The title of this chapter may seem an oversight or an impertinence, considering that large parts of an earlier one have been occupied with discussions and translations of the prose Arthurian Romances.  It was, however, expressly pointed out that the priority of these is a matter of opinion, not of judgment; and it may be here quite frankly admitted that one of the most serious arguments against that priority is the extreme lateness of Old French Prose in any finished literary form.  The excuse, however, if excuse be needed, does not turn on any such hinge as this.  It was desired to treat, in the last two chapters, romance matter proper of the larger kind, whether that matter took the form of prose or of verse.  Here, on the other hand, the object is to deal with the smaller but more miscellaneous body of fictitious matter (part, no doubt, of a larger) which presents it tolerably early, and in character foretells the immense development of the kind which French was to see later. A portion of this body, sufficient for us, is contained in two little volumes of the Bibliothèque Elzévirienne, published rather less than sixty years ago (1856 and 1858) by MM.  L. Moland and Ch. d’Hericault, the first devoted to thirteenth-, the second to fourteenth-century work.  One of these, the now world-famous Aucassin et Nicolette, has been so much written about and so often translated already that it cannot be necessary to say a great deal about it here.  It is, moreover, of a mixed kind, a cante-fable or blend of prose and verse, with a considerable touch of the dramatic in it.  Its extraordinary charm is a thing long ago settled; but it is, on the whole, more of a dramatic and lyrical romance ­to recouple or releash kinds which Mr. Browning had perhaps best never have put asunder ­than of a pure prose tale.

Its companions in the thirteenth-century volume are four in number, and if none of them has the peculiar charm, so none has the technical disqualification (if that be not too strong a word) of Aucassin et Nicolette.  The first, shortest, and, save for one or two points, least remarkable, L’Empereur Constant, is a very much abbreviated and in more than one sense prosaic version of the story out of which Mr. William Morris made his delightful The Man Born to be King.  Probably of Greek or Greek-Eastern origin, it begins with an astrological passage in which the Emperor, childless except for a girl, becomes informed of the imminent birth of a man-child, who shall marry his daughter and succeed him.  He discovers the, as it seems, luckless baby; has it brought to him, and with his own hand attempts to disembowel it, but allows himself, most improbably, to be dissuaded from finishing the operation.  The benevolent knight who has prevented the completion of the crime takes the infant to a monastery, where (after a quaint scene of haggling about fees with the surgeon) the victim is patched up, grows to be a fine youth, and comes across the Emperor, to whom the abbot guilelessly, but in this case naturally enough, betrays the secret.  The Emperor’s murderous thoughts as naturally revive, and the frustration of them by means of the Princess’s falling in love with the youth, the changing of “the letters of Bellerophon,” and the Emperor’s resignation to the inevitable, follow the same course as in the English poem.  The latter part is better than the earlier; and the writer is evidently (as how should he not be?) a novice; but his work is the kind of experiment from which better things will come.

These marks of the novice are even more noticeable in a much longer story, Le Roi Flore et la Belle Jehane, which is found not only in the same printed volume, but in the same original MS. The fault of this is curious, and ­if not to a mere reader for pastime, to a student of fiction ­extremely interesting.  It is one not at all unknown at the present day, and capable of being used as an argument in favour of the doctrine of the Unities:  that is to say, the mixture, by arbitrary and violent process, of two stories which have nothing whatever to do with each other, except that they are, wilfully and with no reason, buckled together at the end.  The first, thin and uninteresting enough, is of a certain King Florus, who has a wife, dearly beloved, but barren.  After some years and some very unmanly shilly-shallyings, he puts her away, and marries another, with whom (one is feebly glad to find) he is no more lucky, but who has herself the luck to die after some years.  Meanwhile, King Florus being left “in a cool barge for future use,” the second item, a really interesting story, is, with some intervals, carried on.  A Count of high rank and great possessions has an only daughter, whom, after experience of the valour and general worthiness of one of his vassals of no great “having,” he bestows on this knight, Robert, the pair being really in love with each other.  But another vassal knight of greater wealth, Raoul, plots with one of the wicked old women who abound in these stories, and engages Robert in a rash wager of all his possessions, that during one of those pilgrimages to “St. James,” which come in so handy, and are generally so unreasonable, he will dishonour the lady.  He fails, but, in a manner not distantly related to the Imogen-Iachimo scene, acquires what seems to be damning acquaintance with the young Countess’s person-marks.  Robert and Jehane are actually married; but the felon knight immediately afterwards brings his charge, and Robert pays his debt, and flies, a ruined man, from, as he thinks, his faithless wife, though he takes no vengeance on her.  Jehane disguises herself as a man, joins him on his journey, supports him with her own means for a time, and enters into partnership with him in merchandise at Marseilles, he remaining ignorant of her sex and relation to him.  At last things come right:  the felon knight is forced in single combat (a long and good one) to acknowledge his lie and give up his plunder, and the excellent but somewhat obtuse Robert recovers his wife as well.  A good end if ever there was one, and not a badly told tale in parts.  But, from some utterly mistaken idea of craftsmanship, the teller must needs kill Robert for no earthly reason, except in order that Jehane may become the third wife of Florus and bear him children.  A more disastrous “sixth act” has seldom been imagined; for most readers will have forgotten all about Florus, who has had neither art nor part in the main story; few can care whether the King has children or not; and still fewer can be other than disgusted at the notion of Jehane, brave, loving, and clever, being, as a widow, made a mere child-bearing machine to an oldish and rather contemptible second husband.  But, once more, the mistake is interesting, and is probably the first example of that fatal error of not knowing when to leave off, which is even worse than the commoner one (to be found in some great artists) of “huddling up the story.”  The only thing to be said in excuse is that you could cut his majesty Florus out of the title and tale at once without even the slightest difficulty, and with no need to mend or meddle in any other way.

