This is the story of my salvation. How I, a miserable, cursed thing, fell even lower into darkness and was lifted up again. Why on earth I should threaten my happiness by creating a record of my ignominious tale, I do not know. There is no other way the secret could be found out, as all who know the deep truth of it are stayed by love of my husband, our son, and myself or else they are dead.
I will begin by recording my name, written without the little lie that has validated it for the last seven years. At my birth, I was called Christian Richars Daae. This is the only incident surrounding my birth of any interest, scandalous or human. For the sake of completeness, I will mention that it occurred in a little village in Denmark, that my father was a violinist who carried me to Italy, Austria and France, and that he earned a living for a time playing the organ in various churches. I learned my letters at his knee, and I learned of music in the vaulted cathedrals of Europe, my little voice consumed in the thunder of the choir.
The defining moment of my life is something of a blur, and I could not tell you where or when it happened, or what role in it my father had. But at some point before I was much older than ten, it was determined that my career belonged to the church, and wholly in music. At least, that much was explained to me later, when I understood that I no longer looked like other men, at the defining point below the belt. I was very dubious at the time, but the result of the procedure was as promised-- I retain a fine, fair soprano, I have never grown facial hair, though only much care keeps my body from running to the plump. Forgive me if my telling is somewhat muddled, but these are not things one speaks about-- fantastic things! Bizarre! I would not know shameful until much, much later still, for although I knew the term 'Castrato', it was never uttered with anything but politeness or amazement. At least, not while I was with the choirs.
Nevertheless, I do recall that it was after that, my father and I came to France, where I was installed in yet another choir, same as usual. Only there, my father left me forever, although he remains still, under a stone in the churchyard. I have visited occasionally, no longer fearing recognition, as that church has been long abandoned by it's clergy, and is kept by a single, half-deaf groundskeeper, who came long after the flight of the young and lovely castrato called Christian. The priests delighted in that name at the time, Churchmen being almost as superstitious as sailors. The main difference is that they will only subscribe to the superstition when it suits their purposes and desires.
And now I have given over to blasphemy, as well as scandal. Well, should my eventual damnation come out of these sheets, I should like it to be as complete as utterly possible. I only hope that if it comes, it comes after my death, and that of my husband, possibly in such a time and manner as it will not hurt our child. To whose needs I must now attend, though I imagine I will have to address his existence, possibly out of sequence with the rest. Given what I have already confessed, I admit to the curiosity of it, but I assure you-- all has a very simple answer. I have found in my life, that this is, save in matters of the heart or of the soul, always the case.