THE TWELVE BEST SHORT STORIES IN THE FRENCH LANGUAGE

SELECTED BY AUGUSTE DORCHAIN

GOWANS & GRAY, Ltd. 5 Robert Street, Adelphi, London, W.C. 58 Cadogan Street, Glasgow 1915

First Edition, Demy 8vo, June, 1915. Second Edition, Small Fcap. 8vo, September, 1915.

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PREFACE

French literature is perhaps more abundant than any other in those short works of imagination that are called in France contes or nouvelles, in order to contrast them with those extended narratives for which the name of romans is reserved. As far back as the Middle Ages, during the period of the interminable chansons de geste, then of the romances of chivalry, not less diffuse, which succeeded them, the French took pleasure in telling short stories, of which some, such as Aucassin and Nicolette, still retain, for those whom their antiquated language does not repel, much interest and charm. In like manner, when the Renaissance ends, in the period of the ample burlesque epic of Rabelais, the Queen of Navarre, in the tales of her Heptameron, vies with the novellieri of Italy. In the following century, during which Spanish influence prevailed, we hardly find any more short stories appearing in separate form, but novelists, in the manner of Cervantes in his Don Quixote, interpolate some here and there in the plot of their main works of fiction, as halts and resting-places for

the mind of the reader: like D’Urfé in his Astrea, or Madame De La Fayette in Zaïde; like, again, Le Sage in his Gil Blas at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Later on, the eighteenth century will come to restore the genre to its sway, and Voltaire will be a master in it; nevertheless he will hardly cultivate it without making it serve philosophical purposes. Along with him, more than one minor story-teller of merit, such as the Chevalier De Boufflers, could be named, but[Pg 6] not without regret that their wit and elegance should be employed in the service of a somewhat libertine morality.

From the rapid sketch which precedes, the reasons, whether of substance or of form, which prevent us from including in our selection any of the short stories which were written before the nineteenth century, will easily be deduced. Besides, it is only then that the genre flourishes in all directions, and that the writers who cultivate it produce the most numerous, finished and varied nouvelles and contes. The names of the twelve authors selected were obviously all imposed upon us; but our embarrassment commenced when it was necessary to choose one single tale from their works. It is certain, for instance, that we might have preferred, in the case of Alphonse Daudet, a page in which his trembling sensibility was expressed, and not one of those into which he has rather put his witty Provençal gaiety; and some people may regret that Guy de Maupassant is represented here by a sentimental tale rather than one of those stories into which he has poured his bitter realism and his black pessimism. To those who might be inclined to reproach us, we would

answer that we have been guided, not only by the wish to present always the most characteristic work of each author, but by that of giving to our selection the greatest variety of tone among the narratives thus placed in juxtaposition, and also by the desire never to lose sight of any moral proprieties. We have only imposed upon ourselves one absolute rule: only to offer here perfect, indisputable masterpieces. We hope that no one will question our success in this.

A. D.

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CONTENTS

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PUBLISHERS’ NOTE

The third, fifth to seventh, and ninth to twelfth inclusive, of these stories have been translated by Mr. William Metcalfe; the second and fourth by Miss Measham; the eighth by Miss Lyons; while for the first an anonymous translation has been used, which was originally published in 1826, but has been considerably revised for this volume by Mr. Adam L. Gowans.

It should be remembered that M. Dorchain’s selection was restricted by the plan of the series to the works of authors no longer living and to stories not exceeding 15,000 words in length. It should also be borne in mind that the notes in the present volume are, without exception, those of the original authors, the translators having done nothing more than translate carefully without omission or addition.

