Later, I excitedly told Cornélia the details of what I had seen during that memorable evening.
“Imagine, caviar served with a soup ladle – a pure gold ladle! The court of Napoléon III is nothing compared to the Russian one!”
“Bless me, I was forgetting,” said my sister sarcastically, “Mademoiselle has also danced at Les Tuileries, at the court ball reigned over by the beautiful Eugénie, Empress of France.”
“If you had could have seen the Tsarina Maria's diamond collar,” I continued, undaunted, “and the silver-gilt goblets filled with Imperial Tokay, the Tsar's own special Hungarian vintage!”
Rehearsals, as well as the actual performances, were carried out in the most professional manner. It is true that the opera houses of Moscow and St. Petersburg had no equivalent in Europe: much attention was paid to the singers, who had to protect their voices from the rigours of the Russian winter. All the local artistes were employees of the Imperial House. They had fabulous costumes and stage sets, as well as excellent technical support, at their disposal. This made it possible for them to stage unique, colossal productions. Compared to these theatres, the Paris Opéra seemed like a small town hall.
The capital itself resembled a huge opera house: the palaces were painted in pastels that were reflected in the freezing waters of the Neva; the numerous canals spanned by elegant bridges had given St. Petersburg the epithet of the Venice of the North. Citizens of consequence, dressed in gay finery, strolled along the long avenues, greeting each other and exchanging courtesies. Humbler men and women from the four corners of the Russian Empire wore the bright traditional clothing of their respective regions; bearded ecclesiastics strode about in long robes, their hair flowing onto their shoulders. Students promenaded in their uniforms, and European ambassadors and their wives flaunted the latest styles of Paris, London, or Berlin. But all these paled before the mounted Cossacks of the Imperial Guard, glowering, silent fellows wrapped in thick military cloaks and coiffed in enormous fur hats, who always held their spears at the ready, alert to the slightest threat to their master. The Tsar was well protected.
His Imperial Majesty attended every one of our performances. The repertoire was the same as the one we had presented in Moscow.
One performance stands out sharply in my memory: I was singing Gilda in Rigoletto. When I went onstage, I was struggling against my usual jitters and the horrible fear that I would be incapable of singing a note. One technique I used to suppress my sense of panic was to concentrate on a particular point in the audience, and that night, I fixed on the Tsar's box, as if I were going to sing exclusively for him. I took a deep breath and moved forward under the house lights. The orchestra conductor raised his hand discreetly and the music began. When I finished Caro nome, I experienced the pleasure of a few seconds of absolute silence that was finally broken by the tumultuous roar of the audience, on their feet applauding. The curtain rose and fell a full twenty times that night! By the end of it, I was trembling with joy, under the bouquets that rained down from almost all of the boxes.
Dizzy from the undiminished clamour, I went back to the tranquil oasis of my dressing room, where tea with honey was kept hot for me on a samovar. I changed from my stage costume into a creamy-white satin peignoir bordered in white fox.
There was a knock at the door. An officer announced that, as an exceptional honour, the Tsar had invited the company to be received in the Imperial box, which was large enough to serve as a salon where he sat with his court favourites.
Alexander II was enthroned on an elevated dais. I had changed my clothes so quickly at this unexpected summons that my corset was pinching me; as a result, my curtsey was lopsided. This made the Emperor smile. I had a close-up view of a balding man in his late fifties, with mutton chop whiskers and voluminous dyed mustachios. He looked rather like a hibernating bear, although his square jaw and his penetrating eyes had an undeniable appeal. His voice, in any case, was irresistible. He spoke French and English fluently.
He held all of my attention, making me temporarily unaware of the crystal lamps whose light bounced off the ladies' jewellery and the gentlemen's military decorations.
The Tsar rose, came towards me, and handed me a gift: it was a portrait of himself in oils, in a diamond-inlaid frame. I'm afraid my mouth fell open in surprise.
After that tribute, I summoned all the skill I possessed to be the best Ophelia ever heard. After the aria della follía, I was given thirty curtain calls! The Tsar mounted the stage, an exceptional gesture on his part, and spoke to me:
“Mademoiselle Albani, you are spellbinding! Your voice is as clear as the snows of our Mother Russia. You have a Russian soul; I recognize you as one of us.”
“My home is also a land of snow, Sire.”
“Yes, I know that Canada is almost as vast as my empire. Tell me about the songs of your country.”
For a long moment, he kept me apart from the rest of the company, speaking to me about music with deep emotion.
Every evening, I experienced anew the deep joy of singing for this man who was a contradictory combination of strength and goodness, haughtiness and benevolent simplicity.
I also felt the public's vibrant response when they heard me. The stage around me was always littered with flowers and little beribboned packages containing gifts. But the Tsar had already given me the best of them all: a splendid set of diamond jewellery that included a crucifix.
For my last encore in my performances in St. Petersburg, I had prepared a popular Russian song. The stagehands would roll out a piano and I would accompany myself in Matouvschia. I usually had to sing it over and over again as the audience belted out the chorus. When I left the theatre, invariably a crowd of male students would be waiting outside and would run alongside my troika as it took me to my hotel.
Towards the end of January, an exceptional event interrupted the course of the opera season: the Tsar's only daughter, Grand Duchess Marie Alexandrovna, was to marry Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, Queen Victoria's second son. Victoria herself was coming to St. Petersburg with her suite to attend the wedding.
No expense was spared to make the ceremony truly impressive. Our company was charged with interpreting hymns of joy during the wedding banquet.1 There, I saw Victoria, at her most regal and dignified, for the first time.
The opera season went back into full swing right after the wedding. When the curtain had fallen after our farewell performance, the Tsar came onstage to thank us. He was followed by court attendants, and valets carrying trays that held goblets of Veuve Cliquot Champagne. “To the health of the most beautiful and most marvellous of divas,” proclaimed the sovereign, raising his glass and bowing to me. In this manner, I was consecrated as the ruling cantatrice of the Russian Imperial Court.
To the other members of our troupe, he presented gold, silver, and gilt medallions stamped with his likeness, the clasps embellished with rhinestones, strass, or diamonds.
To me, he gave a magnificent solitaire diamond ring. He took me aside to slip it onto my finger, and stood for a long moment, looking down at my hand in his. He drew his face closer to mine, and made an astonishing declaration: “Madame, since the day that I attended the opera in London with the Prince of Wales and the Shah of Persia, you have occupied all my thoughts. Have you not been aware of it?”
“I am only an artiste, Sire. I cannot believe that Your Majesty could be interested in me other than as a performer.”
“But you are also a queen, Madame – a queen of the vocal art.”
The champagne and the emotions aroused by this unexpected declaration gave me the fleeting impression that an exquisite spell had been cast on me. Was I in an opera, or was this reality? Was I Violetta in a meeting with Alfredo? I could almost hear the strains of La traviata resonating in my heart. I quickly pulled myself together in the same way that I did before a performance: I took a deep breath that slowed my thudding heart, and was able to respond in a calm, slightly distant