Chapter 83 Chapter 83

Cronshaw was about to publish a collection of poems.For many years, his relatives and friends have been urging him to publish the collection of poems quickly, but because of laziness, he has never taken the necessary steps to this end.He always prevaricates the exhortations of his friends by saying that the soul of poetry in England has been lost.It took many years of painstaking effort to write a book, but after it was published, it only ranked two or three lines in the vast volume, sold twenty or thirty copies, and the rest ended up being pulled back to pulp.Due to years of hardships, his desire for fame and fortune has long been wiped out.This, like everything else, is nothing but a fantasy.One of his friends, however, took the matter by himself.The man was a man of letters named Leonard Upjung.Philip saw him once or twice with Cronshaw in a café in the Latin Quarter of Paris.Upjohn is well-known as a literary critic in Britain, and is also recognized as an authoritative interpreter of modern French literature.He had lived in France for a long time, among those who devoted themselves to making (French Mercury) a lively review publication, so he only had to introduce the views of these people in English, and he won a unique position in England. The reputation of the brook path. Philip had read some of his articles. He established his style by imitating Sir Thomas Browne's style directly. He wrote sentences, though complicated, but carefully arranged and smooth. These are rare but gorgeous words, which give his prose a distinctive personality. Leonard Upjung induced Cronshaw to take the whole poem into his hands, opened it, and read it. He found that these poems were enough to produce a large collection of poems. He promised to rely on his reputation to influence publishers. At that time, Cronshaw was in short supply and needed money urgently. Since his own illness, Cronshaw found it harder than before Wrote, and barely enough money to pay for the drinks, when Upjohn wrote to tell him that one publisher or another had praised his poems, but thought them unworthy of publication. Cronshaw's heart was broken. moved, so he wrote to Upjung, repeatedly explaining that he had reached the point where he was stretched, and urging Upjung to make more efforts. Cronshaw saw that he would die soon, and wanted to leave a formally published collection of poems behind him. Besides, deep in his heart, he always felt that he had written great poems. He was eagerly looking forward to the day when he would appear in front of the world like a new star. He kept these wonderful treasures in his heart all his life, But when we are about to bid farewell to the world and no longer need these treasures, it is indeed not without praise to dedicate them to the world with no care.

Leonard Upjohn wrote that a publisher had agreed to publish a collection of his poems.Cronshaw made a quick decision and decided to return to England immediately.By some miraculous persuasion, Upjung got Cronshaw to agree to give him ten pounds in excess of the royalties. "Royalties are paid first, mind," said Cronshaw to Philip. "Milton only had ten pounds in cash then." Upjung agreed to write a signed article on Cronshaw's poems, and invited his critic friends to do their best to write reviews.Cronshaw took a superficial attitude towards this matter, but a discerning eye could tell at a glance that he was overjoyed at the thought that he would make a sensation in the literary world.

One day Philip kept an appointment to the poor restaurant where Cronshaw insisted on eating, but Cronshaw did not show up.Philip learned that he had not been to the restaurant for three days.Philip ate something indiscriminately, and ran to Cronshaw at the address given in his first letter.He found Hyde Street with difficulty.The street was crowded with smoke-blackened houses, and many of the windows had half-broken glass strips of French newspaper glued to them in an unsightly way, and the doors had not been painted for years.The ground floor of the house is full of small, dilapidated shops, including laundries, cobblers, stationery shops, and so on.Ragged children are playing and playing in the road.A hurdy-gurdy played a lascivious ditty.Philip knocked at the door of Cronshaw's lodgings (underneath a little shop selling cheap sweets), and a Frenchwoman in a dirty apron answered.Philip asked her if Cronshaw was at home.

"Oh, yes, there's an Englishman living in the attic at the back. I don't know if he's at home or not. You'd better go up and find him yourself if you want to see him." A gas lamp lit the stairs.There was a choking smell in the room.As Philip was passing through the second floor, a woman came out of a room. She looked at Philip suspiciously, but said nothing.There were three doors on the attic, and Philip knocked once at the middle door, then knocked again, but there was no movement, then turned the handle, and found it locked.He knocked on another door, but there was still no sound, and then pushed the door.The door squeaked open, and the room was pitch black.

"Who?" He recognized Cronshaw's voice. "I'm Carey. May I come in?" He went in without waiting for an answer from Cronshaw.The windows are closed.An unbearable stench filled the nostrils.A few strands of light came in from the arc lights from the street through the cracks in the windows.Philip now saw clearly that in the small room, although there were only two beds placed head to head, a washstand, and a chair, there was no room for maneuver when people entered.Cronshaw lay motionless on the bed next to the window, except for a low chuckle. "Why don't you light the candles?" said Cronshaw after a while.

