Translations and Errors
Most Americans, when they read The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux in English, are usually reading an abridged version. This is the Alexander Teixeira de Mattos translation, which is by far the most inaccurate translation of the lot. But sadly it's also the most well known and easy to find because it was the first English transition and it is now out of copyright. There are several self-published phan made editions that simply copy and post de Mattos translation and slap a random picture on the cover and sell it online. The language of this translation is dated due to the time it was written in, Unfortunately, this is also why a lot of 'Phans' claim the original book is dry, old hat or just hard to read and comprehend. This is also because people tend to go for the cheaper priced version when faced with the choice of a cheap or a free edition. These tend to be the original English translation and sadly many are unaware of other available renditions of the novel. Despite De Mattos not being considered abridged, De Mattos decided to take a lot of liberties with his translation, even going so far as removing entire scenes especially if they were considered racy for the time. Sadly it is detrimental to the characters' development in the narrative. I intend to educate the major differences here.
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(Original French Publication)
Gaston Leroux
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, Newspaper Le Gaulois, Sep 23, 1909 to January 8, 1910 French
(Has missing chapter L'Enveloppe magique) get here ⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜
Difference Between Le Gaulois and the Published Novel
(Original Novel)
Gaston Leroux
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, published in 1910 French buy here ⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜
Difference Between Le Gaulois and the Published Novel
•
(English Adapters)
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos
The Phantom of the Opera, published in 1911 English
(1st English easy to find, worst cuts, bad errors) buy here ⚜⚜
Translation Differences
Lowell Bair
Phantom of The Opera, published in 1990 English buy here ⚜⚜⚜⚜
Translation Differences
Leonard Wolf
The Essential Phantom of The Opera : The definitive, annotated edition of Leroux's classical novel,
published in 1996 English buy here ⚜⚜⚜
Translation Differences
Jean-Marc Lofficier and Randy Lofficier
The Phantom of the Opera: Illustrated and Unabridged Edition Paperback,
published in 2004 English buy here ⚜
Translation Differences
Mireille Ribière
The Phantom of the Opera (Penguin Classics), published in 2009 English buy here ⚜⚜⚜⚜
Translation Differences
David Coward
The Phantom of the Opera (Oxford World's Classics) published in 2012 English buy here ⚜⚜
Translation Differences
Phantomstheater
Coming soon
Info here
Gaston Leroux
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, Newspaper Le Gaulois, Sep 23, 1909 to January 8, 1910 French
(Has missing chapter L'Enveloppe magique) get here ⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜
Difference Between Le Gaulois and the Published Novel
(Original Novel)
Gaston Leroux
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, published in 1910 French buy here ⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜
Difference Between Le Gaulois and the Published Novel
•
(English Adapters)
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos
The Phantom of the Opera, published in 1911 English
(1st English easy to find, worst cuts, bad errors) buy here ⚜⚜
Translation Differences
Lowell Bair
Phantom of The Opera, published in 1990 English buy here ⚜⚜⚜⚜
Translation Differences
Leonard Wolf
The Essential Phantom of The Opera : The definitive, annotated edition of Leroux's classical novel,
published in 1996 English buy here ⚜⚜⚜
Translation Differences
Jean-Marc Lofficier and Randy Lofficier
The Phantom of the Opera: Illustrated and Unabridged Edition Paperback,
published in 2004 English buy here ⚜
Translation Differences
Mireille Ribière
The Phantom of the Opera (Penguin Classics), published in 2009 English buy here ⚜⚜⚜⚜
Translation Differences
David Coward
The Phantom of the Opera (Oxford World's Classics) published in 2012 English buy here ⚜⚜
Translation Differences
Phantomstheater
Coming soon
Info here
Which Translation do you have?
A good way to tell is the opening paragraph of the book
A good way to tell is the opening paragraph of the book
Gaston Leroux
Le fantôme de l’Opéra a existé. Ce ne fut point, comme on l’a cru longtemps, une inspiration d’artistes, une superstition de directeurs, la création falote des cervelles excitées de ces demoiselles du corps de ballet, de leurs mères, des ouvreuses, des employés du vestiaire et de la concierge. Oui, il a existé, en chair et en os, bien qu’il se donnât toutes les apparences d’un vrai fantôme, c’est-à-dire d’une ombre |
Alexander de Mattos 1911
"The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a spectral shade." |
Lowell Bair 1990
"THE GHOST IN the Paris Opera existed. He was not, as was long believed, a delusion of the singers, a superstition of the managers, or a ludicrous fantasy concocted by the overheated brains of the dancers in the corps de ballet, their mothers, the ushers, the cloakroom attendants, and the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, even though he gave himself every appearance of a real ghost, a true phantom." |
Leonard Wolf 1996
"The Phantom of the Opera existed. He was not, as was believed for a long time, a creature imagined by artists; a superstition of directors; a droll creation of the excitable minds of young women in the corps de ballet, their mothers, or the box attendants, the cloak room employees or the doorkeeper. Yes, he existed, in flesh and blood, despite the fact, he appeared to everyone to be a veritable phantom-that is to say, a ghost." |
J-M&Randy Lofficier 2004
"The Phantom of the Opera really existed. He was not, as long believed, the product of the imagination of the performers, of the superstitions of the Directors, or the vapid creation of the overheated minds of the young ballerinas, their mothers, the usherettes, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, the Phantom was a creature of flesh and blood, even though he liked to assume the appearance of a real phantom, that is to say, a ghost." |
Mireille Ribière 2009
"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,1 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." |
David Coward 2012
"THERE truly was a Phantom of the Opera. He was not, as was long thought, a figment of the imagination of artists, the product of the superstitious minds of theatre managements, or some fanciful will-o’-the-wisp created by the empty heads of the young ladies of the corps de ballet, their mothers, assorted box-attendants cloakroom girls and the stage-door keeper. Oh yes! He existed all right, a creature of flesh and blood, though he strove hard to give the impression that he was a genuine phantom, in other words a ghost." |
Phantomstheater translation
"The “fantôme de l’Opéra” did really exist. He was not, as was long believed, an invention of the performer’s imaginations, a superstition of the managing directors, or a creation from the easily excited and impressionable minds of the young ladies of the Corps de Ballet, or of their mothers, the box keepers, ushers, the cloakroom attendants, or the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he did take on the persona of a real ghost; that is to say, a of kind spectral shadow spirit" |
Translation by de Mattos
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Original French
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PT Translation
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Apollo's Lyre
XIII. Apollo's Lyre
My first thought was for you and the voice. I was at once easy, where you were concerned, for I had seen you in your brother's box and I knew that you were not in danger. But the voice had told me that it would be at the performance and I was really afraid for it, just as if it had been an ordinary person who was capable of dying. I thought to myself, . . . . . `The chandelier may have come down upon the voice.' I was then on the stage and was nearly running into the house, to look for the voice among the killed and wounded, when I thought that, if the voice was safe, it would be sure to be in my dressing-room and I rushed to my room. The voice was not there. I locked my door and, with tears in my eyes, besought it, if it were still alive, to manifest itself to me. The voice did not reply, but suddenly I heard a long, beautiful wail which I knew well. It is the plaint of Lazarus when, at the sound of the Redeemer's voice, he begins to open his eyes and see the light of day. It was the music which you and I, Raoul, heard at Perros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And then the voice began to sing the leading phrase, . . . . . . . . . . "Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!...' I can not tell you the effect which that music had upon me. It seemed to command me, personally, to come, to stand up and come to it. It retreated and I followed. `Come! And believe in me!' I believed in it, I came....I came and-- this was the extraordinary thing--my dressing-room, as I moved, seemed to lengthen out...to lengthen out....Evidently, it must have been an effect of mirrors...for I had the mirror in front of me....And, suddenly, I was outside the room without knowing how!" . "What! Without knowing how? Christine, Christine, you must really stop dreaming!" . "I was not dreaming, dear, I was outside my room without knowing how. You, who saw me disappear from my room one evening, may be able to explain it; but I can not. I can only tell you that, suddenly, there was no mirror before me and no dressing-room. . . . . . I was in a dark passage, I was frightened and I cried out. . It was quite dark, but for a faint red glimmer at a distant corner of the wall. I cried out. My voice was the only sound, for the singing and the violin had stopped. . . . And, suddenly, a hand was laid on mine...or rather a stone-cold, bony thing that seized my wrist and did not let go. I cried out again. An arm took me round the waist and supported me. I struggled for a little while and then gave up the attempt. . . . . I was dragged toward the little red light and then I saw that I was in the hands of a man wrapped in a large cloak and wearing a mask that hid his whole face. I made one last effort; my limbs stiffened, my mouth opened to scream, but a hand closed it, a hand which I felt on my lips, on my skin...a hand that smelt of death. Then I fainted away." . . . . "When I opened my eyes, we were still surrounded by darkness. A lantern, standing on the ground, showed a bubbling well. The water splashing from the well disappeared, almost at once, under the floor on which I was lying, . . . with my head on the knee of the man in the black cloak and the black mask. He was bathing my temples and his hands smelt of death. . . . . . . I tried to push them away and asked, . . `Who are you? Where is the voice?' . His only answer was a sigh. . Suddenly, a hot breath passed over my face and I perceived a white shape, beside the man's black shape, in the darkness. The black shape lifted me on to the white shape, a glad neighing greeted my astounded ears and I murmured, `Cesar!' The animal quivered. Raoul, I was lying half back on a saddle and I had recognized the white horse out of the PROFETA, which I had so often fed with sugar and sweets. I remembered that, one evening, there was a rumor in the theater that the horse had disappeared and that it had been stolen by the Opera ghost. I believed in the voice, but had never believed in the ghost. Now, however, I began to wonder, with a shiver, whether I was the ghost's prisoner. I called upon the voice to help me, for I should never have imagined that the voice and the ghost were one. You have heard about the Opera ghost, have you not, Raoul?" . . . . . "Yes, but tell me what happened when you were on the white horse of the Profeta?" . . "I made no movement and let myself go. The black shape held me up, and I made no effort to escape. A curious feeling of peacefulness came over me and I thought that I must be under the influence of some cordial. I had the full command of my senses; . and my eyes became used to the darkness, which was lit, here and there, by fitful gleams. I calculated that we were in a narrow circular gallery, probably running all round the Opera, which is immense, underground. I had once been down into those cellars, but had stopped at the third floor, though there were two lower still, large enough to hold a town. But the figures of which I caught sight had made me run away. There are demons down there, quite black, standing in front of boilers, and they wield shovels and pitchforks and poke up fires and stir up flames and, if you come too near them, they frighten you by suddenly opening the red mouths of their furnaces.... . . Well, while Cesar was quietly carrying me on his back, I saw those black demons in the distance, looking quite small, in front of the red fires of their furnaces: . they came into sight, disappeared and came into sight again, as we went on our winding way. . At last, they disappeared altogether. The shape was still holding me up and Cesar walked on, unled and sure-footed. I could not tell you, even approximately, how long this ride lasted; I only know that we seemed to turn and turn and often went down a spiral stair into the very heart of the earth. Even then, it may be that my head was turning, but I don't think so: no, my mind was quite clear. At last, Cesar raised his nostrils, sniffed the air and quickened his pace a little. I felt a moistness in the air and Cesar stopped. The darkness had lifted. A sort of bluey light surrounded us. We were on the edge of a lake, whose leaden waters stretched into the distance, into the darkness; but the blue light lit up the bank and I saw a little boat fastened to an iron ring on the wharf!" "A boat!" . . . . . . . . . . "Yes, but I knew that all that existed and that there was nothing supernatural about that underground lake and boat. But think of the exceptional conditions in which I arrived upon that shore! . . . . I don't know whether the effects of the cordial had worn off when the man's shape lifted me into the boat, but my terror began all over again. . . My gruesome escort must have noticed it, for he sent Cesar back and I heard his hoofs trampling up a staircase... . . . ...while the man jumped into the boat, untied the rope that held it and seized the oars. He rowed with a quick, powerful stroke; and his eyes, under the mask, never left me... . . . We slipped across the noiseless water in the bluey light which I told you of; then we were in the dark again and we touched shore. And I was once more taken up in the man's arms. I cried aloud. And then, suddenly, I was silent, dazed by the light.... . Yes, a dazzling light in the midst of which I had been put down. I sprang to my feet. I was in the middle of a drawing-room that seemed to me to be decorated, adorned and furnished with nothing but flowers, flowers both magnificent and stupid, because of the silk ribbons that tied them to baskets, like those which they sell in the shops on the boulevards. They were much too civilized flowers, like those which I used to find in my dressing-room after a first night. And, in the midst of all these flowers, stood the black shape of the man in the mask, with arms crossed, and he said, . . . . . `Don't be afraid, Christine; you are in no danger.' . IT WAS THE VOICE! . "My anger equaled my amazement. I rushed at the mask and tried to snatch it away, so as to see the face of the voice. The man said, . `You are in no danger, so long as you do not touch the mask.' . And, taking me gently by the wrists, he forced me into a chair and then went down . on his knees before me and said nothing more! . His humility gave me back some of my courage; and the light restored me to the realties of life. However extraordinary the adventure might be, I was now surrounded by mortal, visible, tangible things. The furniture, the hangings, the candles, the vases and the very flowers in their baskets, of which I could almost have told whence they came and what they cost, were bound to confine my imagination to the limits of a drawing-room quite as commonplace as any that, at least, had the excuse of not being in the cellars of the Opera. I had, no doubt, to do with a terrible, eccentric person, who, in some mysterious fashion, had succeeded in taking up his abode there, under the Opera house, five stories below the level of the ground. . . . . . . . . . . . And the voice, the voice which I had recognized under the mask, was on its knees before me, . . . . . . . . . . WAS A MAN! And I began to cry. ... . . The man, still kneeling, must have understood the cause of my tears, for he said, . `It is true, Christine!...I am not an Angel, nor a genius, nor a ghost...I am Erik!'" . Christine's narrative was again interrupted. An echo behind them seemed to repeat the word after her. "Erik!" . What echo?...They both turned round and saw that night had fallen. Raoul made a movement as though to rise, but Christine kept him beside her. . "Don't go," she said. "I want you to know everything HERE!" . "But why here, Christine? I am afraid of your catching cold." . "We have nothing to fear except the trap-doors, dear, and here we are miles away from the trap-doors...and I am not allowed to see you outside the theater. This is not the time to annoy him. We must not arouse his suspicion." . "Christine! Christine! Something tells me that we are wrong to wait till to-morrow evening and that we ought to fly at once."
