Or All About Lost Worlds (and How They Get That Way)
I’ve always loved history.
Naturally, I suffered through history in high school, like most kids. Actually, we didn’t even really have “history” class, which was deemed too stuffed-shirt and not “progressive” enough in those days; we had “social studies”, a gallimaufry of politics, economics, current events, geography and history (dispensed by a reactionary teacher whose belated attempts at chumminess fell on deaf teenage ears). Did we care about learning dates and events? Did we give a hoot about politics? No way. Hey, we were already blessed by being made to learn only Canadian history, which is mercifully brief, we knew full well that those poor European kids, for example, had to slog through THOUSANDS of years of the stuff, for EACH country. Did we have it good or what? We were bored stiff.
But, somehow I came out of all that with an appreciation of history strangely intact.
Intact, but ill-informed, which may explain my healthy appetite for the subject.
On the other hand, I am not big on genealogy. I can, however trace my family all the way back to my grandfather on my father’s side and a generation or two farther on my mom’s, which seems plenty enough. No hoary lichen-encrusted family tree growing our my back yard.
But, speaking of history, I’m working on a book.
The title is Lost Worlds, which of course begs the question: Just how do you go about Losing a World?
You’d think they would be a little harder to misplace than a watch or a wallet, but you’d be surprised just how many civilizations, cities and kingdoms have done just that, disappeared from the face of the earth. They seem to emerge and fade with an alarming alacrity when you look closely. (Much also depends on just who is writing the history books of course, but that’s another story in itself.) It is absolutely fascinating, though, and full of the most astonishing stories.
The editors and I had enormous fun sitting around a table with a long list of lost civilizations, rather like the gods must have done on Olympus, gleefully striking off whole slices of human history until we came up with the right count. Of those, half are real civilizations that have crumbled, and half are “positive archeology” – worlds of wishful thinking, legend and make-believe.
“Atlantis?”
“Definitely!”
“How about Mohengo-daro and Carthage?”
“Timbuktu anyone?”
I of course held out for the more exotic ones in the hope that the editor might send me on a field trip to Ultima Thule, the Kingdom of Prester John or Shangri-la, but for the time being, I am doing my travelling in books (with many excursions on Amazon – the dot-com of course, not the river or Herodotus’ Sarmathia).
It promises to be quite a trip. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.
But, speaking of history and determined, as always, to augment your store of little-known and not necessarily pertinent facts, I thought you might like to know that yesterday, March 1st, was a holiday here. You see, 159 years ago this canton had a Revolution. Inspired by the French Revolution* a mere 50 years before, and fired up by exploding and crumbling empires across Europe (as well as being just a wee bit concerned about reprisals following the Sonderbund, which Neuchâtel prudently sat out), the inhabitants of the La Chaux-de-Fonds decided it was about time to chuck out the Ancien Régime and have a revolution of their own. To this end, they assembled a few hundred volunteers with muskets and set out to liberate their sister city Neuchâtel down by the lake. After crossing the snowbound Jura, and commandeering a couple of artillery pieces (as well as a few dozen halberds of all things) on the way, they arrived in view of Neuchâtel. Their nocturnal 15-mile hike was punctuated by a few scuffles but no shots fired.
One is tempted to imagine conversations like this:
“What’s that damn racket, it’s four in the morning!”
“It’s a Revolution! Vive la République!”
Oh all right, in that case, but keep the noise down will you?”
Upon arriving in Neuchâtel and announcing that they had come to liberate the people from the ponderous yoke of Prussia, they were told “Too late fellas, we declared the Republic a few minutes ago, but thanks for coming anyway.” Oh well, in that case,” they must have replied, “it was a pleasant jaunt. We’ll be off then. No hard feelings.” and headed back home. (The former administration, by the way, thoughtfully emptied the coffers upon abdicating, leaving le equivalent of a dollar behind. Canton finances haven’t really improved much since.)
So much for the most dramatic moment in Neuchâtel history.
But, it does mean a holiday, which always catches me unawares, unless of course the roving brass band that roams the streets in the wee hours of the morning happens to swing by in front of our place.
The conversations go something like this:
“What’s that damn racket, it’s four in the morning!”
“It’s a Revolution! Vive la République!”
Oh, all right, in that case, but keep the noise down will you?”
* The canton’s contribution to that episode was mainly sending idealists and revolutionaries hotfooting it to Paris and the barricades. Jean-Paul Marat, who Jean-Louis David immortalised stabbed to death in his bathtub, pen and letter in hand, was from a tiny little town near here. Marat was no enfant de choeur, by the way, he erected hundreds of gallows to deal with the opposition and sent many thousands of them to the guillotine. (Yes, there is a plaque. No, nobody really knows about it.)
AS SEEN ON TV
“Le Seigneur du Château” will be aired on Arte, the French-German cultural channel, on Sunday March 4 at 8:15 in the evening.
And, for those of you who get the main Swedish channels:
“John Howe – There and Back Again” will be aired on SVT2 on Wednesday 14th of March, at 10.30 in the evening.
