Читать книгу Canadian Performing Arts Bundle - Michelle Labrèche-Larouche - Страница 9

“The Russian winter is just like our Canadian winter!” I affirmed.

Cornélia agreed, adding:

“This strange white light on the snow banks takes me right back to Chambly – it makes me feel very homesick.”

It was December, 1873. We had just arrived in Moscow.

Albani, circa 1878.

Albani in the role of Elisabeth in the 1876 English premiere of Tannhäuser by Richard Wagner, at Covent Garden.

My sister and I, covered by bear rugs, were comfortably installed in a troika, gliding through the city streets. The three trotting horses pulling the arabesque-shaped sleigh rhythmically jingled the bells on their harnesses. Nelly exclaimed over the neo-classical façades of the public buildings, the huge bazaars, and the elegant houses. Bundled forms with only their eyes uncovered darted about busily, emerging from or vanishing into dark little side streets. Suddenly, the troika brought us into a vast open space, and the enormous mass of the Kremlin and St. Basil's Cathedral rose before our eyes. It was stunning.

“I have heard that there are also many smaller churches, filled with icons and incense – where one can hear the Orthodox liturgy sung by priests with astonishing basso profundo voices,” I said.

“You're so romantic,” my sister chided me. “In this cold, my only thought is for a warm fire of maple logs and the smell of boiling tea!”

By evoking this reminder of our childhood, Nelly had turned us back into the Lajeunesse sisters of Chambly, Quebec.

The previous evening, however, at a gala given by Prince Dolgorouky, Moscow's governor, I had been one hundred per cent Albani, gracefully at ease amidst the official honours rendered me, and the opulence of the great Muscovite families.

We had given nine performances in Moscow's opera house, of La sonnambula, Lucia di Lammermoor, Hamlet, and Rigoletto. Tsar Alexander had been remarkable by his absence, although the splendid two-headed golden eagles mounted above the empty imperial box had been a constant reminder of the grandeur of his absolute power.

Our tour continued in St. Petersburg, the Russian cultural capital and the sovereign's winter residence. The opera season would begin following the traditional New Year's Day reception held by the Tsar in the Winter Palace, to which our troupe was invited. The closing part of the soirée took place outside the palace, with His Imperial Majesty's ceremonial blessing of the Neva River, to the acclamations of the guests, officers of the guard, and the populace.

Later, I excitedly told Cornélia the details of what I had seen during that memorable evening.

“Imagine, caviar served with a soup ladle – a pure gold ladle! The court of Napoléon III is nothing compared to the Russian one!”

“Bless me, I was forgetting,” said my sister sarcastically, “Mademoiselle has also danced at Les Tuileries, at the court ball reigned over by the beautiful Eugénie, Empress of France.”

“If you had could have seen the Tsarina Maria's diamond collar,” I continued, undaunted, “and the silver-gilt goblets filled with Imperial Tokay, the Tsar's own special Hungarian vintage!”

Rehearsals, as well as the actual performances, were carried out in the most professional manner. It is true that the opera houses of Moscow and St. Petersburg had no equivalent in Europe: much attention was paid to the singers, who had to protect their voices from the rigours of the Russian winter. All the local artistes were employees of the Imperial House. They had fabulous costumes and stage sets, as well as excellent technical support, at their disposal. This made it possible for them to stage unique, colossal productions. Compared to these theatres, the Paris Opéra seemed like a small town hall.

The capital itself resembled a huge opera house: the palaces were painted in pastels that were reflected in the freezing waters of the Neva; the numerous canals spanned by elegant bridges had given St. Petersburg the epithet of the Venice of the North. Citizens of consequence, dressed in gay finery, strolled along the long avenues, greeting each other and exchanging courtesies. Humbler men and women from the four corners of the Russian Empire wore the bright traditional clothing of their respective regions; bearded ecclesiastics strode about in long robes, their hair flowing onto their shoulders. Students promenaded in their uniforms, and European ambassadors and their wives flaunted the latest styles of Paris, London, or Berlin. But all these paled before the mounted Cossacks of the Imperial Guard, glowering, silent fellows wrapped in thick military cloaks and coiffed in enormous fur hats, who always held their spears at the ready, alert to the slightest threat to their master. The Tsar was well protected.

His Imperial Majesty attended every one of our performances. The repertoire was the same as the one we had presented in Moscow.

One performance stands out sharply in my memory: I was singing Gilda in Rigoletto. When I went onstage, I was struggling against my usual jitters and the horrible fear that I would be incapable of singing a note. One technique I used to suppress my sense of panic was to concentrate on a particular point in the audience, and that night, I fixed on the Tsar's box, as if I were going to sing exclusively for him. I took a deep breath and moved forward under the house lights. The orchestra conductor raised his hand discreetly and the music began. When I finished Caro nome, I experienced the pleasure of a few seconds of absolute silence that was finally broken by the tumultuous roar of the audience, on their feet applauding. The curtain rose and fell a full twenty times that night! By the end of it, I was trembling with joy, under the bouquets that rained down from almost all of the boxes.

