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Title: Forty Years of Song
Author: Albani, Emma (1847-1930)
Date of first publication: 1911
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Mills & Boon, 1911
   (first edition)
Date first posted: 11 March 2010
Date last updated: 11 March 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #500

This ebook was produced by:
Mark Akrigg and Rnald Lvesque




[Illustration: Frontispiece]

FORTY YEARS
OF SONG

BY
EMMA ALBANI



ILLUSTRATED



MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
49 RUPERT STREET
LONDON, W.


Published 1911


[Illustration: Script intro.]



CONTENTS

CHAPTER I A Musical Childhood
CHAPTER II My Dbut at Messina
CHAPTER III After my Dbut
CHAPTER IV My First Appearance at Covent Garden
CHAPTER V Singing before Royalty
CHAPTER VI My First American Tour
CHAPTER VII Wagner Operas in London
CHAPTER VIII The English Festivals
CHAPTER IX Some Continental Engagements
CHAPTER X "Lohengrin" in Berlin
CHAPTER XI My Return to Canada
CHAPTER XII Five Years op my Life
CHAPTER XIII Tours in Canada and the United States
CHAPTER XIV Some Memorable Concerts
CHAPTER XV Round the British Empire
CHAPTER XVI From my Letter Book.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Madame Albani..... Frontispiece
Madame Albani at the age of Five Years
Chambly
Signor Lamperti
Madame Albani at the time of her Dbut at Messina
Madame Albani. A Portrait taken at Florence
Mr. Frederick Gye
Autograph of Madame Pauline Lucca
Facsimile Letter from Queen Victoria to Madame Albani
Gounod
Handel Festival Orchestra
Rubinstein
Madame Albani's Decorations
Liszt
Sir Wilfrid Laurier
Brahms
Madame Albani.

I wish to acknowledge with sincere thanks the valuable assistance I have
received from Mr. Harold Simpson in completing this book.--E. Albani
Gye.




FORTY YEARS OF SONG




CHAPTER I

A MUSICAL CHILDHOOD


I was born at Chambly, near Montreal in Canada, on November 1, 1852, in
the midst of ice and snow, and on the borders of Lake Champlain, into
which numerous rivers empty themselves, within sound of the roaring
rapids of the River Richelieu, and in sight of the old historical Fort,
and the beautiful scenery of the shores which extend for many miles.

I was the eldest daughter of my father, Joseph Lajeunesse, who was a
musician, and a skilled player on the organ, the violin, the harp, and
the piano.

My great-grandfather was a Frenchman of an old Breton family, who came
over and settled in Canada; and my mother, on her mother's side, was of
Scotch descent, Mlle. Melina Mignaud, one of a family of twelve.

She was, although only an amateur, an accomplished musician, and when I
was not more than four years old she began to teach me music, and
continued to do so until I was five, when my father undertook my musical
training--for _training_ it was, even at that age. By the time I was
eight I had made sufficient progress to be able to read at sight almost
all the works of the old masters, as well as those of more modern
composers.

To this early training I attribute the facility I have always possessed
for studying and comprehending the music I have had to sing. I learnt
also the harp and the piano, the latter of which has, of course, been of
the greatest assistance to me and of the utmost value to my work. From
the age of five until I left for Europe, my father was my sole teacher.

The early days of my childhood were so taken up with study that I had
but little time for play, but I can well recall the occasion on which my
childish mind woke up, as it were, to the extreme beauties of nature and
the lovely scenery which surrounds my early home. It was once when I had
been away for some time, and on my return I seemed suddenly to see and
to _feel_ the wonders of Nature, and the marvellous beauty all around
me. It spoke to me for the first time as music was speaking to me, and
in every country where I have travelled since the beauty of Nature
speaks to me still. And the "music" of Nature, be it pastoral or be it
grand, ever appeals to me with both pathos and power.

Even at that age I studied music four hours a day. To illustrate how
little time I had for childish recreation, I may mention that in later
years the editor of one of our magazines which was publishing articles
describing the dolls of celebrated women wrote to ask me to tell them
"about my dolls." I was obliged to reply that "I never had a doll."

My father's maxim, indeed, was that more haste brings less speed, and
morning, noon, and night he would impress on me that I must practise
slowly, always slowly, if I wished to derive true benefit. He never
would allow me, under any circumstances whatever, to strike a note that
I had not first seen clearly in the book, and the fingering, too, he
would insist upon my observing with an exactness that was almost
punctilious. And he was right, though at the time I found such
exactitude not a little irksome to my buoyant temperament. Often, too,
he would insist upon my counting aloud, but without my ever being
allowed either to press the movement or to slow it unduly.

Sometimes his friends would find fault with him for this. "Lajeunesse",
I remember hearing one of my father's greatest friends say to him one
day, "the strain you place upon the child is too great; believe me, she
will be unable to withstand it, and in years to come she will suffer."
But my father only laughed, and since that day I have often laughed too;
for I had greater confidence in my father's method than in his friend's
advice. How distinctly I can remember all that; and yet I was only five
at the time!

[Illustration: MADAME ALBANI, (At the age of five years.)]

My grandfather had a pretty house and garden, and we lived in a small
house close by on his property. It was there that I was born. My
grandfather sang extremely well, and my father was organist at the
church near.

My mother being the eldest of a large family, our younger aunts were of
the same age as my brother, sister, and myself, and one was younger
still, so that as children we all played together and shared in every
amusement.

One of our elder aunts, Rose Delima, had an immense and real talent for
telling stories. She never acted them in any way, but she would collect
any number of children around her, and go on and on, telling them
stories, all invented on the spur of the moment, varying each
character's voice to such a nicety that the whole tale seemed to live as
we children sat gazing at her open-eyed and open-mouthed in
all-absorbing interest.

Baby as I then was, only five or six years old, from this time I date
the origin of whatever histrionic talent I may since have developed, for
it was then that the idea seized me to translate my aunt's stories into
action and to act them. This idea we all carried out; spending as much
of our playtime as we could in turning her imaginative stories into
childish plays, as well as trying to represent the pictures which then
so often in Canada formed the frontispiece of various songs. I was the
moving spirit in this, aided by my brother and sister in the matter of
costumes, and what scenic effects our household furniture would supply,
and we succeeded so well that we used to be invited over to the English
part of Chambly to perform our plays for our friends, and for me to sing
the songs.

Any old tablecloth would often do duty for a dress, and I remember our
doing "Le Dsert" of Felicien David, I sitting on a rock draped in what
was meant to be an Eastern costume and singing the song, people being so
astonished that I could sing at all at that age. "Le petit Plerin" was
another, and many other old French-Canadian ballads, the names of which
escape me now.

Before I was eight I had the misfortune to lose my mother, and soon
afterwards I was sent to school (my sister also) to the Convent of the
Sacred Heart near Montreal, not far from our birthplace. At this convent
my father already taught music, and here I was educated and spent
several happy years in the fostering care of the dear old nuns of whom I
became so fond, and whom I have since visited from time to time with the
greatest pleasure.

After our mother's death our holidays were mostly passed with our
grandfather, and my sister and I looked forward to these even more than
do many children, for all the simple pleasures possible were given to
us, and we thoroughly enjoyed them. Even now, when I think of it, I can
almost taste the delicious maple sugar which was grated and spread on
bread and butter and given us for tea, or during the morning, if we
happened to be hungry. We really enjoyed ourselves to our heart's
content, not even incurring an accident from our boating adventures. As
I look back now I cannot think how it was we were permitted to go in
boats quite alone on the Chambly Bassin. We were allowed to do so,
however, young as we were, and Providence always brought us safely to
land.

[Illustration: CHAMBLY]

But I am speaking more of the others than myself, for in my case my
"play" was more generally used to fill up the time necessary for fresh
air and exercise, all the rest of the day being devoted to study, and
principally to music, either playing or singing. My own favourite
outdoor amusement was snow-shoeing, in which rather difficult recreation
I believe I was supposed to excel, though that may be accounted for by
the nuns very often giving me an extra hour so that I might remain out
of doors and benefit by the exercise and invigorating air.

When we first arrived at the convent the nuns were surprised that so
young a child could read and play such music as had by then become quite
familiar to me. As I? could not help winning the prizes given at the end
of each term, I was, after the age of nine, placed _hors de
concours_--that is, not any longer allowed to compete.

Periodically we were examined in religion by a priest, Father Sache,
well known in all the district round, who lived near and attended at the
convent. He used to lecture to us on sacred subjects; we had to listen
attentively and write essays on what he had said during the term.

On the "Jour des Prix" (breaking-up day) the girl whose essay was the
best had to read it aloud before the whole seventy pupils, the nuns and
priests, and others who were present. Some were brave and did not mind,
but I was always very timid on such occasions, and when once my essay
was chosen I felt as if I could never face the ordeal. I asked to be
told exactly what to do and how to walk up, and I read it over and over
again to the nuns, until they, and even I myself, thought it was quite
safe.

The moment came, and I reached the platform and was going to begin to
read, when no sound would come. My voice had fled, and I was literally
too frightened to speak. Father Sache looked at me and said kindly, "Sit
down, my child; you cannot recite, but I know if you had to sing it we
should all hear it."

A part of the breaking-up ceremonies was also the "tableaux,"
represented by the pupils from sacred pictures in the convent, the
preparations for which often lasted for some months before. The
prettiest girls were usually selected, and those with long hair were apt
to look most beautiful as angels; but I had never been chosen until one
day I was suddenly struck by a picture of St. Anthony, and said to one
of the nuns, "Why don't you do that picture?" She and I continued to
look at it and consider: the saint was represented in strenuous prayer,
clearly trying hard to win away his thoughts from the Puck-like little
devil who was mischievously looking close over his shoulder, and
tempting him with all his small might and main.

"I am sure I could do that little Devil," I said at last; and the nun
agreed. I began my rehearsals, and when the great day came I was "made
up" (and what a figure I must have been!) with a blackened face, black
clothes, a cap and horns, and _carte blanche_ to do any mischievous
thing I liked--and I did. I tickled his ears, I pulled his hair, I
screamed in his face, and became such a complete little imp of devilry
that the whole assemblage shook with laughter and applauded
enthusiastically. The more they applauded the more excited and
mischievous I became, until every scrap of nervousness with which I
began was merged in such an intense excitement that I was eventually
carried off crying hysterically, and was put to bed and kept quiet until
my nerves had calmed down. This was my first dramatic effort, and one I
have never forgotten.

I was supposed at this time to have a decided vocation for convent life,
and had not the Mother Superior been as liberal-minded, good, and
"superior" a woman in her nature as she was in her conventual title, I
might have been in that convent still. Her name was Madame Trincano, she
was an Italian, and to the fact of her nationality and love of music I
probably owe the warmth of her appreciation of my voice and, even then,
of my singing, for I have seen her kneeling in the chapel, her head
bowed down, and the tears coursing down her dear kind face, as she
listened to my voice in some fine music of the Mass. Nothing could
exceed the care which she took of me. I was not allowed to sing in the
choir, except on high festival days--at Christmas, Easter, and on some
few other occasions.

But my voice had already attracted attention, and when I asked her
advice as to my future, the Mother Superior said, "God has given you
your beautiful voice, and I think it is clearly your duty to use it. Go
out into the world for two years, see what you can do, and if at the end
of that time you feel the need of convent life, come back to me, my
child, and I will thankfully take you in."

My first appearances in public were when I was eight and twelve years
old, and took place in Montreal, and a few smaller towns not very far
away, including one at Chambly, my birthplace. I think these
performances only amounted in all to about eight or ten in number, and
were organised more on friendly and semi-amateur lines than on a wholly
public and professional basis. A number of free invitations were given,
but those who wished to pay for their seats were gladly allowed to do
so. I not only sang, but played the harp and piano, and improvised on
both instruments--in fact, I was desired to show all my friends
everything I could do at that time.

The way in which I came to make my first public appearance is somewhat
romantic, and is, perhaps, worth recording here. I was practising the
piano one day in Mr. Siebold's store in Montreal, when a Scotch
balladist named Crawford, who had quite a reputation in the province of
Quebec, happened to hear me as he passed by. Turning into the store, he
bluntly inquired the name of the player. My father was standing in the
store as he entered, and replied, "The player is my daughter," adding as
an after-thought, "She can sing a little, too." Crawford appeared
interested, and said he would so much like to hear the child's voice, if
her father would let her sing to him. After some demur my father sent
for me, and asked me to sing to the stranger. I sang, not once, but
three or four times, and the stranger expressed his approval. He then
stated that he was organising a series of concerts in Montreal, and
would very much like me to appear. Again my father demurred, but
Crawford persuaded him at last, and it was in this way that I made my
first appearance in public, singing, I remember, on that occasion,
"Robert, Robert, toi que j'aime."

When I was about fourteen my family moved to Albany, in the state of New
York, and I there succeeded in obtaining the appointment of first
soprano at the Roman Catholic Church of St. Joseph, where I, later on,
in consequence of the organist's sudden resignation, had to play the
organ and teach the choir as well.

During the years that I sang as first soprano at the church I had learnt
all Mozart's and Cherubini's Masses, and also Beethoven's great Mass in
D, and I am quite sure that to the singing and study of sacred music in
those early days I am greatly indebted for whatever success I may since
have achieved in oratorio. Often, I know, it is said that the mere act
of singing such music when one is very young ought, according to
Nature's laws, to injure the voice considerably. But I can state most
emphatically that it does nothing of the sort, and this is not only my
own opinion, but that of many great singers. On the contrary, if the
voice is exercised in the right way it will not be spoiled. It is the
_abuse_ and not the _use_ of the voice in early years, or for that
matter at any period, that causes the deplorable injury which so
frequently proves irreparable.

My voice and singing in church eventually attracted so much attention
that soon people came from long distances to hear me sing, and I gained
many friends, one of the best of them being Bishop Conroy, whom I
remember with much affection. He, amongst others, strongly advised me to
go to Europe to study, and in order that I should have the best
instruction possible, two concerts were organised so that sufficient
funds might be raised to enable me to do so.

The Bishop himself left no stone unturned to make the concerts a
success, which they undoubtedly were; and at the conclusion of the
second one I can well remember my father coming forward on to the
platform and announcing to the audience that "after hoping against hope
for over six years, his daughter at last found herself in a pecuniary
position that would enable her to go to Europe at once, and there
complete her musical education under the best professors obtainable"--an
announcement that was received with great applause.

A purse was given to me at the church where I had played and sung,
besides various presents from friends, and even from some who had been
up to then only acquaintances, as I had thought, but who proved
themselves the truest friends. I can never be sufficiently grateful to
the good people of Albany for all their kindness and help, both in the
way of good advice and in material assistance.

But, with all this, I myself had neither the actual definite idea of,
nor the actual ambition for, "success," as success is ordinarily
understood.

I remember, in conversation about some local success I had had, saying
to a great friend of mine, "I do not know how it is, or what it is, but
I feel as if I had something in me which will be compelled to come out
some day, which I must do--which it will be my duty to do." She looked
at me in surprise--I was only a slight, thin girl in short frocks, and
almost a child in appearance--and said, "Yes, I think so, too."

And so, with the unanimous good wishes of all my friends, I left them
and my relations and started out, a lonely girl, to try what I could do
in the wide world, not even knowing what capacity I had, but full of
hope and determination to attain to the highest standard possible in
whatever branch of the musical art the future might have in store for
me.




CHAPTER II

MY DBUT AT MESSINA


I had been advised to go to Paris and put myself under the famous tenor
Duprez, who was teaching at that time, but shortly after my arrival
there I was stricken down with a severe attack of typhoid fever, to
which I should probably have succumbed had it not been for the devoted
care of my dear old friend Madame la Baronne de Lafitte, and my clever
doctor.

During my stay in Paris I lived entirely with Madame de Lafitte, to whom
I had had a letter of introduction from the nuns of my old convent. She
was a dear old lady who took a great fancy to me, and showed me the
greatest kindness, for which I owe her, and several members of her
family, most sincere gratitude. I am also much indebted to her for the
insight she gave me into what a singer's life should be.

Both she and her brother, M. Pacini, were passionately fond of music,
and were in the habit of inviting to their house all the leading
musicians of the day. Thus I became acquainted in a comparatively short
time with a large circle of musical, literary, and artistic men and
women all well known in their day, and the musical atmosphere thus
created proved indirectly of considerable benefit to me by enabling me
to exchange ideas with many musicians of great ability.

It was here one day that Prince Poniatowski, a pupil of Rossini, came to
call, bringing with him M. Maurice Strakosch, perhaps the best-known
impresario of that period. They came--though I was not aware of it at
the time--for the express purpose of hearing me sing. Had I known in
advance the reason of their visit I should probably have been dreadfully
nervous, and so most likely have failed to do myself justice. As it was,
I believe I sang quite well, and they told me my voice pleased them
greatly, which delighted me so much that I could hardly get any sleep
that night for thinking of it.

Madame de Lafitte had been twice married, her first husband having been
the highly celebrated tenor, Martin--so celebrated, indeed, that in
Paris certain operatic parts were spoken of for years as "roles Martin."
Madame de Lafitte told me of the care he used to take of himself, not
only when he had to sing, but at all times: how he refrained from going
too much into society; how when he was singing at night he never talked
during the day, kept the house well ventilated with fresh air, and dined
early in the afternoon; and she impressed upon me the necessity of
following these rules if I wished to be in good voice when I sang, and
to keep my voice for a long time. M. Martin preserved his voice to an
extraordinary degree until almost the day of his death at the age of
seventy-five.

Through the kindness of Madame de Lafitte and of a near relation of
hers, Madame Carette, who was then about the Empress Eugenie, I was
invited to one of the last Imperial balls ever given at the Tuileries,
and I can vividly recall the splendour of the scene and the extreme
beauty of the Empress. Too late to postpone the ball had come the
intelligence of a Royal death, which placed the Imperial Court in
mourning. The then celebrated Worth had prepared a magnificent dress for
the Empress for this occasion, about which Paris had been talking as a
_chef d'oeuvre_, but as it was in colours she could not, of course, wear
it under the circumstances. I shall never forget the Empress as she came
in dressed in pure white, with pearls and diamonds, and looking the true
Queen of Beauty she actually was at that time.

It was the first occasion on which I had seen her, just before the
Franco-Prussian War, and little did I dream how I should next see her--a
sorrowful, broken-hearted widow and mother, and an exile, but still
displaying that patient dignity which at once recalled the lines
Shakespeare has put into the mouth of another Queen--

       Here I and sorrow sit,
       Let Kings come bow to me.

I remained in Paris for six months studying singing and acting, during
which time M. Duprez took the greatest pains with me, showing me every
kindness and appreciation. He was a master of his art and was especially
great in declamation, as "declamation" was practised at that time. Now
it too often degenerates into a mere forcing of the voice, but with
Duprez every note was sung with the full resonance of its tone, every
syllable of the words was pronounced with the distinct and exact value
of its meaning, and to his first instruction I attribute the facility
given me for singing recitatives.

[Illustration: SIGNOR LAMPERTI.]

He had a small theatre in Paris where, after a few months of teaching,
his pupils used to perform; old pupils, students, professors, and
sometimes critics being present at these trials. My first essay was in
the garden scene of Gounod's "Faust." I was greatly applauded, and
during the applause M. Duprez was overheard to say, in reply to a
question about me, "Oui, elle a une belle voix et le feu sacr, elle est
du bois dont on fait les grandes fltes." On my return to Paris after my
dbut in Italy, M. Duprez came to hear me at the Salle Ventadour (then
the Thtre Italien), and was so pleased with the pupil whose career he
had himself begun that he kindly sent me his photograph signed "Duprez 
Albani"--a great compliment, I thought.

After my first lessons from M. Duprez, I went to Milan, following the
advice of Prince Poniatowski (a great amateur of music whom I had met in
the way already recorded), who strenuously recommended my taking lessons
from the Maestro Lamperti, the then celebrated Italian singing teacher.

Let me say here that Lamperti was, in my opinion, by far the best
singing master in the world at that time, both for voice production and
for the true Italian method--a method which is now unfortunately
becoming extinct. The maestro used to say, "Learn this method
thoroughly, and you will be able to sing every kind of music." I did
learn it thoroughly, and to prove the truth of Lamperti's words, when
the great pianist von Bulow, the friend of Wagner and Liszt, heard me in
"Lohengrin" at Covent Garden, he said, "If Mademoiselle Albani ever goes
to Germany, she will show the Germans that Wagner can be _sung_!"

I am proud to say that Lamperti had a very high opinion of me and of
what I could do, and often said that I was his best pupil. One day
Prince Poniatowski, who was then in Milan, came to the studio and,
amongst others, heard me sing. He said to the maestro, "But her shake is
not correct." "Ah!" replied Lamperti, "that will be all right. She is
like a bottle of soda-water; I have only to draw the cork, and out it
all comes." His kindness and encouragement, and the interest he showed
in me, could not be surpassed; though at the same time, and justly so,
he never relaxed for a moment the strict rule of his teaching, while
showing me also what he thought of me. Lamperti never passed over a
fault--he exacted the most minute study from all his pupils, in
breathing, in producing the voice, in shades of tone, in phrasing, and
in all the minutiae which go to make a great singer. He was a severe
critic and master, and though he thought nothing of taking any amount of
care and trouble with those pupils who studied conscientiously and
thoroughly, he had no patience whatever with those who lazily left half
his instructions unheeded, or with those amateurs who, from time to
time, wished to join his classes, and on the strength of their rank or
wealthy position thought they could play at singing and still succeed.
He would say of such an one, with a shrug of his shoulders, "S, canter
da contessa" ("Yes, she will only sing like a countess").

I remained for several months studying with Lamperti, but then my
slender stock of money became practically exhausted, and it was
necessary for me to obtain an engagement to replenish my purse.

In those days operatic managers came to the studio to hear Lamperti's
pupils with a view to engaging any they might consider good, and I had
had several offers from various theatres. I consulted the maestro as to
which I should accept, and he chose for me Messina, in Sicily, saying
that as the public there was a most difficult one, if I made a success,
it would be a real success. He also made the condition that I should
make my dbut in "La Sonnambula." This was the opera on which I had
principally based my studies. Lamperti used to say, "Once you can sing
the 'Sonnambula' properly, you can sing any other opera."

It is rather a curious coincidence that I should have made my first
dbut in an opera of Bellini's, seeing that his birthday and mine are on
the same day--November 1.

I left Milan for Messina, feeling I had now reached the turning-point of
my career. My great maestro's good opinion and kind encouragement
notwithstanding, I naturally started on my journey with an anxious
heart; but I had constantly before me the high standard of art towards
which I unceasingly strove to rise--an ideal which in the beginning, and
indeed ever since, helped me so greatly to overcome the uncertainties
and anxieties inseparable from an artistic life.

But my doubts and fears were happily soon assuaged, if not set at rest,
for at the orchestral rehearsal, when I had finished my first aria, the
conductor stopped the band and said to me, "My child, your success is
assured, and it will be very great." I am thankful to say his prophecy
proved a true one, for at the performance the public was most
enthusiastic and at the close of the opera called me before the curtain
fifteen times.

The _Gazetta di Messina_ scarcely exaggerated the truth when it said
that the public had been "so surprised and so fascinated that at one
time the theatre seemed converted into a cage of mad people, such were
the cries, the clapping of hands, the recalls with which Mademoiselle
Albani appeared struck dumb; and she burst into tears of an emotion
which must have tried her more than the execution of the whole opera."
The _Aquila Latina_ was also as kind and complimentary to me.

[Illustration: MADAME ALBANI AT THE TIME OF HER DBUT IN MESSINA.]

From my dbut in Messina in 1870 dates the beginning of my public
career, and here I may say a word about my stage name, "Albani." It has
generally been supposed that I adopted the name on account of my
connection with the city of Albany, in America, but this is not so. When
I was about to sign my first engagement, my Italian elocution master,
Signor Delorenzi, said that my real name, "Lajeunesse," was not a good
one for the stage, and that I ought to adopt another. He promised to
find me a good one, and the next day came and suggested "Albani,"
telling me that it was the name of an old Italian family whose members,
with the exception of a very old Cardinal, were all dead. I said, "But
did you know that I have lived in Albany?" "No," he replied, "I never
heard that"; and this is the true origin of the name under which I have
sung ever since.

It was with a glow of heartfelt pleasure that this curious coincidence
of the two names struck me. It made me feel that the kind thoughts and
good wishes of my dear Albany friends must have followed me even here,
and I joyfully chose the name of "Albani," feeling that, to me, it must
be one of good omen.

I sang for the whole season at Messina, the kind and warm appreciation
of my audiences bringing me greater confidence in my own capacity, and
strengthening new hopes for the future, so that I began to realise the
power that one day might come to me.

Amongst one or two incidents which happened during my stay at Messina
one especially impressed itself on my memory. One day a messenger came
to my door and left an enormous parcel, which on examination proved to
contain a large quantity of valuable jewellery--bracelets, brooches,
rings, etc.--besides shawls in black and white, and some priceless lace.
There was a visiting-card inside, the name on which was quite unknown to
me. I made inquiries, and learnt that the sender of these articles was a
gentleman who had been out of his mind, but had since recovered. The
excitement caused by being present at the opera at my performances had
had the unfortunate effect of again upsetting his equilibrium, and he
had taken all his wife's trinkets and many valuables and sent them to me
as an expression of his admiration. Through a banker my companion and I
ascertained his address, and, needless to say, at once returned the
parcel. Afterwards we learnt that the poor gentleman had been sent back
to a nursing home for lunatics.

I recall one other incident which pleased me greatly. One evening an old
gentleman asked to be presented to me on the stage; he was close on
ninety years of age, and quite blind. He had been a prisoner for
political reasons, and had lost his sight from his sufferings during his
imprisonment. He possessed the love and respect of every one in Messina.
In the country he had a property which was celebrated for growing the
finest Mandarin oranges in Sicily. He admired my singing very greatly;
he always came to hear me, and would bring me, tied up in a silk
handkerchief, some of his "Oranci de Paradiso," as he called them. He
told me, in his complimentary way, that he had never heard the
"Sonnambula" sung as I sang it, since hearing Persiani.

One evening at the opera before I left he asked permission, in the
presence of many who were there also, to pass his hands over my face, so
that he could form an idea in his own mind, as he could not see, as to
what I was like. I remember how anxious he was to hear the "Puritani" of
Bellini, an opera I did not know at that time, for I had never studied
it, and little thought then that it would become one of my favourite
operas, and "Qui la voce" one of my favourite songs.

I hope I may be pardoned for adding here some extracts from the
_Sicilian Courier_ written by that brilliant Florentine writer Signor
Bertolami.

"CATANIA, May 15.--Yesterday afternoon I took the railroad to Aci Reale,
to hear again the singing of Emma Albani on the occasion of her benefit.
Who this Albani is, is a question often asked to-day, but one that will
not need to be asked in Italy in future years. She has at a young age
made her dbut in Messina, and has come from Messina to Aci Reale to
open the Bellini Theatre.

"Emma Albani is a privileged creature, in whom both the lady and the
artist stand at the same eminence, in whom are in unison the actress and
the singer; nor can one say whether she is most remarkable in splendour
of genius or power of thought, acuteness of ideas or faithfulness of
execution, fullness of melody or taste in the variations.

"The voice of Albani is not made to satisfy those listeners who, as
Carlo Botta says, 'are all ear,' but to fill all hearts which, in the
sphere of art, know how to find consolation for all earthly miseries....
Albani, in short, is such an artist as inspires respect, mingled with
affection, enthusiasm together with reverence. She converts to the
religion of art, I shall not say, those who pretend to honour and
refinement beyond the mass of mankind, but the veriest sunburnt Cyclops
of the day.

"Fancy the 'Sonnambula,' that super-human and inimitable idyll, with
this young creature in it from beyond the Atlantic, and yet with such a
vast perception of Italian art!...

"The Catanians, charmed with her singing in Aci Reale, have shown such
avidity to have her in the season from October to May, that they offered
to pay the penalty of the violation of the lady's agreement for the
theatre at Malta, besides increasing her emoluments. It seems that the
manager of Malta, on the first news of this, came suddenly to Aci Reale,
and encouraged himself by finding that a high sense of honour had
prevented the lady from accepting this flattering offer."

While in Messina a municipal deputation came and invited me to open the
then new opera house, to be called the Teatro Bellini, at his
birthplace, Aci Reale--a request to which I joyfully acceded.

At that time there were no hotels in the town worthy of the name, and on
my arrival I found that, through the kindness of the inhabitants, an
apartment had been prepared for me and my companion in a fine old
palace, in which the owners had not lived for a long time. Furniture
therefore had been supplied, decorations added, and I had a bedroom with
six windows in it, three looking on Etna, and three over the sea--two of
the most enchanting views imaginable. And comfort reigned inside also,
for my room was large and airy enough for a hospital ward, and
completely furnished, while the principal people of Aci Reale supplied
all my wants. One family sent me wine, another masses of fruit, even
meat and poultry, and then came an enormous tray of cakes and sweets
from one of the convents; in fact, there was enough every morning to
feed a regiment, and a very great deal more than was advisable for a
prima donna to eat.

I sang in the "Sonnambula," and to such crammed houses that I was not
asked to sing any other opera, for the Sicilians' love for Bellini and
his music was deep and true, and they found my interpretation of his
lovely melodies so exactly in accord with their own appreciation, that
their enthusiasm increased night after night.

At my benefit I was literally loaded with flowers, presents, and poetry,
the detached sheets of which were sent fluttering down in every
direction on the heads of the audience; and among the numberless
bouquets of every shape was a basket in which was concealed a live dove.
They had painted it red, and the dear little bird rose and flew all over
the theatre.

My heartfelt pleasure was only equalled by my great surprise, for I had
no agent who acted for me; my companion and myself had simply travelled
there so that I should fulfil my engagement, and, kind as every one had
been to me, I never dreamed of such a spontaneous demonstration taking
place. Not only had the inhabitants of Aci Reale crowded to the opera,
but people had come from Syracuse, Catania, Palermo, and indeed from all
parts of the island.

After all this kindness and enthusiasm on the part of the warm-hearted
Sicilians, I was very sorry to leave Sicily, its people, its beautiful
climate, its wealth of flowers and fruit, and its blue sky and sunshine.

The climate of Sicily and Italy was quite different to anything I had
experienced before, and I found it very delightful. There was something,
however, that I appreciated even more than the climate, and that was the
numberless works of art, in which the latter country especially is very
rich.

