GUY DE MAUPASSANT

OF THE French writers of romance of the latter part of the nineteenth century no one made a reputation as quickly as did Guy de Maupassant.  Not one has preserved that reputation with more ease, not only during life, but in death.  None so completely hides his personality in his glory.  In an epoch of the utmost publicity, in which the most insignificant deeds of a celebrated man are spied, recorded, and commented on, the author of ``Boule de Suif,'' of ``Pierre et Jean,'' of ``Notre Coeur,'' found a way of effacing his personality in his work.

Of De Maupassant we know that he was born in Normandy about 1850; that he was the favorite pupil, if one may so express it, the literary protégé, of Gustave Flaubert; that he made his début late in 1880, with a novel inserted in a small collection, published by Emile Zola and his young friends, under the title: ``The Soirées of Medan''; that subsequently he did not fail to publish stories and romances every year up to 1891, when a disease of the brain struck him down in the fullness of production; and that he died, finally, in 1893, without having recovered his reason.

We know, too, that he passionately loved a strenuous physical life and long journeys, particularly long journeys upon the sea.  He owned a little sailing yacht, named after one of his books, ``Bel-Ami,'' in which he used to sojourn for weeks and months.  These meager details are almost the only ones that have been gathered as food for the curiosity of the public.

I leave the legendary side, which is always in evidence in the case of a celebrated man, -- that gossip, for example, which avers that Maupassant was a high liver and a worldling.  The very number of his volumes is a protest to the contrary.  One could not write so large a number of pages in so small a number of years without the virtue of industry, a virtue incompatible with habits of dissipation.  This does not mean that the writer of these great romances had no love for pleasure and had not tasted the world, but that for him these were secondary things.  The psychology of his work ought, then, to find an interpretation other than that afforded by wholly false or exaggerated anecdotes.  I wish to indicate here how this work, illumined by the three or four positive data which I have given, appears to me to demand it.

And first, what does that anxiety to conceal his personality prove, carried as it was to such an extreme degree?  The answer rises spontaneously in the minds of those who have studied closely the history of literature.  The absolute silence about himself, preserved by one whose position among us was that of a Tourgenief, or of a Mérimée, and of a Molière or a Shakespeare among the classic great, reveals, to a person of instinct, a nervous sensibility of extreme depth.  There are many chances for an artist of his kind, however timid, or for one who has some grief, to show the depth of his emotion.  To take up again only two of the names just cited, this was the case with the author of ``Terres Vierges,'' and with the writer of ``Colomba.''

A somewhat minute analysis of the novels and romances of Maupassant would suffice to demonstrate, even if we did not know the nature of the incidents which prompted them, that he also suffered from an excess of nervous emotionalism.  Nine times out of ten, what is the subject of these stories to which freedom of style gives the appearance of health?  A tragic episode.  I cite, at random, ``Mademoiselle Fifi,'' ``La Petite Roque,'' ``Inutile Beauté,'' ``Le Masque,'' ``Le Horla,'' ``L'Epreuve,'' ``Le Champ d'Oliviers,'' among the novels, and among the romances, ``Une Vie,'' ``Pierre et Jean,'' ``Fort comme la Mort,'' ``Notre Coeur.'' His imagination aims to represent the human being as imprisoned in a situation at once insupportable and inevitable.  The spell of this grief and trouble exerts such a power upon the writer that he ends stories commenced in pleasantry with some sinister drama.  Let me instance ``Saint-Antonin,'' ``A Midnight Revel,'' ``The Little Cask,'' and ``Old Amable.'' You close the book at the end of these vigorous sketches, and feel how surely they point to constant suffering on the part of him who executed them.

This is the leading trait in the literary physiognomy of Maupassant, as it is the leading and most profound trait in the psychology of his work, viz, that human life is a snare laid by nature, where joy is always changed to misery, where noble words and the highest professions of faith serve the lowest plans and the most cruel egoism, where chagrin, crime, and folly are forever on hand to pursue implacably our hopes, nullify our virtues, and annihilate our wisdom.  But this is not the whole.

