Proustians in Paris: Illiers-Combray

As you may know, the Paris Proustians recently visited Illiers-Combray, the town that inspired and was eventually renamed for Proust's Combray. We all enjoyed the trip immensely and had what can only be described as an incredible time.

In the spirit of the seminar that brought us to this point, we decided we'd all like to share some small pieces with you, pieces we wrote about what it felt like to finally be in the place we came to know so well through Proust. It meant so much to us to have been there, and it was deeply satisfying - and often moving, I would say - and we only hope that we can give some of that feeling to you all.

Église Saint Jacques

Maison de Tante Léonie, Musée Marcel Proust

Morgan: An Emotional State

Going to Illiers-Combray was the closest thing that I have had to a religious experience in at least 6 years. Absolute perfection. In the morning I sprung out of bed at 6 AM, well before my alarm, like it was Christmas morning.

The town is traditional: church, boulangerie, patisserie, café, marché, banque, librairie, restaurant, gare, collège et lycée (named after Marcel Proust), even a kabob place (relatively new necessity). Nothing more than one of what is essential. To live there is to know everyone and to walk in the town center is to walk into someone’s living room. It is painfully obvious to everyone if you are a foreigner here (also for some reason we were all dressed super British) but the town is so remote that they are fascinated. Illiers isn’t exactly a tourist destination and we were four people getting lost and taking photos every 5 steps. The population is mostly old, though as we left we saw all the kids getting out of school. I had a fantasy approaching the crowd of them that these kids, all raised on Proust, would be special in some way but they were decidedly normal (for one, they were repeatedly shouting ‘ta gueule!’ at each other), which is probably for the best. The young people our age had piercings. I can imagine it is difficult to form your identity here, where privacy couldn’t exist. “Fuck la police d’Illiers” graffiti was written in the French cursive that comes along with a French education. (On a side note, everyone in this country has identical cursive handwriting and that is sometimes terrifying and sometimes adorable).

Portraits of those we met, in order: a middle-aged couple who showed us a former hotel where Jeanne d’Arc stayed for one night, a young priest wearing a modern jacket over his clerical clothing who let us climb up into the balcony, took our picture sitting in Proust’s pew on his own camera and seemed OK (…some disagreement here amongst the four of us) that we were all non-believers, a woman I met in the market selling firewood who still thinks about 9/11 with profound sadness and humored me by cooing over my French, ridiculously mustached men in the Café de la Place drinking beer at 11 AM, our young Proust tour guide who was so enthusiastic and cute that we were all in love.

This town is quaint, picturesque and beautiful. It is a farming town. Approaching this place is nothing but flat, beautifully geometric farmland. The town’s buildings are older than I can imagine but, with the exception of Proust’s house, this is not a town-museum. For example, the hotel Jeanne d’Arc stayed in for a night is still there but it is someone’s home today.

Emotional state: tender, indulgent, wistful, romantic, accomplished

Morgan, Madeleine

Fuck La Police

Saint Jacques, from the Balcony

Brian: Layers of Time

My most cherished moments in France so far have been by water—the lily pond and the lazy stream that circled it in Giverny, nights on the quays of the Seine, and then in Pré-Catelan in Illiers-Combray with those adorable ponds and the “Vivonne” flowing nearby. I could barely handle it. Nature was calling me and I wanted to respond, but something was holding me back. Maybe it’s because I know that my days here are numbered; I don’t feel like I can settle in. But in the end it all makes sense... it was that visit to Combray that completely confirmed my desire to live in a small country town in France, where everybody is so friendly—from the priest, to the teenager selling peaches, to the woman who works at the pâtisserie—and the scenery is so comforting. How hackneyed I must be to covet the tranquility of the lifestyle there, but it’s true: life moves slower there. Time is more precious, the landscape more beautiful.

We crossed the Pont Vieux and after a lovely detour in the jardin de Pré-Catelan (the inspiration for Swann’s garden at Tansonville) we started out on the real Swann’s way with open fields surrounding us. I noted that this experience, the four of us walking silently down this empty country road in France, felt like the recurring scene in Buñuel’s 'Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie' of the friends walking inexplicably down a similarly abandoned country road. Maybe the comparison made actually being on Swann’s way feel more like a dream. Everything so clearly evoked the novel (not to mention the pitch perfect tour of Tante Léonie’s house during which I was grinning so much at the magic lantern and copy of 'François le Champi' in little Marcel’s old room that the tour guide noticed and became even more animated) that the experience paradoxically felt less like I was actually in Combray and more like I was reading 'À la recherche du temps perdu' with 3-D glasses. I decided to give up trying to force myself into believing that these were the actual places described in the novel and relinquished myself solely to the pleasure of the aesthetics: the duck family walking single file into the river was almost enough for me to want to cry with joy.

