Simon Leys - The Hall of Uselessness - Collected Essays

Gide eventually published, and not only was he not damned but, in the end, he was rewarded with a Nobel Prize. This conclusion, however, could not have been foreseen at the time and it must be acknowledged that, in 1924, as I have already pointed out, it required considerable courage to present a defence of homosexuality to the public. In this respect, the book retains a historical significance, even though its reasoning appears curiously flawed — and today it is hardly read at all.

Gide’s argument — developed at a length that borders on the ludicrous — is that homosexuality, far from being against nature (as its traditional critics used to insist), is, in fact, to be found in nature. Here, his many examples, drawn from the natural sciences, seem to miss the real issue. Of course there may well be scientifically observed instances of homosexual cows, and homosexual whales, and homosexual ladybirds; after all, isn’t nature the greatest freak show under heaven? Earthquakes and plagues, two-headed sheep and five-legged pigs… whatever is , is in Nature (with the exception of a few productions of the human soul, such as Chartres cathedral, the music of Bach, the calligraphy of Mi Fu, etc.). Exhaustive catalogues of natural phenomena can prove nothing, one way or another. Furthermore, not only would it be quite feasible to demonstrate that, in given circumstances, for various species of creature, homosexuality may indeed be “natural,” but one could even argue (at least this was the view of Dr. Johnson[60]) that, on the contrary, it is the state of permanent, monogamous union between a man and a woman that actually goes “against nature”—since it is, in fact, a crowning achievement of culture (a fact acknowledged by all the great world religions, which agree that in normal circumstances such a state cannot be attained without some form of supernatural assistance). The point is: the issue that should be of primary concern for us is not what naked bipeds can accomplish in their original state of nature but how human beings, clad with culture, are more likely to achieve the fullness of their humanity.

A second problem of Corydon is that it is an apologia exclusively for pederasty , and, as Sheridan points out, “by claiming that the pederast, far from being effeminate, presents the zenith of maleness, Gide is justifying homosexuality in the terms of a largely heterosexual society, and therefore by implication, lining up with that society against other homosexuals.”[61] Gide took pains to emphasise that the two other types of homosexual — sodomites and inverts, according to his taxonomy — inspire in pederasts “a profound disgust… accompanied by a reprobation that in no way yields to that which you [heterosexuals] fiercely show to all three.”[62] Furthermore, in his description of “Greek love,” Gide celebrates an ideal relation in which a caring adult initiates a youth not merely into sensual pleasure but mostly into the loftier enjoyments of knowledge and wisdom — the role of the elder partner being not so much that of a lover as that of a teacher and moral guide.[63] Here resides precisely the main flaw of the book. Inasmuch as Gide claimed to have revealed his “real self,” to have cleared “the fog of lies” that had weighed upon his childhood and youth, Corydon is essentially fraudulent, for Gide’s frenzied sexual activity — especially the monomania of his old age — was not pederastic à la mode antique but flatly and sordidly pedophiliac[64] — very much like today’s “sex tours” which bring planeloads of wealthy Western tourists to the child brothels of South-East Asia. Now, homosexuals are usually keen to draw a line at this point; they insist — not without reason — that their sexual orientation implies no more inclination towards pedophilia than is the case for heterosexuals. If they expect, however, to find in Gide an advocate for their cause, they would be well advised to reconsider the moral (or at least tactical) wisdom of choosing such a champion.

DAUGHTER

Gide’s daughter, Catherine, was born in 1923. Her mother was Elisabeth Van Rysselberghe (1890–1980), the daughter of the Tiny Lady. Elisabeth, who was briefly Rupert Brooke’s lover, bitterly regretted not having been able to give birth to the poet’s child. In 1920, she thought that Marc Allégret — then Gide’s teenage lover — had made her pregnant. Gide was ecstatic; he said to his old lady-friend, the prospective grandmother: “Ah, chère amie , we are making possible a new humanity! That child must be beautiful!”[65] Once again, however, Elisabeth’s hope did not come to fruition. But Gide had always thought that she deserved to have a child; a few years earlier, during a train journey, he had slipped a note to her: “I shall never love any woman, except one [thinking of his wife, Madeleine] and I have true desire only for young boys. But I cannot bear to see you without children, nor do I wish to remain childless myself.”[66] Eventually, in 1922, on a secluded beach by the Mediterranean, he rediscovered with her “all the liberty that fosters amorous dispositions.”[67] Catherine was born the next year.

Gide followed the growth of the child with sporadic interest; he observed her with an eye that was, by turns, fatherly and entomological. Elisabeth eventually married the writer Pierre Herbart, her junior by fifteen years (the age difference was of no real significance, Gide reassured the future mother-in-law, because, after all, Herbart was more interested in his own sex[68]), and Catherine came to live with her mother and Herbart when she was not pursuing her education in Swiss boarding schools. Occasionally, she spent brief holidays with Gide, who, one day, informed her that he was her real father. The girl was thirteen at the time, and this revelation had a mixed psychological effect on her.

Catherine is rarely mentioned in Gide’s Journal . In 1942 (his daughter was nineteen), he noted: “Catherine might have been able to attach me to life, but she is interested only in herself, and that doesn’t interest me.”[69] Sheridan comments pointedly: “In other words, the daughter was behaving like the father, and the father didn’t like it.”[70]

She appears more frequently in the diaries of her grandmother, who remarked: “The relations between father and daughter are difficult… This is mostly due to the fact that both are too much alike, and also because the relationship is ill-defined — which is a result of the circumstances. They do not have father — daughter exchanges; he is trying too hard to please her and is incapable of exerting any authority.”[71] Meanwhile, Catherine felt more able to confide her true feelings to Martin du Gard, who recorded in his diary this conversation with her — Martin had mentioned a book by Gide and Catherine replied that she had not read it. Then, noticing Martin’s surprise, she continued:

“But you should know that I have read virtually none of his books. No… I do not feel the slightest curiosity for his works… I never read any of them… Sometimes, I have picked one up, but quickly let it drop.” Seeing my astonishment, she hesitates, then suddenly declares, “You know, until very recently, I detested him.”

“…?”

“Yes.”

“Detested?”

“As much as it is possible to detest someone!” she proceeds with determination. “His presence was horrid to me, it made me absolutely sick. For instance, whenever I had to travel with him, it was an abominable torture!”

“But… since when?”

“Oh, it was always like that. And certainly since I learned that he is my father.”

“And before that?”

“Before, I found him dreadfully irritating and I did not enjoy seeing him. Perhaps I did not completely hate him then. Not as much as later on.”