The Disappearance of Émile Zola Page 3

  Finally the train leaves, and I doze during the trip, overcome by a crushing fatigue. It’s almost eight o’clock when I arrive in London. It’s pouring rain; the city seems to be still asleep in a ghastly fog. Paris was so warm and sunny when I left.

  I remember my short trip to London four years ago, when I was invited by the English press with a group of other French journalists. What a splendid, brotherly welcome we received – a reception and speeches at the station, a party laid on by the lord mayor, a gala at Covent Garden, a banquet at the Crystal Palace, not to mention all the private lunch- and dinner-parties. And here I am, getting off the train alone at Victoria, with my nightshirt in a newspaper and walking in the rain to the nearby Grosvenor Hotel, where I have to wait for a quarter of an hour before they find a waiter who can speak French. In the huge entrance hall, a group of English chambermaids, clean and attractive in their bright uniforms, were cleaning the white tiles with sawdust, all on their knees like busy blonde ants.

  The fact that I have no bags embarrassed me. They checked me in anyway, taking a pound for a deposit and telling me that this is what they do for people who arrive without luggage. I registered in the name of M. Pascal from Paris, and was given a room on the fifth floor, whose window was blocked by the fretwork frieze which adorns the huge building: a foretaste of prison. What an odd building this hotel is, a huge rectangle whose decorations are so bizarre that there isn’t a single window that looks like a window. The air and light vents in the rooms, especially on the top floors, look like basement windows, or port-holes, or fanlights in a closet! Nonetheless, I was relieved to be there and to be able to clean up a bit and rest in the calm I felt around me.

  No one in the world knew I was there, except for a few good friends whom I had told before I left which hotel I was going to. What a change that would be from Paris where, for the last five months, I couldn’t move without being recognised and insulted.

  A first day of confused drowsiness. I had to buy a few things to wear and some odds and ends. God knows the trouble I had making myself understood in the stores! As we’d arranged, I sent my wife a telegram to reassure her, and I wrote a few letters to friends, taking the precautionary measures we’d agreed upon.

  In the stress of the experience, Zola’s writing here moves between witnessing, contemplating, recollecting, arguing and recounting actions. It takes us from Monday through to Tuesday. It may not seem like a particularly modern or modernist piece of writing to us now but, in its time, this kind of language explores similar territory to Proust: in which past, present and future flow into each other, whilst he looks inside and out, one moment figurative, the next topographical, the next polemical. In the word of modern theory, it also expresses ‘liminality’: transition, the moment of being on the border, neither here nor there, but in-between, in the moment of change. In spite of his distress, though, Zola is already anticipating here that in one respect at least, there will be something to enjoy: he will be relieved of that situation where he ‘couldn’t move without being recognised and insulted’.

  But Zola was someone who had spent his whole life surrounding himself with friends and companions. Long glorious evenings in the company of the group of writers of the school of ‘Naturalisme’ were legendary. However long he was going to stay in England, there wouldn’t be any of that. How would he cope?

  2

  Grey Suit and a Légion d’Honneur Rosette

  According to Ernest Vizetelly, Zola’s problems in coping with England began immediately. Far from progressing smoothly to his hotel, as Zola implied in his Notes, he stepped down from the train at ‘forty minutes past five o’clock’ on the morning of 19 July with the name of a hotel on his lips, having been given it by Clemenceau. He walked across Victoria Station to the hansom cabs, and secured one. He asked the ‘Jehu’ to drive him to the Grosvenor Hotel.

  [The] cabby looked down from his perch in sheer astonishment. Then, doubtless, in a considerate and honest spirit … he tried to explain matters. At all events he spoke at length. But M. Zola failed to understand him.

  ‘Grosvenor Hotel’, repeated the novelist and then, seeing that the cabby seemed bent on further expostulation, he resolutely took his seat in the vehicle …

  However, cabby said no more, or if he did his words failed to reach M. Zola. The reins were jerked, the scraggy night-horse broke into a spasmodic trot, turned out of the station, and pulled up in front of [the hotel].

