Music and Silence.
4 journalers for this copy...
Got from a friend for bookcrossing purposes.
In the year 1629, a young English lutenist named Peter Claire arrives at the Danish Court to join King Christian IV's Royal Orchestra. From the moment when he realises that the musicians have to perform in a freezing cellar underneath the royal apartments, he understands that he's come to a place where the opposing states of light and dark, good and evil are waging war to the death. Music and Silence tells a story that is both violent and tender, shocking and consoling. This is a bold, uncompromising, wildly original book which demonstrates that in the day-to-day business of living, as in a fairy tale, not everything is totally black, nor wholly white.
In the year 1629, a young English lutenist named Peter Claire arrives at the Danish Court to join King Christian IV's Royal Orchestra. From the moment when he realises that the musicians have to perform in a freezing cellar underneath the royal apartments, he understands that he's come to a place where the opposing states of light and dark, good and evil are waging war to the death. Music and Silence tells a story that is both violent and tender, shocking and consoling. This is a bold, uncompromising, wildly original book which demonstrates that in the day-to-day business of living, as in a fairy tale, not everything is totally black, nor wholly white.
Gaat 28 juni mee naar het Castricumse strand voor violoncellix.
As I love both music and silence, this book should be very enjoyable. Thanks a lot, janna2!
'Music and silence' is a historical novel written in great style from many perspectives. Although I do not read a lot of historical novels, I greatly enjoyed this one, both for the intricate plotting with interleaved arcs of tension, and for the variety of writing styles and the author's ability to put herself in the characters' shoes.
Here is an excerpt from one of the first chapters of the book, where we follow Peter Claire, the young English lutenist, too beautiful for his own good, who arrives at King Christian's court in 1629. The part is written in third person:
Then His Majesty stands up and moves towards the fire where Peter Claire is standing, and takes up a lamp and holds it near the young man's face. He examines the face and Peter Claire lowers his eyes because he has been warned not to stare at the King. This King is ugly. King Charles I of England, King Louis XIII of France, these are handsome men at this perilous moment in history, but King Christian IV of Denmark - all-powerful, brave and cultured as he is reported to be - has a face like a loaf.
The lutenist, to whom, by cruel contrast, nature has given an angel's countenance, can smell wine on the King's breath. But he does not dare to move, not even when the King reaches up and tenderly touches his cheek with his hand. Peter Claire, with his blond hair and his eyes the colour of the sea, has been considered handsome from childhood. He wears this handsomeness lightly, frequently forgetting about it, as though almost impatient for time to take it away. He once overheard his sister Charlotte praying to God to be given his face in exchange for hers. He thought, it is really of little value to me; far better it were hers. And yet now, in this unfamiliar place, when his own thoughts are so sombre and dark, the lute player finds that his physical beauty is once again the subject of unexpected scrutiny.
'I see. I see,' whispers the King. 'God has exaggerated, as He so often seems to do. Beware the attentions of my wife, Kirsten, who is a fool for yellow hair. I advise a mask when you are in her presence. And all beauty vanishes away, but of course you know that, I needn't underline the self-evident.'
'I know that beauty vanishes, Sir.'
'Of course you do. Well, you had better play for me. I suppose you know that we had your Mr Dowland here at court. The conundrum there was that such beautiful music could come from so agitated a soul. The man was all ambition and hatred, yet his ayres were as delicate as rain. We would sit there and blub, and Master Dowland would kill us with his furious look. I told my mother to take him to one side and say: 'Dowland, this will not do and cannot be tolerated,' but he told her music can only be born out of fire and fury. What do you think about that?'
Peter Claire is silent for a moment. For a reason he can't name, this question consoles him and he feels his agitation diminish by a fraction. 'I think that it is born out of fire and fury, Sir,' he says, 'but also out of the antitheses to these - out of cold reason and calm.'
'This sounds logical. But of course we do not really know where music comes from or why, or when the first note of it was heard. And we shall never know. It is the human soul, speaking without words. But it seems to cure pain - this is an honest fact. I yearn, by the way, for everything to be transparent, honest and true. So why do you not play me one of Dowland's Lachrimae? Economy of means was his gift and this I dote upon. His music leaves no room for exhibitionism on the part of the performer.'
Peter Claire unslings his lute from his back and holds it close against his body. His ear (in which he wears a tiny jewel once given to him by an Irish countess) strains to hear, as he plucks and tunes. King Christian sighs, waiting for the sweet melody to begin. He is a heavy man. Any alteration of his body's position seems to cause him a fleeting moment of discomfort.
Now Peter Claire arranges his body into the stance he must always adopt when he performs: leaning forward from the hips, head out, chin down, right arm forming a caressing half-circle, so that the instrument is held at the exact centre of his being. Only in this way can he feel that the music emanates from him. He begins to play. He hears the purity of the sound and suspects that this, alone, is what will count with the King of Denmark.
