'Hastings!' said I, 'why M. Desmoulin, Zola's companion, does nothing but
talk of going to Hastings! I am glad I know this. Hastings is barred for
good, so far as Zola is concerned.'
'Well, I will arrange for my wife to see her friend this morning before
she starts,' Mr. Spalding rejoined, 'and in this way we may be sure that
her friend will say nothing.'
This excellent suggestion was acted upon immediately. Mr. Spalding
telegraphed full instructions to his wife, and later in the day I learnt
that everything had been satisfactorily arranged. But for this timely
action, following upon my lucky call at Messrs. Chatto and Windus's
establishment, it is virtually certain that the meeting in the Buckingham
Palace Road would have been talked about and the game of 'Where is Zola?'
brought to an abrupt conclusion. As it happened, both ladies, being duly
warned, preserved absolute secrecy.
After going to Bishopsgate Street to see Wareham, and executing several
minor commissions, I returned to the Grosvenor, where Zola and Desmoulin
were much amused when I told them of the outcome of the previous day's
fright.
'It was a remarkable coincidence certainly,' said M. Zola. 'At a low
calculation I daresay a thousand women passed me in the streets
yesterday; just one of them recognised me, and she, you say, was Mrs.
Spalding. Shortsighted as I am, not having seen her, too, since I was in
England, a few years ago, I had no notion she was the person who turned
as she passed along, and said, "There's Monsieur Zola."
'But the curious part of it is that you should have had to go to
Chatto's, and should have learnt the lady's name so promptly from her
husband! Mathematically there were untold chances that this lady who
recognised me might be some stranger's wife, and that we might never more
hear anything of her! Yet you discover her identity at once. This is the
kind of thing which occasionally occurs in novels, but which critics say
never happens in real life. Well, now we know the contrary.'
And he added gaily, 'You see it is another instance of my good luck,
which still attends me in spite of all the striving of those who bear me
grudges.'
So far as the ladies were concerned things were, indeed, very
satisfactory. But the same could hardly be said of the position at the
Grosvenor. Neither M. Zola nor M. Desmoulin could leave the hotel or
return to it without being scrutinised. They had also noticed many a
glance in their direction at meal-time in the dining-room; and they had
come to the conclusion that departure was imperative. I did not gainsay
them, for I shared their views, and, in fact, I had already discussed the
matter with Wareham. I explained, however, that one must have a few hours
to devise suitable plans.
Seaside places were dangerous at that time of the year, and the best
course would probably be to take a furnished house in the country.
Meantime, said I, Wareham had kindly offered to accommodate M. Zola at
his residence at Wimbledon, while M. Desmoulin might sleep close by at
the house of Mr. Everson (Wareham's managing clerk), who also disposed of
a spare bedroom. Further discussion of these matters was postponed,
however, until Wareham's arrive at the Grosvenor in the afternoon.
As Zola and Desmoulin both distrusted the inquisitive glances of the
visitors and the attendants at the hotel, we lunched, I remember, at a
restaurant in or near Victoria Street--a deep, narrow place, crowded with
little tables. And here again M. Zola, in his light garments, with the
rosette of the Legion of Honour showing brightly in his buttonhole,
became the observed of all observers.
He was, indeed, so conspicuous, so characteristic a figure that, looking
backward and remembering how repeatedly the illustrated papers had
portrayed him and how many photographs of him were to be seen in shop
windows, I often wonder how it happened that he was not recognised a
hundred times during those few days spent in London. It may be that many
did recognise him, but held their tongues. As yet, certainly, there was
not a word in the newspapers to set his adversaries upon his track.
It was in a corner of the smoking-room at the Grosvenor, a hot gloomy
apartment overlooking Victoria Station, that I introduced Wareham to the
novelist. The former had already formed some opinion, but a few points
remained for consideration. The chief of these, as Wareham explained, was
how far the French Republic might claim jurisdiction over Frenchmen.
