Casta Diva
I should be happy visiting Manhattan Opera and possibly beginning a new job. A new start to my life. I am a thousand miles away from Paris, from the girl who would have never defied her family for a music job. Nor my family and their possible objections. I push away the mental images of Aunt Laura and Uncle Phillipe looking at Mama and I with polite disdain, like we are swans among a brood of ducks. I push away the sound of screaming and broken glass in my nightmare.
Manhattan Opera is close to the Metropolitan. The carriage passes a curb and turns to a large area where a sign of red and gold greets us. The sunlight is warm and inviting on my skin, but it shines off the gold lettering.
Manhattan Opera House. Est. 1887.
"La Divina"
I dare to look up at the building itself, and my breath leaves me. It is grand, a high towering building that pierces the sky and burns like a seraph in the sun. The entire edifice must be built of solid gold! The steps are marble, complete with columns at the front that lead up to an awning that points upward, like the entrances to some churches. The edifice also has folds in it, much like the dresses on statues on goddesses or the robes of angels. There must be an angel statue on the roof!
Edmond pulls the carriage out by an enormous marble fountain and stops. "We are here, Mademoiselle!" he calls. "I will help you out, and then park the carriage to accompany you inside."
I nod and gather my materials. I resist the urge to sketch an outline of this golden edifice right now, especially with a close view of the front. I gasp. Even the door is ornate, made of polished wood and frosted glass! I want to sketch it all: the columns, the design of the building reminiscent of a goddess's gown, the windows shining the opera house in light.
What is the beauty inside?
Edmond helps me down, and my eyes are trained on the magnificent structure. It is one of the most beautiful buildings ever crafted by man!
"Oh, Edmond," I whisper. "It is marvelous."
He glances at the building as well, and I see that awe in his weathered eyes. "Beautiful," he agrees. I fall a little more in love with my new home. La Divina is even more beautiful than the Palais Garnier!
"I shall park the carriage and meet you here. Wait for me," he instructs. I nod. But the feeling of awe is pulling me upward. Tears prick my eyes.
It was dedicated to our owner's wife, Mme. Dufort had said. I will be entering a sacred space. A church dedicated to music. A temple to a goddess. A shrine to the beloved dead. Why else would her husband build such a place in her honor? It even rivals the Taj Mahal in India!
Is La Divina proud of what her husband has done? People amble in and out of the building, oblivious to my stares. Around me, the fountain roars behind me and there is the trotting of horses along cobblestone along with chatter in the air. Birds sing in the air. Yet is all is fading in comparison to this place.
I am inadequate. I am an amateur. I do not belong in such a hall of music. Although my heart is skipping beats in my chest like the assemblé jumps of a ballerina, Edmond and I enter. There is a sign just above the door:
Sit angeli musicorum huc usque in saeculum cantabo.
For La Divina—the angel evermore.
The main hall is grand, gold and reflective on all surfaces. Two marble staircases connect at the top, before splitting to form two separate balconies, each leading to separate wings of the opera house (like angel wings?). The ceiling is a dome, showing grand paintings of angels looking down on us with loving faces as they sit on golden clouds. Paintings of the pagan deities, including Apollo and Orpheus and the Muses, are on the walls. Golden, reflective colonnades hold up the room and go to the ceiling. On the ground floor the room splits into wings, with long hallways having windows next to each other. On the other side are more murals and, oddly enough, mirrors.
And in the midst of all this beauty, there is the faint sound of singing. The song is Italian, yet I cannot place the words. Ah, this place is built to carry sound, to make it echo everywhere!
"Which way do we go?" I ask.
Edmond looks around. "Follow the sound," he suggests. I nod, transfixed by the place surrounding me. We ascend the steps, and the sound goes louder. This must be the way to the main stage. We both turn right in the hopes it will lead us to M. Carriere or M. Barbier. Find them. M. Carriere or M. Barbier…I need them. For the music. The music—
The opera aria floats through the building and the orchestra makes my heart leap. Ah, it is fitting! A soprano voice is singing a haunting rendition of Norma's famous aria.
Casta Diva
Casta Diva, che inargenti
Queste sacre
Queste sacre
Queste sacre antiche piante…
The haunting song is nearly a pleasant distraction from the verifiable labyrinth of a place. It twists and turns. The hallways are grand and beautiful, featuring drapes and mirrors, murals, and statues, but they turn sharply, leading almost nowhere. At the end of some hallways are long mirrors as large as doors, or grand windows that let in the sunlight.
