any resentment from my heart.
This first concert had come about through one of our visits to Mr. Seebold's store on Notre Dame Street. It stocked musical instruments and sheet music, and Papa and I went there so often that it was almost as familiar to me as our own home.
That day, I didn't want to go; I wanted to play at home. I was in my room combing my hair when Papa burst in, snatched the comb from my hand, and dragged me along with him. While Papa and Mr. Seebold were talking, I tried out a new piano in the store. Mr. Crawford, a well-known impresario and a singer of Scottish ballads, came inside; he had been passing on the street, and hearing the piano, had been curious to know who was playing. “Emma is my daughter,” Papa told him. “She sings well, too.” I demonstrated, to Mr. Crawford's astonishment. Right then and there, he obtained my father's permission to organize a concert in which I would play the harp and the piano, and sing Scottish duets with him. I considered that I would have the perfect accent to sing these ballads, being of Scots descent on my mother's side.
The recital was a triumph. A carpet of real flowers covered the stage; it was exquisite, but the scent was so overpowering that I almost fainted. In the programme, Mr. Crawford had included a few pieces that I had to sight-read and sing on the spot. One of them was Cujus animam from Rossini's oratorio, Stabat Mater. It was a challenge for me; I was nervous, but I succeeded well enough.
That same season, my great-uncle Mignault, who was the priest in Chambly, organized a concert in my home town. I sang a French ballad, Mère, tu n'es plus là, and Un ange, une femme inconnue, one of my own compositions. Then I sang Wenn die Schalben in German, songs in Italian and Latin, some Scottish ballads, and finally, two English songs, Home, Sweet Home and God Save the Queen – the anthem that always concluded any public gathering. After that recital, I went on tour, to St. Jean, L'Assomption, Sorel, Joliette, Terrebonne, and Montreal.
I was envied for my talent and success, but I would much rather have remained a little girl snuggled in my mother's arms in our modest home in Chambly. I can picture the house on Rue Martel: it had two stories and a gabled roof; the outer walls were covered by wooden shingles, and it looked onto the Chambly Basin. There was a white picket fence in the front yard, and magnificent lilac trees on each side of the house sent the most wonderful perfume wafting into my room in the month of May. There was a little garden at the back, surrounded by beautiful countryside with views of Fort Chambly and Mont St. Hilaire.
I remember the clattering of our shoes on the wooden sidewalk as we walked to church where my father played the organ at Sunday mass. Our childhood was immersed in a flowing river of music. In the evening, when we were in bed, we would fall asleep to the sound of Maman playing Chopin waltzes on the piano.
In the morning, delicious smells from my mother's dressing table floated through the air. To me, they evoked the music she had played the night before as we drifted off to sleep; intriguing emanations of violet-scented rice powder and almond-scented hand cream blended with whiffs of rose-milk and honey-water perfumed with mint, dill, or vanilla.
In September of 1858, the year I turned eleven, we were sent away to school. We were separated from my brother Adélard, who went to a boys' college. After spending our summer holidays at our grandmother's house, Cornélia and I left for the convent school in Sault-au-Récollet, on the north shore of the island of Montreal. Although I was now a boarder with the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, I still studied under my father: he taught music at the convent, which paid for our room and board there.
The Mother Superior of the convent, Mère Trincano, had soft black eyes, a smooth complexion, a perfect oval face, and fingers as slender as Maman's. This nun had dedicated her life to the strict education of young girls. She spoke against the new vogue of children's balls, imported from France, saying that they were “no more than vanity contests and little theatres of luxuriousness.”
When we arrived, Mother Trincano took us on a tour of the school. We felt dwarfed by the huge corridors. We passed nuns escorting pupils who wore dark dresses with white cuffs and collars – the school uniform. In the library, a vast room with high, arched windows, I asked our guide if I would be able to read the books there. “Of course,” she answered. “But we will decide which ones are appropriate for you at your age.”
A wide stairway led to the dormitories. “This is your domain,” Mother Trincano said, showing us two narrow cast-iron beds with white coverlets. Beside each bed was a washstand with a porcelain jug and basin on it. “For your Saturday morning bath, you will wash with your nightdresses on.” We almost replied that this hadn't been the custom at our house.
The first nights that we slept at the convent, Cornélia wet her bed. I did my best to cover up these accidents, but it became impossible after a few days due to the smell, and soon, everyone realized what had happened. My poor little sister, humiliated and terrified, spent several days without speaking, and followed me about like a shadow.
Life at the convent suited me well enough, especially as I could play the piano and read my favourite books as much as I liked – including the stories of my beloved Comtesse de Ségur.
Music was my favourite subject. I was an exceptional pupil and won first prize every term in my first year. In my second year, I was barred from competition since I was on a much higher level than the other girls.
I even composed a hymn for Pope Pius IX and dedicated it to my great-uncle, the priest. I composed a triumphal march for my father, as a New Year's gift to him in 1860. That same year, on May 4, during a school recital, I sang another piece I had written, called Les martyrs. And on the occasion of Mother Trincano's birthday, I sang Travail de reconnaissance, which I had written for her. I became the star performer of the institution.
I experienced my first dramatic exaltation during a morality play that the school presented for Monseigneur Ignace Bourget, the Bishop of Montreal, who had come to officiate at our annual prize-giving ceremonies. Because I was not blessed with long blond hair like some of the other girls, I was not allowed to play an angel. I asked to play the role of the devil, who had to try to tempt Saint Anthony. The long-awaited day arrived. My hands were sweating and trembling as I waited in the wings for my cue. I hopped from one foot to the other, laughing and sobbing senselessly, wrinkling my black silk costume and fidgeting with my horned hood. My part was in the final sketch, which was intended to show the great piety of the saint as he prayed for strength to resist the Evil One's beguilements. But, instead of whispering to Anthony from over his shoulder, I began tickling his ears, pulling his hair, and shouting perfidious suggestions right into his face. The more the audience laughed, the more hysterical I became. Finally, the other students were obliged to drag me off the stage: I had lost all sense of reality.
The fever that had brought on this delirium lasted for three days. I remember hearing Mother Trincano saying to the doctor at my bedside: “The child is our most gifted music student; we would be terribly, terribly sorry to lose her.”
Nelly and I continued to spend our summer holidays with our brother Adélard at my grandmother Rachel's house. I could play the piano and sing as long as I liked, or play with dolls with my girlish aunts.2 Throughout the school year, the only games we were allowed were outdoor sports – our obligatory daily exercise. During the holidays, we went on country picnics. We dressed in the conventional style for the occasion: flounces, lace pantaloons, and strapped shoes for the girls, and a sailor suit for Adélard. And everyone wore straw bonnets or boaters.
Our aunts would come dressed in the same manner. We rode in uncovered carts, loaded with butterfly nets, hoops, tablecloths, blankets, and wicker baskets. The picnic lunch consisted of meat pasties, bread, ham, cold chicken, cakes, wild strawberries, and lemonade. A veritable feast!
After eating, we would run through the fields while the women embroidered
