Smile and Scream: Chekhov and Andreyev
Stories of Russian Life, by Anton Tchekoff; translated by Marian Fell. [Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York.]
Savva and The Life of Man, by Leonid Andreyev; translated from the French (!) by Thomas Seltzer. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.]
A French critic characterized Russian literature as Heroic. Tragic would perhaps be a happier definition; what has been Russian life, and hence its literature, but a continuous tragedy? Gogol looked into that life and burst into a homeric laughter which ultimately drove him insane; the “repenting nobleman” Turgenyev was devoured by melancholy over his sad heroes and heroines; the “cruel genius” of Dostoyevsky convulsively writhed in contemplation of the “humiliated and offended”; Chekhov, who had begun his career in the gayest humor, turned eventually gloomy and pronounced his diagnosis: Such life is impossible; even Gorky, the chanter of hymns to the proud Man, was crushed and silenced by grim reality, and his scepter of the idol of young Russia passed into the hands of the most pessimistic writer, Andreyev.
O forgive me, my unfortunate people:
Not one gay song have I sung for you yet!
Frug.
Tutchev found a mysterious beauty in the brightness of autumn evenings:
Wane, enfeeblement, and on all—
That mild smile of decay
Which in sensible creatures we call
Exalted meekness of suffering.
Such was the smile of Anton Chekhov. Run through his works, look at the sad faces of his heroes, listen to the yearning effusions of his women, observe his Nature, his skies and steppes, and your heart will shrink before that smile of fading autumn. He knew and understood Russian life better than any other writer, and keenly felt its tragicness and ... hopelessness. Therefore he did not protest or advocate, did not denounce or propagate, did not shout or curse, as most of his colleagues did: for what is the use? He only smiled, a sad gripping smile that maddens the sensitive reader—a smile of ennui and helplessness characteristic of the Russian “soilless” intellectual. I believe it was this smile, which masqued an abyss of sorrow and pain, that early extinguished Chekhov’s life; it is so much easier and more healthful to scream and howl than to smile under torture.
The stories translated by Miss Fell are far not of the best (by the way: why not use a correct transliteration? Why that half-German, half-English “Tchekoff”?). I suspect that the translator endeavored to choose the least typically-Russian sketches in the hope that they would be more “understandable” to the foreign reader; such attempts generally fail to convey the real atmosphere. “If you wish to know the Poet, you must go into the Poet’s land,” said Goethe. On the whole, however, the book is imbued with the Chekhovian leit-motif—the longing, struggling, crippled Russian soul.
Leonid Andreyev is of a dual personality: the artist, and the mouthpiece of society. In his early sketches, in his short stories, and in his greatest achievement, The Seven Who Were Hanged, he is the wonderful psychologist, the unveiler of the soul mysteries with an art that approaches that of Maeterlinck. Russian reality, however, is a Moloch clamoring victims; the powerful tragedy of life absorbs and subjugates all individual forces, and it requires great artistic strength to preserve aloofness from the burning problems of the day. Andreyev has witnessed the most appalling epoch in his country’s history: disastrous war, revolution, reaction, famine, national demoralization. He has been tempted to interpret the passing events, a perilous path for an artist whose field of observation must lie either in the crystallized past or in the dim future, never in chronicling the floating present. In his stories and plays of that later period, Andreyev revealed such horrors, such gruesome scenes, that we have felt as if we were in a Gallery of Tortures. Horror shrieks, screams, beats upon our senses, maddens us. But the colors are too loud, the medium of tickling our sensations too vulgar. I recall a passage from Merezhkovsky, a description of one of the museums in Florence. There is a head of Dante; the face is calm, almost indifferent, yet one sees at once that it is a face of one who saw hell. In the same room hangs a wax-image of Plague, with hideous details—rotting cadavers with outpouring bowels in which swarm enormous worms. The Sunday-visitors pass by Dante’s head yawning, but wistfully crowd at the wax Plague. I confess this scene, at times, makes me draw an analogy with Chekhov and Andreyev.