In Italy one comes across fine pictures and statuary, old churches and
palaces, to say nothing of the almost unique Greek and Roman remains,
and all kinds of things artistic wherever one goes.

I have always maintained that an artist, whether a singer or a painter,
should seize every opportunity of seeing and studying works of art, and
should, in fact, live in an atmosphere of art. I am certain that it
enlarges the mind and ideas, and that each class of art will help the
others.

I had always loved beautiful and artistic things, though before leaving
America I had had very little chance of seeing any. But when in Milan
and Sicily, and especially in Florence, where I went after leaving
Sicily, I spent a great deal of my spare time in visiting
picture-galleries and museums, which not only delighted me, but which I
was able to turn to good account. I took ideas from one picture, for
instance, for a detail of costume that was puzzling me; and in cases
where the opera was historical, or taken from a well-known poem or
story, I searched for pictures or statues of the character I was
studying, and for books on the subject, so that I might get a hint for
some action or gesture, and a more complete realisation of my part.

There is nothing more suggestive to an actress or a singer than the
reading of other minds on the role which is being thought out at the
moment. When about to sing a new part, and consequently to have new
costumes, I have found great help from pictures in the National Gallery
and engravings at the South Kensington Museum. Thus an artist of two or
three centuries ago is able to help an artiste of to-day.




CHAPTER III

AFTER MY DBUT


From Sicily I returned to Milan to go through some more study with
Lamperti. I had been obliged from force of circumstances to leave him
rather prematurely, so I considered it would be better for me to take
advantage of a little spare time that I had to improve myself by further
lessons, and by learning new parts with him. This I also did upon one or
two subsequent occasions.

My next engagement was at Cento, where I went for a short season. Here I
sang in Verdi's "Rigoletto" for the first time; and on that evening
"Caro nome," the duet, and the quartette were all unanimously encored,
and the scene was, to me, one of undreamed-of enthusiasm.

For my benefit night part of "Rigoletto" was chosen as well as the last
act of "La Sonnambula." This was a somewhat anxious programme for so
young a debutante, but it was made more so by unforeseen circumstances.

Several enthusiastic _abonns_ had sent me that afternoon an enormous
flat circular bouquet which must have measured quite six feet in
diameter and was composed entirely of tuberoses and violets. Its
magnificent appearance was only equalled by the power of its scent, the
result being that I was seized with a violent headache. I went to the
theatre and began my part, but before I reached the end of "Caro nome"
the tears were streaming down my face from sheer agony, and they had to
let the curtain down and take me to my dressing-room. The audience was
told that I hoped to resume later in the evening; and as the performance
was a _spectacle coup_, it was proceeded with by an act of another
opera. They sent for a doctor, who pronounced that I had been poisoned
by the over-powerful scent of the flowers. He gave me a strong dose of
ether, under which I was unconscious for nearly half an hour. When I
came round, the pain was gone, and I managed somehow to finish the
opera.

Ever since that time, however, I have been obliged to be very careful,
and I have never been able to wear strongly scented flowers, or to have
too many at a time in my rooms.

I remember so well the mass of flowers given me on my benefit night at
Cento. The bouquets came mostly from Bologna, not very far off; some
were quite flat, made somewhat in the shape of tables, and were so large
that they were brought to the theatre on the backs of donkeys.

As I have mentioned my "benefit" two or three times, I should explain
that in Italy in those days it was the custom to engage the principal
artistes at a very low salary, and to give them a night at the end of
the season, assuring them a fairly good sum from the receipts.

This occasion was always taken advantage of by the artiste's friends and
admirers (if he or she had any) to bring presents of flowers or
jewellery. I have often laughed at seeing a favourite tenor on his
benefit night come off the stage with two or three enormous evergreen
wreaths hung round his neck.

My salary for my first engagement, that in Messina, was only 500 frs.,
or 20 per month, and upon this my companion and I had to live. It can
be easily understood, therefore, that a benefit, and a good benefit, was
very necessary.

[Illustration: MADAME ALBANI (A portrait taken at Florence.)]

After Cento I was engaged for several representations at Florence, at
the Politeana Theatre. The Maestro Lamperti had written a message to the
Florentines saying that he was "sending them the most accomplished
musician and finished singer in style that had ever left his studio," so
that no wonder my dbut in Florence was made to a crowded audience.

This theatre was very large, and, as regards the auditorium, an open-air
one. The stage was roofed in, but the rest of the building was open to
the starry sky and a good share of the winds of heaven. On one of the
nights that I sang it rained heavily, and all the audience, or at least
those in the stalls and pit, were sitting under umbrellas. Even this did
not seem to check their enthusiasm or damp their ardour. They sat on in
spite of the wet, and I even had to repeat one or two of my pieces. I
got a little of the rain myself, but, owing to the state of excitement I
was in, only found it out when everything was over.

The Sicilians had sympathised so warmly with my interpretation of
"Amina" that they had called me "the daughter of Bellini," but the
Florentines said I was "La Sonnambula" herself!

It was here, during this engagement, that I made the acquaintance of one
of the greatest singers of the last century--I refer to Madame Jenny
Lind. This acquaintance was renewed later on when I was living in
London, and, I am happy to say, continued up to the time of her death.
Madame Lind had retired long before I came upon the scene, and I
therefore never heard her sing, for which I have always felt sincere
regret.

I had several most interesting conversations with her on art generally,
and on the art of singing in particular. Her ideas were so noble and so
elevated, and they appealed to me so warmly, that I can never forget her
words; and it is her own copy of "Der Freischtz" that I always take
with me whenever I sing "Softly sighs." It was given to me by her
husband after she died.

From Florence I went to Malta, where I was engaged for the whole winter
season, which was one of five months' duration. As there were a
considerable number of troops in Malta and ships in the harbour, there
were always very many Army and Navy officers, besides the Maltese, among
my audiences. At that time local amusements were not too plentiful, so
the opera was very popular. I sang a great number of times during the
season, which entailed a considerable amount of hard work, but the
public were so good to me that I felt amply repaid.

The part of Inez in Meyerbeer's "L'Africaine" I studied, learnt, and
sang in only two days, having at a moment's notice to replace another
artiste, at the request of the management, thus proving, as I have said,
the value of being a musician.

I sang in "La Sonnambula," "Lucia di Lammermoor," "Roberto il Diavolo"
(Isabella), and "Il Barbiere di Siviglia." In this last opera I began by
singing, in the music-lesson scene, the "Carnaval de Venise," but my
English soldier and sailor _abonns_ one night clamoured for "Home,
Sweet Home," so I added that. It created such a furore, and these
veritable exiles from home were so touched, that I was obliged to sing
it every night, and often to encore it, sometimes being compelled to add
"The Last Rose of Summer" and "Robin Adair." Perhaps it was fortunate
that "Il Barbiere" is a short opera--for my "music lessons" were apt to
become longer every night!

I made many friends in Malta, amongst them being General Sir Patrick
Grant (then Governor of Malta) and Lady Grant, Sir Cooper Key (the
Admiral commanding on the Mediterranean station) and Lady Key, Colonel
(afterwards General) McCrea--who all remained fast and true friends of
mine to the time of their deaths, and many members of their families are
amongst my dearest friends still.

I made many other friends and acquaintances also, and sometimes even now
it happens that a gentleman will come up to me with the words, "Don't
you remember me in Malta?" Occasionally I feel as if I must have known
in those days half the British Army and nearly all the British Navy!

The end of the season came, and with it my benefit, which realised for
me what was in those days a fairly large sum. I was the grateful
recipient of innumerable gifts of flowers, of poetry, and, last though
not least, of a purse containing a sum of money which enabled me to go
to London, and try my fortune in the most considerable city in the
world.

My friends, especially General McCrea, had constantly urged me to do
this, so much so that at last I yielded; but I am sure now that had I
fully realised the importance of a London opera house, and of the number
of great artistes then singing there, I should have hesitated longer
before consenting.

When I left Malta, a very pretty and flattering compliment was paid to
me, the men-of-war's boats forming a double line down the harbour
through which my steamer had to pass.

Before I sailed, however, I had had a request from the Mayor of Aci
Reale, in Sicily, to return there and sing at a great charity
performance for the benefit of the poor of the town. I consented gladly
to do this on my way to England, and I landed at Syracuse. At Catania I
was received by the Mayor and Corporation and the principal notabilities
of Aci Reale; a large luncheon was given, and speeches made expressing
the sincere gratitude universally felt towards me--a gratitude that was
more than equalled by the happiness this opportunity gave me of
returning in ever so small a degree the kindness and enthusiasm which
had been showered on me during my first visit.

The luncheon over, we all started by special train to Aci Reale, and
found the town was again _en fte_. Immense crowds of people came to the
station, and I was conducted in a long procession, with loud shouts of
"Evviva!" The same suite of rooms which I had occupied before was
allotted me, and my every want had been forestalled. At my first dinner
a dish was served which I was told was "Il figlio della colomba rossa"
("The son of the red dove") given me amongst the flowers on my benefit
night during my first visit. It struck me this was more a case of
kindness to me than to the dove!

The rehearsal was fixed for the next day of "Lucia di Lammermoor," for I
was to sing in this opera here for the first time.

The excitement had become so great that the people made every endeavour
to be allowed to hear the rehearsal. This, of course, could not be
permitted; but in the end the direction and the artistes had to submit,
for the crowds outside actually broke down the doors and filled the
theatre from floor to ceiling, the rehearsal being thus converted into
an actual performance.

On the next night not even standing room was left, and a very
considerable sum of money was realised and handed over to the
responsible authorities for the benefit of the poor. The warmth of my
welcome and the applause I received almost overwhelmed me. I left Aci
Reale the following day amidst a scene of amazing enthusiasm. The shops
were shut, the day was made a general holiday, the Mayor and
Corporation, many of the _abonns_ of the opera, and over five thousand
people came to the station, the cheering being tremendous.

Some acquaintances I made some years afterwards in Paris told me they
arrived from Palermo just as I was leaving, and they could not imagine
what extraordinary event was happening. They thought that Royalty, at
least, must be there; but on inquiring they were told "Ma  l'Albani, 
l'Albani" ("It is Albani "), as if that name accounted for everything. I
mention this to show to what lengths an enthusiastic musical audience
will go in Sicily!

I arrived in London in June 1871. Mr. James Mapleson, the manager of the
Italian Opera at Her Majesty's Theatre, had heard of my success in
Sicily and Malta and had been asked to hear me sing. To my keen
disappointment, Mr. Mapleson could not, or would not, do so. Mlle.
Marimon had just before this made a success in Paris, and Mr. Mapleson
had engaged her for his theatre, and did not want, as he said, any more
prime donne. I, in fact, did not even see Mr. Mapleson, and met him for
the first time several years later.

After this repulse I--most fortunately for myself, as it turned out--had
a communication, through General McCrea, from Mr. Frederick Gye, the
impresario of the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden. He received me
most kindly, heard me sing, and gave me an engagement for five summer
seasons.

As this was in June, and there was still over a month of the opera
season to run, I was very anxious to begin my engagement at once; but
Mr. Gye told me that he could not arrange for me to make my dbut until
the next year. He promised, however, to give me the "Sonnambula" at the
beginning of the next season, and with this I had to be content.

[Illustration: MR. FREDERICK GYE.]

I sang under the management of Mr. Frederick Gye from my first year in
London until the time of his death in 1878--seven seasons in all. Mr.
Gye was a thorough business man, very kind and thoughtful, but always
managing his theatre in a splendid fashion, whilst insisting upon
everybody doing their duty. It was a real pleasure to be directed by
him. He used to say that an operatic manager needed to be a greater
diplomatist than the Prime Minister; and I am sure he was right.

He never would let me sing two days in succession, nor rehearse on the
day that I had a performance at night. I have followed this rule ever
since, and have found it very much to my comfort and advantage.

Mr. Gye was the manager of Covent Garden Theatre at the time it was
burnt down in 1856. By great energy and perseverance he got the money
together to rebuild it, and the present theatre was finished and opened
in May 1858.

I remained for a short time in London, where I made some kind friends,
and saw as many of the wonderful collections and "sights" of London as
I could. But above all, I went to the opera, where I had the privilege
of hearing for the first time Madame Adelina Patti, Madame Pauline
Lucca, Madame Miolan Carvallo, M. Faure, and other great artistes of
world-wide reputation, who were then all singing at Covent Garden every
season.

Naturally in Italy, where riches do not abound as in London, I had been
associated with artistes who were either beginners or whose talents or
voices had not enabled them to rise to the first rank; but here I found
opera given with such a combination of the highest artistic talent as
probably had never existed before, and, I fear, may never exist again.
The orchestra was the finest in Europe, and the chorus and "ensemble"
generally far beyond anything I had ever known.

Madame Patti was then at the zenith of her fame. To listen to her lovely
voice, soft as velvet, equal throughout in register, flexible, true, and
seeming to pour from her throat with the ease and facility of the voice
of a bird, was an immense pleasure to me. Her acting, too, was very
fascinating, especially when she played Rosina in Rossini's "Barbiere di
Siviglia." This is, perhaps, one of the purest and most complete comedy
parts ever written, but Madame Patti never seemed to me to act
Rosina--she was the part itself.

[Illustration: AUTOGRAPH OF MADAME PAULINE LUCCA.]

Madame Lucca also interested me greatly. Her "Africaine" was a study in
feeling, in expression, in singing, and especially in acting. She was
_great_ in the "Africaine," and she was great also in the absolute
comedy part of Zerlina in "Fra Diavolo." Her Cherubino, I consider, has
never been approached.

I shall never forget the first time I heard Madame Miolan Carvallo. It
was in Gounod's "Faust," and she had hurriedly replaced Madame Lucca,
who had been taken ill. In the Jewel Song her grace, her phrasing, her
rhythm, the perfection and beauty of her art, touched me so deeply that,
as she finished the last note, I involuntarily burst into tears.

Towards the end of this season I left London for Italy to continue my
studies with the Maestro Lamperti, who was then on Lake Como. It was his
custom to leave Milan during the hot weather and spend the summer and
autumn on one of the Italian lakes. This did not necessarily entail a
cessation of his lessons, as several of the more anxious and industrious
of his pupils always followed him, and the days were most agreeably as
well as profitably spent, half in work and half in relaxation and the
enjoyment of Como's exquisite climate and scenery.

To the many who know it description is superfluous; but to me, who saw
it for the first time, it seemed almost a paradise, at once of grandeur
and of beauty. Its mountains are so magnificent, its waters so blue, its
vegetation and flowers so luxuriant, that the music of our studies was
sung again by Nature to our souls; we felt refreshed both mentally and
physically.

While at Como I studied with Lamperti "Mignon," by Ambroise Thomas, and
the "Comte Ory" of Rossini, as I had just been engaged at the Pergola
Theatre in Florence, where I was to sing in both these operas. "Mignon"
was then a new opera; Lamperti had never seen it on the stage, and
although, of course, he taught it to me perfectly, I was still anxious
to ascertain the ideas and wishes of the composer himself, if possible.
The maestro entirely approved of this, and with his hearty sanction I
wrote to the publisher of "Mignon," M. Heugel, asking him, if I came to
Paris, whether it would be possible for him to arrange an interview for
me with M. Ambroise Thomas. M. Heugel was quite a stranger to me, but he
wrote back most kindly, telling me to come to Paris, and that M. Thomas
would gladly see me and tell me all I wanted to know. M. Ambroise Thomas
was at that time Director of the Conservatoire de Musique in Paris, and
it was arranged by M. Heugel that the _matre de scne_ who had put the
opera on the stage at the Opera Comique should meet me also.

This meeting duly took place, and I learnt from M. Thomas and from the
_matre de scne_ all that they could tell me of the singing and the
action of "Mignon," M. Thomas especially taking the kindest interest and
trouble in the several interviews he granted me. He even went so far as
to sing my part himself, giving me every detail of his own ideas about
the role. It was he who suggested to me the sobbing and laughing in one
of the recitatives.

It is to him also I owe a proper understanding of the great importance
of clear enunciation of the recitatives and of the words generally. Up
to that time my first anxiety had been for my singing, my breathing,
shades of tone, and production of voice; the words hitherto had been a
secondary consideration.

Ever since then I have adopted this plan of going through a new work
with its composer whenever it has been possible, for by so doing an
insight is obtained into more of the capabilities and possibilities of
the music than can be gained in any other way.

When I was about to sing in the "Redemption" and "Mors et Vita," I went
to Paris and studied both works with M. Gounod, the greatest French
composer living at that time. On the beauties of these oratorios I need
not dwell here, as they are so well known; but my rendering of them was
essentially enlarged by having the interpretation of his music explained
to me by M. Gounod and by the extreme charm with which he played it. I
felt deeply indebted to him for his kindness and instruction--an
indebtedness often renewed in later years--as well as for the true
friendship he then showed me, and which lasted until his death.

When I was learning Wagner's "Lohengrin" and "Tannhauser," I went to
Dresden and Munich, and studied them with Herr Wlner, the celebrated
_chef d'orchestre_ and friend of Wagner, who had all the traditions of
the music from Wagner himself. I also went to hear the operas given by
the Germans in Germany, so as to acquire a knowledge of all the best
methods and traditions known and practised in Wagner's own country.
There is nothing which enables an artiste to feel and to understand the
actual reality of a role so well, both in the music and the acting, as
living so far as possible in its artistic atmosphere while studying it.

After two weeks of real study of "Mignon" with M. Ambroise Thomas in
Paris I went to Florence and made my dbut in the "Sonnambula," singing
also in "Lucia" and the "Conte Ory." The costume I wore in the
last-named opera was designed by the famous French painter M. Cabanel,
whose acquaintance I made here. He had come to Florence on the outbreak
of the Franco-Prussian War, and he remained there during that winter.

At last, towards the end of the season--and, for me, dangerously close
to the time when I must depart and fulfil my engagement at Covent
Garden--"Mignon" was ready to be produced.

It had been rather a failure in another town in Italy, but at the
Pergola it created such a furore that four or five pieces were encored
at each performance. I had even to repeat recitatives, of which there
were several, and the house was crammed every night. It was on this
occasion that I came fully to realise that an opera could be acted as
thoroughly as it could be sung. Mignon, with all her simplicity, is a
great acting part, and the teaching and advice of the composer and of
the _matre de scne_ in Paris stood me in good stead.

So great was the success of "Mignon" that the manager telegraphed to Mr.
Gye in London begging him to allow me to stay longer, so that more
nights of this opera might be given. This was, however, not possible, as
the London season was just beginning and I was wanted immediately. But I
did all I could for the Direction of the Pergola, and actually sang in
nine performances of "Mignon" in ten days!




CHAPTER IV

MY FIRST APPEARANCE AT COVENT GARDEN


It was with very mingled feelings that I arrived in London. The change
was a great one, both in the matter of climate, which I found so
different to those of Italy and Malta, and the "personnel" of such a
great opera house as Covent Garden then was.

I had hitherto sung only in Italian theatres, where very few of the
artistes or employs were permanently engaged. Here I found myself in a
solidly established opera house, the staff of which (the heads of it
certainly) was a permanent one. The whole was worked with the quiet
discipline of a regiment. The greatest artistes of the day, who were
always engaged, returned year after year, and became established in the
affections of the British public. I use the word "affection" advisedly,
for the English people take those who serve them well to their hearts,
and never forget, even after long years, any who once have won their
admiration and, above all, their esteem.

Small wonder if I felt nervous on my arrival; but I was much encouraged
by Mr. Gye, who, though almost a stranger then, was kindness itself to
me. His faith in my powers encouraged me greatly--a faith that he
expressed in a tangible form when, before my dbut, he offered me an
engagement for the whole year.

I discovered that one important reason Mr. Gye had had for not letting
me sing at the end of the season of 1871, when I first came to London
and was engaged by him, was that he wished to give me every chance of
making a successful dbut, and thought that this could be better done at
the beginning of a new season than at the end of an old one. He was
certainly right, although at the time I was much disappointed at having
to leave London without giving even one representation.

My first appearance at Covent Garden was heralded by no preliminary
puffing or extravagant notices, for Mr. Gye, the first and cleverest of
operatic managers of that day, would never countenance that form of
preliminary advertisement which has since become so much the custom. He
quoted the old proverb, I remember, that "Good wine needs no bush," and
said that to raise the expectations of the public too high must always
be a great mistake. If I made a success, it would then come as a
surprise and be all the greater.

All that appeared beforehand about me was the following simple
announcement: "Mlle. Albani, the remarkable young soprano, will appear
in Italian opera at Covent Garden under the management of Mr. Frederick
Gye."

An officious friend twitted Mr. Gye with not having done more for me in
advance, but he only answered, "They will come, they will listen, and
they will come again."

When in Florence the previous winter my engagement in London was much
discussed, and the Italians said that the English would probably like
me, but that they were not sufficiently musical entirely to appreciate
my singing. I know now how utterly wrong they were. I can truthfully
say, with pride and gratitude, that I have been fortunate and happy
enough to make numberless friends and--may I add?--many most
appreciative admirers. The English public has been, and is, faithful and
true to me ever since. As I have said before, in England you are never
forgotten.

The Italians being wrong and Mr. Gye quite right, I made my dbut in "La
Sonnambula" at Covent Garden on April 2, 1872, with the most gratifying
results--results which surpassed all my fondest hopes, and gave rise to
criticisms so flattering that it would ill become me to repeat them
here.

I may, however, perhaps be allowed to quote a paragraph which appeared
in the _Musical Times_ for May 1872, as being fairly typical of the very
kind reception accorded me by the critics:

"The great event of the month has been the success of Mlle. Albani, who
made her dbut as Amina in 'La Sonnambula.' With a genuine soprano
voice, a facile and unexaggerated execution, 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, and gradually advanced
her position throughout the opera until the final 'Ah non giunge,' her
brilliant rendering of which produced a storm of applause which could
only be appeased by her appearing three times before the curtain. As the
heroine in 'Lucia di Lammermoor', Mlle. Albani again asserted her right
to the highest place as a lyric artist; and there can be no doubt that
future performances will fully justify the verdict so unanimously and
unmistakably pronounced upon her first appearance."

But some of the critics were a little more cautious. One London
newspaper of repute said:

"The position of the Canadian Songstress has yet to be determined; her
most ardent admirers rely on her future. _Qui vivra, verra_."

The tenor who sang with me at my dbut was Signor Nicolini. How well I
remember him! He had a fine, powerful voice, which he used with much
skill, and he possessed great dramatic ability. In later years I sang
with him "Lohengrin," "Les Huguenots," and other operas.

During this season I sang in "Lucia di Lammermoor," as Lady Enrichetta
in Flotow's "Marta," and in "Linda di Chamounix," but with so many other
prime donne in the theatre it was, of course, difficult to find at once
fresh roles for a young debutante.

I sang also at some private concerts, amongst others at the house of the
late Lord Dudley.

Lord Dudley was a great lover of music and patron of art, and a constant
visitor to the opera. He was good enough to admire my voice and singing,
and to feel interested in my youthful career; and he continued his
kindness to me during the rest of his life.

At his house I met the late Queen of Holland. I remember her as a very
amiable and kind-hearted old lady; she complimented me and was most kind
in expressing the pleasure my singing gave her. I remember also being
much struck by her wonderful "coiffure," which consisted of a mass of
grey curls, arranged quite unlike the fashion of that day.

I was presented to many celebrated persons, both in society and in the
musical and artistic world, during that season. Many of their names,
however, I regret to say I cannot remember at this distance of time, but
it was then I first met Sir Julius Benedict, who arranged for, and
accompanied me at, most of my private concerts. He gave me much good
advice on the subject of music generally, and was the first to enlighten
me on the traditions of oratorio music, which is understood nowhere else
as it is in England.

From an English accompanist, Mr. Josiah Pitman, the organist at Covent
Garden, I learnt also nearly all the traditions of oratorio. He had
known for years past (and accompanied them) all the great oratorio
singers, and could tell me how they sang each phrase. Through him I am
indebted to the celebrated Madame Clara Novello, though I never heard
myself, for some most valuable instruction, her especially on the
necessity of the clearest enunciation and correct weight and meaning
being given to every word, as well as to every phrase, in oratorio
singing.

Whilst singing oratorio, I have often been told that I recalled Clara
Novello, and I should like to quote here an account of her singing which
I happened to come across lately, and which, to my mind, describes
exactly what an oratorio singer should strive to be.

"Clara Novello was a great oratorio singer, and a great favourite with
the English public. The singing of oratorio is the highest perfection of
all, and few are granted the specialised gifts needed to exercise it in
perfection. For one really great woman oratorio singer we generally
count two or three eminent operatic prima donnas. Oratorio supplies no
fictitious aids of scenery, impersonation, or story to bring the
audience into sympathy with the singer. It is just music in its purest,
boldest form, and the artiste who can stand up with 500 stringed
instruments behind her and thousands of calm critical listeners before,
and sing 'Lift thine eyes' or 'O, rest in the Lord' so as to lift every
soul there into the Courts of Heaven, must have, as one would think,
learnt her art among the angels before bringing it down to earth. A
voice such as is heard perhaps once or twice in a century, temperament
balanced to equal riches and simplicity, these are the conditions
necessary for the greatest singers, and for the oratorio singer one more
grace is needed--a living faith in the immortal messages to which her
voice must lend its wings."

I might mention incidentally, while on the subject of oratorio, that
Dvork's "Stabat Mater" was composed for me, and I sang it at Cambridge
when the degree of Mus. Bac. was conferred on Dvork. He told me that
whilst writing "Stabat Mater" he could hear my voice when walking in the
woods about his native village in Hungary.

As a result of my first season in London I was engaged as one of the
leading soprani at the Norwich Musical Festival in the following
October, and this was the beginning of my connection with the great
English festivals--a connection which has lasted, I may say, almost
without intermission up to the present time.

These festivals in England are a great institution, and go far, in my
opinion, to contradict the assertion that the English, as a nation, are
unmusical. The festivals are all triennial. The choruses are composed
mostly of amateurs, and part of the orchestra is composed of amateurs
also. The rehearsals last sometimes for a whole year beforehand,
ensuring effective knowledge of the music and unanimity in its
execution. These rehearsals are pursued with the greatest industry and
enthusiasm by each and every local amateur society that is to take part
in the festival. My early training in sacred music in the church at
Albany stood me in good stead, and I soon gained a reputation for my
interpretation of sacred music.

When I first came to England, poor Madame Titiens was the principal
soprano at most of the festivals, and I sang at two or three with her,
only taking a less important part. Since her death I have sung the
principal soprano parts in all the oratorios.

At this first festival one of the principal artistes fell ill and could
not sing. The committee asked me if I could help them in their sudden
difficulty, and kindly reassured me by saying that if I would sing
"Angels, ever bright and fair" it would be amply sufficient. I promised
to do my best, and was rewarded by the warm appreciation of the public.
I remember seeing, and cannot help smiling as I think of it, the walls
of Norwich placarded with the simple announcement that Mlle. Albani
would sing "Angels, ever bright and fair."

Among the artistes who took part in the festivals, and with all of whom
I have sung more than once, were, besides Madame Titiens, Madame Lemmens
Sherrington, Madame Patey, Madame Trebelli, Mr. (now Sir Charles)
Santley, Mr. Edward Lloyd, Mr. Maas, and Signor Foli. Some of these have
unhappily gone from amongst us, but I can call to mind many splendid
performances with which they were associated, and I recollect vividly
the splendid tones of Madame Titiens's voice, so finely trained and so
eminently suited to the music of oratorio. Madame Trebelli also,
although her method was purely Italian, was extraordinarily successful
in oratorio, and most clever in every variety of music. It was a true
pleasure to me, for example, to sing with her the "Quis est homo" from
the "Stabat Mater" of Rossini. Madame Patey will be remembered in
England as long as oratorio lasts for many of the solos she sang, but
probably above all for "O, rest in the Lord," from "Elijah," in the
rendering of which she has rarely, if ever, been equalled, and assuredly
never been surpassed.

An amusing, though at the time somewhat painful, incident that happened
on my benefit night at Covent Garden is perhaps worth recording here.
When at the end of the opera I was recalled before the curtain, a
gentleman sitting in one of the front rows of the stalls threw me a
bouquet and a jewel case. Unfortunately for his good intentions, the
case struck me in the middle of the forehead with considerable violence.
The gentleman could be seen making frantic gestures of despair as, with
my hands pressed to my forehead, I rushed off the stage to my
dressing-room. The application of a few simple remedies soon made me
feel all right, and possibly my recovery may have been hastened by the
fact that, on opening the case, I discovered that it contained a
beautiful diadem set with brilliants.

For the winter season of 1872-3 I was engaged at the Italian Opera in
Paris. This was then held at the Salle Ventadour, a not very large, but
very commodious, theatre, the acoustic properties of which were very
good.

Here I had to await the suffrages of a distinctly different public to
that of either Italy or England. I sang in the "Sonnambula," "Lucia,"
and "Rigoletto," and my fears were soon laid to rest by the warmth of
applause showered on me by one of the most discriminating and, as it can
be, difficult publics in the world.

It seemed to have become my destiny always to make my dbut in "La
Sonnambula," and Paris was no exception to this rule. I sang it for my
first appearance, my _partenaire_ being M. Capoul as Elvino, who sang
the music with the greatest charm. It seemed, to my delight, that my old
Maestro Lamperti's choice of my opera had again brought me luck, for the
Paris critics were enthusiastic in their appreciation, and wrote of "the
new star that had appeared on the operatic horizon."

My time during the winter was almost entirely taken up with my work, but
all the leisure I could spare I devoted to visiting the
picture-galleries, old buildings, and the many historical interests in
which Paris abounds.

Here, as elsewhere, since I began my career, I met with nothing but help
and sympathy from my brother and sister artistes. I had heard much about
the jealousies and difficulties often only too rife in a theatre, but I
can truly assert that the sympathetic pleasure I always feel myself in
the talent and success of any of my colleagues, was ungrudgingly given
to me by one and all, bringing sunshine into my operatic life, and
lightening its inevitable work and anxieties.

I have been told a story--let us hope it is but a "story"--that a
celebrated singer was once heard to exclaim, "There is one soprano in
the world I do not hate, and that is Emma Lajeunesse, whom they call
Albani!" During my second season at Covent Garden I sang in "La
Sonnambula," "Lucia," "Linda di Chamounix," "Marta," and, for me, two
new roles, those of Ophelia in the "Hamlet" of Ambroise Thomas, and the
Countess in Mozart's "Nozze di Figaro." One of the first London critics
wrote in the highest appreciation of these performances, and other
papers were equally indulgent.

