1636- the Flight of the Nightingale

by David Carrico

  Johann nodded in acknowledgment of the point, visually echoed by others in the crowd.

  The Kapellmeister lifted another finger. “To the third point: Is the making of music unique to man?”

  Johann raised his eyebrows. He could think of birds making musical songs, but he was not going to interrupt the older master.

  “Birds…whales…maybe wolves…” Marla said thoughtfully.

  “Angels,” Franz Sylwester spoke from behind his wife.

  Schütz smiled again. “The natural and the supernatural together, eh? But let us first consider the natural.” He pointed a finger at Marla. “We have all of us heard birds making sounds that we call singing, particularly in the spring. But is that singing truly music, or only musical sounds? Is ‘birdsong’ truly music as you think of it, or is it just pleasantly tonal noise?”

  Johann watched Marla’s eyebrows draw down again as she spent moments in obvious thought. At length her chin lifted and her brow smoothed. “I guess I have to say that when you look at it like that, it’s not music.”

  “And can you say differently about your whales and wolves?”

  “Err…no,” Marla admitted with obvious reluctance.

  “I would agree with that statement,” the Kapellmeister nodded. “I have heard the CD of the ‘whale songs’ in Grantville, and I found it interesting but unmusical.”

  “He should listen to John Cage,” someone muttered behind Johann. He turned his head to see a bland smile on the face of Isaac Fremdling.

  “I heard that, young Isaac,” Schütz intoned. Johann looked back to see what could only be called a wicked grin on the master’s face, mirrored by the expressions on the faces of Maestros Carissimi and Abati. “And I have heard some of what that man created. I found him both uninteresting and unmusical; außer, to say the least.”

  The Kapellmeister returned to his original subject. “Still on the third point, having disposed of the natural, let us turn to the supernatural. We are all of us, up-timers and down-timers alike, conditioned to think of choirs of angels in heaven. But have any of you ever looked at the original languages behind either our good Luther’s translation of the Holy Writ or the more recent translation authorized by King James of England?”

  Johann saw heads shake all around him.

  “I am neither a Hebrew scholar nor one of Greek, but I know men who are. And when one fine day I asked them to help me scratch a curious itch about this matter, imagine my astonishment when I discovered that there are passages in scripture that speak of angels praising God, but none that unequivocally speak of angels singing.”

  An astonished murmur ran through the crowd, and Schütz’s wicked grin reappeared. “Doubt me? Then find your own scholars and prove me wrong.”

  “I believe there is a verse in Job that might gainsay you, Master Schütz.” The speaker was a portly man dressed in sober clothing.

  “Ah, good evening to you, Pastor Cuno. Master Bach, have you met the pastor of St. Peter’s Church? Pastor Tobias Cuno, this is Master Johann Bach, a musician with much promise. Master Bach, Pastor Tobias Cuno.” Johann stood to give a slight bow and shake the hand that was offered him. They exchanged murmured pleasantries. He resumed his seat as the pastor turned back to Schütz.

  “Well, Master Schütz? What have you to say about my thesis?”

  The older man sobered. “Is that the one that says something like, ‘When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy’?”

  “Indeed.” There was a note of surprise in the pastor’s voice, and Johann could see his eyebrows had raised.

  “I did say that I had consulted scholars,” Schütz said with a smile. “As to the verse, I would say that although ‘the morning stars’ might be interpreted as meaning angels, it also very well may not. After all, the very God that could raise stones to be sons of Abraham and to praise Our Lord would doubtless have no trouble in arranging for stars and planets to sing.” The smile disappeared again, and then he was serious. “But if not outright undeniable truth, it is at least a matter of interpretation, and one can make a case that music is unique to mankind, something given to the descendants of Adam that not even Lucifer or Michael or Gabriel can possess.”

  Franz stirred. “The last trump—”

  “Is a battle call,” Schütz interjected, “not a fanfare. Read the context.”

  Amber Higham stirred from behind her husband-to-be, lifting a glass of wine from the tray of one of the attendants and handing it to Heinrich. He cradled it in his hands and took a sip. “Ah, thank you, my dear.” He reached up and patted her hand where it rested on his shoulder, and the glance he gave her left no one in doubt as to the affection of their relationship. “Now then, where were we?”

  “You had just finished point the third,” Johann said, leaning forward in the chair.

  “Ah, yes. Thank you, Master Johann. Point the fourth,” and another finger was lifted in the air. “This one circles back to the words of Master Johann. Music is a creation, the product of craft and, sometimes, art. Young Isaac,” Schütz said as he directed his gaze past Johann. “Let us bring you into the discussion, since you have found your voice. Is the natural world the creation of God?”

  “I believe it to be so,” Isaac returned in a strong voice.

  “Is the natural world itself God?”

  Johann shook his head as Isaac responded, “No. Although there are pagans who might say so, it strains the bounds of credulity to think so.”

  Marla half-lifted a hand. “There were these ecology extremists in the up-time…”

  Schütz shrugged. “There will be apostates in the future, why not pagans as well?” He looked back to Isaac. “May we then abstract a principle from this that the Creator is not the creation?”

  “Aye,” Isaac voiced as murmurs of assent were heard around them.

