Read 1635: Music and Murder Online
Authors: David Carrico
I cannot tell you the joy that is mine to hear that you will be able to come to Magdeburg in October, even if it is but for a few days to consult with Frau Haygood about the new school. Not all your time will be consumed with that responsibility, and I trust that there will be time for the two of us.
Until then, my dearheart.
Your devoted servant.
Heinrich
2 day of September, 1634
Magdeburg
****
To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz
In Weissenfels
Honored Mother
I have such good news to share with you and Anna Justina and Euphrosine. I am to be married! I am at this moment delirious with joy, but I must calm myself and attempt to answer the questions I know you all will have.
Her name is Frau Amber Higham. Her surname is pronounced hei-am. She is, as you may have already assumed from her very name, a Grantviller, one from the future. How do I describe her to you? I will attempt it, but it will no doubt be a poor reflection of the reality.
She is tall, as most Grantvillers are, not slender, but neither is she corpulent. Her hair is a brown color, not as short as many Grantville women wear theirs, but not as long as yours is, either. She wears hers trimmed to her shoulders and brushed back from her face. There are wings of silver in her hair at the temples.
I never before realized how difficult it is to describe someone else so that you can see them. I persevere.
Her mouth is wide, her eyes are brown, and she has the most engaging laughter, which sounds often. Indeed, her sense of humor is lively.
As with many of the Grantvillers, she is a well-educated woman, at a level that would equal a university degree in our time. She has been teaching, but her muse is the theatre.
She is a mature woman—indeed, some years older than myself—and a most gracious woman as well, yet one who is also filled with the wisdom of having lived over fifty years. You need not worry as to her ability to withstand my stubbornness. She is capable of making even me see reason.
We will be married in December here in Magdeburg. I would that you and the girls come to be a part of it, and to stay during the holidays. Afterward, Frau Amber and I are in agreement that Anna Justina and Euphrosine should come to live with us, to make a family. I have been without my daughters for too long. They have grown up without a mother, and with little evidence of a father as well. It is time that they join me, or I should say, us.
Lest you be concerned about the girls, mother, let me assure you that this is as much Frau Amber's desire as it is mine. And they will be well provided for here. There is a school for girls here in Magdeburg, the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls. I will enroll them there, where they will be taught by some of the finest of both the Grantvillers and the Magdeburg teachers, among whom is Frau Marla Linder, who, although she is a woman, is also one of the very finest singers I have ever known.
We do not want to take the girls away from you, mother. Come with them, stay with us. We will provide you with your own rooms, where you can rest as you desire, yet still be involved with Anna Justina and Euphrosine.
It would gladden my heart if you will come.
With all love and respect,
Your humble son.
Heinrich
8 day of October, 1634
Magdeburg
****
To Frau Amber Higham
In Grantville
Dearheart
To know that you are once more safe in Grantville gives me the greatest of reliefs. I thought that my sleep had been broken the previous time you traveled. It was nothing compared to what I felt this time, night after night, until your letter came.
I wake up each morning afeared that it was all a dream, that your agreeing to marry me was but the delusion of a fevered mind. For that reason I keep your letters by my bed, and each morning read them anew until I reach your most recent page, wherein you talk of the wedding plans. My heart is so full, it is as if I were an old wineskin overfilled and about to burst. How can one man's life contain so much joy? How can God have seen his way to bless me so much?
Each day is begrudged its span, that its cycle of light and dark will occupy so much time and thus only slowly draw me nearer to December. Even when my life was in darkest shadow, never did time seem to proceed so slowly.
I know that you must fulfill your commitments in Grantville. I would not want it said that you had broken your agreements. But my rebellious heart is aboil, bubbling, until I sometimes feel that I must shout or scream.
My reputation as a sober, staid man I fear is somewhat tattered. I smile, and whistle, and hum the day long. Frequently I catch Lucas looking at me with the oddest of expressions. The dear boy knows what is happening, but he does perceive that I am not the Schütz he has served for these past years, which does surprise him, and others as well, I must admit.
As we had discussed, the quarters I was allotted in the palace will not suffice for our entire family, so I have undertaken to find others. The palace rooms will remain my work rooms, my studio, where Lucas can reside as well. By the time it is needed, a home will be provided.
Come as soon as you can, my dear.
With all my love.
Heinrich
12 day of October, 1634
Magdeburg
****
To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz
In Weissenfels
Dearest Mother
Yes, plans for the wedding are proceeding apace. We will say the vows on the fifteenth of December, with the banns posted at the appropriate times before then.
