He had never really held any hope that she could come to love him in return; it still took his breath away to think that she had let him remain as her instructor after she had come face to face with his hideousness. But, much as it hurt to dwell on his disfigurement, the un-crossable chasm that would always keep them apart, having even just Christine’s friendship made him feel alive and filled him with a happiness he had never dreamed he would experience. Even if he never got to hold her, to kiss her and swear his undying devotion, and to hear her whisper that she loved him, it made him so gloriously happy just to be at her side that the dim, wistful hope for her love—however distant and impossible—did not rage in his chest with writhing, piercing agony as it had when he had been forced to speak to her through the mirror in the guise of an angel.
He sighed as his fingers continued to play, feeling winds of love and despair whirl wistfully around him, both warm and cool at once, and he tried to empty his mind of it all.
“Erik?”
The music stopped abruptly as he was jarred out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Christine standing in front of the piano. She looked tired and despondent, though she smiled—albeit rather cheerlessly—when their eyes met.
“Good morning,” he said, quite surprised that she was at the Garnier so early.
“Good morning,” she said glumly, seating herself in a chair.
“How did your discussion with the comte fare?”
“I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“He—cancelled.”
“I’m sorry.”
She ran a finger along the carvings in the chair’s arm, giving a rather bland shrug. “I was wondering if you’d play something for me.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Not something from the opera. Something light and happy. You play so beautifully and I only get to hear it when we’re practicing, so I don’t get to appreciate it.”
“Very well,” he said, rather puzzled, though touched that she enjoyed his music. After a moment of consideration, began to play Handel’s “Music for the Royal Fireworks.”
After every piece she begged him to play another, and then she asked him to sing, until the early morning had gone by and he finally had to insist that she attend rehearsal. She stood without protest and he walked with her back to her dressing room, observing that she seemed no longer sad, but thoughtful and filled with awe at the beauty of his music.
When they reached the mirror, she thanked him earnestly and set to applying twice the amount of makeup she usually used. When he asked her about it, she looked at him sadly and refused to answer. He stayed in the mirror’s frame long after she had departed, pondering her actions and wondering if she was all right.
Chapitre Vingt-Trois: Le Anniversaire Triste
The days seemed to fly by so quickly that Christine felt she couldn’t grasp a single moment between her fingers; each night she fell asleep wondering what had happened to the past twenty-four hours. Before she knew it, several days had gone by since the celebration of the Madeleine—and as beautiful and glorious as the fireworks had been, the moment had been so ephemeral that she could barely remember it now.
What she did remember was the warmth of Erik’s arm around her and how wonderful it felt to have someone so strong, so devoted, sitting next to her. She enjoyed the time she spent with him; he was a mentor, a protector, a servant, and a friend. The longer she knew him, gaining pieces of his vast knowledge, being influenced by his calming nature, the more she appreciated his presence. She knew she wasn’t outrageously smart (as much as she hated to admit it, even to herself), and she became flustered so easily over every little decision that she hated to have to make any by herself; but Erik’s presence—his strength, his love, his support—always calmed her, and his unconditional love made her less afraid of saying or doing stupid things, because she knew that he would never ridicule her. In a moment of introspection she realized that, though she worshipped Raoul, she couldn’t relax or be herself around him for fear of embarrassing herself.
She couldn’t love Erik in return—he didn’t have much money or even a house, and they wouldn’t even be able to go out to dinner without attracting horrible stares—and she felt a little guilty about it, but he was still the greatest friend anyone could ask for.
By the time she came to realize all this about Erik, she had been avoiding the Garnier chapel for almost two weeks. She felt so guilty over her selfish abandonment of her father’s dream that she had thrown herself into the rehearsals, working from dawn until dusk to memorize lines and choreography; but though the exhausting work kept her from thinking about her father for the majority of the day, it did nothing to assuage her guilt or solve her problem. She loved music, certainly, but she had the chance of a lifetime before her—and to throw away the title of vicomtess for a dream that wasn’t even her own…. It seemed like foolishness to her now—though the disrespect of the thought made her cringe whenever she thought about it.
Still, with the anniversary of her father’s death drawing near, she couldn’t keep neglecting him. So she took Erik with her to the chapel, uncertain of just why she thought it would help. But he always managed to come up with a brilliant and logical solution whenever she came to him with a problem—like how much time to spend practicing or what dress to wear—and he didn’t treat her problems as trifling, like most other people did. And if worst came to worst, he could argue her case for her; surely her father would listen to Erik—he was a marvelous and very persuasive speaker.
As she lit the numerous candles surrounding the altar, she managed to occupy herself in rearranging them so she didn’t have to look into her father’s eyes, though the daguerreotype stared at her with an inscrutable expression. “I’m sorry to take you away from your composing,” she said to Erik, trying to fill the accusing silence.
