The Madness of George III Read online

  (He leads the KING out.)

  QUEEN: No, George. Stop. What are you doing? Where are you taking the King? No. Stop. George. Your Majesty. George!

  KING: (Escorted out by FITZROY) The water is rising. We must all move. Find the children. Gather them together. The Queen must come too. She will drown if she remains.

  FITZROY: She will come, sir. She is coming.

  LADY PEMBROKE: Come, madam. I will show you where they have lodged us.

  WESTMINSTER

  Drs BAKER, WARREN and PEPYS assembled. THURLOW comes in.

  THURLOW: Good morning, gentlemen. I thought it would be useful to review the situation before any further treatment was undertaken. (Holding out his wrist to BAKER) Try my pulse, would you, Baker? (BAKER takes his pulse.)

  I’m here of course to represent the Government’s concern and interest in this matter, but beyond that, as someone who has always had the well-being of the Prince at heart. Now, you, Baker, I know, and Dr Warren …

  BAKER: This is Sir Lucas Pepys, whom I have taken the liberty of consulting.

  THURLOW: The more the merrier. Are you familiar with His Majesty’s condition?

  PEPYS: I have spent a lifetime in the study of the anfractuosities of the human understanding –

  THURLOW: What?

  PEPYS: – the mind, sir, and its delinquencies. If it were possible I would value an early view of one of His Majesty’s motions.

  THURLOW: Yes? That could be arranged, couldn’t it? How am I doing, Baker?

  BAKER: Still pretty wiry. Ninety.

  THURLOW: Hell and damnation, what’s a man to do?

  WARREN: Oh, the pulse varies. It doesn’t signify.

  THURLOW: Really? What do you think, Pepys?

  PEPYS: I agree. I’ve always found the stool more eloquent than the pulse.

  THURLOW: Indeed? Now. What the devil is the matter with the King?

  WARREN: My diagnosis is that the gouty humour has settled on the brain. I would begin by prescribing regular doses of James’s Powders to sweat it out.

  BAKER: I tried that. No effect.

  WARREN: I would then suggest emetics.

  BAKER: I tried that too. They made His Majesty very loose. So I then gave him some laudanum, which made him very constipated.

  PEPYS: Constipation? I don’t like that. Has he been bled?

  BAKER: No expedient known to the most advanced medical opinion has been neglected.

  THURLOW: Well, what’s the outlook?

  WARREN: Very grave. Unless the humour can be decoyed from the brain, His Majesty’s life, and certainly his sanity, is in the utmost danger.

  BAKER: I am a little more hopeful than that. Wild though His Majesty’s behaviour is, his discourse is at least consistent. It is the principle on which it is based which is in error.

  THURLOW: What does that mean?

  BAKER: It means that though His Majesty believes London is flooded, at least he knows that it is flooded with water.

  THURLOW: Well, what should it be flooded with?

  BAKER: Oh … turtle soup, porridge …

  THURLOW: God. What do you suggest, Pepys?

  PEPYS: An immediate purge.

  (The meeting breaks up.)

  THURLOW: Warren?

  WARREN: He must be blistered.

  BAKER: I agree, but he will never submit.

  WARREN: He must be blistered on the back to draw the humours from the brain; and he must be blistered on the legs to draw the humours to the lower extremities.

  BAKER: What if he refuse?

  WARREN: Then he must be forced.

  THURLOW: The King? Forced?

  WARREN: Yes.

  THURLOW: Very well – but forced gently. Pepys. If I were able to furnish you with a sample stool, would you have time to cast an eye over it for me …?

  WINDSOR

  GREVILLE accompanies the KING, now in his dressing-gown, into the room where the blistering is to be done; a tray of burners and hot glasses waiting, a padded stool on which he is to be bound, and WARREN standing ready and gloved.

  FITZROY: Your Majesty, it is the physicians’ opinion that Your Majesty’s health would benefit from the application of blisters to your back and legs.

  KING: And it is His Majesty’s opinion that the physicians’ health would benefit by the application of blisters to their arse.

  (The KING, seeing the fearsome preparations, turns back.)

  GREVILLE: Your Majesty knows the love and esteem in which I hold Your Majesty. I beg you to submit to this treatment.

  (He bars the king’s way.)

  KING: Oh, Greville, you too.

  WARREN: Bind him.

  FITZROY: No. This is the King.