. "I tell you that, if he does not hear me sing tomorrow, it will cause him infinite pain." . "It is difficult not to cause him pain and yet to escape from him for good." . . "You are right in that, Raoul, for certainly he will die of my flight."And she added in a dull voice, "But then it counts both ways...for we risk his killing us." . . . "Does he love you so much?" . "He would commit murder for me." . . "But one can find out where he lives. One can go in search of him. Now that we know that Erik is not a ghost, one can speak to him and force him to answer!" . . Christine shook her head. "No, no! There is nothing to be done with Erik except to run away!" . "Then why, when you were able to run away, did you go back to him?" . "Because I had to. And you will understand that when I tell you how I left him." . "Oh, I hate him!" cried Raoul. "And you, Christine, tell me, do you hate him too?" . . . . . "No," said Christine simply. . "No, of course not....Why, you love him! Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not admit even to themselves," said Raoul bitterly."The kind that gives you a thrill, when you think of it. ... Picture it: a man who lives in a palace underground!"And he gave a leer. . . . . . . "Then you want me to go back there?" said the young girl cruelly. "Take care, Raoul; I have told you: I should never return!" . There was an appalling silence between the three of them: the two who spoke and the shadow that listened, behind them. . "Before answering that," said Raoul, at last, speaking very slowly, "I should like to know with what feeling he inspires you, since you do not hate him." . "With horror!" she said. . . "That is the terrible thing about it. He fills me with horror and I do not hate him. How can I hate him, Raoul? Think of Erik at my feet, in the house on the lake, underground. He accuses himself, he curses himself, he implores my forgiveness!... . . He confesses his cheat. He loves me! He lays at my feet an immense and tragic love... He has carried me off for love!...He has imprisoned me with him, underground, for love!...But he respects me: he crawls, he moans, he weeps!...And, when I stood up, Raoul, and told him that I could only despise him if he did not, then and there, give me my liberty...he offered it...he offered to show me the mysterious road...Only...only he rose too...and I was made to remember that, though he was not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a genius, he remained the voice...for he sang. And I listened ... and stayed!... . . . .
That night, we did not exchange another word. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...He sang me to sleep... . . . . . . . .
. . "When I woke up, I was alone, lying on a sofa in a simply furnished little bedroom, with an ordinary mahogany bedstead, lit by a lamp standing on the marble top of an old Louis-Philippe chest of drawers. . . . . . . . I soon discovered that I was a prisoner and that the only outlet from my room led to a very comfortable bath-room. On returning to the bedroom, I saw on the chest of drawers a note, in red ink, which said, . . . . . . `My dear Christine, you need have no concern as to your fate. You have no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself. You are alone, at present, in this home which is yours. I am going out shopping to fetch you all the things that you can need.' . . . I felt sure that I had fallen into the hands of a madman. . . . . . I ran round my little apartment, looking for a way of escape which I could not find. I upbraided myself for my absurd superstition, which had caused me to fall into the trap. I felt inclined to laugh and to cry at the same time. This was the state of mind in which Erik found me. . . . . . . . . After giving three taps on the wall, he walked in quietly through a door which I had not noticed and which he left open. He had his arms full of boxes and parcels and arranged them on the bed, in a leisurely fashion, while I overwhelmed him with abuse and called upon him to take off his mask, if it covered the face of an honest man. . . He replied serenely, `You shall never see Erik's face.' . . . And he reproached me with not having finished dressing at that time of day: he was good enough to tell me that it was two o'clock in the afternoon. He said he would give me half an hour and, while he spoke, wound up my watch and set it for me. After which, he asked me to come to the dining-room, where a nice lunch was waiting for us. . . . "I was very angry, slammed the door in his face and went to the bath-room.... . . . . . . . --When I came out again, feeling greatly refreshed, --- . . . . . . . . . . . . --Erik said that he loved me, but that he would never tell me so except when I allowed him and that the rest of the time would be devoted to music.-- . . `What do you mean by the rest of the time?' I asked. . . . `Five days,' he said, with decision. . I asked him if I should then be free and he said, `You will be free, Christine, for, when those five days are past, you will have learned not to see me; and then, from time to time, you will come to see your poor Erik!' . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
XIII. La lyre d'Apollon
« Ma première pensée, Raoul, dans l’éclat de la catastrophe, fut en même temps pour vous et pour la Voix, car vous étiez, à cette époque, les deux égales moitiés de mon coeur. Je fus tout de suite rassurée en ce qui vous concernait, car je vous avais vu dans la loge de votre frère et je savais que vous ne couriez aucun danger. Quant à la Voix, elle m’avait annoncé qu’elle assisterait à la représentation, et j’eus peur pour elle ; oui, réellement peur, comme si elle avait été “une personne ordinaire vivante qui fût capable de mourir”. Je me disais :
“Mon Dieu ! le lustre a peut-être écrasé la Voix.” Je me trouvais alors sur la scène, et affolée à ce point que je me disposais à courir dans la salle chercher la Voix parmi les morts et les blessés, quand cette idée me vint que, s’il ne lui était rien arrivé de fâcheux, elle devait être déjà dans ma loge, où elle aurait hâte de me rassurer. Je ne fis qu’un bond jusqu’à ma loge. La Voix n’y était pas. Je m’enfermai dans ma loge, et les larmes aux yeux, je la suppliai, si elle était encore vivante, de se manifester à moi. La Voix ne me répondit pas, mais, tout à coup, j’entendis un long, un admirable gémissement que je connaissais bien. C’était la plainte de Lazare, quand, à la voix de Jésus, il commence à soulever ses paupières et à revoir la lumière du jour. C’étaient les pleurs du violon de mon père. Je reconnaissais le coup d’archet de Daaé, le même, Raoul, qui nous tenait jadis immobiles sur les chemins de Perros, le même qui avait « enchanté » la nuit du cimetière. Et puis, ce fut encore, sur l’instrument invisible et triomphant, le cri d’allégresse de la Vie, et la Voix, se faisant entendre enfin, se mit à chanter la phrase dominatrice et souveraine : “Viens ! et crois en moi ! Ceux qui croient en moi revivront ! Marche ! Ceux qui ont cru en moi ne sauraient mourir !” Je ne saurais vous dire l’impression que je reçus de cette musique, qui chantait la vie éternelle dans le moment qu’à côté de nous, de pauvres malheureux, écrasés par ce lustre fatal, rendaient l’âme… Il mesembla qu’elle me commandait à moi aussi de venir, de me lever, de marcher vers elle. Elle s’éloignait, je la suivis. “Viens ! et crois en moi !” Je croyais en elle, je venais… je venais, et, chose extraordinaire, ma loge, devant mes pas, paraissait s’allonger… s’allonger… Évidemment, il devait y avoir là un effet de glaces… car j’avais la glace devant moi… Et, tout à coup, je me suis trouvée hors de ma loge, sans savoir comment. » . . . . . . . Raoul interrompit ici brusquement la jeune fille : . . . « Comment ! Sans savoir comment ? Christine, Christine ! Il faudrait essayer de ne plus rêver ! . – Eh ! pauvre ami, je ne rêvais pas ! Je me trouvais hors de ma loge sans savoir comment ! Vous qui m’avez vue disparaître de ma loge, un soir, mon ami, vous pourriez peut-être m’expliquer cela, mais moi je ne le puis pas !… Je ne puis vous dire qu’une chose, c’est que, me trouvant devant ma glace, je ne l’ai plus vue tout à coup devant moi et que je l’ai cherchée derrière… mais il n’y avait plus de glace, plus de loge… J’étais dans un corridor obscur… j’eus peur et je criai !… . . « Tout était noir autour de moi ; au loin, une faible lueur rouge éclairait un angle de muraille, un coin de carrefour. Je criai. Ma voix seule emplissait les murs, car le chant et les violons s’étaient tus. Et voilà que soudain, dans le noir, une main se posait sur la mienne… ou, plutôt, quelque chose d’osseux et de glacé qui m’emprisonna le poignet et ne me lâcha plus. Je criai. Un bras m’emprisonna la taille et je fus soulevée… Je me débattis un instant dans de l’horreur ; mes doigts glissèrent au long des pierres humides, où ils ne s’accrochèrent point. Et puis, je ne remuai plus, j’ai cru que j’allais mourir d’épouvante. On m’emportait vers la petite lueur rouge ; nous entrâmes dans cette lueur et alors je vis que j’étais entre les mains d’un homme enveloppé d’un grand manteau noir et qui avait un masque qui lui cachait tout le visage… Je tentai un effort suprême : mes membres se raidirent, ma bouche s’ouvrit encore pour hurler mon effroi, mais une main la ferma, une main que je sentis sur mes lèvres, sur ma chair… et qui sentait la mort ! Je m’évanouis. . . . . « Combien de temps restai-je sans connaissance ? Je ne saurais le dire. Quand je rouvris les yeux, nous étions toujours, l’homme noir et moi, au sein des ténèbres. Une lanterne sourde, posée par terre, éclairait le jaillissement d’une fontaine. L’eau, clapotante, sortie de la muraille, disparaissait presque aussitôt sous le sol sur lequel j’étais étendue ; ma tête reposait sur le genou de l’homme au manteau et au masque noir et mon silencieux compagnon me rafraîchissait les tempes avec un soin, une attention, une délicatesse qui me parurent plus horribles à supporter que la brutalité de son enlèvement de tout à l’heure. Ses mains, si légères fussent-elles, n’en sentaient pas moins la mort. Je les repoussai, mais sans force. Je demandai dans un souffle : . . . . « “Qui êtes-vous ? où est la Voix ?” Seul, un soupir me répondit. Tout à coup, un souffle chaud me passa sur le visage et vaguement, dans les ténèbres, à côté de la forme noire de l’homme, je distinguai une forme blanche. La forme noire me souleva et me déposa sur la forme blanche. Et aussitôt, un joyeux hennissement vint frapper mes oreilles stupéfaites et je murmurai : “César !” La bête tressaillit. Mon ami, j’étais à demi couchée sur une selle et j’avais reconnu le cheval blanc du Prophète, que j’avais gâté si souvent de friandises. Or, un soir, le bruit s’était répandu dans le théâtre que cette bête avait disparu et qu’elle avait été volée par le fantôme de l’Opéra. Moi, je