In Sleeping Beauty's Bed Read online

  “Cinderella” has witnessed a long and varied history, hence its present form as known to the Western world is simply a variation on an already existing folktale dating back to antiquity. Although its earliest written form has been traced to a Chinese book from the ninth century, even before the arrival of the Ch’in dynasty “Cinderella” lived in the story of Yeh-hsien—a poor wretch of a girl ill-treated by her stepmother, but aided by a mysterious man from the sky. In fleeing her family at a festival, Yeh-hsien loses a shoe, which eventually falls into the hands of a king, who orders every woman in his kingdom to try it on. Finding the shoe’s rightful owner, the king marries Yeh-hsien.

  Despite the great age of this Chinese “Cinderella,” many scholars believe that the tale actually originated in the Middle East. In the story of Rhodope, collected around the time of Christ, an eagle absconds with the sandal of a beautiful courtesan, only to drop it onto a pharaoh—who finds himself so taken by it that all of Egypt is searched for the sandal’s owner so that he can marry her. However, some elements in the tale may be far more ancient than even those found in the stories about Yeh-hsien or Rhodope. In the primitive hunting and grazing societies appearing at the end of the Ice Age, the female was placed at the center of society and, as such, would often be sacrificed so that she could return as an animal or tree—as did Cinderella’s mother, who after death returns in some versions of the tale in the form of a calf.

  Although Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm (with whom we equate “Cinderella”) are household names, less familiar to nonscholars is Giambattista Basile, a Neapolitan of seventeenth-century Italy. In his collection of tales derived from the Neapolitan oral tradition entitled Il Pentamerone (The five days), a less ancient precursor to “Cinderella” can be found in the tale “La Gatta Cenerentola” (The hearth cat). Interested in manipulating circumstances to suit herself, Basile’s protagonist, Zezolla, conspires with her governess to murder her stepmother. But matters do not turn out as expected, for Zezolla’s new stepmother (the governess) has several daughters, all of whom are placed above her in importance. Hence a life of drudgery of even worse proportions is bestowed on Zezolla. Indeed, this prevalence of stepmothers in folktales and fairy tales resulted not merely from creative license, but from the reality of the times. Many women died young from frequent childbearing and unsanitary conditions, only to be replaced by the husband’s new spouse, which usually left the remaining offspring at the mercy of the not-always-kindly stepmother.

  A literary critic, poet, and court attendant during the reign of Louis XIV, Charles Perrault created the version of “Cinderella” that seems to be the most preferred. Since he intended his tale to suit the refined tastes of the court of Versailles, anything considered vulgar was removed. Published in 1697 in his Histoires ou Contes du Temps Passé, Perrault’s “Cendrillon” is a cleaned-up version of its Neapolitan predecessor. Unlike Basile’s murderous Zezolla, Cendrillon sits passively by while those around her act with the utmost cruelty. Changes in social attitudes would contribute much to the folktale’s evolution into literary tale, for it was in Perrault’s day that the motif of the passive female appeared—a motif that served to reinforce the patriarchal values of the times.

  In the versions collected during the nineteenth century by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm in their Kinder- und Hausmärchen, the protagonist is as passive as her ash-bespattered counterpart in Perrault. Aside from being a reflection of contemporary standards, this indicates a possible diffusion of the Frenchman’s literary tale into German oral tradition. The brothers’ “Aschenputtel” restores much of the violence and gore of earlier non-Perrault versions by including the stepsisters’ mutilation of their feet. Of course, this particular element demonstrates that still more diffusion may have tainted the supposedly German versions of the Grimms via the Scottish tale “Rashin Coatie”—in which the stepsisters compete for the slipper (and the prince), resulting in the mutilation of Rashin Coatie’s stepsister’s foot. A story in The Complaynt of Scotland dating to 1540 is considered the basis for the tale, which makes it predate not only the versions of the Grimms, but Basile as well.

