The Angel of the Opera

by Sam Siciliano

  “Silence–silence,” came the sibilant hiss in French.

  Holmes spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “Something as spectacular as the Opera House itself, something equally grand, foolish and magnificent. Above all, something theatrical.”

  All the lights were dimming now, and then we heard the applause from behind the curtain which greeted the conductor. Soon the low, melancholy music of the overture began. A few carpenters and attendants in black were still scurrying about; one nearly tripped, recovering with a whispered curse. Enough light remained that I could see Toby. She was panting slightly, but her tail still shook. I had the impression she was having the time of her life.

  The curtain rose, the lighting in the auditorium spilling backstage, and then the battens and the footlights went on. The latter were dazzling; they made it difficult to stare out at the red and gold splendor of the auditorium. We were quite near the front of the stage; we had to turn downstage to see Faust seated at a massive table, with the backdrop showing his study and the German countryside beyond.

  The first word he sang was “Rien”—“nothing,” all that he had to show for a life of solitary scholastic pursuits. Fontana was in good voice, and we could hear him perfectly. Perhaps I had been wrong to equate him and Carlotta. True, he was short, stout, and plain, but every man would choose to be a young and beautiful Adonis if such a choice were possible.

  The arrival of Mephistopheles was spectacular, although we could see how it was done. First a mist poured out from some vents, hiding the stage, then up through the floor came the Devil; simultaneously a limelight on the opposite side from us was opened up, bathing him in a brilliant reddish-orange light. We could hear the exclamations of surprise and fear from the audience.

  This was a different Mephistopheles from the one who had sung with Carlotta, a much finer one, a (pardon me!) handsome Devil indeed, quite tall, and with a wonderfully deep bass voice. His diction was perfect. Unlike Carlotta and Fontana, he was obviously a native French speaker; the words were not mauled, the vowels not mangled and italianized. He held up the parchment for Faust to sign, then gestured with his hand; the wall behind him seemed to dissolve. Christine Daaé sat at the spinning wheel pretending to spin.

  She seemed so small and vulnerable, so lovely, that a murmur went through the audience. The effect had been comical with Carlotta, but I could understand why someone would sell his soul for such a vision. I recalled the Phantom telling us he had watched Christine for weeks. How he must have savored her beauty, drinking it in like a man dying of thirst in the desert! I knew how he felt. Life seemed cruel and senseless at times, but one would be a brute indeed not to revere the beauty of a woman. I smiled in the dark, amused by my own pompous reflections. How I missed Michelle, how I longed to see her, to touch her! I had taken her beauty for granted; I had been a skeptic; but now it– she–seemed the most precious thing in my silly, trivial life.

  After the curtain had fallen on the first scene, a horde of men rushed about. The backdrop was hoisted up, another displaying the interior of an inn lowered, the heavy canvas swaying like a sail. The exteriors of the village dwellings were pushed on stage, and next came the tables and benches. Short, sharp commands and muted curses filled the air, then came the faint tread, the whispers, of a great mass of people, the students, burghers, and soldiers preparing for their entrance. After all the wild motion came a brief stillness, then up went the curtain, the orchestra playing the boisterous music of the second scene.

  Except for those few occasions when I had attended an opera or concert with Sherlock, I had sat in the celestial regions, the highest and cheapest balconies where one could admire the architecture of the dome, but where binoculars were required to discern whether the singers were smiling or frowning. I had never been so close to the performance, and I was enjoying it immensely. True, the sound was peculiar, the chorus being louder than the orchestra, but the vividness, the sense of being part of the events on stage, more than made up for that.

  At one point Holmes gripped my arm. In his other hand were his opera glasses. “Do you see?” he whispered, pointing past Mephistopheles at a group of male villagers. They wore the hats and brownish jackets supposedly characteristic of rustic peasants (at least we were spared lederhosen), and they all sang loudly. One tall thin fellow had his mouth open in a huge oval. I was so caught up in the performance that Holmes’s interruption annoyed me, and I did not reply.

