Читать книгу Canadian Performing Arts Bundle - Michelle Labrèche-Larouche - Страница 4

“Albert, my dearest, my beloved husband for all eternity, is it truly you?” asked the diminutive figure enveloped in a full-length black dress, in a low, tremulous voice, her eyes raised heavenward. The white lace cap holding back her silver hair gave her a half-dramatic, half-comic air. The atmosphere in the room was charged with feeling.

Moonbeams penetrated between the heavy crimson velvet curtains looped in gold braid, and the flames in the huge fireplace sent menacing shadows flickering and leaping on the walls. The ceiling was so high that it could almost be confused with the night sky. The few tapers burning atop the silver candelabrum added to the aura of mystical expectancy. In a corner of this vast room, in which an unsuccessful attempt had been made at creating warmth and intimacy, reigned a grand piano draped in a cashmere coverlet. All the pieces of furniture – chesterfields, armchairs, and cabinets – were massive and seemed to have been in the same position for centuries. Bookshelves crammed with hundreds of volumes separated panelled walls hung with drawings by the great masters and a Holbein portrait of Queen Bess. Low mahogany stepladders were placed about the room to allow access to the books on the highest shelves.

The little old lady in black sitting at the low, round table was Victoria Regina, Queen of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Her knobby hands were placed on the tabletop, fingers spread apart and palms pressed downwards. On her right, she touched fingers with her lady-in-waiting, the dowager Lady Erroll. Both women were gloved. Lady Erroll, immobile and distinguished in her silvery mauve gown and ropes of pearls, was as pale as her hair; in this beyond-the-grave setting, she might have been a ghost.

The little finger of the Queen's left hand touched the finger of another, much younger woman whose angelic face was set off by a crown of dark curls. Her eyes were grey-blue; she was slim, of medium height, and was dressed in white. She seemed to be surrounded by a halo of ethereal light.

She was Albani,¹ one of the great opera divas of the age. In that year, 1876, she was at the height of her glory, singing the full season at London's Covent Garden Theatre, officially called The Royal Italian Opera. After several European and American tours, she had achieved world fame and success – and royal favour.

Albani's presence among the heaven-born was nonetheless surprising. She was of humble origin, born Rose-Marie-Emma Lajeunesse in Chambly, a small town surrounded by farms in Lower Canada, on November 1, 1847 – twenty-eight years ago. Officially, however, she was only twenty-four: female artistes usually subtracted a few years from their ages, without anyone raising an eyebrow.

From an early age, Emma had clearly been destined for an illustrious career. But she had never imagined that one day she would find herself in Windsor Castle, sitting with Victoria, Queen of Great Britain and Empress of India! Nor could she ever have conceived of participating in a séance with Her Majesty, who was trying to establish contact with her husband and cousin, Albert of Saxe-Coburg, who had died fifteen years before.

“What a strange situation,” Emma thought. She had not yet grown accustomed to the fact that the Queen frequently requested her presence and had honoured her with her friendship; it made her feel radiant and proud. Albani was, in fact, the only vocalist on whom the sovereign had bestowed such a marked partiality. The singer's breast swelled with emotion under her lace bodice.

At the same time, the young woman was uneasy: what was going to happen in this communication with the other world? Would the visiting spirit about to manifest itself reveal something terrifying to her, Emma? What if she learned that she would lose her beautiful voice?

Only one gentleman was included in the select party: it was Sir Thomas Biddulph, one of dead Prince Albert's squires, smooth-bearded and dressed in a severe black frock coat. “Answer, spirit, I enjoin you,” he whispered urgently. “If your answer is no, knock once. If it is yes, knock twice.” The members of the small assembly waited in silence, their pallid faces frozen in expectancy and their bodies tense. They might have been mortuary statues in an underground vault. The seconds stretched into minutes that felt unbearably long. The beating of the participants' hearts was almost audible.

Suddenly, the table seemed to elevate and one of its legs sounded twice on the parquet floor. “You know the alphabetical code,” continued Sir Thomas excitedly, addressing the summoned spirit. “You would not deprive Her Majesty your wife of the comfort she requires to continue to live without you,” he urged.

The table began to “speak,” emitting twelve taps for the letter f, nine for the letter r, gradually spelling out f-r-e-e-y-o-u-r-s-e-l-f. “Free yourself!” the company exclaimed in unison. At that moment, the tabletop tilted to touch the Queen's thighs, brushing them with the gentleness of a caress. Victoria closed her eyes and brief, gasping cries escaped her, resembling the sobbing of a little girl. Her sobs ended in a scream. Shudders ran through the other witnesses of this calling-up of the dead.

