METAPHYSICS AT CONCEPTION. PART III.

Part III.

How far, then, does Aristotle depart from Plato’s idealistic duality, which he himself criticizes? Apparently, not far at all. If the human soul is a form, not only is this form superior to the matter and spatial boundary of the body, but it can exist independently from the body, and eternally as well… At least, this is what every Christian reader of Aristotle has believed, according to the doctrine of his Church, and, not surprisingly, has found in Aristotle’s theory of forms too! Here is what Bertrand Russell writes about Aristotle’s clandestine Platonism:

The view that forms are substances which exist independently of the matter in which they are exemplified, seems to expose Aristotle to his own arguments against Platonic Ideas. Forms are intended to be different from universals, but they have many of the same characteristics. Form is, allegedly, more real than matter; this is reminiscent of the sole reality of the ideas. The change that Aristotle makes in Plato’s metaphysics is less than he represents it as being.

And here’s a paragraph on this subject by the eminent German classical scholar, philosopher, and theologian Eduard Zeller (1814-1908), taken from his Platonische Studien (1939), as appropriately quoted by Russell:

The final explanation of Aristotle’s want of clearness on this subject is however to be found in the fact that he had only half emancipated himself from Plato’s tendency to hypostatize ideas. The Forms had for him, as the Ideas had for Plato, a metaphysical existence of their own as conditioning individual things. And keenly as he followed the growth of ideas out of experience, it is still true that these ideas, especially at the point where they are farthest removed from experience and immediate perception, are metamorphosed in the end from a logical product of human thought into an immediate presentment of a supersensible world, and the object, in that sense, of an intellectual intuition.

This whole discussion is by no means to imply that Aristotle was overrated as an original thinker, and that he was just another, most talented, but still a follower of Plato. Aristotle’s originality and uniqueness have been proven by the totality of his titanic philosophical endeavor, and his “clandestine Platonism,” as I call it, occupies just this limited aspect of his metaphysics, where the influence of Plato is, indeed, overwhelming.

We could go on and on with our discussion of Aristotle’s theory of forms, but the reader can satisfy his or her interest by going to the source, Aristotle’s Metaphysics, or reading about his metaphysics in reputable histories of philosophy. There are a few brief points left for me to make, before I move to my next subject. The form of a thing is both its essence and its primary substance. Forms are substantial, but universals are not. Not every thing contains matter; there are eternal things devoid of matter. And, lastly, things increase in “actuality” by acquiring and developing form, but matter without form is only a “potentiality.” This last distinction needs some clarification.

The doctrine of matter and form distinguishes between potentiality and actuality. Bare matter is conceived as a potentiality of form; all change consists in an accrual of form: after the change, the thing has more of form than before. What has more form is said to be more actual. God is pure form and pure actuality. And it is to the question of God, as perceived by Aristotle, that we turn our attention in the next entry.

METAPHYSICS AT CONCEPTION. PART II.

Our next point of interest is Aristotle’s dichotomy of matter and form, which is, of course, different from the dichotomy of matter and mind. We can produce a number of marvelous illustrations of this dichotomy, and, perhaps, Aristotle’s own may not be the best, but he is surely entitled to be quoted on it, and so here it is. If a man makes a bronze sphere, bronze is the matter and the sphericity is the form. In other words, the shape, or the spatial boundary of the object, is the factor which is superior to the object’s matter, and it constitutes its special form.

And right here a major difficulty arises, which immediately questions the consistency and even validity of Aristotle’s theory of forms. There needs to be no surprise about it, though, as any philosopher’s “positive” theory does not hold water at close scrutiny, and Aristotle’s misfortune in this case is that he tries to make his theory easily comprehensible to common sense, and thus gets in trouble right away, whereas those who make their theories particularly hard or even impossible to comprehend, can get away with their own fatal flaws simply because the extreme difficulty of their comprehension slows down the impending exposure.

So here is the problem with Aristotle’s theory of forms. Let us continue with the bronze sphere example. If only one such sphere has been made, or rationally considered, the problem does not hurry to come to light. But everything changes when a copy of the first sphere is made, or somebody else makes another identical bronze sphere, that is, of the same material and of the same size, so that the two of them become virtually indistinguishable. Here, although they look exactly alike, these two are still ostensibly different things. No two things, however, can possess the same form. Our two spheres, even though partaking of the universal sphericity (as an abstract figure), are still non-identical particulars, but the ambiguity of such a stretch is exposed already in this example. Aristotle’s view that a form is identical with its essence does not permit the solution of this conundrum by simply saying that a single form can be embodied in several particulars. But as I said before this illegitimacy of the theory of forms as a self-sustained definitive general theory has no bearing on the inherent worth of Aristotle’s philosophical inquiry, and it is here that Aristotle’s genius must receive its due.

Moreover, despite several inconsistencies in Aristotle’s account of his theory, I see a possibility of at least a partial reconciliation of it with common sense and internal logic, and here is my take on it:

Aside from some technical inconsistencies, the existence of a hundred cloned bronze spheres can be easily justified and particularized, with regard to their separateness of forms, by considering all things in space. It does not matter so much to me what kind of matter they are filled with, as long as we distinguish them by the particularity of the space they occupy. A thousand spheres of the same size cannot abide in exactly the same space, and now this part of the conundrum appears to have been solved.

