After carefully placing her torn slippers into her rucksack and strapping the sack to herself, Elvire Beauregard left her small bedroom to bid her mother good-bye. Georgine Beauregard, Elivire's aging mother, kissed first her right and then her left cheek. She did not need to ask her daughter where she planned to go with the rucksack because she believed that Elvire had the habit of visiting the library in Dijon. She often had declared that the bicycle ride into the city was a bit too far for a young girl to manage every day, but allowed her to venture there after returning from school. The reading sessions seemed to be bringing the previously depressive girl into the light of day, and Madame Beauregard did not wish to interfere with a good thing.

Young Mademoiselle Beauregard would take her bicycle down the road, but instead of continuing past the overgrown pathway that branched almost unnoticed off the main road, she would chain her bicycle to a tree near the path. How she had first noticed the path she could no longer remember, for it appeared a mere dent in the thick growth at the edge of the road. But when one started down the path, one saw that it grew less overgrown, until it became as if much frequented. It had been one month after the death of her father, Jean-Paul Beauregard that she, in a particularly somber mood, decided to continue down the trail until she discovered its goal and purpose. That day she had discovered the abandoned dance studio.

On this day, after being sent off by her unsuspecting mother, Elvire rode to the path as she had been doing during the six months since she had found the old building. She knew that her mother believed her lie about going to the library in Dijon, and felt confident that her secret would never be discovered. As she glided down the path, she recalled to herself how she had met the old man six months before.

Upon finally arriving at the old wooden building, Elvire removed her slippers from the rucksack, undid her heavy coat, and entered the musty air of the place. This ritual she had repeated many times since the death of her father, always in the same order and with the same feeling of anticipation. Her efforts would always be rewarded when she heard the voice of the old dance instructor coming from its place in the shadowy north corner of the large practice room.

"You arrive on time, my student," the old man addressed her from his corner. She had never been allowed to approach him to see who had taught her so much of dance, since the old man forbade it. "Are you ready to learn some more?"

Elvire curtsied and replied, as she always did, "I am, Maestro."

It was then that the Old Master started tapping his cane on the polished wooden floor of the building, which was the only part of the entire building that did not look ancient to Elvire, causing great booming echoes to carry through the room. The windows rattled to his beat, and the dust on the floor rose in clouds. He then started calling out instructions to Elvire in such a commanding tone that she could not help but dance. As she had no formal ballet training, many of the terms he used so freely were at first unfamiliar to her, and she would have to stop and ask him to explain, which he would always do very patiently so that she would understand better.

"Since you first came here and stumbled feebly about," he told her when the day's practice was done, "you have advanced very well. Now you know the basics, where then you did not know a plié from the pleats in your skirt." Though he remained hidden in the shadows, Elvire could tell that he was pleased with her efforts, for she knew how to tell such things from the sound of his voice alone. "I am pleased," he then affirmed, "and we will continue. But two hours a day is not enough! It warms you up, but the fire remains inside you, as yet unseen."

"More time?" she gasped. "Maestro, with all respect, I have the desire, but not the means. My mother already wonders out loud about my 'trips to the library' every day of the week. To be here longer would make her wonder even more loudly."

Silence followed. Elvire strained her eyes to see her anonymous teacher's reaction, but he sat where no sunlight could illuminate him, and she could only see his bent-over outline. Finally, he spoke to her from the shadows.

"I have been diligently teaching you since that first day you came into this studio," he began, "and I have my reasons for doing so, Mademoiselle Beauregard. You did not see me when you first found this aged school, but I was there and watching you from the shadows. How clumsy you looked, throwing your body about to and fro like some possessed creature. Possessed! That is the word for it; there is no better. I saw as you hopped around that, although you were coarse, you had the flame. I have seen it in very few, Mademoiselle, so I know what I am talking about. That fire burns so brightly inside you, but needs training to come out and burn the eyes of those who watch you. I could see it, but my eyes are keen from years of searching for it. Others will only see it if it is allowed to be tamed, focused, and disciplined. I can do that for you. One day, you will dance at the Paris Opera."

"The Opera? But I am an amateur!" She could not believe that anyone could hold so mad a dream for her.

"I am a very good teacher," he explained, "and you are but sixteen years of age. You have time to learn what this old man has to teach you."

Elvire had expected that his free instruction had had a purpose, but had not imagined that his goal for her was the Opera. "I did not begin young enough!" she argued. "My feet will never serve me as well as those of a prima ballerina."

