Edmund Dulac's Fairy-Book: Fairy Tales of the Allied Nations — Themes and Context

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Dulac, Edmund, 1882-1953 Project Gutenberg 2008 Not confirmed
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Words 63,109
Reading time 275 min
Text sections 8

The source record for Edmund Dulac's Fairy-Book: Fairy Tales of the Allied Nations — Themes and Context measures this digital text at 63,109 words, 4 hr 35 min estimated reading time, and 8 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 20.4 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Fairy tales,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

This editorial note examines the authorial choices in Edmund Dulac's 1918 fairy-tale collection, focusing on diction, dialogue, and description across tales from Allied nations, with attention to how the prose shapes narrative tone and character.
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Urashima was so enchanted that he could not speak a word 152

THE FIRE BIRD A RUSSIAN FAIRY TALE

There he found the Princess asleep, and saw that her face was the face he had seen in the portrait 160

With a scream the Princess rushed forward, and, before her wicked sister could prevent her, she had upset the cauldron with a crash 168

THE STORY OF THE BIRD FENG A CHINESE FAIRY TALE

The wonderful bird, like a fire of many colours come down from heaven, alighted before the Princess, dropping at her feet the portrait 172

The old wife sang merrily as she sat in the inglenook stirring the soup, for she had never felt so sad. Many, many years had come and gone, leaving the weight of their winters on her shoulders and the touch of snow on her hair without ever bringing her a little child. This made her and her dear old husband very sad, for there were many children outside, playing in the snow. It seemed hard that not even one among them was their very own. But alas! there was no hope for such a blessing now. Never would they see a little fur cap hanging on the corner of the mantelpiece, nor two little shoes drying by the fire.

The old husband brought in a bundle of wood and set it down. Then, as he heard the children laughing and clapping their hands outside, he looked out at the window. There they were, dancing with glee round a snow man they had made. He smiled as he saw that it was evidently meant to look like the Mayor of the village, it was so fat and pompous.

'Look, Marusha!' he cried to the old wife. 'Come and see the snow man they've made.'

As they stood together at the window, they laughed to see what fun the children got out of it. Suddenly the old man turned to her with a bright idea.

'Let's go out and see if _we_ can't make a little snow man.'

But Marusha laughed at him. 'What would the neighbours say? They would poke fun at us; it'd be the joke of the village. Besides, we're too old to play like children.'

'But only a little one, Marusha; only a teeny-weeny little snow man,--and I'll manage it that nobody sees us.'

'Well, well,' she said, laughing; 'have your own way, as you always did, Youshko.'

With this she took the pot from the fire, put on her bonnet, and they went out together. As they passed the children, they stopped to play with them a while, for they now felt almost like children themselves. Then they trudged on through the snow till they came to a clump of trees, and, behind this, where the snow was nice and white, and nobody could see them, they set to work to make their little man.

The old husband insisted that it must be very small, and the old wife agreed that it should be almost as small as a new-born babe. Kneeling down in the snow, they fashioned the little body in next to no time. Now there remained only the head to finish. Two fat handfuls of snow for the cheeks and face, and a big one on top for the head. Then they put on a wee dab for the nose and poked two holes, one on each side, for the eyes.

It was soon done, and they were already standing back looking at it, and laughing and clapping their hands like children. Then suddenly they stopped. What had happened? A very strange thing indeed! Out of the two holes they saw looking at them two wistful blue eyes. Then the face of the little snow man was no longer white. The cheeks became rounded and smooth and radiant, and two rosy lips began to smile up at them. A breath of wind brushed the snow from the head, and it all fell down round the shoulders in flaxen ringlets escaping from a white fur cap. At the same time some snow, loosened from the little body, fell down and took the shape of a pretty white garment. Then, suddenly, before they could open and shut their mouths, their snow mannikin was gone, and in his place stood the daintiest, prettiest little maiden they had ever seen.

