Author's Note: Apologies for the lack of posting yesterday. When I managed to get on the web, was on a bit of a go slow. I couldn't even reply to reviews! So to make up for that, here's the double posting for yesterday, and I'll try and get today's chapter up as well. So that's three for you! Plus, we're getting close to another double update, so if you play your cards right you might get four chapters today.
Thanks again to Rose of Night, Squealing Lit. Fan, Soignante, Jezebel21, Busanda (double thanks), Lady Winifred, mildetryth, TalithaJ, Spectralprincess, Shayril and Jedi Bubbles (funky screen name) for their latest reviews. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.
Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.
Chapter 32
Raoul had been sitting in on at least one class a week since his presence had first been announced. They were usually the non-performance classes – apparently the other aspects of theatre were not his forte. He usually attracted the majority of the attention until class was called to order; the guys were curious, the girls were smitten.
And Christine remained forgotten.
Every time she saw him, he evoked memories of a childhood that had been lost – that she was still trying to cling on to. Every time she saw him and he failed to acknowledge her, it cut a little more deeply. Every day that she saw him, her angel had to win her attention back to music during their lessons.
Suffice to say that neither of them was happy with the present situation.
Christine found herself in one of the many supplementary classes that had been arranged in lieu of the upcoming production – there'd be even more once preparations began in earnest for the Christmas Concert. Instead of concentrating solely on the material during their ordinary classes, the school continued with the usual syllabus – adapting it where it was possible for Hannibal – and arranged the extra classes as well. When she had thought the workload phenomenal, she hadn't been wrong – she'd just underestimated how accurate she really was.
They were in one of the supplementary classes for Vocal Performance. They worked on the chorus parts during class; had separate classes for the different vocal ranges to cover the relevant material, and during these extra sessions, they would look over the more technical aspects: analysing the orchestration, looking at the intricacies of the plots, the characters, discussing background etc. All in all, no student at the Ravelle could be forgiven for not knowing everything – that their specialism dictated – about the latest production.
This particular class was spent analysing the orchestration and was being led by Professor Gardiner – seeing as it was being attended by the Vocal Performance Level 3 – with Paul Reyer, the Institute's house conductor supervising. They had each been given a few sample pages from the full score – as opposed to the version adapted for vocalists – and had so far looked at the moods created, the use of the instruments and discussed why Chalumeau had chosen to do things the way he had, as opposed to other alternatives utilised by his contemporaries.
"Why doesn't the score have notation for the full orchestra? I thought we were doing a full scale production." Asked Carlotta, rather haughtily – no doubt resenting the possibility that her first chance at the limelight wouldn't be 'worthy'.
"Well spotted, Miss Guidacelli. Can anyone answer?" Professor Gardiner looked around the circle expectantly. No one answered.
"The opera was written when several elements of the modern orchestra had either not been invented or hadn't become mainstream. Chalumeau didn't want to risk unfamiliar terrain with new instruments, which he made up for by writing such a lavish production." Christine volunteered. Raoul looked her way out of curiosity, and then returned his attention to Professor Gardiner.
"Very good, Miss Day."
"Has the production not been adapted for a full orchestra? Surely it would be more effective that way." Impressive was the implication that went unspoken in the air.
"It has indeed undergone such adaptation, Miss Guidacelli," the mention of her name scored a brief glance of admiration from Raoul, which she received smugly, "and you have raised an interesting question: which is better; to adapt period music to a modern orchestra, or stick with contemporary instruments?"
"A modern orchestra, surely. There are more instruments to create a better sound. The composers didn't write for them because they didn't have them. If they had, they could have made their music even better." Carlotta promptly replied.
"But surely they made do with what they had, which is why we can still call their work genius." Replied Raoul, to the surprise of many.
"'Made do', which is exactly my point. 'Made do' implies an inferior quality. Imagine what Mozart could have done with a full orchestra at his disposal."
"What do you say to that, Mr. de Chagny?" asked Gardiner at the boy's silence, keen to continue the little debate.
"I'm trying to remember something I once heard a violinist say on the subject." Christine's head snapped up. Did he remember after all?
"Which violinist?"
"Daaë, Charles Daaë. It was something like: 'Not all the music works with all the instruments, it depends on what the writer was going for', or words to that effect." Some members of the class giggled a little.
"The composers of the past did not have all the instruments we have today, so the music they would have heard and created did not include all the sounds we know today. No doubt they could have done wonders improvements had they had the range of instruments we do, but they wrote in ignorance of them. Not all the music of the past is meant for such things and would be considered excessive if adapted; whilst other pieces cry out for it. It depends on the music." Christine answered softly. Raoul looked at her in astonishment.
"Who is Daaë? I've never heard of him." Carlotta asked, annoyed that the mute had stolen her spotlight once again.
