George MacDonald: "The Light Princess" - Part 1

When a princess' forgetful father accidentally leaves his sister off the guest list for his daughter's christening, she crashes the party and turns the kingdom upside down with a gravity-defying curse. How will the king and queen cope with their daughter's future up in the air?

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Welcome to Lost in the Woods Fairy Tales ™. I’m your host, Autumn Woods, and I’m so excited you’re here. This season will be a bit different from the previous five, in that I’ll be focusing on the fairy tales of one particular author, whose work is so beautiful, it generally speaks for itself. George MacDonald’s work as a fantasy author is credited by C.S. Lewis as baptizing his imagination. He was, in fact, a forerunner and father of the entire fantasy genre. MacDonald wrote deep theological thoughts and lessons in deceptively simple, yet highly clever fairy tale prose. Consequently, the analyses won’t be as intense on many of these stories, because you should be able to see the parable elements in them very well on your own. In fact, some die-hards would probably throw stones at me for even attempting to give these stories my usual analytical treatment. When asked to explain what his stories were about, George MacDonald replied, 

“The tale is there, not to hide, but to show: if it show nothing at your window, do not open your door to it; leave it out in the cold. To ask me to explain is to say, ‘Roses! Boil them, or we won’t have them!’ My tales may not be roses, but I will not boil them. So long as I think my dog can bark, I will not sit up to bark for him.”

In deference to those who do not like boiled roses, but love to be read to, I will play the story chimes both at the beginning and the end of the story segments this season. That way, you know when to stop listening and may preserve the dignity of your roses. I certainly don’t mean any disrespect to Mr. MacDonald, but I enjoy discussing the symbolic elements of stories, and want to help foster critical thinking for those who would like that muscle exercised. His stories are longer, much like Hans Christian Andersens, so we will break them up over several episodes to facilitate enjoyment.

Our first story this season is called, “The Light Princess.” I discovered it in my school’s tiny library when I was eight years old, and I felt like he wrote it just for me. It follows a pattern almost like “Sleeping Beauty,” with a princess suffering from a childhood curse that must be broken by love, but the ransom required to buy her freedom is so viscerally tied to the gospel, I doubt you’ll be the same after you hear it.

So, let’s get lost, as we read the story of “The Light Princess”.

The Story

            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. 

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. 

2. Won't I, Just? 

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!”

Everyone 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. 

This last answer quite discomfited his Majesty, who turned on his heel, and betook himself to his counting-house again. But he was not half-way towards it, when the voice of his queen overtook him. 

“And it’s a bad thing to be light-haired,” screamed she, determined to have more last words, now that her spirit was roused. 

The queen’s hair was black as night; and the king's had been, and his daughter’s was, golden as morning. But it was not this reflection on his hair that arrested him; it was the double use of the word light. For the king hated all witticisms, and punning especially. And besides, he could not tell whether the queen meant light-haired or light-heired; for why might she not aspirate her vowels when she was exasperated herself? 

He turned upon his other heel, and rejoined her. She looked angry still, because she knew that she was guilty, or, what was much the same, knew that he thought so. 

“My dear queen,” said he, “duplicity of any sort is exceedingly objectionable between married people of any rank, not to say kings and queens; and the most objectionable form duplicity can assume is that of punning.” 

“There!” said the queen, “I never made a jest, but I broke it in the making. I am the most unfortunate woman in the world!” 

She looked so rueful, that the king took her in his arms; and they sat down to consult. 

“Can you bear this?” said the king. 

“No, I can’t,” said the queen. 

“Well, what’s to be done?” said the king. 

“I'm sure I don't know,” said the queen. “But might you not try an apology?” 

“To my older sister, I suppose you mean?” said the king. 

“Yes,” said the queen. 

“Well, I don't mind,” said the king. 

So he went the next morning to the house of the princess, and, making a very humble apology, begged her to undo the spell. But the princess declared, with a grave face, that she knew nothing at all about it. Her eyes, however, shone pink, which was a sign that she was happy. She advised the king and queen to have patience, and to mend their ways. The king returned disconsolate. The queen tried to comfort him. 

