Pity Comes Too Late

by Filhound

Christine Daae thought that she knew what she wanted, a handsome husband, who had been her childhood friend but suddenly she wondered whether he had truly been the right choice. If she loved Raoul de Chagny then why could she not stop thinking about the kisses that she had exchanged with the Phantom. Had she done so out of pity or out of something more?

2. Chapter 2

So far the response has been about equal between my two new stories, with this one getting slightly more; but neither has set the world on fire. I this contest will go on for a while longer. So far my retirement from fanfiction looks to be a likely course. Perhaps this is not the place for me.

Chapter 2. Christine's Point of View

Looking back, I can see how the conflict that led to that fateful day came to be born. As the feared Phantom of the Opera, in the eyes of the world, my angel was closer to a demon, than the angel that he had claimed to be. He had wanted me to sing as if he owned both my voice and my soul, and yes, perhaps he did for a time. In my blissful ignorance, I had worshipped him as my angel of music for many years until reality had stepped in to rip his carefully constructed façade away. I had thought little about the potential connection between my angel and the Phantom until the fateful night of my debut when he materialized as a corporeal being dressed completely in black, with the exception of a white half mask that covered part of his face. He beckoned me to follow him to his underground home. I did so willingly; reaching for his leather gloved hand with my own bare hand.

I let him take me and guide me far below the opera house on a dimly lit labyrinthian path. Perhaps one could have called me a fool to heed his enticement. Logic might have told me that I should fear him, even then, but still I didn't. The thought never even crossed my mind. I trusted him completely despite the fact that he was wearing a mask, because his beautiful voice was that of my angel. I had known him for much of my life and had always felt safe in his presence and a strange unity of spirit with him that I still did not quite understand, but I didn't fight it. Yet I realized who and what he had been all along, to my own surprise I realized that I always had known it down deep but never admitted it to myself. Up until then it had not mattered to me who or what he was. He had been my teacher and friend. He had inspired my voice; just as Little Lotte's angel of music had done for her.

In my mind why should I have feared him? I had known him for a long time and he had never hurt me. I could not imagine that he could ever harm me. Still I had also realized that the mask symbolized all that he meant to others. To the world he was a monster, his evil sheathed behind the protective barrier of the mask. But in my case I wasn't sure whether or not the barrier was there to help or to harm; I had to know. When, I dared to remove it, to find out, he almost killed me right there on the spot. He had fire in his eyes and anger in his hands; I could feel them both move against me, with what appeared to be murderous intent. It was at that exact moment that for the first time I could see why he was so feared by everyone as the Phantom of the Opera; and my fear was thus born.

His identity as a monster had been revealed to me in an instant, and my heretofore latent terror awoke and gripped me in its clutches. My entire short life flashed before my eyes as I gazed at his long musician's hands. They were there, at my neck, ready both to strangle me and swat me to the floor to crush me like a pesky fly. Fearing for my life, I fell back, recoiling away from him. I tried to crawl away, to escape him, but he was too quick for me. Those quick hands had captured me and then started to close around my neck in a death vise. I started gasping for air, like a fish out of water, and the world started to spin and fade to black. I was certain that I was going to die right there and then, when my groping hand felt his mask right beneath it. At the same time his sanity returned and he suddenly ended his assault upon me. Perhaps he did so because I had cowered in fear and he could feel the full force of my emotions. My whole body was shaking in fear and gasped for air. He muttered a guttural curse as he loosened and then dropped his hands. I could feel him recoil away from me. His anger was gone, replaced by an aura of dejection, self-loathing and sadness so profound that he could have drowned the world in his tears. I could feel his tears rain down upon my arm as he backed away.

"I am sorry, Christine. I did not mean to scare you or hurt you. I should never have done that. I would kill myself before I ever would harm you. I have a terrible temper. Please you must forgive me," he teary voice had regressed to a whimper of pain.

Gone were both the proud Phantom, and my gentle teacher. If I had not been so frightened of him I might have tried to comfort him, but in truth he had almost killed me. Also, to be honest, I had never seen such an ugly face in my entire existence and was completely repulsed by it. It looked like a macabre death mask, on one side, with exposed flesh and bone. I could not look at him; it was too frightening. My young mind could not process what I had seen and move beyond it, and understand that the creature before me was a man. He looked nothing like what I deemed to be the face of a man. I wanted nothing more than to flee his presence before he changed his mind again. Despite his words otherwise I was sure that he was still intent upon killing me.

