Anger

by May Sarton

  But was it a migraine or was it an attack of excruciating self-doubt? Self-doubt why and about what? What made Ned suddenly remember that he had heard that his father started out after college at the bank where Pauline’s father was president … he must have gotten out when the boys were quite small, and become business manager then of a small firm, really a one-man show, which made stained glass windows for churches and public buildings. The “one-man” of the show was an eccentric geniusy craftsman who was in love with the Gothic and designed and worked with three or four workmen he had trained. Apprentices came and went. As a business it was distinguished enough but rather small potatoes. Ned imagined now that it must have been a kind of escape hatch for his father, something valid from a professional view but far from the center of power the bank had represented. Had his father somehow not measured up at the bank? Or had a fight with his father-in-law? At forty did he feel he was a failure? Had he wanted to be a writer or an artist of some sort himself, but felt pressured by marrying a fortune into a semblance at least of success in the business world? Oh, Ned groaned inwardly, if I only knew.

  What he did know was that under the surface his father was locked up inside. The whole business of “measuring up” had to do with not complaining, with never imposing personal matters on anyone even, Ned surmised, on his wife. Ned had learned quite early on that any talk of being cross or depressed or in any way unable to cope, was treated as a sin. You had to be amused, have fun, enjoy … and his father had been so good at inventing ways to have fun that it seemed quite natural to put down any soul searching as self-indulgent. Now Ned began to see that that, just that was self-protection and under the surface may have lived a man in pain, an excruciatingly lonely man, in the end a mortally sick man.

  “Are we very rich, Papa?” he had asked his father once when they were climbing Mount Monadnock on the October 12th holiday. “Johnny says we are.”

  His father had walked on without answering, he remembered, and only later when they were eating a sandwich at the top, had closed the subject with the words, “I wouldn’t worry, Ned. We have enough to live on.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Ned said, throwing pebbles one by one.

  It seemed a little strange that money was never talked about. Only vulgar people expressed any interest in it, Ned learned and when later on he complained that other boys at school were given far larger allowances than either he or Paul his father had expressed surprise. “I don’t see what you need money for at school, except to show off.”

  “I want ski boots, Father.”

  “Well, save up for a few months.”

  Ned had sensed that it would be wiser to leave it at that.

  But suicide? None of all this explained it. Except … the idea came to him with force like an explosion … if no deep feelings find a way of expression, if anger is taboo, if admitting depression is a sin, if even love is expressed only by things done, never things said—then what happens to a human being? “Does it have to go on from generation to generation?” he heard Anna’s voice in his head, “The closing off? The fear of feeling?”

  How did she know when he did not know himself? Had his father’s sense of impotence cut him off finally even from his wife? Ned winced. No child can imagine his parents in bed and even now at forty he screened off what he had just imagined. A man cut off from everything except nursing a sick dog … so when the dog died, the death had become an immense hazard, gone the only love that could be expressed, gone the only way out for tenderness and compassion. That at least explained his mother’s irritations. Oh no, Ned told himself, that’s crazy. Absolutely crazy. People don’t commit suicide over a dog! No, he told himself, people kill themselves when they are so cut off from whatever their real life is or could be that there is nowhere else to go.

  Ned was jolted out of his strange state of awareness by the physical jolt of the plane landing. It was quite a relief to get out of that cocoon where he had been so close to his father, when he had seen him for the first time since his death as a person in his own right, to be on his way back from so far, toward life lived at full intensity—Anna!

  Chapter XVI

  Anna woke next morning to a fine day in Dallas. She felt well, for once not too nervous, but she had worked on this concert as hard as she ever had on anything, and maybe, she thought, I am at last learning to trust myself, my voice, and go into a concert happy and assured. Was that possible? It was easier to sing at eleven in the morning, not have to live through a whole nervous day, get it over with while she had the morning freshness still about her … it would not be too hot, she had heard on the radio, and that, too, added to her sense of well-being. So she called Dan in his room, and could not help laughing when he confessed that he had slept badly and was a bit panicky. “Dan! For once I’m not … it went so well last night. Are you still bothered about the piano?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I couldn’t feel a quite perfect rapport with it, I must say.”

