Fairy Tales

These last weeks have been thick with work and basement-dwelling. To keep sane, I have been reading fairy tales over lunches and late at night just before bed.

Fairy tales are remarkable citizens of the literary world. As a gens, they remind me of nothing so much as the principles figures for whom they are named: fairies. There is something severe, magnificent, improbable, and proud---with the connotation, now very rarely used, of superb dignity---about the best fairy tales; just as these qualities belong to the best fairies and to Tolkien's elves.

I have been noticing, also, how simple and shocking fairy tales are in plot and narration. They are often grimly violent and bafflingly composed. Consider, for example, this fairy tale which Danya made up and told to me once:

There was a young man who fell in love with a fairy. One evening he stood beneath her balcony and said, "I love you; will you marry me?"

"I cannot marry you," the fairy replied, "for I have no heart."

"Take part of mine," the young man replied. He gave her a piece of his heart and went away. The next evening he came again and said "I love you; will you marry me?"

"I cannot marry you," the fairy replied, "for I have no heart."

"You have a piece of my heart," said the young man.

"It is too small," said the fairy.

"Take another." And the young man gave her another piece of his heart.

On the third night, the young man came again and said, "I love you; will you marry me."

"I cannot marry you," the fairy replied, "for I have no heart."

"You have two pieces of my heart," said the young man.

"They are too small," said the fairy.

"Take another." And the young man gave her another piece of his heart.

This went on until, one evening, the young man gave the fairy the last piece of his heart. When she woke the next morning, the fairy found herself overcome with a sweet painful longing she had never known before. She waited eagerly for evening, but when it came, it did not bring the young man.

The fairy waited three days and then, in desperation, used all her magic to find out where the young man might be. She flew to his house the next night and stood outside his window. "Young man!" She said, "Let me in, for I love you and I will marry you."

"I'm sorry, but I cannot marry you," said the young man. "I have no heart."

Aside from the usual assurances that the fairy is as beautiful as possible, that her palace is the most splendid thing ever seen, and that the young man is both brave and handsome, this fairy tale is perfectly in accord with the rest of its species. But was always surprises me about it is its simplicity, and its utter disregard for what is now known as "realism."

If a young man had given a fairy a piece of his heart (and how, by the way, was he to do that while remaining alive?), he wouldn't surely turn around without another word and not inquire until the next evening whether she felt any effect. Also, we are told nothing about what either thought, or felt, or anything: only what they said. The whole thing could have been performed as a skit with bitter hatred and sarcasm on both sides, and the story would be completely transformed without a syllable of it being altered.

But somehow, the strong narration and simple straightforwardness of it all is captivating to me. I find it more beautiful, and also more painful, than many a fulsomely tragic scene in a novel. The very lack of detail, the unexpected but still conceivable reactions and statements, the passion and coldness and hope and regret, which are all set forward with such austerity, leave plenty of room for my imagination to act.

I do not say that it is better than a fairy tale by C.S. Lewis or George MacDonald, for they are masters who know exactly which details will enrich the story while yet maintaining its simplicity---however, I will say that it stands in my mind in sharp contrast to the "fairy tales" written for young adults nowadays: tales of magic and adventure and young heroes and heroines there are, but they are full of the trite, the foolish, and the fat.

Yes, they are fat with details and descriptions and glimpses of the inner mind, like rosy-lipped Victorian cherubs. Personally, however, I prefer the stately angels of the fairy tales, even they whose smiles are melancholy and made of stone.