★★★★★ 5
The jewel in modern Russia's literary crown.
The problem with modern totalitarian regimes - the most disgusting form of government - is that they produce no art: no music, no literature, no poetry, no architecture, no visual arts. The art that does come out of such states comes from those who hate what they are and oppose them (at least passively). One of the most terrifying possibilities of the 21st Century is that the ultra-conservative/religious right wing of American politics will realize its long-held aim of a totalitarian theocracy. (Another case of the need to be careful what you wish for: the NRA's policy of making sure white supremacists have an adequate supply of Uzis may backfire. If the rightwingers establish their tyranny, one of the first things they'll do is repeal the 2nd Amendment.)
The tyrannies of the 1930s and `40s were classics of the form - although reading Orwell's "1984" shows the terrifying possibility that more far-reaching totalitarianism could occur. In prewar Stalinist Russia, the alleged art of the state was "Soviet realism". Even the actual (and therefore anti-Soviet) artists of Russia occasionally felt the brunt of Stalin and his thugs - with results such as Shostakovich's intensely Stalinist (and therefore antimusical) "Hymn of the Forest". The dreary banality of all the arts under such antihuman regimes as Bolshevik Russia and Nazi Germany was almost beyond belief.
Even so, flowers bloomed in the virtually sterile artistic soil of Stalin's Russia. Great musical talents such as Prokofiev and Kabalevsky - although no fans of their genocidal dictator - were able produce pretty much what they wanted because their styles tended not to offend Stalin and his cultural goon squad. Literature in the Soviet period suffered even more than music: Russia's greatest writers could publish their works, if at all, abroad. What the government allowed to be published were propagandistic (although not entirely hack) works like Shokolov's "Virgin Soil Upturned". Although the hack writers of the Stalinist period didn't lack talent, the really great writers of the Bolshevik state were obliged to work mostly sub rosa.
From the 1920s to the end of his life, Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov lived and worked within the Stalinist tyranny. Denied permission to emigrate and virtually denied permission to create, he lived unhappily until 1940 when he died prematurely of cancer. Paradoxically, Stalin was actually rather fond of Bulgakov, having seen and enjoyed one of his plays. Bulgakov died early enough to avoid Stalin's usual betrayal of nearly everyone he originally befriended (however marginally). The dictator died before he got around to Lavrentiy Beria and some others, but they were certainly on his list by that time. Even at that late date, more than a decade after his death, Bulgakov remained an obscure figure. His greatest work was not published in any form until 1966.
This work is "Master and Margarita", one of a small handful of immortal novels produced within (and in defiance of) Soviet Russia - and possibly the greatest of them. The greatness of M&M is advanced by its universality. This is achieved by abstracting it to a large extent from the political reality of 1930s Moscow. While the novel paints a vivid picture of life in the Soviet capital, the Stalinist system is virtually invisible and its founder totally so. M&M could be taking place in the capital of any strongly centrist European state. It should be noted that many editions of M&M exist. The only one you will wish to purchase is this one (translated by Burgin and O'Connor). It is far above the others in the accuracy and felicity of its translation, not to mention its wonderful notes and analytical essay ("Afterword").
The "Master" of the novel's title is in many respects Bulgakov himself: a brilliant writer with little success at being published, whose masterpiece (a novel) seems condemned to nonpublication. The novel in this case is about Pontius Pilatus, the Procurator of Judea until mid-36 CE (the year in which Yeshua bar-Yosif ["Jesus son of Joseph"] was crucified). Some chapters of this novel appear in M&M, allowing the author to tie many elements of M&M together. Bulgakov is well versed in Gospel history, learnedly referring to Yeshua as "ha-Notsri". This term is frequently mistranslated as "the Nazarene" or "of Nazareth" (leading the author of "Matthew" of quote a probably nonexistent older text). It actually means "of the branch", from netser or nezer ("branch") - generally taken to mean a claimed descent from the very early Israeli king David. Bulgakov cleverly gives Pilatus a character that doesn't match what we know of him from Josephus. Similarly he gives us a different Yeshua and Yehudah ("Judas") than we would expect.
The "Margarita" of the title, the Master's muse, is in some respects Bulgakov's 3rd wife (and also his muse), Elena Sergeyevna Shilovskaya. In terms of text devoted to her, Margarita is a far more important than the Master. The Master's story line in this work is reality mostly hers. Her name is an important clue to the novel as a whole. Marguerite (Margarita) is one of the names given to Faust's inamorata. In her passionate devotion to the Master, in her uncompromising and uncompomisable innocence, Margarita is a dramatic picture of Marguerite - but more real and compelling than the portraits of Goethe and Gounod. In a literary sense, Margarita as a shadow of Marguerite, just as M&M is a shadow of the Faust legend.
