Grantville Gazette, Volume VIII Read online

  The two men talked for a moment more at the front door to the building, then Heinrich said good night. Giacomo watched his friend walk away, relieved to hear that his distress had been allayed.

  Amber Higham stepped up beside Giacomo, surprising him.

  "Frau Amber . . . I thought you had already left."

  "No, I was right behind you coming down the hall." She paused for a moment. "I had heard some time ago that Master Schütz was having a little difficulty dealing with Grantville. I overheard your discussion with him just now. Is he all right?"

  "Yes," Giacomo said, "I believe he is."

  "Good." Amber gave a firm nod. "I like him."

  Magdeburg - Late April, 1634

  "No, no, no, no, NO!" Franz brought the rehearsal to a halt. "Violas, how many times must I say it? At the fourth measure after letter C, on the first beat, I want a down bow from all of you—a strong down bow." He looked at the players in question. Most of them nodded.

  "I will explain myself one more time. This is for two reasons. First, because that note begins a new phrase, it needs extra emphasis. Second, because I want you all to be seen moving in the same manner. If we have bows going in all directions, the audience, the patrons, will think that you are country bumpkins pulled in from the fairs." The glare he directed at them, while it might not have ignited the wood of their instruments, should certainly have caused them to warm up.

  "Again. From letter C."

  Franz started the orchestra again from that point. At the appropriate time, he focused on the viola section. He was gratified to find that they all followed his instruction. All but one, that is. One lone bow was moving up while all the others were moving down.

  Cutting the music off, Franz set his baton down on the music stand. He said nothing, standing in silence. Within a moment, everyone in the great room was still. No one moved. No one whispered. It seemed no one breathed. When he finally spoke, more than one individual jumped, although his voice was not loud.

  "Herr Vogler."

  "Yes, Herr Sylwester?"

  The violist's tone was not exactly impudent, but one would certainly not call it respectful.

  "I am glad to see that you are not hard of hearing." It took a moment for that statement to sink in. Just as Vogler started to open his mouth for an angry retort, Franz said, "Tell me, Herr Vogler . . . why is it that fourteen other violists—even young Johann Amsel, here—can play that phrase perfectly, in exactly the manner that I desire, yet you seem to never be able to do so?"

  "I . . ." Vogler sounded a little flustered as he stammered, "I simply think it sounds better the other way."

  "You think it sounds better the other way." Silence. "Tell me, Herr Vogler. If the composer of this piece were here, would you argue with him about it?"

  "But you are not the composer, are you?" Vogler's tone was rather pugnacious.

  Franz was suddenly weary. "No, Herr Vogler, but I stand in his place. I direct you as the composer would have done. And if you will not accept my direction, then there is no place for you here." A moment of silence. "You are discharged."

  Vogler's shock changed to anger quickly. "You cannot do that! I am one of Master Schütz's best musicians! Matthaüs, tell him. The master will be most angry."

  Matthaüs shook his head. "No, Herwin. About the music, he is right and you are wrong. You are right that the master will be angry, but it will not be Herr Sylwester that will face his ire."

  With an expression of stunned disbelief, Herwin turned to another and said, "Simon? Will you let this happen?"

  "Herwin, I tried to tell you. This is your own doing."

  Franz could see that Vogler's hands were trembling when he placed his viola in its case and snatched up his jacket. "I leave this place. You cannot discharge me—I quit!"

  "As you will. Your pay will be waiting with Frau Haygood tomorrow."

  Everyone watched as Vogler stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. All eyes then turned to Franz. He looked back at them, catching each eye for a moment. "Gentlemen, I say again, I stand in the place of all these composers, these men who will never be but whose genius is still before us. I will not accept less than your best. It is our duty, and their due. If you cannot bear that stricture, then it would be best if you left now." Long moments passed.

  Franz picked up his baton. "Again. From letter C."

  Grantville—May, 1634

  The Thuringen Gardens was moderately crowded tonight, Thomas thought. The OF Band was playing tonight. This had brought many of their followers in early to take the best places. The old men were up on the platform, tuning up and getting ready to start any moment. As he watched, they were joined by a couple of their wives.

