On Fairy-Stories
J.R.R. Tolkien
Definitions of “Fairy-Story” and “Fairy”
Fairy Stories – Arriving at a Definition
Survey of Examples that Don’t fit
Source Collections: Mr. & Mrs. Andrew Lang, Charles Perrault
Traveler’s Tales are Not
Necessarily Fairy Tales
Dream Stories are not Fairy Tales, since Fairy Tales are Presented as “True”
Beast Fables are not Fairy Tales
Similar Origins do not Make Identical Stories
Nature Myths Cannot Alone Explain Origins
Back to the Question of Origins
Connections, By Themselves, May Mean Nothing
A Mix-Together, Not A Chain of Events
Similarities of History and Myth
Preservation Due to Literary Effect
Difficulty of Maintaining a Consistent Fantasy
I propose to speak about fairy-stories, though I am aware that this is a rash adventure. Faerie is a perilous land, and in it are pitfalls for the unwary and dungeons for the overbold. And overbold I may be accounted, for though I have been a lover of fairy-stories since I learned to read, and have at times thought about them, I have not studied them professionally. I have been hardly more than a wandering explorer (or trespasser) in the land, full of wonder but not of information.
The realm of fairy-story is
wide and deep and high and filled with many things: all manner of beasts and
birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted; beauty that is an enchantment,
and an ever-present peril; both joy and sorrow as sharp as swords. In that realm a man may, perhaps, count
himself fortunate to have wandered, but its very richness and strangeness tie
the tongue of a traveller who would report them. And while he is there it is dangerous for him to ask too many
questions, lest the gates should be shut and the keys be lost.
There are, however, some
questions that one who is to speak about fairy-stories must expect to answer,
or attempt to answer, whatever the folk of Faërie may think of his
impertinence. For instance: What are
fairy-stories? What is their origin? What is the use of them? I will try to
give answers to these questions, or such hints of answers to them as I have
gleaned—primarily from the stories themselves, the few of all their multitude
that I know.
What is a fairy-story? In
this case you will turn to the Oxford English Dictionary in vain. It contains no reference to the combination fairy-story,
and is unhelpful on the subject of fairies generally. In the Supplement, fairy-tale is recorded since the year 1750,
and its leading sense is said to be (a) a tale about fairies, or generally a
fairy legend; with developed senses, (b) an unreal or incredible story, and (c)
a falsehood.
The last two senses would
obviously make my topic hopelessly vast.
But the first sense is too narrow.
Not too narrow for an essay; it is wide enough for many books, but too narrow
to cover actual usage. Especially so,
if we accept the lexicographer's definition of fairies: “supernatural beings of
diminutive size, in popular belief supposed to possess magical powers and to
have great influence for good or evil over the affairs of man.”
Supernatural is a dangerous
and difficult word in any of its senses, looser or stricter. But to fairies it can hardly be applied,
unless super is taken merely as a superlative prefix. For it is man who is, in contrast to fairies, supernatural (and
often of diminutive stature); whereas they are natural, far more natural than
he. Such is their doom. The road to fairyland is not the road to
Heaven; nor even to Hell, I believe, though some have held that it may lead
thither indirectly by the Devil's tithe.
O see ye not yon narrow
road
So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?
That is the path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
And see ye not yon
braid, braid road
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
And see ye not yon bonny
road
That winds about yon fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
As for diminutive size: I
do not deny that the notion is a leading one in modern use. I have often thought that it would be
interesting to try to find out how that has come to be so; but my knowledge is
not sufficient for a certain answer. Of
old there were indeed some inhabitants of Faerie that were small (though hardly
diminutive), but smallness was not characteristic of that people as a
whole. The diminutive being, elf or
fairy, is (I guess) in England largely a sophisticated product of literary
fancy. It is perhaps not unnatural that
in England, the land where the love of the delicate and fine has often
reappeared in art, fancy should in this matter turn towards the dainty and
diminutive, as in France it went to court and put on powder and diamonds. Yet I suspect that this flower-and-butterfly
minuteness was also a product of “rationalization,” which transformed the glamour
of Elfland into mere finesse, and invisibility into a fragility that could hide
in a cowslip or shrink behind a blade of grass. It seems to become fashionable soon after the great voyages had
begun to make the world seem too narrow to hold both men and elves; when the
magic land of Hy Breasail in the West had become the mere Brazils, the land of
red-dye-wood. In any case it was
largely a literary business in which William Shakespeare and Michael Drayton
played a part. Drayton's Nymphidia is
one ancestor of that long line of flower-fairies and fluttering sprites with
antennae that I so disliked as a child, and which my children in their turn
detested. Andrew Lang had similar
feelings. In the preface to the Lilac
Fairy Book he refers to the tales of tiresome contemporary authors: “they
always begin with a little boy or girl who goes out and meets the fairies of
polyanthuses and gardenias and apple-blossom.
. . . These fairies try to be
funny and fail; or they try to preach and succeed.” But the business began, as
I have said, long before the nineteenth century, and long ago achieved
tiresomeness, certainly the tiresomeness of trying to be funny and
failing. Drayton's Nymphidia is,
considered as a fairy-story (a story about fairies), one of the worst ever
written. The palace of Oberon has walls
of spider's legs,
And windows of the eyes
of cats,
And for the roof, instead of slats,
Is covered with the wings of bats.
The knight Pigwiggen rides
on a frisky earwig, and sends his love, Queen Mab, a bracelet of emmets' eyes,
making an assignation in a cowslip-flower.
But the tale that is told amid all this prettiness is a dull story of
intrigue and sly go-betweens; the gallant knight and angry husband fall into
the mire, and their wrath is stilled by a draught of the waters of Lethe. It would have been better if Lethe had
swallowed the whole affair. Oberon,
Mab, and Pigwiggen may be diminutive elves or fairies, as Arthur, Guinevere,
and Lancelot are not; but the good and evil story of Arthur's court is a
“fairy-story” rather than this tale of Oberon.
Fairy, as a noun more or less equivalent to elf, is a relatively modern
word, hardly used until the Tudor period.
The first quotation in the Oxford Dictionary (the only one before
A.D. 1450) is significant. It is taken from the poet Gower: as he were
a faierie. But this Gower did not
say. He wrote as he were of faierie,
“as if he were come from Faërie.” Gower was describing a young gallant who
seeks to bewitch the hearts of the maidens in church.
His croket kembd and
thereon set
A Nouche with a chapelet,
Or elles one of grene leves
Which late com out of the greves,
Al for he sholde seme freissh;
And thus he loketh on the fteissh,
Riht as an hauk which hath a sihte
Upon the foul ther he schal lihte,
And as he were of faierie
He scheweth him tofore here yhe.
This is a young man of
mortal blood and bone; but he gives a much better picture of the inhabitants of
Elf-land than the definition of a “fairy” under which he is, by a double error,
placed. For the trouble with the real
folk of Faerie is that they do not always look like what they are; and they put
on the pride and beauty that we would fain wear ourselves. At least part of the magic that they wield
for the good or evil of man is power to play on the desires of his body and his
heart. The Queen of Elfland, who
carried off Thomas the Rhymer upon her milk-white steed swifter than the wind,
came riding by the Eildon Tree as a lady, if one of enchanting beauty. So that Spenser was in the true tradition
when he called the knights of his Faerie by the name of Elfe. It belonged to such knights as Sir Guyon
rather than to Pigwiggen armed with a hornet's sting.
Now, though I have only
touched (wholly inadequately) on elves and fairies, I must turn back; for I have
digressed from my proper theme: fairy-stories.
I said the sense “stories about fairies” was too narrow. It is too narrow, even if we reject the
diminutive size, for fairy-stories are not in normal English usage stories
about fairies or elves, but stories about Fairy, that is Faerie, the realm or
state in which fairies have their being.
Faerie contains many things besides elves and fays, and besides dwarfs,
witches, trolls, giants, or dragons: it holds the seas, the sun, the moon, the
sky; and the earth, and all things that are in it: tree and bird, water and
stone, wine and bread, and ourselves, mortal men, when we are enchanted.
Stories that are actually
concerned primarily with “fairies,” that is with creatures that might also in
modern English be called “elves,” are relatively rare, and as a rule not very
interesting. Most good “fairy-stories”
are about the adventures of men in the Perilous Realm or upon its shadowy
marches. Naturally so; for if elves are
true, and really exist independently of our tales about them, then this also is
certainly true: elves are not primarily concerned with us, nor we with
them. Our fates are sundered, and our
paths seldom meet. Even upon the
borders of Faërie we encounter them only at some chance crossing of the ways.
The definition of a fairy-story—what it is, or what it should be—does not, then, depend on any definition or historical
account of elf or fairy, but upon the nature of Faërie: the Perilous Realm
itself, and the air that blows in that country. I will not attempt to define that, nor to
describe it directly. It cannot be
done. Faërie cannot be caught in a net
of words; for it is one of its qualities to be indescribable, though not
imperceptible. It has many ingredients,
but analysis will not necessarily discover the secret of the whole. Yet I hope that what I have later to say
about the other questions will give some glimpses of my own imperfect vision of
it. For the moment I will say only
this: a “fairy-story” is one
which touches on or uses Faerie, whatever its own main purpose may be:
satire, adventure, morality, fantasy.
Faerie itself may perhaps most nearly be translated by Magic—but it is
magic of a peculiar mood and power, at the furthest pole from the vulgar
devices of the laborious, scientific, magician. There is one proviso : if there is any satire present in the
tale, one thing must not be made fun of, the magic itself. That must in that story be taken seriously,
neither laughed at nor explained away.
Of this seriousness the medieval Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is an
admirable example.
But even if we apply only
these vague and ill-defined limits, it becomes plain that many, even the
learned in such matters, have used the term “fairy-tale” very carelessly. A glance at those books of recent times that
claim to be collections of “fairy-stories” is enough to show that tales about
fairies, about the fair family in any of its houses, or even about dwarfs and
goblins, are only a small part of their content. That, as we have seen, was to be expected. But these books also contain many tales that
do not use, do not even touch upon, Faerie at all; that have in fact no
business to be included.
I will give one or two
examples of the expurgations I would perform.
This will assist the negative side of definition. It will also be found to lead on to the
second question: what are the origins of fairy-stories?
The number of collections
of fairy-stories is now very great. In
English none probably rival either the popularity, or the inclusiveness, or the
general merits of the twelve books of twelve colours which we owe to Andrew
Lang and to his wife. The first of
these appeared more than seventy years ago (1889), and is still in print. Most of its contents pass the test, more or
less clearly. I will not analyse them,
though an analysis might be interesting, but I note in passing that of the
stories in this Blue Fairy Book none are primarily about “fairies,” few refer
to them. Most of the tales are taken
from French sources: a just choice in some ways at that time, as perhaps it
would be still (though not to my taste, now or in childhood). At any rate, so powerful has been the
influence of Charles Perrault, since his Contes de ma Mère l'Oye were first
Englished in the eighteenth century, and of such other excerpts from the vast
storehouse of the Cabinet des Fées as have become well known, that still, I
suppose, if you asked a man to name at random a typical “fairy-story,” he would
be most likely to name one of these French things: such as Puss-in-Boots,
Cinderella, or Little Red Riding Hood.
With some people Grimm's Fairy Tales might come first to mind.
But what is to be said of
the appearance in the Blue Fairy Book of A Voyage to Lilliput? I will say this:
it is not a fairy-story, neither as its author made it, nor as it here appears
“condensed” by Miss May Kendall. It has
no business in this place. I fear that
it was included merely because Lilliputians are small, even diminutive—the only
way in which they are at all remarkable.
But smallness is in Faerie, as in our world, only an accident. Pygmies are no nearer to fairies than are
Patagonians. I do not rule this story
out because of its satirical intent: there is satire, sustained or
intermittent, in undoubted fairy-stories, and satire may often have been
intended in traditional tales where we do not now perceive it. I rule it out, because the vehicle of the
satire, brilliant invention though it may be, belongs to the class of
travellers' tales. Such tales report
many marvels, but they are marvels to be seen in this mortal world in some
region of our own time and space; distance alone conceals them. The tales of Gulliver have no more right of
entry than the yarns of Baron Munchausen; or than, say, The First Men in the
Moon or The Time-Machine. Indeed,
for the Eloi and the Morlocks there would be a better claim than for the
Lilliputians. Lilliputians are merely
men peered down at, sardonically, from just above the house-tops. Eloi and Morlocks live far away in an abyss
of time so deep as to work an enchantment upon them; and if they are descended
from ourselves, it may be remembered that an ancient English thinker once
derived the ylfe, the very elves, through Cain from Adam. This enchantment of distance, especially of
distant time, is weakened only by the preposterous and incredible Time Machine
itself. But we see in this example one
of the main reasons why the borders of fairy-story are inevitably dubious. The magic of Faerie is not an end in itself,
its virtue is in its operations: among these are the satisfaction of certain
primordial human desires. One of these
desires is to survey the depths of space and time. Another is (as will be seen) to hold communion with other living
things. A story may thus deal with the
satisfaction of these desires, with or without the operation of either machine
or magic, and in proportion as it succeeds it will approach the quality and
have the flavour of fairy-story.
