Complete Works

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