The Glass Slipper

by Eleanor Farjeon

  “What for?” asked Arethusa, starting to cough.

  “She’s coughing on purpose, Ma,” said Araminta.

  “Choke it down,” commanded the Stepmother.

  Arethusa did so, going purple in the face; on which Araminta sniggered, “I think it’s better to cough than look like a boiled beetroot.”

  “Who’s a boiled beetroot?”

  “You’re a boiled beetroot!”

  “Ma, Ma! Minta’s calling me a boiled beetroot!”

  “I daresay the Prince is very partial to boiled beetroot,” said the Stepmother, and returned to her book. “Next comes ‘RULES ABOUT SNEEZING: Sneezing, even more than coughing, should be suppressed in the Presence of Royalty. If you feel one coming—’”

  “Oh, Ma! I feel one coming!” gasped Araminta.

  “‘Hold your breath—’” read the Stepmother.

  Minta held her breath.

  “‘Grit your teeth—’”

  Minta gritted her teeth.

  “‘Clench your fists—and subdue it at all costs. It is better to break a blood vessel than to sneeze.’”

  Minta stopped gritting and clenching and sneezed violently. “I’m not going to break no blood vessel,” she declared.

  “I hope the Prince is partial to water-spouting whales,” remarked Arethusa.

  “Who’s a water-spouting whale?”

  “You’re a water-spouting whale.”

  “Ma, Ma! Thusa’s calling me a water-spouting whale.”

  “Shall I ever teach you manners?” snapped the Stepmother. She rustled through the book again. “‘STARING: Never Stare. . . . CONTRADICTING: Don’t Contradict. . . . YAWNING: Stifle it. . . . SCRATCHING: Grapple with it. . . . SECOND HELPINGS—’”

  “Second helpings of what?” asked Thusa hopefully.

  “‘Second Helpings of Anything must be refused,’” read the Stepmother. “Ah! This is what I was looking for—‘CURTSYING: Curtsying should be swanlike. Everything depends on the Dip.’ Let me see you dip, girls.”

  The girls got up from their chairs and flopped down on the floor, like buckets bumping down a well.

  “More swanlike,” said the Stepmother. “One, two, three, dip! One, two, three, dip! You must think of swans.”

  “I was thinking of them,” said Arethusa.

  “So was I,” said Araminta.

  “And I was thinking of geese,” said the Stepmother. Really, her precious pets were being extra trying today. “Do you want to be wallflowers?”

  “What’s a wallflower?” asked Arethusa.

  “A wallflower is a young lady who sits all night with her back to the wall because nobody will ask her to dance. Dip, girls, dip! One, two, three, swans, not wallflowers.”

  “I’m not going to be a wallflower.” The Sisters pranced about, practicing curtsies. “Nobody’s not going to ask me not to dance, so there!”

  “Nobody’s going to neglect me,” said Arethusa.

  “Nobody’s going to reject me,” said Araminta. “I’m going to be the most beautiful bloom in the whole of the room, so there!”

  “Excepting for me! People will pass the remark, ‘She’s just like a hothouse rose’—so there!”

  Minta tossed her head. “If I don’t get lots of introductions, look out for ructions!”

  “If I don’t get first prize for airs and graces,” said Thusa, “I’ll smack their great big ugly faces. I’m not going to be a wallflower!”

  “No more am I not going to be a wallflower!”

  “So there!” The Sisters flopped on the floor in a heap, with not a curtsy left between them.

  Ella came timidly to the door. “The bath is ready, madam.”

  “Dip, dip, dip!” said the Stepmother.

  The Sisters gathered themselves up, piled Ella’s arms with towels and soap and sponges and perfume and rubber ducks, and pushed past her to the bathroom, where she had to scrub their backs for them. They were much too lazy to do it for themselves.

  CHAPTER IX

  Tch! Tch! Tch!

  THE FATHER PEEPED into the boudoir and said, “My dear!”

  The Stepmother was studying the book of manners, where she had got as far as “Etiquette for the Elderly.” She was not sure what an etiquette was, but she thought it was some sort of underskirt, and was wondering whether her new ball dress had got one.

  “My dear!” said the Father again.

  The Stepmother looked up, and frowned when she saw that he was carrying his coat in his hand. “What sort of behavior is this? Coming into a lady’s boudoir in your shirt-sleeves?”

