Time Will Tell

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by Donald Greig


  That was the closest I ever saw Jehan come to losing his dignity and composure. He held his face in an attitude of restraint as he struggled to hide his feelings about the arrogant guest.

  The following day, as we walked together to his office at the Treasury to meet Desprez, Jehan told me quite how angry he had been. I knew already that he viewed the recent custom of payment for composing a dangerous new path. The result of this new respect for the maker of compositions was fame and fortune. They were sought out by rich patrons, pampered and courted in foreign countries with no friends or close colleagues to curb their excesses. Jehan believed in the old ways, in the informal confraternity of singers and composers, like the guilds of workmen. It was the duty, he said, of any maître to guide his pupils. Music was a shared experience that could not be achieved merely by instruction; it was a living art, and one in which a sense of the family of man and the spirit of community was essential. Any refusal to partake in that spirit of community was an affront to God and to man. More than that, such hospitality required that one repay the kindnesses shown by attending any event hosted in one’s honour, however lowly. Jehan told me stories of the generosity of Dufay and Binchois to those beneath their station and, although he was far too modest to offer his own behaviour as an example, I knew it to be equally true of him. Some of them, he said, left behind not just their friends and families when they travelled, but also their good manners; and Desprez had yet to find them again.

  Desprez was waiting for us. He offered no thanks for the previous evening or apology for his absence, instead saying that, before continuing his journey (he was going to St Omer where he was to have discussions at the church of Notre Dame) he wanted to meet the King, Charles VIII. It was with a small smile that Jehan informed him that the King was busy.

  This displeased Desprez and his sombre face became darker still, as if a thundercloud had appeared in an already overcast sky. For a moment it seemed that he wanted to say something, but he remained silent. Then he spoke the longest sentence I had heard him utter on that visit: would it please the new King to receive a chanson in honour of Margaret of Austria to whom he was betrothed? Jehan told me later that he wanted to respond with one word: no. Instead, he explained to Desprez that the music had already been decided. In his capacity as premier chapelain, Jehan had instructed someone else to write a chanson: Compère.

  It is difficult for me to describe the effect that this new information had on Desprez. Even the mention of the name Loyset Compère inspired in Desprez the blackest of moods and now I feared that he would strike Jehan, his countenance was so fierce. However, once more he maintained his composure and excused himself to pack his few belongings. Desprez was more splenetic than usual that day and, rather than leaving behind him inspiration and guidance for the younger singers, and the memory of a wild party, he merely confirmed his reputation as a difficult and self-centred man. Ingenium [talent] some say: rudeness, say I.

  Josquin returned to Milan and the employ of Duke Gian Galeazzo Sforza, and soon after that he joined the Papal Choir as a singer in the Pope’s private chapel: the Cappella Sistina [1489]. I hoped he would stay there.

  Music, such a central part of Jehan’s life, was now secondary to his responsibilities as Baron de Châteauneuf and Treasurer of St Martin, and, when time permitted, he felt that his worship of the Lord could better be expressed through his dedication to pastoral care and attendance at services. It was not that he stopped composing – sometimes I could see that faraway look in his eyes and knew he was writing in his mind – but he had no time for the careful labour of dictation and revision that I so much enjoyed.

  Thus I was surprised when, early in the new year with the frantic collection of Christmastide payments behind us, he approached me one day after Vespers and asked if I would be willing to help him with a new composition. It was, he explained, a piece on a scale that he had never written before: a motet, but for thirty-four different parts. This was the grandest of all of his plans and on a scale that I could not imagine; I couldn’t say no. Surely, I asked in my excitement, there were not thirty-four different notes that could be sung at the same time?

  ‘You are right, of course,’ he replied, ‘though a note that will ascend is different to a note that will descend.’ I had failed to appreciate this nuance, for a singer indicates with his voice not just the note that he has left, but where the next will be. Distracted as I was by the possible design of such a composition, I had forgotten to ask him for what occasion the piece was being written. He enlightened me anyway. The Cathedral of Saint Quentin where Compère had trained as a choirboy (and where he would spend his final years) had granted Compère a benefice. Keen to secure his services, the Chapter had acceded to his request for a convocation of singers. With due deference to the man who had supported him in the past, Compère wrote to Jehan and invited him to attend. The company would be good, the music excellent, and there would be a great party to rival those of the past. And, if Jehan so desired, he could write something.

  Compère’s letter was dated Genvier 1, 1490, the significance of which did not escape Jehan. In the tradition of éstrennes [New Year’s gifts], the invitation was Compère’s present to Jehan, and a unique one at that: no one else would write a new piece for the occasion. Compère had included a guest list, and Jehan, astute as ever, noted that the names were ordered according to their voice type. It was not just a list of those whom Jehan had helped over the years: it was an appeal to write specifically for their voices. At the top were those who sang en fausset: De La Rue, Japart, Mouton, and others. Then the middle voices: Desprez, Faugues, Molinet, Van Ghizeghem, and Caron. Finally, the basses: Jehan, Morton, myself and others. There were over thirty singers, enough to make a huge sound, but Jehan’s mind was not thinking in terms of volume alone; his plan was more intricate. He wanted each voice – each person – to have their own identity. This would be an historic gathering of the finest composers in the land, a great testament to France. And Jehan was aware, even though he never talked about it, that this might be the last time he would see many of these colleagues. It would be a gathering essentially in his honour and he was determined to attend. And thus he began to compose again.

