Part 7

A sorrowful look came over the angular features of the gentleman in the check suit. 'It's like my luck,' said he; 'there was a fellow over from Amsterdam the other day, but he'd only take girls. I think the Continental line's pretty nigh played out.'

He heaved a sigh and glanced in the direction of his empty glass. Then, seeing that the novelist and Desmoulin were rising to join me, he whispered hurriedly, 'I say, guv'nor, you haven't got a tanner you could spare, have you?'

I had foreseen the request; nevertheless I pressed a few coppers into his hand and then hurried out after my wards.

Though it was still early we decided to start at once for Wimbledon. The master, I thought, might like to see a little of the place pending Wareham's arrival.

The journey through Lambeth, Vauxhall, and Queen's Road is not calculated to give the intelligent foreigner a particularly favourable impression of London. Still M. Zola did not at first find the surroundings very much worse than those one observes on leaving Paris by the Northern or Eastern lines. But as the train went on and on and much the same scene appeared on either hand he began to wonder when it would all end.

On approaching Clapham Junction a sea of roofs is to be seen on the right stretching away through Battersea to the Thames; while on the left a huge wave of houses ascends the acclivity known, I believe, as Lavender Hill. And at the sight of all the mean, dusty streets, lined with little houses of uniform pattern, each close pressed to the other--at the frequently recurring glimpses of squalor and shabby gentility--M. Zola exploded.

'It is awful!' he said.

We were alone in our compartment, and he looked first from one window and then from the other. Next came a torrent of questions: Why were the houses so small? Why were they all so ugly and so much alike? What classes of people lived in them? Why were the roads so dusty? Why was there such a litter of fragments of paper lying about everywhere? Where those streets never watered? Was there no scavengers' service? And then a remark: 'You see that house, it looks fairly clean and neat in front. But there! Look at the back-yard--all rubbish and poverty! One notices that again and again!'

We passed Clapham Junction, pursuing our journey through the cutting which intersects Wandsworth Common. 'Well,' I said, 'you may take it that, except as regards the postal and police services, you are now out of London proper.'

Presently, indeed, we emerged from the cutting, and fields were seen on either hand. One could breathe at last. But as we approached Earlsfield Station all M. Zola's attention was given to a long row of low-lying houses whose yards and gardens extend to the railway line. Now and again a trim patch of ground was seen; here, too, there was a little glass-house, there an attempt at an arbour. But litter and rubbish were only too often apparent.

'This, I suppose,' said the novelist, 'is what you call a London slum invading the country? You tell me that only a part of the bourgeoisie cares for flats, and that among the lower middle class and the working class each family prefers to rent its own little house. Is this for the sake of privacy? If so, I see no privacy here. Leaving out the question of being overlooked from passing trains, observe the open four-foot fences which separate one garden or yard from the other. There is no privacy at all! To me the manner in which your poorer classes are housed in the suburbs, packed closely together in flimsy buildings, where every sound can be heard, suggests a form of socialism--communism, or perhaps rather the phalansterian system.'

But Earlsfield was already passed, and we were reaching Wimbledon. Here M. Zola's impressions changed. True, he did not have occasion to perambulate what he would doubtless have called the 'phalansterian' streets of new South Wimbledon. I spared him the sight of the chess-board of bricks and mortar into which the speculative builder has turned acre after acre north of Merton High Street. But the Hill Road, the Broadway, the Worple Road, and the various turnings that climb towards the Ridgeway pleased him. And he commented very favourably on the shops in the Broadway and the Hill Road, which in the waning sunshine still looked gay and bright. At every moment he stopped to examine something. Such displays of fruit, and fish, poultry, meat, and provisions of all kinds; the drapers' windows all aglow with summer fabrics, and those of the jewellers coruscating with gold and gems. Then the public-houses --dignified by the name of hotels, though I explained that they had no hotel accommodation--bespoke all the wealth of a powerful trade.

There was an imposing bank, too, and a stylish carriage builder's, with furniture shops, stationers, pastrycooks, hairdressers, ironmongers, and so forth, whose displays testified to the prosperity of the town. Again and again did M. Zola express the opinion that these Wimbledon shops were by far superior to such as one would find in a French town of corresponding size and at a similar distance from the capital.

