Winter life in a Finnish village is mean, uncomfortable, and dead. Snow and stillness—even the wolves do not howl. A Finnish village is not for dukes.
Anyway this magnificent life seemed at times theatrical. Behind the coulisses there seemed to be hiding something else.
"You think that's granite?" said a drunken writer to me once, standing in front of the façade of Andreyev's house. "It's not granite, but cardboard. Blow on it and it will tumble down."
But however hard the writer blew, it did not collapse; yet there was truth in his drunken words; in actuality there was something theatrical and decorative in everything that surrounded or reflected Andreyev. The whole interior of his house had this character, and the house itself—in the Norwegian style, with a tower—looked like the creation of a talented scenic artist. Andreyev's costumes suited him as they suit an operatic tenor—costumes of a sportsman, artist, sailor.
He wore them as costumes are worn on the stage.
I don't know why, but every time I left him I experienced a feeling, not of exaltation, but of depression. It seemed to me that someone had offended him. Why was he struggling in the Gulf of Finland when he was great enough to wade through the ocean? How could such an exceptional soul be wasted on gramophones? Yesterday he spent the whole night talking about war; for eight hours he paced up and down the room declaiming a wonderful monologue on Zeppelins, landings, bloody Austrian fields. Why doesn't he go there himself? Why does he stick in the desert, seeing nothing, knowing nothing, and unburdening himself only to a passing friend? If he could only use the energy which he spends in his nightly pacing up and down his room—or even half of it—for other purposes, he would be a remarkable traveller; he would wander round the whole world, eclipsing Livingstone and Stanley. His brain thirsted for uninterrupted work—it was a ceaseless mill which ever needed more and more corn. But there was hardly any corn to be had—no living impressions—and the great millstones continued with demoniacal energy to grind not corn, but dust.
And where was he to get corn from? He lived in Finland as in a desert. You travelled to distant countries, flew in aeroplanes, took part in battles, and returned to find with astonishment that Andreyev was still walking up and down his room, and continuing
