Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (854 page)

Naturally, being a man from the South, he had a rather outspoken belief in himself, but his small distinction, worth many a greater, was in not being in bondage to some vanishing creed.  He was a worker who could not compel the admiration of the few, but who deserved the affection of the many; and he may be spoken of with tenderness and regret, for he is not immortal — he is only dead.  During his life the simple man whose business it ought to have been to climb, in the name of Art, some elevation or other, was content to remain below, on the plain, amongst his creations, and take an eager part in those disasters, weaknesses, and joys which are tragic enough in their droll way, but are by no means so momentous and profound as some writers — probably for the sake of Art — would like to make us believe.  There is, when one thinks of it, a considerable want of candour in the august view of life.  Without doubt a cautious reticence on the subject, or even a delicately false suggestion thrown out in that direction is, in a way, praiseworthy, since it helps to uphold the dignity of man — a matter of great importance, as anyone can see; still one cannot help feeling that a certain amount of sincerity would not be wholly blamable.  To state, then, with studied moderation a belief that in unfortunate moments of lucidity is irresistibly borne in upon most of us — the blind agitation caused mostly by hunger and complicated by love and ferocity does not deserve either by its beauty, or its morality, or its possible results, the artistic fuss made over it.  It may be consoling — for human folly is very
bizarre
— but it is scarcely honest to shout at those who struggle drowning in an insignificant pool: You are indeed admirable and great to be the victims of such a profound, of such a terrible ocean!

And Daudet was honest; perhaps because he knew no better — but he was very honest.  If he saw only the surface of things it is for the reason that most things have nothing but a surface.  He did not pretend — perhaps because he did not know how — he did not pretend to see any depths in a life that is only a film of unsteady appearances stretched over regions deep indeed, but which have nothing to do with the half-truths, half-thoughts, and whole illusions of existence.  The road to these distant regions does not lie through the domain of Art or the domain of Science where well-known voices quarrel noisily in a misty emptiness; it is a path of toilsome silence upon which travel men simple and unknown, with closed lips, or, maybe, whispering their pain softly — only to themselves.

But Daudet did not whisper; he spoke loudly, with animation, with a clear felicity of tone — as a bird sings.  He saw life around him with extreme clearness, and he felt it as it is — thinner than air and more elusive than a flash of lightning.  He hastened to offer it his compassion, his indignation, his wonder, his sympathy, without giving a moment of thought to the momentous issues that are supposed to lurk in the logic of such sentiments.  He tolerated the little foibles, the small ruffianisms, the grave mistakes; the only thing he distinctly would not forgive was hardness of heart.  This unpractical attitude would have been fatal to a better man, but his readers have forgiven him.  Withal he is chivalrous to exiled queens and deformed sempstresses, he is pityingly tender to broken-down actors, to ruined gentlemen, to stupid Academicians; he is glad of the joys of the commonplace people in a commonplace way — and he never makes a secret of all this.  No, the man was not an artist.  What if his creations are illumined by the sunshine of his temperament so vividly that they stand before us infinitely more real than the dingy illusions surrounding our everyday existence?  The misguided man is for ever pottering amongst them, lifting up his voice, dotting his i’s in the wrong places.  He takes Tartarin by the arm, he does not conceal his interest in the Nabob’s cheques, his sympathy for an honest Academician
plus bête que nature
, his hate for an architect
plus mauvais que la gale
; he is in the thick of it all.  He feels with the Duc de Mora and with Felicia Ruys — and he lets you see it.  He does not sit on a pedestal in the hieratic and imbecile pose of some cheap god whose greatness consists in being too stupid to care.  He cares immensely for his Nabobs, his kings, his book-keepers, his Colettes, and his Saphos.  He vibrates together with his universe, and with lamentable simplicity follows M. de Montpavon on that last walk along the Boulevards.

