Complete Works of Emile Zola (1863 page)

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.

Moreover the exiles saw little of the other inmates of the hotel, excepting at the table d’hote dinner. M. Zola then brought his faculties of observation into play, and after a lapse of a few days he informed me that he was astonished at the ease and frequency with which some English girls raised their wine-glasses to their lips. It upset all his idea of propriety to see young ladies of eighteen tossing off their Moselle and their champagne as to the manner born. In France the daughter who is properly trained contents herself with water just coloured by the addition of a little Bordeaux or Burgundy. And the contrast between this custom and incidents which M. Zola noticed at Oatlands — and to which he once or twice called my attention — made a deep impression on him.

The people staying at the hotel were certainly all of a good class. There were several well-known names in the register; and knowing how much has been written on the happy decrease of drinking habits ‘in the upper middle-class of England,’ I was myself slightly surprised at what was pointed out to me. When M. Zola discovered, too, that sundry gentlemen — leaving wine to their wives and daughters — were addicted to drinking whisky with their meals, he was yet more astonished, for he claims that in France nowadays, greatly as the consumption of alcohol has increased among the masses, it has declined almost to vanishing point among people with any claim to culture. On this matter, however, I reminded him that wine was often expensive in England, that beer disagreed with many people, and that some who felt the need of a stimulant were thus driven to whisky and water.

When the master and Desmoulin wandered down to the Thames towing-path, they found fresh food for observation and comment among the boating fraternity. With some gay parties were damsels whose disregard for decorum was strongly reminiscent of Asnieres and Joinville-le-Pont; and it was slightly embarrassing to stroll near the river in the evening, when at every few yards one found young couples exchanging kisses in the shadows of the trees. After all it was surprise rather than embarrassment which the exiles experienced, for they had scarcely imagined that English training was conducive to such public endearments.

At a later stage a bicycle was procured for the master, and he was then able to extend his sphere of observation; but in the earlier days at Oatlands his rambles were confined to the vicinity of Walton and Weybridge. At the latter village he laid in a fresh stock of linen, and was soon complaining of the exiguous proportions of English shirts. The Frenchman, it should be remembered, is a man of many gestures, and desires all possible freedom of action for his arms. His shirt is cut accordingly, and a superabundance rather than a deficiency of material in length as well as breadth is the result. But the English shirt-maker proceeds upon different lines; he always seems afraid of wasting a few inches of longcloth, and thus if the ordinary ready-made shirt on sale at shops of the average class is dressy-looking enough, it is also often supremely uncomfortable to those who like their ease. Such, at least, was the master’s experience; and in certain respects, said he, the English shirt was not only uncomfortable, but indecorous as well. This astonished him with a nation which claimed to show so much regard for the proprieties.

The desire to clothe himself according to his wont became so keen that M. Desmoulin decided to make an expedition to Paris. All this time Mme. Zola had remained alone at the house in the Rue de Bruxelles, outside which, as at Medan (where the Zolas have their country residence), detectives were permanently stationed. Mme. Zola was shadowed wherever she went, the idea, of course, being that she would promptly follow her husband abroad. She had, however, ample duties to discharge in Paris. At the same time she much wished to send her husband a trunkful of clothes as well as the materials for a new book he had planned, in order that he might have some occupation in his sorrow and loneliness.

Most people are by this time aware that M. Zola’s gospel is work. In diligent study and composition he finds some measure of solace for every trouble. At times it is hard for him to take up the pen, but he forces himself to do so, and an hour later he has largely banished sorrow and anxiety, and at times has even dulled physical pain. He himself, heavy hearted as he was when the first novelty of his strolls around Oatlands had worn off, felt that he must have something to do, and was therefore well pleased at the prospect of receiving the materials for his new book, ‘Fecondite.’

At that date he certainly did not imagine that the whole of this work would be written in England, that his exile would drag on month after month till winter would come and spring return, followed once more by summer. In those days we used to say: ‘It will all be over in a fortnight, or three weeks, or a month at the latest;’ and again and again did our hopes alternately collapse and revive. Thus the few chapters of ‘Fecondite,’ which he thought he might be able to pen in England, multiplied and multiplied till they at last became thirty — the entire work.

It was M. Desmoulin who brought the necessary materials — memoranda, cuttings, and a score of scientific works — from Paris. And at the same time he had a trunk with him full of clothes which had been smuggled in small parcels out of M. Zola’s house, carried to the residence of a friend, and there properly packed. Desmoulin also brought a hand camera, which likewise proved very acceptable to the master, and enabled him to take many little photographs — almost a complete pictorial record of his English experiences.

During Desmoulin’s absence the master remained virtually alone at Oatlands, and as he still cared nothing for newspapers I sent him a few books from my shelves, and, among others, Stendhal’s ‘La Chartreuse de Parme.’ He wrote me afterwards; ‘I am very grateful to you for the books you sent. Now that I am utterly alone they enabled me to spend a pleasant day yesterday. I am reading “La Chartreuse.” I am without news from France. If you hear of anything really serious pray let me know about it.’

By this time proper arrangements had been made with regard to M. Zola’s correspondence. His exact whereabouts were kept absolutely secret even from his most intimate friends. Everybody, his wife and Maitre Labori also, addressed their letters to Wareham’s office in Bishopsgate Street. Here the correspondence was enclosed in a large envelope and redirected to Oatlands. With regard to visitors Wareham and I had decided to give the master’s address to none. Wareham intended to take their cards, ascertain their London address, and then refer the matter through me to M. Zola. Later on, a regular supply of French newspapers was arranged, and those journals were re-transmitted to the master by Wareham or myself.