Chapter 1

QUATRE CONTES DE PROSPER MÉRIMÉE

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND VOCABULARY

BY

F.C.L. VAN STEENDEREN, PH.D.

Lake Forest University

NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

PREFACE

This edition is intended for beginners in high-schools as well as colleges. Since every instructor has his own views and methods in the matter of making the reading yield grammatical instruction, no remarks on grammar, or references to grammars, have been attempted. In order to accustom the student to the use of a dictionary, to obviate the necessity of his looking in two places for information, and to save space, the linguistic matter which usually comprises the bulk of notes has been included in the vocabulary, and the remaining material of the notes has been placed at the bottom of the page.

The inclusion of "Le Coup de pistolet, traduit de Pouchkine" as one of the "Quatre Contes de Prosper Mérimée" needs no apology, since Mérimée's version of the story is so individualized, that it has from all points of view the value of an original production.

Thanks are due Mr. Stephen H. Bush, of the Department of French in the University of Iowa, for aid in the reading of the proof-sheets.

F.C.L.v.S.

IOWA CITY, IA.

May 1, 1902.

INTRODUCTION

Prosper Mérimée was born in Paris, on the 28th of September, 1803, and died at Cannes, on the 23d of September, 1870. His grandfather on his father's side was a lawyer, his father a professor at the _École des Beaux-Arts_. His mother, a grand daughter of Mme. Leprince de Beaumont, the author of "The Beauty and the Beast" and other juvenile stories, was a painter of merit, like his father, and had a natural gift for narration.

Mérimée's early home and school training emphasized and developed three characteristics of his nature, the first of which had to do with his feelings, the second with his mind, and the third with his will.

When he was five years old, it happened that he was sent away from his mother's studio as a punishment for some misbehavior. Once outside, he began to beg pardon in tones of genuine repentance. His mother did not answer. Finally, he opened the door and dragged himself on his knees towards her, supplicating so pathetically that she burst out--laughing. Then, suddenly, he arose and in an altered tone cried out: "Well, if you make fun of me, I shall never beg pardon again!" Afterwards at school, at the Collège Henri IV, he was teased and made fun of by his fellows on account of his timidity, awkwardness and the effeminate elegance of his dress. This sort of experience, aided by his natural temperament, gradually led to the concealment of his feelings. Though his voluminous correspondence, published after his death, reveals a sensitive nature, his habitual attitude towards the emotions ultimately became one of indifference and even cynicism.

He fared better in the education of his mental faculties. His parents' home was a calm retreat where thought, judgment and refinement had their abode, and the noise of mob and cannon and politics scarcely penetrated. It was an artists' home, frequented by artists, English as well as French. Here was leisure and disposition to consider the value of an idea. And here was laid the foundation of that varied education of which he gives evidence in the many-sidedness of his interests and of his literary activity.

But although this quiet life in the society of artists and scholars, quite shut in from the world of politics, was conducive to the development of a refined mind, it is evident that participation in events would have been better for the development of Mérimée's will. Besides, he was humored at home, was not put to definite and perhaps disagreeable tasks. Another unfavorable influence was the reaction--after Waterloo--from the extreme energy of Napoleonic times, bringing about in France a general feeling of lassitude and vague fear. This may explain to some extent why Mérimée very rarely gave himself completely to a cause and why he appeared to the world as a sceptic and a dilettante.

We must think then of Mérimée as a man of exceptionally complex and refined mind, capable of deep feeling, but rarely showing it, and strongly inclined towards dilettantism.

During the first ten years of his early manhood Mérimée divided his time between literary studies and pleasure, taking upon himself no definite responsibilities. He began the study of law, but he soon abandoned it. In 1826 he took a trip to England, in 1829 he went to Spain. Between 1831 and 1833 he was, according to his own account, a "_mauvais sujet_ with moderation and from curiosity". In the mean time he acquired a rather profound knowledge of Greek and of Latin. He also began to study Spanish and learned to speak not only the pure Castilian, but several of its dialects as well. History, too, began to have a great charm for him, especially in the form of the concrete anecdote. He declares in one of his early books, the "Chronique du règne de Charles IX", that history is but a series of anecdotes and that he would have preferred the memoirs of one of Pericles' chambermaids to the "History of the Peloponnesian War". He also becomes acquainted with the thinkers and literary men of the day, young men most of them, such as Albert Stapfer, Henri Beyle, Sainte-Beuve, Viollet-le-Duc, Victor Hugo, and others, some of whom achieved lasting fame. Many of these would meet regularly, read their work to each other and discuss Byron, Walter Scott and Goethe. Mérimée would then sit sketching at a corner of the table, and would utter from time to time his droll, shrewd witticism, quietly, without a smile, and without making any effort to see whether his "mot" had hit the mark.