Still I summoned the courage to look at him. If I had any chance of escaping him, I had to look at that face. My eyes slowly looked up and could see that his hideous face had become a mask of sorrow and regret. His eyes had lost their fiery red ferocity and become a soft gentle green. They were pleading for understanding and still filled with a profound sadness. I could not help but to be touched. Yet I did not lose my fear of him. I had never known someone so changeable. One moment he was a murderous beast, the next he was overly submissive and as gentle as a lamb. I was only seventeen years old. I did not know what to make of his emotions, or even my own. What was I to think of him? What did he want from me?

While I still feared him, I also pitied him. I gathered more courage and then crept closer to him, mask in hand. I handed him back his mask and fled back out of his reach, cowering once again. He replaced the mask on his face and then he gave me a grateful smile. His distorted and swollen lips seemed as if they had to struggle to do so. If I had known better at the time, I might have been able to guess that in his lonely and unhappy life he had rarely had occasion to smile, perhaps never before; but back then I did not know any better. I only knew that the Phantom had changed his mood to something less threatening and a small measure of my fear of him fled. Like a genie in a lamp the return of his mask seemed to bottle his anger back up. Once again he became the stern and powerful Phantom that I knew him to be. That man did not cower; he was far too omnipotent to do so; but neither did he threaten me again.

After assuring him that I was unhurt, except for some small red marks on my neck, he brought me back up to the surface again. He begged me not to be afraid of him and apologized profusely for what he had done. Of course I pretended to accept his words. But, in truth I wanted to forget that he had ever existed. Despite all that he had been to me, my fear had won the day, triumphing over both my pity and compassion. How could I fail to fear him, when my neck still bore the markings of his fingers? Looking for protection, I fled from him right into the arms of my childhood friend, Raoul, who had become the Vicomte de Chagny. Raoul was everything that the Phantom was not. He was open, cheerful, handsome and charming. He had been so happy to run into me once again after a more than ten-year absence from one another's lives. He and had I met long ago and had become good friends. It was in a far different place and a happier time. We were both children spending a summer by the sea. That summer was perhaps the last carefree time that I had ever had. My father was still alive, and his lungs had not yet succumbed to the ravages of the disease that would eventually rob him first of his vitality, and then his life. Yet by the time of the first snows of that following winter he would be gone from me forever, and my life's path altered for good.

When I had first met Raoul, my father, who I called Farsa, and I had only recently arrived in France from our home in Sweden. I was from the village of Bjorklinge, to the north of Uppsala. The two of us had resided in a small cottage by a large cool lake. I would spend much of my time playing with my kusiner (cousins) who lived close by in the same village. They would love to stop by or I would go to their house. We would spend hours reading, and then acting out, our favorite Norse stories, especially my favorite one about Little Lotte and the Angel of Music. We would laugh over it and wonder if such an angel could really exist; in my naïveté I was sure of it. My morsa (mother) had liked to read that story to me and told me that such an angel did indeed exist and naturally being so young I believed her. She told me how she had once been an opera singer with the Kungliga Operan in Stockholm, and before that she had trained all the way in Paris, France with the Opera Populaire. She explained that she had left France because she missed Sweden too much and especially Farsa.

Morsa also told me how Farsa had been the favorite son of a great Greve (Count), who was a close friend of old Kung Karl XV. When Farsa met her, she had been studying at a music conservatory and Farsa met her and fell in love with her. His father, the Greve, saw his son's interest and disapproved. To get her away from my Farsa he paid for her to go to France to study at the famous Opera Populaire believing that that his son would outgrow his infatuation for her. She came back only a year later to sing for the Kungliga Opera, in Stockholm. Farsa saw her once again and loved her even more. Morsa had grown even more beautiful during her time in Paris. It had been like a fairy tale story between a prince and a beautiful maiden. Farsa decided to marry her, despite his father's objections. He warned my father that if he married Morsa that he would disown him. Farsa married her anyhow. In response my grandfather, true to his word, had Morsa fired from the Opera and blackballed her elsewhere.