After nearly a half hour of this, the music in my head has changed from the soprano aria to frantic strings and a pulsing bass drum. What if we never find them? I have to! I have to! I am a musician! This is my chance to show it! If it is taken from me…
"Mademoiselle," says Edmond, placing a firm hand on my arm. I do not realize I am breathing heavily until he stops me. The sound fills my ears; it is a combination of my anxiety and frustration. "Stay calm, please. We will find them."
I take a moment to calm my breathing—tightening my grip on my music like a child gripping its mother's hand. As if wanting the music itself to comfort me. I take in a deep breath and let Edmond's words sink in.
We will succeed. I know it. (Vanish, O night! I will win! I will win!)
We walk on, and turn a corner down another hall. This wing has tea lights that give an almost romantic feel. There is a Persian rug under our feet. The walls are grey, but the lights are rose-gold, giving an almost evergreen color, luxurious and opulent. The end to this hall has an archway with a painting of an angel holding a lyre over his golden head. It is a sort of business wing. Dark oak doors lead to offices on either side of us.
My heart is now in my throat as I scan the plaques near all the doors. Roux, Durand, Dufort…Carriere!
"There!" I gasp. I knock with a persistent, impatient hand. Finally, a chance to get somewhere!
With my heart pounding in my ears and a throbbing in my head, I knock once more. "Monsieur Carriere?" I call.
"One moment!" answers an older but smooth-sounding voice. I straighten and reach for the edge of my cloak. I stroke it with the pad of my thumb while fighting the urge to bring it up to my cheek and nuzzle it like a child would a blanket.
Before I can do anything, the man comes and opens the door. M. Carriere has a kind, weathered face with bright gray eyes and graying hair. He is tall and impeccably dressed.
"May I help you, miss?"
"…sir?" I question. "Monsieur, parles-vous francaise?"
"Oui, Mademoiselle! Comment pues-je t'aider?"
Relief floods my whole body like an opera's finale. "My name is Madeleine de Chagny. I am here with my family driver, Edmond Du Pres." I gesture to the man, and both shake hands in greeting. "I met Madame Rebecca Dufort a few days ago and heard about the position to become the company pianist. I was wondering if I could audition for you, sir?"
He hesitates. "I do not recall her mentioning you—"
Wonderful.
"Yet I will be happy to have you audition. First, I will need to bring Mme. Dufort and M. Barbier, our conductor. Unfortunately, we may not be able to hire you right away."
I need to be careful when asking this question. I ask in the most cautious and submissive tone I can muster, "why, if I may ask?"
He gives me a look of either understanding or polite condescension. "Mademoiselle, our boss, the Maestro, handles all the new hiring. He is unfortunately away on business for a few weeks. He would hear of you from M. Jules Bernard and then make his decision."
What a strange place! Why the Maestro or any owner would not want to meet his new employee in-person is odd. I push down the fear that hisses in the back of my mind. He won't accept you. You'll be denied your chance. You'll be—
"I understand, Monsieur."
He looks down to the scores in my case. "What is that?"
"Music scores, sir. My own work. I also have ones annotated from a music professor I took lessons with."
I open the case and with clammy and almost shaking hands, give him my works. It is nearly like surrendering a child. I try to ignore the pounding in my head. "Who was the professor you worked with, Mademoiselle?"
"Prof. Claude Valerius."
He nods in disinterest at first, then his eyes widen. "The professor from the Academie de Musique?"
"Oui, Monsieur."
He hands the papers back to me and I throw them inside. "Come, I shall bring you to Mme. Dufort and M. Barbier at once!"
He leads us on through the opera, around the corners and down many stairs, until we are standing in a marble hall. The ballet corridors. They are gray and almost dreary, yet somehow as elegant as a Dore painting. Degas paintings are on the walls, bags are strewn against the wall, old pointe shoes hanging on a hook. In the practice room there is piano music. "Plié, un, dous, tres, cuat…plié!" The sharp voice of Mme. Dufort rings loud as she commands her dancers.
Edmond and I stand back while M. Carriere knocks on the door. After a moment, he knocks louder and opens the door. Immediately, the music stops, and whispers fill the air. Then, a cold silence.
"M. Carriere, how might I assist you?" Mme. Dufort sounds almost tired but pleased. I feel slight relief upon her use of French.
"I have Mlle. Madeleine de Chagny here for her audition," he explains. I take quiet, stealthy steps forward into her line of sight. Mme. Dufort smiles upon seeing me, with some light in her gray eyes. "Madame," I begin. "Thank you for this. It is a pleasure."
She nods. "Have you met with M. Barbier, Mlle. de Chagny?"
