The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux, 1911

Translation and annotations by Leonard Wolf, 1996

Grade: A-

 

At this point, unless you've been living under a rock, you and everyone else in the United States knows the story of The Phantom of the Opera, at least vaguely.  However, this is mostly because of the wildly successful and popular musical of the same name that was penned by Andrew Lloyd Webber back in the eighties; most people familiar with the story haven't read the novel, and some (mostly belonging to my younger generation, alas) aren't even aware that a novel exists.  Despite that, the book, originally published as a newspaper serial, is one of the enduring classics of the Gothic horror genre, right up there with Bram Stoker's Dracula.

 

There are numerous translations of the novel, starting from the original 1915 translation all the way through this year; I wasn't really sure which to pursue, and finally settled on Wolf's translation, for the following reasons:

 

1)  Wolf is a cool name.

2)  So is Leonard.

3)  This edition features a lot of annotations, and I like annotations.

4)  The original de Mattea translation was really fucking rare and expensive.

5)  Wolf has done quite a few translations, editions, and composite works based on gothic literature, and seemed to know what he was talking about

6)  The various Phantom fans whose opinions I checked out said he was the clearest and most informative translation they'd read

7)  It says right in the title that it's the essential version.

 

Now, after reading it through, I'm not willing to say that this was the wrong decision, but it might not have been the best decision, either.  While Wolf does a splendid job of translating so that the prose is interesting and free-flowing, the original French character carries over rather well, and the details aren't overlooked, he seems to suffer from an affliction as old as the printed word itself: an inattentive copy-editor.  I counted nine grammatical errors in the text, most of them in footnotes or the introduction but a few in the translation as well, as well as eight typographical errors and a couple of places where a footnote was indicated in the text but the actual footnote itself failed to put in an appearance.  His translation of the Latin Dies irae (included because the Phantom plays it as part of his suicide pact at the end) was also incorrect; he appeared to have just reprinted one of the simplified translations which are rewritten so that they rhyme for English-speaking choirs who are too lazy to learn the ten syllables of Latin involved.  Observe:

 

The Latin text:

Dies irae

Dies illa

Solvet saeclum in favilla

Teste David cum Sibylla

Quantus tremor est futurus

Quando judex est venturus

Cuncta stricte discussurus

 

Wolf's translation:

Day of wrath and terror looming,

Heaven and earth to ash consuming:

Seer's and Psalmist's true foredooming!

Ah, what agony of trembling,

When the Judge, mankind assembling,

Probeth all beyond dissembling!

 

Actual translation:

Day of wrath, day that

Will reduce the world to ashes

As foretold by David and the Sybil.

What terror there will be

When the Lord will come

To judge all rigorously!

 

Seriously.  Foredooming?  Okay, whatever.  Latin shenanigans aside, this seemed to be a labor of love for Wolf, one which he may have pursued just a little bit more excitedly than his copy-editor did.  He did have one singularly interesting theory, which he put forth in his introduction: he posited that the Phantom story is so alluring for us because it incorporates major elements of many of the most cherished classical myths.  I think he may be right.  Erik and Christine may be looked at as Cupid and Psyche, with Christine's curiosity damning their chances to be together; they can also be looked at as Beauty and the Beast, as Christine's love and compassion ultimately redeem Erik, although unlike the Beast, he is not granted actual bodily transformation to match his inner change.  Erik's abduction and love affair with Christine can be looked at as a very precise parallel to the story of Hades and Persephone, especially in the periodic descents into "hell" and the panic and distress the upper world experiences without her.  Raoul becomes a modern-day Orpheus as he descends again into "hell" to rescue his lover from Death, whom Erik embodies both physically and figuratively, or Erik may be viewed as a masked Minotaur, hidden away in a lightless maze because of his hideousness.  Christine's tutelage under Erik, which reveals a resplendent vocal talent, is reminiscent of Faust's bargain with the Devil (and the story of Faust, incidentally, plays a large role in the novel itself), and the Christian parables and bible stories that could be drawn from the text seem limitless.  The novel therefore becomes an allegory on countless levels, with a near-infinite number of interpretations, which may explain why it has such widespread appeal--something for everyone, in other words.

