I should have taken her in my arms, kissed her, and said: Come to me tomorrow, Leni. She would have accepted without hesitation. The whole time I was there she made numerous little gestures of affection, of invitation, which I let drop or deliberately refused to understand.
I am more empty than sad—and I live because I once came into existence.
The last three days have been poisoned for me by serious trouble at the office [sic!]. I am not cut out to be an attorney—and if I were honest, I’d have to give it up altogether. But I don’t have the courage to break anything off, not even that.
Nor do I even know whether I shall be able to leave Bucharest on Thursday, though I have such a need to—not so much for the play as for myself.
Friday, 5 June
Bogoiu is in danger of becoming too subtle. That cannot be allowed to happen. He must retain a basic optimism, somewhat jovial and emphatic. His note of melancholy must appear, from time to time, out of a rather uncouth robustness and simplicity.
“I am walking with a compass in my pocket and searching for north. If I think about it, that seems to be the only thing I have ever really looked for in my life: the north.” Such lines—though I like them in themselves—cannot be Bogoiu’s. I shall definitely get rid of them and revive the tone of dullish heartiness that Bogoiu ought to have.
Perhaps to some extent he is a poet, but without realizing it.
As you see, I haven’t left Bucharest. Will I be able to tomorrow? I don’t know. The Pleniceanu affair is a terrible burden.1
Marietta told the Bulandras2 about the play, and it seems that both of them—especially Mme. Bulandra—are thrilled at the thought of acting in something of mine. But I won’t agree to give the part to Toni at any price (even at the risk of its not being performed at all). It would spoil everything.
The ideal interpretation would be Iancovescu, Leni, and Timică. If necessary, Iancovescu could be replaced by Vraca,3 and Leni—if absolutely necessary—by Marietta. Any other cast would completely foul up my experiment with the theatre.
Monday, 8 June. Breaza
I have finished the first act. I arrived in Breaza at four in the afternoon. By evening I had written three pages. Yesterday, seventeen pages. (I think that is a literary record for me. I don’t remember ever having written so much in one day.) Now finally, this morning, the last three pages of the scene with the mechanic—at last linking up with the final scene, which has been written for so long.
Decidedly, Breaza is proving more favorable to my play than anywhere else. It is true that, when I arrived the day before yesterday, I had already sketched everything in my head: scene by scene, almost line by line. But it is also true that in the same situation in Bucharest, I would have managed to write no more than fifteen pages in fifty days—whereas here, in less than two days, I have written twenty-three.
I think that Act Two would go well if I had ten free days at Breaza, working at the same rhythm. I see it very clearly, in great detail. . . . The serious difficulties and resistance will begin again only in the third act; it is the most unclear one at present—or rather, the only unclear one. But it too may become clearer as I write the second act.
I am content. I feel that I have made things simpler and am laying the first act aside with a workman’s satisfaction. I am not yet aware of its defects. There must be something: maybe a certain lack of unity in the tone. Most of all, I wonder whether the final scene—of which I am so fond—really blends with the first part of the act. And I don’t know whether it is too long. I also ask myself whether Leni’s constant presence in the scene is not tiring both for her and for the audience, and whether, for her to stand out in the major scene with Valeriu, she should not be taken offstage earlier for a few minutes, so that her, voice (when she returns) carries that touch of surprise that I think is necessary for theatrical dialogue.
I return this afternoon to Bucharest. If the Pleniceanu affair works out in court, I shall have another good stretch for literature and abandon chambers as soon as possible for this Breaza that is so well disposed toward me.
Bucharest, 11 June, Thursday
I am thinking of a book called “Behind the Scenes” that I could bring out in a year or two. I would put into it everything I have written in connection with literary creation, with working techniques, the writer’s life, the experience of publishing a book, etc., etc.
The idea came to me in Breaza when, having finished the first act of the play, I was amusing myself by rereading everything in this journal that refers to the play—from the evening I began to write it up to the present. What I noticed was that it is not without interest as a veritable “record of work in progress.”
