"Satan's Diary," Leonid Andreyev's last work, was completed by the
great Russian a few days before he died in Finland, in September,
1919. But a few years ago the most popular and successful of Russian
writers, Andreyev died almost penniless, a sad, tragic figure,
disillusioned, broken-hearted over the tragedy of Russia.
A year ago Leonid Andreyev wrote me that he was eager to come to
America, to study this country and familiarize Americans with the
fate of his unfortunate countrymen. I arranged for his visit to this
country and informed him of this by cable. But on the very day I
sent my cable the sad news came from Finland announcing that Leonid
Andreyev died of heart failure.
In "Satan's Diary" Andreyev summed up his boundless disillusionment
in an absorbing satire on human life. Fearlessly and mercilessly
he hurled the falsehoods and hypocrisies into the face of life. He
portrayed Satan coming to this earth to amuse himself and play. Having
assumed the form of an American multi-millionaire, Satan set out on a
tour through Europe in quest of amusement and adventure. Before him
passed various forms of spurious virtues, hypocrisies, the ruthless
cruelty of man and the often deceptive innocence of woman. Within
a short time Satan finds himself outwitted, deceived, relieved of
his millions, mocked, humiliated, beaten by man in his own devilish
devices.
The story of Andreyev's beginning as a writer is best told in his
autobiography which he gave me in 1908.
* * * * *
"I was born," he said, "in Oryol, in 1871, and studied there at the
gymnasium. I studied poorly; while in the seventh class I was for a
whole year known as the worst student, and my mark for conduct was
never higher than 4, sometimes 3. The most pleasant time I spent at
school, which I recall to this day with pleasure, was recess time
between lessons, and also the rare occasions when I was sent out from
the classroom.... The sunbeams, the free sunbeams, which penetrated
some cleft and which played with the dust in the hallway--all this was
so mysterious, so interesting, so full of a peculiar, hidden meaning.
"When I studied at the gymnasium my father, an engineer, died. As
a university student I was in dire need. During my first course in
St. Petersburg I even starved--not so much out of real necessity as
because of my youth, inexperience, and my inability to utilize the
unnecessary parts of my costume. I am to this day ashamed to think
that I went two days without food at a time when I had two or three
pairs of trousers and two overcoats which I could have sold.
"It was then that I wrote my first story--about a starving student.
I cried when I wrote it, and the editor, who returned my manuscript,
laughed. That story of mine remained unpublished.... In 1894, in
January, I made an unsuccessful attempt to kill myself by shooting. As
a result of this unsuccessful attempt I was forced by the authorities
into religious penitence, and I contracted heart trouble, though not
of a serious nature, yet very annoying. During this time I made one or
two unsuccessful attempts at writing; I devoted myself with greater
pleasure and success to painting, which I loved from childhood on. I
made portraits to order at 3 and 5 rubles a piece.
"In 1897 I received my diploma and became an assistant attorney, but
I was at the very outset sidetracked. I was offered a position on
_The Courier_, for which I was to report court proceedings. I did not
succeed in getting any practice as a lawyer. I had only one case and
lost it at every point.
"In 1898 I wrote my first story--for the Easter number--and since that
time I have devoted myself exclusively to literature. Maxim Gorky
helped me considerably in my literary work by his always practical
advice and suggestions."
* * * * *
Andreyev's first steps in literature, his first short stories,
attracted but little attention at the time of their appearance. It
was only when Countess Tolstoy, the wife of Leo Tolstoy, in a letter
to the _Novoye Vremya_, came out in "defense of artistic purity and
moral power in contemporary literature," declaring that Russian
society, instead of buying, reading and making famous the works of the
Andreyevs, should "rise against such filth with indignation," that
almost everybody who knew how to read in Russia turned to the little
volume of the young writer.
