by Eric Flint
* * *
Veraldi’s skill progressed by the week, sometimes seemingly by the day. Atwood knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The man was an accomplished musician, after all. It was not long before he reached a level where Atwood wanted him to begin performing in public. He hinted at it, only to find his hints ignored. He put forward stronger hints. They were politely declined.
Atwood was bothered enough by this that one Thursday evening he forced Veraldi to accompany him to the Thuringen Gardens.
“Here, take this.” Atwood placed a mug of wine in the Italian’s hand. “Let’s find some place to sit down.”
They wandered through the Gardens, looking for chairs, but the place was busy. It wasn’t until Marcus Wendell hailed them that they found seats at the table he was sharing with Giacomo Carissimi.
Atwood had seen to it that the two Italians had been introduced some time ago. Even in Sweden Veraldi had heard of the composer, and he had been very glad of the introduction. They chattered back and forth for a few minutes while Marcus and Atwood discussed a school program. The two conversations dwindled down at about the same time, and Atwood seized the opportunity.
“John...”
Veraldi hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of wine and set his mug on the table, looking to Atwood with expectation.
“John, you know you’re doing well. You’ve learned a lot of notes in the last few weeks. I think you’re ready to play some of that music in public. You could play with some of the other musicians here in town. You could even play here in the Gardens and make some more money to pay for your stay. But every time I mention it, you put me off. Why?”
Veraldi said nothing for a long moment, just looked down at his mug and ran his finger around the rim over and over. “Master At,” he said finally, looking up, “the fourth day I was in Grantville, I went to the library. When the attendant asked what I was looking for, I gave him my name and told him that I wanted to know what the books from the future said about me. Several hours later, I had my answer.” He lifted his hand from the mug and snapped his fingers. “Nothing. To the future, I am nobody, nothing. I, Giouan Battista Veraldi, who have played before kings and been rewarded by them, I am not worthy even to be mentioned in any of the books of the future.”
Atwood watched as Veraldi resumed circling the rim of the mug with his finger. “I already had my guitar and banjo by then. But that night I resolved that the future that was would not be repeated. I will be more than a memory that fades from the air when the people who know me die. So my plans take on more urgency—I will take the banjo and the up-time guitar to Venice.”
“Venice, huh?” Atwood responded. “What’s in Venice?”
“Maestro Monteverdi, and Maestros Matteo and Giorgio Sellas, the leading composer and luthiers in Venice, in all of Italy. To them I will bring what I have learned, in the hopes that they will take that knowledge and advance the cause of music in Italy. I will beg Maestro Monteverdi to take up the banjo, to write music for it that will catch the ears of the patrons and make a place for me. To the Sellas family, I will offer the opportunity to measure and analyze the instruments, to make more and make them popular. I will go down in history as the man who brought the banjo to Italy, maybe even to the world.”
Atwood could see Carissimi nodding. He understood what his countryman was saying. “Okay, I can understand that. But what does that have to do with not playing here in Grantville?”
“I am a professional musician, Master At. Setting aside all humility, I am probably the best performer in Grantville right now.”
“Right now,” Marcus interjected, “that’s true, but only because our best performers have moved to Magdeburg.”
Veraldi made a seated bow to the band director. “Yes, I know, but my point is not that Grantville is deficient in performers, but rather that I am very proficient. I do not need the practice of performing in public. I have been a performer for well-nigh thirty years now. I know how to perform. Nor do I need the practice of performing with other performers. Again, that has been part of my life for thirty years.
“What I need to be is focused. What I need to be is committed. What I need to be is single-minded. I will learn everything I can possibly learn in the time I have left. If I take an hour to perform here at the Gardens, then with the time to walk here and walk back, the time to talk to others, the time I would spend in preparing myself for the performance, I would lose at least three hours. That is enough time to learn over a minute’s worth of music. I begrudge that time. I will not spend it thus. And I will especially not repeatedly spend it thus.”
Atwood absorbed everything his student had said. “But can you learn what you need without having to earn extra money?”
“I think so. If not...” A very Italian shrug. “...I will do my best.”
Maestro Carissimi leaned forward. “Master Atwood, you will not change his mind. I recognize this...mind-set, I believe the word is. It would take an act of God to bend him from his purpose.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Atwood said. He turned back to Veraldi. “John, from now on, no payments for your lessons.”
“But Master At,” Veraldi exclaimed. “It is not right to do this. The master is worthy of his fees.”
Atwood laid his hand on the table, palm up. “I don’t teach guitar and banjo to make money. Truth is, most of the time I’d be happy to do it for nothing, just to watch kids learn to play and know that I had a hand in it. But I have to charge something, or they won’t think the lessons are worth anything. So I set the fees just high enough to make the kids feel like the lessons are worthwhile, and to make them work at it because they’re paying for it.
“But you, you’re the kind of student every teacher wants to have, a talented student who wants to learn. So think of it as my contribution to your dream. Who knows, those few dollars may just make the difference in you achieving your goal.”
