The Painter & the Ballerina Pt. 01

Margot Bisset had finally wrangled, coaxed, and cajoled her way into the upper echelons of ballerinas at the Dancing Company of Saint Celeste. It had not been talent alone that had finally secured her place among the leads of the company (the mere thought was ludicrous!): it had been sweat. She had put in her time, hour after hour, into practicing, perfecting, and maintaining her postures, and she had embodied the discipline and exactitude required of her vocation with alacrity.

And, of course, she had put in her fair share of time sweating underneath the sheets with wealthy patrons. It was the 1860s, after all, and purity nowadays would get you nowhere as a ballerina. Either drop your drawers or go home-that's what the general mentality seemed to be, and Margot had no intention of going home.

First there had been Etienne. Margot had been only eighteen years old when she'd met him, fresh out of dancing school and into the company. An old man with a proclivity for young ladies, he had taken his time deflowering her, teaching her first how to offer him pleasure with her hand, then her mouth, then finally how to receive his member within her most intimate aperture. Margot had taken to the lessons readily out of a sense of pragmatism. It was the open secret of the trade, one to which she knew she must accustom herself if she were to get anywhere as a dancer. But there had been another part of Margot, a secret part, that had taken its own perverse pleasure in the deflowering. Etienne had been gentle, firm, and precise as he molded her body to his will, and Margot had felt an unearthly thrill coursing through her when she submitted to him.

Over four years, Margot had accrued a steady supply of lovers. After Etienne there had been Marcel, a shipping magnate with an inflated but fragile ego. Next had come Bruno, with his doll's face and nervous smile, then Maurice, with his slimy graces and sumptuous gifts. Just as she perfected dancing the ballet by day, Margot learned the dance of flirtation by night. She learned how to intuit what a man wanted from her and to exploit his desire for her own benefit. Each man had been instrumental in Margot's advancement in the dance school, gifting the ballet generous donations at precipitous moments that offered her strategic opportunities for promotion. Margot was a worldly woman, and she learned quickly that her best chance at success was to take these opportunities as they were given to her.

Was it an honorable life? Certainly not. Honor was for the upper classes, to whom Margot, the daughter of a lowly washerwoman, did not belong. But it was, Margot believed, a beautiful one. To embody the pinnacle of grace and beauty onstage, to mold one's own being into a work of art for the pleasure of an audience of hundreds: the art of dance was well worth the indignities that went on behind the curtains.

The trouble that Margot was now facing was that her most recent suitor, Maurice, had just gotten married. Having turned his attentions and lavish gifts to his new wife, he began seeking out Margot's services less and less frequently. He wrote to her at last that he was leaving Paris to travel to Italy with his bride. Margot understood that if she were to keep her tenuous position as a lead dancer of the company, she would need to find a new suitor forthwith.

And so it was with caution and determination that she entered that ballet's green room that night, suppressing a cough as the thick perfume of cigar smoke inundated her senses. Gentlemen abounded, seated on velvet chairs, drinking and smoking and watching the ballerinas undress after the night's performance. Some joked that this room was the most high end brothel in Paris, a caricature of the base and lusty undercurrent of haute culture. Margot scanned the room, searching for a man who looked like he might be liberal enough with his wallet to ensure that Margot's position within the dance company could be sustained. In the center of the room sat Colonel Hugo Villiers, a huge man with an impressive moustache, drinking an ice water with an air of smug sobriety. He was wealthy alright, but Margot deemed him too uptight to be particularly forthcoming with his donations. Then there was August Redon, who sat next to him. He was young, beautiful and rich, but he seemed to be paying more attention to the Colonel than to any of the ladies in the room. Margot's eyes passed over the familiar faces of the men who frequented the ballerinas' green room. Jean Guerin? Too poor. Yves Courbet? Too shy.

