Thursday, 26 [January]
Returned tonight from the Schuller, where I had gone skiing for five days. Too little time for an escape. But anyway, a respite. A deferment, a moment of pause. I tried not to think of anything, tried to forget. I knew it was not possible, but I tried to find at least some means of anesthetization.
And now comes the awakening?
Tuesday, 7 February
Lunch yesterday at Blank’s, with Monsieur de Norpois. In fact his name is “Comte de la Rochefoucauld,” but he is a typical Norpois. I was tempted to ask him if he has read Proust and if he is not struck by the similarity. It would have been an impertinence, of course, but I don’t think I was in any event very tactful in my conversation with him.
I didn’t realize at first that he was “Ambassador of the Order of Malta at the Court of Bucharest.” As he talked all the time of his diplomatic passport, I thought he must be in the French diplomatic service—and for that reason I was amazed at his violent hostility to the Socialists (especially Blum), his ardent support for Franco, his disdain for the Spanish Republicans, and the joy with which he awaited a “Nationalist” victory. Feeling something close to indignation, I reminded him that France would now have another frontier to defend. I think I was a little aggressive, a little irritating. I should learn to listen calmly and politely, without reacting in too sharp a manner. For God’s sake!—I should have learned that much at least from my knowledge of Proust. I think that La Rochefoucauld-Norpois would have “given away” much more yesterday if I had inspired his trust and if—not feeling me as an opponent— he had been at his ease. Maurice Turbé, in such a situation, would have made himself seem perfectly modest, surprised, admiring, and obedient.
But even so, the guy was entertaining. He is so much the “diplomat in retreat”! (His very position as ambassador of a fictional entity makes him overdo the mannerisms of a diplomat.)
He speaks about everything with an air of false modesty, but a sense of self-importance is exploding beneath it—as he condescends to initiate you into great secrets, unofficially and a little “incognito.” “Vous savez, mais je n'en sais rien; je suis d'une totale ignorance. ”4 And when he said “totale ignorance” he seemed to be inviting you to read a mass of great mysteries behind his smile.
Tittle-tattle from the Italian or Spanish court, stupid little trifles spoken with a touch of mystery and briefly underlined: “et vous savez, ça c'est déjà de l'histoire. ”5 A kind of comical respect tinged with familiarity for the great European dynasties. “Victor Emmanuel est un grand roi. ” “Don Juan est marié à une charmante Bourbon. Des gens très sérieux. ” “Lors de la marche sur Rome, Victor Emmanuel a agi en chef de la maison de Savoie.”6 And, talking about Mussolini’s first interview with the king, he added: “Je le tiens d'une personne qui était présente et qui n'était pas le roi.”7
Aderca—whom I met last night at the Sephardi circle, where we both spoke about Baltazar at a kind of “festive” soiree—told me that he deplores the death of Codreanu, who was a great man, a real genius, a moral force without equal, whose “saintly death” is an irreparable loss.
Leni comes all the time—and I call her and receive her all the time. I don’t know where this whole business will lead me—but I’m glad that I have her beside me and have not lost her. But later? What then?
Thursday, 9 [February]
Nina and Mircea came round the evening before last. It was as if nothing had happened, as if between us there were not a year to be forgotten.
There were lots of graphic details about his life in the camp at Ciuc, and especially about his companionship with Nae, whom he mentioned with such warmth that I suddenly felt a longing to see him. How I regret that I didn’t manage to see him before he was rearrested!
I have been learning English for the past three weeks. I bought my first book the other day, and I shall try to go through it syllable by syllable. Lawrence’s Letters. It’s premature, of course, but I should like to have an “Albatross” volume among my books.
Otherwise, all as before: that is, absurd, humiliating, and unbearable. I don’t know where I find the strength each day to drag along this wretched life of mine. Probably from laziness—my only strength.
Saturday, 11 [February]
Yesterday Camil was made director of the National Theatre. After his appointment, we dined together at the Continental.