In matters of process some countries asserted a measure of authority over
their subjects wherever they might be; and the question was, what might
be the law of France in that respect? Of course M. Zola could not be
extradited. The offence for which he had been sentenced did not come
within the purview of the Extradition Act. Again (in reply to a query
from M. Zola), there was no diplomatic channel through which a French
criminal libel judgment could be signified in England. But suppose that
French detectives should discover M. Zola's whereabouts, and suppose a
French process-server should quietly come to England with a couple of
witnesses, and by some craft or good luck should succeed in placing a
copy of the Versailles judgment in M. Zola's hands?
Unless a breach of the Queen's peace were committed, it might be
difficult for the English authorities to interfere. There appeared to be
no case or precedent in England applying to such a matter. In Germany a
foreign process-server would be liable to penal servitude. But, of
course, that was not to the point. Again, although the service by a
foreigner might not hold good in English law, that had nothing to do with
it. The process-server and his witnesses would immediately return to
France; they would there prove to the satisfaction of their employers
that they had served the judgment on M. Zola personally, and they would
be able to snap their fingers at English lawyers should the latter
complain that the thrusting of a document into a man's hand under such
circumstances was a technical assault. They would have gained their
point. Judgment would have been served, and in accordance with French law
M. Zola would be called upon to enter an appearance against it at
Versailles.
'Things must largely depend,' concluded Wareham, 'on whether French law
allows process to be served on a subject out of the jurisdiction. And
that is a point rather for French legal advisers than for me. Still I
shall look into the matter further; and if at the same time Maitre Labori
can be communicated with and can supply his opinion on the question, so
much the better. I now raise the point because it seems the crux of the
whole matter, and if it goes against us it is certain that M. Zola ought
to remain in close retirement. For the present it is as well that he
should run as little risk as possible.'
M. Zola acquiesced in the suggestion of writing to his French counsel on
the point which had been raised; and the conversation then went on in the
same low tone that had been preserved from the outset.
On entering the smoking-room we had found it deserted, but whilst Wareham
was speaking a couple of gentlemen had come in. One, I remember, was an
elderly, florid man, with mutton-chop whiskers and a buff waistcoat, who
took his stand beside the fireplace at the further end of the room and
puffed away at a big cigar. He looked inoffensive enough, and paid no
attention to us. But the other, a middle-aged individual, tall and slim,
with military moustaches, eyed us very keenly, changed his position two
or three times, and finally installed himself in a chair, whence, while
trifling with a cigarette, he commanded a good view of M. Zola's face.
Desmoulin, I think, was the first to notice this, and to call the
novelist's attention to it. Zola then shifted his position, and the
military looking gentleman soon did the same. At last, doubtless having
satisfied his curiosity, he left the room, not, however, without a sharp,
comprehensive survey of our party as he passed us on his way out.
I do not now exactly remember how it happened that Wareham was not
received in the 'dungeon,' instead of the smoking-room. The choice of the
latter apartment was unfortunate. I have no doubt that, if some of the
newspapers were, a day or two afterwards, able to state that M. Zola was
staying at the Grosvenor Hotel, it was through certain remarks made by
the inquisitive military looking gentleman to whom I have referred.
On the other hand his curiosity exercised decisive influence over M.
Zola's subsequent movements. He had hitherto been rather chary of
accepting Wareham's hospitality, for fear lest he should inconvenience
him. But the offer now being renewed was promptly accepted, and it was
agreed that I should take both Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin to Wimbledon
that evening.
As it was to be expected that several letters from Paris would arrive at
the hotel, addressed to M. Pascal, I arranged to call or send for them.
The same course was adopted with regard to a few articles which M. Zola
had given to be washed and which had not yet been returned to him. Some
of these things were significantly marked with the letter 'Z,' and for
this reason it was desirable that they should be recovered. Here I may
mention that during the next few days my wife repeatedly called at the
Grosvenor for M. Zola's correspondence, a circumstance which doubtless
gave rise to the rumour that Mme. Zola had joined her husband in London.
The exodus from the hotel was not particularly imposing. M. Desmoulin had
originally intended to stay but one day in London, and thus merely had a
dressing-case with him. As for M. Zola, his few belongings (inclusive of
a small bottle of ink, which he would not part with) were stuffed into
his pockets, or went towards the making of a peculiarly shaped newspaper
parcel, tied round with odd bits of string. Dressing-case and parcel were
duly brought down into the grand vestibule, where the hotel servants
smiled on them benignly. There was, indeed, some little humour in the
situation.
