The Glass Slipper

by Eleanor Farjeon

  “Yes, yes,” cried Ella, “I will be happy and gay!”

  “But always remember that just before midnight you must take your leave.”

  “Oh, Granny, not so soon,” pleaded Ella. “Let me stay a little later. Please.”

  “Stay if you like. But at midnight the wonder will vanish. Your shining dress will fade like leaves in autumn, your glowing jewels will crumble into ashes, and the Princess from Nowhere will be the slavey from the kitchen again. Isn’t that so, Grandpa, isn’t that so?”

  “That—is—so,” ticked the Clock.

  Around her the spirits were dissolving, for their task was done. But their voices as they went were radiant again.

  “Gold fire, silver water,

  Behold our daughter!

  Green earth, blue air,

  See! How fair!”

  Oh, indeed how fair was the little figure standing in the middle of the dark kitchen, clothed in a dress that seemed to be spun of light, that flowed like air and water as she moved, into which were woven the most delicate flowers of spring. It seemed impossible that those immortal flowers should fade like autumn leaves.

  The hands of the Clock were pointing to eleven; but before the hour struck he boomed once more the warning: “Remember twelve o’clock!”

  “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter!” cried Ella. “I shall have a whole hour at the ball. A whole hour. Sixty minutes, thousands of seconds. Look at me, Kitchen! Look at me, Chair! Look at me, Brushes and Brooms! Is my dress pretty?”

  “Pretty! Pretty! Pretty!” cried the Things.

  She ran to the Clock, crying, “Grandpa, Grandpa, look at me! Can you see me?”

  “I see you, little barefoot,” said the Clock.

  Ella stared down at her tiny bare feet in dismay. The spirits who dressed her had forgotten the shoes. “Oh dear!” she sighed.

  “Suppose you look at me,” suggested the Clock.

  “At you, Grandpa?”

  “Inside me. Look inside me.”

  “What for?”

  “A present.”

  She opened the clock case eagerly. Under the pendulum stood the two tiniest slippers in the world. Wonder of wonders! They were made of glass. Ella was awestruck. Glass slippers!

  “Put them on,” said the Fairy.

  “Granny! Glass slippers!”

  “Do they fit?”

  “Yes!” breathed Ella, before she had even tried. They fitted exactly, from her rosy heels to her toes. She skipped with glee. “I’m going to dance—for a thousand seconds—in glass slippers!” She flew to the door.

  The Fairy asked, “Where are you off to?”

  “The ball, the ball!”

  “Run through the snow in glass slippers?”

  Oh dear! Oh no! But how?

  “In your coach, of course,” said the Fairy, reading her thoughts.

  “I haven’t got a coach.”

  “Haven’t you?” The Fairy pointed her wand at the pumpkin in the corner. In the twink of an eye it became a crystal coach, lined with white satin.

  “Oh, Granny! But I haven’t any horses.”

  “No?” The Fairy pointed her wand at the mousehole in the wainscot. Out of the hole trotted eight mice, who as they appeared changed into milk-white horses with silver manes and tails.

  “A coachman?” stammered Ella, unable to believe her eyes.

  Out of his own hole pattered the big rat; in another second he became a burly coachman in a three-cornered hat and a cape braided with gold. A last wave of the wand, and down from the damp wall dropped the two lizards, who as soon as they touched the floor turned into two elegant footmen, bowing and scraping.

  “Way for the coach of the Princess of Nowhere!” called the Fairy.

  The whole of the kitchen wall seemed to dissolve; the crystal coach stood on the snowy road, the gold-trimmed coachman and footmen leaped to their places, the horses shook their milk-white heads, and the bells began to jingle on their bridles.

  “Way for the coach of the Princess of Nowhere!” cried the Things in the kitchen.

  “Oh,” whispered Ella, “listen! The bells are ringing.”

  The Fairy opened the crystal door of the coach, and Ella sprang into the ivory satin seat. The footmen folded their arms across their chests. The coachman cracked his whip. The horses pranced.

  “Have a good time!” cried the Things. “Have a good time!”

  “Twelve o’clock!” boomed Grandpa. “Twelve o’clock!”

