Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
I: The Things in the Kitchen
II: Ella and Her Father
III: Presents for Crosspatches
IV: Invitations to the Ball
V: The Miniature
VI: Brushwood and Sticks
VII: The Prince and the Zany
VIII: Dip! Dip! Dip!
IX: Tch! Tch! Tch!
X: They Are Dressed for the Ball
XI: Bells Over the Snow
XII: Ella All Alone
XIII: She Is Dressed for the Ball
XIV: “Way for the Ladies!”
XV: “Here’s a Health!”
XVI: The Prince Will Not Dance
XVII: The Princess of Nowhere
XVIII: How They Dance in Nowhere
XIX: “Where Are You?”
XX: Cream Tarts and Sugarplums
XXI: Ladies in the Snow
XXII: “Twelve O’clock!”
XXIII: “I Knew It Wasn’t True”
XXIV: A Sugarplum for Ella
XXV: The Glass Slipper
XXVI: Alas for the Things!
XXVII: “Padlocks and Keys”
XXVIII: Ladies at the Gates
XXIX: “Will She, Will She Fit the Shoe?”
XXX: The Hand of Cinderella
About the Author
Also by Eleanor Farjeon
Copyright
About the Book
The Princess of Nowhere
More than anything, Ella wants to go to the ball at the Royal Palace. To see the lovely ladies—to view the elegant rooms—to dance perhaps with the Prince himself—would fulfill Ella’s fondest dreams.
But sweet, lovely Ella is the slavey of the household, sweeping, dusting, and waiting on every wish and whim of her dreadful stepmother and her awful crosspatch stepsisters, Araminta and Arethusa. Ella can remember a lovely, long-ago time when she was spoiled and petted and loved. Now she is called Cinderella for the ashes that cling to her face, hands, and hair. And how can Cinderella show herself at the Royal Palace?
Then, on the evening of the ball, something wonderful happens. Ella’s Fairy Godmother comes to her rescue. With a wave of the Fairy’s wand, Cinderella is transformed into a princess . . . The Princess of Nowhere. And now her dreams may come true at last. . . .
This story of the Fairy Play
The Glass Slipper
Is dedicated with Eleanor and Bertie’s love to
Robert Donat
the Play’s Fairy Godfather
CHAPTER I
The Things in the Kitchen
OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN, in the falling snow, the Rooster crowed: “Cockadoodledoo!”
Inside the kitchen, in her narrow bed, Ella pulled the thin blanket over her ears and tried not to hear him. As well as being thin, the blanket was short, so when she covered her head it left her little feet bare. They were not only the prettiest, but the littlest pair of feet that any girl of sixteen was ever blessed with; but when they poked out of the blanket they were blue with cold.
The kitchen was a vast, dark, stony room, more like a cellar than a kitchen, which is often the coziest room in a house; but nothing could make this cold vault cozy, even when the fire was lit on the wide, open hearth. The room had barred windows with wooden shutters, and a heavy door with iron bolts that opened onto the coaching road. On the left the road ran to the city, and on the right to the King’s palace, and beyond it stretched the forest, green in summer, yellow in autumn, white in winter.
“Cockadoodledoo!” crowed the Rooster in the snow.
“Silly old Rooster!” muttered Ella in her bed—if you could call it a bed. Ella did, because it was the only one she had. When she was a little girl, she had slept in a lovely room upstairs. She buried her face in her pillow and began to think about a long time ago, when she had a little gilt bed with soft blankets and a blue silk coverlet, which her mother tucked in when she came to kiss Ella good night. She remembered a lovely party, full of fun and dancing, and a game of hide-and-seek. Children ran here and there, calling, “Where are you?” She wore a lovely party frock, like a rainbow.
