There must be something incurably civilian inside me, which military people find irritating by instinct. Otherwise I cannot explain Lieutenant Neguti’s obvious dislike for me; it reminds me of the antipathy shown by Captain Keicik in 1932.
In principle I am supposed to have afternoons off (by written order of the colonel). But the lieutenant has done everything he can to cancel in practice this rather favorable dispensation. On Tuesday because of firing practice, on Wednesday because of night exercises, on Friday because of more night exercises, I had to stay the whole day (and night) in Mogosoaia. It seems, however, that the major has been ordered by the colonel to make sure I am free in the afternoon—which seems to have put the wind up Neguţi. Let’s hope I won’t have any incidents before discharge day.
I am quite good with a gun. On Tuesday morning, at Cotroceni, both my “random” fire and my “precision” fire were satisfactory. Just think, I felt a little proud!
On Wednesday morning I was on guard duty from six till one, at a bridge over Lake Mogosoaia. (I found it rather amusing that I was acting as sentry on the lands of Martha Bibescu. Twice her husband drove over the bridge, just a meter away from me.)
I don’t quite know what I was guarding there. (No one in the army quite knows what they are guarding.) Maybe I was guarding the lake and the forest from poachers. “Entering the forest, fishing and bathing strictly prohibited. Prince G. V. Bibescu.” What I find really amusing in that notice is the signature.
Seven hours of guard duty—that’s seven hours of loneliness, without a book in your hand, without writing paper, without the right to smoke, without the possibility of sitting down. I don’t know if I have ever felt the hours dissolve so slowly, pass me by and pass through me, then vanish somewhere into nothingness. I said to myself: it is the morning of 31 May 1939, six o’clock, seven o’clock, eight o’clock—this day, this hour, will never exist again.
To pass the time I tried to make a kind of recapitulation of my musical repertoire. I “mentally” searched for the phrases lodged in my memory. But at that time I was unable to recollect the short phrase in Schumann’s cello concerto that had followed me for a whole year.
In fact, my memory for music is execrable. The only thing I know reasonably well is the Kleine nachtmusik. Sometimes I can recall a few motifs from the piano concerto I gave Leni for the New Year. Also a phrase from The Marriage of Figaro. That’s all I remember from all my Mozart. As to Beethoven, I think I accurately know only two themes from the violin concerto, a phrase from the Kreutzer Sonata and one from the Ninth Symphony (associated with a typical gesture of Georgescu’s that helps me recall it). Otherwise, only isolated fragments that come to me quite by chance, and which I never know where to place. From Bach, a single aria from the St. Matthew Passion and the beginning of the violin concerto in A; the rest is lost in oblivion. Strangely enough, I feel the presence of certain pieces (for example, Franck’s Sonata or the beginning of his Symphonic Variations, Reger’s Variations on a Theme by Mozart, Schumann’s Fourth Symphony, Brahms’s Violin Concerto, or Lalo’s Symphonie Espagnole). It is as if I see their outline, their contours, their shape—yet it is impossible for me to recall them.
At yesterday’s medical visit (an anti-tetanus jab I couldn’t get out of ), a second lieutenant from another company called me over and, quite irregularly, introduced himself first:
“I am a reserve officer. By profession I am a schoolteacher, in Sibiu. I have read your work for many years. I am happy to meet you; please allow me to shake your hand and congratulate you.”
I listened all the while standing at attention. I was more embarrassed than happy. I have begun to distinguish almost instinctively between my civilian life and my army life—and this incident seemed to confuse the two.
A lot could be said about the men in my company. The ones I like most are simple people not on special reduced-length service: Sergeant Plăcintă Gheorghe, for example. Those who irritate me, on the other hand, are the ones known by the almost regulation term “Bucharesters”: that is, smart kids, always talking and joking, with more than a little guile. (Guile is the only basis of distinction in the barracks.)
