Note: At the time of this story (1914), the idea of costumes and trick-or-treating had not completely taken hold in America. The family dinner represented here was for the remembrance of family members who died. Although, the children costumes and desserts are decidedly Halloween-ish.
With one last flicker, the candle inside the Jack-O-Lantern centerpiece reaches the end of its life just as the family finishes their All Hallows Eve dinner. Emilie, her kitty cat ears pushed askew as she leans against Erik's chest, making herself comfortable on his lap, licking her lollipop dessert. Joshua's clown hat, discarded, pulled off earlier, lies on the table of his highchair being pummeled by his sucker.
"He has definitely inherited your talent for building," Nadir comments. "Hammering being one of his major talents, judging by his energy and determination."
"Nadir – he is just a baby," Adele nudges her husband.
"He is right," Christine laughs, lifting the toddler from his chair onto her lap.
"Canny," Joshua says, holding up the sucker.
"Yes, candy. You are supposed to eat it," she says. "I would be most happy if we can actually turn his gift around to building rather than demolition – he has quite mastered the latter."
Gustave pulls Margaret, a queenly crown perched on her thick blonde hair, onto his lap. "I personally dread the day he is released from the nursery."
The final escapee from the children's table, Henry says, "I shall help him." Leaning against Gustave's other knee, he gazes up at him, until the older boy brings him onto his lap as well.
Gustave groans, "You two are getting big."
"If everyone is settled, it is story time," Christine says, "This has always been my favorite part of our Halloween tradition – tales about relatives who are no longer with us. Remembering their passing – which I feel is the true spirit of this night."
"I recall you mentioning this years ago, when we were still in France – Phlllippe was very much against it," Raoul says.
"He felt I was intruding on the family's history," she replies. "Perhaps I was – I only wanted to learn more about your people…your mother. My own father was so important to me – I loved talking about him – I thought your brother and sisters would feel the same about your parents."
Raoul searches her face – finding her interest sincere – he takes a deep breath. "Since this is a tradition – and I am determined to make myself welcome to all of you – I am willing to tell the story of my mother – at least what I know of her passing."
Maurice de Chagny knelt at the side of Veronique's bed, his love, his wife, his partner. Dead. Gone from him and their three…now four children. Cursed God who would allow a mother to die, leaving her babe in his hands. A child neither of them expected or wanted, but she refused the herbs Maurice secured.
"We must have this babe, Maurice, to prevent his birth would be a sin."
"A sin for whom? We have a son and two beautiful daughters already at an age when they are less dependent on us for time and attention."
"For me – because I love this life within in me – he is a kind and gentle soul."
"He?"
"Yes. He. I should like to call him Raoul for my father."
The mid-wife asked if he would like to hold the small child – born too early, at least based on the doctor's assessment. Small and frail. A gentle-souled boy who would have no mother to care for him. "I do not believe I would – I should be concerned I might hurt him."
"He is actually quite robust for such a birth, determined to live."
"I only wish my wife had been so determined." Maurice rose to leave the room, passing his son…his eldest son…a grieving mind corrected him.
"Pere?"
"It is a boy. His name is Raoul." Stopped momentarily by the boy's questioning eyes, he said, "Your mother is dead."
Phillippe gasped, his father's words striking a blow to his heart. Tears rose in his gray eyes. "Maman is dead?"
"Yes, but her son lives…robust according to the mid-wife."
"What went wrong?" Phillippe implored the woman, appearing too young to have such responsibility over life and death. A shake of her mob-capped head is all she offered in explanation.
"You have no answer," the eleven-year-old boy stated.
"He was early, but the birth went well – I do not know," she said, returning her attention to the baby, tying off the cord, bathing his small body before wrapping him in a soft blanket. "She asked to hold him, so I placed him on her breast after he cried – assuring us he was breathing. After kissing his forehead and running her hand over him, she closed her eyes and left us."
Phillippe moved to the bed. The woman he adored had a faint smile on her face. Slightly opened eyes look past him. A normally pale complexion is still flush from the effort of birth, her golden hair damp, small curls framing her face like a halo – she was beautiful. He touched her hand and the body jerked, shocking him – throwing him backwards.
"She is still alive," he cried. "She moved when I touched her hand."
"No, Monsieur Phillippe, her body is just releasing…tension – her nerves relaxing…" An offensive odor wafts from the body. "…her internal organs…I shall tend to her. Has the wet nurse arrived?"
"Yes, yes, that is why I came, to tell Pere of her arrival."
"Perhaps you could send her in. The boy will need to suckle."
"Of course," the young boy, aging by the moment, bent to kiss his mother's cheek. "I shall take care of him, Maman. Do not worry, I shall take care of Raoul."
"As you can see from my tale, being welcome into a family is not something I am familiar with," Raoul clears his throat. "I am, however, willing to try." Taking a sip from his teacup, he sits back in his chair. Meg places a hand on his arm. At first he pats it lightly, then squeezes it – turning to smile at her before lowering his head.
"I was not aware you lost your mother, Vicomte," Erik says. "I believe there are three of us present who suffered that loss – in one way or another."
Seeking Christine's approval, she nods for him to go ahead. Erik has told her of his relationship with his mother…this might be a good time for others to learn more about how his life started. Over the years Madeleine's rejection dominated his life, perhaps this story can fulfill the Christine's desire to honor the dead.
"When I was traveling through India in my youth, I met a Buddhist priest under very peculiar circumstances. I was walking along the shore of the Ganges, when a commotion was raised on a boat cruising on the river. We watched as a child fell from his mother's arms into the water. Cry as she might, no one attempted to rescue the boy, until a young man standing next to us dove into the water and pulled the child to safety. When he held up the baby, the mother shook her head – she waved her hands at him and refused. The young man was confused. As was I.
