CInderella slipping her foot into the glass slipper, illustration by Charles Geraud, 1865

Cinderella by Charles Perrault

Cover for Les Contes Des Fees: En Prose En En Vers

Cover for Les Contes Des Fees:
En Prose Et En Vers

This version of Cinderella is included in my upcoming book, “Cinderella Through the Ages.” Join my mailing list to get the Kindle version for FREE!. (NOTE: If you use a different format for your eReader, download the Kindle version anyway, and send me message with the version you want, and I will send it to you.)

Many people think Charles Perrault is the actual “author” of Cinderella (at least those who don’t think it was Walt Disney.) It is true that his version is the first to have the elements we consider today as the Cinderella story, the closest to the version produced by Walt Disney in 1950, and the one that Disney DID use for his interpretation. But Perrault’s Cendrillon, or The Little Glass Slipper, was written in 1697, in French.

In 1921, a reprint of an 1888 version that recreated the French as closely as possible to the original French of Perrault was published, with a very long introduction and commentary, in English, by Andrew Lang, who collected and edited all the “Color” Fairy Books and who can be considered an expert Folklorist. I have included passages from Lang’s commentary on Cinderella by way of introduction to the story which follows, in which, three years before the published study by Marion Roalfe Cox that identified no less than “Three Hundred and Forty-Five Variants of Cinderella,” and many years before the development of an official classification system, Lang summarizes his own list of variants. A new facsimile of the 1921 book is available on Amazon, as well as online in text format courtesy of The Project Gutenburg. My remarks are in brackets [ ]; tooltips are bolded.

Do bear in mind that this was written almost 130 years ago, and beyond that, Lang makes use of several languages on his discussion. Nevertheless, his analysis is well worth reading for anyone interested in the folklore or historical aspects of the Cinderella story. Other readers may skip the discussion, and head right for the story.

From the Introduction by Andrew Lang

The stories of Charles Perrault are usually called ‘Fairy Tales,’ and they deserve the name more than most contes.  The Fairy Godmother in Cinderella, as will be discussed below, takes the part usually given, in traditional versions, to a cow, a sheep, or a dead mother who has some mystic connection with the beast.

The story of Cinderella (Cendrillon, Cucendron, Cendreusette, Sainte Rosette) is one of the most curious in the history of Märchen. Here we can distinctly see how the taste and judgment of Perrault altered an old and barbarous detail, and there, perhaps, we find the remains of a very ancient custom.

The Fairy-Godmother vs. the Friendly Beast

There are two points in Cinderella, and her cousin Peau d’Ane, [Donkey Skin,] particularly worth notice. First, there is the process by which the agency of a Fairy Godmother has been substituted for that of a friendly beast, usually a connection by blood-kindred of the hero or heroine. Secondly, there is the favouritism shown, in many versions, to the youngest child, and the custom which allots to this child a place by the hearth or in the cinders (Cucendron).

Taking the first incident, the appearance in Perrault of a Fairy Godmother in place of a friendly beast, we may remark that this kind of change is always characteristic of the promotion of a story. Just as Indian ‘aboriginal’ tribes cashier their beast-ancestors (‘Totems’) in favour of a human ancestor of a similar name, when they rise in civilisation, so the rôles which are filled by beasts in savage Märchen come to be assigned to men and women in the contes of more cultivated people. In Cinderella, however, the friendly beast holds its own more or less in nearly all European versions, except in those actually derived from Perrault. In every shape of the story known to us, the beast is a domesticated animal. Thus it will not be surprising if no native version is found in America, where animals, except dogs, were scarcely domesticated at all before the arrival of Europeans.

In examining the incident of the friendly and protecting beast, it may be well to begin with a remote and barbarous version, that of the Kaffirs. [The word kaffir is a derogatory term that was used in South Africa to refer to a black person. The word is derived from the Arabic term kafir, (meaning “disbeliever”), which originally had the meaning “one without (the Islam) religion”] Here, as in other cases, we may find one situation in a familiar story divorced from those which, as a general rule, are in its company. Theorists may argue either that the Kaffirs borrowed from Europeans one or two incidents out of a popular form of Cinderella, or that they happen to make use of an opinion common to most early peoples, the belief, namely, in the superhuman powers of friendly beast-protectors. As to borrowing, Europeans and Kaffirs have been in contact, though not very closely, for two hundred years. Among the neighbouring Zulus, Dr. Callaway found that Märchen were the special property of the most conservative class,—the old women. “It is not common to meet with a man who is willing to speak of them in any other way than as something which he has some dim recollection of having heard his grandmother relate[70].” Whether the traditional lore of savage grandmothers is likely to have been borrowed from Dutch or English settlers is a question that may be left to the reader.

The tale in which the friendly beast of European folklore occurs among the Kaffirs is The Wonderful Horns. As among the Santals (an ‘aboriginal’ hilltribe of India) we have a hero, not a heroine. “There was once a boy whose mother that bore him was dead, and who was ill-treated by his other mothers,” the Kaffirs being polygamous. He rode off on an ox given him by his father. The ox fought a bull and won. Food was supplied out of his right horn, and the ‘leavings’ (as in the Black Bull o’Norroway) were put into the left horn. In another fight the ox was killed, but his horns continued to be a magical source of supplies. A new mantle and handsome ornaments came out of them, and by virtue of this fairy splendour he won and wedded a very beautiful girl.

Here, it may be said, there is nothing of Cendrillon, except that rich garments, miraculously furnished, help to make a marriage; and that the person thus aided was the victim of a stepmother. No doubt this is not much, but we might sum up Cendrillon thus. The victim of a stepmother makes a great marriage by dint of goodly garments supernaturally provided.

