Flaubert's Parrot

house, and everybody’s living in it rent free; but even so, surely it is, well, you know… time?

Whereas the common but passionate reader is allowed to forget; he can go away, be unfaithful with other writers, come back and be entranced again. Domesticity need never intrude on the relationship; it may be sporadic, but when there it is always intense. There’s none of the daily rancour which develops when people live bovinely together. I never find myself, fatigue in the voice, reminding Flaubert to hang up the bathmat or use the lavatory brush. Which is what Dr Starkie can’t help herself doing. Look, writers aren’t perfect, I want to cry, any more than husbands and wives are perfect. The only unfailing rule is, If they seem so, they can’t be. I never thought my wife was perfect. I loved her, but I never deceived myself. I remember… But I’ll keep that for another time.

I’ll remember instead another lecture I once attended, some years ago at the Cheltenham Literary Festival. It was given by a professor from Cambridge, Christopher Ricks, and it was a very shiny performance. His bald head was shiny; his black shoes were shiny; and his lecture was very shiny indeed. Its theme was Mistakes in Literature and Whether They Matter. Yevtushenko, for example, apparently made a howler in one of his poems about the American nightingale. Pushkin was quite wrong about the sort of military dress worn at balls. John Wain was wrong about the Hiroshima pilot. Nabokov was wrong – rather surprising, this – about the phonetics of the name Lolita. There were other examples: Coleridge, Yeats and Browning were some of those caught out not knowing a hawk from a handsaw, or not even knowing what a handsaw was in the first place.

Two examples particularly struck me. The first was a remarkable discovery about Lord of the Flies. In the famous scene where Piggy’s spectacles are used for the rediscovery of fire, William Golding got his optics wrong. Completely back to front, in fact. Piggy is short-sighted; and the spectacles he would have been prescribed for this condition could not possibly have been used as burning glasses. Whichever way you held them, they would have been quite unable to make the rays of the sun converge.

The second example concerned ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’. ‘Into the valley of Death/Rode the six hundred.’ Tennyson wrote the poem very quickly, after reading a report in The Times which included the phrase ‘someone had blundered’. He also relied on an earlier account which had mentioned ‘607 sabres’. Subsequently, however, the number of those who took part in what Camille Rousset called ce terrible et sanglant steeplechase was officially corrected to 673. ‘Into the valley of Death/Rode the six hundred and seventy-three’? Not quite enough swing to it, somehow. Perhaps it could have been rounded up to seven hundred – still not quite accurate, but at least more accurate? Tennyson considered the matter and decided to leave the poem as he had written it: ‘Six is much better than seven hundred (as I think) metrically so keep it.’

Not putting ‘673’ or ‘700’ or ‘c.700’ instead of ‘600’ hardly seems to qualify as a Mistake to me. The shakiness of Golding’s optics, on the other hand, must definitely be classed as an error. The next question is, Does it matter? As far as I can remember Professor Ricks’s lecture, his argument was that if the factual side of literature becomes unreliable, then ploys such as irony and fantasy become much harder to use. If you don’t know what’s true, or what’s meant to be true, then the value of what isn’t true, or isn’t meant to be true, becomes diminished. This seems to me a very sound argument; though I do wonder to how many cases of literary mistake it actually applies. With Piggy’s glasses, I should think that (a) very few people, apart from oculists, opticians and bespectacled professors of English would notice; and (b) when they do notice, they merely detonate the error – like blowing up a small bomb with a controlled explosion. What’s more, this detonation (which takes place on a remote beach, with only a dog as witness) doesn’t set fire to other parts of the novel.

Mistakes like Golding’s are ‘external mistakes’ – disparities between what the book claims to be the case, and what we know the reality to be; often they merely indicate a lack of specific technical knowledge on the writer’s part. The sin is pardonable. What, though, about ‘internal mistakes’, when the writer claims two incompatible things within his own creation? Emma’s eyes are brown, Emma’s eyes are blue. Alas, this can be put down only to incompetence, to sloppy literary habits. I read the other day a well-praised first novel in which the narrator – who is both sexually inexperienced and an amateur of French literature – comically rehearses to himself the best way to kiss a girl without being rebuffed: ‘With a slow, sensual, irresistible strength, draw her gradually towards you while gazing into her eyes as if you had just been given a copy of the first, suppressed edition of Madame Bovary.’

