by Eric Flint
"Did you ever see him scold some like that?"
A smile dawned on the big man's face, and he nodded. "My uncle." It was apparent he remembered the event well.
"I want you to sing like that scolding, with that kind of scorn and fire. Can you do that for me?" Dietrich's eyes lit up; he nodded with fervor. "Good. Hermann, if you please."
Andrea closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall as the harpsichord sounded the introductory measure, waiting for Dietrich's entrance.
" Thus saith the Lord,
The Lord of Hosts:
Yet once a little while,
And I will shake… "
The voice master's eyes snapped open at the first note. It was rich. It was resonant. It dripped fire and sternness. It was not the least bit romantic. Andrea listened as Dietrich completed the recitative, almost spitting out the words and taking the moving lines at a run.
"… saith the Lord of Hosts. "
Dietrich's final phrase was stately, proud, and forceful enough that Andrea almost thought he was hearing one of those old prophets. Whoever that old pastor was must be a veritable Elijah, that the thought of him inspired Dietrich to this level. Andrea muttered a quick thank you prayer to God for that man.
"Good, Dietrich. That is the sound we want." Dietrich's smile was back. "Now, let us make it perfect."
***
Despite the cold weather outside, Marla was sweating by the time the evening's rehearsal was over. Part II of Messiah was the longest of the three parts, containing twenty-three sections to part I's twenty-one and Part III's nine.
The first half of Part II was definitely not happy music. And it didn't help that five of Part II's eleven chorus sections occurred in the first seven sections of Part II. By the end of the first two, "Behold the Lamb of God" and "Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs", Marla's arm felt almost numb from the effort of dragging the singers along. They kept making the basic mistake of allowing the slow sad sections to droop in tempo.
Fortunately, the third and fourth chorus sections, "And With His Stripes We Are Healed" and "All We Like Sheep Have Gone Astray", were somewhat livelier. The choir did much better with those; enough so that by the end of the rehearsal Marla's mood had improved and her arm felt better. They still needed work, obviously, but a good start had been made tonight.
She dropped her hands from the final cutoff, allowing the chorus to relax.
"Okay, folks, that's it for the night. Look at your music before next rehearsal. Especially the ones we looked at tonight, the ones that seem so slow. We have to do better than we did tonight. We start practicing with the orchestra in a little over three weeks. You have to know your parts by then-all of your parts." She waved at them. "Go home."
Franz came up and set his hands to rubbing her shoulders. She started to melt.
"You are tight tonight."
Marla looked back at him. "What did you expect? You heard them. It was all I could do to keep them within eyesight of the correct tempo for 'Behold the Lamb of God,' and 'Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs' was even worse." She sighed, and leaned back into his arms.
"Do not be so hard, Marla. They do well." She snorted-a ladylike snort, but it was definitely a snort. "'Tis true. At least you've not had to fire any of them."
"True." The thought of what Franz had had to go through with Herwin Vogler made her pause for a moment. It was true; the chorus rehearsals had not had anyone as recalcitrant as the violist that Franz had finally discharged from the orchestra not long before the big concert last July.
Marla's mood mellowed more as the last of the knots were worked out of her neck and shoulders. She turned back to her husband, who brushed sweat-soaked tendrils of hair back behind her ears. "The revolution progresses," he said.
"Yep. But meanwhile, I'm tired. Take me home."
"As you command, my dear."
God Above, she loved that man.
***
Marla answered the knock. She opened the door to reveal a young man carrying a bundle. His family resemblance to Patroclus Zopff was so strong that this must be the storied younger brother Telemachus. Franz stepped up behind her and set a hand on her shoulder as she said, "Yes?"
"Herr Sylwester? Frau Linder?"
"Yes?" This time from Franz.
"I have… you must… my brother…"
Marla bit her lip to keep from giggling as the young man, obviously flustered, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders, opened his eyes and started again.
