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 exhortations¹ 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 batch² of similar volumes, twenty or thirty copies were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped³. 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 accredited⁴ exponent⁵ 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 originality⁶. 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 obsolete⁷, 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 steadily⁸; 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 strenuous⁹ 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 persuasion¹⁰ Upjohn had persuaded him to give ten pounds in advance of royalties¹¹.

“In advance of royalties, mind you,” said Cronshaw to Philip. “Milton only got ten pounds down.”

Upjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he would ask his friends who reviewed to do their best. Cronshaw pretended to treat the matter with detachment, but it was easy to see that he was delighted with the thought of the stir he would make.

One day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched eating-house at which Cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but Cronshaw did not appear. Philip learned that he had not been there for three days. He got himself something to eat and went round to the address from which Cronshaw had first written to him. He had some difficulty in finding Hyde Street. It was a street of dingy¹² houses huddled¹³ together; many of the windows had been broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of French newspaper; the doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby little shops on the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers. Ragged¹⁴ children played in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar tune¹⁵. Philip knocked at the door of Cronshaw”s house (there was a shop of cheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly Frenchwoman in a dirty apron¹⁶. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in.

“Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the back. I don”t know if he”s in. If you want him you had better go up and see.”

The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There were three doors on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked again; there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It opened. The room was dark.

“Who”s that?”

He recognised Cronshaw”s voice.

“Carey. Can I come in?”

He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink¹⁷ was overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in the street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end to end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little space for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window. He made no movement, but gave a low chuckle¹⁸.

“Why don”t you light the candle?” he said then.

Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshaw was lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and his baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like.

“I say, old man, you look awfully¹⁹ ill. Is there anyone to look after you here?”

“George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his work.”

“Who”s George?”

“I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial²⁰ apartment with me.”

Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was slept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested.

“You don”t mean to say you”re sharing this room with somebody else?” he cried.

“Why not? Lodging²¹ costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out at eight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn”t in my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away the hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. He”s a Swiss, and I”ve always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an entertaining angle.”

“How long have you been in bed?”

“Three days.”

“D”you mean to say you”ve had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last three days? Why on earth didn”t you send me a line? I can”t bear to think of you lying here all day long without a soul to attend to you.”

Cronshaw gave a little laugh.

“Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you”re distressed²². You nice fellow.”

Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he felt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of the poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile.

“I”ve been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I am indifferent to discomforts²³ which would harass²⁴ other folk. What do the circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount²⁵ of time and space?”

The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he had been able to place his hands on them. He showed them to Philip and his eyes glowed. He turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he read out a stanza²⁶.

“They don”t look bad, do they?”

Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he could not afford even the smallest increase of expenditure²⁷; but on the other hand this was a case where it revolted him to think of economy.

“I say, I can”t bear the thought of your remaining here. I”ve got an extra room, it”s empty at present, but I can easily get someone to lend me a bed. Won”t you come and live with me for a while? It”ll save you the rent of this.”

“Oh, my dear boy, you”d insist on my keeping my window open.”

“You shall have every window in the place sealed if you like.”

“I shall be all right tomorrow. I could have got up today, only I felt lazy.”

“Then you can very easily make the move. And then if you don”t feel well at any time you can just go to bed, and I shall be there to look after you.”

“If it”ll please you I”ll come,” said Cronshaw, with his torpid²⁸ not unpleasant smile.

“That”ll be ripping.”

They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next day, and Philip snatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. He found Cronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with a small, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, already packed: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he were sitting in the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed at the sight of him. They went over to Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows were carefully closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. He had gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-hand²⁹ bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settled down at once to correct his proofs. He was much better.

Philip found him, except for the irritability³⁰ which was a symptom of his disease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did not see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip persuaded him to share the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, but Cronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to get himself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants in Soho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly³¹ refused; he knew a doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to do. He always felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe at mid-day put him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, at midnight, he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished Philip when first he made his acquaintance. His proofs were corrected; and the volume was to come out among the publications of the early spring, when the public might be supposed to have recovered from the avalanche³² of Christmas books.

