Time Will Tell

by Donald Greig

  Jehan told me that throughout the rehearsals and the party he was aware of a young man whose piercing eyes did not leave Jehan himself, Dufay or Busnois. Those three maîtres were, of course, the very men who could ensure the progress of a young composer. And Desprez was a man for whom advancement meant everything. The proper course of action would have been to wait for an introduction, though it seemed to Jehan, from the way that the other singers ignored him, that Desprez was not a popular man and thus could not rely on such a courtesy. The obvious person to make such an introduction was Compère, and, of course, therein lay the problem: Desprez could not allow the man that he saw as his rival to become a person to whom he was beholden. At the time Jehan had no knowledge of that context, and what he observed, aside from Desprez’s dark glare, was that this was a man who did not enjoy life; in Jehan’s eyes, that was a snub to the Creator. Whereas the others were quaffing wine and wrapping their arms around each other, playing instruments badly or singing raucously, Desprez sat in a corner on his own, wrapped in his cloak.

  Eventually he walked over to Jehan and introduced himself. Whatever the propriety of the situation, Jehan was not a haughty man and, by way of putting the young man at his ease, he asked him what he thought of the motet that they had just sung. The angry criticism that followed surprised Jehan: Desprez pronounced it old-fashioned, immature, backward-looking, unadventurous and fatuous. He said that he had written a far better motet, one which, like Compère’s, referenced singers praising the Virgin, and that he would be prepared to dedicate it to Jehan. That put Jehan in a difficult position; to accept the dedication would be to endorse Desprez’s composition and confer upon it a recognition that only years of service would normally merit. Yet, given the young man’s clear self-confidence, Jehan knew that declining the dedication would condemn him to a long and probably tiresome argument. Jehan said that he would be happy to see the motet and then quietly left the party.

  The next morning Jehan left Cambrai for Tours and he never saw Desprez’s Illibata Dei virgo nutrix, the text of which announced the ambitions of its young composer in an acrostic of his name. Ockeghem’s doubts about Desprez concerned his behaviour as a man and, though he had yet to produce the fine music that he did in later years, perhaps if he had seen that example of his work he might have been prepared to recommend him to other patrons. What was clear to Jehan was that Desprez was a young man with much to learn.

  Shortly after that, Jehan was approached, as he often was, by a rich patron for advice on the appointment of a new singer. The request came from the Duke of Milan, Galeazzo Maria Sforza and Jehan had no hesitation in advancing Compère’s cause; he immediately sent the Duke a copy of Omnium bonorum plena together with a warm recommendation [1472]. By then Jehan and Compère had become good friends. They shared many common interests, amongst them a fascination with puzzles and mazes that were often displayed in their music. Where Jehan would challenge himself to create music that could be sung in any of the four modes or to address mensural issues, Compère would set himself different musical puzzles and then solve them. Compère’s letters, Jehan told me, were fascinating and demanding, perfumed with puns and anagrams, acrostics and macaronic texts, the meaning of which would leave even Jehan baffled.

  In truth, I could not quite discern the qualities in Compère’s music of which Jehan spoke though, as a mere cantor, I deferred to the judgement of a musicus. The confusion manifest in Compère’s wordplay and the way that some of his compositions, beautiful as they were, eluded my understanding were also evident in my relationship with him. He was a good man, that was clear to all, possessed of no guile or bad faith, yet he lacked the graces which marked out a man like Jehan. There would never be a career for Compère as a representative of France, nor as a Treasurer. He was short in stature, wore a rough beard at most times, and his clothing always looked as if it belonged to somebody else, his cloak often hanging to one side. His hands were always busy with an intention difficult to divine – now touching his ear, now his eye, now his stomach. And his eyes likewise seemed to have their own life, never meeting anyone’s gaze, instead roving across the ground from his feet then suddenly lifting into the sky as if he had heard something there. In conversation he would say something and become distracted by it, his speech suddenly halting and a look of fascination passing over his features. The undeniable correctness of his compositions bore no relation to the shifting deportment of the composer himself.

