Coming back to 'Fecondite,' I should say that M. Zola wrote an average of three pages per day of that book during his exile in England. Work ceased at the luncheon hour, as I have said, and consequently he could dispose of his afternoons.
But it will be remembered that the summer of 1898 was exceptionally hot, so hot indeed that M. Zola, though many years of his childhood were spent under the scorching sun of Provence, found a siesta absolutely necessary after the midday meal. It was only later that he ventured out on foot or on his bicycle, often taking his hand camera with him.
At some distance from the house where he was residing, in the midst of large deserted grounds, overrun with grass and weeds, there stood a mournful-looking, unoccupied private residence of some architectural pretensions, on the building of which a considerable sum had evidently been expended. The place took M. Zola's fancy the first time he passed it on his bicycle. The iron entrance gate was broken, and he was able to enter the garden and peep through the ground-floor windows.
All spoke of decay and abandonment; and when, through my daughter, M. Zola began to make inquiries about the place, he was told a fantastic tragic story. A murder, it was said, had been committed there many years previously; a poor little girl had been killed by her stepmother, and her remains had been buried beneath a scullery floor.
There was also talk of the child's father, who at night drove up to the house in a phantom carriage drawn by ghostly horses, and hammered at the door of the mansion and shouted aloud for his dead child!
The story was alleged to be well known, and it was said that not a girl from Chertsey to Esher, from Walton to Byfleet, would have dared to pass that house after nightfall, when harrowing voices rang out through the trees, and the shadowy horses of the ghostly carriage trotted swiftly and silently over the gravel.
The story not only impressed my daughter Violette, but it greatly interested M. Zola, on whose behalf I made various inquiries. For instance, I closely questioned an old gardener who had known the district for long years. All he could tell me, however, was that there were certainly some strange rumours abroad among the womenfolk, but that for his own part he had never heard of any crime and had never seen any ghost.
And at last others told me quite a different story of the house's abandonment, and this I here venture to give, though I certainly cannot vouch for its accuracy. The place had been built, it seemed, some forty years previously by a retired and wealthy London pawnbroker, a gaunt, shrivelled old man, who, mounted on a white mare, had in his declining years been a familiar figure on the roads of the district.
Extremely eccentric, he had largely furnished and decorated the house with unredeemed articles that had been pledged with him. There was nothingen suite. Old chairs of divers patterns were mingled with odd tables and sideboards and sofas; there were also innumerable daubs 'ascribed' to old masters, and a wonderful display of Wardour-streetbric-a-brac. But, indeed, one has only to look at an average pawnbroker's shop to picture what kind of articles the house must have contained.
It seems that the old fellow in question had three daughters, whom he kept more or less imprisoned on his recently-acquired property, though they were charming girls well worthy of being sought in marriage; and the story I heard was that three officers sojourning in the district had one day espied the three forlorn damsels over the garden hedge, and had forthwith begun to court them, much to the ire of the misanthropic, retired pawnbroker. That stern old gentleman ordered his daughters into the house, and then kept them in stricter confinement than ever.
But love laughs at locksmiths, and the amorous officers eventually carried the place by storm, and beat down all parental resistance. Three weddings followed on the same day, and all ended for a time as in a fairy tale. But the old pawnbroker subsequently married again to relieve his solitude, and after his death his will was attacked, and an interminable lawsuit ensued, with the result that the property was left unoccupied. Now, it appeared, it was for sale, and before long would probably be cut up into building plots.
Whatever romantic element there might be in the story of the pawnbroker and his daughters, M. Zola much preferred the popular and gruesome legend of the little girl murdered in the scullery; and, some time later, when he consented to write a short story for 'The Star,' it was this legend which he took as his basis, building thereon the pathetic sketch of 'Angeline,' the scene of which he transferred to France.
He has stated in his article 'Justice,' published in Paris on his return from exile, that during most of the time he spent in England he was virtually in a desert. There were people about him of course; but he retired into himself as it were, communing with his own thoughts, and seeking no intercourse with strangers. This is true of the period to which I am now referring. Still he did not complain of solitude. In fact he knew that quiet was essential for his work. Only once or twice did anything happen of a nature to cause any anxiety. Neither Wareham nor myself was much troubled at this period; there was a lull even in the periodical visits which gentlemen of the Press kindly favoured me.
Still we had taken our precautions by admitting a mutual friend, Mr. A. W. Pamplin, into our confidence. If M. Zola's communications with Paris, through Wareham and myself, should be threatened, Mr. Pamplin was to take upon himself the duty of re-establishing them.
At M. Zola's house there was, so far as I am aware, but one briefalerte. This occurred one afternoon, when a servant came to my daughter with the tidings that there was a French hunchback at the door. Violette impulsively rushed off to tell M. Zola of it; but when in her turn she went to the door to see who the person might be, she found that he was an Englishman, a traveller for some county directory, who had merely performed his legitimate work in requesting to know the name of the occupier of the house. Of course the only name given was that of the owner, then absent at the seaside.
Thus the hot days sped by peacefully enough. M. Zola had at least found occupation and quietude, though it was naturally impossible that he should feel content with his lot. Each day brought more and more home to him the consciousness that he was in exile, and that contumely had been his reward for seeking to save France from the shame of a great crime.
I have previously mentioned that during the first week or so of his sojourn in England he had refused to look at newspapers and—at least so it seemed to me—had sought to banish the Dreyfus affair and his own troubles from his mind, much as one might seek to drive away a hateful nightmare. But before long he again fell under the spell and followed the course of events with the keenest interest. And again and again, reading of the great battle being waged in France, he longed to return home, and grew restless and impatient.
Moreover a complaint from which he has suffered on and off for some years troubled him on more than one occasion. He always rallied, however, and returned to his work with renewed energy. 'Fecondite' was already taking shape in the leafy solitude in which he dwelt. And undoubtedly the steady task of creation, resumed morning by morning, greatly helped him to quiet the anguish of heart which the course of events in France would otherwise have rendered intolerable.
NOTE.—While this work was appearing serially in the 'Evening News' I received numerous letters from readers interested in various matters mentioned by me. With respect to the foregoing chapter, a lady living at Staines wrote saying that she was looking out for 'a cheap haunted house,' and asking for the address of the one I had mentioned. I was unable to comply with her request, as personally I do not believe the house was haunted at all. Moreover, to prevent the sale or letting of any particular house by asserting it to be haunted would be an offence under the libel laws. As I could not tell what course my lady-correspondent might take in the matter, I preferred not to answer her. May she forgive me my impoliteness!
When the owner of the house which M. Zola had rented desired to resume possession, it became necessary to find new quarters of a similar character for the master. And so he was transferred to another Surrey country house where the arrangements remained much the same as previously: work every morning, resting or bicycling in the afternoon, followed by newspaper reading and letter-writing in the evening.
The grounds of M. Zola's new retreat were very extensive, and in part very shady, which last circumstance proved extremely welcome to the novelist, who on coming to 'cold, damp, foggy England,' as the French put it, had never imagined that he would have to endure a temperature approaching that of the tropics.
