Floating... Falling

A Fraught Rehearsal

With a deeply thankful sigh, Christine shut the door of her dressing-room and slumped wearily against it for a moment. She closed her eyes, feeling unutterably drained of energy after what had proved to be an abysmal rehearsal. Tempers had frayed among the cast as M. Reyer found fault with everything. The chief repetiteur was rather a dour little man, hard to please at the best of times, seeming to fret and fume over the most trivial errors as if they would completely ruin a production.

The stern ballet mistress, Madame Giry, had looked on with disdain, her back as rigid as a pole, her chin upraised as her black-clad figure stalked the stage. She brought her heavy wooden staff down hard on the boards once or twice, making the ballet girls jump and flutter about like anxious little sparrows.

And then as if Reyer’s strictures were not enough for the cast to contend with, old Buquet had accidentally let fall one of the backdrops, where it had landed on stage with such a crash that Madame Carlotta almost fainted with shock. The ballerinas screamed with a fearful sort of glee and rushed frantically hither and thither, claiming excitedly that the Phantom was there! It was utter chaos. Naturally Carlotta had thrown yet another of her tantrums, and had finally flounced off in a terrible huff.

"Be assured, Messieurs, that I will not return until this ridiculous scenario has been resolved!"

The diva turned on her heel, flinging her fur wrap around her plump shoulders with an irritable gesture which caused one flying end to smack her unfortunate dresser in the face.

"It should be quite obvious to all here that someone of my operatic renown cannot be expected to take part in petty squabbles between such tawdry, meddlesome amateurs!" She made the pronouncement grandly, then called across the stage. "Ubaldo ... come!"

Her strident tones echoed round the stage as her leading man in the production - a plump little Italian tenor - meekly obeyed her imperious gesture and trailed off stage in her highly-perfumed wake. Meg Giry flew to Christine’s side. They clutched at each other, collapsing into hysterical giggles as they stared wide-eyed at the commotion. Meg’s mother used her stick forcibly in an effort to restore some order, annoyed at what she considered such unprofessional conduct.

As for the two new managers, they shouted themselves hoarse but were completely ignored. M. Firmin's gloomy gaze wandered around the chaos. His mind went back to the safe and unexciting world of banking. Why on earth had he agreed to partner André on this venture? He knew nothing about the peculiar world of opera. Of course André had laid on the charm, especially with Madame Carlotta. Firmin had watched the diva as she raged up and down, flinging her arms about. He could not help but notice how the upper reaches of her ample bosom seemed to undulate above her low-cut costume. Mopping his brow with a large tartan handkerchief, he glanced round and took a furtive swallow from his hip flask, followed rapidly by several more.

"Put that thing away!" hissed M. André, "we have to sort this out this nonsense and appear at least as if we know what we're doing. The last thing I need is for you to get tipsy, Firman!"

The elegant, urbane André frowned at his partner and raked a hand through his immaculate fair locks. Turning to speak to Madame Giry, his eyes rolled heavenwards at the sight of a couple of stagehands strolling by, noisily dragging a large prop behind them and seemingly unconcerned about the fragile nerves of the leading artistes. He leaned against a proscenium and sighed heavily.

Christine took Meg's arm. "Meg, this is sheer pandemonium! The noise is enough to give one a headache." She almost had to shout at her friend to make herself heard, and knew a sudden yearning for the silence of her quiet little dressing room. Meg nodded vigorously in answer, one hand clapped over her mouth as she stared at the scene before her with little snorts of disbelief.

M. Reyer's patience finally snapped. He dismissed the cast with instructions to return at five o’clock that evening, when there would be an additional rehearsal. Everyone sagged with relief at this welcome break and hurried away to their dressing rooms in order to rest, go over their scripts again, then have a light lunch and in some cases a fortifying glass or two of claret.

"Girls, you will return at four o’clock sharp!" Madame Giry emphasised her words with a great thwack of her stick and a glacial stare at her charges. "If you are not here on time then the consequences will be dire for all concerned."

Twittering nervously, the dancers promised to obey and ran off stage in a flurry of twinkling little legs.

Christine had managed to lose Meg by encouraging her to spend an hour with Jerôme, her shy young admirer who worked in the carpentry department. Much as she loved her friend, she felt that she could not cope with her endless chatter at present, for she felt disheartened and perilously close to tears, desperately needing time on her own. Meg protested, but when Christine pleaded a headache and needed to sit alone quietly in order to rest for a while she acquiesced.

"I have arranged to meet him during luncheon break so he will probably be waiting for me. But are you quite sure I cannot help you? You do look a little pale, Christine. Shall I massage your forehead?"

