The White Notebook by André Gide
It is repulsed by devotion. The sublime is always ridiculous. Daring, poetry—everything that makes life worth living is foolish. Reason would protect us; it is utilitarian, but it makes life intolerable to the soul.
It is despised by true lovers, for one who loves no longer lives for himself. His life is but a means of loving. If he finds one which is better and which will make for closer union, he will neglect—perhaps reject, forget—his own life in favor of it.
I have never had any happiness which reason sanctions.
(August 1888)
“It was already late and the others, tired, sat down to wait for us.
“The other hillside, ascended with great difficulty, sloped gently downward. The sun bathed the plain in golden, peaceful rays. At a bend in the stream was a castle with a slate roof; around it were the lower roofs of white farmhouses; under a thick fog was the pink heath and, protruding above it, a crest of grey rocks.
“The foliage of two chestnuts blended above our heads. On the slopes of the meadow, women were stacking hay; amorous sounds filled the air; and hovering over and enveloping everything was a radiant serenity, a penetrating tenderness that seemed to emanate from things and rise with the odor of the hay when night came. Our souls were refreshed by the setting.
“‘Lord,’ I exclaimed, ‘it is fitting that we remain here! Would you like to? Let us pitch our tent!’
“Then you smiled, but your smile was so sad that I sensed in it your desolate soul. My own shuddered for an instant. You understood too much and, quickly turning away in your fright, you sadly broke the spell.
“‘Come,’ you said. ‘They are waiting for us. We must leave all this.…’”
Emmanuèle and I begged her to sing. We were alone.
* * *
V*** sat down at the piano and began to play and sing Schumann’s The Sorceress. Her voice was but a puff of air, a fragile vase of emotion—it was pure emotion, with nothing to contain it as it escaped ethereally, revealing her soul. It seemed that the soul itself was singing and replacing her voice.
When she came to the high-pitched notes in the bewitching line “Es ist shun spät; es ist schon kalt,” she trembled and quivered like a broken object.
Your emotion was too much for you; tears poured from your eyes; then, ashamed of your confusion and worried because your heart also quivered involuntarily, you darted away. I followed you to your room.
“Oh, leave me!” you said. “Please leave me!”
I went away. I wandered until evening through the fields, my mind undulating with the flood of exaltations produced by remembered harmonies.
Let my soul sense its vitality through the effort to win in its arduous struggle. Then will come dreams of the impossible, of chastity, of faith. Then, endowed with new strength, it will be brave enough to overpower your soul in spite of your belligerent mind.
Your mind! I once resented your mind, your poor mind which was frightened by your troubled soul and which did its utmost to calm your outbursts of feeling. What struggles! And always to resist yourself! You wanted your will to prevail and you set it against invading tenderness.
“I shall never allow myself to be dominated by anything!” you thought.
I misunderstood all that. I only understood that your mind deprived me of your soul and that your soul desired me.
I sometimes hear your soul cry out softly, but your dominating mind subdues it. One day I shall force it to cry out and prevent your mind from stifling its pleas.
One day I shall force your poor soul to speak.…
Music, music—in anguished harmonies your astonished soul will recognize its counterpart and release the tears that it has long restrained. But when I start to play, you become alarmed and flee.
* * *
One summer night—a hot stormy night following a splendid day—all was still without. There was no breeze. My soul was expectant.
You came out on the terrace while the others remained inside. When I saw that you could not flee, I opened the window wide and sat down at the piano. The sounds came to you in waves.
I began to play Chopin’s first Scherzo—brutally, noisily, almost as a prelude at first, for I did not wish to startle your soul. When I came to the piú lento, I muted the melody and it cried, morbidly sweet. As pearls drop from a fountain, the high notes fell, obstinately the same but severally eloquent, while the harmony changed.
I went back to the agitato but with all the passion in my heart, making the anguished dissonances quiver. I stopped abruptly before you could break the spell. And I approached you and found you trembling; there were no tears and your eyes were radiant.
“André, why were you playing that?” you asked, and your voice was so different that I was frightened and dared not answer.
We remained silent.
“Look into the darkness,” you finally said, as if alarmed. “Is it not supernatural?”
Lightning flickered noiselessly on the horizon. The air was perfumed with pollen from lime-trees, with the scent of flowering acacias. I tried to take your hand; it was feverous but you rebuffed me.
We remained silent.
“Oh, André,” you again interposed, but in a whisper and with your head lowered, “you acted cowardly this evening.”
Raindrops were beginning to fall. We went back inside.
The storm broke during the night. You were suffering: feverish and almost delirious.
The next day you stayed in bed and refused to see me.
“My affliction is not serious,” you said.48
(Thursday)
“My thoughts kept me awake almost all night long. I could not sleep. ‘Oh, André, you acted cowardly this evening.’ Suddenly I felt you next to me, so frail, so fragile—as if penitent.”
“It was wrong for me to do what I did: to upset you, to wish to disturb your soul.… And could I satisfy it after altering it?”
