And now it is in idiotic terror, a fugitive | into Paradise, were always welcome to from Orso's vengeance, that the last of men's fancies; and that could only be the Barricini is dying.

because they found a psychologic truth in Exaggerated art, you think. But it them. With much success, with a crediwas precisely such exaggerated art, in- bility insured by his literary tact, Mérimée tense, unrelieved, an art of fierce colors, tried his own hand at such stories; unthat is needed by those who are seeking frocked the bear in the amorous young in art, as I said of Mérimée, a kind of Lithuanian noble, the wolf in the revolting artificial stimulus. And if his style is peasant of the Middle Age. There were still impeccably correct, cold-blooded, survivals surely in himself, in that stealthy impersonal, as impersonal as that of Scott presentment of his favorite themes, in his himself, it does but conduce the better to own art. You seem to find your hand on his one exclusive aim. It is like the pola serpent, in reading him. ish of the stiletto Colomba carried under In such survivals, indeed, you see the her mantle, or the beauty of the firearms, that beauty coming of nice adaptation to purpose, which she understood so well a task characteristic also of Mérimée himself, a sort of fanatic joy in the perfect pistol-shot, at its height in the singular story he has translated from the Russian of Pouchkine. Those raw colors he preferred; Spanish, Oriental, African, perhaps, irritant certainly to cisalpine eyes, he undoubtedly attained the coloring you associate with sunstroke, only possible under a sun in which dead things rot quickly.

Pity and terror, we know, go to the making of the essential tragic sense. In Mérimée, certainly, we have all its terror, but without the pity. Saint-Clair, the consent of his mistress barely attained at last, rushes madly on self-destruction, that he may die with the taste of his great love fresh on his lips. All the grotesque accidents of violent death he records with visual exactness, and no pains to relieve them; the ironic indifference, for instance, with which, on the scaffold or the battlefield, a man will seem to grin foolishly at the ugly rents through which his life has passed. Seldom or never has the mere pen of a writer taken us so close to the cannon's mouth as in the "Taking of the Redoubt," while "Matteo Falcone twenty-five short pages is perhaps the cruellest story in the world.

Colomba, that strange, fanatic being, who has a code of action, of self-respect, a conscience, all to herself, who, with all her virginal charm only does not make you hate her, is, in truth, the type of a sort of humanity Mérimée found it pleasant to dream of a humanity as alien as the animals, with whose moral affinities to man his imaginative work is often directly concerned. Were they so alien after all? Were there not survivals of the old wild creatures in the gentlest, the politest of us? Stories that told of sudden freaks of gentle, polite natures, straight back, not

operation of his favorite motive, the sense
of wild power, under a sort of mask, or
assumed habit, realized as the very genius
of nature itself; and that interest, with
some superstitions closely allied to it, the
belief in the vampire, for instance, is evi-
denced especially in certain pretended
Illyrian compositions
prose transla-
tions, the reader was to understand, of
more or less ancient popular ballads;
"La Guzla," he called the volume, "The
Lyre," as we might say; only that the
instrument of the Illyrian minstrel had but
one string. Artistic deception, a trick of
which there is something in the historic
romance as such, in a book like his own
“Chronicle of Charles the Ninth," was
always welcome to Mérimée; it was part
of the machinery of his rooted habit of
intellectual reserve. A master of irony
also, in "Madame Lucrezia " he seems to
wish to expose his own method cynically;
to explain his art how he takes you in
―as a clever, confident conjurer might
do. So properly were the readers of "La
Guzla" taken in that he followed up his
success in that line by the "Theatre of
Clara Gazul," purporting to be from a rare
Spanish original, the work of a nun, who,
under tame, conventual reading, had felt
the touch of mundane, of physical pas-
sions; had become a dramatic poet, and
herself a powerful actress. It may dawn
on you in reading her that Mérimée was
a kind of Webster, but with the superficial
mildness of our nineteenth century. At
the bottom of the true drama there is ever,
logically at least, the ballad; the ballad
dealing in a kind of short-hand (or, say, in
grand, simple, universal outlines) with
those passions, crimes, mistakes, which
have a kind of fatality in them, a kind of
necessity to come to the surface of the
human mind, if not to the surface of our
experience, as in the case of some frankly
supernatural incidents which Mérimée
re-handled. Whether human love
hatred has had most to do in shaping

