On board the Atlantic
Today is exactly ten days since I became human and am leading earthly life.
My loneliness is very great. I don't need friends, but I need to talk about myself, and I have no one to talk to. Thoughts alone are not enough, and they are not quite clear, distinct and precise, until I express them in words: they must be lined up like soldiers or telegraph poles, stretched like a railway track, bridges and viaducts thrown over, embankments and curves built, V famous places stops - and only then everything becomes clear. They call this backbreaking engineering path logic and consistency, it seems, and is obligatory for those who want to be smart; for everyone else it is optional, and they can wander as they please.
The work is slow, difficult and disgusting for someone who is accustomed to grasping everything with one breath and expressing everything with one breath. And it is not for nothing that they respect their thinkers so much, and these unfortunate thinkers, if they are honest and do not cheat during construction, like ordinary engineers, it is not for nothing that they end up in madhouse. I have only been on earth for a few days, and more than once its yellow walls and welcomingly open door flashed before Me.
Yes, it is extremely difficult and irritates the “nerves” (also a good thing!). Right now - to express small and ordinary thought about the inadequacy of their words and logic. I was forced to ruin so much beautiful steamship paper... but what is needed to express the great and extraordinary? I’ll say in advance - so that you don’t open your curious mouth too much, my earthly reader! - that the extraordinary is inexpressible in the language of your grumbling. If you don’t believe Me, go to the nearest madhouse and listen to them: they all knew something and wanted to express it... and you hear how these fallen locomotives hiss and turn their wheels in the air, you notice with what difficulty they hold are the scattering features of their amazed and amazed faces still in place?
I see how even now you are ready to bombard Me with questions, having learned that I am Satan incarnate: it’s so interesting! Where am I from? What are the rules in our hell? Does immortality exist, and what are the prices for coal on the last hellish exchange? Unfortunately, my dear reader, with all my desire, even if such a thing existed in Me, I am not able to satisfy your legitimate curiosity. I could make up for you one of those funny stories about horned and hairy devils that are so dear to your meager imagination, but you already have enough of them, and I don’t want to lie to you so rudely and so flatly. I'll lie to you somewhere else where you don't expect anything, and it will be more interesting for both of us.
But how can I tell the truth, if even my Name is inexpressible in your language? You called me Satan, and I accept this nickname, as I would accept any other: let me be Satan. But mine true name It sounds completely different, completely different! It sounds extraordinary, and I just can’t squeeze it into your narrow ear without tearing it apart along with your brains: let me be Satan, and that’s all.
And you yourself are to blame for this, my friend: why are there so few concepts in your mind? Your mind is like a beggar's bag, in which there are only pieces of stale bread, but here you need more than bread. You have only two concepts of existence: life and death - how can I explain the third to you? Your whole existence is nonsense only because you do not have this third, and where will I get it? Now I am a man, like you, your brains are in my head, your cubic words are lumpy and prickly in the corners of my mouth, and I cannot tell you about the Extraordinary.
If I say that there are no devils, I will deceive you. But if I say that they exist, I will also deceive you... You see how difficult it is, what nonsense it is, my friend! But even about my incarnation, with which ten days ago my earthly life, I can tell you very little that is clear. First of all, forget about your favorite hairy, horned and winged devils who breathe fire, turn clay fragments into gold, and elders into seductive youths and, having done all this and chatted a lot of trifles, instantly fall through the stage - and remember: when we If we want to come to your land, we must become human. Why this is so, you will find out after death, but for now remember: I am a human now, just like you, I smell not of a stinking goat, but of good perfume, and you can calmly shake my hand, without being at all afraid of being scratched by your claws: I am so I cut my hair just like you.
But how did this happen? Very simple. When I wanted to come to earth, I found one suitable thirty-eight-year-old American, Mr. Henry Vandergood, a billionaire, and killed him... of course, at night and without witnesses. But you still cannot bring Me to justice, despite My consciousness, since the American is alive, and we both greet you in one respectful bow: I and Vandergood. He just rented out an empty room to me, you understand - and even then not all of it, damn him! And I can return back, unfortunately, only through the door that leads you to freedom: through death.
That's the main thing. But in the future, you too can understand something, although talking about such things in your own words is the same as trying to put a mountain in a vest pocket or scoop up Niagara with a thimble! Imagine that you, my dear king of nature, wished to become closer to the ants and, by the power of a miracle or magic, became an ant, a real tiny ant carrying eggs - and then you will feel a little of the abyss that separates the former Me from the present... no, even worse! You were a sound, but you became a musical symbol on paper... No, it’s even worse, even worse, and no comparisons will tell you about that terrible abyss, the bottom of which I myself still don’t see. Or does it have no bottom at all?
Think about it: I suffered from seasickness for two days after leaving New York! Is this funny for you, who are used to wallowing in your own sewage? Well, I - I was lying around too, but it wasn’t funny at all. I smiled only once when I thought that it was not me, but Vandergood, and said:
Rock it, Vandergood, rock it!
There is one more question to which you are waiting for an answer: why did I come to earth and decide on such an unfavorable exchange - from Satan, “almighty, immortal, ruler and ruler,” turned into... you? I'm tired of looking for words that don't exist, and I'll answer you in English, French, Italian and German, in languages that you and I both understand well: I got bored... in hell, and I came to earth to lie and play.
Leonid Nikolaevich Andreev is an outstanding Russian writer. Born on August 21, 1871 in Orel in the family of a land surveyor, who (according to family legends) was illegitimate son landowner. The mother was also from a noble family, so it can be argued that the person who came into this world was an aristocrat both in spirit and in blood.
In 1882 he was sent to the Oryol gymnasium, in which Leonid, according to own confession, “I studied poorly.” But I read a lot: Jules Verne, Edgar Poe, Charles Dickens, Dmitry Ivanovich Pisarev, Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy, Eduard Hartmann, Arthur Schopenhauer. The latter had a particularly strong influence on the worldview of the future writer: Schopenhauerian motifs permeate many of his works.
In 1889, the young man grieved the loss of his father. In the same year, another test awaits him - a severe mental crisis due to unhappy love. The psyche of the impressionable young man couldn’t stand it, and he even tried to commit suicide: to tempt fate, he lay down under a train between the rails. Fortunately, everything worked out well, and Russian literature was enriched with another great name.
In 1891, after graduating from high school, Leonid Andreev entered the Faculty of Law Petersburg University, from where he was expelled in 1893 for non-payment. He managed to transfer to Moscow University, where tuition fees were paid by the Society for Benefits to the Needy. At the same time, Andreev began to publish: in 1892, his story “In Cold and Gold,” which tells the story of a hungry student, was published in the magazine “Zvezda.” However, life's troubles again drive the aspiring writer to suicide, but the attempt is again unsuccessful. (He will try his luck again in 1894. And again he remains alive.)
All this time, the poor student ekes out a half-starved existence, lives with private lessons, and paints portraits to order. In addition, in 1895, Leonid Andreev came under police surveillance for participating in the affairs of the Oryol student community in Moscow, since the activities of such organizations were banned.
Nevertheless, he continues to publish in Orlovsky Vestnik. And in 1896 he met future wife- Alexandra Mikhailovna Veligorskaya.
In 1897, Leonid Andreev graduated from the university as a candidate of law. He began serving as an assistant attorney, appearing in court as a defense attorney. Perhaps from his practice he learned the plot of the work, which is considered the beginning of his literary career: On April 5, 1898, the newspaper “Courier” (which in the coming years will also publish Andreev’s feuilletons under the pseudonyms James Lynch and L.-ev) publishes the story “Bargamot and Garaska.” This debut did not go unnoticed - Andreev’s first story was approved by M. Gorky and was highly praised by influential critics of the time. Inspired by success, the aspiring writer felt an extraordinary surge of creative energy. From 1898 to 1904, he wrote over fifty stories, and in 1901, the publishing house “Znanie” published eight editions of the first volume of his works one after another. Before the young writer, who quickly gained a reputation among his generation as a “ruler of thoughts,” the doors of the editorial offices of the best magazines opened wide; his talent was recognized by Tolstoy, Chekhov, Korolenko, not to mention Gorky, with whom he developed close friendly relations (which over time grew into “friendship-enmity” and ending in a break).
