The Pastoral Symphony

by André Gide

  But I was wrong to provoke Jacques. The next day I found on my table the same note on which I had copied the verse for him. On the back of the paper Jacques had simply transcribed another verse from the same chapter, “Do not let your food cause the loss of someone for whom Christ has died.” (Romans, XIV, 15.)

  I am rereading the entire chapter once again. This is the start of an infinite discussion. And would these perplexities torment and darken the clouds of Gertrude’s luminous sky? Am I not closer to Christ, and do I not maintain her there as well, when I teach her and make her believe that the only sin is to wait for the happiness of others or to compromise our own happiness?

  Alas! Certain souls remain particularly resistant to happiness, inept, clumsy… I am thinking of my poor Amélie. I always invite her there, I push her there and would like to hold her there. Yes, I would like to lift everyone up to God. But she always backs away and is closed up, like certain flowers that never bloom in any sun. She is bothered and inflicted by everything she sees.

  “What do you want, my friend,” she responded to me the other day, “it was not given to me to be blind.”

  Ah! How her irony is painful to me, and what virtue it takes to avoid being troubled by it! It seems to me, however, that she must understand that this allusion to the infirmity of Gertrude is particularly hurtful to me. But it makes me think about what I admire above all in Gertrude and that is her infinite leniency. I never have heard her formulate the least grief against anyone. But it is true that I never let her know anything about what could hurt her.

  And as opposed to her pleasant soul, which radiates love and propagates happiness all around her, all that surrounds Amélie is dark and morose. Amiel would write that his soul emits only black rays. When, after a day of struggles I return home at nightfall after visits to the poor, to sick people, to the afflicted, feeling sometimes harassed and with my heart demanding rest, affection, and warmth, what do I find? Often it is only worry, recriminations, and struggles to which I would prefer by a thousand times the cold, the wind, and the rain of outdoors. I understand very well that our grown daughter Rosalie wants to do only what she desires. But she is not always wrong, or above all Amelie is not always correct, when she pretends to give in to her. I know also that Charlotte and Gaspard are horribly turbulent, but would not Amélie be better off if she did not yell at them so much and was not after them constantly? Too many recommendations, admonitions, and reprimands lose their effectiveness and sharpness, just like pebbles on the beach. The children are much less bothered by this than I am. I know that little Claude is teething (that is at least what his mother says each time that he begins to scream), but wouldn’t it be better to let him scream a bit than for Amélie or Sarah to run after him right away and dote all over him ceaselessly? I remain convinced that he would scream less often if he were left to scream his head off once in a while when I am not there. But I know that it is above all then that they rush to him.

  Sarah resembles her mother, and that made me want to send her away to school. But she does not resemble, alas! what her mother was at her age when we became engaged. She only looks like what the worries of the material life have made her become. I was going to say the culture of the worries of life (for surely Amélie cultivates them). Certainly I cannot recognize in Sarah today the angel who once smiled at each noble impulse of my heart, and about whom I dreamed was indistinctly associated with my life, and who appeared to precede me and guide me towards the light. Or did love at that time fool me? For today I only see Sarah occupied by commonplace things. Like her mother, she is only involved with petty worries. Even the features of her face, which do not indicate any kind of interior flame, look dreary and as if they are hardened. She has no taste for poetry or more generally for reading. I never am surprised by a conversation between herself and her mother that I would wish to take part in. I sense my isolation from them even more painfully when I retire into my office, which I have become accustomed to do more and more often. Since autumn and the arrival of earlier evenings, I have also taken up the habit of going to tea at the home of Mlle de la M… when my duties allow this, and I have a little time. I have not yet mentioned that since last November, Louise de la M… and Gertrude have been taking care of three small blind girls that Martins proposed they take in. In her turn Gertrude is teaching them to read and to execute certain small jobs, and already these young girls are showing themselves to be very capable.