Alas, had it been so simple! From what has been said it should follow that the shape of the human body is its form, but nothing of the sort. From the simple proposition identifying form with shape, Aristotle takes the next step is to identify the human soul as the form of the body. There can be no talk of the boundary or shape here, but the relationship between the form and the matter remains as before, but elevated to a much higher level: the soul, and not the contour, makes the body one thing, so to speak. Idealistically, we rejoice at such a pat definition of the soul, but immediately our task to justify the consistency of Aristotle’s theory of forms becomes immeasurably more difficult. We can of course argue that our previous definitions apply to inanimate objects, whereas living matter is something else, but this creates a highly suspicious duality of the sensible world…

To conclude tomorrow…

METAPHYSICS AT CONCEPTION. PART I.

(Nota bene! Contrary to the general misconception, Aristotle didn’t call this branch of his philosophy “metaphysics,” but, rather, “first philosophy.” And of course he never used this superb Greek word himself. Yet, metaphysics is such a neat term to describe not just “what follows what” in Aristotle’s endless sequence of writings, but, far more importantly, the branch of general philosophy that goes beyond physics, ergo metaphysics.)

Plato and the pre-Socratics were fully engaged in what we call metaphysics, only they never used the word metaphysics, nor did the man who came after them (please, get this joke!) on whose account this term was later coined. We know of course that the man was Aristotle, and that “Metaphysics” refers to the collection of his treatises following his treatises on Physics in Aristotle’s Encyclopaedia of Knowledge. It is because of this rather convoluted reason that I have called the present entry Metaphysics At Conception, since this philosophical term, technically so much associated with Aristotle, was not really born in his lifetime.

Aristotle’s metaphysics includes a variety of subjects which could well be separated into several subentries, or a cluster of them, but currently intending just a brief walk through all these subjects I suspect that having four or five metaphysical entries would make my coverage of the subject four or five times larger than in a single entry, without adding anything substantial to the depth of treatment. In the next phase of my work, I intend to be more selective and at the same time more in-depth than right now, but so far, this is more like a stock entry serving more as a starting point for my future comment than as a philosophical reference for my reader’s edification. (I have subsequently developed my original comment much better than I had expected when I was writing the previous sentence, but still, as a general caveat for a sizable number of these entries, it has not lost its relevance.)

We start with Aristotle’s theory of universals that can be either very easy, or impossibly difficult to explain, depending on how deeply we prefer to go into it and where, if at all, we are willing to stop. The explanation of the term is provided by Aristotle in this succinct sentence: By the term “universal” I mean that which is of such a nature as to be predicated of many subjects; by “individual,”--- that which is not thus predicated. (On Interpretation, 17^a.) It is obvious that proper nouns qualify as individuals, while most common nouns and some classes of adjectives qualify as universals. Proper names are substances, addressed as “this”; universals are “such.” The latter cannot exist an-Sich, but only in their particulars. This is already a major deviation from Plato, whose “Ideas” exist by themselves, whereas in Aristotle they are caught up with their representations.

Should we attempt to go any further into the theory of universals, immediate problems with its consistency, and even common sense, are bound to arise, but it is already clear that Aristotle’s universals are a practical improvement on Plato’s ideas, inasmuch as the bond between the denotation and the denotees, which exists in our common sense, and does not in Plato, is substantially restored in Aristotle. But, mind you, I used the word ‘practical’ on purpose, to make a distinction between the immediate practical and general intellectual values, and I think that Aristotle’s practical improvement on Plato’s theory of forms, in no way diminishes the value of Plato’s thinking on this subject, which still possesses certain abstract dimensions, conspicuously lacking in the Aristotelian improvement. Plato’s precious dualism, distinguishing the two worlds, that is, of transitory everyday illusion, which is the world we live in, and the other one of everlasting absolute value, which we strive to end up abiding in forever, provides us with a philosophical metaphor for our innate longing, and immerses us into a welcome transcendence, where practicality fades out in the background.

Next, there is a special term, introduced by Aristotle into this theory, usually translated into English after its original Latin translation as “essence.” The exact Greek words used by Aristotle to describe it (yes, he uses more than one way of saying it!) are to ti en einai, the what it was to be, and to ti esti, the what it is. In my approximate understanding of this essentia, it is something like the DNA code of a thing, or what makes it what it is. A picture of a lizard seems to convey what lizard is, head, body, tail, and all, but a living lizard without a tail or a dead lizard without a head would still have the essence of lizard, while a fully endowed toy lizard would not. Here is an extremely interesting intellectual novelty, introduced by Aristotle, and its implications are countless, theoretically stimulating and practically provocative. For instance, when does the essence of a human being start? Clearly, before birth, but can it be right at the moment of conception? (The use of the word “conception” in the title of this entry has been an added bonus, which now makes the title irreplaceable.) On the other hand, is the use of the word clearly in the previous sentence really justified and so obvious? We may go on and on, but it should now become unquestionably obvious that his contemplation of what it is alone already makes Aristotle one of the greatest philosophers of all time.

…To be continued tomorrow.

ARISTOTLE VERSUS PLATO

(The subject of the Platonists versus the Aristotelians was already raised in the earlier entry Aristotle With A Grain Of Salt, but, considering that all philosophy allegedly boils down to Plato against Aristotle, an extra entry, or any more of them on this subject, should not be seen as too many.)

