sees so steadily within, nay, already with a partial conformity
thereto, to be refined, enlarged, corrected, at a hundred points; and
it is just there, just at 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