On the little writing-table near the middle window were first a small inkstand belonging to the hotel, then a few paper-weights covering memoranda jotted down on little square pieces of paper, about three inches long either way, together with an old yellowish newspaper which did duty as a blotting pad; and a pen with a 'j' nib and a very heavy ivory handle, so heavy, indeed, that though the master often offered it to me I could never write with it. With this pen, however, he himself did all his work. That work he generally cleared away before lunch, and locked up in his bedroom wardrobe, so that by the time a visitor arrived there was never any litter in the sitting-room.
The road, viewed from the writing-table window, was at times fairly lively. Nursemaids and children, bicyclists and others passed constantly to and fro. Stylish carriages also rolled by during the afternoon, and at intervals a little green omnibus went its way at a slow jog-trot. The detached villa residences on the other side of the road were, however, singularly lifeless. One day M. Zola remarked to me: 'I have never seen a soul in those houses during all the months I have been here. They are occupied certainly, for the window blinds are pulled up every morning and lowered every evening, but I can never detect who does this; and I have never seen anybody leave the houses or enter them.'
At last one afternoon he told me that one of these villas had woke up, for on the previous day he had espied a lady in the garden watering some flowers.
Rather lower down the road there was a livelier house, one which had a balconied window, which was almost invariably open, and here servants and children were often to be seen. 'That,' said M. Zola, 'is the one little corner of life and gaiety, amidst all the other silence and lack of life. Whenever I feel dull or worried I look over there.'
As a rule the Queen's Hotel itself is, as I have already mentioned, a very quiet place; but now and again a wedding breakfast was given there. Broughams and landaus would then roll over the gravel sweep, and M. Zola and I would at times lean out of the windows and exchange opinions with respect to the bridal pair and the guests. What surprised and amused him, on one occasion when a wedding party came to the hotel, was to notice that all the coachmen of the carriages wore yellow flowers and favours; for in France yellow is not only associated with jealousy, but also with conjugal faithlessness.
'If those flowers ware to be taken as an omen,' said M. Zola to me, 'that happy pair will soon be in the Divorce Court.'
During the latter part of his stay at Norwood, when the door between his bedroom and sitting-room remained open, one could see on a chest of drawers in the former apartment a pair of life-size porcelain cats, coloured a purplish maroon, with sparkling yellow glass eyes, and an abundance of fantastic yellow spots. These cats had been bought by him as a souvenir of England and English art, for he was much struck by their oddity. He had been offered others—for instance, white ones with little coloured landscapes printed all over their backs and sides—surely as idiotic an embellishment as any insane potter could devise—but although these had sorely tempted him he had finally decided in favour of the maroon and yellow abominations.
A little girl of mine, who found herself face to face with these cats one day in his room, was quite startled by them, and has since expressed the opinion that Sir John Tenniel ought to have seen them before he drew the Cheshire cat for 'Alice in Wonderland.' For my own part I can imagine the laughter and the jeers of M. Zola's artistic friends when those choice specimens of British art are shown to them in Paris.
At intervals during his long sojourn at the Queen's Hotel M. Zola received a few brief visits from French friends, chiefly literary men and politicians, whose names need not be mentioned, but who have identified themselves with the cause of Revision. At times these gentlemen found themselves in London on other matters, and profited by the opportunity to run down to Norwood. On other occasions they made the journey from France for the especial purpose of quieting M. Zola's impatience, and telling him that he must not yet think of returning home. Again, M. Fasquelle, the French publisher, came over four or five times, now on business and now in a friendly way.
I think that during the seven or eight months that M. Zola stayed at the
Queen's Hotel, he received altogether some ten visits from compatriots,
which visits were often of only an hour or two's duration. Thus, Mme.
Zola having returned to France, he was frequently very much alone.