M. Zola's impressions changed. True, he did not have occasion to
perambulate what he would doubtless have called the 'phalansterian'
streets of new South Wimbledon. I spared him the sight of the chess-board
of bricks and mortar into which the speculative builder has turned acre
after acre north of Merton High Street. But the Hill Road, the Broadway,
the Worple Road, and the various turnings that climb towards the Ridgeway
pleased him. And he commented very favourably on the shops in the
Broadway and the Hill Road, which in the waning sunshine still looked gay
and bright. At every moment he stopped to examine something. Such
displays of fruit, and fish, poultry, meat, and provisions of all kinds;
the drapers' windows all aglow with summer fabrics, and those of the
jewellers coruscating with gold and gems. Then the public-houses
--dignified by the name of hotels, though I explained that they had
no hotel accommodation--bespoke all the wealth of a powerful trade.
There was an imposing bank, too, and a stylish carriage builder's, with
furniture shops, stationers, pastrycooks, hairdressers, ironmongers, and
so forth, whose displays testified to the prosperity of the town. Again
and again did M. Zola express the opinion that these Wimbledon shops were
by far superior to such as one would find in a French town of
corresponding size and at a similar distance from the capital.
We sauntered up and down the Hill Road, looking in at the Free Library on
our way. Then, on passing the Alexandra Road, I explained to Desmoulin
that he would sleep there, at No. 20, where Wareham has a local office
and where his managing clerk, Everson by name, resides.
The arrangement with Wareham had been concluded so precipitately that, to
spare him unnecessary trouble at home, we had arranged to dine that
evening at a local restaurant--in fact, the only restaurant possessed by
Wimbledon. Wareham was to join us there. The proprietor, Mr. Genoni, is
of foreign origin, but Wareham knowing him personally had assured me that
even should he suspect our friend's identity his discretion might readily
be relied upon. And so the sequel proved. During our repast, however, I
felt a little doubtful about one of the waiters who know French, and I
therefore cautioned M. Zola and M. Desmoulin to be as reticent as
possible.
After dinner we adjourned to Wareham's house in Prince's Road, where Mrs.
Wareham gave the travellers the most cordial of welcomes. The
conversation was chiefly confined to the question of finding some
suitable place where M. Zola might settle down for his term of exile. He,
himself, was so taken with what he had seen of Wimbledon that he
suggested renting a furnished house there. This seemed a trifle
dangerous, both to Wareham and myself; but the novelist was not to be
gainsaid; and as Wareham, in anticipation of his services being required,
had made special arrangements to give M. Zola most of his time on the
morrow, we arranged to see some house agents, engage a landau, and drive
round to visit such places as might seem suitable.
It was nearly half-past eleven when I left Wareham's to escort Desmoulin
to the Alexandra Road. I there left him in charge of his host, Mr.
Everson, and then turning (by way of a short cut) into the Lover's Walk,
which the South Western Railway Company so considerately provides for
amorous Wimbledonians, I hurried homeward, wondering what the morrow
would bring forth.
V
WIMBLEDON--OATLANDS
It will be obvious to all readers of this narrative that from the moment
M. Zola left Paris, and throughout his sojourn in London and its
immediate neighbourhood, there was little if any skill shown in the
matter of keeping his movements secret. In point of fact, blunder upon
blunder was committed. A first mistake was made in going to an hotel like
the Grosvenor; a second in openly promenading some of the most frequented
of the London streets; and a third in declining to make the slightest
alteration with regard to personal appearance. Again, although press of
circumstances rendered departure for Wimbledon a necessity, as it was
imperative to get M. Zola out of London at once, this change of quarters
was in the end scarcely conducive to secrecy. A good many Wimbledonians
were aware of my connection with M. Zola, and even if he were not
personally recognised by them, the circumstance of a French gentleman of
striking appearance being seen in my company was fated to arouse
suspicion. My home is but a mile or so from the centre of Wimbledon, and
M. Zola's proposal to make that locality his place of sojourn seemed to
me such a dangerous course that when I returned to Wareham's house on the
morning of Friday, July 22, I was determined to oppose it, in the
master's own interests, as vigorously as might be possible.