Neither of us desires some grand and elaborate event. At our ages, it would be but foolish. So it will be done in one of the chapels of the Dom, with only a few family and friends in attendance; perhaps thirty or forty in all.
Set your protestations aside, Mother. It is the desire of our hearts that you come to us and live with us. Please do not disappoint us. I have found a townhouse to rent for all of us, in which I think you will be most comfortable.
It pleases me that Anna Justina and Euphrosine are excited about coming. Do not let them become so excited that they neglect their studies or their other responsibilities.
I have made arrangements for you to travel with a group of merchants. They expect to be at your door around the fifth day of December. It is only about one hundred miles from Weissenfels to Magdeburg, so that should allow adequate time to travel and still arrive before the wedding.
It is the prayer of my heart that you will come to love my Amber as much as you did my Magdalena. Although she cannot be the same person, Amber is as much in love with life and with me as Magdalena ever was.
I look forward to your arrival.
With all love,
Your son.
Heinrich
5 day of November, 1634
Magdeburg
****
To Frau Amber Higham
In Grantville
Dearest
The time fast approaches when you will begin your travels here to Magdeburg, to stand at my side. Lucas despairs of holding my attention for any task, as within moments my thoughts return to you. He says that he will be beyond glad when the wedding is concluded and I will once again be able to focus my thoughts on my responsibilities.
I will not say that I am doing nothing. I have begun sketches for new works: a fantasia, in the manner of Vaughan Williams; a passion, which I will base on the Gospel of St. Luke, I believe; and two or three other works. They are but the merest hint of what is to come, yet I find that in all of them is some thread of you, some essence of your light, that makes me smile, and laugh, and at times almost weep. In the future that will now be, rather than the one from which you came, I believe that scholars will look at the corpus of my work and will place their fingers on December, 1634, with the note that here the inspiration of the man Schütz elevated to another plane. I hope that they will note our wedding's date, and realize that the best of me came from you.
Make what haste you can. I await you with singing heart.
With all my love.
Heinrich
1 day of December, 1634
Magdeburg
****
Grantville News
Wedding Announcements
Tuesday, December 19, 1634
Higham – Schütz Wedding
Amber Dunn Higham, late of Grantville, was joined in wedlock with Heinrich Schütz, the noted composer, on Friday, December 15, 1634, in Magdeburg. The couple will make their home in Magdeburg, where the groom is employed by the emperor as
Kappellmeister
of Magdeburg and the bride intends to become active in theatre.
****
A T & L TELEGRAPH
BEGIN: GVL TO MBRG
TO: FRAU EUPHROSINE BIEGERIN VERW SCHÜTZ
ADDR: SCHÜTZHAUS MAGDEBURG
FROM: HEINRICH SCHÜTZ
DATE: 26 DEC 1634
MESSAGE: MOTHER
AM IN HEAVEN BUT MUST COME DOWN TO EARTH
WE WILL BEGIN RETURN TOMORROW, ARRIVE HOME 30 DEC
LOVE TO ALL
HEINRICH AND AMBER
PS: TELL GIRLS BEHAVE OR NO TREATS FROM GVILLE
END
****
To Maestro Girolamo Frescobaldi,
City of Rome
Maestro
I see from your most recent letter that you have removed yourself from Florence and resumed your post as organist at Saint Peter's in Rome. I trust that the relocation was harmonious and the travels were easy.
I am sorry to appear so delinquent in responding to your letter, but it appears that it spent a great deal of time on the road. You signed the letter on the third of September, yet it was not placed into my hands until the twenty-seventh of November. I have no explanations as to why, of course, only to note that it did.
Unfortunately, I was at that time very occupied by plans for my wedding, which occurred on the fifteenth of December, as well as my involvement in a great musical performance produced for the King of Sweden, Gustavus Adolphus and his daughter, Princess Kristina. With that event having occurred, I can now take the time to respond to your writings in an appropriately respectful manner.
It dismays me, maestro, I must admit, that you so vehemently reject the music to be found in Grantville. I cannot deny your charge that much of the music is dissonant and discordant. Yet note that the world around us is filled with dissonance and discord. It is those qualities that make the moments of consonance and concord to be so prized and appreciated. Certainly, even prior to the appearance of Grantville, my own works had received the occasional accusation of being dissonant. But how else are we, as composers, to create and release tension in our works, to create more than musical pap, if the tools of dissonance and discord are not available to us? Certainly, the giants of the music in Grantville, wherever and whoever they truly were, have much to teach us of this aspect of our art. I think in particular of an Englishman named Ralph Vaughan Williams, whose string music is enough to wring the heart of a statue. God Above knows that he has wrung mine.
