American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Some journalists were having a field day exposing all manner of disgraceful tales from within the women’s suffrage movement—everything from rumors of its members advocating “free love” to accusations that some were actively campaigning against marriage and motherhood.

  Even President Grant and his administration weren’t exempt from the rumors of scandal. So rampant were stories of debauchery and corruption that Susanna had almost resolved to simply give up reading the papers altogether. And she rather wished Paul would do the same before he inadvertently brought up one of the unsavory news reports in Caterina’s hearing.

  In truth, she had precious little time for leisure reading these days. As Liam drove her to Saint Catherine’s for her afternoon practice, she spent most of the ride there ticking off all the things she still had to do afterward. She found herself feeling a great deal more harried and distracted since she’d agreed to take part in the Christmas concert.

  So distracted, in fact, that she had to ask Liam to repeat himself as he deposited her at the walkway to the church.

  “I said himself will be coming along with me when I return.”

  “Michael?”

  “Aye. We’ve some errands to tend to, so we’ll be stopping for you afterward.”

  Susanna nodded absently, already turning and starting for the front doors. She hoped Michael didn’t show up early; she wasn’t ready for him to hear her progress just yet. In fact, she was beginning to wonder just how much progress she was actually making. She had left the church yesterday altogether frustrated, keenly regretting all the months she’d gone without touching an organ. Her efforts to regain her former technique and agility seemed to be taking an inordinate length of time.

  The music itself wasn’t all that difficult. Even though Michael’s arrangements were new to her, they were fairly easy to follow and blessedly practical in construction. But her legs ached from using muscles that hadn’t been exercised in over a year, and her playing was still wooden, not merely in physical dexterity, but in emotion.

  The organ at Saint Catherine’s wasn’t so grand as the one she’d be playing in the concert hall, but it was still daunting, even in its simplicity. An organ was a mighty, formidable instrument at the best of times. An exacting taskmaster. And, when the organist was not at her best, more foe than friend.

  Much later in the afternoon, she was making her fifth—or was it her sixth?—pass through the “Hallelujah Chorus” and finding it every bit as stiff and as unemotional as her preceding attempts. Tired, discouraged, and demoralized, she uttered a cry of frustration and deliberately slammed the final chord in an angry thud. She ripped her music from the rack and sat pressing it to her chest, her head down, tears streaming from her eyes.

  The fact that she was crying only served to heighten her self-disgust, for she had never by nature been a weeper. Even as a child she had always taken pride in maintaining her composure. But at the moment she was weary beyond words and furious with herself, that she had agreed to this—this impossible undertaking. She hated the organ. She hated the music. And she hated weeping. All of which only made the tears come even harder.

  When a pair of strong hands clasped her shoulders, she whipped around, sending her music flying. “Michael! How long have you been here?”

  She winced at the accusatory tone in her voice, but if he noticed, he gave no indication. “I came through the back,” he said, evading her question about how long he’d been listening. “Why are you so upset?”

  “I’m not.”

  “I see.” He paused. “Then why are you so angry?”

  Susanna stood, then stooped down to retrieve her music. “I am angry with myself,” she said between clenched teeth, “because I’ve committed to do something of which I’m obviously incapable. And if you’ve been here very long, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m never going to be able to do justice to this music by the time of the concert.”

  She straightened to find him standing quietly, his head tilted to one side as if he was giving her his closest attention.

  “I’m—it’s as if I’m made of wood when I try to play. I don’t understand it! The music isn’t all that difficult, and yet I’m murdering it entirely!”

  “Come, sit down.”

  Reluctantly, Susanna followed him to the front pew and sat down beside him. “Michael—”

  “First, you are not…murdering the music, Susanna. You are placing too great a demand on yourself and creating an unreasonable tension. It is not the music that is thwarting you, but your own expectations. And perhaps a part of that is my fault.”

  “It’s hardly your fault that I play like a clumsy schoolgirl!”

  “You do not play like a clumsy schoolgirl. You play like a highly gifted young woman, even a professional—but one who has set for herself an impossible goal. A goal of nothing less than perfection.”

  He continued to speak, using his hands as much as his voice as he attempted to make his point. “Now that you have agreed to do this, you are determined to do it perfectly. But because the time in which you must achieve this self-imposed perfection is unrealistic, you’re becoming tense and disillusioned with your own abilities. You will do just fine when the orchestra surrounds you and you can forget any limitations you now imagine—for they are negligible and will go completely unnoticed once you join the other musicians. You will see. God will then imbue your music with…spirit and power. He will enable it to soar.”

  Susanna sat staring at him. With her music tucked under one arm, she lifted her other hand to wipe away the dampness from her cheeks. “How can you know that?”

  “I know.” He shrugged. “No music is perfect. No performance is, either. I would not allow my people to perform the music without some imperfection, no matter how small.”

  “But your orchestra is wonderful! I’ve never heard the slightest mistake when they perform. Never.”

