Anathema A Tragedy in Seven Scenes 1

Anathema A Tragedy in Seven Scenes 1

Anathema A Tragedy in Seven Scenes

 

Author: Leonid Andreyev

 

 

PROLOGUE.

_The scene represents a wild, deserted place, the slope of a mountain

rising to infinite heights. In the rear of the stage, halfway up the

mountain, huge iron gates, tightly closed, indicate the boundary of

the world as we conceive it. Beyond the iron gates, which oppress the

earth with their enormous weight, in silence and in mystery, dwells the

Beginning of every being, the Supreme Wisdom of the universe._

 

_At the foot of the Gates stands Someone guarding the entrances,

leaning upon a long sword, perfectly motionless. Garbed in wide

clothes, which are like stone in the motionlessness of their folds and

creases, He hides His face beneath a dark cover, and is Himself the

greatest of mysteries. Standing on the boundary separating two worlds,

he is dual in his make-up;--in appearance a man, in reality a spirit.

An arbitrator between two worlds, He is like unto a huge shield, which

gathers all bolts,--all looks, all entreaties, all expectations,

reproaches, and curses. The bearer of two elements, He wraps his speech

in silence, which is like the silence of the iron gates, and sometimes

in human words._

 

_Amidst the rocks, looking around on all sides strangely and shyly,

appears Anathema, someone accursed. Clinging to the grey rocks,

himself grey, cautious and flexible, like a serpent seeking a hole,

he goes stealthily and quietly to the Guardian of the Entrances,

desiring to strike him with an unexpected blow. But he is frightened

by his own audacity and, jumping to his feet, laughs defiantly and

maliciously. Then he sits down on a rock, with an air of freedom and

independence, and throws small cobblestones at the feet of the Guardian

of the Entrances;--cunning, he conceals his fear beneath the mask of

raillery and slight audacity. In the faint, grey, almost colorless

light, the head of the accursed one seems enormous; especially large

is his high forehead, which is furrowed by wrinkles of fruitless

reflections and unsolvable eternal problems. Anathema's thin beard is

perfectly grey; his hair, once jet black, is also greyish, rising on

his head in disordered tufts. Restless in his movements, he is vainly

trying to conceal his alarm and his purposeless haste, which are

forever devouring him. Endeavoring to emulate the proud stillness of

the Guardian of the Entrances, he grows quiet for an instant in the

pose of proud majesty, but the very next moment, in painful quest after

the eternally elusive, he wriggles in mute spasms, like a worm under

foot. And in his questions he is rapid and impetuous like a whirlwind,

drawing strength and fury in his mad whirl...._

 

* * * * *

 

ANATHEMA.

 

You are still here on guard? And I thought you were away,--even a

chained dog has his moments of rest or sleep, even though the whole

world be his kennel and Eternity his master! Is Eternity afraid of

thieves? But do not be angry. I have come to you as a good friend and

I implore humbly: Open the heavy Gates for an instant and allow me to

have a glimpse of Eternity. You dare not? But perhaps the mighty gates

have cracked from age, and the unfortunate, honest Anathema could peep

into the narrow cleft, without disturbing any one,--show me it with a

sign. Softly, on my belly, will I crawl over, I will glance at it and

crawl back,--and He will not know. But I shall know and become a God,

become a God, a God! I have so long wanted to become a God--and would I

be a poor God? Look!

 

_He assumes a haughty pose, but immediately bursts into laughter. Then

he sits down calmly on a flat rock and, folding his legs under him,

takes out dice. He mutters something to himself, yet loud enough to be

heard by the Guardian of the Entrances._

 

If you don't want to you need not do it,--I shall not fight with you.

Have I come here for that purpose? I simply roamed about the world and

came here by mere accident--I have nothing to do, so I roam about. And

now I am going to throw dice. If He were not so serious, I would have

invited Him, too,--but He is too proud, too proud, and He does not

understand the pleasure of the game. Six, eight, twenty--correct! It's

always correct when the Devil plays, even when he plays honestly....

David Leizer ... David Leizer ...