 

Another interesting thing that he notes is the etymology of the names in the novel (and anyone who read my Greek-mythology-in-disguise story knows that I loooove appropriate name etymology).  The name Christine obviously comes from Christ, and is perfectly applicable because the character is not only pure and good (and man, does Leroux beat you over the head with that) but she is also the one who, in the end, saves both Raoul and Erik through the redeeming power of her love--in other words, she is a savior.  The name Erik is Scandinavian in origin, an irony since Erik is French but Christine herself is a Scandinavian; it means "the eternal king", which is certainly apropos for Erik, who is king of his own domain but who is also an eternal prisoner there.  Raoul comes from the Scandinavian (again!) Radulf or Ralph, which means both "wolf" and "counsel"; it's a neat encapsulation of Raoul's waffling nature, which is constantly torn between the desire to pursue and/or rescue Christine, and the desire to wring his hands and whinge about how she doesn't love him.  Phillipe comes from the Greek Philip, which means "lover of horses", and which pegs him quite nicely as an aristocrat without a lot of other personality characteristics.  Madame Giry's first name isn't revealed, but her last name is French for "to complain" or "to nag", which fits her as she is basically a plot device to do just that on behalf of the Phantom.

 

Unfortunately, his very excellent theories aside, Wolf gets a little ahead of himself sometimes.  The annotations, in particular, were a source of disappointment.  They seemed disjointed and erratic, as though Wolf had gone into a frenzy of research at the slightest provocation and included every jot of information that he'd found without regard to whether or not it was relevant information to the novel or even the subject at hand.  For example, the town of Brest is mentioned early in the novel, and Wolf wastes a large footnote to tell us about Brest's involvement and role in World War II.  Which would be interesting to a WWII buff, I guess, but why the fuck do I care what was going on in Brest in 1943 when the novel was written in 1911 and set in 1881?  Come on, Wolf, buddy.  Focus.  At other times he seems to breeze right past things I did want to know more about for background information--the names of several composers are mentioned and annotated about ad nauseum in one chapter, but then a famous singer is mentioned in the next and completely ignored, and all the information about where each street mentioned is in Paris exactly is just not as interesting to me as an explanation of why a particular piece of referenced music is apt would be.

 

And, while we're on the subject of Things Wolf Did That Made Me Cranky (I know, it's a long list, but it always is with me, isn't it?), he included a list in the back of the book of all known movie and stage adaptations of the Phantom story; but while he had a few dinner theatre versions listed that were new to me, he completely missed others, such as the Yeston/Kopit production Phantom, which was released several years prior to the publication of the book.  It's a well-intentioned effort, but it doesn't look like he researched it very thoroughly; like many of the book's footnotes, it seems he looked up the first bit of information available on the subject and searched no further.

 

All right, now that I'm done abusing Wolf (well, for the present--I can't promise anything if I suddenly remember other forms of half-assery as I go along), a few words on the novel itself.  As a generality, opinions on the novel are split evenly down the middle; critics say that it is not a great novel, and in fact not even a very good novel, while fans of Gothic literature and the Phantom story in particular say it's amazing.  Firstly, here's an important rule of thumb to keep in mind when looking at Phantom-related materials:  many Phantom fans (or "phans" as they like to call themselves) are completely batshit insane.  Well, okay.  Not all of them.  Not even most of them, not by a long shot.  There are actually a lot of erudite and thoughtful people that I've met on Phantom fan messageboards and the like, and I certainly have to consider myself a fan as well.  But for every intelligent adult "phan" I've encountered, I've also met a drooling 14-year-old girl who heard Webber's version, got caught up in the romance of it all, and posts blather like "Omg erik isso hawt why wud Christin leave him??? I woudl luv him forever, Raoul sux!!1!1!"  or  "god its so romantic its the best story EVER in the history of the WORLD, did u see Gerry? omg"  or, my personal favorite,  "why are we alwasy juged for loving phantom?!?!?!12!!"  Well, good news, caller number 3: I'm not judging you for liking The Phantom of the Opera.  I'm judging you for having roughly the equivalent I.Q. of a piece of Gouda.

