Excerpt of a letter from Sir Erich Lensherr, Warefield, Devonshire, England to Messieurs André and Firmin, Opera Populaire, Paris, France:
As you can see from the figures my secretary has drawn up, you will realize a substantial profit from this investment.
Turning to artistic matters, my protégé, Miss Pryde, sent me the most diverting letter a few weeks ago, telling me all about the Opera Ghost. She is an excellent correspondent, and I always look forward to receiving a letter from her.
However, the last letter I had from her was not so amusing. If I am to understand correctly, she is encountering some hostility on the grounds that she is a Jew. As her guardian—as her father in all but blood—I am deeply distressed on her behalf. I had not thought that in an establishment devoted to the highest of all cultural forms, this ancient and ugly prejudice would rear its head.
May I point out to you that many of your season ticket holders are also Jewish? The Rothschilds—the Heines—the Pfishingers—the Kaminskys—all are Jewish. All of them are prominent patrons of the arts. There are many others—these families merely sprang to mind first. Of course, I myself am Jewish. I am not without influence, sirs. If Katherine Pryde is not welcome on your stage, then you may find you have rather fewer patrons in your house.
I remain, sirs, yours sincerely,
Erich Lensherr, Baron Ware
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Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France, to Sir Erich Lensherr, Warefield, Devonshire, England.
Dear Sir Erich (I am still not sure how to address you.);
I promised to report to you on matters here, and how they continue to regard my Jewish presence. While their feelings remain unchanged, I have hopes that they will stop expressing themselves quite so openly.
You asked if the managers knew what was going on. They do, or at least they do now, but unfortunately, despite the fact that it is their opera house, here they wield all the authority of a couple of pats of butter. Like butter, they have a sad tendency to melt under heat and pressure.
The real forces in the Opera Populaire are Carlotta Guidicelli, the prima donna, Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, and, of course, the Ghost. (There is a prima ballerina, Agnes Sorelli, but she doesn't count for anything. She is not a clever woman, and thinks of little or nothing.) While Carlotta has not expressed any opinion on the subject of Jews in the Theatre, both Madame Giry and the Ghost have come down on my side. I am very grateful to Madame Giry for taking my part, but my feelings about the Ghost's support are mixed.
If my account of this week's events seems lighthearted in places—almost farcical—it is not because I am not seriously affected, for I am. It is because it is too painful. The humor here is not a smile—it's the rictus grin of death.
On Sunday, I was trapped in the washroom by a wad of chewing gum, and called a smelly kike.
Monday, which was the day before yesterday, was particularly bad. We were onstage, to block out the movements for the dance at the wedding in Le Nozze di Figaro, when one of the Maries—there are three—asked me a question while we were standing around waiting.
"So, how many Christian babies have you helped eat, Kitty?"
"Marie!" hissed Meg. "That's a terrible thing to say. Stop it!"
"But everybody knows Jews steal Christian babies to kill them and eat them. Roasted, on their holy days. On which holiday do you usually have baby-meat? Passover, or Hanukah?"
I kept quiet. Answering back would only make things worse. I could feel my face getting hot, though. I had heard of that allegation before, but no one had ever accused me of it.
"You're making me feel sick!" Meg shot back. "Kitty, don't let her bother you. You shouldn't have to put up with this. Tell my mother. Or let me tell her."
"No," I said. "Thank you, Meg, but no. That wouldn't fix things."
"I don't see why I should make you feel sick," drawled Marie. "I'm not the one who actually eats the poor little things. Do tell us, Kitty. Do you have them on the table as often as every Sabbath dinner? Roasted, with an apple in its mouth, because you can't eat pigs-Aaa!" She broke off with a scream, because a sandbag had fallen and grazed her elbow.
"The Phantom!" "It's him!"—and the session broke up for a few minutes as Marie burst into tears, and the accusations flew back and forth. Her elbow was bleeding a little, and had to be bandaged. The entire ballet corps gathered around to help, or watch, or both. I hung around the edges, and said nothing.