or

the universal fancy that the dead come
back, I cannot say. Certainly that old
ballad literature has instances in plenty, in
which the voice, the hand, the brief visit
from the grave, is a natural response to
the cry of the human creature. That
ghosts should return, as they do so often
in Mérimée's fiction, is but a sort of natu-
ral justice. Only in Mérimée's prose bal-
lads, in those admirable, short, ballad-like |
stories, where every word tells, of which
he was a master, almost the inventor, they
are a kind of half-material ghosts-a
vampire tribe—and never come to do
people good; congruously with the mental
constitution of the writer, which, alike in
fact and fiction, could hardly have horror
enough-theme after theme. Mérimée
himself emphasizes this almost constant
motive of his fiction when he adds to one
of his volumes of short stories some let-
ters on a matter of fact-a Spanish bull-
fight, in which those old Romans, he
regretted, might seem, decadently, to have
survived. It is as if you saw it. In truth,
Mérimée was the unconscious parent of
much we may think of dubious significance
in later French literature. It is as if there
were nothing to tell of in this world but
various forms of hatred, and a love that
is like lunacy; and the only other world,
a world of maliciously active, hideous,
dead bodies.

Mérimée, a literary artist, was not a man
who used two words where one would do
better, and shines especially in those brief
compositions which, like a minute intaglio,
reveal at a glance his wonderful faculty of
design and proportion in the treatment
of his work, in which there is not a touch
but counts. That is an art of which there
are few examples in English, our some-
what diffuse, or slipshod, literary language
hardly lending itself to the concentration
of thought and expression, which are of
the essence of such writing. It is other-
wise in French, and if you wish to know
what art of that kind can come to read
Mérimée's little romances; best of all,
perhaps, "La Vénus d'Ille " and " Arsène
Guillot."
The former is a modern version
of the beautiful old story of the ring given
to Venus, given to her, in this case, by a
somewhat sordid creature of the nine-
teenth century, whom she looks on with
more than disdain. The strange outline
of the Canigou, one of the most imposing
outlying heights of the Pyrenees, down the
mysterious slopes of which the traveller
has made his way towards nightfall into
the great plain of Toulouse, forms an im-
pressive background, congruous with the

many relics of irrepressible old paganism there, but in entire contrast to the bourgeois comfort of the place where his journey is to end, the abode of an aged antiquary, loud and bright just now with the celebration of a vulgar, worldly marriage. In the midst of this well-being, prosaic in spite of the neighborhood, in spite of the pretty old wedding customs, morsels of that local color in which Mérimée delights, the old pagan powers are supposed to reveal themselves once more, (malignantly, of course) in the person of a magnificent bronze statue of Venus recently unearthed in the antiquary's garden. On her finger, by ill-luck, the coarse young bridegroom on the morning of his marriage places for a moment the bridal ring only too effectually (the bronze hand closes, like a wilful, living one, upon it), and dies, you are to understand, in her angry, metallic embraces on his marriage night. From the first, indeed, she had seemed bent on crushing out men's degenerate bodies and souls, though the supernatural horror of the tale is adroitly made credible by a certain vagueness in the events, which covers a quite natural account of the bridegroom's mysterious death.