croyais à la Voix ; je n’avais jamais cru au fantôme, et voilà cependant que je me demandai en frissonnant si je n’étais pas la prisonnière du fantôme ! J’appelai, du fond du coeur, la Voix à mon secours, car jamais je ne me serais imaginé que la Voix et le fantôme étaient tout un ! Vous avez entendu parler du fantôme de l’Opéra, Raoul ? . . . . . – Oui, répondit le jeune homme… Mais dites-moi, Christine, que vous arriva-t-il quand vous fûtes sur le cheval blanc du Prophète ? . -Je ne fis aucun mouvement et me laissai conduire… Peu à peu une étrange torpeur succédait à l’état d’angoisse et de terreur où m’avait jetée cette infernale aventure. La forme noire me soutenait et je ne faisais plus rien pour lui échapper. Une paix singulière était répandue en moi et je pensais que j’étais sous l’influence bienfaisante de quelque élixir. J’avais la pleine disposition de mes sens. Mes yeux se faisaient aux ténèbres qui, du reste, s’éclairaient, çà et là, de lueurs brèves… Je jugeai que nous étions dans une étroite galerie circulaire et j’imaginai que cette galerie faisait le tour de l’Opéra, qui, sous terre, est immense. Une fois, mon ami, une seule fois, j’étais descendue dans ces dessous qui sont prodigieux, mais je m’étais arrêtée au troisième étage, n’osant pas aller plus avant dans la terre. Et, cependant, deux étages encore, où l’on aurait pu loger une ville, s’ouvraient sous mes pieds. Mais les figures qui m’étaient apparues m’avaient fait fuir. Il y a là des démons, tout noirs devant des chaudières, et ils agitent des pelles, des fourches, excitent des brasiers, allument des flammes, vous menacent, si l’on en approche, en ouvrant tout à coup sur vous la gueule rouge des fours !… Or, pendant que César, tranquillement, dans cette nuit de cauchemar, me portait sur son dos, j’aperçus tout à coup, loin, très loin, et tout petits, tout petits, comme au bout d’une lunette retournée, les démons noirs devant les brasiers rouges de leurs calorifères… Ils apparaissaient… Ils disparaissaient… Ils réapparaissaient au gré bizarre de notre marche… Enfin, ils disparurent tout à fait. La forme d’homme me soutenait toujours, et César marchait sans guide et le pied sûr… Je ne pourrais vous dire, même approximativement, combien de temps ce voyage, dans la nuit, dura ; j’avais seulement l’idée que nous tournions ! que nous tournions ! que nous descendions suivant une inflexible spirale jusqu’au coeurmême des abîmes de la terre ; et encore, n’était-ce point ma tête qui tournait ?… Toutefois, je ne le pense pas. Non ! J’étais incroyablement lucide. César, un instant, dressa ses narines, huma l’atmosphère et accéléra un peu sa marche. Je sentis l’air humide et puis César s’arrêta. La nuit s’était éclaircie. Une lueur bleuâtre nous entourait. Je regardai où nous nous trouvions. Nous étions au bord d’un lac dont les eaux de plomb se perdaient au loin, dans le noir… mais la lumière bleue éclairait cette rive et j’y vis une petite barque, attachée à un anneau de fer, sur le quai ! . « Certes, je savais que tout cela existait, et la vision de ce lac et de cette barque sous la terre n’avait rien de surnaturel. Mais songez aux conditions exceptionnelles dans lesquelles j’abordai ce rivage. Les âmes des morts ne devaient point ressentir plus d’inquiétude en abordant le Styx. Caron n’était certainement pas plus lugubre ni plus muet que la forme d’homme qui me transporta dans la barque. L’élixir avait-il épuisé son effet ? la fraîcheur de ces lieux suffisait-elle à me rendre complètement à moi-même ? Mais ma torpeur s’évanouissait, et je fis quelques mouvements qui dénotaient le recommencement de ma terreur. Mon sinistre compagnon dut s’en apercevoir, car, d’un geste rapide, il congédia César qui s’enfuit dans les ténèbres de la galerie et dont j’entendis les quatre fers battre les marches sonores d’un escalier, puis l’homme se jeta dans la barque qu’il délivra de son lien de fer ; il s’empara des rames et rama avec force et promptitude. Ses yeux, sous le masque, ne me quittaient pas ; je sentais sur moi le poids de leurs prunelles immobiles. L’eau, autour de nous, ne faisait aucun bruit. Nous glissions dans cette lueur bleuâtre que je vous ai dite et puis nous fûmes à nouveau tout à fait dans la nuit, et nous abordâmes. La barque heurta un corps dur. Et je fus encore emportée dans des bras. J’avais recouvré la force de crier. Je hurlai. Et puis, tout à coup, je me tus, assommée par la lumière. Oui, une lumière éclatante, au milieu de laquelle on m’avait déposée. Je me relevai, d’un bond. J’avais toutes mes forces. Au centre d’un salon qui ne me semblait paré, orné, meublé que de fleurs, de fleurs magnifiques et stupides à cause des rubans de soie qui les liaient à des corbeilles, comme on en vend dans les boutiques des boulevards, de fleurs trop civilisées comme celles que j’avais coutume de trouver dans ma loge après chaque “première” ; au centre de cet embaumement très parisien, la forme noire d’homme au masque se tenait debout, les bras croisés… et elle parla : . . . . . . « – Rassurez-vous, Christine, dit-elle ; vous ne courez aucun danger. » . « C’était la Voix ! . « Ma fureur égala ma stupéfaction. Je sautai sur ce masque et voulus l’arracher, pour connaître le visage de la Voix. La forme d’homme me dit : . « – Vous ne courez aucun danger, si vous ne touchez pas au masque ! » . « Et m’emprisonnant doucement les poignets, elle me fit asseoir. . « Et puis, elle se mit à genoux devant moi, et ne dit plus rien ! . « L’humilité de ce geste me redonna quelque courage ; la lumière, en précisant toute chose autour de moi, me rendit à la réalité de la vie. Si extraordinaire qu’elle apparaissait, l’aventure s’entourait maintenant de choses mortelles que je pouvais voir et toucher. Les tapisseries de ces murs, ces meubles, ces flambeaux, ces vases et jusqu’à ces fleurs dont j’eusse pu dire presque d’où elles venaient, dans leurs bannettes dorées, et combien elles avaient coûté, enfermaient fatalement mon imagination dans les limites d’un salon d’autres qui avaient au moins cette excuse de n’être point situés dans les dessous de l’Opéra. J’avais sans doute affaire à quelque effroyable original qui, mystérieusement, s’était logé dans les caves, comme d’autres, par besoin, et, avec la muette complicité de l’administration, avait trouvé un définitif abri dans les combles de cette tour de Babel moderne, où l’on intriguait, où l’on chantait dans toutes les langues, où l’on aimait dans tous les patois. . . . . « Et alors la Voix, la Voix que j’avais reconnue sous le masque, lequel n’avait pas pu me la cacher, c’était cela qui était à genoux devant moi : un homme ! . « Je ne songeai même plus à l’horrible situation où je me trouvais, je ne demandai même pas ce qu’il allait advenir de moi et quel était le dessein obscur et froidement tyrannique qui m’avait conduite dans ce salon comme on enferme un prisonnier dans une geôle, une esclave au harem. Non ! non ! non ! je me disais : La Voix, c’est cela : un homme ! et je me mis à pleurer. . « L’homme, toujours à genoux, comprit sans doute le sens de mes larmes, car il dit : . « – C’est vrai, Christine !… Je ne suis ni ange, ni génie, ni fantôme…Je suis Érik ! » . . Ici encore, le récit de Christine fut interrompu. Il sembla aux jeunes gens que l’écho avait répété, derrière eux : Érik !… Quel écho ?… Ils se retournèrent, et ils s’aperçurent que la nuit était venue. Raoul fit un mouvement comme pour se lever, mais Christine le retint près d’elle : « Restez ! Il faut que vous sachiez tout ici ! . . . – Pourquoi ici, Christine ? Je crains pour vous la fraîcheur de la nuit. . – Nous ne devons craindre que les trappes, mon ami, et, ici, nous sommes au bout du monde des trappes… et je n’ai point le droit de vous voir hors du théâtre… Ce n’est pas le moment de le contrarier… N’éveillons pas ses soupçons… . – Christine ! Christine ! quelque chose me dit que nous avons tort d’attendre à demain soir et que nous devrions fuir tout de suite !
. – Je vous dis que, s’il ne m’entend pas chanter demain soir, il en aura une peine infinie. . – Il est difficile de ne point causer de peine à Érik et de le fuir pour toujours… . – Vous avez raison, Raoul, en cela… car, certainement, de ma fuite il mourra… » . La jeune fille ajouta d’une voix sourde : . « Mais aussi la partie est égale… car nous risquons qu’il nous tue. . – Il vous aime donc bien ? . – Jusqu’au crime ! . . – Mais sa demeure n’est pas introuvable… On peut l’y aller chercher. Du moment qu’Érik n’est pas un fantôme, on peut lui parler et même le forcer à répondre ! » . . Christine secoua la tête : . « Non ! non ! On ne peut rien contre Érik !… On ne peut que fuir ! . – Et comment, pouvant fuir, êtes-vous retournée près de lui ? – Parce qu’il le fallait… Et vous comprendrez cela quand vous saurez comment je suis sortie de chez lui… . – Ah ! je le hais bien !… s’écria Raoul… et vous, Christine, dites-moi… j’ai besoin que vous me disiez cela pour écouter avec plus de calme la suite de cette extraordinaire histoire d’amour… et vous, le haïssez-vous ? . . – Non ! fit Christine simplement. . – Eh ! pourquoi tant de paroles !… Vous l’aimez certainement ! Votre peur, vos terreurs, tout cela c’est encore de l’amour et du plus délicieux ! Celui que l’on ne s’avoue pas, expliqua Raoul avec amertume. Celui qui vous donne, quand on y songe, le frisson… Pensez donc, un homme qui habite un palais sous la terre ! » . . . . . Et il ricana… . « Vous voulez donc que j’y retourne ! interrompit brutalement la jeune fille… Prenez garde, Raoul, je vous l’ai dit : je n’en reviendrais plus ! » . Il y eut un silence effrayant entre eux trois… les deux qui parlaient et l’ombre qui écoutait, derrière… . . « Avant de vous répondre… fit enfin Raoul d’une voix lente, je désirerais savoir quel sentiment il vous inspire, puisque vous ne le haïssez pas. . – De l’horreur ! » dit-elle… Et elle jeta ces mots avec une telle force, qu’ils couvrirent les soupirs de la nuit. . « C’est ce qu’il y a de terrible, reprit-elle, dans une fièvre croissante… Je l’ai en horreur et je ne le déteste pas. Comment le haïr, Raoul ? Voyez Érik à mes pieds, dans la demeure du lac, sous la terre. Il s’accuse, il se maudit, il implore mon pardon !… . . « Il avoue son imposture. Il m’aime ! Il met à mes pieds un immense et tragique amour !… Il m’a volée par amour !… Il m’a enfermée avec lui, dans la terre, par amour… mais il me respecte, mais il rampe, mais il gémit, mais il pleure !… Et quand je me lève, Raoul, quand je lui dis que je ne puis que le mépriser s’il ne me rend pas sur-le-champ cette liberté, qu’il m’a prise, chose incroyable… il me l’offre… je n’ai qu’à partir… Il est prêt à me montrer le mystérieux chemin ;… seulement… seulement il s’est levé, lui aussi, et je suis bien obligée de me souvenir que, s’il n’est ni fantôme, ni ange, ni génie, il est toujours la Voix, car il chante !… « Et je l’écoute… et je reste ! . . .
