Canadian Performing Arts Bundle. Michelle Labrèche-Larouche

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opera singers were responsible for their own stage outfits; Emma Albani visited museums so that she could create costumes with an air of historical authenticity.

      5

       Happy Days in Europe

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      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.

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      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,

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