. Spinning .

This is a story that can be read on several levels, the simplest of which is The Devil Comes to Georgia (sic) and therefore a revelation of human nature and what it will do to achieve a desire or maintain a principle. 

There is of course the historical significance, Mikhail Bulgakov giving a Candide-like version of reality. 

There is the theme of what is true or believed to be true, such as the Master’s retelling of the story of Pontius Pilate, as well as the conflict within oneself between what is felt and what must be accepted to survive.

There is the moon.  There is betrayal.  There is repression and there is folly.

There is more for me to discover with The Master and Margarita than what I take from it now.  It will–should I live long enough–be reread some day.

1.  I do not quite "get" what happened to the end, with the Master and Margarita and will go back and read that short chapter again.

2.  In the epilogue which relates the aftermath, there is a hunt on for the visitors, Korovyov mainly being sought as the mastermind.  Behemoth’s actions as a cat are explained away, as are the many fires and oddities such as the theater-goers’ nakedness en masse to either hypnosis or mob mentality.  There appear to be some lessons within Bulgakov’s words such as to not prejudge by appearance, and the wrongness of punishing the innocent.

3.  There is some confusion here as Margarita and her maid Natasha are listed as "missing," especially after finding Margarita’s note she left for her husband.  Natasha has voluntarily chosen to remain a witch and kept her form, but Margarita and the Master were died at the hands of Azazello and reincarnated in a spirit form.  While the Master’s physical body was left at their burned-out apartment, Margarita’s was returned to her fancy home, to be found as a victim of a heart attack.

Will come back with some final thoughts shortly.

Without a complete understanding Bulgakov’s Russia, I still get the feeling that as Margarita and the Master ride away from Moscow with the devil, each represents a part of the Russian people.  The rebellion of Margarita–who tired of putting on a false face of proper social order and followed instead her passion, willing to pay the price–although I do find her a bit self-centered and uncaring.  The Master goes insane in his striving for the truth, his belief in it, and its repression by the powers of politics.  He gives in reluctantly, as if accepting his fate as part of Margarita’s deal with the devil and as all he can hope for in his failure to make others see the truth.

Night began covering the forests and meadows with its black kerchief. The night ignited sad little lights somewhere far below, alien lights that were no longer of any interest or use either to Margarita or the Master.  Night overtook the cavalcade, spreading over them from above and scattering white specks of stars here and there in the saddened sky.  (p. 321)

Bulgakov seems to make the evil a feminine thing, though Woland as Satan is male (the controlling figure; woman’s nature overturned being the necessary element).  The "black kerchief" is a woman’s accessory, a scarf to cover her hair (although of course it could be a man’s handkerchief as well), and I see it as the need to cover the head of Mother Russia, as if in disguise perhaps, or to cover its beauty.  Remembering here that Bulgakov leaves his women naked and yet without honest sensuality, and that the theme of marital betrayal runs through the stories. As Azazello comes for them in their basement apartment, the Master reminds Margarita to cover her nakedness with the cloak, her only bit of clothing, before she answers the door:

"I don’t give a damn about that," replied Margarita, already out in the little hallway. (p. 311)

Margarita then, has clearly given up the sham of respectability.  But she does apologize to Azazello:

And then Azazello was bowing and greeting the Master, his walleye beaming at him, and Margarita exclaimed, "Oh, how happy I am!  I’ve never been so happy in my life! But please excuse my nakedness Azazello!" 

Azazello told her not to worry, assuring her that he had seen not only naked women, but women who had been completely skinned…" (p. 311)

Certainly an odd way of putting it.  I would think that Azazello is referring to the humaness stripped from the soul, the soul itself being the essence of life and being open to evil, willing to make pacts with Satan.

Why, I wonder, have these two been turned over to the darkness, as if their failure to overcome anything but their own desire is simply not enough for redemption.

Without a more complete understanding of Russian history and sociological background, I realize that I am missing much of the more subtle metaphors in this fantasy, and there is as well the different slant that more contemporary (as well as cultural) reading will offer in meaning.  So while Bulgakov as a writer attempting to show a picture of what is going on in his Russia while hiding it within layers of story, casts of odd characters, he does have the writer as a center of focus in the story.  I might assume then that things then were as they are now, but with the criteria of judging a writer more of a political basis of method.

