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.
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