Movement I – Allegro con brio
From the Grantville News, Monday, January 2, 1634
Linder-Sylwester Wedding
The New Year began with more celebration than usual yesterday as Marla Linder and Franz Sylwester were united in marriage at 3 p.m. in the Methodist church. The bride wore a white gown in the old Grantville tradition, while the groom was dressed in a blue velvet jacket and black velvet trousers. The matron of honor was Anna Riebeck and the best man was Friedrich Braun. Other attendants were the bride's sister Jonni Chieske and Thomas Schwarzberg. The Reverend Simon Jones led the bride and groom in their vows and joined them in holy matrimony. A reception was held in the church's fellowship hall afterward.
When asked why they selected Sunday as their wedding day, Marla replied that they wanted to begin the New Year as husband and wife. Franz added that being united on the Lord's Day made it even more meaningful.
The new family will make their home in Magdeburg, where they will both be involved in music and the arts.
Grantville – Thursday, January 5, 1634
Franz felt as if he were walking on clouds as he walked hand in hand with Marla up the steps to the High Street House. Of course, he had felt that way since Sunday, when he and Marla were wed. It had happened so quickly, he still felt somewhat dizzy. It was hard to remember that it was only three weeks ago that he had proposed to Marla on bended knee before a room full of the most influential people in the USE. She had been patiently waiting for him to do so for months, but in his stubbornness he would not do so until the rehabilitation of his crippled hand had progressed enough to let him play his violin in public again. Once he had determined to propose, he waited for the night of her concert and took advantage of the setting as she responded to the final applause. He had well and truly surprised her, which was part of his delight, but it had not taken her long to overcome that surprise, pull him to his feet and-how did he hear someone describe it… oh, yes-"plant a lip lock" on him.
The days after that night had been a whirlwind of activity, as Marla was obligated to return to Grantville as soon as possible after that to sing the premiere of Maestro Carissimi's lament for the death of Hans Richter, Lament for a Fallen Eagle. It was to be performed on December 26^ th, the feast day of St. Stephen the Martyr. Somehow Franz was not surprised at the timing. The maestro, quiet though he was, had impressed him as being a man of thought and order. So, Marla, Franz and their friends-including Klaus and Reuel, who had been assigned to bodyguard duty by Gunther Achterhof after the episode in The Green Horse when Marla had been accosted by a drunk-had packed up on December 16^ th, the day after the concert, and left for Grantville. Klaus and Reuel were theoretically serving as couriers, and indeed, they did carry a package of papers to the CoC in Grantville. Everyone knew, however, that they were charged with Marla's safety.
The trip, although somewhat more taxing than when they traveled to Magdeburg on a barge, was somewhat more pleasant because of one thing: it was not raining. Marla did not handle being wet and cold very well. Franz sent silent prayers of thanks upwards for every day that dawned sunny and dry.
Once they arrived, the days prior to Christmas were filled with rehearsals at St. Mary's Catholic Church, the venue the maestro had chosen for the performance. Franz had sat on a pew, listening, as Marla, Isaac, Josef, Rudolf and Hermann had practiced with the composer and his chosen pianist, Elizabeth Jordan, one of Marla's former teachers. Frau Jordan had become a mentor to the renowned Italian composer in the ways of the music brought back in Grantville by the Ring of Fire, and it was a natural choice for her to play since Marla had been asked to sing the solo. Franz was still unable to play anything very complex yet, and had chosen to not attempt a part in this, desiring only the best performance for both Marla's sake and that of the maestro he had come to admire.
Christmas happened; a most joyful time in Grantville. The day after Christmas was the performance of the lament, and Marla had done as well as he had expected. Then she sprang her surprise on him. Even now, he remembered feeling as if he had been punched when she turned to him the morning of December 27^ th and said, "Let's get married! Now! We're here, my family and friends are here, and so are yours. Let's do it! On New Year's Day!" And he had been helpless to do anything except agree.
Once again, he saw Marla "kick into high gear." Once again all he could do was cling to her train as she, her aunt and her sister huddled together and planned a whirlwind campaign. They divided the tasks and moved out to conquer far faster than any military staff. Aunt Susan retired to the kitchen to do the baking for the reception. Jonni took over the arrangements with the church and the minister, the publication notice and preparation and circulation of invitations. Marla herself dealt with the question of attire.
A phone call to Karen Reading produced a squawk of "What?" Franz had heard it across the room from the phone. Karen had followed it with a stern command for Marla to get her behind to the Bridal Shop with no dilly-dallying around. Marla had obeyed that command. Franz traveled in her wake, to sit in a chair while Karen and Donna Lynn Rogers had fussed and fretted enough for three weddings while Marla tried on several dresses.
There were extended conversations about the suitability of each design, filled with arcane words that Franz had never heard before. For all he knew, they were conjuring up the desired dress. Fortunately, he had with him the book that Marcus Wendell, the band director, had given him, and he spent his time poring over that, looking up from time to time when one of the ladies would ask, "Franz, what do you think?" Each time he would smile and respond, "It looks beautiful to me."
When they (finally) had been allowed to leave toward the end of the day, Marla squeezed his arm as they walked out the door, and said, "Poor Franz, captive all day in a dress shop. You didn't have a clue what was going on, but your being there made me happy. Thank you." She leaned over and kissed him lightly.
