Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent

by Mircea Eliade

  It went on like this for about a quarter of an hour. We were about to get up and thank our host when the pair reappeared, flushed and shameless.

  Once the other members had left, the committee got together. The next morning at school, I heard that Dinu, Petrişor, Sasa, Lia, and Irina had been excluded from the Cultural-Dramatic society ‘The Muse’.

  Dinu laughed, and announced that he would organize a far more exciting society than ‘The Muse’, at his house.

  Nonetheless, Robert had still won.

  * * *

  12Înşir-te Mărgărite and Năpasta. The first is a play by Victor Eftimiu, the second, as mentioned earlier, a play by Ion Luca Caragiale.

  13abat-jour: A lampshade. In French in the original text.

  Fănică

  Fănică has written a ‘variety show’. He calls it A Model Lycée, and plans to stage it on St Spiridon’s Day. There is always a festival for St Spiridon. It begins with an address, followed by performances from the band and the choir, poetry recitals, and finally games and gymnastics. St Spiridon is a day to remember. All week long the Headmaster smiles benevolently at everyone, doesn’t set tests, doesn’t take in our German vocabulary lists or give much homework. Not only that, the masters all arrive late for class.

  This year, however, the festival will be unique, because we’ll be performing A Model Lycée. And it’s about our lycée. The characters are our masters, and Fănică has shared out the parts among us. The ‘Headmaster’ will be played by Bricterian. This is because Bricterian is the best actor among us. He’s tall, walks on stage with great aplomb and accentuates every word. Ever since the Fourth Form he’s been in every school play on St Spiridon’s Day, and he’s also acted for ‘The Muse’.

  Fănică himself will play two parts. The first is a father angry about tuition fees, and the second, a pupil who caught jaundice in the chemistry class. No one else was suited to the role. All this spring, Fănică has been nursing a grudge against Toivinovici. Toivinovici hasn’t actually picked on him, but Fănică is faint-hearted by nature, and has an extraordinary horror of chemistry. This spring – terrified by the formulae of organic acids and acyclic series – he became ill, contracted jaundice, and was bed-ridden until the end of April. It was during this time that he decided to write the ‘variety show’.

  Act I takes place in the staff common room, and is a dialogue between a pupil suffering from jaundice and a chemistry master. It is written in rhyming couplets and is extremely witty.

  I play the part of Toivinovici, probably because I have red hair and know the formulae for acyclic series. When Fănică first gave me the news, I laughed nervously and clapped him on the shoulder. Fănică smiled sweetly, like a real theatre director, and said I’d be a great success. Our scene is one of the best, because Fănică put a great deal of passion into writing it, remembering the weeks he’d spent in bed with jaundice. And he’ll play the part with just as much enthusiasm.

  All the other boys are convinced that I’ll play the part of the ‘red dog’ perfectly. They reminded me of the part I played for St Spiridon last year, an assistant police commissioner. I sat at a desk facing the audience, and tried to get their attention with a ‘comedy sketch’ that I’d just made up. For instance, I pretended I couldn’t write because my pen had broken. In my view, this would give rise to a whole series of hilarious gestures and expressions.

  As it turned out, the sketch was quite a success. At one point I had to bring the chief commissioner a cup of coffee from backstage. As I came through the door, someone handed me a tray and suggested I walk slowly, so as not to spill the cup of coffee or the glass of water. This piece of advice terrified me. At the director’s request I had taken off my glasses. So when I came back with the chief commissioner’s coffee, I tried to walk as carefully as possible. I appeared on stage with my head bowed, arms trembling and legs like jelly. Everyone thought that it was my own ‘creation’ and enjoyed it enormously.

  I had also acted in plays put on by ‘The Muse’. But very few of the other boys had seen me.