  Although Compère lacked fluency in discourse with other people, Jehan was confident that the younger man would stay at the court in Milan for a long time and that he would take his service to the Duke – and to Jehan as well – seriously and diligently. He also had no doubt that Compère would benefit from the experience and expand his understanding of music through familiarity with the Italian style, and that he would honour his patron by providing him with compositions. And indeed, in his time of service at the court in Milan until the time that the Duke was murdered [1476], Compère wrote several mass settings, many motets and some wonderful chansons.

  Though Jehan didn’t know it at the time, Desprez’s envy of Compère was profound and unreasoning, and Jehan’s advancement of Compère to the Milanese court only added to that bitterness. Just as when they were at choir school together, Compère was one step ahead of him and Desprez felt that he had been unfairly overlooked. Yet the truth was that Desprez was not ready for the positions that he coveted; only in later life did his true talent [ingenium] emerge and, by then, his nature was cast as iron in the fire.

  While Compère travelled to Milan, Desprez went instead to Aix to endure the heat of the south in the service of René d’Anjou [1474], and he should have had no complaint. He was not ready for Italy and Jehan believed that the politics alone would have seriously damaged the young man’s future career. In time, Desprez would go to Milan to work for both Cardinal d’Ascanio Sforza, the brother of Galeazzo Maria Sforza, and then for Galeazzo Maria Sforza’s son, the young Duke Gian Galeazzo Maria Sforza. It should have been enough for him, but somehow it was not. Somehow, nothing was ever enough – the masterpieces he wrote, the choirs that sang them, the money that he inherited, the money that he earned, the benefices that he accrued or the fame that he gained.

  The problem, once again, was that when Desprez came to Milan, an oltremontani [one from across the mountains], his reputation did not precede him. Rather, he was greeted with stories of Loyset Compère, the man who had been there before him. How many times would he have to agree with the opinions of the Italian noblemen that Compère was a great composer, and how often would he have to sing pieces by his older peer in the chapel or at feasts? Desprez saw Compère as the man who plagued his life, from the first notes he sang as a choirboy to his final days in the church of Notre Dame in Condé-sur-l’Éscaut, a position he gained by virtue of Compère’s ministrations.

  I now know something of how Desprez felt. Many things change with death, amongst them reputation. Jehan belongs to an older generation, and Desprez has become the prime representative of the new. Since the death of Josquin Desprez, it is Josquin – and seemingly only Josquin – about whom people wish to talk.

  Fifty years ago, any dignitary visiting Tours was greeted by a Noel that Jehan himself had composed. They all wanted to meet Magister Johannes Ockeghem and their attendance at service had less to do with saving their souls than hearing the voice of the most famous contrabassus in France. No one then could have believed that those who had learned at his feet would ever eclipse their bon père. Perhaps Jehan should have worked on his reputation as hard as he worked for Tours and the King.

  I am still a respected figure in the town and, as such, invited to attend feasts

  and to grace civic functions; and I am, after all, the man who knew Johannes Ockeghem. Ockeghem, though, has now become merely the man who knew the great Josquin Desprez.

  But we must trust in the Lord ultimately, not in the fleeting truths of fame and ambition. As the psalmist says:


  Noli contendere cum malignis neque aemuleris facientes iniquitatem, quoniam sicut herba velociter conterentur et sicut holus viride arescent.

  [Be not emulous of evildoers; nor envy them that work iniquity. For they shall shortly wither away as grass, and as the green herbs shall quickly fall.]

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Marco for the third time.

  Most of them had been sitting on the small coach for fifteen minutes and Marco was annoyed by what he regarded as an unnecessary interruption to the group’s steady progress towards their final destination. Generally, the bus was a quiet space and singers travelling with the group for the first time were struck by the lack of ritual and rehearsed banter, the only clue to the homogeneity of purpose being the repeated seating assignment. In the single seats on the right-hand side of the bus sat Susan, Claire, and Peter. Marco had abandoned the seat now occupied by Peter on discovering that the wheel arch resulted in little room for his legs. He was now in one of the double seats and, immediately in front of him, the front seat had been reserved for Craig. Prone to travel sickness, this position provided him with a reassuring, unimpeded view of the horizon and the road ahead, with easy access to the driver should an emergency stop be necessary. Now Craig was standing outside the bus getting some fresh air and trying to find a report at the end of the first day’s play of the Test Match in New Zealand, his shortwave radio pressed hard against his ear.

