possibly older, in many cases, than the villages which developed later round crossroads and fords. Still, in the first half of the nineteenth century relatively more people lived in the settlements among the fields where they worked and fewer au bourg. There were not so many reasons, in the 1840s, to settle in a village that as yet had no shops, few artisans, no administrative centre but the church, and no school. What turned out to be the golden age of village life lay in the future â in Célestineâs adulthood.
The tracks leading to these far settlements were as large as, or larger than, those leading in the direction of the next village and on to La Châtre. Evidently, in the 1840s, most paths were for short journeys within the Commune, from one field or neighbour to another, not for travelling from place to place in the modern sense. Indeed, in many parts of France at that time, including the Lower Berry, a general network of routes was entirely lacking. Some good long-distance highways had existed since Roman times, and others had been constructed, usually for military purposes, in the last half of the eighteenth century or during the Napoleonic wars, but these left much of the country untouched. The British traveller Arthur Young, in his enthusiastic Journals, put forward the idea that French roads were superior to English ones, but the maps of the time show this to be based on some highly selective travelling. As George Sand wrote in Le Meunier dâAngibault:
In the centre of France, in spite of all the new main roads that have been opened in recent years, country districts still have such poor communications that it is difficult to get from the local people exact directions to another place even a short distance away ⦠Try asking in a hamlet the way to a farm a league distant [ circa two and a half miles] and youâll be lucky if you get a clear answer. There are so many little paths, all much alike.
I have seen it suggested elsewhere that some of these supposed paths were, in any case, not paths at all but strips of outgrown woodland between the fields, going nowhere, a snare and delusion for the wheeled traveller. They even had their own local name: âMysterious retreating perspectives beneath thick shade, traînes of emerald green leading to dead ends or to stagnant pools, twisting abruptly down slopes that you canât get up again in a carriageâ¦â
Today some of these old paths and false paths round Chassignolles remain as they always were, deep, green veins running between old hedges, well preserved but little used. Others have arbitrarily disappeared into the fields, while the same operation of chance has turned others again into tarmacked roads. Three proper roads lead from Chassignolles in the general direction of La Châtre, while a fourth, probably the oldest of all, descending a valley to ford a tributary of the Indre, is today almost forgotten and in places impassable with saplings and brambles.
Each time I looked at the old map I felt myself being drawn into it, possessed by the feeling that if I studied it hard enough it would, like a photograph gradually enlarging and enlarging under my gaze, carry me deeper into those narrow lanes, allow me to see the small oblongs transformed into the shapes of roofs and doors, eventually revealing the trellises of vines, the tracery of the plough, every tree, every stone, every dung-heap â¦
âWas it something particular you wanted to find out?â said Monsieur Pirot.
I did not want to appear intrusive and in any case I did not yet have a formulated plan. I murmured that I wanted to check up on one or two things. Only then did it occur to me to ask how far back his other records went.
âOh, to the Revolution.â That magic date between Then and Now.
âWhat â all here in the Mairie?â
âCertainly. All the Birth, Death and Marriage registers going way back. Theyâre in that
The tracks leading to these far settlements were as large as, or larger than, those leading in the direction of the next village and on to La Châtre. Evidently, in the 1840s, most paths were for short journeys within the Commune, from one field or neighbour to another, not for travelling from place to place in the modern sense. Indeed, in many parts of France at that time, including the Lower Berry, a general network of routes was entirely lacking. Some good long-distance highways had existed since Roman times, and others had been constructed, usually for military purposes, in the last half of the eighteenth century or during the Napoleonic wars, but these left much of the country untouched. The British traveller Arthur Young, in his enthusiastic Journals, put forward the idea that French roads were superior to English ones, but the maps of the time show this to be based on some highly selective travelling. As George Sand wrote in Le Meunier dâAngibault:
In the centre of France, in spite of all the new main roads that have been opened in recent years, country districts still have such poor communications that it is difficult to get from the local people exact directions to another place even a short distance away ⦠Try asking in a hamlet the way to a farm a league distant [ circa two and a half miles] and youâll be lucky if you get a clear answer. There are so many little paths, all much alike.
I have seen it suggested elsewhere that some of these supposed paths were, in any case, not paths at all but strips of outgrown woodland between the fields, going nowhere, a snare and delusion for the wheeled traveller. They even had their own local name: âMysterious retreating perspectives beneath thick shade, traînes of emerald green leading to dead ends or to stagnant pools, twisting abruptly down slopes that you canât get up again in a carriageâ¦â
Today some of these old paths and false paths round Chassignolles remain as they always were, deep, green veins running between old hedges, well preserved but little used. Others have arbitrarily disappeared into the fields, while the same operation of chance has turned others again into tarmacked roads. Three proper roads lead from Chassignolles in the general direction of La Châtre, while a fourth, probably the oldest of all, descending a valley to ford a tributary of the Indre, is today almost forgotten and in places impassable with saplings and brambles.
Each time I looked at the old map I felt myself being drawn into it, possessed by the feeling that if I studied it hard enough it would, like a photograph gradually enlarging and enlarging under my gaze, carry me deeper into those narrow lanes, allow me to see the small oblongs transformed into the shapes of roofs and doors, eventually revealing the trellises of vines, the tracery of the plough, every tree, every stone, every dung-heap â¦
âWas it something particular you wanted to find out?â said Monsieur Pirot.
I did not want to appear intrusive and in any case I did not yet have a formulated plan. I murmured that I wanted to check up on one or two things. Only then did it occur to me to ask how far back his other records went.
âOh, to the Revolution.â That magic date between Then and Now.
âWhat â all here in the Mairie?â
âCertainly. All the Birth, Death and Marriage registers going way back. Theyâre in that
Similar Books
