I suppose it was inevitable Meg would become smitten with stage life. She was almost always with me when I worked, and the wealth of costumes and glass jewelry provided endless entertainment for her fertile imagination. While I repaired hems and replaced fastenings, she would bedeck herself in finery much too large for her frame, her attempts at graceful twirls marred by the entangling fabric. “Watch me, Mama, watch me!” she would cry. Ever since she saw my old ballet mementos Meg wanted to dance, but while I saw glimmers of talent in her awkward play, I despaired of ever acquiring sufficient funds to gain her entrance to any studio.
But fortune sided with us; the company that took an interest in her was also in need of box-keepers, and in return for my services they reduced the rate of tuition for my daughter. It was a blessing in all respects, for the concierge’s salary was more than I had been earning as a wardrobe mistress, and I could finally bid a not-so-fond farewell to that horrid diva. And while I cleaned the boxes in the mornings I could watch the ballet class onstage, which kept the memories of my craft from becoming dull and stagnant. Best of all, I could keep an eye on Meg while allowing her to explore her talents—talents which, even when I viewed them as a dancer rather than a mother, seemed phenomenal.
And so our fortunes grew through perseverance and patience, but mostly through sheer luck. Indeed, our survival during the Commune was nothing less than miraculous…
But it is not my story you have journeyed to hear, monsieur, so it would be best to move on. I have pursued this line of thought far enough, and time is short.
* * * * * * * * * *
In the final half of 1874 the ballet community was afire with excitement; auditions were taking place for a new company to be based at the Palais Garnier. Nothing but the finest artists would suffice, it was said, and young girls were flocking to be a part of what would doubtless become the premier company in France. Meg was eleven at the time, still too young to be a full member of the company, but old enough to be accepted as an apprentice.
On the day of auditions she was as nervous as a bride, fussing endlessly over her hair and attire. “Blast it!” she cursed as another attempt to form a bun out of her unruly curls ended in failure. “I may as well chop the lot of it off and wear a wig!”
“And if the wig flew off in the middle of a double pirouette, you would really look foolish,” I replied with good humor, gently removing the brush from her hands. She happily relinquished the management of her tresses over to me. “Just take deep breaths, and try not to think of it,” I continued as I pulled the brush through tangles. “You’ll do wonderfully, I promise,”
“All mothers are supposed to say that.” But the tremor in her voice had faded a bit, and I knew she was grateful for my presence.
“Not all mothers know from whence they speak, though,” I reminded her, looping her hair into a suitable chignon. “I do wish I could watch you audition.”
“You were burdened enough with watching me prance around the kitchen as a little girl,” she reminded me with a smile.
“It wasn’t a burden—well, when I wasn’t trying to get dinner on the table, anyway.” We both laughed with nostalgia. “But perhaps it’s best they don’t let the mothers into the studio. I’d hate to end up one of those foolish old women, fretting over her child and trying to recapture a vestige of the glory she once knew.”
“You could never be foolish,” she said fondly, and for the first time I felt maybe I had made a decent mother after all.
* * * * * * * * * *
Girls in tutus and toe shoes nearly glutted the halls of the Paris Opera that day. Most of them were attended by their mothers—silly, overbearing women for the most part, needlessly preening their daughters and making life miserable for the poor men who judged the auditions. I left Meg at the studio with a simple kiss on the forehead, doing my best to reassure her without mimicking the ridiculous behavior of those other women. I knew that she had a difficult time ahead of her—a seemingly endless series of exercises designed to judge technique, choreographers studying her every limb and movement as if she were a prize mare—but I also knew that nothing I did to her or to the judges would make the ordeal any easier. So I found a bench in a quiet corner, and diverted myself with the work of Hugo. I found the struggle of Fantine very touching in those days….
“Adele? Adele de la Croix?”
The voice, like the sound of my maiden name, teased me with its vague familiarity. I looked up into an open, pleasant face ringed with graying blonde curls, the face of someone I should remember. “It is Adele Giry now,” I told him. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall—“
“Heaven, Adele, don’t you recognize me?”
“I’m sure I—wait—” The vague recognition finally sparked into flame. “Philippe Avenaut?”
“Adele!” And then we laughed and embraced like long-lost siblings. Philippe had been a principal dancer in our company during my ballet career; when the march of time forced him from the stage he began a successful tenure as a choreographer and director. A merry, friendly man, he had been one of the few people to make me feel truly wanted in those days when so many barely acknowledged my existence.
“Mercy, Adele, it’s been an age! What brings you to a monument like this?”
