"TITLE: Grantville Gazette.Volume XVIII" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

Sonata, Part Four
David Carrico

Movement IV-Presto Furioso

Grantville – April, 1634

Thomas Schwarzberg plopped a pile of manuscript pages down on the table in front of Amber Higham. "Done. That is the last of the pieces Franz desired for the concert-the full score and all the instrument parts as well." He rubbed at weary eyes. "I believe I shall sleep for a week." He pushed a smaller package over to Marcus Wendell. "And here is the second copy of the full score. Your student Dane was copying it as quickly as I finished the first copy, sometimes picking up pages even before the ink had dried."

"Good." Marcus smiled. "He's a good kid. I was glad to see him volunteer for this. From a music standpoint, too bad he's got to do the army thing. He could train up into a pretty fair musician, especially since he plays tuba." He looked to Thomas. "So, Franz is well into rehearsals now, I hear?

Thomas nodded. "Already Franz has adjusted his program. He has dropped the Albinoni Adagio, partly because the transcription for orchestra only instead of the original organ and orchestra did not work as well as he thought it would, but also in no small part because it is taking more time to rehearse the pieces than he thought it would." He grinned. "I think that our Franz feels the time running like sand through a glass."

"Forget Franz," Amber said. "What will Mary think?"

Marcus shrugged. "Nobody's tried to do what we're doing so quickly. We're making this up as we go along. Mary will have to accept what can be done for this year. We'll build on it for next year. Frankly, I'm surprised as all get out at what's been accomplished."

"So." Amber looked up from her notepad. "Is that the last of the music to be sent to Magdeburg?"

"No, please," Giacomo spoke up. He pushed his own pile of pages forward. "This is the work that Franz Sylwester asked of me. It should have been ready before now, but when Father Kirchner asked me for the Passion, this was put on the back burner. But here it is at last, the Variations and Etude on Geminiani's Concerto Grosso in E minor. It is not difficult. The players, they will find it easy."

Heinrich Schutz reached out and picked up the full score of the piece to leaf through it. "Nicely done. Arranging the concerto from a handful of instruments to the full orchestra, good work that is. It will sound well."

Giacomo felt a flush of pleasure at the praise from his peer. He nodded his thanks.

Amber reached out and made the two stacks of music in front of her into one. "Is that all of it?" Receiving nods from around the table, she continued, "Have Dane give me his timesheet, Thomas, so I can cut him a check. I'll cut yours and Master Giacomo's at the same time. Now, is there any other news that I should send to Magdeburg along with this?"

"Tell Franz that the wind instrument students are making good progress," Marcus said. "Especially the brass players. He may have some of them earlier than I guessed, maybe even by the end of the year."

The down-timer musicians-Master Schutz, Thomas, and Master Giacomo himself-all took notice. "That is very good news," Master Schutz said. "Good news, indeed."

"Even the woodwind players are starting to make progress, once they got over having to learn from Errol Mercer and some teenagers in the band." Marcus shook his head. "Bunch of prima donnas. Worse than horn players… and I can say that-I are one." Amber laughed, but nobody else got the joke. "I had to read the riot act to the players learning clarinet and saxophone about working with Errol. He was about to walk on me because they were complaining so much about being taught by someone they felt was not at their level." Marcus nodded at Master Schutz. "Once I invoked your name, sir, they quit talking and started practicing. They still may not be happy about the situation, but at least they're working at it now and not complaining."

There were smiles around the room as Master Schutz's mouth quirked. "I am glad to have been of service in your new world of music, Master Marcus."

Giacomo fell into step with Heinrich as they left the meeting room. "So, my friend. How are you faring?"

Heinrich looked at him soberly. "I believe I am well. Pastor Johann Rothmaler from Rudolstadt has spent much time with me, several conversations. His wisdom and compassion have led me through darkness, and I have found a means of accepting Grantville and everything it brings."

"It is not easy to confront the future." Giacomo nodded. "I know this as well as anyone. It is good to hear that you are at peace with it."

"I am not sure if I am at peace with it or in spite of it." Heinrich gave a slight smile. "But yes, my mind is settled now, and I am ready to move forward."

The two men talked for a moment more at the front door to the building, then Heinrich said good night. Giacomo watched his friend walk away, relieved to hear that his distress had been allayed.

Amber Higham stepped up beside Giacomo, surprising him.

"Frau Amber… I thought you had already left."

"No, I was right behind you coming down the hall." She paused for a moment. "I had heard some time ago that Master Schutz was having a little difficulty dealing with Grantville. I overheard your discussion with him just now. Is he all right?"

"Yes," Giacomo said, "I believe he is."

"Good." Amber gave a firm nod. "I like him."

Magdeburg – Late April, 1634

"No, no, no, no, NO!" Franz brought the rehearsal to a halt. "Violas, how many times must I say it? At the fourth measure after letter C, on the first beat, I want a down bow from all of you-a strong down bow." He looked at the players in question. Most of them nodded.

"I will explain myself one more time. This is for two reasons. First, because that note begins a new phrase, it needs extra emphasis. Second, because I want you all to be seen moving in the same manner. If we have bows going in all directions, the audience, the patrons, will think that you are country bumpkins pulled in from the fairs." The glare he directed at them, while it might not have ignited the wood of their instruments, should certainly have caused them to warm up.

"Again. From letter C."

Franz started the orchestra again from that point. At the appropriate time, he focused on the viola section. He was gratified to find that they all followed his instruction. All but one, that is. One lone bow was moving up while all the others were moving down.

Cutting the music off, Franz set his baton down on the music stand. He said nothing, standing in silence. Within a moment, everyone in the great room was still. No one moved. No one whispered. It seemed no one breathed. When he finally spoke, more than one individual jumped, although his voice was not loud.

"Herr Vogler."

"Yes, Herr Sylwester?"

The violist's tone was not exactly impudent, but one would certainly not call it respectful.

"I am glad to see that you are not hard of hearing." It took a moment for that statement to sink in. Just as Vogler started to open his mouth for an angry retort, Franz said, "Tell me, Herr Vogler… why is it that fourteen other violists-even young Johann Amsel, here-can play that phrase perfectly, in exactly the manner that I desire, yet you seem to never be able to do so?"

"I…" Vogler sounded a little flustered as he stammered, "I simply think it sounds better the other way."

"You think it sounds better the other way." Silence. "Tell me, Herr Vogler. If the composer of this piece were here, would you argue with him about it?"

"But you are not the composer, are you?" Vogler's tone was rather pugnacious.

Franz was suddenly weary. "No, Herr Vogler, but I stand in his place. I direct you as the composer would have done. And if you will not accept my direction, then there is no place for you here." A moment of silence. "You are discharged."

Vogler's shock changed to anger quickly. "You cannot do that! I am one of Master Schutz's best musicians! Matthaus, tell him. The master will be most angry."

Matthaus shook his head. "No, Herwin. About the music, he is right and you are wrong. You are right that the master will be angry, but it will not be Herr Sylwester that will face his ire."

With an expression of stunned disbelief, Herwin turned to another and said, "Simon? Will you let this happen?"

"Herwin, I tried to tell you. This is your own doing."

Franz could see that Vogler's hands were trembling when he placed his viola in its case and snatched up his jacket. "I leave this place. You cannot discharge me-I quit!"

"As you will. Your pay will be waiting with Frau Haygood tomorrow."

Everyone watched as Vogler stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. All eyes then turned to Franz. He looked back at them, catching each eye for a moment. "Gentlemen, I say again, I stand in the place of all these composers, these men who will never be but whose genius is still before us. I will not accept less than your best. It is our duty, and their due. If you cannot bear that stricture, then it would be best if you left now." Long moments passed.

Franz picked up his baton. "Again. From letter C."

Grantville-May, 1634

The Thuringen Gardens was moderately crowded tonight, Thomas thought. The OF Band was playing tonight. This had brought many of their followers in early to take the best places. The old men were up on the platform, tuning up and getting ready to start any moment. As he watched, they were joined by a couple of their wives.

There were some tables still open. He and Lucas Amsel followed Masters Carissimi and Schutz toward a table.

Thomas was somewhat bemused by Master Carissimi's choice of attire. He had set aside the black cassock he sometimes wore, even though he was not a cleric… at least not yet. Thomas had heard him say from time to time that he was truly considering entering orders. When not wearing the cassock, Master Giacomo normally wore the culottes-knee britches-ruffled shirt and coat of a gentleman. Tonight, however, when he took the coat off and flung it over the back of his chair, Thomas was astounded to see him wearing a t-shirt.

T-shirts were almost ubiquitous in Grantville. They were seen in all sizes and colors, including many colors not found in nature. Master Tom Stone's tie-dyed t-shirt came to mind, which occasioned a shudder on Thomas' part. That shirt looked like a hangover felt, as far as he was concerned.

Many of the t-shirts had pictures or words on them. Variations on the American flag were common. Out of all that he had seen, Thomas had two favorites, one serious and one comical. The serious one had a long quote on it: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. – Edmund Burke." The comical one had a much shorter quote: "I'm with Stupid," above an arrow that pointed to the right. In some fashion, Thomas felt that those two shirts captured the essence of Grantville.

The t-shirt that Master Giacomo was wearing fell somewhere in between those two extremes, being simply a bright pink shirt with a picture of a plaza and surrounding buildings rendered on it in exquisite detail. Master Giacomo saw him looking at it.

"The Piazza Navona in Rome." He held the front of the shirt stretched out between his hands. "I have walked it before, many times. It reminds me of home. Remind me some time to tell you how I found it here in Grantville."

Master Heinrich looked at Master Giacomo, then at Thomas. "Tell me

… do you know if Frau Amber is married? I have not seen a ring on her hand such as the married women of Grantville wear."

Thomas' eyebrows rose involuntarily. He looked at Master Giacomo, who replied, "I believe I was told that she was married back in the time before the Ring of Fire, but that she divorced her husband for adultery. His adultery."

"She never remarried?"

"I do not believe so, no. In any event, it would be a moot point now. As I understand it, the consensus appears to be that all spouses not in Grantville when the Ring of Fire fell will be treated as dead. That would mean Frau Amber should be considered a widow." Master Giacomo looked at Master Heinrich with the same curiosity that Thomas himself felt.

After a moment, Master Heinrich, obviously feeling the weight of their gazes, said, "She reminds me of Magdalena… my wife. I find her… interesting."

Master Giacomo, Lucas and Thomas exchanged astonished looks. Before any of them could think of anything to say, the wine and beers arrived. Moments later, so did Signor Abati.

Andrea Abati had arrived in Grantville in December not long before Christmas. He was an acquaintance of Master Giacomo's, come from Magdeburg to visit the master and to learn more of the modern music.

Signor Abati was a castrato, or more politely, a gentilhuomo. This automatically made him a member of the musical elite of Italy. According to Master Carissimi, though, Abati was more than just a member of that group; he was the elite of the elite, probably the finest singer and musician of all the gentilhuomi. He was known as Il Prosperino among the patrons and musicians of Rome. The problem, from Thomas' perspective, was that Abati, at least when he first arrived, was fully in agreement with Master Carissimi's opinion. Despite the fact that he was taller than the Italian, Thomas had felt all too often during their first encounters that Abati was looking down his nose at all things German.

That had changed as Abati spent time with Marcus Wendell, Master Giacomo and Elizabeth Jordan. He had disappeared into the music libraries of the school and the various churches for days. From time to time, he would borrow a book from Master Wendell, only to return it in a few days and then begin to question everyone in sight about various issues until he had worked everything out and understood things-or at least as well as anyone in Grantville did.

Thomas had been around Abati quite a bit the last few weeks, particularly after Franz and the others had left on their trips. By that time, Abati had set aside most of his flamboyance. He was now so focused on the music that he rivaled Franz and Marla in intensity. Thomas quite approved of Abati these days. The thought surprised him somewhat.

"Good evening, friends." Abati plopped into the chair left open for him.

Thomas felt a moment of envy, for Abati's German was as melodious as his Italian. Then something registered with him at the same moment that Master Giacomo gasped. "Andrea, what have you done?"

"Oh, this?" Abati ran his fingers through his hair-his much, much shorter hair. "Yes, I have set aside the trappings of being Il Prosperino. I decided that to spend so much time on my hair and clothing was a distraction from the music. So, I simplified my life." Abati ran his fingers again through his wavy auburn hair again. It was no longer than the bottom of his ears, and his grin was almost salacious. "Then, when I let it be known that I wanted my hair cut, the proprietresses of the 'beauty salons,' seemed to almost come to blows over who would cut it. I finally settled on Frau Thelma Jean Agnes Jenkins at the 'Curl and Tan.'"

Abati paused long enough to give his order to the waitress. "I had at first thought of taking all my shorn locks and using them as favors for ladies in Italy to remember me by and for ladies in Germany to come to know me by." His grin was now several degrees past salacious. "But Frau Jenkins convinced me that I should allow her to sell them to a wigmaker. Even after her commission for the cutting and the sale, I pocketed more than a few coins."

"And your attire?" Carissimi quirked an eyebrow.

