In the living room of the apartment I share with my husband, we have a handsome dark-wood case for our stereo system. Two box sets of performances from the Metropolitan Opera with James Levine conducting have occupied a prominent spot on the lower shelf since they were released in 2010 to commemorate the 40th anniversary of Mr. Levine’s Met debut. Displaying them was a genuine expression of my admiration for a towering American artist.

But on Sunday, Mr. Levine was suspended by the Met after several men accused him of sexually abusing them decades ago, when they were still teenagers. Now, I’m not sure I want to keep those sets so visible in my home.

I feel heartache for the men, who say they were taken advantage of by someone they looked up to, someone in a position of intimidating authority. But how do Mr. Levine’s countless fans, and I as a critic, reconcile his legacy with what he’s been accused of? Is his work tainted beyond our ability to appreciate the artistry involved?

People have asked me over the years whether I had heard talk about Mr. Levine’s private behavior. I had, but just vague rumors. I knew that reporters at The Times and other publications had done some investigating over the years and turned up nothing concrete.