Sir T. M. Biddulph presents his compliments to Miss Albani. Her Majesty the Queen would like her to accept this cross and this necklace as a souvenir of her visit to Windsor last week.
Under the wrapping paper was a jewel case containing a diamond-inlaid cross, to be worn as a pendant on a pearl necklace. With trembling hands and sparkling eyes, the singer attached it around her neck. “I will wear it always,” she whispered. “It will be my lucky piece.”
The word “luck” drew Emma's thoughts to her belief that she had followed a predestined path. She visualized the crucial stages of this path, beginning with moments from her childhood. She remembered, evoking each scene in her mind.
1. Opera fans often refer to their idols by their last names, for example, Melba, Patti, Albani, Caruso, Callas, Stratas, Pavarotti.
2. Motto of the Order of the Garter, meaning “Evil to him who evilthinks.”
2
“You'll be a musician, my child”
I was three years old when my mother gave me my first piano lesson. She had promised to teach me Beethoven's Scottish Dance.
“When you know it well, you can play it for Granny Rachel, “ she told me.
I learned the piece very quickly, because I adored my maternal grandmother. She came from a Scottish family; her face was covered with freckles and she had a fiery temper. Although I loved the piano, I remember envying my little friends who could play in the garden while I practised indoors.
At about this time, our family moved to Plattsburgh in New York State. There wasn't enough work for Papa in Chambly. He taught harp and violin, while Maman gave singing lessons. She died in the United States after giving birth to my little sister, Mélina. The baby did not survive her for long.
Emma Lajeunesse at five years of age.
Little Emma spent her holidays with her maternal grandparents near her childhood home on Rue Martel in Chambly.
When I was five, Papa became my teacher. I studied the piano according to the Bertini Method – playing and practising five hours a day! Papa thought it was the best way. He was proud of me, because in four months, I mastered all the thirty-five pieces of the Bertini course, even though my little fingers couldn't stretch a full octave.
Once I could read and write French adequately, I had a private classics tutor. My father was convinced it was necessary for me to learn Ancient Greek to develop my brain. The result of this was that I was accustomed to studying from an early age. “Brilliant” and “exceptional” were some of the comments that were made about me. Mr. Sexton, who had taught Greek in some of the great families of England before coming to North America, told Papa, “Your little Emma has an astonishing facility for Greek pronunciation; it will help her when she has to sing in several languages.” This happened sooner than I could have imagined.
A six-and-a-half, I was singing arias from Norma and La sonnambula – “two operas by the Italian, Bellini, and among the most beautiful in the repertoire,” according to Papa. By the time I was eight, I could sight-read music of any style and period.
People often criticized my father for driving me too hard, and for hitting me on the fingers with a rod when I mistook a note or lost the tempo. He only laughed at their reproaches. To him, I wasn't a child: I was a young artist who possessed exceptional gifts and whose duty it was to strive for perfection.
Cornélia, two years younger than I, also studied the piano. Our little brother, Adélard, a year younger than Nelly, was making remarkable progress on the violin. However, Papa was a lot less demanding of them than he was of me.
I'll always remember the month of April, 1856. I was eight, and it was not long after Maman's death. My father came to give me my daily harp lesson. I was absorbed in Peau d'âne, a Perrault fable.
“Emma, it's not the time to read: you must work on your technique now.”
“Not today, Papa.”
I didn't dare tell him that the index finger of my right hand was injured, and above all, I didn't want him to know the reason: I had hurt it while disobeying him.
“No lagging! Bring your harp!”
When I began to pluck the strings, my eyes filled with tears of pain. After a moment, my fingernail was torn off. I cried out and fainted, tumbling to the floor. Luckily, my father was quick enough to catch the heavy instrument; otherwise, it would have fallen onto my head.
I had hurt the finger by catching it in the back door of my aunt and uncle's house, hurrying in for supper. My father had gone to the United States to play the organ; I had been playing with my friends outside instead of practising and had forgotten the time. I had kept silent about the injury for fear of being punished when Papa returned home.
My vocation as an actress also came to me from the family: my maternal aunt Rose-Délima possessed a remarkable talent for inventing and telling stories. She changed her voice to impersonate each different character, enthralling us children. When I was still little, I too began acting out stories by gestures and mime, turning them into pure theatre.
Granny Rachel lived next door to us in Chambly. Her attic, filled with old dresses, hats, and purses, was a true Ali Baba's cave to us. We would dress up and perform musical dramas for our friends in the English section of Chambly – the “swells,” as we called them among ourselves. I can still see myself draped in a cloth that served as an eastern costume, singing the soprano part in Félicien David's symphonic poem, Le désert. I sang perched on a rock made out of a wooden box, surrounded by my friends whom I had taught to sing the chorus.
Those were still the good times before my mother's death, when our lives were suddenly turned upside down. I believe Papa suffered more than the rest of us: he began drinking too much and became irritable -and even more strict with me! If I dozed off during my long practices, he would beat me. He had become obsessed with the idea of turning me into a prodigy who would conquer the world. I'm sure that if my mother had lived longer, she would never have let him adopt that excessive attitude towards me.
When Maman died, we returned to Canada to live with my aunt and uncle in Montreal, on the Rue Saint Charles Borromée. I felt uprooted there. Luckily for me, our neighbour, Madame Lavigne, took me under her wing. In the Lavigne's welcoming home, she reigned over no less than seven musicians! Her eldest boy, Arthur, wanted to become an impresario; Ernest, the second son, was a composer. He used to tell me that when I became famous, he would write songs for me. The youngest son, Émery, was studying to be a piano accompanist.1
I had become an accomplished musician and singer for a child my age. I was able to sustain high notes progressively longer. I was considered a phenomenon. My first public performance took place on September 15, 1856, in Montreal, at the Mechanics' Hall on St. James Street. I was awed by the large hall and the grandiose staircase; I still remember how small I felt. Before going on stage, I was terrified, but Papa was there to encourage me and give me confidence. Many times in my life, I was tempted to hold it against him for making my childhood so strenuous, but music and applause
