In the first of a new series of blogposts in the run-up to the opening of our new spring exhibition, Nurture Through Nature with Children’s Books, Calvin Goh revisits the poignant, magical nature worlds which come alive in the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen.
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Fairy tales and the notion of childhood often go hand-in-hand, and why shouldn’t they? The wondrous and fantastic nature of the tales complement a child’s rich imagination, and there is an oh-so-satisfying closure in the happily-ever-after that neatly ends these stories, making them an ideal source of entertainment for young children. At least, that is what they are purportedly known for.
Nature – understood as any instances or representations of the natural world and environment – wears many hats in the fairy tale, and it is only upon closer analysis that we see its utility and function. From aiding the protagonist (seen in the animal helpers that support Cinderella and Snow White), to offering a brief respite from progress and modernity (as romanticised in ‘The Wood Nymph’); providing a cause of conflict or obstacle towards finding happiness (one recalls the brambles of the castle in ‘Sleeping Beauty’), or even as a foreign, dangerous environment (in tales like ‘Hansel and Gretel’ and ‘The Ugly Duckling’), nature is no stranger to the fairy tale. It can frequently be found playing contrasting roles as either safe haven (a refuge from murderous step-parents) or feared unknown (the dreaded forest where evil lurks).
For those unfamiliar with Andersen’s fairy tales, he is known for ‘talk[ing] to the child in the adult’ (Wullschlager, Introduction, xxii), and many of his protagonists are shaped by his own lived experiences. We might see that Andersen’s fairy tales do not tend to end with happily-ever-afters; on the contrary, there is often a sobering summation and a firm moral landing point that hauls readers back to reality and encourages reflection.
A popular approach that Andersen appears to favour in his stories is the adoption of different perspectives, particularly that of immovable objects. Anthropomorphism is not uncommon in fairy tales, but Andersen’s utilisation of the literary device comes with certain conditions, one of which is that the anthropomorphised objects have to obey the ‘rules’ of reality – in other words, humans in the story have no awareness that these objects are sentient. By granting them life, thought, and emotions, but denying them movement and freedom to change their circumstances, Andersen positions his tales within the familiar realm of the everyday – in so doing, he effectively makes pointed commentaries on human behaviour by providing an alternate lens that distorts our perception of reality. This happens in stories such as ‘The Steadfast Tin Soldier’, ‘The Collar’, and ‘The Old House’, among others.
I would like to focus on two specific stories, ‘The Fir Tree’ and ‘The Snowman’, which share various similarities. For starters, both stories involve objects that are synonymous with winter, a season traditionally associated with hardship and trials (case in point – see “The Little Match Girl”). However, Andersen pivots away from such symbolism to explore the transient nature of winter and its implication on iconic winter-specific objects whose relevance are restricted to the season. In both stories, there is the suggestion that although we are encouraged to identify with these objects, they are but one of the many that come before them, and will continue to come after, reinforcing the cyclical nature of the season and rendering the fate that befalls them somewhat inconsequential.
Both titular characters of ‘The Fir Tree’ and ‘The Snowman’ are human-adjacent, the former displaced from the woods and dressed as a Christmas tree, and the latter who stood sentinel in the garden of a manor. The irony is apparent in both stories, where the natural spaces in which the two objects resided are portrayed as pleasant and comforting (vis-à-vis the objects), as evidenced below – but they are left wanting:
The Fir Tree
‘Out in the forest stood such a charming fir tree. It was in a good spot where it could get sunshine and there was plenty of air’ (p. 163)
‘“Enjoy your youth!” said the rays of sunlight. “Enjoy your fresh growth and the young life inside you!” The wind kissed the tree, and the dew shed tears over it, but the fir tree did not understand.’ (p. 164)
‘Take pleasure in us!” said the air and the sunlight. “Take pleasure in your fresh youth out in the open!”’ (p. 166)
The Snowman
‘The wind was so icy that the frost took a firm grip, but what a sight there was when the sun came up! All the trees and shrubs were covered with rime; it looked like an entire forest of white corals, as if all the branches were heaped with dazzling white flowers… It was lovely beyond compare! And when the sun shone, oh, how everything sparkled, as if powdered with diamond dust, and all across the snow on the ground glittered huge diamonds, or you might also think that countless tiny little candles were burning, even whiter than the white snow.’ (p. 326)
‘In the early morning hour the cellar windows were frosted over; they bore the loveliest ice blossoms that any snowman could ask for… it was exactly the kind of frosty weather that should please a snowman’ (p. 329)
Andersen places emphasis on describing how the respective spaces in nature are ideal, where the tree is embraced by the giving hands of nature in the form of sunlight and air, and the snowman is surrounded by the beauty of nature paired with a chilly (or cosy) climate that sustains his existence. Nonetheless, both objects are overwhelmed with irrational desires, with the tree pining for a place in a human residence: ‘What an agony of longing! If only it were Christmas… If only I were in the warm parlor with all that splendor and glory!’ (165), and the snowman yearning for a dangerous love with a stove: ‘He could and should have felt so happy, but he was not happy; he was suffering from stove-longing’ (329).