The heat deprived him of appetite, and, moreover, he did not particularly relish some of the dishes provided for him by a new cook who had lately been engaged. We all know how great is the servant difficulty even under the best of circumstances; and when cooks and maids have to be secured in hot haste an entirely satisfactory result is hardly to be expected. Moreover, many servants refuse to live in country retirement, far away from their 'followers,' and thus one has at times to take such as one can find.
As for the cookery to which M. Zola was at certain periods treated, he beheld it with wonder and repulsion. His tastes are simple, but to him the plain, boiled, watery potato and the equally watery greens were abominations. Plum tart, though served hot (why not cold, like the Frenchtarte?) might be more or less eatable; but, surely, apple pudding—the inveterate breeder of indigestion—was the invention of a savage race. And why, when a prime steak was grilled, should the cook water it in order to produce 'gravy,' instead of applying to it a little butter and chopped parsley? This, Dundreary-wise, was one of those things which nobody, not even M. Zola, could understand.
However, a visit to a fishmonger's shop had made him acquainted with the haddock, the kipper, and likewise the humble bloater; and occasionally, I believe, when his appetite needed a stimulant he turned to the smoked fish, which seemed so novel to his palate. The cook, of course, was mightily incensed thereat. For her part, she most certainly would not eat haddock or kippers for dinner; she had too much self-respect to do such a thing, so she boiled or roasted a leg of mutton for her own repast and the maids'. I do not say that she was wrong; and, indeed, M. Zola never forced people to eat what they did not care for.
But in the same way he wished for something that he himself could eat, and he was weary of the perpetual joint and the vegetablesa l'eau. One day, when in a jocular spirit he was talking to me on this subject, I told him that we English had a saying to the effect that 'God sent us food, but the devil invented cooks.'
'You are quite right,' he replied, 'only as a Frenchman I should put it this way: "God sent us food, but the devil invented English cooks."'
Towards the end of August he again became very dispirited. The 'cause' did not at that time appear to be prospering in France, where so many people remained under the spell of the deceptive declarations and documents which had been made public in the Chamber of Deputies by War Minister Cavaignac early in July.
Of course the Revisionists were still hard at work, but in the face of M. Cavaignac's speech, placarded throughout the 36,000 townships of France, they seemed to have a very uphill task before them. The anti-Dreyfusites on their side were more arrogant than ever, and although M. Zola never once lost faith in the justice of his cause and its ultimate triumph, he did, on more than one occasion, question whether that triumph would come in a peaceful way.
Felix Faure was then still President of the Republic, and I am abusing, I think, no confidence in saying that M. Zola regarded that vain, showy man as one of the great obstacles to the victory of truth and justice. Faure, he said to me, had undoubtedly at one time enjoyed well-deserved popularity; he, Zola, had been received by him and in the most cordial manner. But the President's intercourse with crowned heads, and his intimacy with arrogant general officers, coupled with all the flummery of the Protocole, all the pomp and display observed whenever he stirred from the Palace of the Elysee, had virtually turned his head. He was in the hands of those military men who opposed revision, and he shielded them because their downfall would mean his own. He was bent on the hushing-up course lest his Presidency should become synonymous with a great judicial crime; he feared that he might be forced to resign even before his term of office was over, or, at all events, that he might have to abandon all hope of re-election.
And thus with the President and the more prominent generals opposed to revision, M. Zola, though confident in the final issue, more than once said to me that there might be serious trouble before all was over.
He was now kept very well informed of all that took place in France; intelligence often reached him before it appeared in the newspapers; and now and again he told me what was brewing. Going backward, too, he confided to me some curious particulars of the genesis of the Revisionist campaign. But he will himself some day tell all this in a book of his own, and I must not anticipate him. I will only say that various important things he mentioned to me in the autumn of 1898 have since become well-known, acknowledged facts, and I have every reason to believe that time will duly show the accuracy of those which have not as yet been publicly revealed.
There is one point to which I must refer at more length. In his declaration 'Justice,' published on the expiration of his exile, M. Zola stated that he had long suspected Colonel Henry, though he had possessed no actual proof of that officer's guilt. This is so true, that I well recollect listening to a conversation between him and M. Desmoulin during the first days of their sojourn in England, when they compared notes with respect to their impressions of Henry, whom they had particularly noticed at Versailles on the occasion of M. Zola's sentence by default.
They had then observed how nervous and crestfallen the colonel looked—the very picture, indeed, of a man who dreads the discovery of his guilt. This was the more remarkable, as Henry's confident arrogance at the earlier trial in Paris had been so conspicuous. The man had a skeleton in his cupboard—to Zola and Desmoulin that was certain.
M. Zola is a good physiognomist, and his friend (as a portraitist) is scarcely less gifted in that respect, and they felt equally certain of Henry's culpability. As yet they could not say that it was he who had actually forged that famous 'absolute proof' of Dreyfus's guilt, which they knew to have been forged by some one, but that time would prove him guilty of some abominable machination was to them a foregone conclusion.
One day, it must have been I suppose the 31st of August, a rather strange telegram in French reached me for transmission to M. Zola. It came from Paris, and was, so far as I remember, to this effect: 'Be prepared for a great success.'
A name I was acquainted with followed; but what the telegram might mean I knew not. There was absolutely nothing in the newspapers with reference to any great success achieved at that moment by the Revisionist party; but possibly the message might refer to one or another of M. Zola's lawsuits, such as that with the 'Petit Journal' or that with the handwriting experts. I re-telegraphed it to M. Zola, and that day, at all events, I thought no more of the matter.
But I afterwards learnt that the telegram had perplexed him quite as much as it perplexed me. A great success? What could it be? He racked his mind in vain. He reviewed all the phases and aspects of the Dreyfus case, wondering whether this or that had happened, but not suspecting the public revelations which were then impending, the tragedy which was being enacted.
For a while he walked up and down, feverish and anxious (he was at the time in poor health), and then he would fling himself on a sofa, still and ever indulging in his surmises. With that kind of prescience which he had so frequently displayed in the Dreyfus affair, he felt certain that something very important had occurred, for otherwise such a mysterious telegram would never have been sent him. This lasted the whole evening.
My daughter Violette was with him at the time, and his feverishness doubtless gained on her. At last she retired to rest, while M. Zola, according to his wont, carried a lamp into his own room to sit there a while and read some French newspapers which had reached him, via Wareham, by the evening delivery. There was nothing in them of a nature to explain the mysterious telegram; still he read on and on in the hope, as it were, of quieting himself.
It was, I believe, between eleven o'clock and midnight when he rose to go to bed, and as he did so he heard some loud exclamations, followed by a cry. At first he fancied that the calls came from one of the servants' rooms, and he paused on the landing. Then, however, as they were repeated, he found that they came from my daughter's apartment. With fatherly solicitude he waited and listened. Violette was calling in her sleep.
Practical enough in matters of everyday life, this girl of mine has literary partialities of a somewhat gruesome kind, and her avowed ambition (I quote her own words) is to write, some day, stories full of witches and wizards, that shall make people's flesh creep. For this reason I keep such of Anne Radcliffe's uncanny novels as I possess carefully locked up.
I can well remember my daughter telling me at times of strange things dreamt by her in her sleep; but not of being of a romantic or a mystical turn myself, I have usually pooh-poohed all this as nonsense. And such I believe is the course which fathers usually adopt if their daughters' imaginations begin to run riot.