"My name is Telemachus Zopff. I am come from my brother Patroclus Zopff."
Marla had to suppress another giggle as Telemachus rattled that small speech off and released a small puff of breath at the end.
"Come in, then," Franz replied. They stepped out of the doorway to allow the young printer to maneuver his bundle into the house. Marla cleared a space on the table that was serving as a desk. A moment later, Telemachus was unwrapping the bundle.
The first thing the printer held up was a familiar lavender book. "Patroclus says to say that we have completed the setting of the treatise." He handed Marla the book with a flourish. "And here is the final set of proof pages." Telemachus laid his hand on the stack of paper tied with twine.
"Good!" Marla resisted the itch to immediately untie the proof stack and get to work. It would be a bit rude, after all. She smiled at Telemachus, and was rewarded by a shy smile in return.
"Will you take some ale, Herr Telemachus?" The young man nodded vigorously in response to Franz's question. While Franz stepped out of the room to fetch the ale, Marla gestured to the nearby seats, and gathered her skirts to sit. Telemachus followed suit just as Franz reappeared with two mugs of ale for themselves and one of water for Marla. She accepted it with thanks. She still hadn't developed a taste for beer or ale. She probably never would.
"So, what other word do you have from Herr Patroclus?" Marla watched as Telemachus hurriedly swallowed the mouthful of ale he had just taken in, choking a moment or two before the ale decided to descend by its proper passage.
"He also said to say that he has ordered one of the Vignelli duplicating machines." Telemachus' smile flashed again. "Speaking for myself, I am glad he has done so. I think we can make good use of its speed to do broadsheets and pamphlets. And I thank you for mentioning Frau Haygood to my brother, because she it was who convinced him that we should buy it." The smile soured somewhat. "Of course, he says nothing of my suggesting months ago that we should get one."
"Hmm." Franz cradled his mug in his hands. "A not uncommon problem. Scripture says something about a prophet not being honored by his own."
"'For a prophet is not without honor save in his own country.' Matthew chapter 13 verse 57," Telemachus responded. He grinned at their surprise. "It is a favorite verse of the Committees of Correspondence. Not that we… they… at all compare themselves to Jesus, but we… they… have a message of truth for our people that seems to be facing similar rejections."
"So you know something of the committees?" Franz asked. Marla had an idea that Telemachus knew rather more of the CoC than his brother suspected, or would approve of.
"I spend time with them," Telemachus said with a defensive air. "I hold to their beliefs, even if Father and Patroclus do not agree. I help at the Freedom Arches when I have some time of my own, which isn't often."
"Why do you support the committees, in the face of your family's disapproval?"
"Because of my family," the young man replied. "Not because I reject them, but because of our history." Marla felt her eyebrows go up, but she said nothing. After a moment, Telemachus continued.
"You know, of course-you must know-my father ensures that everyone knows-that the Zopffs were once the favored printers and publishers of the Elector of Brandenburg." Marla nodded, echoed by Franz. "But do you know why we are no longer in Berlin? Did Father or Patroclus tell you that part of the story?" Telemachus snorted. "Of course not. They never speak of that, to spare the family some form of embarra
ssment or shame. As if it matters now, twenty years later and across half the Germanies." A large amount of ale was drained from his mug.
Marla waited. She'd been curious for some time as to why the Zopffs were no longer in Berlin.
The story had simple bones, to hear Telemachus tell it. The Elector of Brandenburg was Lutheran prior to 1613. Conrad Zopff, being desirous of pleasing the Elector, made it plain that he and his house were Lutheran as well. He was so much a Lutheran that he would seek out books and pamphlets to print that would assail both popish beliefs and what he would label the 'misguided Calvinists'.
That changed in 1613. The Elector became a Calvinist. Unfortunately, it had not come to the Zopff family's attention that this change was in the wind. Literally two days before that change was announced, Conrad published a particularly harsh, critical and venomous anti-Calvinist pamphlet. Almost overnight the patronage melted away.
