me on rather a curious point. 'Why is it,' said he, 'that the Englishman
when he writes of himself should invariably use a capital letter? That
tall "I" which recurs so often in a personal narrative strikes me as
being very arrogant. A Frenchman, referring to himself, writes _je_ with
a small _j_; a German, though he may gratify all his substantives with
capital letters, employs a small _i_ in writing _ich_; a Spaniard, when
he uses the personal pronoun at all, bestows a small _y_ on his _yo_,
while he honours the person he addresses with a capital _V_. I believe,
indeed--though I am not sufficiently acquainted with foreign languages to
speak with certainty on the point--that the Englishman is the only person
in the world who applies a capital letter to himself. That "I" strikes me
as the triumph of egotism. It is tall, commanding, and so brief! "I"--and
that suffices. How did it originate?'
It was difficult for me to answer M. Zola on the point; I am a very poor
scholar in such a matter, and I could find nothing on the subject in any
work of reference I had by me. I surmised, however, that the capital I,
as a personal pronoun, was a survival of the time when English, whether
written or printed, was studded with capitals, even as German is to-day.
If I am wrong, perhaps some one who knows better will correct me. One
thing I have often noticed is that a child's first impulse is to write
'i,' and that it is only after admonition that the aggressive and
egotistical 'I' supplants the humbler form of the letter. This did not
surprise M. Zola, since vanity, like most other vices, is acquired, not
inherent in our natures. But in a chaffing way he suggested that one
might write a very humorous essay on the English character by taking as
one's text that tall, stiff, and self-assertive letter 'I.'
How far M. Zola actually carried his study of English I could hardly say,
but during the last months of his exile he more than once astonished me
by his knowledge of an irregular verb or of the correct comparative and
superlative of an adjective. And if he seldom attempted to speak English,
he at least made considerable progress in reading it. By the time he
returned to France he could always understand any Dreyfus news in the
English papers. Of course the language in which the news was couched was
of great help to him, as in three instances out of four it was simply
direct translation from the French.
In this connection, while praising many features of the English Press, M.
Zola more than once expressed to me his surprise that so much of the
Paris news printed in London should be simply taken from Paris journals.
Some correspondents, said he, never seemed to go anywhere or to see
anybody themselves. They purely and simply extracted everything from
newspapers. This he was able to check by means of the many Paris prints
which he received regularly.
'Here,' he would say, 'this paragraph is taken verbatim from "Le Figaro";
this other appeared in "Le Temps," this other in "Le Siecle,"' and so
forth. And he was not alluding to extracts from editorials, but to
descriptive matter--accounts of demonstrations and ceremonies,
fashionable weddings and other social functions, interviews, and so
forth. The practice upset all his ideas of a foreign correspondent's
duties, which should be to obtain first-hand and not second-hand
information.
In principle this is of course correct, but a correspondent cannot be
everywhere at the same time; and nowadays, moreover, English journalists
in Paris do not enjoy quite the same facilities as formerly. As regards
more particularly the Dreyfus business, the French, with a sensitiveness
that can be understood, have all along deprecated anything in the way of
foreign interference, and the English Pressman of inquiring mind on the
subject has more than once met with a rebuff from those in a position to
give information. Again, the political difficulties between the two
countries of recent years have often placed the Paris correspondents in a
very invidious position.
This brings me to the Fashoda trouble, which arose last autumn while M.
Zola was still in his country retreat. The great novelist's enemies have
often alleged that he was no true Frenchman; but for my part, after
thirty years' intimacy with the French, I would claim for him that his
country counts no better patriot. He is on principle opposed to warfare,
but there is a higher patriotism than that which consists in perpetually
beating the big drum, and that higher patriotism is Zola's.
The Fashoda difficulties troubled him sorely, and directly it seemed
likely that the situation might become serious he told me that it would
be impossible for him to remain in England. The progress of the
negotiations between France and Great Britain was watched with keen
vigilance, and M. Zola was ready to start at the first sign of those
negotiations collapsing. As all his friends were opposed to his return to
France (they had again virtually forbidden it late in September when the
Brisson Ministry finally submitted the case for revision to the Criminal
Chamber of the Cour de Cassation), he would probably have gone to
Belgium, but I doubt whether he would have remained long in that country.