"Are you writers?" asked the woman in turn.  "Of course we are," replied Korovyov with dignity. "May I see your ID’s?" repeated the woman.  "My charming creature…" began Korovyov, tenderly.  "I am not a charming creature," interrupted the woman.  "Oh, what a pity," said Korovyov with disappointment, and he continued, "Well then, if you do not care to be a charming creature, which would have been quite nice, you don’t have to be.  But here’s my point, in order to ascertain that Dostoevsky is a writer, do you really need to ask him for an ID? Just look at any five pages of any of his novels, and you will surely know, even without any ID, that you’re dealing with a writer.  And I don’t suppose that he ever had any ID! (p. 299)

What does this tell us about the state of literature at the time?  What does it say about literature today?

These last two chapters relate back to the story of Pontius Pilate and the execution of Yeshua, supposedly the story rewritten by the Master, the novel that was partially destroyed by fire and salvaged by the devil at Margarita’s bequest.

The most interesting point of the story is the twist of Judas’ part in the betrayal of Yeshua, and his death–not by self-hanging, as in the Bible, but through an intricate plot by Pilate to assuage his own guilt for the part he has played in Yeshua’s death.

Just as interesting to me is the marvelous writing out of this plot by Pilate.  The chapter titled "How the Procurator Tried to Save Judas of Kerioth" is completely tongue in cheek. As Pilate orders a trusted follower to "prevent" the murder that night of Judas, he is in fact telling him to commit that murder.  The dialogue in which this plan is transmitted from one man to the other, and the subsequent report of its success is cleverly woven.  The reader, believing just the opposite of what is being said can only hope that the men understand each other as well.  There is even a "guess" by Pilate that perhaps Judas has killed himself, to which his guest  assures him why this isn’t possible.

One more little tie-in with what I believe to illustrate a theme of betrayal is the meeting between the visitor and a young woman named Niza who follows instructions to lure Judas to the desolate garden at Gethsemane where he is to be assassinated.  Niza is a married woman, evidently having had an affair of sorts with Judas, just as Margarita with the Master.  The coup de grace of the devil Woland’s performance at the theater was to expose the sexual dalliances of a respected member of the audience.

We wonder now about Margarita, and if despite her deal with the devil, she will remain true to the Master.

Back in history with Chapter XXV to Pontius Pilate, and the scenario of Pilate waiting for word of the deed being done, while a thunderstorm rages overhead.

Were it not for the roar of the water, the claps of thunder that threatened to smash in the palace roof, the clatter of hail that pounded against the balcony steps, it might have been possible to hear the procurator mumbling something as he talked to himself.  (p. 256)

What of course is the common saying of those that talk to themselves?  Either money in the bank or the sign of a guilty mind.  It goes on:

And if the intermittent flickers of heavenly fire had been transformed into a steady light, an observer might have been able to see that the procurator’s face, its eyes inflamed by wine and by recent bouts of insomnia, expressed impatience, that the procurator was not only gazing at the two white roses, which had drowned in the red puddle, but was constantly turning his face toward the garden and the onslaught of watery dust and sand, that he was waiting for someone, waiting impatiently.

I like the "heavenly fire" versus "lightning," which certainly brings religious tone into an otherwise historical novel (as being written by the Master), and the intermittent flickers" soften the sense of the storm.  This to my mind becomes the mien of Pilate himself as he reclines on the couch, external conflict shown in bits of impatience such as smashing a jug even as we sense that the shell of his body holds in a fiercer storm, i.e., "its eyes inflamed…"

The two white roses?  Lying in a pool of red–probably wine–that looks like blood, they are an obvious sign written in by Bulgakov, but of what?  What I notice of them is that they remain white and pure, unstained by the blood-like wine.  Is this a symbol of Pilate’s wish of blood-free hands, his self doubts excused by his delegation of the execution to others? 

We can read of a broken jug, a thunderstorm, and a man anxiously waiting.  Or we can read of a perception of history; that of the Crucifixion, and that of Russia as well. 

These last few chapters, the beginning of Part 2 of the novel, had been quite a ride.  The story line at this point focuses on Margarita and her goal to find her lover, the Master, and she makes a deal with the devil to achieve it.  When she has completed her part, the devil (Woland) seems to allow her to leave, and she wonders whether she has been used unfairly and will not get what she’s given so much to receive.