In Cendrillon the recognition makes a great part of the interest. There is no recognition in the Kaffir legend, which is very short, being either truncated or undeveloped.

Let us now turn to the Santals, a remote and shy non-Aryan hill-tribe of India. Here we find the recognition, but in a form not only disappointing but almost cynical.

In the Santal story we have the cruel Stepmother, the hero,—not a heroine, but a boy,—the protecting and friendly Cow, the attempt to kill the Cow, the Flight, the great good-fortune of the hero, the Princess who falls in love with a lock of his hair, which is to play the part of Cinderella’s glass slipper in the ἀναγνὠρισις, and, finally, a cynically devised accident, by which the beauty of the hair is destroyed, and the hero’s chance of pleasing the princess perishes. It will be noticed that the use of a lock of hair floating down a river, to be fallen in love with and help the dénouement, is found, first, in the Egyptian conte of the Two Brothers, written down in the reign of Ramses II., fourteen hundred years before our era.

In that story, too, the hero has a friendly cow, which warns him when he is in danger of being murdered. But the Egyptian story has no other connection with Cendrillon[73]. The device of a floating lock of hair is not uncommon in Bengali Märchen.

From the Santals let us turn to another race, not so remote, but still non-Aryan, the Finns. That the Santals borrow Märchen from their Hinduised aboriginal neighbours is not certain, but is perfectly possible and even probable. Though some theorists have denied that races borrow nursery tales from each other, it is certain that Lönnrot, writing to Schiefner in 1855, mentions a Finnish fisher who, meeting Russian and Swedish fishers, ‘swopped stories’ with them when stormy weather made it impossible to put to sea. No doubt similar borrowings have always been going on when the peasantry on the frontiers met their neighbours, and where Kaffirs have taken Hottentot wives, or Sidonians have carried off Greek children as captives, in fact, all through the national and tribal meetings of the world.

The Wonderful Birch (Emmy Schreck, ix.) is a form of Cinderella from Russian Carelia. The story has a singularly dramatic and original opening. A man and his wife had but one daughter, and one Sheep. The Sheep wandered away, the woman sought him in the woods, and she met a witchwife. The witchwife turned the woman into the semblance of the Sheep, and herself took the semblance of the woman. She went to the woman’s house, where the husband thought he was welcoming his own wife and the sheep that was lost. The new and strange stepmother demanded the death of the Sheep, which was the real mother of the heroine. Warned by the Sheep, a black sheep, the daughter did not taste of her flesh, but gathered and buried the bones and fragments. Thence grew a beautiful birch tree. The man and the witchwife went to court, the witchwife leaving the girl to accomplish impossible tasks. The voice of the dead mother from the grave below the birch bade the girl break a twig from the tree, and therewith accomplish the tasks. Then out of the earth came beautiful raiment (as in Peau d’Ane), and the girl dressed, and went to court. The Prince falls in love with her, and detects her by means of her ring, which takes the part of the slipper. Then comes in the frequent formula of a false bride substituted by the witchwife, a number of trials, and the punishment of the witch.

Here, then, the friendly beast is but the Mother surviving in two shapes, first as a sheep, then as a tree, exactly the idea of the ancient Egyptian story of the Two Brothers, where Bitiou first becomes a bull, and then a persea tree[77]. In Finnish the Cinderella plot is fully developed. A similar tale, still with the beast in place of the Fairy Godmother, is quoted by Mr. Ralston from the Servian (Vuk Karajich, No. 32). Three maidens were spinning near a cleft in the ground, when an old man warned them not to let their spindles fall into the cleft, or their mother would be changed into a cow. Mara’s spindle fell in, and the mother instantly shared the fate of Io. Mara tended the cow that had been her mother lovingly, but the father married again, and the new wife drove Mara to dwell among the cinders (pepel), hence she was called Pepelluga, cinderwench[78]. The cruel Servian stepmother had the cow slain, but not before it had warned Mara to eat none of the kindred flesh [79], and to bury the bones in the ashes of the hearth. From these bones sprang two white doves, which supplied Mara with splendid raiment, and, finally, won for her the hand of the prince, after the usual incidents of the lost slipper, the attempt to substitute the stepmother’s ugly daughter, and the warning of the fowls, ‘Ki erike, the right maiden is under the trough.’

In a modern Greek variant (Hahn, ii.), the Mother (not in vaccine form) is eaten by her daughters, except the youngest, who refuses the hideous meal. The dead woman magically aids the youngest from her tomb, and the rest follows as usual, the slipper playing its accustomed part.

In Gaelic a persecuted stepdaughter is aided by a Ram. The Ram is killed, his bones are buried by his protégée, he comes to life again, but is lame, for his bones were not all collected, and he plays the part of Fairy Godmother[80].

Turning from the Gaelic to the Lowland Scotch, we find Rashin Coatie as a name under which either Peau d’Ane or Cendrillon may be narrated. We discovered Cendrillon as Rashin Coatie, in Morayshire[81]. Here a Queen does not become a cow, indeed, but dies, and leaves to her daughter a Red Calf, which aids her, till it is slain by a cruel stepmother.

The dead calfy said

Tak me up, bane by bane And pit me aneth yon grey stane,

and whatever you want, come and seek it frae me, and I will give you it.

The usual adventures of Cinderella ensue, the birds denouncing the False Bride, whose foot is pinched to make it fit the ‘beautiful satin slipper’ of the heroine.

In most of these versions the heroine is aided by a beast, and even when that beast is dead, it continues helpful, in one case actually coming to life again, like the ox in the South African Märchen.