As a playwright Andreyev has utterly failed; he lacks dramatic constraint and proportion. He puts into the mouths of his actors bombastic phrases, to the delight of the gallery; but there is absolutely too much talking in his plays, with very little drama. The two plays published in the book now before me, Savva and Life of Man, have caused more discussion than any of his other plays,—a fact due not to their particular merit, but to their pyrotechnic effects and “understandableness.”
Savva, a young man “with a suggestion of the peasant in his looks,” has a modest intention to annihilate everything.
Man is to remain, of course. What is in his way is the stupidity that, piling up for thousands of years, has grown into a mountain. The modern sages want to build on this mountain, but that, of course, will lead to nothing but making the mountain still higher. It is the mountain itself that must be removed. It must be levelled to its foundation, down to the bare earth.
... Annihilate everything! The old houses, the old cities, the old literature, the old art.... All the old dress must go. Man must be stripped bare and left on a naked earth! Then he will build up a new life. The earth must be denuded; it must be stripped of its hideous old rags. It deserves to be arrayed in a king’s mantle; but what have they done with it? They have dressed it in coarse fustian, in convict clothes. They’ve built cities, the idiots!
... Believe me, monk, I have been in many cities and in many lands. Nowhere did I see a free man. I saw only slaves. I saw the cages in which they live, the beds on which they are born and die; I saw their hatreds and their loves, their sins and their good works. And I saw also their amusements, their pitiful attempts to bring dead joy back to life again. And everything that I saw bore the stamp of stupidity and unreason. He that is born wise turns stupid in their midst: he that is born cheerful hangs himself from boredom and sticks out his tongue at them. Amidst the flowers of the beautiful earth—you have no idea how beautiful the earth is, monk—they have erected insane asylums. And what are they doing with their children? I have never yet seen parents who do not deserve capital punishment; first because they begot children, and secondly, because, having begot them, they did not immediately commit suicide.
Well, how is this enfant terrible—the trumpeter of a popularized edition of Schopenhauer, Bakounin, Stirner, Nietzsche, etc., etc.—how is this “bad man” going to carry through his gigantic plans? In a very simple manner: he will destroy the wonder-working ikon of the Saviour, that made the monastery of his native town famous; he will place a bomb behind the ikon, and its explosion will open the eyes of the ignorant believers. A tempest in a cup of water! But hark and tremble:
When we are through with God, we’ll go for fellows like him. There are lots of them—Titian, Shakespeare, Byron. We’ll make a nice pile of the whole lot and pour oil over it. Then we’ll burn their cities.
Monologues, long and pretentious like those quoted, fill up the play to a point of dizziness; yet there are a few oases in that unhappy work, where you find the real Andreyev, the unrivalled painter of sorrow and suffering. Here is, for instance, one of the pilgrims, a man who had killed accidentally his son and has since been wandering from monastery to monastery, fasting, wearing heavy chains, and indulging in all sorts of self-chastisement. The cynical monks give him the cruel nickname of King Herod, which he bears, like his other burdens, with the joy of a martyr. Listen to his unsophisticated talk:
King Herod: I am wise. My sorrow has made me so. It is a great sorrow. There is none greater on earth. I killed my son with my own hand. Not the hand you are looking at, but the one which isn’t here.
Savva: Where is it?
King Herod: I burnt it. I held it in the stove and let it burn up to my elbow.
Savva: Did that relieve you?
King Herod: No. Fire cannot destroy my grief. It burns with a heat that is greater than fire.... No, young man, fire is weak. Spit on it and it is quenched.
Our hero, Savva, is naturally offended, for his motto is Ignis sanat, and he is determined to cure the world with fire. The pilgrim calmly rejoinds:
No, boy. Every fire goes out when its time comes. My grief is great, so great that when I look around me I say to myself: good heavens, what has become of everything else that’s large and great? Where has it all gone to? The forest is small, the house is small, the mountain is small, the whole earth is small, a mere poppy seed. You have to walk cautiously and look out, lest you reach the end and drop off.
..........
Speransky: I feel blue.
King Herod: Keep still, keep still, I don’t want to listen. You are suffering? Keep still. I am a man too, brother, so I don’t understand. I’ll insult you if you don’t look out.
... Here I am with my sorrow. You see what it is—there is no greater on earth. And yet if God spoke to me and said, “Yeremy, I will give you the whole earth if you give me your grief,” I wouldn’t give it away. I will not give it away, friend. It is sweeter to me than honey; it is stronger than the strongest drink. Through it I have learned the truth.
