My favourite Starkie quote, ‘Rimbaud went to see God, face-to-face.’ Reminds me of his comment, ‘La science est trop lente.’ Science is too slow.
  As a young man I was mildly obsessed with the several biographies of genius poet Arthur Rimbaud written by Irish historian Enid Starkie; especially her account of touring Abyssinia and retracing his post-poet, pre-famous footsteps as a gun-running, ransom-making, privateer trader. Ms Starkie went seeking personal proof of the prodigy’s progress; after he’d announced, ‘Art is for idiots’ and turned his back on Paris for good. To verify ambiguous family correspondence she visited assorted Arabian outposts of offices, apartments, bars and barracks; spoke to his associates, even a wife? Several locations became tourist attractions due to her attentions. Trip Advisor’s got a luxury Rimbaud-themed resort in Ethiopia!
  I bought a version of her, ‘Flaubert, the Master’ from a North London bookshop, on speculation. I’d watched the Jean Renoir ‘Madame Bovary’ film a while ago, although I usually avoid such soapy operettas. ‘Sentimental Journey’ and ‘Salammbô’ were similar fare and my interest in Flaubert tapered away, until I discovered Ms Starkie’s book.
  Gustave Flaubert was a French Third Republican prose writer paradoxically acclaimed a ‘romantic realist’. One of several incongruities in the fellow’s florid life. This biography contained two perplexing contradictions; of his obscure sexuality and the ungracious behaviour of his favoured niece. I sought elucidation with little success, as all has been rewritten with positive bent for contempory Flaubertians. In fact, any internet investigation supplies unfaltering false news; with our hero shagging every hostess in town while his dutiful niece nursed his body and soul before publishing his precious post-mortem works as a multi-potentialed, world-renowned artist, in her own right?
  And while his homosexuality is of no concern there is a certain entertainment in reading broad boasts of his fornications; with courtesan conquests in ménages à trois and orgies all night. According to Ms Starkie his romantic plotlines were entirely down to flights of fancy not personal ordeal, as none of the several women he befriended ever recorded any sexual acts, and these were people who documented all. He claimed his bachelor status was in ‘opposition to childbirth’. And, despite his niece’s censorial efforts, there are robust references in Maxime du Camp’s diaries of Flaubert’s contracting lymphadenopathic syphilis in 1849 from a Beruit urchin while en vacance.
  In 1845 Gustave Flaubert’s sister Caroline married a certain Emile Hamard. A year later Caroline, ignoring medical advice, died in childbirth while producing a daughter, also christened Caroline.
  Juliet Herbert, Caroline’s English governess 1853-64, was rumoured to have had an affair with Flaubert. Caroline later destroyed her letters and deleted any mention in Flaubert’s files; not even a description of likeness, character or personal circumstances survives? Yet she kept ALL others – obscene, scandalous, ethically uncool – to pimp and peddle after his death.
  On turning seventeen in 1864 Mlle Flaubert wed a dodgy timber merchant, Earnest Commanville. The husband turned out a hopeless operator; who Flaubert nevertheless appointed as factor from the wedding day forth. By 1875 Earnest Commanville owed Gustave Flaubert over a million francs.
  Flaubert had two staunch allies among Rouen’s haut monde; Edmond Laporte, a progressive Republican politician and lace-making businessman met through the local City Arts Theatre and Charles Duplan, a successful silk and Oriental carpet merchant. Both became embroiled in the Commanville scams.
  By now Flaubert was completely skint. Aged 53 he went looking for ‘paid work’ for the first time in his life, as a librarian/researcher. All came to nothing and they bumbled along until 1878 when Commanville’s credit ran out again. Turns out he’d only survived by using Flaubert’s and friend’s reputations as guarantors for further banker borrowing. Was even seen to pocket a 25 franc piece which Gustave had provided for a locksmith’s bill. Laporte now mortgaged the last of his possessions to bolster the business. While Flaubert approached his long-term associates in George Sand, Guy de Maupassant, the de Goncourt brothers, even old Turgenev received a begging letter. Overweight, bald, red faced, syphlitic, with an untreated broken leg and two working teeth, the homosexual Flaubert offered swooning suit to divers duchesses, princesses, occasional queens all unanimously embarrassed by his pathetic petitions. In February 1879 Le Figaro published a promotional piece revealing Flaubert’s fallen situation but raised no capital and little compassion as the cause of his condition was an acknowledged disgrace.
  When, in 1879, Laporte refused to guarantee another Commanville loan Flaubert severed ties with his staunchest supporter and they never met again.
  Flaubert died without friends or family on May 8th 1880.
  The funeral was a sordid affair. The grave was dug too short and the coffin became stuck, with surly sextons grunting stamping to wedge it in? as 300 literary luminaries watched aghast. De Goncourt wrote with heavy heart of overhearing journalists comparing lists of famous mourners, discussing where to later dine and which were the better local brothels.
  If some of the above seems hollow or light, I must admit compression; the depth of disgrace apportioned to Flaubert by his noisome niece has been relentlessly censored by the woman herself, and others since. If you want to know more about this ignoble episode read Ms Starkie’s books – or not.