"No, Madame."
"M. Carriere will take you to him, and then I will be down in about ten minutes."
Next, I sit down in a blood-red room which must be for music practice. It is small and nearly stifling. A red curtain drapes on one wall, swooping down and nearly touching the grand piano as if to hide it away. The managers, including M. Carriere and M. Jules Bernard sit across from me while Mme. Dufort stands beside them. She had explained that the audition would take place in two separate places. Here, I would be interviewed, and then I would play for the company.
"When did you first hear of the company, Mademoiselle?" asks M. Bernard. He brings his hand up to stroke his red beard like a scholar.
"Madame Dufort," I indicate the ballet mistress, "showed me a flyer in the music shop on Fourth Avenue. I wanted to come and audition."
They nod in curious appraisal. "You are young. How long have you been playing?"
I could remember getting basic piano lessons from Mme. Thoreaux as a child, likely no older than three. I moved on to being taught by Prof. Valerius at around nine. "I was taught by my governess, Mme. Regina Thoreaux at around three if I recall. Next, I learned from Prof. Claude Valerius, from the Conservatoire, at around age nine until recently—the Professor could not accompany us during the move." And we could no longer pay him after—after...
M. Bernard's voice startles me out of my memories. "Three? That is impressive. You are a prodigy, then."
I blush. "I suppose so, thank you. But both my teachers urged daily practice."
"What was the hardest skill for you to learn?"
"Trills," I respond. "They were the last lesson I learned with Prof. Valerius. When I was younger, I struggled with chords and chord progression. It took me a while to learn them—about five months." And that with daily practice for an hour or longer, might I add!
"The hardest song you have ever played and when did you learn it?"
"Hammerklavier, it took me eight months. I believe I was nine…yes, I had just turned nine!"
After further questions about piano technique, such as where to place the hands and feet, how to do a proper progression, glissando, and so forth, they ask me to play. They question me for a while, it must be over an hour. By the time it is over, I have bunched my hands into fists, but cleverly hidden them in my skirts. I almost wish I was wearing my cloak so I could curl up in it to avoid my own anger. Just. Let. Me. Play. Please don't try my patience. Please stop doubting me simply because I am young.
It almost reminds me of the looks the Paris aristocracy would give at parties when my ten-year-old self would sit down. Oh, charm us dear! Do your best! They would think while expecting me to only have slightly advanced variations of Christmas hymns or French lullabies memorized. I would get the more serious stares from the adults who knew of my capabilities and respected me despite my age. I remember shocking the unsuspecting ones after having played a variation of Morir! Si pura e bella.
"Mademoiselle, which of your compositions do you wish to play?"
Thank heaven! "My most recent, please."
They nod, say things among themselves, and I gather my most recent piece. It takes longer than I wish to, and I quickly straighten and position myself. I set my music in front of me (though I already know this piece by heart), take a quick breath, and try to will the anger away.
But the music—oh, the music! —will soothe it. It always does.
I play.
The emotions that I expect to encompass me come. I quickly lose myself in the playing, in the notes and harmonies. It takes me away, takes my soul to flight. It is my music, and I am not just the player, but the director. I know where every finger will land, every chord, every note, every melody. It is mine. Mine to lead and cherish.
I finish and bow to my audience. Their applause is thunderous and deep, resounding in my core. I am a performer. A musician. It is my goal to bring music to the world and for the world to appreciate it. This moment where my music is appreciated and honored and exalted, this is why I long to perform. I feel it in each pounding of my heart.
I belong here. I know it.
"Extraordinary," breathes M. Bernard. "Mademoiselle de Chagny, please come and play that piece for our company. We are in rehearsal now, working on Norma, but I will gladly have you play."
"Rest assured," M. Carriere begins, "it is a normal part of the audition process. We want the company to react, to see how you will fit."
I nod, collect my things, and we all leave in silence. The weight of what I will be doing grows and festers. TO this professional company, I am no one. The burden is on me to prove my worth.
God, help me.
After more weaving through the maze, we finally reach the main stage. No one in the company pauses to look at us, which is a good thing. So, I try to distract myself with the room's beauty. This room is as magnificent as the others. The cushions on the seats are red, outlined with a gold trimming on the back in the shape of angel's wings. Statues of angels line the outside of the room, reminiscent of Dante's Paradiso. Above the grand stage with its gold and silver curtain is a gold statue of an angel with its arms extended, with its mouth open in song. The ceiling contains murals of angels with harps on the clouds. At the top is a halo of golden light. Hanging below this is the chandelier, made of crystal. It twinkles and shines in the light of the bulbs from the lamps hanging on the corners of the room. It is magnificent. A piece of heaven on Earth. The stage is blow us, the center, the very heart of the opera house.
