THE LIFE OF MAN
A Play In Five Acts
By Leonidas Andreyev
Translated By C. J. Hogarth
London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd. New York: The Macmillan Company.
1915
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
The Being in Grey.
The Father of the Man.
The Man.
The Man's Wife.
First Doctor.
Second Doctor.
An Old Serving Woman.
Old Women of a Semi-supernatural Character.
Musicians; Friends, Enemies, and Relations of the Man; Guests at the
Man's Ball, etc.
PROLOGUE
[_A Being, clad in Grey, is speaking. He is speaking of the Life of
Man._
[_The stage presents the semblance of a large, square, empty room which
has neither doors nor windows, and within which all is uniformly grey
and misty. The ceiling, walls, and floor are grey, and from some hidden
source there flows a stream of dim, unflickering light, of the same
dull, monotonous, elusive colour. This light throws no shadows, nor is
reflected back from any point._
[_Without a sound the Being in Grey detaches himself from the wall, with
which he has almost seemed to mingle. He is clothed in a loose, grey,
shapeless habit, roughly outlining a gigantic frame, and his head is
veiled in a cowl of the all-pervading hue. This cowl throws the upper
portion of his face into deep shadow, so that no eyes, but only a nose,
mouth, and prominent chin are visible; all of which features are as
clear-cut in outline and granite-like in texture as though they were
hewn of grey stone. At first his lips are tightly compressed; until
presently he raises his head a little, and begins to speak in a stern,
Cold voice--a voice as destitute of passion or emotion as that of some
hired clerk reading aloud, with dry nonchalance, the records of a court
of law._]
Look ye and listen, ye who have come hither for sport and laughter; for
there is about to pass before you, from its mysterious beginning to its
mysterious close, the whole life of a Man.
Hitherto without being; hidden away in the womb of eternity; possessed
neither of thought nor feeling; remote from the range of human ken,--the
Man bursts, in some unknown manner, the bars of non-existence, and
announces with a cry the beginning of his brief life. In the night of
non-existence there bursts forth also a little candle, lit by an unseen
hand. It is the life of that Man. Mark well its flame: for it is the
life of that Man.
Born, the Man assumes the name and image of humanity, and becomes in
all things like unto other men who dwell upon the earth. Their hard lot
becomes his, and his, in turn, becomes the lot of all who shall come
after him. Drawn on inexorably by time, it is not given him to see the
next rung on which his faltering foot shall fall. Bounded in knowledge,
it is not given him to foretell what each succeeding hour, what each
succeeding minute, shall have in store for him. In blind nescience, in
an agony of foreboding, in a whirl of hopes and fears, he completes the
sorry cycle of an iron destiny.
First we see him a joyous youth. Mark how clearly the candle burns! Icy
winds from! desert wastes may eddy round it and pass by. Its flame may
flicker gently, but it still remains quite bright and clear. Yet the wax
is ever melting as the flame consumes it--yet the wax is ever melting.
Next we see him a happy man and father. Mark how dim, how strange, is
now the candle's glimmer! Its flame is growing pale and wrinkled, it
shivers as with cold, and its light is feebler than of yore. For the wax
is ever melting as the flame consumes it--for the wax is ever melting.
Lastly we see him an old man, weak and ailing. The rungs of the ladder
have all been climbed, and only a black abyss yawns before his faltering
foot. The flame of the candle is drooping earthward, and turning to
a faint blue. It droops and quivers, it droops and quivers--and then
softly goes out.
Thus the Man dies. Come from darkness, into darkness he returns, and
is reabsorbed, without a trace left, into the illimitable void of time.
There there is neither thought not feeling, nor any intercourse with
men. And I, the Unknown, shall remain ever the fellow-traveller of that
Man--through all the days of his life, through all his journeyings.
Though unseen by him and his companions, I shall ever be by his side. Be
he waking or sleeping, be he praying or blaspheming; in the hour of joy,
when his soul soars free and fearless; in the hour of sorrow, when
his spirit is o'ershadowed by the languor of death, and the blood is
curdling back upon his heart; in the hour of victory or defeat as he
wages his great contest with the Inevitable,--I shall be with him, I
shall ever be with him.