After the July revolution (1830), and through the influence of the De Broglie family, of whose estates Mérimée's grandfather had been the manager, the author was appointed _maître de requêtes_, the officer to whom petitions to the Council of State were addressed. Six weeks afterwards he was appointed chief of cabinet in the ministry of marine, a position which he exchanged later for similar positions in the ministries of commerce and of the interior. And when his minister, the Count of Argout, became governor of the Bank of France (1836), the latter procured for him the position of Inspector General of Public Monuments, the only position--on account of its opportunities for artistic criticism--which he took seriously. He held it with great merit until his failing health made it impossible for him to perform its duties. On the 18th of November, 1843, he was elected a member of the _Académie des Inscriptions_ and on the 4th of March, 1844, occurred his reception at the _Académie française_. On the 23d of June, 1853, he received an appointment to the Senate of France. These last appointments he received, or affected to receive, with indifference, and his attitude in the academy as well as in the senate was that of an indolent spectator. He owed his senatorship to Empress Eugénie, whom he had known since his first journey to Spain and whose mother, the Countess of Montijo, had become one of his best friends. Through his friendship with the empress he became _persona grata_ at the court of Napoleon III, and though he was not of the stuff of which courtiers are made, he took an active part in many of the functions and festivities of the court.

Mérimée began his literary career in 1825 with the publication of a collection of eight short plays after the Spanish manner, the "Théâtre de Clara Gazul, comédienne espagnole", for which he borrowed a sub-title: "Collection des théâtres étrangers", from a collection of foreign dramas edited by Ladvocat. He prefaced the plays with a "Notice sur Clara Gazul", signed: Joseph L'Estrange, who was supposed to be the editor of them. In 1827 he continued this vein of clever imitation under the cloak of fictitious editorship in "La Guzla, choix de poésies illyriques recueillies dans la Dalmatie, la Bosnie, la Croatie et l'Herzégovina." This book consisted of twenty-eight ballads in prose form and an article on Hyacinthe Maglanovich, a fictitious Slavic bard and the supposed editor of them. These ballads and those plays looked so genuine that even men of international reputation in literature were deceived. One of Mérimée's objects with these two books was a silent, satirical comment on the too loudly proclaimed efficacy of certain romantic tenets, especially the assertion that scenes should be laid in surroundings remote in time and place, and that the local color of these surroundings should be minutely studied and described. In 1840 he writes that with five or six Illyrian words and two pedantic little books he improvised "La Guzla" in two weeks. And further: "From that day on I was disgusted with local color, seeing how easy it was to fabricate it." Of course, this statement should in the first place be regarded as polemical and as a sly hit perhaps at Victor Hugo. For Mérimée's literary output is a triumph for the cause of local color. What he meant, and illustrates in his work, is that local color and remoteness in time and place are secondary to treatment and style, and that he regarded the romantic treatment and style as exaggerated and bombastic. After "La Guzla" he soon shows that Beyle's ideas have "singularly colored" his own, though not to the extent of affecting his originality. He attempts themes more closely allied to France and to his own time, choosing from a number of possible features the salient, the most striking feature, and though sometimes choosing themes that are strange and weird in themselves, avoiding sensational treatment of them. "Mateo Falcone", "L'Enlèvement de la redoute", "Tamango" (1829), "La partie de trictrac", "Le vase étrusque" (1830), and "La double méprise" (1833), are examples of realistic, not of romantic, treatment.

All the critics agree that these short stories are masterpieces which will remain classics. They contain no lengthy descriptions. There are no reflections, dissertations or explanations in them. They bring out in relief only the permanent features of a given situation, features interesting and intelligible to men of other ages and climes. They are lucid and well constructed. Their plots turn about a simple action with unique effect. Their style is alert, urbane, discreet, and rich, seeking its effect only through concrete and simple means. They deal but very slightly with lyrical emotion, they deal with passions and the will.