“Your master gives you a gift, Signor Veraldi,” Carissimi said. “Be gracious in your acceptance of it.”
Veraldi stood and made a formal bow. “As you say, Master Atwood, so shall it be.”
“I have a gift as well,” Carissimi added. “When you are ready to leave, advise me, and I shall give you a letter of introduction to Maestro Monteverdi.”
Veraldi stammered. “Th-thank you, Maestro Carissimi. That is very generous of you, and will be of inestimable value to me.”
Carissimi waved a hand. “It is nothing, mere words on paper. If it helps you on your way, it is worth it. But see here,” he pointed a finger at Veraldi, “if, despite the generosity of Master Atwood, you find yourself short of silver, come to me. You are from Venice, I am from Rome, but we are both Italians, and we must stick together in these cold northern countries, eh?”
The evening ended in a round of laughter.
* * *
More time passed. Atwood, true to his word, made no more attempts to get Veraldi to play in public. And he was also true to his word in that he refused to accept lesson fees from his student, even though Veraldi tried to press them on him several times.
It was both inspiring and humbling to watch Veraldi, Atwood decided. He had never personally worked that hard at anything, not even when he was in the air force orchestra with a solo in an upcoming concert tour. The only person he’d ever seen work as hard as Veraldi was one semester when he was an undergraduate—he’d had a friend who was a Ph.D. candidate who had both a dissertation defense and a doctoral level recital scheduled in the same semester. He swore the man lived on coffee that semester. He knew he lost enough weight that he looked unhealthy.
Veraldi didn’t seem to be losing any weight, but he was definitely burning the candle at both ends. Some days his eyes seemed to be peering out of tunnels bored deep into his skull.
* * *
Giouan counted his silver frequently, even though he knew to the pfennig how much he had. At least once each week he recalculated how long he could stay, how long he could continue learning, when he wo
uld have to leave.
That day finally came.
Giouan knew he had to leave. He didn’t want to, not by any stretch of his imagination. He wanted to stay at Master At’s feet until he had learned everything the master had to teach, and then stay some more just to work with the master. But it wasn’t possible. He had to leave, he had to get home to Venice, for only there could his knowledge create the reputation he needed, only there could he build the relationships that would help bring the new music to his land.
It didn’t take long to leave on Saturday. Giouan had already collected his letter of introduction from Maestro Carissimi. He packed his clothing that morning, and slid the instrument cases into the oilcloth bag he had had made for them.
He paid the hotel keeper for the last time. His horse was waiting for him when he arrived at the stable, where he tipped the stable boy generously for taking excellent care of his mount. He tied his packages onto the back of the saddle, then headed for the familiar house of his master.
* * *
“So,” Atwood said, “the day has arrived when you have to leave. I’m sorry to hear that, John.”
“I’m sorry to have to say it, Master At. But my money has dwindled to the point where I dare not stay any longer. I have enough to make it to Venice if I start now, but if I stay much longer I won’t.”
Atwood saw the resolution in his student’s eyes, so he didn’t try to argue. In truth, he was surprised Veraldi had stayed as long as he had.
“Do you have everything you want?”
“No. Nor do I have everything I need. But I have enough to begin. If God allows, I will return.”
Atwood held his hand out. “Good luck, John. Go with God. Write to me when you can, come back if you can.”
“I will, Master At.” Veraldi took his hand, then snatched him into a close embrace. A moment later, he was walking down the sidewalk.
* * *
Giouan swung up and settled his feet in the stirrups. He looked around one last time, felt a lump rise in his throat for Master Atwood, then reined the horse around and nudged it into motion.
* * *
Coda
From The Fall of Fire: The Coming of Grantville and the Music of Europe
Charles William Battenberg, B.A., M.A., Fellow of the Royal Academy of Music, Schwarzberg Chair of Musicology, Oxford University
1979, Oxford University Press
Chapter Eleven—There Came Sweet Strings
Not all musical advancements from the knowledge of Grantville were made via the road to Magdeburg...the knowledge of the advanced mature instruments, as has already been noted, began to spread out very soon...
With the exception of the piano, no other stringed instrument made as great an impact as the banjo...considered a humble instrument by the up-timers, in the hands of Monteverdi and others it quickly joined the ranks of concert instruments along with the mandolin and guitar, which had supplanted the lute in much quicker fashion than it apparently did in the up-time...down-timers had no knowledge of the banjo, as it had been developed well after the Ring of Fire period of history...
The rise of the banjo was due in no little part to the efforts of one Giouan Battista Veraldi. Little is known of the man. By his name, musicologists assume that he was born in northern Italy, but exactly where has not been determined. It is known that he was a lutenist in the royal court of Sweden for some time. But he enters the Ring of Fire stage in 1634, when he became the student of Atwood Cochran. Therein began the partnership that lifted both the mature guitar and the unknown banjo...