Savva: God?
King Herod: Christ—that’s the one! He alone can understand the sorrow that is in me. He sees and understands. “Yes, Yeremy, I see how you suffer.” That’s all. “I see.” And I answer Him: “Yes, O Lord, behold my sorrow!” That’s all. No more is necessary.
Savva: What you value in Christ is His suffering...?
King Herod: You mean His crucifixion? No, brother, that suffering was a trifle. They crucified him—what did that matter? The important point was that thereby He came to know the truth. As long as He walked the earth, He was—well—a man, rather a good man—talking here and there about this and that.... But when these same fellows carried Him off to the cross and went at Him with knouts, whips, and lashes, then His eyes were opened. “Aha!” He said, “so that’s what it is!” And He prayed: “I cannot endure such suffering. I thought it would be a simple crucifixion; but, O Father in Heaven, what is this?” And the Father said to Him: “Never mind, never mind, Son! Know the truth, know what it is.” And from then on He fell to sorrowing, and has been sorrowing to this day.
... And everywhere, wherever I go, I see before me His pure visage. “Do you understand my suffering, O Lord?” “I understand, Yeremy, I understand everything. Go your way in peace.” I am to Him like a transparent crystal with a tear inside. “You understand, Lord?” “I understand, Yeremy.” “Well, and I understand you too.” So we live together. He with me, I with him. I am sorry for Him also. When I die, I will transmit my sorrow to Him. “Take it Lord.”
In depicting individual sorrow Andreyev approaches Dostoevsky; it is when he raises general, universal questions, that he miserably fails in answering them. The Russian public has “spoiled” him, has crowned him with the title of a genius, when he is only a man of big talent. Unfortunately Andreyev took the flattery of the beast-public seriously; he said to himself: Who knows? Maybe I am, indeed, an Atlas. Let me try and shake the world. And he did try! As a result we have, among his other sore failures, the loudest commonplace—Life of Man.
I think it was Maurice Baring, a Russologue and an admirer of the playwright, who defined Life of Man as an algebraic play, with Man standing for x and Fate for y. Not the tragedy of a certain life under certain conditions, but Life in general, under all circumstances, was the object of the drama. It is the world-old problem, the futility of man’s struggles in the face of blind unreasoning fate that may at any moment overthrow his toy-castles. Perhaps a Goethe might attempt to say something new on that subject, or at least to put it in a new way. With Andreyev the task proved to be not “up to his shoulder,” as the Russians say. The annoying pretentiousness of the play appears a hundred times more convex when on the stage. I saw it once in the “symbolized” theatre of Mme. Kommissarzhevskaya in St. Petersburg, and another time in the performance of the Moscow Artistic Theatre. On the first occasion I was bored to death, and pitied the gifted manager, Mr. Meyerhold, in his futile attempt to veil the platitudes of the play in mysticism, to create an atmosphere, a “Stimmung.” The Moscow people succeeded in emphasizing the ridiculous awkwardness of the drama, the shrill incongruities of the situations and styles,—and I shall ever be grateful to them for the minutes of hearty laughter that they caused me then and which I cannot escape even now, as soon as I recall the harmony between the symbolicized Someone in Gray (sh-sh ...—Fate!) and the super-realistic shrieks of the mother giving birth to a child. The actors did their best, but no miracle could have saved the doomed loud nothingness.
As I have mentioned, Andreyev’s “heel of Achilles” demonstrates its vulnerability when he obeys the call of the public and speaks on up-to-date topics. Life of Man was written, evidently, in response to the symbolistic moods that became noticeable among Russian society at the beginning of the twentieth century. For more than ten years the group of Symbolists, under the leadership of Valery Brusov, had been ridiculed and unrecognized. Then came the reaction: All began to talk symbols; the press, the stage, the art galleries, the public lectures, became symbolistic over night. A torrent of parodies and imitations gushed on the market, and the public did not differentiate between the real and false coins. It became bon-ton to quote Brusov, Balmont, Viacheslav Ivanov, Sollogub; schoolboys declaimed about “the ostrich feathers that wave in my brains,” and janitors whined to “the moon, in a white bonnet with embroidery.”
