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.
On the other hand, I usually addressed M. Zola's letters for him to the house of a trusty friend in Paris. This precaution was a necessary one, as M. Zola's handwriting is so extremely characteristic and so well known in France. And thus we were convinced that any letter arriving in Paris addressed by him would immediately be sent to the 'Cabinet Noir,' where all suspicious correspondence is opened by certain officials, who immediately report the contents to the Government.
It has been pretended that of recent years this secret service has been abolished; but such is by no means the case. It flourishes to-day in the same way as it flourished under the Second Empire, when Napoleon III. made a point of acquainting himself with the private correspondence of his own relatives, his ministers, and his generals. After the revolution of September 1870, hundreds of copies of more or less compromising letters, covert attacks on or criticisms of the Imperial Government, billets-doux also between Imperial princes and their mistresses, and so forth, were found at the Palace of the Tuilleries; and some of them were even published by a commission nominated by the Republican Government.
Much of the same kind of thing goes on to-day, and M. Zola, when in Paris during the earlier stages of the Dreyfus case, had made it a point to trust no letter of the slightest importance to the Postal Service. On one occasion, a short time after his arrival in England, we had reason to fear that a letter addressed by me to Paris had gone astray, and all correspondence on M. Zola's side was thereupon suspended for several days. However, the missing letter turned up at last, and from that time till the conclusion of the master's exile the arrangements devised between him, Wareham, and myself worked without a hitch.