“Is there any other lady dwelling in this house?” he said.
The two sisters narrowed their eyes one at the other, and lied and said, “No.” Yet even at that very moment there welled in a faint singing as if out of the very bowels of the earth.
The Lord Chamberlain said, “What voice is that I hear?”
The two sisters almost squinted as they glanced again each at the other, and the one said it was a tame popinjay: and the other that it was the creaking of the pump.
“Then,” said the Lord Chamberlain, “the pump has learned English!” He at once sent two of his pages to seek out the singer whose voice he had heard, and to bring her into his presence. So Cinderella had to appear before him in her rags, just as she was. But when she saw the glass slipper on the crimson cushion, she almost laughed out loud.
The Lord Chamberlain, marvelling at her beauty, said: “Why do you smile, my child?”
She said, “Because, my lord, I have a slipper exactly like that one myself. It’s in a drawer in the kitchen dresser.” And when one of the pages had brought the other slipper, behold, Cinderella’s two feet with both their heels and all their ten toes slipped into them as easily as a titmouse into its nest.
When Cinderella was brought to the King and the Queen, they received her as if she were a long-lost daughter. Far and near, once more, at her wedding, the bonfires blazed all night among the hills, the fountains in the market-place ran with wine, there were stalls of venison pies, black puddings and eels, sweetmeats, cakes and comfits, and such a concourse of strangers and noblemen in the city as it had never contained before.
Of Cinderella’s guests of honour the first was a humpity-backed old woman muffled up in a green mantle, who ate nothing, and drank nothing, and said nothing; but smiled and smiled and smiled.
As for the elder sisters, they sat at home listening to the wedding bells clashing their changes in the steeples. The one being without a heel to her left foot, and the other without a big toe, they walked lame ever afterwards. And their neighbours, laughing at their folly, called them the Two Old Stump-stumps.
The Dancing Princesses
There was a King of old who had twelve daughters. Some of them were fair as swans in spring, some dark as trees on a mountain-side, and all were beautiful. And because the King wished to keep their beauty to himself only, they slept at night in twelve beds in one long, stone chamber, whose doors were closely barred and bolted.
Yet, in spite of this, as soon as the year came round to May again, and the stars and cold of winter were gone and the world was merry, at morning and every morning the soles of the twelve Princesses’ slippers were found to be worn through to the very welts. It was as if they must have been dancing in them all the night long.
News of this being brought to the King, he marvelled. Unless they had wings, how could they have flown out of the palace? There was neither crevice nor cranny in the heavy doors. He spied. He set watch. It made no difference. Brand-new though the Princesses’ gold and silver slippers were overnight, they were worn-out at morning. He was in rage and despair.
Every morning the soles of the twelve Princesses’ slippers were . . . worn through to the very welts.
At last this King made a decree. He decreed that anyone who, by waking and watching, by wisdom or magic, should reveal this strange secret, and where and how and when the twelve Princesses’ slippers went of nights to get so worn, he should have the hand in marriage of whichever one of the Princesses he chose, and should be made the heir to the throne. As for anyone foolish enough to be so bold as to attempt such a task and fail in it, he should be whipped out of the kingdom, and maybe lose his ears into the bargain. But, such was the beauty of these Princesses, many a high-born stranger lost, not only his heart, but his ears also; and the King grew ever more moody and morose.
Now beyond the walls of the royal house where lived the twelve Princesses was a forest; and one summer’s evening an old soldier who was travelling home from the wars met there, on his way, a beldame with a pig. This old beldame had brought her pig to the forest to feed on the beech-mast and truffles, but now, try as she might, she could not prevail upon it to be caught and to return home with her to its sty. She would steal up behind it with its cord in her hand, but as soon as she drew near and all but in touch of it, the pig, that meanwhile had been busily rooting in the cool loose loam, with a flick of its ears and a twinkle of its tail, would scamper off out of her reach. It was almost as if its little sharp glass-green eyes could see through the pink shutters of its ears.
