There was, however, one thing that he did not know, and that

WITH ZOLA IN ENGLAND

A STORY OF EXILE

TOLD BY

ERNEST ALFRED VIZETELLY

TO

VIOLETTE AND TO VICTOR

TO DORA AND TO BOTH MARIES

DEAR WIFE AND ROMPING DAUGHTER

I LOVINGLY INSCRIBE

THIS LITTLE BOOK

He begged for Light! . . Lo, Darkness fell,

And round him cast its stifling pall!

In vain he clamoured! Ev'ry Hell

Poured forth its fumes to drown his call.

He cried for Truth! . . Lo, Falsehood came,

In robes of Impudence array'd,

Polluting Patriotism's name,

Degrading Honour to a trade.

He asked for Justice! . . Lo, between

Him and the judgment-seat there rose

The Sword of Menace, ever keen

To smite the braggart War-Wolf's foes!

Light, Truth, and Justice all denied,

He struggled on 'mid threat and blow--

A brave Voice battling by his side--

Till Error's minions struck him low.

Yet is his faith not dead, nor mine:

O'er deepest gloom, o'er worst distress,

Ever the mighty Sun doth shine

Aglow with Truth and Righteousness.

The blackest clouds are rent at last;

And the divine resistless flame

Through all, some morn, its blaze shall cast,

The Wrong disclose, the Right proclaim!

E. A. V.

February 23, 1898.

[Printed in 'The Star' on the morrow of M. Zola's condemnation in Paris]

PREFACE

All that I claim for this little book, reprinted from the columns of 'The

Evening News,' is the quality of frankness. I do not desire to check or

disarm criticism, but I have a right to point out that I have performed

my work rapidly and have largely subordinated certain literary

considerations to a desire to write my story naturally and simply, in

much the same way as I should have told it in conversation with a friend.

Very rarely, I think, have I departed from this rule.

The book supplies an accurate account of Emile Zola's exile in this

country; but some matters I have treated briefly because he himself

proposes to give the world--probably in diary form--some impressions of

his sojourn in England with a record of his feelings day by day whilst

the great campaign in favour of the unfortunate Alfred Dreyfus was in

progress.

First, however, M. Zola intends to collect in a volume all his published

declarations, articles and letters on the Affair. Secondly, he will

recount in another volume his trials at Paris and Versailles; and only in

a third volume will he be able to deal with his English experiences. The

last work can scarcely be ready before the end of 1900, and possibly it

may not appear until the following year. And this is one of the reasons

which have induced me to offer to all who are interested in the great

French writer this present narrative of mine. Should the master's

promised record duly appear, my own will sink into oblivion; but if, for

one or another reason, M. Zola is prevented from carrying out his plans,

here, then, will at least be found some account of one of the most

curious passages in his life. And then, perchance, my narrative may

attain to the rank of _memoire pour servir_.

I have said that I claim for my book the quality of frankness. In this

connection I may point out that I have made in it a full confession of

certain delinquencies which were forced on me by circumstances. I trust,

however, that my brother-journalists will forgive me if I occasionally

led them astray with regard to M. Zola's presence in England; for I did

so purely and simply in the interests of the illustrious friend who had

placed himself in my hands.

That M. Zola should have applied to me directly he arrived in London will

surprise none of those who are aware of the confidence he has for several

years reposed in me. A newspaper referring to our connection recently

called the great novelist 'my employer.' But there has never been any

question of employer or employed between Mr. Zola and me. I should

certainly never think of accepting remuneration for any little service I

might have been able to render him; nor would he dream of hurting my

feelings by offering it. No. The simple truth is that for some years now

I have translated M. Zola's novels into English, and that I have taken my

share of the proceeds of the translations. For the rest our intercourse

has been purely and simply that of friends.

It is because, I believe, I know and understand Emile Zola so well, that

I never once lost confidence in him throughout the events which led to

his exile in England. That exile, curiously enough, I foreshadowed in a

letter addressed to the 'Star' some months before it actually began.

When, however, one has been intimate with the French for thirty years or

so it is not, to my thinking, so very difficult to tell what is likely to

happen in a given French crisis. The unexpected has to be reckoned with,

of course; and much depends on ability to estimate the form which the

unexpected may take. Here experience, familiarity with details of

contemporary French history, and personal knowledge of the men concerned

in the issue, become indispensable.

On January 16, 1898, three days after M. Zola's famous 'J'accuse' letter

appeared in 'L'Aurore,' and two days before the French Government

instructed the Public Prosecutor to proceed against its author, I wrote

to the 'Westminster Gazette' a long letter dealing with M. Zola's

position. In this letter, which appeared in the issue of the 19th, I

began by establishing a comparison between Zola and Voltaire, whose

action with regard to the memory of Jean Calas I briefly epitomised.

Curiously enough at that moment M. Zola, as I afterwards learnt, was

telling the Paris correspondent of the 'Daily Chronicle' that the

opposition offered to his advocacy of the cause of Alfred Dreyfus was

identical with that encountered by Voltaire in his championship of Calas.

This was a curious little coincidence, for I wrote my letter without

having any communication with M. Zola respecting it. It contained some

passes which I here venture to quote. In a book dealing with the great

novelist these passages may not be out of place, as they serve to

illustrate his general attitude towards the Dreyfus case.