Mérimée reached his climax in 1840 with "Colomba". Sainte-Beuve calls it a perfect story and points out various analogies between Sophocles' "Electra" and Mérimée's heroine. It was published in book form in 1841, together with the "Vénus d'Ille" and "Les Ames du purgatoire", which had, like "Colomba", first appeared in the "Revue des Deux Mondes", the former in 1837 and the latter in 1834. As the days of romanticism become numbered, Mérimée ceases his original production. In 1846, with the publication of a volume containing "Carmen", "Arsène Guillot" and "L'Abbé Aubain", he takes leave of the novel-reading public, and when twenty years later he takes up his pen again with "La chambre bleue" and "Lokis", the first of which was written in 1866 for the empress and the second of which first appeared in the "Revue des Deux Mondes" in 1869, the author shows no longer the faultlessness of "L'Enlèvement de la redoute" or of "Colomba".

If it is impossible to do justice to Mérimée's purely literary work in a short introduction, it is evident that it is out of the question even to touch upon his historical work, or on his numerous reports as Inspector General of Public Monuments, or on the great number of his prefaces and articles on history, archaeology, art, architecture, ceramics, travel and literature. Neither can anything but a bare mention be made of his large correspondence, which has been so important a factor in a truer study of Mérimée. One matter should, however, be brought out here. Though he fails to appreciate Russian mystic feeling and melancholy, though he enters only into those elements of Russian literature which are like himself and appeal to him, he deserves credit for having been practically the first to introduce that literature to France. The immediate results of Mérimée's studies in Russian are articles on Nicolas Gogol (1852), on Alexander Pushkin (1868) and on Ivan Turgenieff (1868), the last of which is a preface to a translation by one Augustin Galitzin of that author's "Fumée" of which Mérimée had, besides, corrected the proof-sheets. Further translations were: "La Dame de pique", "Les Bohémiens", "Le Hussard" (1852), and "Le Coup de pistolet" (1856), from Pushkin; "L'Inspecteur général" (1853) from Gogol's "Revisor". It goes without saying that translations by an artist of Mérimée's caliber have from the stylistic point of view the value of original stories.

Mérimée has taken his place in the history of French literature as discreetly as if he were alive. Nobody has attacked him, nobody has lauded him to the skies. But his fame is genuine and still growing. A classicist from personal taste, he becomes one of the first realists by way of reaction from romantic exaggeration. Above all he is an artist. He excels in planning the just proportion of the parts of a story. He rebels at the non-essential. And he conceals the machinery of narration so successfully that it escapes detection, thereby giving the impression of spontaneity, which is the _sine qua non_ of any art. He is the foremost novelettist of his time.

Sorrow over the Franco-Prussian war hastened his end. His death, which, in 1869, had been erroneously announced in all the newspapers of Europe, passed unnoticed amid the loud crash of the downfall of the second empire.

MATEO FALCONE

En sortant de Porto-Vecchio[1] et se dirigeant au nord-ouest, vers l'intérieur de l'île, on voit le terrain s'élever assez rapidement, et, après trois heures de marche par des sentiers tortueux, obstrués par de gros quartiers de rocs, et quelquefois coupés par des ravins, on se trouve sur le bord d'un _maquis_ très étendu. Le maquis est la patrie des bergers corses et de quiconque s'est brouillé avec la justice. Il faut savoir que le laboureur corse, pour s'épargner la peine de fumer son champ, met le feu à une certaine étendue de bois: tant pis si la flamme se répand plus loin que besoin n'est; arrive que pourra, on est sûr d'avoir une bonne récolte en semant sur cette terre fertilisée par les cendres des arbres qu'elle portait. Les épis enlevés, car on laisse la paille, qui donnerait de la peine à recueillir, les racines qui sont restées en terre sans se consumer poussent, au printemps suivant, des cépées très épaisses qui, en peu d'années parviennent à une hauteur de sept ou huit pieds. C'est cette manière de taillis fourré que l'on nomme maquis. Différentes espèces d'arbres et d'arbrisseaux le composent, mêlés et confondus comme il plaît à Dieu. Ce n'est que la hache à la main que l'homme s'y ouvrirait un passage, et l'on voit des maquis si épais et si touffus, que les mouflons eux-mêmes ne peuvent y pénétrer.

[Footnote 1: Porto-Vecchio (_pron._ vek'ke-o), It., old port, a seaport in Corsica, near the southern extremity of the island.]

Si vous avez tué un homme, allez dans le maquis de Porto-Vecchio, et vous y vivrez en sûreté, avec un bon fusil, de la poudre et des balles; n'oubliez pas un manteau brun garni d'un capuchon, qui sert de couverture et de matelas. Les bergers vous donnent du lait, du fromage et des châtaignes, et vous n'aurez rien à craindre de la justice ou des parents du mort, si ce n'est quand il vous faudra descendre à la ville pour y renouveler vos munitions.