As for M. Zola, when he heard Violette calling in her sleep, his first impulse was to rouse her, but all suddenly became still again. The girl had probably sunk into a more peaceful slumber. And so, after waiting a few minutes longer, he thought it best to leave her as she was.
Nothing further disturbed M. Zola that night; but on the following morning, when he met Violette downstairs, he asked her how she felt, and told her that he had heard her calling in her sleep. He had probably formed the same opinion as I should have formed under the circumstances, namely, that it was a case of indigestion or a little excitement.
But she turned to him and replied, 'Oh! I had such a frightful dream. . . I was in a big black place, and there was a man on the ground covered with blood, and people were crowding round him, talking with great excitement. And I saw you, Monsieur Zola, and you came up looking like a giant and waved your arms again and again, and seemed well pleased.'
M. Zola was dumbfounded. He could make nothing of it. A man in a pool of blood and others round him; and he, Zola, waving his arms and looking well pleased! It was nonsense; and he was disposed to laugh at the girl and chide her. But a little later, with the arrival of some morning newspapers, the position suddenly changed.
Here I should mention that as the Paris journals only reached M. Zola with a delay of twelve or four-and-twenty hours, it had just been arranged that he should be supplied with two or three London papers every morning, and that he and Violette between them should put the telegrams concerning the Dreyfus business into French.
He opened one of these English newspapers—which it was I do not recollect—and there he saw a whole column dealing with the arrest and confession of Colonel Henry. The heading to the telegrams, the very words 'arrest' and 'confession,' made everything intelligible to M. Zola; and beneath all this came a brief wire headed, I think, 'Paris, midnight,' and worded much to this effect: 'Colonel Henry has been found dead in his cell at Mont Valerien.'
So that was the man whom Violette, in her dream, had seen weltering in a pool of blood, surrounded by his custodians, who had rushed in full of excitement! M. Zola's presence in that vision was, so to say, symbolical. 'He had waved his arms and had seemed well pleased'—so the girl had put it in her frank, artless way. 'Well pleased' may perhaps appear to be scarcely the correct expression. At all events, it needs to be interpreted. Most certainly Zola never desired the death of a sinner; but, on the other hand, he could only feel some satisfaction at knowing that Henry's crime was at last divulged to the world.
This, then, is how my daughter dreamt Henry's death. I do not wish to insist unduly on the incident, and I have no intention of appealing to the Psychical Research Society to test, corroborate, or disprove the case.
There was one rather curious feature that I have not yet mentioned. My daughter has assured me that during the same night she dreamt the same thing over and over again. She tried to banish the vision, but ever and ever it returned, as if to impress itself indelibly upon her mind. And ever did she see M. Zola waving his arms as he hovered round the scene.
At that time the girl knew nothing of Colonel Henry; she understood very little about the Dreyfus case; and all she had to go upon was the enigmatical telegram and M. Zola's talk during the evening, when he was expressing his thoughts aloud. But at that moment he had foreseen no death, murder, or suicide, and if the possibility of any arrest had occurred to him it was that of M. du Paty de Clam, which the Revisionist papers were then demanding.
It is true that in infancy my daughter had often seen Mont Valerien, as I lived for some years at Boulogne-sur-Seine, and the hill and fortress towering across the river were then familiar objects to us all. But the girl was little more than a baby at the time, and so this circumstance can have exercised no influence upon her. Moreover, she has told me that she had no notion as to what might be the actual scene of her dream; it merely appeared to her that she was in France, because the people she saw raised ejaculations in French.
Passing from this incident, I may point out that the telegram sent to M. Zola through me was explained by the news in the English newspapers. It was evident that the 'great success' referred to in the message was the discovery of Henry's forgery and possibly his arrest.
Directly I saw the news in a London newspaper I hurried off to M. Zola's, and when I reached his abode about noon I found him expecting me. We then went over matters together, the press telegrams, my daughter's dream and the probable outcome of the whole affair.
As was natural, M. Zola was quite excited. First, the document which Henry had confessed to having forged was the very one that General de Pellieux had imported into the Zola trial in Paris as convincing proof of Dreyfus's guilt. At that time already its effect had been very great; it had destroyed all chance of M. Zola's acquittal. Then, too, it had been solemnly brought forward in the Chamber of Deputies by War Minister Cavaignac, who had vouched for its authenticity. And now, as previously alleged by Colonel Picquart, it was shown to be a forgery of the clumsiest kind.
Here at least was 'a new fact' warranting the revision of the whole Dreyfus case. Surely the blindest bigot could not resist such evidence of the machinations of those who had sent Dreyfus to Devil's Island; truth and justice would speedily triumph, and in a week or two he, Zola, would be able to return to France again.
But he did not take sufficient account of human obstinacy and vileness. His friends, to whom he appealed on the subject of his return, urged him to remain where he was, for the battle, they said, was by no means over, and his name was still like the red scarf of the matador that goads the bull to fury. The advice proved good, for again were passions stirred. Henry, the ignoble forger, was raised to the position of martyr, and Cavaignac and Zurlinden and Chanoine in turn strove to impede the course of justice. 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,' and thus M. Zola, finding so many difficulties in the way of his return, abandoned for a time all work and fell into brooding melancholy.
Important events were now taking place in Paris. Cavaignac resigned the position of War Minister and was succeeded by Zurlinden; Du Paty de Clam was turned out of the army; Esterhazy, who had likewise been 'retired,' fled from France, Mme. Dreyfus addressed to the Minister of Justice a formal application for the revision of her unfortunate husband's case; and that application was in the first instance referred to a Commission of judges and functionaries. Then General Zurlinden resigned his Ministerial office, and again becoming Governor of Paris, apprehended the gallant Picquart on a ridiculous charge of forgery, and cast him into close confinement in a military prison. There was talk, too, of a military plot in Paris, and again and again were attempts made to prevent the granting of Revision.
Throughout those days of alternate hope and fear M. Zola suffered keenly. It was, too, about this time that he heard of the death of his favourite dog—an incident to which I have previously referred as coming like a blow of fate in the midst of all his anxiety.
When he rallied he spoke to me of his desire to familiarise himself in some degree with the English language, with the object principally of arriving at a more accurate understanding of the telegrams from Paris which he found in the London newspapers. A dictionary, a conversation manual, and an English grammar for French students were then obtained; and whenever he felt that he needed a little relaxation, he took up one or another of these books and read them, as he put it to me, 'from a philosophical point of view.'
Later I procured him a set of Messrs. Nelson's 'Royal Readers' for children, when he greatly praised, declaring them to be much superior to the similar class of work current in France. Afterwards he himself purchased a prettily illustrated edition of the classic 'Vicar of Wakefield' (the work to which all French young ladies are put when learning our language), but he found portions difficult to understand, and a French friend then procured him an edition in which the text is printed in French and English on alternate pages.
