“D’you remember that Persian carpet you
gave me?” asked Philip.
Cronshaw smiled his old, slow smile of past days.
“I told you that it would give you an answer
to your question when you asked me what was the meaning
of life. Well, have you discovered the answer?”
“No,” smiled Philip. “Won’t
you tell it me?”
“No, no, I can’t do that. The answer
is meaningless unless you discover it for yourself.”
Cronshaw was publishing his poems. His friends
had been urging him to do this for years, but his
laziness made it impossible for him to take the necessary
steps. He had always answered their exhortations
by telling them that the love of poetry was dead in
England. You brought out a book which had cost
you years of thought and labour; it was given two or
three contemptuous lines among a batch of similar
volumes, twenty or thirty copies were sold, and the
rest of the edition was pulped. He had long since
worn out the desire for fame. That was an illusion
like all else. But one of his friends had taken
the matter into his own hands. This was a man
of letters, named Leonard Upjohn, whom Philip had met
once or twice with Cronshaw in the cafes of the Quarter.
He had a considerable reputation in England as a critic
and was the accredited exponent in this country of
modern French literature. He had lived a good
deal in France among the men who made the Mercure
de France the liveliest review of the day, and by
the simple process of expressing in English their point
of view he had acquired in England a reputation for
originality. Philip had read some of his articles.
He had formed a style for himself by a close imitation
of Sir Thomas Browne; he used elaborate sentences,
carefully balanced, and obsolete, resplendent words:
it gave his writing an appearance of individuality.
Leonard Upjohn had induced Cronshaw to give him all
his poems and found that there were enough to make
a volume of reasonable size. He promised to use
his influence with publishers. Cronshaw was in
want of money. Since his illness he had found
it more difficult than ever to work steadily; he made
barely enough to keep himself in liquor; and when
Upjohn wrote to him that this publisher and the other,
though admiring the poems, thought it not worth while
to publish them, Cronshaw began to grow interested.
He wrote impressing upon Upjohn his great need and
urging him to make more strenuous efforts. Now
that he was going to die he wanted to leave behind
him a published book, and at the back of his mind
was the feeling that he had produced great poetry.
He expected to burst upon the world like a new star.
There was something fine in keeping to himself these
treasures of beauty all his life and giving them to
the world disdainfully when, he and the world parting
company, he had no further use for them.
His decision to come to England was caused directly
by an announcement from Leonard Upjohn that a publisher
had consented to print the poems. By a miracle
of persuasion Upjohn had persuaded him to give ten
pounds in advance of royalties.
