who scorns the deacon because he dreams of light and the sun, now
feels disturbed in his turn. In making up the balance-sheet of this
existence which, up to this time, he believed he hated, he remembers
a stream of warm light which, during the day, used to come in
through the window and gild the ceiling; and he remembers how the
sun used to shine on the banks of the Volga, near his home. With a
terrible sob, beating his hands on his breast, he falls back on his
bed, right against the deacon, whom he hears silently weeping.
"And thus they wept together. They wept for the sun which they were
never to see again, for the apple-tree with fruit which they were
not going to eat, for the shadow that was to envelop them, for dear
life and cruel death!"
* * * * *
Petka--the hero of "Petka in the Country"--is, at ten years of age,
a barber's apprentice. He does not yet smoke as does his thirteen
year old friend Nicolka, whom he wants to equal in everything.
Petka's principal occupation, in the rare moments when the shop is
empty, is to look out of the window at the poorly dressed men and
women who are sitting on the benches of the boulevard. In the
meantime, Nicolka goes through the streets of ill fame, and comes
back and tells Petka all his experiences. The precocious knowledge
of Nicolka astonishes the child, whose one ambition is to be like
his friend one of these days. While waiting, he dreams of a vague
country, but he cannot guess its location nor its character. And no
one comes to take him there. From morning till evening he always
hears the same jerky cry: "Some water, boy!"
But one morning his mother, the cook Nadezhda, tells the barber that
her master and mistress have told her to take Petka to the country
for a few days. Then begins for him an enchanted existence. He goes
in bathing four times a day, fishes, goes on long walks, climbs
trees, rolls in the grass. When, at the end of a week, the barber
claims his apprentice, the child does not understand: he has
completely forgotten the city and the dirty barber-shop; and the
return is very sad. Again is heard the jerky cry: "Some water, boy!"
followed by a menacing murmur of "Come! Come!" if the child spills
any of the water, or has not understood the orders.
"And, during the night, in the place where Petka and Nicolka sleep
side by side, a weak little voice speaks of the country, of things
that do not exist, of things that no one has ever heard of or
seen!..."
"The Cellar" is inhabited by absolutely fallen people. A baby has
just been born there. With down-bent necks, their faces
unconsciously lighted up by strangely happy smiles, a prostitute and
a miserable drunkard look at the child. This little life, "weak as a
fire in the steppe," calls to them vaguely, and it seems to promise
them something beautiful, clear, and immortal. Among the inhabitants
of this cellar, the most unfortunate of all, is a man named
Kizhnakov; he is pale, sickly, worn by work, almost devoured by
suffering and alcohol; death already lies in wait for him. The most
terrible thing for this man is the necessity of having to begin to
live again each day. He would like to lie down all day and think of
suicide under the heap of rags that serve him as a covering. He
would like best to have some one come up back of him, and shoot him.
He fears his own voice and his own thoughts. And it is on him that
the baby produces the deepest impression. Since the birth of the
child Kizhnakov does not sleep any more; he tries to protect himself
from the cold, and weeps softly, without sadness and without
convulsions, like those who have pure and innocent hearts, like
children.
"'Why do I weep?' he asks himself.
"Not finding a suitable answer, he replies: 'It is thus....'
"And the meaning of his words is so deep that a new flood of tears
come to the eyes of the man whose life is so sad and solitary."
We find the same theme again in "The Angel." A child who also lives
in a cellar comes back from a Christmas-tree; he brings with him a
toy, and a pretty little wax angel, which he shows to his father.
The latter has seen better days, but in the last few years he has
been sick with consumption, and now he is awaiting death, silent and
continually exasperated by the sight of social injustice. However,
the delight of the child infects the father, and both of them have a
feeling "of something that joins all hearts into one, and does away
with the abyss which separates man from man, and makes him so
solitary, unfortunate, and weak." The poor dying man seems to hear a
voice from this better world, where he once lived and from which he
had been sent forever.
