A return to the Garden of Eden and the age of innocence

Orchard

A lithograph from Dapnis and Chloé

by Marc Chagall

The extract from L’Immoraliste that I have translated (below) describes a pivotal moment in Gide’s novel, evoking as it does the narrator’s increasing awareness of the reawakening of his senses after his long and disabling illness.

Michel describes his explorations of the palm groves that he and his wife discover after erring from the path that they have been following during a walk through the town in north Africa where they are staying. A break in the high wall that flanks the path, and the glimpse it offers of the luxuriant landscape of the gardens enclosed and hidden by this same wall, is enough to tempt the couple to deviate from their course. Who can blame them? The lush greenery brings into sharp contrast the sterility of the parched mud floor and high mud walls that confine the usual path; the palm grove is a true oasis – a place of beauty that offers respite and resuscitation for the senses otherwise withered by the mundane.

The garden is surely the eternal symbol of rebirth and regeneration and enclosed as it is here by a high wall that shields it from any harsh, intrusive and censorial gaze, this garden seems symbolic of the womb itself. Michel takes retreat and, closing his eyes, withdraws further from the external world to an inner place where he finds he can just listen to his senses. He quickly becomes intoxicated by the soothing sounds of the doves cooing, the rippling stream, the breeze rustling through the tops of the trees, which echoes the stirrings that he feels as his senses are roused from their somnolence. Disarmed by his repose and contemplation, he is further seduced by the dulcet tones of a flute that the goatherd boy is playing: as his inhibitions are anaesthetized, he succumbs to the delight of his physical arousal.

Later Michel deliberately returns alone to the oasis where he listens as the boy enchants him further with his explanations of how he knowingly watches over his charges, carefully ensuring that their needs are satisfied but only when necessary. The boy, it seems, both arouses and assuages desires. It’s not difficult to see why, despite the obvious lyricism of his prose, the representation that Michel makes of a paradise where young boys enchant and stand ready to meet the needs of those in their care, provoked some controversy amongst Gide’s peers. The inferences suggest more questions than they answer. Moreover, the seductive and sensual figure of a boy playing a flute in a fertile landscape is surely a further evocation of the notion of temptation and transgression. Is Gide really casting the goatherd boy in the role of serpent in this Garden of Eden?

Leaving the ambiguities to one side, this passage is, for me, very evocative of some of Chagall work - no doubt because of their lyrical treatment of pastoral imagery. The series of lithographs on the story of Daphnis and Chloé, the foundling shepherd children that, in their innocence, are troubled as their friendship turns to love, particularly comes to mind.

To see more images of Marc Chagall's work, go to :

http://www.weinstein.com/chagall/marc-chagall.html

L'Immoraliste by Gide

L'Immoraliste is available on-line at :http://www.ebooksgratuits.com/ebooks.php


Extract from L'Immoraliste (1902) by Gide
Part I, Chapter IV
First the original version then, in orange, my translation.

"Marceline, cependant, qui voyait avec joie ma santé enfin revenir, commençait depuis quelques jours à me parler des merveilleux vergers de l’oasis. Elle aimait le grand air et la marche. La liberté que lui valait ma maladie lui permettait de longues courses dont elle revenait éblouie ; jusqu’alors elle n’en parlait guère, n’osant m’inciter à l’y suivre et craignant de me voir m’attrister au récit de plaisirs dont je n’aurais pu jouir déjà. Mais, à présent que j’allais mieux, elle comptait sur leur attrait pour achever de me remettre. Le goût que je reprenais à marcher et à regarder m’y portait. Et dès le lendemain nous sortîmes ensemble.

Elle me précéda dans un chemin bizarre et tel que dans aucun pays je n’en vis jamais de pareil. Entre deux assez hauts murs de terre il circule comme indolemment ; les formes des jardins, que ces hauts murs limitent, l’inclinent à loisir ; il se courbe ou brise sa ligne ; dès l’entrée, un détour vous perd ; on ne sait plus ni d’où l’on vient, ni où l’on va. L’eau fidèle de la rivière suit le sentier, longe un des murs ; les murs sont faits avec la terre même de la route, celle de l’oasis entière, une argile rosâtre ou gris que le soleil ardent craquelle et qui durcit à la chaleur, mais qui mollit dès la première averse et forme alors un sol plastique où les pieds nus restent inscrits. – Par-dessus les murs, des palmiers. A notre approche, des tourterelles y volèrent. Marceline me regardait.

J’oubliais ma fatigue et ma gêne. Je marchais dans une sorte d’extase, d’allégresse silencieuse, d’exaltation des sens et de la chair. A ce moment, des souffles légers s’élevèrent ; toutes les palmes s’agitèrent et nous vîmes les palmiers les plus hauts s’incliner ; - puis l’air entier redevint calme, et j’entendis distinctement, derrière le mur, un chant de flûte. –Une brèche au mur ; nous entrâmes.

