The Red Angel

I find that there really are human beings who think fairy tales bad
for children. I do not speak of the man in the green tie, for him
I can never count truly human. But a lady has written me an earnest
letter saying that fairy tales ought not to be taught to children even
if they are true. She says that it is cruel to tell children fairy
tales, because it frightens them. You might just as well say that
it is cruel to give girls sentimental novels because it makes them cry.
All this kind of talk is based on that complete forgetting
of what a child is like which has been the firm foundation
of so many educational schemes. If you keep bogies and goblins
away from children they would make them up for themselves.
One small child in the dark can invent more hells than Swedenborg.
One small child can imagine monsters too big and black
to get into any picture, and give them names too unearthly
and cacophonous to have occurred in the cries of any lunatic.
The child, to begin with, commonly likes horrors, and he
continues to indulge in them even when he does not like them.
There is just as much difficulty in saying exactly where pure
pain begins in his case, as there is in ours when we walk of our
own free will into the torture-chamber of a great tragedy.
The fear does not come from fairy tales; the fear comes from
the universe of the soul.

. . . . .

The timidity of the child or the savage is entirely reasonable;
they are alarmed at this world, because this world is a very
alarming place. They dislike being alone because it is verily
and indeed an awful idea to be alone. Barbarians fear
the unknown for the same reason that Agnostics worship it--
because it is a fact. Fairy tales, then, are not responsible
for producing in children fear, or any of the shapes of fear;
fairy tales do not give the child the idea of the evil or the ugly;
that is in the child already, because it is in the world already.
Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey.
What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea
of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known
the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination.
What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to
kill the dragon.

Exactly what the fairy tale does is this: it accustoms him
for a series of clear pictures to the idea that these limitless
terrors had a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies
in the knights of God, that there is something in the universe
more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear.
When I was a child I have stared at the darkness until the whole
black bulk of it turned into one negro giant taller than heaven.
If there was one star in the sky it only made him a Cyclops.
But fairy tales restored my mental health, for next day I read
an authentic account of how a negro giant with one eye, of quite
equal dimensions, had been baffled by a little boy like myself
(of similar inexperience and even lower social status)
by means of a sword, some bad riddles, and a brave heart.
Sometimes the sea at night seemed as dreadful as any dragon.
But then I was acquainted with many youngest sons and little
sailors to whom a dragon or two was as simple as the sea.

Take the most horrible of Grimm's tales in incident and imagery,
the excellent tale of the "Boy who Could not Shudder," and you
will see what I mean. There are some living shocks in that tale.
I remember specially a man's legs which fell down the chimney
by themselves and walked about the room, until they were rejoined
by the severed head and body which fell down the chimney after them.
That is very good. But the point of the story and the point
of the reader's feelings is not that these things are frightening,
but the far more striking fact that the hero was not frightened at them.
The most fearful of all these fearful wonders was his own absence
of fear. He slapped the bogies on the back and asked the devils
to drink wine with him; many a time in my youth, when stifled with some
modern morbidity, I have prayed for a double portion of his spirit.
If you have not read the end of his story, go and read it;
it is the wisest thing in the world. The hero was at last taught
to shudder by taking a wife, who threw a pail of cold water over him.
In that one sentence there is more of the real meaning of marriage
than in all the books about sex that cover Europe and America.

. . . . .

At the four corners of a child's bed stand Perseus and Roland, Sigurd and
St. George. If you withdraw the guard of heroes you are not making
him rational; you are only leaving him to fight the devils alone.
For the devils, alas, we have always believed in. The hopeful element in
the universe has in modern times continually been denied and reasserted;
but the hopeless element has never for a moment been denied.
As I told "H. N. B." (whom I pause to wish a Happy Christmas in its
most superstitious sense), the one thing modern people really do
believe in is damnation. The greatest of purely modern poets summed
up the really modern attitude in that fine Agnostic line--

"There may be Heaven; there must be Hell."

The gloomy view of the universe has been a continuous tradition;
and the new types of spiritual investigation or conjecture all begin
by being gloomy. A little while ago men believed in no spirits.
Now they are beginning rather slowly to believe in rather slow spirits.

. . . . .

Some people objected to spiritualism, table rappings, and such things,
because they were undignified, because the ghosts cracked jokes or
waltzed with dinner-tables. I do not share this objection in the least.
I wish the spirits were more farcical than they are. That they
should make more jokes and better ones, would be my suggestion.
For almost all the spiritualism of our time, in so far as it is new,
is solemn and sad. Some Pagan gods were lawless, and some Christian
saints were a little too serious; but the spirits of modern spiritualism
are both lawless and serious--a disgusting combination. The specially
contemporary spirits are not only devils, they are blue devils.
This is, first and last, the real value of Christmas; in so far
as the mythology remains at all it is a kind of happy mythology.
Personally, of course, I believe in Santa Claus; but it is the season
of forgiveness, and I will forgive others for not doing so.
But if there is anyone who does not comprehend the defect in our
world which I am civilising, I should recommend him, for instance,
to read a story by Mr. Henry James, called "The Turn of the Screw."
It is one of the most powerful things ever written, and it is one
of the things about which I doubt most whether it ought ever to have
been written at all. It describes two innocent children gradually
growing at once omniscient and half-witted under the influence of
the foul ghosts of a groom and a governess. As I say, I doubt whether
Mr. Henry James ought to have published it (no, it is not indecent,
do not buy it; it is a spiritual matter), but I think the question
so doubtful that I will give that truly great man a chance.
I will approve the thing as well as admire it if he will write
another tale just as powerful about two children and Santa Claus.
If he will not, or cannot, then the conclusion is clear; we can
deal strongly with gloomy mystery, but not with happy mystery;
we are not rationalists, but diabolists.

. . . . .

I have thought vaguely of all this staring at a great red fire that
stands up in the room like a great red angel. But, perhaps, you have
never heard of a red angel. But you have heard of a blue devil.
That is exactly what I mean.

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