  Schütz sat back in his chair. “Let us pause there for a moment. Frau Marla, have you anything else for us tonight? Something else for piano, or perhaps a song?”

  Marla said nothing, but looked down at where her hands rested on the keys of the piano. After a moment, they began to move as if by their own volition. Again, quiet chords, nothing the up-timers would have called flashy. Just as Johann began to wonder what Marla was doing, she smiled and said, “In honor of both the season and the discussion,” then opened her mouth and sang.

  The angel Gabriel from Heaven came,

  His wings as drifted snow, his eyes as flame;

  “All hail,” said he, “thou lowly maiden Mary,”

  Most highly favored lady,

  Gloria.

  Johann was struck by the simple beauty of the melody. Anyone with a voice could have sung it. Any child, any mother, any deacon of the church.

  “For known a blessed Mother thou shalt be,

  All generations laud and honor thee,

  Thy son shall be Emmanuel, by seers foretold,”

  Most highly favored lady,

  Gloria.

  Listening, Johann began to truly understand why Marla’s name was on the lips of everyone in Magdeburg who knew anything about music. Yes, anyone could sing the song; but how many could sing it with such purity? A tone that never wavered, every note absolutely on pitch, there were those who could do that—not least of whom was Signor Abati who was smiling and nodding his head. But the pure lack of ornamentation, the so simple rise and fall, ebb and flow, swell and fade of her voice, so simple and yet so hard. How many could make the song sing as she did?

  Then gentle Mary meekly bowed her head,

  “To me be as it pleaseth God,” she said,

  “My soul shall laud and magnify His holy name,”

  Most highly favored lady,

  Gloria.

  Marla’s voice and the piano faded away to an instant of pure stillness. Then the applause broke out from those standing in the circle. Johann gulped the last of his wine so he could set the glass down and join in.

  The three older masters were smiling; Abati’s
face contained an expression that could only be called beatific.

  “Oh, very nicely done, Frau Marla,” Schütz said after the applause died down, “very nicely done, indeed.” A brief smile crossed her face as she nodded in response. “Now, where were we?”

  “The Creator is not the creation,” Isaac responded.

  “Yes. Thank you, Isaac.” He shifted in his chair. “So, the Creator is not the creation. And inasmuch as man is created in the image of God, then the same principle must be held true for man and his works as well, must it not?”

  Johann nodded with the others. Truly, the Kapellmeister was speaking well tonight. He hoped someone was making notes, as this discourse was enlightening and deserved to be made public in some manner.

  Schütz took a sip of his own wine, then continued in a sober voice. “I have thought much on these things. My time in Grantville was…difficult…in some ways…”

  Johann had heard that the master had suffered some form of crisis, but from the expression that he saw on Schütz’s face it must have been severe.

  “…and it caused me to truly consider music,” Schütz continued, “what it is, and what purpose it serves. And to confirm this thought: What was the purpose of man in God’s creation?”

  Johann looked around. No one was willing to answer. He mustered his courage, and said, “To have dominion.”

  Schütz flashed a smile toward him. “I perhaps misspoke, in that there are more purposes than one in God’s design for man. Yet Master Bach has named the purpose I sought. Directly after God said ‘Let us make man in our image…’ He declared that man would be given dominion over all the earth. All the earth; others would say all of creation. Surely that includes music. And as proof, I offer this from the Holy Word: ‘The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; He will save, He will rejoice over thee with joy; He will rest in his love, He will joy over thee with singing.’”

  “Zephaniah, the third chapter,” Pastor Cuno said thoughtfully. Schütz nodded. Johann pursed his lips and tugged on his beard. He would have to think about that one.

  “So if the Lord sings, and we are created in his image, then one can infer that our music is an integral part of being made in the image of God. And here, Frau Marla, is where we perhaps begin to address your thesis—and the dangers contained therein.” Schütz was now sitting up straight, staring at the young woman. “If the purpose of man is to have dominion, and the purpose of music is to praise God the Creator, then we must be very careful.”

  Marla was frowning now, Johann noted.

  “In and of itself,” Schütz continued, “music is morally neutral. An A-flat is an A-flat, regardless of what produces it or what the type of music in which it is used. It is the words we attach to the music, it is the staging we accompany with it, it is the behavior of those associated with it, that provide a moral valuation. But setting that aside, considering music simply as music as you wish to do in your ideas, we still must be very careful.”

  He paused for a moment, then lifted one hand palm up. “Music is under dominion, under the control and shaping of man, of the musicians, yes?”

  Marla slowly nodded, echoed by others in the group, including Johann.

  “But music must never be allowed to have dominion.”

  The crowd became absolutely still. Marla, still frowning, at length said, “I don’t understand, Master Heinrich.”

  Schütz sighed. “In this time, my dear, and perhaps in your up-time as well, music is all too often considered to be a tool. We who write for the church consider it an aid to worship, something to shape people, to mold them into the appropriate state of mind and emotion.”

  Johann nodded to himself. He had heard statements very like that from his old master Johann Hoffman, the Stadtpfeifer in Suhl.