'Truth,' I wrote, 'has been the one passion of Emile Zola's life.* "May

all be revealed so that all may be cured" has been his sole motto in

dealing with social problems. "Light, more light!"--the last words gasped

by Goethe on his death-bed--has ever been his cry. Holding the views he

holds, he could not do otherwise than come forward at this crisis in

French history as the champion of truth and justice. Silence on his part

would have been a denial of all his principles, all his past life. . . .

Against him are marshalled all the Powers of Darkness, all the energy of

those who prefer concealment to light, all the enmity of the military

hierarchy which has never forgotten "La Debacle," all the hatred of the

Roman hierarchy which will never forgive "Lourdes" and "Rome." And the

fetish of Patriotism is brandished hither and thither, rallying even

free-thinkers to the cause of concealment, while each and every appeal

for light and truth is met by the clamorous cry: "Down with the dirty

Jews!"

* He himself wrote these very words seventeen months later in

his article 'Justice,' published in Paris on his return from

exile.

'For even as Jean Calas was guilty of being a Protestant so is Alfred

Dreyfus guilty of being a Jew, and at the present hour unhappily there

are millions of French people who can no more believe in a Jew's

innocence than their forerunners could believe a Protestant to be

guiltless. Zola, for his part, is no Jew, nor can he even be called a

friend of the Jews--in several of his books he has attacked them somewhat

violently for certain tendencies shown by some of their number--but most

assuredly does he regard them as fellow-men and not as loathsome animals.

In the same way Voltaire wrote pungent pages against the narrow practices

of Calvinism and yet espoused the causes of Calas and Sirven, even as

Zola has espoused that of Dreyfus. The only remaining question is whether

Zola will prove as successful as his famous forerunner. [Nearly the whole

of the European press was at that stage expressing doubt on this point.]

In this connection I may say that I regard Zola as a man of very calm,

methodical, judicial mind. He is no ranter, no lover of words for words'

sake, no fiery enthusiast. Each of his books is a most laborious,

painstaking piece of work. If he ever brings forward a theory he bases it

on a mountain of evidence, and he invariably subordinates his feeling to

his reason. I therefore venture to say that if he has come forward so

prominently in this Dreyfus case it is not because he _feels_ that wrong

has been done, but because he is absolutely _convinced_ of it. Doubtless

many of the expressions in his recent letter to President Faure have come

from his heart, but they were in the first place dictated by his reason.

It is not for me here and at the present hour to speak of proofs, however

great may be public curiosity; but most certainly Zola has not taken up

this case without what he considers to be abundant proof. I do not say he

will be able to prove each and every item of his great indictment, but

when you wish to bring everything to light it is often necessary to cast

your net so wide that none shall escape it, none linger in concealment

with their actions unexplained. And I take it that whatever be the

verdict of Zola's countrymen, whether or not Alfred Dreyfus be again and

this time absolutely proved guilty . . . Zola himself will have done good

work in striving to bring the whole truth to light so that it shall be as

evident to one and all as the very sun itself. And this, when all is

said, is really Zola's one great object in this terrible business.

'I may add that he is risking far more than his great predecessor risked

in favour of Calas. Voltaire pleaded from his retirement on the Swiss

frontier; Zola pleads the cause he has adopted on the very spot, on the

very scene of all the agitation. Anonymous assassins threaten him with

death in letters and postcards. Fanatical Jew-baiters march through the

streets anxious for an opportunity to wreck his house and murder not only

himself but his wife also in the sacred name of Patriotism.* Should their

menaces be escaped there remains the Assize Court with a jury that will

need to be brave indeed if it is to resist all the pressure of a

deliberately organised "terror." At the end possibly lie imprisonment,

fine, disgrace, ruin. How jubilantly some are already rubbing their hands

in the bishops' palaces, the parsonages, the sacristies of France! Ah! no

stone will be kept unturned to secure a conviction! But Emile Zola does

not waver. It may be the truth, the whole truth will only be known to the

world in some distant century; but he, anxious to hasten its advent and

prevent the irreparable, courageously stakes all that he has, person,

position, fame, affections, and friendships. . . . And this he does for

no personal object whatsoever, but in the sole cause of truth and

justice, ever repeating the cry common to both Goethe and himself:

"Light, more light!"

* There is not the slightest doubt that M. Zola incurred the

greatest personal danger between January and April 1898.

M. Ranc, the old and tried Republican, who knows what danger

is, has lately pointed this out in forcible terms in the

Paris journal _Le Matin_.

'Ah! to all the true hearts that have followed and loved him through

years of mingled blame and praise, hard-earned victory and unmerited

reviling, he is at this hour dearer even than he was before; for he has

now put the seal upon his principles, and to the force of precept has

added that of the most courageous personal example.'

This then is what I wrote immediately after the publication of Zola's

letter 'J'accuse,' basing myself simply on my knowledge of the master's

character, of the passions let loose in France, and of a few matters

connected with the Dreyfus case, then kept secret but now public

property. And had I to write anything of the kind at the present time, I

should, I think, have but few words to alter beyond substituting the past

for the present or future tense. In one respect I was mistaken. I did not

imagine the truth to be quite so near at hand. Since January 1898,

however, nine-tenths of it have been revealed and the rest must now soon

follow. And I hold, as all hold who know the inner workings of l'Affaire

Dreyfus, that M. Zola's exile, like his letter to President Faure and his

repeated trials for libel, has in a large degree contributed to this

victory of truth. For by going into voluntary banishment, he kept not

only his own but also Dreyfus's case 'open,' and thus helped to foil the

last desperate attempts that were being made to prevent the truth from

being discovered.