In all these thoroughly popular and traditional tales, the supernatural machinery varies much from that of Perrault, who found Peau d’Ane ‘difficile à croire’ [hard to believe.]. But, in all the wilder tales, the machinery is exactly what we note in the myths and actual beliefs of the lower races. They do not shrink from the conception of a mother who becomes a cow (like Io), nor of a cow (as in the case of Heitsi Eibib among the Hottentots), who becomes the mother of human progeny. It is not unlikely that the Scotch mother, in Rashin Coatie, who bequeathes to her daughter a wonder-working calf (a cow in Sicily, Pitré, 41), is a modification of an idea like that of the cannibal Servian variant[83]. Then the Mouton of Madame d’Aulnoy seems like a courtly survival of the Celtic Sharp Grey Sheep mixed with the donnée of Beauty and the Beast[84]. The notion of helpful animals makes all the ‘Manitou’ element in Red Indian religion, and is common in Australia. The helpful calf, or sheep, bequeathed by the dying mother, reminds one of the equally helpful, but golden Ram, which aids Phrixus and Helle against their stepmother, after the death or deposition of their mother Nephele. This Ram also could speak,—

ἀλλἀ καὶ αὐδὴν

ἀνδρομέην προέηκε κακὸν τέρας [85].

This recalls not only the Celtic Sharp Grey Sheep, but also Madame d’Aulnoy and her princess, ‘je vous avoue que je ne suis pas accoutumée à vivre avec les moutons qui parlent.’

The older rural and popular forms of Cinderella, then, are full of machinery not only supernatural, but supernatural in a wild way: women become beasts, mothers are devoured by daughters (a thing that even Zulu fancy boggles at), life of beast or man is a separable thing, capable of continuing in lower forms. Thus we may conjecture that the ass’s skin worn by Peau d’Ane was originally the hide of a beast helpful to her, even connected, maybe, with her dead mother, and that the ass, like the cow, the calf, the sheep, and the doves of Märchen, befriended her, and clothed her in wondrous raiment.

For all these antique marvels Perrault, or the comparatively civilised tradition which Perrault followed, substituted, in Peau d’Ane, as in Cendrillon, the Christian conception of a Fairy Godmother. This substitute for more ancient and less speciosa miracula is confined to Perrault’s tales, and occurs nowhere in purely traditional Märchen. In these as in the widely diffused ballad of the Re-arisen Mother

‘Twas late in the night and the bairns grat, The Mother below the mouls heard that,—

the idea of a Mother’s love surviving her death inspires the legend, and, despite savage details, produces a touching effect (Ralston, Nineteenth Century, Nov. 1879, p. 839).

Another notable point in Cinderella is the preference shown, as usual, to the youngest child. Cinderella, to be sure, is a stepchild, and therefore interesting; but it is no great stretch of conjecture to infer that she may have originally been only the youngest child of the house. The nickname which connects her with the fireside and the ashes is also given, in one form or another, to the youngest son (Sir George Dasent, for some reason, calls him ‘Boots’) in Scandinavian tales. Cinderella, like the youngest son, is taunted with sitting in the ashes of the hearth. This notion declares itself in the names Cucendron, Aschenpüttel, Ventafochs, Pepelluga, Cernushka[86], all of them titles implying blackness, chiefly from contact with cinders. It has frequently been suggested that the success of the youngest child in fairy tales is a trace of the ideas which prevailed when Jüngsten-Recht, ‘Junior-Right’ or Borough English, was a prevalent custom of inheritance[87]. The invisible Bridegroom, of the Zulu Märchen, is in hiding under a snake’s skin, because he was the youngest, and his jealous brethren meant to kill him, for he would be the heir. It was therefore the purpose of his brethren to slay the young child in the traditional Zulu way, that is, to avoid the shedding of ‘kindred blood’ by putting a clod of earth in his mouth. Bishop Callaway gives the parallel Hawaian case of Waikelenuiaiku. The Polynesian case of Hatupati is also adduced. In Grimm’s Golden Bird the jealousy is provoked, not by the legal rights of the youngest, but by his skill and luck. The idea of fraternal jealousy, with the ‘nice opening for a young man,’ which it discovered (like Joseph’s brethren) in a pit, occurs in Peruvian myth as reported by Cieza de Leon (Chronicles of the Yncas, Second Part). The diffusion of Jüngsten-Recht, or Maineté, the inheritance by the youngest, has been found by Mr. Elton among Ugrians, in Hungary, in Slavonic communities, in Central Asia, on the confines of China, in the mountains of Arracan, in Friesland, in Germany, in Celtic countries. In Scandinavia Liebrecht adduces the Edda, ‘der jüngste Sohn Jarl’s der erste König ist.’ Albericus Trium Fontium mentions Prester John, ‘qui cum fratrum suorum minimus esset, omnibus praepositus est.’ In Hesiod we meet droit de juveignerie, as he makes Zeus the youngest of the Cronidae, while Homer, making Zeus the eldest, is all for primogeniture (Elton, Origins of English History, ch. viii. Liebrecht, Zur Volkskunde).

The authorities quoted raise a presumption that Jüngsten-Recht, an old and widely diffused law, might have left a trace on myth and Märchen. If Jüngsten-Recht were yielding place to primogeniture, if the elders were using their natural influence to secure advantages, then the youngest child, still heir by waning custom, would doubtless suffer a good deal of persecution. It may have been in this condition of affairs that the myths of the brilliant triumph of the rightful but despised heir, Cinderella, or Boots, were developed.

On the other hand, it is obvious that the necessities of fiction demand examples of failure in the adventures, to heighten the effect of the final success. Now the failures might have begun with the youngest, and the eldest might be the successful hero. But that would have reversed the natural law by which the eldest goes first out into danger. Moreover, the nursery audience of a conte de nourrice is not prejudiced in favour of the Big but of the Little Brother.

