Chapter 17. July, 1887. Early Saturday morning.
Christine woke at some unidentifiable time in the middle of the night. She blinked, dazed from what had been a heavy sleep. What had awoken her?
Silence, that's what. For the first time in two days, the house was quiet. No music coming from the other room – where was he? She sat up hurriedly, and her eyes fell on the recumbent form of her husband, sound asleep on the rug beside the bed, with his head pillowed on her dress and one arm outstretched toward the bed, and her.
For just a moment, she was touched, and then she saw again the crumpled dress and remembered her efforts of the previous evening – and his reaction. She was suddenly furious once more. He had a lot of nerve, coming in here through a locked door, when that should have made it obvious that she no longer wanted him with her! He could just lie there, then, on the cold hard floor with only her clothes and not her for company! She hoped he never touched her again.
She looked at him again; his brow was furrowed, even as he slept.
Well. Good. She hoped it had taken him as long to fall asleep as it had taken her. He deserved that and worse.
He must be very tired. He hadn't slept for nearly forty-eight hours, and he was certainly not a young man. What if his composing excesses made him ill? He needed rest in a bed, not on the floor. The change in him after he stopped sleeping in the coffin had been drastic. And yet...
And yet, with all the fatigue he must have finally started to suffer from, he had not disturbed her in order to get into bed. Nor had he lain down on one of the couches in the living room, though they would undoubtedly have been more comfortable than the floor.
He must have wanted very badly to be near her.
Why? Why would he want to be near her if she were everything that he had said she was? Her skin jumped and prickled with the memory of his words, and her heart seemed to shudder, as though it were mortally wounded. She could not repress a sob, and then another. She lay back down.
O-O-O
Erik woke up with difficulty this time, as something dragged his exhausted brain out of its desperately needed slumber. That sound... he shook his head, trying to clear his head.
It was the sound of a woman crying. He sat up, and saw that it was Christine, lying with her back to him and weeping desolately. She sounded as though she were in utter despair, and the loneliness inherent in her voice was instantly recognizable to someone who had suffered so much of it himself. She sounded as if she felt herself to be completely alone in the world.
He reached out instinctively for her, but then drew back. Would his touch be welcomed, after his earlier mistreatment of her? Surely his embrace would not be able to comfort her now. Forlornly he turned to the only tool he had left, his voice.
He began to sing, as soothingly as he could manage but with a deliberate effort not to hypnotize her. She jerked, obviously realizing he was there, but did not turn around. She hiccuped, sobbed a few more times, and then was quiet.
"Christine?" he said tentatively.
"What?"
"I am sorry."
She was silent for a moment, and then repeated miserably, "Sorry?"
"Yes. I did not mean to hurt you."
She sat up suddenly, her red eyes meeting his. "Did not mean to?" she whispered, and then she dropped her face into her hands and went into a fresh storm of crying.
"Christine... Christine, don't weep so! I did not mean to hurt you!" What else was he supposed to do but apologize? Why would that have this effect on her? "Christine, please!" He seized the mattress and shook it in his desperation to make her understand. She was saying something else; he forced himself to focus on her words.
"But you did," she sobbed. "You did mean to. You must have. You don't love me, after all. You just wanted me as a... a thing. A wife is nothing but a plaything to you, to put away in the closet when you are tired of it. You – you – I spent all day trying to cook a nice dinner for you, and I dressed for you and – and – and you just shouted at me! You wouldn't even look at me! You couldn't be bothered to see how nice I looked, or the table! And, and... you... Oh, God, the things you said to me! I'll never forget them! How could you, how could you?"
He was at a loss. Then he noticed that she was starting to choke, and went to get a handkerchief. When her sobs began to slow, he held it under her chin till she took it, blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Then she said wretchedly, "If it was truly not your intention to hurt me, then that means that all the things you said about me were true. It means that my opinion is absolutely wrong. And if I am all those things you said, than you couldn't possibly love me or want me. I was never anything but a trophy to you after all."
"Wait, what?" he stammered. Her reasoning was escaping him. "Christine, what do you mean?"
"You do not love me," she repeated, slowly as though she were talking to a child. "All that matters to you is your music. You don't care about me one bit. Why did you marry me? You're married to your piano. At least it won't come and bother you."
"Christine, Erik is old and set in his ways and he isn't used to being married. He had no idea that Christine had done all that for him. He would never have presumed so much. He is…cruel and undeserving of such kindness."
"Yes, you are! You're horrible!"
"Yes, I am. You are correct. Christine, I am sorry," he repeated, and was about to reiterate that he had not meant to say whatever it was that she was objecting to, when it dawned on him that that was likely to make things far worse. He had apparently said something, maybe several somethings, that hurt her very deeply. If he then insisted that he had not meant it, that would imply that he had been willing to visit that hurt upon her just so that he could say things that did not actually matter very much to him.
