My Dover version of this book published in 1969 contains the 8 stories of Charles Perrault published in "Histoires ou contes du temps passé, avec des moralitez", Paris, 1697 with 34 illustrations by Gustave Dore and the verse morals. Apparently there are other versions of this collection; some have more stories, some don't have the morals and some don't have the Dore illustrations.

What I am reviewing, once again, is not the text itself but this particular edition, especially the illustrations. Perrault’s Fairy Tales (Dover, 1969) includes all eight of the original stories retold by Charles Perrault in his 1697 Contes du temps passé. Besides the well-known “Cinderella,” “Sleeping Beauty,” “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Puss in Boots,” and “Tom Thumb,” there are three other stories less frequently associated with Perrault: “The Fairies,” “Ricky of the Tuft,” and the classic thriller, “Blue Beard.” The text of the stories is from A. E. Johnson’s translation of 1921; the verse morals at the end of each story (usually omitted, but charming) are from S. R. Littlewood’s 1912 translation; and the illustrations are from the great Gustave Doré.

Perrault’s versions of these stories are often thought to reflect the sensitivity of the court rather than the crude peasant imagination in the Grimms’ tales; hence, one expects them to be less gruesome. It is worth remembering that all fairy tales of that era had their darker shadows; therefore, Doré’s darker illustrations are quite appropriate. For example, in the story originally called “Little Tom Thumb,” through Tom’s trickery the ogre is deceived and slaughters his seven daughters rather than Tom and his brothers: “. . . without a moment’s hesitation, he cut the throats of his seven daughters, and well satisfied with his work went back to bed beside his wife. . . . [Later, the ogre’s wife] went upstairs, and was horrified to discover her seven daughters bathed in blood, with their throats cut.” So much for courtly gentility. Little Tom Thumb subsequently manages to steal all the ogre’s treasures and returns home a hero—though he began life as the scapegoat in the family. Hence, the verse moral at the end of this story is translated in an English rhyme:

Children are a pride to all
When they’re handsome, straight, and tall.
But how many homes must own
Some odd mite who’s seldom shown—
Just a little pale-faced chap,
No one thinks is worth a rap!
Parents, brothers, laugh him down
Keep him mute with sneer and frown.
Yet it’s Little Thumbling may
Bring them fortune one fine day!

Never mind that Tom’s a thief; never mind that instead of simply escaping with his brothers, he manipulates the ogre to slay seven innocent children; never mind that he returns to swindle the grieving mother out of all her possessions, she who had welcomed the lost, hungry boys into her home. Never mind. This is a genteel fairy tale.

Several types of Doré’s typical illustrations accompany this story. The most prominent are those of the seven children lost in the woods. Of them Tom is simply the smallest one, not a tiny thumb-sized creature as he became in later English versions. But all seven of them are dwarfed by the dark, towering woods. Doré’s trees are almost freakishly overpowering, and the loneliness and vulnerability of the children are dramatized in the shadowy, somber, macabre forest. The ogre and his wife are depicted as giants; he is bulbous and bug-eyed. But their seven daughters, contrary to the text, which describes them as toothy young ogresses, are pictured as pure, gleaming, round-faced little girls, innocently asleep in their bed. The parents of Tom and his brothers, on the other hand, are seen as rugged peasants in their simple, bare hut.

These elements recur in Doré’s illustrations for several of the stories: plain, homely peasants; overweight, sinister adults; and scrumptiously innocent, round-faced young girls. The most memorable example of the girl is Little Red Riding Hood. She is the archetype of innocence: young and angelic, trusting, and very feminine. Her grandmother is a haggard old peasant; the wolf, larger than life, strong and bold, but deceptive. The little girl’s features are absolutely charming: long blonde tresses,, childlike hands, round cheeks, big eyes, arched eyebrows, luscious lips, a sweet, demure manner. One does not have to resort to Freud to read the psychosexual overtones of the close-up of Riding Hood and the wolf in grandmother’s soft, fluffy bed.

Of course, Doré is also equally facile with his courtiers: elegantly costumed, gracefully postured, suave and charming; for example, the sleepers in Sleeping Beauty’s castle, the prince’s court in “Cinderella,” Blue Beard’s ladies and gentlemen, the attendant to the king in “The Master Cat, or Puss in Boots.” (The king, of course, is another of Doré’s obese, insatiable overlords with bulging eyes, as is Bluebeard.) But the most urbane gentleman of them all, the most sprightly and debonair, is Puss himself. In his impressive, flared boots, his gentleman’s feathered hat and cape, his broad leather belt (never mind the dead mice hanging like a watch chain), his theatrical gestures, Puss could be a ballet master in performance. The portrait of Puss may be Doré’s most impressive comment on aristocratic sensibilities: luxurious, elegant, but artificial, avaricious, and sly.

However, Doré’s trademark is his darksome settings: forbidding forests, stony cliffs, remote castles, as gloomy and over-powering inside as out. The epitome of these settings, of course, is the palace of “The Sleeping Beauty,” surrounded and invaded by the woody growth of a hundred solitary years. Doré was obviously fascinated. The scene is depicted again and again. He could not forbear. There is the approach of the prince, out a-hunting, inquiring of the woodmen. The human figures, including the prince himself, are diminished by the forest, the stones, the towers, and especially the dark shadows. He nears the castle amid columns of trees arching gracefully high over his head. He is a graceful courtier and the sunlit steps beckon him, but he is completely dominated by the gnarled tree roots, the branches looming over him, the impenetrability of the surrounding woods, and the dark, dark shadows. No less than three full-page spreads show the tangled, twisting vines growing insidiously around the sleepers, including he lovely princess’s majestic bed. The princess, of course, is bathed in light, and the prince approaches in awe—and in flowing, regal attire. But once again, the vines of the encroaching forest dominate the scene.

So that brings us back to that gruesome, threatening, mysterious, gargantuan forest that surrounds Tom Thumb, unprotected and defenseless as he is—except for his own wit and fortitude (a scene repeated by Doré in four successive designs). I suspect that, to the artist, he represents the archetypal human condition—not only the youngest brother, the scapegoat of the family, the underling, small and physically unimposing, but even more important, the loner, the outcast in the dark primeval forest. Even the ogre’s house is shrouded in grotesque trees, roots, and vines. The climax of the story, and probably the climactic design among Doré’s illustrations, is when Tom climbs to the tip-top of the bare tree in the middle of the forest and espies a light somewhere in the distance. The light, of course, is deceptive and he “was terribly disappointed to find that when he was on the ground he could see nothing at all . . . . [that] every time they had to go down into a hollow they lost sight of it.” What is impressive about this particular design, however, is that not only has Tom climbed to the very top branch of the barren tree, but his six brothers in the shadows below are dwarfed by a log—not the trunk of a tree that has been split by lightning or that has fallen with age and decay, but a huge log that has been cut clean by sawyers. Tom, and humankind, are overwhelmed by primitive darkness, but they are urged on by the tiny light of a single candle, and the fallen log tells us ominously, that they will prevail.