Stamboul Train (2 page)
Authors: Graham Greene
I trust the reader to decide for himself or herself about
this, and I don't like splitting the difference between the two
opposing views, but it does seem to me that to take the points
in random order, the reference to the executive above is a
cliche at best and a slur at worst. Furthermore, Greene did
slightly amend
Brighton Rock
after the Second World War
to make the racetrack gangs seem somewhat less palpably
Semitic, and he presumably would not have done this unless
prompted by some sort of uneasy conscience. But as for
Myatt, I would submit the following excerpt, unmentioned
by either Shelden or Lodge. Coral Musker cannot believe that
a Jew is offering her his own berth in a first-class sleeping
compartment:
this, and I don't like splitting the difference between the two
opposing views, but it does seem to me that to take the points
in random order, the reference to the executive above is a
cliche at best and a slur at worst. Furthermore, Greene did
slightly amend
Brighton Rock
after the Second World War
to make the racetrack gangs seem somewhat less palpably
Semitic, and he presumably would not have done this unless
prompted by some sort of uneasy conscience. But as for
Myatt, I would submit the following excerpt, unmentioned
by either Shelden or Lodge. Coral Musker cannot believe that
a Jew is offering her his own berth in a first-class sleeping
compartment:
Her disbelief and her longing decided him. He determined to be
princely on an Oriental scale, granting costly gifts and not requiring,
not wanting, any return. Parsimony was the traditional
reproach against his race, and he would show one Christian how
undeserved it was. Forty years in the wilderness, away from the
flesh-pots of Egypt, had entailed harsh habits, the counted date
and the hoarded water; nor had a thousand years in the wilderness
of a Christian world, where only the secret treasure was
safe, encouraged display; but the world was altering, the desert
was flowering; in stray comers here and there, in western Europe,
the Jew could show that other quality he shared with the Arab,
the quality of the princely host, who would wash the feet of
beggars and feed them from his own dish; sometimes he could
cease to be the enemy of the rich to become the friend of any
poor man who sought a roof in the name of God. The roar of
the train faded from his consciousness, the light went out in his
eyes, while he built for his own pride the tent in the oasis, the
well in the desert. He spread his hands before her.
Whatever this is, it is not anti-Jewish. Indeed the problem
may be the reverse: it might be too strenuous a demonstration
of sympathy to be altogether convincing. In setting out
to counter received opinion, Greene deployed some cliches
of his own (the Mosaic wanderings, the blooming of the desert, the stage-Jew spreading of the hands) and lazily
repeated the word âprincely.' Most of all, however, one
notices with a pang that Jews are supposed to feel safe at
last, in âwestern Europe' â in 1931! Still, the plain intent is
to defend Jews from defamation, and the taunting anti-
Semite on the train â a ghastly specimen of English suburban
womanhood â is furthermore consistently represented as
vulgar and mean. If this all seems like trying too hard, there
is a fine and redeeming one-liner when Myatt, shocked at
Coral's hoarding of yesterday's sandwiches and milk,
exclaims âAre you Scotch?' Another good instance of inversion,
or table turning.
may be the reverse: it might be too strenuous a demonstration
of sympathy to be altogether convincing. In setting out
to counter received opinion, Greene deployed some cliches
of his own (the Mosaic wanderings, the blooming of the desert, the stage-Jew spreading of the hands) and lazily
repeated the word âprincely.' Most of all, however, one
notices with a pang that Jews are supposed to feel safe at
last, in âwestern Europe' â in 1931! Still, the plain intent is
to defend Jews from defamation, and the taunting anti-
Semite on the train â a ghastly specimen of English suburban
womanhood â is furthermore consistently represented as
vulgar and mean. If this all seems like trying too hard, there
is a fine and redeeming one-liner when Myatt, shocked at
Coral's hoarding of yesterday's sandwiches and milk,
exclaims âAre you Scotch?' Another good instance of inversion,
or table turning.
The novel deals with class consciousness in two ways.
During this epoch it was possible to judge any English
person the moment he or she uttered a syllable, and Greene
catches this with a most acute ear. All the Brits on the train
are either stressing the more refined pronunciations they
have acquired with such labour, or making too much of
being plain-spoken and unaffected. Not for an instant are
they free of the hidden traps of social stratification. An
oblique testament to this pervading sensitivity came in the
form of a lawsuit brought against the novel by Mr. J.B.
