Клошмерл

Clochemerle #1

by Gabriel Chevallier

Клошмерл е тихо и спокойно френско градче в областта Божоле. Страстите на гражданите му неочаквано се взривяват, след като кметът решава да построи първият...писоар.

Genres: France, Fiction, Humor, Classics, 20th Century, Satire, French Literature

282 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1934

About the author

Gabriel Chevallier (3 May 1895 – 6 April 1969) was a French novelist widely known as the author of the satire Clochemerle.

Born in Lyon in 1895, Gabriel Chevallier was educated in various schools before entering Lyon École des Beaux-Arts in 1911. He was called up at the start of World War I and wounded a year later, but returned to the front where he served as an infantryman until the war's end. He was awarded the Croix de Guerre and Chevalier de la Légion d'honneur. Following the war he undertook several jobs including art teacher, journalist and commercial traveller before starting to write in 1925. His novel La Peur (Fear) published in 1930 drew upon his own experiences and formed a damning indictment of the war. He was married with one son and died in Cannes in 1969.

Clochemerle was written in 1934 and has been translated into twenty-six languages and sold several million copies. It was dramatised first in a 1947 film by Pierre Chenal and in 1972 by the BBC. He wrote two sequels: Clochemerle Babylon (Clochemerle-Babylone, 1951), and Clochemerle-les-Bains (1963). In the USA the Clochemerle books were published under the English titles The Scandals of Clochemerle (for Clochemerle in 1937) and The Wicked Village (Clochemerle-Babylone, 1956).

Others translated into English include Sainte Colline (1937), Cherry (Ma Petite Amie Pomme, 1940), The Affairs of Flavie or The Euffe Inheritance (Les Héritiers Euffe, 1945) and Mascarade (1948).

Other books in French include Clarisse Vernon, Propre à Rien, Chemins de Solitude and Le Petit Général.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gabriel_...

Reviews

[Ted · Rating 5 out of 5]

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 was written many evenings ago 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!



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[Lynne King · Rating 4 out of 5]

I was really surprised this morning to come across this book on GRs. I read this book years ago and it's a real gem portraying French village life (Clochmerle-en-Beaujolais in this case). It's satirical, descriptive, evokes wonderful thoughts but it's the mayor who brings particular interest to this village.

Monsieur le Maire, Barthélemy Piéchut wants to have a building constructed:

“Yes a building - and a useful one too, from the point of view of public health as well as public morals. Now let us see if you are clever Tafardel. Have a guess –“

Mr Ernest Tafardel, was the local teacher, town clerk and the mayor’s right-hand man and confidant whenever it suited Mr Piéchut and when the mayor mentioned this, Mr Tafardel had no idea. But when the mayor announced that he wanted to have a urinal constructed opposite the church, and paid for at the town’s expense there was, of course, a public outcry.

Curé Ponosse is not amused.

This is Rabelaisian satire at its best. I just loved it!

[João Reis · Rating 5 out of 5]

Gabriel Chevallier is the author of "Fear" (La Peur), one of my favourite books and arguably the best war novel ever. If you haven't read it, you should go and grab a copy as soon as possible.

So, this novel is quite different from Fear. Set in a rural French town in 1922, this book follows the lives of some prominent characters.
Idiotic politicians, priests not exactly prone to celibacy, Leftists against Conservatives and the Church, wine, and of course a lot of extra-marital carnal love. Chevallier's writing is ironic, his style fluent and engaging, and this novel is full of wity remarks on politics, society, mankind and war. A humorous, unique and excellent novel not recommended for internet social warriors.

[Joselito Honestly and Brilliantly · Rating 5 out of 5]

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.

[Mira Baldaranova · Rating 4 out of 5]

Kнигата пресъздава живота в провинциален френски град, носещ метафоричното име „Клошмерл“, което крие в себе си златно ключе към посланието й – „Камбаната с косовете“. Легендата разказва, че когато в църквата на тамошния манастир биели камбаната, гнездящите наоколо косовете се разбягвали, вдигайки невъобразим шум. Е, така се случва.