As she lay thinking, she clasped her one treasure left over from the happy time, a miniature of that pretty young Mother with fair hair, and blue eyes smiling out of her roseleaf face. Ella kept this picture hidden under her pillow, where nobody knew about it. . . . Her thinking changed to the time, after her Mother died, when her Father took another wife who already had two daughters of her own. These three ladies now had the grandest rooms upstairs for themselves, and Ella was sent down to the basement to sleep as well as to live. “And count yourself lucky!” said her Stepmother. “It isn’t every growing girl who has a bed-sitting room of her own.” Well, there was a creaky rocking chair to sit on, and a box-bed in the wall to sleep in. When you were right inside the bed, it could be shut from outside with a long sliding shutter. Sometimes, in one of her nastiest tempers, the Stepmother shut Ella in and fastened the shutter with a metal bar, and Ella had to lie in the dark till the Stepmother stopped being in the temper. However, besides having the prettiest little feet and the most charming little face in the kingdom, Ella had also the sweetest and sunniest disposition. She made the best of everything when she could, and when she couldn’t she gulped down her tears, gave herself a shake, and went on again. It wasn’t always easy, but she managed it somehow.
“Cockadoodledoo!” crowed the Rooster for the third time.
“There you go!” said Ella, sitting up. “‘Time to get up’—I know! Light the fire—boil the kettle—fill the lamp—sweep the ashes—lay the table—bake the cake—scrub the step—feed the hens—and especially the silly-shrilly snappy-flappy old cock! I know.”
“Cockadoodledoo!” crowed the Rooster.
“Cockadoodledoo!” mocked Ella. “Well, I won’t! Everybody else orders me about, but you shan’t!” And down she lay with her fingers in her ears. That seemed to finish the Rooster, and he didn’t crow again.
But now all round the kitchen went the funny little stir that meant the day had begun and Things weren’t being attended to. The tall clock in the corner seemed to be ticking a little more impressively than before, and Ella couldn’t shut it out:
“Tick-tock!
Tick-tock!
The Grandfather Clock
Agrees with the Cock.”
And as it began to strike seven:
“Bing-Bong!
Bing-Bong!
It’s exceedingly wrong
To stay in bed long.”
Ella sat up again with a little sigh. “All right, Grandpa. I know. You never let me off, do you?”
“I never let anybody off,” ticked the Clock.
“I’m just your slave, aren’t I?” grumbled Ella. The Clock didn’t answer. Ella put one bare foot down on the icy stone floor and drew it back with a shudder. “Br-r-rr! It’s colder than ever this morning. Oh dear!”
Over the grimy sink the Tap began to drip:
“Drip, drop!
Drip, drop!
Make haste with the mop,
The mop and the slop.”
There are few things more irritating than a dripping tap, and Ella said rather crossly, “Tap, Tap, why must you drip?”
“I like that!” said the Tap. “You left me dripping last night.”
“Oh dear!” sighed Ella again. “I wish taps had never been invented.”
The Tap didn’t answer.
Ella put both feet together on the floor and stood up, fastening her petticoat round her waist. “I wish I had some proper shoes,” she said. But she hadn’t even a pair of socks for the little cold feet in their ragged sandals, an
d when she had pulled a cotton frock over her head, her dressing was completed. While she smoothed her hair with her hands, the birch broom in the corner started jigging up and down.
“Brush, Broom!
Brush, Broom!
The grime in the room
Could do with a groom.”
“Broom, Broom!” cried Ella. “Can’t you ever rest?”
“You didn’t sweep the floor last night,” thumped the Broom.
“I know I didn’t. I hate sweeping the floor.”
The Broom didn’t answer.
But now the Fire Irons clattered on the hearth, and before they could reprove her, she cried, “Stop clattering, Poker and Tongs! I’ll light the fire in a minute.” Hardly had she spoken when the Rocking Chair started rocking with a squeak and a creak. “Stop creaking, Chair! I’ll oil you in a jiffy,” cried Ella.
And now all the Things in the kitchen set to on her at once:
“Light me!
Oil me!
Sweep me!
Boil me!
Mend me!
Make me!
Clean me!
Bake me!”
“Stop it!” cried Ella, stamping her foot at them. “Stop it at once!”
The dripping and thumping and clatter and creaking stopped on the spot. Ella looked round the room, a little scared by the sudden silence.