  “But there is a danger with that thinking, a danger most insidious. Music can progress from being under dominion to having dominion. When we credit to music capabilities that it, as a created thing, does not inherently possess, then we have crossed a line into idolatry.”

  Johann saw an expression of shock on Marla’s face, and knew that its twin was on his own.

  “I have spoken with Master Marcus Wendell and Master Atwood Cochran in Grantville at much length, and they have shared knowledge and wisdom with me, showing me how in their history-that-was musicians would turn their art and craft into idols.” A wry grin appeared on the Kapellmeister’s face as he reached up again to touch his Amber’s hands where they rested on his shoulders. “Of course, all the other arts and artists did as well: the painters, the actors…” Amber’s low chuckle filled the space, “…those who made the movies and DVDs. But the fact is, Frau Marla; young Isaac; and you, Master Bach who so strongly pursues the music of a descendant who will never live, when you take a created thing and give it dominion over its creator, when you surrender causality to the music, you have created an idol. And if you do so with music, you have made an idol of the very thing that we are commanded to use to praise God. And that should never be permitted.”

  Schütz sat back, and tiredly waved a hand. “Or so this old man thinks.”

  Silence reigned in their group. All eyes turned toward Marla, whose face had returned to a frown. “So are you saying that we should do nothing but church music? That only religious music should be performed, that…that…” she stuttered, “that the only music acceptable is that which contains the name of God?”

  Johann was wondering the same thing as he watched Master Schütz jerk up straight as if shocked by the up-timer’s electricity.

  “By no means, child, or I would not be sitting here listening to you play the piano and having this delightful conversation. By no means.” He waved a hand. “Play your Beethoven and your Chopin on the piano. Play your flute. Sing your Irish folk songs with zest and vigor. Let your younger Grantvillers play trumpets and beat drums and march in the parades. Let some of your friends even learn jazz.” The older musician shuddered a little. “Enjoy it all; have fun with it all; but when you make music, make the best music you can make; not for the glory of the music, but for the glory of God. Anything less cheats God and cheapens you. And neither of those things ought be.”

  Marla sat still, unmoving, for long moments. Johann watched as Franz at length reached out and touched a finger to her shoulder. She looked up, and Johann could see tears pooling in her eyes. “I have never considered that, Master Heinrich. I will think on what you have said.”

  “Indeed,” Giacomo Carissimi said as he stood, followed by Andrea Abati. Johann almost lunged to his own feet, not to be caught sitting at this moment. “You are master of us all, Master Heinrich, and we will think on these things.” He bowed with respect, followed a split second later by Andrea and Johann. Others in the group murmured support. Carissimi straightened with a wicked grin of his own. “But do not be surprised if the subject raises its head again, Master Heinrich. A good subject loves to be debated.”

  “Ach,” Schütz said, waving his hand again. “Enough talk. Let tomorrow’s talk take care of itself. Tonight, make music! Make joyful music! Who has more music for us? Frau Marla?” She shook her head with a laugh, and pointed at Isaac. “Young Isaac! How fitting! What do you bring to us tonight?”

  Isaac lifted the violin he had been holding all along, plucked the strings to test their tuning, and said, “With all joy, Master Heinrich, I offer up to you and to God the chaconne from Partita no. 2 in D Minor, by Johann Sebastian Bach.”

  Without another word, Isaac launched into the great work. Johann sat back, bemused by the fact that Isaac had brought such a work as that. The music poured out, and he soaked it up. Mein Gott, he thought. Such beauty, such power, as much with the violin as I had found in the organ works. This other Johann, who will never be, was so good I cannot even be jealous of him.

  As he rose and fell with Isaac’s bow, Johann understood how close he had come to becoming idolatrous. But never again, he decided. I will celebrate the greatness of the music, and the greatness of the man
, but most of all the greatness of God who by His grace gave us both the music and the man, and gave us the Ring of Fire by which both the music and the man will be made known.

  A commitment formed in his mind, to be observed for the rest of his days.

  Soli Deo Gloria.

  Etude

  Wechmar

  December 1634

  To Christoph Bach

  In Wechmar

  Brother, word has come to me that Mama has died. Since Papa died of the plague eight years ago, that leaves me the head of the family. I have moved from Suhl to Magdeburg to pursue greater opportunities here. You must come to me immediately. Bring young Heinrich with you. I have a commission here to build an organ, and I need your help. With good fortune this will lead to other positions for all of us.

  Christoph stopped reading and looked at his younger brother Heinrich. “Johann is starting to sound pretty high and mighty now that Mama is gone.”

  Heinrich sniffed. “Are you surprised? He is the eldest brother. He’s always been the eldest brother. He has never let us forget it, and probably never will.” The youngest of the three Bach children gave an evil grin. “Of course, Papa usually gave him the first lick whenever anything happened.”

  “Aye, and usually you had something to do with that ‘anything’ happening, didn’t you?” Christoph grinned back. He agreed that their brother Johann, who was nine years older than Christoph, had a tendency to think that his chamber pot contents didn’t stink, and he had more than once played second violin to his younger brother’s lead when opportunities arose to puncture Johann’s pomposity. Nonetheless, he had genuinely missed his big brother when he left for Suhl.