"But you have the fire!" he shouted. "I have never seen it burn so hotly as it does in you. Never! That fire will carry you through more of ballet than any amount of training I can grace you with."

"I will find a way," she at last consented. She quietly left the Old Master in his ancient hidden school. She often wondered why he had been waiting in the building the first day she had met him. He had been waiting, hidden among his shadowy veil, lost in the woods in his antique school for what could have been ten thousand years had she never stumbled upon the trail that led her there. Had he been waiting expressly for her? She laughed at this absurdity as she slowly returned to her bicycle.

As she pedaled home, Elvire tried to piece together a plan that would allow her to practice more than two hours on weekdays. With her academic studies at the lycée, her household chores after school, and her ever-curious mother, this seemed an impossibility without divulging her secret. For six long, tiring months, she had not told a soul about the old man and his school lost in the woods near Dijon, fearing that discovery would end in disaster. It would seem odd to her mother that the old man never came out of the shadows and even odder that he had not revealed his name to Elvire, the young lady he had been teaching for so long.

When she at last arrived home, she approached her mother directly and informed her that that she wanted to talk about her schooling.

"Mother," she said solemnly, "I wish to quit school." To quit with her education so that the old man she had not even seen could train her for the Opera seemed insane, she knew, but she felt it must be.

"What are you going to do with yourself if you quit school?" Madame Beauregard demanded.

"I can read at the library," she lied. "I can get a job in Dijon to help you pay the bills."

Madame Beauregard looked at her daughter for a long time, and then replied, "There's no need for a job in Dijon, as long as you help me out in the house every day before going out. I don't understand what this is all about, Elvire, but I'll be happy if you're happy."

Elvire embraced her mother tightly. Within one week, all the required papers were signed that would allow her to depart from the education system. The teachers at her lycée wondered at first about her leaving, but since she had never been a spectacular academic promise, they did not contest her leaving. Nor did her schoolmates; she had always been a recluse and without close friends.

After she returned home from her final day of school, Elvire kissed her mother good-bye and headed hastily for the old dance studio. The interviews that had been necessary to quit school had kept her away from dancing for a week and she was anxious to resume her training.

"After a week of my waiting, I see you are here," the Old Master greeted her. "You have arranged it?"

"I have," she said, curtsying. "From tomorrow on, I come from noon and stay until whenever you wish me to leave. I have to help my mother until then, but can stay until whenever." She readied herself on the brass barre that still hung attached to the aging wall.

"Good!" he declared. "Now we shall begin the real training. The real dancing!"

In the weeks and months that followed, the floor of the old studio grew stained with Elvire's blood. She danced and danced to the pounding rhythm of the Old Master's cane, always careful to listen to his instructions. She did not need a partner, since the Master's words sounded so strongly in the room that she felt as if she were dancing with someone, being held by someone. At times, she would close her eyes and dance by feeling alone, and it was during these times that she thought she could feel the strong hands of a man around her waist, holding her and guiding her as would a more experienced partner. As time went on, she would close her eyes more and more often, so that the invisible hands could guide her about the room. In this manner she grew accustomed to dancing à deux despite the fact that she was indeed dancing alone.

There remained maneuvers, however, that she could not learn alone, and is was for these that she had the help of the Old Master. He insisted that she tie a handkerchief tightly about her eyes and not remove it until he resumed his place in the shadows. While her eyes were thus closed, he would approach her quietly and place his strong hands about her waist. Many times he lifted her above him, which seemed an impossible task for one who sounded so old as he.

The hands felt to Elvire much the same as the hands she often imagined guiding her as she danced alone with her eyes shut, and she wanted to tear off the blindfold to see the Old Master, but never once disobeyed his command to not remove it until he was in the darkness near his seat.

Three years passed thus, until there came a day when the Old Master's voice sounded almost sad. "It is time," he announced to her.

"Time? The Opera?" she asked in disbelief.

"Not directly," he then explained. "There are still many things to learn. Still muscles to strengthen. You cannot learn to dance completely alone, can you? But soon enough, the Opera. Find a school in Paris and audition. It will surely not deny you entrance."

The day had finally come to leave the Old Master and his antique school and enter into the world of dancing that one man alone could not provide her. "But Maestro, how shall I do such a thing? Ballet is very competitive. They will surely demand papers, credentials, proofs, and pedigrees. Surely a mongrel like me will not be allowed into any reputable school."

