Purlicue. An odd word, yet the repetition in her mind is calming her as she paces the floor of her dressing room waiting to be called to perform. Purlicue. Purlicue. Purlicue.
"Hold the scarf in your purlicues."
The giggle escaped her throat before she could hold back. "What is a purlicue, Angel…I do not know the word?" she choked out quickly, to cover what she was afraid he might consider an insult. Despite the time spent together in this room – if being the only person present with a sonorous voice seeming to come from the mirror could be considered together – Christine was still unsure about what he might think was funny. One must not insult angels, especially angels who gave your life meaning again.
"Oof. The part of your hand between the thumb and forefinger."
"Like this?" Christine asks, draping the long silken stole of red, green and gold as instructed.
"Precisely. Holding the fabric such gives more freedom of movement," he said. "Think of the scarf as the person you are singing to. Make it part of your performance…a partner as it were."
As they ran through different ways of holding the scarf, the awkwardness of speaking to her own image returned. Most of the time…during lessons or just talking, she avoided looking directly into the glass. Her relationship with an angel, the Angel, was unusual enough without watching herself talk or sing. Dancing and movement were another matter. The mirror was necessary and although she would be singing on stage, she must move.
There is no sound from the audience, for a moment she believes the auditorium might be empty. The lights lining the stage make it difficult for her to see more than shadows. A soft rustling confirms there are indeed people wishing to hear Christine Daae sing…instead of Carlotta.
"That is your cue, Mlle. Daae," the stage manager says, nudging her slightly.
"Of course, I…"
"Just go," he hisses, his eyes bulging from their sockets.
This is a solo, no one else present and the entire company is watching her. The stage never seemed so large and empty. Even during rehearsals, dancers were milling about and the sets being arranged.
"Sing!"
The voice in her ear is even more clear and direct than that of the harried man so vexed with her. With a short nod and a deep breath, she makes her entrance. The stole falls loosely over her shoulders, each end caught in a purlicue.
Sing for him, she will. Everything has to be perfect…for him. How she wishes he was a man. Wishes he was the partner in the dance created for the song.
"Let them hear you sing, dotter," said the man of average height and build distinguished by bushy red hair and a full mustache a shade darker.
"Oh, no Pappa, I cannot," she answered, hiding behind him.
"Come, come. I shall play for you…let the people hear your voice. It is time." The Mirecourt violin was placed under his chin and he began to play "Bred dina vida vingar."
This was the first time Pappa had encouraged her to sing in front of the people who never failed to gather whenever he played. The sound of his violin coaxed even the most dour passerby to smile, often tossing a coin or two into his wide-brimmed felt hat. Most of the time, she simply sat close by, listening along with the rest of the townspeople.
Over the past six years…years of mostly walking, except when a ride would be offered by a kind farmer or tradesman taking pity on the man and his daughter. Their packs were not particularly heavy but, holding everything they owned, were bulky. At first, Gustave would strap both bags onto his back. His violin, a gift from his own father after a particularly good harvest, was carried in a leather case in one hand. The other hand held hers. His two precious jewels he would say.
Now, a blossoming young woman, she wore her pack, allowing both of them to carry more – usually food such as bread, dried meat and fruit that did not have to be eaten in the moment.
Christine never quite understood why they left their small, though warm and cozy farmhouse, when her mother died. Although not wealthy…none of the farmers in their village was rich…they still had enough…and one another. When Mamma became ill neighbors came to call – helping to care for her and the little girl. Even after she died, women in the village would visit bringing meals and making certain the household needs were tended to. As time went on, Christine suspected some of the ladies thought he would be a good husband.
And, yet, one morning Gustave told her to put together some keepsakes – one would be her sewing kit, the other her favorite red scarf – one her mother knitted for her from fine wool, hand-dyed and spun. The rest must be more practical clothing – less colorful and more durable – these along with items of her mother's clothing including a pair of shoes to accommodate her growing body.
When asked, Gustave would only say he could not bear the life they had anymore. After hearing the same response several times over the years, she simply stopped trying to know. .
Even now there were times when she wondered why his pain was so deep. Was it his love for Mamma? Or pain over leaving home and family? Or taking her along on a journey he imagined differently? Or an accumulation of all those losses. The pale blue eyes only told her not to ask.
On that bright morning, at the small inn in Perros, where he secured a job tending the vegetable garden for the summer season, he believed she was ready to join him in the performances. And so she came forward, her red scarf draped modestly over her shoulders and developing breasts and sang.
