Grantville Gazette, Volume VIII Read online

  The program stated that the next work was by one Johann Pachelbel. Another name he did not know, so obviously one from the future. A Canon in D. Good, it would be a form he was somewhat familiar with, then. Perhaps from not so far in the future.

  The baton was raised. Once more music sounded.

  The canon started quietly, a slow statement of the theme in the cellos, and then began to build, phrase by phrase, theme by theme, section by section. It was light, it was airy, it floated. Heinrich floated with it. It almost seemed like musical lace, he thought. He admired Herr Pachelbel's delicate touch at writing the music. He also admired Franz's equally delicate touch at leading the performance of it.

  The music built and swelled, ebbed and flowed. Finally, it began a slow diminuendo. The concluding phrase was a final quiet restatement of the first theme.

  As the applause swelled around him, Heinrich nodded. Yes. This is the future and I will—I must—be a part of it. My name will be known for more than the music brought back with Grantville. God willing, I will make my place. And a far different one it will be than that of that sad man I read about in the encyclopedia article.

  * * *

  Andrea Abati, an old hand at reading programs—this was his second—glanced at it quickly to see what the third work was to be. Hmm, Adagio for Strings, by Samuel Barber. An Englishman, or more likely an American with an English name. This was not one of the men he had read about in his weeks in Grantville. Nor had he managed to hear this one in rehearsal since he returned to Magdeburg. Nonetheless, he trusted that Franz Sylwester had selected only superlative pieces for this concert. Certainly, the first two works had been excellent. Ah, Franz has raised his stick, or baton, as Master Giacomo called it. Andrea sat back in his seat, anticipating.

  The beginning was very quiet, even more so than that of the canon. The sound seemed to seep into the room, a moving line over suspended chords. The theme was minor in intonation. It evoked a sadness in Andrea's heart, especially when it was joined by another line in a very free polyphony over the chords. He began to hear it as a mournful aria, perhaps as a mother crying for her children.

  The music tore at him, shattering the walls he had built in his mind ever since he had read the future's judgment of him and his brethren. All the glory and the beauty of his art, of the music created by the gentilhuomi, treated with pity, sadness and more than a hint of condescension. He was used to men in Italy and Germany considering him unnatural, but that the future judged him so . . .

  The orchestra sang, a song without words. Andrea poured his grief out into the music, letting the dark places in his soul flow, the grief in his heart matched by the sorrow of the music. How . . . how did this . . . American, this . . . up-timer—how could he know of Andrea's sorrow? How could he write this, this passion for Andrea Abati and his brothers, when he never knew them?

  The cellos picked up the theme and carried it, sounding darkly, then restated it, climbing, climbing, joined by the other strings, sounding now as a choir of angels mourning. Andrea listened, heart swelling, as the music crescendoed, circling, climbing, carrying him along, building, building, building, building, one peak after another, until it finally crested. His mouth opened in a silent scream, every muscle in his body clenched, every tendon rigid.

  The music stopped.

  Slowly, slowly, it began again. In his mind's eye he could see the mother laying her child down. So, as the orchestra sang the final lament, he, too, laid down the grief he had not even realized he was carrying.

  When the final note was released, Andrea opened his eyes, unsurprised that they were teary, unsurprised that his cheeks were wet; unsurprised that he was shaking a little.

  Master Carissimi leaned over. With concern in his voice, he asked, "State bene?"

  Andrea took a moment to respond. "Si. I am all right." And as he smiled at the master, he realized that he was.

  * * *

  Franz turned, stepped off of the podium and bowed to acknowledge the applause. He then walked out of the room to allow for the small intermission that was planned in the program.

  He leaned back against the wall in the hallway and wiped the damp hair out of his face . . . or at least, he attempted to. Realizing that he still held the baton in his hand, he tucked it back into his left sleeve, then completed the action with his hair.

  "Franz!" Marla hurried to him. She arrived with a thump, threw her arms around him and gave him a ferocious hug and a kiss that left him dazzled. She stepped back at arm's length. "It's going great, Franz! It sounds wonderful, the guys are playing wonderful, and you're doing wonderful!" She hugged him again.

  "But the hardest part is yet to do."

  "Bah! What's left may be longer, but I think the hardest one was the Barber, and you did fine with it."

  Franz contemplated her words, and a sense of warmth began to build. She was right, he thought. The Geminiani/Carissimi piece was relatively simple, and the Vaughan Williams, although longer, was no more complex than the Barber. A new feeling of confidence settled on him.

  * * *

  Thankful that the third work was completed, Girolamo Zenti picked up his program. He stared at it without seeing it for a moment, settling his mind. The Adagio had been a little disturbing; dissonant, even harsh at times, yet it had in some way moved him. A sudden chill chased through him; he shuddered.

  Focusing on the program, he saw that the next work was the piece that his friend Master Giacomo had contributed to the program, Variations and Etude on Geminiani's Concerto Grosso in E minor. Although not a musician himself, Girolamo perforce had to know something about music in order to be the master craftsman that he was. He found his friend's work interesting. He had taken a work originally written for a group of solo instruments and harpsichord and had re-voiced it for full orchestra.