The old soldier watched the pig (and the red sunlight was glinting in the young green leaves of the beeches), and at last he said: “If I may make so bold, Grannie, I know a little secret about pigs. And if, as I take it, you want to catch that particular pig, it’s yours and welcome.”
The beldame, who had fingers like birds’ claws and eyes black as sloes, thanked the old soldier. Fetching out a scrap of some secret root from the bottom of his knapsack, he first slowly turned his back on the pig, then stooped down and, with the bit of root between his teeth, stared earnestly at the pig from between his legs.
Presently, either by reason of the savour of the root or drawn by curiosity, the pig edged closer and closer to the old soldier, until at last it actually came nosing and sidling in underneath him, as if under a bridge. Then in a trice the old soldier snatched him up by ear and tail, and slipped the noose of the cord fast. The pig squealed like forty demons, but more as if in fun than in real rage.
“There we are, Grannie,” said the old soldier, giving the old beldame her pig, “and here’s a scrap of the root, too. There’s no pig all the world over, white, black, or piebald, but after he gets one sniff of it comes for more. That I’ll warrant you, and I’m sure you’re very welcome.”
The beldame, with her pig now safely at the rope’s end and the scrap of root between her fingers, thanked the old soldier and asked him of his journey and whither he was going; and it was just as if, with its snout uplifted and its ears drawn forward, the nimble young pig was also listening for his answer.
The old soldier told her he was returning from the wars. “But as for where to, Grannie, or what for, I hardly know. For wife or children have I none, and most of my old friends must have long ago forgotten me. Not that I’m meaning to say, Grannie,” says the soldier, “that that much matters, me being come so far, and no turning back. Still, there’s just one thing I’d like to find out before I go, and that is where the twelve young daughters of the mad old King yonder dance of nights. If I knew that, Grannie, they say I might some day sit on a throne.” With that he burst out laughing, at which the pig, with a twist of its jaws (as though recalling the sweet savour of the root), flung up its three-cornered head and laughed too.
The beldame, eyeing the old soldier closely, said that what he had asked was not a hard or dangerous matter, if only he would promise to do exactly what she told him. The old soldier found that easy enough.
“Well,” said the beldame, “when you come to the Palace, you’ll be set to watch, and you’ll be tempted to sleep. Vow a vow, then, to taste not even a crumb of the sweet cake or sip so much as a sip of the wine the Princesses will bring to you before they go to bed. Wake and watch; then follow where they lead; and here is a cloak which, come fair or foul, will make you invisible.” At this the beldame took a cloak finer than spider silk from out of a small bag or pouch she wore, and gave it him.
“That hide me!” said the soldier. “Old coat, brass buttons, and all?”
“Ay,” said the beldame, and thanked him again for his help; and the pig coughed, and so they parted.
When she was out of sight the old soldier had another look at the magic cloak, and thought over what the beldame had told him. Being by nature bold and brave, and having nothing better to do, he went off at once to the King.
The King looked at the old soldier, listened to what he said, and then with a grim smile half-hidden under his beard, bade him follow him to a li
ttle stone closet hard by the long chamber where the Princesses slept. “Watch here,” he said, “and if you can discover this secret, then the reward I have decreed shall be yours. If not—” He glanced up under his brows at the brave old soldier (who had no more fear in his heart than he had money in his pocket) but did not finish his sentence.
A little before nightfall, the old soldier sat himself down on a bench in the stone closet, and by the light of a stub of candle began to mend his shoe.
By-and-by the eldest of the Princesses knocked softly on his door, smiled on him and brought him a cup of wine and a dish of sweet cakes. He thanked her. But as soon as she was gone he dribbled out the wine drip by drip into a hole between the flagstones, and made crumbs of the cakes for the mice. Then he lay down and pretended to be asleep. He snored and snored, but even while he snored he was busy with his cobbler’s awl boring a little hole for a peephole between the stone of the wall where he lay and the Princesses’ room. At midnight all was still.
