Chapter 42 Chapter Forty-Two

The people at the table dispersed in a rush.Flanagan and two or three others went to the vaudeville theater, and Philip followed Clutton and Lawson slowly towards the lilac garden. "You ought to go to Montparnasse too," Lawson said to Philip. "It's one of the great sights in Paris. I'm going to paint it sometime." Due to the influence of Hayward, Philip thought the vaudeville theater was an indecent place and dismissed it. Little did he know that he came to Paris at the time of the golden age of the vaudeville theater, and their potential artistic charm had just been discovered by people.The novel and unique lighting design, the blending of dark red and tarnished golden yellow, thick shadows in dimly lit places, and various decorative lines all provide new themes for artistic creation.About half of the studios in the Latin Quarter display sketches made in this or that local theater.Literati followed in the footsteps of painters, and suddenly coincidentally explored the artistic value of vaudeville.As a result, those clown actors with red noses were immediately praised to the sky, saying that they played their roles well; those fat female singers had howled in obscurity for twenty years. Both emotional and humorous.There are also some literati who have gained a sense of beauty in the dog play, while others have tried their best to praise the superb skills of magicians and speed actors.The audience of the vaudeville show also became famous and became the object of sympathy and attention in the public opinion circle.Philip agreed with Hayward, and had always looked down upon the throbbing crowd; he was, like a man of aloof nature, self-contained, solitary, and disgusted by the eccentricities of the market; but at this time Clutton and Lawson spoke enthusiastically of the common people.They spoke vividly of the throngs of people who crowded shoulder to shoulder at the various Parisian markets; The sound of whistling sirens and humming whispers are intertwined and endless.All that they said sounded new and strange to Philip.They told him about Cronshaw.

"Have you ever seen his work?" "No," said Philip. "His work was published in The Yellow Book." Their attitude towards Cronshaw, as painters generally treat writers, is somewhat contemptuous (because he is a layman in painting), somewhat tolerant (because he is, after all, an art), and somewhat awed (because of the artistic medium he employs, they are quite uneasy). "This person is an extraordinary person. You may be a little disappointed with him when you first come up, and you will only reveal his true colors when he is drunk." "Troublesome thing," interjected Clutton, "is that it takes him hours to drink before he gets drunk."

When they got to the cafe, Lawson told Philip that they had to go inside.The autumn wind was cool, but Cronshaw didn't feel the chill yet, but Cronshaw, out of a morbid fear of the wind and cold, insisted on sitting in the shop even when the weather was as warm as spring. "He knew all the men who were worthy of his acquaintance," explained Lawson. "Pate and Oscar Wilde had his acquaintance, and now he keeps acquaintance with the likes of Mallarme." The target of their search was sitting in one of the most wind-shielded corners of the cafe at the moment.He was wearing a coat with the collar turned up, and the brim of the hat was pulled down to his forehead, for fear of catching a cold.He is tall, stocky but not bloated; he has a round face and a small mustache; his narrow eyes are dull and lifeless.The head of the melon seemed to be a little smaller, and it didn't match his burly torso. It was like a pea on an egg, which might slip off at any time.He was playing dominoes with a Frenchman, and when he saw someone coming, he didn't say anything, just smiled at the person coming, and at the same time pushed aside a small stack of tea saucers on the dining table (the number of tea saucers he had on hand meant that he How many glasses of wine have been downed), it can be regarded as freeing up some space for the comers.When Philip was introduced to him, he nodded and went on with his dominoes.Philip, although his own French was not very good, could still hear Cronshaw's French very badly, for he had been in Paris for many years.

He finally straightened up and leaned back in the chair with a triumphant smile on his face. "Je vous ai battu." He said it with an awkward French accent. "Garcon!" he called to the waiter, and then, turning to Philip, said: "You just came from England? Have you seen cricket?" Philip was bewildered by such an unexpected question. "Cronshaw knows all about the performance of the first-rate cricket teams of the past twenty years," said Lawson, grinning. The Frenchman who played cards left them and went to meet his friends at another table.Cronshaw casually commented on the strengths of the game between Kent and Lancashire.He spoke in a slow, languid way, which was one of his distinctive features.He told them about the cricket final he had seen last time, and described in detail how each batsman was defeated one by one in the game.

"It's the only thing I've been thinking about since I came to Paris," he said after finishing the book the waiter brought him. "Not a single cricket match here." Philip was disappointed.Lawson was growing impatient, and it was not surprising that he was anxious to show Philip off a famous person in the Latin Quarter.That night, Cronshaw drank slowly and carefully, and he was not drunk for a long time.But the stack of saucers beside him suggested that he was at least sincerely trying to get himself drunk.Clutton looked at the scene and thought it was really interesting: Cronshaw was playing with his knowledge of cricket in a way that was obviously a bit artificial; .Clutton interrupted and asked:

"Have you seen Mallarmé lately?" Cronshaw took a leisurely look at Clutton, as if trying to figure out the question.He was not in a hurry to answer, but picked up a saucer and tapped the marble table a few times. "Bring me my bottle of whiskey," he cried, and then, turning to Philip, "I've got a bottle of whiskey here. It costs fifty centimes for a small glass, and I can't drink it." rise." The waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw took it and examined it carefully by the light. "Someone has. Waiter, who stole my whiskey?" "Mais personne, Monsieur Cronshaw."

