Grantville Gazette, Volume VIII Read online

  Franz laughed. "On some days, it is both, but more often the latter than the former."

  "Good, good. That is as it should be, then. Now . . ." Schütz smiled. "If I mistake me not, those musicians I have 'lent' you are about to descend upon me. I suggest you take your lovely wife and have your meal undisturbed whilst we have our reunion. I will endeavor to have them in their places at the appointed time."

  * * *

  Abati chose to accompany the others, leaving Schütz to face his men. They gathered around him, smiling. He called them by name and asked about their families.

  Once the greetings were finished, he turned to where the four Amsel brothers were exchanging back-slaps and hugs. They immediately stilled when they felt his gaze. Matthaüs sidled through the press to the front rank.

  "Well?" Schütz asked.

  Knowing full well what his master was asking, Matthaüs responded, "The music is . . . different, Master Heinrich."

  "Of course it is! But you can learn it, can you not?"

  "Aye, master. We can, and we do."

  Schütz fingered his beard again. "And Herr Sylwester?"

  Matthaüs looked around at the others, then back at his master. "He . . . it is very different, what he is doing . . . so many changes. But the more he leads us, the easier it is to both understand the music and understand his vision. He is . . ." The young man was obviously groping for a word.

  "Formidable," his brother, Marcus, suggested.

  "Yes, formidable." Matthaüs seized on it. "He is formidable and unrelenting. He demands our very best. He accepts nothing less than that—his very words. But, he leads well, he is consistent, and he is fair."

  Schütz nodded slowly, still running his fingers through his beard.

  "He discharged Herwin Vogler," someone said from the back of the crowd.

  "What?" Schütz frowned.

  "The fool brought it on himself, Master Heinrich." Simon Bracegirdle stepped forward. "He started complaining on the first day and never stopped. He would not understand what was being taught. The new music distressed him. The thought of someone only half his age telling him that much of what he knew had to change in order to play the 'new music' . . . he would not accept that. Herr Sylwester talked to him, Matthaüs talked to him, I talked to him, all to no avail. He would not stop resisting Herr Sylwester's leadership. Truth to tell, I would have sent him packing long before."

  Schütz looked to Matthaüs.

  "He has the right of it, Master Heinrich. Herwin would not listen, would only half-heartedly play, would not even attempt to hear what Franz—Herr Sylwester—was trying to lead us to create." Schütz noted that Matthaüs was on good terms with young Sylwester, good enough to use his first name.

  Dropping his hand, Schütz sighed. "So be it. I perhaps let Herwin hang on too long, but he was one of the first players I ever hired, and . . ." He shook his head, then looked at them all. "Is the work worthy?"

  Nods from all over, and a surprising response of, "Yes, Master Heinrich," from Johann Amsel, of all people. As everyone looked at him, the boy's complexion reddened, but he stared back resolutely.

  "Good, good." Schütz smiled, then his face turned stern. "And make no mistake, my expectation is the same as Herr Sylwester's . . . your very best. While you follow him, it is as if you follow me. Nothing less is acceptable."

  "Yes, Master Heinrich," came from all corners of the room.

  Magdeburg—June, 1634

  "Stop."

  Marla stopped singing at Andrea's command.

  "You are singing from the wrong place," he said, straightening from his slouch against the wall and walking toward her. "The voice, it does not come from here." He pointed to her abdomen. "Your breath must come from there, but not the voice.

  "Nor does it come from here." Andrea touched her throat. As she opened her mouth to speak, he waved a hand. "Yes, yes, I have read of the vocal cords. But they are not the voice.

  "Think of a violin, please. You play a violin by taking a bow to the strings, yes? But does the voice of a violin come from the bow or the strings?" Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued, "No. The voice of a violin comes from the body.

  "In like manner, your diaphragm . . ." He pointed to her abdomen again. "Your diaphragm is the bow, and your vocal cords are the strings. But they are not where the voice comes from. The voice . . ." He leaned forward and placed a fingertip on her forehead. "The voice comes from the head. You cannot be lazy. You must relax your throat. You must place your tone in your head; sing from your head at all times." He turned back to his wall.