Next, after travellers'
tales, I would also exclude, or rule out of order, any story that uses the
machinery of Dream, the dreaming of actual human sleep, to explain the apparent
occurrence of its marvels. At the
least, even if the reported dream was in other respects in itself a
fairy-story, I would condemn the whole as gravely defective: like a good
picture in a disfiguring frame. It is
true that Dream is not unconnected with Faërie. In dreams strange powers of the mind may be unlocked. In some of them a man may for a space wield
the power of Faërie, that power which, even as it conceives the story, causes
it to take living form and colour before the eyes. A real dream may indeed sometimes be a fairy-story of almost
elvish ease and skill— while it is being dreamed. But if a waking writer tells you that his tale is only a thing
imagined in his sleep, he cheats deliberately the primal desire at the heart of
Faerie: the realization, independent of the conceiving mind, of imagined
wonder. It is often reported of fairies
(truly or lyingly, I do not know) that they are workers of illusion, that they
are cheaters of men by “fantasy”; but that is quite another matter. That is their affair. Such trickeries happen, at any rate, inside
tales in which the fairies are not themselves illusions; behind the fantasy
real wills and powers exist, independent of the minds and purposes of men.
It is at any rate essential
to a genuine fairy-story, as distinct from the employment of this form for
lesser or debased purposes, that it should be presented as “true.” The meaning
of “true” in this connexion I will consider in a moment. But since the fairy-story deals with
“marvels,” it cannot tolerate any frame or machinery suggesting that the whole
story in which they occur is a figment or illusion. The tale itself may, of course, be so good that one can ignore
the frame. Or it may be successful and
amusing as a dream-story. So are Lewis
Carroll's Alice stories, with their dream-frame and dream-transitions. For this (and other reasons) they are not
fairy-stories.
There is another type of
marvellous tale that I would exclude from the title “fairy-story,” again
certainly not because I do not like it: namely pure “Beast-fable.” I will
choose an example from Lang's Fairy Books: The Monkey's Heart, a Swahili tale
which is given in the Lilac Fairy Book.
In this story a wicked shark tricked a monkey into riding on his back,
and carried him half-way to his own land, before he revealed the fact that the
sultan of that country was sick and needed a monkey's heart to cure his
disease. But the monkey outwitted the
shark, and induced him to return by convincing him that the heart had been left
behind at home, hanging in a bag on a tree.
The beast-fable has, of
course, a connexion with fairy-stories.
Beasts and birds and other creatures often talk like men in real
fairy-stories. In some part (often
small) this marvel derives from one of the primal “desires” that lie near the
heart of Faerie: the desire of men to hold communion with other living
things. But the speech of beasts in a
beast-fable, as developed into a separate branch, has little reference to that
desire, and often wholly forgets it.
The magical understanding by men of the proper languages of birds and
beasts and trees, that is much nearer to the true purposes of Faerie. But in stories in which no human being is concerned;
or in which the animals are the heroes and heroines, and men and women, if they
appear, are mere adjuncts; and above all those in which the animal form is only
a mask upon a human face, a device of the satirist or the preacher, in these we
have beast-fable and not fairy-story: whether it be Reynard the Fox, or The
Nun's Priest's Tale, or Brer Rabbit, or merely The Three Little Pigs. The stories of Beatrix Potter lie near the
borders of Faerie, but outside it, I think, for the most part. Their nearness is due largely to their
strong moral element: by which I mean their inherent morality, not any
allegorical significatio. But Peter
Rabbit, though it contains a prohibition, and though there are prohibitions in
fairyland (as, probably, there are throughout the universe on every plane and
in every dimension), remains a beast-fable.
Now The Monkeys Heart is
also plainly only a beast-fable. I
suspect that its inclusion in a “Fairy Book” is due not primarily to its
entertaining quality, but precisely to the monkey's heart supposed to have been
left behind in a bag. That was
significant to Lang, the student of folk-lore, even though this curious idea is
here used only as a joke; for, in this tale, the monkey's heart was in fact
quite normal and in his breast. None
the less this detail is plainly only a secondary use of an ancient and very
widespread folk-lore notion, which does occur in fairy-stories; the notion that
the life or strength of a man or creature may reside in some other place or
thing; or in some part of the body (especially the heart) that can be detached
and hidden in a bag, or under a stone, or in an egg. At one end of recorded folk-lore history this idea was used by
George MacDonald in his fairy-story The Giant's Heart, which derives this
central motive (as well as many other details) from well-known traditional
tales. At the other end, indeed in what
is probably one of the oldest stories in writing, it occurs in The Tale of the
Two Brothers on the Egyptian D'Orsigny papyrus. There the younger brother says to the elder:
I
shall enchant my heart, and I shall place it upon the top of the flower of the
cedar. Now the cedar will be cut down
and my heart will fall to the ground, and thou shalt come to seek it, even
though thou pass seven years in seeking it; but when thou has found it, put it
into a vase of cold water, and in very truth I shall live.
But that point of interest
and such comparisons as these bring us to the brink of the second question:
What are the origins of “fairy-stories”? That must, of course, mean: the origin
or origins of the fairy elements. To
ask what is the origin of stories (however qualified) is to ask what is the
origin of language and of the mind.
Actually the question: What
is the origin of the fairy element? lands us ultimately in the same fundamental
inquiry; but there are many elements in fairy-stories (such as this detachable
heart, or swan-robes, magic rings, arbitrary prohibitions, wicked stepmothers,
and even fairies themselves) that can be studied without tackling this main
question. Such studies are, however,
scientific (at least in intent); they are the pursuit of folklorists or
anthropologists: that is of people using the stories not as they were meant to
be used, but as a quarry from which to dig evidence, or information, about
matters in which they are interested. A
perfectly legitimate procedure in itself—but ignorance or forgetfulness of the
nature of a story (as a thing told in its entirety) has often led such
inquirers into strange judgments. To
investigators of this sort recurring similarities (such as this matter of the
heart) seem specially important. So
much so that students of folk-lore are apt to get off their own proper track,
or to express themselves in a misleading “shorthand”: misleading in particular,
if it gets out of their monographs into books about literature. They are inclined to say that any two
stories that are built round the same folk-lore motive, or are made up of a
generally similar combination of such motives, are “the same stories.” We read
that Beowulf “is only a version of Dat Erdmänneken”; that “The Black Bull of
Norroway is Beauty and the Beast,” or “is the same story as Eros and Psyche”;
that the Norse Mastermaid (or the Gaelic Battle of the Birds and its many congeners
and variants) is “the same story as the Greek tale of Jason and Medea.”
Statements of that kind may
express (in undue abbreviation) some element of truth; but they are not true in
a fairy-story sense, they are not true in art or literature. It is precisely the colouring, the
atmosphere, the unclassifiable individual details of a story, and above all the
general purport that informs with life the undissected bones of the plot, that
really count. Shakespeare's King Lear
is not the same as Layamon's story in his Brut. Or to take the extreme case of Red Riding Hood: it is of merely
secondary interest that the retold versions of this story, in which the little
girl is saved by wood-cutters, is directly derived from Perrault's story in
which she was eaten by the wolf. The
really important thing is that the later version has a happy ending (more or
less, and if we do not mourn the grandmother overmuch), and that Perrault's
version had not. And that is a very
profound difference, to which I shall return.
Of course, I do not deny, for I feel strongly, the fascination of the
desire to unravel the intricately knotted and ramified history of the branches
on the Tree of Tales. It is closely
connected with the philologists' study of the tangled skein of Language, of
which I know some small pieces. But
even with regard to language it seems to me that the essential quality and
aptitudes of a given language in a living monument is both more important to
seize and far more difficult to make explicit than its linear history. So with regard to fairy stories, I feel that
it is more interesting, and also in its way more difficult, to consider what
they are, what they have become for us, and what values the long alchemic processes
of time have produced in them. In
Dasent's words I would say: “We must be satisfied with the soup that is set
before us, and not desire to see the bones of the ox out of which it has been
boiled.” Though, oddly enough, Dasent by “the soup” meant a mishmash of bogus
pre-history founded on the early surmises of Comparative Philology; and by
“desire to see the bones” he meant a demand to see the workings and the proofs
that led to these theories. By “the
soup” I mean the story as it is served up by its author or teller, and by “the
bones” its sources or material—even when (by rare luck) those can be with
certainty discovered. But I do not, of
course, forbid criticism of the soup as soup.
I shall therefore pass
lightly over the question of origins. I
am too unlearned to deal with it in any other way; but it is the least
important of the three questions for my purpose, and a few remarks will
suffice. It is plain enough that
fairy-stories (in wider or in narrower sense) are very ancient indeed. Related things appear in very early records;
and they are found universally, wherever there is language. We are therefore obviously confronted with a
variant of the problem that the archaeologist encounters, or the comparative
philologist: with the debate between independent evolution (or rather invention)
of the similar; inheritance from a common ancestry; and diffusion at various
times from one or more centres. Most
debates depend on an attempt (by one or both sides) at over-simplification; and
I do not suppose that this debate is an exception. The history of fairy-stories is probably more complex than the
physical history of the human race, and as complex as the history of human
language. All three things: independent
invention, inheritance, and diffusion, have evidently played their part in producing
the intricate web of Story. It is now
beyond all skill but that of the elves to unravel it. Of these three invention is the most important and fundamental,
and so (not surprisingly) also the most mysterious. To an inventor, that is to a storymaker, the other two must in
the end lead back. Diffusion (borrowing
in space) whether of an artefact or a story, only refers the problem of origin
elsewhere. At the centre of the
supposed diffusion there is a place where once an inventor lived. Similarly with inheritance (borrowing in
time): in this way we arrive at last only at an ancestral inventor. While if we believe that sometimes there
occurred the independent striking out of similar ideas and themes or devices,
we simply multiply the ancestral inventor but do not in that way the more
clearly understand his gift.
Philology has been
dethroned from the high place it once had in this court of inquiry. Max Müller's view of mythology as a “disease
of language” can be abandoned without regret.
Mythology is not a disease at all, though it may like all human things
become diseased. You might as well say
that thinking is a disease of the mind.
It would be more near the truth to say that languages, especially modern
European languages, are a disease of mythology. But Language cannot, all the same, be dismissed. The incarnate mind, the tongue, and the tale
are in our world coeval. The human
mind, endowed with the powers of generalization and abstraction, sees not only
green-grass, discriminating it from other things (and finding it fair to look
upon), but sees that it is green as well as being grass. But how powerful, how stimulating to the
very faculty that produced it, was the invention of the adjective: no spell or
incantation in Faerie is more potent. And
that is not surprising: such incantations might indeed be said to be only
another view of adjectives, a part of speech in a mythical grammar. The mind that thought of light, heavy, grey,
yellow, still, swift, also conceived of magic that would make heavy things
light and able to fly, turn grey lead into yellow gold, and the still rock into
a swift water. If it could do the one,
it could do the other; it inevitably did both.
When we can take green from grass, blue from heaven, and red from blood,
we have already an enchanter's power—upon one plane; and the desire to wield
that power in the world external to our minds awakes. It does not follow that we shall use that power well upon any
plane. We may put a deadly green upon a
man's face and produce a horror; we may make the rare and terrible blue moon to
shine; or we may cause woods to spring with silver leaves and rams to wear
fleeces of gold, and put hot fire into the belly of the cold worm. But in such “fantasy,” as it is called, new
form is made; Faerie begins; Man becomes a sub-creator.
An essential power of
Faerie is thus the power of making immediately effective by the will the
visions of “fantasy.” Not all are
beautiful or even wholesome, not at any rate the fantasies of fallen Man. And he has stained the elves who have this
power (in verity or fable) with his own stain.
This aspect of “mythology” —sub-creation, rather than either
representation or symbolic interpretation of the beauties and terrors of the
world—is, I think, too little considered.
Is that because it is seen rather in Faerie than upon Olympus? Because
it is thought to belong to the “lower mythology” rather than to the “higher”?