Thy holy wings, dear Saviour,
spread gently over me;
and through the long night watches
I'll rest secure in Thee…*
Not once during rehearsal did she experience the complete freedom and joy as now in this moment. The music is everything as if a spell has been cast. Every part of her engages. Everything the Angel told her it would be is happening. He is with her, singing with her…through her. What joy.
"Think of me." The cadenza flows from her entire being.
It is over. There is no more to give.
The sound of hands clapping and voices cheering waken her from the dream…but it is not a dream. The people are on their feet. So many people. Their own happiness is palpable. The applause casts its own sort of spell.
"Brava. Brava. Bravissima."
His voice. Heady with a new sense of herself, she wants only to see him. How does one thank an angel? Was the performance enough for him? His words suggest it was. A slight shiver of fear grips her.
"I knew you could sing," Meg Giry says, running up to her, following her to her dressing room, "but this was amazing. When did you learn all this – who is the teacher you spoke of?"
"The Angel of Music."
"Angel?"
"Yes, Pappa told me when he died he would ask the Angel of Music to watch over me."
"And?"
"He teaches me – right here."
Meg raises an eyebrow. "If Maman hears you, she will have to in the Confessional before you can blink an eye."
"I am serious."
Meg frowns and squints at the mirror. The look on her faces shifts from confusion to understanding. "Oh, wait…"
"What?"
"Meg Giry, I thought I would find you here," Madame Giry says as she enters the dressing room.
Stiffening at her mother's words, she says, "I just wanted to congratulate Christine."
"And have you done so?"
"Yes, Maman."
"Then go practice. Christine may have been brilliant, but the dancing was rough, very rough, even for an opening."
"Yes, Maman." Kissing her friend on the cheek, she waddles out of the room feet in first position, not before taking a quick look behind her at the mirror.
"You were quite good." Adjusting the ruffle on Christine's dressing gown, the older woman says, "He will be most satisfied."
Christine's brow furrows. "You know my tutor? The Angel of Music?" But how could she? Pappa said the Angel would come to her. Perhaps he visited Madame Giry when she was younger. She was a dancer, though, why would he visit her? There must be angels for dancers.
"Hmmm." Madame Giry's lips form the barest of smiles. "Yes, angel of music seems an apt name."
"Truly? You know him?" Christine grabs her forearms.
"I do not know any angels, my dear, but the audience is certain they heard one sing tonight," is the response. "One in particular," she says, pulling away, handing the bewildered girl a note.
Shaking her head in confusion, Christine takes the note to her dressing table and opens the note, taking no notice of Madame Giry's exit.
This was not like the notes she knew the other girls received. The "rats," as they were often called, looked forward to the invitations to supper. The food was often the best they ever had in their lives and, if things went particularly well, the patrons might take them on as a paramour – keep them in an apartment where they lived like princesses. This was rare, however, more often, however, they would be used for a few weeks, then return to the ballet if they were able. The patrons were not known to be particularly kind for all their manners and airs. Yet, for some of the girls, a short escape from poverty was worth the pain.
This is the first letter Christine received – she and Meg always somehow overlooked by the patrons. While often concerned about not being pretty enough to attract a man's interest, she found herself relieved when, after each performance, she could return to the bed she shared with Meg in the Giry's small flat.
The words of this missive, however, are not about dinner or anything of the sort, but a reminder of that day in Perros when she first sang in public.
"Oh, Pappa, that was so exciting," she laughed, skipping next to him along the shore. Once their chores were finished, they often strolled on the beach. This summer being one of the best either of them has known since leaving Sweden. With employment, including room and board…Pappa's ability to play his violin to make extra money and the sea. This was quite perfect.
"Your voice touched their hearts – and why not, you sing beautifully with your entire soul."
As she sat down, her scarf was lifted off her shoulders and carried away. Despite the fine weather, the winds were strong, especially along the rocks where they liked to watch the sailboats. "Oh, Pappa, my scarf," she cried running towards the beach.
Before either of them reaches the sand, a boy rushed into the water and swam out to grab the red stole before a wave carried it farther out into the sea.
The fully dressed young man, drenched to the skin, dragged himself from the water. Holding the rescued scarf up in the air, he smiled broadly at Christine and her father. "I believe you lost this, Mademoiselle."
"Thank you, so much. My Mamma made this for me, I would hate to lose it."
"You have made both of us very happy, young man," Gustave said. "It is a wonder you were nearby."
"I was actually walking over to speak with you," the boy said. "I heard you play and your daughter sing today. I wished to make your acquaintance."
"Indeed? Well I am Gustave Daae and this is my daughter, Christine."
"I am Raoul de Chagny."
