His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh and Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Marie Alexandrovna, the Tsar's daughter, made a splendid couple! It was a wonderful evening, like something in a picture book.”
“From where I was sitting at the Imperial table, I couldn't hear your voice as well as I would have liked. Nevertheless, I appreciated your beauty, your bearing, and your interpretation of the music. It was the first time I saw you.”
“The other singers were distracted by the noise – all those fanfares and trumpet blasts before every toast, the talking, the clinking of glasses, cutlery, and plates. When I sing, none of this can disturb me.”
Victoria smiled, encouraging the young woman to continue in her rush of enthusiasm.
“I will never forget the magnificence of the great White Room of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg: its hugeness, all the gold, the hundreds of lamps and candles, the beautiful marquetry floors.”
“Rather ostentatious, I quite agree,” remarked Victoria with a hint of irony in her voice.
Emma gabbled on.
“All the ladies in their embroidered velvet robes, their heads crowned by tiaras, their necks and arms glittering with jewels. And the dresses with gold and silver trains, fringed with lace. Then, when the evening was over, the guests covered in sable capes, hailing their coachmen who had been waiting all night. If it weren't for those huge furnaces burning in the square, they would surely have frozen to death! As for me, the Tsar was very generous,” she added, lowering her eyes and blushing.
“Everything is so excessive in Russia,” pronounced the monarch, who appeared not to have noticed her guest's last remark. “The cold, the wealth and the poverty, and the exaggerated enthusiasms.”
“I was speaking out of turn, I fear, Your Majesty. Please forgive me.”
“Not at all, my dear. Your capacity for wonder enchants us. And you, Cornélia, were you also on the trip?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, but I did not go out very often… except when Emma needed me, of course,” Cornélia replied demurely.
“You studied opera in Milan and Paris, Mademoiselle Albani,” said the Queen, tactfully changing the subject. “Paris… my husband and I were there in 1855 to visit the Exhibition as guests of Napoléon III. What a charming man! The Empress Eugénie prepared an apartment for us; it was so well appointed that we felt as if we were at home at Windsor! “The only thing missing is our little dog,' we said. And three days later, we were greeted by his joyful barking! The Emperor had him brought over post-haste from England!
“And what receptions! At a ball at the Hôtel de Ville, an Arab prince knelt before us, lifted our skirt and kissed us on the calf, crying ‘Honni soit qui mal y pense!’2 We were quite petrified at first, but after a moment, we had to bite our lips to prevent ourselves from bursting out laughing.”
The others smiled.
“But you have come here to sing for us, Mademoiselle Albani,” said the Queen, cutting off her pleasurable flow of reminiscences.
“With great pleasure, Your Majesty.”
Emma rose to her feet and approached the piano, while Cornélia opened a printed score. Soon the silence was broken by the poignant notes of Ah! non credea mirarti, an aria sung by Amina, the heroine of Bellini's opera, La sonnambula. “Ah, you trust in your beauty, yet it is quickly forgotten…” Lady Erroll and Mrs. Rich listened, captivated. The music-loving monarch closed her eyes, humming occasionally, in a state of beatitude. At the end of the aria, the singer bowed low to the applause of the little group of spectators.
“We enjoyed it so very much,” was the Queen's comment. “The Italian opera pleases us immensely. We once studied under Louis Lablache. Did you know that he sang at Beethoven's funeral in 1827? We also studied the piano under Felix Mendelssohn; it was at the beginning of our marriage to Albert. Our husband was determined that we be able to play music together. If you could have heard it! It was quite enchanting!”
She sighed and her tone changed.
“Let us hear something in a more popular vein now.”
Emma chose to sing Home, Sweet Home. When she reached the lines “An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,” her eyes filled with tears. She was almost overcome by an unstoppable emotion as she was transported back in time to her first recital after her mother's death. The begonias on the Queen's piano added to her attack of nostalgia: they had been her maternal, grandmother's favourite flowers. While she sang, Emma relived the family holiday festivities in Chambly, hearing echoes of the joyous cries of her aunts, who were not much older than their two nieces, when the group would gather for afternoon tea. She thought of her grandmother cutting thick slices off a homemade loaf of bread, spreading them with a layer of fresh cream, and sprinkling them with maple sugar.
“You are weeping, my child,” murmured Lady Erroll with solicitude when the song ended.
“The lyrics, written by the American actor, John Howard Payne, take me back to my own home, Madame,” answered Emma.
“But the melody is English,” said the Queen. “For us, it evokes the English hearth and home. Essentially the same for generations, they ensure the stability of our family life, just as the monarchy ensures the stability of the country. And now, sing Gounod's Ave Maria for us, my dear. We like that composer very much. Unfortunately, our mourning has prevented us from attending the London premiere of his opera, Faust.
Silence settled comfortably over the room. Then, once again, the angelic voice of the diva filled the air; it was a moment of eternal peace. The singer executed the hymn with expressive fervour through to the last phrase, “in hora mortis nostrae, amen.”
Victoria's attention was unflagging, and the private recital continued with still more arias. Finally, the Queen congratulated the celebrated cantatrice, and asked her:
“You are of the Catholic faith, like all our French Canadian subjects, are you not? Yet I do not see any cross around your neck…”
Emma, embarrassed, lowered her head. Victoria got up.
“Our most heartfelt thanks for the delicious moments you have given us, Mesdemoiselles. A queen's life is often austere. Music applies a soothing balm to the sore wounds of our heart. You may leave us now. We wish you a safe return.”
The two sisters curtsied gracefully and bade the assembly farewell.
In the cab, on the way back to the hotel, Emma said, “Did you notice that the Queen always speaks of herself in the plural? It will take me some time to get used to it! You may be sure, Nelly, that she will invite me again. And she'll go to hear me at Covent Garden, too.”
“You're exaggerating! You know very well she never attends the opera or the theatre. You're dreaming if you think she'll really make an exception for you.”
“What devotion to her husband! I should like to experience a passion like that,” said Emma wistfully.
“You're joking, Emma! You must dedicate yourself to your career.”
A few days later, a royal messenger delivered a small beribboned package to the Cavendish Hotel. Emma read the short note that came with it:
Windsor
