Sicilian widow – black silk gown, black gloves, black fan and black parasol, and a watch fob from which hung a delicate silver timepiece. She was immensely proud of her fluency in French.
Before removing to his hotel, Papa visited our quarters: a big square room with three long windows. He exclaimed over the trompe-l'oeil mural paintings that created the illusion of pilasters, marble balustrades, and flower-filled urns against a background of flitting, round-cheeked cherubs. He gazed at the inevitable religious subject gracing the ceiling: it was the Virgin Mary ascending towards a deep blue heaven that teemed with gravity-defying, acrobatic angels holding flowers and doves. He was also given a tour of the ground floor, where a vast dining room was decorated with murals representing the bloodiest scenes from the opera, guaranteed to kill the appetites of any guests who were not opera fanatics.
My father's greatest surprise was when we took him to mass on Sunday morning. Nelly and I knew what to expect: in Sicily, it is the custom to introduce opera melodies into the sacred liturgy. For example, in the Eucharist, when the priest brings the chalice of holy wine to his lips, the aria Infelice, il veleno bevesti!1 from Donizetti's opera, Lucrezia Borgia, might be sung. Only the Italians have such an audacious sense of humour!
Papa soon left Messina for Florence; he was travelling ahead of us so that he would have ample time to explore that city.
Before we left to join Papa, the countess lent us her barouche and her coachman so that we could travel down the coast to Acireale, near Catania, where Bellini was born in 1801. I was to sing at the gala opening of the Teatro Vincenzo Bellini. The landscape between Messina and Acireale was striking, with its bare mountain slopes, sheer rock faces and shadowy ravines. This lunar landscape, drier than bones left in the sun, was occasionally relieved by silvery olive trees, refreshing valleys, sweet-smelling orange groves, and pale golden beaches.
Acireale was a good-sized seaport. I was treated like a diva on my arrival there. I was given an official welcome by the local dignitaries, and Cornélia and I were lodged in a venerable palazzo that had been refurbished especially for our stay. On one side, we had a view of the menacing volcano Mount Etna, while on the other, we looked out onto the sea. The best families of Acireale sent us wine, fruit, meat, and poultry, and the nuns from the local convent sent us cakes and sweetmeats.
As the dramatic heroine of La sonnambula, I attracted music-lovers from Catania, Syracuse, and even from distant Palermo. The critics praised me lavishly. “Who is this Albani?” queried Signor Bertolani in Il Corriere Siciliano. “This question will no longer be asked in coming years: Emma Albani is an exceptional creature in whom the woman and the artist attain equal perfection; in whom the singer and the actress vibrate in unison. It is impossible to say whether she is more remarkable by the brilliance of her genius or by her strength of mind, the finesse of her ideas, her perfect pitch or her roundness of melody. Her voice is made to fill the hearts of those who are capable of finding consolation for human misery in art. This singer from across the Atlantic has perfectly understood the Italian art of bel canto.”
On the evening of my benefit night,2 I was showered with flowers and jewellery.
We left Sicily with regret. I sang for a short season at Cento, a town near Bologna, the city of arcades that resembles a stage set from a Molière play. Here, I sang the role of Gilda in Verdi's Rigoletto for the first time. The audience insisted on encores of Gilda's aria, Caro nome, of one of the duets, and of the quartet, Bella figlia d'amore. Admirers from Bologna presented me with so many large bouquets that they had to be transported on donkeys! The combined scent of all these blossoms was overpowering: I was afflicted by a migraine headache and was forced to abruptly leave the stage.
In Florence, crowds of people awaited me: Maestro Lamperti had proclaimed to the inhabitants of the city that Emma Albani was “the most accomplished musician and the singer with the most perfect style who has ever emerged from my studio.”
The Teatro Politeama in Florence was an outdoor amphitheatre; only the stage was covered. Even a driving rain did not dampen the audience's enthusiasm, and they remained spellbound under their umbrellas. Fortunately, it was the month of July, and very warm! We sang right through the downpour. My performance as Adèle in Rossini's Le comte Ory and my signature role of La sonnambula won me the accolade of having “a silver voice.”
Jenny Lind, “the Swedish nightingale,” was in Florence; she had retired from the stage to dedicate herself to teaching. When she came to congratulate me in my dressing-room, I was overcome with emotion.
Beside the jewels I received, which included a diamond brooch and earrings, I was given an immense laurel wreath of beaten gold. Luckily, my benefit nights had made up for the relatively low amount that I earned for my performances.
Nelly and I, escorted by Papa, spent a delightful time discovering Florence, the city of art. We visited the Uffici Gallery and haunted the Ponte Vecchio, exploring the goldsmiths' and leather-goods shops. I found inspiration for many of my costumes and accessories there.3
Another delightful surprise in Florence was the news that I was engaged to sing in Malta for the five-month winter season of 1870–1871.
The charming island of Malta in the southern Mediterranean had belonged to Great Britain since the beginning of the century and was the most important base in the world for the British fleet. The opera house was in the Maltese capital of Valletta. This city had been fortified by the Knights of St. John, one of the religious and military orders from the era of the Crusades; the Knights had moved to Malta from Rhodes and had defended the island against the Turks in the sixteenth century.
On the billboards, my name, in bold letters, appeared opposite the roles that I would sing in Malta: Amina in La sonnambula; Rosina in Rossini's Il barbiere di Siviglia; Lady Harriet in Martha by Von Flotow; the title role in Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor; and Isabella in Robert le diable by Giacomo Meyerbeer. In addition, I had to sing the role of Inès in Meyerbeer's L'Africaine, at very short notice: I had only two days to master it after the young woman who was to sing the role suddenly fell ill.
As a supplement to the programme, the audience, many of whom were from the British Isles, called on me to sing Home, Sweet Home and The Last Rose of Summer. I found it strange that a Canadienne was indulging their nostalgia for their homeland! On the evening of my farewell performance in Malta, a poem composed by the officers of the Royal Navy was brought to me by a dove!
A few of the higher-ranked English officers made attempts to woo me. One of them did attract me but Cornélia reminded me of my duty. “It would be all right for me to allow myself to be courted, but not you with your responsibilities,” she chided.
Apart from my besotted admirers, I made some good friends on the island, including the Governor, Sir Patrick Grant, and Sir Cooper and Lady Francis Key. At one the receptions given for me, I met Colonel McCrea, who urged me to try my luck in London. He interceded with one of his friends, the impresario James Henry Mapleson, who wrote to invite me to join his Italian opera troupe at Her Majesty's Theatre.
I was eager to try my luck in the English capital, but first, I had a last engagement in Acireale, this time at a charity benefit for the victims of an earthquake that had hit the city. When we left Valletta, Colonel McCrea ordered the navy gunboats to line up for a processional salute as our steamer made its way out of the harbour. “An exceptional tribute,” I thought, too affected to speak.
1. Woe! You have drunk the poison!
2. Benefit nights were given by opera stars at the end of the scheduled performances; the singer was allowed to keep all the proceeds of the performance and also received valuable gifts of appreciation.
