Complete Works of Emile Zola (1870 page)

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.

‘Do you know,’ he remarked to me one afternoon, ‘when I come out all alone for my usual constitutional, and want to shake off some worrying thoughts, I often amuse myself by counting the number of hairpins which I see lying on the foot-pavement. Oh! you need not laugh, it is very curious, I assure you. I already had ideas for two essays — one on the capital “I” in its relation to the English character, and another on the physiology of the English “guillotine” window and the forms it affects, not forgetting the circumstance that whenever an architect introduces a French window into an English house, it invariably opens outwardly so as to be well buffeted by the wind, instead of into the room as it should do. Well, now I am beginning to think that I might write something on the carelessness of Englishwomen in fastening up their hair, and the phenomenal consumption of hairpins in England. For the consumption must be enormous since the loss is so great, as I will show you.’

Then he proceeded to ocular demonstration. As we walked on for half an hour or so, principally along roads bordered by the umbrageous gardens of villa residences, we counted all the hairpins we could see. There were about four dozen. And he was careful to point out that we had chiefly followed a route where there was but a moderate amount of traffic.

Not one man in a thousand probably would have thought of counting the lost hairpins in the streets; but then M. Zola is an observer, and if I tell this anecdote, which some may think puerile, it is by way of illustrating his powers of observation and the length to which he occasionally carries them.

On one point, I told him, he was rather in the wrong. The great loss of hairpins did not proceed so much from the carelessness of women in fastening their hair, as from their ‘pennywise and pound-foolish’ system of buying cheap hairpins with few and inefficient ‘twists.’ These cheap hairpins never ‘caught’ properly in their coiled-up tresses. The women went out, walked rapidly, tossed their heads perchance, and one at least of their hairpins fell to the ground. Supposing one hundred women passed along a certain road or street in the course of the day, it would not be surprising to find that at least thirty hairpins were lost there. And I concluded by saying that, to the best of my belief, the aforesaid hairpins were ‘made in Germany.’

Another thing which amused and interested M. Zola when he took his walks around Norwood was to note the often curious and often high-sounding names bestowed on villa residences. As a rule the smaller the place the more grandiose the appellation bestowed on it. Some of the names M. Zola, having now made progress with his English, could readily understand; others, too, were virtually French, such as Bellevue, Beaumont, and so forth; but there were several that I had to interpret, such as Oakdene, Thornbrake, Beechcroft, Hillbrow, Woodcote, Fernside, Fairholme, Inglenook, etc. And there was one name that I could not explain to him at all — an awful name, which I fancied might be Gaelic or Celtic, though I appealed in vain to Scottish, Irish, and Welsh friends for an interpretation of its meaning. It was written thus: ‘Ly-ee-Moon.’

Nobody of my acquaintance was able to explain it to me. M. Zola wrote it down in his memorandum-book as an abstruse puzzle. However, while this narrative was appearing in the ‘Evening News,’ several correspondents kindly informed me that Ly-ee-Moon (at times written ‘Lai-Mun’) was Chinese, being the name of a narrow passage or strait between the island of Hong-Kong and the mainland of China (now transferred to Great Britain), at the eastern entrance to the harbour of the city of Victoria on the island.

It seems also that Ly-ee-Moon is a name often given to ships sailing in the China seas. And in the case of the Norwood house, built by a retired shipowner and sea captain, the name was taken from a vessel plying on the Australian coast for many years, and ultimately wrecked with great loss of life. The owner of the Norwood house had an engraving of the ship executed on a plate-glass window of this hall. Until these explanations reached me both M. Zola and myself were quite as much at sea (with regard to ‘Ly-ee-Moon’) as ever its owner and captain was.

When I spent an afternoon at Norwood with M. Zola we generally returned to the hotel about half-past four for a cup of tea. And on the way back (particularly during the last months) I frequently purchased postage stamps for him at the chief post-office. He might, of course, have bought them himself, and as a matter of fact he did at times do so. But he was aware, I think, that he was regarded with some suspicion by the young lady clerks under the control of the Duke of Norfolk.