There has been much debate concerning the relations of these things, of
folk-tale and myth; but, even if there had been no debate, the question would
require some notice in any consideration of origins, however brief.
At one time it was a
dominant view that all such matter was derived from “nature-myths.” The
Olympians were personifications of the sun, of dawn, of night, and so on, and
all the stories told about them were originally myths (allegories would have
been a better word) of the greater elemental changes and processes of
nature. Epic, heroic legend, saga, then
localized these stories in real places and humanized them by attributing them
to ancestral heroes, mightier than men and yet already men. And finally these legends, dwindling down,
became folk-tales, Märchen, fairy-stories—nursery-tales.
That would seem to be the
truth almost upside down. The nearer
the so-called “nature myth,” or allegory, of the large processes of nature is
to its supposed archetype, the less interesting it is, and indeed the less is
it of a myth capable of throwing any illumination whatever on the world. Let us assume for the moment, as this theory
assumes, that nothing actually exists corresponding to the “gods” of mythology:
no personalities, only astronomical or meteorological objects. Then these natural objects can only be arrayed
with a personal significance and glory by a gift, the gift of a person, of a
man. Personality can only be derived
from a person. The gods may derive
their colour and beauty from the high splendours of nature, but it was Man who
obtained these for them, abstracted them from sun and moon and cloud; their
personality they get direct from him; the shadow or flicker of divinity that is
upon them they receive through him from the invisible world, the
Supernatural. There is no fundamental
distinction between the higher and lower mythologies. Their peoples live, if they live at all, by the same life, just
as in the mortal world do kings and peasants.
Let us take what looks like
a clear case of Olympian nature-myth: the Norse god Thórr. His name is Thunder, of which Thórr is the
Norse form; and it is not difficult to interpret his hammer, Miöllnir, as
lightning. Yet Thórr has (as far as our
late records go) a very marked character, or personality, which cannot be found
in thunder or in lightning, even though some details can, as it were, be related
to these natural phenomena: for instance, his red beard, his loud voice and
violent temper, his blundering and smashing strength. None the less it is asking a question without much meaning, if we
inquire: Which came first, nature-allegories about personalized thunder in the
mountains, splitting rocks and trees; or stories about an irascible, not very
clever, redbeard farmer, of a strength beyond common measure, a person (in all
but mere stature) very like the Northern farmers, the bœndr by whom Thórr was
chiefly beloved? To a picture of such a man Thórr may be held to have
“dwindled,” or from it the god may be held to have been enlarged. But I doubt whether either view is right—not
by itself, not if you insist that one of these things must precede the other. It is more reasonable to suppose that the
farmer popped up in the very moment when Thunder got a voice and face; that
there was a distant growl of thunder in the hills every time a story-teller
heard a farmer in a rage.
Thórr must, of course, be
reckoned a member of the higher aristocracy of mythology: one of the rulers of
the world. Yet the tale that is told of
him in Thrymskvitha (in the Elder Edda) is certainly just a fairy-story. It is old, as far as Norse poems go, but
that is not far back (say A.D. 900 or a little earlier, in this case). But there is no real reason for supposing
that this tale is “unprimitive,” at any rate in quality: that is, because it is
of folk-tale kind and not very dignified.
If we could go backwards in time, the fairy-story might be found to
change in details, or to give way to other tales. But there would always be a “fairy-tale” as long as there was any
Thórr. When the fairy-tale ceased,
there would be just thunder, which no human ear had yet heard.
Something really “higher”
is occasionally glimpsed in mythology: Divinity, the right to power (as
distinct from its possession), the due worship; in fact “religion.” Andrew Lang said, and is by some still
commended for saying, that mythology and religion (in the strict sense of that
word) are two distinct things that have become inextricably entangled, though
mythology is in itself almost devoid of religious significance.
Yet these things have in
fact become entangled—or maybe they were sundered long ago and have since groped
slowly, through a labyrinth of error, through confusion, back towards
re-fusion. Even fairy-stories as a
whole have three faces: the Mystical towards the Supernatural; the Magical
towards Nature; and the Mirror of scorn and pity towards Man. The essential face of Faerie is the middle
one, the Magical. But the degree in
which the others appear (if at all) is variable, and may be decided by the
individual story-teller. The Magical,
the fairy-story, may be used as a Mirour de l'Omme; and it may (but not so
easily) be made a vehicle of Mystery.
This at least is what George Mac-Donald attempted, achieving stories of
power and beauty when he succeeded, as in The Golden Key (which he called a
fairy-tale); and even when he partly failed, as in Lilith (which he called a
romance).
For a moment let us return
to the “Soup” that I mentioned above.
Speaking of the history of stories and especially of fairy-stories we
may say that the Pot of Soup, the Cauldron of Story, has always been boiling, and
to it have continually been added new bits, dainty and undainty. For this reason, to take a casual example,
the fact that a story resembling the one known as The Goosegirl (Die Gänsemagd
in Grimm) is told in the thirteenth century of Bertha Broadfoot, mother of
Charlemagne, really proves nothing either way: neither that the story was (in
the thirteenth century) descending from Olympus or Asgard by way of an already
legendary king of old, on its way to become a Hausmärchen; nor that it was on
its way up. The story is found to be
widespread, unattached to the mother of Charlemagne or to any historical
character. From this fact by itself we
certainly cannot deduce that it is not true of Charlemagne's mother, though
that is the kind of deduction that is most frequently made from that kind of
evidence. The opinion that the story is
not true of Bertha Broadfoot must be founded on something else: on features in
the story which the critic's philosophy does not allow to be possible in “real
life,” so that he would actually disbelieve the tale, even if it were found
nowhere else; or on the existence of good historical evidence that Bertha's
actual life was quite different, so that he would disbelieve the tale, even if
his philosophy allowed that it was perfectly possible in “real life.” No one, I fancy, would discredit a story
that the Archbishop of Canterbury slipped on a banana skin merely because he
found that a similar comic mishap had been reported of many people, and
especially of elderly gentlemen of dignity.
He might disbelieve the story, if he discovered that in it an angel (or
even a fairy) had warned the Archbishop that he would slip if he wore gaiters
on a Friday. He might also disbelieve
the story, if it was stated to have occurred in the period between, say, 1940 and
1945. So much for that. It is an obvious point, and it has been made
before; but I venture to make it again (although it is a little beside my
present purpose), for it is constantly neglected by those who concern
themselves with the origins of tales.
But what of the banana
skin? Our business with it really only begins when it has been rejected by
historians. It is more useful when it
has been thrown away. The historian would
be likely to say that the banana-skin story “became attached to the Archbishop,”
as he does say on fair evidence that “the Goosegirl Märchen became attached to
Bertha.” That way of putting it is
harmless enough, in what is commonly known as “history.” But is it really a
good description of what is going on and has gone on in the history of
story-making? I do not think so. I
think it would be nearer the truth to say that the Archbishop became attached
to the banana skin, or that Bertha was turned into the Goosegirl. Better still: I would say that Charlemagne's
mother and the Archbishop were put into the Pot, in fact got into the
Soup. They were just new bits added to
the stock. A considerable honour, for
in that soup were many things older, more potent, more beautiful, comic, or
terrible than they were in themselves (considered simply as figures of
history).
It seems fairly plain that
Arthur, once historical (but perhaps as such not of great importance), was also
put into the Pot. There he was boiled
for a long time, together with many other older figures and devices, of
mythology and Faerie, and even some other stray bones of history (such as
Alfred's defence against the Danes), until he emerged as a King of Faerie. The situation is similar in the great
Northern “Arthurian” court of the Shield-Kings of Denmark, the Scyldingas of
ancient English tradition. King
Hrothgar and his family have many manifest marks of true history, far more than
Arthur; yet even in the older (English) accounts of them they are associated
with many figures and events of fairy-story: they have been in the Pot. But I refer now to the remnants of the
oldest recorded English tales of Faerie (or its borders), in spite of the fact
that they are little known in England, not to discuss the turning of the
bear-boy into the knight Beowulf, or to explain the intrusion of the ogre
Grendel into the royal hall of Hrothgar.
I wish to point to something else that these traditions contain: a
singularly suggestive example of the relation of the “fairy-tale element” to
gods and kings and nameless men, illustrating (I believe) the view that this
element does not rise or fall, but is there, in the Cauldron of Story, waiting
for the great figures of Myth and History, and for the yet nameless He or She,
waiting for the moment when they are cast into the simmering stew, one by one
or all together, without consideration of rank or precedence.
The great enemy of King
Hrothgar was Froda, King of the Heathobards.
Yet of Hrothgar's daughter Frea-waru we hear echoes of a strange
tale—not a usual one in Northern heroic legend: the son of the enemy of her
house, Ingeld son of Froda, fell in love with her and wedded her,
disastrously. But that is extremely
interesting and significant. In the
background of the ancient feud looms the figure of that god whom the Norsemen
called Frey (the Lord) or Yngvi-frey, and the Angles called Ing: a god of the
ancient Northern mythology (and religion) of Fertility and Corn. The enmity of the royal houses was connected
with the sacred site of a cult of that religion. Ingeld and his father bear names belonging to it. Freawaru herself is named “Protection of the
Lord (of Frey).” Yet one of the chief things told later (in Old Icelandic)
about Frey is the story in which he falls in love from afar with the daughter of
the enemies of the gods, Gerdr, daughter of the giant Gymir, and weds her. Does this prove that Ingeld and Freawaru, or
their love, are “merely mythical”? I think not. History often resembles “Myth,” because they are both ultimately
of the same stuff. If indeed Ingeld and
Freawaru never lived, or at least never loved, then it is ultimately from
nameless man and woman that they get their tale, or rather into whose tale they
have entered. They have been put into
the Cauldron, where so many potent things lie simmering agelong on the fire,
among them Love-at-first-sight. So too
of the god. If no young man had ever
fallen in love by chance meeting with a maiden, and found old enmities to stand
between him and his love, then the god Frey would never have seen Gerdr the
giant's daughter from the high-seat of Odin.
But if we speak of a Cauldron, we must not wholly forget the Cooks. There are many things in the Cauldron, but
the Cooks do not dip in the ladle quite blindly. Their selection is important.
The gods are after all gods, and it is a matter of some moment what
stories are told of them. So we must
freely admit that a tale of love is more likely to be told of a prince in
history, indeed is more likely actually to happen in an historical family whose
traditions are those of Golden Frey and the Vanir, rather than those of Odin
the Goth, the Necromancer, glutter of the crows, Lord of the Slain. Small wonder that spell means both a story
told, and a formula of power over living men.
But when we have done all
that research—collection and comparison of the tales of many lands—can do; when
we have explained many of the elements commonly found embedded in fairy-stories
(such as step-mothers, enchanted bears and bulls, cannibal witches, taboos on
names, and the like) as relics of ancient customs once practised in daily life,
or of beliefs once held as beliefs and not as “fancies”— there remains still a
point too often forgotten: that is the effect produced now by these old things
in the stories as they are.
For one thing they are now
old, and antiquity has an appeal in itself.
The beauty and horror of The Juniper Tree (Von dem Machandelboom), with
its exquisite and tragic beginning, the abominable cannibal stew, the gruesome
bones, the gay and vengeful bird-spirit coming out of a mist that rose from the
tree, has remained with me since childhood; and yet always the chief flavour of
that tale lingering in the memory was not beauty or horror, but distance and a
great abyss of time, not measurable even by twe tusend Johr. Without the stew and the bones—which
children are now too often spared in mollified versions of Grimm —that vision
would largely have been lost. I do not
think I was harmed by the horror in the fairytale setting, out of whatever dark
beliefs and practices of the past it may have come. Such stories have now a mythical or total (unanalysable) effect,
an effect quite independent of the findings of Comparative Folklore, and one
which it cannot spoil or explain; they open a door on Other Time, and if we
pass through, though only for a moment, we stand outside our own time, outside
Time itself, maybe.
If we pause, not merely to
note that such old elements have been preserved, but to think how they have
been preserved, we must conclude, I think, that it has happened, often if not
always, precisely because of this literary effect. It cannot have been we, or even the brothers Grimm, that first
felt it. Fairy-stories are by no means
rocky matrices out of which the fossils cannot be prised except by an expert
geologist. The ancient elements can be
knocked out, or forgotten and dropped out, or replaced by other ingredients
with the greatest ease: as any comparison of a story with closely related
variants will show. The things that are
there must often have been retained (or inserted) because the oral narrators,
instinctively or consciously, felt their literary “significance.” Even where a
prohibition in a fairy-story is guessed to be derived from some taboo once
practised long ago, it has probably been preserved in the later stages of the
tale's history because of the great mythical significance of prohibition. A sense of that significance may indeed have
lain behind some of the taboos themselves.
