Featured Article » Continuing Serials

Hallelujah, Part Two

Written by David Carrico

November 1634

 

"Thus saith the Lord . . ."

"Stop." Andrea Abati closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Dietrich Fischer was still looking at him with that same placid but confused expression he'd been wearing all evening. Andrea scrubbed his hands over his face, then took a deep breath.

"Dietrich, you are not singing a ballad to a girl you want to romance." Dietrich nodded, just as he had in every conversation they'd already had this evening. "You are the prophet of God here. You are the voice of Haggai. You need to sound like that prophet, not like some love-sick swain mooning after a bit of skirt." Dietrich's expression moved toward a frown—or at least as much of one as Andrea had ever seen on his face.

The voice master was beginning to wonder if all the world was playing a practical joke on him. Here, finally, he had found a voice that could sing part of his beloved Otello, and the man could not take direction! It was enough to send him to a monastery—well, maybe not that bad, but still . . .

A thought occurred to him.

"Dietrich, have you ever known a stern old priest or pastor with a big voice?"

The confused expression was back, but Dietrich nodded. "We lived in Rostock until I was fourteen. Pastor Johannes Quistorp was like that."

"Did he ever give you a fiery scolding?"

"No."

Andrea wanted to scream.

"Did you ever see him scold someone like that?"

A smile dawned on the big man's face, and he nodded. "My uncle." It was apparent he remembered the event well.

"I want you to sing like that scolding, with that kind of scorn and fire. Can you do that for me?" Dietrich's eyes lit up; he nodded with fervor. "Good. Hermann, if you please."

Andrea closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall as the harpsichord sounded the introductory measure, waiting for Dietrich's entrance.

"Thus saith the Lord,

The Lord of Hosts:

Yet once a little while,

And I will shake . . ."

The voice master's eyes snapped open at the first note. It was rich. It was resonant. It dripped fire and sternness. It was not the least bit romantic. Andrea listened as Dietrich completed the recitative, almost spitting out the words and taking the moving lines at a run.

". . . saith the Lord of Hosts."

Dietrich's final phrase was stately, proud, and forceful enough that Andrea almost thought he was hearing one of those old prophets. Whoever that old pastor was must be a veritable Elijah, that the thought of him inspired Dietrich to this level. Andrea muttered a quick thank you prayer to God for that man.

"Good, Dietrich. That is the sound we want." Dietrich's smile was back. "Now, let us make it perfect."

****

Despite the cold weather outside, Marla was sweating by the time the evening's rehearsal was over. Part II of Messiah was the longest of the three parts, containing twenty-three sections to part I's twenty-one and Part III's nine.

The first half of Part II was definitely not happy music. And it didn't help that five of Part II's eleven chorus sections occurred in the first seven sections of Part II. By the end of the first two, "Behold the Lamb of God" and "Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs", Marla's arm felt almost numb from the effort of dragging the singers along. They kept making the basic mistake of allowing the slow sad sections to droop in tempo.

Fortunately, the third and fourth chorus sections, "And With His Stripes We Are Healed" and "All We Like Sheep Have Gone Astray", were somewhat livelier. The choir did much better with those; enough so that by the end of the rehearsal Marla's mood had improved and her arm felt better. They still needed work, obviously, but a good start had been made tonight.

She dropped her hands from the final cutoff, allowing the chorus to relax.

"Okay, folks, that's it for the night. Look at your music before next rehearsal. Especially the ones we looked at tonight, the ones that seem so slow. We have to do better than we did tonight. We start practicing with the orchestra in a little over three weeks. You have to know your parts by then—all of your parts." She waved at them. "Go home."

Franz came up and set his hands to rubbing her shoulders. She started to melt.

"You are tight tonight."

Marla looked back at him. "What did you expect? You heard them. It was all I could do to keep them within eyesight of the correct tempo for 'Behold the Lamb of God,' and 'Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs' was even worse." She sighed, and leaned back into his arms.

"Do not be so hard, Marla. They do well." She snorted—a ladylike snort, but it was definitely a snort. "'Tis true. At least you've not had to fire any of them."

"True." The thought of what Franz had had to go through with Herwin Vogler made her pause for a moment. It was true; the chorus rehearsals had not had anyone as recalcitrant as the violist that Franz had finally discharged from the orchestra not long before the big concert last July.