Запленен от красотата на природата в Божоле и легендите за сладостно упойващия вкус на божолезко вино, след живописните лъкатуши на пътя читателят внезапно попада на главната улица на Клошмерл и бива запознат не само с кадастралния му план, а по традиция и с най-важните персони на всеки провинциален градец – кмета, даскала и попа.

„Читателят трябва да има предвид, че се намираме в сърцето на Божоле, край на хубавото вино, което се плъзга лесно по гърлото, но е коварно за главата �� то разпалва изведнъж красноречието и диктува възклицанията и предизвикателствата.“

Персонажите тук са неповторими, кипящи и сладостно тръпчиви като божолезко вино. Кметът - дребен хитрец, обсебен от властолюбие. Учителят – доказателство, че образованието у един кръгъл глупак може да направи големи работи. А кюрето Понос – беден селски свещеник, плах и усърден в своята мнима благочестивост и неспособен да поведе клошмерци по пътя на истинската такава.

Вино, жени, пари. Голямото порочно триединство. Във фабулата на книгата Шевалие сипва премерено от всичко, разбърква методично, добавя с чувство за хумор щипка политически идеи, религия и военни униформи, и оставя сюжета да отлежи за кратко, за да избухне в кулминацията си. И всичко започва съвсем непретенциозно с изграждането на първия писоар в градчето. Чудо невиждано, с което кметът и учителят дерзаят да възпитат по-естетични физиологични навици у своите съграждани.

„Трябва да мислим за младото поколение, което сме длъжни да възпитаваме в духа на традиционния и весел героизъм на френския войник, който знае да умира кокетно.“

Лековатата жизнерадост на французите, слабостта им към любовни подвизи и безгранично честолюбие се срещат с недъгави политици и нелепо военно тщеславие. Елегантна сатира на френското общество през първата половина на 20 век.

Но от всичко това струи закачлива ирония и свободно гъделичкаш гърлото смях. Остава лесно разпознаваемото усещане за позитивност, любов към живота и внимание към човешката личност, която след всичкото това лутане все някога ще намери правия път, ще получи възмездие и ще поиска прошка. И ще й бъде дадена - от ближния, от селското кюре и най-вече от автора.

Остава и увереността, че съдбата на нациите зависи от спецификата в нравите на гражданите им. Така е било през онази 1923г. Така е и днес. Шевалие си остава космополитен.

Повече: http://knizhka-s-mishka.eu/

[Jim · Rating 5 out of 5]

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.

[ΑνναΦ · Rating 5 out of 5]

L'annata memorabile del Beaujolais (edizione E/O)

Mi sono imbattuta in questo libro per caso, incuriosita dall'autore de «La paura», che tratta di temi del tutto diversi, da quelli di questi divertente libro. Divertente lo è certamente, ma sarebbe riduttivo definirlo solo un libro divertente, è una vera satira di costume, uno spaccato di vita rurale e provinciale che ruota introno al paesino francese di Clochmerle, inizi anni venti, nella bella regione vinicola del Beaujolaix. La satira e la contrapposizione tra sacro e profano lo hanno accostato al nostro Guareschi, ma a mio avviso la satira provinciale, di certa vita di provincia e di certi atteggiamenti provinciali per esteso, è molto più presente nel libro di Chevallier. La trama è piuttosto semplice: un sindaco maneggione pensa a come aumentare la sua popolarità nel paese che governa, decide così di far costruire un vespasiano proprio al centro del paese, tra il Municipio, la chiesa, l'emporio e l'albergo. Ben presto l'ameno luogo si divide in due fazioni, i provespasiani e i controvespasiani, capeggiati questi da Giustina Putet, beghina e zittella che vive come un affronto l'uso del vespasiano da parte dei clochemerlini, non schiodandosi però mai dalle finestre ove si sorbisce, da vera martire, le operazioni aduse in quel luogo, non disdegnando poi di alzar su una vera guerriglia urbana per abbattere l'ignominioso orpello, mettendo in mezzo sindaco, prete, notabili e facendo un putiferio mai visto a Clochemerle che culmina con botte da orbi in chiesa, il giorno del sacro patrono. (…) La furia della femminilità negata da Chevallier è personificata in questa donna sulla quale l'autore, ad vero mangiapreti preti di spirito veterorivoluzioanrio, abbatte la sua scure satirica con non nascosto piacere, come su tutte le beghine falsamente morali, o morali non per colpa loro. Molto più indulgente è la sua penna trattando di personaggi normali, che vivono una vita piena, non stretta nelle privazioni sensuali che arrecano tanto danno a chi le subisce e all'intero paese, giacché le beghine pinzochere frustrate metton su una vera guerriglia urbana che varà risonanza in tutta la regione!

