"Grantville Gazette.Volume 22" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)
Elegy David Carrico
Magdeburg, April 1635
Andrea Abati moved down the hallway with a light step. This was one of Marla Linder's lesson days, and he didn't want to be late.
Working with Marla was such a joy to him. As a gentilhuomo -or castrato, as he and those like him were more vulgarly known-his life in Italy had been one of performances mixed with adulation, a certain amount of scheming in the papal court, and frequent dalliances with ladies-often married-who enjoyed both his notoriety and the fact that an unanticipated pregnancy would never complicate their lives. In his early thirties, his voice fully mature and in the prime of his singing life, he had not yet begun to teach. But then he came to Magdeburg and met Marla Linder.
Andrea's friend, Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, called Marla's voice golden. Andrea thought that the maestro was guilty of an understatement. The young woman's voice surpassed his own in range, and was fully the equal of his in timbre. What she lacked was technique. And she awoke in him the hunger to teach, the desire to take a younger musician in hand as a gardener might take a sapling, to nurture the raw talent, help to shape it and grow it, until full maturity was reached. And as that hunger grew, Andrea's life began to change.
Il Prosperino, Andrea had been called in Italy. The name literally meant "The Prosperous One," but was usually meant to say "Little Prospero." It had actually been bestowed on him because in his early days in Rome he had been somewhat of a protege to Prospero Orsi, an artist and fellow citizen of Norcia, Andrea's home. Some wit had said, "Look, here comes Prospero and his Prosperino," and the name had stuck. He hadn't minded-in truth, he had been a bit smug about it. The name was appropriate, because he had indeed prospered in almost every way.
If musical talent was the cornerstone of Andrea's fame in Rome, flamboyance had certainly been the keystone. Flamboyant speech, flamboyant dress, and definitely flamboyant liaisons with the ladies. Yet here in Germany, exposed to the music found in Grantville, the uptime instruments and works and harmonies, bit by bit the flamboyance began to drain from him. That alone had shocked him when he realized it was happening. But to find it replaced with a desire to teach, when he had always looked down on teaching as the refuge of those who either could not perform to his high standard or those who were past their prime, that had been an even greater shock. But before long, Il Prosperino had been replaced by Master Andrea.
Andrea smoothed a hand down the front of his short-waisted black velvet jacket, and grinned to himself. Of course, he had not given up all culture and appearances, but now it was somewhat different. Now he did not seek to shock or titillate or over-awe; he demonstrated instead… what was the French phrase Marla had told him… oh yes, savoir-faire. Andrea was now a "class act."
Marla had been his first student. He had many more students now, including several girls from the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls. He enjoyed teaching every one of them, but Marla was still his favorite. He smiled. Her passion for the music may not have exceeded his own, but it was certainly equal to it.
Music wafted down the hall; piano, then flute. Marla must be practicing the flute piece for the concert as well. Andrea opened the door just a moment after the music stopped in mid-phrase.
"It still doesn't sound right." Marla sounded determined. Andrea smiled. Determination was a frequent state of mind for Marla.
"I think it sounds fine." Hermann Katzberg spoke from where he sat at the piano.
The Steinway grand that Marla had escorted to Magdeburg in late 1633 was still the reigning queen of keyboards in the city. It had somehow become the property of the Imperial and Royal Academy of Music in Magdeburg. Andrea still wasn't sure just how Master Carissimi, the head of the academy, had managed to bring that about, but he had. In addition, no less than three of the Bledsoe amp; Riebeck pianos, built with hardware salvaged from old up-time pianos, had made their way from Grantville to Magdeburg in the last two years. The academy had managed to acquire one of them, which was now the principal practice piano.
"It's not right," Marla insisted again.
"What's not right?" Andrea asked.
"This passage." She pointed to the music on the piano.
Andrea studied the passage in question, then straightened.
"Play it again."
Marla raised the flute, licked her lips, and nodded to Hermann. He began the accompaniment part; she entered moments later. Andrea listened attentively, but also observed Marla's physical actions.
At the end of the phrase, she stopped, making a face as if smelling something rancid. She turned to Andrea and waited.
"You are breathing in the wrong places. You don't have enough diaphragm support."
"But that's where my flute teacher told me to breath!"
Marla sounded somewhat offended. Andrea looked at her with his best Master Andrea frown. "Marla, breathing is breathing, whether you play a flute, a pennywhistle, one of those molto grande tubas, or sing. I know breathing. And I tell you, you are breathing in the wrong places."
He pulled a pencil from his jacket pocket, leaned over the music, and made two marks. "Breath here and here, and firm your diaphragm, just as if you were singing the high notes."
Her expression skeptical, Marla raised the flute and played the phrase again, Hermann following her lead. Andrea listened with head cocked to one side, nodding. She finished with a bit of a flourish, then gave her teacher a nod.
"You were right, Master Andrea. It does sound better that way."
"Don't sound so surprised," he growled. He was unable to keep the smile from his face as her skirling laughter filled the room. "As Franz would say, play it again to prove you know it."
Again the flute notes sounded; again he observed.
"Excellent!" Andrea applauded. "Now, can we begin the songs we are supposed to be rehearsing today?"
"Yes, Master Andrea."
May 1635
Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, the head master of the Imperial and Royal Academy of Music in Magdeburg, settled into his seat next to his good friend, Girolamo Zenti, proprietor and master craftsman of the instrument crafting firm of the same name.
"Good evening, Girolamo."
"Good evening, Maestro."
Giacomo wanted to shake his head. Even though they had been friends for several years now, Girolamo would always speak to him with utmost respect in public. He started to chide his friend, but in the end just sighed and held his tongue. They had had this conversation before. He doubted that anything would change if they rehearsed it one more time. He looked at the programme instead.
Franz Sylwester, the dirigent -or conductor, as the Grantvillers would have it-had established a theme of "Songs Without Words" for tonight's concert, declaring that only up-time works would be performed. There were six works on the programme: three orchestral works, two voice solo works accompanied by the orchestra, and a flute solo accompanied by piano. Giacomo ordinarily would have attended most of the rehearsals, but his schedule of late had been so burdened that he had been forced to set that pleasure aside. As a consequence, he was truly looking forward to tonight's performance.
The orchestra had quietly been warming up for some time. Matthaus Amsel, the concert master, now strode out to the front of the orchestra. He bowed to the polite applause from the audience, then proceeded to tune the orchestra. Once they were tuned to Matthaus' satisfaction, he took his seat.
This was the first concert of the year for the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, and everyone who was anyone in Magdeburg was present. Giacomo had seen Hoch-Adel by the dozens when he entered, as well as members of the government and various influential members of the community. Even the Committees of Correspondence were represented.. . or at least he thought he had seen Gunther Achterhof in the back of the room. And of course, Mary Simpson and her coterie of ladies he had heard Marla refer to as the "music mafia" were present in full force.
Franz Sylwester strode through the side door and out to the podium, where he bowed to the audience. Giacomo watched as his friend stepped onto the podium, gathered the eyes of the orchestra, and raised his baton.
The soft flute opened over the ripple of the piano chords; Vaughan Williams' Fantasia on Greensleeves was begun. The strings came in singing the melody in the lower strings with a descant in the violins. So simple, yet so beautiful.
Giacomo would always have a fond spot in his heart for Ralph (pronounced "Rafe" for some unknown English reason) Vaughan Williams. Despite the fact that the man was a professed atheist, he had written some of the most beautiful hymns and songs Giacomo had ever heard. And his orchestral writing! Remembering the performance of Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis from last year's summer concert, Giacomo shivered.
This other fantasia, he had to admit, was much lighter, although still exhibiting Vaughan Williams' deft orchestrations and lush string sounds. He knew that Franz regretted having to substitute piano for the harp part, but there just had not been time to have craftsmen experiment in building a full concert pedal harp from the descriptions and pictures found in various books in Grantville.
Ah, here was the transition of the piece, where for contrast the composer brought in another air, another folk song from England entitled "Lovely Joan." Melodically darker, moving somewhat quicker, written in what was almost a driving style, until it grounded out into the solo flute line again, and returned to a final statement of the original theme. So light, so airy, almost as if it were sung instead of played. The violins lilted the final statement of the theme, and quietly decrescendoed to fade away.