The table righted itself and became inert. The consoled widow spoke in a drained voice: “My love, we are separated forever, but from the realm of the shadows, you repeat to me, as you ever did in life, ‘My dear, we can do nothing about it.’ And as you thus give me your leave, I will break the vow I made for the love and respect of your memory, to never go to the theatre, to concerts, or to the opera.”

Silence fell over the room with the effect of a dead weight. Then, slowly, the tension dissipated. Victoria came back to the world of the living and took up her cold mask of imperial autocracy again. The evening's séance was at an end. Lady Erroll lit a lamp and addressed her queen: “Sir Thomas is a quite extra-ordinary medium. I vastly prefer him to that rather sinister character who is so much in vogue, Mr. Hume – the one who officiates for the Duchess of York.”

“Your Majesty,” dared Thomas Biddulph, “I believe your husband would wish you to attend Madame Albani's next performance.”

“I will dedicate it to you, Your Highness,” said Emma, curtseying to the Queen.

Victoria declined to acknowledge the compliment. She rose to her feet and declared:

“We are tired.”

“God save the Queen!” chorused the others as she left the room.

Outside, a spring breeze stirred the smaller branches of the century-old oaks on the castle grounds and rippled the surface of the nearby Thames. Across the river, the students of venerable Eton College were sleeping soundly, never suspecting that their haughty sovereign, in emulation of several high society ladies, was giving herself over to making tables move.

On July 25, 1876, Albani was welcomed onto the stage of the Royal Albert Hall. The curtain rose, and amid thundering applause, the diva stepped forward. She glanced up at the royal box. Her friend Victoria was there, surrounded by members of her family. Emma's eyes filled with tears as she was warmed by the thought, “The Queen appreciates me; I have conquered!”

On the following day, the soprano received a letter from Victoria's secretary:

Buckingham Palace,

July 26, 1876

The Queen asked me to write you to tell you how much Her Majesty was enchanted by your singing last night at the Royal Albert Hall. The Queen affirms that it was perfect and that Her Majesty was able to distinguish every note of your splendid voice. I regret very much not to have had the time to visit you, as the Queen returns to Windsor today, but I am certain that you will be happy to know how much the Queen appreciated you and that it was such a success.

Believe me, sincerely yours,

Jane Ely

The friendship between Emma Albani and Queen Victoria was not a recent development. The two women had met two years earlier in the British capital.

At the beginning of the summer of 1874, the young operatic soprano, Emma Lajeunesse, alias Emma Albani, was attracting considerable attention in England. The Queen had been intrigued to hear of this young Canadian singer, already an opera star – the first from the colonies to have achieved such a notable success in Europe – and wanted to meet her. For Emma, her first introduction to Victoria was unforgettable. Ever afterwards, she would recall it in sharp detail.

On June 24, 1876, a coach emblazoned with the royal arms stopped in front of the Cavendish Hotel in London. This was where Emma Albani was staying with her sister Cornélia, or “Nelly,” and their father, Joseph Lajeunesse – who had taken to calling himself Monsieur de St. Louis to fit in with the aristocratic entourage of his celebrated daughter.

“A letter from Her Majesty, the Queen,” announced the royal messenger, handing over a sealed envelope. The two sisters were struck dumb. To examine the contents of the missive, they took it into the drawing room of their suite.

This room was furnished with well-padded poufs, ornate ebony chests of drawers, gracefully gathered striped drapes, and large plant stands inlaid with oriental motifs. On the walls were several landscape paintings depicting bucolic country scenes. Here, the grand piano occupied the place of honour, taking up the centre of the room; it was graced by a photograph of Tsar Alexander II, in a frame studded with diamonds and incorporating the imperial eagle of the Romanoffs. A flattering dedication to Miss Albani was written on the photograph itself. In a second gilt frame was a portrait of Maman at the piano in the Lajeunesse home in Chambly. A group portrait showed little Emma and Cornélia with their father, and various other mounted photographs commemorated triumphs of Emma's career in the opera houses of Messina, Malta, and London. This souvenir gallery was completed by a number of original sketches of opera sets and costumes.

Emma opened the envelope and caught her breath.

“The Queen has invited me to sing for her at Windsor Castle! What will Papa say?” she asked Cornélia, while prancing in delight, her eyes aglow. “And what will I wear?”

“Your white dress,” Cornélia answered promptly. “With the Valenciennes lace bodice, and Maman's cameo. Wear it around your neck on a cerise velvet ribbon. It will be your lucky charm.”

“And you'll wear your dove-grey dress. You'll carry my scores and accompany me on the piano, as usual.”

“As usual!” parroted Cornélia.

A long week passed.

On the afternoon of July 1, the clock in the entrance hall of the hotel suite chimed three o'clock. The two sisters took the lift downstairs; the swaying little elevator frightened them but they felt that they should get used to this new invention. Their hearts were beating fast: they were on their way to meet the Queen of England! Outside the hotel, they hailed a cab.

