Grantville Gazette-Volume XV

  "Aye, a shepherd of music," Friedrich replied, "perhaps one of the great ones."

  "Pfaugh! You flatter me."

  "No, my friend, no. It is but truth. You found Grantville's music first, even before Maestro Carissimi." Friedrich nodded to Master Girolamo. "You called us here, you drove us to follow Marla, chivvying us along, all the while wondering if you would ever play again. And by the grace of God and your own endurance you have begun to play. The others follow your lead, and well they should. You will lead them to glory, a musical Alexander, and they will be known as your companions. They all sense this, even Hermann of the hard head."

  Franz stared at his friend in amazement. Never had he heard such come from Friedrich before. "Are you the modern Delphian Oracle, then?"

  Looking a bit abashed, Friedrich replied, "Nay, no prophet or seer, I. The future is hidden from me in fog and clouds of gun smoke, just as it is to everyone. But this much is plain to me."

  "Heavy expectations you lay upon me," Franz said.

  "No heavier than what you lay upon yourself."

  "I will say this," interjected Master Girolamo. "I have heard Maestro Carissimi say that Signora Marla's flame burns bright, but yours burns hotter." Johannes nodded in agreement.

  Franz stared at them all, all of them returning his stare with level gazes. "I . . . I do not know what to make of this. I . . . I am not accustomed to thinking of myself as such."

  Master Hans stepped to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Think not about it. Just be yourself, the wise fool Franz who loves Frau Marla Linder and loves music. Be true to that, and let whatever else come that will."

  Franz looked him in the eye for a moment, then nodded slowly. "That I can do. That I will."

  "Good." The master clapped his shoulder again with a blow that staggered him. "Now, let us consider again this merino of violins." They all shook themselves, laughing together, and grouped around the table again.

  "So, you have determined the instrument's physique," Franz said. Master Zenti grunted, the others nodded. "And how long to make one, then?"

  "I say three months or more," from Friedrich, "but Johannes there says that his kinsmen and fellow craftsmen in Füssen can produce one in two."

  "Ah, you are from Füssen, then?" Franz turned to Johannes. "I have heard of their violins, I believe. Are you then a crafter of such?"

  Johannes shook his head. "No. I agreed to come with Master Girolamo, and I am assisting in his work with pianos, but my family are luthiers . . . geigenfabrikants. Our specialty is lutes, but I have helped with violins before. Four, maybe five violins."

  "Füssen has fine woods, fine timber," Master Girolamo added. "I have ordered woods from there to be sent to me here. But obviously the Füssen craftsmen would get first choice."

  "So, two months. Allowing for time to get to Füssen, and time for the violins to return, if we desired to order from everyone in Füssen who could build this 'merino' violin design, including the new bows as well," Franz said slowly, working through an idea, "how many could we have by, say . . . the end of April?"

  Johannes pondered that question, lips moving and fingers counting on fingers. Finally he looked up. "If they can be convinced to make these the most important works, put them ahead of their other contracts, I would think twenty, perhaps twenty-five."

  Franz looked at the two masters. "If Ingram has any fortune at all in finding sound and playable up-time violins in basements and attics, that would surely equip the violinists of our orchestra soon to be hatched." They accepted his statement as fact, and both looked back at him with identical quizzical expressions on their faces. "So, you send Johannes to Füssen with the 'merino' design, authority to contract and enough silver to bind the contracts. Get them started soon. Neither of you can produce what is required as soon as they can."

  "True," Master Hans said sourly, and Master Girolamo grunted in agreement.

  "It will cost," warned Johannes. "You will pay for the new design, you will pay for the speed, and you will definitely pay to put your order at the head of their ladders."

  "I believe that Frau Simpson understands the concept of paying to expedite. Make your guess as to what is needed, and talk to this Lady Beth Haygood that Frau Simpson said will be her voice and hand. Get lots of silver, or drafts on the Abrabanels may be even better. Best send a couple of guards with Johannes, as well." Franz started to turn back to the table, paused, and added, "And make it a provision of each contract that for two years they will only produce 'merino' design violins for the Magdeburg orchestra."