A queste fazioni “politiche” si aggiungono vecchi odii, gelosie paesane e muliebri, trame, anzi «macchiavellismi da campagnoli» vendette, scene boccacesche e da baruffe chiozzotte, che mai scadono nel volgare grazie alla stupenda penna di Chevallier, mirabilmente tradotta, così tra becere lavandaie dalle lingue aguzze, brutte beghine, pinzochere (plauso per il riesumare di questo fiorentinismo caduto in disuso e che riassume una miriade di atteggiamenti mentali muliebri) tra il notabili, prelati, belle ostesse e ubriaconi, tra zuffe, lotte politiche e bene più popolane, si dipana un armamentario di tipologie umane eterne, come le maschere di Goldoni, cosa che rende il libro, oltre che molto gradevole e ben scritto, un vero spaccato di vita provinciale o come forma mentis almeno, che ci fa baluginare nelle mente persone reali che oggigiorno, nel mondo smart e duepuntozero, colto e mentalmente agile e aperto, privo di vecchi, muliebri atteggiamenti paesani, si incontrano tuttavia sovente anche nei luoghi più impensati, tali da farci capire come questo classico, ristampato da E/O in stupenda traduzione e con un titolo molto wertmülleriano a fronte dell'originale “Clochemerle”, sia un testo davvero molto attuale. Una parola la vorrei spendere per la scrittura elegante, brillante, persino aulica che è il valore aggiunto di questo testo e ciò che rende la satira ancor più tagliente. Piccoli brani esemplari a modesto esempio.

La più accanita accusatrice di Giditta Toumignon si chiamava Giustina Putet, sua vicina immediata, caporalessa delle beghine di Clochemerle, la quale poteva sorvegliare dalla sua finestra la parte posteriore dell'emporio boggiolese. Di tutti gli odii che la commerciante doveva subire, quello della zittellona era il più attento e il più efficace[...] Trincerata nella cittadella della sua inespugnabile vitù, questa Giustina Putet censurava severamente i costumi del paese e specialmente quelli di Giuditta Tourmignon, il cui prestigio e gli allegri scoppi di voce e le risate squillanti erano per lei strazianti e quotidiane offese. La bella negoziante era felice e lo dimostrava, questo era difficile da perdonarsi.

Le descrizioni dei personaggi principali sono meravigliose, sono troppo pigra per trascriverle, ma fatevi un regalo quest'estate, leggete questo libro, riderete e rifletterete quanto moderno e sempre antico sia il mondo! Cinque stelle convinte al gaudente fustigatore dei benpensanti e degli ipocriti di tutti i tempi e luoghi.

[Vasko Genev · Rating 3 out of 5]

Най-силно впечатление ми направи това изречение: "На най-издадената част на този нос през 1878 година бил очертан главният площад на Клошмерл, където построили през 1892 година новото кметство, което служи същевременно и за училище." Видя ми се гениално, накара ме да се замисля, че ако у нас имаше подобна практика нямаше да има толкова много закрити училища...

Много точно Клошмерл е описан като сатиричен роман. Нещо повече, постоянно затвърждавах усещането си, че чета анимация. Абсолютна анимация :)
Накрая, малко се уморих от орнаментиката на текста, но книжката е много добра. Пълна е с пресилени и смешни "мъдрости", някои от които съвсем достоверно са потвърдени от фактите :)

Хубавата търговка беше щастлива и го показваше. А това е нещо, което трудно се прощава.