"This was before my birth," Telemachus fumed, "but I've overheard enough late night conversations between my father and Patroclus to know the family tried to keep going for two years, hoping that the passage of time would soothe feelings. But the old Elector had a long memory. They were finally forced to leave Berlin before the last of their silver melted away."
Telemachus brooded for a long moment.
"I was born in Erfurt. Countess Anna Sofie Furstin von Anhalt-Zerbst und Dessau, the wife of Count Karl Gunther von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, heard of our troubles and extended an invitation to my father and grandfather to settle in their lands. We stayed there until the rebuilding of Magdeburg began.
"All the time I was growing up, I heard how the Elector's rejection crushed my grandfather's spirit, how we had come down so far in the world. And even as a lad it made me angry that our lives had been almost ruined because of one man's whim about which church he wished to believe in. I despise the Hohenzollerns, root and branch." The angry glint in Telemachus' eyes was almost enough to be a fire.
"So I work with the committees at every opportunity. Someday that will be my lifework, to help change the world so that such things don't happen again."
***
"… Los peces en el rio
Pero mira como beben
Por ver al dios nacido
Beben y beben
Y vuelven a beber
Los peces en el rio
Por ver al dios nacer."
Marla held the last note out, listening to hear if the girls wavered in tone, but they held true. Finally she had mercy on them and cut off the note. There was a melodramatic "Uhhhh" of inhaled air from the front row. "Knock it off, girls." She didn't even look up from her music as she spoke.
There were giggles scattered around the choir. Marla's mouth curved a little as she remembered her junior high days. It still amazed her sometimes that some of the things she'd done in choir hadn't gotten her in serious trouble. Like the time she and Becky.. . well, that didn't bear thinking about.
"Okay, ladies, that was good." Eyes brightened around the room and everyone stood up straighter. The girls had learned that whenever Marla called them "ladies", she was pleased. "The French song next." That drew groans. French wasn't as easy as Spanish or Italian or Latin, and the girls always hoped Marla would overlook that song during choir rehearsal. She never did. You'd think they would have learned.
Marla looked up and raised her hands. The girls snapped to, all eyes on her. Marla hummed a pitch; the girls hummed it back to her. She gave them three small beats, and they began.
"Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle,
Un flambeau, courons au berceau
C'est Jesus, bonnes gens du hameau,
Le Christ est ne, Marie appelle,
Ah! ah! que la mere est belle,
Ah! ah! ah! que l'Enfant est beau!…"
***
Franz set his baton down carefully before looking around at the orchestra. Silence grew as he stared at them, moving from section to section, saying nothing. Bit by bit the smiles of the musicians faded away. At length he spoke.
"Gentlemen, that was almost pathetic." There was iron in his voice. No one would now meet his gaze. "We played this section, this Pastoral Symphony from Messiah, in our concert only four months ago. And we played it well. That is why I left it until now to rehearse again, thinking that you would have retained that work. But now, now we sound like… like…" Words failed him, and he looked down.
The breathing of over forty men was muted. Someone coughed, sounding like an explosion in the silence.
Franz looked up again, to find every eye now on him. "You are better than this." His voice was quiet but was heard by every ear in the room. "You know that. I know that. Do not shame the name of Master Handel like this." He closed his score.
"I will not accept your complacency. Decide tonight what you will do." Franz gathered his jacket, score and baton, then walked the length of the room to the door.
***
Matthaus Amsel stood and watched as Franz left. The others gathered around him. They all looked at each other as the door closed-all but Matthaus, who continued to stare at the door.
"Will… will he tell Master Heinrich?" That was his youngest brother Johan, Matthaus knew. There was muttering among the others.
"No." The lead violinist did not turn around. "He will do no such thing. He would not think of it, unless we drive him to it." Now he turned, and everyone, even his brothers, stepped back. "And that we will not do. We will not fail Master Franz."
