Marie, Dancing

by Carolyn Meyer Narrated by Carine Montbertrand

Overview

Dancing with the Paris Opera ballet is 14-year-old Marie van Goethem's greatest joy. And yet she must honor her father's dying request to keep their poverty-stricken family together. She certainly can't count on the help of her drunken mother or selfish older sister.

When famous artist Edgar Degas asks Marie to model for a sculpture, she welcomes the income—although she's hesitant to pose nude. Her bi-weekly visits to Degas' cluttered art studio introduce her to unimagined wonders and mysteries. But when the sculpture is finished, she refuses to be a rich man's mistress. She instead earns honest income as a seamstress while hoping for her chance at true love.

An award-winning author of more than 50 books, Carolyn Meyer captivates young adults with her vivid historical fiction. Using actual details about the ballerina Degas immortalized as Little Dancer Aged Fourteen, Meyer creates a seamless narrative of Marie's life as it might have been in 1870s Paris.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

As with her Young Royals series, Meyer's ability to sweep readers to another time and place while bringing historic figures to life once again results in a mesmerizing novel. Here she offers an imaginative rendering of Marie van Goethem, the impoverished young dancer who inspired Degas's famous sculpture, Petite danseuse de quatorze ans. Marie's widowed mother earns a meager salary as a laundress and drowns her sorrows in alcohol. Her one dream is that her three daughters will become accomplished enough as dancers to attract the attention of wealthy men. Already, Marie's older sister, Antoinette, has received several gifts from gentlemen. Disgusted by Antoinette's flirtatious ways, Marie chooses to take a different path by agreeing to model for the famous artist Degas. Inside the artist's studio, Marie glimpses a new world filled with beauty and mystery (and makes the acquaintance of American artist Mary Cassatt). Degas promises to make Marie famous by immortalizing her in a statuette, but meanwhile, Marie's family life becomes increasingly desperate, threatening to interfere with her career as a dancer. Using words in place of brush strokes, the author paints a harsh and honest portrayal of a dancer's life in Paris during the 1800s. Marie's brief encounter with fame is overshadowed by the many hardships she endures and the sacrifices she must make in order to keep her family together. Heart-wrenching and enlightening, this gritty story celebrates artistic accomplishment even as it reveals the human suffering often required to achieve it. Ages 12-up. (Oct.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

School Library Journal

Gr 6-8-This is a fictionalized account of the inspiration for Degas's famous statue, "The Little Dancer." Young Marie van Goethem and her two sisters are students at the Paris Opera Ballet. Their mother envisions this as their only hope to get out of their destitute life. The oldest sister, Antoinette, is soon being wined and dined by wealthy men who often pursue the young dancers. Marie, the responsible one, is trying to deal with her mother's alcoholism and care for her younger sister, Charlotte. When Degas chooses Marie to pose for his sculpture both in the nude and costumed, the extra money is only a temporary solution. Eventually Antoinette and Marie are dismissed from the Paris Opera for failing to adhere to the strict rules. Charlotte continues and, with Marie's support, succeeds. Marie finds contentment as she marries and finds joy in her younger sister's success. This is a fairly realistic look at the difficult lives of poor French girls who had few ways to escape their poverty and often discovered that the pursuit of their dreams was fraught with dangerous choices and obstacles. The introduction of Degas and Mary Cassatt enriches the historical interest of this well-written story. Marie's determination and resilience make her an appealing character, and her willingness to try to keep her family intact and support them through their difficulties is believable and admirable.-Carol Schene, Taunton Public Schools, MA Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

The Paris of Degas and the Impressionists was a vibrant and exciting time of artistic accomplishment. One of the most beloved works of art from this time is Degas' sculpture of "Little Dancer, Aged Fourteen." From what little is known about the model, a student at the Paris Opera Ballet named Marie Van Goethem, Meyer has fashioned a story of a young dancer who models for Degas to offset the extreme poverty of her home life. Her older sister, also a dancer, is more intent on finding a man who will provide her with an apartment and jewels. Their mother works in a laundry when not falling down drunk from partaking of too much absinthe to drown her own sorrows. Readers with an interest in ballet will find fascinating insights into the strict world of the late 19th-century Parisian ballet. As striking is the juxtaposition of a ballet dancer holding a still pose for the sculpture. Her modeling leads to a fascination with Degas' art and that of Mary Cassatt, a friend of Degas, while her love interests and her unwillingness to become a mistress of a rich man add flavor to the tale. (Fiction 12+)