  Allie and Charlie were in the back row, the traditional area for Bad Boys. With four seats to themselves, their comparative freedom of movement was offset by the discomfort of travelling at the rear where the bumps of the road and the pitching of the vehicle were exaggerated. It was from here that The Social Secretaries, as Charlie and Allie had been named by Ollie with a touch of bitterness that acknowledged his disappointment at not being one himself, would dispense provisions after an evening concert. Otherwise Allie remained silently committed to his book and Charlie, who seemed to be able to sleep anywhere, was shrouded by his coat that he’d draped over his head.

  ‘Where’s Em?’ asked Marco redundantly. He and the others could see her standing just inside one of the exits to the circular Charles de Gaulle Terminal awaiting Andrew Eiger, who had been held up at immigration and had yet to retrieve his luggage. ‘Who is this guy, anyway?’ he added.

  ‘Musicologist. American. Looks like Radar O’Reilly. Coming to the gig tonight and has some kind of project he wants to talk to Em about.’ Ollie retreated back into his comic book.

  Marco was still fractious from his hangover, the forty winks he had enjoyed on both flights succeeding only in making him short-tempered and impatient. To distract himself he pulled a red Michelin guide from his bag and flicked to the pages on Tours to revise the sites that he would visit later that day, but the thought of their destination reminded him once again of the irritating delay, and he went to talk to Emma.

  ‘Is this guy coming, or what?’ he asked her, more aggressively than he’d intended.

  Emma could imagine the scene on the bus: people anxious to leave, keen to get to the hotel and familiarise themselves with the City.

  ‘Are people getting twitchy?’ she asked.

  Marco had the good grace to look sheepish. ‘Only me, really,’ he admitted. ‘But the bus driver doesn’t look too happy,’ he added hopefully. Emma waved to a man emerging from the customs hall with an old suitcase and a battered black briefcase. Andrew Eiger approached, nodded to her and, without acknowledging Marco’s presence, muttered an apology and began to complain about the rigours of immigration.

  ‘They’re here,’ said Marco flatly as he boarded the bus. Emma took her seat next to Ollie as Andrew levered himself into the only remaining place: the single seat over the wheel arch. Peter immediately felt the pressure of Andrew’s knees in his back and turned around slightly to hint at the discomfort his new companion was causing, but Andrew was oblivious. To make matters worse, the musicologist was now banging on Peter’s seat with the lid of his briefcase. Emma, witnessing the incident, worried that offering him a lift might have been the wrong decision. He hadn’t so much as acknowledged the rest of the group when he’d boarded the bus or apologised for the delay, with the result that there had hardly been a rousing welcome for their new travelling companion.

  Craig finally climbed into his seat.

  ‘Score?’ demanded a voice from behind Andrew.

  ‘Sixty-eight for six,’ replied Craig.

  Goodness, thought Andrew; 6,846. That must have been some match.

  ‘Who got them?’ inquired the voice.

  ‘Three for Caddie, three for Goughie,’ answered Craig.

  ‘Who got the other 6,840?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘Sorry?’ Craig looked puzzled.

  ‘The other 6,840. Goals. You are talking about soccer, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Craig in a manner that made Andrew think he had offended him. Maybe the score they were discussing was of an American Football game, the information designed to make him feel welcome? But Andrew knew too little about the subject to know who might be playing and didn’t want to reveal his ignorance.

  ‘Oh. Touchdowns, then. Who scored the other touchdowns?’

  ‘They’re talking about cricket, Andrew,’ said Emma.