  But Ella did not hear his warning boom; she only heard her own bridle bells, ringing her to the Palace over the snow.

  CHAPTER XIV

  “Way for the Ladies!”

  THE HANDS OF the Royal Clock above the Palace doors were pointing to ten. On each side of the splendid entrance hall tall windows threw long stripes of light across the terrace on which the Palace stood. The ornamental staircase which curved upward to the terrace from the gardens was thronged with arriving guests. Behind the rows of windows lay, on one side, the anterooms to the throne room and, on the other, the Royal Orangery, where the orange trees bloomed, even in winter, some in white flower and some in golden fruit.

  This was the Prince’s favorite spot when he wanted to be alone. He strolled there dreaming of the loveliest lady on earth, who would one day be his bride and walk beside him to the altar with folded hands and downcast eyes, crowned with blossoms from one of these very trees. Which one? That evening the Prince, on his way to the throne room, paused by each tree in turn, sniffing it delicately. Behind him came the Zany, snuffing vigorously. The Prince twined some of the flowers into a wreath and threw it away because there was no bride to wear it. The Zany put it on his head and walked beside the Prince with his hands folded and his eyes cast down. Presently the Prince took notice of him, and the Zany grinned hopefully; but the Prince said crossly, “Do stop being such a silly Zany. She won’t look a bit like you.” The Zany’s grin faded; he took the wreath off his head and tried to stick the blossoms back on the orange trees. When the petals dropped to the ground he hid his face in his hands and hoped he was crying, but it was no use; he could not cry real tears or laugh real laughter; he could only reflect whatever the Prince was feeling, like a mirror in which the tears are not wet and the laughter has no sound.

  The Prince walked on to the throne room to meet his guests. The Zany trotted after him like a dog.

  Pretty girls in their hundreds and thousands had been gathering there for the past hour. Only the six prettiest were still to come. They were ladies of high birth, and knew better than to arrive early and be lost in the crowd; though of course they would not be later than ten o’clock, because to be unpunctual is bad manners.

  As the Prince made his way to the dais on which the throne stood, he could hear the Herald marshaling the arrivals in the hall.

  “Way for the ladies! Way for the ladies! All admission cards ready! Fair ladies to the right, dark ladies to the left. Move along, please, move along! Way for the ladies!”

  The Herald’s voice sounded both important and disdainful. He came of very good family and had been rather spoiled at home. When he was offered the post of the Prince’s Herald he flattered himself that he could make an art of it by performing his duties with elegance and eloquence; nevertheless, all he did and said was tinged with haughtiness, because he considered those duties a trifle beneath him.

  “Fair ladies to the right! Dark ladies to the left!”

  But as he waved the ladies left and right, he contrived to make the fair ones wish they were dark, and the dark ones wish they were fair. He even looked with faint displeasure on the last six beautiful aristocrats who appeared on the final stroke of ten, and kept them waiting in the hall while he presented himself to the Prince.

  “Your Royal Highness, the ladies have been sorted.”

  “Sorted?” said the Prince.

  “Sorted, sifted, separated, collected, and classified.”

  “With what object?” asked the Prince.

 
“A special selection will sup at Your Royal Highness’s own table: the elite, the nonpareil, the creme de la crème, the unparalleled and not to be excelled, the most superior—in short, the least inferior.”

  “How many?” asked the Prince.

  “Six,” said the Herald.

  “Present them,” said the Prince.

  He spoke calmly, but his heart was beating wildly as the six aristocrats were waved in his direction. One of these, surely, must be the lady for his heart-shaped picture frame.

  The Herald announced, “Her Magnificence the Marquise of Cinnamon!”

  The Marquise of Cinnamon, exquisitely gowned, sank down in a deep curtsy, and the Prince’s heart sank with her. It was not She. His eager speech died upon his lips, and he said politely, “I am delighted to meet you.”

  “Her Supremacy the Countess of Caraway!” announced the Herald.

  Down went the Countess, and down went the Prince’s heart.

  “I am overjoyed to receive you,” he said.

  “Her Transcendency the Baroness of Allspice!”