I have said that M. Zola is opposed to warfare on principle. His views in
this respect have long been shared by me. Life's keenest impressions are
those acquired in childhood and youth. And in my youth--I was but
seventeen, though already acting as a war correspondent, the youngest, I
suppose, on record--I witnessed war attended by every horror:--A city,
Paris, starved by the foreigner and subsequently in part fired by some of
its own children. And between those disasters, having passed through the
hostile lines, I saw an army of 125,000 men with 350 guns, that of
Chanzy, irretrievably routed after battling in a snowstorm of three days'
duration, cast into highways and byways, with thousands of barefooted
stragglers begging their bread, with hundreds of farmers bewailing their
crops, their cattle, and their ruined homesteads, with mothers
innumerable weeping for their sons, and fair girls in the heyday of their
youth lamenting the lads to whom their troth was plighted. And in that
'Retraite Infernale,' as one of its historians has called it, I saw want,
hunger, cupidity, cruelty, disease, stalking beside the war fiend; so no
wonder that, like Zola, I regard warfare as the greatest of abominations
that fall upon the world. I often regret that, short of actual war itself
and its disaster and misery, there should be no means of bringing the
whole horror of the thing home to those silly, arm-chair, jingo
journalists of many countries, our own included, who, viewing war simply
as a means of imposing the will of the stronger upon the weaker, and
losing sight of all that attends it, save martial pomp and individual
heroism, ever clamour for the exercise of force as soon as any difficulty
arises between two governments.
Ties of affection, bonds of marriage, as well as long years of intimacy,
link me moreover to the French people; and more keenly, perhaps, than
even the master himself, did I realise what war between France and
England might mean; thus we both had an anxious time during the Fashoda
trouble. Fortunately for the general peace hostilities were averted, and
M. Zola was thus able to remain in his secluded English home, and to
continue the writing of his novel.
The weather was still very fine, and now and again he ventured upon a
little excursion. The principal one was to Virginia Water, where he
strolled round the lake, then drove through part of the Great Park, and
thence on to Windsor Castle, where he saw all the sights, the State
apartments, St. George's Hall and Chapel, the Albert Memorial Chapel, and
so forth. And, as he had brought his hand camera with him, he was able to
take a few snapshots of what he saw. I was not present on that occasion;
his companions were a French gentleman, a very intimate friend, and my
daughter, but I was pleased to hear that he had, at all events, seen
Windsor. As a rule, it was extremely difficult to induce him to emerge
from his solitude. When he took a walk or a bicycle ride his destination
was simply some sleepy Surrey village or deserted common.
He appreciated English scenery. Around Oatlands he had been much struck
by the beauty of the trees, and was greatly astonished to find such lofty
and perfect hedges of holly running at times for a mile almost without a
break on either side of the roads. I suppose that some of the finest
holly hedges in England are to be found in that district. Then, too, the
rookeries surprised and interested him. There was one he could see from
his window at the last half of his country residences, and many an idle
half-hour was spent by him in watching the flight of the birds or their
occasional parliaments.
Nobody recognised him on his rambles. I even doubt if people, generally,
thought him a foreigner. He had long ceased to wear his rosette of the
Legion of Honour, and he had replaced his white billycock by an English
straw hat. Towards the close of the fine weather he purchased a 'bowler,'
which greatly altered his appearance. Indeed, there is nothing like a
'bowler' to make a foreigner look English.
Wareham and I had now quite ceased to fear that any attempt would be made
to serve the Versailles judgment on M. Zola. We were only troubled by
gentlemen of the Press, both French and English, for since Esterhazy had
fled from France and the case for revision had been formally referred to
the Cour de Cassation, several newspapers had become desirous of
ascertaining M. Zola's views on the course of events. My instructions
remained, however, the same as formerly: I was to tell every applicant
that M. Zola declined to make any public statement, and that he would
receive nobody. I was occasionally inclined to fancy that some of those
who called on me imagined that these instructions were of my own
invention, and that I was simply keeping M. Zola _au secret_ for purposes
of my own. But nothing was further from the truth.