  There was a stir as Franz walked back to the podium, once again bowing to the applause. Girolamo settled himself to listen.

  The initial movement was a largo, played slowly. The principal theme was built around a dotted, almost syncopated, stuttering rhythm. The cellos played a strong ground line, the other parts layering above them. He looked over to see Master Giacomo nodding, a small smile on his face.

  An allegro with a fast triple rhythm followed. The violins were prominent. Girolamo found his foot tapping. It sounded something like a song he used to hear at the harvest festival in his home town.

  In the following adagio, the sections entered one by one over the sustained cello notes. The movement was marked by the descending figures of the first violins in the opening bars and the ascending chord of the violas in the final measures.

  The final movement, another allegro, was the most complex. The violas assumed prominence in it, first using an imitative violin entry and triple stopped chords, then using contrapuntal entries that were answered by the first violins, the seconds and, finally, the cellos.

  When the piece concluded, he leaned over to Master Giacomo. "That was nicely done."

  "In comparison to the others, it is not so much." Giacomo smiled amidst the applause. "But it does provide a bit of a comfortable sound, does it not?"

  * * *

  Matthaüs rested his violin on his thigh, glad for the brief break. They had done well, he thought. Franz had prepared them well. In return, they had proven their mettle for him.

  The climax of the evening was at hand. The piece they were about to play, while not as jarring as the earlier Adagio, could almost have come from the same school. It definitely had its intense moments, as well as being considerably longer. He was to play the lead violin part in the quartet in the central portion of the work.

  Striving to focus, to not let down, Matthaüs took several deep breaths. Feeling a little calmer, he looked to Isaac Fremdling who sat next to him and was to play the second violin part in the quartet. Isaac was looking back at him. They shared a brief smile before looking to the podium where Franz stood.

  * * *

  Franz looked down to where he held t
he baton in both hands. He took a deep breath and uttered a brief prayer before he reached inside himself and opened wide the door to the fire that burned within. As the flames roared forth, he raised his arms and began the Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis by Ralph Vaughan Williams.

  * * *

  From the opening movements, the brief introductory theme, everyone in the room was captivated. The musicians were the most enthralled, but even the most casual listener was caught up as pure musical passion seemed to fountain from the orchestra. Flames of music seemed to wave from the baton of Franz Sylwester, seemed to sometimes erupt from his figure as he reached out with his crippled hand and molded the flow of the themes.

  * * *

  Never, never before had Franz felt so much at one with a work. He became the music, bending, gesturing, flowing from one sound to another, leading the players in the great dance, evoking more from them than they—or he—had ever dreamed could be drawn out of them. God Above, if this was anything like what Lucifer had felt while leading the choirs of angels in praise, no wonder he rebelled!

  * * *

  Marla was frozen. All her being, her very soul poured out in response to what Franz was shaping, the glory of sound that was coming forth from the players. Unnoticed, unbidden, tears flowed.

  * * *

  Tears also glittered in Andrea's eyes. He felt lifted on wings as the Fantasia poured into those places that the Adagio had scoured clean, filled him and provided a healing balm. Andrea had often joked of singing like an angel. Now he felt surrounded by them.

  * * *

  Heinrich Schütz was stunned. He had heard this work in rehearsal, but to hear it now, performed flawlessly with such an overwhelming passion, was almost unbearable. All he could do was whisper over and over again, "My God, my God."

  * * *

  Giacomo Carissimi sat, eyes closed and a beatific smile upon his face. Such must have been the song in Heaven when the world was created. He whispered, "Soli Deo Gloria."

  * * *

  The music ebbed and flowed, now cresting, now receding, now brighter, now darker. Through it all, Franz moved like a beech in the wind, still leading, still calling forth just that little bit more of passion from the musicians, just that little bit more of fire that surprised them, imbuing even the softer passages with intensity.

  As the Fantasia drew to a close, Franz gently led them to the final chord. Sustaining the tone with his baton, he held his left hand up, then began to lower it, bringing the players into a gradual diminuendo. Finally there was only a thread of sound left. He closed his fist, and it stopped.

  * * *

  There was a moment of absolute silence.

  Applause erupted. Everyone was on their feet, clapping. "Bravo, Bravissimo, Bravo," was heard loudly over and over again from the Italian sector of the room. It was picked up by others. Shrill whistles could be heard every once in a while.

  Franz put the baton down on the stand and stepped off of the podium. He kept one hand on the music stand, however, because his knees were so wobbly he was a little uncertain he could bow without falling. He was successful in his bow, though, and in the several that followed.

  Straightening from the third bow, he stepped to one side and waved to the orchestra, motioning them to stand. Matthaüs looked at Isaac. They both shrugged. As they stood, the others followed. After a moment, Franz stepped back onto the podium, holding his hands up for quiet. It took some little while, as a couple of rowdy Italians were still shouting, but he finally achieved it.

