a goal, but because of their lack of will and the injustice and cruelty of the world, they were forced into the depths and cast back whenever they attempted to rise. They are the superfluous ones, dehumanized and brutalized.
In this poisonous air, where everything withers and dies, we nevertheless find character. _Natasha_, a young girl, still retains her wholesome instincts. She had never known love or sympathy, had gone hungry all her days, and had tasted nothing but abuse from her brutal sister, on whom she was dependent. _Vaska Pepel_, the young thief, a lodger in the house, strikes a responsive chord in her the moment he makes her feel that he cares for her and that she might be of spiritual and moral help to him. _Vaska_, like _Natasha_, is a product of his social environment.
called Vaska the pickpocket, Vaska the son of a thief! See, it was of no consequence to me, as long as they would have it so...so they would have it...I was a thief, perhaps, only out of spite...because nobody came along to call me anything--thief...You call me something else, Natasha...It is no easy life that I lead--friendless; pursued like a wolf...I sink like a man in a swamp...whatever I touch is slimy and rotten...nothing is firm...but you are like a young fir-tree; you are prickly, but you give support.
There is another humane figure illuminating the dark picture in "A Night's Lodging",--_Luka_. He is the type of an old pilgrim, a man whom the experiences of life have taught wisdom. He has tramped through Russia and Siberia, and consorted with all sorts of people; but disappointment and grief have not robbed him of his faith in beauty, in idealism. He believes that every man, however low, degraded, or demoralized can yet be reached, if we but know how to touch his soul.
_Luka_ inspires courage and hope in everyone he meets, urging each to begin life anew. To the former actor, now steeped in drink, he says: _Luka._ The drunkard, I have heard, can now be cured, without charge. They realize now, you see, that the drunkard is also a man.
You must begin to make ready. Begin a new life!
_Luka_ tries also to imbue _Natasha_ and _Vaska_ with new faith. They marvel at his goodness. In simplicity of heart _Luka_ gives his philosophy of life.
_Luka._ I am good, you say. But you see, there must be some one to be good...We must have pity on mankind...Have pity while there is still time, believe me, it is very good. I was once, for example, employed as a watchman, at a country place which belonged to an engineer, not far from the city of Tomsk, in Siberia. The house stood in the middle of the forest, an out-of-the-way location...and it was winter and I was all alone in the country house. It was beautiful there...magnificent! And once...I heard them scrambling up!..._Natasha._ Thieves!
_Luka._ Yes. They crept higher and I took my rifle and went outside.
I looked up: two men...as they were opening a window and so busy that they did not see anything of me at all. I cried to them: "Heh there...get out of that"...and would you think it, they fell on me with a hand ax...I warned them--"Halt," I cried, "or else I fire"...then I aimed first at one and then at the other. They fell on their knees, saying, "Pardon us." I was pretty hot...on account of the hand ax, you remember. "You devils," I cried, "I told you to clear out and you didn't...and now," I said, "one of you go into the brash and get a switch." It was done. "And now," I commanded, "one of you stretch out on the ground, and the other thrash him"...and so they whipped each other at my command. And when they had each had a sound beating, they said to me: "Grandfather," said they, "for the sake of Christ give us a piece of bread. We haven't a bite in our bodies." They were the thieves, who had fallen upon me with the hand ax. Yes...they were a pair of splendid fellows...I said to them, "If you had asked for bread." Then they answered: "We had gotten past that...We had asked and asked and nobody would give us anything...endurance was worn out,"...and so they remained with me the whole winter. One of them, Stephen by name, liked to take the rifle and go into the woods...and the other, Jakoff, was constantly ill, always coughing...the three of us watched the place, and when spring came, they said, "Farewell, grandfather," and went away--to Russia..._Natasha._ Were they convicts, escaping?
_Luka._ They were...fugitives...they had left their colony...a pair of splendid fellows...If I had not had pity on them--who knows what would have happened. They might have killed me...Then they would be taken to court again, put in prison, sent back to Siberia...Why all that? You learn nothing good in prison, nor in Siberia...but a man, what can he not learn. Man may teach his fellowman something good...very simply.