  There were some tables still open. He and Lucas Amsel followed Masters Carissimi and Schütz toward a table.

  Thomas was somewhat bemused by Master Carissimi's choice of attire. He had set aside the black cassock he sometimes wore, even though he was not a cleric . . . at least not yet. Thomas had heard him say from time to time that he was truly considering entering orders. When not wearing the cassock, Master Giacomo normally wore the culottes—knee britches—ruffled shirt and coat of a gentleman. Tonight, however, when he took the coat off and flung it over the back of his chair, Thomas was astounded to see him wearing a t-shirt.

  T-shirts were almost ubiquitous in Grantville. They were seen in all sizes and colors, including many colors not found in nature. Master Tom Stone's tie-dyed t-shirt came to mind, which occasioned a shudder on Thomas' part. That shirt looked like a hangover felt, as far as he was concerned.

  Many of the t-shirts had pictures or words on them. Variations on the American flag were common. Out of all that he had seen, Thomas had two favorites, one serious and one comical. The serious one had a long quote on it: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. - Edmund Burke." The comical one had a much shorter quote: "I'm with Stupid," above an arrow that pointed to the right. In some fashion, Thomas felt that those two shirts captured the essence of Grantville.

  The t-shirt that Master Giacomo was wearing fell somewhere in between those two extremes, being simply a bright pink shirt with a picture of a plaza and surrounding buildings rendered on it in exquisite detail. Master Giacomo saw him looking at it.

  "The Piazza Navona in Rome." He held the front of the shirt stretched out between his hands. "I have walked it before, many times. It reminds me of home. Remind me some time to tell you how I found it here in Grantville."

  Master Heinrich looked at Master Giacomo, then at Thomas. "Tell me . . . do you know if Frau Amber is married? I have not seen a ring on her hand such as the married women of Grantville wear."

  Thomas' eyebrows rose involuntarily. He looked at Master Giacomo, who replied, "I believe I was told that she was married back in the time before the Ring of Fire, but that she divorced her husband for adultery. His adultery."

  "She never remarried?"

  "I do not believe so, no. In any event, it would be a moot point now. As I understand it, the consensus appears to be that all spouses not in Grantville when the Ring of Fire fell will be treated as dead. That would mean Frau Amber should be considered a widow." Master Giacomo looked at Master Heinrich with the same curiosity that Thomas himself felt.

  After a moment, Master Heinrich, obviously feeling the weight of their gazes, said, "She reminds me of Magdalena . . . my wife. I find her . . . interesting."

  Master Giacomo, Lucas and Thomas exchanged astonished looks. Before any of them could think of anything to say, the wine and beers arrived. Moments later, so did Signor Abati.

  Andrea Abati had arrived in Grantville in December not long before Christmas. He was an acquaintance of Master Giacomo's, come from Magdeburg to visit the master and to learn more of the modern music.

  Signor Abati was a castrato, or more politely, a gentilhuomo. This automatically made him a member of the musical elite of Italy. According to Master Carissimi, though, Abati was more than j
ust a member of that group; he was the elite of the elite, probably the finest singer and musician of all the gentilhuomi. He was known as Il Prosperino among the patrons and musicians of Rome. The problem, from Thomas' perspective, was that Abati, at least when he first arrived, was fully in agreement with Master Carissimi's opinion. Despite the fact that he was taller than the Italian, Thomas had felt all too often during their first encounters that Abati was looking down his nose at all things German.

  That had changed as Abati spent time with Marcus Wendell, Master Giacomo and Elizabeth Jordan. He had disappeared into the music libraries of the school and the various churches for days. From time to time, he would borrow a book from Master Wendell, only to return it in a few days and then begin to question everyone in sight about various issues until he had worked everything out and understood things—or at least as well as anyone in Grantville did.

  Thomas had been around Abati quite a bit the last few weeks, particularly after Franz and the others had left on their trips. By that time, Abati had set aside most of his flamboyance. He was now so focused on the music that he rivaled Franz and Marla in intensity. Thomas quite approved of Abati these days. The thought surprised him somewhat.

