“No, it won’t,” Rebreanu replied, “because we’ll give it an anti-Se-mitic interpretation.”
“And he wrote Iţic Ştrul dezertor,” Camil added.1
Tuesday, 5 January
I have reread Hedda Gabler. (I think it’s fifteen to seventeen years since I last read a play by Ibsen. I had a strange passion for him in my youth: I knew almost by heart Rosmersholm, Brand, The Wild Duck, and so many others, which I probably didn’t understand but read five, six, ten times.) In the first two acts I find Hedda irritating. My sympathy goes out more to the simple characters in the play: to Thea, to the old aunt, even to the mediocre Tesman. Hedda is just mean, tense, and egoistic. But Acts Three and Four give her an intensity and depth that go beyond the others’ likable honesty. While reading the play I thought of my own novel, whose first chapter features a tour in the provinces with Hedda Gabler. In this respect my reading was unexpectedly useful, because it suggested a lot of ideas to me. My poor heroine is a very good interpreter of Hedda, but she does not understand the work and is terribly afraid of the character she plays.
Can I start work on the novel before I finish off my outstanding theatrical projects? Is it not more sensible first to get Insula out of the way and then to write “Freedom”? I think it is—and again I make promises to myself in this spirit. This evening I seem to have come up with some solutions for the second act of Insula, and to have found a taste again for working on the manuscript.
Dr. Kahane went to Alice Theodorian’s the other day to pass on some terrible information. “Madam, I must speak to you about a very grave matter. I have heard that Sebastian is an agent of the secret police. It has been drawn to my attention that he has a great deal of money (where from, no one knows), that he lives in extraordinary luxury and makes incredible purchases.” His very words!
Thursday, 7 January
This evening the subject for a play occurred to me out of the blue. Another subject. How many does that make? Not counting “Alexander the Great” (but counting Insula), it makes four—or rather, five, because I have asked Celia Serghi to work with me on a drama of the Manolescu-Marioara Voiculescu type, and have even drafted a scenario for it. The comedy that popped up yesterday seems to me a charming idea: ingenious, lively, witty. I have written the whole scenario, in considerable detail, for Act One. The other two acts are less clear, but it has started so well that there are great possibilities for the plot to develop. I am now at a crossroads: either I move toward a sentimental comedy; or, with a little courage and lack of scruple, I can head straight for a situation comedy, if not an outright farce (which I unfortunately don’t think I am capable of writing). I’m not quite sure what to do, but in any case I don’t want to leave it as a mere project. I want to sell this scenario. (Quickly, before I get too fond of it; quickly, while it is still something alien.) I want it to earn me quickly several tens of thousands of lei, so that for a while I can get out of my great financial difficulties. (Today I have two hundred lei left in my pocket, and I drew my January salary from the school before Christmas.) If Nicuşor gives me fifty thousand, I’ll propose that we immediately write it together. If not he, then Sică.
Tuesday, 12 January
The night of Thursday to Friday was the kind of feverish night that usually follows my first vision of a book or play. I tossed and turned almost until morning, besieged by ideas, solutions, questions—and it seemed that I was finding an answer to everything, with magical ease. The play grew, filled out, became urgent, demanded to be written at once. The next day, Friday, was equally agitated. First I rang Nicuşor, to tell him without delay of my proposal. The plan was simple: to make the scenario tend toward farce; to eliminate elements of poetry, delicacy, subtlety, etc.; to draw everything in a burlesque direction. The man’s role would suit Beligan,2 and I would write the woman’s with Nora Piacen-tini in mind. I would ask Nicuşor for fifty thousand and we’d get straight down to work, so that the play would be finished in three to four weeks and rehearsals could begin at once (there being a slot at the Sârindar after La petite chocolatière). I couldn’t get through to Nicuşor, and it was impossible to get hold of Nora’s or Septilici’s3 number. I went to look for them in town, but then the front cover of the recently published Cortina caught my eye in a kiosk opposite the post office: Tudor Musatescu, it seems, is under contract to write a comedy in seventeen days for the Sărindar Theatre, in collaboration with V. Timus, with Nora Piacentini in the leading role. What a blow! But the blow was even greater when I learned from the text of the report that the first act of Musatescu’s play would take place “in a corner of North Station.” The coincidence infuriates me, or actually depresses me. My first act is set on the platform of a small provincial station, on the Sinaia to Bucharest line. All the rest is quite different, of course, but nevertheless . . . I felt with irritation that it really is necessary to do things quickly and energetically, while there is still time (if there is still time).