We sauntered up and down the Hill Road, looking in at the Free Library on our way. Then, on passing the Alexandra Road, I explained to Desmoulin that he would sleep there, at No. 20, where Wareham has a local office and where his managing clerk, Everson by name, resides.

The arrangement with Wareham had been concluded so precipitately that, to spare him unnecessary trouble at home, we had arranged to dine that evening at a local restaurant--in fact, the only restaurant possessed by Wimbledon. Wareham was to join us there. The proprietor, Mr. Genoni, is of foreign origin, but Wareham knowing him personally had assured me that even should he suspect our friend's identity his discretion might readily be relied upon. And so the sequel proved. During our repast, however, I felt a little doubtful about one of the waiters who know French, and I therefore cautioned M. Zola and M. Desmoulin to be as reticent as possible.

After dinner we adjourned to Wareham's house in Prince's Road, where Mrs. Wareham gave the travellers the most cordial of welcomes. The conversation was chiefly confined to the question of finding some suitable place where M. Zola might settle down for his term of exile. He, himself, was so taken with what he had seen of Wimbledon that he suggested renting a furnished house there. This seemed a trifle dangerous, both to Wareham and myself; but the novelist was not to be gainsaid; and as Wareham, in anticipation of his services being required, had made special arrangements to give M. Zola most of his time on the morrow, we arranged to see some house agents, engage a landau, and drive round to visit such places as might seem suitable.

It was nearly half-past eleven when I left Wareham's to escort Desmoulin to the Alexandra Road. I there left him in charge of his host, Mr. Everson, and then turning (by way of a short cut) into the Lover's Walk, which the South Western Railway Company so considerately provides for amorous Wimbledonians, I hurried homeward, wondering what the morrow would bring forth.

WIMBLEDON--OATLANDS

It will be obvious to all readers of this narrative that from the moment M. Zola left Paris, and throughout his sojourn in London and its immediate neighbourhood, there was little if any skill shown in the matter of keeping his movements secret. In point of fact, blunder upon blunder was committed. A first mistake was made in going to an hotel like the Grosvenor; a second in openly promenading some of the most frequented of the London streets; and a third in declining to make the slightest alteration with regard to personal appearance. Again, although press of circumstances rendered departure for Wimbledon a necessity, as it was imperative to get M. Zola out of London at once, this change of quarters was in the end scarcely conducive to secrecy. A good many Wimbledonians were aware of my connection with M. Zola, and even if he were not personally recognised by them, the circumstance of a French gentleman of striking appearance being seen in my company was fated to arouse suspicion. My home is but a mile or so from the centre of Wimbledon, and M. Zola's proposal to make that locality his place of sojourn seemed to me such a dangerous course that when I returned to Wareham's house on the morning of Friday, July 22, I was determined to oppose it, in the master's own interests, as vigorously as might be possible.

However, I found Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin ready to start for an inspection of such furnished houses as might seem suitable for their accommodation; and nothing urged either by Wareham or by myself could turn them from their purpose. So the four of us took our seats in the landau which had been ordered, and were soon driving in the direction of Wimbledon Park, where stood the first of the eligible residences entered in the books of a local house agent. The terms for these houses varied, if I recollect rightly, from four to seven guineas a week. Some we did not trouble to enter; others, however, were carefully inspected.

Nothing in the way of a terrace house would suit; for M. Zola was not yet a phalansterian. And in like way he objected to the semi-detached villas. He wished to secure a somewhat retired place, girt with foliage and thus screened from the observation of neighbours and passers-by. The low garden railings and fences usually met with were by no means to his taste. The flimsy party walls of the semi-detached villas, through which every sound so swiftly passes, were equally objectionable to him. And I must say that I viewed with some little satisfaction his dislike for several of the houses which we visited; for this made it easier to dissuade him from his plan of fixing his abode in Wimbledon, where, unless he should rigidly confine himself within doors, it was certain that his presence would be known before a week was over.

