Читать книгу Canadian Performing Arts Bundle - Michelle Labrèche-Larouche - Страница 8

To reach London in June of 1871, we were obliged to travel north through the entire Italian peninsula, just as the country was undergoing the final throes of the struggle for unification. General Giuseppe Garibaldi, fighting in the name of King Vittorio Emmanuele II, had finally taken Rome, which had been defended in vain by the Papal Zouaves. Some of the Zouaves had been dispatched from France and counted several French Canadians among them. Now, Garibaldi's red, white, and green ensign fluttered over the Eternal City, replacing the white and gold banners of the Holy Father, who had shut himself up inside the Vatican palace.

Frederick Gye, manager of the Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden, engaged Emma Albani in 1871; she performed the greatest opera roles there until 1886.

There had also been turmoil in France during our absence. The empire that we had left was now a republic. We learned what had happened from fellow travellers as we made our way towards the English Channel: in July 1870, Emperor Louis Napoléon III had declared war against Prussia, provoking an attack on French soil by the vastly superior German forces. The Emperor was made prisoner, was deposed, then fled to England with the Empress Eugénie and their son. Paris, besieged and starving, had resisted the invasion. France was obliged to sign a humiliating peace treaty, but that did not end the troubles. Civil war ravaged Paris when the popular front known as the Paris Commune was savagely suppressed.

How peaceful London was after Paris! Thirty-five years into Victoria's reign, the city was impressive with its stately buildings and its green commons and parks with their flowering shade trees, winding paths, and gay bandstands.

The day after our arrival, Nelly and I set out for our meeting with James Henry Mapleson of Her Majesty's Theatre. Our hired cab stopped in front of an elegant theatre. I gave my name and asked to see the manager. While we waited in a large anteroom, a secretary approached and told us that his employer had not been expecting us. Disconcerted, I took out the letter I had received in Malta, care of Colonel McCrea. The young man went off to make further inquiries, and Cornélia and I were left feeling ill at ease. Perhaps there had been a mistake: were we in the right place? Could the cabman have misunderstood me?

There was a piano in the room, and to make us forget our nervousness, Nelly sat down at the bench and struck up the first chords of Casta diva from Bellini's Norma, drawing me into the music and inspiring me to sing. In the midst of the aria, I became aware that someone was watching me: a corpulent, distinguished-looking gentleman of a certain age was standing in the doorway. He had unobtrusively come to listen. He saw that I had noticed him, but gestured to me to continue singing. When I had finished, I turned to him, somewhat embarrassed.

“Congratulations, Mademoiselle,” he said. “You have a magnificent voice. But why are you here?”

I took out my letter and held it out to him. He read it quickly and burst out laughing.

“But you have come to the Royal Italian opera at Covent Garden! The most important opera house in London! I am the manager. Allow me to introduce myself: Frederick Gye, at your service.”

Both Nelly and I were rendered speechless by this revelation, and were even more astonished when the gallant Mr. Gye immediately followed it up by a proposal:

“I would like to engage you, Miss Albani. I was looking for a light soprano.¹ I'll speak with the other administrators, and if they agree, I can offer you an exclusive contract – for the next summer season, with the possibility of extending it for five years. Can you come back here tomorrow at ten?”

I stammered: “Next summer… do you… does that mean April, 1872?”

“Until then, we will find you some roles that are not in our prima donnas' repertoire at present. You'll have plenty of time to work on them.”

In the face of Mr. Gye's forceful manner, there was nothing for it but to acquiesce. I reflected that my visit to his competitor, Mapleson, would have to be put off until some future date.

“My secretary will be happy to show you around our establishment, my dears,” Mr. Gye ended peremptorily. He bowed, turned on his heel, and left the room.

We admired the ornate gilt banisters of the monumental stairway, the lustrous woodwork, and the marble busts of musicians lining each side of the lobby.

