Of the longer tale of antiquity a convenient type is the Daphnis and Chloe ascribed to Longus. A plot no less ancient than that of the foundling reared in simple life and ultimately reclaimed by noble parents receives from the Greek author the form of a pastoral[26] romance, with episodes, complications, and a fairy-tale ending. Its form, then, is essentially the same as the form of Aucassin and Nicolette, Florus and Jehane, Amis and Amile, and other typical short romances of the middle age. Between such short romances and the modern short story there is the same difference of form as between Chaucer’s tale of the Man of Law, which is one of the former, and his tale of the Pardoner, which foreshadows how such material may be handled in the way of the latter. For Chaucer, as in his Troilus and Criseyde he anticipates the modern novel, so in his Pardoner anticipates the modern short story. The middle age and the Renaissance, even antiquity,[27] show isolated, sporadic instances of short story, whether in prose or in verse; but these are apart from the drift of the time. Aside from such sporadic cases, the longer mediæval tale or short romance, though often in length within the limits of short story, is typically loose as to time and place, and as to incident accumulative of marvels. It is to the long mediæval romance what the modern tale—not the modern short story—is to the modern novel. And it is a constant form from Greece—even from India and Egypt,[28] down to the present. In form the Alexandrian Daphnis and Chloe, the mediæval Aucassin and Nicolette, and the whole herd of modern tales, such as Miss Edgeworth’s, are essentially alike. The modern time has differentiated two forms: first, the novel, in which character is progressively developed, incidents progressively complicated and resolved; second, the short story, in which character and action are so compressed as to suggest by a single situation without development. The former is as it were an expansion of the tale; the latter, a compression. In both cases the modern art of fiction seems to have learned from the drama. Meantime the original, naïve tale has endured, and doubtless will endure. To employ the figure of speech by which M. Brunetière is enabled to speak of literature in terms of evolution, the tale is the original jackal. From it have been developed two distinct species; but their parent stock persists. Indeed, for aught we can see from the past, posterity may behold a reversion to type.
The Decameron.
The significance of a division of ancient and early mediæval tales into anecdote and scenario or summary romance becomes at once clearer by reference to the greatest mediæval collection, the Decameron (1353) of Boccaccio. More than half the tales of the Decameron may readily be grouped as anecdote—all of the sixth day, for instance, most of the first and eighth, half of the ninth. Of these some approach consistency of form. Having long introductions, unnecessary lapse of time, or other looseness of structure, they still work out a main situation in one day or one night; they sometimes show dramatic ingenuity of incident; less frequently they reach distinct climax. Where the climax, as in the majority of cases, is merely an ingenious escape or a triumphant retort, of course the tale remains simple anecdote; but in some few the climax is the result of the action, is more nearly a culmination. This is the character of the seventh day. Another class in the Decameron rapidly summarises a large plot, the action ranging widely in time and place. A narrative sketch, usually of a romance, it corresponds essentially to the Aucassin and Nicolette type,[29] and includes nearly one half. Here was an open mine for the romantic drama of later centuries. The Decameron, then, is almost all either anecdote or scenario.
But not quite all. Besides those tales which seem to show a working for consistency, there are a few that definitely achieve it. The fourth of the first day (The Monk, the Woman, and the Abbot) is compact within one place and a few hours. All it lacks for short story is definite climax. Very like in compactness is the first of the second day (The Three Florentines and the Body of the New Saint). Firmer still is the eighth of the eighth day (Two Husbands and Two Wives). Here the climax is not only definite, but is a solution, and includes all four characters. If it is not convincing, that is because the Decameron is hardly concerned with characterisation. The action covers two days. It might almost as easily have been kept within one. Finally there are two tales that cannot, without hair-splitting, be distinguished from modern short story. The second tale of the second day (Rinaldo, for his prayer to St. Julian, well lodged in spite of mishap) is compressed within a single afternoon and night and a few miles of a single road. The climax is definitely a solution. The movement is largely by dialogue. In a word, the tale is a self-consistent whole. Equally self-consistent, and quite similar in method, is that farce comedy of errors, the sixth tale of the ninth day (Two Travellers in a Room of Three Beds), which Chaucer has among his Canterbury Tales. Both these are short stories. If the other three be counted with them, we have five out of a hundred.[30]
Les Cent Nouvelles, Bandello, The Heptameron.
