I won’t go again tomorrow. I leave it in the lap of the gods. In fact, I am thinking of not going at all, even of heading off to Balcic for a few days to get as far as I can from this business, which is all the odder today, when war may be just around the corner. The radio is right now broadcasting Hitler’s speech in Nuremberg. My own set is broken, but snatches of the broadcast drift up from the floor below, or maybe from across the way. I can’t make out what he is saying, but I easily recognize Hitler’s guttural voice and especially the cheering that constantly interrupts him: cheers and roars that are quite simply insane.
On such a day, am I supposed to take a mere play seriously?
Wednesday, 14 [September]
This morning’s press dispatches are alarming. The Sudetenlanders issued a six-hour ultimatum, and the six hours have passed. Now war is the only possibility left. We may have it by this evening. Maybe we already have it as I am writing.
In town, people were saying that the Germans have already entered Czechoslovakia, so far without meeting any resistance. Is it possible that I could be a soldier tomorrow?
Thursday, 15 [September]
I went to yesterday’s rehearsal after all, this time with Froda. The only act that went well—to everyone’s surprise, of course—was the third act, which none of them wanted to believe in at the reading.
The first two acts, on the other hand, are acted stridently, superficially, always incorrectly. Fotino’s entrance is unacceptable. Can’t a comic scene ever be acted without laying it on thick?
Those ham-actors frighten me! When I think that they call themselves “artists,” I wonder that the irony of the term does not frighten them. I felt I was in the middle of a company in disorderly retreat. Each one for himself! Let the play crash, the show perish—so long as I am a success, so long as I’m all right, so long as I am applauded.
Froda laid it on the line to Sică until he made him turn yellow. I could feel in Sică, too, the wounded pride of a ham-actor. After a moment of panic—when the whole show seemed in danger of collapse—he called someone from administration.
“Tell the papers this, I say. Premiere on Wednesday evening. And two rehearsals a day till then.”
It would have been a happy solution. For a lot of things can be put right in a week of rehearsals. At the very least the lines can be learned properly—because at the moment no one, except perhaps Leni, has really got on top of them. What kind of interpretation can there be under the terror of memory exercises?
“Interpretation”—a stupid word, which means nothing at all in the theatre. No one interprets anything. Everyone comes with his own gestures, his own grunts, his own homespun coughs—and then applies them to his role. That’s all.
In three acts, I don’t think there was one piece of dialogue that didn’t sound false. I should have gone through it piece by piece, setting the right tone and clarifying what was meant. But that’s a craft that is beyond me. I ought to curse and shout, shake and threaten, risk everything, spare no one’s feelings, no one’s prestige. I should fight with no holds barred, determined to quarrel forever, if necessary, with each turn and all together, with Sică, with Siegfried, with the prompter and the stage hand, with absolutely everyone. Maybe that’s the only way I could get the play back on its feet and defend it.
But is it worth it? Do I believe in it enough to take it that seriously?
No, I don’t. It’s a joke, a game. And it would be grotesque to forget that. Maybe I’ll have more serious things in life to defend. I hope that, even in my career as a writer, there are more honorable battles in store. After all, between De două mii de ani and Jocul de-a vacanţa there are differences that I have no right to forget. In the one, there was something very close to the bone; in the other, there is childishness, trifling stuff, a mere nothing.
So the premiere will be on Saturday. Sică immediately went back on his decision to postpone it; too many people advised him otherwise. Each of them used the same argument: don’t worry, you’ll see it will be a success.
That’s easy for everyone to toss out, because none of them carries any responsibility for it. “It will be a success.” I can just hear Beresteanu6 saying that—and I wonder what kind of art it is in which even Bereşteanu can have opinions and make predictions.
“It will be a success.” But there are two days left till the premiere— and no one is sure of his part, no one knows what to wear, no one knows when to enter, when to exit, when to speak and when to be silent. . .
Friday, 16 [September]
“Dans les choses théatrâles, ” Goncourt says, “c’est abominable ces hauts et ces bas, et sans transition aucune.”7
Yesterday evening’s rehearsal was infinitely better. It was even satisfactory. Now and then I was carried away with emotion like a child. Some of the spectators (Fifi Harand,8 Mrs. Maximilian, Zissu) were straining to follow the performance. It amused me to hear them laugh, to see them wipe away a furtive tear. (At this afternoon’s rehearsal, Beate Fredanov had a really good cry in Act Three. But it’s true that that girl cries so easily. . . . )
Yesterday Timus seemed quite won over, but I shouldn’t suspect him of any friendly feeling! It’s so awkward not to like it, so convenient to show one’s approval. . . .
Sică was happy. Jubilant.
“That’s a play, sir, that’s a real play. It’ll certainly travel abroad. We’ll translate it into French.”
I made him repeat the wonderful words of praise a few times—though, of course, they won’t stop him cursing me to the skies if the play isn’t a success. I can almost hear his voice: “Who the hell got me mixed up with these intellectuals?”
In general terms, then, in very general terms, I may have come away satisfied. In the details and finer shades, though, a million things remain to be done. I have to accept the situation as it is—and to look at everything with indifference. That’s why I can’t complain: I feel no emotion, no impatience, no nerves of any kind. Not yet, anyway.