  "Good evening, friends." Abati plopped into the chair left open for him.

  Thomas felt a moment of envy, for Abati's German was as melodious as his Italian. Then something registered with him at the same moment that Master Giacomo gasped. "Andrea, what have you done?"

  "Oh, this?" Abati ran his fingers through his hair—his much, much shorter hair. "Yes, I have set aside the trappings of being Il Prosperino. I decided that to spend so much time on my hair and clothing was a distraction from the music. So, I simplified my life." Abati ran his fingers again through his wavy auburn hair again. It was no longer than the bottom of his ears, and his grin was almost salacious. "Then, when I let it be known that I wanted my hair cut, the proprietresses of the 'beauty salons,' seemed to almost come to blows over who would cut it. I finally settled on Frau Thelma Jean Agnes Jenkins at the 'Curl and Tan.'"

  Abati paused long enough to give his order to the waitress. "I had at first thought of taking all my shorn locks and using them as favors for ladies in Italy to remember me by and for ladies in Germany to come to know me by." His grin was now several degrees past salacious. "But Frau Jenkins convinced me that I should allow her to sell them to a wigmaker. Even after her commission for the cutting and the sale, I pocketed more than a few coins."

  "And your attire?" Carissimi quirked an eyebrow.

  Abati shrugged a rather expressive shrug. "Long pants and a jacket. Life is so much freer, more comfortable. Velvet, of course. I have not given up all thought of style." His wine arrived as they were laughing. After taking a sip, he continued, "I got a pretty penny from the seamstress who bought all the brocade, as well." Another grin. "I think they will use the former owner of the hair and clothes as a selling mark." More laughter.

  Just then the performers on the stage all faced out, obviously ready to begin. The noise level in the room began dropping. Within moments, the man with the tambourine could be heard. "Good evenin', folks. I'm Huey Jones, and we're the OF Band."

  One of the women stepped up and said, "That stands for Old Fa . . ."

  "That stands for Old Folks Band." The man glared a mock glare. The woman smiled sweetly at him. "Anyway, we're goin' to get started with an old favorite, "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain."

  The band started off, led by the mandolin. The patrons of the Gardens started clapping immediately. Seeing that no conversation was going to be possible for a while, Thomas and the others began clapping, too.

  One song followed another. Thomas recognized several of them from his studies with Marla as being 'hillbilly' music, related to the country and western style. He decided the musicians on the stage were not the most polished he'd ever heard, but they obviously enjoyed what they were doing. Some of that joy communicated to the audience, who enjoyed both the music and the performers.

  The final song ended to loud applause. The OF band waved goodbye as they stepped off the platform. Finally, the room returned to a state approaching normal, with a constant buzz of conversation in the background. The waitresses were scurrying around seeing to it that glasses and mugs were refilled.

  "So," Giacomo said, "we were talking about Andrea before the music started. What are you going to do next, Andrea, besides break women's hearts and bankrupt the tailors of Rome? Have you learned all you came to Grantville to learn?"

  "I have learned enough. I have not gained your depth of knowledge, Master Giacomo, but I have learned enough to know that the future is not here in Grantville. Yes, the archives of the future are here, but the future is in Magdeburg. Musical archives are useless if they are not performed, so I will return to Magdeburg soon, to ally myself with Frau Marla and Herr Franz. I will support their orchestra. I will teach, I will sing, I will preach the new music to all who will listen."

  Giacomo smiled. "My. Such fervor. And what has won your conversion to the cause, Andrea? Was it Frau Marla's recital in Magdeburg last year?"

  "Oh, that opened a breach in the walls." Andrea laughed. "But it did not win the final submission."

  "Then what did?" Master Heinrich asked.

  "Opera."

  "Opera?" It was a chorus from them all.

  "Opera." Andrea was firm. "Oh, not the opera of Monteverdi, or Peri, or even yourself, Master Schütz."

  "Then whose?"

  "Verdi . . . one Giuseppe Verdi."

  "An Italian," Master Heinrich snorted, smiling. "I should have known that only another Italian could have touched you so."