 

_Turning to the Guardian of the Entrances, he

speaks freely._

 

Do you know David Leizer? You surely do not know him. He is a sick and

foolish old Jew, whom no one knows, and even your Master has forgotten

about him. So says David Leizer, and I cannot help believing him--he is

a foolish, but honest man. He is the man I have won just now with my

dice--you saw it: six, eight, twenty.... One day I met David Leizer by

the seashore, when he was questioning what the waves were complaining

of; and I liked him. He is a foolish, but honest man, and if he should

be well tarred and lighted, he would make a brilliant torch for my

feast.

 

_Chatting with feigned ease, he steps over softly

to the rock nearest the Guardian._

 

No one knows David Leizer, but I shall make him famous, I shall make

him mighty and great--it is very possible that I shall even make him

immortal! You do not believe me? No one believes the wise Anathema,

even when he speaks the truth--and who loves the truth more than

Anathema does? Perhaps you? You silent dog, you who have stolen the

truth from the world, you who have barred the entrances with iron!...

 

_He rushes furiously toward the Guardian of the

Entrances, but retreats from the stern, motionless

Guardian, with a shriek of horror and pain. And he

speaks plaintively, falling with his grey chest

upon the grey rock._

 

Oh, the Devil's hair is grey! Weep, you who have grown fond of

Anathema! Wail and grieve, you who are striving toward Truth, who are

honoring wisdom--Anathema's hair is grey! Who will help the son of

Dawn? He is alone in the universe. Wherefore, O Great One, have you

frightened the fearless Anathema--he did not intend to strike you, he

only wanted to approach you. May I come over to you? Tell me.

 

_The Guardian of the Entrances is silent, but to

Anathema it seems that he hears something in the

silence. Outstretching his serpentine neck, he

shouts passionately_.

 

Louder! Louder! Are you silent, or did you speak? I do not understand.

The accursed one has a sensitive ear and discerns the shades of certain

words in your silence; he feels a vague movement of thoughts in your

motionlessness,--but he does not understand. Did you speak or are you

silent? Did you say: "Come," or did it only sound so to me?

 

THE GUARDIAN.

 

Come.

 

ANATHEMA.

 

You said it, but I dare not come up to you.

 

GUARDIAN.

 

Come.

 

ANATHEMA.

 

I am afraid.

 

_He advances toward the Guardian irresolutely,

in zigzag movements; lies down on his belly and

crawls, wailing with longing and fear._

 

Oh, I the prince of darkness, wise and powerful, and yet you see--I am

crawling on my belly like a dog. And I am doing it because I love you,

I want to kiss the hem of your cloak. But why does my old heart ache

so much? Tell me, Omniscient.

 

GUARDIAN.

 

The accursed one has no heart.

 

ANATHEMA.

 

_Advancing._

 

Yes, yes. The accursed has no heart, his chest is mute and motionless

like the grey rock which does not breathe. Oh, if Anathema had a heart,

you would have destroyed him long ago by his sufferings, even as you

destroy the foolish man. But Anathema has a mind that is searching for

the Truth, unprotected against your blows--spare it.... Here I am at

your feet, reveal your face to me. Only for an instant, as brief as the

flash of lightning,--reveal your face to me.

 

_He cringes servilely at the feet of the Guardian, not daring, however,

to touch his cloak. He is vainly endeavoring to lower his eyes, which

are quick and searching, sharp, flashing like coals beneath grey

ashes. The Guardian is silent and Anathema continues his fruitless and

persistent entreaties._

 

Do you not want to do it? Then call the name of Him who is beyond the

Gates. Call it in a soft voice, and no one will hear it; only I will

know it, the wise Anathema, longing for Truth. Is it not true that

it consists of seven letters? Or of six? Or of one? Tell me. Only one

letter--and you will save the accursed one from eternal tortures, and

the earth, which I am tearing with my nails, will bless you. You may

say it softly, softly, you may only breathe it, and I shall understand

it, and I shall bless you.... Tell me.

 

_The Guardian is silent, and Anathema, after some

hesitation, full of fury, crawls away slowly, growing holder with every step._