Safe Passage

by Mary Burchell

  To which she replied, “But that’s exactly what I like best.”

  And it was.

  From the moment she stepped over our threshold, Elisabeth became one of us. I think Mother really loved her best of all our stars. For one thing, she came to know her best. But Elisabeth was, in any case, as my mother used to say, “the sort of person anyone would like for a daughter.”

  It is some years now since Louise and I have seen her, because she lives very quietly in retirement, looked after devotedly by her wonderful husband, George Cehanovsky. But at the time, she was one of the leading figures of the international opera world, and yet one of the kindest, most approachable people it is possible to imagine.

  She was unpretentious to the last degree, had a charming sense of humour, the prettiest speaking voice I ever heard and the most exquisite manners. These last were not put on. They came straight from her heart and her special awareness of the other person’s needs and feelings. Sometimes, I think, she was almost too sensitively aware of others, so that only her supreme gifts could have taken her to the top of the tough profession in which she lived her life.

  How charming and amusing she and Pinza were that evening! We were simply enthralled with them both. At close quarters, the genuine stars give a curious impression of over-life-sized personalities. It is, of course, customary to pretend that operatic stars are unintelligent or objectionable or both. Some of them may be; I don’t know. But those I have known intimately have all had considerable and varied charm, and without exception, one could see why they had become world figures.

  Didn’t someone once ask Noel Coward, “What must one do to be a star?” And he replied, “Shine.”

  That is the answer. They have star quality, that indefinable gift that, combined with great talent and hard work, will produce something that lifts them above the common run, in a way that fascinates all but the most ungenerous observer.

  Of course, they have their weaknesses. Living on their nerves and at concert pitch, they are sometimes unreasonable and inexplicable. But, good heavens, who should grudge them a few foibles when they also have the gifts that set them apart in other ways? The really unbearable performers are the mediocrities who assume airs and peculiarities—and can, incidentally, always tell you what is wrong with the really great.

  Anyway, if ever two people determined to make an evening memorable, they were Pinza and Rethberg on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion when the only people they had to gratify were an unimportant family who could give them little but affection and admiration.

  The opera season of 1934 ended, so far as we were concerned, in a blaze of glory—the final glow being provided by the superb Conchita in the long-awaited Cenerentola on the last night.

  We were not expecting any excitements before our projected trip to Salzburg at the end of July. But, early in the month, I received a telegram from Rethberg—now somewhere on the Continent—saying that she was going to be in London to sing at a private party and would I get in touch with her at her hotel?

  I did so more than willingly and found that she had been asked to sing at an evening party given by Lady Ludlow at Bath House—now, alas, taken down. Rethberg had never before agreed to take an engagement of this kind, but for once, she was breaking her rule.

  The Bath House musical parties were one of the few affairs left of almost Edwardian magnificence, frequently, as on this occasion, attended by royalty, and they still maintained a degree of formality and grandeur that savoured of pre-1914 days. Elisabeth’s proposal, arising from a disregard of ceremony learned in America, was that I should accompany her.

  I explained, with the utmost regret, that it was quite impossible that I should turn up uninvited at such a gathering. But, not to be gainsaid, Elisabeth asked, “Well, will you come as my secretary? Carry my music, and that sort of thing?”

  Naturally, I agreed with an eagerness equal to my previous degree of regret and undertook to play my role with becoming self-effacement and—I hoped—efficiency.

  I presume mine are probably the only Woolworth beads that ever attended a Bath House reception. But they looked reasonably like jade—or so I thought—and they did match my dress. Long black gloves completed what I felt was a toilette adequate to the occasion. And thus attired—and clasping an armful of music—I accompanied the gorgeously gowned Elisabeth, in her wonderful “picture” dress of black tulle.

  During the concert, I remained in Elisabeth’s improvised dressing room, but was able to hear everything from the wings, and later I had the opportunity to stroll through the rooms and examine some of the treasures of Bath House. In the intervals, Elisabeth and I had an opportunity for talk. Afterward, I accompanied her back to her hotel and stayed until the small hours of the morning. So we laid the foundation of what was to be a lifelong friendship.

  By the time I left, we had arranged that she too should come to Salzburg—from Switzerland, where she had a summer home—and that we should therefore be meeting again in a few weeks’ time.

  Before then, however—on July 24, to be precise—there occurred the first international event whose repercussions deeply affected our private affairs. Dolfuss, the Austrian Chancellor, was murdered.

  6

  I blush now to think how ignorant we were of the significance of this event. Apart from being vaguely shocked by the way foreigners behaved toward each other, we were concerned with only one aspect of the murder: Would it put a stop to our holiday in Salzburg?

  For a day or two, the decision hung in the balance. Then we learned that that frontier between Germany and Austria, which had been closed for an anxious few days, had been opened once more for tourists, and our holiday was safe.

  We travelled through Germany by night—third class and sitting upright of course—and I remember the concern of the German family in our compartment when they heard we were going to Salzburg. The father, who was a bit of a besserwisser—a know-it-all—assured us that we could not possibly cross the border, that Austria was in a lamentable state, etcetera, etcetera. We were completely unmoved, merely reiterating that “the man at Cooks” had said it would be all right, so it would be all right. For this was how we thought in those days—all of us, I think. The British knew best and that was that.