Her eyes alighted on the countenance of a man she had not seen before. He sat apart from the other gentlemen in a corner of the room, a cigar cradled in his long fingers. He was slight-figured and somewhat sallow-skinned, with a nose that was disproportionately small for his face. But he wore an expression on his strange, asymmetrical face that made Margot look twice. His eyes were trained on her, almost unblinking, observing her with a cool, captivated curiosity. He seemed to be drinking in every detail of her figure, sequestering the image of her body into the deep recesses of his mind. Margot looked away. She scanned the room again, looking for other men to approach, but she found herself drawn back into the stranger's gaze. He beckoned Margot over to him with a subtle motion of his hand.

Margot decided to approach him. But how? Her years at the dancing company had taught her that there were many different guises she could take on when she first approached a man. Would this man appreciate an innocent personality or a lustful one? Submissive or dominant? Margot had trouble reading him, but her instinct told her that directness was the best route. She put on her most winning smile, sat down in the chair next to him, and crossed her legs so as to show off her thighs underneath her tutu.

"I don't know if I've seen your face here before, Monsieur," she said.

The man's eyes flicked downward toward Margot's exposed leg, then upward again toward her face. Margot had been around this room long enough to know what postures men wanted to see, what glimpses would set their hearts racing. This man, however, seemed unphased by Margot's brash display of her availability. He smiled knowingly, as if he had anticipated every move Margot had made.

"Margot Bisset," he said. "I asked the choreographer what your name was."

"You did?" Margot found that, while the man across from her seemed utterly impassive, her own heart had begun to flutter.

"Your dancing was impeccable." It was not a compliment but an observation. "Your posture was unwavering and the athleticism behind your movements was evident."

"Thank you!" Who was this man? "Are you a choreographer yourself?"

"No," he replied. Margot waited for him to introduce himself, but he seemed content to take his time. He examined her with that sly, knowing smile, then he placed his hand on Margot's upper thigh, carefully, almost daintily. This was the move Margot had expected. Access to women's legs made most men swell with pleasure, and she knew how to navigate their arousal to get what she was looking for. But this touch exhibited a different kind of arousal than Margot had encountered before-not hot and impulsive but cool and removed. The stranger touched her leg as if appraising it, administering pressure as if to ascertain its density. Far from rendering him hot and breathless, the interaction quickened Margot's own breath.

"What is you name?" Margot asked at last, when it was evident that it was her turn to speak.

"Edgar Degas," he replied. "I am a painter."

A painter! That would explain his obvious eye for detail and knack for observation. "Are you a good one?" she teased.

"Yes," he replied, without a trace of irony. "I would like to paint you. Come to the rehearsal hall at noon tomorrow. Wear your dancing gown and shoes."

With that, he stood up and left the room. It had not been a request-it had been an order. Margot knew that she was free not to obey. He had not flashed his wallet at her, nor had he made any offer of sponsorship. She owed him nothing. But there was something about him, about the effortless way he had established his dominance, that made Margot want to obey him. Against her better judgment, Margot decided to meet this mysterious painter at the rehearsal hall the next day.

***

Degas sat in the middle of the empty rehearsal hall on a wooden stool, an easel set up before him. The mirrored walls of the space reflected his visage into infinity on either side. As Margot entered the room, the door clanged shut, echoing in the cavernous space. She approached the painter shyly. She had done up her hair and decorated her face with stage makeup in preparation for the painting.

"Your lips are rouged," observed Degas. There was no discernable inflection in his tone. Was the comment meant as a compliment or an insult?

"I...I rouged them. I thought...I wanted to look beautiful for the painting."

"Take it off," he told her. "I'm interested in what you look like, not what you want to look like."

"Okay," she said. She reached for the makeup cloth in her bag and began to wipe the paint off of her face. She began to feel embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't realize..."

"No need to apologize." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, encouraged. "You do look beautiful. But I'm not interested in beauty. I'm interested in reality."

Margot finished wiping her makeup off. "This is my reality, Monsieur Degas," she countered. "Tutus, makeup, dancing. I wear this every day."

He considered this. "That is an astute observation." Margot blushed. It was perhaps the first time anyone, man or woman, had called her astute. "Maybe next time I will paint you with your makeup on," Degas continued. "For now, I'd like you to dance for me. I want to observe how you move."