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THE TWELVE BEST SHORT STORIES IN THE FRENCH LANGUAGE

THE ADVENTURES OF THE LAST OF THE ABENCERRAGES VISCOUNT CHATEAUBRIAND

ADVERTISEMENT

The Adventures of the last of the Abencerrages were written nearly twenty years ago; the portrait which I have sketched of the Spaniards explains sufficiently why this story could not be printed under the Imperial government. The resistance of the Spaniards to Buonaparte, of a defenceless nation to the conqueror, who had vanquished the best soldiers of Europe, excited at that time the enthusiasm of every heart susceptible of being affected by great devotedness and noble sacrifices. The ruins of Saragossa were still smoking, and the censorship would not have suffered the publication of eulogiums, in which it would have discovered, rightly enough, a concealed interest for the victims. Pictures of the ancient manners of Europe, recollections of the glory of former times, and those of the court of one of our most distinguished monarchs, would not have been more agreeable to the censorship, which besides began to repent having so often allowed me to speak of the ancient monarchy, and of the religion of our fathers: these departed subjects, which I was

incessantly recalling, excited too powerfully the thoughts of the living.

It is a frequent practice, in pictures, to place some unseemly personage for the purpose of bringing out more the beauty of others: in this story, my idea has been to paint three men of equally elevated character, but not out of the usual course of nature, and retaining, along with the passions, the manners and even the prejudices of their country. The character of the female is also drawn in the same proportions. The world of[Pg 10] imagination, when we transport ourselves thither, should at least make us amends for the world of reality.

It will readily be seen that this story is the composition of a man who has felt the pangs of exile, and whose heart is entirely wrapt up in his country.

The views, so to speak, which I have given of Granada, of the Alhambra, and of the ruined mosque transformed into a church, were taken upon the spot. The latter is nothing else than the cathedral of Cordova. These descriptions are therefore a kind of addition to the following passage of the Itinerary. “From Cadiz, I repaired to Cordova; I admired the mosque which is now the cathedral of that city. I traversed the ancient Betica, described by the poets as the abode of happiness. I ascended as far as Andujar, and retraced my steps in order to see Granada. The Alhambra appeared to me well worthy of being looked at, even after the temples of Greece. The valley of Granada is delightful, and reminds one very much of that of Sparta; that the Moors should have regretted such a country may be easily conceived.”—(Itinerary, part VII. and last).

There are frequent allusions in this story to the history of the Zegris and the Abencerrages; this history is so well known, that I have thought it superfluous to give any sketch of it in this advertisement. Besides, the story itself contains sufficient details to make the text easily understood.

When Boabdil, the last king of Granada, was compelled to abandon the kingdom of his forefathers, he halted on the top of Mount Padul. That elevated spot commanded a view of the sea, on which the unfortunate monarch was about to embark for Africa; from it also could be discovered Granada, the Vega, and the Xenil, on the banks of which were erected the tents of Ferdinand and Isabella. At the sight of this beautiful country, and of the cypresses which still marked here and there the tombs of the Mussulmans, Boabdil began to shed tears. The sultana Ayxa, his mother, who accompanied him in his exile, along with the grandees who formerly composed his court, said to him: “Weep now like a woman, for the loss of a kingdom, which thou hast been unable to defend like a man.” They descended from the mountain, and Granada disappeared from their eyes for ever.

The Moors of Spain, who shared the fate of their[Pg 11] sovereign, dispersed themselves throughout Africa; the tribes of the Zegris and the Gomeres settled in the kingdom of Fez, which was their aboriginal country; the Vanegas and the Alabeses took up their abode upon the coast, from Oran to Algiers; finally the Abencerrages established themselves in the environs of Tunis; they formed, within sight of the ruins of Carthage, a colony, which, even in our own times, is distinguished from the Moors of Africa, by its elegant manners, and the mildness of its laws.

These families carried into their new country the remembrance of their old one. The Paradise of Granada lived constantly in their memory, the mothers repeated its name to their children at the breast. They lulled them to sleep with the romances of the Zegris and the Abencerrages. Prayers were repeated in the mosque every five days, with the face turned towards Granada; and Allah was implored to restore to his chosen people that land of delights. In vain did the country of the Lotos-eaters present to the exiles its fruits, its waters, its verdure, and its glorious sun; far from the Vermilion Towers,[2] there were neither pleasant fruits, limpid springs, fresh verdure, nor sun worthy to be looked at. If any one shewed the plains of Bagrada to an exile, the latter only shook his head, and exclaimed with a sigh: “Granada!”