...Veraldi arrived in Venice with guitar and banjo in hand, and addressed himself to Maestro Monteverdi and to the masters of the Sellas family, foremost luthiers in Italy...saw the innovation immediately...Monteverdi’s “Sonatas for Banjo and Continuo” were published within the year, and swept through Italy and southern Germany almost by storm...The literature for banjo began to expand almost exponentially...Veraldi’s “Etudes for Solo Banjo” are part of the standard repertoire...
The Sellas family had received an almost incalculable advantage...samples of the mature instruments were in their hands for weeks as they measured...far in advance of the Voboams and other luthiers of France and Spain.
After a few years, Veraldi began returning to Grantville to visit his teacher. Before long, he was bringing other students with him...a school developed...students from all over, but especially from northern Italy...Master Cochran was the head, but il primo Veraldi was the driving force...The journals of several musicians who later became of note record seeing Master Cochran in his eighties playing together with Veraldi...loved a piece named Dueling Banjos, and played it with great glee...significance of the title is unknown, since by all accounts Master Cochran would play a guitar in these performances...unfortunately the music has been lost in the passage of time...
Stone Harvest
Karen Bergstralh
May 1635
Flagged iron stakes dotted the slope above the village of New Hope. Along a section of stone wall, red flags marched. Patterns of green and yellow flags flanked the wall and two lone white flags fluttered in the near distance.
“The red flags mark the walls we’ve found,” Mike Tyler said proudly. “Each yellow flag shows what we think is the interior of a separate room or structure. Green indicates open areas between structures.”
“What then do the white ones mark?” asked one of the men standing beside Mike. Ernst von Weferling’s face showed real interest. He had sought out Mike the week before, asking questions about up-time archaeology and about a tour of the dig. That’s when things started getting complicated.
To von Weferling’s right stood short, plump, and unhappy Oscar Clausnitzer. The man reminded Mike of a garden slug, oozing discontent in place of slime. Bruno Glasewaldt, as thin as Clausnitzer was plump, fidgeted next to Clausnitzer. Glasewaldt hadn’t said much this morning beyond complaining about how early the tour was.
Two days before, Glasewaldt and Clausnitzer had introduced themselves as antiquarians. Having heard about the upcoming tour they expressed their eagerness to join in. This morning, when Mike appeared with the hotel’s surrey instead of an up-time car, their enthusiasm had waned but they still insisted on coming along.
The fourth man, Leopold von Alvensleben, stood slightly apart, frowning. Despite his professing to be a collector of antiquities he looked, dressed, and acted more like a general surveying a battlefield. Mike knew nothing about the man beyond his polite request to join the group going to the site this morning.
“The white flags mark features we discovered but haven’t examined yet. So far we think that this site has been occupied by two distinct groups.” Mike walked to the nearest set of flags. This section of wall stood roughly two feet tall by six feet long. A wooden box sat on top. Mike took several potsherds from the box and presented them to his audience. “We found these here, in what was probably a kitchen. These red pieces might be Roman dinnerware. Expensive Roman dinnerware.” He held out half of a shattered bright red ceramic bowl to the men. “This site isn’t Roman, but it’s possible that a collector of curiosities lived here.”
“Not Roman?” von Alvensleben snarled. “Who would bother if it isn’t Roman?” He paused for a moment, peering intently into the excavation square. “Gold! You have information about coin hordes. Where are the coins?” He drew himself up, face flushed; the riding crop in his right hand beating a tattoo against his boot.
“We haven’t found any coins and I don’t think that we will,” Mike protested. “We’re digging here because no one knows who built these walls.”
“Do you think we are stupid? If this isn’t a Roman ruin,” Clausnitzer growled, “then the only reason to dig here is that you know of other valuable items buried here.” The little man glared at Mike and added, “Who do you mistake us for?”
“He mistakes us for fools,” Glasewaldt said. “To be taken in by a few pieces of broken pottery he’s picked up from a village’s trash p
it. Show us what you’ve really found. If not coins, perhaps marble statues?”
Mike’s temper rose. Yesterday they had seemed to understand that archaeology was about knowledge, not finding treasure. These broken bits of pottery told him more about the inhabitants than a gold coin could. He fought to keep his voice even.
“There aren’t any statues or gold coins or anything of monetary value here. If there ever was anything like that. Anything valuable was taken when this place was abandoned.”
“Don’t think that you can fool us. Herr Clausnitzer has the right of it. Either this place is Roman or there is something of value hidden here. You must have secret knowledge about this place,” von Alvensleben snapped. “I see nothing more than a pile of rocks pulled from the fields. An old house or barn, perhaps. What sources do you have? How did you know that there was Roman treasure hidden here?” The whip continued its staccato beat on his boot.
“I said it isn’t Roman. The stone work on the remaining walls does look like Roman work, but we’re well outside the area that the Romans controlled. The original builders might have had some contacts with the Romans.” Mike offered the red bowl again. “This Roman pottery indicates that at some point there was contact or trade with the Romans.”
“Trash! You’ve shown us nothing but bits of worthless trash!” Von Alvensleben reached out and knocked the remains of the bowl to the ground. His booted foot smashed down on it, shattering it into tiny pieces.