And ye who have come hither for sport and laughter (ye who none the less
must die also), look ye and listen: for there is about to pass before
you, and to reveal to you its joys and its sorrows, the brief, fleeting
life of a Man.
[_Once more the Being in Grey is silent; and as his voice ceases, the
light becomes wholly extinguished, and his form and the grey, empty room
are swallowed up in impenetrable darkness_. ]
CURTAIN.
ACT I--THE BIRTH OF THE MAN
[_The stage is in deep shadow--nothing being visible amid the gloom save
the silhouetted grey forms of some old, women and the faint outlines of
a large and lofty chamber. Clad in weird, shapeless garments, the old
women look, as they crouch together, like a little cluster of grey mice.
They are talking in low tones._]
~Dialogue of the Old Women.~~
I wish I knew which her baby is going to be--a boy or a girl.
Whatever can it matter to _you?_
Nothing; except that I prefer boys.
And _I_ prefer girls. They sit quietly at home, and make company when
one wants a gossip.
Oh, you are so fond of company!
[_The Old Women give a chuckle._]
The woman herself is hoping it will be a girl, for she says that boys
are too boisterous and headstrong, and too fond of running into danger.
While they are little (she says) they are for ever climbing tall trees
and bathing in deep water; and when they are grown up they take to.
fighting, and killing one another.
Pooh! Does she think that _girls_ never get drowned? Many a drowned
girl's corpse have I seen, and they looked as all drowned corpses
do--wet and livid and swollen.
And does she think that gauds and jewellery never yet brought a girl to
her death?
Ah, poor thing! she is having a hard and painful childbed of it. Here
have we been sitting these sixteen mortal hours, and she screaming the
whole time! True, she is quieter now, and only gasps and moans, but, a
short while ago, it fairly split one's ears to hear her!
The doctor thinks she is going to die.
No, no! What the doctor said was that the _child_ will be born dead, but
the mother herself recover.
But why need there be births at all? They are such painful things!
Well, why need there be deaths either? They are more painful still, are
they not?
[_The Old Women chuckle again._]
Ah well, 'tis the way of the world--births and deaths, births and
deaths.
Yes; and then more births.
[_For the third time the Old Women chuckle. At the same moment there is
heard behind the scenes a stifled cry, as of a woman in agony._]
There! She is going to scream again!
Well, at least it is a good sign that she has recovered her voice.
Yes, it is a good sign.
That poor husband of hers! The silly fool is in such a way about it that
it makes one almost die of laughing to see him. A short while ago he was
in raptures because his wife was pregnant, and kept saying that he hoped
the baby would be a boy. Perhaps he thought that any boy of _his_ would
grow up to be a Minister of State or a general at the very least! But
now he wants neither boy nor girl, but only fusses about and weeps.
When the pangs come upon her he seems to suffer almost as much as she
does. He grows absolutely livid in the face!
A short while ago they sent him to the chemist's for some medicine; but,
after kicking his heels about outside the shop for two mortal hours, he
was still unable to remember what he had come for, and had to go home
again empty-handed.
[_The Old Women burst into renewed chuckles, while the screams
behind the scenes increase for a moment, and then die away again into
silence._]
What ails her now? Surely she has not expired?
Not she! Had that been so, we should have heard the waiters beginning
their lament, and the doctor running about the house, and chattering his
foolish nonsense. Besides, her husband would have been gone off into a
dead faint and been brought in here, and then _we_ should have had some
work to do. No, no; she's not dead.
Then why need we stay here longer?
Oh, ask _Him_. How can _we_ tell what is going to happen?
He never tells us _anything_--never!
No, indeed! He is a perfect pest to us--for ever pulling us out of our
beds, and setting us to watch, and then telling us that we need not have
come after all!
Nevertheless, since we _are_ here, we may as well do something. There!
She is screaming again! Anyway, we could not help coming, could we?
No; he gave us no choice in the matter. Yet surely you have had enough
watching by now?