The Abencerrages, particularly, preserved the most tender and faithful remembrance of their country. They had quitted, with the most poignant anguish, the theatre of their glory, and the banks which they had made so often ring with the war-cry of “Honour and love.” Being no longer able to lift the lance in the deserts, or to wear the helmet in a colony of farmers, they had devoted themselves to the study of simples, a profession in equal estimation among the Arabs with that of arms. Thus did that race of warriors, which formerly inflicted wounds, now make its occupation that of healing them. In this [Pg 12]particular, it retained something of its original genius, for the knights themselves frequently dressed the wounds of the enemies they had overthrown.

The cottage of that family, which formerly possessed palaces, was not placed in the hamlet of the other exiles, at the foot of Mount Mamelife; it was built amidst the very ruins of Carthage, on the sea-shore, in the place where St. Louis expired on the ashes, and where a Mahometan hermitage is now to be seen. Along the walls of the cottage were hung bucklers made of lions’ skins, bearing, impressed upon a field of azure, two figures of savages breaking down a town with a club; round the device was this motto: “It is but little!” the coat of arms and device of the Abencerrages. Lances adorned with white and blue pennons, burnouses, and cassocks of slashed satin, were ranged by the side of the bucklers, and figured in the midst of scimitars and poniards. Here and there also were suspended gauntlets, bits ornamented with precious stones, large silver stirrups, long swords, whose sheaths had been embroidered by the hands of princesses, and golden spurs, with which the Iseults, the Guineveres and Orianas were wont of old to invest gallant knights.

Beneath these trophies of glory, were placed upon tables the trophies of a life of peace. These were plants culled on the summits of Mount Atlas, and in the desert of Sahara; many of them had even been brought from the plain of Granada. Some were intended to relieve the ailments of the body; others were supposed to mitigate the severity of mental suffering. The Abencerrages regarded as most valuable those which were useful in calming vain regrets, in dissipating foolish illusions, and the ever-reviving, ever-deceived, hopes of happiness. Unfortunately these simples possessed qualities of an opposite nature, and the sweet odour of a flower of their own country frequently acted as a sort of poison to the illustrious exiles.

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Twenty-four years had passed away since the taking of Granada. In that short space of time, fourteen Abencerrages had perished, by the effects of a new climate, the accidents of a wandering life, and principally through grief, which imperceptibly undermines the strength of man. One single descendant was the sole hope of that illustrious family. Aben-Hamet bore the name of that Abencerrage, who was accused by the Zegris of having seduced the sultana Alfayma. In him were united the beauty, the valour, the courtesy and the generosity of his ancestors, with that mild lustre and slight tinge of melancholy which adversity, nobly supported, inspires. He was only twenty-two years of age when he lost his father; he then determined to make a pilgrimage to the land of his ancestors, in order to gratify the secret longing of his heart, and to execute a plan which he carefully concealed from his mother.

He embarked at the port of Tunis; a favourable wind carried him to Carthagena, where he landed, and immediately proceeded on the road to Granada. He gave himself out for an Arabian physician, who had come to collect plants amid the rocks of the Sierra Nevada. A quiet mule bore him slowly along in the country where formerly the Abencerrages were carried with the swiftness of the wind on warlike coursers; a guide walked before, leading two other mules ornamented with bells and parti-coloured woollen tufts. Aben-Hamet crossed the large heaths and woods of palm-trees of the kingdom of Murcia; from the great age of these trees, he conjectured that they must have been planted by his ancestors, and his heart was pierced by regret. There rose a tower in which the sentinel, in former times, kept watch, during the wars of the Moors and Christians; here appeared a ruined building whose architecture proved its Moorish origin; a fresh subject of grief to Aben-Hamet! He dismounted from his mule, and, on pretence of seeking for plants, hid himself for a few moments, in[Pg 14]

the ruins, in order to give free vent to his tears. He then proceeded on his road, in a state of reverie, which was encouraged by the noise of the mule-bells, and the monotonous song of his guide. The latter only interrupted his long-winded ditty, in order to quicken the pace of his mules by giving them the names of beautiful and brave, or to scold them by the epithets of lazy and obstinate.

