Truth and Beauty in Peter Rabbit

January 13, 2020

by Adam Andrews

In An Experiment in Criticism, C. S. Lewis suggests that every work of literature is both Logos (something said) and Poiema (something made). What he means is that each work not only communicates an idea, but does so via form and technique; it is a creation of the hands, not just of the mind. “As Logos,” Lewis writes, “it tells a story…As Poeima, by its aural beauties and also by the balance and contrast and the unified multiplicity of its successive parts, it is an objet d’art, a thing shaped so as to give great satisfaction” (Lewis 132).

This suggestion leads me to wonder whether Logos and Poiema can exist independently in stories, or if you can have one without the other. Consider The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter:

Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.

They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree.

‘Now my dears,’ said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, ‘you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.’

‘Now run along, and don’t get into mischief. I am going out.’

Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella, and went through the wood to the baker’s. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.

Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries.

But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor’s garden, and squeezed under the gate!

First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes; and then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.

But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!

Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, ‘Stop thief!’

Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate.

He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.

After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.

Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.

Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him.

And rushed into the tool-shed, and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.

Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the tool-shed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each.

Presently Peter sneezed—’Kertyschoo!’ Mr. McGregor was after him in no time.

And tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.

Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp with sitting in that can.

After a time he began to wander about, going lippity—lippity—not very fast, and looking all round.

He found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.

An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.

Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some gold-fish, she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he had heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.

He went back towards the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe—scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate!

Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow; and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes.

Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden.

Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scare-crow to frighten the blackbirds.

Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree.

He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole and shut his eyes. His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight!

I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.

His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter!

‘One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time.‘

But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.

Now, for comparison, consider a story about another young Peter, this one from McGuffey’s Eclectic First Reader, Lesson 33:

One day Peter Holt was left at home by his parents, while they went out to take a ride.

His mama told him to stay in the house until she came back. “Be very sure that you do not go out among the horses,” said she. “They may hurt you.”

Peter said he would do as he was told. So his mama kissed him, and she left.

He soon was very tired of staying in the house. Soon he ran down to the lot to look at a little colt which his papa had given him.

It was very tame, so he put his hand on its neck, and then on its head. At last he thought it was so tame and gentle that he would ride it. He led it to the fence, and jumped on its back. The colt had never before felt anything on his back, and was very much alarmed. It put down its head, and ran away at a great rate, and at last, kicked up its hind feet, and threw Peter over its head.

Peter was hurt very much, but he crept home, as well as he could. If he had been so badly hurt as not to be able to get home, he might have died in the field before his momma came home.

Little children may learn from this, that they should always obey their parents. How many little girls and boys have been hurt because they did not do as they were told!

In terms of logos, you might say that in emphasizing the dangers of childish disobedience by describing the disastrous career of a young miscreant, the two stories above are quite similar. As works of art, however – as poiema – they could not be more different. We need not accuse McGuffey of failing at something he may never have attempted when we point out that his story is ham-fisted, artless, and didactic. Indeed, “didactic” is hardly a criticism of a story written expressly to teach moral lessons to the young. Still, we learn the lesson regardless of the story’s artistic merit – that is, in spite of its ugliness as poiema.

With Peter Rabbit, however, the case is quite different. Every sentence contributes equally to a compelling artistic whole, and we “would notice, and object, if a single word were changed…” (Lewis 9). Remove Potter’s exquisite description of the sparrows, “who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself” or the rhythmic “scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch” of Mr. McGregor’s hoe, and the whole thing is ruined. Likewise, imagine the artistic disaster if Peter were to encounter the old mouse with the pea in her mouth after stumbling upon the enigmatic cat, or if he had raced away from the tool shed instead of “going lippity—lippity—not very fast.” Finally, how crucial is the author’s insertion of herself as a sympathetic narrator? Could the story exist without her gentle, first-person summary of the denouement?

It interests me to notice that these concerns have nothing to do with the theme or message of the story: “the dangers of childish disobedience.” There is beauty here independent of logos. Or, if not altogether independent (for indeed, it’s hard to make the case that the story would be as beautiful if Peter had entered the garden with permission!), then at least worthy to be considered separately. These are verbal concerns of vocabulary, syntax, and style. They are structural concerns of order, pacing, and proportion. They are stylistic concerns of perspective, voice, and tone. In a word, these concerns are artistic rather than philosophical, of the poiema rather than the logos.

Some may ask whether such concerns are beside the point. If the lesson can be had just as efficiently with McGuffey’s story, which is barely half as long, why take the extra time to read Potter? This question goes right to the heart of why we read literature, and why we teach our students to read literature.

I think one of the reasons should be to increase our capacity for enjoyment of the Great Books as works of art, not only for what they can teach us about life, but also the taste for beauty that we can acquire by reading them. This taste for beauty is independent of philosophical, theological, and ethical lessons a reader may learn from literature. Those things are important, too. But the refinement of instincts and responses to Creation, the attentiveness to subtlety of expression, and the facility in listening and receiving that come from artistic appreciation have a unique role in making someone fully human and therefore most happy. By learning to love literature as poiema, the literary reader acquires something important that can’t be had any other way: a particular capacity for empathy that prepares him for fellowship, relationship, and community.

I wonder how often we teachers overlook poiema in favor of logos when reading and teaching literature. Do we search for a theme or a moral and stop listening once we have found it? Do we reject a work of art based on its philosophical or ethical message while ignoring its artistic merits altogether? Do non-literary concerns sometimes shoulder their way into our literary decision-making? I’m not suggesting that philosophical or ethical concerns are illegitimate, far from it. Still, I think maintaining the distinction between logos and poiema, and attending to them both, can help us develop artistic sensibilities, refined appetites, and humane instincts – some of the choicest fruits of a literary education.