On Mermaids and Witches: Fairy Tales and the Gospel
by Karen Anderson - December 24, 2006
Reprinted with permission from our good friends at InsideCatholic.com, the leading online journal of Catholic faith, culture, and politics.
I am continually amazed at the theories about fairy tales put forth by scholars who seem ignorant of history, anthropology, or symbolism. They dig in dark corners, looking for suggestions of incest or maternal cannibalism. (Yes, it is seriously contended that "Hansel and Gretel" is about our universal fear that Mom will start snacking on us when she runs out of Oreos.) And yet, plain-as-day allusions to the Bible sail right over their heads.
Properly understood, the fairy tale is an art form combining elements of both parables and poetry. Our most beloved tales are about Truth itself, disguised in metaphor.
I discovered this one windy December day when a friend called and insisted that I go see the annual Christmas display at Lyndhurst, the historic mansion overlooking the Hudson River in Tarrytown, New York. Because people's self-consciousness about public Christmas displays is so overwhelming these days, it's getting harder to find an elaborate one anywhere. I considered it almost a religious duty to go.
Built in the style of a medieval castle or cathedral, Lyndhurst was designed by Alexander Jackson Davis, the leading American architect of his day. Lyndhurst is considered one of our finest examples of Romantic architecture, built in 1838—when the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen were hard at work, selling millions of copies of their stories about princesses, witches, magic spells, and gingerbread.
The exhibit's decorator had transformed room after room into different fantasies, each based on a classic fairy tale. Snow White's room had a tree covered with red apples, a floor mounded with drifts of cotton snow, and seven sets of dwarf hats and boots hanging from the mantle. In a different room, there was a twelve-foot-high "Cinderella" tree decorated in shades of blue with little shoes all over it. In the Little Mermaid's room (the bathroom), glass bubbles were spilling out of the bathtub and little fish hung in mid-air, seeming to drift slowly with the currents. I was charmed, and found myself saying aloud that the exhibit ought to be the subject of a book, which I promptly began to write.
