“How were you compelled to divorce yourself so from classical style?”
I answered a few questions as vaguely as possible, and as I made to leave, a bespectacled man in a wool suit stepped into my path to ask if he could have a word privately. He was Mr. Meechum, he told me, from theLondon Illustrated.
Yes, I supposed he could. I’d dreamed of speaking withIllustratedfor longer than I could remember.He put the usual questions to me that I’d always imagined them asking, the onesMama had told us she answered after important performances. Yet in the wake of Jack’s leaving, I felt sullen. Dirty. Undeserving of their special attention.
Then he straightened, placing his pencil in an inner jacket pocket. “Miss Blythe, I hope you will indulge our readers with a hint of your secret. We’ve seen you dance tonight, the way you nearly scoff at gravity, yet Fournier insists that no flying contraption was used.”
I laced my sash through my fingers. “Well, it’s actually a very wonderful pair of shoes that—”
“No no, Miss Blythe. Forgive me, but that isn’t what I mean.” His kindly face melted into a smile behind his spectacles. His voice was easy and welcoming. “When you began dancing, it seemed you were saturated with ... something. A thing not sullied by the gritty world to which I’m accustomed, and I cannot help wondering ... I’ve come away from this ballet feeling as though I’ve tasted something of a divine nature.”
I smiled, a growing pleasure inside at his bumbling explanation that struck closer to the truth than he realized. Yes, ithadbeen a divine experience, a pas de deuxto remember.
“How have you managed to create that illusion of floating, that bewitching sense of inner music that has breathedlifeinto the marble of the old classical form? I’ve never seen the like. Who has trained you to dance this way?”
Why God had chosen to dance with me, knowing everything, still made little sense, but I grasped at that knowledge, holding it tight. I had found my true focal point and I mustn’t let it go. “Mr. Meechum, it isn’t always about the steps or who has done the training, but what compels us to move that makes us unique.”
His notebook inched down toward his middle and he frowned. “I’m not certain I understand.”
Warmth flooded my voice and the words came easily. With gratitude. “We all have a focal point in the theater. For a dancer, what she looks at she reflects.” I closed my eyes, remembering Mama’s warm voice and thinking it was all right if this part of our stories aligned. “We can talk about me if you wish, but I’d much rather speak of the God for whom I dance.” My heart thrilled.Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God hath shined.
“I ... see.” He blinked in wonder. Intrigue. “So you are religious. And it is your religious zeal that has gifted you this extraordinary...”
“No, it’s God. He himself is extraordinary. So of course, anything that is born out of his strength will also be extraordinary.”
“How curious.” Fascination glinted in his gaze. “I should like to hear more, if you’d be so inclined.”
“I’d be happy to oblige you.”
Ballet was a fleeting art, its dancers so quickly forgotten once they left the stage. All that effort, the tiny, endless stitches of rehearsals and stretches and many repeated tasks sewn into the larger tapestry of a performance, seemed a waste in the end. A futile way to spend one’s life. Yet for Mama, all those minuscule, repetitive stitches blended together into a larger tapestry that showed the glory of the Almighty to everyone who looked at her.
Now the tapestry had been handed to me, those loose threads ready for me to continue the legacy she had begun. If people had glimpsed a bit of God through my work, if I could honor his name ... My despair began to lift, and a light cut through the shadow of mynot enough.I had, after all, something to offer the world, and it was God. A glimpse of what he could do.
“Would you be willing to meet with me—perhaps at a moreconvenient time—to talk at length? I could arrange an exclusivity fee, if it helps. I admit, you’ve enchanted me into wanting to know more.”
My voice was soft. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Come by if you like. No fee is necessary.”
Mr. Meechum’s face beamed his gratitude as he tipped his hat. When he moved, I saw the faint outline of Jack in the shadows, watching. But he turned instantly and disappeared down the corridor.
It was the sight of rejection, that turned back, but my heart felt peace, delighting in the surprising door that had opened. I still had God, and he had given me back ballet. Any work one did, it seemed, could be intertwined with God and point onlookers to him.I will praise thee, O LORD, with my whole heart; I will shew forth all thy marvelous works.
There. That was my story. No romance or tragedy, only ballet, colored with the presence of God.
When I’d changed out of my costume, most everyone else had gone. The theater rang with voices as dancers left in droves, and I would soon be alone. I moved through the dimness toward the greenroom in hopes of finding the one person to whom I needed to talk.
Tovah hurried by with hat in hand and paused for a quick hug. “What are you still doing here?”
“I was hoping to find Jack.”
She blinked, stepping back to study me.
“To walk me home, I mean. Since Philippe is already at the inn for the celebration.”
She grabbed my arms. “Come with us this time, won’t you? Then Philippe can walk you home from the Lamb and Flag.”
“Thank you, but I should get home.” I was drained beyond all reason and had to perform an even longer ballet tomorrow. Perhaps before royalty.
“You will be all right? There may be someone up at the front offices to see you safely.”
