Review by Glenn Russell
The Voyage of Julius Pingouin by French author Frédéric
Boutet (1874-1941) and translated by Brian Stableford is the 2nd of 3
books of the writer’s short fiction published by Borgo Press. If
you are up for the very strange and peculiar, you will not be disappointed
with this collection of 15 weird, wacky short-stories and a novella in
80 pages featuring a madcap voyage reminiscent of Terry Gilliam’s
‘The Adventures of Baron Munchausen’. The language of these
uncanny tales has a touch of the baroque but the storytelling is straightforward
and makes for easy, enjoyable reading.
Again, the stories are as weird as weird can be. For example, we encounter
a trip to the Paris aquarium made by hypocritical, lustful aristocrats
but ultimately a tale told through the eyes of a family of fish; a serenade
sung by a guitar-playing lover beneath the balcony of his beloved but
ultimately an angel outwits the lover’s shadow and he is transformed
into the balcony’s ivy; a ventriloquist suckers a wealthy businessman
into paying a fortune for his talking dog; a forlorn nephew relates how
his 52-year-old aunt ran a race against a locomotive and gained honor
for her family but dropped dead after crossing the finish line; a skeleton
from the city’s graveyard forces its way into the narrator’s
house to partake of the warmth of his fire and the pleasure of a cigar
and lively conversation; a forsaken lover returns from the dead to impose
her presence on a young man who forsook romanticism for the practical
demands of his father.
To provide a sampling of the author’s voice and convey something
of the tone of these stories, here are quotes along with my observations
on one tale I found particularly striking -- The Young Man with the
Vipers. The narrator begins thus, “It happened in the studio
of the painter Reginal Givre, who was the victim of it. It wasn’t
him who told me about it – the poor fellow can no longer tell anyone
about anything, as you’ll understand shortly. I heard the whole story
all the same, and I’m revealing it in order that Reginal Givre’s
friends will know the reason for the sudden and disadvantageous change
that has been recently manifest in his personality and in order that they
can intervene if necessary.”
The narrator continues by telling us a few days before the deadline for
submission to the Salon young aspiring artists were in a delirium, rapidly
putting the finishing brushstrokes on the painting they planned to submit.
Reginal Givre was no exception. In his gloomy studio with its sinister
and bizarre shadows, its oval faced mirror and huge ebony clock, Reginal
Givre sits before his splendid (splendid in his own mind, that is) self-portrait,
having downed three glasses of whiskey. Reginal Givre studies his self-portrait:
there he is with a golden viper around his temples, another around his
neck, and still another around his right arm. He is holding a flower with
its stem painted as a serpent and there is also a forked red tongue at
its tip. Reginal Givre reflects with satisfaction how his self-portrait
is symbolic as he downs yet again another glass of whiskey. Quite fuzzy-brained
and with a self-satisfied air he starts talking out loud to himself when
he suddenly hears a voice and immediately realizes his oil portrait is
addressing him, making pointed comments about his self-satisfied pretensions.
Here is a bit of dialogue betwixt the portrait and Reginal:
-“First of all,” observed the portrait, “it’s not
me they’re admiring – it’s you, as a painter and a model.
Secondly, your amiable people are just a load of boors that you call your
friends, and profligate whores that you make into your mistresses as soon
as you can, without any regard for my modesty. If you think I’m made
of wood, you’re mistaken . . . “
-“I know that, “ Reginal sniggered. You’re made of oil
pigments.”
-“And you’re made of whatever composes an imbecile!” cried
the portrait, angrily. “And I’ve finally had enough. It’s
disgusting living here. It’s even more disgusting to think that I’ll
soon be going to exhibit myself to the examination of entire populations
with the grotesque appearance that you’ve chosen to give me .“
-“What? No art criticism!” Reginal interjected. “Anyway,
if I exhibit you, it’s for our glory.”
-“It’s for your glory, you mean – and it’s truly shameful
that no one kicks you out of exhibitions, because you paint like a pig.
Oh, no! Enough! Don’t drink anymore! I’ve a lot to say this
evening, and you’re already drunk . . . .”
And the heated argument continues until it reaches a point where the
portrait threatens to keep talking and moving, thus preventing Reginal
from applying the needed varnish. Reginal, in turn, threatens his portrait
with a trip to the loft to be gnawed by rats. Aghast, the portrait proposes
an wager, a role of the dice: if he loses, he will agree to be varnished;
if he wins, then Reginal will switch places with him – Reginal becomes
the portrait and he becomes the painter. A very drunk Reginal thinks he
has nothing to lose and wobbles over to pick up the dice.
I’ll stop here although I suspect a reader can guess the outcome.
I am thoroughly captivated by such tales of obsession, glory-seeking and
occult transformation triggered by a life immersed in the arts. And Frédéric
Boutet has penned this and his other strange stories in the tradition
of high literary fiction.
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