Oh, I just sit quiet and wait--sit quiet and wait.
What a patient old lady you are, to be sure!
[_The Old Women chuckle again, and the screams grow louder._]
How dreadful those screams sound! What agony she must be in! Do you know
what that agony is like? It is like having one's entrails torn out.
Oh, we have all been through it in our time.
Yes, but I doubt whether _she_ has before. Listen to that voice of hers!
One would hardly know it to be hers at all. It used to be such a sweet
and gentle one.
Well, 'tis more like the howl of a wild beast now. Besides, it has a
sort of a night sound in it.
Yes. It puts me in mind of great, dark, lonely forests, and of utter
solitude and desolation.
Yes; and of despair and a broken heart. But is there no one in the
room with her? Why is it we hear no voices but hers--no voices but that
terrible, yelling, shrieking voice of hers?
Oh, there are people in the room with her, only we do not seem to remark
their voices when she is screaming. Have you never noticed that a scream
always appears to stand out from other sounds? No matter how many
persons there be talking and chattering together, let but a scream be
uttered, and the whole world seems to be struck silent and listening to
it.
Yes, once I heard a man cry out as he was being run over by a wagon. The
street was full of people at the time, yet at the moment he might have
been the only one in it.
But this is a stranger sound than any _man_ could utter.
Perhaps it is a trifle more _shrill_.
No, no, it is more prolonged.
Perhaps you are right. It is a stranger sound than any man could utter.
Besides, it has the ring of death in it.
Well? Was there not a ring of death in that man's cry as well? He died,
didn't he?
Yes, yes; but never mind. We need not quarrel about it.
[_For a moment there is silence. Then the screams begin again._]
What a strange thing is a scream! If it is you yourself who are
screaming you never notice how horrible the screams sound: but if it is
some one else------
What throat can possibly produce such a noise as she is making? Surely
it cannot be a woman's throat? No, no; I cannot believe it!
The cries sound as though her neck were being twisted round and round.
Or as though the cries were coming from some deep hollow in her chest.
Now they are more like the gasps of a drowning man. Listen to the
choking noise she is making!
It sounds as though some heavy person were kneeling on her chest.
Or as though she were being strangled.
[_The screams suddenly cease._]
There! At last she is quiet again. I was getting tired of it all. It was
such a monotonous, ugly screaming.
Did you expect to find it _beautiful_, then?
[_The Old Women chuckle._]
Hush! Is _He_ here?
I do not know.
I believe He is.
He does not approve of laughter.
They say He laughs Himself at times.
Who knows? It is mere gossip. They tell so many strange stories about
Him.
Anyway, He might hear us, so we had better keep a straight face upon us.
[_The Old Women chuckle again._]
What I want to know is--Will the baby be a boy or a girl?
Yes, 'tis always nice to know what one is going to deal with.
I hope it may die before birth.
How kind of you!
Not more so than of you.
And _I_ trust it may grow up to be a general.
[_The Old Women chuckle again._]
Some of you are very merry now. I do not quite like it.
And _I_ do not quite like your looking so gloomy.
No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Every one must be either merry or
gloomy; so let each be what she pleases.
[_There is a pause_.]
_Babies_ are merry enough things, if you like.
Yes, and spoilt too.
And troublesome as well. I cannot abide them. As soon as ever they
are born they begin to cry out, and to beg for what they want, just as
though everything ought to be ready to their hand at once. Even before
they can see out of their eyes they have learnt that there are such
things in the world as a breast and milk, and straightway they ask for
them. Then they need to be put to bed, and to be rocked to sleep, and to
have their little red backs patted. For my part, I like them best when
they are dying.
Then they grow less clamorous--they just stretch themselves out, and
require rocking to sleep no more.
But they are such _playful_ little dears! How I love to wash them just
after they are born!
And _I_ to wash them just after they are dead!
No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Each to her own taste. One loves to wash
them after they, are born, and another to wash them after they are dead.
That is all about it.
But what right have babies to think that they may cry for what they
want? It does not seem to me the proper thing.