But these are only the dreams of a dying man, the last rays of light
of the life which is being extinguished. The ray, penetrating this
sick soul, is like the weak sunlight which passes through the dirty
windows of a dark hovel.
* * * * *
In his two stories, "The Stranger" and "The Obscure Future,"
Andreyev shows us two men of entirely different character, animated
by generous feelings and a firm will. One of them, a young student,
being disgusted with the miseries of Russian life and having decided
to expatriate himself, suddenly changes his mind, as a result of the
patriotism of one of his friends, a Servian, named Raiko. He makes
it his duty never to leave his country, although life there is so
terrible and hopeless. There is, in this new feeling, an immense joy
and a terrible sadness. The other, the hero of the second story,
having one day expressed to his father the hatred he has for the
bourgeois life that he is leading, leaves his family, who love him,
in order to penetrate the "obscure future."
Evidently, these are people who are fitted to struggle. However,
these strugglers, so infrequent in the work of Andreyev, have, in
spite of all, something sickly and savage in them; instead of real
fighting courage, they possess only extreme audaciousness, mystical
rapture, or nervous exaltation. The "obscure future" toward which
their eyes are turned is not lighted up by the rays of faith and
hope.
The question is whether Andreyev himself believes in the triumph of
the elements of life over the elements of death, the horror of which
he excels in portraying for us. It is in the following manner that
he expresses himself in one of his essays entitled, "Impressions of
the Theatre": "In denying everything, one arrives immediately at
symbols. In refuting life, one is but an involuntary apologist. I
never believe so much in life as when I am reading the father of
pessimism, Schopenhauer! As a result, life is powerful and
victorious!... It is truth that always triumphs, and not falsehood;
it is truth which is at the basis of life, and justifies it. All
that persists is useful; the noxious element must disappear sooner
or later, will inevitably disappear."
* * * * *
What, then, constitutes the essence of Andreyev's talent is an
extreme impressionability, a daring in descriptions of the negative
sides of reality, melancholy moods and the torments of existence. As
he usually portrays general suffering and sickness rather than
definite types, his heroes are mostly incarnations and symbols. The
very titles of some of his stories indicate the abstract character
of his work. Such are: "Silence," "The Thought," and "The Lie." In
this respect he has carried on the work of Poe, whose influence on
him is incontestable. These two writers have in common a refined and
morbid sensibility, a predilection for the horrible and a passion
for the study of the same kind of subjects,--solitude, silence,
death. But the powerful fantasy of the American author, which does
not come in touch with reality, wanders freely through the whole
world and through all the centuries of history. His heroes take
refuge in half-crumbled castles, they look at the reader from the
top of craggy rocks, whither their love of solitude has led them;
even death itself is not a repulsive skeleton, but rather a majestic
form, full of grandiose mystery. Andreyev, on the other hand, but
rarely breaks the bounds which unite him to reality. His heroes are
living people, who act, and whose banal life ends with a banal
death. This realism and this passionate love of truth make the
strength and the beauty of all his work.
* * * * *
A certain harmony between the imaginative and the real element is
characteristic of the best of Andreyev's productions, especially his
last stories: "The Red Laugh," "The Governor," "The Shadows," and
"The Seven Who Were Hanged."
"The Red Laugh" is the symbol, the incarnation, of the bloody and
implacable cynicism of war. The psychologist of the mysterious has,
in these pages, recorded the terrifying aspects of the Manchurian
campaign, which one could not have foreseen in all of its horror. He
has shown in a lasting manner the poor human creature torn from his
home, debased to the role of a piece of mechanism. Not knowing where
he is being led to, he goes, making murderous gestures, the meaning
of which he does not know, without even having the illusory
consolation of possible personal bravery, being killed by the shots
of an invisible enemy, or, what is worse, being killed by the shots
of his own comrades--and all of this, automatically, stupidly. The
feeling of terror, the somewhat mystical intuition of events which,
at times, seem to be paradoxes in the other works of Andreyev, are
perfectly adapted to this terribly real representation of the
effects of war.