"See!" Meg whispered as she wrapped Marie's arm. "You shouldn't talk like that. The Phantom doesn't like it." She produced a note from him. "Look at this."
The note read:
'While I am not Jewish myself, I have never forgotten this—of all the maidens of all the races across the world, God Himself chose a Jewish girl to be His mother. Do you remember this, also? Cease your chatter!
O. G.'
"What chatter is this?" asked Madame Giry, who had slunk up on us.
I was not going to tell. No one else was forthcoming, either. Meg appealed to her mother with her eyes. "Very well." Madame concluded, ominously.
The Ghost's note—the way he put things—bothers me in a way I can't quite put my finger on.
Yesterday was quieter. Madame Giry had me stay late, put me through a grueling private session, and asked, at the end, if the taunting troubled me greatly. Meg had told her everything. I told her that yes, it did, but no one had said anything since the Phantom's note. She said she was sorry I had to endure it, and that my battement lents needed work.
Today, although the girls were silent, it got worse. Much worse.
We were going to rehearse on stage, for what will be my onstage debut as a 'Servant Maiden', but the corps never got out of the warm-ups. I was stretching and bending at the barré, when Janine went up on pointé, only to collapse with a scream. She sprawled on the floor, and everyone rushed toward her where she writhed and grabbed at her left foot, clawing at the shoe. An ugly red stain began at the toe and started to spread as I watched.
"My shoe!" she howled. Someone found a pair of scissors and cut it from her foot. Her big toe and second toe wept blood.
"Glass. Look, it's stuck in her toes!" Shards and splinters glittered amid the gory mess.
"Someone get the Opera Doctor, fast." Someone had taken her shoe and put broken glass down in the padding at the toe, in such a way that until she put her full weight on it, she had felt nothing. It was horrible. Two of the larger girls picked Janine up and carried her into the big corps dressing room, and the rest of us trailed after them
"Who could have done this to you?" asked Madame Giry.
"Kitty!" shrieked Janine. "The Jew-girl, Kitty Pryde."
Every head in the room turned toward me.
"I didn't! I wouldn't!" I protested. "I'd never do something like that to anyone, not even my worst enemy!" Girls were drawing into little clusters around the room, murmuring to each other and sneaking pointed glances at me.
It was easily the worst moment of my life. I felt ill, sick to my stomach, sick at heart.
"No.", said Madame Giry. "I don't believe you would." She turned back to Janine, whose face was smeary with tears. "What makes you accuse her? Answer carefully, Janine."
Janine heaved several big sobs, and forced out, "Because—because—."
Meg interrupted "Mother—there's a note from the Phantom."
"Yes? Let me see it."
"But, Mother—it was sewn into Jeanette's dancing slipper." She handed over the cut-up, blood-stained message.
Madame Giry put the pieces back together, and read aloud, "'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you' is the Rule of Gold. But the Rule of Steel holds true as well: 'Do not do unto others what you would not want done unto you'. Take heed, for this is my second warning. Harm Katherine Pryde at your peril. O.G." She turned to Janine again. "This implies—Did you put that glass in Kitty's shoe, first? Did you?"
Janine's crying redoubled.
"Don't bother to deny it! Oh, that this should happen in my corps de Ballet!" The Opera doctor arrived, quite out of breath. "Good! Bandage up her foot and send her home. Forever! Janine, whether your foot heals so you can ever dance again or no, I do not care. I will not take back a girl who would put glass in anyone's shoe."
She paced up and down the room for a moment, her hands to her head, then whirled and pointed at me. I was pulling my things out of my cubbyhole. "Katherine Pryde, what do you think you are doing?"
"I am going back to Yorkshire." I told her. "Because what's going to come next? Ground glass in my cold cream, so I rip my face to shreds? Sulfuric acid in my eye drops? Not to mention dressing and undressing for weeks under the eyes of a man who's exactly as much of a ghost as I am?" I couldn't see any other way he could have found out about the glass in my shoe—not at that moment. I had temporarily forgotten he was a telepath.
