Practicing the art of being a grandfather, I am re-reading fairy tales. As it turns out, they are anything but “fairy,” and shed surprising light on recent political events.
The expression “the emperor has no clothes” is associated with Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale published in 1837. The tale is about an Emperor addicted to fashion. He did not review his military, paid no attention to culture, and was parading in his carriage to show off his new clothes, and he had a different coat for every hour of the day.
One day two swindlers came to his city, pretending to be weavers, possessing such innovative fabrics that they would be invisible to anyone who was unusually stupid or unfit to filling any job requirement working for him. The Emperor promptly employs the two crooks at generous pay, convinced that by wearing their clothes he would discover whom he should hire, how to distinguish the wise from the fools, and from the knowledge gained he would let the entire empire know of this innovation. The two ordered extravagant materials that they put aside, and pretended to work the looms that were actually empty.
The emperor sent his honest minister to check on the “weavers,” who did a pantomime for him showing off the excellent fabric and colors. The minister seeing nothing, but fearful of appearing a fool and being considered unfit to be minister, ends up singing the praises for the swindlers’ “clothes.” The emperor then gave the “weavers” more gold, with which they purchased more material – they hid. The emperor sent more trusted advisers, who reacted as the honest minister before them: groupthink in the making.
By this time, the entire town heard about the new clothes. Finally, the emperor himself went to see them. Not seeing anything, he succumbed to the “elite groupthink” with his eyes wide shut, not wanting to appear a fool or unfit to be emperor. He put on the new clothes, with the weavers making rounds to dress him, fastening every button, all the courtiers exclaiming how majestic the – naked - emperor looks in them.
As he directly goes on a parade to show them off, the entire crowd admires the new clothes, nobody wanting to appear a fool or unfit to work at the palace. Until a child exclaims “The emperor has no clothes on!”
I do not tell my innocent, naïve young grandkids – who still speak their minds as they see things, asking lots of why-s, not yet blinded by peer pressure, that such events are taking place just now in the country, and many other countries around the world. It is hard, however, to escape the rhyming when after years of party members and most observers in media agreeing that the severely ailing President must stay in office because the vice president is not quite up to the job, the same party and media make a complete turnaround and declare that the vice president is the Second Coming. The party members and mobs – in a march of folly - clap hands joyfully, as did the emperor’s subjects.
The story has both an Indian and a Spanish precedent, the first dating from 1052, 8 centuries before Andersen’s version, the second from 1335 – both with sharper political connotations than the newer one, as they concern succession and … taxes. The Indian version appears in the Līlāvatīsāra by Jinaratna (1283), a summary of a lost anthology of fables, the Nirvāṇalīlāvatī by Jineśvara (1052). In both the Indian and the Spanish versions, the swindlers pretend that the fabric identifies persons of illegitimate birth – a crucial distinction for matters of inheritance.
The Spanish version of the story is more revealing. The author is Don Juan Manuel, Prince of Villena, titled Count Lucanor; of the Fifty Pleasant Stories of Patronio (Libro de los ejemplos del conde Lucanor y de Patronio ), published in 1335, then first published in English in 1868, reprinted in 1899, which is the version I read.
In this version the king hires the weavers because, as in the Indian version, it can distinguish between legitimate and illegitimate children. This was important for succession and because this “enabled the king to increase his treasures, for among the Moors only legitimate children inherit their father’s property.” The rest of the story is similar to Andersen’s, only in this case the King sends his Minister of Justice as the first to do the inspection, and later his Councilors.
However, instead of a child, it is another “outsider” at the time who dares to speak up: “Now, so, however, with a negro, who happened to notice the King [naked], having nothing to lose, came to him and said: “Sire, to me it matters not whose son I am, therefore I tell you that you are riding without any clothes.” On this, the King commenced beating him, saying that he was not legitimate son of his supposed father, and therefore it was that he could not see the cloth. But no sooner had the negro said this, then others were convinced of its truth, and said the same.” (Note: this is a 19th century book, and the term “negro” has a most positive connotation: He is the first to stand up against groupthink).