Is it Aristotle Versus Plato, or Aristotle Contra Plato? Let us not rush to judgment.

There is a saying, common in philosophical circles, that all philosophers fall into two categories: Platonists and Aristotelians. This is supposed to signify the chasmic difference between the two Greek giants, but the question of where this difference lies, is of a very special nature.

I remember, in my young age, puzzled about this alleged difference, not finding much of it in the substance of both men’s philosophies, but mostly in the way these were presented. Plato’s style was more like fiction, whereas Aristotle’s read like science-nonfiction, but what was that serious, substantial difference between them, which had divided the thinking world? Make sure, of course, that I could distinguish the authorship of the Allegory of the Cave from the source of the Four Causes, but metaphysically speaking, this was not an evident difference in principle!

Fortunately, my puzzlement was not caused by any woeful gap in comprehension. Aristotle is, indeed, very close to Plato in their metaphysical substance, but very different from him in his form of presentation. Here is a delightful passage from Bertrand Russell on this very subject:

“Aristotle’s metaphysics roughly speaking may be described as Plato diluted by common sense. Aristotle is difficult because Plato and common sense do not mix easily. When one tries to understand him, one thinks part of the time that he is expressing the ordinary views of a person innocent of philosophy, and the rest of the time that he is setting forth Platonism with a new vocabulary.”

Our old friend W. T. Jones, in his own History of Western Philosophy, makes a very similar point:

“…It appears that Aristotle’s early thought was very much influenced by Plato… It is important to insist on this purely Platonic period in Aristotle’s development, because some writers have seen him as an opponent and critic of Platonism. But although Aristotle, because of his objection to the apartness of the forms, was forced to reject much in Plato’s work, he was fundamentally and acknowledged a Platonist, and his work is to be understood only as an effort to reformulate the fundamental insights of Plato. His primary interest is, like Plato’s, to reaffirm the existence of a public world of knowledge, and to answer the question: “What is the good life for man?” Like Plato, he found that answer not in radical novelties and strange new doctrines, but in a reinterpretation and reformulation of the old traditional beliefs of the Greeks. What he and Plato did was to give these beliefs a new vitality and a deeper meaning, by basing them on a sound metaphysics, and by showing that the ethical and political values in question were rooted in the very nature and structure of the universe.”

Aristotelianism versus Platonism are therefore not two entirely different philosophies, but, rather, two very different approaches: of the consummate scientist-scholar of philosophy in Aristotle’s case, and of the pure perfect philosopher par excellence in Plato’s. This does not mean, of course, that Aristotle was merely Plato’s follower in matters of pure philosophy. We may say that he was a Platonist where Platonism was larger than Plato himself. Plato started it himself, building on the pre-Socratic foundation. Aristotle’s contribution was partly a reformulation of Plato, and partly a continuation where Plato had left off.

But it was, of course, the striking difference in philosophical styles that divided the philosophical world and compelled all later philosophers to take sides in the case of “Aristotle contra Plato,” each according to their own individual methodological and stylistic preferences.

ENCYCLOPAEDIA AND BEYOND

I have once joked about this mammoth project of mine that I am in the process of writing a veritable encyclopaedia of stuff, and this may be true to a certain extent, considering the variety of my subjects and taking measurement of it in millions of words. But, seriously speaking, the only philosopher in the history of the world who ever attempted writing a bona fide encyclopaedia was none other than Aristotle. In this even if superficial similarity of effort, I have a certain kinship with Aristotle, multiplied by yet another outstanding affinity: our common love for the Peripatetic. [In plain words, our common love of walking.] At the same time, we have what seem to be irreconcilable differences: his style is far too “academic” for my liking. (The reader may have noticed my allusion not only to the modern meaning of the word, which fits Aristotle’s description to a tee, but to Plato’s Academy, as opposed to Aristotle’s Lyceum, which explains the rather esoteric pun.) As Bertrand Russell writes about him:

“He is the first to write like a professor: his treatises are systematic, his discussions are divided into heads, he is a professional teacher and not an inspired prophet; his work is critical, careful, pedestrian, without any trace of enthusiasm. The Orphic elements in Plato are watered down in Aristotle, and mixed with a strong dose of common sense… Where he is Platonic, one feels that his natural temperament has been overpowered by the teaching which he has been subjected to. He is not passionate, or in any profound sense religious. He is best in detail and in criticism; he fails in large construction, for lack of fundamental clarity and Titanic fire.”

Nietzsche seems to concur with Russell in this assessment. (I realize that I am putting this chronologically backwards, but following my train of thought, I cannot help it!) He places Plato above Aristotle, in so far as his choice of kindred shadows is concerned, but puts Aristotle above Plato in the questions of methodology: The great methodologists: Aristotle, Bacon, Dèscartes, Auguste Comte. (#468 of Wille zur Macht.)

(In this regard, the American political philosopher Leo Strauss, on whom I have several separate entries  in various sections of this book [see, for instance, Lenin In America, posted on June 30, 2011, or the three-parter The Posthumous Wild Adventures Of A Nice Jewish Thinker, posted on 14-16 December 2012, etc.], makes a similar distinction, very much to my liking. There are “scholars” and “great thinkers,” he says, in the sense that most so-called “philosophers” are in fact scholars: methodical and cautious. What is a mark of the great thinker, however, is boldness and creativity. Commendably, he calls himself a scholar.)