Marla's mood mellowed more as the last of the knots were worked out of her neck and shoulders. She turned back to her husband, who brushed sweat-soaked tendrils of hair back behind her ears. "The revolution progresses," he said.

"Yep. But meanwhile, I'm tired. Take me home."

"As you command, my dear."

God Above, she loved that man.

****

Marla answered the knock. She opened the door to reveal a young man carrying a bundle. His family resemblance to Patroclus Zopff was so strong that this must be the storied younger brother Telemachus. Franz stepped up behind her and set a hand on her shoulder as she said, "Yes?"

"Herr Sylwester? Frau Linder?"

"Yes?" This time from Franz.

"I have . . . you must . . . my brother . . ."

Marla bit her lip to keep from giggling as the young man, obviously flustered, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders, opened his eyes and started again.

"My name is Telemachus Zopff. I am come from my brother Patroclus Zopff."

Marla had to suppress another giggle as Telemachus rattled that small speech off and released a small puff of breath at the end.

"Come in, then," Franz replied. They stepped out of the doorway to allow the young printer to maneuver his bundle into the house. Marla cleared a space on the table that was serving as a desk. A moment later, Telemachus was unwrapping the bundle.

The first thing the printer held up was a familiar lavender book. "Patroclus says to say that we have completed the setting of the treatise." He handed Marla the book with a flourish. "And here is the final set of proof pages." Telemachus laid his hand on the stack of paper tied with twine.

"Good!" Marla resisted the itch to immediately untie the proof stack and get to work. It would be a bit rude, after all. She smiled at Telemachus, and was rewarded by a shy smile in return.

"Will you take some ale, Herr Telemachus?" The young man nodded vigorously in response to Franz's question. While Franz stepped out of the room to fetch the ale, Marla gestured to the nearby seats, and gathered her skirts to sit. Telemachus followed suit just as Franz reappeared with two mugs of ale for themselves and one of water for Marla. She accepted it with thanks. She still hadn't developed a taste for beer or ale. She probably never would.

"So, what other word do you have from Herr Patroclus?" Marla watched as Telemachus hurriedly swallowed the mouthful of ale he had just taken in, choking a moment or two before the ale decided to descend by its proper passage.

"He also said to say that he has ordered one of the Vignelli duplicating machines." Telemachus' smile flashed again. "Speaking for myself, I am glad he has done so. I think we can make good use of its speed to do broadsheets and pamphlets. And I thank you for mentioning Frau Haygood to my brother, because she it was who convinced him that we should buy it." The smile soured somewhat. "Of course, he says nothing of my suggesting months ago that we should get one."

"Hmm." Franz cradled his mug in his hands. "A not uncommon problem. Scripture says something about a prophet not being honored by his own."

"'For a prophet is not without honor save in his own country.' Matthew chapter 13 verse 57," Telemachus responded. He grinned at their surprise. "It is a favorite verse of the Committees of Correspondence. Not that we . . . they . . . at all compare themselves to Jesus, but we . . . they . . . have a message of truth for our people that seems to be facing similar rejections."

"So you know something of the committees?" Franz asked. Marla had an idea that Telemachus knew rather more of the CoC than his brother suspected, or would approve of.

"I spend time with them," Telemachus said with a defensive air. "I hold to their beliefs, even if Father and Patroclus do not agree. I help at the Freedom Arches when I have some time of my own, which isn't often."

"Why do you support the committees, in the face of your family's disapproval?"

"Because of my family," the young man replied. "Not because I reject them, but because of our history." Marla felt her eyebrows go up, but she said nothing. After a moment, Telemachus continued.

"You know, of course—you must know—my father ensures that everyone knows—that the Zopffs were once the favored printers and publishers of the Elector of Brandenburg." Marla nodded, echoed by Franz. "But do you know why we are no longer in Berlin? Did Father or Patroclus tell you that part of the story?" Telemachus snorted. "Of course not. They never speak of that, to spare the family some form of embarrassment or shame. As if it matters now, twenty years later and across half the Germanies." A large amount of ale was drained from his mug.

Marla waited. She'd been curious for some time as to why the Zopffs were no longer in Berlin.

The story had simple bones, to hear Telemachus tell it. The Elector of Brandenburg was Lutheran prior to 1613. Conrad Zopff, being desirous of pleasing the Elector, made it plain that he and his house were Lutheran as well. He was so much a Lutheran that he would seek out books and pamphlets to print that would assail both popish beliefs and what he would label the 'misguided Calvinists'.

