a man at a suffragist rally who had come all the way from Quebec City to participate. He was mild and calm, but stood his ground with firm integrity. A bank manager who dabbled in politics, Gilles Taillefer had made his affections known to Cécile in a timely and respectable manner, and they were soon travelling between the cities to visit each other, in the reputable ways one might expect of a banker dabbling in politics. At an assembly near the end of 1918, in the midst of a crowd gathered to celebrate the announcement of not only the national vote being granted to women but the passing of an act that permitted them to run in federal elections, he got down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. She assented, on the condition that he continue to support her while she fought to win womenâs suffrage in Quebecâs provincial vote, as well as a few other provisos. He agreed, and they were married early the next year, with Cécile moving to his modest townhouse in Quebec City.
Claire, who had just finished school, was the only child left in the household. She hadnât really been fazed by all this excitable suffragist rhetoric that had quivered through the house, having been much more absorbed in her classes at the Ãcole de Danse Lacasse-Morenoff. She eagerly mastered the dances they taught her â traditional and folk dances, ballroom, some exotic Spanish steps, the hop-trot, one-step Peabody, and even a little rudimentary ballet â warming up on the barre in front of the admiring mirrors that climbed the high walls with their reflections, stretching clear up to the ceiling with flattery.
When she was fifteen, through a friend from her classes, she landed a contract to work weekends at one of the cityâs cinemas â even if it was one of the more out-of-the-way and shabby ones â as an adagio dancer, part of a troupe that entertained in front of the screen between short movies, or when the reels were being changed for a feature film. Many of the girls were younger than Claire, most of them thirteen, and together they made up an eye-catching line of sixteen showgirls, dancing in unison to lively ragtime. It was the first applause she had ever received that wasnât coming from a family member or someone she knew, and she noticed how the clapping sounded all the more raucous and sincere because of it. Sometimes, looking out beyond the blaring lights into the darkness of the audience, she wondered how many people had come just for the dancers, whose act was always disappointingly interrupted by the moving pictures. The piano and trumpet players who helped them to entertain often told them at the end of the day how spectacular theyâd been, sensational really, their hands brushing the small of the girlsâ waists as they filed out the back door to return to their unsequined civilian lives and another dusty week of school.
The limits of how evocative things could be onstage were just beginning to be tested in earnest by the cabarets and revues, the burlesque theatres, vaudeville, and musical comedies, all of which were nudging the envelope forward. Claireâs parents had been to see two of her acts when she first got the job as an adagio dancer, and had reluctantly agreed to let her continue, glad of the extra revenue added to the household. But the moment she was finished school, sixteen years old and eager to move up and on from her inconsequential cinema job, they went to see her again, this time unannounced, and sat near the back of the theatre. In only one year, things had changed significantly. To their befuddled dismay, what they saw was their daughter, undeniably a young woman now, in a costume that revealed her legs in their entirety, as well as the white spans of her arms, and even a hint of her cleavage, all while she danced back and forth on the stage in what was (as chance would have it) the most risqué number she had ever performed. They left hushed and
Claire, who had just finished school, was the only child left in the household. She hadnât really been fazed by all this excitable suffragist rhetoric that had quivered through the house, having been much more absorbed in her classes at the Ãcole de Danse Lacasse-Morenoff. She eagerly mastered the dances they taught her â traditional and folk dances, ballroom, some exotic Spanish steps, the hop-trot, one-step Peabody, and even a little rudimentary ballet â warming up on the barre in front of the admiring mirrors that climbed the high walls with their reflections, stretching clear up to the ceiling with flattery.
When she was fifteen, through a friend from her classes, she landed a contract to work weekends at one of the cityâs cinemas â even if it was one of the more out-of-the-way and shabby ones â as an adagio dancer, part of a troupe that entertained in front of the screen between short movies, or when the reels were being changed for a feature film. Many of the girls were younger than Claire, most of them thirteen, and together they made up an eye-catching line of sixteen showgirls, dancing in unison to lively ragtime. It was the first applause she had ever received that wasnât coming from a family member or someone she knew, and she noticed how the clapping sounded all the more raucous and sincere because of it. Sometimes, looking out beyond the blaring lights into the darkness of the audience, she wondered how many people had come just for the dancers, whose act was always disappointingly interrupted by the moving pictures. The piano and trumpet players who helped them to entertain often told them at the end of the day how spectacular theyâd been, sensational really, their hands brushing the small of the girlsâ waists as they filed out the back door to return to their unsequined civilian lives and another dusty week of school.
The limits of how evocative things could be onstage were just beginning to be tested in earnest by the cabarets and revues, the burlesque theatres, vaudeville, and musical comedies, all of which were nudging the envelope forward. Claireâs parents had been to see two of her acts when she first got the job as an adagio dancer, and had reluctantly agreed to let her continue, glad of the extra revenue added to the household. But the moment she was finished school, sixteen years old and eager to move up and on from her inconsequential cinema job, they went to see her again, this time unannounced, and sat near the back of the theatre. In only one year, things had changed significantly. To their befuddled dismay, what they saw was their daughter, undeniably a young woman now, in a costume that revealed her legs in their entirety, as well as the white spans of her arms, and even a hint of her cleavage, all while she danced back and forth on the stage in what was (as chance would have it) the most risqué number she had ever performed. They left hushed and
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