Safe Passage

She arrived home slightly dazed and announced to an astonished family, “I must have a gramophone.”

That same month, she received one of those unexplained bonuses that used to crop up with the cost-of-living alterations. Her share was sufficient to pay a fairly large deposit on an H.M.V. gramophone, and Mother and I went with her to buy it. This machine cost the fabulously extravagant price of £23.

As well, Louise bought ten records. These single-sided discs were 7/6d in those days—about 38p). She had planned to purchase instrumental music only, notably the “Air on the G String.” But the assistant was extremely sympathetic and anxious that ten records should really give us pleasure and suggested a vocal record or two, pointing out that there was a very fine Amelita Galli-Curci record out that month.

We had never heard of Galli-Curci, but after listening to her record of “Un bel dì vedremo,” we immediately bought it. To this we cautiously added Alma Gluck’s record of “O, Sleep, Why Dost Thou Leave Me?” and felt we had done our duty by vocal records.

It was, I immediately confess, many years before we ever bought another instrumental record. Between them, Galli-Curci and Alma Gluck opened the world of vocal music to us, and we became what can only be described as “voice lovers.”

Oh, happy days, when first one becomes a record collector, however modest! Could any collector, amateur or professional, cast his mind back to the days when he painfully accumulated his first two or three records, and say that was not one of the happiest times of his life?

The ravishing moment when, for the first time, the rich beauty of De Luca’s incomparable tone melted upon the ear; the very first time Caruso’s radiant tenor uttered the opening phrases of the Rigoletto Quartet in matchless style and tones of liquid gold; the very first time Farrar, Gluck, Alda, Martinelli, Destinn, Eames, Chaliapin—oh, all that immortal company—broke upon one’s intoxicating sense of awareness. These were never to be forgotten glories.

I recall even now the terrific excitement when double-sided records came in. It was a milestone on the path to the operatic Milky Way. There were Louise and I slowly sampling the early joys of record collecting. And “slowly” was the word. The buying of one new record meant much consultation, much planning and, frequently, going without a few lunches—which is, I still think, the way one should come to one’s pleasures. That sense of glorious achievement is with me still, fifty years later.

Then, early in 1924, came the announcement that Galli-Curci was to make her English debut in the autumn and give a series of concerts, beginning on October 12, at the Albert Hall. By now, she was very much our favourite gramophone star, and her appearance—in London, in the flesh—was of monumental importance to us. I make no secret of the fact, and no apology for it, that our early years were filled with a considerable amount of naïve hero worship. Even now, I have every sympathy with the sincere, often raw, enthusiasm that lifts some youngster right out of the ordinary world, up to the golden heights of loving admiration for something that is, or appears in youthful estimation to be, perfection.

We scraped a little money together—more cancelled lunches—and bought tickets for her four Albert Hall concerts, as well as the one she was to give at the Alexandra Place—at that time still a concert hall, though one of proportions more suggestive of a railway terminus—. Then we settled down to wait.

But before that autumn came round, another discovery of vital importance struck us. While I was away from home on a short visit, Louise—not used to being on her own, but filled with a vague curiosity—wandered into the gallery of Covent Garden to hear Madama Butterfly.

By the time I returned home, Louise had discovered opera and assured me that we must take advantage of the short Grand Season then in progress. Like many timid beginners before me, I doubted that I should enjoy anything in a foreign language, but I agreed to accompany her.

By careful management of our finances, we sampled three operas that season. We heard Tosca, La Traviata, and Rigoletto.

With this operatic experience behind us, we felt we were making tremendous progress. I thought myself able and willing to discuss the whole range of opera with anyone. When Galli-Curci finally arrived, I remember seeing the evening paper placards on the Saturday before her first concert. They simply stated, “Galli-Curci at any price!”

It would be useless to try to describe the excitement preceding the first concert. Those who have also waited long to hear some musical favourite in person will know exactly what I mean.

Of course, initially it was disappointing to discover that, in the cruel acres of the Albert Hall, the voice sounded much smaller than on the gramophone. But, inexperienced though we were, it did not take us long to separate the natural nervousness of the first half hour and the unsuitability of the hall from the matchless vocal accomplishment.

It is always difficult to describe a voice in words. Since the singer is his or her own instrument, inevitably there must be something intensely personal about a singing voice. Hence few records really capture more than a compromise representation of most singers, though they will remind you powerfully of one you have heard in real life.

Galli-Curci’s voice projection was remarkable, and she had a floating quality that was as ravishing as her ornamentation was dazzling. But to me, the most beautiful thing about the sound was the faint touch of melancholy—often found in the very best voices—which gave to certain phrases and notes a quality of nostalgia that went straight to one’s heart.

This quality was one reason for her fantastic appeal as a concert singer. Nowadays, I suppose, we would call it communication or audience-identification. But, expressed in its simplest terms, I can only say that when she sang the sentimental old ballad “Long, long ago” as an encore, it was everyone’s “long, long ago.” Since she stirred the roots of everyone’s memory, it was difficult to say whether it was the tenderness of her voice or the tenderness of one’s recollections that meant more.

By the end of the first concert, Louise and I were already aware that we would never be satisfied until we heard Galli-Curci in opera as well as on the concert platform. But, alas, we found that she sang opera only in New York.

With the simplicity of all truly great ideas, it came to me. If Galli-Curci sang opera only in New York, to New York we must go.

It is at this time, difficult to convey the immensity of this decision for girls like us. Neither of us had any money. In fact, I think we owed Mother five pounds. I was earning my £2. 6.0 a week; Louise, a little more. We had never spent a night away from home except with friends. There was, of course, no airline across the Atlantic then—the first regular passenger flights were still twenty years in the future—and a trip to the States was something that few seasoned travellers expected to include in their experiences.