The novelist, with his gold pince-nez and gold watch-chair, his red
rosette, and a large and remarkably fine diamond sparking on one of his
little fingers, looked so eminently respectable that it was difficult to
associate him with the wretched misshapen newspaper parcel--his only
luggage!--which he eyed so jealously. However, as the attendants were all
liberally fee'd, they remained strictly polite even if they felt amused.
I ordered a hansom to be called, and we just contrived to squeeze
ourselves and the precious newspaper parcel inside it. The dressing-case
was hoisted aloft. Then the hotel porter asked me, 'Where to, sir?'
'Charing Cross Station,' I replied, and the next moment we were bowling
along Buckingham Palace Road.
Perhaps a minute elapsed before I tapped the cab-roof with my walking
stick. On cabby looking down at me, I said, 'Did I tell you Charing Cross
just now, driver? Ah! well, I made a mistake. I meant Waterloo.'
'Right, sir,' rejoined cabby; and on we went.
It was a paltry device, perhaps, this trick of giving one direction in
the hearing of the hotel servants, and then another when the hotel was
out of sight. But, as the reader must know, this kind of thing is always
done in novels--particularly in detective stories.
And recollections had come to me of some of Gaboriau's tales which long
ago I had helped to place before the English public. It might be that the
renowned Monsieur Lecoq or his successor, or perchance some English
_confrere_ like Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would presently be after us, and so
it was just as well to play the game according to the orthodox rules of
romance. After all, was it not in something akin to a romance that I was
living?
IV
A CHANGE OF QUARTERS
It should be mentioned that the departure of Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin
from the Grosvenor Hotel took place almost immediately after Wareham had
returned to his office. We were not to meet our friend the solicitor
again until the evening at Wimbledon, but the hotel being apparently a
dangerous spot, it was thought best to quit it forthwith.
When we reached Waterloo the dressing-case and the newspaper parcel were
deposited at one of the cloak-rooms; and after making the round of the
station, we descended into the Waterloo Road. At first we sauntered
towards the New Cut, and of course M. Zola could not help noticing the
contrast between the dingy surroundings amidst which he now found himself
and the stylish shops and roads he had seen in the Buckingham Palace
Road. The vista was not cheering, so I proposed that we should retrace
our steps and go as far as Waterloo Bridge.
There seemed to be little risk in doing so, for, as usual hereabouts in
the middle of the afternoon, there were few people to be seen. The great
successive rush of homeward-bound employers, clerks, and workpeople had
not yet set in. And, moreover, there was plenty of time; for Wareham,
having important business in town that day, could not possibly be at
Wimbledon till half-past six at the earliest.
We reached the bridge--'that monument,' as a famous Frenchman once put
in, 'worthy of Sesostris and the Caesars'--and went about half-way
across. It was splendid weather, and the Thames was aglow with the
countless reflections of the sunbeams that fell from the hot, whitening
sky. London was before us, 'with her palaces down to the water'; and M.
Zola stopped short, gazing intently at the scene.
'Up-stream the view was spoilt,' said he, 'by the hideous Hungerford
Bridge, unworthy alike of the city and the river'--an erection such as no
Paris municipality would have tolerated for four and twenty hours. It was
the more obtrusive and aggravating, since beyond it one discerned but
little of the towers of Westminster. 'Admitting,' added the novelist,
'that a bridge is needed at that point for railway traffic, surely there
is no reason why it should be so surprisingly ugly. However, from all I
see, it seems more and more evident that you English people are very much
in the habit of sacrificing beauty to utility, forgetting that with a
little artistic sense it is easy to combine the two.'
Then, however, he turned slightly, and looked down-stream where the
Victoria Embankment spreads past the Temple to Blackfriars. The
colonnades of Somerset House showed boldly and with a certain majesty in
the foreground, whilst in the distance, high over every roof, arose the
leaden dome of St. Paul's. This vista was rather to M. Zola's liking.
