The Phantom of the Opera (Oxford World's Classics)

by Gaston Leroux

  ‘Yes, yes! We know the score too!’ said Richard again, his patience tested once more, ‘and then what? What happened next?’

  ‘What happened was that at the very moment when Leopold says “Let’s flee!” and Eléazar stops them saying: “Where do you go?” well, at exactly that moment M. Poligny who I was watching from the back of the box next door, which was empty, M. Poligny jumps up and walks out stiff as a poker. I just had time to ask him, like Eléazar on stage: “Where do you go?” But he didn’t answer. He was pale as death. I watched him go down the great staircase, he didn’t break a leg… but he was walking as if he was having a bad dream and didn’t know where he was… and him that’s paid to know the Opera House like the back of his hand!’

  Thus spoke Mme Giry who then fell silent to gauge the effect she had produced. The Poligny incident made Moncharmin shake his head.

  ‘None of that tells me in what circumstances and exactly how the Phantom of the Opera came to ask you for a footstool,’ he said, looking Mme Giry straight, as they say, in the eye.

  ‘That’s when it started, that night… After that, they left the Phantom alone… They never tried to take his box off of him.

  M. Debienne and M. Poligny gave orders it was to be kept for him at every performance. So, whenever he came, he’d ask me to get him his footstool…’

  ‘Come now, a ghost asking for a footstool? May I deduce that this ghost is a woman?’ asked Moncharmin.

  ‘No, sir. The Phantom’s a man.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He got a man’s voice, a soft man’s voice. This is what happens. When he comes to the Opera, he usually arrives halfway through the first act. He gives three little knocks on the door from inside Box 5. The first time I heard the knocks, I knew there wasn’t nobody in there, so you can imagine how puzzled I was! I opens the door, I listen, I look: nobody there! And then blow me if I don’t hear a voice speaking to me: “Mme Jules (that was my late husband’s name) could I have a footstool, please?” Well I had the wind up, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression… But the voice went on: “Don’t be afraid, Mme Jules, I am the Phantom of the Opera!!!” I looked in the direction of where the voice was coming from, it was so kind and friendly that I was hardly frightened any more. The voice, sir, was sitting in the first chair of the front row on the right. Except for the fact I couldn’t actually see anyone sitting there, you could have sworn that there was and that he was talking and was a well-mannered gentleman too.’

  ‘Was the box on the right of Box 5 occupied?’ asked Moncharmin.

  ‘No there wasn’t anybody in Box 7 yet, nor in Box 3 on the left. The performance had only just started.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I brought him his footstool. Of course, it wasn’t for himself that he wanted it but for his lady! But I never heard or saw anything of her…’

  What? Really? The Phantom had suddenly acquired a wife? From Mme Giry the twin gaze of Messrs Moncharmin and Richard rose until it stopped at the security officer who was standing behind her and waving his arms trying to catch his employers’ attention. He tapped his forehead with one grieving finger to indicate that Mme Jules was clearly off her head, a dumb-show which finally told M. Richard that it was time to part company from a security officer who thought fit to go on employing the services of a woman who saw things that weren’t there. Meanwhile, she went on talking, full now of her Phantom, boasting about his generosity.

  ‘After every performance, he always gives me a two-franc piece, sometimes it’s five and even ten if he hasn’t been for a few days. But since people have started bothering him again, he hasn’t been giving me anything.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, my good woman… (Another toss of the feather in her dusty-black hat was her response to such persistent familiarity) truly sorry… But how does the Phantom actually give you the two francs?’ asked Moncharmin, who was born inquisitive.

  ‘He leaves it on the ledge of the parapet at the front of the box. I find it there with the programme I always get for him. Some nights, there’s even flowers in there, maybe a rose off his lady’s gown… oh yes! He must come with a lady sometimes, because one day they left a fan.’

  ‘Really? The Phantom left a fan? What did you do with it?’

  ‘I took it back to him the next time he came.’

  At this point, the security man spoke up:

  ‘You didn’t follow correct procedure, Mme Giry. I’ll have to fine you.’

  ‘Shut up, you oaf!’ (This spoken in a whisper by M. Richard.)

  ‘So you returned the fan. What happened?’

