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igenlodeBased on my activities of the last couple of days, my instinct is clearly to keep tweaking and re-shading chapter 2 to try to fit it into this one, rather than to edit what I've written here, so I may as well publish it as it stands... I'm enjoying Hertha's backstory, but the trouble with giving her several years of growing-up together with Raoul is that the nuances of that relationship will make his rekindled relationship with Christine seem very shallow in comparison. I think the basic issue is that I've got a conflict between my original conception of them as being casual society acquaintances, and the 'brotherly' misdirection I'd added as embroidery in the first chapter :-( So I keep shading them closer, and then away, and then closer (I haven't even got to the proposed marriage yet), and in the process I keep building up an unintended depth of experience between them.
It occurs to me at the last minute that I'm not only going to need a story title, I'm also going to need a chapter title if I publish the first chapter before finishing the rest! However, thanks to the way fanfiction.net displays its navigation, any separate title for the first chapter doesn't really show up until a second and subsequent chapter exists to be differentiated from it, so I can more or less get away with leaving brainstorming for chapter titles until the story is complete, as usual. (Or even the decision on whether to have chapter titles or not; I didn't use them for the drabble-fic, after all.)
[2022: slight edit to first line to establish the first-person protagonist right from the start]
An Outsider and a Foreigner
Raoul was bound to recognise Christine when once he heard her sing. But things have changed... for both of them.
The Opera House was [as] full tonight [as I'd ever seen it, and as magnificent]. Light blazed back from the hanging lustres of the great chandelier and the glitter of tiaras and bracelets in the crowd below, and slid around the golden curves of statues and rounded white throats as girls leaned from their seats in the boxes, or waved up from beside duennas as they took their place in the stalls. Rich swags of plasterwork bedecked walls and pilasters, and gowns bore draped silks and flounces tumbling over ornate brocade. Uniforms were everywhere and decorations glistened on the breasts of dignitaries. Gold chains stretched across expansive waistcoats, and amid the heat of crowded bodies and of gaslight foreheads were surreptitiously mopped. Up on the stage, the heavy red velvet of the curtains remained firmly closed, but the orchestra continued to saw doggedly away at the overture, all but inaudible amid the buzz of conversation.
I suspected Raoul was one of the few people even likely to be listening. Sure enough — I glanced around the assembled party in the opera-box, seeking him with rueful affection — there he was, ignoring the sallies of Madame Firmin, whom he was supposed to be entertaining, and leaning out to catch the strains of music in what appeared to be eager anticipation. I couldn’t entirely blame him. Madame Firmin was a kittenish lady of a certain age, all too evidently overcome by the exalted company into which she had been thrust, and deaf as I was to the attractions of Chalumeau, the composer responsible for the opera to which we were about to be subjected, even the prospect of prolonged tedium before the first interval had to be an improvement on her self-conscious shafts of wit.
Still, I could make out more than one pair of lorgnettes trained upon us from across the auditorium, and if gossip were to get around I knew all too well that at home it would be days before either of us heard the last of it. The old Vicomtesse de Chagny had high expectations, and both of us had had duty drilled into us since we’d taken our first steps into society.
I leaned forward a little to tap Raoul on the arm, murmuring a moment’s apology to Richard Firmin, who was busy making polite conversation to my left. Raoul’s slight start was proof enough, if any were needed, that he hadn’t been paying the slightest attention to the company around us. And as the special guest of Firmin and of Gilles André, the new joint managers of the Opera itself, the Vicomte de Chagny really could not be seen to forget his manners, let alone bounce in excitement like a seventeen-year-old schoolboy, which — if I knew my Raoul — was what we would be seeing next.
The shamefaced grin I got in reply was precisely the one he’d had at seventeen. Back then he’d been a shock-headed boy, all wrists and ankles, who’d taken his fists on impulse to a carter’s lad for flogging a failing horse, and then undergone a second chastisement at home after coming back with a torn coat and a black eye. Added years and family responsibilities had steadied him a little. But at heart he was still the same reckless boy, indignant, transparently honest, and stubborn in his enthusiasms as in his loyalties. I didn’t think that would ever really change, and in private I had to admit I wouldn’t have wanted it to.
