Mother and Regent.’

  I was flabbergasted at the ignorance of the man. How could the Duchess of Kent be Queen Mother when she had never been Queen? It was not a title, in any case, that the British set great store by. Their kings tended to outlive their consorts as a rule. The last person to use the title, if my memory served, was Queen Henrietta Maria after the Restoration. And her widowhood came on her prematurely, so to speak.

  My astonishment must have got into my face, because Sir John said, ‘The title could be bestowed by Parliament, in gratitude to the Duchess for her upbringing of their Queen. We are in the hands of Parliament in this country, are we not?’

  I had misjudged the man. Slightly. He was not ignorant, merely naive. I bowed, not wishing to waste any words on the unlikely concept of a grateful Parliament. Sir John sensed he had been unwise and hastened to change the subject.

  ‘Should we be shortly at the beginning of a new reign, the Duchess would wish the Princess to be better known to the country at large.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I said. ‘Though difficult to accomplish, with the Princess so young.’

  ‘What I – what the Duchess has in mind is journeys around the country, to make the Princess acquainted with her future kingdom and its people.’

  That sounded like a pleasant break from the gloomy monotony of Kensington Palace.

  ‘That would certainly be educational and enjoyable for her,’ I said cautiously. ‘Though I suppose there would be the susceptibilities of the new King and Queen to consider.’

  With a brisk wave of his strong right hand Sir John dismissed the susceptibilities of the new King and Queen.

  ‘On these tours – progresses, we might call them – the Princess would naturally stay at the First Houses of the neighbourhoods she was visiting. We would wish the Princess, when she mixes for the first time with the country’s nobility and gentry, to be a credit to her upbringing and education.’

  ‘I have no doubt that she will be,’ I said, sincerely but mystified.

  ‘Quite,’ said Sir John heartily. ‘We would hope that among other things, she would be able to acquit herself creditably on the pianoforte.’

  Ah, that was it. I was to teach her pretty or brilliant pieces that would arouse facile applause in the homes of the nobs. Somehow I could not see the Princess taking tamely to the role of puppet performer. There was something subversive in her – not subversive of the general order of things, for she was very tenacious of her place in that, but subversive of her mother and Sir John’s view of the order of things.

  ‘As Her Royal Highness’s musical education proceeds,’ I said, with a touch of stiffness, ‘she will naturally acquire pieces that she could play publicly, should she wish to.’

  Sir John’s strong right hand seemed about to indulge in another dismissive wave suggesting that Princess Victoria’s wishes were neither here nor there, but he restrained it at the last minute. His impatience with the proprieties of his position vis-à-vis the Princess was interesting – it was as strong, in a different way, as the oafish footman’s who now interrupted us by opening the door to permit the entrance of a large lady.

  I had seen the Duchess of Kent before, but only once. She was not a lady who went much into Society, or was to be seen in public places. She was neither popular nor unpopular with the nation at large: she was simply unknown. It was said that she had made a good wife to the Duke of Kent during their brief marriage, perhaps because he was marginally less awful than her first husband. She was by birth a princess of Saxe-Coburg, a German Duchy so small and obscure that no royal family but the British would contemplate marrying into it. She had children by her first husband, so her child-bearing capacity was proven – perhaps that was the attraction. She was an ample woman, carefully but not well dressed, with an open manner, and with the remains of handsomeness still on her face. She seemed friendly, and she was more tactful than most of the members of the Royal Family I had met, but even on that first visit I conceived the idea that she was not a wise woman. By which I think I mean that she was a very poor judge of men and measures.

  ‘Ah, you must be Mr Mozart,’ she said, coming straight over. ‘Späth tells me you have already vorked miracles with the Princess’s playing.’ I bowed low and kissed her hand. ‘Ve are compatriots, are ve not, Mr Mozart, or more or less? But ve must talk English for Sir John’s sake. Sir John has been my faithful Comptroller for many years now, but I have never tried to teach him German. I’m sure you understand vy. It is most important that the Princess hears only English around her. The public at large is so prejudiced against anything German!’

  She seemed to be giving me a great deal of information and opinion on a first acquaintanceship. Sir John interrupted her flow.

  ‘Mr Mozart and I have come to a most satisfactory agreement on the matter of Her Royal Highness’s lessons,’ he said.