  "Better if you make it five or six years," Master Girolamo's grin was evil, "and let them bargain you down to two in exchange for lower prices and first place on the work ladders."

  "Listen well to that one." Master Hans matched grin with grin. "You youngsters have yet to learn that there is a time and a place for passion, and a time and a place for guile. Our Italian friend understands guile right well."

  "As you advise, then," Franz said. "Just begin it quickly."

  "Surely you will not gift these instruments to the players?" Friedrich asked. "I doubt that Frau Simpson would agree to that, regardless of how quickly she desires to see them provided."

  "No," Franz responded. "The players will pay for them, will pay what we pay plus the cartage. If one has not sufficient silver, then a portion of his stipend will be withheld until the full sum is paid. Make sure that Frau Mary's voice and hand knows of this as well."

  Turning back to the table, unaware of just how much he sounded like a general issuing commands, Franz said, "And do you have a 'merino' design for a viola . . ."

  Grantville - Friday afternoon, January 6, 1634

  Franz was surprised to see Maestro Giacomo Carissimi walking slowly ahead of him in the hallway of the high school. The gifted and well-known Italian composer had come to Grantville chasing the rumors of unique and remarkable music. He had found more than he had ever dreamed could exist.

  In truth, Franz and his friends had come for the same reason as Maestro Carissimi. Franz had stumbled upon Grantville first, and had then summoned his friends and acquaintances from his erstwhile home of Mainz. Others had followed the rumors on their own—the brothers Josef and Rudolf Tuchman from Hannover and Hermann Katzberg from Hamburg. Because they had the advantage of shorter distances to travel, they were all in Grantville and soaking up musical knowledge like a sot guzzling wine weeks before the Italian had arrived. Franz had to admit that the maestro had made up for lost time since then. He was somewhat in awe of how quickly that quiet, soft-spoken, shy man had progressed to the place where he was beginning to write in new idioms.

  Franz fell into step beside the Italian. "Good afternoon, Maestro."

  The older man looked around at him with a shy smile. "Oh, it is you, Signor Franz. And a buon pomeriggio, or as you would say it, guten Tag. Shall we continue in German, or perhaps Latin?"

  "No, maestro, no." Franz laughed, shifting his books to his other hand. "Let us continue to practice English."

  "Hmm, a practice in which you have over me the advantage." The maestro looked faintly disappointed.

  "But do not the physicians say that one must exercise weak muscles to strengthen them? So it is with languages, I have observed."

  Carissimi laughed. "I must allow you the hit, young sir. Very well, let us together exercise. Perhaps my command of the English will improve, to the amazing of my English friend, Father Fitzherbert."

  They were nearly to the double doors to the band room. Franz gestured to them. "Do you come here often? To the rehearsals, I mean?"

  "Yes. Yes, I do, to steep myself in the sounds of these winds. We have nothing like them. They are so new, so different, so . . . challenging."

  "Challenging?" Franz opened the door and allowed Carissimi to precede him.

  "Yes. It is like a naturalist who goes to America, and finds there new kinds of animals. They may be beautiful, but he must study them to know what they live with, what they feed on, if they are
of a temperament to be domesticated, to what work they can be put. So it is with these . . . I am the naturalist of music whose world has been turned . . . ah . . . piedi sottosopra . . ."

  "Feet over head," a voice supplied from behind them. "We would say 'upside down.'" They turned to see Marla entering the room behind them.

  Carissimi nodded. "Yes. Exactly so, upside down. And I must understand them before I can know to what use to put them. Good afternoon, Signora Marla. And let me say once again," with a slight bow, "i miei piu' sentiti ringraziamenti for the wonderful performing of my humble lamento done by you and your friends. I was at the end of my wit, molto frustrato, when I was told no orchestra was in Grantville. To have your friends play was a blessing, and to have your voice to sing was a gift from God."