“I never did see such Things!” she declared. But none of them answered. “Oh dear!” she sighed. “Now they’re cross. Oh dear!” She went to the sink, and the pile of yesterday’s dirty crockery dismayed her. “Just look at all this washing-up!” She hoped to soften the Things’ hearts by making them sorry for her. After all, they were her best friends, except, of course, her father. But he had to go away so often on business that she was sometimes lonely for weeks and weeks on end; and when he was at home it wasn’t much use, because of the Stepmother’s temper and the Stepsisters’ domineering ways. Ella picked a tea-stained cup out of the sink and asked reproachfully, “Cup, Cup, how would you like it if you had to wash me up?” The Cup didn’t answer.
Oh, very well, if they wouldn’t be friends they wouldn’t! There was always the cat to talk to, and—what luck! There was still a drain of yesterday’s milk in the jug. She took it over to the cupboard by the hearth, where Tabitha lay coiled up in the dark, waiting for her new family to arrive.
“Tabby, Tabby, would you like some breakfast?” Ella peered down at the little cat, who lifted the tip of her nose from the tip of her tail, and gave a little pirrup. “What, haven’t your kittens come yet?” Ella poured the milk into a saucer and put it down carefully under the little cat’s chin. “Never mind, Tabby, they soon will. Now for the washing-up!”
She left Tabby lapping her breakfast and returned to the sink. “Can’t wash up till I boil the kettle.” Over to the hearth went she. “Can’t boil the kettle till I light the fire.” Down on her kness went she. “Fire, Fire, are you going to be cross this morning too? Coal, Coal, I wish you didn’t have clinkers. Oh, Wood, I wish you weren’t so damp.” And while she swept up the ashes and picked out the clinkers and laid the wood crisscross on the fire bricks, Ella went on wishing for the things she wished most.
“I wish plates didn’t get greasy. . . . I wish sweeping and scrubbing and scouring did themselves when I wasn’t looking. . . . I wish potatoes peeled themselves while my back was turned. . . . I wish bells didn’t keep on ringing and ringing and ringing. . . . I wish coal buckets carried themselves to and from the coal cellar. . . . I wish tables didn’t want laying, and tableclothes didn’t want ironing, and spoons and forks didn’t want polishing. I wish people ate out of the dish with their fingers. . . . I wish there was lots more time for having fun. . . . I wish there was somebody to have the fun with. . . . I wish . . . I wish . . . I wish . . .”
The last wish never got itself said. Ella wasn’t quite sure what it was. She only knew that it was for something very lovely, after the work was done and even the fun had come to an end.
“I wish . . .”
The Fire gave a great puff of smoke at her as she hung the heavy kettle on its hook. She sat back on her heels, rubbing the smoke out of her eyes. She wished . . . What did she wish?
Outside the door she heard the jingle of harness and the clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the snowy road.
CHAPTER II
Ella and Her Father
“FATHER!” CRIED ELLA.
Yes, after being a month away, her Father was home again. Ella would have known Dobbin’s hoofs from any others on the road. She ran to the cupboard to share the good news with Tabby. “Father’s come home!” Tabitha purred.
Oh, but supposing he was going to ride round to the front of the house? Ella flew to the kitchen door and pulled back the heavy bolts. “Father! Come in this way! Please do—please. Do you mind?”
Of course he didn’t mind! He was as glad as Ella of this secret chance to have her to himself. It was a thing they didn’t exactly speak about, for Ella knew it troubled him, and she tried not to let him know that it troubled her too. Her Father always hoped that his little Ella was happy down in the kitchen by herself, and so, in a way, she was—well, rather happy; happier, she sometimes thought, than Father was, living upstairs with the three crosspatches. If only he could have lived down in the kitchen with her, Ella would have been quite happy; as indeed she was now, brushing the snow from his heavy cape. When she helped him off with it he gave her a quick, shy kiss, as if he was afraid somebody might be looking. She returned the kiss, saying cheerfully, “Welcome home, Father. How early you’ve come back. You must have been riding all night.”
“Through the snow too,” said her Father, rubbing his cold fingers.
“Have you had any breakfast?”
He confessed that he hadn’t.
“Oh, do have it down here!” cried Ella. “I’ll get you some—what fun!”
Her Father said rather anxiously, “But won’t your Stepmother expect—? And your Stepsisters—?”