Only Raoul could regard the requirement to attend a new production of Chalumeau’s “Hannibal” in the managers’ box in the light of a high treat — and only Raoul’s presence could have reconciled me to what was bound to be an evening of unmitigated boredom. All the same, I found myself smiling back in sudden shared conspiracy. We all had social obligations to endure, mine the music and his our hosts. And not the most pompous excesses of the French school of opera could cast a shadow over the easy companionship we’d always known.
Paris could be cold and hostile. We’d been far luckier than most. Many great houses hid debts, silences and open quarrelling behind closed doors and a grand façade. Thanks be to Heaven — and my father’s good sense — ours was not one of them. Nor ever would be, I hoped, achieving at length the frown of reproof I’d intended, and getting back the ghost of an entirely impenitent wink.
Exuberance duly curbed, Raoul bent his head with every sign of attention to his fair neighbour’s sallies, and with an inward sigh I turned my own once again to her husband, and to his colleague, Monsieur André. Gilles André was a florid gentleman with a fine pair of whiskers and an overeager taste in compliments; Monsieur Firmin’s admiration was evidently reserved for the sound of his own voice, and I was not sure which I found the most wearing. When the curtain finally rose, Firmin was still halfway through an anecdote on the vagaries of their leading soprano, and it was with relief that I was able to lean forward and feign absorption in the spectacle on stage.
They’d spared no expense. There was as much glitter and gilt displayed in front of the gaudily-painted backdrops as there had been at the Duchesse de Maresne’s grand ball at the start of the season — and rather more bare backs and arms on view into the bargain. Add to that the spectacle of the dancers’ stocking-clad limbs performing feats of grace in full sight of the public, and it was small wonder audience enjoyment dictated that an equivalent rôle for the corps de ballet be found in every opera produced in Paris.
I had to admit I had not previously envisioned Carthaginian maidens as quite so scantily clad. Monsieur André, who had surely seen it all before, had brightened considerably and drawn out his opera-glasses to better appreciate what was on offer. Somehow this did not surprise me in the least.
On the other hand, to be charitable, as managing directors he and Firmin doubtless had a great deal riding on the success of this first production, down to its last detail. And for Raoul, too — Raoul, who had always loved music, and who had come to me so flushed with pleasure at the bold proposal that Chagny money should help support the Opera Populaire that I had not the heart to dissuade him — success or failure tonight would mean far more than the difference between an evening’s entertainment and one spent in tedium. With the assurance of his backing to shore up the ruinous costs of this enterprise, I for one thought that we would sooner or later find ourselves cheated blind. But we could, after all, afford to cover the losses, at least for a while, thanks to Father’s investments. And if these two sharp operators tried to take advantage of the Vicomte’s generosity, they would have an unpleasant awakening.
It meant a great deal to Raoul to keep the doors of the Opera open, and to say that we had some small part in the music that poured from that setting to make it the jewel of all Paris. But he had never cared to be taken for a fool, and he did not suffer fools lightly. I had a feeling Firmin and André would learn that before long.
Caught in outline against the limelight beyond, his profile was young and resolute; rapt, for the moment, in anticipation as Chalumeau’s bombastic chords rang out. Below us on the stage the leading soprano — doubtless priestess, queen, or concubine, in some predictable plot which Raoul would explain as always on the way home — stepped out to begin her coloratura, and I took a moment to admire her undoubted technique. It was just a pity such a fine instrument had been placed at the service of such a mediocre muse.
Perhaps we could arrange to engage her for an aria or two at Raoul’s forthcoming birthday fête. Gounod, for example, would sound exquisite in a domestic setting; Halévy was sure to please. And I had friends left in Vienna who could be prevailed upon to send the latest successes by Suppé, even if national pride kept those from Paris... Planning my musical programme and envisioning Raoul’s surprise and pleasure kept me enjoyably occupied throughout the first act, and if Raoul himself seemed somewhat distracted — and rather less absorbed in Chalumeau’s monumental achievement than one might have assumed — then I paid no heed.
