A Kiss For Cinderella Play by James Matthew Barrie
A Kiss For Cinderella Play Act I
A Kiss For Cinderella Play Act II
A Kiss For Cinderella Play Act III
A Kiss For Cinderella Play Act II
It is later in the evening of the same day, and this is such a street as harbours London’s poor. The windows are so close to us that we could tap on the only one which shows a light. It is on the ground floor, and makes a gallant attempt to shroud this light with articles of apparel suspended within. Seen as shadows through the blind, these are somehow very like Miss Thing, and almost suggest that she has been hanging herself in several places in one of her bouts of energy. The street is in darkness, save for the meagre glow from a street lamp, whose glass is painted red in obedience to war regulations. It is winter time, and there is a sprinkling of snow on the ground.
Our Policeman appears in the street, not perhaps for the first time this evening, and flashes his lantern on the suspect’s window, whose signboard (boards again!) we now see bears this odd device,
Celeste et Cie.
The Penny Friend.
Not perhaps for the first time this evening he scratches his head at it. Then he pounds off in pursuit of some client who has just emerged with a pennyworth. We may imagine the two of them in conversation in the next street, the law putting leading questions. Meanwhile the ‘fourth’ wall of the establishment of Celeste dissolves, but otherwise the street is as it was, and we are now in the position of privileged persons looKing in at her window. It is a tiny room in which you could just swing a cat, and here Cinderella swings cats all and every evening. The chief pieces of furniture are a table and a bench, both of which have a suspicious appearance of having been made out of boards by some handy character. There is a penny in the slot fireplace which has evidently been lately fed, there is a piece of carpet that has been beaten into nothingness, but is still a carpet, there is a hearth rug of brilliant rags that is probably gratified when your toes catch in it and you are hurled against the wall. Two pictures—one of them partly framed—strike a patriotic note, but they may be there purposely to deceive. The room is lit by a lamp, and at first sight presents no sinister aspect unless it comes from four boxes nailed against the walls some five or six feet from the floor. In appearance they are not dissimilar to large grocery boxes, but it is disquieting to note that one of them has been mended with the board we saw lately in Mr. Bodie’s studio. When our Policeman comes, as come we may be sure he will, the test of his acumen will be his box action.
The persons in the room at present have either no acumen or are familiar with the boxes. There are four of them, besides Cinderella, whom we catch in the act of adding to her means of livelihood. Celeste et Cie., a name that has caught her delicate fancy while she dashed through fashionable quarters, is the Penny Friend because here everything is dispensed for that romantic coin. It is evident that the fame of the emporium has spread. Three would-be customers sit on the bench awaiting their turn listlessly and as genteelly unconscious of each other as society in a dentist’s dining-room, while in the centre is Cinderella fitting an elderly gentleman with a new coat. There are pins in her mouth and white threads in the coat, suggesting that this is not her first struggle with it, and one of the difficulties with which she has to contend is that it has already evidently been the coat of a larger man. Cinderella is far too astute a performer to let it be seen that she has difficulties, however. She twists and twirls her patron with careless aptitude, kneads him if need be, and has him in a condition of pulp while she mutters for her own encouragement and his intimidation the cryptic remarks employed by tailors, as to the exact meaning of which she has already probed Mr. Bodie.
Cinderella (wandering over her client with a tape). 35—14. (She consults a paper on the table.) Yes, it’s 35—14.
(She pulls him out, contracts him and takes his elbows measure.)
28—7; 41—12; 15—19. (There is something wrong, and she has to justify her handiwork.) You was longer when you came on Monday.
Gentleman (very moved by the importance of the occasion). Don’t be saying that, Missy.
Cinderella (pinning up the tails of his coat). Keep still.
Gentleman (with unexpected spirit). I warns you, Missy, I won’t have it cut.
Cinderella (an artist). I’ll give you the bits.
Gentleman . I prefers to wear them.
(She compares the coat with the picture of an elegant dummy.)
Were you going to make me like that picture?
Cinderella. I had just set my heart on copying this one. It’s the Volupty.
Gentleman (faint-hearted). I’m thinkin’ I couldn’t stand like that man.
Cinderella (eagerly). Fine you could—with just a little practice. I’ll let you see the effect.
(She bends one of his knees, extends an arm and curves the other till he looks like a graceful teapot. She puts his stick in one hand and his hat in the other, and he is now coquettishly saluting a lady.)
Gentleman (carried away as he looks at himself in a glass). By Gosh! Cut away, Missy.
Cinderella. I’ll need one more try-on. (Suddenly.) That’s to say if I’m here.
Gentleman (little understanding the poignancy of the remark). If it would be convenient to you to have the penny now—
Cinderella. No, not till I’ve earned it. It’s my rule. Good night to you, Mr. Jennings.
Gentleman . Good night, Missy.
(We see him go out by the door and disappear up the street.)
Cinderella (sharply). Next.
(An old woman comes to the table and Cinderella politely pretends not to have seen her sitting there.)
It’s Mrs. Maloney!
mrs. m. Cinders, I have a pain. It’s like a jag of a needle down my side.
Cinderella (with a sinKing, for she is secretly afraid of medical cases). Wait till I pop the therm-mo-mometer in. It’s a real one. (She says this with legitimate pride. She removes the instrument from Mrs. Maloney’s mouth after a prudent interval, and is not certain what to do next.)
Take a deep breath. . . . Again. . . . Say 99.
(Her ear is against the patient’s chest.)
mrs. m. 99.
Cinderella (at a venture). Oho!
mrs. m. It ain’t there the pain is—it’s down my side.
Cinderella (firmly). We never say 99 down there.
mrs. m. What’s wrong wi’ me?
Cinderella (candidly). I don’t want for to pretend, Mrs. Maloney, that the 99 is any guidance to me. I can not find out what it’s for. I would make so bold as to call your complaint muscular rheumatics if the pain came when you coughed. But you have no cough.
mrs. m. (coming to close quarters). No, but he has—my old man. It’s him that has the pains, not me.
Cinderella (hurt). What for did you pretend it was you?
mrs. m. That was his idea. He was feared you might stop his smoKing.
Cinderella. And so I will.
mrs. m. What’s the treatment?
Cinderella (writing after consideration on a piece of paper). One of them mustard leaves.
mrs. m. (taKing the paper). Is there no medicine?
