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  Urien’s Voyage

  André Gide

  Translated and with an Introduction and Notes

  by Wade Baskin

  Philosophical Library

  INTRODUCTION

  Urien’s Voyage was written at a critical period in the life of André Gide and stands as a transitional but prophetic work: the past lingers still in the face of an uncertain future that is coming to birth. In later years Gide was to look back on the period of its composition as one of despair and to take a jaundiced view of the product of his desperation. Here, as elsewhere, his disclaimers bear close scrutiny, for he not infrequently stresses a point not because of its inherent truth but because of his desire for it to be true. The truth may well be that he put much more of himself than he realized in his early writings, and that readers familiar with the most intimate of his later works, especially Et nunc manet in te, will readily see that the experiences and events chronicled here bear the stamp of the irreconcilable tendencies that complicated his life from pubescence to senescence.

  Written at La Rocque during the summer of 1892, Urien’s Voyage complements three earlier works and anticipates some fifty volumes still to come from his pen. His previous works, two semi-autobiographical books and a defense of the doctrine of symbolism, had revealed the three poles which alternately attracted and repelled him: religion, sex and art. Singly and collectively his writings yield substance for a fragmentary portrait of a haunted, lonely man, never quite sure of the Idea he was to manifest and forever vacillating between being moral and being sincere.

  His early rigid Protestant and puritanical upbringing had created in him a conflict between his deeply religious yearnings and his intense sensuality. In the guise of Urien we find the mind and flesh of André. Plagued by doubts, discouraged over the prospect of having to choose between morality and sincerity, introverted and enthralled by his demon, Gide relapsed during the summer of 1892 into the solitary vice which was the bane of his existence. It was to save himself from the terror of madness and suicide that he began to compose the allegory that marks both his break with Symbolism and his gradual abandonment of the celibate life for the life of the flesh.

  Earlier, the previous Christmas season at Uzès, in the south of France, in an excess of religious fervor, he had written that “all is vanity save knowledge of the Lord.” Opposing this was the desire for self-manifestation in art, appropriately recorded on the last day of the year: “I am tormented by the fear of not being sincere.” By Easter, we learn from his Journals (1892), he had turned away from creative writing in favor of learning. In his “wild lust for learning” he read Goethe, studied philology, and reveled in the joys of the mind. His sensuality waxes and wanes from one day to the next, with the result that he can on one day write of his desire to taste “the vanity of the other things” and to “exhaust their bitter flavor” and on another of his relapse into frenzied mysticism.

  From his Journals we also learn that during the crucial summer spent at La Rocque, Gide almost lost his mind: “I was cloistered in my room … forcing myself to work; I was obsessed, haunted, hoping perhaps … through excess itself to exhaust my demon.” He was to admit years later that he had put a great deal of himself into Urien’s Voyage and that for those who could read between the lines the work was all too illuminating.

  Urien’s voyage is symbolic. Gide (Urien) and his companions set out on a voyage to find relief from their “bitter night of thought, study and theological ecstasy.” Their voyage takes them from the “pathetic ocean” of the warmer latitudes to the “frozen sea” near the pole and provides Gide with a means of illustrating both the techniques and the credo of the Symbolist movement.

  In a broad sense the Symbolist movement represents a flowering and a fulfillment of the ideals that inspired the earlier Romantic generations. Philosophically and esthetically viewed, it is a modern means of giving expression to a fundamental arrangement of the human mind; it puts stress on the intuitive rather than the rational, on the subjective rather than the objective, on freedom rather than restraint.

  As formulated by Jean Moréas in an article published in Figaro in 1886, the doctrine of Symbolism was predicated on lofty aims and ambitions. Symbolist poets, whom others accused of being morbid and neurotic, were actually trying to create beauty, said Moréas. Beauty, according to the author of the abstract and verbose article later accepted as the manifesto of the Symbolists, was to be sought in “pure concepts” and “eternal symbols.”

