Chapter42

therewasageneraldisturbance.flanaganandtwoorthreemorewentontothemusic-hall,whilephilipwalkedslowlywithcluttonandlawsontothecloseriedeslilas.

“youmustgotothegaitemontparnasse,”saidlawsontohim.“it’soneoftheloveliestthingsinparis.i’mgoingtopaintitoneofthesedays.”  philip,influencedbyhayward,lookeduponmusic-hallswithscornfuleyes,buthehadreachedparisatatimewhentheirartisticpossibilitieswerejustdiscovered.thepeculiaritiesoflighting,themassesofdingyredandtarnishedgold,theheavinessoftheshadowsandthedecorativelines,offeredanewtheme;andhalfthestudiosinthequartercontainedsketchesmadeinoneorotherofthelocaltheatres.menofletters,followinginthepainters’wake,conspiredsuddenlytofindartisticvalueintheturns;andred-nosedcomedianswerelaudedtotheskiesfortheirsenseofcharacter;fatfemalesingers,whohadbawledobscurelyfortwentyyears,werediscoveredtopossessinimitabledrollery;therewerethosewhofoundanaestheticdelightinperformingdogs;whileothersexhaustedtheirvocabularytoextolthedistinctionofconjurersandtrick-cyclists.thecrowdtoo,underanotherinfluence,wasbecomeanobjectofsympatheticinterest.withhayward,philiphaddisdainedhumanityinthemass;headoptedtheattitudeofonewhowrapshimselfinsolitarinessandwatcheswithdisgusttheanticsofthevulgar;butcluttonandlawsontalkedofthemultitudewithenthusiasm.theydescribedtheseethingthrongthatfilledthevariousfairsofparis,theseaoffaces,halfseenintheglareofacetylene,halfhiddeninthedarkness,andtheblareoftrumpets,thehootingofwhistles,thehumofvoices.whattheysaidwasnewandstrangetophilip.theytoldhimaboutcronshaw.

“haveyoueverreadanyofhiswork?”

“no,”saidphilip.

“itcameoutintheyellowbook.”

theylookeduponhim,aspaintersoftendowriters,withcontemptbecausehewasalayman,withtolerancebecausehepractisedanart,andwithawebecauseheusedamediuminwhichthemselvesfeltill-at-ease.

“he’sanextraordinaryfellow.you’llfindhimabitdisappointingatfirst,heonlycomesoutathisbestwhenhe’sdrunk.”

“andthenuisanceis,”addedclutton,“thatittakeshimadevilofatimetogetdrunk.”

whentheyarrivedatthecafelawsontoldphilipthattheywouldhavetogoin.therewashardlyabiteintheautumnair,butcronshawhadamorbidfearofdraughtsandeveninthewarmestweathersatinside.

“heknowseveryoneworthknowing,”lawsonexplained.“heknewpaterandoscarwilde,andheknowsmallarmeandallthosefellows.”

theobjectoftheirsearchsatinthemostshelteredcornerofthecafe,withhiscoatonandthecollarturnedup.heworehishatpressedwelldownonhisforeheadsothatheshouldavoidcoldair.hewasabigman,stoutbutnotobese,witharoundface,asmallmoustache,andlittle,ratherstupideyes.hisheaddidnotseemquitebigenoughforhisbody.itlookedlikeapeauneasilypoisedonanegg.hewasplayingdominoeswithafrenchman,andgreetedthenew-comerswithaquietsmile;hedidnotspeak,butasif

tomakeroomforthempushedawaythelittlepileofsaucersonthetablewhichindicatedthenumberofdrinkshehadalreadyconsumed.henoddedtophilipwhenhewasintroducedtohim,andwentonwiththegame.philip’sknowledgeofthelanguagewassmall,butheknewenoughtotellthatcronshaw,althoughhehadlivedinparisforseveralyears,spokefrenchexecrably.

atlastheleanedbackwithasmileoftriumph.

“jevousaibattu,”hesaid,withanabominableaccent.“garcong!”

hecalledthewaiterandturnedtophilip.

“justoutfromengland?seeanycricket?”

philipwasalittleconfusedattheunexpectedquestion.

“cronshawknowstheaveragesofeveryfirst-classcricketerforthelasttwentyyears,”saidlawson,smiling.

thefrenchmanleftthemforfriendsatanothertable,andcronshaw,withthelazyenunciationwhichwasoneofhispeculiarities,begantodiscourseontherelativemeritsofkentandlancashire.hetoldthemofthelasttestmatchhehadseenanddescribedthecourseofthegamewicketbywicket.

