Her performance smacks of the schoolroom: she is merely a distinguished talent, well-versed and efficient, but her voice does not rise to any great heights of lyricism and is not always on key.”
Fortunately, Frederick Gye, who had travelled to Paris for the occasion, was there to apply a balm to my wounded pride. He took Cornélia and me out to supper at the chic Café Anglais, and reminded me, “Lucia is an enormously demanding role, one of the most difficult in the repertoire.”
I was very glad to return to London, where I was on conquered territory. In my second season at Covent Garden, I sang Catherine in Les diamants de la couronne by Auber,2 Ophelia in Ambroise Thomas' Hamlet, and the Countess Almaviva in Mozart's Le nozze di Figaro.
My father and Nelly paid close attention to what the public and the newspapers said about me. Excerpts from reviews included comments such as: “Her mezza-voce is of a rare beauty. She recalls Jenny Lind, who excelled in half-tones. Her charm and delicacy create an irresistible atmosphere;” “In Rigoletto, Albani has succeeded in conveying the poetry of Verdi's master-piece, the libretto of which was inspired by Victor Hugo's historico-tragical drama, Le roi s'amuse;” “The success of Miss Albani's return is not diminished by the fact that she is already known to us. Ovations of this kind for so young a performer are rare in London. Only Miss Patti, whom Miss Albani appears to rival in both talent and popularity, could have won such accolades.”
Although, inevitably, we were rivals for many years, Adelina Patti and I were friends. She herself told me the following anecdote: “I was walking with my husband in Regent Street, and we paused to look at some photographs in a store window; yours was one of them. Two men came up behind us, and one of them commented: ‘There's the portrait of Albani. They say she'll cut Patti out.’ I turned around and said to him: ‘Thank you, sir!’”
One evening, after a performance, I was delighted to see Colonel McCrea, home from Malta with his wife. He smiled from under his bushy white mustache, asking me: “Wasn't I right to advise you to try your luck in London?”
Another visit was less joyful – that of the Empress Eugénie, dressed in widow's weeds. She was mourning Napoléon III, who had died in early January. She told me that her dear friend Victoria was also grieving for her departed spouse (although Albert had been dead now for a dozen years), and had invited her to the Côte d'Azur. The Queen of England owned a little villa at Cap Martin, hidden behind the mimosa trees, umbrella pines, and date palms of the Mediterranean coast. The locals often had glimpses of Victoria, unaccompanied, driving a buggy drawn by little Irish ponies.
We heard of David Livingstone's death – not in the African bush, but in his bed in London. His friend, Henry Stanley, was at his side until the end. I thought fondly of Stanley, my charming erstwhile neighbour, and wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to travel to Africa. Perhaps one of the cities of that continent possessed an opera house, and one day, I would be invited to sing there.
I did receive an invitation to sing soon after that, but in a very white, very cold land. Cornélia packed our trunks full of warm winter clothing: we were to leave for Russia, where I would be the star of the opera season in the imperial theatres of Moscow and St. Petersburg. I faced the daunting challenge of succeeding Adelina Patti in the hearts of the fanatical Russian opera lovers. The invitation had come directly from Tsar Alexander II himself.
1. Today, this kind of singing voice is referred to as a coloratura soprano.
2. Daniel François Auber, French composer (1782–1871).
6
A Disturbing Character: the Tsar
“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,