In 1900, Gorky introduced his young writer to the Sreda literary circle. This is how Gorky himself describes his meeting with Leonid: “Dressed in an old sheepskin coat, with a shaggy sheepskin hat askew, he resembled young actor Ukrainian troupe. His handsome face seemed to me inactive, but the gaze of his dark eyes shone with that smile that shone so well in his stories and feuilletons. He spoke hastily, in a muffled, booming voice, coughing like a cold, slightly choking on his words and monotonously waving his hand - as if he was conducting. It seemed to me that it was healthy, invariably cheerful man, capable of living laughing at the hardships of life.”
Gorky invited Andreev to work in the “Magazine for Everyone” and the literary and political magazine “Life”. But because of this work (as well as collecting money for illegal student funds), the writer again came to the attention of the police. Both he and his works were widely discussed by literary critics. Rozanov, for example, wrote: “Mr. Artsybashev and gentlemen Leonid Andreev and Maxim Gorky tore the veil of fantasy from reality and showed it as it is.”
On January 10, 1902, the newspaper “Courier” published the story “The Abyss,” which shook the reading public. In it, man is presented as a slave to base, animal instincts. A wide controversy immediately developed around this work by L. Andreev, the nature of which was no longer literary, but rather philosophical in nature. (Later, the writer even planned “Anti-Abyss,” where he wanted to depict the best sides of a person, but never realized his plan.)
After his marriage to Alexandra Mikhailovna Veligorskaya on February 10, 1902, the calmest and happiest period in Andreev’s life began, which, however, did not last long. In January 1903, he was elected a member of the Society of Lovers of Russian Literature at Moscow University. He continued literary activity, and now more and more rebellious motives appeared in his work. In January 1904, the Courier published the story “No Forgiveness,” directed against agents of the Tsarist secret police. Because of him, the newspaper was closed.
An important event - not only literary, but also social - was the anti-war story "Red Laughter". The writer enthusiastically welcomes the first Russian revolution and tries to actively promote it: he works for the Bolshevik newspaper Borba, and participates in a secret meeting of the Finnish Red Guard. He again came into conflict with the authorities, and in February 1905, for providing an apartment for meetings of the Central Committee of the RSDLP, he was placed in solitary confinement. Thanks to the bail provided by Savva Morozov, he manages to get out of prison. Despite everything, Andreev does not stop revolutionary activity: in July 1905, he and Gorky perform at a literary and musical evening, the proceeds of which go to the benefit of the St. Petersburg Committee of the RSDLP and the families of striking workers of the Putilov plant. From persecution by the authorities, he now had to hide abroad: at the end of 1905, the writer went to Germany.
There he experienced one of the most terrible tragedies of his life - the death of his beloved wife at the birth of his second son. At this time, he was working on the play “The Life of a Man,” about which he later wrote to Vera Figner: “Thank you for your review of “The Life of a Man.” This thing is very dear to me; and now I see that they won’t understand her. And this offends me very painfully, not as an author (I have no pride), but as a “Man.” After all, this thing was the last thought, the last feeling and pride of my wife - and when they take it apart coldly, scold it, then I feel some kind of huge insult in this. Of course, why should critics care that “the man’s wife” died, but it hurts me. Yesterday and today the play is being staged in St. Petersburg, and it makes me sick to think about it.” In December 1907, L. Andreev met with M. Gorky in Capri, and in May 1908, having somehow recovered from grief, he returned to Russia.
He continues to promote the revolution: he supports the illegal foundation of prisoners of the Shlisselburg fortress, and shelters revolutionaries in his house.
The writer works as an editor in the anthology “Rosehip” and the collection “Knowledge”. Invites A. Blok, whom he highly values, to Znanie. Blok, in turn, speaks of Andreev like this: “They find something in common with Edgar Allan Poe. This is true to a certain extent, but huge difference The fact is that in Mr. Andreev’s stories there is nothing “extraordinary,” “strange,” “fantastic,” or “mysterious.” All simple everyday incidents.”
But the writer had to leave Znanie: Gorky resolutely rebelled against the publications of Blok and Sologub. Andreev also broke up with Rosehip, which published the novels of B. Savinov and F. Sologub after he rejected them.
However, the work, large and fruitful, continues. Perhaps the most significant work of this period was “Judas Iscariot,” where the well-known biblical story. The disciples of Christ appear as cowardly ordinary people, and Judas appears as a mediator between Christ and people. The image of Judas is dual: formally he is a traitor, but in essence he is the only devoted to Christ Human. He betrays Christ in order to find out whether any of his followers are capable of sacrificing themselves to save their teacher. He brings weapons to the apostles, warns them of the danger threatening Christ, and after the death of the Teacher follows him. The author puts a very deep ethical postulate into the mouth of Judas: “Sacrifice is suffering for one and shame for all. You took on all the sin. You will soon kiss the cross on which you crucified Christ!.. Did he forbid you to die? Why are you alive when he is dead?.. What is truth itself in the mouths of traitors? Doesn’t it become a lie?” The author himself described this work as “something on the psychology, ethics and practice of betrayal.”
Leonid Andreev is constantly busy searching for style. He develops techniques and principles of expressive rather than figurative writing. At this time, such works as “The Tale of the Seven Hanged Men” (1908), which tells about government repressions, the plays “Days of Our Lives” (1908), “Anatema” (1910), “Ekaterina Ivanovna” (1913), and the novel “ Sashka Zhegulev" (1911).
L. Andreev welcomed the First World War as “the struggle of democracy throughout the world against Caesarism and despotism, of which Germany is a representative.” He expected the same from all figures of Russian culture. At the beginning of 1914, the writer even went to see Gorky in Capri to convince him to abandon his “defeatist” position and at the same time restore shaken friendly relations. Returning to Russia, he began working for the newspaper Morning of Russia, the organ of the liberal bourgeoisie, and in 1916 became editor of the newspaper Russkaya Volya.
Andreev greeted enthusiastically and February revolution. He even tolerated violence if it was used to achieve “lofty goals” and served the public good and the triumph of freedom.
However, his euphoria waned as the Bolsheviks strengthened their positions. Already in September 1917, he wrote that “the conqueror Lenin” was walking “on puddles of blood.” An opponent of any dictatorship, he could not come to terms with the Bolshevik dictatorship. In October 1917, he left for Finland, which was actually the beginning of emigration (in fact, thanks to a sad curiosity: when the border between Soviet Russia and Finland was established along the Sestra River, Andreev and his family lived in the country and, willy-nilly, ended up “abroad” ).
On March 22, 1919, his article “S.O.S!” was published in the Paris newspaper “Common Cause!”, in which he appealed to “noble” citizens for help and called on them to unite in order to save Russia from “the savages of Europe who rebelled against its culture, laws and morality,” which turned it “into ashes, fire, murder, destruction, cemetery, dungeons and insane asylums.”
The writer’s restless state of mind also affected his physical well-being. On December 9, Leonid Andreev died of cardiac paralysis in the village of Neivala in Finland at the dacha of a friend, writer F. N. Valkovsky. His body was temporarily buried in a local church.
This “temporary” period lasted until 1956, when his ashes were reburied in Leningrad at Literary Bridges Volkova cemetery.
The ideas and plots of Leonid Andreev turned out to be poorly compatible with ideology Soviet state, and on long years the writer's name was forgotten. The first sign of the revival was a collection of short stories and novellas published by the State Publishing House of Fiction in 1957. It was followed two years later by a collection of plays. The composition of these books is emphatically neutral; “dangerous” works like “The Abyss” and “Thoughts” were not included in them.
