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    Carmen
    Carmen
    Carmen
    Ebook84 pages1 hour

    Carmen

    By Prosper Mérimée

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    About this ebook

    Prosper Mérimée’s original novella that was famous adapted as an opera by Georges Bizet.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAUK Classics
    Release dateJun 15, 2012
    ISBN9781781664209
    Carmen
    Author

    Prosper Mérimée

    Prosper Mérimée, né le 28 septembre 1803 à Paris et décédé le 23 septembre 1870 à Cannes, est un écrivain, historien et archéologue français de renom. Figure emblématique du romantisme, il a marqué la littérature du XIXe siècle par son style précis et son goût pour l'exotisme. Issu d'une famille d'artistes, Mérimée reçoit une éducation classique et développe très tôt un intérêt pour les langues et les cultures étrangères. Il débute sa carrière littéraire en 1825 avec « Théâtre de Clara Gazul », un recueil de pièces qu'il présente comme une traduction de l'espagnol. Mérimée excelle dans l'art de la nouvelle, genre qu'il perfectionne avec des oeuvres comme « Mateo Falcone » (1829), « La Vénus d'Ille » (1837) et bien sûr « Carmen » (1845). Son style, caractérisé par la concision et l'objectivité, influence profondément la littérature réaliste. Parallèlement à sa carrière d'écrivain, Mérimée mène une brillante carrière administrative. Nommé inspecteur général des monuments historiques en 1834, il joue un rôle crucial dans la préservation du patrimoine français. Ses voyages officiels nourrissent son inspiration littéraire et son goût pour l'histoire. Ami de l'impératrice Eugénie, Mérimée fréquente les cercles du pouvoir sous le Second Empire. Érudit polyglotte, il traduit également des auteurs russes, contribuant à faire connaître Pouchkine et Gogol en France. L'oeuvre de Mérimée, alliant rigueur historique et imagination romanesque, continue de fasciner par sa modernité et sa profondeur psychologique.

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    Reviews for Carmen

    3/5

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    • 4/5
      Did I know anything about Carmen, the book or the opera, before checking this out? Nope. Saw it was from Melville House's Art of the Novella series, did a cursory check of the back cover, and checked it out. Personally, I'm glad I came to the story a blank slate, because it was all fresh and brilliant and crisp. Carmen is a brilliant example of the chaotic neutral character if I've ever seen one.

      A few times it felt excessively old-fashioned, but, you know, 1845?

      Probably would never have read it if not for Melville House. Those chaps have done their job again.

    Book preview

    Carmen - Prosper Mérimée

    purchaser.

    CHAPTER I

    I had always suspected the geographical authorities did not know what they were talking about when they located the battlefield of Munda in the county of the Bastuli-Poeni, close to the modern Monda, some two leagues north of Marbella.

    According to my own surmise, founded on the text of the anonymous author of the Bellum Hispaniense, and on certain information culled from the excellent library owned by the Duke of Ossuna, I believed the site of the memorable struggle in which Caesar played double or quits, once and for all, with the champions of the Republic, should be sought in the neighbourhood of Montilla.

    Happening to be in Andalusia during the autumn of 1830, I made a somewhat lengthy excursion, with the object of clearing up certain doubts which still oppressed me. A paper which I shall shortly publish will, I trust, remove any hesitation that may still exist in the minds of all honest archaeologists. But before that dissertation of mine finally settles the geographical problem on the solution of which the whole of learned Europe hangs, I desire to relate a little tale. It will do no prejudice to the interesting question of the correct locality of Monda.

    I had hired a guide and a couple of horses at Cordova, and had started on my way with no luggage save a few shirts, and Caesar's Commentaries. As I wandered, one day, across the higher lands of the Cachena plain, worn with fatigue, parched with thirst, scorched by a burning sun, cursing Caesar and Pompey's sons alike, most heartily, my eye lighted, at some distance from the path I was following, on a little stretch of green sward dotted with reeds and rushes. That betokened the neighbourhood of some spring, and, indeed, as I drew nearer I perceived that what had looked like sward was a marsh, into which a stream, which seemed to issue from a narrow gorge between two high spurs of the Sierra di Cabra, ran and disappeared.

