Leonid Andreyev is the youngest and at the present time the most
powerful dramatist of Russia. Like Tchekhof and Gorki, he is very
versatile: his sketches and stories possess as fine a literary quality
and stirring social appeal as his plays.
No one who has read his terrible picture of war, "The Red Laugh," or his
unsurpassed arraignment of capital punishment, "The Seven Who Were
Hanged," can erase from memory the effect of Leonid Andreyev's forceful
pen.
The drama "King-Hunger" deals with most powerful king on
earth,--_King-Hunger_. In the presence of _Time_ and _Death_ he pleads
with _Time_ to ring the alarm, to call the people to rebellion, because
the earth is replete with suffering: cities, shops, mines, factories and
fields resound with the moans and groans of the people. Their agony is
unbearable.
_King-Hunger._ Strike the bell, old man; rend to ears its copper
mouth. Let no one slumber!
But _Time_ has no faith in _King-Hunger_. He knows that _Hunger_ had
deceived the people on many occasions: "You will deceive again,
King-Hunger. You have many a time deluded your children and me." Yet
_Time_ is weary with waiting. He consents to strike the bell.
_King-Hunger_ calls upon the workingmen to rebel. The scene is in a
machine shop; the place is filled with deafening noises as of men's
groans. Every machine, every tool, every screw, holds its human forms
fettered to it and all keep pace with the maddening speed of their
tormentors. And through the thunder and clatter of iron there rises the
terrible plaint of the toilers.
---- We are starving.
---- We are crushed by machines.
---- Their weight smothers us.
---- The iron crushes.
---- The steel oppresses.
---- Oh, what a furious weight! As a mountain upon me!
---- The whole earth is upon me.
---- The iron hammer flattens me. It crushes the blood out of my
veins, it fractures my bones, it makes me flat as sheet iron.
---- Through the rollers my body is pressed and drawn thin as wire.
Where is my body? Where is my blood? Where is my soul?
---- The wheel is twirling me.
---- Day and night screaks the saw cutting steel. Day and night in
my ears the screeching of the saw cutting steel. All the dreams that
I see, all the sounds and songs that I hear, is the screeching of
the saw cutting steel. What is the earth? It is the screeching of
the saw. What is the sky? it is the screeching of the saw cutting
steel. Day and night.
---- Day and night.
---- We are crushed by the machines.
---- We ourselves are parts of the machines.
---- Brothers! We forge our own chains!
The crushed call upon _King-Hunger_ to help them, to save them from the
horror of their life. Is he not the most powerful king on earth?
_King-Hunger_ comes and exhorts them to rebel. All follow his call
except three. One of these is huge of body, of Herculean built, large of
muscle but with small, flat head upon his massive shoulders. The second
workingman is young, but with the mark of death already upon his brow.
He is constantly coughing and the hectic flush on his cheeks betrays the
wasting disease of his class. The third workingman is a worn-out old
man. Everything about him, even his voice, is deathlike, colorless, as
if in his person a thousand lives had been robbed of their bloom.
_First Workingman._ I am as old as the earth. I have performed all
the twelve labors, cleansed stables, cut off the hydra's heads, dug
and vexed the earth, built cities, and have so altered its face,
that the Creator himself would not readily recognize her. But I
can't say why I did all this. Whose will did I shape? To what end
did I aspire? My head is dull. I am dead tired. My strength
oppresses me. Explain it to me, O King! Or I'll clutch this hammer
and crack the earth as a hollow nut.
_King-Hunger._ Patience, my son! Save your powers for the last great
revolt. Then you'll know all.
_First Workingman._ I shall wait.
_Second Workingman._ He cannot comprehend it, O King. He thinks that
we must crack the earth. It is a gross falsehood, O King! The earth
is fair as the garden of God. We must guard and caress her as a
little girl. Many that stand there in the darkness say, there is no
sky, no sun, as if eternal night is upon the earth. Just think:
eternal night!