The first and only to date (except for the two-volume 1971 edition) posthumous collected works of Leonid Andreev was published by the Khudozhestvennaya Literatura publishing house (Moscow) in 1990-1996.
In recent years, historical justice has been restored: Andreev’s collections come out year after year and are republished, individual stories and the writer's stories are included in the school curriculum.
Science fiction in the works of Leonid Andreev
Many of Leonid Andreev’s works directly relate to the genre of science fiction and horror. First of all, the following should be mentioned:
“Satan's Diary” is an unfinished novel in which the Prince of Darkness appears in the world of the early 20th century in human form;
the mystical story “He”, close in spirit to the works of Howard Phillips Lovecraft;
the terrible story “Red Laughter” - about the horrors of war that have found supernatural embodiment;
surreal nightmare "The Wall";
the story “Eleazar,” which uniquely interprets the story of the biblical Lazarus and has been repeatedly included in Western anthologies of ghost stories;
the mischievous fable “The Devil at the Wedding”;
the story about the end of the world “The Resurrection of All the Dead”, the genre of which the author himself defined as “dream”;
philosophical fairy tale “So it was”;
the parable “Rules of Good” is about a devil who loves good;
the satirical story "Gulliver's Death", which tells about the funeral of Swift's hero;
fantastic-symbolist plays (“Tsar Hunger”, “Anatema”).
In addition, a significant number of stories and novellas (including such outstanding ones as “Flight”, “Grand Slam”, “The Abyss”, “The Life of Vasily of Thebes”, “Curse of the Beast”, “Alarm”, etc.) cannot be confidently attributed to either to science fiction, nor to traditional literature. These days it would be called magical realism.
Current page: 1 (book has 12 pages in total)
Leonid ANDREEV
SATAN'S DIARY
I
January 18, 1914
On board the Atlantic
Today is exactly ten days since I became human and am leading earthly life.
My loneliness is very great. I don't need friends, but I need to talk about myself, and I have no one to talk to. Thoughts alone are not enough, and they are not quite clear, distinct and precise, until I express them in words: they must be lined up like soldiers or telegraph poles, stretched like a railway track, bridges and viaducts thrown over, embankments and curves built, at known stopping places - and only then everything becomes clear. They call this backbreaking engineering path logic and consistency, it seems, and is obligatory for those who want to be smart; for everyone else it is optional, and they can wander as they please.
The work is slow, difficult and disgusting for someone who is accustomed to using one... I don’t know what to call it - to grasp everything with one breath and express everything with one breath. And it is not for nothing that they respect their thinkers so much, and these unfortunate thinkers, if they are honest and do not cheat during construction, like ordinary engineers, it is not for nothing that they end up in a madhouse. I have only been on earth for a few days, and more than once its yellow walls and welcomingly open door flashed before Me.
Yes, it is extremely difficult and irritates the “nerves” (also a good thing!). Right now, to express a small and ordinary thought about the insufficiency of their words and logic, I was forced to ruin so much beautiful steamship paper... but what is needed to express the big and extraordinary? I’ll say in advance - so that you don’t open your curious mouth too much, My earthly reader! - that the extraordinary is inexpressible in the language of your grumbling. If you don’t believe Me, go to the nearest madhouse and listen to them: they all knew something and wanted to express it... and you hear how these fallen locomotives hiss and turn their wheels in the air, you notice with what difficulty they hold are the scattering features of their amazed and amazed faces still in place?
I see how even now you are ready to bombard Me with questions, having learned that I am Satan incarnate: it’s so interesting! Where am I from? What are the rules in our hell? Does immortality exist, and what are the prices for coal on the last hellish exchange? Unfortunately, My dear reader, with all My desire, even if such a thing existed in Me, I am not able to satisfy your legitimate curiosity. I could make up for you one of those funny stories about horned and hairy devils that are so dear to your meager imagination, but you already have enough of them, and I don’t want to lie to you so rudely and so flatly. I'll lie to you somewhere else where you don't expect anything, and it will be more interesting for both of us.
But how can I tell the truth, if even My Name is inexpressible in your language? You called Me Satan, and I accept this nickname, as I would accept any other: let me be Satan. But My true name sounds completely different, completely different! It sounds extraordinary, and I just can’t squeeze it into your narrow ear without tearing it apart along with your brains: let me be Satan, and nothing more.
And you yourself are to blame for this, My friend: why are there so few concepts in your mind? Your mind is like a beggar's bag, in which there are only pieces of stale bread, but here you need more than bread. You have only two concepts of existence: life and death - how can I explain the third to you? Your whole existence is nonsense only because you do not have this third, and where will I get it? Now I am a man, just like you, your brains are in My head, your cubic words are lumpy and prickly in the corners of My mouth, and I cannot tell you about the Extraordinary.
If I say that there are no devils, I will deceive you. But if I say that they exist, I will also deceive you... You see how difficult it is, what nonsense it is, My friend! But even about My incarnation, with which My earthly life began ten days ago, I can tell you very little that is understandable. First of all, forget about your favorite hairy, horned and winged devils who breathe fire, turn clay fragments into gold, and elders into seductive youths and, having done all this and chatted a lot of trifles, instantly fall through the stage - and remember: when we If we want to come to your land, we must become human. Why this is so, you will find out after death, but for now remember: I am a man now, just like you, I smell not of a stinking goat, but of good perfume, and you can calmly shake My hand, without being at all afraid of being scratched by your claws: I am so I cut my hair just like you.
But how did this happen? Very simple. When I wanted to come to earth, I found one suitable thirty-eight-year-old American, Mr. Henry Vandergood, a billionaire, and killed him... of course, at night and without witnesses. But you still cannot bring Me to justice, despite My consciousness, since the American is alive, and we both greet you in one respectful bow: I and Vandergood. He just rented out empty premises to Me, you understand - and even then not all of them, damn him! And I can return back, unfortunately, only through the door that leads you to freedom: through death.
That's the main thing. But in the future, you too can understand something, although talking about such things in your own words is the same as trying to put a mountain in a vest pocket or scoop up Niagara with a thimble! Imagine that you, My dear king of nature, wished to become closer to the ants and, by the power of a miracle or magic, became an ant, a real tiny ant carrying eggs - and then you will feel a little of the abyss that separates the former Me from the present... no, even worse! You were a sound, but you became a musical symbol on paper... No, it’s even worse, even worse, and no comparisons will tell you about that terrible abyss, the bottom of which I myself still don’t see. Or does it have no bottom at all?
Think about it: I suffered from seasickness for two days after leaving New York! Is this funny for you, who are used to wallowing in your own sewage? Well, and I - I was lying around too, but it wasn’t funny at all. I smiled only once when I thought that it was not me, but Vandergood, and said:
- Rock it, Vandergood, rock it!
There is one more question to which you are waiting for an answer: why did I come to earth and decide on such an unfavorable exchange - from Satan, “almighty, immortal, ruler and ruler,” turned into... you? I'm tired of looking for words that don't exist, and I will answer you in English, French, Italian and German, in languages that you and I both understand well: I got bored... in hell, and I came to earth to lie and play.
You know what boredom is. What a lie is, you know well, and you can somewhat judge the game by your theaters and famous actors. Maybe you yourself play some little thing in parliament, at home or in church? - then you will understand something about the feeling of enjoying the game. If, in addition, you know the multiplication table, then multiply this delight and pleasure of the game by any multi-digit number, and then you get My pleasure, My game. No, even more! Imagine that you are an ocean wave that plays forever and lives only in the game - this one that I now see behind the glass and that wants to lift our Atlantic... However, I am again looking for words and comparisons!
I just want to play. At the moment I am still an unknown artist, a modest debutant, but I hope to become no less famous than your Garrick or Alridge - when I play what I want. I am proud, proud and even, perhaps, vain... you know what vanity is when you want praise and applause even from a fool? Further, I boldly think that I am a genius - Satan is known for his insolence - and imagine that I am tired of hell, where all these hairy and horned swindlers play and lie almost no worse than I do, and that the laurels of hell are not enough for me, in which I shrewdly discern a lot of low flattery and simple stupidity. About you, My earthly friend, I heard that you are smart, quite honest, moderately distrustful, sensitive to questions of eternal art, and you play so badly and lie yourself that you are able to highly appreciate someone else’s game: it’s not without reason that you have so many great ones! So I came... understand?
