but that for him these were secondary things. The psychology of
his work ought, then, to find an interpretation other than that
afforded by wholly false or exaggerated anecdotes. I wish to
indicate here how this work, illumined by the three or four
positive data which I have given, appears to me to demand it.

And first, what does that anxiety to conceal his personality
prove, carried as it was to such an extreme degree? The answer
rises spontaneously in the minds of those who have studied
closely the history of literature. The absolute silence about
himself, preserved by one whose position among us was that of a
Tourgenief, or of a Merimee, and of a Moliere or a Shakespeare
among the classic great, reveals, to a person of instinct, a
nervous sensibility of extreme depth. There are many chances for
an artist of his kind, however timid, or for one who has some
grief, to show the depth of his emotion. To take up again only
two of the names just cited, this was the case with the author of
"Terres Vierges," and with the writer of "Colomba."

A somewhat minute analysis of the novels and romances of
Maupassant would suffice to demonstrate, even if we did not know
the nature of the incidents which prompted them, that he also
suffered from an excess of nervous emotionalism. Nine times out
of ten, what is the subject of these stories to which freedom of
style gives the appearance of health? A tragic episode. I cite,
at random, "Mademoiselle Fifi," "La Petite Roque," "Inutile
Beaute," "Le Masque," "Le Horla," "L'Epreuve," "Le Champ
d'Oliviers," among the novels, and among the romances, "Une Vie,"
"Pierre et Jean," "Fort comme la Mort," "Notre Coeur." His
imagination aims to represent the human being as imprisoned in a