2.M.1.5. HIS FRONTIERS
THE gamin loves the city, he also loves solitude, since he has
something of the sage in him. Urbis amator, like Fuscus;
ruris
amator, like Flaccus.
To roam thoughtfully about, that is to say, to lounge, is
a
fine employment of time in the eyes of the philosopher;
particularly
in that rather illegitimate species of campaign, which is
tolerably ugly but odd and composed of two natures, which
surrounds
certain great cities, notably Paris. To study the suburbs
is to study the amphibious animal. End of the trees,
beginning of the roofs; end of the grass, beginning of the
pavements; end of the furrows, beginning of the shops, end
of the wheel-ruts, beginning of the passions; end of the divine
murmur, beginning of the human uproar; hence an extraordinary
interest.
Hence, in these not very attractive places, indelibly
stamped
by the passing stroller with the epithet: melancholy, the
apparently
objectless promenades of the dreamer.
He who writes these lines has long been a prowler about
the
barriers of Paris, and it is for him a source of profound
souvenirs.
That close-shaven turf, those pebbly paths, that chalk,
those pools, those harsh monotonies of waste and fallow lands,
the plants of early market-garden suddenly springing into
sight in a bottom, that mixture of the savage and the citizen,
those vast desert nooks where the garrison drums practise
noisily,
and produce a sort of lisping of battle, those hermits by
day and cut-throats by night, that clumsy mill which turns in
the wind, the hoisting-wheels of the quarries, the tea-gardens
at the corners of the cemeteries; the mysterious charm of great,
sombre walls squarely intersecting immense, vague stretches of
land inundated with sunshine and full of butterflies, — all this
attracted him.
There is hardly any one on earth who is not acquainted
with
those singular spots, the Glaciere, the Cunette, the hideous wall
of Grenelle all speckled with balls, Mont-Parnasse, the Fosseaux-Loups,
Aubiers on the bank of the Marne, Mont-Souris,
the Tombe-Issoire, the Pierre-Plate de Chatillon, where there
is an old, exhausted quarry which no longer serves any purpose
except to raise mushrooms, and which is closed, on a level with
the ground, by a trap-door of rotten planks. The campagna
of Rome is one idea, the banlieue of Paris is another; to behold
nothing but fields, houses, or trees in what a stretch of country
offers us, is to remain on the surface; all aspects of things are
thoughts of God. The spot where a plain effects its junction
with a city is always stamped with a certain piercing melancholy.
Nature and humanity both appeal to you at the same
time there. Local originalities there make their appearance.
Any one who, like ourselves, has wandered about in these
solitudes
contiguous to our faubourgs, which may be designated
as the limbos of Paris, has seen here and there, in the most
desert spot, at the most unexpected moment, behind a meagre
hedge, or in the corner of a lugubrious wall, children grouped
tumultuously, fetid, muddy, dusty, ragged, dishevelled, playing
hide-and-seek, and crowned with corn-flowers. All of
them are little ones who have made their escape from poor
families. The outer boulevard is their breathing space; the
suburbs belong to them. There they are eternally playing truant.
There they innocently sing their repertory of dirty songs.
There they are, or rather, there they exist, far from every eye,
in the sweet light of May or June, kneeling round a hole in
the ground, snapping marbles with their thumbs, quarrelling
over half-farthings, irresponsible, volatile, free and happy;
and, no sooner do they catch sight of you than they recollect
that they have an industry, and that thev must earn their living,
and they offer to sell you an old woollen stocking filled
with cockchafers, or a bunch of lilacs. These encounters with
strange children are one of the charming and at the same time
poignant graces of the environs of Paris.
Sometimes there are little girls among the throng of boys, —
are they their sisters? — who are almost young maidens, thin,
feverish, with sunburnt hands, covered with freckles, crowned
with poppies and ears of rye, gay, haggard, barefooted. They
can be seen devouring cherries among the wheat. In the evening
they can be heard laughing. These groups, warmly illuminated
by the full glow of midday, or indistinctly seen in the
twilight, occupy the thoughtful man for a very long time, and
these visions mingle with his dreams.
Paris, centre, banlieue, circumference; this constitutes
all
the earth to those children. They never venture beyond this.
They can no more escape from the Parisian atmosphere than
fish can escape from the water. For them, nothing exists two
leagues beyond the barriers: Ivry, Gentilly, Arcueil, Belleville,
Aubervilliers, Menilmontant, Choisy-le-Roi, Billancourt, Mendon,
Issy, Vanvre, Sevres, Puteaux, Neuilly, Gennevilliers,
Colombes, Romainville, Chatou, Asnieres, Bougival, Nanterre,
Enghien, Noisy-le-Sec, Nogent, Gournay, Drancy, Gonesse;
the universe ends there.