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Selected Writings-Part3_Guy De Maupassant(1850-1893)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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sober and brief. He had the genius of condensation and the

reserve which is innate in power, and to his reader could convey



as much in a paragraph as could be expressed in a page by many of

his predecessors and contemporaries, Flaubert not excepted.



Apart from his novels, De Maupassant's tales may be arranged

under three heads: Those that concern themselves with Norman



peasant life; those that deal with Government employees

(Maupassant himself had long been one) and the Paris middle



classes, and those that represent the life of the fashionable

world, as well as the weird and fantastic ideas of the later



years of his career. Of these three groups the tales of the

Norman peasantry perhaps rank highest. He depicts the Norman



farmer in surprisingly free and bold strokes, revealing him in

all his caution, astuteness, rough gaiety, and homely virtue.



The tragic stage of De Maupassant's life may, I think, be set

down as beginning just before the drama of "Musotte" was issued,



in conjunction with Jacques Normand, in 1891. He had almost given

up the hope of interpreting his puzzles, and the struggle between



the falsity of the life which surrounded him and the nobler

visions which possessed him was wearing him out. Doubtless he



resorted to unwise methods for the dispelling of physical

lassitude or for surcease from troubling mental problems. To this



period belong such weird and horrible fancies as are contained in

the short stories known as "He" and "The Diary of a Madman." Here



and there, we know, were rising in him inklings of a finer and

less sordid attitude 'twixt man and woman throughout the world



and of a purer constitution of existing things which no exterior

force should blemish or destroy. But with these yearningly



prophetic gleams came a period of mental death. Then the physical

veil was torn aside and for Guy de Maupassant the riddle of



existence was answered. {signature}

MADEMOISELLE FIFI



The Major Graf[1] von Farlsberg, the Prussian commandant, was

reading his newspaper, lying back in a great armchair, with his



booted feet on the beautiful marblefireplace, where his spurs

had made two holes, which grew deeper every day, during the three



months that he had been in the chateau of Urville.

[1] Count.



A cup of coffee was smoking on a small inlaid table, which was

stained with liquors burnt by cigars, notched by the penknife of



the victorious officer, who occasionally would stop while

sharpening a pencil, to jot down figures, or to make a drawing on



it, just as it took his fancy.

When he had read his letters and the German newspapers, which his



baggage-master had brought him, he got up, and after throwing

three or four enormous pieces of green wood on to the fire--for



these gentlemen were gradually cutting down the park in order to

keep themselves warm--he went to the window. The rain was



descending in torrents, a regular Normandy rain, which looked as

if it were being poured out by some furious hand, a slanting



rain, which was as thick as a curtain, and which formed a kind of

wall with oblique stripes, and which deluged everything, a



regular rain, such as one frequently experiences in the

neighborhood of Rouen, which is the watering-pot of France.






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