And Why Shouldn't I Sing?

In this article the singer Margaret Truman, whose income for this year comes to about 75 thousand dollars, replies to the many who direct criticism at her for having taken singing as her profession, and to those who hold that she has exploited her father's name and position to reach a standing she would not have reached without them; and she recounts the history of her passion for music and singing, and how her inclination toward them grew until she took singing as her life's profession.

On the 27th of last November I went with my parents to Constitution Hall, as we had been accustomed to do every Sunday for 15 years. But that Sunday's concert was unlike the others: my parents sat in their box, and I stood at the other end of the hall — stood singing. That was my twenty-fifth concert, and the first public concert at which my parents listened to me.

Before me sat 3,800 people — among them a number of prominent men of government, members of the diplomatic corps, lovers of music, and also those who had come out of curiosity, full of doubt about my gift for singing. My one concern as I sang was to convince the audience that I had not been working to exploit my father's name and position to bring me to the place I had striven to attain since my girlhood.

Some believe that the desire to become a singer came to me suddenly after my father became President of the United States, and that I began trying to exploit the name of the White House. The fact is that singing is the one goal I have ever aspired to reach, and my father and I used to discuss it long before that house became our residence.

I began taking singing lessons when I was sixteen years old. I registered under the name Margaret Wallace (my mother's family name) so as to make sure I would be judged by my talent and not by other considerations, and my teacher remained ignorant of my identity.

As for my passion for music in general, it goes back to 1932, when I had not yet turned eight. On my birthday that year my father gave me a piano, and he was the first of my teachers on it. My father is in fact a skilled player; I fancy there is no amateur in Washington to match him. What helped me fall in love with music is that I was born and grew up in a house most of whose members, on my father's side and my mother's, were inclined to music, so that it became, as it were, a part of me.

There is no doubt that music has had a great influence on my life. Almost all that I remember of the days of my girlhood are incidents connected with the music lessons I took from my teachers in Missouri, where my father worked. When he was elected a member of the Senate we moved — reluctantly, on my part — to Washington. I hated that city intensely, and my hatred was increased by my loathing for the school I entered, where I could not win the friendship of my schoolmates until they discovered my gift for singing, whereupon I became one of the notable pupils.

In 1940 I set about studying singing, and I went on taking a lesson every week until 1947. Before long I discovered that my real gift was not playing the piano, as I had believed before, but singing. When I graduated from my college in 1942, my parents and I held a conference at which I explained to them my inclination to make singing my profession. My parents agreed, on condition that I take the university degree first. But by the time I obtained that degree in 1946, the general circumstances had changed: our family had become national public property, and I had become the daughter of the President of the Republic, not merely of a member of the Senate.

I do not deny any of the privileges I enjoy through being the daughter of the country's President. But anxiety began to take hold of me when I fell to thinking that politics would play its part if I made singing my profession. My father's opponents would make it a means of striking at him; the critics, in reviewing my art, would rely not on artistic principles but on their political leanings; and the newspapers and magazines would fail me — 90 percent of them, just before the last elections, had been against my father and his government.

Yet all these considerations could not stand in the way of what I aspired to with all my strength. I was born in a town called Independence, and so I have taken independence as my guide in my deeds and my thoughts. And after all, what was I to do, and how was I to spend my time? Could I take an ordinary post? Should I plunge into society, with parties coming first? Parties have their undeniable splendor: at them I have met some of the great, such as Churchill — whom I admire enormously — and Attlee and Smuts. But parties in general do not please me, and drink holds no appeal for me — I have never once drunk intoxicants. So there was nothing before me but singing.

I went back to my father to ask his opinion. He said he had one question to put to me: did I aspire to sing out of a heartfelt desire? When I answered yes, he said: then go to it, and pay no heed to any other considerations.

So I took singing as my profession. My concerts began in 1947, and thousands and tens of thousands began attending them. In the following year, however, I took care, as far as I could, not to appear at public concerts, because 1948 was the year of the presidential elections and I did not wish to make my singing an occasion for the politicians' campaigns against my father, and because I felt I ought to be with my mother at his side on his election tours.

In 1949 I went back to working energetically to consolidate my artistic standing. Hardly had my father's inauguration ceremonies ended when I arranged with James Davidson, the manager who looks after the affairs of the greatest women singers in New York, to become my manager, and arranged with the singer Helen Traubel to become my teacher. I must say here that this Helen Traubel refuses to take a single penny from me in payment for her pains, and declines to take any other pupils. She does this out of love for the state of Missouri, from which we both came.

And I firmly believe that the two most important events in my life are my becoming, by chance, the daughter of the President of the United States, and my studying under Helen Traubel.

James Davidson estimates that my income from concerts in 1950 will range between 60 thousand and 75 thousand dollars. Of course this figure will shrink considerably if we deduct from it the costs of transport and assistants, the income tax, and the manager, who receives 20 percent of the income. But I must not complain; truth to tell, had I been an ordinary girl and not the daughter of the country's President, my income would never have reached so high a mark.

The press has been kind to me: the complimentary articles have been three times as many as the critical ones. If I set aside a few isolated cases, I find I have no cause to complain of the press in anything. The newspaper reporters and editors are faithful friends of mine. Do you want any greater proof of that than their wanting to marry me off? I certainly desire with all my heart to marry and to bear children, though for the present I shall devote myself to consolidating my position as a singer. The papers have reported that I granted my father the right of veto with respect to my future husband. That is true: I do not expect any dispute to arise in the family over the man I intend to marry, when I do decide it; but naturally I shall not marry someone of whose marriage to me my parents do not approve.

Recently I heard a friend declare that the best way for a Republican to get into the White House is to marry me. That may be true, but the fact is I have no Republican friends. There is no one on my horizon just now... but a girl has the right to dream, hasn't she?