But hardly had the little owl of midnight called, Ahoo! Ahoo! Ahoo! when the old soldier, hearing a gentle stirring in the next room, peeped through the tiny hole he had bored in the wall. His eyes dazzled; a wondrous sight was to be seen. For the Princesses in the filmy silver of the moon were now dressing and attiring themselves in clothes that seemed not of this world, but from some strange otherwhere, which they none the less took out of their own coffers and wardrobes. They seemed to be as happy as larks in the morning, or like swallows chittering before they fly, laughing and whispering together while they put on these bright garments and made ready. Only one of them, the youngest, had withdrawn herself a little apart and delayed to join them, and now kept silent. Seeing this, her sisters made merry at her, and asked her what ailed her.
“The others,” she said, “whom our father set to watch us were young and foolish. But that old soldier has wandered all over the world and has seen many things, and it seems to me he is crafty and wise. That, sisters, is why I say, Beware!”
Still they only laughed at her. “Crafty and wise, forsooth!” said they. “Listen to his snoring! He has eaten of our sweet cakes and drunken the spiced wine, and now he will sleep sound till morning.” At this the old soldier, peeping through his little bore-hole in the stones, smiled to himself, and went on snoring.
“When they were all ready to be gone, the eldest of the Princesses clapped her hands. At this signal, and as if by magic, in the middle of the floor one wide flagstone wheeled softly upon its neighbour, disclosing an opening there, and beneath it a narrow winding flight of steps. One by one, according to age, the Princesses followed the eldest down this secret staircase, and the old soldier knew there was no time to be lost.
He flung the old beldame’s cloak over his shoulders, and (as she had foretold) instantly of himself there showed not even so much as a shadow. Then, having noiselessly unbarred the door into the Princesses’ bedroom, he followed the youngest of them down the stone steps.
It was dark beneath the flagstones, and the old soldier trod clumsily in his heavy shoes. And as he groped down he stumbled, and trod on the hem of the youngest Princess’s dress.
“Alas, sisters, a hand is clutching at me!” she called out to her sisters.
“A hand!” mocked the eldest. “You must have caught your sleeve on a nail!”
On and down they went, and out of a narrow corridor at last emerged and came full into the open air, and following a faint track in the green turf, reached at last a wood where the trees (their bark, branches, twigs and leaves) were all of silver and softly shimmering in a gentle light that seemed to be neither of sun nor moon nor stars. Anon they came to a second wood, and here the trees shone softly too, but these were of gold. Anon they came to a third wood, and here the trees were in fruit, and the fruits upon them were precious stones—green, blue, and amber, and burning orange.
When the Princesses had all passed through this third wood, they broke out upon a hillside, and, looking down from out the leaf-fringed trees, the old soldier saw the calm waters of a lake beyond yellow sands, and drawn up on its strand twelve swan-shaped boats. And there, standing as if in wait beside them, were twelve young men that looked to be Princes. Noble and handsome young men they were.
“Alas, sisters, a hand is clutching at me!”
The Princesses, having hastened down to the strand, greeted these young men one and all, and at once embarked into the twelve swan-shaped boats, the old soldier smuggling himself as gingerly as he could into the boat of the youngest. Then the Princes rowed away softly across the water towards an island that was in the midst of the lake, where was a Palace, its windows shining like crystal in the wan light that bathed sky and water.
Only the last of the boats lagged far behind the others, for the old soldier sitting there invisible on the thwart, though little else but bones and sinews, weighed as heavy as a sack of stones in the boat. At last the youngest of the Princes leaned on his oars to recover his breath. “What,” he sighed, “can be amiss with this boat to-night? It never rowed so heavily.”
The youngest of the Princesses looked askance at him with fear in her eyes, for the boat was atilt with the weight of the old soldier and not trimmed true. Whereupon she turned her small head and looked towards that part of the boat where sat the old soldier, for there it dipped deepest in the water. In so doing, she gazed straight into his eyes, yet perceived nothing but the green water beyond. He smiled at her, and—though she knew not why—she was comforted. “Maybe,” she said, turning to the Prince again and answering what he had said—“maybe you are wearied because of the heat of the evening.” And he rowed on.
