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ity. But Perrault's rendering of the tale naturalized it in the polite world, gave it for cultured circles an attraction which it is never likely to lose. The supernatural element plays in it but a subordinate part, for, even without the aid of a fairy godmother, the neglected heroine might have been enabled to go to a ball in disguise, and to win the heart of the hero by the beauty of her features and the smallness of her foot. It is with human more than with mythological interest that the story is replete, and therefore it appeals to human hearts with a force which no lapse of time can diminish. Such supernatural machinery as is introduced, moreover, has a charm for children which older versions of the tale do not possess. The pumpkin carriage, the rat coachman, the lizard lackeys, and all the other properties of the transformation scene, appeal at once to the imagination and the sense of humor of every beholder. In the more archaic forms of the narrative there is no intentional grotesqueness. It is probably because so many of the incidents in the life of "Cucendron" (as she was generally styled at home, "though the younger of her step-sisters, who was not so uncivil as the elder, called her 'Cendrillon '") were so natural, that some mythologists have attached such importance to the final trial by slipper. "The central interest in the popular story of Cinderella," says Professor de Gubernatis in his valuable work on "Zoological Mythology," is "the legend of the lost slipper, and of the prince who tries to find the foot predestined to wear it." But, if the tale be sought for in lands less cultured than the France which produced Perrault's "Cendrillon" and the Countess d'Aulnoy's "Finette Cendron," we shall see that "the legend of the lost slipper" is no longer of "central interest," being merely used to supply the means of ultimate recognition so valuable in ancient days not only to the story-teller but to the dramatist. Let us take, by way of example, a Servian version of the story: *

As a number of girls were spinning one day a-field, sitting in a ring around a cleft in the ground, there came to them an old man, who said: "Maidens, beware! for if one of you were to let her spindle fall into this cleft, her mother would be immediately turned into a cow." Thereupon the girls at once drew nearer to the cleft and inquisitively peeped into it. And the spindle of Mara, the fairest of their number, slipped out of her hand and fell into the cleft. When she reached home in the evening, there was her mother turned into a cow, standing in front of the house and mooing. Thenceforth Mara tended and fed that cow with filial affection. But her father married again, taking as his second wife a

* Vuk Karajich, No. 32.

widow with one plain daughter. And the new mistress of the house grievously ill-treated her step-daughter, forbidding her to wash her face, or brush her hair, or change her dress. And as she became grimy with ashes, pepel, Mara received the nickname of Pepelluga, that is, Cinderella, or Ashypet. Her step-mother also set her tasks which she could never have done, had not "the cow, which had once been her mother," helped her to perform them. When the stepmother found this out, she gave her husband no rest till he promised to put the cow to death. The girl wept bitterly when she heard the sad news, but the cow consoled her, telling her what she must do. She must not eat of its flesh, and she must carefully collect and bury its bones under a certain stone, and to this burial-place she must afterward come, should she find herself in need of help. The cow was killed and eaten, but Mara said she had no appetite and ate none of its flesh. And she buried its bones as she had been directed. Some days afterward, her stepmother went to church with her own daughter, leaving Mara at home to cook the dinner, and to pick up a quantity of corn which had been purposely strewed about the house, threatening to kill her if she had not performed both tasks by the time they came back from church. Mara was greatly troubled at the sight of the grain, and fled for help to the cow's grave. There she found an open coffer full of fine raiment, and on the lid sat two white doves, which said, “Mara, choose a dress and go in it to church, and we birds will gather up the grain." So she took the robes which came first, all of the finest silk, and went in them to church, where the beauty of her face and her dress won all hearts, especially that of the Emperor's son. Just before the service was over, she glided out of church, ran home, and placed her robes in the coffer, which immediately shut and disappeared. When her relatives returned, they found the grain collected, the dinner cooked, and Ashypet as grimy as usual. Next Sunday just the same happened; only Mara's robes were this time of silver. On the third Sunday she went to church in raiment of pure gold with slippers to match. And when she left, the Emperor's son left too, and hastened after her. But all he got for his pains was her right slipper, which she dropped in her haste. By means of it he at length found her out. In vain did her stepmother, when he walked in with the golden test in his hand, hide her under a trough, endeavor to force her own daughter's foot into the too small slipper, and, when this attempt failed, deny that there was any other girl in the house. For the cock crowed out, "Kikerike! the maiden is under the trough!" There the prince in truth found her, clothed from head to foot in golden attire,

but wanting her right slipper. After which all glass shoe was brought by the prince's messenwent well.