The day of the wedding was mostly a blur, but he did have a few very clear memories. Marla smiling at him almost always warmed him to the point of fever, but that day, as he watched her walk down the aisle, the light in her eyes and the aura around her face took him to the point of incandescence. That peaked when she joined her hand to his and they walked up the steps to the platform and faced the minister.
That memory was playing in his mind as they stepped onto the porch of the mansion. Franz moved to one side, gathered Marla in his arms and proceeded to "plant a lip lock" of his own.
A timeless moment later they separated. Marla smiled at him. "Goodness! What was that for?"
Franz reached up to brush her hair back behind her ears as she continued to look at him quizzically. One of the many reasons he loved Marla was that she had never flinched from his crippled left hand. Truth to tell, when they walked hand in hand, she preferred to hold that one. "I love you," he said. Her smile widened, and she flowed back into his arms.
Another timeless moment passed. "You know," Marla murmured, caressing his cheek, "if you keep this up we'll be late for the meeting."
Franz captured her fingers and kissed them. "I know. If it wasn't so important to both of us, I wouldn't mind being very late."
Marla broke away from him and slapped his bicep. "You! Get in there." He sighed, opened the front door, and followed her in.
Every Grantville native called the stately old home that had been taken over by the city for administrative functions the High Street House. It was the closest thing to a mansion in Grantville. Franz and Marla walked into the meeting/event room at the back of the house and were greeted by applause. The ornate mahogany table had been moved from the former dining room. Many of the equally ornate chairs were occupied by friends and acquaintances who were clapping and whistling. Franz grinned, He could see Marla blushing.
Mary Simpson was seated at the head of the table, which didn't surprise Franz at all. She waved them to seats next to hers on the far side of the table as the noise died down. "Thank you all for coming today. I appreciate all of you taking the time for this meeting out of your busy schedules, or in the case of Marla and Franz, out of their honeymoon." Again there was applause from around the table. Marla blushed even more, and Franz's grin just got wider. "Nonetheless," Mary said, "I have to leave for Magdeburg shortly, and I really needed to talk to all of you about something that has got to be developed soon: an orchestra."
Ears perked up all around the table. Franz looked over at Isaac Fremdling, then to Josef Tuchman, to see wide smiles on the faces of his fellow string players. Rudolf Tuchman, Josef's brother, snorted, and said, "Finally."
Mary smiled. "Yes. Finally. But we had to walk first, before we could run. The work that you did all last year…" Mary waved her hand to encompass everyone at the table, "… all of you, has laid the foundation for the work that will be done this year."
"Umm, excuse me," said the quiet man dressed in a black cassock. "I think, perhaps, it would more correct be to say that the ground has been cleared for laying a foundation." The lilt of his voice made it very clear that not only was English not his first language, neither was German.
"You are right, Maestro Carissimi." Mary nodded, accepting the correction. "I spoke out of enthusiasm, but you are indeed right. What you collectively did last year was assemble the workmen and the tools that are needed to lay the foundation. Now we must begin that work."
Franz looked around the table as Mary spoke. It was quite an assemblage of musicians and craftsmen in this one room… perhaps the most impressive collection of adepts that he had ever had the good fortune to be part of. To Mary's left was Marcus Wendell, the Grantville High School band director. He was a man with an incredible mass of up-time musical knowledge in his mind. To his left were the Italian contingent, Maestro Giacomo Carissimi and his musician and crafter friends and associates. Beyond the Italians sat the representatives of Bledsoe and Riebeck, the Grantville/German instrument crafters. At the far end of the table, opposite of Mary, was Bitty Matowski, the ballet mistress, fresh from the triumph of her staging of The Nutcracker. Franz noticed that Bitty was the only person in the room who was smaller than Mary. To Mary's right were Marla, Franz, and all the men who had been part of the study group that had formed around Marla in the spring and summer of 1633.
Mary smiled again. "I am not a musician, but I have worked in supporting musical groups in the past. I can assure you that I have received commitments for financial support for an orchestra for the foreseeable future. However, if we want to realize those commitments, that orchestra must be produced, and soon. I believe that all of you in this room can contribute to that effort in some way. So, let's get started."
The next hour was a revelation to Franz. Mary directed the discussion as surely as Marcus Wendell directed the high school band. They moved smoothly from topic to topic, covering the various issues involved with reproducing the up-time instruments in their current circumstances. Franz watched with interest as Mary stopped incipient arguments, prompted people into revealing information they didn't realize was important, and kept them focused on the goal, all the while making copious notes in a notebook. He found the time educational, to say the least; as much about how to manage a conference as about the information that was being shared.
At the end of the discussion, Mary looked around the room. "Right. To summarize, both Ingram Bledsoe and Marcus Wendell believe that a number of usable instruments can probably be found in basements and attics in Grantville. Ingram will take charge of locating and acquiring those." She waved at the crafters on her left. "You gentlemen will work together to develop the techniques to reproduce uptime strings. Friedrich Braun will also collaborate with Leopold Gruenwald on duplicating the woodwinds. Leopold has already made good progress on duplicating the valves and slides for brass. Marcus believes duplicating the percussion instruments will not be a serious challenge as soon we can locate down-time drum crafters. So, did I leave anything out?"
"The wood," prompted Marcus.