« Ce soir-là, nous n’échangeâmes plus une parole… Il avait saisi une harpe et il commença de me chanter, lui, voix d’homme, voix d’ange, la romance de Desdémone. Le souvenir que j’en avais de l’avoir chantée moi-même me rendait honteuse. Mon ami, il y a une vertu dans la musique qui fait que rien n’existe plus du monde extérieur en dehors de ces sons qui vous viennent frapper le coeur. Mon extravagante aventure fut oubliée. Seule revivait la voix et je la suivais enivrée dans son voyage harmonieux ; je faisais partie du troupeau d’Orphée ! Elle me promena dans la douleur, et dans la joie, dans le martyre, dans le désespoir, dans l’allégresse, dans la mort et dans les triomphants hyménées… j’écoutais… Elle chantait… Elle me chanta des morceaux inconnus… et me fit entendre une musique nouvelle qui me causa une étrange impression de douceur, de langueur, de repos… une musique qui, après avoir soulevé mon âme, l’apaisa peu à peu, et la conduisit jusqu’au seuil du rêve. Je m’endormis. . . . .
« Quand je me réveillai, j’étais seule, sur une chaise longue, dans une petite chambre toute simple, garnie d’un lit banal en acajou, aux murs tendus de toile de Jouy, et éclairée par une lampe posée sur le marbre d’une vieille commode “Louis-Philippe”. Quel était ce décor nouveau ?… Je me passai la main sur le front, comme pour chasser un mauvais songe… Hélas ! je ne fus pas longtemps à m’apercevoir que je n’avais pas rêvé ! . J’étais prisonnière et je ne pouvais sortir de ma chambre que pour entrer dans une salle de bains des plus confortables ; eau chaude et eau froide à volonté. En revenant dans ma chambre, j’aperçus sur ma commode un billet à l’encre rouge qui me renseigna tout à fait sur ma triste situation et que, si cela avait été encore nécessaire, eût enlevé tous mes doutes sur la réalité des événements : . « Ma chère Christine, disait le papier, soyez tout à fait rassurée sur votre sort. Vous n’avez point au monde de meilleur, ni de plus respectueux ami que moi. Vous êtes seule, en ce moment, dans cette demeure qui vous appartient. Je sors pour courir les magasins et vous rapporter tout le linge dont vous pouvez avoir besoin. » . « – Décidément ! m’écriai-je, je suis tombée entre les mains d’un fou ! Que vais-je devenir ? Et combien de temps ce misérable pense-t-il donc me tenir enfermée dans sa prison souterraine ? » . « Je courus dans mon petit appartement comme une insensée, cherchant toujours une issue que je ne trouvai point. Je m’accusais amèrement de ma stupide superstition et je pris un plaisir affreux à railler la parfaite innocence avec laquelle j’avais accueilli, à travers les murs, la Voix du génie de la musique… Quand on était aussi sotte, il fallait s’attendre aux plus inouïes catastrophes et on les avait méritées toutes ! J’avais envie de me frapper et je me mis à rire de moi et à pleurer sur moi, en même temps. C’est dans cet état qu’Érik me trouva. . Après avoir frappé trois petits coups secs dans le mur, il entra tranquillement par une porte que je n’avais pas su découvrir et qu’il laissa ouverte. Il était chargé de cartons et de paquets et il les déposa sans hâte sur mon lit, pendant que je l’abreuvais d’outrages et que je le sommais d’enlever ce masque, s’il avait la prétention d’y dissimuler un visage d’honnête homme. . « Il me répondit avec une grande sérénité : « – Vous ne verrez jamais le visage d’Érik.” . « Et il me fit reproche que je n’avais encore point fait ma toilette à cette heure du jour ; – il daigna m’instruire qu’il était deux heures de l’après-midi. Il me laissait une demi-heure pour y procéder, – disant cela, il prenait soin de remonter ma montre et de la mettre à l’heure. – Après quoi, il m’invitait à passer dans la salle à manger, où un excellent déjeuner, m’annonça-t-il, nous attendait. . J’avais grand faim, je lui jetai la porte au nez et entrai dans le cabinet de toilette. Je pris un bain après avoir placé près de moi une magnifique paire de ciseaux avec laquelle j’étais bien décidée à me donner la mort, si Érik, après s’être conduit comme un fou, cessait de se conduire comme un honnête homme. La fraîcheur de l’eau me fit le plus grand bien et, quand je réapparus devant Érik, j’avais pris la sage résolution de ne le point heurter ni froisser en quoi que ce fût, de le flatter au besoin pour en obtenir une prompte liberté. Ce fut lui, le premier, qui me parla de ses projets sur moi, et me les précisa, pour me rassurer, disait-il. Il se plaisait trop en ma compagnie pour s’en priver sur-le-champ comme il y avait un moment consenti la veille, devant l’expression indignée de mon effroi. Je devais comprendre maintenant, que je n’avais point lieu d’être épouvantée de le voir à mes côtés. Il m’aimait, mais il ne me le dirait qu’autant que je le lui permettrais et le reste du temps se passerait en musique. . « – Qu’entendez-vous par le reste du temps ?” lui demandai-je. . « Il me répondit avec fermeté : . « – Cinq jours. . « – Et après, je serai libre ? . « – Vous serez libre, Christine, car, ces cinq jours-là écoulés, vous aurez appris à ne plus me craindre ; et alors vous reviendrez voir, de temps en temps, le pauvre Érik !…” . « Le ton dont il prononça ces derniers mots me remua profondément. Il me sembla y découvrir un si réel, un si pitoyable désespoir que je levai sur le masque un visage attendri. Je ne pouvais voir les yeux derrière le masque et ceci n’était point pour diminuer l’étrange sentiment de malaise que l’on avait à interroger ce mystérieux carré de soie noire ; mais sous l’étoffe, à l’extrémité de la barbe du masque, apparurent une, deux, trois, quatre larmes. . . |
XIII. The Lyre of Apollo
My first thought, Raoul, in the weight of all the chaos, was for the safety of you and the Voice, for you both, at the time, occupied two equal halves of my heart. I however knew you were all right because I had seen you in your brother's box earlier that evening and I knew you were not in any danger. But the Voice had told me that it would attend the performance, and I was afraid; yes, I was quite frightened, as though the voice had been an ordinary living person who was capable of dyeing. I thought, My God! The chandelier may have crushed them. I was so distraught while on the stage I almost ran into the auditorium to try and find the Voice among the dead or wounded. But it occurred to me that if the Voice was safe, it must be already in my dressing room. Where I was certain I would find it and upon entering my room it was sure to reassure me. I rushed back to my dressing room at an instant, but the Voice was not there. I shut myself up in my room, tearfully begging the Voice to manifest and to let me know it was all right. The Voice did not answer. True dread started to set in when suddenly I heard a very familiar, prolonged, sublime lament. It was the plaintive of Lazarus, who cries out when he hears the voice of Jesus, and begins to open his eyes and see the light of day again. I heard the plaintive wailing on my father's violin. I recognized my father's playing style and bowing technique, it was the very same, Raoul. The very same playing that once enchanted us when we were on the road to Perros as children, and the same one that held us transfixed that night in the cemetery. It was as if I was hearing my father triumphant playing again, but only this time it was on an invisible instrument. I heard the joyous cries of life, and only then did the Voice make its self known and began to sing, 'Come! And believe in me! Whoso ever believes in me will live again! Walk to the mirror ! Those who believe in me shall not parish!' I cannot say for certain what sort of effect this music had over me, for it sang of eternal life in morbid contrast to all the poor wretches who had been crushed by the fatal disaster. The Voice command me to rise and to walk towards it. It seemed as though the Voice started to move away so I followed it 'Come ! And believe in me!' I believed in it, and I rose up and came towards it ... I fallowed and an extraordinary thing happened. My dressing room, in front of me seemed to lengthen its width ... to grow longer right before my very eyes ... It must have been an effect of the mirror's glass ... for the glass was in front of me ... And then suddenly, I found myself outside my dressing room without knowing how. "
. Raoul interrupted the girl suddenly: . . . . "What! Without knowing how? Christine, Christine! You really should stop dreaming! . - Eh! My poor friend. I was not dreaming! I was outside my dressing room without knowing how I got there! You saw me disappearing from my room one evening, my friend, perhaps you can explain how it happened! For I can not... I can only tell you this: when I found myself in front of my mirror, suddenly I no longer saw my reflection that stood before me, for the mirror was gone and I looked behind me ... but the mirror and the dressing room had vanished... I was in a dark hidden passage way ... I was frightened so I cried out! . "There was darkness all around me, but in the distance, I could see a faint red glow illuminating a corner of the wall. I could see I was at a crossroads. I cried out again. The echo of my voice was the only sound, for the singing and the violin playing had ceased. Then out of the darkness a hand landing fell upon mine ... or, rather, something bony and cold had seized my wrist and would not let go. I screamed. Then an arm wrapped tightly around my waist and I was lifted off the ground... Terrified, I struggled to get away. I reached out, but my fingers slid across the damp surface of the wall. I could not grip onto the slippery stones. And then, I fell silent and stopped struggling. For I thought for sure that I was going to die of fright. I was carried towards the little red glowing light. The red glow engulfed us and I could see I was being held by a man enveloped by a great black cloak and a black mask that hid his whole face ... I tried one more time to get away, but my limbs were stiff. I attempted to open mouth again to scream, but a hand suddenly covered it. A hand that I felt touch my lips, and my flesh ... Hands that felt like death! And I fainted. . "How long was I unconscious? I could not say, for when I opened my eyes everything was still and I was in darkness. A faint light from a lantern could be seen, placed on the ground, for it illuminated the water springing forth from a fountain. The water, coming out, disappeared almost immediately under the ground on which I was lying. My head rested upon the knee of a man in the cloak and black mask. My silent companion with great care refreshed my temples with cool water. The attention that was given, and the gentle delicacy to which was used seemed almost more horrible to bear than the brutality of my earlier abduction. The hands despite how gentle they were, felt like death and belonged to my abductor, non the less. I recoiled and tried to push them away, but I had no strength in me. In a hushed whisper I demanded: "Who are you and where is the Voice?" The only answer was a sigh.. All of the suddenly, a warm breath passed over my cheek. It was hard to see in the darkness, but I could faintly make out, beside the dark shadow, a white form. The black shadow lifted me up and placed me on the white form, I was astonished to hear happy neighing. I murmured, 'César!' The beast quivered. My friend, I was barley siting on the saddle, when I had recognized the white horse from The Prophète, whom I had spoiled so many times with treats. One evening I heard a rumor in the theater that this horse had disappeared and had been stolen by none other then the Phantom of the Opera. It is true I believed in the Voice, but I had never believed in the Phantom and yet, in that moment, I wondered with a shutter, if I had been abducted by the Phantom! I called out for the Voice to rescue me, I would never have guessed that the Voice and the Phantom of the Opera were one and the same! You have heard about the Phantom of the Opera, have you not Raoul? . "Yes," replied the young man. "But please tell me, Christine, what happened to you when you were on the white horse of The Prophet? . "I did not move and I allowed myself to be carried on his back. Slowly, a strange peaceful drowsiness came over me subduing all anxiety and dread that was brought