А пладнетата бяха същински удари със сопа по главата. Човек трябваше да се изтегне зад затворените капаци в прохладните, застлани с плочи помещения, които миришеха на плодове и козе сирене, и да му удари една дрямка след храна, като предварително постави в кофа вода, извадена от кладенеца, нещо за изплакване на устата, когато се събуди.
Най-сетне това беше време, което правеше непонятни болестите, катастрофите, земетресенията, края на света, лошия гроздобер, време, при което човек можеше да спи спокойно и на двете си уши. да му домилее отново собствената му жена, да престане да пляска хлапетата си, да забрави да брои стотинките си, да му отпусне края на всичко, понесен от този огромен оптимизъм.

Определено това изречение попада в класацията "най-дълги":

Трябва да се спрем за малко на един нежен образ на девойка, свежа и целомъдрена до немай къде, обземана последователно ту от плама, ту от меланхолията на своята възраст, от огромни възторзи и дълбоки депресии, дошли направо от сърцето й, но въпреки това винаги прелестна, неспособна да изпита нито тъга, нито надежда, които при нея се следват като промените на небето, без да вложи в тях онова вродено и мимолетно очарование, онова меко сияние, което отличава създанията, родени да любят всеотдайно, и именно поради това — като несъзнателни носителки на едно плахо и страшно покорство в състояние да предизвика у тях най-ужасен бунт — те отрано биват повлечени от призванието си, веднага щом в обсега на взора им се появи съществото, с което ги свързва за цял живот безпогрешното им предчувствие.

Необяснимо и изменчиво безумие. По склоновете на една планина със съвсем леки и приятни извивки, позлатена от отминаващото вече лято, сред един облагодетелствуван край, чийто хоризонт беше изп��лнен само с мекота и усмивки, под едно сияещо от снизходителност и любов небе три хиляди клошмерлски глави бучаха от глупава ярост, разваляха този толкова хубав покой и цял Клошмерл кипеше от сплетни, закани, спорове, заговори, скандали. Разположен тук като някаква засмяна столица на щастието, като оазис на мечтите сред един смутен свят, този градец, изневерявайки на традиционното си благоразумие, беше почнал да пощурява.

Баби Мамур пееше най-вече с краката си — и всички признаваха, че има очарователен глас.

Генералът на свой ред пощуряваше. Навярно от слънцето или пък беше претоварил стомаха си на обед. Майорът не знаеше какво да отговори. Той беше един твърде смирен майор, слаб в хитрите ходове, тъй като не беше преминал през Военното училище. Той почваше да разбира, ала много късно, че питието на генерала, храната на генерала, леглото на генерала, чишкането на генерала, ординарецът на генерала, малката приятелка на генерала, капеланът на генерала, конят на генерала, фъшкиите на коня на генерала, всичко, което създаваше настроението на генерала, имаше значение във войната, много по-голямо значение изобщо от войниците на генерала…

Но той не престана да мисли върху тези първи произшествия във войната. И скоро направи следното важно откритие: на война пияният човек върви право.

Швейцария заявяваше:
— Тъй като сме неутрална страна, която никога няма да се бие, ние можем да се въоръжаваме колкото си щем, това няма никакво значение.

— Аз мислех — замънка експертът, — че това би било в интереса на Франция…
Твърде неприятно извинение, което изглежда никак не се хареса на министър-председателя.
— Франция, това съм аз! — извика той. — До ново нареждане!

— Чувате ли, господине! — каза министър-председателят. — Пет милиона! С такова нещо, не съществува обществено мнение. И знайте и това: Френската преса не е от скъпите, при положение, че човек не може вече да вади горе-долу спокойно хляба си чрез нея.

Минало е време и всеки ден то е носело своя дял от малки занимания, от малки радости, скърби, грижи, и безспирното му действие е напукало паметта на хората, която в повечето случаи е крехка, с много слаб капацитет, предвидена за един просто смешен срок.

