That way, when you debut at the beginning of the season, you will burst onto the scene like an apparition.”
His advice was unnecessary, since Maestro Lamperti had invited us to stay at his summer residence on Lake Como, where he would help me prepare for my engagement for the short winter season in Florence.
Before our departure for Italy, Nelly and I had some free time to visit the art galleries of London, and, more importantly, to attend the opera, where some of the greatest singers of the day were performing. Thus, we heard the Italian-American singer, Adelina Patti, the reigning operatic soprano at that time. We were enchanted by Pauline Lucca, who sang Inès in Meyerbeer's L'Africaine; to me, she was a model by her vocal artistry, her unique way of expressing emotion, and by her acting skill. There was also Miss Caroline Miolan-Carvalho, who particularly impressed me in the Jewel Song from Faust; her grace, her phrasing, and her tempo were all so perfect that I burst into tears.
When we arrived in the town of Como, Maestro Lamperti told me that he found me even more beautiful and elegant than when he had last seen me. It may have been because of my pastel-hued silk dress, and the fact that I now wore my hair in a chignon with a little fringe that emphasized the oval shape of my face. I was happy, and was made even more so by the serene beauty of the lake ringed by the snow-covered Italian Alps.
As I spoke several languages, I was able to converse with all the maestro's friends and pupils. Lamperti coached me in the parts that I was scheduled to sing in Florence that winter: Adèle in Rossini's Le comte Ory, and the title role of Mignon, a recent work by Ambroise Thomas. Mignon is a mezzo-soprano role, but as my range was wide, I could sing in this register without straining my voice, and without endangering my ability to slip back into the higher register.
I prevailed upon Lamperti to obtain an introduction for me to Thomas, who was then the director of the Conservatoire de musique in Paris. At sixty, he was considered the greatest living composer of the era. The meeting was arranged and I made a short trip to the French capital. The composer welcomed me kindly and gave me some precious advice on how to sing Mignon; thus, I would be sure to interpret the role as faithfully as possible. “It is not just a matter of singing and breathing, of nuances and voice projection,” he told me. “The meaning of the lyrics is of prime importance.” He convinced me to sing one of the recitatives while laughing, an idea that never would have occurred to me.
In Florence, I sang Mignon nine times in ten days. The director of the Teatro della Pergola, where we performed, wanted me to extend my contract, but Mr. Gye, advised by telegram, replied that the London opera season had begun, and I was required there. My heart beat faster when I received this summons.
London at last! The opera season in the capital is sacred to British music-lovers, who are among the most demanding in the world. Besides that, sitting in the audience for my English debut performance would be my most implacable critic: Papa.
The director of the Royal Italian opera at Covent Garden had his own peculiar strategy for stimulating interest in the season's programme. In accordance with the proverb, “Good wine needs no bush,” he considered it vulgar to advertise his star performers. A stark and simple announcement was released to the press: “Miss Albani, the remarkable young soprano, will appear in Italian opera at Covent Garden under the management of Mr. Frederick Gye.”
I brought a trump of my own to this strategic London debut: although I was twenty-four years old, I still looked much younger.
The atmosphere at Covent Garden was not so exuberant as in Italy; preparations for the performances were made with military precision. Everything was carefully planned to go off without a hitch, but even so, I was much more jittery than in Messina, Florence, or Malta. I was aware that I was about to play my most important card.
On opening night, Mr. Gye knocked on my dressing room door. He was impeccably dressed in a black tailcoat and cravat. I thought at first that he had brought me flowers, in keeping with the established custom, but he simply asked me:
“How do you feel, my dear?”
I answered that my throat felt so constricted that I was sure I would not be able to sing a note.
“You'll be marvellous, I'm quite sure. Now, I'll stay with you for the next ten minutes, and you'll sing to me alone.”
He sat at the piano and began to play the grand aria from La sonnambula. After refreshing my throat with spring water from a crystal spray-bottle, I threw my whole heart and soul into the first phrases of Ah! non credea mirarti.
“Ten minutes, Miss Albani!” cried the stage-manager, tapping on the door. In a daze, I went to take my place on stage. I knew that Mr. Gye would be sitting in the first box on the right, between my father and Cornélia. When the curtain rose, I glanced at them and resolved that I would sing only for them.
I saw hundreds of pairs of opera glasses being raised so that their owners could get a good look at the new songstress. My first high notes seemed weak and stilted to my ears, but as the performance proceeded, I felt my strength returning, buoyed by my father's attentive presence. My voice grew in amplitude, rich and crystalline right up until the last note, which was drowned out by thunderous applause.
An enormous bouquet of white roses awaited me in my dressing room; the message that accompanied the flowers was simple but gratifying: “I placed my confidence in you, and I was not mistaken. Welcome to our new diva. The Director, Covent Garden.”
The reviews in the London newspapers were unanimously laudatory. The critic of the Musical Times wrote: “The great event of the month has been the success of Mlle. Albani, who made her début as Amina in La sonnambula. With a genuine soprano voice, and a remarkable power of sostenuto in the higher part of her register, this young vocalist at once secured the good opinion of her audience. She progressively affirmed her authority throughout the opera until the final 'Ah! non giunge,' her brilliant rendering of which produced a storm of applause that could only be appeased by her appearing three times before the curtain.”
Over the subsequent weeks, Cornélia clipped out all the reviews about me and sent them to Papa, who had returned to Canada. We also occasionally sent him gifts of money. I was happy to be able to make life a little easier for my first mentor in this way; I owed him so much more! As I still needed his musical coaching, as well as someone to help me administer the business aspects of my career, I wrote to ask him to come to live with us in London for a few years.
During my first season at Covent Garden, I gradually gained confidence. I was delighted at having won over the English opera buffs, who gave me noisy ovations instead of clapping with the ends of their fingers as they usually did. I was especially elated when I heard myself being compared to Patti, Grisi, and Miolan-Carvalho.
To reassure myself that these compliments were not utterly fantastic, I asked Nelly to attend performances to observe those divas, after which she could offer me her judgment and critical comments. During this period, I was hard at work, preparing to sing the title roles of Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor and Linda di Chamounix, Lady Harriet in Von Flotow's Martha, and Gilda in Rigoletto.
One afternoon, when I was practising my vocalises in our rooms, a visitor announced himself with the words, “Miss Albani, I presume?”
As I immediately guessed, it was Henry Stanley, the New York newspaperman whose name was renowned throughout England for his exploit of tracking down the Scottish-born explorer, David Livingstone, in the heart of Africa. Mr. Stanley was staying next door to us and wanted to write a piece about me for the papers! He was an exceedingly charming fellow, but was the kind of person who never stays for long in one place. In any case, my heart and mind were fully occupied with other matters!
My traditional benefit night surpassed all expectations, although an unfortunate incident almost marred the evening for me. An over-enthusiastic admirer threw me a bouquet attached to a jewel box, which hit me hard on the forehead. I was obliged to leave the stage, holding my head with one hand and clutching the awkward offering