The Phantom of the Opera

The Phantom of the Opera did exist. He was not, as was long believed, born out of the fertile imagination of the artists, the credulity of the directors, or the ludicrous fancy and overexcited brains of the young ladies of the corps de ballet, their mothers, the ushers, the cloakroom attendants and the concierge. Yes, he did exist in flesh and blood, although he assumed in every respect the appearance of a ghost – that is, of a shadow.

When he did not actually show himself, he signaled his presence or his passage with disastrous or comic occurrences for which he was more often than not blamed, so rife were the feelings of superstition. Had there been some accident, had one of the girls been the butt of a practical joke by a friend, or lost a powder-puff, the culprit must be the ghost, the Phantom of the Opera!

“He is extraordinarily thin and his black coat hangs loosely off his skeletal frame. His eyes are so deep-set that you cannot make out his pupils: all you can see are two big black holes, as in a skull. His skin is stretched over his bone structure like a drumhead, and is not white but an ugly yellow. His nose is almost non-existent when seen sideways; and this absence is a horrible thing to behold. As for his hair, it consists of no more than three or four long dark strands on his forehead and behind his ears.”

Some claimed that it was a mark of immeasurable pride; others spoke of her saint-like modesty. Yet, as a rule, artists are rarely so modest; in truth I am rather tempted to ascribe her actions to sheer dread. Yes, I believe that Christine Daaé was frightened by what had just happened to her, and was as taken aback by it as everybody else around her. […] To suggest that Christine was taken aback or even frightened by her triumph is in fact an understatement: having reread the letter, I would say that she was terrified. Yes, yes, terrified. “I am no longer myself when I sing,” she wrote.

The Angel was never seen but could be heard by those who were meant to hear. This often happened when you least expected it, when you were sad and down-hearted. Then your ears would suddenly hear celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which you would remember for ever. Those who had been visited by the Angel were stirred. They experienced a thrill unknown to other mortals and henceforth could not touch an instrument or open their mouths to sing without producing sounds that put all other musicians to shame. The people who knew nothing about the angelic visitation called them geniuses.

“As I would not let go of the cloak, the shadow turned round and beneath the hood I saw a terrifying skull, whose staring eyes burned with the fire of Hell. I thought I was face to face with Satan himself. It was like a vision from beyond the grave.”

Terror struck, followed by a general stampede. My intention here is not to revive the memory of that momentous event, for the curious reader can easily consult the accounts that appeared in the press at the time. Suffice it to say that many people were wounded and one died.

The chandelier had crashed upon the head of a poor woman who had come to the Opera that evening for the very first time in her life, and killed her instantly. She was the concierge whom Richard had chosen to replace Mme Giry, the Phantom’s preferred attendant. The next day one of the headlines read: ‘Two hundred thousand kilos hit concierge!’ That was her sole obituary!

To think that he had believed in her innocence, in her purity! That he had tried for a moment to explain everything by her naivety, her simplicity of mind and her extreme candour. The Spirit of Music! He knew him now! He saw him! Surely he was some minor singer at the Opera, some good-looking Lothario, some coxcomb all smiles and sweet talk. He felt ridiculous and pitiable. Ah, what a wretched, insignificant and foolish young man you are, Viscount de Chagny! he raged to himself. As for Christine, what a brazen, devilishly cunning creature!

Christine simply took off her mask and said: “It is a tragedy, Raoul!”

He now saw her face and could not suppress a cry of surprise and shock. Gone was her fresh, glowing complexion. No longer a reflection of her tranquil disposition and untroubled conscience, her face—so charming and gentle in former days—was deadly pale. How anguished she looked now! Her features were cruelly furrowed by sorrow and her beautiful, limpid eyes—Little Lotte’s eyes—had become wells of deep, dark, unfathomable mystery and were bordered with terribly doleful shadows.

It was a tranquil and pure fountain of harmony from which the faithful could safely and piously assuage their thirst, secure in the knowledge that they were partaking of musical grace. Having touched the Divine, their art was transfigured.

“When a man,” resumed Raoul, who felt his strength draining away from him, “adopts such a romantic stratagem to seduce a girl...”

“Either he is a villain, or she is a fool?” she interrupted.

“If Erik does not hear me sing tomorrow, he will be devastated.”

“It can only be thus if you want to escape him for ever.”

“You are right, Raoul. At all events, he will certainly die of grief if I run away.” … And then she added in a muted voice: “On the other hand, he could just as easily kill us.”

“Does he love you so much?”

“Yes, he would stop at nothing for me, not even murder.”

“Oh, how I hate him!” cried Raoul. “And you, Christine, tell me: do you hate him too? I need to know so that I can listen to the rest of your extraordinary tale with some peace of mind.”

“No, I do not hate him,” said Christine simply.

Hideousness, soaring on the wings of Love, had dared to face Beauty.

“You are afraid of him, but do you love me? If Erik were handsome, would you love me, Christine?”

“Why do you raise questions that I have pushed to the back of my mind as if they were sinful?”

She rose too and wrapped her beautiful, trembling arms round the young man.

“Oh, my betrothed, if I did not love you, I would not offer you my lips! Kiss them, for the first and last time.”

“Are people always unhappy when they’re in love?”

“Yes, Christine, they are unhappy when they love but are unsure of being loved in return.”

“Are you speaking for Erik, here?”

“For Erik and for myself,” said the young man shaking his head, thoughtful and forlorn.

“Let me tell you why I would like to see you leave tonight.”

“Yes, tell me, Raoul.”

“Because tomorrow, all your resolve will be gone!”

“Then, Raoul, you must take me away. Are we not agreed on that?”

“You’re afraid of me! And yet, deep down, I am not a bad man. Love me and you’ll see! To be good, all I ever needed was to be loved for myself. If you loved me, I would be as gentle as a lamb; and you could do with me as you pleased.”

“I don’t express myself like other people. I don’t do anything like other people. But I am very tired of it! Tired of having a forest and a torture chamber in my home! Sick of living like a mountebank, in a house full of tricks! Yes, I am sick and tired of it all! I want a nice, quiet apartment like everyone else, with ordinary doors and windows, and a proper wife.”

Poor, poor unhappy Erik! Should we pity him or should we curse him? He simply longed to be ‘someone’, someone normal. But his hideous appearance would not allow it! And he had to hide his genius or squander it on tricks, whereas, with an ordinary face, he would have risen to greatness among his fellow-men! He had a big heart, large enough to embrace the entire world; but, in the end, he had to confine himself to a dismal cellar. Yes, all in all, the Phantom of the Opera deserves our pity.