There was one thing that shook me into reality, though—the bells of the Église Saint-Jacques. When they rang, it was (as Morgan put it) as if the church were calling all Proustians, as if the sound pierced through the layers of time from the era of Proust and found us there in 2011, stuffing our faces ungraciously with madeleines from a bag by the Vivonne.

Brian, Madeleine

Ducks

Proustians Sitting where Proust used to Sit (Note the tapestry)

Lexy: Country Life

My time spent in Illiers-Combray was most refreshing for me not because of the multitude of Proust references (however magical they were), but because of the people and the land. Paris, while fascinating, is a city, and I have come to realize that I have city fatigue. Every time I leave the city now (either leaving New York or Paris), I feel this great longing for country life – working with my hands, taking my time, being part of a close-knit community. I know that my dreams of what country life would be like are almost complete fantasies (remember, I grew up in the country). Yet in Illiers-Combray, for one day, I was able to pretend.

The following is a short excerpt of part of my free write, written while sitting in the Marcel Proust Park:

Walking around Illiers-Combray, has made me realize how much I prefer country life. The vegetable gardens amaze me – the colors so vibrant, the food so fresh. The people are beyond welcoming and incredibly talkative; they genuinely care about something – anything. I want to live that life again, where it is okay to spend all day writing or reading, or just sitting in a park feeding ducks. Where deep conversations have time to take place, where friendships have time to develop. Where seldom do you hear anything other than birds, and the Church bell.

The priest in the cathedral welcomes us with open arms; allowing us to go up, up, up to the highest balcony. We were showed, by the pastor and a lovely little Frenchman who encompassed every French stereotype imaginable, the pew of Marcel Proust. They actually offered to take a picture of all four of us, and for the first time, we felt comfortable handing over the camera. The pastor was so enthusiastic about our visit – and it made us enthusiastic about the town. When told we didn’t believe, the pastor still gave us his most heartfelt « Good Bless You » (in English, the first time someone spoke English to me and I didn’t feel they were being rude). People in Illiers-Combray definitely care about one another’s existence, not just about themselves, or fashion, or money. They care about family, friends, meals, learning.

I want to return to working the land, where I have time to think, read, write, discuss. Where I don’t get completely lost but can always discover new, hidden paths.

Lexy, Flower

Côté de Swann

Berries

Chance: Tansonville

There's something heavenly about this place and it has nothing to do with my preconceived love of Proust. Well, not directly.

The man at the bazaar on the Seine told us that Illiers was un peu artificiel. But there's something to the experience we've had here that is undeniably genuine, and despite the passage of over a hundred years, still retains what I would call its Proustian essence.

This is in the sense of childhood I get from being here. We've found that things like this jardin are streamlined in a way that facilitates Proust tourism. The little signs have passages that detail how Proust used a specific location in ALRDTP. And yet, the “Pont Vieux” was abandoned and the jardin completely empty. All the while, the water runs in a dazzling translucent green.

Compared to Paris, Illiers is Paradise. Less an amusement park, as the bazaar man seemed to imply, and more a retreat. It's as if all normal restrictions are loosened and bended to allow us to channel a young Marcel. The Priest at Église Saint Jacques, for example, who let us photograph the dead bird on the stained-glass window, who let us all sit in Proust's box among the pews.

The jaws of the Jardin Pré-Catelan are lined with sharp-leaved bushes which partially cover the sign bearing the name. And yet we walk in, completely alone, completely without hesitation, without any sort of obstacle. It's the garden owned by Proust's uncle in real life, owned by Swann in ALRDTP, and an ever-open warm embrace for Proust pilgrims. But there is no one here aside from the bugs and the birds that swirl and whistle around us. We are left undisturbed save for the occasional wind that fiddles with our hair. The only reminder of human life is the sound of church bells echoing from the Église Saint Jacques.

And for brief moments, we can forget ourselves. We can reach the child within us. The one who used to swim through creeks, or who once slipped into a trout pond, who put flowers in her hair, or who, fully clothed, let her little fingers slide along the water's surface. This, this feeling, has nothing to do with Proust. But, like Proust did, we know that we must leave it all behind in memory.