Abati shrugged a rather expressive shrug. "Long pants and a jacket. Life is so much freer, more comfortable. Velvet, of course. I have not given up all thought of style." His wine arrived as they were laughing. After taking a sip, he continued, "I got a pretty penny from the seamstress who bought all the brocade, as well." Another grin. "I think they will use the former owner of the hair and clothes as a selling mark." More laughter.

Just then the performers on the stage all faced out, obviously ready to begin. The noise level in the room began dropping. Within moments, the man with the tambourine could be heard. "Good evenin', folks. I'm Huey Jones, and we're the OF Band."

One of the women stepped up and said, "That stands for Old Fa.. ."

"That stands for Old Folks Band." The man glared a mock glare. The woman smiled sweetly at him. "Anyway, we're goin' to get started with an old favorite, "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain."

The band started off, led by the mandolin. The patrons of the Gardens started clapping immediately. Seeing that no conversation was going to be possible for a while, Thomas and the others began clapping, too.

One song followed another. Thomas recognized several of them from his studies with Marla as being 'hillbilly' music, related to the country and western style. He decided the musicians on the stage were not the most polished he'd ever heard, but they obviously enjoyed what they were doing. Some of that joy communicated to the audience, who enjoyed both the music and the performers.

The final song ended to loud applause. The OF band waved goodbye as they stepped off the platform. Finally, the room returned to a state approaching normal, with a constant buzz of conversation in the background. The waitresses were scurrying around seeing to it that glasses and mugs were refilled.

"So," Giacomo said, "we were talking about Andrea before the music started. What are you going to do next, Andrea, besides break women's hearts and bankrupt the tailors of Rome? Have you learned all you came to Grantville to learn?"

"I have learned enough. I have not gained your depth of knowledge, Master Giacomo, but I have learned enough to know that the future is not here in Grantville. Yes, the archives of the future are here, but the future is in Magdeburg. Musical archives are useless if they are not performed, so I will return to Magdeburg soon, to ally myself with Frau Marla and Herr Franz. I will support their orchestra. I will teach, I will sing, I will preach the new music to all who will listen."

Giacomo smiled. "My. Such fervor. And what has won your conversion to the cause, Andrea? Was it Frau Marla's recital in Magdeburg last year?"

"Oh, that opened a breach in the walls." Andrea laughed. "But it did not win the final submission."

"Then what did?" Master Heinrich asked.

"Opera."

"Opera?" It was a chorus from them all.

"Opera." Andrea was firm. "Oh, not the opera of Monteverdi, or Peri, or even yourself, Master Schutz."

"Then whose?"

"Verdi… one Giuseppe Verdi."

"An Italian," Master Heinrich snorted, smiling. "I should have known that only another Italian could have touched you so."

"You laugh." Andrea smiled in return. "But the man is… was. .. will be… what is the right word to say?" Frustration entered his voice.

"I believe most everyone has settled on 'was,'" Thomas said.

"Thank you. Verdi was a genius. His lesser works are wonderful, but Otello… Otello is divine. Words fail me." But not for long, Thomas noted. "And then there is Boris Godunov, by Muss… Mussorgsky. Who would have expected a master work from Russia? The pathos of it."

Andrea gulped his wine down, looking somewhat haunted. "God is indeed fond of irony. Be careful what you pray for, my friends. For most of my career I have prayed to find great music, genius music, music that only those such as I could appreciate." His expression was now bleak. "I would die to sing Otello, to sing that part just once before an audience. But unless God the Father works a miracle in my body, it can never be." He brooded for a moment more, then forced a smile. "So, I must do the next best thing. I must help raise up the men-and women; I do not forget Frau Marla, Master Giacomo-who can fulfill my prayer."

"And you begin in Magdeburg?"

" Si. I mean, yes. It is the capital; it is where the patrons will gather. It is where Frau Simpson's arts league is centered. So, I will go there and begin. Perhaps with Frau Marla."

"Indeed." Giacomo took a sip of wine. "I have told her to study with you. Her voice, it is golden, but there is still much I believe you could teach her. And, perhaps, you could learn somewhat from her."

Andrea nodded.

"As it happens," Master Heinrich said, "I will be going to Magdeburg soon. I have heard much of what friend Giacomo has told me, but I am an old head-I need to see it and hear it in practice. So, I will go to see Herr Sylwester and his friends build this symphony. I think then I will truly begin to understand the new music, deep in my bones. Would you care to travel with me, Herr Andrea?"

"I would be delighted, Master Heinrich."

Aschenhausen-May, 1634

"Well?" Joachim ben Eleazar looked expectantly at his rabbi, Shlomo ben Moishe.

The rabbi looked sidelong at his wife, Rivka who sat next to him with a stony expression. Then he sighed. "Yes, I will go."

"Good, Rav Shlomo." Joachim clapped his hands together. "Very good. I will make arrangements."

A small smile of triumph crossed Rivka's face.

Magdeburg-June, 1634

Franz set the baton down on his stand. "Enough. We will resume after lunch with the Vaughan Williams. You have two hours, gentlemen."

After he'd stepped down from the podium, he found Marla talking to several men in the back of the great room. One of them seemed somehow familiar.

"Herr Franz, how good to see you again."

Franz stopped short, almost stunned, raising his hand by reflex. "Herr Abati…"

Abati laughed as he grasped Franz's hand and shook it. "Yes, yes, I know, I look different. But we stand at the dawn of a new age, so I decided to follow your example." He waved his hand first at Franz's trousers, then at his shorter hair.

"But what are you doing here?"

"Why, I have learned what I could from Master Carissimi. Therefore, I have returned to Magdeburg to begin to practice it. Master Schutz…" Abati waved to another of the men talking to Marla "… was kind enough to transport me in his carriage. And here we are."

Master Schutz! Franz had once accidentally received an electric shock in Ingram Bledsoe's workshop. The feeling that ran through his mind and body at hearing the esteemed German master's name was much the same.

Grappling his wits together, Franz bowed. "Master Schutz, it is indeed an honor to meet you. I have heard so much about you from the musicians you so graciously lent us."

"Hmm, indeed." Schutz fingered his beard. "I suspect, Herr Sylwester, that if what I hear of you and your goals is true, that the honor is as much mine as it is yours." He stepped forward and offered his hand. "In truth, I marvel somewhat at your boldness, to attempt to craft that now which took two hundred years to build in that other time."

Franz looked to Marla for a moment, then returned his gaze to the master. "I have no choice, Master Schutz. The music settles in one's very bones. It drives without remorse."

"Indeed," Abati murmured.

Schutz tilted his head and considered Franz for a long moment. "I believe I understand. You have my commiserations or my congratulations, whichever is appropriate."

Franz laughed. "On some days, it is both, but more often the latter than the former."

"Good, good. That is as it should be, then. Now…" Schutz smiled. "If I mistake me not, those musicians I have 'lent' you are about to descend upon me. I suggest you take your lovely wife and have your meal undisturbed whilst we have our reunion. I will endeavor to have them in their places at the appointed time."

Abati chose to accompany the others, leaving Schutz to face his men. They gathered around him, smiling. He called them by name and asked about their families.

Once the greetings were finished, he turned to where the four Amsel brothers were exchanging back-slaps and hugs. They immediately stilled when they felt his gaze. Matthaus sidled through the press to the front rank.

"Well?" Schutz asked.

Knowing full well what his master was asking, Matthaus responded, "The music is… different, Master Heinrich."

"Of course it is! But you can learn it, can you not?"

"Aye, master. We can, and we do."

Schutz fingered his beard again. "And Herr Sylwester?"

Matthaus looked around at the others, then back at his master. "He

… it is very different, what he is doing… so many changes. But the more he leads us, the easier it is to both understand the music and understand his vision. He is…" The young man was obviously groping for a word.

"Formidable," his brother, Marcus, suggested.

"Yes, formidable." Matthaus seized on it. "He is formidable and unrelenting. He demands our very best. He accepts nothing less than that-his very words. But, he leads well, he is consistent, and he is fair."

Schutz nodded slowly, still running his fingers through his beard.

"He discharged Herwin Vogler," someone said from the back of the crowd.

"What?" Schutz frowned.

"The fool brought it on himself, Master Heinrich." Simon Bracegirdle stepped forward. "He started complaining on the first day and never stopped. He would not understand what was being taught. The new music distressed him. The thought of someone only half his age telling him that much of what he knew had to change in order to play the 'new music'… he would not accept that. Herr Sylwester talked to him, Matthaus talked to him, I talked to him, all to no avail. He would not stop resisting Herr Sylwester's leadership. Truth to tell, I would have sent him packing long before."

Schutz looked to Matthaus.

"He has the right of it, Master Heinrich. Herwin would not listen, would only half-heartedly play, would not even attempt to hear what Franz-Herr Sylwester-was trying to lead us to create." Schutz noted that Matthaus was on good terms with young Sylwester, good enough to use his first name.

Dropping his hand, Schutz sighed. "So be it. I perhaps let Herwin hang on too long, but he was one of the first players I ever hired, and…" He shook his head, then looked at them all. "Is the work worthy?"

Nods from all over, and a surprising response of, "Yes, Master Heinrich," from Johann Amsel, of all people. As everyone looked at him, the boy's complexion reddened, but he stared back resolutely.

"Good, good." Schutz smiled, then his face turned stern. "And make no mistake, my expectation is the same as Herr Sylwester's… your very best. While you follow him, it is as if you follow me. Nothing less is acceptable."

"Yes, Master Heinrich," came from all corners of the room.

Magdeburg-June, 1634

"Stop."

Marla stopped singing at Andrea's command.

"You are singing from the wrong place," he said, straightening from his slouch against the wall and walking toward her. "The voice, it does not come from here." He pointed to her abdomen. "Your breath must come from there, but not the voice.

"Nor does it come from here." Andrea touched her throat. As she opened her mouth to speak, he waved a hand. "Yes, yes, I have read of the vocal cords. But they are not the voice.

"Think of a violin, please. You play a violin by taking a bow to the strings, yes? But does the voice of a violin come from the bow or the strings?" Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued, "No. The voice of a violin comes from the body.

"In like manner, your diaphragm…" He pointed to her abdomen again. "Your diaphragm is the bow, and your vocal cords are the strings. But they are not where the voice comes from. The voice…" He leaned forward and placed a fingertip on her forehead. "The voice comes from the head. You cannot be lazy. You must relax your throat. You must place your tone in your head; sing from your head at all times." He turned back to his wall.

"Again, please."

"Cellos, you must follow me here. You must swell this passage." Franz tapped his baton against the podium. "Start softly. Then, as the theme rises, crescendo until it crests, then diminuendo to the end of the phrase."

Franz looked at his orchestra. "Start at letter F."

The orchestra began playing. Franz led them on. At the passage in question he began swelling his pattern, all the while looking directly at the cellists.

"Yes, yes, yes!" he exclaimed as they responded.

Franz waved them to a stop at the end of the passage. "Very good, gentlemen. That was exactly what I wanted. Now, do it again to prove it was no accident.

"Again from letter F."

Marla quit singing at Andrea's grimace. "What did I do wrong this time?"

"Your breath support weakened." Andrea stalked forward. "You let too much air out when you sing." He poked her abdomen with a finger. "You must control your diaphragm better."

Discouraged, Marla looked away. That cool soprano voice, so disconcerting from a man, seemed so dispassionate and yet somehow could cut so easily. She blinked her eyes as they started to water, only to feel Andrea's fingers take her chin and turn her to face him. "Marla, how many years have you studied voice? Not just sung, but actually studied?"

She counted in her head. "Seven. From sixth grade to twelfth grade."

"For seven years of study, you are very good-exceptional. But it is not enough for you to be exceptional. You will be the first woman musician in the up-time model, so you must be the best. I will teach you, and though I may seem stern at times, it is because I, too, desire you to be the best."

Andrea looked away. "You will be my legacy, my progeny. It is only through you that I will live on in this world."

Marla straightened and took a deep breath. As she let it out, Andrea looked at her with a crooked smile. "So, you will learn to control your diaphragm better, yes?"

"Yes, Master Andrea."

Inner fires stoked, resolution stiffened, Marla opened her mouth and sang.

Heinrich Schutz watched as Franz rehearsed the orchestra. He was sitting in the back of the great room between Frau Marla and Andrea. He had been doing so on a regular basis, ever since arriving in Magdeburg. Today, it seemed as if pieces of a puzzle that had been tumbling around finally fell into place. "Yes. Yes. I begin to understand."

"Understand what, Master Heinrich?" Andrea leaned forward slightly to ask.

"I begin to feel what manner of beast this symphony is. I begin to understand how to write for it. Master Giacomo tried to tell me, but I could not see it, could not feel it, not even with those CDs that he played for me, not even with the band.

"But now, listening to the orchestra here, listening to Franz rehearse them, I begin to hear it in here." Heinrich pointed to his head, then his heart. "Perhaps Schutz can learn new tricks after all."

Franz set the baton down on the stand. He looked at each of the musicians, one by one, taking his time. "Gentlemen, we are ready."

The applause started when he stepped down from the podium. Matthaus was first to stand and clap, followed a bare instant later by Isaac Fremdling and Simon Bracegirdle.