At certain periods, Christmas time and the New Year, for instance, M. Zola’s correspondence became extensive, and on the first occasion when he entered the Upper Norwood post-office and asked for fifty 2 12 d. stamps he was looked at with surprise. When, a couple of days later, he applied for another fifty, the young ladies eyed him as if he were a genuine curiosity. A hundred 2 12 d. stamps in four days! What could he do with them? Nobody could tell. When, shortly afterwards, he returned for another supply of the same kind, the Norwood post-office was convulsed. And I doubt if even now some of the young ladies have quite got over that brief but extraordinary run on the so-called ‘foreign stamp.’

I hope they do not imagine that M. Zola was hungry, and bought those stamps to eat.

XIII

WINTER DAYS

The winter was hardly a cold one, but it proved very tempestuous, and Upper Norwood, standing high as it does, felt the full force of the gales. Christmas found M. Zola alone; still, this did not particularly affect him, as Christmas, save as a religious observance, is but little kept up in France, where festivity and holiday-making are reserved for the New Year. In M. Zola’s rooms the only token of the season was a huge branch of mistletoe hanging over the chimney-piece. This he had bought himself, after I had told him of the privileges attached to mistletoe in England. There were, however, no young ladies to kiss, and, if I remember rightly, Mme. Zola, who had been absent in Paris, did not return to Norwood until a day or two before the New Year.

While her husband formed a fairly favourable opinion of England, its customs and its climate, Mme. Zola, I fear, was scarcely pleased with this country. At all events, she finally left it vowing that she would never return. But then for three or four weeks bronchitis and kindred ailments had kept her absolutely imprisoned in her room — her illness lasting the longer, perhaps, because she was unwilling to place herself in the hands of any medical man.

The New Year was but a day or two old, when one of the London morning newspapers announced with a great show of authority that an application for the extradition of M. Zola was imminent. Somebody, moreover, informed the same journal that he had recognised and interviewed M. Zola an evening or two previously, to which statement was appended a brief account of some of M. Zola’s views. All this amazed me the more as on the very day mentioned in the newspaper I had been with the master till nine P.M. and I could hardly believe than anybody had interviewed him after that hour. Moreover, my wife had since seen him, and he had said nothing to her of any visit or interview. Nevertheless, as other papers proceeded to copy the statements to which I have referred, I thought it well to communicate with our exile on the subject.

Through the carelessness of one of M. Zola’s friends, Wareham’s name and address had lately been given to an English journalist usually resident in Paris, and this journalist had then come to London to try to discover the master’s whereabouts. It was therefore possible that there might be some truth in the story. But M. Zola promptly wired to me that such was not the case, and followed up his telegram with a note in which he said:

‘My dear confrere and friend, — I have just telegraphed to you that the whole story of a journalist having interviewed me is purely and simply a falsehood. I have seen nobody. Again, there can be no question of extradition in my case; all that could be done would be to serve me with the judgment of the Assize Court. Those people don’t even know what they write about.

‘As for — —’s indiscretion, this is to be regretted. I am writing to him. For the sake of our communications, I have always desired that Wareham’s name and address should be known only to those on whom one can depend. Tell him that he must remain on his guard and
never
acknowledge that he knows my address. Persevere in that course yourself. I will wait a few days to see if anything occurs before deciding whether the correspondence arrangements should be altered. It would be a big affair; and I should afterwards regret a change if it were to prove uncalled for. Let us wait.’

Going through the many memoranda and notes I received from M. Zola during his exile, I also find this, dated February: ‘You did right to refuse Mr. —— my address. I absolutely decline to see anybody. No matter who may call on you, under whatever pretext it be, preserve the silence of the tomb. Less than ever am I disposed to let people disturb me.’

