Manhattan Rare Book Company

” I had crafted something comical, a stylistic movement of such beauty that it moved me to tears for two hours."

"You must draw inspiration from the soul of humanity, not your own."

“Ah the torments of style!”

AN EXTRAORDINARY LETTER TO LOUISE COLET DURING THE FINAL DAYS OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP WITH INSIGHTS INTO HIS PHILOSOPHY OF WRITING, THE COMPLETION OF MADAME BOVARY, AND HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS “MUSE”.

On Louise Colet:

“Louise Colet was truly Flaubert’s muse and a midwife for his Emma Bovary. It is to her that the hermit of Croisset chronicled, in over a hundred letters, the progress of his first published novel: It is exclusively to Louise that he wrote his famous reflections about the craft of literature – prophetic passages that would become the most familiar credos of twentieth-century modernism...

“Throughout the phase of their correspondence… Flaubert so often sought Louise’s advice on details that her daughter and literary executor, Henriette Colet Bissieu, would later demand... that her mother’s collaboration in Madame Bovary be officially acknowledged.” (Francine du Plessix Gray, Rage & Fire: A Life of Louise Colet, Pioneer Feminist, Literary Star, Flaubert’s Muse, pp. 199-201.)

Flaubert's Letters:

Flaubert wrote wonderfully evocative letters and his correspondence as a whole has often been hailed as a literary masterpiece, holding a rightful place alongside his novels. Michael Dirda has noted that “the correspondence of Gustave Flaubert soars above all other works in setting forth the proper ideals and accompanying rigors of art”, Enid Starkie thought that the letters “in the future, [would] become Flaubert's most popular and widely-read book, the one in which he has most fully distilled his personality and wisdom” and André Gide connected with the letters on such a personal level, claiming that “for more than five years his correspondence took the place of the Bible at my bedside. It was my reservoir of energy". (Dirda, Washington Post, “Flaubert on Travel, Sex, and Writing”; Starkie, Flaubert the Master; Gide, in Steegmuller, ed., The Letters of Gustave Flaubert).

This Letter:

It is April 18, 1854, three years into the writing of Madame Bovary, when Gustave Flaubert pens this letter to his lover Louise Colet. He doesn’t know it yet, but it will be over 2 1/2 years before he completes his work. He also does not know that this is one of the final letters he will write to his “muse"; there will be one four days later on April 22 and one on April 29. And despite the promise he makes to Colet in this letter: “You will see me in three weeks at the latest,” the two lovers will never see each other again, thus ending their eight-year affair.

The letter offered here is remarkable for several reasons. First of all, despite the fact that we are days from a breakup after an eight-year relationship, Flaubert’s words are deeply emotional: “your joys and sorrows are mine. I would like to see you above all happy, happy in every way,” and declaring that if he could find someone who would bestow happiness upon her, he “would journey barefoot to find him.” These sound more like the words of a person about to book a ticket to see his lover rather than a prelude to a breakup.

Also extraordinary about this letter is the insight it offers into the composition of Madame Bovary. Flaubert’s dedication to the process necessary for realism leads him to taking a deep dive into making sure the medical details are correct in Madame Bovary, as he reports that “I journeyed to Rouen to consult my brother regarding foot anatomy and the pathology of clubfoot.” Upon his visit, he realizes that “revisions and adjustments are needed” to his original descriptions in the draft of Madame Bovary. Here we see that although Flaubert was enslaved by his own commitment to style, he was more committed to truth as he explains in the letter how he originally wrote about the surgery:“I had crafted something comical, a stylistic movement of such beauty that it moved me to tears for two hours. Yet it was pure fantasy, inventing the unheard-of." Then in a moment of great self awareness he explains: “It is a challenge to render technical details both literary and lively while retaining precision. Ah the torments of style!” Less self aware is his sense of his own progress in the book. He reports he has just “five or six pages left to pen, in addition to another seven or eight that are half or two-thirds completed” and believes he will be near finished in the coming months. Unfortunately for him, he is still over two and a half years away from publication.