Thou shalt not—or else thou shall depart beggared into endless
regret. The gentlest “nursery-tales”
know it. Even Peter Rabbit was
forbidden a garden, lost his blue coat, and took sick. The Locked Door stands as an eternal
Temptation.
I will now turn to
children, and so come to the last and most important of the three questions:
what, if any, are the values and functions of fairy-stories now? It is usually
assumed that children are the natural or the specially appropriate audience for
fairy-stories. In describing a
fairy-story which they think adults might possibly read for their own entertainment,
reviewers frequently indulge in such waggeries as: “this book is for children
from the ages of six to sixty.” But I have never yet seen the puff of a new
motor-model that began thus: “this toy will amuse infants from seventeen to
seventy”; though that to my mind would be much more appropriate. Is there any essential connexion between
children and fairy-stories? Is there
any call for comment, if an adult reads them for himself? Reads them as tales, that is, not studies
them as curios. Adults are allowed to
collect and study anything, even old theatre programmes or paper bags.
Among those who still have
enough wisdom not to think fairy-stories pernicious, the common opinion seems
to be that there is a natural connexion between the minds of children and
fairy-stories, of the same order as the connexion between children's bodies and
milk. I think this is an error; at best
an error of false sentiment, and one that is therefore most often made by those
who, for whatever private reason (such as childlessness), tend to think of
children as a special kind of creature, almost a different race, rather than as
normal, if immature, members of a particular family, and of the human family at
large.
Actually, the association
of children and fairy-stories is an accident of our domestic history. Fairy-stories have in the modern lettered
world been relegated to the “nursery,” as shabby or old-fashioned furniture is
relegated to the play-room, primarily because the adults do not want it, and do
not mind if it is misused. It is not
the choice of the children which decides this.
Children as a class—except in a common lack of experience they are not
one—neither like fairy-stories more, nor understand them better than adults do;
and no more than they like many other things.
They are young and growing, and normally have keen appetites, so the
fairy-stories as a rule go down well enough.
But in fact only some children, and some adults, have any special taste
for them; and when they have it, it is not exclusive, nor even necessarily
dominant. It is a taste, too, that
would not appear, I think, very early in childhood without artificial stimulus;
it is certainly one that does not decrease but increases with age, if it is
innate.
It is true that in recent
times fairy-stories have usually been written or “adapted” for children. But so may music be, or verse, or novels, or
history, or scientific manuals. It is a
dangerous process, even when it is necessary.
It is indeed only saved from disaster by the fact that the arts and sciences
are not as a whole relegated to the nursery; the nursery and schoolroom are
merely given such tastes and glimpses of the adult thing as seem fit for them
in adult opinion (often much mistaken).
Any one of these things would, if left altogether in the nursery, become
gravely impaired. So would a beautiful
table, a good picture, or a useful machine (such as a microscope), be defaced
or broken, if it were left long unregarded in a schoolroom. Fairy-stories banished in this way, cut off
from a full adult art, would in the end be ruined; indeed in so far as they
have been so banished, they have been ruined.
The value of fairy-stories
is thus not, in my opinion, to be found by considering children in
particular. Collections of
fairy-stories are, in fact, by nature attics and lumber-rooms, only by
temporary and local custom play-rooms.
Their contents are disordered, and often battered, a jumble of different
dates, purposes, and tastes; but among them may occasionally be found a thing
of permanent virtue: an old work of art, not too much damaged, that only
stupidity would ever have stuffed away.
Andrew Lang's Fairy Books
are not, perhaps, lumber-rooms. They
are more like stalls in a rummage-sale.
Someone with a duster and a fair eye for things that retain some value
has been round the attics and box-rooms.
His collections are largely a by-product of his adult study of mythology
and folk-lore; but they were made into and presented as books for children. Some of the reasons that Lang gave are worth
considering.
The introduction to the
first of the series speaks of “children to whom and for whom they are told.”
“They represent,” he says, “the young age of man true to his early loves, and
have his unblunted edge of belief, a fresh appetite for marvels.” ” ‘Is it
true?’ ” he says, “is the great question children ask.”
I suspect that belief and
appetite for marvels are here regarded as identical or as closely related. They are radically different, though the
appetite for marvels is not at once or at first differentiated by a growing
human mind from its general appetite.
It seems fairly clear that Lang was using belief in its ordinary sense:
belief that a thing exists or can happen in the real (primary) world. If so, then I fear that Lang's words,
stripped of sentiment, can only imply that the teller of marvellous tales to
children must, or may, or at any rate does trade on their credulity, on the
lack of experience which makes it less easy for children to distinguish fact
from fiction in particular cases, though the distinction in itself is
fundamental to the sane human mind, and to fairy-stories.
Children are capable, of
course, of literary belief, when the story-maker's art is good enough to
produce it. That state of mind has been
called “willing suspension of disbelief.” But this does not seem to me a good
description of what happens. What
really happens is that the story-maker proves a successful “sub-creator.” He
makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is “true”: it accords with the laws of
that world. You therefore believe it,
while you are, as it were, inside. The
moment disbelief arises, the spell is broken; the magic, or rather art, has
failed. You are then out in the Primary
World again, looking at the little abortive Secondary World from outside. If you are obliged, by kindliness or
circumstance, to stay, then disbelief must be suspended (or stifled), otherwise
listening and looking would become intolerable. But this suspension of disbelief is a substitute for the genuine
thing, a subterfuge we use when condescending to games or make-believe, or when
trying (more or less willingly) to find what virtue we can in the work of an
art that has for us failed.
A real enthusiast for
cricket is in the enchanted state: Secondary Belief. I, when I watch a match, am on the lower level. I can achieve (more or less) willing
suspension of disbelief, when I am held there and supported by some other
motive that will keep away boredom: for instance, a wild, heraldic, preference
for dark blue rather than light. This
suspension of disbelief may thus be a somewhat tired, shabby, or sentimental
state of mind, and so lean to the “adult.” I fancy it is often the state of
adults in the presence of a fairy-story.
They are held there and supported by sentiment (memories of childhood,
or notions of what childhood ought to be like); they think they ought to like
the tale. But if they really liked it,
for itself, they would not have to suspend disbelief: they would believe—in
this sense.
Now if Lang had meant
anything like this there might have been some truth in his words. It may be argued that it is easier to work
the spell with children. Perhaps it is,
though I am not sure of this. The
appearance that it is so is often, I think, an adult illusion produced by
children's humility, their lack of critical experience and vocabulary, and
their voracity (proper to their rapid growth).
They like or try to like what is given to them: if they do not like it,
they cannot well express their dislike or give reasons for it (and so may
conceal it); and they like a great mass of different things indiscriminately,
without troubling to analyse the planes of their belief. In any case I doubt if this potion—the
enchantment of the effective fairy-story— is really one of the kind that
becomes “blunted” by use, less potent after repeated draughts.
” ‘Is it true?’ is the
great question children ask,” Lang said.
They do ask that question, I know; and it is not one to be rashly or
idly answered. But that question is
hardly evidence of “unblunted belief,” or even of the desire for it. Most often it proceeds from the child's
desire to know which kind of literature he is faced with. Children's knowledge of the world is often
so small that they cannot judge, off-hand and without help, between the
fantastic, the strange (that is rare or remote facts), the nonsensical, and the
merely “grown-up” (that is ordinary things of their parents' world, much of
which still remains unexplored). But
they recognize the different classes, and may like all of them at times. Of course the borders between them are often
fluctuating or confused; but that is not only true for children. We all know the differences in kind, but we
are not always sure how to place anything that we hear. A child may well believe a report that there
are ogres in the next county; many grown-up persons find it easy to believe of
another country; and as for another planet, very few adults seem able to imagine
it as peopled, if at all, by anything but monsters of iniquity.
Now I was one of the
children whom Andrew Lang was addressing—I was born at about the same time as
the Green Fairy Book—the children for whom he seemed to think that
fairy-stories were the equivalent of the adult novel, and of whom he said:
“Their taste remains like the taste of their naked ancestors thousands of years
ago; and they seem to like fairy-tales better than history, poetry, geography,
or arithmetic.” But do we really know much about these “naked ancestors,”
except that they were certainly not naked? Our fairy-stories, however old
certain elements in them may be, are certainly not the same as theirs. Yet if it is assumed that we have
fairy-stories because they did, then probably we have history, geography,
poetry, and arithmetic because they liked these things too, as far as they
could get them, and in so far as they had yet separated the many branches of
their general interest in everything.
And as for children of the
present day, Lang's description does not fit my own memories, or my experience
of children. Lang may have been
mistaken about the children he knew, but if he was not, then at any rate
children differ considerably, even within the narrow borders of Britain, and such
generalizations which treat them as a class (disregarding their individual
talents, and the influences of the countryside they live in, and their
upbringing) are delusory. I had no
special “wish to believe.” I wanted to know.
Belief depended on the way in which stories were presented to me, by
older people, or by the authors, or on the inherent tone and quality of the
tale. But at no time can I remember
that the enjoyment of a story was dependent on belief that such things could
happen, or had happened, in “real life.” Fairy-stories were plainly not
primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability. If they awakened desire, satisfying it while
often whetting it unbearably, they succeeded.
It is not necessary to be more explicit here, for I hope to say
something later about this desire, a complex of many ingredients, some
universal, some particular to modern men (including modern children), or even
to certain kinds of men. I had no
desire to have either dreams or adventures like Alice, and the amount of them
merely amused me. I had very little
desire to look for buried treasure or fight pirates, and Treasure Island left
me cool. Red Indians were better: there
were bows and arrows (I had and have a wholly unsatisfied desire to shoot well
with a bow), and strange languages, and glimpses of an archaic mode of life,
and, above all, forests in such stories.
But the land of Merlin and Arthur was better than these, and best of all
the nameless North of Sigurd of the Völsungs, and the prince of all
dragons. Such lands were pre-eminently desirable. I never imagined that the dragon was of the
same order as the horse. And that was
not solely because I saw horses daily, but never even the footprint of a worm. The dragon had the trade-mark Of Faerie
written plain upon him. In whatever
world he had his being it was an Other-world.
Fantasy, the making or glimpsing of Other-worlds, was the heart of the
desire of Faërie. I desired dragons
with a profound desire. Of course, I in
my timid body did not wish to have them in the neighbourhood, intruding into my
relatively safe world, in which it was, for instance, possible to read stories
in peace of mind, free from fear. But
the world that contained even the imagination of Fáfnir was richer and more
beautiful, at whatever cost of peril.
The dweller in the quiet and fertile plains may hear of the tormented
hills and the unharvested sea and long for them in his heart. For the heart is hard though the body be
soft.
All the same, important as
I now perceive the fairy-story element in early reading to have been, speaking
for myself as a child, I can only say that a liking for fairy-stories was not a
dominant characteristic of early taste.
A real taste for them awoke after “nursery” days, and after the years, few
but long-seeming, between learning to read and going to school. In that (I nearly wrote “happy” or “golden,”
it was really a sad and troublous) time I liked many other things as well, or
better: such as history, astronomy, botany, grammar, and etymology. I agreed with Lang's generalized “children”
not at all in principle, and only in some points by accident: I was, for
instance, insensitive to poetry, and skipped it if it came in tales. Poetry I discovered much later in Latin and
Greek, and especially through being made to try and translate English verse
into classical verse. A real taste for
fairy-stories was wakened by philology on the threshold of manhood, and
quickened to full life by war.
I have said, perhaps, more
than enough on this point. At least it
will be plain that in my opinion fairy-stories should not be specially
associated with children. They are
associated with them: naturally, because children are human and fairy-stories
are a natural human taste (though not necessarily a universal one);
accidentally, because fairy-stories are a large part of the literary lumber
that in latter-day Europe has been stuffed away in attics; unnaturally, because
of erroneous sentiment about children, a sentiment that seems to increase with
the decline in children.
It is true that the age of
childhood-sentiment has produced some delightful books (especially charming,
however, to adults) of the fairy kind or near to it; but it has also produced a
dreadful undergrowth of stories written or adapted to what was or is conceived
to be the measure of children's minds and needs. The old stories are mollified or bowdlerized, instead of being
reserved; the imitations are often merely silly, Pigwig-genry without even the
intrigue; or patronizing; or (deadliest of all) covertly sniggering, with an
eye on the other grown-ups present. I
will not accuse Andrew Lang of sniggering, but certainly he smiled to himself,
and certainly too often he had an eye on the faces of other clever people over
the heads of his child-audience —to the very grave detriment of the Chronicles
of Pantouflia.
