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THE LIFE OF MAN

A Play In Five Acts

By Leonidas Andreyev

Translated By C. J. Hogarth

London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd. New York: The Macmillan Company.

1915

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

The Being in Grey.

The Father of the Man.

The Man.

The Man's Wife.

First Doctor.

Second Doctor.

An Old Serving Woman.

Old Women of a Semi-supernatural Character.

Musicians; Friends, Enemies, and Relations of the Man; Guests at the
Man's Ball, etc.

PROLOGUE

[_A Being, clad in Grey, is speaking. He is speaking of the Life of
Man._

[_The stage presents the semblance of a large, square, empty room which
has neither doors nor windows, and within which all is uniformly grey
and misty. The ceiling, walls, and floor are grey, and from some hidden
source there flows a stream of dim, unflickering light, of the same
dull, monotonous, elusive colour. This light throws no shadows, nor is
reflected back from any point._

[_Without a sound the Being in Grey detaches himself from the wall, with
which he has almost seemed to mingle. He is clothed in a loose, grey,
shapeless habit, roughly outlining a gigantic frame, and his head is
veiled in a cowl of the all-pervading hue. This cowl throws the upper
portion of his face into deep shadow, so that no eyes, but only a nose,
mouth, and prominent chin are visible; all of which features are as
clear-cut in outline and granite-like in texture as though they were
hewn of grey stone. At first his lips are tightly compressed; until
presently he raises his head a little, and begins to speak in a stern,
Cold voice--a voice as destitute of passion or emotion as that of some
hired clerk reading aloud, with dry nonchalance, the records of a court
of law._]

Look ye and listen, ye who have come hither for sport and laughter; for
there is about to pass before you, from its mysterious beginning to its
mysterious close, the whole life of a Man.

Hitherto without being; hidden away in the womb of eternity; possessed
neither of thought nor feeling; remote from the range of human ken,--the
Man bursts, in some unknown manner, the bars of non-existence, and
announces with a cry the beginning of his brief life. In the night of
non-existence there bursts forth also a little candle, lit by an unseen
hand. It is the life of that Man. Mark well its flame: for it is the
life of that Man.

Born, the Man assumes the name and image of humanity, and becomes in
all things like unto other men who dwell upon the earth. Their hard lot
becomes his, and his, in turn, becomes the lot of all who shall come
after him. Drawn on inexorably by time, it is not given him to see the
next rung on which his faltering foot shall fall. Bounded in knowledge,
it is not given him to foretell what each succeeding hour, what each
succeeding minute, shall have in store for him. In blind nescience, in
an agony of foreboding, in a whirl of hopes and fears, he completes the
sorry cycle of an iron destiny.

First we see him a joyous youth. Mark how clearly the candle burns! Icy
winds from! desert wastes may eddy round it and pass by. Its flame may
flicker gently, but it still remains quite bright and clear. Yet the wax
is ever melting as the flame consumes it--yet the wax is ever melting.

Next we see him a happy man and father. Mark how dim, how strange, is
now the candle's glimmer! Its flame is growing pale and wrinkled, it
shivers as with cold, and its light is feebler than of yore. For the wax
is ever melting as the flame consumes it--for the wax is ever melting.

Lastly we see him an old man, weak and ailing. The rungs of the ladder
have all been climbed, and only a black abyss yawns before his faltering
foot. The flame of the candle is drooping earthward, and turning to
a faint blue. It droops and quivers, it droops and quivers--and then
softly goes out.

Thus the Man dies. Come from darkness, into darkness he returns, and
is reabsorbed, without a trace left, into the illimitable void of time.
There there is neither thought not feeling, nor any intercourse with
men. And I, the Unknown, shall remain ever the fellow-traveller of that
Man--through all the days of his life, through all his journeyings.
Though unseen by him and his companions, I shall ever be by his side. Be
he waking or sleeping, be he praying or blaspheming; in the hour of joy,
when his soul soars free and fearless; in the hour of sorrow, when
his spirit is o'ershadowed by the languor of death, and the blood is
curdling back upon his heart; in the hour of victory or defeat as he
wages his great contest with the Inevitable,--I shall be with him, I
shall ever be with him.

And ye who have come hither for sport and laughter (ye who none the less
must die also), look ye and listen: for there is about to pass before
you, and to reveal to you its joys and its sorrows, the brief, fleeting
life of a Man.