  "Again, please."

  * * *

  "Cellos, you must follow me here. You must swell this passage." Franz tapped his baton against the podium. "Start softly. Then, as the theme rises, crescendo until it crests, then diminuendo to the end of the phrase."

  Franz looked at his orchestra. "Start at letter F."

  The orchestra began playing. Franz led them on. At the passage in question he began swelling his pattern, all the while looking directly at the cellists.

  "Yes, yes, yes!" he exclaimed as they responded.

  Franz waved them to a stop at the end of the passage. "Very good, gentlemen. That was exactly what I wanted. Now, do it again to prove it was no accident.

  "Again from letter F."

  * * *

  Marla quit singing at Andrea's grimace. "What did I do wrong this time?"

  "Your breath support weakened." Andrea stalked forward. "You let too much air out when you sing." He poked her abdomen with a finger. "You must control your diaphragm better."

  Discouraged, Marla looked away. That cool soprano voice, so disconcerting from a man, seemed so dispassionate and yet somehow could cut so easily. She blinked her eyes as they started to water, only to feel Andrea's fingers take her chin and turn her to face him. "Marla, how many years have you studied voice? Not just sung, but actually studied?"

  She counted in her head. "Seven. From sixth grade to twelfth grade."

  "For seven years of study, you are very good—exceptional. But it is not enough for you to be exceptional. You will be the first woman musician in the up-time model, so you must be the best. I will teach you, and though I may seem stern at times, it is because I, too, desire you to be the best."

  Andrea looked away. "You will be my legacy, my progeny. It is only through you that I will live on in this world."

  Marla straightened and took a deep breath. As she let it out, Andrea looked at her with a crooked smile. "So, you will learn to control your diaphragm better, yes?"

  "Yes, Master Andrea."

  Inner fires stoked, resolution stiffened, Marla opened her mouth and sang.

  * * *

  Heinrich Schütz watched as Franz rehearsed the orchestra. He was sitting in the back of the great room between Frau Marla and Andrea. He had been doing so on a regular basis, ever since arriving in Magdeburg. Today, it seemed as if pieces of a puzzle that had been tumbling around finally fell into place. "Yes. Yes. I begin to understand."

  "Understand what, Master Heinrich?" Andrea leaned forward slightly to ask.

  "I begin to feel what manner of beast this symphony is. I begin to understand how to write for it. Master Giacomo tried to tell me, but I could not see it, could not feel it, not even with those CDs that he played for me, not even with the band.

  "But now, listening to the orchestra here, listening to Franz rehearse them, I begin to hear it in here." Heinrich pointed to his head, then his heart. "Perhaps Schütz can learn new tricks after all."

  * * *

  Franz set the baton down on the stand. He looked at each of the musicians, one by one, taking his time. "Gentlemen, we are ready."

  The applause started when he stepped down from the podium. Matthaüs was first to stand and clap, followed a bare instant later by Isaac Fremdling and Simon Bracegirdle.

  Franz's heart swelled. He stood there blinking, feeling as if he could hardly breath. As the applause rolled, he bowed to the symphony,
then straightened and raised a fist in the air. Amid the cheers of the players, he shouted, "To the Glorious Third of July!"

  Magdeburg—July 3, 1634

  Lady Beth Haygood stood near the door to the great room, watching and greeting as notables arrived. It still seemed odd to her for a buffet and bar—or at least that's how she thought of them—to be present at a concert. But then again, she supposed it wasn't really any different from what she'd heard about the skyboxes at some of the football stadiums before the Ring of Fire fell. The wealthy and influential would always insist on having their comforts, it seemed. The wine table was certainly receiving a lot of visits, anyway. Since this was an afternoon event, the food table consisted mostly of what Lady Beth thought of as party foods: hors d'oeuvres of various types, finger foods mostly.

  Mary Simpson had developed some pretty detailed plans for how this affair was to be conducted before she left on her trip, which it now seemed was indefinitely extended. Lady Beth wasn't sure where Mary was now. Wherever she was, Lady Beth was beginning to worry about her. Be that as it may, since Mary wasn't here, it had fallen to Lady Beth to execute those plans. So, she had rolled up her figurative sleeves and done so.