My stage will be the earth, and the nearest stage will be Rome, where I am going, this “eternal” city, as it is called here with a deep understanding of eternity and other simple things. I don’t yet have a specific troupe (would you like to join it too?), but I believe that Fate or Chance, to which I am now subject, like all your earthly things, will appreciate My selfless intentions and send worthy partners to meet me... old Europe is so rich in talent! I believe that I will find spectators in this Europe who are sensitive enough to make it worth painting my face in front of them and replacing my soft hellish shoes with heavy buskins. Frankly, I used to think about the East, where some of My... compatriots once labored not without success, but the East is too trusting and prone to ballet, as well as to poison, its gods are ugly, it still stinks too much of a striped beast, its the darkness and lights are barbarously rough and too bright for such a subtle artist like me to go into this cramped and smelly booth. Ah, My friend, I am so vain that I am starting this Diary not without a secret intention to delight you... even with My wretchedness as a Seeker of words and comparisons. I hope that you will not take advantage of My frankness and stop believing Me?
Are there any other questions? I don’t really know about the play itself, it will be written by the same impresario that will attract the actors - Fate - but My modest role to begin with: a person who has fallen in love with other people so much that he wants to give them everything - his soul and money. You haven't forgotten, of course, that I'm a billionaire? I have three billion. Enough, isn't it, for one spectacular performance? Now one more detail to finish this page.
Riding with Me and sharing My fate is a certain Erwin Toppi, My Secretary, a very respectable person in his black frock coat and top hat, with his drooping nose, like an unripe pear, and his shaved pastoral face. I wouldn’t be surprised if they found a camp prayer book in his pocket. My Toppy came to earth - from there, that is, from hell, and in the same way as I did: he also became human, and, it seems, quite successfully - the slacker is completely insensitive to motion. However, even seasickness requires some intelligence, and My Toppy is stupid beyond belief - even for land. Also, he is rude and gives advice. I already somewhat regret that I didn’t choose better cattle for myself from our rich stock, but I was seduced by his honesty and some familiarity with the land: somehow it was more pleasant to go on this walk with an experienced comrade. Once upon a time - long ago - he already took human image and became so imbued with religious ideas that - think! - entered the monastery of the Franciscan brothers, lived there until a gray old age and died peacefully under the name of Brother Vincent. His ashes became an object of worship for believers - not a bad career for the stupid Devil! - and he himself is again with Me and is already sniffing where the incense smells: an ineradicable habit! You'll probably love him.
And now that's enough. Get out, my friend. I want to be alone. I am annoyed by your flat reflection, which I caused on this stage, and I want to be alone, or at least with this Vandergood, who gave Me his premises and somewhat fraudulently deceived Me. The sea is calm, I no longer feel sick like I did these days damn days, but I'm afraid of something.
I'm afraid! It seems that this darkness, which they call night and which lies over the ocean, frightens Me: there is still light here from the light bulbs, but beyond the thin side lies a terrible darkness, where My eyes are completely powerless. They are worthless anyway, these stupid mirrors that can only reflect, but in the dark they lose even this pathetic ability. Of course, I will get used to the darkness, I have already gotten used to a lot of things, but now I feel bad and scared to think that just turn the key and this blind, ever-ready darkness will engulf me. Where is she from?
And how brave they are with their dim mirrors - they don’t see anything and simply say: it’s dark here, we need to turn on the light! Then they put it out themselves and fall asleep. With some surprise, though rather cold, I look at these brave men and... admire them. Or does fear require too much intelligence, like mine? After all, it’s not you who is such a coward, Vandergood, you have always been known as a seasoned and experienced person!
I cannot remember one minute in My incarnation without horror: when I first heard the beating of My heart. This distinct, loud, counting sound, speaking as much about death as about life, struck Me with unprecedented fear and excitement. They put counters everywhere, but how can they carry this counter in their chest, which with the speed of a magician passes away the seconds of life?
At the first moment I wanted to scream and immediately rush down, while I was still not accustomed to life, but I looked at Toppy: this newborn fool was calmly cleaning his top hat with the sleeve of his coat. I laughed and shouted:
- Toppy! Brush!
And we both cleaned ourselves, and the counter in My chest counted how many seconds it lasted, and, it seems, it increased. Then, later, listening to his annoying ticking, I began to think: “I won’t have time!” What won't I have time? I didn’t know it myself, but for two whole days I was in a frantic hurry to drink, eat, even sleep: after all, the meter does not sleep while I lie motionless and sleep!
Now I'm no longer in a hurry. I know that I will have time, and My seconds seem inexhaustible to Me, but My counter is agitated by something and beats like a drunken soldier on a drum. And how – these small seconds that he is now throwing away – are they considered equal to large ones? Then it's a scam. I protest as an upstanding United States citizen and businessman!
I do not feel good. Now I wouldn't push away a friend, it's probably a good thing, Friends. Oh! But in the whole universe I am alone!
February 7, 1914
Rome, Hotel International
Every time I get mad when I have to take a policeman’s stick and restore order in My head: facts to the right! thoughts to the left! mood back! - the way to His Majesty Consciousness, which barely hobbles on its crutches. But it is impossible - otherwise there will be riot, noise, confusion and chaos. So - to order, gentlemen of facts and ladies of thoughts! I start.
Night. Darkness. The air is polite and warm and smells of something. Toppy sniffs it with pleasure, saying that this is Italy. Our fast train is already approaching Rome, we are blissfully on soft sofas, when - crash! - and everything goes to hell: the train went crazy and fell over. I confess without shame - I am not brave! - that I was overcome by horror and almost unconsciousness. The electricity went out, and when I barely crawled out of some dark corner where I was thrown, I completely forgot where the exit was. Everywhere there are walls, corners, something is pricking, beating and silently climbing on Me. And everything is in the dark! Suddenly there was a corpse underfoot, I stepped right on the face; Only later did I find out that it was My lackey George, killed on the spot. I screamed, and here My invulnerable Toppy helped Me out: he grabbed Me by the hand and dragged Me to the open window, since both exits were broken and blocked with debris. I jumped to the ground, but Toppy was stuck there with something; My knees were shaking, my breath came out with a groan, but he still didn’t show up, and I began to scream.
Suddenly he leaned out of the window:
-Why are you shouting? I'm looking for our hats and your briefcase.
And indeed: soon he handed Me his hat, and then he got out himself - in a top hat and with a briefcase. I laughed and shouted:
- Human! You forgot your umbrella!
But this old buffoon did not understand humor and answered seriously:
- I don’t carry an umbrella. And you know: our George was killed and the cook too.
So this carrion, which does not feel how they step on its face, is our George! Fear took possession of me again, and suddenly I heard groans, wild screams, squeals and screams, all the voices that a brave man screams when he is crushed: before I was like deaf and did not hear anything. The carriages caught fire, fire and smoke appeared, the wounded screamed louder, and, without waiting for the roast to ripen, I, unconscious, rushed to run into the field. It was a ride!
Fortunately, the gentle hills of the Roman Campania are very suitable for such sports, and I turned out to be not the least of the runners. When I, gasping for breath, fell on some hillock, nothing was seen or heard, and only Toppy, who was lagging behind, was stomping far behind. But what a terrible thing this is, the heart! It was getting into My mouth so much that I could have spat it out. Writhing from suffocation, I pressed my face to the very ground - it was cool, hard and calm, and here I liked it, and as if it gave me back my breath and returned my heart to its place, I felt better. And the stars above were calm... But why should they worry? It doesn't concern them. They shine and celebrate, this is their eternal ball. And at this brightest ball, the Earth, dressed in darkness, seemed to Me as a charming stranger in a black mask. (I find that this is expressed quite well, and you, My reader, should be pleased: My style and manners are improving!)