Maupassant has been called a literary nihilist -- but (and this is the second trait of his singular genius) in him nihilism finds itself coexistent with an animal energy so fresh and so intense that for a long time it deceives the closest observer.  In an eloquent discourse, pronounced over his premature grave, Emile Zola well defined this illusion: ``We congratulated him,'' said he, ``upon that health which seemed unbreakable, and justly credited him with the soundest constitution of our band, as well as with the clearest mind and the sanest reason.  It was then that this frightful thunderbolt destroyed him.''

It is not exact to say that the lofty genius of De Maupassant was that of an absolutely sane man.  We comprehend it to-day, and, on re-reading him, we find traces everywhere of his final malady.  But it is exact to say that this wounded genius was, by a singular circumstance, the genius of a robust man.  A physiologist would without doubt explain this anomaly by the coexistence of a nervous lesion, light at first, with a muscular, athletic temperament.  Whatever the cause, the effect is undeniable.  The skilled and dainty pessimism of De Maupassant was accompanied by a vigor and physique very unusual.  His sensations are in turn those of a hunter and of a sailor, who have, as the old French saying expressively puts it, ``swift foot, eagle eye,'' and who are attuned to all the whisperings of nature.

The only confidences that he has ever permitted his pen to tell of the intoxication of a free, animal existence are in the opening pages of the story entitled ``Mouche,'' where he recalls, among the sweetest memories of his youth, his rollicking canoe parties upon the Seine, and in the description in ``La Vie Errante'' of a night spent on the sea, -- ``to be alone upon the water under the sky, through a warm night,'' -- in which he speaks of the happiness of those ``who receive sensations through the whole surface of their flesh, as they do through their eyes, their mouth, their ears, and sense of smell.''

His unique and too scanty collection of verses, written in early youth, contains the two most fearless, I was going to say the most ingenuous, pæans, perhaps, that have been written since the Renaissance: ``At the Water's Edge'' (Au Bord de l'Eau) and the ``Rustic Venus'' (La Venus Rustique).  But here is a paganism whose ardor, by a contrast which brings up the ever present duality of his nature, ends in an inexpressible shiver of scorn:

``We look at each other, astonished, immovable,
And both are so pale that it makes us fear.''
   * * * * * * * 
``Alas!  through all our senses slips life itself away.''

This ending of the ``Water's Edge'' is less sinister than the murder and the vision of horror which terminate the pantheistic hymn of the ``Rustic Venus.'' Considered as documents revealing the cast of mind of him who composed them, these two lyrical essays are especially significant, since they were spontaneous.  They explain why De Maupassant, in the early years of production, voluntarily chose, as the heroes of his stories, creatures very near to primitive existence, peasants, sailors, poachers, girls of the farm, and the source of the vigor with which he describes these rude figures.  The robustness of his animalism permits him fully to imagine all the simple sensations of these beings, while his pessimism, which tinges these sketches of brutal customs with an element of delicate scorn, preserves him from coarseness.  It is this constant and involuntary antithesis which gives unique value to those Norman scenes which have contributed so much to his glory.  It corresponds to, those two contradictory tendencies in literary art, which seek always to render life in motion with the most intense coloring, and still to make more and more subtle the impression of this life.  How is one ambition to be satisfied at the same time as the other, since all gain in color and movement brings about a diminution of sensibility, and conversely?  The paradox of his constitution permitted to Maupassant this seemingly impossible accord, aided as he was by an intellect whose influence was all powerful upon his development -- the writer I mention above, Gustave Flaubert.

These meetings of a pupil and a master, both great, are indeed rare.  They present, in fact, some troublesome conditions, the first of which is a profound analogy between two types of thought.  There must have been, besides, a reciprocity of affection, which does not often obtain between a renowned senior who is growing old and an obscure junior, whose renown is increasing.  From generation to generation, envy reascends no less than she redescends.  For the honor of French men of letters, let us add that this exceptional phenomenon has manifested itself twice in the nineteenth century.  Mérimée, whom I have also named, received from Stendhal, at twenty, the same benefits that Maupassant received from Flaubert.