And here is King Christian's second wife Kirsten Munk, written in first person, allegedly copied directly from her (fictional) diary. I enjoyed her parts the most: she must have been insufferable, but Rose Tremain has given her a very enjoyable style (and a lot of bawdy passages that one wouldn't expect from a Lady in 1630):
Then the King commands that I be helped to my feet and brought to his side and settled upon his knee, in front of all the jealous Gentlemen and their nasty Wives. He gives me water from his own chalice and generally makes such a fuss of me, kissing my shoulder and my face, to show the world that, whatever I do, they cannot plot against me to have me banished, because I am the King's Wife (even though I do not have the Title of Queen of Denmark) and he is still in slavish love with me.
And that he does this makes me bold in my ideas. It makes me wonder what I could do - to what length and breadth of wickedness I could go - and contrive still to remain here in Copenhagen, inhabiting the palaces, and keeping all my privileges. I ask myself what thing is there that would cause me to be driven away? And I answer that I do not think there is Any Thing that I could do or say which would bring this about.
So I go further and begin to wonder whether I shall cease to be so secret and furtive in my love affair with Count Otto Ludwig of Salm, but on the contrary make no bones about my Passion for him, so that I can lie with him whenever and wherever I choose. For why should I, who have never been accorded the Title of Queen, not have a lover? And furthermore, when I have been a few hours with my beautiful German man and he has given me those things I need so badly and without which I really cannot live, I do find my own behaviour towards the King and towards my Women and even towards my children to be much more kindly. But this kindness lasts no more than a few hours, or at most one single day, and then I become vexed again. And so it follows that if I were able to see the Count and have a little sport with him every day or night (instead of perhaps once in a fortnight) why then I would be always and eternally Kind and Sweet to everyone else and all our lives would go on much better.
But dare I risk confessing my love for Otto? Alas, upon reflection, I do not think so. He was a brave Mercenary soldier and fought in the recent Wars on the side of my husband against the Catholic League, and risked death for the Danish cause. He is a hero and much liked by the King. Such a man should be given all that he requests and all that he desires. But I do think that men give to each other only those Possessions that they are somewhat weary of and do not fiercely love. And if or when they are asked to give away those things by which they set great store, they refuse and fly immediately into a fury. Which would be the case if now I should suggest that my lover be admitted here to my bed. And so I conclude that the very thing which makes me bold in my ideas of what I could ask - namely the King's love for me - is also the very thing which does prevent me from asking it.
Here is an excerpt from one of the first chapters of the book, where we follow Peter Claire, the young English lutenist, too beautiful for his own good, who arrives at King Christian's court in 1629. The part is written in third person:
Then His Majesty stands up and moves towards the fire where Peter Claire is standing, and takes up a lamp and holds it near the young man's face. He examines the face and Peter Claire lowers his eyes because he has been warned not to stare at the King. This King is ugly. King Charles I of England, King Louis XIII of France, these are handsome men at this perilous moment in history, but King Christian IV of Denmark - all-powerful, brave and cultured as he is reported to be - has a face like a loaf.
The lutenist, to whom, by cruel contrast, nature has given an angel's countenance, can smell wine on the King's breath. But he does not dare to move, not even when the King reaches up and tenderly touches his cheek with his hand. Peter Claire, with his blond hair and his eyes the colour of the sea, has been considered handsome from childhood. He wears this handsomeness lightly, frequently forgetting about it, as though almost impatient for time to take it away. He once overheard his sister Charlotte praying to God to be given his face in exchange for hers. He thought, it is really of little value to me; far better it were hers. And yet now, in this unfamiliar place, when his own thoughts are so sombre and dark, the lute player finds that his physical beauty is once again the subject of unexpected scrutiny.
'I see. I see,' whispers the King. 'God has exaggerated, as He so often seems to do. Beware the attentions of my wife, Kirsten, who is a fool for yellow hair. I advise a mask when you are in her presence. And all beauty vanishes away, but of course you know that, I needn't underline the self-evident.'
'I know that beauty vanishes, Sir.'
'Of course you do. Well, you had better play for me. I suppose you know that we had your Mr Dowland here at court. The conundrum there was that such beautiful music could come from so agitated a soul. The man was all ambition and hatred, yet his ayres were as delicate as rain. We would sit there and blub, and Master Dowland would kill us with his furious look. I told my mother to take him to one side and say: 'Dowland, this will not do and cannot be tolerated,' but he told her music can only be born out of fire and fury. What do you think about that?'
Peter Claire is silent for a moment. For a reason he can't name, this question consoles him and he feels his agitation diminish by a fraction. 'I think that it is born out of fire and fury, Sir,' he says, 'but also out of the antitheses to these - out of cold reason and calm.'