“that’stheonlythingimissinparis,”hesaid,ashefinishedthebockwhichthewaiterhadbrought.“youdon’tgetanycricket.”

philipwasdisappointed,andlawson,pardonablyanxioustoshowoffoneofthecelebritiesofthequarter,grewimpatient.cronshawwastakinghistimetowakeupthatevening,thoughthesaucersathissideindicatedthathehadatleastmadeanhonestattempttogetdrunk.cluttonwatchedthescenewithamusement.hefanciedtherewassomethingofaffectationincronshaw’sminuteknowledgeofcricket;helikedtotantalisepeoplebytalkingtothemofthingsthatobviouslyboredthem;cluttonthrewinaquestion.

“haveyouseenmallarmelately?”

cronshawlookedathimslowly,asifhewereturningtheinquiryoverinhismind,andbeforeheansweredrappedonthemarbletablewithoneofthesaucers.

“bringmybottleofwhiskey,”hecalledout.heturnedagaintophilip.“ikeepmyownbottleofwhiskey.ican’taffordtopayfiftycentimesforeverythimbleful.”

thewaiterbroughtthebottle,andcronshawheldituptothelight.

“they’vebeendrinkingit.waiter,who’sbeenhelpinghimselftomywhiskey?”

“maispersonne,monsieurcronshaw.”

“imadeamarkonitlastnight,andlookatit.”

“monsieurmadeamark,buthekeptondrinkingafterthat.atthatratemonsieurwasteshistimeinmakingmarks.”

thewaiterwasajovialfellowandknewcronshawintimately.cronshawgazedathim.

“ifyougivemeyourwordofhonourasanoblemanandagentlemanthatnobodybutihasbeendrinkingmywhiskey,i’llacceptyourstatement.”

thisremark,translatedliterallyintothecrudestfrench,soundedveryfunny,andtheladyatthecomptoircouldnothelplaughing.

“ilestimpayable,”shemurmured.

cronshaw,hearingher,turnedasheepisheyeuponher;shewasstout,matronly,andmiddle-aged;andsolemnlykissedhishandtoher.sheedhershoulders.

“fearnot,madam,”hesaidheavily.“ihavepassedtheagewheniamtemptedbyforty-fiveandgratitude.”

hepouredhimselfoutsomewhiskeyandwater,andslowlydrankit.hewipedhismouthwiththebackofhishand.

“hetalkedverywell.”

lawsonandcluttonknewthatcronshaw’sremarkwasananswertothequestionaboutmallarme.cronshawoftenwenttothegatheringsontuesdayeveningswhenthepoetreceivedmenoflettersandpainters,anddiscoursedwithsubtleoratoryonanysubjectthatwasestedtohim.cronshawhadevidentlybeentherelately.

“hetalkedverywell,buthetalkednonsense.hetalkedaboutartasthoughitwerethemostimportantthingintheworld.”

“ifitisn’t,whatareweherefor?”askedphilip.

“whatyou’rehereforidon’tknow.itisnobusinessofmine.butartisaluxury.menattachimportanceonlytoself-preservationandthepropagationoftheirspecies.itisonlywhentheseinstinctsaresatisfiedthattheyconsenttooccupythemselveswiththeentertainmentwhichisprovidedforthembywriters,painters,andpoets.”

cronshawstoppedforamomenttodrink.hehadponderedfortwentyyearstheproblemwhetherhelovedliquorbecauseitmadehimtalkorwhetherhelovedconversationbecauseitmadehimthirsty.

thenhesaid:“iwroteapoemyesterday.”

withoutbeingaskedhebegantoreciteit,veryslowly,markingtherhythmwithanextendedforefinger.itwaspossiblyaveryfinepoem,butatthatmomentayoungwomancamein.shehadscarletlips,anditwasplainthatthevividcolourofhercheekswasnotduetothevulgarityofnature;shehadblackenedhereyelashesandeyebrows,andpaintedbotheyelidsaboldblue,whichwascontinuedtoatriangleatthecorneroftheeyes.itwasfantasticandamusing.herdarkhairwasdoneoverherearsinthefashionmadepopularbymlle.cleodemerode.philip’seyeswanderedtoher,andcronshaw,havingfinishedtherecitationofhisverses,smileduponhimindulgently.

“youwerenotlistening,”hesaid.

“ohyes,iwas.”

“idonotblameyou,foryouhavegivenanaptillustrationofthestatementijustmade.whatisartbesidelove?irespectandapplaudyourindifferencetofinepoetrywhenyoucancontemplatethemeretriciouscharmsofthisyoungperson.”

shepassedbythetableatwhichtheyweresitting,andhetookherarm.

“comeandsitbymyside,dearchild,andletusplaythedivinecomedyoflove.”

“fichez-moilapaix,”shesaid,andpushinghimononesidecontinuedherperambulation.