The Phantom of Manhattan (12 page)

When I remembered this, I rushed back to liberate her. All the controls were miraculously working again and soon she emerged, deathly pale and quiet, as well she might be. But she thanked me most politely for all my trouble, left a generous gratuity and boarded her brougham with the reporter, the priest and her son. I escorted her as far as the gate.

When I returned to the Hall of Mirrors for the last time I received the shock of my life. Standing in the lee of the building, staring after the carriage that bore away his son, was the man. I came round the corner of the building and there he was. No doubt about it; the swirling black cloak gave him away. The other player in the weird events that had taken place inside the maze. But it was his face that set my blood running cold. A ravaged face, three-quarters covered by a pale mask and behind the mask burned eyes that blazed with anger. This was a man who had been thwarted, a man not accustomed to being crossed and who had become dangerous. He did not seem to hear me for he muttered something in a low growl. ‘Five years,’ I heard him say, ‘five years. Never. He’s mine and I will have him with me.’

He turned and was gone, twisting between two stalls and a shuttered roundabout. Later I found a point in the fence on to Surf Avenue where three palisades had been removed. I never saw him after that, and I never saw the eavesdropper again.

I deliberated later if there was anything I should do. Should I alert the vicomtesse that the strange man seemed to have no intention of waiting five years for his son? Or would he calm down when his anger cooled? Whatever I had heard was a family matter and would no doubt be resolved. So I sought to tell myself. But there was not Celtic blood in my veins for nothing, and even as I write all those things that I saw and heard here yesterday, there hangs over me a sense of terrible foreboding.

13

THE ECSTASY AND PRAYER OF JOSEPH KILFOYLE

ST PATRICK’S CATHEDRAL, NEW YORK CITY, 2 DECEMBER 1906

‘LORD HAVE MERCY, CHRIST HAVE MERCY. MANY times I have called upon You. More times than I can recall. In the heat of the sun and in the darkness of the night. In the high mass in Your house and in the privacy of my room. Sometimes I even thought You might reply, seemed to hear Your voice, seemed to feel Your guidance. Was it all foolishness, self-delusion? Do we really, in prayer, commune with You? Or are we listening to ourselves?

‘Forgive my doubting, Lord. I try so hard for true faith. Hear me now, I beg You. For I am bewildered and frightened. It is not the scholar but the Irish farm-boy that I was born. Please listen and help me.’

‘I am here, Joseph. What disturbs your peace of mind?’

‘Lord, for the first time I think I am really frightened. I am afraid but I do not know why.’

‘Fear? That is something of which I have personal knowledge.’

‘You, Lord? Surely not.’

‘On the contrary. What do you think I felt when they tied my wrists above me to the flogging ring in the temple wall?’

‘I just did not imagine that you could feel fear.’

‘I was a man then, Joseph. With all a man’s weaknesses and flaws. That was the whole point. And a man can feel great fear. So when they showed me the scourge, with its knotted thongs set with fragments of iron and lead, and told me what it would do, I cried from fear.’

‘I never thought of it that way, Lord. It was never reported.’

‘A small mercy. Why are you afraid?’

‘I feel there is something going on around me in this fearsome city that I cannot understand.’

‘Then I sympathize. The fear of what you can understand is bad enough, but it has its limits. The other fear is worse. What do you want of me?’

‘I need your fortitude, your strength.’

‘You already have them, Joseph. You inherited them when you took my vows and wore my cloth.’

‘Then surely I cannot be worthy of them, Lord, for they escape me now. I fear you chose a poor vessel when you picked the farm-boy from Mullingar.’

‘In fact, you chose me. But no matter. Has my vessel cracked and let me down so far?’

‘I have sinned, of course.’

‘Of course. Who does not? You have lusted after Christine de Chagny.’

‘She is a beautiful woman, Lord, and I am also a man.’

‘I know. I was, once. It can be very hard. You confessed and were forgiven?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, thoughts are thoughts. You did nothing more?’

‘No, Lord. Just thoughts.’

‘Well then, perhaps I may retain confidence in my farm-boy a mite longer. What of your unexplained fears?’

‘There is a man in this city, a strange man. The day we arrived I looked up from the quayside and saw a figure on the roof of a warehouse, staring down. He wore a mask. Yesterday we went to Coney Island; Christine, young Pierre, a local reporter and myself. Christine went into a part of the funfair known as the Hall of Mirrors. Last night she asked for confession and told me …’

‘I think you are allowed to tell me, as I am inside your own head. Go on.’

‘That she had met him inside. She described him. He must have been the same man, the one she knew years ago in Paris, a badly disfigured man, now become rich and powerful here in New York.’

‘I know him. His name is Erik. He has not had an easy life. Now he worships another god.’

‘There are no other gods, Lord.’

‘Nice idea, but there are many. Man-made gods.’