I caution you, maestro, to take care of how you express your displeasure with Grantville's music. To accuse it of being the work of the devil treads perilously close to the Manichaean heresy. The Adversary has no creative ability—all the church fathers agree on that. He can only twist and pervert that which is already created. In this one thing we mortals shine above even the angels; in this one thing some spark of the Divine Godhead still seems to linger in us; that we can create music that upon rare occasion would not be out of place before the very throne of God. I have found such in Grantville.
It grieves me, Maestro Girolamo, that my judgment of Grantville and its music is so at odds with yours. But I can trace your hand, and my hand, and the hands of Gabrieli, Monteverdi, and so many others, throughout that music. It was formed from the tools we made, from the seeds that we planted, from the works that we shaped. We have an opportunity to take from it, to learn from it, to stand on the shoulders of the giants who at once came after us and also before us, to write such music as will harmonize with the music of the spheres and even resound before the throne of Heaven; but only if we do not turn our backs on it.
Maestro Carissimi stands with me. We have entered into correspondence with Monteverdi, Melchior Frank, Johann Crüger, Samuel Scheidt, and others. It is our endeavor to bring the music of Grantville to the world.
This is the future of music. On this I take my stand. God help me, I can do no other.
With respect,
Heinrich Schütz
Kappellmeister
of Magdeburg
4 day of January, 1635
Magdeburg
The Sound of Sweet Strings:
A Serenade in One Movement
Grantville
December 1633
The music came to an end. Atwood flipped a switch on the board and leaned forward to the microphone on the table.
“And that was the beautiful
Nimrod
movement from
Variations on an Original Theme for Orchestra, Opus 36
, called the
Enigma Variations
, by Edward Elgar. That was a foretaste of things to come. We will play the work in its entirety some time next month. I think you will like it.”
Atwood had a smooth bass voice, and he had put it to use over the years from time to time serving as a radio disc jockey. He’d never expected to be doing it in this situation, however, over three hundred years before he had been born. But he’d been assured that there were plenty of crystal radios out there in Thuringia to tune into his show, so he’d agreed to do it.
He looked down at his notes. “To close out this evening’s program, we’re going to play a very different piece of music in a very different musical style. It’s what we call ‘bluegrass’ music. Those of you who listen to Reverend Fischer’s morning devotionals have already heard music like this. This particular piece features an instrument that wasn’t invented for close to another two hundred years, called the banjo. This is
Foggy Mountain Breakdown
.”
Atwood cued up the CD. After a moment the music began to sound. He leaned back and just listened to Earl Scruggs’ picking. Atwood could play the banjo, but it wasn’t his best instrument and he enjoyed hearing it played by a master.
All too soon the music was over, and he leaned forward again. “That was
Foggy Mountain Breakdown
, and I hope you enjoyed it.
“Thank you for being with us this Sunday evening for Adventures in Great Music on the Voice of America Radio Network, sponsored by the Burke Wish Book, where you can order anything you need or want. I look forward to joining you next Sunday evening.
“I’m Atwood Cochran, and good night.”
A few weeks later
Lucille Cochran turned from the front door’s peep hole. “It’s for you, dear.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, there’s only one of him, he’s a down-timer, and he’s carrying something that looks like one of your old gig bags. He doesn’t look like a lawyer, so I don’t think he came to see the probate judge. That leaves you.”
Atwood levered himself from his recliner, muttering something about people coming around on Saturday evening when a man should be able enjoy some peace and quiet. He opened the door. “Yes?”
“Herr Cochran?” The man on the doorstep was short, dark-haired, dressed in reasonably fine but not new clothing, including a large hat with a bedraggled feather. And he did have what looked for all the world like one of Atwood’s old soft-sided guitar gig bags on his back. Atwood guessed it had a lute in it. The man appeared to be in his forties, and by his accent he was not from the Germanies.
“That’s me.”
“I am Giouan Battista Veraldi. I was in Magdeburg when I heard your radio program with the music of the…banjo?” He pronounced the last word with care, as if he wasn’t sure how it should sound.
“Come in, Signor Veraldi.” Atwood opened the door wider. The Italian beamed at the up-timer’s recognition and stepped through the door. Lucille appeared in the door to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Dear, this is Signor Giouan Battista Veraldi…did I get that right?” The still beaming Italian swept his hat from his head and made a very courtly bow to Lucille. “Signor Veraldi, this is my wife, Lucille.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Frau Cochran.”
“So, at a guess you would like to know more about the banjo.” Atwood’s curiosity was piqued.
“Yes, please.” Veraldi’s smile widened.