Dasent replied with vigour
and justice to the prudish critics of his translations from Norse popular
tales. Yet he committed the astonishing
folly of particularly forbidding children to read the last two in his collection. That a man could study fairy-stories and not
learn better than that seems almost incredible. But neither criticism, rejoinder, nor prohibition would have been
necessary if children had not unnecessarily been regarded as the inevitable
readers of the book. I do not deny that
there is a truth in Andrew Lang's words (sentimental though they may sound):
“He who would enter into the Kingdom of Faerie should have the heart of a
little child.” For that possession is necessary to all high adventure, into
kingdoms both less and far greater than Faerie. But humility and innocence— these things “the heart of a child”
must mean in such a context—do not necessarily imply an uncritical wonder, nor
indeed an uncritical tenderness.
Chesterton once remarked that the children in whose company he saw
Maeterlinck's Blue Bird were dissatisfied “because it did not end with a Day of
Judgement, and it was not revealed to the hero and the heroine that the Dog had
been faithful and the Cat faithless.” “For children,” he says, “are innocent
and love justice; while most of us are wicked and naturally prefer mercy.”
Andrew Lang was confused on
this point. He was at pains to defend
the slaying of the Yellow Dwarf by Prince Ricardo in one of his own
fairy-stories. ”I hate cruelty,” he
said, ”. . . but that was in fair
fight, sword in hand, and the dwarf, peace to his ashes! died in harness.” Yet
it is not clear that “fair fight” is less cruel than “fair judgement”; or that
piercing a dwarf with a sword is more just than the execution of wicked kings
and evil stepmothers—which Lang abjures: he sends the criminals (as he boasts)
to retirement on ample pensions. That
is mercy untempered by justice. It is
true that this plea was not addressed to children but to parents and guardians,
to whom Lang was recommending his own Prince Prigio and Prince Ricardo as
suitable for their charges. It is
parents and guardians who have classified fairy-stories as Juvenilia. And this is a small sample of the
falsification of values that results.
If we use child in a good
sense (it has also legitimately a bad one) we must not allow that to push us
into the sentimentality of only using adult or grown-up in a bad sense (it has
also legitimately a good one). The
process of growing older is not necessarily allied to growing wickeder, though
the two do often happen together.
Children are meant to grow up, and not to become Peter Pans. Not to lose innocence and wonder, but to
proceed on the appointed journey: that journey upon which it is certainly not
better to travel hopefully than to arrive, though we must travel hopefully if
we are to arrive. But it is one of the
lessons of fairy-stories (if we can speak of the lessons of things that do not
lecture) that on callow, lumpish, and selfish youth peril, sorrow, and the
shadow of death can bestow dignity, and even sometimes wisdom.
Let us not divide the human
race into Eloi and Morlocks: pretty children—“elves” as the eighteenth century
often idiotically called them—with their fairytales (carefully pruned), and
dark Morlocks tending their machines.
If fairy-story as a kind is worth reading at all it is worthy to be
written for and read by adults. They
will, of course, put more in and get more out than children can. Then, as a branch of a genuine art, children
may hope to get fairy-stories fit for them to read and yet within their
measure; as they may hope to get suitable introductions to poetry, history, and
the sciences. Though it may be better
for them to read some things, especially fairy-stories, that are beyond their
measure rather than short of it. Their
books like their clothes should allow for growth, and their books at any rate
should encourage it.
Very well, then. If adults are to read fairy-stories as a
natural branch of literature—neither playing at being children, nor pretending
to be choosing for children, nor being boys who would not grow up—what are the
values and functions of this kind? That is, I think, the last and most
important question. I have already
hinted at some of my answers. First of all:
if written with art, the prime value of fairy-stories will simply be that value
which, as literature, they share with other literary forms. But fairy-stories offer also, in a peculiar
degree or mode, these things: Fantasy, Recovery, Escape, Consolation, all
things of which children have, as a rule, less need than older people. Most of them are nowadays very commonly
considered to be bad for anybody. I
will consider them briefly, and will begin with Fantasy.
The human mind is capable
of forming mental images of things not actually present. The faculty of conceiving the images is (or
was) naturally called Imagination. But
in recent times, in technical not normal language, Imagination has often been
held to be something higher than the mere image-making, ascribed to the
operations of Fancy (a reduced and depreciatory form of the older word
Fantasy); an attempt is thus made to restrict, I should say misapply,
Imagination to “the power of giving to ideal creations the inner consistency of
reality.”
Ridiculous though it may be
for one so ill-instructed to have an opinion on this critical matter, I venture
to think the verbal distinction philologically inappropriate, and the analysis
inaccurate. The mental power of image-making
is one thing, or aspect; and it should appropriately be called
Imagination. The perception of the
image, the grasp of its implications, and the control, which are necessary to a
successful expression, may vary in vividness and strength: but this is a
difference of degree in Imagination, not a difference in kind. The achievement of the expression, which
gives (or seems to give) “the inner consistency of reality,” is indeed another
thing, or aspect, needing another name: Art, the operative link between
Imagination and the final result, Sub-creation. For my present purpose I require a word which shall embrace both
the Sub-creative Art in itself and a quality of strangeness and wonder in the
Expression, derived from the Image: a quality essential to fairy-story. I propose, therefore, to arrogate to myself
the powers of Humpty-Dumpty, and to use Fantasy for this purpose: in a sense,
that is, which combines with its older and higher use as an equivalent of
Imagination the derived notions of “unreality” (that is, of unlikeness to the
Primary World), of freedom from the domination of observed “fact,” in short of
the fantastic. I am thus not only aware
but glad of the etymological and semantic connexions of fantasy with fantastic:
with images of things that are not only “not actually present,” but which are
indeed not to be found in our primary world at all, or are generally believed
not to be found there. But while
admitting that, I do not assent to the depreciative tone. That the images are of things not in the
primary world (if that indeed is possible) is a virtue, not a vice. Fantasy (in this sense) is, I think, not a
lower but a higher form of Art, indeed the most nearly pure form, and so (when
achieved) the most potent.
Fantasy, of course, starts
out with an advantage: arresting strangeness.
But that advantage has been turned against it, and has contributed to
its disrepute. Many people dislike
being “arrested.” They dislike any meddling with the Primary World, or such
small glimpses of it as are familiar to them.
They, therefore, stupidly and even maliciously confound Fantasy with
Dreaming, in which there is no Art; and with mental disorders, in which there
is not even control: with delusion and hallucination.
But the error or malice,
engendered by disquiet and consequent dislike, is not the only cause of this
confusion. Fantasy has also an
essential drawback: it is difficult to achieve. Fantasy may be, as I think, not less but more sub-creative; but
at any rate it is found in practice that “the inner consistency of reality” is
more difficult to produce, the more unlike are the images and the
rearrangements of primary material to the actual arrangements of the Primary
World. It is easier to produce this
kind of “reality” with more “sober” material.
Fantasy thus, too often, remains undeveloped; it is and has been used
frivolously, or only half-seriously, or merely for decoration: it remains merely
“fanciful.” Anyone inheriting the fantastic device of human language can say
the green sun. Many can then imagine or
picture it. But that is not
enough—though it may already be a more potent thing than many a “thumbnail
sketch” or “transcript of life” that receives literary praise.
To make a Secondary World
inside which the green sun will be credible, commanding Secondary Belief, will
probably require labour and thought, and will certainly demand a special skill,
a kind of elvish craft. Few attempt
such difficult tasks. But when they are
attempted and in any degree accomplished then we have a rare achievement of
Art: indeed narrative art, story-making in its primary and most potent mode.
In human art Fantasy is a
thing best left to words, to true literature.
In painting, for instance, the visible presentation of the fantastic
image is technically too easy; the hand tends to outrun the mind, even to
overthrow it. Silliness or morbidity
are frequent results. It is a
misfortune that Drama, an art fundamentally distinct from Literature, should so
commonly be considered together with it, or as a branch of it. Among these misfortunes we may reckon the
depreciation of Fantasy. For in part at
least this depreciation is due to the natural desire of critics to cry up the
forms of literature or “imagination” that they themselves, innately or by
training, prefer. And criticism in a
country that has produced so great a Drama, and possesses the works of William
Shakespeare, tends to be far too dramatic.
But Drama is naturally hostile to Fantasy. Fantasy, even of the simplest kind, hardly ever succeeds in
Drama, when that is presented as it should be, visibly and audibly acted. Fantastic forms are not to be
counterfeited. Men dressed up as talking
animals may achieve buffoonery or mimicry, but they do not achieve
Fantasy. This is, I think, well
illustrated by the failure of the bastard form, pantomime. The nearer it is to “dramatized fairy-story”
the worse it is. It is only tolerable
when the plot and its fantasy are reduced to a mere vestigiary framework for
farce, and no “belief” of any kind in any part of the performance is required
or expected of anybody. This is, of
course, partly due to the fact that the producers of drama have to, or try to,
work with mechanism to represent either Fantasy or Magic. I once saw a so-called “children's
pantomime,” the straight story of Puss-in-Boots, with even the metamorphosis of
the ogre into a mouse. Had this been
mechanically successful it would either have terrified the spectators or else
have been just a turn of high-class conjuring.
As it was, though done with some ingenuity of lighting, disbelief had
not so much to be suspended as hanged, drawn, and quartered.
In Macbeth, when it is
read, I find the witches tolerable: they have a narrative function and some
hint of dark significance; though they are vulgarized, poor things of their
kind. They are almost intolerable in
the play. They would be quite
intolerable, if I were not fortified by some memory of them as they are in the
story as read. I am told that I should
feel differently if I had the mind of the period, with its witch-hunts and
witch-trials. But that is to say: if I
regarded the witches as possible, indeed likely, in the Primary World; in other
words, if they ceased to be “Fantasy.” That argument concedes the point. To be dissolved, or to be degraded, is the
likely fate of Fantasy when a dramatist tries to use it, even such a dramatist
as Shakespeare. Macbeth is indeed a
work by a playwright who ought, at least on this occasion, to have written a
story, if he had the skill or patience for that art.
A reason, more important, I
think, than the inadequacy of stage-effects, is this: Drama has, of its very
nature, already attempted a kind of bogus, or shall I say at least substitute,
magic: the visible and audible presentation of imaginary men in a story. That is in itself an attempt to counterfeit
the magician's wand. To introduce, even
with mechanical success, into this quasi-magical secondary world a further
fantasy or magic is to demand, as it were, an inner or tertiary world. It is a world too much. To make such a thing may not be impossible. I have never seen it done with success. But at least it cannot be claimed as the
proper mode of Drama, in which walking and talking people have been found to be
the natural instruments of Art and illusion.
For this precise
reason—that the characters, and even the scenes, are in Drama not imagined but
actually beheld—Drama is, even though it uses a similar material (words, verse,
plot), an art fundamentally different from narrative art. Thus, if you prefer Drama to Literature (as
many literary critics plainly do), or form your critical theories primarily
from dramatic critics, or even from Drama, you are apt to misunderstand pure
story-making, and to constrain it to the limitations of stage-plays. You are, for instance, likely to prefer
characters, even the basest and dullest, to things. Very little about trees as trees can be got into a play.
Now “Faërian Drama”—those
plays which according to abundant records the elves have often presented to
men—can produce Fantasy with a realism and immediacy beyond the compass of any
human mechanism. As a result their
usual effect (upon a man) is to go beyond Secondary Belief. If you are present at a Faërian drama you
yourself are, or think that you are, bodily inside its Secondary World. The experience may be very similar to
Dreaming and has (it would seem) sometimes (by men) been confounded with it. But in Faërian drama you are in a dream that
some other mind is weaving, and the knowledge of that alarming fact may slip
from your grasp. To experience directly
a Secondary World: the potion is too strong, and you give to it Primary Belief,
however marvellous the events. You are
deluded—whether that is the intention of the elves (always or at any time) is
another question. They at any rate are
not themselves deluded. This is for
them a form of Art, and distinct from Wizardry or Magic, properly so called. They do not live in it, though they can,
perhaps, afford to spend more time at it than human artists can. The Primary World, Reality, of elves and men
is the same, if differently valued and perceived.
We need a word for this elvish
craft, but all the words that have been applied to it have been blurred and
confused with other things. Magic is
ready to hand, and I have used it above (p.
39), but I should not have done so: Magic should be reserved for the
operations of the Magician. Art is the
human process that produces by the way (it is not its only or ultimate object)
Secondary Belief. Art of the same sort,
if more skilled and effortless, the elves can also use, or so the reports seem
to show; but the more potent and specially elvish craft I will, for lack of a
less debatable word, call Enchantment.