They think nothing at all about it. 'Tis their stomach which does the
asking.
But 'tis _they_ who do the actual asking, is it not?
Perhaps so; but they do not always get.
[_The Old Women chuckle again. Presently the screams recommence behind
the scenes._]
There! She is screaming again!
'Tis a strange 'fact, but animals seem to have easier young-bearing than
women do.
Yes, and easier dying too--and easier living, into the bargain. You
should see how sleek and contented my cat is!
The same with my dog. Every day I say to him, '_Your_ turn too will
come to die,' but he only grins at me, and goes on wagging his tail as
merrily as ever.
Ah, but they are only animals.
Well, and what else are women?
[_Again the Old Women chuckle._]
Dying, or about to be delivered, she has nearly come to the end of her
strength now. You can tell that by the sound of her cries.
I can see her eyes starting!
And the cold sweat on her brow!
[_Again the Old Women chuckle._]
She is about to be delivered!
No, she is dying!
[_Suddenly the screams cease._]
I tell you----
[_At this instant the Being in Grey stands out momentarily in clearer
relief as he exclaims in a deep, sonorous voice:_]
Silence ye! A man is being born into the world.
[_And almost as he speaks the cry of a baby is heard behind the scenes,
and the tall candle in the hand of the Being bursts into flame. At first
weak and, fitful, the flame grows stronger by degrees; yet though the
corner in which the Being is standing is in deeper shadow than the rest
of the scene, the candle's yellow light is in minates only his tightly
compressed lips, high cheekbones, and prominent chin, while the rest
of his face remains hidden, as before, in the shadow of the cowl. In
stature he is above the ordinary height of man, and the candle in
his hand is proportionately tall and massive. Set in a candlestick of
antique design (the green bronze of which causes the fingers encircling
it to show up grey and stonelike as those of some statue'), the candle
burns up with sufficient brightness to make the crouching forms of the
Old Women stand out clearly from the obscurity. Also, the room is now
seen to be a high and perfectly square apartment, with bare, colourless
walls; while both in the back wall and in the wall to the right are
curtainless casement windows, through which the outer night shows
darkly. Ranged against the walls are a number of chairs with high,
straight backs._]
[_The Old Women begin to utter excited exclamations._]
Hark! People are hurrying about! Presently they will be coming in here!
How light it is growing! Let us go, let us go!
See how clearly and steadily the candle burns!
Yes, let us go, let us go! Quickly, quickly!
Yes, let us go, let us go!
[_Bursting into shrill laughter, they begin with weird, zigzag movements
to shuffle away through the gloom. Yet, though, with their departure,
the light grows stronger, there still remains a dim, cold, lifeless air
about the scene._
[_Enter a Doctor, accompanied by the Father of the Man. The Doctor is
clad in a white hospital overall, and wears a look at once wise and
self-important. Contrariwise, the Father's face, though expressive of
great relief, is deeply scored with anxiety. Also, his cheeks look
sunken, his hair is dishevelled, and his clothes are in much disorder._]
~The Doctor.~~
Up to; the very last moment I was in doubt as to whether your wife would
come safely through it. I brought all my knowledge and skill to bear
upon her, but even the most skilful doctor is of little avail unless
Nature herself come to his aid. Besides, I was feeling very nervous.
Even yet my pulse is throbbing. Curiously enough, though I have helped
to bring hundreds of babies into the world, I have never yet succeeded
in overcoming a certain feeling of diffidence during the opera---- But
you are not listening to me, sir?
~The Father.~~
Oh yes, I am listening to you, but I cannot altogether take in what
you say. Her screams still ring in my ears, and have made me dull of
comprehension. Poor woman, how she suffered! In my folly and conceit I
was so anxious to have a child, but now I renounce that criminal wish
for ever.
~The Doctor.~~
Oh, you will soon be sending for me again, when the next baby arrives.
~The Father.~~
No, never! I am almost ashamed to say it, but I actually _hate_ this
child which has put her to such pain. I have not even seen it. What is
it like?