The intellectual charm of literary work so thoroughly designed as Mérimée's depends in part on the sense as you read hastily perhaps, perhaps in need of patience, that you are dealing with a composition, the full secret of which is only to be attained in the last paragraph, that with the last word in mind you will retrace your steps, more than once, it may be, noting then the minuter structure, also the natural or wrought flowers by the way. Nowhere is such method better illustrated than by another of Mérimée's quintessential pieces, "Arsène Guillot," and here for once with a conclusion ethically acceptable also. Mérimée loved surprises in human nature, but it is not often that he surprises us by tenderness or generosity of charac ter as another master of French fiction, M. Octave Feuillet, is apt to do, and the simple pathos of "Arsène Guillot" gives it a unique place in Mérimée's writings. It may be said, indeed, that only an essentially pitiful nature could have told the exquisitely cruel story of Matteo Falcone precisely as Mérimée has told it; and those who knew him testify abundantly to his own capacity for generous friendship. He was no more wanting than others in those natural sympathies (sending tears to the eyes at the sight of suffering age or childhood) which happily are no extraor

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dinary component in men's natures. It in the uncontrollable movements of his was, perhaps, no fitting return for a friend- own so carefully guarded heart. ship of over thirty years to publish posthu- The intimacy, the effusion, the so freely mously those Lettres à une Inconnue," exposed personality of those letters does which reveal that reserved, sensitive, self- but emphasize the fact that impersonality centred nature, a little pusillanimously in was, in literary art, Mérimée's central aim. the power, at the disposition of another. Personality versus impersonality in art: For just there lies the interest, the psy-how much or how little of one's self one chological interest, of those letters. An may put into one's work; whether any. amateur of power, of the spectacle of thing at all of it; whether one can put power and force, followed minutely but there anything else; is clearly a far-reachwithout sensibility on his part, with a kind ing and complex question. Serviceable of cynic pride rather for the mainspring as the basis of a precautionary maxim of his method, both of thought and ex- towards the conduct of our work, selfpression, you find him here taken by sur- effacement, or impersonality, in literary or prise at last, and somewhat humbled, by artistic creation, is, perhaps, after all, as an unsuspected force of affection in him- little possible as a strict realism. "It has self. His correspondent, unknown but for always been my rule to put nothing of these letters except just by name, figures myself' into my works," says another in them as, in truth, a being only too much great master of French prose, Gustave like himself seen from one side reflects Flaubert, but luckily, as we may think, his taciturnity, his touchiness, his incre- often failed in thus effacing himself, as he dulity except for self-torment. Agitated, too was aware. "It has always been my dissatisfied, he is wrestling in her with rule to put nothing of myself into my himself, his own difficult qualities. He works " (to be disinterested in his literary demands from her a freedom, a frankness, creations, so to speak) "yet I have put he would have been the last to grant. It much of myself into them;" and where is by first thoughts, of course, that what is he failed Mérimée succeeded. There they forcible and effective in human nature, the stand - Carmen, Colomba, the "False" force, therefore, of carnal love, discovers Demetrius — as detached from him as itself; and for her first thoughts Mérimée | from each other, with no more filial likeis always pleading, but always complain-ness to their maker than if they were the ing that he gets only her second thoughts; work of another person. And to his the thoughts, that is, of a reserved, self- method of conception, Mérimée's muchlimiting nature, well under the yoke of praised literary style, his method of convention, like his own. Strange con-expression, is strictly conformable — imjunction! At the beginning of the corre- personal in its beauty, the perfection of spondence he seems to have been seeking nobody's style - thus vindicating anew only a fine intellectual companionship; by its very impersonality that much-worn, the lady, perhaps, looking for something but not untrue saying, that the style is the warmer. Towards such companionship man; a man, impassible, unfamiliar, im. that likeness to himself in her might have peccable, veiling a deep sense of what is been helpful, but was not enough of a forcible, nay, terrible, in things under the complement to his own nature to be sort of personal pride that makes a man a anything but an obstruction in love; and nice observer of all that is most convenit is to that, little by little, that his hu- tional. Essentially unlike other people, mor turns. He-the Megalopsychus, as he is always fastidiously in the fashionAristotle defines him-acquires all the an expert in all the little, half-contemptulover's humble habits; himself displays ous elegancies of which it is capable. all the tricks of love, its casuistries, its Mérimée's superb self effacement, his im exigency, its superstitions, ay, even its personality, is itself but an effective pervulgarities; involves with the significance sonal trait, and transferred to art, becomes of his own genius the mere hazards and a markedly peculiar quality of literary inconsequence of a perhaps average na beauty. For, in truth, this creature of ture; but too late in the day-the years. disillusion who had no care for half-lights, After the attractions and repulsions of and, like his creations, had no atmosphere half a lifetime, they are but friends, and about him, gifted as he was with pure might forget to be that, but for his death, mind, with the quality which secures clearly presaged in his last weak, touching flawless literary structure, had, on the letter, just two hours before. There, too, other hand, nothing of what we call soul had been the blind and naked force of in literature; hence, also, that singular nature and circumstance, surprising him harshness in his ideal, as if, in theological

