1635: Music and Murder (35 page)
Read 1635: Music and Murder Online
Authors: David Carrico
"That is comforting to hear," Franz said. "As you say, this work has never been done before in our time, or at least not at this magnitude. It seems to be going well, but it is good to know that you feel the same." He nodded, then stood and looked beyond them for a moment. "What am I to do with Herwin Vogler? His constant complaining and questioning about 'Why can we not do it as we always have done' has worn his welcome very thin indeed."
Matthäus' expression turned sour. "Do what you will. Master Schütz has more than once nearly discharged him. When he wants to play, he plays well. The question of whether having his skill is balanced by the price you must pay to have it is one that only you can answer. Myself, I long since lost patience with the man."
"Let me talk to him." Simon smiled. "Mayhap I can bring him to see that if he will accept the change instead of resist it, he can grow and improve, thereby becoming more valuable to future employers."
"Have at him," Franz responded. "If nothing else, make him see that he cannot continue to disparage Marla or other women who may become involved in our work." Both the other men raised their eyebrows. "I mean it. You have not seen Grantville yet, you have only had a small taste of their society. Women there are free to pursue their hearts' desires, much as men are. Whether they marry or not is their choice. They can indeed become just as accomplished as any man. Marla is a leading example. Frau Simpson is another—no man of sense would dare take her lightly. And I have heard tell of a Frau Melissa Mailey whose force of character is positively Amazonian. She was sent to England to beard the English lion in his den."
Franz stared at each man. "Grantville brings many changes. Just the existence of the place will be like a spring flood. We can fight it and be overwhelmed, or we can ride it and see where we land. One of those changes will be that women such as Marla
will
have a regular place in our world of music, gentlemen. It will happen. With women such as Marla and Frau Mary leading the way, it will happen."
Matthäus looked over to where his wife Elise was talking with Marla and Isaac. He slowly nodded. "As you say. I see it happening even now. For myself, after hearing Frau Marla sing and play, especially with the piano, I am convinced. Herwin, however, is of a more fixed opinion of the correct order of things."
Simon snorted. "You mean he is opinionated, rude, crude, slovenly and generally quite boorish, not to mention usually mistaken about any subject on which he wishes to declaim. It is only the fact that he plays a viola so well that has kept him from being throttled in the past."
"Do your best." Franz laid a hand on Simon's shoulder. "I value his skills, but not at the price of his obstructions. He has one week." After a long moment of silence, Franz turned to Matthäus. "So, when do you think Master Schütz will arrive?"
"I know not. He was to visit his mother and his daughters in Köstritz, then go to Grantville to meet with Master Carissimi. I imagine that Master Heinrich is delighting in his time with Master Carissimi, which is good. He is truly a great man who so seldom has a chance to meet with anyone who would be a peer."
"Well," Franz said, "I truly hope he is enjoying himself."
Grantville
April 1634
Pastor Johann Rothmaler knocked on the door diffidently. No response. He knocked again, somewhat louder. That evoked a response.
"Go away." The tone was growled but listless.
The pastor looked to Lukas Amsel, who stood beside him. Lukas shook his head, and motioned energetically at the door.
Pastor Rothmaler cleared his throat. "Master Schütz, my name is Johann Rothmaler. I am the senior pastor in Rudolstadt. I . . . " He looked at Lukas, who motioned at the door again. "I must speak with you on a matter of some importance."
Silence from within the room, but after a moment footsteps dragged across the floor. Eventually the door was opened. The room was darkened.
"Come in, then, if you so desire." The voice retreated into the chamber. "You as well, Lukas. I know you're there."
"Might we have some light?"
More silence. Then a despondent, "As you will. Lukas?"