about by this infernal adventure. The black figure held me up on the horse and I did not try to escape him. A strange peace spread through my body, I thought that perhaps I was under the influence of some kind of cordial although I had possession of all my faculties. My eyes became adjusted to the darkness, and every so often, I could see a glimmers of light. I assessed that we were in a narrow circular gallery, I imagined this gallery stretched around the entire Opera. I had once, my friend, ventured down to the underground galleries which are immense. I stopped at the third cellar, not daring to go further down into the earth, because I had seen a dark figure that had appeared suddenly that made me run away. However I saw there was two more cellars bellow my feet and they are so vast that they could easily house a city. I saw demons down there, dark shadows who stand in front of the boilers, and they use shovels and pitchforks to stoke the fires and stir up the flames. If you approach them they threaten you, by suddenly opening their fiery mouths' to show their ovens! While Caesar silently carried me on his back through that nightmarish darkness, I suddenly noticed, far off, those same black demons I had spoke of, but now they appeared to be very small standing in front of the red fires of their furnaces as though being seen through the wrong end of a telescope ... They appeared ...then they disappeared ... and reappeared as we wound our way down through the galleries... Then finally they disappeared completely. The dark shape held me up while Caesar walked sure footed without any one guiding him... I can not say, even approximately, how long this journey in the darkness lasted; only that I had some idea that we were going in constrict circles, that we were spiraling down a staircase into the bowls of the earth. Or was it my head spinning? ... Although I do not think so. No ! For I was incredibly lucid. Caesar raised his nostrils for a moment to inhaled the air, and he then quickened his pace a little. I could feel the air was damp. Then Caesar stopped for the darkness had subsided. A bluish glow surrounded us. I looked around. We were at lakes edge whose leaden waters disappeared into the distance, and off into the darkness, but the soft blue light illuminated the shore enough that I saw a small boat, attached to an iron ring, on a dock! . "Of course, I knew there was nothing supernatural about the underground lake or the boat that floated upon it's waters. But think of the exceptional circumstances in which I arrived upon that shore. The souls of the dead could not have felt a greater unease when approaching the River Styx. Nor could Charon have been a more grim or silent figure than the shadow of a man who lifted me into the boat and ferried me across the shore. Maybe the effects of the elixir had started to wear off? Or perhaps the chill of this place was enough to revive my senses? For my drowsiness had lifted, sensation began to return to my body and my terror quickly returned. My sinister looking companion must have noticed, for he gave a quick gesture, dismissing Caesar, who disappeared into the darkness of the gallery. I heard the echo of his horse shoes ascending the staircase. Then Suddenly the ghastly form threw himself into the boat with me, and quickly untied the rope from around the iron ring. He then seized the oars and began to row with fast determination. His eyes I could see his through the mask's eye holes, his stare fell upon me and never left. I felt the weight of their motionless gaze as we glided silently across waters, illuminated by a glimmering blueish light. Then we where plunged into complete darkness again. The boat suddenly hit something hard, and then I felt arms lifting me up. I had recovered enough strength to let out a shout. My scream suddenly fell silent, as I was stunned by the sudden light. Yes, a bright light, in the middle of which I had been set down. I leaped to my feet for I had regained all my strength. I found myself in the middle of a drawing-room that seemed to be furnished, adorned and decorated with only flowers. They were both magnificent and silly because of the silk ribbons that bound them to their baskets, they were like those sold in the shops along the Boulevards. These fancy arrangements reminded me of the ones I used to find in my dressing room after every "premiere" and in the center of this Parisian floral setting, the black figure of a masked man stood with arms crossed ... and then it spoke, . "Do not be afraid, Christine," it said; you are not in any danger. " . "It was the Voice!" . "My anger equaled my astonishment. I lept at the mask and tried to tear it off, I wanted to know the face of the Voice. Than the shadow spoke to me again." . "You are in no danger, so long as you do not touch the mask! " . "The shadow gently grasped my wrists, and made me sit down." . "And then, the shadow knelt before me, and said nothing!" . "The humility of the gesture restored some of my courage; and the light illuminating everything around me, helped me to regain some since of reality. As extraordinary as this affair appeared, I now seemed to be surrounded by mortal, tangible, ordinary things that I could see and touch. The tapestries that hung on the walls, the furniture, the torches, the vases, and even those flowers in their gilded baskets, which I could almost tell you where they had come from, and how much they had cost, these images encompassed my imagination to the confined limitations of this drawing room, which by all appearances seemed quite normal, except for the fact it was located beneath the Opera. I had little doubt I was at the hands of some terrible eccentric, which had mysteriously taken up residency in the cellars, like others do above, but out of necessity, must have had to live underground. With the silent complicity of the administration, had found a definitive shelter in the heights of this modern tower of Babel, where one is intrigued, people sang in all different languages and where loved in all dialects. . "And that Voice, the Voice that could not be hidden I recognized coming from under the mask, was now kneeling before me : a simple man! . "I did not think about what horrible situation I now found myself in, I did not even ask what would become of me, or about what dark, cold, cruel, intentions that led me to be locked up in this room like a prisoner in a jail, or a slave girl in a harem. No ! No ! No ! I said to myself: The Voice is that of a man! And I started to weep." . . "The man, still kneeling before me, must have understood the cause of my tears, for he spoke : . "It's true, Christine! I am neither an angel, nor jinn, nor genius, nor a phantom. I am Erik! " . Christine suddenly stopped her narrative, for it was interrupted again. For the two swore they heard an echo behind them repeated the name : 'Erik!' . Was that an echo? They both turned around, and realized night had fallen. Raoul started stand up, but Christine held him close: "Stay here with me! I must tell you everything, here!" . . "But why here, Christine? I fear you might catch cold." . "We have nothing to fear here, but the trap-doors and they are far from us up here, my friend, besides he has forbid me to see you outside of the theater ... This is not the time to upset him ... We must not arouse his suspicions ..." . . "Christine! Christine! I do not like this, I feel that we should leave at once and not wait until tomorrow evening. "
. . "Raoul please listen, if Erik does not hear me singing tomorrow evening, it will cause him immeasurable sorrow. . "It would be very difficult to not hurt Erik and yet escape from him forever ..." . "You are right, Raoul, ...I know for certain he would die of grief, if I were to flee... " The girl added in a dull tone, "But it does go both ways for we also risk him kills us." . . . . "Does he love you so much?" . "He would do anything for me, even commit a crime!" . "But he must live somewhere, one could could go there and find him. Since Erik is not a Phantom, we can talk with him and even force him to answer if necessary! " . . Christine shook her head. . "No ! no ! We can not do anything against Erik! ... We can only run away! . "And why, when you where able to flee, did you go back to him? " "Because I had to... And you will understand, when I tell you how I left him..." - "Oh, I hate him !" cried Raoul, "And you, Christine, tell me that ... you hate him? I need you to tell me, so that I can listen to your extraordinary tale of love with some peace of mind ... and do you, hate him too! " . - "No !" Christine said simply, "I do not hate him." . - Oh! Of course!... Why do you explination your extrodinary story in so many words and waste your time with me here than, when you clearly love him! Your fear, your terrors... it is all that a type of love and of the most exquisit kind! The sort of love one does not even confess to themselves." Raoul exclaimed bitterly. "The kind of love that when you think about it, it gives you a kind of thrill... Think about it, a man who lives in an underground palace! " . And he sneered at the girl... . "So you want me to go back there, then?" The girl abruptly interrupted him. "Take care, Raoul, I told you that I will never go back there again! " . There was a frightful silence between all three of them... the two who spoke and the shadow behind them that listened... . "Before I answer you," said Raoul, in a slow voice finally said, "I would like to know what feeling he does inspire in you then, since you do not hate him. . "With horror!" She said... And threw those words with such a force that it covered up all the sighs in the night. . "That is what is so terrible about it," she continued in a growing fever, "He fills me with horror and yet I do not hate him. How can I hate him, Raoul? To see Erik, at my feet, in the house on the lake, underground. He accuses himself, he curses himself, he implores my forgiveness! ... . He confesses that he is a fraud and that he loves me! He lays down at my feet like a dog, with an immense and tragic love! ... He told me that he had abducted me out of love! ... That he locked me away with him, under the earth, out of love ... Although, he he says he respects me, but he grovels, he moans, and he weeps at my feet! ... And when I stood up, Raoul, I told him that I only would despise him if he did not give me back my freedom at once, he immediately granted it, and said I would only have to leave to see I was not his prisoner;... He told me that he could show me the mysterious road out... Only... he rose also, and suddenly I remembered that, though he is not a ghost, nor an angel, nor a genius, he was still the Voice, for he sang! ... And I listen to him ... and I stayed! "That evening, we did not exchange a word...
He had taken up a harp. 'It'... the man's voice, the voice of an angel began to sing to me, 'The Romance of Desdemona' The memory I had, of singing it myself, made me ashamed. My friend, music has a quality that makes one forget the outside world, apart from those sounds that impress upon the heart. My wild adventure was all but forgotten. Only the voice and I existed. Intoxicated, I followed where ever its harmony led me. It was as though suddenly, I became part of Orpheus's flock! It's triumphant hymns, walked me through sorrow then on to ecstasy, down the path of martyrdom and through the pain of despair, to the highs of elation, and then finally to death... I listened ... and the voice than sang to me, an unfamiliar pieces ... and I heard music like nothing I had ever heard before. It caused in me an unusual feeling, a sweet euphoria washed over me, a kind of languishing. The soft music lifted my soul, soothed it as it wrapped it in sound, and I was brought to the threshold of dreams. That is when I fell asleep." . "When I awoke, I was alone, laying on a chaise lounge in a small simple room furnished with an ordinary mahogany bed. The walls were all hung with Toile de Jouy, and the room was illuminated by a lamp siting on the marble top of an old Louis-Philippe dresser. Where was I, what was this new decor? ... I passed my hand over my forehead, as if to drive a bad dream away ... Alas! I soon realized that I was not dreaming!
