Paul Robeson (23 page)

She had not. Instead of returning home, and oblivious to Essie's actual condition, Paul sent her a series of letters over the next few weeks that presumed her full recovery from the delivery and expressed deep feeling for her. “You see,” he wrote, “I really have grown in these two months of separation to love you with a love that seems unbelievable to me. Nothing matters but you—I don't matter—the world doesn't matter and I'm so anxious to see you to show you a new love—a new sweet heart—a new husband—just like the old one but so much sweeter—kinder—more love—more considerate.”
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He also used his letters to explore career options. He didn't want to stay in Europe for the full year originally planned, and doubted, in any case, whether a profitable tour could be made to stretch that long. Europe was all very well for prestige, as a place that would “appreciate my art—but the money is home. They'll come and rave over our program once or twice—but they really don't get the words—the songs are simple—I do them simply—and they feel well—if he can sing so grandly (like Chaliapin) I should do the things he does—Boris Godunov etc. They say I'm almost wasted upon simple music—no matter how much they enjoy it. So I can't make money doing what I am—I'm sure. I can only attract the concert audience and most discriminating of that. And there aren't enough places to go to. [Roland] Hayes went to Italy for concerts and lost money. He had
to cancel his Russian trip.” In order to “attain very substantial success financially I'll need other songs—some in the language of the country or classics that they know.… There is no money here at usual stuff. The only hope is Opera.…”
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Only two years before, Robeson had been quoted in the press as saying, “I will not go into opera, where I would probably become one of hundreds of mediocre singers, but I will concentrate on negro music, which has never been properly handled. I may sing a little opera in the morning but only in the bathroom.” Though he would periodically be tempted, as he was now, by the prospects of opera, Robeson never moved seriously in that direction. For one thing, his voice, despite its extraordinary warmth and richness, had limited range (in the thirties he sang well down to bottom F, and his high range went to D above middle C—an E-flat range generally; by the fifties he had shifted down about a half-tone)—and this meant that few bass roles in the operatic repertoire would have been comfortable for him. Even if he had been more interested in an opera career than he was, the conservatism of the Metropolitan Opera management in these years would have forestalled it. When Ernst Křenek's
Jonny Spielt Auf (Johnny Strikes Up the Band
) was performed at the Met in 1928, the story of the promiscuous amours of a black jazz leader (which had caused rioting at its Munich opening) was altered so that the leading character did not necessarily have to be black, and then, to confuse matters further, a blackface white singer sang the title role. In a public statement protesting those alterations, James Weldon Johnson noted, “We have in this country colored singers who could masterfully sing that role. I need only name Jules Bledsoe and Paul Robeson.” By 1933 the Metropolitan management had progressed to the point where, in producing Louis Gruenberg's opera
Emperor Jones
, it allowed a few minor parts to be played by blacks and confirmed in the program that the leading character had also been written as a black—but again bypassed Robeson for the role and gave it to Lawrence Tibbett to perform in blackface.
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Writing Essie from Europe about his newfound conviction that he must broaden his career, Paul concluded that this was “just what you have believed all along but what you have been sensible enough to let me find out myself.” Before getting “so excited about my ‘
art
' etc. I must be the complete artist. There are so many things I would have done to make us money if I had not been afraid of my ‘
art
'. Black Boy—Vaudeville—Picture houses—pictures—Show Boat—Hammerstein, etc.… and it really hasn't been so much ‘
art
' as thinking what people would say—which of course is silly.” From now on, he resolved, he would “turn things over” to Essie—“trust in you and your judgment wholly.… You know how to value me—my dignity etc. But we must have money.” “I'm in Europe only because you knew I wanted to come.… It was so beautiful of you to let
me go at the time of your childbirth. I'll never forget that.…” But work in Europe, Paul had now decided, could be confined to a few months in the spring and fall, and the rest of the time “ought to be in America.” The money, after all, was in America.
