"Woe from Wit" at the Moscow Theater

At the end of last year, the famous comedy of the late A. S. Griboyedov was staged at the Moscow Theater: Woe from Wit, and despite the fact that the actors played poorly and not one of them, not even excluding Mr. Shchepkin, understood his role; despite the fact that the comedy has long been familiar to most of the audience, for there is no district in European Russia, no army regiment, where it is not known by heart; despite the fact that it does not have any dramatic or theatrical merits, and is better in simple reading than on stage; despite the fact that the Moscow public saw in her their own caricature, the theater was almost full during three or four times of her performance. Does this prove the impartiality of the Moscow public? Or is our mockery stronger than our pride? Or perhaps we looked at the scene with the same kind simplicity with which the famous monkey, looking in the mirror, said to the bear: Look, Mishenka: what kind of face is that there? True, the originals of the portraits that Griboyedov drew no longer constitute the majority of Moscow society, and although they were created and raised by Moscow, Moscow itself looks at them as a rarity, as curious ruins of another world. But the main character of Moscow society has not changed at all. Famusov's philosophy still turns our heads 1; We are now, just as in his time, fussing and fussing about nothing; we bow and humiliate ourselves disinterestedly and only for the pleasure of bowing; we lead a life without purpose, without meaning; we converge with people without participation, we separate without regret; We are looking for momentary pleasures, but we do not know how to enjoy. And now, just like under Famusov, our houses are equally open to everyone: to the invited and the uninvited, to the honest and to the scoundrels. Our connections are not formed by similarity of opinions, not by conformity of characters, not by the same goal in life, and not even by similarity of moral rules; We are completely indifferent to all this. Chance brings us together, chance separates us, and brings us together again, without any consequences, without any meaning. This emptiness of life, this indifference to everything moral, this absence of any opinion and at the same time the fear of gossip, these insignificant relationships that exhaust a person over trifles and make him incapable of everything harmoniously practical, of everything sublime and worthy of work: to live - all this gives Moscow society a completely special character, constituting the middle ground between district nepotism and bad taste, and metropolitan search and luxury. Of course, there are exceptions, and perhaps there are more of them than those passing by can notice: there are happily selected societies, carefully protecting themselves from their surrounding confusion and stuffy insignificance; There are people who, in the circle of quiet family relationships, in the midst of disinterested civic duties, develop sublime feelings along with firm and noble rules; there are people who have comprehended the possibility of a high goal in the midst of universal emptiness and flatness; people who know how to create enlightened pleasures for themselves and enjoy luxury with sophistication and taste; but these people, these societies are far from making up the majority; and if they wanted to take on Chatsky’s useless and youthfully strange frankness, then, just like him, they would be the scarecrow of meetings, an intolerable, indecent and crazy creature. However, even the exceptions, who are in constant struggle with the majority, cannot be completely protected from its contagiousness, and involuntarily, more or less, share its shortcomings. So there is almost no house in Moscow that would not somehow reveal to an enlightened foreigner our lack of education, and if not in the living room, not in the office, then at least in the hallway he will find some kind of disagreement with European life and agreement with Moscow life. Naturally, this also has an impact on the owner himself; and therefore it is absolutely fair that All Moscow ones have a special imprint. This is the main idea of ​​Griboyedov’s comedy, an idea expressed strongly, vividly and with the charm of astonishing truth. Every word remains indelibly in the memory; each portrait grows integrally with the face of the original; Each verse bears the mark of truth and boils with the fire of indignation, familiar to one talent. But there is another thought in the same comedy, which, in my opinion, if does not contradict the prevailing one, then at least proves that the author judged Moscow more as a witness, passionately excited, than as a judge, thinking indifferently, and able, even when condemning, to distinguish good from bad. Perhaps this does not harm the work of art, does not harm artistic truth; but it harms practical and moral truth. The idea I'm talking about is the author's indignation at our love for foreign things. True, this love often goes to the extreme and senseless; poorly directed, it often interferes with our own development; but abuse of a thing does not destroy its dignity. True, we are funny when we imitate foreigners, but only because we imitate awkwardly and not completely; that from under the European tailcoat the remnant of the Russian caftan peeks out, and that, having shaved our beard, we have not yet washed our faces. But the strangeness of our imitation will pass with greater spread of enlightenment; and enlightenment cannot spread among us otherwise than along with the spread of a foreign way of life, foreign dress, foreign customs, which bring us physically closer to Europe, and, therefore, contribute to our moral and enlightened rapprochement. For who does not know what influence the external structure of life has on the character of education in general? We have nothing to fear from losing our nationality: our religion, our historical memories, our geographical location, the whole complex of our way of life are so different from the rest of Europe that it is physically impossible for us to become either French, or English, or Germans. But until now our nationality was an uneducated, rude, Chinese-immobile nationality. Only foreign influence can enlighten it, elevate it, give it life and strength for development; and just as until now all our enlightenment has been borrowed from outside, so only from outside can we borrow it now, and until we reach the level of the rest of Europe. Where the common European coincides with our particularity, there will be born a truly Russian enlightenment, educated national, solid, living, deep and rich in beneficial consequences. This is why our love for foreign things can sometimes seem funny, but should never arouse indignation; for, more or less, mediocre or directly, it always leads to enlightenment and success, and in its very errors it is not so much harmful as useful. But love for foreign things should not be confused with partiality for foreigners; if the first is useful as a road to enlightenment, then the latter, without any doubt, is harmful and ridiculous, and worthy of serious opposition. For, not to mention the fact that out of ten foreigners who exchanged their fatherland for Russia, there is rarely one enlightened one, most of the so-called foreigners do not differ from us even in their place of birth; they were born in Russia, brought up in semi-Russian customs, educated also superficially, and differ from the indigenous residents only in their ignorance of the Russian language and the foreign endings of their surnames. This ignorance of the language naturally makes them strangers among the Russians, and forms a very special relationship between them and the indigenous inhabitants. These relationships, more or less common to all of them, create common interests between them, and therefore force them to converge with each other, help each other and, without agreement, act together. Thus, their very ignorance of the language serves as a password for them by which they recognize each other; and our lack of enlightenment forces us to confuse foreign things with foreigners, just as a child confuses a teacher with science, and in his mind does not know how to trace the concepts of learning from round glasses and awkward movements. Philosophize, your mind will spin: Eat for three hours, but in three days it won’t cook! You might be interested in: