The Glass Slipper

by Eleanor Farjeon

  “Who—are—you?” whispered the Stepmother, with chattering teeth.

  The crutch moved slowly through the air until it was pointing at the Stepmother. “Back!” said the old woman.

  The Stepmother cowered and whimpered, “No!”

  “Back!” The old woman advanced upon her as only five minutes ago she herself had advanced upon Ella.

  “You’re going to lock me—in—the bunk?” whimpered the Stepmother.

  Driving her backward, step by step, the old woman muttered:

  “Padlocks and keys,

  Padlocks and keys,

  What’s sauce for the goslings

  Is sauce for the geese.

  Clink! Clank!

  Clinkety-clank!

  You’ve nobody but

  Yourself to thank.

  Back! Back!

  Clickety-clack!

  The bunk is dark

  And the bunk is black.

  Clonk! Clunk!

  Clonkety-clunk!

  Up with you, up with you,

  Into the bunk!”

  The Stepmother felt herself being forced backward and bundled into the bunk by a power she could not resist. The panel slid into place. She knocked on it feebly, crying, “Let me out!” But the old woman paid no more heed to her plea than she had paid to Ella’s.

  In fact, the old woman was no longer there. In her place stood an enchanting Fairy with butterfly wings and a star-pointed wand, and a rose wreath on her head. And in the sunlit doorway stood Ella herself, rubbing her dazzled eyes, barefoot, tangle-haired, and tattered, but with a face as fresh as a flower.

  “Godmother!” She ran into the kitchen. “How did I get here?”

  “Away with you!” said the Fairy. “Time is flying. Isn’t that so, Grandpa?”

  “That—is—so,” ticked the Clock, “that—is—so.”

  “Grandpa, you’re ticking!” Ella’s eyes flew round the kitchen, brimming with joy. “Oh, Fire! Oh, Broom! Oh, Things! Oh, Grandpa, Grandpa!” She ran and hugged the Clock and kissed its face.

  “To the Palace! Away!” commanded the Fairy.

  “Oh yes, oh yes! But Tabby must have her milk.” Ella snatched up the milk jug, which, instead of the usual drain of milk, brimmed over with cream. When she stooped to pour it into Tabitha’s saucer in the cupboard—there was a lovely sight! Tabby, purring deeply over five tiny creatures, five greedy morsels, all as blind as—

  “Kittens!” cried Ella. “Oh, oh, she’s got her kittens! Oh, Tabby! Your lovely kittens!”

  “Will you never away?” scolded the Fairy.

  Ella awayed outside, into the snow. The Fairy awayed inside, into the air. The Clock chimed the hour—the Fairy’s crutch must have gone to his head, or his heart, for he went on chiming like a peal of wedding bells.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Ladies at the Gates

  WHILE THE GRANDFATHER clock was striking in the kitchen, the Royal Clock was striking in the Palace. It put the Herald in a perfect fuss.

  Had he not been up and about and in and out, hence, thence, and whence, hither and thither and all of a dither, performing, since long before daybreak, the various, multifarious, unaccountable, unsurmountable, unprecedented, one might almost say the deliberately invented duties which had accumulated ever since the Prince’s order to have all the ladies back in the throne room by nine o’clock to try on the glass slipper which the Zany had found in the snow? Now it is one thing to be a Personage on the spot (and the Herald was fully aware that a Personage of his importance would be far-to-seek, being, so-to-speak, Unique); but another thing altogether to expect a Personage to be a hundred persons in a hundred places at one and the same moment. It was, considered as such, a touch too much.

  So he flustered up and down through all the departments demanding his attention, with the Trumpeter, the Footman, and the Toastmaster flying to his call at every other minute.

  He summoned them again as the clock struck. “Is everything prepared?”

  The Toastmaster assured him, “Everything.”

  “Nothing has been overlooked?”

  “Nothing,” promised the Trumpeter.

  “The golden footstool is ready to be placed exactly in position?”

  “Exactly,” asserted the Footman.

  “The Army has been scrupulously mounting guard over the glass slipper?”

  “Scrupulously,” declared all three.

  Completely unreassured, the Herald paced up and down.

