The Glass Slipper

by Eleanor Farjeon

  The supper was done; yet there was one more toast to drink. The glasses were filled up with bubbling wine; the guests rose as one man and raised their glasses to the Prince, sitting among the six aristocrats with a cold, calm face that concealed the disappointment in his heart.

  “LAST—” sang the Toastmaster, knocking with his hammer—

  “Last a health to Prince Charming,

  Our charming Prince Charming,

  A health to Prince Charming, who now is a man,

  Deny it who can,

  Dispute it who can.

  No boy but a man, deny it who can.

  We treasure his virtue and value his worth,

  And honor his name on the day of his birth.

  Our Prince,

  Our Prince,

  Our Prince so gallant and dear,

  Shall be the toast,

  The royal toast,

  Long life to our Prince, with joy and good cheer!”

  “The Prince!” cried the gentlemen, with their voices full of zeal.

  “The Prince!” echoed the ladies, with their hearts full of hope.

  The Prince rose and bowed, with all hope gone from his.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The Prince Will Not Dance

  FOLLOWED BY HIS guests, the Prince returned to the ballroom, where a little orchestra of the finest musicians in the kingdom was beginning to play in an ornamental gallery above the throne. The heart of every lady present beat in time to the music; for at last the moment was approaching when the Prince would lead out his partner for the first dance—and whomever he chose would undoubtedly be his partner for life. The ladies sat round the room with their eyes modestly lowered; excepting Araminta and Arethusa, who goggled at the Prince shamelessly.

  It was, however, too soon after all that supper of boar and peacock and trifle and pineapple (of which their royal host had tasted nothing) to expect the guests to dance immediately, and a little diversion had been arranged for their amusement. As the music changed from graceful to gay, into the middle of the room twirled a Harlequin, who expressed, in dumb show, how much he was consumed with love for—for whom? For an enchanting little Columbine, who now sprang lightly to twirl beside him, coquet with him, lead him on, repulse him, and twirl again. Presently, as the music became less frivolous, Columbine softened, and listened coyly while Harlequin knelt at her feet and offered her a heart of rosy silk, which he plucked out of his breast and tossed in his hands. Columbine’s dainty fingers fluttered to catch it—and lo! Before she could do so the heart flew away, up, up into the glittering chandelier, and was seen no more. The guests clapped their hands; the dancers bowed and capered away in opposite directions. Had the pretty divertissement, invented for the occasion, an inner meaning—to the effect that the fair one for whom the silken heart was destined was still unknown? This was the question which all who watched the dance had asked themselves. Only the Prince did not watch. He sat sunk in his throne and in his thoughts; and under cover of the music, while all attention was attracted elsewhere, he whispered, “Zany!”

  The Zany popped his head round the throne and fixed his round questioning eyes on his master.

  The Prince said very sadly, “She is not here.”

  The Zany hung his sad head.

  “She has not come.”

  The Zany beat his unhappy breast.

  “She does not exist.”

  The Zany collapsed in despair.

  “Yet tonight,” the Prince went on, “I must make my choice. What can I do, Zany, what can I do? As each lady entered I looked at her, and listened to my heart, expectantly.”

  The Zany looked up, expectant.

  “But each time my heart said only, ‘It is not she.’”

  The Zany drooped.

  “‘It is not she, not she.’”

  The Zany lay down and died.

  The Prince looked round the room, from one face to another, from one form to the next. “Every one of them is too much something, or not enough something else.” The Zany came to life a little and winked at the Prince. “Get up, you Zany. What do you think you are for? I thought fools were supposed to be so wise. Why don’t you help me?”

  The Zany sat up on his heels and pointed to one of the ladies at random.

  “Too sweet,” said the Prince.

  The Zany pointed to another.

  “Too sour.”

  A third! “Too conventional.” A fourth! “Too bizarre.” A fifth—“Too prim-and-proper.” A sixth—“Too bold-and-brazen.” There was no pleasing him.

  The Zany, grinning, beckoned to Arethusa. She half started from her seat.

