House of Rougeaux(58)

Eleanor’s earliest memory was of sitting beside her grandmother Hetty, called Mémé, on a piano bench. On the other side of big, sweet-smelling Mémé was her oldest brother Albert, with both hands on the white keys, following Mémé’s gentle instructions and plunking out a nursery song. Eleanor was only two or three, and she would have to wait another year or more for her chance at lessons with Mémé. An eternity. Mémé allowed her to sit beside them as long as she remained quiet, which she did, absorbing with her ears and eyes, and whole heart, everything that was happening before her.

When Eleanor’s turn to learn finally came, Mémé was taken aback. “My, oh my,” she remarked to Papa after the first lesson. “I don’t believe that piano will stand a chance against her.” Eleanor’s younger sister Melody eventually enjoyed the lessons too, and though she played like an angel, as folks later said, it was with a distracted air that sometimes led to careless mistakes. Only Eleanor seemed to mind Melody’s carelessness, since she took her own playing so seriously, attacking the instrument with quiet ferocity. When they practiced a duet as older girls, Melody giggled lightheartedly when her fingers fumbled, which frustrated Eleanor so much that she sometimes left the room in tears. Melody always followed her, hugging her around the waist and murmuring apologies and promises to do better, but in the end her nature won out and Eleanor would be upset anew. Finally, Auntie Josephine stepped in and declared no more duets, allowing harmony to return between the sisters. But this was later, when Eleanor was sixteen.

Mémé passed on when Eleanor was only twelve years old. The children clung to Mama and sobbed, never dreaming they would also lose her too only a few months later. When their mother died, Eleanor’s world all but ended. Auntie Josephine came and held things together at home, and Papa bore up the family like a ship in a storm. A year passed, and another, and though the storm abated, none were left unscathed. Mama’s death affected each of her children differently. Melody, for one, became more protective of little Dax, so much so that sometimes the adults had to step in so that he might play without her constant admonitions. Ross and Jonty pulled together tighter. For Eleanor it was as if there were a hole in her heart, once Mama was gone, leaving her unnaturally exposed. It was strange to Eleanor how other children she knew who had lost parents seemed to carry on much the same as before. Grief looked so very different from the inside.

There was only one thing that still touched her as it had before Mama died, and that was music. As for the piano, Mrs. Allison, the choir director from church, brought Eleanor and Melody under her tutelage, determined to pick up musically where their grandmother had left off. Mrs. Allison was skilled with choir arrangements and directing soloists, but nothing was dearer to her heart than a duet on piano, especially as the centerpiece of a holiday service. When Auntie came to speak with her about Eleanor and Melody, Mrs. Allison agreed to arrange for the girls to play separate pieces. With the change in the program, Mrs. Allison had a chance to see Eleanor play disentangled from Melody, and was taken aback. Eleanor Rougeaux had real potential.

Mrs. Allison, a white woman, was aware that scant opportunities existed for a colored girl to pursue her music, and wondered if there were any schools in the region that might accept Eleanor. She wrote letters to Toronto, Quebec City, Boston, and New Haven. At last she learned of a school in New York City, The National Conservatory of Music of America. It was open to musicians of all colors, women, and even some students who were blind or crippled by polio. Auditions were held every spring. That very evening she paid a visit to the Rougeauxes.

It was February and still bitterly cold. Auntie answered the door, and it was several minutes of unwrapping mufflers and woolens before she could identify the visitor. By then Eleanor and Melody had come into the foyer, along with Papa and Dax, the youngest. Mrs. Allison was ushered into the parlor to sit and soon held a steaming cup of tea in her hands.

“Mr. Rougeaux,” began Mrs. Allison, “as you know, I believe Eleanor has an exceptional talent.” Eleanor’s face grew hot, and she stared hard at the floorboards. Mrs. Allison told them of the Conservatory and the auditions, that the school was supported by numerous sponsors and that from the auditions two hundred students would be selected for their summer program. Of these two hundred, up to half would be invited to continue at the Conservatory for four years. There were scholarships sufficient to provide tuition and basic living expenses for those in need. At this Eleanor could no longer decipher the words exchanged. Her ears filled with a roaring noise, and she thought her heart would fly from her chest.

Papa was dubious. He thanked Mrs. Allison most sincerely for her interest and time, and for her faith in Eleanor. The family was indebted to her. But he was not eager to send his child away to a foreign place. She was only eighteen and anything could happen to a colored girl all alone in a big city.

Mrs. Allison understood this and was prepared. She handed Papa the letter she had received from the school. There were a number of reputable boarding houses for young ladies where the out-of-town female students stayed, and the conduct of all the students was strictly chaperoned. The good standing of the Conservatory depended not only upon the musicianship it produced, but also on the behavior of the students, both in and outside of the classroom. The letter made very clear that for the students fortunate enough to be selected, their personal responsibility was as great as the opportunity. Anything less was grounds for dismissal.