The Queen of the Night

by Alexander Chee

  Here was her other kingdom.

  If the war should begin, oh, that I could spend it here, Pauline said, as we exited the carriage, and laughed; and we all laughed with her and went in, pleased our queen was happy again.

  It was her held breath, you see, on the train there—all of us holding it for her or with her, as if we could help.

  §

  We found Nohant empty of Sand, but her handsome son, Maurice, received us, having arrived just the day before along with a family friend introduced as Edmond Plauchut, a funny, sly explorer, dashing in the way of a fraud, who immediately began to tease Turgenev as if they were brothers. Sand was still in Paris, detained on business with her publisher, and would arrive the next day. That night we sat down to a cheerful supper, followed by backgammon and charades, at which Plauchut—who they had long ago renamed Plauchemar, a mix of his last name and cauchemar, or “nightmare”—proved quite adept.

  The next morning, after breakfast, I explored the château and grounds with Maurice, as the others all knew this place well. We must be sure you do not get lost, he said, half joking. I made sure to be dutifully fascinated by the botanical garden, the billiards room, the park around the house with meadows and woods, the moat, and the river Indre, close enough for bathing or a boat ride, both of which Maurice assured me would happen soon. He then showed me with great pride the elaborate puppet theater he and his mother had created, how he and his mother made the marionettes together—he crafting the bodies and painting the faces, and she designing and sewing the costumes.

  I was, I admit, fascinated with him.

  The library, where he left me to amuse myself, still seems peerless to me, with her vast collection of books, paintings, and drawings, the Louis XIII furniture and Venetian chandeliers suggesting a life of opulent thought. Here was where I felt I could sense the spirit of our absent hostess, as if the room shook with her when she was not there.

  Maurice did not mention a father and I did not ask after one. There was no question of it. Madame Sand was, I could see, Pauline’s match, or more so. Each of them was a formidable artist and a woman who had made her own indelible mark on this world. I had thought to never meet another woman like Pauline, and now I knew I would.

  I knew of Sand only by reputation, the writer said to wear men’s pants and affect men’s mannerisms. On the train, Turgenev had mentioned in passing she’d written a novel about Pauline, a little in the way she’d done with all of her lovers, though it wasn’t thought that she’d bedded Pauline, he’d added warily.

  This all made her fascinating to me.

  In Sand’s library, instead of finding the novel about Pauline, I found a copy of Turgenev’s First Love, inscribed to her, and sat down to read it, to the exclusion of all else—I had not read him before, ever. The conceit of the book took me in from the first—a group of friends, telling stories, ask one another who their first love was. I secretly hoped to discover that it was also about Pauline. When it was soon clear that it was not, I continued reading it and had nearly finished it by the time our hostess returned.

  §

  Sand, when she finally appeared, was, disappointingly, not dressed as a man but as a genteel woman of her age, stylish but not too stylish. She looked me over graciously, with a smile that suggested she knew at least some of the stories about me. You are the prodigy cocotte, she said, and when I curtsied to her, she laughed. You are a delight, she said. You will sing for us later, yes? I looked to Pauline, and she nodded, smiling.

  We had a very late dinner, and afterward, the group became maudlin with drink and talk of the possibility of war.

  A drama, Sand said, finally, prepared to put an end to our sad mood. She stood up. She waved her arms up, lit by the candelabra.

  Pauline raised an eyebrow. Which one?

  Hamlet.

  Hamlet, Pauline repeated. This is how you mean to cheer us up? But she was already smiling as she said it and stood up.

  No, not that one. Not the whole one, Sand said. In honor of our future rulers, the Prussians, we will do the German traveling version of the play, in which we find Shakespeare’s play like a captive, much abused and much shorter. And hilarious.

  Will we do it in German? Turgenev asked, his voice very quiet.

  Sand laughed. We should, to practice.

  She waved us to the small theater within her beautiful house.

  All night long, after we’d tried not to speak of the inevitable coming war, it was easier to acknowledge now with jokes. It would be Hamlet as farce, and we would each have to pay multiple parts. Pauline was to be the Queen, and Sand Hamlet, of course, Turgenev the King’s ghost. Maurice exclaimed with dismay at having to be the King and also Ophelia’s minister father. Is there nothing more interesting for me? he asked.

  The King is very interesting, said Sand, and we laughed.

  I was Ophelia, but also the Queen of the Night, which thrilled me.

  Why is there a Queen of the Night? Pauline asked. Was she in the original?

  No, Sand said. A German affectation. Done because they love her, I suppose.

  There’ll be one in every opera once the Prussians are done, Turgenev said.

  You’ll see, she said. She’s terrific. I like her very much. You will, too. You won’t mind when they eventually include her in Don Giovanni. They also call her the Queen of Silence.

  We laughed at this, Pauline most of all.

  Sand chose Plauchut for the head of the troupe of actors, who were, in the play, from Germany, made to perform a play that reminds the murdering royal couple, Hamlet’s mother and uncle, of their guilt.

  We need Furies to accompany the Queen, Sand declared, and appointed Maurice, Pauline, and Turgenev as the Furies—Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone.