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That, however, presented problems with Larry Brown, who might not want to return. If that was so, their partnership, in Paul's judgment, ought to be broken up. “I'm a little fed up with having my career handicapped by being tied up with that of another person.… If my career can't be built up and maintained by spirituals there is no need in having Larry as a load and carrying him, making every move of mine considering him.” If Larry's choice was to stay in Europe and continue with Varney as manager, he couldn't reasonably object to Paul's leaving—“with you in your present condition.” By this time, early December, Essie's condition had worsened; Paul was still ignorant of it, but he did feel some vague concern at having received a letter from her mother (of whom he was never very fond) and not from her. Ma Goode had included a description of the baby, and Paul responded somewhat perfunctorily that the baby sounded “grand”; “Won't I be glad to see him.” And to see Essie. “I shant touch you,” he promised, “until you are completely well. I can get along and seeing you will be so much.”
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He was to see her, and his son, sooner than he expected. Six weeks after giving birth, Essie developed a breast abscess and a severe case of phlebitis. Over her daughter's objection, Ma Goode finally decided to cable Paul the truth. He immediately wired back, “Darling Coming at once. Wait for me,” and booked passage, arriving home in New York the day after Christmas. This time, however, his mere presence was not enough to rally Essie. Recovery proved slow and discouraging. Paul reported to Gertrude Stein that, although the baby was a “wonder”—“much more fun than I ever thought a small baby could be”—Essie had had “a bad time” (but then added, “For any people beside yourself, Essie was just about ready to ‘leave this world.' Otherwise my mgr. and Mr. Brown would be very upset. Thanks”). Essie wasn't allowed out of bed until early January, still with a drainage tube in her breast and limping so severely from phlebitis that the doctor warned that her leg might be permanently game. Paul wanted to take her south for a few months to recover her strength, but their money had all but run out. He hoped a nibble from Hollywood would turn into a firm offer, and Essie's doctor endorsed the prospect of California sunshine for his patient. But for the moment plans remained up in the air, and Paul wired Larry Brown, “Essie recovery operation very slowly. Unable return Europe indefinitely. Make your own plans.” Essie, though still recuperating, picked up pen and paper to write to Varney and to reestablish ties with Larry Brown; she was soon back in full swing as Paul's manager.
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The California movie deal failed to materialize—the producers couldn't find a “suitable” property for Robeson—so, early in March 1928, he agreed to replace Jules Bledsoe as Crown (the role he had been asked to originate) in the successful run of the DuBose and Dorothy Heywood musical play,
Porgy
. He took the role for five hundred dollars per week, Robeson wrote to Larry Brown, “to keep from starving,” but it didn't suit him; he had to strain to sing above the full chorus night after night—“My voice would not stand it as I knew it wouldn't.” According to his brother Ben, “the raucous shoutings of the play had not only shattered his voice but his nerves.” A nick-in-time offer from Florenz Ziegfeld made it possible for Robeson to leave the show six weeks after opening in it. Ziegfeld asked him to sing the part of Joe in the London company of
Show Boat
—which had been a runaway hit in New York—due to open in early May under the personal supervision of Sir Alfred Butt. He would only have to sing one song—“Ol' Man River”—yet, since it would run through the show in three separate refrains, Butt expected Robeson's appearance to generate considerable press coverage. The role would save his voice even while providing him with maximum publicity. Robeson jumped at the chance. The plan was for Essie, who by April had regained her health, to join him in Europe in May, leaving the baby Paul with Ma Goode.
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Essie wrote separately to Larry to help smooth the way. She told him that the part in
Show Boat
was “a ridiculously easy one.… It wouldn't tax [Paul's] voice as much as a rehearsal,” and predicted that if the show “is a hit, as it surely will be, and Paul is the favorite, you and he may easily and speedily become the vogue in London and clean up” doing concerts on Sunday nights, when there were no performances of the play, and private engagements late on any other night. “There is the situation. It seems grand to me.” She added, by way of further inducement, “You will have a fit when you hear Paul sing. He has done two months work with Miss Armitage, and he is just too bad.”