Flocks of sheep, directed by a shepherd like an army, in sere and barren plains, and occasionally a solitary traveller, far from diffusing an appearance of life upon the road, only served, in a manner, to make it more gloomy and desert. These travellers all wore a sword attached to the waist; they were wrapped up in a mantle, and a large slouched hat half covered their faces. As they passed, they saluted Aben-Hamet, who could only make out, in their noble salutation, the names of God, of Señor and of Knight. At the close of day, the Abencerrage took his place in the midst of strangers at the inn, without being troubled by their indiscreet curiosity. No one spoke to him, no one questioned him; his turban, his robe, and his arms, excited no surprise. As it had been the will of Allah, that the Moors of Spain should lose their beautiful country, Aben-Hamet could not help entertaining a feeling of esteem for its grave conquerors.

Emotions still more vivid awaited the Abencerrage at the end of his journey. Granada is built at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, on two high hills, separated by a deep valley. The houses, built on the declivities in the hollow of the valley, give this city the shape and appearance of a grenado half open, from which resemblance it derives its name. Two rivers, the Xenil and the Darro, the sands of the first of which contain gold, and the other silver, wash the feet of the hills, form a junction, and afterwards take a serpentine course in the midst of a charming valley, called the Vega. This plain, which[Pg 15] is overlooked by Granada, is covered with vines, with pomegranate, fig, mulberry and orange-trees; it is surrounded by mountains of singularly beautiful form and colour. An enchanting sky, a pure and delicious air, affect the soul with a secret languor, from which even the passing traveller finds it difficult to preserve himself. Every one feels that, in this country, the tender passions would have very soon stifled the heroic

ones, if true love did not always feel the wish to have glory as its companion.

As soon as Aben-Hamet discovered the tops of the first buildings of Granada, his heart beat so violently, that he was obliged to stop his mule. Crossing his arms over his breast, and fixing his eyes on the holy city, he remained speechless and immovable. The guide halted in his turn; and, as elevated sentiments are easily understood by a Spaniard, he appeared affected, and conjectured that the Moor’s feelings were excited by the sight of his former country. The Abencerrage at last broke silence.

“Guide!” said he, “be happy! hide not the truth from me, for the waves were calm, and the moon entered into her crescent, on the day of thy nativity. What are these towers which shine like stars over a green forest?”

“That is the Alhambra,” answered the guide.

“And the other castle upon the opposite hill?” said Aben-Hamet.

“It is the Generalife,” replied the Spaniard. “In that castle there is a garden planted with myrtles, where it is said the Abencerrage was surprised with the sultana Alfayma; farther off, you see the Albaycin, and nearer to us the Vermilion Towers.”

Every word which the guide uttered pierced the heart of Aben-Hamet. How cruel it is to be obliged to have recourse to strangers for information respecting the monuments of our ancestors, and to have the history of our family and friends related to us by indifferent persons! The guide, putting an end to the reflections of[Pg 16] Aben-Hamet, exclaimed: “Let us proceed, Sir Moor; it is the will of God! Do not be downcast. Is not Francis I., even now, a prisoner in our Madrid? It is the will of God!” He took off his hat, crossed himself with great fervour, and drove on his mules. The Abencerrage, spurring on his, exclaimed in his turn: “It was thus written;” [3] and they descended towards Granada.

They passed close to the great ash-tree, memorable as the scene of the battle between Musa and the grand-master of Calatrava, in the time of the last king of Granada. They made the circuit of the Alameda walk, and entered the city by the gate of Elvira. They reascended the Rambla, and arrived shortly after at a square, surrounded on all sides by buildings of Moorish architecture. A khan was opened in this square for the Moors of Africa, whom the trade in silks of the Vega attracted in crowds to Granada. Thither the guide conducted Aben-Hamet.