Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux.
Based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and
the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay this fan story is. (Ah, Yoda speak!) I
have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of
Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a
past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Anything that appears in
'' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.
Note: I have decided from here on to follow the events as they happen in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and not the events of Leroux. This takes place in the six months between Act 1 and Act 2 and this part is a little bit pointless.
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
.
The journey to Rome was long and difficult. Through France I travelled by train in a carriage with two rich women who, on recognising me as an opera singer, looked down their noses. I was ostracised from all conversations that took place not that I would have wanted to participate in their frivolous discussions of the latest fashions or of their summer spent surrounded by the beauty of Switzerland. They tried in vain to provoke me into an argument with comments that attacked my very character. One of them, a woman of whom I can only say that her dress showed more style and taste than her manners, dared to bring up the subject of Daaé but I was not for falling into their trap. I smiled, said that the girl showed promise, and turned my attention back to my book. By sheer accident in my haste to leave, I packed several volumes of Jane Austen. God knows why for I detest most English writers. Yet "Pride and Prejudice" seemed oddly appropriate for this journey. As I looked across at my travelling companions, I could almost see the spectres of Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst staring back at me. An amusing thought that served as my only grip on my much-frayed temper. Oh my poor nerves, as Mrs Bennet would say.
At Nice, I was obliged to change my mode of transportation from rail to road. The carriage was uncomfortably hot and my travelling companions made light of this at every possible opportunity. Both the moans of the people and the intense heat wore at my poor nerves. Not even Austen could elevate my dark mood. Consequently, I found myself questioning my reasons for making this insufferable journey. I could not turn back, I reminded myself, for I had sent word of my intentions to Isabella. To turn back would be rude and an insult to one of my few trusted friends. What was waiting for me in Paris? An empty apartment. False friends. Rehearsals. Endless rehearsals. No! No matter how uncomfortable I was it was better to be here than back in Paris.
.
Tired and dirty, I looked among the crowd of people for my friend. Isabella has not change a bit since last I had seen her. She was still a short, plump woman with rosy cheeks and a smile that only comes from a happy family life. With her was a young lady who had been barely a child when last I had seen her. Rosalind was now a young woman of fourteen and was now very tall. Her eyes were those of her father but the smile belonged to her mother. The youngest of six children, Rosalind was a bit of a late arrival but she was the joy of both her parents. I smiled warmly as they approached me. It felt good to be among people I knew well.
"Welcome back, Elisa." Isabella said as she embraced me. "I take it that you are glad that your journey is finally over."
"Oh, quite." I turned to look at Rosalind. "And you, my child, have grown considerably since last we met. You are now taller than your elder sister, I imagine. I suppose I shall have to have a dress maker adjust the dress I have brought you from Paris."
"A dress? From Paris?" Her eyes sparkled at the announcement. Even though I had no children of my own and was oblivious to the fact that I may have nieces and nephews of my own, I loved to play aunt to Isabella's children. Having no brothers or sisters Isabella was happy for me to fill that role.
"Rosa, thank Elisa for such a gift."
"Oh, yes, yes. Thank you. Thank you!"
As Isabella and Rosalind led the way, I watched with interest at the ease in which mother and daughter conversed. I envied them. I had neither a mother nor a daughter. Though I had no choice in the former, I could have easily had the latter. And what of poor Erik? While my situation, to some extent, was of my own choosing there was no choice for him. Poor Erik, poor damned Erik. My life did not seem so bad in comparison to his. I did not have to hide myself away. I was not hated and feared. Well, some feared me but that is for entirely different reasons. My confusion and conflicting feeling were exhausting. Fighting with myself became harder and harder.
I would have to discuss this with Isabella. For everything, she had an answer. That is not to say that she was a know-it-all. Her advice was astute and normally based on her own experiences. She would know what to do. She always did. But I did not know how she would respond to the knowledge that Erik once again appeared in my life. After all, Isabella was the person left to pick up the pieces of my life the last time. She had been the one to help me cope with my increasingly problematic behaviour. If it had not been for her assistance, in all likelihood, I would have been one more lost soul selling my body on the streets of Venice. Once I had time to rest, I would approach Isabella with my problems. First, I had to rest.
