Chapter XLII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　There was a general disturbance. Flanagan and two or three more went on tothe music-hall, while Philip walked slowly with Clutton and Lawson to theCloserie des Lilas."You must go to the Gaite Montparnasse," said Lawson to him. "It's one ofthe loveliest things in Paris. I'm going to paint it one of these days."Philip, influenced by Hayward, looked upon music-halls with scornful eyes,but he had reached Paris at a time when their artistic possibilities werejust discovered. The peculiarities of lighting, the masses of dingy redand tarnished gold, the heaviness of the shadows and the decorative lines,offered a new theme; and half the studios in the Quarter containedsketches made in one or other of the local theatres. Men of letters,following in the painters' wake, conspired suddenly to find artistic valuein the turns; and red-nosed comedians were lauded to the skies for theirsense of character; fat female singers, who had bawled obscurely fortwenty years, were discovered to possess inimitable drollery; there werethose who found an aesthetic delight in performing dogs; while othersexhausted their vocabulary to extol the distinction of conjurers andtrick-cyclists. The crowd too, under another influence, was become anobject of sympathetic interest. With Hayward, Philip had disdainedhumanity in the mass; he adopted the attitude of one who wraps himself insolitariness and watches with disgust the antics of the vulgar; butClutton and Lawson talked of the multitude with enthusiasm. They describedthe seething throng that filled the various fairs of Paris, the sea offaces, half seen in the glare of acetylene, half hidden in the darkness,and the blare of trumpets, the hooting of whistles, the hum of voices.What they said was new and strange to Philip. They told him aboutCronshaw."Have you ever read any of his work?""No," said Philip."It came out in The Yellow Book."They looked upon him, as painters often do writers, with contempt becausehe was a layman, with tolerance because he practised an art, and with awebecause he used a medium in which themselves felt ill-at-ease."He's an extraordinary fellow. You'll find him a bit disappointing atfirst, he only comes out at his best when he's drunk.""And the nuisance is," added Clutton, "that it takes him a devil of a timeto get drunk."When they arrived at the cafe Lawson told Philip that they would have togo in. There was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but Cronshaw had amorbid fear of draughts and even in the warmest weather sat inside."He knows everyone worth knowing," Lawson explained. "He knew Pater andOscar Wilde, and he knows Mallarme and all those fellows."The object of their search sat in the most sheltered corner of the cafe,with his coat on and the collar turned up. He wore his hat pressed welldown on his forehead so that he should avoid cold air. He was a big man,stout but not obese, with a round face, a small moustache, and little,rather stupid eyes. His head did not seem quite big enough for his body.It looked like a pea uneasily poised on an egg. He was playing dominoeswith a Frenchman, and greeted the new-comers with a quiet smile; he didnot speak, but as if to make room for them pushed away the little pile ofsaucers on the table which indicated the number of drinks he had alreadyconsumed. He nodded to Philip when he was introduced to him, and went onwith the game. Philip's knowledge of the language was small, but he knewenough to tell that Cronshaw, although he had lived in Paris for severalyears, spoke French execrably.At last he leaned back with a smile of triumph."Je vous ai battu," he said, with an abominable accent. "Garcong!"He called the waiter and turned to Philip."Just out from England? See any cricket?"Philip was a little confused at the unexpected question."Cronshaw knows the averages of every first-class cricketer for the lasttwenty years," said Lawson, smiling.The Frenchman left them for friends at another table, and Cronshaw, withthe lazy enunciation which was one of his peculiarities, began todiscourse on the relative merits of Kent and Lancashire. He told them ofthe last test match he had seen and described the course of the gamewicket by wicket."That's the only thing I miss in Paris," he said, as he finished thebock which the waiter had brought. "You don't get any cricket."Philip was disappointed, and Lawson, pardonably anxious to show off one ofthe celebrities of the Quarter, grew impatient. Cronshaw was taking histime to wake up that evening, though the saucers at his side indicatedthat he had at least made an honest attempt to get drunk. Clutton watchedthe scene with amusement. He fancied there was something of affectation inCronshaw's minute knowledge of cricket; he liked to tantalise people bytalking to them of things that obviously bored them; Clutton threw in aquestion."Have you seen Mallarme lately?"Cronshaw looked at him slowly, as if he were turning the inquiry over inhis mind, and before he answered rapped on the marble table with one ofthe saucers."Bring my bottle of whiskey," he called out. He turned again to Philip. "Ikeep my own bottle of whiskey. I can't afford to pay fifty centimes forevery thimbleful."The waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw held it up to the light."They've been drinking it. Waiter, who's been helping himself to mywhiskey?""Mais personne, Monsieur Cronshaw.""I made a mark on it last night, and look at it.""Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that. At that rateMonsieur wastes his time in making marks."The waiter was a jovial fellow and knew Cronshaw intimately. Cronshawgazed at him."If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a gentleman thatnobody but I has been drinking my whiskey, I'll accept your statement."This remark, translated literally into the crudest French, sounded veryfunny, and the lady at the comptoir could not help laughing."Il est impayable," she murmured.Cronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her; she was stout,matronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly kissed his hand to her. Sheshrugged her shoulders."Fear not, madam," he said heavily. "I have passed the age when I amtempted by forty-five and gratitude."He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it. Hewiped his mouth with the back of his hand."He talked very well."Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw's remark was an answer to thequestion about Mallarme. Cronshaw often went to the gatherings on Tuesdayevenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, anddiscoursed with subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him.Cronshaw had evidently been there lately."He talked very well, but he talked nonsense. He talked about art asthough it were the most important thing in the world.""If it isn't, what are we here for?" asked Philip."What you're here for I don't know. It is no business of mine. But art isa luxury. Men attach importance only to self-preservation and thepropagation of their species. It is only when these instincts aresatisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainmentwhich is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets."Cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pondered for twenty yearsthe problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether heloved conversation because it made him thirsty.Then he said: "I wrote a poem yesterday."Without being asked he began to recite it, very slowly, marking the rhythmwith an extended forefinger. It was possibly a very fine poem, but at thatmoment a young woman came in. She had scarlet lips, and it was plain thatthe vivid colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; shehad blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted both eyelids a boldblue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the eyes. It wasfantastic and amusing. Her dark hair was done over her ears in the fashionmade popular by Mlle. Cleo de Merode. Philip's eyes wandered to her, andCronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses, smiled upon himindulgently."You were not listening," he said."Oh yes, I was.""I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of thestatement I just made. What is art beside love? I respect and applaud yourindifference to fine poetry when you can contemplate the meretriciouscharms of this young person."She passed by the table at which they were sitting, and he took her arm."Come and sit by my side, dear child, and let us play the divine comedy oflove.""Fichez-moi la paix," she said, and pushing him on one side continuedher perambulation."Art," he continued, with a wave of the hand, "is merely the refuge whichthe ingenious have invented, when they were supplied with food and women,to escape the tediousness of life."Cronshaw filled his glass again, and began to talk at length. He spokewith rotund delivery. He chose his words carefully. He mingled wisdom andnonsense in the most astounding manner, gravely making fun of his hearersat one moment, and at the next playfully giving them sound advice. Hetalked of art, and literature, and life. He was by turns devout andobscene, merry and lachrymose. He grew remarkably drunk, and then he beganto recite poetry, his own and Milton's, his own and Shelley's, his own andKit Marlowe's.At last Lawson, exhausted, got up to go home."I shall go too," said Philip.Clutton, the most silent of them all, remained behind listening, with asardonic smile on his lips, to Cronshaw's maunderings. Lawson accompaniedPhilip to his hotel and then bade him good-night. But when Philip got tobed he could not sleep. All these new ideas that had been flung before himcarelessly seethed in his brain. He was tremendously excited. He felt inhimself great powers. He had never before been so self-confident."I know I shall be a great artist," he said to himself. "I feel it in me."A thrill passed through him as another thought came, but even to himselfhe would not put it into words:"By George, I believe I've got genius."He was in fact very drunk, but as he had not taken more than one glass ofbeer, it could have been due only to a more dangerous intoxicant thanalcohol.