  Mephistopheles struck a small cask with his sword, and wine the color of blood poured out, the liquid all alight, glowing. The devil burst into loud and threatening laughter, and I quite forgot Holmes had said anything. I only remembered it at the intermission, and at that point I was outside with Toby, who was relieving herself against a spectacular bronze lamppost straddled by a sculptured nymph. When we were back inside, I asked Holmes about his remark.

  “A mere triviality, nothing you need worry about. Did you notice how cool the audience seemed to Christine Daaé?”

  “Stuffy, pretentious French swine–they have no...”

  “Calm yourself, Henry. Carlotta was present. I saw her.” He raised the opera glasses with his left hand. “Her expression was not pleasant. Nor was that of the Count de Chagny.”

  “The only good thing about Christine Daaé running off to marry the Viscount is what it will do to the Count. The articles in every cheap newspaper cannot have pleased him.”

  “No. Mademoiselle Daaé had only her one line. She will show them in the second act if I am not mistaken.”

  “I hope so.”

  Christine seemed rather nervous and weary when she came on, but once she began singing, her attitude changed. By the end of the Jewel Song she had completely won over the audience. Toward Faust she showed the proper blend of innocence and longing, and when the curtain went down, the crowd went wild. She and Fontana stood near us before going out for their curtain call.

  “You were wonderful,” I said, but she did not appear to even see me.

  “Let her be,” Holmes whispered. “She is that rare artist who so totally immerses herself in the part that she becomes the character. The transition back to real life is wrenching.”

  “This has been a remarkable evening. I am enjoying myself, but I wonder when the Phantom... when he will show himself.”

  “Not until the end. He may be angry with Miss Daaé, but he wants her to have her triumph, to show her worth to Carlotta and the managers.”

  “Good,” I said. “The final scene is my favorite.”

  Holmes smiled. “Mine also.”

  The last act opened with Marguerite trying to pray in the cathedral. A chorus of awes came from the audience as the curtain went up. There were realistic pews and an elaborate altar, but all eyes were drawn to the magnificent window. Earlier I had seen them lower a plain white canvas backdrop; I could distinguish no lights shining upon it, yet a luminous rose window had appeared, the pattern brilliant with red, blue, green, and yellow.

  “How on earth did they do that?” I muttered.

  “It is a magic lantern projecting from the rear, quite an effective technique,” Holmes said. “The limelight employed makes the projection very bright.”

  Marguerite sang her prayer accompanied by a sonorous organ, then abruptly Mephistopheles appeared before her, bathed again in red light. At the same instant the window changed color, the bright hues reddening; it was as if the window were drowned in blood. “Lord,” I murmured.

  As Marguerite tried to pray, the Devil and his infernal choir taunted her. Her pleas to God grew increasingly desperate. Christine’s voice was so beautiful it made me ache inside, yet she conveyed such anguish. At the end Mephistopheles roared, “Sois maudite! A toi l’enfer!” his voice heavy with malice, totally evil. The rose window swelled, covering Christine with its bloody shadow. She gave a dreadful cry, shrieking more than singing the note. There was a brief silence after the curtain fell, then the applause began slowly, hesitantly.

  “Is she only acting?” I
asked.

  Toby whimpered softly, and Holmes stroked her head. “I think not.”

  Christine walked past us, and she had the look on her face of one who truly believed she was damned. Mephistopheles appeared troubled, as if disturbed by his own villainy.

  In the next scene, after the rather silly Soldiers’ Chorus, Mephistopheles helped Faust kill Marguerite’s brother Valentine. As Valentine died he cursed her with words similar to the Devil’s: “Marguerite, sois maudite!” Christine Daaé had only two lines to sing, yet somehow she managed to totally dominate the stage. I borrowed Holmes’s opera glasses and stared at her. Her eyes were open wide, her pretty mouth contorted with terror. No, whatever she was doing, it was not mere “acting.”

  After the scene was ended, I turned to Holmes. “How can she keep it up? She must be exhausted.”

  “The remarkable thing is that she sings so beautifully. There is no audible straining or forcing of the voice. I do not think we shall ever see a performance to equal this one. She does have a rest now during the Walpurgis Night.”