Franz's heart swelled. He stood there blinking, feeling as if he could hardly breath. As the applause rolled, he bowed to the symphony, then straightened and raised a fist in the air. Amid the cheers of the players, he shouted, "To the Glorious Third of July!"

Magdeburg-July 3, 1634

Lady Beth Haygood stood near the door to the great room, watching and greeting as notables arrived. It still seemed odd to her for a buffet and bar-or at least that's how she thought of them-to be present at a concert. But then again, she supposed it wasn't really any different from what she'd heard about the skyboxes at some of the football stadiums before the Ring of Fire fell. The wealthy and influential would always insist on having their comforts, it seemed. The wine table was certainly receiving a lot of visits, anyway. Since this was an afternoon event, the food table consisted mostly of what Lady Beth thought of as party foods: hors d'oeuvres of various types, finger foods mostly.

Mary Simpson had developed some pretty detailed plans for how this affair was to be conducted before she left on her trip, which it now seemed was indefinitely extended. Lady Beth wasn't sure where Mary was now. Wherever she was, Lady Beth was beginning to worry about her. Be that as it may, since Mary wasn't here, it had fallen to Lady Beth to execute those plans. So, she had rolled up her figurative sleeves and done so.

Lady Beth thought Mary would have approved if she had been able to attend. With the help of advice from Eleonore Wettin, she had carefully crafted the arrangement of seating in the room, ensuring that every major noble house had its own block of seating which were marked off by ribbons of different colors. Then she had also carefully crafted the invitations, announcing the concert but also managing to let them know that this event would be somewhat different than anything else they had ever attended.

The response to the RSVPs had been almost unanimous. Anyone who was anyone and was in Magdeburg was attending. Lady Beth had been checking names off her mental checklist as they entered. More of them were arriving in very quick fashion. Apparently the hints that had been dropped that those who were 'fashionably late' would miss part of the performance had been taken to heart by most of them.

Lady Beth had to smile at the mixture of fashions she was seeing. Many of the older people were still wearing the styles that had been the equivalent of haut couture when Grantville appeared in 1631: wide skirts, bodices and high collars for the women; knee britches, long waistcoats and coats for the men.

Mixed in with them, however, were those who were trying to adapt some of the up-time styles. There were several women, mostly younger, who were wearing variations on the theme of the Empire style gown Marla Linder had worn for her concert last December. Most of them received passing grades from Lady Beth. Great day in the morning. The one coming in the door at the moment was way too short and stocky to wear that style. She looks like a bowling pin!

The young men had begun trying up-time influenced clothing styles some time before. Prime Minister Stearns-Lady Beth chuckled at the thought of Mike Stearns being a Prime Minister. Lord help us all! Mike had been their first example, but SignorAndrea Abati and his new mode had been like a rock in a pond. You could almost track the ripples of the style as you watched to see who talked to who when and who was wearing what next. It was a little more forgiving of physical makeup than the Empire style dress was, so most men were at least presentable in it. Signor Abati, of course, defined it. She had already heard several of the younger women-married at that-almost swooning over how romantic he looked.

And speaking of SignorAbati, there he was now with Maestro Giacomo Carissimi and Signor Girolamo Zenti. Lady Beth smiled at sight of that mismatched trio. They were all talking volubly in Italian, with waving of arms. She had grown quite fond of the maestro in Grantville. The other two, while they could be a bit outrageous-make that a lot outrageous, in the case of Signor Abati-were usually a lot of fun to be around.

The students she had drafted to serve as ushers were scurrying back and forth. They were leading people to their designated seats, making sure that everyone had a copy of the program, and collecting wine and plates of hors d'oeuvres for those who wanted them. The room was quite full, but there were still a few on Lady Beth's mandatory wait list who hadn't appeared yet.

Ah, there's one of them now. Master Heinrich Schutz was finally arriving, predictably accompanied by Lucas Amsel on one side. On the other side was… Heavens above! That's Amber Higham! Immediately all sorts of wheels began spinning in Lady Beth's mind. It was only a moment before a delighted smile broke out on her face. So, this was the man the few faint rumors from Grantville had attached to Amber's name. Good for her. It was time she started taking a little more interest in life. From all accounts, it was past time for Master Heinrich to do so as well. She waved to them, and Amber waved back.

It was but a matter of moments later that Princess Kristina and her companion, Lady Ursula, came through the door, followed by Wilhelm and Eleonore Wettin. Lady Beth mentally ticked them off of her list. She moved forward to greet them, then handed them over to the ushers to be led to the royal seating.

Finally! The last name on her list, Don Francisco Nasi, appeared with his guests. Once they were seated, she beckoned to one of the ushers, gave him a message, then took her husband's arm and headed for their seats in the royal space. One of the perks of managing the affair, after all, was selecting your own seats.

Franz watched from the side doorway as the screens that had masked the orchestra area from the rest of the great room were moved by the ushers. The orchestra had been seated for some time, their quiet talk and occasional notes masked by the roar of conversation happening in the main part of the room. They had lost three more players besides Herwin Vogler for various reasons, but the orchestra still numbered more than fifty-five string players, which was an amazing experience for them all. The largest orchestra Franz had ever heard of was the group that Master Heinrich had sent, some nineteen in all, but that had included at least four wind players. Tonight was going to be a first in the experience of everyone, performers and listeners alike.

Not for the first time, Franz wished they had a proper performance hall, like those he had seen in some of the videos that Marla had shown them last year. It frustrated him that for the first symphony concert they were having to make do with the biggest room they could find, which was not at all what he wanted.

Taking a deep breath, he banished those thoughts from his mind. He turned to Matthaus Amsel. "It is time."

Matthaus, who was serving as concert master, nodded. They shook hands, and Matthaus walked out the door.

Marla drew him away for a moment. She never said a word, simply took his hands in hers, smiled, and kissed him. Still smiling, she turned and walked down the hall. Franz had to force himself to turn back to the door.

Matthaus had reached the front of the orchestra. There was a smattering of light applause, as those who did not know what to expect responded to his appearance. Matthaus properly bowed to acknowledge the applause, then turned to the orchestra. Raising his violin, he sounded an A to lead the orchestra through the final tuning exercise. Once that was completed, he took his seat at the front of the violins.

There was a long expectant silence.

Franz felt a tension in his gut that was starting to build, a flame that was starting to burn. He checked for the fifteenth time to make sure the baton was still tucked up his left sleeve. Taking another deep breath, he stepped through the doorway and strode to the front of the orchestra. The applause was louder this time. He bowed to acknowledge it.

Turning, Franz stepped up on the podium and slid the baton out of his sleeve. Holding it before him in both hands, he took one slow look around the orchestra. All eyes were on him, awaiting his direction. Unsmiling, feeling the heat rising, he slowly lifted his hands. The instruments were raised to position, bows were poised. As the tension crested, he began.