“Monsieur de Montpavon marche à la mort,” and the creator of that unlucky
gentilhomme
follows with stealthy footsteps, with wide eyes, with an impressively pointing finger.  And who wouldn’t look?  But it is hard; it is sometimes very hard to forgive him the dotted i’s, the pointing finger, this making plain of obvious mysteries.  “Monsieur de Montpavon marche à la mort,” and presently, on the crowded pavement, takes off his hat with punctilious courtesy to the doctor’s wife, who, elegant and unhappy, is bound on the same pilgrimage.  This is too much!  We feel we cannot forgive him such meetings, the constant whisper of his presence.  We feel we cannot, till suddenly the very
naïveté
of it all touches us with the revealed suggestion of a truth.  Then we see that the man is not false; all this is done in transparent good faith.  The man is not melodramatic; he is only picturesque.  He may not be an artist, but he comes as near the truth as some of the greatest.  His creations are seen; you can look into their very eyes, and these are as thoughtless as the eyes of any wise generation that has in its hands the fame of writers.  Yes, they are
seen
, and the man who is not an artist is seen also commiserating, indignant, joyous, human and alive in their very midst.  Inevitably they
marchent à la mort
— and they are very near the truth of our common destiny: their fate is poignant, it is intensely interesting, and of not the slightest consequence.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT — 1904
{1}

To introduce Maupassant to English readers with apologetic explanations as though his art were recondite and the tendency of his work immoral would be a gratuitous impertinence.

Maupassant’s conception of his art is such as one would expect from a practical and resolute mind; but in the consummate simplicity of his technique it ceases to be perceptible.  This is one of its greatest qualities, and like all the great virtues it is based primarily on self-denial.

To pronounce a judgment upon the general tendency of an author is a difficult task.  One could not depend upon reason alone, nor yet trust solely to one’s emotions.  Used together, they would in many cases traverse each other, because emotions have their own unanswerable logic.  Our capacity for emotion is limited, and the field of our intelligence is restricted.  Responsiveness to every feeling, combined with the penetration of every intellectual subterfuge, would end, not in judgment, but in universal absolution. 
Tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner
.  And in this benevolent neutrality towards the warring errors of human nature all light would go out from art and from life.

We are at liberty then to quarrel with Maupassant’s attitude towards our world in which, like the rest of us, he has that share which his senses are able to give him.  But we need not quarrel with him violently.  If our feelings (which are tender) happen to be hurt because his talent is not exercised for the praise and consolation of mankind, our intelligence (which is great) should let us see that he is a very splendid sinner, like all those who in this valley of compromises err by over-devotion to the truth that is in them.  His determinism, barren of praise, blame and consolation, has all the merit of his conscientious art.  The worth of every conviction consists precisely in the steadfastness with which it is held.

Except for his philosophy, which in the case of so consummate an artist does not matter (unless to the solemn and naive mind), Maupassant of all writers of fiction demands least forgiveness from his readers.  He does not require forgiveness because he is never dull.

The interest of a reader in a work of imagination is either ethical or that of simple curiosity.  Both are perfectly legitimate, since there is both a moral and an excitement to be found in a faithful rendering of life.  And in Maupassant’s work there is the interest of curiosity and the moral of a point of view consistently preserved and never obtruded for the end of personal gratification.  The spectacle of this immense talent served by exceptional faculties and triumphing over the most thankless subjects by an unswerving singleness of purpose is in itself an admirable lesson in the power of artistic honesty, one may say of artistic virtue.  The inherent greatness of the man consists in this, that he will let none of the fascinations that beset a writer working in loneliness turn him away from the straight path, from the vouchsafed vision of excellence.  He will not be led into perdition by the seductions of sentiment, of eloquence, of humour, of pathos; of all that splendid pageant of faults that pass between the writer and his probity on the blank sheet of paper, like the glittering cortège of deadly sins before the austere anchorite in the desert air of Thebaïde.  This is not to say that Maupassant’s austerity has never faltered; but the fact remains that no tempting demon has ever succeeded in hurling him down from his high, if narrow, pedestal.