That changed in 1613. The Elector became a Calvinist. Unfortunately, it had not come to the Zopff family's attention that this change was in the wind. Literally two days before that change was announced, Conrad published a particularly harsh, critical and venomous anti-Calvinist pamphlet. Almost overnight the patronage melted away.

"This was before my birth," Telemachus fumed, "but I've overheard enough late night conversations between my father and Patroclus to know the family tried to keep going for two years, hoping that the passage of time would soothe feelings. But the old Elector had a long memory. They were finally forced to leave Berlin before the last of their silver melted away."

Telemachus brooded for a long moment.

"I was born in Erfurt. Countess Anna Sofie Fürstin von Anhalt-Zerbst und Dessau, the wife of Count Karl Günther von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, heard of our troubles and extended an invitation to my father and grandfather to settle in their lands. We stayed there until the rebuilding of Magdeburg began.

"All the time I was growing up, I heard how the Elector's rejection crushed my grandfather's spirit, how we had come down so far in the world. And even as a lad it made me angry that our lives had been almost ruined because of one man's whim about which church he wished to believe in. I despise the Hohenzollerns, root and branch." The angry glint in Telemachus' eyes was almost enough to be a fire.

"So I work with the committees at every opportunity. Someday that will be my lifework, to help change the world so that such things don't happen again."

****

 

". . . Los peces en el rio

Pero mira como beben

Por ver al dios nacido

Beben y beben

Y vuelven a beber

Los peces en el rio

Por ver al dios nacer."

 

Marla held the last note out, listening to hear if the girls wavered in tone, but they held true. Finally she had mercy on them and cut off the note. There was a melodramatic "Uhhhh" of inhaled air from the front row. "Knock it off, girls." She didn't even look up from her music as she spoke.

There were giggles scattered around the choir. Marla's mouth curved a little as she remembered her junior high days. It still amazed her sometimes that some of the things she'd done in choir hadn't gotten her in serious trouble. Like the time she and Becky . . . well, that didn't bear thinking about.

"Okay, ladies, that was good." Eyes brightened around the room and everyone stood up straighter. The girls had learned that whenever Marla called them "ladies", she was pleased. "The French song next." That drew groans. French wasn't as easy as Spanish or Italian or Latin, and the girls always hoped Marla would overlook that song during choir rehearsal. She never did. You'd think they would have learned.

Marla looked up and raised her hands. The girls snapped to, all eyes on her. Marla hummed a pitch; the girls hummed it back to her. She gave them three small beats, and they began.

 

"Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle,

Un flambeau, courons au berceau

C'est Jésus, bonnes gens du hameau,

Le Christ est né, Marie appelle,

Ah! ah! que la mère est belle,

Ah! ah! ah! que l'Enfant est beau! . . ."

****

Franz set his baton down carefully before looking around at the orchestra. Silence grew as he stared at them, moving from section to section, saying nothing. Bit by bit the smiles of the musicians faded away. At length he spoke.

"Gentlemen, that was almost pathetic." There was iron in his voice. No one would now meet his gaze. "We played this section, this Pastoral Symphony from Messiah, in our concert only four months ago. And we played it well. That is why I left it until now to rehearse again, thinking that you would have retained that work. But now, now we sound like . . . like . . ." Words failed him, and he looked down.

The breathing of over forty men was muted. Someone coughed, sounding like an explosion in the silence.

Franz looked up again, to find every eye now on him. "You are better than this." His voice was quiet but was heard by every ear in the room. "You know that. I know that. Do not shame the name of Master Händel like this." He closed his score.

"I will not accept your complacency. Decide tonight what you will do." Franz gathered his jacket, score and baton, then walked the length of the room to the door.

****

Matthaüs Amsel stood and watched as Franz left. The others gathered around him. They all looked at each other as the door closed—all but Matthaüs, who continued to stare at the door.

"Will . . . will he tell Master Heinrich?" That was his youngest brother Johan, Matthaüs knew. There was muttering among the others.

"No." The lead violinist did not turn around. "He will do no such thing. He would not think of it, unless we drive him to it." Now he turned, and everyone, even his brothers, stepped back. "And that we will not do. We will not fail Master Franz."

It was the first time that any of them had called the young conductor "Master." All of them noted it; none of them objected.