By then Morsa had became pregnant with me, and they moved to Bjorklinge where my maternal family all lived. They bought a small cottage by the lake with the last of my Farsa's savings. He eked out a living by playing the violin with the Kungliga Akademiska Kapellet, which was the chamber orchestra for the University of Uppsala, one of the oldest and most distinguished orchestras in Europe. They were not rich but they were happy. Farsa used to tell me that, when I was born, it was the happiest day of his life, along with the day that he met Morsa. I would watch them hug and kiss one another and speak endearments to one another as well and knew, even as a small child, that that was exactly the sort of marriage that I wanted when I was older. Morsa used to tell me that when I grew up I would marry my own young prince, as handsome and as kind as my own Farsa. Perhaps I believed her a little too much. I was too young to understand that perhaps that was a fairy tale, like the one about Little Lotte that was masquerading as a true story.

Yet their loving marriage was destined not to last. When I was five years old my mother died in childbirth. It was a long agonizing ordeal, and I could hear my Morsa screaming in pain. Her screams pierced my ears. I longed to go in to comfort her, but no one would let me do so. The midwife was at our cottage for hours and hours. I could hear her whispering to my father in hushed tones but no one would tell me what was happening. Eventually they told me to go to my Moster Ingrid's cottage to play with my kusiner. The baby, who would have been my brother, had been eventually born stillborn; so two lives were taken from us not just one. Farsa and I were left completely bereft and forlorn from our loss. We still had the baby booties and outfits that my Morsa had cheerfully knit for the impending birth. Farsa could not bear to touch anything that my Morsa had touched or made with her adept hands. He was overwhelmed with sadness; only my existence prevented him from ending his own life to be with her.

I stayed over at my moster and morbror's (maternal aunt and uncle) cottage for several weeks while my farsa mourned Morsa's death, until my moster had to remind him that he had a daughter who needed him. Farsa knew that she was right and that he would have to find a way to go on without her. He knew that he could not leave me alone with my aunt and uncle forever, even if they did treat me as one of their own. They were no substitution for him. Farsa, Morsa and I had always been very tight knit as a family and I mourned the loss of that bond as much as I did her. Of course this perspective was not there when I was living in that time. I was only a young child and did not have the benefit of my adult perspective to guide me. I only knew that I was missing my morsa really badly and did not understand why I could not go home to Farsa.

Several months after my morsa had died, a well-dressed man came to visit my farsa riding in the most beautiful carriage that I had ever seen, complete with a liveried servant. The man was dressed very grand as well, like my father dressed for a concert. He looked at me and smiled brightly, his deep blue eyes looked straight into my own, which were the same exact color. The man claimed to be my farfar (paternal grandfather), and had tried to give me a small gift of a beautiful porcelain doll, but Farsa would not let him do so. Instead he grew very angry telling the man that if he had nothing to do with us while my morsa was alive then he had no right to come and claim us when she was dead. I had never seen Farsa so angry in my life and would never see that anger again. He told me to go outside, but still I could hear them talking anyhow. The man who claimed to be my farfar told Farsa that he no longer had to live in the 'shack' by the lake and make his money playing the violin. He told him that he would take him back now that his 'peasant' wife had passed and that he had ample servants to help Farsa raise me. When my farsa refused the man told him that he should come to Stockholm for my sake. He observed that I was a pretty child and that he could give me the life and the education that I deserved, the same education that he had given Farsa.

I listened with dismay. I had no desire to leave all my kusiner behind in Bjorklinge to go to Stockholm, where I never even had been. I then heard Farsa told him to 'go to Hell and never come back.' Since I was only a small child I had thought that he meant that literally and could not understand why my normally gentle father would wish for anyone to go to hell. I concluded that the man must have been some sort of demon in disguise and therefore certainly not my grandfather. In my young mind it was the only explanation for the man who came to visit us. I was relieved that Farsa did not want us to go with him to Stockholm. When I asked Farsa about what happened, and who that man was, he told me to forget that I ever met the man who had claimed to be my farfar. A stiff resolute look of intense pride crossed his face as he beckoned me inside. We continued to live in Bjorklinge for two more years undisturbed. There was no sign of the man who had come in the fancy carriage, and gradually my memory of his visit slipped away to the back of my mind.