From the Publisher

"Mesmerizing . . . Heart-wrenching and enlightening, this gritty story celebrates artistic accomplishment even as it reveals the human suffering often required to achieve it."--Publishers Weekly (starred review)

JUN/JUL 07 - AudioFile

This story transports listeners to Paris circa 1870, through the eyes of Marie van Goethem, a 14-year-old dancer with the Paris Opera Ballet. Carine Montbertrand, whose French accent is impeccable, sets forth Marie’s story in an engaging, wholly accessible way. In addition, her characterizations of Marie’s downtrodden mother, selfish sister, and the real characters of Edgar Degas and Mary Cassatt fluidly add to the richness of this text. Marie’s struggles are depicted in a heartfelt manner as she strains against the expectations of her alcoholic mother and her poverty-stricken family. This is truly a fascinating tale finely rendered. M.R.P. © AudioFile 2007, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171023379
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	11/26/2007
Edition description:	Unabridged
Age Range:	12 - 17 Years

Read an Excerpt

Marie, Dancing

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By Meyer, Carolyn

Gulliver Books

Copyright © 2005 Meyer, Carolyn
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0152051163

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Monsieur Degas

You," said the man wearing blue-tinted eyeglasses. "You, with the long braid. Come here, s'il vous plaît." He crooked a finger, beckoning. "If you please."

It was not an invitation; it was a command. I glanced around at the other dancers. "Moi, Monsieur?" I replied. "You mean me?"

"Oui, oui-toi!" the man growled impatiently. "Yes, I mean you, Mademoiselle."

I knew who he was, although he had never before spoken to me: Monsieur Degas, the artist. All the dancers of the Paris Opéra ballet knew Monsieur Degas. He was often at the Palais Garnier, present at our morning classes and our afternoon rehearsals, sitting on a wooden chair in the corner with a drawing pad open on his knees, watching us through those eyeglasses or a pince-nez perched on his long nose. His pencil skimmed over the paper, scarcely pausing. We thought him peculiar, an eccentric kind of person, and we generally ignored him. Had he been sketching me just now, as I scratched my back and yawned?

The afternoon rehearsal was finished; the dancers were changing out of their practice tutus and slippers and into street clothes and sabots. I was tired and hungry, eager to be gone. What did he want of me?

He didn't wait for me to reply or to change my clothes but simply walked off, motioning for me to follow. I snatched up my old tartan shawl and ran after him, my wooden clogs echoing through the poorly lit maze of corridors in the opera house.

It was my mother's desire that my sisters and I become dancers. I had passed my fourteenth birthday in February, and since the age of nine I had been enrolled as a student at the ballet school of the Paris Opéra. Antoinette-seventeen-and I were now members of the corps de ballet; Charlotte, just eight, was only a petit rat, a "little rat." Maman's dream of a better life for us had meant long hours and many sacrifices, a daily struggle to survive.

As we hurried along without speaking, Monsieur Degas a few steps ahead, I wondered if he would ask me to pose for him. He left the Palais Garnier and strode rapidly up Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin toward Place Pigalle. The street was steep and narrow. A cold mist hung in the air. Still dressed in my practice tutu, my sleeveless bodice, and tights with holes in the knees, I shivered and wrapped the ragged shawl, which had provided feasts for generations of moths, tighter around my shoulders.

That morning I had been practicing at the barre, the wooden railing that ran the length of the classroom wall-polished by hundreds of hands that had clutched it during exercises. I was performing an arabesque, balanced on my left leg, right leg extended out straight behind me, head up, right arm curving gracefully, fingers held just so. From this position I moved to an attitude, similar to an arabesque but with the right knee slightly bent. I was certain that every muscle in my body had memorized the small differences between the two. But at that moment Madame Théodore clapped her hands and shouted across the room in her terrible grating voice, "Marie! Mademoiselle van Goethem! What is it you're doing, Mademoiselle? You look like a dog pissing!"

I heard the other girls smother their laughter in muffled gasps. I disliked them for laughing, but if I had been in their place, no doubt I, too, would have laughed. A dozen ti she shouted at me, as she did at them, but this was the worst. Madame Théodore taught by humiliation. You prayed that she would never look your way, but sooner or later she always did, and her eyes, sharp as needles, missed nothing. Un chien pissant!

Tears stung my eyes. I bowed my head while she lectured me, blood rushing to my face. I had vowed that I would never weep in front of her, as many of the girls had. When she was through with me, I resumed my position at the barre, and Madame Théodore turned her piercing eye and biting tongue on someone else.

