A Traveller’s Life. Eric Newby

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СКАЧАТЬ sold off twenty years later on the eve of the next world war, when the whole stocking up process began all over again. Everything, except projectiles and the means of discharging them, was open to offer and even these would eventually come on the market, but for export only.

      In fact the world was changing with a rapidity that would have been unbelievable in 1914, even though it was still possible to buy red plush breeches for footmen and under nurses could still be acquired with comparative ease. Yet it was, one sees in retrospect, only a temporary acceleration. If it had continued at the rate envisaged in 1919 man would probably have stood on the moon by 1939.

      That Saturday, if the weather had allowed, one could have flown to Paris or Brussels in one of the new Handley Page Commercial Aeroplanes, at a cost of £15 ($58.50) single fare, a service of which my parents availed themselves the following year when my father went to Paris to buy ‘models’ to copy from, amongst others, Poiret and Madame Vionnet, which were made to my mother’s dimensions so that she could show them, or copies of them, in London. The fifteen or twenty passengers travelled at a speed of ninety miles an hour in a large saloon furnished with carpets, curtains, armchairs, clocks, mirrors, telephones and flower vases.

      There was also news of the Aerial Postmen (in The Times), who for the last fifteen weeks had been carrying mail between Hounslow and Paris, taking about two and a half hours. And there were confident predictions that morning of regular mail services to Madrid, Vienna and Rome, and even further afield: to Cairo in twenty-three hours, a journey which then took four days; New York in forty-seven and a half hours instead of five and a half days (Alcock and Brown had succeeded in flying the Atlantic nonstop from Newfoundland to Ireland in June); Tokyo in sixty-six hours, instead of fifteen days; and even London – Sydney in an estimated hundred and twelve hours, against a month.

      This was no madman’s dream. Even while the readers were digesting this information that Saturday, Captain Ross Smith landed safely in West Java, while on what was to be the first flight from London to Port Darwin, which he reached on 10 December, having covered 11,294 miles in 668 hours 20 minutes, just under twenty-eight days.

      Even more incredible, especially to older readers, must have been the realization that the widespread use of the internal combustion engine was not just a phenomenon of war, and that for all practical purposes horse-drawn vehicles were doomed. If they did not believe the evidence of their own eyes, when now long ago they had seen, for example, the first horse-drawn brougham converted to run on electricity, it was only necessary for them to glance through some of the classified advertisements in the newspapers under ‘Horse and Carriages’:

      ALDRIDGE’S, ST MARTIN’S LANE. LONDON.

      ESTABLISHED 1753. On Wednesday, 10 December. Well known stud of horses, newspaper vans, harness and stable sundries, the property of the Star newspaper, who are discontinuing their horse department and adopting motor transport entirely.

      ELEPHANT AND CASTLE HORSE REPOSITORY … Motor Auction Sales every Thursday at eleven o’clock.

      That Saturday while I lay in my nursery in SW13, tucked up in a bassinet, which was shrouded superfluously in voile to keep off any stray draughts that might conceivably be about, and with a good coal fire burning in the grate, a number of totally unconnected events occurred and were reported in The Times the following week.

      That day the Bishop of Oxford confirmed more than two hundred boys at Eton; ten people were injured in a tram accident in Hackney; Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood was buried with full military honours at Aldershot; four thousand members of the United Garment Workers Union met in the Mile End Road to demand a forty-eight-hour week; and at a congregation held at Cambridge, the Vice Chancellor presiding, a proposal that a syndicate be appointed to consider whether women students should be admitted to membership of the University and, if so, with what limitations, if any, was carried without opposition.

That day also, Renoir, who had died three days previously at the age of seventy-eight, was buried; the entire staff of the Army and Navy Stores which had been on strike went back to work;² ex-soldiers at Bangor Training Centre completed a pair of shooting-boots for the Prince of Wales; the body of a young woman, wearing a velvet blouse, dark skirt and patent leather boots, was washed up by the tide at Swansea; Florence Langridge was sentenced to three months for giving Harrods a dud cheque, while masquerading as the widow of a captain of Hussars; William Docker, nineteen years a railway shunter with the Great Western Railway Company, more harshly dealt with, was given three months with hard labour for stealing a dozen pairs of stockings from the company; Stoke Poges beat Oxford University at golf; the will of Henry Clay Frick was published – he left $145,000,000 (about £38,250,000) bequeathing all but $25,000,000 (about £6,250,000) to educational and philanthropic objects.

      That evening the members of the Overseas Club entertained the staff at a fancy dress dance, a function at which I would, in retrospect, have dearly liked to have been present. Just as I would also have liked to have been present at Diaghilev’s productions of La Boutique Fantasque, The Three Cornered Hat and Midnight Sun at the Empire Theatre, with Karsavina, Tchernicheva, Massine and Svoboda; although as a future traveller I might have been expected to derive more benefit from attending Lowell Thomas’s With Allenby in Palestine and With Lawrence in Arabia, – ‘Two entertainments for the price of one’ – at the Albert Hall; or a showing of Tarzan of the Apes at the New Gallery; or attending a lecture on The Antarctic Expedition of 1914–17 by Sir Ernest Shackleton at the Hampstead Conservatoire.

      That day, too, the Royal Mail Steam Packet Ship, Bogota, left the Thames on the top of the tide, bound for Valparaiso.

      That afternoon the muffin man ringing his bell went down Riverview Gardens, the side road outside ‘Ther Mansions’ as the local tradesmen who dealt with my mother called them, in which there were other blocks of flats, carrying his muffins in a wooden tray covered with a green baize cloth, which he balanced on his head; and the lamplighter came and went on his bicycle (lighting-up time that evening was 4.21 p.m.), lancing the gas lamps in the street into flame with a long bamboo pole.

      I did not know about any of these exciting things, and if I had I would not have cared. I had no intention of going anywhere, certainly not to Valparaiso in the SS Bogota. And so ended my birthday. For all concerned it had been a jolly long one.

¹ All sums of sterling have been converted from pounds, shillings and pence to their decimal equivalents and to American currency of the time.

² Up to this time employees at the Army and Navy Stores had worked a sixty-hour week, and men of sixty were being paid as little as £2–£2.25 ($7.80–$8.80) a week. In one department fifty women were employed whose average wage was less than £1.26 ($4.90) a week. The strikers who received much sympathetic support from the public and the newspapers were successful in improving their lot.

       CHAPTER TWO The Baby as a Traveller

      At the time I was born, and for long afterwards, ‘middle-middleclass babies’, of whom I was one, rarely travelled in motor cars, ‘middle-middle-class motors’ being mostly open ones, and sometimes difficult to close if a change of weather demanded it. When I went on holiday the year after I was born, and the year after that – and photographs assure me that I did – it was by train from Victoria, Waterloo, or Liverpool Street with lots of trunks and my vast £25 ($97.50) pram with its fringed awnings and a sort of shotgun holster for parasols or umbrellas, according to what was going on overhead, which СКАЧАТЬ