  What rest and relaxation it is for me each time I enter into the warm atmosphere of La Grange, their home, and how much I miss it when sometimes I must go two or three days without being there. It goes without saying that Mlle de la M… is able to take care of Gertrude and these three houseguests without bothering or tormenting herself for their upkeep. Three servants help her with great devotion and save her from all fatigue. Can we say that fortune and leisure were never better merited? At all times Louise de la M… is occupied with helping poor people. This is a profoundly religious soul whose only purpose on earth seems to be to live for love. Despite her almost silver colored hair upon which her lace bonnet sets, there is nothing more childlike than her smile, nothing more harmonious than her movements, and nothing more musical than her voice. Gertrude has taken her manners, her way of speaking with a sort of intonation, not only of the voice but of her thoughts, of all her being. I joked about this resemblance to the two of them, but neither of them claim to have noticed it. How pleasant it is for me, if I have a little time to spend with them, to see them seated next to each other with Gertrude either leaning her forehead on the shoulder of her friend or holding her hand, listening to me read several verses of Lamartine or Hugo. How it is a joy for me to contemplate in their two transparent souls the reflection of this poetry! Even the little students are not insensitive to it. In this atmosphere of peace and love these children are developing unusually quickly and are making remarkable progress. I smiled at first when Mlle Louise talked about their learning to dance, not so much for pleasure but for health reasons. Today I admire the rhythmic grace of the movements they achieve and which they are not, alas! capable of appreciating themselves. However, Louise de la M… has persuaded me that although they cannot see these movements, they can feel the harmony in their muscles. Gertrude takes part in these dances with a charming good grace and is happily amused by them. Sometimes it is Louise de la M… who dances with the children while Gertrude sits and plays the piano. Her progress in music has been surprising. Now she plays the organ at the chapel every Sunday, and as a prelude to every song of prayers, she plays a short improvisation.

  Each Sunday she comes to have lunch with us. My children see her again with pleasure, despite the fact that their tastes are becoming more and more different. Amélie does not show too much nervousness, and the meal takes place without a hitch. All the family then takes Gertrude back to La Grange for a snack. This is like a party for my children, and Louise takes pleasure in spoiling them and filling them with treats. Even Amélie, who normally does not allow herself to be sensitive to kindness, relaxes and appears rejuvenated. I think that she would miss this halt in her hectic life if it were to stop.

  18 May

  Since the good weather has returned, I have once again been able to go out with Gertrude which has not happened for a long time (for even lately there have been more snowstorms and the roads have remained in horrible condition until these last few days). And it has been a long time since I was alone with her.

  We were walking quickly. The brisk air colored her cheeks and continuously blew her blonde hair onto her face. Since we were walking near a bog, I picked several flowers, and I slipped the stems under her beret and intertwined them with her hair to hold them in place.

  We had hardly said anything to each other, both of us surprised to find ourselves alone together, when Gertrude turned her face toward me asked me brusquely,

  “Do you think that Jacques still loves me?”


  “He made his decision to renounce his love for you,” I responded quickly.

  “But do you believe that he knows that you love me?” she said.

  Since the conversation of last summer that I previously reported, more than six months had gone by without the slightest word of love being pronounced between us (I am surprised to say). We were never alone, and I said to her that it was better that way. Gertrude’s question made my heart beat so strongly that I had to slow down our pace a bit.

  “But everybody, Gertrude, knows that I love you,” I cried out. She did not accept this response.

  “No, no, you are not answering my question.”

  And after a moment of silence she spoke again, her head lowered,

  “My aunt Amélie knows it, and I know that makes her sad.”

  “She would be sad in any case," I protested in a voice that had little assurance. “it is her temperament to be sad.”

  “Oh! You always look to reassure me,” she said somewhat impatiently. “But I do not want to be reassured. I know that there are many things that you have not told me about for fear of disturbing me or causing me pain. There are many things that I do not know, so that sometimes...”

  Her voice became lower and lower. She stopped as if she was out of breath. And then, taking her final words, I asked,

  “That sometimes?...”

  “So that sometimes,” she sadly began again, “all the happiness that I owe you appears to rest upon ignorance.”

  “But, Gertrude...”

  “No, let me speak. I do not want that kind of happiness. Understand that I do not... I do not want to be happy. I prefer to know. There are many things, surely sad things, that I cannot see, but that you do not have the right to keep me ignorant of. I thought about this for a long time during the winter. I fear, you see, that the entire world is not as beautiful as you had made me believe it, Pastor, and that there is a lot of it that is not necessarily that way.

  “It is true that man has often made the world ugly,” I argued fearfully, for the boldness of her thoughts scared me, and I was trying to change the subject without really hoping to succeed. It seemed that she had been waiting for those words, for she quickly jumped upon them like the link that closes the chain,

  “Precisely,” she cried out. “I want to be sure that I do not add to the evil.”

  For a long time we continued to walk very quickly in silence. All that I could have said to her collided in advance with what I felt she was thinking. I was fearful of provoking some words upon which the fate of the two of us depended. And thinking about what Martins had said, that perhaps her sight might be returned to her, a great anguish embraced my heart.

  “I wanted to ask you,” she said finally, “but I do not know how to say it...”

