All these years later, what remained in my memory of the opera was the desire to perform a part that I would never be asked to perform because it was not in my Fach. This was perhaps the most dangerous form of envy for a singer on principle. The aria of the Queen of the Night is one of the most difficult in all of opera. To sing it, you must have a tremendously controlled voice capable of moving from its depths to its heights with a capacity for both softness and then enormous power. When sung correctly, it is beautiful, but as Pauline told us that night, it is almost impossible to sing without destroying your voice forever. In all of opera, it is the most like a real test of virtue and sincerity, of the kind gods, sorceresses, and magical creatures set for mortals, and unlike the hero’s tests in the opera’s story, it is one that can be won only by ability. No magic could help you here.
Am I complete? I asked Doro and Lucy, and they answered that I was, but I noticed my mouth was too pale, and I startled Doro by reaching out, the stars shaking as I did, to apply more rouge to my mouth as if it could remove the memory of the kiss. Yes, it needed restoring. I smiled to think of Aristafeo in the ball downstairs, his own mouth faintly made red by mine.
Had he brought her here? Whoever she was, whoever had paid for his beautiful suit? Whoever she was, he had come prepared to abandon her at once for me if I had left with him. Would she see the red mark or was he even now with his handkerchief by a fountain? The ruby rose pin on his lapel, his smile. Had she watched him demand I leave with him?
And what of the kiss?
I touched the ring where it sat at my waist, gently smoothing it with my thumb as I thought of what to do—as if there were any choice in it.
My reflection made a credible Queen of the Night, it seemed to me. The column of hair, the drape of stars across my face, the comets on my bodice, the paleness of the skin that would not change against the renewed red mouth. What I was about to do would appall Pauline, I knew—Pauline who would be in the audience if Louis and Turgenev were well enough for her to leave.
Doro’s eyes met mine, and then I saw Lucy’s smiling approval behind her. I stood gently with their help, to the faint tinkling of the crystals, and all at once I felt that paralysis of the heart that could only be fatal, as the sickened pity in me changed to anger and the blackness that had once meant madness came back to me now like my own servant. The Queen of the Night did not wear a cloak of night, she wore the night as a cloak; she swept mightily from within the darkness, it was hers. I heard the music change in the house through the walls then and knew it was time for my entrance even before the footman Euphrosyne sent for me reached my door. Doro and Lucy helped me stand.
§
The evening’s performance began with members of the ballet from Faust re-creating the Cave of Queens and Courtesans within the salle de danse, the ballerinos and ballerinas entering as the guests danced and joined them. As dancer after dancer entered, I could hear the gasps and cries of the guests, startled to find them in their midst. As this went on, we, the queens and courtesans, descended from the stairs above in single file. Euphrosyne went first, as Eugénie, then came the mesdames Pompadour and du Barry, Cleopatra, Helen, and Josephine. I knew none of these new beauties Euphrosyne had chosen; I had been away from Paris for too long.
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.