Grantville Gazette, Volume 72 Page 8
Tired. Eyes blurring.
Recited evening prayers. Now for bed.
****
From the Journal of Philip Fröhlich
6 March 1635
Tuesday
Breakfast–
1 cup morning broth 2 quartered pfennigs
1 barley roll 2 quartered pfennigs
1 winter apple 1 pfennig
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
Supper–
1 wurst 2 pfennigs
1 barley roll 2 quartered pfennigs
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
Dreams last night. Don't remember much, except I think Max was lurking around the edges. Guess a guardian angel has to do his guarding some time.
Saw Master Gröning today for the first time in a long time. Herr Schiller made us brush our clothes and shoes this morning first thing, and sweep the floor. He even brought in a bottle of good wine. The master looked old and tired, and had a really bad cough. Hurt to listen to him. Fancy clothes. Looked around, smiled, told us we were doing well, then took Herr S into the back office and closed the door. Took the wine, too. Spent most of the morning in there. Came out, handed me and Martin both a groschen, told us to keep doing good, and left. Herr S said good job, and told us to get back to the accounts.
Angry. With myself. Very angry. Was copying "Portia's Lament" tonight. Being very careful, making a really nice copy, over half-way done. Then tonight, sneezed really hard three times in a row. Knocked over the inkwell. Landlord's stupid table doesn't have well for inkwell, was sitting on tabletop. Had just refilled it, full of ink. Splashed over four pages. Tried to wipe it off. Didn't work. Will have to recopy those pages. Again.
Angry.
Made myself read ten pages in The City of God. Took that many to bank the fires of my anger. Calmer now. Just very unhappy. Sad, maybe. Waste of time, paper, ink. Not cheap.
Recited evening prayers. Three times. Now to bed, hope to sleep.
****
From the Journal of Philip Fröhlich
12 March 1635
Monday
Breakfast/lunch–
2 barley rolls 1 pfennig
1 cup small beer 1 quartered pfennig
Supper–
1 wurst 1 pfennig
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
No dreams. Woke up tired, weary. May be why.
Martin had new shirt on today. New to him, anyway. Could see where seams had been changed to fit him. Still looked good. Need to think about that for me. Most of my shirts getting very thin, worn. Not sure they can be patched. Will find out soon, I'd guess.
Took until today to gather the money to replace ruined paper and spilled ink. Not cheap. Started copying from point where pages had been ruined. Got three done tonight. One tomorrow, and I'll be able to start copying the story from the point where I left off. Will push to finish soon. Want this in Herr Gronow's hands as soon as possible.
Re-read The Gold of the Rhine story from first issue of Der Schwarze Kater again. Good story. Felt more like Herr Lovecraft than Herr Poe, but good story. River dragon was scary. Written by Herr Klaus Wolfenstein. Weird name, but that's what the magazine said in two places. Can tell writer is a down-timer. After reading the Bible so much, word choices and stringing together makes patterns. Up-timer patterns are different.
Tired.
Recited evening prayers. Now to bed.
****
From the Journal of Philip Fröhlich
13 March 1635
Tuesday
Breakfast–
1 cup morning broth 2 quartered pfennigs
1 barley roll 2 quartered pfennigs
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
Supper–
1 wurst 2 pfennigs
1 barley roll 2 quartered pfennigs
1 cup sauerkraut 2 quartered pfennigs
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
Dreamt last night. Don't remember much, but woke up twice.
Weather is starting to warm up a little. Snow melts a little during the daytime sun, then freezes into crusty ice. Makes walking to work a bit chancy in places. Four years ago would have said fun. Now just want to get places without falling and getting wet or colder. Does that mean I'm growing up?
Nothing remarkable at work. Master Gröning's cash entries up. Made copies of two new contracts, made folders, added to the searching lists. Martin continuing to improve, both health and work.
Copied the last ruined page, added two more new page copies. Keep this up, will be done with the new fine copy with three more nights of copying. Ready to get it done and turn it in.
