With Zola in England | Page 7

Ernest Alfred Vizetelly
fashion into exile, and returning surreptitiously, as it were,
to the city where but a few years previously he had been received as
one of the kings of literature, he will ever retain a keen impression.
It was at Victoria that his journey ended, even as it had ended in 1893;
but how changed the scene! He finds the station gaunt and well-nigh
deserted; the few passengers are gliding away like phantoms into the
morning air; the porters loiter around, and the Customs officers
discharge their duties in a perfunctory, sleepy way. No crowd of
Pressmen and sightseers is present; there are no delegates and address,
and flowers, and cheers as of yore. Only cabby, who expostulates, and
who doubtless thinks this Frenchman a bit of a crank to insist upon
being driven just around the corner!
And at the hotel no army of servants appears to marshal the master to
the best suite of rooms on the principal floor. In lieu thereof comes a
doubtful greeting and a demand for a deposit of money, for fear lest he
should be some vulgar bilker. Then, once he is in the lift, he goes up
and up without stopping, until the very topmost floor is reached. And
afterwards he is marched along interminable passages, with walls
painted a crude, hideous shade of blue, so offensive to all artistic
instinct as verily to make one's gorge rise. Then at last he finds himself
in a room which, high as it is situated, is of lowly, common aspect. Yet
he is only too glad to reach it, and throw himself on the bed to rest
awhile, and to think.
New experiences are awaiting him. He is far away from the mob that
pelted his windows with stones and yelled 'Conspuez! Conspuez!'
whenever he left his house. Here there is no hostility. Here quietude
prevails, save for the shrill whistles of arriving or departing trains. Yet
he is also far from the great majority of his affections and friendships.
But at this remembrance a fresh thought comes to him; he takes one of
his visiting cards from his pocket-book, pencils a few lines on it, and
encloses it in an envelope ready to be posted. Then he again lies down;
tired as he is, after his exciting day at Versailles and his wearisome
night journey, he soon falls soundly asleep.

II
IN LONDON
On Tuesday, July 19, I went to London on business, and did not return
to my home in the south-western suburbs until nearly seven o'clock in
the evening. My wife immediately placed in my hands an envelope
addressed to me in the handwriting of M. Zola. At first, having noticed
neither the stamp nor the postmark, I imagined that the communication
had come from Paris.
On opening the envelope, however, I found that it contained a card on
which was written in French and in pencil:--
'My dear confrere,--Tell nobody in the world, and particularly no
newspaper, that I am in London. And oblige me by coming to see me
to-morrow, Wednesday, at eleven o'clock, at Grosvenor Hotel. You
will ask for M. Pascal. And above all, absolute Silence, for the most
serious interests are at stake.
'Cordially, 'EMILE ZOLA.'
I was for a moment amazed and also somewhat affected by this
message, the first addressed by M. Zola to anybody after his departure
from France. Since the publication of his novel 'Paris,' which had
followed his first trial, I had not seen him, and we had exchanged but
few letters. I had written to express my sympathy over the outcome of
the proceedings at Versailles, but owing to his sudden flitting my note
had failed to reach him. And now here he was in London--in exile, as,
curiously enough, I myself had foretold as probable some time before
in a letter to one of the newspapers.
My first impulse was to hurry to the Grosvenor immediately, but I
reflected that I might not find him there, and that even if I did I might
inconvenience him, as he had appointed the following day for my call.
So I contented myself with telegraphing as follows: 'Pascal, Grosvenor
Hotel.--Rely on me, tomorrow, eleven o'clock.' And, as a precautionary
measure, I signed the telegram merely with my Christian name.
As I afterwards learnt, M. Zola had spent that day companionless,
walking about the Mall and St. James's Park, and purchasing a shirt, a
collar, and a pair of socks at a shop in or near Buckingham Palace Road,
where, knowing no English, he explained his requirements by
pantomime. He had further studied several street scenes, and had given
some time to wondering what purpose might be served by a certain

ugly elongated building, overlooking a drive and a park. There was a
sentry at the
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