the　hasty　reader　or　critic；　on　reading　〃Mont　Oriol；〃　which　was
  published　two　years　later　and　is　based　on　a　combination　of　the
  motifs　which　inspired　〃Une　Vie〃　and　〃Bel…Ami；〃　will　reconsider
  former　hasty　judgments；　and　feel；　too；　that　beneath　the　triumph
  of　evil　which　calls　forth　Maupassant's　satiric　anger　there　lies
  the　substratum　on　which　all　his　work　is　founded；　viz：　the
  persistent；　ceaseless　questioning　of　a　soul　unable　to　reconcile
  or　explain　the　contradiction　between　love　in　life　and　inevitable
  death。　Who　can　read　in　〃Bel…Ami〃　the　terribly　graphic　description
  of　the　consumptive　journalist's　demise；　his　frantic　clinging　to
  life；　and　his　refusal　to　credit　the　slow　and　merciless　approach
  of　death；　without　feeling　that　the　question　asked　at　Naishapur
  many　centuries　ago　is　still　waiting　for　the　solution　that　is
  always　promised　but　never　comes？
  In　the　romances　which　followed；　dating　from　1888　to　1890；　a　sort
  of　calm　despair　seems　to　have　settled　down　upon　De　Maupassant's
  attitude　toward　life。　Psychologically　acute　as　ever；　and　as
  perfect　in　style　and　sincerity　as　before；　we　miss　the　note　of
  anger。　Fatality　is　the　keynote；　and　yet；　sounding　low；　we　detect
  a　genuine　subtone　of　sorrow。　Was　it　a　prescience　of　1893？　So　much
  work　to　be　done；　so　much　work　demanded　of　him；　the　world　of
  Paris；　in　all　its　brilliant　and　attractive　phases；　at　his　feet；
  and　yetinevitable；　ever　advancing　death；　with　the　question　of
  life　still　unanswered。
  This　may　account　for　some　of　the　strained　situations　we　find　in
  his　later　romances。　Vigorous　in　frame　and　hearty　as　he　was；　the
  atmosphere　of　his　mental　processes　must　have　been　vitiated　to
  produce　the　dainty　but　dangerous　pessimism　that　pervades　some　of
  his　later　work。　This　was　partly　a　consequence　of　his　honesty　and
  partly　of　mental　despair。　He　never　accepted　other　people's　views
  on　the　questions　of　life。　He　looked　into　such　problems　for
  himself；　arriving　at　the　truth；　as　it　appeared　to　him；　by　the
  logic　of　events；　often　finding　evil　where　he　wished　to　find　good；
  but　never　hoodwinking　himself　or　his　readers　by　adapting　or
  distorting　the　reality　of　things　to　suit　a　preconceived　idea。
  Maupassant　was　essentially　a　worshiper　of　the　eternal　feminine。
  He　was　persuaded　that　without　the　continual　presence　of　the
  gentler　sex　man's　existence　would　be　an　emotionally　silent
  wilderness。　No　other　French　writer　has　described　and　analyzed　so
  minutely　and　comprehensively　the　many　and　various　motives　and
  moods　that　shape　the　conduct　of　a　woman　in　life。　Take　for
  instance　the　wonderfully　subtle　analysis　of　a　woman's　heart　as
  wife　and　mother　that　we　find　in　〃Une　Vie。〃　Could　aught　be　more
  delicately　incisive？　Sometimes　in　describing　the　apparently
  inexplicable　conduct　of　a　certain　woman　he　leads　his　readers　to　a
  point　where　a　false　step　would　destroy　the　spell　and　bring　the
  reproach　of　banality　and　ridicule　upon　the　tale。　But　the
  catastrophe　never　occurs。　It　was　necessary　to　stand　poised　upon
  the　brink　of　the　precipice　to　realize　the　depth　of　the　abyss　and
  feel　the　terror　of　the　fall。
  Closely　allied　to　this　phase　of　Maupassant's　nature　was　the
  peculiar　feeling　of　loneliness　that　every　now　and　then　breaks
  irresistibly　forth　in　the　course　of　some　short　story。　Of　kindly
  soul　and　genial　heart；　he　suffered　not　only　from　the　oppression
  of　spirit　caused　by　the　lack　of　humanity；　kindliness；　sanity；　and
  harmony　which　he　encountered　daily　in　the　world　at　large；　but　he
  had　an　ever　abiding　sense　of　the　invincible；　unbanishable
  solitariness　of　his　own　inmost　self。　I　know　of　no　more　poignant
  expression　of　such　a　feeling　than　the　cry　of　despair　which　rings
  out　in　the　short　story　called　〃Solitude；〃　in　which　he　describes
  the　insurmountable　barrier　which　exists　between　man　and　man；　or
  man　and　woman；　however　intimate　the　friendship　between　them。　He
  could　picture　but　one　way　of　destroying　this　terrible　loneliness；
  the　attainment　of　a　spirituala　divinestate　of　love；　a
  condition　to　which　he　would　give　no　name　utterable　by　human　lips；
  lest　it　be　profaned；　but　for　which　his　whole　being　yearned。　How
  acutely　he　felt　his　failure　to　attain　his　deliverance　may　be
  drawn　from　his　wail　that　mankind　has　no　UNIVERSAL　measure　of
  happiness。
  〃Each　one　of　us；〃　writes　De　Maupassant；　〃forms　for　himself　an
  illusion　through　which　he　views　the　world；　be　it　poetic；
  sentimental；　joyous；　melancholy；　or　dismal；　an　illusion　of
  beauty；　which　is　a　human　convention；　of　ugliness；　which　is　a
