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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 29/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2049
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Madame Giry, Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Monsieur Andre, Monsieur Firmin
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: With the Don Juan premiere fast approaching, tempers are becoming frayed.
I’M GOING SLIGHTLY MAD
“Good Grief, more notes! How much longer must we endure this?”
Madame Giry stopped as Monsieur Andre’s voice carried through the closed door of the managers’ office. Tiptoeing a little closer, she stood to one side listening intently. Eavesdropping was morally wrong, but she had learned a long time ago that it was the only way to find out exactly what was going on.
“Only a few days more, old man,” Firmin replied. “Come Saturday, we’ll all be free of him. Just think of the increase in profits!”
“If we still have a theatre,” Andre said glumly. “Are you quite sure that this pantomime will work? The vicomte has made promises, but I spoke to the Chief Commissioner yesterday evening and he will send none of his men unless we have hard evidence that a crime has been, or is likely to be, committed. We have no proof of this Phantom’s wrongdoing – the survey of the chandelier stated quite plainly that it was accident waiting to happen and - ”
“You worry too much. De Chagny has men of his own to call upon, and between his forces and ours we will have more than enough to surround the Opera. The Phantom will have to be a real ghost to escape us!”
Andre made a non-committal grunt and Antoinette could hear the rustling of papers, no doubt the letters she had delivered for Erik earlier that day. Rehearsals were not progressing to his satisfaction and the fact that some of the cast were not taking it seriously quite clearly offended his perfectionist nature; however the opera had come to the stage, he understandably wanted to see it realised in the most professional and accurate manner possible, to the extent of redrawing the production designs himself and demanding the replacement of more of the company. However, his demands were becoming more and more irrational and Madame Giry could not see how they could possibly be fulfilled, an opinion it would seem was shared by the managers.
“Look at this: I seem to recall instructing that you should relieve the third trombone of his obviously onerous duties with immediate effect and find another musician who has full use of his hearing. Three weeks have passed, and that tone-deaf fool is still ruining my score. I expect this to be rectified by opening night.” Andre gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “Does the man think that experienced brass players are ten a penny at such short notice?”
“Calm down, Gilles, you’ll have a coronary,” said Firmin. Leather creaked as he evidently rose from his chair; footsteps approached the door and Madame Giry shrank back into the shadows, but the scrape of a match merely indicated that Firmin had got up to light a cigar.
“Here is another: Carlotta’s acting is still not up to my standards. Even members of the chorus must be able to do more than strut and posture in the manner of Lady Hamilton and her famous Attitudes. If our dear diva does not improve, her modest part will have to be cut altogether. Dear God, it is enough to drive a man into an asylum! When does the vicomte arrive?” Andre asked.
“This evening. He would normally be watching the rehearsal but I believe there may be trouble in paradise: Mademoiselle Daae has left the family home.”
“Really? I thought she knew which side her bread was buttered.”
“She’s a virginal little thing; perhaps she has finally become concerned for her reputation,” Firmin said, sounding amused. “Two days ago de Chagny would not let her out of his sight – I think he was terrified that the Phantom would spirit the beautiful Christine away if he was not there to monitor her every move.”
Andre sighed. “There are times when I think it would be easier for all of us if we allowed him to do just that.”
________________________________________
The by now familiar discordant music of Don Juan Triumphant echoed through the tunnels long before Antoinette reached the house by the lake.
Bouncing from the rock which surrounded her, the rich, unearthly sound of the pipe organ wove and swelled, mingling with Christine’s bright, clear voice, at times almost drowning her out altogether as the man taming the instrument became more and more agitated. Music was Erik’s passion, and he was for too caught up with his own composition to be objective. After a few moments, there was a crash and a cacophony of wrong notes which set Madame Giry’s teeth on edge and could only have come from the frustrated Phantom slamming his hands down upon the keyboard.
“No, no, no, no, Christine!” he shouted. “How many times do I have to say it? You should be reaching for a top E, not a C! Without that note, the whole meaning of the line is altered.”
“I’m sorry, Erik, I’ve tried but I just can’t,” Christine protested as Antoinette found the hidden latch on the front door and let herself in. Light spilled into the hall from the music room, and it was there that she was met by a scene of chaos, manuscript paper scattered every which way and a tearful little soprano standing by the piano wringing her hands as Erik leaned on the lid, scribbling manically across her bound Don Juan libretto.
“You can, you know you can,” he insisted, attention fixed upon whichever portion of the score he was altering now. “You could do better than this when we first began our lessons; by now you should be able to reach these notes effortlessly.”
“I think you believe me to be capable of much more than is really the case,” she said miserably, glancing towards Madame Giry for help.
