There was a general disturbance¹. Flanagan and two or three more went on to the music-hall, while Philip walked slowly with Clutton and Lawson to the Closerie des Lilas.

 

'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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