Cinderella (faltering). I’m a little feared about medicine, Mrs. Maloney.
mrs. m. He’ll be a kind of low-spirited if there’s not a lick of medicine.
Cinderella. Have you any in the house?
mrs. m. There’s what was left over of the powders my lodger had when the kettle fell on his foot.
Cinderella. You could give him one of them when the cough is troublesome. Good night, Mrs. Maloney.
mrs. m. Thank you kindly. (She puts a penny on the table.)
Cinderella (with polite surprise). What’s that?
mrs. m. It’s the penny.
Cinderella. So it is! Good night, Mrs. Maloney.
mrs. m. Good night, Cinders.
(She departs. The penny falls into cinderella’s box with a pleasant clink.)
Cinderella. Next.
(A woman of 35 comes forward. She is dejected, thin-lipped, and unlovable.)
marion (tossing her head). You’re surprised to see me, I daresay.
Cinderella (guardedly). I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you.
marion (glancing at the remaining occupant of the bench). Is that man sleeping? Who is he? I don’t know him.
Cinderella. He’s sleeping. What can I do for you?
marion (harshly). Nothing, I daresay. I’m at Catullo’s Buildings. Now they’re turning me out. They say I’m not respectable.
Cinderella (enlightened). You’re—that woman?
marion (defiantly). That’s me.
Cinderella (shrinKing). I don’t think there’s nothing I could do for you.
marion (rather appealing). Maybe there is. I see you’ve heard my story. They say there’s a man comes to see me at times though he has a wife in Hoxton.
Cinderella. I’ve heard.
marion. So I’m being turned out.
Cinderella. I don’t think it’s a case for me.
marion. Yes, it is.
Cinderella. Are you terrible fond of him?
marion. Fond of him! Damn him!
(Cinderella shrinks. marion makes sure that the man is asleep.)
Cinders, they’ve got the story wrong; it’s me as is his wife; I was married to him in a church. He met that woman long after and took up with her.
Cinderella. What! Then why do you not tell the truth?
marion. It’s my pride keeps me from telling. I would rather be thought to be the wrong ‘un he likes than the wife the law makes him help.
Cinderella. Is that pride?
marion. It’s all the pride that’s left to me.
Cinderella. I’m awful sorry for you, but I can’t think of no advice to give you.
marion. It’s not advice I want.
Cinderella. What is it then?
marion. It’s pity. I fling back all the gutter words they fling at me, but my heart, Cinders, is wet at times. It’s wet for one to pity me.
Cinderella. I pity you.
marion. You’ll tell nobody?
Cinderella. No.
marion. Can I come in now and again at a time?
Cinderella. I’ll be glad to see you—if I’m here.
marion. I’ll be slipping away now; he’s waKing up. (She puts down her penny.)
Cinderella. I’m not doing it for no penny.
marion. You’ve got to take it. That’s my pride. But—I wish you well, Cinders.
Cinderella. I like you. I wish you would wish me luck. Say ‘Good luck to you to-night, Cinderella.’
marion. Why to-night?
(The little waif, so practical until now, is afire inside again. She needs a confidant almost as much as Marion.)
Cinderella (hastily). You see—
(The man sits up.)
man. Good evening, Missis.
marion. Good luck to you to-night, Cinderella.
(She goes.)
(The man slips forward and lifts the penny.)
Cinderella (returning to earth sharply). Put that down.
man. I was only looKing at the newness of it. I was just admiring the design.
(The newness and the design both disappear into the box. A bearded person wearing the overalls of a sea-faring man lurches down the street and enters the emporium. Have we seen him before? Who can this hairy monster be?)
Policeman (in an incredibly gruff voice). I want a pennyworth.
Cinderella (unsuspecting). Sit down. (She surveys the coster.) It’s you that belongs to the shirt, isn’t it?
man. Yes; is’t ready?
Cinderella. It’s ready.
(It proves to be not a shirt, but a ‘front’ of linen, very stiff and starched. The laundress cautiously retains possession of it.)
The charge is a penny.
man. On delivery.
Cinderella. Before delivery.
man. Surely you can trust me.
Cinderella. You’ve tried that on before, my man. Never again! All in this street knows my rule,—Trust in the Lord—every other person, cash.
(A penny and a ‘shirt’ pass between them and he departs.)
(Cinderella turns her attention to the newcomer.)
What’s your pleasure?
Policeman. Shave, please.
Cinderella (quivering before his beard). Shave! I shaves in an ordinary way, but I don’t know as I could tackle that.
Policeman. I thought you was a barber.
Cinderella (stung). I’ll get the lather.
(She goes doubtfully into what she calls her bedroom.
He seizes this opportunity to survey the room. A remarkable man this, his attention is at once riveted on the boxes, but before he can step on a chair and take a peep the barber returns with the implements of her calling. He reaches his chair in time not to be caught by her. She brings in a bowl of soap and water and a towel, which she puts round him in the correct manner.)
Cinderella. You’re thin on the top.
Policeman (in his winding sheet). I’ve all run to beard.
Cinderella (the ever ready). I have a ointment for the hair; it is my own invention. The price is a penny.
Policeman (gruffly). Beard, please.
Cinderella. I’ve got some voice drops.
Policeman. Beard, please.
Cinderella (as she prepares the lather). Is the streets quiet?
Policeman (cunningly). Hereabouts they are; but there’s great doings in the fashionable quarters. A ball, I’m told.
Cinderella (gasping). You didn’t see no peculiar person about in this street?
Policeman. How peculiar?
Cinderella. Like a—a flunkey?
Policeman. Did I now—or did I not?
Cinderella (eagerly). He would be carrying an invite maybe; it’s a big card.
Policeman. I can’t say I saw him.
(Here an astonishing thing happens. The head of a child rises from one of the boxes. She is unseen by either of the mortals.)
Cinderella (considering the beard). How do I start with the like of this?
Policeman. First you saws. . . .
(She attempts to saw. The beard comes off in her hand.)
Cinderella (recognising his face). You!
Policeman (stepping triumphantly out of his disguise). Me!
(As sometimes happens, however, the one who means to give the surprise gets a greater. At sight of his dreaded uniform the child screams, whereat two other children in other boxes bob up and scream also. It is some time before the Policeman can speak.)
So that’s what the boxes was for!
Cinderella (feebly). Yes.
Policeman (portentously). Who and what are these phenomenons?