Read a little. Tired.
Recited evening prayers. Now for bed.
****
From the Journal of Philip Fröhlich
16 March 1635
Friday
Breakfast–
1 cup morning broth 2 quartered pfennigs
1 wheat roll 3 pfennigs
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
Supper–
1 wurst 2 pfennigs
2 barley rolls 1 pfennig
2 mugs beer 2 pfennigs
Stopped at Mama Schultz's for breakfast. Not many people there when I walked in. She nodded at me when she handed me my broth. Told her that hers tasted like my mother's. She stared at me for a moment, then put her meat fork down and patted me on the cheek. Said I was a good boy. Then picked up the meat fork and told me to get out of the way of the men behind me. I like her. Trying to think of a story to tell she could be in.
Quiet day at work. Herr Schiller hasn't yelled about anything in days. Makes me afraid something bad is going to happen. Hope not. I like quiet. Let's me think about what stories I can tell.
Copied last four pages of "Portia's Lament" tonight. All done. I think. Need to look at it tomorrow when I'm awake and make sure it's right. So tired now can't even see the pages.
Recited evening prayers. Now for bed.
****
From the Journal of Philip Fröhlich
18 March 1635
Sunday
Breakfast–
Fasted
Lunch-
1 sausage 2 pfennigs
1 wheat roll 3 pfennigs
Supper–
1 cup sauerkraut 2 quartered pfennigs
1 sausage 2 pfennigs
2 mugs beer 2 pfennigs
Dreamt last night. Woke up at least once, but don't remember anything about them.
Attended church today. Music wasn't bad, so sang with a will. Reading and homily were average. Hope Pastor Gruber will speak again soon.
Spent afternoon looking over "Portia's Lament" one last time. Seemed to be as good as I could make it. Thought the presentation, as Herr Gronow called it, was very nice. So took it by the office. Door was closed, as usual. Dropped it through the slot in the door and said a prayer, as usual, adding to it that I hope the response isn't as usual.
Johann was back in Magdeburg today, so we met at The Green Horse. Talked for hours. He told me about what he is doing at Jena, I told him about my new work for Herr Schiller and my writing. Then we got serious and talked about The City of God. I surprised him some with what I said. I could tell. That was a strange feeling, to have someone I look up to treat me with respect over something I say. Strange . . . but I think I could learn to like it.
Read from The City of God tonight. Several pages . . . at least eight. And it flowed. I'm able to follow what the saint was saying. That doesn't make me a saint, does it? Hope not. If so, I need to rethink what I think about saints.
Feel good. Feel nervous.
Recited evening prayers, and now to bed.
****
From the Journal of Philip Fröhlich
23 March 1635
Friday
Breakfast–
1 cup morning broth 2 quartered pfennigs
2 wheat rolls 1 pfennig
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
Supper–
1 wurst 2 pfennigs
1 winter apple 1 pfennig
2 mugs
beer 2 pfennigs
Dreamt last night. Saw Herr Poe's pendulum. Heard it swoosh. Woke up three times, dream kept coming back.
Nothing different at work today. Martin getting better at work.
Very nervous. No answer from Herr Gronow. Know the page in the magazine says allow six months, but always before he's responded in a day or so.
Tried to read, but couldn't focus on either the magazines or The City of God. Finally ended up reading in the Bible. Samuel again. King Saul. Very strange man. Chosen by God, but went so wrong. How? Why? And why would God allow His chosen king to fail like that? Think about that.
Recited evening prayers. Now to bed.
****
From the Journal of Philip Fröhlich
24 March 1635
Saturday
Breakfast–
1 barley roll 2 quartered pfennigs
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
Supper–
1 sausage 2 pfennigs
2 barley rolls 1 pfennig
1 mug beer 1 pfennig
No dreams last night. Don't remember any, anyway, didn't wake up in the night.