The middle age, then, had the short story, but did not recognise, or did not value, that opportunity. Not only does Boccaccio employ the form seldom and, as it were, quite casually, but subsequent writers do not carry it forward. In fact, they practically ignore it. Les cent nouvelles nouvelles (1450–1460), most famous of French collections, shows no discernment of Boccaccio’s nicer art. In form, as in subject, there is no essential change from the habit of antiquity. True, here and there among the everlasting histoires grivoises is a piece of greater consistency and artistic promise. That delicious story (the sixth nouvelle) of the drunken man who insisted on making his confession on the highway to a priest unfortunately passing, who had absolution at the point of the knife, and then resolved to die before he lapsed from the state of grace, is not only a short-story plot; it goes so far toward short-story form as to focus upon a few hours. Yet even this hints the short story to us because we look back from the achieved form. After all it remains anecdote; and it has few peers in all the huge collection. Bandello (1480–1562), in this regard, shows even a retrogression from Boccaccio. His brief romances are looser, often indeed utterly extravagant of time and space. His anecdotes, though they often have a stir of action, show less sense of bringing people together on the stage. So the Heptameron (1558–1559) of the Queen of Navarre fails—so in general subsequent tale-mongers fail—to appreciate the distinctive value of the terser form. Up to the nineteenth century the short story was merely sporadic. It was achieved now and again by writers of too much artistic sense to be quite unaware of its value; but it never took its place as an accepted form.
Nodier.
Thus the modern development of the short story in France has both its own artistic interest and the further historical interest of background. When Charles Nodier (1783–1844), in the time of our own Irving, harked back from the novel to the tale, he but followed consciously what others had followed unconsciously, a tradition of his race.[31] Some of Nodier’s legends are as mediæval in form as in subject. But when he wrote La combe à l’homme mort he made of the same material something which, emerging here and there in the middle age, waited for definite acceptance till Nodier’s own time—a short story. The hypothesis that Nodier was a master to Hawthorne is not supported by any close likeness. Yet there are resemblances. Both loved to write tales for children; both lapse toward the overt moral and fall easily into essay; both use the more compact short-story form as it were by the way and not from preference. Smarra (66 pages, 1821), acknowledging a suggestion from Apuleius, is an essentially original fantasy, creating the effect of a waking dream. The nearest English parallel is, not Hawthorne, but De Quincey, or, in more elaborate and restrained eloquence, Landor. Smarra, as Nodier says in his preface, is an exercise in style to produce a certain phantasmagorical impression. The clue to the effect he sought is given by the frequent quotations from the Tempest. It is “such stuff as dreams are made on.” Jean François-les-bas-bleus (1836) and Lidivine, on the other hand, are almost documentary studies of character. La filleule du Seigneur (1806), legendary anecdote like Irving’s, shows where Nodier’s art began. He carried his art much further; but his pieces of compactness, like La combe à l’homme mort, are so rare that one may doubt their direct influence on the modern development of form.
For the bulk of Nodier’s work is not conte, but nouvelle. These two terms have never been sharply differentiated in French use. Les cent nouvelles nouvelles are not only shorter, in average, than the novelle of Boccaccio; they are substantially like the Contes de la Reine de Navarre. Some of the nouvelles of Nodier, Mérimée, and Gautier are indistinguishable in form from the contes of Flaubert, Daudet, and Maupassant. But though even to-day a collection of French tales might bear either name, the short story as it grew in distinctness and popularity seems to have taken more peculiarly to itself the name conte.[32] Correspondingly nouvelle is a convenient name for those more extended tales, written sometimes in chapters, which in English are occasionally called novelettes, and which have their type in Aucassin and Nicolette. In this sense Nodier’s writing is mainly, and from preference, nouvelle. Taking as his type for modern adaptation the longer mediæval tale, he did not work in the direction of short story.
Mérimée.