  Fănică described the other scenes to us. In Act I, Scene I, four man-about-town type boys are dancing in the Headmaster’s study. They have come to complain to the Headmaster that their teachers won’t allow them into the classroom. They won’t let them in because their hair is too long. The man-about-town boys are outraged. If they have to have their hair cut once more, or if they have to put ‘numbers’ on their tunics, they won’t dare attend another tea party or ball. But as the Headmaster isn’t in his study, the man-about-town boys dance. Then they each sing a verse about the ‘tea rooms’, Petit Parisien* and La Garçonne.*14

  While Fănică hummed the verses in a squeaky voice (he’s not a tenor), the others speculated about who would play the parts of the man-about-town boys. They would have to be good-looking, have fashionable tunics and know how to sing and dance. Robert was sure to be one of them. When he heard this, he half-closed his eyes and accepted. Modestly, he told us that he would be ‘best for the part’. The second man-about-town boy would be Gianii. Gianii has never acted, either at school or in ‘The Muse’. He doesn’t know how to recite lines and can’t sing. But Gianni is a genuine man-about-town boy. He uses talcum powder, wears cologne, speaks French, is quite chubby and loves dancing. When the playwright offered him the role, Gianni blushed. He was embarrassed, and looked at us all with great affection. In turn we all smiled sweetly at him, and gave him encouraging looks.

  The third man-about-town boy is Locusteanu. He elbowed the playwright in sheer delight, and cried out inanely: ‘Hey golly Fănică!’ Fănică smiled at him and suggested that he eat raw eggs before the performance, to improve his voice. There was then a discussion about who should be the fourth man-about-town boy. Moraniu didn’t want the part. He said he didn’t know how to sing. And yet Morariu has a tunic that is far too elegant to not be in the scene. Fănică wouldn’t give up. He promised him that he could sing as quietly as he liked. He might even be able to speak his verse, because the orchestra would play the melody. Still Morariu refused. But some people were sure that he would accept eventually.

  Dinu was with us and seemed very taken with the idea of the ‘variety show’. I think he’d be delighted to play the part of one of the man-about-town boys. He hasn’t forgotten his success with ‘The Muse’, when he appeared as Don Juan’s page, with his black wig and yellow silk cape. But he isn’t at our lycée any more. More than anything he wanted to have long hair this year, so he moved to the Matei Basarab Lycée, where they don’t have to wear uniforms or caps.

  Fănică began to sing the verse sung by the father angry about tuition fees. The boys listened enraptured, and smiled whenever he looked at them. Every time he paused they applauded wildly. Some of them asked him to explain the script, which Fănică was delighted to do.

  Fănică is short and skinny. After humming so many verses written for a tenor he was completely out of breath, and had to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. He was exhausted. But when he got to the scene where a pupil who has just taken the Baccalaureate celebrates the joys of liberty and long hair, he sang with renewed energy. He closed his eyes and set his jaw, because this part was also for a tenor. He went red in the face and his eyes filled with tears. But it was a total success. Robert – who knew he was going to play the part of the pupil – laughed heartily and congratulated the author. The pupil’s costume was discussed. Robert thought he should wear modern clothes, patent leather shoes and a silk scarf. But Fănică disagreed. The boy was coming to the Headmaster’s study to collect his Baccalaureate certificate. So he could only be wearing school uniform with a number on his tunic.

  Robert was disappointed, but accepted the decision. I know he very much wanted to appear on stage wearing fashionable clothes and make-up so as to impress the girls in the audience. Nonetheless, he was sure that he would carry the day. He boasted that he would be applauded from Act
I Scene I onwards. And then he gave Dinu a knowing look. Dinu was smoking.

  When he got to Act II, Fănică speeded up the pace. As the curtain rose, the orchestra would play a triumphal march.

  The masters had come to the Headmaster’s study to protest about the ‘Lalescu Scale’.15 They were dissatisfied with their salaries, and each one came forward in turn to sing his own praises. Here, Fănică showed himself to be quite malicious. By extolling the masters, he drew attention to their weaknesses. The boys all applauded enthusiastically.

