Once the fairy tale has been brought back to mind, I also quite often hear: ‘What a gruesome story, actually – the poor child is so traumatised.’ And to think that the version I use – and which is often regarded as the original – is that of the Brothers Grimm. I sometimes jokingly call them ‘Disney before their time’, because they considerably toned down existing fairy tales and not infrequently added a happy ending. Their versions are often ‘fairy tales light’ compared to well-known earlier versions. For instance, in a version of Little Red Riding Hood that’s a hundred years older, recorded by the Frenchman Charles Perrault, she doesn’t come out of the wolf’s belly. The poor girl simply dies, just like her grandmother. They didn’t live happily ever after. Oops, that’s not what we expect from a fairy tale!

No, we swear by a happy ending, just as modern fairy tales present it to us. Not only in new versions of existing stories, but also in the new fairy tales we create. I’m also referring to the stories of recent kings and queens (think of Sissi) and even the life stories of admired stars. We revel in them and love to project them onto our own lives, in which we too strive for a happy ending. There’s nothing wrong with thinking positively, but there’s also a great danger in doing so. Because clinging too tightly to a happy ending can also undermine our mental resilience when things go wrong. Let me explain.

I’ll begin by pointing out that the happy ending is not actually that old a concept. As I’ve already mentioned, older versions of stories such as Little Red Riding Hood do not end peacefully at all. Nor do things rarely end well for the heroes of Greek mythology. Heracles, the man who undertook twelve arduous labours to come to terms with himself after – at the instigation of the jealous goddess Hera – killing his children in a fit of madness, meets his own end by setting himself alight. After completing his heroic deeds, Theseus is simply pushed off a cliff into the sea and is not saved by the god of the sea, Poseidon, who was rumoured to be his father.

I came across a particularly fine example of an ending that is anything but happy in an old Japanese tale*:

Long ago, in the village of Amoetsji in the province of Yamato, there lived a very wealthy family. Their family name was Kagamisoekoeri no Myatsoeko. Their adult daughter was simply called Yorozoenoko, which means nothing less than ‘a child in a thousand’.

The girl was not only exceptionally beautiful, but also still a virgin. No wonder, then, that men from all walks of life vied for her favour, but Yorozoenoko rejected them all. Either they were not wealthy enough, or there was something amiss with their appearance or behaviour. The suitors wore away the wooden steps leading up to the merchant’s villa, but they all returned empty-handed. Several years passed in this way, and it began to look as though Yorozoenoko would remain unmarried.

One fine day, a long procession came to a halt in front of the wealthy merchant’s house. At the head rode a samurai on horseback, so handsome and proud in appearance that any girl would fall in love with him at first sight. Behind him followed a number of servants and three carriages laden with the finest silk fabrics and all manner of trinkets. This undoubtedly made an impression on Yorozoenoko’s father, who went out of his way to welcome his guest as warmly as possible. As for his daughter herself, her heart and her senses were completely thrown into disarray at the sight of this impressive suitor. As a result, Yorozoenoko, much to her father’s relief, gave her consent.

The noble samurai was a man of action. That very evening, he retired to his bed with his future bride.

In the middle of the night, the parents heard their daughter moaning and groaning heart-rendingly.

‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ the father said reassuringly to his wife. ‘The child has no experience at all. It’ll all pass, I promise you, I swear.’ The parents paid no further attention to it and fell asleep.

The next morning, they woke up later than usual, but there was still no sound coming from their daughter’s room. The mother knocked on the door, but got no answer. She knocked again and again, and then opened the door.

She recoiled in horror. The room was empty, and on the bed lay only a few of Yorozoenoko’s fingers. That was all that remained of her…

A short while later, a servant came to report that the guest’s horse had disappeared and that all that remained where it had stood was a pile of straw. The beautiful silk fabrics and the other gifts had turned into animal bones. The carriages had become pieces of stinking driftwood.

The parents donned their mourning clothes and mourned the loss of their only daughter for a long time.

Do not be blinded by power and wealth; it is inner beauty that matters, not outward display. And if you do, then what goes round comes round. That message is clear. But the question is whether, in this day and age, we still want to hear this story or read it to our children. We tend to find it far too gruesome. We live in an age where traditional stories are just about to be given age ratings, and if this Japanese fairy tale were ever to be made into a film, it might well be a 16+ production – unless the studio demands a different ending, just as they demanded of Roald Dahl when his children’s book *The Witches* was adapted for the screen.

I am, however, convinced that the development of storytelling described above runs parallel to our growing inability to cope with setbacks and trials, especially when there is no guarantee they will lead to a reward. As long as we keep ourselves trapped in this construct, there is little point in engaging with stories in any meaningful way. In that case, we are merely deluding ourselves. That is why I also advocate actively delving back into the richness of the fairy-tale repertoire and continuing to share all those stories for the sake of our own (mental) health.

^*Source: “Japanse sagen en verhalen” by M.A. Prick van Wely. Fibula-Van Dishoeck, Haarlem, 1979. ISBN: 90-228-3346-1