  When we arrived in Munich, everything seemed outwardly normal. And, too happy and too ignorant to hear the rumbles of the coming storm, we blithely took that well-known journey from Munich to Salzburg for the first time in our lives.

  This was Salzburg before the ghastly red of the swastika flags threw a lurid reflection on the white walls, and we were fascinated by it. Already, of course, the shadows were falling, though people like ourselves were largely unaware of it. Already, the dreadful fungus that was to flower in the centre of Europe was beginning to swell and give out a faint, sickly, premonitory aroma of evil.

  But for us that summer, Salzburg was the scene of a glorious feast of music. We were intoxicated by the beauty of the fortress city about the rushing Salzach, entranced to realize that one could gaze alternately at opera stars and mountain scenery and take rapturous pleasure in both. Above all, it was extraordinarily pleasant to have a bowing acquaintance with more than one of these same stars and, in the case of the sensational Don Giovanni himself, to know him well.

  Claudia and her mother were also in the city and we met our little friend once more. She was a dear child, spoke astonishingly good English and was excellent company. She referred to my watch as my “little time” and openly expressed the hope that someone would give her a little time for her birthday, which was approaching.

  No one who was present at the first Don Giovanni that year is ever like to forget it, but I should like to recall a few of its glories for those who were not.

  The part of Giovanni is, of course, very often sung by a baritone and Pinza was essentially a basso. But, by the kind of dispensation of providence, he also possessed those vital few notes at the top of his range that are necessary; therefore the role was within his v
ocal compass and the colour of the voice was the same as that of the singer for whom Giovanni was written. As for his acting, I suppose no one before or since has ever been better qualified to play the part. Not only was he, by common knowledge, very much of a Don Giovanni in private life, he had the ineffable charm, good humour and vitality to carry it off.

  The last scene in this masterly production was unforgettable. Giovanni was alone, except for Leporello, and when the statue of the dead Commandatore finally appeared, he did not stump in at ground level preceded by what usually looks like clouds of detergent. The door at the top of a double curving flight of stairs flew open and there was the ghastly, over-life-sized figure dominating the whole scene. At the moment when he bade Giovanni give him his hand, Pinza used to hesitate for a second, pressing back against one of the apparently massive pillars as though, in that moment of supernatural horror, even he felt the need of something solid at his back. Then, with a gesture of bravado, he sprang up the flight of steps and gave his hand.

  In the horrifying moments that succeeded that handclasp, as Giovanni’s years seemed to fall from him, in the extremity of danger beyond anything he had ever courted. Then, with a last despairing wrench, he tore his hand away and went springing down the steps, as though momentarily believing that the worst was over. But everywhere he set his foot, flames sprang up. In horror, he flung himself against one of the pillars, which swayed and collapsed. He seized the end of the table and the whole thing gave way, precipitating china and glass in one terrifying crash to the floor. Then, as he rushed behind the table, there was a final and fearful burst of flame, and Giovanni disappeared.

  I have never seen that scene equalled for horror and drama in any other production. It was an instantaneous and tremendous success with a great personal triumph for Pinza. In addition to the performances he gave at the Metropolitan and Covent Garden, he repeated that role each year at Salzburg up to the outbreak of war.

  After that great performance, we went with the Pinzas to have supper at their hotel. There is no use pretending that the domestic situation was a happy one, for the first Mrs. Pinza was, to put it mildly, a difficult person. But the situation did provoke a rather piquant scene in the hotel dining room.

  Giannini was also having supper there, as were the Lazzaris—he had sung the Leporello. At a moment of gathering domestic storm, Giannini—in her beautiful rich soprano voice—suddenly began to sing “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” the catch-song that was sweeping the world at that moment. Pinza immediately took it up from our table, and Lazzari provided a sort of ground bass. Against their Anna, Giovanni, and Leporello earlier in the evening, it was startling, to say the least.

  In contrast to all this, however, we had not forgotten that we had a foot—or, at least, a toehold—in the other operatic camp. We had boldly recalled ourselves to Ursuleac when she was strolling in the promenade at the Festspielhaus one evening. Krauss was conducting, but she was not singing that evening. She remembered us immediately, seized the photograph that we proffered, and cried, “I know! You want Mr. Krauss to write.”

  We agreed this was exactly what we wanted. She promised to obtain the signature and told us to collect the photograph from the box office in a few days’ time.

  This we did. On our last day, we met her again, this time walking along the bank of the Salzach in the direction of Stein Lechner. We ventured to stop and thank her and to ask when we were likely to hear her again.

  She smiled and summoned up enough English to say, “You must come to Vienna.” She evidently considered this an improbable sort of journey for us—not knowing that even New York was not too far away when we really got going. And she looked both amused and taken aback when we replied airily, “All right. We’ll come to Vienna.”

  At this she really scraped the bottom of her English barrel for a suitable reply and came up very charmingly with, “Eef you come to Vienna you must—you must ring me up.”