In her attack upon Andreyev, Countess Tolstoy said as follows:
* * * * *
"The poor new writers, like Andreyev, succeeded only in concentrating
their attention on the filthy point of human degradation and uttered a
cry to the undeveloped, half-intelligent reading public, inviting them
to see and to examine the decomposed corpse of human degradation and
to close their eyes to God's wonderful, vast world, with the beauties
of nature, with the majesty of art, with the lofty yearnings of the
human soul, with the religious and moral struggles and the great
ideals of goodness--even with the downfall, misfortunes and weaknesses
of such people as Dostoyevsky depicted.... In describing all these
every true artist should illumine clearly before humanity not the side
of filth and vice, but should struggle against them by illumining the
highest ideals of good, truth, and the triumph over evil, weakness,
and the vices of mankind.... I should like to cry out loudly to the
whole world in order to help those unfortunate people whose wings,
given to each of them for high flights toward the understanding of
the spiritual light, beauty, kindness, and God, are clipped by these
Andreyevs."
This letter of Countess Tolstoy called forth a storm of protest in the
Russian press, and, strange to say, the representatives of the fair
sex were among the warmest defenders of the young author. Answering
the attack, many women, in their letters to the press, pointed out
that the author of "Anna Karenina" had been abused in almost the
same manner for his "Kreutzer Sonata," and that Tolstoy himself had
been accused of exerting just such an influence as the Countess
attributed to Andreyev over the youth of Russia. Since the publication
of Countess Tolstoy's condemnation, Andreyev has produced a series
of masterpieces, such as "The Life of Father Vassily," a powerful
psychological study; "Red Laughter," a war story, "written with the
blood of Russia;" "The Life of Man," a striking morality presentation
in five acts; "Anathema," his greatest drama; and "The Seven Who Were
Hanged," in which the horrors of Russian life under the Tsar were
delineated with such beautiful simplicity and power that Turgenev, or
Tolstoy himself, would have signed his name to this masterpiece.
Thus the first accusations against Andreyev were disarmed by his
artistic productions, permeated with sincere, profound love for
all that is pure in life. Dostoyevsky and Maupassant depicted more
subjects, such as that treated in "The Abyss," than Andreyev. But with
them these stories are lost in the great mass of their other works,
while in Andreyev, who at that time had as yet produced but a few
short stories, works like "The Abyss" stood out in bold relief.
I recall my first meeting with Leonid Andreyev in 1908, two weeks
after my visit to Count Leo Tolstoy at Yasnaya Polyana. At that time
he had already become the most popular Russian writer, his popularity
having overshadowed even that of Maxim Gorky.
As I drove from Terioki to Andreyev's house, along the dust-covered
road, the stern and taciturn little Finnish driver suddenly broke the
silence by saying to me in broken Russian:
"Andreyev is a good writer.... Although he is a Russian, he is a very
good man. He is building a beautiful house here in Finland, and he
gives employment to many of our people."
We were soon at the gate of Andreyev's beautiful villa--a fantastic
structure, weird-looking, original in design, something like the
conception of the architect in the "Life of Man."
"My son is out rowing with his wife in the Gulf of Finland,"
Andreyev's mother told me. "They will be back in half an hour."
As I waited I watched the seething activity everywhere on Andreyev's
estate. In Yasnaya Polyana, the home of Count Tolstoy, everything
seemed long established, fixed, well-regulated, serenely beautiful.
Andreyev's estate was astir with vigorous life. Young, strong men were
building the House of Man. More than thirty of them were working on
the roof and in the yard, and a little distance away, in the meadows,
young women and girls, bright-eyed and red faced, were haying. Youth,
strength, vigor everywhere, and above all the ringing laughter of
little children at play. I could see from the window the "Black Little
River," which sparkled in the sun hundreds of feet below. The constant
noise of the workmen's axes and hammers was so loud that I did not
notice when Leonid Andreyev entered the room where I was waiting for
him.
"Pardon my manner of dressing," he said, as we shook hands. "In the
summer I lead a lazy life, and do not write a line. I am afraid I am
forgetting even to sign my name."