  *

  We were approaching the Călugărească Valley, and were impatient to see Morariu’s vineyard. He had invited us spend that Sunday at his family home. He told us there would be young girls who had come to work on the grape harvest, as well as plenty of must1616. There would be old wine too. But no one seemed particularly interested in Morariu’s wine, new or old.

  During the day we ate grapes and threw clods of dirt at each other in the vineyard. We split into two groups: cops and robbers. The cops had to catch the robbers. Fănică laid down the rules: we weren’t allowed to throw large clods, or to aim for people’s heads. Plus we had to own up when we were hit. And when a robber was hit he had to stay where he was.

  I was a robber, and put up a heroic defence against Petrişor and Manu, using an acacia branch. But in the end I had to run for it. I tripped over a pile of wooden stakes, and the police threw clods at me but missed.

  Later on I freed two of my fellow robbers, and I hit Robert in the back with a clod of dirt as he was bending down to tie his bootlaces.

  In the evening there was a big meal. But I fell asleep quite early, because I’d been made to drink numerous glasses of red and white wine. The others stayed up till dawn. There was no shortage of girls, but the boys took little notice of them, because Morariu’s father was never far away.

  * * *

  14tea-rooms: In English in the original text.

  15‘Lalescu Scale’: In 1924, teachers in Romania demanded a 30% increase in academic salaries, significantly higher than those on the existing ‘Lalescu Scale’ of remuneration. Protests ensued.

  16must: new wine.

  The Editor

  Determined to get the money that I was owed by the literary review run by Mr Leontescu, on the pretext of having ‘family matters’ to attend to I was allowed to miss the third period, which was gym. I rushed home and took off my tunic and cap. Mr. Leontescu thinks I’m a student. It is on this that I pin my hopes. The editor of this literary feuilleton – as well as the newspaper that publishes it – is very kindly disposed towards students. We’ve spent long hours together, bewailing the woes of university life. As far as Leontescu knows, I’m studying literature, which is why he bores me with advice about my future career as a journalist. Sometimes he says I’m sure to follow in his footsteps.

  As I walked up the mirror-lined staircase I felt rather nervous. Yet it wasn’t timidity or fear. I was accustomed to knocking on publishers’ doors, walking hesitantly towards a man behind a desk and asking in a hushed voice if I could speak to the editor-in-chief. And I’ve had some modest success. One evening, on hearing my name, a man gave me a friendly smile and shook my hand warmly. I was so touched that I didn’t have the courage to ask if I’d be paid for my articles. I asked him a week later, however, and was greeted with the same warm handshake.

  On another occasion, the editor praised an article of mine that he had published on the front page. I smiled proudly for the entire time he was talking to me. But even then I didn’t get a penny. He told me that the magazine’s sales were down, that money was tight, and that he himself was barely able to live on what the director paid him. Yet this editor was elegantly dressed and was always buying French books.

  I first met Mr Leontescu last summer. He published everything I sent him in large white envelopes. Occasionally I wrote to him, telling him about my difficult life and leading him to believe that I was a penniless student who he might be in a position to help. I tried to sound despondent. I put all my efforts into writing doleful letters, which I signed with my full name and address. And then, filled with trepidation, I would wait for a whole week. The editor published all my articles, one after another. And yet no reply arrived, either at my house or via the publisher’s internal mail.

  At one point I went into detail: for the twenty articles that he had published so far, I asked five hundred lei – ie: twenty-five lei per article. It wasn’t much. Plus I offered him other articles I was working on, for the same price. Not only that, I offered him numerous pages of comments for free.

  As usual, several weeks passed. The fact that I could remain so calm began to torment me. So I decided to pay the editor a personal visit.