It is in this sense of his outstanding methodological effort that Aristotle succeeds as a literal encyclopaedist (and where I can only use the word encyclopaedia figuratively, as applied to my own work). There is yet a differently worded general historical assessment of Aristotle in Russell, which is the following:

“In reading any important philosopher, but most of all in reading Aristotle, it is necessary to study him in two ways: with reference to his predecessors, and with reference to his successors. In the former aspect, Aristotle’s merits are enormous; in the latter, his demerits are equally enormous. For his demerits, though, his successors are much more responsible than he is. He came at the end of the creative period in Greek thought, and, after his death, it was two thousand years before the world produced any philosopher who could be regarded as his equal. Towards the end of this long period, his authority had become almost as unchallenged as that of the Church, and in science, as well as in philosophy, had become a huge obstacle to progress. Ever since the beginning of the seventeenth century almost every serious intellectual advance has had to begin with an attack on some Aristotelian doctrine; in logic, this is still true at the present day. But it would have been at least as disastrous if any of his predecessors (very significantly, I should add to this his successors too!) (except, perhaps, Democritus) had acquired equal authority. To do him justice, we must forget his excessive posthumous fame, and the equally excessive posthumous condemnation, to which it led.”

Bertrand Russell’s apologetic caveats notwithstanding, he does not go far enough in vindicating Aristotle against the charges of having been too famous and influential over two millennia, for his own good. What I inserted in the last paragraph as a comment, in red font, goes right to the heart of this issue, and so does My Apology To Aristotle. No author of a definitive scientific or philosophical theory can escape criticism of his successors unless those focus on the success of his trailblazing, instead of on the failure of his effort to pave the new road with an everlasting asphalt.

And nobody in the history of science and philosophy has been a greater trailblazer in every compartment, however small, of human endeavor, comprehensively and across the board, than the great Aristotle. No one has ever come close to Aristotle’s stature, which the title of my present entry here adequately represents as Encyclopaedia And Beyond.

ARISTOTLE WITH A GRAIN OF SALT

Before we move on with discussing the different aspects of Aristotle, the present entry somewhat continues the conversation of the previous one, also quasi-humorous, and a balancing act to my Aristotelian apology. A great man hardly needs an apologia, and, by the same token, he is expected to have many detractors, who criticize him not so much out of fairness, as of a desire to appear substantive, for praise alone must be taken as shallow and truistic, and apparently the only way to have some of the great man’s glory rub off on you is by criticizing him, that is, by climbing up onto his pedestal to do it.

There is an assortment of opinions of Aristotle, now to follow, all with grains of salt of different sizes. It is not necessary to take this entry seriously, but still, its overall content ought not to be entirely neglected.

We begin with St. Augustine’s assessment of Aristotle, as presented in his City of God, viii:

“He was a man of excellent genius, though inferior in eloquence to Plato.” Here, in St. Augustine, we see a Platonist par excellence, and it takes just this single quote to prove that. He is not anti-Aristotelian, he says, but merely pro-Plato, and apparently, the difference between the two is not so much philosophical as that of style, or eloquence, as St. Augustine puts it. An admirable case of non-violence, rhetorically speaking…

Next comes Francis Bacon with his scathing report in Novum Organum, I. This opinion is mostly important in understanding where Bacon stands on the question of Aristotle:

“…He did not consult experience, as he should have done, in the framing of his decisions and axioms, but, having first determined the question according to his will, he then resorted to experience, and, bending her into conformity with his placets, led her about like a captive in a procession.” No one will ever say, having read this, that Bacon was a friend of Aristotle, but the particularly vicious level of his animosity can only be realized through a quote like the one above.

An unusual and delightfully interesting comparison of (Plato’s!) Socrates and Aristotle we are getting from Joseph Addison: The Spectator, December 4, 1711:

“Socrates introduced a catechetical method of arguing. Aristotle changed this method of attack and invented a great variety of little weapons called syllogisms. Socrates conquers you by strategy; Aristotle by force. The one takes the town by sap; the other sword in hand.” Another Platonist, extolling Plato/Socrates contra Aristotle. (Indeed, post-Aristotelian philosophy has been a never-ending battle of these two camps!)

Now, take a look at this Aristotle entry from G. H. Lewes’s 1845 A Biographical Dictionary of Philosophy. It starts with a prayer for the living, and concludes with a requiem for the dead:

“His intellect was piercing and comprehensive and his attainments surpassed those of every known philosopher; his influence has only been exceeded by the great founders of religions; nevertheless, if we now estimate the product of his labors in the discovery of positive truths, it appears insignificant, when not erroneous. None of the great germinal discoveries in science are due to him, or to his disciples.” (…Not a very standard fare for a dictionary of philosophy, but then this dictionary is almost two hundred years old, when the level of sophistication in drawing up “standard” mush was not as refined as in more modern times.)

And finally, albeit taken out of chronological order, a short comment on Hobbes’s use of the term “Aristotelity” of his own invention, as a topnotch profanity against his learned targets. I am sure that this vitriolic expression is not really addressed to the old Greek forefather of the future Christian scholasticism, but it is mainly directed against the dark-age schoolmen, professing their love for Aristotle, and even declaring him  a precursor-prophet of Jesus Christ, while probably at a loss to formulate the non-declarative philosophical differences between Aristotle and Plato.