"Thank you Meg, but there is no need. I’ll be fine! Now run along and see Jerôme, dear. We will meet again later this afternoon."

Christine kissed her friend, gathered up her wrap and left the stage. Moments later she was alone in her room, a peaceful haven at the end of a dimly-lit corridor. She hauled her tired body away from the door, covering a yawn as she looked longingly at the rather shabby chaise-longue standing against one wall. Its green brocade covering had faded with time and was quite worn in parts, but it looked so inviting that she dragged her aching feet across the room and sank down upon it, a glance at the clock showing her that it was half an hour since noon. She would have a little rest – just for a short while, no more than an hour – and would then make some tea to drink with her almond pastry and go over her lines again.

Pulling the light quilt over herself, she sank down on the comfortable old day bed, resting her head on the bolster. Gradually her taut muscles relaxed, her eyes closed and within minutes she had drifted off to sleep.

And to dream...

Dreams of Beauty, Dreams of Horror

She dreamed she was with Papa again.

They were together in a beautiful garden. She was seated upon a swing whilst the rather shadowy figure of Papa sat on the grass just beyond her swing. Music filled the air as he softly played his beloved violin. A balmy summer breeze caressed her face and teased her hair as she drifted to and fro on the swing. Her fingers curled lightly round the vine-covered ropes as she dreamily contemplated the flowers trailing down among the vines above her head and below her dainty buckled shoes. Their delicate perfume wafted around her while some of the exquisitely coloured petals floated down to rest and form a fragile carpet on the grass. Back and forth she swung, her cloud of long burnished curls floating down her back as she sang happily to the music of Papa's violin.

The sweet music, the fragrant ambience and the gentle motion of the swing proved quite soporific. Gradually her eyelids fluttered with sleepiness. The sun was warm on her face, the violin sang out its melody and the mood of the moment was so pleasant and agreeable. Best of all, darling Papa was with her!

Then all of a sudden she was startled into wakefulness, for it appeared as if someone or something came behind her and started to push the swing. At first she laughed delightedly, thinking it was her father. She called him - Papa! - but he did not answer. Papa, where are you? She called again in a puzzled voice.

The music changed to harsh, discordant sounds, the notes cried out a shrill warning. She looked round, calling for him with fear trembling in her voice, but he had gone from her sight. A menacing black cloud appeared and hid the sun as a chill wind sprang up. The lovely sunlit garden slowly crumbled around her until there was nothing but a cold, dark area of sinister shadows.

The intensity of the thrusting force behind her grew stronger and more violent as higher and higher she soared. Her eyes widened in terror as the swing came up level with the crossbar of the poles, then rushed down, backwards and up again with terrifying speed. She screamed over and over again, gripping the ropes with all her strength. The swing hurtled skywards, formed a wide arc as the ropes snapped and she was flung into space.

She was falling. Down and down, faster and faster, plunging ever downwards into a huge, bottomless black pit. The breath was knocked from her as she tried to scream. No sound issued from her open mouth. She was powerless, caught in a whirling vortex of air that hissed past her with numbing chill. The vastness of the abyss was infinite. She was dwindling into a speck of nothingness.

Falling ... falling ... vanishing into a grim nightmare that seized her in its awful grip and carried her on.

Surely she would suffocate. There was no breath left in her.

Papa, save me – oh, please save me!

She heard her father call her name.

Suddenly the plunging sensation halted. Her plea had been answered. Now she found she was no longer hurtling into space but was steadied into a floating motion.

The headlong descent into darkness was no more as she began to dip and sway, float and rise. She spread her arms wide like the wings of a swallow, gliding up out of the great dark cosmos. Her body formed an arrow, arms and hands pointing straight up in front of her to freedom. She flew upwards and onwards to the light, so welcoming after the freezing blackness of the pit.

Warmth, sunshine and light! Papa, I’m coming, wait for me!

So near – so near to safety and freedom, but then came constraint of another kind.

Something came over her face. It did not hurt, for the touch upon her was very gentle, but there was a strange, sweet smell in her nostrils. Her arms fell helpless, dangling by her sides as her senses deserted her and she knew nothing save that once again, she was floating ... falling ... floating.

Falling ... down ... down ... floating ...weightless ... soft as a feather spiralling downwards.

Then out of that inky blackness came the sound of a voice uplifted in song.

Whose is that voice in the darkness? Whose is the song I hear?

For surely she was not mistaken – there was ... someone singing.

She was aware of a breathtakingly beautiful voice singing with such purity of tone, such richness, such melodious warmth that the sound was simply heavenly.

The darkness seemed to hold a different quality; softer, warmer, no longer dense and ice-cold. She could see through the gloom a little. There was a shape below her, a shadowy figure with arms upraised. Two strong, supple hands reached out towards her and above them, a gleaming sliver of white flashed in the surrounding blackness.