Impressed and strengthened by _Luka's_ wonderful faith and vision, the unfortunates make an attempt to rise from the social swamp. But he has come too late into their lives. They have been robbed of energy and will; and conditions always conspire to thrust them back into the depths. When _Natasha_ and _Vaska_ are about to start out on the road to a new life, fate overtakes them. The girl, during a scene with her heartless sister, is terribly scalded by the latter, and _Vaska_, rushing to the defense of his sweetheart, encounters her brutal brother-in-law, whom he accidentally kills. Thus these "superfluous ones" go down in the struggle. Not because of their vicious or degrading tendencies; on the contrary, it is their better instincts that cause them to be swept back into the abyss. But though they perish, the inspiration of _Luka_ is not entirely lost. It is epitomized in the words of one of the victims.
_Sahtin._ The old man--he lived from within...He saw everything with his own eyes...I asked him once: "Grandfather, why do men really live?"..."Man lives ever to give birth to strength. There live, for example, the carpenters, noisy, miserable people...and suddenly in their midst is a carpenter born...such a carpenter as the world has never seen: he is above all, no other carpenter can be compared to him. He gives a new face to the whole trade...his own face, so to speak...and with that simple impulse it has advanced twenty years...and so the others live...the locksmiths and the shoemakers, and all the rest of the working people...and the same is true of other classes--all to give birth to strength. Everyone thinks that he for himself takes up room in the world, but it turns out that he is here for another's benefit--for someone better...a hundred years...or perhaps longer...if we live so long...for the sake of genius...All, my children, all, live only to give birth to strength. For that reason we must respect everybody. We cannot know who he is, for what purpose born, or what he may yet fulfill...perhaps he has been born for our good fortune...or great benefit."
No stronger indictment than "A Night's Lodging" is to be found in contemporary literature of our perverse civilization that condemns thousands--often the very best men and women--to the fate of the Vaskas and Anyas, doomed as superfluous and unnecessary in society. And yet they are necessary, aye, they are vital, could we but see beneath the veil of cold indifference and stupidity to discover the deep humanity, the latent possibilities in these lowliest of the low. If within our social conditions they are useless material, often vicious and detrimental to the general good, it is because they have been denied opportunity and forced into conditions that kill their faith in themselves and all that is best in their natures.
The so-called depravity and crimes of these derelicts are fundamentally the depravity and criminal anti-social attitude of Society itself that first creates the underworld and, having created it, wastes much energy and effort in suppressing and destroying the menacing phantom of its own making,--forgetful of the elemental brotherhood of man, blind to the value of the individual, and ignorant of the beautiful possibilities inherent in even the most despised children of the depths.
LEONID ANDREYEV KING-HUNGER Leonid Andreyev is the youngest and at the present time the most powerful dramatist of Russia. Like Tchekhof and Gorki, he is very versatile: his sketches and stories possess as fine a literary quality and stirring social appeal as his plays.
No one who has read his terrible picture of war, "The Red Laugh," or his unsurpassed arraignment of capital punishment, "The Seven Who Were Hanged," can erase from memory the effect of Leonid Andreyev's forceful pen.
The drama "King-Hunger" deals with most powerful king on earth,--_King-Hunger_. In the presence of _Time_ and _Death_ he pleads with _Time_ to ring the alarm, to call the people to rebellion, because the earth is replete with suffering: cities, shops, mines, factories and fields resound with the moans and groans of the people. Their agony is unbearable.
_King-Hunger._ Strike the bell, old man; rend to ears its copper mouth. Let no one slumber!
But _Time_ has no faith in _King-Hunger_. He knows that _Hunger_ had deceived the people on many occasions: "You will deceive again, King-Hunger. You have many a time deluded your children and me." Yet _Time_ is weary with waiting. He consents to strike the bell.
_King-Hunger_ calls upon the workingmen to rebel. The scene is in a machine shop; the place is filled with deafening noises as of men's groans. Every machine, every tool, every screw, holds its human forms fettered to it and all keep pace with the maddening speed of their tormentors. And through the thunder and clatter of iron there rises the terrible plaint of the toilers.
---- We are starving.
---- We are crushed by machines.
---- Their weight smothers us.
---- The iron crushes.
---- The steel oppresses.
---- Oh, what a furious weight! As a mountain upon me!
---- The whole earth is upon me.
---- The iron hammer flattens me. It crushes the blood out of my veins, it fractures my bones, it makes me flat as sheet iron.
---- Through the rollers my body is pressed and drawn thin as wire.
Where is my body? Where is my blood? Where is my soul?