第八十三章

克朗肖要出版诗集了。多少年来，他的亲朋好友一直敦促他快把诗集出出来，可因懒惰，他一直没为此采取必要的步骤。他总是以在英国诗魂已丧失殆尽的说法来搪塞友人的劝勉。花费了多年的心血写成了一部书，出版后只是在浩繁的卷帙中排上两三行，卖掉二三十册，其余的竟落得个被拉回去化纸浆的下场。由于多年的磨难，他的名利之心早泯灭。这如同其他所有事情一样，不过是场梦幻虚境而已。然而，他朋友中却有一位把此事一手揽了过去。此人是位文人，名叫伦纳德.厄普姜。菲利普还是在巴黎拉丁区的一家咖啡馆里同克朗肖一起见过他一两回。厄普姜作为文艺批评家在英国颇有声望，同时也是大家所公认的法国现代文学的权威诠释者。他长期生活在法国，混迹于那些致力于把（法兰西墨耳库里》办成生动活泼的评论刊物的人士中间，因此只消用英语把这些人士的观点介绍一通，他在英国就赢得了独辟溪径的声誉。菲利普曾经拜读过他的一些文章。他通过直接模仿托马斯.布朗爵士的笔调确立了自己的风格。他写的句子，虽说复杂，但经苦心安排，倒还平稳。用的都是些冷僻但华丽的词藻，这就给他的文章蒙上一层与众不同的个性色彩。伦纳德.厄普姜诱使克朗肖把全部诗稿交到自己手中，翻开一看，发觉这些诗作足够出一部不小的诗集。他许诺要凭借自己的声望去影响出版商。其时，克朗肖手头拮据，急需用钱。自身染疾病以来，克朗肖发觉自己较前更难坚持写作了，弄来的几个钱勉强够付酒钱。厄普姜写信告诉他，说这个那个出版商均啧啧称赞他的诗作，不过认为不值得出版。这时，克朗肖的心倒被说动了，于是他写信给厄普姜，反复说明他已到了捉襟见肘的地步，并催促厄普姜再花些气力。克朗肖眼看自己将不久于人世，极想给自己身后留部正式出版的诗集，再说，在内心深处，他总觉得自己写下了伟大的诗作。他殷殷盼望着有朝一日自己会像颗新星般地出现在世人面前。他一辈子都把这些美妙的珍品秘藏在自己的心底，但在行将同世界诀别，再也用不着这些珍品之际，毫不在乎地把它们奉献给世人，此举确乎不无可资称道之处。

伦纳德.厄普姜来信说有位出版商已经同意出版他的诗集。克朗肖便当机立断，决定立即返回英国。通过一番奇迹般的说服工作，厄普姜使得克朗肖同意把超过版税的十英镑给他。

"注意，是先付版税，"克朗肖对菲利普说道。"弥尔顿那会儿才拿到十镑现钱呢。"

厄普姜答应为克朗肖的诗作写篇署名文章，同时还要邀请那些评论家朋友们尽力写好评论。克朗肖对此事表面上采取超然物外的态度，但明眼人一看就知道，想到自己将轰动文坛，他感到乐不可支。

一天，菲利普践约上那家克朗肖坚持要在那儿吃饭的蹩脚餐馆去，但是克朗肖却没有露面。菲利普得知他已三天没上这家餐馆了。菲利普胡乱吃了点东西，随即按克朗肖第一次来信中讲的地址跑去找他。他好不容易才找到海德街。这条街上挤满了被烟熏黑了的房子，许多窗户的玻璃部破了，上面粘着一条条法文报纸，极不雅观，门也多年没油漆了。房子的底层都是些脓膻破败的小商店，有洗衣店、皮匠店、文具店等等。衣衫褴褛的孩子们在马路上打闹戏耍。一架手摇风琴在奏一首淫荡的小凋。菲利普叩着克朗肖寓所的大门（底下是一爿专售廉价甜食的小店），一位身上系着脏围裙的法国女人应声出来开门。菲利普问她克朗肖是否在家。

"噢，是的，后面顶楼里是住着一个英国人。我不知道他在家不在家。你要见他，最好自己上去找。"

一盏煤气灯照亮了楼梯。屋子里弥漫着一股呛人的气味。菲利普走过二楼时，从一个房间里走出一位妇人，她用怀疑的目光打量着菲利普，但没有吭声。顶楼上有三扇房门，菲利普在中间的一扇门上敲了一下，接着又敲了敲，但屋里没有动静，接着转了转门把，发觉房门锁着。他又去敲另一扇门，还是没有响声，接着推了推房门。房门"吱呀"一声开了，只见房间里一片漆黑。

"谁？"

他听出这是克朗肖的声音。

"我是凯里。可以进来吗？"

他不等克朗肖回话，便径直走了进去。窗户紧闭着。一股恶臭扑鼻而来，简直不堪忍受。街上的弧光灯透过窗户的缝隙照进几缕光线。菲利普这时看清在这小小的房间里，虽说只有头靠头放着的两张床、一个脸盆架和一张椅子，人进来了却没有回旋的余地。克朗肖躺在紧挨窗户的那张床上，纹丝不动，只是低声格格笑了笑。

"你为什么不把蜡烛点起来呢？"隔了一会，克朗肖说。

菲利普划亮一根火柴，发现就在他床边的地板上有个蜡烛台。他点亮了蜡烛，把烛台移放在脸盆架上。克朗肖一动不动地仰卧在床上，穿着睡衣，模样儿挺古怪的。他那光秃的脑顶心特别显眼，一脸土灰色，活脱像个死人。

"喂，老兄，看上去病得不轻呀。这儿有没有人来照顾你呀？"

"乔治早晨上班前给我送来了一瓶牛奶。"

"乔治是谁？"