    If I rode up that stream, I argued, I was likely to find cooler water, fewer leeches and frogs, and mayhap a little shade among the rocks.

    At the mouth of the gorge, my horse neighed, and another horse, invisible to me, neighed back. Before I had advanced a hundred paces, the gorge suddenly widened, and I beheld a sort of natural amphitheatre, thoroughly shaded by the steep cliffs that lay all around it. It was impossible to imagine any more delightful halting place for a traveller. At the foot of the precipitous rocks, the stream bubbled upward and fell into a little basin, lined with sand that was as white as snow. Five or six splendid evergreen oaks, sheltered from the wind, and cooled by the spring, grew beside the pool, and shaded it with their thick foliage. And round about it a close and glossy turf offered the wanderer a better bed than he could have found in any hostelry for ten leagues round.

    The honour of discovering this fair spot did not belong to me. A man was resting there already - sleeping, no doubt - before I reached it. Roused by the neighing of the horses, he had risen to his feet and had moved over to his mount, which had been taking advantage of its master's slumbers to make a hearty feed on the grass that grew around. He was an active young fellow, of middle height, but powerful in build, and proud and sullen-looking in expression. His complexion, which may once have been fine, had been tanned by the sun till it was darker than his hair. One of his hands grasped his horse's halter. In the other he held a brass blunderbuss.

    At the first blush, I confess, the blunderbuss, and the savage looks of the man who bore it, somewhat took me aback. But I had heard so much about robbers, that, never seeing any, I had ceased to believe in their existence. And further, I had seen so many honest farmers arm themselves to the teeth before they went out to market, that the sight of firearms gave me no warrant for doubting the character of any stranger. And then, quoth I to myself, what could he do with my shirts and my Elzevir edition of Caesar's Commentaries? So I bestowed a friendly nod on the man with the blunderbuss, and inquired, with a smile, whether I had disturbed his nap. Without any answer, he looked me over from head to foot. Then, as if the scrutiny had satisfied him, he looked as closely at my guide, who was just coming up. I saw the guide turn pale, and pull up with an air of evident alarm. An unlucky meeting! thought I to myself. But prudence instantly counselled me not to let any symptom of anxiety escape me. So I dismounted. I told the guide to take off the horses' bridles, and kneeling down beside the spring, I laved my head and hands and then drank a long draught, lying flat on my belly, like Gideon's soldiers.

    Meanwhile, I watched the stranger, and my own guide. This last seemed to come forward unwillingly. But the other did not appear to have any evil designs upon us. For he had turned his horse loose, and the blunderbuss, which he had been holding horizontally, was now dropped earthward.

    Not thinking it necessary to take offence at the scant attention paid me, I stretched myself full length upon the grass, and calmly asked the owner of the blunderbuss whether he had a light about him. At the same time I pulled out my cigar-case. The stranger, still without opening his lips, took out his flint, and lost no time in getting me a light. He was evidently growing tamer, for he sat down opposite to me, though he still grasped his weapon. When I had lighted my cigar, I chose out the best I had left, and asked him whether he smoked.

    Yes, senor, he replied. These were the first words I had heard him speak, and I noticed that he did not pronounce the letter s* in the Andalusian fashion, whence I concluded he was a traveller, like myself, though, maybe, somewhat less of an archaeologist.

    * The Andalusians aspirate the s, and pronounce it like

    the soft c and the z, which Spaniards pronounce like the

    English th. An Andalusian may always be recognised by the

    way in which he says senor.

    You'll find this a fairly good one, said I, holding out a real Havana regalia.

    He bowed his head slightly, lighted his cigar at mine, thanked me with another nod, and began to smoke with a most lively appearance of enjoyment.

    Ah! he exclaimed, as he blew his first puff of smoke slowly out of his ears and nostrils. What a time it is since I've had a smoke!

    In Spain the giving and accepting of a cigar establishes bonds of hospitality similar to those founded in Eastern countries on the partaking of bread and salt. My friend turned out more talkative than I had hoped. However, though he claimed to belong to the partido of Montilla, he seemed very ill-informed about the country. He did not know

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