Marla stepped into the back of the great room just as Franz straightened from his bow. She moved to one side, where a chair had been placed for her. One of the ushers held it for her as she sat. She rewarded him with a smile, only to see him blush.

Facing forward, she could see Franz with his arms raised. She held her breath, waiting for that first moment, the first public performance of Franz as a conductor. It had been a long road for him to get here, over three years in the traveling. Three years to go from crippled, embittered ex-musician to a leading light in the music of Germany. Well, soon to be leading light. She smiled. Today would light the flame.

The baton moved. The music began.

Giacomo Carissimi closed his eyes, the better to drink the music in. The Brandenburg -no, the Vasa Concerto No. 3 in G major by Johann Sebastian Bach. He and Andrea had nearly exploded with laughter when they had seen that listing in the program. The reasoning behind the renaming of the work was immediately obvious, but it was still a delicious thing to savor. This was a slap in the face of the Elector of Brandenburg, into whose employ Andrea had nearly gone. It was perhaps even the more savory because the Elector had yet to realize he had been slapped.

This concerto was one of the first up-time pieces that Giacomo had truly grown to love. Two driving allegro movements, linked by a bare two measures of an adagio movement. The last movement was absolutely one of the most joyous pieces of work that a string player could perform. The themes were passed from part to part as if it were a musical version of a child's keep-away game. Giacomo remembered reading that old Johann-which was how he affectionately thought of him-liked playing the viola. He could believe that, hearing this piece. The viola parts were just as intricate as the violin parts.

He abandoned himself to the music, immersed in it until the final chords.

Heinrich Schutz nodded slowly as the Vasa Concerto No. 3 concluded. Young Franz was indeed shaping to be what Master Giacomo had described him to be-a musician who played musicians. There was no doubt that the fifty or more musicians were gathered in his hands and played as if they were extensions of his fingers. To hear this-here and now-made up for the turmoil he had suffered weeks ago. This was the future. This was what music would look like from now on. Patrons and musicians alike would never settle for less after this. Historians of music would look back on this day and say, "Here. Here is where it changed." He marveled to be here, to be part of it in some way.

The program stated that the next work was by one Johann Pachelbel. Another name he did not know, so obviously one from the future. A Canon in D. Good, it would be a form he was somewhat familiar with, then. Perhaps from not so far in the future.

The baton was raised. Once more music sounded.

The canon started quietly, a slow statement of the theme in the cellos, and then began to build, phrase by phrase, theme by theme, section by section. It was light, it was airy, it floated. Heinrich floated with it. It almost seemed like musical lace, he thought. He admired Herr Pachelbel's delicate touch at writing the music. He also admired Franz's equally delicate touch at leading the performance of it.

The music built and swelled, ebbed and flowed. Finally, it began a slow diminuendo. The concluding phrase was a final quiet restatement of the first theme.

As the applause swelled around him, Heinrich nodded. Yes. This is the future and I will-I must-be a part of it. My name will be known for more than the music brought back with Grantville. God willing, I will make my place. And a far different one it will be than that of that sad man I read about in the encyclopedia article.

Andrea Abati, an old hand at reading programs-this was his second-glanced at it quickly to see what the third work was to be. Hmm, Adagio for Strings, by Samuel Barber. An Englishman, or more likely an American with an English name. This was not one of the men he had read about in his weeks in Grantville. Nor had he managed to hear this one in rehearsal since he returned to Magdeburg. Nonetheless, he trusted that Franz Sylwester had selected only superlative pieces for this concert. Certainly, the first two works had been excellent. Ah, Franz has raised his stick, or baton, as Master Giacomo called it. Andrea sat back in his seat, anticipating.

The beginning was very quiet, even more so than that of the canon. The sound seemed to seep into the room, a moving line over suspended chords. The theme was minor in intonation. It evoked a sadness in Andrea's heart, especially when it was joined by another line in a very free polyphony over the chords. He began to hear it as a mournful aria, perhaps as a mother crying for her children.

The music tore at him, shattering the walls he had built in his mind ever since he had read the future's judgment of him and his brethren. All the glory and the beauty of his art, of the music created by the gentilhuomi, treated with pity, sadness and more than a hint of condescension. He was used to men in Italy and Germany considering him unnatural, but that the future judged him so…

The orchestra sang, a song without words. Andrea poured his grief out into the music, letting the dark places in his soul flow, the grief in his heart matched by the sorrow of the music. How… how did this… American, this… up-timer-how could he know of Andrea's sorrow? How could he write this, this passion for Andrea Abati and his brothers, when he never knew them?

The cellos picked up the theme and carried it, sounding darkly, then restated it, climbing, climbing, joined by the other strings, sounding now as a choir of angels mourning. Andrea listened, heart swelling, as the music crescendoed, circling, climbing, carrying him along, building, building, building, building, one peak after another, until it finally crested. His mouth opened in a silent scream, every muscle in his body clenched, every tendon rigid.

The music stopped.

Slowly, slowly, it began again. In his mind's eye he could see the mother laying her child down. So, as the orchestra sang the final lament, he, too, laid down the grief he had not even realized he was carrying.

When the final note was released, Andrea opened his eyes, unsurprised that they were teary, unsurprised that his cheeks were wet; unsurprised that he was shaking a little.

Master Carissimi leaned over. With concern in his voice, he asked, " State bene? "

Andrea took a moment to respond. " Si. I am all right." And as he smiled at the master, he realized that he was.

Franz turned, stepped off of the podium and bowed to acknowledge the applause. He then walked out of the room to allow for the small intermission that was planned in the program.

He leaned back against the wall in the hallway and wiped the damp hair out of his face… or at least, he attempted to. Realizing that he still held the baton in his hand, he tucked it back into his left sleeve, then completed the action with his hair.

"Franz!" Marla hurried to him. She arrived with a thump, threw her arms around him and gave him a ferocious hug and a kiss that left him dazzled. She stepped back at arm's length. "It's going great, Franz! It sounds wonderful, the guys are playing wonderful, and you're doing wonderful!" She hugged him again.

"But the hardest part is yet to do."

"Bah! What's left may be longer, but I think the hardest one was the Barber, and you did fine with it."

Franz contemplated her words, and a sense of warmth began to build. She was right, he thought. The Geminiani/Carissimi piece was relatively simple, and the Vaughan Williams, although longer, was no more complex than the Barber. A new feeling of confidence settled on him.

Thankful that the third work was completed, Girolamo Zenti picked up his program. He stared at it without seeing it for a moment, settling his mind. The Adagio had been a little disturbing; dissonant, even harsh at times, yet it had in some way moved him. A sudden chill chased through him; he shuddered.

