What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

From "A Shropshire Lad" by A.E Hausmann

Even now, I know that there were two certainties in my early life – my mother and music. I can still recall sitting in her lap while she played the piano in the drawing room, for she could play a little as well as sing. She taught me scales and a few simple tunes, but I quickly surpassed her with a speed that left her astonished. The kindly middle aged lady who was engaged to teach me was constantly surprised at my progress on the beautiful instrument. "You're raising another Mozart" she would tell my mother, who looked on proudly. She told me that as a toddler, I did not just thump random keys, as many infants do, but instead stood beside the piano and listened as she played. I simply cannot remember not loving music. Sometimes I felt, and still feel, like I was born knowing how to play the piano, as if music was within me from birth, but of course that seemed impossible.

It was not just music that united us. Every night she would sit by my bedside, place my stuffed bear in my arms and spin the most wonderful stories. She called them "the dark stories of the north", all about trolls and goblins, wonderful, exciting tales from her native Sweden. There was Little Lotte, her favourite, which I can still recall: "Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was as gold as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and as blue as her eyes. She loved, most of all, to hear the Angel of Music, when she was asleep." This strange story captivated me, with its mysterious Angel of Music and the little girl who dreamed about him.

And when we both wanted a break from trolls and angels, she would tell me about her life. Those stories; sometimes long, sometimes short, were the most wonderful of all, for they were all true. She would tell me about her early years in Sweden and about her father, my namesake, the famous violinist Gustave Daae. She never knew her mother, who died only a few days after she was born, but Grandfather had been both a mother and father to her, caring for her with help from neighbours and relatives in the little town near Uppsala where they lived. There had been other babies before Mother, but none had lived longer than a few weeks, so she had been very special. He told her that her mother had been kind and gentle, but she was also a "frail, delicate little thing, God bless her". He had given his precious daughter his wifes' red scarf, which she treasured. She sighed wistfully as she remembered the lakes and the fast flowing rivers and long sandy beaches of her native land. She taught me the few words of Swedish that she remembered, and told me about the cat which used to curl up and sleep on their doorstep.

"Then some travelling musicians came to the town and told Papa about Paris and London and all the great cities in the heart of Europe where you could make a fortune as musician. Well, he was intrigued and fascinated by this and the two of us set out for France. But the only work he could ever find was not in the cities but the villages – playing at fairs and weddings, maybe a harvest dance.. Poor Papa… But we were welcomed everywhere and people let us sleep in their barns, or wherever they could make room for us. We learnt French from a kindly farmer who took us in for a while and gave Papa a little labouring work, for pay. Mostly though, I learnt the language from listening to songs and conversations. I was young I suppose, it was easier for me than it was for Papa..." She sometimes looked sad and thoughtful as she spoke of my grandfather and I knew that she still missed him and loved him.

They had travelled all over France, this talented but impoverished violinist and his pretty little daughter who would enchant everyone by dancing along to her fathers' music. A man who had given up everything for his music only to drag his child into an uncertain life at the margins of society – how guilty he must have felt. And yet, as an adult, she never showed any bitterness towards him, just an unconditional love and, sometimes, pity. Listening to her, I felt grateful for my comfortable bed and the substantial meal which was placed in front of me every evening.

But that was not my favourite story. When summer came, and Grandfather needed to go the coast for the sake of his health, they came to Perros-Guirec in Brittany and stayed in a house by the sea. Now, my mother, as I've said, treasured her mothers' red scarf and was wearing this very item one windy day on the beach when a gust of wind suddenly blew it into the sea. "There I was, crying for the scarf, when a little boy ran towards me and cried out "It's all right; I'll get your scarf from the sea." And he dived into the sea and swam towards it. I was so happy when he climbed out on to the rocks, scarf in hand! I thanked him over and over. The poor boy was soaking wet and got a cold, as the water was freezing. His governess was very angry though, because he had run away from her". "And that little boy was Father!" I would laugh, because I knew the story so well. She always varied it slightly, sometimes adding or omitting details, but I knew the ending.

