angel booting an ill clad Adam and Eve out of Paradise, and I think it was the fact that they had little but a goatskin apiece round their middles that especially harrowed me. Years afterwards, someone who knew me well declared there was something symbolic in my howling over the first refugees the world had ever known.
When I was six, and while we were still in Barnes, our brother Bill was born. I don’t think I was quite so nice about being the displaced baby as Louise had been. I distinctly remember wondering gloomily if my special saucepan-scraping privileges were threatened. There weren’t many child psychologists to put ideas into our heads in those days. I imagine my parents coped with this as sensibly as with all other family problems. Anyway, Bill was such a model baby that even his elder sisters had to be pleased with him.
In the summer of 1912, we moved to Alnwick, the county town of Northumberland, where we stayed through the First World War and until I was fifteen. Jim was born there, a month after war broke out. He disliked the idea that there had ever been a time when the family had not had him, and he frequently prefaced entirely imaginary recollections with the words, “When I were in Barnes.”
For Louise and me, these years in Alnwick were extremely happy ones. We genuinely enjoyed our school days at the Duchess’ School, originally endowed and initiated with the then Duchess of Northumberland more than a hundred years earlier. The building was across the road from Alnwick Castle and had once been the Dower House. From the windows of our classrooms, we could look out on the castle battlements with their stone figures of fighting men, once used to deceive the invading Scots into thinking the place was better defended than it was.
We lived and played and studied on ground where the history of England and Scotland had been written, and if this fact had not left its mark upon us, we should have been insensitive indeed. We made our own amusements in those lucky, happy days, of course.
Above all, we read—everything, from Beaumont and Fletcher to Captain Desmond, VC. Sometimes Dad would apostrophize what we were reading as “rubbish”—which, no doubt, it was—and I’m sure he would have stopped us at filth for filth’s sake. Nor did anyone feel a burning necessity to dot emotional I’s or cross sexual T’s for us as we ambled happily through four hundred years of varied literature. It amuses me now to realize how much must have gone over my unworried head, but I doubt that I was stunted either emotionally or intellectually as a consequence.
When the family returned to London in the immediate post-war years, it was time for Louise to start earning her living. She entered the civil service, characteristically scoring top marks in Latin in the entrance examination. I followed her a year or two later in the humbler capacity of copying typist. My salary was a modest £2. 6. 0 a week—now £2.30—and very pleased with it I was.
It is always fascinating to look back on any life—particularly one’s own—pick out a seemingly unimportant incident, and be able to say, “That was when it all started.”
For Louise and me, that point came on an afternoon in 1923, when the late Sir Walford Davies, accompanied by a gramophone, came to the Board of Education to give a lecture on music. Although it was probably not intended for office workers at all, but the school inspectors or some such, Louise somehow wandered into the lecture.
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