Finally, the letter presents Flaubert’s detailed, but harsh feedback on Louise Colet’s writing. While he sprinkles in the occasional compliment declaring a line or stanza “very good” or even “excellent,” these rare praises are undermined by a stream of criticisms calling the writing, “clichéd” “unpleasant” “ATROCIOUS,” “obscene,” “vile,” “ugly,” “sordid,” “utterly wrong,” and so on. It’s hard to believe that this is the same person who only a few sentences earlier wished for his lover’s happiness. Whether or not the critiques are justified, one generally hopes for a gentler editor. The modern reader of the letter wonders: Are these scathing edits cruel on the part of Flaubert? Could his harshness have been the catalyst that ended the eight-year affair? Or perhaps he is jealous of Colet, as she was a successful and prolific writer. Then again, they may demonstrate his deep respect for her and her writing. He provided incredibly rich feedback on the entire piece, word by word at times. One needn’t waste time on all that for an unworthy writer.

Overall, in this letter, we see a person with a lack of awareness about his relationships and himself. He insists upon seeing Colet in the following weeks, but will never see her again, he declares he wants Colet happy, but then proceeds to tear apart her work, and he surmises he is nearly finished with his novel, but is in fact years away from publication.


The letter in the original French reads in full:

Mardi, minuit.

Si je ne t’ai pas reparlé de l’affaire du Philosophe, c’est que je croyais que c’était entièrement fini, quant à présent du moins. & fini par un refus formel de sa part ? Malgré l’avis contraire de Béranger, je persiste à penser que le mien était bon, si toutefois tu persistes continues à le tenir ferme. Je t’ai donné ce conseil d’après les données de son caractère que tu m’as dit être faible.– et, cela admis, j’avais raison ! donc, attends. – & tiens bon – & ne crois plus, chère Muse, que je ne m’intéresse pas à tes affaires. Rien de ce qui te touche, au contraire, ne m’est indifférent – Je voudrais te voir avant tout, heureuse, heureuse de toute façon, de toute manière, heureuse d’argent, de position, de gloire, de santé, etc., & si je savais qqu’un qui pût te donner tout cela, je l’irais chercher, pieds nus.

Le bonheur, ou ce qui en approche, est un composé de petits bien-être, de même que le non-malheur ne s’obtient que grâce à par la plénitude d’un sentiment unique – qui nous bouche les ouvertures de l’âme à tous les accidents de la Vie.

n’est-ce pas vendredi prochain que l’on décide le prix ? J’attends dimanche matin avec anxiété.

tu me verras dans trois semaines au plus tard. Je n’ai plus, d’ici à mon départ, que cinq ou six pages à faire – puis et, de plus, sept ou huit à moitié ou aux deux tiers faites. Je patauge en plein dans la chirurgie. J’ai été aujourd’hui à Rouen, exprès, chez mon frère, avec qui j’ai longuement causé anatomie du pied & pathologie des pieds bots. Je me suis aperçu que je me foutais dans la blouse (si l’on peut s’exprimer ainsi). ma science acquise de fraîche date n’était pas solide de base. – j’avais fait une chose très comique (le plus joli mouvement de style qu’il fût possible de voir, & que j’ai pleuré pendant deux heures), mais c’était de la fantaisie pure, et j’inventais des choses inouïes. – il en faut donc rabattre, – changer, refondre ! Cela n’est pas facile, que de rendre littéraires et gais des choses détails techniques, tout en les rendant gardant précis. Ah ! les aurai-je connus les affres du style ! au reste, tout, maintenant, m’est montagne ! – Bouilhet n’a pas été mécontent de ce que je lui ai lu. – j’ai fait, je crois, un gd pas, à savoir la transition insensible de la partie psychologique à la dramatique. Maintenant, je vais entrer dans l’action et mes passions vont être effectives. Je n’aurai plus autant de demi-teintes à ménager. Cela sera plus amusant, pr le lecteur du moins. il faut qu’au mois de juillet, quand je reviendrai à Paris, j’aie commencé la fin – puis j’y reviendrai au mois d’octobre, prendre un logement. – Quand arrivera-t-il donc ce bienheureux jour où j’écrirai le mot : fin ? il y aura, en Octobre prochain, trois ans que je suis sur ce livre. Cela est long, trois ans passés sur la même idée, à écrire du même style (de ce style-là surtout, où ma personnalité est aussi absente que celle de l’empereur de la Chine) – et à vivre toujours avec les mêmes personnages, et dans le même milieu, à se battre les flancs toujours pr la même illusion.

