se also, filled out those fragments of
_La Tentation_ that the July Monarchy had actually seen. Perhaps with
_Bouvard et Pecuchet_ he got into a blind alley, out of which such
labour was never like to get him, and in which it was rather likely to
confine him. But if the excess of the preparation had been devoted to
the completion of, say, only half a dozen of such _Contes_ as those we
actually have, it would have been joyful.

Yet this is idle pining, and the goods which the gods provided in this
instance are such as ought rather to make us truly thankful. Flaubert
was, as has been said, a Romantic, but he was born late enough to avoid
the extravagances and the childishnesses of _mil-huit-cent-trente_ while
retaining its inspiration, its _diable au corps_, its priceless recovery
of inheritances from history. Nor, though he subjected all these to a
severe criticism of a certain kind, did he ever let this make him (as
something of the same sort made his pretty near contemporary, Matthew
Arnold, in England) inclined to blaspheme.[403] He did not, like his
other contemporary and peer in greatness of their particular country and
generation, Baudelaire, play unwise tricks with his powers and his
life.[404] He was fortunately relieved from the necessity of
journey-work--marvellously performed, but still journey-work--which had
beset Gautier and never let go of him.[405]

And he utilised these gifts and advantages as few others have done in
the service of the novel. One thing may be brought against him--I think
one only. You read--at least I read--his books with intense interest and
enjoyment, but though you may recognise the truth and humanity of the
characters; though you may appreciate the skill with which they are set
to work; though you may even, to a certain extent, sympathise with them,
you never--at least I never--feel that intense interest in them, as
persons, which one feels in those of most of the greatest novelists. You
can even feel yourself in them--a rare and great thing--you can _be_
Saint Anthony, and feel an unpleasant suspicion as if you had sometimes
been Frederic Moreau. But this is a different thing (though it is a
great triumph for the author) from the construction for you of loves,
friends, enemies even--in addition to those who surround you in the
actual world.

Except this defect--which is in the proper, not the vulgar sense a
defect--that is to say, not something bad which is present, but only
some