I had seen numerous photographs of Leonid Andreyev, but he did not
look like any of them. Instead of a pale-faced, sickly-looking young
man, there stood before me a strong, handsome, well-built man, with
wonderful eyes. He wore a grayish blouse, black, wide pantaloons up to
his knees, and no shoes or stockings.
We soon spoke of Russian literature at the time, particularly of the
drama.
"We have no real drama in Russia," said Andreyev. "Russia has not yet
produced anything that could justly be called a great drama. Perhaps
'The Storm,' by Ostrovsky, is the only Russian play that may be
classed as a drama. Tolstoy's plays cannot be placed in this category.
Of the later writers, Anton Chekhov came nearest to giving real dramas
to Russia, but, unfortunately, he was taken from us in the prime of
his life."
"What do you consider your own 'Life of Man' and 'To the Stars'?" I
asked.
"They are not dramas; they are merely presentations in so many acts,"
answered Andreyev, and, after some hesitation, added: "I have not
written any dramas, but it is possible that I will write one." At
this point Andreyev's wife came in, dressed in a Russian blouse. The
conversation turned to America, and to the treatment accorded to Maxim
Gorky in New York.
"When I was a child I loved America," remarked Andreyev. "Perhaps
Cooper and Mayne Reid, my favorite authors in my childhood days, were
responsible for this. I was always planning to run away to America. I
am anxious even now to visit America, but I am afraid--I may get as
bad a reception as my friend Gorky got."
He laughed as he glanced at his wife. After a brief pause, he said:
"The most remarkable thing about the Gorky incident is that while in
his stories and articles about America Gorky wrote nothing but the
very worst that could be said about that country he never told me
anything but the very best about America. Some day he will probably
describe his impressions of America as he related them to me."
It was a very warm day. The sun was burning mercilessly in the large
room. Mme. Andreyev suggested that it would be more pleasant to go
down to a shady place near the Black Little River.
On the way down the hill Andreyev inquired about Tolstoy's health and
was eager to know his views on contemporary matters.
"If Tolstoy were young now he would have been with us," he said.
We stepped into a boat, Mme. Andreyev took up the oars and began to
row. We resumed our conversation.
"The decadent movement in Russian literature," said Andreyev, "started
to make itself felt about ten or fifteen years ago. At first it was
looked upon as mere child's play, as a curiosity. Now it is regarded
more seriously. Although I do not belong to that school, I do not
consider it worthless. The fault with it is that it has but few
talented people in its ranks, and these few direct the criticism of
the decadent school. They are the writers and also the critics. And
they praise whatever they write. Of the younger men, Alexander Blok
is perhaps the most gifted. But in Russia our clothes change quickly
nowadays, and it is hard to tell what the future will tell us--in our
literature and our life.
"How do I picture to myself this future?" continued Andreyev, in
answer to a question of mine. "I cannot know even the fate and future
of my own child; how can I foretell the future of such a great country
as Russia? But I believe that the Russian people have a great future
before them--in life and in literature--for they are a great people,
rich in talents, kind and freedom-loving. Savage as yet, it is true,
very ignorant, but on the whole they do not differ so much from other
European nations."
Suddenly the author of "Red Laughter" looked upon me intently, and
asked: "How is it that the European and the American press has
ceased to interest itself in our struggle for emancipation? Is it
possible that the reaction in Russia appeals to them more than our
people's yearnings for freedom, simply because the reaction happens
to be stronger at the present time? In that event, they are probably
sympathizing with the Shah of Persia! Russia to-day is a lunatic
asylum. The people who are hanged are not the people who should be
hanged. Everywhere else honest people are at large and only criminals
are in prison. In Russia the honest people are in prison and the
criminals are at large. The Russian Government is composed of a band
of criminals, and Nicholas II is not the greatest of them. There are
still greater ones. I do not hold that the Russian Government alone
is guilty of these horrors. The European nations and the Americans
are just as much to blame, for they look on in silence while the most
despicable crimes are committed. The murderer usually has at least
courage, while he who looks on silently when murder is committed
is a contemptible weakling. England and France, who have become so
friendly to our Government, are surely watching with compassion the
poor Shah, who hangs the constitutional leaders. Perhaps I do not know
international law. Perhaps I am not speaking as a practical man. One
nation must not interfere with the internal affairs of another nation.