One day when he had been dipping into English papers and books he tackled me on rather a curious point. 'Why is it,' said he, 'that the Englishman when he writes of himself should invariably use a capital letter? That tall "I" which recurs so often in a personal narrative strikes me as being very arrogant. A Frenchman, referring to himself, writesjewith a smallj; a German, though he may gratify all his substantives with capital letters, employs a smalliin writingich; a Spaniard, when he uses the personal pronoun at all, bestows a smallyon hisyo, while he honours the person he addresses with a capitalV. I believe, indeed—though I am not sufficiently acquainted with foreign languages to speak with certainty on the point—that the Englishman is the only person in the world who applies a capital letter to himself. That "I" strikes me as the triumph of egotism. It is tall, commanding, and so brief! "I"—and that suffices. How did it originate?'
It was difficult for me to answer M. Zola on the point; I am a very poor scholar in such a matter, and I could find nothing on the subject in any work of reference I had by me. I surmised, however, that the capital I, as a personal pronoun, was a survival of the time when English, whether written or printed, was studded with capitals, even as German is to-day. If I am wrong, perhaps some one who knows better will correct me. One thing I have often noticed is that a child's first impulse is to write 'i,' and that it is only after admonition that the aggressive and egotistical 'I' supplants the humbler form of the letter. This did not surprise M. Zola, since vanity, like most other vices, is acquired, not inherent in our natures. But in a chaffing way he suggested that one might write a very humorous essay on the English character by taking as one's text that tall, stiff, and self-assertive letter 'I.'
How far M. Zola actually carried his study of English I could hardly say, but during the last months of his exile he more than once astonished me by his knowledge of an irregular verb or of the correct comparative and superlative of an adjective. And if he seldom attempted to speak English, he at least made considerable progress in reading it. By the time he returned to France he could always understand any Dreyfus news in the English papers. Of course the language in which the news was couched was of great help to him, as in three instances out of four it was simply direct translation from the French.
In this connection, while praising many features of the English Press, M. Zola more than once expressed to me his surprise that so much of the Paris news printed in London should be simply taken from Paris journals. Some correspondents, said he, never seemed to go anywhere or to see anybody themselves. They purely and simply extracted everything from newspapers. This he was able to check by means of the many Paris prints which he received regularly.
'Here,' he would say, 'this paragraph is taken verbatim from "Le Figaro"; this other appeared in "Le Temps," this other in "Le Siecle,"' and so forth. And he was not alluding to extracts from editorials, but to descriptive matter—accounts of demonstrations and ceremonies, fashionable weddings and other social functions, interviews, and so forth. The practice upset all his ideas of a foreign correspondent's duties, which should be to obtain first-hand and not second-hand information.
In principle this is of course correct, but a correspondent cannot be everywhere at the same time; and nowadays, moreover, English journalists in Paris do not enjoy quite the same facilities as formerly. As regards more particularly the Dreyfus business, the French, with a sensitiveness that can be understood, have all along deprecated anything in the way of foreign interference, and the English Pressman of inquiring mind on the subject has more than once met with a rebuff from those in a position to give information. Again, the political difficulties between the two countries of recent years have often placed the Paris correspondents in a very invidious position.
This brings me to the Fashoda trouble, which arose last autumn while M. Zola was still in his country retreat. The great novelist's enemies have often alleged that he was no true Frenchman; but for my part, after thirty years' intimacy with the French, I would claim for him that his country counts no better patriot. He is on principle opposed to warfare, but there is a higher patriotism than that which consists in perpetually beating the big drum, and that higher patriotism is Zola's.
The Fashoda difficulties troubled him sorely, and directly it seemed likely that the situation might become serious he told me that it would be impossible for him to remain in England. The progress of the negotiations between France and Great Britain was watched with keen vigilance, and M. Zola was ready to start at the first sign of those negotiations collapsing. As all his friends were opposed to his return to France (they had again virtually forbidden it late in September when the Brisson Ministry finally submitted the case for revision to the Criminal Chamber of the Cour de Cassation), he would probably have gone to Belgium, but I doubt whether he would have remained long in that country.
I have said that M. Zola is opposed to warfare on principle. His views in this respect have long been shared by me. Life's keenest impressions are those acquired in childhood and youth. And in my youth—I was but seventeen, though already acting as a war correspondent, the youngest, I suppose, on record—I witnessed war attended by every horror:—A city, Paris, starved by the foreigner and subsequently in part fired by some of its own children. And between those disasters, having passed through the hostile lines, I saw an army of 125,000 men with 350 guns, that of Chanzy, irretrievably routed after battling in a snowstorm of three days' duration, cast into highways and byways, with thousands of barefooted stragglers begging their bread, with hundreds of farmers bewailing their crops, their cattle, and their ruined homesteads, with mothers innumerable weeping for their sons, and fair girls in the heyday of their youth lamenting the lads to whom their troth was plighted. And in that 'Retraite Infernale,' as one of its historians has called it, I saw want, hunger, cupidity, cruelty, disease, stalking beside the war fiend; so no wonder that, like Zola, I regard warfare as the greatest of abominations that fall upon the world. I often regret that, short of actual war itself and its disaster and misery, there should be no means of bringing the whole horror of the thing home to those silly, arm-chair, jingo journalists of many countries, our own included, who, viewing war simply as a means of imposing the will of the stronger upon the weaker, and losing sight of all that attends it, save martial pomp and individual heroism, ever clamour for the exercise of force as soon as any difficulty arises between two governments.
Ties of affection, bonds of marriage, as well as long years of intimacy, link me moreover to the French people; and more keenly, perhaps, than even the master himself, did I realise what war between France and England might mean; thus we both had an anxious time during the Fashoda trouble. Fortunately for the general peace hostilities were averted, and M. Zola was thus able to remain in his secluded English home, and to continue the writing of his novel.
The weather was still very fine, and now and again he ventured upon a little excursion. The principal one was to Virginia Water, where he strolled round the lake, then drove through part of the Great Park, and thence on to Windsor Castle, where he saw all the sights, the State apartments, St. George's Hall and Chapel, the Albert Memorial Chapel, and so forth. And, as he had brought his hand camera with him, he was able to take a few snapshots of what he saw. I was not present on that occasion; his companions were a French gentleman, a very intimate friend, and my daughter, but I was pleased to hear that he had, at all events, seen Windsor. As a rule, it was extremely difficult to induce him to emerge from his solitude. When he took a walk or a bicycle ride his destination was simply some sleepy Surrey village or deserted common.
He appreciated English scenery. Around Oatlands he had been much struck by the beauty of the trees, and was greatly astonished to find such lofty and perfect hedges of holly running at times for a mile almost without a break on either side of the roads. I suppose that some of the finest holly hedges in England are to be found in that district. Then, too, the rookeries surprised and interested him. There was one he could see from his window at the last half of his country residences, and many an idle half-hour was spent by him in watching the flight of the birds or their occasional parliaments.
Nobody recognised him on his rambles. I even doubt if people, generally, thought him a foreigner. He had long ceased to wear his rosette of the Legion of Honour, and he had replaced his white billycock by an English straw hat. Towards the close of the fine weather he purchased a 'bowler,' which greatly altered his appearance. Indeed, there is nothing like a 'bowler' to make a foreigner look English.