  I stood before them, cloaked in a blue wool blanket for my starry mantle of night. I wrapped it dramatically around my head, but as soon as I did, to my surprise, I felt something sad descend—something sad but nobly sad. Outside, the lightly fervid humor of the night.

  Where are we? murmured Turgenev, from just offstage. Is it her land of women from The Magic Flute?

  Well, they are Furies, Sand said. That is all you must know. Now let’s start.

  This version of the play begins when the Queen of the Night calls her Furies to her. I am dark Night that sends the world to sleep, I recited.

  I am Morpheus’s wife, the time for vicious pleasure.

  Protector of thieves, guardian of illicit love;

  I am dark Night, and it is in my power

  To give the whore her rest, and cover up her shame,

  Give Evil its free rein, all mankind to betray.

  Ere Phoebus arise, I shall have my prize.

  Ye children of my breast, ye daughters of my lust,

  Rise up, rise up, you Furies, appear before thy mother!

  Regard with care all that she is about to share!

  The Furies appeared and welcomed me. The comedy of it had fled at first, but it returned at the sight of Turgenev in the light from the fire, both hilarious and very convincing as a crone.

  Maurice, as Alecto: What says dark Night, Queen of Silence?

  What new game does she propose? What is her wish and will?

  Pauline, as Megaera: From Acheron’s dark pit come I, Megaera, hither,

  To hear from thee, mother of all evil, all thou might desire.

  Turgenev, as Tisiphone: Dark Night! Speak!

  What wishes wait in that dark heart?

  Pauline giggled.

  Listen, ye Furies all three, listen, ye children of darkness and mothers

  of all misfortune. Listen to your poppy-crowned Queen of the Night,

  patroness of thieves and robbers, friend and light to all that burns,

  lover of stolen goods, dearly loved goddess of unlawful love:

  how often are my altars honored by it?

  This night and the coming morrow, stand with me;

  The King of this land burns with love for his brother’s
wife,

  Whom for her sake he has murdered so that he might possess both wife

  And crown. Now is the hour at hand when they lie together.

  I shall throw my mantle over them both, that neither may see their sin.

  Make ready to sow the seeds of their disunion, mingle poison with their

  Marriage, put jealousy in their hearts. Kindle a fire of revenge and let the

  Sparks fly over this whole realm, till murder burns in Hamlet’s heart, and

  Gives joy to Hell, so that those who swim in this sea of murder may soon drown.

  Begone, hasten, and fulfill my command!

  As this last was said, it left my mouth with the whistling of something terrible set loose in the dark.

  That those who swim in this sea of murder may drown.

  The Furies gave their last speeches.

  Tisiphone: I have already heard enough, and will soon perform

  More than dark Night can herself imagine.

  Megaera: Pluto himself shall not prompt me to so much

  As shortly I’ll be performing.

  Alecto: I fan the sparks and make the fire burn;

  Ere it dawns the second time, the whole game I’ll shiver.

  Then they scattered to rip the royal family into blood and shreds, and fill the world with justice. More giggling ensued, and all was as it had been, a comedy again.

  Sand made for an amusing Hamlet. Every line she spoke made us shake with laughter. Pauline was regal as the Queen, whom she played as a bit thick and wintry toward her son. Maurice turned out to be an able and elegant choice for the young soldiers as needed, vanishing and reappearing in yet another costume—borrowing hats and helmets from the coatroom and, in one case, a long ostrich feather that made us all laugh as he entered.

  The night was like the play, familiar and unfamiliar—and hilarious, as Sand had promised, and we got through it, murder after murder, to the end.

  Ophelia, in this version, to my mind, could only be ridiculous, and so I played her that way. Befuddled as to why her world had gone mad but certain she had not changed. Her death a moment of unexpected happiness for her.

  After it was done, cognac was brought, and we sat outside on the lawns. It was still very dark but it was morning. I lay back, my hair in the grass, a slight chill to it.

  I watched Pauline with Turgenev—they were the opposite of the play we’d just enacted. The brother had not murdered a brother for his wife, but had instead gentled himself.

  Sand came over to me. She’d lit a cigar and looked like an old elf. And how are you doing with your studies there with my old friend? she asked.

  She is a demanding teacher, I said. But I love her.

  That sounds exactly as it should be, I should think, she said, and tapped an ash into the lawn with a cast-down grin. I look forward to hearing you sing, she said. Somehow I am sure you are extraordinary. Pauline does not trifle.

  Thank you, I said.

  This was when I looked up at her and wondered if she would one day write a novel about me. This was one of the first vanities of my career, that I could somehow attract the literary attention of Sand. I hoped she would, that I would someday be famous enough, interesting enough, and find myself browsing a stall along the Seine, her newest novel there, and opening it to discover it was finally of me.

  On the day I open the novel Simonet has written of me, I will remember this moment. Of staring up at her and wondering if I was to be her next subject. It was what I had always imagined it would be like to see God as He made up His mind. As He decided whether or not I was to be forgiven.