It was the first time that any of them had called the young conductor "Master." All of them noted it; none of them objected.
"I told you," Matthaus looked around the group, "I told you what he said of Master Abati's words at the choir rehearsal, about the call to greatness. That man…" Matthaus pointed to the closed door. ". .. that man has the vision to lead us, to mold us, to make us more than we ever dreamed of being… to lead us in making the greatest music that our world, our history, has ever known. And if we will not commit to greatness, he will leave us and find those who will."
There was no sound. Everyone but Matthaus was staring at the floor, clutching instruments and bows in white-knuckled hands.
"This will not happen again." The lead violinist's voice was weighted. The others felt the words as much as heard them. "We will not do this again. Before God, gentlemen, we will never again come to a rehearsal unprepared, or unready to offer less than our very best." There were mutters of agreement. His voice grew colder. "Mark me well, gentlemen. You will answer to me if you do. This will not happen again."
The agreements were louder this time. Matthaus looked around. Everyone caught his eye and nodded.
"Good. Now, there is daylight left. Learn your parts anew."
Simon Bracegirdle stepped to his side as the others took to their chairs and began practicing with fever, fervor and focus. The two of them turned away from the seats and took a few steps towards the door.
"I do not know about them," Simon nodded back toward the others, "but you have convinced me of your intent."
"Good." Matthaus snorted.
There was a moment of silence between them, then he saw the Englishman look to him with a sideways glance. "His gaze marked you as well, then?"
"Oh, aye." Sigh. "Not simply marked, but pierced to the innermost. I almost felt the very Judas in that moment, Simon, almost as if I had betrayed him by being less than the music required. I would rather he had screamed and thrown things." Matthaus' right hand fisted into the palm of his left, again, and once more. "I will not abide that look from him again. And if that means I must belabor you and our fellows, then so be it." He smiled slightly, but the look he turned on his friend had more than a touch of steel to it.
Simon tugged on his forelock in a display of false servility. "Yes, sir, absolutely, sir, without delay, sir."
That sparked a brief laugh in the lead violinist as they turned back to pick up their own instruments and add to the general cacophony within the room.
***
Mar
la listened as the girls sang the old carol. No way around it, "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" just sounded more impressive in Latin than in English-but then, it was originally a Gregorian chant, so it should. The girls were doing a good job, even the ones who a couple of months ago couldn't pitch match for anything.
Ingram had really come through for her when he'd found the two pieces of semi-circular 3 inch PVC pipe. Putting one end by the singer's ear and the other by her mouth really helped each girl to hear what she was singing and how it was different from the others. They would never be world-class singers, but at least they were able to blend in now. The girls thought it was due to some miracle of the plastic. Marla didn't disabuse them of the notion, but she knew that a length of hose or even a similar construct of wood would have done just as well.
The poor monotone, Frieda-such a pleasant child-alas, was still a monotone. Her speaking voice was a little unusual in sound, as well, so Marla wondered if she was a child who had often suffered from ear infections. She'd heard from Aunt Susan that the medical staff had already noted how prevalent some degree of hearing loss was among the down-timers because of the childhood illnesses that were suffered without antibiotics.
It was fortunate that Frieda's voice was soft and didn't carry beyond an arm's length. Stationed in the center of the choir, with strong voices surrounding her, she was not noticeable.
They finished the song and Marla cut them off with a circular motion of her hand. "Very good, ladies." She almost laughed as the girls preened a little. Such vain creatures they were, but so much fun.
"Gerde, pass out the new song." As the mimeographed sheets were being passed amidst murmurs and the rustle of pages, Marla continued. "This one's in Italian. Most of you have had enough Italian or Spanish to have a good guess at how the words should sound. We'll go through it once to get a feel for it, then we'll start working notes and words. Ready?"
The girls nodded, caught the pitch that Marla hummed to them and hummed it back. She gave them the preparatory beats, and they began.