Wareham and I had now quite ceased to fear that any attempt would be made to serve the Versailles judgment on M. Zola. We were only troubled by gentlemen of the Press, both French and English, for since Esterhazy had fled from France and the case for revision had been formally referred to the Cour de Cassation, several newspapers had become desirous of ascertaining M. Zola's views on the course of events. My instructions remained, however, the same as formerly: I was to tell every applicant that M. Zola declined to make any public statement, and that he would receive nobody. I was occasionally inclined to fancy that some of those who called on me imagined that these instructions were of my own invention, and that I was simply keeping M. Zolaau secretfor purposes of my own. But nothing was further from the truth.
Personally, at certain moments, when the revision proceedings began, when M. Brisson fell from office, when M. Dupuy, listening to the clamour of a pack of jackals, transferred the revision inquiry from the Criminal Chamber to the entire Court of Cassation, I thought that it might really be advisable for him to speak out. But, anxious though he was, disgusted, indignant, too, at times, he would do nothing to add fuel to the flame. Passions were roused to a high enough pitch already, and he had no desire to inflame them more.
Besides the cause was in very good hands; Clemenceau and Vaughan, Yves Guyot and Reinach, Jaures and Gerault-Richard, Pressense, Cornely, and scores of others were fighting admirably in the Press, and his intervention was not required. Many a man circumstanced as M. Zola was would have rushed into print for the mere sake of notoriety, but he condemned himself to silence, stifling the words which rose from his throbbing heart. And, after all, was not that course more worthy, more dignified?
Thus I could only return one answer to the newspaper men who wrote to me or called at my house. Late in autumn there was an average of three applications a week. One or two gentlemen, I believe, imagined that M. Zola was staying very near me, and, failing to learn anything at my place, they tried to question one or two tradesmen in the neighbourhood. One of these, a grocer, became so irate at the frequent inquiries as to whether a Frenchman, who wrote books and had a grey beard, and wore glasses, was not staying in the vicinity, that he ended by receiving the reporters with far more energy than politeness, not only ordering them out of his shop at the double quick, but pursuing them with his vituperative eloquence. 'Taking one consideration with another, a reporter's lot, at times, is not a happy one.'
A climax was reached when one gentleman, after communicating with M. Zola by letter through various channels and receiving no answer from him, ascertained my address and called there. As servants are not always to be depended upon, we had made it virtually a rule at home that whenever a stranger was seen at the front door my wife herself should, if possible, answer it. And she did so in the instance I am referring to.
Well, the gentleman first asked for me, and on learning that I was absent, he explained that he was a friend, a private friend of M. Zola, whom he wished to see on an important private matter. Could she, my wife, oblige him with M. Zola's address? No, she could not; he had better write, and his letter would be duly forwarded by me. Then the applicant started on another story. It was no use his writing, he must see me. Should I be at home on the morrow? The matter was of great importance, it would mean a large sum of money for myself and so on. My wife had not much confidence in what was told her, but she requested the visitor to leave his name and address in order that I might make an appointment with him, should I think such a course advisable.
She was, at the moment, far more amazed and amused than indignant. She bade the gentleman keep his money, and then showed him to the door. To me that evening she did not mention the incident, and, indeed, I only heard of it after I had taken the trouble to communicate with M. Zola respecting the gentleman's urgent private business, which (so it turned out) was purely and simply connected with journalism, my visitor having acted on behalf of the owner of a well-known London newspaper.
I do not know whether his principal had any knowledge of his impudent attempt at bribery. For my own part I much regret that my wife (I suppose in the interests of peace) should have kept it from me at that time as she did, for the gentleman might otherwise have experienced, as he deserved, a rather unpleasant ten minutes.
At last the time arrived when it became necessary to remove M. Zola from his country quarters, and by his desire Wareham and I then looked around us for a suitable suburban hotel. The autumn was now far spent and M. Zola felt confident that he would be back in Paris by the end of the year. Had he foreseen that his exile would prove so long, he would certainly have sent for a couple of his French servants, and have set up a quiet establishment in some other furnished house. But for another month or two he considered that hotel accommodation would well suffice.
The place selected for him by Wareham and myself was the Queen's Hotel, Upper Norwood, and there he remained from late in the autumn of 1898 until his departure from England.
A glance at the Queen's Hotel shows one that it is composed of what were once separate houses, now connected together by buildings of one storey only. Each of these houses, or, as one may perhaps call them, pavilions, has a separate entrance and staircase; and the advantage of this, to one circumstanced as M. Zola was, must be obvious. A person lodging in one of the pavilions can come and go freely. There is no vast hall to cross, with a dozen servants standing around, ready to scrutinise you as you pass in and out. You have your suite of rooms in one or another pavilion, you take your meals there in your own dining-room, and you can shut yourself off, as it were, from the greater part of the establishment and enjoy privacy and quiet. This, no doubt, is the reason why so many well-to-do people, who dislike the stir and bustle of the ordinary hotel, patronise the hostelry at Upper Norwood.
There at one time—when consulting Sir Morell Mackenzie, I believe—stayed the unfortunate Emperor Frederick; and now it may add to its list of patrons the most famous Frenchman of his day.
It seemed to Wareham and me that the Queen's Hotel would, under the circumstances, prove an ideal retreat for M. Zola. Moreover, Upper Norwood stands on very high ground, and it was probable therefore that he would largely escape the winter fogs. Of course the Crystal Palace was comparatively near, but it was not very largely patronised in the winter, and, besides, if M. Zola wished to escape a crowd, he had only to take his walks in another direction.
The Queen's Hotel stands back from the road; but, in the first instance, as a precautionary measure it was thought best to select for M. Zola a suite of rooms overlooking the extensive gardens. As time went on, however, the trees lost their last leaves, the vista from these rooms, charming enough in summer, became very cheerless. So the master's quarters were shifted to a larger suite on the ground floor, with the windows of the two communicating sitting-rooms overlooking both the road and the garden.
The two sitting-rooms were an advantage, particularly during the time that Mme. Zola stayed at the Queen's Hotel (for she joined her husband on and off), as he could devote one of them entirely to his work. But when Mme. Zola finally left England (in a very ailing state, after a terrible cold had kept her within doors for some weeks) her husband moved once again, and installed himself on the second floor, where the rooms were smaller and therefore easier to warm. It was then mid-winter.
The various rooms M. Zola occupied and in which he spent from seven to eight months—that is by far the greater portion of his exile—were all part of the same house or pavilion, this being the last of the pavilions constituting the hotel proper. Adjoining is a lower building, belonging to the same proprietary as the hotel, but, in a measure, distinct from it. Most of M. Zola's tenancy was spent in the topmost rooms. After bringing the master up from the country, I took him one morning down to Norwood, and he cordially approved of the arrangements which had been made for him. There was only one thing amiss. Wareham and I had been promised that he should have a waiter speaking French to attend on him; and the one provided knew perhaps just a few words of that language. However, he was very intelligent, very discreet, very willing to oblige—a pattern waiter of the good old English school. And when I had explained to him exactly what would be required, he took due note of everything, and for many months the arrangements that were made worked virtually without a hitch.
If M. Zola's surroundings had altered, the routine of his life remained the same as formerly. With regard to his novel 'Fecondite' he had, as the saying goes, 'warmed to his work,' which he pursued at the Queen's Hotel with unflagging energy.
