Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [232]
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.
“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.
“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 odor 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 recognized Cronshaw’s voice.
“Carey. Can I come in?”
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.
“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 deathlike.
“I say, old man, you look awfully 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 palatial 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? 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