Slipper

by Hester Velmans

  “Do you mean to tell us, Perrault,” Colbert whispered, “that these rumors we hear are without foundation, that any resemblance in the paintings to any member of the court is fortuitous?”

  “Pure chance, dear Minister, pure chance!” chortled Perrault.

  Gravely, Colbert inspected the canvases once again. The composition of the second painting was excellent, the expressions noble yet ecstatic, the naked flesh appetizingly flushed, and the leopard skin slung about Paris’s shoulder exquisitely detailed.

  He turned back to the first painting. He would keep this to himself of course, but he was almost certain that the artist had tampered with it since Perrault had first shown it to him. Not only was this Penelope considerably more tousled and alluring than he remembered, but there was also no denying that the most prominent of the suitors lurking behind her, an evil-looking villain, showed an uncommon resemblance to the Marquis de Quelquonque.

  59

  THE SLIPPER

  In the stagecoach, Lucinda tried to make her mind go blank, to banish the imaginary scenarios from her head. There would be no more daydreaming from now on; she had sworn never again to be misled by her own fantasies. Dieneke was dozing next to her, with Arentje snuggled between them.

  She gazed out the window at the English countryside. It had been so long since she had left that she was struck by how different from the Continent it looked. Compact, closely grazed hills. No bristling forests. No sweeping vistas. No vast skies. Everything more muted. A difference not only in the greener light, but in the trees themselves. In France the trees grew tall and vertical, carefully spaced out along the avenues like sentries endlessly saluting. Here in England they were rounder, densely symmetrical, set back from and quite unconnected to the road that snaked through the hedgerows like an earthworm slithering across the soil. The snug scale of it felt reassuring, familiar. Her skull prickled. She was coming home.

  In London a hackney coach drove them to the Hospital for Women in St. Giles. There she was given the address of Mr. Prynce, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  The house was a modest affair, low to the ground. It looked more like a series of linked cottages than a grand abode. An elderly woman answered the door.

  Lucinda stammered her name.

  “Wait here,” she was told.

  She remained out on the front stoop until she heard footsteps on the stairs inside.

  Stepping out of the bright daylight into the gloom of the hall, she blinked. All she could see was a fuzzy outline of a man. She hesitated, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

  “Lucinda.” The voice sounded mocking, not at all surprised.

  “John! Am I…?”

  “Too late?” A bitter laugh. “I’m still here. As you can see.”

  “I mean, you…”

  “Yes. I have been waiting for you.”

  “Oh. But…how…”

  “I knew you were on your way.”

  “You knew?”

  “I have my spies. I have made it my business to keep track of you. In Amsterdam, you know, and then in Paris.”

  “Really!”

  “I was informed the Dutchman was dead…”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes.”

  “But, if you knew!” Her knees were starting to tremble. “Then why—”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you not come for me…?”

  He tilted his head up at the sun streaming in through the fanlight over her head. He cleared his throat, began again, this time with somewhat less irritation. “— I think…I suppose I wanted you to come looking for me.”

  “But…”

  “You gave me no reason to hope.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Not even the slightest.”

  “Well, but here I am.”

  “Yes, so you are.”

  The ensuing silence between them was so deep that she could feel her heart sinking into it as in a quicksand. She wanted to turn around and run away from the disappointing reality of this, back to the relative smoothness and ease of her fantasies. But her feet were heavily planted on the hallway floor. She took a step forward. His features finally swam into focus. He looked as awkward and unhappy as she felt. She did not remember him looking so—well, ordinary. He seemed smaller. Sadder. Grayer, balder.

  He hung his head. “My life has been nothing—without you.”

  She took a deep breath. “But what happened to Noé?” she asked.

  “He’s upstairs. A big boy now.”

  She nodded. “That’s good. I—I hope you will let me see him.”

  “Of course. And your own little ones…”

  “Just Arentje,” she said. She had to blink. “Liesbet died —.”

  “Oh, of course, I’d heard,” he said stiffly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Her ribs ached with tension. Where was the warm, generous resonance in his voice that she had imagined so often? His voice was resentfully creaky. He was so insecure! Surely it wasn’t all her fault?

  “Well!” She forced herself to smile, although her eyes were wet. As if this really was very amusing.

  “Remember your slipper?” he suddenly blurted out, to cover up the awkwardness.

  “Of course!”

  “I still have it. I. I kept it…”

  “You kept it?”

  “You may think me foolishly sentimental, but I could not…”

  “Not at all!” she said hurriedly. “Please! Show it to me!”

  It was a great relief to them both that he could turn away for a few moments in order to tug open a large oak chest.

  “Ah! Here it is!” he exulted, swaggering slightly, as if she hadn’t really believed him.

  It was a pitiful little thing: dirty, worn, scuffed. But the glass beads still glittered as brightly as ever.

  More for his sake than her own, she clasped her hands together, and breathed, “You have kept it! Let me try it on!”

  “You don’t have to, I mean, don’t think I—I…” he stuttered, stung by the artificiality of her enthusiasm.