I rang Sică (why?), tried Nicuşor again, and went to the Sărindar in the evening to see the actors in performance, hoping that I would be able to check my first sketch of the roles. But I did more—what a stupid mistake! Not only did I tell Şeptilici that I had a scenario for Nora (which was already premature, because it committed me to the plot line), but I said I was determined to write it with him, Septilici. I am so angry with myself for this lack of tact.What a babbler I am! How little self-control I have! With a couple of words I shut off all my possibilities. Since then I have tried every way of wriggling out of it, but it’s no use. I get pointlessly entangled in all sorts of lies from which I cannot escape. I and my scenario are the prisoners of a gaffe. For a moment I thought I might yet save the scenario by showing him “Alexander the Great” or even Insula in its place. But no! That’s impossible. I’ll have to give it to him tomorrow evening. I say “give” because I feel that the simple act of communicating will alienate it from me. The same would have been true if I had communicated it to Nicuşor, but at least I would have had a chance of earning some money. I am beyond forgiveness.
Wednesday, 14 January
Both Piacentini and Şeptilici thought my scenario “fantastic” when I read it to them last night. Both see it being a great success. Both prefer the farce option (they even want music, if that’s what there has to be). What will remain then of my play? Nothing. But at least if I can write it quickly, and have it put on quickly, and score a great success that brings in a lot of money fast, I won’t feel too bad about it. I am so cornered by poverty that I’ll write anything for the theatre if it makes me some money. But I won’t even have that compensation. They are off on tour until the 15th of February, so we can begin writing only when they return. This means that the play could not be performed earlier than June or July, perhaps even next autumn. I am losing interest in the whole thing. I consider the scenario lost and have put it into a drawer along with so many other useless papers.
I have now copied out Act One of Insula and will try to press on with the rest. The first half of Act Two is very good, while the second half is easy to rework. If the tone is somewhat lightened and the pace quickened (through the introduction of a new character), it will be excellent. Act Three seems straightforward. But Act Four (because I am tending to go for four acts) remains unclear for the moment. I must force myself to work. I am lagging too far behind my projects, which are more plentiful than my poor output. I also think that a serious schedule will serve as a kind of penance for my curious blunder with Piacentini and Şeptilici.
But meanwhile, where can I lay hands on some money? Gradually I have been drawing more from school, my only resource: three thousand lei on Monday, seven thousand today. This will be enough for the present week—and then? A translation for Sică would be a salvation right now, but can I ask him so soon? I am also thinking of dashing off a farce for Birlic (I have stitched together a kind of scenario from here and there, but it’s not usable). In the best of cases, however, even that could not be staged before summer. I j
ust don’t know how I am going to make ends meet.
I have not followed the war this last week. I read the communiqués at random. They say nothing, but at least it is a nothing that has some special meaning. The Soviet offensive is being maintained. The Germans appear to be retreating from the Caucasus but holding firm in the Millerovo region. Amusing euphemisms sometimes allow you a glimpse of the situation. For instance, behind the description of the Kalmuck steppes and the Caucasus as “elastic zones,” one senses that Georgievsk, Piatigorsk, and other towns have been abandoned. But the general view of the war remains, I think, unchanged. With greater or lesser difficulty, with higher or lower casualties, the armies will remain locked together until the spring. This winter will not “overturn fate” either.
