I met a man the other day who did not believe in fairy tales. I do not
mean that he did not believe in the incidents narrated in them--that he
did not believe that a pumpkin could turn into a coach. He did, indeed,
entertain this curious disbelief. And, like all the other people I
have ever met who entertained it, he was wholly unable to give me an
intelligent reason for it. He tried the laws of nature, but he soon
dropped that. Then he said that pumpkins were unalterable in ordinary
experience, and that we all reckoned on their infinitely protracted
pumpkinity. But I pointed out to him that this was not an attitude we
adopt specially towards impossible marvels, but simply the attitude we
adopt towards all unusual occurrences. If we were certain of miracles
we should not count on them. Things that happen very seldom we all leave
out of our calculations, whether they are miraculous or not. I do not
expect a glass of water to be turned into wine; but neither do I expect
a glass of water to be poisoned with prussic acid. I do not in ordinary
business relations act on the assumption that the editor is a fairy; but
neither do I act on the assumption that he is a Russian spy, or the lost
heir of the Holy Roman Empire. What we assume in action is not that the
natural order is unalterable, but simply that it is much safer to bet
on uncommon incidents than on common ones. This does not touch the
credibility of any attested tale about a Russian spy or a pumpkin turned
into a coach. If I had seen a pumpkin turned into a Panhard motor-car
with my own eyes that would not make me any more inclined to assume
that the same thing would happen again. I should not invest largely in
pumpkins with an eye to the motor trade. Cinderella got a ball dress
from the fairy; but I do not suppose that she looked after her own
clothes any the less after it.
But the view that fairy tales cannot really have happened, though crazy,
is common. The man I speak of disbelieved in fairy tales in an even more
amazing and perverted sense. He actually thought that fairy tales
ought not to be told to children. That is (like a belief in slavery
or annexation) one of those intellectual errors which lie very near to
ordinary mortal sins. There are some refusals which, though they may be
done what is called conscientiously, yet carry so much of their whole
horror in the very act of them, that a man must in doing them not only
harden but slightly corrupt his heart. One of them was the refusal of
milk to young mothers when their husbands were in the field against us.
Another is the refusal of fairy tales to children.
.....
The man had come to see me in connection with some silly society
of which I am an enthusiastic member; he was a fresh-coloured,
short-sighted young man, like a stray curate who was too helpless even
to find his way to the Church of England. He had a curious green necktie
and a very long neck; I am always meeting idealists with very long
necks. Perhaps it is that their eternal aspiration slowly lifts their
heads nearer and nearer to the stars. Or perhaps it has something to
do with the fact that so many of them are vegetarians: perhaps they are
slowly evolving the neck of the giraffe so that they can eat all the
tops of the trees in Kensington Gardens. These things are in every sense
above me. Such, anyhow, was the young man who did not believe in fairy
tales; and by a curious coincidence he entered the room when I had just
finished looking through a pile of contemporary fiction, and had begun
to read “Grimm’s Fairy tales” as a natural consequence.
The modern novels stood before me, however, in a stack; and you can
imagine their titles for yourself. There was “Suburban Sue: A Tale of
Psychology,” and also “Psychological Sue: A Tale of Suburbia”; there was
“Trixy: A Temperament,” and “Man-Hate: A Monochrome,” and all those nice
things. I read them with real interest, but, curiously enough, I grew
tired of them at last, and when I saw “Grimm’s Fairy Tales” lying
accidentally on the table, I gave a cry of indecent joy. Here at least,
here at last, one could find a little common sense. I opened the book,
and my eyes fell on these splendid and satisfying words, “The Dragon’s
Grandmother.” That at least was reasonable; that at least was true. “The
Dragon’s Grandmother!” While I was rolling this first touch of ordinary
human reality upon my tongue, I looked up suddenly and saw this monster
with a green tie standing in the doorway.
.....
I listened to what he said about the society politely enough, I hope;
but when he incidentally mentioned that he did not believe in fairy
tales, I broke out beyond control. “Man,” I said, “who are you that you
should not believe in fairy tales? It is much easier to believe in Blue
Beard than to believe in you. A blue beard is a misfortune; but there
are green ties which are sins. It is far easier to believe in a million
fairy tales than to believe in one man who does not like fairy tales. I
would rather kiss Grimm instead of a Bible and swear to all his stories
as if they were thirty-nine articles than say seriously and out of
my heart that there can be such a man as you; that you are not some
temptation of the devil or some delusion from the void. Look at these
plain, homely, practical words. ‘The Dragon’s Grandmother,’ that is all
right; that is rational almost to the verge of rationalism. If there was
a dragon, he had a grandmother. But you--you had no grandmother! If you
had known one, she would have taught you to love fairy tales. You had no
father, you had no mother; no natural causes can explain you. You cannot
be. I believe many things which I have not seen; but of such things
as you it may be said, ‘Blessed is he that has seen and yet has
disbelieved.’”
.....
It seemed to me that he did not follow me with sufficient delicacy, so I
moderated my tone. “Can you not see,” I said, “that fairy tales in their
essence are quite solid and straightforward; but that this everlasting
fiction about modern life is in its nature essentially incredible?
Folk-lore means that the soul is sane, but that the universe is wild
and full of marvels. Realism means that the world is dull and full of
routine, but that the soul is sick and screaming. The problem of the
fairy tale is--what will a healthy man do with a fantastic world? The
problem of the modern novel is--what will a madman do with a dull world?
In the fairy tales the cosmos goes mad; but the hero does not go mad.
In the modern novels the hero is mad before the book begins, and
suffers from the harsh steadiness and cruel sanity of the cosmos. In the
excellent tale of ‘The Dragon’s Grandmother,’ in all the other tales of
Grimm, it is assumed that the young man setting out on his travels
will have all substantial truths in him; that he will be brave, full
of faith, reasonable, that he will respect his parents, keep his word,
rescue one kind of people, defy another kind, ‘parcere subjectis et
debellare,’ etc. Then, having assumed this centre of sanity, the writer
entertains himself by fancying what would happen if the whole world went
mad all round it, if the sun turned green and the moon blue, if horses
had six legs and giants had two heads. But your modern literature
takes insanity as its centre. Therefore, it loses the interest even of
insanity. A lunatic is not startling to himself, because he is quite
serious; that is what makes him a lunatic. A man who thinks he is a
piece of glass is to himself as dull as a piece of glass. A man who
thinks he is a chicken is to himself as common as a chicken. It is only
sanity that can see even a wild poetry in insanity. Therefore, these
wise old tales made the hero ordinary and the tale extraordinary.
But you have made the hero extraordinary and the tale ordinary--so
ordinary--oh, so very ordinary.”
I saw him still gazing at me fixedly. Some nerve snapped in me under the
hypnotic stare. I leapt to my feet and cried, “In the name of God
and Democracy and the Dragon’s grandmother--in the name of all good
things--I charge you to avaunt and haunt this house no more.” Whether
or no it was the result of the exorcism, there is no doubt that he
definitely went away.