He stood by the bed with his mouth open, thinking frantically. His powerful mind was well used to solving difficult problems, but not of this variety, and it was spinning in circles.
If he said he had not meant whatever he had said, that would mean in turn that he had injured her for something that was not important after all. That was not acceptable. But neither could he say that he had meant his cruel words. What option was left, then?
Begging, that was what. He fell to his knees and buried his face in the mattress. His stomach churned at the thought of losing her love.
"Christine, Christine, Erik was wrong! He was wrong to hurt you, wrong to say those words! Won't you forgive me? Christine..." He reached out a hand to her, then drew it back, curling his fingers in.
"You think you deserve forgiveness?" she asked coldly.
"No... no, Erik does not deserve it. He is a monster, to hurt his wife so. He does not deserve a wife."
"You're right," she agreed. "You don't."
She left him sitting there open-mouthed on the floor, and said nothing more as she got up, slid her arms into a wrapper and clutched it around her. Then she gathered up a fresh set of underclothes and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a decisive thud.
Unsure of what to do, he remained motionless for a few moments after she had disappeared, before getting up stiffly and sitting down in an armchair. He listened to the sounds of water running and objects rattling as she made her toilette, till she emerged, body firmly corseted, hair pinned ruthlessly into submission atop her head, and her wrapper buttoned all the way up to her chin. There was a quick, angry flash of her eyes as she noticed he was sitting there, before she lowered them again and bent to pick up her discarded petticoats.
"I could deal with that," he offered quickly, wishing now that he had made a more thorough job of tidying up earlier. Perhaps it might have pleased her to wake up to a neat room?
She ignored him, and continued picking up the mess on the floor, leaving him nonplussed. He watched her move around the room, tidying everything away. She stopped when she saw the mended necklace, and then seized it and shoved it into a drawer. She did not end there, either, but systematically stowed away everything of hers that was visible, from the hairbrushes on the vanity to the fashion magazines on the nightstand.
"Christine, what on earth are you doing?" She did not answer. Finally, exasperated, he got up and seized her wrist as she was reaching to put her hatpin holder up on the closet shelf where her hats were kept. "What are you doing?" he repeated. She pulled her arm out of his grasp, set the holder on the shelf, and went out of the bedroom.
Half concerned and half irritated, he followed her, and watched her move round the living room, doing the exact same thing; putting away every evidence of herself. Was she doing this to spite him? Clearing away everything of hers so that he could not have their comforting presence when she was out? He was now more annoyed than worried, and he snapped, "Christine, I asked you what you were doing. Answer me."
She looked at him then, and as a good wife should, obeyed.
"You said you wished you had never met me. It is unfortunate for you, then, that we are married and you must be burdened with me. But I will put away my things so they are not in your way, and try not to bother you as much as may be possible."
"But that makes no – I don't – Christine, why won't you believe me when I say I did not mean it?"
She did not answer again, but picked up her mending basket and went to put it into a closet. The first closet she tried, however, was full of odds and ends, and there was no room for the basket. She shut the closet door, plainly thinking hard, and then went out into the hall. He trailed after her, and then knew a moment of abject horror when he realised she was heading for the storage space that held the mannequin of her.
"Christine, no! Wait – "
Too late. She yanked open the door, gave a small shriek as she came face to face with her own visage, and shoved the door shut again. He breathed a sigh of relief.
She shot him a quick, disgusted glance, marched past him, and crammed the basket into the bedroom closet. When she went past him again, he snatched her arm, and would not let go this time.
"Christine, you are being absurd. I never said I didn't want anything of yours around. I have already apologized for my unacceptable behaviour of last night. I was angry and I lost control of myself. That's all. Now, you can not have married me without knowing that I have a terrible temper and that I can not always contain it. What possessed you to deliberately provoke me? And why do you refuse to forgive me for the results of that?"
There was a flash of anger in her face then, and she started to say heatedly, "How can you – " Then she caught herself and sighed heavily.
"I'm sorry. I don't want to argue with you. I want some fresh air. Do I have your permission to go outside for a walk?"
His permission to – was that what she wanted? The freedom to come and go as she pleased? Well, he recalled reading an old legend that hinged on the idea that the one thing women wanted most was their own way. Sometimes those old stories had more truth in them than might be obvious at first glance. Perhaps she wanted to know that she could do just as she pleased and he would not take her to task. Was that what all this clearing away of her things was? Was she testing him? This did not seem to have much to do with the current conflict, but then feminine thinking, judging by his limited observations, appeared to be anything but logical.
Hoping he was doing the correct thing, he let go of her arm, stepped back and folded his hands in front of him, and said, "I would by no means impede any desire of yours."
She turned abruptly and went back into the bedroom. He stood there uncertainly. She hadn't looked pleased. Had that also not been the right response?
Damn it all. He went across the room and sat in a wing chair, feeling very tired. When Christine emerged, wearing a walking dress and pulling on camel-coloured gloves, it was perfectly obvious that she was not pleased, at all.