I kissed Toppy on the crown - I kiss the crowns of those I love - and said:
“You have become a very good man, Toppy.” I respect you. But what do we do next? Is this glow of lights Rome? Far!
“Yes, Rome,” Toppy confirmed and raised his hand. - Do you hear - they whistle!
From there came the lingering and groaning whistles of steam locomotives; they were anxious.
“They whistle,” I said and laughed.
- They whistle! - Toppy repeated, grinning, - he doesn’t know how to laugh.
But I felt unwell again. Chills, strange melancholy and trembling at the very base of the tongue. I was sick of this carrion that I was crushing with my feet, and I wanted to shake myself, like a dog after a bath. Understand, this was the first time I saw and felt your corpse, My dear reader, and I didn’t like it, I’m sorry. Why didn’t he object when I trampled his face with my foot? George was young Beautiful face, and he behaved with dignity. Think that a heavy foot will press into your face - and you will remain silent?
To order! We did not go to Rome, but went to look for accommodation for the night at good people closer. They walked for a long time. Tired. I was thirsty - oh, how thirsty I was! Now let me introduce my new friend, Signor Thomas Magnus and his beautiful daughter Maria.
At first it was a faintly flickering light that “calls the weary traveler.” Up close it was a small secluded house, its white walls barely visible through a thicket of tall black cypress trees and something else. There was light in only one window, the rest were closed with shutters. Stone fence, iron bars, strong doors. And - silence. At first glance it was something suspicious. Toppy knocked - silence. I knocked for a long time - silence. And finally a stern voice from behind iron door asked:
- Who you are? What do you need?
Barely moving his dry tongue, My brave Toppy told about the disaster and our escape, he spoke for a long time - and then the iron lock clanged and the door opened. Following the stern and silent stranger, we entered the house, passed through several dark and silent rooms, climbed a creaking staircase and entered a lighted room, apparently the stranger's workroom. It is light, there are many books and one, open, lies on the table under a low lamp with a simple green cap. We noticed her light in the field. But I was struck by the silence of the house: despite the rather early hour, not a rustle, not a voice, not a sound was heard.
- Sit down.
We sat down, and Toppy, exhausted, began his story again, but the strange owner indifferently interrupted him:
- Yes, a disaster. This often happens on our roads. Many casualties?
Toppy began to babble, and the owner, half listening to him, took a revolver out of his pocket and hid it in the table, casually explaining:
“It’s not exactly a quiet outskirts here.” Well, you are welcome to stay with me.
For the first time he raised his dark, almost without shine, large and gloomy eyes and carefully, like a curiosity in a museum, examined Me and Toppy from head to toe. It was an impudent and indecent look, and I got up from my seat.
- I'm afraid that we are superfluous here, sir, and...
But he stopped Me with a leisurely and slightly mocking gesture.
- Empty. Stay. Now I will give you some wine and something to eat. The servants come to me only during the day, so I will serve you myself. Wash and freshen up, there's a bath behind that door while I get the wine. In general, don't be shy.
While we drank and ate, admittedly, greedily, this unfriendly gentleman read his book with such an air as if there was no one in the room and as if it was not Toppy who was slurping, but a dog fussing over a bone. Here I took a good look at him. Tall, almost My height and build, face pale and as if tired, black pitch, gangster beard. But the forehead is large and smart and the nose... what do you call it? - Here I am again looking for comparisons! – The nose is like a whole book about a big, passionate, extraordinary, hidden life. Beautiful and made with the finest incisor, not from meat and cartilage, but... - how can I say this? - from thoughts and some daring desires. Apparently he’s also a brave man! But I was especially surprised by his hands: very large, very white and calm. Why they surprised me, I don’t know, but suddenly I thought: how good it is that it’s not fins! It's good that it's not tentacles! How good and amazing it is that there are exactly ten fingers; exactly ten subtle, evil, smart scammers!
I politely said:
- Thank you, sir...
- My name is Magnus. Thomas Magnus. Have some more wine. Americans?
I was waiting for Toppy to English custom introduced Me, and looked at Magnus. Did you have to be an illiterate brute and not read a single English, French or Italian newspaper not to know who I am?
- Mr. Henry Vandergood from Illinois. His secretary, Erwin Toppi, is your most humble servant. Yes, citizens of the United States.
The old buffoon delivered his tirade with some pride, and Magnus, yes, he shuddered slightly. Billions, my friend, billions! He looked at Me long and intently:
- Mr. Vandergood? Henry Vandergood? Isn’t it you, sir, that American billionaire who wants to benefit humanity with his billions?
I shook my head modestly:
– Weyes, Ya.
Toppy shook his head and confirmed... donkey:
- Weyes, we.
Magnus bowed to both of us and said with impudent mockery:
“Humanity is waiting for you, Mr. Vandergood.” Judging by the Roman newspapers, it is completely impatient! But I have to apologize for my modest dinner: I didn’t know...
With magnificent directness I grabbed his big, strange hot hand and shook her firmly, in the American way:
- Leave it, Signor Magnus! Before I became a billionaire, I was a swineherd, and you are a straightforward, honest and noble gentleman whose hand I respectfully shake. Damn it, not one yet human face did not awaken in Me... such sympathy as yours!
Then Magnus said...
Magnus didn't say anything! No, I can’t do this: “I said”, “he said” - this damned sequence kills My inspiration, I become a mediocre novelist from a tabloid newspaper and lie like a mediocrity. I have five senses, I am a whole person, but I talk about one rumor! What about vision? Believe me, it wasn't messing around. And this is the feeling of the earth, of Italy, of My existence, which I felt with new and sweet strength. Do you think all I did was listen to the smart Thomas Magnus? He speaks, and I look, understand, answer, and I myself think: how good the earth and grass smell in Campania! I also tried to feel into this whole house (is that what they say?), into its hidden silent rooms; he seemed mysterious to Me. And every minute I became more and more happy that I was alive, I say, I could play for a long time... and suddenly I began to like that I was a person!
I remember I suddenly handed Magnus my business card: Henry Vandergood. He was surprised and didn’t understand, but politely put the card on the table, and I wanted to kiss him on the crown: for this politeness, for the fact that he is a man, and I am also a man. I also really liked My foot in the yellow shoe, and I swayed it imperceptibly: let it sway, beautiful human American foot! I was very sensitive that evening! I even wanted to cry once: to look straight into the eyes of my interlocutor and at my open, full of love, kind eyes squeeze out two tears. It seems that I did just that, and there was a pleasant tingle in my nose, like lemonade. And on Magnus, My two tears, as I noticed, made a wonderful impression.
But Toppy!.. While I was experiencing this wonderful poem of incarnation and was tearing up like moss, he was dead asleep at the same table where he was sitting. Has he become too human? I wanted to get angry, but Magnus stopped Me:
“He was worried and tired, Mr. Vandergood.”
However, it was already late time. Magnus and I had been talking and arguing heatedly for two hours when this happened to Toppy. I sent him to bed, and we continued to drink and talk for a long time. I drank more wine, but Magnus was reserved, almost gloomy, and I liked his stern, at times even angry and secretive face more and more. He said:
“I believe in your altruistic impulse, Mr. Vandergood.” But I don’t believe that you, an intelligent, businesslike and... somewhat cold person, it seems to me, could place any serious hopes on your money...
– Three billion is a huge force, Magnus!
“Yes, three billion is a huge force,” he agreed calmly and reluctantly, “but what can you do with them?”
I laughed:
– You want to say: what can this ignorant American, this former swineherd, who knows pigs better than people, do with them?..
– One knowledge helps another.
- This extravagant philanthropist, to whom gold rushed to his head like milk to a wet nurse? Yes, of course, what can I do? Another university in Chicago? Another almshouse in San Francisco? Another humane penitentiary in New York?