I still wonder what Antoine Bibescu wants from me. Maybe he thinks I could be a kind of agent for his plays in Romania; that I could place them and get them performed. The day before last, when I dined with him and his wife at the Capşa, he almost suggested ceding me all royalties on a play of his, Jeux d'enfants (“et de vous intéresser aussi à sa carriere européenne’1), if I would agree to translate it and place it with someone like Sicâ. I agreed in principle to translate it—but I firmly rejected his monetary proposals.
Anyway, I think he is completely wrong about my potential as an “agent.” He doesn’t know how lacking I am in contacts and influence, nor, above all, how little the theatre interests me. I am all too well aware that his friendly overtures (nearly every day I receive from him a message, a book, an invitation . . . ) represent not an intellectual interest but an interest tout court—though I don’t yet know exactly what it is. His offer to get my “Proust’s Correspondence” published in the Nouvelle revue française may therefore be no more than a tactical act of friendliness out of which nothing is likely to come.
Nevertheless, for someone defter than I am, someone more enterprising and more adroit (for I am disastrously maladroit), relations with the Bibescu household could well be of practical interest.
Sunday, 11 [June]
I am a civilian again. But my last day on call-up was so irksome that it cast a pall of loathing and disgust over the whole period. I had no idea that the “handing over of weapons” could become a tragedy. There I was, already in civilian clothes in the regimental yard, walking with weapon in hand from the company to the armory and back again, dozens of times, to convince either the major in charge of the armory or the lieutenant that the rifle barrel was not rusty and could be “taken back.” When I left there, I no longer had the strength to whistle with relief. From the whole business I shall preserve a sense of misery and decay. Nor can I at least say that I am glad to be back in my civilian life. I am completely penniless, alone (I don’t see or want to see anyone), with no desire to work or do anything. Who knows, maybe a few days of Balcic could put me back on my feet.
Tuesday, 20 [June]
On Sunday I was at Grozăveşti—in Romanati—for the funeral of poor General Condiescu.2 It is so hard to accept the death of someone I have known. And the passage from life to death always seems to me so absurd, so disarming!
I owe quite a lot to the general—including my position at the Foundation, which doesn’t help me live but doesn’t let me die. So many other people, rich or poor, who claim to be my friends (Roman, Blank, Ralea, Bibescu . . .) have done nothing for me, whereas “Squire” Nicu—perhaps in memory of the Cuvântul years, perhaps out of real literary sympathy (as he often said)—always made me feel I could rely on him. Now that he’s gone, I feel great affection for that honest, sentimental man, a little muddled but kind and upright.
From Grozăveşti I went with Rosetti and Camil to Cîmpulung, where we stayed the night. On Monday morning we drove up the Rîul Tîrgului valley to the foot of the Iezer. We were in the middle of the forest, alone, with the odor of fir trees around us and no sound other than the water. I wished I could stay there and never return.
Serious money problems. I don’t know how I’ll solve them, how I’ll pay the rent, where I’ll find the money to go off somewhere and write.
Wednesday, 21 [June]
A fortnight ago, Suchianu told me that Nae Ionescu had “begged” Armand Calinescu to grant him an audience,3 and that, when he was given one, he “threw himself on his knees” and asked pardon for all he had done.
The story sounded idiotic, and I didn’t even bother to remember it.
But now I have heard through Mircea that Nae was indeed in Bucharest, that he did have a very heated conversation with Armand, though Armand apparently remained quite calm and restrained, wh
ereas Nae lost control of himself. They were due to have another talk the next day, but it was canceled on orders from above and Nae was actually sent back to Ciuc during the night. At the moment he is in Brasov, in the hospital.
I can’t be sure where the truth lies. But what I gather from all this is that the poor professor—far from calmly awaiting “the unfolding of events” (which would have meant that he still believed in his destiny)— is struggling to find a way out of the impasse in which he finds himself.
How terrible is that man’s fate. I can’t help thinking very often about him.
Tuesday, 27 [June]
Two days in Balcic. I came back yesterday evening. For two days at least I was able to think about nothing, to forget that I am broke, to forget my rent, the landlord, and so on.
