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| The Sleeping Beauty: Rene Cloke |
It’s usual for collections of fairytales to include
pictures. When I was very small, the
simple retellings I was able to read were full of lavish colour illustrations like the one above, by Rene
Cloke. It's very pink.
The Andrew Lang collections, the
Red, the Green, the Violet, theYellow Fairybooks had their intricate Victorian
engravings (which I longed, but was never allowed, to colour in). I read the tales of Hans Christian Andersen with wonderful
watercolour illustrations by Edmund Dulac, all twilight blues.
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| The Little Mermaid: Edmumd Dulac |
And I borrowed from the library
Grimm’s fairytales with pictures by Arthur Rackham, rich and dark.
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| The Singing, Soaring Lark: Arthur Rackham |
But fairystories don’t actually need
illustrations. They contain their own
colours, brilliant as any medieval painting. As red as blood, as black as
ebony, as white as snow.
In his book ‘An Experiment in Criticism’ CS Lewis talks about good and bad
writing, and the possible differences between them. (I know this sounds as if I'm heading off at a tangent, but bear with me.) He suggests that some readers prefer bad
writing because they do not want or are not interested in the things which good
writing can provide: richness of experience, for example, or depth of thought.
Some readers simply want the action, the page-turning, the next thing. And this explains the popularity of the
airport thriller, and of Dan Brown.
For such a reader, Lewis says, good writing will be either
too rich or too bare for his purposes:
A woodland scene by DH Lawrence
or a mountain valley by Ruskin gives him far more than he knows what to do
with; on the other hand, he would be disappointed with Malory’s ‘he arrived
afore a postern opened towards the sea, and was open without any keeping, save
two lions kept the entry, and the moon shone clear.’ Nor would he be content
with ‘I was terribly afraid’ instead of ‘my blood ran cold’. To the good
reader’s imagination such statements of the bare facts are often the most
evocative of all. But the moon shining
clear is not enough for the unliterary.
They would rather be told that the castle was ‘bathed in a flood of
silver moonlight’.
I’m not concerned here with Lewis’s thesis about different
types of reading; I think he’s right, but I also think all of us can be ‘good’
and ‘bad’ readers: I have days when I can be that attentive, sensitive reader
Lewis applauds and other days when I simply feel too lazy. But I do want to point out that fairytales –
traditional fairytales – tend like Thomas Malory's Morte D'Arthur to be economical with description.
In olden times, when wishing
still helped one, there lived a king whose daughters were all beautiful, but
the youngest was so beautiful that the sun itself, which has seen so much, was
astonished whenever it shone on her face. Close by the King’s castle lay a
great dark forest, and under an old lime-tree in the forest was a well, and
when the day was very warm, the King’s child went out into the forest and sat
down by the side of the cool fountain; and when she was bored she took a golden
ball, and threw it up on high and caught it.
Lovely as it is, the phrase ‘so beautiful that the sun was
astonished’ does not tell us what the king’s daughter looks like. Hardly any modern writer who might wish to turn The
Frog-King into a novel could resist providing more. The princess would have
to be given a name. We would learn what colour her hair and eyes are, whether
her nose turns up at the end, what she wears. In the inevitable process of
extending and elaborating the tale, the writer would have to try very hard to
avoid literary clichés.
A fairytale does not have to try hard. In keeping everything simple, it also keeps everything
fresh. ‘Close by the King’s castle lay a great, dark forest’ leaves almost everything
to your imagination, and then comes the ‘old lime tree’ and the cool well, and
that’s as much as anyone needs to know. A novelist might add a description of the
well, providing it with a carved marble parapet or a rustic stone wall. It might be beautifully written and very fine
– but in a fairytale, it would merely get in the way.
Yet how is a simile like ‘as green as grass’ or ‘as black
as coal’ less of a cliché than ‘bathed in a flood of silver moonlight’? In my opinion, because they are so brief. They leave the imagination free. ‘Red as blood’. The colour flashes
on the inward eye in all its familiar, potent brilliance, and is gone: what else can ‘red’ be as red as? Strain
after another comparison as much as you like, you’ll do no better.
Colours in fairytales are strong, simple, basic, and meaningful.
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| Blanche-Neige: Benjamin Lacombe |
Once upon a time in the middle of
winter, when the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky, a
Queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black
ebony. And whilst she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she
pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow.