  “The fact that you have not heard a mistake doesn’t mean it isn’t there. There is always a flaw. A small dissonance somewhere, at least once. Always.” He gave a cryptic smile. “I insist on it.”

  Susanna stared at him. “You insist on a flaw?”

  “Sì. It is my way of reminding them—and myself—that no one and nothing is perfect except God.” He stopped, his expression all seriousness as he added, “Of course, I allow for only one flaw. No more.”

  “Well,” Susanna said dryly, “I expect you won’t have to worry about anything being perfect as long as I’m a part of the orchestra.”

  He reached to touch her face. “If it were up to me, you would always be a part of the orchestra.”

  He stood then and helped her to her feet. “Remind me to tell Dermot he needs to heat his church. This sanctuary is unconscionably cold. Come now, let’s go home and have a fire and something hot to drink.”

  Susanna took his arm but hesitated before starting up the aisle. “Michael…I want to be sure you know that I’m not trying to back out of the concert. I want to do this for you, really I do! But—”

  He turned toward her. “No, Susanna. You must not do this for me. You must do it for you. Do you understand?”

  The intensity in his voice surprised her. Before she could reply, he added, “This is between you and God. Like a covenant. Do this for Him, and for yourself. He wants you to see that He has gifted you…and called you for this. He wants to show you that in spite of your fear and feelings of inadequacy, you can trust Him to be faithful in helping you to fulfill that calling. No matter what.”

  “How can you know that?” The same question she had asked before.

  He smiled, then gave the same reply as before. “I know.”

  30

  BETWEEN GREATNESS AND GRACE

  Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage…

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Michael never held rehearsal the day before a concert. “Just as the music must have its silences, its rests,” he
said, “the musicians themselves must also rest.”

  But tonight, with the concert looming less than twenty-four hours away, Susanna did not feel rested. Instead, she stood at her bedroom window thinking with grim irony that Michael might as well have held rehearsal. A long rehearsal. She wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight, and no doubt would feel even more lightheaded and queasy tomorrow.

  She hadn’t even bothered to change into her nightclothes. Earlier she had tried to read, but she could have been staring at a blank page for all the good it did. She did manage to write a letter to the Mahers, her former employers, but barely remembered what she’d written. She had checked on Caterina three times and found both her and the wolfhound sleeping soundly. Now, unable to think of anything else to do, she decided to go downstairs and fix some warm milk. She didn’t particularly like warm milk, and wasn’t at all convinced it encouraged sleep. Still, it was worth trying.

  Besides, the kitchen was comfortable and inviting—when Moira wasn’t there. It was certainly the warmest room in the house. Susanna usually kept her distance when the housekeeper was working. It would be nice, she decided, to have it all to herself for a change.

  But when she approached, she was surprised to see the door open and light filtering out into the hallway. The Dempseys usually retired much earlier than this. Perhaps Moira was working on some special Christmas delicacy. Tentatively, she stepped into the room. It was softly lit by candles, and a cheerful fire blazed and crackled in the enormous stone fireplace.

  Michael sat at the kitchen table. In front of him was a plate of bread and cheese, and he was drinking something from a cup. He pushed his chair back and stood the instant he heard her footsteps.

  “Susanna?”

  “Yes. Sit down, Michael. What are you doing?”

  “Indulging myself.” He smiled sheepishly, brushing the front of his sweater as if to dispel any crumbs. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

  “No. I didn’t really expect to. But surely you don’t get nervous the night before a concert?”

  “Come in, please. Join me. I heated some milk—have some with me. And something to eat? Paul said you scarcely touched your supper.”

  “Paul is too observant for his own good.” Susanna poured herself a cup of milk and went to sit down across the table from him.

  “So…do you get nervous before a concert?”

  He shook his head. “At the moment I am excited. I had a letter from my father today. It seems he is finally coming to visit.”

  “Oh, Michael, that’s wonderful! How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

  “A long time. Years. I have been trying to convince him to come here and stay, but he insists this will be only a visit. Perhaps once he is here I can change his mind.”

  “When is he coming?”

  “Not until spring. Sometime around the end of March or early in April, I think. I haven’t told Caterina yet. She will badger me incessantly once she knows.”

  “Well, I’m very happy for you. You’ll have to tell me what you’d like me to do to help prepare for his visit.”

  “That is not your responsibility, Susanna,” he said firmly. “You are not a part of the household staff—you are Caterina’s aunt.”

  “But I want to help.”

  “Probably you can help most by keeping Caterina from driving all of us to lunacy once she learns the news. She has been wild to meet her grandpapa.”

  “They’ve never met? Then she will be thrilled. What a splendid opportunity for both of them.”

  He nodded. “But now I will answer your question. About the stage fright. I don’t get nervous, no. I pray much about it, however,” he added with a wry grin.

  “I find it odd that you would be even the slightest bit tense,” Susanna said. “You always look so completely calm when you’re conducting.” She took a sip of milk. “I’m terrified, of course. I suppose I’ll be even worse tomorrow.”

