Complete Works of Emile Zola (1859 page)

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.’