I found a bag and started to throw my toiletries into it. "If putting glass in somebody's shoe is a Christian act, I'm going to move to some place in Africa where they've never seen a white face before, and teach them to shoot missionaries on sight!"
Madame Giry shouted, in a terrible voice, "Katherine Pryde, I have not dismissed you!"
Janine's sobs were threatening to drown us both out, as the doctor picked broken glass out of her toes.
I wadded up my street clothes and headed for the door. I opened it, but the handle ripped itself out of my hand as the door slammed shut. I dropped my things and yelled, "Ghost! Phantom! Whoever you are, you have no right to stop me leaving and no way on this Earth of making me stay! You didn't have to put that glass in her shoe!"
I wasn't quite mad enough to phase right through the door in front of everybody—not while I was still wearing my practice tutu and toe shoes. So I slammed myself down on a bench and started untying my ankle ribbons.
"Now!" raged Madame Giry. "All of you will pay attention. Oh, what is it!"
Someone was knocking on the door. "Come in!" she called. The door opened
The Opera Populaire employs a lot of people, and it seemed as if most of them were out there. Even in a building that is accustomed to scenes enacted at top volume, the noise we were making must have been notable, and we had drawn a crowd.
Monsieur Firmin was standing in the door, looking hesitant. "If this is a bad time…?" he began.
"It is," snapped Madame Giry. "I am about to deliver a much needed lecture on how in the Arts and ballet in particular, all races and religions are of equal dignity and only the performance matters. This is utterly necessary because—."
"Because Mademoiselle Pryde is Jewish?" inquired M. Firmin.
She blinked in surprise. "Then you know? Were we that loud?"
"Not exactly. I was already on my way to speak to you privately about the matter, but since it has become an open secret, as it were, hah, perhaps you had better accompany me back to the office. I know André will want to have his say. Mademoiselle Pryde should come as well."
"I will." she decided. "Katherine, you will stop removing your shoes and come along. You can quit and bury yourself in Yorkshire after this meeting, if you choose. A quarter of an hour will make very little difference."
I took a deep breath. "As you wish, Madame." I gathered up my belongings and followed them. I wasn't going to leave them behind in the changing room where the other girls could use my dress to wipe the floor, or worse.
I didn't get to go in the office—not even the outer office. I was left to sit on a hard-backed chair in the hall while they talked inside. I put my things down, fished out a clean towel, and gave into tears.
When I think about the last few years of my life, about all the things I've seen and done—the people who tried to kill me, or take over my mind, body or soul—all the dangers I've faced, and all the heartache—and set them beside the unwarranted malice I've encountered in the last week—I think I had rather face Lady Deathstrike unarmed and powerless, if by doing so I could end that prejudice.
So I cried. I cried for a lot of reasons.
I cried because I didn't really want to go back to Xavier House, where everybody would be so nice and kind about how my ballet career ended, just as they were nice and kind when Peter jilted me.
I cried because Frau Levy makes very nasty comments about girls who don't observe Sabbath because they have to dance.
I cried because there was a grown man somewhere in the Opera house who thought it was only fair and right to take broken glass out of my shoe and put it in Janine's.
I cried because, deep down, there was a darkly venomous part of me that wasn't sorry Janine's toes were now like ground meat.
I cried until my throat swelled up and dried out, and then I got up to go splash cold water on my face. I drank a glassful of it, too, and let the soothing coolness coax me into feeling a little better.
Then I went back to my uncomfortable seat in the hall. The ghost had left me, not a note—it was too long to be a note, but a letter. I broke the seal and read it. It is too long to copy out here, but it was sympathetic, and it explained some things. He saw me phasing, it seems. We have recognized one another. I am still deeply troubled because he could have, should have, just thrown away that glass, rather than putting it in Janine's shoe.