  “Ha, ha!” chuckled the Prince. “That one!”

  The Zany waved Arethusa down and beckoned to Araminta.

  “Ha, ha! That one!” The Prince chuckled again. The Zany rolled over with glee at having made him laugh.

  “Hark,” said the Prince. “The ladies are clapping their hands, the entertainment is over, the musicians are tuning up again, our dance is about to begin.” The Zany began to dance, but the Prince stopped him. “Which one to ask? My first choice seals my fate.” His eyes traveled once more round the room; wherever his glance alighted a lady breathed faster. But the royal glance came to rest on none of them. “I cannot, I will not choose!”

  The musicians concluded the introduction. The ladies were now in a perfect flutter.

  The Prince sprang to his feet. “Herald!” he cried.

  The Herald appeared. “Your Royal Highness?” This was to be his great moment. To him, to him the Prince would confide his choice! His voice, his voice would bid that choice rejoice—

  “Announce to the Court that the Prince will not be dancing.”

  Had the Herald’s ears deceived him? “But Your Royal Highness—”

  “My Royal Highness will not be dancing.”

  “But the lady—”

  “I shall not be dancing.”

  The Herald made a last protest. “But the lady of your choice—where is she?”

  The Prince said, “Nowhere.”

  “Nowhere?”

  “Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere!” cried the Prince. “Announce to the guests—the lady of my choice is nowhere!”

  “So be it,” said the Herald in tones as wintry as the weather. He lifted a finger. A trumpeter blew a blast for silence. The Herald advanced to the center of the room.

  “Ladies, attend!

  An Announcement, a Pronouncement, a Pronunciamento!

  His Highness—

  His Royal Highness—

  His Royal Highness the Prince—

  Having inspected and reflected—

  And reflected and inspected—

  The selected here collected—

  Desires it to be published—

  Published and proclaimed—

  Published and proclaimed and promulgated—

  That the Lady—

  The Lady of his Choice—

  The Lady of the Prince’s Choice—

  Is—”

  “THE PRINCESS OF NOWHERE!” boomed the Toastmaster at the door.

  CHAPTER XVII

  The Princess of Nowhere

  WHEN ELLA WALKED into the room the guests rose to their feet. At the far end, by the throne, the Prince stood transfixed. Only the Zany heard him murmur, “She is here.”

  “I am here,” murmured Ella, floating a little farther into the room. She must be floating, it was all so dreamlike and so dazzling. Her eyes looked all around, shining with wonder; then they fell on the Prince beside his throne, and she also stood transfixed. Neither of them seemed able to move; until they did, the guests could not either. It began to look as though this would last all night.

  The Herald was having to suppress a good deal of annoyance because he had not been at the door to announce the beauty of the evening; he considered that the Toastmaster had trespassed on his preserves, the Toastmaster, who, gazing after the exquisite little creature, was oozing with sentimental feelings of the most inferior k
ind—just like, thought the Herald, a bag of cheap pear drops melting in the sun. It was time to put a stop to all that and take things in hand. The Herald advanced as though he were preparing to dance a pavane, met Ella halfway up the floor, and made his lowest bow in his highest manner.

  “Princess!”

  With that one word he commanded the situation and, preceding her to the throne, presented her to the Prince as though he had just made her with his own hands. Ella managed to curtsy. The Prince managed to bow. They gazed at each other without exchanging a word.

  The Prince beckoned to the Herald.

  “Your Royal Highness?” said that functionary.

  “Announce to the Court that the Prince would be alone.”

  The Herald expostulated. “But Your Royal Highness—”

  “My Royal Highness would be alone.”

  “But the ladies—” the Herald reminded him.

  “I would be alone.”

  “So be it.”

  The Herald signed to the Trumpeter, and the Trumpeter blew a blast.

  “Ladies, attend!