 

Hmm, I seem to have sort of drifted there.  The point was that you can't always take a fan's (of any genre, not just this one) opinion at face value.  To the many excellent fans that I know and love shooting the shit with: no offense is intended.  You all know how to use the brains you popped out with.  Anyway, back on topic.

 

Both camps have their points.  Leroux's novel, originally a serial, isn't a bad book; it's extremely evocative and imaginative work, with a rock-solid allegorical core message that is strong enough to have inspired a vast body of other fiction and works.  There were a few moments when, despite reading a translated version because my French sucks, I got a shiver up my spine from the strength of the imagery or the carefully placed suspense.  Leroux was originally a celebrated investigative reporter before he began writing fiction, and his ability to create a suspenseful and engrossing narrative is really very impressive.  On the other hand, this isn't a good book, either; several characters (such as La Sorelli, Meg, Jammes, the Rat-Catcher, the Man in Black, the Valeriuses, even Carlotta) are developed and abandoned as the story suddenly ceases to include them; this ranges from annoying, as in the case of Carlotta whom we frankly would enjoy seeing abused further, to downright maddening, as in the case of the Man in Black, whose presence is never explained, identity is never revealed, and entire purpose seems to be to scare the crap out of Raoul and the Persian while they crawl around the catacombs.  Leroux also relies heavily on several deus ex machina devices rather than insert planning from the beginning, a form of resolution that may betray the story's original serial nature; for example, the Persian, who is mentioned at the beginning but left unexplained, doesn't reappear until the very end of the novel, where he suddenly leaps out of the woodwork, knowing a full background on the Phantom, and single-handedly gets Raoul down to Christine for the rescue attempt.  What saves this from being a decent but unremarkable piece of literature lies in the richness of detail and imagery, Leroux's skill at investing your imagination in the mystery even when you already know how it's going to turn out, and in the fact that it's a classic example of the Gothic genre, and as such gives the reader a very real sense of the fashions, mindsets, and interests of the time period.

 

It's time to check out my notes.  I'm going to be taking notes while working on this project, mostly because I'm a bit haphazard and not quite sure exactly what I'm looking for yet, so this will help me keep track of all those random, wandering thoughts for later comparison.  In sooth:

 

Chapter 1:

Wolf notes that the names of the managers of the Paris Opera House from 1907-1914, the time in which Leroux would have been writing the serial, were Andre Messager and Firmin Richard; while this isn't interesting in and of itself, one has to wonder if Webber borrowed forms of their names for his two managers, Andre and Fermier (the managers in Leroux's novel are named Richard and Moncharmin).  Additionally, the above Messager composed a very well-received and acclaimed cantata during that time period called Don Juan & Haidee, which may have inspired Leroux to include Erik's Don Juan Triumphant.

 

Chapter 2:

Contrary to most of the later interpretations of Leroux's work, the original Meg Giry is not only a very small and insignificant role, but also a rather unpleasant one.  She is originally referred to as a "prune" and her few lines always paint her in an unflattering light, such as when she says Christine's rapid improvement is ridiculous, as she was "singing like a crow just last month", despite assurances from everyone else in the novel that Christine has had a lovely voice since birth.  Like all the rest of the ballet characters, she is forgotten early in the novel and never makes another appearance.

 

An interesting thought that crossed my mind here was the fact that every character in the novel, with the exception only of Meg, is parentless.  Christine's parents are dead, and she mourns her father constantly; Raoul's parents are dead, leaving him to have been raised by his brother, Phillipe; Sorelli's parents died young, and she was raised in the ballet; Erik is the ultimate orphan, abandoned not only by his parents but by society as a whole; and no other character ever mentions or alludes to any kind of parenting.  It seems that Madame Giry is the only mother in the entire novel, but that's a facile assertion; while it's noted by the narrator that she is Meg's mother, and she mentions that herself when introducing herself to the managers, she never interacts with her daughter, nor mentions her again; she is as un-motherly as it is possible to be.  Erik's mother, mentioned only twice, is the same; she is only noted in that she could not stand her son, hid his face with a mask, and abandoned him at the earliest opportunity.  In light of this, it seems that Christine is intended to be not only the great romance but also the great mother figure of the novel; she is loving and tender, warm and caring, gentle to a fault, and has enough compassion and affection to take care of not only her lover, Raoul, but also deformed Erik (who craves a mother figure as badly, if not more so, than he does a lover or a wife).  As the reader can see throughout the novel, Christine is the ultimate woman: innocent as a daughter, beautiful as a wife, and loving as a mother.  The connection to a Christ-like ideal is obvious.