Cinderella (protectingly). Don’t be frightened, children. Down!
(They disappear obediently.)
There’s no wrong in it. They’re just me trying to do my bit. It’s said all should do their bit in war-time. It was into a hospital I wanted to go to nurse the wounded soldiers. I offered myself at every hospital door, but none would have me, so this was all I could do.
Policeman. You’re taKing care of them?
(She nods.)
Sounds all right. Neighbours’ children?
Cinderella. The brown box is. She’s half of an orphan, her father’s a bluejacket, so, of course, I said I would.
Policeman. You need say no more. I pass little bluejacket.
Cinderella. Those other two is allies. She’s French—and her’s a Belgy—(calls). Marie-Therese.
(The French child sits up.)
Speak your language to the gentleman, Marie-Therese.
Marie. Bon soir, monsieur—comment portez-vous? Je t’aime. (She curtseys charmingly to him from the box.)
Policeman. Well, I’m —d!
Cinderella. Delphine.
(The Belgian looks up.)
Make votre bow.
Gladys!
(The English child bobs up.)
A friend, Gladys.
(Gladys and the Policeman grin to each other.)
Gladys. What cheer!
Cinderella. Monsieur is a Britain’s defender.
Marie. Oh, la, la! Parlez-vous français, monsieur? Non! I blow you two kisses, monsieur—the one is to you (kisses hand) to keep, the other you will give—(kisses hand) to Kitch.
Policeman (writing). Sends kiss to Lord Kitchener.
Cinderella. She’s the one that does most of the talKing.
Policeman (who is getting friendly). I suppose that other box is an empty.
(cinderella’s mouth closes.)
Is that box empty?
Cinderella. It’s not exactly empty.
Policeman. What’s inside?
Cinderella. She’s the littlest.
(The children exchange glances and she is severe.)
Couchy.
(They disappear.)
Policeman. An ally?
Cinderella. She’s—she’s—Swiss.
Policeman (lowering). Now then!
Cinderella. She’s not exactly Swiss. You can guess now what she is.
Policeman (grave). This puts me in a very difficult position.
Cinderella (beginning to cry). Nobody would take her. She was left over. I tried not to take her. I’m a patriot, I am. But there she was—left over—and her so terrible little—I couldn’t help taKing her.
Policeman. I dunno. (Quite unfairly.) If her folk had been in your place and you in hers, they would have shown neither mercy nor pity for you.
Cinderella (stoutly). That makes no difference.
Policeman (Was this the great moment?). I think there’s something uncommon about you.
Cinderella (pleased). About me?
Policeman. I suppose she’s sleeping.
Cinderella. Not her!
Policeman. What’s she doing?
Cinderella. She’s strafing!
Policeman. Who’s she strafing?
Cinderella. Very likely you. She misses nobody. You see I’ve put some barb-wire round her box.
Policeman. I see now.
Cinderella. It’s not really barb-wire. It’s worsted. I was feared the wire would hurt her. But it just makes a difference.
Policeman. How do the others get on with her?
Cinderella. I makes them get on with her. Of course there’s tongues out, and little things like that.
Policeman. Were the foreign children shy of you at first?
Cinderella. Not as soon as they heard my name. ‘Oh, are you Cinderella?’ they said, in their various languages—and ‘when’s the ball?’ they said.
Policeman. Somebody must have telled them about you.
Cinderella (happy). Not here. They had heard about me in their foreign lands. Everybody knows Cinderella, it’s fine. Even her—(indicating German) the moment I mentioned my name—’Where’s your ugly sisters?’ says she, looKing round.
Policeman. Sisters? It’s new to me, your having sisters. (He produces his note book.)
Cinderella (uneasily). It’s kind of staggering to me, too. I haven’t been able to manage them yet, but they’ll be at the ball.
Policeman. It’s queer.
Cinderella. It is queer.
Policeman (sitting down with her). How do you know this ball’s to-night?
Cinderella. It had to be some night. You see, after I closes my business I have chats with the children about things, and naturally it’s mostly about the ball. I put it off as long as I could, but it had to be some night—and this is the night.
Policeman. You mean it’s make-believe?
Cinderella (almost fiercely). None of that!
Policeman (shaKing his head). I don’t like it.
Cinderella (shining). You wouldn’t say that if you heard the blasts on the trumpet and loud roars of ‘Make way for the Lady Cinderella!’
(Three heads pop up again.)
Policeman. Lady?
Cinderella (in a tremble of exultation). That’s me. That’s what you’re called at royal balls. Then loud huzzas is heard outside from the excited popu-lace, for by this time the fame of my beauty has spread like wild-fire through the streets, and folks is hanging out at windows and climbing lamp-posts to catch a sight of me.
(Delight of the children.)
Policeman. My sakes, you see the whole thing clear!
Cinderella. I see it from beginning to end—like as if I could touch it—the gold walls and the throne, and the lamp-posts and the horses.
Policeman. The horses?
Cinderella. . . . Well, the competitors. The speeches—everything. If only I had my invite! That wasn’t a knock at the door, was it?
Policeman (so carried away that he goes to see). No.
Cinderella (vindictively). I daresay that flunkey’s sitting drinKing in some public-house.
(Here Marie-therese and Gladys, who have been communicating across their boxes, politely invite the Policeman to go away.)
Marie. Bonne nuit, Monsieur.
Gladys. Did you say you was going, Mister?
Policeman. They’re wonderful polite.
Cinderella. I doubt that’s not politeness. The naughties—they’re asKing you to go away.
Policeman. Oh! (He rises with hauteur.)
Cinderella. You see we’re to have a bite of supper before I start—to celebrate the night.
Policeman. Supper with the kids! When I was a kid in the country at Badgery—you’ve done it again!
Cinderella. Done what?
Policeman (with that strange feeling of being at home). I suppose I would be in the way?
Cinderella. There’s not very much to eat. There’s just one for each.
Policeman. I’ve had my supper.
Cinderella (seeing her way). Have you? Then I would be very pleased if you would stay.
Policeman. Thank you kindly.
(She prepares the table for the feast. Eyes sparkle from the boxes.)
Cinderella (shining). This is the first party we’ve ever had. Please keep an eye on the door in case there’s a knock.
(She darts into her bedroom, and her charges are more at their ease.)