However, I found Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin ready to start for an
inspection of such furnished houses as might seem suitable for their
accommodation; and nothing urged either by Wareham or by myself could
turn them from their purpose. So the four of us took our seats in the
landau which had been ordered, and were soon driving in the direction of
Wimbledon Park, where stood the first of the eligible residences entered
in the books of a local house agent. The terms for these houses varied,
if I recollect rightly, from four to seven guineas a week. Some we did
not trouble to enter; others, however, were carefully inspected.
Nothing in the way of a terrace house would suit; for M. Zola was not yet
a phalansterian. And in like way he objected to the semi-detached villas.
He wished to secure a somewhat retired place, girt with foliage and thus
screened from the observation of neighbours and passers-by. The low
garden railings and fences usually met with were by no means to his
taste. The flimsy party walls of the semi-detached villas, through which
every sound so swiftly passes, were equally objectionable to him. And I
must say that I viewed with some little satisfaction his dislike for
several of the houses which we visited; for this made it easier to
dissuade him from his plan of fixing his abode in Wimbledon, where,
unless he should rigidly confine himself within doors, it was certain
that his presence would be known before a week was over.
There were, however, some houses which the master found to his liking;
and here he lingered awhile, inspecting the rooms, taking stock of the
furniture, examining the engravings and water-colours on the walls, and
viewing the trim gardens with visible satisfaction. One place, a large
house in one of the precipitous roads leading from the Ridgeway to the
Worple Road, was, perhaps, rather too open for his requirements, but its
appointments were perfect, and at his bidding I plied the lady of the
house with innumerable questions about plate, linen, and garden produce,
the servants she offered to leave behind her, and so forth. She was a
tall and stately dame, with silver hair and a soft musical voice--a
perfect type of the old marquise, such as one sees portrayed at times on
the boards of the Comedie Francaise, and after I had acted as interpreter
for a quarter of an hour or so, she suddenly turned upon the master and,
to the surprise of all of us, addressed him in perfect French. It was
this which broke the spell. Though M. Zola was taken aback, he responded
politely enough, and the conversation went on in French for some minutes,
but I could already tell that he had renounced his intention of renting
the house. When we drove away, after promising the lady a decisive answer
within a day or two, he said to me:
'That would never do. The lady's French was too good. She looked at me
rather suspiciously too. She would soon discover my identity. She has
probably heard of me already.'
'Who hasn't?' I responded with a laugh. And once again I brought forward
the objections that occurred to me with respect to the plan of remaining
at Wimbledon. It was a centre of Roman Catholic activity. There was a
Jesuit college there, numbering both French professors and French pupils.
Moreover, several French families resided in Wimbledon, and with some of
them I was myself acquainted. Then also the population included a good
many literary men, journalists, and others who took an interest in the
Dreyfus case. And, finally, the town was far too near to London to be in
anywise a safe hiding-place.
Nevertheless, M. Zola only abandoned his intentions with regret. In that
bright sunshiny weather there was an attractive _je ne sais quoi_ about
Wimbledon which charmed him. Not that it was in his estimation an ideal
place. The descents from the hill and the Ridgeway (though he admired the
beautiful views they afforded, stretching as far as Norwood) appalled him
from certain practical standpoints, and he was never weary of expatiating
on the pluck of the girls who cycled so boldly and gracefully from the
hill crest to the lower parts of the town. Here it may be mentioned that
M. Zola has become reconciled to the skirt as a cycling garment. Once
upon a time he was an uncompromising partisan of 'rationals' and
'bloomers,' a warm adherent of the views which Lady Harberton and her
friends uphold. But sojourn in England has changed all that--at least so
far as the English type of girl is concerned. Those who have read his
novel, 'Paris,' may remember that he therein ascribed the following
remarks to his heroine--Marie: 'Ah! there is nothing like rationals! To
think that some women are so foolish and obstinate as to wear skirts when
they cycle! . . . To think that women have a unique opportunity of
putting themselves at their ease and releasing their limbs from prison,
and yet won't do so! If they fancy they look the prettier in short
skirts, like schoolgirls, they are vastly mistaken. . . . Skirts are rank
heresy.'
