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. Do it again but hold it longer this time.”
I did what he said, holding the note as long as I could, until it petered out in a glissando.
“You must breathe more deeply,” he advised, placing his hand on my abdomen. “You must strengthen your diaphragm. If you wish to become a grande cantatrice, you will have to work, work, work!”
Feigning not to notice my dismay, he added in a fatherly tone: “Just as much as technique, you must refine your sensibility. All art has its source in human vulnerability, but keep your tears for the arias in which you are required to express emotion.”
“Maître, I have worked to develop my voice since my early childhood, but I feel as if I were starting from the beginning again.”
“Go ahead, control every breath you take,” he continued, without acknowledging my remark. “Concentrate on your voice, and eat only what is good for it: lean meat, fish, boiled vegetables, and toast. Only satisfy your appetite after you have given a successful performance; that will be your reward!”
“I couldn't. I would faint from hunger!”
“Keep active eight hours a day and sleep nine hours a night: you will soon feel the difference. Even your soul will sing! You have a good light soprano voice, but it lacks ripeness.”
I had imagined that I was free of a hard taskmaster when I left my father's tutelage, but Maître Duprez was even more exacting. I realized that to him, I was not a child prodigy, but simply a student like any other.
I carefully noted all his advice and criticism. Among his many bits of wisdom, I particularly remember his saying: “There is no better method of voice training than singing scales and doing exercises using the feminine syllables. Each note must be sung with equal resonance; each syllable must be pronounced with its own particular recitative value.”
I believe that my teacher was gradually won over by my determination, although he was miserly with his compliments. There was a small private theatre near his school where he allowed his more advanced pupils to perform. My first appearance there was as Marguerite in the garden scene in Faust; and the audience applauded enthusiastically. I treasure the memory of finally hearing my teacher's praise: “She has a beautiful voice and possesses the sacred flame; she is of the wood from which great flutes are fashioned.”
At the same time, I took classes in sacred music from François Benoist, one of the best organists in Paris – another necessary string in my bow, I thought. Duprez, however, advised me to concentrate on operatic singing. “You are a born nightingale,” he told me.
Paris was the loveliest place on earth to me in those youthful days. I expressed this opinion to a Canadian acquaintance who had been touring the Continent. He concurred, but gently reproved me, saying: “Emma, you move in a very worldly circle here in Paris. You live in the midst of great reconstruction projects, right beside Charles Garnier's new opera house, the new Place de l'Étoile, and the grand boulevards with their cafés and theatres. You see nothing of the crisis brewing among the working classes. Strikes are breaking out and are being crushed by the army. The Parti Républicain is gaining influence at the expense of Napoléon III, who is old and ill. There is the foreign threat, too: Bismarck is working to create a united and strongly armed Germany, primed for war.”
“But isn't the French army as powerful?” I asked, surprised by his serious tone.
“Powerful, and too sure of itself, besides. I would even say belligerent, but with an arsenal as outdated as its strategies. France has no allies; a military conflict would be fatal. My dear Emma, you must go to Italy at your earliest opportunity.”
Prince Poniatowski agreed with this advice, but from a musician's point of view. He offered to commend me to the best-known Italian singing teacher, Signor Francesco Lamperti of Milan. “For anyone wishing to rise to the top in the opera, I recommend the Italian method. It produces a magnificent quality of voice. Singers trained in France tend to sing through their noses instead of their throats.