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.