_King-Hunger._ Why, coughing blood, do you smile and gaze to heaven?
_Second Workingman._ Because flowers will blossom on my blood, and I
see them now. On the breast of a beautiful rich lady I saw a red
rose--she didn't know it was my blood.
_King-Hunger._ You are a poet, my son. I suppose you write verses,
as they do.
_Second Workingman._ King, O King, sneer not at me. In darkness I
learned to worship fire. Dying I understood that life is enchanting.
Oh, how enchanting! King, it shall become a great garden, and there
shall walk in peace, unmolested, men and animals. Dare not ruffle
the animals! Wrong not any man! Let them play, embrace, caress one
another--let them! But where is the path? Where is the path?
Explain, King-Hunger.
_King-Hunger._ Revolt.
_Second Workingman._ Through violence to freedom? Through blood to
love and kisses?
_King-Hunger._ There is no other way.
_Third Workingman._ You lie, King-Hunger. Then you have killed my
father and grandfather and great-grandfather, and would'st thou kill
us? Where do you lead us, unarmed? Don't you see how ignorant we
are, how blind and impotent. You are a traitor. Only here you are a
king, but there you lackey upon their tables. Only here you wear a
crown, but there you walk about with a napkin.
_King-Hunger_ will not listen to their protest. He gives them the
alternative of rebellion or starvation for themselves and their
children. They decide to rebel, for _King-Hunger_ is the most powerful
king on earth.
The subjects of _King-Hunger_, the people of the underworld, gather to
devise ways and means of rebellion. A gruesome assembly this, held in
the cellar. Above is the palace ringing with music and laughter, the
fine ladies in gorgeous splendor, bedecked with flowers and costly
jewels, the tables laden with rich food and delicious wines. Everything
is most exquisite there, joyous and happy. And underneath, in the
cellar, the underworld is gathered, all the dregs of society: the robber
and the murderer, the thief and the prostitute, the gambler and the
drunkard. They have come to consult with each other how poverty is to
rebel, how to throw off the yoke, and what to do with the rich.
Various suggestions are made. One advises poisoning the supply of water.
But this is condemned on the ground that the people also have to drink
from the same source.
Another suggests that all books should be burned for they teach the rich
how to oppress. But the motion fails. What is the use of burning the
books? The wealthy have money; they will buy writers, poets and
scientists to make new books.
A third proposes that the children of the rich be killed. From the
darkest, most dismal corner of the cellar comes the protest of an old
woman: "Oh, not the children. Don't touch the children. I have buried
many of them myself. I know the pain of the mother. Besides, the
children are not to blame for the crimes of their parents. Don't touch
the children! The child is pure and sacred. Don't hurt the child!"
A little girl rises, a child of twelve with the face of the aged. She
announces that for the last four years she has given her body for money.
She had been sold by her mother because they needed bread for the
smaller children. During the four years of her terrible life, she has
consorted with all kinds of men, influential men, rich men, pious men.
They infected her. Therefore she proposes that the rich should be
infected.
The underworld plans and plots, and the gruesome meeting is closed with
a frenzied dance between _King-Hunger_ and _Death_, to the music of the
dance above.
* * * * *
_King-Hunger_ is at the trial of the _Starving_. He is the most powerful
king on earth: he is at home everywhere, but nowhere more so than at the
trial of the _Starving_. On high chairs sit the judges, in all their
bloated importance. The courtroom is filled with curiosity seekers, idle
ladies dressed as if for a ball; college professors and students looking
for object lessons in criminal depravity; rich young girls are there, to
satisfy a perverted craving for excitement.
The first starveling is brought in muzzled.
_King-Hunger._ What is your offense, starveling?
_Old Man._ I stole a five-pound loaf, but it was wrested from me. I
had only time to bite a small piece of it. Forgive me, I will never
again--
He is condemned in the name of the _Law_ and _King-Hunger_, the most
powerful king on earth.
Another starveling is brought before the bar of justice. It is a woman,
young and beautiful, but pale and sad. She is charged with killing her
child.
