Savva and The Life of Man | Page 2

new influence in
his later works. But while in Gorky the revolt is chiefly
social--manifesting itself through the world of the submerged tenth, the
disinherited masses, _les misérables_, who, becoming conscious of
their wrongs, hurl defiance at their oppressors, make mock of their
civilization, and threaten the very foundations of the old
order--Andreyev transfers his rebellion to the higher regions of thought
and philosophy, to problems that go beyond the merely better or worse
social existence, and asks the larger, much more difficult questions
concerning the general destiny of man, the meaning of life and the
reason for death.

Social problems, it is true, also interest Andreyev. "The Red Laugh" is
an attack on war through a portrayal of the ghastly horrors of the
Russo-Japanese War; "Savva," one of the plays of this volume, is taken
bodily (with a poet's license, of course) from the actual revolutionary
life of Russia; "King Hunger" is the tragedy of the uprising of the
hungry masses and the underworld. Indeed, of the works written during
the conflict and for some time afterward, all centre more or less upon
the social problems which then agitated Russia. But with Andreyev the
treatment of all questions tends to assume a universal aspect. He
envisages phenomena from a broad, cosmic point of view; he beholds
things sub specie aeternitatis. The philosophical tendency of his mind,
though amply displayed even in works like "Savva"--which is purely a
character and social drama--manifests itself chiefly by his strong
propensity for such subjects as those treated in "To the Stars," "The
Life of Man," and "Anathema." In these plays Andreyev plunges into
the deepest problems of existence, and seeks to posit once more and, if
possible, to solve in accordance with the modern spirit and modern
knowledge those questions over which the mightiest brains of man
have labored for centuries: Whence? Whither? What is the significance
of man's life? Why is death?
If Spinoza's dictum be true, that "a wise man's meditation is not of
death but of life," then Andreyev is surely not a wise man. Some
philosophers might have written their works even without a guarantee
against immortality, though Schopenhauer, who exercised a influence
on the young Andreyev, was of the opinion that "without death there
would hardly be any philosophy"; but of Andreyev it is certain that the
bulk of his works would not have been written, and could not be what
they are, were it not for the fact of death. If there is one idea that can be
said to dominate the author of "The Life of Man," it is the idea of death.
Constantly he keeps asking: Why all this struggling, all this pain, all
this misery in the world, if it must end in nothing? The suffering of the
great mass of mankind makes life meaningless while it lasts, and death
puts an end even to this life. Again and again Andreyev harks back to
the one thought from which all his other thoughts seem to flow as from
their fountain-head. Lazarus, in the story by that name, is but the
embodiment of death. All who behold him, who look into his eyes, are

never again the same as they were; indeed, most of them are utterly
ruined. "The Seven Who Were Hanged" tells how differently different
persons take death. Grim death lurks in the background of almost every
work, casting a fearful gloom, mocking the life of man, laughing to
scorn his joys and his sorrows, propounding, sphinx-like, the big riddle
that no Oedipus will ever be able to solve.
For it is not merely the destructive power of death, not merely its
negation of life, that terrifies our author. The pitchy darkness that
stretches beyond, the impossibility of penetrating the veil that separates
existence from non-existence--in a word, the riddle of the universe--is,
to a mind constituted like Andreyev's, a source of perhaps even greater
disquiet. Never was a man hungrier than he with "the insatiable hunger
for Eternity"; never was a man more eager to pierce the mystery of life
and catch a glimpse of the beyond while yet alive.
Combined with the perplexing darkness that so pitifully limits man's
vision is the indifference of the forces that govern his destiny. The
wrongs he suffers may cry aloud to heaven, but heaven does not hear
him. Whether he writhe in agony or be prostrated in the dust (against
all reason and justice), he has no appeal, societies, the bulk of mankind,
may be plunged in misery--who or what cares? Man is surrounded by
indifference as well as by darkness.
Often, when an idea has gained a powerful hold on Andreyev, he
pursues it a long time, presenting it under various aspects, until at last it
assumes its final form, rounded and completed, as it