The audience was rapt for a moment, then applause broke out. It was more than simply polite, but not as fulsome as Giacomo expected to hear later this evening. Franz took a bow, then left through the door.
In the resulting moment of quiet murmuring, Giacomo quickly perused the programme. Yes, his memory had not failed him. The flute solo Marla was to perform came next. Marla and Andrea had talked of little else for days, until they were both happy with both the notes and the musicianship.
And speaking-all right, thinking-of Marla, it was as if she had been summoned. She appeared in the side door, holding her silver flute as if it were a standard, and marched to stand in the curve of the grand piano which was placed in front of the orchestra. She bowed to acknowledge the substantial applause-it was no secret that she was the darling of the patrons of Magdeburg-as Hermann Katzberg settled himself at the keyboard. Marla nodded to Hermann. With a single chord from the piano she launched herself into what sounded as if it were a tour-de-force.
According to the programme, this was the S onata "Undine" by Carl Reinecke, a composer who was not extremely well-known in the up-time. Marla said he had written some lovely pieces, and this sonata was apparently well known among flutists.
The first movement had a passionately stated theme that passed back and forth between the flute and the piano. The piano part was so lush it was almost made the work a duet. The tone darkened momentarily, flute and piano both working as if under a cloud, then returning to the lighter tonality.
The second movement was an allegretto in a most vivacious manner. Marla played incredibly rapid passages. Just as Giacomo began to worry about her ability to breathe, there was a brief interlude where the piano played solo, but all too soon the flute returned to recapitulate the original theme of the movement.
There was a very brief pause for a spurt of applause and a buzz of whispers in reaction to the bravura performance of the second movement. The audience hushed as Marla raised her flute again.
The third movement was aptly marked andante tranquillo. Tranquility was indeed its hallmark, and even more than the first movement this was a duet between the two instruments, calling back and forth to each other, then meeting to harmonize, then fading away.
The fourth movement was the most passionate of the work. You could hear the passion in the music, but you could also see it in Marla. That tall, almost regal figure in a white Empire gown-her favorite style-was bending and swaying-now slightly, now slowly, now deeper, now faster-in time with the music. Much as one of Frau Bitty's dancers would move in the dance on stage, so Marla moved in the dance of the music in the air. Even Hermann was caught up in it, hunching forward as his hands rushed up and down the keyboard in places, in others leaning back almost languidly.
The ending was a complete surprise, as all of the storm and passion seemed to fade away to a calm, almost placid theme, with both musicians playing lightly, lyrically, to a final soft chord.
Applause began as soon as Marla lowered her flute. She stood, smiling that brilliant smile that lit every corner of the room. After a moment, she bowed two or three times in response.
Giacomo could see that his friend was breathing deeply. Despite her apparent facility with the instrument, she had worked very hard to play this piece. To his perceptive eye, it showed.
Marla waved her hand to Hermann. He stood at the piano keyboard to take his bow. She bowed one final time, and together they left.
Once again there was a brief moment between the performances. Giacomo leaned over to his friend. He had no need to glance at the programme; he knew well what the next work was.
"Wake up, Girolamo."
"You slander me, maestro, if you think I would dare to doze off now."
The side door opened again. Their mutual friend Master Andrea Abati strode forth confidently-as if he could walk any other way-followed by Franz Sylwester. As Franz assumed the podium, Andrea bowed to the applause. The corners of Giacomo's mouth bent upwards in a smile. Despite his changes in outward appearance and demeanor during the last year or so, Andrea still bowed as if he were a king acknowledging the fealty and praise of his subjects. Some things might never change.
Andrea looked to Franz. The music began.
A vocalise, Giacomo remembered from the conversation with Marla when the concert programme was developed, was a vocal exercise sung on an open syllable. But when Marla or Mary Simpson said "the vocalise," they referred to a work by one of the greater composers of the up-time twentieth century, a Russian named Rachmaninoff. It was titled simply "Vocalise" and was on the programme tonight at Mary's personal request. In fact, it was the first piece chosen, thus determining the theme.
After two chords from the accompaniment, Andrea opened his mouth and the melody began. Within six notes of the beginning he had everyone's rapt attention. Quiet, contemplative, not quite mournful, the sound of his voice lifted quietly, ebbing and flowing.
Giacomo closed his eyes, listening to one of the two finest voices in Germany-in the known world, for that matter. Andrea's voice had always had that classic castrato silkiness, a timbre that just wasn't found in a woman's voice. Tonight, however, without words to get in the way, without the baroque ornamentation that pre-Ring of Fire music required, he was free to pour all of his art, all of his passion, all of his being into realizing a powerful melody. It was as if he was a living flute, equal to that which Marla had played early, but warm with life, fountaining song forth from his heart and soul.
To Giacomo, Andrea's pride had always been forgivable. To be able to sing with that voice-ah, what a gift.
He opened his eyes again and watched as Andrea sang, his hands before him, body and hands moving slowly as if in a dance. As Marla had done before him, the passion of the music flowed through Andrea as well. It could well have been a study for the ballet, watching the minimal movements of that tall slim figure clad in black velvet that nonetheless evoked so much in partnership with his voice.
Chills chased up and down Giacomo's spine as he listened to trills that were so fast they seemed indeed to be played on a flute. He seemed to float like an eagle, soaring higher and higher, riding currents of song until a final pinnacle was reached where for a timeless moment he seemed released from the bonds of earth.
After the barest of pauses, there was a slow descent to a final syllable that faded to infinity. Franz closed his hand-the orchestra stopped. Andrea was frozen in his final position. No one moved-it seemed that no one breathed. Giacomo watched as Andrea, timing by an internal clock, finally broke his position, which instantly triggered a massive applause from the audience. Hoch-Adel were on their feet, clapping as fervently as any of the burghers and guildsmen. Some of the stolid Germans were roaring as loudly as the excitable Italian standing to his right.
Andrea gave bow after bow, grinning widely. At length he stood to one side and waved to the orchestra. Franz stepped from the podium to give a bow. In turn, he gestured to his players. As one, they stood to receive their just acclaim.
Franz stepped forward once more. Joined by Andrea, they gave one more bow, then exited through the side door.
Giacomo and Girolamo dropped back into their seats.
"God and all his angels." Giacomo mopped his brow. "I am as limp as a wet rag, my friend."
"Not me, maestro," Girolamo declared. "I quiver like a bell that has just been sounded."
"Well, it is a good thing for both of us that we have reached the Intermissio. Perhaps we can regain our composure before they begin again."
"We had better," Girolamo intoned. "Marla has yet to sing. Mind you, I don't see how she could do better than Master Andrea. But by all that is holy, if she equals him, I will be in a state of grace for weeks."
Giacomo laughed. "I somehow doubt that the Holy Father would agree that hearing heavenly music will forgive your sins and pay your penance. Not that I disagree with your opinion of the quality."
"Well, he should. I think he would if he only heard what we will hear tonight."
"Enough! You border on sacrilege." Giacomo's smile belied his words. "If you would earn merit, go find me a glass of wine, for I am as dry and dusty as the Via Appia in high summer."
"At your command, maestro. Just see to it that you mention this to Saint Peter."
The intermission concluded just after Giacomo received his wine. Ushers walked through the throng waving gold and silver fans on high, signaling everyone to be seated.
Girolamo settled at his side with a sigh, and whispered, "When do we hear Marla sing?"
"Shhh. After the Pastorale. Minutes only."
Franz returned to the podium and took his bow. The orchestra began the performance of the Pastorale from Messiah, by George Friederich Handel. An international programme indeed, Giacomo thought, with works by an Englishman, a Russian and two Germans having been played, and works from a Frenchman and a German of Jewish descent yet to be heard. Hmmm, no Italian. How had that slipped by him? He'd have to have words with Franz about that, he thought with a smile, before returning his attention to the music.
