a mixture of parts differing immensely in the
values of their components. And a psychological artist involuntarily
discovers so many contradictions in himself and in others, even in
moments of genuine exaltation, that by degrees he comes to lose all
faith in his own rectitude, as well as in the rectitude of others.

II

The letters of Flaubert, published in two volumes, offer rich material
for the study, from a living example, of the question of the antagonism
which exists between the artistic and moral personality.

"Art is higher than life"; such is the formula which stands as the
corner-stone of the whole, not only of Flaubert's aesthetic view, but
also of his philosophical view of life. As a young man of thirty he
writes to one of his school friends: "If I did not introduce into the
plot of my poems a French queen of the fifteenth century, I should feel
an utter disgust of life, and long ere this a bullet would have freed me
from this humiliating folly." Within a year's time he is, with half
serious rhetoric and youthful enthusiasm, encouraging the same young
friend to proceed with his own work. "Let us ever devote ourselves to
our art, which, being more powerful than all nations, crowns, or rulers,
holds, in virtue of its glorious diadem, eternal sway over the whole
universe." When over forty years of age, and on the verge of the tomb,
Flaubert repeats with even greater emphasis and audacity the same
device: "_L'homme n'est rien; l'oeuvre est tout._"--"Man is nothing;
work is everything."

In the flower of his early manhood, though possessed of beauty, wit, and
talent, he forsook the world for the sake of his art, like an ascetic in
the desert: he immersed himself in his solitude, as the Christian
hermits immured themselves in their caverns. "To bury oneself in one's
art, and spurn all else, is the only way to evade unhappiness," he
writes to his friend. "Pride makes up for all things, if there be only a
broad enough foundation for it.... I certainly lack little; I should no
doubt like to be as generous as the richest, as happy as a lover, as
sensuous as those who give up their lives to pleasure; ... But in the
meanwhile I covet neither riches, nor love, nor pleasures; ... Now, as
for a long time past, I ask only for five or six hours of repose in my
own chamber; in winter a big fire in my fireplace, and at night two
candles on my table." A year later he is advising the same friend: "Do
as I do, break