  “But you played beautifully!”

  “Oh well, I expect it will be all right. I won’t make an ass of myself, Anna. I promise.”

  “I wonder whether it will be a good house … they said they were selling tickets but couldn’t be sure ahead of time of a sellout. Apparently it’s rather rare for the club to open its doors to strangers, and I presume they did it this time because we have become rather expensive.”

  “Well, your name should pull in a crowd … I wouldn’t worry.”

  “I don’t have a name, Dan. How would anyone in Dallas know I exist?”

  “Come on, Anna, I refuse to flatter you. Did you see the piece in the paper this morning? That should pull them in!”

  “It was quite surprisingly impressive,” Anna said. Indeed she had read it with astonishment. “Someone did a lot of sleuthing. I hardly recognized myself.”

  “You’re either very modest or quite stupid. Take your choice,” Dan teased.

  “Let’s have fun, Dan! I’ll meet you downstairs at ten. They are sending a limousine to take us over.”

  When she put the phone down, Anna was tingling all over with excitement. Now if she could just hold onto it, walk the tightrope until she was on the stage! Not fall into a panic.

  She poured herself a second cup of coffee and sipped it slowly, sitting up straight. One of her anxieties had always been choking on something just before a concert—that, or slipping in the shower and breaking a leg. Anxiety came in all shapes and sizes, but today she was able to keep it at bay. And that, she realized, was because she did not feel as acutely alone as she often did just before a performance. Whatever had happened between her and Ned was giving her a new sense of support, of his being there at her side. So new that she was afraid to think about it for fear it would vanish.

  Meanwhile, an hour later, Ned was making his way into the auditorium through a bevy of talkative women, as far as he could see, the only man among them. He thought of Ernesta Aldrich and wished devoutly that she were there at his side to give him at least the appearance of belonging. His seat was on the aisle in the tenth row. Perhaps he could pretend to be a critic? And with that in mind he took out a pen and studied the program attentively. He imagined Anna and Dan waiting nervously in the wings—that last fifteen minutes, Anna had often told him, was the real hell.

  Someone came out and opened the grand piano, turned on the keyboard light, and arranged the music. It was a rather charming stage, not too big, with a background of beige velvet curtains and, as he looked around, Ned was impressed by the elegance of the auditorium, and smiled at his own provincialism, the Bostonian idea of Dallas being something a little more showy and less distinguished. But then the women all around him were pretty distinguished-looking themselves, with the exception of a few college students, not members of the club, he surmised, in the usual boots, blue jeans and ragged bulky sweaters. What would it be like to step out and meet an audience like this, buzzing with excitement? How to bring it together and silence it like some wild animal to be t
amed with a glance? Ned looked at his watch. It was past eleven. It occurred to him that this was a very different occasion to that day three years ago when he had expected nothing much and did not know that in five minutes his life was to be radically changed. Now his expectation was high but also he was nervous for Anna and with her … he was involved. And the involvement made him impatient and critical. Why didn’t they get on with it? Every seat appeared to be taken. He felt Anna’s tension inside himself.

  Then at last a woman appeared with a sheaf of papers in her hand, evidently the president of the club. She had some announcements to make, apologized for keeping the audience even a moment from “the treat” ahead, and finally when Ned’s exasperation had reached a dangerous point, launched into a prepared introduction of Anna Lindstrom which she read rather haltingly, but with emphasis. “We are indeed fortunate to welcome to Dallas this morning, the magnificent Anna Lindstrom.”

