Grantville Gazette - Volume XVI, page 21
part #16 of Grantville Gazette Series
Hans cleared his throat. Johannes, realizing he had been woolgathering, began his speech. "I know that all of you have heard of this Grantville. The rumors of its appearing in the countryside of Thuringia had long been floating here even at the time when Master Zenti and I were here last year, as Hans said. I am sure that you have discounted most of those rumors, as had Master Zenti and I before we arrived there. We were wrong to do so.
"Oh, to be sure, there are no angels walking the streets of Grantville, and those streets are not paved with cobblestones of gold. But the people of Grantville are possessed of mechanical arts so advanced that many times our best efforts seem like child's play. They have other wisdoms as well. You know they have allied with Gustav Adolf, and they are spreading out throughout Thuringia, having become a force even in Magdeburg.
"When we arrived, Master Zenti discovered, to his chagrin, that this was often true of music as well. His companion, Master Giacomo Carissimi—yes, that Carissimi." Johannes paused in response to raised eyebrows. The masters obviously recognized the name of the renowned Italian composer. "Master Carissimi told me that he will be years learning of all the changes in styles and forms, that it will perhaps be his life work simply to amass the knowledge.
"I have seen with my own eyes trumpets and horns that can play diatonic and chromatic tones in all registers. I have seen transverse flutes made of metal that are capable of incredible sonorities in the hands of a virtuoso. And I have seen an instrument called the piano that overshadows the harpsichord and clavichord as the Alps overshadow the hills that cling to their skirts. Master Zenti has dedicated his life to building pianos. I will stay and learn of them with him, to return to Füssen at some point with that knowledge."
"If these Grantvillers are such paragons of artistry," interrupted Matthias Gemunder in a testy tone of voice, "then why are you here?"
"As it happens," Johannes said, glad of the question, "what they know of viols and stringed instruments in general is not far advanced over our knowledge and skills. Which is why I am here." He turned and picked up a leather case from the chair behind him. Extracting a paper, he handed it to August Neuner, the youngest of the men in the room. Unlike the other masters, he did not require spectacles to read. "Master Neuner, would you please read this missive aloud?"
Holding the page up in the best light, Master Neuner began.
"Royal and Imperial Arts Council
of the United States of Europe
on this 10th day of January, 1634.
"To whom it may concern:
"This is to signify that Johannes Fichtold is authorized to negotiate and sign binding contracts on behalf of the Royal and Imperial Arts Council with the Geigenfabrikant Guild of Füssenregarding the design, construction and delivering of instruments, including but not limited to violins, violas, violoncelli and contra-basses.
"This authorization will expire on the 30th day of April, 1634."
Master Neuner looked up and said, "It is signed by Lady Beth Haygood." He stumbled over the name. "With an additional title of Attorney-in-Fact, and is witnessed by Master Zenti and by a Master Hans Riebeck."
"Riebeck, Hans Riebeck," Master Koehler said. "I know that name. I thought he was in Mainz."
"He was," Johannes responded. "Last year he left his son in charge of their shop in Mainz, and brought his most talented journeyman and several apprentices to Grantville to learn of pianos and other innovations." That struck a note with the masters, he saw. It was one thing for an Italian, master or no, to chase after what might be a phantasm, but when one of their own hard-headed German brethren began pursuing the same goal, then they must take notice and examine the Grantville issue more closely.
"So," Master Eichelberger said, finally joining in the conversation, the last of the guild masters to do so. "At last we get to the heartwood. You are here because they want something from us, these not-quite-angels of Grantville. Something that we can produce faster or for fewer ducats than they can. So, enlighten us, ambassador."
Johannes did his best to ignore the sarcasm in Master Eichelberger's voice. "Such is not only my intent, it is my charge. I said the Grantvillers were not far advanced over we down-timers . . ." He paused for a moment as a variety of confused expressions passed over the masters' faces, then realized what he had done. "Your pardon, masters, let me explain. Since the Grantvillers believe they were sent back from the future, they refer to themselves as up-timers, and to we native Germans and our neighbors as down-timers."
"And do they sneer when they do so?" Master Eichelberger's voice was sharp. "As if we are poor cousins, or beggars at the gates?"
"No." Johannes again managed to ignore the tone of the master. "Well, in truth, there are a few who do so, but I would say on the whole I have found them less arrogant than the Italians I dealt with when I first went south to study."
"Hmmph." Master Eichelberger sat back in his chair, only somewhat mollified. "That is not saying much." He said nothing more, and waved at Johannes to continue.
"Um . . ." Johannes tried to regain his thoughts. "Oh, yes . . . they are not far advanced over us in strings. Nonetheless, they do have advanced designs for viols. And, as Master Eichelberger has surmised, they desire instruments to be crafted for them according to those 'merino' designs." Too late, he remembered that Master Zenti had directed him to avoid the 'merino' label, judging that it would be confusing to the guild masters, perhaps even insulting if they made the connection to sheep. But in Grantville, the instrument crafters had all used that term almost exclusively when discussing the new designs. It had become second nature to him, so that it had just slipped out now. Johannes berated himself soundly, but was forced to drop the self-chastising when his brother, who had been silent so far to avoid any hint of collusion, spoke.