When we left the theatre, an evening fog had descended. Through the thick mist, we could barely distinguish the flowers, fruit, and vegetables on the stalls of Covent Garden Market. Behind us, gas lamps threw their eerie light on the opera house, making it seem like something out of a dream. At that moment, I had a vision of myself inside the building as La sonnambula, tiny under the huge red curtains being hauled up above the world's most renowned stage, and as other heroines still unknown to me and whom I would have the joy of discovering.

I signed my contract a few days later. Mr. Gye advised me not to go about town too much. “Lie low and avoid being seen at social events. That way, when you debut at the beginning of the season, you will burst onto the scene like an apparition.”

His advice was unnecessary, since Maestro Lamperti had invited us to stay at his summer residence on Lake Como, where he would help me prepare for my engagement for the short winter season in Florence.

Before our departure for Italy, Nelly and I had some free time to visit the art galleries of London, and, more importantly, to attend the opera, where some of the greatest singers of the day were performing. Thus, we heard the Italian-American singer, Adelina Patti, the reigning operatic soprano at that time. We were enchanted by Pauline Lucca, who sang Inès in Meyerbeer's L'Africaine; to me, she was a model by her vocal artistry, her unique way of expressing emotion, and by her acting skill. There was also Miss Caroline Miolan-Carvalho, who particularly impressed me in the Jewel Song from Faust; her grace, her phrasing, and her tempo were all so perfect that I burst into tears.

When we arrived in the town of Como, Maestro Lamperti told me that he found me even more beautiful and elegant than when he had last seen me. It may have been because of my pastel-hued silk dress, and the fact that I now wore my hair in a chignon with a little fringe that emphasized the oval shape of my face. I was happy, and was made even more so by the serene beauty of the lake ringed by the snow-covered Italian Alps.

As I spoke several languages, I was able to converse with all the maestro's friends and pupils. Lamperti coached me in the parts that I was scheduled to sing in Florence that winter: Adèle in Rossini's Le comte Ory, and the title role of Mignon, a recent work by Ambroise Thomas. Mignon is a mezzo-soprano role, but as my range was wide, I could sing in this register without straining my voice, and without endangering my ability to slip back into the higher register.

I prevailed upon Lamperti to obtain an introduction for me to Thomas, who was then the director of the Conservatoire de musique in Paris. At sixty, he was considered the greatest living composer of the era. The meeting was arranged and I made a short trip to the French capital. The composer welcomed me kindly and gave me some precious advice on how to sing Mignon; thus, I would be sure to interpret the role as faithfully as possible. “It is not just a matter of singing and breathing, of nuances and voice projection,” he told me. “The meaning of the lyrics is of prime importance.” He convinced me to sing one of the recitatives while laughing, an idea that never would have occurred to me.

In Florence, I sang Mignon nine times in ten days. The director of the Teatro della Pergola, where we performed, wanted me to extend my contract, but Mr. Gye, advised by telegram, replied that the London opera season had begun, and I was required there. My heart beat faster when I received this summons.

London at last! The opera season in the capital is sacred to British music-lovers, who are among the most demanding in the world. Besides that, sitting in the audience for my English debut performance would be my most implacable critic: Papa.

The director of the Royal Italian opera at Covent Garden had his own peculiar strategy for stimulating interest in the season's programme. In accordance with the proverb, “Good wine needs no bush,” he considered it vulgar to advertise his star performers. A stark and simple announcement was released to the press: “Miss Albani, the remarkable young soprano, will appear in Italian opera at Covent Garden under the management of Mr. Frederick Gye.”

I brought a trump of my own to this strategic London debut: although I was twenty-four years old, I still looked much younger.

The atmosphere at Covent Garden was not so exuberant as in Italy; preparations for the performances were made with military precision. Everything was carefully planned to go off without a hitch, but even so, I was much more jittery than in Messina, Florence, or Malta. I was aware that I was about to play my most important card.

On opening night, Mr. Gye knocked on my dressing room door. He was impeccably dressed in a black tailcoat and cravat. I thought at first that he had brought me flowers, in keeping with the established custom, but he simply asked me:

“How do you feel, my dear?”

I answered that my throat felt so constricted that I was sure I would not be able to sing a note.