  Perhaps not as erotically infused as other fairy tales with so lengthy a history, “Cinderella” is not altogether lacking in matters pertaining to the sexual. Clearly, the presence of the slipper is the most important element in the story and, as such, can be construed as an object of eroticism. Indeed, in a variety of Chinese folklore, the slipper serves as a symbol of the vagina, with further evidence of Cinderella’s link to Asian cultures being assumed from the ancient practice of binding a woman’s feet. A small foot was considered sexually appealing—and much mention is made of the petite nature of Cinderella’s feet. With this in mind, how could any self-respecting prince possibly resist worshipping the slipper into which so dainty a foot could fit?

  THERE ONCE LIVED A WIDOWED GENTLEMAN of minor distinction and much loneliness. Although he had a daughter of his own, it was the companionship of a mate he desired most. The daisies had not even begun to spring up from the freshly turned earth beneath which his poor late wife had been buried before he took for himself another wife—the proudest, vainest, and haughtiest woman to be found in the entire kingdom. It so happened that she had a pair of daughters herself, both of whom possessed even greater pride, vanity, and hauteur than the mother who had given birth to them. The three came to live with the unsuspecting widower, whose own daughter had the sweetest, most temperate nature imaginable and was the complete opposite of her father’s new wife and stepdaughters. Hence the trouble begins.

  For no sooner had the ink dried on the parchment of the couple’s wedding decree than the new bride made the true wickedness of her character known. Unable to bear the goodly virtues of her pretty young stepdaughter—for they served to make her own flesh and blood all the more abominable—the woman took it upon herself to foist on the girl the dirtiest and most disagreeable of household chores: chores that only a common char would have performed. Each day from sunup to sundown the stepdaughter washed dishes and scrubbed floors; she polished silver and emptied chamber pots. When she had finished, she swept out the cellar and gathered up cobwebs from every corner of the house—and all while being at her stepmother’s constant beck and call. For the grand lady had a good many garments to be laundered and much dust to be cleared from her bedchamber.

  As did her two spoiled daughters, both of whom had been given rooms of their very own with fine parquet floors for their oversized feet to walk upon and tall gilt mirrors to reflect their lumpen forms from top to toe. At night they slept on the softest and most luxurious of beds, their heads resting comfortably against fluffy pillows stuffed with goose feathers, the costliest of lace-trimmed duvets tucked cozily up beneath their disdainful chins. Meanwhile, the girl in whose father’s house they dwelled had for her solitary quarters a cramped space in the corner of the dark and musty attic, with only a small oil lamp to see by and the squealing of mice for conversation. Since she owned no bed of her own, she slept on the stone hearth among cinders remaining from the coal fires that provided heat for the rest of the house, cinders that she purloined when no one was looking and took to her room. Although terribly uncomfortable, at least they were warm.

  As a consequence of this sleeping arrangement, the girl became known in the household as Cinderwench. However, the youngest of the stepsisters, who was not quite so cruel in temperament as her mother and elder sibling, would instead bestow upon her new sister the more melodic appellation of Cinderella. Even in her ragged old garments and clumsy wooden clogs, the girl possessed a far prettier face and figure than either of her two stepsisters with their grand dresses and glittering jewels. Despite her dismal situation, Cinderella dared not complain to her father, since he would have scolded her most severely and taken his wife’s side. For ever since the wedding day, the woman had made it her mission to control her husband’s every breath, especially those drawn in the household.

  With the impending arrival of spring, the Kin
g ordained a festival of food and dance at which his young son and sole heir to the throne would choose a bride from among the many guests. He invited all persons of social standing, and, being well known in society, Cinderella’s two stepsisters received an invitation, thereby creating still more work for the poor girl. There was linen to be ironed and ruffles to flute, along with a myriad of other personal tasks in need of attending to. In the preceding weeks the sisters talked of nothing but the nightly dances and what they planned to wear to them; not even the most minute of details would be overlooked. They ordered special headdresses stitched from the finest silk with rows of pearl trimming, and they selected beauty patches from the best maker in the town, their pride not allowing them to accept otherwise. The sisters next summoned Cinderella to solicit her opinion, for, irrespective of her lowly appearance, she had been endowed with an innate sense of taste of which the two desired to avail themselves. Being dutiful and kind at heart, this unwanted female relation provided as much assistance as she could, even offering to personally dress her stepsisters’ hair—an offer that both enthusiastically seized. The King’s son was very handsome and stood to inherit great riches, not to mention the wealth of the entire kingdom. Why should it not be one of them whom he takes for his princess?