Personally, at certain moments, when the revision proceedings began, when
M. Brisson fell from office, when M. Dupuy, listening to the clamour of a
pack of jackals, transferred the revision inquiry from the Criminal
Chamber to the entire Court of Cassation, I thought that it might really
be advisable for him to speak out. But, anxious though he was, disgusted,
indignant, too, at times, he would do nothing to add fuel to the flame.
Passions were roused to a high enough pitch already, and he had no desire
to inflame them more.
Besides the cause was in very good hands; Clemenceau and Vaughan, Yves
Guyot and Reinach, Jaures and Gerault-Richard, Pressense, Cornely, and
scores of others were fighting admirably in the Press, and his
intervention was not required. Many a man circumstanced as M. Zola was
would have rushed into print for the mere sake of notoriety, but he
condemned himself to silence, stifling the words which rose from his
throbbing heart. And, after all, was not that course more worthy, more
dignified?
Thus I could only return one answer to the newspaper men who wrote to me
or called at my house. Late in autumn there was an average of three
applications a week. One or two gentlemen, I believe, imagined that M.
Zola was staying very near me, and, failing to learn anything at my
place, they tried to question one or two tradesmen in the neighbourhood.
One of these, a grocer, became so irate at the frequent inquiries as to
whether a Frenchman, who wrote books and had a grey beard, and wore
glasses, was not staying in the vicinity, that he ended by receiving the
reporters with far more energy than politeness, not only ordering them
out of his shop at the double quick, but pursuing them with his
vituperative eloquence. 'Taking one consideration with another, a
reporter's lot, at times, is not a happy one.'
A climax was reached when one gentleman, after communicating with M. Zola
by letter through various channels and receiving no answer from him,
ascertained my address and called there. As servants are not always to be
depended upon, we had made it virtually a rule at home that whenever a
stranger was seen at the front door my wife herself should, if possible,
answer it. And she did so in the instance I am referring to.
Well, the gentleman first asked for me, and on learning that I was
absent, he explained that he was a friend, a private friend of M. Zola,
whom he wished to see on an important private matter. Could she, my wife,
oblige him with M. Zola's address? No, she could not; he had better
write, and his letter would be duly forwarded by me. Then the applicant
started on another story. It was no use his writing, he must see me.
Should I be at home on the morrow? The matter was of great importance, it
would mean a large sum of money for myself and so on. My wife had not
much confidence in what was told her, but she requested the visitor to
leave his name and address in order that I might make an appointment with
him, should I think such a course advisable.
She was, at the moment, far more amazed and amused than indignant. She
bade the gentleman keep his money, and then showed him to the door. To me
that evening she did not mention the incident, and, indeed, I only heard
of it after I had taken the trouble to communicate with M. Zola
respecting the gentleman's urgent private business, which (so it turned
out) was purely and simply connected with journalism, my visitor having
acted on behalf of the owner of a well-known London newspaper.
I do not know whether his principal had any knowledge of his impudent
attempt at bribery. For my own part I much regret that my wife (I suppose
in the interests of peace) should have kept it from me at that time as
she did, for the gentleman might otherwise have experienced, as he
deserved, a rather unpleasant ten minutes.
XII
THE FINAL RESTING-PLACE
At last the time arrived when it became necessary to remove M. Zola from
his country quarters, and by his desire Wareham and I then looked around
us for a suitable suburban hotel. The autumn was now far spent and M.
Zola felt confident that he would be back in Paris by the end of the
year. Had he foreseen that his exile would prove so long, he would
certainly have sent for a couple of his French servants, and have set up
a quiet establishment in some other furnished house. But for another
month or two he considered that hotel accommodation would well suffice.
The place selected for him by Wareham and myself was the Queen's Hotel,
Upper Norwood, and there he remained from late in the autumn of 1898
until his departure from England.