“You'll be marvellous, I'm quite sure. Now, I'll stay with you for the next ten minutes, and you'll sing to me alone.”

He sat at the piano and began to play the grand aria from La sonnambula. After refreshing my throat with spring water from a crystal spray-bottle, I threw my whole heart and soul into the first phrases of Ah! non credea mirarti.

“Ten minutes, Miss Albani!” cried the stage-manager, tapping on the door. In a daze, I went to take my place on stage. I knew that Mr. Gye would be sitting in the first box on the right, between my father and Cornélia. When the curtain rose, I glanced at them and resolved that I would sing only for them.

I saw hundreds of pairs of opera glasses being raised so that their owners could get a good look at the new songstress. My first high notes seemed weak and stilted to my ears, but as the performance proceeded, I felt my strength returning, buoyed by my father's attentive presence. My voice grew in amplitude, rich and crystalline right up until the last note, which was drowned out by thunderous applause.

An enormous bouquet of white roses awaited me in my dressing room; the message that accompanied the flowers was simple but gratifying: “I placed my confidence in you, and I was not mistaken. Welcome to our new diva. The Director, Covent Garden.”

The reviews in the London newspapers were unanimously laudatory. The critic of the Musical Times wrote: “The great event of the month has been the success of Mlle. Albani, who made her début as Amina in La sonnambula. With a genuine soprano voice, and a remarkable power of sostenuto in the higher part of her register, this young vocalist at once secured the good opinion of her audience. She progressively affirmed her authority throughout the opera until the final 'Ah! non giunge,' her brilliant rendering of which produced a storm of applause that could only be appeased by her appearing three times before the curtain.”

Over the subsequent weeks, Cornélia clipped out all the reviews about me and sent them to Papa, who had returned to Canada. We also occasionally sent him gifts of money. I was happy to be able to make life a little easier for my first mentor in this way; I owed him so much more! As I still needed his musical coaching, as well as someone to help me administer the business aspects of my career, I wrote to ask him to come to live with us in London for a few years.

During my first season at Covent Garden, I gradually gained confidence. I was delighted at having won over the English opera buffs, who gave me noisy ovations instead of clapping with the ends of their fingers as they usually did. I was especially elated when I heard myself being compared to Patti, Grisi, and Miolan-Carvalho.

To reassure myself that these compliments were not utterly fantastic, I asked Nelly to attend performances to observe those divas, after which she could offer me her judgment and critical comments. During this period, I was hard at work, preparing to sing the title roles of Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor and Linda di Chamounix, Lady Harriet in Von Flotow's Martha, and Gilda in Rigoletto.

One afternoon, when I was practising my vocalises in our rooms, a visitor announced himself with the words, “Miss Albani, I presume?”

As I immediately guessed, it was Henry Stanley, the New York newspaperman whose name was renowned throughout England for his exploit of tracking down the Scottish-born explorer, David Livingstone, in the heart of Africa. Mr. Stanley was staying next door to us and wanted to write a piece about me for the papers! He was an exceedingly charming fellow, but was the kind of person who never stays for long in one place. In any case, my heart and mind were fully occupied with other matters!

My traditional benefit night surpassed all expectations, although an unfortunate incident almost marred the evening for me. An over-enthusiastic admirer threw me a bouquet attached to a jewel box, which hit me hard on the forehead. I was obliged to leave the stage, holding my head with one hand and clutching the awkward offering in the other. My pain was somewhat eased, however, when I saw the pretty diadem inside the case.

The same evening, I received another package, this one in my dressing room. The box, sheathed in blue velvet, held another diadem: of diamonds! The card was signed Ernest Gye. “The director's son…” commented Cornélia, eyeing it. She added in an ironical tone, “Mademoiselle has made an impression.”

Following this set of performances, I received proposals to sing at some of the great English festivals and at the Théâtre Italien in Paris. The director of that theatre, whom I had met at Madame Laffitte's establishment years before, engaged me to sing in La sonnambula, Lucia di Lammermoor, and Rigoletto for the 1872–1873 opera season.

