She is late. Why is she late? Does she not want to see me? Perhaps she does not love me after all!

I am waiting at the edge of the lake for her, hoping that I am mistaken. She must love me! I have no one else. Has she forgotten? How could she forget her poor Erik? Has someone delayed her? They have plenty of people to see! Why must they take my one person and keep her?

How strange that she calls the waters I now pace beside magical, when they are so cold and dark. She sees the good in all things, even Erik.

It is five minutes now. Why has she not come? Does she not know the agony that grips my heart when I am not with her? What misery these past days have been! She apologized to me, during our lessons, that she could not visit sooner. The rehearsals take far too much of her time away, and her benefactress. She longs to see that woman and calls her her mother, when she has no relation to her. I wish Christine had no one but me, and nothing to do but remain with me always, brightening up the dark chambers beneath the earth.

...

She was weeping and trembling when I rowed across the lake to her. I had almost been upset with her for her tardiness, but she told me, tearfully, that she had wanted to come sooner and been delayed. She hardly ever lied, so I believed her, and it was also far easier to do so than to doubt. It is nice to have someone who does not lie.

I had bought her flowers. She had seemed bewildered by my first declaration of love, my turning the drawing room into a garden, so now I gave her far fewer baskets. Only fourteen of them, that was a reasonable amount. I placed them on end tables and her nightstand, upon her dresser, then around the house wherever it could use a bit of color.

She glanced around at them as if I had brought her into a delightful fairytale. She would not cease thanking me for the flowers, and admiring how they brightened the house. She said they were good for me, so I would not be so melancholy. If only she knew that she was the only remedy for my misery.

I had purchased little cakes and sweets for her as well, as she had a fondness for them. It was good for her to indulge, as when she had first arrived here, her eyes had been the largest part of her. Her grief had manifested in her little frame until the radiance of her that I so admired now had been dull. Now, however, though her eyes were still wide and mesmerizing, she had become much fuller. It was good that her grief had faded, and I dared to think I might have made it so.

As she took a few polite bites of a cake, I could not help pretending to myself that she was my wife now. When she was my wife, as I was determined she would be (I could not possibly lose her), she would never leave. She would remain with me always. I could buy a nice, normal house, exactly how she wanted it, and we would live there together. She would never be distracted by anything, no rehearsals or benefactress, because a wife is there for her husband alone. I would make her the happiest woman in Paris. She would have anything that she wanted, and never be bored. That is the husband's occupation: adoring and entertaining his wife. I would never need to work, either. I have enough to live comfortably on for the rest of my life, and when I die, as I must die before her, she would receive an enormous sum so that she never need lift a finger then, either.

It was good when she read. That was my favorite activity, because I read in the armchair beside her. I would prefer to be at her feet, but that would likely cause my tears of joy to stain her skirt. When she read, I did not truly, however. I imagined further that she was my wife and that we were reading together in perfect contentment. I had to be careful not to catch her gaze, though, or else she might suspect. She does not like the idea of marriage, but that is to be expected. She thinks a husband would silence her and keep her from joy, when I would only make her even happier, as well as allowing her to speak whenever she likes.

She only has a career at the opera because she loves to sing, not because she loves the stage. She is too shy for that. Due to this, a marriage between us would make her quite happy. She could sing as much as she wanted as my wife- all the time, in fact. She would never need to worry as she does now, about finances and her career; she would be allowed to do all that she wanted. All that she wants is to sing and be loved. All women must want to be loved, or else why would they marry? She simply must not think her husband would love her enough, but I would worship her.

I fear she may find this journal of mine. She is insatiably curious, which is amusing, but difficult to protect her from in my house. She is, however, obedient, unlike Eve. If I am careful to tell her what she may not do, she will not do it. If I omit a guidance, however, she would indulge her curiosity without a second thought. In a normal house, she could do that all she wanted, but for now she must be careful. I must take very good care of Christine. Women are fragile creatures who are easily excitable, though she is far more contained than them. Still, I must be careful with her.

We read for quite some time. She enjoys it as much as I. When I requested for us to play music, however, she set aside her book immediately and went to join me at the piano. I did not wish to critique her then, as I find it far less enjoyable than it was at first. I only wanted us two to sing, and that we did.

I cannot describe the wonder that is her voice. The sound is pure as glass and sweet as honey. She puts her entire heart into it, and as she has the largest heart of anyone on this cruel earth, the music she creates has never been known before. I wish she could sing only for me, as I appreciate her far more than the dead-eared Parisians. As my wife, she would never sing for anyone else.

After our musical bliss, I found myself unable to bear the thought of her leaving. She would have to stay until tomorrow morning, then I could take her up for rehearsals. Instead, she became quite upset by that. I asked her why, and she said that her mother would be missing her. Her benefactress knew very well she was with an angel! Why should she have any say in this? I told Christine so, and she began to cry. She would not explain why she was crying, and eventually she consented after I had pleaded with her for some time. I made her an excellent dinner that ought to have appeased her, and she retired early for bed. The fact that she was so near at night kept my nightmares away, and I had more dreams of her in meadows and other lovely scenes. Once, she was in a tea shop, and I had tea with her. In the dreams, however wonderful, we never spoke to each other, yet I did not mind. No one else ever appears in my dreams save her. In my nightmares, everyone appears.

In the morning, it was to my great distress that she did not rise on time. I dared knock on her door, even though I was not permitted in her bedroom. She told me she was not feeling well. It was no more than a cold, so I could not help but be delighted with the opportunity to care for her.

I actually knew how to tend to an unwell person, though I had never before. She needed rest, mostly, which was simple enough, but I also made her teas to calm her symptoms, as well as my own remedies. I made her soup for lunch, and it was then that she said she felt well enough to return home. I would have insisted she stay, as I was quite enjoying tending to her, but she immediately began to thank me for my splendid care of her. I was lost to her kindness, and soon she was in the boat with me, being returned to the other side.

I had never known my home to require anyone else. I had been quite enough, and any trespassers were entirely unwelcome. Now, however, I know that a house is only complete with a wife.

It is strange that I only now know what true loneliness feels like, when I have been lonely all my life, and unaware.