  “How charming of you to come,” said the Prince.

  “Her Pomposity the Archduchess of Cochineal!”

  “The pleasure is mine,” said the Prince.

  “Her Arrogance the Viscountess of Cloves!”

  “I hear it is positively freezing,” said the Prince.

  “Her Exuberance the Margravine of Mace!” announced the Herald.

  “I trust it will eventually thaw.”

  The six aristocrats, having made their six curtsies and received their six flat greetings, retired a little till they should attend the Prince at table. The Herald, having announced the ladies, prepared to announce the supper.

  But what was all this bustle at the entrance? A last party of guests had arrived, unpardonably late; and, still more unpardonably, they were hustling and bustling into the throne room, in a scurry and a flurry and a huddle and a muddle highly unsuitable to the occasion. They had not even the common courtesy to wait for the Herald at the door—and what a party! The three ladies were of unexampled ugliness, their dresses in outstandingly vulgar taste; and as for the elderly gentleman who followed them meekly, his identity, thought the Herald, was pure nonentity. He dimly recalled having seen these persons somewhere that morning, and having forgotten them as quickly as he could.

  With an air of authority the Herald barred their progress to the throne and extended finger and thumb for their invitation cards, while they gabbled their names in his averted ear.

  “Miss Arethusa!” he announced. “Miss Araminta! And their Mother! And Father—”

  “No, no, no, you got it wrong!” burst out Arethusa.

  “Our Father? Him?” snickered Araminta. “He’s only our Stepfather.”

  “And Stepfather!” announced the Herald, deeply affronted.

  Arethusa pushed past him, bounced up to the Zany, and gurgled, “How do you do, Prince?”

  “Dear Prince,” simpered Araminta, shoving Arethusa aside, “how well you’re looking!”

  The Zany made a face at them, and the Sisters were charmed with the familiarity; but the Stepmother felt that something was amiss and, curtsying to the Zany, said, “Excuse the error.”

  The girls were pointing their fingers here and there. “Ma, Ma, look at the lights! Look at the shiny floor! Look at that fat man with a gold hammer—Ma, Ma, what’s he got a hammer for?”

  But the Stepmother had spotted the Prince at last, and all she muttered was, “Dip, dip, dip!” Thusa and Minta achieved their clumsy curtsies, and by clutching each other managed not to fall flat on their faces. The Prince waited politely till they had got on their feet again, and then said coldly, “Let the supper be served.”

  “Let the supper be served! Let the supper be served! Let the supper be served!” proclaimed the Herald.

  The fat man knocked his gold hammer three times on a little knocking block, which he had invented for the purpose, and always carried in a handy pocket; the rich curtains at the end of the room swept apart, and the sumptuous supper table stood revealed.

  CHAPTER XV

  “Here’s a Health!”

  THE FAT MAN with the gold hammer was the Toastmaster. He was as short and round as the Herald was long and slim, and his heart was as soft as the Herald’s was stiff. But then he had not come of a Good Family, like the Herald. He had got his post at Court on the strength of his voice, which besides being strong was as rich as cow’s cream. He had rolling eyes, which at the sight of a lady, of any lady, melted like butter; even Arethusa and Araminta made them melt like margarine. He thought ladies were made to be loved, and he loved them all. This meant that he loved each of them only a little bit, but by being careful he made his love go around. He had never yet loved any lady with his whole heart.

  He found it difficult not to do so, however, when he took his stand behind the special table where the Prince sat among the six aristocrats. They were the most beautiful ladies by far who had ever come to Court, and the Toastmaster could not decide whether he loved the Marquise of Cinnamon’s curls more than the eyebrows of the Countess of Caraway—or the white hands of the Baroness of Allspice more than the rosy lips of the Archduchess of Cochineal—or the sparkling eyes of the Viscountess of Cloves more than the shell-like ears of the Margravine of Mace. How could one be fondest of any of these beauties? One could only be fondest of them all.

  But look! The Boar’s Head was being brought in on a silver salver. No more sentiment! The Toastmaster’s duties must begin. He rapped his hammer three times, cleared his throat, and sang the toast to the Boar.

