Summary Napoleon of Nottinghill
GK Chesterton
Napoleon of Nottinghill
In our times, at the beginning of the twentieth century, the prophets divorced so much that, one by one, you will inadvertently fulfill someone’s prediction. Yes, just spit somewhere – and it turns out that you spit in the prophecy! And yet the majority of mankind, consisting of normal people who prefer to live their own mind (which prophets have no idea), will certainly be able to arrange this so that all the prophets will pull their noses. Well, that’s how London will be one hundred years later or, say, eighty?
Imagine, in 1984, it is the same as it was. Nothing, in fact, has changed, the nation has become swamped and covered with duckweed. And the whole boring and gray world was orderly by that time and was divided among the great powers. The last small independent state – the freedom-loving Nicaragua – fell, and the last mutiny – of Indian dervishes – was long suppressed. The British
Then one day two tall gentlemen moved along the London street, wearing frock-coats, cylinders and impeccable collars. They were respectable officials, one can say that they differed from each other only in that one of them, being a stupid person, was definitely a fool, but the second, very clever, could undoubtedly be defined as an idiot idiot. So pondered, following them, a little man named Oberon Queen – short, round, with owlish eyes and a jumping walk. The further course of his thoughts took a completely unexpected turn, since suddenly a vision opened to him: the backs of his friends appeared as two dragon faces with muddy button eyes on the hoods. Long coat coats fluttered, dragons licked. But the most striking thing was what was then determined in his mind: if this is so, then,
In less than a few days, as the one in whose head such discoveries were made, he became a lot
Ten years passed.
The Lord Mayors of most areas of West London proved to be decent and businesslike people. But their carefully coordinated and mutually beneficial plan for laying a new highway convenient to the city was met with an obstacle. To demolish the old buildings of Pumping Lane did not agree with Adam Wayne, Lord Mayor of Notting Hill. At the broadcast in the presence of the King of Oberon, the mayors offered Wayne a good fee, but the ardent patriot of Notting Hill not only refused to sell Pump Lane, but vowed to protect every inch of the sacred native land to the last drop of blood.
This man took all seriously! He considers Notting Hill his homeland entrusted to him by God and the Great Royal Charter. Neither good – reasonable mayors, nor the king himself (for whom such an attitude towards his invention though pleasant, but completely unexpected nonsense) can not do anything about this crazy person. War is inevitable. And yet Notting Hill is ready for war.
However, is this a war? City guards quickly put things in order in the rebellious Notting Hill. However, during the advance along Portobello Road, the blue halberdiers of Hammersmith and the green protagonists of Bayswater were subjected to a sudden attack by nottingillians dressed in bright scarlet mantles. The enemy acted from alleys on both sides of the street and overwhelmed the overwhelming forces of sensible mayors.
Then Mr. Buck, Lord Mayor of North Kensington, a successful businessman more interested in building the highway, took over the command of a new united army of citizens, four times superior to the forces of Notting Hill. This time, the evening offensive was provided with a prudent blocking of all lanes. The mousetrap slammed shut. The troops moved cautiously toward the Pit Lane, the center of lawless resistance. But suddenly all the light disappeared – all the gas lamps went out. Out of the darkness, the Nottingillilles furiously attacked them, who managed to turn off the city gas station. The warriors of the Allies fell as if they had been knocked down, there was a clang of arms and screams: “Notting Hill, Notting Hill!”
The next morning, however, business-like Mr. Buck pulled up reinforcements, the siege continued. The indomitable Adam Wayne and his experienced general Tarnbull (in a peacetime toy trader, who adored playing the battle of the tin soldiers at his table) staged a horse raid (this was due to the fact that they unharnessed the horses from the cabs that had been prudently ordered the day before in different parts of London). The brave men led by Wayne made their way to the water tower, but were surrounded there. The battle was boiling. From all sides, crowds of warriors crowded in the colorful garments of the guards of various London suburbs, flags fluttered with gold ptahs of West Kensington, Hammersmith’s silver hammer, the golden eagle of Bayswater, and the emerald fish of Chelsea. But the proud scarlet banner of Notting Hill with the golden lion was not inclined in the hands of the powerful hero Adam Wayne. Blood was pouring down the river along the drains of the streets, the corpses cluttered up the intersections. But in spite of everything, the Nottinghill people, having occupied the water tower, continued fierce resistance.
Obviously, however, that their situation was hopeless, for Mr. Buck, once again showing his best business qualities and extraordinary talent of the diplomat, gathered under his banners the soldiers of all districts of South and West London. The inconceivable army slowly pulled together to the Pump Alley, filling the streets and squares. In his ranks, by the way, went and King Oberon, who took an unusually active part in the events as a war correspondent, delivering very enthusiastic and colorful, though not always accurate reports in the “Court Gazette.” His Majesty, thus, was lucky to witness a historical scene: in response to a decisive and last proposal to surrender Adam Wayne calmly replied that he himself requires his opponents to immediately lay down their arms, otherwise it will blow up the water tower and the South and West London will be flooded with raging streams of water. The horrified eyes turned to Mr. Baku. And the businessman-leader inclined his sane head, recognizing the unconditional victory of Notting Hill.
Twenty years have passed. And London in 2014 was a completely different city. He truly amazed the imagination. Colored garments, noble fabrics, crenellated walls, beautifully decorated buildings, noble speeches and the bearing of the glorious townspeople delighted the eye, full of dignities of the barons, skillful artisans, wise warlocks and monks now constituted the city’s population. Majestic monuments marked the sites of the past battles for Pumping Lane and Water Tower, colorful legends described the heroic deeds of Nottinghillts and their opponents. But… twenty years is enough time for the inspired ideas of national independence to turn into deadening standards of imperial thinking, and freedom fighters into despots.
The suburbs are again united against the tyranny of the mighty Notting Hill. Once again, King’s Road, Portabello Road, Piccadilly and Pumpy Lane are stained with blood. In the apocalyptic battle, Adam Wayne and King of the Rhone, who fought shoulder to shoulder with him, perish, and almost all the participants of the legendary events are dying. The history of Notting Hill is coming to an end, and for unknown new times there are unknown new times.
In the embrace of silence and the fog of the dawning Kensington Garden, two voices sound, both real and tempting, unearthly and indelible from life. These are the voices of a mocker and fanatic, the voices of a clown and hero, Oberon Quinn and Adam Wayne. “Wayne, I was just kidding.” “Quinn, I just believed.” “We are the beginning and the end of great events.” “We are the father and mother of the Charter of the Suburbs.”
Mockery and love are inseparable. An eternal man, equal to himself, is power over us, and we, geniuses, fall prostrate before him. Our Notting Hill was pleasing to the Lord, whatever it was, everything genuine and unrepeatable. We gave present cities the poetry of everyday life, without which life loses itself. And now we leave together to the unknown lands.
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