 

Chapter 3:

It is interesting to note that the Phantom doesn't go about masked all the damn time.  His first several appearances are with no mask whatsoever, freaking people out left and right with apparently no concern; it is only when he begins to "court" Christine that he wears the mask continually.  It's a telling look into Erik's character: while he is aware that he is deformed, he doesn't seem to be ashamed of it--in fact, he never mentions anything of the kind, instead railing against the society that closes its doors to him because of the way he looks.  He accepts his deformity, rather than being ashamed of it, and in that sense is once again completely removed from the rest of humanity, all of which believe him to be a monster based upon his appearance.  It's only for Christine that he wears the mask, because of his intense desire for her to love him for himself, and not because of his appearance; the rest of the world can go fuck itself if his face bothers them.

 

Chapter 6:

Here Wolf makes a reference to Gothic fiction archetypes, and I had to latch onto it because it so perfectly explains why 99.9% of all Phantom fans think Raoul's a loser.  The short answer: because he is, by today's standards.  Let's lay it out.  One of the mainstays of Gothic literature is the sexless lover vs. the sensual villain (those seeking confirmation, check out any comparable piece of literature; Bram Stoker's Dracula comes to mind).  There's often a lot of outcry among fans who whine that Christine clearly should have stayed with Erik and not chosen Raoul.  The reasons for this are as follows:

 

1)  Erik is a genius.

2)  Raoul is a naive putz.

3)  Erik loves Christine enough to die for her (not to mention kill other people!).

4)  Raoul loves Christine enough to mope about how she lied to him.

5)  Erik dotes on Christine and wants her to achieve her full artistic potential.

6)  Raoul wants Christine to be his wife and pop out some babies.

7)  Erik is mysterious and broody.

8)  Raoul is whiny and immature.

 

And so on and so forth.  And in some sense, they're right, but that's because of a time disconnect.  Leroux's novel was written in 1911, as the Victorian era was ending--a time in which sexuality was firmly repressed and not spoken of in polite company, cultural perception and reputation were far more important than reality, and title and wealth were far more rare and well-thought of.  Raoul is a perfect hero for a novel set in this time period, because he is non-threatening.  He is good, and well-intentioned, and pure (not to mention wealthy and titled); he never makes the slightest of sexual overtures to Christine, and even their "engagement" is a play act and nothing more.  He is no threat to Christine's innocence or purity, and is a fairly wooden character whose only function is to be affectionate toward her and provide her with a comfortable means of living: in other words, a perfect husband. 

 

Erik, on the other hand, is the epitome of threatening: not only is he physically frightening and menacing and prone to killing people who get too close, but he is a very real source of creative and sexual energy, one which Christine is drawn to even as he makes her extremely uncomfortable.  She's not talking just about the fact that he lives in a creepy dark house and she wants to learn his vocal techniques when she shivers and talks about how he has a strange power over her and makes her feel things she'd never felt before.  Erik represents a sexual awakening, the possibility for Christine's innocence to be lost, and so despite the very real attraction she has for him, in the end she chooses Raoul, who is safe and unchallenging, and will not force her to risk that.  This is at the root of a lot of twisting thoughts and ideas in the novel, all connected back to the idea of childhood vs. maturity.  Raoul is sexless, safe, and unfrightening, everything a Gothic hero and husband should be; thus, Christine runs to him, while the modern-day reader, who views sexuality as a powerful and masculine characteristic, sees Raoul as effeminate and is confused by her choice.