Should be careful what I wish for. Messenger brought Herr Gronow's response to work today. Same messenger. Didn't even look at Herr Schiller this time, just brought the envelope to me, handed it to me with a nod, and left.
Herr S didn't even look at me. Put it in my shirt until I got home. Hard not to rip it open right then.
Looks like I have more work to do.
****
23 March 1635
Herr Philip Frölich
No. Just . . . no.
I must deliver more lessons in presentation, I see. If you still have my response to your previous submission, please reread it. Take special note of the section where I stated that you need to make it easy for the publisher to read your work, and that if you do things that hinder the reading of the work, the more likely it is that the publisher will reject your submission. Make an extra special note that among those things that will certainly cause a publisher to reject your work is submitting a manuscript written with scarlet ink on bright yellow-tinted paper.
The contrast between those hues was painful to observe. Even now, my temples throb. I am on my second glass of wine, and expect to do more. Alas, my tin of Dr. Gribbleflotz's Sal Vin Betula is empty, or I would have ingested several of those as well.
Your purpose in preparing a manuscript is to make it as perfect as you can in normal preparation, so that the publisher's eye can simply glide over the page, taking in the story without stumbling over the letters. To be perfectly clear, plain white paper. Of as good a quality as you can afford, of course, but Plain White Paper. Do you understand that? And black ink. Not artistic blue, or pretentious purple, or any pastel shade, or even (shudder) red. Black. Ink. White paper, black ink, for maximum contrast and ease of reading. The publisher needs to be astounded by your story, not by your calligraphic artistry.
Having said that, I will confess that your illuminated capital that began the story was interesting. Distracting, but interesting. However, the drawings you interspersed throughout the work were, shall we say, tedious at best, and execrable at worst.
The two paragraphs I managed to read before my eyes closed in self-preserving rebellion seemed improved. And "Portia's Lament" is a marked improvement as a title. Nonetheless, it is not adequate. Conceive of another, please.
It is now with some trepidation that I say this, but when you correct the issues noted above, you may resubmit it.
Good day to you.
Johann Gronow
Editor and Publisher
Der Schwarze Kater
VI
Mid-October, 1634
Suhl
I wish I'd thought to bring a gavel. Pat Johnson had rented a room to hold the first official meeting of the consortium. The room contained a long table encircled with cushioned chairs. One side of the room contained windows providing enough light that lamps weren't needed. On the opposite wall was a sideboard with pitchers, mugs, and a tray of Greta Issler's pastry. Only a handful of people were present, milling about and talking. Many of the investors could not attend. The ones present, however, represented the core of the new company. Marjorie had brought the tray of Greta Issler's honey rolls and someone had filled the three pitchers with broth, tea, and one of coffee. Pat wondered for a moment where the coffee had come from. He hadn't found a source.
Time to get started. He took his revolver from his pocket, ejected its cartridges, and pounded the tabletop with the empty pistol's butt.
"Would you all please sit down? Let's get this show on the road."
Not counting Pat, there were six present for the meeting. Gary and Gaylynn Reardon, Osker Geyer, Archie and Marjorie Mitchell, and Ruben Blumroder, who had just returned from Bamberg, sat around the table. Ruben was representing the gunsmiths of Suhl and some of other local investors.
"Thank you," he said as the last board member sat down at the table. "I asked you here to give you all updates of our progress and to formalize our . . . consortium, for want of a better word." He took one of the papers off the stack before him and passed the rest of them to Ruben. "Would you take one and pass the rest down the table, Ruben?" He waited until everyone had a copy of the document. "I had these copies of the project plan printed when I was in Grantville. I've included space to add more tasks to the plan as we discover something we've overlooked. Archie has already reminded me that we'll need our own brassworks. As first order of business, I would like to propose a name for us. I propose we call ourselves the Suhl Consortium for the present. When we actually have some assets, I would like to incorporate ourselves and change the name to Suhl, Inc."