  Walpurgis Nights and witches’ sabbaths were supposed to be frightening, the culmination of Satan’s power as all the evil spirits cavorted, but I had always found them slightly comical, more of a devilish music hall show with competing acts and costumes. This one was better than most, the forest setting and various lighting tricks effectively done; yet with Christine absent, the scene was uninspiring and hardly frightening.

  For the first time that evening I was almost bored. Holmes was methodically searching the stage with his binoculars. Suddenly he stiffened and restrained a laugh.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “Do you see that tall devil just behind Mephistopheles? Here, have a look.”

  The devil in question was even taller than Mephistopheles, tiny black horns affixed to his forehead, great dark wings on his back. Something about his face was peculiar, vaguely sinister. Many of the chorus members were spectators in costume, completely uninvolved in the action, but this man was demonstrating the old adage about there being no small parts, only small actors. His eyes were genuinely demonic.

  “He is quite good,” I said.

  “That is Erik.”

  I actually dropped the opera glasses, but Holmes’s hand shot out and caught them. “He was a villager in Act One.”

  “Good Lord, should we not do something?”

  “No.”

  The curtain fell, the gaslights overhead brightened, and the stagehands swarmed about. Up went one vast backdrop, down came another much further forward. Several women and children angels dressed in white gowns and carrying golden harps trooped behind it; stagehands followed, pushing an enormous platform with a ladder attached. The thing slid along on rails beneath the stage, a small trench opened for it. We heard sounds of furious activity, whispered exclamations and commands, from behind the canvas. Meanwhile, in the foreground a prison cell had been constructed, the frame of iron bars set up, straw laid down inside. Christine walked on stage and went into the cell. A stagehand did something behind her back.

  “What is he doing?” I asked.

  “It will spoil the effect if I tell you,” Holmes said.

  “Christine looks rather cold.”

  She wore a white shift which left her white shoulders and slender arms bare. (Carlotta had worn a gown with long sleeves, no doubt to hide brawny arms worthy of a stevedore.) Her feet were also bare. Gone was the wig with its two plaits; her own long blonde hair spilled onto her shoulders. I had never seen her with her hair down; it made her seem somehow vulnerable. She was made up to appear frail and desperate with dark circles under her eyes, but I doubted she needed the false coloring. She was so small, delicate, and beautiful that any decent man would have wanted to throw his arms about her and offer his protection.

  Suddenly upon the backdrop appeared the black silhouette of the scaffold and the hangman’s noose. “The magic lantern again?” I asked, and Holmes nodded.

  The music began, Faust and the Devil appearing on the opposite side of the huge stage from us. They had come to steal away Marguerite, who had gone insane with despair and killed her own illegitimate child. Christine had lain down, feigning sleep, and when she heard Faust’s voice and sat up, I could almost hear a shudder of dismay from the audience. Truly she appeared mad. When she sang of happier days, her voice was so utterly beautiful that my eyes filled with tears. Mephistopheles rushed back in singing, “Alerte! Alerte!”

  Christine tore herself free of Faust, retreating to the corner of the cell and cringed in horror. “Le démon! Le démon!– Le vois-tu?–Là dans l’ombre...” The back of my neck felt cold. Her voice was piercing. This terror was not feigned; she made you see the demon there in the shadow. Toby whimpered softly, but Holmes knelt and stroked her head.

  Christine clasped her hands and raised them in desperation above her head. “Mon Dieu, protégez-moi! Mon Dieu, je vous implore!” Then she fell to her knees and sang first to angels: “Anges purs, anges radieux!”; then again to God: “Dieu bon, je suis à toi!–Pardonnes!” “Merciful God, I am yours–Pardon me!” Then again she prayed for the angels to carry her away to heaven. Only dimly was I aware that the tears had spilled from my eyes and run down my cheeks. Her voice soared over the orchestra, over everything.

  Faust and the Devil implored her to follow, but she turned to Faust with horror, with loathing. “Pourquoi ces mains rouges de sang?” “Va! Tu me fais horreur!” she shrieked.

  The Devil howled back, “Jugée!”—“judged,” damned!