~The Doctor.~~
It is a fine, strong, healthy boy, and greatly, resembles yourself, if I
mistake not.
~The Father.~~
Oh, it resembles me, does it? Well, I am pleased at that! I begin to
feel a little more drawn towards the child. It had always been my desire
to have a boy--and especially one which resembled myself. You have seen
the child. Has it, then, a nose like mine?
~The Doctor.~~
Yes, and eyes too.
~The Father.~~
_And_ eyes? Oh, that is capital! I feel as though I ought to pay you a
trifle over your fee.
~The Doctor.~~
Well, let us call it an extra honorarium for the instruments which I had
to use.
[_The Father of the Man turns towards the corner wherein the figure of
the Being in Grey stands motionless, and utters the following prayer:_]
~The Father.~~
O Lord and Creator of Life, I thank Thee for according me my heart's
desire, and granting me a son like myself. I thank Thee also for
watching over my beloved wife, and enabling her to bear the child in
safety. I beseech Thee that the child may grow up wise and honourable,
and that he may never at any time bring sorrow upon the heads of us, his
father and mother. If Thou wilt grant me this my petition, I swear that
I will trust in Thee for ever, and worship Thee in Thy Holy Temple. For
I feel a great love arising in me for my son.
[_Enter the Relations, to the number of six. First, there is a stout,
elderly lady who has a double chin, small, puffy eyes, and a pompous,
self-important manner. Next, there is her husband, who is so tall
and thin that his clothes seem literally to hang on him, as on a
clothes-peg. Also, he has spectacles, a short, pointed beard, smooth,
damp-looking hair which straggles over his shoulders, and a manner
which, though diffident, is also curiously didactic. In his hands he
holds a black, low-crowned hat, and he appears to stand in awe of his
wife. These two are accompanied by a young girl, their daughter, who has
an impudently upturned nose, twinkling eyes, and a mouth perpetually
half-open. Likewise there is a tall, thin lady, of sour, depressed mien,
who at times wipes her lips with the handkerchief perpetually dangling
from her hands. Finally, there are two youths, precisely identical in
appearance, with long, thin necks encased in high collars, hair smoothly
plastered over their foreheads, and an expression of bewilderment and
vacuity on their faces which would seem to denote that their mental
faculties are, as yet, but in the growing stage._ ]
~Elderly Lady.~~
Let me congratulate you, my dear brother, on the birth of a son.
~Her Husband.~~
Let me congratulate you, my dear brother-in-law, on the advent of this
long-expected child.
~The Rest.~~
(_In unison._) We all of us congratulate you, our dear kinsman.
~The Father.~~
(_With much emotion._) I thank you--I thank you all! You are most kind,
good, and charming people, and I am greatly beholden to you. True,
hitherto I had felt a little doubtful concerning you; for I had thought
that you, my dear sister, were too much taken up with yourself and
your many estimable qualities; that you, my dear brother-in-law, were
inclined to be a trifle pedantic; and, as regards the rest, that they
cared less for myself than for what they could get to eat at my house.
But now I see that I was wrong. I am very happy, not only because I have
been granted a son who is like myself, but also, because the birth of
this child has afforded me an opportunity of seeing here so many good
people who love me.
[_There is general embracing._]
~The Daughter.~~
What do you intend to _call_ your son, dear Uncle? I should so like him
to have a beautiful, poetic name I It makes so much difference what one
calls a boy.
~Elderly Lady.~~
_I_ should like him to have a plain, sensible: name. People with
beautiful, poetic names are always light-minded, and seldom get on in
life.
~Her Husband.~~
And _I_ think, my dear brother-in-law, that you ought to give him
the name of one of his elder relatives. It is a custom which tends to
continue and strengthen family ties.
~The Father.~~
Yes. But first my wife and I must think the matter over. We cannot come
to a decision yet. So many new ideas and responsibilities arise with the
advent of a baby!
~Elderly Lady.~~
It is an event which imparts a great _fulness_ to life.
