Fiction Review: "Herodias," Gustave Flaubert

This review was originally published on Pol Culture.

Gustave Flaubert’s “Herodias” is the last of the three stories that make up his Three Tales collection. It’s a rigorous, near-documentary retelling of the circumstances of the death of John the Baptist. Flaubert’s attention to every detail--every word, for that matter--is such that one cannot read it at the pace one normally takes in a prose story. It is as demanding a read as complex poetry, and it rewards one’s concentration. It doesn’t reach the heights of Flaubert’s best work; he doesn’t reconcile his trenchant view of the characters with a rendering of their more sympathetic aspects. But he dramatizes this classic story admirably well, and the narrative craftsmanship on display is all but unsurpassed. While Flaubert is acutely mindful of the cultural and political background of the events, his handling of the two central characters is perhaps of the most interest, and that is what I primarily focus on below.

The story begins on the morning of the birthday celebration of Herod Antipas, the ruler of Galilee. He is an unpopular king. In the view of the local religious leaders, he has embraced the Romans too eagerly; his adoption of their official displays of the emperor is felt to cross the line into the sin of idolatry. Others look on his marriage to Herodias, who divorced his brother to marry him, as an act of incest and deserving of the utmost contempt. The most vocal of those denouncing his marriage is John the Baptist. Herodias wants John dead for his insolence, and to placate her Herod has him imprisoned. The local people suspect what has happened, which has lowered their opinion of Herod even further. And to top everything off, Herod is facing a possible military challenge from the Arabian king, and he is doubtful of being able to rely on assistance from the Roman officials and troops.

Flaubert’s opening paragraphs are extraordinary--as evocatively ironic a use of locale as one may encounter in fiction. Every detail speaks of how fortified Herod’s castle is. It is not depicted as a place that could be easily breached by a foe, and descriptions of the surrounding landscape suggest that foes would have considerable difficulty even getting close enough to try. They would first have to get through the surrounding sea, desert, and mountains. But Herod takes no comfort from this; he cannot even take comfort from the beauty of the Jordan River. His insecurities are always at the forefront of his mind. From atop his castle walls, he sees an encampment of Arabs at the southern end of the Dead Sea, and he suspects his days are numbered.

The story’s portrayal of Herod as a weak-willed, indecisive, and paranoid ruler is just about flawless. He’s unworthy of his position--pushed and pulled every which way by local religious leaders, the Roman authorities, and even his wife. He will not commit fully to any course of action, which is both frustrating and reassuring for others; his spinelessness is annoying, but he does not pose any threat, either. The only thing that gives him even momentary confidence is flattery.

The depiction of Herodias is just as accomplished. It is easy to see what has attracted her to Herod. She’s an ambitious, narcissistic woman who easily spots his vulnerability to manipulation. With him she can be the power behind the throne, and she is capable of anything. Her desire to bolster Herod for her own ends is so shameless that even he finds it embarrassing, such as when she brags of seducing a man to assist with their ambitions. But there is one line she cannot get Herod to cross, and that is to execute John the Baptist, whose vitriolic attacks on her and their marriage have cut her vanity to the core. Herod clearly believes that John is the prophet who precedes the arrival of the Messiah; he knows deep down that to execute John is sacrilege. It is also a move that could permanently undermine him with his subjects, since they also see John as that prophet. Herodias, though, is so dedicated to John’s death that her shamelessness goes further than it ever has before: she sacrifices her daughter’s innocence to achieve her murderous ends.

To a certain extent, Flaubert builds the story around what he identifies as the tragic flaws of Herod and Herodias. Her vanity and his weak-mindedness play off and compound each other, culminating in the horrifying event of John the Baptist’s decapitation. Actually, the tragic culmination of things comes later for this pair: John’s execution will forever condemn them in the eyes of Christian history.

Flaubert is an astute enough craftsman to know to leave this last point implicit for the reader; he doesn’t go out of his way to flatter the reader’s contempt for Herod and Herodias. The conduct of the two is appalling enough without overkill. He makes just one nod to the story’s greater significance; he ends things with a small ironic reminder of its relationship to the story of Christ. And almost miraculously, it’s a note that’s remarkably true to the spirit of Christian narrative: tragedy and horror pave the way to a greater hope. Things end terribly, but Flaubert has one looking optimistically on what lies ahead. He can’t find the sympathetic side to his characters here, but he finds the positive long-term impact of their actions. As an achievement, it is not as rich, but one admires the sophistication nonetheless. In closing, “Herodias” isn’t one of Flaubert’s strongest efforts, but one cannot help but be impressed.


