Author's Note:
I am not a big fan of Carlotta's. I don't really know who is. But for some odd reason, I thought it would be interesting to pull away from the main focus of The Phantom of the Opera (the love triangle between Raoul, the Phantom, and Christine), and mess around with the life of a minor character we all love to hate—the Italian prima donna, Carlotta Giudicelli. I adore both the movie and musical versions of Phantom, and (having memorized the entire soundtrack of the original cast recording) consider myself somewhat of an informed enthusiast, but this story may still be riddled with a few errors that I missed. I apologize; I wrote this at 11-12 pm on a Friday night and didn't bother to seriously check it over for spelling, grammar, or accuracy. Feel free to leave a review with your critique and advice! As I said, this is my first work of fan fiction on a subject other than Lord of the Rings/Silmarillion, and I am very excited to hear what you have to say. Happy reading! Blodeuedd
Recollections of a Prima Donna
By Blodeuedd
Rome, 1900.
It is only now, as I sit on my veranda watching the hot summer sun warm the tiles beneath my bare feet, that I realize that I may have been a little vain. A little, perhaps.
But what is vanity, if not the highest form of dignity? And I had dignity, once. Now you look at me and see an old woman, with a face etched by the cruel artist hands of time. My long hair that once shone like so many filaments of the night is now stained with gray. Of what I once was, only my voice remains. But I was great once, I promise you.
Will I sing? For you? For free? Of course not. Those days are gone, lost in the rubbish of makeup-stained handkerchiefs and the stirring of a thousand orchestras and tawdry, brightly-dyed costumes.
But my voice was—and is still—my greatest pride. Within my voice is the spirit of Italy, the endless vineyards and Venetian canals and mysteries and undulating mountains and the villages nestled between. I was Europe's finest vocalist, a Roman songbird who outshone all the rest. I put the voices of the pallid French, the modest English, the husky Germans all to shame.
The people I sang for! The roles I sang! Every opera house on the Continent begged to have my name, the name of Carlotta Giudicelli grace their bill for a season, a week, a night. As I left my Italy, my cradle, for the greatness that waited, no composer was foreign to me. Mozart, Bizet, Gluck—I sang all their arias and cadenzas with the same ease with which others draw breath.
No queen on her throne had more power than I, in those days. A single glance from me rewrote librettos. A stamp of my foot sent a maid to the seamstress' for an entirely new costume only hours before a performance. A single sigh of exasperation sent opera managers scurrying to find a better dressing room, even if the one they had just offered was the finest they had. I dined on silver and gold, breathed perfume, wore fine silks and satins, and lived sheer extravagance.
If only I had never gone to Paris! That cold, sunless place would hold nothing but disgrace and sorrow for me. I should have known to return to Italy the moment I set foot upon the drab cobblestones, the Paris Opéra looming before me like a deceptively beautiful monster.
Five glorious seasons passed in Paris, much as they had in other cities. The glamour of the parties, the throngs of admirers, the scent of a thousand bouquets waiting at my dressing room door; all of these were unchanged from past tours and travels. Strange little things would happen now and again, cruel and frightening little things—a chill in the air, a shadow in a mirror, the echo of a mocking laugh in the farthest corners of the opera house—but I gave them no thought for a time.
But soon my golden hour would end. I can still remember the moment that my scepter and crown were cruelly wrested from me. Even now, I can still hear Elissa's aria from the third act of Chalumeau's Hannibal, the sound of my voice singing the words intertwined with the voice of another, the voice of that timid, scrawny wretch who would steal my place at the top of the bill and end my reign.
Think of me,
think of me fondly,
when we've said
goodbye.
Remember me
once in a while –
please promise me
you'll try.
As if any cared to remember me when that backdrop fell during the rehearsal! As if anyone thought of me when I left that place in a fury, with only loyal Ubaldo huffing and puffing behind! Behind me, I could hear them already deciding who would usurp my role, as if I were some cheap, mediocre tavern singer who could easily be replaced by another.
Replaced by Christine Daaé.
The thought still enrages me. She was a nothing, a mere chorus girl, until the day I left. But when I return, hers is the name upon everyone's lips, the name the adoring audience cries out in the encore. What talent did she have? To this day I still stubbornly assert she had none. Where my voice was rich and dynamic, hers was thin and pale. She had range, perhaps, but not the spirit! The Swedish darkness of her tones was no match for my sheer Italian vibrancy.
Things only became worse after that. I was shunted aside into a smaller dressing room, the once-constant flood of invitations to balls and galas thinned to a trickle, and now talk of a Phantom filled the shadows of the Paris Opéra. The Opera Ghost! Christine's tutor! No wonder her voice was so ashen and wraithlike—just like her mysterious instructor himself. Now, I thought I had found out her secret. That worthless girl was using the frightened gossip to her advantage, claiming this nonexistent spirit was her protector, her 'angel.'
