Requiem

texts Requiem Leonid Andreyev Translated by Daniel Gerould It all takes place in the void. The replica of a small theatre. The left side of the stage is occupied by a raised platform, or small stage, on which the actors perform-a wide scaffolding, divided in the very middle by a wall of theatre flats. The left side represents the inner sanctum of the small theatre, its backstage; on the right, the stage action is carried out. Both of these parts are equally well visible, but on the left side the lighting is sparse and shadows prevail, and the movements are dim-the right side, on the contrary, is illuminated by the bright glare of the footlights, it lends itself to loud speech, measured and precise movements. But here's the whole trouble! There are no spectators in the small theatre. Puppets take their place, flat wooden figures, cut out of thin planks by a carpenter and painted by a painter. In two flat rows, sitting on imaginary chairs, they surround the small stage in a semicircle, they watch relentlessly with painted eyes, they do not move, they do not breathe, they keep totally quiet. The glare from the footlights is reflected on their dead rouged faces, it gives them an illusion of life; wavering, it appears to make them 113 waver. Striking against the flat figures, the sounds of loud speech likewise come back to the small stage-it seems that the puppets are talking, laughing, even crying. The Manager and the actors call them the spectators. PLAY The night before the first performance. Dark and desolate. The small stage is shrouded in gloom, and only a faint light from a few lamps illumines the space between the small stage and the spectators, dimly outlining their painted faces, their immobilely wooden figures. Two people are quietly carrying on a conversation: the Director and the Artist. The Artist is restless, a bit too effusive, somewhat overactive. The Director is taciturn and somber. ARTIST: Forgive me, my dear colleague, for breaking in on you like this at night. It's so desolate here, that's true. But you, my dear colleague, are a director and involved in art yourself, you'll understand my excitement, as an artist. I'd like to take another look at those amazing figures, created by my brush. Couldn't they, my dear colleague, be more brightly lighted? DIRECTOR: Out of the question. ARTIST: But why not? It seems to me that that one over there, the third from the end, is not quite finished. Two or three quick touches. Oh, you don't know what just a single stroke means, when it has inspiration to back it up! DIRECTOR: Out of the question. ARTIST: I'd just like to touch up the cheek. It seems to me that it's not sufficiently bright or rounded. He's actually a heavy-set man, you understand, my dear colleague! DIRECTOR: Out of the question. I am waiting for the Theatre Manager and His Highness. ARTIST: (Bows respectfully.) Ah-ha, and His Highness! Then that's another story, and I say no more. I say no more, my dear colleague. I am quite sure that His Highness, more than anyone else, will appreciate my labors. They told me we don't need live spectators in the theatre, we're afraid of the noise and the rowdiness that the crowd always brings with it. Isn't that what I was told? DIRECTOR: Yes, that's what you were told. ARTIST: But, they added, we don't like to be in the theatre all alone, amidst empty seats and dark empty boxes. Design spectators for us, but draw them so that they totally resemble live ones, so that the good actors, who, regrettably are overly fond of the crowd, won't notice the substitution and will boast triumphantly about the full house for the benefit performance . Isn't that right, my dear colleague? DIRECTOR: Yes, that.'s right. ARTIST: A brilliant caprice! A brilliant whim! Only in a head circled by a crown could such a fascinating bit of madness be born! The theatre full-and no one there! No one...