The charming island of Malta in the southern Mediterranean had belonged to Great Britain since the beginning of the century and was the most important base in the world for the British fleet. The opera house was in the Maltese capital of Valletta. This city had been fortified by the Knights of St. John, one of the religious and military orders from the era of the Crusades; the Knights had moved to Malta from Rhodes and had defended the island against the Turks in the sixteenth century.
On the billboards, my name, in bold letters, appeared opposite the roles that I would sing in Malta: Amina in La sonnambula; Rosina in Rossini's Il barbiere di Siviglia; Lady Harriet in Martha by Von Flotow; the title role in Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor; and Isabella in Robert le diable by Giacomo Meyerbeer. In addition, I had to sing the role of Inès in Meyerbeer's L'Africaine, at very short notice: I had only two days to master it after the young woman who was to sing the role suddenly fell ill.
As a supplement to the programme, the audience, many of whom were from the British Isles, called on me to sing Home, Sweet Home and The Last Rose of Summer. I found it strange that a Canadienne was indulging their nostalgia for their homeland! On the evening of my farewell performance in Malta, a poem composed by the officers of the Royal Navy was brought to me by a dove!
A few of the higher-ranked English officers made attempts to woo me. One of them did attract me but Cornélia reminded me of my duty. “It would be all right for me to allow myself to be courted, but not you with your responsibilities,” she chided.
Apart from my besotted admirers, I made some good friends on the island, including the Governor, Sir Patrick Grant, and Sir Cooper and Lady Francis Key. At one the receptions given for me, I met Colonel McCrea, who urged me to try my luck in London. He interceded with one of his friends, the impresario James Henry Mapleson, who wrote to invite me to join his Italian opera troupe at Her Majesty's Theatre.
I was eager to try my luck in the English capital, but first, I had a last engagement in Acireale, this time at a charity benefit for the victims of an earthquake that had hit the city. When we left Valletta, Colonel McCrea ordered the navy gunboats to line up for a processional salute as our steamer made its way out of the harbour. “An exceptional tribute,” I thought, too affected to speak.
1. Woe! You have drunk the poison!
2. Benefit nights were given by opera stars at the end of the scheduled performances; the singer was allowed to keep all the proceeds of the performance and also received valuable gifts of appreciation.
3. opera singers were responsible for their own stage outfits; Emma Albani visited museums so that she could create costumes with an air of historical authenticity.
5
Happy Days in Europe
To reach London in June of 1871, we were obliged to travel north through the entire Italian peninsula, just as the country was undergoing the final throes of the struggle for unification. General Giuseppe Garibaldi, fighting in the name of King Vittorio Emmanuele II, had finally taken Rome, which had been defended in vain by the Papal Zouaves. Some of the Zouaves had been dispatched from France and counted several French Canadians among them. Now, Garibaldi's red, white, and green ensign fluttered over the Eternal City, replacing the white and gold banners of the Holy Father, who had shut himself up inside the Vatican palace.
Frederick Gye, manager of the Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden, engaged Emma Albani in 1871; she performed the greatest opera roles there until 1886.
There had also been turmoil in France during our absence. The empire that we had left was now a republic. We learned what had happened from fellow travellers as we made our way towards the English Channel: in July 1870, Emperor Louis Napoléon III had declared war against Prussia, provoking an attack on French soil by the vastly superior German forces. The Emperor was made prisoner, was deposed, then fled to England with the Empress Eugénie and their son. Paris, besieged and starving, had resisted the invasion. France was obliged to sign a humiliating peace treaty, but that did not end the troubles. Civil war ravaged Paris when the popular front known as the Paris Commune was savagely suppressed.
How peaceful London was after Paris! Thirty-five years into Victoria's reign, the city was impressive with its stately buildings and its green commons and parks with their flowering shade trees, winding paths, and gay bandstands.
The day after our arrival, Nelly and I set out for our meeting with James Henry Mapleson of Her Majesty's Theatre. Our hired cab stopped in front of an elegant theatre. I gave my name and asked to see the manager. While we waited in a large anteroom, a secretary approached and told us that his employer had not been expecting us. Disconcerted, I took out the letter I had received in Malta, care of Colonel McCrea. The young man went off to make further inquiries, and Cornélia and I were left feeling ill at ease. Perhaps there had been a mistake: were we in the right place? Could the cabman have misunderstood me?
There was a piano in the room, and to make us forget our nervousness, Nelly sat down at the bench and struck up the first chords of Casta diva from Bellini's Norma, drawing me into the music and inspiring me to sing. In the midst of the aria, I became aware that someone was watching me: a corpulent, distinguished-looking gentleman of a certain age was standing in the doorway. He had unobtrusively come to listen. He saw that I had noticed him, but gestured to me to continue singing. When I had finished, I turned to him, somewhat embarrassed.
“Congratulations, Mademoiselle,” he said. “You have a magnificent voice. But why are you here?”
I took out my letter and held it out to him. He read it quickly and burst out laughing.
“But you have come to the Royal Italian opera at Covent Garden! The most important opera house in London! I am the manager. Allow me to introduce myself: Frederick Gye, at your service.”
Both Nelly and I were rendered speechless by this revelation, and were even more astonished when the gallant Mr. Gye immediately followed it up by a proposal:
“I would like to engage you, Miss Albani. I was looking for a light soprano.1 I'll speak with the other administrators, and if they agree, I can offer you an exclusive contract – for the next summer season, with the possibility of extending it for five years. Can you come back here tomorrow at ten?”
I stammered: “Next summer… do you… does that mean April, 1872?”
“Until then, we will find you some roles that are not in our prima donnas' repertoire at present. You'll have plenty of time to work on them.”
In the face of Mr. Gye's forceful manner, there was nothing for it but to acquiesce. I reflected that my visit to his competitor, Mapleson, would have to be put off until some future date.
“My secretary will be happy to show you around our establishment, my dears,” Mr. Gye ended peremptorily. He bowed, turned on his heel, and left the room.
We admired the ornate gilt banisters of the monumental stairway, the lustrous woodwork, and the marble busts of musicians lining each side of the lobby.
When we left the theatre, an evening fog had descended. Through the thick mist, we could barely distinguish the flowers, fruit, and vegetables on the stalls of Covent Garden Market. Behind us, gas lamps threw their eerie light on the opera house, making it seem like something out of a dream. At that moment, I had a vision of myself inside the building as La sonnambula, tiny under the huge red curtains being hauled up above the world's most renowned stage, and as other heroines still unknown to me and whom I would have the joy of discovering.
I signed my contract a few days later. Mr. Gye advised me not to go about town too much.