Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent

by Mircea Eliade

  15th September

  The retake.

  Emotions, heat, scornful words that that didn’t ring true, suppressed shivering and a headache because I went to bed at two-thirty after finishing Shchedrin...

  The written exam.

  I couldn’t remember anything. I didn’t know anything. I tried to fill the pages with ridiculous calculations.

  Dinu worked flat out. While, despite all their hard work, the others sat and stared at blank sheets of paper.

  It was a very easy question, according to what I was told. From the nearby hall came the footsteps of friends, classmates, total strangers, all waiting for us to come out and tell them: ‘How it went.’

  To stop myself from shivering with fright, I thought of Blasco Ibañez.

  And I stopped shivering.

  I saw a dead leaf that had settled on the window sill. And I thought about how cold it would be in the port of Constanţa during the autumn. While up in my attic it’s always warm in the autumn.

  I handed in my sheet of calculations. Vanciu looked me straight in the eye.

  Why didn’t he smile?

  At the blackboard.

  However would I remember anything?

  I gave a stupid answer. Or to be more precise, I didn’t answer, I just resigned myself to taking the chalk from my classmate, walking up to the board and either pulling a face or standing there looking like an idiot, depending on my abilities and the circumstances.

  Dinu ‘muddled through’ The others were like me. Whereas Mălureanu didn’t even bother to pick up the chalk. What an honest boy.

  Vanciu looked at us calmly, and wrote something on a piece of paper after each of our answers.

  ‘Go and sit down!’

  And that was the oral exam.

  I’m at home now, writing in my notebook. Just so people know.

  I feel sleepy and very shaken.

  18th September

  Vanciu is a God!

  He gave us a philosophical punishment: we all passed. A classmate who also had had to do the retake led us to understand that a female person had intervened on our behalf. But that doesn’t make Vanciu any less deserving of worship.

  One thing filled me with joy: I actually enjoy maths. It was only today that I realized this. It isn’t difficult: on the contrary, there are many amusing aspects to it. Starting this autumn I shall take mathematics seriously. So that’s settled. I’ve convinced myself that I have the willpower. An iron will, vast and infinite.

  I also now realize that I didn’t revise for the retake because I didn’t want to. If I had wanted to, I would have read nothing but maths books for fifteen hours a day. What stopped me was the thought of running away from home. But now I’ve changed my mind, it’s as simple as that. So I’ll be able to study maths.

  I’m going to relax for another two weeks and then I’ll devote myself to maths. Maths and German.

  Now I know who I am.

  * * *

  9Selma Lagerlöf... Blasco Ibáñez: Selma Ottilia Lovisa Lagerlöf (1858-1940) was a Swedish author and the first female writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. She is best known for her children's book, Nils Holgerssons underbara resa genom Sverige (The Wonderful Adventures of Nils). Vicente Blasco Ibáñez (1867-1928) was a journalist, politician and best-selling Spanish novelist whose fame in the English-speaking world is for the Hollywood films adapted from his works.

  Part II

  The Attic

  In the distance, beyond the greyish-coloured houses, you can just make out two poplar trees. Two old, world-weary poplars standing in a courtyard surrounded by iron railings. When the poplars turn green I know it’s springtime, and I say to myself: ‘See, spring is here...’ And I get up from my desk, open the window and look out at the street. Happy people are walking by and the sun smiles down at me. Whenever I look out of the window I’m faced with so many temptations... which is why I’m afraid to look out, so I settle down comfortably at my desk again.

  My little room is gloomy in springtime. I don’t mean it to be gloomy, that’s just how it is. Outside there’s plenty of sunshine and activity, and I can sense bees buzzing, trees blossoming, moist chestnuts glistening. The sun brings more light into my little room, but the light seems to pour out through the windows again. In here, everything is dead: the boxes of insects, the herbarium, the books on the shelves, the piles of magazines. A layer of dust lies over everything, and when evening comes it’s quieter than ever. It’s then that my thoughts turn to the couples whispering to each other beneath the chestnut trees.