  ‘Ah!’ she said, understanding at once, and expressing her satisfaction. ‘You see, Mr Mozart, ve are not rich. It is impossible to live in the sort of manner that the Princess’s position demands on the money that Parliament has voted us. And then the King – but then, I do not complain. The poor King is very near his end. But as Her Royal Highness grows up, and as the time approaches ven her Destiny is almost on her – then the country vill understand that things must be done in a proper style. And then ve will be able to reward you as you deserve, Mr Mozart!’

  At the age of seventy-three one ceases to look forward to honey tomorrow, and would much prefer honey today. However, I bowed my gratitude for favours unreceived. The Duchess hardly noticed in the fullness of her flow.

  ‘The Princess Victoria, whom of course I dearly love—’

  Mothers who say that of course they dearly love their children are always about to expatiate on their failings. I steeled myself. I already knew whose side I was on.

  ‘—is inclined to be headstrong, inclined to vant her own vay. You must try to curb that, Mr Mozart. It runs in the family, and it has brought misery to the country and dishonour to the royal house. My aim is to bring up my daughter as simply and as naturally as possible, and to keep her far removed from corrupting influences. I intend to see that my daughter, ven she is Queen, is viewed by the country as a fresh start.’

  ‘Her youth will ensure that, ma’am,’ I pointed out. ‘In the course of nature she will still have that when she ascends the throne.’ For the sake of the little sprite I added, ‘On the other hand she must know how to take her place as Sovereign.’

  ‘She vill know her duties, Mr Mozart, and she vill do them,’ said the Duchess, with a touch of reproof in her voice. ‘As regards the circle who vill surround her, I myself, sadly used as I am to courts, vill be better able to deal with them. She vill have a very different court to any ve have known in this country. It has fortunately been no problem to keep her avay from the present court. His Majesty has shown no vish to know his brother’s child. Perhaps he has some idea of the unsuitability of those who, alas, surround him. Ven the Duke of Clarence succeeds, things may become much more difficult.’

  ‘The Duke is a genial man,’ I ventured.

  ‘Very genial, and already inclined to make advances.’

  ‘It would be sad if there were … ruptures, if the advances were not reciprocated.’

  I had gone too far.

  ‘Have you heard the Duke’s style of conversation, Mr Mozart?’

  ‘Somewhat salty, I believe, Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Scandalously free! He simply cannot control himself. And to think of my innocent child at court, surrounded by FitzClarences, by his b——. But it doesn’t bear thinking about. Sad it may be to keep my child from any such advances, but it is also inevitable.’

  I bowed a reluctant agreement. Sir John obviously decided that this conversation had gone on long enough. He did not like listening to other people’s opinions. He began scrabbling in a cash box, and emerged with seven
golden guineas. He was about to hand them over, rather as he might have paid his coal merchant, when the door opened.

  ‘Vicky! What a priceless lad your footman is. Oh hello, John. When he opened the door to me he said “Will you go on in, or shall I hannounce you?” Wonderful!’

  ‘He is proving hard to train,’ admitted Sir John.

  ‘Don’t try! Retain him in his natural state. The only savage royal footman in captivity. And this must be Mr Mozart.’

  She had now joined the little group by the desk, moving a little uncertainly, like someone with poor eyesight who declines to wear glasses. She was a woman in her fifties, but both her face and her manner retained a gracefulness and charm that warmed the heart. She was better dressed than the Duchess, though not richly or fashionably: she showed what could be done on a limited income, and refrained from the foolish, habit some older women have of bedecking themselves in too much jewellery, which only draws attention to the fact that the jewellery is the only thing about them that is fine. She seemed altogether a warmer, truer person than the Duchess, and if there was a touch of silliness there, it was an essential part of her charm.

  ‘The Princess Sophia – Mr Mozart,’ murmured Sir John.

  ‘The reason I am here, of course,’ said the Princess, fixing me with a captivating smile. ‘Forgive me if I come close: I can’t make you out otherwise. I had to come over from my little set of boxes to pay homage. What pleasure you gave us all in my young days, Mr Mozart! You are too young to remember, John, and you, Vicky. But your Figaro, and above all your wonderful Don Giovanni! How well I remember the handsomeness of the Don himself – all London was in love with him. How we thrilled to the sound of his voice, how we cried for him when he was taken off to hell. Oh dear, such times they were, such wonderful times in the theatre! We shan’t see their like again.’

  ‘I have written another opera—’ I began.

  ‘And Così fan tutte – why did nobody like it so much? The music was divine – a heavenly feast! And it was so wise and witty about men, and women, and love.’