CHAPTER V
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 employ- ment of time in the eyes of the philosopher; particularly in that rather ille- gitimate species of campaign, which is tolerably ugly but odd and com- posed of two natures, which surrounds certain great cities, notably Paris. To study the suburbs is to study the amphibious animal. End of the trees, be- ginning 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 pass- ing stroller with the epithet: melancholy, the apparently objectless prome- nades 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 spring- ing 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 singu- lar spots, the Glaciere, the Cunette, the hideous wall of Grenelle all speck- led with balls, Mont–Parnasse, the Fosse–aux–Loups, Aubiers on the bank of the Marne, Mont–Souris, the Tombe–Issoire, the Pierre–Plate de Chatil- lon, 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 origi- nalities there make their appearance.
Any one who, like ourselves, has wandered about in these solitudes con- tiguous 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 mo- ment, 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 recol- lect that they have an industry, and that they 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 illuminat- ed 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, Men- don, Issy, Vanvre, Sevres, Puteaux, Neuilly, Gennevilliers, Colombes, Ro- mainville, Chatou, Asnieres, Bougival, Nanterre, Enghien, Noisy–le–Sec, Nogent, Gournay, Drancy, Gonesse; the universe ends there.