"'Merino'? Who is this 'Merino?'"
"Sounds Italian to me," Master Neuner said. "Did they steal it from an Italian master?"
Johannes thought furiously, and replied cautiously. "They never told me who this 'Merino' is or was, whether it was someone in their times or someone from our own." That much was true, he laughed to himself, remembering when Friedrich had used the name as a joke, one that turned out to be self-perpetuating. "But they did reveal to me that many of the refinements and innovations in the 'Merino' designs were originally made by Italians." The masters of Füssen reacted in various ways to the thought of stealing a march on some unknown Italian masters: sly grins from some, a couple of knowing nods, but no further comments. Johannes engraved in his mind the thought that he must tell the others in Grantville to never reveal where the name came from. Finally, he returned to the original topic.
"I have convinced them that you can safely craft these instruments and transport them to Magdeburg, despite the . . . current state of affairs between Bavaria and the USE. And they want enough of them that it will take all of you to satisfy them." Johannes could see the masters glancing at each other, all of them—even his brother—with what Master Ingram called 'dollar signs' of avarice in their eyes.
"Before we get down to details," Master Gemunder said, "what is your percentage for brokering this deal? What will we have to pay you?"
"My compensation is provided by the arts council. As Master Neuner read to you all, I speak with their voice. There will be no additional fees for you to pay once we have settled on the prices for crafting the instruments and transporting them to Magdeburg." Again the masters looked at each other, this time in somewhat astonished disbelief.
"None?" Master Gemunder probed.
"None." Johannes was quite firm.
The looks shared now were somewhat skeptical. Johannes couldn't blame them. It was unheard of for a broker of any kind to not take a cut out of any deal in which he had a part, no matter how small. Nonetheless, his position had been made quite clear to him by Lady Beth Haygood: there was to be no profiteering in this venture, and if he tried it and was caught, he would be booted out of Grantville so hard his feet wouldn't touch earth again until he reached the Alps.
"So," ventured Master Neuner, "what is their commission?"
Finally, Johannes thought to himself. The introductory stage was finished, and now the really interesting part of the evening began. "The initial contract," he said, "is for thirty violins and matching bows to be crafted according to the 'Merino' designs, to be delivered to Magdeburg no later than the first of May. They must be of high enough quality that you would personally sign them. Their quality will be judged by a committee composed of Master Zenti, Master Riebeck, their leading journeymen and Franz Sylwester. Only those instruments which pass their scrutiny will be acceptable under the terms of the contract."
"Who is this Franz Sylwester?" asked Master Eichelberger snidely. "I do not know that name."
Johannes stared him down. "You may not know it now, but you will know it. All of Germany, no, all of Europe will know the name of Franz Sylwester. He will serve as the first dirigent of the world's finest orchestra."
"Dirigent? What is this?"
"It has to do with leading the orchestra in performance. I cannot explain it more than that. You will have to come to Magdeburg in July to see it."
"The contract," Master Neuner interjected. "Let us not forget the contract." He looked around at the others. "I dare say that we can produce that many violins in that time, provided that the designs are not radically different from what we already know." Heads nodded around the room. "So, the question becomes, what do they offer to us to set aside our other work, set aside our designs which are well-proven, and undertake their commission?"
"I am authorized to offer two Amsterdam guilders per violin to confirm the contract and provide for materials. An additional ten guilders will be paid upon delivery and acceptance of the instruments, for a total of twelve guilders per violin." There was a moment of silence as each man converted guilders to the Imperial currency. Eyes lit up, some in anger, some in interest, some just in the fun of the negotiation, but before any of the masters could speak, Johannes held his hand up. "And," he declared firmly, "each of you will also execute an agreement that you will not build instruments utilizing any of the 'Merino' improvements for anyone except the Royal and Imperial Arts Council for a period of six years."
The room exploded—at least it seemed that way to Johannes. Most of the masters were on their feet, gesturing and expostulating at the top of their lungs. The gist of their comments was that if the arts council wanted to rob them, wouldn't it be easier to just send Gustav's Finnish cavalry to sack the town? He did hear one muttered comment that by its tone was probably highly vulgar, although he could not hear the words clearly. His brother sat back down, smiling slightly. Master Neuner had remained in his chair, viewing Johannes through narrowed eyes. Finally, all the others quieted and resumed their seats, albeit murmuring to each other.
Master Neuner cleared his throat. "Personally, for everything that this arts council is demanding, I could not see my way clear to accepting their commission for less than, say, 40 guilders. And I would not grant them more than a year of exclusivity." Heads nodded around the room.
Johannes remained standing to keep the advantage of looking down at them. He clasped his hands behind his back to keep from rubbing them together in anticipation. Accepting the challenge, he began the duel.
