r passions, was profound: he had the terrible logic of
animalism. Love-making, drunkenness, cheating, quarreling, the mere
idleness of sitting drowsily in a chair, the gross life of the farmyard
and the fields, civic dissensions, the sordid provincial dance of the
seven deadly sins, he saw in the same direct, unilluminating way as the
Dutch painters; finding, indeed, no beauty in any of these things, but
getting his beauty in the deft arrangement of them, in the mere act of
placing them in a picture. The world existed for him as something
formless which could be cut up into little pictures. He saw no farther
than the lines of his frame. The interest of the thing began inside that
frame, and what remained outside was merely material.

A story of Maupassant, more than almost anything in the world, gives you
the impression of manual dexterity. It is adequately thought out, but it
does not impress you by its thought; it is clearly seen, but it does not
impress you specially by the fidelity of its detail; it has just enough
of ordinary human feeling for the limits it has imposed on itself. What
impresses you is the extreme ingenuity of its handling; the way in which
this juggler keeps his billiard-balls harmoniously rising and falling in
the air. Often, indeed, you cannot help noticing the conscious smile
which precedes the trick, and the confident bow which concludes it. He
does not let you into the secret of the trick, but he prevents you from
ignoring that it is after all, only a trick which you have been
watching.

There is a philosophy of one kind or another behind the work of every
artist. Maupassant's was a simple one, sufficient for his needs as he
understood them, though perhaps really consequent upon his artistic
methods, rather than at the root of them. It was the philosophy of
cynicism: the most effectual means of limiting one's outlook, of
concentrating all one's energies on the task in hand. Maupassant wrote
for men of the world, and men of the world are content with the wisdom
of their counting-houses. The man of the world is perfectly willing to
admit that he is no better than you, because he takes it for granted
that you will admit yourself to be no better than he. It is a way of
avoiding comparison. To Maupassant this cynical point of view was
invaluable for his purpose. He wanted to tell stories just for the
pleasure of telling them; he wanted to concern himself with his story
simply as a story; incidents