I WAS once in a company of Russian people, when a lady suddenly asked to be explained what algebra meant. There were several mathematicians present, but they, perhaps because they were mathematicians, were unable to give a satisfactory explanation. I then said to the lady that algebra is to arithmetic what Andreev’s play The Life of Man is to other plays. She immediately understood the nature of algebra. Andreev’s play, The Life of Man, which was produced for the first time last year in St. Petersburg, and which is now being given at the Artistic Theatre of Moscow, is written in the algebra of art. Shakespeare wrote plays in which Fate manifested its inexorable designs through the passions of individual men; for instance, he showed us the fate of a man who was warm-hearted, brave, simple and jealous—Othello; of a man who was dreamy, ambitious, superstitious and hysterical—Macbeth. Molière, on the other hand, synthesised into a series of vital types the various aspects of humanity, and showed us the misanthropy of the whole human race in Le Misanthrope, and the hypocrisy of all hypocrites in Tartuffe. Andreev in his play represents neither types nor individuals, but simply the algebraic symbol of man. Not man the miser, or man the infinitely complex Hamlet, but man the quantity, man X, in face of fate the quantity Y.
[5] The Life of Man, by Andreev.
His play is not a play but a morality, such as those which were played in the Middle Ages, without the buffoonery. It is a solemn mystery and it is treated as such. The audience do not applaud and the actors do not come before the curtain. The persons of the plays are puppets, the pictures shown are like a series of rough woodcuts such as those in a child’s newspaper; a penny plain and twopence coloured.
I have seen the play mounted and played with all the skill and subtlety which are at the command of M. Stanislavski’s company at the Artistic Theatre of Moscow. The acting was superlative, and the mounting curious and original; nevertheless I will describe the play as I saw it when it was given for the first time at the small theatre of Madame Komisarjevskaia at St. Petersburg; because there (although the acting was less excellent), owing to the simplicity of the staging, the poignancy and the macabre effect of the play were to my mind even more forcibly brought home, and the effect, if not more impressive, was in closer harmony with the author’s written words.
The curtain goes up on a space of complete darkness (in Moscow they gave you the impression that you were looking into illimitable space), from which a figure in grey emerges (in Moscow there was a vast shadow behind him, shaped like that of Memnon’s statue)—a grey figure with shrouded head and only his mouth visible. This figure is called in Russian “He.” “He” is Fate, Life, Destiny, what you will—the Y quantity which is inseparable from the X quantity Man. The same thing as Alfred de Musset pictures in his Nuit de Décembre, the presence which was always with him “qui me resemblait comme un frère.”
The grey figure speaks a prologue, the beginning of which is as follows: “Behold and listen, you who have come hither for mirth and laughter. Here you shall see pass before you the whole life of Man, with its dark beginning and its dark end. Unborn hitherto and mysteriously hid in the womb of time, without thought, without feeling, without knowledge of aught, he mysteriously breaks through the barriers of nothingness and with a cry heralds the beginning of his brief life. In the night of oblivion a candle breaks into flame lit by an unseen hand.—It is the life of Man. Look upon its flame—it is the life of Man. As soon as he is born he receives the shape and the name of Man, and becomes like unto all men who dwell upon the earth. And their merciless fate becomes his fate, and his merciless fate is the fate of all men. Irresistibly compelled by Time, he passes through the unchanging stages of human life, from the depths to the heights, from the heights to the depths. With darkened sight, he shall never perceive the next step over which his uncertain foot is already raised; with obscured knowledge he shall never know what the coming day, what the coming hour, what the coming minute are to bring. And in his blind ignorance, outworn by foreboding and convulsed by hope and fear, submissive he fulfils the iron circle of his destiny.”
The prologue, of which I have only quoted a small part, is written in majestic prose, and it recalls the chorus in Swinburne’s “Atalanta in Calydon”—
The grey figure relates the varying stages, the changing vicissitudes of which the life of Man is composed. He tells of the death of Man, his return to nothingness, and he relates how he himself, the mysterious figure, shall ever be with Man, unseen and near, in his hours of joy and of sorrow; when he watches and when he sleeps, when he prays and curses, in his hours of gladness, when his free and brave spirit leaps high, in his hours of down-heartedness and anguish, when the spirit is darkened with a mortal weariness and the blood freezes in the heart; in his hours of triumph and defeat, in his hours of mighty wrestling with the inevitable, he will be with him. The prologue ends thus: “And you who have come hither for mirth, you who are allotted to death, look on and listen; here with its far-off and illusive echo shall pass before you, with its sorrows and with its joys, the short-spanned life of Man.”
