by Serge Persky
VI
LEONID ANDREYEV
Leonid Andreyev was born of a humble bourgeoise family in Orel, in1871. "It was there that I began my studies," he says. "I was not agood pupil; in the seventh form I was last in my class for a wholeyear, and I had especially poor reports as to my deportment. Themost agreeable part of my schooling, which I still remember withpleasure, was the intervals between the lessons, the 'recesses,' andthe times, rare as they were, when the instructor sent me from theclass-room for inattention or lack of respect. In the long desertedhalls a sonorous silence reigned which vibrated at the solitarynoise of my steps; on all sides the closed doors, shutting in roomsfull of pupils; a sunbeam--a free beam--played with the dust whichhad been raised during recess and which had not yet had time tosettle; all of it was mysterious, interesting, full of a particularand secret meaning."
Andreyev's father, who was a geometrician, died while he was stillat school, and the family was without resources. The young man didnot hesitate, however, in setting out for St. Petersburg, where heentered the university, hoping to gain a livelihood by givinglessons. But it was hard to secure what he wanted. "I knew whatterrible misery was," Andreyev tells us; "during my first years inSt. Petersburg I was hungry more than once, and sometimes I did noteat for two days."
His first literary productions date from this sombre epoch. Andreyevgives us remarkably graphic details of this misery. One day, he gavea daily paper a story about the tribulations of an ever-hungrystudent: his own life!
"I wept like a child in writing these pages," he confesses. "I hadput down all of my sufferings. I was still affected by my greatsadness when I took the manuscript to the editor. I was told to comeback in a few weeks to find out whether it had been accepted. Ireturned with a light heart, keeping down my anguish in expectationof the decision. It came to me in the form of a loud burst oflaughter from the editor, who declared that my work was absolutelyworthless...."
Nevertheless, he energetically pursued his studies, which hecompleted at the University of Moscow. "There," he tells us, "lifewas, from a material standpoint, less unbearable; my friends andthe aid society came to my assistance; but I recall my life at theUniversity of St. Petersburg with genuine pleasure; the variousclasses of students are there more differentiated and an individualcan more easily find a sympathetic surrounding among such distinctgroups."
Some time after that, Andreyev, disgusted with life, attemptedsuicide. "In January, 1894," he writes, "I tried to shoot myself,but without any appreciable result. I was punished by religiouspenance, imposed upon me by authority, and a sickness of the heartwhich, although not dangerous, was persistent. During this time Imade one or two equally unsuccessful literary attempts, and I gavemyself up with success to painting, which I have loved sincechildhood; I then painted portraits to order for from 5 to 10rubles....
"In 1897, I received my counsellor's degree and I took up thatprofession in Moscow. For want of time I did not succeed in gettingany sort of a 'clientele'; in all, I pleaded but one civil case,which, however, I lost completely, and several gratuitous criminalcases. However, I was actively working in reporting these cases foran important paper."
Finally, two strangely impressionistic stories: "Silence," and "HeWas...," published in an important Petersburg review, brought theauthor into prominence. From that time, he devoted himself entirelyto literature.
* * * * *
Andreyev is considered, to-day, as one of the most brilliantrepresentatives of the new constellation of Russian writers, inwhich he takes a place immediately next to Tchekoff, whom heresembles in the melancholy tone of his work. In him, as inTchekoff, the number of people who suffer from life, either crushedor mutilated by it, by far exceed the number of happy ones;moreover, the best of his stories are short and sketchy like thoseof Tchekoff. Andreyev is then, so to speak, his spiritual son. Buthe is a sickly son, who carries the melancholy element to itsfarthest limit. The grey tones of Tchekoff have, in Andreyev, becomeblack; his rather sad humor has been transformed into tragic irony;his subtle impressionability into morbid sensibility. The twowriters have had the same visions of the anomalies and the horrorsof existence; but, where Tchekoff has only a disenchanted smile,Andreyev has stopped, dismayed; the sensation of horror andsuffering which springs from his stories has become an obsessionwith him; it does not penetrate merely the souls of his heroes, but,as in Poe, it penetrates even the descriptions of nature.
Thus, the "near and terrible" disk of the moon hovers over the earthlike the "gigantic menace of an approaching but unknown evil"; theriver congeals in "mute terror," and silence is particularlymenacing. Night always comes "black and bad," and fills human heartswith shadows. When it falls, the very branches of the trees"contract, filled with terror." Under the influence of thedisturbing sounds of the tocsin, the high linden-trees "suddenlybegin to talk, only to become quiet again immediately and lapse intoa sullen silence." The tocsin itself is animated. "Its distincttones spread with rapid intensity. Like a herald of evil who has notthe time to look behind him, and whose eyes are large with fright,the tocsin desperately calls men to the fatal mire."[9]
[9] This passage is a sort of a variation on the theme that Poe has developed in a masterful way in his poem, "The Bells."
Most of Andreyev's characters, like those of Dostoyevsky, areabnormal, madmen and neurasthenics in whom are distinguishablemarked traces of degeneration and psychic perversion. They arebeings who have been fatally wounded in their life-struggle, whoseminds now are completely or partially powerless. Too weak to fightagainst the cruel exigencies of reality, they turn their thoughtsupon themselves and naturally arrive at the most desolateconclusions, and commit the most senseless acts. Some, a prey to themania of pride, despairing because of their weakness and their"nothingness," look--as does Serge Petrovich--for relief in suicide.Others, who have resigned themselves to their sad lives, becomepassive observers, become transformed into living corpses whose soledesire is peace; such a one is the hero of "At the Window." Othersstill instinctively choke in themselves the best tendencies of theircharacters and are passionately fond of futile and senselessamusements, by means of which they enjoy themselves like children,until a catastrophe makes them "come back to themselves." This isthe idea of the original story called "The Grand Slam." In "The Lie"Andreyev depicts the pathological process in the soul of a man who,crushed by the falsehood of his own solitary existence, becomesinsane at the idea that truth is inaccessible to human reason andthat the reign of the Lie is invincible. The hero of "TheThought"[10] reveres but one thing in the world--his own thought.Wrapped up in this one idea, he admires the force and finesse of it,while his reason, detached from reality and having only him for anend, begins to weaken, becomes gradually perverted to the pointwhere this man, harassed by a terrible doubt, begins to ask himselfwhether he is insane. In the long and pathetic story, "The Life of aPriest," we are shown the disturbance of the religious feelings of acountry priest who, although he has an ardent and strong soul, iscrushed by his moral isolation among the ignorant people of amiserable village. It is again this moral isolation that isanalyzed in "Silence," in which story it is the cause of a domestictragedy. The same cause provokes a rupture between a father and ason in "The Obscure Distance," and brings with it in some way thedeath of the neurasthenic student.