And then there was the feeling of both softness and firm stability as those resolute hands caught her, a pair of strong welcoming arms came deftly around her and broke her fall. She could see nothing, hear nothing; could only sense the formless dark shape and feel the luxuriant warmth of a soft thick material surrounding her trembling form.

Bewilderment turned to panic; her body grew rigid as she drew in a breath to scream.

"I beg you, do not be frightened."

Angel of Music

The words were spoken in a voice so tender, so warmly pitched and entrancing that she forgot her fears, forgot her panic and terror as she basked in the divine sound. She relaxed and fell back against the smoothness of velvet, comforted and soothed by the voice. She became aware that the soft cloth was being lifted and withdrawn slightly against her face in the steady motions of someone breathing.

"Who are you? Where ... where am I?" she whispered.

"You are safe. Do not fear; you are safe and will come to no harm." The dulcet voice assured her.

"You ... sound like an angel," she murmured, half-hypnotised by the voice. "An angel of beautiful music and song. Am I in Heaven?"

"You are not in Heaven. You are here on Earth ... with me."

"Oh, I am so glad. I was very frightened of the ... the pit. You see, I fell into a great black area of … space. There was only darkness and ... nothing around me. I thought I would die."

"It was nought but your fears and anxieties which oft invade the sleeping mind", soothed the voice. "Please believe me - there is no pit. I have you safe. Will you come with me to my home now? You should rest ... perhaps a soothing drink of hot sweet tea, or honeyed wine. It will calm your disturbed thoughts."

"Yes, I will come, thank you. I am not afraid any more ... now I hear you, am near to you. I think you must be an angel to have rescued me from that awful, hellish pit with your strength and your heavenly voice."

"Then it shall be as you wish. I will be your angel. Your Angel of Music."

"Oh yes, how wonderful! My own dear Angel of Music! How I long to sing with fire and passion ... to sing with all my heart and soul! Could you teach me to sing, Angel?"

"Mine will be the honour so to do." The cultured voice spoke in tones of pleasure.

"Thank you, oh, I do thank you!"

"But first I will take you to my home and you may rest. Here is César, my fine horse. I will lift you onto his back and you shall ride in comfort for our journey."

The owner of the voice called softly over his shoulder, and was answered immediately by the unmistakable whinny of a horse. A large white shape loomed up in the gloom, and she was helped up high onto his back. One swift movement brought the Angel of Music up behind her. He patted the animal’s neck as indication to move forward, which he did at a sure-footed pace. The steady rhythm of the horse’s movements was reassuring to her as she sat across his broad back, her upper body resting trustfully against the dark figure riding pillion, who guided the horse with one hand as the other supported her slight weight. The thickness of the Angel's velvet garb kept her pleasantly warm, for he had wrapped the garment around her.

Their journey led them down through labyrinthine passages, lit here and there by flares affixed to the walls. There was no sound save the sturdy clip-clop of César’s hooves. On and on they went on their dreamlike journey until eventually they came to a lake of silken glass, over which drifted ethereal mists of silver. She was lifted from the horse and led to a boat moored nearby. The Angel of Music helped her into the boat, where she sat among many beautifully embroidered cushions, looking about her with wondering eyes. The dark shape of the Angel was seen attending to the horse’s comfort until the time came for him to carry his master again.

The Angel stepped into the boat and took up the pole that was clipped to one side. She turned to look up at him as he stood behind her, but his face was deep in the shadow cast by the black fedora hat he wore pulled low over his brow. He sang softly to reassure her as he took the craft across the tranquil waters. When they reached the far side he leapt lightly from the craft and threw a short rope around an iron pole, ensuring it was securely moored. He held out a gloved hand to help her alight, guiding her rather unsteady steps towards a heavy wooden door. She saw how cleverly it was concealed in the huge rocky structures of their surroundings.

She allowed her guardian to lead her through the door and welcomed the warmth that greeted them. They traversed a short hallway to emerge into a large room. Looking about her with eyes that grew wide with admiration, she noted the fine furnishings and soft carpeting of what was a comfortable living-room, the many elegant candelabra throwing out softly relaxing light. The cosy warmth of a coal fire in the grate drew her towards it, and as she held her hands to the glow she looked at the mantelpiece adorned with exquisite pieces of porcelain and glassware.

The Angel bade her be seated. She turned to him as he bowed gracefully, then allowed him to lead her to an armchair of rich scarlet brocade.

She looked up shyly to thank him and gave a perceptible start of surprise.

His face was almost completely hidden by a mask.