  matter　of　opinion；　of　truth；　which；　alas；　is　never　immutable。〃
  And　he　concludes　by　asserting　that　the　happiest　artist　is　he　who
  approaches　most　closely　to　the　truth　of　things　as　he　sees　them
  through　his　own　particular　illusion。
  Salient　points　in　De　Maupassant's　genius　were　that　he　possessed
  the　rare　faculty　of　holding　direct　communion　with　his　gifts；　and
  of　writing　from　their　dictation　as　it　was　interpreted　by　his
  senses。　He　had　no　patience　with　writers　who　in　striving　to
  present　life　as　a　whole　purposely　omit　episodes　that　reveal　the
  influence　of　the　senses。　〃As　well；〃　he　says；　〃refrain　from
  describing　the　effect　of　intoxicating　perfumes　upon　man　as　omit
  the　influence　of　beauty　on　the　temperament　of　man。〃
  De　Maupassant's　dramatic　instinct　was　supremely　powerful。　He
  seems　to　select　unerringly　the　one　thing　in　which　the　soul　of　the
  scene　is　prisoned；　and；　making　that　his　keynote；　gives　a　picture
  in　words　which　haunt　the　memory　like　a　strain　of　music。　The
  description　of　the　ride　of　Madame　Tellier　and　her　companions　in　a
  country　cart　through　a　Norman　landscape　is　an　admirable　example。
  You　smell　the　masses　of　the　colza　in　blossom；　you　see　the　yellow
  carpets　of　ripe　corn　spotted　here　and　there　by　the　blue　coronets
  of　the　cornflower；　and　rapt　by　the　red　blaze　of　the　poppy　beds
  and　bathed　in　the　fresh　greenery　of　the　landscape；　you　share　in
  the　emotions　felt　by　the　happy　party　in　the　country　cart。　And　yet
  with　all　his　vividness　of　description；　De　Maupassant　is　always
  sober　and　brief。　He　had　the　genius　of　condensation　and　the
  reserve　which　is　innate　in　power；　and　to　his　reader　could　convey
  as　much　in　a　paragraph　as　could　be　expressed　in　a　page　by　many　of
  his　predecessors　and　contemporaries；　Flaubert　not　excepted。
  Apart　from　his　novels；　De　Maupassant's　tales　may　be　arranged
  under　three　heads：　Those　that　concern　themselves　with　Norman
  peasant　life；　those　that　deal　with　Government　employees
  （Maupassant　himself　had　long　been　one）　and　the　Paris　middle
  classes；　and　those　that　represent　the　life　of　the　fashionable
  world；　as　well　as　the　weird　and　fantastic　ideas　of　the　later
  years　of　his　career。　Of　these　three　groups　the　tales　of　the
  Norman　peasantry　perhaps　rank　highest。　He　depicts　the　Norman
  farmer　in　surprisingly　free　and　bold　strokes；　revealing　him　in
  all　his　caution；　astuteness；　rough　gaiety；　and　homely　virtue。
  The　tragic　stage　of　De　Maupassant's　life　may；　I　think；　be　set
  down　as　beginning　just　before　the　drama　of　〃Musotte〃　was　issued；
  in　conjunction　with　Jacques　Normand；　in　1891。　He　had　almost　given
  up　the　hope　of　interpreting　his　puzzles；　and　the　struggle　between
  the　falsity　of　the　life　which　surrounded　him　and　the　nobler
  visions　which　possessed　him　was　wearing　him　out。　Doubtless　he
  resorted　to　unwise　methods　for　the　dispelling　of　physical
  lassitude　or　for　surcease　from　troubling　mental　problems。　To　this
  period　belong　such　weird　and　horrible　fancies　as　are　contained　in
  the　short　stories　known　as　〃He〃　and　〃The　Diary　of　a　Madman。〃　Here
  and　there；　we　know；　were　rising　in　him　inklings　of　a　finer　and
  less　sordid　attitude　'twixt　man　and　woman　throughout　the　world
  and　of　a　purer　constitution　of　existing　things　which　no　exterior
  force　should　blemish　or　destroy。　But　with　these　yearningly
  prophetic　gleams　came　a　period　of　mental　death。　Then　the　physical
  veil　was　torn　aside　and　for　Guy　de　Maupassant　the　riddle　of
  existence　was　answered。　　　　　　　　　　　｛signature｝
  MADEMOISELLE　FIFI
  The　Major　Graf＇1＇　von　Farlsberg；　the　Prussian　commandant；　was
  reading　his　newspaper；　lying　back　in　a　great　armchair；　with　his
  booted　feet　on　the　beautiful　marble　fireplace；　where　his　spurs
  had　made　two　holes；　which　grew　deeper　every　day；　during　the　three
  months　that　he　had　been　in　the　chateau　of　Urville。
  ＇1＇　Count。
  A　cup　of　coffee　was　smoking　on　a　small　inlaid　table；　which　was
  stained　with　liquors　burnt　by　cigars；　notched　by　the　penknife　of
  the　victorious　officer；　who　occasionally　would　stop　while
  sharpening　a　pencil；　to　jot　down　figures；　or　to　make　a　drawing　on
  it；　just　as　it　took　his　fancy。
  When　he　had　read　his　letters　and　the　German　newspapers；　which　his
  baggage…master　had　brought　him；　he　got　up；　and　after　throwing
  three　or　four　enormous　pieces　of　green　wood　on　to　the　firefor
  these　gentlemen　were　gradually　cutting　down　the　park　in　order　to
  keep　themselves　warmhe　went　to　the　window。　The　rain　was
  descending　in　torrents；　a　regular　Normandy　rain；