Enchantment produces a Secondary World into which both designer and
spectator can enter, to the satisfaction of their senses while they are inside;
but in its purity it is artistic in desire and purpose. Magic produces, or pretends to produce, an
alteration in the Primary World. It
does not matter by whom it is said to be practised, fay or mortal, it remains
distinct from the other two; it is not an art but a technique; its desire is
power in this world, domination of things and wills.
To the elvish craft,
Enchantment, Fantasy aspires, and when it is successful of all forms of human
art most nearly approaches. At the
heart of many man-made stories of the elves lies, open or concealed, pure or
alloyed, the desire for a living, realized sub-creative art, which (however
much it may outwardly resemble it) is inwardly wholly different from the greed
for self-centred power which is the mark of the mere Magician. Of this desire the elves, in their better
(but still perilous) part, are largely made; and it is from them that we may
learn what is the central desire and aspiration of human Fantasy—even if the
elves are, all the more in so far as they are, only a product of Fantasy itself. That creative desire is only cheated by
counterfeits, whether the innocent but clumsy devices of the human dramatist,
or the malevolent frauds of the magicians.
In this world it is for men unsatisfiable, and so imperishable. Uncorrupted, it does not seek delusion nor
bewitchment and domination; it seeks shared enrichment, partners in making and
delight, not slaves.
To many, Fantasy, this
sub-creative art which plays strange tricks with the world and all that is in
it, combining nouns and redistributing adjectives, has seemed suspect, if not
illegitimate. To some it has seemed at
least a childish folly, a thing only for peoples or for persons in their youth. As for its legitimacy I will say no more
than to quote a brief passage from a letter I once wrote to a man who described
myth and fairy-story as “lies”; though to do him justice he was kind enough and
confused enough to call fairy-story-making “Breathing a lie through Silver.”
“Dear Sir,” I
said—Although now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not de-throned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned:
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted Light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons—'twas our right
(used or misused). That right has not
decayed:
we make still by the law in which we're made.”
Fantasy is a natural human
activity. It certainly does not destroy
or even insult Reason; and it does not either blunt the appetite for, nor
obscure the perception of, scientific verity.
On the contrary. The keener and
the clearer is the reason, the better fantasy will it make. If men were ever in a state in which they
did not want to know or could not perceive truth (facts or evidence), then
Fantasy would languish until they were cured.
If they ever get into that state (it would not seem at all impossible),
Fantasy will perish, and become Morbid Delusion.
For creative Fantasy is
founded upon the hard recognition that things are so in the world as it appears
under the sun; on a recognition of fact, but not a slavery to it. So upon logic was founded the nonsense that
displays itself in the tales and rhymes of Lewis Carroll. If men really could not distinguish between
frogs and men, fairy-stories about frog-kings would not have arisen.
Fantasy can, of course, be
carried to excess. It can be ill
done. It can be put to evil uses. It may even delude the minds out of which it
came. But of what human thing in this
fallen world is that not true? Men have conceived not only of elves, but they
have imagined gods, and worshipped them, even worshipped those most deformed by
their authors' own evil. But they have
made false gods out of other materials: their notions, their banners, their
monies; even their sciences and their social and economic theories have
demanded human sacrifice. Abusus non
tollit usum. Fantasy remains a human
right: we make in our measure and in our derivative mode, because we are made:
and not only made, but made in the image and likeness of a Maker.
As for old age, whether
personal or belonging to the times in which we live, it may be true, as is
often supposed, that this imposes disabilities (cf. p. 59). But it is in the main an idea produced by
the mere study of fairy-stories. The
analytic study of fairy-stories is as bad a preparation for the enjoying or the
writing of them as would be the historical study of the drama of all lands and
times for the enjoyment or writing of stage-plays. The study may indeed become depressing. It is easy for the student to feel that with all his labour he is
collecting only a few leaves, many of them now torn or decayed, from the
countless foliage of the Tree of Tales, with which the Forest of Days is
carpeted. It seems vain to add to the
litter. Who can design a new leaf? The
patterns from bud to unfolding, and the colours from spring to autumn were all
discovered by men long ago. But that is
not true. The seed of the tree can be
replanted in almost any soil, even in one so smoke-ridden (as Lang said) as
that of England. Spring is, of course,
not really less beautiful because we have seen or heard of other like events:
like events, never from world's beginning to world's end the same event. Each leaf, of oak and ash and thorn, is a
unique embodiment of the pattern, and for some this very year may be the
embodiment, the first ever seen and recognized, though oaks have put forth
leaves for countless generations of men.
We do not, or need not,
despair of drawing because all lines must be either curved or straight, nor of
painting because there are only three “primary” colours. We may indeed be older now, in so far as we
are heirs in enjoyment or in practice of many generations of ancestors in the
arts. In this inheritance of wealth
there may be a danger of boredom or of anxiety to be original, and that may
lead to a distaste for fine drawing, delicate pattern, and “pretty” colours, or
else to mere manipulation and over-elaboration of old material, clever and
heartless. But the true road of escape
from such weariness is not to be found in the wilfully awkward, clumsy, or
misshapen, not in making all things dark or unremittingly violent; nor in the
mixing of colours on through subtlety to drabness, and the fantastical complication
of shapes to the point of silliness and on towards delirium. Before we reach such states we need
recovery. We should look at green
again, and be startled anew (but not blinded) by blue and yellow and red. We should meet the centaur and the dragon,
and then perhaps suddenly behold, like the ancient shepherds, sheep, and dogs,
and horses— and wolves. This recovery
fairy-stories help us to make. In that
sense only a taste for them may make us, or keep us, childish.
Recovery (which includes
return and renewal of health) is a re-gaining—regaining of a clear view. I do not say “seeing things as they are” and
involve myself with the philosophers, though I might venture to say “seeing
things as we are (or were) meant to see them”—as things apart from ourselves. We need, in any case, to clean our windows;
so that the things seen clearly may be freed from the drab blur of triteness or
familiarity—from possessiveness. Of all
faces those of our familiares are the ones both most difficult to play
fantastic tricks with, and most difficult really to see with fresh attention,
perceiving their likeness and unlikeness: that they are faces, and yet unique
faces. This triteness is really the
penalty of “appropriation”: the things that are trite, or (in a bad sense)
familiar, are the things that we have appropriated, legally or mentally. We say we know them. They have become like the things which once
attracted us by their glitter, or their colour, or their shape, and we laid
hands on them, and then locked them in our hoard, acquired them, and acquiring
ceased to look at them.
Of course, fairy-stories
are not the only means of recovery, or prophylactic against loss. Humility is enough. And there is (especially for the humble)
Mooreeffoc, or Chestertonian Fantasy.
Mooreeffoc is a fantastic word, but it could be seen written up in every
town in this land. It is Coffee-room,
viewed from the inside through a glass door, as it was seen by Dickens on a
dark London day; and it was used by Chesterton to denote the queerness of
things that have become trite, when they are seen suddenly from a new
angle. That kind of “fantasy” most
people would allow to be wholesome enough; and it can never lack for material. But it has, I think, only a limited power;
for the reason that recovery of freshness of vision is its only virtue. The word Mooreeffoc may cause you suddenly
to realize that England is an utterly alien land, lost either in some remote
past age glimpsed by history, or in some strange dim future to be reached only
by a time-machine; to see the amazing oddity and interest of its inhabitants
and their customs and feeding-habits; but it cannot do more than that: act as a
time-telescope focused on one spot.
Creative fantasy, because it is mainly trying to do something else (make
something new), may open your hoard and let all the locked things fly away like
cage-birds. The gems all turn into
flowers or flames, and you will be warned that all you had (or knew) was
dangerous and potent, not really effectively chained, free and wild; no more
yours than they were you.
The “fantastic” elements in
verse and prose of other kinds, even when only decorative or occasional, help
in this release. But not so thoroughly
as a fairy-story, a thing built on or about Fantasy, of which Fantasy is the
core. Fantasy is made out of the
Primary World, but a good craftsman loves his material, and has a knowledge and
feeling for clay, stone and wood which only the art of making can give. By the forging of Gram cold iron was
revealed; by the making of Pegasus horses were ennobled; in the Trees of the
Sun and Moon root and stock, flower and fruit are manifested in glory.
And actually fairy-stories
deal largely, or (the better ones) mainly, with simple or fundamental things,
untouched by Fantasy, but these simplicities are made all the more luminous by
their setting. For the story-maker who
allows himself to be “free with” Nature can be her lover not her slave. It was in fairy-stories that I first divined
the potency of the words, and the wonder of the things, such as stone, and
wood, and iron; tree and grass; house and fire; bread and wine.
I will now conclude by
considering Escape and Consolation, which are naturally closely connected. Though fairy-stories are of course by no
means the only medium of Escape, they are today one of the most obvious and (to
some) outrageous forms of “escapist” literature; and it is thus reasonable to
attach to a consideration of them some considerations of this term “escape” in
criticism generally.
I have claimed that Escape
is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of
them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which
“Escape” is now so often used: a tone for which the uses of the word outside
literary criticism give no warrant at all.
In what the misusers are fond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently
as a rule very practical, and may even be heroic. In real life it is difficult to blame it, unless it fails; in
criticism it would seem to be the worse the better it succeeds. Evidently we are faced by a misuse of words,
and also by a confusion of thought. Why
should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and
go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics
than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real
because the prisoner cannot see it. In
using escape in this way the critics have chosen the wrong word, and, what is
more, they are confusing, not always by sincere error, the Escape of the
Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter.
Just so a Party-spokesman might have labelled departure from the misery
of the Führer's or any other Reich and even criticism of it as treachery. In the same way these critics, to make confusion
worse, and so to bring into contempt their opponents, stick their label of
scorn not only on to Desertion, but on to real Escape, and what are often its
companions, Disgust, Anger, Condemnation, and Revolt. Not only do they confound the escape of the prisoner with the
flight of the deserter; but they would seem to prefer the acquiescence of the
“quisling” to the resistance of the patriot.
To such thinking you have only to say “the land you loved is doomed” to excuse
any treachery, indeed to glorify it.
For a trifling instance:
not to mention (indeed not to parade) electric street-lamps of mass-produced
pattern in your tale is Escape (in that sense). But it may, almost certainly does, proceed from a considered disgust
for so typical a product of the Robot Age, that combines elaboration and
ingenuity of means with ugliness, and (often) with inferiority of result. These lamps may be excluded from the tale
simply because they are bad lamps; and it is possible that one of the lessons
to be learnt from the story is the realization of this fact. But out comes the big stick: “Electric lamps
have come to stay,” they say. Long ago
Chesterton truly remarked that, as soon as he heard that anything “had come to
stay,” he knew that it would be very soon replaced—indeed regarded as pitiably
obsolete and shabby. “The march of
Science, its tempo quickened by the needs of war, goes inexorably on ... making some things obsolete, and foreshadowing
new developments in the utilization of electricity”: an advertisement. This says the same thing only more
menacingly. The electric street-lamp
may indeed be ignored, simply because it is so insignificant and transient. Fairy-stories, at any rate, have many more
permanent and fundamental things to talk about. Lightning, for example.
The escapist is not so subservient to the whims of evanescent fashion as
these opponents. He does not make
things (which it may be quite rational to regard as bad) his masters or his
gods by worshipping them as inevitable, even “inexorable.” And his opponents,
so easily contemptuous, have no guarantee that he will stop there: he might
rouse men to pull down the street-lamps.
Escapism has another and even wickeder face: Reaction.
Not long ago—incredible
though it may seem—I heard a clerk of Oxenford declare that he “welcomed” the
proximity of mass-production robot factories, and the roar of self-obstructive
mechanical traffic, because it brought his university into “contact with real
life.” He may have meant that the way men were living and working in the
twentieth century was increasing in barbarity at an alarming rate, and that the
loud demonstration of this in the streets of Oxford might serve as a warning
that it is not possible to preserve for long an oasis of sanity in a desert of
unreason by mere fences, without actual offensive action (practical and
intellectual). I fear he did not. In any case the expression “real life” in
this context seems to fall short of academic standards. The notion that motor-cars are more “alive”
than, say, centaurs or dragons is curious; that they are more “real” than, say,
horses is pathetically absurd. How
real, how startlingly alive is a factory chimney compared with an elm-tree:
poor obsolete thing, insubstantial dream of an escapist!
For my part, I cannot
convince myself that the roof of Bletchley station is more “real” than the
clouds. And as an artefact I find it
less inspiring than the legendary dome of heaven. The bridge to platform 4 is to me less interesting than Bifröst
guarded by Heimdall with the Gjallarhorn.
