Читать книгу Canadian Performing Arts Bundle - Michelle Labrèche-Larouche - Страница 6

In the spring of 1860, a Montreal newspaper, La Minerve, announced: “The Prince of Wales will come to Montreal to dedicate the newly finished bridge, named Victoria, in honour of the Queen of England, his mother.”

The Prince was indeed present at the opening ceremony on August 24; he screwed on the last bolt – a bolt fashioned of pure silver for the occasion. After this symbolic gesture, he was regaled by the four hundred voices of the Montreal Oratorio Society raised in a cantata. And I sang the soprano solo – I, Emma Lajeunesse, twelve years old. I must have looked very childish among all those gentlemen in their coats and tails and the ladies with their billowing crinolines.

Emma arrived in Paris in 1868, at twenty-one years of age, to perfect her musical training and to launch her career as an operatic soprano.

During our rehearsals, I had heard a quantity of whispered gossip that I only half understood. It seemed that Prince Albert Edward, a handsome eighteen-year-old, was somewhat of a rake, a pleasure-seeker who frequently went to Paris for his diversions. That was why he was nicknamed “the Gallic Prince” and the “Prince of Romance.”

A few days after the inauguration of the bridge, His Highness was scheduled to visit the Sacred Heart Convent! My father took advantage of the occasion to submit a petition, signed by more than fifty people, asking the Prince to write a letter of recommendation for me. This would help enormously to boost my career when I went to Europe, as Papa presumed I would.

Albert Edward's aide-de-camp, Major-General Bruce, refused diplomatically, explaining that, although my abilities as a child prodigy were unquestionable, I was still too young to hope for an engagement with any of the better-known musical ensembles across the Atlantic.

My father, undefeated, resolved to organize a benefit concert to cover the expense of European musical training for me. “Emma has nothing left to learn from me,” he said. “She must study under the most reputable music teachers and she must have a scholarship to do it.”

Papa worked tirelessly to put this project into action, while still teaching at the convent. I continued my own musical instruction with him. I was not always a model pupil, however; I liked playing tricks too much. There had to be some fun in my life, after all! In spite of this, I was turning into a well-behaved and accomplished young miss with my sights set on a spectacular career. My sister Cornélia was progressing too, following her own musical path.

Finally, on September 13, 1862, La Minerve advertised “a musical evening to assist the Lajeunesse sisters in financing their trip to Paris, where they will study at the Conservatoire.”

The concert was held at the Mechanics' Hall in Montreal, under the auspices of the civil and military authorities. I performed on the piano and the harp and sang some of my compositions, accompanied by Nelly on the piano; my voice range was from mezzo-soprano to soprano in those songs. The next day, a newspaper reporter described my voice as that of “an exile from heaven.” “We are proud,” added the writer, “that this young woman is a daughter of our native land. We predict an international career for her.”

Because of unwelcome interference from the Catholic Church, Papa was unable to gather the necessary funds. L'Ordre, the influential press organ of the clergy, had expressed the censorious opinion that “long voyages, particularly the wandering existence of performers, are pernicious. Emma Lajeunesse is known to be an innocent and pious soul: must we allow her to be exposed to this peril?”

My father was furious and considered emigrating back to the United States. However, one of his friends, the brilliant lawyer and politician Ludger Labelle, organized a benefit concert that drew a large number of music-lovers. Although the money raised was insufficient for our European plans, it did allow Cornélia and me to go to try our luck south of the border. We were obliged to leave our cherished convent to go into the wide world; it was the only alternative if we wanted to go further in music.

Thus, the following year, Papa, Cornélia, and I found ourselves in Saratoga Springs, an elegant watering hole for the rich in upper New York State. It was in the United States that our hopes were realized and my career took off in a definite manner. The American public was fascinated by “the young prima donna” named Emma Lajeunesse.

As soon as we settled in, a concert was organized at Rand's Hall, with Cornélia as my accompanist. The hall was packed. My programme included arias by Rossini and Verdi, The Last Rose of Summer (the beautiful Irish song arranged by Sigismond Thalberg), and an aria from the romantic opera, Martha, by Friedrich von Flotow. The comments published the next morning in the Troy Daily Times were eloquent: “She warbles with the perfect naturalness of a bird.”

