But there was so much more to do now! Why had she been cheated for so many years, when she’d been in better health but powerless to do anything even for herself? Now she was gaining the power to help her entire race! The African students she’d been sponsoring at Tuskegee were only the beginning. Her visit to the White House was only a start.
As a physician, I’m afraid there’s only one way to phrase this question, Madam: Do you want to live, or do you want to die?
“I want to live,” Sarah whispered in the darkness, answering her Battle Creek physician’s question exactly as she had in November, during her monthlong stay at the Michigan sanitorium. But this time, instead of the false hopefulness she’d felt at Battle Creek, her voice was laden with a wellspring of despair she felt growing in her soul.
“Oh, dear Lord, please let me live. I want to live. I can do so much for my race, Lord. Don’t give all this to me and then take it away. I want to live.” But for the first time in her life, Sarah felt like her prayer was falling on no one’s ears but her own.
Chapter Thirty-six
AUGUST 25, 1918
Villa Lewaro.
When Sarah repeated the name of her new home in her mind, she could hear the Italian tenor uttering the name with his delightful accent: Lee-Waaa-Ro. When Lelia brought Caruso and his wife up to the property to visit last week, he toured the house and thought of the name as soon as he sat in the sunken Italian garden to drink iced tea with Lelia and Sarah, gazing out at the fountain and swimming pool. He’d been awestruck.
This place already has its name, and it has whispered it to me, Madam—LeeWaaaRo. Did I not say a fine home is the same as a child? It has named itself after lovely Lelia. L-E for Lelia, W-A for Walker, and R-O for Robinson. Villa Lewaro!
Caruso was right, she knew. Villa Lewaro had been the mansion’s name all along, even before she knew it.
In the five A.M. darkness, Sarah allowed herself to enjoy the immensity and serenity of her home in a way she’d rarely been able to since she’d moved in amidst its boxes and clutter in June. She was the only one awake now. The servants were asleep, and there were no guests at this hour. She could enjoy Villa Lewaro for herself.
Thirty-four rooms. Three stories. I want it to look like a palace in a storybook, Sarah had told her talented Negro architect, and he had built her an Italian Renaissance–style palace fit for nobility. After making so many visits to monitor its progress, noticing so many dissatisfactory details and then suffering the endless unpacking and decorating, Sarah had never viewed her home with the real pleasure of a newcomer. Walking gingerly in her slippers because of her badly swollen feet, Sarah traveled from one end of her house to the other, turning on her beautiful green and white Chinese jade lamps as she moved, taking in the sights that would meet her party guests when they arrived for the villa’s opening gala later today.
What she saw made her cling to her satin robe with gratitude. Her home was a vision!
As a child visiting Missus Anna’s grand home in Delta, she’d thought there must be some invisible dividing line between Missus Anna’s life and hers because Missus Anna had a fine house and she lived in a leaky cabin; and Missus Anna was white, while she was colored. But that line had been only in her imagination, hadn’t it? It might have seemed so—and maybe, until the end of slavery, it had truly been so for most of her people—but that line was gone. Negroes still had more than their share of unfair obstacles, but it was possible to get around them. She’d built her house with money she’d made from Negroes, and many of those Negroes in turn earned their living from other Negroes. And she’d built the house with Vertner Woodson Tandy, a Negro architect, to further make her point. This was her monument to Negro achievement.
Sarah opened one of her double doors on the ground floor and began outside, walking to what she still thought of as her front porch, but which the architect called her portico, where six stately columns proclaimed her home to all who passed it. After she turned to face her marble entrance hall, Sarah’s eyes became tearful as she climbed the marble steps to her living room. Gazing at the living room before her, she imagined the hotel ballroom in Denver where she and C.J. had danced their first waltz. That ballroom would look plain and uninteresting to her now, no doubt, but back then it had symbolized a brand-new beginning. And C.J. had been her shining prince, come to take her to the Promised Land. Or so she’d thought, anyway. Too bad you ain’t here to see it, C.J. You talk about a room to dance in!