Something nice happened. Meg brought me a cup of coffee to drink while I had to wait. She also told me that not all the girls who were making anti-Semitic comments really meant them, that some of them were only following Marie and Janine's lead. That was not so nice. I will never trust them again, now, even so.
Then they called me into the inner office. I do not know what went on in there—it would have been interesting to be a fly on the wall, and listen in. The conclusion is that I will not leave, but I will have a dressing room to myself, instead—with a door that locks. I will have the key. Madame Giry and I went back to the dressing room, where she delivered the promised lecture. The on-stage rehearsal was postponed until tomorrow, because Madame said the focus was lost. So we had class and practice as usual.
Afterwards, Madame had me stay for even more extra lessons, because a private dressing room is a privilege which must be paid for. In work. A lot of work—a lot more work is ahead of me.
So there you have it—and I shall end this letter here.
Sincerely and exhaustedly yours,
Katherine Pryde
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Excerpt from the Journals of Erik:
Her words, 'You didn't have to put that glass in her shoe!' stung. The anger in her voice was palpable.
No, I didn't, but do you think anything less than that would convince these harpies that I was serious? was what I would have said to her, but as matters stood—well! Nor, on even a little consideration, is that a reassuring way of putting it. Then that fool Firmin came in, and I had to seize my writing case and scramble to get to my office listening post.
Madame Giry is magnificent. I shall have to get them to raise her pay.
The first words out of her mouth were, "If you plan to dismiss Katherine Pryde on the grounds that she is a Jew, you are throwing away the Kohinoor Diamond in favor of a handful of rhinestones and paste imitations."
"But we don't plan to dismiss her! We want her to stay!" fussed André. "We need her."
"Absolutely!" added Firmin. "She's very welcome here."
"I don't think you're saying this for the same reasons I am." She sounded suspicious. "I want her to stay because she is a dancer the likes of whom a teacher will come across only once in a lifetime—if she is lucky. Katherine Pryde is—" Madame Giry broke off for a moment, probably to collect her thoughts.
She continued, "Ballet has been in decline for a generation. Once it was equal in importance to opera; now it is no more than something to fill in the time between arias. I was not the dancer who redeemed it from the dust. Nor will my daughter be that one, as much as I had hoped otherwise. Katherine Pryde might. I have kept her later—worked her until she was too tired even to think—and when she is closest to exhaustion, her best work comes out."
"How so?" asked Firmin.
"You recall her audition. She stretches time when she leaps. It is as if she were no more solid than the air. Last night she managed a triple tour en l' air! A triple! And thirty fouettés without moving so much as an inch! Fourteen is considered remarkable! But it is more than that."
I knew what she meant. The other girls danced the steps in time with the notes. Katherine danced the music.
"She dances with energy—with passion." concluded Madame Giry.
And as for her energy and passion—sometimes it was possible to imagine that she was fighting rather than dancing, using her feet as a man might his fists. She brought an unusual power to her dance moves.
"But Sorelli is our prima ballerina….?" ventured André.
"Sorelli is popular only because men like to watch her hips wiggle and her breasts jiggle!" snapped Madame Giry. "At her best her dancing is merely competent. All her fame is based on her figure. They will not include her when they write the history of ballet in this century."
Again, true, and these two fools were among her most notable, leering, admirers. I've never been moved by Sorelli's over-ripe curves—just so much pale flesh overflowing out of her corsets, above and below.
"But any plans I may have for Katherine Pryde will come to nothing if she quits and goes back to Yorkshire, which she may very well do because today Janine put broken glass in her slipper." Madame Giry informed them.
"In Kitty Pryde's slipper? Was that what all the shouting was about? She wasn't hurt, was she?" I was already quite familiar with this part. I let my attention turn to the letter I was writing—the first letter I have written to her.
(Note to self—this new invention of mine, this felted pen, works well and silently, without dripping ink, but it does produce clumsy calligraphy. Must see if it can be refined. Looks as if a child had been copying my notes.)
I became aware of another sound—someone was crying. It was Katherine crying, I knew it. It was painful for me to listen to, wanting to comfort her.
