Part I, Book 1, Chapter 5
Monseigneur Bienvenu Made His Cassocks Last Far Too Long
Before I get on to anything else, Victor Hugo breaks the fourth wall in this chapter. In a passage that serves no real plot purpose (but then again, isn’t that most of this book so far?), he offers examples of the stuff the bishop reads, which includes “the theological works of Hugo, bishop of Ptolemais, great-great-uncle of the author of this book,” and as an example of how brilliant the bishop is, says that he “establishes that the various tracts published during the last century under the pseudonym of Barleycourt are to be attributed to this bishop.”
Victor Hugo, did you write this chapter just so you could set the record straight about your great-great-uncle’s nom de plume?
Other than reminding us that he is the author of the brick we’re reading and that his great-great-uncle was smart and awesome, Hugo’s intention with this chapter is to establish the bishop’s daily routine, which is so spartan and efficient that Jack Dorsey is probably taking notes somewhere.
The bishop’s meals are simple to the point of being bleak; his breakfast and lunch are rye bread dipped in milk, which sounds only slightly better than the toast sandwich, a depressingly absurd item inflicted on us by the British who seem determined to outperform the rest of the world in inventing sad foods. Dinner is boiled vegetables and soup, unless he has a parish priest to dinner and needs something fancier, at which point Madame Magloire rustles up some fish from the lake or game from the mountains. I am genuinely concerned that my darling Monsieur Bienvenu has a nutritional deficiency.
The bishop also wears a purple coat at all times, not in a pimpin’ way, but in a “gotta hide how ragged my cassock is because I refuse to replace it” way, which means he’s extremely uncomfortable walking around (no carriage for this man, remember?) in summer. Myriel, my guy, surely we can get you like, one new piece of linen for hot weather or something. This man is approaching Doug Forcett levels of self-inflicted misery.
In between his purely functional meals and overheating in his coat, the bishop gets a lot done. His days are full of endless meetings, he does a ton of reading, and he has to write a bunch of correspondence as well as a newsletter, and this is where I related very strongly as someone who also writes a newsletter because it’s a lot of work!! And with whatever time he has left over, he meets with the needy, sick, and bereaved.
At this point I have to point out the real MVP here, who is Madame Magloire. Obviously, I love the bishop and I think he’s a perfect cinnamon roll and if the next chapter were called “The Bishop Kicks a Puppy” I would think, that puppy probably had it coming.
But the only reason the bishop is able to do a million meetings and write his newsletter and help those in need, all in a day, is because he’s got a freaking housekeeper freeing up his time by feeding him and cleaning and keeping the household going, all on 1,000 francs a year. I guarantee you that if the bishop had to make his own bread and boil his own vegetables and do the dishes after each meal and launder his worn-ass cassock himself (all tasks that require hauling water and building and tending fires, which is time-consuming and physically exhausting labor), he wouldn’t be able to do more than a tiny fraction of what he does, much less meditate for an hour—a whole hour!—each morning.
So chapeau to you, Madame Magloire, the real hero here.
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