  His Highness—

  His Royal Highness—

  His Royal Highness the Prince—

  Having meditated and cogitated,

  And cogitated and meditated

  The burning point of the turning point

  Of his existence—

  Emphatically and unenigmatically,

  And rhetorically and categorically,

  Bids all here present

  To start to depart,

  To take heed and recede,

  To be discreet and retreat

  To a considerable distance.”

  With a peremptory gesture the Herald swept himself and the disappointed ladies out of the room; considering himself, like everybody else, dismissed—for how could His Royal Highness possibly be alone if a person of his consequence remained? Having disposed the ladies in a large anteroom, he withdrew to a little one of his own, known as the Herald’s Sanctum, where he sat down and sulked.

  Ella, still dazed, had moved slowly away from the Prince to follow the ladies—for how could His Royal Highness be alone if even so little a person remained?

  “Princess!” The Prince hadn’t meant that at all. She turned, met his eyes again, and came back. He bowed over her hand and kissed it.

  Ella said, “Oh!”

  “What is the matter?”

  “Nobody has ever done that before.” Shyly and eagerly Ella asked, “Would you do it again?”

  The Prince was puzzled. He inquired, “They do not kiss hands in Nowhere?”

  “N-no,” stammered Ella. “Yes. Do they?” (Oh dear! What a muddle she was making of it.) “I—can’t remember.”

  “You have been so long from your native land?” asked the Prince.

  “Yes. No. Have I? How stupid you must think me.”

  “I think you—” said the Prince, and stopped.

  “What?” asked Ella.

  “I cannot tell you so soon.”

  (Oh dear, what a pity!) “In Nowhere,” Ella said, “we tell at once.”

  “Tell, then!” urged the Prince.

  “I—I think,” stammered Ella, “I think you—”

  “Well?”

  “I can’t either.” She must change the subject quickly. “What a magnificent room!”

  “I suppose so,” said the Prince.

  “Don’t you love it?”

  “I think I am a little tired of it.”

  “I couldn’t ever grow tired of it,” said Ella, “unless I had to clean it.”

  “Clean it!” exclaimed the astonished Prince. “You!”

  (Oh dear!) “I mean—you see—in Nowhere we do sometimes clean things ourselves. Oh yes, indeed,” she assured him, gaining confidence.

  “Whatever for?” asked the Prince.

  She answered airily, “Different countries, different customs, you know. It never hurt anybody to know what scouring and scrubbing are.” Her gaze roamed round the enormous room. “Your poor servants!” she sighed.

  “Why?”

  “Just think of polishing those acres of floors! Just think of shining up the throne every morning before the personages come down! And the dusting!” She stooped and ran her finger round the dais on which the Prince had been standing. “I thought so,” she said, holding up her finger. “Dust under the throne!”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The Prince wiped her finger gently with his lace handkerchief.

  “It does matter.” Ella shook her head.

  “Don’t let’s talk about dusting,” said the Prince. “Tell me about Nowhere. Tell me about your castles. Describe them to me. Have you many castles?”

  (Oh dear!) “I—we don’t have castles in Nowhere.”

  “What an unusual country,” said the Prince. “Then tell me about your acrobats. Have you good acrobats in Nowhere?”

  “We don’t have acrobats,” said Ella.

  “No acrobats?” The Prince was surprised. He was particularly proud of his acrobats.

  “No.” Ella tossed her head a little. “We don’t approve of them.”

  “I suppose it is a point of view,” conceded the Prince. “How many horses do you keep?”

  “We don’t keep horses. But,” she added with some dignity, “we have lots and lots of mice.”

  “How charming!” cried the Prince. “I will keep mice too. I am glad you are fond of animals. What else are you fond of? Art? People in our position should patronize art, don’t you think? Have you a fine gallery in Nowhere? Do you like pictures?”

  “Yes—yes, I do,” stammered Ella. “I intend to get some.”

  “We have many fine pictures.” The Prince took her hand and led her round the room, pointing out the priceless paintings on the walls. “That is a picture of my great-great-grandmother.”

  “What lovely green hair!” said Ella admiringly.