Erik shot her a glare of annoyance. Antoinette had not seen him for a few days and he looked as though he had not slept for a week, the visible side of his face grey with fatigue and his hair standing on end from the constant distracted attention of his fingers. To her surprise, he had discarded his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up; she doubted he had even noticed the ink that had transferred from his stained fingertips to the forehead of his mask. “Nonsense,” he snapped. “I am well aware of your range and ability. You are simply not trying. Do you wish my opera to fail?”
It was clear that Christine was close to tears. Nerves were obviously fraying and Madame Giry decided that it was high time she stepped in. “Your opera will fail whatever any of us do, Erik,” she said, and the furious mismatched gaze was turned upon her. “It is doomed; your desire for revenge has seen to that.”
“I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Madame,” he said coldly, stalking past her and setting the rewritten music before the organ. Seating himself, he ran his fingers over the keys, teasing from them the opening bars of Aminta’s first aria. “Again, Christine, and this time do try and make it sound as though you mean it.”
Lip quivering, the poor child took a deep breath, dutifully readying herself to make another attempt to fulfil her maestro’s impossible commands, but before she could produce a note Antoinette interrupted.
“Erik, stop this,” she said sharply, and he froze, hands poised above the keyboard. “No good will come of wearing Christine to the bone. She is tired, can you not see that? If you continue to push, her voice will suffer, and then where will your precious opera be?”
There was a long pause, during which Christine looked between the ballet mistress and her teacher, her dark eyes anxious. Madame Giry waited, hands folded, quite prepared for the appearance of an angry Opera Ghost in full flight, but Erik did nothing but sit there in imitation of the wax dummy in the corner. Eventually, his head sank forwards until it was resting against the libretto in front of him and he groaned.
“You must forgive me.” His voice was muffled. “This piece... it is so close to my heart that I sometimes become blind to all else. When one hears music constantly in their mind, the reality does not always live up to such sublime expectation.”
Christine’s face softened in sympathy, and she approached the organ to lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder. A shudder ran through his thin frame at her touch and he made the tiniest moan; from pleasure or pain Antoinette could not tell. She crossed the room to stand beside the instrument, a piece of quite fabulous engineering that she had often wondered exactly how he had come to acquire. Erik had noticed her covert glances towards it over the years, she knew, but in his typical enigmatic fashion refused to explain the presence of a church organ in the cellars of the Opera.
“Why put yourself through this madness?” she asked, and he glanced up at her in surprise. “You could leave all of it behind. My offer still stands: I will get you on the last train out of Paris tonight if that is what you wish.”
“And my music will be buried with me forever.”
“Erik, any music publisher with half an ear would grab your compositions with both hands, you know that. Do not do yourself such an injustice.”
“And when they discover that they were written by a gargoyle?” he enquired, his visible eyebrow arching. He pushed himself up from the stool and strode towards the fireplace. “No, no matter what you say you will not convince me. I know too much of the world to imagine that it will suddenly choose to enfold me within its embrace; its back was turned too long ago. But here...” Turning, he spread his arms wide, as though encompassing the entire opera, his eyes blazing. “This is my realm, my kingdom. Here all bow to my command, hang upon my every word. This is my theatre, and I will see my work performed. I will not run away from children and their toy soldiers!”
Antoinette went to him, and took his hand. He stared at her fingers interlaced with his in astonishment; she had never instigated such an affectionate gesture before. “You saved my life,” she said quietly, touching his masked cheek with her free hand and forcing him to look at her. “For God’s sake, don’t throw yours away on something so trivial.”
He gave her a sad, lopsided smile. “Ah, but to me, Annie, it is anything but trivial. And your life was always worth so much more than mine.”
“Oh, Erik. How can you say that?” She squeezed his fingers but he carefully pulled away from her, putting some distance between them. Blinking furiously, he rubbed at the uncovered side of his face, transferring more ink to his skin.
“Raoul is gathering as many men from his estates as he can,” Christine said, a wobble of desperation in her voice. “He is offering them a substantial payment in exchange for their assistance. They won’t let you leave the theatre.”
“Then we are in agreement, for I do not wish to leave. Where would I go?” Erik asked the room at large. “This is the only home I have known for more years than I care to remember. Your vicomte is not the Opera Ghost, my dear, and his imagination is dreadfully mundane. If I do not wish to be found, he could search to the ends of the earth and never discover my whereabouts.”
“We only want to see you safe, Erik,” Antoinette said. “Even without gendarmes, this will be no place for you on Saturday.”
He shook his head. “If I fly now, they will have won, and I made a vow a long time ago that no one would ever beat me again. But this joke of theirs is already wearing thin; come Saturday night it will be time to admit the audience and we will see Don Juan triumph at last.” Striding back towards the organ, he added over his shoulder, “And a triumph it will be, I promise you that.”