 

As I'll be reading through a large number of novels that prefer to have Christine realize her "terrible mistake" and return to Erik, this dichotomy will only become clearer; while it's entirely possible that a modern-day woman would find herself unhappy and depressed at passing up the opportunity for rapport and growth in favor of safety, the likelihood is that those feelings in Christine would probably have taken a far, far backseat to relief and security, simply as a function of her society, time period, and upbringing.  And the fact that Erik looks really, really creepy.

 

Chapter 8:

Erik's Don Juan Triumphant is based on the story of Don Juan, but not directly, seeming to have been based on Mozart's opera Don Giovanni rather than on the original story (Erik himself cautions Christine that his Don Juan is not Da Ponte's--the librettist for Mozart--but is rather how the story should have been told).  The inclusion of the Don Juan story is a masterful moment of self-aware allegory in Leroux's work, one which puts Erik in perspective as a sympathetic character more than he has been viewed before.  Basically, the theme of Mozart's Don Giovanni is reversed for the novel.  In Don Giovanni, the Don is a heartless, debauched and evil man, one who counts his rapes and conquests with pride and who refuses to repent even in the face of severe punishment, and who is dragged down to eternal torment in Hell.  Conversely, Erik goes the opposite direction, beginning in his own personal "Hell"--tormented, ostracized, committing evil acts--and raised up through the saving power of Christine's love.  The Don's downfall is his refusal to behave with decency and his pride, which he clings to until the bitter end, while Erik, desperate for love and acceptance, loses his pride in his cleverness and admits defeat, thus redeeming himself.  The fact that Erik sees himself as a sort of Don Juan figure, doomed to eternal torment for his evil, only adds poignancy to his final redemption.

 

As a side note, Erik's Don Juan Triumphant is based on Mozart's Don Giovanni, which is in turn based on Byron's Don Juan.  It's a neat little note in the text for me to chuckle over as I look over at my coffee table, which is groaning with novels that are based on Webber's The Phantom of the Opera, which is based on the Leroux.  Cultural and literate diffusion at work.  A microcosm.

 

Chapter 9:

Going along with our earlier discussion of sexuality as a serious taboo in 1911 Europe, there's a great deal of whining and moping and after-hours cutting on Raoul's part because he believes Christine to be sleeping with Erik.  Despite the fact that it was considered taboo, people are always going to be all about the bang-bang, and not talking about it didn't mean that it didn't happen; in fact, opera girls in particular were considered one short step up from whores in that they were often mistresses of powerful or rich men who would provide them with gifts and money and dote on them.  The fact that Christine is seen in a carriage with Erik, as well as talking to him behind closed doors in her dressing room, is tantamount to certainty that she is his mistress; which, of course, the narrator informs us isn't the case, but which causes Raoul no end of opportunities for wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Throughout the novel, sexuality--or the idea of sexuality, at any rate--is always followed immediately by jealousy, dishonor, and even hatred or the appearance of evil.  Again, the society of the time period does not view sexuality with a kind eye, which contributes to Erik's "evilness" and Raoul's "goodness".

 

Chapter 10:

Raoul may be unfortunately relegated to the world of sympathetic cardboard cutouts, but Christine may actually be the character who undergoes the most change and growth throughout the novel's course.  She is surprisingly strong when confronted, quite unlike the meek image most later versions paint her in, declaring her actions her own and reproaching Raoul for judging her.  Leroux's intent to make Christine the perfect woman is still evident; she is gentle but not weak, sweet but not stupid, innocent but not naive.  Even in the final scenes of the novel, when she faints, screams, gets kidnapped and tied up, and generally requires a lot of rescuing, she attempts desperately to fool the Phantom to save Raoul and the Persian and eventually sacrifices herself for them, actions at odds with the idea of a fainting flower.  

 

Another side note: In the course of reproaching Raoul for judging her actions and treating her harshly, she refuses when he offers his protection, saying that her choices are her own.  This highlights not only her strength and independence of will, but also her purity; accepting Raoul's protection would in many ways have been tantamount to accepting his right to do as he liked with her, much as would have been the case with the other opera girls and their gentlemen protectors.  Raoul doesn't get so much as the right to sneeze at her until she gives it to him much later in the novel.