'This sounds logical. But of course we do not really know where music comes from or why, or when the first note of it was heard. And we shall never know. It is the human soul, speaking without words. But it seems to cure pain - this is an honest fact. I yearn, by the way, for everything to be transparent, honest and true. So why do you not play me one of Dowland's Lachrimae? Economy of means was his gift and this I dote upon. His music leaves no room for exhibitionism on the part of the performer.'
Peter Claire unslings his lute from his back and holds it close against his body. His ear (in which he wears a tiny jewel once given to him by an Irish countess) strains to hear, as he plucks and tunes. King Christian sighs, waiting for the sweet melody to begin. He is a heavy man. Any alteration of his body's position seems to cause him a fleeting moment of discomfort.
Now Peter Claire arranges his body into the stance he must always adopt when he performs: leaning forward from the hips, head out, chin down, right arm forming a caressing half-circle, so that the instrument is held at the exact centre of his being. Only in this way can he feel that the music emanates from him. He begins to play. He hears the purity of the sound and suspects that this, alone, is what will count with the King of Denmark.
And here is King Christian's second wife Kirsten Munk, written in first person, allegedly copied directly from her (fictional) diary. I enjoyed her parts the most: she must have been insufferable, but Rose Tremain has given her a very enjoyable style (and a lot of bawdy passages that one wouldn't expect from a Lady in 1630):
Then the King commands that I be helped to my feet and brought to his side and settled upon his knee, in front of all the jealous Gentlemen and their nasty Wives. He gives me water from his own chalice and generally makes such a fuss of me, kissing my shoulder and my face, to show the world that, whatever I do, they cannot plot against me to have me banished, because I am the King's Wife (even though I do not have the Title of Queen of Denmark) and he is still in slavish love with me.
And that he does this makes me bold in my ideas. It makes me wonder what I could do - to what length and breadth of wickedness I could go - and contrive still to remain here in Copenhagen, inhabiting the palaces, and keeping all my privileges. I ask myself what thing is there that would cause me to be driven away? And I answer that I do not think there is Any Thing that I could do or say which would bring this about.
So I go further and begin to wonder whether I shall cease to be so secret and furtive in my love affair with Count Otto Ludwig of Salm, but on the contrary make no bones about my Passion for him, so that I can lie with him whenever and wherever I choose. For why should I, who have never been accorded the Title of Queen, not have a lover? And furthermore, when I have been a few hours with my beautiful German man and he has given me those things I need so badly and without which I really cannot live, I do find my own behaviour towards the King and towards my Women and even towards my children to be much more kindly. But this kindness lasts no more than a few hours, or at most one single day, and then I become vexed again. And so it follows that if I were able to see the Count and have a little sport with him every day or night (instead of perhaps once in a fortnight) why then I would be always and eternally Kind and Sweet to everyone else and all our lives would go on much better.
But dare I risk confessing my love for Otto? Alas, upon reflection, I do not think so. He was a brave Mercenary soldier and fought in the recent Wars on the side of my husband against the Catholic League, and risked death for the Danish cause. He is a hero and much liked by the King. Such a man should be given all that he requests and all that he desires. But I do think that men give to each other only those Possessions that they are somewhat weary of and do not fiercely love. And if or when they are asked to give away those things by which they set great store, they refuse and fly immediately into a fury. Which would be the case if now I should suggest that my lover be admitted here to my bed. And so I conclude that the very thing which makes me bold in my ideas of what I could ask - namely the King's love for me - is also the very thing which does prevent me from asking it.
Nogmaals veel dank aan janna2 voor dit cadeautje. Zelf heeft zij van de Nederlandse vertaling genoten: zie http://www.bookcrossing.com/journal/6224606
Nu is dit Engelstalige exemplaar gereserveerd voor Frakke-Per, die een paar weken geleden een mastermind-spel won door het woord `onweerlegbaarheid' (incontrovertibility) uit dit boek te raden.
Nu is dit Engelstalige exemplaar gereserveerd voor Frakke-Per, die een paar weken geleden een mastermind-spel won door het woord `onweerlegbaarheid' (incontrovertibility) uit dit boek te raden.
Een prijs, voor mij! Ik ben benieuwd.
Released 10 yrs ago (4/18/2014 UTC) at
CONTROLLED RELEASE NOTES:
Op naar Boekentrol, die me helpt mijn woonst op te ruimen.
Journal Entry 8 by Boekentrol at - Ergens in de provincie, Fryslân (Friesland) Netherlands on Friday, April 18, 2014
One of the books from the book bag that I collected at Frakke-Per's today. Thank you so much!
I enjoyed another novel by this author (The Colour) very much, I hope I like this one as well. Will get back to you after I've finished.
I enjoyed another novel by this author (The Colour) very much, I hope I like this one as well. Will get back to you after I've finished.