"I told you," Matthaüs looked around the group, "I told you what he said of Master Abati's words at the choir rehearsal, about the call to greatness. That man . . ." Matthaüs pointed to the closed door. ". . . that man has the vision to lead us, to mold us, to make us more than we ever dreamed of being . . . to lead us in making the greatest music that our world, our history, has ever known. And if we will not commit to greatness, he will leave us and find those who will."

There was no sound. Everyone but Matthaüs was staring at the floor, clutching instruments and bows in white-knuckled hands.

"This will not happen again." The lead violinist's voice was weighted. The others felt the words as much as heard them. "We will not do this again. Before God, gentlemen, we will never again come to a rehearsal unprepared, or unready to offer less than our very best." There were mutters of agreement. His voice grew colder. "Mark me well, gentlemen. You will answer to me if you do. This will not happen again."

The agreements were louder this time. Matthaüs looked around. Everyone caught his eye and nodded.

"Good. Now, there is daylight left. Learn your parts anew."

Simon Bracegirdle stepped to his side as the others took to their chairs and began practicing with fever, fervor and focus. The two of them turned away from the seats and took a few steps towards the door.

"I do not know about them," Simon nodded back toward the others, "but you have convinced me of your intent."

"Good." Matthaüs snorted.

There was a moment of silence between them, then he saw the Englishman look to him with a sideways glance. "His gaze marked you as well, then?"

"Oh, aye." Sigh. "Not simply marked, but pierced to the innermost. I almost felt the very Judas in that moment, Simon, almost as if I had betrayed him by being less than the music required. I would rather he had screamed and thrown things." Matthaüs' right hand fisted into the palm of his left, again, and once more. "I will not abide that look from him again. And if that means I must belabor you and our fellows, then so be it." He smiled slightly, but the look he turned on his friend had more than a touch of steel to it.

Simon tugged on his forelock in a display of false servility. "Yes, sir, absolutely, sir, without delay, sir."

That sparked a brief laugh in the lead violinist as they turned back to pick up their own instruments and add to the general cacophony within the room.

****

Marla listened as the girls sang the old carol. No way around it, "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" just sounded more impressive in Latin than in English—but then, it was originally a Gregorian chant, so it should. The girls were doing a good job, even the ones who a couple of months ago couldn't pitch match for anything.

Ingram had really come through for her when he'd found the two pieces of semi-circular 3 inch PVC pipe. Putting one end by the singer's ear and the other by her mouth really helped each girl to hear what she was singing and how it was different from the others. They would never be world-class singers, but at least they were able to blend in now. The girls thought it was due to some miracle of the plastic. Marla didn't disabuse them of the notion, but she knew that a length of hose or even a similar construct of wood would have done just as well.

The poor monotone, Frieda—such a pleasant child—alas, was still a monotone. Her speaking voice was a little unusual in sound, as well, so Marla wondered if she was a child who had often suffered from ear infections. She'd heard from Aunt Susan that the medical staff had already noted how prevalent some degree of hearing loss was among the down-timers because of the childhood illnesses that were suffered without antibiotics.

It was fortunate that Frieda's voice was soft and didn't carry beyond an arm's length. Stationed in the center of the choir, with strong voices surrounding her, she was not noticeable.

They finished the song and Marla cut them off with a circular motion of her hand. "Very good, ladies." She almost laughed as the girls preened a little. Such vain creatures they were, but so much fun.

"Gerde, pass out the new song." As the mimeographed sheets were being passed amidst murmurs and the rustle of pages, Marla continued. "This one's in Italian. Most of you have had enough Italian or Spanish to have a good guess at how the words should sound. We'll go through it once to get a feel for it, then we'll start working notes and words. Ready?"

The girls nodded, caught the pitch that Marla hummed to them and hummed it back. She gave them the preparatory beats, and they began.

 

"Tu scendi dalle stelle

O Re del Cielo

E vieni in una grotta

Al freddo al gelo

E vieni in una grotta

Al freddo al gelo . . ."

****

The Green Horse was in full form tonight, Isaac decided as the noise poured out through the doorway. He stepped around a man who was leaving, made his way to the bar and ordered ale.

"It is good to see you tonight, Herr Fremdling." The tavern owner set the mug on the bar. "I miss you and your friends playing."

Isaac looked around the crowded room, and laughed. "It does not look as if you miss us much."

"Oh, aye, I've the custom," the other man shrugged. "But I miss the music. Especially the Irish songs. Frau Marla could make a stone weep or a cripple dance."