Knowing his habits I never (unless under exceptional circumstances) visited him till he had finished his daily quantum of 'copy,' that was about the luncheon hour. Then we would talk business, communicate to one another such news as might be necessary, and at times exchange impressions with regard to the incidents of the day.
Among other matters often discussed were the English birth-rate and the rearing of English children, points which deeply interested M. Zola, as they were germane to the subject of 'Fecondite.' I could at first only give him general information, but the Rev. R. Ussher, vicar of Westbury, Bucks, the able author of 'Neo-Malthusianism,' very kindly sent me a copy of his exhaustive work, which contained many particulars on the points that principally interested M. Zola. Moreover, Mr. George P. Brett, the President of the Macmillan Company of New York (M. Zola's American publishers), supplied him with some interesting information respecting the United States.
With regard to England, M. Zola had been much struck by certain proceedings instituted during his exile against medical men, midwives, and others, proceedings which seemed to point to the existence in this country of a state of affairs much akin to that prevailing in France. The affair of the brothers Chrimes, who first sold bogus medicines and then proceeded to blackmail the women who had purchased them, was, in Zola's estimation, particularly significant, for here were hundreds and hundreds of Englishwomen applying to those men for the means of accomplishing the greatest crime against Nature there could be.
On that point M. Zola spoke in no uncertain language. He understood well enough that the authorities could not justly single out a few of those hundreds of women for prosecution and punishment: but he censured the women quite as much as he censured the convicted men, who were, after all, but common scoundrels.
And he was amazed to find that so few English newspapers ventured to speak out on the matter. There were plenty of leaderettes on the cunning shown by the men, but the alacrity of the women to purchase the bogus medicines was, as a rule, lightly passed over; and great as is M. Zola's admiration for the English Press in many respects, he could but regard its attitude towards the Chrimes case as lamentably inadequate and lacking in moral courage.
'A great responsibility,' said he, 'rests with those who, possessing commanding influence, refrain from requisite action, and who, instead of seeking to cure proved and acknowledged evils, connive at driving them beneath the surface, where, in secret, they steadily grow and expand.' And all this for the sake of the 'young person,' to whose mythical innocence the welfare of a whole nation is often sacrificed. M. Zola's views are summed up in the words: 'Let all be exposed and discussed, in order that all may be cured!'
He regards Neo-Malthusianism and its practices as abominable, and when he had learnt more of the actual situation in England he was emphatically of opinion that his book 'Fecondite,' though applied to France alone, might well, with little alteration, be applied to this country also.
The fluctuations in the English birth-rate from 1872 to 1897 were to him full of meaning. At a certain period, for instance, they showed all the harm wrought by the abominable Bradlaugh-Besant campaign. But what he dwelt on still more was the absolute physical incapacity of so many English mothers to suckle their own offspring. Circumstances are much the same both in France and the United States, at least among the older Colonial families. In three or four generations the women of a family in which the practice of suckling has ceased, are altogether unable to give the breast; and the 'bottle' ensues, with its thousand evils and a gradual deterioration of the race.
On the last occasion when James Russell Lowell came to England he was asked what change, if any, he remarked since his last visit, among the people he met, and he replied that he was most struck by the falling off in height, and breadth of shoulders, of the average man in the London streets.
Though matters have not yet reached such a point as in France and elsewhere, it is I think incontestable that the English race, like many another, is physically deteriorating. Athletics tend to improve the standard, but there must be proper material to work upon, and M. Zola, I found, held the view that for a race to be healthy its womenfolk should be willing and able to discharge the primary duties of Nature. When he discovered that so many Englishwomen would not or could not suckle their babes, he remarked that England had started on the same downward course as France.
He often watched the troops of nursemaids and children whom he met during his afternoon strolls. He noticed and told me how many of the former neglected their charges, standing about, flirting or gossiping, or looking into shop windows, while the baby in the bassinette or the mail-cart sucked away at that vile invention the bone and gutta-percha 'soother,' and he was astonished that ladies should apparently consider it beneath them to accompany baby on the promenade. Indeed the invariable absence of the mothers gave him a rather bad opinion of them: for surely they must know that many of the nurse-girls neglected the infants and yet they exercised no supervision. 'Of course,' said he, 'they are visiting or receiving, or reading novels, or bicycling or playing lawn tennis. Ah! well, that is hardly my conception of a mother's duty towards her infant, whatever be her station in life.'
Now and again at intervals I accompanied him on his afternoon walks. These generally took a semi-circular form. We descended from the plateau of Upper Norwood on one side to climb to it again on another. Sometimes we passed by way of Beulah Spa, then round by some fields and a recreation ground, with the name of which I am not acquainted. There were several shapely oak trees thereabouts, which he greatly admired and even photographed.
'Do you know,' he remarked to me one afternoon, 'when I come out all alone for my usual constitutional, and want to shake off some worrying thoughts, I often amuse myself by counting the number of hairpins which I see lying on the foot-pavement. Oh! you need not laugh, it is very curious, I assure you. I already had ideas for two essays—one on the capital "I" in its relation to the English character, and another on the physiology of the English "guillotine" window and the forms it affects, not forgetting the circumstance that whenever an architect introduces a French window into an English house, it invariably opens outwardly so as to be well buffeted by the wind, instead of into the room as it should do. Well, now I am beginning to think that I might write something on the carelessness of Englishwomen in fastening up their hair, and the phenomenal consumption of hairpins in England. For the consumption must be enormous since the loss is so great, as I will show you.'
Then he proceeded to ocular demonstration. As we walked on for half an hour or so, principally along roads bordered by the umbrageous gardens of villa residences, we counted all the hairpins we could see. There were about four dozen. And he was careful to point out that we had chiefly followed a route where there was but a moderate amount of traffic.
Not one man in a thousand probably would have thought of counting the lost hairpins in the streets; but then M. Zola is an observer, and if I tell this anecdote, which some may think puerile, it is by way of illustrating his powers of observation and the length to which he occasionally carries them.
On one point, I told him, he was rather in the wrong. The great loss of hairpins did not proceed so much from the carelessness of women in fastening their hair, as from their 'pennywise and pound-foolish' system of buying cheap hairpins with few and inefficient 'twists.' These cheap hairpins never 'caught' properly in their coiled-up tresses. The women went out, walked rapidly, tossed their heads perchance, and one at least of their hairpins fell to the ground. Supposing one hundred women passed along a certain road or street in the course of the day, it would not be surprising to find that at least thirty hairpins were lost there. And I concluded by saying that, to the best of my belief, the aforesaid hairpins were 'made in Germany.'
Another thing which amused and interested M. Zola when he took his walks around Norwood was to note the often curious and often high-sounding names bestowed on villa residences. As a rule the smaller the place the more grandiose the appellation bestowed on it. Some of the names M. Zola, having now made progress with his English, could readily understand; others, too, were virtually French, such as Bellevue, Beaumont, and so forth; but there were several that I had to interpret, such as Oakdene, Thornbrake, Beechcroft, Hillbrow, Woodcote, Fernside, Fairholme, Inglenook, etc. And there was one name that I could not explain to him at all—an awful name, which I fancied might be Gaelic or Celtic, though I appealed in vain to Scottish, Irish, and Welsh friends for an interpretation of its meaning. It was written thus: 'Ly-ee-Moon.'