"A very talented violinist. He died a while ago though. I do believe that was Daaë's philosophy. He focussed on the idea that you should listen to what the music told you, and play or adapt it accordingly." Gardiner replied, to which the class actually laughed. Christine began fuming. She could accept that people hadn't heard of her father, but she refused to accept people laughing at him, even when he was still with her.
"Well if he had such an old fashioned view and believed silly ideas like that, perhaps it's a good thing we won't be hearing any more of them." Carlotta replied amidst the giggles, certain in the support of the class and that the argument of a nobody couldn't rival hers.
The crack silenced the class.
They looked to see Carlotta lying on the floor, near to where she had been stood moments before. They say the handprint quickly reddening on her cheek. And they saw Christine standing over her seething. Nobody spoke. Nobody breathed. No one had seen it coming.
"How dare you!" She said fiercely in a low voice that would have made even the ghost proud.
"You . . . you hit me? You hit me!" The red-head said in realisation, springing up ready to attack her rival. She was held back however, as Christine stood there firmly.
"Miss Day, apologise this instant!" ordered Gardiner, having recovered his wits.
"No." She said evenly, still glaring at Carlotta.
"When I said I wanted to see more participation out you, this is most certainly not what I meant. Now, apologise immediately or you can remove yourself from my classroom until you've learnt to behave properly."
"Properly?" she asked, incredulous. She turned to face the Professor. "I am here because my father wanted me to be and because I believe in music and that this was a worthy institution for it. If dancing on my father's grave is part of the syllabus, and I have to apologise to that thing for defending him, then I don't believe I care to be here anymore." She said in a low voice with barely veiled rage in it, before gathering up her things and heading towards the door.
"Stop! Miss Day, what in the blazes are you talking about?" asked Gardiner, curious, and slightly worried. She stopped before the door, and with her back to the class replied, fighting back tears.
"Daaë. My name is Christine Daaë. I registered over the phone and somebody misspelled it. I didn't correct it because I wanted to earn my place rather than have it for the sake of my father's reputation." She faced the class. "My father died last summer trying to save my life. To have someone say that it's a good thing he's gone is not only like dancing on his grave: it's saying that he was a fool to pay the price he did; that he was a fool to love me that much; that he made a mistake and that I should have been the one to die." She said all of this looking Carlotta in the eye. Carlotta had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. She turned her attention back to Professor Gardiner. "I will not apologise for defending my father. If that costs me my place here, so be it. But I don't regret my actions, and only a fool would try and make me."
This time she did walk out of the door, leaving a stunned crowd in her wake. They all began talking amongst themselves, with the exception of a certain patron who had been watching with undisguised astonishment. He made his way over to the door and then ran after her.
"Christine!" He called, upon spying her retreating form. She stopped, carefully wiping away the few tears that she hadn't managed to keep back. He came around in front of her.
"Christine? Is it really you?"
"I thought you'd forgotten."
"I didn't recognise you, you've changed so much. My Little Lotte's all grown up." He said with a bit of a smile. She looked at him, trying to work him out.
"Christine, I'm so sorry about your father. I wish I'd known."
"Why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what?" he asked, confused.
"Why didn't you know? You said you'd keep in touch.
"I know, and I tried." If he failed to remember you, then he is obviously not worthy of being remembered. The words of her angel came back to her.
"How hard was it? When he . . . it was in the news for at least a week. How hard did you try?"
"Christine, please."
"No, Raoul. I have to go." She said trying to move past him. He grabbed her right arm.
"Go? But I've only just found you again. Can't we at least catch up?" She kept her back to him, so he didn't see the pain he was causing.
"You 'found' me quite a while ago, Raoul. You've been in enough of my classes. If you really had tried to keep in touch, you wouldn't have had any trouble recognising me. I have to go, I have a voice lesson."
"Can I come?"
"It's a private lesson. My teacher is very strict. I have to go."
He let her go, wondering just what had happened to his former playmate. She walked on until he was out of sight, and then ran. She didn't care who saw her, or what they thought. She didn't care that her old friend had finally recognised her and she'd just blown him off. She didn't care what time of day it was, she just ran straight to the main theatre and prayed that he knew she was coming and had opened the door.
The door was open.
She ran inside and for once welcomed the darkness, because it meant he had to be here. She made her way as quietly as she could to the stage, thankfully finding that the blackness extended throughout.
"You are early, child." Came the voice she had been longing to hear. She closed her eyes, savouring it. "What is it?" he asked at her lack of response.
"Forgive me, Angel. I just . . . I needed to hear your voice. I . . . forgive me. I just needed you." She said; collapsing on the stage in bitter, uncontrollable sobs as she finally let the anger and grief wash over her.