“You don’t need to be sorry, Christine—I’m very happy to help you.”
She smiled at him and hesitantly turned her eyes back to her father’s memorial. She opened her mouth to speak, but the speech she had prepared fled her mind as she looked at her father’s face.
She panicked and whirled away from the portrait. Oh gods, what was she going to do? How could she explain to her father what her decision was if she didn’t even know herself?
To cover up her panic, she hurriedly spoke to Erik—it didn’t matter what she said as long as it kept her from facing her father. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you just how much I appreciate all the trouble you go to, teaching me and all,” she said, her nervousness making her speak very quickly. “Thank you.”
“…You’re welcome,” he said warmly. Though he hid it well, she knew he was puzzled over the whole odd scene. While she was waiting for the first line of her speech to come to mind, she could explain the situation to him—he had no idea about her inner turmoil.
“You know all about my father’s promise and the Angel of Music and everything,” she prattled, wiping her sweaty palms on her dress, “but I’ve never told you just how unhappy it’s made me.”
Erik’s expressions were subtle, and though there was no palpable change in his features, she could see the happiness drain from his face. “Christine, I’m so sorry I—”
“No no, it’s not you—you’re much, much more wonderful than any angel ever could be—you’re so smart and nice and strong and—well anyway, that wasn’t what I was saying,” she said, talking even faster as a faint blush threatened her cheeks. “It’s just that my whole life I’ve been trying to live up to my father’s dream but I don’t want to waste my life on something I don’t want.”
His expression was still inscrutable, but she saw that her words troubled him. “You don’t want to be a diva?”
“Well I do—I want to prove to everyone that I’m not worthless—and the music is so beautiful—and I want the fame and the pretty costumes and the applause—and everything—but it’s just—” She twisted her hair between her fingers, biting her lip and c
ursing herself for not knowing how to say any of it.
“It’s all right, Christine—just tell me what you’re feeling.”
She tried to smile at him—his patience, his unconditional acceptance meant so much to her—but she couldn’t make a smile come to her lips. “I don’t know how to say it,” she said woefully, seating herself on the altar steps and staring at the floor.
Erik came to sit next to her.
“Just talk to me,” he pleaded, and she could hear concern in his low, beautiful voice, so soothing that she almost felt better.
He waited patiently for her to form the words, and for a long moment they sat in silence.
Finally, she spoke. “I don’t want to spend my life following someone else’s dream. But I don’t want to disappoint Father and I really don’t want to disappoint you, not after all the work you’ve put into my divahood!”
“Christine, don’t waste your life because of that!”
She looked up at him. “You—you won’t be angry if I don’t want to be a diva?”
“Of course not—I’ll help you with anything you want to do.”
She was so touched that felt the slightest tickle of tears behind her eyes; but as she reached for the picture, still feeling the weight of her guilt and indecision, she said, “But Father…”
“Your father wouldn’t want you to follow his dream if it condemned you to unhappiness,” said Erik, his voice soft but adamant.
With his words she felt a great weight lifted from her aching shoulders, and when she glanced at the daguerreotype again, her father’s eyes were warm and smiling.
She laid her hand on Erik’s arm in gratitude, thinking to herself just how fortunate she was to have him around. She wasn’t sure now if she wanted to be a diva or not; she loved to sing so much, and though she tried to get out of practice a lot, she really did enjoy Erik’s instruction. The prospect of divahood seemed much lighter, more rewarding now that so much of the pressure was gone.
They sat again in silence. After a while she began to contemplate another terrible conflict—that of religion. But she kept it at a distance. So much had been resolved this afternoon; she could think about her uncertainty about the gods some other day.
Before she knew it, it was November thirtieth—and with the anniversary of her father’s death the following day, she still hadn’t made any preparations to visit his grave. At first she shrugged it off, thinking it would be the same as every year; she would have to secure Madame Giry’s permission to miss practice, and then she would catch a ride with someone headed out towards Perros, where her father was buried (it was sixty miles outside of Paris—an inconvenience that had never bothered her until now). However, unlike her previous trips, there were two very important differences this year: firstly, since she was now a diva of the opera house, she would have much more trouble getting out of practice than usual. Surely the managers wouldn’t deny her something so important, especially since her presence was saving them from having to deal with Carlotta—but just the same, she hoped that Madame Giry would speak to the new managers on her behalf. When Christine ever tried to talk to Richard and Moncharmin, they just smiled and politely told her that if she would supply the talent, they would make the decisions. They’d have to take Madame Giry more seriously.
The second problem was significantly more pressing—would she ask Erik to go with her? She had never even considered allowing anyone to accompany her in her yearly mourning; it was just too personal. Even Raoul, her soon-to-be husband, wouldn’t be able to understand the terrible grief that she felt. He would probably try to turn the event into a romantic excursion (to cheer her up, of course), which was terribly wonderful and dashing, but not what she wanted for this trip. Erik, on the other hand, would understand her need for solemnity and would not try to use the event to further his own standing in her eyes. It was a harsh realization, this striking difference between the two men, but she could not deny its truthfulness.
