“Well,” was his reply, “I’m glad I didn’t have to do it, but I think she’s worth it, if anyone is.”
And this started one of our longest and firmest operatic friendships—with Douglas and his wife, Luigia.
When the 1929 season came to an end, Louise and I had a great compensation coming: we were due to sail for the States once more in September. Lita and Homer were waiting to welcome us at Sul Monte, their famous country house built at the top of Bellair Mountain, overlooking the most beautiful part of the Catskill country.
In a sense, the departure and even the journey were something of a repetition of the earlier trip, though perhaps we were a little more experienced—if not worldly, at least more self-possessed than before.
We arrived in New York in the middle of a heat wave, but nothing could dim our enthusiasm for the city, which would always represent excitement and high romance for us. Nevertheless, we were very glad to be going into the cooler, hilly country and very excited that, this time, we were travelling farther afield than New York City.
On a bright Sunday morning, we left Grand Central for our fascinating journey along the banks of the Hudson. We went by train as far as Rhinecliff; there, Homer met us with a car. Perhaps the best impression of our feelings that first day can be gleaned from my rapturous letter written home after our arrival.
Homer drove the car on to the ferry boat, and we were ferried across the Hudson—feeling like a million dollars. There were gorgeous wooded hills rising on every side, so I thought we should just begin to drive up one of them, when Homer smiled and said, “Now, you’ve a fifty mile drive in front of you.” We have found since that they have a station ten minutes from the house, but the darlings thought we should like to be met and driven through the wonderful Catskill country—so it was nothing to Homer to give up most of his day to doing it.
It was heavenly! We stopped halfway, to eat corn soup and fried chicken and Boston cream pie. We dawdled and talked politics. We dawdled a bit more and talked music. And at last, late-ish in the afternoon, we turned up a rough woodland path leading to the top of Bellair Mountain. They own 132 acres right at the top, and Sul Monte—which is just the loveliest place you can possibly imagine—is built on a wonderful plateau with thickly wooded slopes rolling away on either side. You can see sixty miles or more back and front of the house and, on a clear day, right away to the faint purple outline of the Adirondacks.
Homer tooted the horn as we drove up and Lita came running out, crying, “Here are the girls!” and there was such a kissing and greeting and talking as you never saw.
* * *
It was the beginning of another holiday. Homer and Lita had their own swimming pool, dance hall and cinema on the estate. There was darling Fagin, a shaggy sheepdog, who was very sentimental and friendly, but who hated Lita to play her castanets, which she sometime did, like a true Spaniard, for her amusement and ours. There was the farm to visit and the endlessly beautiful grounds.
Above all, there was the wonderful studio, where Lita practised and sometimes allowed us to come and hear her. She explained how she used to allow the famous top range of her voice to rest almost completely during her holiday.
“Take care of the middle of your voice,” she used to say, “and the top will take care of itself. Or, if you prefer—look after the cake! You can always put on the icing afterwards.”
She gave another sound piece of advice one evening when we had been discussing La Gioconda. She immediately fetched the score and sang quite a chunk of this heavy, dramatic work.
Astounded, I exclaimed, “Why, Lita, I had no idea you could sing like that!”
“Oh, I can,” she replied, laughing, “but if I did I wouldn’t have much voice left in six months.”
Sometimes later, as I have listened to ill-judged young sopranos happily tearing their way through the fabric of a bright upper register, I have thought of Lita’s words about the difference between what one can do and what one should do.
On another occasion, she decided to sing some excerpts from Romeo and Juliet, which Homer said was his favourite role for her. Lita insisted on a certain amount of stage action for the death scene, so Homer was pressed into service. He
finally agreed to pose on the studio steps in a dying attitude, with a resigned, “All right, all right. I’m Romeo—in black velvet,” while Lita swarmed over him, singing heart-rendingly.
It was great fun being “Galli-Curci’s English girls.” We were invited out to the surrounding estates, and everyone seemed to vie with each other in an effort to give us the time of our lives. The wife of one millionaire newspaper owner gave an “old style” dance. She took over the whole of a picturesque Dutch inn, and we all drove out thirty miles through the moonlit Catskills to dine by candlelight in old world surroundings and dance until the early hours.
I was still, be it remembered, a three-pound-a-week shorthand-typist, so it is easy to imagine what joyous novelty all this was for us. But best of all was the lovely home life of Sul Monte. The long talks in the library or the sun-parlour, the discussions as we drove out to Perch Lake to see some builder about alterations to the house. Tea and cinnamon toast on the way back. Taking Fagin for walks and suddenly realizing we were in the country of Queechy and The Wide, Wide World, and finding to our amazement that the extraordinary types still persisted. It was wonderful.
Alas, this too had to come to an end. But this time, when we said goodbye, we were cheered by the fact that they were both coming to England on a concert tour the following year. To our lasting regret, Lita had already retired from the operatic stage. But at least we could always congratulate ourselves for our persistence in managing to hear some of her operatic performances.
When we returned to England, I was fired afresh at the prospect of writing a profitable article or two about our experiences. And as Mabs Fashions was now running a series of holiday articles, I wrote and submitted an article on my holiday in the Catskill Mountains.
Once again I was lucky. The article was accepted. More important, the editor wrote, saying that she liked my style, and asking if I had any other interesting holiday experiences I could write up.
Apart from the American journeys, a very short trip to Brussels was the full extent of our foreign travels. But I said, “Yes, certainly,” bought a series of guidebooks and set to work. Over a period of some months, I wrote various articles for her.
Meanwhile, operatically speaking, the wheel had turned full circle again. The preliminary notices for the opera season were out; this time, the most interesting newcomer to Covent Garden was Ezio Pinza.
From our vantage point in the gallery queue, it did not take any of us long to discover that, behind all that face fungus, which is the hallmark of so many operatic bass roles, there was a fascinating person with a charming, lively small daughter—Claudia. I suppose Claudia was about five when we first knew her. She used to smile shyly at the queue and made childish dabs at the chairs as she went along the street, clutching her father’s hand.
To Claudia, we owe the beginning of our collection of star snapshots, a hobby that was to acquire considerable significance later. Many in the queue were, of course, ardent autograph hunters, but I thought it would be more fun to have snaps