It seems equally obvious that the Master must be a shadow of Faust himself. Yet the connection seems improbably remote. The Master appears as anything but Faustian, and rather than immersing himself in the world he has removed himself from it and immured himself in an asylum. Even so, his connection with Faust is palpable and compelling. Faust sought something that was not approved by the mediaeval state: knowledge (particularly of the dark arts). Bulgakov sought something deeply disapproved by the Stalinist state: truth. Indeed, no tyrant or would-be tyrant can tolerate truth. (This, I believe, explains Führer Bush's hatred of the truth and Vice-Führer Cheney's pathological fear of it.)
The trinity Faust-Marguerite-Mephisopheles brings us inevitably to the protagonist (dare I say hero?) of M&M, Woland. His name, founded on the German for "where?", raises instant questions about where he is actually from and, consequently, who he actually is. That he is the "devil" of New Testament legend becomes quickly and readily apparent. He begins his visit to Moscow by going after a number of unsavory individuals. That they are of little consequence is a necessary reflection of the fact that going after people of real consequence would have landed Bulgakov in a non-mythical hell thanks to Russia's non-mythical devil (Stalin). That Woland's real mission is salvation - at least of Margarita and the Master - will seem far-fetched to the reader until it actually happens. The question is whether that mission was deliberate - for as Goethe says of his devil, "That Power I serve ... wills forever evil yet does forever good." More accurately in M&M, Woland's mission seems to be insuring that evil begets evil and good begets good.
Woland in turn is part of yet another trinity: himself, Behemoth, and Korovyov. Behemoth ("the Beast", one might say) appears mostly in the form of a 6-foot upright cat. Korovyov is more human in form but just as obviously a demon. This trinity turns parts of Moscow upside-down through the use of particularly bizarre pranks. (It might be observed that the prominent presence in their company of an owl and a mirror suggests "[Till] Eulenspiegel", another famous prankster.) The merriment begins almost at once with the death of the unpleasant Rimsky, run over by a streetcar. The image of his head, rolling kabumpty-bumpty-bump down the street is hilariously macabre. Much of the novel is full of this trinity's high-jinks.
I'd have to reread the novel with a mind to make notes in this regard, but I suspect that other trinities appear with some frequency in M&M.
As the pranks in Moscow wind down, the story shifts gears to focus on the adventures of Margarita with Woland and his entourage. There is a grand ball that takes place in an impossibly large space. This is a reflection of Dante Alighieri's "Inferno". There is then a witch's Sabbath in a remote location. This Faustian episode is accompanied by another, a wild ride on black horses, that appears again at the end of the novel. Throughout, as earlier, it is Woland who guides and directs the activities.
Finally, it is Woland, saying he does so at the request of Yeshua, who arranges the salvation of the Master and Margarita. Bulgakov - who has been standing things on their heads throughout the text - thus ultimately stands Christian mythology on its head. It is one of his greatest achievements that he uses the Master's novel and his own novel's ending to add a deep and refreshing humanity to hoary and less human New Testament myths.
M&M has lent several sayings to popular Russian culture. Most important of them is the non sequitur, "manuscripts don't burn". In the novel, the Master burns his novel, just as Bulgakov burned the original ms. of M&M. The phrase comes from Woland, but magically produces the Master's ms. Bulgakov, on the other hand, re-transcribed his work from memory. The problem here is, and Bulgakov certainly knew it, that manuscripts do burn. If that were not so, we should now be able to purchase a CD of Sibelius' 8th Symphony. Still, it's amazing how many musicians and authors have left posthumous instructions that certain mss. should be burned, only to have people with a better grasp of reality refuse to burn them.
Bulgakov's incomparable novel ends in a chapter of ravishing prose, of which I would like to quote a small paragraph. "'And there too," said Woland, pointing backward. `What would you do in your little basement?' The fragmented sun dimmed in the glass. `Why go back?' continued Woland in a firm and gentle voice. `O Master, thrice a romantic, wouldn't you like to stroll with your beloved under the blossoming cherry trees by day and then listen to Schubert by night? Wouldn't you like to sit over a retort, like Faust, in the hope of creating a new homunculus? Go there! Go there! There where a house and an old servant already await you, where the candles are already burning, but will soon go out because you are about to meet the dawn. Take that road, Master, that one! Farewell! It is time for me to go.'"
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Reviewed in the United States on June 29, 2007