  Where was Anna? The lady hesitated, then made her way to the wings, as the audience applauded, and only then Anna walked out onto the stage, followed by Dan. Ned breathed a sigh of relief. There she was indeed, her eyes shining, making several bows, her smile encompassing the whole hall in that magic way she had, then fading very suddenly as her eyes saw Ned. He had not meant to be seen, not meant to have the effect his presence clearly had. For Anna looked extremely startled, touched her forehead with one hand, turned and whispered something to Dan. When she turned back to the audience she was not smiling and seemed to Ned to be enclosing herself in some way, isolating herself. The audience was now silent. She nodded to Dan to begin the accompaniment. The Fauré songs were to open the program and during the prologue to the first one she closed her eyes.

  Then at last her voice soared out and Ned himself felt the relief from tension she must be experiencing as she held together with her whole being the sustained line, without the slightest tremor. Ah, Ned was thinking, she has been learning … she has grown in a year. He was afraid the audience might applaud after the first song, but she quelled a small ripple with a glance and went right into the second one. And when the three songs were finished and the applause burst out, she gave Ned a dazzling smile much to his delight. So, after all, his being there had only thrown her for a second. And now he could simply enjoy.

  The Kindertoten lieder were next. Anna had not left the stage and rather quickly created her silence. This is her element, Ned was thinking, this grave poignant music, and he was lost in its beauty when all of a sudden someone with a flash bulb stood up and began to take pictures. “Augenblicke! O Augen!” Anna’s voice was just coming to a climax there, and broke. She walked to the apron, and Ned knew how angry she was because her eyes were black.

  “Whoever has chosen to attack and destroy these exquisite Mahler songs with a flash bulb will please desist!”

  Good, Ned thought, she is in control. But then she did not, could not leave it at that apparently.

  “People who feel no reverence for music should not come to concerts. You can have no idea what such an interruption does to me, to the singer, as well as to the composer. You might as well have hurled an egg!”

  “She’s going a bit far,” the woman sitting next to Ned whispered. “After all …”

  “We’ll begin again,” Anna walked back to the piano, nodded to Dan who was wiping his face with a handkerchief and quickly put it back into his pocket. The silence was now very loud. We won’t know, Ned was thinking, whether Anna has lost or won till the end of the songs.

  Anna bowed her head for a few seconds, then looked out, far out above the heads of the audience and began the song again. When she came to “Augenblicke! O Augen! O Augen!” the tone was amazingly delicate and gentle. Anna had tears in her eyes, Ned saw with amazement, and from there the song rose in a long lament, as though all the anger had been transposed into this supremely disciplined art. That is what she could do, poise herself in the midst of acute conflict, and from there sing, he said to himself, like an angel.

  The mystery of it! The strange being who could contain all this and give it out, who could be so passionate in her attack—and then so gentle. What was it all about? He hardly heard the next song he was so absorbed in what was happening to Anna herself. When the tempestuous last song ended, the applause broke out and seemed warm enough. The woman with the camera who had a center seat, pushed her way out and left the hall. Heads turned to watch her go while Anna was still acknowledging the applause. Then she and Dan walked off together.

  A brief intermission, the program stated, would be followed by a performance of a Chopin etude by Dan before Anna’s singing of two Mozart arias and the Brahms Serious Songs. Technically, Ned knew, this was the hardest part of the program. Should he go backstage now? No, he decided not to disturb her. She was still angry or in tears he imagined. It really had been a stroke of bad luck to be so startled out of a song, and Ned did not blame her for having been upset. But …

  He was aware of a buzz of conversation all around him and decided to go out into the lobby and find out what the atmosphere was. The first thing he heard was a stout woman with flaming red hair saying loudly to a small knot of women around her, “Just plain arrogant! Poor Susie just adores her … she didn’t mean any harm!”

  “But it was an awful shock …” a gentler voice murmured. “People are so unaware …”

  “I feel it was too bad … Easterners come to Dallas and think we are savages … and now Susie did behave without thinking in quite a savage way!”