  §

  The novel, when I finally read it, disappointed some of my suspicions, resupplied others, and confirmed one.

  I was initially amused that Simonet had transformed the Settler’s Daughter into a sort of female Baron Munchausen, the Baroness Munchausen, if you will. All it lacked for was a ride on a cannonball, a fish for me to crawl out of, and a ship I could take to the moon.

  After the Paris Exposition Universelle, the young circus rider who sang before the Emperor and was rewarded with a ruby rose falls under its spell. Unbeknownst to her, the Emperor had the rose enchanted with a love spell. She escapes from the circus, intent on pursuing him, but outside the Expo waits a tenor who had seen the performance and lusted for her, determined to possess her. He seduces her, promises to make her a singer, and brings her to his house in the Marais, where he keeps her prisoner, jealously guarded.

  The tenor finds the spell has affected her singing, however; she lacks the passion she might have if she was free of the enchantment, which troubles him. She also keeps trying to escape and will not let go of the ruby rose. The tenor goes off in search of a remedy.

  While he is out, she goes to pray in the chapel of his enormous mansion for forgiveness. As she does, a net is thrown over her and she is dragged away, kidnapped this time by faeries who live on the rue d’Enfer and are determined to cure her but also save her. Faery jewelers make the enchanted flowers the Emperor gives to women and know the rose’s peculiar magic has bonded to her heart—if it should be removed by anyone but the Emperor, she will die. The faeries are now remorseful due to the Emperor’s excesses, but they find they cannot undo their spell. They devise a plan—they will go to the Tuileries and sneak her in front of the Emperor in the guise of a doll. In the Emperor’s presence, they can remove the rose and she will be released from the spell. As they begin the process of applying her doll costume, one of the faeries perceives the rose is killing her heart the longer she has it. There is not much time to save her.

  The faeries manage to get her inside the Tuileries and deliver her to the Emperor’s chambers; but the Emperor is not there so they depart, running the palace in search of him; the singer, meanwhile, still enchanted and finding herself in the Emperor’s rooms, believes her wish has more than come true—not only does the Emperor love her, she is also to be the Empress. The faerie who has stayed to guard her sees her dress in one of the Empress’s gowns to prepare to go to the Emperor and casts a spell on her so that she falls asleep; for if she leaves, she may die.

  She wakes to find herself in a circus again. At first, she’s happy to be returned, as she imagines it, but soon she discovers this is another circus altogether—she is the newest member of a circus of magical creatures hidden inside Paris within the Jardin des Plantes zoo. During the day, the regular creatures of the zoo have a secret—they are the magical ones, hidden by a spell. There she keeps company with an Italian gryphon, a Hungarian vampire, several acrobatic wood nymphs from Greece, a tiny Spanish dragon as big as a cat, and two Indian makaras, elephants with the tails of fishes. When the sun rises, she is transformed into a falcon and can fly. When the sun sets, she is herself again and performs.

  The circus belongs to a wizard who tells her the faeries were unable to find a cure for her so they have sold her to him. He explains she is there because he knows the truth of her voice—that she had made a bargain long ago with a Navajo witch for an enchanted voice at the cost of her speaking voice. If she was ever to use the speaking voice again, her singing voice would leave her.

  She is to perform with a recently captured angel as the circus’s featured act, singing as he flies overhead. To keep him from escaping, they have removed his wings and return them to him for performances only, during which he flies on a leash. To her surprise, she falls in love with him—the enchanted love for the Emperor seems gone—and together they plan their escape. During their next performance, she cuts the leash and he flies away with her.

  They rest on the top of the Paris Opera, where the angel has stopped, for he realizes she is dying of the enchanted rose’s spell—she had thought her love for him was a sign the spell did not work, but it was only proof of the strength of her heart. She has never told him the truth of the ruby rose she wears, but as she dies, the angel thanks her for freeing him and vows to wear the rose so she will know him when she sees him next, after death. He promises her they’ll b
e reunited in Heaven.

  Instead, she wakes to find the circus was only a dream during her long enchanted sleep. The Empire has fallen, the reason the Emperor and the Empress are gone. She has been asleep for nearly a year, her stolen dress in ruins, and wakes to find herself a curiosity inside of a hospital, with young student doctors marveling over her sleeping form, for she has been singing even in her sleep. She finds the rose is gone, however, and, terrified, runs from the building despite the shocked protests of the students.

  She makes her way to first the Jardin des Plantes, empty after the Siege and Commune, and eventually to the outskirts of Paris, where she is reunited with her circus, which joyfully remembers her and prepares for her to go on. As she does, she discovers that one of the men who works the ropes is the wizard who ran the magical circus in her dream. He warns her that he will have his revenge on her for stealing his star act—a test awaits her inside the tent.

  You will have to choose, he tells her. Choose well.

  She goes into the ring confused and believing her dream was just a dream until she sees in the audience a seemingly ordinary man.

  He is wearing the rose on his lapel.

  She calls out his name. He does not recognize her. He is her angel and has given up his wings forever to be with her as a mortal—but with that, he was lost among men, with no memory of his life before.