"Will you be back soon?" he asked, trying another tack and hoping to make her realise that he wanted her company. She'd apparently objected to his ignoring her while he was composing, though on what grounds she could do that after treating him in similar fashion previously, he did not know.
"Why?" she asked coldly. "Did you want me to perform my wifely duties?"
"What? No!" he retorted, outraged. "Did you think that was all I wanted you for? Well, I do not! Stay out as long as you like!"
She picked up her parasol and slammed her way out of the house. He leaned back in the chair, certain that he must have said something wrong yet again. Anger boiled up then, and he surged to his feet, aimed a punch at the wall, and checked himself just in time, driving his fist into a pillow instead. Women! No matter what he did, it was the wrong thing. Frustration roiled inside him, and he strode to the storage room and dragged the mannequin out. He must dispose of it. Thank God she hadn't examined it any closer; she'd never have forgiven him for that either.
But…it looked like her. It was beautiful. He could not quite bring himself to hurl it into the lake, to be destroyed by the water. How to…
The coffin! Of course. Christine had been at him for weeks to get rid of that, too. If he sealed the mannequin inside the coffin and dropped the both of them into the lake, that would be two things that annoyed Christine gone at once. Yes, that would be best.
Hauling the coffin out to the lake shore was not too difficult, as it was on wheels. It had had to be, in order for him to get it down here in the first place. No need for weights; it was more than heavy enough already. Deliberately not looking at the still, waxen face that was a perfect replica of Christine's, down to the hair whose colour he had matched at a wig-maker's by stealing golden strands from her hairbrush, he shut the lid and shoved the lot into the water.
Well. That had been more disturbing than he wanted to admit. He stood watching the air bubbles coming up to the surface of the water, wondering what had he been thinking of. What kind of a husband was he, to have left such a thing where his wife might find it?
He hadn't been thinking, that was it. He'd been a love-struck idiot for the past three months, so disgracefully delighted to have Christine as his wife that he'd taken no thought of tomorrow, no thought of the consequences of any of his actions. He stalked back into the house and to the bedroom to exchange his dressing gown for proper daytime clothing, then to the front door to seize his cloak and hat and throw them on. Black mask securely in place as well, he poled himself across the lake with quick, furious strokes, and went up into the Opera House, where he assuaged his feelings by dropping a few sandbags, scaring the wits out of the two new ballet girls, leaving a pair of nasty notes for the managers, and whispering incessantly in Madame Giry's ear as she attempted to supervise a junior box attendant. This last backfired on him, though, as the widow, jaw set and eyes snapping, retaliated by arranging his preferred chair in Box Five in a position which she knew he did not like. With a silent snarl he gave up and turned away. It seemed the monks had the right idea after all. Dealings with women were a bad business all around.
Back down in his house, he paced up and down his parlour like a tiger, until he wore himself out enough to want to sit down in an armchair again. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them again and looking bleakly around his parlour. It seemed so empty and cold, without her. Christine. His redeemer, though he was wholly unworthy of being redeemed; his beloved. The only woman who had ever seen any capacity for good in him, and the one whom he adored with everything that was in him. His anger at her had dissipated now, and the fear of losing her love reasserted itself. What in God's name could he do to win his way back into her good graces? What did she want? As for himself, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to see her smile at him again.
The chill, at least, he could do something about. He got up to start a fire, thinking of her and wondering what she was doing right then. She had said only that she wanted fresh air. Could it be that she was unhappy living underground like this?
He could understand that. He'd wanted a normal house, and life, himself quite recently. He'd rather forgotten about it, in the rush of passion of the first few months of their marriage, but perhaps Christine had not? He had, after all, vowed to try to live like a normal man if she married him; did she resent that he had not, so far, kept his promise?
Fire now crackling briskly, Erik went and hauled out his drafting materials, sat down and began to draw hurriedly. An elegant dining room; a spacious workroom for him; a sitting room for her; a music room; a conveniently laid out kitchen; a parlour with plenty of windows to let the light in. Would she prefer morning or afternoon light? And in which rooms? He would have to ask her. It would be difficult for him to be comfortable now, in that much of it. Once he had gone about easily in the blinding sunlight of the Orient, but with the intervening years and the damaging effects of his self-imposed isolation in the darkness to get in the way, that was no longer the case. He thought he could do it, though, if her happiness hung in the balance.
After a while, he put down his drafting pencil. He had done as much as he could now without asking her opinion. Please, let that pacify her!
His fatigue was coming back inexorably. He had not been able to sleep the clock round as he needed to do after a long bout of working, and with nothing in particular which had to be done, his energy was waning quickly. Erik banked the fire so it would not set the house aflame, and then threw off his coat, loosened his tie and collar, and lay down on one of the couches, wishing for oblivion. It came almost immediately.
O-O-O O-O-O