  While pressing yet another perfect ringlet into place above her older stepsister’s temple, Cinderella was asked with an unmistakable mocking of tone whether she might like to accompany them to the royal ball. Naturally, she realized that she was being teased, since who would desire her unworthy presence at such a grand event? “Oh, sisters, whatever would I be doing at the Prince’s ball?” she said with a laugh, trying to cover the bitter sting of tears.

  “Indeed,” snorted the eldest, “whatever would a miserable Cinderwench be doing at the Prince’s dance? How people would laugh!”

  One might imagine that the humbled girl would have used this opportunity to sabotage her stepsister’s hair after having been made the victim of so heartless a joke, but Cinderella had such a sweet and loving nature it would not have been in her mind to do so. Instead she continued pressing the ornate ringlets of hair into place, refusing to cease from her labors until both sisters were ready to have their expensive headdresses placed atop their stylishly coifed heads. For luck, Cinderella tucked a tiny gray mouse beneath each headdress, her sisters having told her that mice brought very good fortune and that she should be grateful to have so many of them living with her in her attic quarters.

  So excited were the two siblings as the hour of the Prince’s dance approached that they refused to eat a morsel all day, desiring only to spend their time preening and primping before their mirrors and ordering their exhausted step-relation to lace their waists tighter and tighter till they could scarcely draw a breath. Cinderella found herself being dispensed time and again to the cellar to fetch rags so that the wilted growths on her stepsisters’ chests might be granted an opportunity to project more conspicuously outward from the tops of their corsets. (Unbeknownst to Cinderella, the proud swellings atop her own chest had provided her stepsisters with yet another reason for their hatred of her.) Fortunately, there would be rags aplenty for the task, Cinderella having just that morning used them for cleaning the chamber pots.

  That evening, Cinderella watched her stepsisters’ elaborate departure with melancholy eyes. No sooner did their elegant coach disappear from view than she hurled herself among the cinders in the hearth and wept. Although she occupied an inferior position in the household, she was still a young woman with a young woman’s dreams and desires—dreams and desires that did not preclude meeting the handsome son of the King. As the torrent from her eyes formed salty puddles on the cold flagstones beneath her, she sensed another presence in the shadowy attic. Suddenly through the sheen of her tears she saw a wispy, winged figure hovering in the air. It lit up the room, radiating a quality like sunshine on a summer’s afternoon. “Do not weep, dear one,” came a voice as pleasant and musical as tiny bells. “I am your fairy godmother, and anything you wish for, it shall be my duty to fulfill.” As her visitor drew nearer, Cinderella noticed something curious that seemed to jar with the creature’s tinkling tones and diminutive dimensions—a something that took the form of a prickly black stubble on the face and a proliferation of curly black hair on the forearms. Having never before met a true-to-life fairy, she thought no more about it.

  In a mad rush of words, Cinderella began to tell of her heart’s desire, her plaintive pleas mingling with her hopeless sobs. Needless to say, the gist of her plight would be easily understood. “Of course you shall go to the Prince’s ball!” trilled the fairy. “But first you must fetch me a pumpkin from yonder garden.”

  Although puzzled by this demand, Cinderella did as she was told. While on her quest, she came to find herself momentarily distracted by a patch of parsnips. She had oftentimes observed her two stepsisters stealing out in the dark of night to collect the stout white root, which they took back to their rooms for use in a special ritual. Cinderella knew this, because she would steal up to their doors, only to hear a tremendous commotion coming from the other side consisting of a whining and whinnying that reminded her of her father’s favorite horse. The following morning when she went in to clean, she discovered a heap of wilted parsnips on the floor by their bedsides. Taking a cue from her older and wiser stepsisters, Cinderella thought she should collect some parsnips as well, so she uprooted several from the soil and placed them inside the frayed pocket of her apron, deciding not to mention this extra acquisition to her stubble-faced fairy godmother.

  With the biggest and orangest pumpkin Cinderella could locate cradled in one hairy arm, the little fairy scooped out its pulpy flesh until all that remained was the shell. Satisfied with her handiwork, she touched to it her tiny wand and lo! The pumpkin was no longer a pumpkin, but a fine golden coach. “Now fetch me that mousetrap,” she instructed, pointing to a corner where six gray mice squeaked and complained inside a wire cage. Another stroke of the magical wand, and three pairs of horses rose up in their place, each a lovely dappled gray. Cinderella pinched herself to bleeding, unable to believe her eyes. Nevertheless, she did not hesitate an instant when charged with the disagreeable task of checking the rat-trap for new arrivals. Three large and very black rats glowered indignantly up at her. The fairy considered them carefully, selecting the one with the most imposing set of whiskers. As her tiny wand glanced its spiny head, up sprang a coachman dressed in shiny black livery, his mustache as grand a specimen as could ever be seen and covering nearly half his face. The snug hide of his uniform rippled with the sheer bulk of him, and when he turned away to take his place alongside the golden coach, Cinderella flushed with embarrassment, for the seat of his pantaloons had been cut completely away, revealing twin globes of pale flesh. Never having seen such costuming on a servant, she looked to her fairy godmother for confirmation that this was, indeed, proper attire for a coachman, only to find the fluttery-winged sprite fixing the exposed flesh with a wicked eye. Alas, Cinderella’s discreet clearing of the throat resulted in the wearisome requisitioning of six squiggly green lizards, which instantly sprang to attention as an equal number of green-liveried footmen. “You may now go to the royal ball,” announced the fairy with a hint of irritation, the girl having returned with the lizards far more swiftly than expected. Even the coachman appeared put out as he plucked at the seat of his uniform, as if it required adjustment.

  Cinderella danced happily about, her mind filling with glamorous images of herself and the handsome Prince. Then, just as suddenly as she had started, she stopped, glancing down at herself in dismay. “How ever can I go to the royal ball in these old rags?” she lamented, indicating her soiled and tattered garments. Why, she could not even recall the last time she had been allowed to wash them. Her mean-spirited stepmother scolded her endlessly about wasting soap—unless, of course, it was intended for washing the lady’s garments or those of her two spoiled daughters. In response, the magical wand came down on Cind
erella’s head and the dirty rags covering her body dissolved into a magnificent gown woven from threads of silver and gold and encrusted with precious gemstones.

  All at once Cinderella felt herself in danger of toppling over, and she flailed her arms about in an effort to regain her balance. Upon discovering the reason for this sudden unsteadiness, she cried out in astonishment, for the chipped wooden clogs that swam about on her tiny feet had been replaced by a pair of delicate glass slippers. Indeed, the heel was as tall as the slipper was long, tapering down to a piercing spike. “Oh, Fairy Godmother, how ever shall I walk in these?”

  “Some people are never satisfied,” grumbled the fairy, her hairy forearms crisscrossing one another in annoyance.

  Feeling like a real-life princess, Cinderella wobbled regally up into the waiting coach, its golden door held open for her by the mustachioed and scantily seated coachman. “Remember, you must return by the stroke of midnight and not a moment later,” cautioned the fairy godmother with undue sternness, “or everything will be as before.” By now the little fairy had become all too accustomed to these flighty young things paying her no mind, and she sometimes wondered why she bothered any more, particularly when so many others in the profession had long since retired. Promising to be home at the appointed hour, Cinderella rode off to the royal ball, too delirious with joy to have taken any notice of the meaningful looks being exchanged between her fairy godmother and the muscular coachman.

  As it happened, Cinderella’s glass-encased feet had not even teetered across the threshold of the King’s palace before the Prince received word about the arrival of a beautiful Princess. Although no one claimed to know the identity of this Princess, her appearance garnered considerable attention from those in attendance, including the two sisters, whose envious eyes almost sprang from their sockets when they saw the eligible young Prince putting forth a velvet-clad arm to escort the unidentified Princess into the ballroom. They scratched their heads with apparent curiosity, although perhaps this scratching had been brought on by the tiny mouse placed beneath their headdresses by their lowly relation.