Mary circled a note on the page in front of her. "Sorry, I do have that down. We need to get our merchant connections searching in Central and South America for pernambuco for bows and rosewood for xylophones and marimbas."
Mary turned a page in her notebook. "All right. We can probably locate enough wind instruments to begin an orchestra, and with some time and resources we can produce more. But instruments are useless without musicians to play them." She looked around the room. "We need more musicians. A lot more. And we need them relatively soon. With all due respect, Maestro Carissimi and Signores Abati and Zenti, they will probably have to be Germans. We don't have time to wait for messages to get to Italy and for others to follow your footsteps here."
Carissimi simply nodded. The others looked slightly mutinous but followed their countryman's lead and remained silent. Franz was wondering why Mary kept emphasizing a short time frame, when Marcus asked, "Why the short fuze, Mary?"
"I'll get to that in a moment. So, if we need good musicians, and we need them quickly, where can we find them?"
Franz looked down the table at his friends, and collected several nods. He looked back at Mary. "Some of them, at least, might come from Mainz. When the Prince-Bishop fled the sight of the Swedish army, he left his orchestra behind. That is where Isaac, Leopold, Thomas and I came from. There are others who can be encouraged to come, particularly if appropriate stipends are made available."
"Excellent! How many?"
Franz looked back at his fellows. "Twelve, maybe fifteen?"
Isaac nodded. "Unless they've all fled in the last few months, about that many."
Mary looked pensive. "That's not enough. Where can we find more?"
They all looked at each other, and a moment of silence ensued. Finally, Thomas asked, "Cannot some of your patrons provide some musicians?"
"As a last resort, they can," Mary responded, "but I would really rather not inconvenience them if we don't have to." Suddenly her eyes lit up, and an almost beatific smile appeared on her face. "What about the Elector of Saxony's orchestra? Can we abscond with it like we will with the Prince-Bishop's?"
Shrugs all around the table. "It would be worth a try," said Isaac.
"Where else?"
Marla cleared her throat. "You might try sending circulars throughout Thuringia." Mary looked at her with a questioning expression. Marla continued. "According to the music history books, there should be at least a few Bachs scattered throughout this part of the country… ancestors and cousins of ancestors from collateral lines."
Mary grimaced, and made notes. "I knew that," she muttered.
"And according to Ed Piazza, there should be a sizable college of musicians around Stuttgart, as well," Marcus contributed.
Mary made more notes. Finally, she looked up again. "Okay, how do we get the word out?" The down-timers looked at her quizzically. She grinned. "How do we let musicians know that we're hiring, and what we have to offer?"
"I think," Maestro Carissimi offered, "that you will have to send personal representatives to most places. Here in Thuringia, perhaps broadsides would be useful, as most everyone does know of Grantville and what it means. But for places farther away, you must send ambassadors of music."
"Does anyone disagree?" Mary looked around the room. "Okay, we have Mainz, Stuttgart and Saxony. It will have to be you on this side of the table," she said, pointing to Franz. "The craftsmen, including Leopold, cannot leave. Thomas Schwarzberg as well. They must be focused on their work. So, who will go where?"
Franz looked over at Marla, who nodded in return. "We will go to Mainz."
Josef and Rudolf whispered back and forth for a moment. Josef said, "We will go to Stuttgart. We have a cousin there, who should provide us an opening."
Isaac had also been whispering with Hermann. He looked at Mary. "We will go to Saxony."
"Good." Mary wrote a few more notes in the ubiquitous notebook. She set the pen down, clasped her hands together in front of her, and gazed around the table. "Now, to answer Marcus' question from a few minutes ago, the reason I stressed short time lines is because our first concert has to be ready by the first of July."
"What?"
" Gott in himmel! "
Various exclamations echoed off the walls of the conference room, including at least two that Franz recognized as being Italian. From the frown that appeared on Maestro Carissimi's face, they must have been very vulgar.
Mary raised a hand to quiet them as Marcus interjected, "Mary, I don't know who you've made that commitment to, but you'd better try and get out of it, because, bluntly, it's not going to happen."
Mary's head turned and her eyes bored into his. "I beg your pardon? Did you not just tell me that there were plenty of instruments in the garages and attics, and that you could loan those we couldn't find? Did we not establish that the violins today are similar to the violins from up-time? If we can get the musicians quickly, what prevents us from getting the orchestra together and performing in six months?"
"Did you ever play a musical instrument, Mary?"
"I took piano lessons as a child."
Marcus chuckled. "About what I figured. Mary, I'm not concerned about the string players. In fact, I misspoke slightly. You can have a Bach era orchestra ready in six months or less. Bach, Handel, maybe early Haydn and Mozart, they could play. But late Classical era and later would be beyond them."
"Why?" Mary frowned. "Make me understand, Marcus."
"It's the wind players, Mary. All of these instruments we've been talking about-the woodwinds with the Bohm keys, and the brass with the valves and different styled mouthpieces. For these players, it will be almost like learning new instruments, and for clarinet and saxophone players that would be literally true.
"Mary, I've been teaching band for almost as long as Marla has been alive. And I worked with good musicians in college. I've seen musicians pick up a new instrument-one that's different from their primary-and try to learn it, and it takes a lot of time. I'll spare you the lengthy explanation with all the technical musical terms. It boils down to just the sheer physical drill of practicing, over and over and over until your lips are puffy and sore, your fingers are blistered and you are so sick of the instrument you want to throw it in the river, until you build muscle memory and it finally becomes second nature to you."