Whose Is The Face in the Mask?

The mask was fashioned from soft, supple white leather and covered most of his face, save for part of his left cheek and his chin. The eyes that gazed at her from behind it were of an unusually brilliant hue, somewhere between the grey of slate and ocean blue. They were compelling eyes which flashed power and strength, and yet she saw uncertainty in them, as if he was silently imploring her to understand and to ignore the enigma of the mask.

"This is ... is a most attractive room, Ang ... M’sieur", she stammered at last, deeply aware of those magnetic eyes upon her.

"Thank you, child, how kind of you," he replied, removing his hat to reveal smooth copper-coloured hair. "But why not call me Angel if it comforts you to do so? I would wish you to be at ease with me and … I like the sobriquet. It is … charming." His mouth lifted in a crooked smile. "Now please enjoy the warmth of the fire and I will make some tea, for you must feel quite chilled."

With a swift, graceful movement he removed the opera cloak from his shoulders. Placing it on a coat-stand, he gave her another courteous little bow and left the room.

She sat back in the winged armchair, trying to gather her thoughts but hardly able to make sense of all that had happened.

"This is the oddest situation. I find myself in the home of a complete stranger after being rowed across an underground lake. I have been rescued from a seemingly never-ending fall into that dark pit by this man who came out of nowhere, singing as only an angel can sing; who took me up on his horse in order to journey ... under the ground? Where is this place, this rather beautiful little home ... could it really be under the city streets?"

She pondered further. "And he ... who is this man, so finely dressed, so elegantly tall and who possesses the air of a cultured gentleman. Can he really be my ... Angel of Music? Truly his voice is alluring, so bewitchingly musical with those lilting cadences. I have never heard a voice more beautiful. But the mask? Why does he hide his face with that mask?"

Puzzled by these questions yet relaxed and happy to be with her unknown and mysterious knight, her fingers played with her lower lip. There was a movement in the room and then he was standing before her, proffering a cup and saucer. She took it from him with a shy murmur of thanks and gratefully sipped the refreshingly hot tea. He took a seat opposite and drank from his own cup. She felt his eyes upon her and did not know what to say, but he sensed her nervousness and began to speak of the various ornamental pieces which he believed he had seen her admire? She nodded eagerly and listened as he told her the history of their acquisition.

His voice was calm and soothing, the tea slipped warmly down her throat and the heat of the coals burning brightly in the grate all combined to make her feel rather sleepy. Indeed, it was becoming increasingly hard to keep her eyes open. So much had happened that she was hardly aware when the cup and saucer were quietly removed from her hand and she was lifted from the chair into those strong arms once more.

Barely awake, she was soon to feel the softness of an enticingly comfortable bed beneath her, and lacy pillows under her cheek. There was the feeling of having her shoes gently removed, and a downy quilt being drawn up over her body to settle snugly across her shoulders. The silence was absolute, save for the lightest sound of a breath drifting across the darkness. There was a perfume in the air – delicately heady, like that of roses. A light, cool touch on her forehead, insubstantial … fleeting … as another soft breath exhaled on a long, wistful sigh.

And then came the sound of an angel singing ...

On Waking and Remembering

Christine stirred on the chaise-longue. She seemed to be swimming up from sleep that was fathoms deep. It took long moments for her senses to become fully aware.

Opening her eyes, she rubbed at her face to waken herself wholly. She sat up and peered at the clock on her dressing-table, where to her surprise she noted that it was a quarter past the hour of three o'clock. She had been asleep for almost three hours! But there, she had been so very tired and had obviously needed the rest. Pushing aside the quilt, she swung her legs to the floor and stared around at the familiar sight of her dressing-room. She shook her head as if she couldn’t quite believe her surroundings, for the vivid scenes of her dreams had seemed so utterly real.

The dreams had been so strikingly lifelike that she thought herself still in that strangely lovely house. She had slept on a pretty little bed with lace-covered pillows, a feathery quilt and the rosy glow of a lamp beside the bed. There had been a scent of roses ... and the voice of her Angel singing the sweetest lullaby.

Her Angel! Her Angel of Music!

Her lips curved in a smile. Indeed, a most unusual angel was he, she thought. No golden wings. No white-clad figure carrying a harp. No shining halo around his magnificent head. This dream angel had been a strikingly tall and elegant man who chose to hide his features.

He too, had seemed so natural, so real and believable. Even the mask had ...

The mask!

A little gasp escaped her. A mask!

It all came flooding back to her mind. The talk around the Opera House. Oh heavens, wasn’t it claimed that the Phantom wore a mask? Had she actually dreamed about ... him ... the Phantom of the Opera?