All I could do was write faster.
"But she can't leave!" protested the taller fool. "Her guardian's threatening to start a Jewish boycott! A good quarter of our subscribers will demand refunds!"
"And the ghost's sent a note saying that if she leaves there won't be a single show put on until she returns," added the other one, gloomily. "Can this anti-Semitism be quelled?"
"I can manage the Ballet corps." said Madame Giry. "But while they are the closest to her, they aren't the only ones. There are the choirs, the musicians, the stagehands—Buquet has been very crude. You will have to do something yourselves. I have one—no, two suggestions. One—dock wages. Ten francs for every comment, paid to the one who reports it. Make it known.
"Two—give Katherine Pryde a private dressing room. It can be a small one, but it must have a working lock. Then she will have security and privacy. I will begin training her up, so she will warrant it. I want to start her in actual roles. You are planning to put on Il Muto soon, are you not? She can play Serafimo. She has the figure for trouser roles, and a clever dancer who can act will give the role life."
That meant suffering through Carlotta's Countess. I had planned to forbid Il Muto from being put on, but the prospect of watching Katherine in skin-tight breeches was very attractive—and a thought that was a little too heating under the current circumstances.
And Katherine was still crying in the hallway. It was like having two bodies, one here listening behind the office wall, the other sobbing as though my heart was breaking. I brushed my mind against hers—her thoughts would probably prove unreadable, but at least I could share in what she was feeling.
She was thinking of me! At least that was part of what was going through her mind. That is good, certainly. She knows I exist.
She was crying, partly, because I was there, alone and disconnected from the rest of humanity, that was what I sensed. She is perceptive—she is compassionate! I knew all of this emotion I was experiencing couldn't be one-sided.
Katherine Pryde, if you want it, I will help to make you the most famous dancer in history. If you don't, if the prospect scares you, I'll give you this Opera house to rule, and we'll haunt it as a pair of the most elegant ghosts ever. We'll sit in Box 5 like any other fashionable couple, only we won't have to go out in the cold dark night afterward.
Only…only…
I can't write it.
Not even here.
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Letter from O.G. to Katherine Pryde.
Dear Mademoiselle:
I know that it distresses you that I returned Janine's 'gift' to her as it was delivered to you. I am sorry. The virulent hatred you have met with is offensive to me—offensive in the extreme. I could see no more certain way to tell everyone that it will not be tolerated in my Opera House.
I do not spy on the dancers' dressing room- nor the singers'—or anyone's here. I like my own privacy, and I extend that privacy to others. However, when Janine told Marie about what she had done to your shoe, while they were leaving by the staff exit, I happened to overhear it. A few minutes later, your sole was saved—so to speak.
Your soul is your own, and I think it is a rare one. Rare enough to allow your physical being to accompany it when it does what grosser spirits cannot do— evanesce through solid wood.
Your secret could not possibly be safer with me. I hope that we will be better acquainted, soon, that you may learn how true that is. I want only that good may come to you.
Your respectful servant,
O.G.
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A/N: Just a couple of things—a tour en l' air is something like an axel in skating—a 360 degree turn in midair. A fouetté is a tight spinning turn on one toe, propelled by thrashing the other leg. You'd recognize it if you saw it.
A question—are shorter chapters, updated more frequently, better than longer ones updated once a week?
To JP Money—Thanks! Try as hard as I can, typos creep in somehow. Maybe there's a typo demon, which steals letters from some words and inserts them in others….
To Lexy—Oh, good, another Kurt fan! Who better than Kurt to teach Erik a thing or two about acceptance, and tell him when he's just being self-indulgent? It will be fun, I promise!
SperryDee—Thanks for sticking with me. Glad you're enjoying the ride.
Celticstorms—I know just what you mean. I almost classified this fic as humor—but when I started plotting it, I realized it was going to get very real-world serious in places.
LadyBella & RubyMoon2—you help keep me smiling and focused on writing. Thanks.