  He nodded, although Susanna was quite sure he couldn’t comprehend what she was feeling.

  “You told me once that you understood about stage fright,” she said. “But I can’t imagine why.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have stage fright with the orchestra, because when we perform, I become one with them. But when I was still singing—” He raised his eyebrows. “I know about ‘terrified,’ I assure you.”

  “I certainly can’t think why. Your success was legendary.”

  “The fear was as real to me as it is to you. It happened every time I went on stage. Sometimes I became physically ill and thought I could not possibly go on.”

  “But you always did…”

  He nodded slightly. “But not always willingly.”

  “Is that why you quit singing? Or was it because of the blindness?”

  He was about to take a sip of milk, but the cup didn’t quite make it to his mouth. It stopped in midair, and he frowned.

  “Forgive me,” Susanna said quickly. “That’s really none of my business.”

  “E’niente.” He shrugged. “Actually, it was neither. God helped me to function in spite of the stage fright. That’s why I can be so certain He will do the same for you. As for the blindness—I left the opera before the accident.”

  “Before? But why? I’d just assumed—” She stopped. “Deirdre?”

  “It’s not easy to explain.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked—”

  “No, no, it’s all right.” He tilted his head. “But are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  Slowly, he nodded, then clasped his hands on top of the table. “I know that Paul told you about Deirdre and me.”

  Susanna hadn’t expected him to bring up the subject of his marriage. “Michael, there’s no need—”

  He lifted a hand. “It’s all right, Susanna.”

  She sank back against the chair, watching him. His face had grown taut, his expression intense. The creases at the corners of his eyes seemed more deeply drawn, his mouth tighter. His hands, always elegant and expressive, clenched, then unclenched and began to move as he spoke.

  “To fail in one’s marriage—this is a hard thing, a very hard thing for a man to live with. But the truth is that Deirdre was never happy with me. I was not a good husband for her. It was a mistake for us to marry. We barely knew each other. But she wanted it that way, and I…well, I was impulsive then, too. But from the beginning we were very different. Later, things changed even more. I changed. And so did Deirdre.

  “She needed more, much more, than I could give her. Deirdre, I think, was driven,” he said quietly. “She had a kind of hunger in her, a need, that nothing seemed to fill. She was always searching for more. And when she didn’t find it, when she could not have what she thought she wanted, she would grow angry. Very angry. Ultimately, she wanted a much different kind of life from what we had, much different than I could endure.

  “She loved the opera, you understand? More than anything, she loved the life of the theater: to perform, to be surrounded by people, to be adored. She had so much ambition, so great a passion, that at times she simply overwhelmed me. I felt as if I were drowning.”

  He brought his hands to his face, kneading his temples as if his head ached. “We were, as I said, very different. We believed in different things, wanted different things. But at the time, I tried to tell myself that we were not so different after all.”

  He got to his feet and went to stand with his back to the fire. His hair fell forward as he stood there, his head dipped low, his hands clasped behind his back. “I must tell you things about myself I would rather you not know,” he said with a rueful smile. “I would prefer that you think the best of me. But—”

  He shrugged, then went on. “For some years before Deirdre and I met—and during much of our marriage—I had…great success. And I enjoyed it; it was—” He made a circular motion with his hand. “It made my head spin. There was the money, of course. There was always much money. More t
han I needed, more than I could spend. And the celebrity—ah, the crowds! With every role I sang, every stage I walked onto, I felt more and more the adulation of the people, the audience. And the excitement of the lifestyle: travel, new experiences—this was important to me, especially as a young man. I was very restless, never satisfied. Much like Deirdre, no?”

  Susanna noticed that the longer he spoke, the more pronounced became his accent—and the more strained his expression.

  “So…I, too, was driven, you see. I possessed a different kind of hunger, but a hunger all the same. More than anything else, what drove me was the music. Always the music. Always, I searched for something I had heard—in my head, in my heart, when I was but a child. Something I knew I was meant to create, or discover, yet something always just out of reach.

  “I later came to realize that as a child I had been given a kind of vision, a glimpse of God’s plan for my life—I am almost embarrassed to tell you this, it sounds so presumptuous—but it is true, nevertheless. Then as I grew older and the success came, I allowed the vision to pale. For a time I was caught up in it all—the chaos and the excitement and the adoration of the crowds. Always somewhere to go, something to do, people demanding more and more from me. I suppose I grew to need it. Perhaps I even fed on it. It made me more alive, gave me that rush to the blood that can be a kind of…seduction. To my shame, I reached a place where the music no longer mattered nearly as much to me as what it could provide for me. Even my God, who gave me the music in the first place—he no longer mattered so much to me either.

  “But eventually, something began to change. At first, it happened slowly, very slowly. At some point, I began to sense a need for something more important and fulfilling than the crowds and the fame and the money. The way I was living—the way we were living at that time—had become meaningless. Empty.”