Chapter LXXXII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Towards the end of the year, when Philip was bringing to a close his threemonths as clerk in the out-patients' department, he received a letter fromLawson, who was in Paris.Dear Philip,Cronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you. He is living at 43Hyde Street, Soho. I don't know where it is, but I daresay you will beable to find out. Be a brick and look after him a bit. He is very down onhis luck. He will tell you what he is doing. Things are going on here verymuch as usual. Nothing seems to have changed since you were here. Cluttonis back, but he has become quite impossible. He has quarrelled witheverybody. As far as I can make out he hasn't got a cent, he lives in alittle studio right away beyond the Jardin des Plantes, but he won't letanybody see his work. He doesn't show anywhere, so one doesn't know whathe is doing. He may be a genius, but on the other hand he may be off hishead. By the way, I ran against Flanagan the other day. He was showingMrs. Flanagan round the Quarter. He has chucked art and is now in popper'sbusiness. He seems to be rolling. Mrs. Flanagan is very pretty and I'mtrying to work a portrait. How much would you ask if you were me? I don'twant to frighten them, and then on the other hand I don't want to be suchan ass as to ask L150 if they're quite willing to give L300.Yours ever,Frederick Lawson.Philip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the following letter. Itwas written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and the flimsy envelopewas dirtier than was justified by its passage through the post.Dear Carey,Of course I remember you very well. I have an idea that I had some part inrescuing you from the Slough of Despond in which myself am hopelesslyimmersed. I shall be glad to see you. I am a stranger in a strange cityand I am buffeted by the philistines. It will be pleasant to talk ofParis. I do not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of amagnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of MonsieurPurgon's profession, but you will find me eating modestly any eveningbetween seven and eight at a restaurant yclept Au Bon Plaisir in DeanStreet.Your sincereJ. Cronshaw.Philip went the day he received this letter. The restaurant, consisting ofone small room, was of the poorest class, and Cronshaw seemed to be itsonly customer. He was sitting in the corner, well away from draughts,wearing the same shabby great-coat which Philip had never seen himwithout, with his old bowler on his head."I eat here because I can be alone," he said. "They are not doing well;the only people who come are a few trollops and one or two waiters out ofa job; they are giving up business, and the food is execrable. But theruin of their fortunes is my advantage."Cronshaw had before him a glass of absinthe. It was nearly three yearssince they had met, and Philip was shocked by the change in hisappearance. He had been rather corpulent, but now he had a dried-up,yellow look: the skin of his neck was loose and winkled; his clothes hungabout him as though they had been bought for someone else; and his collar,three or four sizes too large, added to the slatternliness of hisappearance. His hands trembled continually. Philip remembered thehandwriting which scrawled over the page with shapeless, haphazardletters. Cronshaw was evidently very ill."I eat little these days," he said. "I'm very sick in the morning. I'mjust having some soup for my dinner, and then I shall have a bit ofcheese."Philip's glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and Cronshaw, seeingit, gave him the quizzical look with which he reproved the admonitions ofcommon sense."You have diagnosed my case, and you think it's very wrong of me to drinkabsinthe.""You've evidently got cirrhosis of the liver," said Philip."Evidently."He looked at Philip in the way which had formerly had the power of makinghim feel incredibly narrow. It seemed to point out that what he wasthinking was distressingly obvious; and when you have agreed with theobvious what more is there to say? Philip changed the topic."When are you going back to Paris?""I'm not going back to Paris. I'm going to die."The very naturalness with which he said this startled Philip. He thoughtof half a dozen things to say, but they seemed futile. He knew thatCronshaw was a dying man."Are you going to settle in London then?" he asked lamely."What is London to me? I am a fish out of water. I walk through thecrowded streets, men jostle me, and I seem to walk in a dead city. I feltthat I couldn't die in Paris. I wanted to die among my own people. I don'tknow what hidden instinct drew me back at the last."Philip knew of the woman Cronshaw had lived with and the twodraggle-tailed children, but Cronshaw had never mentioned them to him, andhe did not like to speak of them. He wondered what had happened to them."I don't know why you talk of dying," he said."I had pneumonia a couple of winters ago, and they told me then it was amiracle that I came through. It appears I'm extremely liable to it, andanother bout will kill me.""Oh, what nonsense! You're not so bad as all that. You've only got to takeprecautions. Why don't you give up drinking?""Because I don't choose. It doesn't matter what a man does if he's readyto take the consequences. Well, I'm ready to take the consequences. Youtalk glibly of giving up drinking, but it's the only thing I've got leftnow. What do you think life would be to me without it? Can you understandthe happiness I get out of my absinthe? I yearn for it; and when I drinkit I savour every drop, and afterwards I feel my soul swimming inineffable happiness. It disgusts you. You are a puritan and in your heartyou despise sensual pleasures. Sensual pleasures are the most violent andthe most exquisite. I am a man blessed with vivid senses, and I haveindulged them with all my soul. I have to pay the penalty now, and I amready to pay."Philip looked at him for a while steadily."Aren't you afraid?"For a moment Cronshaw did not answer. He seemed to consider his reply."Sometimes, when I'm alone." He looked at Philip. "You think that's acondemnation? You're wrong. I'm not afraid of my fear. It's folly, theChristian argument that you should live always in view of your death. Theonly way to live is to forget that you're going to die. Death isunimportant. The fear of it should never influence a single action of thewise man. I know that I shall die struggling for breath, and I know thatI shall be horribly afraid. I know that I shall not be able to keep myselffrom regretting bitterly the life that has brought me to such a pass; butI disown that regret. I now, weak, old, diseased, poor, dying, hold stillmy soul in my hands, and I regret nothing.""D'you remember that Persian carpet you gave me?" asked Philip.Cronshaw smiled his old, slow smile of past days."I told you that it would give you an answer to your question when youasked me what was the meaning of life. Well, have you discovered theanswer?""No," smiled Philip. "Won't you tell it me?""No, no, I can't do that. The answer is meaningless unless you discover itfor yourself."