[10] In the English translation this book is called "A Dilemma."
In general, the stories of Andreyev, after passing through variouscatastrophes, lead the reader back to this theme,--the moralisolation of a human being, who feels that the world has becomedeserted, and life a game of shadows. The abyss which separatesAndreyev's heroes from other men makes them weak, numb, andmiserable. It seems, in fact, that there is no greater misfortunethan for a man to feel himself alone in the midst of hisfellow-creatures.
Finally, in "The Gulf," a somewhat imaginary thesis is developed,based on the terrible vitality which certain vile instincts keepeven in the purest and most innocent minds, while the
story "HeWas..." shows us the inside of a clinic, in which there are twodying men whose illusions of life persist till the supreme moment.
* * * * *
If we carefully study a few of Andreyev's characters we can moreeasily understand his feelings and his style. Here is, forinstance, Serge Petrovich, a student. Although he is not veryintelligent, he is above the average. His mind is preoccupied withall sorts of questions; he reads Nietzsche, he ponders over manythings, but he does not know how to think for himself. The fact thatthere are people who can find a way to express themselves appears tohim as an inaccessible ideal; while mediocre minds have noattraction for him at all. It is from this feeling that all hissufferings come. So "a horse, carrying a heavy burden, breatheshard, falls to the ground, but is forced to rise and proceed bystinging lashes from a whip."
These lashes are the vision of the superman, of the one whorightfully possesses strength, happiness, and liberty. At times athick mist envelops the thoughts of Serge Petrovich, but the lightof the superman dispels this, and he sees his road before him as ifit had been drawn or told him by another.
Before his eyes there is a being called Serge Petrovich for whom allthat makes existence happy or bitter, deep and human, remains aclosed book. Neither religion nor morality, neither science nor art,exists for him. Instead of a real and ardent faith, he feels inhimself a motley array of feelings. His habitual veneration ofreligious rites mingles with mean superstitions. He is notcourageous enough to deny God, not strong enough to believe in Him.He does not love his fellow-men, and cannot feel the intensehappiness of devoting himself to his fellow-creatures and even dyingfor them. But neither does he experience that hate for others whichgives a man a terrible joy in his struggle with his fellow-men. Notbeing capable of elevating himself high enough or falling low enoughto reign over the lives of men, he lives or rather vegetates with akeen feeling of his mediocrity, which makes him despair. And thepitiless words of Zarathustra ring in his ears: "If your life is notsuccessful, if a venomous worm is gnawing at your heart, know thatdeath will succeed." And Serge Petrovich, desperate, commitssuicide.
The hero of "At the Window" is quite different. This man hassucceeded in building for himself a sort of fortress, "in which heretires, sheltered from life." Like Serge Petrovich, although not asoften, he is tormented by restless thoughts, and, from time to time,he is obliged to defend his "fortress." But usually he is contentedwith watching life, that is to say, that part which he can see fromhis window. Nothing troubles the tranquillity of his mind, not eventhe desire to live like other men. One day, he speaks of histheories to a simple, uneducated young girl whom he thinks ofmarrying. She is astonished and stupefied by them. She perceivesthat he leads an insipid and morose life. Andrey Nikolayevich doesnot take into account or understand the stupefaction of the younggirl.
"This then is your life?" she asks, incredulously.
"This is it. What more could you want?"
"But it must be terribly monotonous to live in that way, apart fromthe world."
"What good does one find in mankind? Nothing but tedium. When I amalone, I am my own master, but among men you never know whatattitude to take to please them. They drag you into drunkenness,into gambling; then they denounce you to your superiors. I, however,love calmness and frankness. Some of them accept bribes and allowthemselves to become corrupt; I do not like that.... I adoretranquillity."
Moreover, he does not marry the young girl. He gives her up becausehe is afraid of the incumbrances that housekeeping will bring.
In "The Grand Slam" four provincial "intellectuals" are locked up inthe same fortress, and, by playing cards, they escape the terribleproblems of a life which is inimical to them. Their existence hasbeen passed among these cards, which, by a mysterious phenomenon,have become real living creatures to them. One of the players hasdreamed all through his life of getting a grand slam, when, oneevening, he sees he has the necessary cards in his hand. He has butto take one more card, the ace of spades, and his dream will berealized. But at the very moment when he is stretching forth hishand to take it, he falls down dead. His partners are terrified. Oneof them, a timorous and exact old man, named Jacob Ivanovich, isparticularly struck. A thought comes to him; he quickly rises, aftermaking sure that it was the ace of spades that the dead man wasgoing to take, and cries:
"But he will never know that he was going to get the ace of spadesand a grand slam! Never.... Never...."
"Then it appeared to Jacob Ivanovich that, up to this moment, he hadnever understood what death was. Now he understood, and what he sawwas senseless, horrible, and irreparable!... The dead man wouldnever know!"
The poignant irony of this story is not unusual with Andreyev.