The remaining stories of the thirteenth-century volume are curiously contrasted.  One is a short prose version of that exquisite chanson de geste, Amis et Amiles, of which it has been said above that any one who cannot “taste” it need never hope to understand mediaeval literature.  The full beauty of the verse story does not appear in the prose; but some does.

Of the other, the so-called “Comtesse de Ponthieu” (though she is not really this, being only the Count’s daughter and the wife of a vassal), I thought rather badly when I first read it thirty or forty years ago, and till the present occasion I have never read it since.  Now I think better of it, especially as a story suggestive in story-telling art.  The original stumbling-block, which I still see, though I can get over or round it better now, was, I think, the character of the heroine, who inherits not merely the tendency to play fast and loose with successive husbands, which is observable in both chanson and roman heroines, but something of the very unlovely savagery which is also sometimes characteristic of them; while the hero also is put in “unpleasant” circumstances.  He is a gentleman and a good knight, and though only a vassal of the Count of Ponthieu, he, as has been said, marries the Count’s daughter, entirely to her and her father’s satisfaction.  But they are childless, and the inevitable “monseigneur Saint Jakeme” (St. James of Compostella) suggests himself for pilgrimage.  Thiebault, the knight, obtains leave from his lady to go, and she, by a device not unprettily told, gets from him leave to go too.  Unfortunately and unwisely they send their suite on one morning, and ride alone through a forest, where they are set upon by eight banditti.  Thiebault fights these odds without flinching, and actually kills three, but is overpowered by sheer numbers.  They do not kill him, but bind and toss him into a thicket, after which they take vengeance of outrage on the lady and depart, fearing the return of the meyney.  Thiebault feels that his unhappy wife is guiltless, but unluckily does not assure her of this, merely asking her to deliver him.  So she, seeing a sword of one of the slain robbers, picks it up, and, “full of great ire and evil will,” cries, “I will deliver you, sir,” and, instead of cutting his bonds, tries to run him through.  But she only grazes him, and actually cuts the thongs, so that he shakes himself free, starts up, and wrests the sword from her with the simple words, “Lady, it is not to-day that you will kill me.”  To which she replies, “And right sorry I am therefor." Their followers come up; the pair are clothed and set out again on their journey.  But Thiebault, though treating his wife with the greatest attention, leaves her at a monastery, accomplishes his pilgrimage alone, and on his return escorts her to Ponthieu as if nothing had happened.  Still ­though no one knows this or indeed anything about her actual misfortune and intended crime ­he does not live with her as his wife.  After a time the Count, who is, as another story has it, a “harbitrary” Count, insists that Thiebault shall tell him some incident of his voyage, and the husband (here is the weak point of the whole) recounts the actual adventure, though not as of himself and his lady.  The Count will not stand ambiguity, and at last extorts the truth, which the lady confirms, repeating her sorrow that she had not slain her husband.  Now the Count is, as has been said, an arbitrary Count, and one day, his county having, as our Harold knew to his cost, a sea-coast to it, somewhat less disputable than those of Bohemia and the Ardennes, embarks, with only his daughter, son-in-law, son, and a few retainers, taking with him a nice new cask.  Into this, despite the prayers of her husband and brother, he puts the lady, and flings it overboard.  She is picked up half-suffocated by mariners, who carry her to “Aymarie” and sell her to the Sultan.  She is very beautiful, and the Sultan promptly proposes conversion and marriage.  She makes no difficulty, bears him two children, and is apparently quite happy.  But meanwhile the Count of Ponthieu begins ­his son and son-in-law have never ceased ­to feel that he has exercised the paternal rights rather harshly; the Archbishop of Rheims very properly confirms his ideas on this point, and all three go outremer on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.  They are captured by the Saracens of Aymarie, imprisoned, starved, and finally in immediate danger of being shot to death as an amusement for the Sultan’s bodyguard.  But the Sultaness has found out who they are, visits them in prison, and “reconciliations and forgivenesses of injuries” follow.