Focusing on the program, he saw that the next work was the piece that his friend Master Giacomo had contributed to the program, Variations and Etude on Geminiani's Concerto Grosso in E minor. Although not a musician himself, Girolamo perforce had to know something about music in order to be the master craftsman that he was. He found his friend's work interesting. He had taken a work originally written for a group of solo instruments and harpsichord and had re-voiced it for full orchestra.

There was a stir as Franz walked back to the podium, once again bowing to the applause. Girolamo settled himself to listen.

The initial movement was a largo, played slowly. The principal theme was built around a dotted, almost syncopated, stuttering rhythm. The cellos played a strong ground line, the other parts layering above them. He looked over to see Master Giacomo nodding, a small smile on his face.

An allegro with a fast triple rhythm followed. The violins were prominent. Girolamo found his foot tapping. It sounded something like a song he used to hear at the harvest festival in his home town.

In the following adagio, the sections entered one by one over the sustained cello notes. The movement was marked by the descending figures of the first violins in the opening bars and the ascending chord of the violas in the final measures.

The final movement, another allegro, was the most complex. The violas assumed prominence in it, first using an imitative violin entry and triple stopped chords, then using contrapuntal entries that were answered by the first violins, the seconds and, finally, the cellos.

When the piece concluded, he leaned over to Master Giacomo. "That was nicely done."

"In comparison to the others, it is not so much." Giacomo smiled amidst the applause. "But it does provide a bit of a comfortable sound, does it not?"

Matthaus rested his violin on his thigh, glad for the brief break. They had done well, he thought. Franz had prepared them well. In return, they had proven their mettle for him.

The climax of the evening was at hand. The piece they were about to play, while not as jarring as the earlier Adagio, could almost have come from the same school. It definitely had its intense moments, as well as being considerably longer. He was to play the lead violin part in the quartet in the central portion of the work.

Striving to focus, to not let down, Matthaus took several deep breaths. Feeling a little calmer, he looked to Isaac Fremdling who sat next to him and was to play the second violin part in the quartet. Isaac was looking back at him. They shared a brief smile before looking to the podium where Franz stood.

Franz looked down to where he held the baton in both hands. He took a deep breath and uttered a brief prayer before he reached inside himself and opened wide the door to the fire that burned within. As the flames roared forth, he raised his arms and began the Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis by Ralph Vaughan Williams.

From the opening movements, the brief introductory theme, everyone in the room was captivated. The musicians were the most enthralled, but even the most casual listener was caught up as pure musical passion seemed to fountain from the orchestra. Flames of music seemed to wave from the baton of Franz Sylwester, seemed to sometimes erupt from his figure as he reached out with his crippled hand and molded the flow of the themes.

Never, never before had Franz felt so much at one with a work. He became the music, bending, gesturing, flowing from one sound to another, leading the players in the great dance, evoking more from them than they-or he-had ever dreamed could be drawn out of them. God Above, if this was anything like what Lucifer had felt while leading the choirs of angels in praise, no wonder he rebelled!

Marla was frozen. All her being, her very soul poured out in response to what Franz was shaping, the glory of sound that was coming forth from the players. Unnoticed, unbidden, tears flowed.

Tears also glittered in Andrea's eyes. He felt lifted on wings as the Fantasia poured into those places that the Adagio had scoured clean, filled him and provided a healing balm. Andrea had often joked of singing like an angel. Now he felt surrounded by them.

Heinrich Schutz was stunned. He had heard this work in rehearsal, but to hear it now, performed flawlessly with such an overwhelming passion, was almost unbearable. All he could do was whisper over and over again, "My God, my God."

Giacomo Carissimi sat, eyes closed and a beatific smile upon his face. Such must have been the song in Heaven when the world was created. He whispered, " Soli Deo Gloria. "

The music ebbed and flowed, now cresting, now receding, now brighter, now darker. Through it all, Franz moved like a beech in the wind, still leading, still calling forth just that little bit more of passion from the musicians, just that little bit more of fire that surprised them, imbuing even the softer passages with intensity.

As the Fantasia drew to a close, Franz gently led them to the final chord. Sustaining the tone with his baton, he held his left hand up, then began to lower it, bringing the players into a gradual diminuendo. Finally there was only a thread of sound left. He closed his fist, and it stopped.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Applause erupted. Everyone was on their feet, clapping. "Bravo, Bravissimo, Bravo," was heard loudly over and over again from the Italian sector of the room. It was picked up by others. Shrill whistles could be heard every once in a while.

Franz put the baton down on the stand and stepped off of the podium. He kept one hand on the music stand, however, because his knees were so wobbly he was a little uncertain he could bow without falling. He was successful in his bow, though, and in the several that followed.

Straightening from the third bow, he stepped to one side and waved to the orchestra, motioning them to stand. Matthaus looked at Isaac. They both shrugged. As they stood, the others followed. After a moment, Franz stepped back onto the podium, holding his hands up for quiet. It took some little while, as a couple of rowdy Italians were still shouting, but he finally achieved it.

Before he could say anything, Odelia Seiler, Georg's little girl, jumped up from a seat in the royal area and trotted forward. Franz looked at her in bemusement. She stopped in front of the podium, gave a curtsey, then offered him a white rose from behind her back. Startled, he reached for it. When his fingers touched it, he began laughing. It was brass! Franz knew exactly who had put Odelia up to this… this was 'payback,' as the Grantvillers called it, for his offering Marla a brass rose at her concert in December.

Odelia trotted back to her seat as he made a show of sniffing the flower, then tapped it with a fingernail. Chuckles sounded from the audience, most of whom were present when he started the joke. Finally, he set it aside.

"We…" Franz extended his arms to include the entire symphony "… want to thank you very much for coming to this, the first concert of the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra. These men have come together, many of them strangers to each other, with one goal: to perform the best music that can be found. They have worked very hard in the last three months. They, more than I, are deserving of your applause." He led the audience in another round of applause.

Holding his hands up again, he received the desired quiet much quicker than before. "I realize that we have reached the end of the printed program, but we have a small surprise for you. Please, be seated."

Stepping down from the podium again, Franz went over to the door to the hallway. Marla was waiting, eyes gleaming. Taking her by the hands, he asked, "Ready?"

She squeezed back. "Ready."

As they appeared hand in hand, the audience began clapping again. They stopped in front of the podium and bowed together. Franz stepped onto the podium and picked up the baton. Marla stepped a little to one side and turned slightly so she could see Franz. He looked at her; she nodded. Raising the baton, he began. After a short introduction, Marla poured out her voice.