  “Ha! These functions! These receptions! These ceremonies! These grandes assemblées! One on top of the other. Helter-skelter! Holus-bolus! Scramble-jamble! I have not been to bed, I am worn to a shred, my nerves are tattered, my esprit is shattered, I seem to have been fated when created to be irritated, exasperated, frustrated, and prostrated! And the whole countryside is in the same condition. When I made my round this morning—like any milkman—everybody was still up; nobody had had time to sleep a wink, to change a rag, or to sponge a little finger. And now, scramble-jamble, holus-bolus, helter-skelter, back they all flock with their fate in their feet, only, mark my word, to be sent packing again with their hearts in their boots.”

  A doorbell clanged outside.

  “There! It begins already! Ladies at the East Gate.” He waved the Footman away. “Let them in.”

  The Footman flew to the East Gate.

  Another bell clanged.

  “Ladies at the West Gate.” The Herald flourished a hand at the Trumpeter. “Admit them.”

  The Trumpeter sped to the West Gate.

  Two more bells clanged.

  “Ladies at the North Gate and at the South Gate.” The Herald waved both hands at the Toastmaster. “Divide yourself in two, my friend, and depart, depart.”

  The Toastmaster did his utmost to obey.

  “As for me,” the Herald mused wearily, “I shall resign, abdicate, relinquish my office, and give a year’s notice. Do they surge? Do they throng?” he inquired of the returning Footman.

  “Like bees,” said the Footman.

  “Do they stream? Do they swarm?” asked the Herald of the reappearing Trumpeter.

  “Like ants,” he said.

  “And all,” said the Herald disdainfully, “all because somebody left a slipper behind at a party! People are always leaving things behind at parties—fans, bangles, muffs, puffs, gardenias, carnations, decorations, reputations—What is it now?” he asked of the Toastmaster peevishly, for he didn’t like being interrupted in his creative and recreative moments.

  The Toastmaster informed him, “A royal command.”

  “To what effect?”

  “No shoehorns,” said the Toastmaster.

  “No shoehorns?” repeated the Herald.

  “No shoehorns?” and “No shoehorns?” echoed the Footman and the Trumpeter.

  “No shoehorns,” reiterated the Toastmaster stolidly. He allowed it to sink in before he boomed, “A further royal command.”

  “Proceed.”

  “No soaped heels.”

  “No soaped heels?”

  The Footman and the Trumpeter asked each other, “No soaped heels?”

  “No soaped heels,” said the Toastmaster without compromise. “A final royal command.”

  “Give tongue,” said the Herald, as though a final royal command was his last straw.

  “The Prince proclaims that, to make assurance doubly sure, it is his intention to try the glass slipper on the ladies himself.”

  “Himself?” Could the Herald believe his ears?

  “Him—” began the Footman, but thought better of it.

  The Trumpeter said, “H’m!”

  “The Prince,” boomed the Toastmaster, “will try the glass slipper on the ladies himself.” And he withdrew to the congenial task of falling in love with the ladies as they presented themselves for trial.

  “Himself! So be it. Authority must be obeyed, royalty must be humored. But really,” said the Herald witheringly, “himself! I must say, it sounds more me
nial than hymeneal to me.” And he thought, not for the first time, how strange it was that some men were born to princehood, and others were not.

  And now there was a hubbub of bells clanging incessantly at the four gates, and of chattering ladies streaming through the corridors.

  “You hear them? Last night’s excitement was nothing to this. Hustle!” said the Herald to the Footman. “Bustle!” he conjured the Trumpeter. “You have your duties. Perform them.”

  “What a morning!” said the Footman, going one way.

  “What a morning!” said the Trumpeter, going the other.

  “What, what a morning!” said the Herald, and retired to the throne room to superintend the disposal of the glass slipper on the gold footstool, and the sorting of the ladies all over again.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  “Will She, Will She Fit the Shoe?”

