THE LIGHT PRINCESS
GEORGE MACDONALD
1. What! No Children?
Once upon a time, so long ago that I have quite forgotten the date,
there lived a king and queen who had no children.
And the king said to himself, "All the queens of my acquaintance
have children, some three, some seven, and some as many as twelve;
and my queen has not one. I feel ill-used." So he made up his mind
to be cross with his wife about it. But she bore it all like a good
patient queen as she was. Then the king grew very cross indeed. But
the queen pretended to take it all as a joke, and a very good one
too.
"Why don't you have any daughters, at least?" said he. "I don't say
sons; that might be too much to expect."
"I am sure, dear king, I am very sorry," said the queen.
"So you ought to be," retorted the king; "you are not going to make
a virtue of that, surely."
But he was not an ill-tempered king, and in any matter of less
moment would have let the queen have her own way with all his
heart. This, however, was an affair of state.
The queen smiled.
"You must have patience with a lady, you know, dear king," said
she.
She was, indeed, a very nice queen, and heartily sorry that she
could not oblige the king immediately.
2. Won't I, Just?
The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very badly. It
was more than he deserved, therefore, when, at last, the queen gave
him a daughter--as lovely a little princess as ever cried.
The day drew near when the infant must be christened. The king
wrote all the invitations with his own hand. Of course somebody was
forgotten.
Now it does not generally matter if somebody is forgotten, only you
must mind who. Unfortunately, the king forgot without intending to
forget; and so the chance fell upon the Princess Makemnoit, which
was awkward. For the princess was the king's own sister; and he
ought not to have forgotten her. But she had made herself so
disagreeable to the old king, their father, that he had forgotten
her in making his will; and so it was no wonder that her brother
forgot her in writing his invitations. But poor relations don't do
anything to keep you in mind of them. Why don't they? The king
could not see into the garret she lived in, could he?
She was a sour, spiteful creature. The wrinkles of contempt crossed
the wrinkles of peevishness, and made her face as full of wrinkles
as a pat of butter. If ever a king could be justified in forgetting
anybody, this king was justified in forgetting his sister, even at
a christening. She looked very odd, too. Her forehead was as large
as all the rest of her face, and projected over it like a
precipice. When she was angry, her little eyes flashed blue. When
she hated anybody, they shone yellow and green. What they looked
like when she loved anybody, I do not know; for I never heard of
her loving anybody but herself, and I do not think she could have
managed that if she had not somehow got used to herself. But what
made it highly imprudent in the king to forget her was that she was
awfully clever. In fact, she was a witch; and when she bewitched
anybody, he very soon had enough of it; for she beat all the wicked
fairies in wickedness, and all the clever ones in cleverness. She
despised all the modes we read of in history, in which offended
fairies and witches have taken their revenges; and therefore, after
waiting and waiting in vain for an invitation, she made up her mind
at last to go without one, and make the whole family miserable,
like a princess as she was.
So she put on her best gown, went to the palace, was kindly
received by the happy monarch, who forgot that he had forgotten
her, and took her place in the procession to the royal chapel. When
they were all gathered about the font, she contrived to get next to
it, and throw something into the water; after which she maintained
a very respectful demeanour till the water was applied to the
child's face. But at that moment she turned round in her place
three times, and muttered the following words, loud enough for
those beside her to hear:--
"Light of spirit, by my charms,
Light of body, every part,
Never weary human arms--
Only crush thy parents' heart!"
They all thought she had lost her wits, and was repeating some
foolish nursery rhyme; but a shudder went through the whole of them
notwithstanding. The baby, on the contrary, began to laugh and
crow; while the nurse gave a start and a smothered cry, for she
thought she was struck with paralysis: she could not feel the baby
in her arms. But she clasped it tight and said nothing. The
mischief was done.
3. She Can't Be Ours.
Her atrocious aunt had deprived the child of all her gravity. If
you ask me how this was effected, I answer, "In the easiest way in
the world. She had only to destroy gravitation." For the princess
was a philosopher, and knew all the ins and outs of the laws of
gravitation as well as the ins and outs of her boot-lace. And being
a witch as well, she could abrogate those laws in a moment; or at
least so clog their wheels and rust their bearings, that they would
not work at all. But we have more to do with what followed than
with how it was done.
The first awkwardness that resulted from this unhappy privation
was, that the moment the nurse began to float the baby up and down,
she flew from her arms towards the ceiling. Happily, the resistance
of the air brought her ascending career to a close within a foot of
it. There she remained, horizontal as when she left her nurse's
arms, kicking and laughing amazingly. The nurse in terror flew to
the bell, and begged the footman, who answered it, to bring up the
house-steps directly. Trembling in every limb, she climbed upon the
steps, and had to stand upon the very top, and reach up, before she
could catch the floating tail of the baby's long clothes.
When the strange fact came to be known, there was a terrible
commotion in the palace. The occasion of its discovery by the king
was naturally a repetition of the nurse's experience. Astonished
that he felt no weight when the child was laid in his arms, he
began to wave her up and not down, for she slowly ascended to the
ceiling as before, and there remained floating in perfect comfort
and satisfaction, as was testified by her peals of tiny laughter.
The king stood staring up in speechless amazement, and trembled so
that his beard shook like grass in the wind. At last, turning to
the queen, who was just as horror-struck as himself, he said,
gasping, staring, and stammering,--
"She can't be ours, queen!"
Now the queen was much cleverer than the king, and had begun
already to suspect that "this effect defective came by cause."
"I am sure she is ours," answered she. "But we ought to have taken
better care of her at the christening. People who were never
invited ought not to have been present."