It is the austerity of his talent, of course, that is in question.  Let the discriminating reader, who at times may well spare a moment or two to the consideration and enjoyment of artistic excellence, be asked to reflect a little upon the texture of two stories included in this volume: “A Piece of String,” and “A Sale.”  How many openings the last offers for the gratuitous display of the author’s wit or clever buffoonery, the first for an unmeasured display of sentiment!  And both sentiment and buffoonery could have been made very good too, in a way accessible to the meanest intelligence, at the cost of truth and honesty.  Here it is where Maupassant’s austerity comes in.  He refrains from setting his cleverness against the eloquence of the facts.  There is humour and pathos in these stories; but such is the greatness of his talent, the refinement of his artistic conscience, that all his high qualities appear inherent in the very things of which he speaks, as if they had been altogether independent of his presentation.  Facts, and again facts are his unique concern.  That is why he is not always properly understood.  His facts are so perfectly rendered that, like the actualities of life itself, they demand from the reader the faculty of observation which is rare, the power of appreciation which is generally wanting in most of us who are guided mainly by empty phrases requiring no effort, demanding from us no qualities except a vague susceptibility to emotion.  Nobody has ever gained the vast applause of a crowd by the simple and clear exposition of vital facts.  Words alone strung upon a convention have fascinated us as worthless glass beads strung on a thread have charmed at all times our brothers the unsophisticated savages of the islands.  Now, Maupassant, of whom it has been said that he is the master of the
mot juste
, has never been a dealer in words.  His wares have been, not glass beads, but polished gems; not the most rare and precious, perhaps, but of the very first water of their kind.

That he took trouble with his gems, taking them up in the rough and polishing each facet patiently, the publication of the two posthumous volumes of short stories proves abundantly.  I think it proves also the assertion made here that he was by no means a dealer in words.  On looking at the first feeble drafts from which so many perfect stories have been fashioned, one discovers that what has been matured, improved, brought to perfection by unwearied endeavour is not the diction of the tale, but the vision of its true shape and detail.  Those first attempts are not faltering or uncertain in expression.  It is the conception which is at fault.  The subjects have not yet been adequately seen.  His proceeding was not to group expressive words, that mean nothing, around misty and mysterious shapes dear to muddled intellects and belonging neither to earth nor to heaven.  His vision by a more scrupulous, prolonged and devoted attention to the aspects of the visible world discovered at last the right words as if miraculously impressed for him upon the face of things and events.  This was the particular shape taken by his inspiration; it came to him directly, honestly in the light of his day, not on the tortuous, dark roads of meditation.  His realities came to him from a genuine source, from this universe of vain appearances wherein we men have found everything to make us proud, sorry, exalted, and humble.

Maupassant’s renown is universal, but his popularity is restricted.  It is not difficult to perceive why.  Maupassant is an intensely national writer.  He is so intensely national in his logic, in his clearness, in his æsthetic and moral conceptions, that he has been accepted by his countrymen without having had to pay the tribute of flattery either to the nation as a whole, or to any class, sphere or division of the nation.  The truth of his art tells with an irresistible force; and he stands excused from the duty of patriotic posturing.  He is a Frenchman of Frenchmen beyond question or cavil, and with that he is simple enough to be universally comprehensible.  What is wanting to his universal success is the mediocrity of an obvious and appealing tenderness.  He neglects to qualify his truth with the drop of facile sweetness; he forgets to strew paper roses over the tombs.  The disregard of these common decencies lays him open to the charges of cruelty, cynicism, hardness.  And yet it can be safely affirmed that this man wrote from the fulness of a compassionate heart.  He is merciless and yet gentle with his mankind; he does not rail at their prudent fears and their small artifices; he does not despise their labours.  It seems to me that he looks with an eye of profound pity upon their troubles, deceptions and misery.  But he looks at them all.  He sees — and does not turn away his head.  As a matter of fact he is courageous.

Courage and justice are not popular virtues.  The practice of strict justice is shocking to the multitude who always (perhaps from an obscure sense of guilt) attach to it the meaning of mercy.  In the majority of us, who want to be left alone with our illusions, courage inspires a vague alarm.  This is what is felt about Maupassant.  His qualities, to use the charming and popular phrase, are not lovable.  Courage being a force will not masquerade in the robes of affected delicacy and restraint.  But if his courage is not of a chivalrous stamp, it cannot be denied that it is never brutal for the sake of effect.  The writer of these few reflections, inspired by a long and intimate acquaintance with the work of the man, has been struck by the appreciation of Maupassant manifested by many women gifted with tenderness and intelligence.  Their more delicate and audacious souls are good judges of courage.  Their finer penetration has discovered his genuine masculinity without display, his virility without a pose.  They have discerned in his faithful dealings with the world that enterprising and fearless temperament, poor in ideas but rich in power, which appeals most to the feminine mind.