From the wildness of my heart I cannot exclude the question whether
railway-engineers, if they had been brought up on more fantasy, might not have
done better with all their abundant means than they commonly do. Fairy-stories might be, I guess, better
Masters of Arts than the academic person I have referred to.
Much that he (I must
suppose) and others (certainly) would call “serious” literature is no more than
play under a glass roof by the side of a municipal swimming-bath. Fairy-stories may invent monsters that fly
the air or dwell in the deep, but at least they do not try to escape from
heaven or the sea.
And if we leave aside for a
moment “fantasy,” I do not think that the reader or the maker of fairy-stories
need even be ashamed of the “escape” of archaism: of preferring not dragons but
horses, castles, sailing-ships, bows and arrows; not only elves, but knights
and kings and priests. For it is after
all possible for a rational man, after reflection (quite unconnected with
fairy-story or romance), to arrive at the condemnation, implicit at least in
the mere silence of “escapist” literature, of progressive things like
factories, or the machine-guns and bombs that appear to be their most natural
and inevitable, dare we say “inexorable,” products.
“The rawness and ugliness
of modern European life”—that real life whose contact we should welcome —“is
the sign of a biological inferiority, of an insufficient or false reaction to
environment.” The maddest castle that ever came out of a giant's bag in a wild
Gaelic story is not only much less ugly than a robot-factory, it is also (to
use a very modern phrase) “in a very real sense” a great deal more real. Why should we not escape from or condemn the
“grim Assyrian” absurdity of top-hats, or the Morlockian horror of factories?
They are condemned even by the writers of that most escapist form of all
literature, stories of Science fiction.
These prophets often foretell (and many seem to yearn for) a world like
one big glass-roofed railway-station. But
from them it is as a rule very hard to gather what men in such a world-town
will do. They may abandon the “full
Victorian panoply” for loose garments (with zip-fasteners), but will use this
freedom mainly, it would appear, in order to play with mechanical toys in the
soon-cloying game of moving at high speed.
To judge by some of these tales they will still be as lustful, vengeful,
and greedy as ever; and the ideals of their idealists hardly reach farther than
the splendid notion of building more towns of the same sort on other
planets. It is indeed an age of
“improved means to deteriorated ends.” It is part of the essential malady of
such days— producing the desire to escape, not indeed from life, but from our present
time and self-made misery— that we are acutely conscious both of the ugliness
of our works, and of their evil. So
that to us evil and ugliness seem indissolubly allied. We find it difficult to conceive of evil and
beauty together. The fear of the
beautiful fay that ran through the elder ages almost eludes our grasp. Even more alarming: goodness is itself
bereft of its proper beauty. In Faerie
one can indeed conceive of an ogre who possesses a castle hideous as a
nightmare (for the evil of the ogre wills it so), but one cannot conceive of a
house built with a good purpose—an inn, a hostel for travellers, the hall of a
virtuous and noble king—that is yet sickeningly ugly. At the present day it would be rash to hope to see one that was
not—unless it was built before our time.
This, however, is the
modern and special (or accidental) “escapist” aspect of fairy-stories, which
they share with romances, and other stories out of or about the past. Many stories out of the past have only
become “escapist” in their appeal through surviving from a time when men were
as a rule delighted with the work of their hands into our time, when many men
feel disgust with man-made things.
But there are also other
and more profound “escapisms” that have always appeared in fairy-tale and
legend. There are other things more
grim and terrible to fly from than the noise, stench, ruthlessness, and
extravagance of the internal-combustion engine. There are hunger, thirst, poverty, pain, sorrow, injustice,
death. And even when men are not facing
hard things such as these, there are ancient limitations from which
fairy-stories offer a sort of escape, and old ambitions and desires (touching
the very roots of fantasy) to which they offer a kind of satisfaction and
consolation. Some are pardonable
weaknesses or curiosities: such as the desire to visit, free as a fish, the
deep sea; or the longing for the noiseless, gracious, economical flight of a
bird, that longing which the aeroplane cheats, except in rare moments, seen
high and by wind and distance noiseless, turning in the sun: that is, precisely
when imagined and not used. There are
profounder wishes: such as the desire to converse with other living
things. On this desire, as ancient as the
Fall, is largely founded the talking of beasts and creatures in fairy-tales,
and especially the magical understanding of their proper speech. This is the root, and not the “confusion”
attributed to the minds of men of the unrecorded past, an alleged “absence of
the sense of separation of ourselves from beasts.” A vivid sense of that
separation is very ancient; but also a sense that it was a severance: a strange
fate and a guilt lies on us. Other
creatures are like other realms with which Man has broken off relations, and
sees now only from the outside at a distance, being at war with them, or on the
terms of an uneasy armistice. There are
a few men who are privileged to travel abroad a little; others must be content
with travellers' tales. Even about
frogs. In speaking of that rather odd
but widespread fairy-story The Frog-King Max Müller asked in his prim way: “How
came such a story ever to be invented? Human beings were, we may hope, at all
times sufficiently enlightened to know that a marriage between a frog and the
daughter of a queen was absurd.” Indeed we may hope so! For if not, there would
be no point in this story at all, depending as it does essentially on the sense
of the absurdity. Folk-lore origins (or
guesses about them) are here quite beside the point. It is of little avail to consider totemism. For certainly, whatever customs or beliefs
about frogs and wells lie behind this story, the frog-shape was and is
preserved in the fairy-story precisely because it was so queer and the marriage
absurd, indeed abominable. Though, of
course, in the versions which concern us, Gaelic, German, English, there is in
fact no wedding between a princess and a frog: the frog was an enchanted
prince. And the point of the story lies
not in thinking frogs possible mates, but in the necessity of keeping promises
(even those with intolerable consequences) that, together with observing
prohibitions, runs through all Fairyland.
This is one of the notes of the horns of Elfland, and not a dim note.
And lastly there is the
oldest and deepest desire, the Great Escape: the Escape from Death. Fairy-stories provide many examples and
modes of this—which might be called the genuine escapist, or (I would say)
fugitive spirit. But so do other
stories (notably those of scientific inspiration), and so do other
studies. Fairy-stories are made by men not
by fairies. The Human-stories of the
elves are doubtless full of the Escape from Deathlessness. But our stories cannot be expected always to
rise above our common level. They often
do. Few lessons are taught more clearly
in them than the burden of that kind of immortality, or rather endless serial
living, to which the “fugitive” would fly.
For the fairy-story is specially apt to teach such things, of old and
still today. Death is the theme that
most inspired George MacDonald.
But the “consolation” of
fairy-tales has another aspect than the imaginative satisfaction of ancient
desires. Far more important is the
Consolation of the Happy Ending. Almost
I would venture to assert that all complete fairy-stories must have it. At least I would say that Tragedy is the
true form of Drama, its highest function; but the opposite is true of
Fairy-story. Since we do not appear to
possess a word that expresses this opposite—I will call it Eucatastrophe. The eucatastrophic tale is the true form of
fairy-tale, and its highest function.
The consolation of
fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good
catastrophe, the sudden joyous “turn” (for there is no true end to any fairy-tale):
this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely
well, is not essentially “escapist,” nor “fugitive.” In its fairy-tale—or
otherworld—setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on
to recur. It does not deny the
existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is
necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence,
if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting
glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.
It is the mark of a good
fairy-story, of the higher or more complete kind, that however wild its events,
however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that
hears it, when the “turn” comes, a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of
the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears, as keen as that given by
any form of literary art, and having a peculiar quality.
Even modern fairy-stories
can produce this effect sometimes. It
is not an easy thing to do; it depends on the whole story which is the setting
of the turn, and yet it reflects a glory backwards. A tale that in any measure succeeds in this point has not wholly
failed, whatever flaws it may possess, and whatever mixture or confusion of
purpose. It happens even in Andrew
Lang's own fairy-story, Prince Prigio, unsatisfactory in many ways as that
is. When “each knight came alive and
lifted his sword and shouted ‘long live Prince Prigio,’ ” the joy has a little
of that strange mythical fairy-story quality, greater than the event
described. It would have none in Lang's
tale, if the event described were not a piece of more serious fairy-story
“fantasy” than the main bulk of the story, which is in general more frivolous,
having the half-mocking smile of the courtly, sophisticated Conte. Far more powerful and poignant is the effect
in a serious tale of Faërie. In such stories
when the sudden “turn” comes we get a piercing glimpse of joy, and heart's
desire, that for a moment passes outside the frame, rends indeed the very web
of story, and lets a gleam come through.
“Seven long years I
served for thee,
The glassy hill I clamb for thee,
The bluidy shirt I wrang for thee,
And wilt thou not wauken and turn to me?”
He heard and turned to her.
This ”joy” which I have
selected as the mark of the true fairy-story (or romance), or as the seal upon
it, merits more consideration.
Probably every writer
making a secondary world, a fantasy, every sub-creator, wishes in some measure
to be a real maker, or hopes that he is drawing on reality: hopes that the
peculiar quality of this secondary world (if not all the details) are derived
from Reality, or are flowing into it.
If he indeed achieves a quality that can fairly be described by the
dictionary definition: “inner consistency of reality,” it is difficult to
conceive how this can be, if the work does not in some way partake of
reality. The peculiar quality of the ”joy”
in successful Fantasy can thus be explained as a sudden glimpse of the
underlying reality or truth. It is not
only a “consolation” for the sorrow of this world, but a satisfaction, and an
answer to that question, “Is it true?” The answer to this question that I gave
at first was (quite rightly): “If you have built your little world well, yes:
it is true in that world.” That is enough for the artist (or the artist part of
the artist). But in the “eucatastrophe”
we see in a brief vision that the answer may be greater—it may be a far-off
gleam or echo of evangelium in the real world.
The use of this word gives a hint of my epilogue. It is a serious and dangerous matter. It is presumptuous of me to touch upon such
a theme; but if by grace what I say has in any respect any validity, it is, of course,
only one facet of a truth incalculably rich: finite only because the capacity
of Man for whom this was done is finite.
I would venture to say that
approaching the Christian Story from this direction, it has long been my
feeling (a joyous feeling) that God redeemed the corrupt making-creatures, men,
in a way fitting to this aspect, as to others, of their strange nature. The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a
story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories. They contain many marvels—peculiarly
artistic, beautiful, and moving: “mythical” in their perfect, self-contained
significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete
conceivable eucatastrophe. But this
story has entered History and the primary world; the desire and aspiration of
sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation. The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of
Man's history. The Resurrection is the
eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation.
This story begins and ends in joy.
It has pre-eminently the “inner consistency of reality.” There is no
tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many
sceptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely
convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath.
It is not difficult to
imagine the peculiar excitement and joy that one would feel, if any specially
beautiful fairy-story were found to be “primarily” true, its narrative to be
history, without thereby necessarily losing the mythical or allegorical
significance that it had possessed. It
is not difficult, for one is not called upon to try and conceive anything of a
quality unknown. The joy would have
exactly the same quality, if not the same degree, as the joy which the “turn”
in a fairy-story gives: such joy has the very taste of primary truth. (Otherwise its name would not be joy.) It
looks forward (or backward: the direction in this regard is unimportant) to the
Great Eucatastrophe. The Christian joy,
the Gloria, is of the same kind; but it is preeminently (infinitely, if our
capacity were not finite) high and joyous.
But this story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified.
God is the Lord, of angels, and of men—and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused.
But in God's kingdom the
presence of the greatest does not depress the small. Redeemed Man is still man.
Story, fantasy, still go on, and should go on. The Evangelium has not abrogated legends; it has hallowed them,
especially the “happy ending.” The Christian has still to work, with mind as
well as body, to suffer, hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his
bents and faculties have a purpose, which can be redeemed. So great is the bounty with which he has
been treated that he may now, perhaps, fairly dare to guess that in Fantasy he
may actually assist in the effoliation and multiple enrichment of
creation. All tales may come true; and
yet, at the last, redeemed, they may be as like and as unlike the forms that we
give them as Man, finally redeemed, will be like and unlike the fallen that we
know.
A (page 5)
The very root (not only the
use) of their “marvels” is satiric, a mockery of unreason; and the “dream”
element is not a mere machinery of introduction and ending, but inherent in the
action and transitions. These things
children can perceive and appreciate, if left to themselves. But to many, as it was to me, Alice is
presented as a fairy-story and while this misunderstanding lasts, the distaste
for the dream-machinery is felt. There
is no suggestion of dream in The Wind in the Willows. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning
his little house.” So it begins, and that correct tone is maintained. It is all the more remarkable that A. A.