Dizzy from the undiminished clamour, I went back to the tranquil oasis of my dressing room, where tea with honey was kept hot for me on a samovar. I changed from my stage costume into a creamy-white satin peignoir bordered in white fox.

There was a knock at the door. An officer announced that, as an exceptional honour, the Tsar had invited the company to be received in the Imperial box, which was large enough to serve as a salon where he sat with his court favourites.

Alexander II was enthroned on an elevated dais. I had changed my clothes so quickly at this unexpected summons that my corset was pinching me; as a result, my curtsey was lopsided. This made the Emperor smile. I had a close-up view of a balding man in his late fifties, with mutton chop whiskers and voluminous dyed mustachios. He looked rather like a hibernating bear, although his square jaw and his penetrating eyes had an undeniable appeal. His voice, in any case, was irresistible. He spoke French and English fluently.

He held all of my attention, making me temporarily unaware of the crystal lamps whose light bounced off the ladies' jewellery and the gentlemen's military decorations.

The Tsar rose, came towards me, and handed me a gift: it was a portrait of himself in oils, in a diamond-inlaid frame. I'm afraid my mouth fell open in surprise.

After that tribute, I summoned all the skill I possessed to be the best Ophelia ever heard. After the aria della follía, I was given thirty curtain calls! The Tsar mounted the stage, an exceptional gesture on his part, and spoke to me:

“Mademoiselle Albani, you are spellbinding! Your voice is as clear as the snows of our Mother Russia. You have a Russian soul; I recognize you as one of us.”

“My home is also a land of snow, Sire.”

“Yes, I know that Canada is almost as vast as my empire. Tell me about the songs of your country.”

For a long moment, he kept me apart from the rest of the company, speaking to me about music with deep emotion.

Every evening, I experienced anew the deep joy of singing for this man who was a contradictory combination of strength and goodness, haughtiness and benevolent simplicity.

I also felt the public's vibrant response when they heard me. The stage around me was always littered with flowers and little beribboned packages containing gifts. But the Tsar had already given me the best of them all: a splendid set of diamond jewellery that included a crucifix.

For my last encore in my performances in St. Petersburg, I had prepared a popular Russian song. The stagehands would roll out a piano and I would accompany myself in Matouvschia. I usually had to sing it over and over again as the audience belted out the chorus. When I left the theatre, invariably a crowd of male students would be waiting outside and would run alongside my troika as it took me to my hotel.

Towards the end of January, an exceptional event interrupted the course of the opera season: the Tsar's only daughter, Grand Duchess Marie Alexandrovna, was to marry Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, Queen Victoria's second son. Victoria herself was coming to St. Petersburg with her suite to attend the wedding.

No expense was spared to make the ceremony truly impressive. Our company was charged with interpreting hymns of joy during the wedding banquet.¹ There, I saw Victoria, at her most regal and dignified, for the first time.

The opera season went back into full swing right after the wedding. When the curtain had fallen after our farewell performance, the Tsar came onstage to thank us. He was followed by court attendants, and valets carrying trays that held goblets of Veuve Cliquot Champagne. “To the health of the most beautiful and most marvellous of divas,” proclaimed the sovereign, raising his glass and bowing to me. In this manner, I was consecrated as the ruling cantatrice of the Russian Imperial Court.

To the other members of our troupe, he presented gold, silver, and gilt medallions stamped with his likeness, the clasps embellished with rhinestones, strass, or diamonds.

To me, he gave a magnificent solitaire diamond ring. He took me aside to slip it onto my finger, and stood for a long moment, looking down at my hand in his. He drew his face closer to mine, and made an astonishing declaration: “Madame, since the day that I attended the opera in London with the Prince of Wales and the Shah of Persia, you have occupied all my thoughts. Have you not been aware of it?”

“I am only an artiste, Sire. I cannot believe that Your Majesty could be interested in me other than as a performer.”

“But you are also a queen, Madame – a queen of the vocal art.”

The champagne and the emotions aroused by this unexpected declaration gave me the fleeting impression that an exquisite spell had been cast on me. Was I in an opera, or was this reality? Was I Violetta in a meeting with Alfredo? I could almost hear the strains of La traviata resonating in my heart. I quickly pulled myself together in the same way that I did before a performance: I took a deep breath that slowed my thudding heart, and was able to respond in a calm, slightly distant manner.

I reflected that my gallant admirer was, after all, one of the Romanoffs, known to be a hot-blooded dynasty. Since my arrival in Russia, I had heard many tales about the supreme ruler of the empire. People took it for granted that Alexander's charm, omnipotence, and incalculable wealth allowed him to obtain anything he wanted: the most luxurious palaces, the most spirited horses, and the most beautiful women.