Madame Giry exchanged a glance with Christine, and without speaking knew that they both feared that it would be anything but.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2049
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Madame Giry, Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Monsieur Andre, Monsieur Firmin
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: With the Don Juan premiere fast approaching, tempers are becoming frayed.
I’M GOING SLIGHTLY MAD
“Good Grief, more notes! How much longer must we endure this?”
Madame Giry stopped as Monsieur Andre’s voice carried through the closed door of the managers’ office. Tiptoeing a little closer, she stood to one side listening intently. Eavesdropping was morally wrong, but she had learned a long time ago that it was the only way to find out exactly what was going on.
“Only a few days more, old man,” Firmin replied. “Come Saturday, we’ll all be free of him. Just think of the increase in profits!”
“If we still have a theatre,” Andre said glumly. “Are you quite sure that this pantomime will work? The vicomte has made promises, but I spoke to the Chief Commissioner yesterday evening and he will send none of his men unless we have hard evidence that a crime has been, or is likely to be, committed. We have no proof of this Phantom’s wrongdoing – the survey of the chandelier stated quite plainly that it was accident waiting to happen and - ”
“You worry too much. De Chagny has men of his own to call upon, and between his forces and ours we will have more than enough to surround the Opera. The Phantom will have to be a real ghost to escape us!”
Andre made a non-committal grunt and Antoinette could hear the rustling of papers, no doubt the letters she had delivered for Erik earlier that day. Rehearsals were not progressing to his satisfaction and the fact that some of the cast were not taking it seriously quite clearly offended his perfectionist nature; however the opera had come to the stage, he understandably wanted to see it realised in the most professional and accurate manner possible, to the extent of redrawing the production designs himself and demanding the replacement of more of the company. However, his demands were becoming more and more irrational and Madame Giry could not see how they could possibly be fulfilled, an opinion it would seem was shared by the managers.
“Look at this: I seem to recall instructing that you should relieve the third trombone of his obviously onerous duties with immediate effect and find another musician who has full use of his hearing. Three weeks have passed, and that tone-deaf fool is still ruining my score. I expect this to be rectified by opening night.” Andre gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “Does the man think that experienced brass players are ten a penny at such short notice?”
“Calm down, Gilles, you’ll have a coronary,” said Firmin. Leather creaked as he evidently rose from his chair; footsteps approached the door and Madame Giry shrank back into the shadows, but the scrape of a match merely indicated that Firmin had got up to light a cigar.
“Here is another: Carlotta’s acting is still not up to my standards. Even members of the chorus must be able to do more than strut and posture in the manner of Lady Hamilton and her famous Attitudes. If our dear diva does not improve, her modest part will have to be cut altogether. Dear God, it is enough to drive a man into an asylum! When does the vicomte arrive?” Andre asked.
“This evening. He would normally be watching the rehearsal but I believe there may be trouble in paradise: Mademoiselle Daae has left the family home.”
“Really? I thought she knew which side her bread was buttered.”
“She’s a virginal little thing; perhaps she has finally become concerned for her reputation,” Firmin said, sounding amused. “Two days ago de Chagny would not let her out of his sight – I think he was terrified that the Phantom would spirit the beautiful Christine away if he was not there to monitor her every move.”
Andre sighed. “There are times when I think it would be easier for all of us if we allowed him to do just that.”
________________________________________
The by now familiar discordant music of Don Juan Triumphant echoed through the tunnels long before Antoinette reached the house by the lake.
Bouncing from the rock which surrounded her, the rich, unearthly sound of the pipe organ wove and swelled, mingling with Christine’s bright, clear voice, at times almost drowning her out altogether as the man taming the instrument became more and more agitated. Music was Erik’s passion, and he was for too caught up with his own composition to be objective. After a few moments, there was a crash and a cacophony of wrong notes which set Madame Giry’s teeth on edge and could only have come from the frustrated Phantom slamming his hands down upon the keyboard.
“No, no, no, no, Christine!” he shouted. “How many times do I have to say it? You should be reaching for a top E, not a C! Without that note, the whole meaning of the line is altered.”
“I’m sorry, Erik, I’ve tried but I just can’t,” Christine protested as Antoinette found the hidden latch on the front door and let herself in. Light spilled into the hall from the music room, and it was there that she was met by a scene of chaos, manuscript paper scattered every which way and a tearful little soprano standing by the piano wringing her hands as Erik leaned on the lid, scribbling manically across her bound Don Juan libretto.
“You can, you know you can,” he insisted, attention fixed upon whichever portion of the score he was altering now. “You could do better than this when we first began our lessons; by now you should be able to reach these notes effortlessly.”
“I think you believe me to be capable of much more than is really the case,” she said miserably, glancing towards Madame Giry for help.