In Albany, not far from Saratoga, I sang at a military gala attended by State Governor Sydney, several senators, and a crowd of four thousand spectators.

In Johnstown, fifty miles northwest of Albany, Cornélia and I performed together at a charity benefit: we both played the piano and sang duets, Nelly in her charming contralto voice. Each of us was given a star-shaped brooch, with wishes that we would become equally brilliant stars!

Soon after, at the consecration of Albany's new bishop, John J. Conroy, I sang Johann Hummel's motet,¹ Alma Virgo.

We remained in Albany, where I became first soprano soloist at St. Joseph's, Bishop Conroy's church. It was there that I learned to sing masses by Mozart, Cherubini, and Beethoven. The church administrators had found a good thing: I was young – and therefore cost them very little – and I sang beautifully in Latin, Italian, German, French, Russian, and English, as well as in the Irish and Scottish styles. Moreover, I could play the organ, and the one at St. Joseph's was considered the second best in the whole country. I was really too slight for this colossal instrument, but I managed well enough. I also directed the church choir and composed music for it! I carried out these duties at St. Joseph's until 1868; it was an ideal training ground that helped me become one of the most appreciated oratorio singers in England many years later. The Catholic churchgoers of Albany took me to their hearts. When the altar of a new chapel was consecrated in January 1867, they came in huge numbers to hear me sing.

On that occasion, Maurice Strakosch,² the impresario from New York City, was present. He had come to Albany with Pasquale Brignoli, the tenor who had sung the role of Alfredo when Verdi's La traviata was introduced to the American public in 1856. Meeting my father, they told him: “Your daughter has the voice of an angel. She possesses a rare talent and genius.”

This inspired Papa to approach Bishop Conroy and express his fervent wish that something be done to obtain the financial means for me to study music in Europe. The Bishop agreed, and entrusted the organization of two benefit concerts to the wife of a well-known Albany notary.

The music-loving prelate was in the audience for the second of these concerts, together with all the notables of the capital, all of them brimming with pride for “their girl from Albany.” Quebec had never seemed so far away! I recall my father's voice, swelling with emotion as he announced to the cheering audience that after many years of struggle, his daughter could finally leave for Europe to study with the best teachers obtainable.

The notary's wife presented us with gifts and a cheque for three hundred dollars; it was the first time my father had ever seen such a sum. This amount, added to our savings, was enough for my great departure, after nine years of hopes and disappointments. I was twenty-one but still looked like an adolescent due to my extreme slimness.

A young man named David Turner, whom I had noticed several times at concerts and receptions, was not put off by my childlike appearance. He asked to meet me, together with Cornélia, at a tearoom. I was wary of his intentions, and pleading a headache, stayed at home. I asked Nelly to go without me and to apologize for my indisposition, which she was only too willing to do.

Mr. Turner tried to hide his disappointment from my sister, but in spite of his good manners, he couldn't stop talking about me throughout their tête-à-tête. Nelly was taken aback when he declared that he had two passions in life: music, and Emma Lajeunesse.

He repeated his invitation to me. In the end, I agreed to go for a walk with him along the bank of the Hudson. He confessed his love for me and begged me to marry him. He told me that he was an amateur violinist and had formed a chamber music group with his friends; he promised that he would share my love of music if I were his wife. However, nothing he said could make me waver in my firm resolve to pursue my career abroad.

A second request for my hand was forthcoming, this time from an older, well-established Albany factory-owner, who offered me a comfortable life. I turned down this proposal as well, for the same reason that I had refused the more attractive Mr. Turner.

The rejected businessman was not entirely disheartened: “I am sorry, as I am very much in love with you. However, I will donate to your scholarship fund, in the hope that you will allow me to visit you in Paris.”

“I am most grateful,” I replied, “and will look forward to seeing you there.”

I fully believed Papa when he said: “It would be absurd for you to become the wife of a rich industrialist when you are only interested in singing. You're not made for marriage.” Cornélia's view was the opposite: “You're mad, Emma! He's a wonderful man who would have made you happy and given you security. I would have accepted in a minute!”

I felt no regret over my decision. I told one of my friends: “I have a feeling inside that must be expressed; something more that I must accomplish. I cannot resist the urge.”

By the end of 1868, I was ready to embark for Europe. Cornélia was to accompany me; even though the money we had raised was not enough for her to continue her own studies, it was unthinkable that a well-brought-up young lady should travel alone. Besides, Nelly was happy and excited at the prospect of coming along. We crossed the Atlantic to Southampton aboard the Great Eastern, a steamer of twenty-one thousand tons with a huge propeller and two gigantic paddle wheels. As soon as we were on board, a fellow passenger treated us to a harrowing account of the ship's previous crossing: there had been a storm so violent that the cattle in the hold had broken out of their pens and had erupted into the dining saloon where the first-class passengers were eating dinner!

My greatest fear, however, was that we should arrive in England on the thirteenth of the month, or on a Friday, which would have been a bad omen for the start of my European adventure. We reached terra firma without any untoward incidents, and soon after, we left for France. We carried a letter of introduction from Bishop Conroy, addressed to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart in Paris, and asking them to help us find respectable lodgings in the city. In spite of the Bishop's kind effort, the nuns were clearly mistrustful: we were from North America – could we still be good Catholics? They sent us to a pension that proved unsuitable. After a few days, we did find a congenial home in Paris, thanks to a young pianist whom we had met by chance.

And what a home! We stayed with the Baroness de Laffitte, a banker's widow. The banker – her second husband – had squandered most of his fortune by dabbling in politics, and his widow was obliged to take in boarders to maintain the style of living she was accustomed to. We were surprised to discover that, even though the house was lavishly decorated and furnished, there were no sanitary facilities of the type we had on the other side of the ocean! We had to put a good face on it and eventually got used to this minor inconvenience.

Madame de Laffitte welcomed us warmly. Thank heaven she was an opera-lover! I have never forgotten the moment when she told us that her first husband had been Jean-Blaise Martin, a noted French singer; his name had been given to a particular register in which the lighter head tone is prominent: the baryton Martin.³ She added: “When Jean-Blaise was going to sing in the evening, he would have a very light meal in the afternoon and wouldn't use his voice again for the rest of the day. Also, he would go to bed early the night before a concert. I advise you to adopt this regime if you want to have a successful career.”

The Baroness then asked me to sing for her, and declared herself won over. She pledged her support and friendship, and she proved it several times over, starting with the time I contracted typhoid fever. I must have eaten or drunk contaminated food or water and had not taken the proper precautions; without Madame de Laffitte's care, I probably would have died.

Our kind landlady did much to advance my career, introducing me to many of the eminent figures of the Parisian musical milieu, like Prince Poniatowski, a singer and composer who had studied under Rossini and had remained his friend, and the directors of the Opéra, the Opéra-Comique, and the Théâtre Italien.

Madame made sure that I frequented both the opera and the theatre. She also arranged for me to receive an invitation to a ball at Les Tuileries given by the Empress Eugénie; it was a thrilling occasion for me.

Through this whirl of social events, I did not neglect my musical instruction – although my first singing lesson with Maître Gilbert-Louis Duprez, the retired tenor and composer,⁴ was a disaster.

I arrived late, quite out of breath, at Maître Duprez' luxurious studio. I was naturally in awe of this man whose reputation was formidable.

“You are not on time,” he rapped out, without even a bonjour.

“My humblest apologies, Maître,” I stammered.

“There is no possible excuse for it, Mademoiselle. Put the fee for your lesson in the lacquer box on the piano and come back at the right time next week.”

I paid the money and went out, hiding my tears.

The following week, my lesson seemed to be going well, until he stopped me in mid-song.

“Your Gilda in Rigoletto is execrable. Your Marguerite in Faust is worthless. For the love of heaven, do not close your throat when you sing the high notes. Your technique is abominable; you are incapable of modulating your phrasing. Sing high C and hold it.”

I took a deep breath, and the note came out pure and sweet.

“Not bad. Do it again but hold it longer this time.”

I did what he said, holding the note as long as I could, until it petered out in a glissando.

“You must breathe more deeply,” he advised, placing his hand on my abdomen. “You must strengthen your diaphragm. If you wish to become a grande cantatrice, you will have to work, work, work!”

Feigning not to notice my dismay, he added in a fatherly tone: “Just as much as technique, you must refine your sensibility. All art has its source in human vulnerability, but keep your tears for the arias in which you are required to express emotion.”

“Maître, I have worked to develop my voice since my early childhood, but I feel as if I were starting from the beginning again.”