When all of a sudden he came to his feet it took me completely by surprise.
“It’s her!” He had half-risen; sunk back, and then sprung up again, as if drawn irresistibly by excitement. “I thought — I couldn’t be sure — but it is. It’s Christine: little Christine with the long plaits and the tattered pinafores, all legs and elbows and flying feet, with her head in the clouds and her heart in her voice and the strains of her father’s violin—”
He was flushed with laughter and memory, and oblivious to Firmin at his elbow tugging vainly at his coat. Heads had begun to turn. Stiff-backed, I could feel the burn of anger along my own cheeks, but also another, deeper pang. It was a long time since I’d seen Raoul de Chagny so alive.
“Monsieur— please—” Firmin was bobbing like a bird on a stone, clearly torn between indignation and fear of offending the goose that laid the golden eggs. Down on the stage, the heroine stood alone, offering up a faithful heart without hope of recompense to a man too long gone from her side. A filmy scarf twined her bared white arms, and draped across her breast.
La Carlotta. The name had been on all the posters for this performance: the opera “Hannibal” by Chalumeau, featuring the great Carlotta Guidicelli.
Only Carlotta was not singing tonight. Monsieur Firmin’s anecdote, half-heard, came back suddenly to me with full force. Carlotta had had some fit of temperament, and they’d had to put in a last-minute substitute. Almost without thinking, I caught up my own opera glasses from beside my seat.
Beneath the stage-paint you could see she was young — almost too young for such a rôle — and, despite the crude marks of cosmetics, very pretty. The journalists would have a field-day with her story... and Paris would have a new star, to burn briefly in the fickle clouds of reputation behind the footlights’ flare. And tonight, no doubt, would become legend, along with our own part in it.
Raoul, thank heaven, had subsided as the girl began to sing again. He glanced back at me for a moment with a tiny headshake of disbelief and delight. “She’s superb, isn’t she?”
And she was.
Earlier tonight, her voice had soared in agile acrobatics; now it rang out clear and unaffected, with a power that caught at the heart. Believing herself deserted, the character was steadfast still. The singer, a tiny poised figure in the limelight, held the audience in the palm of her hand. I could learn to love Chalumeau after all, I thought a little dizzily, if only he were always sung like this.
“Christine,” Raoul said softly, wondering. “Christine Daaé...”
It was barely a murmur, but it brought me back to myself with a jolt. Whoever this woman was and whether or not she remembered him, it was all too clear that he remembered her.
The ovations after the final curtain went on and on. Up in the gallery the crowd stamped and called for an encore until Christine was thrust forward through the curtains to give them the most florid of her arias from the fifth-act bridal scene, a sparkle of notes that rose like fireworks to fill the air apparently without effort. Firmin and André were in an ecstasy of mutual congratulation, talking eagerly of box-office magic and queues around the block, and Firmin’s wife had quite forgotten her social constraint and was exclaiming how much she had enjoyed herself with the enthusiasm of a country goodwife at a fair. Raoul was as flushed with pleasure as if it had been his own success being feted before his eyes. One thing was for certain: “Hannibal” at the Opera Populaire was a veritable hit.
If I was a little silent by comparison, Raoul was the only one who noticed.
“Come on.” He caught at my arm. “We’ll go and see her — Miss Daaé. Congratulations and dinner afterwards. What do you think, gentlemen? A champagne party for the star of the hour — it’s the least she deserves.”
And somehow, swept up on Raoul’s eager tide, we were all on the move, spilling together out of the opera box as a chattering group, and being hastened down through the pass door into backstage corridors under the managers’ escort. Raoul paused a moment to toss a ten-franc piece to a flower-seller in the foyer for her to make up her remaining stock into a bouquet; the woman handed it up to me with a curtsey and a beaming smile.
The Vicomte’s instincts were generous, and of all people I had better reason to know that than most. A little ruefully, I tucked Miss Daaé’s destined tribute into the crook of my elbow on his behalf.
