Hotels and Rehearsals

by GRETCHEN FINLETTER

1

BEFORE I went to school, I thought — if I thought about it at all — that all fathers lunched at home and that all houses were filled with the sounds of the rehearsals of singers or wind instruments. Front halls quite naturally had a couple of cellos standing in them, dressed in neat brown overcoats which under no conditions must be touched. I thought most homes had at least three pianos.

Pianos followed us everywhere. They came up trunk elevators in hotels, they were hauled by ropes through apartment house windows, and in the country they were drawn by farm horses in great wagons. They were usually the largest grands that Steinway’s could furnish. It never seemed possible when they were delivered, with the legs off and their strings exposed, that they could be fitted together, and my sisters and I would watch anxiously to see if they would really turn into complete instruments again. The men apparently knew what they were about, but the grands always looked ruined.

Finally, my father would sit down and strike some great chords. “ Beautiful tone. Boys, tell Mr. Steinway that is the finest piano I have had yet.”

He continued to play, and it always seemed to me that the improvisations to try out the new piano were a little lovelier, a little more noble, than the music of ordinary days. The men would stand about listening, and suddenly my father would spring up and give them each a cigar, while one of them would tell him the latest story of what had happened to some artist on tour when his piano in the baggage car had gone on the wrong siding.

Performances became a reality to me when I was very small. We were spending the winter at the Cambridge Hotel, a small hotel on Fifth Avenue across from the old Waldorf. My father was conducting at the Metropolitan Opera House. To live in a hotel was deeply exciting to my sisters and me. Polly was a very little girl and shared a room with our nurse Minnie, and Alice and I had a room together.

The room had folding beds. In the daytime they looked like two tall highboys with small desks fitted into the sides, but at night they unhooked, the desks seemed mysteriously to disappear, and the highboys became beds. Alice immediately learned the trick and would rush in in the evening and fold them up again to see if our little desks were still there and why the ink did not spill. She would never let me see how she did it, — it was her secret, - but she often hinted that if I did not do what she wanted she might fold me up at night. This made going to bed an adventure, because I was never sure if I, or a completely flattened I, would be there in the morning.

Children love hotels. In the first place, the food is so interesting. Try as a mother or nurse will to reproduce the wholesomeness of home, a waiter, desiring to be popular, will always sneak in some gay novelty of his own. We had an Italian waiter called Roberto, and we found him both handsome and resourceful. He began by teaching us how to fold napkins in the beautiful way he did, to resemble cabbages or swans. Then he rolled the butter like a setting hen, with the butter halls as eggs. With the aid of the chef, who liked opera and admired my father, he brought us pastries iced very brightly to resemble the flags of the nations. We were told the blue icing was poison and to eat very carefully around it.

The Cambridge had long red-carpeted halls, if one slid one’s feet along them, one could give electric shocks to the people one touched. There came up through the shafts a permanent and delicious smell of hot bread. My mother and father did not enjoy this smell, but to us it seemed that the hotel was perpetually gett ing ready for a party.

New guests came and went, and it was interesting to watch them, study the labels on their luggage, and see if there might be other children. Roberto had very sharply defined opinions of the newcomers and he confided in us as if we were old stand-bys. It was flattering to be treated as his understanding equals, and at breakfast he would tell us who had come and what significant clues there were to their characters.

We shook our heads sympathetically with him as he told of the first dinner given the night before by a new arrival: “There are five of them and he orders the dinner. Then I show him the wine card. He orders one bottle — one bottle for five! I fool him. I open another bottle. I shame him into behaving like a gentleman!”

“Good for you, Roberto,” we congratulated.

Thus there became fixed in my mind forever the impression that no gentleman ever tries to serve five people from one bottle. I was six years old.

Minnie, our nurse, never quit e knew how to treat Roberto. She was Swedish and had a natural contempt for Latins. She also loved horror stories. She did not encourage Roberto and she wore a haughty look while he talked, but sometimes she lingered after we had left the dining room, to hear some further details of the new guests that Roberto seemed to think we should be spared. Then she would ejaculate to herself in the elevator, “Akeekock!” All her life, this was her expression for anything that disgusted her, and it was used equally for the sins of the flesh and the carelessness of a child who did not wear her rubbers.

The event of the week was the day when a performance was given. My father seemed to change completely. He would appear in a full dress suit while the sun was still shining through the windows, and instead of eating a real dinner downstairs, he would take some tea and toast in our little sitting room while he looked frequently at his watch. Then with a pale face he would go off in the twilight in his high silk hat, carrying the score under his arm.

