One day, in the early thirties, a provincial came to Moscow. And to join the high culture, he went to the ballet, as he was advised at home. Before that he had never been to the theaters and had no idea what he would see there. He dressed better and went early to see the beauty of the Great Theatre.

But then the famous luster went out, and the show began. Dancers appeared on stage. Beautifully, of course, the masses of the people with their flags ran on stage, as if they were trying to make a revolution, but... it takes five minutes, then ten, then fifteen. The viewer was a little bored.
Half an hour later, he began to blink and look with longing at the huge luster above his head - when will it, the infection, finally light up? The buffet was unbearable.

He was squeezing a little, and then turned to the neighbor — a beautiful old man with a beard and a penny on his nose: "Listen, uncle, and why are they all dancing, and dancing? I would sing something.” The neighbor slightly but harmlessly smiled and readily explained: "You understand, young man, this is a kind of art - history is told only with the help of dance. They don’t sing here.” And at this very moment the singer in a kumacho chlamydia rose from the orchestra hole and sang fiercely and loudly "Marseilleza" - this was an experimental synthetic performance "Flam of Paris" by Boris Asaphiev.

The provincial triumphantly turned to a slightly confused neighbor:

Is it your first time at the theater?

And this neighbor was nobody but Vladimir Ivanovich himself.
by Nemirovich-Danchenko