~Her Husband.~~
Yes, and also a great sense of _purpose in life._ For, as we educate a
child--removing out of its path those obstacles over which we ourselves,
in early days, have stumbled, and strengthening its mind with the aid of
our own matured experience--we, as it were, construct a new and better
replica of ourselves, and thus enable the race to move slowly, but
surely, forward towards the ultimate goal of existence--towards
_perfection_.
~The Father.~~
You are quite right, most estimable brother-in-law. When I was a boy
I used to torment dumb animals, and the practice bred in me cruelty:
wherefore I shall never allow my son to be unkind to any living thing.
Again, when I was grown up I fell into many, errors as regards the
bestowal of my friendship and affections--I chose unworthy comrades, and
loved deceitful women; but now I shall warn my son that----
[_Enter the Doctor hurriedly._]
~The Doctor.~~
Sir, your wife has taken a turn for the worse. You ought to go and see
her at once.
~The Father.~~
My God!
[_Exit with the Doctor, while the Relations seat themselves in a
semicircle, and for a while preserve a solemn silence. Meanwhile the
Being in Grey stands motionless as before, with his stony face turned
towards the company,_]
~Dialogue of the Relations.~~
~The Husband.~~
My dear wife, do you not think that our sister-in-law is going to die?
~Elderly Lady.~~
No, I do not. She was always a nervous, fidgety woman--a woman who made
overmuch of her ailments. All of us have to go through childbed, and few
of us die of it. Why, I myself have been through it six times!
~The Daughter.~~
But she screamed so dreadfully, mother dear? And she grew quite black in
the face with it?
~Elderly Lady.~~
It was not with screaming; it was a mere nervous flush. You do not
understand these things. _I_ used to turn quite black in the face,
though I never uttered a single scream.
Not long ago the wife of an engineer of my acquaintance had a baby, and
she never uttered a sound from start to finish.
I know. My brother should not grow so alarmed, but keep himself in hand,
and take a saner, cooler view of things.
I am afraid he will bring much indulgence and absurdity to bear upon the
education of this child.
Yes. He is a man much too easily influenced. Though anything but rich,
he gives away money to the most undeserving people.
Do you know how much he paid for this child's _layette?_
Do not speak of it! My brother's extravagance fairly sickens me! We have
had many quarrels about it.
They say it is a stork which brings the babies. What a funny stork it
must be!
[_The young people laugh._]
Oh, do not talk such nonsense. I myself have brought six babies into the
world, and _I_ am no stork.
[_The young people laugh still more unrestrainedly, despite the fact
that the Elderly Lady is regarding them with a fixed and stony stare._]
Really, you children ought to know that that is a mere fable. Babies
are born quite naturally, and in a way which is perfectly familiar to
science.
They have moved to another flat now.
Who have?
That engineer and his wife of whom I was speaking. They found their old
quarters too damp and cold. They made many complaints to the landlord,
but he took no notice of them.
In my opinion a small, but warm, flat is preferable to a large, but
cold, one. A cold flat can so easily give one one's death of influenza
or rheumatism!
I know some people who are living in a _terribly_ cold flat.
And I too.
What a number of cold flats there seem to be nowadays!
Do you know, I have often wanted to hear of a good method for removing
grease stains from light materials.
Woollen materials?
No, silken.
Very well, then. Take a piece of clean glass, and rub the stains with
it. Then, after plenty of friction, iron with a hot iron.
Really? How simple! But I was told that turpentine is best?
May we smoke now? Somehow I never felt a desire to smoke while we were
waiting for the birth of that baby.
We never had a chance to do so. How absurd! Of course one would not want
to smoke at a _funeral_, but on such an occasion as this we really----
Smoking is a most pernicious habit. Both of you are young men, and ought
to guard your health. There are so many occasions in after-life when
health is everything.
But tobacco gives one a stimulus?
Believe me, it is a very unhealthy stimulus. I too used to smoke when I
was young and foolish.
Mamma, how the baby cries! How it does cry! Does it want milk?
[_The young people burst into renewed laughter, while the Elderly Lady
regards them with a stern air of reproval._]
CURTAIN.