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Introduction
Before the arrival of Céline Dion, there were other international singing stars from Quebec. The first of these was Emma Lajeunesse, alias Emma Albani, who, like Céline, started her career when she was very young. Albani was one of the greatest opera sopranos of the Victorian era; the 150th anniversary of her birth coincided with the year of publication of this book (1994 in the original French-language version). I have approached the long life and career of this fascinating character by recreating episodes that I felt were significant, using impressionistic touches.
The great divas have always been goddesses in the eyes of their fans, especially in the days when few recordings existed, and those that were available were of poor quality.
I hope you like my heroine as much as I did.
M.L.-L.
Victoria, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, and Empress of India, was Emma Albani's great friend and protector.
1
A Regal Gift
“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.”