_Young Woman._ One night my baby and I crossed the long bridge over
the river. And since I had long before decided, so then approaching
the middle, where the river is deep and swift, I said: "Look, baby
dear, how the water is a-roaring below." She said, "I can't reach,
mamma, the railing is so high." I said, "Come, let me lift you, baby
dear." And when she was gazing down into the black deep, I threw her
over. That's all.
The _Law_ and _King-Hunger_ condemn the woman to "blackest hell," there
to be "tormented and burned in everlasting, slackless fires."
The heavy responsibility of meting out justice has fatigued the judges.
The excitement of the trial has sharpened the appetite of the
spectators. _King-Hunger_, at home with all people, proposes that the
court adjourn for luncheon.
The scene in the restaurant represents Hunger devouring like a wild
beast the produce of toil, ravenous, famished, the victim of his own
gluttonous greed.
The monster fed, his hunger and thirst appeased, he now returns to sit
in self-satisfied judgment over the _Starving_. The judges are more
bloated than before, the ladies more eager to bask in the misery of
their fellows. The college professors and students, mentally heavy with
food, are still anxious to add data to the study of human criminality.
A lean boy is brought in, muzzled; he is followed by a ragged woman.
_Woman._ Have mercy! He stole an apple for me, your Honor. I was
sick, thought he. "Let me bring her a little apple." Pity him! Tell
them that you won't any more. Well! Speak!
_Starveling._ I won't any more.
_Woman._ I've already punished him myself. Pity his youth, cut not at
the root his bright little days!
_Voices._ Indeed, pity one and then the next. Cut the evil at its
roots.
---- One needs courage to be ruthless.
---- It is better for them.
---- Now he is only a boy, but when he grows up--
_King-Hunger._ Starveling, you are condemned.
A starveling, heavily muzzled, is dragged in. He is big and strong. He
protests to the court: he has always been a faithful slave. But
_King-Hunger_ announces that the man is dangerous, because the faithful
slave, being strong and honest, is "obnoxious to people of refined
culture and less brawny." The slave is faithful to-day, _King-Hunger_
warns the judges, but "who can trust the to-morrow? Then in his strength
and integrity we will encounter a violent and dangerous enemy."
In the name of justice the faithful slave is condemned. Finally the last
starveling appears. He looks half human, half beast.
_King-Hunger._ Who are you, starveling? Answer. Do you understand
human speech?
_Starveling._ We are the peasants.
_King-Hunger._ What's your offense?
_Starveling._ We killed the devil.
_King-Hunger._ It was a man whom you burnt.
_Starveling._ No, it was the devil. The priest told us so, and then we
burnt him.
The peasant is condemned. The session of the Court closes with a brief
speech by _King-Hunger_:
_King-Hunger._ To-day you witnessed a highly instructive spectacle.
Divine, eternal justice has found in us, as judges and your
retainers, its brilliant reflection on earth. Subject only to the
laws of immortal equity, unknown to culpable compassion, indifferent
to cursing and entreating prayers, obeying the voice of our
conscience alone--we illumed this earth with the light of human
wisdom and sublime, sacred truth. Not for a single moment forgetting
that justice is the foundation of life, we have crucified the Christ
in days gone by and since, to this very day, we cease not to grace
Golgotha with new crosses. But, certainly, only ruffians, only
ruffians are hanged. We showed no mercy to God himself, in the name
of the laws of immortal justice--would we be now disconcerted by the
howling of this impotent, starving rabble, by their cursing and
raging? Let them curse! Life herself blesses us, the great sacred
truth will screen us with her veil, and the very decree of history
will not be more just than our own. What have they gained by
cursing? What? They are there, we're here. They are in dungeons, in
galleys, on crosses, but we will go to the theater. They perish, but
we will devour them--devour--devour.
The court has fulfilled its mission. _King-Hunger_ is the most powerful
king on earth.