Life of Man reaped broad success, a fact that speaks volumes on the taste of the Public. I am sure that in this country Andreyev’s play would be a more “paying proposition” for the producer than even “Everywoman.” The plaintive philosophy of Job clothed in modern phraseology; Maeterlinckian Fates dancing in a saloon around the drunken Man; symbolization of Destiny and squeals of the new-born Man; quasi-primitiveness turned into wood-cut allegory and melodramatic effects (of course, there occur several deaths: there is not a single play by Andreyev not spiced with two or three natural or unnatural deaths),—is it any wonder that Life of Man vied in popularity with its contemporary, The Merry Widow?
No, messrs. stage-managers and publishers, we reject your popular Andreyev.
Alexander S. Kaun.
Horace Traubel’s Whitman
With Walt Whitman in Camden, by Horace Traubel. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.]
The wheat that eager work extricates from huge masses of chaff is worth what it costs. Leaves of Grass does not contain all the solid nutrition that stands for Whitman’s durable contribution to the literary food supply of America: he added to it substantially by talking to his friend, Horace Traubel, during the poet’s residence at Camden, N. J., from 1888 to the end of his life in 1892, and that comrade, who jotted down every word, has scattered the resultant wheat through its own chaff. Three of the eight volumes through which the mixture is to run have been published.
It is inevitable that inconsequential stuff—sheer nonsense in instances—should find its way into this morbidly complete story of the harvest years of Whitman’s life; but it is surprising how much personality and interpretative value lie hidden in some of his most commonplace utterances. A tremendous personality descends to occasional banality because of the inadequacy and commonness of words. It is too much to expect Whitman even to revitalize the vocabulary of a democracy. But great as he was as a cosmic voice, Whitman exhibited and confessed kinship with common clay. In fact, Leaves of Grass could never have grown out of an artificial soil, inoculated with classic cultures; it sprang as the first vegetation upon the surface of a wild, primal clay. Whitman was first of all a big, magnificent animal-man; he was secondarily a powerful poetic instrumentality, giving sound and articulation to the wee sma’ voices exhaled by the earth. That is why the essence of his message was an appeal and a challenge to and an expression of democracy. (Of course, I do not mean the institutionalized democracy of politicians, for no Jeffersonian goes to Whitman for solace when his faith is wobbling; I mean the bio-economic democracy that some of us believe in as a part of natural law.)
As a man and as a poet Whitman was simply, daringly, and resolutely himself. He had achieved a large, strong selfhood before Traubel began to Boswellize him, and to that intimate friend he revealed in the languages of pen, tongue, countenance, and silence all the bigness and littleness that a long and intimate relationship could evoke. It would therefore be unfair to ascribe to Whitman all the sapless hay with which these three volumes are padded; it is largely a product of mutual reactions. But in relation to Traubel more than to any other person, Whitman was consistently, habitually, and subconsciously himself, and the result is that this discursive, unedited “story” of the poet’s life and work will live as the most personal and valuable revealment of his character. It is the last word about him as a man. Whitman the poet effected his supreme expression in the poem beginning with the words, “I celebrate myself.” Other features which give permanent distinction to these volumes are the letters to Whitman from noted men and women in America and Great Britain, and numerous portraits of himself and some of his friends.
Despite the fact that this work is padded with arid minutæ, which I should be the last person to abridge, every page is interesting to readers of Whitman and students of American literature. The first page of the first volume, for example, contains an allusion to Emerson’s senility that is worth reading—in Whitman’s words. Reading at random in the third volume I found this striking quotation:
Breaking loose is the thing to do: breaking loose, resenting the bonds, opening new ways: but when a fellow breaks loose or starts to or even only thinks he thinks he’ll revolt, he should be quite sure he knows what he has undertaken. I expected hell: I got it: nothing that has occurred to me was a surprise.
Turning back a hundred pages I found this:
I have always had an idea that I should some day move off—be alone: finish my life in isolation.
This is the thought of the natural man who would die like a man. One could quote indefinitely from this extraordinary autobiography of the most outstanding figure in American literature.
DeWitt C. Wing.