morning, while the orchestra was rehearsing. In homage to the new scion of the Gye family, the conductor interrupted the rehearsal and launched the orchestra into an excerpt from Handel's oratorio, Judas Maccabaeus: “Hail, the Conquering Hero!”
Albani was now in full possession of her art. Her career was fulfilling every promise; marriage and motherhood seemed to have brought about a new blossoming in her. Full of confidence, Emma prevailed upon her husband: “Ernest, my sweet, I'd like you to organize a programme in Milan for me. I want to be the first Canadian soprano to sing at La Scala.”
The world's most celebrated opera house willingly engaged the Covent Garden sensation for a series of performances in 1880. After all, Albani had won remarkable critical successes in Florence, Nice, and Brussels, where she had sung her Italian opera roles in the original language while the rest of the company sang in French. La Scala audiences, however, were mistrustful of anyone or anything that was not Italian.
Albani's first appearance in Milan was in the difficult title role of Lucia di Lammermoor. Before the performance, she felt tired and the management of La Scala had suggested that she was “not in voice,” but nothing could convince her not to sing that night. The audience reacted coldly to her valiant effort, and she was hissed and hooted. The tenor, greatly offended, walked off the stage. The diva attempted to impose herself, but it was useless: the hissing and catcalls continued unabated. Emma abandoned the struggle and collapsed in tears backstage, convinced that jealous rivals had paid members of the audience to boo her off the stage.
Deeply mortified, she prepared to leave her beloved Italy. “Darling, it was your first and only fiasco,” said her husband, trying to console her. “You'll see: your London fans will set things right again.”
Ernest was not mistaken. Albani was warmly applauded at her first Covent Garden appearance of the 1880 season. The Daily Telegraph reported: “Miss Albani's return occasioned an enthusiastic welcome. An artist who upholds the dignity of her profession in the eyes of the public, and whose private life is irreproachable, she is appreciated by everyone.”
It was true that Emma's career was astonishingly free from scandal. Her conduct was prudish compared to that of some of the other famous singers and actresses of the period – Sarah Bernhardt, for example. La Grande Sarah was still being talked about after her visit to London during a tour of Great Britain with the Comédie Française. She had seduced the Prince of Wales and had let her pet leopard loose among the Prince's terrified servants.
The year after her Milan debacle, Emma's peace of mind was again deeply shaken when she learned that the Tsar had been assassinated in St Petersburg by a Nihilist bomb. “He was a marvellous man, and very humane,” said Emma to her sister. “He liberated the serfs in Russia, and was paid for it by being murdered. How unjust!”
Emma's desolate mood was reflected in her behaviour towards her domestic employees. One morning, she lost patience when the chambermaid failed to appear with her breakfast after she had repeatedly rung the electric bell to summon her. “Mary!” chided the mistress of the house when the breakfast tray was finally brought, “Don't these new bells ring loudly enough? One cannot be served properly anymore!”
“Please'm, forgive me,” answered Mary, pulling back the curtains to reveal the grey, drizzling morning outside. “I got the trays wrong; I had to go back to the kitchen to get yours, with your black tea. You're singing tonight, and I know milk is so bad for your voice!”
“On top of that,” snapped the diva, “I hardly slept at all! These tramways are atrociously noisy!”
Even while deploring the racket of the rattling trams, Emma appreciated many of the benefits of electricity. The Savoy Theatre of London was first theatre to be entirely equipped with electric lighting. Of course, the managers of the Savoy could afford it; their Gilbert and Sullivan productions filled the house – and the coffers – every evening. Emma fervently hoped that Covent Garden Theatre would follow suit, and the sooner the better.
“She's awfully touchy this morning,” thought Mary. “And usually, she's so kind. I'd better watch my step today!”
“Tonight,” said Emma, “I'm giving a private recital1 at Lord and Lady Dudley's. You'll prepare my pigeon's-throat-grey dress,” she ordered.
The dress was ready for Emma when she went into her chamber to change for her evening engagement. Mary was on hand to dress her mistress's hair and to sponge her face and shoulders with warm water. Young Mrs. Gye submitted to these ministrations, then left the room, silently but for the swishing of silk.
Later that year, Albani was engaged to sing at a benefit concert in aid of the victims of a recent flood in the Low Countries. The King and Queen of Belgium were going to lend their presence to the event. Cornélia advised Emma: “There won't be any fee, but it will be good for your reputation.” Emma did not deign to reply. Decidedly, she was awfully touchy these days!
Albani sang the role of Tamara in Anton Rubinstein's The Demon. This opera, created six years before in St. Petersburg, was considered the composer's masterpiece, and he was directing it himself. It was the ideal performance situation; Emma forgot her unhappiness and immersed herself in her work.
Following this success, she sang at her beloved provincial festivals in England, and toured both Scotland and Ireland.
During the tour, Ernest brought her news of a special invitation.
“My darling, the director of the Berlin Royal Opera House has asked you to sing Lohengrin there, with the best Wagnerian singers.”
“In German, for the Germans! I feel I can carry off a triumph that hasn't been seen for a long time -one that will make everyone forget about Milan!”
Albani recovered all her former high spirits in this formidable German adventure. Berlin was a pompously grandiose and excitingly cosmopolitan city. Although he was not an opera-lover, Emperor Wilhelm I attended several of Emma's performances, and bestowed upon her the honorary title of Hofkammersängerin, or royal court singer. She would have a more marked success later with Wilhelm's successor, Kaiser Wilhelm II, a true opera connoisseur. However, the aged Empress Augusta did not miss any of Albani's performances; in spite of her fragile health, she would have herself pushed in a wheelchair along a special corridor that linked the palace to the opera house and the imperial box.
The Berliner Zeitung wrote: “Das Albani interpreted the very difficult and poetic character of Elsa with such consummate mastery that the audience was aroused by her to enthusiasm.”
The correspondent of The Times wired his byline to London: “Madame Albani appeared tonight as Elsa, singing her part in the native German. The house was crowded to the very ceiling and extravagant prices were paid for seats. Madame Albani achieved what may well be called a complete triumph, greater even than any she has won hitherto.”
Berlin high society showered the diva and her husband with invitations. The couple was asked to dine at the residence of the Austrian ambassador. At table, Emma found herself beside a man who was attached to the household of the Crown Princess Frederika. He told her: “Her Highness knew I would see you tonight. She asked me to give you this.” He handed Emma a telegram that Queen Victoria had cabled to her cousin a few days before. It read: “Am anxious to recommend Madame Albani to you. She is my Canadian subject, an excellent person, known to me, a splendid artiste and I take much interest in her. The Queen.”
The following day, the Crown Princess received Albani and her husband at home. She possessed a phonograph, recently invented, and showed them how it worked. She had a record of the diva performing, and thus, Albani heard herself singing for posterity for the first time. In spite of the distortion of the earliest recordings, this machine soon became all the rage and fascinated everyone who heard it.
Emma was given the opportunity to sing Gounod's oratorio, Rédemption, at the Birmingham Festival of 1882, under the composer's direction. Gounod liked the Canadian soprano's voice so much that he promised to compose a new work for her to create.
Not long into the new year, Emma learned that Richard