C’était un lieu plein d’ombre et de lumière ; tranquille, et qui semblait comme à l’abri du temps ; plein de silences et de frémissements, bruit léger de l’eau qui s’écoule, abreuve les palmiers, et d’arbre en arbre fuit, appel discret des tourterelles, chant de flûte dont un enfant jouait. Il gardait un troupeau de chèvres ; il était assis, presque nu, sur le tronc d’un palmier abattu ; il ne se troubla pas à notre approche, ne s’enfuit pas, ne cessa qu’un instant de jouer. Je m’aperçus, durant ce court silence, qu’une autre flûte au loin répondait. Nous avançâmes encore un peu, puis : « Inutile d’aller plus loin, dit Marceline ; ces vergers se ressemblent tous ; à peine, au bout de l’oasis, deviennent-ils un peu plus vastes… Elle étendit le châle à terre : -Repose toi. »

Combien de temps nous y restâmes ? je ne sais plus ; - qu’importait l’heure ? Marceline était près de moi ; je m’étendis, posais sur ses genoux ma tête. Le chant de flûte coulait encore, cessait par instants, reprenait ; le bruit de l’eau… Par instants une chèvre bêlait. Je fermai les yeux ; je sentis se poser sur mon front la main fraîche de Marceline ; je sentais le soleil ardent doucement tamisé par les palmes ; je ne pensais à rien ; qu’importait la pensée ? je sentais extraordinairement…

Et par instants, un bruit nouveau ; j’ouvrais les yeux ; c’était le vent léger dans les palmes ; il ne descendait plus jusqu’à nous n’agitait que les palmes hautes.

Le lendemain matin, dans ce même jardin je revins avec Marceline ; le soir du même jour j’y allai seul. Le chevrier qui jouait de la flûte était là. Je m’approchai de lui, lui parlai. Il se nommait Lassif, n’avait que douze ans, était beau. Il me dit le nom de ses chèvres, me dit que les canaux s’appellent séghias ; toutes ne coulent pas tous les jours, m’apprit-il ; l’eau, sagement et parcimonieusement répartie, satisfait à la soif des plantes, puis leur est aussitôt retirée. Au pied de chacun des palmiers un étroit bassin est creusé qui tient l’eau pour abreuver l’arbre ; un ingénieux système d’écluses que l’enfant, en les faisant jouer, m’expliquer, maîtrise l’eau, l’amène où la soif est trop grande."

"The clown and the flute"

Lithograph by Chagall

"For the last few days however, Marceline, who was watching with joy my health finally return, had started talking to me about the wonderful groves of the oasis. She loved the fresh air and walking. My illness had provided a certain liberation leaving her free to go for walks from which she returned elated. Up until then she had said very little about this, fearing that I might be tempted to follow her or be disheartened by her talk of pleasures that, as yet, were still beyond me. But now I was getting better she was relying on the appeal of these excursions to complete my recovery. I was being carried along by my renewed enjoyment of walking and watching. The very next day we went out together.

She led the way along a strange path the like of which I had never seen before in any country. The path ambles its way indolently between two fairly high terracotta walls that borders gently sloping gardens ; from the start it twists and turns and sometimes it seems to just stop ; a deviation will soon cause you to go astray and you no longer know where you have been or where you are going. Always close, the river skirts one of the walls, which are made with the same earth as the road and the oasis as a whole : a pinkish-grey clay that the blistering sun causes to crack, that hardens in the heat but then softens again with the first drop of rain when it becomes soft and malleable enough for naked feet to leave their imprints. – Above the walls, palm trees. Our arrival causes turtledoves to take flight. Marceline looked at me.

I forgot my fatigue and my discomfort. I was walking in a state close to ecstasy almost, of quiet joy, of exaltation of the flesh and the senses. A light breeze was picking up, stirring the palm trees and we watched as the tallest of the palms swayed backwards and forwards. Then the air became calm again and I could quite distinctly hear the sound of a flute coming from behind the wall. – A gap in the wall tempted us in.

It was a place full of light and shade ; a tranquil place where time stood still. A place full of the sound of silence, rustling, streams quietly watering the palms, and, escaping from one tree to the next, the discreet cooing of turtledoves. A child was playing a flute. He was tending a herd of goats. He was sitting down, almost naked, on the trunk of a fallen palm tree. As we approached, he didn’t get up. He didn’t run away. Only for a moment did he stop playing his flute.

During this short silence, I noticed that another flute could be heard answering in the distance. We went further into the grove, then Marceline said : “There’s no point in going any further, the groves all look the same, maybe they get a bit bigger near the end of the oasis.” She spread the shawl out on the ground. “Rest a while.”

How long did we stay there ? I don’t know – what did time matter ? Marceline was at my side ; I lay back and rested my head on her knees. The flute music flowed once more, stopping for a moment here and there before starting again ; the sound of water… From time to time a goat bleated. I closed my eyes ; I felt Marceline’s cool hand resting on my forehead ; I felt the hot sun gently filtered by the palms ; I wasn’t thinking of anything ; why bother thinking ? I felt extraordinarily…

Then, from time to time, a new sound ; I opened my eyes ; a light wind too high to disturb us, played with the tops of the palms.

The following morning, I returned to the garden with Marceline ; then later that same evening, I went back alone. The goatherd boy who had been playing the flute was there. I went up to him, spoke to him. He was called Lassif ; he was only 12 ; he was beautiful. He told me what his goats were called ; he told me that the canals are called séghias ; the water didn’t flow every day, he told me. Water was distributed wisely and parsimoniously : just enough to quench the plants’ thirst and then it was switched off. Each tree had a narrow trough hollowed at its base to hold the water it needed. And, an ingenious system of sluices, with which the child toyed as he explained its workings to me, controlled and directed the water to where the thirst was greatest."

Lithograph by Chagall