"Mlle. Albani's _rentre_" wrote one critic, "was attended with a result
which, though anticipated, was none the less striking. Such
demonstrations in favour of so young an artiste as were evoked last
evening are exceptional in any country, and in London the only previous
examples are those evoked on the occasion of the dbut of Madame Adelina
Patti, with whose talent as well as success Mlle. Albani seems destined
to enter into rivalry."

In "Hamlet" I had the great advantage and pleasure of singing with M.
Faure, and in "Le Nozze di Figaro" with M. Faure and M. Maurel. Both
these fine artistes had made great reputations before coming to London,
which they have ever since brilliantly maintained.

Whenever possible I went to the opera, listening with delight to the
great singers who then were the favourites of all London, witnessing an
ensemble in almost every opera which can never be surpassed.

I may here repeat a little story, the keen edge of which, however, I am
glad to say, is taken off by the fact that it was Madame Patti herself
who told it to me. One morning, she said, she was walking with her
husband in Regent Street, and as she stopped at a shop window to look at
a number of photographs, a gentleman who had come up behind her (and of
course not seeing who she was), said to his friend, "There's the
portrait of Albani: they say she'll cut Patti out"--upon which Madame
Patti turned round and exclaimed, "_Thank you_, sir!" and walked away.

During the August of this year I was engaged for the Birmingham Festival
to sing scenas from the operas at the three miscellaneous concerts only,
as Madame Titiens and Madame Lemmens Sherrington were singing the
soprano parts in the oratorios. I am proud to say I have been engaged
for this important festival ever since.




CHAPTER V

SINGING BEFORE ROYALTY


Later in the autumn I was engaged in Russia, and sang at Moscow and St.
Petersburg during the winter of 1873-4.

In those days the Italian opera took place at the Imperial theatres, and
was conducted somewhat on the following principle.

A manager was chosen from amongst the operatic impresarii of Europe by
the Minister who had the control of the Royal theatres. He was given the
theatre and was allowed to conduct his season, being subject only to
certain restrictions and regulations imposed by the Minister.

If the manager made a profit on the season, he put it into his pocket;
but if there was a deficit, it was paid by the Emperor, as the whole
personnel of the theatre, including the performers, was looked upon as
part of the Royal Household. There was never much danger of the latter
eventuality occurring, as the Russians are very fond of the opera, and
there was very little other music in Russia. For several years now no
Italian opera has existed in Russia, as the theatres have been given up
to national opera, and Royal patronage given to everything Russian.
True, there has been from time to time some Italian opera, but it has
been done by private enterprise, and has had to be given in an inferior
theatre.

I sang at nine performances in Moscow, beginning in November and ending
before Christmas, when the season finished there. I had succeeded in
pleasing the Russian people, who, in contradiction to their cold
climate, are warm-hearted and responsive. A correspondent wrote to the
_Times_ as follows:

"Mlle. Albani has quite _entrain_ the subscribers to the opera at
Moscow. She has appeared on nine occasions, each succeeding night being
a greater success than the preceding one."

I sang in Moscow in "La Sonnambula," "Hamlet," "Lucia," and, for my last
and benefit night, in "Rigoletto." On this last evening the Governor,
Prince Dolgourouky, who had been a constant attendant at the opera, was
present in his box, and sent me a magnificent bouquet of camellias and
roses. At the end of the opera the subscribers gave me a splendid basket
of flowers, to which was attached a jewel-case containing a very large
butterfly composed of brilliants and rubies, with an enormous emerald
forming the body. More and more flowers descended upon the stage from
all parts of the house, until it was nearly covered.

The Russian public is the most enthusiastic one I have ever known. When
they like a singer, there is no limit to their expressions of approval,
and I have sometimes been obliged to appear before the curtain twenty
and twenty-five times and more in one evening. I have never ceased to
feel grateful for the warm welcome with which, as a young singer, I was
received by my kind Russian audiences.

From Moscow the whole Italian Opera Company, and I naturally with them,
moved to St. Petersburg for the season there, which commenced as soon as
all the Christmas festivities were over. I sang in the same operas as I
had sung in Moscow, and it was during this season that I was presented
and spoke to the first reigning monarch I had ever had the honour to
approach.

[Illustration: A PAGE FROM MADAME ALBANI'S AUTOGRAPH BOOK]

The Czar Alexander II. was often present at the opera, and I remember on
one of my first nights his coming on to the stage, speaking to me, and
very kindly complimenting me on my voice and singing. I was very
frightened, but very pleased. He subsequently sent me a lovely and very
valuable diamond ornament in recognition of my singing at a State
concert.

As all the troupe of the opera belonged to the "maison de l'Empereur,"
the Czar commanded the singers when he pleased, and instead of any sum
of money, made them a present varying in value according to their status
in the theatre. I have been told that it was the custom for some of the
artistes to take their brooches or bracelets back to the jeweller from
whom they were bought and receive money for them, so that in this way a
particular piece of jewellery might be presented several times over.

I need not say that I treasure all my Russian presents, and especially
the diamond cross, in remembrance of Alexander II, who met with so
cruel and undeserved a fate. His Imperial Majesty's was a personality
that struck me both forcibly and sympathetically, even at first sight.
His kindness and courtesy were remarkable; his innate dignity as simple
as it was royal: and his face such a good face--to use a homely
expression--that one felt assured it must belong to him who did good
deeds, and loved to do them; and it was he, it will be remembered, who
carried out, in the teeth of the most strenuous opposition, the
liberation of the Serfs. That he was mistaken in the period at which he
did it, that he failed to realise how unfit the Serfs really were for
that liberty, which it must take them years of education to know how to
use and enjoy properly, were errors into which his mind fell, but to
which his heart never gave assent. Criticism should shrink back before
so noble an effort, and praise, not blame, be accorded to the murdered
Emperor.

The great event of the winter was the marriage of the Duke of Edinburgh
to the Grand Duchess Maria of Russia, only daughter of the Czar. As a
part of the Emperor's Household, the principal artistes of the Italian
opera were commanded to sing during the Imperial banquet, which took
place after the marriage ceremony.

We were placed in a gallery facing the Imperial table in the great White
Hall of the palace, and we looked down on a scene the magnificence of
which I can never forget, combining as it did the modern perfection of
Western civilisation with the remains of the barbarous splendour of
Oriental life.

Very disturbing incidents with regard to the music took place during the
banquet. Several "toasts" were proposed, and before each a great
flourish of trumpets was sounded. This was done without any regard to
what was going on in the gallery, or who was singing. Luckily I escaped
this during my song, but one or two of the solos were sadly marred by
the trumpeters. The clatter of plates and of knives and forks also did
not help the harmony of our efforts.

In Russia, at all Court functions, the Russian ladies are obliged to
wear the old national Court costume, which consists of flowing and
richly embroidered robes, and a sort of high diadem head-dress, which is
literally covered with jewels, the jewels owned by the Royal and most of
the noble families in Russia being amongst the rarest and finest in the
world. On this occasion the Imperial table alone was a most marvellous
sight. The row of glittering and varied uniforms, alternating with the
diamond tiaras, necklaces, and splendid jewels of all descriptions, and
the rich embroideries of the ladies' dresses, their costumes being
mostly of velvet of every shade and colour, trimmed with precious stones
and priceless furs, formed a _coup d'oeil_, the beauty of which is as
difficult to imagine as it is adequately to describe. Perhaps I cannot
do better than quote the account given by Signor Arditi, who conducted
his own cantata which was performed at the wedding ceremony.

[Illustration: THE FIRST PAGE OF MADAME ALBANI'S AUTOGRAPH BOOK.]

"The reception-rooms of the Winter Palace," he says, "which are of
stupendous proportions, were illuminated by hundreds of thousands of wax
candles, which heightened the brilliant and dazzling effect of the
magnificent jewellery worn by the illustrious guests. St. Petersburg has
long been renowned for its lavish display of precious stones at Royal
and other distinguished functions, and is considered to be the city par
excellence for general gorgeousness of array. The ladies were clad in
rich robes of cloth-of-silver or cloth-of-gold, the bodices of which
were shrouded in priceless Valenciennes or Brussels lace, while
diaphanous veils floated from their jewelled Russian caps on to the
costly trains beneath. The British Duke's distinguished air and pleasant
manner entirely won the hearts of those who were present to wish him
God-speed, and the illustrious hero of the evening, together with his
lovely bride, were very greatly admired. I shall never forget," Signor
Arditi continues, "the extraordinary effect produced by the huge,
roaring furnaces which had been built outside in the courtyards of the
palace for the benefit and comfort of the coachmen, who cowered round
them, endeavouring to keep warm, while they awaited their Royal masters.
Without these furnaces they must, one and all, inevitably have been
frozen to death, since the cold that year was more horribly intense than
I ever remember it to have been on any of my previous visits to the
Russian capital."

From Russia I returned to London for the opera season of 1874, singing
in my previous operas, the "Sonnambula," "Lucia," "Linda di Chamounix,"
"Marta," etc., etc., and also singing in many concerts both public and
private.

It was during this season that I was honoured with a command to sing at
Windsor, where for the first time I saw Queen Victoria, and here began
that warm appreciation and faithful interest in me on the part of Her
Majesty--I might almost venture to say _friendship_--which ended only
with her life.

I need scarcely say that I deeply felt and as deeply reciprocated Her
Majesty's generous attachment to me, of which I can never be
sufficiently proud or sufficiently happy to have had the privilege of
enjoying.

It was not alone the distinguished honour bestowed by a great and
extraordinarily gifted Queen; it was that even higher moral support and
love for those for whom she cared which seemed to radiate from Queen
Victoria.

[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A LETTER FROM QUEEN VICTORIA TO MADAME
ALBANI.]

On that first occasion I sang, quite privately for Her Majesty, "Caro
nome," "Robin Adair," the "Ave Maria" of Gounod, and "Home, Sweet Home,"
all of which the Queen was pleased to say she had much enjoyed. She
praised my voice and my singing, and with a discrimination that told me
at once how thoroughly she understood music and the art of singing.
Indeed, as I continually noticed in after-years, it was all but
impossible to find any subject on which Her Majesty was not well
informed, and generally far better informed than any one else who might
happen to be present.

[Illustration: Fac-simil of a letter from Queen Victoria to Miss
Albani.]

That she loved music it is scarcely necessary for me to say. Almost
every school of music appeared to appeal to Queen Victoria. Sometimes
she would ask me to sing two or three or more little French songs, one
after another. Then she would suggest something by Brahms, or perhaps
Grieg, or possibly Handel or Mendelssohn; and often I have concluded
with some simple song that I knew she was fond of. Scotch songs, in
particular, appealed to her very strongly. She never grew tired, for
instance, of "The Bluebells of Scotland," which she generally spoke of
as "the Hieland Laddie song." Other Scotch songs of which she was very
fond were "Annie Laurie" and "Within a Mile of Edinboro Town." On
occasions she would ask me to sing for an hour or more nothing but
Mendelssohn. He and Lablache had been her music masters in the early
years of her married life, and Prince Albert had always entertained a
very high opinion of Mendelssohn in particular. I am inclined to think,
though I may of course be mistaken, that my singing of Mendelssohn
sometimes recalled to the Queen's memory pleasant recollections of the
years that had fled. Number after number of Mendelssohn's oratorios she
would listen to with rapt attention, and often when I stopped singing
she would remain for some moments in a sort of reverie. Sometimes she
failed to remember the words of some song she particularly wished me to
sing. On those occasions--rather rare occasions, I am bound to
admit--she would herself hum over the air in order to recall the piece
to my memory. Another of Queen Victoria's favourite composers was
Gounod. His opera "Faust" was composed only just before the death of
Prince Albert, and as, after the Prince Consort's death, she made up her
mind never to attend another public performance either at the opera or
at a theatre, she did not see it produced. Yet she never wearied of
hearing me sing bits out of the opera. Then, when Sir Arthur Sullivan
wrote for me his glorious "Golden Legend," I induced the Queen to listen
to certain portions of it that I thought would prove irresistible. In
the end she became intensely eager to attend a performance of Sir Arthur
Sullivan's masterpiece, and though I did not venture actually to suggest
it, I did endeavour indirectly to foster her desire to be present at one
performance. Finally the "Golden Legend" was produced at Leeds. For some
months after that the Queen did not again broach the subject of
attending a public performance. Then one morning, to my surprise and
great delight, she sent word to me to say that she had definitely
decided to witness the performance of the "Golden Legend" just
advertised to take place at the Albert Hall. The day arrived, and when I
came forward to sing my first solo and saw the Queen occupying the Royal
box, attended by several members of the Royal Family, I think I felt
more delighted than I have ever felt in my life before.

One of her ladies-in-waiting was the Dowager Lady Erroll, whose sister
Mrs. Rich was an intimate friend of mine in Malta. These sisters were
the nieces of the Duchess of Inverness, to whom this title had been
given after the death of her husband the Duke of Sussex, and the Queen,
on being told of our intimate acquaintance, had invited Mrs. Rich to be
present. Her Majesty had also heard from Mrs. Rich that I was a Roman
Catholic, and with that tact and thoughtfulness which, as I very soon
came to discover, was, in the Queen, ever present, Her Majesty selected
a most beautiful pearl cross and necklace, which were sent to me the
next day with the following letter from Sir Thomas Biddulph, by the
Queen's command:


"WINDSOR CASTLE,

"_July_ 8, 1874.

"Sir T. M. Biddulph presents his compliments to Madame Albani. He is
desired by the Queen to ask her to accept the accompanying necklace and
cross as a souvenir of her visit to Windsor last week."

This cross I have worn almost without intermission ever since.

Amongst other presents from Queen Victoria were two portraits of
herself; one was the first taken when she came to the throne, the other
taken at the time of her jubilee. She also gave me a small portrait in a
silver and enamel case, saying at the time, "I hear that you always
carry my photograph with you in your travels. This one will be a more
convenient one." I need hardly say that this one has been with me ever
since.




CHAPTER VI

MY FIRST AMERICAN TOUR


In the autumn of this year I was engaged for the opera in the United
States, and before sailing sang at the Liverpool Festival, where Madame
Patti was also singing. The manager of the enterprise in America was Mr.
Max Strakosch. My lady companion went with me, and as I was under an
engagement for all the year round to Mr. Gye, he sent his son Mr. Ernest
Gye to look after his interests in America.

The season opened in New York at the old Academy of Music, a large
theatre, but one which since has been superseded by a finer opera house.
I sang in "La Sonnambula," "Lucia," "Rigoletto," and "Mignon," and in
this last opera was included in the cast a celebrated American
contralto, Miss Cary, who had a beautiful voice, and also Mlle. Heilbron
as Filina. The latter was already well known in London.

I was most kindly received, and sang to audiences whose appreciation did
but increase as the season progressed, the newspapers all warmly
endorsing the verdict of the public.

The _New York Times_ of October 22, 1874, wrote:

"Mr. Strakosch introduced last evening to an American audience Mlle.
Albani, and in so doing, won a great victory.... Mlle. Albani's success,
and as a consequence the success of her impresario, was not marked by
the rendering of a merely favourable verdict, but by a rare
demonstration of enthusiasm. Mlle. Albani's performance was so striking
as to justify the most rapturous applause, and so finished as to disarm
the coldest connoisseur. Her singing is perfect. Mlle. Nilsson's, in
point of purity and elegance of phrasing, unerring accuracy of
intonation and general good taste, was vastly inferior to it. Mlle.
Lucca's rank as an artist is not the result of that lady's mastery of
the vocal art. Mlle. Albani's work was a revelation.

"It was neither the offspring of wholly French schooling nor of the
commonplace teaching of Italian _maestri_, but something comparatively
fresh to the ear, as grateful as the song of the bird, as chaste and
beautiful in tone and form as the delivery of a theme from the classics
by the bow of Joachim or _Vieux-temps_.... As we have implied, Amina is
but a small role, but it was of sufficient length to serve its purpose.
The expressive delivery--calm, thoughtful almost, but of matchless
chastity and rare richness of sound--of 'Come per me sereno' showed at
once how splendid was the method of the debutante, while the succeeding
allegro 'Sovra il seu,' with its ornate repetition of the theme,
asserted her fitness to cope with florid music, not as a time-worn
songstress with large experience and the relics of a voice, but as the
owner of young and exquisite tones.... Mlle. Albani stirred her audience
to an unprecedented pitch of excitement in the rondo preceding the fall
of the curtain. Never in the memory of the present generation has 'Ah!
non giunge' been given with the same wealth of tone, brilliancy, and
surety. The sweet andante prefacing it, commencing 'Ah! non credea,' was
a fine specimen of eloquence in song, but the broidery of the rondo
carried the assemblage beyond the limits of ordinary admiration, and the
air was broken in upon again and again by spontaneous outbursts of
applause."

The _New York Herald_ of October 24, 1874, said of "Lucia di
Lammermoor":

"Rarely has the Academy of Music witnessed a triumph so genuine, so well
founded, and we might say so enduring, as that achieved by Mlle. Albani
last night.... The opening aria 'Regnava nel silenzio,' which is
generally treated with indifference by representatives of the role, was
rendered by Mlle. Albani with as much care, expression, and dramatic
power as even the final scene. She acted the scene with the same effect
as she sang it. The Cabaletta was an idyll of vocal beauty in its
delicacy...."

A rather disturbing incident occurred one night during the performance
of "Lucia." Just as the curtain went up a general alarm of fire was
sounded, but so absorbed were the audience that scarcely a seat was
vacated, and no confusion whatever resulted.

In the beginning of November I paid a flying visit to Albany, where I
sang in a concert to the dear friends to whose goodness I owed all my
musical education abroad, and whose kindness had so genuinely aided me
to return to them in the happy position I had attained.

Their welcome was equalled only by their former kindness, and the Albany
Argus wrote:

"Now she returns, every hand is extended to welcome her back home; from
every lip issues heartfelt compliments--in a word, her triumph is of the
most genuine nature and character."

On the occasion of this visit I was shown a poem which had been written
by a Miss Bulger, who was one of my schoolfellows at the Convent of the
Sacred Heart at Kenwood, and has since become a nun. The poem is as
follows:

       "ALBANI"

       The curtain is up and the lights turned on,
         And an audience listens breathlessly
       As Albani's soul floats into song
         And warbles as if in ecstasy.

       Thousands are sitting spellbound there;
         Some magic influence seems to come
       With the wonderful trill of each opera air
         Or the tender pathos of "Home, Sweet Home."

       Rare flowers at the feet of the songstress fall,
         Her jewels are such as a queen might wear--
       What a brilliant scene is the crowded hall
         With wealth and fashion gathered there!

       But the voice that stirs each listening heart
         And dims each watching eye with tears,
       Has bidden me steal from this scene apart
         And wander back through bygone years.

       How vividly does memory bring
         To me a convent chapel, where
       A girlish voice was wont to sing
         At eventime a soft, sweet air!

       I am not heedless nor am I cold:
         Albani, your voice with a magic spell
       Brings back to me the days of old,
         With those who knew you and loved you well!

       The roses that bloomed in those bygone days
         Have come at your bidding to life again,
       And mingling to-night with the world's great praise
         Are the voices of those who praised you then.

       Some are distant and some are dead,
         And the name of each I am sure you know;
       You were dear to them all in those sweet days fled,
         The girlhood days of long ago.

       How real it seems!--that quiet hour
         That came at the end of those sweet days,
       When we little dreamed of the singer's power
         To make time's after-thought of praise.

       How still it seems!--just as of old
         When shadows had hushed the songbird's trill,
       And silence cast a spell untold
         On rock and river, on wood and hill.

       But stiller than all seems that chapel where
         The altar-lights shine through shadows dim,
       And heads bend reverently in prayer,
         While hearts are touched by the low, sweet hymn.

       But the curtain is up and the lights are on--
         Why do I dream so heedlessly?
       Why should I think of the years long gone
         And lose such exquisite melody?

       To-night while applause rings loud and long,
         And the Present's gifts at your feet are cast,
       The flowers that spring into life at your song
         I bring as a tribute sent by the Past.

       Though the curtain is up and the lights turned on,
         Their magic petals no eye can see,
       And, viewed in the light of those dear days gone,
         Are they not real to you and me?

       Here are reddest of roses, O Queen of Song,
         Royal and rare as your wondrous fame;
       And to you, true woman and wife, belong
         These snowy ones, white as your spotless name.

       Accept them both, the red and the white,
         A prayer and a blessing go with them, I know,
       From those in whose name I give you to-night
         Those grand June roses of long ago.
                                           E. M. V. B.
 _Monday night, January_ 15.

I was also told a little story by a friend. He happened to meet a
veteran sergeant of police who had been to my concert at the Academy of
Music. "I heard Albani," said the sergeant--"she was Miss Lajeunesse
then--sing many years ago. She sang for a party of policemen one New
Year's Day when we were calling upon the people with whom she lived. The
house was on Grand Street, and when we had been there about five minutes
the old gentleman said: 'I'm sorry, boys, that I can't offer you
anything stiff to drink, but you know my wife is opposed to that sort of
thing. Miss Lajeunesse, however, will play for you.' Then one of the
boys said, 'Perhaps Miss Lajeunesse will favour us with a song?' 'Why,
certainly,' said she. And I tell you she did sing! She sang some old
ballads, simple, old-fashioned songs, but there was more than one pair
of eyes that weren't quite dry when she finished, and for a while the
boys didn't have much to say. Then I thanked her in the name of the
boys, and we got out. Now she's famous the world over, but I'll bet she
never sang better than she did in that little room many years ago for us
policemen."

Several of my friends in Albany evidently wished to see me married, as
all kinds of rumours were going round about my engagement and my
approaching marriage. These rumours were contradicted by the _Albany
Morning Express_ in the following characteristic paragraph:

"A correspondent--and, we assume, a lady--writes us to ask if it is
true that Mlle. Albani, with whom in years gone by she was somewhat
intimate, is married or engaged to be married. On behalf of the
correspondent we have taken the pains to ascertain precisely, and now
can assure her and others positively that the lady is not engaged, and
that we were mistaken in so stating some time back. It may be supposed
that the correspondent and ourselves are--well, indiscreet, in touching
upon a matter of so delicate a nature, but we feel that it will be
pleasant for Miss Emma's admirers to know that in her great prosperity
she is as heart and fancy free as the morning when she left her old home
on Arbor Hill six years ago. This much we say at the instance of one who
has the confidence and friendship of our prima donna."

At the Albany concert I sang "Ardon gl' incensi," from "Lucia," "Home,
Sweet Home," a duet, "Brindisi Waltz," with Miss Cary, and the "Last
Rose of Summer," and was completely overwhelmed by the applause and
recalls showered on me. I felt almost as if all Albany were composed of
one enormous family, and I the one long-exiled member of it who had just
come "home."

I returned to New York, singing in "Mignon" again for several nights,
and then in "Marta." The latter opera pleased greatly, but most of all
the "Last Rose of Summer," which Flotow has put into the part of Lady
Enrichetta.

The first time I sang it, the audience burst into a storm of applause
and demanded its repetition. When I repeated it, and sang the original
Irish words of Moore, the whole opera house was roused to a positive
furore of enthusiasm. When I sang in "Marta" after that in America, I
had always to repeat the "Last Rose," and in English.

The great musical event of this season was, for me, the reproduction of
"Lohengrin." The opera had been given the year before, Madame Nilsson
impersonating Elsa. Mr. Strakosch had not intended giving it during this
season, but in accordance with many requests he suddenly decided to do
so, and begged me to sing it. It was getting late, there was but little
time in which to study it, and there never is sufficient leisure during
the constant work of a season to learn new operas thoroughly. Moreover,
I had never even seen the score or heard the opera.

However, I yielded to Mr. Strakosch's earnest request, and,
notwithstanding the importance and the difficulties of such an opera as
"Lohengrin," I set to work, and devoting all the spare time I could find
and all my energies to it, I succeeded in learning and singing
"Lohengrin" in the short space of fifteen days--a _tour de force_ I
should never have attempted had I been given time to think. But here my
early training as a musician helped me so greatly that I was enabled to
accomplish what I otherwise could never have done. I had hitherto sung
very little except pure Italian operas, and this music of Wagner's,
magnificent as it is, was so entirely different, that I could not help
feeling very nervous as to the result. Happily, the "end justified the
means," and the public and the newspapers judged my rendering of the
music and role of Elsa as highly as they had done my Amina, Lucia,
Gilda, Mignon, Marta, and other characters, kindly assuring me that I
could sing the music of Wagner as well as I could that of the Italian
composers.

The _Republic_, New York, of November 26, said:

"Mlle. Albani made her first appearance as Elsa, and her execution of
the music, her magnificent vocalisation, and thorough dramatic
conception of the part were equally gratifying. Evidently imbued with
the sentiment of the character, as well as with the spirit of Wagner's
music, Mlle. Albani was sweet, charming, and satisfying. She has
undoubtedly added to her repertoire a new and vivid illustration of her
genius and musical ability."

And again:

"The worst enemies of Wagner--and he has many obdurate ones--cannot but
admit that there is a peculiar spell of fascination about his melodious
harmonies, and of these Mlle. Albani looks, acts, and sings as the very
priestess of them might."

The principal artistes who sang with me in "Lohengrin" were Miss Cary,
Signor Carpi, and Signor del Puente.

The American public can, I have heard, be rather alarming, but it is a
very good and appreciative one, and I soon felt at home with my
audiences at the Academy of Music. I was even on fairly good terms with
that much-discussed "institution" the American interviewer, though I
confess I might have occasionally improved our relations could I have
given more of the time and of the details so constantly demanded of me,
and have brought myself to stretch the limits I personally think should
determine the boundary as to what the public has a right to know, and
that which every individual person has the exclusive right to retain.
During this winter opera season King Kalakua, King of the Sandwich
Islands, was on a visit to the United States, and while in New York he
came one evening to the opera when I was singing in "Lohengrin." He was
received with much ceremony by the Mayor and Corporation of New York,
and was presented by the Mayor with an immense bouquet. During the
performance he asked to be introduced to me, and after the second act he
came to my dressing-room, congratulated me warmly in excellent English,
and presented me with the bouquet. I, of course, was very gratified by
his kindness. He did not forget me, for later when he was in England he
came to hear me again at Covent Garden, on this occasion decorating me
with his Order of Merit, and giving me an invitation to sing in the
Sandwich Islands. At the close of the New York season our opera company
visited Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, Chicago, and other
big towns, where performances of opera were given and where I sang the
same rpertoire.

On my return from America I was asked to go to Venice to sing at three
representations at the Venice Theatre in honour of the great occasion of
the visit of the Emperor of Austria, who was to enter Lombardy for the
first time after its cession by Austria to Italy. King Victor Emmanuel
met the Emperor at Venice, and both sovereigns, accompanied by Queen
Margherite, came to the gala performance at the opera, where I and the
great tenor Tamagno sang in "Lucia."

I had just sung some bars of my first aria when their Majesties arrived.
The opera was stopped, the Austrian hymn played, the whole house rose,
and there was a storm of enthusiastic greeting such as few but Italian
audiences ever give, and it was some time before the opera could be
resumed, and I had to begin my air all over again.

This was the first time I had met Signor Tamagno. He was one of the
artistes of that winter season in Venice, and had been singing the
"Guarany" of Gomez with tremendous success. He could then hardly have
been more than twenty-three years of age, was very tall, extremely
good-looking, especially on the stage, and possessed a true tenor voice
which was simply phenomenal in force and quality. His natural talent was
stupendous, for he had actually studied but little then, and his success
was so immediate that no time was given him for further study, and he
took engagement after engagement, leaving himself no time to arrive at
that artistic perfection in his art to which his natural gifts would
have enabled him to attain, and to become the finest _tenore di forza_
of his own, and perhaps of any other, time. When the "Otello" of Verdi
was being brought out, Verdi himself took Signor Tamagno in hand, and
taught him the part which was magnificently suited both to his splendid
voice and temperament; and it is certain that no one has ever equalled
him in that role.

I remember being greatly struck on that occasion with the beauty and
gracious manner of Queen Margherita, and also with the nine rows of
immense and lovely pearls which she wore, the rows being at first
tightly wound round her throat, but lengthening gradually until the last
formed a long circle extending some way down the skirt of her dress. I
believe these pearls have become historical in their rarity and beauty.
I received a message of most kind and gracious compliment from all their
Majesties, expressing their delight and appreciation.

I sang also the "Puritani" at the Fenice in the following autumn, when,
after the London season, I fulfilled a short engagement there, meeting
with a great reception. My singing of the "Puritani" pleased the
Venetians so much that on my last night I was almost covered with
flowers on the stage, escorted to my hotel by a procession of gondolas,
and serenaded beneath my balcony. Venice, however, might have proved
fatal to me that night, for in all the excitement I forgot where I was
in leaving the opera house, and stepped into the water instead of into
the gondola. Luckily I was seized and lifted into safety, but only just
in time!

Venice has always had a great charm for me--indeed, hers is a charm
which takes actual and forcible possession of all those to whom she
appeals in any degree at all. Her marvellous beauty, her climate, her
historical associations, are so absolutely unique. The delightful
sensation of rest and charm in being rowed about in a gondola was to me
a source of infinite pleasure. While singing in Venice I always took my
daily "drive" in a gondola, gliding over her waters to the Lido, and
drinking in the refreshing breezes of the sea. Venice has a poetry all
her own, and one which is well nigh indescribable.




CHAPTER VII

WAGNER OPERAS IN LONDON


The Italian opera season of 1875 began in April, and I speedily made my
_rentre_ in "La Sonnambula." My second and third operas were "Lucia"
and "Rigoletto," the part of the Jester in the latter opera being then
sung by Signor Graziani, one of the greatest favourites of the English
public. He possessed a most beautiful, rich, and melodious voice,
exactly suited to the music of the old Italian operas, and it was a real
treat to hear him sing these melodies, and, in duets and concerted
pieces, to sing with him. He was a _bon camarade_, and liked by all his
fellow-artistes, though he could occasionally be a rather trying
_partenaire_, for his sense of fun was a little apt to bubble over.
Often in some most pathetic situation he would say some ludicrous thing,
or make some gesture or other unseen by the audience, which would try
one's gravity to breaking-point, much to his delight.