  “Savage, my dear? Come now,” said the woman with red hair. “Aren’t you going a bit far?”

  Ned moved to another part of the lobby, aware that people were looking at him and no doubt wondering what he was doing there. He leaned against the wall and surveyed the crowd. Well, he thought, Anna had certainly stirred them up!

  “It’s an amazing voice,” an older woman was saying. “It reminds me of Kathleen Ferrier.”

  “But Ferrier would never have made such an outburst!”

  “Who knows? Katharine Hepburn stopped the whole show when she was singing Coco, went right out on the stage and asked the person with a camera to leave the theater—and she got away with it!”

  Ned devoured this last statement … I can tell Anna that when I go backstage.

  “It’s too bad,” another woman interrupted, “it’s sort of broken the spell, hasn’t it?”

  “You can’t blame Anna Lindstrom for that! Susie Dennis should have known better!” The older woman seemed quite cross now. “You have no idea, apparently, of the concentration it requires to sing like that … or to give what Lindstrom gives … did you see the tears in her eyes?” At that moment the warning bell resounded and they all poured back into the auditorium.

  Ned knew by the way Anna sailed onto the stage after Dan’s very sensitive playing of Chopin that she was challenging herself and the audience at the same time, that she was going into the second half of the program determined to surpass herself. Ned remembered that she had told him once that Caruso felt the audience was the enemy and he must go in and kill it like a bull … the image had not registered with Ned at the time. It had seemed farfetched. But he recognized it now in the way Anna bowed without smiling at the flutter of applause, and in the way she lifted her head. Not triumph, her whole stance suggested, but attack. The audience responded with absolute attention.

  How does one attack through Mozart? It soon became clear that an artist such as Anna attacks by giving a superlative performance. There was no power in her voice except the power of interpretation, except the flawless purity of her tone. It was as though the emotion back of the notes only made it possible for her to project with a greater exactness what Mozart had written. She was absolutely concentrated and Ned thought “Bravo, Anna!” He was suddenly immensely proud of her.

  Through the Brahms songs he was again able to give himself up to the music and to recapture his own enjoyment, oblivious now of the audience, alone with Anna’s voice, with her beautiful presence. They haven�
�t been able to spoil it, he thought. This is why I came. Not to be near Anna but to see her at a distance, to hear her sing, to find myself in her world, the world where she can be wholly herself and at the same time the servant of music. Not love, not passion inhabited Ned now, but a strange peace.

  He was startled out of it by the thunderous applause and a few shouts of “Bravo” as Anna quickly left the stage, aware no doubt that she would be called back again and again, as indeed she was. The shouts were now “Encore! Encore!” For a second she hesitated, smiling and making deep bows, then she brought Dan out and sang Poulenc’s brief delightful “Carpe” and left the stage finally in a ripple of laughter and applause.

  Ned pushed his way backstage as fast as he could. She was still in the wings, surrounded by women, but when she saw Ned, she ran to him.

  “Oh Ned!” The tone was one of despair, “Oh Ned, I wanted to be wonderful, for you—and then I went and wrecked it all.”

  “You were marvelous, Anna. You know you were.”

  “Really? Do you really think so?” She was looking him straight in the eye.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But that awful woman!”

  “I know, she should be shot at dawn.” And at last Anna laughed and hugged him hard.

  “Oh Ned …” Then aware that they were surrounded, she turned to the president, “Mrs. Ware, I want you to meet my husband, Ned Fraser.”

  “You must be proud of her,” Mrs. Ware shook his hand. “You’ll join us for lunch, I trust?”

  “I’m afraid not. My plane leaves in an hour.”

  “Too bad you can’t stay. Do you have to go back? You could change your flight.”

  “I don’t know how he got away,” Anna said.

  “Are you a doctor?” Mrs. Ware asked, trying to imagine, no doubt, what profession he was in that would permit such a trip.

  “No, I fiddle around at a bank.”