Demon Stories

Josephine: Casta Diva, 1884, France

Josephine

Casta Diva

1884, France

By chance, I heard the wilting of a guitar singing to me a song I know so dear. "Casta diva, Casta diva," it sang to me so very late at night by the river. "Pure goddess, whose silver covers these sacred ancient plants, we turn to your lovely face~"

Oh, Norma. This one I know well. To a performance I went one night, with a gentleman or so he said. A gentleman is a matter of taste. However, this one, this opera. When Norma sang Casta Diva, how moved I was. I was so lost in the performance, that I did not even notice the gentleman take my hand. His white gloved hand was on my white gloved hand, and my eyes and ears were on the stage only. The tone of the cavatina was so mournful. It spoke to my mournful heart by tone alone. And what set my mournful heart off the most was how this gentleman would never know how it could be me on stage, not holding his hand at that moment. How he would never know the shameful person he held onto right then could sing like Norma. And oh...how I would never sing like Norma...how I would never sing on a stage again...

And here tonight, it spoke again. Such a mournful sound, most likely spun by another lonely sad cast out artist in the night. Over the river, I stood on a bridge and looked down. The moon cast a silver image in the ripples, and I closed my eyes.

"Tempra, o Diva~ Tempra tu de’ cori ardenti~ Tempra ancora~" I sang quietly as the guitar sang beside, as cast out Normas in the night.

"I will write a song for you."

If one would have seen me then, they'd have said I jumped out of my skin. But really, I fell back and caught myself just in time on my heel. I said nothing, and just hoped for the voice again, if it would come again. Such a gentle voice it had been.

And it came again. 

"Will you sing another? I know many. Oh, can you sing Il Dolce Suono? Do you like Donizetti?" It was more hurried now, desperately searching. "I can't see in the dark. Its a wonder how I play, eh? Are you on the bridge? How about Schubert? Do you like Schubert?"

The voice was strangely accented, but not altogether out of place. 

I did not want to open my eyes. I did not want to see what he could not see, which was with the seeing of one such as myself, these demon eyes. There was no doubt I would be able to see all, the light of the moon reflecting in my eyes to reveal all. 'But dare I,' I thought quickly and carefully, 'just this once?' Just this once, use the demon whom I kept buried so deeply, to try to seek out this kind one? Was it possible to use the demon this way, to seek out kindness? How very strange it seemed. But I had to try.

Like lighting the darkness with the flame of a candle, I opened my eyes and suddenly blazed all. The sides of the river. The dark places surrounding, windows open, the stars above twinkling calmly yet friendly. All had a dark blue color, but all was revealed as day otherwise. 

And with another demon use, I could hear him breathing. He was to the right, in a house, the top floor. He was next to the window, and from here the guitar's sounds had drifted down to me.