Lukas moved past Rothmaler. Within moments shutters were thrown back and the noonday sun poured into the room. Furniture and other obstacles seemed to be scattered around the room. Rothmaler picked his way carefully through scattered clothing, books, travel bags and empty wine bottles. Lukas bustled over and removed a cloak from the chair that sat across the table from where Master Schütz sat leaning and pressing his forehead against a dark green wine bottle. The pastor sat down. Long moments passed, moments during which Lukas quietly moved about the room bringing order to it.
Finally, Schütz spoke without opening his eyes. "Well, what is this so very important matter that requires you to intrude into my privacy?"
The despair and despondency in his voice was so thick it was almost tangible. Pastor Rothmaler looked at Lukas one more time; once more he was gestured to continue.
"Master Schütz . . . "
"Call me Heinrich."
"Master Heinrich, then. I . . . um . . . your assistant, Herr Amsel, came to me with an account that you appear to be suffering from some spiritual illness. He grew gravely concerned and attempted to find someone in Grantville to counsel with you, but to no avail. Finally, Herr Gary Lambert advised him to seek me out. And so I am here. I have heard what Herr Lukas has told me. I am here to help as I can, as God provides. Can you tell me what ails you?"
Schütz's eyes opened wide. Pastor Rothmaler almost recoiled. The whites were very red, which lent an almost demonic air to the disheveled appearance of the master musician.
"What ails me? What ails me?" Schütz straightened up, and for the first time emotion made an appearance on his face and in his voice. "Why, my good Pastor Rothmaler, Grantville ails me. The future ails me. God ails me." He lifted the bottle and finished the dregs it contained, then tossed it over his shoulder. Rothmaler winced, expecting it to shatter on the floor, but Lukas nimbly captured it in mid-air.
"Elucidate, please, Master Heinrich."
Schütz focused his baleful gaze on the clergyman. "Very well. At your insistence. Three days ago, I was suddenly confronted with evidence that music exists that I had written, yet I had not written—music that was supposedly written in the year of Our Lord 1647—supposedly written by myself. How can this be?" Schütz charged on, allowing no room for a response. Rothmaler schooled himself to patience.
"How can I already have written that which I have not written? How can I do the impossible?" Master Heinrich was almost raving. "But if I have, if all of my great music has already been written, then what is there for me to do in the future if it has already been done? Where is the worthy place for Schütz in that?"
Breathing heavily, Schütz paused for a moment. "I left the place of that revelation and wandered through Grantville. It was as if a gale blew through my mind. My thoughts were whirling, spinning, as a leaf caught in a storm. I know not how long I wandered, but eventually I found myself in front of a building named a library. For lack of some other profitable action to take, I entered. When an attendant approached, I asked if they had anything about the life of one Heinrich Schütz. He led me to a table where he opened what he called an 'encyclopedia.' Then he pointed to an account printed in it that purported to describe my life.
"My history was traced correctly, if somewhat briefly, until the present. My years in Venice studying with Gabrieli and Monteverdi; becoming the
Kappellmeister
for the Elector of Saxony; my marriage to Magdalena, the birth of my daughters, and her death. It even mentioned some few of the works I had written during those years.
"In truth, I was impressed that I was remembered by that much from a time supposedly over 350 years in the future. But then, it began to detail the further events of my life. It seems I am to die many years from now, serving the somewhat less than appreciative Elector until his death. My daughters will both die many years before I do. I will have no progeny. My only memorial will be music . . . music that has already been written by me, but not by me."
The master leaned over the table and asked in a dead tone, "Tell me, Pastor Rothmaler. You are a theologian. Are the Calvinists right? Is everything totally fore-ordained? Predestined? Are we all just actors treading the boards and reciting lines scripted for us by another? If so, of what worth are we? If my music has already been written, if my life has already been lived, then of what purpose am I?"
Rothmaler shivered. The master musician's monologue had distilled all the many issues that Grantville created for the theologians and philosophers of Europe, himself included. Many of them were affronted not only by the existence and claims of Grantville, but by the very tangible evidence that the town and its people did indeed come from a very different time and place.
