Chapter 82 Chapter 82

Near the end of the year, Philip's three-month internship in the outpatient department of the hospital was coming to an end.At this moment, he received a letter from Lawson from Paris. Dear Philip: Cronshaw is now in London, and would like to see you.His address is: 43 Hyde Street, Soho.Exactly what part of London this street is in I can't tell, but you can certainly find it.All right, go take care of him.He was out of luck.As for what he's up to right now, he'll tell you then.Things here are the same as they used to be, and nothing seems to have changed since you left.Clutton had returned to Paris, but he had become intolerable.He had a falling out with everyone.As far as I know, he hasn't got a dime, and he's living in a small studio not far from the Botanic Gardens, but he won't let anyone see his work.He doesn't show up all day, so no one can tell what he's doing.He may be a genius, but on the other hand, he may also be deranged.Let me tell you something, by the way: I ran into Flanagan out of the blue one day.He was showing Mrs. Flanagan around the Latin Quarter then.He had given up painting long ago and turned to a business of making popcorn machines, and he seemed to have a lot of money in his hands.Mrs. Flanagan is pretty, and I'm trying to get a portrait of her.How much would you charge if you were me?I have no intention of scaring them.But if they're both willing to give me three hundred pounds, I'm not going to be the fool for a hundred and fifty pounds.

forever yours Frederick Lawson Philip then wrote to Cronshaw, and received a reply the next day. Dear Carey: Of course I won't forget you.Have you ever remembered that I helped you back then and rescued you from the "Abyss of Despair", but now I myself have fallen into the "Abyss of Despair" irretrievably.Nice to meet you.I am a stranger in a strange city, ravaged by philistines.It is a pleasure to talk with you about the old days in Paris.I don't mean to ask you to come and see me, because my small room is not decent enough to receive a distinguished person in Mr. Purgen's profession.You can find me, however, at a restaurant called Auburn Placer on Dean Street every afternoon between seven and eight o'clock.

Yours faithfully J. Cronshaw When Philip received the reply, he went to see Cronshaw that very day.The restaurant had only one shop, and it belonged to the lowest category of restaurants.Cronshaw, it seemed, was the only customer here.Cronshaw sat in a corner, out of the way of the draft, still wearing the poor overcoat Philip never saw him take off, and a battered bowler hat on his head. "I dine here because I can be alone with no one to disturb me," began Cronshaw. "This restaurant isn't doing very well. It's just hookers and unemployed waiters. It's closing down, so the food here sucks. They're bankrupt, though."

A glass of axe lay before Cronshaw.They had not seen each other for nearly three years, and Philip was startled by the change in Cronshaw's appearance.Cronshaw, who had been plump, was shriveled and sallow now; his neck was loose and wrinkled; his clothes hung about him as if he had bought them for someone else, and the collars were three or four sizes too large. .All these add to his slovenly appearance.His hands were shaking uncontrollably.Then Philip remembered that his stationery was covered with crooked and jumbled letters.It was evident that Cronshaw was not very ill. "I have eaten very little these days," Cronshaw went on. "I was very sick in the morning. For lunch I just had some soup and then a little cheese."

Philip's eyes fell unconsciously on the glass of axe, but Cronshaw caught him, and by throwing a mocking glance at Philip, prevented him from making common-sense exhortations. "You have diagnosed my disease, and you think it is a great mistake for me to drink axe." "You obviously have cirrhosis," Philip said. "Obviously." Cronshaw looked at Philip with a look which, in old times, would have been unbearable to Philip.That look seemed to indicate that what was on his mind was troubling but obvious; and since you do not dispute the obvious, what is there to say?So Philip changed the subject.

"When are you going back to Paris?" "I'm not going back to Paris, I'm dying." Philip was amazed that he should speak of his own death in such a natural tone.A thousand words came to Philip's mind in an instant, but they seemed to be meaningless words.It was clear to Philip that Cronshaw was indeed dying. "So you intend to settle in London?" asked Philip awkwardly. "What does London mean to me? I'm like a fish out of water. When I walk through crowded streets, people push me back and forth as if I were walking in a dead city. I don't think I can die in Paris. I want to die among my own people. I don't know what mysterious instinct finally brings me back."

Philip knew the woman who lived with Cronshaw, and their two daughters with their dirty and wet skirts, but Cronshaw never mentioned them to him, and he would not speak of them.Philip wondered to himself what had become of them. "I don't know why you talk about death?" said Philip. "One winter three or two years ago, I had pneumonia, and people said it was a miracle that I survived. It seemed that I was in danger. If something happened to me, I would die, and another illness would kill me." my life.". "Oh, nonsense! Your health isn't so bad. Just be careful. Why don't you quit drinking?"

"Because I don't want to quit. There's nothing a man can do if he's ready for the consequences. Scruples. Well, I'm ready for the consequences. You'd tell me to quit drinking, but that's all I have now. Think about it, what would life mean to me if I quit drinking? Can you understand the happiness I get from axe? I just want to drink, and every time I drink, I drink enough Not a drop left, and afterwards, I felt my heart was immersed in an indescribable bliss. Wine. This stuff disgusts you, because you are a Puritan, and your heart is disgusted with carnal pleasures. Carnal pleasures are the best. Intense, and most delicate. I am a man of lively passions, and I have always given myself to them. Now I have to pay for it, and I am ready to pay the price."

For some time Philip looked straight at Cronshaw. "Aren't you afraid?" Cronshaw pondered for a while, but made no answer.He seemed to be considering his answer. "I've been afraid sometimes, too, when I'm sitting by myself," he said, looking at Philip. "Do you think that's a condemnation? You're wrong. I'm not intimidated by my fear. That's stupid. Christianity says you should remember death while you live. Death is nothing. It shouldn't affect what a smart person does. I know I'm going to die struggling for air, and I know I'm going to be terrified, and I know I won't be able to stop myself from feeling the way life has put me in. and remorse, but I do not admit that I regret life. At present, although I am weak, old, ill, poor, and dying, my destiny is still in my hands. Therefore, I have nothing to do Unfortunately."

"Do you remember that Persian rug you gave me?" asked Philip. Cronshaw, as usual, began to smile a little. "When you ask me what the meaning of life is, I tell you that the rug will give you the answer. Well, have you found the answer?" "Not yet," Philip smiled, "won't you tell me?" "No, I can't, I can't do this kind of thing. The answer is up to you, otherwise it's pointless."