The principal event of this season was the first performance in England
of "Lohengrin" at Covent Garden. For several years Mr. Gye had been
urged by more than one German musician to give Wagner's operas, but the
prevalent taste for more consecutive melody was so marked at that period
that he feared Wagner's music would be found too heavy to interest any
but the comparatively few really learned musicians among the Italian
opera audiences. He himself appreciated the genius of Wagner and the
magnificence of much of his music; but he made a curious prophecy on
leaving the Vienna Opera House, where he had gone expressly to hear
"Lohengrin" for the first time. As he came away he said, "It is fine;
but if that is to be the music of the future, there will be neither
singers nor composers left." As to how far he was justified, I may later
on have some few words to say.

But none the less Mr. Gye decided to give "Lohengrin," and, to my
delight, I was allotted the role of Elsa, which, through having sung it
in America only the winter before, I knew well. Nevertheless, I wished
to have all the traditions of the opera--a thing which had, of course,
been impossible in America--and so I went to Germany just before the
opera season began, to go through a fortnight's hard study of my part in
Munich with Herr Wlner, one of the conductors of the Munich Opera
House.

"Lohengrin" at Covent Garden was a splendid success. It was received
with great enthusiasm by a record audience, to such an extent that even
the whole of the entrance of Lohengrin, which begins with Elsa's prayer,
was encored! This is saying much, for Wagner's music in those days was
little known, and less appreciated in England. The _habitus_ of Covent
Garden had long been accustomed to great _mise en scne_ in many operas,
but the newspapers remarked on the mounting of "Lohengrin" being quite
exceptional, and one of them said, "If Mr. Gye had departed from his
usual custom and answered to the call for his appearance, he would have
encountered an ovation not easily forgotten."

Signor Nicolini was the Lohengrin of that season, for which the power of
his voice, his talent as an actor, and his fine stage presence eminently
fitted him. Mlle. d'Angeri was an excellent Ortruda, and M. Maurel great
in both his singing and acting of Federigo. I feel that I dare not
repeat a tithe of the kind criticisms and praise which were bestowed on
Elsa, but I continued to sing the part, always a favourite one of mine,
for many seasons at Covent Garden, and during the winter seasons abroad,
both in Italian and German.

During this season of 1875 I also sang Marguerita in Gounod's "Faust"
for the first time, the cast including M. Faure, the finest singer and
actor of his time, and who was a prime favourite with the public of
Covent Garden for many seasons.

One of the debutantes who made a very successful appearance this year
was Mlle. Zare Thalberg, a granddaughter of the celebrated pianist, and
of Madame Angeri, the well-known contralto. She had a beautiful voice,
was very pretty, with much charm in her acting, but she married young
and left the stage after a few seasons.

The name of Madame Angeri brings to mind a little joke which was told
me. Madame Angeri replaced the famous contralto Mlle. Alboni at the
Royal Italian Opera, and it was said that "When Mr. Gye could not get
Alboni he got Angeri (angry)!"

In the autumn of 1875 Sir Julius Benedict organised a tour of Italian
opera in the English provinces and Ireland. Most of the artistes were
chosen from the Covent Garden company, Mlle. Thalberg being among them.
We visited Dublin, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Newcastle, Bradford, Leeds,
Liverpool, and other places, staying a week in most of the towns, but
two weeks in several of the more important places, and giving
performances every night. During the tour I sang in the "Sonnambula,"
"Lucia," "Rigoletto," "Marta," and "Lohengrin."

I remember with some amusement and a good deal of pleasure an incident
that happened at Dublin. After my performance on the last night there a
number of students insisted on dragging my carriage through the streets
from the theatre to my hotel. Afterwards a crowd of, it is said, six
thousand people collected in front of the hotel, and would not disperse
until I had appeared on the balcony and sung a verse of the "Last Rose
of Summer."

In so thoroughly well organised an establishment as Covent Garden was in
those days everything was regulated like clockwork, and everybody knew
his business; but in a country theatre, and especially when any company
is only there for a week, most things are out of order, and have to be
managed in a hand-to-mouth kind of way and in a makeshift style.
Occasionally some very droll incidents occur, and I remember a
conversation which was overheard on the stage of one of these theatres,
which was told me by the manager. "Lohengrin" was being performed, and
when the first act was in progress, one of the carpenters said to the
man who had charge of the swan, "I'm going round to the front to see
this here scene--won't you come?" The other replied, "No; I've got to
work the blessed _duck_."

Another very amusing incident that happened once in a provincial theatre
was told to me. The opera "Don Giovanni" was being performed, and this
requires a man on horseback for the statue scene, the man being a live
one but the horse a "property" one. There was nothing in the theatre but
a very small horse of wood and canvas about the size of a donkey, but as
this was the only thing available, it had to be used. At night the man
was set astride the horse and strictly adjured to remain motionless
except when he had to bow his head at the right moment. The man was very
long in the legs, and his heels rested on the ground when he was on the
horse. This made things so ridiculous that every one was inclined to
laugh; but worse was to come, for in the midst of the scene when he
should have been as still as death, he gave vent to a loud sneeze,
completely upsetting the situation and the gravity of the audience, who
roared with laughter.

The public who are in front enjoying a performance little know what is
going on behind the scenes, or with what difficulty the various things
they see are arranged, and how perilously near to disaster the
performers sometimes are. It is a common saying when the rehearsal is
not going well, "Oh! it will be all right at night." It generally is,
but it has often been a wonder to me how it has come about.

In the early part of 1870 I sang in a few representations of Italian
opera at Nice. I was delighted both with the kind welcome I received and
the beauty of that lovely country, with its blue sky, bright sunny
weather, and profusion of flowers.

One of the principal events of the season of 1876 was the production of
Wagner's "Tannhauser" at Covent Garden, which took place on May 6 with
immense success. I had studied the part of Elisabeth as well as that of
Elsa, in Germany, with Herr Willner, and sang it with, I was assured at
the time, the approval of those who did, as well as those who did not,
then understand and love Wagner. Indeed, one of the critics said,
"'Tannhauser' was a decided success, no small share of the result being
due to Mlle. Albani, whose Elisabeth was the good genius of the piece as
her Elsa was that of 'Lohengrin.'" These two operas of Wagner's were
very interesting to me to study and to sing.

It is a very common belief that Wagner's music injures the voice, but,
in my own opinion, no music should injure the voice, provided the
correct method of singing is employed. No doubt many singers have
injured their voices by the constant singing of Wagner's operas, but
then they would probably have done so by singing much of other music
also. In singing with a bad method there is a constant and unnatural
strain upon the vocal chords and the whole throat, which leaves behind
some damage, small at first, but which little by little increases, and
at last produces the deterioration of the voice. But in singing with the
true method, though a certain fatigue is, of course, experienced, it is
a natural fatigue, and one from which the voice speedily and entirely
recovers with a little rest.

I owe it to my old master Lamperti that I can sing Wagner's operas
without greater fatigue than others, and since the days of which I am
now speaking I have sung many of his operas a great many times.

Soon after the Christmas of 1876 I went to Paris to fulfil an engagement
at the Italian opera there as first soprano, singing in "La Sonnambula,"
"Lucia," "Puritani," "Rigoletto," and for the first time Zerlina in "Don
Giovanni," a role identified at Covent Garden for many years with Madame
Patti. A very clever artiste, Signor Pandolfini, sang all the principal
baritone parts during this season, and was subsequently engaged at
Covent Garden. I sang a great deal and bore the chief brunt of this
Paris season.

At the end of the season I had a benefit night, at which I sang,
"Puritani." The subscribers to the theatre gave me a diamond coronet,
besides other gifts, among them a beautiful bangle bracelet of fine
emeralds from a lady subscriber, and a most artistic cross and chain
worked in gold, steel, enamel, and emeralds, made expressly for me to
wear in "La Sonnambula."

Marchal MacMahon was President of the French Republic at this time, and
I was invited by him and Madame de MacMahon to sing at the Palais de
l'Elyse. I met there many representatives of the old French _noblesse_,
and among them the Comtesse de Paris. The next day I received, besides a
handsome cheque, a beautiful and valuable group of Svres biscuit
porcelain "in remembrance," and a flattering message from the President
and Madame de MacMahon.

At one of the representations I noticed, sitting in a private box, a
gentleman with long white hair and beard, watching me with two very
bright piercing eyes and evidently with much interest. The opera was
"Rigoletto," and in one of the _entr'actes_ this gentleman was brought
to my dressing-room and introduced to me as "Signor Mario." This was the
great Mario, who had retired from the stage a few years previously. He
was good enough to say some kind and appreciative words to me about my
performance, and added warmly how much he wished he could have sung the
duet with me--which I thought _such_ a compliment! It is a memory that I
have always treasured.

There are one or two extracts I should like to quote with regard to this
Paris season, as they are somewhat amusing. A correspondent to one of
the London papers wrote:

"The success of Mlle. Albani at the Thtre Italien in Paris increases
with each performance. It is a pity that French fanaticism will not
allow of 'Lohengrin' being produced. Albani's gentle Elsa might
reconcile Parisians with Wagner."

The _Pall Mall Gazette_, in commenting on the reports of my success in
the Parisian papers, sympathetically remarks:

"We can but rejoice to hear all this of the Canadian girl who four or
five years ago arrived in Europe friendless and unknown; having no
encouragement but confidence in the possession of the powers which only
needed study and hard work to give her success. So she worked on;
obliged meanwhile to sing in public in order to provide means for
instruction. It must be very pleasant now to look back on those years of
resolute perseverance under difficulties."

Lady Hooper, writing to the _New York World_ from Paris at this time,
says of me: "What an elastic nationality she possesses! In America she
was an American, and hailed from Albany. In England she was declared to
be a Canadian and a loyal subject of Her British Majesty. The French
papers now state that she is a French woman, her real name being
Lajeunesse, and that she was 'born in the state of Albany, in the city
of Canada' (sic). I understand French newspaper writers study geography.
The other day one of them announced that the _Amrique_ had gone ashore
in 'New York River.' Therefore their somewhat mixed statements
respecting the birthplace of the Franco-Anglo-American-Canadian prima
donna are not to be wondered at."

By this time the number of my engagements and the consequent work and
study they entailed had increased greatly, so that I had but very little
leisure. I worked, of course, continually, for no matter how well a
thing may seem to go, I have always felt that it was possible for it to
go better, and to ensure that result, if it ever be achieved, there is
nothing but work, always work.

The opera season of 1877 was to me principally noteworthy for the
production of Wagner's "Flying Dutchman," in which I sang Senta. In the
interval between the seasons of Paris and London I went to Dresden and
studied the role with Herr Wlner, returning as quickly as I could to
sing it at Covent Garden. The poetry of all Wagner's heroines has always
strongly appealed to me, and in the music and impersonation of Senta I
took much delight--a pleasure which was enhanced on this occasion by the
co-operation of M. Maurel, who was the Flying Dutchman, and sang and
acted the part, as he always did, to perfection.

During this season I alternated my three Wagner operas with those of my
Italian and French repertoire.




CHAPTER VIII

THE ENGLISH FESTIVALS


On my return to London in 1875 (to go back a little) I heard of the
great changes which were to take place in the festival performances at
Worcester. In consequence of the strong opposition of the late Lord
Dudley and the Dean, both of whom had always opposed the employment of
an orchestra and solo singers in the cathedral, it was proposed to give
the festival with only the organ and the choirs of the three cathedrals,
and this was agreed to, notwithstanding many protests on the part of the
Mayor and the townspeople. The festival, therefore, was held during this
autumn without orchestra or principals, and nothing was performed but
anthems and purely Church music. Naturally the shop-keepers and cabmen
always do a large business in the festival week, and, as a protest
against the action of the authorities, they hung out black flags and
ornamented their whips with crape.

Three years later, in the autumn of 1878, the non-success of the
proposed changes induced the authorities again to give the full festival
in the cathedral, with the result that a very considerable sum of money
was that year handed over to the Charitable Fund for the Widows and
Orphans of the Clergy. Besides myself, Miss Anna Williams, Madame Patey,
Mr. Edward Lloyd, Mr. Santley, and others, were engaged on that
occasion, together with a full orchestra and chorus.

The late Earl of Dudley had considerable influence in Worcester (his
fine place, Witley Court, being situated in the county), in consequence
of his having done much for the cathedral. By the invitation of Lord and
Lady Dudley I spent Christmas with them in 1875. I was received most
kindly, and had a delightful visit. There was a large house-party and
great Christmas festivities, and on Christmas Day every one had a
present. I received a beautiful band bracelet set with diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, and other precious stones. It was there that I met the
celebrated Samuel Wilberforce, then Bishop of Oxford; in fact, I sat
next to him at dinner the first night, and I was charmed with the
kindness of his manner and the talent and wit of his conversation. I
only wish that I had retained some portion of what he said, but
unfortunately only the general impression of his personality has
remained with me.

Canon Melville, Canon of Worcester, and chaplain to Lord Dudley, was
also there, and he remained from that time forth a dear friend of mine,
showing me the greatest and most unvarying kindness at all the
subsequent Worcester festivals.

This same autumn I sang at the Norwich Musical Festival, where the
principal artistes associated with me were Madame Patey, Mr. Edward
Lloyd, and Signor Foli, the conductor being Sir Julius Benedict. I sang
in the "Hymn of Praise" of Mendelssohn, and the "St. Cecilia" of Sir
Julius Benedict, which latter work was given for the first time, and had
a wonderful success, the last scene being so effective as to create a
positive furore. It is an inspiration in melody and eminently suited to
a soprano voice.

It was at this festival that I had a curiosity in literature sent to me
in the shape of a bill. I must premise that at the festival I have
always, where possible, taken a house for the whole week (a house being
so much quieter than an hotel), and therefore tradesmen's accounts have
to be dealt with. At the end of this Norwich week the milkman sent in
the following account:

Mrs. L. Barney,

_To_ Mr. Cross, Esqr.

21 pints of milk at 1d. -- 2s. 8d.

"Mr. Cross, Esqr.," had evidently heard my name pronounced but had not
seen it in print!

At the Norwich Festival of 1878 I sang the soprano part in "Joseph," a
new oratorio by Professor (later Sir George) Macfarren; and at that of
1881 was produced for the first time "St. Ursula," by Frederick Cowen.
Mr. (now Sir Frederick) Cowen's work is a lovely cantata; in it I
created the soprano part, and sang it at Norwich, and afterwards in
London, with sincere delight in its fine and touching melody.

It may be interesting to mention here the names of the great singers who
have sustained the weight of these festivals in the course of many
years. In 1827 Madame Pasta was the first soprano, and at the next two
festivals Madame Malibran, followed by Madame Caradori, and in 1839 by
Madame Persiani. For the festival of 1845 Madame Grisi was the soprano,
and at the two following festivals Madame Viardot Garcia, the younger
sister of the great Malibran. Madame Clara Novello was engaged for the
next three festivals, then Madame Titiens for four festivals. I myself
followed in 1875, and have sung in the festivals at Norwich continually
since.

In the October of 1876 I was engaged as one of the principal sopranos
for the Bristol Festival. This was only the second musical festival that
had ever been held in Bristol, the first having taken place in 1873. The
principal artistes with me were Madame Titiens, Madame Patey, Madame
Trebelli, Mr. Edward Lloyd, Mr. Cummings, and Herr Behrens. Sir Charles
(then Mr.) Halle was the conductor.

I sang in "Elijah" for the first time at this festival, and also
Beethoven's "Engedi" and the "Messiah," as well as singing at the
miscellaneous evening concert. It was my first experience of the great
and varied talent of Sir Charles Halle, an experience which was more and
more fully confirmed as years went on. He was as proficient in German
classical music as he was in pure Italian music; and in the French
school, especially in the compositions of Berlioz, no one has rivalled
him as a conductor. Added to his musical learning, he possessed untiring
industry and energy, and he left no stone unturned in his endeavours to
complete as far as possible whatever work he might have on hand.

Soon after the Bristol Festival a concert tour was organised in Ireland,
Scotland, and England, in which I took part, singing in several towns
for the first time. I was very glad of the opportunity which this gave
me of getting acquainted with the country and the English public. It was
on this tour that I first heard M. Wilhelmj, and I well remember the
pleasure which that great artiste's playing gave me.

I met Wilhelmj subsequently at a concert in Glasgow, where we were both
engaged, and a little incident comes into my mind. The men artistes took
supper together after the concert, and Wilhelmj was anxious to have some
whisky, which he had never before tasted. The whisky was brought, and
Wilhelmj put three or four lumps of sugar into it, but no water. The
sugar disguised the strength of the spirit, and he found it so good that
he ordered a second and then a third allowance, treating them both in
the same way. Result: Wilhelmj had a difficulty in finding his bedroom,
and he lost his train the next morning!

Sometimes amusing incidents take place at provincial concerts. I
remember singing in the "Messiah" at one of them where the band and
chorus was mainly composed of amateurs. A lady had charge of the
kettle-drums, and at a certain part she missed her cue and got two bars
behind. Soon a pause came and the band stopped, but the drums continued
all alone, to the great amusement of audience and performers.

I was also engaged this year (1876) for the great Birmingham Festival,
which is the most important festival in England, and here it was that I
actually began my career of oratorio in England. Madame Titiens was also
engaged, and I, being a comparative beginner at these festivals, did not
therefore have the most important music allotted to me. I consequently
sang only in the first part of the "Messiah," Mendelssohn's "Hear my
Prayer," and in the miscellaneous concert.

Sir Michael Costa was the conductor of the festival, and I met him then
for the first time. I had heard much about his strictness with the
forces under his command, and I was therefore not a little nervous at
first. But after I had sung "Hear my Prayer" he complimented me very
much, and strongly advised me to take up oratorio, as he was sure that I
had the voice and temperament necessary for it.

Sir Michael Costa, from his long connection with the Sacred Harmonic
Society, the festivals, and the Crystal Palace, was a splendid director
of sacred music, and I found that his strictness was only what was
necessary to ensure a good performance, for when he recognised talent in
an artiste he was most kind and helpful.

At one of the concerts I sang for the first time "Casta Diva" from
Bellini's "Norma," and I was very pleased to be allowed to sing this
great aria, though, as it had always been identified with Madame Grisi
and Madame Titiens, it was no slight undertaking for so young a singer.
However, it went very well, and the public were very kind to me--a fact
that I always remember with gratification. The following day, at the
house of the Chairman of the Festival Committee, I met the distinguished
Scandinavian composer, Herr Niels Gade, who had composed a work for this
festival, and was in Birmingham in consequence. He spoke to me about my
rendering of "Casta Diva," and said, "I heard you yesterday, and your
singing and voice reminded me of my great compatriote Jenny Lind. Even
the veiled quality of the opening andante of the aria was like her--so
suited to the prayer."

It was at the Birmingham Festival of 1882 that Gounod's "Redemption" was
produced. This sacred work was composed expressly for the festival. The
principal part was allotted to me, and the other parts to Madame Patey,
Mr. Edward Lloyd, and Mr. Santley.

According to my usual custom, I was anxious to go through it with the
composer, and therefore, after having studied it, I went to Paris to
obtain M. Gounod's ideas as to how he wished it interpreted. He received
me most kindly, and I sang the whole of my part to him. There is a high
C at the end of the soprano solo "From Thy love as a Father," and when I
came to it I sang it quite _piano_, as Gounod had not marked it or given
any indication as to how it should be taken. He was much pleased, and
said, "I intended that to be _forte_, but I like your way best."

[Illustration: Charles Gounod. Photo and autograph.]

This great and lovely composition was splendidly prepared and extremely
well performed, the efforts of all concerned resulting in a very great
success. It was even performed twice during the week, an occurrence so
rare that I never remember its happening but on two festival occasions.
M. Gounod himself conducted, and had given the most valuable advice and
bestowed every possible care at each rehearsal on the execution of the
work.

Following on the Birmingham Festival the "Redemption" was given
repeatedly; at the Albert Hall, St. James's Hall, and the Crystal
Palace, I sang the soprano part I had created at Birmingham, and always
to crowded houses.

After the Birmingham Festival of 1876 I sang the following month at the
Leeds Festival. It was here four years later, in 1880, that I first met
Sir Arthur (then Mr.) Sullivan, who was the conductor that year for the
first time at this festival. The great event here was the production of
his "Martyr of Antioch," in which fine work I created the soprano part.

Sir Arthur Sullivan's was a personality which appealed to all who knew
him both professionally and privately. His musical talent was great and
varied, and his melodies were lovely; he was a master of composition,
and had his health allowed he would probably have produced even finer
works than those we in England know so well. He was one of the
kindest-hearted men I ever knew, and charitable in numberless ways of
which no one ever heard from himself; a true friend, a straightforward
man in all his dealings, and, notwithstanding his musical imagination,
extremely business-like. After every festival he would invariably come
and thank me personally for all I had done, and with his orchestras
would always frankly praise those who deserved it, although at
rehearsals he never passed over a fault.

In the busy professional life we all have to lead in London, it is
rarely possible to meet our friends as often as we may wish, but I
remember one occasion on which Sir Arthur Sullivan, having heard that my
little boy had been ill, came to inquire after him. I was at home and
able to say the child was nearly well, but not yet downstairs. Sir
Arthur said, "May I go up and see him?" and when told he was having his
tea, he said, "Oh, do let us all go and have nursery tea!" So we
adjourned to the nursery, and Sir Arthur Sullivan then produced a
beautiful fluffy white rabbit, which walked and jumped and sat up, to my
child's extreme delight. We all ate sugared bread and butter, and for a
long time afterwards my boy always called Sir Arthur "the White Rabbit,"
by which name he became actually known in the house! To those who
remember his dark hair and eyes, the "sobriquet" is amusingly
incongruous!

After the Leeds Festival in 1880 I sang during the autumn at various
concerts in the large provincial towns, besides on an organised concert
tour of my own. This entailed a good deal of hard work and considerable
exertion, but I have happily always been strong and had a good
constitution. By arranging my work beforehand and resting, with
reasonable exercise and fresh air, in the intervals of all my
performances, I have succeeded in accomplishing a large amount of hard
and constant work fairly easily, and above all in being able to fulfil
all my engagements without, except on one or two inevitable occasions,
ever disappointing my public. I have made it a rule, whenever possible,
never to sing on two consecutive days, and when engaged to sing in the
country to go down the day before, so as to come on to the platform as
rested and fresh as possible. I considered this to be a duty to my
public as well as to myself.

My first appearance at a Handel Festival was in 1877. The size of the
Crystal Palace and the immense volume of sound produced by between three
thousand and four thousand executants in band and chorus are most
impressive, and I had a very natural doubt as to whether my voice could
be heard under such conditions. However, I was told afterwards that it
had penetrated into every part, and that even the softest notes in
"Angels, ever bright and fair," had been heard with absolute
distinctness by an audience of more than twenty-one thousand people. I
sang in the "Messiah," and at the rehearsal and miscellaneous concert.

The Gloucester Musical Festival took place in September of this year
(1877), and I was engaged together with Madame Titiens. Unhappily the
illness which subsequently caused her death was then coming on, and when
the time came she was too ill to appear. Under these sad circumstances
the principal work of the festival fell to my share, and I sang in
"Elijah," the "Messiah," and the "Creation," besides taking the
principal part in the miscellaneous concert.

[Illustration: HANDEL FESTIVAL ORCHESTRA.]

At this festival Mr. (now Sir Charles) Santley was the exponent of all
the principal baritone parts, and I cannot sufficiently express the
admiration I have always had for this artiste. He is such a thorough and
conscientious singer, with such splendid natural gifts which he has
developed by genuine hard study in the right way. It is a real lesson
for any one to listen to his delivery of any variety of music, and only
a few years ago I heard him sing Mozart's air "Non piu Andrai," from "Le
Nozze di Figaro," with a perfection of vocalisation and a clearness of
pronunciation which cannot be surpassed.

In 1880 Mr. Joseph Maas was the first tenor at the Gloucester Festival.
He possessed a splendid voice and was an admirable oratorio singer. He
occupied one of the first positions in this country, but unhappily
succumbed to a severe illness and died while still in possession of all
his powers.

The festivals of Gloucester, Worcester, and Hereford are called "The
Festivals of the Three Choirs," because, when they were instituted more
than a hundred and fifty years ago, they consisted only of the three
choirs meeting together, annually at each town in turn, and holding a
musical festival. Gradually this became enlarged, and for many years
past a large London orchestra and three hundred to four hundred chorus
(nearly all amateurs) have been collected together, and the best
oratorio soloists engaged.

These festivals are, socially, most agreeable functions. They take place
in September, one of the months most favoured by the English climate.
The principal inhabitants in the town are exceedingly hospitable, and
county families fill their houses for the week and bring large parties
to the cathedral. Everybody seems to know everybody else, all the
cathedral authorities keep open houses, and the town is gay with ladies'
light dresses and the flags and decorations with which the townspeople
celebrate their festival so long as it lasts.

At all these festivals I have met many interesting people, and have made
many lasting friendships.

In 1882, at the beginning of September, the Preston Guilds Festival took
place. This festival only comes once every twenty years, and therefore
there are not many artistes who take part in it a second time. Mr.
Santley, however, who was singing, had also sung at the previous one in
1862. Besides several music performances after the style of the other
great festivals, processions of the different guilds take place through
the town, dinners and balls are held, and for four days Preston is given
to holiday-making and pleasure, anything like work or business being at
a discount. I must own that the processions with allegorical cars, bands
of music (some of them pretty bad) had a greater attraction for the
general public than the performance of an oratorio, and consequently the
attendance at one or two of our concerts was not so large as it might
have been. Five concerts were given during the four days with an
excellent band and chorus, Sir Charles (then Mr.) Halle being the
conductor.




CHAPTER IX

SOME CONTINENTAL ENGAGEMENTS


For the second season in succession I was engaged in Paris and made my
_rentre_ on January 16, 1878. A telegram to a London paper said, "Mlle.
Albani made a triumphant reappearance last night at the Italian Opera in
'Lucia.'" I sang in the "Sonnambula" and "Rigoletto," and also added an
important role to my repertoire, that of Violetta in Verdi's "La
Traviata."

This opera may of late years have lost a good deal of its popularity
owing to the increased taste for Wagner and other more complicated
music, but at the time of which I speak it was one of the most popular
operas with nearly all European audiences, and had always been sung by
the first artistes, such as Madame Nilsson, Madame Patti, and many
others.

Its lovely expressive melodies, and the scope given for the dramatic
rendering of both words and music, all made me wish to sing it, and I
was rewarded for the not inconsiderable time and study I devoted to it
by the success I achieved in the part.

With me were associated M. Capoul, as Alfred, and Signor Pandolfini, as
Germont, both of whom were immense favourites at that time in Paris.

So great was the enthusiasm for "La Traviata" that it is said as much
as eighty francs each was paid for stalls to witness the second
performance. I was also told the following little anecdote, for the
truth of which, however, I cannot vouch.

"Allez-vous ce soir chez la Baronne de B------?" asked a young Frenchman
of his friend.

"Non, non, non, mon ami," was the reply; "je suis Albanis, je vais
encore aux 'Italiens.'"

On looking back to the criticisms on my performances I can hardly
believe I could have deserved all that was so enthusiastically said of
me. I had not only comparisons with my musical predecessors to
encounter, but also all the traditions of the part in the original play
by Alexandre Dumas fils, which had been interpreted in turn by almost
all the great and celebrated actresses of the French stage--no slight
consideration in the case of so histrionic a nationality as the French.

Another production was that of "Alma," by Victor Masse, in which I sang,
and also M. Capoul. The opera had a considerable success, but not one
which has continued.

At a performance of "Rigoletto" a very great and charming compliment was
paid to me by the young American art students in Paris. I had noticed
that night a number of eager and appreciative faces in a box close to
the stage, and these were the students who had taken that box so that
from it they could hand me personally the present to which they had all
contributed. I had no idea what was in store for me, but at the end of
the opera they leant forward and gave me an enormous basket full of
flowers, beneath which lay a large album they had prepared, containing
an original sketch done by each one of them expressly for me. It will be
seen how thoroughly the promise that many of the drawings then
foreshadowed has been fulfilled, when I mention the names of Sargent,
Lowe, Bridgeman, as being among those whose youthful sketches I am now
so proud to possess.

_Les extrmes se touchent_, and from this most pleasing episode I turn
to one which certainly is the "reverse of the picture." One day a man
called at my hotel in Paris with a letter purporting to be written to me
by M. de Villemessant, the then editor of the _Figaro_ newspaper, upon
the strength of which he induced me to give him 500 francs. Upon inquiry
I found that the letter was a forgery, but, alas! too late, as the man
was gone, and my 20 also. I fancy the thief was afterwards caught and
punished, but I never saw my money again.

I have often heard it said that artistes are looked on as "targets" for
collectors for charities, and other people of more questionable
character, to shoot at! However that may be, I can truly say I am no
exception to the rule, for, glad, and often thankful, as I am for the
capacity which enables me to help those who are in real need, it is a
fact that had I at first, and were I now, to try to accede to
one-quarter of the charitable applications I receive, I should have no
time whatever left to fulfil any of my duties. Many charitable requests
I have to refuse with sincere regret, but many are unnecessary and
should never have been made.

I sang at a great charity performance in Paris during this winter, and
towards the end of the season in "Linda di Chamounix." For my benefit
and last appearance I sang in "I Puritani"; when, to quote from a Paris
correspondent to an English paper, "at the fall of the curtain there
took place a scene which I have rarely seen paralleled. Mlle. Albani was
literally overwhelmed with gigantic bouquets of the choicest flowers;
nor were jewel-cases even wanting."

One of the principal events of the Covent Garden season of this year, so
far as I was concerned, was the production of Victor Mass's "Paul et
Virginie." I sang in it with M. Capoul, who had created the part of Paul
in Paris. It is a beautiful work and pleased very much when first given,
but it was not sufficiently successful to attain to a lasting
popularity, and consequently has not since been heard so often as I
cannot help thinking it deserves. I also sang in "Mignon" this season,
in addition to all my former operas.

During my first seasons in London it was the custom for important
concerts to be given in private houses. These concerts were very
numerous, and were given at the houses of the aristocracy and at those
of owners rich enough to engage the first artistes. Sir Julius Benedict
was well known in London society, and was the chief organiser of these
musical entertainments.

I was engaged to sing at most of the principal concerts, and met many
remarkable people and made many and lasting friendships. Among them was
the late Lord Lathom, so well known as a lover of music, and in
after-days as the chairman of the Italian Opera Company at Covent
Garden. He was then also Lord Chamberlain to Queen Victoria, and with
both him and Lady Lathom I contracted a warm friendship, often staying
with them at Lathom, their fine and historical house in Lancashire.