"Yes, it certainly was! And when he had recovered, we became friends and played together on the beach every day."

"And you used to ask the people for stories."

"Yes, we used to go to visit the people of the area and ask them to tell us stories. And now I tell you some of those stories, as you know."

They had met in Perros for the next few summers and always played together. I tried to imagine it all from Mothers words – the cry of the gulls overhead, the crashing of the waves, the smell of the salt water. And Mother, standing on the edge of the rocks that day, the scarf in the sea – I could feel the wind and hear the splash as Raoul dived in, risking life and health for a girl he did not know yet. At night, her father would play the violin for them and tell them the stories that Mother now told me. They must have been such happy days.

But the happy days ended, with Grandfathers declining health. Even during their last summer at Perros, he was already displaying symptoms of the consumption that would kill him. One of his last "engagements" was at a wedding in a small village south of Paris, where he met a lady called Antoinette Giry, ballet mistress at the Paris opera house. The bride's family were close friends of Madame Giry's family, all of them having grown up in this particular village, and this formidable lady was impressed by Mother's rudimentary dancing skills. "She could come to the Opera House and train as a dancer" she told Grandfather, who could not bear to part with his beloved daughter. However, when he lay dying in a decrepit inn somewhere near Paris, he sent word to this Madame Giry, who came and took Mother to the Opera House after his death.

Mother lived in that Opera House for the next nine years, being taught and cared for by her new guardian and becoming best friends with her daughter, Meg. Yes, this was how I first heard about Meg Giry... They shared great times together, studying ballet and performing on the stage. Then, at nineteen years old she seemed to have begun singing as a soprano instead (she was never clear about why or how she did this) and became an overnight success, taking the lead role in Hannibal after the leading lady was unable to perform.

"But there was a surprise visitor to my very first performance! Would you believe, your father was in the audience, up in one of the boxes! And he recognised me, even after nine years. Then, when the performance was over, he came around to my dressing room to see me. He called me Little Lotte and reminded me of the red scarf. It was so good to see him again! He had become so handsome and grown up! So he began courting me." They had gone to the theatre, to restaurants and cafes, to the Bois de Boulogne, where Raoul bought her flowers from an old lady who had a stall outside the park and always wore a blue hat with a ribbon around it. He had proposed to her on the roof of the Opera House – it never occurred to me to ask what they were doing up there in the first place – "and of course I said yes!" And she would describe the wedding and her beautiful white dress and veil with little roses sewn into it, and the carriage that waited for them outside.

"And then your father took me here, to our new home and we lived happily ever after!" she would conclude with a dramatic flourish. Then I would fold my arms and ask her, "Haven't you forgotten something?" This was a little game that we played. She would always look puzzled and frown at me. "No I don't think I have – we got married, I moved here to the chateau and, yes, that's the end of the .. " She slapped the arm of the chair, pretending to suddenly remember – "Oh yes, I nearly forgot – Then you arrived!" And she would laugh and tickle me mercilessly and I would dissolve into laughter, before she released me and we finally calmed down. "The best day of my life", she murmured, kissing the top of my head and holding me tight. Then she would tuck me in, usually while singing to me and I would always feel so happy and loved and safe.

Of course, the truth was very different. But I can only record what I was told, in my more innocent years. It felt like a fairy tale and looking back, perhaps my mother wanted to protect that innocence. Perhaps she – almost - started to believe this edited version herself. Perhaps she felt that a lie of omission was better than an outright lie. I will never know. But I cannot judge her for what she did – who would have told the real story to a young child, after all?

I loved our visits to Paris, travelling in the family carriage, with two beautiful horses to pull us there. I hated being fitted for new clothes but I loved the café we went to afterwards – I usually had a cream éclair, Mother preferred a lemon tart. Another thing I loved was going to the big toyshop, Montclares, but I did not always get everything I asked for. We also frequented the large department stores and a cosy little shop that sold sheet music. All the sales assistants knew Mother and always welcomed her eagerly to their shop, ever attentive and polite. Mother would always chat to them about the weather or their families, and they would ruffle my hair and remark on how I had grown again. Some people called her "Miss Daae" and she explained that that had been her old name, before her marriage. Raoul did not accompany us very often, which was probably for the best as he became irritated when people called his wife by that name. I remember one very well dressed lady accosting her in a dress shop one day, approaching her from behind:

"Miss Daae!" she screeched and my mother jumped about five inches off the ground, "Oh I can't believe it's you, I simply can't! Do you know, I saw you in your very first performance at the Opera Garnier? Oh you were simply divine!"