Two summers after my morsa died, my farsa's old friend Madame Valerius invited us to spend the summer with her in Perros by the sea, in Brittany, France. She and Farsa had been friends since childhood. Sigrid Valerius had married a Romanian nobleman and moved to France as a young woman but she had never forgotten her dearest childhood friend. We were still both missing my mother intensely. Madame Valerius knew about what we were going through, she had been widowed herself a few years before. She extended an invitation to us to come to France. She knew that Farsa would never accept her charity so instead she told him that she had lined up some well paying performances for him. She claimed that the local nobility and gentry were quite hungry for quality entertainment for their cotillions, routs and balls and were more than happy to pay a good price for such a distinguished performer as my father; and that there were enough gigs to cover the costs of our journey and stay there.

Farsa was still loath to leave but I persuaded him. I had never left Sweden, and was eager to see a new country, particularly France, the country that Morsa had told me so much about. I was even hoping to visit Paris and see the Opera Populaire where Morsa had trained long ago. So at my urging, Farsa accepted her invitation and we came to France for what we thought would be a few months only. It was not long after we arrived that I met Raoul, who lived next door to Madame Valerius. It was a windy day and the wind had taken hold of my scarf and blew it straight into the sea. My morsa had knitted me the scarf so I was loath not to wear it, even on an early summer day, so I was very upset. Raoul had been walking on the beach with his governess and noticed both my tears and me. He had seen the scarf fly off and immediately ran into the sea to fetch it. I did not speak French and so I could not thank him properly but Raoul understood by watching me smile. The next morning he dropped over to see me, and he stayed. We found that we both spoke enough German to communicate with one another. Raoul then started to teach me French, and in turn I started to teach him some Swedish. He thoughtfully told me that he always wanted to learn Swedish, which I knew was a lie, but it didn't matter. He had done so to put me at ease. He was a natural politician. He was also a patient teacher, as was I. Teaching one another equalized the atmosphere between us, breaking down the barriers that might otherwise have existed, given the vast difference in our ranks. He was a Vicomte and I was merely the daughter of a Swedish violinist. As we taught one another we laughed at one another's mistakes and were soon fast friends.

In the beginning of the summer we were reading Nordic fairy tales written by the Grimm brothers, in German, and he would translate the words into French so I could learn them. By the middle of the summer I was able to read to Raoul from my favorite Swedish fairytale about Little Lotte, and translate it into French. Since Morsa used to read that story to me so often, reading it to Raoul made me feel closer to her. By then I could barely remember what her voice sounded like, but the story always brought her back to me. My father would watch Raoul and I read and laugh and he would play his violin to enhance the mood. That story was about a little girl who was visited by and then transformed into an ethereal singer by the 'Angel of Music'.

It was that story which the Phantom would later use to get me to trust him when I was still a child; but the story had belonged to Raoul and I even more. Raoul would make fun of both it, and me but I took his teasing well. I think that I had already half fallen in love with him that summer. He and I were already talking about the sort of house that we could keep when we were married. Of course my father was not so certain that he approved of the course that our friendship was taking. He was afraid that Raoul would change my perceptions of the world. That once I visited Raoul's world that my own would seem lacking. He kept reminding me that Raoul was a scion of a wealthy noble family whereas I was the daughter of a poor Swedish musician and that at the end of the summer we would go home, back to our cottage. It was all true; we had had every intention of returning to Sweden. But disaster struck and derailed those plans.

Farsa was right; I had absolutely no concept of the world that Raoul came from. Our cottage in Sweden had been so modest. Quite comfortable and warm but at the same time, we had few luxuries. We did not need them. We Swedes do not go for gilt and glitter in our homes or even our clothing. We prefer what is warm and practical, even in the finest of homes. Our winters are cold and harsh and we have little time for frivolities. Yet Raoul did not change me in that regard. My modest background had already shaped who I was. Despite my father's concern for me, I had no intention of changing. Raoul and I got into our first arguments over just that. I would tell him that he dressed too fashionably and ate too richly, and he would call me frumpy; whatever that meant. I did not know at the time. I did not want or need a big house to live in, as long as the place that I would come to call home would be full of warmth and love like our cottage in Sweden had been. For me a home filled with love mattered more than anything else. Raoul was raised in a household where his parents were like gods. Children were merely seen as an adornment, to be reared by nannies, nursemaids, governesses and tutors. I found that to be a poor substitution for my dear old Farsa, Moster, Morbror and kusiner.