---- The wheel is twirling me.
---- Day and night screaks the saw cutting steel. Day and night in my ears the screeching of the saw cutting steel. All the dreams that I see, all the sounds and songs that I hear, is the screeching of the saw cutting steel. What is the earth? It is the screeching of the saw. What is the sky? it is the screeching of the saw cutting steel. Day and night.
---- Day and night.
---- We are crushed by the machines.
---- We ourselves are parts of the machines.
---- Brothers! We forge our own chains!
The crushed call upon _King-Hunger_ to help them, to save them from the horror of their life. Is he not the most powerful king on earth?
_King-Hunger_ comes and exhorts them to rebel. All follow his call except three. One of these is huge of body, of Herculean built, large of muscle but with small, flat head upon his massive shoulders. The second workingman is young, but with the mark of death already upon his brow.
He is constantly coughing and the hectic flush on his cheeks betrays the wasting disease of his class. The third workingman is a worn-out old man. Everything about him, even his voice, is deathlike, colorless, as if in his person a thousand lives had been robbed of their bloom.
_First Workingman._ I am as old as the earth. I have performed all the twelve labors, cleansed stables, cut off the hydra's heads, dug and vexed the earth, built cities, and have so altered its face, that the Creator himself would not readily recognize her. But I can't say why I did all this. Whose will did I shape? To what end did I aspire? My head is dull. I am dead tired. My strength oppresses me. Explain it to me, O King! Or I'll clutch this hammer and crack the earth as a hollow nut.
_King-Hunger._ Patience, my son! Save your powers for the last great revolt. Then you'll know all.
_Second Workingman._ He cannot comprehend it, O King. He thinks that we must crack the earth. It is a gross falsehood, O King! The earth is fair as the garden of God. We must guard and caress her as a little girl. Many that stand there in the darkness say, there is no sky, no sun, as if eternal night is upon the earth. Just think: eternal night!
_King-Hunger._ Why, coughing blood, do you smile and gaze to heaven?
_Second Workingman._ Because flowers will blossom on my blood, and I see them now. On the breast of a beautiful rich lady I saw a red rose--she didn't know it was my blood.
_King-Hunger._ You are a poet, my son. I suppose you write verses, as they do.
_Second Workingman._ King, O King, sneer not at me. In darkness I learned to worship fire. Dying I understood that life is enchanting.
Oh, how enchanting! King, it shall become a great garden, and there shall walk in peace, unmolested, men and animals. Dare not ruffle the animals! Wrong not any man! Let them play, embrace, caress one another--let them! But where is the path? Where is the path?
Explain, King-Hunger.
_King-Hunger._ Revolt.
_Second Workingman._ Through violence to freedom? Through blood to love and kisses?
_King-Hunger._ There is no other way.
_Third Workingman._ You lie, King-Hunger. Then you have killed my father and grandfather and great-grandfather, and would'st thou kill us? Where do you lead us, unarmed? Don't you see how ignorant we are, how blind and impotent. You are a traitor. Only here you are a king, but there you lackey upon their tables. Only here you wear a crown, but there you walk about with a napkin.
_King-Hunger_ will not listen to their protest. He gives them the alternative of rebellion or starvation for themselves and their children. They decide to rebel, for _King-Hunger_ is the most powerful king on earth.
The subjects of _King-Hunger_, the people of the underworld, gather to devise ways and means of rebellion. A gruesome assembly this, held in the cellar. Above is the palace ringing with music and laughter, the fine ladies in gorgeous splendor, bedecked with flowers and costly jewels, the tables laden with rich food and delicious wines. Everything is most exquisite there, joyous and happy. And underneath, in the cellar, the underworld is gathered, all the dregs of society: the robber and the murderer, the thief and the prostitute, the gambler and the drunkard. They have come to consult with each other how poverty is to rebel, how to throw off the yoke, and what to do with the rich.
Various suggestions are made. One advises poisoning the supply of water.
But this is condemned on the ground that the people also have to drink from the same source.
Another suggests that all books should be burned for they teach the rich how to oppress. But the motion fails. What is the use of burning the books? The wealthy have money; they will buy writers, poets and scientists to make new books.
