emile zola.
On the first landing, lances and swords and armour of different kinds shine out from behind tropical plants. On this landing is Zola’s studio, which is full of indications of his love for the antique—a love that is not carried to extremes, however, for the high-backed, uncomfortable chairs of our forefathers, in which so many of his fellow-collectors find it necessary to seat themselves (or their visitors), are here replaced by spacious modern armchairs.
I am not kept long waiting.
“Well, I am glad that this is a wet day, or else you would very likely have regretted losing the opportunity of going to the Bois.”
Such are the maitre’s first words after a hearty shake of the hands.
“So you want to know all about me. Now let me see what I can tell you without repeating myself.”
And Zola sinks down into a small but comfortable armchair, with a small Turkish inlaid coffee and cigarette stand covered with books on one side, and on the other an antique wrought iron fender placed in front of an immense fireplace, and commences placidly the following monologue, which I give as nearly as possible in his own words.
“My father’s mother was a Corfiote, he himself a Venetian, and my mother was a Parisian. My father and mother met in Paris, during one of my father’s numerous visits here in connection with an aqueduct which he wanted to construct at Aix in Provence. Within a very short time of their first meeting, they were married. It was a love match. I was born in Paris, in 1840, and to-day I am, therefore, 53.
(facsimile of m. zola’s handwriting.)