  "You laugh." Andrea smiled in return. "But the man is . . . was . . . will be . . . what is the right word to say?" Frustration entered his voice.

  "I believe most everyone has settled on 'was,'" Thomas said.

  "Thank you. Verdi was a genius. His lesser works are wonderful, but Otello . . . Otello is divine. Words fail me." But not for long, Thomas noted. "And then there is Boris Godunov, by Muss . . . Mussorgsky. Who would have expected a master work from Russia? The pathos of it."

  Andrea gulped his wine down, looking somewhat haunted. "God is indeed fond of irony. Be careful what you pray for, my friends. For most of my career I have prayed to find great music, genius music, music that only those such as I could appreciate." His expression was now bleak. "I would die to sing Otello, to sing that part just once before an audience. But unless God the Father works a miracle in my body, it can never be." He brooded for a moment more, then forced a smile. "So, I must do the next best thing. I must help raise up the men—and women; I do not forget Frau Marla, Master Giacomo—who can fulfill my prayer."

  "And you begin in Magdeburg?"

  "Si. I mean, yes. It is the capital; it is where the patrons will gather. It is where Frau Simpson's arts league is centered. So, I will go there and begin. Perhaps with Frau Marla."

  "Indeed." Giacomo took a sip of wine. "I have told her to study with you. Her voice, it is golden, but there is still much I believe you could teach her. And, perhaps, you could learn somewhat from her."

  Andrea nodded.

  "As it happens," Master Heinrich said, "I will be going to Magdeburg soon. I have heard much of what friend Giacomo has told me, but I am an old head—I need to see it and hear it in practice. So, I will go to see Herr Sylwester and his friends build this symphony. I think then I will truly begin to understand the new music, deep in my bones. Would you care to travel with me, Herr Andrea?"

  "I would be delighted, Master Heinrich."

  Aschenhausen—May, 1634

  "Well?" Joachim ben Eleazar looked expectantly at his rabbi, Shlomo ben Moishe.

  The rabbi looked sidelong at his wife, Rivka who sat next to him with a stony expression. Then he sighed. "Yes, I will go."

  "Good, Rav Shlomo." Joachim clapped his hands together. "Very good. I will make arrangements."

  A small smile of triumph crossed Rivka's face.
/>   Magdeburg—June, 1634

  Franz set the baton down on his stand. "Enough. We will resume after lunch with the Vaughan Williams. You have two hours, gentlemen."

  After he'd stepped down from the podium, he found Marla talking to several men in the back of the great room. One of them seemed somehow familiar.

  "Herr Franz, how good to see you again."

  Franz stopped short, almost stunned, raising his hand by reflex. "Herr Abati . . ."

  Abati laughed as he grasped Franz's hand and shook it. "Yes, yes, I know, I look different. But we stand at the dawn of a new age, so I decided to follow your example." He waved his hand first at Franz's trousers, then at his shorter hair.

  "But what are you doing here?"

  "Why, I have learned what I could from Master Carissimi. Therefore, I have returned to Magdeburg to begin to practice it. Master Schütz . . ." Abati waved to another of the men talking to Marla ". . . was kind enough to transport me in his carriage. And here we are."

  Master Schütz! Franz had once accidentally received an electric shock in Ingram Bledsoe's workshop. The feeling that ran through his mind and body at hearing the esteemed German master's name was much the same.

  Grappling his wits together, Franz bowed. "Master Schütz, it is indeed an honor to meet you. I have heard so much about you from the musicians you so graciously lent us."

  "Hmm, indeed." Schütz fingered his beard. "I suspect, Herr Sylwester, that if what I hear of you and your goals is true, that the honor is as much mine as it is yours." He stepped forward and offered his hand. "In truth, I marvel somewhat at your boldness, to attempt to craft that now which took two hundred years to build in that other time."

  Franz looked to Marla for a moment, then returned his gaze to the master. "I have no choice, Master Schütz. The music settles in one's very bones. It drives without remorse."

  "Indeed," Abati murmured.

  Schütz tilted his head and considered Franz for a long moment. "I believe I understand. You have my commiserations or my congratulations, whichever is appropriate."