GODMOTHER. You shall have your ball.
CINDERELLA. I would like to nurse the wounded.
GODMOTHER. You shall nurse the wounded.
CINDERELLA. I would like to be loved by the man of my choice, Godmother.
GODMOTHER. You shall be loved by the man of your choice.
CINDERELLA. Thank you kindly. The ball first, if you please, and could you squeeze in the children so that they may see me in my glory.
GODMOTHER. Now let this be my downtrodden godchild’s ball, not as balls are, but as they are conceived to be in a little chamber in Cinderella’s head.
(She fades from sight. In the awful stillness we can now hear the tiny clatter of horses infinitely small and infinitely far off. It is the equipage of CINDERELLA. Then an unearthly trumpet sounds thrice, and the darkness is blown away.
It is the night of the most celebrated ball in history, and we see it through our heroine’s eyes. She has, as it were, made everything with her own hands, from the cloths of gold to the ices.