Marla smiled and nodded. Mary caught the motion, and it obviously added to the weight of what Marcus was saying.
"Okay, then, how long until we have a Beethoven or Rossini era orchestra?"
"From the time you hand them the instruments to the time they might-I say might -be ready to tackle that music, ten to twelve months. Might be more, but it would take a divine miracle for it to be much less. An individual player, maybe less, but a full ensemble, nope."
Mary frowned down at her hands tightly clasped on top of her notebook. She said in a low tone, "If that's what it will take, then that's what it will take. But we will perform a concert of at least some up-time music in early July, even if it's nothing but Bach and Handel. And, yes, Bitty, I still want a season of ballet this year. Some kind of accompaniment will be available." She raised her head and stared each of them in the eyes in turn. When his turn came, Franz felt as if he were staring down the barrels of a pair of matched dueling pistols. He had never seen her gray eyes seem that cold before. Taking a deep breath, he nodded in return, and everyone in the room echoed him.
"Good." Mary closed her notebook. "I will be leaving for Magdeburg in another day or so. I may speak to a few of you before I leave. For now, after I leave you can contact Lady Beth Haygood. You will be able to communicate with me through her, and she will coordinate finances, including traveling expenses for those of you who will be traveling." She stood. "Thank you all for your time today, for the hard work you've already done, and for your commitment to the work yet to be done. I truly do appreciate it." She looked around the room, this time with a warm smile on her face, and everyone's spirits lightened a little before she swept out of the room. The Italians and most of the instrument crafters followed close behind her.
The energy level in the room dropped dramatically after Mary left. Once again Franz was reminded of just how intense Mrs. Simpson could be. Someone at the other end of the table gave a low whistle. Marcus chuckled. "I do believe we've been drafted into the USE Arts League, folks."
"I was reading in the Bible yesterday, in the Book of Judges," Isaac said. "I believe I now know how Barak must have felt when Deborah summoned him." Everyone laughed.
Marla smiled. "Well, that's better than Elijah before Jezebel. All we have to do is raise an orchestra out of the fertile ground of Thuringia." The laughter was louder this time.
"At least your assignment is possible." They all looked at the end of the table where Bitty Matowski had almost huddled in her chair for the entire meeting. "She wants me to stage Swan Lake in six months, and I can't do it, not here, not now!" Franz was a little taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. "The only reason I came to this meeting was to find out if an orchestra will be available in July."
Marcus and Franz both started to speak, but Franz gestured to Marcus to continue. "Bitty, there will be an orchestra then. Will it be able to perform Tchaikovsky? I doubt it, but I'm not going to rule the possibility out. If Franz and his friends can play the music, can you stage the dance?"
"No," Bitty said in a low tone of voice. "At least not anything like what Her Ladyship and her friends would be expecting. The big set pieces she expects for the second and fourth acts require more than two dozen en pointe dancers, and I'm lucky if I have ten. I won't allow any of my students to perform en pointe until I believe they are ready. Not a moment earlier. Not for anyone or anything will I risk ruining their feet. And if Her Ladyship doesn't like that she can.. ."
"Bitty," Marla interrupted. "Calm down." Bitty settled back in her chair, giving a jerky nod in return.
Franz was astounded to hear Mary Simpson spoken of in the tone used by Bitty. Evidently not everyone viewed her intensity and drive as well as he did.
"Now, do you know for sure you can't do Swan Lake?" Marla asked.
"No. She told me last Friday, after the last performance. I've been stewing about it ever since, but I haven't talked to the dancers yet, because I didn't want to ruin their holiday."
"Well, then," Marla said, "get them together. Talk to them. See if together you can think of a way to do it. If you can't, come up with an alternate proposal and present it to Mary."
"But what about music, and lighting, and…"
Marla raised a hand, and Bitty stopped in mid-sentence. "How many times while I was taking dance from you did I hear you say that you can't write staging directions and cues until you know what you're going to do and where you're going to do it? Figure out what you're going to do and tell Mary, then find out where it's going to be done. Then you can worry about the other stuff."
Marcus cleared his throat. "When you know what you want to do, Bitty, come talk to me so we can look at music. Whatever you end up using musically, there's a pretty good chance that Thomas will have to transcribe it. That will take some time, so he needs to know as soon as possible. That goes for you, too…" Marcus looked across the table at Franz. "Once you decide what will be performed, get the word to Thomas as soon as you can. If she wants a concert in July, you'd best start rehearsing in April. And no, before you ask, I can't help."
Bitty still looked unhappy, but she nodded. "Thanks, Marcus, Marla."
Marcus placed his palms on the table and pushed himself upright. "Well, folks, I believe we've all got work to do." He led the way out of the conference room and down the short hall to the front door.
Outside, Marla gave Bitty a quick hug and some more encouragement, then joined the huddle of friends around Franz. He looked at them all. "Well, what are we going to do?"
They looked at each other. Glances went around the circle several times, and finally Thomas rumbled in his deep voice, "You have the best sense for the music, Franz. You choose the works, and I will make sure they are ready by April."