I’m apprehensive about what he will do. I’d like him to succeed; it’s one of the few great chances he’s been offered.
Sunday, 12 [February]
I have decided to return to my novel. I want to complete it. It is absurd for me to leave it unfinished for so long. All my activity as a writer (but am I still a writer?) is at a standstill because of it.
Besides, I have no money and I don’t know where to find any. The spring rent will soon be due. If I can send the novel off to the printer’s, I’ll immediately have twenty or maybe even thirty thousand lei.
By working I will also—for a time, at least—find a meaning again in this wreck of a life. At least if writing can still be that for me—a refuge!
If necessary, I’ll shut myself up indoors—and if that’s too difficult (Zoe, Leni, the Foundation, the telephone, etc., etc.), I’ll go away from Bucharest. I must.
Today I reread the manuscript, which I quite enjoyed. The first thing to do is to knock the reconstituted part into shape. I must set aside my regrets and the feeling that the loss is essentially irreparable, that the reconstituted part is inadequate if not a complete write-off; set aside my sighs and misgivings (are these not another form of laziness?); set aside everything and get straight down to work on what has already been written. In a few days—two, three, certainly no more than four—I must be able to give a typist the six chapters I have already written. Then the rest will have to follow. I won’t allow myself more than a month for everything. The aim is for the book to come out in March!
It’s a solemn promise, a binding vow, a question of how serious I can be.
8 March, Wednesday
Marietta Sadova wants to take Jocul de-a vacanţa on tour from 8 April to i May.
Of course I can’t refuse (there’s no plausible reason or pretext I could give), but this surprising turn of events is frankly a nuisance. The money I might make from it is derisory. And what I could lose, though not grave, is certainly not pleasant. I’m not so attached to this play (especially now that its “career” is over, without glory!), but nor can I bear to see it hauled around the country with a troupe of ham-actors cobbled together from somewhere, in wretched halls either three-quarters empty or filled with free tickets issued through district prefects, residential homes, garrisons, and revenue offices.
There is something sad, disheartening, and promiscuous in such a business, and I’d have liked my name not to be associated with it in any way. I tried to persuade Marietta to choose another play—when she was here yesterday—but for the moment she is refusing. In the end, if obstacles of some other kind don’t emerge, I’ll probably have to resign myself.
Tuesday, 14 [March]
I had lunch today at Alice Theodorian’s, after a “break” of two months; it happened in the most comical circumstances (a few aspects of which might have been worth recording at the time). I was listening to her talk today when I suddenly glimpsed the whole network of relationships in which absolutely everyone I know is caught up, as if each of their lives were but a ramification of a common social life.
I need only take a single name or character, almost at random, to see how all the others are implied in his or her personal existence. From incident to incident, ramification to ramification, I start from Alice and arrive at Blank, Leni, myself, Lilly, Zoe, Maryse, Marie Ghiolu, Lupa, Nae, Mircea, Camil—and through Camil back to Alice, where the circle closes. But I can start again in another direction, another itinerary, drawing along other people and adventures, each with a certain autonomous importance, but always enmeshed in the same “system” of social relati
ons.
For the first time I have realized how large is the surface over which my life unfolds, monotonous and cramped though it feels to me. For the first time it occurred to me that what we put into a three-hundred-page novel is ridiculously insignificant in comparison with the huge number of things involved in the most ordinary of our gestures. It is enough to say a name—Celia Seni, for example—and dozens of people, dozens of comedies, dozens of adventures start moving in an infinite number of rotations.
If I were to write a novel containing all this material (which I seem to have seen only now for the first time, in its full extent), how many thousands of pages would I need?
Will life allow me to write it sometime, later on?
Marietta’s tour is off, for the moment at least. I think she understood the danger of setting off with a troupe of obscure actors, put together from various bits and pieces. For a few days she struggled to assemble a worthy cast: Soreanu as Bogoiu, Valentineanu as Ştefan; she was even prepared to ask Elvira to play Madame Vintila. But Soreanu is busy with Duduca Sevastitia, and Camil doesn’t want to hand over Valentineanu— so Marietta preferred to postpone the tour till October, when she hopes she will get them both.