[_Once more the Being in Grey is silent; and as his voice ceases, the
light becomes wholly extinguished, and his form and the grey, empty room
are swallowed up in impenetrable darkness_. ]


CURTAIN.




ACT I--THE BIRTH OF THE MAN

[_The stage is in deep shadow--nothing being visible amid the gloom save
the silhouetted grey forms of some old, women and the faint outlines of
a large and lofty chamber. Clad in weird, shapeless garments, the old
women look, as they crouch together, like a little cluster of grey mice.
They are talking in low tones._]

~Dialogue of the Old Women.~~

I wish I knew which her baby is going to be--a boy or a girl.

Whatever can it matter to _you?_

Nothing; except that I prefer boys.

And _I_ prefer girls. They sit quietly at home, and make company when
one wants a gossip.

Oh, you are so fond of company!

[_The Old Women give a chuckle._]

The woman herself is hoping it will be a girl, for she says that boys
are too boisterous and headstrong, and too fond of running into danger.
While they are little (she says) they are for ever climbing tall trees
and bathing in deep water; and when they are grown up they take to.
fighting, and killing one another.

Pooh! Does she think that _girls_ never get drowned? Many a drowned
girl's corpse have I seen, and they looked as all drowned corpses
do--wet and livid and swollen.

And does she think that gauds and jewellery never yet brought a girl to
her death?

Ah, poor thing! she is having a hard and painful childbed of it. Here
have we been sitting these sixteen mortal hours, and she screaming the
whole time! True, she is quieter now, and only gasps and moans, but, a
short while ago, it fairly split one's ears to hear her!

The doctor thinks she is going to die.

No, no! What the doctor said was that the _child_ will be born dead, but
the mother herself recover.

But why need there be births at all? They are such painful things!

Well, why need there be deaths either? They are more painful still, are
they not?

[_The Old Women chuckle again._]

Ah well, 'tis the way of the world--births and deaths, births and
deaths.

Yes; and then more births.

[_For the third time the Old Women chuckle. At the same moment there is
heard behind the scenes a stifled cry, as of a woman in agony._]

There! She is going to scream again!

Well, at least it is a good sign that she has recovered her voice.

Yes, it is a good sign.

That poor husband of hers! The silly fool is in such a way about it that
it makes one almost die of laughing to see him. A short while ago he was
in raptures because his wife was pregnant, and kept saying that he hoped
the baby would be a boy. Perhaps he thought that any boy of _his_ would
grow up to be a Minister of State or a general at the very least! But
now he wants neither boy nor girl, but only fusses about and weeps.

When the pangs come upon her he seems to suffer almost as much as she
does. He grows absolutely livid in the face!

A short while ago they sent him to the chemist's for some medicine; but,
after kicking his heels about outside the shop for two mortal hours, he
was still unable to remember what he had come for, and had to go home
again empty-handed.

[_The Old Women burst into renewed chuckles, while the screams
behind the scenes increase for a moment, and then die away again into
silence._]

What ails her now? Surely she has not expired?

Not she! Had that been so, we should have heard the waiters beginning
their lament, and the doctor running about the house, and chattering his
foolish nonsense. Besides, her husband would have been gone off into a
dead faint and been brought in here, and then _we_ should have had some
work to do. No, no; she's not dead.

Then why need we stay here longer?

Oh, ask _Him_. How can _we_ tell what is going to happen?

He never tells us _anything_--never!

No, indeed! He is a perfect pest to us--for ever pulling us out of our
beds, and setting us to watch, and then telling us that we need not have
come after all!

Nevertheless, since we _are_ here, we may as well do something. There!
She is screaming again! Anyway, we could not help coming, could we?

No; he gave us no choice in the matter. Yet surely you have had enough
watching by now?

Oh, I just sit quiet and wait--sit quiet and wait.

What a patient old lady you are, to be sure!

[_The Old Women chuckle again, and the screams grow louder._]

How dreadful those screams sound! What agony she must be in! Do you know
what that agony is like? It is like having one's entrails torn out.

Oh, we have all been through it in our time.

Yes, but I doubt whether _she_ has before. Listen to that voice of hers!
One would hardly know it to be hers at all. It used to be such a sweet
and gentle one.

Well, 'tis more like the howl of a wild beast now. Besides, it has a
