“I did not say so, of course, but as he was speaking, I was thinking I was going to be more than glad to be rid of him also.”
CHAPTER SIX
Mein Lieber Freund
THE OLD MAN SEEMED TO BE LIVING IN HIS STORY, living the moment, and for some while was silent with his thoughts. Jonah was impatient for him to continue. He wanted to know where young Nathaniel was heading, and what part the button would play.
At last the old man cleared his throat and went on.
“On the road out into the countryside,” he began, “with Boney spitting and cursing all the way, Horace seemed to understand that we were coming to a parting of the ways, for he was in no hurry to arrive despite Boney’s cruel whip, despite all his foul-mouthed oaths and threats. Horace took his time, plodding the rough roads and muddy lanes, and finally up a long drive through parkland where cows were grazing in large numbers, to the huge and stately mansion where I was to be working, tossing his head in his reluctance, snorting his protest. I had only a few moments to say goodbye to him, singing in his ear a last snatch of a song, resting my cheek on his warm neck for the last time, before I was led away to my little box of a room over the stable yard, where I sat on my bed and cried, but silently so no one should hear. I was in deep despair. Horace, my last friend, was gone, and I was alone again in a strange place. I lay down, curled up on the bed, and thought of Mr Pa and Mrs Ma, of swimming in the dykes, of tickling trout, of Friend.
“It was then that I heard the sound of faraway music. Someone somewhere was playing the harpsichord, and playing it quite beautifully, a merry dancing tune that became a sad lilting melody, then suddenly a triumphant march. Such music I had never in my life heard before. The tunes mingled, played with one another merrily, spontaneously, as children do.
“I sat up, brushed my tears away, left my little room, and ran down the stairs, out of the stable yard and through the walled vegetable garden, towards the sound of the music. I found myself running along the path around to the front of the house. It was such sweet music, the notes floating out into the garden as I passed by. I found a door wide open, so I went in. I could not help myself. I knew well enough I should not intrude, that an apprentice from the stables should never set foot in the big house, but the music drew me on.
“I had never been in such a grand room; it was a place of fine carpets and tapestries, of gold-framed pictures and mirrors, of glittering chandeliers; and there at the other end of the room was a magnificent harpsichord. In front of it, on a stool piled high with scores and with a cushion atop, sat a small boy, feet dangling, so intent on his playing that he never once looked up, never noticed my approach, until I was a few paces away. When he saw me, he stopped playing at once, sprang down from his seat and ran over to me. He took me by the hand.
“‘Komm,’ he said, tugging at me impatiently. I had no choice but to go with him. He led me down the great room, out into the garden. We leapt the ditch at the bottom of the lawn and then ran off into the field, which was full of cows, the little boy pulling at my hand all the way. The cows were worried; he was giggling all the while, and when he saw the calves skipping off, he began skipping as they did, and when one of the cows farted as she ran off, he broke into cackles of raucous laughter.
“Ahead of us I saw a girl standing on the riverbank, rather older than the little boy, nearer fourteen or fifteen perhaps, my age. Still dragging me along, he ran up to her. ‘Nannerl, Nannerl,’ he cried. ‘Ich habe einen Freund! Ein lieber Freund!’ The two of them jabbered away together excitedly. I could scarce understand a word they were saying, but it was clear they were talking about me, for the little boy was tugging still at my hand, then my coat, then my sleeve, jumping up and down with joy as if I were a great doll he had just been given. The girl was trying to calm him, but I could see from the way she spoke to him that she knew it was useless even to try.
“Then from behind me came a man’s voice, shouting at me. ‘Boy! You there!’ Two gentlemen were hurrying towards me, the older one waving his stick, and walking, I could see, with some difficulty. ‘What do you think you are doing? Who are you?’ The man with the stick was more than indignant, he was angry. Nervously I told him who I was, that I had come from Mr Hogarth’s house to be an apprentice in the stables of Sir John Sullivan. To my great relief he stopped waving his stick at me at once, and his entire demeanour changed. He was full of smiles, quite happy to see me.