“Come with me, then.” Atwood led the way through the kitchen and opened the door into what used to be the garage. Veraldi sniffed in appreciation as he passed by the stew simmering on the stove. Atwood followed his guest down the step into his studio.
The late afternoon light flooded through the windows at the end of the room. There were posters of famous guitars and famous guitarists on the walls. The room was furnished with a couple of stools and music stands, plus a table under the windows and another at the other end of the room. There was a black cabinet in one corner, and leaning up against it were several odd-shaped cases.
“Where are you from, Signor Veraldi?”
Atwood gestured to one of the stools, but the Italian stood looking around with eyes wide. After a moment, he started and replied, “As you guessed, I am from Italy originally, but I was a lutenist at the Swedish court for a number of years. I left not long ago. The pay was good, but the weather…” He shivered, and they both laughed. “I have been working my way back to Italy. I’m not in a hurry, but it will not be long now before I am back in the land of fine music and olives. I miss olives…”
Veraldi’s German was better than his own, Atwood decided. His accent gave it a lilt that neither up-timers nor native down-timers gave it. “It is always good to return home,” Atwood said.
“True; and I have been gone for a long time,” Veraldi replied. His eyes had by now gravitated to the open case lying on one of the tables. “Such a large vihuela I have never seen,” he breathed.
“ Vihuela?” Atwood asked.
“Do you know guitarra, or guiterne?” Veraldi replied without looking around.
“Oh, guitar. Sure. It’s a classical guitar.”
Veraldi caressed the guitar with his eyes, then turned to Atwood. “May I…”
Atwood gestured in reply. Veraldi set the instrument bag he was carrying down on the table and picked up the guitar. He held it up to the light and peered at it closely, then ran his hand all over the body. At last he plucked a string, and his eyebrows rose at the strong resonant sound. With a sigh he replaced the guitar in its case.
“Very fine vihuela; very fine guitar.”
“Thank you. Please, have a seat.” Atwood waved at one of the stools and sat on the other. Instead of doing so, Veraldi opened his bag and took out a lute, which he handed to Atwood.
Atwood hadn’t handled a lute since a class in Renaissance instruments during his college days. He received it gingerly, holding it in his two hands as if it were a baby. It was a beautiful instrument. The spruce sound board was unvarnished and had darkened a bit from its original white. The ribs of the bowl-shaped body gleamed with a satin patina. And the neck—now there was a joy. The neck was short and wide, supporting ten courses of two strings each. The head bent back from the neck at right angles. He plucked a string, and nodded at the sound. Not as deep and resonant as the guitar, but louder than he had thought it would be.
All in all, it was an excellent example of the luthier’s art. And it was a living instrument with signs of use on it, but nonetheless lovingly cared for. Veraldi’s pride in it was obvious.
“Very fine lute,” Atwood said, handing it back.
“Thank you,” came the response. “It was made for me by Master Matteo Sellas, of Venice. The Sellas family are the finest luthiers in Italy.”
“It is a fine instrument,” Atwood repeated. “Would you like to see the rest of mine?”
Veraldi nodded with eagerness, wiping his hands on his pants.
Atwood started pulling cases out of the stack and opening them up in the tables. “Steel string guitar, twelve string guitar, and of course,” opening the final case with a flourish, “the Gibson Les Paul electric guitar.”
His guest looked around with a dazed look on his face, not understanding what he was seeing.
“Sit, sit,” Atwood said, pointing to the stool. Veraldi sat. The up-timer picked up the classical guitar, and thought for a moment about what to play. After a moment, the perfect song came to him. He wrapped himself around the guitar, and played the opening bars to
Hotel California
.
Veraldi was intent, watching Atwood’s fingers, drinking in the sound. The delicate tapestry of the music wove through the air of the small room, seeming to bring light with it. Atwood stopped at the place where the vocals would have begun.
The Italian sighed. Then he pointed at the other instruments. “Please?”
Atwood smiled. “Sure.” He set the classical back in its case and picked up the steel-string guitar. He settled back onto the stool, then played the same piece of music. Veraldi’s eyes widened at the difference in timbre between the two instruments, so similar in size and shape.
The performance was repeated with the twelve-string guitar. This time Veraldi’s eyes closed, but Atwood could have sworn he saw the man’s ears twitching in time with the music. He smiled a little at the thought.
Once again the excerpt drew to a close. Atwood set the twelve-string back in its case and turned back to his guest.
“You will not play the other guitar?” Veraldi pointed to the Gibson.
“Later,” Atwood laughed. “That one takes a different song. But there is one more for you to see.” He closed a couple of cases, then set another on top of them and opened it. “This is a banjo.”