Priestley, now rather deservedly forgotten but in those days
the very model of the pipe-smoking, no-nonsense bluff man
of the people. He claimed, quite rightly as far as I can see,
to be the model for the affected novelist Q.C. Savory, a
mildly fraudulent character who positively relishes the democratic
manner in which he drops his own aitches. ('May I
draw a red 'erring across your argument?') This was the
first of many libel actions that paid their own compliment
to Greene's realism.
During this epoch it was possible to judge any English
person the moment he or she uttered a syllable, and Greene
catches this with a most acute ear. All the Brits on the train
are either stressing the more refined pronunciations they
have acquired with such labour, or making too much of
being plain-spoken and unaffected. Not for an instant are
they free of the hidden traps of social stratification. An
oblique testament to this pervading sensitivity came in the
form of a lawsuit brought against the novel by Mr. J.B.
Priestley, now rather deservedly forgotten but in those days
the very model of the pipe-smoking, no-nonsense bluff man
of the people. He claimed, quite rightly as far as I can see,
to be the model for the affected novelist Q.C. Savory, a
mildly fraudulent character who positively relishes the democratic
manner in which he drops his own aitches. ('May I
draw a red 'erring across your argument?') This was the
first of many libel actions that paid their own compliment
to Greene's realism.
And then there is class consciousness in the Marxist sense
of the term, exemplified by Dr. Czinner. This man â with his
surname that of the fallen Everyman â stands for all the idealistic
leftists who were then being ground under by what it
would be no cliche to call the forces of reaction. All of Greene's
sympathy for the underdog, or perhaps more exactly for the
losing side, is mobilised in his portrait:
of the term, exemplified by Dr. Czinner. This man â with his
surname that of the fallen Everyman â stands for all the idealistic
leftists who were then being ground under by what it
would be no cliche to call the forces of reaction. All of Greene's
sympathy for the underdog, or perhaps more exactly for the
losing side, is mobilised in his portrait:
He had his duty to his patients, his duty to the poor of
Belgrade, and the slowly growing idea of his duty to his own
class in every country. His parents had starved themselves that
he might be a doctor, he himself had gone hungry and endangered
his health that he might be a doctor, and it was only
when he had practised for several years that he realized the
uselessness of his skill. He could do nothing for his own
people; he could not recommend rest to the worn-out or
prescribe insulin to the diabetic, because they had not the
money to pay for either.
Czinner is represented as an atheist, but in what I believe
to be the key to this novel he is returning home in order to
offer himself as a sacrifice. Confronted in his train compartment
and seeing that the mysterious intruder is wearing a
silver crucifix, âFor a moment Dr Czinner flattened himself
against the wall of a steep street to let the armoured men, the
spears and the horses pass, and the tired tortured man. He
had not died to make the poor contented, to bind the chains
tighter; his words had been twisted.' Greene became a Catholic
in 1926, five years before he wrote this novel, and had previously
had a flirtation with Communism. In Stamboul Train
he synthesized the two impulses as he was later to do in several
books, perhaps most notably
Monsignor Quixote
. Just as he
often satirised Catholicism and Communism, so he was
ridiculed in his turn for these allegiances. (Entering a
New
Statesman
competition for a Greene parody under an assumed
name, he found his submission winning third prize. John Fuller
and James Fenton, in their âPoem Against Catholics,'
lampooned his work as one where âPolice chiefs quote
Pascal/Priests hit the bottle/Strong Men repent in Nijni-
Novgorod.')
to be the key to this novel he is returning home in order to
offer himself as a sacrifice. Confronted in his train compartment
and seeing that the mysterious intruder is wearing a
silver crucifix, âFor a moment Dr Czinner flattened himself
against the wall of a steep street to let the armoured men, the
spears and the horses pass, and the tired tortured man. He
had not died to make the poor contented, to bind the chains
tighter; his words had been twisted.' Greene became a Catholic
in 1926, five years before he wrote this novel, and had previously
had a flirtation with Communism. In Stamboul Train
he synthesized the two impulses as he was later to do in several
books, perhaps most notably
Monsignor Quixote
. Just as he
often satirised Catholicism and Communism, so he was
ridiculed in his turn for these allegiances. (Entering a
New
Statesman
competition for a Greene parody under an assumed
name, he found his submission winning third prize. John Fuller
and James Fenton, in their âPoem Against Catholics,'
lampooned his work as one where âPolice chiefs quote
Pascal/Priests hit the bottle/Strong Men repent in Nijni-
Novgorod.')
