Not long after Erik's mother left him to the tender care of Herroux, a family far to the North experienced its own joy. In a small, but comfortable Swedish villa, Aldis Daae gave birth to a baby girl attended only by her husband; several days of heavy rain had rendered the dirt road to their remote home an impassible wallow of mud. Fortunately, it was an easy birth, with no complications; both baby and mother emerged healthy and happy.
"We'll call her Christine. It's a fitting name for so perfect a little angel." the tired new mother smiled dreamily and fell asleep, leaving the frazzled father to painstakingly clean and swaddle this precious, squirming bit of life. Baby Christine was alert, and had fixed her eyes on her father's face. Nils Daae fairly felt his heart wrap around the child's almost nonexistent little finger.
Nils was not a young man; he and his wife had married later in life. Until this moment, his greatest passion was his music. A beautiful, meticulously cared for maple violin rested on a stand in the corner of the birthing room. Nils had played it until his fingers cracked and bled to comfort his wife during her labor. Aldis would always credit the ease of her birth to the magic of her husband's music. He was known to no one but the hardy rustics in the nearby farmhouses and villages, but those who knew him spoke his name reverently, and always in connection with his genius for playing enchanting music. He had learned five languages, only to read the works of the composers whose works he played. Now, looking into his daughter's half lidded blue eyes, he knew that music would take second place in his passions.
"Little Christine," he cooed, though he knew it would be a month at least before the first toothless smile appeared. "Sweet little Christine, your Daddy hasn't got much to give you, but he'll give you music. And if you have that, you'll have the world."
He kissed her fuzzy little head as her eyes fell shut, and laid her gently in the bassinet at the foot of their bed. Carefully, he lifted the exquisite instrument from its stand. The violin felt good to hold, even though his worn out fingers could not begin to close around the strings. He rocked in the rocking chair, watching his wife and daughter sleep peacefully and imagined the sweet lullabies he would play to his little girl until he drifted off.
The next two years were close to idyllic for the little Swedish family. Their farm supplied their basic needs. Nils often played his violin at village weddings, funerals, and other special occasion. Usually, he received something useful in trade, which provided the Daaes with little luxuries like iron cookware, well made clothing, and comfortable furniture.
The best of Nils' music was reserved for his family. Christine could sing before she could speak, and sung most of her spoken words when she did start talking. Her father had promised her music, and he had delivered admirably. As soon as she could remember the lyrics of her favorite lullabies, he began taking her with him wherever he went to play. The villagers called her "onze kleine vogel" – our little bird.
One day, when the four year old Christine had just finished dazzling a wedding audience with a sweetly lisped rendition of Blomman, one of the village elders took Nils aside. Along with everyone else Jan listened, spellbound, to the father-daughter duo, but his thoughts were not on the music now. They were on the future of the extraordinary child.
"Nils, what are you going to do with that child?"
Nils looked perplexed. "Do with her?"
"Yes, and with yourself. Neither of you belongs in this town, far from anyone who can understand your music. I know I don't understand it, myself, as much as I might like it. You really ought to take her somewhere, let her be trained and become famous. She is meant for more than knitting and sheep shearing. You know that."
Nils studied his hands. He did know that. But how could he leave this place? Aldis loved the farm, as did he. All Christine knew was here. How could he uproot her and drag her into the tumultuous world of performers and musicians, stages and spotlights? "Maybe, Jan, maybe. Give her some time to grow up. Let her see a few more Swedish winters, first."
Jan nodded, understanding the father's reluctance to leave everything behind. Silently, he looked the child over. She would be great. Truly great. He clucked his tongue, clapped Nils on his solid shoulder, and walked off to find his own goodwife. Nils looked after the wise old man with troubled eyes. He was right. Of course he was right. But not right now.
That winter, Aldis developed a little cough that would not respond to anything the local herbalist could concoct. By Summer, she was losing weight rapidly, and barely had the energy to sew new dresses for her rapidly growing daughter. Christine didn't understand what was wrong with her mother, but she did her best to take up the extra housework her mother couldn't do. Of course, the five-year-old's best efforts barely made a dent.
Nils studied his wife's pale cheeks and trembling hands with sad concern. Doctors had been called, and their diagnosis was grim. It was consumption. Everything that could be done, had been. The villages had pooled money to bring in a great specialist, who returned the same verdict. Christine's mother was dying, and there was nothing that could stop it. At most, she had a year to live.
Aldis determinedly made it through that year. As Spring warmed, she was moved permanently into the bed where she had born her daughter. Again, Nils played any tune she liked for her, over and over. Christine sang everything in her considerable and growing repertoire. Music's magic was summoned, as father and daughter tried to buy a few more weeks with their beloved. There was only so much music and love could do here. By the time the brief summer sun was shining warmly on the fields, Nils knew his wife's time could be counted in days and hours.
While Christine played with the young sheep in the pasture, Aldis pulled her husband to her side. Her breath was stertorous and shallow. Her eyes were sunken; she labored for each word, but was determined to have her say.
"Hush now, Nils, and let me talk. I'm going soon, and when I'm gone, I want you to go, too. Sell the farm. The Sjorgens will buy it. Take Christine and go…wherever musicians go to become great. Don't you dare stay here. And let her become nothing. Nils. Promise me."
How could he argue with her?
"Alright, Aldis. I'll take her to Paris. There's an opera house there. Several. We'll see if any of them is interested in an old violinist and his prodigy daughter. I promise."
The smile on his wife's tired face reminded him of her smile on the day of their daughter's birth. She fell asleep then, and did not wake again. Three days later, the rasping, rattling sound of her struggle to breathe stopped. Christine found her father kneeling silently beside her mother's bed, his eyes red, but dry. She didn't have to ask what had happened. Her parents had prepared her well for this day. She threw her herself on her mother's body and cried, "Goodbye mommy, please go to the part of Heaven where they have all the beautiful singing!" She wept a little, but put full faith in the idea that her mother was happy now, hearing the most beautiful music ever played. How much could she cry, knowing that?
Nils covered his own rising sobs with a gruff cough. He lifted his little daughter from the bed, kissed her, and said, "Ah ma petite! Veux-tu m'accompagner a Paris devenir chanteuse d'opera?"
Christine's somber face wrinkled up in confusion. "What Daddy? I don't speak that!"
Nils nodded. "But your mother wants you to, sweetheart. Come help me get the man who will take care of mommy. Then, tonight, we will have our first French lesson."
Aldis' funeral was silent, except for the eulogy. Nils tried to lift his violin to his chin, but his hands failed him at the same time his knees did. The violin fell to the soft ground, unheeded, as the musician buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. Christine stood by her father, patting his shoulder and saying, "Mommy's all better now, Daddy, don't worry, don't worry…"for several minutes before starting to cry herself. The villagers watched with quiet sympathy. Aldis was not the first person to die of consumption there this Summer, but her death signaled the loss of the village's musician, and a longer silence than they cared to think about.
