there are times when Thackeray will even
boast of his own independence, insisting in so many words on his
freedom to say what he pleases about his men and women and to make
them behave as he will. But without using Thackeray's licence a
novelist may still do his story an ill turn by leaving too naked a
contrast between the subjective picture of what passes through Emma's
mind--Emma's or Becky's, as it may be--and the objective rendering of
what he sees for himself, between the experience that is mirrored in
another thought and that which is shaped in his own. When one has
lived _into_ the experience of somebody in the story and received the
full sense of it, to be wrenched out of the story and stationed at a
distance is a shock that needs to be softened and muffled in some
fashion. Otherwise it may weaken whatever was true and valid in the
experience; for here is a new view of it, external and detached, and
another mind at work, the author's--and that sense of having shared
the life of the person in the story seems suddenly unreal.

Flaubert's way of disguising the inconsistency is not a peculiar art
of his own, I dare say. Even in him it was probably quite unconscious,
well as he was aware of most of the refinements of his craft; and
perhaps it is only a sleight of hand that might come naturally to any
good story-teller. But it is interesting to follow Flaubert's method
to the very end, for it holds out so consummately; and I think it is
possible to define it here. I should say, then, that he deals with the
difficulty I have described by keeping Emma always at a certain
distance, even when he appears to be entering her mind most freely. He
makes her subjective, places us so that we see through her eyes--yes;
but he does so with an air of aloofness that forbids us ever to become
entirely identified with her. This is how she thought and felt, he
seems to say; look and you will understand; such is the soul of this
foolish woman. A hint of irony is always perceptible, and it is enough
to prevent us from being lost in her consciousness, immersed in it
beyond easy recall. The woman's life is very real, perfectly felt; but
the reader is made to accept his participation in it as a pleasing
experiment, the kind of thing that appeals to a fastidious
curiosity--there is no question of its ever being more than this. The
_fact_ of Emma is taken with entire seriousness, of course; she is
there to be studied and explored, and no mean