  Five years later Gide defended the tenets of Symbolism in Narcissus. The views expressed in his treatise on Narcissus and illustrated in the allegory narrated by Urien may be summarized in these words: Visible forms are but the transient external symbols of eternal truths; the true poet sees beyond mere appearances (phenomena), grasps the Ideas (noumena) which they represent, and uses the former to suggest the latter; each man is born to make manifest an Idea—the truth, whether good or bad, which is his inmost self. Gide’s problem was to conciliate sincerity to the Idea that he was to represent with morality.

  The temptations, suffering, and surroundings of Urien and his companions are described with such profusion of detail that the reader can recreate them in their entirety, yet the pilgrims are never certain of the reality of either their experiences or their surroundings. The chimerical shores and crags that drift by their ship in the pathetic ocean are scarcely more chimerical than the “real” world was to Gide when he remarked in his Journal (in June, 1891) that things seemed to cease to exist for him when he “stopped thinking about them.”

  We note too that the crewmen made the mistake of confusing “passing things” with “eternal isles” while Urien and his companions, bending over the water like Narcissus (who saw both his own reflection and the moving panorama of life, realize that things reveal themselves through their changing aspects.

  Various temptations which Urien resists, the stagnation of the Sargasso Sea, the voyage through the frozen sea, and the agony of despair after a futile search—all this is easy to interpret. Urien’s resistance in the face of diverse temptations is the repressed side of Gide’s own nature while the sensuous details with which he embellishes the most trivial item betray his recognition of physical desire as the ridiculous counterpart of piety. The stagnation of the Sargasso Sea has as its counterpart the physical excesses that brought Gide to the verge of madness during the summer of 1892. The passage through the frozen sea and the march to the polar regions are his quest for conquest of the world of the senses and attainment of the realm of the spirit.

  Urien’s Voyage is perhaps more important because of what it suggests than what it says. Readers familiar with Gide’s later writings—especially his Journals and Et nunc manet in te—will find in this early allegory the elements that were to motivate the works of his maturity. “Without sensuality, sexuality and pride there could be no work of art,” he later wrote. It is somewhat ironic that he made his supreme effort to dominate or sublimate his passions through art—and of course failed—when these very passions were at their peak. For though later when tortured by desire he prayed that he might no longer be enslaved by his flesh, even in old age he longed to remain “carnal and desirous until death.”

  Viewed against the background of his other works, the unpolished declamations of his youth may be more revealing than the carefully wrought images of his maturity. We might not be far from the mark if we concluded that during the last years of his life he achieved the ideals formulated during the first, realizing thereby the perfect life defined by Valéry, whom he was fond of quoting: “a dream of youth brought to fruition in maturity.”

  * * * *

  I have tried through occasional notes to call attention to relevant biographical details or statements from Gide’s other
writings. A more ambitious undertaking would probably illuminate the substratum of superstitions, myths and legends on which Gide erected his art. Names, numbers, episodes, events and a host of striking metaphors suggest a skillful blend of ingredients drawn from diverse cultures—Hellenic, Roman, Celtic, Germanic, Christian and Moslem, to name only the most obvious. It is my hope that the suggestions made here and in the notes that follow will stimulate further interest in this work and in its place in Gide’s art.

  In more than a few instances I have borrowed freely from Harold March’s exemplary work, Gide and the Hound of Heaven (University of Pennsylvania Press, 1952). I wish also to acknowledge my indebtedness to my colleagues whose efforts are reflected in the foregoing remarks and in the translation of Gide’s allegory: Dr. Margaret C. O’Riley, Professor Mildred Riling, and Mrs. Helen Scroggins.

  WADE BASKIN

  Southeastern State College

  I

  When the bitter night of thought, study and theological ecstasy came to an end, my steadfast soul, tortured since nightfall by loneliness, sensed the approach of dawn and stirred uneasily. Without my noticing it, my lamp had gone out; my casement had opened to the dawn. I moistened my brow with the dew from the panes, and relegating to the past my spent revery, I gazed toward the dawn and ventured into the narrow vale of metempsychoses. *

  Dawns! Dreams of memories of maritime wonders and oriental splendors which by night infused our wearisome study with longing for travel! Long had I wandered as if in a dream through a tragic valley, searching for exotic breezes and sounds, when finally I was overjoyed by the sight of towering rocks and a blue sea.