J’ai lu – relu – (et je les ai là sous les yeux) tes deux dernières pièces de vers sur lesquels il y a beaucoup à dire. – les bons vers abondent. Mais, encore une fois, je ne t’en sais aucun gré. les bons vers ne font pas les bonnes pièces. – Ce qui fait l’excellence d’une œuvre, c’est sa conception, son intensité. – et, en vers surtout, qui est l’instrument précis par excellence, il faut que la pensée soit tassée sur elle-même. Or je trouve la pièce À ma fille, lâche de sentiment. C’est là ce que toutes les mères eussent dit, & à peu près de la même manière, poésie à part, bien entendu. Commençons :

La 1re strophe, sauf le 1er vers, me semble très bonne, surtout le dernier vers qui est excellent. Mais remarque que de répétitions dans les cinq strophes qui suivent. C’est toujours sur ou sous. la pensée est divisée en petites phrases pareilles. & c’est sans cesse la même tournure de style.

La 2e strophe, du reste, me plaît assez, qque moins bonne que l’autre.
“
Tes cheveux dorés caressent ton front”
caressent, expression consacrée.

“Sur ta joue il luit ”
désagréable à l’oreille.

Les deux vers qui suivent, charmants, mais il eût fallu les mieux amener par qque chose de plus large, à propos des cils, & qui aurait fait un pendant plus exact à « un pli de la nuit ” :

“Sur ta bouche rose.” Voilà trois strophes qui commencent de même :”Sur ton oreiller” ”Sur tes longs cils” ”Sur ta bouche.”

Ils sont du reste très bons ces deux vers .

“Sur ta bouche...Ton souffle…”

Mais, dans les deux qui suivent, l’inversion est trop forte. Sois sûre que la pensée ne gagne rien à ces tournures poétiques.

Mais quant à la strophe “De ton joli... ”, je la trouve ATROCE ! – de toute façon.

De ton joli corps sous ta couverture.”
est obscène, et hors du sentiment de la pièce.

“Couverture” est ignoble de réalité, outre que le mot est laid en soi. Le sentiment était :

“Ton visage rit sur la toile blanche.”

mais cela est tout bonnement cochon, surtout avec la [illis.] suite :

“Plus souple apparaît le contour charmant.”

– et puis, qu’est-ce que vient faire là le Parthénon, l’antiquité et la « frise pure » si près de la couverture ? – & d’abord un enfant n’a pas les formes si saillantes qu’on les voie ainsi sous une couverture, et comme les filles du Parthénon dont les seins font bosse. – cela est complètement faux de sentiment et d’expression. il y a ici une chair qui n’est pas du tout à sa place.

“&, pour les rouvrir tu baises mes yeux” Superbe ! “nous mêlons nos soins, tendre, tu m’habilles.”

que signifie “mêler des soins” ? & cette tournure archi-prétentieuse “tendre, tu m’habilles” ? et quelle vulgarité dans ce “tu m’habilles” – notez que nous avons plus bas “ta tête d’ange”.

“des frais tissus chers aux jeunes filles”

école de Delille. Au reste, il y a beaucoup de rococo dans cette pièce :

“Tu t’assieds parfois rêveuse au piano »« Je pose une fleur sur ta tête d’ange.”

Nous allons au bal, un ange qui va au bal & qui a un port virginal. – (port comporte par lui-même une idée de maturité). Je trouve toute cette seconde page fort plate :

“Auprès du foyer tu brodes, je couds
Tu danses, tu ris ”

est-ce de la poésie cela ? à quoi bon faire des vers pr de pareilles trivialités ? Les morts qui reviennent sont fort embêtants. cela n’est pas ému, parce que ça tient trop peu de place dans l’économie de la pièce. il ne faut pas ménager la sensibilité du lecteur quand on la touche. – & puis voilà encore des détails de beauté qui reviennent :

“Avec son front blanc poli comme un marbre. Une jeune fille est comme un arbre”

c’est trop &. Si elle est a le front comme un arbre marbre, elle ne peut être, elle, comme un arbre.