  “She was a water nymph,” remarked the Prince. “In one of the best rivers, of course. And this is my grand-grand-great-uncle.”

  Ella considered the picture, and then she considered the Prince. “You aren’t very like him.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “I’m glad,” said Ella.

  “He couldn’t help having two noses,” said the Prince. “He offended a witch.”

  “Poor man,” sighed Ella.

  “Poor man,” sighed the Prince. He pressed her hand to comfort her as they gazed at the grand-grand-great-uncle’s two noses.

  “What did he do to offend the witch?” asked Ella.

  “He cut off her nose,” said the Prince.

  “Poor witch,” sighed Ella.

  “Poor witch,” sighed the Prince.

  They came a little closer to each other in their sorrow for the witch.

  “What is the time?” asked Ella suddenly.

  “Who cares?” said the Prince.

  But Ella cared a great deal. “What is the time?” she entreated.

  “Ten minutes past eleven.”

  Ella shut her eyes and tried to count. “How many seconds in fifty minutes?”

  “Three thousand—why?” asked the Prince.

  She did not tell him why. “Three thousand,” she murmured.

  “And alas, time flies,” said the Prince. “I must attend to my guests.”

  “Must you?” said Ella wistfully.

  “Forgive me, I must,” he said gently. He struck a little bell that rang in the Herald’s Sanctum. The Herald appeared instantly.

  “Your Royal Highness?”

  “It is ten minutes past eleven—”

  “So be it,” said the Herald stiffly. Was it his fault?

  “Summon the ladies,” commanded the Prince. “Let the dancing begin.”

  “So be it,” said the Herald, not quite so stiffly; but as he passed out of the room his shoulders managed to suggest that it was high time indeed.

  But Ella wished the dancing might be put off forever. She remembered, from very long ago, the party when she
was a little child, and they had all danced, as children dance, without thinking, for delight, and afterward they played gay games. The dancing children had not been taught how to dance, nor had Ella, then or later. She would have had dancing lessons, no doubt, if her mother had lived; and no doubt the mothers of all these pretty, well-mannered girls, these countesses and duchesses and margravines, had seen to it for them. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!

  She said rather tremulously, “The ladies are very accomplished?”

  “Accomplished? No doubt, in their way.”

  “The ladies will have been taught dancing?”

  “Presumably.”

  Ella plucked up her courage to tell him, “We are not taught dancing in Nowhere.”

  “I am sure,” smiled the Prince, “you have no need to be.”

  “We do not dance very well in Nowhere,” she faltered.

  “You are too modest,” said the Prince.

  “I’m not, I’m not!”

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “you will be my partner?”

  “Yes,” said Ella, “I will be your partner. Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything you ask.”

  She held her hand toward him. “Kiss my hand again.” The Prince kissed it. “Thank you.”

  “Aren’t you a funny girl!” She puzzled him so.

  “Not very,” whispered Ella.

  They looked at each other, finding no more to say.

  “Way for the ladies!” the Herald called outside.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  How They Dance in Nowhere

  THE LADIES HAD been on the tiptoe of curiosity while they waited, asking themselves and one another a thousand questions. Why had the Prince desired to be alone with the beautiful little newcomer from Nowhere? Was he smitten? Wasn’t he smitten? Could he help being smitten? Wasn’t she by far the most exquisite little lady ever seen in the kingdom? Where did she come from? Where did she get the material for that dress? Who was her dressmaker? What was he saying to her now? Back tripped the ladies to the ballroom, all agog. The Herald rounded them up like a flock of sheep.

  “Ladies in a circle!” he commanded, as the musicians struck up for the first dance. The ladies, all obedience, formed themselves into a ring in the middle of the floor. “The ladies,” announced the Herald, “will wait until the Prince has opened the ball with the first measure.” The ladies’ hearts fluttered like aspen leaves. Each one was thinking: Suppose, after all, he opens the ball with me? . . . But the Prince was bowing to the Princess of Nowhere, and the aspen leaves stopped fluttering.