So, I had scheduled myself to do some reading of Prosper Mérimée's short fiction - a French writer who contributed to the development of the short story, and is most famous in Western culture for having written the source material from which Bizet's opera CARMEN originated. In the area of supernatural and weird fiction he's an indistinct figure, noted for having written "The Venus of Ille" and the semi-ursinanthropic "Lokis" (Both are present here, the latter being a first read for me). As the excellent introduction notes, he seems to have abandoned his early writing career for his interests as a historian and his civil service position (it was his job to travel all over France inspecting and restoring historical monuments). Of the nine stories here I had notes to read (or re-read in two cases) five of them, so off we go....
"Carmen" features a jailhouse confession by one don José as to what led him to his criminal life after starting as a mere Spanish soldier - the pursuit of the love a gypsy woman named Carmen turns out to be behind it all. It's an interesting romance/adventure in Romantic mode, and essentially a femme fatale story (with the qualities of such coming from Carmen's gypsy background: she is painted as both passionate and devil-may-care, but also morally suspect, fickle and engaging in various folk-magic beliefs of the Romany). Those who need stories written in 1845 to inexplicably follow modern conceptions of racial equality and representation should just quit before starting - as "Carmen", in the midst of all of its brigandry and tales of robbery, smuggling and violence, can be seen by modern eyes as an encapsulation of the projections onto (and attraction to) "the Other" - here the supposedly shifty, untrustworthy, self-involved and amoral Romany people. It's not an amazing story (large sections seem written as exposition) but certainly involving, not just for its moving and powerful murderous finale - there are also little splashes of local color, festivals (the women river bathing after sunset in Córdoba), bullfighting lore, slang, folklore (the "head of Pedro" footnote) and food that make the whole enjoyable. Oxford also supplies the later-composed "Fourth Chapter" in an appendix - which just turns out to be Mérimée's rather dry compilation of "facts" about the "Gypsy people" (seemingly to provide context for the preceding story).
The respected and powerful patriarch of a Corsican home (nearby where bandits sequester themselves from searches by hiding in an impenetrable valley), "Mateo Falcone," leaves his young son at home while he and his wife inspect the flocks, but a fugitive from the law appears, demanding to be hidden and offering the boy a silver coin for a good hiding place. But when the local gendarmes arrive in pursuit, the boy must decide between keeping the fugitive's secret or accepting the even more appealing bribe the soldiers offer for information on their prey's whereabouts, little suspecting his father's reaction when he returns and discovers the boys actions... According to the introduction, Walter Pater called this "perhaps the cruelest story in the world" and it certainly is dark, as an unflinching look at how the rural regions would carry the concept of personal and family honor to murderous heights. Short, pithy, brutal and effective.
An antiquarian comes to visit a landholder near the village of Ille to consult with him about local landmarks, finding M. de Peyrehorade engaged by two separate events. First, his boorish son is about to marry a wealthy woman (more for the money than love), and two, some local digging in an orchard on his land has turned up a copper statue of Venus that was buried. "The Venus of Ille," though, proves to be bad luck - one peasant has his leg broken while excavating the statue, and a young roustabout - on chucking a rock at the icon - finds the missile ricochets and strikes him in the head. But when young Peyrehorade places his intended wedding ring on the statue while he plays a racquet game, the hand inexplicably closes, "marrying" him to the fierce and mischievious Goddess of love, with events culminating on the young man's wedding night. This, like "Mateo Falcone," was a reread for me - and I'd forgotten what an effective little story it is - nicely paced and narrated, with some resonances and details about wedding rituals and folklore of the time, not to mention the interesting implication of the Goddess of Love taking revenge on a crude suitor and his avaricious matrimonial plans.
In "Colomba", Colonel Sir Thomas Nevil and his adult daughter Lydia, visiting Italy from Ireland, find the country boring and so choose to travel to Corsica where the Colonel can do some hunting. Onboard the boat, they meet Orso della Rebbia, a young solider returning to his home after years away. Orso befriends the pair, beginning a flirtation with Lydia, and they are met on arrival by Orso's fiery sister Colomba. As it turns out, Corsica's tradition of vendetta has placed Orso in a difficult position - his sister and much of his home town expect him to revenge himself on the town's mayor for the death of his father, but Orso has learned the sophisticated ways of the continent, does not think the Mayor was directly responsible for his father's death, and feels he cannot take revenge (though this would cast him as a coward and disappointment to the locals and his sister). But, surrounded by a country rife with casual violence, and expectations of more, Orso finds that escaping these expectations may be more difficult than he had planned... This is a long novella (or short novel) and takes up the bulk of this book. It is involving, with lots of local color, distinct characters (robust bandits and our titular female being the most striking) and some interesting conflict about the "backwards" traditions of rural violence versus the more cultured ways of European civilization (I laughed at a bit where Orso realizes that instead of ambushing the Mayor's sons he could just challenge them to a duel, although the Corsicans don't follow that tradition). Our titular character is interesting - not exactly a femme fatale, but passionate and conniving in turn. Sadly, while it builds with some complexity, the finale is not as satisfying - not terrible, but it just seems to ignore a number of interesting conflicts it had been setting up. Still, in the introduction (read after reading the story), it is noted that the ending (a coda that follows the resolution of the story) "remains almost without parallel in all literature for sheer venom" and this is true, it's a nasty little fillip that reinforces the scenes of implied and actual violence we have encountered earlier, reminding us that the drives of passion, prejudice and barbarism that arise from local "tradition" will not be settled easily. Good stuff!
Finally, in "Lokis", a German professor, tasked with translating the Bible into the Low Lithiuanian language, is invited to the castle of Count Szémioth to access some rare rural Lithuanian texts in his library. He finds the Count a friendly but troubled man: the Countess (Szémioth's mother) has been mad since giving birth to him 20 years ago, following a near fatal bear attack. But as the Professor is welcomed into the milieu (including the Count's flirtation with an elfish, frivolous local coquette), he finds the Count prone to strange and inexplicable, bestial passions - even as he plans to marry his love. Like a folklore tale cast into modern times, "Lokis" has some striking moments - the Professor spies the Count observing him, at night, from a tree; the Count has nightmare fits and waking thoughts of violent passion - and the expected local color (party games, the recitation of a folktale, wedding customs and the appearance of a local beggar-woman/witch who converses with her familiar, a black snake). And, following the horrific wedding night climax (mirroring "The Venus of Ille") - there is not much more to say. An enigmatic, effective little story that seems to be playing off that 19th Century belief that pregnant women "imprint" disturbing sights onto their unborn children (as in "a horse nearly trampled your mother when she was pregnant with you, which is why you have a horse-face"). Worth reading.
Interestingly, the introduction discusses the fact that Mérimée's reputation and legacy is questioned by scholars. On the one hand, he didn't write much and has a way of composing many of his stories that almost seem to deliberately include a self-critical aspect. On the other, he pruned away a lot of the extraneous flourishes of Romanticism, often striving for a lean effect that predicts the later development of short fiction. The stories I've noted here are all certainly worth your time.