Silence. Silence is the most prevailing sound in her life, just as it is the most prevailing part of her existence. It is the most well known state she has ever known. Thick carpets and solid walls muff any movement, any conversation and every possible hint of that she isn't the sole living creature on this earth. Locked doors to countless rooms, damask curtains shielding from light to enter, and carriages that barely ever stop at their entrance. At times it becomes so heavy with quiet that she wonders if she does even exists. Only a look outside the window proves it to be otherwise, the street often filled with people of various forms, walking, talking, or driving in their coaches. It is the only reassurance of her sanity.
At first, when she was very little her nurse would take her out for long strolls in the street or park, once the nurse became replaced by a governess there were so many things to learn that outside distractions were unwelcome. She gladly studied reading, counting, languages and etiquette, for it kept the voices in her head subdued. Piano lessons where the most welcome, the instructor, though old in age and forgetful, had a kind smile and even kinder temper, never minding if her childish fingers slipped upon a wrong note over and over again, letting her learn from her own mishaps, letting her feel the music instead of reading it. Yes, she liked the piano instructor the most. He was different than him.
Johanna had no parents. She knew she did have some long ago when she was first born, but she didn't have parents she could remember. There was no family or distant relatives that could claim her when she became an orphan. That is why she became the ward of the honorable Judge Turpin, "As a Case of Christian Charity" as he once said it himself. When she was very little she had tried to love him like a father, to obey his wishes, be good to her good nurse as well as to her hated governess, to be polite, to be quiet, respectful in his presence and thankful for the charity he showed her. With the heart of an innocent child yearning for love she tried to love him, yet early on found that she could not. It was not like he ever raised his voice to her or became violent in her presence, yet his quiet seemed an even greater evil, something that wasn't heard but felt, something that would always stand between them even when his lips would offer a compliment, his face a smile.
She thinks he must have known her mother by the way a word or two may slip him on her looks. It is a comfort to know at least how her mother might have looked. She tries to ask a few times about her father as well, but soon abandons this idea as the replies are always the same "Never had the pleasure to meet him." Her parents and parentage are a vailed ghost that never seems to take fully form. More than once did she sit by her vanity and look at the reflection, wondering what it might show her, what it might tell her. The yellow hair was her mothers, but where could she find her father? In the shape of her face, the thin lips, the deep eyes?
In her sleep she can see a fair faced woman with yellow hair, a pale man with wild dark hair and deep eyes, a flash of a silver mirror that shrinks down to something like a knife. She doesn't know if they are dreams or a memory, but she hopes they are the last. She never has dreams. In the quiet and in the darkness of the house, whispers and shadows lurk, dark fears without a shape, without a name. Dreams would offer comfort, her nights are filled with nightmares.
She rarely ever leaves the house. When she was a child she might have been taken to the park, but since the governess left even that form of excursion has ceased. Once when she was nine her guardian had taken her to the Opera, it was one of he fondest memories, the music, the costumes, and so many people all around. Upon asking to go again her request has been denied. She knew better than to ask again. What she though can always look out for are Sundays, for at Sundays he takes her to Mass. He wants her to follow the pious law, yet she finds she connects more to the Sermons on Love and Compassion. His face is as always cold as stone, in church or otherwise, but she has always a smile on her lips, the high ceilings and tall windows the only shelter where she feels like she can breath freely. She has no acquaintances there, they never stay afterwards to talk with others, but she has learned to know their faces and so finds comfort in their midst. There is rarely any comfort at home.
There may be visitors or guests coming to the house, but she never sees them, except on a occasion or two when she might have glanced over the stairway railing to see who might have entered. She thinks at times she might hear whispers of voices in the dark of the night, though she later isn't sure if they were real or just made up in her mind. Her mind is often filled with voices, voices that battle the quiet. The world of her books is where she likes to escape to, Udolpho, Mansfield Park or Wuthering Heights are her friends, novels she manages to acquire without her guardians knowledge, although conversation with their pages tends to stay one-sided. Judge Turpin rarely stays long enough to engage in an topic, no social-calls are at her disposal, and so she abandons the drawing room he had let her make her own, staying put in the solace of her own room. More and more she is rather alone than in his presence. There was never warmth between them, no matter how much she might have yearned for a parental heart and embrace in her childhood, his main concerns centring only on if she were fed and well behaved. The realisation that nothing more would come from his side came early and she had made peace with it. Her days may be monotone but she would accept and be grateful. She had her books, her embroidery, her birds, and her piano.
She had for many years loved to sit by the piano and let music flow through her fingers and her very being, filling the room with song and life, her agile fingers dancing along the keys like over a ball-room floor, a smile on her lips and melody on her tongue. For many years this has been a beloved freedom. Now she hadn't played for a twelve-month. She wasn't used to an audience, except for her instructor at first and a curious maid on occasions later on. He must have entered very quietly, for she only notices him sitting in the armchair behind her once the tune stops and he claps. When she turns she sees him looking at her quietly, he had at times come to hear her play, but she had been playing since she was five yet in all those years he had never looked at her like that. Her face stays neutral as he makes his compliments, yet once he leaves a shudder falls upon her and the shapeless fears begin to take form.
The house she inhabits, the only house she had known for fifteen years, becomes suffocating, the walls pressing, the looming shadows filled with fear, the voices in her head louder, the silence heavier than ever before. Her heart beats more and more like a frightened bird in its cage. And yet, somewhere, deep in her very being she has hidden a small hope, a hope that always awakens when she looks outside her bedroom window and observes with longing the people below, a hope that is kindled by something even warmer when she notices that boy looking back up to her day by day, week by week. And so she waits and hopes that one day she may not only sing but fly.
A.N. This movie has been on my to-watch-list since forever (actually ever since it came out, although back than I knew I was too young to watch it and so decided to remember doing it one day) and, gosh, as a fan of of musicals and Tim Burton and gothic atmosphere, I absolutley fell in love with it.