Edmund Dulac's Fairy-Book: Fairy Tales of the Allied Nations (1918) presents a curated selection of tales from Russia, England, Flanders, Belgium, Italy, France, Ireland, Serbia, Japan, and China. The prose, likely translated or adapted by Dulac, exhibits a distinctive voice that blends formal narration with vivid sensory detail. In the excerpt from “The Blue Bird,” the description of the storm employs personification and metaphor: “the night flowers paid their perfumes out like threatened debtors.” Such choices elevate the emotional stakes, while dialogue in “Bashtchelik (Or, Real Steel)” is terse and declarative, as when the dying Tsar commands: “It is my will, O my sons, that you give my daughters in marriage.” These stylistic features reveal a deliberate crafting of tone across cultures.

Diction and the Weight of Authority

The language in these tales often carries a formal, almost legalistic weight, especially in moments of command or prophecy. In “Bashtchelik,” the Tsar’s dying words are rendered as a direct, unadorned decree: “It is my will, O my sons, that you give my daughters in marriage.” The repetition of “my” and the imperative structure reinforce patriarchal authority. Contrast this with the storm scene in “The Blue Bird,” where diction shifts to the poetic: “the thunder split and rolled and crashed.” Here, verbs accumulate to mimic the storm’s progression. The narrator also uses simile to externalize emotion: “the night flowers paid their perfumes out like threatened debtors.” Such choices align the natural world with human anxiety, a recurring technique in the collection.

Dialogue as Character Revelation

Dialogue in these excerpts is sparing but pointed, often serving to define character through speech patterns. In “The Blue Bird,” Princess Florine’s wishes are spoken as incantations: “I wish that, by storm and lightning, all that is evil and ugly in this palace shall be destroyed.” The parallel structure and imperative mood give her words performative power. In contrast, the Prince’s dialogue is more reactive: “What sound was that?”—a question that reveals his vulnerability. The Tsar in “Bashtchelik” speaks in clipped, authoritative sentences, leaving no room for reply. These differences in dialogue style—from incantatory to interrogative to commanding—create distinct character voices without lengthy exposition.

Description and the Senses

Descriptive passages in the collection engage multiple senses, grounding the fantastical in the tangible. In “The Blue Bird,” the storm is rendered through sound (“dull thunder reverberated”), touch (“the air grew stifling”), and smell (“the night flowers paid their perfumes”). The phrase “the splash of heavy drops was heard on the flagstones” adds an auditory texture that makes the scene immediate. Later, Florine’s transformation is described through visual excess: “the most splendidly royal figure you could imagine,” with jewels that “could never have got their beauty from any one but her.” This hyperbolic description underscores the fairy-tale logic where beauty correlates with moral worth. Such sensory layering is consistent across the excerpts, though the degree of elaboration varies by tale.

Narrative Voice and Cultural Framing

The narrator’s voice in these tales oscillates between omniscient commentary and restrained observation. In “The Blue Bird,” the narrator occasionally addresses the reader directly: “How could she meet him in her peasant's garb?” This rhetorical question invites empathy. In “Bashtchelik,” the narration is more detached, reporting events without internal access: “The aged Tsar was dying, and his three sons and three daughters were standing round his bed.” The cultural origins of the tales are signaled through names and settings—Snegotchka, Urashima Taro—but the prose style remains consistent, suggesting a unifying editorial hand. Dulac’s choices in diction and pacing thus create a cohesive reading experience while preserving the distinct flavor of each nation’s folklore.

Readers attentive to language will find that Dulac’s editorial choices—the formal decrees, the sensory storms, the incantatory wishes—shape each tale’s emotional landscape. The collection rewards those who listen for shifts in register, from the terse commands of a dying tsar to the lyrical desperation of a princess. These stylistic details, traceable in the excerpts, invite reflection on how fairy tales adapt across cultures while retaining a core narrative power.

Reading about how Edmund Dulac shaped his fairy-tale voices, I remembered my grandmother’s low, careful telling of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses,” and how the silence between her words mattered most. Later, American Fairy Tales gave me that same pause—a hush before American folk logic turned strange. American Fairy Tales — Edition Insights feels like sitting beside someone who understands that quiet weight.

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