“We will wait till she is older. She may then be able to suggest something herself. She will know at least how she feels, and explain things to us.” 

“But what if she should marry?” exclaimed the king, in sudden consternation at the idea.

“Well, what of that?” rejoined the queen. 

“Just think! If she were to have children! In the course of a hundred years the air might be as full of floating children as of gossamers in autumn.”

“That is no business of ours,” replied the queen. “Besides, by that time they will have learned to take care of themselves.” 

A sigh was the king's only answer. 

He would have consulted the court physicians; but he was afraid they would try experiments upon her. 

(Chime.)

The Analysis

       Don’t wander away from the campfire. We’re about to shed some light on the incredible treasure hidden in this story.

       We begin, as we so often do, with a king and queen who long for a child. The king’s attitude about the situation is rather hilariously backward. He doesn’t realize that it takes a team of three to produce an heir, including the Lord, and that the queen cannot be held wholly responsible for the current state of affairs. He pitches a fit like a child about their childlessness, and behaves as though the queen can even choose which gender to produce. To be fair, this story was published roughly 40 years before the discovery of sex chromosomes, so for us in the twenty-first century, this section is particularly hysterical. No pun intended. As a woman, the queen can only produce X chromosomes, and it is the king, able to produce both X and Y, whose contribution to the solution would determine whether a son or daughter is born to them. 

       This comic opening sequence reveals to us the temperaments of our protagonist’s parents. Her father is passionate, hasty, impatient, bombastic, and ill-informed—rather than ill-used—and her mother is kind, patient, good-humored, and—at least, for now—able to take difficult things in stride. There is a bit of an Abigail and Nabal dynamic between them. Although the king is not quite that foolish, he is certainly that rash. MacDonald flat out tells us that the queen is cleverer than her husband, just as Abigail outshone Nabal in wisdom. The queen wisely understands that this business of conceiving an heir is more complicated than a simple desire for children, and she intends to ride out her husband’s silly storming until they get their wish. 

       Already, through the contrast of her parents’ personalities in one marital unit, we have a foreshadowing of the war within the princess’ nature after she is cursed. Irrational desire and grounded wisdom vie within her for dominance, and the curse demands that irrationality win. This is very like the war in the members described by Paul in Romans, but I will wait a bit before I launch into that. 

       MacDonald comments that the birth of a daughter is more than the king deserves for his impatience in the matter. A common theme that runs throughout much of his work is his value of good women, and of those who have the potential to become good women. He portrays them as precious, multifaceted treasures, with more strength and wisdom than meets the eye, even in their innocence. And the few who are evil beyond redemption? They are a bent version of this vision, whose wisdom transforms into evil cunning, and whose strength is perverted to exploit others.

       Princess Makemnoit is one of these wicked women. I looked up the way everyone else pronounces her name, because ever since childhood, I have read it as “make ’em know it,” with a k, as in, “Make them know it that I am not to be trifled with or forgotten.” But everyone seems to agree on “Makemnoit,” so that’s how I’m reading it to you. However, I like the Dickensian reading, because it’s a complete embodiment of her diabolical character. Everything she does is spiteful and cruel, leaving her evil mark upon the victims of her vengeful wrath in malevolently memorable ways. When you’ve been struck by her spite, you know it. And you quickly grow tired of it. 

       Like the wicked fairy in Sleeping Beauty, Princess Makemnoit is left off of the guest list for the royal christening, because the king forgot about her. MacDonald tells us that it is both justifiable and dangerous that the king forgot her, even though she is his sister. Justifiable, because Makemnoit is “a sour, spiteful creature,” full of “contempt” and “peevishness” (MacDonald 2). Their own father left her out of his will, and she has done nothing to endear herself to the family she has left. Her eyes flash different colors like an evil mood ring when she is hateful or angry. He tells us, “What they looked like when she loved anybody, I do not know; for I have never heard of her loving anybody but herself” (2). But it is dangerous that the king left his bitter sister off the guest list, because she is a witch. Her cleverness has turned inward and become perverted. Rather than using her brilliance to improve the lives of others, she harnesses it like a weapon to wreak havoc on them for her own sick pleasure. She is the clearest representative of Satan in the piece. 