Cornélia, of course, had warned me, saying, “The Tsar will do everything he can to seduce you. Keep in mind that you would be neither the first nor the last opera singer to become a prize for his trophy room.”

I didn't dare tell Nelly that I was deeply attracted by this man – not by the all-powerful autocrat, but by the thoughtful and attentive music-lover, the aspect of himself that he had revealed to me.

My main preoccupation at the end of our Russian tour, in mid-February, 1874, was whether my benefit night would go off well. We greatly depended on the money collected at these special performances; many other valuable gifts besides money were included in this largesse.

Cornélia and I were selecting the arias and the Russian songs that I would perform at the benefit concert when the Chief of the Hussars was announced. Colonel Sergei Youssoupov had come with an invitation from the Tsar. “His Imperial Majesty has charged me to tell you that you are expected at the Palace for supper tomorrow evening after the performance.”

I answered that I was gratified by the invitation but was undeserving of such an honour and needed a little time before deciding whether to accept it.

That night, my sleep was disturbed over and over again as wild dreams alternated with periods of wakeful anxiety. I felt that I had become Amina, sleepwalking on a narrow path between unbridled yearnings and self-discipline.

In one of my dreams, I was onstage. I had just finished singing and was bathing in the warmth of the acclamations of the public. The Tsar was standing beside me, not in his usual military regalia, but dressed as Boris Godunov, the hero of Mussorgsky's opera that I had seen in rehearsal. “Come,” he said. “Everything is ready. The consecrated cantatrice of the Imperial House cannot refuse her Tsar a celebration of her success in the very site of her triumph.”

The stage, as well as the boxes and rows of seats, were suddenly empty of people. The stage decor recreated the Duke of Mantua's palace in Rigoletto. A spotlight illuminated a royal feast in the centre of the stage; a table was garnished with silver candelabra, fine porcelain, crystal goblets, vases of flowers, and ice buckets containing bottles of Veuve Cliquot! Alexander stood, singing as he poured out the champagne, letting it froth over the rims of the goblets. He tapped the tip of a silver dagger onto a glass, producing a high C. A valet answered this signal by rolling in a trolley covered with caviar, smoked fish, and blinis.² Another servant brought a capon stuffed with truffles, and a chocolate whipped pudding. The Emperor took my hand.

“Nothing is too good for you, my precious. This theatre belongs to you now; you may sing any role that you choose. Stay in Russia with me. You shall be my queen and the refuge of my heart!”

I struggled to resist his urgings and answered, “Sire, the court overflows with beautiful princesses at your beck and call.”

The Tsar begged me to call him Alexei as his intimates did.

The scene was magically transformed into the winter night; I was in a troika with Alexander, covered in sables. We were gliding through the deserted streets of St. Petersburg under the hazy yellow light of gas lamps. Soft, wet snowflakes were falling. I felt naked under the furs. Alexei took me in his arms. Suddenly, Cornélia's disapproving face loomed over us, and I cried out to her, “I love the Tsar, and he adores me!”

She answered in a regretful tone: “I knew this would happen! Don't forget, you are not the first, and you won't be the last!”

At that point, I woke up. As I emerged from that muddled state between dream and reality, one clear thought stood out in my mind: My sister is right. I have only to ask and he would give me a villa and an allowance. But I would be only one among many… do I really want to be a mistress, a kind of sub-tsarina, while now I reign over the opera world? Ah, non, merci!

However, doubts still assailed me: how much longer would my success last? I loved St. Petersburg and the surrounding countryside – it reminded me of Quebec. I felt at home. Should I go or stay? I was infatuated with the Tsar; he had broken down my defences. In spite of that, I still preferred my music and my freedom.

Cornélia, seeing that I was awake, asked, “Emma, chérie, have you decided about the Tsar's invitation?”

“Yes, I have, Nelly. I will inform His Imperial Highness that I am very touched by the favour he has shown me, but work must take precedence over pleasure.”

My benefit night in St. Petersburg brought in everything I had hoped for, and more. The most beautiful gift I received was a butterfly made of an emerald surrounded by rubies and diamonds, worth eighty thousand gold francs!³ With this, not only could I pay my debts, but I could finance my brother Adélard's studies at the seminary. Above all, I could purchase a house for my father's old age – the house that he would call “Villa Albani.”

“You are very generous to Papa,” remarked my sister. “Yet you have said that he robbed you of your childhood.”

“Yes,” I admitted, “but isn't it thanks to him that Emma Lajeunesse is now Albani?”

Albani, the first time she sang the role of Elsa in Wagner's Lohengrin, at the New York Academy of Music, in 1874.

1. Emma would sing at several royal weddings after this one.

2. Thin Russian pancakes.

3. More than four thousand U.S dollars at the time.