Sunday 14 February. Wendy is in Predeal. Thea is alone. Dinu has decided to go to her house that afternoon and to renew (perhaps with greater success) the attempt he failed to carry off the day before. But at twelve o’clock someone knocks on the door and puts in a quite unexpected appearance: it is I! For him, I am a welcome rather than an untimely visitor. He immediately glimpses the solution to the moral debate inside himself. He’ll do everything possible to throw Thea into my arms, and in any case will try to kindle the possibility of feelings between Thea and myself. In this way he will become a free man again, denied an adventure that he renounced in the most explicit manner. During the meal he tells me of the moral problems of living together with Wendy—but I don’t understand a lot of it. After an hour Thea, called from the restaurant where she had been eating, comes in and embraces me. The rest we know.
Bill Witzling has died. He’s being buried today in Brăila. He was tall and handsome and always struck me as hale and hearty—a man who made you happy that he existed. More than once I felt unworthy in comparison with him. The poor guy.
After Nae’s lecture on Friday (a recapitulation concerning space), Posescu told him in the staff room about some recent theories that seemed to confirm what he had been saying in the lecture. I didn’t listen very closely to their conversation and wasn’t quite sure of the nature of the problem—but all of a sudden Nae cheerfully turned to me and said:
“You see, Mr. Sebastian, that’s why Hitler is right.”
Yesterday at Carol’s, who’d broken his leg a few days before and had it in plaster. An anti-Semitic conversation with Camil, more anti-Semitic than ever.
Tuesday, 23 [February]
This morning at eight, a woman’s voice on the phone.
“I am Thea’s sister. Thea asked me to let you know that she has returned to Bucharest.”
Thursday, 25 [February]
Yesterday evening, there was a little party at our place. Mircea, Nina, Marietta, Haig, Maryse, Gheorghe, Lilly, Dinu.
I wonder if this won’t be the last time I ask them round. The situation is becoming more and more painful. I don’t feel I can stand the duplicity that our friendship has required since they went over to the Iron Guard. Mircea’s recent articles in Vremea have been more and more “Legionary.” I avoided reading some of them. The latest one I read only this morning—though it came out on Friday and everyone has been talking to me about it.
Is friendship possible with people who have in common a whole series of alien ideas and feelings—so alien that I have only to walk in the door and they suddenly fall silent in shame and embarrassment?
I haven’t been to Mircea’s for ten days or so, nor to Marietta’s for over a month. Maybe we’ll spare ourselves a stormy farewell and let things break up by themselves over time. . . . I’ll have to read again the last chapter of Cum am devenit huligan.
In the last issue of Cuget clar [Clear Thinking], Iorga translates with approval a short article of mine for Independenţa (the one with Petre Bellu)— doubtless without realizing that it was I who wrote it, because it was signed “Flaminius.” So there I am, translated by Niculae Iorga. Quite a tricky situation.
In the same issue, in the very next item, a regular correspondent lays into Sergiu Dan, Camil Baltazar, and Mihail Sebastian as “those corruptors of the mind.”
Monday, 1 March
Yesterday and the day before, with Mrs. Ghiolu at Roman. Blecher is ever closer to death. I don’t know how much longer it will last. Now he’s suffering from a fresh abscess, which needs to be lanced or left to burst by itself. The whole thing is terrible—but, like last time, I saw that it was becoming bearable, à force d’obéissance. Bearable for others, I mean— not for him, who wears a constant grimace from the pain.
As to Mrs. Ghiolu, I don’t quite know what to think about her. The fact that she went to Roman is somehow proof that she is less frivolous than I imagined.
Friday evening from Stuttgart, a work by Beethoven, of which I had been unaware: the Choral Fantasia (Op. 80). The first part was quite similar to one of his piano concertos, while the appearance of the choruses at the end had a surprise effect. Altogether very beautiful.