  As ever, the text came first. He had chosen Psalm 50 [51]: Miserere mei, Deus, secundum misericordiam tuam, iuxta multitudinem miserationum tuarum dele iniquitates meas. [Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy great mercy. And according to the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my iniquity.]

  At the time I believed it was the prayer of an old man looking back on his life, a personal reparation, fittingly for a singer, taken from the Psalms of David. Yet a text for Ash Wednesday seemed a strange choice for an event which was to be, essentially, a celebration. Its expression of the desire to settle the scores of the past, to tally the good deeds with the bad acts and to obtain forgiveness was hardly appropriate for the bacchanalian excesses that would surely follow.

  I decided to ask Jehan why he had chosen that passage. He smiled. It was, he said, a text that had struck him for a number of reasons. Firstly, of course, it was likely to be his last composition and so it was appropriate that he should ask God, in his great mercy, for release from the burden of his sins. And, as a psalm, it was also a hymn of praise to God, the Creator of all things.

  His true concern though, was with the role that music played in worship and the way in which (as he explained it) the new generation of composers had forgotten their education and the true function of music. Quoting a passage from Aristotle’s Eighth Book of Politics, he argued that music has the power to make you happy, but that you should not have too much of it. Music today, he believed, rather than serving a divine purpose, had become instead the mistress of those who shared the base desire for human recognition and the accumulation of wealth.

  This sin of cupidity was no better exemplified than in Desprez, and the motet would be Jehan’s warning to him: Desprez and those like him should be encouraged to pass on their knowledge to others,
just as Jehan had learned from his masters. Jehan believed the younger composers had been isolated from the country in which their talents had been first developed for too long. Now they were older, it was time to set aside their concerns for personal wealth and advancement and return to their homeland to repay their debt by instructing the new sons of France. Jehan’s motet would be a motet for singers, sung by singers, and, through the act of singing, they would come to understand their responsibilities.

  It was not until after Easter that we began working on the motet and, when it was completed, the picture I had in my mind of singing Jehan’s piece was no longer clear and the likelihood that it might ever be performed no longer so certain. Desprez had intervened.

  CHAPTER 16

  A combination of inefficiency and economy had landed Andrew Eiger in the Hôtel Des Lices. He’d only got round to booking his room the previous week and that at Karen’s prompting, and hadn’t expected much from the meagre description. As he knew from his stay in Amiens, two stars in a French hotel promised little other than a bed and possibly a wardrobe. Nevertheless, he’d hoped that his window might afford a view of something more interesting than a concrete wall and an overflow pipe that dripped water onto a grate some twenty feet below.

  An indentation in the pink bedspread the size of a large animal betokened a saggy mattress, and the tubular pillow which, had he not been so tired might have appealed to his francophilia, held out the prospect of a stiff neck the following morning. The wallpaper was floral and peeling, a consequence of damp, and even without testing it, he knew the phone system would require him to ring out via an unattended reception.

  He opened his briefcase and took out his laptop and charger. He spun the combination lock partly from habit and partly to prevent him retrieving the blue folder and laying out his new transcription as he’d been waiting to do since the long flight from New York. There were more pressing needs, a shower and shave amongst them. He opened his small case and took out his toilet bag, then quickly stripped off his clothes. As he pulled his arm through the sleeve of his shirt he caught his bandaged hand on the cuff and flinched. The pain was duller now, a gentle humming throb rather than a sharp stab. He popped another antibiotic and a painkiller from their respective blister packs and, cupping his left hand beneath the bathroom tap, washed them down with warm water. When he’d delivered his paper (received, he felt, with rather too polite applause), he’d felt all right, even awake, but during the final, tortured, self-congratulatory lecture given by the third speaker, he’d begun to wonder if it was the various pharmaceuticals that were making him feel nauseous. It occurred to him that he might have eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him, but then he hadn’t eaten anything in the previous four hours – which, on reflection, was probably not the wisest course of action. The pharmacist had told him to take the pills with food, but there were just too many things to do: not just the shower and shave, but also the promised call to Karen. That might have to wait. He would ring her after the concert and the meal that followed it. He’d feel better then.