       Not only is Princess Makemnoit cleverer and wickeder than any fairy, but she is also more prideful, snubbing her nose at every mode of revenge taken by every witch and fairy in the past. None of them are crafty or despicable enough for her. After waiting in vain for an invitation, she decides to crash the party, “and make the whole family miserable, like a princess as she was” (MacDonald 3). This is not an undercutting of princesses as a whole. A casual glance through his catalogue reveals that George MacDonald shows a fatherly kindness toward princesses. It is more a comment on a princess’ power of influence. A person with a gift of influence, like a princess, can wield it extensively, changing the atmosphere around her for good or evil.

       Kingdoms often look to princesses for a glimpse of the current and future state of the country. Many royal daughters take up virtuous causes as they learn about the needs of those they may one day serve as future monarchs. Even in our own time, a fascination with fictional and nonfictional royalty shapes the mindsets and behaviors of many. A princess is an ambassador of her kingdom, as well as of her parents. She reflects the traits of the king and sways the hearts of the people one way or another through her influence. If you are part of the kingdom of God, you are a royal son or daughter, part of “a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation” (1 Peter 2:9). “We are ambassadors for Christ, as though God were pleading through us” (2 Corinthians 5:20). What we do should reflect the heart of our Father and draw people to Him.

Princess Makemnoit reflects the heart of her father, the devil, as she engineers evil schemes against those she should love and forgive. Like other witches we have discussed on this podcast, she forsakes the Titus 2 mandate, wickedly wielding her influence to curse the next generation of royalty, rather than helping to train her in the way she should go. 

Makemnoit’s curse dictates that the little princess will be light of spirit and body. She will be unable to comprehend serious things, and cannot identify with those she floats above. She is doomed to live a separate existence mentally and physically from all around her. As she cannot relate to the places and people she is meant to interact with physically and mentally, she is cut off from living an abundant life, while being led to believe that she is “the only person that had any sense in the whole world” (MacDonald 15). 

It quickly becomes clear that Princess Makemnoit’s curse on her niece is a metaphor for the fallen nature of man, and the curse of separation from God we live under before reconciliation through Jesus Christ. Genesis 3 relates that through sin, pride, and mistrust of God’s goodness, mankind was separated from the place they were made to live in and their Heavenly Father, with Whom they were created to abide. Deceiving mankind into making itself its own god, Satan, the prince of the power of the air, bent God’s imagers into his own twisted shape spiritually, encouraging to commit the same kind of rebellion he perpetrated against the Lord (Isaiah 14; Ezekiel 28).   

Princess Makemnoit, as a practitioner of witchcraft, also rebels against the Lord, trusting in her own power and cleverness, rather than humbling herself before Him and seeking His justice. She deceives her family into thinking that she has no spite toward them, and presents herself well at the christening, until she, like the roaring lion, finds an opportunity to pounce on her prey. Just as the repercussions of the royal overthrow in Eden gave the enemy dominance over the realm of creation, Makemnoit’s depravity in depriving the young princess of her gravity, both metaphorically and literally, paralyzes the kingdom under her rule, holding it in a state of suspension, as surely as the princess perpetually hangs in the air above them. The curse will prevent the young princess from fulfilling any aspect of her destiny as a functional person, a ruler, a wife, and a mother, unless it is broken. 

       Perhaps the most unnerving aspect of Princess Makemnoit’s method of revenge, is that she uses the water for the little princess’ baby dedication as the carrier of the curse. This is supposed to be a sacred, holy event, and she blatantly profanes it with her witchcraft. This foreshadows the younger princess’ inability to comprehend the gravity of sacred things, due to her mental “lightness.” “But the natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him; nor can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned” (I Corinthians 2:14). 