The volume might comprise: i) The journal of Oraşul cu salcîmi—as it was once printed in Azi—and any additions since the novel appeared; 2) The journal of the play; 3) The series of articles published in Rampa under the title “Voluptatea de a fi scriitor” [The Delight of Being a Writer]—as written and, if possible, reworked, or, if not, completely rewritten; 4) My various polemics with Calinescu, Al. O. Teodoranu, Stancu, and Pandrea. (What a pity I tore up my reply to Lovinescu for Vremea.4 It would have fitted in so well here. I wouldn’t be able to write it again.) Also the article with Mircea Dem. Radulescu and whoever else; 5) My critics confronted and commented upon—especially Rosu’s article, to which I would add the note of 26 October from this notebook; 6) Various literary events and anecdotes that I have seen or experienced: for example, my passing through Sburatorul, the “duel” with General Vaitoianu, the incident with Lovinescu (the dinner jacket).
I think it could be an entertaining dossier, and the title strikes me as a happy choice.
The evening before last, I read the first act at Mircea’s. Apart from Nina and himself, Marietta and Haig, Maryse and Gheorghe were also there. I think they listened with pleasure and did not grow tired of it. (I realize that my hero annoys Mircea, and I know why. He thinks he is conceited, self-satisfied. But Mircea is mistaken, and I shall try to explain to him why.) I cannot know what they honestly think of the act. Of course, they told me they liked it. But anyway, the reading helped me: I saw the act complete and really had the impression that it holds up well.
I am still working out the details of the third act. I think I’ll use Jef here more than I originally intended. And I won’t create a love affair between him and Mrs. Vintilă—that would be too easy.
I have been rereading my note from last year, 11 June 1935. How stupid I was, and how miserable.
Am I less miserable today? No. But I am less stupid. I haven’t seen Leni for some ten days, et je me porte très bien, cher monsieur5 I am not really even dying to see her, and I wait rather lazily for the days to pass. One day I shall phone her—one sunny day. I have decided to act as if she is out of town, and the method is successful.
A distressed letter from Poldy. Why, oh why? We, on the Hechter side, are a family with a taste for lamentation. It’s true that life has done quite a lot to help me keep this up. But I ought to impose more self-control, more determination to be contented (as far as this is still possible for me).
Friday, 12 June
I am rereading Les faux-monnayeurs6 after ten years or so. How hastily I judged it! And how summary was my article of 1927 in Cuvântul! But I’ll wait until I have finished the book before revising my overall judgment of it. I shall try to develop what I think in an article for Revista Fundaţiilor.
For the moment let me just note one astonishing thing: the great, powerful similarity between Mircea’s Huliganii and Les faux-monnayeurs. Has no one noticed it before? Has not he himself noticed it? I shall ask him, but also after I have finished reading the book.
Monday, 15 June
On Saturday and Sunday I went to two football matches at O.N.E.F., together with Camil and his . . . Dragoş Protopopescu.7
It was rather embarrassing, especially as on the way out I had to get into Dragos’s car and even sit next to him in front.
I felt l
ike asking him: “Are you an Iron Guardist, or aren’t you? If you are, be one entirely.” (Without a doubt, I prefer the clear, implacable attitude of someone like Mota.8)
But he would be entitled to say in reply: “Are you a Jew, or aren’t you? If you are, don’t hold your hand out to me again, and don’t take mine when I hold it out to you.”
There should be—and it’s not the first time I say this to myself— there should be more intransigence, more rigidity even, in my life. I am too “supple”—and I utter this word with a touch of scorn for everything in me that is too accommodating.
Dragos P., who still thinks I am close to Nae, told me a funny thing (in fact, it is only to record it that I am writing this note).