The Handel piece was almost soothing. It came from a time not too far in advance of their own and by now should sound familiar to the audience, as it had received two other performances in the last ten months. It opened with a very formal stately theme, almost a processional, which came to a moment of pause, then entered into a fugal section that had a joyful feel to it. The various string sections passed themes back and forth with a verve and elan that was. .. refreshing, Giacomo decided. All too soon, the Pastorale was completed. There was reasonable applause from the audience, after which Franz left the room again.
Giacomo waited, knowing what to expect but still scarcely daring to breathe. Finally, Franz reentered from the side door, his wife Marla on his arm. The applause began the moment she was seen, and crested as he handed her off to stand before the audience alone. She bowed again, smiled that illuminating smile of hers, then stood expectantly. Giacomo sat immediately, going to so far as to lay a hand on Girolamo's arm to encourage him to sit also. The remaining audience caught on. Within moments the room was almost as still as a mausoleum. Marla looked to Franz. He caught the regal nod, and began.
It was Andrea's idea, actually. After agreeing to perform the Vocalise, he had insisted that Marla should sing also. Giacomo put it down to the master teacher being protective of his stellar student. Of course, when that student was as popular as Marla, not including her might have caused a riot. Passionate music lovers had done stranger things, he had learned from the history of the future.
But it was also Andrea who suggested what she should sing, something a little on the radical side. He recalled an up-time orchestral piece that evoked in him some of the same feelings as the Rachmaninoff, insisting that Thomas Schwartzberg arrange it as a vocalise. And then he drilled her on it, over and over and over again, until she reached even his standard of acceptability.
The low strings began their pizzicato plucking of strings. After two measures the beautiful melody of Gabriel Faure's Pavane was heard in the room. Marla's golden voice was almost sirenesque in how it reached out and enticed everyone to follow her in what was truly a dance. Lilting, soaring, at times leaping, everyone danced with her-orchestra, patrons, guildsmen, burghers and all. As she swayed on the stage, they swayed with her-as her voice rose and fell, they would sit taller or relax. More than a few of them, from what Giacomo could observe, would unconsciously move their hands slightly in imitation of her arm movements.
It wasn't a long work; it soon began to slow. It was as if the dancers were dropping out one by one, leaving Marla and only a few attendants to complete it. Gracefully, gracefully, she sang the final phrases, holding tones out for what seemed like an impossibly long time, to the last few notes-the last steps of the dance, as it were.
Hers was not the bravura performance that Master Andrea had delivered, Giacomo decided as he stood and applauded with everyone else. But her warmth, her style, her grace had involved everyone in the room in a way that made them feel a part of the music. Andrea had performed; Marla had given them a gift of love.
Giacomo quit analyzing and shouted "Brava! Brava!" along with Girolamo. He beat his hands together until they hurt.
The final work on the program was almost an anticlimax: The Hebrides overture, by Felix Mendelssohn. It was a new work for the orchestra. Of course, as new as the orchestra was, almost everything was a new work for them, Giacomo admitted.
It was a lyrical work, in some ways, working the string sections very melodically, especially the low strings. He closed his eyes again to listen. Images of the sea were evoked. He remembered trips to the shore in Italy, watching the waves rolling in without ceasing, sun glinting from the blue water.
The following section was laden with brass and was more tumultuous, as if a brief storm had blown across the sea. The storm was indeed brief, and the music returned to the lyrical mode.
As he rode the waves of sound, Giacomo mused. The wind players were continuing to improve, he noted. Marcus Wendell, the Grantville band director, had estimated it would take a year for down-time musicians to grow proficient with the new and changed wind instruments: the metal transversal flutes, the clarinets, the saxophones-all new forms. Oboes and bassoons, vastly different than their ancestors. The valves available for the trumpets and their cousins, the very different mouthpieces. Yes, it had taken every bit of twelve months for the players to first learn their instruments, and then to learn to play together. But the result… oh, the result was well worth Giacomo's wait and their travail.
To hear this music in a hall, with the ambience and the harmonics unfettered, that was bliss. To hear the players proving that they could measure up to standard of the up-time music was emboldening. And to see young Franz-Giacomo blithely ignored the very slight difference in their ages-a down-timer himself, leading them in their work with style, grace and panache was a confirmation. Now, now he knew for certain that the music he was beginning to hear in his head would be realized.
The music began to grow in intensity, drawing Giacomo from his thoughts. The final section began to echo the themes and treatments of the storm. The rush to the finale was on.
The orchestra arrived at a grand chord… and then Herr Mendelssohn played his little joke. Just as everyone was prepared for the piece to end, the clarinet restated the opening theme-surprise!-making the audience think that there was more to come, just before it died away.
The moment of silence that followed had an air of uncertainty, of "are they really done with it," but finally the applause began. Giacomo was smiling as he began clapping his hands. The more he considered the composer's little prank, the funnier it became, until he started laughing. Noticing that Girolamo was looking at him with a quizzical expression, he shook his head.
After Franz had shaken his hair back and taken his bows, and after the orchestra had taken their bow, voices began to be heard calling from the audience.
" Die Sanger! "
"The singers!"
" I cantanti! " came from burly Girolamo at Giacomo's side.
The calls grew both in volume and in frequency, until after a few moments there was a constant roar above the applause. Franz held both hands up in surrender. Smiling, he beckoned to the side door.
The room erupted as Marla entered, followed by Andrea and Hermann, who was carrying… a chair? Now Giacomo was truly intrigued.
The two singers arrived in the center, joined hands and took a bow. Andrea then held up his hands and motioned for everyone to hush and be seated, while Marla beckoned to Franz to come join them. He did so with a very bemused expression on his face.
"Thank you for coming tonight," Marla said to the audience. "We had hoped you would enjoy our offerings enough to ask for an encore." Laughter sounded all around the room. "And indeed, we have one planned. However, there has been a slight change in the plan." More laughter as Franz's expression went from bemused to surprised to suspicious in that many moments.
"Today is my husband's birthday." Applause. "He has reached the advanced age of twenty-seven." Laughter and applause. "And so, with the connivance… I mean the cooperation of our friends…" Marla turned and waved at the orchestra, who waved back. "I have a song I would like to sing for Franz."
She tugged on Franz's arm. For a brief moment he resisted, a mutinous expression on his face, but only for a moment. Then he smiled-a bit forced, Giacomo judged, but graceful nonetheless-and suffered himself to be led to the chair that Hermann had placed at the front of the audience.
Marla returned to the center, and clasped her hands in front of her. "The song I'm about to sing is from the future, but it isn't one of the grand works that you typically hear from me. Nor, for those of you who come by The Green Horse tavern on certain nights is it one of the Irish songs I sing with my friends.
"For all that, it is a classic in its own way. I offer it to you, but I sing it to my husband. Unchained Melody. "
Marla bowed her head for a moment. Giacomo was impressed with how quickly the room became quiet. When she raised it again and looked at Franz, Hermann began the introduction. After four measures of quiet piano, Marla began to sing.
Unlike the previous vocal pieces, this one had lyrics in English. Giacomo had heard Marla practicing this song several days before. The lyrics weren't what he would consider immortal poetry, but when mated with the music… ah, they became truly memorable.
Quiet, oh so quiet Marla's voice, but it filled the room as she sang to her love, her darling, as she sang about hungering for him. Giacomo knew without looking that everyone could hear, that everyone had once again been enraptured by the young woman's talent. But now, now there was something-a tone, a timbre, an emotion-something that he had never heard in her voice before. The low notes positively throbbed.
Another voice joined Marla as she began the second verse. Giacomo's eyes opened wide and his head snapped to focus on Andrea Abati. He was standing two paces behind Marla, mirroring her posture and position. Shadow to her glory, his eyes closed, he poured his voice out to complement hers. Singing descant, he followed Marla's lead as she mourned the passage of time and questioned whether her love still responded to her.
They two had sung together before. And they both were called angel voices, yes. But this… ai, Dio, que bellisima! It was enough to tear the heart from a statue, the quiet passion of Marla supported by the pure fire of Andrea.
The twined voices swelled on the first line of the chorus, surging to a peak as Marla poured forth her need, then beginning to fall off of it. Each successive line dwindled, until the last two words were sung in the same quiet intensity of the beginning.