“‘So you must be Master Hogarth,’ he said, shaking my hand, which took me quite by surprise. ‘This is my poor friend William Hogarth’s foundling boy,’ he said, by way of explanation to his companion. ‘He spoke of you often, young man. He thought of you very highly, which is why, when I had need of an apprentice in the stables, I asked especially for you. We have been expecting you. No one told me you had arrived.’
“By now the little boy had left my side and run up to the other gentleman, still wildly excited, still calling out as he pointed back at me. ‘Er ist mein Freund, Vater. Mein lieber Freund, Vater!’ Between them all now, the two gentlemen, the girl and the little boy, there ensued an animated conversation in another language. All of them were looking at me as they spoke. I stood there quite bewildered, wondering if it was a madhouse I had come to.
“The old gentleman with the stick must have noted my confusion, and took pity on me. ‘We now know well enough who you are, Master Hogarth, and so it is only fair you should know who we are. I am Sir John Sullivan, your new master, and master of Bourne Park House, where you now find yourself. And since it seems that this rather overexcited little boy has already taken a great liking to you, I should perhaps present him to you next.’ The little boy was still bounding about like a rabbit, rushing up to me and bowing low again and again as he was introduced.
“‘This is Wolfgang, Wolferl we call him. He is visiting us from Austria, from Salzburg, with his father, my good friend here, Herr Mozart; and this is his sister, Maria, whom we all call Nannerl. Frau Mozart, his mother, is at present in the house. The family are staying with us here at Bourne Park for a few weeks’ rest before travelling on to London, where the two children will be giving concerts.’
“‘Concerts?’ I asked.
“‘Yes, they are much in demand, I assure you,’ said my new master.
“‘In demand?’ I asked.
“‘You must not echo me, young man.’ He was speaking rather more sternly now. ‘This is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He is eight years old, and already famous in the world, a great musician, as indeed is his sister, Maria – Nannerl – also. They have performed all over Europe. In London they long to hear them play.’
“Wolferl was still bowing to me, still giggling, his father trying to calm and restrain him. ‘Ich bin Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, englischer Junge.’ He laughed, and grabbed my hand again. ‘Wie heißt du, mein Freund? Name? Dein Name?’ I did not understand, of course.
“‘He wants to know your name,’ my new master explained.
“‘Nathaniel Hogarth,’ I said. ‘I am called Nat.’
“The little boy looked up into my face, his eyes bright with affection, clinging to both my hands now. ‘Nat. Nat. Mein lieber Freund,’ he said, calmer now.
“‘He says you are his friend,’ explained my master, who I now noticed was standing rather bent, was waxy of complexion and did not look at all healthy. He coughed a great deal. ‘You and Wolferl are well met,’ he went on. ‘Nannerl has just made a suggestion, which sounds to me most sensible. Wolferl, it seems, is in much need of a friend to be with him, to play with him, to guard him. He and his sister must practise every day for the concert tour. But he has been begging to have a friend to play with, a companion, shall we say. So, young man, for these few weeks the Mozart family are here, alongside your duties in the stables, you will be his playmate and guardian. He has the sweetest nature, but I should warn you that he can be a wild child, and oftentimes rather tempestuous, with little regard for his own safety, which is a great concern for his mother and father and s
ister. He must have someone responsible at his side at all times to keep an eye out for him. Do not let him out of your sight – is that understood?’”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wild Child
“YOU REALLY MET MOZART?” Jonah blurted out. He knew it sounded rude, but he couldn’t help himself. “You’re not joking me? You knew him? My mum plays him on the piano sometimes – well, she did, anyway. Mozart. I mean, he’s really famous, isn’t he?”