. . I soon realized I was trapped and the only way out led into a very comfortable bathroom; that had both hot and cold water. Upon returning to my room, I saw that there was a note in red ink laying on the dresser. Which helped to informed me of the gravity of my situation, no doubt was written to removed all my doubts about the reality of these events. : . . "My dear Christine", said the paper, "You need not concern yourself with regards to your fate. You have no more respectful nor better friend in the entire world, then myself. At present, you are alone in this house, but it belongs to you. I have gone out shopping to bring you all the things that you may need. " . "- Undoubtedly!" I cried, "I have fallen into the hands of a madman! What will become of me ? And how long does he intend on holding me prisoner underground?" . . I ran around my small apartment like a fool, frantically looking for a way out, that I never found. I bitterly accused myself of my stupid superstitions which had led me to be gullible enough to welcome, the Voice of a musical genius, through the walls... Being so foolish, I fully had deserved all of this. It was to be no surprise the disasters turn of events that had befallen me! I had wanted to hit myself for being so stupid and I began to laugh and cry all at the same time. It is in this state that Érik found me upon his return. . After hitting three small wraps on the wall, he went quietly through a door that I had not previously discovered and he left it open. He was carrying parcels and packages, which he placed on the bed calmly, while I lashed out abuse and outrage at him. Calling upon him to take off his mask, if it concealed the face an honest man. . "He answered with great peace of mind: - "You will never see the face of Érik. " . . . He chastised me for not being dressed yet at this late hour in the day: he was nice enough to inform me that it was two o'clock in the afternoon. He said he would give me a half hour to dress and get ready, - He said this to me while he carefully wound my watch and set the proper time. - Then he invited me to the dining room, where, he announced, a fine lunch, was waiting for us. . . I was very hungry, but I slammed the door in his face and walked into the bathroom. I took a bath only after placing within reach, a beautiful pair of sharp scissors. I was determined to kill myself, if Érik in his madness, ceased to behave like a decent gentlemen. The coolness of the water did me some good, and I was feeling greatly refreshed when I reappeared before Érik. I thought it wise to resolve to not antagonize him or hurt his feelings and if necessary I would resort to flattery, as to secure my freedom. When I entered the room it was he, who spoke first of his plans for me, and tried to reassure me, he said. He was delighted, he told me, and enjoyed my company too much to leave me alone like he had the day before from my indignant expressions of terror. He wanted me to understand that I had no reason to be terrified to see him by my side. He said that he loved me, but he would never say it if I didn't permit him to and the rest of the time would be devoted to music. . . "- What do you mean by the rest of the time," I asked?. . "He replied firmly: . " - Five days. . "- And then I'll be free? . "- You will be free, Christine, for when those five days end, you will have learned not to fear me; and then you will come back from time to time, to see your, poor Érik! ... " . "His tone, in which he uttered these words moved me deeply. It seemed to me that his despair was genuine, so much so that my fear started to fade. I even started to look upon the mask on his face tenderly. I could not see his eyes behind the mask and it was not helping to diminish the strange feeling of unease that I had. One had to question this mysterious black piece of silk upon his face; but under the fabric, near the chin, where a beard would be, appeared one, two, three, four tears. . |
He pointed to a chair opposite him, at a small table, and I sat down, feeling greatly perturbed. However, I ate a few prawns and the wing of a chicken and drank half a glass of tokay, which he had himself, he told me, brought from the Konigsberg cellars. Erik did not eat or drink. I asked him what his nationality was and if that name of Erik did not point to his Scandinavian origin. He said that he had no name and no country and that he had taken the name of Erik by accident. --
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . --"After lunch, he rose and gave me the tips of his fingers, saying he would like to show me over his flat; but I snatched away my hand and gave a cry. What I had touched was cold and, at the same time, bony; and I remembered that his hands smelt of death. . . `Oh, forgive me!' he moaned. . And he opened a door before me. . `This is my bedroom, if you care to see it. It is rather curious.' . . His manners, his words, his attitude gave me confidence and I went in without hesitation. . . I felt as if I were entering the room of a dead person. The walls were all hung with black, but, instead of the white trimmings that usually set off that funereal upholstery, there was an enormous stave of music with the notes of the Dies Irae, many times repeated. In the middle of the room was a canopy, from which hung curtains of red brocaded stuff, and, under the canopy, an open coffin. . . . `That is where I sleep,' said Erik. `One has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity.' . The sight upset me so much that I turned away my head. The sight upset me so much that I turned away my head."Then I saw the keyboard of an organ which filled one whole side of the walls. On the desk was a music-book covered with red notes. I asked leave to look at it and read, `Don Juan Triumphant.' . . `Yes,' he said, `I compose sometimes.' I began that work twenty years ago. When I have finished, I shall take it away with me in that coffin and never wake up again.' . `You must work at it as seldom as you can,' I said. He replied, . `I sometimes work at it for fourteen days and nights together, during which I live on music only, and then I rest for years at a time.' . `Will you play me something out of your Don Juan Triumphant?' I asked, thinking to please him. . . . `You must never ask me that,' he said, in a gloomy voice. . . . `I will play you Mozart, if you like, which will only make you weep; but my Don Juan, Christine, burns; and yet he is not struck by fire from Heaven.' . . . . . Thereupon we returned to the drawing-room. I noticed that there was no mirror in the whole apartment. I was going to remark upon this, but Erik had already sat down to the piano. He said, . . `You see, Christine, there is some music that is so terrible that it consumes all those who approach it. Fortunately, you have not come to that music yet, for you would lose all your pretty coloring and nobody would know you when you returned to Paris. Let us sing something from the Opera, Christine Daaé.' . . . . . 'He spoke these last words as though he were flinging an insult at me." "What did you do?"
. "I had no time to think about the meaning he put into his words. We at once began the duet in Othello and already the catastrophe was upon us. I sang Desdemona with a despair, a terror which I had never displayed before.-- . . . . . . . . . . . --As for him, his voice thundered forth his revengeful soul at every note. Love, jealousy, hatred, burst out around us in harrowing cries. -- . --Erik's black mask made me think of the natural mask of the Moor of Venice. He was Othello himself. Suddenly, -- . . . . . . . . --I felt a need to see beneath the mask. I wanted to know the face of the voice, and, with a movement which I was utterly unable to control, swiftly my fingers tore away the mask. -- . . . / . Oh, horror, horror, horror!" . Christine stopped, at the thought of the vision that had scared her, while the echoes of the night, which had repeated the name of Erik, now thrice moaned the cry: . "Horror!...Horror!...Horror!" . Raoul and Christine, clasping each other closely, raised their eyes to the stars that shone in a clear and peaceful sky. . . Raoul said: . "Strange, Christine, that this calm, soft night should be so full of plaintive sounds. One would think that it was sorrowing with us." . . . "When you know the secret, Raoul, your ears, like mine, will be full of lamentations." . . She took Raoul's protecting hands in hers and, with a long shiver, continued: . "Yes, if I lived to be a hundred, I should always hear the superhuman cry of grief and rage which he uttered when the terrible sight appeared before my eyes....-- . . . . . . . . . . . --Raoul, you have seen death's heads, when they have been dried and withered by the centuries, and, perhaps, if you were not the victim of a nightmare, you saw his death's head at Perros. And then you saw Red Death stalking about at the last masked ball. But all those death's heads were motionless and their dumb horror was not alive. But imagine, if you can, Red Death's mask suddenly coming to life in order to express, with the four black holes of its eyes, its nose, and its mouth, the extreme anger, the mighty fury of a demon; and not a ray of light from the sockets, for, as I learned later, you can not see his blazing eyes except in the dark. . . . . "I fell back against the wall -- . . |
« Silencieusement, il me désigna une place en face de lui, à un petit guéridon qui occupait le centre de la pièce où, la veille, il m’avait joué de la harpe, et je m’assis, très troublée. Je mangeai cependant de bon appétit quelques écrevisses, une aile de poulet arrosée d’un peu de vin de Tokay qu’il avait apporté lui-même, me disait-il, des caves de Koenisgberg, fréquentées autrefois par Falstaff . Quant à lui, il ne mangeait pas, il ne buvait pas. Je lui demandai quelle était sa nationalité, et si ce nom d’Érik ne décelait pas une origine scandinave. Il me répondit qu’il n’avait ni nom, ni patrie, et qu’il avait pris le nom d’Érik par hasard. (Je lui demandai pourquoi, puisqu’il m’aimait, il n’avait point trouvé d’autre moyen de me le faire savoir que de m’entraîner avec lui et de m’enfermer dans la terre !
. « – C’est bien difficile, dis-je, de se faire aimer dans un tombeau. . « – On a, répondit-il, sur un ton singulier, les ‘rendez-vous’ qu’on peut.”) . « Puis il se leva et me tendit les doigts, car il voulait, disait-il, me faire les honneurs de son appartement, mais je retirai vivement ma main de la sienne en poussant un cri. Ce que j’avais touché là était à la fois moite et osseux, et je me rappelai que ses mains sentaient la mort. . « – Oh ! pardon”, gémit-il. . « Et il ouvrit devant moi une porte. . « – Voici ma chambre, fit-il. Elle est assez curieuse à visiter… si vous voulez la voir ?” . « Je n’hésitai pas. Ses manières, ses paroles, tout son air me disaient d’avoir confiance… et puis, je sentais qu’il ne fallait pas avoir peur. . « J’entrai. Il me sembla que je pénétrais dans une chambre mortuaire. Les murs en étaient tout tendus de noir, mais à la place des larmes blanches qui complètent à l’ordinaire ce funèbre ornement, on voyait sur une énorme portée de musique, les notes répétées du Dies Irae. Au milieu de cette chambre, il y avait un dais où pendaient des rideaux de brocatelle rouge et, sous ce dais, un cercueil ouvert. . « À cette vue, je reculai. . « – C’est là-dedans que je dors, fit Érik. Il faut s’habituer à tout dans la vie, même à l’éternité.” . « Je détournai la tête, tant j’avais reçu une sinistre impression de ce spectacle. Mes yeux rencontrèrent alors le clavier d’un orgue qui tenait tout un pan de la muraille. Sur le pupitre était un cahier, tout barbouillé de notes rouges. Je demandai la permission de le regarder et je lus à la première page : Don Juan triomphant. . « – Oui, me dit-il, je compose quelquefois. Voilà vingt ans que j’ai commencé ce travail. Quand il sera fini, je l’emporterai avec moi dans ce cercueil et je ne me réveillerai plus. . « – Il faut y travailler le moins souvent possible, fis-je. . « – J’y travaille quelquefois quinze jours et quinze nuits de suite, pendant lesquels je ne vis que de musique, et puis je me repose des années. . « – Voulez-vous me jouer quelque chose de votre Don Juan triomphant ?” demandai-je, croyant lui faire plaisir et en surmontant la répugnance que j’avais à rester dans cette chambre de la mort. . « – Ne me demandez jamais cela, répondit-il d’une voix sombre. Ce Don Juan-là n’a pas été écrit sur les paroles d’un Lorenzo d’Aponte, inspiré par le vin, les petites amours et le vice, finalement châtié de Dieu. Je vous jouerai Mozart si vous voulez, qui fera couler vos belles larmes et vous inspirera d’honnêtes réflexions. Mais, mon Don Juan, à moi, brûle, Christine, et, cependant, il n’est point foudroyé par le feu du ciel !…” . . « Là-dessus, nous rentrâmes dans le salon que nous venions de quitter. Je remarquai que nulle part, dans cet appartement, il n’y avait de glaces. J’allais en faire la réflexion, mais Érik venait de s’asseoir au piano. Il me disait . « – Voyez-vous, Christine, il y a une musique si terrible qu’elle consume tous ceux qui l’approchent. Vous n’en êtes pas encore à cette musique-là, heureusement, car vous perdriez vos fraîches couleurs et l’on ne vous reconnaîtrait plus à votre retour à Paris. Chantons l’Opéra, Christine Daaé.” . . . « Il me dit : . « – Chantons l’Opéra, Christine Daaé”, comme s’il me jetait une injure. .
