Bildungsromans; France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Villages -- France -- Fiction
But perhaps in hoping that, one day, with greater freedom, I should be
able to find on other roads girls much the same, I was already beginning
to falsify and corrupt what there is exclusively individual in the
desire to live in the company of a woman whom one has found attractive,
and by the mere fact that I admitted the possibility of making this
desire grow artificially, I had implicitly acknowledged my illusion.
The day on which Mme. de Villeparisis took us to Carqueville, where
there was that church, covered in ivy, of which she had spoken to us, a
church that, built upon rising ground, dominated both its village and
the river that flowed beneath it, and had kept its own little bridge
from the middle ages, my grandmother, thinking that I would like to be
left alone to study the building at my leisure, suggested to her friend
that they should go on and wait for me at the pastry-cook's, in the
village square which was clearly visible from where we were and, in its
mellow bloom in the sunshine, seemed like another part of a Whole that
was all mediaeval. It was arranged that I should join them there later.
In the mass of verdure before which I was left standing I was obliged,
if I was to discover the church, to make a mental effort which involved
my grasping more intensely the idea "Church"; in fact, as happens to
schoolboys who gather more fully the meaning of a sentence when they are
made, by translating or by paraphrasing it, to divest it of the forms to
which they are accustomed, this idea of "Church", which as a rule I
scarcely needed when I stood beneath steeples that were recognisable in
themselves, I was obliged perpetually to recall so as not to forget,
here that the arch in this clump of ivy was that of a pointed window,
there that the projection of the leaves was due to the swelling
underneath of a capital. Then came a breath of wind, and sent a tremor
through the mobile porch, which was overrun by eddies that shot and
quivered like a flood of light; the pointed leaves opened one against
another; and, shuddering, the arboreal front drew after it green
pillars, undulant, caressed and fugitive.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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