André Gide: The White Notebook

We fell silent, but I was still thinking about you.

Night had fallen. “What are you thinking about?” she asked. And I recited:

Friendly dawn sleeps m the valley .…

Then it was her turn:

Farewell, leisurely voyages, sounds beard from afar.

Laughter of the passer-by, screeching of axle-tree,

Unexpected turns along irregular slopes,

A friend rediscovered, hours whiled away,

Hope of arriving late in some wilderness.…

Then mine again:

But you, indolent traveler, will you not

Put your head on my shoulder and dream?

And because it was growing late, both of us fell asleep, lost in dreams, our bodies in close contact, our hands joined.…

… Then suddenly a brutal awakening as if from a dream: we had run into a wagon on the dark road. We heard voices and the rattling of chains but saw nothing. We heard the barking of dogs and noticed a faint light outlined against the panes of a nearby farmhouse — or so we thought. Trembling a little, we drew even closer to each other, put our trust in each other.

Dreaming of black, heavy wagons that noisily by night

Pass by the thresholds of farms

And cause the dogs to bark in the dark.

While we slept the lanterns had been lighted. We watched with amusement for the indistinct shapes of bushes to leap from the shadows as we passed by. We looked for known shapes which would tell us how far we had to travel.

Then the sound of footsteps: a belated traveler suddenly illuminated by a gust of light. And as the rays moved on through the darkness they silhouetted the shadows of night butterflies as they approached and collided with the panes in the lanterns.

I recall the warmer air that caressed our brows as we crossed empty fields and smelled the perfume of damp plowed ground. We listened to the singing of the frogs.…

Then at last the arrival, laughter once again, the hearth, the lamp and warmth-giving tea. But both of us kept in our souls the memory of a deeper intimacy.

Not the landscape itself, not the emotion caused by the landscape. The setting of vanished suns, the peacefulness of dusk still floods my soul. O the peacefulness of beams of light on the plain!

Soon after the meal we ran to the pond; it became iridescent as it reflected the clouds.

At L*** M***, you remember, we would go at nightfall as far as the menhirs. Belated harvesters sang to each other as they made their way homeward on burdened carts; then their songs faded away in the distance. Crickets chirped in fields of wheat.

For a long time we would watch the darkness spread across the violet sea and rise like a tide from the depths of valleys, gradually blotting out all shapes. One by one on distant slopes lighthouses began to glow, and one by one in the distant sky the stars grew brighter. As we made our way homeward, Venus twinkled, caressing our eyes with her friendly light.…

And the night was descending on our ravished souls. 20

In the morning you attended to your housekeeping chores. I watched as you passed through the long corridors in your white apron; I waited for you on the stairway, at the kitchen doors; I enjoyed helping you and seeing you at work; together we went up to the huge linen-room — and sometimes while you put away the linen I followed you about, reading a selection previously begun.

Then I called you Martha, for you were preoccupied with many things.

But in the evening it was again Mary, for after you were freed from the cares of the day, you again became contemplative.

… You had been assigned to Lucie’s room. 21It seemed that the dear departed one had not completely vacated it. When you moved in, the things that had once been hers seemed to recognize her and to come to life again. I saw everything as it had once been: the table, the books, the large curtains that darkened the bed, the chair where I came to read, the vase with the flowers that I had picked for you.… In the midst of all that you seemed to be reliving a former life, a life that had already been lived. Particles of her memory surrounded you, making you more pensive. In the evening I saw her profile in the blurred silhouette of your bowed head, and your voice reminded me of her whenever you spoke. And soon both of your images became blurred in my memory. 22

They had faith in us and we in each other; we had adjoining rooms.

Do you remember the lovely evening when I returned to you after we had said good night to them?

( August , 1887)

“Sleep claims all that surrounds us and through the window opened to the stars on this summer night come the sporadic cries of nocturnal birds or the rustling of moist leaves driven by puffs of wind, as soft as a lover’s whispered words.

“We are alone in your room, overcome by tenderness and passion. In the caress of the air, in the smell of hay, of lime-trees, of roses; in the mystery of the hour, in the calm of the night, something ineffable causes tears to flow and the soul to escape from the body and to coalesce in an embrace.

“One against the other, so close that we are embraced by the same shudder, we magniloquently extoll the May night, then when nothing more remains to be said, we remain silent for a long time and watch the same star, believing that the night is infinite and letting the tears on our cheeks flow together and fuse our souls in an immaterial embrace.” 23

Rising earlier than the others, we would hasten to the woods on sunny days. The forest shimmered with cool dew and the grass sparkled in the sun’s rays. In the valley deepened and etherealized by the haze, everything was wondrous. Everything breathed new life and extolled the new day: our souls were lost in reverence.

Stimulated by our intoxication with these things, we longed to see the sunrise — a vain desire since the days were long. I came at daybreak and tapped softly on your door; you were only dozing; you arose and dressed hastily. But the house was still asleep, all the doors were closed, and we were unable to leave.

Then in your room with the window open to the cool dawn, and our bodies slightly chilled even though pressed closely together, we watched the last stars fade away and the tinged haze appear. Then when its crimson turned to brightness under the sun’s first rays, morning songs echoed through our giddy, empty heads and we went back to sleep, intoxicated by our joy.

Tuesday

Multiply emotions. Not just one life in one isolated body; make your soul the host of several bodies. Feel it vibrate to the emotions of others as well as to your own and it will forget its own griefs when it ceases to think only of itself. The outer life is not violent enough; more poignant tremors result from inner surges of rapture. Let it feed on admiration; then it will be haughtier and its vibrations stronger. Not realities but chimeras, for the poet’s imagination brings out more clearly the ideal truth hidden behind the appearance of things. 24

Let the soul never fall back into inactivity; it must be nurtured anew on surges of rapture.

(1887)

Plan of Conduct 25

Freedom: reason denies it. Even if it did not exist, still we would have to believe in it.

We are shaped by definite influences: we must therefore discern them.

Let will be dominant everywhere: we should do as we please. We should choose our influences.

Let everything serve to instruct me.

(3 June, 1887)

“I wanted to speak of many things, but everything besieges me. I wanted to devote some attention to my Symbolism which is now taking shape, but then came the memory of Notre-Dame and the white-robed children’s choir seen by lamplight behind the railings of the main altar. The children were all singing and their voices were clear, creating the impression of an angelic choir; a minor cadence, relentlessly repeated and always unexpected, rose to the top of the vault. I also wanted to speak … but my thoughts drifted aimlessly, borne along by the melody of a quartet recently heard. I write because poetry overflows my soul and vainly seeks expression through words. Emotions transcend thoughts … and yield pure harmony.