"Suhl Ink?" Ruben asked.
"Suhl Incorporated, Ruben. It's a legal term, an entity which owns the assets, makes the product, and takes the business risks."
"Is that legal here?" Archie asked.
"Uhhh, I don't know. I thought so, but . . ." He stopped and wrote himself a note. "First task for me."
"It's legal," Gaylynn interrupted. "The Higgins Sewing Machine Company is incorporated."
"Let me run the question by Judge Fross—see what he says," Archie said. "Offhand, I think we're okay, but it would be better to get an opinion from him."
"Would you do that, please?" Pat gave a sigh of relief. "You scared me there for a minute, Archie. That reminds me, we need a secretary to take minutes. Any volunteers?"
No one spoke. Taking minutes was a thankless task and later, when the minutes were published, everyone would argue that he had never said what was recorded in the minutes. Nevertheless, the consortium—corporation—was going to be a busy and potentially a very profitable business. Minutes were needed.
When no one else spoke, Marjorie said, "I'll do it but if I'm going to be the secretary, at least temporarily, we'll need officers."
"That's on my list, Marjorie," Pat replied.
"I nominate Gary Reardon as President, Pat Johnson as Operations Veep," Marjorie said, not waiting for Pat to continue.
"Second!" Archie said, following her motion.
"Move to adopt the motion by acclamation," Osker Geyer added. "All in favor say, 'Aye!' "
"Aye!"
"So moved," Marjorie finished.
Gary sat open-mouthed for a moment. Pat had a surprised look on his face. Gary nodded. "Very well. I see you all had that planned."
****
Pat had been leading the meeting, but with Gary's election as President, he was content to let Gary take over. Gary stood and addressed the group. "I had two goals for my trip. Find someone who knows how to make our primer compound and get more funding."
He paused, gathering his thoughts. In a moment, he visualized the project, a mental timeline from beginning to end. Now, how to explain it? Do I need to do that now?
"For the first, I went to Essen and talked with Nicki Jo Prickett. I had thought to hire one of her chemists from Essen Chemical. We may yet, but I was able to talk
Nicki Jo into consulting with us to oversee our chemical plant, design the primer manufactory and develop the entire primer process—make it as safe as she can. She has ideas, too, for the physical layout of the site. She will be here in a week and bringing at least one of her people with her to help. I hope to hire some more of them to take over after Nicki Jo is finished. She's signed a contract as a consultant for one year, with options to extend her contract if we mutually agree."
"I'd heard that Nicki Jo wasn't well," Gaylynn said. Marjorie Mitchell nodded in agreement.
"She wasn't at her best when I saw her. That explosion at her plant last year hit her hard. She lost several friends. This, uh, consultancy will hopefully be therapeutic for her. She was just coasting when I met her. Her . . . uh . . . friend, Katherine Boyle, and Banfi Hunyades, her chief chemist, encouraged her to take our contract. She had lost her motivation, so they said in Essen. They hope our project will restore it."
Gary took a sip from the mug in front of him. It was a stalling tactic. His next remark could be a bombshell—or maybe not. These people had changed a lot since the Ring of Fire. "Nicki Jo and Katherine Boyle will need quarters when they arrive . . . joint quarters." He paused again waiting for someone to comment. "They'll be living together." There. He'd said it.
"For heaven's sake, Gary," Gaylynn said in exasperation. "We know all about Nicki Jo. Marjorie and I will take care of that. Men! Get on with it!" She glanced at Marjorie who nodded. Nicki Jo's sexual orientation was no secret. If down-timers didn't make an issue of it neither would any up-timers.
Gary, somewhat chagrined, continued. "On my way back from Essen, I stopped at Magdeburg and saw some of the Abrabanel family. My intention was to see them for some referrals to some financiers who'd be willing to invest in our project. I was successful. The Abrabanels have agreed to be the liaison between the money people and us. We have access to 25,000 silver guilders, more perhaps, later, if we need it."