"Aye, that she can. But, as the Grantvillers say, she and the others are up to their eyebrows in other work. I would not expect to see her much before January, my friend. But I will remind them of our promise to play here. They will come."

The tavern owner was called to another customer. Mug in hand, Isaac turned to face the room. He hadn't expected to see anyone he knew, but standing there across the room was Lucas Amsel, waving at him. Isaac waved back and made his way across the room to the table, where he found Lucas fulfilling his role as Master Schütz's attendant, companied with his three brothers and a man he did not recognize.

"Isaac," Master Schütz said in his rich and resonant voice. "Be welcome. Do you know Herr Patroclus Zopff?"

From the ink on his hands, this must be one of the family of printers. Isaac knew of their connection with Marla's projects, which explained why the man was known to the master musician.

"I have not had the pleasure, master." The next few moments were spent in introductions. Lucas and Johann Amsel squeezed together even more to make room on their bench for Isaac.

"So, young Isaac, how goes it with you this season?" Master Schütz focused his interest on Isaac.

"Well enough, sir. I participate in the orchestra rehearsals that do not involve Messiah." Master Schütz, of course, had heard of Isaac's decision. "I play at weddings and parties and teach violin to students, one or two of which may become passable players if they exert themselves even a little."

"Ha! That is always the problem, is it not—the exertion. As others have discovered recently." Master Schütz directed a sidelong glance to the other players at the table. Isaac was surprised to see Johann blush and Marcus and even Matthaüs look somewhat discomfited. He looked to them with expectation. "Go on. Tell him."

"We, ah . . . the orchestra grew lazy, and came to rehearsal a few days ago with most of us unready to play the selection scheduled for work."

Isaac whistled. "Oh my . . ." He almost choked to avoid saying the name of the Most High. "Not a good idea, my friends."

"So we discovered." Matthaüs looked down at his mug. "I have not felt so flayed in years."

"But he was so quiet," Johann spoke up, himself barely audible in the noise of the common room. "He did not rant, he did not shout, he was not mean at all. Yet I felt so horrible after he left."

"There are those who can do that," Schütz chuckled. "You would not think it of him, but it is the quiet ones who will most surprise you. And it is their criticisms that hurt the most . . . especially when they are well-deserved."

"Truth," Isaac said. "He stands in Frau Marla's shadow so much, it is often surprising to know just what our Franz is capable of. You see her, you overlook him." Heads nodded around the table. "Yet consider this . . . for all that Frau Marla may be strong-willed, resolute and . . . intense, shall we say . . . for all of that, Franz is her equal. Our friend Rudolf once said that her spine is fashioned of sword steel. I tell you that Franz is as strong, if quieter.

"They are so alike in so many ways, not least of which is their passion for the music; they will tell you the truth as they know it, no matter the cost to themselves; and what they say, they will do."

"That is comforting to hear." Patroclus waved at a passing barmaid and handed her his mug. "For I tell you that I have wagered the future of my family on what they say."

"The printing for the Leipzig book fair?" Master Schütz questioned.

"Aye, but even more than that, the tying of our business so closely to them. We turned down work to complete the music printing projects. I fear we may have lost customers. The trip to the Leipzig fair will drain most of our funds. If things do not go well, we may be forced out of business."

"Fear not. They have, if anything, understated the impact of this music and the treatise. Your fortune will be made from these, and the other things they will bring you to print."

The refilled mug appeared on the table. Patroclus lifted it, looking at Schütz over the rim as he took a long pull. He seemed to find reassurance in the lined face of the old musician.

"Truth," Isaac repeated. "Just as Grantville cannot be ignored in the areas of the mechanical arts, in politics and in philosophy, so she cannot be ignored in music. Herr Patroclus, ere long every musician of any note will know of the up-time music. There are those who will try to ignore it—they will not succeed. There are those who will try to fight it—they will be no more successful than those who ignore it. There are those who will try to take control of it—they will also fail. But those who embrace it—ah, they are the ones who will write the music of the future.

"My friend, the bell of the universe has been rung. The reverberations will resonate for generations. Everything will change, just because Grantville is here. There is no escaping that. But those of perception, who have the courage to grasp an opportunity when it presents itself, those folk will prosper."

"Well said," Master Schütz declared. "Wisdom indeed, Herr Patroclus, if you will hear it." The printer gave a slow nod, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The conversation turned to lighter things for some time. At last, both Herr Zopff and Master Schütz claimed a need to prepare for the morning. They left, Lucas trailing in the master's wake.