I went out yesterday with Leni, after the evening rehearsal. I dined just with her at the Wilson, and we went home late, around three o’clock. She had acted her part so beautifully, had been so simple, so intense, and so sincerely emotional that I felt for her a rekindled tenderness, as in the early days of my love for her. We stopped in front of a poster and read our names printed alongside each other. We seemed to be alone on the deserted boulevard.
Saturday, 17 [September]
An hour to go till the premiere. How much I could write! But I’ve had an anxious day, all of it—from one to seven—coincidentally spent in court on Leni’s case. A day in court usually wears me out—and it had to be today!
I regret not being able to note everything there is to be noted, at least in connection with tonight’s dress rehearsal.
Now all that remains is to wait.
Sunday, 18 [September]
A big success—really big. Dozens of curtain calls, a warm, vibrant atmosphere in the audience.
I went to the cinema and watched a film in complete calm, as if nothing exceptional had been happening this evening.
Then I showed up toward the end, in time to feel the lively atmosphere of celebration and satisfaction.
This morning’s reviews were full of praise. The matinee performance was sold out, and there are scarcely any seats left for this evening. Dozens of telephone calls, dozens of congratulations.
I certainly feel pleased, but I don’t think it has gone to my head. I’m still fairly skeptical—and, above all, very tired. Too tired to note now what should be noted about the premiere.
Maybe tomorrow.
Monday, 19 [September]
The reviews (Viitorul, Semnalul. . .) continue to be good. Yesterday the box office closed after it had sold every possible extra ticket. The matinee netted thirty thousand lei, the evening performance sixty thousand.
But I still don’t believe it will be a great success with the public, or that it will be kept on for what is called a series. I
don’t have the patience to list the reasons for this now, but I am perfectly aware of them.
Tuesday, 20 [September]
Today’s reviews are overwhelming. Ionel Dumitrescu in Curentul, Carandino in Romania, write with an enthusiasm, friendliness, and ardor that leave me speechless. . . . No, I wasn’t at all expecting such a reception. Even in Universul there is a review that, though perhaps not well meaning (its tone is cold and somehow sulky), is full enough of praise. So far, no one has said anything against it. In a way that makes me uneasy. Je ne demandais pas tant.9 . . . Neamul românesc, Porunca Vremii, Frontul—which ought to attack me violently, as they have in the past—remain silent, at least for the time being. Is this because the success is too great to be contested? Or, on the contrary, is it the kind of silence that precedes and paves the way for a thundering outburst?
Yesterday evening, which is usually the quietest of the week, had receipts of 24,000 lei. Beresteanu, who checked the figures, assures me it was 26,000. That seems to be a great deal. (On the same evening, Popa’s play made a little under 5,000.) Camil couldn’t believe that the figure of 24,000 was correct; it seemed to him enormous.
It may be embarrassing to inquire about each day’s receipts, but when so many people live constantly obsessed with them, when everything in the theatre depends on them, you cannot help feeling curious yourself.
This morning I found Beresteanu with the plan for the tour spread out in his office, and with a series of letters to provincial impresarios.
“You see what troubles we’ve got! Now we’ll have to postpone the tour.”
But I still ask myself whether it will be a lasting success. Act Three doesn’t go smoothly—maybe in part because of the production. There is so much stress on the comic effects in the first two acts, and so much laughter, that Act Three remains suspended in a void.
I went to the Sunday evening performance and felt upset at the childish, absurd way in which people were laughing. I too laughed like a fool, caught up in the general atmosphere of jollity—it’s hard to resist a packed theatre, with the boxes, balconies, and stalls all in fits. But although I too laughed, at the same time I felt dismayed. What can those people understand of the play if they rollick about as at any old farce! The proof that they don’t understand anything is that Act Three leaves them baffled. They are still laughing when the curtain rises—but after the first few exchanges, and especially after the first scene, they realize that their laughter is out of place and their mirth is left hanging. Quite possibly this third act will stop the play from being taken on for a really long series.
Rosetti did not at all like either the play or the performance. He didn’t tell me so straight out, but he hardly needed to. It was enough that he didn’t ring me once after the premiere. When I saw him yesterday, his congratulations were so evasive, so awkward, that I almost felt I had to apologize for the play, as if it were something shameful.
Of course, Vxşoianu didn’t like it either. (He was in the same box with Rosetti, and he hasn’t shown any sign of life since then.)
That’s all to the good; it brings me back to earth. It’s time I remembered all the things I have never liked in the play; time to keep telling myself that all this fuss may be agreeable but should not be taken too seriously.
What a strong impact the theatre makes! I have written five books but have never before had this sense of being in direct touch with “the public,” of having reached it, engrossed it, moved it. A first night was enough for a whole current of curiosity, impatience, and friendly feeling to appear. I receive dozens of telephone calls, dozens of messages, from the most surprising and unexpected places.
Wednesday, 21 [September]
This evening’s receipts: 32,000 lei! Apparently this is altogether unusual.
