Safe Passage

I am so happy at last the great moment has come! and I imagine your joy, anticipating your trip to New York. I will be more than happy to have the tickets for you for all my operas and certainly I will sing Traviata—we had specially requested this—and will think of the perseverant girls who will be listening. Will you give me right away your address as soon as you arrive and your telephone number too? I want you to have dinner with me some night, when rehearsals are not so heavy. My address from December to February is 1022 Fifth Avenue, N.Y., in my new apartment there. I don’t know yet my telephone number but you will be able to get it by calling the office of Evans & Salter, 527 Fifth Avenue. God bless you in your trip; Merry Christmas and au revoir soon.

Sincerely yours,

A Galli-Curci.

It was a final crown on all our efforts. We were ready to go.

The goodbyes were said and, on one of the last days of 1926, Louise and I set sail for the New World. We had never been to Brighton for the day alone, but we were off to New York.

We had to be on board overnight before sailing in the morning; overwhelmed and with sudden panic, I very nearly came off the boat and went home that night. All the excitement and anticipation, the two years’ struggle and the determination dissipated into dreadful homesickness: I could not imagine now why I had ever said I would go nearly three thousand miles away. However, Louise’s resolution held firmly and she bolstered up my failing courage.

Everyone’s first long voyage is much like everyone else’s, of course, and yet individually one’s own. We were very cautious and kept ourselves much to ourselves. Well-armed with knowledge about “white slavers”—a great issue in our youth—we knew we were not to talk to any strange men. So we hardly talked to anyone.—I can’t think how I managed that for a week.—Finally, on the last night on board, we thought the danger was over and told everyone at the table why we had come to America.

This caused a terrific sensation. It is just the kind of mad thing the dear Americans love.

Had we friends in New York? No. Relatives? No. Business? No. Any reason at all for coming other than to hear Galli-Curci sing in opera? No other reason at all.

Fresh sensation! Then someone remarked that Galli-Curci ought to be told. It was such a wonderful story.

“But she knows,” we explained. “She waited while we saved up the money. She is giving us tickets for everything she sings. And she has promised to sing Traviata, because it’s our favourite opera.”

This really was a bombshell from the two quiet, inconspicuous Britishers in their homemade dresses. Amid the laughter and congratulations of the people around us, we became starlets in our own right for a few hours.

The next morning we arrived in New York.

I suppose the first view of Manhattan from the water is still one of the most fantastic and incredible sights to European eyes. But in those days, it was especially fantasy-laden. We had never seen a skyscraper before. At that time, I think no London building was allowed to rise above twelve storeys. And some of those early skyscrapers were truly beautiful, so unlike the faceless horrors of today. Indeed, it is impossible to describe the sheer beauty of New York during the nineteen-twenties.

We lost our hearts to New York the first day. In spite of its many changes, it still holds a special unchallenged place in our affections.

The very respectable friend of a friend collected us from the boat—Mother, also with white slavers in mind, having stipulated that this precaution at least must be observed. Having satisfied ourselves that he was who he said he was and not a super-subtle white slaver, we allowed him to escort us off the ship and deposit us at our Washington Square hotel.

It was the afternoon by then, and we decided to go out immediately and find Galli-Curci’s agents. We walked—not daring to get on anything for fear of what it might cost—all the way up Fifth Avenue to Thirty-Ninth Street, along to Broadway—according to the instructions we had memorized from our guide book nearly two years ago—and stood gazing at the outside of the Metropolitan Opera House. The Old Met, of course. Now, alas, no longer in existence.

The magic Met—which has resounded to the voices of every great singer known to us through gramophone records—was, in those days, under the inspired management of Gatti-Casazza, probably the last of the great impresarios.

Those were the days when you could hear Traviata on a Saturday afternoon with Galli-Curci, Beniamino Gigli, and Giuseppe De Luca; go home to eat; and come back for La Forza del Destino with Rosa Ponselle, Pinza—just becoming a famous name in America—and Giovanni Martinelli; and find the young Lawrence Tibbett—in the part of Melitone—thrown in for good measure.

No wonder we gazed at the unimpressive exterior in silent awe. Later, we sought out the offices of Evans & Salter and, feeling once more rather shy and far from home, timidly asked, “Please could we have Madame Galli-Curci’s telephone number? We have just arrived from England and…”

Before we could get any further, a pleasant American voice called out from an inner office, “Hello! Is that Miss Cook?” And out came Homer Samuels, Galli-Curci’s husband, with Lawrence Evans.

Dear Homer! How well he chose the words necessary to make us feel neither oddities nor hysterical fans, but friends and valued admirers. He gave us our tickets for the following evening when Galli-Curci was to sing Traviata, asked us about our journey, satisfied himself that we were comfortably established in New York, and finally, reaffirmed that, as soon as there were fewer rehearsals, they would get in touch with us and have us to dinner with them in their new Fifth Avenue apartment.

By the time we staggered out of the office, we already knew that our two years’ saving had been worth it. What mattered now the skimpy lunches, the cheese-paring and saving, the day-today sacrifices? And we had achieved it ourselves: the happiest state human nature can attain.

In a glow of contentment, we returned to our hotel, admiring the traffic of Fifth Avenue, the skyscrapers of Lower Manhattan, and every American face and form that passed us.

The telephone rang as soon as we reached our room, and Louise lifted the receiver gingerly.

“Who is it?” I hissed anxiously.

“The New York Times,” replied Louise succinctly, “wants to know what we look like.”

This was right up my street! I seized the telephone and described us—as I saw us. Other questions followed. What did we think of the Prince of Wales? Of the skyline of New York? Of bobbed hair—a great issue at that time?