The faith and humility of a child is needed to enter the Kingdom of Heaven (Mark 10:14-15), but there also comes a time to “put away childish things” in order to fully mature (1 Corinthians 13:11). Because of Makemnoit’s curse, the princess is unable to progress and develop mentally or spiritually beyond the natural selfishness of early childhood. Stunting someone’s spiritual growth is truly wicked. Jesus warns that, “It would be better to be thrown into the sea with a millstone hung around your neck than to cause one of these little ones to fall into sin” (Luke 17:2 NLT). Unfortunately, we must wait quite some time for the shower of millstones.

The onset of the Light Princess’ curse in early childhood resembles the way every human being is born into sin because of the fall. “Through one man sin entered the world, and death through sin, and thus death spread to all men, because all sinned” (Romans 5:12). Adam’s sin imputed the curse on his offspring before they even had the cognitive ability to choose God. Even the dedication of the baby is rendered impure, because the water placed on her head bears the curse. For us, this hearkens back to Romans 8:19-21:

“For the earnest expectation of the creation eagerly waits for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope; because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.”

       As all creation suffers in tandem with humanity, waiting for all things to be made new, the fate of the kingdom and the fate of the princess are intertwined, and the link will become more apparent as the story progresses. As is true in the stories of our own lives, only the greatest act of love will be able to redeem and restore all things.

       But until then, the king, queen, and the inhabitants of the castle must cope with the strange effects of Makemnoit’s revenge. The nurse holding the infant at the christening first notices that something is wrong when the relatively new baby begins to laugh uncontrollably, after Makemnoit’s mad display, and suddenly becomes weightless in her arms. When an attempt to float the baby up and down results in the little girl ascending to the ceiling, “[laying] like a baby-laughter-cloud in the air, exploding continuously” (MacDonald 5), her flabbergasted father splutters that she cannot possibly be their child. The queen, however, is very discerning, and points out that the child is certainly theirs, but more care should have been taken about who came near her at the christening. “People who were never invited ought not to have been present” (5). The king is a bit slow on the uptake but finally understands that his evil sister is the cause of their misfortune. 

This is often the way it goes in matters of spiritual discernment. The party trained to recognize underhandedness will zero in on it quickly, and must be patient while her partner catches up. It is often the woman who sees something wrong first, because the Lord put enmity between us and our enemy in Genesis 3:15. Enmity is a deeply rooted hatred. When you despise something, the slightest hint of its presence can set you off. We know that the queen was perturbed by Makemnoit’s presence and actions, because she passive-aggressively suggests to the king that he should not have welcomed her when she arrived. This is reminiscent of the blame game in Eden, where the curse was born. But the king and queen are too preoccupied with their floating offspring to take up the rest of the argument, so we won’t continue it either.

During the princess’ early years, the castle staff is both astonished and entertained by the princess’ antics. Her constant laughter keeps them in good humor, as does her weightlessness. But her parents see the dark side of their child’s lightness. It thoroughly disturbs them so that they are unable to participate in the day-to-day acts expected of royalty in “Sing a Song of Sixpence.” The king takes no joy in counting his money, nor the queen in eating bread and honey, so preoccupied are they with their daughter’s unfortunate plight. 

The ironic thing about their conversation in section five, is that the king hates puns, and yet is as guilty of making them as his wife in their exchange. How could they help but do so, when the curse itself is a pun, with the princess being made both metaphorically and physically light? It is yet another perfectly aimed strike from Makemnoit, designed to distress her brother. 

When the king apologizes to Princess Makemnoit and begs her to undo the curse, she feigns ignorance and insists that the king and queen mend their ways. Distraught, the royal couple catastrophizes about the consequences of the curse on their daughter’s future, and determines that they “will wait till she is older. She may then be able to suggest something herself” (MacDonald 11). The princess will not be able to present a solution, but her salvation lies in her choice to accept an unconventional cure completely contrary to her nature. We’ll come closer to learning what that is in part two.

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