‘Ah. And his?’

‘He is the servant of Mammon, the god of greed and gold.’

‘I would dearly love to bring him back. To you.’

‘Most commendable. And why?’

‘It seems he has enormous wealth, riches beyond normal dreams.’

‘Joseph, you are supposed to be in the business of souls, not gold. Do you lust after his fortune?’

‘Not for myself, Lord. For something else.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘While I have been here I wandered by night through the Lower East Side district of this city, but a few miles from this very cathedral. It is an appalling place, an inferno on earth. There is grinding poverty, squalor, filth, stench and despair. Out of these come every vice and crime. Children are used as prostitutes, boys and girls …’

‘Do I hear a hint of rebuke, Joseph, that I should allow these things?’

‘I could not rebuke you, Lord.’

‘Oh, don’t be too modest. It happens every day.’

‘But I cannot understand it.’

‘Let me try to explain. I never gave Man a guarantee of perfection, only the chance of it. That was the whole point of it all. Man has the choice and the chance but never the coercion. I have left his freedom to choose inviolate. Some choose to try to follow the path I pointed out; most prefer their pleasures now, here. For many that means inflicting pain on others for their own amusement or enrichment. It is noted, of course, but is not to be changed.’

‘But why, Lord, can Man not be a better creature?’

‘Look, Joseph, if I reached down and touched him on the forehead and made him perfect, what would life on earth be like? No sadness, so no joy. No tears, no smiles. No pain, no relief. No bondage, no freedom. No failure, no triumph. No rudeness, no courtesy. No bigotry, no tolerance. No despair, no exultation. No sins and certainly no redemption. I would simply create a paradise of featureless bliss here on earth, which would make my heavenly kingdom somewhat redundant. And that is not the point of it all. So, Man must have his choice, until I call him home.’

‘I suppose so, Lord. But I would dearly like to bring this Erik and all his riches to a better service.’

‘Perhaps you will.’

‘But there must be a key.’

‘Of course, there is always a key.’

‘But I cannot see it, Lord.’

‘You have read my words. Have you taken nothing in?’

‘Too little, Lord. Help me. Please.’

‘The key is love, Joseph. The key is always love.’

‘But he loves Christine de Chagny.’

‘So?’

‘Am I to encourage her to break her marriage vows?’

‘I did not say that.’

‘Then I do not understand.’

‘You will, Joseph, you will. Sometimes it takes a little patience. So, this Erik frightens you?’

‘No, Lord, not he. When I saw him on the roof and later saw his figure fleeing from the Hall of Mirrors, I felt there was something about him: a feeling of rage, of despair, of pain. But not of evil. It was the other one.’

‘Tell me about the other one.’

‘When we arrived at the Coney Island funfair, Christine and Pierre went into the toyshop with the Funmaster. I stayed outside to walk by the sea for a while. When I rejoined them in the shop, Pierre was with a young man who was showing him round and whispering in his ear. A face as white as bone, black eyes and hair, a black frock-coat. I thought he was the manager of the shop, but the Funmaster told me later he had never seen him before that morning.’

‘And you did not like him, Joseph?’

‘Liking was not the point, Lord. There was something about him, a chill colder than the sea. Was it just my Hibernian imagination? There was an aura of evil about him that caused me to make Your sign, just instinctively. I took the boy away from him and he stared at me with a dark loathing. That was the first time I saw him that day.’

‘And the second?’

‘I was walking back from the coach where I had put the boy. About half an hour later. I knew Christine had gone with the Funmaster to examine a sideshow called the Hall of Mirrors. A small door in the side of the building opened, and he came running out. He went past a newspaper reporter who was ahead of me and as he came past me to throw himself into a small coach and disappear, he stopped and stared at me again. It was the same as the first time; I felt the day, already cold, had dropped another ten degrees. I shivered. Who was he? What does he want?’

‘I think you mean Darius. Do you wish to redeem him too?’

‘I do not think I could.’

‘You are right. He has sold his soul to Mammon, he is the god of gold’s eternal servant, until he comes to me. It was he who brought Erik to his own god. But Darius has no love. That is the difference.’

‘But he loves gold, Lord.’

‘No, he worships gold. There is a difference. Erik worships gold also, but somewhere deep inside his tortured soul he once knew love, and could again.’

‘Then I might yet win him?’

‘Joseph, no man who can know pure love, excepting only love of self, is beyond redemption.’

‘But like Darius, this Erik loves only gold, himself and another’s wife. Lord, I do not understand.’

‘You are wrong, Joseph. He cherishes gold, he hates himself and he loves a woman he knows he cannot have. I must go.’

‘Stay with me, Lord. A little longer.’

‘I cannot. There is a vicious war in the Balkans. There will be many souls to receive tonight.’

‘Then where shall I find this key? The key beyond gold, self and a woman he cannot have?’