I refused to believe the contemptuous notes, refused to feel the malevolent gaze on the back of my neck when I entered the Opéra, refused to hear the malicious laughter, now growing louder each day. I was intent on restoring myself to the throne. When plans for a production of Il Muto arose, I insisted upon the leading female role. The brief conquest by Christine was a mere fluke, I convinced myself, a simple accident that would not repeat itself. I laughed at the protests of the elderly Madame Giry, shoved aside the objections of Christine's vicomte lover, and above all ignored Christine with the fullness of my power. I would sing the role of the Countess. I would recover myself from that horrific invasion of my realm and proceed as if nothing had ever happened.
The opening night seemed to begin suitably. Gliding about in my familiarly lavish costumes, I was pleased with the normality about me. All was well—Christine was again confined to a silent role, and here I was singing to my loving audience, being watched and adored by a full house. Even the inexplicable enigma that was the Phantom seemed silenced.
But in the second act, the perfect world began to slowly curl in at the edges, distorting and melting into a ruin that made last season's affront seem a mere joke. A mysterious voice accosted the theater, demanding to know why Box Five was not empty. Christine immediately put on a wide-eyed face of fear, whispering to all who would listen that it was her Opera Ghost. Annoyed by her abrupt panic, I ordered her to be silent. After that, it became a blur of embarrassment. Somehow, I lost my voice, my beautiful voice, and could only croak like a toad.
Horrified and incensed by this bizarre, unheard-of occurrence, I fled, coaxing back my ability to speak with many days of tea and rest at my apartment, almost ignoring the rumors that followed in my wake, of a death at the Opéra. Again, only Ubaldo Piangi, my fellow Italian, had the heart to aid me in my time of need. No one else cared, and in my absence Christine again seized the opportunity to steal my place with her simpering demands for attention.
Finally, fate took my side when the Opéra nearly burned to the ground after an unexplained event with the chandelier, preventing Christine from taking any roles that should have been mine in the six months of rebuilding that followed.
I almost considered myself blessed to simply be remembered when the time came to issue invitations to the Opéra's masquerade ball. Ingratiating myself once more with the two managers, Firmin and André, was not at all difficult, and for a time I was prima donna yet again. The year was drawing to a close, and I thought myself fortunate. It had been an odd year, yes, but at least I had salvaged my crown and managed to keep my monarchy intact.
But once again Christine and her Phantom interfered. In a bizarre arrival at the masquerade ball, the masked and hooded Phantom presented us with a new opera, one he himself had composed—Don Juan Triumphant. I was outraged, but not at all surprised, to see that I had not been cast in the starring female role of Aminta. Predictably, Christine was instead honored with this favor from her so-called ghost.
The opening night of Don Juan Triumphant was another I would remember for years to come. My world, already stripped of its dignity and pride when I was placed in a degrading chorus role, was completely demolished when Ubaldo Piangi was found dead at the hands of the Phantom. All doubts of the Phantom's existence faded in my mind when I saw the realness of a man garroted by the mysterious being's legendary lasso. Christine disappeared with her ghostly teacher into the lightless depths of the opera house, and a vengeful crowd formed to follow after.
As I fought to regain control of my terrified mind and rescue my sanity, a silent, pale Christine returned, clinging to the arm of the Vicomte de Chagny. And this time, my thoughts cleared of any scrap of jealousy or pride by the sweeping arm of grief, I knew she was not pretending when she gazed about emptily, helplessly, at the masses that demanded answers about this Phantom of the Opéra, this man who was a man and a magician and a spirit and a demon all in one. She left with the Vicomte in his carriage that night and I heard no more of her, though I have never again seen her name on the billing of any opera house in all of Europe.
Not long after, I too left Paris, sick of dethronement and fear and magic and grief. I returned to Italy, where all is warm and predictable and painted in shades of gold, green, crimson, like a gypsy's scarf. Using what remained of the fortune I had amassed over years of music, I made my home here, in this humble villa on the outskirts of Roma, my beloved city. Like Christine, I have avoided publicity ever since my departure from Paris, and La Carlotta has all but faded from the public memory.
Somehow, I think my hunger for fame and glory is now sated in my old age. I devoured enough of those two rich commodities to last three lifetimes in my youth alone, and now I can be content to sit as an old woman on the terrace of my home and let the sun warm my feet. No mysteries, no scandals, no performances. Just memories, floating like music on the summer breeze brought in from the ocean. Those days that I remember now are gone, lost in the rubbish of makeup-stained handkerchiefs and the stirring of a thousand orchestras and tawdry, brightly-dyed costumes.
I was vain once, but I have almost no need of vanity now.
Almost.