Marla sang the opening lines of the interlude, voice floating, the lower register of her voice just so resonant, so full, the intensity so quietly overpowering that Giacomo forgot to breathe. The music evoked the image of flowing waters that the words described.
Andrea re-entered, still with the higher descant harmony, perfectly partnering Marla's voice. In one little corner of his mind, Giacomo was amazed at how perfectly they matched-it was as if one throat was producing two tones. The final phrase swelled as Marla called her love to wait, leading to the return of the verses.
Now the full voice was unleashed, now Marla was unfettered, now the passion was totally unveiled. And Andrea kept step, note by note, singing around her voice, somehow blending, yet still it was Marla's song.
The climax of the entire song arrived with the first line of the chorus. The tempo slowed, and the singers crested on the word "need," seemingly holding the note forever, although Giacomo knew that it was barely the four beats of one measure. At last, they descended, repeating the pattern quieter and at a lower pitch for the second line.
Andrea dropped out for the final line. Marla broke her pose as she began the phrase, holding her hands out toward Franz, sustaining the word "love" for a long moment, allowing the briefest of pauses, and then very softly singing the final two words "… to me."
Her voice just seemed to hold that note forever, until Giacomo realized with a start that he couldn't hear it any longer.
There was a long moment of silence.
Songs of love were not uncommon. Street music, art music, they could be heard almost any time, anywhere. But tonight, tonight had been different. Tonight a woman had bared her soul in truth, unheeding of the public who witnessed it. Tonight a love had been declared, had been poured out like a drink offering on the altar of God, in so selfless and unmannered a fashion that Giacomo marveled. Truth to tell, he was somewhat uncomfortable with observing it, as if he had unwittingly committed an act of voyeurism. Perhaps everyone felt something of that, for the silence held.
Finally Franz stood and stepped to his wife. He claimed Marla's hands and raised them to his lips. At that moment, the silence shattered as the wildest applause of the night broke free.
***
"I am not worthy of you," Franz murmured as he kissed Marla's hands, ignoring the uproar behind him.
Marla simply smiled and shook her head.
"You knew-everyone knew-you were going to do this, and nobody told me."
"Nope." The smile grew larger.
"You change my life and my plans at your whims."
"Yep." Marla's eyes began dancing
"And there is nothing I can do but love you."
"You just remember that, because the changes are just beginning."
Marla giggled as Franz's expression wavered between alarm and curiosity. Curiosity won.
"What do you mean?"
"You're going to be a father."
***
Just when Giacomo thought the noise was beginning to taper off, Marla melted into Franz's embrace for a passionate kiss. The audience just exploded with applause and cheers.
Magdeburg, May 1635
Dear Aunt Susan-and you too, Jonni, I know you're reading this
Boy, do I miss email. I Hate writing letters!!!!!!!!!!! (sigh) But I promised I would keep you up to date on stuff, and I can't afford the telegraph very often, so here I am scribbling on paper.
First news is, I'm pregnant. And yes, I'm sure. I've missed my second period, and I've always been like clockwork before now. (kisses and hugs)
Okay, are you guys through celebrating? Seriously, this is really going to put a crimp in some things. My best guess is it happened in early February, so we're pegging the due date in early November. I was supposed to sing in the anniversary concert for the Battle of Wismar like I did last October. I'll probably be as big as a whale, so it looks like I won't be doing that. Even if I wanted to appear on a stage like that-which I don't!- my diaphragm will probably be pushed up to the bottom of my lungs. I'll be doing good to breathe, much less sing.
Our first big concert of the year happened a couple of nights ago, and everything went really well. I played my flute in one song, and sang in two more. Everyone seemed to like them pretty well. Mary Simpson was very complimentary. I don't know why some people think she's a real hard case. She's never been anything but nice to me and Franz.
I told Franz he was going to be a father after the concert. I thought he was going to pass out on the spot! He's been treating me like a porcelain doll ever since. He keeps trying to make me sit down, and doesn't want me to do anything. I don't know who's more scared, him or me.
Yeah, I'm scared. I'd be nervous if we were still in the USA, I'm sure. I'm really nervous now. I mean, if something goes wrong, we don't have the doctors or the hospitals or the medicines or the tools or… I'd better stop that before I start crying again.
I am excited, too. I think I'll like being a mom. But if you've got any advice for me Sis, or you too, Aunt Susan, I really want to hear it.
That's all for now.
Love to you and all the kids.
Marla
Magdeburg, August 1635
Dear Aunt Susan,
Me again. Thanks for sending me the nursing bras. I've really started putting on weight (wonder why?), and I'm enough larger already that these feel more comfortable.
I've been really lucky-the whole morning sickness thing wasn't much of a problem. That's good, since I don't puke easily. I did twice, though. Turns out Franz's stomach is a little sensitive. I looked up from the first time, and he was positively green. I started laughing, and he started to get mad, then he got a funny look on his face, and before I knew it he'd pulled the bowl away from me and added his supper to mine. Afterwards, he laughed with me, but the next time it happened I made him leave the room.
Well, we've finally settled on names: Paul Otto if it's a boy, after my brother and his father; and Alison Wilhelmina if it's a girl, after my mother and his mother. Franz kept wanting to dump these huge German names on the kid, and I told him no way. He finally came around to my way of thinking.
Franz surprised me yesterday. Gunther Achterhof put him in touch with a woodcarver, and he brought home a cradle. It's beautiful! It's not very big, but it will do for a few months, anyway, and it's hand carved out of oak, with musical notes and stuff on the head and foot boards. I cried.
Speaking of crying, how long will I be so emotional? And don't tell me 20 years! I mean, when my hormones finally settle down, will I get back to normal again? I know it's a dumb question, but this is my first time, remember?
Umm, I know it's asking a lot, but if you or Jonni could see your way clear to coming to Magdeburg around November 1 and staying until after the baby is born, I would really appreciate it. There are several Grantville women in town now, but they're not family. You know-it's not the same. Let me know if you can.
Gotta go.
Love.
Marla
Magdeburg, October 7, 1635
"You are sure you will be fine?"
Marla swatted her husband on the arm with the programme.
"Will you get backstage where you belong? I'm fine. I'll be fine. And I've got Mary here watching over me."
Mary Simpson leaned over Marla. "She'll be fine, Franz. I'll take care of her. Go."
Franz stood by Marla's chair for a moment more, then slowly turned and headed for the door, looking back over his shoulder more than once. He straightened up just in time to avoid walking into the doorframe.
"Actually, dear," Mary smiled, "the problem isn't that he thinks you're helpless, it's that he knows he's helpless. Whatever happens with you and the baby, he's already made the only contribution he can make, and men aren't wired for patience and helplessness. Are they, John?" She poked her husband.
"Not for that," John Simpson said. "Mary was lucky. I was gone a lot with the Navy while she was carrying Tom. I'm sure I'd have driven her crazy."
"Oh, heavens." Mary laughed. "You'd have been there every morning, clipboard in hand, taking statistics and measurements, figuring out if I was behind the optimum health curve, laying out exercise plans and diets. I wouldn't have had a moment's rest."
Mary patted John's hand. Marla didn't miss how his much larger hand curled around her small one. She'd never believed that John Simpson was quite as stoic and hard-shelled as everyone said he was. After Mary's adventures last year, she had noticed that he seemed a little more… demonstrative, maybe. He certainly smiled at her more in public than he did before.
"Anyway, be patient with him, dear. It's much better than a husband who doesn't care, and he'll level off after the baby's born."
There followed several moments of conversation, until someone on the other side of John Simpson claimed Mary's attention. Marla sat back and fanned herself with the programme. Early October notwithstanding, at eight months pregnant she was hot almost all the time. She felt as big as a house, and about as maneuverable as one of the Admiral's ironclads on the river. Please let this kid get here soon!
To take her mind off her condition, Marla started reading the programme, although she knew it by heart. Franz had been rehearsing the orchestra for weeks.
Wellington's Victory – Ludwig Beethoven.