She had hired an Italian artist to decorate the walls and paint the ceiling by hand, and the room had exquisite Italian furnishings. Two hundred twenty feet ahead of her, she admired the gold bough over the doorway that led to the dining room, then she turned to gaze at the shimmering gold detail on the massive entrance hall’s fireplace, which was the showpiece of the west wall. Her feet sank into the Tabriz rug, which had cost $13,000 and covered a large portion of the room. Sarah walked past the fireplace into the music room—the new, larger Gold Room—where her massive glistening chandeliers hung, reflecting the gold leaf that trimmed the room’s walls and ceiling. The draperies, too, were gold-trimmed.
And here was her precious $25,000 Estey organ—which seemed to always be in disrepair, but luckily was ready to play music for the party—and her 24-carat gold leaf–trimmed grand piano, which she’d lacked in Pittsburgh but had more than compensated for now. Her gold-leaf Victrola was positioned nicely on its own table, more art than machinery, and the chairs seated before the phonograph in a half circle had been designed to look like pure gold themselves. The music room was narrow, but it was the length of both her living and dining rooms, so it was truly palatial, with French doors at either end. Since her music was here, with the organ chiming each quarter hour and built to pipe music to every corner of the house, this was one of Sarah’s favorite rooms. This room, to her, seemed nearly blessed.
Sarah stopped to rest her hand on the smooth marble statuette of Romeo and Juliet that adorned one corner of the Gold Room. The tragic heroes’ youthful faces moved her just the way she imagined the artist had intended. She had so much art, and so little time to actually appreciate it. And what about this large bronze statue of an old woman Lottie had told her was an original piece by a very famous sculptor named Rodin? And more paintings than she could count. She liked ivory so much that she collected small ivory pieces whenever she could, but now they sat in a display case virtually ignored.
And there were so many rooms to choose from! Sarah realized just how massive the home was as she made her trek from one end to the other, her feet complaining the entire way. She couldn’t neglect to admire the dining room, as expensive as it had been to furnish it. The first thing she noted, as everyone did, was the large tapestry hanging on her wall, several feet long and several feet tall, woven of silk and wool. The $3,500 Aubusson tapestry, which overlooked her extensive mahogany dining set, depicted six hounds cornering a wild boar during a hunt. The Boar at Bay, it was titled. The piece made Sarah smile; she liked the brotherhood of the hounds, their dedication to the hunt. One of the dogs, in fact, reminded her of the stray dog that had adopted their family in Delta soon before her parents died.
The organ chime told Sarah it was already five-fifteen, and she had admired only the first floor so far. Thank goodness for the elevator, she thought as she took the contraption down to the basement. Of all of her floors, she spent the least time here. The basement housed her gymnasium, which she didn’t visit nearly as much as she’d planned, to make use of the rowing machine, climbing bars, and electric baths the way her nurse advised. Even now, she only glanced into the gymnasium before doubling back toward the kitchen. Her days in the kitchen were long gone, and she had a cook to prepare her meals that weren’t catered, so unless she ate a meal at the long kitchen table, this elegant part of her home was the domain of others, not her. The kitchen floor was so clean that it gleamed, and there were cabinets to spare, enough to store food for a year, it seemed.
The servants had their own d
ining area at one end of the kitchen, with an adjoining shower room and toilet, and Sarah noticed that the servants’ table was spotless except for a newspaper someone had left behind. Imagine, she’d once had to tramp outside in the rain just to travel back and forth between her kitchen and her home in Vicksburg! That little kitchen had probably been about as big as her servants’ shower room today, she mused, and she felt a tingle across the back of her neck.
She was tiring already, she realized with dismay.
With a determined sigh, Sarah found the elevator again and took it to the third floor, which had guest rooms, servants’ rooms, and Lelia’s favorite—the billiard room. Sarah walked into the dark, richly hued billiard room and gazed with satisfaction at the large Flemish oak billiard table and ten matching high-backed armchairs. A gentleman’s billiard room, Sarah thought, imagining that some of her guests today might slip up here for a friendly game.