"Mongrel?" he exclaimed. "We cannot have them think that I have trained a mongrel, now, can we? Mademoiselle, you will dance the Opera!" He hurled his cane toward her so that it landed squarely at her feet. It was made of cherry wood, with a worn brass handle. "That is your entrance paper. My name is etched on the handle, and my name is your pedigree," he informed her. "Let them know in no uncertain terms that you are not a mongrel, Elvire Beauregard, if it is the last thing you do in Paris!"

Elvire retrieved the heavy cane. Upon the handle were etched the words: Grand maître Anatole de Blaise. She felt sad that she may never see her teacher again. "Will you come to see me in Paris?" she asked.

"When you dance the Opera, my flame, if I am permitted, I shall be there to see you," he returned. "Now go dance, divine muse!" he exclaimed.

Elvire returned home weeping, taking with her the heavy cane she had been given. Without even a word of explanation to her mother, she said to her mother simply, "I am to go to Paris."

* * *

"I have seen la Sylphide!" Monsieur Charles Julien declared as the lady who had just danced for him and the other judges curtsied. He stood, approached her reverently, and asked to kiss her hand. "Forget being a simple student! If this mediocre school does not take you on as a teacher, Mademoiselle Beauregard, I shall tender my resignation on the spot. Tell me, divine creature, who was your instructor that you should learn to dance so and have remained unknown to the likes of us until today?" He kissed her outstretched hand and searched her face for an answer.

Elvire could not understand why Monsieur Julien had been so taken. "I am surely not as good as all that."

"Modesty?" one of the other judges asked. "Why modesty? Your execution was superb, Mademoiselle - flawless to the eye. You have my vote, so Charles there need not resign."

"And mine!" announced Madame Ducharme, the final judge. "Which makes it three of three. However, your application is incomplete on your experience. What master oversaw your training?"

"I was trained by Grand maître Anatole de Blaise of Dijon," she returned.

After a long period of total silence, Monsieur Julien spoke up, "Surely you jest, Elvire! But we need not know who taught you, for your dancing itself speaks to us. Be here tomorrow at nine!"

Elvire could not understand, and said to the judge as he walked away from her, tapping his head, "What is the problem? I studied for three and a half years under Anatole de Blaise of Dijon."

The judges looked at her, smiling. "I am from Dijon myself, and understand the Dijon wit," Madame Ducharme returned at last. "But that will be enough of that. Mademoiselle Beauregard, Grand maître Anatole of Dijon has been dead for over forty years."

"But he taught me to dance ballet at his old school in the woods!" Elvire insisted.

Madame Ducharme looked Elvire squarely in the eyes and said clearly. "I myself was a student of old Anatole when I was sixteen years of age, and I can tell you from having lived through the disaster myself that the old school in the woods near Dijon was burnt to the ground with the old man in it over forty years ago. The only thing you will find at the end of the trail in the woods today is a gravestone. All that remained of the Grand maître after the fire was the melted brass handle of his cherry wood cane. He was ninety-six then!"

At the mention of the cane, Elvire ran to her rucksack and untied it. She slowly unwrapped it from the burlap she had put around it, and then carried it to Madame Ducharme and put it on the table before her to examine. "He told me to insist that I was not a mongrel, and that he had taught me!"

"Good Lord!" Madame Ducharme exclaimed, grasping at her chest. Her face was pale. "This is not so!"

"What is it, Marie-Louise?" asked Monsieur Julien.

Madame Ducharme faced her fellow judge and just remained silent and pale faced.

"What is it?" the other judge asked.

"It is his cane!"

* * *

As Elvire Beauregard stepped out of her changing room backstage of the Paris Opera, she thought she noticed the dark figure of the bent-over old man sitting in a shadowy corner at the far end of the hall. He was tapping the heavy cane on the floor as she approached the stage, so loudly that it resounded throughout the place.

"Dance, divine muse!" she thought she heard him say before she made her first entrance as la Sylphide.

Copyright © 2001 Quinn Tyler Jackson
All rights reserved

About the Author

        Quinn Tyler Jackson has been writing since he was twelve. At various stages of his career, he has been an artist's apprentice, antiquarian bookseller's assistant, gas jockey, freelance editor, literary agent, stay-at-home father, and computer software and hardware consultant. Through it all, he has always written poetry and fiction and has usually, when presented with two paths, taken the one that holds the promise of enlightenment, however worn. To learn more about Mr. Jackson's writing, please visit his Homepage.

Paintings by Edgar Degas.
Top: L'etoile, (The Star Dancer), detail, 1878, pastel on paper, The Musee d'Orsay, Paris
Cover: La Rehearsal, 1878, oil on canvas, The Fogg Art Museum, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA

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