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.