  I finally got to meet him this summer. I came across him in the editorial office, smoking idly among piles of newspapers. He had a narrow, furrowed brow, and shrewd eyes behind a pair of thick-lensed glasses. He greeted me enthusiastically. He didn’t offer me a seat, but praised my articles about Romani Rolland. In my opinion these were my worst. He said he liked my ‘broad horizons’ and ‘the way I expressed myself’. He spoke in short bursts, blinking continually. He told me that my contribution had become indispensable to the review. Then he introduced me to a gentleman who had come in later, and who shook my hand somewhat distantly, without getting up from his chair.

  But I failed to mention anything about payment. Nonetheless, the editor asked me to drop in and see him whenever I had a moment. I promised I would. And naturally I also promised him more articles.

  A few weeks later I paid him another visit. His glasses were lying on the desk, and he was scratching his head. He gave me a withering look; I had disturbed him. So yet again I didn’t dare ask about payment. When I left he shook my hand and wished me luck with my work. And I promised him more articles.

  But I didn’t lose heart. I knocked on the door of the editorial office one Friday evening, when I knew he would be alone. He was correcting the leading article: ‘Delighted! Delighted!’ I waited until he had finished. Then he looked at me in a kindly way, and asked how I was getting on with my study of the Orient. Enthusiastically I told him about my reading and my plans. The editor seemed interested. He smiled. So I came straight to the point, with a calmness that took me by surprise. The editor hesitated, and wiped his glasses with his handkerchief. I looked him in the eye, and could feel my cheeks blazing. Then he broke the silence in the most pusillanimous way. He promised that he would speak to the director. He said that my articles were really ‘good’, that he liked my ‘broad horizons’ etc etc. That he would keep reminding the director. That he understood my situation. But what else could he do? The director made all the decisions, he himself was of no importance. Then we shook hands rather half-heartedly.

  I haven’t seen him since.

  *

  But then today, during the gym period, I walked up the mirror-lined stairs once again. I’m a well-known figure in the corridor that leads to the editorial office. The doorman knows me, as do the doorman’s two assistants, and the attendant who sits on a bench against a wall and asks whoever walks in: ‘How may I help you, sir?’

  Today, however, he wouldn’t let me into the editorial office.

  ‘May I ask your name, sir?’

  I told him in a dignified, sonorous tone. He went into the editorial office. I could just make out a few words, and recognized Mr Leontescu’s voice. I prepared my opening remarks: I was sure he would see me immediately.

  ‘Mr Leontescu asks if you wouldn’t mind waiting for a few minutes.’

  I sat on the bench. I tried to look blasé. In fact I could barely control my feelings of disappointment. The attendant sat next to me, quite calmly. And I began to plot a terrible and exquisite final revenge.

  I imagined myself as a famous young man, the author of numerous published works, his picture in all the leading literary review
s. I would walk right past Ilie Leontescu in the street. Just as I was about to quench my thirst for vengeance, my thoughts were interrupted by a stupid question from the attendant. I remembered I was here to visit the editor and frowned. I tried to calm myself. The editor was probably writing an article that couldn’t be delayed. Or he had to check the final proofs. Silently I counted to fifty. I stopped. I would count to twenty, and then I would knock on the door.

  ‘Nineteen...’ between nineteen and twenty there was a long pause. I stood up.

  ‘Twenty.’ I walked in. The editor was gazing absent-mindedly out of the window. The room was hot, and he was in his shirt sleeves. At another desk, a man who looked half-asleep was listlessly translating something from a book with yellow covers. ‘Good morning’, I said loudly.

  Curious, the editor stared at me. Then he recognized me and held out his hand. He asked me to sit down, something he had never done before.

  ‘Please, have a seat.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Subdued, I walked over to him. In his shirtsleeves he looked like an inoffensive sort of man.

  ‘What did the director say, Mr Leontescu?’

  ‘The director?’

  He have me a puzzled look from behind his glasses.

  ‘What was the director supposed to say?’

  ‘You know... You promised.’

  It was only then that the editor realized who I was. He frowned, and ran his hand over his forehead. Again he asked me to sit down, and looked at me sadly. I understood. I decided to have it out with him once and for all.