…Well, after the mountain of rock salt thrown at Aristotle in the course of this entry, we should not feel too guilty praising him to excess, as we would still end up “fair and balanced.” Yet rest assured that our impartial treatment of Aristotle (actually he does not belong among those who particularly excite partiality) is not affected this way or the other by any praises or scorn poured on him by his fans or detractors.

 

MY APOLOGY TO ARISTOTLE

Alexander’s Magnificent Shadows section now resumes with the Aristotle subsection.

(This is presumably a humorous entry, which I penned earlier in a trance of silliness, and I am too greedy to let go of it altogether now, even having recognized its silliness. My two, and only two, excuses for letting it stay on, are one that I can always let go of it later, if I really want to; and two, that it may just be that, after all, it is not so silly as I first thought it to be…)

On behalf of myself, and partly of Nietzsche, I convey this sincerest apology to the great Aristotle for once coming close to calling him a bum. (Well, not quite, but still…)

In my implicit criticism of Aristotle, I may have followed Nietzsche rather uncritically, when I once sort of accused the great Greek, together with Plato, of each creating their overly ambitious (and easily refutable!) philosophical theories, rather than remaining good Pre-Socratics, and limiting their mental excavations to smaller, but priceless nuggets. No more such silly criticism on my part! For one, these Hellenes have more nuggets sprinkled throughout their respective ores than the sum total of the Pre-Socratics. Besides, it takes the genius of a Plato or an Aristotle-- no less-- to reveal those Pre-Socratic nuggets to us, the posterity, otherwise, our dear Parmenideses and Empedocleses would not have existed for us at all!

And yet another point.—Maybe, and probably, the Pre-Socratics were as ambitious as their famous super-epigones, which means that their legacy may have included some quite extensive ‘debunkable’ theories. However, for some unknown reason, they had somehow been fortunate enough to avoid the horrible fate of being “extant.” Thus, I strongly suspect, for instance, that the old sage Pythagoras must have left behind some delectably nutritious mammoth, which would subsequently provide food to a motley string of claimants to his glory, loosely known as the Pythagoreans...

I am also sure that the great demi-god Empedocles had a much-much longer story to tell than what we are giving him credit for, but, perhaps, it contained too much gobbledygook to be understood and passed on by his contemporaries. In fact, the same, or almost the same, could be said of all other pre-Socratics!

The bottom line here is that a single folly of penning down a silly theory must not disqualify any bona fide pre-Socratic, Socratic, or post-Socratic mind from the Pantheon of “monolithic” PreSocratica Sempervirens just because the posterity did not bother to burn his whole manuscript, leaving us with nothing but some shreds of pure wisdom which we could admire, in innocent ignorance, from then on…

In other words, vivat Aristoteles!

GALINA SEDOVA’S BULGAKOV. XCVI.

Diaboliada Concludes.

 

“I have killed him of my own free will,

But I won’t tell you what I killed him for,

I will only tell it to the one true God …”

M. Yu. Lermontov. A Song about Tsar Ivan Vasilievich, a Young Oprichnik, and the Dauntless Merchant Kalashnikov.

The last thing Korotkov sees is that “through the upper glass, not touching the ground, out flew the lustrine little old man,” as though encouraging Korotkov not to surrender. It is quite possible that Korotkov’s last words “Better death than dishonor” were on A. S. Pushkin’s lips as he was walking toward his fatal duel. And it was precisely due to this that on seeing “the terrible shaven Kalsoner, rolling out on his roller skates with an antique musketoon in his hands, Korotkov… straightened out to his full height, [and] with a shrill victorious scream he jumped and soared upwards. Instantly his breath was cut off. Vaguely, he saw how the gray with black holes in it soared upwards past him, as though from an explosion. Then he saw very clearly that the gray fell down, while he himself rose up toward the narrow slit of the side street, which found itself above him. Next the bloodshot sun burst in his head with a ring, and he saw nothing at all after that.”

Thus Bulgakov describes the death of “The Last of the White Guard.” How can we fail to remember the immortal H. C. Andersen: “There in the corner by the house… sat the little girl… dead frozen to death. No one knew what beauty she had seen or in what radiance she had gone.”

On the contrary, the “beauty and radiance” of Korotkov was seen by all.

To God what is God’s, to Caesar what is Caesar’s.

In order to understand the end of Diaboliada, we must realize that we are dealing with two parallel realities, one of them being truly real, and the other magical. In the real reality, the lustrine little old man is a member of the psych-ops ensemble Persymphans. In the parallel magical reality, the lustrine little old man is Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

A favor for a favor.

Out of gratitude to Korotkov for breaking Dyrkin’s head (in magical reality, Dyrkin is Russia’s Emperor Nicholas I, nicknamed Palkin, which sort of rhymes with Dyrkin, providing us with the clue), the lustrine little old man brings Kalsoner onto the roof where Korotkov has his last stand. It was for Kalsoner that he was saving his bullets, “shooting” with billiard balls, thus providing an excellent false impression of an unarmed man. The fact that Korotkov was indeed armed is revealed by the following words of the elevator boy:

“You… best go to the very top, where the billiard rooms are, suggested the boy. There you can hold on, on the roof, if with a Mauser.”