  ‘They took it away with them, sir. It wasn’t there after the end of the performance and in its place they left me a box of English chocolates, the ones I like best, sir. Just typical of the Phantom’s kindness.’

  ‘That’s all, Mme Giry… You may go.’

  When Mme Giry had taken her leave of both Directors, which she did respectfully and not without a certain dignity which never deserted her, they informed the security officer that they had decided to dispense with the services of the mad old woman, then said he could leave.

  When he had gone too, protesting his unfailing loyalty to the Opera House, the Directors instructed the Administrator to pay him off too. When at last they were alone, they each voiced a thought which had come to both simultaneously and independently, which was that they should take a closer look at Box 5.

  We shall join them there presently.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Magic Violin

  CHRISTINE DAAÉ, a victim of machinations to which we shall return, did not subsequently repeat the spectacular success at the Opera that she had enjoyed on the famous night of the gala concert. She was later given an opportunity to sing at the home of the Duchess of Zurich where she performed the loveliest items in her repertoire. This is what the great critic X.Y.Z., who was among the guests of note, had to say about her:

  ‘When one hears her sing in Hamlet, one wonders if Shakespeare himself had not come down from the fields of Elysium to direct her as Ophelia!… It is undeniable that when she puts on the crown of stars of the Queen of the Night, Mozart surely feels impelled to return from his eternal abode to hear her. But he need not go to the trouble, for the clear, thrilling voice of the magical performer of the Magic Flute rises up to him in the heights of the empyrean, which she scales with ease in precisely the same way that she effortlessly rose from her humble cottage in the village of Skotelof * to the palace of gold and marble that is M. Garnier’s Opera House.’

  But after the recital hosted by the Duchess of Zurich, she never sang at any more private concerts. She turned down all invitations and engagements. Giving no plausible reason, she withdrew from a charity gala at which she had previously promised to appear. She behaved as though she were no longer in control of her destiny, as if she feared a repeat of her triumph.

  She learned that to please his brother, the Count de Chagny had been actively promoting her interests with M. Richard. She wrote to thank him but asked him not to speak up for her to the Directors any more. Why such curious behaviour? Some took it as a sign of overweening arrogance, others of angelic modesty. But no one who treads the boards can afford to be quite so modest. Indeed, I’m not sure if I shouldn’t simply put her actions down to one word: fear. I truly believe Christine Daaé was frightened of what had happened to her and was as stunned as everyone else. Stunned? Surely not! But I have here a letter (from the Persian’s private collection) which throws light on the events of that time. Having reread it, I will not write that Christine was either stunned by or frightened of her triumph, but terrified of it. Yes: terrified! ‘I no longer know who I am when I sing!’ she says.

  Poor, pure, sweet Christine!

  She never went out any more and the Viscount de Chagny failed in all his efforts to see her. He wrote to ask if he could call and had almost given up all hope of getting an answer when one day she sent him the following note:

  ‘My
dear Viscount,

  ‘I have not forgotten the little boy who ran into the sea to rescue my scarf. I just had to write those words today when I leave for Perros* to discharge a sacred duty. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the death of my poor father. You knew him. He was fond of you. He is buried there, with his violin, in the cemetery of the little chapel under the hill where we used to play as children, next to the road where, when we were a little older, we said farewell for the last time.’

  The moment he received Christine Daaé’s letter, the Viscount de Chagny reached for the railway timetable, dressed quickly, wrote a brief note for his valet to give to his brother and jumped into a cab which deposited him on the platform of Montparnasse station just too late to catch the morning train on which he had been aiming for.

  Raoul spent the rest of the day in wretched spirits which did not rise again until evening when he settled into his compartment on the train. All through the journey, he read Christine’s note over and over, breathed in its perfume and relived sweet memories of his childhood. He spent a dreadful night in restless dreams which began and ended with Christine Daaé. Day was just breaking when he got off at Lannion. He hurried to the coach for Perros-Guirec. He was the only passenger. He questioned the driver who told him that the previous evening a young woman, who could well have come from Paris, had been driven to Perros and was staying at the Setting Sun Inn. It had to be Christine. And she was alone! Raoul gave a sigh of relief. Here in this lonely place, he’d be able to talk to her without interference. His love for her almost took his breath away. This fine young man, who had sailed around the world, was as innocent as the pure boy who had never strayed far from his mother’s apron-strings.