Milne, so great an admirer of this excellent book, should have prefaced
to his dramatized version a “whimsical” opening in which a child is seen
telephoning with a daffodil. Or perhaps
it is not very remarkable, for a perceptive admirer (as distinct from a great
admirer) of the book would never have attempted to dramatize it. Naturally only the simpler ingredients, the
pantomime, and the satiric beast-fable elements, are capable of presentation in
this form. The play is, on the lower
level of drama, tolerably good fun, especially for those who have not read the
book; but some children that I took to see Toad of Toad Hall, brought away as
their chief memory nausea at the opening.
For the rest they preferred their recollections of the book.
B (page 11)
Of course, these details,
as a rule, got into the tales, even in the days when they were real practices,
because they had a story-making value.
If I were to write a story in which it happened that a man was hanged,
that might show in later ages, if the story survived— in itself a sign that the
story possessed some permanent, and more than local or temporary, value—that it
was written at a period when men were really hanged, as a legal practice. Might: the inference would not, of course,
in that future time be certain. For
certainty on that pohit the future inquirer would have to know definitely when
hanging was practised and when I lived.
I could have borrowed the incident from other times and places, from
other stories; I could simply have invented it. But even if this inference happened to be correct, the
hanging-scene would only occur in the story, (a) because I was aware of the
dramatic, tragic, or macabre force of this incident in my tale, and (b) because
those who handed it down felt this force enough to make them keep the incident
in. Distance of time, sheer antiquity
and alienness, might later sharpen the edge of the tragedy or the horror; but
the edge must be there even for the elvish hone of antiquity to whet it. The least useful question, therefore, for
literary critics at any rate, to ask or to answer about Iphigeneia, daughter of
Agamemnon, is: Does the legend of her sacrifice at Aulis come down from a time
when human-sacrifice was commonly practised? I say only “as a rule,” because it
is conceivable that what is now regarded as a “story” was once something
different in intent: e.g. a record of
fact or ritual. I mean “record”
strictly. A story invented to explain a
ritual (a process that is sometimes supposed to have frequently occurred)
remains primarily a story. It takes
form as such, and will survive (long after the ritual evidently) only because
of its story-values. In some cases
details that now are notable merely because they are strange may have once been
so everyday and unregarded that they were slipped in casually: like mentioning
that a man “raised his hat,” or “caught a train.” But such casual details will
not long survive change in everyday habits.
Not in a period of oral transmission. In a period of writing (and of rapid changes in habits) a story
may remain unchanged long enough for even its casual details to acquire the
value of quaintness or queerness. Much
of Dickens now has this air. One can
open today an edition of a novel of his that was bought and first read when
things were so in everyday life as they are in the story, though these everyday
details are now already as remote from our daily habits as the Elizabethan
period. But that is a special modern
situation. The anthropologists and
folk-lorists do not imagine any conditions of that kind. But if they are dealing with unlettered oral
transmission, then they should all the more reflect that in that case they are
dealing with items whose primary object was story-building, and whose primary
reason for survival was the same. The
Frog-King (see p. 66) is not a Credo,
nor a manual of totem-law: it is a queer tale with a plain moral.
C (page 12)
As far as my knowledge
goes, children who have an early bent for writing have no special inclination
to attempt the writing of fairy-stories, unless that has been almost the sole
form of literature presented to them; and they fail most markedly when they
try. It is not an easy form. If children have any special leaning it is
to Beast-fable, which adults often confuse with Fairy-story. The best stories by children that I have
seen have been either “realistic” (in intent), or have had as their characters
animals and birds, who were in the main the zoomorphic human beings usual in
Beast-fable. I imagine that this form
is so often adopted principally because it allows a large measure of realism:
the representation of domestic events and talk that children really know. The form itself is, however, as a rule,
suggested or imposed by adults. It has
a curious preponderance in the literature, good and bad, that is nowadays
commonly presented to young children: I suppose it is felt to go with “Natural
History,” semi-scientific books about beasts and birds that are also considered
to be proper pabulum for the young. And
it is reinforced by the bears and rabbits that seem in recent times almost to
have ousted human dolls from the playrooms even of little girls. Children make up sagas, often long and
elaborate, about their dolls. If these
are shaped like bears, bears will be the characters of the sagas; but they will
talk like people.
D (page 14)
I was introduced to zoology
and palaeontology (“for children’') quite as early as to Faerie. I saw pictures of living beasts and of true
(so I was told) prehistoric animals. I
liked the “prehistoric” animals best: they had at least lived long ago, and
hypothesis (based on somewhat slender evidence) cannot avoid a gleam of
fantasy. But I did not like being told
that these creatures were “dragons.” I can still re-feel the irritation that I
felt in childhood at assertions of instructive relatives (or their gift-books)
such as these: “snowflakes are fairy jewels,” or “are more beautiful than fairy
jewels”; “the marvels of the ocean depths are more wonderful than fairyland.”
Children expect the differences they feel but cannot analyse to be explained by
their elders, or at least recognized, not to be ignored or denied. I was keenly alive to the beauty of “Real
things,” but it seemed to me quibbling to confuse this with the wonder of
“Other things.” I was eager to study Nature, actually more eager than I was to
read most fairy-stories; but I did not want to be quibbled into Science and
cheated out of Faerie by people who seemed to assume that by some kind of original
sin I should prefer fairy-tales, but according to some kind of new religion I
ought to be induced to like science.
Nature is no doubt a life-study, or a study for eternity (for those so
gifted); but there is a part of man which is not “Nature,” and which therefore
is not obliged to study it, and is, in fact, wholly unsatisfied by it.
E (page 16)
There is, for example, in
surrealism commonly present a morbidity or un-ease very rarely found in
literary fantasy. The mind that
produced the depicted images may often be suspected to have been in fact
already morbid; yet this is not a necessary explanation in all cases. A curious disturbance of the mind is often
set up by the very act of drawing things of this kind, a state similar in
quality and consciousness of morbidity to the sensations in a high fever, when
the mind develops a distressing fecundity and facility in figure-making, seeing
forms sinister or grotesque in all visible objects about it.
I am speaking here, of
course, of the primary expression of Fantasy in “pictorial” arts, not of
“illustrations”; nor of the cinematograph.
However good in themselves, illustrations do little good to
fairy-stories. The radical distinction
between all art (including drama) that offers a visible presentation and true
literature is that it imposes one visible form. Literature works from mind to mind and is thus more
progenitive. It is at once more
universal and more poignantly particular.
If it speaks of bread or wine or stone or tree, it appeals to the whole
of these things, to their ideas; yet each hearer will give to them a peculiar
personal embodiment in his imagination.
Should the story say “he ate bread,” the dramatic producer or painter
can only show ”a piece of bread” according to his taste or fancy, but the
hearer of the story will think of bread in general and picture it in some form
of his own. If a story says “he climbed
a hill and saw a river in the valley below,” the illustrator may catch, or
nearly catch, his own vision of such a scene; but every hearer of the words
will have his own picture, and it will be made out of all the hills and rivers
and dales he has ever seen, but especially out of The Hill, The River, The
Valley which were for him the first embodiment of the word.
F (page 17)
I am referring, of course,
primarily to fantasy of forms and visible shapes. Drama can be made out of the impact upon human characters of some
event of Fantasy, or Faerie, that requires no machinery, or that can be assumed
or reported to have happened. But that
is not fantasy in dramatic result; the human characters hold the stage and upon
them attention is concentrated. Drama
of this sort (exemplified by some of Barrie's plays) can be used frivolously,
or it can be used for satire, or for conveying such “messages” as the
playwright may have in his mind—for men.
Drama is anthropocentric.
Fairy-story and Fantasy need not be.
There are, for instance, many stories telling how men and women have
disappeared and spent years among the fairies, without noticing the passage of
time, or appearing to grow older. In
Mary Rose Barrie wrote a play on this theme.
No fairy is seen. The cruelly
tormented human beings are there all the time.
In spite of the sentimental star and the angelic voices at the end (in
the printed version) it is a painful play, and can easily be made diabolic: by
substituting (as I have seen it done) the elvish call for “angel voices” at the
end. The non-dramatic fairy-stories, in
so far as they are concerned with the human victims, can also be pathetic or
horrible. But they need not be. In most of them the fairies are also there,
on equal terms. In some stories they
are the real interest. Many of the
short folk-lore accounts of such incidents purport to be just pieces of
“evidence” about fairies, items in an agelong accumulation of “lore” concerning
them and the modes of their existence.
The sufferings of human beings who come into contact with them (often
enough, wilfully) are thus seen in quite a different perspective. A drama could be made about the sufferings
of a victim of research in radiology, but hardly about radium itself. But it is possible to be primarily
interested in radium (not radiologists)—or primarily interested in Faerie, not
tortured mortals. One interest will
produce a scientific book, the other a fairy-story. Drama cannot well cope with either.
G (page 22)
The absence of this sense
is a mere hypothesis concerning men of the lost past, whatever wild confusions
men of today, degraded or deluded, may suffer.
It is just as legitimate an hypothesis, and one more in agreement with
what little is recorded concerning the thoughts of men of old on this subject,
that this sense was once stronger. That
fantasies which blended the human form with animal and vegetable forms, or gave
human faculties to beasts, are ancient is, of course, no evidence for confusion
at all. It is, if anything, evidence to
the contrary. Fantasy does not blur the
sharp outlines of the real world; for it depends on them. As far as our western, European, world is
concerned, this “sense of separation” has in fact been attacked and weakened in
modern times not by fantasy but by scientific theory. Not by stories of centaurs or werewolves or enchanted bears, but
by the hypotheses (or dogmatic guesses) of scientific writers who classed Man
not only as “an animal”—that correct classification is ancient—but as “only an
animal.” There has been a consequent distortion of sentiment. The natural love of men not wholly corrupt
for beasts, and the human desire to “get inside the skin” of living things, has
run riot. We now get men who love
animals more than men; who pity sheep so much that they curse shepherds as
wolves; who weep over a slain war-horse and vilify dead soldiers. It is now, not in the days when fairy-stories
were begotten, that we get “an absence of the sense of separation.”
H (page 22)
The verbal ending—usually
held to be as typical of the end of fairy-stories as “once upon a time” is of
the beginning—“and they lived happily ever after” is an artificial device. It does not deceive anybody. End-phrases of this kind are to be compared
to the margins and frames of pictures, and are no more to be thought of as the
real end of any particular fragment of the seamless Web of Story than the frame
is of the visionary scene, or the casement of the Outer World. These phrases may be plain or elaborate,
simple or extravagant, as artificial and as necessary as frames plain, or
carved, or gilded. “And if they have
not gone away they are there still.” “My story is done—see there is a little
mouse; anyone who catches it may make himself a fine fur cap of it.” “And they
lived happily ever after.” “And when the wedding was over, they sent me home
with little paper shoes on a causeway of pieces of glass.”
Endings of this sort suit
fairy-stories, because such tales have a greater sense and grasp of the
endlessness of the World of Story than most modern “realistic” stories, already
hemmed within the narrow confines of their own small time. A sharp cut in the endless tapestry is not
unfittingly marked by a formula, even a grotesque or comic one. It was an irresistible development of modern
illustration (so largely photographic) that borders should be abandoned and the
“picture” end only with the paper. This
method may be suitable for photographs; but it is altogether inappropriate for
the pictures that illustrate or are inspired by fairy-stories. An enchanted forest requires a margin, even
an elaborate border. To print it
conterminous with the page, like a “shot” of the Rockies in Picture Post, as if
it were indeed a “snap” of fairyland or a “sketch by our artist on the spot,”
is a folly and an abuse.
As for the beginnings of
fairy-stories: one can scarcely improve on the formula Once upon a time. It has an immediate effect. This effect can be appreciated by reading,
for instance, the fairy-story The Terrible Head in the Blue Fairy Book. It is Andrew Lang's own adaptation of the
story of Perseus and the Gorgon. It
begins “once upon a time,” and it does not name any year or land or
person. Now this treatment does
something which could be called “turning mythology into fairy-story.” I should
prefer to say that it turns high fairy-story (for such is the Greek tale) into
a particular form that is at present familiar in our land: a nursery or “old
wives” form. Namelessness is not a
virtue but an accident, and should not have been imitated; for vagueness in
this regard is a debasement, a corruption due to forgetfulness and lack of
skill. But not so, I think, the
timelessness. That beginning is not
poverty-stricken but significant. It
produces at a stroke the sense of a great uncharted world of time.