It is again found in the short and symbolic story "The Laugh." Astudent, profiting by the fact that it is carnival time, disguiseshimself as a Chinaman and goes to the house of the girl he loves.The mute, immobile, and stupidly calm mask, and the whole "get-up"are so funny, that the unfortunate man rouses irresistible laughterwherever he goes. The young girl cannot help herself, and, whilelistening to his very touching and sincere declaration, which, atany other time, would have brought tears to her eyes, she bursts outlaughing and cannot again become serious, although she realizes thata living and unhappy being is hidden under this impassive andfoolish Chinaman's mask.
* * * * *
In "The Lie" we see a man who, by isolating himself from life, haslost the feeling of reality, and all capacity of discerning the truefrom the false. He suffers terribly from the feeling that somethingunknown is happening around him. This man, who would be ready tosacrifice everything, even his life, in order to know truth, guessesthe lie that comes between him and the person who is dearest to him.He falls into a despair that soon turns to fury. In order to recoverhis calm, he begs the girl he loves, whom he suspects of havingdeceived him, to reveal the whole truth to him. But he cannotbelieve her protestations of innocence. One word bursts from hisbeing, breaks forth from the depths of his soul: "Lies! Lies! Lieseverywhere!"
"In looking at her beautiful pure forehead," he writes, "I dreamedthat truth was there, on the other side of that thin barrier, and Ifelt a senseless desire to break that barrier and at least to seethe truth. Lower down, beneath her white breast, I heard the beatingof her heart, and I had a mad desire to open her breast so that Icould read, at least once, what there was at the bottom of herheart."
He ends by killing that which he loved, and thinks that he issatisfied: he believes he has killed the lie.
In "The Thought" we see the gradual development of insanity duringthe period when it is doubtful, when the will is almost entirelyannihilated and replaced by a fixed idea, and when conscience is notentirely abolished. Dr. Kerzhenzev kills his friend, obeying amental suggestion, which now forbids him to do it, now urges him on.Then, like the "half-insane" or those sick people who feign madnessin order more easily to attain their end, this man suggests tohimself that he is in reality insane. This idea gets a hold on himafter the murder and fills his soul with mortal terror, the exposureof which forms the most supremely pathetic part of the whole story.All this drama of a foundering intelligence, complicated by bizarrecontradictions, is developed with a penetrating power of analysis.
Andreyev tells us that on the day of judgment the alienists aredivided as to the insanity of Kerzhenzev. The story ends at thisplace. But the principal interest of the story does not lie in thisor that solution of the problem, which is not mysterious, for thedoctor is doubtlessly abnormal, and it is only as to the degree ofinsanity that there can be any question. The main interest lies inanother direction, in the subtle analysis of this special mentalcondition, which is done with consummate art.
This story had the honor of occupying an entire meeting of thepsychiatrists attached to the Academy of Medicine of St. Petersburg.According to the report of Dr. Ivanov, the assembly was almostunanimous in declaring the murderer insane. Another psychiatrist,who thought h
e saw proofs of an abnormal mentality in all thestories of Andreyev, pronounced the same verdict against Dr.Kerzhenzev, in a meeting of doctors.
* * * * *
"All of priest Vassily Fiveyisky's life was weighed down by a crueland enigmatic fatality,"--it is thus that the story, "The Life of aPope," opens. "As if struck by an unknown malediction, he had fromhis youth been made to carry a heavy burden of sorrows, sickness andmisfortunes; he was solitary among men as a planet is among planets;a peculiar and malevolent atmosphere surrounded him. Son of anobscure, patient, and submissive village priest, he also was patientand submissive, and he was a long time in recognizing theparticular rancour of destiny. He fell rapidly and arose slowly.Twig by twig he restored his nest. Having become a priest, thehusband of a good woman, the father of a son and a daughter, hethought that all was going well with him, that all was solidlyestablished, and that he would remain thus forever. And he blessedGod."
But fate was always on the watch for him. It had showed himhappiness only to take it away again. After seven years ofprosperity, his little son is drowned one summer's day in the river.Death and nameless misfortunes again invade the home of Vassily. Onedoes not live there any more, one prowls around gropingly in amournful stupor. From morning till evening, his wife comes and goes,silent and indifferent to everything, as if she were looking forsome one or something.
In losing his son, poor Vassily has also lost his wife, his helpmateand friend, for the unfortunate woman takes to drink. The faith ofthe priest holds in this terrible trial. But his misery increasesimmeasurably. The vice of his wife, his own sick weakness, excitethe meanness of the people. Insults have to be borne in silence,tears hidden. At home, the priest's wife has no rest. She has theidea that she can have another son who will take the place of thedead one and be a balm to her broken heart. In her alcoholic desire,a prey to savage fury, she demands that her husband gratify herdesire.
"Give him to me, Vassily! Give him back to me, I tell you...."
At last her desire is realized: a son is born to her; but the child,conceived in madness, is born half-witted. The mother takes to drinkagain, and the despair of Vassily increases. One day the unfortunatewoman hangs herself. The pope comes in, however, in time to saveher; but now another noose has tightened itself about the priest'sheart. One question oppresses him:
"Why these sufferings? If God exists, and if God is love, how issuch misery possible?"
Vassily's faith trembles. He decides to leave his cassock, to fly,to put his idiot son out to board and to start life over again. Thisresolution relieves him. His wife breathes easier. It seems to himthat she also can begin a new life. But fate does not loosen itsreins.
One day, on coming back from the harvest, he finds his house burned.His wife, in a drunken stupor, had probably set fire to it. She isdying of her burns. Vassily can only sigh. This new misfortune doesnot put an end to the priest, but rather inspires him. His old faithcomes back, he sees in this supreme test a predestination. He kneelsdown and cries:
"I believe! I believe! I believe!"
From that time on he devotes himself entirely to prayer andmacerations. He lives in perpetual ecstasy. The people around himunderstand nothing of this change and are astounded. Every one ofthem is waiting for something unusual. And their waiting is not invain. One day, when he is delivering the funeral oration of aworkingman, who has been suddenly killed, Vassily abruptlyinterrupts the ceremony, approaches the corpse, which has begun todecay, and addresses it thus three times:
"I tell you: arise!"
