Ghost: Retelling the Phantom of the Opera

Ghost Part 2

Monday, April 6th

1891

"Have you seen this libretto, Richard?" Monsieur Moncharmin said quietly as he sat at his desk, holding the stack of papers carefully between his long fingers. He glanced up over his spectacles, across the high-ceilinged, dark-wood office, at the desk across from him, where his portly, balding fellow-manager sat studying the newspaper.

"Libretto for what?" Monsieur Richard muttered, sniffing and absently waggling his black mustache.

"Chagny's opera," Moncharmin answered. "The one he handed us a month or so ago, called Guinevere."

Richard frowned and lowered his paper, thinking.

"I can't say I have yet," he admitted. "I've been too preoccupied with completion of these blasted renovations. I knew they were necessary—we all did—but what a wretched nuisance. All I've been able to do is begin reading these critiques, seeing what can be done about getting a few friendly writers to come to the opening of our first production."

"Well, I can't say that I totally comprehend the score—it's vast, Richard, truly vast," Moncharmin mused, tapping his lips as he returned his gaze to the papers. "But the words...For one of the arias, he uses that gorgeous Tennyson poem called The Lady of Shalott, did you ever read that one?"

"Perhaps I did, in school," Richard said doubtfully, folding down his paper. "Gorgeous, you say?"

"Quite," Moncharmin said definitely. "Listen, Richard: 'A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, he rode between the barley-sheaves. The sun came dazzling through the leaves and flamed upon the brazen greaves of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight forever kneeled to a lady in his shield, that sparkled on the yellow field beside remote Shalott.'"

"Gorgeous indeed," Richard said, putting his paper down and leaning forward in his chair. "Who's to sing that one?"

"The Lady of the Lake,'" Moncharmin noted. "It's to coincide with a ballet."

"And what of the rest of it?" Richard wanted to know. "Can it compare to Tennyson?"

"It can indeed," Moncharmin nodded, adjusting his spectacles, and cleared his throat. "This is from King Arthur's aria, when he has realized that his wife, the queen, means to be unfaithful to him: 'The laugh that used to make my heart sing has gone silent. The light in your gaze has gone dark, like a candle swallowed by the night. Smoke trails through the silence behind you. And in the dark, I cannot find you.'"

"Heavens," Richard murmured, interlacing his fingers and setting his elbows on the desk. "What is the story, again?"

"The Arthurian legend, of course—what we all learned as children," Moncharmin said. "King Arthur dreams of a round table, with righteous knights traveling around England to right the wrongs of the world, while his beautiful Queen Guinevere reigns by his side. But of course, it's all disrupted when Sir Lancelot arrives and begins his romance with her." Moncharmin paused, running his thumb across the margin. "I've read the story many times myself—Le Morte d'Arthur is a personal favorite of mine, as well as any varying renditions. But the layers of tragedy, of longing and heartbreak, in these words alone are...Well, it's overwhelming." He sat back and shook his head. "I can't fully imagine what the music will sound like."

"Sounds like a fantastic drama!" Richard declared, chuckling. "Truthfully, I didn't know the vicomte had it in him."

"Nor I," Moncharmin drummed his fingers on the desk. "He's a good sort of fellow, but has always strikes me as a bit...frivolous."