Lament for a Fallen Eagle – Giacomo Carissimi
1812 Overture – Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
All music associated with battle and victories, two from the up-time and one from the present. Appropriate for the concert commemorating the second anniversary of the Battle of Wismar.
"Does it feel strange to be sitting here instead of singing the lament tonight?"
Marla looked up to see Mary focused on her again.
"Yeah, a little. I really wanted to sing the duet version of it with Master Andrea like we did last year." She laid a hand on her swollen abdomen. "But junior here kind of got in the way."
Marla had sung the first performance of the lament back in December of 1633 in Grantville. It had been arranged for the instruments that were available, which weren't many. She still remembered Maestro Carissimi muttering about barbaric villages beyond the bounds of civilization when he discovered there was no orchestra available. So, for the first anniversary of the battle, when he was asked to have the work performed for the first time in Magdeburg, the maestro had gleefully re-orchestrated the music to take full advantage of Magdeburg's orchestra. He had also, after discussing it with Marla and Master Andrea both, re-scored the vocal part to be a duet. It had been Marla's first opportunity to sing with someone of Andrea's calibre and it thrilled her. She had been looking forward so much to singing it again this year. Sigh.
"So, how is the orchestra going to do the cannon shots for the overture?"
Marla laughed. "They've got several shotguns loaded with blanks, and they're firing them into a fifty gallon oil drum with one end cut out." Mary's eyebrows climbed. "I don't know if it sounds like a cannon, but it makes a big sound. They only got to rehearse it once, so Franz is a little nervous about that."
"Since the cannon blasts aren't exactly timed to the music," Mary mused, "if one of them doesn't quite hit the mark, no one would know."
"That's what I told him."
"From the looks of the programme, Franz must be ready to start exploring the symphonic works." Mary raised her eyebrows.
"You mean he hasn't told you yet?" Marla was surprised.
"No." Mary smiled. "But then, he has had a lot on his mind lately,"
Marla laughed again. "He decided recently that he wants to work through the symphonies of Beethoven, do one, maybe two a year. And Marcus has miniature study scores for each of them, so we don't even have to have them transcribed from recordings. Some of Marcus' students are copying out the first symphony score and parts now."
"Surely he'll do more than that?"
"Oh sure, both down-time and up-time. But Beethoven's first symphony will be the first one they do."
Mary started to say something else, but at that moment Franz emerged from the side door. The applause began.
***
Marla sank back into the seat of the carriage. Her feet hurt. Her feet hurt clear up to her hips. Or she assumed it was her feet that were hurting-her lips quirked-she hadn't had a good look at them in weeks. She rested her hand on her abdomen, and giggled for a moment. Dressed in a forest green gown, her belly looked like an overly ripe Black Diamond watermelon. Then she wished she hadn't thought that, because watermelon sounded really good, and she knew what her chances were of getting any in October in Germany. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Between her feet aching and junior deciding to perform gymnastics in time to the music, Marla had been somewhat distracted from the concert.
The Beethoven piece, one of his minor ones, had been chosen more for the theme of the work rather than its artistic merits. It had sounded well, though.
And Master Andrea more than did justice to Maestro Giacomo's work. That one Marla had definitely heard.
The climax of the evening was the 1812 Overture. It had definitely been received well, ersatz cannon and all. Marla giggled as she remembered seeing the audience jump in time with her baby as the shotguns had roared.
Afterward had been the obligatory round of conversations with the patrons, guildsmen and burghers and their wives. That's when her feet had really started hurting. Franz had hurried through that as quickly as he could, asking their friend Isaac to go call their rented carriage to the door much sooner than she thought he would.
The carriage rocked as Franz climbed in, having finally closed off the conversations and made his farewells. He reached over and took her hand. "Tired?"
"No." Marla snorted. "My eyes are dusty and I'm just cleaning them." She opened said eyes in time to watch him laugh.
The carriage-another mark of Franz's concern for her well being-only took a few minutes to move through the streets to their house. Her husband handed her down with great care, then reached up to pay the driver. He helped her up the steps and opened the door as the carriage rattled off.
Marla sighed. Home again. She was ready to get the dress off, throw her shoes into a closet and get into a comfortable bed gown. Another month to go. She wasn't sure she could make it.
Franz closed the door behind them. She felt him come up behind her and place his hands on her shoulders. "Shall I take your coat?"
"Please."
***
Franz reached to put Marla's coat away, then heard a strangled gasp. Without a thought, he dropped the coat and spun. In the light of the little lantern on the side table, he could see a look of sheer panic on his wife's face. His instinctive step to her splashed.
Splashed?
He looked down, and realized Marla was standing in a puddle. His immediate reaction was relief, followed by biting his lip to keep from laughing, believing that she'd had an accident.
But then Franz realized he didn't smell the acrid smell of urine. His panic returned, redoubled. He reached to her as she clutched at his arm, long pianist's fingers sinking deep into cloth and flesh.
"God." A whispered prayer, then louder and frantic. "Franz… my water broke! The baby's coming!"
"What?"
Marla's voice cracked. "The baby's coming! It's too early!"
Franz was on the verge of gibbering, but one look at the fear on Marla's face told him he couldn't. Drawing on the strength that had let him face down Rupert Heydrich, his nemesis, over a year ago, Franz gathered Marla into his arms.
"Shh, shh," he repeated over and over, hand stroking her hair as she hiccupped. After a few moments, he held her out at arms' length. Good. She was calmer now. There was still a wild light to her eyes, but she wasn't about to go to pieces.
"It is not going to be here this minute, love. Let me help you to the bed and out of that dress, and I'll send for the midwife."
He watched as Marla visibly grasped for composure. She nodded, and led the way to the bedroom.
Magdeburg, October 8, 1635
There was a knock at the door. Franz rose, stiff from sitting all night. He opened the door to find Mary Simpson standing in the light of the dawn. With her were Lady Beth Haygood and his good friend Isaac Fremdling.
"May we come in?" Mary asked.
Franz stood to one side, waving them in as he yawned.
They all found seats in the small parlor, except Isaac, who leaned against a wall.
"How is she?" Lady Beth's face was worried.
"I do not know." Franz's voice was weary. "Her water broke after we got home, and I sent for the midwife immediately. She and her helper came at once."
"Who did you get?"
"Greta…" Franz searched for the name.
"Oh, I know her." Lady Beth smiled and patted Franz on the arm. "She's good. She's been to Jena and learned quite a bit. There's been a bit of tension between her and some of the other midwives, because of her insistence on cleanliness now."
"I tried to stay with them," Franz continued, "but when the labor started hard, the midwife ordered me out. She said they didn't have time to tend to me as well as Marla."
"When was that?"
"I do not know. Some time after midnight, I think."
"So," Mary said, "she's been in labor about nine hours, maybe, and in hard labor maybe three or four?"
Franz gave a tired nod of affirmation.
"Well, that's not all that long. Especially for a first child."
"Oh, my, no," Lady Beth smiled. "I was almost twenty-four hours with my first, and there was another woman in the OB ward at the same time who'd been there twelve hours when I got there and still didn't have her kid until after I did."
Franz's expression must have changed, because Mary rushed to say, "But that's not always the case. Marla's probably going to have an easier time of it. She's tall enough that you don't realize how wide her hips are. She really ought to have it soon."
At that moment, there was a yell from the bedroom.
"Oh, good, they've had her start pushing," Lady Beth said.
***
Others had dropped by from time to time during the morning. It seemed everyone they knew wanted to know how things were progressing, but none stayed more than a few moments other than Mary, Lady Beth and Isaac.
A few of the callers brought food and drink. Franz was able to eat some bread and butter when he was encouraged to, but the one sip of coffee he took caused his stomach to roil and he put the cup down. The beer likewise turned his stomach. Only cautious sips of water seemed acceptable.
Shortly before noon the screaming stopped. Franz raised his head from where he had nearly dozed off in exhaustion. He looked at the others. He didn't know what expression was on his face, but Mary reached over and took his hand.