But why do they interfere with our movement for freedom? France
helped the Russian Government in its war against the people by giving
money to Russia. Germany also helped--secretly. In well-regulated
countries each individual must behave decently. When a man murders,
robs, dishonors women he is thrown into prison. But when the Russian
Government is murdering helpless men and women and children the other
Governments look on indifferently. And yet they speak of God. If this
had happened in the Middle Ages a crusade would have been started by
civilized peoples who would have marched to Russia to free the women
and the children from the claws of the Government."
Andreyev became silent. His wife kept rowing for some time slowly,
without saying a word. We soon reached the shore and returned silently
to the house. That was twelve years ago.
I met him several times after that. The last time I visited him in
Petrograd during the July riots in 1917.
* * * * *
A literary friend thus describes the funeral of Leonid Andreyev, which
gives a picture of the tragedy of Russia:
"In the morning a decision had to be reached as to the day of the
funeral. It was necessary to see to the purchase and the delivery of
the coffin from Viborg, and to undertake all those unavoidable, hard
duties which are so painful to the family.
"It appeared that the Russian exiles living in our village had no
permits from the Finnish Government to go to Viborg, nor the money for
that expense. It further appeared that the family of Leonid Andreyev
had left at their disposal only one hundred marks (about 6 dollars),
which the doctor who had come from the station after Andreyev's death
declined to take from the widow for his visit.
"This was all the family possessed. It was necessary to charge a
Russian exile living in a neighboring village, who had a pass for
Viborg, with the sad commission of finding among some wealthy people
in Viborg who had known Andreyev the means required for the funeral.
"On the following day mass was read. Floral tributes and wreaths from
Viborg, with black inscriptions made hastily in ink on white ribbons,
began to arrive. They were all from private individuals. The local
refugees brought garlands of autumn foliage, bouquets of late flowers.
Their children laid their carefully woven, simple and touching little
childish wreaths at the foot of the coffin. Leonid Andreyev's widow
did not wish to inter the body in foreign soil and it was decided,
temporarily, until burial in native ground, to leave his body in the
little mortuary in the park on the estate of a local woman landowner.
"The day of the funeral was not widely known. The need for special
permits to travel deprived many of the opportunity to attend. In
this way it happened that only a very small group of people followed
the body from the house to the mortuary. None of his close friends
was there. They, like his brothers, sister, one of his sons, were
in Russia. Neighbors, refugees, acquaintances of the last two years
with whom his exile had accidentally thrown him into contact, people
who had no connection with Russian literature,--almost all alien in
spirit--such was the little group of Russians that followed the coffin
of Leonid Andreyev to its temporary resting place.
"It was a tragic funeral, this funeral in exile, of a writer who is
so dearly loved by the whole intellectual class of Russia; whom the
younger generation of Russia acclaimed with such enthusiasm.
"Meanwhile he rests in a foreign land, waiting--waiting for Free
Russia to demand back his ashes, and pay tribute to his genius."
Among his last notes, breathing deep anguish and despair, found on his
desk, were the following lines:
"Revolution is just as unsatisfactory a means of settling disputes
as is war. If it be impossible to vanquish a hostile idea except by
smashing the skull in which it is contained; if it be impossible to
appease a hostile heart except by piercing it with a bayonet, then, of
course, fight...."
Leonid Andreyev died of a broken heart. But the spirit of his genius
is deathless.
HERMAN BERNSTEIN.
_New York, September._
_Satan's Diary_