But there was a fundamental difference between the objections of the
philosophes
and the raw pain of a man who was questioning whether his lifework, his art, his very existence, mattered in the face of Grantville's revelations. Rothmaler sat for long moments praying to God for wisdom to share with this obviously tortured man. "Master Heinrich," the pastor began, "it is pure
hubris
, the purest arrogance, to believe that we can fully know the mind of God. We can know as much of it as He has revealed in Holy Scripture, and perhaps a little more if He chooses to make a direct revelation to one of us. But the mind that can conceive of the world in its order; the mind that can contain the power to speak it into being; that mind is as far above ours as we are above the worm within the soil. So, we do not understand many things.
"Chiefest of these things is how and why Grantville is among us. We have no better explanation for their origin than the one they have offered since their first arrival, that they have somehow been ripped from the future and placed here. Why would God either direct or allow such disruption in the order of things? We have no answer. His word contains no prophecy about such coming to pass. Yet the very senses which God created in us, our taste and sight and touch and smell and hearing, they all testify to the reality of Grantville. The very ability to reason and deduce which the Almighty instilled in us takes the testimony of those senses and can arrive at no other conclusion than that Grantville is real, its people are real, its mechanics and sciences and, yes, its arts, are as real as our own. Real, but oh, so different in so many ways. And so, however objectionable the explanation, we are unable to propose one that is any more acceptable than what the Grantvillers say."
Pastor Rothmaler leaned forward and placed his own elbows on the table. He steeled himself to look directly into Master Schütz's eyes. "However, the Grantville men of science all say that the future from which they came is not the future that will be ours, that their very arrival will make so many fundamental changes in the courses of the church, of societies, and of history, that the future that will happen will be a very different future than the one recorded in their books."
Master Schütz's eyes widened, his eyebrows climbed. He puffed either in surprise or disbelief.
"Oh, yes," the pastor assured him. "And it has already started. With my own eyes I have seen in their books that in their history Gustavus Adolphus was killed six months ago in the battle of Lützen, yet all know that he is alive and facing his enemies. So the changes have already begun."
Pastor Rothmaler leaned back. "And what this means to you is the future of which you read may or may not resemble that which will grow from the life you are living now. The Grantvillers have a very odd term for the concept. They call it the 'butterfly' effect.' I do not pretend to understand their explanation—it seems foolish to me—but perhaps another image will serve.
"Herr Lambert told me once that Grantville suddenly appearing in our time was like a large rock being thrown into the center of a pond. Many ripples are sent out, which radiate to the banks of the pond and then bounce back, going back and forth and disturbing the water for a long time. Some of the ripples are quite large, such as Gustavus Adolphus surviving the battle. Some of them are very small, such as your reading the
vita brevis
about yourself from the future. But all of them, all of them mean change.
"Perhaps you will never serve the Elector of Saxony again. Perhaps, with some of the increased knowledge of healing the Grantvillers bring, your daughters will not die at such young ages. Of a certainty you will write different music. And none of it, none of it will surprise God. Live your life to His glory, and trust that at the end you will hear 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant.'"
Schütz sat—very still—for a long time, staring at the table. Finally, he looked up. "And the music?"
Rothmaler smiled. "Just consider it to have been written by a relative with the same name—an uncle, a nephew, perhaps a cousin. A different Heinrich Schütz wrote it, in a different time. Enjoy the beauty of it, admire the skill in it, learn from if you will, but do not consider it yours."
An expression of peace crossed the master musician's face. He visibly relaxed. "Thank you for your concern, Pastor Rothmaler, and for your wisdom. I will think on these things."
Movement IV - Presto Furioso
Grantville
April, 1634
Thomas Schwarzberg plopped a pile of manuscript pages down on the table in front of Amber Higham. "Done. That is the last of the pieces Franz desired for the concert—the full score and all the instrument parts as well." He rubbed at weary eyes. "I believe I shall sleep for a week." He pushed a smaller package over to Marcus Wendell. "And here is the second copy of the full score. Your student Dane was copying it as quickly as I finished the first copy, sometimes picking up pages even before the ink had dried."