Marie. (sitting up, the better to display her nightgown). Monsieur, Monsieur, Voilà!
Gladys. Cinderella made it out of watching a shop window.
Policeman (like one who has known his hostess from infancy). Just like her.
Marie. (holding up a finger that is adorned with a ring). Monsieur!
Gladys (more practical). The fire’s going out.
Policeman (recklessly). In with another penny. (He feeds the fire with that noble coin.) Fellow allies, I’m just going to take a peep into the German trench! Hah!
(He stealthily mounts a chair and puts his hand into Gretchen’s box. We must presume that it is bitten by the invisible occupant, for he withdraws it hurriedly to the hearty delight of the spectators. This mirth changes to rapture as Cinderella makes a conceited entrance carrying a jug of milk and five hot potatoes in their jackets. Handsomely laden as she is, it is her attire that calls forth the applause. She is now wearing the traditional short brown dress of Cinderella, and her hair hangs loose. She tries to look modest.)
Cinderella (displaying herself). What do you think?
Policeman (again in Badgery). Great! Turn round. And I suppose you made it yourself out of a shop window?
Cinderella. No, we didn’t need no shop window; we all knew exactly what I was wearing when the knock came.
Gladys. Of course we did.
(A potato is passed up to each and a cup of milk between two. There is also a delicious saucerful of melted lard into which they dip. gretchen is now as much in evidence as the others, and quite as attractive—the fun becomes fast and furious.)
Cinderella (to Policeman). A potato?
Policeman. No, I thank you.
Cinderella. Just a snack?
Policeman. Thank you.
(She shares with him.)
Cinderella. A little dip?
Policeman. No, I thank you.
Cinderella. Just to look friendly.
Policeman. I thank you. (Dipping.) To you, Cinderella.
Cinderella. I thank you.
Policeman (proposing a toast). The King!
Cinderella (rather consciously). And the Prince of Wales.
Gladys. And father.
Policeman. The King, the Prince of Wales, and father.
(The toast is drunk, dipped and eaten with acclamation. Gladys, uninvited, recites ‘The Mariners of England.’ Marie-therese follows (without waiting for the end) with the Marseillaise, and gretchen puts out her tongue at both. Our Policeman having intimated that he desires to propose another toast of a more lengthy character, the children are lifted down and placed in their nightgowns at the table.)
Policeman (suddenly becoming nervous). I have now the honour to propose absent friends.
Gladys (with an inspiration to which Marie-therese bows elegantly). Vive la France!
Policeman. I mean our friends at the Front. And they have their children, too. Your boxes we know about, but I daresay there’s many similar and even queerer places, where the children, the smallest of our allies, are sleeping this night within the sound of shells.
Marie. La petite Belgique. La pauvre enfant!
Delphine (proudly). Me!
Policeman. So here’s to absent friends —
Gladys (with another inspiration). Absent boxes!
Policeman. Absent boxes! And there’s a party we know about who would like uncommon to have the charge of the lot of them—(looKing at Cinderella). And I couples the toast with the name of the said party.
Cinderella (giving a pennyworth for nothing). Kind friends, it would be pretending of me not to let on that I know I am the party referred to by the last speaker—in far too flattersome words. When I look about me and see just four boxes I am a kind of shamed, but it wasn’t very convenient to me to have more. I will now conclude by saying I wish I was the old woman that lived in a shoe, and it doesn’t matter how many I had I would have known fine what to do. The end.
(After further diversion.) It’s a fine party. I hope your potato is mealy?
Policeman. I never had a better tatie.
Cinderella. Don’t spare the skins.
Policeman. But you’re eating nothing yourself.
Cinderella. I’m not hungry. And, of course, I’ll be expected to take a bite at the ball.
(This reminder of the ball spoils the Policeman’s enjoyment.)
Policeman. I wish—you wasn’t so sure of the ball.
Gladys (in defence). Why shouldn’t she not be sure of it?
Delphine. Pourquoi, Monsieur?
Cinderella (rather hotly). Don’t say things like that here.
Marie. Has Monsieur by chance seen God-mamma coming?
Policeman. God-mamma?
Cinderella. That’s my Godmother; she brings my ball dress and a carriage with four ponies.
Gladys. Then away she goes to the ball—hooray—hooray!
Cinderella. It’s all perfectly simple once Godmother comes.
Policeman (with unconscious sarcasm). I can see she’s important.
Cinderella (with the dreadful sinKing that comes to her at times). You think she’ll come, don’t you?
Policeman. Cinderella, your hand’s burning—and in this cold room.
Cinderella. Say you think she’ll come.
Policeman. I—well, I . . . I . . .
Gladys (imploringly). Say it, Mister!
Delphine (begging). Monsieur! Monsieur!
Marie. If it is that you love me, Monsieur!
Policeman (in distress). I question of there was ever before a member of the Force in such a position. (Yielding.) I expect she’ll come.
(This settles it in the opinion of the children, but their eyes are too bright for such a late hour, and they are ordered to bed. Our Policeman replaces them in their boxes.)
Cinderella. One—two—three . . . couchy!
(They disappear.)
Policeman (awkwardly and trying to hedge). Of course this is an out-of-the-way little street for a Godmother to find.
Cinderella. Yes, I’ve thought of that. I’d best go and hang about outside; she would know me by my dress.
Policeman (hastily). I wouldn’t do that. It’s a cold night. (He wanders about the room eyeing her sideways.) Balls is always late things.
Cinderella. I’m none so sure. In war-time, you see, with the streets so dark and the King so kind, it would be just like him to begin early and close at ten instead of twelve. I must leave before twelve. If I don’t, there’s terrible disasters happens.
Policeman (unable to follow this). The ball might be put off owing to the Prince of Wales being in France.
Cinderella. He catched the last boat. I’ll go out and watch.
Policeman (desperate). Stay where you are, and—and I’ll have a look for her.
Cinderella. You’re too kind.
Policeman. Not at all. I must be stepping at any rate. If I can lay hands on her I’ll march her here, though I have to put the handcuffs on her.
Gladys (looKing up). I think I heard a knock!
(The Policeman looks out, shakes his head, and finally departs after a queer sort of handshake with miss thing.)
Cinderella. He’s a nice man.
Gladys. Have you known him long?
Cinderella (thinKing it out). A longish time. He’s head of the secret police; him and me used to play together as children down in Badgery. His folks live in a magnificent castle, with two doors. (She becomes a little bewildered.) I’m all mixed up.
