"It was in Italy, too, that the opera house came very near to being burnt down, and this little incident will just show you how calm the generally considered impetuous Italian can be in case of emergency. It was towards the end of the second act, when suddenly I saw one of the ballet dancers rush out of her room with her thin dress ablaze. The room where the dancers dressed was on fire. We had to pass it to get out into the street near the stage door. They covered me up in great shawls and carried me out to a café opposite. The fire was put out in twenty minutes. I returned to the theatre, we finished the opera, and everybody enjoyed it just as though nothing had happened.
"I made my début in London at Covent Garden on April 2, 1872, in my favourite Amina, and I don't mind confessing that I attributed a great deal of my success that night to the sudden appearance of a big black cat. I am very superstitious. I always occupy the same room at the theatre—it is one of the largest in the house. Just as I was all ready, and preparing to go on to the stage, the door was slowly and silently pushed open, and one of the biggest black cats imaginable peeped in and looked up at me. Oh! how delighted I was! Yes, I don't wonder at your smiling, but a black cat has always been a lucky thing for me, and I would welcome one at any time;" and the gifted artiste laughs heartily as she tells me that she does not keep one specially in the house to ensure good fortune entering at the front door. But, she has "Chat," her pet terrier—a fine young fellow, who lies on the rug at the foot of the piano, and listens to every note whilst his mistress is practising. "Chat" is clever, too, and would be a distinct acquisition to any performing troupe.
MADAME ALBANI AS "MARGHERITA" (Faust).
From a Photograph by Heath & Bullingham, Plymouth.
For a moment Madame Albani rearranges some of the flowers in the room, and, as she handles a particularly fine bouquet of crimson roses, a smile comes over her face.
"It was just like that," she quietly remarks, with the smile still there, and weighing the bunch of flowers somewhat mischievously and meditatively in her hands. And then the recollection which had made her smile leaked out. The stage of Covent Garden Theatre was the scene. Amid intense excitement, amongst the flowers thrown over the footlights was a bouquet containing a bracelet. But, unfortunately for poor Madame Albani, the aim was not straight, the roses were not as soft as they are generally supposed to be, and the floral missile, instead of landing gracefully before her feet, struck her on the head. The artiste laughed most heartily as she remembered this little incident.
"Since I commenced my career I have sung in some strange places. One of my most remarkable experiences was in Russia, at the Royal marriage. In Russia the