Nobody of my acquaintance was able to explain it to me. M. Zola wrote it down in his memorandum-book as an abstruse puzzle. However, while this narrative was appearing in the 'Evening News,' several correspondents kindly informed me that Ly-ee-Moon (at times written 'Lai-Mun') was Chinese, being the name of a narrow passage or strait between the island of Hong-Kong and the mainland of China (now transferred to Great Britain), at the eastern entrance to the harbour of the city of Victoria on the island.
It seems also that Ly-ee-Moon is a name often given to ships sailing in the China seas. And in the case of the Norwood house, built by a retired shipowner and sea captain, the name was taken from a vessel plying on the Australian coast for many years, and ultimately wrecked with great loss of life. The owner of the Norwood house had an engraving of the ship executed on a plate-glass window of this hall. Until these explanations reached me both M. Zola and myself were quite as much at sea (with regard to 'Ly-ee-Moon') as ever its owner and captain was.
When I spent an afternoon at Norwood with M. Zola we generally returned to the hotel about half-past four for a cup of tea. And on the way back (particularly during the last months) I frequently purchased postage stamps for him at the chief post-office. He might, of course, have bought them himself, and as a matter of fact he did at times do so. But he was aware, I think, that he was regarded with some suspicion by the young lady clerks under the control of the Duke of Norfolk.
At certain periods, Christmas time and the New Year, for instance, M. Zola's correspondence became extensive, and on the first occasion when he entered the Upper Norwood post-office and asked for fifty 2 1_2 d. stamps he was looked at with surprise. When, a couple of days later, he applied for another fifty, the young ladies eyed him as if he were a genuine curiosity. A hundred 2 1_2 d. stamps in four days! What could he do with them? Nobody could tell. When, shortly afterwards, he returned for another supply of the same kind, the Norwood post-office was convulsed. And I doubt if even now some of the young ladies have quite got over that brief but extraordinary run on the so-called 'foreign stamp.'
I hope they do not imagine that M. Zola was hungry, and bought those stamps to eat.
The winter was hardly a cold one, but it proved very tempestuous, and Upper Norwood, standing high as it does, felt the full force of the gales. Christmas found M. Zola alone; still, this did not particularly affect him, as Christmas, save as a religious observance, is but little kept up in France, where festivity and holiday-making are reserved for the New Year. In M. Zola's rooms the only token of the season was a huge branch of mistletoe hanging over the chimney-piece. This he had bought himself, after I had told him of the privileges attached to mistletoe in England. There were, however, no young ladies to kiss, and, if I remember rightly, Mme. Zola, who had been absent in Paris, did not return to Norwood until a day or two before the New Year.
While her husband formed a fairly favourable opinion of England, its customs and its climate, Mme. Zola, I fear, was scarcely pleased with this country. At all events, she finally left it vowing that she would never return. But then for three or four weeks bronchitis and kindred ailments had kept her absolutely imprisoned in her room—her illness lasting the longer, perhaps, because she was unwilling to place herself in the hands of any medical man.
The New Year was but a day or two old, when one of the London morning newspapers announced with a great show of authority that an application for the extradition of M. Zola was imminent. Somebody, moreover, informed the same journal that he had recognised and interviewed M. Zola an evening or two previously, to which statement was appended a brief account of some of M. Zola's views. All this amazed me the more as on the very day mentioned in the newspaper I had been with the master till nine P.M. and I could hardly believe than anybody had interviewed him after that hour. Moreover, my wife had since seen him, and he had said nothing to her of any visit or interview. Nevertheless, as other papers proceeded to copy the statements to which I have referred, I thought it well to communicate with our exile on the subject.
Through the carelessness of one of M. Zola's friends, Wareham's name and address had lately been given to an English journalist usually resident in Paris, and this journalist had then come to London to try to discover the master's whereabouts. It was therefore possible that there might be some truth in the story. But M. Zola promptly wired to me that such was not the case, and followed up his telegram with a note in which he said:
'My dear confrere and friend,—I have just telegraphed to you that the whole story of a journalist having interviewed me is purely and simply a falsehood. I have seen nobody. Again, there can be no question of extradition in my case; all that could be done would be to serve me with the judgment of the Assize Court. Those people don't even know what they write about.
'As for ——-'s indiscretion, this is to be regretted. I am writing to him. For the sake of our communications, I have always desired that Wareham's name and address should be known only to those on whom one can depend. Tell him that he must remain on his guard andneveracknowledge that he knows my address. Persevere in that course yourself. I will wait a few days to see if anything occurs before deciding whether the correspondence arrangements should be altered. It would be a big affair; and I should afterwards regret a change if it were to prove uncalled for. Let us wait.'
Going through the many memoranda and notes I received from M. Zola during his exile, I also find this, dated February: 'You did right to refuse Mr. ——- my address. I absolutely decline to see anybody. No matter who may call on you, under whatever pretext it be, preserve the silence of the tomb. Less than ever am I disposed to let people disturb me.'
Again, a little later: 'No; I will see neither the gentleman nor the lady. Tell them so distinctly, in order that they may worry you no more.'
With the New Year, it will be remembered, had come a succession of startling events which kept M. Zola in a state of acute anxiety. The violent attacks of the anti-Revisionists on the Criminal Chamber of the Cour de Cassation culminated in the resignation of Q. de Beaurepaire, in an inquiry into the Criminal Chamber's methods of investigation, and finally in the passing of a law which transferred the task of the Criminal Chamber to the whole of the Supreme Court. On the many intrigues of that period I often conversed with M. Zola, who was particularly angered by the blind opposition of President Faure and the impudent duplicity of Prime Minister Dupuy. These two were undoubtedly doing their utmost to impede the course of justice.
Then suddenly, on February 17, came a thunderbolt. Faure had died on the previous evening, and by his death one of the greatest obstacles to the triumph of truth was for ever removed. We talked of the defunct president at some length, M. Zola adhering to the opinions that he had expressed during the summer.
But the great question was who would succeed M. Faure. When M. Brisson had fallen from office after initiating the Revision proceedings, M. Zola had said to me: 'Brisson's present fall does not signify; it was bound to come. But hereafter he will reap his reward for his courage in favouring revision. Brisson will be Faure's successor as President of the Republic.'
In expressing this opinion M. Zola had imagined that Faure would live to complete his full term of office. His death in the very midst of the battle entirely changed the position. M. Brisson's time had not come, and considering his age it indeed now seemed as if he might never attain to the supreme magistracy. The future looked blank; but M. Loubet was elected President, and a feeling of great relief followed.
I have reason to believe that M. Zola regards the death of President Faure as the crucial turning-point in the whole Dreyfus business. Had Faure lived every means would still have been employed to shield the guilty; all the influence of the Elysee would, as before, have been brought to bear against the unhappy prisoner of Devil's Island.
During those January and February days M. Zola was an eager reader of the newspapers. Rumours of all kinds were in circulation, and once again in M. Zola's mind did despondency alternate with hopefulness. I must say, however, that he was not particularly impressed by Paul Deroulede's attempt to induce General Roget to march on the Elysee. He regards Deroulede as a scarcely sane individual, and holds views on Parisian demonstrations which may surprise some of those who believe everything they read in the newspapers.
