House of Rougeaux(70)
As the weeks became months, the company became a true family, a band of nomads with a single mission. When tensions arose among the company members, as they sometimes did, it was Lemuel Harris who put out the fires. He had a great capacity to soothe and bring out understanding in even the hottest tempers. Just as New York had thrilled Eleanor in her younger years, the European cities they visited were a marvel. She found she enjoyed German wurst and sauerkraut as much as anything she had ever tasted in New York. Hearing other languages on the streets and seeing the endless stream of new sights were yet another kind of music.
Eleanor bought stacks of picture postcards to send home, filling their backs with her tiniest script in an attempt to mail away as much of herself as would fit there. On the rare occasion that she received a letter back, having given her family an address in a city they would reach in two or three months’ time, she pored over it first with anxiety that it would bear any bad news. When there was none, to her relief, she would re-read the letter carefully, always hoping to discover something about little Gerard. Sometimes there was a mention of Ross and Tilly and the children, from which Eleanor could extract, if not any particular details, a report of his general well-being.
In every city the Frangipani Orchestra received invitations to parties, to visit the occasional large estate or historical site with local dignitaries. In Paris, they attended the Exposition Universelle, where they viewed wonders of the world and fantastical innovations of the future. It was astounding to Eleanor that the company rode in any train car, and stayed at any hotel. The white passengers, or other hotel guests, regarded them with curiosity, for the most part, and not much else. If once in a while a set of eyes fell coldly upon them, or an insult was hurled on the street, it was still far less than what they were used to at home.
People from the audiences, time and again, waited on the street for the company to leave the theater. They wanted to shake hands or flirt, and offer flowers and gifts. They wanted to tell the muscians what the performance had meant to them. One young man in Berlin gripped Eleanor’s hand and shook his head with feeling. He hadn’t much English, but kept repeating the word “Beautiful.”
All those auditions in New York that had come to nothing, even with Mrs. Thurber’s glowing letter of endorsement, had left a bitter taste in her mouth. At her last appearance in an audition hall, the director had refused to let her play. He claimed that they had already filled the position, even though a man was playing while several more were waiting their turn. He pinched her elbow so hard while steering her out the door, she dropped Mrs. Thurber’s letter and he stepped on it. Eleanor retrieved the battered paper and tucked it into her bag. On the streetcar home, she took it out and read it over and over. The words affirmed her talent, her training, her devotion to her art—those rare and hard-won treasures that should ensure a real career. She read the letter another time, then tore it to shreds.
Eleanor had taught her classes, given her private lessons, and contributed pieces at occasional benefit concerts. She made her living with music, but not in the way she was born to. Now, in Europe, she had a place such as she had never had before, not as a single star, but as one of a constellation. She felt she could occupy the whole sky.
As the summer wore on the company all looked forward to their visit to London in July. Joop had arranged a performance at Westminster Hall for none other than the delegates and participants in the First Pan-African Conference. The delegates included leaders from Africa and the West Indies, as well as Great Britain and the United States. Among them would be the eminent Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois, and it would be the great honor of the Frangipani Orchestra to perform for these visionary leaders, whose object was nothing less than to “...secure throughout the world the same facilities and privileges for the black man as the white man enjoys.”
The concert was held at the end of the last day of the Conference and was relatively brief, with little time to mingle afterwards as the delegates were soon to be whisked away to a tea on the Terrace of Parliament. Nevertheless, the company threw themselves into the performance heart and soul, as this was a rare moment and a very special audience. The Orchestra performed a shortened adaptation of the last movement of Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9, for which Jeannette Thurber had suggested the subtitle From the New World, and a rendition of Old Zion’s Children Marching Along, with Alma’s solo that soared as never before, and arrested all who listened. Mr. Henry Sylvester Williams, a barrister from Trinidad and one of the conference leaders, declared the Frangipani Orchestra a “jewel in Africa’s crown,” and expressed the heartfelt thanks of the delegates, and apologies in equal measure, for their hasty departure. There was a flurry of handshaking and then the delegates went on their way, leaving the Orchestra alone to pack up their instruments. Conductor Lemuel Harris told the company they had made him proud, and Joop strode around nodding, hands in his pockets, saying nothing because he was all choked up.
Later in the evening, after their supper at the hotel, the celebratory mood persisted and many of the company went out to, as Hig always said, “see what they could see.” Jack and Alma wanted to find a music hall where they could see some entertainment and have a few drinks, and Eleanor, though feeling tired, went along with them. Just as they were leaving the hotel Hig showed up with Della Saunders, another of the company’s singers, on his arm. Della it seemed had designs on Hig, and it looked to Eleanor that he was being a good sport about it. Kind as ever, if not exactly eager prey. They found a place several blocks from the hotel, drawn by the lively music and voices of carousers that issued through an open door.