These simple facts of everyday life, rather than some ancient custom of inheritance, may be the cause of the favouritism always shown to the youngest son or daughter. (Compare Ralston, Russian Folk Tales, p. 81. The idea of jealousy of the youngest brother, mixed up with a miscellaneous assortment of motifs of folk tales, occurs in Katha-sarit-sagara, ch. xxxix.)

Against the notion that the successful youngest son or daughter of the contes is a descendant of the youngest child who is heir by droit de juveignerie, it has been urged that the hero, if the heir, would ‘not start from the dust-bin and the coal-hole.’ But if his heirship were slipping from him, as has been suggested, the ashes of the hearth are just what he would start from. The ‘coal-hole,’ of course, is a modern innovation. The hearth is the recognised legal position of the youngest child in Gavel-kind. ‘Et la mesuage seit autreci entre eux departi, mes le Astre demorra al puné (ou al punée)[88].’ In short, ‘the Hearth-place shall belong to the youngest,’ and as far as forty feet round it. After that the eldest has the first choice, and the others in succession according to age. The Custumal of Kent of the thirteenth century is the authority.

These rules of inheritance show, at least (and perhaps at most), a curious coincidence between the tales which describe the youngest child as always busy with the hearth, and the custom which bequeaths the hearth (astre) to the youngest child. To prove anything it would be desirable to show that this rule of Gavel-kind once prevailed in all the countries where the name of the heroine corresponds in meaning to Cendrillon.

The attention of mythologists has long been fixed on the slipper of Cinderella. There seems no great mystery in the Prince’s proposal to marry the woman who could wear the tiny mule. It corresponds to the advantages which, when the hero is a man, attend him who can bend the bow, lift the stone, draw the sword, or the like. In a woman’s case it is beauty, in a man’s strength, that is to be tested. Whether the slipper were of verre or of vair is a matter of no moment. The slipper is of red satin in Madame d’Aulnoy’s Finette Cendron, and of satin in Rashin Coatie. The Egyptian king, in Strabo and Ælian, merely concluded that the loser of the slipper must be a pretty woman, because she certainly had a pretty foot. The test of fitting the owner recurs in Peau d’Ane, where a ring, not a slipper, is the object, as in the Finnish Wonderful Birch tree.

M. de Gubernatis takes a different view of Cinderella’s slipper. The Dawn, it appears, in the Rig Veda is said to leave no footsteps behind her (apad). This naturally identifies her with Cinderella, who not only leaves footsteps, probably, but one of her slippers. M. de Gubernatis reasons that apad ‘may mean, not only she who has no feet, but also she who has no footsteps … or again, she who has no slippers, the aurora having, as it appears, lost them…. The legend of the lost slipper … seems to me to repose entirely upon the double meaning of the word apad, i.e. who has no foot, or what is the measure of the foot, which may be either the footstep or the slipper….’ (Zoolog. Myth. i. 31). M. de Gubernatis adds that ‘Cinderella, when she loses the slipper, is overtaken by the prince bridegroom.’ The point of the whole story lies in this, of course, that she is not overtaken. Had she been overtaken, there would have been no need for the trial with the slipper (op. cit. i. 161). M. de Gubernatis, in this passage, makes the overtaking of Cinderella serve his purpose as proof; on p. 31 he derives part of his proof from the statement (correct this time) that Cinderella is not overtaken, ‘because a chariot bears her away.’ Another argument is that the dusky Cinderella is only brilliantly clad ‘in the Prince’s ball-room, or in church, in candle-light, and near the Prince,—the aurora is beautiful only when the sun is near.’ Is the sun the candle-light, and is the Prince also the sun? If a lady is only belle à la chandelle, what has the Dawn to do with that?

M. André Lefèvre calls M. de Gubernatis’s theory quelque peu aventureuse (Les Contes de Charles Perrault, p. lxxiv), and this cannot be thought a severe criticism. If we supposed the story to have arisen out of an epithet of Dawn, in Sanskrit, the other incidents of the tale, and their combination into a fairly definite plot, and the wide diffusion of that plot among peoples whose ancestors assuredly never spoke Sanskrit, would all need explanation.

In Perrault’s Cinderella, we have not the adventure of the False or Substituted Bride, which usually swells out this and many other contes, and which, indeed, is apparently brought in by popular conteurs, whenever the tale is a little short. Thus it frequently winds up the story which Perrault gives so briefly as Les Fées. Among the Zulus[89], the Birds of the Thorn country warn the bridegroom that he has the wrong girl,—she is a beast (mbulu) in Zululand. The birds give the warning in Rashin Coatie[90], and birds take the same part in Swedish, Russian, German, but a dog plays the rôle in Breton (Reinhold Köhler, op. cit. p. 373). In a song of Fauriel’s Chansons Romaiques the birds warn the girl that she is riding with a corpse. Birds give the warning in Gaelic (Campbell, No. 14).

Perrault did more than suppress the formula of the False Bride. By an artistic use of his Fairy Godmother he gave Cinderella her excellent reason for leaving the ball, not because cupit ipsa videri, but in obedience to the fairy dame. He made Cinderella forgive her stepsisters, and get them good marriages, in place of punishing them, as even Psyche does so treacherously in Apuleius, and as the wild justice of folk tales usually determines their doom. An Italian Cinderella breaks her stepmother’s neck with the lid of a chest. But Cendrillon ‘douce et bonne au début reste jusqu’à la fin douce et bonne’ (Deulin, Contes de Ma Mère l’Oye, p. 286). These are examples of Perrault’s refined way of treating the old tales. But in his own country there survives a version of Cendrillon in which a Blue Bull, not a Fairy Godmother, helps the heroine. From the ear of the Bull, as from his horn in Kaffir lore, the heroine draws her supplies. She is Jaquette de Bois, and reminds us of Katie Wooden cloak. Her mother is dead, but the Bull is not said to have been the mother in bestial form. (Sébillot, Contes Pop. de la Haute Bretagne, Charpentier, Paris, 1880, p. 15). In these versions the formula of Cendrillon shifts into that of The Black Bull o’ Norroway.


