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, which we had earned and saved ourselves, we were entitled to spend it in our own way. They added 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,