She recalled Meg chattering about the Opera Ghost and the fact that he supposedly wore a mask. She thought of how Madame Giry’s expression always became rather guarded whenever the Opera Ghost was mentioned ... and didn't old Joseph Buquet insist that he had once seen the Ghost when he had been working alone in the third cellar? The old man maintained that the creature had suddenly appeared in front of him, seemingly by walking through a wall. He had been unmasked, and apparently had been as startled as Buquet. Then he had snarled, turned on his heel and disappeared on the instant. The aged stagehand gloated that the Ghost was the ugliest man who ever lived - his head a mere skull, his face ... death! He wore the mask to hide his hideous features.

And yet the ballet girls insisted that the Ghost - the Phantom - was a most elegant creature, tall and slender and always garbed in superbly tailored evening dress. Sometimes he even left presents for them! Some ribbons, fruit or chocolates. There was always a little note signed "OG" attached to the gifts.

The Phantom! She had dreamed of the Phantom! Surely the Phantom of the Opera was not an Angel?

"And yet," she murmured wistfully to herself, "it was such a wonderful dream, and he appeared as my saviour and my friend."

An intriguingly mysterious man in a strange yet fantastic dream … apart from that which had turned into a nightmare. A shudder ran through her as she remembered the sensation of falling into that cold black pit. Nightmares were horrid! It was always a huge relief to wake up after frightening visions that came to one in sleep.

Christine rose from the sofa and stretched her limbs. She went into the small closet and attended to her comforts, filled the wash basin with warm water and briskly washed her face and hands. Moving back into the dressing-room room she placed the kettle on the hob of the small stove which provided both heat and minor cooking facilities. As the kettle heated, she prepared a tray and placed her almond pastry and some sliced fruit on a small plate. This would assuage her hunger until she could have her evening meal once rehearsals were finished for the day. Filling the little teapot with hot water to brew the light China tea, she placed it on the tray and took it to her dressing-table. Propping up her script she started to read through it as she ate and drank.

But as hard as she tried to concentrate on the score, her mind kept drifting back to her dream, that extraordinary world she had inhabited in her sleep. Papa! Darling Papa had been sitting nearby as she’d drifted to and fro on the pretty, flower-bedecked swing. They had exchanged affectionate smiles as he played his violin and she swung back and forth. And then came that horrible part, the nightmarish part, where she had been pushed higher and higher by an unseen malevolence until she fell from the swing and tumbled into nothingness.

Her silent screams as she fell; her arms flailing helplessly; her body plummeting downward into that great black abyss. It had all been so realistic and completely terrifying. And then from out of nowhere came the strength of the arms that had reached out to her, boldly catching her fall! Such a heroic gesture from the unseen being who had proved himself her guardian angel.

Oh, to meet such a man in real life! Kind, thoughtful, always so calm and chivalrous, one who would teach her, guide her, give her confidence in herself and her abilities. And that beautiful voice – surely the voice of an angel could be no sweeter. An Angel of Music ... a fantasy figure from her childhood come true … in truth a very different character to that of her imagination ... yet a man who would love her with all the passion within his soul.

What was that?

Christine looked up suddenly and stared fixedly at the big mirror on the wall. Was there a faint rustling sound coming from that direction? She sat quite still for long moments, but the minutes ticked by and all was silent. All she saw in the mirror was part of the room reflected there, but for an odd, fleeting moment she had imagined a shadow on the sheen of the glass.

"I am still caught up in my dreams", she thought as she pushed away her tray and cupped her face in her hands, her script all but forgotten. Perhaps the dream mirrored her hopes, her fears. She felt so strongly that she had failed Papa in his dearest wish that she become a great opera diva. To her own mind her voice was a wispy rag of sound, a timorous and feeble affair. Yes, she had graduated from the Conservatoire with credit, but since she had joined the chorus here at the Paris Opéra, nothing had come about as she had hoped. She was just another chorus girl, shy and rather quiet, but if anyone took the trouble to notice her surely they could see how eager and willing she was to work hard in order to gain experience?

Madame Carlotta despised her, although she did not know why. Could it have been the tempestuous diva who manifested in her dream as the malicious spirit, abusing her with evil intent? "Surely not", Christine spoke her thoughts aloud. "I cannot believe Madame would actually wish me harm. No, it must be my own mind, my fears of failure and incompetence that conjured up that dark abyss."

Why was she such a timid and faint-hearted creature? She despaired of her seeming inability to make something of her life. Since she had been with the Opéra company she had gained very little in the way of confidence or belief in her abilities. La Carlotta was always rude and offhand, and her besotted Italian lover in the portly shape of the principal tenor simply followed where Carlotta lead. The new managers ignored her completely, and a few of the dancers laughed at her, thinking her a strange witch of a girl from a foreign land. Madame Giry was kind and thoughtful, yet she was strict with everyone, even her own daughter Meg, and Christine understood and accepted her rebukes.