After this, things go in an easily guessable manner.  The Countess-Sultana beguiles her easy-going lord into granting her the lives of the prisoners one after another, for which she rewards him by carrying them off, with her son by the second marriage, to Italy, where the boy is baptized.  “The Apostle” (as the Pope is usually called in Romance), by a rather extensive exercise of his Apostleship, gives everybody absolution, confirms the original marriage of Thiebault and the lady who had been so obstinately sorry that she had not killed him, and who had suffered the paynim spousals so easily; and all goes merrily.  There is a postscript which tells how the daughter of the Sultan and the Countess, who is termed La Bêle Caitive, captivates and marries a Turk of great rank, and becomes the mother of no less a person than the great Saladin himself ­a consummation no doubt very satisfactory to the Miss Martha Buskbodies of the mediaeval world.

Now this story might seem to one who read it hastily, carelessly, or as “not in the vein,” to be partly extravagant, partly disagreeable, and, despite its generous allowance of incident, rather dull, especially if contrasted with its next neighbour in the printed volume, Aucassin et Nicolette itself.  I am afraid there may have been some of these uncritical conditions about my own first reading.  But a little study shows some remarkable points in it, though the original writer has not known how to manage them.  The central and most startling one ­the attempt of the Countess to murder her husband ­is, when you think of it, not at all unnatural.  The lady is half mad with her shame; the witness, victim, and, as she thinks, probable avenger of that shame is helpless before her, and in his first words at any rate seems to think merely of himself and not of her.  Whether this violent outburst of feeling was not likely to result in as violent a revulsion of tenderness is rather a psychological probability than artistically certain.  And Thiebault, though an excellent fellow, is a clumsy one.  His actual behaviour is somewhat of that “killing-with-kindness” order which exasperates when it does not itself kill or actually reconcile; and, whether out of delicacy or not, he does not give his wife the only proof that he acknowledges the involuntariness of her actual misfortune, and forgives the voluntariness of her intended crime.  His telling the story is inexcusable:  and neither his preference of his allegiance as a vassal to his duty as knight, lover, and husband in the case of the Count’s cruelty, nor his final acceptance of so many and such peculiar bygones can be called very pretty.  But there are possibilities in the story, if they are not exactly made into good gifts.

The contents of the fourteenth-century volume are, with one exception, much less interesting in themselves; but from the point of view of the present enquiry they hardly yield to their predecessors.  They are three in number:  Asseneth, Foulques Fitzwarin, and Troilus.  The first, which is very short, is an account of Joseph’s courtship of his future wife, in which entirely guiltless proceeding he behaves at first very much as if the daughter of Potipherah were fruit as much forbidden as the wife of Potiphar.  For on her being proposed to him (he has come to her father, splendidly dressed and brilliantly handsome, on a mission from Pharaoh) he at first replies that he will love her as his sister.  This, considering the Jewish habit of exchanging the names, might not be ominous.  But when the damsel, at her father’s bidding, offers to kiss him, Joseph puts his hand on her chest and pushes her back, accompanying the action with words (even more insulting in detail than in substance) to the effect that it is not for God-fearing man to kiss an idolatress.  (At this point one would rather like to kick Joseph.) However, when, naturally enough, she cries with vexation, the irreproachable but most unlikable patriarch condescends to pat her on the head and bless her.  This she takes humbly and thankfully; deplores his absence, for he is compelled to return to his master; renounces her gods; is consoled by an angel, who feeds her with a miraculous honeycomb possessing a sort of sacramental force, and announces her marriage to Joseph, which takes place almost immediately.