But now I am back, I wonder how I can escape this tight corner. I shudder at every sound of the lift, every footstep in the hall outside: is it not perhaps the landlord, or the doorman, or someone from the block administration, to demand the rent that fell due yesterday?
I would need to find fifty thousand lei—but from where? from where?
I am very lonely. I haven’t seen Zoe for a week, and my mind is made up not to see her again. She rang this morning, but I think she will understand and give up. It’s better for both of us—and in any event it’s better for her.
Leni left yesterday morning, while I was away in Balcic. Anyway, we hadn’t met at all over the past month. There is no longer any talk of love between us.
I’m not sad. I am lonely. I don’t expect anyone, or anything. To feel I am doing something, I read Sadoveanu with the thought of writing the first chapter of my critical work for the Foundation. I don’t even know whether I shall write it; or even whether I shall read all the books I have collected. Time is passing, passing—and nothing more can happen in my life.
Friday, 7 July
Plagued with money troubles. (I made some 25,000 lei last week, with God knows what fretting, what anxiety, what rushing around, but, of course, hardly anything is left of it and I haven’t even paid the rent in fall.)
I am exhausted, as in my worst days in the past. My eyes worry me, in particular. I can’t read for more than half an hour without a tired feeling in them.
I am overwhelmed with things that I let drag on and am unable to complete; there are a thousand intricate matters at court (including an appeal deadline that out of indolence I let slip—I don’t make a good lawyer!); a host of things to be written for the Foundation, for Viaţa,4 for Muncă şi voie-bună, for Independent—all postponed from day to day; and a mass of urgent reading that frightens me. Rarely have I felt more shattered, more drained, more gloomy.
And yet, amid the giddiness of the past two weeks, I feel literary projects bursting out almost in spite of myself, ever more necessary, ever more imperious.
Since I have been reading Sadoveanu (only five volumes so far, unfortunately), my book on the Romanian novel has begun to be more than a chore. I am sure it will be a pleasure to write. But when?
Accidentul cannot go on being a problem. I must either finish it during a month’s holiday or else give it up forever. It’s absurd to think that this little book has kept me at a standstill for two and a half years. I had no right to invest so much time and nervous tension in a book which, without any play on words, is becoming a kind of personal “accident.”
I feel this all the more sharply now that I can glimpse a major novel of many hundred pages, with many characters and a broad compass. On Sunday I kept thinking of this book as I climbed Piatra Mare (a moment of intense emotion at the Seven Steps), and now, when I am in the street or on a streetcar, I see all kinds of incidents that branch out and join together.
1) Margit/director Hellmann—departure from Oradea, car journey through Romania—nights in hotels in various provincial towns. A stay in the Pension Wagner. Rendezvous, departure for Gheorghieni.
2) An actress—the Lilly type, but with the reputation of Marioara Voiculescu. In love with a young man, a shady character. Scenes at theatrical rehearsals. Departure on tour. They are due to meet in a certain town. The boy doesn’t show up. In despair she goes to Bucharest, searches for him, abandons the tour.
3) The young man in love with Margit has secluded himself in the Pension Wagner for political reasons. (You can see Georoceanu’s ascent in Cristianul Mare, when the police were looking for him in Brasov.)
Saturday, 22 [July]
Scorching days, stifling nights. I won’t leave Bucharest even for a day, because I want to go away for a whole month next Saturday (probably to Stîna de Vale), and until then I shall spend every free hour on a translation I am doing for Biblioteca Energia. It’s a biography of Lincoln, not too big, not too hard, but it goes rather slowly. Still, I translate without difficulty, and I am almost no longer surprised at what might be some kind of record: to be a translator from English after just six months. Once again Rosetti was my savior. The ten-thousand-lei advance on the translation helped me pay off part of the rent, and the final fifteen thousand lei—for which I shall ask even if I don’t finish everything by Friday—will take care of the month’s holiday.