“What’s with Nae?” he asked me, because we were just then driving down Şoseaua Jianu behind the professor’s home. “He’s having a hard time of it. He’s burnt his fingers with the Germans. They’ve been scheming against him. I heard from a very good source that Sân-Giorgiu9 took to Berlin a letter of Nae’s to Blank and showed it to a number of ministers there. Indeed, he seems to have been instructed by the King to do that; the King, who has the original of the letter, gave it to . . . Sân-Giorgiu to show to the Germans. Seicaru1 was also involved in the machinations, and he too has a photocopy of the document.”
I listened to all this with a curiosity that I tried to hide as best I could. I listened with a bored ear, so as not to put Dragoş on his guard.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t think . . .”
“Oh yes, I assure you: it’s very serious. But I want to have a word with Nae. He should be warned.”
Wednesday, 17 [June]
Two days (yesterday and today) stupidly wasted, because of the Pleniceanu business.
I went without eating at court yesterday until five o’clock, dizzy with hunger, nervous tension, and impatience. I pleaded well—and lost. I am a good speaker, but I shall never be a good attorney. The Bar amuses me: the adversary, the judges, the rising, questioning, slightly rhetorical phrases that I manage to come up with. And, silly as it seems, I like listening to myself. Just as I am bad at chitchat (my pathetic figure at a society gathering or a social visit!), I am good at public speaking.
But it is of no use to me. I could be a lecturer, not an attorney.
The whole of today wasted at Mrs. Pleniceanu’s waiting for the bailiff. And meanwhile so many things I love, or could love, are awaiting me. At least if one of them were . . .
I shall try to leave for Breaza on Friday.
Monday, 22 [June]
Hot, bored, endless troubles in court (still in connection with the Pleniceanu affair), no appetite for anything, except perhaps sun and love.
“Sun and love”—a perfect summary of my ideal of happiness. Yesterday at Snagov I saw the very image of such a life.
I was invited to eat at the home of Maryse’s mother, with her and Gheorghe. She has a magnificent villa. It’s like a little triangular toy, with dark brown walls and a red roof. White rooms, large and simple furniture, blue armchairs, many flowers, canvas chairs, a chaise longue, a small landing stage with two boats, a lawn, a sunshade, fishing tackle, quietness, water, forest. . . It was like a dream.
I went into the upstairs bedroom for a couple of minutes—and I dreamed I was installed there as master of the house, together with Leni on a holiday that had just started and would never finish. Am I so lazy? I don’t know. I am tired, rather, and I have a longing to be happy, what with everything inside me that has had to remain for so long idle, broken, disconsolate.
We went out fishing in the boat and stopped for a while at Snagov Monastery, so moving in its beauty. At the entrance to the nave there was a fresco with a remarkable group of women on the right; a shape so utterly surprising there. The first woman, her thigh draped in long material, had a voluptuous gesture of the leg that I would not have expected to find on the wall of a Romanian monastery. On the other side of the wall, in the church proper, an old scene (Descent from the Cross?) looks from the altar toward the exit, curious in the childish awkwardness of its perspectival errors. It reminded me of a painting by Zurbaran in the Louvre. (Not The Burial of Saint Bonaventura?) In a group, an old man raises his hand to his beard—a gesture enchanting in its secular expressiveness.
How many things to record last week! But I keep feeling disgusted with myself, and this journal still seems nothing more than a delusion.
The reception at the Blanks on Thursday evening caused me a drunken night. Perhaps my first joyful bout of drunkenness. And Maryse’s presence stimulated rather than discouraged me.
At two o’clock, as we were watching a cabaret show put on by the hostess, I said to Leni, who was “consenting” beside me:
“I’m really drunk. I remember only very few things from my past life.”
“For example?” she asked.
“For example, that I love you”—and her hand squeezed mine in a new lovers’ pact.
My two-week absence was, I can see, a good strategic device. I think she would be unwilling to lose me. And once again, if I wanted it, if I were capable of wanting it, everything would be extremely simple.