"Good." Marcus smiled. "He's a good kid. I was glad to see him volunteer for this. From a music standpoint, too bad he's got to do the army thing. He could train up into a pretty fair musician, especially since he plays tuba." He looked to Thomas. "So, Franz is well into rehearsals now, I hear?
Thomas nodded. "Already Franz has adjusted his program. He has dropped the Albinoni
Adagio
, partly because the transcription for orchestra only instead of the original organ and orchestra did not work as well as he thought it would, but also in no small part because it is taking more time to rehearse the pieces than he thought it would." He grinned. "I think that our Franz feels the time running like sand through a glass."
"Forget Franz," Amber said. "What will Mary think?"
Marcus shrugged. "Nobody's tried to do what we're doing so quickly. We're making this up as we go along. Mary will have to accept what can be done for this year. We'll build on it for next year. Frankly, I'm surprised as all get out at what's been accomplished."
"So." Amber looked up from her notepad. "Is that the last of the music to be sent to Magdeburg?"
"No, please," Giacomo spoke up. He pushed his own pile of pages forward. "This is the work that Franz Sylwester asked of me. It should have been ready before now, but when Father Kirchner asked me for the Passion, this was put on the back burner. But here it is at last, the
Variations and Etude on Geminiani's Concerto Grosso in E minor
. It is not difficult. The players, they will find it easy."
Heinrich Schütz reached out and picked up the full score of the piece to leaf through it. "Nicely done. Arranging the concerto from a handful of instruments to the full orchestra, good work that is. It will sound well."
Giacomo felt a flush of pleasure at the praise from his peer. He nodded his thanks.
Amber reached out and made the two stacks of music in front of her into one. "Is that all of it?" Receiving nods from around the table, she continued, "Have Dane give me his timesheet, Thomas, so I can cut him a check. I'll cut yours and Master Giacomo's at the same time. Now, is there any other news that I should send to Magdeburg along with this?"
"Tell Franz that the wind instrument students are making good progress," Marcus said. "Especially the brass players. He may have some of them earlier than I guessed, maybe even by the end of the year."
The down-timer musicians—Master Schütz, Thomas, and Master Giacomo himself—all took notice. "That is very good news," Master Schütz said. "Good news, indeed."
"Even the woodwind players are starting to make progress, once they got over having to learn from Errol Mercer and some teenagers in the band." Marcus shook his head. "Bunch of prima donnas. Worse than horn players . . . and I can say that—I are one." Amber laughed, but nobody else got the joke. "I had to read the riot act to the players learning clarinet and saxophone about working with Errol. He was about to walk on me because they were complaining so much about being taught by someone they felt was not at their level." Marcus nodded at Master Schütz. "Once I invoked your name, sir, they quit talking and started practicing. They still may not be happy about the situation, but at least they're working at it now and not complaining."
There were smiles around the room as Master Schütz's mouth quirked. "I am glad to have been of service in your new world of music, Master Marcus."
****
Giacomo fell into step with Heinrich as they left the meeting room. "So, my friend. How are you faring?"
Heinrich looked at him soberly. "I believe I am well. Pastor Johann Rothmaler from Rudolstadt has spent much time with me, several conversations. His wisdom and compassion have led me through darkness, and I have found a means of accepting Grantville and everything it brings."
"It is not easy to confront the future." Giacomo nodded. "I know this as well as anyone. It is good to hear that you are at peace with it."
"I am not sure if I am at peace with it or in spite of it." Heinrich gave a slight smile. "But yes, my mind is settled now, and I am ready to move forward."
The two men talked for a moment more at the front door to the building, then Heinrich said good night. Giacomo watched his friend walk away, relieved to hear that his distress had been allayed.
Amber Higham stepped up beside Giacomo, surprising him.