. « Mais je n’eus pas le temps de m’appesantir sur l’air qu’il avait donné à ses paroles. Nous commençâmes tout de suite le duo d’Othello, et déjà la catastrophe était sur nos têtes. Cette fois, il m’avait laissé le rôle de Desdémone, que je chantai avec un désespoir, un effroi réels auxquels je n’avais jamais atteint jusqu’à ce jour. Le voisinage d’un pareil partenaire, au lieu de m’annihiler, m’inspirait une terreur magnifique. Les événements dont j’étais la victime me rapprochaient singulièrement de la pensée du poète et je trouvai des accents dont le musicien eût été ébloui. Quant à lui, sa voix était tonnante, son âme vindicative se portait sur chaque son, et en augmentait terriblement la puissance. L’amour, la jalousie, la haine, éclataient autour de nous en cris déchirants. Le masque noir d’Érik me faisait songer au masque naturel du More de Venise. Il était Othello lui-même. Je crus qu’il allait me frapper, que j’allais tomber sous ses coups ; … et cependant, je ne faisais aucun mouvement pour le fuir, pour éviter sa fureur comme la timide Desdémone. Au contraire, je me rapprochai de lui, attirée, fascinée, trouvant des charmes à la mort au centre d’une pareille passion ; mais, avant de mourir, je voulus connaître, pour en emporter l’image sublime dans mon dernier regard, ces traits inconnus que devait transfigurer le feu de l’art éternel. Je voulus voir le visage de la Voix et, instinctivement, par un geste dont je ne fus point la maîtresse, car je ne me possédais plus, mes doigts rapides arrachèrent le masque… . . « Oh ! horreur !… horreur !… horreur !… » Christine s’arrêta, à cette vision qu’elle semblait encore écarter de ses deux mains tremblantes, cependant que les échos de la nuit, comme ils avaient répété le nom d’Érik, répétaient trois fois la clameur : « Horreur ! horreur ! horreur ! » Raoul et Christine, plus étroitement unis encore par la terreur du récit, levèrent les yeux vers les étoiles qui brillaient dans un ciel paisible et pur. . . Raoul dit : . « C’est étrange, Christine, comme cette nuit si douce et si calme est pleine de gémissements. On dirait qu’elle se lamente avec nous ! » . Elle lui répond : . « Maintenant que vous allez connaître le secret, vos oreilles, comme les miennes, vont être pleines de lamentations. » . Elle emprisonne les mains protectrices de Raoul dans les siennes et, secouée d’un long frémissement, elle continue : . « Oh ! oui, vivrais-je cent ans, j’entendrais toujours la clameur surhumaine qu’il poussa, le cri de sa douleur et de sa rage infernales, pendant que la chose apparaissait à mes yeux immenses d’horreur, comme ma bouche qui ne se refermait pas et qui cependant ne criait plus. . « Oh ! Raoul, la chose ! comment ne plus voir la chose ! si mes oreilles sont à jamais pleines de ses cris, mes yeux sont à jamais hantés de son visage ! Quelle image ! Comment ne plus la voir et comment vous la faire voir ? . … Raoul, vous avez vu les têtes de mort quand elles ont été desséchées par les siècles et peut-être, si vous n’avez pas été victime d’un affreux cauchemar, avez-vous vu sa tête de mort à lui, dans la nuit de Perros. Encore avez-vous vu se promener, au dernier bal masqué, “la Mort rouge” ! Mais toutes ces têtes de mort-là étaient immobiles, et leur muette horreur ne vivait pas ! Mais imaginez, si vous le pouvez, le masque de la Mort se mettant à vivre tout à coup pour exprimer avec les quatre trous noirs de ses yeux, de son nez et de sa bouche la colère à son dernier degré, la fureur souveraine d’un démon, et pas de regard dans les trous des yeux, car, comme je l’ai su plus tard, on n’aperçoit jamais ses yeux de braise que dans la nuit profonde. . … Je devais être, collée contre le mur, l’image même de l’Épouvante comme il était celle de la Hideur. |
Silently, he pointed to a spot in front of him at a small table which occupied the center of the room where the day before he had played on the harp for me, and I sat down, very troubled. I ate though, some crayfish, a chicken wing and drank a little Tokay wine, that he said he had personally brought back, from the Koenisgberg cellar, once frequented by Falstaff. As for himself, he did not eat, or drink. I asked him what his nationality was, and if the name Érik did not hint at Scandinavian heritage He replied that he had no name, no country, and he took the name Érik by accident. (I asked him why, since he loved me, he had not found any other way to let me know other then to train with him and lock me in the ground with him!
. . "- It's difficult, I said, to be loved in a tomb." . "-It is, he replied, in a singular tone, "We take the time that we can." ) . Then he stood up and held out his fingers to me, as he wanted, he said, to do me the honors of showing me around his apartment, but I pulled my hand away from his and gave a cry. What I had touched was both moist and bony, and I remembered that his hands smelled of death. . " - Oh ! forgiveness, " he moaned. . And he opened a door in front of me. - "This is my room, " he said," If you care to visit. It is curious... if you want to see?" . . "I did not hesitate. His manners, his words, his whole attitude told me I could trust him ... and that there was no reason to be afraid. . I felt as though I entered a mortuary room. The walls were all hung with black, but instead of white trim that normally complements the usual funeral adornment, I saw a huge stave of music, with the notes of Dies Iræ many times repeated on it. In the middle of this room, there was a canopy hung with red brocade curtains and under the canopy, there was an open coffin. . "I recoiled from the sight." . "That is where I sleep." said Érik , "One has to become accustom to everything in life, even eternity." . "I turned my head as I had received a sinister impression of this spectacle. Then my eyes encountered the keyboard of an organ that took up a the whole wall. On the desk was a manuscript notebook, smeared and scrawled all with notes in red ink. I asked his permission to take a look at it and I read the first page: Don Juan Triumphant. . "- Yes," he told me, "I compose sometimes. Twenty years ago I started this work and when it is finished, I will take it with me in this coffin and I will not wake up again. . "- You must work on it as little as possible then," I said, . "- I sometimes work fifteen days and nights on it, during which I only live for music, and then I rest for several years. . . "- Would you play me something from your Don Juan Triumphant?" I asked, thinking I might please him and to help me overcome my revulsion I felt being in that chamber of death. . "- Never ask me that", he replied in a somber tone. "My Don Juan was not composed like the lyrics of the libretto by Lorenzo Da Ponte, nor inspired by wine, or petty love and vice, eventually chastised by God. I will play you Mozart's version, if you like, which will only make you weep beautiful tears and inspire pious reflections. But, my Don Juan, Christine, he burns with passion, and yet, he is not struck down by the fires of heaven and drug to down to hell! ... " . "Thereupon we returned to the drawing-room we had just left. I noticed that nowhere in this apartment was any mirrors. I was going to remark upon this, but Érik had just sat down at the piano. He said to me: . "- You see, Christine, there is some music so terrible that it consumes all who approach. Fortunately you have yet to encounter that type of music, because if you did your voice would lose all its pretty colors and no one would recognize you when you return to the Paris stage. Let us sing something from the opera, Christine Daaé " . " He said to me, " . - sing opera, Christine Daaé" as if he cast an insult at me. .
. . "I did not have the time to dwell on the meaning behind his words. We began sing the duet from Othello immediately and already the catastrophe upon us. This time he had me sing the role of Desdemona, I sang it with such genuine despair and great terror, the likes of which I had never done before. The closeness of such an equal singing partner; instead of overwhelming me, singing with him inspired me. The odd events of which I had fallen victim to, now strangely influenced me, and gave insight into the poet's thought when writing the verses. My singing would have dazzled the composer himself. Meanwhile, his voice was thundering, his vengeful soul permeated every note, and grew terribly power in response to mine. Love, jealousy, hate, bursting forth around us in mournful cries. The black mask Érik wore made me think of the natural skin of the Moor of Venice. He was Othello himself. I felt as though he was going to hit me, and that I might collapse under his blows; ... And yet I, made no effort to flee to avoid his fury like Desdemona had done in the scene. On the contrary, I started to approached him, attracted, fascinated, finding these feelings in middle of such a passion, death its self had became appealing; but before I was to die, I wanted to see, and to look upon the face that was hidden that was transformed by the fire of eternal art. I wanted to take in the sublime image in one last look before I go to my grave. I wanted to see the face of the Voice and instinctively my head raised for I was no longer mistress of myself, oh what possessed me? For my fingers tore away his mask quickly ... . " Oh ! Horror! ... Horror! ... Horror! ... " . Christine stopped, she tried to block the vision she remembered seeing with her two trembling hands, while in the night far off, just like the the name of Érik had echoed, a cry repeated three times: "Horror! horror! horror! . "Raoul and Christine, moved closer together united by the terror of the story, they both looked up at the stars shining in a peacefully in the clear night sky. . Raoul said: . 'Strange, Christine, that the night is so gentle and quiet yet it is full of moans. It is almost as if she laments with us! " . . She replied: . "when you you know the secret, your ears too, like mine, will be full of lamentations. " . She took Raoul's protective hand in hers and, and shivered for a long moment, before she continued: . " Oh! yes, if I was to live to a hundred years, I shall never forget those superhuman cries of agony and infernal rage he uttered, as I beheld the thing that seemed to pass for a face. In immense horror, I froze, my mouth agape yet gave no cry. . . " Oh ! Raoul, the sigh! How does one forget that sight?! If my ears are forever full of his in human cries, my eyes are forever haunted by his face! What an image! How does one describe it when you have not seen as I have? . ... Raoul, you have seen skulls when they were parched and withered by the centuries, and perhaps, if you had not thought you had been the victim of some horrible nightmare, -you saw his death's head that night at Perros. Yet you seen him walking at the last masked ball, "the Red Death"! But all those skulls were motionless with none living horror! But imagine, if you can, the mask of Death suddenly coming to life in order to express, with the four black holes where his eyes, his nose and mouth should be, the extreme anger at this point, with all the sovereign fury of a demon, and to never look into the holes of the eyes, because, as I learned later, one never sees his glowing eyes in the dark night. . . ... I fell back against the wall, I was the very image of the terror and his face was hideousness incarnate. |
Appendix
('la romance de Desdémone') or the "Willow Song" is an Aria from the 3rd act of Otello by Gioachino Rossini. Hear it on Harp
("toile de Jouy") is an 18th century French scenic pattern usually printed on cotton, linen, or silk in one color on a light ground. It is often mistranslated, even in Ribiere's. She states it's calico wallpaper, which is completely inaccurate.
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Dies Iræ/ Dies Irae "Day of Wrath", is a Latin hymn attributed to either Thomas of Celano of the Franciscans (1200 – c. 1265) or to Latino Malabranca Orsini. The poem describes the Last Judgment, trumpet summoning souls before the throne of God, where the saved will be delivered and the unsaved cast into eternal flames. Read it in English and in Latin Here
(la Résurrection de Lazare) The resurrection of Lazarus is a violin piece based off the biblical story of Lazarus (John 11:1–44), it is referring to one of the miracles of Jesus in which he brings Lazarus of Bethany back to life four days after his burial. In John, this is the last of the miracles that Jesus performs before the Passion and his own resurrection. The problem is, the novel never stated by what composer composed "la Résurrection de Lazare" so it is very hard to be certain which work it was although it is possible that Daddy Daaé one made it up, or two was playing a folk song that Érik was familiar with. Either way, it is virtually impossible to know for certain what work it was. More information Here.
Louis-Philippe dresser with marble top
(caves de Koenisgberg) Konigsberg /Koenisgberg was a castle in Königsberg, Germany where wine was sold. Located in the Medieval heart of Königsberg where there is 500-year-old wine cellar called.
The Blutgericht was a historic wine and gourmet delicacy in Koenigsberg, which was housed in the basement vaults of the north wing in the Koenigsberg castle. |
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Falstaff (Sir John Falstaff) is a fictional character who appears in four plays by William Shakespeare. A fat, vain, boastful, and cowardly knight, he spends most of his time drinking at the Boar's Head Inn with petty criminals, living on stolen or borrowed money. Possible reference might have been to the Opera Falstaff by Giuseppe Verdi.
(Don Juan triomphant) Don Juan Triumphant , is an Opera Érik wrote that he'd been working on for 20 years, based off of the Spanish character Don Jaun. Érik describes his Opera as not a common subject matter nor inspired by wine or love like most Operas, no his Don Jaun "burns with passion, and yet, he is not struck down by the fires of heave and drug to down to hell!"
Don Jaun/ Don Giovanni (Italian) is a legendary fictional libertine. The first written version of the Don Juan legend was written by the Spanish dramatist Tirso de Molina. "Don Juan" is a common metaphor for a womanizer.