These views may be epitomised as follows: The Government can always put down trouble in the streets when it desires to do so. If trouble occurs it is because the Government allows it. Three-fourths of the 'demonstrations' that have taken place in Paris during the last year or two have been simply 'got up' by professional agitators. The men who start the shouting and the marching are paid for their services, the tariff being as a rule two francs per demonstration. With 500 francs, that is 20 l., one can get 250 men together. These are joined by as many fools and a small contingent of enthusiasts, and then you have a rumpus on the boulevards, and half the newspapers in Europe announcing on the morrow: 'Serious Disturbances in Paris. Impending Revolution.' Some people may ask, Where does the money for many of these demonstrations come from? The answer is that it comes largely from much the same sources as those whence General Boulanger's funds were derived—that is, from the Orleanist party.
As for military insubordination, plotting, or anything of that kind, M. Zola often pointed out to me that no general could effect a revolution, for the simple reason that he could not rely on his men to follow him in an illegal attempt. It was quite possible that now and again other generals besides Boulanger had dreamt of overturning the Republic, but they had not the means to do so. It was as likely as not that the officer foolhardy enough to make the attempt would be shot in the back by some of the Socialists among the rank and file. Boulanger no doubt could have counted on a good many men and 'non-coms.,' as he was popular with them, but few if any officers above the rank of captain would have followed him.
To-day, moreover, intense jealousy still reigns among the French general officers. There is not one among them of sufficient pre-eminence and popularity to gather round him a large contingent of military men of high rank for any political purpose. And this, of course—quite apart from the opinions of the masses—largely makes for a continuance of the Republican regime.
With a weak Government in office, one with a policy of drift, everything may become possible; but, so long as foresight and vigilance are shown, the Republic remains impregnable. If military malcontents become obstreperous it is only necessary to treat them as General Boulanger was treated.
I recollect hearing M. Yves Guyot, who was a member of the Cabinet which put down 'the brave general on the black horse,' and who was also one of the few French friends who visited M. Zola during his exile, give a brief account of some of the decisive steps which were taken to stop the Boulangist agitation. The Prefect of Police of that time was summoned to the Ministry of the Interior, where two or three members of the Government awaited his arrival. Amongst other orders given him was one (if I remember rightly) for the dissolution of M. Deroulede's 'League of Patriots,' which then, as more recently, was at the bottom of much of the agitation.
The Prefect hesitated; he was afraid to execute his orders. 'Very well, then,' said M. Constans, M. Guyot, and others, 'you may regard your resignation as accepted; you are not the man for the situation; if you are afraid, there are plenty who are not; and we shall immediately replace you.'
The threat of the loss of office wrought an immediate change in the Prefect. He became as brave as he had been timorous, and with all due energy he proceeded to carry out his instructions. Boulangism was crushed and held up to public opprobrium and ridicule; and but for the culpable weakness and connivance of M. Felix Faure and his favourite Prime Minister, M. Meline, it would never have revived in its varied forms of anti-Semitism, anti-Dreyfusism, etc.
French functionaries, those of the Civil Service, are, as a rule, a docile set; but every now and again a Government finding some laxity among prefects and sub-prefects makes a few examples. Three or four prefects of departments are transferred in disgrace to less important towns; two or three are cashiered, and the same method is followed with some of the sub-prefects. Thereupon, all the others, prefects and 'subs,' throughout the eighty and odd departments of France, hasten to show themselves vigilant and, if need be, energetic. Taking one consideration with another, this system of frightening the prefects into obedience and vigilance has, so far as the maintenance of public order is concerned, answered admirably well whenever it has been applied during the last fifty years. It has undoubtedly been adopted at times for the furtherance of purely despotic or arbitrary aims; but if ever it was justified such was the case during the Dreyfus agitation. If the Government had not connived, for purposes of its own, at the proceedings of what the French call the 'militarist' party, there would have been no turmoil at all.
But those in power desired to shield culprits of high rank and to defend the effete organisation of the French War-office. And those who thus misused the power they held, who sacrificed the national interests, who trampled truth and justice under foot, and rendered their country an object of amazement, distrust, and ridicule throughout the length and breadth of Europe (Russia not excepted) will be censured and condemned in no uncertain voice by the France of to-morrow.
But I am forgetting the prefects and sub-prefects. I mentioned them partly because M. Zola himself might have been one of them. It is not generally known, I believe, that at the time of the Franco-German war he in some degree assisted one of the sub-prefects in the discharge of his duties, and (had he only so chosen) might even have become a sub-prefect himself. He had been an opposition, a Republican journalist, before the fall of the Empire, and M. Gambetta, during his virtual dictatorship throughout the latter part of the Franco-German war, was very fond of appointing journalists of that description to office, both in the army and the Civil Service. M. Zola, then, might have become a sub-prefect to begin with; and, later, a full-blown prefect. Picture him in a cocked hat and a uniform bedizened with gold lace, and with a slender sword dangling by his side. That, at all events, was how sub-prefects and prefects used to array themselves when 'in the exercise of their functions.'
I doubt of M. Zola would ever have made a good functionary. His character is too independent, and in all likelihood he would have resigned the very first time that he happened to have 'a few words' with his Minister. But politics having caught him in their grasp he would doubtless (like the few functionaries of independent views who throw up their posts in France) have next come forward as a candidate for the Chamber or the Senate. And then—why not? He might have been an Under-Secretary of State, later a Minister, and finally President of the Republic. True, as he himself knows, and readily admits, he is no orator; but then orators are not always the men who get on in France. Thiers was a ready and fluent speaker, but MacMahon could scarcely say (or learn by heart) twenty consecutive words. Grevy, it is true, could be long-winded, prosy, and didactic; but the powers of elocution which Carnot and Felix Faure possessed were infinitesimal. And so the idea of Emile Zola, President of the Republic, may not be so far-fetched after all, particularly when one remembers Zola's great powers of observation, analysis, and foresight.
Had he taken to politics in his younger days he would at least have made his mark in the career thus chosen. And it may be that, in some respects, French public life might then have been healthier than it has proved during the last quarter of a century. Perchance, too, on the other hand, many old maids and young persons, not to mention ecclesiastics and vigilance societies, would have been spared manifold pious ejaculations and gasps of horror. Again, my poor father—imprisoned, ruined, and hounded to his death—might still have been alive.
Unless some other courageous man had arisen to tear the veil away from before human life, such as it is in so-called civilised communities, and show society its own self in all its rottenness, foulness, and hypocrisy—so that on more than one occasion, shrinking guiltily from its own image, it has denounced the plain unvarnished truth as libel—there would have been no 'Nana' and no 'Pot Bouille,' no 'Assommoir,' and no 'Germinal.' And no 'La Terre.' 'La Debacle,' and 'Lourdes,' and 'Rome,' 'Paris,' and 'Fecondite,' and all the other books that have flowed from Emile Zola's busy pen would have remained unwritten. But for my own part I would rather that the world should possess those books than that Zola when tempted, as he was, should have cast literature aside to plunge into the abominable and degrading vortex of politics.