[Jonathan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Clochemerle was originally published in France in 1934 and translated into English by Jocelyn Godefroi. The story takes place in the 1920s in the sleepy Beaujolais town and begins with two inhabitants of the town, the mayor Barthélemy Piéchut and the schoolmaster Ernest Tafardel, trying to decide upon something that will show the world just how progressive a town Clochemerle is. Every town has a war memorial, a public library will be of no interest to the locals, but Piéchut thinks he knows what the town needs—a public urinal. And where will it be situated? Well, the position of the urinal is what drives much of the novel, as Piéchut intends the urinal to be placed close to the church. The church is 'wedged in between two blind alleys' and it was at the opening of one of these alleys that Piéchut proposed the urinal should be placed. Looking out on the urinal will be the Curé Ponosse from his classroom and Justine Putet, the most devout inhabitant of the town. Piéchut's intention is to irritate the church and to 'be seen' to irritate the church as he had recently been criticised as being under the control of the church and nobility.

Chevallier populates the town with a whole load of brilliant characters and spends two chapters just introducing us to some of them. We meet the Curé Ponosse who first came to Clochemerle thirty years earlier and we learn how he acquired a taste for the local wine and of his arrangements with his housekeeper, Honorine, to satisfy any other urges—in fact, it is Honorine who suggests it to him.

    'Poor young man,' she said, 'you must find it very hard at your age, always being alone. It's not human, that sort of thing...After all, you are a man!'
    'Oh dear, oh dear, Honorine!' the Curé Ponosse answered with a sigh, turning crimson, and suddenly attacked by guilty inclinations.
    'It'll end by driving you silly, you may depend on it! There have been people who've gone off their heads from that.'
    'In my profession, one must mortify oneself, Honorine!' the unhappy man replied feebly.
    But the faithful servant treated him like an unruly child: 'You're not going to ruin your health, are you? And what will it be to God if you get a bad illness?'

When Ponosse discovers that Honorine had a similar 'arrangement' with the previous Curé, he relents and makes confessional arrangements with the Curé in a nearby village who has similar arrangements with his housekeeper. At the time of the novel Ponosse is more interested in the local wine and his pipe, much to the annoyance of Honorine.

Other characters include the Baroness Courtebiche, a rather imperious noble woman; Judith Toumignon, the beautiful wife of François, owner of the Beaujolais Stores. All the women of Clochemerle were envious of Judith and all the men desired her; Hippolyte Foncimage, Judith's elegant lover; Dr Mouraille, the incredibly brutal and insensitive doctor; the notary Girodot, his wife and his nineteen year-old daughter, Hortense—described as 'a strange family' who seemed to like money above everything else. Chevallier delights in giving us the details of all these characters; and with the description of Justine Putet, Chevallier really excels himself:

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 a 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.

And so, it is on a glorious April day, 'as though the world had had a fresh coat of paint', that the urinal is 'opened' to the public. The inauguration is part of a fête and there are many guests and many speeches, and although the Baroness declines the offer to attend she sends her son-in-law in her place. This snub by the Baroness is just further proof to Piéchut that he has succeeded in his political manouevrings.

And so, what could possibly go wrong? Well, the urinal becomes a sort of hang-out for the local teenagers who start to lark about and there is a steady stream of visitors. As Justine Putet's house overlooks the urinal she watches what is going on and is furious with the depravity of her fellow citizens, especially with the larking about of the boys. She tries to get others to support her opposition to the urinal but it's a slow business as most people aren't as bothered as she is. But she persists and whenever something bad happens she's the first to blame the corrupting influence of the urinal; such as when a girl gets pregnant. Slowly support grows and the battle ensues between the Urinophobes and the Urinophiles.

I won't reveal much more of the plot but it's all rather funny and farcical. The characters are all expertly described and then let loose to cause chaos. Tensions between the inhabitants of the town escalate culminating in a fight in the church between Judith Tourmigan's husband, François, and Nicholas, the beadle. Up to this point Chevallier has expertly ramped up the tensions between the characters but I feel he loses control of the story a bit from hereon, especially when he switches the focus of the story to Paris as the scandals start to get the attention of the Parisian politicians. In the end the army get involved but I feel it would have worked better if he'd kept the focus entirely on Clochemerle, which would have made it feel more claustrophobic. The 'interludes' in Paris just seem unnecessary.