Tuesday, 2 [March]
A long political discussion with Mircea at his home. Impossible to summarize. He was lyrical, nebulous, full of exclamations, interjections, and rude remarks. . . . I’ll take from all that just his (frank) declaration that he is passionate about the Iron Guard, that he has high hopes for it and expects it to be victorious. loan Vodă the Cruel, Mihai Viteazu, Stefan the Great,1 Bălcescu,2 Eminescu,3 Hajdeu4—all these are supposed to have been Iron Guardists in their day. Mircea refers to them as all of a piece!
At the same time I can’t deny that it was entertaining. In his opinion, the students who carved up Traian Bratu5 last night in Iasi were not Iron Guardists but either. . . Communists or National Peasant supporters. Literally. As regards Gogu Rădulescu (Mr. Gogu, as Mircea ironically calls him),6 the liberal student who was beaten with wet ropes at the Iron Guard headquarters, that was all well and good. It’s what should be done to traitors. He, Mircea Eliade, would not have been content with that; he’d have pulled his eyes out as well. All who are not Iron Guardists, all who engage in any other kind of politics, are national traitors and deserve the same fate.
One day I may reread these lines and feel unable to believe that they summarize [Mircea’s words]. So it is well if I say again that I have done no more than record his very words—so that they aren’t somehow forgotten. Perhaps one day things will have calmed down enough for me to read this page to Mircea and to see him blush with shame.
Nor should I forget his explanation for joining the Guard with such passion:
“I have always believed in the primacy of the spirit.”
He’s neither a charlatan nor a madman. He’s just naive. But there are such catastrophic forms of naiveté!
I’m off tomorrow morning to Brăila, where things look tragic with Babie and Auntie Caroline.
Sunday, 7 [March]
When I returned from Brăila on Wednesday evening, I found a note on the table: “Miss Leni Caler rang and asked you to ’phone her as soon as you’re back in Bucharest.” Of course, I didn’t ’phone her. But on Thursday evening I met her at the opening night at the Regina Maria.
“I thought you were a polite person, Mr. Sebastian.”
“I am, Miss Leni Caler, but I’ve been very busy today and haven’t had a spare moment.”
She certainly understood—it was hardly difficult—how much indifference there was beneath my jocular politeness.
In a few words she said what she wanted to ask me. Would I like to read the play this Saturday evening for herself, Froda, and Sică Alexandrescu? I agreed on two conditions: i) absolute discretion, and 2) the right on my part to cancel the reading if I was not free.
I was glad to be the one with the reservations.
So, yesterday evening I read the play at last—with less emotion than I think I would have done it last summer or autumn. Maybe without any emotion at all. I didn’t stress any of the lines that had some hidden meaning for her. I did not look at her, smile in secret understanding, or spark tender emotion within her. Not once did I accept her as my partner in a reading that contained so many partnerships of feeling.
I read the play as it might be read before a readers’ panel. If possible, they want to put it on stage this spring, in April. I don’t know if that is an acceptable arrangement. How many evening performances would it ensure for me? Thirty at the most. You’re never going to have a big success at the end of a season. It would be preferable to leave the play until autumn, to have it open in November and take in Christmas, with time for a tour at the end of winter. That is undoubtedly the best solution. If the opening is postponed till November, I’ll agree wholeheartedly that they should take on the play—for an advance of, say, thirty thousand lei.
We argued over the casting. They proposed Lungeanu, and this is exactly how I
replied:
“Under no circumstances Lungeanu. Even if it meant the play was not performed for ninety-nine years, I still wouldn’t give him the part.”
In the end we agreed on Vraca. I think that would give me a really excellent cast: Leni, Vraca, and Timică. For Jef there is a recent young discovery: Mircea Axente. He would seem to be perfect for the role.
I was amused by their reaction to the reading. With each new reading I find how difficult it is to be enlightened about your own mistakes or qualities. Everyone sees them differently. Iancovescu thought Act Two was the best; they thought it the worst. In Act Three, Iancovescu asked me to delete the argument between Corina and Ştefan, on the grounds that it rang “false.” Now Froda wants me to delete the “dream scene.” What struck Iancovescu as magnificent seems to Froda melodramatic. I listened to them with a smile. They all talk with the same conviction, the same expert assurance—only they say things that flatly contradict each other. To whom should I listen? In the end I think I’ll listen only to myself.