What is the rather relevant moral of this tale? It is about insisting on listening to different opinions, to prevent succumbing to nonsense: “Count Lucanor, since that man of whom you speak forbids your trusting to any one, and demands your entire confidence, be careful you are not deceived; For you ought to know very well that he can have no reason for seeking your advantage more than his own; nor has he more reason to serve you than have those who are indebted to you and are already in your service.” A 14th century lesson in the importance of free speech, meaning seeking different opinions and debating them.
Groupthink and volatile mobs appear in two less known Andersen fairy tales, even more surprisingly prescient. The Most Incredible Thing is about a king’s promise that whoever does an incredible thing will win his daughter’s hand in marriage and half his kingdom. The contest’s judges, ranging from children to old men, promptly agree that a young, decent entrepreneur had earned the prize by devising a clock that had 12 different performances, one for each hour. The 12 performances reminded the audience about the myths and foundations of Western civilization, from Moses’ commandments to Christianity and basic pleasures of everyday living.
As the prize is about to be awarded, a new young man appears, swinging an ax and smashing the clock. By so doing, he claims, he has done the most incredible thing (Middle East events, anyone?). The judges and the people agree, and award the princess and half of the kingdom to the lout.
But this is a fairy tale, so it has a happy ending. On the wedding day, the clock reappears. The characters in the 12 performances come to life and send the lout into oblivion. The innovative, good young man gets his rewards. Andersen optimistically concludes that a work of art doesn’t die. Its solid incarnation may be shattered, but its spirit cannot be broken.
Although the people at the wedding declare that they lived to see the most incredible thing, the story ends with an observation about what made the ending of the tale incredible. The most incredible thing was that nobody in that crowd was envious of the young man who built the clock and married the princess. Fairy tale indeed, considering these days’ politics of envy and conspiracies born of frustration of inability to prosper, individually or as a group.
Then there is Andersen’s The Snow Queen. This tale starts with the devil inventing a mirror which, when looked at, reflects everything good and beautiful as being ugly. Beautiful landscapes look like wrinkled spinach and the best people appear hideous monsters. The devil’s disciples trained in using the mirror infest the land and turn people’s hearts into lumps of ice, preventing justice from being done.
This tale too has a happy ending – but it is conditional on a skeptical ruler’s intervention, about whom the tale says: “In the kingdom where we are now, there is a Princess who is uncommonly clever, and no wonder. She has read all the [infected] newspapers in the world and forgotten them again – that’s how clever she is.”
It takes fairy tales to remind us how thin is the veneer of civilization and how fragile the complex of institutions that uphold it. To finish with a happy-ending, note that all the stories take place in societies where kings rule and centralize power and wealth – and the happy outcome depends only on a benevolent queen, or an open-minded king, admitting his mistakes. However, when people have more career options (which most academics by the age of forty these days do not), where media is a fourth power (now gone) groupthink and mob mentality is less likely. In such circumstances, people know there are more institutions that secure them, and they do not stand alone facing the power of Soljenytsin’s omnipresent state, or Emile Zola having to flee to England when he dared lift the veil over half of France’s rabid anti-semitism.
This observation brings us to a modern fairy tale / satire. “Being There,” is a 1979 movie, drawing on Jerzy Kosinski’s book by the same name (and who collaborated on the script). A series of accidental events turns an inarticulate simpleton gardener, whose only source of knowledge comes from watching TV, into Chauncey Gardener – after Washington elite (money and political power-wise) stumbles on him. They project on this “Potemkin village” empty head their fears and desires. Chauncey ends up … president, though he may not grasp it – or, perhaps, the director implies in the last frames of the movie as he walks on water, that he may end up in an even more heightened position.
Who would have thought that these centuries, millennia old fairy tales and a 45 years old satire - would foresee U.S. 2024 reality? And who knows, young voters, as children, may not believe everything they are told. They may absorb some stories by listening to their grandparents, and then see the world around them a bit differently.