In a modern Greek variant of the story (Hahn, No. 2), there is a similar but a still stranger opening. According to it, an old woman and her three daughters sat spinning one day. And they made an agreement that, if one of them broke her thread or dropped her spindle, she should be killed and eaten by the others. The mother's spindle was the first to fall, and her two elder daughters killed, cooked, and ate her. But their younger sister did all she could to save her mother's life, and, when her attempts proved fruitless, utterly refused to have anything to do with eating her. And, after the unfilial repast was over, she collected her mother's bones, and buried them in the ash-hole. After forty days had passed, she wished to dig them up and bury them elsewhere. But, when she opened the hole in which she had deposited them, there streamed forth from it a blaze of light which almost blinded her. And then she found that no bones were there, but three costly suits of raiment. On one gleamed "the sky with its stars," on another "the spring with its flowers," on the third "the sea with its waves." By means of these resplendent robes she created a great sensation in church on three successive Sundays, and won the heart of the usual prince, who was enabled to recognize her by means of the customary slipper. The German variant of the story given by Grimm (No. 21) represents the grimy Aschenputtel-a form of Cinderella's name very like the Scotch Ashypet -as being assisted to bear up against the unkindness of her step-sisters by a white bird, which haunted the tree she had planted above her mother's grave. From this bird she received all that she asked for, including the dazzling robe and golden shoes in which she, for the third time, won the prince's heart at a ball in the palace. One of these shoes stuck in the pitch with which the prince had ordered the staircase to be smeared in the hope of thereby capturing her when she filed from the ball; and by it he after a time recognized her. The story is of an unusually savage tone. For not only does one of the step-sisters cut off her toes, and the other her heel, in order to fit their feet to the golden slipper-acting in accordance with the suggestion of their mother, who says, "When you are a queen you need not go afoot"-but they ultimately have their eyes pecked out by the two doves which have previously called attention to the fact that blood is streaming from their mutilated feet. The surgical adaptation of the false foot to the slipper, and its exposure by a bird, occur in so many variants that they probably formed an important part of the original tale. Thus, in a Lowland Scotch variant of the story quoted by Chambers, when the

ger to the house wherein lived two sisters, "the auld sister that was sae proud gaed awa' by hersel', and came back in a while hirpling wi' the shoe on." But, when she rode away in triumph as the prince's bride, "a wee bird sung out o' a bush:

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'Nippit fit and clippit fit ahint the king rides; But pretty fit and little fit ahint the caldron hides.

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The blinding of the pretenders, however, is a rare incident. But in one of the Russian stories (Afanasief, vi., 30) the step-sisters of Chornushka-so called from her being always dirty and chorna, or black-lose their eyes exactly as in the German tale.

The industry of many collectors has supplied scores of variants of this most popular narrative. But those which have been mentioned will be sufficient to throw a considerable light upon one of its most significant features. Its earlier scenes appear to have been inspired by the idea that a loving mother may be able, even after her death, to bless and assist a dutiful child. In the Servian and the Greek variants, this belief is brought prominently forward, though in a somewhat grotesque form. In the German it is indicated, but less clearly. In one of the Sicilian variants (Pitré, No. 41), the step-daughter is assisted by a cow, as in the Servian story. Out of the hole in which its bones are buried come "twelve damsels" who array her "all in gold" and take her to the royal palace. Here the link between the girl and her dead mother has been lost, and the supernatural machinery is worked by fairy hands. In another (No. 43) the heroine receives everything she asks for, exactly as in the German story, from a magic date-tree. But nothing is said about its being planted above her mother's grave, and its mysterious powers are accounted for only by the fact that out of it issue “a great number of fati" or fairies. In the romantic story of “La Gatta Cennerentola," told by Basile in his "Pentamerone" (published at Naples about the year 1637), she is similarly assisted by a fairy who issues from a date-tree. This suggests the fairy godmother of Perrault's tale, from which our version appears to have been borrowed. For among us Cinderella's slipper is almost always of glass, a material never mentioned except in the French form of the story and its imitations. On this part of Cinderella's costume it may be as well to dwell for a time, before passing on to the further consideration of her fortunes. As yet we have dealt only with what may be called the "dead-mother " or " step-mother" opening of the tale. We shall have to consider presently a kindred form of the narrative, the opening of which may be named after the "hateful mar

riage" from which the heroine flies, her adventures after her flight being similar to those of the ill-used step-daughter. That is to say, she is reduced to a state of degradation and squalor, and is forced to occupy a servile position, frequently connected in some way with the hearth and its ashes. From this, however, she emerges on certain festive occasions as a temporarily brilliant being, always returning to her obscure position, until at last she is recognized; after which she remains permanently brilliant, her apparently destined period of eclipse having been brought to a close by her recognition, which is accomplished by the aid of her lost shoe or slipper.