Franz looked around the circle again. "Is that what you all want?" Nods from them all, including Marla. He sighed. "So be it."
Grantville – Friday morning, January 6, 1634
Marla kissed Franz. "I'm off to the school. I'll meet you in the band room at last hour, right?" Franz nodded, and she turned away to walk down the street, headed for her appointment to play and sing for some of the elementary classes as a treat.
For a moment, Franz was a little disoriented. This was the first time since the wedding that they had been separated for more than a few minutes, but today he had no desire to mingle with a mob of young children. It did feel a little odd, though, not having Marla beside him as he wandered up the street.
The day was sunny and clear, the air was brisk and cold, but not to the point where it hurt to breathe. The joy that had been bubbling inside of him for the last three weeks overflowed, and he flung his arms wide and twirled on the sidewalk, laughing freely. As he came full circle, he was face to face with one of the elderly ladies who lived nearby. She was on her way to do some shopping with the net bag hanging from her arm next to her purse. Her eyes were wide, but she offered him a timorous smile when he stepped off the sidewalk, bowed and, with flamboyance worthy of Signor Abati, gestured that she should continue.
He was still grinning from ear to ear when he entered the workshop of Bledsoe and Riebeck. Not only was his friend, Friedrich and his craft master Hans, present, but also their competitors, Signor Girolamo Zenti and Johannes Fichtold, his associate journeyman. Of the major wood craftsmen at yesterday's meeting, only Ingram Bledsoe was missing. The four were grouped around a work table, looking at the pieces of a violin in the process of assembly and discussing it animatedly. Friedrich looked up and spotted him.
"Franz! What are you doing here, and where is Marla?"
"She is visiting school classrooms this morning to entertain children, so I thought I would do something similar and come see what happens here."
Friedrich laughed, and Master Hans had a smile nestling in his gray beard. Their two visitors were a little taken aback by the banter, but quickly sprouted smiles of their own.
" Ach, Franz, I see that marriage has not stopped your foolishness," Master Hans said.
"And if you thought it would, good master, then you expected too much. I am as great a fool as ever." Franz laughed. "The giddiest of fools, indeed. I rouse with the sun each day in joy, and lay my head down at night in bliss. 'Twixt the two I wander and run in delight. A fool I am indeed." He held a finger up and winked. "But surely the wisest of fools for wedding Marla. Let it be carved on my tombstone at the end of a hopefully long life, that I had wisdom enough to marry the good Marla Linder."
Now they all started laughing, and crowded around Franz to shake his hand and clap his shoulders once more in congratulations. As they started to settle down, Master Hans assumed a serious expression. "You know, young Franz, that it will not always be thus. The first bloom will fade, and only if you have sunk deep roots will you survive."
Franz sobered. "Aye, Master Hans. We know enough of life to know that our roots must run deep and twine together for there to be blooms and fruit throughout our lives. Marla will challenge me to my best, but a burden that will never be, as I want for her nothing but the best. We have each other, and we have God. It will be enough."
The others nodded, with a muttered, "So let it be," from Friedrich.
There was a moment of silence, then Franz gestured to the bench. "Enough of me. What happens here?"
"I had some time ago," Friedrich stepped toward the bench, "begun trying to fashion a violin after the model of one belonging to Master Ingram, one he said belonged to an uncle before it came to him. Maple for the back," pointing to the elements," spruce for the top, somewhat wider than your own, sound holes cut as so. Resonator bar here, sound post ready to join front and back. Longer neck, joined to the body at a steeper angle.
"One innovation that I had not seen before: the finger board on the neck is slanted slightly from side to side. I had to think on it for some while before I realized that it provided an equal distance for each string to be pressed down to the board. You had told me before of the increase of violin art, of the rise of virtuosi, and I heard music last summer. But this brought it home to me, that the virtuoso's technique would be so demanding that a flat neck would produce irregularities in playing rapidly because of the differing widths of the strings. It makes sense, once I understand it, as does the longer neck. The longer the neck, the more notes you can play on it. This is a design with years, even centuries, more breeding behind it than the one I made you. This is a merino, while the one I made in Mainz for you is perhaps not a Brillo, but is not far from it."
"So I am a shepherd now, am I?" Franz laughed along with the others at the reference to the famous-and infamous-ram.
"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 Fussen can produce one in two."
"Ah, you are from Fussen, 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."
"Fussen has fine woods, fine timber," Master Girolamo added. "I have ordered woods from there to be sent to me here. But obviously the Fussen craftsmen would get first choice."
"So, two months. Allowing for time to get to Fussen, and time for the violins to return, if we desired to order from everyone in Fussen 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 Fussen 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 musicians-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."
Franz stepped back up on the podium, noting in the back of his mind that what had seemed so high an obstacle less than a quarter-hour ago was now only a step. Keeping in mind the things that Marcus and he had discussed, he raised his hands to begin rehearsing the piece, the work of taking each section and hammering it until it was as near perfect as the musicians could produce.
At the end of the hour, after the final run-through of the piece, Franz reluctantly put the baton back down on the director's stand, and faced the band once more. "Thank you. Thank you for letting me learn to be a conductor, a dirigent we will call it in German, to learn with you." Giving them a slight bow, he clapped to them and for them.