A third proposes that the children of the rich be killed. From the darkest, most dismal corner of the cellar comes the protest of an old woman: "Oh, not the children. Don't touch the children. I have buried many of them myself. I know the pain of the mother. Besides, the children are not to blame for the crimes of their parents. Don't touch the children! The child is pure and sacred. Don't hurt the child!"
A little girl rises, a child of twelve with the face of the aged. She announces that for the last four years she has given her body for money.
She had been sold by her mother because they needed bread for the smaller children. During the four years of her terrible life, she has consorted with all kinds of men, influential men, rich men, pious men.
They infected her. Therefore she proposes that the rich should be infected.
The underworld plans and plots, and the gruesome meeting is closed with a frenzied dance between _King-Hunger_ and _Death_, to the music of the dance above.
* * * * * _King-Hunger_ is at the trial of the _Starving_. He is the most powerful king on earth: he is at home everywhere, but nowhere more so than at the trial of the _Starving_. On high chairs sit the judges, in all their bloated importance. The courtroom is filled with curiosity seekers, idle ladies dressed as if for a ball; college professors and students looking for object lessons in criminal depravity; rich young girls are there, to satisfy a perverted craving for excitement.
The first starveling is brought in muzzled.
_King-Hunger._ What is your offense, starveling?
_Old Man._ I stole a five-pound loaf, but it was wrested from me. I had only time to bite a small piece of it. Forgive me, I will never again-- He is condemned in the name of the _Law_ and _King-Hunger_, the most powerful king on earth.
Another starveling is brought before the bar of justice. It is a woman, young and beautiful, but pale and sad. She is charged with killing her child.
_Young Woman._ One night my baby and I crossed the long bridge over the river. And since I had long before decided, so then approaching the middle, where the river is deep and swift, I said: "Look, baby dear, how the water is a-roaring below." She said, "I can't reach, mamma, the railing is so high." I said, "Come, let me lift you, baby dear." And when she was gazing down into the black deep, I threw her over. That's all.
The _Law_ and _King-Hunger_ condemn the woman to "blackest hell," there to be "tormented and burned in everlasting, slackless fires."
The heavy responsibility of meting out justice has fatigued the judges.
The excitement of the trial has sharpened the appetite of the spectators. _King-Hunger_, at home with all people, proposes that the court adjourn for luncheon.
The scene in the restaurant represents Hunger devouring like a wild beast the produce of toil, ravenous, famished, the victim of his own gluttonous greed.
The monster fed, his hunger and thirst appeased, he now returns to sit in self-satisfied judgment over the _Starving_. The judges are more bloated than before, the ladies more eager to bask in the misery of their fellows. The college professors and students, mentally heavy with food, are still anxious to add data to the study of human criminality.
A lean boy is brought in, muzzled; he is followed by a ragged woman.
_Woman._ Have mercy! He stole an apple for me, your Honor. I was sick, thought he. "Let me bring her a little apple." Pity him! Tell them that you won't any more. Well! Speak!
_Woman._ I've already punished him myself. Pity his youth, cut not at the root his bright little days!
_Voices._ Indeed, pity one and then the next. Cut the evil at its roots.
---- One needs courage to be ruthless.
---- It is better for them.
---- Now he is only a boy, but when he grows up-- _King-Hunger._ Starveling, you are condemned.
A starveling, heavily muzzled, is dragged in. He is big and strong. He protests to the court: he has always been a faithful slave. But _King-Hunger_ announces that the man is dangerous, because the faithful slave, being strong and honest, is "obnoxious to people of refined culture and less brawny." The slave is faithful to-day, _King-Hunger_ warns the judges, but "who can trust the to-morrow? Then in his strength and integrity we will encounter a violent and dangerous enemy."
In the name of justice the faithful slave is condemned. Finally the last starveling appears. He looks half human, half beast.
_King-Hunger._ Who are you, starveling? Answer. Do you understand human speech?
_Starveling._ We are the peasants.
_King-Hunger._ What's your offense?
_Starveling._ We killed the devil.
_King-Hunger._ It was a man whom you burnt.
_Starveling._ No, it was the devil. The priest told us so, and then we burnt him.
The peasant is condemned. The session of the Court closes with a brief speech by _King-Hunger_: _King-Hunger._ To-day you witnessed a highly instructive spectacle.