Raoul had been shocked to find out that I had never had any formal education except for what my father taught me. Farsa had had a tutor when he was a child. Farsa had taught me to read and write both music and Swedish, and a little bit of German as well, since German had much in common with Swedish. I was supposed to start at the village Smaskola once I returned to Sweden, but then Farsa fell ill. Shortly after he did so I started singing some of Morsa's old lullabies to see if it would make him grow strong again and stay with me. Madame Valerius would listen to my voice carefully, and told Farsa that I had inherited my morsa's vocal abilities, and that perhaps my talent should be developed. My farsa mainly ignored her opinion. Farsa had no intention of having me suffer the same fate as my mother had in France, but preferred that my talents be developed back home in Sweden.

One night I overhead Madame Valerius ask Farsa whether or not he had thought about sending me to the School, at the newly opened Palais Garnier in Paris. Many of the students there would eventually be admitted to the prestigious Paris Conservatory of Music upon reaching the proper age of matriculation. I heard Farsa tell her that he would never send me away from him, and that anyhow we did not have the funds for me to attend such a place. Madame Valerius mentioned that the de Chagny's sponsored several children there and that she could speak to them about me; or that Farsa could even ask his own father for help; but Farsa told her rather adamantly that he would have no such thing for me. I overheard him tell her that my mother had been devastated by her rejection by the same institute. He also told her,

"You know that those de Chagny's sent their boy back to Paris because they were afraid that he and Christine were getting too close. I would not ask those snobs for anything," Farsa told her.

Madame Valerius replied, "But she has some talent. The school at the Palais Garnier would take her in a heartbeat. My friend Antoinette Giry is in charge of the ballerinas and knows the singing coach as well. You cannot let what happened to her mother affect your decision with regards to Christine. Alfhilda was nineteen when she arrived in Paris, far too old to start. It was kind of your father to pay for her no matter what his motivation might have been. Alfhilda had talent. You know that Alfhilda would have been one of the greatest divas of all time if she had started at Christine's age. Even with her insufficient training Alfhilda still sang better than the current diva, Carlotta Guidicelli. If politics had not prevailed, she might have become the next star of the Opera Populaire. Instead they hired that Italian slut. That woman sounds like a toad when she sings, apparently Monsieur le Fantome himself has attempted to get the managers to fire her but she is protected by the current patron of the Opera Populaire, the Comte de Voilleau."

"Well it is a moot point, I don't have the money to give her lessons and she is happy living with our family in Sweden anyhow. Should I not recover, they will look after her. They have never let me down." Farsa told her.

"Will they? They already have six children and your brother-in-law is out of work and you have very little money as well. How would they handle another child?" Madame Valerius asked. "And I know that you will never ask your father to help, not even from your deathbed. So how will she live otherwise?"

Farsa admitted, "I don't know, but there she would be surrounded by love and by her family. Somehow God will provide."

Madame Valerius observed, "You always had too much pride Gustave; open up your eyes, pride does not keep your stomach full. If your brother in law is too poor, and you refuse to make peace with your father, the Greve af Rosenstrale, Christine will need a career to make it on her own. She has great talent. She merely needs a good teacher to hone it. She could have the career that her mother wanted."

"I will never make up with my father. He cut me off for marrying Alfhilda simply because she was of peasant stock, and a singer. Yet Christine doesn't need a stellar career and the potential for disappointment that a failure to achieve success might entail. Christine was raised to appreciate the simple things in life. Not the phony world that exists in either my father's world, in Stockholm; or worse in Paris, with snobs like the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny. Christine will learn all that she needs in the Smaskola and live a modest yet happy life back home. When she is older she will marry a nice boy, a Swedish boy. She looks exactly like her mother who was, both a beautiful woman and a great mother. She will find a good husband. I have raised her to be a good child who dreams of nothing but love, " Farsa insisted.

I agreed with Farsa. I had been looking forward to attending school with the other children in the village. My twin cousins Dagmar and Ragna were to start with me and they were my best friends. We had talked about nothing else for months and my aunt Ingrid had already made me several uniform pinafores to wear. Their older brother, Sven, told us that Froken Magnusdotter was a mean old witch who still followed the old gods; but I think that he just told us that to scare us. Of course I would never find out the truth because I never returned to Sweden to go to school. My fate would prove to lie elsewhere, far from my homeland and my friends and family; it would be many years before I would see my homeland again, or even speak to my kusiners there. In time my Swedish family would become almost strangers to me. Thus, my path simply diverged from my father's plan for me.