Close beside us, on the bridge, was one of the semi-circular embrasures
garnished with stone seats. A pitiful-looking vagrant was lolling there;
but this made no difference to M. Zola. He installed himself on the seat
with Desmoulin on one hand and myself on the other, and there we remained
for some little time looking about us and chatting.
'This was the only thing wanted,' said Desmoulin, who generally had some
humorous remark in readiness for every situation. 'Yesterday at the
Grosvenor we were in the _fosse de Vincennes_, and now, as they say in
the melodrama of "The Knights of the Fog" ("Les Chevaliers du
Brouillard"*), we are "homeless wanderers stranded on the bridges of
London."'
* The French dramatic adaptation of Ainsworth's 'Jack Sheppard.'
The allusion to the fog roused M. Zola from his contemplation.
'But where is the Savoy Hotel, where I stayed in '93?' he inquired. 'It
must be very near here.'
I pointed it out to him, and he was astonished. 'Why, no--that cannot be!
It is so large a place, and now it looks so small. What is that huge
building beside it?'
'The Hotel Cecil,' I replied.
Then again he shook his head in disapproval. From an artistic standpoint
he strongly objected to the huge caravansary on which builder Hobbs and
pious Jabez Balfour spent so much of other people's money. Soaring
massively and pretentiously into the sky it dwarfed everything around;
and thus, in his opinion, utterly spoilt that part of the Embankment.
'To think, too,' said he, 'that you had such a site, here, along the
river, and allowed it to be used for hotels and clubs, and so forth.
There was room for a Louvre here, and you want one badly; for your
National Gallery, which I well remember visiting in '93, is a most
wretched affair architecturally.'
'But I want to see rather more of the south side of the river,' he added,
after a pause. 'I should like to ascertain if my lion is still there. I
recollect that there was some fog about on the morning after my arrival
at the Savoy in '93; and when I went to the window of my room I noticed
the mist parting--one mass of vapour ascending skyward, while the other
still hovered over the river. And, in the rent between, I espied a lion,
poised in mid air. It amused me vastly; and I called my wife, saying to
her, "Come and see. Here's the British lion waiting to bid us good-day."'
We went to the end of the bridge and thence espied the lion which
surmounts the brewery of that name. M. Zola recognised it immediately.
Desmoulin would then have led us Strandward; but the Strand, said I, was
about the most dangerous thoroughfare in all London for those who wished
to escape recognition; so we went back over the bridge and again down the
Waterloo road.
'I should like very much to send a line to Paris to-day to stop letters
from going to the Grosvenor,' said M. Zola. 'Is there any place
hereabouts where I could write a note?'
This question perplexed me, for the numerous facilities for
letter-writing which are supplied by the cafes of Paris are conspicuously
absent in London; and this I explained to M. Zola. A postage stamp may
often be procured at a public-house, but only now and again can one there
obtain ink and paper. However, I thought we might as well try the saloon
bar of the York Hotel, which abuts on the famous 'Poverty Corner,' so
much frequented by ladies and gentlemen of the 'halls,' when, sorely
against their inclinations, they are 'resting.'
It was Thursday afternoon; still there were several disconsolate-looking
individuals lounging about the corner; and in the saloon bar we found
some fourteen or fifteen loudly dressed men and women typical of the
spot. I forget what I ordered for Desmoulin and myself, but M. Zola, I
know imbibed, mainly for the good of the house, 'a small lemon plain.'
Then we ascertained that the young lady at the bar had neither stamps,
nor paper, nor envelopes, and so we were again in a quandary. Fortunately
I recollected a little stationer's shop in the York Road, and leaving the
others in the saloon bar, I went in search of the requisite materials.
When I returned I found the master an object of general attention. His
extremely prosperous appearance, his white billycock, his jewellery, and
so forth, coupled with the circumstance that he conversed in French with
Desmoulin, had led some of those present to imagine that he was a
Continental music-hall director on the look out for English 'artists.'
