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Updated: May 15, 2025
But he seemed to revel in the coarseness of her language and would often report some phrase which reeked of the gutter. He referred to her ironically as la fille de mon concierge. Cronshaw was very poor. He earned a bare subsistence by writing on the exhibitions of pictures for one or two English papers, and he did a certain amount of translating.
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.
Cronshaw's slim bundle of poetry did not seem a substantial result for a life which was sordid. Philip could not wrench out of his nature the instincts of the middle-class from which he came; and the penury, the hack work which Cronshaw did to keep body and soul together, the monotony of existence between the slovenly attic and the cafe table, jarred with his respectability.
It was plain anyway that the life which Clutton seemed destined to was failure. Its only justification would be the painting of imperishable masterpieces. He recollected Cronshaw's whimsical metaphor of the Persian carpet; he had thought of it often; but Cronshaw with his faun-like humour had refused to make his meaning clear: he repeated that it had none unless one discovered it for oneself.
The waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw held it up to the light. "They've been drinking it. Waiter, who's been helping himself to my whiskey?" "Mais personne, Monsieur Cronshaw." "I made a mark on it last night, and look at it." "Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that. At that rate Monsieur wastes his time in making marks."
You were asking just now what was the meaning of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets, and one of these days the answer will come to you." "You are cryptic," said Philip. "I am drunk," answered Cronshaw. Philip did not find living in Paris as cheap as he had been led to believe and by February had spent most of the money with which he started.
Cronshaw looked at him meditatively and filled his glass. He sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes.
The Frenchman left them for friends at another table, and Cronshaw, with the lazy enunciation which was one of his peculiarities, began to discourse on the relative merits of Kent and Lancashire. He told them of the last test match he had seen and described the course of the game wicket by wicket.
She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer's round the corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who would 'do' for him. Philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along, an arm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a few drawings, and the small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him.
He did not realise that little that Cronshaw said was new. His personality in conversation had a curious power. He had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a manner of putting things which was irresistible to youth.
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