The Parisian critics, writing of my coming French debut, seemed prejudiced against me. One comment was: “She is neither a great beauty, nor does she possess Patti's piquant charm…”

On the opening night of La sonnambula, my first European teacher, Gilbert-Louis Duprez, was in the audience. He came backstage after the performance and enfolded me in his arms, uttering warm congratulations.

He had brought me a photograph of himself, signed “From Duprez to Albani.”

Not everyone in Paris shared his enthusiasm: the reviews were mixed, which hurt my feelings considerably. While one journalist wrote that “a new star has appeared on the horizon of the opera,” another one, in La France, opined, in what I thought was a glaring example of French chauvinism, that “Mademoiselle Albani is like an Englishwoman: she wants to bring out all her good points at once, doing too much, too well. In spite of her brave spirit, the ragged-edged timbre of her voice betrays the fatigue of practising. Her performance smacks of the schoolroom: she is merely a distinguished talent, well-versed and efficient, but her voice does not rise to any great heights of lyricism and is not always on key.”

Fortunately, Frederick Gye, who had travelled to Paris for the occasion, was there to apply a balm to my wounded pride. He took Cornélia and me out to supper at the chic Café Anglais, and reminded me, “Lucia is an enormously demanding role, one of the most difficult in the repertoire.”

I was very glad to return to London, where I was on conquered territory. In my second season at Covent Garden, I sang Catherine in Les diamants de la couronne by Auber,² Ophelia in Ambroise Thomas' Hamlet, and the Countess Almaviva in Mozart's Le nozze di Figaro.

My father and Nelly paid close attention to what the public and the newspapers said about me. Excerpts from reviews included comments such as: “Her mezza-voce is of a rare beauty. She recalls Jenny Lind, who excelled in half-tones. Her charm and delicacy create an irresistible atmosphere;” “In Rigoletto, Albani has succeeded in conveying the poetry of Verdi's master-piece, the libretto of which was inspired by Victor Hugo's historico-tragical drama, Le roi s'amuse;” “The success of Miss Albani's return is not diminished by the fact that she is already known to us. Ovations of this kind for so young a performer are rare in London. Only Miss Patti, whom Miss Albani appears to rival in both talent and popularity, could have won such accolades.”

Although, inevitably, we were rivals for many years, Adelina Patti and I were friends. She herself told me the following anecdote: “I was walking with my husband in Regent Street, and we paused to look at some photographs in a store window; yours was one of them. Two men came up behind us, and one of them commented: ‘There's the portrait of Albani. They say she'll cut Patti out.’ I turned around and said to him: ‘Thank you, sir!’”

One evening, after a performance, I was delighted to see Colonel McCrea, home from Malta with his wife. He smiled from under his bushy white mustache, asking me: “Wasn't I right to advise you to try your luck in London?”

Another visit was less joyful – that of the Empress Eugénie, dressed in widow's weeds. She was mourning Napoléon III, who had died in early January. She told me that her dear friend Victoria was also grieving for her departed spouse (although Albert had been dead now for a dozen years), and had invited her to the Côte d'Azur. The Queen of England owned a little villa at Cap Martin, hidden behind the mimosa trees, umbrella pines, and date palms of the Mediterranean coast. The locals often had glimpses of Victoria, unaccompanied, driving a buggy drawn by little Irish ponies.

We heard of David Livingstone's death – not in the African bush, but in his bed in London. His friend, Henry Stanley, was at his side until the end. I thought fondly of Stanley, my charming erstwhile neighbour, and wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to travel to Africa. Perhaps one of the cities of that continent possessed an opera house, and one day, I would be invited to sing there.

I did receive an invitation to sing soon after that, but in a very white, very cold land. Cornélia packed our trunks full of warm winter clothing: we were to leave for Russia, where I would be the star of the opera season in the imperial theatres of Moscow and St. Petersburg. I faced the daunting challenge of succeeding Adelina Patti in the hearts of the fanatical Russian opera lovers. The invitation had come directly from Tsar Alexander II himself.

1. Today, this kind of singing voice is referred to as a coloratura soprano.

2. Daniel François Auber, French composer (1782–1871).