  WARREN: Bind him, I say.

  FITZROY: No. Bandage him.

  (The KING struggles with PAGES, who take off his dressing-gown and pull him across to the blistering-stool.)

  KING: No, no. Don’t touch me, damn you. I am the King. Go, tell the Queen I am assaulted. The Queen, help!

  BRAUN: Let’s have your robe then, sir. Off we come. That’s it.

  KING: I was the verb, the noun and the verb. Verb rules; subject: the King. I am not the subject now. Now I am the object, the King governed, the ruler ruled. I am the subordinate clause, the insubordinate George.

  PAPANDIEK: Easy does it, sir.

  FORTNUM: Come along, sir. Don’t make it hard.

  PAPANDIEK: Let go, Your Majesty. That’s it.

  BRAUN: Down we go.

  (He is pushed face down on to the stool and pinioned, PAPANDIEK holding his arms and FORTNUM his legs, while BRAUN looks on with evident pleasure. The KING begins to pray.)

  KING: Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit that we may perfectly love thee and worthily magnify thy holy name. For the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord.

  (WARREN applies cups first to the KING’s back. The KING screams in agony.)

  Not my skin. Not my skin. No. No.

  (Then to his legs.) Oh Jesus help me. For pity’s sake. I am the Lord’s Anointed.

  CARLTON HOUSE

  WARREN crosses the stage as the curtain is pulled back to reveal the next scene with the PRINCE OF WALES entertaining his friends. SHERIDAN is studying a list of MPs.

  PRINCE OF WALES: And then Baker examined him.

  WARREN: And when Baker’s back was turned, the King took the chamber-pot and poured it over his head, saying, ‘Now, Sir George, you are a knight of the chamber.’

  PRINCE OF WALES: I must say he’s more amusing mad than he ever was sane.

  WARREN: And also blue.

  FOX: Blue?

  FITZROY: Oh, for some reason his water’s blue.

  FOX: Now what about support?

  SHERIDAN: I’m gradually picking away at Pitt’s men and the uncommitted. We need to win over only a few dozen or so, but we must be patient; we shall lose support if we seem over-eager.

  FOX: But that’s Pitt’s game. Spin it out.

  PRINCE OF WALES: That’s what I said.

  FOX: And we are over-eager, dammit. I’m also in debt. And once Pitt’s out he’ll never get back in.

  SHERIDAN: Only if His Majesty recovers.

  PRINCE OF WALES: But he’s not going to recover. Warren says so. Charles. I’m not being unfeeling, am I?

  FOX: No, sir. We must think of the country.

  PRINCE OF WALES: Quite right. The throne, Fred! What fun!

  WESTMINSTER

  DUNDAS: I work it out that we still have a majority of around fifty.

  THURLOW: We would have more leeway if our boy was less arctic. Goddammit, why does he not unbend a little. Always on stilts.

  FOOTMAN: Sir Boothby Skrymshir.

  (SIR BOOTHBY is a fashionably dressed gentleman with a vacant nephew, RAMSDEN.)

  DUNDAS: Sir Boothby is Member for Berkshire.

  BOOTHBY: My Lord, sir.

  DUNDAS: Si
r.

  BOOTHBY: I received the sad intelligence from my constituency yesterday of the untimely death of Colonel Banstead of the Dragoon Guards.

  DUNDAS: My condolences. He will be much missed.

  BOOTHBY: The Colonel was, as you know, an unwavering supporter of Mr Pitt and, incidentally, Steward of the Market of Newbury.

  DUNDAS: Was he?

  BOOTHBY: It occurred to me that you might be in some difficulty in finding a suitable replacement of the calibre of Colonel Banstead, and one name immediately sprang to mind. Ramsden. My nephew.

  DUNDAS: That I can fill the vacancy so readily is a great weight off my mind, but I fear your nephew will have to curb his natural eagerness a little while longer.

  BOOTHBY: Hear that, Ramsden? Rein it in, Ramsden. Rein it in.

  DUNDAS: His Majesty, as you may have heard, is a little indisposed, and is taking a short vacation from his boxes.

  BOOTHBY: This indisposition is of some gravity?

  DUNDAS: Oh no, no.

  THURLOW: He’s off-colour, man, that’s all.

  BOOTHBY: Oh. Then we will take our leave.

