Journal 1935–1944

by Mihail Sebastian

  Saturday, 10 January

  Lunch at Nicuşor’s. I spoke excitedly about the play, which I said I’ll be able to finish in two to three weeks. We discussed the possibilities for putting it on stage. The National might not be available for Nicuşor either, as his marriage leaves him open to any anti-Semitic attack. Things would be simpler at the Comoedia. On the other hand, he is also writing a play—or wants to write one (together with Froda)—and he will naturally want it to be performed. Two plays bearing the same writer’s name would be hard to put on in the same season. But it is too early to be thinking about all this. First I have to finish the play. All day I have held on to yesterday’s good impressions, especially as I wrote another two pages this morning at the same speed. But now, this evening, it is all beginning to seem infinitely stupid. What was yesterday lively, coherent, and full of verve is now only puerile, cheap, and obvious. Maybe I’m just feeling tired. It’s too early to lose heart.

  Sunday, 11 January

  For a few days, nothing new at the fronts. I can’t keep up with the war in the Pacific: I don’t have a good map, nor any precise knowledge about the possibilities and the significance of the situation there. Any tiny event on the Russian or North African front can be fitted into a familiar framework. In the Pacific, things seem too remote and indistinct.

  An evening meal with Rosetti and Camil at G. M. Cantacuzino’s; he told me some things about Transnistria and Odessa, where he fought in the army. He thinks that the Russian offensive has no prospects; that there can certainly be no talk of a German catastrophe, only of a certain lack of success. He explains the Russian advances by the fact that the Germans withdrew major forces from the front to send elsewhere (e.g., Turkey), or simply for a period of leave. They’ll resume the offensive next spring, when they will reach the Volga and finish the Russians off. On n’est pas prince impunément.6

  Cantacuzino’s view should be contrasted with that of Radu Olteanu,7 whom I also saw yesterday. He does not think that the Germans will be able to take the offensive next spring or summer; nor that they will ever be in a position to capture Moscow. He does not exclude the possibility that they will collapse even before April.

  I have written little today-—hardly anything. For an hour I struggled with the temptation to make a major change in the plot by introducing a new main character (a passing presence in Act One, who could become the play’s central protagonist). But I resisted. I am afraid of complicating things and losing too much time. This play must be written fast, very fast, if I want it to appear this season and bring me in some money. I have school tomorrow, but for the rest of the week I’ll try to find some excuse to “play truant.” If I let the play drag on, it could escape me altogether.

  Wednesday, 14 January

  Sollum has fallen. Rommel has retreated from Ajdabiya to El Agheila, where he is resisting. On the Russian front, the Soviet advances are not for the moment substantial, though a larger operation is shaping up in the center. Twice in the last few days the German communiqué has mentioned Kharkov—where there is fighting to the east of the city. In the Crimea the situation is confused. It is not clear whether the Russians are still at Yevpatoriya; it seems they may also have landed at other points along the coast.

  In today’s papers there are hints of a German attack on Turkey and the Bosphorus. One gets the impression that a blow is being prepared and will soon come. Any day there could again be major events.

  On Monday I wrote nothing. Yesterday, Scenes 5 and 6. Today, Scene 7. It’s going rather slowly. Besides, I work too little. I only have three to four hours in the evening free for work. If I had ten whole days, I might be able to finish. But school, money worries, and various errands keep slowing me down. I should write this play quickly, with my eyes closed, so that scruples and pangs of conscience do not have time to invade me. Sometimes I am seized by a terrible disgust for what I am writing—but I soon manage to repress it. C'est une vile besogne, mais il faut le faire.8

  Thursday, 15 January

  A day spent rushing around at the Finance Ministry and Revenue for the (semibotched) Wurm business. I don’t think it will work out—and my dreams of money are fading. Again I wonder what will become of me! Where can I borrow some money? To whom should I turn?

  I haven’t been able to write at all. All day out and about—this evening, cold at home. The heating is out of order. All I did was copy out Scene 7, which I wrote yesterday. I’ll take tomorrow off with “flu” and try to get down to work. A short visit to Leni set me thinking. Froda is writing a play with Nicuşor, and they intend to have it performed at the National. I can’t believe, and can’t expect, that Nicuşor will give up his own play if there is a choice between that and mine. Meanwhile, though, I have to write. Who knows, maybe I’ll still get a few tens of thousands of lei in return for the manuscript.

  Saturday, 17 January

  Small debts to pay off (Marcu, Manolovici, Zaharia) and food expenses to meet for some time. It was a pleasure giving Zissu back his money. I’d like one day to write a novel or play that centered on money.

  Yesterday and today I have written six scenes (twelve pages), but there is nothing of real substance in them. I am not pleased with the conversation between Ştefănescu and Andronic, which I thought would have more to it. I am thinking of redoing it if I have time. It is all going too slowly: not because I have artistic scruples, but because I don’t occupy myself enough with the play to the exclusion of everything else. At least if I could finish Act One more quickly.