The inner drama which Andreyev analyzes in "The Governor" makes a
bold contrast with the violent pages of "The Red Laugh," the savage
powers of which attain the final limits of horror.
The governor has during his whole life been a loyal and strict
servant of the Tsar. On the day of an uprising he mercilessly beat
the enemies of his master; he blindly accomplished what he thought
was his duty. But, since that bloody day, a new and unceasing voice
speaks in his conscience. The irreparable act has forever isolated
him from his fellow-creatures, and even from his friends who
congratulate him upon his fine conduct. A stranger to all that is
happening around him, he is left alone to fight with his conscience,
which soon crushes him with all the weight of remorse. He knows that
he has been condemned by a revolutionary tribunal. A young girl who
is a stranger to him writes him a compassionate letter: "You are
going to be killed," she says, "and that will be justice; but I have
great pity for you." This discerning and youthful sympathy
penetrates his heart, which finally opens--alas, too late,--to
justice and pity.
This marks the beginning of a terrible agony. The governor makes no
effort to escape from the fatal judgment. Always alone, he
contemplates his terrible distress and awaits the coming of the
judiciary. He feels that he has incurred universal blame, and at
times he comes to wish for death, which surprises him suddenly as he
is turning the corner of a street:
"The whole thing was short and simple, like a scene from a
moving-picture play. At a cross-ways, close by a muddy spot, a
hesitating voice called to the governor:
"'Your honor!'
"'What?'
"He stopped and turned his head: two men who had come from behind a
wall were crossing the street, and were shuffling along in the mud
towards him. One of them had in his left hand a piece of folded
paper; his other hand was in his pocket.
"And immediately, the governor knew that death had come; and they
knew that the governor knew.
"While keeping the paper in his left hand the unknown man took a
revolver out of his pocket with difficulty.
"The governor glanced about him; he saw a dirty and deserted square,
with bits of grass growing in the mud, and a wall. But what did it
matter, it was too late! He gave a short but deep sigh, and stood
erect again, fearless, but without defiance.... He fell, with three
shots in his body."
This drama of conscience is set forth with admirable sureness of
analysis, and the author has been able to represent with impressive
intensity the mysterious fatality which demands the death of the
guilty one.
* * * * *
It is this same fatality, under whose hand all men are equal, which
makes the hero of "The Shadows," a young terrorist who has taken
refuge in a house of ill-fame, obey the strange desire of his
bed-companion.
"Stay with me!" cries the young girl, in whom is incarnated his
destiny, at the moment that he is going to leave the establishment
in order to escape from the spies who are following him. "You are an
honest man! And I've been waiting five years to meet an honest
man.... Stay with me, because you belong to me."
After a terrible internal combat the man yields to this unknown will
which is oppressing him. A traitor to his party, he decides to
become the companion of this painted girl, with whom he then gets
drunk.
"As long as I am in the shadows," he murmurs with the sombre
resignation of an Andreyev hero, "I might as well remain there."
At dawn, the police come to arrest him. And while his friend tries
desperately to resist the agents of the force, he contemplates the
brutal scene with an ironic smile.
* * * * *
"The Seven Who Were Hanged," written in 1908, right after the
executions at Kherson and Warsaw, shows us pictures of terror and
fright aptly described by the genius of Andreyev. This work has
prodigious color and strength, and one experiences deep emotions on
reading it. Five terrorists, captured at the very moment when they
are going to assassinate a minister, and two criminals, are
condemned to be hanged on the same day. The writer shows them to us
tortured by the most horrible anguish, that which immediately
precedes death. The word "madness" appears on every page: mystical
madness of hallucination that hears music and voices, such is that
of the young revolutionary Moussya; then there is the brutal madness
of her comrades Kashirine and Golovine, who are ready to scream with
terror; the madness of the victims, the frenzy of the executioners.
The night before the execution the prisoners are visited by their
relatives. The farewell which Serge Golovine takes of his family is
rightly considered one of the most poignant and most cleverly
constructed scenes that Andreyev has ever written.