  We promised we would and finally went back to England feeling that new operatic horizons were opening.

  Soon after our return home, I had a letter from Elisabeth Rethberg. She explained that she had not been able to come to Salzburg, partly because of private affairs and partly because the possible dangers of such a visit had been somewhat exaggerated in her part of the world. She added, however, that she was singing for the radio in Amsterdam at the end of September and asked me to come over and meet her there.

  As it was a weekend, I could, by flying both ways, just manage it without taking any more leave from the office. Louise and I still had one week’s leave remaining, and we were already considering going to Vienna before the end of the year, if funds held out, so we were anxious to keep that week intact.

  I flew to Amsterdam, where Elisabeth joined me. She came, I imagine, from Dresden where her family lived. She was obviously worried and angry at the events developing in Germany and told me she never intended to sing there again. At least, not until the Hitler regime ended. On the basis of my still rather vague concept of what was happening, I expressed a somewhat academic interest and sympathy. But I am afraid my principal concern was that she should sing where we could hear her.

  We had a delightful weekend together, and for the first time, I went to a broadcasting studio and experienced the fun of being the only “audience” allowed in. She sang Marguerite’s two airs from Faust and, without any stage props, reduced me unexpectedly to tears. I never actually heard her in the part, but Pinza used to say that he thought it was in some ways her finest role, that she was without peer in it.

  While in Amsterdam, I discovered that there was to be a Strauss Festival Week there early in December, which would include two performances of Arabella. The composer was to conduct and Ursuleac was to sing the name-part. For the Sunday concert, Strauss would conduct the first half and Mengelberg the second, with Ursuleac as soloist.

  This festival, I realized immediately, would be a venture more in keeping with the state of our finances than a lightning trip to Vienna, and I enlisted Elisabeth’s help to find out all particulars about the Strauss week before returning to England.—One of the loveliest things about Elisabeth was that she never minded one being thrilled about other artists. In fact, when I first told her the story of our saving up to go to America to hear Galli-Curci, she exclaimed, “I could love you for that alone!”

  On my return home, Louise agreed that a Strauss week in Amsterdam would be a delightful way of spending the remainder of our leave allowance, and after a careful count of our resources, we decided we could just do it. Happy chain of coincidences—or were they only coincidences?—that led to our making just that particular visit at that particular time.

  It was the first time we had heard Strauss himself conduct, and we were, like everyone else before us I suppose, indescribably impressed by the extraordinary economy of gesture with which he secured his effects. Nowadays, of course, one looks back on him as the last of a great line of composers, but we should also remember that he was one of the great conductors of his age.

  Because of the good offices of Ursuleac’s agent, we were allowed to go to the dress rehearsal, so in the end, we really had three Arabellas under the conductorship of the composer and with his original Arabella and Mandryka.

  Each time, we noticed a distinguished-looking, white-haired lady in the audience whom we had seen once or twice with Krauss and Ursuleac in Salzburg. But we took no notice of her than to be mildly annoyed that we were not the only ones who had the distinction of turning up in different countries for different Ursuleac performances! However, when we went around backstage to see Ursuleac, the white-haired lady was introduced to us as Madame Mayer-Lismann, the official lecturer of the Salzburg Festival.

  Although from Frankfurt-am-Main, she spoke excellent English, and we were all very polite to each other. But when we got outside, Louise said, “You remember. We noticed the advertisement of her lectures on the Salzburg programmes and decided we didn’t want them. These people with double-b
arrelled names are never any good. A lot of talk, when what one really wants is the performance.”

  I’m sorry to say that I heartily agreed.

  The concert—the last of the performances—was on Sunday afternoon, and I remember that Ursuleac sang the three wonderful songs that Strauss had orchestrated especially for her: “Frühlingsfeir,” “Dein Auge” and “Cäcilie.” In the second half of the programme, she sang the finale to Salome. It was not a role she ever sang on the stage, but this concert performance was quite splendid.

  She was leaving Amsterdam that night, and having obtained permission to see her off, we presented ourselves at the station. To our chagrin and annoyance, there was the woman with the double-barrelled name! Louise and I accepted the situation with reasonably good grace, but each knew the other was thinking the same thing—that we had wanted Ursuleac to ourselves this time.

  And then a strange thing happened. Ursuleac took us by the arm and, with an earnestness and gravity that we could not quite understand, explained that this was a great personal friend of hers who was going to England for the first time to give a couple of music lectures. Would we please look after her?

  We had no idea why she needed looking after. She looked much better able to do it than we did. But of course, we were immensely touched and gratified and—all minor annoyances forgotten—promised earnestly that we would certainly look after her.

  In my mind’s eye, I still see the scene on the platform of Amsterdam station as Ursuleac turned to her companion and said, in a tone of sombre satisfaction, “Now you will be all right.”

  We remembered that scene again and again in the years that followed. Ursuleac’s confident, “Now you will be all right,” was to extend our responsibility far beyond Mitia Mayer-Lismann and her family. For, though we did not know it then, our first refugee had been commended to our care.