  All the lights, both in the house and on stage, dimmed, and the backdrop of the prison shot upwards. Behind it, floating in the air against a blue-black sky sparkling with stars, was the host of angels with their harps. Many limelights were opened up and bathed the angels in brilliant white light. “Sauvée!” they cried, “Saved!” The Devil fell back, dragging Faust away with him into the shadows. The heavenly choir suspended over that vast stage sang of Christ’s resurrection, of paix et félicité, peace and felicity. The organ accompanied them, booming out triumph. Christine turned and stepped toward the angels. The audience could not see her face, her rapture, but we could. She raised her arms to the angels, then lowered them, and slowly she began to rise as the orchestra built to a great crescendo.

  A muffled laugh slipped from my lips. The whole thing was so preposterous, so conventional, so ridiculously sentimental, and yet I was crying and absolutely filled with emotion. I wiped at my eyes. Christine Daaé through her art had made the whole absurd business work.

  She was some thirty feet above the stage, no doubt suspended from a dark wire, when every gas or electric light in the house went dead. The limes did not go out immediately. The lime spindles themselves briefly continued to burn even after their hydrogen and oxygen supply was cut off, but their light was greatly diminished. The angels hung not in radiance but in shadow. The audience may have wondered if this was part of the performance, but those backstage knew it was not. “Damnation–the Phantom!” someone cried behind us, and for the first time Toby barked, even as the music dwindled away.

  Enough light remained that we could see a great black creature with leathery wings climb down from the darkness overhead and snatch Christine Daaé. She screamed once. The demon hurled her white form over his shoulder, then climbed rapidly back into the shadows. By then half the audience was screaming, and soon we were in total darkness.

  “Henry!” Holmes exclaimed. He pulled me back against a wall at the rear of the stage. We heard the big curtain come down close by.

  “Good God, did you see that!” I had to shout to be heard.

  “Yes. Quiet, Toby!” The dog stopped barking. “We must wait for some light. It will be dangerous on stage until then. We could be injured in the pandemonium.”

  And indeed, the stage abounded with cries, oaths, footsteps, crashes, quarrels, and commands. Soon lights appeared, some few of Mifroid’s men being provided with police dark lanterns.

  “Sile
nce!” someone shouted in French, then louder, “Silence!” his voice rising above the screaming angels. A light shone on the face of Monsieur Gérard, the stage manager. “Will you damned angels keep quiet! Please!” The din about us subsided, but we could hear women and children weeping.

  “Did you see that thing snatch her!” someone sobbed.

  “Hold your tongue, Madame! I shall fire the next person who goes into hysterics!” More lanterns had gone on. “Everything is under control. Please remain calm, and we shall get you all down as soon as possible. There is no danger. Everyone keep still. The audience is making noise enough.” He was correct: beyond the thick barrier of the curtain we could hear the panic of the crowd.

  Mifroid swept past us, accompanied by the same two of his men, each carrying a lantern. “This is impossible–impossible!”

  “Come, Henry,” Holmes said softly. “We can make our way out to the rear.”

  “Where is Christine Daaé!” Mifroid exclaimed.

  “Keep your voice down!” Gerard shouted. Then he said in a breathy whisper, “The Devil carried her off. Did you not see? There are hundreds of witnesses. And how did all the lights come to be extinguished? You said it could not happen!”

  “It is impossible!” Mifroid moaned. “My men were everywhere. It could not have happened.”

  “Do not tell me it was impossible! We all saw it. The gas was extinguished, and now all the pilots are out! Have you any idea how long it will take to relight everything?”

  “Come,” Holmes said. “We have seen enough.”

  We made our way to the rear of the stage. Abruptly Holmes pulled me back into the shadows. The Viscount rushed past us, still in evening dress, the Persian behind him holding a lantern. I reflected that evening dress and an astrakhan hat were not a pleasing combination.

  “Christine!” the Viscount cried. “Christine!”

  “Damnation!” Gérard roared. “Keep your voice down, you fool! You’ll set everyone off again.”

  Holmes urged me forward. He had wrapped Toby’s leash about his hand so she was next to him.