Cronshaw was publishing his poems. His friends had been urging him to do
this for years, but his laziness made it impossible for him to take the
necessary steps. He had always answered their exhortations by telling them
that the love of poetry was dead in England. You brought out a book which
had cost you years of thought and labour; it was given two or three
contemptuous lines among a batch of similar volumes, twenty or thirty
copies were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped. He had long
since worn out the desire for fame. That was an illusion like all else.
But one of his friends had taken the matter into his own hands. This was
a man of letters, named Leonard Upjohn, whom Philip had met once or twice
with Cronshaw in the cafes of the Quarter. He had a considerable
reputation in England as a critic and was the accredited exponent in this
country of modern French literature. He had lived a good deal in France
among the men who made the Mercure de France the liveliest review of the
day, and by the simple process of expressing in English their point of
view he had acquired in England a reputation for originality. Philip had
read some of his articles. He had formed a style for himself by a close
imitation of Sir Thomas Browne; he used elaborate sentences, carefully
balanced, and obsolete, resplendent words: it gave his writing an
appearance of individuality. Leonard Upjohn had induced Cronshaw to give
him all his poems and found that there were enough to make a volume of
reasonable size. He promised to use his influence with publishers.
Cronshaw was in want of money. Since his illness he had found it more
difficult than ever to work steadily; he made barely enough to keep
himself in liquor; and when Upjohn wrote to him that this publisher and
the other, though admiring the poems, thought it not worth while to
publish them, Cronshaw began to grow interested. He wrote impressing upon
Upjohn his great need and urging him to make more strenuous efforts. Now
that he was going to die he wanted to leave behind him a published book,
and at the back of his mind was the feeling that he had produced great
poetry. He expected to burst upon the world like a new star. There was
something fine in keeping to himself these treasures of beauty all his
life and giving them to the world disdainfully when, he and the world
parting company, he had no further use for them.
His decision to come to England was caused directly by an announcement
from Leonard Upjohn that a publisher had consented to print the poems. By
a miracle of persuasion Upjohn had persuaded him to give ten pounds in
advance of royalties.
"In advance of royalties, mind you," said Cronshaw to Philip. "Milton only
got ten pounds down."
Upjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he would ask
his friends who reviewed to do their best. Cronshaw pretended to treat the
matter with detachment, but it was easy to see that he was delighted with
the thought of the stir he would make.
One day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched eating-house at
which Cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but Cronshaw did not appear.
Philip learned that he had not been there for three days. He got himself
something to eat and went round to the address from which Cronshaw had
first written to him. He had some difficulty in finding Hyde Street. It
was a street of dingy houses huddled together; many of the windows had
been broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of French newspaper;
the doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby little shops
on the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers. Ragged children
played in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar
tune. Philip knocked at the door of Cronshaw's house (there was a shop of
cheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly
Frenchwoman in a dirty apron. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in.
"Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the back. I
don't know if he's in. If you want him you had better go up and see."
The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in
the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the
first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There were
three doors on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked again;
there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. He
knocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It
opened. The room was dark.
"Who's that?"
He recognised Cronshaw's voice.
"Carey. Can I come in?"
He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink
was overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in
the street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end
to end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little
space for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window.
He made no movement, but gave a low chuckle.
"Why don't you light the candle?" he said then.
Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the
floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshaw
was lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and
his baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like.
"I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after you
here?"
"George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his
work."
"Who's George?"
"I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial
apartment with me."
Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was
slept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested.
"You don't mean to say you're sharing this room with somebody else?" he
cried.
"Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out at
eight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn't
in my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away
the hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. He's a Swiss,
and I've always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an
entertaining angle."
"How long have you been in bed?"
"Three days."
"D'you mean to say you've had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last
three days? Why on earth didn't you send me a line? I can't bear to think
of you lying here all day long without a soul to attend to you."
Cronshaw gave a little laugh.
"Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you're distressed. You
nice fellow."
Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he
felt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of
the poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile.
"I've been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I am
indifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. What do the
circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount of
time and space?"
The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he had
been able to place his hands on them. He showed them to Philip and his
eyes glowed. He turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he
read out a stanza.
"They don't look bad, do they?"
Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he could
not afford even the smallest increase of expenditure; but on the other
hand this was a case where it revolted him to think of economy.
"I say, I can't bear the thought of your remaining here. I've got an extra
room, it's empty at present, but I can easily get someone to lend me a
bed. Won't you come and live with me for a while? It'll save you the rent
of this."
"Oh, my dear boy, you'd insist on my keeping my window open."
"You shall have every window in the place sealed if you like."
"I shall be all right tomorrow. I could have got up today, only I felt
lazy."
"Then you can very easily make the move. And then if you don't feel well
at any time you can just go to bed, and I shall be there to look after
you."
"If it'll please you I'll come," said Cronshaw, with his torpid not
unpleasant smile.
"That'll be ripping."
They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next day, and Philip
snatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. He found
Cronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with a
small, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, already
packed: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he were
sitting in the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed at the sight of
him. They went over to Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows
were carefully closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. He
had gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-hand
bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settled
down at once to correct his proofs. He was much better.
Philip found him, except for the irritability which was a symptom of his
disease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did
not see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip persuaded him to
share the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, but
Cronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to get
himself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants in
Soho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knew
a doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to
do. He always felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe at
mid-day put him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, at
midnight, he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished
Philip when first he made his acquaintance. His proofs were corrected; and
the volume was to come out among the publications of the early spring,
when the public might be supposed to have recovered from the avalanche of
Christmas books.
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