forgotten the Tsar, and her heart beat fast at the thought of seeing him again, even though she was now married and was accompanied by her husband. The cantatrice brought crowds to their feet throughout the tour; she possessed the power of winning the spontaneous acclaim of the public, a gift reserved for heads of state and great artists.
In Moscow, she relived the same emotions she had felt on her first visit. She performed in the same theatre, although her repertoire was different; it included Tannhäuser, La traviata, and Faust this time. After her last performance of Faust in St Petersburg, Tsar Alexander sent her a colossal bouquet of flowers.
But on December 4, Ernest received a telegram informing him that his father had met with a serious hunting accident on the estate of his friend, Lord Dillon, in Oxfordshire. Ernest's parting words as he left Emma in the Tsar's capital were “Take care of yourself, my darling. Pray that I may arrive in time!” Unfortunately, Gye Senior was dead before his son reached England.
Distraught, Ernest was obliged to remain in London to see to his father's affairs. Taking up the reins from an exceptionally energetic and enterprising man like Frederick Gye was not an easy task.
Emma returned home at long last. She had several engagements left to fulfil before taking the first rest of her career: she would be away from the opera for a period of several months.
Ernest Frederick Gye was born on June 4, 1879. He was an undemanding infant who seemed to have inherited his father's placid temperament. Albani had controlled herself rigidly during his birth, even refraining from crying out so as not to injure her vocal chords. “I would prefer ten major opera roles over the experience of childbirth,” she declared. “I will not endure it a second time!”
News of the happy event reached Covent Garden the next morning, while the orchestra was rehearsing. In homage to the new scion of the Gye family, the conductor interrupted the rehearsal and launched the orchestra into an excerpt from Handel's oratorio, Judas Maccabaeus: “Hail, the Conquering Hero!”
Albani was now in full possession of her art. Her career was fulfilling every promise; marriage and motherhood seemed to have brought about a new blossoming in her. Full of confidence, Emma prevailed upon her husband: “Ernest, my sweet, I'd like you to organize a programme in Milan for me. I want to be the first Canadian soprano to sing at La Scala.”
The world's most celebrated opera house willingly engaged the Covent Garden sensation for a series of performances in 1880. After all, Albani had won remarkable critical successes in Florence, Nice, and Brussels, where she had sung her Italian opera roles in the original language while the rest of the company sang in French. La Scala audiences, however, were mistrustful of anyone or anything that was not Italian.
Albani's first appearance in Milan was in the difficult title role of Lucia di Lammermoor. Before the performance, she felt tired and the management of La Scala had suggested that she was “not in voice,” but nothing could convince her not to sing that night. The audience reacted coldly to her valiant effort, and she was hissed and hooted. The tenor, greatly offended, walked off the stage. The diva attempted to impose herself, but it was useless: the hissing and catcalls continued unabated. Emma abandoned the struggle and collapsed in tears backstage, convinced that jealous rivals had paid members of the audience to boo her off the stage.
Deeply mortified, she prepared to leave her beloved Italy. “Darling, it was your first and only fiasco,” said her husband, trying to console her. “You'll see: your London fans will set things right again.”
Ernest was not mistaken. Albani was warmly applauded at her first Covent Garden appearance of the 1880 season. The Daily Telegraph reported: “Miss Albani's return occasioned an enthusiastic welcome. An artist who upholds the dignity of her profession in the eyes of the public, and whose private life is irreproachable, she is appreciated by everyone.”
It was true that Emma's career was astonishingly free from scandal. Her conduct was prudish compared to that of some of the other famous singers and actresses of the period – Sarah Bernhardt, for example. La Grande Sarah was still being talked about after her visit to London during a tour of Great Britain with the Comédie Française. She had seduced the Prince of Wales and had let her pet leopard loose among the Prince's terrified servants.
The year after her Milan debacle, Emma's peace of mind was again deeply shaken when she learned that the Tsar had been assassinated in St Petersburg by a Nihilist bomb. “He was a marvellous man, and very humane,” said Emma to her sister. “He liberated the serfs in Russia, and was paid for it by being murdered. How unjust!”
Emma's desolate mood was reflected in her behaviour towards her domestic employees. One morning, she lost patience when the chambermaid failed to appear with her breakfast after she had repeatedly rung the electric bell to summon her. “Mary!” chided the mistress of the house when the breakfast tray was finally brought, “Don't these new bells ring loudly enough? One cannot be served properly anymore!”
“Please'm, forgive me,” answered Mary, pulling back the curtains to reveal the grey, drizzling morning outside. “I got the trays wrong; I had to go back to the kitchen to get yours, with your black tea. You're singing tonight, and I know milk is so bad for your voice!”
“On top of that,” snapped the diva, “I hardly slept at all! These tramways are atrociously noisy!”
Even while deploring the racket of the rattling trams, Emma appreciated many of the benefits of electricity. The Savoy Theatre of London was first theatre to be entirely equipped with electric lighting. Of course, the managers of the Savoy could afford it; their Gilbert and Sullivan productions filled the house – and the coffers – every evening. Emma fervently hoped that Covent Garden Theatre would follow suit, and the sooner the better.
“She's awfully touchy this morning,” thought Mary. “And usually, she's so kind. I'd better watch my step today!”
“Tonight,” said Emma, “I'm giving a private recital1 at Lord and Lady Dudley's. You'll prepare my pigeon's-throat-grey dress,” she ordered.
The dress was ready for Emma when she went into her chamber to change for her evening engagement. Mary was on hand to dress her mistress's hair and to sponge her face and shoulders with warm water. Young Mrs. Gye submitted to these ministrations, then left the room, silently but for the swishing of silk.
Later that year, Albani was engaged to sing at a benefit concert in aid of the victims of a recent flood in the Low Countries. The King and Queen of Belgium were going to lend their presence to the event. Cornélia advised Emma: “There won't be any fee, but it will be good for your reputation.” Emma did not deign to reply. Decidedly, she was awfully touchy these days!
Albani sang the role of Tamara in Anton Rubinstein's The Demon. This opera, created six years before in St. Petersburg, was considered the composer's masterpiece, and he was directing it himself. It was the ideal performance situation; Emma forgot her unhappiness and immersed herself in her work.
Following this success, she sang at her beloved provincial festivals in England, and toured both Scotland and Ireland.
During the tour, Ernest brought her news of a special invitation.
“My darling, the director of the Berlin Royal Opera House has asked you to sing Lohengrin there, with the best Wagnerian singers.”
“In German, for the Germans! I feel I can carry off a triumph that hasn't been seen for a long time -one that will make everyone forget about Milan!”
Albani recovered all her former high spirits
