Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (285 page)
Read Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Online
Authors: Travelers In Time
I
said:
"History."
"Bah,"
he
said,
"they
can't
teach
history
at
Oxford.
There
are
only two
places
where
you
can
learn
history.
One
is
the
Navy
and
the
other the
Army,
and
both
of
them
in
times
of
war."
Upon
which
he
took
a
pinch
of
snuff,
turned
his
back,
and
walked quickly
away.
Up
to
that
moment
the
conversation
had
seemed
to
me
quite
natural,
as
if
I
had
belonged
to
the
circumstances
in
which
I
suddenly found
myself,
as
if
I
was
a
contemporary,
taking
part
in
the
events
of the
day,
but
from
the
moment
that
Captain
Jackson
left
us
i
seemed to
be
two
people:
the
man
who
was
on
the
island
and
who
belonged to
this
remoter
epoch,
and
my
real
twentieth-century
self.
"Did
Captain
Jackson
fight
for
Napoleon?"
I
asked.
"Napoleon?"
said
my
host.
"I
never
heard
of
him."
"The
Emperor
of
the
French,"
I
said.
"There
never
was
no
Emperor
as
I
ever
heard
of,"
said
my
host. "There
was
a
King
and
they
cut
his
head
off.
And
then
there
was
a Jacobite
Republic
which
overran
half
Europe,
spreading
revolution wherever
it
went,
in
Italy,
Spain,
Germany,
and
even
in
Russia.
They won
victories,
then
they
were
beat.
As
soon
as
all
the
world
made peace,
they
made
war
again
and
won
victories
again,
and
at
last
they were
beat
altogether,
and
the
King
came
into
his
own."
"Then
who,"
I
asked,
"is
King
of
France
now?"
baring: the alternative
"Why,
Louis
XVIII,
of
course.
And
thanks
to
those
Jacobites,
of
a much
smaller
France
than
belonged
to
his
ancestors.
He
had
to
give up
Alsace
and
half
Lorraine
to
the
Germans."
His
voice
seemed
to
grow
faint
as
he
said
this,
and
the
scene
melted. I
rubbed
my
eyes
and
found
that
I
was
walking
down
a
street,
arm-in-arm
with
a
stranger.
I
soon
recognized
the
street.
It
was
Whitehall.
"That,"
said
the
man
who
was
walking
with
me,
"is
the
Horse Guards."
I
realized
that
I
was
being
shown
over
London.
I
was
possibly
a stranger
of
distinction.
My
guide
was
floridly
dressed.
He
wore
a crimson
necktie
and
a
carbuncle
pin,
a
yellow
satin
waistcoat,
a
large choker,
a
little
imperial;
his
eyes
were
bright
and
penetrating,
his
manner
vivacious.
There
was
something
slightly
histrionic
about
him.
I
recognized
certain
familiar
landmarks.
The
traffic,
the
hansom carriages,
and
the
four-wheelers
made
a
clatter
in
the
street;
elegant barouches
passed
us.
The
ladies
wore
crinolines;
the
men,
Dundreary whiskers.
I
felt
I
had
been
landed
into
the
world
of
Thackeray.
We passed
an
unfamiliar
statue
which
stood
where
the
war
memorial
now stands.
