those doubtful points that the function of style, as tact or taste,
intervenes. The unique term will come more quickly to one than
another, at one time than another, according also to the kind of matter
in question. Quickness and slowness, ease and closeness alike, have
nothing to do with the artistic character of the true word found at
last. As there is a charm of ease, so there is also a special charm in
the signs of discovery, of effort and contention towards a due end, as
so often with Flaubert himself--in the style which has [32] been
pliant, as only obstinate, durable metal can be, to the inherent
perplexities and recusancy of a certain difficult thought.

If Flaubert had not told us, perhaps we should never have guessed how
tardy and painful his own procedure really was, and after reading his
confession may think that his almost endless hesitation had much to do
with diseased nerves. Often, perhaps, the felicity supposed will be
the product of a happier, a more exuberant nature than Flaubert's.
Aggravated, certainly, by a morbid physical condition, that anxiety in
"seeking the phrase," which gathered all the other small ennuis of a
really quiet existence into a kind of battle, was connected with his
lifelong contention against facile poetry, facile art--art, facile and
flimsy; and what constitutes the true artist is not the slowness or
quickness of the process, but the absolute success of the result. As
with those labourers in the parable, the prize is independent of the
mere length of the actual day's work. "You talk," he writes, odd,
trying lover, to Madame X.--

"You talk of the exclusiveness of my literary tastes. That might have
enabled you to divine what kind of a person I am in the matter of love.
I grow so hard to please as a literary artist, that I am driven to
despair. I shall end by not writing another line."

"Happy," he cries, in a moment of discouragement at that patient
labour, which for him, certainly, was the condition of a great
success--[33]

Happy those who have no doubts of themselves! who lengthen out, as the
pen runs on, all that flows forth from their brains. As for me, I
hesitate, I disappoint myself, turn round upon myself in despite: my
taste is augmented in proportion as my natural vigour decreases, and I
afflict my soul over some dubious word out of all proportion to the
pleasure I get from a whole page of good writing. One would have to
live two centuries to attain a t