As to the material of the slipper there has been much dispute. In the greater part of what are apparently the older forms of the story, it is made of gold. This may perhaps be merely a figure of speech, but there are instances on record of shoes, or at least sandals, being made of precious metals. Even in our own times, as well as in the days of the Cæsars, a horse is said to have been shod with gold. And an Arab geographer, quoted by Mr. Lane, vouches for the fact that the islands of Wák-Wák are ruled by a queen who "has shoes of gold." Moreover, "no one walks in all these islands with any other kind of shoe; if he wear any other kind, his feet are cut." It is true that his authority is a little weakened by his subsequent statement that these isles have trees which bear "fruits like women." These strange beings have beautiful faces, and are suspended by their hair. “They come forth from integuments like large leathern bags. And when they feel the air and the sun, they cry Wák! Wák!' until their hair is cut; and when it is cut they die." Glass is an all but unknown material for shoemaking in the genuine folk-tales of any country except France. The heroine of one of Mr. J. F. Campbell's Gaelic tales* wore "glass shoes," but this exception to the rule may be due to a French influence, transmitted through an English or Lowland Scotch channel. Even in France itself the slipper is not always of glass. Madame d'Aulnoy's Finette Cendron, for instance, wore one "of red velvet embroidered with pearls." The use of the word verre by Perrault has been accounted for in two ways. Some critics think that the material in question was a tissu en verre, fashionable in Perrault's time. But the more generally received idea is that the substance was originally a kind of fur called vair—a word now obsolete in France, except in heraldry, but locally preserved in England as the name of the weasel t-and that some reciter or transcriber to whom the meaning of vair

"West Highland Tales," i., 235. +"Spectator," January 4, 1879.

was unknown, substituted the more familiar but less probable verre, thereby dooming Cinderella to wear a glass slipper long before the discovery was made that glass may be rendered tough. In favor of the correctness of this supposition we have the great authority of M. Littré, whose dictionary affirms positively that in the description of Cinderella's slipper, verre is a mistake for vair. In this decision some scholars, especially those who detect in every feature of a fairy tale a "solar myth," refuse to acquiesce. Thus M. André Lefèvre, the accomplished editor of a recent edition of Perrault's "Contes," absolutely refuses to give up the verre which "convient parfaitement à un mythe lumineux.” * But the fact that Cinderella is not shod with glass in the vast majority of the lands she inhabits outweighs any amount of mythological probabilities. Besides, a golden shoe is admirably adapted to a luminous myth. It was a golden sandal which Rhodopis lost while bathing, and which—according to the evidently Oriental tale preserved for us by Strabo and Ælian-was borne by an eagle to the Egyptian King, who immediately resolved to make that sandal's owner his royal spouse. In the venerable Egyptian tale of "The Two Brothers," another monarch is equally affected by the sight of a lock of the heroine's golden hair, that is borne to him by the river into which it had fallen, and he makes a similar resolve. In a Lesghian story from the Caucasus,† a supernatural female being drops a golden shoe, and the hero is sent in search of its fellow, becoming thereby exposed to many dangers. We may fairly be allowed, without any slur being cast upon mythological interpretation, to give up the glassiness of Cinderella's slipper. If the substitution of verre for vair be admitted, it supplies us with one of the few verbal tests which exist whereby to track a story's wanderings. For in that case we may always trace home to France, or at least detect a French element in, any form of the Cinderella story in which the heroine wears a glass slipper. A somewhat similar mistake to that which vitrified Cinderella's slipper caused a celebrated picture by Rubens to be long known by an inappropriate title. Many a visitor to the National Gallery must have wondered why a portrait of a lady in a hat manifestly made, not of straw, but of beaver or a kind of felt, should be designated the chapeau de paille, before it was pointed out by Mr. Wornum, in the catalogue, that paille was probably a mistake for poil, a word meaning among other things wool and the nap of a hat,

* An amusing article on this question appeared in the "Daily Telegraph," December 27, 1878, in reply to the support given by "X" in the "Times" to the cause of vair.