Beyond the pass door the passages were narrower and unadorned. A burly scene-shifter in a leather apron stepped aside to make way for me; Carthaginian soldiers lounged half-clad in the doorway to a crowded dressing-room, tossing cheerful insults back and forth even as they stripped off spirit-gum and greasepaint from the night’s performance. I caught myself staring, and found my gaze returned with insolent equality.
Turning away with more discomfiture than dignity, I hastened to catch up with the others, hearing laughter begin behind. This place had a hustle and life of its own, and in our evening dress it was we who were out of place.
But in the next moment I too had to draw aside to make room for a jostling covey of ballet-dancers in crisp tulle, being chivvied along by a stern preceptress in black. Up ahead Raoul had halted to scrawl a few lines on a leaf from his pocket-book; as I came up, I saw him tear it out and hand it to the ballet mistress, who had halted at a peremptory word from Monsieur André. Raoul looked round, saw me, and smiled.
“Just a quick note to Miss Daaé.” He reached out to take the bouquet from my arms with a word of thanks, and a nod for the ballet mistress, who departed on her errand stiff-backed, note in hand. “Best not to walk in on a lady completely unheralded — I was sure you’d say the same. In fact, I could pretty much hear you saying it.”
He shot me a slightly rueful look from beneath his lashes, once again the boy I could remember taking his first steps in formal society. “You always were the sensible one, remember?”
Life had given me little other choice. But all the same, I knew a pang. “Have I really seemed such a killjoy?”
A quick shake of the head.
“Never.” Raoul’s arm came around my shoulders for a moment in the old gesture. “The best of companions — all I could have asked for. You know that. And always will, I hope... Come on. Let’s go and see Christine. She’s something special; be good to her for my sake. Oh, you will, I know it.”
His arm tightened again briefly and then he was gone, bounding off up ahead to where the managers awaited. I caught Madame Firmin’s eye, and followed with a great deal more decorum. Some liberties were accorded to a young man of twenty-one that were not, alas, open to the rest of us.
“Here we are, monsieur le Vicomte.”
It was not the grand dressing-room I’d expected, but a door in a poky little hallway that had led around several corners and down a flight of steps. Monsieur Firmin raised his hand to knock with a proprietorial air, but Raoul forestalled him, stepping forward.
“Forgive me, gentlemen, but this is a visit that means a great deal to me, and—”
Firmin exchanged a meaningful glance with Monsieur André, who dropped a broad wink in Raoul’s direction that was doubtless intended to be discreet. “Quite so, monsieur. You would prefer a little privacy. Entirely understandable.”
It was as well, perhaps, that Raoul — who had already knocked and entered eagerly — was not in a position to appreciate this sally, let alone the still more significant wink that followed. I could feel my own face hardening into an immobile mask.
“Really, my dear...” Madame Firmin was all aflutter, casting helpless glances in my direction, and her husband had the grace to seem a little abashed at the recollection of my presence.
He coughed. “It would, ah, appear they’ve met before.”
Through the half-open door we could hear laughter. The girl’s voice carried clearly, on a note of delight. “Oh Raoul, so it is you!”
“Yes, monsieur.” I met Firmin’s eyes, my own voice ice-cold. “It would.”
A fractional pause that seemed to stretch out. André bowed first, with a nervous half-laugh, backing away; his colleague followed suit. I returned the curtest nod consistent with politeness, and watched their retreat with a sigh.
There would be gossip, of course. Raoul would not care — would say I paid far too much heed. But we did not all have the luxury of ignoring the opinion of those who mattered... and at the very least he owed me the courtesy of the truth.
I watched the two of them from the doorway, somehow reluctant to break into that enchanted circle: the girl at her dressing-table, young and lovely, awash in lace, and the boy sprawled cheerfully at her feet, teasing and reminiscing. The girl — Christine — laughed back. One generally did, with Raoul.
All the same, when she spoke of an Angel of Music she was not laughing, and the room seemed to me to grow colder, though Raoul did not see. From anyone else I too would have taken those words as only an allusion to the heavenly gift that had touched her voice tonight. But Christine Daaé had the wild fey look to her of one who truly believed.