  Sunday, 18 January

  Khalfaya has fallen—the last place held by the Axis in Cyrenaica. It remains to be seen how the struggle for Tripolitania will develop.

  Today I have written only three pages—the (very short) fourteenth and fifteenth scenes. My young heroine Magda has entered the picture. Here I feel the need for a change of tone. Up to now I have written somewhat mechanically, in the style of a “situation comedy,” and I think I have some talent for that. The entrances and exits, the unfolding of events, seem to happen without the author. Once a certain situation is posed, a play is constructed automatically. Theatre writes itself. Unfortunately my workload starts to get very heavy in a week’s time—and I fear I won’t have enough time for my play. I don’t see how it will be ready by the first of February.

  Tuesday, 20 January

  “New statement about the Jews,” shout the newspaper sellers in the street. All Jews, “without exception,” are obliged to work for five days on snow-clearing. “Any irregularity that is shown to have occurred will lead to expulsion of the Jews from the country.” “Jews who are found without proof of five days of snow work will constitute the first battalions of Jewish workers to leave in spring for Transnistria.”

  The Germans report that they have retaken Feodosiya.

  I wrote nothing yesterday and today. I fear that I have ground to a complete halt. I shouldn’t allow myself such dangerous standstills. It is true that I lack spare time, but this play must be finished quickly—or it won’t be written at all.

  Wednesday, 21 January

  Fairy-tale snow—such as I don’t remember ever having seen in Bucharest. Maybe in childhood, in Brăila. When I went out this morning, the whole of Strada Antim was a river of snow. I reached with difficulty Piata Senatului, where a long line of streetcars were at great pains to advance along their route. Cars, trucks, and carts struggled in vain to start moving again. Snow, I thought to myself, is an elemental force of nature. All civilization and modern technology are powerless against major snowfall. If it were to keep snowing like this for three months, everything would be swallowed up.

  An idea for a short story occurred to me as I was going to school.9 It would be called “Snow.” Like “Deschiderea stagiunii” [Opening of the Season]—my only previous short story—it would tell of a moment of rebirth for a man whose life has been a failure, then of his loss of momentum and his final abandonment of the effort. The hero would be a teacher. He gets up in the morning in a de
solate conjugal setting. His journey to school, through a magnificent wintry landscape (my picture of the city today), awakens in him the desire to start a new life. In the classroom, which he enters full of enthusiasm, an oaf of a boy plays a stupid trick—and the rainbow disintegrates. The man suddenly turns back into a dry pedant, and everything is as it was before.

  The Russians have retaken Mozhaisk, the Germans’ most advanced point before Moscow. Mais ça ne change pas beaucoup.1

  I left a letter for Zissu at his office: “Dear Mr. Zissu, Please accept ten of the twenty thousand lei I owe you. I shall try to settle the rest very soon. Once again I thank you for the favor and assure you that I will remember it.”

  The play is being neglected. I have to focus on the course at Onescu that begins on Friday. I can’t forgive my stupidity in agreeing to do it. I am determined to start working hard again on the play very soon.

  21 January. A year since the start of the Revolt.2

  Friday, 23 January

  Both the liceu and the college are closed for five days. The students, pupils, and younger teachers (I’ll be in a later group) are off clearing snow. We get used to the most grotesque situations: when they are not tragic, when they are not deadly, we look on the funny side of them.

  Otherwise it is a welcome holiday for me. I’ll be able to work on the play again. Today I wrote the scene with Magda, which has been the first serious difficulty up to now. I think I dealt with it reasonably well. The rest of Act One seems simple.

  The night of 23 to 24 January a year ago! Machine guns, eerie silence in the streets, my terrible loneliness, the telephone calling in the void. Yesterday evening a baby of two or three months was left in swaddling clothes at our door. I was afraid of complications with the police: statements, questioning, investigations. There was no trouble in the end. But I had a half-hour of tragicomedy.

  Sunday, 25 January

  In Libya the British have retreated from Ajdabiya. I was reminded, against my will, of the Italian-German recovery last spring. Is it possible that the British will for a second time lose their grip on the situation?

  In Russia a Soviet offensive in the north has broken right through to Kholm. The Germans say it is a gamble, the British a major victory. We’ll have to wait for things to become clearer.

  I had hoped to finish Act One today, but I was not diligent enough and wasted the whole evening playing belote. I’ll try again tomorrow. In any case, it has all been going too slowly for what I originally intended.

  Monday, 26 January

  I have finished Act One. By six in the evening I hadn’t managed to write a single line, but from six until now (eleven-thirty) I wrote quickly, almost without rereading. I am not sure how it has worked out. I fear that the whole act is too long, and that the plot and construction are rather labored. I may read it to someone as a check. To Benu, perhaps.