  The Grosvenor was – and still is – adjacent to the station. The furthest possible the cabby would have driven is about 150 metres.

  One of Zola’s first acts was to write to Vizetelly:

  My dear confrère,

  Tell nobody in the world, and particularly no newspaper, that I am in London. And oblige me by coming to see me tomorrow, Wednesday, at eleven o’clock, at the Grosvenor Hotel. You will ask for M. Pascal. And above all, absolute silence, for the most serious interests are at stake.

  Cordially,

  Émile Zola

  Cloak and dagger was the order in this first part of Zola’s stay. At least, that was the intention. As the day proceeded, Zola went out into London on his own, bought himself a shirt, a collar and a pair of socks in the area of Buckingham Palace Road, explaining his requirements ‘by pantomime’, before wandering past Buckingham Palace, musing on its ‘gaunt, clumsy and mournful aspect’. Given the repeated pleas to his nearest and dearest that we can read in his letters, Zola doesn’t seem, though, to have used his pantomime skills to equip himself with a pair of underpants. Back at the hotel, he sat in the garden, then later in his room he worked on an important article for editor Clemenceau to put in L’Aurore explaining why he had fled France.

  The next day (20 July) Zola had visitors: Vizetelly, and his friends Desmoulin and Bernard-Lazare who had followed him from Paris. Bernard-Lazare was the figure who had done the most to convince Zola that he should take sides and play a leading role in the Dreyfus case. The two of them repeated Clemenceau’s wish that Zola write an article for the French public giving reasons for his flight. Zola was pleased to pass over the newly written article. Later, they would learn that Clemenceau didn’t wait to receive it, wrote the article himself, published it in L’Aurore, and signed it ‘Zola’. Many years later, Zola’s daughter reflected in her memoir on the reaction: ‘It’s easy to imagine Zola’s rage, he who wouldn’t ever tolerate that someone moved a comma in one of his novels. And here was someone who had brought out an article that he hadn’t written a word of.’

  The Times published it too. Clemenceau made a good job of imitating Zola’s style, with its grand rhetorical questions and escalating statements. ‘But what had I wished for? To provoke a great debate on a question which was troubling all consciences, to produce the proofs of the monstrous illegality which resulted in the abominable judicial error.’

  Clemenceau-as-Zola pleaded for the right to prove his case in court – that he had not libelled the court martial, that he had been stating the truth. Further, he called for an inquiry into the activities of Major Esterhazy who, the pro-Dreyfus camp claimed, was the real author of the document that had incriminated Dreyfus. But, again, as with ‘J’Accuse’, Clemenceau-as-Zola recalled the involvement of the government in what should have been a purely legal affair: he accused the prime minister, Henri Brisson, of being ‘afraid’ of the truth. As for Zola fleeing from prison, this was a ‘question of using the necessary means to enable a full disclosure of all the facts to be made in a trial which is to come later’. This was the explanation that the French public understood at the time to be Zola’s impassioned words.

  This issue of The Times also surveyed the French press’s reaction: Zola’s enemies ‘exclaim’ that Zola has fled from justice and that he is a coward; Le Figaro claims that ‘the mind of the multitude will not comprehend this determination’; the République Française describes Zola’s flight as ‘a crime against the country, whose tranquillity and interests cannot be allowed to remain at the mercy of a m
an whose insane pride would not hesitate, were it in his power, to sacrifice everything to the triumph of his delirious ego’ (italics in original). Both sides in the Dreyfus case eagerly engaged in adjective wars.

  The next tasks for Zola, however, were to sort out what exactly was his legal status in Britain and to find more secure accommodation. He, Desmoulin and Bernard-Lazare lunched on omelette, fried sole, fillet of beef and potato, washed down with a Sauternes and Apollinaris, though Zola stuck to the water. They were cautious about discussing plans while waiters moved to and fro around them but up in Zola’s dingy room it felt easier to get down to business. They would have to ignore the fact that all they could see from the room was a tiny strip of sky above a high parapet positioned outside. The main view was of the stained and cracked balustrade wall immediately outside the window.

