The White Notebook Read online

  “But I shall remember the singing shadow beneath the blooming chestnuts, the flickering gaslight and the warm, distracting spring night; then the burst of laughter, as sharp as a broken object; and the tears that I shed. Yes, I shall always remember. The episode was unusually poetic.

  “I am writing these things this evening because the season is the same, because the air is just as warm and because everything helps me to remember. I had played the scherzo by Chopin that I still remember and, afterwards I ran through the countryside, intoxicated by sonorities, harmonies. The sky had no moon but was bright with stars; although there were no clouds, rain began to fall, warm rain almost like dew.

  “And the air was filled with the perfume of moist summer dust.”29

  Friday

  I kept thinking about it until it became an obsession. Last night I dreamed that I was following a path lined by shadows and that on both sides of me writhed naked couples. I could not see their bodies but sensed their embraces. I was overcome by dizziness and, to avoid stumbling, was walking in the middle of the road, alone and erect, with my eyes raised to keep from seeing anything and my hands raised above my head. In the sky shone a few stars. I heard their love-making in the shadows.

  I read in the Book of Revelation words containing mysterious promises:

  Thou hast a few names which have not defiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white; for they are worthy.

  He that overcometh, the same shall be clothed in white raiment.

  To him that overcometh will I give of the hidden manna—a white stone on which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it.

  Then I meditated and made virtuous resolutions.30

  My dreams were splendid. I wrote:

  (March 1886)

  “I would like at twenty-one, the age when passion bursts forth, to subdue it through frenzied, intoxicating toil. I would like, while others pursue vain pleasures, merry-making and debauchery, to taste the sequestered delights of the monastic life. Alone, absolutely alone, or perhaps surrounded by a few white-robed Carthusians, by a few ascetics; sequestered in some rustic Carthusian monastery in the open countryside, in a sublime and stern setting. I would like to have a bare cell and to lie upon the floor with a horsehair pillow under my head; nearby, a huge but plain praying stool; in the alcove, the Bible always open; overhead, a lamp always lighted. I would like during periods of sleeplessness to experience violent raptures in the terrifying darkness that envelops me as I become totally engrossed in the study of a verse. No noise except perhaps the occasional heavy rumblings of mountains, the dismal voices of glaciers or the midnight psalms chanted on a single note by the Carthusians who keep watch.

  “I would like to live fully with only time to pursue me: to eat when hungry, to sleep whenever I chose once my task had been completed. I would wear the white mantle, scapulary and sandals. In my cell I would have a huge oak table and, on it, wide open, a few books; a big lectern for working while standing up; rows of books above the bed. I would read the Bible, the Vedas, Dante, Spinoza, Rabelais, the Stoics; I would learn Greek, Hebrew, Italian; and my mind would take pride in its vitality. There would be orgies of learning, and the mind would emerge stupefied, broken, as did Jacob after his struggle with the Angel—and, like him, the victor. And when exasperated flesh rebelled and erupted in a rash of desires, pain caused by the lash of discipline would soon quell the body! Or a frantic race through the mountain, past cliffs and as far as the snow, until panting flesh cried out for relief, exhausted, vanquished … or a plunge into deep snow—and an extraordinary shiver resulting from the icy contact.”31

  As a very young child I was ignorant of some things to which I had been exposed.

  “Later on,” I thought, “I will not have mistresses. All my loves will tend toward harmony.”

  I dreamed of nights of love in the presence of the organ. The melody was an almost palpable fiction, like a nebulous Beatrice, fior gittando sopra e d’interno, like a chosen Lady, immaterially pure, with the deep blue folds of her trailing sapphire-studded gown shimmering in the pale light and slowly assuming musical patterns. I hoped that she would receive all my tenderness. I was a child and thought only of the soul; I was already living in a dream world; my soul was freeing itself from my body; and my dream of better things was exquisite. Later I separated them so completely that I am no longer the master; each goes its own way, the soul dreaming of ever more chaste caresses and the body carelessly adrift.

  Wisdom would dictate that they be kept in check, that their paths be made to converge, and that the soul not seek distant loves in which the body cannot share.

  “They do not complain; they make accusations. They do not explain; they condemn. What they will never understand is the struggle to BELIEVE, waged against impossible odds so long as the slightest degree of reason protests. They think that the will to believe is enough! And the most astounding part is that they think they can believe through reason. What especially outrages me is mock religion; bigotry and pretended mysticism sometimes make me doubt that there is a true religion. Bigots are not aware of the harm that their example can do to those who truly seek after the true God; they are not aware that in their complacency they are often themselves an object of scandal.…”32

  (Midnight, 30 December, 1887)

  “Shall I write?… What?

  “I am happy.

  “I am afraid of forgetting.

  “I would like for the memory of my happiness to endure beyond time.

  “If only it were possible in the boredom of the tomb to relive life incessantly and to feel gently, as in a dream at night, bitterness and joy—but from such a distance as to cause no more suffering than the memory of griefs.

