Forget for a moment the broad moral
of this morality tale: that hard work,
a cheerful heart, and piety will work
their mysterious ways and overcome
squalor, wretchedness, nastiness, evil.
For although that may be the moral we
are meant to take, as children, to guide us
through our own trials and tribulations,
the tale holds a different lesson for
lovers, painters, poets, and fools — the tale
bespeaks the magic of attraction, the
wonderment of possibility,
the acceptance of a love meant to be.

First, perceive her as the dancers do: this
beautiful elegant latecomer to
the ball given in the prince's honor.
And never for a moment does she sit —
she is asked by man after man to dance.
First by lesser noblemen, then by the
sons of counts and dukes, and then by the prince
himself. And no one recognizes her.
A rash mixture of envy and rumour
dances among the ball — and yet no one
rightly begrudges her, for her joy
is infectious, her smile is winning,
and her eyes are pure. Who could deny that?

To some it would seem that she stepped out of
a different world. She did not wear
silk or cashmere or velvet. She wore no
gold — which made her the more exceptional.
Her dress was black and brown and grey — fabric
so intricate and textured, no one had
seen the like before. Her hair she wore in
tresses. Around her neck she wore a string
of lace attached to a steel fishing hook
which itself bore a single creamy pearl.
Her feet, as has often been noted, were
clad, simply and elegantly, in glass.
She was the most beautiful at the ball.

The prince was attracted to her, and as
they danced together his attraction grew.
Her beauty whispered not naivete
but purity. She was as she appeared,
free of malice, of social pretension,
free and full of joy and grace. He began to
believe in his heart that his prayers to
find a wife who could do more than warm his
bed or sit by his side or produce a
child, he began to believe his prayers
had been answered, he wanted to believe
as they danced and danced, as he looked into
her eyes — he wanted her to be his wife.

And what did she see, what did she perceive
as she danced gaily with the prince that night?
At first she was flattered, and then surprised,
for the prince would not leave her to dance
with any other. She sensed him looking at
her, seeing her, watching her carefully,
looking into her eyes. They talked as they
danced, of the beauty of nature, hiking
the mountainsides and seeing everything
seem so small and fragile and connected —
it is a beautiful world so long as
beauty can survive — and she saw in him
a nobility of heart and mind.

When the clock began to strike twelve, she stopped
with a shock. "Forgive me," she said to him,
"but I promised my godmother I'd be
home by now." She ran through the ball, with the
prince running after her, through the terrace
outside, down the stairs to her awaiting
carriage. He did not expect her to run
so fast — she was down the stairs by the time
he had reached them. He called out, "What is your
name?" She turned and said, "Cinder. . .", but her dress
began to come apart and her threadbare
slip began to show. She jumped into the carriage
which hurried away in a cloud of moths.

He stood there transfixed, utterly surprised,
as the brown, black, and grey moths fluttered in
the air. After a moment, he noticed
a glass slipper lying on the stairs. He
picked it up, then sat down, his eyes full of
tears — she had seemed like a dream, so perfect,
and now, he thought, she was a dream, one which
might never again be real. He thought
it cruel because he did not even know
her name. Later, talking with his uncle
of his flustered heart and the events which
had transpired, a plan was struck — "Come now,"
said his uncle, "let's see the slipper fit."

Much has been made of Cinderella's step-
mother and step-sisters, how they made her
into their serving wench, treated her with
cruelty, made her sleep in a bare garret,
left her with clothes which were threadbare and worn.
Yet, this destitution did not break her.
This cruelty did not kill her cheerfulness.
She remained dutiful, pious, and loving.
Perhaps it was because she had faith, faith
in love and in herself that she was so
rewarded — a chance to dance at the ball,
to dance beneath the chandeliers, to laugh,
to be in society and to play.

It had been magic from a godmother
she had never met before. Her carriage
was a pumpkin, with a rat for coachman,
mice for horses, lizards for her footmen,
and moths to make her dress. Her godmother
had given her the glass slippers, and her
necklace — the single pearl — was the only
heirloom of her mother's that she owned — it
had rolled, from a broken necklace of pearls,
behind a bureau. To her, nothing seemed
remarkable until the prince arrived
asking her sisters to try her slipper. . .
the one she had stumbled out of, that night.

And since neither of her sisters could fit
into the slipper, the chamberlain asked
if there were any other young women
in the house. "There's only Cinderella,
the serving wench," said the step-mother. The
name struck a chord with the prince who asked that she
be brought forward. And when he saw her he
felt ashamed — because he saw with joy
that she was she — but that now this beauty
was wearing worn-out clothes and showed a bruise.
"Try on the slipper," said the chamberlain,
and not only did it fit, she produced
the other slipper and wore it as well.

And so the childish moral is that a
good heart, piety, and cheerfulness will
overcome all obstacles in our quest
to find love and to be loved. But in truth
the tale is more complicated. That she
remains true to herself without any
bitterness, that she does not succumb to
sorrow — this makes it easier for the
prince to love her, to see in her her true
nature. But the true moral of the tale
is that sometimes in order to find love
we must accept magic: the happenstance
of fate, the ball, the moths, the glass slippers. . .