  “No, really, I want to!” she said, gamely pulling up a chair that stood sentry next to the door.

  He handed her the slipper with a gesture of reverence. Without further ado she kicked off her dusty shoe, revealing a sagging, rather grubby stocking. Hastily, to cover it up, she jammed the slipper onto her foot.

  The wool of the stocking was much too bulky for the narrow little mule. She grabbed the stocking by the toes and pulled it off in one impatient motion. The sight of her naked foot was too much for John, who turned his head away. Lucinda quickly pointed her toes and curled her foot inwards, like a claw, before inserting it once more into the forlorn little shoe. But still it was too snug. She yanked at the recalcitrant leather. As hard as she tugged, she could not wedge her toes in.

  She slumped back in the chair.

  “See?” she said. “It doesn’t fit!”

  “It doesn’t fit?” he repeated. “No, I…that can’t be! Here, let me try it!”

  He knelt down before her, and proceeded to cram her foot into the soft leather with a determination that bordered on despair.

  “It’s no use!” she laughed. She kicked her foot to shake him off. But she too felt like crying. “It isn’t even close! My feet have spread!” And then, “Stop it! Let go, John! You can’t make it fit!”

  He sat back on his haunches. He swallowed. He looked at the piece of leather in his hand, grown dark with significance, invested with such a store of romanticized love. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. He brought his elbow up and swiped at his brow helplessly with the back of his arm, like a disconsolate child.

  That gesture, unaccountably, affected Lucinda like a punch in the stomach. It made her suck in her breath with a gasp.

  He looked up at her, startled.

  For the first time since her arrival, he really looked at her. Stared at her boldly. Tried to make out what she really was; to see how he could
make this dejected, flat-footed woman conform to the dainty, ethereal image he had of her in his mind.

  Lucinda returned his stare, and she, too, saw reality. Not the strong, invincible hero of her imagination, but something else, something entirely new—or, rather, something that had always been a part of him, but that she had not chosen to see before.

  It was an aura of regret; a fear of life as great as her own; a vulnerability that demanded, compelled, her deepest tenderness.

  Cautiously, she leaned forward and held out her cold hands.

  He looked at them in surprise; then with a groan clasped them in his.

  And, wondrous to relate, at that touch the fire began to glow again, first mildly sparking in their fingertips, but spreading rapidly past the elbows into the chest, and finally, as they fell gratefully into each other’s arms, turning into the wild conflagration they both remembered, that licked their bones and seared their loins and fed upon their innards.

  BIOGRAPHY AND MYTHOLOGY

  Names marked with an asterisk (*) are real historical characters

  Noé Prynce became an apothecary and a physician. His exotic dark looks earned him the reputation of having supernatural healing powers, and this stood him in good stead when he took over from his father as chief physician of the Mother Goose Hospital for Women in St. Giles in 1698.

  Arent Arentzn. Prul the Younger became a painter like his father and mother before him, and enjoyed some popularity as a court portraitist. Since he was not in the habit of signing his pictures, no painting in existence today can be authoritatively attributed to him.

  Lady Clarissa eventually regained the power of speech. Unfortunately, the harmony of her marriage was never restored. After her husband, Sir Edmund Nayerdell, succumbed to a fatal apoplexy, Lady Clarissa converted to Papism so that she might enter a convent in France. She never mastered the French language, but that was not a problem, since the order of nuns she joined was a silent one.

  Sarah Nayerdell married a very rich man, became the mistress of a mansion not very different from her childhood home, and developed a passion for whist and a taste for Barbadoes waters before she was out of her twenties.

  Robert Steppys, Second Earl of Hempstead, enjoyed a brief period of happiness and some popularity with the ladies once his skin cleared up. Unfortunately, he was stricken with small-pox just a few years later, which he survived, but left his face more marred than before. He never married and spent a fortune on building an extravagant new church (never completed) in the heart of Bitterbury.

  James, Duke of Monmouth*, tried in 1685 to wrest the English throne from his uncle, King James the Second, in a popular uprising known as Monmouth’s Rebellion. The coup attempt failed, and Monmouth was executed as a traitor. Monmouth’s Dutch cousin William of Orange*, on the other hand, had no trouble ousting his unpopular father-in-law from the English throne (the same King James—you see what a dysfunctional family this was!) a few years later. King William and Queen Mary are today chiefly remembered for lending their names to a style of furniture.

  John Churchill* pursued his military and political ambitions with great gusto, earning a title and considerable wealth in the process. As the Duke of Marlborough, he was the commander who eventually outfoxed and defeated Louis XlV at Blenheim, Malplaquet and Oudenaarde. His exploits inspired his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson Winston, who took on another great dictator in the twentieth century.

  Henry Beaupree never made it very far in the army hierarchy, because, it was said, he had earned the enmity of some very influential people. In 1685 he threw in his lot with the Duke of Monmouth. He escaped execution after the battle of Sedgemoor by turning informant, only to die two years later in a debtor’s prison.