Tirso de Molina wrote El burlador de Sevilla in 1630 in order to demonstrate a life-changing lesson. His Don Juan is portrayed as a wealthy libertine who devotes his life to seducing women, taking great pride in his ability to seduce women of all ages and stations in life.
"Tan largo me lo fiáis /What a long term you are giving me!", is the aphorism that Don Juan lives by. It is his way of indicating that he is young and death is still distant, trusting he has plenty of time to repent for his sins. His life is also punctuated with violence and gambling, and in many interpretations (Tirso, Espronceda, Zorrilla), he kills Don Gonzalo, the father of a girl he has seduced, Doña Ana. This leads to the famous last supper scene, whereby Don Juan invites the statue of the father to dinner. The ending depends on which version of the legend one is reading. Tirso's original play was meant as religious parable against Don Juan's sinful ways, and ends with his death, having been denied salvation by God. Other authors and playwrights would interpret the ending in their own fashion. In Da Ponte's libretto for Don Giovanni, he repeatedly refuses to repent despite being given the opportunity by the statue. Espronceda's Don Felix walks into hell and to his death of his own volition, whereas Zorrilla's Don Juan asks for, and receives, a divine pardon. The figure of Don Juan has inspired many.
Tirso saw that everyone was throwing their life away, living and sinning as they pleased, because they believed that in the end, as long as they repented before they died, they would receive the grace to enter heaven. However, through his play, he shows that even Don Juan, who is identified as the very devil, a "man without a name" and shapeshifter, has to eventually pay for his sins. Tirso reminds us that we must pay for our actions, and that in the end, death makes us all equal.
The Don Juan legend discusses the theological question of the Act of Contrition, through which those who regretted their sins before death, would automatically receive salvation. However, others believed that some sins were unforgivable and that a simple Act of Contrition would not save them from damnation for all the harm they had caused. A subject of masculine honor and feminine integrity. Under the importance of honor, men in this time period found feminine integrity to be a crucial element, to the point where women in the Italian version of Don Juan are devalued. These low views of the women society affect Don Juan’s opinions and are sources to his behavior. He begins to view women as a number he could add to his list and not see who they actually were. The quantity was more important to him as opposed to the quality. He even disguised himself and used other identities in order to seduce women as he pleased. If a woman was not to remain chaste until marriage, her whole family’s honor would be devalued. Don Juan is first identified as an evil man for his ability to manipulate his language and seduce women, as the devil is known for taking other forms. However, he finally repents of all his wrongdoings.
ref. Wiki
Don Jaun/ Don Giovanni (Italian) is a legendary fictional libertine. The first written version of the Don Juan legend was written by the Spanish dramatist Tirso de Molina. "Don Juan" is a common metaphor for a womanizer.
Tirso de Molina wrote El burlador de Sevilla in 1630 in order to demonstrate a life-changing lesson. His Don Juan is portrayed as a wealthy libertine who devotes his life to seducing women, taking great pride in his ability to seduce women of all ages and stations in life.
"Tan largo me lo fiáis /What a long term you are giving me!", is the aphorism that Don Juan lives by. It is his way of indicating that he is young and death is still distant, trusting he has plenty of time to repent for his sins. His life is also punctuated with violence and gambling, and in many interpretations (Tirso, Espronceda, Zorrilla), he kills Don Gonzalo, the father of a girl he has seduced, Doña Ana. This leads to the famous last supper scene, whereby Don Juan invites the statue of the father to dinner. The ending depends on which version of the legend one is reading. Tirso's original play was meant as religious parable against Don Juan's sinful ways, and ends with his death, having been denied salvation by God. Other authors and playwrights would interpret the ending in their own fashion. In Da Ponte's libretto for Don Giovanni, he repeatedly refuses to repent despite being given the opportunity by the statue. Espronceda's Don Felix walks into hell and to his death of his own volition, whereas Zorrilla's Don Juan asks for, and receives, a divine pardon. The figure of Don Juan has inspired many.
Tirso saw that everyone was throwing their life away, living and sinning as they pleased, because they believed that in the end, as long as they repented before they died, they would receive the grace to enter heaven. However, through his play, he shows that even Don Juan, who is identified as the very devil, a "man without a name" and shapeshifter, has to eventually pay for his sins. Tirso reminds us that we must pay for our actions, and that in the end, death makes us all equal.
The Don Juan legend discusses the theological question of the Act of Contrition, through which those who regretted their sins before death, would automatically receive salvation. However, others believed that some sins were unforgivable and that a simple Act of Contrition would not save them from damnation for all the harm they had caused. A subject of masculine honor and feminine integrity. Under the importance of honor, men in this time period found feminine integrity to be a crucial element, to the point where women in the Italian version of Don Juan are devalued. These low views of the women society affect Don Juan’s opinions and are sources to his behavior. He begins to view women as a number he could add to his list and not see who they actually were. The quantity was more important to him as opposed to the quality. He even disguised himself and used other identities in order to seduce women as he pleased. If a woman was not to remain chaste until marriage, her whole family’s honor would be devalued. Don Juan is first identified as an evil man for his ability to manipulate his language and seduce women, as the devil is known for taking other forms. However, he finally repents of all his wrongdoings.
ref. Wiki
Lorenzo Da Ponte is a Venetian opera librettist, poet and Roman Catholic priest. He wrote the librettos for 28 operas by 11 composers, including three of Mozart's greatest operas, Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro and Così fan tutte.
Otello
"Le masque noir d’Érik me faisait songer au masque naturel du More de Venise. Il était Othello lui-même. /The black mask Érik wore made me think of the natural skin of the Moor of Venice. He was Othello himself. "
is a character from Shakespeare's Othello (The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice). Othello, a Moorish (Moroccan or, formerly, a member of the Muslim population of what is now Spain and Portugal. Of mixed Arab, Spanish, and Amazigh (Berber) origins, the Moors created the Arab Andalusian civilization and subsequently settled as refugees in North Africa between the 11th and 17th centuries. From the Middle Ages to the 17th century, however, Europeans depicted Moors as being black, “swarthy,” or “tawny” in skin colour same goes for Shakespeare's Othello. A slang term for someone with dark skin possibly African.)
Othello (quick summery of the story)
is a general in the Venetian army and his unfaithful ensign, Iago. Roderigo is upset because he loves Desdemona and had asked her father for her hand in marriage. Iago hates Othello for promoting a younger man named Cassio above him. He tells Roderigo that he plans to use Othello for his own advantage. Iago convinces Roderigo to wake Brabantio and tell him about his daughter's elopement. Meanwhile, Iago sneaks away to find Othello and warns him that Brabantio is coming for him. Othello defends himself before the Duke of Venice, Brabantio's kinsmen Lodovico and Gratiano, and various senators. Othello explains that Desdemona became enamoured of him for the sad and compelling stories he told of his life before Venice, not because of any witchcraft. The senate is satisfied, once Desdemona confirms that she loves Othello, but Brabantio leaves saying that Desdemona will betray Othello: "Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see she has deceived her father, and may thee," Iago causes trouble for Othello and persuades him to be suspicious of Cassio and Desdemona. Desdemona drops a handkerchief (the first gift given to her by Othello), Emilia finds it, and gives it to her husband Iago. Othello then makes Iago his lieutenant. Iago plants the handkerchief in Cassio's lodgings, then tells Othello to watch Cassio's reactions while Iago questions him. Iago makes it seem like she has had an affair. Enraged and hurt, Othello resolves to kill his wife and tells Iago to kill Cassio. Othello confronts Desdemona, and then strangles her in their bed. The story is varied and has enduring themes of racism, love, jealousy, betrayal, revenge and repentance.
Opera by Gioachino Rossin
Otello is an opera in three acts by Gioachino Rossin and Italian libretto by Francesco Maria Berio di Salsa. The work is based on a French adaptation of the story, not Shakespeare's play Othello as neither Rossini nor his librettist knew the English drama. Takes place in Venice. Otello is tenor role and Desdemona mezzo-soprano. Iago and Rodrigo are both in love with Desdemona, who rejects their advances. Racism is more prevalent in Rossini’s version. It was first performed in Paris on 5 June 1821 at the Théâtre Italien.
(duet Desdemona & Otello Notte per me funesta! Act III, Scene III)
Opera by Giuseppe Verdi
Some have sugested that it was Giuseppe Verdi Opera and not Gioachino Rossin that was used, However that Opera premired on February 5, 1887 at the Teatro alla Scala, Milan, so according to Leroux's time line it must be Rossin's. However Desdemona (saprano), Iago and Otello (tenor) are all most demanding, both vocally and dramatically.
"Le masque noir d’Érik me faisait songer au masque naturel du More de Venise. Il était Othello lui-même. /The black mask Érik wore made me think of the natural skin of the Moor of Venice. He was Othello himself. "
is a character from Shakespeare's Othello (The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice). Othello, a Moorish (Moroccan or, formerly, a member of the Muslim population of what is now Spain and Portugal. Of mixed Arab, Spanish, and Amazigh (Berber) origins, the Moors created the Arab Andalusian civilization and subsequently settled as refugees in North Africa between the 11th and 17th centuries. From the Middle Ages to the 17th century, however, Europeans depicted Moors as being black, “swarthy,” or “tawny” in skin colour same goes for Shakespeare's Othello. A slang term for someone with dark skin possibly African.)
Othello (quick summery of the story)
is a general in the Venetian army and his unfaithful ensign, Iago. Roderigo is upset because he loves Desdemona and had asked her father for her hand in marriage. Iago hates Othello for promoting a younger man named Cassio above him. He tells Roderigo that he plans to use Othello for his own advantage. Iago convinces Roderigo to wake Brabantio and tell him about his daughter's elopement. Meanwhile, Iago sneaks away to find Othello and warns him that Brabantio is coming for him. Othello defends himself before the Duke of Venice, Brabantio's kinsmen Lodovico and Gratiano, and various senators. Othello explains that Desdemona became enamoured of him for the sad and compelling stories he told of his life before Venice, not because of any witchcraft. The senate is satisfied, once Desdemona confirms that she loves Othello, but Brabantio leaves saying that Desdemona will betray Othello: "Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see she has deceived her father, and may thee," Iago causes trouble for Othello and persuades him to be suspicious of Cassio and Desdemona. Desdemona drops a handkerchief (the first gift given to her by Othello), Emilia finds it, and gives it to her husband Iago. Othello then makes Iago his lieutenant. Iago plants the handkerchief in Cassio's lodgings, then tells Othello to watch Cassio's reactions while Iago questions him. Iago makes it seem like she has had an affair. Enraged and hurt, Othello resolves to kill his wife and tells Iago to kill Cassio. Othello confronts Desdemona, and then strangles her in their bed. The story is varied and has enduring themes of racism, love, jealousy, betrayal, revenge and repentance.
Opera by Gioachino Rossin
Otello is an opera in three acts by Gioachino Rossin and Italian libretto by Francesco Maria Berio di Salsa. The work is based on a French adaptation of the story, not Shakespeare's play Othello as neither Rossini nor his librettist knew the English drama. Takes place in Venice. Otello is tenor role and Desdemona mezzo-soprano. Iago and Rodrigo are both in love with Desdemona, who rejects their advances. Racism is more prevalent in Rossini’s version. It was first performed in Paris on 5 June 1821 at the Théâtre Italien.
(duet Desdemona & Otello Notte per me funesta! Act III, Scene III)
Opera by Giuseppe Verdi
Some have sugested that it was Giuseppe Verdi Opera and not Gioachino Rossin that was used, However that Opera premired on February 5, 1887 at the Teatro alla Scala, Milan, so according to Leroux's time line it must be Rossin's. However Desdemona (saprano), Iago and Otello (tenor) are all most demanding, both vocally and dramatically.
ref. Wiki