  “I am afraid of forgetting.

  “On these pages I wish to preserve—as one preserves dried flowers to recall dissipated perfumes—I wish to preserve the memories of my fleeting youth in order that I may recall it later.

  “Today I spoke with her. I told her my radiant dreams and my high hopes. Today I understood that she loved me still. I am happy!… What shall I write?

  “I write because I am afraid of forgetting.

  “And now all of that is only in my memory.…

  “But perhaps the memory of old things still subsists beyond the tomb.”

  It was in a wretched room. Poor people were weeping over their dead child (7 February, 1887). I had come without saying anything, for I did not want her to find out until later. I brought them some money; I wished that I could comfort them. I forced myself to speak to them but was embarrassed by my exalted ideas; my sadness on seeing them was certainly sincere, but I experienced it in such a different way; I do not know how to humble myself. I dared not speak to them about heaven since my own belief was too weak; I was uncertain and ill at ease even though my heart was overflowing.

  Now I saw the door opening. Emmanuèle entered.

  “Is it you, Emmanuèle?”

  She passed in front of me with no show of emotion, as if she did not see me. She stood next to the bed where the child lay. She looked at its pale face and I saw her eyes fill with tears. I drew near her and tried to grasp her hand with mine.

  “No,” she said, pushing me away.

  Then kneeling, she prayed aloud. Retreating to the shadows, I heard her sad prayer and felt humble. Then she departed, and I went with her. While walking along, I kept hoping that she would say something about our meeting, but she was too overcome by emotion to comment on it. Her words were meant to explain her sudden departure, or perhaps to break the embarrassing silence.

  “Let us leave them,” she said. “It is good for them to grieve. Let us not console them now. Our words would not be sincere. Their hope will be renewed by their tears. We must come back, for a kindness can not be left undone once the first step has been taken; it is an obligation that must be fully discharged.”

  But no sooner had we returned than she put her forehead against my cheek.

  “My brother,” she
whispered.

  Her emotion was now too much for her. As she raised her eyes I saw that they were filled with tears. Compassion sapped my strength, but her confession of utter helplessness compelled me to be strong.33

  I asked her—diffidently, since both of us were overly modest about such things—I asked her to return to the place with me. There she was sweet, patient, sincere—and paid no attention to me; I was attentive only to her and did my utmost to elicit a compensatory smile.… But the end soon came.

  “Watch out!” she once told me, “Your concern is for me, not them.”

  Once again I was separated from her.

  Providence: their life in its entirety is based on a hypothesis; if they were shown their mistake, they would no longer be able to justify their existence. But who would show them? They will never know whether or not they were mistaken in their belief. If there is nothing, they will never know the difference. Meanwhile, they believe; they are happy or find consolation in their hope. The doubting soul is torn asunder.34

  “Philosophize? What arrogance! Philosophize with what? with reason? Who guarantees us the soundness of our reason? what is the source of the authority which we accord it? Our only assurance would be in thinking that it is a gift of a providential God—but reason denies God.

  “If we argue that reason came about by a slow transformation, by a gradual adaptation to phenomena, we may well discuss the phenomena—but beyond that?

  “And even if we grant that it comes from God, there is still nothing to guarantee us of its infallibility.

  “We can only hazard opinions. An affirmation is open to criticism, for it is arbitrary and destructive.

  “Narrow minds which think that theirs is the only truth! Truth is multiple, infinite, as diverse as there are minds to think—and no truths are challenged except by the mind of man.”

  Everyone is right. Things BECOME true as soon as someone believes in them. Reality is within us; our mind creates its Truths. And the best truth will not be the one sanctioned by reason. “Men are guided by emotions and not by ideas.”35 “The tree is known by its fruit,” and a doctrine by what it suggests.

  “The best doctrine is the one which through its message of love will persuade man to worship joyfully; which will comfort in times of distress by offering a vision of happiness promised to those who mourn; which will call grief an ordeal and enable the soul to hope in spite of everything. The best doctrine is the one which offers the greatest consolation. Lord! To whom would we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life!

  “Reason will ridicule but, in spite of all philosophical objections, the heart will always need to believe.”36

  “ΣYMΠAθEIN—to suffer together, to vibrate together. Imagination is all powerful, even in matters of the heart. Charity depends on our ability to imagine the griefs of others and make them our own. Thus is the life of the soul multiplied. And thus does compassion assuage grief.

  “A heart vibrating to the emotions of all men, throughout time and space, and doing so voluntarily though spontaneously: that is what we need.”

  We used to read aloud on autumn evenings when they had assembled between the hearth and the lamp. Thus we read Hoffmann and Turgenev.

  Everyone listened, but the modulations in my voice were for you alone. I read to you over their heads.

  We studied German together, though we already knew the language. The lessons were a pretext for leaning over the same book and being excited by the discovery of subtleties of meaning as we translated passages.

  That is how we became acquainted with Die Braut von Messian, Die Heimkehr, and Die Nordsee.