The author of ``Une Vie'' and the writer of ``Clara Jozul'' resemble each other, besides, in a singular and analogous circumstance.  Both achieved renown at the first blow, and by a masterpiece which they were able to equal but never surpass.  Both were misanthropes early in life, and practised to the end the ancient advice that the disciple of Beyle carried upon his seal: memneso apistein -- ``Remember to distrust.'' And, at the same time, both had delicate, tender hearts under this affectation of cynicism, both were excellent sons, irreproachable friends, indulgent masters, and both were idolized by their inferiors.  Both were worldly, yet still loved a wanderer's life; both joined to a constant taste for luxury an irresistible desire for solitude.  Both belonged to the extreme left of the literature of their epoch, but kept themselves from excess and used with a judgment marvelously sure the sounder principles of their school.  They knew how to remain lucid and classic, in taste as much as in form -- Mérimée through all the audacity of a fancy most exotic, and Maupassant in the realism of the most varied and exact observation.  At a little distance they appear to be two patterns, identical in certain traits, of the same family of minds, and Tourgenief, who knew and loved the one and the other, never failed to class them as brethren.

They are separated, however, by profound differences, which perhaps belong less to their nature than to that of the masters from whom they received their impulses: Stendhal, so alert, so mobile, after a youth passed in war and a ripe age spent in vagabond journeys, rich in experiences, immediate and personal; Flaubert so poor in direct impressions, so paralyzed by his health, by his family, by his theories even, and so rich in reflections, for the most part solitary.

Among the theories of the anatomist of ``Madame Bovary,'' there are two which appear without ceasing in his Correspondence, under one form or another, and these are the ones which are most strongly evident in the art of De Maupassant.  We now see the consequences which were inevitable by reason of them, endowed as Maupassant was with a double power of feeling life bitterly, and at the same time with so much of animal force.  The first theory bears upon the choice of personages and the story of the romance, the second upon the character of the style.  The son of a physician, and brought up in the rigors of scientific method, Flaubert believed this method to be efficacious in art as in science.  For instance, in the writing of a romance, he seemed to be as scientific as in the development of a history of customs, in which the essential is absolute exactness and local color.  He therefore naturally wished to make the most scrupulous and detailed observation of the environment.

Thus is explained the immense labor in preparation which his stories cost him -- the story of ``Madame Bovary,'' of ``The Sentimental Education,'' and ``Bouvard and Pécuchet,'' documents containing as much minutiæ as his historical stories.  Beyond everything he tried to select details that were eminently significant.  Consequently he was of the opinion that the romance writer should discard all that lessened this significance, that is, extraordinary events and singular heroes.  The exceptional personage, it seemed to him, should be suppressed, as should also high dramatic incident, since, produced by causes less general, these have a range more restricted.  The truly scientific romance writer, proposing to paint a certain class, will attain his end more effectively if he incarnate personages of the middle order, and, consequently, paint traits common to that class.  And not only middle-class traits, but middle-class adventures.

From this point of view, examine the three great romances of the Master from Rouen, and you will see that he has not lost sight of this first and greatest principle of his art, any more than he has of the second, which was that these documents should be drawn up in prose of absolutely perfect technique.  We know with what passionate care he worked at his phrases, and how indefatigably he changed them over and over again.  Thus he satisfied that instinct of beauty which was born of his romantic soul, while he gratified the demand of truth which inhered from his scientific training by his minute and scrupulous exactness.

The theory of the mean of truth on one side, as the foundation of the subject, -- ``the humble truth,'' as he termed it at the beginning of ``Une Vie,'' -- and of the agonizing of beauty on the other side, in composition, determines the whole use that Maupassant made of his literary gifts.  It helped to make more intense and more systematic that dainty yet dangerous pessimism which in him was innate.  The middle - class personage, in wearisome society like ours, is always a caricature, and the happenings are nearly always vulgar.  When one studies a great number of them, one finishes by looking at humanity from the angle of disgust and despair.  The philosophy of the romances and novels of De Maupassant is so continuously and profoundly surprising that one becomes overwhelmed by it.  It reaches limitation; it seems to deny that man is susceptible to grandeur, or that motives of a superior order can uplift and ennoble the soul, but it does so with a sorrow that is profound.  All that portion of the sentimental and moral world which in itself is the highest remains closed to it.