In the autumn of this year--on August 6, 1878--I married Mr. Ernest Gye,
the eldest son of Mr. Frederick Gye, who, with all his family, had
received me with the truest friendship ever since my arrival in England.

In the early days of November my husband and I went to spend a few days
at Waldleiningen, the lovely Scloss of the late Prince of Leiningen in
Germany. The Prince was an old friend of my husband's family, and
remained a true and sincere friend of ours also to the day of his death
in 1904. The Princess of Leiningen was then alive, one of the most
charming and accomplished, as she had been one of the most beautiful,
princesses of her time.

My father-in-law had already arrived, for he had been an ardent
sportsman and excellent shot, and for years had been invited by the
Prince for the wild-boar shooting in November. How little could I dream,
the morning we left Waldleiningen for Moscow, that it would be the last
time I should ever see him! The news of his terrible shooting accident
and death reached us in the early days of December in Moscow, where I
had begun to fulfil my engagement, and my husband was obliged to leave
me, but he was not in time to see his father alive. The accident
happened at the house of his old and most kind friend (Theodore)
Viscount Dillon, the wound was too severe for him to be moved, and he
succumbed to it after a week of severe suffering; as one of the surgeons
said, "a splendid constitution fighting against a terrible wound."

We had a long and tedious journey to Moscow, for neither the train
service nor the sleeping-accommodation was then what it is now. We slept
one night at Warsaw, seeing what we could of the city, and then went on
again through many miles of dreary country, the train stopping at nearly
every station, and passengers getting out to smoke cigarettes and drink
weak tea.

We arrived in Moscow and I sang my usual repertoire, receiving a warm
welcome from my kind Russian audiences. I had the advantage of hearing,
and singing with, Signor Masini, the principal tenor of this Russian
season. He had a rich and fine Italian voice, and was a master of his
art. From what I have so often been told of the voice and singing of
Signor Mario, I should think that Signor Masini was very much like him
both in style and temperament. I believe I am right in saying that he
sang very little, if at all, in London, but he was a great favourite in
Italy and Russia, and he sang in several operas with me. Signor Cotogni
was also in the troupe--a more than excellent artiste, both as a singer
and actor, and a very nice and most amiable gentleman. He was for many
years at Covent Garden and was much liked, both in the theatre and out
of it.

In St. Petersburg during this winter I sang at the marriage of the Grand
Duchess Anastasie, daughter of the Grand Duke Michael of Russia, to the
Grand Duke Frederic Franois III. of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, and it was
again the occasion of the same great court ceremonies as those at the
marriage of H.S.H. the Duchess of Edinburgh, afterwards Duchess of
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.

In addition to those operas I had before sung in Russia, were added
"Tannhauser" and "La Traviata "--surely the alpha and omega of
music--both of which pleased the public greatly.

I took no part in the opera season of 1879, and my son was born on June
4 of that year. During the morning after his birth the news arrived at
the Opera House just as an orchestra rehearsal was going on. The band
stopped, and immediately struck up "See, the Conquering Hero comes."
When I was told of it, I gratefully hoped that their kindly action might
prove to be an omen that my baby might in the future become a good man
as well as a "conquering hero."

After singing at the Hereford and Bristol Festivals, I went in November
1879 to Florence, and was not only delighted to return to a city where I
had been so warmly appreciated, but I was touched to find that the
Florentines had no more forgotten me than I had them, and I met with an
enthusiastic reception, singing in "Lucia," "Rigoletto," "Faust," and
other operas.

In Italy, however, there is never the constant change of opera as in
London. In any Italian city an opera that pleases the public may be
given twelve or fifteen times running, and even a favourite artiste may
repeat an impersonation over and over again in an opera which in itself
is not looked upon with a particularly favourable eye, the Italian
public putting up with the opera for the sake of the artiste. Of course
this has occasionally its difficult side: for instance, a manager will
often open his season with only one opera, and the artistes needed for
it, and consequently should the opera not be a success, or one of the
principal artistes not please, he has to shut the theatre until he can
prepare some other performance.

The Italian public is very critical, and differs from those of most
other countries, for where colder audiences would content themselves
with either going to the theatre if satisfied, or staying away if not
amused, the warm Italian temperament seems to force its owners to take
the question as personal to itself. Consequently, the Italians, all over
Italy, will go to the theatre all the same, to testify their pleasure or
displeasure, as the case may be. Happily they all know how to
demonstrate their pleasure and admiration in a manner which is apt to be
overwhelming, and scenes of enthusiasm arise which one can never forget.

In January 1880 I went to Nice, and was the grateful recipient of the
hearty approval of perhaps the most cosmopolitan audiences in Europe,
Nice during the winter months being filled with visitors of almost every
nationality.

From the Riviera I went to Brussels to sing at the Thtre de la
Monnaie. The Belgian public and I had not yet had an opportunity of
becoming acquainted, and I knew how musical a public it was, how
talented the professors of the Brussels Conservatoire, and how high its
musical reputation, and therefore, though my name was known in Brussels,
I came on the stage feeling a little apprehensive, a sensation which was
not moderated by the fact that I was received in dead silence. However,
something seemed to tell me that my audience wished to listen and judge
for themselves, and I appreciated their idea. I felt fully compensated
for my previous nervousness by the warm applause which greeted me at the
end of the evening, an applause given with that sincerity which is as
lasting as it is voluble. For on the many occasions on which I have
since sung there the Belgians have always appeared to be as glad to see
me as I have been to find myself again amongst them.

The directors of "La Monnaie" at that time were MM. Stoumou and
Calabresi, and excellent directors they were. The operas were
exceedingly well put on; there was good discipline throughout; and
altogether it was a pleasure to be connected with this management.
Several of the artistes were quite young, but were well chosen, and the
operas were much more artistically sung than in many more important
theatres. The operas were given in French, but as I had studied all the
parts in Italian, I sang them in that language. Among the younger
debutantes of that season was Mlle. Rose Caron, who then showed the
promise which was afterwards to be realised, becoming as she did so
talented and dramatic a soprano and actress. During this season in
Brussels I had the honour of being received by the Queen of the
Belgians. She was a clever harpist, devoted to music, and she almost
always came to the opera when I sang. On one occasion, when she had
specially commanded one act of an opera she particularly wished to hear,
Her Majesty graciously invited me to her own box so that I should hear
it also, and she presented me with her portrait and autograph. I do not
remember ever having been presented to the King, who was understood to
care very little for music and very seldom came to the operas.

I made my reappearance in 1880 at Covent Garden, and was both touched
and proud at the warm welcome accorded me, for the English public
greeted me as a friend. I sang in "Rigoletto" on this occasion with
Signor Marini, Madame Scalchi, and a new baritone, Signor St. Athos.
Later on I sang in "Faust," "Lucia," and "Lohengrin."

The _Daily Telegraph_ in its criticism the next morning was kind enough
to say:

"The promised return of Madame Albani to the Covent Garden stage was
taken advantage of by her many admirers for the purpose of an
enthusiastic demonstration. ... An artist who maintains the dignity of
her profession in public, and in private reflects upon it the lustre of
a blameless life, is never unappreciated by those whose good-will is
most worth having. Both as an artist and as a woman, therefore, Madame
Albani was feted on Saturday night; the applause rang through the
theatre when she stepped upon the stage, giving her more emphatically
than words could convey the assurance that she stood in the presence,
not only of admirers, but of friends."

After taking part in the festivals in the autumn, I returned to Belgium
in the beginning of 1881, to give performances in several towns, though
principally in Brussels, singing in "Lucia," "Rigoletto," "Mignon," and
other operas, all in Italian, which necessitated my knowing the words
very perfectly, for the prompters were always French (the operas being
given in French), and therefore they could give me no assistance.

While I was in Belgium this winter some very serious floods had taken
place, entailing considerable loss of life and property, and as some
small return for the great kindness with which the Belgian public had
received me, I gladly offered to give a performance for the benefit of
the sufferers. "Rigoletto" was chosen, and given under Royal patronage,
Her Majesty the Queen of the Belgians being present. I was enabled, to
my great delight, to hand over to the committee my share of the
receipts, 5,450 francs. In acknowledgment of this assistance the
Burgomaster came on to the stage at the end of the opera, presented me
with a laurel wreath made of gold and silver, and thanked me before the
whole audience, which filled the theatre to overflowing.

During the opera season of 1881 I made my rentre at Covent Garden in
"Rigoletto," afterwards singing in "Faust," "Lucia," "Lohengrin," the
"Puritani," etc.; and for this season M. Dupont from the Thtre de la
Monnaie, Brussels, and Signor Beviguani, were the principal _chefs
d'orchestre._

A concert tour in England, Ireland, and Scotland, together with festival
work, filled up the rest of the autumn and immediately after Christmas I
went to Berlin to fulfil an engagement at the Royal Opera.

[Illustration: Photo of Arthur Rubinstein. Autograph of Paderewski et
Rubinstein. TWO MUSICAL AUTOGRAPHS]




CHAPTER X

"LOHENGRIN" IN BERLIN


I had had a great wish to sing "Lohengrin" in Berlin, but knew that if I
did so it must be in German. Accordingly I took advantage of a little
spare time, went to Germany, and restudied the whole part in German.
When I arrived in Berlin, therefore, I was ready with two or three
operas in Italian and "Lohengrin" in German.

It might have been thought a risky adventure to sing an opera for the
first time in my life in German before the Germans, but I am happy to
think that the result justified the hard work I had gone through and the
courage I had summoned to my aid, for this was one of the most important
events of my career. Some of the critics were kind enough to call it a
"triumph."

The late Emperor William I. was present, with the Empress, and many
members of their Court. The Emperor was pleased to summon me to the
Royal box after the second act, when he complimented me most graciously,
and bestowed on me the title of "Hofkammersngerin" (Royal Court
Singer). In spite of the deep feeling of gratification this caused me,
my natural nervousness, inseparable from the ordeal of a first
appearance before a German audience in a German opera, was increased
rather than allayed. I had to appear in my costume as Elsa before their
Majesties and their Court in the Royal box, and in face of an audience
which, on that night, filled the opera house from floor to ceiling.

I had been recalled before the curtain five or six times, and my
fellow-artistes were also most kind and cordial to me; they complimented
me very much, and were almost as pleased as I was myself.

This evening was at once a great and most pleasurable event for me, and
it was also an exceptional occasion for the theatre, as it was one of
the last appearances of Herr Niemann, the great German tenor, who sang
the part of Lohengrin magnificently and looked it to perfection.
Fraulein Brandt was the Ortrud, and Herr Betz, an old favourite of the
Berliners, was Telramund.

I am sincerely averse to quoting from newspaper articles, but upon this,
for me, very special occasion, I hope I may be forgiven, and that my
readers will remember that I was a stranger and an interloper in the
musical life of Berlin, and that therefore there can be no idea of
favouritism in the criticism which appeared in the Berlin papers.

The Berlin _Zeitung_ wrote:

"It may certainly be denominated an important event in the domain of
dramatic vocal art that an artist like Madame Albani, who was brought up
to the use of the French language, first embodies before the Berlin
public, with a perfection all her own, various creations--musically
never to be forgotten--by means of the Italian idiom; and finally in
German opera, and in the German tongue, conjures up the most poetical,
but likewise most difficult, character of Elsa in 'Lohengrin,' with such
consummate mastery that the audience are aroused by her to enthusiasm."

A telegram from the Berlin correspondent of the _Times_ ran as follows:

"Madame Albani appeared to-night as Elsa in Wagner's 'Lohengrin,'
singing her part in the native German. The house was crowded to the very
ceiling, and extravagant prices were paid for seats. The Emperor and his
Court were present, and all the leaders of Berlin society. Madame Albani
achieved what may well be called a complete triumph, greater even than
any she has won hitherto. After the first and second acts she was
recalled thrice, and when the curtain finally dropped, four times, the
audience cheering enthusiastically."

That I returned to my hotel both thankful and most happy I need hardly
add, and I was able to celebrate my first performance of "Lohengrin" in
German by placing my night's salary in the hands of the Emperor for
charitable purposes.

And here I may recount a touching incident which evidences the gracious
kindness and thoughtfulness of our late beloved Queen Victoria. My
husband and I were dining at the Austrian Embassy, and next to me at
table was a gentleman attached to the household of the Empress Frederick
(then Crown Princess). He turned to me and said, "The Princess knew that
I should meet you this evening, and she told me to give you this." He
handed me a telegram, which I found to be from our late Queen to Her
Royal Highness, and which ran as follows:

"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."

I could hardly speak for pleasure, for I had no idea the Queen was aware
of my being in Berlin or having intended to go there, but I managed to
say, "Pray tell the Princess that I shall keep and treasure this."

Of those also of whose great kindness I would speak is the Crown
Princess (afterwards Empress Frederick), who sent for me and received my
husband and myself most kindly, showing us a phonograph, an instrument
then only lately invented, in which Her Royal Highness said she had
heard me sing. Two of the Princesses, her daughters, were present, and
we were received with the simple and natural kindness for which the
members of our Royal Family are proverbial. To the Crown Prince I had
the honour of being presented at one of the Court concerts at which I
sang.

And of the kindness of Lord Amp thill, then Lord Odo Russell, whose
distinguished diplomatic career had shortly before led to his
appointment as British Ambassador in Berlin, it would be impossible to
speak too gratefully. Both he and Lady Amp thill were most cordial to my
husband and myself, and it was at once a personal and an intellectual
pleasure to find oneself in the home-like but highly cultivated society
of them both. Lady Ampthill was a daughter of the late Lord Clarendon,
and both by nature and tradition had inherited from her father the
attractiveness and diplomatic amiability for which he was renowned.

Lord Ampthill was one of the kindest-hearted as well as one of the most
intellectual people I have ever known. A "gentleman" in the most
complete sense of the word, he was also a perfect linguist, a musician
of considerable attainments, a _litrateur_ of widely read and liberal
views, and a man the charm of whose manner and expression fascinated all
who came in contact with him. My remembrance of this friendship will
remain with me always, mingled with a deep regret for his loss.

At this time the Empress Augusta was already an invalid and able to do
very little socially, but she used to come to the opera wheeled in her
chair along the private corridor of the palace which communicated with
the Royal box, and she would remain for an act, or more, as her health
might permit. Her Majesty sent for me to sing to her at the palace, and
I arrived feeling very nervous and rather tired, as I had sung "Faust"
the night before. I was met by an old lady-in-waiting, to whom I
explained this and added that I hoped my voice would not sound tired.
The old lady only looked at me and said, "Oh! don't be so vain!" which
made me feel more nervous than before. I was then ushered into the
presence of the Empress Augusta, who was reclining in her chair, most
beautifully dressed, I remember, in a deep red velvet and silk gown, but
pale, very thin, and looking ill, the bright intelligence of her eyes,
however, preserving the natural vivacity of her expression.

Her Majesty received me most graciously, and I sang for her "Qui la
voce," "Pur Dicesti," and "Robin Adair." She made me sit by her and
entered into conversation, speaking of our own Queen, for whom she had a
profound admiration and respect, and whose photograph she sent me to see
in the next room. Her lady-in-waiting was also desired to show me a
large blue-and-gold vase from the Royal Manufactory at Berlin, of which
the Empress was making me a present, and Her Majesty said, "You must
notice the picture on it of the palace; the windows of this red
drawing-room are those in the corner, and," she added, "I shall always
remember hearing you sing, and also Sarasate play, in this room."

Before I left Berlin the Empress Augusta sent for me to say good-bye,
and on this occasion she received me entirely alone, and said that the
Emperor also intended coming in to see me. In a short time the door
opened and His Majesty entered the room. He was looking thin and pale,
and the Empress said to him, "Have you been out?" "Yes, I have," he
replied. "But did not the doctors forbid you to go?" "Yes, they did, but
I went all the same," and he took a chair on my other side, so that I
was seated between this great Emperor and Empress, who, in their Royal
simplicity, were as friendly, kind, and natural in their conversation
with me as the most unsophisticated of human beings. I remember how
pleased the Empress was to hear that I always read the _Revue des deux
Mondes_, for she was familiar with all the best authors and books of the
day, as well as with most current subjects.

The Emperor gave me his large Jubilee medal, which was struck to
commemorate the eightieth year of his military service, and also his
photograph signed and framed, and both he and the Empress shook me
warmly by the hand in expressing the great pleasure I had been able to
give them, and in wishing me "good-bye" and "au revoir." The next
morning a servant arrived from the palace at our hotel, carrying a large
and beautiful china casket filled with the most lovely pink roses. The
Empress had sent it to me as a present.

[Illustration: MADAME ALBANI'S DECORATIONS.]

I afterwards sent a donation to the hospital in Berlin of which she was
patroness, and received the following kind letter in return:

"Berlin," 8 _Janvier_ 1884.

"MADAME ALBANI,

"Acceptez tous mes remercments pour la gnreuse contribution que vous
venez d'offrir  l'hpital qui porte mon nom. Cet acte de charit est
digne de la grande artiste que nous voyons partir avec regret aprs
l'avoir admire comme l'interprte international de l'harmonie.

"AUGUSTA."


I left Berlin with the most grateful recollections of the high artistic
appreciation so generously accorded to me by the Berlin critics and the
public, and the warm welcome I had received from the Royal Family and
from so many in society. I felt that I was leaving true friends behind
me, and I can truly say that no one amongst them have I forgotten.

From Berlin we went home and very shortly on to Monte Carlo. The change
from the winter weather in Berlin to the genial sunshine of the Riviera
was a great one, for although the month was January, the flowers were
already beginning to bloom, and the atmosphere was bright and
comparatively quite warm. I sang in "Rigoletto" with Madame Scalchi, MM.
Maurel and Gayarre, and then "Faust" with the same artistes and M.
Faure. With M. Faure also I sang in "Hamlet."

The theatre was the one in the Casino, and conducted in a different
manner from the more business-like method of most others, especially of
that at Covent Garden. There were, for instance, no fixed opera nights,
and consequently a performance was often not decided upon or announced
until the day before. This was quite in keeping with the place, which is
one existing for pleasure only, but it is liable to be extremely
inconvenient to those concerned with the theatre.

I am thankful to say a love of gambling is far from my nature, but there
was always a fascination for me, whenever I went into the rooms, in the
excitement of the play, and in watching the various types of humanity,
so many of whom contrived to wear an impenetrable mask. With others the
mask would involuntarily drop off under a sudden stroke of good or bad
luck, and I have often felt a whole story was told to me in a glance. I
used to wonder whether I had filled up the details of the story aright.

It was here that I first met Duke Ernest of Coburg, the brother of our
own Prince Consort. He came to call on us, quite _sans crmonie_, and
was very kind and amiable. He was a lover of music and a composer
himself. His opera "Santa Chiara" was once given at Covent Garden.




CHAPTER XI

MY RETURN TO CANADA


In the beginning of January 1883 my husband and I sailed for New York,
as I had been engaged by Mr. Henry Mapleson for a winter season of
Italian opera in the United States.

We left Liverpool in the _Pavonia_, and encountered such terrible
weather that we were fourteen days at sea. Nearly every one was ill, and
I myself was entirely _hors de combat_, unable to eat anything whatever,
and only able to be carried up on deck the last two days. I was engaged
to sing at the Symphony Society's Concert before beginning my opera
engagement, and should have been at the rehearsal on the Friday, but our
ship did not arrive until the rehearsal was over. However, though
feeling weak and somewhat exhausted, as may be believed, I managed to
sing on the following night, and succeeded in pleasing the New York
critics.

I then immediately went to Albany. It may be imagined with what emotion
I again found myself amongst all my kindest old friends, to whose aid in
my early struggles I owed in so great a measure the artistic position to
which I had then succeeded in attaining. I was received as a dear friend
by one and all, and when I arrived in the town late on the evening
before my concert, a military band appeared before the hotel and gave me
a serenade, commencing with "Home, Sweet Home." I may say that I was
fairly besieged with visitors the next morning, but had to forgo and
postpone the great pleasure of receiving them, as on a singing day I do
not talk, but keep myself as quiet and fresh for my performance as I
possibly can.

At night I found a packed audience at the music-hall, a decoration of
plants, flags, and a large "Welcome." I sang "Costa Diva," "Home, Sweet
Home," "Angels, ever bright and fair," "Oh! Luce di quest anima," and
"Robin Adair" in an atmosphere of emotion which pervaded us all alike,
and brought tears, though very happy ones, to many of our eyes.

A little verse that appeared at the time in the Albany _Sunday Press_ is
worth quoting here, if only for the rhyme to "Albani"!

       How sweet in many a charming talk
            Will be the story of the maiden
       Who here pursued her simple walk
             With genius, care, and music laden;
       The little singer known to Bess,
             And Belle, and Henriette, and Fanny,
       Who blossomed here as LA JEUNESSE,
           And bloomed in glory as ALBANI.

From Albany I went direct to Chicago, and made my dbut in "I Puritani,"
receiving an enthusiastic welcome. In the words of the _Inter-Ocean_
newspaper, "The immense audience which was crowded in the hall from
parquet to gallery, though cold and critical at first, were warmed up
and roused to intense enthusiasm before the second act was completed,...
and the triumph of the evening may be justly considered proof positive
of Madame Albani's great powers, both as a singer and actress, and not
as the tribute of old friends anxious for her success."

The opera company gave subsequent representations during the tour in
Cincinnati, Toronto, Washington, Boston, Baltimore, New York, and
Brooklyn, and for this _tourne_ Madame Patti was also engaged.

At Toronto I overheard, much to my amusement, one of the stage
carpenters say to another while I was being applauded and repeatedly
called out, "Wall! I guess this ain't like a stage play: it's like a
political meetin'." And I am glad to say I had many a "political
meetin'" during the whole tour.

Towards the end of the season arrangements were made for me to visit and
give two concerts in Montreal, which might almost be called my native
city, I having been born in a place only twelve miles from it.

When I left America to prosecute my studies in Europe, an effort had
been made in Montreal to organise a concert or to get up a subscription
to assist me to go abroad. The French-Canadians, however, had the
old-world traditional misgiving of a public career, and especially that
dislike for any one belonging to them to go on the stage itself, a
feeling which was then very much still alive in Canada, although the
idea was already beginning to die out in other countries. Consequently
all help, as they then honestly thought in my best interests, was
withheld from me in that quarter.

But by this time the whole aspect of the position had changed, and now
that I had come through the "fiery furnace" of their solicitous
imagination into the sunshine of warm appreciation and prosperity in the
career I had succeeded in making for myself, they felt so generously
proud of me that they determined to make all the amends they thought
might be due to show how completely they considered me one of
themselves. A reception committee was appointed to receive and welcome
me at the frontier, a special car being sent to bring me to Montreal.

On our arrival at Montreal station we found it so packed that we had
actually to fight our way through the cheering crowd, who seemed
reluctant to let us move on. A large number of the members of the Snow
Shoe Clubs had come to meet us, and they lined the streets, lighted
torches in hand, as in four-horse carriages, and preceded by a band, we
went in slow procession to the Windsor Hotel. Before the hotel so dense
a crowd of spectators had assembled that I had to be carried over the
heads of the people into the building. I then received as many of my
kind friends as I was able, but after the journey from Boston, and the
great emotion of such an immense and unlooked-for reception as I had met
with, supremely happy as I felt, I was almost exhausted.

The next day I was invited by the City Council to a reception in the
council chamber at the Hotel de Ville, and I found the officials, and a
crowd of ladies and gentlemen, the principal residents of Montreal,
assembled in the Town Hall, the galleries of which were also completely
filled. I was placed on the Mayor's throne amidst almost deafening
applause and welcoming cheers, and Alderman Rainville, stepping to the
foot of the dais, read the address of welcome in French. This was the
address which was given to me, and it is beautifully illuminated.

"A MADAME ALBANI GYE

"Madame,--

"Lorsque l'enthousiasme vous accueillait partout sur les grandes scnes
de l'Europe, nous vous donnions ici les applaudissements de nos coeurs,
dsesprant presque de jamais acclamer de nos bravos celle qui avait
rvl au vieux continent que le talent artistique mme le plus brillant
peut fleurir mme au milieu des niges du Canada.

"Vous tes revenue cependant apportant avec vous un nom qui appartient 
l'univers, il est vrai, mais dont la gloire manque  l'orgueil des
autres pays. Tout blouis que nous sommes des succs de l'artiste nous
n'oublions pas de nous incliner avec respect devant les vertus de la
femme en qui s'affirme hautement ces paroles du pote chantant les
admirables prvoyances de la Divinit.

       "Mais quand elle ptrit ses nobles cratures,
       Elle qui voit la haut comme on voit ici-bas,
       Elle sait des secrets qui les font assez pures
       Pour que le monde ne les souille pas.

"Aussi ne sommes nous surpris de ce que vos destines aient t unies 
celles d'un homme digne par son intelligence et ses nobles qualits
d'tre l'poux d'Albani.

"Et comment ne pas se souvenir en cette circonstance de celui dont les
soins paternels formrent vos jeunes annes, et dposrent dans votre
me ces germes fconds de l'art que d'autres ont conduits  leur riche
maturit. C'est  ses sollicitudes et sa foi dans votre gnie que les
citoyens de Montral doivent aujourd'hui l'honneur de dire  une grande
artiste qui est une des leurs. Soyez la bienvenue! Et laissez nous
esprer que votre bonne toile vous ramnera souvent au milieu de nous
comme  une tape de prdilection o vous puissiez vous reposer de vos
futurs triomphes.

"(_Sign_) J. L. BAUDRY,
"Maire." (_Sign_) SLACKMAYER, "Greffier de la Cit.
"MONTRAL,
"28 _Mars_ 1883."


To this my husband replied for me in words of heartfelt gratitude from
us both, and then M. Louis Frchette, Poet Laureate of Canada, read the
beautiful poem which follows, lines in which he was thought even then to
have surpassed himself.

A MADAME ALBANI

(EMMA LAJEUNESSE) A l'occasion de son passage  Montral.

       Qui donc nous avait dit,  notre artiste aime!
       Qu'en un morne ddain ton me renferme,
       Gardait--fleuve songeant aux cailloux du ruisseau--
       Des ronces du pass rancune  ton berceau?

       Comme un papillon d'or qui, dans son vol splendide,
       Mprise dsormais la pauvre chrysalide,
       Qui donc nous avait dit-- profanations!--
       Qu'entrane au courant de tant d'ovations,
       Aux oublis gnreux femme inaccoutume,
       Tu rvais, au moment mme o la renomme,
       Du succs  ton front fixait l'astre clatant,
       A punir ton pays de ses froideurs d'antan?

       O saintet de l'art, toujours, toujours nie!
       Ceux-l, grande Albani, qui t'ont calomnie
       N'avaient jamais compris ce que c'est que le coeur
       O le reflet d'en haut mit son cachet vainqueur!
       Ceux qui parlaient ainsi de toi ne savaient gure
       Combien l'artiste, plane au-dessus du vulgaire;
       Combien l'me d'lite, tre immatriel,
       Qui se fait ici-bas l'cho des chants du ciel,
       Trouve, berce au vent, des saintes harmonies,
       Peu de place en son sein, pour les acrimonies!
       Ils ignoraient ceux-l--mais au fond c'est leur droit,
       Qu'on n'est pas grande artiste avec un coeur troit!

       Lorsque, fouettant les airs de sa vaste envergure,
       L'aigle au clair firmament monte et se transfigure,
       En veut-il au vallon qui lui fut moins vermeil?
       Quand la goutte flottante aux rayons du soleil,
       Monte en bruine rose au sommet de la nue,
       En veut-elle au ruisseau de l'avoir mconnue?
       Non, non! l'aigle qui vole ivre d'immensit
       Aprs tre all boire aux urnes de clart,
       Revient sur le rocher rafrapichir son plumage,
       Conservant dans son oeil la flamboyante image,
       Du globe incandescent que lui seul peut fixer!
       Quant  la perle humide, elle va se bercer
       Et se dissoudre aux cieux en vapeur irise,
       Puis retombe ici-bas, fcondante rose,
       Pour aller resplendir en goutte de cristal
       Sur la fleur qui se mire au doux ruisseau natal!

       Tu sembles l'un et l'autre,  diva! D'un coup d'aile
       Comme l'aigle au vieux roc reste toujours fidle,
       Comme la goutte d'eau qui retrouve son cours,
       Pour donner  nos voeux quelques instants trop courts,
       Tu redescends enfin de la sphre infinie
       O le soleil de l'art a sacr ton gnie;
       Tu quittes l'empyre, o ton vol radieux
       Semait aux quatre vents tes chants mlodieux!
       Tu dis: Trve aux rappels des brillants auditoires!
       Aux bouquets! aux bravos! trve  toutes les gloires!
       O mon pays--adieu, rives au ciel dor!--
       Je tombe  deux genoux sur ton seuil ador,
       A moi tous les trsors de ta grande nature!
       A moi le fleuve altier qui te sert de ceinture!
       Tes cits, tes forts, tes monts au front hautain,
       Le blanc clocher, l bas, qui luit dans le lointain!
       Chambly! le vieux couvent! Que je vous reconnaisse,
       Thtre inoubli de mes jours de jeunesse?...

       Voil ce que tu dis en touchant notre sol,
       Aigle sublime... non!--cleste rossignol!
       Oui, nous l'avons appris--et, dans notre me mue,
       A ton nom, depuis lors, chaque fibre remue--
       Quand l'Europe artistique, enchane  ta voix,
       Te hissait jeune encor sur l'immortel pavois;
       Quand, d'Italie en France, et de Londres  Bruxelles,
       Les acclamations folles, universelles,
       Que soulevaient tes pas, montaient,  notre enfant!
       Dlirantes clameurs,  ton char triomphant;
       Quand enfin, rpt, par la foule qui gronde,
       Ton nom frappait l'cho des grands centres du monde.
       Pour de l se rpandre et retentir partout,
       Fidle au vieux foyer, patriote avant tout,
       Des souvenirs d'enfance inflexible gardienne,
       L'universe  tes pieds, tu restas Canadienne!

       Merci, chre Albani, merci! Si notre main
       N'a pas toujours battu si fort sur ton chemin;
       Si notre enthousiasme, ignorant trop encore,
       N'a pas comme il devait salu ton aurore;
       Si nous n'avons pas su dcouvrir sur ton front
       Ta future couronne  ton premier fleuron;
       Si ton aube a pli par notre indiffrence,
       Oh! tu te venges bien, grande me! et ta vengeance
       Eclate aux yeux de tous, sans fiel et sans rancoeur,
       Belle comme ta voix, noble comme ton coeur!
       Eh bien, soit! ton pays est debout qui t'acclame!
       Ton amour, il le veut; ta gloire, il la rclame!
       Il eut voulu t'offrir un diadme d'or,
       Si son orgueil de pre eut cru trouver encor,
       Au milieu des joyaux sans prix dont tu rayonnes,
       Sur ta tte d'enfant place pour des couronnes!

