Complete Works of Emile Zola (1858 page)

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.