Should she ask for something for herself, as Azazello had so temptingly suggested in the Alexandrovsky Park?  "No, not for anything," she said to herself.  "All the best to you, Messire," she said aloud, all the while thinking, "If I can just get out of here, I’ll go down to the river and drown myself." 
"Do sit down," came Woland’s sudden command. (p. 240)

So the devil, being a man of his word, has come through and asks Margarita to tell him what she wants.  Here, just as when she spotted the frightened little boy in the apartment house, Margarita’s human sense of compassion comes through, and her own sense of honor in keeping her word.

"Demand, demand, my Donna," replied Woland with an understanding smile.  "Demand one thing!"
Margarita sighed again and said, I want them to stop giving Frieda the handkerchief she used to smother her baby."  (p. 241)

Woland refuses her this, but allows her to help Frieda herself and she does.  Then, he again surprises us by insisting that Margarita still has the right to ask him a favor.  At long last, she is able to request and receive her wish, and the Master is brought to her along with official papers for both, the manuscript, and the their little love nest in the basement apartment.

What is the message here, honor among thieves?  What will this second chance bring them?  Is Margarita’s debt to the devil paid or has she unwittingly lost her soul.  And is it indeed a metaphorical Russia where the power to achieve such miracles is given to the bad guys…

If you read only one chapter of this novel, Chapter XXII, Satan’s Grand Ball, would be the one to do.

One after the other, three coffins tumbled out of the fireplace, splitting open and breaking apart on impact, then someone in a black cloak appeared, who was then stabbed in the back by the next to follow him out of the black maw.  A muffled scream was heard below.  Out of the fireplace ran an almost totally decomposed corpse.  (p. 227)

As I was being led into this scene, a bit of each chapter prior, each piece of the plot, brought me to the thought of the visual extravaganza this would be. Evidently there is a (are) movie(s) of this novel, and just as with Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, there is a strong pull of imagery that makes you want to see it on the big screen.  I believe I shall try to rent it, or buy it if cheap enough.

The story continues:

The staircase began to fill up with people.  Now on every step were men in tails, who all looked completely alike from a distance, and naked women who differed from each other only by their shoes and the color of the feathers on their heads.

Margarita being naked among the clothed didn’t bother me–though it did recall The Story of O–since she had made a serious transformation, the freedom from inhibition and reality being signified by this nakedness.  (Note: What bothered me was that she’s been flying the broom upside-down, that is, the bristle end leading–what does that mean, I wonder?) 

Bulgakov seems to make a point of all the women being naked in the world of the devil Woland, though he does not describe them in any sexual or sensual manner.  Yet the men are almost always fully clothed and here, dressed to the teeth in formal attire.  There was also a conversation between Behemoth the large black cat and one of the characters about Behemoth wearing no trousers, and yet having donned a tie, claiming that he wouldn’t be allowed into such a fancy affair without a tie.

There may be something of a statement here on social classes, including the more demeaning role of women in society.  Then again, it is noted that the men"all looked completely alike from a distance," as if Bulgakov is also stating that all men are equal, or should be considered so. It’s funny that the saying is usually the opposite to Bulgakov’s phrasing, that instead, upon a closer look we find that we are all alike.

Interesting. 

The naked Margarita is happily flying on her broom above the apartment house where she’s wreaked havoc on Latunsky’s apartment and is smashing windows in every other when through a window she spots a small boy in bed, evidently frightened. She flys in to comfort him. "It’s just some boys breaking windows," she tells him.

"I’ll tell you a fairy tale," said Margarita, and put her burning hand on top of the boy’s close-cropped head.  "Once upon a time there was a lady.  She had no children, and no happiness either.  And at first she cried for a long time, but then she became wicked…" Margarita fell silent, and took her hand away—the boy was sleeping.  (p. 206)

Margarita, turned into a witch by the devil in exchange for information about her lover, has forsaken all the reality of her former life, her nice but uninspiring husband, her finery; everything that it would seem a large portion of Russian women would give their eyeteeth to have.  But for Margarita, it is freedom to be, to love, to seek justice and revenge.  Evidently, tippy-toeing around wasn’t Margarita’s chosen style and flying nude on a broom may be what she’s repressed all her life.  Repression, the Russian way of life for its citizens at that time.  Yet she’s still retained the heart of a woman as she offers some comfort to the little boy who’s a stranger to her.