But Galli-Curci sang opera only in New York.

To Louise, I simply stated: “I intend to go to New York some time in the next five years to hear Galli-Curci sing in opera. Are you coming, too?”

With profound faith in the possibility of all things, Louise replied. “Rather! How are we going to do it?”

How, indeed?

And here let me say, in tribute to our parents, in that moment the whole of our future—and, if I may stretch prophetic fancy further, the lives of twenty-nine people—depended on the fact that Mother and Dad had always brought us up to believe that if we wanted a thing, it was up to us to work and save for it.

It never occurred to Louise and me to suppose we might get someone else to provide us with what we wanted, or to waste time envying those who, through force of circumstances, could do with ease what we must accomplish with difficulty and sacrifice. All our thoughts were concentrated on how we could do it.

That same evening, we worked out our expenses. Roughly at first, then in ruthless detail, we checked almost to a penny. We finally decided that we could do the trip, have an outfit and stay a week or two in New York for £100 each. For those were the happy days when you could go to New York and back, “third tourist” on a Cunarder, for something like £38 return. We also decided we did not want to wait longer than two years. Could we both save £50 a year for two years running? If not, we did not deserve to hear Galli-Curci sing in opera.

Even we realized that our scheme would sound a little mad unless we had already saved at least part of our expenses, so we decided to say nothing to anyone until the end of the first year. We were at the age when one loves to have a secret. But alas, one also longs to tell it. So we decided to make one exception. We would tell Galli-Curci herself.

I wrote of our plans to her in what I realize now was a very artless sort of letter and ended, “We shall come, if we have to arrive in the afternoon, hear you in the evening, and leave the next morning.” This was not quite what we meant to do, of course, but it looked lovely written down.

We were lucky indeed with our first prima donna. She replied by return of post: “If you ever succeed in coming to America, you shall have tickets for everything I sing. Come and see me at the Albert Hall on Sunday to say goodbye.”

Never in our wildest dreams had we aspired to addressing a musical celebrity in person. It was like being asked to tea at Buckingham Palace. I remember exactly what we wore. Louise had a little black hat we called “the curate,” which had to be skewered on with a couple of pins. The glory of my outfit was a blouse I made myself. I had put a lot of work into the revers, and I always wore them outside my coat, so no one could miss their charm.

Galli-Curci received us like old friends. Louise always declares she said only one word at this tremendous interview, and that was, “Goodbye.” She was too frightened to say anything else. But I managed to say a bit more. I was always the chatty one.

When Galli-Curci said, “I shall remember you. Just drop me a line, and I’ll keep you the seats,” I hastily emphasized it would take two years.

She repeated, “I understand. But I shall remember you.”

In our simplicity, we thought prima donnas always behaved in this manner. We took her sympathetic interest for granted, implicitly believing her promise to remember us and provide us with the seats. And the wonderful thing was: we were right!

2 (#u8bb7b962-b362-548d-a408-f442cef45488)

We went home in a dream that winter afternoon—and the real work began.

It is all very well to have these ideas; the great thing is to carry them out. We soon found, like many before us, that if you save what is left at the end of the week—there’s nothing left. So we put away our pound at the start of the week. After we had paid our very modest contribution at home, our season tickets to town and our insurance, we usually had about ten shillings a week each. From this pittance came our daily lunches—no luncheon vouchers then, of course—our clothes, our amusements and our “extras.” We soon found we could not have what was called a “proper lunch” and discovered that a brown roll fills you much better than a white one. We seriously balanced the rival merits of a penny plainish bun against those of a three-halfpenny bun with lots of lovely currants. But we also bought a Rand McNally guide to New York, and when we felt hungry, we used to study this and feel better.

But let no one suppose we were not happy. Going without things is neither enjoyable nor necessarily uplifting in itself. But the things you achieve by your own effort and your own sacrifice do have a special flavour.

By the end of the first year, we each had fifty pounds and thus felt justified in disclosing our plans to our parents. They were a trifle taken aback, I must admit. Our two aunts, who had never been farther than Cornwall in their lives, were simply horrified and exclaimed to Mother, “Mary! You’ll never let those girls go. It’s hell with the lid off.”

Mother was a bit shaken at that thought, but she talked it over with Dad. With characteristic fairness and logic, they concluded that since it was our own money, which we had earned and saved ourselves, we were entitled to spend it in our own way. They added that they thought it a queer way to want to spend the savings of two years, but that that was our business.

Thus encouraged, we tackled the second year. Now the question of clothes for the great undertaking arose; quite a problem it was, too, for it was hard work squeezing a modest outfit and a trip to New York all out of a hundred pounds.

As Louise’s talents do not run in the dressmaking direction, I made all our clothes myself. She knew just what she wanted, enjoyed the consultations beforehand, and was gratifyingly amazed when the finished product bore a reasonable resemblance to the illustration. But, as she freely confessed, what happened between my picking up the scissors and her groping her way into the finished model was as much a mystery to her as irregular verbs in her beloved foreign languages were to me.

My great support at this period was Mabs Fashions, a periodical known to all office girls of my era. Mabs Fashions clothed us both.

As the second year neared its end, our savings rose to the required mark. A quiet “family” hotel of engaging respectability in Washington Square had even been recommended to us. There, we were to have everything—full board, private bathroom and all—for the princely sum of four dollars each per day.

At last our Mabs Fashions’ outfits were ready—and very distinguished we thought them, too. With the greatest of difficulty, we had obtained six weeks’ vacation from our offices, half of it unpaid leave; and our passages were booked on the Berengaria, then possibly the biggest liner afloat. All that remained was to write to Galli-Curci and tell her we were coming.

Her reply, preserved gratefully and affectionately for all these years, lies before me now!

My dear girls,