  There were two chairs, so one of the party sat on the bed. They ordered coffee, though this was regarded by the staff as unusual for the time of day. The meeting began: What would Zola do in England? Where should he go? The country or the seaside? Or what about the London suburbs? It was vital that he should avoid being recognised so it was out of the question that he should stay in central London. Then for the legalities: could the French government serve the court’s judgment on Zola whilst he was in England? If not, the necessity that he keep out of sight would be less pressing.

  Desmoulin, who spoke some English, said that he would drive straight away to one Fletcher Moulton, QC, whose house was in Onslow Square. Moulton had been recommended to them by Zola’s lawyer, M. Labori, and Desmoulin left. Bernard-Lazare headed back to Paris. Vizetelly and Zola on their own in the room chatted about the Dreyfus Affair and talked about the probable length of Zola’s stay in England. October was the likely end point, he thought. Then the discussion turned to Zola’s excursion to the clothes shops and he recounted acting out his requirements. Zola had tried the old way of indicating foot size for a pair of socks, by making a fist with his hand, so that the circumference could be measured, this being the length of a person’s foot – a little procedure much used in Paris stores at the time. It seems as if London haberdasheries of the 1890s did not use this system and confusion reigned until Zola indicated that the socks they were offering him were twice as long as his feet.

  Desmoulin returned only to reveal that Fletcher Moulton was out of town electioneering for the constituency of Launceston, Cornwall. Plan B was brought into action: a ‘discreet and reliable’ friend of Vizetelly would be consulted. The group already understood that extradition was not a route the French government could take. It was the possible serving of the judgment that concerned them. Vizetelly pointed out that it would have been fine for Zola to stay with him at his home, but his position as Zola’s translator was widely known and journalists would be certain to come prying. Desmoulin suggested Brighton or Hastings but Vizetelly thought that, what with these towns being crowded with holiday-makers, they were not a good choice.

  The three men then decided to take a walk. It was warm, the sun was out, Buckingham Palace Road was full of people. A couple of ladies passed and one of them turned her head to look at them and said something in French. Vizetelly didn’t quite catch it and asked Desmoulin to translate. ‘She said, “Why! There’s M. Zola!”’

  The three were stunned: ‘Our secret is as good as gone, now! It will be all over London by to-morrow.’

  They quickly discussed who the ladies were. French actresses in Sarah Bernhardt’s company who were in town doing a show? The absolute necessity to leave London became immediately more pressing. Vizetelly conjured up the picture of a quiet, retired country village where Zola’s glasses and light grey suit with its red Légion d’Honneur rosette would be less conspicuous. In fact, hadn’t they better get to work on anglicising his appearance right away? Zola was having none of it.

  Meanwhile, Desmoulin was cursing Clemenceau for sending Zola to such a fashionable neighbourhood, where it was so likely he would be spotted. And hadn’t he heard some French being spoken in the hotel earlier? Zola was getting anxious. They walked on to St James’s Park and sat on some chairs beside the ornamental lake. Vizetelly produced the evening papers and translated them, with their stories of Zola on his way to Norway and Switzerland. The ducks paddled in the lake, the leaves stirred in the breeze. A couple of vagrants dozed on a bench nearby. A soldier and his lover strolled past. Up above were the windows and roofs of St Anne’s Mansions, further off, the clock tower of Westminster …

  Vizetelly rambled on about another French exile, St Evremond, who was given succour by Charles II, who found him a salary of £300 a year for taking on the governorship of Duck Island there right in the middle of the ornamental lake that they were looking at. Big Ben struck six and they separated, Vizetelly heading off to see his legal friend, Zola and Desmoulin to their rooms in the Grosvenor. The friend was F. W. Wareham of Ethelburge House, 70 Bishopsgate Street, E.C., who had a home in Wimbledon. The arrangement would be for Vizetelly to meet him on the following day. Zola moved to another room in the Grosvenor.