  Certainly it was taking all of her courage to say something, as it was taking all of mine to listen to her. But how could I have foreseen the question that was tormenting her?

  “Are the children of blind people necessarily born blind as well?”

  I do not know which of the two of us was more oppressed by this conversation, but at present we had to continue.

  “No, Gertrude,” I said to her, “except in very special cases. There is no reason that they would be blind.”

  She appeared extremely reassured. I would have wanted to ask her in turn why she asked me that, but I did not have the courage and continued clumsily.

  “But, Gertrude, to have children it is necessary to be married.”

  “Do not tell me that, Pastor. I know that is not true.”

  “What I said was the decent thing to say,” I protested. “But in effect the laws of nature permit what the laws of man and of God forbid.”

  “You have often said to me that the laws of God were those of love.

  “The love we are speaking about here is not what one would also call ‘charity.’”

  “Is it because of charity that you love me?”

  “You know that is not true, my Gertrude.”

  “But then you realize that our love is outside the laws of God?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Oh! You know this very well, and it should not be for me to speak of it!”

  In vain I tried to change her mind. My heart was beating a retreat as my arguments fell apart. Desperately I cried out,

  “Gertrude, do you think that your love is forbidden?”

  She corrected me. “That our love... I tell myself what I must think of it.

  “And so?”

  There was a surprising plea in my voice, and then she finished, without taking a breath,

  “But I cannot stop loving you.”

  All this happened yesterday. At first I hesitated to write about it. I did not know how to finish our walk. We stepped quickly, as if running away, and I held her arm tightly against me. At this point my soul had left my body. It seemed to me that the smallest stone on the road would knock the two of us over onto the ground.

  19 May

  Martins returned this morning. Gertrude is operable. Roux has affirmed this and asks that she be confided to him for some time. I cannot oppose this, although cowardly I asked to think about it. I asked that I be given some time to slowly prepare her. My heart should be leaping with joy, but I feel it weighing on me, heavy with an inexpressible anguish. I need to have heart to announce to Gertrude that sight can be given to her.

  The Night of 19 May

  I saw Gertrude again, but I did not say anything to her. At La Grange this evening, since no one was in the living room, I went up to her bedroom. We were alone.

  I held her pressed against me for a long time. She made no movement to defend herself, and when she lifted her forehead towards me, our lips met…

  21 May

  Is it for us, Lord, that you made the night so deep and so beautiful? Is it for me? The air is warm, and the moon is shining through my open window as I listen to the immense silence of the heavens. Oh! vague adoration of the whole of creation where my heart melts in an ecstasy without words. If there is a limitation in love, it does not come from You, my God, but from men. But as guilty as my love appears in the eyes of man, Oh! Tell me that in yours it is sacred.

  I try to put myself above the idea of sin. But sin seems intolerable to me, and I do not want to abandon Christ. No, I do not accept that loving Gertrude is a sin. I cannot tear this love from my heart except by tearing out my heart itself, and why? If I did not already love her, I would love her because of pity. To love her no longer would be to betray her. She needs my love.

  Lord, I know nothing anymore… I only know You. Guide me. Sometimes it seems that I throw myself into the darkness and that the sight that I have been given has been taken away.

  Yesterday Gertrude entered the clinic at Lausanne where she will remain for three weeks. I wait for her return with an extreme apprehension. Martins will bring her back. She made me promise not to try to see her before then.

  22 May

  Letter from Martins: the operation is a success! God be praised!

  24 May

  The idea of being seen by her, she who until then loved me without seeing me, is an intolerable burden. Will she recognize me? For the first time in my life, I looked anxiously into the mirror. If I sense that her look is less indulgent than her heart, and less loving, what will become of me? Lord, sometimes I think that I need her love in order to love you.

  27 May

  An increase in workload has permitted me to go through these last days without too much impatience. Each occupation which pulls me out of myself is blessed, but throughout the day, throughout everything, her image follows me.

  It is tomorrow that she will return. Amélie,
who during this week has only displayed the better side of her humor and seems to have taken up the task of making me forget the absent girl, is now working with the children to prepare the celebration for her return.

  28 May

  Gaspard and Charlotte have picked whatever flowers they could find in the woods and in the fields. Rosalie baked a monumental cake yesterday that Sarah decorated with I do not know what kind of ornaments made from gilded paper. We expect her at noon.

  I am writing to fill in the wait time. It is 11 AM. At any moment I will lift my head and see the carriage of Martins appear on the road. I will not run out in front to meet them before the others in respect of Amélie. My heart is beating… Ah! Here they are!