It seemed an eternity before the midwife appeared, still in what the up-timers would call her uniform: hair under a white hood, white gown over her clothes. She was wiping her hands with a small towel as she came through the door. She folded it away, but Franz's stomach lurched as he caught a glimpse of blood on it. The next thing he knew, he was on his feet.
"How… how…"
The midwife's expression never brightened. Within his soul, Franz began to moan.
"I am sorry, Herr Sylwester. We did everything we knew to do, but we could not save your daughter."
Franz wavered, and Isaac was at his side instantly, grasping his arm to steady him.
"What… what are you saying… that my child…"
The sympathy on the midwife's face was almost more than Franz could stand.
"Your child was stillborn, Herr Sylwester. I am so sorry."
Franz just stared at her numbly.
"How is Marla?" Mary asked, coming up on Franz's other side.
"Physically, she is exhausted, yes. Very tired. But she will recover. I am worried, though. She made us wrap the baby and give it to her. This is not good. She must let go. The more she waits, the harder it will be."
The moan in Franz's soul began to climb his throat and force its way out. Isaac pulled him around so they were face to face.
"Franz…" he felt Isaac shaking him gently.
"Franz…" Isaac caught his gaze.
"Franz, remember… 'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away
…'"
"'Blessed be the Name of the Lord,'" Franz whispered. He stared into Isaac's eyes, the man who was the closest thing to a brother he would ever have, and saw the reflection of his own grief. He saw, too, the love that Isaac bore for them both. That allowed him to straighten in Isaac's grasp.
"Franz, your wife needs you."
"Marla."
"Yes, Franz, Marla needs you. Go to her."
Isaac released him. Franz turned to the bedroom. The midwife stood aside, touching his arm as he passed.
Franz stopped inside the door. Marla had been cleaned and dressed in a fresh gown, and the bed linen had been changed. She sat up at the head of the bed, humming to the bundle in her arms.
Marla was exhausted. Even for her, her face was pale; her eyes were so dark she looked bruised. Her hair was limp and lanky from sweat. But at that moment, she was so beautiful to Franz it almost tore his heart out.
The midwife's assistant murmured an apology as she brushed by him with the bundle of soiled linen. Marla looked up to see him. The smile that crossed her face pierced him
"Franz, you're here. Come see our daughter!" She bent her head down once more and sang wordlessly.
Step by slow step, Franz crossed to the bed. He forced a small smile to his face as Marla looked up at him.
"See… isn't she beautiful?"
Franz swallowed, and whispered, "Yes… yes, she is." He swallowed again, bent over and said in a normal tone, "May I hold her, please?"
"Okay, but be gentle."
Marla very carefully transferred the bundle to Franz. He straightened, and pulled a fold of the blanket away from where it draped over part of the baby's face. God in Heaven, she was beautiful. Fuzz of black hair, perfect round little face, perfect little fingers peeking out from under the blanket. He watched closely, hoping there had been an error, but there was no movement; no fluttering of eyes, no twitching of features. No breath of life.
Hope died.
Franz felt his arms beginning to shake. He turned away from the bed and pressed his lips against the little forehead.
"Go with God, Alison Wilhelmina," he whispered. The midwife had quietly come up. He let her take Alison.
"Franz?" from behind him. Steeling himself, he turned, sat beside his wife on the bed, taking her hands in his.
"Did you see her, Franz? Did you see Alison? Isn't she beautiful?"
Her eyes searched his.
"Yes, love."
"Franz?"
Deep breath.
"Marla, Alison is with the angels."
He watched as the black dawn of desolation overtook the light in her eyes, grieving as it died. He watched as the awareness pierced her heart, as the cold fact of death became a stone in her soul. He watched as her face crumpled. He watched as she whispered brokenly, "Oh, Franz," and her mouth opened to wail and keen, though nothing came out.
He heard keening, nonetheless, as Marla turned to him, hands clutching at his shirt-keening from her soul and his. As his arms enfolded her, he wondered if it would ever stop.
Franz held his wife. Tears mingled as they mourned together behind the shroud of her long black hair.
Magdeburg, October 11, 1635
Susan Garrett stood on the doorstep, shivering. The cool weather outside was a perfect match for the state of her soul.
The door opened enough for Franz to peer out. His face brightened and the door swung open. "Aunt Susan! Come in."
Susan carried her bag in and set it to one side. She waited for Franz to finish closing the door, then threw her arms around him in a crushing embrace. His arms returned it. They stood together for a long moment, two kindred mourning souls drawing comfort from each other.
After a long moment, she pushed away to arms' length and looked up at him.
"You look horrible, Franz." And he did, too-haggard, hair unkempt, eyes so dark they looked bruised. He also looked bewildered.
"We did not expect you so soon."
"I started packing as soon as the first telegram came. Mrs. Simpson sent it, telling me that Marla's water had broken. When I got the second telegram, I started trying to make travel arrangements. I finally managed to get on a train, and here I am."
Susan looked around. "Where's Marla?"
"Asleep."
Franz was wavering where he stood, obviously exhausted. Susan led him to the chairs, and sat with him.
"Am I in time for the funeral?"
Franz shook his head.
"No, it was yesterday. We could not wait any longer."
Susan felt a pang, but understood that even in the cool of October, without embalming, a body, even that of a new-born infant, had to be buried soon. Still, she would have liked to have seen the baby. With a deep breath, she set that aside. "So, since I missed it, tell me what happened."
Slowly, halting often, Franz began to describe the events after his world came crashing down in ruins. "Mrs. Simpson took charge of everything. She saw to it that the invitations went out… "
"Invitations? You send invitations to a funeral?" Susan had heard the Germans did such things, but until now she hadn't really believed it. She was astounded.
"Indeed. Mary talked to me and managed to make sense of what I said. She drafted everyone in sight whose hand was legible to prepare and deliver the invitations."
"So who was invited?"
"The Simpsons, Lady Beth Haygood and her husband, many of the Grantvillers in Magdeburg, Masters Schutz, Carissimi, Abati and Zenti, of course. The orchestra. Gunther Achterhof and a couple of the people from the Committee of Correspondence in Magdeburg. I tried to tell Mary it was too many, but she wanted to make sure that everyone who wanted to come had the opportunity. I'm not sure they were all there, but a lot of them came."
Susan shook her head, still having trouble with the idea of sending invitations to a funeral, for heaven's sake! Every time she thought she was used to the way the Germans did things, something new would pop up. There was a long moment of quiet.
"So, where is she buried?"
"Since neither Marla nor I are Lutheran, I felt it was best to not try to find a space in one of the Lutheran church cemeteries. There is a new city cemetery, created after the sack of the town, that is open to everyone. We found a space there. A beautiful place, really, at the top of a slight rise near a tree. It will be long before the space is needed again-perhaps not until after Marla and I are gone-so we will be able to visit it for long and long."
"The… space is needed… "
Susan was perplexed. Surely Franz didn't mean what she thought she heard. Franz looked at her, and his mouth quirked wryly.
"Aunt Susan, you must not think of our cemeteries like yours, with the nice neat rows of graves, each with its elaborately engraved memorial stone. The land is only used for a time. After some years, if the space is needed, the old bones are dug up and placed in an ossuary, allowing the burial of someone new."
Horrorstruck, Susan's hand flew to her mouth. Surely he didn't mean that… that Alison's little body could be… would be.. . desecrated like that.
Franz smiled sadly, and took her other hand in both of his. "It is the custom, you see. But where we laid her, it will not happen for a long time."
"Does…" Susan spoke past the thickness in her throat, "does no one stay buried?"
"Only the very rich, who can afford to build grand memorials that will cover their graves." Franz coughed. "Such we are not."
"We'll see about that," Susan muttered, thinking to herself.
Another quiet moment.
"The wood crafter who built Alison's cradle also built her coffin," Franz murmured. "It was so small… she was so small. I could have carried it in one hand."
Susan looked up at Franz, to see him staring blankly at the wall across the room, slow tears trickling down his cheeks.
"I carried her out and placed her in the wagon bed, then brought Marla out to the carriage. Once we were settled, the wagon driver started off. Within steps, Gunther Achterhof had stepped in front of the wagon to lead the way, and Klaus and Reuel had come forward and taken the bridles of the wagon and carriage horses. I looked out, and I could see a few other Committeemen walking alongside. With the friends that had joined us at our house, we had become a procession. Despite our slow progress, it was not long before we reached the grave, where more friends were waiting for us."