(The children are soon asleep. She wanders aimlessly to the door. The wall closes on the little room, and we now see her standing in the street. Our Policeman returns and flashes his lantern on her.)
Cinderella. It’s you!
Policeman. It’s me. But there’s no Godmother! There’s not a soul . . . No. . . . Good-night, Cinderella. Go inside.
Cinderella (doggedly). Not me! I don’t feel the cold—not much. And one has to take risks to get a Prince. The only thing I’m feared about is my feet. If they was to swell I mightn’t be able to get the slippers on, and he would have naught to do with me.
Policeman. What slippers? If you won’t go back, I’ll stop here with you.
Cinderella. No, I think there’s more chance of her coming if I’m alone.
Policeman. I’m very troubled about you.
Cinderella (wistfully). Do you think I’m just a liar? Maybe I am. You see I’m all mixed up. I’m sore in need of somebody to help me out.
Policeman. I would do it if I could.
Cinderella. I’m sure. (Anxiously.) Are you good at riddles?
(He shakes his head.)
There’s always a riddle before you can marry into a royal family.
Policeman (with increased gloom). The whole thing seems to be most terrible difficult.
Cinderella. Yes. . . . Good-night.
Policeman. You won’t let me stay with you?
Cinderella. No.
(He puts his lantern on the ground beside her.)
What’s that for?
Policeman (humbly). It’s just a sort of guard for you. (He takes off his muffler and puts it several times round her neck.)
Cinderella. Nice!
Policeman. Good luck!
(She finds it easiest just to nod in reply.)
I wish I was a Prince.
Cinderella (suddenly struck by the idea). You’re kind of like him.
(He goes away. She sits down on the step to wait. She shivers. She takes the muffler off her neck and winds it round her more valuable feet. She falls asleep.
Darkness comes, and snow. From somewhere behind, the shadowy figure of cinderella’s Godmother, beautiful in a Red Cross Nurse’s uniform, is seen looKing benignantly on the waif. Cinderella is just a little vague, huddled form—there is no movement.)
Godmother. Cinderella, my little godchild!
Cinderella (with eyes unopening). Is that you, Godmother?
Godmother. It is I; my poor god-daughter is all mixed up, and I have come to help her out.
Cinderella. You have been long in coming. I very near gave you up.
Godmother. Sweetheart, I couldn’t come sooner, because in these days, you know, even the fairy Godmother is with the Red Cross.
Cinderella. Was that the reason? I see now; I thought perhaps you kept away because I wasn’t a good girl.
Godmother. You have been a good brave girl; I am well pleased with my darling godchild.
Cinderella. It is fine to be called darling; it heats me up. I’ve been wearying for it, Godmother. Life’s a kind of hard.
Godmother. It will always be hard to you, Cinderella. I can’t promise you anything else.
Cinderella. I don’t suppose I could have my three wishes, Godmother.
Godmother. I am not very powerful in these days, Cinderella; but what are your wishes?
Cinderella. I would like fine to have my ball, Godmother.
Godmother. You shall have your ball.
Cinderella. I would like to nurse the wounded.
Godmother. You shall nurse the wounded.
Cinderella. I would like to be loved by the man of my choice, Godmother.
Godmother. You shall be loved by the man of your choice.
Cinderella. Thank you kindly. The ball first, if you please, and could you squeeze in the children so that they may see me in my glory.
Godmother. Now let this be my downtrodden godchild’s ball, not as balls are, but as they are conceived to be in a little chamber in Cinderella’s head.
(She fades from sight. In the awful stillness we can now hear the tiny clatter of horses infinitely small and infinitely far off. It is the equipage of Cinderella. Then an unearthly trumpet sounds thrice, and the darkness is blown away.
It is the night of the most celebrated ball in history, and we see it through our heroine’s eyes. She has, as it were, made everything with her own hands, from the cloths of gold to the ices.
Nearly everything in the ball-room is of gold: it was only with an effort that she checked herself from dabbing gold on the regal countenances. You can see that she has not passed by gin-palaces without thinKing about them. The walls and furniture are so golden that you have but to lean against them to acquire a competency. There is a golden throne with gold cloths on it, and the royal seats are three golden rocKing chairs; there would be a fourth golden rocKing chair if it were not that Cinderella does not want you to guess where she is to sit. These chairs are stuffed to a golden corpulency. The panoply of the throne is about twenty feet high—each foot of pure gold; and nested on the top of it is a golden reproduction of the grandest thing Cinderella has ever seen—the private box of a theatre. In this box sit, wriggle, and sprawl the four children in their nightgowns, leaning over the golden parapet as if to the manner born and carelessly kicKing nuggets out of it. They are shouting, pointing, and otherwise behaving badly, eating oranges out of paper bags, then blowing out the bags and bursting them. The superb scene is lit by four street lamps with red glass. Dancing is going on: the ladies all in white, the gentlemen in black with swords. If you were unused to royal balls you would think every one of these people was worth describing separately; but, compared to what is coming, it may be said that Cinderella has merely pushed them on with her lovely foot. They are her idea of courtiers, and have anxious expressions as if they knew she was watching them. They have character in the lump, if we may put it that way, but none individually. Thus one cannot smile or sigh, for instance, without all the others smiling or sighing. At night they probably sleep in two large beds, one for ladies and one for gentlemen, and if one of the ladies, say, wants to turn round, she gives the signal, and they all turn simultaneously. As children they were not like this; they had genuine personal traits, but these have gradually been blotted out as they basked in royal favour; thus, if the King wipes his glasses they all pretend that their glasses need wiping, and when the Queen lets her handkerchief fall they all stoop loyally to pick up their own.
Down the golden steps at the back comes the Lord Mayor, easily recognisable by his enormous chain.)
Lord Mayor. O yes, O yes, make way everyone for the Lord Mayor—namely myself.
(They all make way for him. Two black boys fling open lovely curtains.)
O yes, O yes, make way every one, and also myself, for Lord Times.
(This is a magnificent person created by Cinderella on learning from Mr. Bodie that the press is all powerful and that the ‘Times’ is the press. He carries one hand behind his back, as if it might be too risky to show the whole of himself at once, and it is noticeable that as he walks his feet do not quite touch the ground. He is the only person who is not a little staggered by the amount of gold: you almost feel that he thinks there is not quite enough of it. He very nearly sits down on one of the royal rocKing chairs: and the Lord Mayor, looKing red and unhappy, and as if he had now done for himself, has to whisper to him that the seats under the throne are reserved.)