  But in the cool, damp autumn I’m happy in my solitude. I stare at the embers in the brick stove and think: ‘This autumn, perhaps I won’t be alone when I stare at these embers, perhaps I won’t be alone when I listen to the wind...’ And then I laugh to myself: ‘How many autumns have you spent wishing for these things?...’ But it’s as if I don’t realize that when I bite my lip to stop myself from weeping, and wipe away my tears as I stare at the embers, I’m secretly indulging my deepest desires?

  It was between these whitewashed walls, beneath this low ceiling, that my childhood came to an end. It is here that I was ‘little’. Where my red, wooden bed now stands there was once a cradle. I can remember so many moments, thoughts that I know will never return. ‘My God,’ I think, with a smile, ‘I can’t stay a child forever. I have to change, grow big, as big as I want to be. Or perhaps I’ll have to suffer, be torn apart by sorrows, bedevilled by temptations. Is there really no other way?’

  Why do I underline words in this notebook that no one will ever read? I’d love to capture the soul of this attic, the one I can feel, the one that reveals itself to me alone, in my solitude. So many years have gone by in silence, in gladness. I’ve had so many dreams in that red, wooden bed... I mustn’t be sad if my dreams have remained dreams, if I haven’t become a charmer, if I haven’t travelled the length and breadth of India, if not a single Marie Bashkirtseff10 has fallen in love with me... I now have new, sweet dreams. These dreams stretch all the way through my life, to me they seem like life itself, while to others they are only dreams.

  Am I still unhappy? Perhaps no one will ever come up here to see me. Now, what shall I read?

  My God! Books are so cold and foolish. There was a time when I used to glorify them in a thick notebook that I liked to call: A Voyage around my Library. At first I wanted to write a novel. I was the lover, fiancé and husband. My library was my beloved. But after a hundred pages, I realized that I would never write this ‘novel.’ Instead of describing a meeting between two lovers, I extolled the virginity of books. I wrote commentaries on the women in Balzac’s work, and convinced myself that there was more pleasure to be had from caressing an Elzevir11 than a courtesan. I dedicated a whole chapter to books that contained signatures and dedications, another to the colour of covers, and another to publishers’ insignia. Each of these chapters was six pages long. I had already written fifteen chapters. Then one evening it occurred to me that there was an absence of intrigue. This depressed me. So I abandoned the thick notebook with all its eulogies and dialogues. If I were to look for it in the chest now, I’d find it next to all my ‘diaries,’ and accumulated writings. But I won’t look for it now because I’m feeling happy, carefree and composed, and don’t want to be overcome by sorrow.

  What shall I write about, what should I write about to forget my sorrows? Perhaps this is the very reason that I’ll write The Novel of the Short-Sighted Adolescent. But I don’t have to think. I don’t have to think, only write.

  My attic looks out over a courtyard with a modest little garden. On the other side of the railings is the street. I don’t know my neighbours. Why should I? None of them have a daughter. No, I can’t put that in the novel. Instead I’ll say that it’s because I despise them.

  When I’m sitting at my desk, through the little attic window I can see in
to the bedroom of the house next door. A happy young couple live there, who nobody knows. At lunchtime the husband brings home pastries. I usually return from school dejected, bashing my satchel against the fences and railings. Sometimes I see him hurrying home, red in the face, and then ringing the doorbell. I wonder: ‘Will he kiss her?’ And at those times I promise myself that I’ll have a passionate little wife who’ll kiss me and say my name in a clear voice, just like a laugh.

  In the evening my wife lays out the tea things on a little, low table. I read in the shadows on the other side of the room so not to disturb them. I can’t hear anything because of the noise of the tram. But they’re speaking so quietly... this is what I tell myself, by way of consolation.

  I read late into the night, when everything becomes still and is transformed, cold, mysterious, and blue. Suddenly the light goes out in my neighbour’s bedroom. I smile over my book. She’s kissing him now, I think, without a trace of anger. And I continue reading, my eyes growing tired. Then all of a sudden a light comes from the darkened bedroom again. I can’t see very clearly, but I’m able to make out light bulbs shaded with cherry-coloured shawls, for a brief instant I see a lamp being put on a small bureau. And then once again, darkness. I hesitate: what am I to think? And I put down my book, which suddenly seems pointless and sterile.