‘I told you, Joseph. Look for another and a greater love.’

14

THE REVIEW OF GAYLORD SPRIGGS

NEW YORK TIMES
, 4 DECEMBER 1906

WELL, MR OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN’S MUCH-VAUNTED new Manhattan Opera House was inaugurated last night in what can only be fairly described as an unmitigated triumph. If ever another civil war was going to start again in our dear country, it must have come in the fight for seats as all New York was rocked on its heels by the spectacle we saw before us.

Exactly how much some of the great financial and cultural dynasties of our city paid for their boxes and even seats in the stalls can only be conjectured, but certainly the prices must have left the official charges out of sight.

The Manhattan, as we must now call it to differentiate from the Metropolitan across town, is a truly sumptuous building, richly ornate, with a reception area inside the doors to put to shame the rather crowded pre-auditorium public space afforded by the Met. And here in the half-hour before the curtain rose I saw names known only as legends across all America milling like schoolchildren as the lucky few were escorted to their private boxes.

There were Mellons, Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, Goulds, Whitneys and the Pierpont Morgans themselves. Present among them, genial host to us all, was the man who staked a huge fortune and limitless drive and energy to create the Manhattan against all the odds, cigar czar Oscar Hammerstein. Rumor still persists that backing Mr H. is another and even richer tycoon, the phantom financier whom no-one has ever seen, but if such a one exists he was nowhere in evidence.

The opulence of the sweeping portico and the lushness of the reception area were impressive, as was also the gilt, crimson and plum ornateness of the surprisingly small and intimate auditorium. But what of the quality of the new opera and of the singing that we had all come to hear? Both were of an artistic and emotional level that I cannot recall in thirty years.

Readers of this poor column will know that but seven weeks ago Mr Hammerstein took the extraordinary decision to cast aside the Bellini masterpiece
I Puritani
for his inaugural offering and instead undertake the frightening risk of introducing a completely new opera in the modern style by an unknown (and amazingly still anonymous) American composer. What an enormous gamble. Did it pay off? One thousand per cent.

Firstly,
The Angel of Shiloh
secured the presence of Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny of Paris, a beauty with a voice that last night eclipsed any in my memory, and I believe I have heard the best in the world over these past thirty years. Secondly, the work itself is a masterpiece of simplicity and emotion that left not a dry eye in the house.

The story is set in our own Civil War of only forty years ago and is therefore of immediate significance to any American of North or South. In Act One we meet the dashing young Connecticut lawyer Miles Regan, hopelessly in love with Eugenie Delarue, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy plantation-owner of Virginia. The former role was taken by rising American tenor David Melrose until something most strange occurred - but more of this anon. The couple duly plight their troth and exchange golden rings. As the Southern belle Mme de Chagny was magnificent and her simple girlish pleasure at the proposal of the man she loves, expressed in the aria ‘With this ring for ever’, communicated that delight to the whole audience.

The neighboring plantation-owner, Joshua Howard, magnificently sung by Alessandro Gonci, has also been the suitor for her hand in marriage but accepts his rejection and heartbreak like the gentleman he is. But the clouds of war are looming and at the end of the act the first guns fire on Fort Sumter, and the Union is at war with the Confederacy. The young lovers have to part. Regan explains that he has no choice but to return to Connecticut and fight for the North. Miss Delarue knows she must stay with her family, all dedicated to the South. The act ends with one heart-rending duet as the lovers part, not knowing if they will ever meet again.

For Act Two, two years have passed and Eugenie Delarue has volunteered as a nurse in a hospital just after the bloody battle of Shiloh. We see her selfless devotion to the terribly injured young men in the uniforms of both sides as they are brought in, a formerly sheltered plantation belle now exposed to all the filth and pain of a front-line hospital. In a single and utterly moving aria she asks ‘Why must these young men die?’

Her former neighbor and suitor is now Colonel Howard, commanding the regiment occupying the site of the hospital. He resumes his courtship, seeking to persuade her to forget her lost fiance in the Union Army and accept him instead. She is half decided so to do when a new arrival is brought in. He is a Union officer, terribly injured when a powder magazine exploded in his face. This face is swathed in surgical gauze, clearly ruined beyond repair. Even as he remains unconscious Miss Delarue recognizes the gold ring upon one finger, the same ring she offered two years ago. The tragic officer is indeed Captain Regan, still sung by David Melrose. When he awakes, he quickly recognizes his fiancee but does not realize that he himself has been recognized while asleep. There is a supremely ironic scene in which, from his bed and helpless, he witnesses Colonel Howard enter the ward to press his suit yet again with Miss Delarue, trying to convince her that her lover must by now be dead, when she and we know that he lies a few feet away. This act ends when Captain Regan perceives that she knows who he is behind the bandages and, seeing himself for the first time in a mirror, realizes that the once handsome face is now a ruin. He seeks to snatch a revolver from a guard and end his own life, but the Confederate soldier and two Union prisoner/patients restrain him.