"I made a special mark last night, look here." "Sir, you marked it, but you still drink it afterwards. It's not a waste of time to mark it like this!" The waiter was a jovial, jovial fellow, well acquainted with Cronshaw.Cronshaw was watching him intently. "If you put your reputation on the line, like a lord and a gentleman, that no one but me drank my whiskey, I'll take your word for it." This sentence, which he translated into blunt French without embellishment, sounded so funny that the female shopkeeper at the counter couldn't help laughing out loud.

"II est impayable," she muttered softly. At this Cronshaw winked at her (the shopkeeper was a stout, middle-aged woman with the air of a housekeeper), and blew her a kiss with all seriousness.She shrugged. "Don't be afraid, ma'am," he said with difficulty, "I'm already past my forties, and the favor of a half-aged lady is no longer attractive to me." He poured himself some whiskey, mixed it with soda water, and sipped it.He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "He spoke eloquently." Lawson and Clutton understood that what Cronshaw said was in response to the inquiry about Mallarme just now.Every Tuesday evening, the poet received literati and painters.He is eloquent and eloquent, and he can answer fluently no matter what topics are mentioned by the people present.Cronshaw was a regular visitor there, and had evidently been there recently.

"He talks beautifully, but it's all nonsense. He talks about art as if it were the most important thing in the world." "Why not! Why else should we come here?" asked Philip. "Why you came here, I don't know. It has nothing to do with me. After all, art is a luxury extravagance. People value only self-preservation and reproduction. Only when these two instincts are satisfied , they are willing to sneak away from their busy schedules and entertain themselves with the sidelines that writers, painters, and poets provide." Cronshaw paused to take a sip of his wine.For twenty years he had been pondering the question: Was he drunk so much because wine fueled conversation, or was he fond of talking because it made him thirsty?

He went on: "Yesterday I wrote a poem." Without waiting for anyone to ask, he immediately read aloud.He recited slowly word by word, while beating the beat with his middle finger.Perhaps this is a very fine poem.But it happened that a young girl broke in at this time.She was heavily made up, her lips were blood-red, her bright cheeks were obviously not from her ordinary nature; her eyebrows and eyelashes were darkly dyed, and her upper and lower eyelids were painted with a bright blue, and it was applied to the corners of the eyes. Form a strange and interesting triangle.The dark clouds, well combed and drawn back over the ears, were a hairstyle made popular by Mademoiselle Cleo de Merode.Philip's eyes were fixed on her.Cronshaw finished his reading, and gave Philip a forgiving smile.

"You're not listening," he said. "Oh no, I'm listening." "I don't reproach you, for this just proves the truth of what I just said. What art is there without love? You were so indifferent to my fine poems just now that you were absorbed in looking at this charming creature, For that, I salute and applaud you." Cronshaw took her arm as she passed by their table. "Come sit beside me, my darling, and let us act out a divine romantic comedy." "Fichez-moi la paix." As she spoke, she pushed him away forcefully, and walked away carelessly. "The so-called art," he continued with a wave of his hand, "is nothing more than something invented by smart people to amuse themselves after drinking, eating and playing with women." Cronshaw poured himself another full glass, and began to talk at length.He has a mellow voice, clear articulation, and his diction is very elegant, which has been carefully considered.His combination of brilliant wit and stupid nonsense is astonishingly absurd.He joked with his audience with a stern face for a while, and gave them advice and advice with a smiley face.He talked about art, literature and life.Sometimes he is pious and sincere, sometimes he is full of obscene words, sometimes he smiles, and sometimes he tears sadly.He was obviously very drunk, and then he was reciting poems—his own and Milton's, his own and Shelley's, his own and Kit Marlowe's. Finally, exhausted, Lawson rose to leave. "I must go too," said Philip. Clutton, the least talkative of them all, remained, with a slight mocking smile on his lips, and continued to listen to Cronshaw's ramblings.Lawson accompanied Philip back to the hotel and said good night to each other.When Philip went to bed, he did not feel sleepy.Those unconventional and unconventional theories that others have uttered nonsense in front of him are now churning and falling in his mind.Philip was thrilled, he felt a great strength building up in him, and he was more confident than ever. "I know I'm going to be a great painter," he said to himself, "I feel it in me." His whole being trembled when another thought flashed through his mind.Even to himself, however, he was reluctant to put the thought into words. "For heaven's sake, I believe I'm a genius!" In fact, he was quite drunk, but since the best he could drink was a glass of beer, it could only have been an intoxicant more dangerous than alcohol.