  “I’m sorry, my dear, but my coat needs a stitch.”

  “What if it does? Do you expect a lady on the verge of presentation to demean her fingers with a needle?”

  “But my dear! You wouldn’t like me to go to Court with a split seam?”

  “Who said I would?” snapped the Stepmother. “Ask the servant to mend it.”

  “The servant?” repeated the Father.

  “You know. Thingummy. Cinderella.”

  “Ella is my daughter,” said the Father quietly.

  “A dutiful daughter should be only too delighted to put a stitch in her father’s coat.” She raised her voice to screech, “Thingummy! Thingummy! (Just like the screech of a parrot, thought the Father.) But the screech was drowned by the splashing from the bathroom, so she changed her note, and bawled, “CINDERELLA!” (Just like the bellow of a bull.)

  Ella came to the bathroom door. “Yes, madam?”

  “Have you done my precious pets’ backs and shoulders?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “What are they doing now?”

  “Playing with their rubber ducks, madam.”

  “Then heat the curling tongs, fill the warming pans, brush up the hearth, sweep the snow from the front steps, and come and mend your Father’s coat before you start dressing my precious pets for the ball. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  The Stepmother turned and glared at the Father. “You might have spared me the trouble of raising my voice. If I’m hoarse as a crow when the Prince says ‘How-de-doo?’ it will be your fault.” She tucked the book of manners under her arm, and said loftily, “I shall go to my lubrications.”

  Left alone in the boudoir, while his little daughter was no doubt fulfilling orders as to curling tongs and warming pans and all the rest of it, the Father wandered here and there, muttering to himself, “Tch! Tch! Tch! ‘Yes, madam, yes, madam.’ . . . ‘Thingummy.’ . . . ‘Yes, madam.’ Tch! Tch! Tch! One of these days I shall lose my temper.” He hung his head as he said it, for he was ashamed of himself for not having lost his temper long ago. Just an old coward, that was what he was. He paused before a charming mirror hanging on the wall. “Think of it, only think of it! I brought that mirror from Italy for her Mother when Ella was a baby. I remember . . .” He looked into the glass, remembering the beautiful face that had been mirrored there. He wandered across the room to the silken couch, sat down on it, and gently stroked its curved head. “And this—I brought it from France when Ella’s Mother was ill. Her hair lay just here, as she rested with Ella in her arms. . . . ‘Thingummy! Yes, madam!’ Tch! Tch! Tch!”

  “Give me your coat, Father.”

  Ella sat down beside him and took his coat, as if she hadn’t noticed his head bowed on the place where her mother’s head had rested. Perhaps she hadn’t—eh? She was stitching away cheerfully at the torn seam, saying, “It’s just a little rip. A few stitches will soon put this right.”

  He nodded and passed his hand across his forehead.

  “Have you got a headache, Father?”

  “No, no, Ella. Just thinking.”

  “Now don’t go thinking too much,” said Ella lightly. “It doesn’t always do.”

  “Doesn’t it, Ella?”

  “No, Father—it does not,” said Ella between the stitches.

  He did not answer, but watched her nimble fingers.

  She chattered on without looking a
t him. “Mind you notice everything at the ball tonight, Father, won’t you? Everything. Every speck. The dresses, the dancing, the lights, the music, the feast, the Prince. And tomorrow morning—early—will you creep downstairs and tell me all about it? Will you, Father?” She bit off her thread. “Do you mind?”

  The Father said eagerly, “You’d enjoy that, would you—eh?”

  “We’d enjoy it together,” said Ella gaily. “Come along! Stand up.”

  He stood up, and she helped him on with his coat, pulling and patting it deftly into shape. It was an old coat (the ladies’ new dresses had cost a mint of money), but Ella’s fingers seemed to flatter it into being as fine as a new one; and she teased the old shirt ruffle, which she had washed and goffered that morning, into a handsome frill all down the front. Then she stood back a little, head on one side, and said, “There!”

  They smiled at each other, and the Father bent his head.

  “Cinderella!” screamed Arethusa from the bathroom.

  “Cinderella!” shrieked Araminta.

  “CINDERELLA!” bellowed the Stepmother.

  “Yes, madam, yes, madam, I’m coming, madam!” Ella ran off to the bathroom as fast as she could.