“À tous ses rameaux des fruits sont promis”

fort ingénieux ; mais, encore une fois, cela trop dans un ordre d’idées étrangères à celle de maternité, de virginité.

“Et les blanches fleurs Et les nids joyeux”

quel dommage que deux si bons vers soient perdus !

L’orage, pr dire le malheur, a été dit par tout le monde, & puis, le pire de tout cela et ce qui m’irrite – ce qui fait que je ne suis peut-être pas impartial, c’est le sujet. Je hais les pièces de vers à ma fille, à mon père, à ma mère, à ma sœur. Ce sont des prostitutions qui me scandalisent (voir Le Livre posthume ). Laissez donc votre cœur & votre famille de côté & ne les détaillez pas au public ! – Qu’est-ce que cela dit tout cela ? qu’est-ce que ça a de beau, de bon, d’utile et, je dirai même, de vrai ? il faut couper court avec la queue Lamartinienne – et faire de l’artimpersonnel . ou bien, quand on fait du lyrisme individuel, il faut qu’il soit étrange, désordonné, tellement intense enfin que cela soit devienne une création . Mais quant à dire faiblement ce que tout le monde sent faiblement, non.

Pourquoi donc reviens-tu toujours à toi ? tu te portes malheur. tu as fait dans ta vie une œuvre de génie (une œuvre qui fait pleurer , note-le) parce que tu t’es oubliée, que tu t’es souciée des passions des autres & non des tiennes.

il faut s’inspirer de l’âme de l’humanité & non de la sienne. C’est comme le sonnet A la gloire . cela n’est pas lisible et le lecteur s’indignera toujours de la supériorité que l’auteur se reconnaît.

la première strophe est superbe. Mais ensuite cela dégringole : la Poésie, personnifiée & parlant, mauvais goût ; “l’étendard de la poésie”, id[em].

“Une route étoilée et sereine”

que l’on poursuit un étendard à la main et que l’idéal…”traçait.

“De la cime où je plane.”

tout cela est forcé, cherché, encombré.

“La gloire sur ma tombe a sonné son réveil.”

de qui le réveil ? de la gloire ou de la royauté ? – nous avons déjà ”reine” &, plus bas, encore “reine”.

“La fleur de l’aloès éclate épanouie”

non, la fleur éclate en s’épanouissant, mais elle n’éclate pas épanouie. Quand elle éclate, elle n’a pas pr qualité, pr attribut d’être épanouie. elle est, au contraire, s’épanouissant.

Si tu as ton prix, travaille avec ta Servante tranquillement. – & mets-toi de suite, sans t’inquiéter de rien, à tes autres contes & publie tout en masse. Il faut toujours employer les grosses artilleries. – il ne faut pas donner ainsi son sang goutte à goutte. Songe à ce que serait la publication de six bons contes en vers, bien différents de forme & de fond, & reliés par une pensée & un titre commun. cela au moins serait imposant d’aspect, à part la valeur du contenu.

B. [Bouilhet] m’a dit que Philipon t’avait défendu (formellement) de rien recevoir. Dois-je faire néanmoins l’article pr la Librairie Nouvelle ? – en cas qu’oui, dis-le-moi, je te l’apporterai.

à toi, je t’embrasse. Ton G.



Full translation:

[Croisset, 18 April 1854] Tuesday, midnight.

I have remained silent regarding the Philosopher's predicament, presuming it has found its resolution, at least temporarily, with his formal refusal. Despite Béranger's opposing counsel, I steadfastly adhere to my original advice, convinced of its merit, should you remain resolute. My guidance was grounded in your portrayal of his fragile character, and I was right! Be patient. Do not waver. Do not imagine, dear Muse, that your affairs escape my concern. Nothing that touches you is indifferent to me; on the contrary, your joys and sorrows are mine. I would like to see you above all happy, happy in every way—happy in wealth, status, renown, health, etc. Were I aware of someone one who could bestow all these upon you, I would journey barefoot to find him.