Anyway, I no longer take the fate of my play very seriously. It’s too old now for me to get excited about it. I look at things from a money angle. I’d be thrilled to get quite a large sum so that I can i) pay Mama’s creditors and finally end that nightmare, 2) have a quiet holiday to finish my novel, 3) get up to date with the rent, 4) restock my wardrobe a little, 5) buy myself some furniture.
Maybe I’m naive to expect so much. But I think I’m being honest with myself when I say that I have no other ambitions (“of an artistic nature”). Je sais bien à quoi m'en tenir.7
But this play’s a real headache. Not one simple, clear-cut situation. I was at Leni’s yesterday evening, and we talked in great detail about the possibility of its being performed in their theatre. But at lunchtime today I’m called up by. . . Madame Bulandra. I had to arrange a reading for her too, this Friday afternoon. Good Lord, what will come of all this now?
To see Leni again was not as dangerous as I once imagined it would be. Now that I know where I stand with her, I think I’m cured of any sentimentality. When she was there between Froda and Sică, I looked at her without emotion, with a little irony and a certain indifference. There are no big differences between her and Eugenia Zaharia. And could I ever love Eugenia Zaharia?
There has been only one change in Leni’s apartment: a fish tank has appeared on a shelf. I enjoyed watching the little fishes swim through the water, and I couldn’t help thinking how symbolic was that fish tank in the Leni-Froda household.
Today’s issue of Memento spreads a vile rumor that the fish tank is a present from Sică. Even if that’s not true, it is a plausible detail—and anyway rather delightful.
No, I’m no longer risking my “heart” at all in that stage galley. Maybe I’ll board it as a playwright, but not as just another lovesick individual.
The trial of the arsonists began yesterday,8 so I’ll be tied down for two weeks at the Court of Justice. I’m in a completely absurd state of nervous tension there. Why didn’t I turn out to be more thick-skinned in life?
This morning I met Marie Ghiolu as arranged at a private viewing at the Mozart. I’d just been to the Imre Ungar concert, where I’d heard a prelude and fugue by Bach, a Mozart sonata, and Beethoven’s Appassionata.
Mrs. Ghiolu was especially beautiful and shone with elegance. She was wearing a hat and a magnificent ermine collar. I felt very dull in my wretched overcoat.
Monday, 8 [March]
This morning I was at the Comoedia Theatre, where a shorthand-typist was waiting so that I could dictate Act Three.
In the manager’s office there was a fish tank like the one at Leni’s. These people are certainly keen on symbols.
Tuesday, 9 [March]
The first real day of spring. The first day with a light coat.
That too is a joy: to leave off a heavy old overcoat and go out in a light grey one in which you think you look elegant—or anyway in which you feel so much younger!
In the morning, a brief visit to Thea at the magnificent house of her sister, a Mrs. Nadler, in the Filipescu Park. Thea was nice and affectionate, even a touch indiscreet.
All afternoon at the Court of Justice, where the arson trial is still going on. What am I doing there? I’m the only “counsel” there who doesn’t pick up any money, and probably the only one who feels he is so utterly wasting his time. At the age of thirty I still don’t dare say about myself that I am a counsel without putting it in quotation marks.
Sunday, 14 [March]
A spring Sunday, unbearable in its beauty. I started the morning well at a Cortot recital (Franck, Ravel, Debussy, Bach), but then continued stupidly by playing rummy all day at Carol’s. Am I not thickheaded?
I feel alone as I wait for joys that will never come. I think of twenty-year-old boys going today with their sweethearts to Robinson or Nogent- sur-Marne, from where they'll return weary to a springtime Paris so youthful and sensual.
Never more than on a day like today do I feel how pointless my whole life has been.
And I’m too disgusted with everything to write a page of my journal.
There was only one thing to do today—to be with Thea (who was out of town somewhere) and to make love without too many explanations.
Friday, 19 [March]
Was in Brăila on Tuesday for Baba’s funeral.9 She died on Monday, after wandering a whole day in the direction of Baldovineşti, where the gendarmes found her collapsed from fatigue in the middle of the night on the railway. She was ninety-two years old. If she hadn’t got lost, I think she might have lived many a year longer.