Divine, eternal justice has found in us, as judges and your retainers, its brilliant reflection on earth. Subject only to the laws of immortal equity, unknown to culpable compassion, indifferent to cursing and entreating prayers, obeying the voice of our conscience alone--we illumed this earth with the light of human wisdom and sublime, sacred truth. Not for a single moment forgetting that justice is the foundation of life, we have crucified the Christ in days gone by and since, to this very day, we cease not to grace Golgotha with new crosses. But, certainly, only ruffians, only ruffians are hanged. We showed no mercy to God himself, in the name of the laws of immortal justice--would we be now disconcerted by the howling of this impotent, starving rabble, by their cursing and raging? Let them curse! Life herself blesses us, the great sacred truth will screen us with her veil, and the very decree of history will not be more just than our own. What have they gained by cursing? What? They are there, we're here. They are in dungeons, in galleys, on crosses, but we will go to the theater. They perish, but we will devour them--devour--devour.
The court has fulfilled its mission. _King-Hunger_ is the most powerful king on earth.
* * * * * The starvelings break out in revolt. The bells peal with deafening thunder; all is confusion and chaos. The city is immersed in the blackness of despair, and all is dark. Now and then gusts of fire sweep the sky illuminating the scene of battle. The air is filled with cries and groans; there is the thud of falling bodies, and still the fight goes on.
In a secluded part of the town stands the castle. In its most magnificent ballroom the rich and their lackeys--scientists, teachers and artists--are gathered. They tremble with fear at the ominous sounds outside. To silence the loud beat of their terror they command the musicians to strike up the liveliest tunes, and the guests whirl about in a mad dance.
From time to time the door is forced open and someone drops exhausted to the floor. An artist rushes in, crying out that the art gallery is in flames.
"Murillo is burning! Velasquez is burning! Giorgione is burning!"
He is not in the least concerned with living values; he dwells in the past and he wildly bewails the dead weight of the past.
One after another men rush in to report the burning of libraries, the breaking of statues, and the destruction of monuments. No one among the wealthy mob regrets the slaughter of human life.
Panic-stricken the mighty fall from their thrones. The Starving, infuriated and vengeful, are marching on the masters! They must not see the craven fear of the huddled figures in the mansions,--the lights are turned off. But darkness is even more terrible to the frightened palace mob. In the madness of terror they begin to accuse and denounce each other. They feel as helpless as children before the approaching avalanche of vengeance.
At this critical moment a man appears. He is small, dirty, and unwashed; he smells of cheap whisky and bad tobacco; he blows his nose with a red handkerchief and his manners are disgusting. He is the engineer. He looks calmly about him, presses a button, and the place is flooded with light. He brings the comforting news that the revolt is crushed.
_Engineer._ On Sunny Hill we planted a line of immense machine guns of enormous power...A few projectiles of a specially destructive power...A public square filled with people...Enough one or two such shells...And should the revolt still continue, we'll shower the city.
The revolt is over. All is quiet--the peace of death. The ground is strewn with bodies, the streets are soaked with blood. Fine ladies flit about. They lift their children and bid them kiss the mouth of the cannon, for the cannon have saved the rich from destruction. Prayers and hymns are offered up to the cannon, for they have saved the masters and punished the starvelings. And all is quiet, with the stillness of the graveyard where sleep the dead.
_King-Hunger_, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, makes a desperate last appeal to his children.
_King-Hunger._ Oh, my son, my son! You clamored so loud--why are you mute? Oh, my daughter, my daughter, you hated so profoundly, so intensely, you most miserable on earth--arise. Arise from the dust!
Rend the shadowy bonds of death! Arise! I conjure you in the name of Life! You're silent?
For a brief moment all remains silent and immovable. Suddenly a sound is heard, distant at first, then nearer and nearer, till a thousand-throated roar breaks forth like thunder: ---- We shall yet come!
---- We shall yet come!
---- Woe unto the victorious!
The Victors pale at the ghostly cry. Seized with terror, they run, wildly howling: ---- The dead arise!
---- The dead arise!
"We shall yet come!" cry the dead. For they who died for an ideal never die in vain. They must come back, they shall come back. And then--woe be to the victorious! _King-Hunger_ is indeed the most terrible king on earth, but only for those who are driven by blind forces alone.
But they who can turn on the light, know the power of the things they have created. They will come, and take possession,--no longer the wretched scum, but the masters of the world.
A message revolutionary, deeply social in its scope, illumining with glorious hope the dismal horizon of the disinherited of the earth.
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