The Dancer and the Body by Alfred Döblin

Abstract

She was destined to become a dancer at the age of eleven. With her propensity for twisting her limbs and pulling faces and with her singular temperament, she seemed admirably suited for this profession. Until then her every step had been awkward; now she learned how to train her elastic ligaments and her double joints; she insinuated herself, cautiously and patiently, further and further, into her toes, her ankles, her knees, greedily ambushed the slender shoulders and bend of her thin arms, lurked over the play of her disciplined body. She managed to waft a chill over the most voluptuous dance. At 18 her figure was a bare trace, as light as silk, her eyes dark and oversized. Her face was sharp in profile and long, like a boy's. Unseductive and unmusical, her voice was a shrill staccato; and she walked briskly and impatiently. She lacked affection, threw an unpitying gaze on her untalented colleagues and bored herself stiff with their complaints. A wasting disease affected her at nineteen. Her face fringed by her black velvet chignon took on a China-doll look. Her limbs became heavy, but she continued to dance. When she was alone, she stamped her foot on the ground, threatened her body and struggled with it. She spoke to nobody about her weakness. She gritted her teeth in the face of this stupid, childish thing she had just learned to overcome. When Ella bit her lips in pain, her mother threw herself on the sofa and wept for hours. After a week, the old woman made up her mind and told her daughter, while looking at the floor, that she had to put a stop to this and go to hospital. Ella made no reply, and simply shot a hateful look at the wrinkled, hopeless face. The …