She pinched my cheek, which I did not like, and continued to shriek: "Your mother- I presume this is your son? Your mother was absolutely divine that night! You should be very proud of her. Oh I'm so happy to meet you!"

Mother kept looking at the floor awkwardly and even blushed a little. But she managed to graciously thank the lady and slip away from the shop politely without seeming in any way rude. She could always be counted on to be gracious, even to the most obnoxious person, and Heaven knows, she had to deal with plenty of them at her social engagements. She was well liked in Paris for she treated everyone, from a beggar to a bishop, with the same respect and courtesy.

That was something else I admired about her. She had time for everyone, even the scrawny looking beggars that seemed to be dotted around Paris. She was upset by the number of children that seemed to be homeless or destitute, and sometimes gave them a coin. Raoul did not like her giving them money though, so she usually gave them something to eat, perhaps an apple or orange from a nearby stall. And once or twice she donated my old clothes and toys to an orphanage.

"When I was a child", she reminded me, "Papa and I travelled around all the time, with nowhere to call home. We never had to beg, but if Papa had not played the violin it could just as easily have been us begging on the streets. You have always had plenty to eat and all the best clothes and toys, as you were born into a rich family. But always remember that many children are not as lucky as you, Gustave. We can always spare a little for those who have nothing." I have always remembered those words, and I would like to think that I have inherited some of her compassion and kindness.

It was a happy time, yes, but looking back there were incidents that happened, conversations which I overheard, things which I did not understand at the time but understand all too well now. To be honest, most of the time I was occupied with other priorities, such as trying to work out how my toys operated or spending time on the estate, riding on my Spanish pony, Pedro, or playing with my puppy, Alfie, which I received for my fifth birthday. Not all my friends were four-legged either – Louis, the head gardener's son, was my playmate in those years, almost from infancy. We were born about a month apart and we were always having some kind of adventure. He was probably the only proper friend I had. Pirates, soldiers, knights, sailors... we were all those things, running around the estate like lunatics. However, although Louis shared my love of adventure, he had no interest in music or in any of the books I read. Nonetheless, we would often be found in the estate orchard, exploring its very climbable trees or sneaking into the forest. There was a walled garden which was perfect for playing hide and seek – or for hiding in with a book, for those times I was alone. In addition, Berthe, our cook, made delicious biscuits once a week and she always let me sample them first, when they were still warm from the oven.

It was not all fun either though. Lessons were a necessary evil, although I liked reading and learning new things. My governess until the age of seven, Mlle Devereaux, was astonished at my rapid progress in reading, writing and arithmetic. She was young and ill-equipped to deal with my expanding mind and constant questions. So Raoul hired Prof. Chapelle, a retired professor from Paris to teach me. He lived with relatives in one of the neighbouring villages so thankfully I did not have to endure my tutor living in the same house, and his job was to teach me History and Mathematics, for the most part. Later on, he started teaching me English and Latin too, both at Raoul's insistence. He was very learned and encouraged all my enquiries. If he couldn't answer my question, he always had a book that could. In addition, every Friday I had my music lesson with another professor, from the Conservatory this time, who seemed bewildered by my ability, both in singing and in playing the piano. Most of it came down to regular practise though, and, of course, a genetic advantage that I was not aware of until later.

Meals, lessons, playtime, music practice, attending church on Sunday; most of my life had a comforting, familiar routine. I do not want to give the impression that I was always unhappy. No, it was neither lessons, nor my free time, that were the problem. The real obstacle to complete happiness came from within my family – that is, the de Chagny family.