"Why would she not take her child?" Christine asks.
"In her mind, the child was meant to die. For her he was dead. Now the young man must care for him or cast him back into the river which was to have fulfilled his karma in this lifetime.
"Recalling this story makes clear many of the questions I had about my mother and Marie Perrault…and Father Mansart. Despite their Catholicism, Madeleine would often complain I was their burden not hers. They took her seriously because they would be my mentors and protectors.
"Essentially, the Buddhist priest taught me: if you change someone's karma, you become responsible for that person." Erik looks directly at Nadir, who raises his cup as a toast.
"What of your father?" Nadir asks.
"My father? He was an architect. It would appear his talents have been passed down to me and my children," Erik replies, rearranging his dinner utensils. "He literally died just before I was born. My mother began her labor with me during his burial and gave birth to me in the dark hours later that night." Hugging Emilie close to him, he whispers something in her ear bringing her to giggles, indicating there would be no more said about his parentage.
Gustave nudges the twins to slide from his lap. "I am afraid my legs are growing numb, as much as I love holding the both of you."
Adele and Nadir open their arms and the tow-headed children run around the table to be scooped onto their laps, each of them grabbing a spice cookie from the plate on the table.
"Maman, you never speak of your mother," Gustave says. "What was she like?"
Tears form in the aquamarine eyes, her Mamma. "She was beautiful and kind…and a gifted seamstress and knitter. She loved sewing and knitting and crocheting; our small cottage was filled with her handiwork, along with cupboards of sweaters and caps and socks for all of us. It never got truly warm in Sweden, so blankets and warm clothing were always in demand.
"I was just six when she died – her name was Rebecca.
"They married despite grandpappa's objections."
"How can he provide for you with a violin? You are used to more. Things he cannot give you."
"Those things had not mattered. Pappa's music and, more importantly, his love and how she felt about herself when she was with him, advised her decision.
"I was born soon after and our little family was complete. When I sang, Mamma said she could hear the beauty of a voice that would only improve as I grew older with the proper training." Her gaze settles on Erik, who cocks his head in agreement accompanied by a soft chuckle.
"As time went on, she lost strength, becoming increasingly weak and was soon coughing up blood. Tuberculosis. At night, I could them cry together. Pappa and I did what we could to keep her as strong as possible, but ultimately the wasting proved to be stronger."
Christine takes a moment to contain the emotion welling up inside her – giving Joshua a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"I crept into her room, pulled up a stool to sit next her bed and took her hand in mine. I remember her head was propped up by two large down pillows covered in embroidered linen. The pillowcases and a bright afghan crocheted with yarn in shades of yellow and blue were her own creations. Her long blonde hair was captured in a pair of thick braids that framed her sallow face. A face once full and round, cheeks flushed pink as if she were always in a state of embarrassment, Pappa could never resist pinching them and making her giggle," Christine laughs lightly at the memory. "The disease that wracked her still young body, had aged her and her once vibrant visage was pale and haggard."
"Mamma, Pappa is so sad."
"Yes, he is missing me even before I am completely gone from him."
"But you can still talk to me and to him. You are still my Mamma. You are still his alskling."
"Ultimately, there was nothing she could do or say to ease his grief. The cry coming from his depths was something I had never seen from him or any other living creature.
"At her burial, his tears held until the grave digger threw the first shovel of dirt into the grave, the first shovel of dirt that would complete remove my mother from our lives. The sound of the first shovel of dirt mingled with the sound of heavy drops of rain falling on the wooden coffin undid him."
"Neither ashes to ashes, nor dust to dust – just dirt to mud, the rain assisting the diggers with their task as the earth flowed into the hole of its own will."
"Pappa, we must go – the rain."
"I must play for my Rebecca."
"At home, Pappa, the rain – it will ruin your violin."
"I promised her."
"She will forgive you. She is in heaven. She will hear wherever you play."
"Come, little one, you are soaked. Let us get you warm and dry."
"We walked past the other graves, not looking back at the mound, looking instead at the sky and the bit of sunlight breaking through the black clouds."
Shifting in Adele's lap, Margaret raises her hand to speak.
"What it is, darling?" Christine asks, pushing aside her tears.
"I am sorry about all your Mams dying." Facing Erik and Raoul in turn, she offers her condolences to them as well.
Soft thank yous were murmured to the erstwhile young girl.
"Our Mam did not die, but we do not know where she is, Papa Erik." From her place on Adele's lap, she reaches her hand toward Henry, safely balanced on Nadir's knee. He takes it, nodding for her to continue. "So, five of us lost our mothers."
"Oh, Margaret, of course, I am so sorry," Erik says. "You are so much a part of us…I did not think…do you want to tell us about your mother and father?"
"No – just that we love them and hope they are all right," she says, her eyes bright with affection at the man who she now calls Papa. "You are our Mam and Pa."
"Maman and Papa." Henry gives Erik a big grin exposing his missing front tooth.
Pushing back another round of tears that threaten, Christine gets to her feet, hefting Joshua onto her hip, returning to her role as hostess, saying, "I believe there is some punch in the conservatory – perhaps, we can move into that room and raise a toast to all the parents remembered and honored tonight as well as those in present and future," nodding at Meg.
Setting Emilie down, Erik gets up and takes Joshua from Christine's arms. "When looking at the cycle of life – and without getting too much into the religiosity of it – if our Jack-o-Lantern here is any indication – this holiday does seem to be taking on a less holy look at those who have passed – leaning toward more ghoulish ghosts and fearsome creatures..." Glancing down at the ball of sugar on a stick, the toddler is sucking on. "…and candy. I predict that in the future our little ritual tonight will be looked on in askance and confusion."