Atwood picked the banjo up and handed it to Veraldi, whose eyebrows immediately shot up to their limit at the sight of the round flat body. He turned it this way and that, peering at it closely as he took in all the details. After several minutes, Veraldi sat back. “I do not know what I expected to see, but it was not…this. This almost looks like the bastard child of a vihuela and a tambour.”
“You’re not far off,” Atwood laughed. He took the banjo back, and cradled it in his arms. He’d already decided what to play here, so he took off with “Herod’s Song” from Jesus Christ Superstar. The rollicking beat made it a fun song to play.
When he finished, he looked up to see Veraldi smiling. “Yes,” the Italian said, “that is what I heard through the radio in Magdeburg. That sound; that very unique sound. How can I get a banjo? I must take one back to Italy with me.”
“Well,” Atwood replied, “I won’t sell mine. And there’s not very many of them in Grantville. However, Ingram Bledsoe might have one or two. I’ll check with him tomorrow.”
“Then may I return tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, certainly. Say, middle of the afternoon.”
Veraldi stood from his stool and held out his hand. “I will return then,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Herr Cochran. It was very good to meet you.”
Atwood ushered his guest to the front door, where they shook hands again and exchanged good evenings.
“Well,” Lucille said, coming out of the dining room, “dinner’s ready. What did your Signor Veraldi want?”
“Mostly to talk about instruments,” Atwood said. “I have a feeling that we’re going to be seeing a lot more of him. I suspect he’s going to want to drain me dry of everything I can tell him.”
****
Giouan muttered to himself all the way back to the hotel. Mother of heaven, what he had just discovered. The banjo alone would be a prize to take back to Italy, but the up-time vihuelas! The sounds they could make. He knew he had had only a taste tonight. He must hear more. He must learn more. He must find a way to take these things home with him.
The next day, Sunday
Atwood opened the door. “Signor Veraldi, come in.” He led the way to the studio. He turned the stereo down, then waved at one stool as he took his seat on the other one. “So, how has your day been? What do you think about banjos now?”
“My day has been good,” Veraldi responded. “And I would very much like to have a banjo. Have you been able to speak to your friend Herr Bledsoe?”
“Yes, I have. The good news is that he has two banjos, a four-string and a five-string. He says he might be willing to sell the four-string. The bad news is it’s somewhat beat-up and he wants three hundred dollars for it.”
“Three hundred dollars.” Veraldi pulled at his mustaches. “How much is that in pfennigs or groschen?”
Atwood thought for a moment. “About a hundred and ninety pfennigs, maybe. You’d have to convert them at the bank to find out for sure.”
The Italian’s mouth twisted. “He is proud of his banjos, Herr Bledsoe is.”
“To be fair, I was surprised he had any. As of right now, I only know of four in the entire Ring of Fire. I have one, Bucky Buckner of the Old Folks Band has one, and Ingram has the other two. There might be one or two more in closets in town, but I wouldn’t count on it. Banjos weren’t very popular up-time. People thought they were hard to learn to play. Ingram’s going to keep one to be a model for the designers and workers in his factory, so that leaves exactly one to sell. I’m really surprised some musician hasn’t come along and bought it from him. If I had anybody wanting to learn banjo, it would probably have sold already.”
“You teach, then?” Veraldi cocked his head to one side.
“Oh, yeah.” Atwood laughed. “I teach music at the junior high school. I taught in another town before the Ring of Fire. Afterwards, it was just natural for me to keep teaching here. Plus I give lessons on guitar. Anybody under the age of thirty-five in this town who plays guitar probably learned from me. That’s why I have the studio.” He waved his hand around at the room.
Veraldi pulled at his moustaches some more. “Do you teach…older students?”
“Like yourself?”
Veraldi nodded.
“Sure. I once had a sixty-year-old grandmother who wanted to learn the guitar. I think I can teach you.” Atwood smiled, and saw it returned.
“How much do you charge?” Veraldi asked.
“Fifteen dollars for a single half-hour lesson, monthly rates available.”
Veraldi spent a moment in thought. “So, perhaps ten pfennigs. And how many lessons could one such as I have during a week?”
“Well,” Atwood began, “I normally do one lesson a week for each student, but for you, at least two, maybe three, possibly even four. You would rate as a really proficient student.”
“Thank you.” Veraldi frowned. “I would like lessons on both the banjo and the guitar. Please tell Herr Bledsoe that I would like to buy his banjo. I simply must determine how I can pay for it.”
Atwood thought that if Veraldi didn’t stop pulling at his mustache, it was going to come out in his hands.