And the red looked pretty on the white snow, and she thought to herself, ‘Would
that I had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood
of the window-frame.’
Little Snow-White
In spite of the 'Sleeping Beauty' picture at the top of this post, you don’t get pink in fairytales. You don’t get purple. Yellow
is rare. But there is white snow, white linen, white snakes, white doves, white
swans, white feathers. Red blood, and roses as red as blood. There are green
branches in dark forests. Black ravens, black ebony, black coal. Golden hair, golden straw, golden crowns,
golden spinning wheels.
The dove said to her, ‘For seven
years must I fly about the world, but at every seventh step that you take I
will let fall a drop of red blood and a white feather, and these will show you
the way.’
The Singing, Springing Lark
White, black and red are meaningful colours because they are
rare in nature and therefore noticeable. White is the colour of innocence, the
colour of an untrodden fall of snow under which the whole landscape is
transformed. A white dove is an emblem of peace, a black raven a signifier of
wisdom. In some variants of Snow-White,
it is a raven which the queen sees against the snow, a more likely and a sharper
contrast than an ebony window-frame. Black is unusual. Most birds are brownish:
even today with our dulled attention to nature, we notice black crows and white
swans. Before chemical dyes, black was an expensive colour for clothes: it stood out: most people could not afford
to wear it. And red of course is the most meaningful of all colours, the most
emotionally charged. Red is the colour
that accompanies childbirth, wounds, war, accidents. Red is the stuff of life
and death.
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| Blanche-Neige: Benjamin Lacombe |
Gold is the colour of the sun, or perhaps it should be the other way around: the sun is more glorious than gold. The princess in The Singing, Springing Lark wears a dress ‘as brilliant as the sun itself’, while the heroine of The Black Bull of Norroway cracks open nuts to reveal dresses the colours of the sun, moon and stars. Gold stands for luck, goodness, happiness and fortune.
Blue, the colour of the sky, is strangely rare in fairytales. Apart from the eerie, supernatural blue light – the witch-light – in the story of that name, the only instance I can find is a sad little tale about a toad in which the blue object is artificial, a handkerchief:
An orphan child was sitting by
the town wall spinning, when she saw a paddock coming out of a hole low
down in the wall. Swiftly she spread out
beside it one of the blue silk handkerchiefs for which paddocks have such a
liking, and which are the only things on which they will creep. As soon as the
paddock saw it, it went back, then returned, bringing with it a small golden
crown…
Tales of the Paddock, II
Colours in fairytales aren’t decoration, they aren’t even
‘just’ descriptive. They carry information.
They are a form of emphasis. And they can be relied upon. A golden head which rises to the surface of a well may be strange, but it won't be evil. Magical and just, it gives the same advice to both the good and the selfish girls: it's their own natures which will bring them good or bad luck. A girl who can ask a
hazel tree to shake gold and silver down upon her is sure to prove
fortunate, and a white dove will aid the innocent even as it pecks out the eyes of
the guilty.
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| The Water of Life: Arthur Rackham |
Here’s a poem into which I tried to work
the colours of fairytales.
FAIRYTALE
Out from the pine forest stepped
the bowing yellow dwarf, and stopped the prince,
who - half despairing - told him everything.
If the bent woman, walking backwards, sets you
to sweep the green pins with an old owl's feather,
and call up storm clouds in the fine June weather,
and ride the yellow colt of your last nightmare -
what can you do but sigh and tell your story
to the first kindly stranger who has met you?
'Tell me,' the dwarf said, 'what of your princess?'
'Oh, turned into a brown thrush long ago
she sits and sings in a fine gilded cage,
and every spring she lays a pure blue egg,
which, hatched, displays a tiny golden crown.
That's why you see me wandering alone:
for hills of glass and plains of knives spring up
behind, and hinder me from turning back.'
'Where's your white horse? Your squire, young Constant Jack?'
'Jack used to fret me - always making speed.
He rode my white horse red towards the wars
a long time back. Today, I have no doubt,
sheep graze the fine new grass between their bones.'
'Ah?' said the dwarf. 'And so you're quite alone?'
'Alone. And burdened with confusing tasks.'
Then, pointing where the green ride ducked and dipped
to twist behind the dense pine barrier:
'Now,' said the dwarf, smiling, 'keep on till dark...'