In such a manner, Bulgakov, a “master of disguise” in his writing, shows us that Korotkov was indeed armed with a Mauser.

Blood for blood.

“Korotkov… picked up the candlestick, and with a cracking sound hit Dyrkin’s head with its candles. Blood started dripping from the nose of the other down onto the desk cloth…”

In the fantastic version, a Russian officer of the twentieth century, V. P. Korotkov avenges almost a century later the death of A. S. Pushkin, bleeding to death after the fatal duel, which Nicholas I deliberately chose not to prevent. For this act of benign vengeance, the lustrine old man, alias Pushkin, goads Kalsoner to the roof, where Korotkov is ready for him. It is Kalsoner’s body, riddled with bullets from Korotkov’s Mauser, that Korotkov sees moments before his own death. That is Kalsoner’s body, dressed in his “famous gray french,” with black holes in it, as if from an explosion, soaring upwards past Korotkov, before falling down.

Thus Korotkov saw “a flame coming out of Kalsoner’s mouth” (Kalsoner was probably shooting at Korotkov at that moment); he jumped up and put his full clip into the enemy. This fact should explain the “black holes” in the gray french, and also Kalsoner’s leap upwards, as though from an explosion. “Korotkov saw outstretched hands. Apparently, aside from Kalsoner, no one else was shooting at the presumably unarmed man.”

By using the words “[he] very clearly saw that the gray fell downwards,” Bulgakov makes certain that it was not some hallucination. This is also helpful in understanding the final “cry of victory” (eagle scream), let out by the Russian officer V. P. Korotkov, on seeing that he has killed the enemy.

Thus Mikhail Afanasievich Bulgakov, storyteller of fairytales for adults, restores justice on earth in his by no means phantasmagorical compositions. In my chapter on Bulgakov, in the segment Hardly Children’s Fantasies, I am writing about Bulgakov’s “pen brethren,” a number of foreign writers with world-renowned names. How sad that in the twenty-first century “preparing schoolchildren for real life” means giving them virtual pornography as required reading, while keeping them tragically unaware of the treasures of world classical literature, which alone can prepare the individual for the never-ending struggle of good and evil on this earth.

GALINA SEDOVA’S BULGAKOV. XCV.

Diaboliada Continues.

 

“A bloody grave is waiting for me,

A grave without prayers, and no cross…”

M. Yu. Lermontov.

In response to the boy’s question before the battle Korotkov replies: “We are attacking Kalsoner. And he has just gone on the offensive.” Paraphrasing Azazello in Master and Margarita (who says it about fire), we can say that in Diaboliada everything begins with Kalsoner and everything ends with Kalsoner. Even before Korotkov learned about Kalsoner’s existence, he had a dream:

“Near dawn Korotkov fell asleep and dreamed an idiotic, frightening dream, as though on a green lawn there appeared before him an enormous live billiard ball on legs…”

Compare this dream to Petka’s in White Guard. Petka sees a dream “simple and happy, like the sun ball… Petka ran up to the diamond ball, and choking with joyful laughter hugged it with his arms, [and] the ball showered Petka with sparkling drizzle… From all this pleasure he burst into loud laughter in the night…”

Korotkov’s dream produced the opposite reaction. “This was so bad that Korotkov cried out and woke up. In the muddled darkness he imagined for another five seconds or so that the ball was still there, near the bed, and that there was a very strong smell of sulphur…”

Thus for the first time ever, in Diaboliada, Bulgakov introduces premonition, a sixth sense of an impending doom. As we remember, in Fateful Eggs Bulgakov becomes even more daring, and his Professor Persikov also feels bad and imagines…

 “He imagined as though something was burning, as though blood was flowing, sticky and hot, down his neck”

(Also see my posted segment LXX.)

It is also impossible not to compare the description of Kalsoner’s appearance on the next page with this Korotkov’s dream.---

“And then right at the door to the office Korotkov collided with a strange man who stunned him by his appearance.” Although Bulgakov does not provide Kalsoner’s biography, a lot can be gleaned merely from the description of his manner of dress.---

“The body of the stranger was clothed in an unbuttoned french, sewn from a gray blanket, from under which showed a Malorossian [Ukrainian] embroidered shirt; the legs were clad in pants made of the same material, and on his feet he had low cutout boots of a hussar, dating back to the time of [Tsar] Alexander I.”

From this description we can already gather that Bulgakov treats this character without any sympathy. This man is obviously of small means, uneducated, arriving in Moscow from Ukraine. The gray french points to his Napoleonic ambition to conquer Moscow. Later on, Bulgakov reinforces this connection to Napoleon by quoting the well-known song about Napoleon:

“The fire of Moscow was noisy and thunderous,

The smoke was creeping along the river,

And on the walls of the gates of the Kremlin

He was standing, dressed in a gray coat…”

Likewise, the “boots of a hussar, dating back to the time of Alexander I” point to Napoleon as well, but the one already defeated by the Russian victorious Tsar-Alexander I, triumphantly entering Paris in 1813 upon a white stallion.

