Eric Flint: TITLE: Grantville Gazette.Volume XVIII

"Well?" Schutz asked.

Knowing full well what his master was asking, Matthaus responded, "The music is… different, Master Heinrich."

"Of course it is! But you can learn it, can you not?"

"Aye, master. We can, and we do."

Schutz fingered his beard again. "And Herr Sylwester?"

Matthaus looked around at the others, then back at his master. "He

… it is very different, what he is doing… so many changes. But the more he leads us, the easier it is to both understand the music and understand his vision. He is…" The young man was obviously groping for a word.

"Formidable," his brother, Marcus, suggested.

"Yes, formidable." Matthaus seized on it. "He is formidable and unrelenting. He demands our very best. He accepts nothing less than that-his very words. But, he leads well, he is consistent, and he is fair."

Schutz nodded slowly, still running his fingers through his beard.

"He discharged Herwin Vogler," someone said from the back of the crowd.

"What?" Schutz frowned.

"The fool brought it on himself, Master Heinrich." Simon Bracegirdle stepped forward. "He started complaining on the first day and never stopped. He would not understand what was being taught. The new music distressed him. The thought of someone only half his age telling him that much of what he knew had to change in order to play the 'new music'… he would not accept that. Herr Sylwester talked to him, Matthaus talked to him, I talked to him, all to no avail. He would not stop resisting Herr Sylwester's leadership. Truth to tell, I would have sent him packing long before."

Schutz looked to Matthaus.

"He has the right of it, Master Heinrich. Herwin would not listen, would only half-heartedly play, would not even attempt to hear what Franz-Herr Sylwester-was trying to lead us to create." Schutz noted that Matthaus was on good terms with young Sylwester, good enough to use his first name.

Dropping his hand, Schutz sighed. "So be it. I perhaps let Herwin hang on too long, but he was one of the first players I ever hired, and…" He shook his head, then looked at them all. "Is the work worthy?"

Nods from all over, and a surprising response of, "Yes, Master Heinrich," from Johann Amsel, of all people. As everyone looked at him, the boy's complexion reddened, but he stared back resolutely.

"Good, good." Schutz smiled, then his face turned stern. "And make no mistake, my expectation is the same as Herr Sylwester's… your very best. While you follow him, it is as if you follow me. Nothing less is acceptable."

"Yes, Master Heinrich," came from all corners of the room.

Magdeburg-June, 1634

"Stop."

Marla stopped singing at Andrea's command.

"You are singing from the wrong place," he said, straightening from his slouch against the wall and walking toward her. "The voice, it does not come from here." He pointed to her abdomen. "Your breath must come from there, but not the voice.

"Nor does it come from here." Andrea touched her throat. As she opened her mouth to speak, he waved a hand. "Yes, yes, I have read of the vocal cords. But they are not the voice.

"Think of a violin, please. You play a violin by taking a bow to the strings, yes? But does the voice of a violin come from the bow or the strings?" Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued, "No. The voice of a violin comes from the body.

"In like manner, your diaphragm…" He pointed to her abdomen again. "Your diaphragm is the bow, and your vocal cords are the strings. But they are not where the voice comes from. The voice…" He leaned forward and placed a fingertip on her forehead. "The voice comes from the head. You cannot be lazy. You must relax your throat. You must place your tone in your head; sing from your head at all times." He turned back to his wall.

"Again, please."

"Cellos, you must follow me here. You must swell this passage." Franz tapped his baton against the podium. "Start softly. Then, as the theme rises, crescendo until it crests, then diminuendo to the end of the phrase."

Franz looked at his orchestra. "Start at letter F."

The orchestra began playing. Franz led them on. At the passage in question he began swelling his pattern, all the while looking directly at the cellists.

"Yes, yes, yes!" he exclaimed as they responded.

Franz waved them to a stop at the end of the passage. "Very good, gentlemen. That was exactly what I wanted. Now, do it again to prove it was no accident.

"Again from letter F."

Marla quit singing at Andrea's grimace. "What did I do wrong this time?"

"Your breath support weakened." Andrea stalked forward. "You let too much air out when you sing." He poked her abdomen with a finger. "You must control your diaphragm better."

Discouraged, Marla looked away. That cool soprano voice, so disconcerting from a man, seemed so dispassionate and yet somehow could cut so easily. She blinked her eyes as they started to water, only to feel Andrea's fingers take her chin and turn her to face him. "Marla, how many years have you studied voice? Not just sung, but actually studied?"

She counted in her head. "Seven. From sixth grade to twelfth grade."

"For seven years of study, you are very good-exceptional. But it is not enough for you to be exceptional. You will be the first woman musician in the up-time model, so you must be the best. I will teach you, and though I may seem stern at times, it is because I, too, desire you to be the best."

Andrea looked away. "You will be my legacy, my progeny. It is only through you that I will live on in this world."

Marla straightened and took a deep breath. As she let it out, Andrea looked at her with a crooked smile. "So, you will learn to control your diaphragm better, yes?"

"Yes, Master Andrea."

Inner fires stoked, resolution stiffened, Marla opened her mouth and sang.

Heinrich Schutz watched as Franz rehearsed the orchestra. He was sitting in the back of the great room between Frau Marla and Andrea. He had been doing so on a regular basis, ever since arriving in Magdeburg. Today, it seemed as if pieces of a puzzle that had been tumbling around finally fell into place. "Yes. Yes. I begin to understand."

"Understand what, Master Heinrich?" Andrea leaned forward slightly to ask.

"I begin to feel what manner of beast this symphony is. I begin to understand how to write for it. Master Giacomo tried to tell me, but I could not see it, could not feel it, not even with those CDs that he played for me, not even with the band.

"But now, listening to the orchestra here, listening to Franz rehearse them, I begin to hear it in here." Heinrich pointed to his head, then his heart. "Perhaps Schutz can learn new tricks after all."

Franz set the baton down on the stand. He looked at each of the musicians, one by one, taking his time. "Gentlemen, we are ready."

The applause started when he stepped down from the podium. Matthaus was first to stand and clap, followed a bare instant later by Isaac Fremdling and Simon Bracegirdle.

Franz's heart swelled. He stood there blinking, feeling as if he could hardly breath. As the applause rolled, he bowed to the symphony, then straightened and raised a fist in the air. Amid the cheers of the players, he shouted, "To the Glorious Third of July!"

Magdeburg-July 3, 1634

Lady Beth Haygood stood near the door to the great room, watching and greeting as notables arrived. It still seemed odd to her for a buffet and bar-or at least that's how she thought of them-to be present at a concert. But then again, she supposed it wasn't really any different from what she'd heard about the skyboxes at some of the football stadiums before the Ring of Fire fell. The wealthy and influential would always insist on having their comforts, it seemed. The wine table was certainly receiving a lot of visits, anyway. Since this was an afternoon event, the food table consisted mostly of what Lady Beth thought of as party foods: hors d'oeuvres of various types, finger foods mostly.