The third act is the climax, and deeply moving it turns out to be. For Colonel Howard announces that to his new knowledge Eugenie’s former fiance is none other than the leader of the fearsome Regan’s Raiders, who have carried out devastating ambushes behind the lines. As such he will, upon capture, be subjected to a drumhead court martial and shot.

Eugenie Delarue is now in a terrible dilemma. Should she betray the Confederacy by keeping her knowledge to herself, or denounce the man she still loves? At this point a brief armistice is announced to enable an exchange of prisoners deemed permanently
hors de combat.
The man with the destroyed face qualifies for inclusion in the exchange; covered wagons arrive with wounded Confederate soldiers from the North, to pick up their own crippled soldiers in the hands of the South.

At this point I must describe the amazing events that happened backstage during the entr’acte. It seems (and my source is quite certain of this that Mr Melrose sprayed a soothing linctus upon his throat to ease the larynx. It must have been contaminated in some way, for within seconds he was croaking like a frog. Disaster!! The curtain was about to rise. Then appeared an understudy, miraculously made up for the part, his face swathed in bandages, just in time to step into the breach.

Normally this would have been a terrible disappointment for the audience. But in this case all the gods of opera must have been smiling upon Mr Hammerstein. The understudy, unlisted in the programme and still unknown to me, sang in a tenor to match that of the great Signor Gonci himself.

Miss Delarue decided that as Captain Regan would never fight again she had no need to reveal what she knew of the man in the mask. As the wagons prepared to roll north Colonel Howard learned that somewhere the wanted leader of Regan’s Raiders had been injured and was presumably behind Confederate lines. Notices offering a reward for his capture were posted. Every Union soldier leaving for the North was compared with a sketch of Regan’s face. To no avail. For by now Captain Regan has no face.

As the soldiers destined to be repatriated to the North wait through the night for their dawn departure, we are treated to a most charming interlude. Colonel Howard, the great Gonci himself, has throughout the action been attended by a young aide-de-camp, no more than a boy of perhaps thirteen. Until this point he has uttered no sound. But as one of the Union soldiers tries to coax a tune out of his soldier’s fiddle the boy quietly takes the instrument from him and plays a beautiful melody as if he were handling a Stradivarius. One of the wounded men asks if he can sing the song of the tune; in answer the boy lays aside the fiddle and gives us an aria in a treble of such sweet clarity that I know it brought a lump to the throat of almost everyone present. And when I studied my programme for his name, lo! he turned out to be none other than Master Pierre de Chagny, son of the diva herself. So, a chip off the old block.

In the parting scene of quite exquisite pathos Miss Delarue and her Unionist fiance say their farewells. Mme de Chagny had already sung throughout with a purity of voice normally ascribed only to angels. But now she rose to new and seemingly unattainable heights of vocal beauty, the like of which I have never heard. As she began the aria ‘Will we never meet again?’ she seemed to be singing her heart out, and as the unknown understudy returned the ring she had given him with the words ‘Take back this band’ I saw a thousand squares of cambric fly to the faces of the ladies of New York.

It was an evening that will remain in the hearts and minds of any who were there. I swear I saw the normally fiercely disciplined Maestro Campanini almost in tears as Mme de Chagny, alone on the stage and lit only by candle lamps in the darkened hospital ward, brought the opera to a close with ‘O cruel war’.

There were thirty-seven standing ovations and curtain-calls, and that was before I had to leave to find out what had happened to Master Melrose and his throat linctus. Alas, he had left in tears.

While the rest of the company was superb and the orchestra under Signor Campanini nothing less than one would expect, the night must belong to the young lady from Paris. Her beauty and charm already have the entire staff at the Waldorf-Astoria literally at her feet and now the unalloyed magic of that voice has conquered every opera-lover who had the good fortune to be at the Manhattan last night.

What a tragedy that she must depart so soon. She will sing for us for another five evenings and must then depart for Europe to fulfil previous engagements at Covent Garden before Christmas. Her place will be taken early next month by Nellie Melba, Oscar Hammerstein’s second triumph over his cross-town rivals. She too is a legend in her lifetime, and she too will be singing her New York debut, but she must look to her laurels, for no-one who was present last night will ever forget La Divina.

And what of the Metropolitan? Among the great dynasts whose wealth backs the Met I think I noted, mixed with their delight at the new masterpiece, some sharp glances to each other as if to ask: what now? Clearly, despite its smaller auditorium, the Manhattan has finer front-of-house facilities, a huge stage, the very latest technology and deeply impressive sets. If Mr Hammerstein can continue to offer us the quality we saw last night the Met will have to dig deep to match him.