"Yes, monsieur," Margot assented. She brought her body in line with itself, straightening her posture and placing her feet in first position. The room was silent, but Margot played a waltz in her head as she began to move in rhythm. She felt Degas's eyes on her, steady and calculating. She felt his eyes travel across the contours of her body, her upright chest, her arched back, her muscular legs. When the routine had finished, she looked up at the painter, who smiled broadly.

"Do you know why I picked you to model for me rather than any of the other girls?" Degas asked.

"No"

"I told you I wasn't interested in beauty," he continued. "Nor am I particularly interested in grace. Your dancing is different. It is...kinetic. Strong. I could tell when I felt your thigh last night."

"Thank you," Margot replied, but privately she was nonplussed. Was Degas saying that her dancing was not beautiful or graceful?

"I'd like you to dance for me again," the painter continued. "This time, when I tell you to stop, you will freeze your body in the exact position it is in. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Margot. Again, she positioned her body and began going through the motions of an imaginary waltz. This time, just as she reached the bottom of a plié, Degas told her to freeze. She did so, her feet pointed outward, her arms upward, legs tensed in the bent position. She felt a strain on her thigh muscles as she maintained the posture. This burning in her muscles was a familiar feeling after having trained as a dancer for years. One was often required to maintain uncomfortable positions for long periods of time, and the exercise had hardened both Margot's leg muscles and her capacity for endurance.

She waited for Degas to issue his next instructions, to release her from the position, but he simply observed her. He walked around her, taking in her body from every angle. He touched her outstretched arms with his hands, then traveled down her back and felt her legs, tensed underneath her thin, short dancing skirt.

Margot drew in a sharp breath. She had been touched by so many men before, but something about this man's touch-its scientific precision, its cool curiosity-set her heart beating in double time. Perhaps it was the sparing way he had touched her, alighting his fingers only on as much of her body as he needed to, that made Margot long for more. He came around to face her, and looking into his eyes, she knew that she could not hide the arousal she was experiencing. Not from this man, who seemed to observe every detail about her more thoroughly than even Margot herself did.

Degas looked her up and down once more. "Continue," he told her at last. She gratefully completed the plié, then began a series of pirouettes across the room, keeping her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall in order to keep her orientation. She dipped down, raising her left leg and arm in the air and pointing them diagonally toward the upper corner of the room. "Stop," he ordered. Margot obeyed with some difficulty, struggling to maintain her balance. She clenched the muscles in her right leg, steadying herself.

"How long can you hold this position?"

"Not very long," she admitted. "I might lose my balance."

"Go over to the bar and use it to steady yourself."

Margot obeyed. One hand on the bar, the other hand pointed in the air, she raised her leg again and pointed her toe. She felt her muscles burn and her leg threaten to tremble as she kept it still and straight for the painter. Degas walked over to her and began making small adjustments to her posture. He positioned her head so that it faced straight in the direction of her arm and leg and adjusted the foot that was on the ground so that it was diagonally in line with the rest of her body. He slid her skirt up her leg, making visible a few additional inches of her thigh.

"Stay right there," he told her. "I am going to make a sketch of you."

Margot's leg wobbled, but she steadied it with immense effort. "I'll stay here for you as long as I can," she said.

"Good." Degas returned to his easel. Margot's eyes were trained on the corner of the ceiling where her head was pointed, but she heard a scratching noise as the artist rubbed charcoal on paper. Her leg burned and her breath was laboured, but she pointed her leg and arm determinedly toward the ceiling. It seemed to her to be precisely this labor that Degas was eager to capture. She sensed the obvious pleasure he took in drawing her discomfort, the sweat on her face, the tension in her muscles. And as she held the position for what seemed an interminable few minutes, she clung to this idea: that the strain in her muscles, the pain, was itself the very substance that Degas sought to record.

At last, the shaking in Margot's leg became impossible to control. Her muscles gave way, and she collapsed on the floor, breathless. "I'm sorry..." she began, "I kept still as long as possible."

Degas smiled kindly. "I have what I need." As an afterthought, he added, "You did very well."