  A faint blush painted Marla's cheeks. "Maestro, you are too kind, and surely you exaggerate. Signor Abati could have done it much better, I am sure."

  "Mmm, forgive me the disagreeing, but no, child, he could not. I have known Andrea, il Prosperino, for some time, and known of him for longer. He might, perhaps, have sung it slightly more correctly . . ." Carissimi checked a little as Marla looked away from him. "Forgive me. If I offend I regret. But, child, despite what you might have thought, you are not the world's only great singer. Andrea, he has been singing for over twenty years. His voice, now it is prime. The best in Italy he is, which means the best in the world. And I, Giacomo Carissimi, I say that he might have sung my lamento with a slight more correctness, but he would never have sung it with your passion."

  Franz was surprised at the conversation occurring in front of him. Always before il maestro had been very shy with women, almost ill at ease. Today he spoke to Marla as he would to a respected colleague.

  The Italian sighed, and said quietly, "Andrea . . . It is often so with the great ones when they reach Olympus so young. They have nothing to live for but the hope that some great work will require them and only them before they fade. I think that is why Andrea took the offer of the place in the court of Brandenburg—to do a new something, to go to a new place, to do something no castrato before him had done. But now, now he has found Magdeburg, and Grantville, and the music you have that is nowhere else. Now, I think, he has found his calling, found the challenge that will face him every day for the rest of his life. In his own way, he has found heaven on earth."

  Carissimi turned and looked directly into Marla's eyes, something that he did more now than earlier in their acquaintance. "And you, child, Marla, you with the golden gift from God of a voice, you should study with him. He can teach you much that you need, if you will ask him. It will enliven him, and will help you."

  Marla nodded slowly. "I will follow your advice, Maestro."

  "Good. You will the better be for it."

  At that moment, the door to the band room flung open, and they all jumped as Marcus Wendell charged through. "Hah! You're all here. Good!" He plopped a stack of paper down on a stool, and faced Franz. "So, you ready to try, Franz?" With a gulp, Franz straightened and nodded. "Good. Bring your score, and let's look over it one last time . . ." The school bell rang for the change of classes, and Marcus grimaced. "Sorry, too late. Here they come."

  And indeed, there was a rising thunder of footsteps in the hallway. Franz and his companions pressed back against the wall, out of the way, as a seemingly endless tide of young bodies flung itself through the doorway and crashed on the chairs arranged around the podium as a breaking wave on shore. Within a couple of minutes every chair was full, and students were chattering away as they fitted instrument pieces together. It was amazing how well twenty-five teenagers sucking on clarinet reeds could at the same time carry on conversations with at least three other players sitting near them. Reeds began to squeal and sound, brass began to blare and blat, drums began rolling, tubas began thundering. Just as the cacophony began to overpower them, the class bell rang again, and Marcus stepped up on the podium. Within moments, there was quiet.

  Franz watched intently as Marcus prepared the band, running them through various tuning exercises. At length, he cut them off and set his baton on the stand. "Okay, kids, listen up." They looked at him expectantly, with a few sidelong glances at the guests by the door. They were used to Maestro Carissimi—Mister C, they called him sometimes—listening in on their rehearsals, but Franz and Marla were new faces to them, at least in Mr. Wendell's domain.

  "You've got a new piece of music in your folders. Or it's new to some of you. I think we played it a couple of years ago, so most of you probably remember it. Anyway, pull it out, because Mr. Sylwester here is going to take the baton in a minute and direct it."

  "Mr. Wendell," called a voice from the tuba section over the excited whispers.

  "What?"

  "You didn't say what piece it was."

  Amid the smothered giggles and snickers from the other kids, Marcus smiled. "Okay, Dane, you got me that time. Get out A Civil War Medley."

  Paper rustled all over the room as Marcus stepped from the podium and motioned Franz over. The older man offered the baton across his left forearm as if he were surrendering a sword. Franz accepted it with no small amount of trepidation. Leaning forward a little, Marcus murmured, "They're good kids, and they won't mess with you. Just give them a good downbeat and keep the patterns going, no matter what. Go straight through it one time, we'll compare notes quickly, then you can work with them some."