The song from the Prima's repertoire. Casta Diva, an aria in which Norma begs a goddess to give her the man she loves. It is haunting as the soprano voice soars and moves, bending to force her audience to feel each part of her character's pain and longing. Norma's desires are heard in her voice. While she keeps the company distracted, we go backstage. Here, it is no different than the Metropolitan's set up. Yet I feel there is an added difference here. There is more space somehow, more places for people to traverse and get lost in.
I fight the urge to shiver at the sudden cold gust of air.
When the singer finishes, M. Carriere gets the company's attention. He says something to them all in English, then gestures to me and to the piano.
This is it. I am to play. To prove my worth to this unsuspecting crowd who are all eyeing me with anticipation. I am almost nervous to meet their collective gaze, fearful of finding judgment or condescension in there.
That thought flickers some anger inside me. I can amaze them, and now is the time to prove it.
"Merci, M. Carriere," I say, now forcing myself to stand tall and bold. I tell them in my clearest French that I am delighted to be with them for the opportunity. I give slight background on my most recent piece, and that I could play some other requested work should anyone wish it.
As I had done in that red room, I sit, straighten my music, pause, and breathe. I let the anticipation in the room fill me. I am in total control. I can spellbind them, force them to listen to me through the music. I possess that power in these keys under my fingers.
But that thought terrifies me. Music should never be a manipulator for ill intent. I am to do my best. Yet I have to remember: to them, I am no one. A nobody with no credentials other than studying with a music professor and having an opera singer as a mother.
But still, I need to prove to them what I pray in the deepest part of me is true. I am a musician. So, I need something, some piece of music that will display my best to them.
I glance at my newest piece. True, the managers reveled in my music, but I want to give them something extraordinary. And I know just what will do it. I find the piece I transcribed after that trip into Manhattan which I named Violin Concerto in C Major. Ah, this will have them in true awe!
I rise quickly, "Messieurs and Madames," I begin. "I heard this piece of music from a violin off the streets of Manhattan. If it is alright, might I play this in your hearing? I assure you, it is genius."
The management nods in assent and the crowd murmurs in what I hope to be approval. I inhale, position myself, and loosen my aching muscles.
I play.
My soul rises and falls with the notes, allowing all my anxieties and fears and hesitations to be stripped away. My concentration is on every note, every sound. I know what will come next, and what came before. This is mine to play—I am the mistress, bending it to my will! Though it is not truly my piece, I still play with utmost fervor. I am the instrument. I create this music and give it new life each time I play. I allow the passions and leaps and bounds to move my body. I become one with the sound. Oh, the music! My soul is stirred to its core. Sweet, blessed euphoria. Everything around me fades, though I know I have their attention
I finish, leaving the silence to linger in the room. I get up and bow to my audience as I have done numerous times before. Yet this is new. There were stakes and I soared above them. That same relief and victory resounds deep inside me. When the managers request to hear my own piece, I do so happily, still on that wave of happiness from before.
Afterwards, Messrs. Bernard and Carriere kiss my hands. "Mademoiselle, you will be hearing from us in a few weeks' time, with our Maestro's decision. If he chooses, you shall be an honored member of our company."
"Thank you, sirs!" I say, cheeks aching from the stupid, wide grin on my face.
The rest of the day passes with meeting my potential coworkers and hearing their congratulations. I tell them a bit of my backstory—how I trained for so long, why I have always loved music—and hear of their stories. Only a few bring up that I am the daughter of Christine Daae, for which I am grateful. I have to make it on my own.
Edmond and I are about to leave an hour later when my skin breaks into goosebumps. I feel it so clearly that I wonder how I had not before.
Eyes. Watching me.
Not just from the paintings of beauty all around or from Opera staff. But somewhere else entirely. Do I only feel one pair on me, or two? Is it the service workers? Is it a visitor? Or…can it be La Divina herself, ensuring that I do right by her opera house?
The dreadful feeling of being watched only grows as we leave out the main hallway. You're seeing things, Madeleine. It's not real. Not real. It's all a fantasy meant to scare you. Just as I exhale a shaky breath and put a trembling hand to my cloak, I look up. Above us, on an upper balcony, is the edge of a black cloak.
Thank you all so much for your patience! Especially thank you to Anneeee and SloaneDestler and to all my wonderful readers! Please review! Your comments are my main push to keep going with this story, so for that, I am grateful!