Happiness, or its semblance, is an alchemy of small pleasures, while true desolation arises from a singular, overwhelming sentiment that blinds the soul to all of life's vicissitudes. Is it next Friday that the price is decided? I eagerly await Sunday morning.

You will see me at the latest in three weeks' time. I have but five or six pages left to pen, in addition to another seven or eight that are half or two-thirds completed. I am immersed in the thick of surgery now. Today, I journeyed to Rouen to consult my brother regarding foot anatomy and the pathology of clubfoot. I realized my recent understanding was flawed, lacking a solid foundation. I had crafted something comical, a stylistic movement of such beauty that it moved me to tears for two hours. Yet it was pure fantasy, inventing the unheard-of. Now, revisions and adjustments are needed. It is a challenge to render technical details both literary and lively while retaining precision. Ah, the torments of style! Furthermore, everything now appears as an insurmountable mountain to me! Bouilhet was not displeased with what I read to him. I believe I have made significant strides, particularly in transitioning smoothly from the psychological to the dramatic. Now, as I delve into the action, my passions shall be more potent, no longer burdened by accommodating so many nuances. This, at least, will provide the reader with greater amusement. By July, when I return to Paris, I should have embarked upon the final chapters, then return in October to settle down. When shall the blessed day come when I can write "The End"? By next September, I will have dedicated three years to this book. Three long years on a single idea, writing in the same style (especially a style wherein my personality is as absent as the Emperor of China's), dwelling with the same characters in the same milieu, labouring perpetually for the same illusion.

I have read and reread your latest two pieces of verse, which lie before me. There is much to discuss. Good verses abound, but once again, I owe you no thanks. Good verse alone does not constitute overall excellence. Excellence in a work arises from its conception and intensity. Especially in verse, the thought must be self-contained and precise. However, I find the À ma fille piece lacking in sentiment. It echoes what any mother might say, poetry notwithstanding. Let us begin:

The first stanza, except for the first line, appears very good, especially the last line, which is excellent. However, notice the repetition in the five subsequent stanzas. It is always "sur" [on] or "sous" [under]. Thought is divided into similar small sentences, repeating the same style.

I rather like the second stanza, though it does not match the strength of the others.

“Tes cheveux dorés caressent ton front”[Your golden hair caresses your forehead]
“caressent” is a clichéd expression.

“Sur ta joue il luit” [On your cheek, it shines] is unpleasant to the ear.

The following two lines are charming but would have benefited from being led by something broader about eyelashes, providing a more precise counterpart to "un pli de la nuit" [a fold of the night].

“Sur ta bouche rose” [On your pink lips]. Here are three stanzas which start similarly: "Sur ton oreiller," [On your pillow] "Sur tes longs cils" [On your long lashes] "Sur ta bouche" [On your lips]

These two lines are also very good:
"Sur ta bouche…. Ton souffle…” [On your lips…. Your breath…]

But in the next two, the inversion is too pronounced. Be assured that such poetic turns of phrase do not enhance the thought.
As for the stanza "De ton joli...," [Of your pretty…] in any case, I find it ATROCIOUS!
"De ton joli corps sous ta couverture" [Of your pretty body under the blanket] is obscene and inconsistent with the piece's sentiment.

"Couverture" is a vile word in its reality, other than it being ugly itself. The sentiment was:
"Ton visage rit sur la toile blanche.” [Your face laughs on the white canvas.]

but it becomes sordid with the context that follows:
"Plus souple apparaît le contour charmant.”.[More supple seems the charming outline.]

And then, what have the Parthenon, antiquity, and the "pure frieze" to do with a blanket? A child's curves are not prominent enough under a blanket to compare with Parthenon maidens. This sentiment and expression are utterly wrong, introducing misplaced sensuality.

“&, pour les rouvrir tu baises mes yeux” [And to open them again, you kiss my eyes] Superb! "nous mêlons nos soins, tendre, tu m’habilles” [we combine our care, tender, you dress me]

What does "to combine care" mean? And how vulgar is "tu m'habilles." Note we have "ta tête d'ange" [your angel head] below.
"des frais tissus chers aux jeunes filles" [new fabrics that young girls love]

Delille school². Besides, there is much rococo in this piece:

"Tu t’assieds parfois rêveuse au piano" "Je pose une fleur sur ta tête d’ange." [You sometimes sit dreamily at the piano. I place a flower on your angel's head.]

