Mircea Eliade (1907-86) wrote Gaudeamus (‘let us rejoice’) in 1928,
but it was not published until 1986; only a three-page extract had appeared in
1928. It has now (2018) been published
in an English translation by Istros Books, which specialises in Balkan
literature. The text has been translated
by Christopher Bartholomew with an informative introduction by Bryan Rennie and
a lengthy afterword by Eliade’s nephew, Sorin Alexandrescu, translated by
Alistair Ian Blyth, who is probably the most prolific translator of Romanian
literature into English.
A portrait of Eliade’s student
life, Gaudeamus is a sequel to his Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent (Romanul adolescenului miop) published in
English by Istros in 2016, which deals with his time at school. Now he is at university in Bucharest
(1925-28) and he wrote Gaudeamus in a
couple of week-long bursts in February and March of his graduation year. Diary
of a Short-Sighted Adolescent had already appeared in serial form, and is referred
to in this book (his friends argue about their depictions in it).
Gaudeamus
poses as autobiographical, but to what extent
it has been fictionalised is unclear (according to the introduction checkable
aspects have been shown to be accurate, while other parts are clearly fiction). It is best therefore to refer to the narrator
rather than Eliade as the central character.
The narrator is extremely intelligent and ambitious, but the narrative
shows how the university experience does not differ much in place or time: the
neuroticism generated by the relentlessness of reading and exams, the worry
that one is slipping behind, the pursuit of excellence beset by distractions,
desire for members of the opposite sex; such aspects of student life are constant.
The changing seasons provide the
backdrop to the narrator’s academic career.
He hardens, from being sociable, offering his attic living space for the
formation of a student club with singing and drinking, to a semi-recluse who
sees himself above the common man, his view of his peers literally a lofty
one. Gradually he eschews company, to
the point his friends become concerned he is mentally ill. However, he does not remain on his mountain
top entirely, as even at this early stage in his career he is writing articles
for the press. However, as time
progresses he narrows his focus to private study instead of the communal
activity of lectures, working punishing hours until his head swims. Gaudeamus
is, among other things, a hymn to books and the reading obsession.
When he is socialising with his
peers he engages in earnest conversations about the meaning of life, though
these are of a higher tone than the usual intellectual fumblings of
undergraduates. The keyword is mediocrity,
the greatest sin in his eyes, yet a label he is happy to assign his peers without
compunction. He may be precocious, but
there is an underlying smugness in his sense of superiority. We learn less than we might expect about
Bucharest in the late 1920s as the focus is relentlessly on him and the
exercise of his will. He sees himself
explicitly in heroic terms, with hints here of Nietzsche’s Übermensch,
overcoming distractions while remaining above the bourgeois herd.
Unfortunately self-aggrandising
can have unfortunate consequences for those in the hero’s orbit. His views of sex relations are drawn largely
from Dante and Cervantes, not particularly useful models in the twentieth
century, and expressed in a misogynistic rather than chivalric attitude. This results in the poor treatment of the two
main women in his life, Nișka and Nonora, treatment he justifies in
philosophical terms. In particular he
sees himself as the creator and moulder of Nișka’s personality – to which
worryingly she concurs (a hallmark of emotional abuse). He considers women’s education as a prelude
to a lifetime of domestic concerns and therefore inevitable mediocrity, and
those men weak enough to become so entangled prey to the same consequence:
domesticity as the enemy of promise.
While tempted, he takes pride in having the strength of character to withstand
their attractions.
Incapable of seeing women on
equal terms with himself, unfortunately for them he sees his ability to remain
immune from banal romantic attraction as a test of his personality, whatever
the emotional havoc he might wreak on anyone unfortunate enough to fall in love
with him. For him romance is an
intellectual exercise best conducted through lengthy correspondence (that with
Nișka is reproduced verbatim,
presumably written by Eliade, not the person Nișka is modelled on, at least one
hopes so, in which he ignores, even revels in, her extreme emotional
distress). He is blunt in his
assessments of their prospects to the point of brutality, seeing himself above
such pettiness.
As if emotional abuse was not bad
enough, he commits what amounts to a rape simply to enphasise the primacy of
his wants, though at the same time transgressing his principle of
detachment. Meeting Nonora in the street
he invites her back to his attic, promising to be ‘good’. Once there, despite repeated protests to stop
and telling him she is engaged, he assaults her. As he describes it, ‘I was annoyed by her
resistance, like that of a virginal tease … I pushed her down. With one arm I pinned her arms, with the
other I parted her knees and subdued her thighs. The act took place before Nonora could even
comprehend, and before I could hesitate.
We pleasured our bodies.’ Not
really ‘we’ when she sobs afterwards and asks why he did it.
Given Eliade’s evident approval
of his alter ego’s approach to life, it is not surprising to learn he was
associated with Romania’s far right in the 1930s. There are hints in Gaudeamus of widespread anti-Semitism which the narrator may not
particularly like, possibly because he looks down on the individuals espousing
such views rather than because he disapproves of the sentiments themselves, but
does not challenge. He is evasive about
his own political views.
The book ends with the narrator
having graduated and setting off on his own, without emotional encumbrances –
as we always knew he would be – on life’s adventure. Assuming author and narrator share
characteristics, they have pretentiousness (a charge Eliade himself levelled
against Gaudeamus later) and
self-regard in common. The introduction
confirms what I had suspected: the influence on Eliade of André Gide. It is reasonable to assume he had read at
least Les Nourritures Terrestres (1897), though he was much more rigorous
intellectually than Gide. We can admire
Eliade’s strength of purpose while disliking his self-absorption.
On the other hand, self-absorption
paid off as Gaudeamus is an assured
achievement for a 21-year old. In fact
it is so assured one wonders if it was reworked later. There is certainly one point, highlighted by
Alexandrescu, where he must have done so.
At the end he refers to the forthcoming destruction of the house, with
his attic, to be replaced by a tall, grey building. This was the case, but it did not happen
until 1935. There may have been other
changes made to the manuscript after 1928.
Whatever changes may have been
made, the book as it stands captures the personality of a remarkable, but
flawed, individual at a pivotal moment.
Although the narrator may no longer be an adolescent, in his way he is
still short-sighted. With his obvious
intellectual abilities, as he rides off on his early morning train there can be
no doubt that as he, hopefully, matures emotionally, he is destined for great
things. It is ironic he sees so much
personal promise in the dawn when, in 1928, the same could not be said for the continent
as a whole.