Meg, darling little Meg! She was a good and dear friend who gave such heartening support and encouragement, especially where her singing was concerned. Such a sweet, golden-haired imp that she was!

Christine sighed. Perhaps dreaming of the Angel of Music was an omen? Papa had always promised he’d send this heavenly being to her, but so far no Angel had materialised. Would he ever come to her? Oh please, let it be!

She washed her dishes and tidied the room prior to returning to the stage once more. Retrieving her practice pumps from beside the chaise-longue, she bent forward to deal with the ribbons. All at once a puzzled little frown crept over her face and stilled her hands. Surely she hadn’t removed her shoes? She could not recall taking off one single item of clothing because she’d been so fatigued. How very odd, she thought with another frown, then gave a little shrug and deftly tied the ribbons.

Moving across to the huge mirror she smoothed and adjusted her costume, pinned up a few stray curls which had loosened in sleep and firmly clipped the jewelled ornament in her hair. She stared at her reflection, a slender, dark-haired girl with long-lashed blue eyes, the slight frown still marring her smooth forehead, and shoulders that slumped all too often in an attitude of dejection.

"Christine...."

The fragment of sound echoed around the room.

Christine jumped away from the mirror. Her hands flew up to her throat as she looked about her for the source of that sound.

"Yes?" she gasped. "Yes, I -- I’m here!"

"Christine...."

Came the voice again, full of tender solicitude.

By now startled into complete awareness, her passive stance immediately became that of a straight-backed, responsive young girl whose erstwhile lacklustre expression turned to one of sparkling attention.

"Angel, oh Angel! Is it really you?" she whispered incredulously to the air around her.

And he replied, his rich voice softly commanding.

"It is I, Christine, your Angel of Music. Listen to me as I tell you that henceforth, your fears shall be vanquished, for I will always be here for you. Come to me in this room tonight and I will teach you to sing. I will give you my music, I will help you and guide you and lead you to the path of shining glories. But ... heed your Angel's warning ... you must tell no-one of these lessons, for they will be our secret. Remember Christine, I am above all your friend. Together we will shape your voice into an instrument of purity and radiance such as the world has never known. Go forth, my little one, and hold your head high."

Christine’s hands were clasped beneath her chin as she listened to the angelic voice, and when it fell silent she stretched out her arms almost as if in supplication. Her hands reached toward the mirror, for it seemed to her as though the sound had issued from the glass itself. Joy shone in her eyes as she glimpsed a world of magic unfolding before her.

"Yes, yes, I will be here, my Angel!" she replied passionately. "Thank you, oh thank you, for coming to me when I needed you so much! I will remember all you have told me, and I promise never to tell … oh, but I must fly or I will be late for rehearsal. When I come back, you will ... you will be here, won’t you? Tell me you will be here!"

"I will be here child, never fear. I shall be waiting for you, then you will sing for me."

"And you will teach me, Angel? Help me to become a great singer?"

"Together, Christine, we will make all dreams come true. You will sing as you have never sung before. All I ask is that you tell no-one. If you do, then I must leave you forever."

"I promise, Angel, with all my heart. I will not tell a living soul." Christine vowed in hushed, heartfelt tones.

"Very well, child. Our first lesson will take place in this room tonight. Go now to your rehearsal and come to me when it is over and the theatre unoccupied."

"I will be here. And ... thank you again, dearest Angel!" Christine’s smile was radiant. With uplifted heart and wings on her feet, she raced out of the room to join the company on stage.

I Am There Inside Your Mind

Behind the mirror Erik leaned against the wall, his face sunk deep in his hands as he allowed the tension to seep from his shoulders. He stood in that position for long moments, unable to believe that he had actually made contact with her, this beautiful girl who had captured his heart when first he had seen her in the chorus some weeks ago.

He conjured up the scene in his mind, remembering it as if it had happened only yesterday.

It had been another of those tedious rehearsals, made even more tiresome by that awful woman shrieking her way through the rôle of Marguerite in Faust. Bored and frustrated with the endless repetitions of this phrase or that bar of music, he had been about to leave Box 5 through his secret exit when he heard Violette Giry rebuke one of her girls.

Christine Daaé, concentrate, girl!

The ballet mistress was sternly reminding one of her dancers to think about her movements and come down from the clouds. Erik had heard this particular command many times, but as his gaze shifted to the girl in question, his breath almost died in his throat.