Sarah knew the second floor very well; this was where her bedroom and sitting room were, along with four other bedrooms, all with their own bathrooms. The private passageway between her sitting room and bedroom had large mirrored closets on either side. Sarah’s bed was still rumpled from where she’d left it not long ago beneath its red canopy, but she gazed at it as if it were a new discovery, imagining the dear little wooden bed Moses had built for them with his own hands after they were married. One entire wall of her bedroom was a large picture window displaying the landscaped grounds outside, including the $10,000 Japanese prayer tree she’d had imported, with an adjoining door leading to her enclosed porch. Beyond that, there was the beautiful expanse of the Hudson River and the dramatic cliffs of the New Jersey Palisades on the other side. The entire room was kept cozy by her bedroom’s fireplace.
And, of course, there was one item on Sarah’s nightstand that had kept its place her entire life, following her to Vicksburg, St. Louis, then Denver, then Pittsburgh, then to Harlem, and now here: the photograph of her father. It had a much more regal gold frame now, but the photograph was unchanged from the time she’d first found it as a girl. Gazing at the photo, Sarah heard herself speak aloud: “You proud of me, Papa?”
Of course he was, he and Mama both. And Moses, too. And C.J.?
Suddenly Sarah felt a fist in her chest. The feeling frightened her—all sudden pains or sensations now startled her, making her fear her doctors’ warnings were coming to pass—until she realized it was only a keen, sharp loneliness. Grief, really.
Sarah felt utterly absurd for a moment. Here was Sarah Breedlove in this big house stuffed with treasures, all of it worth probably half a million dollars, and she still felt a longing for something else. I don’t know what you want, Mama, Lelia had said during their last horrible fight, one that still seemed to linger between them even though neither of them had brought it up since.
God help her, she didn’t know herself.
More than twenty thousand agents. A full-fledged factory with three hundred employees. A thriving business. Real estate holdings around the country. A palace. Four automobiles. Eight servants, even a butler and chauffeur. A tutor. A nurse. In all, she thought, she might be worth a million dollars, as all the newspapers kept claiming about her. There were only two wishes still posted on her Wish Board: Rest, one said. The other: Justice for Negroes.
Yet she was here in her bedroom on her most triumphant day with an ache in her chest that felt very much like a real hole that she could touch if she tried. Sarah’s eyes traveled back to her nightstand, and her eyes found the tiny porcelain black rose C.J. had given her on their wedding day. It had been slightly chipped somehow, but she still kept it. Was he the reason for the hole? God help me if that’s true, Sarah thought.
She had not talked to C.J. since his betrayal. She’d finally relented and told Mr. Ransom to allow C.J. to set up an agency to sell Walker goods—that, in her mind, was only fair—but she did not want to think about him. His sister Agnes Prosser, who was a wonderful woman and remained a friend of hers and the Ransoms, told her how C.J. was doing from time to time, but even Agnes knew better than to bring up her brother’s name unless she was asked.
She didn’t need him. She was doing better than ever without C.J. Walker.
But the phantom pain in the middle of Sarah’s chest, right between her breastbone, told her clearly that she wanted something she did not have, and she was beginning to realize that even a trunkful of money couldn’t begin to buy it for her.
The doorbell chimed endlessly, and the butler dutifully announced all newcomers in a stentorian tone that could be heard throughout the entrance hall over the organ music.
“Mrs. Margaret Murray Washington!”
“Mrs. Ida B. Wells-Barnett!”
“Mr. and Mrs. A. Philip Randolph!”
“Mr. Arthur Schomburg!”
“Mr. and Mrs. James Weldon Johnson!”
“Mr. and Mrs. Rosamond Johnson!”
“Mr. Carter G. Woodson!”
The house swelled with guests, and soon it was filled with the din of conversation and clinking glasses as the guests enjoyed fruit punch and each other’s company. Sarah and Lelia flitted between them, greeting them all and accepting their compliments with grace and modesty.
“My only reason to have the villa is to share it,” Sarah told everyone who expressed astonishment at its opulence. “It belongs to the race.”
Sarah was so proud of Lelia; she’d outdone herself today, dressed in a glittering ivory-colored dress more striking than anything she had ever seen her daughter wear. It lacked ruffles and frills, and it was simple in its elegance of design, reaching only just above her ankles. Dresses were certainly getting shorter, Sarah realized. It wouldn’t be long before women would be wearing dresses above their shins. And nothing could have suited Lelia’s figure more.
