A Walk with 'Woe from Wit'

Upon finishing Griboyedov’s Woe from Wit, I was left with a coarse, lingering aftertaste—the kind one experiences after eating a candy that is simultaneously overwhelmingly sour and intensely sweet. I wasn’t left with a specific question; rather, I felt the distinct, palpable absence of one. I didn’t know what it was, but for days, it completely hijacked my cognitive faculties. I scoured several essays on the play, pondering the explored themes, but in none could I find the answer to what I was looking for, to that enigmatic question whose unknown origin relentlessly dogged my heels.

I had already begun to doubt whether this paradox of reading the play even existed. Several days slipped by in this state, entirely obliterating my productivity, my capacity for action, and my ability to think rationally. The day of the deadline arrived, and, utterly exhausted, I set off for School. I had exactly one sentence typed out, along with the single quote I knew I was going to use. The chances of this essay ever being willed into existence were plummeting rapidly. I walked through the center of October St. Petersburg, the sun just beginning to trace its silhouette behind the walls of the Peter and Paul Fortress. Step for step with the dawn, I passed all the most renowned landmarks of the city, tossing thoughts out of my head one by one. I finally came to a halt before the statue of Peter the Great, gazing grandly out over the surface of the Neva and the Twelve Collegia. Sitting down on the grass, I opened Woe from Wit one last time in the desperate hope of finding a glued-together page or a lost dialogue. It was one of those deeply irrational actions a person commits in a state of despair; you can hardly call it a “final attempt,” as it is merely the repetition of previous actions with the expectation that the outcome will somehow change. That was the state of utter helplessness I was in. But as my eyes skimmed over the dialogue with Repetilov, I suddenly began to realize what was wrong. I frantically flipped to the exchange between Famusov and Chatsky, began to read deeply yet rapidly, jumped to my feet, and ran.

If you examine the reactions to Chatsky’s actions, they closely resemble the response to a three-year-old child demanding something physically impossible in that exact moment—something incomprehensible and unattainable. Such declarations are usually met either by turning the demand into a game or by offering zero reaction whatsoever, and this is exactly what we observe in the play. A prime example is the conversation between Chatsky and Famusov in Act II, Scene II. Chatsky defends his perspective on the state of affairs in Russia and the world, a view that radically conflicts with Famusov’s worldview. This erupts into a furious argument where Famusov threatens to haul Chatsky off to court, plugs his ears, and showcases extreme opposition—a conflict hovering a millimeter away from overtly disastrous consequences for both sides. Yet, the moment a servant calls out to announce Skalozub’s arrival, Famusov forgets everything entirely. His demeanor shifts more radically than a mountain river in spring; he transitions instantly from screaming about the scaffold to delivering gentle lectures, and the conflict is never raised again for the remainder of the play. Naturally, in this highly emotional debate, Famusov cannot be painted as the responsible parent teaching a child the harsh realities of the world. And yet, it is difficult to reconcile this explosive Famusov with the man who delivers the line about the negative influence of books. But I think viewing him merely as an ignorant reactionary is a misunderstanding.

And there is little use in reading: She cannot sleep from all these French books, And the Russian ones make me sick to my stomach.

Struck by this thought, I tripped and sprawled out on the pavement. Lifting my head and looking to the right, I saw the windows of A.S. Pushkin’s residence smiling pleasantly in the dawn light from the other side of the Fontanka embankment. Lost in the contemplation of this coincidence, I completely forgot about the massive scrape the fall had just gifted me. Calming my pace, I returned to my previous thought about Famusov. To Famusov, “French books” sound like an objectively enduring excuse for Sophia’s lack of sleep, or a cover for whatever other adventures her attachment to Molchalin has dragged her into. As for the Russian literature of that era, I can say from personal experience that managing not to fall asleep while reading it is quite the feat. Our understanding of the same concept simply doesn’t align with his, which results in viewing Famusov as an old stump—or, as Josef Švejk might have eloquently put it, a “quarter-fart.” But he isn’t that; he is simply a trusting and loving father. It seems to me that he is the only character who actually fits into this world, because, to him, happiness and stability are far more important than honor, saving the world, or any other noble goals—a prioritization that is actually in exceedingly high demand in the 21st century. Throughout the play, Chatsky’s propositions go unconsidered; he speaks into the void. For the entire play, he asks one simple question and receives an answer in a syllable entirely unsuited to him. But the question arises: why is this? Why is it so hard to find an answer to a life question in this play? Tipping my head back to the sky, trying to spot that desperately needed answer, I nearly walked straight into the Eternal Flame, inadvertently startling three grandmothers standing nearby. I quickly mumbled some sort of apology and continued on my way, which was now closer to a sprint than a walk. The incident distracted me, forcing my imagination toward the horrors of why such an unusual monument stands there—not dedicated to bullets and explosions, but to the simple civilian population, to everyone who had absolutely nothing to do with the war. Riding an emotional high, I immediately wanted to alter the course of my life to help those suffering in underdeveloped countries. In less than half a minute, I managed to fabricate a lifelong purpose, but I had to cut this masterclass in generating a life credo short, reminded of the doom threatening me in the immediate future. Fortunately, possessing the ability to remember what I was thinking about a few minutes prior, I stumbled back onto the realization that had been buzzing in my temples for days.