Oh, but she was so very lovely! A sweet heart-shaped face in which were set two eyes of vivid cornflower blue, surrounded by thick dark lashes. Her nose was small and straight and her delicate porcelain complexion enhanced by her lips of cherry red. A fall of lustrous hair curled riotously down her back, glowing with the sheen of polished chestnuts as it caught the light.

From the dim surroundings of his curtained box, Erik stared at the vision on stage, poised as she was in graceful movement amidst the chorus line. It was at that precise moment that he fell completely and utterly in love.

Ever since that magical day he had followed her from the shadows, noting her moods, her willingness to learn and work hard, her shy smile and blushes when praised, the downcast demeanour when rebuked. He noted with concern the aura of sadness which sometimes enveloped her, leaving her no more than a forlorn and lonely child. He soon learned with much compassion that she still mourned the passing of her beloved father, the gifted Swedish violinist Hendrik Daaé.

Erik noticed how she would sometimes sit apart from the others during rehearsals, either lost in thought or simply quietly watching the progress on stage. Little Meg Giry would join her and they had since become good friends, a circumstance which pleased Erik. He knew only too well the wretched desolation of a solitary life, and she was far too young and lovely to be without companions.

He had longed to speak to her, to give her encouragement and inspire confidence in herself and her abilities. He could she was light and graceful on her feet, a good dancer but by no means a great one. No, it was her voice that captivated him despite the fact that during rehearsals she appeared overcome by nerves when singing, and therefore did not give of her best. Yet he had heard the purity in that voice, the range of musicality and exquisite tonal qualities were easily detectable to the genius that was his in every aspect of music.

And so from his secret places, he watched over her and saw that she came to no harm. He was certainly mindful of the fact that the reigning diva, the irascible Carlotta, was herself very much aware of the little chorus girl’s talents and did her best to keep this knowledge from the chorus master and the managers. Erik held the flame-haired diva in utter contempt, scornful of the strained vocals and the overly voluptuous figure which owed much to nature but even more to her consumption of rich food and good wines. He guessed correctly that La Carlotta could only compare her ample curves and ageing voice to that of the slender figure and angelically pure song of the young Swedish girl, realising only too well that she had a very real contender for her crown in little Mlle Daaé.

From his hiding place behind the great mirror in Christine’s dressing room, Erik observed her, longing desperately to comfort her when she came into the room in tears, or to share in her smiles of relieved pleasure when rehearsals had gone rather better. He had watched over her as she rested on the chaise-longue, gazing at her sleeping form with an aching tenderness while yearning to lay a kiss upon her brow.

In Sleep He Sang To Her

And now incredibly his wish had come true.

He had actually dared touch her face by removing one of his white gloves and drifting cool fingers lightly over her forehead. The longed-for contact with her delicate skin had filled him with such overwhelming love that he yearned to hold her close and never let her go.

He had been waiting when she entered her room, had seen fatigue etched on her lovely face, her eyes drowned in shadows. He'd watched as she lay down on the chaise, cover herself and relax as sleep overcame her. Tenderly he noted how a smile played around her lips and thought she must be dreaming of pleasant things.

And then he saw her begin to toss and turn. His anguished eyes saw how her hands moved over the quilt in agitated movements, how her head turned from side to side. She cried out, her voice husky with fear.

Help me, please help me, I am falling ... falling ...

She sobbed in her sleep. Tears began to rain down her pale cheeks as a harrowing nightmare gripped her in its frightfulness.

Erik could stand it no longer. Releasing the catch on the mirror, he stepped swiftly through the glass and into the room. Catlike, he trod lightly over to the chaise and gently caught her flailing hands in his, the soft white gloves smoothly warm against the bare skin of her arms as he stroked them comfortingly with a feather-light touch.

She became calm under his caress. Gradually, the tremors which shook her body slackened as the nightmare faded. She murmured in her sleep. A questioning little voice which asked ...

Are you an angel? Such a beautiful song ...

Removing his light hold on her arms, his hand hovered over her sleeping face. Dare he? Oh, if only he could! Again she murmured, her mouth tilting in a little smile.

Angel ... Angel of Music?

Her sleeping face was enchanting. Gazing in wonder at her beauty he made an abrupt decision, though not without a qualm of deep misgiving.

May God forgive me, but I may never have this opportunity again.

Believing himself no more than a wicked villain for this act of depravity, Erik took a small bottle from an inner pocket. Tipping a tiny amount of liquid from the bottle onto his handkerchief, he took a deep breath as guilt and shame coursed through him, then gently pressed the cloth over her face. Comforting himself with the knowledge that the tiny amount of ether was perfectly harmless, he felt her go limp beneath his touch, relaxed as a rag doll. Swiftly, he gathered her up in his arms and into the dark passage behind the mirror. It closed behind him on gliding mechanism as he carried his precious burden to the end of the corridor. Waiting in the gloom was the white horse César, his loyal and trusty friend.