  But I start reading another book. Every so often I glance at my neighbour’s window, where there is a faint light. ‘For how many years have they loved each other?’ I wonder, so as to not get angry. I promise myself that my wife will be blonde. And then I choose another book.

  Later, after midnight, a light comes on in the window again. I smile: ‘They’re exhausting themselves, they’re mad’, I decide, piqued with envy and superiority. Naturally, the book I’m reading now seems dry. I go back to Brand or Ecclesiastes. I fall asleep thinking of the vanity of the flesh and the world. I fall asleep filled with a faint scorn for my neighbours.

  But where did I get to? The soul of the attic, perhaps. How happy I am to be able to forget my sorrows. How happy I am to know that I’m going to write about the soul of my attic. How could I not know and love it when I’ve wept here so many times in the twilight, so close to it? It reveals itself to me alone. I find it in every book, in every painting, in every memory. The walls and bookshelves are infused with it. In winter, when I draw my armchair up to the stove, I see myself as I was many years ago, sitting next to this same brick stove on the Eve of St Vasile. Lying on my red, wooden bed, for the first time I give myself up to a sadness that my mother could never know. Only in autumn do I sit by the window. Working at my desk, I remember my very first, clandestine notebook, with these words written on the cover: Novellas, vol. I.

  I live surrounded by all these translucent shadows, yet as I move forward they all remain in the same place, utterly alone, whenever the attic is lit up by the presence of my friends. At these times I notice them, and I alone smile at them. No one else has an inkling of the spell they cast. No one realizes that I would suffocate if I had to breathe any other air than the air in the little room where I learnt the letters of the alphabet using a sheet of cardboard. When I come in from the street, I caress the walls with my gaze. Their soul mingles with mine. What would happen if the attic belonged to someone else?

  * * *

  10Marie Bashkirtseff: Maria Konstantinovna Bashkirtseva (1858-1884) was a Russian diarist, painter and sculptor.

  11Elzevir: The House of Elzevir was a well-known family of Dutch booksellers, publishers and printers in the 17th and early 18th centuries.

  ‘The Muse' Cultural-Dramatic Society

  ‘The Muse’ holds meetings every Saturday, from four o’clock till eight. The current president of our Cultural-Dramatic Society is Miss Tanief-Alexandrescu. Miss Alexandrescu is one of our classmates. She is in the Upper Sixth, but studies with a private tutor, so that she’ll be able to start university next year.

  Miss Alexandrescu is not a strict or inflexible president. Quite the opposite. She never arrives on time, never holds meetings, doesn’t play the piano and won’t act unless she can be Anca in Caragiale’s Năpasta. It’s the only role that suits her, she tells us. Nonetheless, our president is a very pleasant young lady, and no one would think of criticizing her for anything.

  This autumn our Society has blossomed quite unexpectedly. ‘The Muse’ has won us over completely. Every week we get together and work enthusiastically: music, discussions, talks, recitals, plays. And at the end there is always tea.

  The Society’s headquarters are unique. One afternoon a week, our classmate Noschuna lets us use three rooms in the basement of his house. In fact it’s thanks to these rooms that ‘The Muse’ came about. When we found out that we could have three rooms, we intellectuals and artists of the class set up the Society. This was last winter. We recruited members, elected a committee, – president, secretary, treasurer – chose an official letterhead, and established a monthly subscription. Last year it was five lei a month, this year it is ten.

  We’ve had ‘societies’ all through our time at the lycée, but none of them have been as enjoyable as ‘The Muse’.

  In the Third Form we had to go to the meetings of the Fifth Form societies, where we learnt some very interesting things. The Headmaster gave lectures on morality; at the time, the Headmaster was an elderly man who was keen on morals. A member of the Sixth Form once spent an hour telling us about the evolution of matter, ether vibrations, the Einstein-Bergson debate and the value of syllogism in science. Another pupil read us a few of his short stories. There were some poets in the Fifth Form. They were quite prolific, because at every meeting they would take it in turn to read out dozens of stanzas. Those of us from the junior forms weren’t allowed to leave, or to go to sleep, although they did at least allow us to not pay attention. And in any case, we were told that we wouldn’t be tested on the content of the meetings.

