A STRUGGLE AND A SOLUTION
That winter in New York was a revealing experience to me in many ways.
Numbers of things assumed different values in my estimation. One of the
first new things I learned was the comparative insignificance of $500 as
a provision for a year's expenses. I lived at one of those boarding
houses which are called both "reasonable" and respectable, but are
vastly inferior in both comfort and society to the European pension
which costs a good deal less. I had lessons in singing, diction and
French, all of which counted up to a great many dollars a week. My five
hundred began to shrink at an alarming rate, and I don't know what I
should have done if a friend had not advised me to try for a "church
position," that invaluable means of adding to the resources of a
student, which is possible only in America. Besides offering a splendid
chance of financial assistance, the church position system is an
infallible test of the money value of one's voice. How many girls have I
known in Europe embarking upon the expensive and dreadfully laborious
preparation for an operatic career, without possessing a single one of
the qualifications necessary to success, without even an adequate, to
say nothing of an unusual, voice! Their singing of "Because I love you!"
has been the admiration of their local circle, even less musical than
themselves, and this little success has been enough to start them on a
career, doomed to certain failure. If they had only tried for church
positions in a large city in America, had competed in the open market of
their own country, they would have been saved a heartbreak and much good
money besides.
I won a $1000 position almost at once, over the heads of many older and
more experienced competitors, on the merits of my voice alone. The
salary was my financial salvation, but, besides this, my general
musicianship was much improved by the practice in sight-reading and
_ensemble_ singing. I grew used to facing an audience, and found a
chance to put into use what I learned in my singing lessons. Blessed be
the quartet choir of America, say I; an invaluable institution for the
musical sons and daughters of our country.
The church in which I sang had many wealthy members, and the
dress-parade on Sundays used to be quite a sight. Our place, as choir,
was directly facing the congregation, in a little gallery, so that our
hats and dresses were subjected to very searching scrutiny. The
furnishing of suitable garments for such an exalted position became
quite a problem. The soprano was a well-known singer, who, in addition
to a good salary, had many concert and oratorio engagements; and her
furs and ostrich feathers were my despair. I would sit up half the night
to cover a last-year's straw hat with velvet. I made an endless
succession of smart blouses which, as we were hidden below the waist by
the railing, I wore with the same "utility" black broadcloth skirt. I
constructed the most original collars and jabots for them out of odds
and ends.
I remember one was made of a packet of silver spangles sewn in rows
overlapping each other like fish scales. One of my engagement presents
had been a silver mesh bag, and when I wore it at my belt, and the
collar round my neck, the choir used to call me "Mrs. Lohengrin." As we
took off our outdoor wraps to sing, my smartness in the gallery was
assured, but the cleverest manager can't contrive at home a substitute
for furs, and the soprano had chinchilla! I was years younger than the
others and they were very sweet to me.
Living at my boarding house was a young doctor, who also would have
liked to be nice to me. But my exaggerated conscientiousness would not
allow me to have anything to do with one man while I was engaged to
another, and I refused all his invitations to the theatre and to
Saturday afternoon excursions. My one indulgence was in standing-room
tickets for the Metropolitan. What a boon to girls in my situation would
be the inexpensive municipal opera and endowed theatres of Germany with
their system of _Schule Vorstellungen_ (students' performances) of
standard plays and operas at prices that put a comfortable seat within
the means of even the most humble purse! This was the lack the Century
Opera would have supplied.
My church engagement was to come to an end May first. The thought of
turning my back on the start I had made depressed me fearfully. I had
given my word to marry and did not think of wavering. But the letters of
my fiance and his rare visits to New York had not helped us to
understand each other better. Many hours I walked the floor longing for
advice, and wrestling with myself. I said to my sister, "I have my foot
on the first rung of the ladder and now I must take it off." It all
seems so simple now. Almost any other girl would have broken her
engagement without much thought. But I had not been brought up that way,
and so I had hours and days of misery.
The one thought that comforted me was that I could go on at any rate as
well as it was possible in my own town, and though it would be much
harder to make a career from there, it _could_ be done with the
co-operation of my husband. It was hard for me to talk in those days,
but one day driving down Fifth Avenue in a hansom, a rare treat, I
remember my feelings were too much for me, and I burst through my
repression and told him how I _must_ develop that side of me, and he
said, "And I'll help you, little girl; you can count on me." I believed
him of course. But while I was dreadfully serious, he, as I learned
later, ranked my singing with the china-painting and fancy-work of his
relations, as a sort of harmless pastime, to occupy my leisure moments.
