‘You must go to the Gaite Montparnasse,’ said Lawson to him. ‘It’s one of the 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 artistic2 possibilities were just discovered. The peculiarities3 of lighting4, the masses of dingy5 red and tarnished6 gold, the heaviness of the shadows and the decorative7 lines, offered a new theme; and half the studios in the Quarter contained sketches8 made in one or other of the local theatres. Men of letters, following in the painters’ wake, conspired9 suddenly to find artistic value in the turns; and red-nosed comedians10 were lauded11 to the skies for their sense of character; fat female singers, who had bawled12 obscurely for twenty years, were discovered to possess inimitable drollery13; there were those who found an aesthetic14 delight in performing dogs; while others exhausted15 their vocabulary to extol16 the distinction of conjurers and trick-cyclists. The crowd too, under another influence, was become an object of sympathetic interest. With Hayward, Philip had disdained17 humanity in the mass; he adopted the attitude of one who wraps himself in solitariness18 and watches with disgust the antics of the vulgar; but Clutton and Lawson talked of the multitude with enthusiasm. They described the seething19 throng20 that filled the various fairs of Paris, the sea of faces, half seen in the glare of acetylene, half hidden in the darkness, and the blare of trumpets21, the hooting22 of whistles, the hum of voices. What they said was new and strange to Philip. They told him about Cronshaw.
‘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 because he was a layman23, with tolerance24 because he practised an art, and with awe25 because he used a medium in which themselves felt ill-at-ease.
‘He’s an extraordinary fellow. You’ll find him a bit disappointing at first, 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 time to get drunk.’
When they arrived at the cafe Lawson told Philip that they would have to go in. There was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but Cronshaw had a morbid26 fear of draughts27 and even in the warmest weather sat inside.
‘He knows everyone worth knowing,’ Lawson explained. ‘He knew Pater and Oscar 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 well down on his forehead so that he should avoid cold air. He was a big man, stout28 but not obese29, 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 poised30 on an egg. He was playing dominoes with a Frenchman, and greeted the new-comers with a quiet smile; he did not speak, but as if to make room for them pushed away the little pile of saucers on the table which indicated the number of drinks he had already consumed. He nodded to Philip when he was introduced to him, and went on with the game. Philip’s knowledge of the language was small, but he knew enough to tell that Cronshaw, although he had lived in Paris for several years, spoke31 French execrably.
At last he leaned back with a smile of triumph.
‘Je vous ai battu,’ he said, with an abominable32 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 last twenty years,’ said Lawson, smiling.
The Frenchman left them for friends at another table, and Cronshaw, with the lazy enunciation33 which was one of his peculiarities, began to discourse34 on the relative merits of Kent and Lancashire. He told them of the last test match he had seen and described the course of the game wicket by wicket.
‘That’s the only thing I miss in Paris,’ he said, as he finished the bock which the waiter had brought. ‘You don’t get any cricket.’
Philip was disappointed, and Lawson, pardonably anxious to show off one of the celebrities35 of the Quarter, grew impatient. Cronshaw was taking his time to wake up that evening, though the saucers at his side indicated that he had at least made an honest attempt to get drunk. Clutton watched the scene with amusement. He fancied there was something of affectation in Cronshaw’s minute knowledge of cricket; he liked to tantalise people by talking to them of things that obviously bored them; Clutton threw in a question.
‘Have you seen Mallarme lately?’
Cronshaw looked at him slowly, as if he were turning the inquiry36 over in his mind, and before he answered rapped on the marble table with one of the saucers.
‘Bring my bottle of whiskey,’ he called out. He turned again to Philip. ‘I keep my own bottle of whiskey. I can’t afford to pay fifty centimes for every thimbleful.’
The waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw held it up to the light.
‘They’ve been drinking it. Waiter, who’s been helping37 himself to my whiskey?’
‘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 rate Monsieur wastes his time in making marks.’
The waiter was a jovial38 fellow and knew Cronshaw intimately. Cronshaw gazed at him.
‘If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a gentleman that nobody but I has been drinking my whiskey, I’ll accept your statement.’
This remark, translated literally39 into the crudest French, sounded very funny, 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-aged40; and solemnly kissed his hand to her. She shrugged41 her shoulders.
‘Fear not, madam,’ he said heavily. ‘I have passed the age when I am tempted42 by forty-five and gratitude43.’
He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘He talked very well.’
Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw’s remark was an answer to the question about Mallarme. Cronshaw often went to the gatherings44 on Tuesday evenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, and discoursed45 with subtle oratory46 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 as though 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 is a luxury. Men attach importance only to self-preservation and the propagation of their species. It is only when these instincts are satisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainment which is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets.’
Cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pondered for twenty years the problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether he loved 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 rhythm with an extended forefinger47. It was possibly a very fine poem, but at that moment a young woman came in. She had scarlet48 lips, and it was plain that the vivid colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; she had blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows49, and painted both eyelids50 a bold blue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the eyes. It was fantastic and amusing. Her dark hair was done over her ears in the fashion made popular by Mlle. Cleo de Merode. Philip’s eyes wandered to her, and Cronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses, smiled upon him indulgently.
‘You were not listening,’ he said.
‘Oh yes, I was.’
‘I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of the statement I just made. What is art beside love? I respect and applaud your indifference51 to fine poetry when you can contemplate52 the meretricious53 charms 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 of love.’
‘Fichez-moi la paix,’ she said, and pushing him on one side continued her perambulation.
‘Art,’ he continued, with a wave of the hand, ‘is merely the refuge which the 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 spoke with rotund delivery. He chose his words carefully. He mingled54 wisdom and nonsense in the most astounding55 manner, gravely making fun of his hearers at one moment, and at the next playfully giving them sound advice. He talked of art, and literature, and life. He was by turns devout56 and obscene, merry and lachrymose57. He grew remarkably58 drunk, and then he began to recite poetry, his own and Milton’s, his own and Shelley’s, his own and Kit59 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 a sardonic60 smile on his lips, to Cronshaw’s maunderings. Lawson accompanied Philip to his hotel and then bade him good-night. But when Philip got to bed he could not sleep. All these new ideas that had been flung before him carelessly seethed61 in his brain. He was tremendously excited. He felt in himself 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 himself he 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 of beer, it could have been due only to a more dangerous intoxicant than alcohol.
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1
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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2
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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3
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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4
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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6
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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7
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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8
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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9
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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10
comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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11
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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13
drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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14
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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15
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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16
extol
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| v.赞美，颂扬 | |
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17
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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18
solitariness
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| n.隐居；单独 | |
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19
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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20
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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21
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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22
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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23
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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24
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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25
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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26
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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27
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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29
obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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30
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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31
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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32
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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33
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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34
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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35
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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36
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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37
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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38
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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39
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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40
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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41
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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43
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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44
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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45
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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46
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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47
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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48
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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49
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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50
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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51
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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52
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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53
meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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54
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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55
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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56
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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57
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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58
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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59
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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60
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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61
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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