One other thing I caught in this book (besides a double "the" on p. 207) was another tear in the fourth wall:

Margarita stepped back and said with dignity, "Go to the devil’s mother.  What do you mean, Claudine?  Mind who you’re talking to," and, after a second’s thought, she added a long, unprintable oath.  All this had a sobering effect on the thoughtless fat man." (p. 210)

Note "a long unprintable oath." This, dear reader, is directed to us.

No, really.  If you haven’t come to accept and love the bizarre by now, you may as well just close the book.

Margarita jumped off her broom, and the stone landing felt pleasantly cool against the soles of her inflamed feet.  She rang the bell once, twice.  But no one came to the door.  As Margarita pressed the bell even harder, she could hear it ringing inside Latunsky’s apartment.  Yes, the resident of Apartment No. 84 on the eighth floor should be grateful to the deceased Berlioz for the rest of his days, grateful that the chairman of MASSOLIT had fallen under a streetcar (…) It saved him from an encounter with Margarita, who had become a witch on that Friday. (p. 203)

This is no mere woman scorned, a woman looking to find her lover, stopping along the way to take revenge on those who have hurt him.  Latunsky is an editor that strung Ivan along on his manuscript and then dropped him.  Margarita is a  woman of social status and intelligence, yet her basic instincts come out for love.  She is going to meet the devil himself, and happy to do so if it brings word of Ivan. What does this mean to the story?  What is her place?  The lady bows to love. 

Meanwhile, she’s flying naked on a broomstick over Moscow. 

One of the themes I see in this novel is the one of good versus evil; obvious, since both the devil and Jesus Christ are metaphorically referenced.  But there is more to the repression of Russia’s common folk than temptation and human weakness.  What little they have of opportunity to enjoy life’s little sins is attacked and held up to full view.

In the theater, the devilish trio ended the show with the exposition of a high-ranking official’s liaison with a mistress. His wife having accompanied him makes it a bit more embarrassing, yet she stoically attacks his attackers.

Margarita is "married to an outstanding specialist who made an extremely important discovery of national significance.  Her husband was young, handsome, kind, honest, and adored his wife. Margarita Nikolayevna and her husband occupied the entire upper floor of a beautiful house in a garden on one of the small streets near the Arbat.  An enchanting spot!" (p. 185)

Why then the folly of attaching herself to the Master, a starving novelist?  Then again, who can question the whys of love.  I am not particularly sympathetic to the lovestruck Margarita, only because of her rather selfish ways.  Bulgakov takes it further:

Margarita hung up the phone, at which point something wooden-sounding started bumping around in the next room and began knocking at the door.  Margarita opened the door, and in flew a dancing broom, brush-end up.  It tapped a few beats on the floor with its handle, gave a kick, and strained toward the window.  Margarita squealed with delight and jumped astride the broomstick.  Only then did she remember that in all the confusion she had forgotten to get dressed.  (p. 199)

So naked, greased up with a magic cream given her by one of the unholy three which makes her ten years younger looking, she hops astride the broom and flies out the window ready to meet the devil in the hopes of finding her lost love, the Master. The broom appearing upside-down intrigues me.  The traditional manner of witches’ flight is interesting.  The loss of years is interesting in that Margarita was only thirty to begin with, and thirty at the time of her affair.  There appears to be a touch of the Cinderella fairy tale mixed in with Bulgakov’s story, though our Margarita is certainly no Cinderella in her lifestyle.  Perhaps the reversed stance of the broom is an indication that Margarita does make a transformation, but from riches to rags…or in this case, to no clothes at all.

In third person omniscient point of view the reader is privy to all going on, anywhere, depending upon the narrator’s movement through the structure of story and of course, reliant upon that narrator’s opinion of events and situations.

Bulgakov eases us from third person to first as he has previously described Margarita’s thoughts, but adds:

–what did she want?  I do not know  I have no idea.  Evidently she spoke the truth when she said it was the Master she needed and not the Gothic-style house, the private garden, or the money.  She loved him, she was telling the truth.  (p. 186)

Bulgakov has followed the proper form of third person, switched to first, then surprises us with this:

Even I, a truthful narrator, but a detached observer nonetheless, feel my heart contract when I think of what Margarita went through the next day when she came to the Master’s house and found that he was no longer there.  Fortunately, she had not as yet had a talk with her husband, who had not come home when he was supposed to. (p. 186)

Allowing the narrator a persona has added the single touch of emotion that all the drama and bizarre events did not offer, being written in a style of near-reportative fashion, a matter-of-fact totally in conflict with the surreality of the story. 