“Oh, they’re not up yet,” Ella reassured him. “Come along, Father, sit down—do! It’s so nice to have you a bit to myself.”
“Is it, child?” He was only too glad to be persuaded, and sat down at the table while she darted about, snatching up tablecloth, cup-and-saucer, knife-and-spoon, bread-and-butter, teapot-and-milk-jug, running from the table to the dresser, the dresser to the larder, and the larder to the table again, which she laid with all the things that go to make breakfast.
“And how have things been, eh, while I’ve been away?” asked the Father, easing his stiff legs. “Not too bad?”
“Not too bad, Father.”
“Well, that’s a good thing, eh?”
“Yes, Father. I’m so glad you’re back. I have missed you.”
“Have you, child?”
“The house isn’t the same thing without you.”
“Isn’t it, child?”
“There!” laughed Ella, putting the last touch to the table. “Here’s your coffee, your honey, your butter, your rolls; in fact, Father, here’s your breakfast!”
“And where’s yours, Ella?”
“Mine?” Ella hesitated for half a fraction of a split second, so perhaps he didn’t notice. “I’ll have mine all in good time,” she said, and went on quickly. “Tell me all your adventures. Is the city you went to very fine and grand? Did you meet any ogres and dragons?”
“Not so much as a goblin,” said the Father, buttering a roll.
“What a pity!” cried Ella.
“There’s a nice thing for a daughter to say!” chuckled the Father. “So you want your old dad to be gobbled up by an ogre, do you?”
“No, no, Father!”
“Or changed into a frog, do you?”
“No, no, no!”
“Ogres and dragons indeed!” He saw her bubble with laughter. Things couldn’t be so bad, then, after all. He dropped another lump of sugar into his coffee. Outside in the snow the horse let out a whinny.
“
Oh, poor Dobbin!” exclaimed Ella. “He wants his breakfast. I’ll just go and give him his oats.”
She jumped up, and the Father rose from the table. “I’ll come too. I forgot to unload the saddlebags.” But Ella pushed him back into his seat.
“I’ll unload them. Your coffee will get cold.”
“Then my coffee can be heated up again.” (He wasn’t going to have any of that.) “Those packs are much too heavy for a girl like you.”
“Nonsense, I’m as strong as Hercules!” boasted Ella. (She wasn’t going to have any of that, either.) “You should just see me heaving sacks of coal and buckets of water.” She doubled her fists to her shoulders to show how strong she was.
The Father looked at her. All the breakfast fun went out of him; he wilted like a pricked balloon. “Sacks and buckets, do you—eh?” he murmured.
But she pretended not to hear, and drew him outside, chattering. “It will be fun undoing the saddlebags. I wonder what’s in them. Did you bring back some presents for my Stepsisters?”
(It simply won’t do for all the balloons to be pricked.)
CHAPTER III
Presents for Crosspatches
FOR A LITTLE while the Clock ticked and the Tap dripped on in the empty kitchen. A mouse ventured out of its hole in search of crumbs. A rat began gnawing a pumpkin lying in a corner. Then somebody came sneaking down the stairs so stealthily that two lizards who had come out for air didn’t notice until a shadow fell across them and sent them scuttling into their crevices in the wall. The mouse darted back into its hole, and the rat took cover behind the pumpkin.
The stealthy somebody was Ella’s Stepmother; she enjoyed getting up early to take people by surprise when they thought she was asleep in her bed. Araminta and Arethusa were still snoring in theirs; they could be as unpleasant as a dose of medicine when they chose to, but they never chose to get up early to be it: and the Stepmother, who doted on and spoiled them, let them lie abed as long as they liked. But she wasn’t going to pamper Cinderella—for Cinderella was what she called her husband’s daughter, with a sneer on her lips. Sometimes she shortened it to Cinders, but never to the child’s real name of Ella. She had sneaked down on purpose to pounce, only stopping to put on her dressing gown and bedroom slippers, and her second-best wig. She never let anybody see her without it, because under it her head was as bald as a billiard ball. The tall wig bobbled and nodded as she snooped and slithered down the stairs, intent on spying out some fault she could punish Cinders for. First she tried the bed. No doubt the idle chit was still enjoying her sleep and neglecting her duties.
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