Well, so far as Englishwomen are concerned, M. Zola himself has become a
heretic. 'Rationals,' he has more than once said to me of recent times,
'are not suited to the lithe and somewhat spare figure of the average
English girl. Moreover, I doubt if there is a costumier in England who
knows how to cut "rationals" properly. Such women as I have seen in
rationals in England looked to me horrible. They had not the proper
figure for the garment, and the garment itself was badly made. For
rationals to suit a woman, her figure should be of the happy medium,
neither too slim nor over-developed. Now the great bulk of your girls are
extremely slim, and appear in skirts to advantage. In cycling, moreover,
they carry themselves much better than the majority of Frenchwomen do.
They sit their machines gracefully, and the skirt, instead of being a
mere bundle of stuff, falls evenly and fittingly like a necessary
adjunct--the drapery which is needed to complete and set off the
ensemble.'
At the same time, the master does not cry 'haro' on the 'bloomer.' It is
admirably suited, he maintains, to the average Frenchwoman, who is more
inclined to a reasonable plumpness than her English sister. 'The skirt to
England,' says he, 'the bloomer to France.' The whole question is one of
physique and latitude. The Esquimaux lady would look ungainly and feel
uncomfortable if she exchanged her moose furs for the wisp of calico
which is patronised by the lady of Senegal; and in the like way the
Englishwoman is manifestly ungainly and uncomfortable when she borrows
the breeches of the Parisienne.
This digression may seem to carry one away from Wimbledon, but I should
mention that many of the points enunciated were touched upon by M. Zola
for the first time, while we postponed further house-hunting to drive
over Wimbledon Common. The historic mill and Caesar's Camp, and the
picturesque meres were all viewed before the horses' heads were turned to
the town once more.
By this time the master had come to the conclusion that however pleasant
Wimbledon might be, it was no fit place for him, and that his best course
would be to pitch his tent 'far from gay cities and the ways of men.'
Within a few hours I had some proof of the wisdom of his decision, and a
week had not elapsed before I found that M. Zola's sojourn at Wimbledon
had become known to a variety of people. Mr. Genoni, the restaurateur,
had been one of the first to identify him; but, as he explained to me, he
was no spy or betrayer, and whatever he might think of the Dreyfus
business--he was a reader of that anti-Revisionist print the 'Petit
Journal'--M. Zola's secret was, he assured me, quite safe in his hands.
But, independently of Mr. Genoni, the secret soon became _le secret de
Polichinelle_. A French resident in Wimbledon recognised M. Zola as he
stood one day by the railway bridge admiring some fair cyclists. Then a
gentleman connected with the local Petty Sessions court espied him in my
company, and shrewdly guessed his identity. Subsequently a local
hairdresser, an Englishman, but one well acquainted with Paris and
Parisian matters, 'spotted' him in the Hill Road. Others followed suit,
and at last one afternoon a member of the 'Globe' staff called upon me
and supplied me with such circumstantial particulars that I could not
possibly deny the accuracy of his information. But M. Zola had then left
Wimbledon, and thus I was able to fence with my visitor and inform him
that, even if the novelist had ever been in the town, he was not there at
that time.
It had been arranged that some of the leading London house agents should
be written to, with the view of securing some secluded country house,
preferably in Surrey, and on the South Western line; but the question
was, where, in the meantime, could M. Zola be conveniently installed?
Having left England in the year 1865, and apart from a few brief sojourns
in London, having remained abroad till 1886, my knowledge of my native
land is very slight indeed. Years spent in foreign countries have made me
a stay-at-home--one who nowadays buries himself in his little London
suburb, going to town as seldom as possible, and without need of country
or seaside trip, since at Merton, where I live, there are green fields
all around one and every vivifying breeze that can be wished for. Thus I
was the worst person in the world to take charge of M. Zola and pilot him
safely to a haven of refuge.
Fortunately, Mr. Wareham knows his way about, as the saying goes, and his
cycling experience proved very useful. He suggested that until a house
could be secured, M. Zola should be installed at a country hotel; and he
mentioned two or three places which seemed to him of the right character.