Bulgakov clearly shows that Kalsoner’s victory over Korotkov will be a short-lived one, that just like Napoleon, Kalsoner is a passing stage in rich Russian history. Bulgakov proves his idea by his next work Fateful Eggs (1924), where he predicts the fall of the NEP in 1928, with an amazing accuracy. How did he know that? By being a shrewd student of history. Thus, there is a good reason why Bulgakov inserts several historical names into his Diaboliada: Alexei Mikhailovich Romanov, the “most tranquil” Tsar of Russia, opening the door to Peter the Great; Jan Sobiesky, the king of Poland and hero of the 1683 Battle of Vienna fought against the Turks; Oliver Cromwell, the scourge of English monarchy, regicide, Lord Protector of the Commonwealth, who returned Jews to England after three and a half centuries of banishment; and of course Napoleon (“He was standing, dressed in a gray coat…”), who emancipated the Jews not just in France, but throughout Europe…

A man of strong convictions, Bulgakov in his numerous sketches clearly shows his negative attitude to the NEP, as a defective economic policy, promoting uneducated opportunistic people with no knowledge of economics, or science, or politics, or history of the development of humanity, self-important philistines with no culture, either their own or foreign, and despising their own nation, out of which they emerged, thus becoming their nation’s “fifth column”. The character of Kalsoner in Diaboliada changes into the character of A. S. Rokk in Fateful Eggs [a propagandist, “editor of an enormous newspaper” in Turkestan], and later into the more polished character of Berlioz in Master and Margarita, editor of a “thick art journal” whose head is cut off by a young Russian woman, Komsomol member, for the unforgivable sin of brainwashing the Russian people.

In Diaboliada, Bulgakov for the first time tries his pen in this direction. Returning home after the ‘revelation’ that Kalsoner was ‘double’ (now shaven, now bearded, now shaven again), Korotkov refuses to believe it, thus showing his common sense. “As though enchanted, for about half-an-hour, he was looking at the portrait of Cromwell… and suddenly fell into some kind of fit of a violent nature.” Which is quite understandable for any man who would lose his job (because of Kalsoner) and his identity, too. “In one sweep, he threw the boxes of matches onto the floor and started stomping upon them with his feet. ‘Here! Here! Here!’ Korotkov howled as he was crushing the devil’s boxes with a cracking sound, vaguely dreaming that he was crushing the head of Kalsoner.”

Moments of despair, moments of helplessness make Korotkov closer, more understandable, more accessible to the reader, as each must have lived through moments of despair and helplessness at some point, for this reason negatively looking at cartoon heroes with all their perfection and self-assurance. Each person has moments of weakness in his or her life, and the real test is therefore not whether one has such moments or not, but how one overcomes them.

Korotkov, “pale and agitated,” “dumbfounded,” with a “breaking… shaky” voice, in “despair… started softly weeping,” and also “sobbing,” [in contrast to Kalsoner, who was “roaring in a copper heavy voice,” “deafening” his subordinates with the kitchen “pots and pans sound” of his voice, rolling away as though on roller skates, with his “bald head representing an exact oversized replica of an egg,” “disgusting,” “double,” that is, two-faced] evokes our sympathy and compassion toward a “man overboard.”

Bulgakov depicts Korotkov’s burgeoning doubt in the existence of two Kalsoners, and with this doubt comes the fear that he may be losing his rationality:

“Fear crawled through the black windows into the room, and Korotkov, trying not to look into them, pulled the curtains. But this did not bring him relief. The double face, now growing beard, now suddenly shaven again, was floating at him at times from the corners, its greenish eyes gleaming. At last, Korotkov could not take it anymore, and feeling that his brain wanted to crack from the pressure, he started weeping ever so softly…Why am I crying when I have wine? In one gulp  he drank half a tea-glass of the church wine… his left temple suffered an excruciating pain… Because of the pain in the temple, Korotkov completely forgot all about Kalsoner…”

Korotkov’s breakdown here is very serious. It travels to Master and Margarita, where it gets further development in the story of Master. “The monstrous failure with the novel as though removed part of my soul… Namely, anguish overwhelmed me, and certain premonitions appeared.”

Like in Korotkov’s case, the fear which Master is talking about is a result of psychological warfare unleashed by organized scum. It starts with the critic Ahriman’s article Enemy Sortie, where Ahriman warns the readers that Master wishes to sneak into print “an apology of Jesus Christ.” The next day in another newspaper a certain Lavrovich suggests “to hit hard against Pilatism, and against that God-painting hack who fancied to sneak it into print.” A third paper carried an article by Latunsky, titled Militant Old-Believer who dares to discourse about religion. Thus, Master entered “the stage of mental illness.”

Before that stage, however, was the “stage of surprise. There was something uncommonly false and unsure of itself literally in every line of these articles… It seemed to me--- and I could not get rid of that feeling--- that the authors of the articles were saying not what they wanted to say, and that their ferocity was caused by precisely that realization.”

Here Bulgakov clearly shows that the authors of these denunciatory articles did not attack Master per se, but they were against any discussion of Christianity in literature and print.

It is also clear from Master’s medical symptoms that he was suffering from an aggravating heart disease, namely, angina pectoris, which was causing his bouts of fear. Although Bulgakov writes that Master was increasingly “afraid of the dark,” the real reasons for his fear were the physical symptoms (“Some kind of supple and cold octopus was reaching its tentacles directly and closely toward my heart”), which unfortunately progressed into mental symptoms, which is precisely what Bulgakov stresses by Master’s response to Ivanushka’s reassuring suggestion: “But you can be cured!”--- “I am incurable, calmly replied Master.”