But the dead man does not move. Then the priest looks at this inertand deformed corpse. He notices the fetid odor that arises from it,the odor of the slow but sure decomposition, and he has a sort ofsudden revelation. The scepticism which, for a long time, has beenbrooding in his heart suddenly is transformed into absolutenegation, and addressing himself to Him in whom he had believed,Vassily cries out:
"Thou wishest to deceive me? Then why did I believe? Why hast Thoukept me in servitude, in captivity, all of my life? No free thought!No feeling! No hope! All with Thee! All for Thee! Thee alone! Well,appear! I am waiting! I am waiting!... Ah! Thou dost not want to?Very well...."
He does not finish. In a burst of savage madness he rushes forthfrom the now empty church. He rushes straight ahead and finallyfalls in the middle of the road. Death has put an end to hismiseries.
"Silence" also shows us a priest, stubborn in his prejudices. Thisman, Father Ignatius by name, is a sort of rude and authoritativeHercules. All tremble before his stern air, except his daughter, whohas decided to continue her studies in St. Petersburg, against thewill of her father. Coming back to her home after a long absence,she wanders about, sad and silent. For days at a time she wandersabout, pale and melancholy, speaking little, seeking solitude. Shehides what oppresses her; she keeps her secret from all. One night,she throws herself under a train, taking her secret with her.
Her grief-stricken mother gets a paralytic stroke which transformsher into a sort of living corpse. The father, crushed by these twocatastrophes, which have destroyed all the joy of his life, becomesthe prey of a singular mental state: his conscience revolts againstthe severe maxims and the pitiless prejudices that he has alwaysdefended. Tender love, which he has hitherto concealed under hispride, now softens him; he needs affection, and a vague feelingsuggests to him that he himself is to blame for all of thesemisfortunes. His past life, his daughter, and his wife appear tohim as so many enigmas which raise anguishing questions in hisheart. He calls out, but no one answers. A death-like silence hasinvaded the presbytery, and this silence is especially dreadful nearthe paralyzed wife, who is dying without speaking. Even her eyes donot betray a single thought. Gradually, a terrible desire to knowwhy his daughter committed suicide seizes him. At twilight, softly,in his bare feet, he goes up to the room of his dead daughter andspeaks to her. He entreats her to tell him the truth, to confess tohim why she was always so sad, why she has killed herself. Only thesilence answers him. Then he rushes to the cemetery, where hisdaughter's tomb irresistibly attracts him; again he implores, begs,threatens. For a moment he thinks that a vague answer arises fromthe earth; he places his ear on the rough turf.
"Vera, tell me!" he repeats in a loud and steady voice.
"And now Father Ignatius feels with terror that somethingsepulchrally cold is penetrating his ear and congealing his brain;it is Vera, who is continually answering him with the same prolongedsilence. This silence becomes more and more sinister and restless,and when Father Ignatius arises with an effort, his face is as lividas death."
Crushed by the same blind destiny which annihilated the powerfulpersonality of Father Ignatius, the piteous and tearful hero of "TheMarseillaise" moves us even more than does the old priest. The poorfellow cannot grasp the reason for the ferocity of stupid fate,which unrelentingly preys upon him. Arrested by mistake as arevolutionist and condemned to deportation, he becomes an object ofderision to his comrades. However, gradually, he finds the strengthto share the severe privations of his companions who have sacrificedthemselves to their ideal of justice and liberty. And, on hisdeath-bed, he is elated by all that he has endured; he dreams ofliberty, which, up to this time, had been indifferent to him, andasks them to sing the Marseillaise over his grave.
"He died, and we sang the Marseillaise. Our young and powerfulvoices thundered forth this majestic song of liberty, accompanied bythe noise of the ocean which carried on the crests of its wavestowards 'dear France,' pale terror and blood-red hope.
"It became our standard forever, the picture of this nonentity withthe hare's body and the man's heart.
"On your knees to the hero, friends and comrades!
"We sang. The guns, with their creaking locks, were pointedmenacingly at us; the steel points of the bayonets were pointed atour hearts. The song resounded louder and louder, with increasingjoy. Held in the friendly hands of the 'strugglers,' the blackcoffin slowly sank into the earth.
"We sang
the Marseillaise!"
* * * * *
The two main characters of "The Gulf," a student and a school-girl,are walking and discussing rather deep things, such as immortalityand the beauty of pure and noble love. They feel some sadness inspeaking about these things, but love appears more and more luminousto them. It rises before their eyes, as large as the world, burstingforth like the sun and marvelously beautiful, and they know thatthere is nothing so powerful as love.
"You could die for the woman you loved?" asked Zinochka.
"Of course," replies Nemovetsky unhesitatingly, in a frank andsincere voice, "and you?"
"I too!" She remains pensive a moment. "To die for the one you love,that is a great happiness! Would that that were to be my destiny!"
Gradually night falls. Nemovetsky and his companion lose their wayin the woods; they finally arrive in a clearing, where threefilthy-looking men are seated about an empty bottle. Theseintoxicated men, whose wicked eyes light up with a brutal envy ofenjoyment and love of destruction, try to quarrel with Nemovetsky,and one of them ends by striking him full in the face with his fist.Zinochka runs away. His heart full of terror, Nemovetsky can hearthe shrieks of his friend, whom the vagabonds have caught. Then afeeling of emptiness comes over him, and he loses consciousness. Twoof the men throw him into a ravine.
An hour later, Nemovetsky regains consciousness; he gets up withgreat pain, for he is badly wounded. He remembers what has happened.Fright and despair seize him. He begins to run and call for helpwith all his strength, at the same time looking among all thebushes, when at his feet, he sees a dim, white form. It is hiscompanion, who lies there motionless. He falls down on his knees andtouches her. His hand encounters a nude body, damp and cold, butstill living. It seems to grow warm at his touch. He pictures tohimself with abominable clearness what the men have done. A feelingof strange strength circulates in his members. On his knees in frontof the young girl, in the obscurity of the forest, he tries to bringher back to life, calling her sweet names, caressing her hair,rubbing her cold hands.