  As he drew closer to her, he fondly recalled the story of the little Swedish songbird. Many of the details are still not widely known.

  Once upon a time, in a small town not far from Uppsala, a peasant lived with his family, tilling the land during the week and singing bass in the church choir on Sundays. The peasant had a small daughter and before she could even read her books he had taught her to read music. M. Daaé, though he may not have known it, was a great musician.* He played the violin and was regarded as the finest fiddler in the whole of Scandinavia. His reputation had spread far and wide and it was always to him that people turned for someone to get the couples dancing at weddings and other festive occasions. Mme Daaé was not strong and died when Christine had just turned five. The father, who only loved his daughter and music, sold his field and set off to find fame and fortune at Uppsala. All he found was grinding poverty.

  So he returned to the country, travelling from fair to fair, scratching out his Scandinavian tunes, while his daughter, who never left his side, listened transfixed or sang while he played. One day at the fair at Ljimby, a certain Professor Valerius heard them and took them with him to Gothenburg. He reckoned the father was the most gifted fiddler in the world and that the daughter had the makings of a great singer. Provision was made for her upbringing and education. Wherever she went she amazed everyone with her pretty looks, grace and eagerness to speak the truth and do what is right. She made rapid progress. In the meantime, Professor Valerius and his wife were obliged to move to France. They brought Daaé and Christine with them. Mme Valerius treated Christine like her own daughter. But the father missed his homeland and he began to waste away. In Paris, he never went out. He lived in a dream which he nourished with his violin. He would shut himself away with his daughter for hours at a time, and they could be heard playing and singing softly, very softly. Sometimes, Mme Valerius would come and listen through the door. She would sigh, wipe a tear from her eye and come away on tiptoe, for she too was homesick for her wide Scandinavian skies.

  M. Daaé grew stronger only in the summer, when the whole family went to spend the holidays at Perros-Guirec, in a part of Brittany known to very few Parisians. He loved the sea there. He said it was the same colour as it was back home. On the beach he would often play sad melodies and say the waves fell silent to listen. And he so badgered Mme Valerius that she at last gave in to a new whim of the former country fiddler.

  In those days of Breton pardons, or processional pilgrimages, of village fêtes, country dances and other local festivals, he would set out as he used to, with his violin and his daughter, for a week at a time. They filled the smallest hamlets with enough music to last the whole year. They slept in barns, in preference to a room at an inn, snuggling up next to each other in the straw just as in the old days when they were so poor in Sweden.

  They dressed respectably, refused the small coins that were offered them, and never begged. People could not understand such behaviour from a fiddler who raked the country roads with a pretty child who sang so sweetly that it was like listening to an angel from heaven. But they followed them from one village to the next.

  One day, a little town boy who was out with his governess made her extend their walk, for he could not bear to stay far from the little girl whose sweet, pure voice had made him her slave. Followed by the boy, they came to an inlet the locals still call Trestraou. In those days, there was nothing there except the sky, the sea and golden sand. But that day there was a high wind and it blew Christine’s scarf into the sea. She cried out and reached out for it with both arms, but the scarf was already floating on the water. Then she heard a voice:

  ‘Don’t worry,’ it said, ‘I’ll go and get your scarf back from the sea!’

  And she saw a small boy running, ignoring the warnings and indignant protests of a respectable lady dressed from head to foot in black. He sprinted straight into the sea fully clothed and brought her back her scarf. Both boy and scarf were wet through! The lady in black kept fussing but Christine laughed gaily and kissed the boy who was none other than the Viscount de Chagny. He was then on a visit to his aunt at Lannion. For the rest of that summer, they saw each other and played together almost every day. At his aunt’s request and through the good offices of Professor Valerius, Daaé the fiddler agreed to give the young Viscount violin lessons. In this way, Raoul learned to love the melodies which had made Christine’s childhood so magical.

  They both had similar dreamy, placid natures. What they loved best were stories and old Breton legends, and their favourite game was knocking on doors, like beggars, collecting new ones. ‘Sorry to bother you, Monsieur (or Madame), please do you have a story you could tell us?’ It was the exception if they weren’t offered one. Show me the old Breton grandmother who never at least once in her life saw elves and goblins dancing in the heather by moonlight!

