one thing I have, to me estimable. For yourself, you blend with the beautiful a heap of alien things, the useful, the agreeable, what not?
"The only way not to be unhappy is to shut yourself up in art, and count everything else as nothing. Pride takes the place of all besides when it is established on a large basis. Work! God wills it. That, it seems to me, is clear.
"I am reading over again the Æneid, certain verses of which I repeat to myself to satiety. There are phrases there which stay in one's head, by which I find myself beset, as with musical airs which are forever returning, and cause you pain, you love them so much. I observe that I no longer laugh much, and am no longer depressed. I am ripe, you talk of my serenity, and envy me. It may well surprise you. Sick, irritated, the prey a thousand times a day of cruel pain, I continue my labour like a true workingman, who, with sleeves turned up, in the sweat of his brow, beats away at his anvil, never troubling himself whether it rains, or blows, for hail or thunder. I was not like that formerly."
The half-dozen works which Flaubert beat out on his "anvil," with an average expenditure of half a dozen years to each, were composed on a theory of which the prime distinguishing feature was the great doctrine of "impersonality." George Sand's fluent improvisations ordinarily originated, as we have noted, in an impulse of her lyrical idealism; she began with an aspiration of her heart, to execute which, she invented characters and plots, so that she is always on the inside of her story. According to Flaubert's theory, the novel should originate in a desire to present a certain segment of