"Frau Amber . . . I thought you had already left."
"No, I was right behind you coming down the hall." She paused for a moment. "I had heard some time ago that Master Schütz was having a little difficulty dealing with Grantville. I overheard your discussion with him just now. Is he all right?"
"Yes," Giacomo said, "I believe he is."
"Good." Amber gave a firm nod. "I like him."
Magdeburg
Late April, 1634
"No, no, no, no, NO!" Franz brought the rehearsal to a halt. "Violas, how many times must I say it? At the fourth measure after letter C, on the first beat, I want a down bow from all of you—a strong down bow." He looked at the players in question. Most of them nodded.
"I will explain myself one more time. This is for two reasons. First, because that note begins a new phrase, it needs extra emphasis. Second, because I want you all to be seen moving in the same manner. If we have bows going in all directions, the audience, the patrons, will think that you are country bumpkins pulled in from the fairs." The glare he directed at them, while it might not have ignited the wood of their instruments, should certainly have caused them to warm up.
"Again. From letter C."
Franz started the orchestra again from that point. At the appropriate time, he focused on the viola section. He was gratified to find that they all followed his instruction. All but one, that is. One lone bow was moving up while all the others were moving down.
Cutting the music off, Franz set his baton down on the music stand. He said nothing, standing in silence. Within a moment, everyone in the great room was still. No one moved. No one whispered. It seemed no one breathed. When he finally spoke, more than one individual jumped, although his voice was not loud.
"Herr Vogler."
"Yes, Herr Sylwester?"
The violist's tone was not exactly impudent, but one would certainly not call it respectful.
"I am glad to see that you are not hard of hearing." It took a moment for that statement to sink in. Just as Vogler started to open his mouth for an angry retort, Franz said, "Tell me, Herr Vogler . . . why is it that fourteen other violists—even young Johann Amsel, here—can play that phrase perfectly, in exactly the manner that I desire, yet you seem to never be able to do so?"
"I . . . " Vogler sounded a little flustered as he stammered, "I simply think it sounds better the other way."
"You think it sounds better the other way." Silence. "Tell me, Herr Vogler. If the composer of this piece were here, would you argue with him about it?"
"But you are not the composer, are you?" Vogler's tone was rather pugnacious.
Franz was suddenly weary. "No, Herr Vogler, but I stand in his place. I direct you as the composer would have done. And if you will not accept my direction, then there is no place for you here." A moment of silence. "You are discharged."
Vogler's shock changed to anger quickly. "You cannot do that! I am one of Master Schütz's best musicians! Matthäus, tell him. The master will be most angry."
Matthäus shook his head. "No, Herwin. About the music, he is right and you are wrong. You are right that the master will be angry, but it will not be Herr Sylwester that will face his ire."
With an expression of stunned disbelief, Herwin turned to another and said, "Simon? Will you let this happen?"
"Herwin, I tried to tell you. This is your own doing."
Franz could see that Vogler's hands were trembling when he placed his viola in its case and snatched up his jacket. "I leave this place. You cannot discharge me—I quit!"
"As you will. Your pay will be waiting with Frau Haygood tomorrow."
Everyone watched as Vogler stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. All eyes then turned to Franz. He looked back at them, catching each eye for a moment. "Gentlemen, I say again, I stand in the place of all these composers, these men who will never be but whose genius is still before us. I will not accept less than your best. It is our duty, and their due. If you cannot bear that stricture, then it would be best if you left now." Long moments passed.
Franz picked up his baton. "Again. From letter C."
Grantville
May, 1634
The Thuringen Gardens was moderately crowded tonight, Thomas thought. The OF Band was playing tonight. This had brought many of their followers in early to take the best places. The old men were up on the platform, tuning up and getting ready to start any moment. As he watched, they were joined by a couple of their wives.
There were some tables still open. He and Lukas Amsel followed Masters Carissimi and Schütz toward a table.