5

language, he were incapable of grace. He | but when the language is suppressed, so has none of those subjectivities, colorings, that mere gutturality (so to speak) remains, peculiarities of mental refraction, which rudeness perhaps reaches its highest exnecessitate varieties of style-could we pression. The speech of the elder genspare such ? —and render the perfections tleman was non-articulate, but the sound of it no merely negative qualities. There forcibly declared his intention of pleasing are masters of French prose whose art himself as the more important of the two has begun where the art of Mérimée leaves persons concerned. off.

From The Cornhill Magazine.
MY TUTORSHIP.

My young friend (for so, through human sympathy, I had begun to regard him) retired in profound silence, but I could see he was not discomfited. When the driver appeared, he advanced and lodged a formal appeal. But the driver was by nature or circumstance an unjust judge. THE sleepy little town of Beilangen Unable to deny the validity of the receipt, wakes up for half an hour about midday. he traversed the general merits of the I had observed its habits, having been case. Raising his voice to reach the there three long summer days with noth- bystanders, he explained that the elder ing more pressing to do than to think gentleman was a frequent if not an immewhat to do next. As the Postwagen morial passenger, and that they saw before comes slowly forth from its mews into the them no less a man than Herr Goldfuss, main street, and takes up its position in one of the richest, and (consequently) one front of the post-office, every person who of the most worthy burghers of Frankfort, is sufficiently awake strolls at least as far banker, councillor, ex-deputy, etc. The as his doorway to watch it load and de- voice of the people was naturally with the part. A few of the more energetic draw claimant in possession. The young man, near and stare at it, the women knitting, in a beautiful but reprehensible spirit of the men with their hands in their pock- meekness, surrendered. He swung a small portmanteau off the roof, singing This day I was part of the stirring spec-out cheerily, “No matter; to-morrow will tacle, for I was in my seat ready to start do as well for me.' for Frankfort. Our Postwagen was constructed to stifle four persons inside, while it reserved the luxury of air for two passengers by the side of the driver. I had in the morning booked one of these outside seats, and as I sat aloft I was speculating on the chance of having for my neighbor a young fellow of about my own age who was standing not far off.

ets.

I had been watching him for some minutes, and had just decided that he was possibly English, that he probably took life easily, and that he certainly had no interest whatever, for this day at least, in the coach or its journey, when he suddenly unsettled that part of my conclusion the evidence for which was apparently the strongest. Unobserved by me, an elderly gentleman had climbed into the vacant seat at my side. The young man came quietly forward, and in polite terms laid claim to it. The stranger took not the least notice of the suggestion, but continued to settle himself in comfort. The young man repeated his remonstrance, producing at the same time from his pocket an indefeasible title in a receipt which bore upon it the number of his seat. Now a guttural language is admirably adapted to express linguistic rudeness,

He was walking placidly down the street, when something roused the great banker at my side. Turning quickly round, he seemed at first about to bespeak the driver, then he looked wistfully after his retreating rival, and finally, accomplishing a rapid descent, actually ran after him. I had heard of the simplicity and goodness of the German nature, but I confess that I was surprised to witness such a sudden revulsion. Here was a gentleman whose merits had by acclamation confirmed him in a seat which his own enterprise had secured, and he was unable to enjoy his triumph. He was melted by the forbearance of his adversary. Again I had miscalculated. Instead of placing, as I expected, a friendly hand upon his shoulder and pressing him to return, he made, to my surprise, a clutch at his luggage, and violently wrested it from his grasp. A breach of the profound peace of Beilangen seemed inevitable, and the younger man was well built for hostilities. But his calm was imperturbable. He stooped down and for a moment critically examined the portmanteau, and then, raising his hat, walked quietly back and - took his seat.