Reviews of other works by Gustave Flaubert:

• "The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller"
• "A Simple Heart"

Fiction Review: "The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller," Gustave Flaubert

Flaubert's short story reimagines a medieval legend with the classical elements of the tragic flaw, reversal of fortune, and epic setpieces. Its message of faith may be the author's most profound.

Gustave Flaubert's "The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller" is part of the Three Tales collection. This review refers to the A. J. Krailsheimer translation, published by Oxford University Press.

Gustave Flaubert’s “The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller,” the second story in his Three Tales collection (1877), is a retelling of the story from a stained-glass-window picture sequence in Rouen Cathedral. But Flaubert makes it his own. Apart from the considerable revisions to the plot, he gives it the benefit of his incomparable eye for detail with both the characters and settings. He also proves a master of the epic setpiece; the climactic sections of each of the story’s three parts are unsurpassed as spectacle.

The story of Saint Julian resembles the Greek legend of Oedipus. Julian is a young noble who, upon hearing a prophecy that he shall murder his parents, flees his home to thwart this destiny. He builds a grand life for himself in another kingdom. Years later, his parents, who have searched for him far and wide, arrive at his doorstep. He is away on a hunt, but his wife welcomes them and puts them up for the night in her and Julian’s bed. When Julian comes home, he mistakes the sleeping pair for his wife and another man. Believing himself a cuckold, he murders his parents in a rage. After discovering the truth, he renounces his worldly possessions and devotes himself to penitence and good works. After his extraordinarily selfless behavior towards a leper, he is redeemed and ascends to heaven.

Flaubert’s changes to the Rouen narrative are numerous. The most noteworthy is probably the handling of Julian’s wife. In the original story, she is the widow of the lord he serves after fleeing his homeland. She also remains with Julian after he murders his parents, and joins him in his good works. Flaubert makes her the daughter of the lord’s concubine, and after the parents’ murder, she never sees Julian again. Julian’s good deeds in Flaubert are restricted to his being a volunteer ferryman and his aid of the leper. The original story has him building a hospital, where he and his wife care for the sick. Flaubert also omits the Devil’s efforts to tempt Julian after he is redeemed.

But Flaubert’s expansions of the story are far more significant. He complicates the central prophecy with an opposing one. After Julian’s birth, his mother is told he will become a saint. Suspense over how the prophecies will be reconciled adds a great deal of narrative tension. The acuity of Flaubert’s understanding of psychology is also on display. When Julian first hears the prophecy of his parents’ murder, he dismisses it. He only changes his mind after he narrowly avoids accidentally killing them. Flaubert recognizes that it is not enough to just hear the prophecy; it must be reinforced.

Most importantly, though, Flaubert makes the story play by the rules of classical narrative. It’s not sufficient for Julian’s woes to be the whim of fate. Flaubert gives the character a tragic flaw: an incontinent bloodlust towards animals. Flaubert makes it clear from the start how at odds it is with Julian’s virtue and piety. His first act of viciousness is when he bludgeons a mouse to death on the chapel altar. Julian’s indifference to the ugliness and borderline sacrilege of his behavior is made apparent. He treats it as a minor matter: one just has to clean up the mess. His bloodlust serves as the catalyst for the prophecy of the parents’ murder. A stag curses Julian with his dying words after Julian mortally wounds him, his mate, and their suckling fawn. Julian’s bloodlust is also key to the murder of his parents. His inability to make a single kill during the preceding hunt leaves him so inflamed that he is violence personified when he discovers them in his bed. As Flaubert writes before he enters the room, “Blood lust possessed him again; failing animals, he would have liked to slaughter men.” Julian’s flaw brings the prophecy down on him and, moreover, has him fulfill it.