  “Here’s a health to the Boar,

  The bristle-backed Boar,

  The bristle-backed Boar who’s given his head

  To honor our spread,

  Our prodigal spread,

  His buffeting head, to honor our spread.

  Last week in the forest he roamed like a lord,

  And now the wild Boar is lord of our board.

  The Boar,

  The Boar,

  The lumbersome, blundersome Boar

  Who rules the roast

  Shall be our toast

  From floor to roof and roof to floor.”

  “The Boar!” said the Prince, lifting his glass.

  “The Boar!” shouted the guests, tossing off theirs. Then they fell to, some with a greedy clatter of knife and fork, some picking daintily. Arethusa and Araminta had three helpings each, and sucked their greasy fingers so as not to miss one speck of the succulent gravy. The Prince ate nothing, but dropped morsels of meat from his plate to the floor, where the Zany sat out of sight under the tablecloth. He ate the scraps eagerly, and kissed the Prince’s shoe buckle.

  And now, on an ivory platter, the roast Peacock appeared, with his broad fan of green and gold and blue feathers spread behind him. The Toastmaster trolled his toast as lovingly as if the bird were a Court beauty.

  “Here’s a health to the Peacock,

  Imperious Peacock,

  Imperious Peacock appearing full sail

  With eyes in his tail,

  Astonishing tail,

  Full fluttering sail, with eyes in his tail.

  He strutted about like a king on the sward,

  And now the proud Peacock is king of our board.

  The Peacock,

  The Peacock,

  Unparagoned, arrogant Cock,

  This bird of boast

  Shall be our toast,

  With hic and haec and haec and hoc.”

  “Hic, haec, hoc!” echoed the Prince, glass in air.

  “Hic! Haec! Hoc!” clamored the guests, draining theirs; and the clatter of knife and fork began all over again. Arethusa and Araminta picked their wing bones in their fingers. The Prince let a gleaming tail feather flutter under the tablecloth, and the Zany stroked it and stuck it behind his ear. Then he cocked the ear to hear what came next.

  The Toastmaster’s hammer was rapping in the Trifle.

  “Here’s a
health to the Trifle,

  The tremolo Trifle,

  The tremolo Trifle enveloped in cream

  As light as a dream,

  An elegant dream,

  Apparel’d in cream, as light as a dream.

  In spite of the liquor with which she is stored

  The tottering Trifle is queen of our board.

  The Trifle,

  The Trifle,

  The Trifle so swimmy and sweet,

  In cream enclos’d

  Shall be our toast,

  With cream and cake and wine complete.”

  “The Trifle!” said the Prince.

  “The Trifle!” cried the guests. And now it was all spoons to the mouth, and tipping of plates to secure every drop of cream and sherry wine. The Prince let fall a red glacé cherry, and the Zany caught it and popped it in his other ear, but took it out again because it made him deaf to the golden hammer that was tapping for the Pineapple.

  “And last the Pineapple,

  The juicy Pineapple,

  A health to the Pineapple kissed by the sun.

  It’s second to none,

  Exceeded by none,

  Matured by the sun, it’s second to none.

  Each blade on its crest is as sharp as a sword,

  The succulent Pine is the prince of our board.

  The Pine,

  The Pine,

  The mettlesome, pricklesome Pine,

  Of guests and host

  Shall be the toast,

  The fruit we taste and toast in wine.”

  “The Pineapple!”

  “The Pineapple!” For the tourth time the glasses were emptied. The more mannerly guests ate a few morsels of the luscious fruit and rinsed their fingers daintily in the bowls of scented water that had been provided. But Arethusa and Araminta chewed their portions right up to the edge of the prickly rind, and shrieked because it made their lips smart, and hastily drank from their fingerbowls, and glared at the servingmen because it was only perfumed water and not lemonade—“Who wants to drink scent?” asked Araminta loudly. Meanwhile, the Prince had passed the tallest green blade from the Pineapple crest down to the Zany, who cut his finger on its keen edge; but even a hurt from the master he loved was welcome, and he thrust the blade under his tunic, where his heart could feel it.