Mateo Falcone, quand j'étais en Corse en 18..., avait sa maison à une demi-lieue de ce maquis. C'était un homme assez riche pour le pays; vivant noblement, c'est-à-dire sans rien faire, du produit de ses troupeaux, que des bergers, espèces de nomades, menaient paître çà et là sur les montagnes. Lorsque je le vis, deux années après l'événement que je vais raconter, il me parut âgé de cinquante ans tout au plus. Figurez-vous un homme petit mais robuste, avec des cheveux crépus, noirs comme le jais, un nez aquilin, les lèvres minces, les yeux grands et vifs, et un teint couleur de revers de botte. Son habileté au tir du fusil passait pour extraordinaire, même dans son pays, où il y a tant de bons tireurs. Par exemple, Mateo n'aurait jamais tiré sur un mouflon avec des chevrotines; mais, à cent vingt pas, il l'abattait d'une balle dans la tête ou dans l'épaule, à son choix. La nuit, il se servait de ses armes aussi facilement que le jour, et l'on m'a cité de lui ce trait d'adresse qui paraîtra peut-être incroyable à qui n'a pas voyagé en Corse. A quatre-vingts pas, on plaçait une chandelle allumée derrière un transparent de papier, large comme une assiette. Il mettait en joue, puis on éteignait la chandelle, et, au bout d'une minute, dans l'obscurité la plus complète, il tirait et perçait le transparent trois fois sur quatre.

Avec un mérite aussi transcendant, Mateo Falcone s'était attiré une grande réputation. On le disait aussi bon ami que dangereux ennemi: d'ailleurs serviable et faisant l'aumône, il vivait en paix avec tout le monde dans le district de Porto-Vecchio. Mais on contait de lui qu'à Corte, où il avait pris femme, il s'était débarrassé fort vigoureusement d'un rival qui passait pour aussi redoutable en guerre qu'en amour: du moins on attribuait à Mateo certain coup de fusil qui surprit ce rival comme il était à se raser devant un petit miroir pendu à sa fenêtre. L'affaire assoupie, Mateo se maria. Sa femme Giuseppa lui avait donné d'abord trois filles (dont il enrageait), et enfin un fils, qu'il nomma Fortunato: c'était l'espoir de sa famille, l'héritier du nom. Les filles étaient bien mariées: leur père pouvait compter au besoin sur les poignards et les escopettes de ses gendres. Le fils n'avait que dix ans, mais il annonçait déjà d'heureuses dispositions.

Un certain jour d'automne, Mateo sortit de bonne heure avec sa femme pour aller visiter un de ses troupeaux dans une clairière du maquis. Le petit Fortunato voulait l'accompagner, mais la clairière était trop loin; d'ailleurs, il fallait bien que quelqu'un restât pour garder la maison; le père refusa donc: on verra s'il n'eut pas lieu de s'en repentir.

Il était absent depuis quelques heures, et le petit Fortunato était tranquillement étendu au soleil, regardant les montagnes bleues, et pensant que, le dimanche prochain, il irait dîner à la ville, chez son oncle le _caporal_[1], quand il fut soudainement interrompu dans ses méditations par l'explosion d'une arme à feu. Il se leva et se tourna du côté de la plaine d'où partait ce bruit. D'autres coups de fusil se succédèrent, tirés à intervalles inégaux, et toujours de plus en plus rapprochés; enfin, dans le sentier qui menait de la plaine à la maison de Mateo parut un homme, coiffé d'un bonnet pointu comme en portent les montagnards, barbu, couvert de haillons, et se traînant avec peine en s'appuyant sur son fusil. Il venait de recevoir un coup de feu dans la cuisse.

[Footnote 1: Les caporaux furent autrefois les chefs que se donnèrent les communes corses quand elles s'insurgèrent contre les seigneurs féodaux. Aujourd'hui, on donne encore quelquefois ce nom à un homme qui, par ses propriétés, ses alliances et sa clientèle, exerce une influence et une sorte de magistrature effective sur une _pieve_[A] ou un canton. Les Corses se divisent, par une ancienne habitude, en cinq castes: les _gentilshommes_ (dont les uns sont _magnifiques_, les autres _signori_), les _caporali_, les _citoyens_, les _plébéiens_ et les _étrangers_.--_Author's Note_.]

[Footnote A: *pieve* (It.): parish.]

Cet homme était un _bandit_[1], qui, étant parti de nuit pour aller chercher de la poudre à la ville, était tombé en route dans une embuscade de voltigeurs corses[2]. Après une vigoureuse défense, il était parvenu à faire sa retraite, vivement poursuivi et tiraillant de rocher en rocher. Mais il avait peu d'avance sur les soldats, et sa blessure le mettait hors d'état de gagner le maquis avant d'être rejoint.