He took Christine across the lake and to his underground domain. The effects of the ether had worn off just a little until she was somewhere between a half-awakened state and a mind still full of dreams. They drank tea together and talked as they sat by the fire. When Christine fell asleep again he took her into the room he had begun to prepare especially for her. With tender care he lowered her upon the bed, then laid a rose on the pillow beside her. She smiled and murmured in her sleep, her face in repose as beautiful as the rose itself.

Erik drew in his breath on a sigh as he let his fingers trail across her forehead in a touch so light, so delicate that it was the ethereal caress of a ghost.

"Angel ... sing for me..."

He caught the drift of whispered words and obeyed them.

The simple lyrics of an age-old lullaby came to mind and softly, he began to sing to her. His voice enveloped her in such serene beauty that she sank further into slumbers, completely tranquil and still. He noticed she was still wearing her pointes and carefully removed them. She sighed in her sleep and blissfully wriggled her toes before he pulled the quilt over her body.

For a long time time he stood and watched the slight rise and fall of each breath, the hair spread out around her in a cloud of glossy nut-brown curls against the white pillows, the sweep of her lashes against her cheeks, the delicate bone structure of her face. He was suffused by the strength of the love he felt for her and could only gaze in awe at her sleeping form, hardly able to believe that she was actually here with him in his home.

She began to stir. It was time to take her back to the world above.

The journey up was swiftly undertaken. César served his master faithfully.

He carried her through the mirror into her dressing-room and laid her upon the chaise-longue. Soon she would awaken fully and he must be gone. Touching his fingertips to his malformed lips, he placed a kiss upon them and softly touched this offering of his love upon her brow before retreating once more behind the mirror.

He watched as Christine slowly awakened. She stretched her limbs and sat up, drowsy still from her dream-tossed sleep. He saw the expressions flit across her face - radiance, puzzlement, wonder, fear - as she remembered those dreams. She entered her closet to tidy her appearance, returning shortly looking alert and refreshed. She began to prepare her simple meal, eating and drinking daintily as she read through her script. Then her eyes become faraway and he guessed that she was reliving the visions of her sleep. She sat there for some time, simply thinking.

Christine smiled to herself, giving her head a little shake. She stood up to stretch, loosen and relax her limbs and torso as she had been taught, cleared her tea-tray and put everything neatly away. She glanced around for her ballet shoes and found them placed neatly beside the couch. He observed as she seated herself in order to put them back on her feet when her hands stilled for a moment and a look of puzzlement creased her forehead. Then he remembered removing her shoes while she slept and cursed himself for not replacing them on her feet. Still, she did not seem unduly worried for she gave her shoulders a shrug and tied the shoes in place.

She stood and went to over to the mirror, where she proceeded to tidy herself in readiness for the forthcoming rehearsal, smoothing her costume and combing her hair before adjusting the jewelled ornament.

He stared into her great blue eyes, drinking in her beauty. He could not help himself. He whispered her name.

Christine…

And she had answered so joyfully!

Then Let This Dream Begin...

Now soon, this very night, she would come to him as his pupil. Unseen of course, but there would be living contact between them. He would teach her to sing like an angel - would make her the star of the Opera. And perhaps one day, he reflected with renewed hope for the future, one day she would see him as he really was, and know her Angel of Music as a man ... as Erik.

From his pocket, he drew forth a crimson-red rose, dewy fresh and about to burst into bloom from its tightly-curled bud. Releasing the mirror once more, he moved swiftly across the room and placed it carefully on her dressing-table, taking one last look around before slipping back through the mirror and closing it behind him.

Oh Christine, my sweetest love, could you ... love me? Love me for myself?

If dreams really did come true, one day she might love him as much as he loved her.

He straightened, pushed himself away from the wall and adjusted the cloak around his shoulders. His stride was purposeful but his step light, while his heart beat out an anthem of joy within his breast as he hurried back down the dark passages to his home beyond the lake.

There was much to do. Music to sort and choose for their first lesson. Provisions to be purchased for his larder, and some wine befitting a lady’s delicate palate. There were the final preparations of his second bedroom to consider, that of a boudoir of lace and gossamer voile fit for a princess, and wardrobes to fill with gowns of every description, with shoes and nightwear and a cloak of sumptuous satin-lined blue velvet.

Oh yes, there was much to do, but meanwhile he could only fantasise on how his life would change.

Christine, oh my Christine, can dreams really come true?

Then let this dream begin ....

END

© Jeanette Birt 2002