There were, however, some houses which the master found to his liking; and here he lingered awhile, inspecting the rooms, taking stock of the furniture, examining the engravings and water-colours on the walls, and viewing the trim gardens with visible satisfaction. One place, a large house in one of the precipitous roads leading from the Ridgeway to the Worple Road, was, perhaps, rather too open for his requirements, but its appointments were perfect, and at his bidding I plied the lady of the house with innumerable questions about plate, linen, and garden produce, the servants she offered to leave behind her, and so forth. She was a tall and stately dame, with silver hair and a soft musical voice--a perfect type of the old marquise, such as one sees portrayed at times on the boards of the Comedie Francaise, and after I had acted as interpreter for a quarter of an hour or so, she suddenly turned upon the master and, to the surprise of all of us, addressed him in perfect French. It was this which broke the spell. Though M. Zola was taken aback, he responded politely enough, and the conversation went on in French for some minutes, but I could already tell that he had renounced his intention of renting the house. When we drove away, after promising the lady a decisive answer within a day or two, he said to me:

'That would never do. The lady's French was too good. She looked at me rather suspiciously too. She would soon discover my identity. She has probably heard of me already.'

'Who hasn't?' I responded with a laugh. And once again I brought forward the objections that occurred to me with respect to the plan of remaining at Wimbledon. It was a centre of Roman Catholic activity. There was a Jesuit college there, numbering both French professors and French pupils. Moreover, several French families resided in Wimbledon, and with some of them I was myself acquainted. Then also the population included a good many literary men, journalists, and others who took an interest in the Dreyfus case. And, finally, the town was far too near to London to be in anywise a safe hiding-place.

Nevertheless, M. Zola only abandoned his intentions with regret. In that bright sunshiny weather there was an attractive je ne sais quoi about Wimbledon which charmed him. Not that it was in his estimation an ideal place. The descents from the hill and the Ridgeway (though he admired the beautiful views they afforded, stretching as far as Norwood) appalled him from certain practical standpoints, and he was never weary of expatiating on the pluck of the girls who cycled so boldly and gracefully from the hill crest to the lower parts of the town. Here it may be mentioned that M. Zola has become reconciled to the skirt as a cycling garment. Once upon a time he was an uncompromising partisan of 'rationals' and 'bloomers,' a warm adherent of the views which Lady Harberton and her friends uphold. But sojourn in England has changed all that--at least so far as the English type of girl is concerned. Those who have read his novel, 'Paris,' may remember that he therein ascribed the following remarks to his heroine--Marie: 'Ah! there is nothing like rationals! To think that some women are so foolish and obstinate as to wear skirts when they cycle! . . . To think that women have a unique opportunity of putting themselves at their ease and releasing their limbs from prison, and yet won't do so! If they fancy they look the prettier in short skirts, like schoolgirls, they are vastly mistaken. . . . Skirts are rank heresy.'

Well, so far as Englishwomen are concerned, M. Zola himself has become a heretic. 'Rationals,' he has more than once said to me of recent times, 'are not suited to the lithe and somewhat spare figure of the average English girl. Moreover, I doubt if there is a costumier in England who knows how to cut "rationals" properly. Such women as I have seen in rationals in England looked to me horrible. They had not the proper figure for the garment, and the garment itself was badly made. For rationals to suit a woman, her figure should be of the happy medium, neither too slim nor over-developed. Now the great bulk of your girls are extremely slim, and appear in skirts to advantage. In cycling, moreover, they carry themselves much better than the majority of Frenchwomen do. They sit their machines gracefully, and the skirt, instead of being a mere bundle of stuff, falls evenly and fittingly like a necessary adjunct--the drapery which is needed to complete and set off the ensemble.'

At the same time, the master does not cry 'haro' on the 'bloomer.' It is admirably suited, he maintains, to the average Frenchwoman, who is more inclined to a reasonable plumpness than her English sister. 'The skirt to England,' says he, 'the bloomer to France.' The whole question is one of physique and latitude. The Esquimaux lady would look ungainly and feel uncomfortable if she exchanged her moose furs for the wisp of calico which is patronised by the lady of Senegal; and in the like way the Englishwoman is manifestly ungainly and uncomfortable when she borrows the breeches of the Parisienne.

This digression may seem to carry one away from Wimbledon, but I should mention that many of the points enunciated were touched upon by M. Zola for the first time, while we postponed further house-hunting to drive over Wimbledon Common. The historic mill and Caesar's Camp, and the picturesque meres were all viewed before the horses' heads were turned to the town once more.