  “‘Yes, madam!’” whispered the Father. “Tch! Tch! Tch!”

  His head was drooping again as he stole away.

  CHAPTER X

  They Are Dressed for the Ball

  ARETHUSA SNEAKED INTO the boudoir from the bathroom. She hadn’t stopped to dry herself properly and dripped as she came; she wanted a chance to pry into Araminta’s beauty secrets, and shuffling over to her sister’s dressing table, she began to sample the contents of all the bottles and boxes. One little pot that took her fancy she concealed in her fat hand. The next moment her hand was slapped so smartly that she yelled.

  “Fingers, fingers!” Araminta hadn’t stopped to dry herself either, and she dripped all over Arethusa as she spoke. “That’s my dressing table, thank you. Leave my pots and pomatums alone.”

  Arethusa blustered, “I was only—”

  “‘I was only, I was only—’” mimicked Araminta. “You was only, was you, was you only, you was?” She grabbed the pot out of Arethusa’s hand.

  “Don’t snatch!” said Arethusa.

  “Don’t snitch!” retorted Araminta. “You can go to prison for snitching.”

  “If it comes to snitching, who snutch my Circassian Cream?”

  “Who snutch my Essence of Ispahan?”

  “Who snutch my Milk of Morocco?”

  “Who’s got a face like a turnip?”

  “That’s not an argument,” said Arethusa.

  “What’s not an argument?”

  “That isn’t.”

  “Well, what is an argument?”

  “What do you mean, what is an argument?”

  “What do you mean, what do you mean?”

  “Oh, shut up!” shouted both girls together.

  The Stepmother bawled from the bathroom, “Birds in their little nests agree.”

  The little birds flounced back to their own dressing tables and began to examine themselves in the mirrors, as Ella came back loaded with the soaps and scents and powders they had been using in the bath.

  “Come on, Cinders, hurry up,” said Thusa.

  “Look sharp, can’t you?” said Minta.

  “I’m looking as sharp as I can,” said Ella.

  “Then look sharper,” said Arethusa. “Do come and dress me, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Me first, me first,” said Araminta.

  “I’m oldest,” said Arethusa.

  “I’m first alphabetically,” said Araminta.

  “Don’t get so flustered,” said Ella. “You’re spoiling all your fun. Enjoy getting dressed for the ball.”

  The Sisters repeated in tones of astonishment, “Enjoy it!”—and Araminta remarked, “You can’t go through life enjoying things.”

  “I could,” said Ella.

  “Then why don’t you?”

  Ella didn’t answer. It was such an easy answer; but if she had told Araminta the truth she would have had her head bitten off. If only—if only the Sisters would sometimes allow her to enjoy herself! If only, if only she could dress herself for the ball, as well as dressing them. But what was the use? She held her tongue, and began to brush and curl Araminta’s stringy hair.

  Arethusa, meanwhile, had forgotten about being the oldest and was gazing fondly at her own reflection in the looking glass. “There’s no doubt about it,” she cooed. “I really am going to be rather a dazzle tonight. What a boon is beauty! Don’t you rather dote on droopy eyes?” she asked of nobody in particular. “The dear Prince will never be able to resist them. I’m afraid, Minty, your eyes aren’t a bit droopy.”

  “Nor my mouth, darling,” sneered Araminta.

  Arethusa pretended not to hear, but called, “Cinders!” so sharply that Ella flew to her side and began powdering her back. Araminta didn’t seem to notice, for now she was staring lovingly at herself in her own looking glass.

  “No,” she decided, in satisfied tones, “not droopy. Mine is what I should call a mysterious allure. What is it, what is it about me? That’s the question the dear Prince will keep asking himself. There certainly is a hidden something.”

  “Completely hidden,” agreed Arethusa.

  “How do you do, dear Prince?” murmured Araminta languishingly.

  “Dear Prince,” gushed Arethusa, “how do you do?”

  “How do you do, ladies?” said Ella gaily, making a deep bow to each of them.

  “Oh, but how sweet of you!” simpered Arethusa, accepting an imaginary bouquet. “Roses! I dote on roses.”

  “So much prettier than wallflowers,” observed Araminta.

  “Who’s a wallflower?” demanded Arethusa.