But Greene could lampoon his own loyalties. He was to see
his work placed on the Vatican's once-notorious Index of
banned books, and when he wished to be sardonic about the
Left he could give Coral's mental response to Czinner's admission
of Communist beliefs:
his work placed on the Vatican's once-notorious Index of
banned books, and when he wished to be sardonic about the
Left he could give Coral's mental response to Czinner's admission
of Communist beliefs:
She thought of him now as one of the untidy men who paraded
on Saturday afternoons in Trafalgar Square bearing hideous
banners: âWorkers of the World, Unite,' âWalthamstow Old
Comrades,' âBalham Branch of the Juvenile Workers' League.'
They were the kill-joys, who would hang the rich and close
the theaters and drive her into dismal free love at a summer
camp . . .
However, a moment of decision is imminent and when it
comes, Coral Musker sticks by Dr. Czinner against his tormentors.
This is the consequence of a blunder and a misunderstanding,
but it is nonetheless a test and she passes it, by
declining to leave the sad stranger alone to face his martyrdom.
Meanwhile, Myatt also has to confront his own responsibilities.
He is given a chance to make it easy on himself, and
we are told that âhe knew suddenly that he would not be sorry
to accept the clerk's word and end his search; he would have
done all that lay in his power, and he would be free.' (It is,
by the way, in this very paragraph that he reflects upon the
alternative chance âto set up his tent and increase his tribe' â
the words most complained of by Michael Shelden.) However,
he persists in a rash course of rescue until he can decently
persuade himself that he
has
done all that he can. There's a
thief and a murderer, too, at the end, and some brutal soldiers,
too: I think we are being invited by Greene to a subliminal
Passion Play where the moment of cockcrow is postponed for
as long as is humanly possibleâwhich is as much as to say,
not for very long.
comes, Coral Musker sticks by Dr. Czinner against his tormentors.
This is the consequence of a blunder and a misunderstanding,
but it is nonetheless a test and she passes it, by
declining to leave the sad stranger alone to face his martyrdom.
Meanwhile, Myatt also has to confront his own responsibilities.
He is given a chance to make it easy on himself, and
we are told that âhe knew suddenly that he would not be sorry
to accept the clerk's word and end his search; he would have
done all that lay in his power, and he would be free.' (It is,
by the way, in this very paragraph that he reflects upon the
alternative chance âto set up his tent and increase his tribe' â
the words most complained of by Michael Shelden.) However,
he persists in a rash course of rescue until he can decently
persuade himself that he
has
done all that he can. There's a
thief and a murderer, too, at the end, and some brutal soldiers,
too: I think we are being invited by Greene to a subliminal
Passion Play where the moment of cockcrow is postponed for
as long as is humanly possibleâwhich is as much as to say,
not for very long.
Betrayal itself is reserved for the closing chapter in
Constantinople, where a false atmosphere of gaiety and
luxury and seduction banishes the disquieting memories of
the hard voyage, and where everybody can be convinced that
all is for the best. âA splinter of ice in the heart,' Greene
once wrote, is a necessity for the novelist. One must see
unblinkingly into the pettiness and self-deception of the
human condition. Innocence is another word for prey.
Survival is the law. Praising the work of his rival in personal
frailty, and its relation to faith, Evelyn Waugh said that, with Greene's prose: âthe affinity to the film is everywhere apparent
. . . it is the camera's eye which moves.' Behind this sometimes
protective lens, the author of
Stamboul Train
could
deprecatingly present a piece of pitiless objectivity as an
âentertainment.'
Constantinople, where a false atmosphere of gaiety and
luxury and seduction banishes the disquieting memories of
the hard voyage, and where everybody can be convinced that
all is for the best. âA splinter of ice in the heart,' Greene
once wrote, is a necessity for the novelist. One must see
unblinkingly into the pettiness and self-deception of the
human condition. Innocence is another word for prey.
Survival is the law. Praising the work of his rival in personal
frailty, and its relation to faith, Evelyn Waugh said that, with Greene's prose: âthe affinity to the film is everywhere apparent
. . . it is the camera's eye which moves.' Behind this sometimes
protective lens, the author of
Stamboul Train
could
deprecatingly present a piece of pitiless objectivity as an
âentertainment.'
Christopher Hitchens, 2004
âEverything in nature is lyrical in its ideal essence; tragic in its fate, and comic in its existence.'