  Wednesday, 28 January

  I read Act One to Benu last night. A satisfying impression. Roughly an hour of continuous reading. It all seems fluent, natural, well put together. At some points we burst out laughing. If there had been more of us, I think all the “effects” would have worked. I had lunch today with Nicuşor, to find out if I can rely on him. I don’t think I can. I’ll have to find another solution. The play he is writing with Froda is nearly finished; it will probably be ready before mine. He wants to put it on at the Studio, during the current season. I can’t ask him to wait for my sake. I’ll have to find someone else to put his name to it if I want to push it through quickly (and I do want to, for the simple reason that I can’t make long-term plans; this play is a joke and a business proposition that have to be wrapped up quickly). But it is too early to be thinking about all this. First I have to finish it; I’ll look for solutions later on.

  I have started to write Act Two. In fact I haven’t yet got to the heart of it, because I have done only the radio lecture that opens the act. I hope I’ll be able to do more work on it tomorrow. I have no right to squander these few days off.

  Steps are being taken to mobilize Jews for the snow. Today there were raids in the streets and in people’s houses. I hesitate to present myself. I delay it as long as I can. First I’d like to finish the play—but am I not asking too much?

  Rommel is attacking in Libya (with a halt today). It is not impossible that he will get back into Benghazi. On the Russian front the Germans are counterattacking in places—especially, it seems, in the center. Nothing is clear for the moment. In the Pacific the pace of things has slowed somewhat.

  Thursday, 29 January

  Until eight in the evening I was unable to write a line. The heating was frozen up, and you can’t sit in the house even with an overcoat. I had to go to a cinema to warm up. But then I worked from eight until now, two in the morning. Only five pages: Scene 1 and half of Scene 2. But I have the other half in a rough copy that needs only to be written out.

  I spoke with Rosetti, and later with Cicerone, about the possibility of staging a play that I might write. I was fairly vague, so as not to give myself away. Rosetti is doubtful, and Cicerone refuses to consider the question. I can very well understand him.

  Nothing new at the fronts.

  Saturday, 31 January

  “Nothing new at the fronts”—I wrote on Thursday evening, but at that moment Rommel had already been back in Benghazi for twelve hours. Without a radio, the only news I get is late and incomplete.

  Act Two is still pretty heavy going. I also have a bit of flu. Our heating comes on and off, as the fancy takes it. The cold is demoralizing me.

  Sunday, 1 February

  So, two months of winter have passed. Even with the heavy snow that still covers the city, there are already glimpses of spring somewhere over the horizon. It is hard to believe that anything essential can change in the war during the five or six weeks of winter that remain. As the season favorable to the Axis approaches, I grow more fearful of the coming dangers.

  I am at Scene 5 (Magda and Andronic), the most difficult one in Act Two and perhaps in the whole play. I have written half of it (satisfactorily, I think), and I’ll try to finish it tomorrow. The rest of the act looks more straightforward, because I shall now be returning to the situation comedy. For Act Three I have come up with some solutions that are not yet fully clear but will, I think, work well.

  Tuesday, 3 February

  Yesterday I wrote only a couple of snatches of dialogue. But today (just now, at one in the morning) I have finished Scene 5. Both yesterday and today have been days of discouragement. A certain disgust with writing. How I can work now at literature! I am too tired to record everything that is on my mind. Maybe tomorrow. And if I forget it, so much the better.

  Thursday, 5 February

  Rommel has retaken Derna. The British offensive in Libya is falling apart. No sign of a counterattack. Will Tobruk hold out at least? Will defensive lines be reformed at the Egyptian frontier? It is all deeply disturbing. The British stupidity enrages and depresses you. The whole face of the war has changed as a result of the grotesque happenings in Africa— especially as the Russian front is unaltered while Singapore is under siege and perhaps about to fall.

  I was summoned to the police on Tuesday afternoon, so that they could warn me to dismiss the maid. “Jews do not have a right to hire servants.” Two painful hours of fear, ridiculous and out of all proportion. My Romanian-Jewish inhibitions have a paralyzing effect.

  Nicuşor Constantinescu, whom I saw yesterday, insists that I finish the play and give it to him. As I understood it, he doubts whether his own play will be accepted at the National—and if it isn’t, he will put it on at a private theatre and give mine to the National. I don’t know what will come of all these plans and expectations. The first thing to do is finish it—then we shall see. I have decided to read him next Thursday or Friday what I have written. I’ll force myself to finish by then at least Act Two. Everything would go faster and more easily if I weren’t tied up at the school and college (an unforgivable stupid
ity), and if I didn’t also have to do the five days of snow work.

  Sunday, 8 February

  I started the college course this morning. The class was a failure. I thought I was a good speaker, and maybe I am—but I need a direct link with the class to be able to speak. Yesterday everything was amorphous, opaque, inert.

  Nothing new at the fronts. The Japanese are a mile from Singapore! In Africa it is not yet known whether there is a British front and, if so, where it exists. In Russia there have been local actions of no importance.

  The play is going slowly, unforgivably slowly. I haven’t even finished the scene with the director. I feel all the worse about it because I have arranged a reading with Nicuşor. I’d have liked to have Act Two finished.