No one before had ever wanted to know what we thought of anything. It was marvellous, but only the beginning. The next day, several other newspapers wanted to interview and photograph us, as “the two girls who saved their money to cross the Atlantic,” etcetera.

That evening we donned our Mabs Fashions’ evening dresses—the first we had ever had. Mine had a thick cotton georgette background, and superimposed upon it in plush—rather like drawing-room chairs—was a design. I had a diamante bow on my stomach, and I thought I was what was then called the cat’s whiskers. With Louise equally fetchingly attired, off we went to sit in the stalls at the opera for the first time in our lives. Girls of our type generally never sat anywhere but in the gallery, in those days.

Which of us who saw the Met in the great days of the prosperity boom can ever forget the fantastic sight of its glorious, sweeping Diamond Horseshoe, or the display of dresses, furs and jewellery?

The Metropolitan and Covent Garden also looked then as opera houses should look. How I hate the drab austerity of an “undressed” Covent Garden today! Opera is a festive art, and in my view, the audience should pay it the compliment of looking a little festive too. Pushing your way into the stalls of a great opera house in scruffy jeans and a pullover brands you as either tiresomely common and insensitive, or rather pathetically exhibitionist.

But from our seats in the fourth row of the stalls on that wonderful night, we looked around, enthralled, at the dazzling scene. It remains with me to this day—and during the darkest days of the war, when everything that was gracious, colourful and beautiful had to go—as one of those shining memories to be cherished and treasured.

Galli-Curci, Gigli, and De Luca formed the cast for La Traviata that night. Our particular star played a Violetta that fulfilled our most eager hopes and anticipations—worth the two years’ wait.

That great first night at the Met we heard the young Gigli for the first time, and although we both preferred him in other roles later, we did know we were hearing a phenomenon. Perhaps for us, the real discovery was De Luca—no longer young, but still at the height of his glory. And the finest baritone we ever heard. His voice, one of the most beautiful possible, had the quality and colour of dark honey in the sunshine; with it went a knowledge of the art of singing, which no one who heard him could ever forget. Even at that time, we knew he was supreme. We have never since had reason to revise this opinion.

Twenty years later, when he was over seventy, we heard him give a recital in New York, and even then he could teach something of the art of singing to almost anyone else I ever heard. Grand old De Luca was one of the glorious company indeed.

At the end of the performance, something wonderful happened. When Galli-Curci came on to take her applause, she picked us out from where we sat clapping in the stalls, and waved to us. I remember thinking, “This is the nearest thing to royalty I shall ever be! I’m being waved at by Galli-Curci across the footlights of the Metropolitan!”

The next day, Galli-Curci asked us to dinner in her apartment. She lived just opposite the Metropolitan Museum on that part of Upper Fifth Avenue then known as Millionaires’ Row. She added that she would send a car for us.

Again we donned our Mabs Fashions’ evening dresses and swept out, we believed, as to the manner born. Our waiting car possessed a chauffeur and a fur rug.—We had hardly ever been in even a taxi before in our lives.—And away we went up Fifth Avenue, to be deposited at an apartment that looked rather like the Wallace Collection to us. At this point there was a slight social hitch: Louise was wearing an evening cloak made by me, with a near-fur collar, and if this collar were roughly handled, it would crackle. As the manservant took the cloak, the collarcrackled. Louise was mortified, but no one seemed to notice. And then Galli-Curci came running downstairs and into the room.

Oh, Lita! How the years roll back when I recall that evening. I suppose it was later that she became “Lita” to us, for those were not the days when every important fan presumed to address stars by their Christian names. But from that first evening, she was a dear, kind, affectionate friend for life.

She apparently needed no more than a few minutes in our company to realize what kind of girls we were, and she asked almost immediately, “Did your mother mind your coming?”

We admitted that she did rather.

“I know exactly what she thought,” Galli-Curci said. “I’ll tell you what we will do. We’ll all write a card to Momma tonight to tell her that you are in a good house and she needn’t worry.”

And she did. In the middle of a busy season, she wrote to Mother, assuring her of our safety and happiness. A typical Galli-Curci gesture, we were to find later, for she combined an extraordinary sensitivity about the feelings of others with the sort of cool common sense one does not always associate with prima donnas.

Years later, one of her great colleagues—who liked her, as a matter of fact—told us many people considered Galli-Curci rather cold and proud. Although a small woman, she had immense dignity and presence, and her Spanish side gave her a rather aristocratic bearing that marked her out in any company. She would have been a fool if she had not known her exact position in the musical world of that day. And Galli-Curci was no fool.

But to us, she was an angel. And she changed our lives.

That first magical evening was like the sort of thing you invent to please yourself, but which never really happens. Plans were made for our enjoyment; we were advised on what to hear at the opera. And, final delight, Homer told us that Arturo Toscanini was returning to New York for the first time, after fifteen years’ absence—following his famous quarrel with Gatti-Casazza—and if we wished to go, he would take us.

In those days, we had only a vague idea of Toscanini’s position in the musical world, but we accepted with alacrity. Thanks to Homer, we witnessed that wonderful scene of excitement and rejoicing when Toscanini returned to New York.

In this connection, Lita told us an amusing story. Once, during Toscanini’s long absence and before the reconciliation between him and Gatti, she said to the famous manager of the Met, “Gatti, why don’t you have Toscanini back?”

Gatti regarded her with somewhat sardonic gloom and replied, “When you have had typhoid fever and have had the good fortune to recover, do you ask to have it again?”