"Thank you," she said, raising herself shakily back to her feet.

"Yes, very well indeed," he said abstently. He began to pack up his things. Margot waited for him to tell her what she should do next, but his mind seemed already to have passed on to the next part of his day. He checked his watch and donned his coat.

"What comes next?" Margot asked finally. "Are you...do you want to draw me like this again?"

"Yes," he responded. "The next time I need you, I know where to find you." He turned to leave.

"Wait!" Margot exclaimed, then looked down, embarrassed. "You...you know I would give myself to you, Monsieur, if you wanted me to. I've been told I'm very good. I could make you feel very good too."

He turned around again and looked at her, taken aback. His eyes narrowed. "It was an erotic experience for you, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Margot breathed.

He paused as if considering something. Then he grunted decisively and continued. "I would like for you to give yourself to me, Margot. But not in the way you are thinking."

"I'll do anything," she told him. "I'm very versatile."

Degas smiled. "I would like to paint you again. In...compromising positions. Would you do that for me?"

The very thought made Margot's insides churn with anticipation. "Yes. Yes, please. I would like that very much."

***

For the next three days, Margot did not hear from Degas, but she received a series of odd gifts from what could only have been him. Other men she had had affairs with had given her jewelry, clothing, and flowers. She had worn the gifts dutifully, then pawned them when she moved on to her next lover. From Degas, however, she received practical gifts. A tube of makeup, a pair of dancing tights, an umbrella for the rain. The quotidian nature of these gifts tickled Margot's fancy. They felt more sincere than the gaudy gifts of her previous suitors, and she would certainly have more occasion to use them.

What was it about him? What aspect of Edgar Degas's person made her thoughts return so incessantly to that afternoon when he had drawn her in the rehearsal hall? One factor was surely the cool, effortless way he had established his dominance throughout their interactions. She had been with other men who liked to dominate her: Etienne with his fawning attentions, Marcel with his strong, rough bravado. She had taken to their power games with enthusiasm, leaning into her submissive role and using it to gain their favor. But Degas's dominance was absolute. It did not need to be proven through infantilizing words or feats of strength; he embodied it in every inflection, every expression of his being. And Margot did not need to pretend to be captivated by it-she was utterly and thoroughly taken.

And so it was with great excitement that Margot read the note that was delivered to her at the dancing company that Wednesday. "I enjoyed painting you last weekend," it said. "Please come to my studio this Sunday at eleven. 14 Rue Thouin. You will not need to dress up." The envelope contained two coins for cab fare.

Margot followed the note's instructions. On Sunday, she woke up early and made her way from the tenements where she lived with her mother and sister toward Degas's studio on the Rue Thouin in the center city. She wore a simple brown dress and an apron, the attire she usually wore on her days off, and her face was undecorated. She rang the bell, and the painter himself let her in.

"Good morning, Monsieur," Margot said to him, curtsying slightly, "I've been looking forward to our meeting."

"I thought you would," he smiled. "Come in."

Margot followed him upstairs to his studio. She was not sure what she had been expecting-a wide open space, perhaps, with half finished canvases on the wall-but she had certainly not expected what she saw when she entered. The room was a mess. It was crowded with numerous pieces of furniture, which took up space in the center of the room but seemed to be arranged in no particular order. On the floor, at least five different rugs clashed garishly with each other. Paintbrushes and empty paint tubes were strewn over every surface, and sketches and drawings lay haphazardly on the walls, floor, and tables alike.

"I need to get a maid in here," Degas said quickly, sensing the source of Margot's hesitation. "But I do like the chaos, I think it's good for creativity."

"It's no matter," Margot told him. She looked around for a place to sit but found that every available surface was covered with clutter. She waited for him to tell her what to do next.

Degas gestured to a wide, shallow water basin that lay inexplicably in the center of the room. "I am going to ask you to take a bath in front of me. Are you prepared to do that?"

"Yes," she told him.

"Good," Degas said. "The washroom is in the other room. You'll find a water jug in there and a sponge. Fill it with water from the tap and bring it back here."