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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
In "A Kiss for Cinderella," J. M. Barrie weaves a fantastical tale that marries elements of fairy tale narrative with poignant social commentary, crafting a delicate yet powerful exploration of love, sacrifice, and the transformative power of belief. Set against the backdrop of London during the bleakness of wartime, the story follows a nameless young woman, often seen as a modern Cinderella, whose dreams of happiness merge with the harsh realities of her existence. Barrie'Äôs lyrical prose and whimsical dialogues create a rich tapestry of emotional depth and humor, reminiscent of Absurdist literature, while maintaining a fairy-tale charm that resonates with readers yearning for hope amidst despair. J. M. Barrie, known primarily for his enduring creation of Peter Pan, draws upon his keen observations of society, particularly the struggles of women and the working class during his era. A personal sense of loss and longing might have influenced Barrie'Äôs portrayal of his characters, as he grapples with the themes of yearning and refuge in the imagination. His ability to navigate between the worlds of childhood wonder and adult disillusionment reveals his profound understanding of human nature and the complexities of societal norms. Readers seeking a heartwarming yet thought-provoking narrative will find solace in "A Kiss for Cinderella." This enchanting story invites reflection on the nature of kindness and compassion, urging us to reconsider our definitions of happiness. Perfect for those who appreciate literary depth mixed with fairy tale elements, Barrie'Äôs work resonates with all ages, transcending the boundaries of time and circumstance.
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A kiss for Cinderella
Table of Contents
I
The least distinguished person in ‘Who’s Who’ has escaped, as it were, from that fashionable crush, and is spending a quiet evening at home. He is curled up in his studio, which is so dark that he would be invisible, had we not obligingly placed his wicker chair just where the one dim ray from the stove may strike his face. His eyes are closed luxuriously, and we could not learn much about him without first poking our fingers into them. According to the tome mentioned (to which we must return him before morning), Mr. Bodie is sixty-three, has exhibited in the Royal Academy, and is at present unmarried. They do not proclaim him comparatively obscure: they left it indeed to him to say the final word on this subject, and he has hedged. Let us put it in this way, that he occupies more space in his wicker chair than in the book, where nevertheless he looks as if it was rather lonely not to be a genius. He is a painter for the nicest of reasons, that it is delightful to live and die in a messy studio; for our part, we too should have become a painter had it not been that we always lost our paint-box. There is no spirited bidding to acquire Mr. Bodie’s canvases: he loves them at first sight himself, and has often got up in the night to see how they are faring; but ultimately he has turned cold to them, and has even been known to offer them, in lieu of alms, to beggars, who departed cursing. We have a weakness for persons who don’t get on, and so cannot help adding, though it is no business of ours, that Mr. Bodie had private means. Curled up in his wicker chair he is rather like an elderly cupid. We wish we could warn him that the policeman is coming.
The policeman comes: in his hand the weapon that has knocked down more malefactors than all the batons—the bull’s-eye. He strikes with it now, right and left, revealing, as if she had just entered the room, a replica of the Venus of Milo, taller than himself though he is stalwart. It is the first meeting of these two, but, though a man who can come to the boil, he is as little moved by her as she by him. After the first glance she continues her reflections. Her smile over his head vaguely displeases him. For two pins he would arrest her.
The lantern finds another object, more worthy of his attention, the artist. Mr. Bodie is more restive under the light than was his goddess, perhaps because he is less accustomed to being stared at. He blinks and sits up.
MR. BODIE (giving his visitor a lesson in manners). I beg your pardon, officer.
POLICEMAN (confounded). Not that, sir; not at all.
MR. BODIE (pressing his advantage). But I insist on begging your pardon, officer.
POLICEMAN. I don’t see what for, sir.
MR. BODIE (fancying himself). For walking uninvited into the abode of a law-abiding London citizen, with whom I have not the pleasure of being acquainted.
POLICEMAN (after thinking this out). But I’m the one as has done that, sir.
MR. BODIE (with neat surprise). So you are, I beg your pardon, officer.
(With pardonable pride in himselfMR. BODIEturns on the light. The studio, as we can now gather from its sloped roof, is at the top of a house; and its window is heavily screened, otherwise we might see the searchlights through it, showing that we are in the period of the great war. Though no one speaks ofMR. BODIE’Spictures as Bodies, which is the true test of fame, he is sufficiently eminent not to have works of art painted or scratched on his walls, mercy has been shown even to the panels of his door, and he is handsomely stingy of draperies. The Venus stands so prominent that the studio is evidently hers rather than his. The stove has been brought forward so that he can rest his feet on it, which ever of his easy chairs he is sitting in, and he also falls over it at times when stepping back to consider his latest failure. On a shelf is a large stuffed penguin, which is to be one of the characters in the play, and on each side of this shelf are two or three tattered magazines. We had hankered after givingMR. BODIEmany rows of books, but were well aware that he would get only blocks of wood so cleverly painted to look like books that they would deceive everyone except the audience. Everything may be real on the stage except the books. So there are only a few magazines in the studio (and very likely when the curtain rings up it will be found that they are painted too). ButMR. BODIEwas a reader; he had books in another room, and the careworn actor must suggest this by his manner.