"Oh, ho!" said the king, tapping his forehead with his forefinger,
"I have it all. I've found her out. Don't you see it, queen?
Princess Makemnoit has bewitched her."
"That's just what I say," answered the queen.
"I beg your pardon, my love; I did not hear you.--John! bring the
steps I get on my throne with."
For he was a little king with a great throne, like many other
kings.
The throne-steps were brought, and set upon the dining-table, and
John got upon the top of them. But he could not reach the little
princess, who lay like a baby-laughter-cloud in the air, exploding
continuously.
"Take the tongs, John," said his Majesty; and getting up on the
table, he handed them to him.
John could reach the baby now, and the little princess was handed
down by the tongs.
4. Where Is She?
One fine summer day, a month after these her first adventures,
during which time she had been very carefully watched, the princess
was lying on the bed in the queen's own chamber, fast asleep. One
of the windows was open, for it was noon, and the day was so sultry
that the little girl was wrapped in nothing less ethereal than
slumber itself. The queen came into the room, and not observing
that the baby was on the bed, opened another window. A frolicsome
fairy wind, which had been watching for a chance of mischief,
rushed in at the one window, and taking its way over the bed where
the child was lying, caught her up, and rolling and floating her
along like a piece of flue, or a dandelion seed, carried her with
it through the opposite window, and away. The queen went
down-stairs, quite ignorant of the loss she had herself occasioned.
When the nurse returned, she supposed that her Majesty had carried
her off, and, dreading a scolding, delayed making inquiry about
her. But hearing nothing, she grew uneasy, and went at length to
the queen's boudoir, where she found her Majesty.
"Please, your Majesty, shall I take the baby?" said she.
"Where is she?" asked the queen.
"Please forgive me. I know it was wrong."
"What do you mean?" said the queen, looking grave.
"Oh! don't frighten me, your Majesty!" exclaimed the nurse,
clasping her hands.
The queen saw that something was amiss, and fell down in a faint.
The nurse rushed about the palace, screaming, "My baby! my baby!"
Every one ran to the queen's room. But the queen could give no
orders. They soon found out, however, that the princess was
missing, and in a moment the palace was like a beehive in a garden;
and in one minute more the queen was brought to herself by a great
shout and a clapping of hands. They had found the princess fast
asleep under a rose-bush, to which the elvish little wind-puff had
carried her, finishing its mischief by shaking a shower of red
rose-leaves all over the little white sleeper. Startled by the
noise the servants made, she woke, and, furious with glee,
scattered the rose- leaves in all directions, like a shower of
spray in the sunset.
She was watched more carefully after this, no doubt; yet it would
be endless to relate all the odd incidents resulting from this
peculiarity of the young princess. But there never was a baby in a
house, not to say a palace, that kept the household in such
constant good humour, at least below- stairs. If it was not easy
for her nurses to hold her, at least she made neither their arms
nor their hearts ache. And she was so nice to play at ball with!
There was positively no danger of letting her fall. They might
throw her down, or knock her down, or push her down, but couldn't
let her down. It is true, they might let her fly into the fire or
the coal-hole, or through the window; but none of these accidents
had happened as yet. If you heard peals of laughter resounding from
some unknown region, you might be sure enough of the cause. Going
down into the kitchen, or the room, you would find Jane and Thomas,
and Robert and Susan, all and sum, playing at ball with the little
princess. She was the ball herself, and did not enjoy it the less
for that. Away she went, flying from one to another, screeching
with laughter. And the servants loved the ball itself better even
than the game. But they had to take some care how they threw her,
for if she received an upward direction, she would never come down
again without being fetched.
5. What Is to Be Done?
But above-stairs it was different. One day, for instance, after
breakfast, the king went into his counting-house, and counted out
his money. The operation gave him no pleasure.
"To think," said he to himself, "that every one of these gold
sovereigns weighs a quarter of an ounce, and my real, live,
flesh-and-blood princess weighs nothing at all!"
And he hated his gold sovereigns, as they lay with a broad smile of
self-satisfaction all over their yellow faces.
The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey. But at the
second mouthful she burst out crying, and could not swallow it.
The king heard her sobbing. Glad of anybody, but especially of his
queen, to quarrel with, he clashed his gold sovereigns into his
money-box, clapped his crown on his head, and rushed into the
parlour.
"What is all this about?" exclaimed he. "What are you crying for,
queen?"
"I can't eat it," said the queen, looking ruefully at the
honey-pot.
"-No wonder!" retorted the king. "You've just eaten your breakfast
--two turkey eggs, and three anchovies."
"Oh, that's not it!" sobbed her Majesty. "It's my child, my child!"
"Well, what's the matter with your child? She's neither up the
chimney nor down the draw-well. Just hear her laughing."
Yet the king could not help a sigh, which he tried to turn into a
cough, saying--
"It is a good thing to be light-hearted, I am sure, whether she be
ours or not."
"It is a bad thing to be light-headed," answered the queen, looking
with prophetic soul far into the future.
"'Tis a good thing to be light-handed," said the king.
"'Tis a bad thing to be light-fingered," answered the queen.
"'Tis a good thing to be light-footed," said the
king.
"'Tis a bad thing--" began the queen; but the king interrupted her.
"In fact," said he, with the tone of one who concludes an argument
in which he has had only imaginary opponents, and in which,
therefore, he has come off triumphant--"in fact, it is a good thing
altogether to be light-bodied."
"But it is a bad thing altogether to be light- minded," retorted
the queen, who was beginning to lose her temper.
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