 

Chapter 13:

Christine's maturity is really enjoyable to watch, as she progresses from an undeniably child-like state into real adult awareness.  She originally believes the Phantom to be an angel, a real supernatural being, while the rest of the opera believes him to be an apparition; but unlike the denizens of the opera, Christine alone comes to the realization that he is a mortal man.  Unlike Raoul, who remains forever in a state of immature childhood, she grows up.  At the same time, however, her innocence is lost, at least in part; she weeps inconsolably when she discovers that Erik is mortal, because it means that her "angel", the hopes and dreams of her childhood, have turned out not to be real all along.

 

Christine also makes the statement in this chapter that her heart "was divided equally between [the Phantom] and [Raoul]."  The entire novel is divided this way, and the one statement encapsulates Christine's essential dilemma: her choice between Erik's world of darkness--sexuality, creativity, and passion--and Raoul's world of light--innocence, romance, and childhood.

 

Another side note (I know, but it can't be helped): the concepts of creativity and sexuality are completely fused in this novel.  Sexuality, which is at its basis the drive to reproduce or create, is connected to the Phantom, who is a composer without peer, but not to Raoul, who like most of the aristocracy of the time is merely a patron of the arts.  The Phantom becomes a second "father" to Christine, not only through his personification of her dead father's "angel" and wishes, but also through his tutelage; ironic, as she is in turn a surrogate figure for the mother that rejected him, but perhaps not so odd as the two of them become joint parents to the music, through Christine's innate talent and the Erik's supreme ability to encourage it in her.  This metaphorical parenthood is in fact much more visceral and concrete to the reader than the ephemeral children we suppose she must eventually have with Raoul.

 

Side note the second: Raoul hits upon a compelling and thought-provoking point when he asks Christine desperately, "If Erik were handsome, would you love me?"  Christine's division comes from her inability to reconcile her societal expectations with her emotional state; she wants to love Erik but cannot because of his horrifying visage; the unfortunate Raoul is her second choice, the safe, non-threatening reminder of childhood love that she runs to in order to take refuge from herself.  The heavy message that appearances do matter despite other factors is painful for us in today's climate of intense political correctness and sensitivity. and that sense of offended umbrage may be another contributor to the desire to empathize with Erik rather than rooting for Raoul.

 

Chapter 22:

Leroux uses this chapter to intentionally emphasize Erik's monstrousness by recounting (via the Persian) his murders, the atrocities which he committed while in Persia, and his general all-around ghoulishness; but a very poignant counterpoint is made when, while the Persian is chiding him for his behavior and telling him that he must not kill again, Erik replies, "It is different now.  I am loved for myself."  That longing to be loved despite his disfigurement juxtaposes heartbreakingly with his seemingly conscienceless killing, especially in light of the fact that, eventually, Christine will leave him, despite being perhaps the only person who has ever "loved him for himself".

 

I'll leave off with one last dig at poor Wolf.  On page 280, after being called away to deal with an intruder (Phillipe) at his lakeside home, Erik excuses his actions by saying, "It's the other one's fault.  Why did he ring the bell?  Do I ask passersby what time it is?  He won't ask that of anyone anymore.  It's the siren's fault."  To this statement Wolf appends the following footnote:  "First Erik blames the other one, then the siren.  Since Erik is the siren, we are left in some perplexity.  Whom is Erik blaming?"  I wrote in the margin of my notes, "Is Wolf stupid?" which might be a touch unfair, but it looked to me like a fundamental misunderstanding of the statement.  First, Erik blames the other one, who is clearly Phillipe, for coming along, ringing his bell, and making a general nuisance of himself; he follows that with the statement that Phillipe will not be doing that anymore (as he's just come to a nasty end), and notes that that--that is, Phillipe's inability to be making a nuisance of himself anymore--is the siren's fault.  It looked pretty clear-cut to me.  I was wondering if maybe it's more ambiguous in the original French, though I can't figure out how; any French speakers out there want to enlighten me, or will I just go on thinking that poor Wolf needs his head cleaned out from time to time?

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