  In the Remove we formed a ‘Study Group.’ The first talk was given by Robert, who spoke about Racine. He had been inspired by Faguet. When he had finished, Leiber stood up and contested what he had said. According to him, Racine’s inspiration was Brunetière. There was a heated argument. At the end of the evening, Robert walked out in high dudgeon, defying his opponent. At the second meeting there were five members. But the speaker didn’t turn up. So we started playing games on the blackboard.

  Yet ‘The Muse’ is completely different. To start with there are girls in ‘The Muse’. Even some beautiful, jovial, daring girls. After every meeting we spend hours discussing the Society’s activities and its delightful members – especially the delightful female members.

  One of the first tasks of our Society was to print our own letterhead, and to buy make-up and wigs with the money we had collected from the members. After all, ‘The Muse’ is a dramatic society, and our hearts were set on acting. Nothing could stand in our way. Our recitations proved that most of the members were capable of playing a part on stage, and that all of us were eager to do so.

  The rooms in the basement are ideally suited for performances. At the far end there is a drawing room with high windows that look out on the street. It is spacious and elegant, and also has a piano. Opposite the drawing room is a small room, which is longer than it is wide: the stage. The door between the drawing room and the stage acts as a discreet curtain. While they are getting ready for a play, the actors can wander around the stage dressed however they like, without fear of being seen. The prompter also opens and closes the curtain. He has to keep an eye on the drawing room door and ask: ‘Who is it?’ whenever he hears someone knock.

  At the back of the stage there are two doors. One leads to the court­yard, the other into a small, dark room that was once used as a kitchen: the actors’ dressing rooms. In this ‘dressing room’ our classmates transform themselves into the characters who appear on stage.

  Last year we didn’t manage to put on any public performances. We o
nly did rehearsals. We tried playing some scenes from Înşir-te Mărgărite and Năpasta12. But this autumn, things have progressed. In less than two months we’ve successfully performed scenes from Don Juan by Victor Eftimiu and The Devil’s Disciple by Molnár. There have been two lectures and quite a number of critical dissertations. And we’ve also played the piano in the drawing room.

  We decided to perform Don Juan during the first week of term. We chose the final scenes. Don Juan was played by Robert – naturally. The Confessor, Father Ieronim, was me. Don Juan’s page, Castagnete, was Dinu.

  For Dinu and myself, ‘The Muse’ is providing our first experience of acting. Robert, on the other hand, has already performed in rehearsals of Năpasta. Het goes round telling people that he’s an expert when it comes to the theatre. He never misses a play, cries during tragedies, buys a vast number of plays and knows numerous actors. He insists that he’s an actor of the future, and declaims whenever he has the chance. So when he asked to play Don Juan, he wasn’t turned down. It would be impossible to turn him down.

  He told us that he had ‘studied the role’ and had ‘drawn’ a great deal from Victor Eftimiu’s hero. So we were curious to hear him. The first rehearsal was at my house one evening, with Bricterian as prompter. Everything went marvellously. I was the only one who rushed and forgot his lines. But then I’ve never been able to remember long lines off by heart. If it weren’t for the prompter I’d never dare appear on stage.

  On Saturday we had our best meeting so far. We performed Don Juan, and all the actors were excellent.

  A few weeks ago we started giving talks. I spoke about Rama, and Petrişor about Claude Farrère. My talk caused an uproar. It wasn’t meant to last more than a quarter of an hour, but after a quarter of an hour I said that I had finished the introduction, and would now enter into the subject in detail. The committee protested, and after I had spoken for five minutes they stopped me. They said they would allow me to finish my talk on Rama at the next meeting. But I would still only get a quarter of an hour. My critics – Leiber the foremost among them – were delighted, and couldn’t wait for the following week’s meeting. They wanted to tear me apart in front of the other members. And there would be more members than ever on the Saturday that I was due to give my talk.