Philip struck a match and saw a candle-holder on the floor just beside his bed.He lit the candle, and put the candlestick on the washstand.Cronshaw lay motionless on his back on the bed, looking strange in his pajamas.The bald top of his head is particularly conspicuous, and his face is gray, like a dead man. "Well, man, you look very ill. Is there anybody here to take care of you?" "George brought me a bottle of milk this morning before going to work." "Who is George?" "I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares the palatial room with me."

Only now did Philip notice that the quilt on the other bed had not been made since it had been slept on, and that the place where the head rested on the pillow was black and black. "You don't mean you share the room with other people?" cried Philip involuntarily. "Why can't it be shared? Housing costs money in the goddamn place of Soho. George is a waiter. He goes to work at eight every morning and doesn't come back until the shop closes, so he doesn't bother me at all." We both couldn't sleep well, so he passed the night by telling me about his life. He's a Swiss. I've always been interested in waiters, they're all from an entertainment point of view life's."

"How many days have you been lying down?" "Three days." "You mean you haven't eaten anything but a bottle of milk for three days? Why on earth don't you send me a message? I really don't want you to lie in bed all day with no one around to wait on you." I can't bear it." Cronshaw smiled and said: "Look at your face. Oh dear, I know you're really sorry for me. You're so small." Philip flushed.A sense of melancholy came over Philip at the sight of the almost uninhabited room, and the wretched condition of the poor poet, but it came out on his face.Cronshaw looked at Philip, and went on, smiling:

"I've always been happy. Look, here's the proofs of a poetry book. You know, a mere discomfort might make someone uneasy, but I don't care. If your dreams give you infinite time and space, so what's so important about the changes in life's circumstances?" The proofs of the poetry collection lay on the bed.Lying in the half-light of the room, Cronshaw was able to set about proofreading.He showed Philip the proofs, and his eyes lit up suddenly.He flipped through the proofs one by one, looking at the clear font with his eyes, he couldn't help but be overjoyed.Then he recited a verse.

"It's not a bad poem, is it?" Suddenly Philip had an idea.The idea would cost him a little more, but Philip could not do anything for even the smallest extra.On the other hand, however, Philip was reluctant to think of economy in the present case. "Hey, I can't bear to have you here anymore. I have a lot of vacant rooms that are empty right now, and I can borrow a bed without trouble. Would you like to come to my place and live with me?" Ask for a while? This will save you from paying the rent." "Oh dear boy, you're going to insist I keep all the windows open."

"You can seal up all the windows if you want." "I'll be fine tomorrow. I could have gotten up today, but I just feel lazy." "That way you can move in easily. When you feel unwell, just go to bed and I'll take care of you at home." "If you like it, I'll move there," said Cronshaw, with his dull, miserable smile. "That couldn't be better." It was agreed between them that Philip should come and fetch Cronshaw next day.Next morning Philip took an hour out of his busy schedule to make some preparations for the event.He found Cronshaw fully dressed, in hat and pea coat, sitting silently on the bed.On the floor at his feet lay a small, battered suitcase containing his clothes and books, already bundled up.He looked as if he was sitting in a station waiting room.Philip laughed when he saw him like this.The two of them drove straight to Kennington Street in a four-seater.The windows of the carriage were all shut tightly.When there Philip put his guest up in his room.Philip went out into the streets early that morning, and bought himself an old bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass.On his arrival Cronshaw settled down to correct his proofs, feeling much better. Philip found his visitor, despite the somewhat annoying symptoms of his illness, to be on the whole agreeable.He had lessons at nine o'clock in the morning, so he could not see Cronshaw until evening.Once or twice Philip persuaded Cronshaw to just stay with him and have a supper of leftovers, but Cronshaw was too embarrassed to stay, preferring to go to Soho for a visit or two. Buy something to fill your belly at the cheapest restaurant in the house.Philip told him to see Dr. Tyrrell, but he refused, because he knew the doctor would tell him to give up alcohol, which he was determined not to give up.Every morning, he was always very ill, but at noon, after taking a few sips of aijiu, he regained his energy, and when he returned home at midnight, he was able to talk eloquently and brilliantly. It was this that struck Philip when he first met him.His proofs have been revised, and a collection of poems will appear in early spring along with other publications.By then, it might be time to recover from the snowfall of Christmas books.