  DUNDAS: But Mr Pitt can continue to be assured of your support?

  BOOTHBY: Oh yes. Other things being equal, of course. Though one mustn’t keep Ramsden in suspense.

  (As they leave PITT comes in.)

  Sir!

  (PITT is frozen-faced and makes no attempt to acknowledge them.)

  Sir.

  (SIR BOOTHBY leaves, pulling RAMSDEN with him, clearly angry at the snub.)

  DUNDAS: That was the Member for Berkshire.

  PITT: Yes. What did he want?

  THURLOW: He wanted to be spoken to, for a start. Smiled on.

  (PITT says nothing.)

  DUNDAS: He has the nomination for three other seats besides. Four votes in all, William, which we have just lost. It would help our situation if you endeavoured to be less distant. More convivial. It has been known to dine one’s supporters.

  PITT: I am His Majesty’s chief minister. I am not running a chop house.

  DUNDAS: They gather to the Prince as pus to a boil. When Parliament resumes we will be faced with a group of eloquent and exasperated men.

  PITT: Against whom, unless the King recover, no amount of dining will avail. I hate the disorder of it. If only he could sign his name.

  THURLOW: We can delay no longer. As Lord Chancellor I must draw up a bill appointing the Prince of Wales Regent. If the King is mad there is no alternative.

  PITT: He is not mad. I will not have that word used.

  THURLOW: In the House, no – but here, between ourselves, goddammit.

  PITT: Here, or in the House, or anywhere. I do not admit the thought.

  THURLOW: Oh, very well. (Going) But he is mad, dammit.

  DUNDAS: When your father was ill, what form did it take?

  PITT: Why? What has that got to do with it? My father was mad, that was the form it took. (Pause.) But not this form. Not this form at all.

  (PITT gathers up his papers, crosses the stage where the curtain is pulled back to reveal FITZROY.)

  WINDSOR

  FITZROY: He soils his clothes. Urine. Excrement. He talks filth, the slops of his mind swilling over. I am not a nurse. If His Majesty cannot regulate himself how should he regulate the country?

  FOOTMAN: Sharp! Sharp! The King! The King!

  FITZROY: I shall be relieved when it is ended … one way or another.

  (The PAGES come in with the writing kit, followed by GREVILLE and the KING.)

  KING: Yes?

  FITZROY: It’s Mr Pitt, sir.

  KING: Where? (Hauls himself to his feet.)

  PITT: Here, Your Majesty.

  KING: Stand close, Mr Pitt. You’ll have to speak up, I don’t see very well. There is a fog here and in my ears-ears-ears- ears …

  (I have tried to suggest the King’s tendency to get stuck on a word or syllable, and not get off it, a kind of juddering speech that he cannot control, except by speaking very fast.)

  KING: You drink-drink-drink-drink. I smell it on your breath. Still a young man-man-man. No-no-no. I know-know-know … (He stumbles.)

  PITT: Would Your Majesty not prefer to sit?

  KING: Stand-stand-stand. Can’t sit-sit-sit shit-shit-shit …

  (PITT looks at FITZROY, who is aloof, GREVILLE, always the more humane equerry, intervenes.)

  GREVILLE: Sir!

  (This stops the KING.)

  You must interrupt His Majesty. It is the only way.

  PITT: I saw Your Majesty last week. I left some urgent papers.

  KING: Yes. Remember, remember. Remember you. Little boy. Father old. Mad once. Not mad, though, me. Not mad-mad- mad-mad. Madjesty majesty. Ma just just nerves nerves nerves sss. (He hisses into silence, but every silence costs him an immense effort, shaken as he is by unspoken speech.)

  PITT: Yes, sir. It will pass.

  (The KING shudders into silence. FITZROY has his papers; they get scattered.)

  PITT: Parliament resumes tomorrow, sir.

  KING: Parliament, Parliament … Do nothing nothing nothing nothing Pitt Pitt Pitt do – nothing nothing. I am not mad mad mad … Can’t see can’t see mist mist missed Queen missed her, oh missed her Queen, gone gone gone …

  PITT: The doctors thought it best, sir.