The version presented here is the translation by A. E. Johnson, which many consider to come the closest to the nuances of Perrault, himself. This one comes from Old-Time Stories, published in 1921, but the first release with his translations was much earlier. The images are by illustrator, Gustave Doré, one of the most acclaimed illustrators of the time. I have left the spelling, which is English rather than American, as it was, as well as most of the punctuation, changing only single quotes for speech to double quotes.

Cendrillon, by Charles Perrault

Once upon a time there was a worthy man who married for his second wife the haughtiest, proudest woman that had ever been seen. She had two daughters, who possessed their mother’s temper and resembled her in everything. Her husband, on the other hand, had a young daughter, who was of an exceptionally sweet and gentle nature. She got this from her mother, who had been the nicest person in the world.

The wedding was no sooner over than the stepmother began to display her bad temper. She could not endure the excellent qualities of this young girl, for they made her own daughters appear more hateful than ever. She thrust upon her all the meanest tasks about the house. It was she who had to clean the plates and the stairs, and sweep out the rooms of the mistress of the house and her daughters. She slept on a wretched mattress in a garret at the top of the house, while the sisters had rooms with parquet flooring, and beds of the most fashionable style, with mirrors in which they could see themselves from top to toe.

The poor girl endured everything patiently, not daring to complain to her father. The latter would have scolded her, because he was entirely ruled by his wife. When she had finished her work she used to sit amongst the cinders in the corner of the chimney, and it was from this habit that she came to be commonly known as Cinder-slut. The younger of the two sisters, who was not quite so spiteful as the elder, called her Cinderella. But her wretched clothes did not prevent Cinderella from being a hundred times more beautiful than her sisters, for all their resplendent garments.

It happened that the king’s son gave a ball, and he invited all persons of high degree. The two young ladies were invited amongst others, for they cut a considerable figure in the country. Not a little pleased were they, and the question of what clothes and what mode of dressing the hair would become them best took up all their time. And all this meant fresh trouble for Cinderella, for it was she who went over her sisters’ linen and ironed their ruffles. They could talk of nothing else but the fashions in clothes.

“For my part,” said the elder, “I shall wear my dress of red velvet, with the Honiton lace.”

“I have only my everyday petticoat,” said the younger, “but to make up for it I shall wear my cloak with the golden flowers and my necklace of diamonds, which are not so bad.”

They sent for a good hairdresser to arrange their double-frilled caps, and bought patches at the best shop.
They summoned Cinderella and asked her advice, for she had good taste. Cinderella gave them the best possible suggestions, and even offered to dress their hair, to which they gladly agreed.

While she was thus occupied they said:
“Cinderella, would you not like to go to the ball?”

“Ah, but you fine young ladies are laughing at me. It would be no place for me.”
‘That is very true, people would laugh to see a cinder-slut in the ballroom.”

Any one else but Cinderella would have done their hair amiss, but she was good-natured, and she finished them off to perfection. They were so excited in their glee that for nearly two days they ate nothing. They broke more than a dozen laces through drawing their stays tight in order to make their waists more slender, and they were perpetually in front of a mirror.

At last the happy day arrived. Away they went, Cinderella watching them as long as she could keep them in sight. When she could no longer see them she began to cry. Her godmother found her in tears, and asked what was troubling her.
“I should like—I should like——”

She was crying so bitterly that she could not finish the sentence.

Said her godmother, who was a fairy:

“You would like to go to the ball, would you not?”

“Ah, yes,” said Cinderella, sighing.

“Well, well,” said her godmother, “promise to be a good girl and I will arrange for you to go.”

She took Cinderella into her room and said:

“Go into the garden and bring me a pumpkin.”

Cinderella went at once and gathered the finest that she could find. This she brought to her godmother, wondering how a pumpkin could help in taking her to the ball.

Her godmother scooped it out, and when only the rind was left, struck it with her wand. Instantly the pumpkin was changed into a beautiful coach, gilded all over.
Then she went and looked in the mouse-trap, where she found six mice all alive. She told Cinderella to lift the door of the mouse-trap a little, and as each mouse came out she gave it a tap with her wand, whereupon it was transformed into a fine horse. So that here was a fine team of six dappled mouse-grey horses.

But she was puzzled to know how to provide a coachman.

“I will go and see,” said Cinderella, “if there is not a rat in the rat-trap. We could make a coachman of him.”

“Quite right,” said her godmother, “go and see.”

Cinderella brought in the rat-trap, which contained three big rats. The fairy chose one specially on account of his elegant whiskers.

As soon as she had touched him he turned into a fat coachman with the finest moustachios that ever were seen.

“Now go into the garden and bring me the six lizards which you will find behind the water-butt.”

No sooner had they been brought than the godmother turned them into six lackeys, who at once climbed up behind the coach in their braided liveries, and hung on there as if they had never done anything else all their lives.

Then said the fairy godmother:

“Well, there you have the means of going to the ball. Are you satisfied?”

“Oh, yes, but am I to go like this in my ugly clothes?”

Her godmother merely touched her with her wand, and on the instant her clothes were changed into garments of gold and silver cloth, bedecked with jewels. After that her godmother gave her a pair of glass slippers, the prettiest in the world.