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon Deutschland's mountains green?

And was the holy Lamb of God

On Deutschland's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the countenance divine

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here

Among those dark Satanic mills?

Heinrich and Giacomo were struck by the power of the song, the power of the text, but even more so the power of Marla's voice. Andrea, on the other hand, simply smiled. He had known what was coming. The sheer beauty of Marla's singing was the perfect cap to the concert in his mind.

The orchestra played an interluding instrumental verse. Marla opened her mouth again.

Bring me my bow of burning gold,

Bring me my arrows of desire!

The tempo of the music slowed a little. Marla's performance became slightly more deliberate.

Bring me my spear! Oh, clouds unfold!

Her voice swelled and crested in the second part of the line.

Bring me my chariot of fire.

She held up her hand to the heavens. More than one person wouldn't have been surprised if she had been answered.

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

Marla sang no louder, but the intensity grew.

Till we have built Jerusalem

In Deutschland's green and pleasant land!

The orchestra played the final concluding chords. Franz was watching Marla, and they cut off together.

Once more applause resounded within the room. Once more shouts of "Bravo! Brava!" were heard from some irrepressible Italians. Once more Franz and Marla joined hands and bowed, then separated and waved to the orchestra. Finally, they joined hands again and bowed one last time before leaving the room.

Once the applause died down and the patrons began to mill around, Franz and Marla quietly re-entered the room. They spent some time among the jubilant musicians. Franz congratulated everyone, gave them two days off, and told them to report to rehearsal on the following Thursday.

Franz carried his white 'rose.' Accompanied by Isaac, Simon, and Matthaus and his brothers, he and Marla began to mingle with the audience. Congratulations were showered on them from left and right. Franz's bemusement returned when he was asked to autograph programs. Isaac had a pencil in his pocket, which turned out to be very convenient.

After a few minutes, they encountered Master Heinrich and Amber Higham, who were wearing bemused expressions of their own. Lucas Amsel was with them, and he was not only not bemused, he was so excited he was about to burst.

"Matthaus! Marcus! Johann! Simon! You will never guess what has just happened!" Without giving them a chance to even begin to guess, Lucas blurted out, "Princess Kristina just asked Master Heinrich if he would become the Kappellmeister for the court here in Magdeburg."

Exclamations of surprise and joy sounded all around. Matthaus turned to his master. "Did you accept, Master Heinrich?"

"Well… um… actually, I asked them for a little time to think about it."

Exclamations of surprise and "What?" sounded all around. Amber Higham said, "But he's going to accept it, aren't you, Heinrich?"

Master Heinrich shrugged, but a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth told the truth.

Franz and Marla congratulated him. They wandered on, Isaac in company, speaking to all and sundry, until suddenly Isaac stopped. "I do not believe it."

They looked in the direction of his gaze. Don Francisco Nasi was approaching with three older people; two men and a woman. They wore the Jewish mark on their clothing.

"Ah, good day to you, my friends." Don Francisco's voice was expansive. "A remarkable event, yes. Truly remarkable."

Franz and Marla thanked him. All the while Isaac stood as still as a statue, staring at those who accompanied Don Francisco.

The taller man, who had a truly impressive beard, stared back until he was forcefully nudged by the short woman who stood beside him. He looked at her, then looked back at Isaac. Finally, he spoke. "Yitzhak, is it well with you?"

Isaac opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it, coughed, then squeezed out, "Yes."

"Good, good." The older man nodded. "It is mostly good with us. It could be better, but it is good enough that I cannot complain." He fell silent, still nodding, only to receive another nudge from the woman. His look to her this time was a glare, which seemed to have absolutely no effect on her.

Franz and Marla watched in fascination.

The man spoke again. "Er… Yitzhak…" He hesitated, then finished in a rush. "Will you come home to us?"

Isaac turned white, starting to waver. Franz reached out and grasped his elbow to steady him.

The other man looked concerned. "Yitzhak, I have wronged you. I. .. was so certain that I was right in my plans for you. I was furious when you would not obey me. I was blind to see that I could not make you be anything other than what the Holy One, Blessed be He, had shaped you to be. I thought you were rebellious, and on that night.. . I was infuriated. I said words that no father should say to a son." The man, obviously Isaac's father, looked down at the ground, then back up with an earnest expression on his face. "As the greater fault was mine, I acknowledge that fault. I ask your pardon." He opened his arms. "Will you be restored to your family, my son?"

Isaac was trembling under Franz's hand. Slowly, he moved forward. Then, with a sudden rush he fell into his father's arms. "Avi, Avi."

His father folded his arms around Isaac in a fierce embrace, closed his eyes and bowed his head to lean against his son's, whispering softly to him. The woman, who must have been his mother, smiled a tender smile and rested a hand on Isaac's back. The other member of the group exchanged a smile of satisfaction with Don Francisco.

After a moment, Isaac straightened and pulled away. "My friends, I would like you to meet my father, Rabbi Shlomo ben Moishe of Aschenhausen, my mother Rivka, and Joachim ben Eleazar, the president of our community. Father, these are my very good friends, Franz Sylwester and his wife Marla."

"So," Rabbi Schlomo said. "You are musicians, yes?"

"That's right, sir," Marla replied.

The rabbi looked surprised at her response, but cleared his throat and continued. "Is my son a good musician?"

"Absolutely, sir." Franz smiled. "One of the best."

"Good, good." Rabbi Shlomo turned to Isaac. "But you should be the best, nu?"

Isaac laughed. "Yes, Father. I will try harder."

Franz watched as another stranger approached. The young man had diffidently entered the room after the concert was over and hovered around, walking a few steps one way, then back. After talking to one of the ushers briefly, he had focused on Franz, once or twice starting toward him but then pulling back. Franz judged him to be about thirty, maybe a little younger. He was dressed reasonably well, but certainly not as a member of the Hoch-Adel. He was now obviously determined on talking to them, so Franz stopped and waited for him.

"Good day, Herr Sylwester."

"Good day."

"I have heard of your offer for musicians, and I have come to find a place with them, if I may." The man stood straight, and looked Franz in the eye.

"There are a few places left. Where are you from, and what do you play?" "Most recently from Schweinfurt, although I have played in several of the towns of Thuringia. As to instruments, I play all of the common stringed instruments with some level of skill, but my best is the king of instruments, the organ."

He certainly seemed to not be burdened with false modesty. On the other hand, there was no air of braggadocio… he apparently was reciting what he considered to be fact. Franz could accept that.

"And you are?"

Now the stranger was flustered. "I am sorry; I have left my manners at home. You must think me very rude. My name is Bach, Johann Bach."

Franz and Marla looked at each other, and smiled.