But I saw her again the next day at her place (kind, affectionate, loving, offering herself sincerely enough) and yesterday at the match. This once more gave her the assurance of being “strong”—proof that allowed her to become again inattentive, neglectful, and coquettish.
Right, sir, we’ll resume the strategy of silence. It’s the only game that still offers the possibility of success in this story.
I had a good time at the Blanks on Thursday evening. Horia Bogdan not only praised me to the skies about my advocacy on Wednesday, but made a terrible fuss about it to Mircea, Nina, Marietta, and everyone. (Leni told me several times to invite her along one day when I’m pleading in court.)
Even more amusing was the fact that Horia Bogdan told his wife all about my advocacy that very evening on their way home from the hearing. If I can believe him—that is, if they weren’t just nice words on his part—there seems to have been some discussion about me in chambers.
Well, what if there was?
I didn’t make it to Breaza, and I no longer think I shall have time to go. It pains me to note that the play is being left for the holiday months. But will I be free to leave Bucharest? And will I have enough money?
Only a period of getting away from it all, like that August in Ghilcoş, could pick me up again. I’ll wait and hope, as much as I am still capable of hope.
Wednesday, 24 [June]
Uproar and anti-Semitic assaults in court. (And two days before, I had been saying to myself that I should give up writing and do nothing but advocacy.)
We may be heading for an organized pogrom. The evening before last, Marcel Abramovici (Auntie Rachel’s one from Brasov) was knocked down in the street by twenty or so students, who then dragged him unconscious into the cellar of their hostel and only “released” him a couple of hours later, with a deep head wound, his clothing torn and bloodied.
Yesterday Sicu Davidovici was thrown into the stairwell of the Commercial Court. Marcu Leibovici was also beaten up: there’s someone who continues to follow his destiny—I think he was the one most often roughed up at university.
Yesterday evening there was a street-fighting atmosphere on Strada Gabroveni (I had been to see Carol Griinberg). The Jewish shopkeepers had lowered their shutters and were waiting for their attackers, determined to resist them. I think that’s the only thing to do. If we’re going to kick the bucket, we might as well do it with a club in our hands. It’s no less tragic, but at least not so ridiculous.
This morning Leni asked me on the phone not to go to court any longer; she said that she had worried about me the whole of yesterday. She seemed honestly concerned about my fate, and—why not say it?—that made me feel good.
I am reading Stendhal’s Journal and would like to be somewhere far away, very far away, without papers and news, but with a few classics—and a woman. Per
haps with Leni. Or someone less agitated, a more languid presence. . . .
I have been meaning for a long time—but have kept forgetting—to note here something I heard a week ago from Marietta. Apparently Paul Zari-fopol2 died in a woman’s arms, and that woman—believe it or not—was none other than Lisette Georgescu. I would never have imagined anything like that. I am more inclined to assume that the people I know are virtuous. Probably because of my lack of personal experience.
Thursday, 25 [June]
Camil Petrescu, whom I met this morning at the Capşa, was angry at my suggestion that the trial of the Craiova anti-fascists was out of control.
“Those people shouldn’t even have a trial; they should be sent straight off to prison for ten years, or twenty years. Don’t give them the chance to make Communist propaganda in court, with witnesses and lawyers.”
When we left the Capşa we went a few steps down the street and he repeated what he thought of the latest anti-Semitic attacks.
“It’s regrettable, old man. But all Jews have a responsibility for it.”
“How’s that, Camil?”
“Because there are too many of them.”
“But aren’t there even more Hungarians?”
“Maybe, but at least they’re all in one place, in the same region.” (I didn’t understand the argument, but I didn’t want to insist. What was the point of repeating the long conversation I had with him in January 1934? I am clear about him—and all he can do is depress me, never surprise me.)
He went on to say:
“My dear man, the Jews provoke things: they have a dubious attitude and get mixed up in things that don’t concern them. They are too nationalistic.”
Journal 1935–1944 Page 9