  ‘Cricket?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know anything about the sport?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. Cricket! He thought that was a summer game played on grass, not something staged in the middle of winter. They must be hardy types, he thought. Embarrassed, he buried his head in his briefcase. He was still berating himself for having forgotten the significance of the day and now, on the road to Tours, he intended to honour the composer in a private act of homage by reading Guillaume Crétin’s Déploration, a poem written on the death of Ockeghem. His copy fell open at a well-thumbed section: a rondeau in the middle of the poem ostensibly written by Chiron, a centaur from Greek mythology. It was an important section, to Andrew at least, because it added another layer of reference that tied the letter to the manuscript and offered a possible connection between the motet and Ockeghem himself. At first sight the passage was merely a standard medieval convention whereby a mythical figure, in this case Chiron, the centaur from Greek mythology knowledgeable in medicine, offered a homage. But Andrew now knew there was another Chiron, Geoffroy Chiron, friend to Ockeghem, which suggested that he might have stumbled across a more personal allusion. Three months ago Andrew had contacted a young French research student who was researching Ockeghem’s life as the Treasurer of the Abbey of St Martin, and had received an early draft of an article in which the name had popped up. Geoffroy Chiron figured extensively, firstly as a singer in the choir of St Martin where he would undoubtedly have worked with the great man, next as Ockeghem’s procurator, a sort of bailiff, and finally as chambrier, holder of the keys to the treasury. The composer had held the last position until old age had meant he could no longer fulfil his duties. Thus Chiron, in Crétin’s poem, was a knowing nod to Ockeghem’s colleague and good friend. It was the real person who, in the poem, regretted that Ockeghem had not lived to the age of one hundred, and he who mourned the loss of a ‘bon chantre tant saige’ – a wise and good singer.

  Surprisingly, the student had overlooked the reference and Andrew could easily have pointed it out to him. He would have been credited in a footnote (‘I am indebted to Andrew Eiger for drawing my attention to this’) but he wanted to keep it to himself. It would be another in a series of small discoveries for his book, another significant piece of the jigsaw puzzle: not absolute proof, but telling nonetheless. There was more in the poem as well, a reference to a thirty-six part motet. Could this be the thirty-four part motet that Andrew had discovered? Might the references to Chiron and this mythical motet be two pieces of circumstantial evidence that would convince his colleagues that Ockeghem was the composer of the Miserere mei?

  Emma called everyone to attention. Books were laid in laps, heads turned, and Charlie stirred be
neath his coat and shifted onto his other side.

  ‘Just to let you know what’s happening for the rest of the day. Tours is about a hundred and fifty miles from here, so we’re looking at nearly three hours on the bus. Hopefully we won’t have to stop for a pee-break because…’ She looked at her watch – ‘it’s now midday, local time, and – sorry to be selfish – my paper is at four. The rehearsal’ll be at five and you may have to begin it on your own. I’ll get there as quick as I can. The gig’s at eight-thirty, so there’ll be time to get a cuppa after the rehearsal. Sorry it’s so rushed, but you know how it is. The hotel’s in the centre, not far from the Cathedral – Hotel de l’Univers – and we’re booked into a restaurant after the gig: Les Tuffeaux. Apparently it’s one of the best. And I meant what I said last night: the champagne’s on me.’ Murmurs of gratitude crescendoed to a stifled cheer, and a hand emerged from beneath Charlie’s coat and waved.

  ‘Oh, and this is Andrew Eiger, by the way,’ continued Emma. ‘He’s a musicologist from Ohio, a specialist on Ockeghem, so ask him any questions you like about the composer. He’s going to the conference too. I thought he might appreciate the lift – door to door and all that – and he’s got a project that he wants to discuss with us later. After the concert.’

  Hellos and nods of greeting were addressed to Andrew, who responded with a shy wave. Now he was actually in their presence rather than seeing them across the departure lounge or in a photo, they seemed much more impressive: confident, assured, adult. And they all looked relaxed. He, however, was having trouble with his limbs. The rounded wheel arch was forcing his legs into his chest and his briefcase banged into his face each time the van rolled over one of the traffic-control strips that studded the airport’s perimeter.

  Emma leaned towards him solicitously. He shifted in his seat and the briefcase fell on the floor. As he stooped to reach it, he banged heads with Emma, who was trying to pick it up. He thought she was trying to tell him something in private, this being the only place in the cramped confines of the bus suitable for such an exchange. But Emma thought that maybe Andrew had got stuck and couldn’t move. They stayed like that for a moment in an attitude of mutual supplication.