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Bulgakov’s gentle irony is a warning against the mistake, more common in our time than we might think, of equating artistic mastery with a sort of saintliness, or, in Kierkegaard’s terms, of confusing the aesthetic with the ethical.
‘. . . who are you, then?’ ‘I am part of that power which eternally wills evil and eternally works good.’ GOETHE, Faust1
A quarter of an hour later, Riukhin sat in complete solitude, hunched over his bream, drinking glass after glass, understanding and recognizing that it was no longer possible to set anything right in his life, that it was only possible to forget.
He’s already devil knows where!’
‘Who is this?’ Varenukha bellowed. ‘Stop these jokes, citizen! You’ll be found out at once! What’s your number?’ ‘Varenukha,’ the same nasty voice returned, ‘do you understand Russian? Don’t take the telegrams anywhere.’
The administrator was choking with the desire to expose the malefactors, and, strange as it was, the anticipation of something enjoyable was born in him. It happens that way when a man strives to become the centre of attention, to bring sensational news somewhere.
anguish
astonishment.
fear.
mansion, not a private garden, not money. She loved him, she was telling the truth.
abashedly.
‘But, it’s interesting, what if they come to arrest you?’ Margarita asked. ‘They’re sure to come, charming Queen, they’re sure to!’ replied Koroviev, ‘my heart tells me they’ll come. Not now, of course, but in due time they’ll certainly come. But I don’t suppose it will be very interesting.’
‘Frieda!’ Margarita cried piercingly. The door flew open and a dishevelled, naked woman, now showing no signs of drunkenness, ran into the room with frenzied eyes and stretched her arms out to Margarita, who said majestically: ‘You are forgiven. The handkerchief will no longer be brought to you.’ Frieda’s scream rang out, she fell face down on the floor and prostrated in a cross before Margarita. Woland waved his hand and Frieda vanished from sight.
‘Forgive me, but I don’t believe you,’ Woland replied, ‘that cannot be: manuscripts don’t burn.’ 2 He turned to Behemoth and said, ‘Come on, Behemoth, let’s have the novel.’
‘Ah, don’t listen to the poor woman, Messire! Someone else has long been living in the basement, and generally it never happens that anything goes back to what it used to be.’ He put his cheek to his friend’s head, embraced Margarita, and began muttering: ‘My poor one . . . my poor one . . .’ ‘Never happens, you say?’ said Woland. ‘That’s true. But we shall try.’ And he called out: ‘Azazello!’
‘Well, how are they going to find you missing?’ Koroviev soothed him, and some papers and ledgers turned up in his hands. ‘By your medical records?’ ‘Yes . . .’ Koroviev flung the medical records into the fireplace. ‘No papers, no person,’ Koroviev said with satisfaction. ‘And this is your landlord’s house register?’
Ironic he restores the manuscript but burns the records of the psychiatric hospital
know what you whispered to him,’ Woland retorted, ‘but it is not the most tempting thing. And to you I say,’ he turned, smiling, to the master, ‘that your novel will still bring you surprises.’
‘No, Hegemon, he was not loquacious this time. The only thing he said was that among human vices he considered cowardice one of the first.’7
Levi stood up and replied: ‘No, I don’t want to.’ ‘Why?’ the procurator asked, his face darkening. ‘Am I disagreeable to you? . . . Are you afraid of me?’ The same bad smile distorted Levi’s face, and he said: ‘No, because you’ll be afraid of me. It won’t be very easy for you to look me in the face now that you’ve killed him.’ ‘Quiet,’ replied Pilate. ‘Take some money.’
‘and I also consider it my duty to warn you that the cat is an ancient and inviolable animal.’
be. So, then, to convince yourself that Dostoyevsky was a writer, do you have to ask for his identification card? Just take any five pages from any one of his novels and you’ll be convinced, without any identification card, that you’re dealing with a writer. And I don’t think he even had any identification card! What do you think?’ Koroviev turned to Behemoth. ‘I’ll bet he didn’t,’ replied Behemoth, setting the primus down on the table beside the ledger and wiping the sweat from his sooty forehead with his hand. ‘You’re not Dostoyevsky,’ said the citizeness, who was getting muddled by
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either. Kindly consider the question: what would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it? Shadows
Messire, my wife, if only I had one, was twenty times in danger of being left a widow! But happily, Messire, I’m not married, and, let me tell you, I’m really happy that I’m not. Ah, Messire, how can one trade a bachelor’s freedom for the burdensome yoke . . .’
I’m overcome with sadness before the long journey. Isn’t it true, Messire, it’s quite natural even when a person knows that happiness is waiting at the end of the road? Let him make us laugh, or I’m afraid it will end in tears, and everything will be spoiled before the journey!’
It torments not only him, but also his faithful guardian, the dog. If it is true that cowardice is the most grievous vice, then the dog at least is not guilty of it. Storms were the only thing the brave dog feared. Well, he who loves must share the lot of the one he loves.’
Then there’s no help for it, he must talk to himself. However, one does need some diversity, and to his talk about the moon he often adds that of all things in the world, he most hates his immortality and his unheard-of fame.
‘Listen to the stillness,’ Margarita said to the master, and the sand rustled under her bare feet, ‘listen and enjoy what you were not given in life—peace.
Thus spoke Margarita, walking with the master towards their eternal home, and it seemed to the master that Margarita’s words flowed in the same way as the stream they had left behind flowed and whispered, and the master’s memory, the master’s anxious, needled memory began to fade. Someone was setting the master free, as he himself had just set free the hero he had created. This hero had gone into the abyss, gone irrevocably, the son of the astrologer-king, forgiven on the eve of Sunday, the cruel fifth procurator of Judea, the equestrian Pontius Pilate.
And so, almost everything was explained, and the investigation came to an end, as everything generally comes to an end.
service.’ And, oh, how Ivan Savelyevich has suffered from his own politeness!
The next morning he wakes up silent but perfectly calm and well. His needled memory grows quiet, and until the next full moon no one will trouble the professor—neither the noseless killer of Gestas, nor the cruel fifth procurator of Judea, the equestrian Pontius Pilate.