There is nothing in human affairs that is a true subject for ridicule. Beneath comedy lies the ferment of tragedy; the farcical is but a cloak for coming catastrophe.

[J.M. Hushour · Rating 5 out of 5]

"A crusade was undertaken from the pulpit against the urinal, the cause of all the evil which, by attracting the boys to a spot where the girls had to pass, had incited the latter to a shameful traffic with the Devil."

It's rare that I read something that makes me laugh out loud. Chevallier accomplishes this throughout and the wonderful thing is that it is as much his style as what happens under it that had me chuckling constantly under my breath. He is sort of a Gallic Flann O'Brien, with a vicious turn of speech and contempt for morons of all stripes.
In the titular village in the Beaujolais, the enterprising mayor decides to build a public urinal next to the church as a sign of local progress. Shit hits the fan quick as the local "pious" and "conservatives", enraged at the sudden rash of pregnancies among churchgoing girls, blame it on the urinal and the public shaking of members that the young men engage in, as a kind of fleshy flag-waving at their female counterparts. Campaigns are aroused as much as the youth, the aristocracy strikes back, and much hilarity enuses.
Peopled by goddess, cuckolds, enterprising peasants and idiots of every political hue, Clochemerle the village serves as a nice reminder of how funny and weird and beautiful life can be while at the same time savaging Reaction and closed-mindedness, no mean feat for a novel written between the two World Wars!

[Ренета Кирова · Rating 3 out of 5]

Не помня много от книгата, преди години е четена и щом нямам спомени, значи тогава не ми е допаднала особено :).

[Miriama · Rating 4 out of 5]

Táto kniha z antikvariátu ma prekvapila. V dobrom! Počas celého čítania som sa nesmierne bavila. Satirická kniha s úžasnými opismi obyvateľov malého francúzskeho mesta a celkovo nabitá udalosťami navodzujúcimi úsmev, povedala by som až nadčasová. Vôbec mi neprišlo, že bola napísaná v prvej tretine 20.storočia. Skvelý preklad plný ľubozvučných slovenských slov, aké dnes už ťažko stretnete v literatúre a nevadilo mi ani preloženie francúzskych mien, kedy vznikli také skvosty ako: Bartolomej Stonoha, Cyprián Strašifták, Dora Trepáková, kapitán Čelomvzad... Vo Zvonodrozdove sa starosta rozhodne postaviť verejný záchodík, ktorý na prvý pohľad spôsobí medzi obyvateľmi nezhody - avšak pozorný čitateľ zistí, že je to len zámienka. Nasledujú ďalšie neuveriteľné udalosti.

[Vicky · Rating 5 out of 5]

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!

[lanius_minor · Rating 2 out of 5]

Humoristickou knížku, kter�� mi nesedne stylem humoru, zpravidla odkládám nepřečtenou/nedočtenou. To je třeba osud Osudů dobrého vojáka Švejka, který mi dosud nebyl dost dobrý, abych se do něj pustila. Zvonokosy, ten útrpně líně vyprávěný příběh s banální zápletkou a sexistickým podáním, by na tom nebyly jinak, nebýt bez sebemenších pochyb výborného překladu pana Zaorálka. Těmi třemi stovkami stránek jsem se pročetla čistě z úcty k němu. A jemu též patří ta jedna hvězdička v hodnocení navíc.

[Michel · Rating 4 out of 5]

Don Camillo in Burgundy.
I was like 10 years old when I read this. You can imagine the mirth (read: guffaws) of a (male) pre-teener, reading the story of a mayor who wants to build a urinal against the parish church, and the plotting between parish priest and conservative parishioners!
I want to read it again. Might not be quite so funny now, tho.

[Drka · Rating 5 out of 5]

I read this book over forty years ago and promptly fell in love with rural France. This heartwarming story of the grand opening of a public urinal in a small village is utterly charming and still makes me smile when I think about it. Living in Australia has made it difficult (and expensive) to visit France regularly but I have managed a pilgrimage every five or six years. Paris is a beautiful city but Dordogne, Lot and the Auvergne captured my heart, and rural France is the only other country I could live in apart from my own beautiful land.
I must find my own old, red-bound copy and reread it!