O yes, O yes, make way for the Censor.
(Cinderella has had a good deal of trouble over this person, of whom she has heard a great deal in war-time, without meeting anyone who can tell her what he is like. She has done her best, and he is long and black and thin, dressed as tightly as a fish, and carries an executioner’s axe. All fall back from him in fear, except Lord Times, who takes a step forward, and then the censor falls back.)
O yes, O yes, make way everybody for his Royal Highness the King, and his good lady the Queen.
(The King and Queen are attired like their portraits on playing cards, who are the only royalties Cinderella has seen, and they advance grandly to their rocKing chairs, looKing as if they thought the whole public was dirt, but not so much despised dirt as dirt with good points. Lord Times fixes them with his eye, and the King hastily crosses and shakes hands with him.)
O yes, O yes, make way everyone, except the King, and Queen, and Lord Times, for His Highness Prince Hard-to-Please.
(The heir apparent comes, preceded by trumpeters. His dress may a little resemble that of the extraordinary youth seen by Cinderella in her only pantomime, but what quite takes our breath away is his likeness to our Policeman. If the ball had taken place a night earlier it may be hazarded that the Prince would have presented quite a different face. It is as if Cinderella’s views of his personality had undergone some unaccountable change, confusing even to herself, and for a moment the whole scene rocks, the street lamps wink, and odd shadows stalk among the courtiers, shadows of Mr. Bodie, marion, and the party in an unfinished coat, who have surely no right to be here. This is only momentarily; then the palace steadies itself again.
The King rises, and in stately manner addresses his guests in the words Cinderella conceives to be proper to his royal mouth. As he stands waiting superbly for the applause to cease, he holds on to a strap hanging conveniently above his head. To Cinderella strap-hanging on the Underground has been a rare and romantic privilege.)
King. My loyal subjects, all ‘ail! I am as proud of you as you are of me. It gives me and my good lady much pleasure to see you ‘ere by special invite, feasting at our expense. There is a paper bag for each, containing two sandwiches, buttered on both sides, a piece of cake, a hard-boiled egg, and an orange or a banana.
(The cheers of the delighted courtiers gratify him, but the vulgar children over his head continue their rub-a-dub on the parapet until he glares up at them. Even then they continue.)
Ladies and Gents all, pleasant though it is to fill up with good victuals, that is not the chief object of this royal invite. We are ‘ere for a solemn purpose, namely, to find a mate for our noble son. All the beauties are waiting in the lobby: no wonder he is excited.
(All look at the Prince, who is rocKing and yawning.)
He will presently wake up; but first I want to say—(here he becomes conscious of Lord Times). What is it?
Lord Times. Less talk.
King. Certainly. (He sits down.)
Prince (encouraged to his feet by various royal nudges). My liege King and Queen-Mother, you can have the competitors brought in, and I will take a look at them; but I have no hope. My curse is this, that I am a scoffer about females. I can play with them for a idle hour and then cast them from me even as I cast this banana skin. I can find none so lovely that I may love her for aye from the depths of my passionate heart. I am so blasted particular. O yes! O yes! (He sits down and looks helpless.)
King (undismayed). All ready?
(The Lord Mayor bows.)
All is ready, my son.
Prince (bored). Then let loose the Beauts.
(To heavenly music from the royal hurdy-gurdies the beauties descend the stairs, one at a time. There are a dozen of the fine creatures, in impudent confections such as Cinderella has seen in papers in Mr. Bodie’s studio; some of them with ropes of hair hanging down their proud backs as she has seen them in a hair-dresser’s window. As we know, she has once looked on at a horse show, and this has coloured her conception of a competition for a Prince. The ladies prance round the ball-room like high-stepping steeds; it is evident that Cinderella has had them fed immediately before releasing them; her pride is to show them at their very best, and then to challenge them.
They paw the floor wantonly until Lord Times steps forward. Peace thus restored, his majesty proceeds.)
King. The first duty of a royal consort being to be good, the test of goodness will now be applied by the Lord Mayor. Every competitor who does not pass in goodness will be made short work of.
(Several ladies quake, and somewhere or other unseen Cinderella is chuckling.)
one of the steeds. I wasn’t told about this. It isn’t fair.
Lord Mayor (darkly). If your Grace wishes to withdraw—
(She stamps.)
King. The Lord Mayor will now apply the test.
Lord Mayor (to a gold page). The therm-mo-ometers, boy!
(A whole boxful of thermometers is presented to him by the page on bended knee. The Lord Mayor is now in his element. He has ridden in gold coaches and knows what hussies young women often are. To dainty music he trips up the line of beauties and pops a tube into each pouting mouth. The competitors circle around, showing their paces while he stands, watch in hand, giving them two minutes. Then airily he withdraws the tubes; he is openly gleeful when he finds sinners. Twice he is in doubt, it is a very near thing, and he has to consult the King in whispers: the King takes the Queen aside, to whisper behind the door as it were; then they both look at Lord Times, who, without even stepping forward, says ‘No’—and the doubtfuls are at once bundled out of the chamber with the certainties. Royalty sighs, and the courtiers sigh and the Lord Mayor sighs in a perfunctory way, but there is a tossing of manes from the beauties who have scraped through.)
King (stirring up the Prince, who has fallen asleep). Our Royal Bud will now graciously deign to pick out a few possibles.
(His Royal Highness yawns.)
Lord Mayor (obsequiously). If your Highness would like a little assistance—
Prince (you never know how they will take things). We shall do this for ourselves, my good fellow.
(He smacks the Lord Mayor’s face with Princely elegance. The Lord Mayor takes it as a favour, and the courtiers gently smack each other’s faces and are very proud to be there. The Prince moves languidly down the line of beauties considering their points, occasionally nodding approval but more often screwing up his nose. The courtiers stand ready with nods or noses. Several ladies think they have been chosen, but he has only brought them into prominence to humiliate them; he suddenly says ‘Good-bye,’ and they have to go, while he is convulsed with merriment. He looks sharply at the courtiers to see if they are convulsed also, and they are. The others are flung out.)
Queen (hanging on to her strap). Does our Royal one experience no palpitation at all?