– The latter would be a true blessing for humanity. Don’t look at me so reproachfully, Mr. Vandergood: I’m not joking at all, in me you will not find that... selfless love for people that burns so brightly in you.
He impudently mocked Me, and I felt so sorry for him: not to love people! Unhappy Magnus, I would so gladly kiss him on the crown of the head! Don't like people!
“Yes, I don’t like them,” Magnus confirmed. “But I’m glad that you are not going to follow the stereotyped path of all American philanthropists.” Your billions...
– Three billion, Magnus! With this money you can create a new state...
– Or destroy the old one. With this gold, Magnus, you can make a war, a revolution...
I managed to hit him: his big white hand trembled slightly, and respect flashed in his dark eyes: “And you, Vandergood, are not as stupid as I thought at first!” He stood up and, walking around the room once, stopped in front of Me and, mockingly, sharply asked:
– Do you know exactly what your humanity needs: the creation of a new state or the destruction of an old state? War or peace? Revolution or peace? Who are you, Mr. Vandergood of Illinois, that you undertake to decide these questions? I was wrong: build an almshouse and a university in Chicago, it's... safer.
I loved the sassiness of this little man! I modestly lowered my head and said:
– You are right, Signor Magnus. Who am I, Henry Vandergood, to decide these questions? But I don’t decide them. I just put them, I put them and look for an answer, I look for an answer and a person who will give it to Me. I am ignorant, ignorant, I have not properly read a single book except the ledger, but here I see enough books. You are a misanthrope, Magnus, you are too European not to be slightly disappointed in everything, but we, young America, we believe in people. A person must be done! You are bad craftsmen in Europe and have done bad person, we will do good. I apologize for the harshness: so far I, Henry Vandergood, have only made pigs, and My pigs, I will say this with pride, have no less orders and medals than Field Marshal Moltke, but now I want to make people...
Magnus grinned.
– You are an alchemist from the Gospel, Vandergood: you take lead and want to turn it into gold!
– Yes, I want to make gold and look for the philosopher’s stone. But hasn't it already been found? It has been found, but you don’t know how to use it: this is love. Ah, Magnus, I still don’t know what I will do, but My plans are broad and... majestic, I would say, if not for that misanthropic smile of yours. Believe in man, Magnus, and help Me! You know what a person needs.
He repeated coldly and gloomily:
“He needs prisons and a scaffold.”
I exclaimed in indignation (I am especially good at indignation):
– You are slandering yourself, Magnus! I see that you have experienced some serious grief, perhaps betrayal and...
- Stop, Vandergood! I myself never talk about myself and I don’t like others to talk about me either. Suffice it to say that in four years you are the first to disturb my solitude, and then... thanks to an accident. I don't like people.
- ABOUT! Sorry, but I don't believe it.
Magnus walked up to the bookshelf and, with an expression of contempt and as if disgust, took into his white hand the first volume he came across.
– Do you, who have not read books, know what these books are about? Only about evil, mistakes and suffering of humanity. These are tears and blood, Vandergood! Look: in this thin book, which I hold with two fingers, there is a whole ocean of red human blood, and if you take them all... And who shed this blood? Devil?
I felt flattered and wanted to bow, but he threw the book and angrily shouted:
- No, sir: a man! A man spilled it! Yes, I read these books, but only for one thing: to learn to hate and despise a person. You turned your pigs into gold, right? And I can already see how this gold turns into pigs again: they will eat you up, Vandergood. But I don’t want to... burst or lie: throw your money into the sea, or... build prisons and a scaffold. Are you ambitious, like all lovers of humanity? Then build a scaffold. Serious people will respect you, and the herd will call you great. Or do you, an American from Illinois, not want to go to the Pantheon?
– But, Magnus!..
- Blood! Can't you see there's blood everywhere? Here it is already on your boot...
I confess that at these words of the madman that Magnus seemed to me at that moment, I jerked my foot in fear, on which only now I noticed a dark reddish spot... such an abomination!
Magnus smiled and, immediately gaining control of himself, continued coldly and almost indifferently:
“Did I unwittingly frighten you, Mr. Vandergood?” No big deal, you probably stepped on... something. This is nothing. But this conversation, which I haven’t had for many years, worries me too much and... Good night, Mr. Vandergood. Tomorrow I will have the honor of introducing you to my daughter, but now allow me...
Leonid Andreev
Satan's Diary
On board the Atlantic
Today is exactly ten days since I became human and am leading earthly life.
My loneliness is very great. I don't need friends, but I need to talk about myself, and I have no one to talk to. Thoughts alone are not enough, and they are not quite clear, distinct and precise, until I express them in words: they must be lined up like soldiers or telegraph poles, stretched like a railway track, bridges and viaducts thrown over, embankments and curves built, at known stopping places - and only then everything becomes clear. They call this backbreaking engineering path logic and consistency, it seems, and is obligatory for those who want to be smart; for everyone else it is optional, and they can wander as they please.
The work is slow, difficult and disgusting for someone who is accustomed to grasping everything with one breath and expressing everything with one breath. And it is not for nothing that they respect their thinkers so much, and these unfortunate thinkers, if they are honest and do not cheat during construction, like ordinary engineers, it is not for nothing that they end up in a madhouse. I have only been on earth for a few days, and more than once its yellow walls and welcomingly open door flashed before Me.
Yes, it is extremely difficult and irritates the “nerves” (also a good thing!). Right now, in order to express a small and ordinary thought about the insufficiency of their words and logic, I was forced to ruin so much beautiful steamship paper... but what is needed to express the big and extraordinary? I’ll say in advance - so that you don’t open your curious mouth too much, my earthly reader! - that the extraordinary is inexpressible in the language of your grumbling. If you don’t believe Me, go to the nearest madhouse and listen to them: they all knew something and wanted to express it... and you hear how these fallen locomotives hiss and spin their wheels in the air, you notice with what difficulty they are held in place the scattering features of their amazed and amazed faces?
I see how even now you are ready to bombard Me with questions, having learned that I am Satan incarnate: it’s so interesting! Where am I from? What are the rules in our hell? Does immortality exist, and what are the prices for coal on the last hellish exchange? Unfortunately, my dear reader, with all my desire, even if such a thing existed in Me, I am not able to satisfy your legitimate curiosity. I could make up for you one of those funny stories about horned and hairy devils that are so dear to your meager imagination, but you already have enough of them, and I don’t want to lie to you so rudely and so flatly. I'll lie to you somewhere else where you don't expect anything, and it will be more interesting for both of us.
But how can I tell the truth, if even my Name is inexpressible in your language? You called me Satan, and I accept this nickname, as I would accept any other: let me be Satan. But my true name sounds completely different, completely different! It sounds extraordinary, and I just can’t squeeze it into your narrow ear without tearing it apart along with your brains: let me be Satan, and nothing more.
And you yourself are to blame for this, my friend: why are there so few concepts in your mind? Your mind is like a beggar's bag, in which there are only pieces of stale bread, but here you need more than bread. You have only two concepts of existence: life and death - how can I explain the third to you? Your whole existence is nonsense only because you do not have this third, and where will I get it? Now I am a man, like you, your brains are in my head, your cubic words are lumpy and prickly in the corners of my mouth, and I cannot tell you about the Extraordinary.
If I say that there are no devils, I will deceive you. But if I say that they exist, I will also deceive you... You see how difficult it is, what nonsense it is, my friend! But even about my incarnation, from which my earthly life began ten days ago, I can tell you very little that is understandable. First of all, forget about your favorite hairy, horned and winged devils who breathe fire, turn clay fragments into gold, and elders into seductive youths and, having done all this and chatted a lot of trifles, instantly fall through the stage - and remember: when we If we want to come to your land, we must become human. Why this is so, you will find out after death, but for now remember: I am a human now, just like you, I smell not of a stinking goat, but of good perfume, and you can calmly shake my hand, without being at all afraid of being scratched by your claws: I am so I cut my hair just like you.
