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 .
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"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。"
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9
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‘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 dingy houses huddled 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.
Ragged children played in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar tune . 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 apron . Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in.
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13
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"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。"
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‘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.
He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink 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 chuckle .
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.
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21
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"喂,老兄,看上去病得不轻呀。这儿有没有人来照顾你呀?"
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‘I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after you here?’
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"乔治早晨上班前给我送来了一瓶牛奶。"
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22
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‘George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his work.’
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"乔治是谁?"
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‘Who’s George?’
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"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。"
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‘I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial apartment with me.’
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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。
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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.
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"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。
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‘You don’t mean to say you’re sharing this room with somebody else?’ he cried.
‘Why not? Lodging 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.’
‘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.’
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克朗肖听罢笑了笑说:
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Cronshaw gave a little laugh.
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32
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"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。"
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‘Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you’re distressed . 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 discomforts which would harass other folk. What do the circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount 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 stanza .
Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he could not afford even the smallest increase of expenditure ; 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.’
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39
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"喔,亲爱的老弟,你会坚持要我把所有窗户都打开的。"
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‘Oh, my dear boy, you’d insist on my keeping my window open.’
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40
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"只要你愿意,就是把所有的窗户都封上也不碍事的。"
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40
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‘You shall have every window in the place sealed if you like.’
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, shabbyportmanteau, 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.