Prince (sleepily). Ah me, ah me!
Lord Times (irritated). You’re well called ‘Ard-to-Please. You would turn up your nose at a lady though she were shaped like Apollo’s bow.
(The Prince shrugs his shoulder to indicate that love cannot he forced.)
Lord Mayor (darkly). And now we come to the severer test.
(With a neat action, rather like taKing a lid off a pot, the Lord Mayor lets it be known to the ladies that they must now lift their skirts to show their feet. When this devastating test is concluded, there are only two competitors left in the room.)
Lord Times (almost as if he were thinKing of himself). Can’t have Two.
(Cards such as Cinderella saw at the horse show, with ‘1st,’ ‘2nd,’ and ‘3rd’ on them, are handed to the Prince. Like one well used to such proceedings, he pins 2nd and 3rd into the ladies’ bodices.)
Queen (gloomily). But still no first.
(The children applaud; they have been interfering repeatedly.)
King. Come, come, proud youth, you feel no palps at all?
Prince. Not a palp. Perhaps for a moment this one’s nose—that one’s cock of the head—But it has passed.
(He drearily resumes his rocKing chair. No one seems to know what to do next.)
Marie (to the rescue). The two Ugly Sisters! Monsieur le Roi, the two Ugly Sisters! (She points derisively at the winners.)
King (badgered). How did these children get their invites?
(This is another thing that no one knows. Once more the room rocks, and Mr. Bodie passes across it as if looKing for some one. Then a growing clamour is heard outside. Bugles sound. The Lord Mayor goes and returns with strange news.)
Lord Mayor. Another competitor, my King. Make way for the Lady Cinderella!
King. Cinderella? I don’t know her.
Gladys (nearly falling out of the box). You’ll soon know her. Now you’ll see! Somebody wake the Prince up.
(The portals are flung open, and Cinderella is seen alighting from her lovely equipage, which we will not describe because some one has described it before. But note the little waggle of her foot just before she favours the ground. We have thought a great deal about how our Cinderella should be dressed for this occasion: white of course, and she looked a darling in it, but we boggle at its really being of the grandest stuff and made in the shop where the Beauties got theirs. No, the material came from poorer warehouses in some shabby district not far from the street of the penny shop; her eyes had glistened as she gazed at it through the windows, and she paid for it with her life’s blood, and made the frock herself. Very possibly it was bunchy here and there.
Cinderella then comes sailing down into the ball-room, not a sound to be heard except the ecstatic shrieks of the four children. She is modest but calmly confident; she knows exactly what to do. She moves once round the room to show her gown, then curtseys to the Royal personages; then, turning to the Lord Mayor, opens her mouth and signs to him to pop in the thermometer. He does it as in a dream. Presently he is excitedly showing the thermometer to the King.)
King. Marvellous! 99!
(The cry is repeated from all sides. The Queen hands the King a long pin from her coiffure, and the Prince is again wakened.)
Prince (with his hand to his brow). What, another! Oh, all right; but you know this is a dog’s life. (He goes to cinderella, takes one glance at her and resumes his chair.)
Lord Mayor (while the children blub). That settles it, I think. (He is a heartless fellow.) That will do. Stand back, my girl.
Cinderella (calmly). I don’t think.
King. It’s no good, you know.
Cinderella (curtseying). Noble King, there is two bits of me thy son hath not yet seen. I crave my rights. (She points to the two bits referred to, which are encased in the loveliest glass slippers.)
King. True. Boy, do your duty.
Prince. Oh, bother!
(Those words are the last spoken by him in his present state. When we see him again, which is the moment afterwards, he is translated. He looks the same, but so does a clock into which new works have been put. The change is effected quite simply by Cinderella delicately raising her skirt and showing him her foot. As the exquisite nature of the sight thus vouchsafed to him penetrates his being a tremor passes through his frame; his vices take flight from him and the virtues enter. It is a heady wakening, and he falls at her feet. The courtiers are awkward, not knowing whether they should fall also. Cinderella beams to the children, who utter ribald cries of triumph.)
King (rotating on his strap). Give him air! Fill your lungs, my son!
Queen (on hers). My boy! My boy!
Lord Mayor (quickly taKing the royal cue). Oh, lady fair!
(The Prince’s palpitations increase in violence.)
Queen. Oh, happy sight!
King. Oh, glorious hour!
Lord Mayor (not sure that he was heard the first time). Oh, lady fair!
(The Prince springs to his feet. He is looKing very queer.)
Lord Times (probably remembering how he looked once). The Prince is about to propose!
Lord Mayor. O yes, O yes, O yes!
King. Proceed, my son.
Prince (with lover-like contortions and addressing himself largely to the feet). Dew of the morning, garden of delight, sweet petals of enchanted nights, the heavens have opened and through the chink thou hast fallen at my feet, even as I fall at thine. Thou art not one but twain, and these the twain—Oh, pretty feet on which my lady walks, are they but feet? O no, O no, O no! They are so small I cannot see them. Hie! A candle that I may see my lady’s feet!
(He kisses one foot, and she holds up the other for similar treatment.)
O Cinderella, if thou wilt deign to wife with me, I’ll do my best to see that through the years you always walk on kisses.
(The courtiers resolve to walk on kisses for evermore.)
Lord Mayor. The Prince has proposed. The Lady Cinderella will now reply.
King. Lovely creature, take pity on my royal son.
Queen. Cinderella, be my daughter.
Lord Times (succinctly). Yes, or no?
Cinderella. There’s just one thing. Before I answer, I would like that little glass thing to be put in his mouth.
Lord Mayor (staggered). The Ther-mo-mometer?
King. In our Prince’s mouth!
Lord Times. Why not?
Cinderella. Just to make sure that he is good.
Prince (with a sinKing). Oh, I say!
Queen. Of course he is good, Cinderella—he is our son.
Cinderella (doggedly). I would like it put in his mouth.
King. But—
Prince (alarmed). Pater!
Lord Times. It must be done.
(The test is therefore made. The royal mouth has to open to the thermometer, which is presently passed to the King for examination. He looks very grave. The Prince seizes the tell-tale thing, and with a happy thought lets it fall.)
Prince. 99!
(The joyous cry is taken up by all, and Cinderella goes divinely on one knee to her lord and master.)
Cinderella (simply). I accepts.
