of the herculean artists, working, in
Emerson's phrase, "in a sad sincerity," with the patience of an ant and
the energy of a volcano. Of his _Les Miserables_--perhaps the greatest
novel ever written, as it is, I suppose, easily the longest--he said,
"it takes me nearly as long to publish a book as to write one"; and he
was at work on _Les Miserables_, off and on, for nearly fifteen years.
Of his writing _Notre Dame_ (that other colossus of fiction) this quaint
picture has been preserved. He had made vast historical preparations for
it, but ever there seemed still more to make, till at length his
publisher grew impatient, and under his pressure Hugo at last made a
start--after this fashion:

He purchased a great grey woollen wrapper that covered him from head
to foot, he locked up all his clothes lest he should be tempted to
go out, and, carrying off his ink-bottle to his study, applied
himself to his labour just as if he had been in prison. He never
left the table except for food and sleep, and the sole recreation
that he allowed himself was an hour's chat after dinner with M.
Pierre Leroux, or any other friend who might drop in, and to whom he
would occasionally read over his day's work.

Daudet, whose _Tartarin_ bids fair to remain one of the world's types,
like _Don Quixote_ or _Mr. Micawber_, for all his natural Provencal
gift of improvisation and, indeed, from his self-recognized necessity
of keeping it in check, was another strenuous artist. He wrote each
manuscript three times over, he told his biographer, and would write it
as many more if he could; and his son, in writing of him, has this truth
to say of his, as of all living work:

The fact is that labour does not begin at the moment when the
artist takes his pen. It begins in sustained reflection and in the
thought which accumulates images and sifts them, garners and winnows
them out, and compels life to keep control over imagination, and
imagination to expand and enlarge life.

Zola is perhaps unduly depreciated nowadays, but certainly, if Carlyle's
"infinite capacity for taking pains" as a recipe for genius ever was put
to the test, it was by the author of the Rougon-Macquart series. Talking
of rewriting, Prosper Merimee, best known for _Carmen_, is said to have
rewritten his _Colomba_ no less than sixteen times; as our Anglo-Saxon
Kipling, it used to be told, wrote his short stories seven times over.