I am certain that every one of us, at some point in our lives, has felt a surging desire to commit to actions that improve humanity—something selfless that brings no direct benefit to the subject: going to work for a charity, hauling sorted recycling across the city every week, refusing to buy plastic packaging. I believe Chatsky is in this exact state, only with a far more intense implementation. He strives to achieve noble and lofty goals, but these are goals that sit on a shelf he cannot reach unless he betrays the very principles that drive him toward them in the first place.

I would be glad to serve; it is subservience that sickens me.

It is a Catch-22 from which he cannot extract himself without completely destroying it. Consequently, his declarations are met with the exact same level of attention and judgment as the tantrums of a three-year-old child, because, in the eyes of his society, both are equally rational and equally feasible.

Immensely satisfied with this well-placed mental period, I ran into the school feeling an emotion that is nearly impossible to describe in words. I was ready to embrace any twist of fate; I felt like the happiest, luckiest person on the entire planet. Carried by this lightness, I gracefully glided up the stairs to the third floor, took a left, then a right—only to discover that I probably shouldn’t have trusted my hastily structured epiphanies. Written in massive letters on the chalkboard were the words “FINAL EXAM,” and the teacher, glaring at me harshly, asked: “Why are we late?” I certainly hadn’t anticipated this plot twist. Cursing everything I had just babbled to myself internally, I began to mentally search for a word to describe what was about to unfold. Circus, or any synonym involving clowns, felt far too cliché, and long descriptions are never sufficiently pithy. Adrift in these thoughts, I stumbled upon exactly what I was looking for—chapiteau. Short, incomprehensible as to why it exists, and it sounds inherently bad. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.

This entire play, all the heroes, the characters, and their actions—it is a chapiteau. A traveling circus that rolls into every new town and repeats the exact same, not-entirely-successful performance, but one just successful enough to keep the circus alive until the next show. Is there even a single character in those lines of text who honestly listens to another, who hears what they are saying? Certainly not Chatsky and his audience. Sophia and Molchalin?

Not a single free word, and so the whole night passes.

I don’t think so. The eavesdropping episode? Can we really say anything changed? Chatsky didn’t achieve his goal, and replacing Molchalin is far easier than finding a genuine human being; the dominant trait of his character is voicelessness. The Prince, who only answers with “Hm” and “Uhm”—why would he need anything else? At every ball, he will be asked the exact same things, and every time, his answer will remain the same. The characters’ reactions to Repetilov: no matter how enticing his propositions sound, no one pays him an ounce of attention. Even Chatsky’s reaction to the majority of the characters: he hasn’t been here in three years, hasn’t uttered a word to them, yet he can flawlessly predict the actions of almost everyone in his circle. And this circus, with all its clowns, tricksters, unseen animals, and their assistants, repeats this routine week after week, month after month. What do you think happened at the last ball, say, at the Prince’s? And at the next one at the Platonovs’? Exactly—the exact same thing. Repetilov will invent an even more enticing, entirely fabricated proposition that will attract zero participants, the Prince will try to marry off his children, and some drama will unfold behind the curtains. Everything will remain confined within a granite-lined canal, flowing just fast enough to keep the water from growing moldy. This is why Chatsky is so dissonant to this society. He doesn’t fit into this rut because he actually had hope for the day, hope for something that inherently cannot happen over trout at the Prince’s or at Kuzma Petrovich’s funeral. His monologue is the very definition of unpredictability—a spring mountain river sharply changing course on alpine slopes. Here, one is desperately tempted to write something in the vein of, “overflowing the granite walls of the canal, it rushes onward,” but I do not have the right to do so. Because we once again crash into the Catch-22 established at the beginning: if there is something to expect from this event, it means the next one will be different. But it won’t be. Chatsky cannot achieve success, but simultaneously, he cannot fail, because he has an infinite number of attempts. The canal will never rise high enough to overflow its banks, because it is endless, and the water distributes evenly along its length. How do you satisfy your impulse for action, for a valiant deed, if it leads to absolutely nothing? There wouldn’t be nearly as many knights in the world if dragons never attacked anyone and bred faster than they could be killed. That is Chatsky’s madness—attempting to change or influence a society in which change is fundamentally impossible.

Where, then, does this soul-tearing saga lead us, with all its ifs and buts, all its clever remarks and foolish proposals? To the realization that highly emotional actions, backed by vast resources, have a strong tendency not to materialize as intended. These movements are rarely well-thought-out, as cold calculation rarely finds a foothold in a surge of emotional tide. I believe this is the core of Chatsky’s madness; by wasting his brilliant mind on primitive questions, he cannot help but appear utterly insane to the public previously described. What will Princess Marya Aleksevna say? Honestly—I don’t know. But I can certainly hazard a guess by looking at Famusov from the second paragraph, where he occupies a rather different space than one might assign him at first glance. I think Marya Aleksevna would be profoundly surprised, and rather than scolding them, she would likely offer care and sympathy in her speech to the heroes of the night’s incident.

P.S. The “real life” section of the essay is about as fictional as Gryboedov’s original work. It exists here for the same reasons as Gryboedov’s work. It’s an artistic choice. I have lived in St. Petersburg during my childhood and the essay is traced out along my actual walk to school. However, that serves for little more than inspiration as those days have faded into the distant pre-war past. Nevertheless, while my journey to class and academic institution both meaningful transformed, I still from time to time stumble into an unexpected test and am no more focused on the examination than I am in this piece.