George Santayana
PART ONE
OSTEND
I
The purser took the last landing-card in his hand and watched the passengers cross the grey wet quay, over a wilderness of rails and points, round the corners of abandoned trucks. They went with coat-collars turned up and hunched shoulders; on the tables in the long coaches lamps were lit and glowed through the rain like a chain of blue beads. A giant crane swept and descended, and the clatter of the winch drowned for a moment the pervading sounds of water, water falling from the overcast sky, water washing against the sides of channel steamer and quay. It was half past four in the afternoon.
âA spring day, my God,' said the purser aloud, trying to dismiss the impressions of the last few hours, the drenched deck, the smell of steam and oil and stale Bass from the bar, the shuffle of black silk, as the stewardess moved here and there carrying tin basins. He glanced up the steel shafts of the crane, to the platform and the small figure in blue dungarees turning a great wheel, and felt an unaccustomed envy. The driver up there was parted by thirty feet of mist and rain from purser, passengers, the long lit express. I can't get away from their damned faces, the purser thought recalling the young Jew in the heavy fur coat who had complained because he had been allotted a two-berth cabin; for two God-forsaken hours, that's all.
He said to the last passenger from the second class: âNot that way, miss. The customs-shed's over there.' His mood relaxed a little at the unfamiliarity of the young face; this one had not complained. âDon't you want a porter for your bag, miss?'
âI'd rather not,' she said. âI can't understand what they say. It's not heavy.' She wrinkled her mouth at him over the top of her cheap white mackintosh. âUnless you'd like to carry itâCaptain.' Her impudence delighted him. âAh, if I were a young man now you wouldn't be wanting a porter. I don't know what they are coming to.' He shook his head as the Jew left the customs-shed, picking his way across the rails in grey suède shoes, followed by two laden porters. âGoing far?'
âAll the way,' she said, gazing unhappily past the rails, the piles of luggage, the lit lamps in the restaurant-car, to the dark waiting coaches.
âGot a sleeper?'
âNo.'
âYou ought to 'ave a sleeper,' he said, âgoing all the way like that. Three nights in a train. It's no joke. What do you want to go to Constantinople for anyway? Getting married?'
âNot that I know of.' She laughed a little through the melancholy of departure and the fear of strangeness. âOne can't tell, can one?'
âWork?'
âDancing. Variety.'
She said good-bye and turned from him. Her mackintosh showed the thinness of her body, which even while stumbling between the rails and sleepers retained its self-consciousness. A signal lamp turned from red to green, and a long whistle of steam blew through an exhaust. Her face, plain and piquant, her manner daring and depressed, lingered for a moment in his mind. âRemember me,' he called after her. âI'll see you again in a month or two.' But he knew that he would not remember her; too many faces would peer during the following weeks through the window of his office, wanting a cabin, wanting money changed, wanting a berth, for him to remember an individual, and there was nothing remarkable about her.
When he went on board, the decks were already being washed down for the return journey, and he felt happier to find the ship empty of strangers. This was how he would have liked it always to be: a few dagoes to boss in their own tongue, a stewardess with whom to drink a glass of ale. He grunted at the seamen in French and they grinned at him, singing an indecent song of a âcocu' that made his plump family soul wither a little in envy. âA bad crossing,' he said to the head steward in English. The man had been a waiter in London and the purser never spoke a word more French than was necessary. âThat Jew,' he said, âdid he give you a good tip?'
âWhat would you believe? Six francs.'
âWas he ill?'
âNo. The old fellow with the moustachesâhe was ill all the time. And I want ten francs. I win the bet. He was English.'
âGo on. You could cut his accent with a knife.'
âI see his passport. Richard John. Schoolteacher.'
âThat's funny,' the purser said. And that's funny, he thought again, paying the ten francs reluctantly and seeing in his mind's eye the tired grey man in the mackintosh stride away from the ship's rail, as the gangway rose and the sirens blew out towards a rift in the clouds. He had asked for a newspaper, an evening newspaper. They wouldn't have been published in London as early as that, the purser told him, and when he heard the answer, he stood in a dream, fingering his long grey moustache. While the purser poured out a glass of Bass for the stewardess, before going through the accounts, he thought again of the schoolteacher, and wondered momentarily whether something dramatic had passed close by him, something weary and hunted and the stuff of stories. He too had made no complaint, and for that reason was more easily forgotten than the young Jew, the party of Cook's tourists, the sick woman in mauve who had lost a ring, the old man who had paid twice for his berth. The girl had been forgotten half an hour before. This was the first thing she shared with Richard Johnâbelow the tramp of feet, the smell of oil, the winking lights of signals, worrying faces, clink of glasses, rows of numeralsâa darkness in the purser's mind.
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