  THE LADIES, HOWEVER, were entirely unsortable. They flocked round the Herald, crying, “The slipper! The slipper! We’ve come for the slipper!” till he could hardly hear himself think. In vain, his hands to his ears, he pointed out to them that silence is golden, that the amorous are never clamorous, that to be loquacious is ungracious, and to be tacit is an asset—in ever-rising excitement they persisted in crying out to him that they had come for the slipper! To try on the slipper! Where was the slipper, the slipper, the slipper?—until, losing his temper once and for all, he shouted, “Stop that noise!” The ladies stopped instantly; and this, oddly enough, offended him to the extreme. His courtesy had been wasted on them. They had obliged him to resort to Bad Manners. Where, he asked himself, had these ladies been brought up?

  In very ill humor he proceeded up the room to the throne, where the Prince was awaiting him. The glass slipper had already been placed on the gold footstool in front of the trying-on chair—and not too well placed, decided the Herald. He bent down, readjusted it with the slightest of touches, and addressed himself to the Prince.

  “Your Royal Highness is ready for action?”

  “I am.”

  “The arrangements are to your satisfaction?”

  “They are.”

  “We may proceed according to instructions?”

  “You may.”

  “And it is for me to make the introductions?”

  “It is.”

  “So be it! Trumpeter!”

  The Trumpeter sounded a fanfare. The ladies pressed forward.

  The Prince was somewhat appalled by their numbers; it looked as though his task would be never-ending. He had proclaimed his intention of trying on the slipper himself, because he could not endure the thought of anybody else so much as touching the tiny foot of the Princess of Nowhere when she made her appearance. And suppose, as he hoped, she should come in first of all, his task would be finished in the twinkling of an eye.

  But alas! She did not come in first—or second, or third. As each pretty girl advanced gladly, the Prince’s heart missed a beat—if the slipper should fit her, his royal word was pledged. And as each foot failed, and its owner retired sadly, the Prince heaved a little sigh of relief that only the Zany heard—and the Zany heaved an enormous sigh that could be heard by everybody. The Herald conducted the applicants to and from the chair; and the Toastmaster stood by, ready to chant the praises of the bride.

  At last there were only six ladies left. When the Herald led the first of these to the kneeling Prince and announced, “Her Transcendency the Baroness of Allspice!” the Toastmaster could contain himself no longer, and burst irrepressibly into song.

  “Allspice, all hail! All hail, Allspice!

  So tall, so trim, so neat, so nice!

  Whose charms are rare, whose faults are few—”

  “But will she,” asked the Herald, “will she fit the shoe?”

  The ladies craned forward. Her Transcendency really had a very small foot. The Prince’s hand trembled as he tried the slipper on.

  No! Yes! No! No, no, no, no, no! The ladies who had already been found wanting whispered among themselves, “No wedding bells, no cake, no rice, no, nothing at all for tall Allspice!”

  Sorrowfully but gracefully the Baroness retired. Her Supremacy the Countess of Caraway replaced her on the gilt trying-on chair. The Toastmaster’s soft heart spilled over once more.

  “Sing Caraway! O Caraway!

  No bud more blithe! No bloom more gay!

  No breeze more coy or sweet to woo—”

  “But will she, will she fit the shoe?” inquired the Herald.

  “No!” whispered half the ladies. “Yes!” whispered the other half. “No, no, no, no, no!” they whispered all together. “No bliss, no joy, no glee today, no, nothing at all for Caraway!”

  “Her Arrogance the Viscountess of Cloves!”

  “Now cleave the air,” caroled the Toastmaster.

  “Now cleave the air in praise of Cloves!

  Not Venus’ doves in Attic groves

  More gently bill! More sweetly coo!”

  “But,” doubted the Herald, “will she, will she fit the shoe?”

  No—yes—no—“No, no, no, no, no!” whispered the ladies. “Fair Venuses were made for Joves, but nothing at all was made for Cloves.”

  Her Magnificence the Marquise of Cinnamon came next, and the Toastmaster oozed his adoration.

  “More bright Apollo never shone

  Than shine the eyes of Cinnamon!

  No pool more clear! No sky more blue—”

  “But will she, will she,” demanded the Herald, “fit the shoe?”

  No! Yes! No! “No, no, no, no, no!” The ladies, heads together, whispered happily, “With one shoe off and one shoe on, no, nothing at all for Cinnamon.”