  Mouth dry enough to resemble a desert, Franz nodded again. The podium looked about five feet tall in front of him, but he managed to raise a foot and step up on it. He placed his copy of the score on the music stand, and adjusted it to his height. Fussing with the score, he placed it just so, then slowly opened the cover to the first page of music. He knew he was avoiding looking at the band members, out of simple fear deferring the moment when he would have to begin. It was the thought of Marla behind him that caused Franz to straighten up, throw his shoulders back, and raise his head to look at the . . . musicians. They might be only children, teenagers, but they were musicians, and he owed them his best. They sat quietly, instruments on laps, waiting on him.

  Franz raised his hands, baton gripped in his right, and poised at the top of their movement. Instruments were raised all over the room. "Four beats," he said, after the manner of Marcus. The tip of the baton moved through three slight beats and raised high. As he brought it down, the music began.

  Focused as he was on just getting the pattern started, the crash of music startled Franz so that he almost lost control. Marcus had given him the book on conducting and the score to the piece right after they returned to Grantville. He had read the book from cover to cover, calling on Marla to translate where he wanted to make sure he understood. Each picture and diagram was scrutinized to the point that Marla had laughed that he was wearing the ink off of the pages. From her own experience as a student conductor for Marcus, she was able to guide him in developing the patterns and the common practices of conducting. And then he practiced . . . over and over and over he practiced, to the point he thought his arm was going to fall off. But during all of his practice, he was hearing the music in his head, which by its nature is a quiet exercise. To actually hear the music, to hear the crash of cymbals, the roll of the drums and the crisp sounds of the trumpets nearly blew him off of the podium.

  The first song in the medley possessed the odd name of 'Marching Through Georgia.' It was a sprightly song, one that could have been played at a dance, Franz thought. His pattern was quick and brisk, in keeping with the allegro tempo marking. He managed to remember to turn the pages as those points were reached. The song passed quickly. Almost before he knew it the modulation to the second song was upon him.

  Making his patterns broader and slower, he negotiated the change to 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home.' He was gratified that the students had slowed in keeping with his changes. The new tempo was andante, and his pattern was in accordance with that instruction. Again, looking around, he was pleased to see the students—no, the musi
cians—were intent on their music, somehow keeping one eye on the pages and one eye on him. He sped up the pattern just a little, and the ease with which they matched his change fed him such exhilaration that he almost laughed.

  The second transition was upon him, and again Franz led the band through another modulation to 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic,' speeding the tempo up to match the alla marcia marking. This was his favorite of the three songs, and he poured himself into it. In the second verse, the legato rendition, he motioned to the clarinets to play softer, and they responded! In the third verse, the finale, he switched to a deliberate pattern. When the trumpets weren't strong enough to suit him, he forcefully beckoned to them to play louder. And they responded! Energized, he led them through the final chorus, slowing the tempo because of the ritard, to the great concluding series of chords alternating with cymbal crashes, to the final chord with its crescendo, held at length, and finally released with the final crash of cymbals.

  Franz dropped his arms, dazed for a moment that it was ended. He looked over to where Marcus was standing against the wall, and saw him smiling, giving him the thumbs-up signal that in Grantville meant 'you done good.' Relaxing, he stepped down from the podium and met Marcus to hear his comments and suggestions.

  * * *

  During the conference, Carissimi leaned over to Marla. "This is one of the things I marvel at, this conductor. Never would it have occurred to me that there was a different way than having the continuo player, the harpsichordist, lead the performance. But to watch Master Wendell, and now Franz, I see a better way, a way for one man to be to an ensemble as a violinist is to the violin. Does it work that way? Does the skill and the talent of the conductor make as much difference to the orchestra or band as the skill and talent of the musicians?"

  "Perhaps more so," Marla whispered back.

  Carissimi sat back. "This bears thinking upon."

  * * *