Chapter 24: More Sweetly Than Our Rhyme

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never, canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou have not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy, boughs! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! More happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O! Attic shape! Fair attitude! With brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! Dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

"Ode on a Grecian Urn" by John Keats (1795—1821)

"I know because, Christine, that boy was me."

For a moment, time froze and all life seemed to hold its breath while it waited for Khronos to begin his march once more. Then, a strangled cry slipped from Christine's twisted lips and Erik swore his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as he watched her roll away from him. She leapt to her feet and turned to gaze upon him with wild, staring eyes. She stood before him perched ready to take flight at the slightest provocation and Erik silently swore that he would have none of it. He swiftly rose and took a gentle but firm hold on her arm.

"This is too strange a coincidence to ponder right now. I need to direct her attention away from this unsettling matter. Perhaps now might be the right moment to correct my error and help calm her at the same time." His silent conversation ended abruptly as he felt the muscles in her arm flex in preparation to make good her escape. Without further thought, words began to tumble from his mouth.

"Christine, wait! No one is more surprised than I am to realize that we met so long ago, but do you not feel the serendipity of this moment? Now, perhaps, we have an explanation for the connection we feel for each other. I, myself, take comfort in this thought, as I am unused to feeling so overwhelmed by my emotions and I am sure the same is true for you. Do not go. Please stay with me."

He released her arm and waited for her response. Her eyes darted about the roof, absorbing every detail around them, while studiously avoiding his eyes. And, still he stood unmoving, making no further attempt to restrain her as he waited patiently for her to meet his eyes.

"No matter what happens, I must not lose control. She needs a tender hand and time. Life has not treated her kindly and, she is most definitely worth any effort I need to expend."

He felt a surge of triumph rush through his being as she finally brought her eyes to meet his own. She nodded and returned to sit in their cloak-lined burrow.

"Thank you, Christine. I think now is the time for me to correct a most grievous error and tell you something you need to know."

She gave him a small, hesitant smile before she spoke.

"Very well, Erik. I am listening. What is it that you need to say?"

He lowered himself once more to his seat next to her where together, they huddled to share in the warmth afforded by the cloaks.

"It is going to snow any day now. Oh, stop it! I am such a coward! Just tell her already," his own wandering thoughts beginning to irritate him.

"Christine, I do believe in my inexperience that I have neglected to tell you something, something very important."

He took her left hand in both of his and rubbed his thumb over the kid leather glove, which covered his ring on her finger. He looked deeply into her eyes and allowed all of the love he felt for her to shine through his eyes.

"Christine Daae, I love you."

She sat before the fire that she had lit against the coldness of the night and the frost that lay heavy on her heart. In her hand, she held a cup of tea, which had gone cold long ago.

"Where could they be? Surely, if he found her, he would bring her back here. Most certainly, he would not ... Then, on the other hand, with the mood he was in when he first arrived how am I to know anything as given. I do not really know this man at all. Yet, for reasons that are unclear to me, I feel as if I do know him and know him well..."

She shook her head and sighed.

"It does appear that I am in for a very long and extremely worrisome night. Perhaps, there is a way I can find some relief from my agitation over Christine and Monsieur Destler's whereabouts, and use the time while I wait for them to reappear to speak with my Megan about her actions last night and the need for her to control her passions." She snorted grimly. "And who am I to speak of keeping one's passions under control? Merde!"

The woman allowed another quiet sigh to issue unnoticed from her mouth as she rose from her chair. She began to stretch her taut muscles in an attempt to relieve some of her tension and almost spilled the cup of tea she still held in her hand. Her eyes focused on the amber brew and she raised the cup to her lips. She grimaced as she tasted the cold, bitter drink and lowered the cup. Staring into the murky depths of the cup, she frowned.