Isaac and the remaining Amsels called for one more round of ale, then spent some time talking about the orchestra rehearsals. Isaac was hungry to hear how things were progressing. He knew when he made the decision that not playing for Messiah would be difficult to bear. It had proven to be difficult indeed. But he would not back away from his choice to honor the faith of his fathers.

That conversation wound down at last.

"I leave you with one last thought, my friends." Isaac prepared to go. "Franz was annealed in a very hot furnace indeed, and the blows of the smith were hard. 'Twould be wise to not stand against him."

"Funny." Matthaüs gave a wry grin. "He says much the same of you."

 

 

December 1634

 

The rehearsal was going well, Franz decided as he paused between sections for a breath. It was the first of three planned complete run-throughs of Messiah before the first performance. The orchestra had risen to his challenge and begun producing the sound they were capable of. The chorus had been practicing with the orchestra for the last two weeks. Marla had turned the directing responsibilities over to him with some show of relief, taking her place in the rear ranks of the soprano section along with Master Andrea. The resulting increase of soprano sound had served as a challenge to the other sections, with the result that the entire chorus was singing both better and, when needed, louder.

They had completed Part 1 without incident and had moved on to Part II. Franz guided the musicians through the opening sections. He was gratified that the chorus in particular had taken to heart Marla's instructions in "Behold, the Lamb of God" and "Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs" and was keeping to the tempos he set. And the chorus had produced a stirring sound in "And With His Stripes We Are Healed."

That brought them to one of Franz's favorite sections, "All We Like Sheep." He raised his hands. It took longer than usual for everyone to settle and focus on him. The male voices in particular seemed a bit restive. Well, that was to be expected the first time through a full performance. All the previous rehearsals had been broken up by the stops called by the directors to address flaws and weaknesses. Not tonight. It was full steam ahead—whatever that Grantville expression really meant—with only the shortest of pauses between the selections. It required standing still from the singers and focus from everyone.

When the desired calm and focus arrived, Franz began. He cued the chorus entry right after the second beat. Two statements of "All we like sheep," and the parts were off on their contrapuntal chases of each other.

The performers had not progressed far into the piece when it happened. Twice the chorus had returned to the theme "All we like sheep." After the second time, the tenors and basses were supposed to sing a moving line of "have gone a-stra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay." What was sung was "Baa-baa-baa-baa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa."

Franz was looking to the cellos and basses at that moment, preparing to give a cutoff. It took a beat or so for the sound to register. His eyes cut to the chorus, and his baton froze in mid-air. The chorus and orchestra faltered to a halt a moment or two later . . . and everyone dissolved in laughter.

There atop the heads of every grinning tenor and bass were constructions obviously meant to be rams' horns. That on Dietrich's head was truly impressive. He had somehow contrived to craft a set of horns out of paper that did a full curl, with the tips jutting out past his mouth. His "fleece" was more noteworthy as well; where the others had used curled wood shavings or strips of cloth or paper, Dietrich had made his out of many short scraps of yarn, obviously acquired from the cloth manufactory at which he worked. The many colors produced an odd but still impressive effect. And somehow he had managed to blacken the tip of his nose with charcoal. Yes, there was no doubt that Dietrich was the alpha ram of the flock.

After the initial moment of shock, Franz's first thought was that Marla had set up another joke. He shot a glance at his wife, to find her leaning on Master Andrea. The two of them were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down their faces. Marla caught his look and, reading his expression, shook her head.

Franz looked back to the men, and as he did so noticed that his hands were still suspended in the air. Chuckling, he lowered them, set his baton down and began to clap. Within a moment, the orchestra and the sopranos and altos had followed suit.

The applause lasted for some little time. It finally dwindled and faded away, replaced with chuckles, giggles, and the flourishing of handkerchiefs all over the room as people dried their eyes and blew their noses. After a moment, Franz held up his hand for their attention.

"Well, I see that we have been visited tonight by Brillo and his gang of scruffy, rascally rams, come from Franconia." Laughter welled again, and Dietrich stuck his thumbs under his suspenders and beamed. "Well done, my friends. You have given us a moment to laugh together. I also declare that you are probably the slyest bunch of japesters I have encountered in some time, surpassing even Simon Bracegirdle." Simon adopted an expression of mingled shock and hurt after hearing his name slandered, which caused a moment of laughter in the orchestra.

