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HE IS AGREEABLE
In the evening, thanks to a few sous, which he always finds
means to procure, the homuncio enters a theatre.
On crossing that magic threshold, he becomes transfigured;
he was the street Arab, he becomes the titi.[18] Theatres are
a sort of ship turned upside down with the keel in the air.
It is in that keel that the titi huddle together.
The titi is to the gamin what the moth is to the larva; the
same being endowed with wings and soaring. It suffices for him
to be there, with his radiance of happiness, with his power of
enthusiasm and joy, with his hand-clapping, which resembles a
clapping of wings, to confer on that narrow, dark, fetid, sordid,
unhealthy, hideous, abominable keel, the name of Paradise.
[18] Chicken:
slang allusion to the noise made in calling poultry.
Bestow on an individual the useless and deprive him of the
necessary, and you have the gamin.
The gamin is not devoid of literary intuition.
His tendency, and we say it with the proper amount of regret,
would not constitute classic taste.
He is not very academic by nature.
Thus, to give an example, the popularity of Mademoiselle Mars
among that little audience of stormy children was seasoned with
a touch of irony. The gamin called her Mademoiselle Muche--"hide
yourself."
This being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and fights, has
rags like a baby and tatters like a philosopher, fishes in the
sewer, hunts in the cesspool, extracts mirth from foulness, whips
up the squares with his wit, grins and bites, whistles and sings,
shouts, and shrieks, tempers Alleluia with Matantur-lurette, chants
every rhythm from the De Profundis to the Jack-pudding, finds
without seeking, knows what he is ignorant of, is a Spartan to
the point of thieving, is mad to wisdom, is lyrical to filth,
would crouch down on Olympus, wallows in the dunghill and emerges
from it covered with stars. The gamin of Paris is Rabelais in
this youth.
He is not content with his trousers unless they have a watch-pocket.
He is not easily astonished, he is still less easily terrified,
he makes songs on superstitions, he takes the wind out of exaggerations,
he twits mysteries, he thrusts out his tongue at ghosts, he takes
the poetry out of stilted things, he introduces caricature into
epic extravaganzas.
It is not that he is prosaic; far from that; but he replaces
the solemn vision by the farcical phantasmagoria. If Adamastor
were to appear to him, the street Arab would say: "Hi there!
The bugaboo!"
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