I think the elder had a vision of what

was about to happen, for he made what
haste he could. But he had to bring up
his baggage. He now gratuitously made
it evident to us that he was devoid of the
sense of humor. Instead of accepting
the event complacently, he stood below
and spouted up a fountain of most inap-
propriate calumnies. The miscellaneous
charges of being an Englishman, and an
unmannered
puppy, and
an imbecile,
passed without challenge. Once only,
when accused of harboring a felonious
intent, the young man opened his lips, and
answered that he had already apologized
for portmanteaus being so fatally alike,
and he could say no more. As the driver
did not see his way to interfere, and had
not materials for a second speech, the
wrathful banker, calumnious to the last,
took a seat inside, in the oppressive com-
pany of three women and a baby, and the
Postwagen started.

I need not say that this little interlude interested me in my companion. I had always admired the first Napoleon for his reputed gift of organizing victory out of defeat, and I confessed to myself that I should have been quite unequal to that neat stroke of strategy. After we had enjoyed the zest of it, first separately and then together for each had caught the other smiling to himself - we fell naturally into conversation. He was English, but having been partly educated in Germany, as I myself had been, he was no stranger in the land. After a while, as we grew more confidential, he told me that he began to fear he had bought his little triumph too dearly.

"I had really," he said, "not set my heart on getting my way, till the driver made it a question of personal merit. Then, of course, I knew he had been bribed, and I made up my mind to have the seat. I had already remarked a very brotherly likeness between our bags as they were lying together on the pavement, and just then the idea struck me of trolling for the old gentleman. There was no resisting it. I felt sure he would follow the bait. I caught him pretty neatly, but it is unfortunate, for I was just on my way to take a tutorship in his family. They are expecting my arrival this very evening. I have his letter in my pocket.'

"And you knew him?"

"Not till the driver proclaimed his name to the assembled populace. Then it was too late; the plan was matured. Stop-I'm not sure, but I think knowing him seemed at the moment to heighten the humor of it."

We agreed that it was a very awkward situation. We began to moralize.

"Now if," I suggested, "you had been a polite young man, and not only, like the Athenians, had known what was due to age, but, like the Lacedæmonians, had practised it, how would the case then stand?

"A hollow truce, I suspect, pending further encroachments. If I had given up just now and waited for to-morrow, there would not have appeared in my gra cious manner, when I rejoined him at Frankfort, the smallest sign that I had ever set eyes on him before. He would not have reminded me. So we should have started fair, with a slight balance in my favor. But now it is I that have offended. Men don't like being mated in one move by a gambit. What do you think? Could I disguise myself-dye my hair stain the ruddy beauty of my complexion?

He took the letter from his pocket, and passed it to me to read. There it was certainly; he was expected by Herr Goldfuss that very evening. He was to live in his house. His pupil was to be a boy of fifteen, the only son at home, to whom he was to impart the English language and its highworthy literature.

The terms were generous, and there was a friendly tone in the letter which seemed a promise of good treatment in every respect. I was commenting on these advantages when he stopped me suddenly by saying that he had an inspiration. Would I take his place as tutor? The idea seemed to me at the moment so grotesque that I laughed outright. The laugh evidently vexed him, for he hastened to add, in the tone of apology, that ideas always smote him so suddenly that he sometimes forgot to feel his way before giving them utterance. It had struck him that possibly I might be one who held himself above a tutorship, so I began to discuss the question with him seriously. In the interval he had quite decided that he neither could nor would present himself at that house in Frankfort. The post then was ruled vacant. In respect of qualification we found by comparison that we two were interchangeable almost absolutely at par, as the only proviso which Herr Goldfuss had laid down was that his tutor should be a well-educated English gentleman, and be familiar with the German language. Therefore I was a fit and proper person to assume the post. Lastly I reflected (but this within myself) that to live for a month at free quarters would