Note: I have decided from here on to follow the events as they happen in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and not the events of Leroux. This takes place in the six months between Act 1 and Act 2 and this part is a little bit pointless.
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
.
The journey to Rome was long and difficult. Through France I travelled by train in a carriage with two rich women who, on recognising me as an opera singer, looked down their noses. I was ostracised from all conversations that took place not that I would have wanted to participate in their frivolous discussions of the latest fashions or of their summer spent surrounded by the beauty of Switzerland. They tried in vain to provoke me into an argument with comments that attacked my very character. One of them, a woman of whom I can only say that her dress showed more style and taste than her manners, dared to bring up the subject of Daaé but I was not for falling into their trap. I smiled, said that the girl showed promise, and turned my attention back to my book. By sheer accident in my haste to leave, I packed several volumes of Jane Austen. God knows why for I detest most English writers. Yet "Pride and Prejudice" seemed oddly appropriate for this journey. As I looked across at my travelling companions, I could almost see the spectres of Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst staring back at me. An amusing thought that served as my only grip on my much-frayed temper. Oh my poor nerves, as Mrs Bennet would say.
At Nice, I was obliged to change my mode of transportation from rail to road. The carriage was uncomfortably hot and my travelling companions made light of this at every possible opportunity. Both the moans of the people and the intense heat wore at my poor nerves. Not even Austen could elevate my dark mood. Consequently, I found myself questioning my reasons for making this insufferable journey. I could not turn back, I reminded myself, for I had sent word of my intentions to Isabella. To turn back would be rude and an insult to one of my few trusted friends. What was waiting for me in Paris? An empty apartment. False friends. Rehearsals. Endless rehearsals. No! No matter how uncomfortable I was it was better to be here than back in Paris.
.
Tired and dirty, I looked among the crowd of people for my friend. Isabella has not change a bit since last I had seen her. She was still a short, plump woman with rosy cheeks and a smile that only comes from a happy family life. With her was a young lady who had been barely a child when last I had seen her. Rosalind was now a young woman of fourteen and was now very tall. Her eyes were those of her father but the smile belonged to her mother. The youngest of six children, Rosalind was a bit of a late arrival but she was the joy of both her parents. I smiled warmly as they approached me. It felt good to be among people I knew well.
"Welcome back, Elisa." Isabella said as she embraced me. "I take it that you are glad that your journey is finally over."
"Oh, quite." I turned to look at Rosalind. "And you, my child, have grown considerably since last we met. You are now taller than your elder sister, I imagine. I suppose I shall have to have a dress maker adjust the dress I have brought you from Paris."
"A dress? From Paris?" Her eyes sparkled at the announcement. Even though I had no children of my own and was oblivious to the fact that I may have nieces and nephews of my own, I loved to play aunt to Isabella's children. Having no brothers or sisters Isabella was happy for me to fill that role.
"Rosa, thank Elisa for such a gift."
"Oh, yes, yes. Thank you. Thank you!"
As Isabella and Rosalind led the way, I watched with interest at the ease in which mother and daughter conversed. I envied them. I had neither a mother nor a daughter. Though I had no choice in the former, I could have easily had the latter. And what of poor Erik? While my situation, to some extent, was of my own choosing there was no choice for him. Poor Erik, poor damned Erik. My life did not seem so bad in comparison to his. I did not have to hide myself away. I was not hated and feared. Well, some feared me but that is for entirely different reasons. My confusion and conflicting feeling were exhausting. Fighting with myself became harder and harder.
I would have to discuss this with Isabella. For everything, she had an answer. That is not to say that she was a know-it-all. Her advice was astute and normally based on her own experiences. She would know what to do. She always did. But I did not know how she would respond to the knowledge that Erik once again appeared in my life. After all, Isabella was the person left to pick up the pieces of my life the last time. She had been the one to help me cope with my increasingly problematic behaviour. If it had not been for her assistance, in all likelihood, I would have been one more lost soul selling my body on the streets of Venice. Once I had time to rest, I would approach Isabella with my problems. First, I had to rest.