"Let's hear it for Mr. S," came the irrepressible voice from the tubas, and the students stood and clapped for Franz, with cheers and whistles from all over and a cymbal crash from the drums. His face felt flushed, and he stepped from the podium and gave them the full bow, the one he would give to an audience that applauded for him.
Just then the final bell rang, and the band dissolved into the bustle of putting away of music and instruments. Many of the students spoke to him as they left. Finally, the room was empty.
Marcus came over to shake hands with him. Franz tried to return the baton to him, but Marcus said, "Keep it, Franz. You'll need it, and I have another." Smiling, he waved to the others and left.
Cradling the baton, Franz slowly turned and walked over to Marla and Maestro Carissimi. Marla looked at his shining face, his gleaming eyes, the grin that threatened to split his face and the way he almost danced as he moved toward them. She smiled in return. "Well?"
Franz turned and looked at the empty chairs for a moment, drinking in the moment. When he faced them again, he said quietly, "It was as if I had the wings of Icarus, only, unlike Icarus, I reached the glory of the sun."
Grantville – Saturday morning, January 7, 1634
The door in front of Franz opened to reveal the face of his friend Thomas Schwarzberg. "Come in, my friend, come in." Thomas gestured Franz to a chair on one side of his work table.. "And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" He sat down on the chair on the other side.
"To this." Franz handed him a sheet of paper with a list on it. Thomas took it, and raised his eyebrows at the contents.
"I take it these are the works you want notated from CDs for Frau Mary's concert?"
"Aye. In addition to those five, I have asked Maestro Carissimi to provide something, as well. He said that he would try, but that it might not be very long."
"Hmm. J. S. Bach's Concerto No. 3 in G Major. Is that not one of the so-called 'Brandenburg Concerti'?"
"Yes." Franz smiled. "But perhaps in this time that is not the most fortuitous of names. Shall we re-christen it, then?"
A slow smile crossed Thomas' face. "I like that thought, Franz. I must admit to liking it muchly. So, have you somewhat in mind to rename it?"
"Perhaps. In truth, one or two."
"And?"
"I thought first of naming it 'Magdeburg' after the city where it will first be played in our time." Franz quirked an eyebrow.
His friend nodded, pulling at his chin. "'Twould be a good fit, I think. Brandenburg, Magdeburg… it rolls off the tongue in much the same way. But what was the other?"
"Vasa."
Thomas' eyes opened wide, and his chin dropped. Franz enjoyed the look of amazement, before the laughter began. The deep bass voice of his friend resounded in the room, his hilarity echoing from the walls. Finally, it dwindled away to mere chuckles while he wiped his eyes.
"Oh, Franz. It is too good! Oh, the thought of that story becoming commonly known… how the concerti were named Brandenburg in the up-time, but that they will now be know as Vasa in honor of the great king. How that will twist in the bowels of Elector George William! Would that I could be a mouse in the chamber when he hears of it!" Off he went, laughing again, with Franz chuckling in spite of himself.
Wiping his eyes, Thomas picked up the list again. His voice was somewhat uneven when he said, "So are there any other delights like the first in the list?"
Franz shook his head. "No. The Pachelbel Canon in D and the Albinoni Adagio will be comfortable to the ears of the patrons. And when you do the Adagio, if you will, voice it for all strings; two choirs of strings if you must."
Thomas nodded, and read down the list, humming a little. "Yes, yes, I remember the Adagio from Marla's teaching. Oh, my!" Thomas was looking at the last two works on the list. "You do believe in a challenge, my friend."
Franz smiled. "Can you think of two other 'modern' works that would speak to Frau Mary's patrons more than those?" Thomas slowly shook his head. "We will learn them. I will put the Barber work in the midst of the program, and the Vaughan Williams work at the end. And we will triumph, triumph indeed."
Cocking his head to one side, Thomas looked Franz in the eye for a long moment, then laid the list on the desk. "We named you to do this, so we will follow where you lead. 'Tis challenging, but challenge makes for excitement and interest. So, with these five and one from the maestro, you have six. Enough for a night's entertainment that Frau Mary can well be pleased by."
Franz reached inside his jacket. "And one more." He handed Thomas a piece of printed music. "This I have borrowed from the library of the choir of the Methodist church. I need the piano score voiced for strings, please, oh greatest of all scribblers."
Reading through the work, Thomas began to smile. "Oh, indeed. I see your intent. 'Twould be beautiful, indeed. Oh, yes."
Turning serious, Franz said, "Can you do this-all of it-by the first day of April?"
"Eleven, almost twelve weeks from now? Yes. With Master Wendell recently making known to me the printer who prints his blank staff pages so that I no longer have to draw my own staves, then yes, I can do it. Mind you, we will probably still be scribbling out some of the individual parts when the first rehearsal begins, but we have all done that before."
"I count on you, my friend." Franz buttoned up his jacket. "I leave for Mainz on Monday, so I leave this in your hands. Trusting you, I shall not worry."
"It will be done."
They clasped hands, then Franz was gone.
"Hmm," Thomas said. "I believe I shall need some more pencils."
