Aschenputtel | A Marionnette Show

[Narrator] Aschenputtel.

[gentle music]

Ashes to ashes.

The doctor has closed his little black bag.

The priest has folded his pale white hands.

A fire goes out in the house,

but embers glow in the aftermath

in the home of the heart.

[crickets chirping]

And ash from the hearth will feed the soil,

and a tree as it grows will comfort the soul

with its arms and limbs,

with its coats and capes and cloaks of leaves.

[fist knocking]

But who is that?

And who is this pushing in through the door

with indecent haste?

All hats stand straight,

all whale bones stiff,

all starched and stuffy and proper and prim,

buttoned up, straight laced.

It looks like fun has galloped away.

It feels as if love was yesterday.

[upbeat music]

Don't hoof about, bring the washing in,

take the rubbish out.

Peel, chop, polish, and scrub,

graft, toil, skivvy, and slog.

More elbow grease.

Less dreaming and grieving under that tree.

Swab, sweep, fettle, and dust.

Chop the kindling, girl, and open the post.

Wait. How inviting is this?

How exciting is this?

Now stitch and sew,

make a show-stopping, jaw-dropping,

eye-popping dress for the little princess.

Now snip and pin and don and pleat

till your fingers bleed.

Then go to the garden and weep, and wish,

and fall asleep.

Then wake in a miracle gown of flickering, glimmering,

shimmering leaves.

[bird chirping]

[bright music]

What a jig, what a whirl, what a blast, what, oh!

The fine young gent

and the girl in his arms spinning round and round.

But the arms of the clock go round as well.

Better get along home.

Giddy up, giddy up.

Ashes girl sleeps in the inglenook.

Then back to the dance and the bright lights.

What a trip, what a treat, what a buzz, what a waltz.

Her hands in his.

But the hands of the clock go round as well.

And the face of the clock says, Time to scoot.

Hide in the skirts of the leafy tree.

One rare bird on a bow that in truth is a foot,

one shoe on the ground like fallen fruit.

[wind chimes jingling]

Lovestruck, smitten, head over heels.

The golden slipper must fit like a mitten?

The shoe of love must fit like a glove.

Surely only a well-born lady of breeding

and class could carry this off.

And yes, ta-da, it's the perfect size.

Give or take a tootsie or two.

Once the carving knife has hacked and sliced.

When gold meets blood, no good will come.

Then picture this, the matchstick girl,

who was barely more than cinders and rags

and little more than a chimney sweep

and the gent who swept her straight off her feet,

now applauded by leaves,

now held and framed in the shelter and shade

of the family tree.

[bright music]

[bird chirping]

[curtain clicking]