The old man was frowning. He clearly did not like to be disbelieved, nor to be interrupted. “Indeed, he is famous, Master Trelawney,” he said, clearly impatient now, “probably the most famous and certainly the greatest composer that ever lived. And yes, I had the good fortune and the honour to know him. I do not care to be doubted. This is no fanciful story I am telling you. It is as true and real as I am, as you are, as is that lucky button in your hand. There never was a luckier button. Lucky it was and lucky it is, I promise you, as you shall hear – if you would permit me to continue. Of course, if you are not interested…”
“I am, I am!” Jonah insisted.
“Very well, very well. If I recall,” the old man began again, “before I was interrupted, I was telling you how I came to assume the responsibility of looking after the young Mozart, of being the little boy’s guardian. I had little time to feel pleased or displeased at my new duties. I was whisked away at once by Wolferl, and dragged down to the riverbank towards a boat that lay waiting in the reeds. It was clear what he wanted. He leapt into the boat, Nannerl jumping in after him. He stood there deliberately rocking the boat dangerously from side to side, shrieking with delight, until Nannerl grasped him firmly and pulled him down beside her, indicating to me to get in and take the oars.
“I had never in my life been in a boat before, never held an oar. I had only watched rowers out on the Thames. I had no choice but to try. Wolferl was bouncing up and down with excitement as I paddled and splashed my way down the river, trying to manage the oars as best I could. Nannerl, I was sure, could see I had never done this before and smiled her encouragement at me. She tried to keep Wolferl seated and still, but he would not do as she bade him, so the boat rocked continuously, which of course Wolferl found all the more exciting and amusing.
“Somehow, miraculously, we survived that first trip on the river, and I managed to bring us home safe and sound. But we were all soaked through from all the splashing by the time we reached the bank. We ran up through the field of cows towards the great house, little Wolferl skipping like the calves and making rude noises at the cows again, and in among the rude noises he would unaccountably burst into sudden song, conducting himself.
“Once in the house he wanted not to be parted from me for an instant, not even to go upstairs to change into dry clothes. He insisted I went with him, and that I was found dry clothing too. That was the moment I began truly to like this Wolferl. He was a sprite, a free spirit, a wild child, but generous-hearted, kind, boundless, full of laughter and endless prattle and merriment. And he loved jokes too, practical jokes, and word jokes especially – most of which I could not properly understand, of course; but I could tell well enough, from his gestures and noises, and from the obvious disapproval of everyone about him, that many were certainly not of a polite nature.
“He was no more polite when we joined with other children and workers living on the estate to play a game of what they called ‘cricket’. This was a game I had never seen or heard of before, and whose rules were quite baffling to me and to little Wolferl, but a game much played, it seemed, at Bourne Park. Wolferl tired very quickly of it, unless he was batting. This part of the game he loved, and he often struck the ball with great enthusiasm and power, but as soon as he was out – and he was usually caught out quite soon – and his bat was taken away from him, he would stamp his feet in rage, and go off to lie in the long grass, where he would sulk and kick his heels. Little Wolferl could be as petulant sometimes as he was charming!”
Jonah had in mind now, as he listened, the picture of Mozart he had seen often on one of his mum’s CDs, rather stiff and stern, with a neat wig. And this was the wild child the old man was describing, who giggled at farting and threw tantrums?
“When the time came for practice on the harpsichord,” the old man continued, “in the great gallery hall downstairs, little Wolferl took me with him and bade me sit beside him as he played. He made it clear by showing me – understanding by now that I could not know what he was saying – what it was he wished me to do. I was to turn the pages of the music for him. I could always sing music a great deal better than I could read it, and anyway had not seen a musical score for some while now, but I did not know how to explain this to him. The notes on the page looked so unfamiliar to me. He looked into my eyes then, and seemed to understand how unsure I was of the right moment to turn the pages. For this he had a most ingenious solution. He would kick me sideways sharply with his little foot as a signal I should turn the page at once. I soon understood the message well enough.