"我叫他乔治，是因为他的名字叫阿道尔夫。他同我合用这套宫殿般的房间。"

此时，菲利普方才注意到另外一张床上的被褥自有人睡过以来从未叠过，那只枕头上搁头的地方乌黑乌黑的。

"你不会是说你同别人合用这个房间吧？"菲利普不由得嚷了起来。

"为什么不好跟人合用呢？在索霍这个鬼地方，住房可是要花钱的呀。乔治是个跑堂的，每天早晨八点去上班，店不打烊不会回来，因此，他根本不碍我的事。我们俩都睡不好觉，于是他就给我讲讲他的身世，借此消磨长夜。他是个瑞士人。我对于跑堂的一向很感兴趣，他们都是从娱乐的角度来看待人生的。"

"你躺了几天了？"

"三天了。"

"你是说这三天中除了一瓶牛奶外别的啥也没吃吗？你究竟为何不给我捎个信呢？让你整天躺在床上，身边也没有一个人服侍你，我真于心不忍啊。"

克朗肖听罢笑了笑说：

"瞧你的脸色。哎呀，可爱的人儿，我知道你是真的为我难过。你这个好小于。"

菲利普脸刷地红了。看到这间简直不是人住的房间以及这位穷困的诗人的失意潦倒的境地，一股忧戚悲凉之情涌上了菲利普的心头，但不料内心的感受全部在他脸上显现出来了。克朗肖凝睇着菲利普，脸带微笑地继续说：

"我一直都很愉快。瞧，这都是诗集的校样。要晓得，区区不适可能会使别人惶惶不安，可我却是毫不在乎的。如果你做的梦赋予你任凭驰骋的无限的时间和空间，那么人生中境遇的变迁又有何了不得的呢？"

诗集的校样就放在床上。克朗肖躺在这个半明不暗的房间里，居然还能着手校对清样。他把校样拿给菲利普看，在这当儿，他的双眸忽地放亮。他翻过一张张校样，双眼望着那清晰的字体，不禁喜形于色。接着，他朗诵了一节诗。

"这诗写得不赖，对不？"

菲利普蓦地生出个主意。照这个主意去做，他要稍稍多花笔开支，可是即便多一笔哪怕数目最小的开支，菲利普都是无能为力的。不过，从另一个方面来说，对眼下这件事，菲利普却不愿考虑节省开支的问题。

"喂，我可不忍再让你留在这儿了。我那儿多个空房间，眼下空着无人住，我不费事就可以借张床来。你愿意不愿意上我那儿去，跟我住一段时问呢？这样省得你付房租了。"

"喔，亲爱的老弟，你会坚持要我把所有窗户都打开的。"

"只要你愿意，就是把所有的窗户都封上也不碍事的。"

"明天我就会好的。今天我本来也是可以起来的，只是觉得身子发懒。"

"那样的话，你很容易就可以搬过去住。你一感觉身体不适，就上床躺着，我会在家照顾你的。"

"你喜欢这样的话，那我就搬过去，"克朗肖说，脸上带着他那种迟钝而又凄苦的微笑。

"那再好没有了。"

他们俩商定菲利普第二天来接克朗肖。次日上午，菲利普忙里偷闲，抽出一个小时为这事作些准备。他发现克朗肖已经穿戴停当，头戴帽子，身穿厚呢大衣，默默地坐在床上。脚边地板上躺着只小小的、破旧的旅行皮箱，里面盛放着他的衣服和书籍，已经捆绑好了。他看上去像是坐在车站候车室似的。菲利普瞧见他这个模样，不觉哈哈笑了起来。他们俩乘四轮四座马车直奔肯宁顿大街而去。马车上的窗户全都关得严严实实。到了那儿以后，菲利普把他的客人安顿在自己的房间里。菲利普这天一大早就上街，为自己买了副旧床架，一只便宜的五斗柜和一面镜子。克朗肖一到就安下心来修改他的校样，他感觉精神好多了。

菲利普发觉他的这位客人除了其疾病症状有些恼人以外，总的说来还是很好相处的。他上午九时有课，因此要到晚上才能见着克朗肖。有那么一两次，菲利普劝克朗肖就跟他在一起将就吃些用残汤剩菜做的晚餐，但是克朗肖实在不好意思，不肯留下来，宁肯跑到索霍区，上一两家最便宜的饭馆买点东西填填肚子。菲利普叫他去找蒂勒尔大夫看病，他却一口回绝，因为他知道医生会叫他戒酒，而这酒他是决心不戒的了。每天上午，他总是病得很厉害，但是一到中午，几口艾酒下了肚，就又来了精神，到了子夜时分回到家里时，他又能侃侃而谈，谈话中才气横溢，正是这一点使得当时初次同他见面的菲利普惊叹不已。他的校样已修改完毕，诗集将于早春时节与其他一些出版物一同问世。到那时，人们说不定该从雪片般飞来的圣诞节书籍的重压下喘过气来了。