survive her for long.
Emma Lajeunesse at five years of age.
Little Emma spent her holidays with her maternal grandparents near her childhood home on Rue Martel in Chambly.
When I was five, Papa became my teacher. I studied the piano according to the Bertini Method – playing and practising five hours a day! Papa thought it was the best way. He was proud of me, because in four months, I mastered all the thirty-five pieces of the Bertini course, even though my little fingers couldn't stretch a full octave.
Once I could read and write French adequately, I had a private classics tutor. My father was convinced it was necessary for me to learn Ancient Greek to develop my brain. The result of this was that I was accustomed to studying from an early age. “Brilliant” and “exceptional” were some of the comments that were made about me. Mr. Sexton, who had taught Greek in some of the great families of England before coming to North America, told Papa, “Your little Emma has an astonishing facility for Greek pronunciation; it will help her when she has to sing in several languages.” This happened sooner than I could have imagined.
A six-and-a-half, I was singing arias from Norma and La sonnambula – “two operas by the Italian, Bellini, and among the most beautiful in the repertoire,” according to Papa. By the time I was eight, I could sight-read music of any style and period.
People often criticized my father for driving me too hard, and for hitting me on the fingers with a rod when I mistook a note or lost the tempo. He only laughed at their reproaches. To him, I wasn't a child: I was a young artist who possessed exceptional gifts and whose duty it was to strive for perfection.
Cornélia, two years younger than I, also studied the piano. Our little brother, Adélard, a year younger than Nelly, was making remarkable progress on the violin. However, Papa was a lot less demanding of them than he was of me.
I'll always remember the month of April, 1856. I was eight, and it was not long after Maman's death. My father came to give me my daily harp lesson. I was absorbed in Peau d'âne, a Perrault fable.
“Emma, it's not the time to read: you must work on your technique now.”
“Not today, Papa.”
I didn't dare tell him that the index finger of my right hand was injured, and above all, I didn't want him to know the reason: I had hurt it while disobeying him.
“No lagging! Bring your harp!”
When I began to pluck the strings, my eyes filled with tears of pain. After a moment, my fingernail was torn off. I cried out and fainted, tumbling to the floor. Luckily, my father was quick enough to catch the heavy instrument; otherwise, it would have fallen onto my head.
I had hurt the finger by catching it in the back door of my aunt and uncle's house, hurrying in for supper. My father had gone to the United States to play the organ; I had been playing with my friends outside instead of practising and had forgotten the time. I had kept silent about the injury for fear of being punished when Papa returned home.
My vocation as an actress also came to me from the family: my maternal aunt Rose-Délima possessed a remarkable talent for inventing and telling stories. She changed her voice to impersonate each different character, enthralling us children. When I was still little, I too began acting out stories by gestures and mime, turning them into pure theatre.
Granny Rachel lived next door to us in Chambly. Her attic, filled with old dresses, hats, and purses, was a true Ali Baba's cave to us. We would dress up and perform musical dramas for our friends in the English section of Chambly – the “swells,” as we called them among ourselves. I can still see myself draped in a cloth that served as an eastern costume, singing the soprano part in Félicien David's symphonic poem, Le désert. I sang perched on a rock made out of a wooden box, surrounded by my friends whom I had taught to sing the chorus.
Those were still the good times before my mother's death, when our lives were suddenly turned upside down. I believe Papa suffered more than the rest of us: he began drinking too much and became irritable -and even more strict with me! If I dozed off during my long practices, he would beat me. He had become obsessed with the idea of turning me into a prodigy who would conquer the world. I'm sure that if my mother had lived longer, she would never have let him adopt that excessive attitude towards me.
When Maman died, we returned to Canada to live with my aunt and uncle in Montreal, on the Rue Saint Charles Borromée. I felt uprooted there. Luckily for me, our neighbour, Madame Lavigne, took me under her wing. In the Lavigne's welcoming home, she reigned over no less than seven musicians! Her eldest boy, Arthur, wanted to become an impresario; Ernest, the second son, was a composer. He used to tell me that when I became famous, he would write songs for me. The youngest son, Émery, was studying to be a piano accompanist.1
I had become an accomplished musician and singer for a child my age. I was able to sustain high notes progressively longer. I was considered a phenomenon. My first public performance took place on September 15, 1856, in Montreal, at the Mechanics' Hall on St. James Street. I was awed by the large hall and the grandiose staircase; I still remember how small I felt. Before going on stage, I was terrified, but Papa was there to encourage me and give me confidence. Many times in my life, I was tempted to hold it against him for making my childhood so strenuous, but music and applause were always ample compensation for me and drove any resentment from my heart.
This first concert had come about through one of our visits to Mr. Seebold's store on Notre Dame Street. It stocked musical instruments and sheet music, and Papa and I went there so often that it was almost as familiar to me as our own home.
That day, I didn't want to go; I wanted to play at home. I was in my room combing my hair when Papa burst in, snatched the comb from my hand, and dragged me along with him. While Papa and Mr. Seebold were talking, I tried out a new piano in the store. Mr. Crawford, a well-known impresario and a singer of Scottish ballads, came inside; he had been passing on the street, and hearing the piano, had been curious to know who was playing. “Emma is my daughter,” Papa told him. “She sings well, too.” I demonstrated, to Mr. Crawford's astonishment. Right then and there, he obtained my father's permission to organize a concert in which I would play the harp and the piano, and sing Scottish duets with him. I considered that I would have the perfect accent to sing these ballads, being of Scots descent on my mother's side.
The recital was a triumph. A carpet of real flowers covered the stage; it was exquisite, but the scent was so overpowering that I almost fainted. In the programme, Mr. Crawford had included a few pieces that I had to sight-read and sing on the spot. One of them was Cujus animam from Rossini's oratorio, Stabat Mater. It was a challenge for me; I was nervous, but I succeeded well enough.
That same season, my great-uncle Mignault, who was the priest in Chambly, organized a concert in my home town. I sang a French ballad, Mère, tu n'es plus là, and Un ange, une femme inconnue, one of my own compositions. Then I sang Wenn die Schalben in German, songs in Italian and Latin, some Scottish ballads, and finally, two English songs, Home, Sweet Home and God Save the Queen – the anthem that always concluded any public gathering. After that recital, I went on tour, to St. Jean, L'Assomption, Sorel, Joliette, Terrebonne, and Montreal.
I was envied for my talent and success, but I would much rather have remained a little girl snuggled in my mother's arms in our modest home in Chambly. I can picture the house on Rue Martel: it had two stories and a gabled roof; the outer walls were covered by wooden shingles, and it looked onto the Chambly Basin. There was a white picket fence in the front yard, and magnificent lilac trees on each side of the house sent the most wonderful perfume wafting into my room in the month of May. There was a little garden at the back, surrounded by beautiful countryside with views of Fort Chambly and Mont St. Hilaire.
I remember the clattering of our shoes on the wooden sidewalk as we walked to