Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 1.djvu/52

xliv nineteenth century prided itself particularly on its short stories, and I understand that the pride has been taken on by the twentieth. Indeed I have seen it said totidem verbis, that, good as they may be, Mérimée's examples can not pretend to the subtlety, the poignancy, the true philosophico-mythical character of ours. Well, "a gude conceit of ourselves" is no doubt a good gift of Providence in a way. But I fear I am not able to share it in this particular instance, and to this particular extent. To speak of living persons is invidious, but there are, I suppose, few living persons who would rank themselves or any of their contemporaries as superior to the late M. Guy de Maupassant in the short story. And much as I admire Maupassant, glad as I am to think I was among the very first English critics to hail him, I certainly do not think that he has beaten Mérimée. Even in what les jeunes seem to consider the last secret of their art, the secret of not finishing, of leaving a problem and a suggestion, Mérimée knew all about it, though, like a great artist, he did not too often indulge in what is at its best something of a trick, while it may be something worse—a mere subterfuge to hide an inability to finish—a sort of literary parallel to the proceedings of that gifted painter who put forth as his