for an instant almost
overwhelming, but I summoned determination enough to say: "I don't
think I want to go." "What!" he exclaimed, "you want to go back to
your dear Paris? You still think that the only spot on earth? Wait
until you see Cairo and Tokyo, you may change your mind." "No," I
stammered, "it is not because I want to go back to Paris. I want to go
back to the United States." He wished to know my reason, and I told
him, as best I could, my dreams, my ambition, and my decision. While
I was talking, he watched me with a curious, almost cynical, smile
growing on his lips. When I had finished he put his hand on my
shoulder--this was the first physical expression of tender regard he
had ever shown me--and looking at me in a big-brotherly way, said: "My
boy, you are by blood, by appearance, by education, and by tastes a
white man. Now, why do you want to throw your life away amidst the
poverty and ignorance, in the hopeless struggle, of the black people
of the United States? Then look at the terrible handicap you are
placing on yourself by going home and working as a Negro composer;
you can never be able to get the hearing for your work which it might
deserve. I doubt that even a white musician of recognized ability
could succeed there by working on the theory that American music
should be based on Negro themes. Music is a universal art; anybody's
music belongs to everybody; you can't limit it to race or country.
Now, if you want to become a composer, why not stay right here in
Europe? I will put you under the best teachers on the Continent. Then
if you want to write music on Negro themes, why, go ahead and do it."

We talked for some time on music and the race question. On the latter
subject I had never before heard him express any opinion. Between him
and me no suggestion of racial differences had ever come up. I found
that he was a man entirely free from prejudice, but he recognized
that prejudice was a big stubborn entity which had to be taken into
account. He went on to say: "This idea you have of making a Negro out
of yourself is nothing more than a sentiment; and you do not realize
the fearful import of what you intend to do. What kind of a Negro
would you make now, especially in the South? If you had remained
there, or perhaps even in your club in New York, you might have
succeeded very well; but now you would be miserable. I can imagine no
more dissatisfied human being than an educated, cultured, and refined