  Lady Beth thought Mary would have approved if she had been able to attend. With the help of advice from Eleonore Wettin, she had carefully crafted the arrangement of seating in the room, ensuring that every major noble house had its own block of seating which were marked off by ribbons of different colors. Then she had also carefully crafted the invitations, announcing the concert but also managing to let them know that this event would be somewhat different than anything else they had ever attended.

  The response to the RSVPs had been almost unanimous. Anyone who was anyone and was in Magdeburg was attending. Lady Beth had been checking names off her mental checklist as they entered. More of them were arriving in very quick fashion. Apparently the hints that had been dropped that those who were 'fashionably late' would miss part of the performance had been taken to heart by most of them.

  Lady Beth had to smile at the mixture of fashions she was seeing. Many of the older people were still wearing the styles that had been the equivalent of haut couture when Grantville appeared in 1631: wide skirts, bodices and high collars for the women; knee britches, long waistcoats and coats for the men.

  Mixed in with them, however, were those who were trying to adapt some of the up-time styles. There were several women, mostly younger, who were wearing variations on the theme of the Empire style gown Marla Linder had worn for her concert last December. Most of them received passing grades from Lady Beth. Great day in the morning. The one coming in the door at the moment was way too short and stocky to wear that style. She looks like a bowling pin!

  The young men had begun trying up-time influenced clothing styles some time before. Prime Minister Stearns—Lady Beth chuckled at the thought of Mike Stearns being a Prime Minister. Lord help us all! Mike had been their first example, but SignorAndrea Abati and his new mode had been like a rock in a pond. You could almost track the ripples of the style as you watched to see who talked to who when and who was wearing what next. It was a little more forgiving of physical makeup than the Empire style dress was, so most men were at least presentable in it. Signor Abati, of course, defined it. She had already heard several of the younger women—married at that—almost swooning over how romantic he looked.

  And speaking of SignorAbati, there he was now with Maestro Giacomo Carissimi and Signor Girolamo Zenti. Lady Beth smiled at sight of that mismatched trio. They were all talking volubly in Italian, with waving of arms. She had grown quite fond of the maestro in Grantville. The other two, while they could be a bit outrageous—make that a lot outrageous, in the case of Signor Abati—were usually a lot of fun to be around.

  The students she had drafted to serve as ushers were scurrying back and forth. They were leading people to their designated seats, making sure that everyone had a copy of the program, and collecting wine and plates of hors d'oeuvres for those who wanted them. The room was quite full, but there were still a few on Lady Beth's mandatory wait list who hadn't appeared yet.

  Ah, there's one of them now. Master Heinrich Schütz was finally arriving, predictably accompanied by Lucas Amsel on one side. On the other side was . . . Heavens above! That's Amber Higham! Immediately all sorts of wheels began spinning in Lady Beth's mind. It was only a moment before a delighted smile broke out on her face. So, this was the man the few faint rumors from Grantville had attached to Amber's name. Good for her. It was time she started taking a little more interest in life. From all accounts, it was past time for Master Heinrich to do so as well. She waved to them, and Amber waved back.

  It was but a matter of moments later that Princess Kristina and her companion, Lady Ursula, came through the door, followed by Wilhelm and Eleonore Wettin. Lady Beth mentally ticked them off of her list. She moved forward to greet them, then handed them over to the ushers to be led to the royal seating.

  Finally! The last name on her list, Don Francisco Nasi, appeared with his guests. Once they were seated, she beckoned to one of the ushers, gave him a message, then took her husband's arm and headed for their seats in the royal space. One of the perks of managing the affair, after all, was selecting your own seats.