In that moment I was sure I did not want Raoul mixed up with her in any way at all, however foolish such a stance might seem in the eyes of a cynical world. I drew breath, bolstered by sudden resolve. “Raoul, we should—”
“Ah, there you are. Just the help I needed.” His smile for me was warm as ever, but the haste with which he scrambled to his feet, hand outstretched, suggested that however welcome my presence it had been entirely forgotten. “Miss Daaé’s trying to tell me she can’t come out to supper. Convince her if you can that her studies won’t suffer in the slightest, and that a celebration is richly deserved.”
A further protest from the girl; Raoul flushed a little, contrite. “Forgive me — I haven’t made the introductions. This is Miss Christine Daaé, daughter of the great Swedish violinist. And this”— despite himself, his voice had taken on the faint pompous tone of every young man in the months when the words are still new— “this is Hertha, Vicomtesse de Chagny. My wife.”
His arm came about my waist as Christine rose to acknowledge me. Her face had gone very white, and I did not know if I should be angry or glad.
“Madame,” she said, almost inaudible, and curtseyed. “I—”
“I’ll get my hat,” Raoul broke in somewhat hastily, evidently aware at last of the tension in the room. “Hertha, you come and get your cape and muff. That will give Miss Daaé a couple of minutes to finish dressing. Christine—”
He hesitated. “We’ll talk over supper. Now, you can’t refuse. I want to hear everything, and I’m sure Hertha does too.”
The look of silent appeal on his face as my eyes flew up to his was one I’d never been able to resist. I sighed, and composed my best society smile.
“Of course you must come to supper, Miss Daaé. Any friend of the Vicomte’s is a friend of mine. And I should simply love to hear about this angelic inspiration of yours. That’s settled, then? Splendid.”
Tugging firmly on my husband’s arm, I managed to get the pair of us out of the dressing-room before Christine Daaé could marshal enough words together to protest. We had reached the foot of the stairs before he began to laugh, breathlessly.
“Hertha, that was incomparable. I didn’t know you had it in you!”
Despite my indignation, as always I had to laugh back. “Another five years, and your mother and her tabby-cat friends will make a Parisienne of me yet.”
The chill that had entered the room was entirely forgotten. And if Christine called out from beyond the door, then in that moment neither of us heard it.
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Date: 2020-10-30 05:20 pm (UTC)They draw one into the setting and make everything feel more real.
I enjoyed it, and I'm not even a Phantom fan :)
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Date: 2020-10-30 07:28 pm (UTC)(Also, it bodes well for the readability of 'Arctic Raoul' as effectively a straight historical novel...)
I have to say I don't do a lot of research on period detail -- it tends to be just the mental image of the setting I have passively acquired through reading old books. And your comment made me immediately question whether girls really did have duennas in 1880s France (my gut reaction was that this is probably more applicable to an earlier era) and what on earth a pocket-book is anyway :-(
I realised that I have literally no idea; all I know is that when the hero needs to send an urgent note to his confederates, he typically writes it on a leaf from his pocket-book, which he is presumably carrying in his inside breast pocket...
Asking Google what a pocket-book was produced the alarming result of dozens of pictures of brightly-embroidered money wallets, which was not what I had assumed at all. But on digging deeper, it looks as if this is simply an Americanism akin to the confusing habit of alluding to handbags as 'purses' (I still don't know what an American calls the purse inside her handbag... a wallet?). Apparently these colourful bags were a fashion that didn't catch on outside the colonies, and are nowadays classed (and sold) as 'Americana'.
The English sources seem to confirm my original impression of the construction and function of a pocket-book, e.g. Turner's sketchbook (1845), which appears to be halfway to the American wallet: (The Hythe and Walmer sketchbook is perhaps better described as a gentleman’s pocketbook within which sketches are contained; the leather covers holding together loose folded leaves as a wallet might [....] That the drawings are loose and folded into the pocketbook and that the dimensions of the leaves are taller than the leather casing, indicates that the pocketbook may originally have served a different purpose, perhaps as a diary or notebook), John Godley's pocket-book of 1829 (calf-bound, 49(?) leaves, containing miscellaneous notes and accounts, and journal, and The Ragged-Trousered Philantropists (1914), in which Bob Crass the foreman proceeds to write in his pocket-book, tear out the leaf and hand it over (classic action!)