“To Windsor Castle!” Emma ordered proudly.

“Yes'm,” was the plump cabby's unruffled response.

The city was resplendent on that sunny summer afternoon. The parks were at their greenest, and roses bloomed riotously against the brick walls of the town houses in the better sections of London. Imposing pillared façades paraded by like a row of postcards. Elegant ladies strolled languidly along the sidewalks, their magnolia complexions protected from the sun by light-coloured parasols. Hawkers, vendors, and other working people ran across the paths of moving vehicles and crowded onto tramways covered with advertisements.

“Thank goodness it's not raining!” remarked Cornélia, adding, “Summers at home are so much nicer!”

“That's true, Nelly, but there's no opera house worthy of the name at home,” replied her sister. “I can't imagine going back to live there.”

“But it's our country, Emma. You seem to forget that we're French Canadian!”

They were nearing their destination. Emma had butterflies in her stomach. At the palace gates, a soldier on guard stopped them. “Her Majesty is expecting us,” said Emma, holding out her invitation. The wrought-iron barrier slid up and the carriage proceeded. At the entrance of the castle, a bevy of servants received the sisters and escorted them along interminable corridors.

In the royal library they were met by a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Victoria soon appeared and was greeted by a double curtsey.

“We welcome you,” she said. “This is Dame Lady Erroll, my lady-in-waiting.”

“We are very much honoured, Your Majesty,” answered Emma. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Cornélia Lajeunesse, who is also my accompanist.”

“We are pleased to receive such a beautiful artiste,” said the Queen with a charming smile.

Another lady was announced; her appearance provoked a spontaneous exclamation of delight from the Lajeunesse sisters.

“Mrs. Rich – you! – here!” cried Emma.

“Her Majesty did me the honour of inviting me, as I am Lady Erroll's sister, and because we three were acquainted in Malta,” explained Mrs. Rich.

The happy effusions over, tea arrived and every-one was seated. The silver tea service sparkled. Sandwiches and the traditional scones lay on a laddered tray of flowered porcelain.

The conversation quickly became a friendly dialogue between the Queen and the young singer, with Lady Erroll, Mrs. Rich, and Cornélia looking on.

“How did you find Russia, my child?” asked the sovereign.

“What a magnificent country, Your Majesty! It was a great honour for me to be invited to sing at the Imperial Opera and at your son's wedding last winter. His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh and Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Marie Alexandrovna, the Tsar's daughter, made a splendid couple! It was a wonderful evening, like something in a picture book.”

“From where I was sitting at the Imperial table, I couldn't hear your voice as well as I would have liked. Nevertheless, I appreciated your beauty, your bearing, and your interpretation of the music. It was the first time I saw you.”

“The other singers were distracted by the noise – all those fanfares and trumpet blasts before every toast, the talking, the clinking of glasses, cutlery, and plates. When I sing, none of this can disturb me.”

Victoria smiled, encouraging the young woman to continue in her rush of enthusiasm.

“I will never forget the magnificence of the great White Room of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg: its hugeness, all the gold, the hundreds of lamps and candles, the beautiful marquetry floors.”

“Rather ostentatious, I quite agree,” remarked Victoria with a hint of irony in her voice.

Emma gabbled on.

“All the ladies in their embroidered velvet robes, their heads crowned by tiaras, their necks and arms glittering with jewels. And the dresses with gold and silver trains, fringed with lace. Then, when the evening was over, the guests covered in sable capes, hailing their coachmen who had been waiting all night. If it weren't for those huge furnaces burning in the square, they would surely have frozen to death! As for me, the Tsar was very generous,” she added, lowering her eyes and blushing.

“Everything is so excessive in Russia,” pronounced the monarch, who appeared not to have noticed her guest's last remark. “The cold, the wealth and the poverty, and the exaggerated enthusiasms.”

“I was speaking out of turn, I fear, Your Majesty. Please forgive me.”

“Not at all, my dear. Your capacity for wonder enchants us. And you, Cornélia, were you also on the trip?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, but I did not go out very often… except when Emma needed me, of course,” Cornélia replied demurely.

“You studied opera in Milan and Paris, Mademoiselle Albani,” said the Queen, tactfully changing the subject. “Paris… my husband and I were there in 1855 to visit the Exhibition as guests of Napoléon III. What a charming man! The Empress Eugénie prepared an apartment for us; it was so well appointed that we felt as if we were at home at Windsor! “The only thing missing is our little dog,' we said. And three days later, we were greeted by his joyful barking! The Emperor had him brought over post-haste from England!