The truth was, of course, that, as often happens, he had entirely
mistaken my character, had made his ideal woman out of his head, given
her my outward appearance, and fallen in love with her. The real "me"
was a disconcerting stranger, of whom he caught only occasional
glimpses.
About the first of May, I returned home. They were all at the station to
meet me; my fiance had even broken into his office hours to be there
too. We had seen each other seldom during my absence from home, for New
York was a long way off, and he was saving his pennies religiously for
the great event. When we married, our income would be a tight fit in
any case, and I could not help rejoicing that my singing might add
considerably to it. There were no $1000 church positions in our town,
but one or two of the churches paid respectable salaries to their
quartets, and I hoped soon to begin to make a concert career.
For a little while after my return I was very happy. Every one was so
nice to me and seemed to think I had done remarkable things already. Our
church asked me to sing a solo the Sunday when the bishop was expected,
and I held a sort of reception afterwards and heard many pleasant things
about my progress. After my hard work and self-denial, the rest, the
gentle flattery, and the comfort of home surroundings were very welcome.
Only with my fiance things were not so satisfactory. Something, I did
not know what, was the matter; but it all culminated one evening in his
saying that no married woman should follow a profession, that she should
find "occupation enough in her own home." This was really a great shock
to me, as he had promised me his support in my work so often. Imagine my
surprise after a three years' engagement, when he had his family tell me
just three weeks before the wedding that I was to give up all hope of
singing professionally after encouraging me in it during the entire
time. I knew by then that I could never be happy nor make him happy if
I gave up all thought of singing professionally.
I asked him very quietly if those were his convictions, and, on his
affirmative answer, I took off his ring, returned it to him, and went
upstairs without one more word, feeling as if I had been awakened out of
a nightmare, and though still palpitating from the shock was
experiencing relief at finding it over. In my own room I stretched my
arms above my head and said, "_Free!_" A marvellous vista of freedom
opened to me after the months of strain. I could hardly bear to go to
sleep; it was so wonderful to plan how I could go ahead and study,
study.
The next morning I saw my mistake in supposing the affair to be over,
for there ensued many trying days and floods of tears all round. Then
came the solemn and awkward returning of all the engagement cups and
saucers and knicknacks, to nearly our whole circle of acquaintance. My
family stood by me and performed this unattractive task, while I packed
up to return to New York.
I had given up my choir, and now found it a difficult matter to get
another. All the churches had made their arrangements for the year and
the best I could hope for was occasional substituting in case one of the
altos was unable to sing. I made the round of the agents' offices. Some
heard me and were complimentary, some refused as their lists were full.
But when I mentioned the word "engagement," I was always met by the
rejoinder "No experience." I used to say to them, "But how can I ever
get experience if you won't give me a chance?" They would shrug and
answer that that wasn't their affair.
It seemed a hopeless deadlock. No one would engage me without experience
and no one would give me an opportunity to become experienced. I knew
that the one way out of the difficulty was to go abroad and get
experience there. I have said that the idea of singing in opera had
always made a strong appeal to me, and I knew that I had some of the
qualifications necessary for the stage--a big voice, good
stage-appearance, and ability to act (we had always acted) as well as a
great capacity for hard work. But the essential qualification, without
which the others were all ineffective, was the financial support
necessary to get me there and to provide means of studying and of living
adequately while I prepared myself for opera.
I despaired of obtaining this, but the way was suddenly opened for me in
what seemed a miraculous manner. Friends of mine in the church, Frank
Smith Jones and his wife, offered to finance me through my years of
preparation and for as long afterwards as I might need their aid. These
real friends were behind me for years, and I owe them more than I could
ever repay. They made it possible for me to have my sister with me, for
me, a rather delicate girl, an inestimable benefit. In the seventh
heaven of joy, I prepared to go to Paris to study with Jacques Bouhy,
recommended to me by my New York teacher. I packed my few clothes, some
songs, and a boundless enthusiasm, and set sail.