I still have no idea what a pocket-book actually looks like. I haven't dared check on the assumption about the duennas....
You see, I can do proper historical research. I just have the very embarassing habit of tending to write something first and only thinking to check up on it afterwards :-p
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Date: 2020-11-01 02:42 am (UTC)I love the characterization of Raoul there, he's so exuberant and genuine. His relationship with Hertha is clearly full of respect and affection, even though he doesn't love her.
I also love how elegantly you explained the presence of the white modern-ish dress in the ancient Carthage. :D
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Date: 2020-11-01 04:36 pm (UTC)Her scornful opinions on the bombastic tendencies of French grand opera (and 'Chalumeau'/Meyerbeer in particular) are those of modern opera audiences, who prefer the Italian trajectory of Verdi and Puccini; poor old Meyerbeer and Halévy are completely forgotten, but were extremely successful with French audiences in their day. But my excuse is that Hertha is a foreigner ;-p
(And of course most of the people in the opera house wouldn't have been particularly interested in the music anyway, which is why the chandelier and the rest of the house lights were kept blazing throughout, so that the most important part of the production -- the other members of the audience -- remained visible; it was at heart a social occasion.)
I was aiming for Philippe as the decoy narrator; I know he's not in the musical (and indeed he doesn't exist in my backstory!), but since fanfiction.net allows you to select which 'world' the story is set in but doesn't actually display this to the reader, nobody is going to know at the start which setting is being used. What with the references to "Hannibal" I'd have thought it was pretty obvious this isn't Leroux, but the fandom tends to mix and match characters between the two all the time anyway.
But yes, I think it's clearly not Christine's voice here -- and it's not particularly obvious that it's female. (There are only a handful of very subtle clues; the fact that the narrator is entertaining the male half of their 'hosts' while Raoul is entertaining the female half, the fact that the flower-seller automatically assumes that she is the intended recipient of the bouquet when Raoul commissions it, and her slightly appalled reaction to half-naked male performers backstage ;-P)
But otherwise the suggestion is that it's either Philippe or some male OC friend of Raoul's. I got a PM on fanfiction.net from someone who said she'd assumed it was Philippe, so I think the decoy worked.
(I also got a fandom-blind review from someone who complained that the prose was written with "older language and complex sentence structures" and that she didn't like the French language or literature set in France; I suppose I can sympathise in that I don't really like the anime fandoms with all their stories set in Japan, which just doesn't interest me. At least she didn't complain this time that I was over-using adverbs or had too many occurrences of the word 'I' in my text.... "I didn't notice any SPAG problems" -- I should jolly well hope not :-P)
I'm glad you liked Raoul; I was afraid he was coming out as a bit of a clueless idiot. I mean, from an objective point of view, he is effectively both leading Christine on, and cheating on his wife. His only excuse is that it genuinely hasn't occurred to him that his attentions might be interpreted in a sexual/romantic light...
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Date: 2020-11-02 02:51 pm (UTC)He certainly was coming out as clueless. :DDD But, like, in a cute way, like he was too innocent or too carried away to understand the full implications of the situation.
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Date: 2020-11-02 11:31 pm (UTC)But it's plausible enough that he would say 'my father' in a context where the two brothers aren't being discussed as a pair; the relevant element of the sentence is that the character is the narrator's father, rather than that he is or is not Raoul's father....
I'm currently trying to write that scene in Chapter 2 (which is, so far, entirely flashback; I have the usual problem of needing to make sure I re-establish the narrator in the present day before hitting the end of the chapter!) and having some trouble getting to that stage. The stage of Hertha's father having the 'good sense' to marry her off to someone she knows and likes, rather than to the most socially advantageous candidate, I mean... although I suspect that Raoul is a pretty good catch from that perspective ;-p