"With infinite precautions, but also with deep tenderness, he triesto cover her with the shreds of her torn dress, and the doublesensation of the cloth and the nude body are as keen as a sword andas inconceivable as madness. And now he cries for help, now hepresses the sweet and supple body to his breast. His unconsciousabandonment unchains the savageness of his passion. He whispers in alow voice, 'I love you, I love you.' And throwing himself violentlyupon her lips, he feels his teeth entering her flesh.
"Then, in the sadness and impetuousness of the kiss, the last bit ofhis mind gives way. It seems to him that the lips of the young girltremble. For an instant, a terrible terror fills his soul and hesees a horrible gulf yawning at his feet.... And he hurls himselfinto the mad throes of his insane passion."
The account of the collegian, which forms the plot of the story "Inthe Fog," is even more daring in its realism. It actually oppressesthe reader, not so much by certain details that provoke disgust, asby the analysis of the sufferings of an unfortunate young man, whosemind is pure, but who has let himself be dragged into excesses whichare followed by a sickness of ill name. Severely reprimanded by hisfather, the poor young fellow, overcome with sorrow, the victim ofan instinct which he could not conquer, ends his days in a mosthorrible way: one evening, he leaves home and goes out into thestreets in an adventuresome spirit. A half-intoxicated prostitutetouches him in passing; he follows her. As they go along, aconversation starts up, and the young man, although she is repugnantto him, goes home with her. Once in her room, a violent quarrelstarts up and he kills her, and then commits suicide.
These two stories, especially "The Gulf," caused many livelydiscussions on the part of the public, and then in the newspapers.Mr. Bourenine, the well-known critic of the "Novoye Vremya," saysthat he received from several correspondents a series of letterswhich blamed Andreyev vehemently and requested that this "skunk" ofliterature be called to order according to his deserts. Theseprotestations were reenforced by an ardent letter from CountessTolstoy, the wife of the great author, who reproached Andreyev forhaving so complacently painted such sombre pictures, with such lowand violent scenes, all of which tended to pervert youth. Thewriters were not the only ones to take offence. Two importantRussian newspapers organized a sort of inquiry, and they publishedmany of the answers received from the young people of both sexes,but these were all favorable to Andreyev.
In truth, all these judgments are too passionate. It is true that"most of the critics have understood Andreyev only in a superficialmanner," as Tolstoy rightfully asserted. The double impression, forinstance, produced by "The Gulf," is the result of a simplemisunderstanding. Those who think that the adventure of youngNemovetsky is a slice of life and characterizes certainpsychological states, have, without a doubt, the right to judge thisstory as an indiscretion, and to reproach the author with adeviation from morality; but Andreyev has not taken his hero fromreality; he has not tried to give us a picture of manners, but hasexpressed an idea, born in his brain under the influence of thephilosophy of Nietzsche. It illustrates the terrible power and thebrutality of a dormant instinct lurking in the purest minds.
* * * * *
Besides, "The Gulf" and "In the Fog" are compositions which areexceptional in the work of Andreyev. The idea that he mostlypresents is not the power of bestial instincts, but rather theindestructible vitality of human feelings and aspirations towards abetter existence, which sometimes comes to light among the mostmiserable and depraved people, and even among those who are in themost abject material condition.
In the destiny of these beings, there are, however, rays of hope.The slightest incident serves to transform them; suddenly theirhearts begin to beat happily, tears of tenderness moisten theireyes, they vaguely feel the existence of something luminous andgood. A profound sensibility, an ardent love of life bursts forthin their souls. This sensibility, this attachment to existence, formthe theme of four touching stories: "He Was," "Petka in theCountry," "The Cellar," and "The Angel."
The action of "He Was" takes place in a hospital, where a deacon, afoolishly debonair man, who is attached to his stunted existence,and a pessimistic merchant, thoroughly satiated, are at the point ofdeath. The deacon has an incurable sickness, and his days arenumbered. But he does not know it, and speaks with enthusiasm of thepilgrimage he is going to make after he is cured, and of theapple-tree in his garden, which he expects will bear a great deal offruit. The fourth Friday of Lent he is taken into the amphitheatre.He comes back, very much moved and making the sign of the cross.
"Ah! my brothers," he says, "I am all upset. The doctor made me sitdown in a chair and said to the students: 'Here you see a sick man.'Ah! how painful it was to hear him add: 'He was a deacon!'"
"The unfortunate man stopped, and continued in a choking voice: '"Hewas a deacon," the doctor told them. He told them the story of mywhole life, he even spoke about my wife. It was terrible! One wouldhave said that I was dead already, and that he was talking over mycoffin.'
"And as the deacon is thus speaking, all of the others see clearlythat he is going to die. They see it as clearly as if death itselfwas standing there, at the foot of the bed...."
The merchant is a very different sort of man: he does not believe inGod; he has had enough of life and is not afraid of death. All ofhis strength he has spent unnecessarily, without any appreciableresult, without joy. When he was young he had stolen meat and fruitfrom his master. Caught in the act, he had been beaten, and hedetested those who had struck him. Later on, having become rich, hecrushed the poor with his fortune and scorned those who, on fallinginto his hands, answered his hate with scorn. Finally, old age andsickness had come; people now began to steal from him, and he, inturn, beat those whom he caught terribly. And thus his life had beenspent; it had been nothing but a series of transgressions andhatreds, where the flames of desire, in dying out, had left nothingbut cold ashes in his soul. He refuse
s to believe that any one canlove this existence, and he disdainfully looks at the sallow face ofthe deacon, and mutters: "Fool!" Then, he looks at the third man inthe room, a young student who is asleep. This student never fails toembrace his fiancee, a pretty young girl, whenever she comes to seehim. As he looks the merchant, more bitterly than before, repeats:"Fool!"