Thus altered, she entered the coach. Her godmother bade her not to stay beyond midnight whatever happened, warning her that if she remained at the ball a moment longer, her coach would again become a pumpkin, her horses mice, and her lackeys lizards, while her old clothes would reappear upon her once more.

She promised her godmother that she would not fail to leave the ball before midnight, and away she went, beside herself with delight.

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The king’s son, when he was told of the arrival of a great princess whom nobody knew, went forth to receive her. He handed her down from the coach, and led her into the hall where the company was assembled. At once there fell a great silence. The dancers stopped, the violins played no more, so rapt was the attention which everybody bestowed upon the superb beauty of the unknown guest. Everywhere could be heard in confused whispers:

“Oh, how beautiful she is!”

The king, old man as he was, could not take his eyes off her, and whispered to the queen that it was many a long day since he had seen any one so beautiful and charming.

All the ladies were eager to scrutinise her clothes and the dressing of her hair, being determined to copy them on the morrow, provided they could find materials so fine, and tailors so clever.

The king’s son placed her in the seat of honour, and at once begged the privilege of being her partner in a dance. Such was the grace with which she danced that the admiration of all was increased.

A magnificent supper was served, but the young prince could eat nothing, so taken up was he with watching her. She went and sat beside her sisters, and bestowed numberless attentions upon them. She made them share with her the oranges and lemons which the king had given her—greatly to their astonishment, for they did not recognise her.

While they were talking, Cinderella heard the clock strike a quarter to twelve. She at once made a profound curtsey to the company, and departed as quickly as she could.

As soon as she was home again she sought out her godmother, and having thanked her, declared that she wished to go upon the morrow once more to the ball, because the king’s son had invited her.

While she was busy telling her godmother all that had happened at the ball, her two sisters knocked at the door. Cinderella let them in.
“What a long time you have been in coming!” she declared, rubbing her eyes and stretching herself as if she had only just awakened. In real truth she had not for a moment wished to sleep since they had left.

“If you had been at the ball,” said one of the sisters, “you would not be feeling weary. There came a most beautiful princess, the most beautiful that has ever been seen, and she bestowed numberless attentions upon us, and gave us her oranges and lemons.”
Cinderella was overjoyed. She asked them the name of the princess, but they replied that no one knew it, and that the king’s son was so distressed that he would give anything in the world to know who she was.

Cinderella smiled, and said she must have been beautiful indeed.

“Oh, how lucky you are. Could I not manage to see her? Oh, please, Javotte, lend me the yellow dress which you wear every day.”
“Indeed!” said Javotte, “that is a fine idea. Lend my dress to a grubby cinder-slut like you—you must think me mad!”

Cinderella had expected this refusal. She was in no way upset, for she would have been very greatly embarrassed had her sister been willing to lend the dress.The next day the two sisters went to the ball, and so did Cinderella, even more splendidly attired than the first time.
The king’s son was always at her elbow, and paid her endless compliments.

The young girl enjoyed herself so much that she forgot her godmother’s bidding completely, and when the first stroke of midnight fell upon her ears, she thought it was no more than eleven o’clock.

She rose and fled as nimbly as a fawn. The prince followed her, but could not catch her. She let fall one of her glass slippers, however, and this the prince picked up with tender care.

When Cinderella reached home she was out of breath, without coach, without lackeys, and in her shabby clothes. Nothing remained of all her splendid clothes save one of the little slippers, the fellow to the one which she had let fall.

Inquiries were made of the palace doorkeepers as to whether they had seen a princess go out, but they declared they had seen no one leave except a young girl, very ill-clad, who looked more like a peasant than a young lady.

When her two sisters returned from the ball, Cinderella asked them if they had again enjoyed themselves, and if the beautiful lady had been there. They told her that she was present, but had fled away when midnight sounded, and in such haste that she had let fall one of her little glass slippers, the prettiest thing in the world. They added that the king’s son, who picked it up, had done nothing but gaze at it for the rest of the ball, from which it was plain that he was deeply in love with its beautiful owner.

They spoke the truth. A few days later, the king’s son caused a proclamation to be made by trumpeters, that he would take for wife the owner of the foot which the slipper would fit.

They tried it first on the princesses, then on the duchesses and the whole of the Court, but in vain. Presently they brought it to the home of the two sisters, who did all they could to squeeze a foot into the slipper. This, however, they could not manage.

Cinderella was looking on and recognised her slipper:

“Let me see,” she cried, laughingly, “if it will not fit me.”

Her sisters burst out laughing, and began to gibe at her, but the equerry who was trying on the slipper looked closely at Cinderella. Observing that she was very beautiful he declared that the claim was quite a fair one, and that his orders were to try the slipper on every maiden. He bade Cinderella sit down, and on putting the slipper to her little foot he perceived that the latter slid in without trouble, and was moulded to its shape like wax.
Great was the astonishment of the two sisters at this, and greater still when Cinderella drew from her pocket the other little slipper. This she likewise drew on.
At that very moment her godmother appeared on the scene. She gave a tap with her wand to Cinderella’s clothes, and transformed them into a dress even more magnificent than her previous ones.
The two sisters recognised her for the beautiful person whom they had seen at the ball, and threw themselves at her feet, begging her pardon for all the ill-treatment she had suffered at their hands.

Cinderella raised them, and declaring as she embraced them that she pardoned them with all her heart, bade them to love her well in future.
She was taken to the palace of the young prince in all her new array. He found her more beautiful than ever, and was married to her a few days afterwards.
Cinderella was as good as she was beautiful. She set aside apartments in the palace for her two sisters, and married them the very same day to two gentlemen of high rank about the Court.