       N'importe, avec l'aveu de nos torts expis,
       Laisse-nous, Albani, dposer  tes pieds
       Toutes nos amitis qui, ce soir, n'en font qu'une!
       On t'a donn l-bas la gloire et la fortune;
       Ton pays, fier de toi, vient t'offrir  son tour
       Son plus fervent hommage et son plus tendre amour.
                                             LOUIS FRCHETTE.

I remained on the dais standing for more than two hours, and shaking
hands with more than two thousand people, all the kind and notable
inhabitants of Montreal who in the goodness of their hearts had come to
welcome me. The afternoon was like a holiday, shops were closed, crowds
were in the streets, and we were cheered all the way back as we returned
from the Hotel de Ville to our hotel, until I began to think that after
such a commotion and emotion I should never be able to sing another
note! It was a most wonderful, stirring, and touching reception, and one
which even to the smallest detail I can never forget.

At my first concert the same warm reception was accorded me, and I hope
I may be pardoned if I quote a few lines from a criticism which
faithfully rendered an account of the evening, and the extreme kindness
of my "compatriotes."

"The audience in the Queen's Hall last evening was quite beside
itself.... There was not a vacant seat in the choral gallery, many
stood; the platform was crowded; the main body of the hall crowded to
excess right back to the rear and sides, which were lined by rows of
persons on their feet; the rear gallery could hardly have been made to
contain one more without the aid of hydraulic pressure.... And this
enthusiasm was justified, simply by the desire to do honour to a lady
who began here a musical career that was not to end before she had
advanced to the very first place in her royal art.... Had her singing
been mediocre, she would have been received with pleasure, but it was
not of that class. To most of those present it was a revelation. A voice
of exquisite sweetness and wonderful power, compass, and freedom, aided
by an art so great that it concealed every evidence of itself, filled
the room and enthralled those who heard it. Before the last notes had
ended a roar of applause rose up from the great audience in every part
of the building.... She sang 'Ardon gl' incensi' from 'Lucia,' and
'Angels, ever bright and fair,' which showed her great powers in
oratorio; and this was greeted as the previous 'effort,' if the rippling
of a voice as free as the flow of the waters of the pebbly brook can be
called an effort, and returning, she sang as an encore 'Oh! Luce di
quest anima.' But the crowning item of the evening was when she sang the
French song, 'Souvenir du jeune ge.' When it was ended, to the shouts
and clappings and other tokens of applause was added the waving of
handkerchiefs; the stage and whole building was a mass of moving
whiteness. She vainly endeavoured to quell the disturbance by singing
'Robin-Adair,' with about the same success that fire is extinguished by
the application of fresh coal. As soon as it was over the audience was
literally on its feet, and then came 'Home, Sweet Home,' sung with a
pathos which went to every heart."

This was indeed an evening which I can never forget, and that must be my
apology for quoting the above. When I was encored after the Mad Scene of
"Lucia," I wondered what I could sing which would please them all best,
and remembered the old French melody which I had just been singing
during the season at Covent Garden, in Herold's "Pr aux Clercs," and
which had the touching and, for this moment, the most appropriate of
words.

It was an inspiration, and made so deep an impression that when I came
to the last words, "Rendez moi ma patrie ou laissez moi mourir," the
whole public rose and cheered me for fully five minutes, and I had to
repeat it before I sang "Home, Sweet Home." That the impression it
created was not only deep, but lasting, is proved by the fact that the
song was immediately republished with my portrait on it, and has become
a national as well as popular song ever since, and is even now to be
found in nearly every cottage throughout Canada.

Montreal was all _en fte_ while I was there, and though I could be
spared from the opera for only one week, I found time to pay a visit to
my old convent and to go and see some of my relations. At the Convent of
the Sacred Heart I was received with the most affectionate of welcomes,
the very rare exception being vouchsafed to me that my husband was
admitted also. We were received at the door by the Rev. Sister Caise,
Superioress, and the Rev. Sister de Ventini, both of whom had taught me,
also Madame Taillon and Madame Bienvenu. The pupils were all assembled
in the large reception-hall, in the centre of which was suspended in
large letters, "Bienvenue  l'Albani." I sang an "Ave Maria" in the old
chapel of the convent where, as a child, I had so often sung before,
little dreaming of the circumstances under which I should come back in
later years.




CHAPTER XII

FIVE YEARS OF MY LIFE


In the autumn of 1883, through the great kindness of the Lord Fife, we
spent our holiday at Old Mar Lodge in the beautiful valley of the Dee.
At that time we were not even acquainted with Lord Fife and knew nothing
of Deeside, but, happening to mention to a mutual friend that we had
been making inquiries about a small house in Braemar, but had failed to
find one, we heard from him a few days later that Lord Fife offered us
Old Mar Lodge for the autumn. I cannot describe the beauty of that
country, nor the delightful and healthful change it was after the hard
work and the turmoil of a London season. We were all so delighted with
the place that Lord Fife told me "always to come there when we wanted a
holiday," and we did take advantage of his kindness for several seasons.
Lie also told us to fish in the whole of his part of the river as much
as we pleased, and this added very much to the enjoyment of our stay.
One year--shall I ever forget it?--I actually caught a salmon! Old Mar
Lodge was one of the shooting-lodges in Mar Forest, twenty-one miles up
Deeside from Ballater and thirteen from Balmoral. There we spent two
months in a beautiful country and with health-giving air. We soon got to
love the place and regret having ever had to leave it. Being in her
neighbourhood, it was not long before the Queen sent for me to come and
sing for her at Balmoral, which I did one afternoon. The next year I was
sent for again to sing, and when I had finished, the Queen asked me
about Old Mar Lodge. I gave her some particulars, and then plucking up
my courage I said, "Would not your Majesty come and see it?" To my great
astonishment and delight the Queen said, "Well, I think I will."

Two or three days after this I received a telegram in the morning to
warn me that Her Majesty would honour me with a call that afternoon, and
would arrive at 4.30. Naturally we were thrown into a state of
excitement and anxiety to get all in order. Luckily there was the
wherewithal to prepare a fairly good tea, and at 4.25--Her Majesty was
always punctuality itself--we saw the carriage approaching. The Queen's
kindness and thoughtfulness soon put us at our ease. I sang a little
song before she left, and a very memorable incident in my life was over.
After this Her Majesty honoured me with a visit every year, and I went
to sing at Balmoral at least twice every season. On these occasions the
party was very small. Besides the Queen and myself there would be only a
lady-in-waiting, and perhaps a member of the Royal Family who happened
to be staying at the castle.

A contretemps happened one day. I sat down at the piano to accompany
myself, when, alas! one of the legs of the stool broke and I rolled upon
the ground at the Queen's feet. She was much concerned in case I had
hurt myself, but my stage experience has taught me to tumble about
without harm. When it was seen that all was right with me, the Queen
laughed heartily and a fresh stool was sent for.

On the occasion of one of the first visits of Queen Victoria to me at
Old Mar Lodge, my boy, then about seven years old, was present. He was
very quiet and behaved extremely well all the time. When Her Majesty
left, we were all at the door to see her off, and when the carriage had
nearly got out of sight he remarked, "Oh, mummy, what a little woman for
such a big Queen!"

We had a favourite fox-terrier with us in Scotland, and this dog did not
like large pieces of cake or biscuit being given her. She would put them
down and wait for you to break them into small fragments. The Queen
always took notice of "Chat," and upon one occasion when she came to tea
Her Majesty offered the dog a whole biscuit. I was in fear and
trembling, as I believed I knew what would happen. Chat, however, seemed
to know that she must behave, and she took the biscuit and ate it
without more ado, much to my relief.

After one of these visits I received the following letter from Lady
Churchill:


"BALMORAL CASTLE,

"_September_ 25.

"MY DEAR MADAME ALBANI,

"I have received your note and have conveyed to the Queen all that you
wished. Her Majesty was so much pleased with her visit to you--and your
attention and care for her and for so kindly again singing to H.M. I can
assure you that the Queen has spoken a great deal of the visit, and I am
so truly glad that I had some share in the matter, for I urged the Queen
to pay you a visit and told Her Majesty that you would be so pleased and
gratified by H.M. doing so.

"I am leaving this to-morrow, and am sorry to think that I shall not see
you again, and shall miss a great treat when you come here. I am so glad
to have made your acquaintance more, and trust to renew it later in
London.

"The ball must have been charming, and I am sure the ladies enjoyed the
dancing with the gillies. I do trust that you are none the worse for the
lateness of the hour to which you had to keep up.

"My kind remembrances to your sister and the same to yourself,

"Believe me, dear Madame Albani,

"Yours very sincerely.

"J. CHURCHILL."


Every year when we stayed at Mar Lodge I used to drive over regularly to
Balmoral to sing to the Queen. The distance from Old Mar Lodge to
Balmoral is, as I have said, about thirteen miles, and the scenery is
most beautiful the whole way, passing through the village of Braemar. In
the Braemar district there are a great many Roman Catholics--in fact,
the major portion of the population is Catholic--and there is quite a
large Catholic church in Braemar. I sang in this church on one occasion
for the benefit of the poor of the country round, and numbers of people
came from all parts, many of them travelling long distances to attend.

[Illustration: Gladstone autograph. FROM MY AUTOGRAPH BOOK.]

It was during one of these holidays at Old Mar Lodge that I made the
acquaintance of Mr. Gladstone. He and Mrs. Gladstone came to stay with
Lord Fife at Mar Lodge, which was about three-quarters of a mile away
from the house we occupied, and we sometimes went to lunch there on
Sundays. On one occasion when they were there I sang "Angels, ever
bright and fair," and "Ave Maria" of Gounod in the chapel after the
service, at the request of Lord Fife. Later in the afternoon they came
over to us to tea, and I had the pleasure of a long conversation with
Mr. Gladstone. His personality greatly charmed me, and I was
particularly impressed by his great interest in music and by the
beautiful quality of his speaking voice.

In the winter of 1884 I sang at Brussels, La Haye, Amsterdam, and
Antwerp, where the public was most enthusiastic. Besides the opera I
sang at a big concert given by the Antwerpische Toonkunslenaars
Vereeniging--a musical society--when I was presented with a badge of
honour and a magnificent basket of roses.

At Brussels L'Association des Artistes Musiciens gave me their badge and
a gorgeous bouquet of flowers with inscribed ribbons. Here I met for the
first time Mr. Gewaert, the Director of the Conservatoire and a great
musician. He used to come frequently to the opera, and was a very good
friend to me.

The Handel Festival of 1885 at the Crystal Palace was conducted for the
second time by Mr. Manns, he having been appointed three years before in
place of Sir Michael Costa, who was taken suddenly ill. The artistes
engaged were, besides myself, Madame Patey, Madame Trebelli, Mlle.
Valleria, Mr. Lloyd, Mr. Mass, Mr. Santley, and Signor Foli. I note from
an official return that the number of visitors to the Palace on one of
the days of this festival was the record one of 22,100--an enormous
audience for a concert. One of the most striking features, and one that
made a great impression upon me, was the absolute silence that prevailed
in this immense audience whilst I was singing "I know that my Redeemer
liveth." It was a silence that one could almost feel. The chorus
numbered over 3,000 and the band 500, so that, when all these were
singing and playing and were joined by the great organ, the effect was
something astounding and is not to be easily described.

The two important novelties at the Birmingham Festival of 1885, which
were more than ordinarily important, were Gounod's "Mors et Vita," and
Dvork's "Spectre's Bride." I sang the principal parts in both these
works; indeed, they were composed in part for me and with regard to my
voice. M. Gounod did not come to England to conduct his work, as in the
case of the "Redemption" three years before, but Herr Dvork rehearsed
and conducted his cantata.

I have already mentioned Dvork, in connection with his "Stabat Mater,"
when speaking of oratorio; but this was the first occasion on which I
met him. He was a most interesting man, and an eminent though extremely
modest musician. I had studied the "Spectre's Bride" diligently for
weeks, and as I was unable to go to the composer at Pesth, I was obliged
to form my own ideas about it. I found at rehearsal, much to my
disappointment, that my conception of some of the numbers did not quite
agree with his, but we managed to affect a compromise, and I was able to
sing them as he wished without sacrificing my own conception of the
part. The performance met with the greatest possible success at
Birmingham.

"Mors et Vita" was also most favourably received, and some parts of it
had a greater vogue than even the "Redemption." This oratorio was given
over and over again in England, and I often had the privilege of singing
it in London. Her late Majesty asked for it at the Albert Hall, and a
performance was organised for her there.

The Bristol Festival, which took place this year, was again conducted by
Sir Charles Halle, and I should like to say a word in testimony of my
admiration of this sterling musician. He was a student of every class of
music, and was equally at home in Italian, German, English, and French,
in operatic, classical, or sacred music. He instituted the Halle
Subscription Concerts in Manchester, and carried them on for many years.
The season for these lasted twenty weeks, with one concert per week in
Manchester; the days intervening being taken up with concerts in other
towns, the orchestra sometimes going as far as Edinburgh, Glasgow, and
Aberdeen. For the concerts out of Manchester Halle took with him, on
account of the expense, only forty musicians, and this gained for the
enterprise the nickname in the North of "Hall Baba and the Forty
Thieves."

Sir Charles Hall was an extraordinary worker. I have sung with him very
many times, at his own concerts and at festivals, but all the necessary
correspondence about engagements, programmes, etc., was always in his
own handwriting; and all this was done whilst he was travelling,
rehearsing, conducting, and studying his piano, for he always played at
least one pianoforte solo at his own concerts. The musicians of England
owe much to Sir Charles Halle for the amount of good music he
introduced.

In the early part of 1886 I went to Holland to give some performances of
opera with the company of French artistes then at the theatres there.
This was my first visit to Holland, and I was much struck with the
country, its peacefulness, and above all its cleanliness. The Hague is a
very pretty town, but more like a country town than a capital city. I
was lucky enough to please the opera-goers, and the nights upon which I
sang soon became anxiously looked forward to.

[Illustration: Liszt photo and autograph]

Towards the end of March of 1886 the Abb Liszt paid a visit to London,
and this occasion was taken advantage of by English musicians to do
honour to the celebrated virtuoso and composer. A reception was given
for him in, if I remember aright, the Grafton Gallery, and I was
delighted to have the opportunity of meeting the old musician of
world-wide fame.

The fact of his coming to England had been known a long time in advance,
and it was thought only due to him to perform one of his works. His
oratorio "St. Elizabeth" was prepared, and I was invited to undertake
the title-part. The performance took place at St. James's Hall with a
success not likely to be forgotten by any one present. The hall was
packed to suffocation. The Prince and Princess of Wales and other
members of the Royal Family were present; and all the principal
musicians of England, and of course Liszt himself, assisted at the
performance. It was not very long after this visit to London--in fact, I
believe within a year--that his death took place.

I had the privilege in 1886 of taking part (if only a small one) in a
most interesting ceremonial--viz. the opening in state of the Colonial
and Indian Exhibition by Her Majesty the Queen. This ceremony took place
in the Royal Albert Hall. The Queen, the Royal Family, and the officials
of the household were seated on the front part of the platform, a large
orchestra and chorus being arranged behind them. The immense hall was
full to overflowing, a great part of the audience consisting of
representatives of the British Colonies and colonials visiting or living
in England, and it was a most striking thing, and one never to be
forgotten, to see our late Empress-Queen surrounded by nine thousand or
ten thousand people belonging to every race and every religion on the
face of the earth, and yet who were all her subjects. It brought home to
one the extent and power of the British Empire.

Of course my share was in the musical part of the ceremony. I sang with
the chorus an ode written expressly for the occasion, the words being by
Lord Tennyson and the music by Sir Arthur Sullivan, and near the end of
the ceremony I sang "Home, Sweet Home." The great occasion with its
wonderful surroundings, and the knowledge that I had to sing all alone
before such a large and important gathering, made me feel so nervous
that I feared it would be impossible for me to sing. The "Hallelujah
Chorus," during the performance of which everybody stands, was being
sung just before my turn was to come, and I asked Sir Arthur Sullivan to
place himself in front of me so that I might sit down for a minute to
recover. Luckily this was effectual, and I was able to fulfil my duties.
I shall never forget this day, nor shall I ever forget the Queen's reply
to the Address read to her by H.R.H. the Prince of Wales. Her Majesty
read her reply herself, and the effect in the great space of the Albert
Hall was marvellous. Every word was heard distinctly and clearly; her
voice was sweet and possessed of splendid carrying power. I am sure that
not one word was lost to any one of that vast audience.

Another interesting ceremony of the kind, which I may mention here in
passing, was the opening of the Imperial Institute by Queen Victoria in
1893, at which it was arranged that I should sing the National Anthem.
This fine building in South Kensington was intended as a rendezvous for
colonials, where they could meet to discuss the affairs and view samples
of the products of their various countries. The great hall of the
Institute was not then finished, so the ceremony took place in a
temporary hall, and the sight there was a most brilliant one. A large
orchestra was conducted by Sir Arthur Sullivan, and played a grand march
specially composed by him for the occasion, and also accompanied me in
"God Save the Queen." I remember that the day was a splendid spring
day--in fact, real "Queen's weather."

It was in December of this same year (1893) that the new Queen's Hall in
Langham Place was opened, and, to celebrate this, a performance of the
"Hymn of Praise" was given, at which I was engaged to take part, Mr.
Lloyd being also in the cast.

The Leeds Festival of 1886 was noteworthy for the production of Arthur
Sullivan's "Golden Legend," with which I was very happy to be
associated, and which I have sung many times since. I have seen many new
works produced at our English festivals, but I have never seen any one
that has had such spontaneous and lasting success as the "Golden
Legend." The Town Hall was crammed at advanced prices on this occasion,
and the enthusiasm at the close of the cantata was tremendous; one could
hardly believe the English public capable of showing so much. Two other
new works were given at this festival--viz. Dvork's "St. Ludmila" and
Mackenzie's "Story of Sayid."

The latter part of this autumn was taken up with a concert tour in
England, and amongst the artistes singing with me was Mlle. Antoinette
Trebelli, a daughter of the well-known Madame Trebelli, a charming light
soprano with a very clear, pretty voice, and a good singer.

I have been engaged for and given many concert tours myself, and it is
wonderful to see how the publics of the provincial towns enjoy a good
concert--how they flock to it, how silent they are during the
performance of a piece, and how they show their pleasure when it is
finished. I have always endeavoured to sing good music myself, and have
always had as much good, even classical, music in my programmes as
possible, but the public appreciate it all, and, like Oliver Twist,
invariably want more. There is an enormous amount of money spent in
England during the year on music, and this, combined with their great
appreciation of it, is another refutation of the notion that the English
are not musical.

When I first made a concert tour in England I was surprised at the
excellent concert rooms which are to be found in the principal towns.
Many of them are very large and some very fine, accommodating large
audiences, often over two thousand people, and some even larger than
that. The town halls, always used for music, of Birmingham, Leeds, and
Newcastle are especially fine, and the concert halls of Liverpool,
Plymouth, Bristol, Edinburgh, and Glasgow are splendid rooms and will
each seat close upon three thousand people. Nearly all of these have a
large orchestra for band and chorus, and possess an organ, so that the
oratorios or concerts on the largest scale can be given. I do not know
of any other country possessing so many and such fine halls for
concerts. There is one thing, however, which they nearly all lack--and
that is, comfortable waiting-rooms for those taking part in the
performance. Most of these are inconveniently situated, badly lighted
and ventilated, and sometimes without fireplaces. It really seems that,
when a hall is built, the last thing the architect thinks of is the
comfort of those who have to do the work of the evening.

In the beginning of 1887 I was again engaged for several performances at
the Berlin Royal Opera House. I sang in "Lohengrin" and the "Flying
Dutchman" in German, and in "Rigoletto," "Traviata," and "Faust" in
Italian. The public and the critics were good enough to say very kind
things about my realisation of the character of Senta, and the Emperor
sent me his compliments and thanks.

At that time the Empress Augusta was in the habit of giving an evening
party every Thursday, to which only her intimate acquaintances and some
official people were invited. I was asked to sing at one of these, and
it was most interesting to be present and to mix on comparatively
familiar terms with all these notable people. One thing struck me very
much in the manner of serving the refreshments. Instead of their being
prepared in a separate apartment, when the proper moment was reached,
several servants brought in a number of small tables, placed them here
and there about the room, and set out upon them all kinds of good
things. The evening altogether was conducted in a _sans crmonie_
manner, which added in a great measure to the enjoyment.

Sir Edward Malet was the English Ambassador in Berlin at that time. I
had the privilege of knowing him and Lady Ermyntrude, and I enjoyed two
or three delightful evenings at the Embassy. Sir Edward asked me to sing
at a concert at the Embassy, to which he invited only the Crown Prince
(afterwards Emperor Frederick) and the Crown Princess and members of the
Royal Family. It was very select and most delightful. I was much charmed
with the manner and the kindness of the Crown Prince. He put me at my
ease in a moment, and chatted with me almost like an old friend.

During our holiday in Scotland in this same year we saw a good deal of
the Crown Prince of Germany. His illness, which later on terminated
fatally, was then coming on, and Sir Morell Mackenzie, the great throat
specialist, had ordered him to spend some few weeks at Braemar in the
hope that the fine air and perfect quiet there might be of benefit to
him. He was one of the nicest and kindest men I have ever met, and one
could not be in his company long without feeling perfectly at one's
ease. He came to tea one day at Old Mar Lodge, and stayed a long time
chatting about all kinds of things. I remember his telling me a little
story which shows his sympathetic nature. He said, "When I was engaged
to the Princess, I was at Balmoral, and we walked out one day and found
some white heather at a certain place. Well, I went to Balmoral
yesterday and visited the same spot, and there, curiously enough, found
again some white heather; so I packed it up and sent it to the Princess
in Berlin, as it is her birthday to-morrow."

After Berlin I went to Holland, where I sang at The Hague, Amsterdam,
Rotterdam, and Harlech, and then gave a few performances in Brussels and
Antwerp.

It was during this time that Sir Arthur Sullivan gave his "Golden
Legend" in Berlin, and just before my last night in Antwerp, which was
the end of my engagement, I received an urgent telegram telling me that
the performance had not satisfied him at all owing to the soprano, a
German belonging to the opera, not properly understanding that class of
music, and consequently not having sung the part to the best advantage.
He begged me to come and sing at a second performance. We looked out the
trains, calculated the journey and the time there would be for
preparation and rest, and telegraphed back "I will come." I sang in
"Traviata" at Antwerp on Thursday evening, started at 7 a.m. on Friday,
reached Berlin at 11 p.m., and found Sir Arthur Sullivan on the
platform, waiting anxiously to make sure by ocular demonstration that I
had arrived. As I had already sung his work under his own direction,
there was no need to rehearse, and indeed I wanted all the time there
was to spare for repose.

The performance took place in the Opera House before a crowded audience,
which included the Crown Prince and Princess and several members of the
Royal Family, and culminated in a great success. Sir Arthur and I were
called to the front many times during the evening, and after the second
part I was sent for to the Royal box, and heartily congratulated by the
Prince and Princess. The critics said that "Madame Albani had shown them
the beauties of the work, which had not been apparent at the first
hearing, and had converted a comparative failure into a triumph." Many
people begged for another performance, but Sir Arthur thought it best to
"leave well alone."

In the latter part of this year I made a concert tour of the principal
English towns, also visiting Ireland and Scotland. It has always been a
great pleasure to me to go to Ireland and to sing there, and I fancy
that I have been able to give pleasure in return to the Irish. They love
music, and are most attentive whilst it is going on, and most
enthusiastic when it is finished.

It was during a subsequent concert tour in Ireland that I made the
acquaintance of two very celebrated and interesting men, Dr. Knox, the
Protestant Primate of Ireland, since dead, and the well-known Bishop of
Deny, both of whom kindly invited me and my husband to stay with them
for my concerts.

The occasion of my meeting the Archbishop was at a concert which I gave
to assist the Armagh Philharmonic Society, when I was invited to the
Palace to stay. Armagh is a very small town, and consequently cannot
afford to pay good artistes. Therefore my visit produced great
excitement and enthusiasm. I was splendidly received and, at the close
of the concert, was presented with an illuminated address. We also had a
very pleasant stay at Londonderry with the old Bishop, and I do not
think that I ever met two more genial and agreeable men.

In December of this year a performance was arranged at Windsor for Her
Majesty. I sang "Hear my prayer," "With verdure clad" from the
"Creation," and "From Thy love as a Father" from Gounod's "Redemption."
The choir of St. George's Chapel sang with me, and Sir Walter Parratt
was at the organ.

At the beginning of the following year I broke new ground, and went to
Norway, Sweden, and Denmark for concerts. I visited Stockholm,
Copenhagen, and Christiana; these being about the only towns large
enough for an important concert.

Whilst in Denmark I was honoured with an invitation to sing at the
Palace before the King and Queen. They were most kind to me, and the
King presented me with a decoration, the Order of Merit. After one of my
songs the Queen said to me, "Do you ever breathe?" This I took as a
great compliment to my singing. I afterwards received the following
letter from the Queen:


"Amalienbobg, 1888.

"Je ne peux me refuser le dsir de prendre de nos nouvelles, chre
Madame Albani, tout en vous remerciant pour le plaisir incomparable que
j'ai eu d'entendre votre chant si simpatique et beau, dont je garde
ainsi que le Roi, et certainement tout le monde un souvenir des plus
charmants. Dites-moi comment vous allez et tous mes voeux pour votre
voyage.

"LOUISE."


As it was in winter that this visit took place, all was ice and snow,
resembling my Canada; but it struck me that Scandinavia must be a lovely
country in the summer. There is so much sea, so many islands, all of
which lend themselves to delightful excursions, especially near
Stockholm. The celebrated pianist, de Pachmann, took part in some of my
concerts here.

I also sang at some representations in Holland and Belgium before going
back to England. At Antwerp Gounod's "Romeo and Juliet" was mounted for
the first time for many years, and I sang the part of Juliet. Gounod
paid me the high compliment of coming from Paris to conduct the first
performance.




CHAPTER XIII

TOURS IN CANADA AND THE UNITED STATES


In January of 1889 I started for Canada, having organised a series of
concerts in the principal cities. This was the first time I had visited
my native country upon an extended tour, the two previous visits having
been but short and limited; but now I went there to give concerts in as
many towns as the time at my disposal would allow. My presence in Canada
was therefore taken advantage of to fete me and to show the pleasure my
countrymen felt at my being amongst them again.

I took my own artistes from England, and we went direct to Montreal and
gave two concerts there, meeting a great number of old friends. At
Quebec, which I next visited, I was received most kindly and was
overwhelmed with attentions. The Premier of the province gave a
_djeuner_ for me, to which a number of the principal people of Quebec
were invited. I was asked to attend a meeting of the Parliament when a
debate was in progress, and one of the members, who was speaking,
alluded to my presence in the House, rather to my discomfiture.

But the prettiest and most characteristic event took place when the Snow
Shoe Clubs assembled at our hotel. In Canada there are many clubs formed
for the purpose of promoting the sport of snow-shoeing. The members wear
suits made of very thick white blanket adorned with facings and ribbons
of various colours, according to the club. All these young men, to the
number of over two hundred, came to my hotel one evening after dark,
carrying torches, and escorted me in my sleigh to the Parliament House.
There I was shown into a room looking on to the front of the building,
whilst the snow-shoes assaulted it with fireworks. Roman candles,
squibs, crackers, and rockets went off in hundreds, and the effect of
these together with the torches upon the white snow was really like
fairyland.

Quebec is an old and very picturesque city, almost entirely French. It
is situated on high ground overlooking the River St. Lawrence, and
magnificent views can be obtained both up and down the river from the
principal hotel. In summer time, or as soon as the bay and river are
free from ice, the large Atlantic liners come up the river to Quebec and
go on as far as Montreal.

An ice palace had been erected this winter in Montreal. This palace is
built of large blocks of ice sawn out of the river. Water is then thrown
over them, which freezes hard and binds all together. It is a beautiful
erection, and is large enough to give balls in. Lighted with electric
light and being transparent, the effect is lovely.

Ottawa was our next town, and although this is the seat of Government of
the Dominion and the place where the Governor-General resides, it is a
small town compared to Montreal or Toronto. My husband and I were
invited by the Premier, Sir John Macdonald, to stay with him and Lady
Macdonald whilst we were in Ottawa. This visit was to me one of great
pleasure, and I was delighted to make the acquaintance and to be staying
in the house of such a remarkable man as Sir John Macdonald. But he and
Lady Macdonald were most kind and did everything they could for our
comfort and pleasure. They gave a large reception for me, inviting
everybody in Ottawa who was anybody, and particularly those whom they
thought I should like to meet. I believe I had to shake hands with
something like five hundred people. I stayed a few days, but gave only
one concert, another one being arranged later on.

One evening in the middle of dinner, a few friends having been invited,
Sir John was called out, and he asked my husband to go with him. It
turned out that he had promised the people to open a new ice slide, and
would not disappoint them. They drove two or three miles and were then
put into toboggans and shot across the Ottawa River in the dark, Sir
John in the first one and my husband following in another. There was, of
course, nothing to fear, but I was rather anxious until they returned.

The Macdonalds occupied a beautiful house, "Earnscliffe," on the banks
of the Ottawa, which is now in the possession of Dr. Charles Harriss,
who is doing so much for music in Canada and the Empire generally.

[Illustration: Autographed photo of Sir Wilfrid Laurier.]

I also met Sir Wilfrid Laurier, whom I have had the pleasure of meeting
many times since in Canada and in London. He is much loved both by the
English and French Canadians, and he has done much to remove any little
jealousies that may have existed between the two nationalities.

Remembering that the English conquered the French in Canada, it has
always struck me as curious that a French-Canadian should be Premier and
be liked by both sides. I believe the harmony that exists between the
two nations is due in a great measure to the absolute liberty allowed
the French-Canadians by their English brethren. Their religion is not
interfered with, nor their schools, and they are on a par in everything
with the English, and have equal rights. The French-Canadians live
happily and contentedly, and bring up large families. They usually have
families of twelve or thirteen, sometimes even more; and if there happen
to be less, they think they have not done their duty to their country.

