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,
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