“My daughter—she’s auditioning for an apprenticeship. And yourself?”
He laughed. “What else have I been doing ever since they told me I was too decrepit to prance before footlights? They’ve hired me on as principal director for the ballet company. We’re taking a short rest between the auditions and—wait—you said your name was Giry now, correct?” He consulted his copious notes. Then…this Meg Giry is your daughter?”
I assented, and his boisterous laugh rang through the hall again. “But of course, that explains it! The girl’s surely taken after you, Adele, her potential is marvelous! I’ve no doubt she’ll be accepted, as soon as the rest of us can hammer the idea into Lefèvre’s head.”
“Lefèvre?”
“The manager of the Opera. Awful old man; I dare say he got the position by cozying up to the Minister of Culture. Blasted idiot thinks that a pretty face is an acceptable substitute for talent.”
“Are you saying my daughter isn’t attractive?” I kept my voice playful but added a warning edge.
“Nothing of the sort, my dear, nothing of the sort! But you know men like Lefèvre…got the idea in his head that every woman who doesn’t look like a music hall dancer isn’t worth setting eyes upon.” He smiled warmly and suddenly I was an eighteen-year-old ballet rat again. “Come, let’s talk of other things. What have you been doing these days?”
I’ve always hated that question—the obvious answers always seem so inadequate. I responded with the rather unimpressive truth of my past occupations and current position.
“You seem despondent,” he commented, and rightly so. “You’re not happy with your current employment, then?”
I shrugged. “It’s not the best work in the world…but I’ve had worse.”
“But you don’t love it. Life is too short to waste on an vocation one has no passion for.” His eyes lit up with an idea. “Tell me, Adele, do you ever consider returning to ballet?”
“Don’t tease me, Philippe! At my age?”
“Not as a dancer. We need a person to oversee the workings of the company…conduct rehearsals, keep the dancers in line, and all that. I’m going to be all tied up in business and political nonsense—and that’s when I’m not elsewhere, which won’t be very often. A mature man or woman, one with professional experience…does the idea appeal to you?”
“A ballet mistress? Philippe, I’d be happier than I’ve been…” But the momentary elation became crushed by an onslaught of doubt. “But it’s been so many years…I don’t know if I remember…”
“Nonsense! I know you; you picked up on routine faster than the lot of us put together! Here, let me show you.” And he guided me to the threshold of the studio, where a small cadre of prospects rehearsed one of the exercises. “Tell me, what do you think?”
I understood, and examined the girls with a critical eye. “The one on the far left has a very awkward tombé—likely her balance is off. The girl next to her doesn’t quite have the proper turnout, and her fouettés should be cleaner. Second from the right, dark-haired girl—she’s very good, but needs to learn to match her movements with the rest of the line. She draws too much attention to herself, which would be unacceptable onstage.”
“You see? You understand technique better than anyone I’ve met, and your dedication was always phenomenal. Let me set up an appointment with Lefèvre and the other directors—we’ll give you a group of girls and see what you can do with them. But I’ve no doubt—“ his merry smile became just a shade more serious “—no doubt whatsoever you will do just wonderfully.”
I thanked him, and seconds later he was called back into the studio to continue the incessant parade of auditions. I returned to my Hugo, pleased with Philippe’s concern for me, but thinking little of it…never realizing that brief reunion with an old colleague had irrevocably altered my life’s course.
* * * * * * * * * *
Now it was my turn to play the nervous applicant, my turn to fret over every aspect of my appearance and dress. I had been rather casual in my attire for years—after all, it makes very little sense to dress to the height of fashion when one is scrubbing floors or mending hems—but I knew I would never be considered for such a prestigious position if I didn’t look respectable.
I rummaged through my wardrobe, which was unsuitable for the most part—the worn skirts and shirtwaists I wore daily were entirely useless. But near the back hung a simple ebony cotton dress; I had originally worn it for Jules’ funeral and occasionally still used it for mass. It was formal without being extravagant, exactly the image I was hoping to project. With the dress selected, I turned to my hair. As with my clothing, the simple chignon that served in my daily life seemed inadequate for an interview. I twisted and pleated and piled my dark hair until my arms ached, but I eventually settled on a thick braid wrapped like a coronet around my head and fastened in the back.
Amazement greeted me when I looked in the mirror. The dark material of the dress made my skin the white of morning frost and deepened the color of my eyes; the crown of my hair lent a regal aspect to my high checkboned face. It felt like looking at a statue of Minerva, or Juno—a little vain of me, perhaps, but that was my initial reaction.