It will be at once seen, by those who know something of the matter, that this is entirely in the style of large portions of the Graal romances; and so it gives us a fresh and interesting division of the new short prose tale, allying itself to some extent with the allegory which was to be so fruitful both in verse and in prose.  It is not particularly attractive in substance; but is not badly told, and would have made (what it was very likely used as) a good sermon-story.

As Asseneth, the first of the three, is by far the shortest, so Troilus, the last, is by far the longest.  It is, in fact, nearly twenty times the length of the history of Joseph’s pious impoliteness, and makes up something like two-thirds of the whole collection.  But, except as a variant of one of the famous stories of the world (v. sup. Chap.  IV.), it has little interest, and is not even directly taken from Benoit de Sainte-Maure, but from Guido delle Colonne and Boccaccio, of whose Filostrato it is, in fact, a mere translation, made apparently by a known person of high station, Pierre de Beauvau, one of the chief nobles of Anjou, at the close of the fourteenth and the beginning of the fifteenth century.  It thus brings itself into direct connection with Chaucer’s poem, and has some small importance for literary history generally.  But it has not much for us.  It was not Boccaccio’s verse but his prose that was really to influence the French Novel.

With the middle piece of the volume, Foulques Fitzwarin, it is very different.  It is true that the present writer was once “smitten friendly” by a disciple of the modern severe historical school, who declared that the adventures of Fitzwarin, though of course adulterated, were an important historical document, and nothing so frivolous as a novel.  One has, however, a reed-like faculty of getting up again from such smitings:  and for my part I do not hesitate once more to call Foulques Fitzwarin the first historical prose novel in modern literature.  French in language, as we have it, it is thoroughly English in subject, and, beyond all doubt, in the original place of composition, while there is no reason to doubt the assertion that there were older verse-renderings of the story both in English and French.  In fact, they may turn up yet.  But the thing as it stands is a very desirable and even delectable thing, and well deserved its actual publication, not merely in the French collection, of which we are speaking, but in the papers of the too short-lived English Warton Club.

For it is not only our first historical novel, but also the first, as far as England is concerned, of those outlaw stories which have always delighted worthy English youth from Robin Hood to The Black Arrow.  The Fitzwarins, as concerns their personalities and genealogies, may be surrendered without a pang to the historian, though he shall not have the marrow of the story.  They never seem to have been quite happy except when they were in a state of “utlagation,” and it was not only John against whom they rebelled, for one of them died on the Barons’ side at Lewes.

The compiler, whoever he was ­it has been said already and cannot be said too often, that every recompiler in the Middle Ages felt it (like the man in that “foolish” writer, as some call him, Plato) a sacred duty to add something to the common stock, ­was not exactly a master of his craft, but certainly showed admirable zeal.  There never was a more curious macedoine than this story.  Part of it is, beyond all doubt, traditional history, with place-names all right, though distorted by that curious inability to transpronounce or trans-spell which made the French of the thirteenth century call Lincoln “Nicole,” and their descendants of the seventeenth call Kensington “Stintinton.”  Part is mere stock or common-form Romance, as when Foulques goes to sea and has adventures with the usual dragons and their usual captive princesses.  Part, though not quite dependent on the general stock, is indebted to that of a particular kind, as in the repeated catching of the King by the outlaws.  But it is all more or less good reading; and there are two episodes in the earlier part which (one of them especially) merit more detailed account.

The first still has something of a general character about it.  It is the story of a certain Payn Peveril (for we meet many familiar names), who seems to have been a real person though wrongly dated here, and has one of those nocturnal combats with demon knights, the best known examples of which are those recounted in Marmion and its notes.  Peveril’s antagonist, however ­or rather the mask which the antagonist takes, ­connects with the oldest legendary history of the island, for he reanimates the body of Gogmagog, the famous Cornish giant, whom Corineus slew.  The diabolic Gogmagog, however, seems neither to have stayed in Cornwall nor gone to Cambridgeshire, though (oddly enough the French editors do not seem to have noticed this) Payn Peveril actually held fiefs in the neighbourhood of those exalted mountains called now by the name of his foe.  He had a hard fight; but luckily his arms were or with a cross édentée azure, and this cross constantly turned the giant-devil’s mace-strokes, while it also weakened him, and he had besides to bear the strokes of Peveril’s sword.  So he gave in, remarking with as much truth as King Padella in similar circumstances, that it was no good fighting under these conditions.  Then he tells a story of some length about the original Gogmagog and his treasure.  The secret of this he will not reveal, but tells Peveril that he will be lord of Blanche-lande in Shropshire, and vanishes with the usual unpleasant accompaniment ­tiel pueur dont Payn quida dévier.  He left his mace, which the knight kept as a testimony to anybody who did not believe the story.