But how did this happen? Very simple. When I wanted to come to earth, I found one suitable thirty-eight-year-old American, Mr. Henry Vandergood, a billionaire, and killed him... of course, at night and without witnesses. But you still cannot bring Me to justice, despite My consciousness, since the American is alive, and we both greet you in one respectful bow: I and Vandergood. He just rented out an empty room to me, you understand - and even then not all of it, damn him! And I can return back, unfortunately, only through the door that leads you to freedom: through death.
That's the main thing. But in the future, you too can understand something, although talking about such things in your own words is the same as trying to put a mountain in a vest pocket or scoop up Niagara with a thimble! Imagine that you, my dear king of nature, wished to become closer to the ants and, by the power of a miracle or magic, became an ant, a real tiny ant carrying eggs - and then you will feel a little of the abyss that separates the former Me from the present... no, even worse ! You were a sound, but you became a musical symbol on paper... No, it’s even worse, even worse, and no comparisons will tell you about that terrible abyss, the bottom of which I myself still don’t see. Or does it have no bottom at all?
Think about it: I suffered from seasickness for two days after leaving New York! Is this funny for you, who are used to wallowing in your own sewage? Well, and I - I was lying around too, but it wasn’t funny at all. I smiled only once when I thought that it was not me, but Vandergood, and said:
- Rock it, Vandergood, rock it!
...There is one more question to which you are waiting for an answer: why did I come to earth and decide on such an unfavorable exchange - from Satan, “almighty, immortal, ruler and ruler,” turned into... you? I'm tired of looking for words that don't exist, and I'll answer you in English, French, Italian and German, in languages that you and I both understand well: I got bored... in hell, and I came to earth to lie and play .
You know what boredom is. You know well what a lie is, and you can somewhat judge the game by your theaters and famous actors. Maybe you yourself play some little thing in parliament, at home or in church? - then you will understand something about the feeling of enjoying the game. If, in addition, you know the multiplication table, then multiply this delight and pleasure of the game by any multi-digit number, and then you get my pleasure, my game. No, even more! Imagine that you are an ocean wave that always plays and lives only in the game - this one that I now see behind the glass and that wants to lift our Atlantic... However, I am again looking for words and comparisons!
I just want to play. At the moment I am still an unknown artist, a modest debutant, but I hope to become no less famous than your Garrick or Alridge - when I play what I want. I am proud, proud and even, perhaps, vain... you know what vanity is when you want praise and applause even from a fool? Further, I boldly think that I am a genius - Satan is known for his insolence - and imagine that I am tired of hell, where all these hairy and horned swindlers play and lie almost no worse than I do, and that the laurels of hell are not enough for me, in which I shrewdly discern a lot of low flattery and simple stupidity. About you, my earthly friend, I heard that you are smart, quite honest, moderately distrustful, sensitive to questions of eternal art, and that you play so badly and lie yourself that you are capable of highly
"The Diary of Satan" is a very naive novel, in my opinion. Doesn't mean bad, but naive. You know, it’s like when you were 13, everyone wrote at least one poem. And the same ideas come to people’s minds at a certain age and historical period. It’s the same with the Diary - there is nothing more logical and natural than the fact that it was in the 20s in Russia that Andreev decided to write a diary of Satan incarnated in human form. It's cute, but... very naive, or something. Revolution, the debunking of Orthodoxy and religion in general on the one hand (try writing this in the 19th century under autocracy-Orthodoxy-nationality), and at the same time general eschatological sentiments due to the horror happening around. Andreev’s poor Satan turns out to be a pathetic weak loser compared to the first people he came across, who cruelly defrauded him. Oh, where is this world heading if Satan himself cannot outdo them! And so on. Nowadays they won’t write something like that anymore. And in general, the novel, despite its obvious artistic merits, gives the impression that it was written by a very young person. About fifteen years old (despite the fact that Andreev was actually nearing fifty). And this is not a criticism, but a statement of fact; the text is pathetic not in content, but in essence, in its very idea. Moreover, alas, this is never Bulgakov’s level, and Andreev’s Satan is more likely to match Turgenev’s gentle, tremulous young men, who dream of “being mired in the abyss of vice,” but are speechless when they see the modest daughter of their neighbors in a white dress. It's cute, but disappointing because it doesn't live up to expectations at all.
Rating: 4
The last book Leonida Andreeva makes a strong and creepy impression. But psychologically she is somewhat weaker than early stories. Satan, who decided to walk in the skin of a person, looks too simple-minded and helpless. Perhaps this is not actually Satan, but rather a middle-ranking devil, like Lewis’s Screwtape.
The book is deeply depressing, with a touch of misanthropy. This is not surprising if we remember state of mind Andreev in the last year of his life. The democratic intelligentsia called for the revolution, rushed it, helped as much as possible, and when it started, they were horrified. I had to admit the collapse of my ideals and either take up arms or fall into black melancholy. Due to his age and character, Andreev had only melancholy left. It was in this situation that Satan's Diary was born.
The most striking thing in the “Diary” is not the reasoning about human nature, but the process of humanizing the devil who found himself in Vandergood’s body. The process turned out to be extremely interesting. But the people surrounding Vandergood didn’t turn out very well. Well, really, who can get attached to a visiting eccentric oligarch? The one who wants to charm him (stupidly or cleverly), lure him out more money, and then, of course, throw it. That is, the little people are worse than the very last oligarch. It is surprising that in such an environment the process of humanization of the devil did not reverse.
Of all human characters the unbelieving cardinal and Thomas Magnus stand out. Moreover, the cardinal is even more interesting than Thomas. The author saw Thomas as something of a superman-super-revolutionary, the earthly counterpart of Satan. Doesn't work. And in general, revolutionaries of all nations either did their work at home, or hung out in Switzerland and held discussions there on minor issues. Foma is clearly not from their company. Enough ordinary person who managed to give himself false importance and deceive the devil. And he himself didn’t even understand what he had done. The devil's gold has never benefited anyone.
Rating: 9
In Mikhail Bulgakov's great novel The Master and Margarita, the devil named Woland utters the following phrase: “They are people like people. They love money, but that’s always been the case... [...] Well, they’re frivolous... [...] ordinary people... in general, they resemble the previous ones.”
With Andreev it’s completely the opposite. People still love money, but they no longer resemble the old ones. And they are clearly not frivolous.
Rather, it is Satan who is the most gullible and has become the victim of the most daring scam in history. fictional story humanity. And also the prince of lies! It's time to take lessons from our crook.
“The Diary of Satan” can easily be called a dystopia. Andreev paints a society that has already begun to turn into hell. Absolutely everyone is mired in sin: not only thieves and murderers, but also priests of all stripes - and the author paints the latter with even darker colors. Although... Can black have a degree of comparison?
The very idea of the devil coming to Earth during the final battle between good and evil is not new. But Andreev’s Apocalysis is scary primarily because it suggests that we should be afraid not of devils with pitchforks, but of the evil hidden inside each of us.
Will we be able to win? Andreev gives a not-so-comforting answer. And the narrative, interrupted at the climactic monologue, plunges the reader into the abyss of complete hopelessness.
Probably, if Leonid Nikolaevich had finished the book, he would not have been able to achieve such an effect.
However, in “Satan’s Diary”, if desired, you can find a light motive. If even the devil himself on Earth began to serve good in some way, perhaps we can learn this too?
Rating: 9
In world literature, the same technique has been repeatedly played out - the coming of Satan to Earth.
Leonid Andreev found new, quite original ones for his novel plot twists. The devil incarnates in the American billionaire Henry Vandergood, with the goal of bestowing charity on people, deceiving people with false noble actions, slogans and promises. Along with Satan, his henchman appears - the devil from hell, who has taken the guise of Toppy's servant.