Grantville – Saturday evening, January 7, 1634
Isaac Fremdling-after almost six years away from his people, it was how he thought of himself now-waited in the shadows of the back corner of the synagogue as everyone left after the service that concluded Shabbat. He stirred as the rabbi and the president walked up the room from the Aron Kodesh, the ark containing the holy scrolls, toward the doors. The shamash, or caretaker, was still on the bima platform, fussing about something. Isaac stopped in the doorway, and contemplated the mezuzah, with its precious text contained inside. Shema, Yisroel, Adonai Elohenu, Adonai echod. Across the years, he could still hear his father saying that to his congregation… Hear, O Israel, The Lord Our God, The Lord is One. Slowly, deliberately, Isaac kissed the fingertips of his right hand, firmly touched them to the mezuzah, and turned to leave.
" Shavuah tov, Reb Yitzhak." Startled at hearing his Hebrew name, Isaac turned to his right, facing a man walking toward him. The lamplight revealed him to be Don Francisco Nasi.
"And a good week to you, Reb Pinchas." Isaac immediately bowed toward the man who just might be the most important Jew in Europe-certainly the most influential-and in turn called him by his Hebrew name.
"Come, walk with me a while, of your kindness." Don Francisco linked his arm through Isaac's and guided him down the steps to the street. "It has been good to see you in the congregation these past few weeks. Have you found our Sephardic practices much different from those you grew up with?"
Mind reeling from the shock of having this man, a member of the famed Abrabanel family and the mano sinistra -the left hand-of Prime Minister Stearns, not just talking to him, but searching him out for a time of one-to-one conversation, Isaac mustered wits enough to say, "Some things are different, sir-the music is perhaps not as melodious, the Hebrew spoken is a little sharper-but the important things are the same."
"Hmm, yes, we can say something very like that about our history as God's Chosen People, can we not? Some things are different, some things change, but the important things remain the same."
"Yes, sir." Isaac's mind was spinning like a dreidel, slower now, settling, only to be sent flying again by his companion's next statement.
"Your family is doing well, in Aschenhausen." Isaac's jaw dropped. He stopped dead in the street and turned toward his companion.
"How… how…" Both his tongue and his mind were stuttering.
"Oh, come now," Don Francisco-he was so well known by that name that Isaac had trouble thinking of him by any other-smiled as he resumed walking, towing Isaac along beside him. "What kind of spy master would I be, Isaac Fremdling, Yitzhak ben Shlomo haLevi, if I could not find your name and your roots?" Isaac shook his head in bewilderment. "Your father is still rabbi of the congregation there. Your mother's hands hurt from the rheumatism more, but your sisters Devorah and Rachel are taking over more of the housework from her. Your younger brother Reuven is becoming quite a scholar, able to quote lengthy passages from Torah and Nevi'im by heart, and beginning to read the Talmud. There is talk of sending him someplace to study.. . perhaps to Rabbi Mordechai in Prague."
Isaac's heart sang within him. This was the first word he had had of his family since he had been disowned by his father over five years ago. They were all still alive! The girls must be big enough to be dreaming of marriage, and Reuven… why, Reuven must be almost thirteen now, preparing for his bar mitzvah! The old ache suddenly was made fresh again, stabbing to his core, eliciting a choked sob that he tried to muffle with his other hand. He was grateful when Don Francisco effected not to notice.
"I… thank you," he said finally. "That is… good news.. . indeed."
They walked together for a long moment. Finally Don Francisco spoke. "I know that the… manner… in which you left Aschenhausen left you feeling neither fish nor fowl, and that during your entire time at Mainz you did not seek a congregation because of your hurt and your uncertainty. I am glad that you are finally finding your way back to us. I will say to you that while your father may have named you dead to his family, and even his congregation, he did not do so to all of us. There is a place for Isaac Fremdling-for Yitzhak ben Shlomo-among the Sephardim, and we would welcome you to do more than just stand in the back like an unbelieving visitor… or worse, the shade of Shmuel. When you return to Magdeburg, they will make you welcome, help you to feel comfortable wearing the talit katan again." The absolute certainty in his voice reassured Isaac. In some faint corner of his mind, he wondered just why this greatest of his race was interested in his affairs.
"Thank you, sir. I will try to be… worthy of your kind support."
They turned a corner, and Don Francisco said, "As it happens, I am acquainted with someone in Aschenhausen."
Isaac managed a small laugh, little more than a hiccup. "As it happens, sir, that does not surprise me."
"Yes." Don Francisco laughed. "Well, as I said, I am a spy master. So, as you pass by Eisenach," after the other revelations of the evening, it was no surprise to Isaac that his planned journey was seemingly common knowledge, "you might go by way of Aschenhausen."
"And is there some small task or errand I may perform for you while I am there?"
"If it's not too much trouble," the other said drolly. "I would greatly appreciate your delivering a few pounds of coffee beans to the merchant, Joachim Arst."
Isaac laughed. "Willingly, sir, willingly. For, as you probably know, I owe a debt to Master Arst."
"Indeed. Someone will deliver the package of beans to you tomorrow. Simply carry them in your baggage until that time. And do be careful." Isaac nodded. They turned another corner. Isaac looked up to see the Thuringen Gardens in front of him.
"And so," his companion said, "having enjoyed our time together, I deliver you to the arms of your companions, for if I mistake me not, you are due to begin making music in a few moments."
Grantville – Saturday evening, January 7, 1634
"Finally!" Franz hissed. "Where have you been?"
"Sorry," Isaac whispered, taking the violin that Franz shoved at him. "Don Francisco wanted to talk with me."
"Don Francisco Nasi?" Franz was incredulous.
"Do you know another one?"
Franz opened his mouth to answer, then closed it as the Gardens' manager stepped up on the platform. He pushed Isaac over to where Marla and the rest of their friends waited-Marla with studied patience, and their friends with smiles. "Remember the program."
"And now," the manager boomed, "put your hands together for Marla and her friends." He jumped down off the platform, Hermann plucked a note on his harp, Franz snapped his fingers four times and they broke into song.
Now I've often heard it said from my father and my mother
That going to a wedding was the makings of another.
Well, if this be so, then I'll go without a bidding.
Oh kind providence, won't you send me to a wedding?
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
This was one of the light-hearted Irish songs they had learned from Marla's mother's album collection. Marla was having fun with it. Already fingers and toes were tapping all over the Gardens.
Well, now there's my sister Jean, she's not handsome or good-looking,
Scarcely sixteen and a fellow she was courting.
Now, she's twenty-four with a son and a daughter.
Here am I at thirty-five and I've never had an offer.
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
Although he had made great strides in rehabilitating his crippled left hand, Franz was still not up to the fast pace of many of the Irish songs. For this one he had found a tambourine and was just providing a steady beat behind the music.
I can cook and I can sew, I can keep the house right tidy,
And wake up in the morning to get the breakfast ready.
There's nothing in this wide world would make me half so cheery
As a wee, fat man who would call me his own deary.
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
When Marla started the third verse, Franz moved up behind her and began to mug at her, bowing his legs, pooching out his stomach and holding air in his mouth to distend his cheeks. As she got to the wee, fat man line he waddled up next to her and offered her his left hand, to the laughter of the audience, all the while keeping the rhythm of the tambourine in his right hand going against his leg. Marla slapped at him, and he pretended to duck in fear.
So come landsman or come kingsman, come tinker or come tailor,
Come fiddler or come dancer, come ploughboy or come sailor,
Come rich man, come poor man, come bore or come witty,
Come any man at all who will marry me for pity.
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
All through the fourth verse, Franz continued to mug at Marla, changing his posture and expression throughout the roll call, to constant laughter from the audience.
Well, now I'm away home, for nobody's heeding.
Oh, nobody's heeding to poor Annie's bleeding.
So, I'm away home to my own wee bit garret.
If I can't have a man, then I'll have to get a parrot.
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
They finished the song with a flourish. Marla joined hands with Franz to take a bow to loud applause. They stepped back, Marla picked up her flute from a stool behind her. Isaac laid his violin down on the same stool, then stepped forward. Franz snapped his fingers again.
It was another fast, funny song. Isaac led out in "Finnegan's Wake." As he beat the tambourine Franz could see the audience just drinking this one in as well. Most everyone in the room could relate to everything in the song: workmates who loved their drink; the dangers of working on a construction site; sudden death; the wake being held in the home and the missus wanting to do her husband's memory proud with a feast; the free flowing beer and booze and the drunken brawl erupting (lots of laughter there, and several people pointing at others). Wild cheers erupted when the whisky spilled on Tim Finnegan's corpse and he revived.
Isaac picked up his violin, Marla stepped back out front, and they moved on to other songs. As the evening progressed, the Gardens got more and more crowded. Soon every chair and bench was occupied and people were standing around the perimeter of the room, elbow to elbow. There was scarcely room for the barmaids to squeeze through to pick up and deliver mugs. The Committees of Correspondence were well represented, their people having arrived early and claimed three tables near the front. Finally, the evening neared its end.
They finished an instrumental piece, and Marla stepped out front and held her hand up. The room quieted quickly.
"Thanks for coming tonight, everyone. I hope you've enjoyed yourselves." The room erupted into a roar of applause. She held her hand up again, and again the quiet descended quickly. "This will be our last performance in Grantville for a while. We leave Monday. I wish I could say we're taking this show on the road." The up-timers in the audience laughed. "But we're going to be doing some business, and when we get back we'll be in Magdeburg. But, if you get up that way, we sing sometimes at the Green Horse tavern. Stop in if you get a chance.
"We're going to do one more song for you, another old traditional song from the country we came from.
Franz reached down and picked up his violin. He was conscious of everyone looking at him as he stepped forward, which gave him a faint chill… playing in public was still a bit of a challenge for him. Raising his bow, he began the introduction to the final song. At the appropriate place the others joined in, and Marla began to sing.
The water is wide, I cannot cross o'er.
And neither have I the wings to fly.
Build me a boat that can carry two,
And both shall row, my true love and I.
A ship there is and she sails the seas.
She's laden deep as deep can be;
But not so deep as the love I'm in,
And I know not if I sink or swim.
The joy of playing with Marla, of making music with his wife, filled Franz. He abandoned himself to the music while she sang, seeking to meld his violin with her golden voice.
I leaned my back against a young oak,
Thinking he were a trusty tree;
But first he bended and then he broke;
Thus did my love prove false to me.
O love is handsome and love is fine,
Bright as a jewel when first it's new;
But love grows old and waxes cold
And fades away like the morning dew.
All the others dropped out. Franz and Marla did the last line together.
And fades away like the morning dew.
They stood together for a moment, then relaxed their posture as the patrons began applauding. They joined hands and-one mind, one heart-bowed in acknowledgment.