I have married an Englishman, and have made my home in England, but I
still remain at heart a French-Canadian.

The railway directors in Canada were very good to me, and made my
journeys much more comfortable than they might otherwise have been. The
president of a railway and also one or two of the higher officials have
their private cars, which contain sleeping-berths, day saloon, and a
kitchen, with a cook and a porter. We had Mr. Van Horne's car on our
journey to Ottawa, and the negro cook served us such an excellent dinner
that, when it was finished, we sent for him and complimented him. His
answer was, "Glad you liked it, but if you come again I guess I'll show
you what we can do on wheels." This man had been in the car when the
late Lord Lathom with others had gone across the Continent, and they too
were delighted with "Jim's" cooking. Lord Lathom went through the mock
ceremony of knighting him, and after that he went by the name of "Sir
James."

After Ottawa we gave concerts in Hamilton, London, Toronto, Ottawa, and
Montreal again, and then went into the United States on a long trip
across to the Pacific Ocean, giving concerts at the principal towns on
the way, Albany being one of them, and the others Boston, Cleveland,
Cincinnati, Chicago, St. Louis, Detroit, Denver, and San Francisco. In
most of these towns I gave only one concert, but in Boston, Cincinnati,
and Chicago there were two, and in San Francisco as many as five.

It is a long journey across the continent, somewhat over three thousand
miles, but we broke the journey into what the Americans call "short
jumps" by stopping at these towns en route. It is very interesting to
see the large towns, so unlike European cities, most of which are the
growth of only a few years. Denver, for instance, at the time I am
speaking of, was a large town, but fifteen years before there was not a
house, only rough prairie. A great deal of this long journey is very
uninteresting, there being long stretches of sandy prairie without a
tree and hardly a bush. Some of it, however, is fine enough to make one
forget the absence of beautiful scenery.

I also gave two concerts in Salt Lake City, the old home of the Mormons.
This is a rather pretty town, the dwelling-houses having gardens
attached to them, and there is a lovely stream of running water through
several of the principal streets. Looking along the main street, there
is a wonderful view over the prairie, with Pike's Peak, 14,000 ft. high,
in the distance. We visited the Mormon Tabernacle, which is a very large
oval building, and so wonderful for its acoustic properties that
standing at one end of it one can hear a pin dropped into a hat at the
other. Just before we were there an Act had been passed forbidding
polygamy among the Mormons, and in Salt Lake City no man was allowed
more than one wife. In America a thing forbidden in one state can be
practised with impunity in the next. Therefore some of the elders went
into the state adjoining, taking two or three wives each, and so evaded
the law.

I sang "Home, Sweet Home" as an encore at some of these concerts in the
United States, and was much astonished to find that it appealed to my
audiences there nearly, if not quite, as much as it does in England. I
was at a loss to understand why until I reflected that the population of
America largely consists of emigrants from Europe and mostly from Great
Britain, and that the song brought back to them memories of their old
homes and all the associations connected therewith, which in many cases
had been partly forgotten. I know that this beautiful melody was always
received with much enthusiasm, and listened to with the greatest
pleasure. It is interesting to recall that the words of "Home, Sweet
Home" were written by an American, John Howard Payne.

We reached San Francisco at last, and found roses in full bloom (in
April) in the open air, and fresh strawberries and raspberries served at
breakfast. (I love raspberries!) The climate of California is an
exceedingly mild one, and people live to a very old age. It is said that
they live long enough to forget how old they are, and also that at last
they go about on hands and knees, being too old to stand upright. I was
told this, but cannot say that I altogether believe it. I gave four
miscellaneous concerts, and for my fifth and last appearance gave the
Garden Scene and last act of "Faust," having the necessary quartette of
artistes, and having the costumes with us. Signor Beviguani was the
accompanist of this tour, a very clever musician, and a very nice man to
be associated with.

On leaving San Francisco we returned to New York, only breaking the
journey to give a concert at one place, Denver. There was no time for
more, as I was very soon due in London for the Covent Garden season. At
Denver, there being no hall available, the concert took place in the
large Baptist church, and the artistes stood to sing upon the lid which
covered the dipping-tank. To give a concert of operatic and secular
music in a church is thought nothing of in America, or was not at the
time of which I write.

We reached New York on the Friday afternoon, and sailed from there on
Saturday, reaching Liverpool a week later. Although the sea is not for
me the most delightful part of the globe, I must say that I enjoyed the
rest and quiet after the hard work and fatigue of a long tour, the
inconveniences of so many strange hotels, and the dirt and rattle of
seven thousand to eight thousand miles of railway travel.

In December of this same year I was engaged on a very important operatic
tour in the United States, which extended to Mexico and San Francisco.
It was under the management of Henry Abbey and Maurice Grau, and in the
company were Madame Patti, Madame Nordica, Madame Scalchi, Signor
Tamagno, Signor Ravelli, and many others whose names are not so well
known. We commenced at Chicago, opening the new large Opera House, the
Auditorium, which had just been completed. We stayed at Chicago one
month, giving performances every night with a matinee every Saturday. As
there were Madame Patti, Madame Nordica, and myself to sing, it was
possible to give all these nights and to present a very varied
repertoire.

It was here that I first sang Verdi's "Otello," which had already been
produced in Italy. The part of Otello had been specially written for
Tamagno, who had sung it when the opera was first given in Milan. He was
coached in the part by Verdi himself and also by Boito, who wrote the
libretto, and the result was a very perfect performance of the role. I
can never forget his whole realisation of the part, which I think one of
the best I have ever seen by any artiste. His physique was specially
adapted to the character, and his splendid voice and temperament,
combined with a wonderful amount of sympathy, made his performance of
Otello a most remarkable one. His acting was wonderful, and in the last
act, where he kills Desdemona, he was so apparently real that at first
he made me quite nervous that he might make a mistake and forget that he
was only acting. I sang this opera with him many times subsequently, and
always with a great deal of pleasure.

It was during this engagement in New York that a rather touching
incident occurred. The _World_ newspaper gave a Christmas dinner to
about, if I remember aright, four hundred of the street newsboys, and
asked me to come and sing to them during the repast. The entertainment
took place in a very large restaurant in the business part of New York
and this was full of these poor boys, my piano being placed right in the
midst of them. Whilst I was singing, I noticed a small boy sitting quite
near and staring intently at me, quite neglecting a large plate full of
meat pie and vegetables which was set before him. One of the ladies
attending on the little guests said to him, "But, my boy, why don't you
eat your dinner?" to which he replied, still gazing at me, "I can't
eat--I've got enough." We spent Christmas at Chicago. I remember that
before leaving England we had a Christmas pudding made at home and
packed in our luncheon basket. This we took to America, and together
with a few friends ate it at Chicago on Christmas Day, finding that it
was none the worse for its travels.

The four weeks' season at Chicago being at an end, we all went to Mexico
City, which is, I believe, about 2,500 miles due south from Chicago. We
had a special train of thirteen large American cars, having to transport
artistes, orchestra, chorus, and heaps of baggage, scenery, properties,
etc.

It was a terribly long and weary journey from Monday evening until the
following Friday, but then we were obliged to stop nearly twenty-four
hours in a village, as a railway bridge ahead of us had been broken a
few days previously and the line was not yet repaired. There was a
restaurant car on our train, but the provisions were very scanty, and in
consequence our meals were anything but first-rate. The railway people
had promised us all sorts of luxuries; they made us pay in advance, and
then forgot to supply the luxuries!

The country through which we passed was for the most part extremely
ugly, being almost a desert with very little vegetation, but huge cactus
dotted here and there. From the leaves of this cactus is extracted a
native spirit called "pulke." The peasants we saw at the stations were
in a very primitive state.

However, we reached the city of Mexico at last, and went to the hotel,
only to find it, as regards comfort and food, rather worse than the
train we had just left. Luckily we had had something to eat--I cannot
say "dined"--on the train; for we found that in Mexico it was not the
custom for an hotel to supply anything to eat or drink, but that
everybody went to restaurants for their meals. There was not a fireplace
in any of our rooms, and I believe that this also is not a popular
institution in Mexico. As the city is over 7,000 ft. above sea-level and
there is often ice in the streets at night, this absence of fires is
very disagreeable. The natives get over the difficulty by lounging in
the sun, doing nothing all day, and when the sun goes to bed they go
too.

Mexico is so far away that the people seldom get anything in the shape
of music, and until our arrival it had been several years since any
opera had been heard. There was consequently considerable excitement
about us, and a large subscription was made for the two weeks that we
were to stay. We were told that the ladies sold or pawned their jewels
and pianos, and the young men went without a good dinner for a month in
order to buy tickets for the opera. The performances were very
successful, and the public was most enthusiastic and evidently
thoroughly enjoyed the operas, which were performed in a style and with
artistes that they had certainly never heard before, and most likely
would not hear again, at least for a very long time.

I must relate one experience that I had. The arrangements on the stage
left much to be desired, and there were very few of the modern
requirements to be obtained. I was singing in "Otello," and in the last
act, the bedroom scene, Signor Tamagno requires for his death the bed to
be placed on a platform with three steps leading up to it, down which he
rolls in his death agony. The steps were forthcoming, but there was no
platform. Tamagno would not relinquish his scene, so the bed was put
upon the backs of four men on their hands and knees, and upon this
insecure foundation I had to go to bed and be smothered by Otello.
Nothing happened, luckily, but I was very anxious indeed until the act
was finished and the curtain lowered. Although the public knew nothing,
it was a very ridiculous position for a prima donna in a very dramatic
situation. At the end of the two weeks the opera company should have
left to give a few performances at Los Angeles, but this engagement, for
some reason I am not aware of, fell through, and we stayed in Mexico and
announced three extra nights--one with Madame Patti, one with me, and
one with Madame Nordica. For these three nights the theatre was
practically empty; not because the public did not care to come, but
simply because they could not, having spent all their money at the
previous performances.

I enjoyed the climate of Mexico City, which is very clear and bright.
Even in January the sun is so hot in the daytime that one has to keep in
the shade, but at night it is very chilly. In our hotel, with the help
of an oil stove, which we had to buy, and a liberal use of railway rugs,
we managed to keep fairly warm. We had arranged to have our food sent in
from a restaurant. This was brought by a very dirty young waiter with a
shock head and in his shirt-sleeves. It was always nearly cold, owing to
its having to be carried through the streets, and generally some of the
most important items were forgotten. The waiter excelled all his
previous deeds when he brought up our last breakfast by letting the tray
fall on the stone stairs and smashing everything on it. It made such a
clatter that some people in the hotel thought that a revolution had
broken out.

We had another long journey, nearly three days and nights, to San
Francisco, which was our next place. Nothing very eventful happened on
the journey, except that we were nearly stopped two or three times by
what they call in America a "wash-out," and had to go very carefully. A
wash-out is the term given to the floods which are caused by the melting
of the snow on the mountains at the beginning of spring. Large
quantities of water come down, inundate the low-lying land, and very
often wash away the railway, sometimes causing bad accidents. However,
nothing of this sort happened to us, and we arrived at San Francisco all
right, much delighted to get into the beautiful Palace Hotel after so
much discomfort and inferior food in Mexico and the train.

We remained here two weeks, and I sang in "Faust," Boito's
"Mefistofele," "Otello," and "Huguenots "--the two last with Tamagno.
All the performances of the company were very successful, and were
attended by large crowds. The public are rather lawless in San
Francisco--at least, the lower classes. It was found that some of these
music-lovers had obtained a ladder, by means of which they climbed
through a window on the gallery staircase, and so got into the theatre
above the check-taker and evaded payment. A policeman was placed at this
window to stop this, but he, not seeing why he should not profit by
their anxiety to see the opera, made them pay, putting the dollars into
his own pocket, and then let them in.

I liked the people I met in San Francisco very much and experienced a
great deal of kindness and hospitality from them. It is the custom in
New York rather to disparage the people in the West, and to look upon
them as not being up to their own standard; but I must say this was not
my experience. I met many nice people and much enjoyed their society.

We went from San Francisco to Denver, Omaha, Louisville, paid a return
visit of a week to Chicago, stayed at Boston for a week, and then
arrived in New York for a short season of three weeks. Some of the
American newspapers amused me very much; they vie with one another in
inventing sensational headings to their articles. At Denver one of them
had the following headline with reference to "Otello": "Albani and
Tamagno: the two stars shine together in resplendent beauty and
strength." Another one in San Francisco began thus: "Opera in Wet
Weather. Huguenots against the Rain, and Music wins the Day"! Portraits
of the principal artistes, too, generally appear with the criticism, and
I cannot say that they are always very flattering. However, they were
universally nice and complimentary to me, so that I brought away with me
a good opinion of the American Press.

After the season in New York was finished--and this was also the end of
the operatic tour--I went with a few of the artistes to give some
performances in Albany, Toronto, Montreal, and Quebec before leaving for
England. It was the first time that I had sung in a whole opera in these
places, and consequently a great deal of interest was aroused amongst my
old friends. I sang in "Lucia" and "La Traviata" in each city, and may
say, I hope without being conceited, that I had a splendid reception at
each. In Albany I was given a reception at the High School, where I met
many old friends and others, and where speeches were made. I sang to the
pupils "Home, Sweet Home" and "Robin Adair."

At Montreal I gave a concert in aid of the Hospital of Notre Dame, a
French institution, and therefore one appealing peculiarly to me. It was
splendidly responded to by the public, and resulted in a considerable
sum being realised for the charity. At the conclusion of the concert I
was presented with a very handsome album containing one hundred views of
Canada from Halifax to Vancouver, and also an illuminated address. At
Quebec I sang only in a concert, there being no available theatre there.
The public made quite a fte for me on this occasion. M. Frchette, the
poet of whom I have before spoken, came on to the platform and read an
address in my honour that he had written. In fact, this visit to Canada
proved almost as important and quite as delightful as my first visit a
few years before.

Six years later, in November 1896, I started on another concert tour in
Canada. I had returned to Canada once or twice during the interval, but
only for short and comparatively unimportant tours. The present tour was
to be a much more important one than its predecessors, as we had
arranged to go right across the continent to Vancouver and Victoria on
the shores of the Pacific, stopping at all the towns of any importance
on the way to give concerts. We began at Halifax and went through to
Vancouver, a distance of something like 3,500 miles.

The plan for the concerts was, where a stage and scenery were available,
to give a first part of miscellaneous pieces, and in the second part the
Garden Act and Prison Scene of "Faust" with costumes and scenery. I had
selected artistes who were capable of undertaking this work. In both
these acts of "Faust" no chorus is required, and the scenery necessary
for them is to be found in every theatre. Our tenor was a very good
singer, but he had never been on the stage, and I remember his
astonishing our fellow-passengers on the voyage out by appearing one day
in the saloon in the full costume of Faust. He said he wanted to get
accustomed to the dress, but they all thought at first that a new
passenger had come on board. We rehearsed, when the sea permitted, on
the voyage; but one had generally to hold on to the piano, and
occasionally to make a hurried bolt.

We gave concerts in Halifax, St. John's, Quebec, Montreal, Toronto, and
Ottawa--all places that I had sung in before--and then began our journey
long "out West." The through train to Vancouver starts from Montreal,
distant from Vancouver 2,900 miles, and does not stop all the way except
for the necessary delays for examining and watering the train, etc., and
at the top of the Rocky Mountains for lunch and dinner. The Canadian
Pacific Railway is celebrated for the comfort of its sleeping and
dining-cars, and for the civility of its employs. The Company most
kindly put a special car at my disposal for our party, to stop where we
stopped and bring us back to Montreal. This made our journey most
comfortable, especially as, when the train came at a very early hour in
the morning through a town where we had stopped, we all went to bed in
the car, were picked up by the train, and woke up in the morning to find
ourselves again on the road and the breakfast ready.

In all the 2,900 miles of this long journey there are only four towns
sufficiently large to support a concert--Winnipeg, Calgary, Vancouver,
and Brandon; but the tedium of the journey is lightened by the
magnificent scenery one passes through.

Winnipeg was the first town we visited after leaving what may be called
Central Canada--that is, Toronto and its neighbourhood. It is 1,420
miles from Montreal, and is fast becoming a great industrial centre.
Situated in the middle of the plains of Manitoba, and 700 feet above
sea-level, it lies in the midst of the quiet corn-growing district
where, during the summer, a golden sea of waving corn is to be seen on
all sides as far as the eye can reach. At the time of my visit quite
other conditions prevailed, as the thermometer stood at forty degrees
below zero, an exceptional degree of cold even for Canada. This severity
of climate, however, did not deter the public from attending the
concert. This was given in the large drill hall, and we had a very
enthusiastic audience of over four thousand.

From here we went to Calgary, 1,500 miles further across the continent,
and gave two concerts. Calgary is about 3,400 feet above the sea, and is
a small town in the midst of the great cattle-ranches, which belong,
many of them, to Englishmen, amongst whom are to be found many young men
of good families who, for various reasons, have emigrated to try their
fortune in Canada. Advantage was taken of my visit and concerts to make
a regular holiday week, one or two dances being got up, and other
amusements, during the time we were there. The young men from the
ranches came in to Calgary from long distances--a few, I was told, as
far as 100 miles--to stay and have a good time. I was surprised to see
walking about the streets young men, evidently gentlemen, in suits of
clothes of London make; and at the concerts the appearance of the hall
made me fancy myself in St. James's Hall, so well dressed was the
audience, most of them being in full evening dress.

Whilst at Calgary we visited the barracks of the North-West Mounted
Police. This force was instituted to repress the incursions and raids of
the North American Indians, and generally to keep order in those immense
tracts of territory. The men must be of excellent character, bold and
fearless, as they have to be away from barracks, two or perhaps three
together, for days at a time, in the saddle all day, and sleeping at
night rolled up in a blanket on the ground. They are police,
magistrates, and, when necessary, executioners. They arrest, try, and
punish offenders. We saw in a cell an Indian who had been punished
numberless times for various offences, and whose latest exploit was
throwing a baby on to the fire. He glared at us more like a wild beast
than a human being, and I rejoiced that an iron-grated door intervened
between him and myself.

The high peaks of the Rocky Mountains can be seen from Calgary quite
distinctly, although nearly 100 miles distant, and three or four hours
after leaving the town the train begins to find itself amongst the
foothills surrounding them.

After leaving Calgary the passage of the Rockies and the Selkirks
begins, and the mountains are only left, after a journey of 800 miles,
as Vancouver is reached. At the highest point of the pass the railway
attains an altitude of over 5,000 feet, and the whole journey occupies
on average, from Atlantic to Pacific, six days and nights, though of
course in winter delays are apt to occur through the severe snowdrifts.
The scenery of this route is simply marvellous, and affords a constant
panorama of wonder and delight. As the train approaches the highlands,
the mountains narrow in until the line passes between two rocky walls of
dizzy height, called "The Gap," which suggests sentinels forming what
looks like an impenetrable barrier. As rays of light fall through, they
reveal on the rocky surface shades of deep purple softening into white
tinged with gold, and above again rise the snow-capped peaks of dazzling
brightness. The Bow River runs below, and the roar of the Bow Fall can
be distinctly heard, though it is not in view. On emerging from the Gap
one of the finest and most curious views in the world is obtained, for
here in pre-historic ages an enormous convulsion must have taken place,
the earth has been rent asunder,-and these immense mountains heaved
aloft to heights of many thousand feet. The outlines are fantastically
broken, the highest peaks covered with perpetual snow, and the scene is
at once wild and weird, but most beautiful. Many ranges of these
mountains are traversed, varied by valleys in which are seen great herds
of cattle, sheep, and horse, rivers crowded with fish, coal-mines,
saw-mills, hot springs, and the signs of almost every product which a
beneficent nature showers upon us.

From Canmore station there is a fine view of the Three Sisters, the
Wind, and Pigeon Mountains, and here also is the anthracite coal
district. At Banff are the sulphur springs which attract visitors of
every nationality, northward of which lies Cascade Mountain, 9,375 feet
above sea-level, and near also the Devil's Lake, in which are very large
trout. Mount Stephen and Mount Sir Donald--called after the present
Lord Mount-Stephen and Lord Strathcona--are magnificent, but the
Cathedral Mountain with its castellated summit impressed us more than
all, for we saw it glittering with crystalline brightness in the clear
air, rose-tinted from the setting sun, and it was a sight I shall never
forget.

A happy singularity belongs to the Canadian Pacific Railway in the fact
that although passing without intermission through mountains and valleys
for all these six days and nights, there are hardly any tunnels, and of
the few there are all are so short as to interfere but very slightly
with the continuity of the view.

At the Fraser River we were told that millions of salmon are taken out
of it every year, the catching and tinning of salmon being a most
important industry here, for the Fraser River salmon go all over the
world.

From this point we descended all the way to Vancouver, arriving in
Vancouver Bay alongside the steamer which takes passengers to Victoria,
a distance of about 80 miles.

Some few years ago Vancouver was burnt down, but in an incredibly short
space of time a fine and flourishing town has sprung up, with broad
streets, excellent shops, good hotels--the principal one being that
belonging to the Canadian Pacific Railway Co--and a good-sized and very
well appointed theatre, in which we gave our concerts, and which also
belongs to the C.P.R.

The Canadian Pacific Railway is a tremendous and magnificent
undertaking, possessing as it does over 3,000 miles of line, and passing
through, for a great part, most difficult country. It was planned and
carried through in the face of very great obstacles, both in Canada and
at home, by two men, Lord Mount-Stephen and Lord Strathcona, whose
untiring energy and perseverance succeeded at last in completing one of
the greatest works of the century.

Our concerts, as a combination of concert and opera, proved a great
success, owing in some measure to the fact that a visit of an opera
company was a thing of very rare occurrence in these far-away districts.
Upon the whole our acts of opera went very well, but were sometimes
difficult to arrange. At one place--it was Calgary, I think--nothing
like limelight or electric light was forthcoming for the light effects
in the Garden Scene of "Faust," and we had to fall back upon the big
lamp of a locomotive, which the railway people lent us, and which did
duty for the moon.

On arriving in Vancouver we had a warm reception, enthusiastic applause,
and crowded houses for our concerts, and also in Victoria.

The climate reminded me very much of the south of England, and the town
of Vancouver is very English in the style of its buildings, both private
and commercial, though a great contrast exists in the entirely separate
Chinese quarter. English men-of-war belonging to the Pacific squadron
are always in the harbour.

Turning our faces homeward, we again enjoyed the magnificent scenery on
the line, before arriving at Winnipeg, where our first concert took
place in the Selkirk Hall, people coming in from great distances. Before
eight o'clock over two thousand persons were seated in the hall, which
continued to fill until the audience was literally packed tight! How
they contrived to applaud as they did was a bit of a problem.

The next day was Sunday, and I went to the Cathedral of St. Boniface and
sang at the offertory Gounod's "Ave Maria"--in which Madame Beatrice
Langley accompanied me on the violin and Signor Seppille on the
organ--and an "Ave Verum."

Before giving out his text the Archbishop spoke the following words, as
unexpected as they were touching to me. He said: "I wish to express the
satisfaction, pleasure, and honour we have to-day in the presence of one
of the Queens of the musical world--one who is a favourite of our
gracious Queen. I welcome her with all the cordiality of a
fellow-countryman and all the satisfaction of a Catholic Bishop who is
proud to see his countrywoman preserving, amid the glories of the world,
the old traditions of her faith and nationality. May God grant that,
after a long life of success and true merit, she may everlastingly sing
with the angels the praises of God."

After Mass my husband, Madame Langley, and I went to St. Boniface
Hospital, and I sang to the patients Gounod's "Ave Maria," Madame
Langley again playing the obligate It was an ordeal which awoke the pain
in one's heart at sight of so much suffering, but which sweetened it
too, for the tears evoked by Gounod's lovely hymn were sunny tears, and
the poor patients and their kind nurses one and all declared we had
"done them good." One weary sufferer kissed my hand and murmured,
"Madame, you have brought a little piece of heaven to us to-day."

After concerts at Brandon and Port Arthur we went to Toronto for our
concert, but so many people were unable to obtain seats that we were
obliged to give a second concert, which was also crammed full; and then
returned to Montreal for the finish of the tour. The "welcome back" I
received here was equalled only by that accorded to me on our arrival;
and after giving our last concert, amidst the warmest and most friendly
enthusiasm--and having the horses taken from our carriage, the carriage
itself being dragged by the students to our hotel--we sailed for "home."




CHAPTER XIV

SOME MEMORABLE CONCERTS


During my career I have sung at hundreds, I might almost say thousands,
of concerts in all parts of the world. It is impossible to specify when
and where these took place, but there are a few which may be classed as
notable for some special reason, and some of them I should like to
mention.

An experience which I always enjoyed was singing at State concerts, and
I sang at one at least every season for many years. The State concerts
at Buckingham Palace, of which two were given every season, were very
interesting. They were organised under the best conditions, by the
Master of the Musick. These executants were supplemented by several of
the best instrumentalists in London, a chorus was engaged, and the first
singers, both English and foreign, were commanded to appear. Unhappily,
Queen Victoria was never able to attend a State concert after the
lamented death of the Prince Consort, though all the arrangements
received her sanction and approval beforehand. The late King Edward and
Queen Alexandra, then the Prince and Princess of Wales, and generally
all the members of the Royal Family, were present, and the _coup d'oeil_
from the orchestra was one of great splendour and interest. The varied
uniforms, full Court dress, and the toilettes of the ladies, glittering
with most valuable jewels, made a charming picture.

It was in 1872--during my first London season--that I was honoured by a
command to sing at a State concert, and though most grateful, I was very
nervous, for it is an ordeal for a young singer to stand before such a
gathering of Royalties and crowd of celebrated people. On this first
occasion my nervousness was increased by my reception, for no one had
thought of telling me that it was not etiquette to applaud, and
consequently when my first effort was received in dead silence, as it
seemed to me, I sat down feeling that I had made a complete _fiasco_.
But my equanimity gradually returned when I found that every piece,
however greatly it might be appreciated, was never openly applauded or
encored. At the end of the concert their Royal Highnesses, as they
passed by on leaving the room, stopped and thanked the artistes
personally, and I vividly remember during many after-years the warm
kindness with which I have always been treated at these concerts, and
the nice things that have been said about my singing.

Needless to say, a quiet solemnity prevailed at the State concerts, but
on one occasion I remember the room being disturbed all at once by a
very unusual and not particularly pleasant sound. The most excellent
acoustic properties of the concert-room at Buckingham Palace enabled
this sound to be heard all over it, and it was then seen that the
Chinese Ambassador, perhaps not being accustomed to European music, had
fallen asleep. He had woke up suddenly, giving vent to a loud snore,
half snort, half groan, greatly to the amusement of everybody.

A visit to England of the German Emperor and Empress took place in the
summer of 1891, and great festivities were organised for them. A State
performance at the opera and a State concert at the Albert Hall were
given. At the opera I sang in an act of "Les Huguenots," and at the
Albert Hall portions of Sullivan's "Golden Legend."

Princess Christian's silver wedding happened to be on Sunday, July 5,
during the visit of the Imperial guests, and she wrote me the following
letter:--


"WINDSOR CASTLE.
"_June_ 20, 1891.

"MY DEAR MADAME ALBANI,

"I am writing a line to ask whether you would as a great favour sing
here at the Castle on Sunday evening, July 5 (my silver wedding day),
for Mama--some sacred music with the choir from St. George's and organ
accompaniment? We will arrange for you to be lodged that night.

"If you agree, would you put yourself into communication with Mr.
Parratt? Would you suggest anything? It should not be too severe, but,
of course, it must be sacred.

"It would be a great pleasure to us all if you could do so.

"Yours most truly,

"HELENA."


I naturally accepted with delight, and a performance of sacred music
took place in St. George's Hall, at which I sang three or four solos.
The choir of St. George's Chapel also took part, Sir Walter Parratt
being at the organ. Only those staying in the Castle were present, but
as these consisted of over thirty Royal personages and their suites, the
audience was very numerous and exceedingly select.

On the Sunday following the German Emperor and Empress visited the late
Marquis of Salisbury at his beautiful old place, Hatfield House, and I,
together with Mr. Henschel, M. Holman, and M. Wolff, was invited to give
the party some music after dinner. The Prince and Princess of Wales were
present, the rest of the party, about eighty in all, being invited from
amongst the most distinguished in the land. This gathering was one to be
remembered, and my delight was great that it had been my privilege to
have witnessed it. My husband and I stayed the night, and were present
the next day when Lord Salisbury gave a garden party. The fine old
mansion, which was once a Royal residence, has frequently been visited
by Royal people, and the lovely gardens looked their best in the summer
sun. The concert at Hatfield made my fourth appearance in one week
before the German Emperor--a fact upon which I look back with
considerable satisfaction.

Whilst singing at the Hereford Festival in September of that same year,
I received an intimation from Balmoral that, if it were at all possible
to arrange, Her Majesty would be pleased to see me in an act or two of
opera with scenery and costumes. This was rather difficult, as at that
time of year no artistes were to be found in England, and I could sing
in parts of operas only where I was alone. However, the Queen's wishes
were law, and to me a great pleasure as well, and I decided to do the
Jewel Scene from "Faust," the Mad Scene from "Lucia," and "The Willow
Song" and "Ave Maria" from "Otello," all in costume. Luckily the
orchestra of the festival, all London men, was at hand to draw upon, and
we engaged seven of the best to form a small orchestra. When the
festival was finished we went back to Old Mar Lodge, sending my maid to
town for the costumes to meet us in Scotland. My husband undertook the
arrangement of the stage with what scenery was available in the small
theatre at the Castle, and the stage management; and in the following
week we gave a performance before the Queen with which Her Majesty was
pleased to express herself much satisfied. Between my scenes of opera
some of the instrumentalists played solos, in order to give me time to
change my costume.

In connection with this performance at Balmoral I remember an instance
of Her Majesty's kindly thought. That night I slept at the Castle, but
the gentlemen of the orchestra drove back to Ballater to the hotel
there. The next morning, very early, came a telegram from Balmoral to
ask, in the Queen's name, if they had got back safely, and hoping that
they had been comfortable.

The above performance was perhaps, in the strict sense of the word,
hardly a concert, but it came naturally to my mind in speaking of
command performances. Another performance of a similar kind took place
three years later at Windsor Castle, when by command of Her Majesty a
performance of the opera of "Faust" was given in the Waterloo Chamber,
at which I sang Marguerite, M. Planon was Mephistopheles, and Signor de
Lucia Faust. This performance was arranged by Sir Augustus Harris, and
was given with scenery, costumes, and as many chorus and as much _mise
en scne_ as was possible in the small theatre in the Waterloo Chamber.
I remember that the opera went very smoothly and gave great satisfaction
to the Queen.