When they were come to the island and into the palace there, the old soldier could hardly believe his eyes, it was a scene so fair and strange and unearthly. All the long night through, to music of harp and tambour and pipe, the Princesses danced with the Princes. Danced, too, the fountains at play, with an endless singing of birds, trees with flowers blossoming, and no-one seemed to weary. But as soon as the scarlet shafts of morning showed beyond these skies, they returned at once to the boats, and the Princesses were soon back safely under the King’s roof again, and so fast asleep in their beds that they looked as if they had never stirred or even sighed in them the whole night long. They might be lovely images of stone.
But the old soldier slept like a hare—with one eye open. When he awoke, which was soon, he began to think over all that he had seen and heard. The longer he pondered on it, the more he was filled with astonishment. Every now and then, as if to make sure of the land of the living, he peeped with his eye through the hole in the wall, for he was almost of a mind to believe that his journey of the night before—the enchanted woods, the lake, the palace and the music—was nothing more than the make-believe of a dream.
So, being a man of caution, he determined to say nothing at all of what had passed this first night, but to watch again a second night. When dark drew on, he once more dribbled out the spiced wine into the crannies of the stones and crumbled the sweet cakes into morsels for the mice, himself eating nothing but a crust or two of rye-bread and a rind of cheese that he had in his haversack.
All happened as before. Midnight came. The Princesses rose up out of their beds, gay and brisk as fish leaping at evening out of their haunts, and soon had made ready and were gone to their trysting-place at the lake-side. All was as before.
The old soldier—to make sure even surer—watched for the third night. But this night, as he followed the Princesses, first through the wood where the leaves were of silver, and next where they resembled fine gold, and last where the fruits on the boughs were all of precious stones, he broke off in each a twig. As he did so the third time, the tree faintly sighed, and the youngest Princess heard the tree sigh. Her fears of the first night, far from being lulled and at rest, had only grown sharper. She stayed a moment in the wood, looking back, and cried, “Sisters! Sisters! We are being watched. We are being followed. I heard this tree sigh, and it was in warning.�
�� But they only laughed at her.
“Sigh, forsooth!” they said. “So, too, would you, sister, if you were clad in leaves as trees are, and a little wind went through your branches.”
Hearing this, in hope to reassure her, the old soldier softly wafted the three twigs he carried in the air at a little distance from the youngest’s face. Sweet was the scent of them, and she smiled. That night, too, for further proof, the old soldier stole one of the gold drinking-cups in the Princes’ Palace and hid it away with the twigs in his haversack. Then for the last time he watched the dancing, and listened to the night birds’ music and the noise of the fountains. But being tired, he sat down and yawned, for he had no great wish to be young again, and was happy in being himself.
Indeed, as he looked in at the Princesses, fast, fast asleep that third early morning, their dreamless faces lying waxen and placid amid the braids of their long hair upon their pillows, he even pitied them.
That very day he asked to be taken before the King, and when he was come into his presence entreated of him a favour.
“Say on!” said the King. The old soldier then besought the King to promise that if he told the secret thing he had discovered, he would forgive the Princesses all that had gone before.
“I’d rather,” he said, “be whipped three times round your Majesty’s kingdom than open my mouth else.”
The King promised. Then the old soldier brought out from his haversack the three twigs of the trees—the silver and the gold and the begemmed—and the gold cup from the banqueting hall; and he told the King all that had befallen him.
On first hearing of this, the King fell into a rage at the thought of how his daughters had deceived him. But he remembered his promise and was pacified. He remembered, too, the decree he had made, and sent word that his daughters should be bidden into his presence. When they were come, the dark and the fair together, he frowned on them, then turned to the old soldier: “Now choose which of these deceivers you will have for wife, for such was my decree.”
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