Читать книгу Gaudeamus - Mircea Eliade - Страница 10

SIX: SPRING

That year spring descended gently, and lit up the city with budding chestnuts. Light invigorated the attic. And now I was compelled to spend less and less time at my wooden table. Spring always got the better of me. It was the only temptation to overwhelm me, break me, lead me down paths harmful to my soul. In spring, clouds were my salvation. Nice thick clouds that darkened the smile of the city with their call. I loved the clouds that filled the soul with solemn sadness and bore on their crests the broad sweep of destiny. I waited for them, my clouds, on perfumed afternoons, when I was tempted to punch the walls of my overly white and narrow room, and to arrange flowers on my bookshelves. I delighted in every interruption of the sun’s rays: Darkness! Darkness! But then the sun would hold sway once more, and I cowered again, enslaved.

My spring was not the same as the one I had known in the lives of my friends and from books. Mine was bitter and wild. I was aroused by the warmth, the wind, the sunlight, the gardens, the women. The orgasm tormented me hour after hour; it mortified my flesh, haemorrhaged in my brain, and grieved my soul. If I saw a fruit tree without blossoms, I was overcome with anger; when I happened upon furrowed soil, I wept; by the side of the river; I howled; caressing a stone, I clenched my teeth; warm mist rising from the earth provoked me to kiss it, taste it, smear dense mounds of it over my bare chest, nestle my shoulders in the black soil and to lie on my back gazing at the sun. I never had the courage to leave the city, all by myself, on a cloudless spring day. Even the specks of spring glimpsed in the front garden exhausted me. In the presence of open fields, I might lose all control of my senses. Who knew what might happen? I experienced the beginning of that spring as if they were a series of nights in the boudoir of an insatiable lover. Not one emotion, scrap of sensibility, or particle of my brain escaped being consumed. My enemy knew all the wiles of perversity. She tormented me with branches of cherry blossom, with the shoulders of an unknown woman passing by, with an achingly clear sky, with the urge to wander. Even the pavement was a temptation: sinuous, clean, with the shadow of eaves cast at regular intervals. Children upset me, because I was surprised that I liked them. I did not want to like children. Birds invaded the ivy. Why did they not come up against crimson waves of deadly storm? At night I fell asleep exhausted, humiliated, like a slave broken on the wheel. I dreamed dreams of sexual tragedy. I awoke, trod the carpet of moonlight, dressed, took to the streets, wandering far and wide. But not even the companionship of unfamiliar bodies in strange rooms, no matter how prolonged, soothed me. Nor was I soothed by my walks through the city at night. Or by tortured reading. The only thing that soothed me was the triumph of darkness over daylight, cold and dreary rain, the monotony of the trees, the streets, the passers-by.

None suspected the defeat that debilitated and humiliated me. And I did not want to admit it. I knew that I was scorned by some, who considered me a dry and dispassionate soul absorbed in books. I took pride in this, but it also worried me. How could I explain to them that spring unsettled me, scourged me, humiliated me?…

I was not humiliated by the appetites, desires, urges, and mad escapades that tormented me amid the spring wind and rising sap. Rather it was because this exhausting dynamism was ordained to me, bestowed on me at the same time as the flowering fields and the returning birds. And because it was not mine, but was an alien body that replaced mine with the coming of the thaw. It was the alien flesh lent to me by spring that was the cruel, unforgettable humiliation. How was it that I was capable of mastering my body, emotions, and mind only in autumn, summer, and winter? Why could I not be master of my body and soul in the spring? Could the reason be that they no longer belonged to me but to my sex, species, and time of life?

Nights, nights of rage. Days without complaining, without the gnashing my teeth.

I felt that what I valued most about sex was temperance, and that this was ebbing away without me being able to do anything about it.

Now, as I recount these things that happened long ago, I am no longer afraid of spring. Painful answers have come to me, answers that have stifled the muffled revolt. Now, I wait for spring with the virile nostalgia that averted crises lend one, with the quiet, restrained sadness that comes from solitude. I now understand that what tormented me was not spring, but something else. I was afraid not of the torrents that coursed through my blood, consuming me, exhausting me, but of the new soul that was secretly taking shape. I was afraid to replace my own decisions with mediocre, but gratifying, decisions that I would regret in later, sad years. With Nonora, I was not afraid of her body, which I ached to clasp in my arms, to hold to my chest. I was afraid of becoming stupid and brutish through mendacious sentimentalism, time wasting, and my transformation into one of those countless, perfect tools of love, a perfumed, groomed, witty poseur.

In spring I was not afraid of the life of the flesh, of the brain, or of the soul. I understood that the fate of the sensitive soul is to suffer and that of the brain is to succumb to senility. I understood that flesh is doomed to insatiable desire interrupted only by disgust. I understood all of these things and was glad no one else seemed to think about them.

In spring I could fall in love with a creature that in winter or autumn would have remained simply a friend. Why should I love only at the command of the sky, the cherry blossoms, and the lilacs? Why be deceived? Why must I wait? Waiting for love and for spring humiliated me even more than all the desires stifling my breath and boiling my blood. To wait is a feminine attitude. I felt as passive and pensive as a sentimental virgin waiting, resigned, for her master to pick her. This defeat humiliated me deeply.

Springs past, and springs future: I no longer fear them. And here I am, writing, unbeknownst to anyone, in a notebook that I conceal among boxes of research notes. Here I am, writing in the middle of autumn. And how no one will be able to know whether I am sad.

And I am not sad, either about autumn or this account of my memories.