As her voice matured, pressure to leave the relative anonymity of the chorus and enter the limelight increased. Everyone from Meg Giry to both managers begged her to audition for at least a minor role in some small operetta. The Angel of Music, though, made no such suggestions. Christine knew why he remained silent. In everyone else's ears, she was more than good enough for a lead role in any production. In her own ears, and in the ears of her Angel, she was not ready. There was some barrier she had yet to overcome.
They continued to struggle with this missing element. Each assumed the other was unaware of the problem. It was Christine who finally broke down in frustration during her lesson on her seventeenth birthday. In an uncharacteristic fit of temper, she stomped her foot and emitted a very unbeautiful grunt.
"It's not right. Do you hear it? There's something wrong. There has been something wrong for years," her voice rose in volume, "and I simply don't. know. what!" She threw herself in an ungainly heap on the ground and rhythmically pounded her small fist into the thickly carpeted floor. Her ire grew in the silence. With no one else to blame for her difficulties, she turned on her Angel, not caring about the consequences. "And you! I don't know you either. You're nothing but a voice in my head." She became shrill. "For all I know, I've gone completely mad and I'm taking voice lessons from some…from a…from an hysterical hallucination!"
For his part, Erik stood transfixed in the stifling mirror chamber. At first, he was annoyed and then angered by her unseemly display. It was so unlike her. Then he realized, it was entirely unlike her. She existed in an emotionally sterile bubble; a bubble he had helped to create. Other girls were dating, falling in love, breaking hearts and having their hearts broken. They made best friends with one another, and then ceased speaking to one another for weeks, only to tearfully make up over tea. They were unabashedly passionate.
That was the key to the problem. Christine lacked passion. Since her father died, he had rarely seen her smile. He was almost certain she never laughed. When she did begin to feel any emotion, she quickly mastered and bottled it. He felt the fool for not having seen this sooner. He had developed her mind with philosophy, great literature, and science. He had coached her voice through the magic of technique, even developed some entirely new techniques exclusively for her. He had protected her health by restricting her activities. He had not, however, done anything to allow her spirit to grow. What could even begin to remedy this colossal damage?
"Christine, get up and go to the mirror." His voice was stern and even, not betraying his excitement - and his blossoming fear.
For a tense moment, she didn't move from the floor. Habitual obedience won out over exhausted frustration and she reluctantly stood, straightened her rumpled skirts and plodded to the mirror. She stared at her reflection, at the sullen expression that darkened her features. Erik waited for the predictable change. Sure enough, once she saw her dark mood in her reflection, she smoothed the wrinkles of anger from her brow, dropped her hunched shoulders, and forced a look of studious interest.
"I know what is robbing your voice of perfection. In watching your little temper tantrum, I realized that I have committed a sin of omission while teaching you. Whether my mistake will be corrected has yet to be seen."
She was standing at the mirror, still flushed with anger and veiled defiance. Her hair had fallen loose from her customary tight braid. Her clothes were still in disarray, despite her perfunctory efforts at smoothing them. Her eyes flashed dangerously when he implicated himself. She was easily the prettiest girl he had seen in all his life.
When he found spit enough to speak he went on, trying to maintain his smooth and self-assured tone. "You have not gone mad. Abandon the idea. I am as real as you are. And I think…if you will promise to trust me…I know how to remedy the problem."
Christine had no response. She was already feeling ashamed of her outburst. That her Angel remained so calm in the face of her childish fury only served to abash her further. She took a deep breath to steady her voice and said, "I apologize for my temper. I trust you. I promise." All trace of frustration was gone; her voice was as smooth and seamless as satin.
"Are you sure? A moment ago, I was 'an hysterical hallucination.' There is something I wish to show you, but if you do not trust me completely, I cannot."
The faintest line of annoyance wrinkled her forehead, and was gone. Erik was looking for it, and did not miss it. Excellent, he thought.
"I trust you. I promise."
He poured all the power and majesty he possessed into his next question until it echoed in the small room and seemed to hang palpably in the air.
"Would you like to meet your Angel of Music?"
"I don't understand. You are here with me now, are you not?" Christine asked, confused and startled.
"I am, and I'm not," Erik hated speaking so cryptically, but he could not think how to prepare her to discover that her Angel of Music was also the horrific Phantom of the Opera. "Come to the stage at four in the morning this Saturday. There, we will begin work on your…problem. If, that is, you remain long enough. Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Daae."
She called to him, but the Voice was gone. Dinner would be served soon and she could not possible go to the table in her current state. She fussily rebraided her hair, tucked in her blouse, and smoothed her skirts. A cool wet cloth erased the hot flush left of her anger. The mirror confirmed that she was restored to proper order and could go to dinner. As she left her apartment, he heard that low, entrancing voice echoing in her memory: Would you like to meet your Angel? If… you remain long enough.