Here is where their storylines diverge – the tree gets his wish, which turns out to be short-lived, and he is soon repurposed as kindling. As the children gathered in the comforting warmth of the fireplace, the tree is filled with a deep regret: ‘But with each sharp crack, which was a deep sigh, the tree thought about a summer day in the forest, or about a winter night out there, when the stars were shining.’ (171) Meanwhile, the snowman melts without ever coming into contact with the stove. As winter retreats, ‘the thaw grew stronger, the snowman grew weaker. He didn’t say a word, he never complained, and that’s a sure sign.’ (329)
The objects’ inability to speak makes their journeys all the more poignant – it is easy for readers to sympathise with them – one natural, one man-made – that both meet similar, sordid ends. Andersen’s parting words for the fir tree are as follows:
Now it was over, and the tree was gone, along with the story. It was over, over, and that’s what happens to every story! (‘The Fir Tree’ 171)
The final lines, declared with a cheerful nonchalance, concludes the chapter on the fir tree, highlighting the relationship between nature and humans as one of practicality. The tree, having served its purpose as a Christmas symbol, is disposed of effectively. The repetition of ‘it was over’, coupled with the insistence that ‘that’s what happens to every story’, creates a sense of finality. Meanwhile, ‘The Snowman’ ends as such:
“Gone, gone!” barked the watchdog. But the little girls on the manor sang:
‘Sprout forth, woodruff! Fresh and fair,
Hang down, willow, your mitten pair!
Come, cuckoo, come lark! Let’s sing!
In February we’re having spring!
I’ll sing along, Chirp-chirp! Cuckoo!
Come, dear sun, come often too!’
And no one gave another thought to the snowman. (329)
Here, the girls celebrate the departure of winter and herald the return of spring. The snowman, however, is barely an afterthought, with only the old, experienced watchdog to witness the coming and going (‘Gone, gone!’) of the snowmen, winter after winter.
In these two stories, the depiction of nature appears rather grim, as seen in the tragic ends of the snowman and the tree. Yet, in both, we can see the magic of Andersen – where the human characters in the story are oblivious to the fate of the tree and the snowman, it is the readers who are introduced to the beauty of nature through the eyes (and thoughts) of the every-day objects that we have grown accustomed to.
Though unconventional, Andersen’s depiction of ‘nature’ may very well still be nurturing for the child reader, as such stories have the potential to spark curiosity and empathy, and can also serve to develop a sensitivity towards nature in all its forms. The ending of each tale could thus result in a call-to-action, be it as a reflective prompt with respect to human interaction with the natural world, or a call-to-action featuring nature as a metaphorical stand-in for those with neither voice nor power.
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All quotations are taken from Tina Nunally’s translation of Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales (London: Penguin, 2005).
Calvin Goh graduated with an MSc from the University of Edinburgh in 2020. He is currently an educator teaching Literature and Social Studies in Singapore. An avid reader since he was young, Calvin is enamoured with myths, fairy tales and children’s literature, especially in terms of their cultural relevance and potential in pedagogy. He is keen to embark on PhD research in the field of mythology and intermedial studies, where he intends to examine the phenomenon of adaptation in contemporary society.