  Would Her Exuberance the Margravine of Mace fare better? The Toastmaster made gooseberry eyes at her as she sat down and presented to the Prince her elegant silk-stockinged foot.

  “The stately Margravine of Mace

  Exceeds the Graces three in grace!

  Her foot is firm! Her step is true—”

  “But will she, will she fit,” objected the Herald, “the shoe?”

  No, she would not! The ladies clapped their hands. No—yes—no! “No, no, no, no, no! No palm, no prize, no pride of place, no Prince, no nothing at all for Mace.”

  The Prince sighed thankfully, though his heart was sore. Here came the last of them, Her Pomposity the Archduchess of Cochineal. Fate could not be so cruel as to supply her with the tiniest of feet. She seated herself with such ease and distinction that the Toastmaster was inspired to inquire:

  “What polish! style! and what appeal

  Can equal that of Cochineal?

  What birth!

  What breeding through and through—”

  But the Herald merely asked himself, Would she, or wouldn’t she, fit the shoe? Polish, style, appeal, birth, breeding—what were all these if the Archducal foot was too long or too wide? No! Yes! No! “No, no, no, no, no!” rejoiced the ladies.

  “No joyful chime, no cheerful peal, no, nothing at all for Cochineal. Nothing for me, and nothing for you! No foot at all to fit the shoe.”

  The Prince rose to his feet. So that was over.

  But hark! There was a scurry and a hurry and a flurry at the door, and in burst Araminta and Arethusa, who had raced all the way from home and arrived neck and neck. They were both out of breath as they gasped, “Are we late, are we late? It isn’t over, is it?”

  “Is what not over?” said the Herald icily. “Is not what over? What is not over?”

  “The shoe!” they answered together. “We’ve come to try on the shoe.”

  The Prince looked at them with dismay. “Must they?” he asked quietly.

  “Your Royal Highness’s Proclamation said everybody,” the Herald reminded him.

  “But are there not limits—?”

  The Herald shrugged. “A proclamation is a proclamation. A pronunciamento is a pronunciamento.”

  “Very well. Try on the slipper.”

  “I!” The Herald drew himself up
. “Your Royal Highness’s Proclamation declared explicitly that Your Royal Highness would himself—”

  He disdained to finish, but implied very plainly that if royalty would make rules, royalty must observe them. The Prince returned unwillingly to the footstool and knelt before Araminta, who had ensconced herself in the gilt seat after playing a sort of musical chairs for it with Arethusa. She had got there by sheer pushing.

  “MISS ARAMINTA!” announced the Herald.

  The Toastmaster swallowed hard and trolled forth:

  “Is not a scarecrow with a squint a

  Sweeter sight than Araminta?

  Close the eyes! Avert the view—”

  “Oh, will she, will she fit the shoe?” shuddered the Herald.

  All closed their eyes and averted their views—and Araminta seized her chance to whip out her shoehorn and get to work. She tugged and she tussled, and tussled and tugged in vain. Suddenly one of the ladies, whose view was not sufficiently averted, cried, “A cheat! A cheat! She’s using a shoehorn!”

  “Leave the chair!” commanded the Herald in freezing tones.

  “For cheats and frauds and tricks unfair, there’s nothing at all, so leave the chair!” chimed the ladies.

  Araminta got up, blushing with confusion. Delighted with her sister’s downfall, Arethusa shoved past her, putting out her tongue, scrambled into the chair, and beamed expectantly at the Herald. There was nothing for it but to announce, “MISS ARETHUSA!” which he did in a very loud voice with a very bad grace.

  The Toastmaster did his best to make the worst of it.

  “The gorgon features of Medusa

  Comelier were than Arethusa

  What is nature coming to?”

  “Can she, oh can she fit the shoe?” The Herald paled at the thought.

  Arethusa was stooping very low and fumbling in a curious manner under her dress. Supposing that her stocking was coming down, the Prince, with great delicacy, turned his head away. But the ladies, without any delicacy at all, craned forward to see what she was up to.

  “A swindle! A swindle!” they cried. “She’s soaping her heel.”