This is not bad; but the other, which is either true or extraordinarily well invented, is far finer, and, with some omissions, must be analysed and partly translated.  Those who know the singular beauty of Ludlow Town and Castle will be able to “stage” it to advantage, but this is not absolutely necessary to its appreciation as a story.

The Peverils have died out by this time, and the honour and lands have gone by marriage to Guarin of Metz, whose son, Foulques Fitzguarin or Warin, starts the subjects of the general story.  When the first Foulkes is eighteen, there is war between Sir Joce of Dinan (the name then given to Ludlow) and the Lacies.  In one of their skirmishes Sir Walter de Lacy is wounded and captured, with a young knight of his party, Sir Ernault de Lyls.  They have courteous treatment in Ludlow Castle, and Ernault makes love to Marion de la Briere, a most gentle damsel, who is the chief maid of the lady of the castle, and as such, of course, herself a lady.  He promises her marriage, and she provides him and his chief with means of escape.  Whether Lisle (as his name probably was) had at this time any treacherous intentions is not said or hinted.  But Lacy, naturally enough, resents his defeat, and watches for an opportunity of revanche; while Sir Joce[lyn], on the other hand, takes his prisoners’ escape philosophically, and does not seem to make any enquiry into its cause.  At first Lacy thinks of bringing over his Irish vassals to aid him; but his English neighbours not unnaturally regard this step with dislike, and a sort of peace is made between the enemies.  A match is arranged between Sir Joce’s daughter Hawyse and Foulques Fitzwarin.  Joce then quits Ludlow for a time, leaving, however, a strong garrison there.  Marion, who feigns illness, is also left.  And now begins the tragic and striking part of the story.

The next day after Joce had gone, Marion sent a message to Sir Ernault de Lyls, begging him, for the great love that there was between them, not to forget the pledges they had exchanged, but to come quickly to speak with her at the castle of Dinan, because the lord and the lady and the bulk of the servants had gone to Hertilande ­also to come to the same place by which he had left the castle. [He replies asking her to send him the exact height of the wall (which she unsuspiciously does by the usual means of a silk thread) and also the number of the household left.  Then he seeks his chief, and tells him, with a mixture of some truth, that the object of the Hertilande journey is to gather strength against Lacy, capture his castle of Ewyas, and kill himself ­intelligence which he falsely attributes to Marion.  He has, of course, little difficulty in persuading Lacy to take the initiative.  Sir Ernault is entrusted with a considerable mixed force, and comes by night to the castle.] The night was very dark, so that no sentinel saw them.  Sir Ernault took a squire to carry the ladder of hide, and they went to the window where Marion was waiting for them.  And when she saw them, never was any so joyful:  so she dropped a cord right down and drew up the hide ladder and fastened it to a battlement.  Then Ernault lightly scaled the tower, and took his love in his arms and kissed her:  and they made great joy of each other and went into another room and supped, and then went to their couch, and left the ladder hanging.

But the squire who had carried it went to the forces hidden in the garden and elsewhere, and took them to the ladder.  And one hundred men, well armed, mounted by it and descended by the Pendover tower and went by the wall behind the chapel, and found the sentinel too heavy with sleep to defend himself:  and the knights and the sergeants were cut to pieces crying for mercy in their beds.  But Sir Ernault’s companions were pitiless, and many a white sheet was dyed red with blood.  And at last they tossed the watchman into the deep fosse and broke his neck.

Now Marion de la Briere lay by her lover Sir Ernault and knew nothing of the treason he had done.  But she heard a great noise in the castle and rose from her bed, and looked out and heard more clearly the cry of the massacred, and saw knights in white armour.  Wherefore she understood that Sir Ernault had deceived and betrayed her, and began to weep bitterly and said, “Ah! that I was ever of mother born:  for that by my crime I have lost my lord Sir Joce, who bred me so gently, his castle, and his good folk.  Had I not been, nothing had been lost.  Alas! that I ever believed this knight! for by his lies he has ruined me, and what is worse, my lord too.”  Then, all weeping, she drew Sir Ernault’s sword and said, “Sir knight! awake, for you have brought strange company into my lord’s castle without his leave.  I brought in only you and your squire.  And since you have deceived me you cannot rightly blame me if I give you your deserts ­at least you shall never boast to any other mistress that by deceiving me you conquered the castle and the land of Dinan!” The knight started up, but Marion, with the sword she held drawn, ran him straight through the body, and he died at once.  She herself, knowing that if she were taken, ill were the death she should die, and knowing not what to do, let herself fall from a window and broke her neck.

