The Reluctant Princess—a short story by E

There once lived a prince who found that he had a hole in his best boots. So off he went to the cobbler.
Now the cobbler had no wife to help him, for he was a widower. So whenever he wanted something, it was his daughter he called. What with needing string and paper and chalk for measuring and drawing, and boots for the prince to see, and samples of leather for him to choose from, and iced tea to refresh him, the cobbler’s daughter was in and out and in again. Though she was no more beautiful than most cobblers’ daughters, she was soft-spoken and charming, and had nice eyes, and the prince, as princes often do, fell in love.
Being a prince who did not fool around, he got directly to the point. He asked the cobbler’s daughter to marry him. She was horrified. Not that he was not both handsome and kind. But after all, he was a prince and she was a commoner. No, it would never do.
But the prince was persistent. He decided he needed more boots. And every time he went to the cobbler’s shop, he wooed the cobbler’s daughter. Two hundred forty-three pairs of boots later, she said, “Yes.”
And so, in a grand and glorious wedding he married the girl and brought her to the palace. It was his delight to be with her, to tell her day after day of his love for her, to shower her with royal gifts. He gave her dresses of shiny taffeta and silk, golden spindles, diamond crowns, necklaces of pearl and rubies, and a different color mountain bike for every day of the week.
It seemed that they would live happily ever after. And so they would have, if only the cobbler’s daughter could bring herself to believe that it was quite proper, or even possible, for such a rich and powerful and wonderful man as the prince to love such a poor and common girl. But she could not, even though she loved him almost as much as he loved her.
And so, rather than wear the lovely dresses that were much too fine for her, she hung them carefully in paper bags in row after row in her closet, and wore her peasant clothes instead. The royal jewels were out of the question—an occasional flower past its prime was all the adornment she would accept. The bicycles stayed as good as new in the stable, while she rode her old balloon-tire clunker. (It had, she said, a bigger basket for groceries.) And whenever the prince tried to speak to her of love, she refused to sit and look into his eyes as he so longed for her to do; instead, she would leap up and begin to scrub the palace floors, or wash the windows, or mend the holes in the knees of the royal pages’ tights. “For,” she said, “If you insist on loving me, I must at least try to be industrious and make myself worthy of your unreasonable attachment.”
“But you are already worthy!” the prince would cry, trying to take her hand. “It is you I love, not what you can do for me!”
“You mustn’t say that!” she would answer, blushing and pulling away. “For I am only a poor peasant girl, and you are the son of a king!” And she would go right on with her work.
Now what with all that scrubbing and mending and washing and grocery shopping, the cobbler’s daughter did not notice that the prince began to grow pale. But, notice or not, grow pale he did, until finally he was so pale, he had to take to his bed.
The royal doctors were summoned. Some said he’d gotten too much exercise, and some said not enough. Some said too much rich food, and others said only a diet of peanut butter and red meat would cure him. Some said he needed more entertainment, but others said he must have peace and quiet.
As they argued, he wasted away. The cobbler’s daughter was frantic. She tried to get him to exercise, but he was too weak to get up. She cooked him delectable breads and superb soups, but he had no appetite. She tempted him with visions of grand balls and glittering processions of state, if only he would get out of bed. But he only groaned and turned his face to the wall.
At last the day came when she knew the prince was dying. She wept and held his hand and called his name. But he lay still and barely breathing, and seemed not even to know she was there.
“My prince!” she cried. “I love you!” But he neither spoke nor looked at her. In despair, she knelt by his bed and gave herself up to her grief.
In the midst of her sobbing, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and when she looked up, there was the prince’s old nursemaid.
“Oh, Granny,” she cried. “He is dying!”
“Tush, child! You can save him,” the old woman replied. The cobbler’s daughter shook her head and buried her face in the bedclothes. “No,” she moaned, “I can do nothing for him. I speak, and he does not answer. I offer him food, and he will not eat. I tell him of my love, and it is as if he does not hear me.”
“Ah,” said the nursemaid, “He doesn’t accept your gifts of love, then? It is only just, you know, for you have never accepted his, either. Now you suffer as he does.” And she turned on her heel and left.
The cobbler’s daughter sat up. “I? Suffer as he?” She stared down at the prince and her face grew hot as she thought of the unused dresses in her closet, the jewelry dusty from neglect, and most of all, the countless times her prince had held her hand and looked into her eyes and tried to tell her how much he loved her. She remembered how she had looked away, unbelieving and embarrassed, and shame burned inside her.
With a cry, she rushed from the room. She went to her closet, threw off her peasant clothes, and arrayed herself in the first dress that came to her hand.
She fumbled with the buttons, and tangled her hair more than she smoothed it with her ivory brush, and pricked her fingers quite thoroughly as she fastened a diamond brooch to her bodice. But no matter.
Back to the prince she rushed, and flung herself down beside his bed. “Tell me that you love me!” she cried.
The prince did not move. “Tell me that you love me,” she begged.
Ever so slowly the prince opened his eyes and turned to her. As she watched, his cheeks grew pink, and the light came back into his face.
“Do you love me?” she persisted.
“Yes!” he whispered, and reached for her.
She looked right into his eyes. “Tell me again,” she said, and they fell into each other’s arms and laughed for joy.
Every day after that the princess wore a different dress and sat for hours by her husband’s side, and held his hand, and listened as he spoke of love. Never once did she even think of scrubbing a floor or washing a window. Every day the prince grew stronger, until at last he was well.
I cannot say that they lived happily ever after. But mostly they did. He became the king, and she became the queen, and they had many little princes and princesses. It was said that in no household in the land, noble or common, did gifts of love flow so freely. And as for the old nursemaid, on the queen’s recommendation, the royal newspaper took her on as their advice columnist, and she spent the rest of her days giving such excellent counsel that the entire kingdom was the better for it.