And there was a hearth, and there was a fire in the hearth, and the fire and the hearth were not painted.
With the words “painted hearth” we immediately recall the fairy tale “Golden Key” by Alexei Tolstoy. A wonderful fairy tale, which later turned into caramel, chocolates and the names of kindergartens. But when the story was first published, it didn’t seem childish to some: some immediately recognized the prototypes. And those who do not know, sang in his ear.
Faina Ranevskaya wrote: “I myself could not guess, but they explained it to me in the theater. The main character Pinocchio Gorky, Malvina Blok’s wife Lyubov Mendeleev, and Blok himself was brought up as Pierrot. In the tale there is the villain Karabas-Barabas, the director of the puppet theater, and this is Meyerhold.
“Doctor of puppetry” – this is how he appears in the fairy tale Karabas-Barabas. “Doctor Dapertutto” – the editor-in-chief of the journal Meyerhold, under his articles in 1914-1916 had his signature in the journal “Three Orange Love”, which was about theatre, literature and art.
Dapertutto is a sinister character from one of Hoffmann’s fables who suspiciously limps on one leg, and among all outfits he prefers a short red cloak and red feathers (that is, just our Philip Kirkorov).
The nickname is not random. Mephistopheles, the temptress, Dr. Evil. Many theatergoers saw Meyerhold as a despotic director who saw actors only as puppets.
Even some habits and apparent details in Karabas-Barabas coincide with Meyerhold. The long beard of Karabas-Barabas and the long scarf that reaches where Meyerhold likes to wear. (… You’re reading this whole snobby look and can’t get over what you’ve read about Meyerhold’s long overdue fate: “… They beat me here – a sick old man of sixty-six years old, lay facedown on the floor, hit my heels and back with a rubber tourniquet, When I sat on the chair, they hit my legs with the same rubber. […] the pain seemed to pour boiling water on the aching tender places of the legs ”(from a letter of the arrested Meyerhold to Molotov).
Or the same famous whip of Karabas-Barabas (let’s go back to those glorious days). It turned out that Meyerhold always carried a Mauser pistol with him and for some reason put it in front of the table at rehearsals.
So who is Papa Carlo then?
Seagull, seagull, I’m a seagull.
Of course. Pope Carlo is Konstantin Stanislavsky.
He will open the door of the stairs with the precious golden key, after passing they and the puppets will suddenly see a room with a wonderful puppet theater.
But let’s leave them here for now. Let them look, let them squeak with tiny voices, let them rejoice. We have our own wonderful puppet theater, our own nativity scene. And today our Pierrot Blok, with his white arms even longer than his stand, stretching out his long arms, will say this about love and joy, through all the blizzards and all the terrible and fearless time:
“It was the cleanest and brightest holiday in the world. It was a memory of the golden age, the pinnacle of that now fading feeling – the sense of home. The feast of the Nativity was in Russian families as bright as Christmas tree candles and as pure as pitch. In the foreground was a big green tree and cheerful children; Even adults who were no smarter than entertainers gathered near the walls and were less bored. And everything danced – both the children and the flickering lights of the candles.
That’ll be the only good thing Block will say in his essay. Then the fear begins. But we will not let this horror come upon us. We have enough fear.
After all, Christmas has a simple basic mechanism: Everyone at Christmas should make up. And be a little different for a while.
And here I have a wild, forest, prickly thought. I know why we have to make up for Christmas. Well, apart from the reason baby Jesus was born, that means a new existence, a new countdown has begun. No, now I want to talk about something else. Also about the holy, but holy little, because a little fairy is holy, or a dwarf is holy.
Ivan Shmelev wrote about how the city was transformed in the pre-revolutionary Christmas: “Three days before Christmas, there was a forest of Christmas trees in the markets, squares. (…) There was a forest in the Theater Square. They are standing in the snow. And it will snow – you lost your way! Guys, in sheepskin coats, like in the forest. People walk, choose. Dogs on Christmas trees are like wolves, right? Bonfires are burning, warm up. Smoke columns. (…) Until the night when you will be walking around the Christmas trees. And the frost is getting stronger. Sky – in smoke – lilac (…). Frost on the trees. A frozen crow is caught, you step on it – it crackles like glass. Cold Russia, but … warm! .. “
And I thought … They buy Christmas trees from us not for Christmas, but for the New Year, on January 7 our Christmas tree will already be covered, it will fly around, the beauty has aged, one or two toys from its weakened claws will barely touch without moving until the Old New Year . And there it is already in the dump.
Therefore our Christmas is not theirs, pre-revolutionary, crispy and not new, not brand new. We already have experienced, Soviet, wise, mature. It’s about the fact that the Christmas trees will be removed soon. About the fact that we too will endure one day. And right here, right now, right at this time, when we’re not brand new, not just crispy paper and a light bulb or a whole garland has already burned out, we should all rejoice, accept a new meaning. new birth, proven Christmas.
That’s why we all have to compromise right now.
On the black mud of the road
The fog is not rising.
They carry, they moan, drugs
My withered loot.
Harlequin’s daytime face
Pale even from Pierrot’s face.
And Colombina is hiding in a corner
Colorfully sewn rags…
Go ahead, grieving nags!
Actors, master the craft,
From the walking truth
Everyone felt sick and light!
The mold penetrated the secret of the soul,
But she must cry, sing, go,
To the paradise of my overseas songs
The roads were opened.
Alright. Let’s cry, drink, go. Without asking why your songs are abroad, Alexander Alexandrovich, without asking where Pinocchio went from all of the above (answer: he was not born yet): just cry, drink and go.
New days ahead, a secret door with an old canvas painted on a beautiful stove, a fire and a bowler hat – and something else behind the door. No, not descending a winding staircase, not a new theater (why do we need this?), but something new and dazzling.
We can do anything, win everything, give everybody a drink. Get up, old Carlo, get up, wooden onion Pinocchio, get up, innocently slain Meyerhold, don’t cry; get up, victorious Stanislavsky, get up, Malvina. Orthodox Christmas has already arrived, here it is so prickly, so kind, so bright. Everybody stand up. I got a golden key, I found it, no, no, I won’t try.
It’s time for us to go.