[Maya · Rating 5 out of 5]

Къде другаде, ако не във Франция ще назрее почти революционна ситуация заради един писоар?!
Героите на Шевалие странно ми напомнят за тези на Чудомир - не само защото са от едно и също време, а и защото кметът, даскалът, попът, кръчмарят, местните клюкарки и хубавици по същия начин са в основата на живота в провинциалното градче, било то френско или българско. Но откровено хапливият език на Шевалие е навлязъл много под незлобивата ирония. "Под ножа" е пуснато всичко - политика, армия, църква, та дори и провалилата се конференция по разоръжаване в Женева (където, впрочем, споменава и България). Изобщо, както самият Шевалие пише, "няма нищо действително смешно в човешките работи, защото всички таят в себе си нещо безмилостно, развръзката на всички става с болка и унищожение. Под комичното назрява трагичното; под смешното кипят ламтежи; под шегата се подготвя драмата. Настъпва винаги един миг, когато хората пораждат повече жалост, отколкото преди това отвращение."

[Marvin Picklejar · Rating 4 out of 5]

La vie d’un petit village de la région française du Beaujolais, vers 1923. Les personnages sont plus vrais que nature. J’ai adoré le style de la narration. Dans le même genre, je recommande “Uranus” de Marcel Aymé.

[Joelb · Rating 3 out of 5]

Clochemerle was written in 1923, depicting the daily life and petty rivalries of a provincial small town in France. I was hoping for some genuine flavor of what small-town life in France was like at that time, but have decided that I can’t trust the depiction. The author’s intention is to create a humorous story, and he largely succeeds. The characters are delightfully silly and self-centered and are good for some laughs, but I have no idea as to whether they are representative. I suspect not.
The conflict which drives the plot is the town’s difference of opinion over the mayor’s grand plan to improve the health and well-being of the town by constructing a public pissoir. He locates the urinal across from the church, effectively foregrounding the conflict between church and state. It’s clear that the author’s sympathies are not with the church, as he creates a weak-spined, ineffectual priest whose primary support comes from frustrated old maids.
If this novel is to be believed, French village-dwellers in the 1920s almost constantly found themselves in bed with the spouses of others. These trysts are usually presented as matters of male conquest for seducers and humiliation for cuckolds. Apart from a couple of strong, sexually self-possessed women, the story of sex is a story of male pride. This seems to me to be one way this novel is dated.
One amusing aspect is the way that a local issue, like the pissoir, can become a matter for government and church bureaucracies to adjudicate. It stretches credulity to think that government officials and bishops could strategize about turning this situation to their advantage, but it is a comic novel, after all.
I’m happy that I read it, but wouldn’t especially recommend it to others. The “Bruno” novels of Martin Walker seem to me to be s more reliable guide to French village life.

[Luisa · Rating 4 out of 5]

CHE BELLO!
Questa è una delle tipologie di romanzo che preferisco! Descrizione umoristica e divertente di un piccolo paesino francese degli anni '20, costellato di personaggi bizzarri ed eccentrici, che ancora oggi si possono ritrovare nei piccoli paesini di provincia. Tradotto in maniera fantastica, ricco di spunti di riflessione in chiave comica.

Consigliatissimo!
[Grazie Simona per il regalo, beccato in pieno!]

"Io ora vi farò un'osservazione sul mio modo di intendere le cose.
L'arrivo dei soldati è una storia che fa sempre dar di volta al cervello delle donne. Si dice che è la vista dell'uniforme a produrre quest'effetto. Secondo me, invece, è una così grande abbondanza di uomini in piena attività e freschezza, le occhiate dei quali bruciano la pelle,alle donne, l'idea che i soldati sono sempre pronti a venire al sodo, sempre pronti all'andare all'attacco senza chiedere consiglio o domandare il permesso. Pensano le donne di poter essere vittime di un bel tentativo di violenza carnale, e questo infiamma il loro sangue: deve venire, probabilmente, dalle loro arciarcitrisnonne, le quali subivano tutte quante quelle belle violenze carnali quando le bande di briganti passavano il paese. Insomma è facile vedere che questa idea di soldati mette in moto in loro un mucchio di affari che sonnecchiano in fondo alla loro natura."

