Chapter XLV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends wasCronshaw's. It was from him that Lawson got his paradoxes; and evenClutton, who strained after individuality, expressed himself in the termshe had insensibly acquired from the older man. It was his ideas that theybandied about at table, and on his authority they formed their judgments.They made up for the respect with which unconsciously they treated him bylaughing at his foibles and lamenting his vices."Of course, poor old Cronshaw will never do any good," they said. "He'squite hopeless."They prided themselves on being alone in appreciating his genius; andthough, with the contempt of youth for the follies of middle-age, theypatronised him among themselves, they did not fail to look upon it as afeather in their caps if he had chosen a time when only one was there tobe particularly wonderful. Cronshaw never came to Gravier's. For the lastfour years he had lived in squalid conditions with a woman whom onlyLawson had once seen, in a tiny apartment on the sixth floor of one of themost dilapidated houses on the Quai des Grands Augustins: Lawson describedwith gusto the filth, the untidiness, the litter."And the stink nearly blew your head off.""Not at dinner, Lawson," expostulated one of the others.But he would not deny himself the pleasure of giving picturesque detailsof the odours which met his nostril. With a fierce delight in his ownrealism he described the woman who had opened the door for him. She wasdark, small, and fat, quite young, with black hair that seemed always onthe point of coming down. She wore a slatternly blouse and no corsets.With her red cheeks, large sensual mouth, and shining, lewd eyes, shereminded you of the Bohemienne in the Louvre by Franz Hals. She had aflaunting vulgarity which amused and yet horrified. A scrubby, unwashedbaby was playing on the floor. It was known that the slut deceivedCronshaw with the most worthless ragamuffins of the Quarter, and it was amystery to the ingenuous youths who absorbed his wisdom over a cafe tablethat Cronshaw with his keen intellect and his passion for beauty couldally himself to such a creature. But he seemed to revel in the coarsenessof her language and would often report some phrase which reeked of thegutter. He referred to her ironically as la fille de mon concierge.Cronshaw was very poor. He earned a bare subsistence by writing on theexhibitions of pictures for one or two English papers, and he did acertain amount of translating. He had been on the staff of an Englishpaper in Paris, but had been dismissed for drunkenness; he still howeverdid odd jobs for it, describing sales at the Hotel Drouot or the revues atmusic-halls. The life of Paris had got into his bones, and he would notchange it, notwithstanding its squalor, drudgery, and hardship, for anyother in the world. He remained there all through the year, even in summerwhen everyone he knew was away, and felt himself only at ease within amile of the Boulevard St. Michel. But the curious thing was that he hadnever learnt to speak French passably, and he kept in his shabby clothesbought at La Belle Jardiniere an ineradicably English appearance.He was a man who would have made a success of life a century and a halfago when conversation was a passport to good company and inebriety no bar."I ought to have lived in the eighteen hundreds," he said himself. "WhatI want is a patron. I should have published my poems by subscription anddedicated them to a nobleman. I long to compose rhymed couplets upon thepoodle of a countess. My soul yearns for the love of chamber-maids and theconversation of bishops."He quoted the romantic Rolla,"Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux."He liked new faces, and he took a fancy to Philip, who seemed to achievethe difficult feat of talking just enough to suggest conversation and nottoo much to prevent monologue. Philip was captivated. He did not realisethat little that Cronshaw said was new. His personality in conversationhad a curious power. He had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a mannerof putting things which was irresistible to youth. All he said seemed toexcite thought, and often on the way home Lawson and Philip would walk toand from one another's hotels, discussing some point which a chance wordof Cronshaw had suggested. It was disconcerting to Philip, who had ayouthful eagerness for results, that Cronshaw's poetry hardly came up toexpectation. It had never been published in a volume, but most of it hadappeared in periodicals; and after a good deal of persuasion Cronshawbrought down a bundle of pages torn out of The Yellow Book, TheSaturday Review, and other journals, on each of which was a poem. Philipwas taken aback to find that most of them reminded him either of Henley orof Swinburne. It needed the splendour of Cronshaw's delivery to make thempersonal. He expressed his disappointment to Lawson, who carelesslyrepeated his words; and next time Philip went to the Closerie des Lilasthe poet turned to him with his sleek smile:"I hear you don't think much of my verses."Philip was embarrassed."I don't know about that," he answered. "I enjoyed reading them verymuch.""Do not attempt to spare my feelings," returned Cronshaw, with a wave ofhis fat hand. "I do not attach any exaggerated importance to my poeticalworks. Life is there to be lived rather than to be written about. My aimis to search out the manifold experience that it offers, wringing fromeach moment what of emotion it presents. I look upon my writing as agraceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds pleasure toexistence. And as for posterity--damn posterity."Philip smiled, for it leaped to one's eyes that the artist in life hadproduced no more than a wretched daub. Cronshaw looked at him meditativelyand filled his glass. He sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes."You are amused because I talk in this fashion and you know that I am poorand live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who deceives me withhair-dressers and garcons de cafe; I translate wretched books for theBritish public, and write articles upon contemptible pictures whichdeserve not even to be abused. But pray tell me what is the meaning oflife?""I say, that's rather a difficult question. Won't you give the answeryourself?""No, because it's worthless unless you yourself discover it. But what doyou suppose you are in the world for?"Philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment beforereplying."Oh, I don't know: I suppose to do one's duty, and make the best possibleuse of one's faculties, and avoid hurting other people.""In short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto you?""I suppose so.""Christianity.""No, it isn't," said Philip indignantly. "It has nothing to do withChristianity. It's just abstract morality.""But there's no such thing as abstract morality.""In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left your pursebehind when you leave here and I picked it up, why do you imagine that Ishould return it to you? It's not the fear of the police.""It's the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if you arevirtuous.""But I believe in neither.""That may be. Neither did Kant when he devised the Categorical Imperative.You have thrown aside a creed, but you have preserved the ethic which wasbased upon it. To all intents you are a Christian still, and if there isa God in Heaven you will undoubtedly receive your reward. The Almighty canhardly be such a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws Idon't think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him ornot.""But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me," saidPhilip."Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police.""It's a thousand to one that the police would never find out.""My ancestors have lived in a civilised state so long that the fear of thepolice has eaten into my bones. The daughter of my concierge would nothesitate for a moment. You answer that she belongs to the criminalclasses; not at all, she is merely devoid of vulgar prejudice.""But then that does away with honour and virtue and goodness and decencyand everything," said Philip."Have you ever committed a sin?""I don't know, I suppose so," answered Philip."You speak with the lips of a dissenting minister. I have never committeda sin."Cronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his hatwell down on his head, with his red fat face and his little gleaming eyes,looked extraordinarily comic; but Philip was too much in earnest to laugh."Have you never done anything you regret?""How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?" asked Cronshaw inreturn."But that's fatalism.""The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted thatI am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when anaction is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe fromall eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could haveprevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; ifit was bad I can accept no censure.""My brain reels," said Philip."Have some whiskey," returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. "There'snothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-wittedif you insist upon drinking beer."Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded:"You're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbsconversation. But when I speak of good and bad..." Philip saw he wastaking up the thread of his discourse, "I speak conventionally. I attachno meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actionsand ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms viceand virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame:I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world.""But there are one or two other people in the world," objected Philip."I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities.Round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is thecentre of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as mypower. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we aregregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means offorce, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion(that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual onthe other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is mightagainst might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling,since in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, againstthe tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its lawsbecause I must; I do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice,I only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects meand, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in thearmy which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits withsociety: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes lawsfor its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me:it has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws Iwill accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it aspunishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Societytempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of myfellows; but I am indifferent to their good opinion, I despise honours andI can do very well without riches.""But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once.""I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with myself. I takeadvantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certainrewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience.""It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things," said Philip."But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except forselfish reasons?""Yes.""It is impossible that they should. You will find as you grow older thatthe first thing needful to make the world a tolerable place to live in isto recognise the inevitable selfishness of humanity. You demandunselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim that they shouldsacrifice their desires to yours. Why should they? When you are reconciledto the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less fromyour fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon themmore charitably. Men seek but one thing in life--their pleasure.""No, no, no!" cried Philip.Cronshaw chuckled."You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which yourChristianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy ofvalues; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with alittle thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness.You think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves whomanufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had smallmeans of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I had spoken ofhappiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mindwanders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak ofpleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aimat happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one ofyour virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and whenthey are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if hefinds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure inhelping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working forsociety he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure thatyou give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasurethat I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you,neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.""But have you never known people do things they didn't want to instead ofthings they did?""No. You put your question foolishly. What you mean is that people acceptan immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure. The objection is asfoolish as your manner of putting it. It is clear that men accept animmediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure, but only because theyexpect a greater pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory,but their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You arepuzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only ofthe senses; but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because helikes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. Itis a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain topleasure the human race would have long since become extinct.""But if all that is true," cried Philip, "what is the use of anything? Ifyou take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into theworld?""Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer," smiled Cronshaw.He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe,and, with a blast of cold air, entered. They were Levantines, itinerantvendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle. It was Sundayevening, and the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables, and inthat atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank withhumanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad inEuropean, shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but eachwore a tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold. One was of middle age,with a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a facedeeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They passed by Cronshawand Philip."Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet," said Cronshaw impressively.The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows.With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement heshowed a pornographic picture."Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria, or is it from farBagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle; and yonder one-eyed youth,do I see in him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told storiesto her lord?"The pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood no word ofwhat Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box."Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms," quoth Cronshaw. "For Iwould point a moral and adorn a tale."The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous, andgrotesque."Thirty-five francs," he said."O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samarkand, and thosecolours were never made in the vats of Bokhara.""Twenty-five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously."Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Birmingham the placeof my birth.""Fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man."Get thee gone, fellow," said Cronshaw. "May wild asses defile the graveof thy maternal grandmother."Imperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine passed with his wares toanother table. Cronshaw turned to Philip."Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There you will see Persiancarpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacyof which delights and amazes the eye. In them you will see the mystery andthe sensual beauty of the East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup ofOmar; but presently you will see more. You were asking just now what wasthe meaning of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets, and one ofthese days the answer will come to you.""You are cryptic," said Philip."I am drunk," answered Cronshaw.