I thought this was quite neatly put, indeed rather amusing. The only trouble is, there’s no such thing as a ‘first, suppressed edition of Madame Bovary’. The novel, as I should have thought was tolerably well known, first appeared serially in the Revue de Paris; then came the prosecution for obscenity; and only after the acquittal was the work published in book form. I expect the young novelist (it seems unfair to give his name) was thinking of the ‘first, suppressed edition’ of Les Fleurs du mal. No doubt he’ll get it right in time for his second edition; if there is one.

Eyes of brown, eyes of blue. Does it matter? Not, does it matter if the writer contradicts himself; but, does it matter what colour they are anyway? I feel sorry for novelists when they have to mention women’s eyes: there’s so little choice, and whatever colouring is decided upon inevitably carries banal implications. Her eyes are blue: innocence and honesty. Her eyes are black: passion and depth. Her eyes are green: wildness and jealousy. Her eyes are brown: reliability and common sense. Her eyes are violet: the novel is by Raymond Chandler. How can you escape all this without some haversack of a parenthesis about the lady’s character? Her eyes are mud- coloured; her eyes changed hue according to the contact lenses she wore; he never looked her in the eye. Well, take your pick. My wife’s eyes were greeny-blue, which makes her story a long one. And so I suspect that in the writer’s moments of private candour, he probably admits the pointlessness of describing eyes. He slowly imagines the character, moulds her into shape, and then – probably the last thing of all – pops a pair of glass eyes into those empty sockets. Eyes? Oh yes, she’d better have eyes, he reflects, with a weary courtesy.

Bouvard and Pecuchet, during their investigations into literature, find that they lose respect for an author when he strays into error. I am more surprised by how few mistakes writers make. So the Bishop of Liege dies fifteen years before he should: does this invalidate Quentin Durward? It’s a trivial offence, something tossed to the reviewers. I see the novelist at the stern rail of a cross-Channel ferry, throwing bits of gristle from his sandwich to the hovering gulls.

I was too far away to observe what colour Enid Starkie’s eyes were; all I remember of her is that she dressed like a matelot, walked like a scrum-half, and had an atrocious French accent. But I’ll tell you another thing. The Reader Emeritus in French Literature at the University of Oxford and Honorary Fellow of Somerville College, who was ‘well known for her studies of the lives and works of writers such as Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Gautier, Eliot and Gide’ (I quote her dust-wrapper; first edition, of course), who devoted two large books and many years of her life to the author of Madame Bovary, chose as frontispiece to her first volume a portrait of ‘Gustave Flaubert by an unknown painter’. It’s the first thing we see; it is, if you like, the moment at which Dr Starkie introduces us to Flaubert. The only trouble is, it isn’t him. It’s a portrait of Louis Bouilhet, as everyone from the gardienne of Croisset onwards and upwards will tell you. So what do we make of that once we’ve stopped chuckling?

Perhaps you still think I’m merely being vengeful towards a dead scholar who can’t answer for herself. Well, maybe I am. But then, quis custodiet ipsos custodes? And I’ll tell you something else. I’ve just reread Madame Bovary.

On one occasion he gives Emma brown eyes (14); on another deep black eyes (15); and on another blue eyes (16).

And the moral of it all, I suppose, is: Never take fright at a footnote. Here are the six references Flaubert makes to Emma Bovary’s eyes in the course of the book. It is clearly a subject of some importance to the novelist:

1 (Emma’s first appearance) ‘In so far as she was beautiful, this beauty lay in her eyes: although they were brown, they would appear black because of her lashes…’

2 (Described by her adoring husband early in their marriage) ‘Her eyes seemed bigger to him, especially when she was just waking up and fluttered her lids several times in succession; they were black when she was in shadow and dark blue in full daylight; and they seemed to contain layer upon layer of colours, which were thicker in hue deep down, and became lighter towards the enamel-like surface.’