A glance at the Queen's Hotel shows one that it is composed of what were
once separate houses, now connected together by buildings of one storey
only. Each of these houses, or, as one may perhaps call them, pavilions,
has a separate entrance and staircase; and the advantage of this, to one
circumstanced as M. Zola was, must be obvious. A person lodging in one of
the pavilions can come and go freely. There is no vast hall to cross,
with a dozen servants standing around, ready to scrutinise you as you
pass in and out. You have your suite of rooms in one or another pavilion,
you take your meals there in your own dining-room, and you can shut
yourself off, as it were, from the greater part of the establishment and
enjoy privacy and quiet. This, no doubt, is the reason why so many
well-to-do people, who dislike the stir and bustle of the ordinary hotel,
patronise the hostelry at Upper Norwood.
There at one time--when consulting Sir Morell Mackenzie, I
believe--stayed the unfortunate Emperor Frederick; and now it may add to
its list of patrons the most famous Frenchman of his day.
It seemed to Wareham and me that the Queen's Hotel would, under the
circumstances, prove an ideal retreat for M. Zola. Moreover, Upper
Norwood stands on very high ground, and it was probable therefore that he
would largely escape the winter fogs. Of course the Crystal Palace was
comparatively near, but it was not very largely patronised in the winter,
and, besides, if M. Zola wished to escape a crowd, he had only to take
his walks in another direction.
The Queen's Hotel stands back from the road; but, in the first instance,
as a precautionary measure it was thought best to select for M. Zola a
suite of rooms overlooking the extensive gardens. As time went on,
however, the trees lost their last leaves, the vista from these rooms,
charming enough in summer, became very cheerless. So the master's
quarters were shifted to a larger suite on the ground floor, with the
windows of the two communicating sitting-rooms overlooking both the road
and the garden.
The two sitting-rooms were an advantage, particularly during the time
that Mme. Zola stayed at the Queen's Hotel (for she joined her husband on
and off), as he could devote one of them entirely to his work. But when
Mme. Zola finally left England (in a very ailing state, after a terrible
cold had kept her within doors for some weeks) her husband moved once
again, and installed himself on the second floor, where the rooms were
smaller and therefore easier to warm. It was then mid-winter.
The various rooms M. Zola occupied and in which he spent from seven to
eight months--that is by far the greater portion of his exile--were all
part of the same house or pavilion, this being the last of the pavilions
constituting the hotel proper. Adjoining is a lower building, belonging
to the same proprietary as the hotel, but, in a measure, distinct from
it. Most of M. Zola's tenancy was spent in the topmost rooms. After
bringing the master up from the country, I took him one morning down to
Norwood, and he cordially approved of the arrangements which had been
made for him. There was only one thing amiss. Wareham and I had been
promised that he should have a waiter speaking French to attend on him;
and the one provided knew perhaps just a few words of that language.
However, he was very intelligent, very discreet, very willing to
oblige--a pattern waiter of the good old English school. And when I had
explained to him exactly what would be required, he took due note of
everything, and for many months the arrangements that were made worked
virtually without a hitch.
If M. Zola's surroundings had altered, the routine of his life remained
the same as formerly. With regard to his novel 'Fecondite' he had, as the
saying goes, 'warmed to his work,' which he pursued at the Queen's Hotel
with unflagging energy.
Knowing his habits I never (unless under exceptional circumstances)
visited him till he had finished his daily quantum of 'copy,' that was
about the luncheon hour. Then we would talk business, communicate to one
another such news as might be necessary, and at times exchange
impressions with regard to the incidents of the day.
Among other matters often discussed were the English birth-rate and the
rearing of English children, points which deeply interested M. Zola, as
they were germane to the subject of 'Fecondite.' I could at first only
give him general information, but the Rev. R. Ussher, vicar of Westbury,
Bucks, the able author of 'Neo-Malthusianism,' very kindly sent me a copy
of his exhaustive work, which contained many particulars on the points
that principally interested M. Zola. Moreover, Mr. George P. Brett, the
President of the Macmillan Company of New York (M. Zola's American
publishers), supplied him with some interesting information respecting
the United States.