Moral: Beauty in a woman is a rare treasure that will always be admired. Graciousness, however, is priceless and of even greater value. This is what Cinderella’s godmother gave to her when she taught her to behave like a queen. Young women, in the winning of a heart, graciousness is more important than a beautiful hairdo. It is a true gift of the fairies. Without it nothing is possible; with it, one can do anything.

Another moral: Without doubt it is a great advantage to have intelligence, courage, good breeding, and common sense. These, and similar talents come only from heaven, and it is good to have them. However, even these may fail to bring you success, without the blessing of a godfather or a godmother.


Cinderella Retold by C. S. Evans, Illustrated by Arthur Rackham, 1919

Once upon a time, there was a nobleman who was married to a sweet and beautiful lady. They had one child, a little girl named Ella, and they lived in a big house in the country. Ella had a wonderful big nursery room for all of her toys and books, and a glorious garden to romp about in.  When the weather was fine, she hunted beetles and worms and gathered flowers. When she wanted company, there was always her mother. The two of them lay in the grass, Ella watching the clouds go by as her mother told her stories.

Her life continued in this delightful way, until one day, her mother did not get out of bed. She had taken a fever, and lay shivering beneath the comforter. The doctors came, looking grim and leaving their bitter powders for her mother. And then, one morning when Ella came downstairs, she found her father sitting in the big arm-chair with his head buried in his hands. He did not say anything to her for a long time, and then he came over and put his hand upon her head and stroked her hair.

“We are all alone now, dear,” he said. And Ella knew, without any more telling, that her mother was dead. The day passed as though she were in a terrible dream, from which she could not wake up. And that night, a strange thing happened; for as Ella stood there, with the tears which she could not restrain rolling down her cheeks, she thought she saw the figure of an old woman among the bushes on the edge of the lawn. Through the dim light, Ella thought that she looked like she was dressed in a long black cloak and a queer, pointed hat, and to be leaning on a stick. Then the clouds shifted, and the sky darkened, and the woman could be seen no more. The death of Ella’s mother brought another unexpected change: her father announced that she would be sent to boarding school. Ella had always done her lessons at home and begged to continue this pattern, but her father was firm. Besides, he told her gently, it was her mother who had given her the lessons, and she was not there to do it anymore. And so Ella packed her trunk, and her father drove her to the train station, and she went to school. It was not so very bad as she had feared.

She spent two years there and learned to dance wonderfully, as well as to embroider, to speak French, and to act with the manners of a young lady. The time until her father returned for her seemed to fly by.  And there he was again, at the train station, and the two of them set out for home. But soon her father cleared his throat.  He told Ella now that “There has been a change while you have been away. Somebody has come to live with us while you have been away — somebody who will, I hope, take a mother’s place to you. A lady has — ahem— done me the honour to accept my hand.  That is to say, child, I am married again, and my wife has two daughters who will also live with us for the future. You must try to like them for my sake.”  He went on to say that the daughters were grown, and that they did not seem to be the type who enjoy playing games. He further admitted that, since they were prone to long sessions of bickering with their mother, he himself spent little time at home anymore.

When Ella got home, the first thing she did was run up to her room. And then she stopped in her tracks, because someone else had moved into it. She saw a queerly shaped, flat table, with a sort of well in it, and in the well were little pots of white powder and some soft stuff that looked like cream, and sticks of red paint. There was also a small porcelain box containing little patches cut out of black plaster, which Ella knew ladies stuck on their cheeks when they were going out visiting or to a ball. Besides these, there was a hare’s foot for dabbing powder on, and an assortment of brushes and combs.  As Ella soon found out, her room had been taken over by Miss Euphronia, her elder stepsister. The nursery where her toys and books had been, and where she had spent so many delightful hours with her mother, was now occupied by her younger stepsister, Miss Charlotte.

This was not the only change in the household.  Within a month, Ella had been assigned the lion’s share of the household chores and dear old Belinda, the cook, had been let go.  Ella’s father travelled most of the time.  When he was home, he stayed alone in his library.  Before she knew it, Euphronia and Charlotte had taken her mother’s clothes and sold hers! Ella was left in rags before a year was out.  One day, when Euphronia and Charlotte were sniping with each other, and in a particularly nasty mood, Euphronia turned to Ella.  She was busy sweeping the cinders out of the fireplace, her stepsister said to her, ” I have found a new name for you.  In future I shall call you Cinderslut because of your nasty habit of sitting among the cinders.  Come, Cinderslut, and hold this skein of wool for me.”

Now Charlotte, “who was never quite so unkind to her as the other, said, “No, no, sister, let us call her Cinder-Ella, that sounds much better.” And Cinderella it was from that time forward.

The years passed, and Cinderella was now sixteen years old. It happened one day that an invitation came from the King.  The Prince had reached the age of twenty-one, and there was to be a series of balls in his honor.  Euphronia and Charlotte were invited; so too should Ella have been.  Instead, she was put to work preparing her selfish sisters.  “I think I shall wear my red velvet gown with the English point lace trimmings,” said Euphronia. “That is so dignified and stately, and it suits me so admirably.”

Charlotte announced that she would wear “my purple petticoat and my green cloak that is brocaded in gold.  Purple, you know is the royal color, and it is therefore most appropriate for a royal ball.”

And so these young ladies attired themselves, and Cinderella dressed their hair.  At last, the night of the first ball was here, and Ella’s stepsisters and stepmother clambered into their carriage, and were off. Cinderella flopped down by the hearth, miserable and feeling left behind.  That’s when she heard a sound. “Who are you?’ asked Cinderella in a quavering voice.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the woman. “I have not come to do you any harm.  You have seen me before, once upon a time, when you were even more unhappy than you are tonight.  Look at me well, and see if you do not remember.”