The streets are again filled with Jews clearing the snow. Classes 7 and 8 have broken off lessons. Everyone over the age of sixteen, except those with special papers, has been called up. But will these papers protect us for much longer? I hardly dare to think so.
Once again, a childish awe at the colossal power of the snow. It fell for twenty-four hours—from Saturday night to Sunday night—and the whole city was clogged with thousands of tons of the stuff.
I have again been reading a lot of Balzac. I regret not having the patience to make notes. Sometimes I am irritated by his style—a certain melodramatic sentimentality, a certain grandiloquence—but in the end the vigor of the creation carries you away. It is an extraordinary provincial gallery, with characters profoundly drawn as if by a more fiery and lucid Daumier. (What a lot I could say about Pierrette, which I read yesterday and today!)
Monday, 18 January
The day before yesterday, at a private gathering at the French Institute, I listened to the whole of Pelléas et Mélisande on twenty crystal-clear disks. It was twelve years since I had heard Pelléas, and I seemed to enjoy it more in this rediscovery. At the opera the whole stage apparatus had weighed the text down, covered the music, and accentuated everything incidental. What a strange piece it is! A long recitative lasting four hours, with diffuse tuneless music, like a dull, filtered sound-light. I think I shall go there tomorrow afternoon, when they are playing it again.
The offensive on the Russian front seems to be growing sharper at each of its central points. Recent German communiqués, while reporting that attacks have been repelled with heavy Russian losses, indicate less vaguely than before the seriousness of the situation. “Attacks launched with numerically superior forces.” At Stalingrad, “our troops have for several weeks been waging a heroic defensive struggle.” “The enemy is attacking on all sides.” “Powerful enemy attacks.” “Fierce fighting.” “Hard defensive battles.” “Massive new enemy attacks.” Today, on top of all this, there was an ingeniously euphemistic new formulation: “mobile defense.” For the last two to three days a new offensive seems to have come from Voronezh, and the elastic zone has now expanded as far as Millerovo. Rostov is under attack from nearly every direction—but is it conceivable that it will fall?
Using a reworked scenario, I have written another scene in Act Two of Insula, but I can’t tell whether it is good or bad. I could simply eliminate it and make things even more straightforward. In principle the idea of someone drunk on aspirin seemed very funny. But as I wrote the scene, everything seemed to become false and far-fetched. As soon as I lose the right tone and a sense of “truth,” I no longer have any talent.
Tuesday, 19 January
In Russia, as in Tripolitania (where Montgomery resumed his offensive two days ago), we are witnessing “mobile defense.” The mobility has reached as far as Schlüsselburg in the north and Kamensk in the south, and in Tripolitania it probably extends beyond Misurata. I do not have any definite geographical details. Yesterday evening’s German communiqué is revealing in both style and tone, but it does not signal any actual facts: “In the south of the eastern front, the fierce winter battle that has lasted for two months is continuing with undiminished strength. . . . German forces in the Stalingrad region, who are fighting in the most difficult conditions, show firm perseverance and combat spirit in resisting powerful new attacks.”
Wednesday, 20 January
I am writing Scene 6 in Act Two, with a character who did not enter into my original calculations and came to me only the evening before last. So far it seems to me successful. I’ll see more clearly later on. I think the rest of Act Two will be straightforward. I should be able to finish it in three to four hours of work, especially as I’ll be using some material from the first draft.
“The Stalingrad island is under attack on all sides,” says the Berlin correspondent of Universul in today’s edition.
Friday, 22 January
Two years since the Legionary revolt. The anniversary has passed almost unnoticed.
Gheorghe Nenişor is back after three years in France. He looks surprisingly youthful. The Titulescu inheritance has made him a very rich man; this is not obviously visible, but you can see it nevertheless. Wealth seems to change people physically, giving them a kind of heaviness, quietness, or physiological assurance.
