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.