  But their greatest treat was at dusk, in the quiet of evening after the sun had set over the sea, when M. Daaé would sit next to them by the side of the road and tell them fantastic, comforting, terrifying tales of the North, whispering as if he was afraid to alarm the ghosts he raised. Some of his tales were as fine as those by Hans Andersen, others were like the stories told by the great poet Runeberg.* When he stopped, the children would cry: ‘More! More!’

  One story began this way:

  ‘A king once sat in a little skiff on a still, deep lake like those which open like shining eyes among the mountains of Norway…

  Another like this:

  ‘Little Lotte’s head was always full but was it full of nothing? She was a summer bird, gliding on golden sunbeams, her crown of flowers perched on her fair, curly hair. Her nature was as cloudless and blue as her eyes. She adored her mother, was inseparable from her doll, and took good care of her dress, her red shoes and her violin. But most of all, she loved going to sleep listening to the voice of the Angel of Music.’

  When the fiddler reached that part of the story, Raoul would look at Christine’s blue eyes and golden hair. And Christine would think that little Lotte was very lucky to be able to hear the Angel of Music as she went to sleep. There was hardly a story which M. Daaé told that did not involve the Angel of Music, and both children asked him time and time again to say who this Angel was. He claimed that all great musicians, all great singers a
re visited by the Angel of Music at least once in their lives. Sometimes he leans over their cradles, as happened to little Lotte, and that is why there are child prodigies of six who play the violin better than grown men of fifty, a fact which, you must admit, is quite extraordinary. In other cases, the Angel appears much later because children are badly behaved and won’t learn their lessons or practise their scales. Sometimes the Angel never comes at all because some children don’t have a pure heart or a clear conscience. No one has ever seen the Angel, but he speaks to the hearts of the chosen. He often comes when they least expect it, when they feel downcast and discouraged. Then their ears fill with the harmonies of the spheres, a divine voice, and remember that moment for the rest of their lives. Those who are visited by the Angel blaze with a fire that never stops burning. They experience a thrill unknown to the rest of mortal kind. They are blessed, for they never pick up an instrument or open their mouths to sing without producing sounds whose beauty puts all other human sounds to shame. Those unaware that such fortunate individuals have been visited by the Angel say that they have been touched by genius.

  Little Christine once asked her father if he had heard the Angel. But he shook his head sadly, but then his eyes lit up as he looked at her.

  ‘But you, darling girl,’ he said, ‘you shall hear it one day! When I’m in heaven, I’ll send him down to you. I promise.’

  Around this time, M. Daaé began to cough.

  Autumn came and separated Raoul and Christine.

  They saw each other again three years later. They were now adolescents. Again, they met at Perros and the episode made a strong impression on Raoul which stayed with him for the rest of his life. Professor Valerius had died but his widow had remained in France, where she had made a life for herself, with M. Daaé and his daughter who continued to sing and play the violin. Their generous patron seemed to live solely for music, their music, for she surrendered gladly to their sweet harmonies. The young Viscount had come to Perros on the off-chance of finding them, and it was now his good fortune to be back in the house where his little friend had stayed. The first person he saw was old Daaé, who got out of his chair, embraced him tearfully, and said of course they remembered him. In fact, hardly a day had gone by when Christine had not mentioned his name. The old man was still talking when the door opened and Christine, captivating and eager, entered carrying a laden tea tray. She knew Raoul at once and put the tray down. A faint blush flickered across her pretty face. Uncertain of herself, she did not speak. The father gazed at both of them. Raoul approached her and kissed her cheek. She did not try to evade the embrace. She asked him a few questions, did her duties as hostess with aplomb, picked up the tray and left the room. She ran out into the garden and found refuge on a bench in a quiet corner. She was shaken by emotions new to her adolescent heart. Raoul joined her there and they talked until evening, very awkwardly. They were both quite changed and were disconcerted by the changes in each other which seemed to be very marked. They were as wary as diplomats and spoke of things unconnected with their new feelings. When they parted at the roadside, Raoul kissed her trembling hand and said: ‘I shall never forget you!’ Then he walked away, already regretting his boldness, for he knew that Christine Daaé could never be the wife of the Viscount de Chagny.