I should add that in the following pages I deal very slightly with

l'Affaire Dreyfus, on which so many books have already been written.

Indeed, as a rule, I have only touched on those incidents which had any

marked influence on M. Zola during his sojourn in this country.

E. A. V.

MERTON, SURREY.

June 1899.

WITH ZOLA IN ENGLAND

I

ZOLA LEAVES FRANCE

From the latter part of the month of July 1898, down to the end of the

ensuing August, a frequent heading to newspaper telegrams and paragraphs

was the query, 'Where is Zola?' The wildest suppositions concerning the

eminent novelist's whereabouts were indulged in and the most

contradictory reports were circulated. It was on July 18 that M. Zola was

tried by default at Versailles and sentenced to twelve months'

imprisonment on the charge of having libelled, in his letter 'J'accuse,'

the military tribunal which had acquitted Commandant Esterhazy. On the

evening of the 19th his disappearance was signalled by various telegrams

from Paris. Most of these asserted that he had gone on a tour to Norway,

a course which the 'Daily News' correspondent declared to be very

sensible on M. Zola's part, given the tropical heat which then prevailed

in the French metropolis.

On the 20th, however, the telegrams gave out that Zola had left Paris on

the previous evening by the 8.35 express for Lucerne, being accompanied

by his wife and her maid. Later, the same day, appeared a graphic account

of how he had dined at a Paris restaurant and thence despatched a waiter

to the Eastern Railway Station to procure tickets for himself and a

friend. The very numbers of these tickets were given!

Yet a further telegram asserted that he had been recognised by a

fellow-passenger, had left the train before reaching the Swiss frontier,

and had gaily continued his journey on a bicycle. But another newspaper

correspondent treated this account as pure invention, and pledged his

word that M. Zola had gone to Holland by way of Brussels.

On July 21 his destination was again alleged to be Norway; but--so

desperate were the efforts made to reconcile all the conflicting

rumours--his route was said to lie through Switzerland, Luxemburg, and

the Netherlands. His wife (so the papers reported) was with him, and they

were bicycling up hill and down dale through the aforenamed countries.

Two days later it was declared that he had actually been recognised at a

cafe in Brussels whence he had fled in consequence of the threats of the

customers, who were enraged 'by the presence of such a traitor.' Then he

repaired to Antwerp, where he was also recognised, and where he promptly

embarked on board a steamer bound for Christiania.

However, on July 25, the 'Petit Journal' authoritatively asserted that

all the reports hitherto published were erroneous. M. Zola, said the

Paris print, was simply hiding in the suburbs of Paris, hoping to reach

Le Havre by night and thence sail for Southampton. But fortunately the

Prefecture of Police was acquainted with his plans, and at the first

movement he might make he would be arrested.

That same morning our own 'Daily Chronicle' announced M. Zola's presence

at a London hotel, and on the following day the 'Morning Leader' was in a

position to state that the hotel in question was the Grosvenor. Both

'Chronicle' and 'Leader' were right; but as I had received pressing

instructions to contradict all rumours of M. Zola's arrival in London, I

did so in this instance through the medium of the Press Association. I

here frankly acknowledge that I thus deceived both the Press and the

public. I acted in this way, however, for weighty reasons, which will

hereafter appear.

At this point I would simply say that M. Zola's interests were, in my

estimation, of far more consequence than the claims of public curiosity,

however well meant and even flattering its nature.

One effect of the Press Association's contradiction was to revive the

Norway and Switzerland stories. Several papers, while adhering to the

statement that M. Zola had been in London, added that he had since left

England with his wife, and that Hamburg was their immediate destination.

And thus the game went merrily on. M. Zola's arrival at Hamburg was duly

reported. Then he sailed on the 'Capella' for Bergen, where his advent

was chronicled by Reuter. Next he was setting out for Trondhiem, whence

in a few days he would join his friend Bjornstjerne Bjornson, the

novelist, at the latter's estate of Aulestad in the Gudbrandsdalen.

Bjornson, as it happened, was then at Munich, in Germany, but this

circumstance did not weigh for a moment with the newspapers. The Norway

story was so generally accepted that a report was spread to the effect

that M. Zola had solicited an audience of the Emperor William, who was in

Norway about that time, and that the Kaiser had peremptorily refused to

see him, so great was the Imperial desire to do nothing of a nature to

give umbrage to France.

As I have already mentioned, the only true reports (so far as London was

concerned) were those of two English newspapers, but even they were

inaccurate in several matters of detail. For instance, the lady currently

spoken of as Mme. Zola was my own wife, who, it so happens, is a

Frenchwoman. At a later stage the 'Daily Mail' hit the nail on the head

by signalling M. Zola's presence at the Oatlands Park Hotel; but so many

reports having already proved erroneous, the 'Mail' was by no means

certain of the accuracy of its information, and the dubitative form in

which its statement was couched prevented the matter from going further.

At last a period of comparative quiet set in, and though gentlemen of the

Press were still anxious to extract information from me, nothing further

appeared in print as to M. Zola's whereabouts until the 'Times' Paris

correspondent, M. de Blowitz, contributed to his paper, early in the

present year, a most detailed and amusing account of M. Zola's flight

from France and his subsequent movements in exile. In this narrative one

found Mme. Zola equipping her husband with a nightgown for his perilous

journey abroad, and secreting bank notes in the lining of his garments.

Then, carrying a slip of paper in his hand, the novelist had been passed

on through London from policeman to policeman, until he took train to a

village in Warwickshire, where the little daughter of an innkeeper had

recognised him from seeing his portrait in one of the illustrated

newspapers.

There was something also about his acquaintance with the vicar of the

locality and a variety of other particulars, all of which helped to make

up as pretty a romance as the 'Times' readers had been favoured with for

many a day. But excellent as was M. de Blowitz's narrative from the

romantic standpoint his information was sadly inaccurate. Of his _bona

fides_ there can be no doubt, but some of M. Zola's friends are rather

partial to a little harmless joking, and it is evident that a trap was

laid for the shrewd correspondent of the 'Times,' and that he, in an

unguarded moment, fell into it.

On the incidents which immediately preceded M. Zola's departure from

France I shall here be brief; these incidents are only known to me by

statements I have had from M. and Mme. Zola themselves. But the rest is

well within my personal knowledge, as one of the first things which M.

Zola did on arriving in England was to communicate with me and in certain

respects place himself in my hands.

This, then, is a plain unvarnished narrative--firstly, of the steps that

I took in the matter, in conjunction with a friend, who is by profession

a solicitor; and, secondly, of the principal incidents which marked M.

Zola's views on some matters of interest, as imparted by him to me at

various times. But, ultimately, M. Zola will himself pen his own private

impressions, and on these I shall not trespass. It is because, according

to his own statements to me, his book on his English impressions (should

he write it) could not possibly appear for another twelve months, that I

have put these notes together.

The real circumstances, then, of M. Zola's departure from France are

these: On July 18, the day fixed for his second trial at Versailles, he

left Paris in a livery-stable brougham hired for the occasion at a cost

of fifty francs. His companion was his _fidus Achates_, M. Fernand

Desmoulin, the painter, who had already acted as his bodyguard at the

time of the great trial in Paris. Versailles was reached in due course,

and the judicial proceedings began under circumstances which have been

chronicled too often to need mention here. When M. Zola had retired from

the court, allowing judgment to go against him by default, he was joined

by Maitre Labori, his counsel, and the pair of them returned to Paris in

the vehicle which had brought M. Zola from the city in the morning. M.

Desmoulin found a seat in another carriage.

The brougham conveying Messrs. Zola and Labori was driven to the

residence of M. Georges Charpentier, the eminent publisher, in the Avenue

du Bois de Boulogne, and there they were presently joined by M. Georges

Clemenceau, Mme. Zola, and a few others. It was then that the necessity

of leaving France was pressed upon M. Zola, who, though he found the

proposal little to his liking, eventually signified his acquiescence.

The points urged in favour of his departure abroad were as follows: He

must do his utmost to avoid personal service of the judgment given

against him by default, as the Government was anxious to cast him into

prison and thus stifle his voice. If such service were effected the law

would only allow him a few days in which to apply for a new trial, and as

he could not make default a second time, and could not hope at that stage

for fresh and decisive evidence in his favour, or for a change of tactics

on the part of the judges, this would mean the absolute and irrevocable

loss of his case.

On the other hand, by avoiding personal service of the judgment he would

retain the right to claim a new trial at any moment he might find

convenient; and thus not only could he prevent his own case from being

closed against him and becoming a _chose jugee_, but he would contribute

powerfully towards keeping the whole Dreyfus affair open, pending

revelations which even then were foreseen. And, naturally, England which

so freely gives asylum to all political offenders, was chosen as his

proper place of exile.

The amusing story of the nightgown tucked under his arm and the bank

notes sewn up in his coat is, of course, pure invention. A few toilet

articles were pressed upon him, and his wife emptied her own purse into

his own. That was all. Then he set out for the Northern Railway Station,

where he caught the express leaving for Calais at 9 P.M. Fortunately

enough he secured a first-class compartment which had no other occupant.

M. Clemenceau had previously suggested to him that on his arrival at

London he might well put up at the Grosvenor Hotel, and it is quite

possible that the same gentleman handed him--as stated in the 'Times'

narrative--a slip of paper bearing the name of that noted hostelry. But,

at all events, this paper was never used by M. Zola. He has an excellent

memory, and when he reached Victoria Station at forty minutes past five

o'clock on the morning of July 19, the name of the hotel where he had

arranged to fix his quarters for a few days came readily enough to his

lips.

There was, however, one thing that he did not know, and that was the

close proximity of this hotel to the railway station. So, having secured

a hansom, he briefly told the Jehu to drive him to the Grosvenor. At

this, cabby looked down from his perch in sheer astonishment. Then,

doubtless, in a considerate and honest spirit--for there are still some

considerate and honest cabbies in London--he tried to explain matters. At

all events he spoke at length. But M. Zola failed to understand him.

'Grosvenor Hotel,' repeated the novelist; and then, seeing that the cabby

seemed bent on further expostulation, he resolutely took his seat in the

vehicle. This driver, doubtless after the fashion of certain of his Paris

colleagues, must be trying to play some trick in order to avoid a long

journey. It was as well, therefore, to teach him to refrain from trifling

with his 'fares.'

However, cabby said no more, or if he did his words failed to reach M.

Zola. The reins were jerked, the scraggy night-horse broke into a

spasmodic trot turned out of the station, and pulled up in front of the

caravansary which an eminent butcher has done so much to immortalise.

Zola was astonished at reaching his destination with such despatch, and

suddenly became conscious of the cabby's real motive in expostulating

with him. However, he ascended the steps, entered the hotel, produced one

of the few hundred-franc notes which his purse contained, and asked first

for change and afterwards for a bedroom. English money was handed to him

for his note, and the night porter carried cabby the regulation shilling

for the journey of a few yards which had been made.

Then, as M. Zola had no luggage with him, he was requested to deposit a

sovereign with the hotel clerk and to inscribe his name in the register.

This he did, and the tell-tale signature of 'M. Pascal, Paris,' still

remains as a token of the accuracy of this narrative.

Such, then, was the way in which M. Zola travelled across London,

obligingly passed on from policeman to policeman, and carrying a slip of

paper--a 'way-bill,' as it were--in his hand! As the above account was

given to me by himself, it will probably be deemed more worthy of credit

than the amusing romance which was so successfully palmed off on M. de

Blowitz of the 'Times.'

Of his journey from Paris that night, he reclining alone in his

compartment as the Calais express rushed across the plains of Picardy

under a star-lit sky; of his embarking on board the little Channel boat

amidst the glimmer of lanterns, his transference to a fresh train at

Dover, followed by another and even faster rush on to London; of his

gloomy thoughts at this sudden severance from one and all, at speeding in

this lonely fashion into exile, and returning surreptitiously, as it

were, to the city where but a few years previously he had been received

as one of the kings of literature, he will ever retain a keen impression.

It was at Victoria that his journey ended, even as it had ended in 1893;

but how changed the scene! He finds the station gaunt and well-nigh

deserted; the few passengers are gliding away like phantoms into the

morning air; the porters loiter around, and the Customs officers

discharge their duties in a perfunctory, sleepy way. No crowd of Pressmen

and sightseers is present; there are no delegates and address, and

flowers, and cheers as of yore. Only cabby, who expostulates, and who

doubtless thinks this Frenchman a bit of a crank to insist upon being

driven just around the corner!

And at the hotel no army of servants appears to marshal the master to the

best suite of rooms on the principal floor. In lieu thereof comes a

doubtful greeting and a demand for a deposit of money, for fear lest he

should be some vulgar bilker. Then, once he is in the lift, he goes up

and up without stopping, until the very topmost floor is reached. And

afterwards he is marched along interminable passages, with walls painted

a crude, hideous shade of blue, so offensive to all artistic instinct as

verily to make one's gorge rise. Then at last he finds himself in a room

which, high as it is situated, is of lowly, common aspect. Yet he is only

too glad to reach it, and throw himself on the bed to rest awhile, and to

think.

New experiences are awaiting him. He is far away from the mob that pelted

his windows with stones and yelled 'Conspuez! Conspuez!' whenever he left

his house. Here there is no hostility. Here quietude prevails, save for

the shrill whistles of arriving or departing trains. Yet he is also far

from the great majority of his affections and friendships. But at this

remembrance a fresh thought comes to him; he takes one of his visiting

cards from his pocket-book, pencils a few lines on it, and encloses it in

an envelope ready to be posted. Then he again lies down; tired as he is,

after his exciting day at Versailles and his wearisome night journey, he

soon falls soundly asleep.

II

IN LONDON

On Tuesday, July 19, I went to London on business, and did not return to

my home in the south-western suburbs until nearly seven o'clock in the

evening. My wife immediately placed in my hands an envelope addressed to

me in the handwriting of M. Zola. At first, having noticed neither the

stamp nor the postmark, I imagined that the communication had come from

Paris.

On opening the envelope, however, I found that it contained a card on

which was written in French and in pencil:--

'My dear confrere,--Tell nobody in the world, and particularly

no newspaper, that I am in London. And oblige me by coming to

see me to-morrow, Wednesday, at eleven o'clock, at Grosvenor

Hotel. You will ask for M. Pascal. And above all, absolute

Silence, for the most serious interests are at stake.

'Cordially,

'EMILE ZOLA.'

I was for a moment amazed and also somewhat affected by this message, the

first addressed by M. Zola to anybody after his departure from France.

Since the publication of his novel 'Paris,' which had followed his first

trial, I had not seen him, and we had exchanged but few letters. I had

written to express my sympathy over the outcome of the proceedings at

Versailles, but owing to his sudden flitting my note had failed to reach

him. And now here he was in London--in exile, as, curiously enough, I

myself had foretold as probable some time before in a letter to one of

the newspapers.

My first impulse was to hurry to the Grosvenor immediately, but I

reflected that I might not find him there, and that even if I did I might

inconvenience him, as he had appointed the following day for my call. So

I contented myself with telegraphing as follows: 'Pascal, Grosvenor

Hotel.--Rely on me, tomorrow, eleven o'clock.' And, as a precautionary

measure, I signed the telegram merely with my Christian name.

As I afterwards learnt, M. Zola had spent that day companionless, walking

about the Mall and St. James's Park, and purchasing a shirt, a collar,

and a pair of socks at a shop in or near Buckingham Palace Road, where,

knowing no English, he explained his requirements by pantomime. He had

further studied several street scenes, and had given some time to

wondering what purpose might be served by a certain ugly elongated

building, overlooking a drive and a park. There was a sentry at the gate,

but the place had such a gaunt, clumsy, and mournful aspect, that M. Zola

could not possibly picture it as the London palace of her most Gracious

Majesty the Queen.

However, evening found him once more in his room at the Grosvenor; and

feeling tired and feverish he lay down and dozed. When he awoke between

nine and ten o'clock he perceived a buff envelope on the carpet near by

him. It had been thrust under the door during his sleep, and its presence

greatly astonished him, for he expected neither letter nor telegram. For

a moment, as he has told me, he imagined this to be some trap; wondered

if he had been watched and followed to London, and almost made up his

mind to leave the hotel that night. But when, after a little hesitation,

he had opened the envelope and read my telegram, he realised how

groundless had been his alarm.

On the morrow, when I reached the Grosvenor and inquired at the office

there for M. Pascal, I was asked my name, on giving which I received a

note from M. Zola saying that he unexpectedly found himself obliged to go

out, but would return at 2.30 P.M. As I stood reading this note, I espied

a couple of individuals scrutinising me in what I deemed a most

suspicious manner. Both were Frenchmen evidently; they wore billycock

hats and carried stout sticks; and one of them, swarthy and almost

brigandish of aspect, had the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his

buttonhole. It was easy to take these individuals for French detectives,

and I hastily jumped to the conclusion that they were on 'M. Pascal's'

track.

To make matters even more suspicious, when, after placing Zola's note in

my pocket, I began to cross the vestibule, the others deliberately

followed me, and in all likelihood I should have fled never to return if

a well-known figure in a white billycock and grey suit had not suddenly

advanced towards us from the direction of the staircase. In another

moment I had exchanged greetings with M. Zola, and my suspicious

scrutinisers had been introduced to me as friends. One of them was none

other than M. Fernand Desmoulin. They had arrived from Paris that

morning, and were about to sally forth with M. Zola in search of Mr.

Fletcher Moulton, Q.C., to whom they had brought a letter of introduction

from Maitre Labori.

Hence the note which M. Zola had already deposited for me at the hotel

office. Had I been a moment later I should have found them gone.

My arrival led to a change in the programme. It was resolved to begin

matters with lunch at the hotel itself, to postpone the quest for Mr.

Fletcher Moulton until the afternoon. I made, at the time, a note of our

menu. The 'bitter bread of exile' consisted on this occasion of an

omelet, fried soles, fillet of beef, and potatoes. To wash down this

anchoretic fare M. Desmoulin and myself ordered Sauterne and Apollinaris;

but the contents of the water bottle sufficed for M. Zola and the other

gentleman.

With waiters moving to and fro, nearly always within hearing, there was

little conversation at table, but we afterwards chatted in all freedom in

M. Zola's room just under the roof. Ah! that room. I have already

referred to the dingy aspect which it presented. Around Grosvenor Hotel,

encompassing its roof, runs a huge ornamental cornice, behind which are

the windows of rooms assigned, I suppose, to luggageless visitors. From

the rooms themselves there is nothing to be seen unless you throw back

your head, when a tiny patch of sky above the top line of the cornice

becomes visible. You are, as it were, in a gloomy well. The back of the

cornice, with its plaster stained and cracked, confronts your eyes; and

with a little imagination you can easily fancy yourself in a dungeon

looking into some castle moat.

'_Le fosse de Vincennes_,' so M. Zola suggested, and that summed up

everything. Yet it seemed to him very appropriate to his circumstances,

and he absolutely refused to exchange rooms with M. Desmoulin, who was

somewhat more comfortably lodged.

The appointments of M. Zola's chamber were, I remember, of a summary

description. There were few chairs, and so one of us sat on the bed. We

succeeded in procuring some black coffee, though the chambermaid regarded

this as a most unusual 'bedroom order' at that hour of the day; and when

M. Desmoulin had lighted a cigar, his friend a pipe, and myself a

cigarette, a regular Council of War was held. [N.B.--M. Zola gave up

tobacco in his young days, when it was a question of his spending

twopence per diem on himself, or of allowing his mother the wherewithal

to buy an extra pound of bread.]

The council dealt mainly with two points--first, what was M. Zola to do

in England? Should he go into the country, or to the seaside, or settle

down in the London suburbs? Since he wished to avoid recognition, it

would be foolish for him to remain in London, particularly at an hotel

like the Grosvenor. Then, for my benefit, the legal position was set

forth, as well as the object of taking Maitre Labori's letter to Mr.

Fletcher Moulton.

The chief point was, Could the French Government in any way signify the

judgment of the Versailles Court to M. Zola personally while he remained

in Great Britain? If the French officials could legally do nothing of

that kind, there would be less necessity for M. Zola to court retirement.

After the hurly-burly of _l'affaire Dreyfus_, he certainly needed some

rest and privacy, but the question was whether retirement would be a

necessity or a mere matter of convenience. Now the choice of a place of

sojourn depended on the answer to the second question, and it was

resolved, _nem. con._, that M. Desmoulin, who spoke a little English and

knew something of London, should forthwith drive to Mr. Fletcher

Moulton's house in Onslow Square, S.W., in accordance with the address

given on M. Labori's letter. M. Desmoulin's friend, on his side, was to

return to Paris that afternoon by the Club train. So, the council over,

both these gentlemen went off, leaving M. Zola and myself together.

We had a long and desultory chat, now on the Dreyfus affair generally,

now on M. Zola's personal position, the probable duration of his exile,

and so forth. He himself did not think that he would remain abroad beyond

October at the latest, and as there might be a delay if not a difficulty

in getting any clothes sent to him from Paris, he proposed to make a few

purchases.

It was then that he told me how he had already bought a shirt, collar,

and socks on the previous day.

'I had nothing but what I was wearing,' said he. 'I had been to

Versailles and had sat perspiring in the crowded court; then I had spent

the night travelling. I looked dirty, and I felt abominably

uncomfortable. So I go out, yesterday morning, and see a shop with

shirts, neckties, collars, and socks in the window. I go in; I take hold

of my collar, I pull down my cuffs, I tap my shirt front. The shopman

smiles; he understands me. He measures my neck; he gives me a shirt and

some collars. But then we come to the socks, and I pull up my trousers

and point to those I am wearing. He understands immediately. He is very

intelligent. He climbs his steps and pulls parcels and boxes from his

shelves.

'Here are socks of all colours, dark and light, spotted, striped, in

mixtures, in cotton, in wool, some ribbed and some with silk clockings.

But they are huge! I look at one pair; it is too big; he shows me another

and another; they are still of a larger size. Then, impatient, and

perhaps rather abruptly, I hold out my fist for the man to measure it,

and thus gauge the length of my foot as is done in Paris. But he does not

understand me. He draws back close to the shelves as if he imagines that

I want to box him. And when I again lift my foot to call his attention to

its size, he shows even greater concern. Fortunately an idea comes to me.

I take one of the mammoth socks that are lying on the counter and fold

parts of it neatly back, so as to make it appear very much smaller than

it is. Then the shopman suddenly brightens, taps his forehead, climbs his

steps again, and pulls yet more boxes and parcels from his shelves. And

here at last are the small socks! So I choose a pair, and pay the bill.

And the man bows his thanks, well pleased, it seems, to find that in

thrusting out my fist and raising my foot I had been actuated by no

desire to injure him.'

I was still chuckling over M. Zola's anecdote when M. Desmoulin returned

from his journey to Onslow Square. He had there interviewed a smart boy

in buttons, who had informed him that his learned master was out of town

electioneering, and might not be home again for a week or two. Desmoulin

had, therefore, retained possession of Maitre Labori's note of

introduction.

I now remembered what I ought to have recalled before--namely that Mr.

Fletcher Moulton was at that moment a candidate for the parliamentary

representation of the Launceston division of Cornwall. Under such

circumstances it was unlikely that his advice would be available for some

little time to come. And so all idea of applying to him was abandoned. It

may be that this narrative, should it meet the learned gentleman's eye,

will for the first time acquaint him with what was intended by M. Zola,

acting under Maitre Labori's advice.

M. Zola, I should add, remained most anxious to secure an English legal

opinion on his position, and I therefore suggested to him that I should

that evening consult a discreet and reliable friend of mine, a solicitor.

We, of course, well knew that there could be no extradition, but it was a

point whether a copy of the Versailles judgment might not be legally be

placed in M. Zola's hands, under such conventions as might exist between

France and Great Britain.

This, I thought, could be ascertained within the next forty-eight hours,

and meantime M. Zola might remain where he was, for I could not well

offer him an asylum in my little home. My connection with him as his

English translator being so widely known, newspaper reporters were

certain to call upon me, and what ever precautions I might take, his

presence in my house would speedily be discovered. On the other hand, M.

Desmoulin wished to go to Brighton or Hastings, but, in my estimation,

both those places, crowded with holiday-makers, were not desirable spots.

Leaving the Grosvenor, the three of us discussed these matters while

strolling up Buckingham Palace Road. It was a warm sunshiny afternoon,

and the street was full of people. All at once a couple of ladies passed

us, and one of them, after turning her head in our direction, made a

remark to her companion.

'Did you hear that?' Desmoulin eagerly inquired. 'She spoke in French!'

'Ah!' I replied. 'What did she say?'

'"Why," she exclaimed, "there's M. Zola!" Our secret is as good as gone

now! It will be all over London by to-morrow!'

We felt somewhat alarmed. Who could those ladies be? For my part I had

scarcely noticed them. Desmoulin opined, however, that they might

perchance be French actresses, members possibly of Madame Sarah

Bernhardt's company, which was then in London. And again he urged the

necessity of immediate departure. They must go to Hastings, Brighton,

Ramsgate--some place at all events where the author of 'J'accuse' would

incur less chance of recognition.

To me it seemed that some quiet, retired country village would be most

suitable. In any town M. Zola would incur great risk of being identified.

Moreover his appearance was conspicuous, his white billycock, his

glasses, his light grey suit, his rosette of the Legion of Honour, his

many characteristic gestures all attracted attention. If anything was to

be done he must begin by Anglicising his appearance. But whatever I might

urge I found him stubborn on that point; and, as for departure from

London, he preferred to postpone this until I should have seen my friend

the solicitor.

'Everything is as good as lost!' cried M. Desmoulin. 'How foolish, too,

of Clemenceau to have sent you to a swell hotel in a fashionable

neighbourhood! I am certain there are other French people staying at the

Grosvenor--I heard somebody talking French there this morning.'

This again might lead to unpleasantness, and I could see that the master

was gradually growing anxious. By this time, however, we had reached St.

James's Park, and there, as we seated ourselves on some chairs beside the

ornamental water, I led the conversation into another channel by

producing an evening newspaper, and reading therefrom successive

narratives of how M. Zola had sailed for Norway, how he had taken train

at the Eastern Terminus in Paris, and how he had been bicycling through

the Oberland on his way to some mysterious Helvetian retreat. Then we

laughed--ah! those journalists!--and fears were at an end.

The ducks paddled past us, the drooping foliage of the island trees

stirred in the warm breeze. On a bench near at hand a couple of vagrants

sat dozing, with their toes protruding through their wretched footgear.

Then a soldier, smart and pert, strolled up, a flower between his lips

and a good-looking girl beside him. Away in front of us were the top

windows and the roofs of St. Anne's Mansions. Farther, on the left, the

clock tower of Westminster glinted in the sun-rays.

'Fine ducks!' said M. Zola.

'A pretty corner,' added Desmoulin, waving his hand towards some branches

that drooped to the water's edge. And suddenly I remembered and told them

of another French exile, the epicurean St. Evremond, whose needs were

relieved by Charles II. appointing him governor of yonder Duck Island at

a salary of three hundred pounds a year.

'Well, I have little money in my pocket,' quoth Zola, 'but I don't think

I shall come to that. I hope that my pen alone will always yield me the

little I require.'

But Big Ben struck the hour. It was six o'clock. So we separated, Messrs.

Zola and Desmoulin to retire to the dungeon at the Grosvenor, and I to go

in search of my friend the solicitor at his private house at Wimbledon.

III

DANGER SIGNALS

That evening, I called upon my friend--Mr. F. W. Wareham, of Wimbledon,

and Ethelburge House, Bishopsgate Street--and laid before him the legal

points. I afterwards arranged to see him on the following morning in

town, when I hoped to fix a meeting between him and M. Zola. My first

call on Thursday, July 21, was made to the Grosvenor Hotel, where I found

both the master and M. Desmoulin in a state of anxiety. M. Zola, for his

part, felt altogether out of his element. After the excitement of his

trial and his journey to England, and the novelty of finding himself

stranded in a strange city, a kind of reaction had set in and he was

extremely depressed.

M. Desmoulin on his side, having procured several morning newspapers, had

explored their columns to ascertain whether the ladies by whom the master

had been recognised in the street on the previous day, had by any chance

noised the circumstance abroad. However, the Press was still on the

Norway and Holland scents, and as yet not a paper so much as suggested M.

Zola's presence in England.

'There has hardly been time,' said Desmoulin to me, 'but there will

probably be something fresh this afternoon. Those actresses are certain

to tell people, and we shall have to make ourselves scarce.'

I tried to cheer and tranquillise both him and M. Zola, and then arranged

that Wareham should come to the hotel at 2 P.M. Meantime, said I,

whatever M. Desmoulin might do, it would be as well for M. Zola to remain

indoors. Several commissions were entrusted to me, and I went off,

promising to return about noon.

I betook myself first to Messrs. Chatto and Windus's in St. Martin's

Lane, where I arrived a few minutes before ten o'clock. Neither Mr.

Chatto nor his partner, Mr. Percy Spalding, had as yet arrived, and I

therefore had to wait a few minutes. When Mr. Spalding made his

appearance he greeted me with a smile, and while leading the way to his

private room exclaimed, 'So our friend Zola is in London!'

To describe my amazement is beyond my powers. I could only gasp, 'How do

you know that?'

'Why, my wife saw him yesterday in Buckingham Palace Road.'

I was confounded. For my part I had scarcely glanced at the ladies whom

Desmoulin had conjectured to be French actresses--simply because they

were young, prepossessing, and spoke French!--and certainly I should not

readily have recognised Mrs. Spalding, whom I had only met once some

years previously. It now seemed to me rather fortunate that she should be

the person who had recognised M. Zola, since she would naturally be

discreet as soon as the situation should be made clear to her.

After I had explained the position, I ascertained that the only person

besides herself who knew anything so far were her husband and the lady

friend who had accompanied her on the previous day.

'I will telegraph to my wife at once,' said Mr. Spalding, 'and you may be

sure that the matter will go no further. We certainly had a hearty laugh

at breakfast this morning when we read in the "Telegraph" of Zola

bicycling over the Swiss frontier; but, of course, as from what you tell

me, the matter is serious, neither my wife nor myself will speak of it.'

'And her friend?' I exclaimed, 'she knows nothing of the necessity for

secrecy, and may perhaps gossip about it.'