Mercedes Lackey: Reserved for the Cat

“Of all the wretched inconveniences—”

“Ma belle, we haven’t time to change—”

“Petite, I know you can—”

“Enough!” roared the company manager, getting complete silence. “Look here, girl—” he scanned the papers in his hand. “Ninette. La Augustine managed to trip on the curb and sprained her ankle. Her understudy didn’t come in.” The look on his face told what he thought was the reason—a man, too much wine, and a big head after. “The second understudy is already in the harness—”

The harness. Of course, the harness that attached to the ropes that would make the Sylphide fly through the air to tease James. There were really two Sylphides, a dancing one and a flying one. The harness was built into a costume that was impossible to actually dance in. The dancing Sylphide would flit offstage and the flying one would be pulled by three strong men out of the wings and through the air, only to have the dancing one take her place again to flit with James in pursuit. It was one of the tricks that made this ballet so popular.

“That leaves you. Pierre says you can dance it—”

The ancient ballet master, gray-haired, tall, and leonine, smiled encouragingly. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly elated and terrified all at once. “Mais oui, I have studied the part, rehearsed it, but—”

“I have seen you in rehearsal after rehearsal, cherie, and you will be admirable.” The ballet master patted her shoulder. “Do not think. Just dance.”

“It’s only a matinee,” the company manager growled. “The balletomanes are always after us to put new young dancers on the stage—”

“Ah, but you know why we have the etoiles dance even the matinees,” the ballet-master interjected. “The balletomanes are few, and the public many, and the Parisian audience is loyal to a fault. They wish to see their etoiles, and barring accident—”

“Yes, yes, yes, I know,” the manager growled. “Well, there was an accident. Get those wings on her!” he barked at the inoffensive wardrobe mistress. Unflappable as ever, the competent old woman in her eternal, rusty-black dress was already taking the smaller wings of a soloist off the small of Ninette’s back. “Thank all the Saints the costumes are so alike; we’d never have time for you to change.” The ballet master plucked the smaller, scanter wreath from Ninette’s head and pinned the Sylphide’s wreath in its place.

The stage manager, evidently already apprised of the situation, was mustering the chorus. Anton Deauville, the rather aging etoile in the part of James, was arranging himself in the armchair onstage. The orchestra had finished tuning and was falling silent. So was the babble of sound from the other side of the curtain. The company manager gave Ninette a despairing look and stalked off to stage center front, to part the curtains and walk through.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” She heard his voice, muffled first by the heavy velvet, then the fire curtains. “Due to an accident, the part of La Sylphide will be danced this afternoon by Mademoiselle Ninette Dupond. Thank you.”

She went cold. She had been in the theater so many times when it was someone else’s name announced in place of the etoile. There had been restlessness, murmurs of discontent—after all one had paid to see the etoile, and one should get what one had paid for! Sometimes there were whistles and catcalls, more often cross murmurs as the members of the audience searched in their playbills for the unfamiliar name. Once in a great while, people walked out.

Were they walking out right now?

“Places!” called the stage-manager, as the wardrobe mistress got the wings securely in place.

And Ninette had a moment of panic. Do I enter stage left, or stage right?

She froze. But the ballet master had been anticipating this reaction. He steered her to her mark.

And then it was too late to panic. The curtain was rising. She heard her cue, lurched up onto pointe, and blindly made her entrance into the glare of the stage lights.

The performance was a blur, punctuated by moments of brilliant clarity. Anton, his face made into an almost immovable mask with stage makeup, looking encouragement at her with his expressive eyes. A moment of fleeting ecstasy as a lift went so flawlessly it felt as if she were in the harness and flying. Another of joy as she finished a piece of excruciating footwork so beautifully that the audience broke into spontaneous applause. Feeling sweat run down her back, having to keep it all look magical, effortless.

And through it all, Maman’s orders. Pick one side or the other, left or right, it doesn’t matter, so long as you keep looking to that same side during the whole performance. Look to the boxes. In a moment of rest, smile there, pretend you can see past the footlights. I know you can’t and you know you can’t, but those rich old men up there don’t know that, and every one of them will be certain you are smiling at him.

Finally, James cast the poisoned scarf around her, and her wings fell off, and she “died.” The other sylphs came and took her up, and carried her offstage, and onstage, the flying sylphs rose into the “sky” with a life-sized sylph doll in their arms. Her part was, at last, done. She was “done” before that, though; this was the one section where, as in Giselle’s mad scene, there was a lot of room for interpretation. La Augustine made a long process of the dying, often forcing the conductor to signal the orchestra to repeat bars of music as she staggered about the stage. Ninette was too drained. The moment that her wings came off, she came down off-pointe, stared at James blankly, made a feeble motion of entreaty, and dropped like a shot bird. It was her fellow sylphs that followed the music then, gathering around her, carrying her off.

Exhaustion struck her like a blow, and once they put her down offstage, she just sat there, breathing hard. Onstage, James wept, watched as the wedding procession of his betrothed Effie and her former suitor Gurn went by, railed at the witch Madge, tried to kill her, and was killed in his turn. Madge did a little pantomime of triumph and the curtain came down. Offstage, Ninette finally got to her feet.

Applause. There was applause at least. So she had not driven anyone out. There were no hoots or whistles. She must have done well enough.

First the Scots coryphées and quadrilles took their curtain calls, then the sylphs. Then the sujets. Then—first Madge, then Effie’s mother, then Effie and Gurn, and then—

Then Anton was taking her hand and drawing her onto the stage, and the applause rose, and there were shouts of approval; she made the bow she had practiced ever since she was a tiny tot, deep and appreciative, and smiled at the box seats on both sides of the stage.

And there were flowers, bouquets brought on stage by the little pages. She remembered to take a rose from hers and give it prettily to Anton. Then the continuing applause reminded her to make another bow; and wave graciously to the rest of the company and bow to them, then they all came forward and bowed, and the curtain came down, then rose again—

This went on two more times before the applause finally died down. And she went back to the dressing room in a daze, and sat in her little seat in the crowded room shared by all the sujets and stared at herself in the mirror and didn’t know if she was glad or disappointed that the evening’s performance was not La Sylphide, but Giselle, and La Augustine’s understudy for that was certainly pounding on the toes of her new shoes at that very moment in a fever of excitement.