[Footnote 1: Ce mot est ici le synonyme de proscrit.--_Author's Note_.]

[Footnote 2: C'est un corps levé depuis peu d'années par le gouvernement, et qui sert concurremment avec la gendarmerie au maintien de la police.--_Author's Note_.]

Il s'approcha de Fortunato et lui dit:

--Tu es le fils de Mateo Falcone?

--Oui.

--Moi, je suis Gianetto Sanpiero. Je suis poursuivi par les collets jaunes[1]. Cache-moi, car je ne puis aller plus loin.

[Footnote 1: L'uniforme des voltigeurs était alors un habit brun avec un collet jaune.--_Author's Note_.]

--Et que dira mon père si je te cache sans sa permission?

--Il dira que tu as bien fait.

--Qui sait?

--Cache-moi vite; ils viennent.

--Attends que mon père soit revenu.

--Que j'attende? malédiction! Ils seront ici dans cinq minutes. Allons, cache-moi, ou je te tue.

Fortunato lui répondit avec le plus grand sang-froid:

--Ton fusil est déchargé, et il n'y a plus de cartouches dans ta carchera[1].

[Footnote 1: Ceinture de cuir qui sert de giberne et de portefeuille.--_Author's Note_.]

--J'ai mon stylet.

--Mais courras-tu aussi vite que moi?

Il fit un saut, et se mit hors d'atteinte.

--Tu n'es pas le fils de Mateo Falcone! Me laisseras-tu donc arrêter devant ta maison?

L'enfant parut touché.

--Que me donneras-tu si je te cache? dit-il en se rapprochant.

Le bandit fouilla dans une poche de cuir qui pendait à sa ceinture, et il en tira une pièce de cinq francs qu'il avait réservée sans doute pour acheter de la poudre. Fortunato sourit à la vue de la pièce d'argent; il s'en saisit, et dit à Gianetto:

--Ne crains rien.

Aussitôt il fit un grand trou dans un tas de foin placé auprès de la maison. Gianetto s'y blottit, et l'enfant le recouvrit de manière à lui laisser un peu d'air pour respirer, sans qu'il fût possible cependant de soupçonner que ce foin cachât un homme. Il s'avisa, de plus, d'une finesse de sauvage assez ingénieuse. Il alla prendre une chatte et ses petits, et les établit sur le tas de foin pour faire croire qu'il n'avait pas été remué depuis peu. Ensuite, remarquant des traces de sang sur le sentier près de la maison, il les couvrit de poussière avec soin, et, cela fait, il se recoucha au soleil avec la plus grande tranquillité.

Quelques minutes après, six hommes en uniforme brun à collet jaune, et commandés par un adjudant, étaient devant la porte de Mateo. Cet adjudant était quelque peu parent de Falcone. (On sait qu'en Corse on suit les degrés de parenté beaucoup plus loin qu'ailleurs.) Il se nommait Tiodoro Gamba: c'était un homme actif, fort redouté des bandits dont il avait déjà traqué plusieurs.

--Bonjour, petit cousin, dit-il à Fortunato en l'abordant; comme te voilà grandi! As-tu vu passer un homme tout à l'heure?

--Oh! je ne suis pas encore si grand que vous, mon cousin, répondit l'enfant d'un air niais.

--Cela viendra. Mais n'as-tu pas vu passer un homme, dis-moi?

--Si j'ai vu passer un homme?

--Oui, un homme avec un bonnet pointu en velours noir, et une veste brodée de rouge et de jaune?

--Un homme avec un bonnet pointu, et une veste brodée de rouge et de jaune?

--Oui, réponds vite, et ne répète pas mes questions.

--Ce matin, M. le curé est passé devant notre porte, sur son cheval Piero. Il m'a demandé comment papa se portait, et je lui ai répondu...

--Ah! petit drôle, tu fais le malin! Dis-moi vite par où est passé Gianetto, car c'est lui que nous cherchons; et, j'en suis certain, il a pris par ce sentier.

--Qui sait?

--Qui sait? C'est moi qui sais que tu l'as vu.

--Est-ce qu'on voit les passants quand on dort?

--Tu ne dormais pas, vaurien; les coups de fusil t'ont réveillé.

--Vous croyez donc, mon cousin, que vos fusils font tant de bruit? L'escopette de mon père en fait bien davantage.