  KING: (Instantly more agitated) Doc doc doc doctors doctortures doctormentors doctalk doctalk talk talk talk talk …

  (The KING is howling helplessly, and he seizes GREVILLE’s hand and puts it over his mouth. He is perhaps shitting himself too, because as greville helps him out of the room the KING clutches his dressing-gown behind him, a despairing and incontinent wretch. The PAGES and FITZROY follow expressionless as PITT, plainly shaken by the spectacle, puts down his papers; but as he is found by the spotlight, now addressing the House of Commons, he has recovered his composure and smoothly lies about his visit.)

  WESTMINSTER

  PITT: Honourable members would, I am sure, like to know that I saw His Majesty yesterday, and the only symptom of his disorder was a tendency to repeat himself and a wandering from one topic to another … a characteristic that is shared by most of the converse of polite society, which if judged severely would warrant the consignment to Bedlam of many in this House.

  (Laughter.)

  FOX: Mr Pitt’s consoling pleasantries do not deceive this House. The King is incapacitated. In those circumstances I propose that unless the Prince of Wales be made Regent then this House has no confidence in His Majesty’s Government.

  DUNDAS: A majority of thirty.

  PITT: Thirty.

  DUNDAS: At least we have more time.

  PITT: Not enough. I saw the King again this afternoon. He did not know me. I was mistaken. He is mad. The next vote will not be so easy. We are finished.

  WINDSOR

  PITT alone. lady Pembroke floats in.

  LADY PEMBROKE: Mr Pitt.

  PITT: Yes? Forgive me. Lady Pembroke.

  LADY PEMBROKE: Mr Pitt, you are, I understand, dissatisfied with His Majesty’s doctors?

  (PITT nods.)

  LADY PEMBROKE: Mr Pitt. My mother-in-law lost her wits, and a succession of physicians failed to recover them for her. However, there was one doctor who was confident of her return to health, and accordingly she was placed in his care.

  PITT: And is she recovered?

  LADY PEMBROKE: Entirely. Rides to hounds. Founded some almshouses. Embroiders round the clock. I have written down his name.

  (She floats away. The curtains are drawn back to reveal the full stage as FORTNUM announces DR WILLIS.)

  FOOTMAN: Dr Willis.

  (WILLIS is a homely provincial figure and looks less like a doctor – which he is – than a clergyman – which he also is.)

  PITT: (With a paper) Your name has been given me by Lady Pembroke as one of particular skill in the treatment of intellectual maladies. You cured her mother-in-law. You were a clergyman but now run an asylum in Lincolnshire.

  WI
LLIS: I prefer to call it a farm, sir. My patients occupy themselves in manual work and activities connected with the estate.

  PITT: Quite so. Though in His Majesty’s case manual work would hardly be appropriate. You have studied the reports on His Majesty’s condition?

  WILLIS: Yes. Interesting and very puzzling. (WILLIS has the reports, which he goes through.)

  No evidence of earlier attacks. No family history. And yet we have all these symptoms.

  PITT: Yes.

  WILLIS: Skin tender. Pains in the lower limbs. Talks continuously with varying degrees of sense.

  PITT: Well?

  WILLIS: And variously diagnosed. Ossification of the membrane. Rheumatism in the head. Flying gout. Oh dear me. Delirium with fever. Delirium without fever. Hard to say what it is. Can’t even give it a name. Puzzling, very puzzling. No, I’m bound to say I’ve never come across a condition quite like this before.

  PITT: But I was told you were experienced in these disorders.

  WILLIS: I am.

  PITT: Yet you’ve never come across anything like this before?

  WILLIS: No.

  PITT: I was given to understand you might be able to cure His Majesty. It seems I was misled. Good afternoon, sir.

  WILLIS: Oh, I can cure him. I’m just not sure what from.

  PITT: Are you certain?

  WILLIS: What about?

  PITT: The cure, man.

  WILLIS: Oh, no doubt about that.

  PITT: When? How long?

  WILLIS: Hard to say, but sooner rather than later, and provided I have certain undertakings. Authority over the patient.

  Access to him at all times.

  (The QUEEN, who has been listening at the door, bursts in, pursued by LADY PEMBROKE.)

  QUEEN: No, no. I must speak.

  PITT: Dr Willis, madam.

  WILLIS: Your Majesty.

  QUEEN: Have you met His Majesty?

  WILLIS: No, ma’am.

  QUEEN: It is the same with all the doctors. None of them know him. He is not himself. So how can they restore him to his proper self, not knowing what that self is? Where do they look for it? The King is not mad. He is an angel of kindness and goodness.