Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (290 page)
Read Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Online
Authors: Travelers In Time
"And
Russian
literature?"
I
asked.
"Has
that
had
any
influence here?"
"Ever
since
the
Russian
Republic
and
the
United
States
of
Russia were
called
into
being
by
the
Emperor
Alexander
I
in
1819,
Russian
art
and
literature
practically
came
to
an
end.
Politics
and
business
engrossed
the
minds
of
the
rising
generation
there,
and,
as
General
John Bright,
that
dashing
cavalry
soldier,
so
well
put
it:
'The
Russians
are completely
inartistic.
They
are
a
nation
of
shopkeepers.'
"
"But
are
not
we
fighting
the
Russians
in
the
Crimea
now?"
I
asked.
"We
are
fighting
in
the
Crimea,
but
not
against
the
Russians.
They are
our
Allies
and
we
are
fighting
the
Turks.
The
Emperor
Constan-tine
has
arranged
with
our
Foreign
Secretary,
Feargus
O'Connor,
that Russia
is
to
have
Constantinople,
we
are
to
take
Egypt,
and
the French
are
to
have
Syria.
As
for
Palestine,
it
is
possible
that
the
Jews may
be
allowed
to
go
there.
Ever
since
their
expulsion
from
England, twenty
years
ago,
they
have
greatly
complained
of
having
nowhere
to live."
Just
at
that
moment
an
open
carriage
drove
by
drawn
by
four
white horses
with
postilions
and
outriders.
Inside
the
carriage
a
magnificent
baring: the alternative
Englishman
with
a
long
black
beard
bowed
to
the
populace,
who cheered.
I
asked
who
it
was.
"That
is
the
King
of
Greece,
once
better
known
as
Lord
Elcho.
He is
here
on
a
visit.
The
Greeks
just
now
are
very
popular,
as
we
are fighting
the
Turks."
We
had
passed
the
Houses
of
Parliament
and
had
reached
the
doors of
what
I
took
to
be
a
large
theatre.
"Here,"
said
my
guide,
"I
must
leave
you.
I
must
go
to
rehearsal."
"One
moment,"
I
said.
"There
is
one
name
we
have
not
mentioned connected
with
the
world
of
literature:
that
of
Charles
Dickens.
Are his
works
popular?"
My
guide
was
convulsed
with
laughter.
"That,"
he
said,
"is
a
really
good
joke.
Charles
Dickens
a
writer!"
"But
------
"
I
said.
"My
dear
sir,"
he
answered,
"you
surely
are
not
going
to
argue
the point
with
me.
I
am
Charles
Dickens,
and
your
humble
servant,
an actor
by
profession,
and
if
you
would
like
to
see
me
play
Paul
Pry tonight
I
can
give
you
an
order
for
a
box,
and
supper
and
some
grilled bones
afterwards."
I
was
about
to
answer
something
when
I
once
again
felt
dizzy,
and when
I
recovered
consciousness
again
I
was
sitting
in
my
rooms.
I
was alone
this
time,
and
the
time
by
the
clock
was
1.16.
1
had
been
asleep for
a
minute.
Visitors
from Out of Time
$»>
cj»»
£fe>
From
Four-in-Hand,
by J. B. Priestley, reprinted by permission
of A. D. Peters & W. N. Roughead.
Mr. Stent erry s Tale
By J. B. PRIESTLEY
"AND THANK YOU,"
SAID THE LANDLADY, WITH THE MECHANICAL CHEER-
fulness
of
her
kind.
She
pushed
across
the
counter
one
shilling
and four
coppers,
which
all
contrived
to
get
wet
on
the
journey.
"Yes,
it's quiet
enough.
Sort
of
weather
to
bring
them
in
too,
though
it's
a
bit early
yet
for
our
lot.
Who's
in
the
Private
Bar?"
She
craned
her
fat little
neck,
peered
across
the
other
side,
and
then
returned,
looking very
confidential.
"Only
one.
But
he's
one
of
our
reg'lars.
A
bit
too reg'lar,
if
you
ask
me,
Mr.
Strenberry
is."
I
put
down
my
glass,
and
glanced
out,
through
the
open
door.
All
I could
see
was
a
piece
of
wet
road.
The
rain
was
falling
now
with
that precision
which
suggests
it
will
go
on
for
ever.
It
was
darker
too.
"And who
is
Mr.
Strenberry?"
I
enquired,
merely
for
want
of
something better
to
do.
It
did
not
matter
to
me
who
Mr.
Strenberry
was.
The
landlady
leaned
forward
a
little.
"He's
the
schoolmaster
from ^lown
the
road,"
she
replied,
in
a
delighted
whisper.
"Been
here— oh,
lemme
see—it
must
be
four
years,
might
be
five.
Came
from London
here.
Yes,
that's
where
he
came
from,
London.
Sydenham, near
the
Crystal
Palace,
that's
his
home.
I
know
because
he's
told me
so
himself,
and
I've
a
sister
that's
lived
near
there
these
twenty years."
I
said
nothing.
There
did
not
seem
to
be
anything
to
say.
The
fact that
the
local
schoolmaster
came
from
Sydenham
left
me
as
uninterested
as
it
found
me.
So
I
merely
nodded,
took
another
sip,
and
filled a
pipe.
The
landlady
glanced
at
me
with
a
faint
reproach
in
her
silly
prominent
eyes.
"And
he's
queer
is
Mr.
Strenberry,"
she
added,
with
something
like
defiance.
"Oh
yes,
he's
queer
enough.
Clever,
y'know—in
a sort
of
way,
book-learning
and
all
that,
if
you
follow
my
meanin'—but, well—he's
queer."
"In
what
way
is
he
queer?"
It
was
the
least
I
could
do.
She
put
her
hand
up
to
her
mouth.
"His
wife
left
him.
That's
about two
years
ago.
Took
their
little
boy
with
her
too.
Gone
to
stay
with relations,
it
was
given
out,
but
we
all
knew.
She
left
him
all
right.
Just walked
out
one
fine
morning
and
the
little
boy
with
her.
Nice
little boy,
too,
he
was.
He
lives
alone
now,
Mr.
Strenberry.
And
a
nice
mess, too,
I'll
be
bound.
Just
look
at
his
clothes.
He
won't
be
schoolmaster-ing
here
much
longer
neither.
He's
been
given
a
few
warnings,
that
I do
know.
And
you
can't
blame
'em,
can
you?"