Meg was impressed as well. “You look like a queen,” she said, with no trace of unctuousness in her voice. “It seems strange, trying to think of you as one of those rigid ballet mistresses.”
“When you get older, you’ll realize that austerity is the only way to survive in this craft,” I reminded her. “And at any rate, it’s not as if I have the position yet.”
“They’ll love you, Mama,” she replied, embracing me. “How could they not?”
“We’ll see,” was all I said. Although thankful for her kind words, I didn’t hold any great hopes for success. There were bound to be men and women more experienced than myself; I couldn’t hope to compete with the high caliber of professional the Opera could attract…
Philippe met me with a warm welcome as I entered the Palais Garnier and proceeded to introduce me to his associates. Monsieur Lefèvre was there, as were his assistants (I forget their names; both of them left within a couple years of the grand opening). They sat with me in an office suite and proceeded to ask all the usual questions: why I desired the position, what I felt I could offer, what course my life had taken. I answered concisely and directly; a few eyebrows raised when I explained my retirement from professional dancing, but otherwise they appeared quite satisfied.
At length Lefèvre rose. “Well, Madame Giry,” he said in that overconfident tone I would come to despise, “we’d like to see you with a class. Monsieur Avenaut has a group of his girls in the studio; what we want is for you to run them through some basic exercises and do what you think is necessary.”
The girls in question were all a couple years older than Meg, a fact that made me more than a little nervous. I remembered what it was like at that age: rebellious, no respect for anyone resembling an authority figure, always feeling the need to assert one’s independence. But things went rather smoothly at first; the girls settled into position at the barre when I called them to order and ran through the exercises dutifully and with minimal fuss.
“No, no,” I admonished one young lady, “the rond de jambe originates in the hip. The torso must remain still. Here, let me show you.” I proceeded to correct the girl’s alignment, but the buzzing of conversation interrupted me. “Please refrain from talking,” I chided—a little abruptly, for the culprit had been prattling through a good portion of the lesson. She obliged briefly, but no sooner had I turned my back than she returned to her discourse.
The combination of stress, nerves, and the obstinate discourtesy of that one girl built to the breaking point…and snapped. “You!” I shouted, bringing down the borrowed dancemaster’s staff with a thunderous crack. The awesome silence that followed almost destroyed my nerve, but I summoned the memory of that goddess-like image in the mirror and infused myself with her strength.
“Come here, girl.” She obeyed, clearly shocked by the manifestation of this authoritative lady before her. She trembled as she stood before the rest of the class and myself. “What is your name?” I demanded.
She opened her mouth but could only produce a faint squeak. “Speak up, child,” I goaded her. “I know full well you’re capable of the action.”
A titter escaped from the other end of the room, but I sent a steely glare in its direction and the stillness was restored.
“Isabelle,” she finally managed.
“Isabelle,” I echoed. “You must forgive me, Isabelle, it seems my knowledge of ballet is not as comprehensive as I had imagined. I am unaware of any dance involving the tongue.”
Another nervous laugh slipped out, and Isabelle blushed furiously. “I was just—“
“What you were doing, child, was being disruptive to the class, rude to your fellow dancers, and disrespectful to myself. Such behavior is unworthy of anyone who wishes to claim the title of artist. There are gossips enough in the world, but very few prima ballerinas. Which skills would you prefer to cultivate?”
“I’m sorry.” She had turned bright red with shame, with the glimmer of tears apparent in her eyes. An inner twinge of remorse told me that perhaps I had overestimated the girl’s mettle.
“Don’t be so despondent.” I softened edge of my voice. “I would not demand such discipline from a girl with less potential. You are very talented, Isabelle, but this means you must exert even more effort in your studies. The closer one comes to perfection, the more reason one has to strive for it; otherwise, we will never determine if perfection is attainable. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame.” The embarrassment left her checks and her tears were giving way to the sheen of determination.
“Very well. You may return to your place.” I turned to the class, which stared back at me with surprise and awe—as did my interviewers. “That goes for the rest of you, as well,” I told them. “You may not yet be the most celebrated dancer in Paris, but there’s no reason why you cannot conduct yourself as if you were.”
As might be expected, the remainder of the class passed without incident. Philippe met me outside the Opera afterwards; for several minutes he seemed about to burst with delight.
“What did I tell you, Adele; what did I tell you?” he crowed. “Nobody could have managed that finer, even myself!”