I believe this was the first occasion of Her Majesty being present at an
operatic performance since the death of the Prince Consort. My husband
and I went to Windsor the day before to see to some details for the
morrow, and Her Majesty invited us to be present that evening at an
Italian dramatic performance given by Signora Duse, the great Italian
actress, at the Castle by command.

I must say a word here about the universal goodness of the Queen. At all
these concerts or performances at Windsor or Balmoral it was her
invariable rule to send for each and all who had taken part in or had
had anything whatever to do with the performance, and say a few gracious
words to each, this making everybody so honoured very happy.

I remember another occasion in the same year on which I went to Windsor
to sing. Mlle. Chaminade, the talented French composer, was just then
coming to the front, and her songs and pianoforte pieces were being much
performed. The Queen was anxious to hear some of her compositions, and
it was therefore arranged that I should take her down to Windsor, when
she would play and I sing some of her music before Pier Majesty. We
therefore made a programme entirely of Mlle. Chaminade's compositions
and went to Windsor.

On one occasion I gave a special performance of the "Elijah" at Windsor,
and afterwards received the following letters:


"WINDSOR CASTLE.
"_Dec_. 10, 1899.

"DEAR MADAME ALBANI,

"The Queen desires me to write and express to you Her Majesty's great
enjoyment of the 'Elijah' yesterday, and her great appreciation of the
way it was performed. The admirable manner in which all did their part
afforded Her Majesty very great pleasure, but I was particularly to
express the Queen's great admiration of your singing. H.M. thought she
had never heard you in better voice, and only hopes you did not catch
cold returning to London. The Queen also desires me to say how sorry
H.M. was not to have been able to see you.

"Believe me,

"Yours very sincerely,

"VICTORIA GRANT."


"CUMBERLAND LODGE, WINDSOR.

"MY DEAR MADAME ALBANI,

"Ever since Saturday I have vainly tried to find a moment in which to
write and tell you how delighted Mama was--we all were--every one was,
at your beautiful singing in the 'Elijah.' Mama was so delighted and did
enjoy it so thoroughly.

"My daughter and I were singing in the chorus, and never enjoyed
anything more.

"Our Society was proud to have been able and allowed to sing with such
artistes as sang on Saturday. I hope you will not mind my writing to
tell you this.

"Believe me, most sincerely yours,

"HELENA."


In the autumn of the following year I went on a concert tour in England
and Scotland, and whilst in the North I arranged to give a concert at
Balmoral before the Queen with the artistes who were with me on the
tour--viz. Miss Clara Butt, M. Wolff, M. Holman, and M. Pugno. We
succeeded in giving a good deal of pleasure to Her Majesty, who,
according to her invariable custom, was most gracious and kind to all of
us. It was always one of my greatest pleasures to sing for the Queen.
She was so appreciative, and in the little conversations I had with her
ever showed herself so interested, not only in the music, but in many of
my private affairs. It was always said of Queen Victoria that she knew
all about everything and everybody; and, from my experience, I believe
she did.

From the picture of these command performances, my mind looks forward
for a moment to another picture, which stands out very vividly in my
memory, the most solemn and affecting incident of my whole career, when
I was commanded to sing in the Memorial Chapel at Windsor over the
coffin of Queen Victoria, who was taken there on the Saturday and lay in
the chapel until the burial at Frogmore on the Monday. This took place
about six o'clock in the afternoon. The chapel was very dimly lighted,
and I sang "Come unto Him" and "I know that my Redeemer liveth" to the
accompaniment of an harmonium played by Sir Walter Parratt, only the
King, the Queen, and those members of the Royal Family who were then at
Windsor being present. It was a terribly hard task, but the memory of
the dear Queen and of all her goodness to me gave me courage, and I
succeeded in this ordeal without breaking down. When I left, King Edward
was at the door with tears in his eyes. He thanked me and said
"Good-bye."

In connection with this historical but sad event M. Frchette
subsequently wrote the following lines:

ALBANI

AU CHEVET FUNRAIRE DE LA REINE VICTORIA

       Froide, et couronne au front, la morte bien-aime
       Reposait sur un lit de rose et de jasmin;
       Sombre, et debout devant la forme inanime,
       Pleurait le fils d'hier, monarque de demain.

       Non loin se prosternait une autre renomme,
       Artiste dont la gloire a dor le chemin,
       Diva cent et cent fois des foules acclame...
       Le roi s'approcha d'elle, et la prit par la main:

       "Chantez!" dit-il. Alors une voix chaude et tendre
       Vibra dans le silence auguste, et fit entendre
       Comme un long chant de deuil doucement sanglot....

       Emotion suprme! ineffable harmonie!
       C'taient la Royaut, la Mort, et le Gnie
       Qui mlaient devant Dieu leur triple Majest!
                                           LOUIS FRCHETTE.

Very soon after my return from Balmoral in 1895--in fact, I believe I
stopped there on my way to London--I sang at a concert in Chester
organised by the late Duke of Westminster in aid of the local charities.
For this we stayed with the Duke and Duchess at Eaton Hall, the Duke's
magnificent home close to Chester. Amongst those who took part in this
concert were Countess Valda Gleichen, Mr. Kennerley Rumford, Mr. George
Grossmith, etc.

The late Duke of Westminster was a great and very valued friend of mine.
In all the years--and they were many--that I knew him, his kindness and
consideration were beyond expression. I sang many times at Grosvenor
House, when he would invite only a few people who, as he said, loved
music and would not talk. After his death I felt very anxious to do some
last little thing in affectionate remembrance, and I asked Dr. Bridge,
the organist of Westminster Abbey, to allow me to sing at the Memorial
Service in the Abbey. After consultation with the Dean, this was
arranged, and I sang "Angels, ever bright and fair," from the
organ-loft.

I venture to quote herewith extracts from two letters which have to do
with this solemn and memorable occasion.


_Extract from a Letter from Mr. George Wyndham to Lady Grosvenor_.

"_December_ 1899.

"The service in the Abbey was most beautiful, and I think exactly as
'Daddy' would have wished to have it. It was dignified and full of
repose, and the music nearly all from Handel, just what he loved. Every
seat in the choir and transepts was occupied, and none by strangers. I
walked down with Arthur Balfour, and we sat in the stalls near the Duke
of Cambridge and Prince Christian. Before 'Peace, perfect peace' the
organ began to play 'Angels, ever bright and fair,' and suddenly,
unexpectedly, for it was not on the printed paper, Madame Albani's voice
soared up--she was unseen--by the organ, above the carved screen. The
whole company were struck with awe at such perfect beauty. We were
several hundreds, I suppose, but there was not the faintest rustle--not
the least movement. You often hear of people being 'entranced'--well,
they seemed in a trance, and not to be breathing. The quiet intensity of
feeling in her voice brought tears to many eyes, and the dying fall from
the last high note thrilled the great church through with ecstasy. How
often she has sung it to him! and was it not dear of her to do it once
more for him! I shall never forget an instant of the scene this morning.
From where I sat the ugly monuments were out of sight. There was only
the ethereal architecture in time-worn stone, and the light filtering
through the stained glass, and below the quiet congregation, the choir,
and some Westminster Volunteers. Thus did Westminster remember its Lord
High Steward."


_Extract from a letter from Mr. Bodley to Mrs. Meynall._

"HOLY INNOCENTS' DAY 1899.

"DEAR MRS. MEYNALL,

"I have thought that you might like to hear something about the Memorial
Service for the good Duke at the Abbey this morning. The choir was quite
full of people, evidently all friends, as all were in mourning. It was a
solemn service.... The most striking thing was at the end, when the
voice of some lady singer from the organ-loft sang 'Angels, ever bright
and fair,' most beautifully. It was not set down in the book, and took
people by surprise. It was given with the very utmost feeling--or art--I
think both. I could not bring myself to ask who the singer was; it was
so touching. I felt in the singing that the music combined with the
beautiful interior of the Abbey gave one the highest possible
aspirations, the grandest architecture and the grandest music. The most
delicate notes seemed to fill the whole Abbey...."


To go back for a moment to the year 1893, I should like to mention a
concert tour which I gave in Vienna, Prague, Buda-Pesth, and other towns
in Austria and Hungary. At Vienna I gave two concerts, and Dr. Richter
being there at that time, I engaged him and his orchestra to assist me.
This was the first time I had visited this part of the Continent, but I
was most cordially received by the public. I remember that at my first
concert I was recalled about twenty times during the evening, and had to
sing four or five encores; thus doubling the length of my original
programme. I made the acquaintance of Sir Augustus Paget, the English
Ambassador in Vienna, and Lady Paget, and I helped at a small concert at
the Embassy. I was also invited by the Crown Princess Stephanie to sing
at her palace one evening. After the tour was over I returned to England
for some engagements I had in the provinces.

[Illustration: Brahms photo and autograph. FROM MY AUTOGRAPH BOOK.]

Whilst in Vienna I paid a visit to Brahms, the great composer. His room
was full of old furniture and precious things, and he had a very high
desk at which he always wrote standing. I sang part of his "Requiem" to
him, and in the principal solo he was so affected that he shed tears. He
told me that he entirely approved of my interpretation of his music.

I might mention in passing the concerts of the Royal Choral Society, at
one of which I sang early in 1894, and for many years afterwards sang at
two or three every year. The choir is all amateur and numbers between
six and seven hundred, and was trained by the late Sir Joseph Barnby,
under whom they attained to a high pitch of perfection. The concerts
given by the Society consisted of oratorios, cantatas, etc., and I have
always had much pleasure in singing with them.

I have often been asked if the Albert Hall is too large for singing, and
if it is difficult for the voice. I think that, if the voice is properly
produced, no existing place is too large. Naturally a high voice,
soprano or tenor, carries farther than one of a lower register, and I
have never had any difficulty in making myself heard in the Albert Hall
or the Crystal Palace; and that, too, whilst singing quite naturally and
without any extra exertion.

In February of that same year I started for Germany for some concerts in
Berlin, Munich, Dresden, Stuttgart, etc. The morning I arrived in Berlin
after a night's railway journey I received an invitation to sing that
same evening at the palace of Prince and Princess Aribert of Anhalt
before their Majesties, who were dining there.

[Illustration: autograph (William.) FROM MY AUTOGRAPH BOOK]

I remember that the Emperor was much amused at having induced me to sing
directly after my journey. He also invited me to sing at the palace one
evening, telling me that only lovers of music would be there. His
Majesty was most kind upon this occasion, and gave me a lovely bracelet
with a miniature portrait of himself, with the remark, "A photograph
would fade, but this will not." As I left he said, "Give my love to
Grand-mamma if you see her before I do."

The Empress came to one of my concerts, and at the end sent for me to
the Royal box. I had been having much success during the evening, and
when the audience saw me with the Empress they commenced to applaud
again, and so persistently that, when I left the Royal box, I was
obliged to appear afresh on the platform to acknowledge the greetings.

When this concert tour was finished, we went to Geneva to see our son,
who was at school there, and to stay a few days. Whilst at Geneva an
invitation arrived from the Duke of Saxe-Coburg (our Duke of Edinburgh)
to go to Coburg to sing at a concert to be given in connection with the
marriage of his daughter, Princess Victoria, with the Grand Duke of
Hesse, telling me that Queen Victoria was to be there, and he knew she
would be glad if I would come.

It was a very long and tiresome journey to Coburg. We had to sleep one
night on the way, I think at Nuremberg, and I began to think we should
never arrive. Of course on such an occasion as a Royal marriage Coburg,
which is a very small town, was crowded to excess. We had written before
starting from Geneva to Sir A. Condie Stephen, then the English
representative at Coburg and a friend of ours, to secure rooms for us,
and we found some reserved at one of the hotels. I must say that the
accommodation was about as poor as it was possible to imagine, and we
were most uncomfortable during our stay. It was very interesting,
however, to see the wedding festivities and to sing before the large
number of Royal people assembled there, our Queen the central figure
amongst them. The Duke gave me a decoration of his Order of Merit, and
bestowed it also upon my husband.

A little incident which I always remember was when I was singing at a
private concert on the evening that the present Prince of Wales was
born. In the middle of the concert our host announced that the news had
just come of the birth of the Prince, upon which there was a hearty
cheer, and I sang "God save the Queen."

I subsequently received the following telegram from the Duke of Teck:

"Just read your charming letter to Alec Hood. We thank you most
sincerely for your celebration of the event and kind congratulations.

"MARY AND TECK."


I have, of course, sung times without number at charity concerts, and
some of them are very clearly impressed on my memory. Among these were
two held for the benefit of the Jenny Lind Infirmary in Norwich, the
first in 1885 and the second in 1902. On the second occasion, when the
proceeds realised over l,000, I was presented with a large and handsome
silver-gilt bowl, which bore the following inscription: "Presented to
Madame Albani-Gye by the Committee of the Jenny Lind Infirmary for Sick
Children, in grateful remembrance of her past generosity and of her
crowning kindness in initiating and successfully completing the Charity
Festival held in Norwich Cathedral, January 9, 1902."

Another occasion which I well remember is that of a large concert at the
Albert Hall, given on behalf of the Home for Incurables, at which I sang
"Home, Sweet Home," when a lady in the audience was so touched that she
straightway wrote out a cheque for 1,000 in favour of the Home.

One other charitable concert I may mention was that organised in Paris
for the British Charitable Fund, in which I was asked to join and to
sing. Having a few days at my disposal before the season at Covent
Garden began, I consented to go over and help the charity. My husband
and I were invited to stay at the Embassy, where the concert was to be
given, and I then made the acquaintance of Lord and Lady Dufferin, which
was for me an immense pleasure. The concert was a great success, and the
charity benefited very considerably, so that my trip to Paris was not
made in vain.

[Illustration: MADAME ALBANI.]




CHAPTER XV

ROUND THE BRITISH EMPIRE


I can safely say that in the course of my long career I have sung in
almost every corner of the British Empire. I have already described my
various tours in Canada and the United States, but since then I have
visited Australia, India, and South Africa.

These ocean voyages, after the first two or three days perhaps, are very
enjoyable and often very amusing. The great thing about them is the
absolute rest they entail, and, in this way, are invaluable to any one
who has been hard at work for a long time. It is curious, too, how one
almost immediately on leaving the wharf seems to lose all interest in
what is going on in the world, and not to miss the morning paper. This
faculty of putting away from one's mind for the time everything but the
immediate surroundings must add in a great measure to the good which the
rest and the fresh air bring.

I am afraid that the new system of wireless telegraphy will do away with
much of this, and that we shall soon be as busy in the middle of the
ocean as we are in the middle of London.

One meets many nice people amongst the passengers on board ship, and I
have made some lasting friendships from amongst those I have met for the
first time on my way to Australia or the Cape.

It was in the early part of 1898 that I left England for my first
concert tour in Australia, under the auspices of Mr. J. C. Williamson,
the principal theatrical manager in that part of the world. We went
overland to Naples, and joined the steamer there, having a most
enjoyable passage with smooth seas all the way.

We gave our first concert at Sydney. The Town Hall there holds over
3,000 people, and contains the largest organ, with the exception of the
one at the Crystal Palace, in the world. I received a very enthusiastic
welcome from an audience that packed the hall to its fullest extent, a
large number of people being unable to obtain admittance.

I sang at Brisbane, Melbourne, and Adelaide, giving two or three
performances at the last-named place. The tour comprised some twenty
concerts in all, and entailed a good deal of travelling. In Melbourne we
were very kindly received and entertained by Lord and Lady Brassey, Lord
Brassey being Governor of Melbourne at that time.

It was nine years later, in April 1907, that I started for a second
concert tour in Australia, extending it to Tasmania and New Zealand. I
took my own concert party, and we arrived in Melbourne and gave our
first concert on June 10.

New Zealand, which I was then visiting for the first time, is a
beautiful country and possesses a better climate than Australia. It is
not so dried up and parched, and is in consequence very good for dairy
farming. I was much struck with and delighted by the large bowls of
lovely cream put before us at every meal in most New Zealand towns.

At Invercargill, where we landed coming from Tasmania and gave the first
concert, the liquor law is in force, and so strictly that not even a
glass of beer is to be had. However, one only has to telegraph to a
small place a few miles distant, and what is ordered comes by the next
train without any disguise. I was told that these "blue ribbon"
regulations are due to the fact that in New Zealand every woman over the
age of twenty-one has a vote.

We gave three concerts in Perth and Western Australia about the end of
October, and then at the end of the Australasian tour we sailed for
Colombo, and had our first experience of India.

My husband and I were invited to stay at Government House, and were very
kindly received by Sir Henry and Lady McCallam.

The next day was the King's birthday, and to celebrate this there was a
review of troops, a leve, and a great reception, at which I sang "God
save the King." I was much interested by the varied costumes of the
native Cingalese princes. They wore very grand dresses but had bare
feet--a combination which gave them a somewhat curious appearance.

We gave two concerts in Colombo and then crossed to the mainland, going
first to Madras. Here we stayed at Government House. Sir Arthur and Lady
Lawley were most hospitable and could not do enough for us, and our
visit was a most enjoyable one in consequence. Two concerts were held in
the Banqueting Hall, a separate building from the House, which they had
arranged beautifully with palms and flowers; in fact, they did all that
was possible to make the concerts a success.

Indeed, our concerts all through India were most successful. Very few
entertainments of any consequence take place in India, and the audience
consists entirely of English people. The natives do not understand our
music, and only acrobats and jugglers appeal to them. I believe we had
every English man and woman off duty at all our Indian concerts, and the
prices were high.

After Madras we went on to Bombay, stopping at several large towns on
the way to give concerts. We gave three concerts in Bombay, where I was
invited by a Parsee lady I had met at home to a reception she gave for
me. She had a most beautiful house. There were about eighty Parsee
ladies present, all in native costumes, and wearing wonderful
jewels--long strings of large pearls, and other ornaments. They made
much of me and I sang them "Home, Sweet Home." No less than half of the
stalls at my first concert were occupied by Parsees.

From Bombay we went east towards Calcutta, as we wished to be there for
Christmas. Concerts were given at Meerut, Lahore, Delhi, Rayal Pindi,
and Lucknow on the way. We had time to pass through Agra and visit the
wonderful tomb of Taj Mahal. This is the most splendid building in the
world, built entirely of white marble carved and inlaid with precious
stones. But it has been described so often that I need hardly dilate
upon it here.

At Lahore we stayed with the Governor and Lady Ibbetson, who were most
kind and helped us in every possible way. Here we had a unique
experience. At Government House it has been the custom for ages to have
a camel carriage, and we were given this to take us about seven miles
out to visit some tombs of the old Kings. It was a large open landau
drawn by four big camels with a native riding on each animal. A camel
can go at a good pace, but cannot be used if the road is slippery, as
their feet are adapted only for soft or sandy places.

We gave three concerts in Calcutta, the last being on Christmas Eve. The
next morning we went to Barrackpore, the country place of the
Governor-General, to stay. A large party was there, including Lord
Kitchener. After dinner I asked him to kindly write his name in my
autograph book, to which he replied, "Certainly, if you will sing me
'Home, Sweet Home.'" I have his name in my book and consider that I had
the best of the exchange. I was delighted to meet Lord Kitchener, who I
found most interesting and agreeable. On Christmas Day we had lunch, a
party of thirty-six, under an enormous banyan tree in the open air, and
ate mince pies under a hot sun.

Lord and Lady Minto were as kind as any one could possibly be, and made
us very happy and comfortable.

India is a most interesting and fascinating country. The climate and the
whole conditions of living are so totally different to other countries.
I am disappointed to say that I saw not one snake and only two elephants
during the whole of my stay. But my impressions of India are very vivid
all the same, and I feel I could write at great length on the subject if
I once began.

On Christmas Eve I sang in Calcutta, and on January 20 following in
Birmingham.

The first time I went to South Africa for a concert tour was during the
reign of the Boers. At Johannesburg I was told that "God save the Queen"
had been prohibited by Kruger. My first concert was a great success, so
at the end I started the tabooed hymn, which was taken up by the
audience amidst wild enthusiasm. The police did not interfere, but I
think that, if they had, the Boer War would have begun prematurely!

I visited the famous diamond-mines at Kimberley, and here I had an
interesting experience. The Zulu miners gave me a very cordial
reception, and after they had indulged in some native dances for my
entertainment one of them came up and said, "Lady, please sing." A chair
was brought, and there in the middle of the compound, with the Zulus
squatting all round me, I sang "Home, Sweet Home." At the end the Zulus
applauded me uproariously, and accompanied me to the gate dancing and
shouting like madmen. It was a most curious scene and very impressive.
The manager of the mines gave me a magnificent uncut diamond as a
souvenir of this somewhat unique experience.

The whole South African tour was most successful. We gave our first
concert in Durban, then visiting Pietermaritzburg, Pretoria,
Johannesburg, Port Elizabeth, Kimberley, and Cape Town in the order
named, giving sixteen concerts in all.

It was early in 1903 that I paid my last visit to my beloved Canada. A
few months before I had sung at the Royal luncheon given in London at
the Guildhall, in honour of the coronation of the late King Edward VII.
and Queen Alexandra.

I need not describe this tour in Canada in detail. Suffice it to say
that I was received, as always in my native land, with the most touching
affection and enthusiasm.

I cannot forbear to quote, more for its own inherent charm than for its
references to myself, a little appreciative sketch by a French-Canadian
lady which appeared in La Patrie on the occasion of my visit to Montreal
on this tour. It was in French, of course, but the following is a
translation:

"At the top of our house there was a large garret full of packing-cases
and broken furniture. Around the walls old dresses hung on hooks. When I
was still a tiny child I used to dress myself up in those old frocks
with all the airs and graces of a young woman, and march about among the
heaps of rubbish, bending this and that way, and glancing over my
shoulder to note the fall of the long train which swept the uneven
boards. Rummaging about in the packing-cases I found faded laces, and
pinned them on bodices already trimmed. I discovered, too, antiquated
hats, which I planted joyously on my childish head, delighting in all
the remnants of the past. I loved to think that all the finery had had
its day, worn by unknown great-aunts who must have looked well in those
long bodices, which made the figure look so slim, an effect which they
heightened by the immense hoops under their skirts. I looked like a
small edition of one of those old-time beauties who studiously forgot
that the years in passing carried off their good looks.

"A visit to the garret was my reward when I was good. I loved the
deserted place, where no one questioned my authority, and would have
given up any amusement for it. My heart beat faster as I went up the
stair, for up there I found all sorts of things which I loved for their
old-world charm and their look of mystery. For every corner I invented a
legend. In one a magician lived; in another I thought I saw the stern
faces which I knew from the family portraits in the drawing-room.
Sometimes my imaginings were so vivid that I saw all manner of things
and heard strange sounds, till I fled terrified down the stairs with all
the speed of my little legs, thinking I was pursued by all the people
whose belongings were heaped up in the garret.

"Besides the old dresses there was a huge box full of books and old
newspapers. It was the fascination of those books that first gave me the
desire to learn. One day, while looking at the pictures, I was seized by
a longing to read the lines printed underneath, but at that time I did
not know how to read. I was miserable, but a month later I managed to
spell out any printed matter. It was the greatest joy to me to climb up
to the top of the house and say to the box, 'I have become _learned,_ so
as to know you better!'

"I soon made an inventory of its contents. The small volumes were the
first to attract me, and thus I learned the story of Emma Lajeunesse,
who has since become so famous under the name of Albani. I was filled
with enthusiasm for the great Canadian, who sings better than the birds.
How wonderful, I thought, must a song sweeter than theirs be! I
sometimes kissed the portrait which embellished the volume, for my
childish heart went out to the singer who had distinguished her race.
The life of Albani was more wonderful to me than any fairy-tale. So
wonderful did her life-story seem to me that I began to have doubts
about it. Perhaps it was only a fairy-tale after all--a fairy-tale with
a scene laid in Canada.... And then I read the book again, and even
learnt it by heart.

"One day I was so miserable in my uncertainty that I determined to find
out the truth, and asked an old aunt who was always poring over some
book, 'Auntie, is it true that there was once a little girl who learnt
to sing from her father, and who now sings better than the birds?'

"'What is her name, dear?'

"'Albani.'

"'Albani? And who told you about her?'

"'I read about her in the garret.'

"'In the garret! Who took that book up there? I have hunted for it so
often.'

"And then I gave her back the little paper volume about the great
Canadian.

"How often we talked, my aunt and I, about her of whom we were so proud!
Almost religiously we spoke of Albani, whom her talent has made so
great. When I was introduced to her the other day, my heart was aglow
with memories of the past. My old aunt is lying near the great cross in
the cemetery, but I thought of her as I looked at the charming woman
whom we had both loved. It had been one of my aunt's fervent wishes to
see and hear Albani sing, but she had died with her desire unfulfilled.
Albani was kind and gracious, as I had imagined her in my dreams.

"'A woman who sings better than the birds!' The little book had told the
truth. In the evening, as I listened to the sweet sounds, the thrilling
tones of her voice went through me. When the great artiste sang quite
softly, 'Souvenirs du jeune ge,' I closed my eyes to keep back the
tears that mounted from my heart. There are, then, some illusions less
fair than reality, for I found it to be true in listening to Albani.

"To Madame Albani, the great singer, I dedicate these simple memories of
my childhood, in which she filled so great a place. I am happy to be
able to show her the veneration her talent has called forth, and I give
thanks to the art which has preserved youth to the singer whom I dreamt
of as a child and whom I applauded the other day when she sang--

       "Souvenirs du jeune ge
       Sont gravs dans mon coeur;
       Et je songe au village,
       Pour rver le bonheur.

"That song, immortalised by you, Albani, will never fade in the hearts
of all Canadians."




CHAPTER XVI

FROM MY LETTER BOOK


"BUCKINGHAM PALACE,
"_July_ 26, 1876.

"DEAR MADAME ALBANI,

"The Queen has desired me to write and express to you how much Her
Majesty was pleased with your singing yesterday at the Royal Albert
Hall. The Queen says it was _quite perfect_, and Her Majesty could hear
every note of your splendid voice. I am so sorry I have not time to call
and see you, but the Queen returns to Windsor to-day, but I am sure it
will gratify you to know how much the Queen appreciated you and what a
success it was. I trust you did not suffer from the cold and fatigue.

"Believe me, yours truly,

"JANE ELY."


_Letter from Miss Horatia Stopford to Lady Erroll._

"WINDSOR CASTLE,
"_July_ 5, 1800.

"DEAR LADY ERROLL,

"The Queen thinks that you will like to know that Mrs. Ernest Gye
('Albani') sang privately for H.M. on Saturday last, and the Queen was
greatly delighted with her. Her voice is too lovely, and the five songs
she treated us to were almost too touching in their sweetness.

"Dear Lady Erroll, I am writing in wild haste, and have only time to
give you the message.

"Your loving,

"H. S."


"MARLBOROUGH HOUSE,
"_March_ 10, 1888.

"My dear Madame Albani,

"The Queen is going to dine with us on our silver wedding day, and it
would be very kind if you would come in the evening at 10 o'clock and
sing one little song, as you know what an admirer she is of your lovely
voice.

"Yours very sincerely,

"ALEXANDRA."


"BALMORAL CASTLE,
"_Oct_. 29, 1891.

"DEAR MADAME ALBANI-GYE,

"I am sending you with these lines the souvenir I spoke of when I wished
you good-bye, in recollection of that charming evening of the 18th
Sept., which I shall always remember with pleasure.

"Trusting that you will have a good passage, and that your health may be
good and you not overtire yourself,

"Believe me always,

"Yours very sincerely,

"VICTORIA, R. I."


"MAR LODGE,
"_Sept_. 28, 1893.

"DEAR MADAME ALBANI,

"Many thanks for the charming photograph you have so kindly sent me. I
think it is quite excellent. We have written in your book, and I am
sending you my birthday book for you kindly to sign for me on your
birthday.

"Believe me,

"Yours very sincerely,

"VICTORIA MARY."


The following letter was sent to me after I had sung at one of the
Philharmonic Society's concerts. The Gold Medal referred to is called
the Beethoven Medal, as it bears upon one side the head of Beethoven.
The Philharmonic Society befriended Beethoven when he was blind and
poor, and they have a bust of him which is placed in the front of the
orchestra at all their concerts. This medal has been given to only a
very few artistes. It is therefore very precious, and I am as proud of
it as of any honour I have ever received.


"PHILHARMONIC SOCIETY,
"_July_ 4, 1897.

"DEAR MADAME ALBANI,

"The Directors of this Society herewith ask your acceptance of the Gold
Medal of the Philharmonic Society, which they have had the honour of
preparing for you.

"It is not intended that this small token can add anything to the
laurels you have achieved in many lands or to the glory which surrounds
your name.

"It is merely offered as a mark of appreciation on the part of the
Philharmonic Society of your exceptional genius and musical attainments
and of your generous and artistic nature.

"I am proud to be the medium of communicating the sentiments of such a
Society to such an artist, and remain, dear Madame Albani,

"Very faithfully yours,

"FRANCESCO BERGER,
"Hon. Sec."


"HATFIELD HOUSE,
"_Nov_. 11, 1897.

"DEAR MRS. GYE,

"I shall have great pleasure in placing your son's name down on my list
of candidates for a Foreign Office competition. I do not know that there
is any immediate prospect of a vacancy for the Foreign Office, but, as
your son is not yet quite of age to compete, that is perhaps as well. I
hope when he does enter the examination that he will succeed.

"We shall miss you dreadfully next week,

"Yours very truly,

"SALISBURY."


When the Queen Victoria Memorial was unveiled recently I received the
following letter from Sir Arthur Bigge. I need not say how much pleasure
it gave me to be able to pay this last tribute to the memory of that
beloved Queen who showed me so much kindness.


"BUCKINGHAM PALACE,
"_May_ 5, 1911.

"DEAR MADAME ALBANI,

"The King is only too pleased that you should be invited to the
unveiling of the Queen Victoria Memorial. His Majesty knows how fond Her
Majesty was of you and of your beautiful voice.

"The Invitation will be sent in due course.

"Yours very truly,

"ARTHUR BIGGE."


[Illustration: 3 pages hand-written conclusion]



PRINTED By
HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD,
LONDON AND AYLESBURY,
ENGLAND.




[End of _Forty Years of Song_ by Emma Albani]