[Huw Evans · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is one of my all time favourites and, having leant it to somebody else (Paddy if you're reading this, it was you) i have not been able to find another without breaking the law. The synopsis of the plot is the fallout that follows the installation of a urinoir in a sleepy French village. The characters are beautifully observed and the description of events is mastefully understated. I need to find another copy so I can re-read this masterpiece fo French fiction.

[Valantin]

Незнам защо се харесва толкова много това книжле - дори описанията на природата бяха повече за обстановка, отколкото за приятност. Историята с нищо не носи поука - тривиална селска пиянщина с псевдо-нравствени устои. Диалозите - гола вода.
За втори път в живота си съжалих, че съм отделила време за книга!

[Michael David · Rating 3 out of 5]

'When religion falls into the hands of dirty trollops, they get dirtier,' and 'when disasters happen, you mustn't expect to find there's been much human intelligence shown.'

It would have been among the best novels ever if it was more tightly-written, but the lack of cohesion of the novel's prose detracts the brilliance of its mordant humor. It is nevertheless a good satire.

[Pascale · Rating 3 out of 5]

A nice, classic story of local politics and how people in a backwater make mountains out of molehills. Yet I expected rather more from a book whose title has become a commonplace name for a certain type of behavior. Chevallier's insights into crowd psychology aren't particularly acute and he spends rather too much time on sex. His caricature of sexually frustrated spinsters feels quite dated.

[Kaloyana · Rating 3 out of 5]

Чудесен стил. Богат език и много остроумно написана книга, интересна и смешна, без да се заливаш от смях обаче. Образите са колоритни и добре описани, както и взаимоотношенията между героите и техните характери. Чудно лятно четиво.

[Peter · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is one of my favourite books of all time.

Funny, quaint, naughty, and endearing.

It's one of the few books which have made me laugh out loud.

[Chris · Rating 3 out of 5]

Bawdy goings-on in rural France between the wars. Very good at character and plot — the humor is occasionally barbed, a la Twain.

[Jan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nevím, jestli jsem se víc červenal studem z těch všech prasečinek, nebo tetelením se nad půvabností překladu z roku 1937.

[John Ratliffe · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book delivers a boon of subtle satire aimed at the population of a small French village in the Beaujolais wine district near Lyon. The village in 1938 is a place where keeping a secret is nearly impossible, and the characters stand out as what we think of as quintessentially French: clever, witty, stubborn, and unashamedly earthy. The author gives the reader a steady diet of Rabelaisian humor that lays bare the French attitude toward human nature and their sexual escapades, with and without benefit of clergy. In such a small village the women have to make do with the limited number of available males, and the men must have mistresses in order to be considered virile. And everybody in the village knows this very human behavior is going on.

A young doctor sets up his practice in the village and eventually teams up with a hometown boy who has returned from America rich with oil money to plan and build a therapeutic watering hole using the local mineral springs, to be augmented by steady doses of vintage reserve Beaujolais, that drastically changes life in the village. Using guile, flattery, and females for bait the young doctor marshals the support of leading doctors from Paris and Lyon along with the politicians to create a world-class hydrotherapy spa. Much self-important dialog occurs among the ego-driven doctors whom the author presents in an unflattering light, poking fun at their professional pretensions and quasi-medical quackery of the day, but never being really mean to any of them.

This is not a novel that I would have chosen myself. It was suggested by a German friend who actually spent time on a farm near this village as a post World War II teenager. He rode his scooter alone into France with the idealistic notion of renewing friendship between German and French youth following the years of war. He said the book is a spot-on recreation of village life among the vineyards where he worked and learned French.

I found the book a bit wordy at times, especially when dealing with the confabulations of the doctors as they pontificate about the supposed medical benefits of the spring waters, while they were really rubbing their palms together in anticipation of big payoffs from rich spa clients. Seems to me this is an age-old phenomenon in Europe, and dare I say, perfectly French.