“You don’t think—well, I was afraid it was a little much….” I confessed.
“A little much? My dear, until today Isabelle has not kept quiet for two minutes together—but you not only got her mouth shut, you gave her a damned good reason to keep it shut!”
“You’re too kind,” I murmured, pleased by his words yet still skeptical. “Philippe…be honest with me. Have I any chance of being accepted, inexperienced and unknown as I am?”
The sudden, sober expression looked incongruous on his face. “If it were only up to me, I’d hire you in a second—out of gratitude for the headache you’ve spared me in Isabelle, if nothing else. But Lefèvre…well, the idiot has it in his head he needs someone with notoriety. I’ve tried telling him that just because a lady was a famous ballerina ten years ago, that’s no reason to believe she’ll be a fine instructor…” He shrugged helplessly. “I’ll do what I can for you, but you know I can’t make any promises.”
“You don’t need to. Ever since my husband died, I’ve been floundering…trying to find someplace where I might take pride in the work I do. Even if nothing comes of this, you’ve given me new hope…if the Opera won’t have me, perhaps another company will.”
“I’d lay any wager on it,” he smiled. “If I don’t see you again, Adele…it’s been an honor.” And he turned and vanished into the massive edifice before us.
* * * * * * * * * *
Waiting has always been the worst part of any stagecraft, in my experience. For nearly a week Meg and I paced nervously around our little apartment, waiting for the arrival of the post in that mixture of hope, dread, and anxiousness with which one always anticipates the unknown. And at long last, the appearance of two letters printed on the Opera stationery ended our vigil. Meg took the one addressed to her from my shivering hand and vanished without comment into her room, preferring to receive the good or ill news in privacy. Once the door had shut behind her I sat staring at the remaining missive, paralyzed with agitation. I couldn’t open it; I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see those curt sentences which seemed so inadequate for the pleasure or sorrow they were certain to derive. But inevitably I steeled myself, slit the envelope and divested it of its contents, all the while preparing to take the revelation with composure.
Madame Giry: On behalf of the Paris Opera staff, I would like to offer you our congratulations and hope that you will accept the position of Mistress of Ballet…
Any vestige of equanimity I hoped to cling to vanished. I quaked with the need to laugh and weep as I examined the notice with disbelieving eyes, almost certain I had misread it. But there was no mistake; the cordial letter outlined the course with which I would be accepted onto the Opera payroll, the list of classes and assignments I would be expected to look after, and the date when I must begin work. I sat in the parlor, grinning foolishly, offering thanks to every saint in Heaven for this blessing.
“Mama!” The door to Meg’s room burst open; she emerged waving her own letter over her like a battle flag. “They’ve accepted me, Mama! I’m going to dance at the Opera!”
“Oh, my darling,” was all I could reply, and when she heard my own good news we laughed and rejoiced in each other’s immense good fortune, barely able to speak for joy.
Later on Philippe called, laden with flowers and gifts as if it were a holiday. “My fine, beautiful ladies!” he warbled. “How fortunate I am to be surrounded by such grace and talent, and the two of you the fairest of them all!”
“You’ll spoil us with your fine words,” I teased him, “and your generosity—I can’t imagine what your associates will think of you lavishing attentions on us!”
“Let them think what they will,” he scoffed with a toss of his head. “I owe you a great deal, Adele; if you hadn’t interviewed with us I’d be stuck dealing with a waif of a woman who couldn’t spook a goose, let alone discipline a group of rambunctious girls!”
He proceeded to bestow his gifts on us. Meg received a fine pair of toe shoes--they wore out quickly, of course, but I believe she still has them somewhere. For myself, there was a strong dancemaster’s staff of ebony topped with silver. “A queenly lady deserves a fine scepter,” Philippe said. As I felt the staff’s authoritative weight in my hands I couldn’t even chide him for his honeyed speech.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I confessed. “You’ve done so much for both of us already…”
“I’ve done nothing, Adele. You have both earned this fortune by your own merits.”
“Meg, perhaps…but you can’t fool me; you must have moved mountains in order to get them to consider me…”
Philippe frowned, puzzlement creasing his brow. “I did try to put in a good word for you; I won’t lie on that,” he began, “but Lefèvre refused to budge. I can’t imagine what changed his mind…”
There was something about that statement, and the mystified tone in which it was delivered, that sent anxiety coursing down my spine.
“Come now, don’t look so stupefied,” Philippe said, the confusion vanishing from his face. “This is a time for celebration….It’s the start of a new life, Adele, a new adventure.”
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