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!
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,