The next event was to hook my mother up. First she put on a beautiful satin evening dress while Minnie stood by as official hooker-upper. There seemed to be hundreds of hooks, and if they went first from right to left, they recrossed from left to right with tinier eyes. Even if little Polly called from her room, nothing could interrupt this moment. We would stand about, urging my mother to wear this pin or that necklace, and spreading our suggestions in alluring combinations.

Next my mother would take from the glove box a long pair of French kid gloves. They had eight little buttons which had to be buttoned with a special glove hook. Finally she put on a wonderful evening wrap which one of us had been trying on in front of the mirror; then she too went out into the evening, took a cab, and drove to the opera.

Minnie carefully locked up the jewel box, and the rooms became silent. Alice and I went to our folding beds and to sleep. But we were wakened several hours later by a roar of noise. The performance was over and late supper was in progress. There were guests and there floated in to us the sound of clinking glasses. Everyone was gay and relaxed, and my father’s voice sounded louder and happier than anyone else’s.

“Where is the champagne?” Pop went a cork. “Let us drink to Lillian Nordica. To the finest performance of Elsa that I believe has ever been heard!”

Applause, the scrape of chairs, and the voice of Madame Nordica: “Thank you, my dear, dear friends. And now, Walter, let me drink to you.”

But I was anxiously doing some arithmetic. There were eight people, and so far only one cork had popped. Bing, a second one. Good. Was two for eight better than one for five? Bang, and a third bottle was opened. I lay back greatly relieved, and relaxed. I must tell Roberto at breakfast. Nothing wrong with my father!

2

IT WAS decided that I should attend a performance of Siegf ried. I had never been to the opera and I had a confused idea of what it was. Staying at the Cambridge was Madame Johanna Gadski, who was singing many of the Wagnerian roles. Her daughter Lotte was a friend of Alice’s. Lotte, who could not have been more than eleven years old, was general costume mistress for her mother. She was very quick with her needle and could tell at a glance what spangle or ornament was missing. She adored her mother, and at every performance was waiting in the dressing room with her faithful little thimble on her finger.

One afternoon she invited us up to have hot chocolate in their apartment. First she showed us all her mother’s evening dresses. Then the costumes that were home for adjustments. Flattered by our delight, she placed Brünnhilde’s helmet on Alice’s head and hung Elizabeth’s necklace from Tannhäuser about my neck. We were dazzled. But when it came time to leave I found I had to give back the necklace. I had thought it was a real party and that the necklace was a present for keeps. I felt so badly that when we went downstairs I could not even give the elevator man a surprise electric shock.

Many of the singers had special rehearsals with my father in our sitting room. Minnie liked the Rhine maidens and always left the door open so that we could hear them. One day when Polly and I came back from Gramercy Park with her, we saw eight very large ladies gathered about my father at the piano.

Minnie gave a snort. “They have come!”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Wait,” answered Minnie in a voice of foreboding. “You’ll hear it.”

“Are they bad?”

“You’ll see.”

The piano crashed and eight Valkyries let out a wild Hoyo-to-ho.

Minnie gave a great groan. “How is Polly going to get her nap with that going on? Akee-kock!”

But Polly gave a wide and happy smile. This was like nothing she had ever heard before. My father joined his voice with the Valkyries’. Alternately he was Wotan and Briinnhilde. The Valkyries sang in twos, in fours, in sevens. Then, when we were afraid it was finished, they began all over again, and again and again. Minnie retired into the farthest bathroom. What the rest of the hotel and the Waldorf felt, no one cared.

The next day it was raining hard. My father told my mother at lunch that he was worried about the bird.

“She is too prosaic. She doesn’t give it color. I’m going over it with her upstairs at three.”

“ Couldn’t you rehearse her at the Opera House?” begged my mother.

“No, she’s frightened in front of the company. I must encourage her.”

I waited around the sitting room. I wanted to see this bird and why it was so frightened.

A very stout little lady appeared, hung up a dripping raincoat, took off her hat, and stood beside the piano. My father sat down and began to play perhaps the most beautiful part of Siegfried, the sounds of the forest. Then he sang softly: —

The door was opened into Polly’s room and we all listened. The bird now answered in a silvery voice: —

“No, no!” cried my father. “You arc not announcing that dinner is served. You are bringing glorious tidings to Siegfried! For God’s sake, be joyous!”