  * * *

  Franz watched from the side doorway as the screens that had masked the orchestra area from the rest of the great room were moved by the ushers. The orchestra had been seated for some time, their quiet talk and occasional notes masked by the roar of conversation happening in the main part of the room. They had lost three more players besides Herwin Vogler for various reasons, but the orchestra still numbered more than fifty-five string players, which was an amazing experience for them all. The largest orchestra Franz had ever heard of was the group that Master Heinrich had sent, some nineteen in all, but that had included at least four wind players. Tonight was going to be a first in the experience of everyone, performers and listeners alike.

  Not for the first time, Franz wished they had a proper performance hall, like those he had seen in some of the videos that Marla had shown them last year. It frustrated him that for the first symphony concert they were having to make do with the biggest room they could find, which was not at all what he wanted.

  Taking a deep breath, he banished those thoughts from his mind. He turned to Matthaüs Amsel. "It is time."

  Matthaüs, who was serving as concert master, nodded. They shook hands, and Matthaüs walked out the door.

  Marla drew him away for a moment. She never said a word, simply took his hands in hers, smiled, and kissed him. Still smiling, she turned and walked down the hall. Franz had to force himself to turn back to the door.

  Matthaüs had reached the front of the orchestra. There was a smattering of light applause, as those who did not know what to expect responded to his appearance. Matthaüs properly bowed to acknowledge the applause, then turned to the orchestra. Raising his violin, he sounded an A to lead the orchestra through the final tuning exercise. Once that was completed, he took his seat at the front of the violins.

  There was a long expectant silence.

  Franz felt a tension in his gut that was starting to build, a flame that was starting to burn. He checked for the fifteenth time to make sure the baton was still tucked up his left sleeve. Taking another deep breath, he stepped through the doorway and strode to the front of the orchestra. The applause was louder this time. He bowed to acknowledge it.

  Turning, Franz stepped up on the podium and slid the baton out of his sleeve. Holding it before him in both hands, he took one slow look around the orchestra. All eyes were on him, awaiting his direction. Unsmiling, feeling the heat rising, he slowly lifted his hands. The instruments were raised to position, bows were poised. As the tension crested, he began.

  * * *

  Marla stepped into the back of the great room just as Franz straightened from his bow. She moved to one side, where a chair had been placed for her. One of the ushers held it
for her as she sat. She rewarded him with a smile, only to see him blush.

  Facing forward, she could see Franz with his arms raised. She held her breath, waiting for that first moment, the first public performance of Franz as a conductor. It had been a long road for him to get here, over three years in the traveling. Three years to go from crippled, embittered ex-musician to a leading light in the music of Germany. Well, soon to be leading light. She smiled. Today would light the flame.

  The baton moved. The music began.

  * * *

  Giacomo Carissimi closed his eyes, the better to drink the music in. The Brandenburg—no, the Vasa Concerto No. 3 in G major by Johann Sebastian Bach. He and Andrea had nearly exploded with laughter when they had seen that listing in the program. The reasoning behind the renaming of the work was immediately obvious, but it was still a delicious thing to savor. This was a slap in the face of the Elector of Brandenburg, into whose employ Andrea had nearly gone. It was perhaps even the more savory because the Elector had yet to realize he had been slapped.

  This concerto was one of the first up-time pieces that Giacomo had truly grown to love. Two driving allegro movements, linked by a bare two measures of an adagio movement. The last movement was absolutely one of the most joyous pieces of work that a string player could perform. The themes were passed from part to part as if it were a musical version of a child's keep-away game. Giacomo remembered reading that old Johann—which was how he affectionately thought of him—liked playing the viola. He could believe that, hearing this piece. The viola parts were just as intricate as the violin parts.

  He abandoned himself to the music, immersed in it until the final chords.

  * * *

  Heinrich Schütz nodded slowly as the Vasa Concerto No. 3 concluded. Young Franz was indeed shaping to be what Master Giacomo had described him to be—a musician who played musicians. There was no doubt that the fifty or more musicians were gathered in his hands and played as if they were extensions of his fingers. To hear this—here and now—made up for the turmoil he had suffered weeks ago. This was the future. This was what music would look like from now on. Patrons and musicians alike would never settle for less after this. Historians of music would look back on this day and say, "Here. Here is where it changed." He marveled to be here, to be part of it in some way.