For the time being, then, my disgruntlement of the other day no longer applies. As for the autumn, we shall see.
Monday, 20 [March]
The obliteration of Czechoslovakia has affected me as a personal drama. I was reading in the street an account of Hitler’s entry into Prague—and I had tears in my eyes. It is so abject and humiliating that it offends everything I have felt able to believe about people.
It would appear that—despite the denials in yesterday’s papers—Romania too received an ultimatum. For the moment it is being asked only to dismantle its industry and to revert to a strictly agrarian country supplying Germany alone, which would thus gain a monopoly on Romanian exports and imports.
If this is accepted, we shall have the Germans here by autumn at the latest. If it is not accepted, we shall have war in ten to fifteen days.
Meanwhile, Daladier and Chamberlain are making speeches in protest.
Everything seems grotesque. If you were watching from another planet, you’d feel like laughing. But like this . . .
Yes, it’s possible that there will be war this spring, and possible that I’ll die this spring in a trench somewhere.
Emil Gulian, with whom I spoke over the phone on Saturday, suggested that some of us get together and swear that whoever remains alive will edit the manuscripts left behind by the ones killed in battle.
I must confess that I am not particularly bothered about my manuscripts. What concerns me more are the books that I may no longer write—and especially this life, with which I have done nothing up to now.
Tuesday, 21 [March]
By tomorrow I’ll probably be a soldier. It seems that the whole of the Second Corps has been mobilized. I went with Cicerone8 to the Twenty-first Regiment (we are both part of it), and a captain who is a friend of his said that all the contingents from 1928 to 1938 have been called up. Only some of the call-up papers have been sent out, but it is almost certain that there will be no more than a twenty-four-hour delay.
This turn of events has caught me rather unawares. I have no money. How am I going to pay the rent? What will I leave at home for daily expenses? What will I take with me?
If I at least knew that they’d have enough to eat at home, I’d go off with my mind at rest. This evening I ate at home, played belote with Tata, tried (with some success) to make them think I was cheerful and untroubled. Mama could scarcely hold back her tears. “I haven’t had any joy in life,” she said. Maybe she’s exaggerating. But she hasn’t had any great joys, and not the one she always awaits: to see us married, with grandchildren of whom she can feel proud.
As far as I am concerned, I don’t want to make plans of any kind. It’s best if I leave with my eyes shut.
Thursday, 23 [March]
I report to the regiment tomorrow morning. I don’t want to give this excessive importance. It could be just a call-up from which I’ll return in ten or twenty days—and that’s it. Then I’d feel embarrassed to have blown up an unpleasant incident into a full-scale drama.
But there are other possibilities. It’s all so confused that anything could happen—even war. Personally, I don’t think it will come to war. France and Britain will rest content with speeches. Italy will get some kind of concessions. We’ll cave in. Germany will continue its southeastward march. I have a feeling that “le coup de la Tchechoslovaquie” will be repeated in exactly the same way. Who said we are living “in the midst of adventure”? This adventure has started to become monotonous. Everything is predictable, everything looks the same.
But there is still a “margin” for accidents. There is a chance—let’s say 5 percent—that the machinery will break down after all and war will be unleashed. In that case, my departure tomorrow will have been a real departure. I have to take some measures for any eventuality.
I’ll stop my journal here for the time being. Perhaps the most sensible thing would be to destroy it, but I don’t have the heart. I’ll seal it well and give it to Benu to put in Uncle Zaharia’s safe—or better, perhaps, in Roman’s office. That’s also where I’ll get him to take my manuscripts. I see I am calm enough still to think that they are of some importance. Maybe I’ll find them again one day.
Friday, 31 [March]
Although I have been free since Saturday evening, I haven’t got round to noting the ins and outs of my “discharge.” Two days spent in the rain, in the barracks yard, suddenly placed a value on my civilian life, and I felt that, if I ever regained it, I would know how to use it better and care for it more.