“You acted cowardly!
“Her contempt! Do not hold me in contempt!… What now?”
(October 5)
“All day long I experienced infinite sadness amid grey surroundings.
“I collected one by one my sullied hopes, and I cried over each of them.
“All my strength had left me! I no longer dared even desire you from afar.”
“I ceased to pursue your soul.
“I shall wait. I shall be there. I shall still be the same. If you have the slightest desire for me, I shall rush to your side—but not until you call me. I shall wait.”
(Sunday)
“Today I lived close to her but our eyes did not seek each other. I did not draw near you. I was lost in thought almost all day long.
“Waiting.
“We shall travel PARALLEL. That used to drive me to despair.”
“I have again started to read my Bible. I must once again ascend the slope which I descended unsuspectingly.
“Oh, how difficult it is!”
I skip over pages—the transition will be too abrupt, but I am tired of recounting everything.
I would like new things—and I see some that are so radiant.…
I was sad then.… How distant is this “then!” Outside spring is in the air—and I would like to sing:
For the day is approaching, the dawn draws near.
(October 18)
“Self-esteem, contentment in the soul! The splendor of virtue, which I at first sought for you, gradually dazzles and attracts me.
“There are loftier emotions, nobler yearnings, more sublime raptures.
“The soul evolves.”
(October 22)
“For me alone! For me alone!
“They will not understand—what does it matter to me?
“My heart is flooded. I must sing.
“A little harmony rather than words—no sentences—O for words that they might understand!
“My heart teems with incantations. My soul floats on a moving tide of modulations and broken arpeggios which rise like a troubled flight of
“Passion flows rhythmically, metrically, quietly … passion subsides; the soul meditates.”
“ALLAIN.
“In order not to taint her purity, I shall abstain from caressing her—in order not to disturb her soul—and even from the most chaste caresses, from clasping her hand … for fear that she may later desire all the more that which I could never give her. And I shall not look into her eyes for fear that she may wish me to come closer and cause me in spite of everything to go so far as to kiss her.
“In this way our souls will remain fearful even though one calls out to the other.…”49
(October 25)
The soul meditates:
No virtue without effort. My chastity is not virtuous. I love to love because it is sweet for me to love and because I would be loved as much as I love … but there is no effort.
Nor does effort count if motivated by the desire for the esteem of another—for her esteem. The effort must be made without hope for reward.
I am searching for the source of virtue.
Virtue would consist in doing good without her knowing about it … yes, without my laying claim later to a larger measure of her esteem.…
Without her knowing … and willfully—is this possible? First, before acting, I would have to promise not to say anything to her—about the act, nor to anyone who would repeat my words to her—to bury the act in my heart. It is at this point that the idea of God is necessary. I would have to appear to myself to be offering it to her like a secret sacrifice whose smoke would rise to her without being seen by men—to promise myself to hide it forever!…
But this thought tantalizes me: “What would be the use then—since she would not know about it?”
Mercenary! The reward for good must be found in the good itself; we must not expect it to come from men.
Or take the reward of meriting her esteem—of feeling that when I approach her, I am worthy (a little more worthy at least). Oh, without my saying a word, she would read it in my eyes, would look past my eyes into my soul.…
“Never mind,” she would say. “I know without being told.”
Here again, her esteem would be involved. To be sure, I would have advanced, but not far enough. What else?
I would have to be vilified by her until my rebellious pride crumbles; to accept the unjust accusation without trying to defend myself in order that she might think me worse than I am. That would be struggling, heart-break, triumph!
But suppose that as a result she loved me less?
Well, now! that is the acid test. Virtue consists in feeling that I am above her esteem, that I am more worthy than she thinks. That she would love me less matters not, for I would love her all the more; this would be my reward. I would not be deluded, for I would know that my actions were motivated by the need for self-esteem, by pride; still, I would accept the inevitable, loyally, simply, without pretending to wage gratuitous moral battles with myself.
Yes, that is how things stand. Virtue consists in suffering the loss of her esteem. I must lose her esteem—but how? A lie through which I discredit myself? No, the act itself must be thoroughly pure. The best way is for me to let things drift along, simply, ordinarily; this will cause me to suffer the most, for I am afraid of being encouraged by the test itself, by some slight theatrical element which I might introduce into it.
Then, simply, ordinarily, I shall let myself be discredited by things, by all those things that surround me, by the infinite number of petty, accidental accusations that will cause my aggravated pride to bristle; but I shall restrain it and in the evening, very calm and very lonely, I shall pray and shall slowly kill my mutilated ego.
And I shall love you still more, bless you still more, my sister, because I shall whisper to myself (but not to you) that it is to you that I must become better.
I must deserve you by leaving you—(oh! artless).
“The more abundantly I love you, the less I am loved.” (II Cor. 12:15).50
“For me alone! For me alone!
“They will not understand … but what does it matter?
“I shall always recognize you, dear tears of love, under the mystery (to others) of these sobs, these pleas, these laments.…
“Tears? Why tears?”