  The health of the poet John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester* deteriorated precipitously in the last two years of his life. He spent the months leading up to his death in devout repentance and earnest repudiation of his former debauched life. He was 32 years old.

  The fame of the Chevalier d’Artagnan*, the commander of Louis XIV’s musketeers killed during the siege of Maastricht, was revived two centuries after his death by the writer Alexandre Dumas, who turned him into the hero of one of the most popular novels of all time.

  Sébastien le Prestre de Vauban* is remembered by historians as the man who perfected the art of siege warfare and invented the socket bayonet. He had the reputation of being a very tenderhearted man. In his will he made generous provisions for four women besides his wife, all of whom had borne him children.

  Dieneke Huizen lived to a ripe old age. She became rich in her dotage from a floor polish called The Dutch Maid’s Secret, which she sold in penny-bottles from a barrow in London’s Leather Lane.

  Marie-Lise, Countess Bienmaline, enjoyed the reputation of being a patroness of the arts, and in later years her salon was attended by the most prominent thinkers of her day. She has been cited by some scholars as one of the models for Molière’s Femmes Savantes, but that is patently absurd, since she was lauded by her many admirers as captivatingly shallow and refreshingly empty-headed.

  Jean-Baptiste Colbert* was King Louis XIV’s Minister of Finances, and Charles Perrault’s boss. His innovations included the royal manufactories of mirror glass, and the royal tapestries works at Gobelin. Under his rule, merchants and craftsmen whose work was deemed unsatisfactory were sent to the pillory.

  Charles Perrault* died in 1703 confident that he would be remembered for his influence in the arts, architecture and literature. He was justifiably proud of his intellectual exploits—the great dispute with Boileau known as the Quarrel of the Ancients and the Moderns for instance, or the controversial “Vindication of Women” (Apologie des Femmes, published in 1694).

  He would perhaps have been mortified to learn that his immortality was in fact assured by a simple little book of folk tales, The Tales of Mother Goose, which was published shortly before his death. Of these tales, one in particular stood out, and became a hit with children the world over.

  It was titled L’Histoire de Cendrillon, ou la Petite Pantoufle de Verre: The History of Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper.

  Lucinda Sunderland never produced another great classical painting in the mold of Penelope and the Suitors or The Abduction of Helen. All that is left to us of her later work is a handful of quiet domestic scenes. Very little more is known about her life. What we do know is that Sunderland and the surgeon John Prynce lived out their lives as man and wife, and that at least three more children were born from their union.

  Some might say, then, that they lived happily ever after.

  A word of caution, however. No matter how appealing this happily-ever-after ending may be, we must be extremely careful in applying it. For to be perfectly frank, such a baldly optimistic prognosis is plausible only in daydreams, or in fairy tales.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Hester Velmans is a novelist and translator of literary fiction. She grew up in Amsterdam, New York, Paris, Geneva and London, and now lives in Western Massachusetts. SLIPPER is her first novel for adults. Her children’s novels are about whales and the sea: Isabel of the Whales and Jessaloup’s Song. For more, visit her website: www.hestervelmans.com.

  Q&A

  1. What inspired you to write your own twist on such a classic fairytale story?

  The fairy tales, especially Cinderella, were my inspiration, because they touch on such fundamental romantic desires in young girls (and boys) as they grow up. It’s a way of giving yourself courage – you may think yourself misunderstood, looked down upon, dissed, but little do “they” know that in reality you’re a beautiful princess or dashing prince (or a talented actress, singer, or some other kind of hero or genius), and won’t they regret the way they treated you when the truth comes out and your real identity, or your real worth, is revealed! Many all-time favorite novels are built around this same Cinderella theme (Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Harry Potter, many of Shakespeare’s comedies, etc.); it’s a tradition
I was interested in exploring.

  2. How did you incorporate the fantasy elements of Cinderella and other fairytales into your book?

  The fairy tale is the frame on which I set out to hang a more realistic story – what might really have happened to someone living in the 17th Century that could have served as inspiration for the tale – and then I hung as many familiar fairy tale memes on to that realistic framework as I could (eg. Little Red Riding Hood, the pumpkin-coach, Sleeping Beauty, the futility of leaving a trail of crumbs in case you get lost in the forest). I was interested in the essence of Cinderella – the romantic longing, the childhood/adolescent dream that some day you’ll be recognized as someone more special than you are now — but without the magic. I had fun finding reasonable historical explanations for the fantasy elements in the fairy tales.

  3. You’ve published children’s books in the past, but “Slipper” is for an adult audience. How was the transition from writing for children to writing for adults?

  I wrote my children’s books for my own children. I wrote SLIPPER for myself. My children’s books have magical elements, but in this novel I went for realism, and deliberately left out the magic. Writing for adults means more freedom to write about sex and death, aspects I felt were necessary in telling this story. Yet even though I was writing a book for adults, I wanted it to appeal to the child that’s inside each of us.