The bird gave an apologetic smile.

“One, two,” said my father, conducting with his right hand.

“You’re high up in the air!” exclaimed my father. “Fraulein Schnee, I beg you, don’t be so pedestrian!”

The bird now looked stubborn. The heavenly music began again.

We listened, agonizing for the bird. She sang and my father sang with her, making two birds. They continued together.

“One, two,” said my father. The bird jumped in alone.

“Watch my beat!”

My mother appeared in the hall and hissed at me.

“Tell your father I have gone for a long, long walk!”

“Again!” ordered my father, and they sang together.

Then the bird burst into tears.

“My dear child,” screamed my father, “I am only trying to give you confidence!”

“nur wer das Fürchten nicht kennt!”

It was over. They shook hands and we helped her on with her raincoat. I told my father my mother had gone for a long, long walk.

“In this weather?” said my father, surprised. “Why?”

3

IT WAS a great question with me what I should wear to Siegfried, Alice and I each had Roman sashes of beautiful striped silk with long fringes, which my father had brought us from Italy. We wore them on white dresses and they were so heavy that the bows behind looked like big bustles. But I had another sash that I wanted to wear. Whenever my father received a wreath or basket of flowers to celebrate some occasion, there was always attached to it a great satin ribbon with gold lettering. These were given to us, and we cut them up for sashes. Polly and I had equally divided the last trophy. It happened to be purple, and across my stomach was printed in gold letters, “To Commemorate Beet,” while around Polly’s waist appeared, “hoven’s Ninth Symphony.” In the end I agreed to wear the Roman sash.

Minnie took us to the Metropolitan. She wore a white silk blouse with yellow embroidery, and this was to be her best blouse for many, many years. She brought with her her opera glasses, which my mother had given her and which remained in her possession unbroken for the rest of her life. She allowed me to look through them, and of course I preferred peering into the large end to see how small everyone looked. I examined the people in the box next to us. I made Alice stare with me at the lady who was sitting only two feet away. Why, she was tiny! Didn’t she look funny! The glasses were taken away from me.

The lights were lowered, the orchestra stopped tuning, there was applause, and suddenly my father appeared. It was too much for me. He must be made to realize I was there too. I stood up.

“Parp! Here I am!” I screamed as loud as I could.

A hand snatched me to the back of the box. A little later, feeling deeply humiliated, I was allowed to move to the front again and was once more given the opera glasses. This time I looked through the small end and studied my father. I was horrified. He was making such terrible faces, first at the orchestra and then at the singers. He would point his stick at one of them and give a frightful scowl. How could they perform? He never seemed to let them alone, but was always menacing them. I could not look at him. I turned to watch Mime scramble an egg.

The story of Siegfried had been told to me, but as part of the Ring. It is a complicated tale, and as I watched I was not sure which story I was seeing. Where were the gold in the river and my friends, the Rhine maidens? What had happened to the Valkyries? I started to question Alice in a penetrating whisper. There were loud “shush-shs” from the neighboring boxes.

Suddenly I fell on familiar ground. Siegfried lay under a tree with bits of sunlight sifting through the leaves. Then began the soft and yearning sounds of the forest — the Waldweben. And I was in a panic. I knew the bird was coming. Already I had learned that opera is not a fairy tale: it is a professional performance, and I was aware, at the age of six, of the anxiety and nerves that go into a production. Siegfried was not just a hero: he was a singer with one eye on my father’s beat. I believed the story as I saw it, I was relieved and happy when the sword was welded, but I knew that there was a great deal more to opera than just the story. The bird was coming, and she and my father had had words.

Then to my surprise she did not come. A queer little bunch of feathers was pulled across the stage, wobbling on a wire — and I could see the wire! I was triumphant and pointed it out loudly and delightedly to everyone who was sitting within five boxes. I did not hear the singing. I wanted everyone to know that I saw that wire, and with my naked eye. Again I was pulled to the back of the box.

Lotte appeared in the next intermission to take Alice to see her mother in her dressing room. I was not invited, but I did not mind until Alice returned. She had on her head Isolde’s crown, which Madame Gadski had lent her until the end of the performance. There she sat, with a silver crown on her head. I hardly looked at the fire burning around Brünnhilde. I only watched Alice’s head. I wanted so terribly to have a crown too.