Chapter IV: The Second Lesson
The week that followed, my time was divided between going to classes and keeping an eye on Christine, who seemed to be doing worse than she had in months. Since her father's death, she had been depressed at times, and understandably so, but she had always pulled herself together eventually, if only to do her vocal exercises or practice some aria. Now, she didn't even do that. She seemed to have lost all interest in music. I don't know what caused this change in her - maybe it was finding herself among other voice majors with whom she felt she didn't have the energy to compete, or maybe it was seeing the soprano Carlotta Piangi being encouraged by her father, in a way that reminded Christine of how her own father had once supported her.
The most alarming part of it all was that Christine had now stopped eating properly. My mother had picked up on it immediately. Being a dance teacher, she had had several pupils who had lost more weight than was healthy for them, and she knew the warning signs. I had met such girls once or twice myself and knew that it was a matter not to be taken lightly. Mother had instructed me specifically to make sure that Christine ate something every day when we were in school, and for that reason, I had to turn down several offers from Little Jammes to have lunch with her. She never stopped asking, though. Since it had dawned on her that I had Erik as a music theory professor, I had apparently become a very interesting person. Under the circumstances, I was only happy to avoid being asked too many questions. I wouldn't have been able to answer them anyway.
I don't remember much worth mentioning from my classes during this first week in college. Mlle Popeau kept giving us silly assignments for obscure pedagogical purposes, and there was a silent agreement between us students to humor her and hope to pass her class effortlessly. M. Reyer, the choirmaster, proved to be quite a sympathetic but weak character, who was happy once we managed to sing the correct notes at approximately the same time. He was the kind of person whose instructions you follow out of pity rather than respect. Then there was Mme Dubois, who gladly chatted away half the lesson before deciding that I needed to work on my breathing (she herself never needing to breathe at all between one juicy story and another), and M. Ivanovich, who had remembered our lesson but forgotten my name, and who subsequently listened to my version of the first page of "Für Elise" without uttering a word. I strongly suspect that he dozed off for a minute. If only I had dared, I would have tried changing the key of the theme from a minor to A major, just to see if he'd have noticed.
Finally, I had another lesson with Erik. I descended to the basement at exactly the same time I had come a week earlier, hoping that he would be a man of predictable habits. As soon as I came close to his door, however, I discovered that this was not the case. The corridor wasn't quiet, as it had been when I was last there. Instead, it was filled with the sound of piano music. And what music it was! I had never heard anything like it, even though I had spent a lot of time at the opera and in concert halls as a child. It had no melodic, rhythmic or harmonic pattern that I could recognize. Instead, it seemed like one long painful cry, like human agony set to music. It was horrifying, and yet I could not stop listening, as if the music had some kind of hypnotic quality. There was beauty in it, too, the frightening, macabre beauty sometimes seen in natural disasters - tidal waves, hurricanes, volcanoes, lightning. No ordinary person could have composed this music. And it came from Erik's room.
I stayed there, listening, unable to move a finger, for what seemed like hours. Then, suddenly, the music stopped and Erik's voice spoke:
"You may come in, Meg Giry!"
How he knew I was standing outside his door was a mystery to me. The music would have drowned any noise I might have made, and yet it was clear that he had noticed me the moment I arrived.
"You must think me rude for not letting you in sooner", Erik said when I had opened the door and entered. "I wanted to try out some ideas for a piano sonata. I'm afraid I tend to forget my manners when I'm composing."
"That was your music?" I gasped.
Erik nodded, rearranging some sheets of music on the piano. I could see that they were scribbled full of notes in red ink. As curious as I was to see what such remarkable music looked like on paper, I sensed that Erik would not want me to pry into the matter unasked. Instead, I sat down at the table, waiting for him to begin our lesson. Before very long, he started speaking:
"Now, since you are here, I take it you already know some basics in music theory. You scored fairly high on that part of your entrance exam. Nevertheless, it is essential that you do not have any unfortunate gaps in your knowledge, or it may undermine your whole education. Therefore, we will start with analysis and four-part harmony. When you master that, we will move on to the principles of counterpoint. Are you familiar with the works of Bach?"
