narrates, he stays intriguingly offstage. In the last instalment, when Napoleon III declares war on Prussia, there is only the merest hint – and it needs fairly strenuous interpretation – that our speaker is the busy thirty-year-old who is about to embark on the twenty-volume
Rougon-Macquart
novel cycle, with the achievement of
Thérèse
Raquin
(1867) already behind him. ‘Zola’ just shuttles around Paris, seemingly without ambition, as his friends are drawn deeper into the conflict, the city’s siege approaching. The real Zola was in Marseille; more to the point – as his self-effacement discreetly implies – he was exempt from military service, being the only son of a widow (square that with his bellicose opening paragraphs). By the time ‘Three Wars’ was published, Zola could self-efface as much as he liked:
L’Assommoir
had been published, and all Europe knew his name.
–
Anthony Cummins, 2013
A Note on the Text
These translations are based on the texts of ‘L’Inondation’, ‘Le Sang’ and ‘Les Trois Guerres’ as collected in Henri Mitterand’s edition of the
Oeuvres complètes
(Paris: Cercle du Livre précieux, 1966–70), vol. 9. ‘L’Inondation’ was first published in Russian (‘Navodnenie’,
Vestnik Evropy
, Aug. 1875) before appearing, in Zola’s original French, in the collection
Le Capitaine Burle
(Paris: Charpentier, 1882). ‘Le Sang’ was first published in
La Revue du Mois
, Oct. 1863, then collected in
Contes à Ninon
(Paris: Hetzel & Lacroix, 1864). The book was translated into English as
Stories for Ninon
by Edward Vizetelly (London: William Heinemann, 1895). ‘Les Trois Guerres’ was first published in Russian (‘Moi vosponninaya iz voennyx epox’,
Vestnik Evropy
, Apr. 1877), then in French (‘Mes souvenirs de guerre’,
Le Bien Public
, 10, 17 and 24 Sep. 1877), before appearing, under its eventual title and with the introduction that is translated here, in the multi-authored collection
Bagatelles
(Paris: Dentu, 1892). Edmund Gosse translated it into English, in
The Attack on the Mill: and other sketches of war
(London: William Heinemann, 1892).
1
My name is Louis Roubieu. I am seventy. I was born in Saint-Jory , a village several miles up the Garonne from Toulouse. For fourteen years I fought with the earth to keep bread on the table. Then the good times came; last month, I was still the richest farmer in the village.
It was as if we were blessed. We had a happy home; the sun was on our side, and I don’t remember one bad harvest. There were nearly a dozen of us at the farm, living in this bliss: I was leading the young ones to work, still able to hold my own; my younger brother Pierre, who never married – he was a retired sergeant; and my sister Agathe, who moved in with us after her husband died – a formidable woman, stout, carefree, with a laugh you’d hear from the other side of the village. Then there was the whole gang: my son Jacques, his wife Rose, and their three girls Aimée, Véronique and Marie. Aimée was married to Cyprien Bouisson, a great strapping fellow who was the father of her two little boys; one aged two, the other ten months. Véronique was only just engaged; she was going to marry Gaspard Rabuteau. And Marie, she was quite the young lady – so fair, so blonde, she looked like a city girl. That was ten, counting everyone. I was a grandfather and a great-grandfather. At mealtimes, I had my sister Agathe to my right and my brother Pierre to my left; the children closed the circle, sitting oldest to youngest, their heads decreasing in size, right down to the ten-month-old who was already tucking in to his food like a grown man. All you’d hear would be the sound of spoons scraping plates! The kids could eat all right. Mealtimes were always great fun. ‘Give us some bread then, granddad!’ I felt a surge of pride and joy whenever the little ones reached their hands out to me. ‘A big slice, granddad!’
Those were the days! We
Rougon-Macquart
novel cycle, with the achievement of
Thérèse
Raquin
(1867) already behind him. ‘Zola’ just shuttles around Paris, seemingly without ambition, as his friends are drawn deeper into the conflict, the city’s siege approaching. The real Zola was in Marseille; more to the point – as his self-effacement discreetly implies – he was exempt from military service, being the only son of a widow (square that with his bellicose opening paragraphs). By the time ‘Three Wars’ was published, Zola could self-efface as much as he liked:
L’Assommoir
had been published, and all Europe knew his name.
–
Anthony Cummins, 2013
A Note on the Text
These translations are based on the texts of ‘L’Inondation’, ‘Le Sang’ and ‘Les Trois Guerres’ as collected in Henri Mitterand’s edition of the
Oeuvres complètes
(Paris: Cercle du Livre précieux, 1966–70), vol. 9. ‘L’Inondation’ was first published in Russian (‘Navodnenie’,
Vestnik Evropy
, Aug. 1875) before appearing, in Zola’s original French, in the collection
Le Capitaine Burle
(Paris: Charpentier, 1882). ‘Le Sang’ was first published in
La Revue du Mois
, Oct. 1863, then collected in
Contes à Ninon
(Paris: Hetzel & Lacroix, 1864). The book was translated into English as
Stories for Ninon
by Edward Vizetelly (London: William Heinemann, 1895). ‘Les Trois Guerres’ was first published in Russian (‘Moi vosponninaya iz voennyx epox’,
Vestnik Evropy
, Apr. 1877), then in French (‘Mes souvenirs de guerre’,
Le Bien Public
, 10, 17 and 24 Sep. 1877), before appearing, under its eventual title and with the introduction that is translated here, in the multi-authored collection
Bagatelles
(Paris: Dentu, 1892). Edmund Gosse translated it into English, in
The Attack on the Mill: and other sketches of war
(London: William Heinemann, 1892).
1
My name is Louis Roubieu. I am seventy. I was born in Saint-Jory , a village several miles up the Garonne from Toulouse. For fourteen years I fought with the earth to keep bread on the table. Then the good times came; last month, I was still the richest farmer in the village.
It was as if we were blessed. We had a happy home; the sun was on our side, and I don’t remember one bad harvest. There were nearly a dozen of us at the farm, living in this bliss: I was leading the young ones to work, still able to hold my own; my younger brother Pierre, who never married – he was a retired sergeant; and my sister Agathe, who moved in with us after her husband died – a formidable woman, stout, carefree, with a laugh you’d hear from the other side of the village. Then there was the whole gang: my son Jacques, his wife Rose, and their three girls Aimée, Véronique and Marie. Aimée was married to Cyprien Bouisson, a great strapping fellow who was the father of her two little boys; one aged two, the other ten months. Véronique was only just engaged; she was going to marry Gaspard Rabuteau. And Marie, she was quite the young lady – so fair, so blonde, she looked like a city girl. That was ten, counting everyone. I was a grandfather and a great-grandfather. At mealtimes, I had my sister Agathe to my right and my brother Pierre to my left; the children closed the circle, sitting oldest to youngest, their heads decreasing in size, right down to the ten-month-old who was already tucking in to his food like a grown man. All you’d hear would be the sound of spoons scraping plates! The kids could eat all right. Mealtimes were always great fun. ‘Give us some bread then, granddad!’ I felt a surge of pride and joy whenever the little ones reached their hands out to me. ‘A big slice, granddad!’
Those were the days! We
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