The door opens before she has a moment to respond to the light knock. "Little Lotte."
"Raoul! So many years." So the note is from him. After all these years, how many times she wished he would seek her out on her travels with Pappa.
"We will meet again soon. Trust me," Raoul said as he gave her a quick hug. After shaking Gustave's hand, he runs back to the de Chagny carriage that waits for him on the road.
But he never appeared again. Until now.
Getting up from her bench, she runs to him giving him a hug.
Stepping back, he offers her a rose, and holds up a bottle of Champagne. "To celebrate. I had no idea I would ever see you again."
"No, I suppose not, being a vicomte and all," she says placing the rose on her dressing table next to the photograph of her father. "I suppose Pappa and I moved around too much."
"Your father was a wonderful man. I miss those times in the attic of the inn – his telling us stories of the North," he says, setting the bottle down next to the rose. Picking up the silver frame, he asks, "Is he here tonight?"
Shaking her head no, she says, "Only in my heart."
"I am sorry. As I said, he was a wonderful man. Very kind to an awkward boy."
"Little Lotte was my favorite." Taking the frame from him, placing it in the drawer of the dressing table. Smiling up at him, she says, "Especially when he told me about the Angel of Music singing songs in my head."
"Yes, I remember that – about the Angel of Music. Your father told such fanciful stories."
"It was all true, when Pappa died, he told me he would send me the Angel of Music and he has."
"Of course, of course," Raoul says, "and I am certain he would want you to enjoy your success. You must get dressed. We shall go to the party and do just that."
"Oh, no, I cannot. The Angel of Music will not have it. I must rest."
"Tonight is for celebration – your performance…and our reunion. I am certain this angel you speak of would not object," he scoffs, going to the door. "I must retrieve my hat."
"No. Please. I cannot."
"You can and shall," he insists, checking his pocket watch. "In two minutes."
The voice came booming through the mirror almost before the door closed. "How dare he?"
Oh, he was so angry cursing Raoul.
"Angel, please. I am sorry. He is from my past…a friend." Holding her arms open to him she says, "Tell me what you want me to do."
"Do you wish to know me?"
"Yes, oh, yes with all my heart."
"Look in the mirror then."
The visage she sees is that of a man in a mask covering much of his face – dressed all in black. "Oh, oh, you are real."
"Come inside," Erik sings to her, as the mirror slides open, offering his hand. "I am your Angel of Music."
Christine smiles up at him. When he sings to her, there is little she can refuse him. Much the same as when Pappa played his violin. The sounds, both so beautiful – touching her heart and soul, filling her with love. "You are. You are my Angel."
Ignoring the pounding on the door…Raoul calling out her name, she takes the hand Erik offers her. Once she is safely embraced by the blackness inside the walls, the mirror slides shut behind them.
"Christine! Who are you talking to? What Angel?" Raoul cries. But the room is empty.
Running back to the hallway, he calls out, "Madame Giry!"
"Monsieur le Vicomte." The woman nearly crippled from her early career as a dancer, walks slowly toward him leaning heavily on her staff.
"Christine is gone. I heard voices…but when I went in, no one was there."
"Yes, so I see." Her dark eyes looking past him to the dressing room. "It appears she had another engagement." Returning her attention to him, she says, "Perhaps, there is another lady you might wish to meet. I know there are several who wish to make your acquaintance." Taking his arm, she leads him toward the stairway to the Grand Foyer. "I am so sorry for your disappointment."
"But…"
"Come along, I assure you, the managers have prepared a lovely event for the opening…in your honor."
As if on cue, M. Andres rushes toward them. "Vicomte de Chagny, we have been looking for you. "The festivities are just beginning."
"Yes, of course," Raoul says, glancing back at the dressing room. "One must maintain one's responsibilities as my brother is wont to say."
Following his look, the manager says, "There are other fine young women who you might find pleasing. Most find Mlle. Daae a tad strange and aloof, although her voice is sublime. I apologize for her if she was rude."
"No. No, it is fine," Raoul says. "Come, let us join the party. My brother will want a report."
"Perfect," the mustached man replies, with a quirked eyebrow toward Madame Giry.
"I shall speak with her."
"Very good," Andre smirks. "Now to the celebration."
None of the three would hear the joined voices on the levels beneath them as they walk to the Grand Foyer.
And in this labyrinth
Where night is blind
The phantom of the opera is
There inside my mind.
*Thy Holy Wings (literally "Spread your wide wings"), lyrics by Carolina Sandell Berg (1865).
Note: If you would like to hear a lovely version of this hymn, it can be found on YouTube. The artist is Sissel Kyrkjebø.