I had actually hoped this would go on for several chapters more. One of the rare works of fiction one stumbles upon occasionally which, once its last page is read, the reader knows he will miss in the future. Or would fantasize re-reading despite his mountain-like TBR pile.The setting is a small, wine-producing French provincial town called Clochemerle, sometime in the previous century (I'm not sure if there is really a town by this name in France). Clever author, he carefully mentions the exact dates when the events in this novel happen, giving a historical feel to them. The catalyst for the hilarious goings-on was the decision to build a toilet, a public urinal for men, near the town's parish church.The novel satirizes war (the first world war still fresh in everyone's consciousness), soldiery, religion, priesthood, politics, social conventions, sexual mores, and the antics of the rich on top of the droll and eccentric characters and the seemingly nonstop farcical buffoonery the author manages to conceive with apparent effortlessness.The strongest part of this novel, in my opinion, however, is in its colorful characterizations. There is humor here even in the mere ACT alone of creating a character.After this review, my copy of this book will be passed on to another reader and could then be lost forever, what with his habit of not reading (yet?) what I have already read. Let me then preserve here, for my future delectation, the Jorge Amado-like creation of the beautiful Judith Tourmignon--"Near the entrance of the Beaujolais Stores, Judith Toumignon could be seen and admired, a veritable daughter of fire, with her flamboyant shock of hair, flaming tresses that might have been stolen from the sun. The common herd, impervious to fine distinctions, spoke of her merely as 'red haired', or spitefully as 'ginger.' But there are differences to note. Red hair in women may be lustreless or brick-coloured, a dull unattractive red; sour perspiration is its usual accompaniment. But Judith Toumignon's hair was not like that; on the contrary, it was of reddish gold, the tint of mirabelle plums ripened in the sun. This beautiful woman was, in fact, fair-haired, her armpits fair and honey-sweet; she was a triumph of blonde beauty, a dazzling apotheosis of the warm tints which constitute the Venetian type. The heavy, glowing turban which adorned her head, only to vanish at the nape of her neck in rapturous sweetness, compelled the gaze of one and all, which lingered over her from head to foot in fascination and delight, finding at all points occasion for extra-ordinary gratification. The men relished her charm in secret, but could not always hide what they felt from their wives, whose misgivings, profound enough as to affect them physically, endowed them with some sort of second sight revealing clearly who the insolent usurper was."There are times when nature's whim, in defiance of circumstances of rank, education, or means, produces a masterpiece. This creation of her sovereign fancy she places where she will; it may be a shepherdess, it may be a circus-girl. By these challenges to probability she gives a new and furious impetus to social displacements, and paves the way for new combinations, social graftings, and bargainings between sensual appetite and the desire for gain. Judith Toumignon was an incarnation of one of these masterpieces of nature, the complete success of which is rarely seen. A perverse and prankish destiny had placed her in the centre of the town, where she was engaged in receiving customers at a shop. But a picture of her thus occupied would be incomplete, for her principal role, unseen but profoundly human, was that of inciting to the raptures of love. Though on her own account she was not inactive in this matter, and practised no niggardly restraint therein, her participation in the sum total of Clochemerle's embraces should be regarded as trifling in comparison with the function of suggestion that she exercised, and the allegorical position she occupied, throughout the district. This radiant, flaming creature was a torch, a Vestal richly endowed, entrusted by some Pagan goddess with the task of keeping alight at Clochemerle the fires of passion."As applied to Judith Toumignon, the word masterpiece may be used without hesitation. Her face beneath its fascinating fringe was a trifle wide. Its outline was graceful in the extreme, with its firm jaw, the faultless teeth of a woman with good appetite and juicy lips continually moistened by her tongue, and enlivened by a pair of black eyes which still further accentuated its brilliance. One cannot enter into details where her too intoxicating form is concerned. Its lovely curves were so designed that your gaze was held fast until you had taken them all in. It seemed as though Pheidias, Raphael, and Rubens had worked together to produce it, with such complete mastery had the modelling of the prominent points been carried out, eschewing scantiness in every way, and dexterously insisting upon amplitude and fullness in such manner as to provide the eyes of desire with conspicuous landmarks on which to rest. Her breasts were two lovely promontories. Wherever one looked, one discovered soft open spaces, alluring estuaries, pleasant glades, hillocks, mounds, where pilgrims could have lingered in prayer, where they could have quenched their thirst at cooling springs. But without a passport--and such was rarely given--this rich territory was forbidden ground. A glance might skim its surface, might detect some shady spot, might linger on some peak. But none might venture farther, none might touch. So milk-white was her flesh, so silky its texture, that the sight of it the men of Clochemerle grew hoarse of speech and were overcome by feelings of recklessness and desperation."But lest it be said that this author is capable of hyperbolizing Beauty alone (as one may complain that women in novels are so stereotyped, only the beautiful ones are made to inhabit them, no normal women at all!), here the author revels in the same enthusiastic introduction of Judith Tourmignon's exact opposite, eliciting the same silent cackle from the heart:"Enter Justine Putet, of whom it is now time to speak. Imagine a swarthy-looking, ill-tempered person, dried-up and of viperish disposition, with a bad complexion, an evil expression, a cruel tongue, defective internal economy, and (over all this) a layer of aggressive piety and loathsome suavity of speech. A paragon of virtue of a kind that filled you with dismay, for virtue in such guise as this is detestable to behold, and in this instance it seemed to be inspired by a spirit of hatred and vengeance rather than by ordinary feelings of kindness. An energetic user of rosaries, a fervent petitioner at her prayers, but also an unbridled sower of calumny and clandestine panic. In a word, she was the scorpion of Clochemerle, but a scorpion disguised as a woman of genuine piety. The question of her age had never been considered, was never raised at all. She was probably a little over forty, but no one cared. She had lost all physical attraction since her childhood. After the death of her parents, from whom she inherited an income of eleven hundred francs, at the age of twenty-seven, she had begun her career as a solitary old maid, at the bottom of Monks Alley beneath the shadow of the church. From that spot she kept daily and nightly watch over the town, whose infamy and licence she was constantly denouncing in the name of a virtue which the men of Clochemerle had left carefully on one side."For the space of two months Justine Putet observed all the comings and goings in the vicinity of the little edifice, and each day her fury increased. Everything of a virile nature filled her with hatred and resentment. She watched the boys clumsily enticing the girls, the girls' hypocritical provocations of the boys, and the gradual understandings that grew up between demure little maidens and good honest clod-hoppers. Such spectacles made her think that these youthful frolics were paving the way for frightful abominations. More than ever before, she felt that the urinal had become a source of the utmost peril for the morals of the town. Lastly, with the arrival of hot weather, Monks Alley began to acquire a highly unpleasant smell."After a long period of meditation and prayer, the old maid resolved to undertake a crusade, and to make her opening attack against the most shameless of the citadels of sin. Well-armed with scapularies and other emblems of piety, and having diluted her poison with the honey of eloquent persuasiveness,she proceeded one morning to the home of the Devil's minion, that infamous woman Judith Toumignon, her neighbour, to whom for six years she had not opened her mouth...."A gem I picked out from a pile of cheap, bargain books.
