inspired Papa to approach Bishop Conroy and express his fervent wish that something be done to obtain the financial means for me to study music in Europe. The Bishop agreed, and entrusted the organization of two benefit concerts to the wife of a well-known Albany notary.
The music-loving prelate was in the audience for the second of these concerts, together with all the notables of the capital, all of them brimming with pride for “their girl from Albany.” Quebec had never seemed so far away! I recall my father's voice, swelling with emotion as he announced to the cheering audience that after many years of struggle, his daughter could finally leave for Europe to study with the best teachers obtainable.
The notary's wife presented us with gifts and a cheque for three hundred dollars; it was the first time my father had ever seen such a sum. This amount, added to our savings, was enough for my great departure, after nine years of hopes and disappointments. I was twenty-one but still looked like an adolescent due to my extreme slimness.
A young man named David Turner, whom I had noticed several times at concerts and receptions, was not put off by my childlike appearance. He asked to meet me, together with Cornélia, at a tearoom. I was wary of his intentions, and pleading a headache, stayed at home. I asked Nelly to go without me and to apologize for my indisposition, which she was only too willing to do.
Mr. Turner tried to hide his disappointment from my sister, but in spite of his good manners, he couldn't stop talking about me throughout their tête-à-tête. Nelly was taken aback when he declared that he had two passions in life: music, and Emma Lajeunesse.
He repeated his invitation to me. In the end, I agreed to go for a walk with him along the bank of the Hudson. He confessed his love for me and begged me to marry him. He told me that he was an amateur violinist and had formed a chamber music group with his friends; he promised that he would share my love of music if I were his wife. However, nothing he said could make me waver in my firm resolve to pursue my career abroad.
A second request for my hand was forthcoming, this time from an older, well-established Albany factory-owner, who offered me a comfortable life. I turned down this proposal as well, for the same reason that I had refused the more attractive Mr. Turner.
The rejected businessman was not entirely disheartened: “I am sorry, as I am very much in love with you. However, I will donate to your scholarship fund, in the hope that you will allow me to visit you in Paris.”
“I am most grateful,” I replied, “and will look forward to seeing you there.”
I fully believed Papa when he said: “It would be absurd for you to become the wife of a rich industrialist when you are only interested in singing. You're not made for marriage.” Cornélia's view was the opposite: “You're mad, Emma! He's a wonderful man who would have made you happy and given you security. I would have accepted in a minute!”
I felt no regret over my decision. I told one of my friends: “I have a feeling inside that must be expressed; something more that I must accomplish. I cannot resist the urge.”
By the end of 1868, I was ready to embark for Europe. Cornélia was to accompany me; even though the money we had raised was not enough for her to continue her own studies, it was unthinkable that a well-brought-up young lady should travel alone. Besides, Nelly was happy and excited at the prospect of coming along. We crossed the Atlantic to Southampton aboard the Great Eastern, a steamer of twenty-one thousand tons with a huge propeller and two gigantic paddle wheels. As soon as we were on board, a fellow passenger treated us to a harrowing account of the ship's previous crossing: there had been a storm so violent that the cattle in the hold had broken out of their pens and had erupted into the dining saloon where the first-class passengers were eating dinner!
My greatest fear, however, was that we should arrive in England on the thirteenth of the month, or on a Friday, which would have been a bad omen for the start of my European adventure. We reached terra firma without any untoward incidents, and soon after, we left for France. We carried a letter of introduction from Bishop Conroy, addressed to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart in Paris, and asking them to help us find respectable lodgings in the city. In spite of the Bishop's kind effort, the nuns were clearly mistrustful: we were from North America – could we still be good Catholics? They sent us to a pension that proved unsuitable. After a few days, we did find a congenial home in Paris, thanks to a young pianist whom we had met by chance.
And what a home! We stayed with the Baroness de Laffitte, a banker's widow. The banker – her second husband – had squandered most of his fortune by dabbling in politics, and his widow was obliged to take in boarders to maintain the style of living she was accustomed to. We were surprised to discover that, even though the house was lavishly decorated and furnished, there were no sanitary facilities of the type we had on the other side of the ocean! We had to put a good face on it and eventually got used to this minor inconvenience.
Madame de Laffitte welcomed us warmly. Thank heaven she was an opera-lover! I have never forgotten the moment when she told us that her first husband had been Jean-Blaise Martin, a noted French singer; his name had been given to a particular register in which the lighter head tone is prominent: the baryton Martin.3 She added: “When Jean-Blaise was going to sing in the evening, he would have a very light meal in the afternoon and wouldn't use his voice again for the rest of the day. Also, he would go to bed early the night before a concert. I advise you to adopt this regime if you want to have a successful career.”
The Baroness then asked me to sing for her, and declared herself won over. She pledged her support and friendship, and she proved it several times over, starting with the time I contracted typhoid fever. I must have eaten or drunk contaminated food or water and had not taken the proper precautions; without Madame de Laffitte's care, I probably would have died.
Our kind landlady did much to advance my career, introducing me to many of the eminent figures of the Parisian musical milieu, like Prince Poniatowski, a singer and composer who had studied under Rossini and had remained his friend, and the directors of the Opéra, the Opéra-Comique, and the Théâtre Italien.
Madame made sure that I frequented both the opera and the theatre. She also arranged for me to receive an invitation to a ball at Les Tuileries given by the Empress Eugénie; it was a thrilling occasion for me.
Through this whirl of social events, I did not neglect my musical instruction – although my first singing lesson with Maître Gilbert-Louis Duprez, the retired tenor and composer,4 was a disaster.
I arrived late, quite out of breath, at Maître Duprez' luxurious studio. I was naturally in awe of this man whose reputation was formidable.
“You are not on time,” he rapped out, without even a bonjour.
“My humblest apologies, Maître,” I stammered.
“There is no possible excuse for it, Mademoiselle. Put the fee for your lesson in the lacquer box on the piano and come back at the right time next week.”
I paid the money and went out, hiding my tears.
The following week, my lesson seemed to be going well, until he stopped me in mid-song.
“Your Gilda in Rigoletto is execrable. Your Marguerite in Faust is worthless. For the love of heaven, do not close your throat when you sing the high notes. Your technique is abominable; you are incapable of modulating your phrasing. Sing high C and hold it.”
I took a deep breath, and the note came out pure and sweet.
“Not bad.