Again, a little later: ‘No; I will see neither the gentleman nor the lady. Tell them so distinctly, in order that they may worry you no more.’

With the New Year, it will be remembered, had come a succession of startling events which kept M. Zola in a state of acute anxiety. The violent attacks of the anti-Revisionists on the Criminal Chamber of the Cour de Cassation culminated in the resignation of Q. de Beaurepaire, in an inquiry into the Criminal Chamber’s methods of investigation, and finally in the passing of a law which transferred the task of the Criminal Chamber to the whole of the Supreme Court. On the many intrigues of that period I often conversed with M. Zola, who was particularly angered by the blind opposition of President Faure and the impudent duplicity of Prime Minister Dupuy. These two were undoubtedly doing their utmost to impede the course of justice.

Then suddenly, on February 17, came a thunderbolt. Faure had died on the previous evening, and by his death one of the greatest obstacles to the triumph of truth was for ever removed. We talked of the defunct president at some length, M. Zola adhering to the opinions that he had expressed during the summer.

But the great question was who would succeed M. Faure. When M. Brisson had fallen from office after initiating the Revision proceedings, M. Zola had said to me: ‘Brisson’s present fall does not signify; it was bound to come. But hereafter he will reap his reward for his courage in favouring revision. Brisson will be Faure’s successor as President of the Republic.’

In expressing this opinion M. Zola had imagined that Faure would live to complete his full term of office. His death in the very midst of the battle entirely changed the position. M. Brisson’s time had not come, and considering his age it indeed now seemed as if he might never attain to the supreme magistracy. The future looked blank; but M. Loubet was elected President, and a feeling of great relief followed.

I have reason to believe that M. Zola regards the death of President Faure as the crucial turning-point in the whole Dreyfus business. Had Faure lived every means would still have been employed to shield the guilty; all the influence of the Elysee would, as before, have been brought to bear against the unhappy prisoner of Devil’s Island.

During those January and February days M. Zola was an eager reader of the newspapers. Rumours of all kinds were in circulation, and once again in M. Zola’s mind did despondency alternate with hopefulness. I must say, however, that he was not particularly impressed by Paul Deroulede’s attempt to induce General Roget to march on the Elysee. He regards Deroulede as a scarcely sane individual, and holds views on Parisian demonstrations which may surprise some of those who believe everything they read in the newspapers.

These views may be epitomised as follows: The Government can always put down trouble in the streets when it desires to do so. If trouble occurs it is because the Government allows it. Three-fourths of the ‘demonstrations’ that have taken place in Paris during the last year or two have been simply ‘got up’ by professional agitators. The men who start the shouting and the marching are paid for their services, the tariff being as a rule two francs per demonstration. With 500 francs, that is 20 l., one can get 250 men together. These are joined by as many fools and a small contingent of enthusiasts, and then you have a rumpus on the boulevards, and half the newspapers in Europe announcing on the morrow: ‘Serious Disturbances in Paris. Impending Revolution.’ Some people may ask, Where does the money for many of these demonstrations come from? The answer is that it comes largely from much the same sources as those whence General Boulanger’s funds were derived — that is, from the Orleanist party.

As for military insubordination, plotting, or anything of that kind, M. Zola often pointed out to me that no general could effect a revolution, for the simple reason that he could not rely on his men to follow him in an illegal attempt. It was quite possible that now and again other generals besides Boulanger had dreamt of overturning the Republic, but they had not the means to do so. It was as likely as not that the officer foolhardy enough to make the attempt would be shot in the back by some of the Socialists among the rank and file. Boulanger no doubt could have counted on a good many men and ‘non-coms.,’ as he was popular with them, but few if any officers above the rank of captain would have followed him.

To-day, moreover, intense jealousy still reigns among the French general officers. There is not one among them of sufficient pre-eminence and popularity to gather round him a large contingent of military men of high rank for any political purpose. And this, of course — quite apart from the opinions of the masses — largely makes for a continuance of the Republican regime.