“And what receptions! At a ball at the Hôtel de Ville, an Arab prince knelt before us, lifted our skirt and kissed us on the calf, crying ‘Honni soit qui mal y pense!’² We were quite petrified at first, but after a moment, we had to bite our lips to prevent ourselves from bursting out laughing.”

The others smiled.

“But you have come here to sing for us, Mademoiselle Albani,” said the Queen, cutting off her pleasurable flow of reminiscences.

“With great pleasure, Your Majesty.”

Emma rose to her feet and approached the piano, while Cornélia opened a printed score. Soon the silence was broken by the poignant notes of Ah! non credea mirarti, an aria sung by Amina, the heroine of Bellini's opera, La sonnambula. “Ah, you trust in your beauty, yet it is quickly forgotten…” Lady Erroll and Mrs. Rich listened, captivated. The music-loving monarch closed her eyes, humming occasionally, in a state of beatitude. At the end of the aria, the singer bowed low to the applause of the little group of spectators.

“We enjoyed it so very much,” was the Queen's comment. “The Italian opera pleases us immensely. We once studied under Louis Lablache. Did you know that he sang at Beethoven's funeral in 1827? We also studied the piano under Felix Mendelssohn; it was at the beginning of our marriage to Albert. Our husband was determined that we be able to play music together. If you could have heard it! It was quite enchanting!”

She sighed and her tone changed.

“Let us hear something in a more popular vein now.”

Emma chose to sing Home, Sweet Home. When she reached the lines “An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,” her eyes filled with tears. She was almost overcome by an unstoppable emotion as she was transported back in time to her first recital after her mother's death. The begonias on the Queen's piano added to her attack of nostalgia: they had been her maternal, grandmother's favourite flowers. While she sang, Emma relived the family holiday festivities in Chambly, hearing echoes of the joyous cries of her aunts, who were not much older than their two nieces, when the group would gather for afternoon tea. She thought of her grandmother cutting thick slices off a homemade loaf of bread, spreading them with a layer of fresh cream, and sprinkling them with maple sugar.

“You are weeping, my child,” murmured Lady Erroll with solicitude when the song ended.

“The lyrics, written by the American actor, John Howard Payne, take me back to my own home, Madame,” answered Emma.

“But the melody is English,” said the Queen. “For us, it evokes the English hearth and home. Essentially the same for generations, they ensure the stability of our family life, just as the monarchy ensures the stability of the country. And now, sing Gounod's Ave Maria for us, my dear. We like that composer very much. Unfortunately, our mourning has prevented us from attending the London premiere of his opera, Faust.

Silence settled comfortably over the room. Then, once again, the angelic voice of the diva filled the air; it was a moment of eternal peace. The singer executed the hymn with expressive fervour through to the last phrase, “in hora mortis nostrae, amen.”

Victoria's attention was unflagging, and the private recital continued with still more arias. Finally, the Queen congratulated the celebrated cantatrice, and asked her:

“You are of the Catholic faith, like all our French Canadian subjects, are you not? Yet I do not see any cross around your neck…”

Emma, embarrassed, lowered her head. Victoria got up.

“Our most heartfelt thanks for the delicious moments you have given us, Mesdemoiselles. A queen's life is often austere. Music applies a soothing balm to the sore wounds of our heart. You may leave us now. We wish you a safe return.”

The two sisters curtsied gracefully and bade the assembly farewell.

In the cab, on the way back to the hotel, Emma said, “Did you notice that the Queen always speaks of herself in the plural? It will take me some time to get used to it! You may be sure, Nelly, that she will invite me again. And she'll go to hear me at Covent Garden, too.”

“You're exaggerating! You know very well she never attends the opera or the theatre. You're dreaming if you think she'll really make an exception for you.”

“What devotion to her husband! I should like to experience a passion like that,” said Emma wistfully.

“You're joking, Emma! You must dedicate yourself to your career.”

A few days later, a royal messenger delivered a small beribboned package to the Cavendish Hotel. Emma read the short note that came with it:

Windsor Castle. July 8, 1874 Sir T. M. Biddulph presents his compliments to Miss Albani. Her Majesty the Queen would like her to accept this cross and this necklace as a souvenir of her visit to Windsor last week.

Under the wrapping paper was a jewel case containing a diamond-inlaid cross, to be worn as a pendant on a pearl necklace. With trembling hands and sparkling eyes, the singer attached it around her neck. “I will wear it always,” she whispered. “It will be my lucky piece.”

The word “luck” drew Emma's thoughts to her belief that she had followed a predestined path. She visualized the crucial stages of this path, beginning with moments from her childhood. She remembered, evoking each scene in her mind.

1. Opera fans often refer to their idols by their last names, for example, Melba, Patti, Albani, Caruso, Callas, Stratas, Pavarotti.

2. Motto of the Order of the Garter, meaning “Evil to him who evilthinks.”