pleased as punch: the shows were all sold out, presaging the success of the important New York leg of the Albani tour. The public was not disappointed by the diva. The New York Herald Tribune, the morning after Emma's first performance, was unequivocal in its praise:
“The Academy of Music has rarely been the scene of such a genuine triumph as the one obtained by Miss Albani last night.”
After this success, Emma felt more confident when she set off for Albany, her adoptive American home. She was welcomed as a prodigal daughter by the proud townspeople. In the words of the Albany Argus, “Now she returns, every hand is extended to welcome her back home.”
“Nelly,” asked her sister, “You remember Miss Bulger of the Sacred Heart Convent in Kenwood, don't you? She's written a poem for me! She has joined the order as a nun. We must go and visit her.”
Soon, rumours began to circulate in Albany that Emma was engaged to be married. When these wild conjectures reached the ears of the person concerned, she acted quickly to dispel them, and the following day, the Albany Morning Express issued a rebuttal: “Miss Albani's admirers will be pleased to know that, in spite of her remarkable success, Miss Emma remains heart and fancy free, just as she was on the morning she left her home on Arbor Hill six years ago.”
When Emma returned to New York City to sing Mignon, an unexpected development awaited her. Her impresario asked her if she could replace a sick colleague in a new role. She would have fifteen days in which to learn the music and lyrics.
“It's the main soprano part in Wagner's Lohengrin,” Max Strakosch told her. “Elsa is a great role. You'll sing in Italian, but your familiarity with German will be an advantage: you'll be able to convey the essence of the Teutonic soul.”
Albani's immediate and instinctive reaction was to accept the challenge.
At the hotel, Ernest Gye, who had remained in Manhattan during her triumphant visit to Albany, asked her, “Do you really think you should take on such a modern work?”
“I'll dedicate all my time to it,” she answered in a tone that brooked no argument.
Perfecting the role of Elsa at such short notice would be a considerable feat. Emma reflected that if she had taken more time to consider the proposal, she probably would have turned it down. She fretted over her commitment, but kept her worries to herself.
The opening night of the opera arrived all too soon. Emma was rehearsing at the last minute, alone, pacing up and down in her dressing room. She knelt (she never sang sitting down when she was wearing a corset), humming to herself. After a moment, she rose, donned a full-length brocade robe and unpinned her hair, letting it flow onto her shoulders. Albani was now Elsa. She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and squeezed the cross pendant, Queen Victoria's gift, in her left hand. It was time to go on stage.
“Even Wagner's detractors must admit that his harmonious melodies exercise a peculiar fascination. Miss Albani acts and sings as if she were the high priestess of Wagnerian opera,” wrote a critic in the Republic of November 26, the day after Emma's first Lohengrin.
Albani had always had courage; now that she had acquired self-confidence, nothing could hold her back.
In Philadelphia, she received a letter from her father, telling her that a biography of her, written by Napoléon Legendre1 had just been published. Emma was touched by this tribute, although she hadn't yet forgiven her native country for not having given her more recognition in the early days, when she had really needed it.
The tour was due to end in Indianapolis, but Albani's success was so great that Max Strakosch went ahead and scheduled extra performances.
“But Max, ever since I started at Covent Garden, I've never sung two days in a row. Mr. Gye insists upon it, as you very well know,” Emma said, annoyed.
“I thought that in the circumstances, you would accept. It's a flattering compliment to you and a boost for your career,” answered the flustered Mr. Strakosch. “I've already booked the dates.”
That was too much. “Without consulting me? You'll just have to replace me, or cancel the performances.” Turning to Ernest Gye, the diva added: “Next time we go on tour, I want everything clearly stipulated beforehand. In writing!”
In February 1875, Albani and company travelled eastward to New York, where the ship for England was docked. Sitting together in the train, they exchanged their impressions of the tour. Emma declared:
“I confess that I prefer Europe to North America. It's more a civilized continent. I fit in there. But for nothing in the world would I act like those British expatriates who create little Englands wherever they go, especially in the colonies, where they conceive it their duty to govern defeated peoples according to their own standards.”
“Their attitude of conquering heroes oppresses people everywhere,” agreed Cornélia readily.
“However,” countered Emma firmly, “for my part, I am proud to be a British subject.”
Ernest nodded approvingly at this, while Cornélia pressed her lips together.
An invitation awaited Albani upon her return to the English capital: to sing Lucia di Lammermoor at the Teatro della Fenice in Venice, opposite Francesco Tamagno, a rising young tenor. Emma hadn't met him, but she knew of his reputation as a seducer of women.
“He may be a wonderful singer, but if he makes any comments about my décolleté, I will simply ignore him. He's only twenty-three, after all, and has a lot to learn. Who do these hot-blooded Latin singers think they are?” scoffed Emma, still in her twenties herself.
In Venice, all went smoothly. Tamagno acted with unexpected reserve towards his leading lady.
“I believe they have exaggerated about him,” said Emma to her sister in their hotel room.
“Ah, but you've become an ice maiden since our return from Russia,” Cornélia needled her.
“Touché!” acknowledged Emma's ruefully.
The window of their Venice hotel room gave on to the Grand Canal. Emma wrote to her father:
Dearest Papa, My thoughts are of you as I look out at this sublime city with its pink palaces, its byzantine domes, and its canals. Last night, I sang before King Vittorio Emmanuele and Queen Margherita, who wore nine ropes of pearls. Magnificent! Emperor Franz-Josef was also present; it was his first visit here since the cession of Lombardy to Italy. Unfortunately, his beautiful wife Elisabeth – the famous Sissi – did not accompany him; she must be travelling elsewhere. When I left the theatre, to my great amusement, I stepped into the canal instead of into the launch! They fished me out very quickly, thank goodness. Gondolas escorted me to my hotel, where I was serenaded. It was marvellous! Cornélia sends her love.
In London, spring had arrived. Daffodil shoots were pushing up through the earth, people threw open their windows, and the clopping of horses blended with the sound of trundling carriage wheels.
Albani was at home, honing the roles she was to perform at Covent Garden, including Marguerite in Faust and the Countess Almaviva in Le nozze di Figaro. In Rigoletto, Signor Francesco Graziani was to sing the title role of the jester. “The English adore him,” complained Albani, “but they don't realize how difficult it is to work with him. When his back is to the
