trophy room.”
I didn't dare tell Nelly that I was deeply attracted by this man – not by the all-powerful autocrat, but by the thoughtful and attentive music-lover, the aspect of himself that he had revealed to me.
My main preoccupation at the end of our Russian tour, in mid-February, 1874, was whether my benefit night would go off well. We greatly depended on the money collected at these special performances; many other valuable gifts besides money were included in this largesse.
Cornélia and I were selecting the arias and the Russian songs that I would perform at the benefit concert when the Chief of the Hussars was announced. Colonel Sergei Youssoupov had come with an invitation from the Tsar. “His Imperial Majesty has charged me to tell you that you are expected at the Palace for supper tomorrow evening after the performance.”
I answered that I was gratified by the invitation but was undeserving of such an honour and needed a little time before deciding whether to accept it.
That night, my sleep was disturbed over and over again as wild dreams alternated with periods of wakeful anxiety. I felt that I had become Amina, sleepwalking on a narrow path between unbridled yearnings and self-discipline.
In one of my dreams, I was onstage. I had just finished singing and was bathing in the warmth of the acclamations of the public. The Tsar was standing beside me, not in his usual military regalia, but dressed as Boris Godunov, the hero of Mussorgsky's opera that I had seen in rehearsal. “Come,” he said. “Everything is ready. The consecrated cantatrice of the Imperial House cannot refuse her Tsar a celebration of her success in the very site of her triumph.”
The stage, as well as the boxes and rows of seats, were suddenly empty of people. The stage decor recreated the Duke of Mantua's palace in Rigoletto. A spotlight illuminated a royal feast in the centre of the stage; a table was garnished with silver candelabra, fine porcelain, crystal goblets, vases of flowers, and ice buckets containing bottles of Veuve Cliquot! Alexander stood, singing as he poured out the champagne, letting it froth over the rims of the goblets. He tapped the tip of a silver dagger onto a glass, producing a high C. A valet answered this signal by rolling in a trolley covered with caviar, smoked fish, and blinis.2 Another servant brought a capon stuffed with truffles, and a chocolate whipped pudding. The Emperor took my hand.
“Nothing is too good for you, my precious. This theatre belongs to you now; you may sing any role that you choose. Stay in Russia with me. You shall be my queen and the refuge of my heart!”
I struggled to resist his urgings and answered, “Sire, the court overflows with beautiful princesses at your beck and call.”
The Tsar begged me to call him Alexei as his intimates did.
The scene was magically transformed into the winter night; I was in a troika with Alexander, covered in sables. We were gliding through the deserted streets of St. Petersburg under the hazy yellow light of gas lamps. Soft, wet snowflakes were falling. I felt naked under the furs. Alexei took me in his arms. Suddenly, Cornélia's disapproving face loomed over us, and I cried out to her, “I love the Tsar, and he adores me!”
She answered in a regretful tone: “I knew this would happen! Don't forget, you are not the first, and you won't be the last!”
At that point, I woke up. As I emerged from that muddled state between dream and reality, one clear thought stood out in my mind: My sister is right. I have only to ask and he would give me a villa and an allowance. But I would be only one among many… do I really want to be a mistress, a kind of sub-tsarina, while now I reign over the opera world? Ah, non, merci!
However, doubts still assailed me: how much longer would my success last? I loved St. Petersburg and the surrounding countryside – it reminded me of Quebec. I felt at home. Should I go or stay? I was infatuated with the Tsar; he had broken down my defences. In spite of that, I still preferred my music and my freedom.
Cornélia, seeing that I was awake, asked, “Emma, chérie, have you decided about the Tsar's invitation?”
“Yes, I have, Nelly. I will inform His Imperial Highness that I am very touched by the favour he has shown me, but work must take precedence over pleasure.”
My benefit night in St. Petersburg brought in everything I had hoped for, and more. The most beautiful gift I received was a butterfly made of an emerald surrounded by rubies and diamonds, worth eighty thousand gold francs!3 With this, not only could I pay my debts, but I could finance my brother Adélard's studies at the seminary. Above all, I could purchase a house for my father's old age – the house that he would call “Villa Albani.”
“You are very generous to Papa,” remarked my sister. “Yet you have said that he robbed you of your childhood.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “but isn't it thanks to him that Emma Lajeunesse is now Albani?”
Albani, the first time she sang the role of Elsa in Wagner's Lohengrin, at the New York Academy of Music, in 1874.
1. Emma would sing at several royal weddings after this one.
2. Thin Russian pancakes.
3. More than four thousand U.S dollars at the time.
7
Travelling the Paths of Glory
Emma emerged from her reverie. “So much has happened since then,” she mused. “What would have become of me if I had succumbed to the Tsar's charm?”
“But what a silly thought! The Queen has honoured me with her friendship, I'm in London, and time is pressing.” The 1874–1875 opera season was a very busy one for Albani: she had a heavy schedule of performances at Covent Garden and at the Liverpool Festival. She would also go on her first American tour: to New York City, Albany, back to New York City, then to Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Chicago, and Indianapolis. Her travelling companions would include her faithful Cornélia, and Ernest Gye, acting as his father's agent in the United States.
The Lajeunesse girls did not travel lightly. Emma reminded her sister, “You know how cold it can get in October; we can't cover up too much.” Accordingly, Nelly filled their stylish Vuitton trunks with layers of cloaks and capes, raincoats, scarves, muffs and kid gloves, as well as an assortment of flowery hats – it wouldn't do to go about bareheaded. To this, she added day dresses and evening gowns. On the large transatlantic steamers, it was not uncommon for upper-deck passengers to change their clothes as often as four times a day, and on this crossing, the young songstress and her companions were travelling first class.
The ship passed close to the Statue of Liberty as it moved into New York harbour. On the pier, a clutch of newspapermen were waiting for Albani, who disembarked in a grey dress augmented by a bustle, a blue-grey jacket that matched her eyes, and a frivolous velvet-ribboned hat. This lovely vision declared to the press: “I only eat a little and I rarely go out. A certain discipline is necessary if I want my voice to keep its clear timbre.”
The façade of the New York Academy of Music, at the corner of 14th Street and Irving Place, was plastered with posters announcing Albani's coming performances in Lucia di Lammermoor, Rigoletto, Mignon, and La