One of these was Oatlands Park; and Wareham, who, although a solicitor,
claims to have some little poetry in his nature, waxed so enthusiastic
over the charms of Oatlands and neighbouring localities, that both M.
Zola and M. Desmoulin, fervent admirers of scenery as they are, became
curious to visit this leafy district of Surrey, where, as will be
remembered, King Louis Philippe spent his last years of life and exile.
One afternoon, then, I started with Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin for
Walton, from which station the Oatlands Park Hotel is most conveniently
reached. A Gladstone bag had now replaced the master's newspaper parcel,
and as M. Desmoulin's dressing-case was as large as a valise, there was
at least some semblance of luggage. I fully realised that it was hardly
the correct thing to present oneself at Oatlands Park and ask for rooms
there _ex abrupto_; as with hostelries of that class it is usual for one
to write and secure accommodation beforehand. However, there was no time
for this; and we decided to run the risk of finding the hotel 'full up,'
particularly as Wareham had informed us that in such a case we might
secure a temporary billet at one or another of the smaller hotels of
Walton or Weybridge. Thus we went our way at all hazards, and during the
journey I devised a little story for the benefit of the manager at
Oatlands Park.
That gentleman, as I had surmised, was a trifle astonished at our
appearance. But I told him that my friends were a couple of French
artists, who had been spending a few weeks in London 'doing the lions'
there, and who had heard of the charming scenery around Oatlands, and
wished to view it, and possibly make a few sketches. And, at the same
time, a solicitor's recommendation being of some value, since it might
mean a good many future customers, I handed the manager one of Wareham's
cards. There was, I remember, some little difficulty at first in
obtaining rooms, for the hotel was nearly full; but everything ended
satisfactorily.
I may mention, perhaps, that in describing Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin as
French artists, I had at least told half the truth. M. Fernand Desmoulin
is, of course, well known in the French art world; and, moreover, he had
already spoken to me of purchasing a water-colour outfit for the very
purpose of sketching, as I had stated. Then, too, M. Zola first
distinguished himself in literature as an art critic, the defender of
Manet, the champion of the school of the 'open air.' And if he made no
sketches whilst he remained at Oatlands he at least took several
photographs. Sapient critics will stop me here with the oft-repeated
dictum that photography is not art. But however that may be, so many
painters nowadays have recourse to the assistance of photography that M.
Zola's 'snap-shotting' largely helped to bear out the account which I had
given of him at the hotel.
Oatlands Park is a large pile standing on the site of a magnificent
palace built by Henry VIII. Anne of Denmark, wife of James I., resided
there, and Henrietta Maria there gave birth to the Duke of Gloucester,
the brother of our second Charles and second James. The palace was almost
entirely destroyed during the Civil Wars, and subsequently the property
passed in turn to Jermyn, Earl of St. Albans; Herbert, the admiral, first
Earl of Torrington; and Henry, seventh Earl of Lincoln. A descendant of
the last-named sold the estate to Frederick, Duke of York, the son of
George III. and Commander-in-Chief of the British army. Soon afterwards
the house at Oatlands was destroyed by fire, and the prince erected a new
building, some portions of which are incorporated in the present
hostelry. A pathetic interest attaches to those remains of York House.
Within those walls were spent many of the honeymoon hours of a fair and
virtuous princess, one whose early death plunged England into the deepest
grief it had known for centuries; there she conceived the child who in
the ordinary course of nature might have become King of Great Britain.
But the babe, so anxiously awaited by the whole nation (there was no
Princess Victoria at that time) proved stillborn; and of the unhappy
'mother of the moment,' Byron wrote in immortal lines:
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions!
I am bound to add that the tragic story of the Princess Charlotte was not
that which most appealed to M. Zola's feelings at Oatlands Park. Nor was
he particularly impressed by the far-famed grotto which the hotel
handbook states 'has no parallel in the world.' The grotto, an artificial
affair, the creation of which is due to a Duke of Newcastle, whom it cost
40,000 pounds, besides giving employment to three men for twenty years,
consists of numerous chambers and passages, whose walls are inlaid with
coloured spars, shells, coral, ammonites, and crystals. This work is
ingenious enough, but when one enters a bath-room and finds a stuffed
alligator there, keeping company with a statue of Venus and a terra-cotta
of the infant Hercules, one is apt to remember how perilously near the
ridiculous is to the sublime.