But death approaches; and this man who thinks himself superior andwho scorns the deacon because he dreams of light and the sun, nowfeels disturbed in his turn. In making up the balance-sheet of thisexistence which, up to this time, he believed he hated, he remembersa stream of warm light which, during the day, used to come inthrough the window and gild the ceiling; and he remembers how thesun used to shine on the banks of the Volga, near his home. With aterrible sob, beating his hands on his breast, he falls back on hisbed, right against the deacon, whom he hears silently weeping.
"And thus they wept together. They wept for the sun which they werenever to see again, for the apple-tree with fruit which they werenot going to eat, for the shadow that was to envelop them, for dearlife 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 thirteenyear old friend Nicolka, whom he wants to equal in everything.Petka's principal occupation, in the rare moments when the shop isempty, is to look out of the window at the poorly dressed men andwomen who are sitting on the benches of the boulevard. In themeantime, Nicolka goes through the streets of ill fame, and comesback and tells Petka all his experiences. The precocious knowledgeof Nicolka astonishes the child, whose one ambition is to be likehis friend one of these days. While waiting, he dreams of a vaguecountry, but he cannot guess its location nor its character. And noone comes to take him there. From morning till evening he alwayshears the same jerky cry: "Some water, boy!"
But one morning his mother, the cook Nadezhda, tells the barber thather master and mistress have told her to take Petka to the countryfor a few days. Then begins for him an enchanted existence. He goesin bathing four times a day, fishes, goes on long walks, climbstrees, rolls in the grass. When, at the end of a week, the barberclaims his apprentice, the child does not understand: he hascompletely forgotten the city and the dirty barber-shop; and thereturn is very sad. Again is heard the jerky cry: "Some water, boy!"followed by a menacing murmur of "Come! Come!" if the child spillsany of the water, or has not understood the orders.
"And, during the night, in the place where Petka and Nicolka sleepside by side, a weak little voice speaks of the country, of thingsthat do not exist, of things that no one has ever heard of orseen!..."
"The Cellar" is inhabited by absolutely fallen people. A baby hasjust been born there. With down-bent necks, their facesunconsciously lighted up by strangely happy smiles, a prostitute anda miserable drunkard look at the child. This little life, "weak as afire in the steppe," calls to them vaguely, and it seems to promisethem something beautiful, clear, and immortal. Among the inhabitantsof this cellar, the most unfortunate of all, is a man namedKizhnakov; he is pale, sickly, worn by work, almost devoured bysuffering and alcohol; death already lies in wait for him. The mostterrible thing for this man is the necessity of having to begin tolive again each day. He would like to lie down all day and think ofsuicide under the heap of rags that serve him as a covering. Hewould 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 thatthe baby produces the deepest impression. Since the birth of thechild Kizhnakov does not sleep any more; he tries to protect himselffrom the cold, and weeps softly, without sadness and withoutconvulsions, like those who have pure and innocent hearts, likechildren.
"'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 tearscome 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 livesin a cellar comes back from a Christmas-tree; he brings with him atoy, 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 hasbeen sick with consumption, and now he is awaiting death, silent andcontinually exasperated by the sight of social injustice. However,the delight of the child infects the father, and both of them have afeeling "of something that joins all hearts into one, and does awaywith the abyss which separates man from man, and makes him sosolitary, unfortunate, and weak." The poor dying man seems to hear avoice from this better world, where he once lived and from which hehad been sent forever.
But these are only the dreams of a dying man, the last rays of lightof the life which is being extinguished. The ray, penetrating thissick soul, is like the weak sunlight which passes through the dirtywindows of a dark hovel.
* * * * *
In his two stories, "The Stranger" and "The Obscure Future,"Andreyev shows us two men of entirely different character, animatedby generous feelings and a firm will. One of them, a young student,being disgusted with the miseries of Russian life and having decidedto expatriate himself, suddenly changes his mind, as a result of thepatriotism of one of his friends, a Servian, named Raiko. He makesit his duty never to leave his country, although life there is soterrible and hopeless. There is, in this new feeling, an immense joyand a terrible sadness. The other, the hero of the second story,having one day expressed to his father the hatred he has for thebourgeois 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, inspite of all, something sickly and savage in them; instead of realfighting courage, they possess only extreme audaciousness, mysticalrapture, or nervous exaltation. The "obscure future" toward whichtheir eyes are turned is not lighted up by the rays of faith andhope.
The question is whether Andreyev himself believes in the triumph ofthe elements of life over the elements of death, the horror of whichhe excels in portraying for us. It is in the following manner thathe expresses himself in one of his essays entitled, "Impressions ofthe Theatre": "In denying everything, one arrives immediately atsymbols. In refuting life, one is but an involuntary apologist. Inever believe so much in life as when I am reading the father ofpessimism, Schopenhauer! As a result, life is powerful andvictorious!... It is truth that always triumphs, and not falsehood;it is truth which is at the basis of life, and justifies it. Allthat persists is useful; the noxious element must disappear sooneror later, will inevitably disappear."
* * * * *
What, then, constitutes the essence of Andreyev's talent is anextreme impressionability, a daring in descriptions of the negativesides of reality, melancholy moods and the torments of existence. Ashe usually portrays general suffering and sickness rather thandefinite types, his heroes are mostly incarnations and symbols. Thevery titles of some of his stories indicate the abstract characterof his work. Such are: "Silence," "The Thought," and "The Lie." Inthis respect he has carried on the work of Poe, whose influence onhim is incontestable. These two writers have in common a refined andmorbid sensibility, a predilection for the horrible and a passionfor the study of the same kind of subjects,--solitude, silence,death. But the powerful fantasy of the American author, which doesnot come in touch with reality, wanders freely through the wholeworld and through all the centuries of history. His heroes takerefuge in half-crumbled castles, they look at the reader from thetop of craggy rocks, whither their love of solitude has led them;even death itself is not a repulsive skeleton, but rather a majesticform, full of grandiose mystery. Andreyev, on the other hand, butrarely breaks the bounds which unite him to reality. His heroes areliving people, who act, and whose banal life ends with a banaldeath. This realism and this passionate love of truth make thestrength and the beauty
of all his work.