I heard the news without emotion, and it was also without emotion that I attended the funeral. But a whole world has gone with her—and our whole childhood has lost one of its main heroic figures. Poor Baba: what a long life she had! It’s not surprising she lost her memory.
Last Friday, a reading at the Bulandras. I regret not having jotted down my impressions there and then. Now they seem too old and uninteresting. They liked my play but had some reservations. I’m tired of all these points that keep coming up—whether with Iancovescu or Froda or Bulandra.
I’ll leave it on hold again for the time being. No new moves, no insistence, just a studied indifference: that’s the only attitude to take.
The weather is splendid—but the arson trial is still going on. It doesn’t prey on my mind so much, but it still means I am wasting three or four hours a day. When it’s over, I’ll make a quick getaway to Breaza or Sinaia.
There has been a lot of music recently. The F minor concerto with Cortot and the E minor with Ignaz Friedmann—both by Chopin. Then, again with Cortot, all the preludes, a nocturne (“our” nocturne, from Brăila, in E-flat), a scherzo, a fantasia, the B minor sonata, three waltzes— a whole Chopin recital.
Debussy’s Children’s Comer, a sonatina by Ravel, the Prelude, Choral and Fugue by Franck.
Yesterday evening at the Philharmonic, Brahms’s Violin Concerto (with which I am becoming familiar) played by Thibaud, one of Handel’s Concerti grossi, and Beethoven’s seventh symphony
A host of other things in recent weeks, which I neglected to note down.
Sunday, 21 [March]
This morning at the Ateneu, a Thibaud concert with the Philharmonic: Mozart’s D Major Violin Concerto (with a fleetingly melancholic adagio), the Chausson Poème, the Beethoven concerto.
I took Leni with me. She was elegant enough for me to find her pleasing—but forgotten enough for me not to get carried away. In short, she was not all that important to me.
Lunch at Maryse’s—then to the trot racing at Floreasca. A spring day—a day of idleness.
Thursday, 25 [March]
Blecher has been in Bucharest since yesterday morning, in Room 15 at the Saint-Vincent de Paul Hospital. He came because of the abscess, which still has not drained even though they performed two butcherlike punctures at Roman.
He told me about the train journey, and it made me shudder. They left ho
me well after dark, with the moon already up, passed through deserted streets, encountered Iron Guardists who were amazed to see the moving stretcher, waited in the stationmaster’s office, boarded the train through the window, and arrived in Bucharest in the morning, where the porters refused to take him off through the window.
What terrible suffering! Everything becomes absurdly pointless in the face of such pain.
He thought he was about to die. At one point he decided to commit suicide. He tore up all his papers and manuscripts: eighty pages of a new novel and seventy pages of a journal.
I hardly felt like criticizing him for it.
After that, I am ashamed to talk here about Leni. She has again become “engaging,” but this time I’ll firmly resist. She’s a nice tart, but I mustn’t forget that she’s a tart before being nice.
Mircea was at the Jooss ballet on Wednesday. He told Comarnescu that he found it disgusting because of its “Jewish spirit.” He thought the show was Semitic.
That’s all he found to say.
Our friendship is rapidly breaking up. We don’t see each other for days at a time—and when we do, we no longer have anything to say.
Sunday, 28 [March]
Last Friday evening, the Matthäus-Passion from Leipzig. I’d been afraid that spring would pass without my hearing it. Nothing could have consoled me for that. Not only is it a great musical joy; it has become a superstition that seems to bode well for me. I enjoyed it immensely, but I listened with less gravity than before. I’m beginning to be familiar with it. There are passages that I await, anticipate, and then follow as they are played. It no longer holds any surprises, and I no longer listen with the old diffidence. Everything seems to me more intimate, less ceremonious, less austere, more Mozartian than before. Once again, I was happy to discover the tenor aria in Part One: Ich will bei meinem Jesu wachen,1 and so many other things.
Journal 1935–1944 Page 16