It had startled her to realize that Erik’s companionship on this journey would strengthen her. She had come to depend on him for so much in her life—and she suddenly could not bear the thought of weeping over her father’s grave without his shoulder to cry on. She wasn’t sure what she thought of the fact that she was not the same mourning, solitary person she had been when she had first come to the opera house. The ubiquitous well of grief that had always been choked up within her chest was still there, but it was covered over, almost healed, and hurt very little now. Though, while making her plans, she felt a taste of that old sadness welling up behind her eyes; she pushed it away, amazed that she could possibly feel any sadness when so many wonderful things had happened to her. The nonexistent Angel hadn’t appeared, of course, yet she still felt as if Erik’s appearance in her life had been an act of divine intervention. It was an odd thought, but she could not shake it. And even though she had given up her father’s dream, she still felt that her father would want her to be happy. And, for the first time since his death, she could feel happiness—just happiness, without the constant weight of all the sorrow and anguish—was possible again.
Her new happiness made it more imperative than ever that she visit her father’s grave, to thank him for the wonderful thing he had done for her and to beg his forgiveness for allowing his dream to be fulfilled for so short a time. Even if Erik’s entrance into her life had not been helped along by her father’s spirit, she wanted him to know that she was happy.
And, since it was Erik that had filled the position of the “Angel of Music” and was therefore responsible for her happiness, she had decided that he should come with her. It had taken her four days of thinking to come to this decision, but she was certain it was the right choice. Erik certainly made her life much better than it would’ve been otherwise. Every so often she wondered how she was going to reconcile her happiness with Erik and her future as the Vicomtess de Chagny, but she brushed them aside; it gave her a headache to think about such big decisions.
And besides, there were more pressing things to contend with—such as her mode of transportation to Perros. She couldn’t just hitch a ride if Erik was coming too; his mask would attract far too much attention. No, they needed a private coach. But she wouldn’t even been able to afford a cheap one. She might be a diva, but she still hadn’t received any sort of diva-like wages yet. She didn’t want to have to ask Erik for help—he spent practically every waking moment working for her betterment as it was—but she couldn’t think of what else to do. He had a salary, come to think of it—one from the managers. If they’d finally given in and paid him, that is. The last she’d heard they were still publicly denying that the Phantom even existed.
But because she had no time to think of an alternative, she finally decided she had no choice but to ask Erik if he’d pay for a coach. She couldn’t figure out why she felt so bad about asking him—he would be thrilled to help her, she was certain.
She’d opted to ask him about it at the beginning of one of her lessons. It served a two-fold purpose, really: not only was he usually in an especially good mood when she was singing, but, if she handled it right, she could get out of her lesson altogether. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Erik’s guidance, and she loved to sing—it was the practicing part that she didn’t care for. All that work of deciphering notes and trying to keep the rhythm correct exhausted her, and she absolutely despised the metronome that Erik insisted she use.
Christine smiled at Erik as he entered the room from behind the trick mirror, pretending to straighten her pile of sheet music while she tried to figure out the best way to bring the subject up. He looked nice today. He was dressed more casually than usual, with a simple white linen shirt and a pair of plain black pants, instead of his usual cravat and reserved overcoat. No matter what he was wearing, she realized, he looked strong and dashing, in a somber, formal sort of way.
“Hello, Christine,” he greeted her cordially. “Did Monsieur Mercier get you another copy of ‘Zeffiretti lusinghier
i?’”
“Um, yes—yes, he did.” Erik thought she’d lost her original copy. In actuality she’d thrown it in the trash, and the stupid maid whose job it was to empty it had noticed the music and had given it to Mercier instead, who had given it back to Christine with a stern chastisement about losing her music. She hated having to sing the horrible song—she couldn’t even pronounce the title, let alone the rest of all that Italian garbage.
“That’s fortunate,” Erik informed her with a small smile. “Try to keep track of this copy, will you, Christine? It would be rather detrimental to your career, I think, if you had to ask the conductor for a third copy of an aria.”
“Yes, I’ll try,” she agreed hurriedly, already sick of hearing about the stupid song. If it had been Carlotta singing Ilia’s part, she could’ve had “Zef-eer-eh-tee loo-sing-hee-eh-ree” taken out of the opera with a single stomp of her Spanish foot. But no matter how hard Christine tried, she couldn’t convince either Monsieur Mercier or Erik that the opera was better without it. She suddenly realized she had to hurry and bring up the trip to Perros before he made her sing that horrible song. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of my father’s death,” she blurted out before he could speak.