Then Bulgakov moves forward, taking on and breaking the literary fourth wall:

All of this was absurd of course, since how would her staying with the Master that night have made things any different?  Could she really have saved him?  "Nonsense!" we would have exclaimed, but not in front of a woman who has been driven to despair.  (p. 186)

With that simple technique–first asking a question of the reader, one that might also have been considered a first person pov thought instead–then the statement of what we would have exclaimed, Bulgakov has the narrator make contact with the reader and connects with him in a convivial "we." This step by step method manages to first show the reader that the narrator is indeed a person and a caring, compassionate one, but also allows that the reader is the same.

Very nicely done.

So that’s what happens on vacation: you still read, but you don’t bother writing about it.  A couple things that struck me particularly in this reading:

And suddenly they started singing the second verse as if of their own accord, following the lead of Kosarchuk, whose pitch may not have been perfect, but who did have quite a pleasant high tenor.  They finished the second verse.  Still no choirmaster!  They went back to their places, but before they could manage to sit down, they started singing against their will.  It was beyond their power to stop.  They would be quiet for three minutes or so, and then start up again.  At this point they realized that something bad had happened.  Mortified, the director locked himself in his office.  (p. 163)

What this brings to my mind is the forced patriotism of Communist Russia, where any acts against government were seen as high treason, thoughts if dared to be revealed at all were whispered, and a false bravado, an obvious if false loyalty needed to cloak true beliefs.

And this has to be one of my favorites amid the chaos:

The reason for his trip to Moscow was a telegram received late in the evening two days before.  It said, "I have just been cut in half by a streetcar at Patriarch’s.  Funeral Friday 3 P.M.  Come.  Berlioz."

Actually a bit beyond the midpoint, but Bulgakov makes it a focus of change:

We have no idea whether there were any other strange occurrences in Moscow that night, and we have no intention of trying to find out, since the time has come for us to proceed to Part Two of this true narrative.  Follow me, reader!  (p. 181)

The last several pages indeed been strange, as Bulgakov intrudes upon his story to directly address the reader.  All the magic that had happened at the magic show that evening reversed itself; women who had gladly ran onstage and grabbed new fancy dresses in exchange for their own, found themselves wandering around in their underwear once outside the theater.  The ten-ruble notes that fell from the ceiling turned into useless bits of paper which you can imagine caused all sorts of problems when used for purchases, or they turned into foreign currency which got the holders into serious trouble with the government. 

There is a color, a vibrancy about the odd trio of Woland, Korovyov and the black cat that is in direct contrast with the drabness of Moscow life at the time.  It is no wonder that the devil is so readily accepted into their world, and the devil himself knows the time is ripe.  People are repressed and desperate, most warily cautious and resigned, those who rebell, go missing.

We’ve seen just a bit of the Master and Margarita, and I presume that the story may refocus on them as we follow Bulgakov deeper into his world.

Obviously this novel is full of it, but Bulgakov, much like Marquez, makes it so enjoyable:

     (…) there in a leather armchair, sobbing uncontrollably and clutching a wet handkerchief, her head thrown back and her legs stretched out into the middle of the room was Prokhor Petrovich’s personal secretary, the beautiful Anna Richardovna. 
     She had lipstick all over her chin and black streams of mascara ran down her eyelashes and over her peachlike cheeks.
     When she saw who had come in, Anna Richardovna jumped up and threw herself at the bookkeeper.  Grabbing his lapels, she shook him and screamed, "Thank God! At least there’s one brave soul!"
     Behind the huge desk with its massive inkwell sat an empty suit, moving a pen with no ink in it over sheet of paper.  The suit was wearing a tie, and had a fountain pen sticking out of its breastpocket, but there was no neck and no head above the collar, nor were there any wrists poking out of the sleeves.  The suit was hard at work and completely oblivious to the confusion raging all around."  (p. 158)

Don’tcha just love it?