In revenge, this philosophy finds itself in a relation cruelly exact with the half-civilization of our day.  By that I mean the poorly educated individual who has rubbed against knowledge enough to justify a certain egoism, but who is too poor in faculty to conceive an ideal, and whose native grossness is corrupted beyond redemption.  Under his blouse, or under his coat -- whether he calls himself Renardet, as does the foul assassin in ``Petite Roque,'' or Duroy, as does the sly hero of ``Bel-Ami,'' or Bretigny, as does the vile seducer of ``Mont Oriol,'' or Césaire, the son of Old Amable in the novel of that name, -- this degraded type abounds in Maupassant's stories, evoked with a ferocity almost jovial where it meets the robustness of temperament which I have pointed out, a ferocity which gives them a reality more exact still because the half-civilized person is often impulsive and, in consequence, the physical easily predominates.  There, as elsewhere, the degenerate is everywhere a degenerate who gives the impression of being an ordinary man.

There are quantities of men of this stamp in large cities.  No writer has felt and expressed this complex temperament with more justice than De Maupassant, and, as he was an infinitely careful observer of milieu and landscape and all that constitutes a precise middle distance, his novels can be considered an irrefutable record of the social classes which he studied at a certain time and along certain lines.  The Norman peasant and the Provençal peasant, for example; also the small officeholder, the gentleman of the provinces, the country squire, the clubman of Paris, the journalist of the boulevard, the doctor at the spa, the commercial artist, and, on the feminine side, the servant girl, the working girl, the demigrisette, the street girl, rich or poor, the gallant lady of the city and of the provinces, and the society woman -- these are some of the figures that he has painted at many sittings, and whom he used to such effect that the novels and romances in which they are painted have come to be history.  Just as it is impossible to comprehend the Rome of the Cæsars without the work of Petronius, so is it impossible to fully comprehend the France of 1850-90 without these stories of Maupassant.  They are no more the whole image of the country than the ``Satyricon'' was the whole image of Rome, but what their author has wished to paint, he has painted to the life and with a brush that is graphic in the extreme.

If Maupassant had only painted, in general fashion, the characters and the phase of literature mentioned he would not be distinguished from other writers of the group called ``naturalists.'' His true glory is in the extraordinary superiority of his art.  He did not invent it, and his method is not alien to that of ``Madame Bovary,'' but he knew how to give it a suppleness, a variety, and a freedom which were always wanting in Flaubert.  The latter, in his best pages, is always strained.  To use the expressive metaphor of the Greek athletes, he ``smells of the oil.'' When one recalls that when attacked by hysteric epilepsy, Flaubert postponed the crisis of the terrible malady by means of sedatives, this strained atmosphere of labor -- I was going to say of stupor -- which pervades his work is explained.  He is an athlete, a runner, but one who drags at his feet a terrible weight.  He is in the race only for the prize of effort, an effort of which every motion reveals the intensity.

Maupassant, on the other hand, if he suffered from a nervous lesion, gave no sign of it, except in his heart.  His intelligence was bright and lively, and above all, his imagination, served by senses always on the alert, preserved for some years an astonishing freshness of direct vision.  If his art was due to Flaubert, it is no more belittling to him than if one call Raphael an imitator of Perugini.

Like Flaubert, he excelled in composing a story, in distributing the facts with subtle gradation, in bringing in at the end of a familiar dialogue something startlingly dramatic; but such composition, with him, seems easy, and while the descriptions are marvelously well established in his stories, the reverse is true of Flaubert's, which always appear a little veneered.  Maupassant's phrasing, however dramatic it may be, remains easy and flowing. Maupassant always sought for large and harmonious rhythm in his deliberate choice of terms, always chose sound, wholesome language, with a constant care for technical beauty.  Inheriting from his master an instrument already forged, he wielded it with a surer skill.  In the quality of his style, at once so firm and clear, so gorgeous yet so sober, so supple and so firm, he equals the writers of the seventeenth century.  His method, so deeply and simply French, succeeds in giving an indescribable ``tang'' to his descriptions.  If observation from nature imprints upon his tales the strong accent of reality, the prose in which they are shrined so conforms to the genius of the race as to smack of the soil.

It is enough that the critics of to-day place Guy de Maupassant among our classic writers.  He has his place in the ranks of pure French genius, with the Regniers, the La Fontaines, the Molières.  And those signs of secret ill divined everywhere under this wholesome prose surround it for those who knew and loved him with a pathos that is inexpressible.

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