The hunts in the story are awesomely horrifying. In the first, in which the stag is killed, Julian massacres every animal he encounters in the wood. Flaubert writes, “But Julian never wearied of slaughter, successively drawing his crossbow, unsheathing his sword, stabbing with his cutlass, heedless and oblivious of everything.” The most analogous scene in literature is probably in The Iliad, with Achilles’ rampage against the Trojans following the death of Patroclus. And even that may pale in comparison. The hunt before the parents' death may be even more terrifying for its irony. No matter how hard he tries, Julian cannot land a net, arrow, or cutting blow on an animal. Wolves, bears, birds, bulls, snakes, boars, squirrels, hyenas, wild cats--they gather round him and give chase. Julian is made to know the fear he has inflicted on their brethren.

The set piece that ends with Julian’s redemption carries the most impact. It reaches more profound emotions than horror at one’s violence or fear for one’s safety. It dramatizes the struggle to do good at all costs, and it is, by turns, epic and intimate. The effort to ferry the leper across the river is a battle against nature itself, with Julian facing hailstones, gale-force winds, and waves likened to mountains. The temptation is always there to give up, but Julian does not relent. In the story’s words, “realizing a momentous issue was at stake, a command not to be disobeyed, he took up the oars again.” The challenges of the river in some ways pale to what comes next. Julian takes the diseased passenger into his hut. He gives the leper food, only to see afterward that “the table, the bowl, and the knife handle bore the same spots as were to be seen on his [the leper’s] body.” Julian allows the man to sleep in his bed. He even embraces him to keep him warm. The awareness of disease and possible infection is repeatedly reinforced. Flaubert brings the scene to as worthy a climax as he did with the other two set pieces: Julian’s consummate selflessness redeems him.

The story is structured as a series of reversals. A young man who has it all abandons it for exile in the face of a curse brought on by his own viciousness. He regains prosperity only to abandon it again after the curse’s fulfillment. And then, when he has nothing but his capacity to give--and does not falter in it--he gains more than he ever had. It’s a story of faith that in some ways exceeds “A Simple Heart,” its predecessor in the Three Tales collection. Faith can do more than see one through the challenges of life; it can atone for one’s greatest flaws and the crimes that are borne of them. “Saint Julian” lacks the poetic artfulness of “A Simple Heart,” but its message may be more profound.


Reviews of other works by Gustave Flaubert:

• "Herodias"
• "A Simple Heart"

Fiction Review: "A Simple Heart," Gustave Flaubert

This review was originally published on Pol Culture.

Flaubert's classic short story is a masterful blend of naturalistic detail, sublimely poetic effects, and deceptively simple prose.

Gustave Flaubert's "A Simple Heart" is part of the Three Tales collection. This review refers to the A. J. Krailsheimer translation, published by Oxford University Press.

“A Simple Heart,” the opening story in Gustave Flaubert’s 1877 Three Tales collection, is generally considered a masterpiece of the short-story form. It’s not hard to understand why. It combines richly observed detail with spare, deceptively simple language to create what is both a perfectly realized character study and a dazzlingly poetic rendering of faith and its fulfillment. What’s most impressive about it is Flaubert’s ability to weave both the realistic and the poetic together.

The protagonist of “A Simple Heart” is Félicité, a housekeeper of peasant background who works for a widow in the Normandy region of France. The story is an account of Félicité’s life, and the bulk of it is set in the first half of the nineteenth century. Flaubert divides it into five sections. The first introduces Félicité as the servant of the widow Madame Aubain. The second tells of the hardship of Félicité’s early life, how she came to work for Madame Aubain, and her experiences helping to raise Madame Aubain’s children. In the third, Félicité discovers her faith. She also experiences tragedy with the deaths in both Madame Aubain’s family and her own. Madame Aubain dies in the fourth section, and Félicité’s last days are recounted in the fifth.

Flaubert constructs the story around loss, specifically how Félicité deals with the losses of those she loves over the course of her life. He pays scrupulous attention to pace: her relationships with those she loses are treated with increasing detail as the story mounts. Félicité is orphaned at an early age; Flaubert gives each of the parents a sentence. Her fiancée marries another woman; the account of his and Félicité’s relationship is given two pages. Approximately half the story is given over to Félicité’s relationships over time with Virginie, Madame Aubain’s sickly daughter, and Victor, Félicité’s nephew, who dies after going to sea. And Flaubert pays the most attention to Félicité’s relationship with her pet parrot Loulou, which takes up the latter part of the story. She loves the bird, and after its death, she has it stuffed and mounted. She's more devoted to the bird after its death than while it was alive, but Flaubert doesn’t use the parrot to belittle Félicite in the reader’s eyes. Nor does he use it to rub one’s nose in pathos. He doesn’t intend for Félicité’s devotion to the bird to be seen as ridiculous or sad. Apart from Madame Aubain, the parrot is the last of the heartfelt losses in Félicité’s life, and Flaubert, in some of the most extraordinary writing I’ve ever encountered, transforms it into a beatific vision in her deathbed scene. He effects a complete reversal of meaning: a trope for loss becomes one of consummation.