Again and again I noticed, as it were, a 'hungry' glance in his
direction; and when, after procuring an inkstand from over the bar, I had
ensconced him in a corner, where he was able after a fashion to pen his
correspondence, a vivacious and, it seemed to me, somewhat bibulous
gentleman in a check suit sidled up to where I stood and introduced
himself in that easy way which repeated 'drops' of 'Mountain Dew' are apt
to engender.
'Ah!' said he, after a few pointless remarks, 'your friend is over here
on business, eh? Right thing, splendid thing. It's only by looking round
that one can get real tip-top novelties. Oh! I know Paree and the
bouleywards well enough. I was on at the Follee Bergey only a few years
ago myself. A good place that--pays well, eh? I shouldn't at all mind
taking a trip across the water again. There's nothing like a change, you
know. Sets a man up, eh?'
Then mysteriously--lifting his forefinger and lowering his voice, 'Now
your friend wants "talent," eh? Real, genuine "talent"! I could put him
in the way----'
But I interposed: 'You've applied to the wrong shop,' I said by way of a
joke; 'my friend has all the talent he requires. He's quite full up.'
A sorrowful look came over the angular features of the gentleman in the
check suit. 'It's like my luck,' said he; 'there was a fellow over from
Amsterdam the other day, but he'd only take girls. I think the
Continental line's pretty nigh played out.'
He heaved a sigh and glanced in the direction of his empty glass. Then,
seeing that the novelist and Desmoulin were rising to join me, he
whispered hurriedly, _'I say, guv'nor, you haven't got a tanner you could
spare, have you?'_
I had foreseen the request; nevertheless I pressed a few coppers into his
hand and then hurried out after my wards.
Though it was still early we decided to start at once for Wimbledon. The
master, I thought, might like to see a little of the place pending
Wareham's arrival.
The journey through Lambeth, Vauxhall, and Queen's Road is not calculated
to give the intelligent foreigner a particularly favourable impression of
London. Still M. Zola did not at first find the surroundings very much
worse than those one observes on leaving Paris by the Northern or Eastern
lines. But as the train went on and on and much the same scene appeared
on either hand he began to wonder when it would all end.
On approaching Clapham Junction a sea of roofs is to be seen on the right
stretching away through Battersea to the Thames; while on the left a huge
wave of houses ascends the acclivity known, I believe, as Lavender Hill.
And at the sight of all the mean, dusty streets, lined with little houses
of uniform pattern, each close pressed to the other--at the frequently
recurring glimpses of squalor and shabby gentility--M. Zola exploded.
'It is awful!' he said.
We were alone in our compartment, and he looked first from one window and
then from the other. Next came a torrent of questions: Why were the
houses so small? Why were they all so ugly and so much alike? What
classes of people lived in them? Why were the roads so dusty? Why was
there such a litter of fragments of paper lying about everywhere? Where
those streets never watered? Was there no scavengers' service? And then a
remark: 'You see that house, it looks fairly clean and neat in front. But
there! Look at the back-yard--all rubbish and poverty! One notices that
again and again!'
We passed Clapham Junction, pursuing our journey through the cutting
which intersects Wandsworth Common. 'Well,' I said, 'you may take it
that, except as regards the postal and police services, you are now out
of London proper.'
Presently, indeed, we emerged from the cutting, and fields were seen on
either hand. One could breathe at last. But as we approached Earlsfield
Station all M. Zola's attention was given to a long row of low-lying
houses whose yards and gardens extend to the railway line. Now and again
a trim patch of ground was seen; here, too, there was a little
glass-house, there an attempt at an arbour. But litter and rubbish were
only too often apparent.
'This, I suppose,' said the novelist, 'is what you call a London slum
invading the country? You tell me that only a part of the bourgeoisie
cares for flats, and that among the lower middle class and the working
class each family prefers to rent its own little house. Is this for the
sake of privacy? If so, I see no privacy here. Leaving out the question
of being overlooked from passing trains, observe the open four-foot
fences which separate one garden or yard from the other. There is no
privacy at all! To me the manner in which your poorer classes are housed
in the suburbs, packed closely together in flimsy buildings, where every
sound can be heard, suggests a form of socialism--communism, or perhaps
rather the phalansterian system.'