  O sea eternal, I thought, shall we sail across these waves to our unknown destiny? Will our tender souls test their valor?

  Awaiting me on the shore were my fellow pilgrims; I recognized them all but without knowing whether I had seen them somewhere before; our virtues were the same. The sun had already risen high above the sea. They had arrived at dawn and were watching the waves rise. I excused myself for being late; they forgave me, thinking that I had been detained along the way by certain dogmatic subtleties and scruples; then they reproached me for having reservations about consenting to come. As I was the last one and they were expecting no one else, we made our way toward the town with the great port where ships weigh anchor. Loud noises that emanated from there came to us on the shore.

  The town that was to be our place of embarcation in the evening was vibrating from the sunshine, from loud noises and sounds of merry-making, from the white heat of high noon. The marbled quays burned our sandals; the festivities offered a medley of colors. Two ships had arrived the previous day, one from Norway and the other from the enchanting Antilles; and the crowd was hurrying to view the arrival of a third, a majestic ship, as it came into the port. It came from Syria, laden with slaves, nuggets, and bales of purple. There was much hurrying and scurrying on the deck; shouts of the crew were heard. From the top of the masts some sailors were loosening cords while others, near the waves, were throwing out ropes; the folds of flattened sails were hanging from the main yards, where oriflammes were displayed. The sea, on the shoreward side, was not deep enough to allow the ship to approach the quay; boats went out to the ship and first brought back the slaves; and as soon as they had been set ashore, the people scurried to see them; they were beautiful and almost naked, but sad. The sailors also placed perfumes and precious fabrics in the boats, but they cast into the sea the bales of purple; these were cheap goods; the waves carried them alongside dikes, where men were bending over with poles to guide them toward the stairway. From the Antilles had come rare weeds, variegated birds and shells that relayed the sound of the waves on these happy shores. There was haggling as they were auctioned off; the bazaars were cluttered with cages; some birds, more delicate than the others, were set loose in large cages; people paid to enter; all the birds sang, and merchants added to the confusion. Jugglers and mimics performed in improvised stalls. On a stage cavorting mountebanks tossed back and forth daggers and pennants.

  Farther away were the town’s ice-houses which were supplied by the Norwegian vessels returning with their rimy cargos. Some cellars were very deep, but all had been replenished, and this ship was unloading its burden on the deck. A mountain was rising, green, diaphanous and cool; thirsty sailors were coming there to enjoy its shadow and to put their burning hands and lips against its moist exterior. Saffron-skinned men in blood-stained cotton breeches were still carrying loads of snow on sagging boards and chunks of pure ice that they had recovered from the sea; snow and pieces of ice were being cast overboard; snow, ice and foam were borne along with the purple on the blue water which turned almost violet as waves dissolved the purple.

  And now came the evening; the crimson sun was hidden by the cordage; crepuscular sounds arose; and in the becalmed port rocked the fabulous vessel that was to bear us away! Then, since this day had given us a foretaste of all that the future held in store, we ceased to look back and turned our eyes to the future; and the extraordinary ship, leaving behind it the port, the fair and the sunken sun, plunged into the night toward dawn.

  * The similarity between the opening paragraph of the allegory and the first scene in Faust is not surprising in view of the influence which Goethe exerted on Gide during the period of the composition of Urien’s Voyage. [All notes are by the translator unless otherwise specified.]