* * * * *
The starvelings break out in revolt. The bells peal with deafening
thunder; all is confusion and chaos. The city is immersed in the
blackness of despair, and all is dark. Now and then gusts of fire sweep
the sky illuminating the scene of battle. The air is filled with cries
and groans; there is the thud of falling bodies, and still the fight
goes on.
In a secluded part of the town stands the castle. In its most
magnificent ballroom the rich and their lackeys--scientists, teachers
and artists--are gathered. They tremble with fear at the ominous sounds
outside. To silence the loud beat of their terror they command the
musicians to strike up the liveliest tunes, and the guests whirl about
in a mad dance.
From time to time the door is forced open and someone drops exhausted to
the floor. An artist rushes in, crying out that the art gallery is in
flames.
"Murillo is burning! Velasquez is burning! Giorgione is burning!"
He is not in the least concerned with living values; he dwells in the
past and he wildly bewails the dead weight of the past.
One after another men rush in to report the burning of libraries, the
breaking of statues, and the destruction of monuments. No one among the
wealthy mob regrets the slaughter of human life.
Panic-stricken the mighty fall from their thrones. The Starving,
infuriated and vengeful, are marching on the masters! They must not see
the craven fear of the huddled figures in the mansions,--the lights are
turned off. But darkness is even more terrible to the frightened palace
mob. In the madness of terror they begin to accuse and denounce each
other. They feel as helpless as children before the approaching
avalanche of vengeance.
At this critical moment a man appears. He is small, dirty, and unwashed;
he smells of cheap whisky and bad tobacco; he blows his nose with a red
handkerchief and his manners are disgusting. He is the engineer. He
looks calmly about him, presses a button, and the place is flooded with
light. He brings the comforting news that the revolt is crushed.
_Engineer._ On Sunny Hill we planted a line of immense machine guns
of enormous power.... A few projectiles of a specially destructive
power ... A public square filled with people ... Enough one or two
such shells.... And should the revolt still continue, we'll shower
the city.
The revolt is over. All is quiet--the peace of death. The ground is
strewn with bodies, the streets are soaked with blood. Fine ladies flit
about. They lift their children and bid them kiss the mouth of the
cannon, for the cannon have saved the rich from destruction. Prayers and
hymns are offered up to the cannon, for they have saved the masters and
punished the starvelings. And all is quiet, with the stillness of the
graveyard where sleep the dead.
_King-Hunger_, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, makes a desperate
last appeal to his children.
_King-Hunger._ Oh, my son, my son! You clamored so loud--why are you
mute? Oh, my daughter, my daughter, you hated so profoundly, so
intensely, you most miserable on earth--arise. Arise from the dust!
Rend the shadowy bonds of death! Arise! I conjure you in the name of
Life! You're silent?
For a brief moment all remains silent and immovable. Suddenly a sound is
heard, distant at first, then nearer and nearer, till a
thousand-throated roar breaks forth like thunder:
---- We shall yet come!
---- We shall yet come!
---- Woe unto the victorious!
The Victors pale at the ghostly cry. Seized with terror, they run,
wildly howling:
---- The dead arise!
---- The dead arise!
"We shall yet come!" cry the dead. For they who died for an ideal never
die in vain. They must come back, they shall come back. And then--woe be
to the victorious! _King-Hunger_ is indeed the most terrible king on
earth, but only for those who are driven by blind forces alone.
But they who can turn on the light, know the power of the things they
have created. They will come, and take possession,--no longer the
wretched scum, but the masters of the world.
A message revolutionary, deeply social in its scope, illumining with
glorious hope the dismal horizon of the disinherited of the earth.
* * * * *
ANARCHISM
_AND OTHER ESSAYS_
By EMMA GOLDMAN
Including a biographic SKETCH of the author's interesting career, a
splendid PORTRAIT, and twelve of her most important lectures, some of
which have been suppressed by the police authorities of various cities.
This book expresses the most advanced ideas on social
questions--economics, politics, education and sex.