King (when the uproar has ceased). All make merry! The fire is going low. (Recklessly.) In with another shilling!
(A shilling is dumped into the shilling-in-the-slot stove, which blazes up. The Prince puts his arm round his love.)
Lord Times (again remembering his day of days). My Prince, not so fast. There is still the riddle.
Prince. I had forgotten.
Cinderella (quaKing). I was feared there would be a riddle.
King (prompted by Lord Times). Know ye all, my subjects, that before blue blood can wed there is a riddle; and she who cannot guess it—(darkly) is taken away and censored.
(The censor with his axe comes into sudden prominence behind Cinderella and the two other competitors.)
My Lord Times, the riddle!
Lord Times. I hold in my one hand the riddle, and in the other the answer in a sealed envelope, to prevent any suspicion of hanky-panky. Third prize, forward! Now, my child, this is the riddle. On the night of the Zeppelin raids, what was it that everyone rushed to save first?
3rd prize. The children.
Lord Times. Children not included.
(The lady is at a loss.)
Prince. Time’s up! Hoo-ray!
(He signs callously to the censor, who disappears with his victim through a side door, to reappear presently, wiping his axe and skipping gaily.)
Lord Times. Second prize, forward. Now, Duchess, answer.
2nd prize. Her jewels!
(Lord Times shakes his head.)
Prince (brightly). Off with her head! Drown her in a bucket!
(The censor again removes the lady and does his fell work.)
Lord Times. First prize, forward. Now, Cinderella, answer.
(The censor, a kindly man but used to his calling, puts his hand on her shoulder, to lead her away. She removes it without looKing at him.)
Cinderella. It’s not a catch, is it?
Lord Times (hotly). No, indeed.
Cinderella. There’s just one thing all true Britons would be anxious about.
King (who has been allowed to break the envelope and read the answer). But what, Cinderella—what?
Lord Mayor (hedging again). What, chit?
Cinderella. Their love-letters.
King and Lord Times (together, but Lord Times a little in front). The fair Cinderella has solved the riddle!
Lord Mayor (promptly). Oh, fair lady!
Cinderella (remembering the Venus). There’s just one thing that makes it not quite a perfect ball. I wanted Mrs. Bodie to be one of the competitors—so as I could beat her.
King. Send for her at once. Take a taxi.
(A courtier rushes out whistling, and returns with venus, now imbued with life. Her arms go out wantonly to the Prince. He signs to the censor, who takes her away and breaks her up.)
Prince. I crave a boon. The wedding at once, my lord.
(Lord Times signifies assent.)
King. The marriage ceremony will now take place.
Cinderella (calling to the children). BridesMaids!
(They rush down and become her bridesMaids. At the top of the stair appears a penguin—a penguin or a bishop, they melt into each other on great occasions. The regal couple kneel.)
penguin. Do you, O Prince, take this lady to be your delightful wife—and to adore her for ever?
Prince. I do, I do! Oh, I do, I do indeed! I do—I do—I do!
penguin. Do you, Cinderella, loveliest of your sex, take this Prince for husband, and to love, honour, and obey him?
Cinderella (primly). If you please.
penguin. The ring?
(It is Marie-therese’s great hour; she passes her ring to Cinderella, who is married in it. Triumphant music swells out as a crown is put upon our Princess’s head, and an extraordinary long train attached to her person. Her husband and she move dreamily round the ball-room, the children holding up the train. Lord Times with exquisite taste falls in behind them. Then follow the courtiers, all dreamily; and completing the noble procession is the Lord Mayor, holding aloft on a pole an enormous penny. It has the face of Cinderella on one side of it—the penny which to those who know life is the most romantic of coins unless its little brother has done better.
The music, despite better intentions, begins to lose its head. It obviously wants to dance. Everyone wants to dance. Even Lord Times has trouble with his legs.)
King (threatening, supplicating). Don’t dance yet. I’ve got a surprise for you. Don’t dance. I haven’t told you about it, so as to keep you on the wonder.
(In vain do they try to control themselves.)
It’s ices!
(All stop dancing.)
(Hoarsely.) There’s an ice-cream for everybody.
(Amid applause the royal ice-cream barrow is wheeled on by haughty menials who fill the paper sieves with dabs of the luscious condiment. The paper sieves are of gold, but there are no spoons. The children, drunk with expectation, forget their manners and sit on the throne. Somehow Cinderella’s penny clients drift in again, each carrying a sieve.)
None touches till one royal lick has been taken by us four. . . . (He gives them a toast.) To the Bridal Pair!
(At the royal word ‘Go!’ all attack the ices with their tongues, greedily but gracefully. They end in the approved manner by gobbling up the sieves. It is especially charming to see the last of Lord Times’s sieve unbend. The music becomes irresistible. If you did not dance you would be abandoned by your legs. It is as if a golden coin had been dropped into a golden slot. Ranks are levelled. The King asks Gladys for this one; the Queen is whisked away by Mr. Bodie. Perhaps they dance like costers: if you had time to reflect you might think it a scene in the streets. It becomes too merry to last; couples are whirled through the walls as if the floor itself were rotating: soon Cinderella and her Prince dance alone. It is then that the clock begins to strike twelve. Cinderella should fly now, or woe befall her. Alas, she hears nothing save the whispers of her lover. The hour has struck, and her glorious gown shrinks slowly into the tattered frock of a girl with a broom. Too late she huddles on the floor to conceal the change. In another moment the Prince must see. The children gather round her with little cries, and, spreading out their nightgowns to conceal her, rush her from the scene. It is then that the Prince discovers his loss. In a frenzy he calls her sweet name. The bewildered girl has even forgotten to drop the slipper, without which he shall never find her. Marie-therese, the ever-vigilant, steals back with it, and leaves it on the floor.
The ball-room is growing dark. The lamps have gone out. There is no light save the tiniest glow, which has been showing on the floor all the time, unregarded by us. It seems to come from a Policeman’s lantern. The gold is all washed out by the odd streaks of white that come down like rain. Soon the Prince’s cry of ‘Cinderella, Cinderella’ dies away. It is no longer a ball-room on which the lantern sheds this feeble ray. It is the street outside Cinderella’s door, a white street now, silent in snow. The child in her rags, the Policeman’s scarf still round her precious feet, is asleep on the door step, very little life left in her, very little oil left in the lantern.)