This is achieved through a virtuoso use of metonymy, which is the assigning or transforming of meaning by simple association. It usually occurs with something of proximity. Flaubert is canny enough not to make it feel imposed on the story. He makes metonymy intrinsic to Félicité’s perceptions, and those perceptions in turn guide her actions. This first becomes apparent in the passage in which she finds her faith. The identification of Christ as a lamb leads her to associate that identification with real-life lambs, and she loves them more as a result. As the story goes on, there are many other metonymic associations, such as her identification of Virginie with a plush hat, which she keeps as a remembrance after the girl’s death. Félicité's affection for Loulou is borne of her love for her nephew. She identifies the bird with the Americas, which was where Victor was going when he died. The parrot functions as a living trope for the family member she lost.

Flaubert’s skill with metonymy is apparent in how he repeatedly transforms the parrot’s meaning in Félicité’s eyes. The bird starts as an emotional signifier for her nephew. After it dies, and Félicité takes it to be stuffed, the taxidermist takes so long that she becomes convinced she will never see it again. But the mounted bird eventually arrives, and its return signifies everlasting love to her. The parrot is the first thing she has loved that has left her and then come back. It will always be with her, like her religious faith, and she begins to associate it with that faith as well. Flaubert clearly illustrates it in this passage:

In church she always gazed upon the Holy Spirit, and noticed he looked something like the parrot. The likeness seemed still more evident in a popular print of Our Lord’s baptism. […] They became associated in her mind, so that the parrot became sanctified from this connexion with the Holy Spirit, which in turn became more lifelike and readily intelligible in her eyes. […] Félicité would look at the print as she said her prayers, but with a sidelong glance from time to time at the bird.

Félicité’s identification of her bird with holiness leads her to have it placed on an altar of repose for Good Friday. She lays on her deathbed as the altar with her bird passes by in the procession, and with her smelling of the smoke from the swinging censers, Flaubert effects the story’s ultimate metonymic transformation: the parrot goes from being a personal trope for the Holy Spirit to Félicité’s vision of the Spirit itself. It’s a transformation that ranks with those in Ovid and Dante, and unlike their efforts, this depiction of the uncanny isn't one of horror. It's an image of divine fulfillment.

Perhaps even more impressive than Flaubert’s metonymic dazzle is his ability to create a context in which it works. The story never seems overblown or pretentious in its handling of these effects. Partly this is because Flaubert keeps his language very plain, but it’s largely because Félicité’s characterization is so precisely evoked. Flaubert makes it entirely believable that she thinks in these terms. If her associations and identifications seem fanciful in a simpleminded kind of way, it’s because in many respects she is a simpleminded person. That's not to say Flaubert ever condescends to her (something that, given his other work, one might think him inclined to do). Félicité is portrayed as having a considerable pragmatic intelligence. Her housekeeping skills make Madame Aubain the envy of the neighbors. She’s described as being better at haggling and negotiating prices than anyone else. And her cleverness in saving Madame Aubain and the children from a rampaging bull is the stuff of local legend. She’s just not reflective, and she doesn’t think about abstract matters in a critical way. She believes in what she believes in, and makes the abstract associations she makes, and there’s all there is to it.

This depiction is fully in keeping with Flaubert’s realist aesthetic and its emphasis on observation. Working-class people tend to be smart in pragmatic terms, while those in the upper classes are at their best with abstract matters. It’s as perceptive a portrayal as Flaubert’s extraordinary rendering of the interior of the widow’s home, or the various aspects of the Normandy countryside. “A Simple Heart" combines precisely detailed realist depictions with bravura poetic treatments of the supernatural, and it does so in a way that makes them seem all of a piece. It locates the sublime in mundane existence more effectively than any story I can think of. It’s arguably Flaubert’s masterpiece, and it deserves its standing among the great works of literature.


Reviews of other works by Gustave Flaubert:

• "Herodias"
• "The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller"