They were cheered and applauded, and they waved to their friends, ballerinos waiting for each of them to bring them into the dance. I saw mine move to their place in the crowd and stepped forward.
I was last, and the applause began for me as soon as I appeared at the top of the stairs. There were cheers at the sight of my completed costume, and at first I was pleased, but I didn’t understand until I could see the many stars appearing across the dress and the stairs around me as I descended, the light coming from the chandeliers turned into tiny slivers by the headdress’s many crystals. Worth had not told me of this effect, and the surprise of it brought real joy to my heart. I suppressed a smile as I passed through the crowd to the dais set up for me, the ballerinos making a path for me, applause deepening as I came to a stop.
I lifted my arms in greeting and heard my name shouted in the way that still pleased me.
The Queen of the Night aria, you cannot sing it angrily, but instead must muster the complete control that can deliver false anger. Yet I was angry; I was full of rage. It was dangerous for me to sing it this way, but still I had to begin. So I began.
The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart,
Death and despair flame about me!
If Sarastro does not meet death at your hand,
You will be my daughter nevermore.
Disowned you will be forever,
Abandoned you will be forever,
Be forever broken, all bonds of Nature,
If by your hand Sarastro is not made a ghost!
Hear me! God of vengeance! Hear this mother’s vow!
The sound of it coming from my own throat was surprising, terrifying, and difficult to believe; I had warmed the voice earlier in the evening in preparation; I had sung it for days; but only tonight could I hear the nearly inhuman rage the song describes and it thrilled me.
I was succeeding. Perhaps I could even change my fate.
At the conclusion, the crowd separated again and the tenor emerged at the side of the stage holding a casket I knew well—the casket of jewels for the Jewel Song. The tenor had borrowed it from the props room—the very one I had used night after night as Marguerite, seduced by the enchanted jewels Mephistopheles has charmed to turn her from a chaste young woman into a vain beauty in love with her appearance.
I looked to the walls of the room, still searching for a sign of Aristafeo; I saw him at last. He was leaning against the far wall with a row of waiters.
He tipped his head to me.
The tenor, now even with the dais, set the casket at my feet to the eventual laughter of the crowd as he saw I could not lean forward to retrieve it. He gallantly raised it up, the lid open, and a flash of green light came from a stunning emerald necklace there beside an emerald ring made to match—the laughing audience gasped, as did I.
I knew the danger represented by the ring and picked the necklace up from the casket instead, crying out the entrance words much as I had that night at the ball. O Dieu! Que des bijoux! I sought to begin the scene before the tenor could act, but the tenor had gestured at himself, which led to more laughter as he mugged to the audience. As I waited for the laughter to die down in order to continue, he withdrew the ring and, taking my hand, set it on my finger.
I wished for the Queen’s power of flight; I wished to throw the ring from my hand, to slap his face, to do anything at all other than what I did, which was to look at the ring admiringly and then to smile at him in the manner of the role as the room cheered us on—believing us to be the lovers we were rumored to be and they the witnesses to our engagement. I looked away, to enter the song, and as I did so, I searched for a sign of Aristafeo but could not see to the wall past the blurred garden of dark faces, an occasional costumed figure stepping into the light in violent contrast suddenly and then moving on.
The tenor reached for my hand and bowed to the audience then retreated, and I continued with the Jewel Song. I remember nothing of singing it. I felt as if I had vanished, returning only when the Jewel Song concluded, and it was time for the final mad scene, the theme for the entire ball.
Here the ballerinos and ballerinas had been instructed to begin the dancing again, much as they had for my entrance. The whirl rose up once more, and I could feel Aristafeo receding, leaving, breaking his promise to stay, believing the lies, his faith in me gone. If only we could have stayed in our little paradise, if only I could have borne it, but I could not—could not bear the Empress’s shadow, even as I knew that I had come to live inside it; it rose around me even now.
This dark was not my servant; I was the servant still.
When the mad scene concluded and I had finished begging the angels to take me, to rescue me from this prison, the crowd applauded again, sounding like the roar of a single beast, and as they finally quieted, the tenor raised my hand once more and announced our joint appearance in Carmen, at which they took up again.
The figures parted. I could see at last clear to Aristafeo’s place on the wall. He was gone.
§
You were magnificent, Euphrosyne said. She sat before me on a divan she had her footmen place near the dais, and she kept eyeing the casket as if it might offer up more jewels. The emeralds had excited her. A glass of champagne glowed in her hand. She patted the seat next to her and I went over dutifully. A waiter brought me a glass of my own.
Magnificent!
I was trembling, to my surprise, and so I held the glass out so as not to spill, and a footman appeared and set the glass down on a side table placed there for this very purpose.
What’s wrong? Euphrosyne asked. Are you ill?
I’m sure I’m just tired, I said. I’ve not had supper.
Euphrosyne had been the one to find me again, long after I had given up on finding her. Backstage at La Sonnambula, flowers had appeared, along with her card, inviting me to dinner after the performance. This just after my debut. The card said only You promised you would not forget me—all my love, E. I had rushed out of my dressing room with it in my hand to find her waiting for me outside. I wept and laughed to see her again until the backstage manager came to fine me for the noise. Always fines with you, I remember she said, pulling out her purse grandly.
I was still here. The angels had not rescued me. Perhaps Faust was not the opera to come true after all, or perhaps the curse did not work this way or were there angels still ahead of me? But I had tried my foolish bit. I had tried to sing outside my Fach, had tried to add to my Fates—and now they ran at each other like rearing horses. Either way, it was done, and I was right where I had begun. And I knew the worst of what Aristafeo had said to me was that, in his way, he was in the right.
I smiled somewhat weakly at Euphrosyne as she laced her hand in mine. I felt neither brave nor bold now, but I was determined to try.
I’d changed into a new dress, a black silk velvet gown. I’d not worn my new emeralds nor had I put back on Aristafeo’s ring. I instead wore my diamonds, diamonds I bought myself, my hair decorated by a few of the strands from my headdress, something Doro had improvised quite beautifully.
I had decided to belong only to myself.
You should marry him, I think, she said.
I looked around us.
Of course. One moment. She gestured, and I saw the waiters and footmen wince and run close. This little act of yours. How hard it must be! She turned back to the waiters. The screens, please, quickly!
I know you prefer the view of the room, I said to her, once they were in place. So I won’t be long. I won’t marry him. Not him, not any other.
Why not? Whatever could keep you?