"Was Byron able to make it?" Byron Chieske was the husband of Marla's sister Jonni, assigned to something with the military in Magdeburg.
"Yes, he was invited, of course. He came. He said nothing, only embraced us and shook his head."
"That's Byron, all right. Never one to say a word if he didn't have to."
Susan watched as Franz wiped his eyes and his face.
"So, if you didn't go to the Lutherans, who did the eulogy?"
"Herr Washaw."
"Which one? There's more than one of them around."
"Herr Lennon Washaw."
"Lennie-that's okay, then. He's a good man."
"Yes, he is. He started by saying that he was neither a preacher nor the son of one, but he was a deacon in the Methodist church and he had known Marla's family for years, so he counted it both his responsibility and his sad privilege to speak. He read from the Bible, Psalm 23 it was, and then he spoke for perhaps a quarter of an hour."
After a moment of silence, Susan asked, "So what did he say?"
Franz shook his head. "I do not remember much, but I do remember that it eased the hurt for a few moments. Then he prayed." The tears started trickling down Franz's face again. "And… and after the prayer…" He swallowed. "After the prayer I… took Alison's coffin in my arms and… and placed my child, our child in the earth." The tears were streaming now. "And then I turned and led my wife away. Leaving my heart behind."
Now the sobs began, great wracking, heaving sobs. Susan gathered Franz into her arms. He slumped against her, face hidden in his hands as a torrent of grief was loosed.
After a time, the tempest passed. Franz straightened, wiping his face first with his hands, then with his sleeves. "I am sorry, Aunt Susan. I should not have lost control like that."
Susan took his chin firmly in her hand and turned him to face her. "That's foolishness, Franz Sylwester. You've been storing that up for days now, haven't you? Trying to be strong for Marla, I reckon."
Franz nodded with a somewhat shame-faced expression on his face.
"You can't bottle that up inside of you, child. It will poison you. Grief is natural, it's a part of life on this earth, and the only way to deal with it is let it flow through you and then move on with the rest of your life."
Franz gave a very small smile, but Susan was glad to see it. "I think Herr Washaw said words much like that."
"Wouldn't surprise me. Lennie's a pretty wise man for his years, for all that he's no senior citizen yet. You could do a lot worse than to go to him when you need help with these feelings."
"I will keep that in mind."
"You do that." Susan sat back, and took a deep breath. "I imagine Marla took this hard."
Franz's expression twisted in pain. "Yes, she did. But I worry for her, Aunt Susan. After the first day, she will not cry."
Susan's heart sank.
"I thought I heard someone."
Susan's head snapped around, to see Marla standing in the doorway to the rest of the house. Her heart continued its fall, thudding to the floor between her feet.
Marla had always had an air, a quality about her, that had seemed to make her shine. No more. Hair that had always seemed to float, now just hung, limp and dark. Her face was drawn, almost as if skin had been stretched across a bare skull. And that skin, which had always glowed before, now was opaque and dull, like a thin parchment. But the worst was her eyes. What had once been shining blue beacons of life and liveliness were now lifeless chips of granite embedded in dark holes.
Susan felt the tears starting in her own eyes as she stood and walked over to her niece to enfold her in her arms. She tried to draw Marla's head down to her own shoulder, whispering, "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry," but Marla would not bend.
Stepping back, Susan took Marla's hands, and said, "I know it hurts now, Marla, but you will get through it. It will be all right."
Dry-eyed, Marla shook her head slowly. "I don't think that anything will ever be all right, ever again.
Magdeburg, Late October, 1635
"Maestro Giacomo, it's like Marla has died." Andrea Abati spoke in Italian. "But her body doesn't know it yet. She looks and sounds like some failed attempt by Pygmalion, some kind of clockwork device, or perhaps a female golem devised by some Kabbalist. I don't understand it. I know that the loss of a baby in childbirth hurts, but it happens all the time."
"Ah, my friend." Giacomo Carissimi picked up his wine glass. "There you are slightly mistaken. It does not happen all the time, not to those from Grantville. More than nine out of every ten of their children survive their childhood." Andrea's eyebrows elevated. "Yes, they do. I learned that while I was teaching at the school. It amazed me.
"Their newborns are usually healthy, and usually arrive with few problems. So Marla's background would have told her she should have had every expectation of having a healthy baby girl. And consequently, when tragedy struck, she was even more devastated than one of our own generation would have been."
"I grant you that." Andrea waved a hand. "But still, should she not be recovering even somewhat?"
"Andrea, have you never seen a mother lose a child and grieve so severely she wasted away?"
"All right, I concede the point. And poor Franz is almost as bad, grieving for his child and then grieving almost as strongly for his wife." Andrea drummed his fingers on the table top so strongly the wine danced in his glass. "Surely this cannot happen. God cannot have given her that voice, only to see her waste away and not use it."
"I agree with you, my friend, but you will have to take that up with God. I have already spoken with Him about it. Perhaps He will listen to you."
"There has to be something we can do!" Andrea slammed his fist on the table, causing wine to slop out of his glass.
"What do you suggest?" Giacomo set his glass down and leaned forward.
"I don't…" Andrea sat bolt upright, thoughts racing. "Then again, maybe I do know." He drained his glass in one gulp. "Maestro, please be available to me tomorrow evening."
With that, Andrea was gone, leaving a bemused Giacomo to finish the bottle of wine by himself.
Magdeburg, the next evening
True to his word, Master Andrea returned the following evening. Giacomo opened the door at his knock, and stepped back to let an apparition through.
"My, Andrea, you do look… what was the phrase the Grantvillers use… oh, yes… you look a wreck."
Giacomo's mouth quirked as he sat across the table from Andrea. His friend was a sight. Normally very well-groomed and particular about his appearance, he was a definite exception to that rule tonight: hair disheveled, blood-shot eyes, definitely wearing the same rumpled clothes he had worn yesterday. A muscle tic'd under his cheekbone with some regularity. The hint of breath that wafted across the table made Giacomo glad they weren't sitting closer. "So, Andrea, what have you wrought?"
"Wrought, indeed, maestro. I have not slept since I left-coffee is wonderful stuff when you want to stay awake, drunk as the Grantville military prepares it-hot, strong and bitter. And because of it, I have this."
Andrea pulled a paper from his coat pocket. Giacomo set a glass of wine in front of him. Ignoring the wine, Andrea leaned forward, eyes intent, almost blazing. "Maestro, Signora Marla will not or cannot sing-it matters not which. Here…" He slid the paper across the table. "Here are the words she would sing if she could."
Giacomo took the paper and began reading the text scribbled on it. His eyebrows climbed his forehead as he read. As he set the paper down, he looked to his friend with new respect. "Andrea, I did not know you were a poet… and in English, at that."
Abati waved a hand in disregard. "Maestro, I am no such thing. These words were given to me. Given to me for Marla. We must sing for her, maestro, sing for her soul struck dumb. Write the music, please. Write music that only I can sing, music that can burst her bonds, that the gates of her hell cannot prevail against."
Giacomo felt the burning gaze of his friend as if it were a physical force. Perhaps he caught some spark from him, for his heart quickened. "All right, Andrea. I will do my best."
A very tired smile crossed Andrea's face. "Good." He drained his glass of wine as Giacomo picked the paper back up and began intently studying the text.
After a moment, there was a clank. Giacomo looked up to see Andrea slumped over the table, mouth open and eyes closed, asleep. The cup was overturned beside his head. Shaking his head with a smile, Giacomo returned to the text.
Magdeburg, Early November, 1635
Franz sighed as he settled Marla into her seat. She stared straight ahead, hands clasped in her lap, seemingly oblivious to everything around them.
When Master Andrea had contacted him about the recital that he was going to perform, he had insisted that Franz attend with Marla. When Franz demurred, Andrea grew more insistent, in the end all but demanding that they attend. Franz finally acquiesced, but now he wondered if the wiser course would have been to decline the invitation.