  “Look in the looking glass,” said Araminta. She turned her back, and continued her own conversation with the Prince. “Music? Yes indeed! I dote on music. I know it backward.”

  “Backward?” scoffed Arethusa.

  “Backward,” repeated Araminta firmly.

  “Ho!” said Arethusa. She waved away the refreshment the Prince was offering her. “Ices? No, thanks,” she cooed. “What are ices when I can feed on your face?”

  “Feed on his face?” tittered Araminta.

  “Feed on his face,” repeated Arethusa coldly. Then she forgot the Prince and rumpled her messy dressing table, asking, “Where’s my pink ribbon?”

  “Where’s my beauty spot?” asked Araminta.

  “Where’s my yellow feather?”

  “Where’s my fan?”

  The Stepmother sailed in, fully dressed for the ball. She threw up her hands to see her daughters still in their petticoat bodices, pushing their tawdry litter of finery this way and that. “Girls, girls, don’t dawdle. The Prince is all impatience for you. Do you want him to ask somebody else for the first dance?”

  “Cinderella’s such a slowcoach, Ma,” complained Arethusa. “Look at my feather, it’s gone all crooked.”

  “My beauty spot’s on the wrong side, I knew it was,” grumbled Araminta.

  “Straighten that feather! Change that patch!” scolded the Stepmother. “Be quicker, can’t you? Clumsy!”

  “Clumsy, clumsy,” echoed the two Sisters, while Ella, flying from one to the other, did her best to see to them both at once.

  The Father came to the door to say, “The carriage is ready. Wrap up well. It’s freezing.”

  “Whose fault is that?” snapped the Stepmother. “No more dilly-dally, girls. Off we go.”

  “But Ma! We’re not finished yet.”

  “Then you must finish in the carriage.”

  “That’s easy, isn’t it?” said Minta. “Jog, jog, jog! That carriage wants new springs.”

  “Only he’s too mean to buy ’em,” said Thusa, making a face at the Father. “Jolt, jolt, jolt!”

  The Sisters bounced and jigged up and down on their dressing stools. “Jog, jog, jog! Jolt, jolt, jo
lt!”

  The Stepmother tied a scarf over her tall wig, saying, “Oh very well, if you want to be late.”

  “Oh, very well,” mimicked Araminta, “if you want us to catch our deaths! Where’s my cloak?”

  “Me first, me first!” cried Arethusa.

  “Cinders, where’s our cloaks?” they screamed together.

  Ella came running with them, and they snatched them out of her hands; but in their hurry Araminta snatched Arethusa’s, and they bickered until they got the right ones, and then they dragged them on back to front and bickered some more, and then they flung them on upside down and bickered worse than ever.

  “The horses hate standing,” murmured the Father.

  “Come this instant!” insisted the Stepmother. “Come as you are.”

  “Without our bouquets? Where’s our bouquets?” The Sisters flew about with their cloaks dragging after them half on, half off.

  Ella crept up to the Stepmother, who stood tapping her foot in a frenzy of impatience. “Madam?” she whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “Couldn’t I—” faltered Ella. It wasn’t a good moment to ask, she knew, but when was it ever a good moment? And it was now or not at all. She plucked up her courage, and said again, “Couldn’t I come just as far as the Palace gates?”

  The Stepmother stared at her as a parrot might stare at a black beetle. “With us?”

  “Just to watch the people going in?” pleaded Ella.

  “Watch the people going in?” repeated the Stepmother, as if her ears had deceived her. “Certainly not. Girls, girls, what are you looking for now?”

  They were chasing each other and everything else round the room, pulling off covers, slamming drawers, shuffling the things on the dressing tables, the chairs, and the mantelpiece.

  “My Essence of Pearls!” gasped Arethusa.

  “My Extract of Lilies!” gasped Araminta.

  “My Magnolia Water!”

  “My Oleander Balm!”

  “My lollipops!”

  “What d’you want lollipops for?” asked Araminta.

  “Suck on the way,” said Arethusa.

  “You exasperating couple!” cried the Stepmother. She drove the girls before her; there was a scuffle; and the litter on the dressing tables was swept to the floor, combs and brushes, powder and paste, beads, ribbons, pomatums, and all the rest of it. All three turned as one on Ella, saying furiously, “CLUMSY!”