Erik shot her a glare of annoyance. Antoinette had not seen him for a few days and he looked as though he had not slept for a week, the visible side of his face grey with fatigue and his hair standing on end from the constant distracted attention of his fingers. To her surprise, he had discarded his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up; she doubted he had even noticed the ink that had transferred from his stained fingertips to the forehead of his mask. “Nonsense,” he snapped. “I am well aware of your range and ability. You are simply not trying. Do you wish my opera to fail?”
It was clear that Christine was close to tears. Nerves were obviously fraying and Madame Giry decided that it was high time she stepped in. “Your opera will fail whatever any of us do, Erik,” she said, and the furious mismatched gaze was turned upon her. “It is doomed; your desire for revenge has seen to that.”
“I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Madame,” he said coldly, stalking past her and setting the rewritten music before the organ. Seating himself, he ran his fingers over the keys, teasing from them the opening bars of Aminta’s first aria. “Again, Christine, and this time do try and make it sound as though you mean it.”
Lip quivering, the poor child took a deep breath, dutifully readying herself to make another attempt to fulfil her maestro’s impossible commands, but before she could produce a note Antoinette interrupted.
“Erik, stop this,” she said sharply, and he froze, hands poised above the keyboard. “No good will come of wearing Christine to the bone. She is tired, can you not see that? If you continue to push, her voice will suffer, and then where will your precious opera be?”
There was a long pause, during which Christine looked between the ballet mistress and her teacher, her dark eyes anxious. Madame Giry waited, hands folded, quite prepared for the appearance of an angry Opera Ghost in full flight, but Erik did nothing but sit there in imitation of the wax dummy in the corner. Eventually, his head sank forwards until it was resting against the libretto in front of him and he groaned.
“You must forgive me.” His voice was muffled. “This piece... it is so close to my heart that I sometimes become blind to all else. When one hears music constantly in their mind, the reality does not always live up to such sublime expectation.”
Christine’s face softened in sympathy, and she approached the organ to lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder. A shudder ran through his thin frame at her touch and he made the tiniest moan; from pleasure or pain Antoinette could not tell. She crossed the room to stand beside the instrument, a piece of quite fabulous engineering that she had often wondered exactly how he had come to acquire. Erik had noticed her covert glances towards it over the years, she knew, but in his typical enigmatic fashion refused to explain the presence of a church organ in the cellars of the Opera.
“Why put yourself through this madness?” she asked, and he glanced up at her in surprise. “You could leave all of it behind. My offer still stands: I will get you on the last train out of Paris tonight if that is what you wish.”
“And my music will be buried with me forever.”
“Erik, any music publisher with half an ear would grab your compositions with both hands, you know that. Do not do yourself such an injustice.”
“And when they discover that they were written by a gargoyle?” he enquired, his visible eyebrow arching. He pushed himself up from the stool and strode towards the fireplace. “No, no matter what you say you will not convince me. I know too much of the world to imagine that it will suddenly choose to enfold me within its embrace; its back was turned too long ago. But here...” Turning, he spread his arms wide, as though encompassing the entire opera, his eyes blazing. “This is my realm, my kingdom. Here all bow to my command, hang upon my every word. This is my theatre, and I will see my work performed. I will not run away from children and their toy soldiers!”
Antoinette went to him, and took his hand. He stared at her fingers interlaced with his in astonishment; she had never instigated such an affectionate gesture before. “You saved my life,” she said quietly, touching his masked cheek with her free hand and forcing him to look at her. “For God’s sake, don’t throw yours away on something so trivial.”
He gave her a sad, lopsided smile. “Ah, but to me, Annie, it is anything but trivial. And your life was always worth so much more than mine.”
“Oh, Erik. How can you say that?” She squeezed his fingers but he carefully pulled away from her, putting some distance between them. Blinking furiously, he rubbed at the uncovered side of his face, transferring more ink to his skin.
“Raoul is gathering as many men from his estates as he can,” Christine said, a wobble of desperation in her voice. “He is offering them a substantial payment in exchange for their assistance. They won’t let you leave the theatre.”
“Then we are in agreement, for I do not wish to leave. Where would I go?” Erik asked the room at large. “This is the only home I have known for more years than I care to remember. Your vicomte is not the Opera Ghost, my dear, and his imagination is dreadfully mundane. If I do not wish to be found, he could search to the ends of the earth and never discover my whereabouts.”
“We only want to see you safe, Erik,” Antoinette said. “Even without gendarmes, this will be no place for you on Saturday.”
He shook his head. “If I fly now, they will have won, and I made a vow a long time ago that no one would ever beat me again. But this joke of theirs is already wearing thin; come Saturday night it will be time to admit the audience and we will see Don Juan triumph at last.” Striding back towards the organ, he added over his shoulder, “And a triumph it will be, I promise you that.”
Madame Giry exchanged a glance with Christine, and without speaking knew that they both feared that it would be anything but.