The strange old woman stepped into the light.  She was very, very old; so old that her face was a maze of lines, like a wrinkled apple.  She was dressed in a very full red petticoat and a black-laced bodice, and on her head was a queerly shaped hat, with a high pointed crown and a wide rim. When she smiled, it was as though a ray of sunshine lit up the shadows of that gloomy place.  And Cinderella remembered seeing this ancient on the night her mother had died. Now the woman explained that she was Cinderella’s godmother, and that she knew “all that [Ella] has endured through the malice of [her] stepmother and stepsisters” and that she kept watch over the girl every night, as she slept in the garret.

Now Cinderella explained why she had been crying tonight, and her godmother, who was really a fairy, said, “Well, if you will be a good girl and do what I tell you, and don’t ask any questions, you shall go. Have you a pumpkin bed in the garden?”

Cinderella said that they did, so she went a picked a large one. Then she brought a knife, with which her godmother cut off the top of the pumpkin and scooped out the pulp until there was nothing left but the rind. This she took outside into the courtyard and touched it with her stick, when the pumpkin immediately changed into a most magnificent coach, all glass above and gilded panels below!

Next the old woman asked for “a mouse or two”, and when Cinderella found six of them in the trap, they were turned into a fine team.  Six lizards soon became footmen: Cinderella watched in fascination as their feet stretched forward, they stood upright on their skinny legs, and their tails stretched into gray woolen jackets.  But what about Ella’s rags?

“Bless my soul! I forgot all about the dress!’ cried the old woman.” In  a twinkling the rags became a dress of white silk, embroidered with butterflies and flowers of a delicate blue. On her feet were a pair of glass shoes, the prettiest that ever were seen.” One word of warning did the fairy give the girl: if she was not home by midnight, pumpkin, mice, rat, lizard, dress and shoes would all revert to their true states.

The promise was made, and Cinderella stepped into the coach and was transported to the palace. Arriving at the ball in her gilded carriage made quite a stir. All eyes were upon her, even those of the king. The great hall was lit by a thousand candles set in chandeliers of cut glass that shimmered and sparkled with all the hues of the rainbow. The prince asked her to dance immediately, and she accepted, of course. She spotted her stepmother and sisters, but they did not see her. Because she could see that her sisters had no one to dance with, though they had tried so hard to appear beautiful, Ella asked the prince if he couldn’t find them partners.  So he knew her as not only a lovely girl, but a kind one as well.

All too soon the clock began to strike. Cinderella rose immediately, and making a deep curtsy of farewell said a quick goodbye. She only just made it home before her sisters. Quickly, she thanked her godmother, and asked if she might go again the following night. The fairy gave her permission, and returned the following evening.

The second night of the ball, Cinderella found that the prince was anxiously awaiting her arrival. All the evening, he never left her side, and he whispered a thousand tender things to her as they sat beneath the palms on the terrace. Though he called her “the lady of my heart” and begged to know her name, she would not reveal it. Suddenly, the was horrified to hear the big clock on the tower strike the first note of twelve. This time she had not even time for a goodbye, she simply ran. She was racing across the palace lawn when she heard the final bell peal. It was midnight, and she was once more among her rags.

Again she slipped into the kitchen moments before her sisters. Oh, those two were full of gossip of the evening! How the prince had danced with the mysterious princess, and how that lady had fled, leaving a shoe behind. The prince was in love with her, claimed Euphronia, and soon would undertake a search to discover who she really was. The very next day, the prince directed that every lady should come to court and try on the slipper that the girl had left behind. First of all came the princesses, and then the duchesses, and the countesses, and so on, to the plain gentlewomen and finally, even the servants. But the slipper did not fit anyone.

Now the prince sent out a proclamation decreeing that every single female, of high born or low born status, must come and try on the shoe. Of course Euphronia and Charlotte were mad with the frenzy of it all. But when the elder stretched out her long and bony foot, it was clear that she could not insert it into the shoe. And Charlotte tried again and again, until it was evident that she could never succeed in getting the slipper on, even if she tried for years. So the servant asked their mother if there were not any other young ladies in the house? The young girl who opened the door? Who was she, and why had she not been given a chance?

“What, do you mean Cinderslut?” asked the elder girl, and “This is really infamous!” declared the younger.

But the servant insisted, and so Cinderella was brought. “Even in her ragged working dress she looked so lovely that the courtier opened his eyes and at the very first trial, the slipper glided on to Cinderella’s dainty foot with the greatest ease. Now Cinderella calmly took the other shoe from her pocket and put it on the other foot. These were the pair of them, gleaming and flashing so that her feet seemed shod with light.

And just as her two stepsisters began to mutter and complain of Cinderella’s deceitfulness, someone else was suddenly in the room. It was the fairy and she lifted her stick and touched the girl lightly on her shoulder. Cinderella’s rags dropped away, and she appeared dressed in the beautiful gown of white silk in which she had first gone to the ball. Now the fairy spoke, and her voice was very stern and hard. “Proud and cruel girls,” she said, “look upon the sister whom you have despised and have used so spitefully. She is the daughter of the house, but you robbed her of all the joy that should have been hers. Now she shall be the greatest lady in the land, and you shall creep to her for forgiveness.”

And that is just what the stepsisters did, weeping and crying for pardon; but Cinderella, whose kind heart felt pity for their discomfiture, raised them with a kiss. A week later, the prince married Cinderella with great pomp and ceremony. The rejoicings lasted a full week and all the town made holiday. And Cinderella and the prince lived very happily together for the rest of their lives.