“As he began to play, I noticed there came over this little boy a most extraordinary transformation. All that distracted feverish frolicking left him, and he lived now only for the music he was making. His little fingers danced over the keyboard. Herr Mozart – his father, and also his teacher – sat in a chair nearby, or paced up and down, mostly nodding his approval and conducting; but on occasion he would clap his hands and stop the child from his playing, to instruct and correct him, sometimes rather too harshly, I thought. Little Wolferl endured these interruptions, these admonitions, his eyes filling with tears, but was at once happy again as soon as he could resume his playing. Through it all, Frau Mozart sat at her embroidery, glowing with maternal pride.
“Wolferl insisted I was there at his side every time he played, his little kicks reminding me when to turn the page. As I did so I began to remember all that Mr Montefiore had taught me in my singing practice at the Foundling Hospital. Once learnt, it seemed, reading music is never quite forgotten. Very soon I did not need his little kicks. Wolferl sensed this, I am sure, but he tapped me every time with his foot anyway. He liked doing it, so he did it. And when Nannerl took her turn at the harpsichord, Wolferl did not allow me to turn her pages. Instead he sat himself firmly on my lap, claiming me for his own, and listened to his sister, clapping most enthusiastically when he liked her performance.
“I ate my supper beside Wolferl – he would not have it otherwise – sitting for the first time in my life in a grand dining room with my elders and betters. Wolferl would want to know what everything around him was in English. He would then translate every word into German, and have me speak it, which I found most difficult to do, and which I forgot almost immediately every time. Wolferl, though, remembered every English word I told him, testing himself and his family again and again, and was soon playing with English words, even pronouncing them backwards, and challenging me to recognize them quickly. Often I could not, and nor could anyone else, which gave him much cause for laughter. Wolferl loved merriment above all else, except music, I discovered.
“Every evening when his mother took him away to bed after supper, he complained most bitterly and would not release my hand, begging for me to go with him. His father often became angry with him at this, and Wolferl was forced to go with his mother, dragging his feet and crying. I had never known a more passionate being than this boy.
“Back in my little room over the stable I would sit on my bed, remembering all we had done together each day, the rowing, the music, the frolicking, the merriment. But I was exhausted by all this activity and always fell asleep almost at once. It was at night that the old sadness crept in. I was the happiest I had been for years, but Mrs Ma and Mr Pa and Friend and Paradise filled my dreams, so that I woke still longing for them, and thinking of the chestnut-stall lady in Chiswick who might have been my mother, and the token that would reunite us.
“Every morning I was woken early to tend to my stable work, to feed, water and groom the horses, bef
ore leading them out to grass. They were fine animals, but none were as friendly to me as Horace had been. The head groom, Mr Wickens, was a great deal jollier than Boney had been in Mr Hogarth’s stables, and did not spit and curse at all. He worked us hard though. He left the care of all the horses to us, except Frederick. No one but him, I was told, was allowed to go anywhere near Fiery Frederick, as everyone called him. He was truly a giant of a creature, over seventeen hands high and jet black from head to hoof, and, according to Mr Wickens, the best carriage horse in the entire country.
“My work in the stables being done before breakfast, I was instructed every morning to return to the house to be with little Wolferl. He was always eager to see me, eager to play in the fields and go rowing once again on the river, eager to practise his music, eager to learn more English words, and even now to try to speak always in English – imitating me. I had never in my life had a friend like this, so full of fun and affection, so enquiring, so alive to everything and everyone about him. He felt everything so powerfully, at one moment gleeful and joyous, the next plunged into the greatest sorrow and sadness. Tears and laughter followed one another with bewildering speed.
“We all lived in the glow of this small boy. He became the centre of my world at Bourne Park, as he was for everyone else there, especially Nannerl, who doted on him. She was always the only one who could calm his rages – and he fell often into rages – or his fits of wild exuberance. Her greatest joy, I could see, was to be with her little brother, to look after him, but he could not play with her as he played with me. We were boys together, best of friends at once, fast becoming inseparable. Nannerl, though, would be with us almost always, to keep an eye on us both, I thought. And I liked having her there – she was as gentle and calm as Wolferl was wild and wilful. Her English was good enough for me to understand, and like Wolferl she liked to practise speaking it with me.”
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