"A little, yes", I answered.
"Good. That will make it easier for us when we get there."
Erik went on to explain the rules of four-part writing, illustrating as he did so with examples on the blackboard, which he then played on the piano. I was doing my best to keep up with him, but the heat, the dim lights in the room and the spicy scent of Oriental perfume made it hard to concentrate, and for a moment my mind wandered to what had been troubling me lately. Soon after, I noticed that Erik had interrupted his explanation of an example and was looking at me.
"Mademoiselle", he said with mock politeness, "I believe we have an agreement regarding these lessons. I do not wish to waste my time speaking to deaf ears."
I started. It was true, my attention had slipped.
"I am sorry, Monsieur", I said. "It will not happen again, I promise."
I hoped Erik would accept my apology and simply go on with the lesson. But instead, he erased what he had just written on the blackboard and closed the lid of the piano.
"We can't proceed", he stated. "It is useless trying to teach a student whose mind is elsewhere. You seemed a disciplined young woman when I last saw you. What has so distracted you?"
"It has nothing to do with school, I assure you", I said.
"Things that are a distraction usually don't", Erik said sourly. "What is it?"
"The truth is", I explained, realizing that Erik wouldn't give up until he had an explanation, "I'm very worried about my cousin."
"About Christine Daae?" There was a very slight tension in Erik's voice, which hadn't been there before. "Please, tell me what is on your mind."
I don't know why I chose to take Erik into my confidence. Maybe I thought that a man who could compose music such as the one I had just heard would be able to understand Christine's despair and give me some advice as to how to deal with it all. She had already lost a lot of weight since last February, and if nothing happened to turn the situation around, I feared that she would kill herself simply by giving up. I had read about such things happening when old people lose their partners and then die themselves shortly after. Whatever the reason, I found myself relating to Erik everything that had happened during the past few days - Christine's grief, her indifference to everything, even singing, her wish for the "Angel of Music" to visit her and finally my fear that she might be slipping away.
"There it is", I sighed when I had finished. "Now you know why I wasn't paying attention. I just don't know what to do, how I can help her cope with this. I can't imagine the pain she must be going through or what might relieve it."
"Child", Erik said, "I myself have experienced a lot of pain and suffering. If I were to give your cousin any advice, it would be not to give up on her singing. Music is not just a profession or a hobby, it can also be a lifeline. For some people, it is the very purpose of life. I believe Christine may be one of those persons."
"But she won't sing!" I objected.
"Still, I would urge her to do so if I were in your shoes." Erik was adamant. "In time, she will find her way back to her passion and it will be the very thing that saves her. Look here, I will do something highly irregular. Do you see this key? It goes to a spare room halfway down this corridor. It is only used to store old documents about former students at the college, old grades, copies of old exams. The only people who are meant to have access to that room are the administration staff, but they hardly ever go there, because nobody ask for the information it contains. Now, this room is not bad, acoustically speaking. I believe your cousin would find it an excellent room for singing, if she wishes to practice undisturbed. Nobody will come down here looking for a room or telling her her time is up."
There were two kinds of practice rooms in the college. The best ones were usually occupied by those early risers, usually violinists, who stood outside waiting at 7.15 each morning when the caretaker came to unlock the front doors. The other rooms were smaller and there was a booking system on the doors, preventing any one student from using them more than one hour at a time. It was not easy to practice without disturbance under those circumstances. Having a secret room of one's own would be a luxury unheard of! I felt a twinge of envy, but realized this might be just what Christine needed. I took the key from Erik's hand.
"How will I explain this to her?" I asked, looking at the key.
"Say you got it from a friend who no longer needs it. You may say anything, as long as you are discreet. As I told you, the room contains confidential information and it would not be advisable to let anyone know where you got the key. You see, I got hold of it merely by chance."
"By chance?" I asked. It was a strange explanation, I thought.
Erik didn't elaborate further on the topic, but only gave me an enigmatic smile, or what I assumed was a smile behind the mask.