* * * * *
A certain harmony between the imaginative and the real element ischaracteristic of the best of Andreyev's productions, especially hislast 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 andimplacable cynicism of war. The psychologist of the mysterious has,in these pages, recorded the terrifying aspects of the Manchuriancampaign, which one could not have foreseen in all of its horror. Hehas shown in a lasting manner the poor human creature torn from hishome, debased to the role of a piece of mechanism. Not knowing wherehe is being led to, he goes, making murderous gestures, the meaningof which he does not know, without even having the illusoryconsolation of possible personal bravery, being killed by the shotsof an invisible enemy, or, what is worse, being killed by the shotsof his own comrades--and all of this, automatically, stupidly. Thefeeling of terror, the somewhat mystical intuition of events which,at times, seem to be paradoxes in the other works of Andreyev, areperfectly adapted to this terribly real representation of theeffects of war.
The inner drama which Andreyev analyzes in "The Governor" makes abold contrast with the violent pages of "The Red Laugh," the savagepowers of which attain the final limits of horror.
The governor has during his whole life been a loyal and strictservant of the Tsar. On the day of an uprising he mercilessly beatthe enemies of his master; he blindly accomplished what he thoughtwas his duty. But, since that bloody day, a new and unceasing voicespeaks in his conscience. The irreparable act has forever isolatedhim from his fellow-creatures, and even from his friends whocongratulate him upon his fine conduct. A stranger to all that ishappening around him, he is left alone to fight with his conscience,which soon crushes him with all the weight of remorse. He knows thathe has been condemned by a revolutionary tribunal. A young girl whois a stranger to him writes him a compassionate letter: "You aregoing to be killed," she says, "and that will be justice; but I havegreat pity for you." This discerning and youthful sympathypenetrates his heart, which finally opens--alas, too late,--tojustice and pity.
This marks the beginning of a terrible agony. The governor makes noeffort to escape from the fatal judgment. Always alone, hecontemplates his terrible distress and awaits the coming of thejudiciary. He feels that he has incurred universal blame, and attimes he comes to wish for death, which surprises him suddenly as heis turning the corner of a street:
"The whole thing was short and simple, like a scene from amoving-picture play. At a cross-ways, close by a muddy spot, ahesitating voice called to the governor:
"'Your honor!'
"'What?'
"He stopped and turned his head: two men who had come from behind awall were crossing the street, and were shuffling along in the mudtowards him. One of them had in his left hand a piece of foldedpaper; his other hand was in his pocket.
"And immediately, the governor knew that death had come; and theyknew that the governor knew.
"While keeping the paper in his left hand the unknown man took arevolver 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 itmatter, it was too late! He gave a short but deep sigh, and stooderect again, fearless, but without defiance.... He fell, with threeshots in his body."
This drama of conscience is set forth with admirable sureness ofanalysis, and the author has been able to represent with impressiveintensity the mysterious fatality which demands the death of theguilty one.
* * * * *
It is this same fatality, under whose hand all men are equal, whichmakes the hero of "The Shadows," a young terrorist who has takenrefuge in a house of ill-fame, obey the strange desire of hisbed-companion.
"Stay with me!" cries the young girl, in whom is incarnated hisdestiny, at the moment that he is going to leave the establishmentin order to escape from the spies who are following him. "You are anhonest man! And I've been waiting five years to meet an honestman.... Stay with me, because you belong to me."
After a terrible internal combat the man yields to this unknown willwhich is oppressing him. A traitor to his party, he decides tobecome the companion of this painted girl, with whom he then getsdrunk.
"As long as I am in the shadows," he murmurs with the sombreresignation of an Andreyev hero, "I might as well remain there."
At dawn, the police come to arrest him. And while his friend triesdesperately to resist the agents of the force, he contemplates thebrutal scene with an ironic smile.
* * * * *
"The Seven Who Were Hanged," written in 1908, right after theexecutions at Kherson and Warsaw, shows us pictures of terror andfright aptly described by the genius of Andreyev. This work hasprodigious color and strength, and one experiences deep emotions onreading it. Five terrorists, captured at the very moment when theyare going to assassinate a minister, and two criminals, arecondemned to be hanged on the same day. The writer shows them to ustortured by the most horrible anguish, that which immediatelyprecedes death. The word "madness" appears on every page: mysticalmadness of hallucination that hears music and voices, such is thatof the young revolutionary Moussya; then there is the brutal madnessof her comrades Kashirine and Golovine, who are ready to scream withterror; the madness of the victims, the frenzy of the executioners.
The night before the execution the prisoners are visited by theirrelatives. The farewell which Serge Golovine takes of his family isrightly considered one of the most poignant and most cleverlyconstructed scenes that Andreyev has ever written.
Followed by his mother, who totters along, Serge's father, a retiredcolonel, enters the room where visitors are received. Serge does notknow that the colonel spent the whole night in preparing for thismeeting. He has told his wife what to do: embrace her son, keep fromcrying, and say nothing. But the unhappy mother in the presence ofher son cannot control her emotions; her eyes are strained and shebreathes faster and faster.
"Don't torture him!" commands the colonel.
Several stupid and insignificant words are exchanged in order tohide the terrible suffering that they all are going through. Thevisit ends: the parents must bid their son good-bye forever. Themother gives her son a short kiss, then she shakes her head andmurmurs, 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 hismother, shaking her head.
"She was again seated, trembling.
"'You...' continues Serge.
"Suddenly, his face took on a pitiful expression, and he made agrimace 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 uponhis son's shoulder. And they kissed each other, again and again, theone 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 shewas 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 aremen, 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 asoldier!'"
These few lines retrace one of the thousands of daily dramas whichcompose modern Russian history. The work of Andreyev brings
to us asad vibrant echo of the sobs which ring out in Russian dungeons. Andthis faithful portrayal of events, events so frequent that they nolonger move us from our indifference, when we find the echo of themin the press, will raise in the conscience of Andreyev's readers acry of horror and pity.
* * * * *
It is principally in the dramas which he has written in the last fewyears[11] that Andreyev has developed with most force and clearnesshis favorite themes: the fear of living and dying, the madness ofbelieving in free-will, and the nonsense of life, the weakness andvanity 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 atragic illustration of this pessimism.
When the curtain rises, "some one in grey," holding a torch, informsthe audience that Man is about to be born. From this time on, hislife, lighted like a lamp, will burn until death extinguishes it.And Man will live, docile and obedient to the orders that come tohim from On-High, through the intermediary of this "some one," whomhe does not know. Each act of the play represents a period in thelife of Man. In the first act, Man has acquired riches and glory,and is found feasting with his friends in his sumptuous home. Theguests are enchanted with their host, whom they envy. But happinessis a fugitive shadow; it soon betrays the man, who becomes poor,loses his son, falls into the most abject misery, and dies in afilthy and infected cellar, surrounded by vile beggars, while thetorch, held by "some one in grey," begins to grow weaker, and thendies out. And the man, conscious of his powerlessness to conquerfate, and conscious of his weakness in face of the mysterious "someone 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 certainanalogy 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 themwith an absolute certainty of victory, although he can see that therevolt will be quelled and the rebels crushed. Events do not delay,in fact, to verify the prophecy of the monarch. Locked up, theleaders of the revolt are condemned to death. The scene of judgmentin the last act is one of the finest in the play. On one side areseated the sad and dull judges; on the other, the elegant public,which, with a feeling of fear and disgust, gazes at the unfortunateswhom 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 hasdramatized after the fashion of de Maupassant's "The Horla."
The Duke Lorenzo, young, noble, and the owner of a magnificentpalace, is getting ready to receive his guests, to whom he isgiving, on this evening, a masked ball. The masks arrive: they areall black, and all look alike. They all crowd around Lorenzo, whomthis funereal sort of masquerade bothers extremely. He cannot findhis wife among the guests. In fact, he does not recognize any ofthem until, to cap the climax, he meets his double, fights with himand dies, without being able to discern who is the real Lorenzo.
* * * * *
At times, Andreyev tries to find the justification of life, andlooks for it in mysticism. He then expounds a doctrine, according towhich, truth is individual and perhaps conceived by each man,thanks to direct intuition. Such is the mystical truth which theauthor tries to affirm in "Anathema."
The play opens with a scene between Anathema, the incarnation ofSatan, and "He who guards the gates," behind which is the mystery ofeternity. Anathema entreats the Guardian to give him access. But itis in vain that Anathema flatters and insults him; finally, Anathemadeclares that he will choose from among mankind a poor Jew, namedDavid Leiser, will enrich him and, in order to prove the absolutenonsense of life, will make this man a living protestation againstthe work of Him who knows all. Disguised as the lawyer Nullius,Anathema comes down to earth and gives millions to David. Thelatter, the best of men, distributes his riches among the poor. Butthe beggars become more and more numerous, and soon David finds thathe is as poor as he was before the visit of Anathema.
In the meantime, the crowd of paupers, always increasing, ask moremoney from David; they demand miracles from this man, whose goodnesshas made him a saint, a superman, in their eyes. They bring himcorpses and ask him to resuscitate them. David flees; the crowdfollows and stones him to death. But, through his love for hisfellow-men, David has acquired immortality, as "He who guards thegates" tells Anathema, when, in the last act, the evil archangel,beaten, returns to lie on the threshold of the inconceivablemysterious.
This admirable play, born of a philosophical conception whichrelates it to Goethe's "Faust," has been received with particularinterest. Andreyev, in writing it, has come very near to solving thequestion of the meaning of life, and its justification. And, to theperson who ponders a while over this work, it will appear that it isnot Anathema who entreats "Him who guards the gates" to reveal themystery, but it is Andreyev himself, who, carried away by the forceof his genius, has thrown himself, as if at an invincible wall,against this pitiless guardian, the guardian of the solution of theenigma of life.
While "Anathema" is an abstract character, whose form resembles morean algebraic formula than a living process of human relations,another of Andreyev's plays, "The Love of the Student," written ashort 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 whomher mother forces to become a prostitute. Gloukortzev, young andinexperienced, has not the slightest suspicion, till the young girlherself reveals to him the horrible truth. And, perhaps for thefirst time in his life, the gulf of necessity, toward which fatedrives men, opens before him. He sees with horror that he cannotcome 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 haseaten nothing since the night before. Placed before the absolutebare reality of life, Gloukortzev does not know what to do, and hiscomrades, good and upright fellows like himself, have not the meansto help him.
Several very successful scenes, in which the author blends thetragic with the comic, deserve, in this brief analysis, specialattention. In the first act, there is a students' picnic at whichOlga and Gloukortzev, still full of happiness, are present. Thespectator is drawn by personal sympathy to the student Onoufry, agood fellow, always drunk, who makes fun of others and himself. Wesee him again in the second act, when Gloukortzev finds out aboutOlga's life. The poignant scene between the poor girl and her loveris heightened and softened by the arrival of the students, to whomGloukortzev tells his sorrow. The last two acts take place in Olga'shome. The mother brings her daughter a rich "client." And, in thenext room, Gloukortzev suffers terribly, because he knows that hisbeloved is still leading an infamous life. In the same room, in thefourth act, we are present at an orgy, during which the studentquarrels with an officer who has come to spend the night with Olga.But Onoufry, interfering in time, prevents an affray the issue ofwhich would probably have been fatal. When the curtain falls,Gloukortzev, intoxicated, is weeping; at his side is Olga, alsoweeping, while Onoufry and the officer are singing: "The days of ourlives are as short as the life of a wave."
This drama, as well as most of Andreyev's plays, has been producedwith great success in Russia and also in Europe.