The first scene is called the birth of the Man. The curtain rises on a dark room. A group of old crones—you cannot see them distinctly—like grey mice, are chattering in the obscurity. They are talking of the child that is to be born. Here are the first words of their conversation—
“I should like to know what will come to our friend: a son or a daughter?”
“Is it not all the same to us?”
“I like little boys.”
“And I like little girls. They always sit at home and wait, when you go to them.”
“And you like visiting?”
[The old women laugh low.
“He knows.”
“He knows.” (A pause.)
“Our friend would like to have a little girl. She says that boys are too boisterous and enterprising, they run after danger when they are little, and climb up high trees and bathe in deep water. They often fall into the water and get drowned. And when they grow up they go to war and kill one another.”
“She thinks little girls don’t get drowned. But I have seen many drowned maidens, and they were like all drowned people—wet and green.”
“She thinks that little girls don’t kill with stones!”
“Poor thing, it is going so hardly with her, it is the sixteenth hour that we have been here, and she has screamed the whole time. At first she screamed loudly, so that her cry made our ears sore, and then more gently, and now she only moans.”
“The doctor says she will die.”
“No, the doctor says that the child will be born dead, and that she will live.”
“Why are they born? it is so painful.”
“And why do they die? that is still more painful!”
[The old women laugh low.
“Yes, they are born and they die.”
“And again they are born.”
[They laugh. The low cry of the suffering woman is heard.
“It has begun once more.”
“She has found her voice again, that is good.”
“That is good.”
“Poor husband: he was in such a state that he was funny to look upon. At first he was glad and said that he wished for a boy, he thought that his son would be a minister or general, now he wishes for nothing, neither for a boy or a girl, he only cries.”
“When the pangs began he himself writhed.”
“They sent him to the chemist’s to fetch medicine. He drove for two hours by the chemist’s and could not remember what he wanted. Then he returned.”
The old crones continue to chatter and to laugh their low, ghastly laugh, until, suddenly, all becomes still, and the grey figure enters and says, “Be still. The Man is born.” And as he says this a candle which he bears in his hand breaks into flame. The old women disappear, and the father of the Man comes in with the doctor. He says that he hates the child for the pain it has caused his wife, but when he hears that it is like him his heart overflows with gladness, and he thanks Heaven that his desire has been fulfilled, and he prays God that his son may grow up strong and healthy, intelligent and honest. Then come the relations; they are got up like puppets, like penny, wooden, painted dolls. They congratulate the father on the birth of his child, each with a set phrase, they say all the usual things. They leave no stereotype commonplace unsaid. Here is an example of their conversation—
The Fat Lady speaks: “Allow me, dear brother, to congratulate you on the birth of your son.”
Fat Gentleman: “Allow me, dear relation, to most heartily congratulate you on the birth of your son, an event which you have been expecting for such a long time.”
The others: “Allow us, dear relation, to congratulate you on the birth of your son.”
The Father: “I thank you, I thank you; you are all very good and kind people,” etc.
A young Girl: “What will you call the child, dear uncle? I should like him to have a pretty, poetical name; so much depends on the name of a man.”
The Fat Lady: “I should like him to have a simple and sensible name. People with pretty names are always unsatisfactory and rarely succeed in life.”
The Fat Gentleman: “It seems to me, my dear brother-in-law, that the child should be called after some of its older relations; that prolongs and maintains the race.”
The Father: “Yes, my wife and I often thought about it but could not come to a decision. The birth of a child gives rise to so many new cares and anxieties.”
Fat Lady: “It fills up life.”
Fat Gentleman: “It gives a splendid purpose to life. To educate a child, to cause him by our guidance to avoid those faults into which we ourselves fell, to strengthen his mind with the riches of our own experience;—by so doing we create a better man, and slowly but surely move towards the goal of our existence—perfection.”
The Father: “I entirely agree with you, my dear son-in-law!”
Here the doctor enters and says, “Sir, your wife is feeling very ill; she wishes to see you.” The Man goes out.
The relations, after discussing whether the mother will live or not, end by talking—always in set phrases—of ordinary topics, the men of whether smoking is harmful, the women of how to remove grease stains from silk; and then the infant is heard crying and the curtain falls. The second scene is called “Love and Poverty.” The Man is grown up. It is his room. He is married. His room is quite bare, the walls are damp but lit up with bright, warm light. The grey figure is there; a third of the candle that he holds in his hands has burnt down. The neighbours come into the room. They are bright, cheerful puppets, and they bring flowers and leaves and ribbons. They talk of the Man and his wife. They are so poor, the neighbours say, and so happy, they sing and dance for joy. They are so good and kind. They leave flowers for the Man and his wife, and a bottle of milk, a piece of bread and a very cheap, strong cigar.
