At the same time, the master does not cry 'haro' on the 'bloomer.' It is admirably suited, he maintains, to the average Frenchwoman, who is more inclined to a reasonable plumpness than her English sister. 'The skirt to England,' says he, 'the bloomer to France.' The whole question is one of physique and latitude. The Esquimaux lady would look ungainly and feel uncomfortable if she exchanged her moose furs for the wisp of calico which is patronised by the lady of Senegal; and in the like way the Englishwoman is manifestly ungainly and uncomfortable when she borrows the breeches of the Parisienne.
This digression may seem to carry one away from Wimbledon, but I should mention that many of the points enunciated were touched upon by M. Zola for the first time, while we postponed further house-hunting to drive over Wimbledon Common. The historic mill and Caesar's Camp, and the picturesque meres were all viewed before the horses' heads were turned to the town once more.
By this time the master had come to the conclusion that however pleasant Wimbledon might be, it was no fit place for him, and that his best course would be to pitch his tent 'far from gay cities and the ways of men.' Within a few hours I had some proof of the wisdom of his decision, and a week had not elapsed before I found that M. Zola's sojourn at Wimbledon had become known to a variety of people. Mr. Genoni, the restaurateur, had been one of the first to identify him; but, as he explained to me, he was no spy or betrayer, and whatever he might think of the Dreyfus business—he was a reader of that anti-Revisionist print the 'Petit Journal'—M. Zola's secret was, he assured me, quite safe in his hands. But, independently of Mr. Genoni, the secret soon became le secret de Polichinelle. A French resident in Wimbledon recognised M. Zola as he stood one day by the railway bridge admiring some fair cyclists. Then a gentleman connected with the local Petty Sessions court espied him in my company, and shrewdly guessed his identity. Subsequently a local hairdresser, an Englishman, but one well acquainted with Paris and Parisian matters, 'spotted' him in the Hill Road. Others followed suit, and at last one afternoon a member of the 'Globe' staff called upon me and supplied me with such circumstantial particulars that I could not possibly deny the accuracy of his information. But M. Zola had then left Wimbledon, and thus I was able to fence with my visitor and inform him that, even if the novelist had ever been in the town, he was not there at that time.
It had been arranged that some of the leading London house agents should be written to, with the view of securing some secluded country house, preferably in Surrey, and on the South Western line; but the question was, where, in the meantime, could M. Zola be conveniently installed? Having left England in the year 1865, and apart from a few brief sojourns in London, having remained abroad till 1886, my knowledge of my native land is very slight indeed. Years spent in foreign countries have made me a stay-at-home—one who nowadays buries himself in his little London suburb, going to town as seldom as possible, and without need of country or seaside trip, since at Merton, where I live, there are green fields all around one and every vivifying breeze that can be wished for. Thus I was the worst person in the world to take charge of M. Zola and pilot him safely to a haven of refuge.
Fortunately, Mr. Wareham knows his way about, as the saying goes, and his cycling experience proved very useful. He suggested that until a house could be secured, M. Zola should be installed at a country hotel; and he mentioned two or three places which seemed to him of the right character. One of these was Oatlands Park; and Wareham, who, although a solicitor, claims to have some little poetry in his nature, waxed so enthusiastic over the charms of Oatlands and neighbouring localities, that both M. Zola and M. Desmoulin, fervent admirers of scenery as they are, became curious to visit this leafy district of Surrey, where, as will be remembered, King Louis Philippe spent his last years of life and exile.
One afternoon, then, I started with Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin for Walton, from which station the Oatlands Park Hotel is most conveniently reached. A Gladstone bag had now replaced the master's newspaper parcel, and as M. Desmoulin's dressing-case was as large as a valise, there was at least some semblance of luggage. I fully realised that it was hardly the correct thing to present oneself at Oatlands Park and ask for rooms there ex abrupto; as with hostelries of that class it is usual for one to write and secure accommodation beforehand. However, there was no time for this; and we decided to run the risk of finding the hotel 'full up,' particularly as Wareham had informed us that in such a case we might secure a temporary billet at one or another of the smaller hotels of Walton or Weybridge. Thus we went our way at all hazards, and during the journey I devised a little story for the benefit of the manager at Oatlands Park.
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!