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.