Followed by his mother, who totters along, Serge's father, a retired
colonel, enters the room where visitors are received. Serge does not
know that the colonel spent the whole night in preparing for this
meeting. He has told his wife what to do: embrace her son, keep from
crying, and say nothing. But the unhappy mother in the presence of
her son cannot control her emotions; her eyes are strained and she
breathes faster and faster.
"Don't torture him!" commands the colonel.
Several stupid and insignificant words are exchanged in order to
hide the terrible suffering that they all are going through. The
visit ends: the parents must bid their son good-bye forever. The
mother gives her son a short kiss, then she shakes her head and
murmurs, trembling:
"'No, it is not that! It is not that!'
"'Good-bye, Serge,' says his father.
"They shake hands, and give each other a brief but hearty kiss.
"'You...' begins Serge.
"'What's that?' asks his father in a jerky voice.
"'No, not like that. No, no! What was I going to say?' repeats his
mother, shaking her head.
"She was again seated, trembling.
"'You...' continues Serge.
"Suddenly, his face took on a pitiful expression, and he made a
grimace like a child. The tears then came to his eyes.
"'Father, you are a strong man!'
"'What are you saying? What are you saying?' the colonel cries,
frightened.
"Then, as if he had been struck, the colonel's head sank down upon
his son's shoulder. And they kissed each other, again and again, the
one with white hair and the other with the prisoner's 'capote.'
"'And I?' a hoarse voice brusquely asked.
"They looked: the mother was standing, her head thrown back, and she
was watching them with anger, almost hate.
"'What is the matter, dear?' cried the colonel.
"'And I?' she repeated. 'You two kiss each other, and I? You are
men, aren't you? And I?'
"'Mother!'
"And Serge threw himself into his mother's arms....
"The last words of the colonel were:
"'I consecrate you to death, my boy! Die with courage, like a
soldier!'"
These few lines retrace one of the thousands of daily dramas which
compose modern Russian history. The work of Andreyev brings to us a
sad vibrant echo of the sobs which ring out in Russian dungeons. And
this faithful portrayal of events, events so frequent that they no
longer move us from our indifference, when we find the echo of them
in the press, will raise in the conscience of Andreyev's readers a
cry of horror and pity.
* * * * *
It is principally in the dramas which he has written in the last few
years[11] that Andreyev has developed with most force and clearness
his favorite themes: the fear of living and dying, the madness of
believing in free-will, and the nonsense of life, the weakness and
vanity of which he depicts for us.
[11] Mention should be made of some of Andreyev's other dramas:
"To the Stars," "Anfissa," "Gaudeamus," and "Sava," plays of
uneven value, but with a strength of observation and analysis
which is not inferior to that shown in some of his best stories.
The first of these works to appear was "The Life of Man," which is a
tragic illustration of this pessimism.
When the curtain rises, "some one in grey," holding a torch, informs
the audience that Man is about to be born. From this time on, his
life, lighted like a lamp, will burn until death extinguishes it.
And Man will live, docile and obedient to the orders that come to
him from On-High, through the intermediary of this "some one," whom
he does not know. Each act of the play represents a period in the
life of Man. In the first act, Man has acquired riches and glory,
and is found feasting with his friends in his sumptuous home. The
guests are enchanted with their host, whom they envy. But happiness
is a fugitive shadow; it soon betrays the man, who becomes poor,
loses his son, falls into the most abject misery, and dies in a
filthy and infected cellar, surrounded by vile beggars, while the
torch, held by "some one in grey," begins to grow weaker, and then
dies out. And the man, conscious of his powerlessness to conquer
fate, and conscious of his weakness in face of the mysterious "some
one in grey," confounds in the same malediction God, Satan,
Fatality, and Life, who have united to annihilate him.
The themes of the "King of Famine" and "Black Masks" offer a certain
analogy to the theme of "The Life of Man."
