On the far side of this ravine, directly opposite, through the intertwined branches of evergreen oaks, can be seen a distant path that forms the horizontal baseline of a field sloped in symmetry with the lawn and, at its high end, bounded by hedgerows enclosing some pasture occupied by what will have to be called cows. These, aside from grazing, seem to have no other preoccupation in life than adjusting their position according to that of the sun, depending on whether or not they feel the need for some shade. This group, which is perhaps a herd and numbers no more than twenty individuals, is due south. Fine. Let us now circulate from the south toward the east then the north and so on counterclockwise, taking a complete tour of the horizon until we later arrive back at the herd and see if these cows have, in the meantime, moved.
On their left is a farm, to which we may assume these animals belong, along with buildings we can only partially see: first off, a large expanse of wall solidly capped with a slate roof, apparently part of some residential buildings, properly speaking; next, adjoining those and roofed with what should perhaps be identified as Everite tiles, is the visible part of another construction that is probably the annex, or one of the annexes of this operation. These structures, of which one can see only bits and pieces, are in fact barely visible amid the vegetation, and to the latter we shall return. We’ll have to return to it although we could perhaps have — should perhaps have — begun with the vegetation, we don’t know.
We don’t know insofar as it is difficult in a description or a narrative, as Joseph Conrad has someone observe in his novella A Smile of Fortune, to set everything down in due order. It’s just that one cannot say or describe everything all at the same time, can one. Some kind of order must be established, priorities set up, which can’t help but risk muddling the subject, so we’ll have to concentrate later on the vegetation, on nature, a framework no less important than the cultural objects — equipment, buildings — we are attempting at the outset to record.
After this almost indiscernible farm to the south, then a swath of forest we will accordingly try to describe more clearly further along, one should take note on the east-northeast axis of another farm not nearly so obscured as the first one, but also farther away. Although this time it’s more like a cluster of farms, five or six, with walls and roofs of colors (dusty pink, spanking-new white, faded black, beige, and bright yellow) that vary and materials (slate or tile, stone, corrugated iron, pebble-dash, unidentified metal) just as diverse. Given how far away we are, say one or two miles from this little group of structures, we feel some hesitation: should one simply consider it a good-size farm, even a very good-size one, or may one venture to call it a hamlet? A dot on the landscape? Let’s say a hamlet. Adjoining this hamlet, moreover, are a few of its classic attributes: a small road, a path, a bridge doubtless busy spanning the river that, rushing southward, has carved out the ravine. We can recognize them rather well, these attributes, for the intervening vegetation is somewhat sparse.
Perhaps now would be a good time to consider the importance of the vegetal realm in the matter at hand, which, since we’re attempting to describe a particular setting in the Mayenne countryside,1 is after all the very least we can do. So, vegetation. We already see in the complete southeastern arc how all these inhabited objects can be separated by heaps of trees almost exaggeratedly French in their exhaustively thorough sampling: oak, ash, beech, elm, lime, and the occasional species of more than one syllable, such as poplar. From the first farm to the hamlet, their density is absolute; their vertical compactness saturates the entire corresponding area on the other side of the ravine, leaving no room to breathe. But stepping back a little, which the morphology of the site will allow us to do as we head north, we will then be able to count on some open space: the varied horizontality of fields, meadows, fallow land, and other flat or undulating surfaces.
Onward, onward let us go toward the septentrion.2 Whereas we earlier found ourselves, facing this ravine between us and the referential herd of cows, looking out as if on a promontory bung up against the opposite side of the ravine, now we must at first turn toward the north, looking up in a worm’s-eye view. And to do this we must get going. Indeed, although from the terrace we were able to serenely observe the entire south and a good bit of the east from a sitting position, we must now get up to go take a look at the other cardinal axes.
We have to walk, to go around the house extended by this terrace and constructed on the flank of the promontory: the best thing to do would be to climb toward the hedgerow planted uphill from the building. The hedgerow, a line composed almost entirely of wild cherry trees, divides this private area from the countryside beyond. Standing at this border, we’ll be able to observe the northern expanse extending, we won’t say right to our feet but almost. That’s why the vegetation, from this vantage point, seems less dense, for not only is it more scattered, but we are within a vastly larger field of vision, where objects are farther away and the plant life at that distance becomes less haughty, more humble, less arrogant and lofty. Plains, small valleys, thickets, hillocks, gentle rises. Perspective has edged out close encounters to the point of offering at the horizon of this suite of scenery the relief of a distant plateau: nothing less than the highest point, at barely 1,365 feet above sea level, of the entire Armorican massif. Aside from that, closer to us, floating above the décor and three-quarters concealed by an effervescence of vegetation, is a vaguely eighteenth-century castle: fragments of pinnacles, chimneys, and turrets. And that seems to be all.
It appears to be all because the entire west has neither rhyme nor reason. Once past that vast perspective to the north, one finds oneself back nose-to-nose with the here and now, with little things within arm’s reach: woodpiles, tools, the black stain of some recently burned weeds, garden furniture. To the northwest lies the drivable road that, linked back to the local road and thus to the highway, allows access to the house. At the end of the circuit, a gentle wooded slope will soon rejoin the ravine. Let’s finish our tour of this house, let’s rejoin to the south the lawn, the terrace, the armchair, and the hand that, returning to its place, is finishing writing this. The cows don’t appear to have moved much unless, after performing a frenetic ballet behind our backs, they have noticed our return and demurely resumed their original positions.
And at our feet, uncoiled on the terrace lies an orange garden hose, like a snake left for dead, and alongside which an abundant population of ants bustles in both directions, each ant staying mostly to the right as on a normal road. This traffic is quite dense and must link the ants’ dormitories near their construction site to their various workshops, grain silos, mushroom farms, egg-laying laboratories, and aphid stables. Stopping briefly when they meet, the female workers execute some rapid frontal contact, just to exchange a surreptitious kiss or remind themselves of the password for the day, unless it’s to have a quiet little laugh over the latest caprice of the queen.
IN BABYLON
IN THE CENTER OF a fertile plain, Babylon is a square city protected by considerable ramparts pierced by bronze gates and overlooking vast moats. Herodotus arrives there and, duly impressed, attempts to estimate the dimensions of these walls: evaluations in stades, cubits, and feet, which one is tempted at first to convert to metric but why bother. For it is not inconceivable that, carried away by his enthusiasm or fatigued by his voyage, Herodotus is exaggerating. Anyway, all authors exaggerate; they’re all bent on contradicting one another. So let’s say, to be brief, that the surface area of Babylon would be seven times that of modern Paris.