  II

  Night at sea. We have been discussing our destinies. The night is clear; the Orion is sailing between two islands. The moon lights the cliffs. Blue sharks have come into view: the night watch called attention to them and to some dolphins; they were playing in the moonlight; near the sharks, they submerged and did not reappear; blue rocks glow dimly beneath the waves. Luminous jellyfish rise slowly from the deep and blossom in the night air, tossed by the waves like sea-flowers. The stars are dreaming. Leaning over the bow of the ship, near the cordage and above the waves, we turn our backs to the crew, to our companions, to all that is being done, and we look at the waves, the constellations and the islands. “We are watching the isles passing by,” say the crewmen, who are somewhat contemptuous of us, as they forget while looking at each other that they are moving while these things are motionless and unaffected by our passing.

  Changing aspects of massive cliffs, elongated promontories that vanish from sight! Precipitous banks! Metamorphoses of mountains! We know now that you remain; we look upon you as transient because we are moving; your aspect changes in spite of your constancy as we sail by. The night watchman calls attention to ships. We, leaning over the waves from dusk to dawn, learn to distinguish transient things from the eternal isles.*

  That night we talked about the past; none of us knew how he had managed to come to the ship, but no one regretted the bitter night of meditation.

  “From what obscure sleep have I awakened?” asked Alain. “From what tomb? I never stopped thinking and I am still sick. O becalmed, oriental night, will you at last bring relief to a tired brain obsessed by thoughts of God?”

  “I was tormented by a desire for conquest,” said Paride; “I paced my room, valiant but sad, and more exhausted by dreams of heroic acts than by their performance. What conquests lie before us now? what noble deeds? where are we going? Tell me! Do you know where this ship is taking us?” Not one of us knew, but all of us trembled on sensing our courage.

  “What are we doing here,” he continued, “and what just what is this life if the other one was our sleep?”

  “Perhaps we are living our dream as we sleep in our rooms,” said Nathanael.

  “Or perhaps we’re searching for regions to satisfy our souls,” said Mélian.

  But Tradelineau shouted: “Without a doubt, the fallacy of using vain logic and believing that you can do a thing well only if its causes are known, still enslaves you and motivates this pointless discussion. Why try to imbue our presence on the Orion with highly mysterious motives? We left our books because they bored us, because an unconscio
us remembrance of the sea and the real sky destroyed our faith in study; something else existed; and when warm, balsamic breezes came to stir the curtains on our windows, we descended willy-nilly toward the plain and began our journey. We were tired of thought, we wanted action; did you see how our souls turned joyous when, taking from the rowers their heavy oars, we felt the liquid blue resist! Oh, the Orion will surely carry us to distant shores. The spasms of courage that we experience will of themselves elicit feats of valor; let’s hope for the best as we wait for our glorious destinies to unfold.”*

  That night we also spoke of the tumultuous town where we had embarked, of its fairs and of the crowd.

  “Why keep thinking about those people whose eyes saw only things and who were not even astounded?” said Angleval. “I liked the way Bohordin was sobbing during the circus acts; everything should be done as a rite; those people were watching the performances unceremoniously.”

  “What do you think of all this, Urien?” Angaire asked me.

  And I replied: “One must always represent.”*

  Then, since the discussion was becoming unbearable for all of us and since thinking exhausted us, we promised not to speak further of the past or argue about things. Morning was approaching; we parted to sleep.

  We had lost sight of the coasts and had been sailing on the open sea for three days when we came upon these beautiful floating islands that a mysterious current had been moving toward us for a long time. And our parallel flight in the midst of the incessantly agitated waves at first made us think the Orion motionless, stranded perhaps on the sand, but our illusion vanished when we examined the islands more closely. A boat brought us down to one of them; they were all almost identical and equally spaced. Their regular shape made us think that they were madrepores; they would undoubtedly have been quite flat without the luxuriant and magnificent vegetation that covered them; toward the front the slightly uneven coral reefs, wherever their roots were exposed, were as gray as volcanic stones; toward the rear they floatedlike tresses, their roots reddened by the sea. Trees of unknown species, exotic trees bent under the weight of heavy bindweeds, and delicate orchids blended their flowers with the leafage. These were sea-gardens; flights of insects followed them; pollen trailed along on the waves.