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158 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 1985
In this slim volume, translator Mirra Ginsburg presents two of Mikhail Bulgakov’s lesser-known plays.
Flight, “A Play in Eight Dreams and Four Acts”, takes up where Bulgakov’s best-known play The White Guard, the theatrical adaptation of his first novel, left off. It opens during the last hours of the Civil War and follows the defeated and escaping Whites into exile, to Constantinople and then to Paris. Flight also presages Bulgakov’s most celebrated novel, The Master and Margarita, in its surreal humour; I wasn’t surprised to learn that Bulgakov started writing the novel immediately after finishing work on this play.
In her introduction, Mirra Ginsberg says that Flight is as relevant today as it was in 1920s Soviet Russia:
“[In portraying] a tragicomic picture of a man violently uprooted and struggling for some sort of survival… Bulgakov comes close to one of the central problems of our time, the problem of the displaced person, repeated in the course of the past half-century in endless variations — geographic, political, cultural, moral, and philosophic.”
The central character of Flight, Roman Khludov, is based on General Slashchev, a brutal White warrior who had earned the nickname “Slashchev the Hangman”.
The play deftly switches from nightmarish horror in a scene at a train station when a blast of gunfire causes the ice-crusted windows to shatter, revealing the bodies of two men hanging from the platform lampposts — executions Khludov had ordered only minutes earlier — to black humour; to high farce as the Whites, exiled in Constantinople, take part in cockroach races; to pathos as the homesick Khludov wonders if he can ever return to Russia. The fairground farce of the cockroach races becomes ever more Bulgakovian as it is alleged that the favourite, Janissary, has become drunk on beer and “just stands there waving his feet”.
This hilarious scene is followed by one of tragedy when Serafima Korzukhina “a young matron fleeing from Petersburg”, and stranded in Sebastopol, is forced into prostitution. The tone then shifts to high farce as her estranged husband, Korzukhin, having settled in Paris, expects his Russian valet to speak French:
“Antoine, you’re a lazy Russian good for nothing. A man who lives in Paris must realize that the Russian language is good only for obscenities or, even worse, for proclaiming destructive slogans. Neither one nor the other is the thing in Paris. You must try to learn, Antoine, it’s a bore.”
This scene has an poignant undertone, as Bulgakov longed to visit Paris, where his brother lived, but was repeatedly denied permission to travel outside the USSR.
Bliss, presented here in its first English translation, is a far more light-hearted piece. It follows the adventures of Yevgeny Rein, an eccentric engineer, who invents a time-travel machine and accidentally transports himself, a neighbour and a passing pickpocket firstly to the palace of Ivan the Terrible, then to “the part of Moscow which is called Bliss” in the year 2222. Bliss is described in the stage directions as “marble everywhere”.
The neighbour, Bunshin, tries to impress Anna, a denizen of the 23rd Century, with his role as the secretary of the House Management Committee of his building. Anna listens with bemusement but, unsurprisingly, doesn’t understand a word. This seems like very gentle satire to a modern reader, but Mirra Ginsburg writes:
“Bliss, sharply satirical under its playful exterior, obviously had no chance in Stalin’s Russia.”
Bliss, a brilliant part of Bulgakov’s legacy, first appeared in print 26 years after his death in a monthly magazine in Uzbekistan, but is still virtually unknown in Russia; according to the cover notes, it has never been produced.