"We have had our moment of fun, friends." Franz got serious again. "Now let us return to our work." He shot a mock glare at those who were doffing their ram hats. "And if I hear another 'Baa', someone shall become a wether instead of a ram."

"If it would make us sing like Master Andrea," Dietrich rumbled, "it might be worth it, Master Franz."

Andrea straightened from where he had been whispering to Marla. "Actually, boys, I believe my surgeon is still practicing. I am certain I could arrange for him to come to Magdeburg." The women laughed to hear the rapid negative expostulations from the men.

Franz rapped his baton on the music stand. "Tenors and men . . ." He gave a grin and lifted his hands. "Measure 19—where we left off before the sheepish interruption." He gave the downbeat and they were off again; this time with the right words.

****

"Are you sure you did not put them up to that?"

Marla laughed in response to Franz's question after the rehearsal. "No, love, I didn't. Although I might have, if I'd thought about it."

Franz looked to Andrea, who held up his hands. "Nor did I. I wish I had. The expression on your face was beyond all price." The three of them shared another quiet laugh.

A thought occurred to Franz. "Master Andrea, if my comment concerning wethers and rams offended you in any way, please accept my apologies."

"None needed, my friend." Andrea waved a hand as if to brush something away. "What you said was nothing compared to the quips and gibes we of the gentilhuomi make among ourselves." He chuckled for a moment, then grew serious again. "No, I, ah, 'came to grips' with what had been done to me years ago. And though there are times when I still wonder what I would otherwise have been, on the whole I am content, even in the midst of this barbaric wasteland."

Andrea smiled to take the sting from the last comment, then continued. "No, the only deprivation I really felt was the lack of a successor. My brothers carried on the family name, but I had no one to follow me . . . until I came to Magdeburg. Now, in Marla, Dietrich and others, I have my legacy. I am content."

 

Thursday, December 21, 1634

The Feast of St. Thomas the Apostle

 

Marla looked at her clothes laid out on the bed. She had decided several weeks ago that she wouldn't dress in one of her performance gowns for this concert. This was the girls' night, not hers, so she had selected clothes that were good but not ornate, in order that most of the attention would be focused on them.

She smiled as she thought of working with Frau Schneider the seamstress to create clothes she could wear for teaching. She didn't want more of the Empire gowns. They would have cost too much. Fortunately, the good frau had been working on new designs of divided skirts, one of which was very close to what Marla had been looking for. In a few days, she had taken ownership of several ankle length skirts that, while not as full as a down-time dress, did have something of a flow to them while she moved. They weren't jeans, but they did qualify as pants . . . sort of.

Most of the skirts were of durable, serviceable material . . . things that would wear well and hold up under the stress of a school teacher's work day. The day she ordered them, however, Frau Schneider had a piece of velvet that was the shade of claret, or maybe merlot . . . a dark wine, anyway. Marla hadn't been able to resist ordering one skirt in that fabric, and now it lay on the bed.

Marla reached out a hand to stroke the blouse that lay beside it. Alison, her mother, was a good two and one-half inches shorter than her daughter, and had generally worn her skirts above the knee, so after the Ring fell there was nothing in her closet in the line of dresses, pants or skirts that would fit Marla. Above the waist, however, they were very close in size, and Marla had drawn several shirts, blouses and sweaters from that closet when she moved to Magdeburg. The best of them lay on the bed with the long skirt.

It was a white silk blouse, with long sleeves and a tall collar. Marla's vision blurred as she remembered how much her mother had loved wearing it. Slow tears rolled down her cheeks as she recalled the memories of the last time she had seen her mother in it, laughing, on the way to a Christmas party with her father. Three and a half years later, it still hurt to think that she'd never see them or her brother again.

"Stupid," she muttered, wiping her face with sharp movements. "She'd want you to wear it."

A few minutes later, just as she was ready to put the finishing touches on her ensemble, Franz entered the room. "Marla, it is almost time to . . ." He stopped dead in his tracks. After a moment, he smiled. "I thought you said you were 'dressing down.'"

"I am." She twirled in place.

"My dear, you will capture the eye of everyone in the room; the men with admiration, the women with jealousy."

"Piffle. Help me with this, please." She handed him the ribbon that matched the hue of her skirt. Mounted on it was the only piece of jewelry ...