Now I trotted behind Monsieur Degas-_my sabots clattering on the damp cobblestones-_wondering if we were going to his studio but afraid to ask, lest he think me impudent. Cane tucked under his arm and cloak flapping about his stooped shoulders, he marched up the narrow street like a general at the head of an army. He wasn't a young man, for his closely cropped beard was streaked with gray. Although he was such a familiar figure at our classes and rehearsals, none of the students of the ballet school had seen the pictures he'd made of us. My sister Antoinette had sometimes posed for him, and she'd heard that his paintings fetched high prices from wealthy collectors. Maybe les étoiles, the stars of the ballet, saw his pictures. But not us, the lowly dancers of no importance.

He didn't say a word to me until we turned onto Rue Frochot and stopped in front of number four, a tall, narrow door with chipped green paint. I knew the place: I had been there before. My mother worked as a laundress, and Monsieur Degas was one of her customers. Each week Maman sent me or my older sister to pick up a wick full of dirty linens and, later, to return the clean linens, ironed and carefully packed in the same basket. I had never been farther than the first-floor landing, never encountered Monsieur Degas himself; instead, I had handed the basket over to the housekeeper, Madame Sabine, and waited while she counted out the shirts and other linens, and then the sous that were owed. My sister Antoinette boasted that she had often been invited upstairs to his studio on the fifth floor.

"To model for him," she said. Then she added, "in the nude," and pursed her lips in an arch manner that made me want to pinch her.

I didn't know whether to believe her or not. Antoinette was a born liar. She'd lie for no particular reason, sometimes just to make herself look better or to make someone else look worse. I often lied, too, when I had something I wanted to hide, but I had to work at it and was never as successful as my sister. I didn't think it would have bothered Antoinette to take off her clothes for an artist. She was like that. I was certain it would bother me.

Now I followed Monsieur Degas up flight after flight of stairs. The higher we climbed, the more I worried what he might ask me to do and what I would say to him. When we reached the topmost floor, he pushed open the door on its creaking hinges. I hesitated. Only then did he tturn to look at me. "My place of work," he said in his gravelly voice. "Come in."

I stepped over the high threshold and entered into chaos.

There were haphazard piles everywhere: dusty tutus; heaps of worn-out ballet slippers; a jumble of bowls, pitchers, books, and candlesticks; ladders; zinc bathing tubs; old wooden chairs; couple of violins and other musical instruments; a divan covered in dark red velvet rubbed bare of its nap. A battered worktable was strewn with tubes of paint, boxes of crayons, sticks of charcoal, jars of brushes, tangles of wire, and lumps of clay. A printing press with a large wheel occupied one corner. Several easels stood about like sentinels, some holding pictures; more pictures were stacked on the floor, facing the wall. I ran my fingertips along the edge of the worktable, and they came away gray with dust.

I don't believe Antoinette was here, I thought, gazing around the studio, or she would have stolen something and flaunted it.

Still wearing his hat and cloak, Monsieur Degas lit a gas lamp and seated himself on a tall wooden stool. He folded his arms across his chest and peered at me intently through his blue-tinted eyeglasses.

His steady gaze heightened my uneasiness. I wanted to turn and run down the stairs, but I lowered my eyes and forced myself to stay where I was. "Turn around," he said, and I hurried to do as he asked. "Slowly!"

I turned slowly.

A sound of disgust rattled in his throat. "Get rid of that shawl," he ordered, "and put on those slippers." He pointed to the heap of old ballet slippers. I put on the first pair I picked up. The shoes were too small, and cramped my toes, but I was too nervous to search for a better pair. I bent to tie the ribbons around my ankles.

"Hold that!" cried Monsieur Degas, already beginning to sketch.

He had caught me in an awkward position. "But, Monsieur . . . ," I protested.

"Do not move, Mademoiselle, s'il vous plaît!"

I tried to remai off-balance. He made that sound again-impatience, perhaps, rather than disgust. "Go over there." He pointed to a small wooden platform. "The model's stand. That's where I'll want you from now on."

I obeyed. He adjusted his stool and tossed aside his hat. "Fourth position!" He began to unbutton his cloak.

I settled into the familiar ballet position, one foot in front of the other, toes turned out.


Copyright © 2005 by Carolyn ­Meyer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
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Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work
should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department,
Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887­-­6777.


Continues...

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