It was a nice packed audience, with a good ear for the play. Almost a concert audience. People laughed less wildly; they smiled more. From time to time I had the feeling that I was at a session of chamber music.
But it is time I freed myself from the theatre. It would be a good thing if I never showed myself there again. It is high time I returned to serious matters.
Saturday, 24 [September]
War may break out from one hour to the next. Czechoslovakia mobilized last night. France also seems to have mobilized, without actually using the term “general mobilization.” During the night, war was imminent. There was an atmosphere of panic in town around three o’clock: or perhaps not even panic, but a kind of weary pallor of people who have given up.
Now we have a moment of syncopation. Chamberlain has returned to London with the Hitlerites’ new demands. Will they be accepted? Will we have a “German peace” that suppresses freedom in Europe— who knows for how long, perhaps for a whole historical epoch? Or will they not be accepted? If so, we will have war. It’s all a matter of days, maybe less, a matter of hours or minutes.
Things are slowing down at the theatre. Yesterday seventeen thousand lei!—a most worrying figure. Can the “success” have passed so rapidly? There are many possible explanations. It rained, there was bad political news, people were feeling the pressure of events, and so on.
But reasons can always be found for a lack of success, whereas no explanation is required for a really great success. And that will probably not be the case with my play.
Sunday, 25 [September]
Yesterday was a sellout. But I don’t think it is going to be a “great success,” or a success and nothing but. Yesterday’s matinee seems to have been very poorly attended, and today’s brought in only around fifteen thousand lei—half last Saturday’s figure. Maybe things will pick up again this evening—though it is the first evening of Rosh Hashanah—but I fear that tomorrow, Monday, will be really bad. I no longer dare to make calculations, to engage in childish plans. . . . The hundreds of thousands of lei of which I dreamed, mainly in jest, can no longer be dreamed of even as a joke.
I passed by the theatre and watched a few scenes from Act Two. I was appalled at how badly they were acted: with no conviction or poetic fire, with jabbered lines, bits left out and others added, as if at one of the worst of the rehearsals. I fled in horror.
Tuesday, 27 [September]
A telephone call from Poldy, who is in Paris. He thinks that France will order a general mobilization tonight, and that war will break out on Saturday. He asked what he should do with Mama. He wants to send her back to Romania, but I’m terrified at the thought that, God forbid, war might erupt when she is somewhere en route—in Italy, for example. Alone, speaking only Romanian, terrified, penniless—what would she do? How would she cope?
On the other hand, she can’t remain at Sceaux, because Poldy and Benu would have to enlist on the first day and she would be left alone.
Mother dear, if only this war could pass your heart by! Or at least if you could lose in it only what is lost anyway! If only I could pay everything for you all! That’s the final consolation for which I ask.
Saturday, 1 October
Peace. A kind of peace. I haven’t the heart to rejoice. The Munich Agreement does not send us to the front, it lets us live—but it prepares terrible times ahead. Only now will we start to see the kind of pressure that the Hitlerites exert.
It seems logical to expect a move to the right in France and a powerful anti-Semitic lurch in Romania. I can easily envision a new Goga-Cuza government, or perhaps even a gradual transition to a Legionary regime, suitably decked out.
But we shall see . . .
Yesterday I didn’t even dare call in at the theatre. Thursday evening had been alarming: eleven thousand lei. I was dejected and had pangs of conscience toward the people at the theatre, as if I had pushed them into a bad business deal. Everyone said that I shouldn’t panic, that the theatre was empty because people had been anticipating at any moment the outcome of the events in Munich—and, at the same time, because defense exercises had plunged the whole city into darkness and given it a sinister appearance, with streetlights off, windows blacke
d out, sirens wailing, bells tolling, and so on.
Yesterday I didn’t go and ask at the theatre: they just said that Friday had been one of the worst days of the week.
Well, this morning, to my great astonishment, I came across Axente the typist and was told:
“You beat us yesterday at the Comoedia: we took in 24,000 at the Regina Maria, and you netted 26,000.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. But I plucked up courage and went to ask the theatre cashier. Yes, it was true!
Could there be a change of fortune? Could it still be something of a success?
Last night was a year since I arrived in Paris—and since my luggage and manuscript were stolen.
Wednesday, 5 [October]
Yesterday I spoke to Ocneanu about the novel.1 I think I’ll publish it with him. He’s the only publisher with whom it is possible to work. I just wonder what I’ll do about the contract with Delafras.
Today I read Chapter Six, which I hadn’t touched since Bran and had forgotten. It seemed much better than at the time of writing it, when I had been so dissatisfied.
I’d like the novel to appear in late November or early December. But for that I’d have to do nothing but write, day and night, from the 15th of October. No law courts, no Foundation, nothing else.
The advertisement for the play in today’s Timpul says “last performances.” I wonder why. The tour with Ionescu G. Maria has been postponed until the 19th of October, and Jocul de-a vacanţa could play all the time until then—especially since, even if it hasn’t gone brilliantly, it has hardly been a flop either. Monday and Tuesday were quiet (today is Yom Kippur), but Saturday and Sunday made a little over forty thousand lei—which is not all that bad.
Journal 1935–1944 Page 24