They go, and they are followed by the wife of the Man. She is young and pretty. She tells of her poverty; of how her husband is a talented architect and cannot find work. She prays Heaven to send her bread so that her dear, good husband may not hunger; she prays that if her husband be cross to her, that it may be forgotten. She goes out and the figure in grey speaks and says, “She little knows that her desire is already fulfilled; that two rich men are already seeking the Man to give him work which shall bring him riches and fame. Thus does fortune come to Man, and thus does it go.” Then the Man and his wife return. The Man complains of his hunger and fatigue. He is cross and irritable. The wife’s eyes fill with tears, and then immediately he curses himself for his selfishness and his thoughtlessness and kisses away her tears. Hope rises triumphant in him, and turning to the grey figure, whom, of course, he does not see, he challenges Life and Fate: “Come out to battle,” he cries, “I shall conquer,” and the wife of the Man applauds him. Then the Man and his wife play at make believe. They build castles in the air. They weave the future out of rainbows. They imagine palaces where they will live in Italy or in the North. They find the milk and bread and flowers brought by the neighbours. They eat it greedily together, and the Man lights the cigar, which tastes like heaven. They dance for joy. They imagine they are in a great palace giving a ball—that the wife of the Man is the queen of the ball. She puts the ribbons and flowers in her hair, and they dance wildly together, while the figure in grey looks on indifferent, and the candle in his hands burns brightly.
The next scene is called “The Ball in the Man’s House.” It is a huge room with great columns placed in a circle. Beyond the columns all is shadow, and the room is brilliant with cold, artificial light. Everything in the house is rich and gilded. An orchestra is playing; three little black puppets, one scraping the violin, one the ’cello, and the third blowing the flute. They only play one tune, a lively, monotonous and foolish polka.
Under each column a guest is seated, stiff and lifeless as a waxwork: They are old, wrinkled, painted, bedaubed and ridiculous. The women guests are dressed in silk, satins, tinsel, and gaudy jewels; the men are like expensive, pompous dolls, some in uniform, some covered with orders, others in black and white clothes; they are all quite expressionless.
In the centre of the room young men and girls are dancing the polka, and they dance and disappear in and out of the columns. The figure in grey stands in one corner of the room and two-thirds of his candle have been consumed. The guests talk. Here is the beginning of their conversation—
“I must observe that it is a great honour to be invited to the Man’s ball.”
“You may add that this honour is given to extremely few. The whole town tried to get asked; very few were chosen. My husband, my children and myself are all proud of the honour the most highly-to-be-honoured Man has paid us.”
“I am sorry for those who were not asked, they will not be able to sleep all night for envy; and to-morrow they will invent calumnies about the tediousness of the Man’s ball.”
“They never saw such magnificence.”
“You might add such extraordinary magnificence and luxury.”
“And I say such enchanting and unceasing amusement. If this is not amusing I should like to know what is amusing!”
“Stop; it is useless arguing with people who are tormented by envy. They will say to you, that the chairs on which we are sitting were not of gold at all.”
“That they were the simplest wooden chairs bought at a second-hand shop!”
“That there was no electric light here, but ordinary tallow candles. They will have the face to deny that the pictures had such broad, gold frames. I seem to hear the sound of gold.”
“You see its gleam; that is enough, I think.”
“I seldom enjoyed music so much as at the balls of the Man. It is divine music and it lifts the soul into the higher spheres.”
“I should hope that the music was good considering what is paid for it; you should add that this is the best orchestra in the town; it plays on the greatest occasions.”
“You hear this music long afterwards; it takes the soul captive. My children, when they return from the balls of the Man, keep on humming the music a long time afterwards.”
And they continue to talk in detail of the splendour of the house of the Man, of his riches, of his many rooms, his numerous houses, his wonderfully appointed bathrooms, and they all say in chorus—
“How rich!”
“How splendid!”
“How gorgeous!”
“How rich!”
The Man and his wife pass through the ballroom. The Man has grown grey, but still seems strong and full of life; the wife is still pretty. The Man is followed by his friends and his enemies. His friends have good countenances and his enemies look horrible and evil. And as they pass the guests vie with each other in praises of the Man and his wife, with applause for the friends and hisses for the enemies. When they have passed through to supper, the guests begin to grow anxious lest they have been forgotten, and when at last they begin to grow convinced of this, one of them says, “I cannot understand, I must frankly own, why we came to a house with such a reputation. One should choose one’s acquaintances more carefully.” At that moment a man in a gorgeous livery enters and announces that the Man and his wife beg their honoured guests to come to supper.