Ridiculous also to some minds may seem the Duchess of York's dog and
monkey cemetery, in which half a hundred of that lady's canine and simian
pets lie buried with headstones to their tombs commemorating their
virtues. This cemetery, however, greatly commended itself to M. Zola,
who, as some may know, is a rare lover of animals. Among the various
distinctions accorded to him in happier times by his compatriots there is
none that he has ever prized more highly than the diploma of honour he
received from the French 'Society for the Protection of Animals,' and I
believe that one of the happiest moments he ever knew was when, as
Government delegate at a meeting of that society, he fastened a gold
medal on the bosom of a blushing little shepherdess, a certain Mlle.
Camelin, of Trionne, in Upper Burgundy, a girl of sixteen, who, at the
peril of her life, had engaged a ravenous wolf in single combat, killed
him, and thereby saved her flock.
And M. Zola's books teem with his love of animals. During his long exile
one of the few requests addressed to him from France, to which he
inclined a favourable ear, was an appeal on behalf of a new journal
devoted to the interests of the animal world. To this he could not refuse
his patronage, and he gave it enthusiastically, well knowing how much
remains to be accomplished in inculcating among the masses such affection
and patience as are rightful with regard to those dumb creatures who
serve man so well.
The Duchess of York's cemetery reminded him of his own. Below his house
at Medan a green islet rises from the Seine. This he purchased some years
ago, and there all his favourites have since been buried: an old horse, a
goat, and several dogs. During his exile a fresh interment took place in
this island cemetery, that of his last canine favourite, the poor
'Chevalier de Perlinpinpin,' who, after vainly fretting for his absent
master, died at last of sheer grief and loneliness. Those only can
understand Emile Zola who have seen him as I saw him then, bowed down
with sorrow, distraught, indifferent to all else, both the weightiest
personal interests and the very triumph of the cause he had championed;
and this because his pet dog had pined away for him, and was beyond all
possibility of succour. It was of course a passing weakness with him;
such weakness as may fall upon a man of kindly heart. In Zola's case it
came, however, almost like a last blow amidst the sorrow and loneliness
of the exile which he was enduring in silence for the sake of his
much-loved country.
VI
STILL AT OATLANDS
For a time, at all events, Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin found themselves in
fairly pleasant quarters; they could stroll about the gardens at Oatlands
or along the umbrageous roads of Walton, or beside the pretty reaches of
the Thames, amidst all desirable quietude. After all his worries the
master needed complete mental rest, and he laughed at his friend's
repeated appeals for newspapers.
At that period I procured a few French journals every time I went to town
and posted them to Oatlands, where they were eagerly conned by M.
Desmoulin, on whom the Dreyfus fever was as strong as ever. But M. Zola
during the first fortnight of his exile did not once cast eyes upon a
newspaper, and the only information he obtained respecting passing events
was such as Desmoulin or myself imparted to him. And in this he evinced
little interest. Half of it, he said, was absolutely untrue, and the
other half was of no importance. There is certainly much force and truth
in this curtly-worded opinion as applied to the contents of certain Paris
journals.
However, communications were now being opened up between the master and
his Paris friends, and every few days Wareham or myself had occasion to
go to Oatlands. There were sundry false alarms, too, through strangers
calling at Wareham's office, and now and again my sudden appearance at
the hotel threw Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin into anxiety. In other
respects their life was quiet enough. The people staying at Oatlands
were, on the whole, a much less inquisitive class than those whom one had
found at the Grosvenor. There were various honeymoon-making couples, who
were far too busy feasting their eyes on one another to pay much
attention to two French artists. Then, also, the family people gave time
to the superintendence of their sons and daughters; whilst the old folks
only seemed to care for a leisurely stroll about the grounds, followed by
long spells of book or newspaper reading, under the shelter of tree or
sunshade.