Christine was not at all the sort of woman her voice had made her out to be.
Months of dedicated observation led me to conclude that the qualities I found so irresistible in her singing were in fact her most egregious personal flaws.
Her voice blended seamlessly with other voices—Christine stood in the cluster of her fellow chorus members with her chin down and her shoulders drawn in tight, as though if she made her body small enough, it might dissolve mercifully into the floor. Her voice sought to help other voices—Christine's desire to be of assistance was so all-encompassing that she chose the most wretched, unworthy souls in the entire opera house to heap compassion upon. (She once presented a small collection of sweets to a stagehand who was so lewd, he could not even be bothered to reign in his roving eye long enough to focus upon her face while he accepted it.) Her voice was patient and kind—Christine was willing to suffer mockery for however long her tormentors (most often her peers) wished, and she appeared terribly, terribly gullible.
Those were my impressions, at least, at the time. It perhaps would have been wiser for me to devote more attention to the exchanges which persuaded me to believe she could be so easily influenced. The stagehand she chose to befriend, for example, was named Joseph Buquet, and his offensive conduct often inspired me to seek justice in my professional capacity as the resident phantom. My tricks were intended to disturb him.
By singling him out for punishment, however, I also provided him with enough material to pen his own autobiographical tome of ghost stories. He had a loose tongue, embellished his tales to make it seem he possessed more knowledge about me than I would ever allow to circulate, and Christine became his most devout listener. The more outrageous Joseph's claims became, the more convinced and enraptured she seemed by his experiences.
She began to ask others about me. Musicians, dancers, even a manager she chanced upon as he crowed obnoxiously about one of my notes in the hall. I was amused to discover my fixation was evidently mutual.
In any case, the appeal to my sense of humor could not overpower my mounting resentment. How dare Christine take every quality that I so adored in her voice and personify it in the most unbecoming fashion imaginable? Why should Christine be permitted to possess and abuse such a gift while my dear wife waited at home, the opportunity to utilize the voice properly forever barred to her?
It was unfair. The level of injustice felt intolerably painful. Christine did not deserve her voice. And so I conspired to take it from her.