Of his twenty-some briefer fictions—mostly tales in form—eight at least are brilliant examples of the story-teller’s art, and all show marks of distinction. Six were published in one fruitful year—1829: “Mateo Falcone,” “The Vision of Charles XI,” “The Taking of the Redoubt,” “Tamango,” “Federigo,” and “The Pearl of Toledo.”
“Tamango” is a fine specimen of Mérimée’s artistic irony, yet underneath are compassion, and hatred of injustice. As does most of the author’s work, this tale reveals his tendency to tragedy, even his love for picturing the gruesome. There is in all literature no more terrible picture of the slave-trade and its revolting consequent evils.
“Mateo Falcone” is a technically perfect short-story. Mateo is a well-to-do sheep-raiser living in the plateau country of Corsica, whose thickets were often the resort of fugitives from justice. One day Mateo and his wife set out early to visit one of their flocks, leaving the little son, Fortunato, at home. Several hours later a bandit, limping painfully from a wound received from the pursuing soldiery, claims sanctuary as a Corsican and protection because of his friendship for Mateo. Fortunato hesitates, but at sight of a five-franc piece hides the man under a haystack. Soon the soldiers come, but threats cannot make the boy betray the bandit. A silver watch, however, proves an effective bribe. Just as the wounded bandit is dragged from the haystack, Mateo returns and learns the truth. When the soldiers have gone, bearing their contemptuous prisoner on a litter, the father takes out little Fortunato and, after giving him time to say a final prayer, shoots him as the first traitor in the family.
This, says Walter Pater, is “perhaps the cruellest story in the world.” But it is not all cruelty. So skilfully, so sincerely, does the narrator make us feel the whole spirit of the scene, the people, the crisis, that we are prepared to witness the awful penalty for violating the Corsican code of sanctuary. But oh, the hopelessness of that mother, as she stoically, yet with breaking heart, sees the inevitable tragedy closing in upon those whom she loves!
“The Venus of Ille” the author thought to be his best story. It is notable—as all of Mérimeé’s stories are—for its perfect local color, as well as for its subtle air of the weird. It is one of the classic “ghost” stories of the world—a tale of supreme distinction. It is also, structurally, the author’s most perfect short-story.
M. de Peyrehorade unearths a bronze statue of a woman, which is thereafter known as The Venus of Ille. From the beginning this statue is feared by the peasantry, for when it was dug up it fell upon and broke the leg of a workman. Peyrehorade’s son Alphonse is betrothed to a wealthy girl. On their wedding day, while playing tennis, he removes from his hand the bride’s diamond ring and places it on the finger of the statue. On arriving at the home of the bride-to-be, he discovers the absence of the ring, but replaces it with another, without mentioning the incident. After the wedding he returns with his bride to his father’s home and tries to remove the ring from the hand of the Venus; but her fingers are now bent and he cannot. That night the terrified bride hears the Venus enter their bed-chamber and lie down beside her. Thinking it to be her husband, she makes no comment. But presently the husband does come in and lies down upon the bed. Whereupon the bronze Venus crushes him to death in her embrace and then moves away as she came.
In “Arsene Guillot” (1844), Mérimée’s masterpiece of pathos, he has given freer rein to his sympathies, and the result is a tenderly moving tale illustrating the virtue of tolerance.
In early manhood Mérimée spent long stretches in Spain, there absorbing rich material for his stories. “Carmen”—the story on which Bizet founded his opera—is the greatest of these. It was published in 1845, and in length is almost a novelette.
Don José Lizzarrabengoa, Navarrese, and corporal in a cavalry regiment, meets at Seville the gypsy, Carmen. While taking her to prison for a murderous assault on another woman, he is induced to connive at her escape, and is punished by being reduced to the ranks. Through jealous infatuation for her, he kills his lieutenant, and joins a band of smugglers of which Carmen is the leading spirit. In a duel with Garcia, her rom, or husband, Don José kills Garcia, and becomes in his turn the rom of the fascinating gypsy. Jealous of every man who sees her, Don José offers to forget everything if she will go with him to America. She refuses—for the sake of another lover, as he believes—and he threatens to kill her if she persists. She answers that it is so written, and that she has long known it, but that “free Carmen has been, and free she will always be.” Don José does kill her, buries her in the woods, and rides to Cordova, where he delivers himself to the authorities.
But it is now time to look particularly at one of Mérimée’s earlier tales—written when he was but twenty-six—“The Taking of the Redoubt.”