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 would 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
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
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