I might translate another play for Birlic. It would come just in time, because otherwise I don’t know what I’ll do for money.
Saturday, 23 January
From yesterday evening’s German communiqué: “In the southern sector, the enemy is attempting to break through the whole front. . . [but is being driven] back at many points. In the eastern Caucasus, German troops have methodically retreated in the face of the enemy, as part of mobile battle tactics. The German force in Stalingrad is hemmed in by the enemy . . . fierce resistance . . . powerful enemy pressure [with] much larger forces . . . breakthrough from the west. . . a few kilometers into our positions. . . . At the great bend in the Don and in the Don Sector, the fighting is heavy and fluctuating. . .”
In Africa, Tripoli has fallen.
Sunday, 24 January
Finally completed Act Two of Insula. I may add a few things to the final scene when I copy it out, but the act generally strikes me as very good. Of course, it does not have the rapid pace of the first act (which maintains a racing allegro), but nor does it have the slowness of the first version. I would pass straight on to Act Three, but I have to deal with the translation for Birlic.
Thursday, 28 January
The translation for B. has taken up all my time. I haven’t had a breathing space even to note anything here. It is a silly farce, which I am translating mechanically and without any pleasure—What a Dirty Thing. I’ll try to force myself to finish it by Saturday and then return to Insula, as if with washed hands to something finally clean. I think with a little melancholy—not a lot—that I am capable of writing plays infinitely better than Jean de Letraz. But what’s the point? I am translating him, not the other way round.
“The major winter battle on the eastern front is continuing with undiminished strength and spreading to new areas.” So begins yesterday evening’s German communiqué. But it is a sentence that we find virtually unchanged in all the communiqués of the last ten days. The tone of the whole press (dispatches, commentaries, official communiqués, articles) is fundamentally altered. As if from a sudden turn of a starting handle, the optimistic style has given way to a style of grave concern. Before everything was “tant mieux”;now it is “tant pis.”4 The explanation, I tell myself, cannot lie only in the gravity of the situation (unless there really is a catastrophe—which in my view is not the case). Rather, I think that the main lines of the propaganda are being revised. Military setbacks usually lead to a political crisis—and we may be on the eve of one now. Such a crisis cannot be overcome through the trivialization of problems but rather through their dramatization. Hence the excess of pathos, after the previous excess of nonchalance. In any event, even for someone forewarned as I think I am, the real difficulty is to uncover the meaning of things amid this terrible chaos.
Monday, 1 February
The battle of Stalingrad is over. General Paulus, appointed marshal yest
erday, has ended all resistance today. A stunning chapter of the war is drawing to a close. No one in September would have ventured to consider today’s epilogue as a faint possibility, let alone to predict it.
For two or three days the German communiqué has regained some of its old optimistic style. It signals resistance, counterattacks, new initiatives, and successes, but one does not gather from it that the fighting is less intense. All the offensive thrusts are continuing.
On Saturday evening at Camil’s, I met a Legionary (the lover of Marietta Anca). It amused me to hear him talk about the war. I realized that, seen from the other side, things can even today have a different aspect. It is not the facts that count but the eyes that behold them (at least until things have gone so far that there is no longer room for different interpretations). In his opinion, nothing new has happened. The Russians will be annihilated in April (“the Führer said this to Antonescu”), or in July, or at worst in the autumn. The Germans are stronger than ever; their reserves untouched. They are developing formidable new weapons. Stalingrad will be recaptured very soon, perhaps in the next few days. . . .
There is in me something of the petty bourgeois, something of the low-grade functionary used to living on a pittance and childishly treating money with a ridiculous fear. I saw Gheorghe Nenişor in his room at the Athénée. A packet of Maryland cigarettes cost him 760 lei, a bottle of whisky 6,000. He seemed to be talking from another planet. One day, in my novel, I must write a lot about poverty and about money.
Journal 1935–1944 Page 66