  He assembled the travel adaptor and inserted the plug of his laptop charger into it – no easy task with his bandaged right hand – and then looked around for a socket. There was none, or at least none visible. High up in the corner of the room was a small television set, but its power cable threaded through the window and trailed out of sight. The bedside light was nailed to the wall and controlled by a thin cord that swung from the ceiling. Finding no obvious power outlets, Andrew wandered into the bathroom. There, above the sink, was a rectangular light fitting with an inbuilt shaver socket. He tugged at the light switch and it came off in his hand. Still, the light was now on, which meant there was a source of electricity. Encouraged, he placed his laptop outside the bathroom door and trailed the power cord over the sink and up to the shaver point. With his good hand, he pressed the plug into the housing. The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the toilet in darkness. There was a smell of burning: smoked fish mingled with the sharp odour of charred human flesh. Why was he sitting on the toilet? His left hand hurt and he realised his fingers were still gripping the plug, but much more tightly than before. He willed them to open and release their hold, but they wouldn’t obey. He realised, finally, that he’d had an electric shock and been flung across the room; the darkness was the result of the lights fusing. Out in the corridor he could hear the voices of guests, a rapid confusion of French that he couldn’t make out, and then a voice sounding like that of the unfriendly burly proprietor who’d checked him in. His voice was deeper than the others and also more annoyed; the guests’ voices sounded meek in comparison. There was a knock on the door: a loud accusing rap. Andrew slunk further back on the toilet. He wasn’t going to answer, naked as he was, and be humiliated. Besides, it was the hotel’s fault, not his. The knocking began again, more insistent, then stopped, and Andrew clearly heard the word ‘Merde’ before the proprietor clumped away down the corridor. Various noises followed: halting questions from the guests, grudging reassurance from the man, then the sound of a chair being dragged along the corridor before a series of unidentified clicks and thumps ensued.

  The light in the bedroom came on and Andrew blinked. From the socket in which he’d tried to insert his adaptor wafted a thin wisp of smoke and the light fitting itself looked dead. He studied his left hand, still grasping the charger. Finally his fingers obeyed his brain’s instruction and he was able to release his grip. As he uncurled his fingers, he noticed that the tips were black. He licked them and tasted something bitter, like cloves. All was quiet in the corridor now and he padded carefully into the bedroom and placed his laptop on his briefcase.

  Back in the bathroom, he was about to switch on the shower before he remembered the pharmacist’s advice to keep his bandaged hand dry. He looked around for something with which to protect it. A shower-cap would have done the trick, but there was no shampoo in the bathroom, let alone anything as exotic as free polythene head protection. The small waste bin hadn’t been emptied; he foraged inside and discovered a small plastic bag emblazoned with the words ‘Supermarché Foch’, which he wrapped around his hand.

  The smell of burning had been replaced by a smell of mould, the source of which was visible on the ceiling of the plastic cubicle into which he now crammed his body. The water dribbled from the shower rose, initially subjecting his exhausted body to a freezing baptism then, without warning, becoming a scalding deluge. The drain swallowed, burped, and then regurgitated a foul-smelling cocktail of soap, scum, human hair and a suspiciously dark liquid over his bare feet. Within the cramped shower stall there was no escape from the irruptions of an antiquated water system, and little room to soap himself. With his wounded hand wrapped in the plastic bag and his eyes stinging with soap, he switched off the water and lathered himself from head to toe before once again surrendering to a schizophrenic ablution. It woke him up, or at least kept him awake, and he dried himself as best he could with a thin brittle sheet before filling the cracked basin with brackish water and shaving.

  Feeling clean and relatively fresh again, he turned his attention to the motet. He had little time to himself to correct his unfinished first draft, but his main priority was to destroy his earlier version for which the hotel, ascetic in every other respect, had provided two packets of matches in two ashtrays. Still dripping with water, he placed the paper in the sink and tried to set light to it. The damp air of the bathroom prevented the paper from catching, so he cracked open the window to let the steam escape. Turning back he saw that the fresh air had fed the flames, and black burning paper whirled above his head. He tried to close the window to stop the source of this new encouragement, but it had jammed and, with only one good hand, he could not apply enough pressure to close it.

  By the time the fire had burned out, he was covered in small, charred remnants of manuscript paper, and, to wash off the debris, he once again stepped inside the shower stall. The small towel was already completely saturated and he tried
to flick off what water he could with his polythene-covered hand then stood naked in the freezing bedroom to dry.

  Laid out on the bed, the sheer physical size of the new transcription conveyed something of the grandeur of the piece. It was now on a scale more appropriate to a nineteenth-century symphonic score than to the intimacy of fifteenth-century polyphony. The thirty-four parts were ranged from top to bottom on three sheets of paper and ten of these vertical ranks were laid side by side describing the first fifty bars of the motet. The first page was to his left, beneath the bolster pillow, and the others were logically arranged so that, with a sweep of his head, he could read from beginning to end. Beneath him lay a gigantic musical map upon which his eye could wander, and within which he could appreciate the design and structure as a hill-walker might some natural vista.

  He was awed by its imaginative scope and he marvelled at the boldness of applying the small-scale techniques of fifteenth-century counterpoint to such a large canvas. He felt almost unworthy of bringing this musical treasure to the attention of the world, but quickly reasoned away his hesitation: somebody had to do it, and it might as well be him. The recent discovery of its numerological symbolism lent the motet a new mystical significance. This was a physical embodiment of the composer himself: Johannes Ockeghem: eighty-one and sixty-four – the products of nine-times-nine and eight-times-eight. With all the parts now transcribed, Andrew could contemplate the intricacies of the counterpoint; the percussive patter of the smaller notes in the discantus part against the sustained sonorities of the lower two voices; the sway of tension and release; and the characteristic, meandering contemplativeness so typical of Ockeghem’s style.

 

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