“I think we should all do our part in the war effort,” Lelia was saying to Emmett Scott, Booker T. Washington’s former secretary, who was now a special assistant to the Secretary of War. “Mother has addressed our troops to uplift them, as you know, and she sells war bonds as well as she does Walker products. We haven’t forgotten the unfortunate ones, either—so I take great pride in my work to provide first-aid supplies for the Circle of Negroes’ War Relief.”
“Your help is much needed,” Mr. Scott said, nodding.
Listening to her daughter, Sarah found it impossible to believe that this was the same Lelia she had pulled from her card room that awful night a few months ago. How could Lelia be so wanton and still so poised? “Very soon I’m going to start meeting returning soldiers who have been maimed and injured,” Lelia went on. “I’m trying to start a Colored Women’s Motor Corps in Harlem, you see, so we can drive ambulances. Mother sits on the board for the Motor Corps of America, and I want to take part in my own way. But I’d better take driving lessons first!”
Later, in the drawing room, Sarah found herself flanked by Margaret Murray Washington and Ida B. Wells-Barnett, who were admiring the same art pieces she’d been gazing at in privacy before dawn. “No, let me tell you,” Mrs. Wells-Barnett said to Mrs. Washington, pulling on Sarah’s arm. “You should have seen her when she first started out. I’ll tell you one thing, I thought she was talking a whole lot of nonsense. Hair grower! Isn’t that the truth, Madam?”
“You and a whole lot of other folks,” Sarah said.
Mrs. Washington’s eyes shone warmly, although Sarah also recognized the sadness there. Of all the people still reeling from the loss of Booker T. Washington, this woman and his children must feel it the most, Sarah thought. “She made a real impression on me at Tuskegee, I’ll say that,” Mrs. Washington said. “But still, I never expected anything like this!”
“Well, I’m not one for a whole lot of social affairs,” Mrs. Wells-Barnett said, “but today, I think a true monument has been unveiled.”
Sarah attended her own gathering in a daze, sometimes giddy, sometimes feeling as if she were sleepwalking. She quietly reacquainted herself with people she knew: NAACP board ch
airman Joel Springarn, who thanked her for her fund-raising speeches; the treasurer, Oswald Garrison Villard, editor of the New York Evening Post; assistant secretary Walter White; and a stream of others who had entered her life suddenly since her move to New York. Some she knew fairly well; some she knew barely at all. But most of them met her with smiles that were nearly gushing, as if they were just the slightest bit intimidated by her.
How in the world did you do this? The unspoken question was obvious in their eyes.
She remembered how self-conscious she’d felt at that first formal gathering with C.J. in Denver, and she had to smile. None of those snitty folks even warranted an invitation to her party today. From city to city, the local elite had never wanted much to do with her, so she’d become a darling of the national elite instead, the folks who really mattered. No one in this room saw a washerwoman when they looked at her. No one.
“Mother Walker!”
A familiar child’s voice made Sarah’s head whirl around with joy. Little Frank Ransom, wearing short pants and an adorable coat and tie, lifted his arms upward to Sarah as he bounced in front of her feet, excited. His baby teeth were displayed in a wide, dimpled grin. Sarah knew his parents must be not far behind, and she was glad. She’d missed Nettie and the boys horribly, and she had business to discuss with Mr. Ransom. Nettie had just given birth to her fourth child—a daughter, at last!—so she’d been afraid they might not make it to the event.
“Ooh—just lookit my godbaby!” Sarah said, leaning down to give Frank a hug. “Don’t you know you’re too big for me to lift you up like before? Why do you keep growing? Huh?”
The boy giggled. “Is this your great big house, Mother Walker?”
“It sure is! Wait until you and your brothers see the nursery upstairs.”
Soon the other boys crowded noisily around her, expecting their hugs, too, while their parents tried to hush them. Freeman Ransom’s hair was shaved much closer to his head than it had been the last time she’d seen her attorney, and he seemed just a few pounds stockier, too. But otherwise this man seemed to change less than anyone Sarah had ever known. He gave her a warm smile. The love and admiration he felt for her seemed to glow from his skin, and Sarah understood how he felt. In some ways Mr. Ransom had been more a partner than C.J. And Nettie seemed to be recuperating well from the birth, if she looked a little tired.
The Black Rose Page 47