From the top of a belfry the "King of Famine," in company with
"Time" and "Death," incites a workingmen's revolt. He inspires them
with an absolute certainty of victory, although he can see that the
revolt will be quelled and the rebels crushed. Events do not delay,
in fact, to verify the prophecy of the monarch. Locked up, the
leaders of the revolt are condemned to death. The scene of judgment
in the last act is one of the finest in the play. On one side are
seated the sad and dull judges; on the other, the elegant public,
which, with a feeling of fear and disgust, gazes at the unfortunates
whom the King of Famine has robbed of almost all human semblance.
And in this play, also, Death reaps a bountiful harvest.
"Black Masks" is the study of a pathological case which Andreyev has
dramatized after the fashion of de Maupassant's "The Horla."
The Duke Lorenzo, young, noble, and the owner of a magnificent
palace, is getting ready to receive his guests, to whom he is
giving, on this evening, a masked ball. The masks arrive: they are
all black, and all look alike. They all crowd around Lorenzo, whom
this funereal sort of masquerade bothers extremely. He cannot find
his wife among the guests. In fact, he does not recognize any of
them until, to cap the climax, he meets his double, fights with him
and dies, without being able to discern who is the real Lorenzo.
* * * * *
At times, Andreyev tries to find the justification of life, and
looks for it in mysticism. He then expounds a doctrine, according to
which, truth is individual and perhaps conceived by each man,
thanks to direct intuition. Such is the mystical truth which the
author tries to affirm in "Anathema."
The play opens with a scene between Anathema, the incarnation of
Satan, and "He who guards the gates," behind which is the mystery of
eternity. Anathema entreats the Guardian to give him access. But it
is in vain that Anathema flatters and insults him; finally, Anathema
declares that he will choose from among mankind a poor Jew, named
David Leiser, will enrich him and, in order to prove the absolute
nonsense of life, will make this man a living protestation against
the work of Him who knows all. Disguised as the lawyer Nullius,
Anathema comes down to earth and gives millions to David. The
latter, the best of men, distributes his riches among the poor. But
the beggars become more and more numerous, and soon David finds that
he is as poor as he was before the visit of Anathema.
In the meantime, the crowd of paupers, always increasing, ask more
money from David; they demand miracles from this man, whose goodness
has made him a saint, a superman, in their eyes. They bring him
corpses and ask him to resuscitate them. David flees; the crowd
follows and stones him to death. But, through his love for his
fellow-men, David has acquired immortality, as "He who guards the
gates" tells Anathema, when, in the last act, the evil archangel,
beaten, returns to lie on the threshold of the inconceivable
mysterious.
This admirable play, born of a philosophical conception which
relates it to Goethe's "Faust," has been received with particular
interest. Andreyev, in writing it, has come very near to solving the
question of the meaning of life, and its justification. And, to the
person who ponders a while over this work, it will appear that it is
not Anathema who entreats "Him who guards the gates" to reveal the
mystery, but it is Andreyev himself, who, carried away by the force
of his genius, has thrown himself, as if at an invincible wall,
against this pitiless guardian, the guardian of the solution of the
enigma of life.
While "Anathema" is an abstract character, whose form resembles more
an algebraic formula than a living process of human relations,
another of Andreyev's plays, "The Love of the Student," written a
short time before "Anathema," gives us a little picture of customs,
alert and painted with the touch of a master.
Gloukortzev, a young student, falls in love with a young girl whom
her mother forces to become a prostitute. Gloukortzev, young and
inexperienced, has not the slightest suspicion, till the young girl
herself reveals to him the horrible truth. And, perhaps for the
first time in his life, the gulf of necessity, toward which fate
drives men, opens before him. He sees with horror that he cannot
come to the rescue of the girl he loves, because he is poor himself.
He cannot even buy her some food, when she tells him that she has
eaten nothing since the night before. Placed before the absolute
bare reality of life, Gloukortzev does not know what to do, and his
comrades, good and upright fellows like himself, have not the means
to help him.