OurPOLICEMANis no bookman; we who write happen to have it from himself that he had not bought a book since he squeezed through the sixth standard: very tight was his waist that day, he told us, and he had to let out every button. Nevertheless it was literature of a sort that first brought him into our ken. He was our local constable: and common interests, as in the vagaries of the moon, gradually made him and us cease to look at each other askance. We fell into the way of chatting with him and giving him the evening papers we had bought to read as we crossed the streets. One of his duties was to herd the vagrant populace under our arches during air-raids, and at such times he could be properly gruff, yet comforting, like one who would at once run in any bomb that fell in his beat. When he had all his flock nicely plastered against the dank walls he would occasionally come to rest beside us, and thaw, and discuss the newspaper article that had interested him most. It was seldom a war-record; more frequently it was something on the magazine page, such as a symposium by the learned on ‘Do you Believe in Love at First Sight?’ Though reticent in many matters he would face this problem openly; with the guns cracking all around, he would ask for our views wistfully; he spoke of love without a blush, as something recognised officially at Scotland Yard. At this time he had been in love, to his own knowledge, for several weeks, but whether the god had struck him at first sight he was not certain; he was most anxious to know, and it was in the hope of our being able to help him out that he told us his singular story. On his face at such times was often an amazed look, as if he were staring at her rather than at us, and seeing a creature almost beyond belief. Our greatest success was in saying that perhaps she had fallen in love at first sight with him, which on reflection nearly doubled him up. He insisted on knowing what had made us put forward this extraordinary suggestion; he would indeed scarcely leave our company that night, and discussed the possibility with us very much as if it were a police case.
Our policeman’s romance, now to be told, began, as we begin, with his climbing up intoMR. BODIE’Sstudio. MR. BODIEhaving turned on the light gave him the nasty look that means ‘And now, my man, what can I do for you?’ OurPOLICEMAN, however, was not one to be worsted without striking a blow. He strode to the door, as he has told us, and pointed to a light in the passage.)
POLICEMAN (in his most brow-beating voice, so well known under the arches). Look here, sir, it’s that.
MR. BODIE. I don’t follow.
POLICEMAN. Look at that passage window. (With natural pride in language.) You are showing too much illumination.
BODIE. Oh! well, surely—
POLICEMAN (with professional firmness). It’s agin the regulations. A party in the neighbouring skylight complains.
BODIE (putting out the light). If that will do for to-night, I’ll have the window boarded up.
POLICEMAN. Anything so long as it obscures the illumination.
BODIE (irritated). Shuts out the light.
POLICEMAN (determinedly). Obscures the illumination.
BODIE (on reflection). I remember now, I did have that window boarded up.
POLICEMAN (who has himself a pretty vein of sarcasm). I don’t see the boards.
BODIE. Nor do I see the boards. (Pondering.) Can she have boned them?
POLICEMAN. She? (He is at once aware that it has become a more difficult case.)
BODIE. You are right. She is scrupulously honest, and if she took the boards we may be sure that I said she could have them. But that only adds to the mystery.
POLICEMAN (obligingly). Mystery?
BODIE. Why this passion for collecting boards? Try her with a large board, officer. Extraordinary!
POLICEMAN (heavily). I don’t know what you are talking about, sir. Are you complaining of some woman?
BODIE. Now that is the question. Am I? As you are here, officer, there is something I want to say to you. But I should dislike getting her into trouble.
POLICEMAN (stoutly). No man what is a man wants to get a woman into trouble unnecessary.
BODIE (much struck). That’s true! That’s absolutely true, officer.
POLICEMAN (badgered). It’s true, but there’s nothing remarkable about it.
BODIE. Excuse me.
POLICEMAN. See here, sir, I’m just an ordinary policeman.
BODIE. I can’t let that pass. If I may say so, you have impressed me most deeply. I wonder if I might ask a favour of you. Would you mind taking off your helmet? As it happens, I have never seen a policeman without his helmet.
(The perplexed officer puts his helmet on the table.)
Thank you. (Studying the effect.) Of course I knew they took off. You sit also?
(The policeman sits.)
Very interesting.
POLICEMAN. About this woman, sir—
BODIE. We are coming to her. Perhaps I ought to tell you my name—Mr. Bodie. (Indicating the Venus.) This is Mrs. Bodie. No, I am not married. It is merely a name given her because she is my ideal.
POLICEMAN. You gave me a turn.
BODIE. Now that I think of it, I believe the name was given to her by the very woman we are talking about.
POLICEMAN (producing his note book). To begin with, who is the woman we are talking about?
BODIE (becoming more serious). On the surface, she is just a little drudge. These studios are looked after by a housekeeper, who employs this girl to do the work.
POLICEMAN. H’m! Sleeps on the premises?
BODIE. No; she is here from eight to six.
POLICEMAN. Place of abode?
BODIE. She won’t tell anyone that.
POLICEMAN. Aha! What’s the party’s name?
BODIE. Cinderella.
(ThePOLICEMANwrites it down unmoved. MR. BODIEtwinkles.)
Haven’t you heard that name before?
POLICEMAN. Can’t say I have, sir. But I’ll make inquiries at the Yard.
BODIE. It was really I who gave her that name, because she seemed such a poor little neglected waif. After the girl in the story-book, you know.
POLICEMAN. No, sir, I don’t know. In the Force we find it impossible to keep up with current fiction.
BODIE. She was a girl with a broom. There must have been more in the story than that, but I forget the rest.
POLICEMAN. The point is, that’s not the name she calls herself by.
BODIE. Yes, indeed it is. I think she was called something else when she came, Miss Thing, or some such name; but she took to the name of Cinderella with avidity, and now she absolutely denies that she ever had any other.
POLICEMAN. Parentage?
BODIE (now interested in his tale). That’s another odd thing. I seem to remember vaguely her telling me that her parents when alive were very humble persons indeed. Touch of Scotch about her, I should say—perhaps from some distant ancestor; but Scotch words and phrases still stick to the Cockney child like bits of egg-shell to a chicken.
POLICEMAN (writing). Egg-shell to chicken.
