amour, vita and vie. Italy is the natural homeland of song.”
The Prince was a friend of Maurice Strakosch who had heard me sing in Albany, and who had become the most important opera impresario of the day. Mr. Strakosch was in Paris and accompanied the Prince to a recital that I gave one evening. He paid me a lovely compliment: “Your voice has matured since Albany: it is richer and fuller. And what elegance of tone!”
By this time, my dear Maître Duprez was in ill health and could not keep on all of his students. That was another reason for my decision to move after those heady months of life in Paris. However, I was distraught at leaving this stimulating milieu, and afraid of leaping into the unknown. Thank goodness Nelly was going with me! The Baroness kindly organized a benefit concert that enabled us to set off with enough funds to tide us over on our arrival in Milan.
Emma as Marguerite in Faust by Charles Gounod at Covent Garden Theatre (London) in 1875.
Emma as Tamara in The Demon by Anton Rubinstein at Covent Garden Theatre in 1881.
1. Motet: a religious choral composition, not using words from the liturgy. Johann Hummel (1778–1837) studied with Mozart and developed the first piano method with a rational treatment of fingering.
2. Brother-in-law of the opera diva, Adelina Patti.
3. A register between baritone and tenor; the term is not in use today. When Debussy's opera Pelléas et Mélisande was first performed (in 1902), the role of Pelléas was sung by Jean Périer, a “baryton Martin.”
4. Duprez was the first tenor known to have sung high C from the chest.
4
In the Land of Bel Canto
Maestro Francesco Lamperti always told his new pupils: “If you adopt my method one hundred per cent, you will be able to sing anything.”
Once again, I had to bend my will to a strict and critical disciplinarian. Lamperti refused to teach any members of the aristocracy, because, according to him, they tended to regard singing as a diverting accomplishment rather than as a serious career. He once disparaged a dilettante by saying: “She sings like a countess.”
Prince Poniatowski visited Milan a few months after I had been with Maestro Lamperti and came to evaluate my progress.
“Her trill is faulty,” he remarked to Lamperti.
“It will fall into place, my friend,” answered the maestro. “She is like a bottle of effervescent water: one has only to uncork her and everything gushes out. Moreover, I am writing a treatise on the trill which I will dedicate to her.”
For the first few lessons, Maestro Lamperti concentrated on the syntax of vocal music that all great singers must master: breathing, voice projection, nuance, and phrasing.
I was also instructed on how to strengthen my diaphragm by bending my waist as far as possible to each side, then backward and forward – as far as my corset would allow, that is!
“… seven, eight, nine…” Lamperti called out rhythmically. “Keep going, up to twenty!”
“But I'm exhausted and very hungry!” I protested.
“Madonna mia! There are still two hours left until lunch, Emmina! Lie on your back now.”
I lay down on the carpet. The professor placed a pair of heavy volumes on my abdomen.
“This will strengthen your diaphragm,” he explained, adding yet another large book to the pile. “Lift the books – with your stomach muscles, not by arching your back.”
At first, I thought I would never manage it. My vision began to blur with the effort.
“Loosen up, my dear! Do your relaxation exercises. Breathe; breathe again. You must train yourself to lift the books ten times. When you succeed in doing it easily, we will pass on to the next step. Only after you master it, I will have you sing an aria.”
I accepted his severe regime, dreaming all the while that it was the key that would allow me, the petite Canadienne, to send my voice resonating back to the very last row of seats at La Scala.
Cornélia and I became increasingly fond of life in the northern Italian metropolis, although it was too full of temptations for our meagre means. My immediate goal was to obtain a singing engagement. Several impresarios and owners of concert halls who frequented Lamperti's studio had offered me roles. However, the maestro had his own plan for me: “You will make your debut in Messina. The opera house is small, but the Sicilians are the most difficult to please among opera-lovers.”
In the little apartment we had found in Milan, it was not easy for me to practise my vocalises. Cornélia would be bent over the piano, almost fainting in the hot, closed air of the apartment, with its odour of simmering spaghetti sauce. Our only window looked on to a narrow courtyard; we could not open it often, as several rooms that gave on to the courtyard were occupied by other music students, and they had to practise too.
One day, I stepped onto the tiny balcony outside our window for a breath of fresh air, and a joyous impulse made me launch into O sole mio. Window after window popped open, and when I finished, I was treated to clamorous applause and demands for an encore! A flower seller below took some roses from his cart and threw me a bouquet.
Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door. It was Signor Lamperti. He had come personally to announce that my engagement for the winter opera season in Messina had been confirmed; the only thing needed was my signature on the contract. “You will begin this summer, in a pre-season production, but your real debut will be in December, as Amina in La sonnambula, by Bellini. You remember, of course, that the composer was a native of Sicily; you must be worthy of his memory and rise to the occasion.”
I was overjoyed; my most sanguine hopes had been realized. My career would be launched by performing the principal role in a major work by the most romantic of Italian composers. Besides, I knew that Bellini was born on my birthday, All Saints' Day, and I believed it was a favourable omen for me.
My teacher brought me back down to earth by reminding me that all of Bellini's arias are exceedingly difficult to sing. “La sonnambula requires great vocal prowess and an infinite amount of wind, especially for the aria della follía. However, we have worked together for nine months now, and your technique is extraordinarily good for such a young singer. You are ready, Emmina! Throw your whole heart into winning over the public. You must become Amina and the character will live through you. If you can carry off this role, you are capable of any soprano role in the repertoire and your career is made.”
That evening, I changed my last name. We had heard comments that the name Lajeunesse did not roll of the tongue as musically as it should in the land of bel canto. Among the pseudonyms suggested, I chose Albani: it was the name of a patrician Italian family whose members were all dead, except for one ancient Cardinal. It was also my tribute to the city of Albany, where I had been given the opportunity to spread my wings and set off on my career.
The distance between Milan and Messina is more than 1000 kilometres. Nelly and I made the entire journey in an exceedingly slow train, without stopping anywhere along the way. However, we were compensated for our discomfort by being able to contemplate this marvellous country from north to south.
From the deck of the large steamer that ferried us across the Straits of Messina, we saw our destination nestled at the foot of the Peloritani Hills. The city's streets were aligned with the coastline fringed by cerulean waters. We were billeted with a friend of Maestro Lamperti's: a Sicilian duchess, who, like Baroness de Laffitte, rented out rooms in her home to make ends meet.