Already the first days of his stay on Earth stunned Satan. People have changed, they have become angrier, more cunning, more insidious. God's commandments are trampled and forgotten. People hate each other, don’t believe in anything, and are ready to destroy each other through violence, wars, and revolutions. Hypocrisy, love of money, deception and debauchery reign on Earth. Capitalists are fanning the flames of war, terrorists are filling the streets with blood... Satan is failing, his naive plans fooling humanity is baby talk compared to reality!
Andreev was especially successful in the scenes with the Pope, who only thirsts for power and money by any means necessary. Even the hellish servant Toppy is mistaken by the churchmen for a saint.
The writer turned out to be especially sinister in the image of the real “Devil” - Thomas Magnus, dressed in the toga of a “fighter for the bright future of humanity,” but really ready to “blow it up” and fill it with blood. Thomas hates people and does not trust people. He easily deceives Vandergood, appropriating his capital, leaving the entrepreneur virtually beggarly.
At first, Maria, a girl of extraordinary beauty and meekness, presented as the daughter of Magnus, seems to be a “ray of light” to Satan. He even considers her the embodiment of Madonna. But she also turns out to be only Magnus’s mistress, devoid of feelings and thoughts, the embodiment of lust and debauchery, who entered into sexual intercourse in her youth...
The novel is bitter to read; it is permeated with disbelief in Man. And further. Having found an original plot device, the writer cannot develop it. The plot gets bogged down in unnecessary conversations between characters and endless repetitions. Still, Andreev’s destiny is stories and short stories.
The writer never managed to finish the novel.
Rating: 8
Satan came to Earth...
It would seem that Woland’s retinue had a joyful ride around Moscow two decades later, and in Merezhkovsky’s case, even earlier, the Antichrist dominated humanity with his stern face. But the gloomy romantic Leonid Andreev brought to the face of his world, the world of a dying man, another Satan. We will never know what he really is like - after all, he had to become human in order to feel all the nuances of created existence, and thus reflect in the distorting mirror of Man as such - a being who fallen Angel so despises...
But even in his contempt, he believes in the Crown of Creation, believes in the commandments and the initially bright nature of man. That is why he comes into this world as a romantic, a kind of good-natured playmaker who sincerely loves people. He embodies nobility and sincere, bright and pure love, love for the beautiful spiritual essence of Man, his path to perfection and virtue, his humility and deep holiness.
Some literary scholars say that Andreev’s Satan is Nietzsche’s Ubermensch, “superman.” But it seems to me that he is more likely an “Aussermensch”, “extra-man”, some kind of idealistic idea of him, and, yes, in this the author closes with the classical German philosophy. Satan is a being outside of Humanity, or rather, he is an extra-cultural, supra-cultural entity, he came here to learn. He is individualistic to the extreme, insanely lonely and uncontrollably romantic. No bonds connect Humanized Evil, which is no longer Evil, with this created and cruel world. Satan is an idealist, the last romantic, trying to boldly look for the initially good and bright beginning in people, which would prevail when the foundations of this slightly grotesque world are destroyed. Satan, in isolation from everything, embodies the ideal of Man.
“Ubermensch” is Thomas Magnus, who rejected the principles and seams of the social system, wishing to become the King in the new, earthly hell, a cruel and intelligent conqueror of the world... But all his aspirations are dashed by his mundaneness, the lack of flight of fancy and the petty nature of the evil he does. He, like his own namesake - the Apostle Thomas - questioned the idea of Man, and stood above it, rejected it. But he did not become something higher; from under the crushed Idea only a monkey crawled out, an evil, bald and tailless monkey, which is the essence of Man without a holy ideal. And Maria... what is Maria? It carries an image, but not the essence. She is an interweaving of two principles, the beginning of holiness, or rather, the image of holiness, and self-exposing Evil, vice and vile, as if stolen, sweet-putrid passions.
So a new anti-hero, the opposite of a hero, came into the world. Gone are the rushing Pechorin, the vile Luzhin, the barren flowers Helen and Anatole Kurakin, the talkative and simple-minded Famusov. Now in the new literary space, after the confused swindler Magnus came the cheerful Julio Jurenito, the big trickster Nevzorov with Ibicus under his arm, the confused “thief” created by the imagination of Alexei Leonov, great schemer Ostap-Suleiman-Bertha-Maria Bender and - like an apotheosis - Woland's retinue, who gloriously walked in the vastness of this world and looped it into itself. It's a world of crooks building new world on completely different principles, where there is no place for the Idea of Man.
Thus, the dying Leonid Andreev anticipated the entire era that followed the Revolution. Indeed, a different era was going on, but this was not at all the Man that the Enlightenmentists and encyclopedists, Marxists and Narodniks dreamed of, not the one who was looking for American dream and Christian preachers.
P.S. But in the gloomy world of Leonid Andreev there is something that still carries a piece of the Ideal, something that brings peace to the soul of Satan, who has become too human. This is Art that bears the imprint of genius, not vulgarized or mutilated by the mass of ape-like “humanity”. After all, indeed, there is something right in the fact that people cherish art and keep it in peace and quiet, so that it can be on its own, and an imperfect person feels timid next to it...
As always, I don’t quite agree with Leonid Andreev’s feeling... But I bow my head to him, with all due respect...
Rating: 8
The devil became human to play a prank theater play on sinful earth. He wants to act. Put on a body, he has already become a little human, but for now he is indifferent. He plays the role of a benefactor of humanity before the first person he met on His path - Thomas Magnus, a cruel but intelligent man, a murderer who settled in a secluded house in Campania with his daughter Maria. Magnus sees in the eyes of the American billionaire and philanthropist, whose body was occupied by the Devil, an unearthly indifference, and contrasts this indifferent, feigned love for Man with burning and heavy hatred. First it turns out that he is playing, a little later - that he is only playing partially.
The world will begin to rapidly change the Devil; the incarnation will go further than He expected. It's all about Mary, who painfully resembles another who lived two thousand years before. And the Devil will fall in love. My God, how good Andreev is! How beautifully, masterfully, he showed through the diary of this unlucky Devil how he changes and at some point finds himself between two blank walls. On one side is the world of man, to which He is still far away, on the other is eternity, from where he came - with its essences inexpressible in earthly languages, which will have to be forgotten for the sake of... Mary. For now, the Devil has the opportunity to return back, maintaining his pride, remaining indifferent - to shoot Mr. Vandergood, whose body he occupied, in the temple; return, taking with them a slight contempt for people, worms crawling away from death, creating cults in the hope of finding consolation in a life that ends and, thus, contemplating ratio, choosing instead a miracle - the miracle of a monarch given by God, instead of the “low” parliament, the miracle of creation instead of reasonable arguments; people who, due to the dullness of their bulk, turn even the purest undertakings of the Great into farce and dirt. The devil will be blind. Precisely because at first He placed man so low, man will deceive and humiliate him - defenseless, completely humanized, “descended” to his secretary named Toppy, a petty devil who, out of love for church rituals, almost immediately forgot where he came from. And even the greedy cardinal, who looks like an old monkey, will laugh, jokingly saying “Vade retro, Satane.”
I always really liked monologues about “trembling creatures” and everything like that (in this case, the heroes “have the right”); however, I never projected the postulates of such reflections of book characters onto the realities of life. If you project it, it will turn out scary. And, in my opinion, it is wrong. Let food for thought remain as such. Andreev is right, but he is right within the framework of his view of humanity - the disappointed look of a tired man with death on his heels. Within the framework of his “world picture”, I accept his conclusions, written out so beautifully and logically. But nothing more.
Rating: 8
One of the most wonderful features of Leonid Andreev’s works, in my opinion, is the almost complete impossibility of drawing a line between the real and the surreal, the fantastic, the transcendental. It is not so important whether it is Satan, or the distraught Vandergood, imagining himself as Satan. Within the framework of the phantasmogorical delirium taking place before the eyes of the unfortunate Satan, in the Apocalypse, which successfully began without the participation of otherworldly forces, when a simple person succeeds in the role of the prince of darkness better than Satan - Satan is not needed.
