FAIRY TALES.

"The House of Joy." By Laurence Housman. London: Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. 1895.

THAT the publication of fairy tales should be coincident with the vulgar delights of Christmas is merely another proof of our invincible conservatism. The custom dates back, no doubt, to the pompous age of periwigs, when the assumption first arose that fairy tales were written for the delectation of extreme youth. As a matter of fact, however, neither the old French nor Scandinavian writers of fantastic tales had any idea of purveying milk food for babes. It seems probable that the stories of Perrault and Madame D'Aulnoy grew out of a survival of the heroic sentiment which inspired the semi-civilized mysticism of the folk-songs, perverted from grave issues to gay by the quickening spirit of the Renaissance. The gods of Greece came to life again in the form of elves and dryads, who through supernatural agencies swayed the destinies of the human race. It is impossible, within the scope of this article, to trace the history of the fairy tale, bound up as it is with the history of mediæval minstrelsy and tinged with memories both of Oriental traditions and of Norse mythology. In the eighteenth century the writing of fairy tales became a fashionable pastime among the fair triflers who, a century later, took to the compilation of journals with the same zest. Madame D'Aulnoy and her companions concerned themselves chiefly with composing parables of love, most of which have a marked Boccaccian flavour, and which were certainly never intended for the perusal of the modern "young person."

Turning northward we see the genius of Hans Andersen, and find the fairy tale purged from all licentious symbolism, simplified, and at the same time sublimated. But Andersen, with all his naïve soul and his pellucid fancy, had no actual intention of addressing himself to children. He began by writing plays, and only turned to the babes and sucklings when their insensate parents would have none of him. He came to his own generation, but they received him not, being greedy of sensation and trivial actualities. So the children, attracted as youth always is to the beautiful and the incomprehensible, adopted Hans Andersen and chose a part far better than they knew. Yet the real wonder of his work escapes the child, and must always escape him, notwithstanding the fact that it has been written to be understood by a child. For although Andersen had the soul of a child, he had the eyes of a man; and although he looked out on life as on a land that is very far off, his point of view was a man's point of view. He saw human nature as one who gazes through an inverted lens, infinitely distinct in its remoteness. But the greatest wonder of Andersen is his voice, unlike all others. True, there are infantine chords in it—notes as of flute and viol, most limpid of sounds. Yet also there is the human plaint, full of anguish and disillusionment, and the uncertain semi-tones of love-doubts and despairs. His women, too, are enchantments for all time, as potent as any in fiction. To have dalliance with "The Stork King's Daughter," to feel the Ice-Maiden's kisses on one's feet—for these appreciations one must have put away childish things.

But with the birth of the Philistine passion for reality the fiction of phantasy, which might be described as the foam on the wave of romantic literature, survived the discredit which fell upon the latter because the crude judgment of a gross epoch mistook its delicacy for puerility. So when the sham virtues of Pamela were delighting the adults of Richardson's generation, its youth was being nourished on fabled loves and elemental passions such as were afterwards depicted by Andersen. Gradually, however, the morbid craving for truth in fiction spread to the schoolroom, as the child began to kick against the pricks of convention in company with its parents. Modern youth, that desires above all things the knowledge of good and evil, seeks in literature what it dares not ask of life. As a result French novels fill the shelves that were wont to shelter fairy tales, and these being rejected are reserved to the class for whom they were originally written—to the lovers of literature who were once in love with life. We are surely nearing a reaction against the Zolaesque tradition; in France the tide has already turned. Even here the number of those who suffer from a nostalgia of illusion increases every day. These are they who read fairy tales.

They who write them are, however, fewer in number, and are, with one or two exceptions, inconsiderable. The combination of qualities essential to the production of great fables is infinitely rare. An ardent fancy united to a certain perception of the simple issues of life, and a style that is exquisitely pure and felicitous, may bring forth fairy tales meet to follow after the works of Andersen and Perrault. Those who concern themselves with this branch of literature—Mr. Andrew Lang and Mr. Joseph Jacobs to wit—are for the most part content to dress up the treasures of the past in garments that become them not. Since the publication of "The House of Pomegranates," nothing so worthy has been done in the domain of modern fairy tale as Mr. Laurence Housman's "House of Joy." It contains eight stories illustrated by the author. The pictures are distinguished by that archaic sentiment and that wonderful beauty of line which are already associated with the name of Laurence Housman. Among the tales several are admirable, and one is a gem. "The Story of the Heroes" and "The White King" are as good as Andersen at his best, coloured with a curiously modern tinge. Even in the most melancholy of Andersen's tales the lightness of his heart shines through, but one never feels that Laurence Housman's heart is light. His style, fastidious and graceful though it is, lacks the magic of the Scandinavian, the silver tone which even a translation has failed to obscure. This is, of course, to compare Mr. Laurence Housman with the greatest master of his art, and the "House of Joy" justifies us of the comparison. The worst one can urge against its author is that he is too obviously in earnest, too surely born in the nineteenth century. At a feast of divine unreason one should forget to count the cost.