Chapter LXXXIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Cronshaw was publishing his poems. His friends had been urging him to dothis for years, but his laziness made it impossible for him to take thenecessary steps. He had always answered their exhortations by telling themthat the love of poetry was dead in England. You brought out a book whichhad cost you years of thought and labour; it was given two or threecontemptuous lines among a batch of similar volumes, twenty or thirtycopies were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped. He had longsince 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 wasa man of letters, named Leonard Upjohn, whom Philip had met once or twicewith Cronshaw in the cafes of the Quarter. He had a considerablereputation in England as a critic and was the accredited exponent in thiscountry of modern French literature. He had lived a good deal in Franceamong the men who made the Mercure de France the liveliest review of theday, and by the simple process of expressing in English their point ofview he had acquired in England a reputation for originality. Philip hadread some of his articles. He had formed a style for himself by a closeimitation of Sir Thomas Browne; he used elaborate sentences, carefullybalanced, and obsolete, resplendent words: it gave his writing anappearance of individuality. Leonard Upjohn had induced Cronshaw to givehim all his poems and found that there were enough to make a volume ofreasonable size. He promised to use his influence with publishers.Cronshaw was in want of money. Since his illness he had found it moredifficult than ever to work steadily; he made barely enough to keephimself in liquor; and when Upjohn wrote to him that this publisher andthe other, though admiring the poems, thought it not worth while topublish them, Cronshaw began to grow interested. He wrote impressing uponUpjohn his great need and urging him to make more strenuous efforts. Nowthat 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 greatpoetry. He expected to burst upon the world like a new star. There wassomething fine in keeping to himself these treasures of beauty all hislife and giving them to the world disdainfully when, he and the worldparting company, he had no further use for them.His decision to come to England was caused directly by an announcementfrom Leonard Upjohn that a publisher had consented to print the poems. Bya miracle of persuasion Upjohn had persuaded him to give ten pounds inadvance of royalties."In advance of royalties, mind you," said Cronshaw to Philip. "Milton onlygot ten pounds down."Upjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he would askhis friends who reviewed to do their best. Cronshaw pretended to treat thematter with detachment, but it was easy to see that he was delighted withthe thought of the stir he would make.One day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched eating-house atwhich Cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but Cronshaw did not appear.Philip learned that he had not been there for three days. He got himselfsomething to eat and went round to the address from which Cronshaw hadfirst written to him. He had some difficulty in finding Hyde Street. Itwas a street of dingy houses huddled together; many of the windows hadbeen broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of French newspaper;the doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby little shopson the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers. Ragged childrenplayed in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgartune. Philip knocked at the door of Cronshaw's house (there was a shop ofcheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderlyFrenchwoman 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. Idon'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 inthe house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on thefirst floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There werethree 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. Heknocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. Itopened. 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 stinkwas overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp inthe street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, endto end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left littlespace 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 thefloor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshawwas lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; andhis baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like."I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after youhere?""George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to hiswork.""Who's George?""I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatialapartment with me."Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it wasslept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested."You don't mean to say you're sharing this room with somebody else?" hecried."Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out ateight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn'tin my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass awaythe 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 anentertaining 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 lastthree days? Why on earth didn't you send me a line? I can't bear to thinkof 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. Younice fellow."Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay hefelt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances ofthe poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile."I've been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I amindifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. What do thecircumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount oftime and space?"The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he hadbeen able to place his hands on them. He showed them to Philip and hiseyes glowed. He turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; heread out a stanza."They don't look bad, do they?"Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he couldnot afford even the smallest increase of expenditure; but on the otherhand 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 extraroom, it's empty at present, but I can easily get someone to lend me abed. Won't you come and live with me for a while? It'll save you the rentof 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 feltlazy.""Then you can very easily make the move. And then if you don't feel wellat any time you can just go to bed, and I shall be there to look afteryou.""If it'll please you I'll come," said Cronshaw, with his torpid notunpleasant smile."That'll be ripping."They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next day, and Philipsnatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. He foundCronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with asmall, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, alreadypacked: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he weresitting in the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed at the sight ofhim. They went over to Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windowswere carefully closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. Hehad gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-handbedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settleddown at once to correct his proofs. He was much better.Philip found him, except for the irritability which was a symptom of hisdisease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so didnot see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip persuaded him toshare the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, butCronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to gethimself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants inSoho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knewa doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not todo. He always felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe atmid-day put him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, atmidnight, he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonishedPhilip when first he made his acquaintance. His proofs were corrected; andthe volume was to come out among the publications of the early spring,when the public might be supposed to have recovered from the avalanche ofChristmas books.