  The following day (21 July), Vizetelly arrived at the Grosvenor only to find that Zola and Desmoulin were extremely depressed. Desmoulin had bought several papers to see if the ladies who had spotted Zola had told their story to the press but they were all glad to see that the Norway and Holland saga was the one the papers were putting out. Vizetelly tried to reassure them and told them that he was going to visit his (and Zola’s) publisher, Chatto & Windus, on the way to see Wareham. Zola, in the meantime, should stay out of sight indoors. Desmoulin was pessimistic: ‘These actresses are certain to tell people …’

  At Chatto’s in St Martin’s Lane, Vizetelly was greeted by Mr Chatto’s partner, Percy Spalding, with, ‘So our friend Zola is in London!’ The cloak and dagger precautions had come to nothing. All was lost. How could Mr Spalding possibly know that Zola was there? ‘My wife saw him yesterday in Buckingham Palace Road,’ Spalding said. Vizetelly begged for secrecy and Spalding assured him that he would telegraph his wife at once. ‘We certainly had a hearty laugh at breakfast this morning when we read in the “Telegraph” of Zola bicycling over the Swiss frontier …’

  Vizetelly needed to know more about the friend. Was she reliable? Spalding told him that she was going to Hastings later. Hastings? ‘Zola does nothing but talk of Hastings,’ Vizetelly said. It immediately confirmed for him his urgent need to divert Zola. ‘Hastings is barred,’ he decided.

  Mrs Spalding and her friend were warned and didn’t ever breathe a word of it. Vizetelly mused on the happenstance of dropping into the Chatto & Windus office and the certain disaster that would have ensued had he not. On he proceeded to see Wareham in Bishopsgate, where they discussed the possibility of getting Zola out of the Grosvenor that very night. Wareham suggested that Zola might stay at his house, while Desmoulin could sleep close by in the house of the firm’s managing clerk: all to be discussed back at the Grosvenor, where Vizetelly headed next. Zola and Desmoulin seemed much amused by the Mrs Spalding story and decided that it was almost too coincidental for real life, and was the kind of thing which occasionally occurs in novels. ‘Another instance of my good luck,’ Zola added, ‘which still attends me in spite of all the striving of those who bear me grudges.’

  Vizetelly was becoming increasingly nervous about guests and staff at the Grosvenor, who appeared to be watching all this toing and froing. He had noticed significant glances in the dining-room. For that reason, he took Zola to a restaurant across the road from Victoria Station – a deep, narrow place, crowded with little tables. Vizetelly observed others observing Zola, who was still wearing his light grey suit and Légion d’Honneur rosette. Hadn’t the newspapers printed pictures of Zola countless times? Weren’t there photographs of him in shop windows? How come he wasn’t being recognised all the time? It may be that many did recognise him, Vizetelly thought, but held their tongues.

  At two, Wareham arrived and all four men met in the Grosvenor’s smoking room, a hot, gloom
y place overlooking the station. Wareham reassured Zola that he could not be extradited, and that there was no diplomatic channel through which a French criminal libel judgment could be registered in England. But what about the question of serving the judgment? Supposing French detectives discovered M. Zola’s whereabouts, following which a huissier quietly dropped into England and, accompanied by a couple of witnesses, succeeded in placing a copy of the Versailles judgment into Zola’s hands?

  Wareham was of the view that, in such circumstances, the English authorities would find it difficult to interfere, though there was no precedent for this. Consequently, judgment would be deemed to have been served and Zola would be called upon to appear at Versailles. However, Wareham wasn’t absolutely certain that French law allowed such actions to be taken outside French territory, so, in the meantime, Zola ought to remain in ‘close retirement’. Zola said he would write to his counsel on the matter of the service of the judgment.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Desmoulin noticed that two gentlemen had entered the smoking room. One was an elderly, florid-faced man, with mutton-chop whiskers and a buff waistcoat, who took up a position by the fireplace and puffed on a big cigar. He didn’t appear to be interested in the group. The other was middle-aged, tall and slim with a military moustache; he eyed them closely, changed his position several times and finally sat down on a chair which gave him a good view of Zola’s face. Desmoulin signed to Zola, indicating what was unfolding here. Zola shifted his position so that he in turn could get a sight of Mr Moustachio’s face. They exchanged looks. Moustachio left, making a comprehensive survey of the party on the way out.