My health is worrying, unstable, full of strange turns. A sustained effort of a few hours is enough to wipe me out. Yesterday evening, when I went out at nine (in this deserted, sun-baked Bucharest), I felt at my last gasp. Fortunately I had eight hours’ sleep—the first such night since I don’t remember when.
I ought to ask a doctor, but I don’t have the courage. Maybe in the autumn, if I somehow get to Paris.
Since I have had Mozart’s Concerto in A-flat here with me (Leni left it when she went away), it has become daily more beautiful. The andantino is one of the purest, saddest, and most limpid pieces in the whole of music.
Yesterday afternoon Petrica from Brăila came to offer me—just imagine!—a “deal” from which I could make 30,000 to 35,000 lei. While waiting for a telephone call, I put on the Mozart concerto for him—and since we both felt moved as we listened, I suddenly glimpsed a possible scene in my future novel: a businessman, precise, exacting, and unscrupulous, but also very intelligent and sensitive, makes a strike, and as he waits (the waiting should be intense, maybe full of risks or even dangerous, but apparently calm) he plays some Bach on the gramophone.
The hero could be a kind of Mihail Mircea, with elements of Wieder and Blank—if I don’t use Blank for a completely different character.
Moreover, since I was talking with Petrica yesterday about Judge Doiciu, I thought of creating room in my novel for a great legal tussle, which might even form the pivot of the action. Doiciu could then serve as my model for a certain type of judge.
But the possibility of war still impinges on all this. It may even break out in August, though by now we are too tired to await it in a state of alarm.
On Thursday evening I had a meal in a garden restaurant on Strada Calarasi with Mircea, Nina, and Giza. It was like the best times of old.
Sunday, 23 [July]
In a deserted Bucharest, depopulated, shuttered, burnt by invisible white flames, I translate and translate.
Last night, with all the doors and windows flung wide open, there was not the faintest breath, not the most distant murmur in the whole house or perhaps the whole city.
And yet I manage to keep going. I even feel fresher than I did a while ago—maybe it’s the thought of leaving at the end of the week that encourages me.
Sunday, 30 [July]. Stîna de Vale
I didn’t leave Bucharest: I fled. After a day of rushing around, I packed in fifteen minutes, jumped into a taxi with my suitcases not properly closed and my overcoat and gabardine fluttering behind me, arrived at the station two minutes before the train’s departure, and raced madly to my carriage (followed by the porters, who picked up everything I dropped: one my left glove, the other my right). When the train pulled out I felt completely dazed. I couldn’t believe I had made it.
Last night I slept nine hours, without waking u
p once. When did such a miracle happen to me last? Of course, I still don’t feel rested. How many nights will I need to catch up on my sleep and become normal again? For the moment I am incapable not only of writing but even of thinking about writing. In principle I shall allow myself a week of holiday. Then we’ll see.
This morning I went for a trip in the mountains with Comşa. We walked for nearly five hours, up to some rocky peaks that the local papists have named Golgotha, but which must be called something else by the peasants.
My room is clean, white, and luminous, with a view over the whole glade that constitutes Stîna de Vale proper. “You have a room with a fine view,” said the boy who helped me move my things from Room 47 (where I slept last night) to Room 43 (where I’ll be from now on). Beate Fredanov is staying in Room 45—an honest, pleasant girl who won’t get in my way, I hope. The road from Stîna de Vale station up to here is served by an indescribable “shuttle bus.” There is also a forest train, which is worth every penny.
Wednesday, 2 August
I am still on holiday. After a few exploratory walks (Aria Vulturului, Muncei Custuri), and after a longer trip to Golgotha, I went on a proper excursion yesterday to the source of the Somes, or rather to Cetatea Redesii, a huge cave through which the Some? passes still warm. I left at seven in the morning (with Fredanov, Comşa, and Furnarache) and returned at eight in the evening—ten hours of walking, three of rest. It is a splendid region, where each turn of a corner opens up new countryside, different mountains, valleys, and forests.
Some color is coming back into my face, my eyes are less tired, and my brow looks less of a wreck than when I arrived.
Journal 1935–1944 Page 28