Five stars for satire, four 1/2 for humor.I first read this book about 40 years ago when I lived in Australia for three years. At the time the BBC had produced a series from the story, which I saw (at least in part) on TV there.The book is a very biting satire on all aspects of French provincial life in the early decades of the 20th century. The Church (and its officials) are depicted particularly harshly. The first perhaps 2/3 of the book is uproariously funny. However, in the latter part of the book, Chevallier brings the Army into the story and the humor (but not the satire) abates somewhat.This isn't the easiest book to get hold of at a decent price (at least in the U.S.), but a cheap used copy will be worth your investment if you enjoy satire.I was surprised to find this evening that Chevallier wrote a book called Fear about a young man's experiences in WW I, a book rated very highly and close to a classic. That book must be so far from this one in its tone that their being by the same author seems almost impossible! C'est la vie!
What do You think about Clochemerle (2004)?
Truculent!!! Je n'ai pas envie de le terminer, je voudrai faire durer le plaisir!Quelle surprise que ce roman, c'est mon chum qui me l'avait donné il y a deux ans et il attendait dans ma liste de livre à lire. Il m'avait dit qu'il l'avait adoré lorsqu'il l'avait lu il y a plusieurs années. C'est un livre plein de prejugés sur les gens, sur les femmes, sur la politique, la religion, bref sur à peu près tout ce que vous pouvez imaginer mais, malgré celà, quel fin observateur de la nature humaine que Gabriel Chevalier! Quel plaisir fou j'ai eu à lire ce roman! C'est un enchevêtrement de descriptions, d'opinions plus ou moins justifiées ou justifiables, de personnages colorés, inusités! Un pur plaisir à découvrir!
—Vicky
Well, actually four and a half stars. I was wondering where it was hiding, that France of Oh, la la! The knowing smiles, the buxom wenches, young men and women with an eye on the main chance. We saw a lot of that in Rabelais, and a touch of it in Jacques Tati, but somewhere along the line, it got swept under the carpet. Maybe it was the dour expression of Jean-Paul Sartre that killed it off. Fortunately, before he or any of his confederates had a chance to do it, there was this French writer named Gabrielle Chevaller, who, in 1934, wrote a book variously called Clochemerle or The Scandals of Clochemerle.Imagine a lazy wine-growing town in Beaujolais, not too far from the Rhone or the city of Lyons, where the sex lives of the inhabitants are fully as ripe as the grapes for which the town is famous. (Not all, of course: There are a few sour pickles, such as Justine Putet, who cause all the trouble.) And trouble there was. It all started with a public urinal right near the church and opposite the windows of La Putet. The lusty young men, when the urinal was occupé, thought nothing of wagging their wienies at the desiccated spinster, sending her off on a crusade that led to the breakage of the statue of the town's patron saint, the insult by a barrage of ripe tomatoes against a young nobleman, the occupation of the town by the military, and France's abrupt departure from the Disarmament Conference of 1923. From such small mustard seeds, such gigantic trees grow.Here is a sample from Jocelyn Godefroi's excellent translation, describing the lovely young Hortense, daughter of two plug-ugly French misers:How the pure and charming Hortense could ever have been begotten by these two monsters of ugliness, accentuated in one case [the mother] by a stupid middle-class pretentiousness, and in the other [the father] by all too successful knavery, one cannot undertake to explain. One may suggest some sprightly humor on the part of atoms, on a revenge taken by cells which, too long the victims of immoral unions and wearing of assembling in hateful Girodots, had blossomed one fine day into an adorable Girodot. These mysterious alternations are evidences of a law of equilibrium whereby the world is enabled to endure without falling into a state of utter debasement. On the manure heap of degeneracy, covetousness, and the lowest instincts of man, exquisite plants are sometimes seen to sprout. Unknown to herself, and unrealized by those around her, Hortense Girodot was one of those works of fragile perfection, like the outspread rainbow, which Nature may sometimes insert in horrible surroundings as a pledge of her fantastic friendship for our pitiful race.Remember that phrase "law of equilibrium," in conjunction with rainbows, when you read the book and its surprising deux ex machina conclusion.This was a delightful book to read, and probably the funniest work of French fiction in well over a century.
—Jim