+ Schiefner's "Awarische Texte," p. 68.

and akin to the Latin pileus, a felt cap or hat, and indeed to the word felt itself.

As regards the identification of the heroine by means of the lost slipper, that seems to be, as has already been remarked, merely one of the methods of recognition by which the stories of brilliant beings, temporarily obscured, are commonly brought to a close. In ancient comedy a recognition was one of the most hackneyed contrivances for winding up the plot, a convenient dramatic makeshift akin to that which proves the brotherhood of the heroes of "Box and Cox." Thus in the numerous tales which tell how a hero who is really brilliant and majestic, but apparently squalid or insignificant, saves a fair princess from a many-headed dragon, but is robbed of his reward and reputation by an impostor, he usually proves his identity with her rescuer by producing, in the final scene, the tongues of the dead monster. Thus also the troubles of the golden-haired hero who, like Cinderella, emerges at times from his obscurity and performs wonders, come to a close when he is recognized by some token, such as the king's handkerchief in the Norse tale of "The Widow's Son." All this finale business appears to be of very inferior importance to the opening of the drama, that which refers to the dead mother's guardianship of her distressed child. The idea that such a protection might be exercised is of great antiquity and of wide circulation. According to it, the dying parent's benediction was not merely a prayer left to be fulfilled by a higher power, but was an actual force, either working of its own accord, or exerted by the parent's spirit after death. In the Russian story of Vasilissa the Fair, a dying mother bequeaths to her little daughter her parental blessing and a doll, and tells her to feed it well, and it will help her whenever she is in trouble. And therefore it was that Vasilissa would never eat all her share of a meal, but always kept the most delicate morsel for her doll; and at night, when all were at rest, she would shut herself up in the narrow chamber in which she slept, and feast her doll, saying the while: "There, dolly, feed: help me in my need!" And the doll would eat until "its eyes began to glow just like a couple of candles," and then do everything that Vasilissa wanted. In another Russian tale, known also to Teutonic lands, a dead mother comes every night to visit her pining babe. The little creature cries all day, but during the dark it is quiet. Anxious to know the reason of this, the relatives conceal a light in a pitcher, and suddenly produce it in the middle of the night.

They looked and saw the dead mother, in the very same clothes in which she had been buried, on

her knees beside the cradle, over which she bent as she suckled the babe at her dead breast. The moment the light shone in the cottage she stood up, gazed sadly on her little one, and then went out of the room without a sound, not saying a word to any

one.

struck.

All those who saw her stood for a time terror-
And then they found the babe was dead.

In the Indian story of "Punchkin,”* the seven ill-used little princesses "used to go out every day and sit by their dead mother's tomb," and cry, saying: "O mother, mother, can not you see your poor children, how unhappy we are, and how we are starved by our cruel step-mother?" And while they were thus crying one day, a tree, covered with ripe fruit, "grew up out of the grave," and provided them with food. And when the tree was cut down, a tank near the grave became filled with "a rich, cream-like substance, which quickly hardened into a thick, white cake," of which the hungry princesses partook freely. A similar appeal to a dead mother is made by a daughter in a Russian story (Afanasief, vi., 28). When in great distress, "she went out to the cemetery, to her mother's grave, and began to weep bitterly." And her mother spoke to her from the grave, and told her what to do in order to escape from her troubles.

The last of these tales belongs to the previously mentioned second division of Cinderella stories, that which comprises the majority of the tales in which an ill-used maiden temporarily occupies a degraded position, appears resplendent on certain brief occasions, but always returns to her state of degradation, until at length she is recognized, frequently by the help of her lost slipper. But, instead of her troubles being caused by a step-mother or step-sisters, they are brought upon her, in the stories now referred to, by some member of her own family who wishes to drive her into a hated marriage. From it she seeks refuge in flight, donning a disguise which is almost invariably the hide of some animal. In some countries the "step-mother" form of Cinderella appears to be rare, whereas the “hatefulmarriage" form is common. In Pitré's collection of Sicilian tales, for instance, for one Cinderella tale of the step-mother class, there are four which begin with the heroine's escape from an unlawful marriage. In the Gonzenbach collection there is but one good variant of the Cinderella tale, and it belongs to the second class. The specimen of this second group, with which English readers are likely to be best acquainted, is the German

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presented, with other tales, to the younger members of the family of the Vicar of Wakefield. Perrault's "Peau d'Ane" is a version of the same story, but as it is told in verse it has never achieved anything at all approaching the success gained by its prose companions. Besides, the theme is not adapted for nurseries. It forms the subject of the Lowland Scotch tale of "RashieCoat," in which we are told that the heroine fled because "her father wanted her to be married, but she didna like the man." But the Gaelic story of "The King who wished to marry his Daughter" (Campbell, No. 14) states the case more precisely. The heroine almost always demands from her unwelcome suitor three magnificent dresses, and with these she takes to flight, usually disguising herself by means of a hide or other species of rough covering. In these dresses she goes to the usual ball or other festival, and captivates the conventional prince. The close of the story is generally the same as that which terminates the ordinary Cinderella tales which we have already considered. Its special points of interest are the reasons given for her flight from home, and the disguise in which she effects her escape.

Cinderella's troubles are brought to an end by the discovery that a slipper fits her foot; those of Allerleirauh, Catskin, Rashie-Coat, and the rest of her widely-scattered but always kindred companions in adventure, are generally brought about by the discovery that a certain ring or dress fits her finger or form. Cinderella's promotion is due to her dead mother's watchful care. RashieCoat's degradation is consequent upon her dying mother's unfortunate imprudence. Thus, in the Sicilian tale of "Betta Pilusa,"* the hateful marriage from which the heroine flies, wrapped up in a gray cloak made of catskin, would never have been suggested to her had not her mother obtained a promise from her husband on her death-bed that he would marry again whenever any maiden was found whom her ring would fit. Some years later her own daughter finds the ring and tries it on. It fits exactly, so she is condemned to the marriage in question. By the advice of her confessor, she asks for three dresses, so wonderful that no mortal man can supply them. But her suitor is assisted by the devil, who enables him to produce the desired robes, the first sky-colored, representing the sun, the moon, and the stars; the second sea-colored, depicting "all the plants and animals of the sea"; and the third "a raiment of the color of the earth, whereon all the beasts and the flowers of the field were to be seen." Hidden in her catskin cloak,

also procured from the same source, she leaves home, carrying her wonderful dresses with her in a bundle, and thus escapes from her abhorred suitor. To prevent him from noticing her absence, she leaves two doves in her room together with a basin of water. As he listens at the door he hears a splashing which is really due to the birds, but which he supposes is caused by her ablutions. Great is his rage when he at length breaks open the door, and finds that he has been tricked. We learn from another variant that he was induced to knock his head against the wall until he died, and so the dressmaking devil got his due. In one of the Russian forms of the same tale, the fugitive maiden has recourse to a still more singular means of concealing her absence. The story is valuable because it supplies a reason for the introduction of the fatal ring. That is said to be due to the malice of a malignant witch, who, out of mere spite, induced a dying mother to give the ring to her son, and to charge him to marry that damsel whose finger it would fit. The ring is evidently of a supernatural nature, for, when the heroine tries it on, not only does it cling to her finger "just as if it had been made on purpose for it," but it begins to shine with a new brilliance. When Katerina hears to what a marriage it destines her, she "melts into bitter tears" and sits down in despair on the threshold of the house. Up come some old women bent on a holy pilgrimage, and to them she confides the story of her woes. Acting on their advice, when the fatal marriage-day arrives, she takes four kukolki, dolls or puppets of some kind, and places one in each of the corners of her room. When her suitor repeatedly calls upon her to come forth, she replies that she is coming directly, but each time she speaks the dolls begin to cry "Kuku," and as they cry the floor opens gently and she sinks slowly in. At last only her head remains visible. "Kuku" cry the dolls again: she disappears from sight, and the floor closes above her. Irritated at the delay, her suitor breaks open the door. He looks round on every side. No Katerina is there, only in each corner sits a doll, all four singing "Kuku! open earth, disappear sister!" He snatches up an axe, chops off their heads, and flings them into the fire. In a Little-Russian variant of the same story, the despairing maiden flies for solace to her mother's grave. And her dead mother "comes out from her grave," and tells her daughter what to do. The girl accordingly provides herself with the usual splendid robes, and with the likewise necessary pig's hide or fell. Then she takes three puppets and arranges them around her on the ground. The puppets exclaim, one after

* Gonzenbach, No. 38. Pilusa is the Sicilian form another, "Open, moist earth, that the maiden fair of pilosa, hairy.

may enter within thee." And when the third

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