We are going to the ball, an angel going to the ball with the stance of a virgin" - (the stance itself suggests maturity). I find the entirety of this second page very flat:

"Auprès du foyer tu brodes, je couds, Tu danses, tu ris" [By the fireplace you embroider, I sew You dance, you laugh.]
Why compose verses for such trivialities? The dead who return are exceedingly tiresome. It does not move us because it occupies too little space in the piece. One must not spare the reader's sensibility when striking it. And then the recurring beauty details:

"Avec son front blanc poli comme un marbre Une jeune fille est comme un arbre” [With her white forehead polished like marble. A young girl is like a tree]

Too much. If she possesses a forehead like marble, she cannot resemble a tree.

“À tous ses rameaux des fruits sont promis” [To all her branches, fruit is promised]
Very ingenious, but it belongs to an idea foreign to maternity and virginity.

"Et les blanches fleurs Et les nids joyeux" [And the white flowers. And the happy nests]
what a pity such good verses are lost!

The storm, as a metaphor for misfortune, has been depicted by everyone, and what irks me most—perhaps rendering me somewhat biased—is the subject matter itself. I abhor verse compositions addressed to one's daughter, father, mother, or sister. These are prostitutions that scandalize me (see Le Livre posthume). Therefore, set aside your heart and family, and do not expose them to the public! What does it all say? What is beautiful, good, useful, or, dare I say, even true about it? One must sever the Lamartinian tail and create impersonal art. Alternatively, if one indulges in personal lyricism, it must be strange, disordered, and so intensely powerful that it becomes a creation. But to feebly express what everyone else feels feebly? It’s a no.

Why do you always come back to yourself? You bring bad luck to yourself. You achieved a work of genius ( a work that moves you to tears, don’t forget this) because you forgot yourself and cared about the passions of others and not your own.

You must draw inspiration from the soul of humanity, not your own. It's like the sonnet À la gloire. It's unreadable, and the reader resents the author's self-proclaimed superiority.

The first stanza is superb, but then it declines: poetry personified and speaking—bad taste; “l’étendard de la poésie” [the banner of poetry], id[em].

"Une route étoilée et sereine” [A starry and serene road]

that one follows banner in hand “traced” by the ideal

“De la cime où je plane” [From the summit where I soar]

all this is forced, contrived, cluttered.

"La gloire sur ma tombe a sonné son réveil” [Glory on my grave has sounded its awakening]
whose awakening? That of glory or that of monarchy? We already have "queen" and further down "queen."

“La fleur de l’aloès éclate épanouie” [The aloe flower burst in full bloom]

No, the flower bursts into bloom but does not "burst in full bloom." When it bursts, it does not have the quality, the attribute of being in bloom. It is, on the contrary, in the process of blossoming.

Should you win your prize, work quietly with your servant and immediately commence your other stories. Publish everything en masse. Always resort to the grand strokes; do not offer blood drop by drop. Imagine publishing six excellent stories in verse, varied in form and content, linked by a common thought and title. This would be impressive in appearance, apart from the content's value.

Bouilhet told me Philipon forbade you categorically to accept anything. Should I still write the article for the Librairie Nouvelle? If so, let me know, and I will bring it to you.

à toi je t’embrasse, ton G.

¹ Bérangeris Pierre-Jean de Béranger, a popular contemporary French poet and songwriter.
² The Delille school seems to have been an institution where easy verse writing was taught.
³ Louis Bouilhet, French poet and dramatist, was a school friend of Flaubert.

—-------------------------------------------------------------
Translation by Daniele Tort Moloney.

Provenance: Sotheby's, November 29, 2007 [18,250 Euro].

Croisset, France. April 18, 1854. Six pages on three 19.0 x 24.8 cm (7.5 x 9.8 inches) sheets. Usual folds. In outstanding condition. Housed in a custom presentation folder.

References:
Flaubert, Gustave, and Francis Steegmuller. “The Letters of Gustave Flaubert.” Harvard University Press eBooks, 1980.

Price: $29,000 .