  Before he could say anything, Odelia Seiler, Georg's little girl, jumped up from a seat in the royal area and trotted forward. Franz looked at her in bemusement. She stopped in front of the podium, gave a curtsey, then offered him a white rose from behind her back. Startled, he reached for it. When his fingers touched it, he began laughing. It was brass! Franz knew exactly who had put Odelia up to this . . . this was 'payback,' as the Grantvillers called it, for his offering Marla a brass rose at her concert in December.

  Odelia trotted back to her seat as he made a show of sniffing the flower, then tapped it with a fingernail. Chuckles sounded from the audience, most of whom were present when he started the joke. Finally, he set it aside.

  "We. . ." Franz extended his arms to include the entire symphony ". . . want to thank you very much for coming to this, the first concert of the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra. These men have come together, many of them strangers to each other, with one goal: to perform the best music that can be found. They have worked very hard in the last three months. They, more than I, are deserving of your applause." He led the audience in another round of applause.

  Holding his hands up again, he received the desired quiet much quicker than before. "I realize that we have reached the end of the printed program, but we have a small surprise for you. Please, be seated."

  Stepping down from the podium again, Franz went over to the door to the hallway. Marla was waiting, eyes gleaming. Taking her by the hands, he asked, "Ready?"

  She squeezed back. "Ready."

  As they appeared hand in hand, the audience began clapping again. They stopped in front of the podium and bowed together. Franz stepped onto the podium and picked up the baton. Marla stepped a little to one side and turned slightly so she could see Franz. He looked at her; she nodded. Raising the baton, he began. After a short introduction, Marla poured out her voice.

  And did those feet in ancient time

  Walk upon Deutschland's mountains green?

  And was the holy Lamb of God

  On Deutschland's pleasant pastures seen?

  And did the countenance divine

  Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

  And was Jerusalem builded here

  Among those dark Satanic mills?

  Heinrich and Giacomo were struck by the power of the song, the power of the text, but even more so the power of Marla's voice. Andrea, on the other hand, simply smiled. He had known what was coming. The sheer beauty of Marla's singing was the perfect cap to the concert in his mind.

  The orchestra played an interluding instrumental verse. Marla opened her mouth again.

  Bring me my bow of burning gold,

  Bring me my arrows of desire!

  The tempo of the music slowed a little. Marla's performance became slightly more deliberate.

  Bring me my spear! Oh, clouds unfold!

  Her voice swelled and crested in the second part of the line.

  Bring me my chariot of fire.

  She held up her hand to the heavens. More than one person wouldn't have been surprised if she had been answered.

  I will not cease from mental fight,

  Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

  Marla sang no louder, but the intensity grew.

  Till we have built Jerusalem

  In Deutschland's green and pleasant land!

  The orchestra played the final concluding chords. Franz was watching Marla, and they cut off together.

  Once more applause resounded within the room. Once more shouts of "Bravo! Brava!" were heard from some irrepressible Italians. Once more Franz and Marla joined hands and bowed, then separated and waved to the orchestra. Finally, they joined hands again and bowed one last time before leaving the room.

  * * *

  Once the applause died down and the patrons began to mill around, Franz and Marla quietly re-entered the room. They spent some time among the jubilant musicians. Franz congratulated everyone, gave them two days off, and told them to report to rehearsal on the following Thursday.

  Franz carried his white 'rose.' Accompanied by Isaac, Simon, and Matthaüs and his brothers, he and Marla began to mingle with the audience. Congratulations were showered on them from left and right. Franz's bemusement returned when he was asked to autograph programs. Isaac had a pencil in his pocket, which turned out to be very convenient.

  After a few minutes, they encountered Master Heinrich and Amber Higham, who were wearing bemused expressions of their own. Lucas Amsel was
with them, and he was not only not bemused, he was so excited he was about to burst.

  "Matthaüs! Marcus! Johann! Simon! You will never guess what has just happened!" Without giving them a chance to even begin to guess, Lucas blurted out, "Princess Kristina just asked Master Heinrich if he would become the Kappellmeister for the court here in Magdeburg."

  Exclamations of surprise and joy sounded all around. Matthaüs turned to his master. "Did you accept, Master Heinrich?"

  "Well . . . um . . . actually, I asked them for a little time to think about it."

  Exclamations of surprise and "What?" sounded all around. Amber Higham said, "But he's going to accept it, aren't you, Heinrich?"

  Master Heinrich shrugged, but a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth told the truth.

  Franz and Marla congratulated him. They wandered on, Isaac in company, speaking to all and sundry, until suddenly Isaac stopped. "I do not believe it."

  They looked in the direction of his gaze. Don Francisco Nasi was approaching with three older people; two men and a woman. They wore the Jewish mark on their clothing.

  "Ah, good day to you, my friends." Don Francisco's voice was expansive. "A remarkable event, yes. Truly remarkable."

  Franz and Marla thanked him. All the while Isaac stood as still as a statue, staring at those who accompanied Don Francisco.

  The taller man, who had a truly impressive beard, stared back until he was forcefully nudged by the short woman who stood beside him. He looked at her, then looked back at Isaac. Finally, he spoke. "Yitzhak, is it well with you?"