“Go ahead, control every breath you take,” he continued, without acknowledging my remark. “Concentrate on your voice, and eat only what is good for it: lean meat, fish, boiled vegetables, and toast. Only satisfy your appetite after you have given a successful performance; that will be your reward!”

“I couldn't. I would faint from hunger!”

“Keep active eight hours a day and sleep nine hours a night: you will soon feel the difference. Even your soul will sing! You have a good light soprano voice, but it lacks ripeness.”

I had imagined that I was free of a hard taskmaster when I left my father's tutelage, but Maître Duprez was even more exacting. I realized that to him, I was not a child prodigy, but simply a student like any other.

I carefully noted all his advice and criticism. Among his many bits of wisdom, I particularly remember his saying: “There is no better method of voice training than singing scales and doing exercises using the feminine syllables. Each note must be sung with equal resonance; each syllable must be pronounced with its own particular recitative value.”

I believe that my teacher was gradually won over by my determination, although he was miserly with his compliments. There was a small private theatre near his school where he allowed his more advanced pupils to perform. My first appearance there was as Marguerite in the garden scene in Faust; and the audience applauded enthusiastically. I treasure the memory of finally hearing my teacher's praise: “She has a beautiful voice and possesses the sacred flame; she is of the wood from which great flutes are fashioned.”

At the same time, I took classes in sacred music from François Benoist, one of the best organists in Paris – another necessary string in my bow, I thought. Duprez, however, advised me to concentrate on operatic singing. “You are a born nightingale,” he told me.

Paris was the loveliest place on earth to me in those youthful days. I expressed this opinion to a Canadian acquaintance who had been touring the Continent. He concurred, but gently reproved me, saying: “Emma, you move in a very worldly circle here in Paris. You live in the midst of great reconstruction projects, right beside Charles Garnier's new opera house, the new Place de l'Étoile, and the grand boulevards with their cafés and theatres. You see nothing of the crisis brewing among the working classes. Strikes are breaking out and are being crushed by the army. The Parti Républicain is gaining influence at the expense of Napoléon III, who is old and ill. There is the foreign threat, too: Bismarck is working to create a united and strongly armed Germany, primed for war.”

“But isn't the French army as powerful?” I asked, surprised by his serious tone.

“Powerful, and too sure of itself, besides. I would even say belligerent, but with an arsenal as outdated as its strategies. France has no allies; a military conflict would be fatal. My dear Emma, you must go to Italy at your earliest opportunity.”

Prince Poniatowski agreed with this advice, but from a musician's point of view. He offered to commend me to the best-known Italian singing teacher, Signor Francesco Lamperti of Milan. “For anyone wishing to rise to the top in the opera, I recommend the Italian method. It produces a magnificent quality of voice. Singers trained in France tend to sing through their noses instead of their throats. Vowels are the basis of the Italian method. Just compare the words amore and amour, vita and vie. Italy is the natural homeland of song.”

The Prince was a friend of Maurice Strakosch who had heard me sing in Albany, and who had become the most important opera impresario of the day. Mr. Strakosch was in Paris and accompanied the Prince to a recital that I gave one evening. He paid me a lovely compliment: “Your voice has matured since Albany: it is richer and fuller. And what elegance of tone!”

By this time, my dear Maître Duprez was in ill health and could not keep on all of his students. That was another reason for my decision to move after those heady months of life in Paris. However, I was distraught at leaving this stimulating milieu, and afraid of leaping into the unknown. Thank goodness Nelly was going with me! The Baroness kindly organized a benefit concert that enabled us to set off with enough funds to tide us over on our arrival in Milan.

Emma as Marguerite in Faust by Charles Gounod at Covent Garden Theatre (London) in 1875.

Emma as Tamara in The Demon by Anton Rubinstein at Covent Garden Theatre in 1881.

1. Motet: a religious choral composition, not using words from the liturgy. Johann Hummel (1778–1837) studied with Mozart and developed the first piano method with a rational treatment of fingering.

2. Brother-in-law of the opera diva, Adelina Patti.

3. A register between baritone and tenor; the term is not in use today. When Debussy's opera Pelléas et Mélisande was first performed (in 1902), the role of Pelléas was sung by Jean Périer, a “baryton Martin.”

4. Duprez was the first tenor known to have sung high C from the chest.