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Paul sent Larry two notes of his own, one from shipboard on his way to England in mid-April, the other immediately on arrival. He apologized for not having written from the States, “but you know how I am—I was so worried for a while and so relieved when Essie improved—that I didn't know just where I was and my plans were so unsettled.” But now he was excited by the new prospects. He felt sure the publicity surrounding his appearance in
Show Boat
would open up concert work for them, and he reassured Larry that “My musical career with you is by all odds paramount”—so much so that he was willing to guarantee him “a livelihood out of my salary—which is only fair.… I took this job only because it brought me back to my concerts with you and at the same time will give us something to live on while things are taking shape.… I'm here to take up our work and keep it up no matter what happens.”
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Larry was persuaded. But the
Show Boat
rehearsals proved “so trying” that after them Paul would “go home to bed and stay there in order to be able to do my work.” He looked forward to Essie's arrival, he told Amanda Ira Aldridge (daughter of the actor, whom he had met three years earlier), “because she'll be able to make me comfortable and take care of me. I'm still rather a ‘baby.'” Essie did not arrive until after the opening, but all went well nonetheless. The publicity for
Show Boat
, as promised,
did
feature Robeson, his voice
had
reached a new level of richness, the London reception
did
prove tumultuous—and Robeson became the lion of the hour. As had often happened before, he came off better than the show. The majority of critics hailed the
Show Boat
production as (in the words of one of them) “an overwhelming feast of spectacle, melody and drama”—with its company of some 160, its one thousand costumes, its eighteen scenes (the opulent sets included a rendering of the Trocadero Music Hall and the 1893 World's Fair at Chicago), its luscious score by Kern (along with an unimpressive book by Oscar Hammerstein II), and a cast that included Cedric Hardwicke, Marie Burke, Leslie Sarony, Edith Day, and Alberta Hunter. Some of the leading critics were less than enchanted, complaining about the length of the evening (three and a half hours), the lack of humor, and the confusing side plots. But none complained about Robeson. St. John Ervine in the
Observer
said that throughout the long evening only Robeson “remained superb,” and James Agate (perhaps the most prestigious London critic of the day) suggested in the
Sunday Times
that the producers cut a half-hour out of the “inept and clumsy” show—and fill it in with Robeson singing spirituals.
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Despite the mixed critical reception, the public made
Show Boat
a huge hit—and moneymaker. That is, the white public. Many blacks who saw the show came away distinctly less enthusiastic. The European correspondent for the New York
Amsterdam News
, J. A. Rogers, reported in an indignant column (reprinted in the Pittsburgh
Courier
) that he had talked to “fully some thirty Negroes of intelligence or self-respect” who expressed “their disapprobation of the play,” and he had “also heard many harsh things said against Robeson for lending his talent and popularity toward making it a success.” “If anyone were to call him a ‘nigger,'” Rogers quoted one informant as saying, “he'd be the first to get offended, and there he is singing ‘nigger, nigger' before all those white people.” Rogers also objected to the character of Joe's being simply another instance of the “lazy, good-natured, lolling darkey” stereotype “that exists more in white men's fancy than in reality.” The obvious solution, he wrote, was for blacks to write their own plays and books, but because he recognized that “it will be a long time before this is done,” Rogers felt he could not “join in the indignation against those actors and writers who sell their service to the whites,” much as he did regret that
Show Boat
represented a “deliberate attempt on the part of the White American to carry his anti-Negro propaganda
into Europe.” Even a few whites objected to the show: a cartoonist in
Sketch
portrayed Robeson with the caption “Despite ragtime and jazz music, poor old Joe sings ‘Ole Man Ribber' right through the years from 1880 to 1928.”
The New York Times
felt called upon—in response, it said, to criticisms by politically minded “negro newspaper editors”—to enter the fray with a defense of “artistic detachment,” insisting that “one should not forget that individuals concentrating successfully on their own creations automatically act as leavening agents”—precisely Robeson's own attitude at the time, and that of most Harlem Renaissance figures.
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