Now this, I venture to think, is not an ordinary story.  Tales of treachery, onslaught, massacre, are not rare in the Middle Ages, nor need we go as far as the Middle Ages for them.  But the almost heroic insouciance with which the traitor knight forgets everything except his immediate enjoyment, and, provided he has his mistress at his will, concerns himself not in the slightest degree as to what becomes of his companions, is not an every-day touch.  Nor is the strong contrast of the chambers of feast and dalliance ­undisturbed, voluptuous, terrestrial-paradisaic ­with “the horror and the hell” in the courts below.  Nor, last of all, the picture of the more than half innocent Marion, night-garbed or ungarbed, but with sword drawn, first hanging over her slumbering betrayer, then dealing the stroke of vengeance, and then falling ­white against the dark towers and the darker ravines at their base ­to her self-doomed judgment.

Even more, however, than in individual points of interest or excitement, the general survey of these two volumes gives matter for thought on our subject.  Here are some half-dozen stories or a little more.  It is not much, some one may say, for the produce of two hundred years.  But what it lacks in volume (and that will be soon made up in French, while it is to be remembered that we have practically nothing to match it in English) it makes up in variety.  The peculiarity, some would say the defect, of mediaeval literature ­its sheep-like tendency to go in flocks ­is quite absent.  Not more than two of the eight, Le Roi Flore and La Comtesse de Ponthieu, can be said to be of the same class, even giving the word class a fairly elastic sense.  They are short prose Romans d’aventures.  But Asseneth is a mystical allegory; Aucassin et Nicolette is a sort of idyll, almost a lyric, in which the adventure is entirely subordinated to the emotional and poetical interest; L’Empereur Constant, though with something of the Roman d’aventures in it, has a tendency towards a moralitas ("there is no armour against fate”) which never appears in the pure adventurous kind; Troilus is an abridgment of a classical romance; and Foulques Fitzwarin is, as has been said, an embryonic historical novel.  Most, if not all, moreover, give openings for, and one or two even proceed into, character- and even “problem"-writing of the most advanced novel kind.  In one or two also, no doubt, that aggression and encroachment of allegory (which is one of the chief notes of these two centuries) makes itself felt, though not to the extent which we shall notice in the next chapter.  But almost everywhere a strong nisus towards actual tale-telling and the rapid acquisition of proper “plant” for such telling, become evident.  In particular, conversation ­a thing difficult to bring anyhow into verse-narrative, and impossible there to keep up satisfactorily in various moods ­begins to find its way.  We may turn, in the next chapter, to matter mostly or wholly in verse forms.  But prose fiction is started all the same.

Before we do so, however, it may not be improper to point out that the short story undoubtedly holds ­of itself ­a peculiar and almost prerogative place in the history and morphology or the novel.  After a long and rather unintelligible unpopularity in English ­it never suffered in this way in French ­it has been, according to the way of the world, a little over-exalted of late perhaps.  It is undoubtedly a very difficult thing to do well, and it would be absurd to pretend that any of the foregoing examples is done thoroughly well.  The Italian novella had to come and show the way. But the short story, even of the rudimentary sort which we have been considering, cannot help being a powerful schoolmaster to bring folk to good practice in the larger kind.  The faults and the merits of that kind, as such, appear in it after a fashion which can hardly fail to be instructive and suggestive.  The faults so frequently charged against that “dear defunct” in our own tongue, the three-volume novel ­the faults of long-windedness, of otiose padding, of unnecessary episodes, etc., are almost mechanically or mathematically impossible in the nouvelle.  The long book provides pastime in its literal sense, and if it is not obvious in the other the accustomed reader, unless outraged by some extraordinary dulness or silences, goes on, partly like the Pickwickian horse because he can’t well help it, and partly because he hopes that something may turn up.  In the case of the short he sees almost at once whether it is going to have any interest, and if there is none such apparent he throws it aside.

Moreover, as in almost every other case, the shortness is appropriate to exercise; while the prose form does not encourage those terrible chevilles ­repetitions of stock adjective and substantive and verb and phrase generally ­which are so common in verse, and especially in octosyllabic verse.  It is therefore in many ways healthy, and the space allotted to these early examples of it will not, it is hoped, seem to any impartial reader excessive.