  German has whispered alliterations which make it a better medium than French for expressing vague yearnings.

  One evening it was raining and those who had gathered there had been talking for a long time.

  “André,” said V***, “will you read a little?”

  I began the Expiation, which she did not know. It is indeed a soothing work. Reading the words with subtle inflections, I made the violent emotions that were flooding my soul flow into yours. ΣYMΠAθEIN: to experience together violent emotions.37

  I did not see you. You were sitting in the shadow, but I felt your look when I read:

  And their soul sang in the brass bugle.

  The sun was setting. Evening shadows were invading the room. No longer able to see clearly enough to read, I closed the book and recited:

  Not one retreated. Sleep, heroic dead!…

  When the lamp was brought in for us, it seemed to awaken us from a dream.…

  “Listen,” I said to you. “Pay close attention to what I am saying.”

  I wanted to go over a difficult problem concerning German metaphysics that had bothered me for a long time. I saw that the attempt to follow my reasoning was causing wrinkles to mar your brow, but the obstacles that I had already cleared goaded me onward, and I continued to speak. I would have liked for our minds to travel together along every byway; I suffered when learning without you; I needed to feel your presence; I thrilled to your emotions more than to my own. But these heights were too lofty; your spirit fluttered helplessly and grew tired.

  I suffered much over such things. When you were not there and overpowering emotion forced me to speak, my mother soon tired of my expositions, for she lacked your benevolent patience. When she became listless, I fell silent and my rebuffed soul shivered in its solitude.

  I was then a child. I did not understand that the mind is nothing and passes away while the soul still remains after death.

  The mind changes, grows feeble, passes away; the soul remains.

  “What is the SOUL?” they will ask.

  The SOUL is our WILL TO LOVE.

  We still said “brother” and “sister,” but with a smile. Our hearts were no longer deluded. Yet you wanted to be deluded. You were afraid that we would go too far, and you hoped that you could allay your incipient fears by using a familiar word as a decoy. You thought perhaps that the word would evoke the thing and that if we always called each other brother and sister, our relationship would be fraternal. But in spite of our intentions, alien inflections marked our words; they became more intimate, more endearing, more mystical when whispered to each other. When you said “my brother” and I answered “little sister,” our hearts quivered at the involuntary tenderness of our voices.38

  Long autumn days … sitting by the fireside while rain fell outside … engrossed in reading for hours at a time … and you sometimes came to lean over my shoulder and read.

  I was reading The Golden Ass when you came, as was your custom, to read over my shoulder.

  “This is not for you, little sister,” I said as I pushed you away from me.

  “Then why are you reading it?”

  You smiled somewhat waggishly—and I closed the book.

  Playing games during our childhood, seeing landscapes, conversing at length, reading together when we knew nothing and could discover everything together.…

  All these things mean nothing to others but gradually shaped us and made us so nearly identical.…

  A stranger, Emmanuèle?…

  Would a stranger remember the beloved dead?

  Oh that he had never known them! Oh that he had never seen their smiles! When you chose to speak of them, he would not understand. Then you would fall silent, aware of your loneliness.

  (incomplete)

  I no longer know either where or when: It was in a dream.

  One night I was weeping for both of us—and your dear shadow came close to me. I felt your hand on my brow and saw your sweet smile.

  But I was still weeping.

  “Well, do you want to, André?…” you asked without moving your lips. Your smile illuminated my soul.

  In my soul I have kept the music of your words, and on my brow the memory of your sweet caress.

  28 May

  The last three days I have reread your letters. I have kept them all, but they give a poor impression of you. If they were
all I had to remember you by, I would think you waggish, rather fickle, always evasive and elusive. Your mind forces your soul to remain aloof.39

  From time to time, however, it would suddenly cry out to me, and it was then so plaintive—like a prisoner.

  “Do not withhold your affection, my brother,” you said. “I prefer it above all else.”

  And later on, after a separation, you said: “I can not accept the idea of life without you.”

  And there was still more. There were fleeting moments of tenderness, quickly squelched by the mind; then in the next letter, ironically you made fun of yourself and of me for having believed you.

  The reason was that far from me, your mind was again dominating your soul.

  Yes, sometimes your soul managed to break free, and when it spoke, its ardor astounded even me. At times I questioned your tenderness since you refused to acknowledge it to yourself; I thought that I loved you much more.

  The last night before we were to part for a long time, I told you these things and wept—as much from emotion as from the wish to be assured by you—for I was comforted by only the most tenuous hope, and when I was uncertain your absence made me fear the worst. But you finally tired of the silence.

  “Oh, André,” you exclaimed tearfully, “never will you know how much I loved you!”

  Your mind is stubborn, despotic. It would have you be domineering. You again resorted to mockery. O the smirk on your lips! I had to obey immediately or you would evade me. Silence until I gave in. You knew that I would always come back to you. That was what made you strong; I was not sure of you; I gave up quickly.

  Then came sweet reconciliation. We managed to be together more often, and our souls were all the more loving when we were apart because we had restrained them.