So here I am back—and nothing has changed. The same indifference, the same laziness, the same loss of sensitivity.
The Easter holidays will soon be here, and I’m afraid I’ll fritter them away, without going off anywhere and without doing any work.
Monday, 3 April
Two days in Sinaia, at Roman’s villa. The car journey was refreshing. It’s enough for me to see fields, trees, open skies, and I forget my absurd everyday life.
I read, slept, and lazed about. I return in the mood for work.
From one of Conrad’s letters to Galsworthy:
“I have begun to work a little—on my runaway novel. I call it ‘runaway’ because I’ve been after it for two years . . . without being able to overtake it. The end seems as far as ever! It’s like a chase in a nightmare—weird and exhausting. Your news that you have finished a novel brings me a bit of comfort. So there are novels that can be finished— then why not mine?”
Friday, 7 [April]
Good Friday! A glorious spring day. I’d like to spend it on a chaise longue, in the sun. This morning I had half a mind to leave for Balcic. I even went to Lares9 to ask for information. There’s a flight on Sunday morning and I could be back on Wednesday, without having neglected things at the Foundation. (If Cioculescu hadn’t been called up, if the Review hadn’t been left entirely in my hands, I would certainly not have let this holiday pass without going off somewhere to work. . . .)
I might still go away for the three days over Easter, but I’m not sure. I feel quite good alone at home. The telephone is keeping quiet and may leave me, if not to work properly, then at least to read, to write something, and to put some order into my papers.
23 April. Sunday
Today I read the first part of De douâ mii de ani (my usual habit of taking a book, at random from the shelf and not putting it down)—and it seemed very fine to me. Suddenly I saw myself in Paris, carrying a French translation of the book to someone or other—Benjamin Crémieux, René Lalou, Jean Paulhan, even Gide—and the idea didn’t strike me as absurd. I almost know what I'd say to them: “Lisez, monsieur, les premières 120 pages. J'ai l’impression qu’elles sont bonnes. Le livre est raté sur sa fin, mais il commence bien. Et de toute façon, je suis certain que, traduit en français
, il ne passerait pas inaperçu."1
In last week’s Curentul magazine, there is a highly laudatory article about Corespondenta lui Proust and myself, signed P.S. Who is P.S.? It seems impossible to believe, but it’s Pamfil Seicaru. I wasn’t sure whether to thank him or not. In any case, yesterday I sent him a few lines in the post— more because a violent attack on him had appeared in Azi, precisely for his article about me. But I don’t think my letter contained any platitudes, and certainly not anything overfriendly.
I am swamped with things to do. Revistă Fundaţiilor takes up a lot of my time, especially now, when I have to read and approve the page proofs. Moreover, being strapped for cash, I am translating a play by Jean Sarment for the National Theatre (Les plus beaux yeux du monde.)
Wednesday, 3 May
Two days in Balcic. I returned yesterday morning by plane. My journey there—on Sunday morning—had also been by plane. As usual, I stayed at Dumitrescu’s. I am getting to be a real old “Balcician.” I even stay at the same place: no longer at Paruşeff’s (he has sold his house, I was very sorry to hear) but at Dumitrescu’s.
I had three mornings there, all of which I spent at the sea. I return with a tanned face, as after a full holiday.
Of course, I no longer—or less and less—feel so awestruck at finding the same miraculous places in Balcic. I have grown used to them; they have lost their unfamiliar aspect. Nevertheless, there are moments when I tremble before them as before fantastic, fabulous, unimaginably distant apparitions. On Monday evening (alone with Cicerone Theodorescu) I went well beyond the Iunian villa and stood “in the moonlight,” with my eyes riveted to the sea, for one long hour as full as ten. Balcic has something that intoxicates me and tears me apart. I feel like lying on the ground with my arms outstretched and saying: “Enough, this is as far as I go.” I could remain like that for the rest of my life.
Journal 1935–1944 Page 26