“I am happy, however … she loves me … but my soul trembles when night falls.
“In the street they laughed in passing. I did not know who was singing, but the voice was too loud. Then evening came and stillness reigned. The water reflected the pink sky, except under dark bridges.
“And I did not know—I walked like a fool. My head was filled with songs.
“Then evening came and stillness reigned … shadows lengthened—and pale night appeared in the pale sky … great encompassing night.
“Tears? Why tears. Tears of love, of ecstasy!
“I weep because the night is beautiful and hope floods my soul.”
(Midnight, Antibes, Nov. 5)
“It is night. I can not sleep. What are you doing, Emmanuèle? I know that you lie awake. On the balcony the light from your room silhouettes the flowers embroidered on your curtains. What are you doing? It is late. The others are asleep.
“And what was wrong with you this evening? You seemed pensive—pensive over what, my sister? Oh, if only I dared read your soul!… Emmanuèle, could it be true?… But I am afraid to find out—I wait for you still.”
Oh! I beseech you, daughters of Jerusalem,
Do not awaken, do not awaken my love—
Until she wills it.
* * *
I sat down at the piano. I had not dared to play for you again since the other evening … fearing the worst, doubting. I played at random Schumann’s Novelettes. You were on the balcony. It was still warm in spite of advancing night. I played at random—and then—you came to listen to me. I had not seen you approach but suddenly the delicate rustling of your dress made me aware of your presence. I trembled so from surprise and confusion that I could no longer play.
“Look!” I said, “You upset me so much when you come up like this … I am trembling.”
“Why, André? Why?” you asked with a smile.
You did not go away. You remained nearby—and you watched me. I felt your look without seeing it.
Turn your eyes away from me, for they disturb me.
You remained so pensive. Pensive over what, Emmanuèle?
What are you doing now that it is so late? The hour for sleep has come.
Then—a little later on—we were all sitting around the lamp. You had risen to look for a book and then, before you sat down again, you came near me and I felt your delicate hand gently caress my forehead.
I looked at you; bending over me, tenderly, you were smiling, but sadly, pensively.… Pensive over what, Emmanuèle?
What are you doing now, so late at night?
Perhaps your soul is also waiting and you are praying.
(November 6)
“For the first time I saw your look in a dream.
“You were smiling, but mockingly. I put my hand over my eyes to avoid seeing your look, but I could still see it through my hand.”
“You told me at the kiss of dawn: ‘I prayed for both of us last night, André.’
“‘Do you think that I did not know, little sister?’ I replied.
“Then you looked disturbed; you wanted to speak but fell silent. What did you wish to say?”
(November 26)
They are watching us, I know. Especially my mother. She dares not believe; she does not know—and is afraid to find out. She is especially disconcerted by the fact that for the past several days, for reasons incomprehensible to her, I have avoided you. But yesterday when you came up to the piano, I could not help noticing her uneasiness.
Then I had a dream last night, a strange, sweet dream. We were sitting by the lamp in the evening—talking, reading as on other evenings—but I sensed on all sides their mute spying on
Fearfully I observed my actions. Frightened by the notion that you might approach me, I had sat down far away from you.
You, absent-minded, apparently unaware of their looks, came up to me: I was unable to run away, and your hand sought mine as it tried in vain to escape and slowly, tenderly, caressed it.
Around us their faces became animated, their heads nodded, their smiles appeared.
“Aha!” they said, “we knew it all along, all along!”
Their derisive laughter seemed forced. You kept your eyes lowered and continued obstinately to caress my hand, which I tried in vain to withhold.
And that was so strangely sweet that I awoke, as from a nightmare.51
Here end the written pages.
My mother was sick. We stood by her bedside and comforted her. I cooled her brow and you gave her water. Both of us were engrossed in a common prayer; all else was forgotten. Our souls, void of everything except pity, void of desire other than that of serving, united in the face of approaching death, not in profane joy, not even startled by the ecstatic embrace long anticipated and finally realized—and almost without seeing each other because of the dazzling light of virtue which we contemplated and toward which our souls aspired.
All else was forgotten, so lofty were our thoughts.
In the evening you put your hand in mine to pray; then you forgot and removed it as you watched my dear moribund mother fall into peaceful sleep. We remained beside her for a long time.
Both of us kept watch that night in the room where the dying woman slept. Though near, we did not see each other. That was the supreme moment; our souls evolved. Without speaking, as if in a trance, we thought—what thoughts!
Virtue, which first I had sought for you, now dazzled me and exerted on me its pull.…
The boundaries of reality were blotted out; I was living a dream.
The next day my mother spoke to me. I have already repeated her words … but the sacrifice had already been made in my heart.…
Then my mother set their engagement. I know that I saw both of them, Emmanuèle and T***, at the foot of the bed, their hands clasped, and that my mother was giving them her benediction. But all the rest is forgotten—my overwhelming grief seemed unreal and I thought that I was dreaming—there was no longer even a trace of bitterness in my grief.