With regard to England, M. Zola had been much struck by certain
proceedings instituted during his exile against medical men, midwives,
and others, proceedings which seemed to point to the existence in this
country of a state of affairs much akin to that prevailing in France. The
affair of the brothers Chrimes, who first sold bogus medicines and then
proceeded to blackmail the women who had purchased them, was, in Zola's
estimation, particularly significant, for here were hundreds and hundreds
of Englishwomen applying to those men for the means of accomplishing the
greatest crime against Nature there could be.
On that point M. Zola spoke in no uncertain language. He understood well
enough that the authorities could not justly single out a few of those
hundreds of women for prosecution and punishment: but he censured the
women quite as much as he censured the convicted men, who were, after
all, but common scoundrels.
And he was amazed to find that so few English newspapers ventured to
speak out on the matter. There were plenty of leaderettes on the cunning
shown by the men, but the alacrity of the women to purchase the bogus
medicines was, as a rule, lightly passed over; and great as is M. Zola's
admiration for the English Press in many respects, he could but regard
its attitude towards the Chrimes case as lamentably inadequate and
lacking in moral courage.
'A great responsibility,' said he, 'rests with those who, possessing
commanding influence, refrain from requisite action, and who, instead of
seeking to cure proved and acknowledged evils, connive at driving them
beneath the surface, where, in secret, they steadily grow and expand.'
And all this for the sake of the 'young person,' to whose mythical
innocence the welfare of a whole nation is often sacrificed. M. Zola's
views are summed up in the words: 'Let all be exposed and discussed, in
order that all may be cured!'
He regards Neo-Malthusianism and its practices as abominable, and when he
had learnt more of the actual situation in England he was emphatically of
opinion that his book 'Fecondite,' though applied to France alone, might
well, with little alteration, be applied to this country also.
The fluctuations in the English birth-rate from 1872 to 1897 were to him
full of meaning. At a certain period, for instance, they showed all the
harm wrought by the abominable Bradlaugh-Besant campaign. But what he
dwelt on still more was the absolute physical incapacity of so many
English mothers to suckle their own offspring. Circumstances are much the
same both in France and the United States, at least among the older
Colonial families. In three or four generations the women of a family in
which the practice of suckling has ceased, are altogether unable to give
the breast; and the 'bottle' ensues, with its thousand evils and a
gradual deterioration of the race.
On the last occasion when James Russell Lowell came to England he was
asked what change, if any, he remarked since his last visit, among the
people he met, and he replied that he was most struck by the falling off
in height, and breadth of shoulders, of the average man in the London
streets.
Though matters have not yet reached such a point as in France and
elsewhere, it is I think incontestable that the English race, like many
another, is physically deteriorating. Athletics tend to improve the
standard, but there must be proper material to work upon, and M. Zola, I
found, held the view that for a race to be healthy its womenfolk should
be willing and able to discharge the primary duties of Nature. When he
discovered that so many Englishwomen would not or could not suckle their
babes, he remarked that England had started on the same downward course
as France.
He often watched the troops of nursemaids and children whom he met during
his afternoon strolls. He noticed and told me how many of the former
neglected their charges, standing about, flirting or gossiping, or
looking into shop windows, while the baby in the bassinette or the
mail-cart sucked away at that vile invention the bone and gutta-percha
'soother,' and he was astonished that ladies should apparently consider
it beneath them to accompany baby on the promenade. Indeed the invariable
absence of the mothers gave him a rather bad opinion of them: for surely
they must know that many of the nurse-girls neglected the infants and yet
they exercised no supervision. 'Of course,' said he, 'they are visiting
or receiving, or reading novels, or bicycling or playing lawn tennis. Ah!
well, that is hardly my conception of a mother's duty towards her infant,
whatever be her station in life.'
Now and again at intervals I accompanied him on his afternoon walks.
These generally took a semi-circular form. We descended from the plateau
of Upper Norwood on one side to climb to it again on another. Sometimes
we passed by way of Beulah Spa, then round by some fields and a
recreation ground, with the name of which I am not acquainted. There were
several shapely oak trees thereabouts, which he greatly admired and even
photographed.