This was not a large public concert, for which he was thankful. It was a recital, with only the elite of the patrons in attendance; Mary Simpson's "music mafia" and their friends. Some few of them did stop and speak to Marla, which made Franz a little nervous. In her current frame of mind, he was never quite sure what his wife would say. Aware nonetheless of the pitying glances directed their direction from all around them, he sighed, wishing the evening was over.
The side door opened. Master Andrea strode into the room, followed by Hermann Katzberg. Wearing his customary short waisted jacket and long trousers in black velvet, Andrea made his usual flamboyant bow, then straightened and nodded regally to Hermann. With that, the recital began.
It looked like Andrea, il primiero gentilhuomo that he was, intended to follow Franz's philosophy for a concert. The first item on the programme was a cantata for soprano, Tra le fiamme, by Georg Friederich Handel. Despite his state of preoccupation, Franz found the musings of the poet about how he was "playing with fire" in his pursuit of love both witty and well done. Andrea, needless to say, more than did justice to the four arias and interlude recitatives. At the end, the performance was well-received by the elite audience.
The Handel work proved to be a warm up, for the next work on the programme was nothing less than Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen (The vengeance of Hell is in my heart), more usually known as The Queen of the Night Aria, from Die Zauberflote, by W. A. Mozart. The contrast of range and style between the earlier work and this most bravura of soprano arias was marked. Franz was caught up in it, forgetting for that moment the burden that was his constant companion. Once again he marveled how the body of a man, even though castrato, could produce a voice equal to Marla's.
Master Andrea drove the aria to its triumphant conclusion. The audience responded in kind, with loud extended applause.
For contrast, the next three songs were of a different style, composed some years later by Franz Schubert. The singer's composer, Marla called him. Three of his best followed the Mozart: the quiet, almost serene An die Musik (To Music); the introspective Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt (Only one who knows longing); and Gretchen am Spinnrade (Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel), where Gretchen's dreams and longings for her lover Faust were set against an accompaniment that was almost more of an art work than the melody.
Again, Master Andrea sang with superlative skill. Nonetheless, Franz detected an air of… almost distraction in the master. He had worked too much with Marla and Andrea both not to notice when someone of that calibre was not totally focused, and Andrea was not.
None of the patrons seemed to notice, which did not surprise Franz. Their applause was again long and loud.
That was the end of the programme, but Franz was not surprised to hear members of the audience call for an encore. It also did not surprise him to see Master Andrea hold up his hands after a moment and motion for quiet.
"Thank you, thank you." Andrea bowed slightly and spread his hands. "As it happens, I do have one more song to sing." There was laughter in the room. "It is not an up-time song, however. It is a new song, one written by Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, who has agreed to play piano for me tonight. In addition, we will be joined by Johan Amsel on the viola."
There was a moment of moving bodies as Hermann left by the side door, Johan entered, and Maestro Giacomo arose from his seat in the audience to come to the piano. The maestro played a note; Johan plucked strings to verify his tuning was still sound, raised his viola and positioned the bow, then looked to Andrea.
"We present to you," Master Andrea said, looking directly at Franz, " Elegy for Lost Innocence. " A chill chased down Franz's spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
The piano began, quiet chords, and Andrea began. It was a lullaby, simple, like something Franz's mother would have sung to him. Soft and lyrical, Andrea's voice was like silk.
"Hush little baby,
Go to sleep.
While you're sleeping
Angels keep.
Hush little baby,
Child of love.
Jesus watches
From above."
They repeated the lullaby. Johan joined them the second time, playing a harmony that complemented Andrea's melody.
At the end of the lullaby, Andrea dropped out, and the piano and viola played a transition that, as it progressed, grew more dissonant and louder. Johan began attacking his strings, producing almost percussive sounds.
When Andrea entered again, it was with full voice.
"She's gone!
How could you take her?"
Full of passion, pure cutting edge of white-hot intensity, Andrea put voice to a bereaved mother's soul. As the text was presented by the song, a mother's heartbreak was bared, her anger and grief revealed. It built and built, spiraling higher, founded on the piano and entwined with the viola.
"She did nothing wrong!
She didn't deserve to die!"
As Andrea poured forth all his art, all his skill, Franz felt that never had he heard the gentilhuomo so much at one with his music, so nakedly baring his own soul.
A hand clutched his. He froze for a moment. Looking down, Franz saw Marla's hand in his. Heart in his throat, he looked to his wife. At the sight of slow tears trickling down her cheeks, his own eyes grew wet, but a tremor of joy was felt for the first time in weeks.
"Send her back,
Take me in her place!"
The song crested with Andrea on a note so high that Franz wondered if even Marla could reach it. Partnered by the moaning viola, Andrea keened.
The music stopped. For a brief moment only.
"Take me in her place."
Andrea's voice repeated the last line of the climax down an octave, quietly fading, as if the anger had burned out and the grief had worn thin.
There was another interlude of piano and viola, playing a hint of the lullaby. Andrea sang another verse.
"Lord Jesus, take her in your arms.
Lord Jesus, keep her safe and warm."
Marla's head bowed, and Franz could see her lips moving.
The piano and viola led the way back to the lullaby theme. After a time, Andrea rejoined them.
"Hush little baby,
Go to sleep.
While you're sleeping
Angels keep.
Sleep in the arms
Of the Lord,
You'll always
Have my love."
The music faded away. The patrons applauded, but Franz was very aware of the many glances directed their way.
Marla looked up at him. She smiled-smiled! Oh, it was a small smile, and a sad one, but it was a smile! It was enough for his soul to want to burst out singing to rival Master Andrea.
"Hello, love," Franz managed to say.
"Hello, yourself." The smile grew a little wider, a hint of her old sparkle entered her eyes, and she squeezed his hand. They sat there, oblivious to their surroundings, simply gazing at each other, while the applause ceased and the patrons began to stir around and leave.
Just as Franz became conscious of all the motion, Marla stood. He followed her as she walked to the performers.
"Thank you." Marla spoke to them, simple and direct, then kissed each lightly. She smiled again when Johan blushed, then stepped back beside Franz and joined hands with him.
The four men were grinning widely. Their eyes were bright indeed-perhaps a hint of moisture, Franz thought. Then he noticed that there was a certain self-satisfied air to the two Italians. Suddenly a connection was made.
"You planned this," Franz accused. "You intentionally wrote that song and staged this recital for the purpose of drawing Marla out."
"Actually, it was a division of labor," Giacomo said. "The music is mine, yes; but you must look to Andrea for the words."
"Are you a poet, then, Master Andrea?" Marla asked. "Shall we add that to your list of many accomplishments."
"No!" Andrea was emphatic. "This once, I wrote words. This once, to bring my best student back to me." He adopted a mock sternness. "You have missed enough lessons. We have much work to do to make up for them."
Marla laughed, and the sound was balm to Franz's soul. The others must have felt the same, for they all fell silent. Franz looked to his wife-her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed, there was a smile on her lips and she clutched his hand. The only evidence of the events of the last few weeks were the shadows beneath her eyes.
Franz's heart was so full it could burst. He looked to the others. "I owe you a life, my friends. It is a debt I can never pay, but know that at any time, for any need, I am yours." The intensity in his gaze impacted them all-they knew how deeply he felt at the moment. Young Johan blushed again and ducked his head; the others simply nodded, not attempting to downplay the moment.
Marla looked around the group one more time. "Thank you, thank you all. It is the love of the friends God has given us, friends like you, that have lifted us-lifted me-in this time of darkness."
"There will be other children," Giacomo said softly.
Marla smiled through the sadness. "I know that. And I know that by enduring what we have just walked through, whatever happens, we will survive."
"Survive and prosper," Andrea said. "Survive and prosper."
Marla turned to face Franz, and looked into his eyes. "Survive, and prosper, and love-love above all."
Coda
From "The Fall of Fire: The Coming of Grantville and the Music of Europe"
Charles William Battenberg, B.A., M.A., Fellow of the Royal Academy of Music, Schwarzberg Chair of Musicology, Oxford University