‘You will excuse us for receiving you in this way in our poor dwelling. We cannot all be wealthy.’

After three compelling, and completely different novels, Zola's Rougon-Macquart takes yet another turn in the fourth installment. Returning us to Plassans, and numerous characters from the first novel, this is one of Zola's anti-clerical novels, a sign of the foreboding role the Church had played in propagating both the Monarchy and then the Empire (and also of the author's own biases)!

I don't think I liked this one as much as the previous three, although I very much appreciated seeing the core members of the families again. For two reasons, perhaps. 1) I think that greater knowledge of the period is needed not to understand the plot which is straightforward, but to understand the implications. And 2) I prefer the literary artistry of the sumptuous descriptions in The Belly of Paris, the overt symbolism of The Kill, and the sheer narrative breadth of The Fortune of the Rougons. For all of the above, I suspect normal people might enjoy this novel more than me! It's pacy and more focused than the others.

Nevertheless, what shines here is Zola's gift for characterisation. Especially Marthe Rougon, the character at the centre of the novel, whose rise and fall are not just visible in terms of the narrative but in terms of her reactions, her thoughts, her every breath. ( )

Quando il silenzio conquista, ossia l’abate Faujas.

Marthe era desolata. Guardava, intorno a sé, la casa felice, immersa nell’addio del sole, il giardino, dove l’ombra diventava più scura; guardava i suoi figli, la sua felicità addormentata, raccolta, lì, in quello stretto angolo. (8)

L’abate Faujas, ogni volta che la tirava su questo argomento, avvertiva in lei (Marthe) una vaga amarezza. Era certamente felice, come assicurava; ma egli credeva di individuare antichi conflitti in quella natura nervosa, acquietata ora dall’avvicinarsi della quarantina. E s’immaginava il dramma: una moglie e un marito, simili all’aspetto, che tutti i conoscenti giudicavano fatti l’uno per l’altra, mentre invece dentro di loro, nel profondo del loro essere, il fermento dell’origine bastarda e l’irrequietezza del sangue misto e sempre ribelle esasperavano l’antagonismo di due temperamenti diversi. Poi, si spiegava le rinunce fatali di una vita ritmata, l’usura dei caratteri per le cure quotidiane del commercio, la torpida indolenza di quelle due nature nella fortuna conquistata in quindici anni e goduta modestamente, in fondo al quartiere deserto di una piccola città. Oggi, nonostante fossero tutti e due ancora giovani, sembrava che in loro non fosse rimasta che cenere. (88)

L’abate Faujas, nel mezzo di tanta gioia trionfante, rimaneva serio. Per lui, la vittoria era una pesante realta’. Il cicaleccio della signora Condamin lo stancava; la soddisfazione di quegli ambiziosi volgari lo riempiva di disprezzo. In piedi, appoggiato contro il caminetto, sembrava sognare, con gli occhi fissi lontano. Era il padrone, non aveva piu’ bisogno di mentire, di dominare i suoi istinti; poteva allungare la mano, prendere la citta’, farla tremare. Quell’alta figura nera riempiva il salotto. A poco a poco, le poltrone si erano avvicinate, formando un cerchio intorno a lui. Gli uomini si aspettavano che dicesse una parola di soddisfazione; le donne lo sollecitavano con lo sguardo, come schiave sottomesse. Ma egli, brutalmente, rompendo il cerchio, se ne ando’ via per primo, accomiatandosi con brevi parole. (306-7)

L’abate Faujas, impassibile, lasciava passare quel fiotto di parole ardenti.
Non c’e’ niente, non c’e’ niente! - continuo’ lei (Marthe) con trasporto; - allora mi avete ingannata… Mi avete promesso il cielo, di sotto, sulla terrazza, durante quelle serate piene di stelle. Io ho accettato. Mi sono venduta, mi sono abbandonata. Ero pazza, durante quelle prime lusinghe della preghiera… Oggi i conti non tornano piu’; desidero ritornare nel mio angolo, ritrovare la mia vita tranquilla. Mettero’ tutti alla porta, sistemero’ la casa, rammendero’ la biancheria al mio solito posto, sulla terrazza… Si’, mi piaceva rammendare la biancheria. Cucire non mi stancava… E voglio che Desiree stia accanto a me, sul suo panchetto; rideva, faceva le bambole, cara bambina innocente… (329)

E per come va a finire… Zola non e’ Dickens...

( )

Zola offers up small town politics and a descent into madness fueled by the appearance of a priest with an aversion to bathing and sketchy relatives. It's not my favorite one so far, but still Zola. ( )

After two books set in the metropolis, we return to the claustrophobic small-town setting of Plassans (Aix-en-Provence) for this fourth book in the series. The Mourets have let their top floor to Abbé Foujas, who has been transferred to a minor appointment in the cathedral at Plassans after getting into some unspecified bother in Besançon. Over a period of several years, we see the scruffy, tetchy and apparently unsophisticated priest - without any obvious effort - gradually gaining more and more influence over the Mouret household, the local clergy, and the politics of the town. And of course, we know how it's all going to end, since this is Zola: catastrophically.

Because of the way that the political story is mostly told indirectly through the small-scale domestic tragedy of the Mourets, Zola doesn't give himself much room in this book for the kind of narrative excesses that we are looking for in a Zola novel, especially if we've just read Le ventre de Paris. There are some nice minor flourishes, like the two grand social-work projects the Abbé presides over, both designed with the sole purpose of preventing under-age working-class girls from debauching the sons of the haute-bourgeoisie (well, it couldn't happen the other way round, could it?), and the bishop's lovely young chaplain who spends his time either reading Ovid to Monseigneur or playing badminton, and there's a very Zolaesque grand guignol final scene, but the rest is really rather flat. Barchester Towers with a higher body-count and fewer laughs... ( )

#4 Rougon-Macquart, and not my favorite.

This time the topic is half first cousins Marthe Rougon and Francois Mouret, who have been married for 20 or so years and have 3 kids--2 sons and a mentally disabled daughter. Over the course of the book, they rent a room to a priest and his mother when he is assigned too Plassans. This makes Marthe become very interested in church, which she never attended before. The priest is a bit odd, as he works his way into society, but over a few years he has made his power play within the bishopric. Meanwhile, the kids have all left the house, and the priest's sister and her husband have also rented a room from the Mourets.

This is all church and small-town politics and society. Not my cup of tea in general, and certainly not my favorite Zola. ( )