Thomas was somewhat bemused by Master Carissimi's choice of attire. He had set aside the black cassock he sometimes wore, even though he was not a cleric . . . at least not yet. Thomas had heard him say from time to time that he was truly considering entering orders. When not wearing the cassock, Master Giacomo normally wore the culottes—knee britches—ruffled shirt and coat of a gentleman. Tonight, however, when he took the coat off and flung it over the back of his chair, Thomas was astounded to see him wearing a t-shirt.
T-shirts were almost ubiquitous in Grantville. They were seen in all sizes and colors, including many colors not found in nature. Master Tom Stone's tie-dyed t-shirt came to mind, which occasioned a shudder on Thomas' part. That shirt looked like a hangover felt, as far as he was concerned.
Many of the t-shirts had pictures or words on them. Variations on the American flag were common. Out of all that he had seen, Thomas had two favorites, one serious and one comical. The serious one had a long quote on it: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. - Edmund Burke." The comical one had a much shorter quote: "I'm with Stupid," above an arrow that pointed to the right. In some fashion, Thomas felt that those two shirts captured the essence of Grantville.
The t-shirt that Master Giacomo was wearing fell somewhere in between those two extremes, being simply a bright pink shirt with a picture of a plaza and surrounding buildings rendered on it in exquisite detail. Master Giacomo saw him looking at it.
"The Piazza Navona in Rome." He held the front of the shirt stretched out between his hands. "I have walked it before, many times. It reminds me of home. Remind me some time to tell you how I found it here in Grantville."
Master Heinrich looked at Master Giacomo, then at Thomas. "Tell me . . . do you know if Frau Amber is married? I have not seen a ring on her hand such as the married women of Grantville wear."
Thomas' eyebrows rose involuntarily. He looked at Master Giacomo, who replied, "I believe I was told that she was married back in the time before the Ring of Fire, but that she divorced her husband for adultery. His adultery."
"She never remarried?"
"I do not believe so, no. In any event, it would be a moot point now. As I understand it, the consensus appears to be that all spouses not in Grantville when the Ring of Fire fell will be treated as dead. That would mean Frau Amber should be considered a widow." Master Giacomo looked at Master Heinrich with the same curiosity that Thomas himself felt.
After a moment, Master Heinrich, obviously feeling the weight of their gazes, said, "She reminds me of Magdalena . . . my wife. I find her . . . interesting."
Master Giacomo, Lukas and Thomas exchanged astonished looks. Before any of them could think of anything to say, the wine and beers arrived. Moments later, so did Signor Abati.
Andrea Abati had arrived in Grantville in December not long before Christmas. He was an acquaintance of Master Giacomo's, come from Magdeburg to visit the master and to learn more of the modern music.
Signor Abati was a
castrato
, or more politely, a
gentilhuomo
. This automatically made him a member of the musical elite of Italy. According to Master Carissimi, though, Abati was more than just a member of that group; he was the elite of the elite, probably the finest singer and musician of all the
gentilhuomi
. He was known as
Il Prosperino
among the patrons and musicians of Rome. The problem, from Thomas' perspective, was that Abati, at least when he first arrived, was fully in agreement with Master Carissimi's opinion. Despite the fact that he was taller than the Italian, Thomas had felt all too often during their first encounters that Abati was looking down his nose at all things German.
That had changed as Abati spent time with Marcus Wendell, Master Giacomo and Elizabeth Jordan. He had disappeared into the music libraries of the school and the various churches for days. From time to time, he would borrow a book from Master Wendell, only to return it in a few days and then begin to question everyone in sight about various issues until he had worked everything out and understood things—or at least as well as anyone in Grantville did.
Thomas had been around Abati quite a bit the last few weeks, particularly after Franz and the others had left on their trips. By that time, Abati had set aside most of his flamboyance. He was now so focused on the music that he rivaled Franz and Marla in intensity. Thomas quite approved of Abati these days. The thought surprised him somewhat.