Grantville - Early February, 1634
Marcus Wendell turned the corner in the hallway and came face to face with Lady Beth Haygood. She was accompanied by a man he didn't recognize, which meant he was a down-timer.
"Lady Beth." Marcus came to a sudden stop. "Just who I wanted to see."
"Hey, Marcus." Lady Beth and her companion stopped as well. "What's up?"
"Just wanted to see if you've heard anything about Marla and her friends."
"Nothing. Where they were going and as long as they've been gone, they're well out of the range of the telegraph now. We probably won't hear anything about them until they're back."
"That's about what I figured," Marcus said. "Just thought I'd check."
Lady Beth smiled. "If I hear anything, I'll let you know." She reached out and placed her hand on her companion's shoulder. "Marcus, this is Max Ohl. He's going to be filling in for me in the office for a couple of weeks. Max, this is Marcus Wendell. He's the band director at the high school."
"Nice to meet you, Max."
"I am happy to meet you also." Max said, bobbing his head. He was a young man, Marcus saw as they shook hands, looking to be about the age of Marla and her friends. His English was strongly accented, but precise.
"So." Marcus turned back to Lady Beth. "Are you going to Magdeburg, then?"
"Yeah. I'm leaving next Monday, be gone for two weeks. They really want me to take this school deal, so I'm going down to scope things out. If it looks decent at all, I'll take it. I want my family back together, and since we'd be starting a secondary school for girls, all the kids would have places in good schools. That was the main reason I held back from moving before."
"Well, travel safe, good luck, and let me know if you hear anything."
"I'll do that."
Aschenhausen - Early February, 1634
Joachim ben Eleazar accepted a cup of wine from Rebitzin Rivka. "Please, sit, RebJoachim." Rabbi Shlomo ben Moishe gestured at a chair. As he did so, the rabbi sat as well. His wife chose to stand, although there was a stool nearby.
As the guest, Joachim knew he was expected to sample the wine and compliment it. Best to get it over with, he thought to himself. Rabbi Shlomo's taste was . . . undiscerning, to be kind.
As he expected, it wasn't very good. Since he had become parnas, president, to the community, he had suffered from the rabbi's tastes more than once. He suppressed his wince and said, "As good a cup as I have ever had." He made a mental note, as he had in the past, to acquire a few bottles of better Jewish wines to gift to his rabbi.
After several minutes of conversation about topics and issues that the two leaders frequently talked about, the rabbi set his cup on a nearby table, and folded his hands across his middle. At last, Joachim thought, we arrive at the purpose for tonight.
"My wife tells me," Shlomo said slowly, "that you have spoken with one who was once part of our family."
"It is true, I have had speech with Yitzhak, Rav Shlomo," Joachim agreed. "He was on the business of Don Francisco Nasi, Pinchas ben Yudah of the Abrabanel family."
"He has taken service with them, then?"
"Mmm, no, I would say not. Rather, he is briefly associated with them to pursue a common purpose."
"Ah." Shlomo nodded, then hesitated for a moment as a look of hunger flashed across his face. "Is he . . . well?"
"Yes, he is mostly well," Joachim responded. "He has matured into a handsome young man, tall and straight. He favors you to some degree, but I see traces of your wife's father in his face as well." He paused for a moment, then continued with, "My contacts tell me. . . ." The rabbi well knew who his contacts included. ". . . that he is known as Isaac Fremdling among the goyim, and has attained some reputation as a musician."
Rabbi Shlomo absorbed the double hit. First, that his son had named himself 'Stranger' to the rest of the world, and second, that music was still such a part of his life. It was the rabbi's objection to his son's passion for music that was the root cause of their estrangement. Joachim saw his face freeze. Nothing was said for a long moment. Finally, the rabbi cleared his throat. "I am not surprised by that." He stared at his hands for another long moment, then looked up at Joachim. "Tell me."
Joachim recounted everything that had passed between him and Yitzhak in their meeting several days ago. He included his perceptions of the young man's state of mind. The rabbi drank it all in, fingering his beard all the while. He turned pale when Joachim repeated the metaphor of the wounded fox which had touched his earlier conversation with Rivka. When the telling was completed, Rabbi Shlomo stared at the opposite wall, a very distant expression on his face, pain in his eyes.
Time passed. At last, Joachim spoke again. "RavShlomo, with all respect, you were wrong in how you handled the situation with your son. It is the nature of young men to be passionate about some things. It is also the nature of young men to sometimes be disobedient. And although the Proverbs of Solomon say to spare not the rod in disciplining the children, it says nothing about wounding them unto death.
"I was there that evening. I recall it well. I recall the president of our community, old Benyamin ben Yohannon, and myself and the other elders pleading with you to not say those words, to find some way to not cast him out so finally. You would not listen to us, and so your first-born has been sundered from your family for over five years. Five years of grief for you and Rivka, and Devorah and Rachel and Reuven. Five years of pain and exile for Yitzhak. Old Benyamin would not challenge you further, so we, the community, supported you through saying Kaddish and sitting Shiva."
