t foreign books and fashions,
"destroyers of our pockets and our hearth," and lauds Colonel Skalozub,
an elderly pretender to Sophia's hand, explaining the general servile
policy of obtaining rank and position by the Russian equivalent of
"pull," which is called "connections." He compares his with Tchatsky, to
the disadvantage of the latter, who had been brought up with Sophia, and
had been in love with her before his departure on his travels three
years previously, though he had never mentioned the fact. Tchatsky gives
rise to this diatribe by returning from his travels at this juncture,
asking for Sophia's hand, and trying to woo the girl herself with equal
unsuccess. Tchatsky's arraignment of the imitation of foreign customs
then everywhere prevalent, does not win favor from any one. Worse yet,
he expresses his opinion of Moltchalin; and Sophia, in revenge, drops a
hint that Tchatsky is crazy. The hint grows apace, and the cause is
surmised to be a bullet-wound in the head, received during a recent
campaign. Another "authority" contradicts this; it comes from drinking
champagne by the gobletful--no, by the bottle--no, by the case. But
Famusoff settles the matter by declaring that it comes from knowing too
much. This takes place at an evening party at the Famusoffs, and
Tchatsky returns to the room to meet with an amazing reception.
Eventually, he discovers that he is supposed to be mad, and that he is
indebted to Sophia for the origin of the lie; also, that she is making
rendezvous with the low-minded, flippant Moltchalin. At last Sophia
discovers that Moltchalin is making love to her maid through
inclination, and to her only through calculation. She casts him off, and
orders him out of the house. Tchatsky, cured of all illusions about her,
renounces his suit for her hand, and declares that he will leave Moscow
forever. Tchatsky, whose woe is due to his persistence in talking sense
and truth to people who do not care to hear it, and to his manly
independence all the way through, comes to grief through having too much
wit; hence the title.

Not one of Pushkin's successors, talented as many of them were, was able
to attain to the position of importance which the great poet had
rendered obligatory for future aspirants. It is worth noting that
Pushkin's best work, in his second, non-Byronic, purely national style,
enjoyed less success among his contemporaries than his early,
half-imitative efforts, where the characters w