The guests all file off, saying in chorus, “What a livery! What music! How gorgeous! How rich! What an honour! What an honour!”
The next scene is the misfortune of the Man. He has lost his money, he has sold all his possessions, even his books. His one servant, an old woman, tells this, and how there is nothing left in the large house but rats; and how a fresh misfortune had just happened. The Man’s child went for a walk, and some wicked person threw a stone at him and broke open his head, and now he is lying sick and in danger of life. The doctor comes and tells the anxious Man and his wife, who are now old and worn (for the candle the grey figure still holds in his hands is almost burnt down to its socket), that their son is asleep and will probably get better. The Man looks at his drawing-table. “Look,” he says to his wife, “I began to draw this when our boy was still well; I stopped at this line and thought ‘I will rest and go on later.’ Look what a simple and quiet line! And yet it is terrible to look upon, for it may be the last line which I drew when my boy was still alive.” Then he finds his son’s toys on the table; their presence there used to make his work easier. They were bought in the days of the Man’s poverty; a little wooden horse without a tail, and a squeaking clown. The Man remembers how he used to talk to his little boy playing with the gee-gee. “Where are you galloping to, gee-gee?” “Over the hills and far away, papa, to kill the dragon because I’m a knight.” Then the Man and his wife kneel and pray that their son may not die. Anything else, but not that. The mother says, “Let my son live.” And the Man’s prayer is as follows:—
“See, I pray to Thee, I bend my aged knees; I grovel in the dust before Thee, I kiss Thy earth. Perhaps I have offended Thee: if so, then forgive. It is true I was hard, envious, exacting: I often blamed myself; wilt Thou forgive me? If such is Thy will, punish me, only leave me my son; leave him, I pray Thee. I do not ask for mercy nor for pity, but only for justice. Wicked men tried to kill him—those who offend Thee with their works and make Thy earth hideous. Wicked, pitiless ruffians! who throw stones from behind corners, from behind a corner, the ruffians! Do not let them accomplish their evil work. Staunch the blood; give back life to my son who is so good. Thou didst take everything from me, but did I ever pray as a suppliant: ‘Give me back my riches, give me back my friends, give me back my talent’? No, never; even for my talent I never prayed. And Thou knowest what talent is—it is greater than life. ‘Perhaps it must be so,’ methought, and I bore everything—I bore everything. But now I pray on my knees, in the dust, kissing the earth, let my son live! give my son back his life. I kiss Thy earth.”
And then the wife goes to see after the child, and the Man falls to sleep on the sofa and dreams happy dreams of his boy.
And the grey figure speaks and says even now, while the Man is dreaming happily, his son has died. The Man awakes and his wife returns, and he asks if his son is dead, and she answers “Yes.” The wife falls at the Man’s feet and cries bitterly, and the Man turns to the grey figure and curses his life and the day when he was born.
The fifth and last scene is the death of the Man. It is in an underground cellar where drunkards are laughing and raving. The Man sits apart and alone with his head buried in his hands. His wife is dead, his house is empty; there is nowhere for him to go, he is utterly alone and he is dying, for the candle in the hands of the grey figure has almost burnt out. The old crones who appeared in the first scene of all return once more; they talk and they repeat the set phrases of the guests at the Man’s ball: “How rich! How gorgeous!” They dance round the Man to the tune of the foolish polka which was played at his ball. “Do you remember?” they whisper. “You are going to die. Do you remember? ‘How rich! How gorgeous!’”
The dance of the crones grows wilder and swifter, and at last the Man raises himself and cries, “Where is my sword and my shield? I am disarmed—help! Be cur ...” and he falls on a chair and dies. The candle in the hands of the grey figure goes out. The grey figure says, “Be still! The Man is dead.” The crones sing and dance round the dead Man to the sound of the foolish polka, but at last all grows dark and there is silence.
This play might have been written eight hundred years ago. And whatever happens to the world, as long as men exist, it will be understood. It could be played in Chinese without losing one jot of its import or its message; it is outside of time and place, independent of man’s fleeting customs and various manners, for it merely repeats the cry of pain uttered in sublime accents by the Hebrew poet, and re-echoed by all suffering singers in all times and countries, from Aeschylus to Leopardi. But it only shows one side of the mysterious medal; there is another, a shining side which other poets have seen and sung: Dante, Goethe, and Shelley, for instance, in his “high and passionate” “Adonais,” when he says—