Yet again Bulgakov shows his knowledge of homoeopathy: “The case is rendered incurable if physical symptoms change into mental symptoms.”

Master “woke up from the feeling that the octopus was there,” that is, from a heart pain.

“I went to bed like a man falling sick, and woke up sick... I suddenly imagined “that darkness would push in the window glass and pour in, and I would be drowned in it, like in ink. I got up like a man who is no longer in control of his faculties. I cried out, and the thought came to me to run to somebody… I was fighting myself like a madman. I found a bottle of white wine, uncorked it, and started drinking wine straight from the bottle. As a result, my fear was somewhat blunted.”

As I already wrote elsewhere, alcohol blunts the feeling of fear, which is the reason why Russian soldiers in war were issued quantities of vodka, given to them right before the battle. On the other hand, in America, according to Dr. James Tyler Kent, in early twentieth century, soldiers were given Gelsenium, which is inimical to alcohol.

In the last hours of his life, Korotkov felt no fear, as he was under the influence of valerian. He was indeed in a state of “joyous excitement, greatest liveliness and extravagance.” (John Henry Clarke, MD. A Dictionary of Practical Materia Medica.)

Diaboliada concludes with the grand finale tomorrow…

GALINA SEDOVA’S BULGAKOV. XCIV.

Diaboliada Continues.

 

“A young Slavyanka sings this song…

And he has fallen, he is dying

The bloody death of a warrior.

His wife raises their infant son

Over the pale head of his father:

‘See how men are dying,

And learn revenge at a woman’s breast!..’”

M. Yu. Lermontov. Ballad.

 

Apart from the top hat, the one “very fat and pink” has sassy and impudent behavior, in common with the Backenbarter. “Well, isn’t this lovely? Now I’m going to arrest you.” Like the Backenbarter retreating only after receiving a rebuff from Margarita in Master and Margarita, this one persists only until having received a rebuff from Korotkov, after which he starts shaking, crossing himself, his face changes color, and he goes so far as to help Korotkov into the elevator, addressing him as “Your Excellency.”

And the final thing in this regard, which I wish to share with the reader, concerns the “emeritorial money for the month of May.” A. S. Pushkin was born on May 26^th, 1799 (Old Style Calendar). Bulgakov obviously knew this fact, and, having written that the pale youth “stole the emeritorial fund for May,” he awards the primacy in Russian literature to M. Yu. Lermontov.

By the same token, Bulgakov must have read Pushkin’s diaries, reminiscences, and letters. On 22 May, 1824, A. S. Pushkin (having been sent into his “Southern” exile from St. Petersburg on May 6, 1820) received an assignment from Count M. S. Vorontsov to depart on an official trip to inspect the situation with locusts in Kherson, Elizavetgrad, and Alexandrov districts.

This is where Bulgakov has the word “commandirovka” [official trip] from. Korotkov is not sent on a business trip. In reality he is being sent out of Moscow to a destination of his choice, with Irkutsk and Poltava to choose from. The “blue blond man” does not even use the word “trip.” Thus, already in Diaboliada, Bulgakov gives us a clue that one of his fictional characters is a disguised A. S. Pushkin, presented here as the “lustrine little old man.” Trying to lure Korotkov with money allotted for official trips (“Kissing or no kissing, you won’t kiss yourself an official trip!”), the “lustrine little old man” is at the same trying to intimidate him. (“The voice of the little old man became prophetically threatening and was imbued with the toll of bells.—‘This satanic money isn’t going to do well for you. Get stuck in your throat, it will!’”

In other words, we may surmise that the “lustrine little old man” warns Korotkov not to become a snitch.

It is so unfortunate that Russian society today does not have a prophet like A. S. Pushkin, who would have exposed certain opposition figures, unwilling to live in “poverty,” for what they really are: snitches, despised in all societies, and especially by those who pay them money for snitching.

And so, to the aid of the Russian officer V. P. Korotkov, who did not wish to leave Russia and go to Constantinople, come some really mysterious characters: the lustrine little old man and the pale youth. I will agree that this help is being offered in a very strange form, but it is the result that counts. It makes Korotkov resolute in his determination: “Better death than dishonor!” Here Bulgakov makes reverse psychology work.

…Well, our hero is on the run for his life, on account of assault. He is accompanied by the “lustrine little old man.”---

“Korotkov heard yells and shots; he was running to the eleven-story tall building…” Obviously, it was the lustrine little old man who was pushing him toward “the numbers,” where he was already expected by “a boy in embroidered uniform with gilded buttons” (does the description ring a bell?), that is, by an accomplice of the lustrine little old man, the “pale youth.”

Bulgakov is true to himself. In Master and Margarita, both Koroviev and Begemot turn themselves into a rook-chauffeur; Koroviev turns into the Backenbarter; and Begemot into a little boy:

“In a little bed… sat a boy of about four years of age, listening [to the racket], frightened. There were no adults in the room. Apparently, all of them ran out of the apartment…”

It is impossible even to imagine that a little child would be left alone at a time when someone was breaking glass windows in the building. It is also impossible to believe that Azazello and Company, while testing Margarita for her forthcoming role as the hostess of Satan’s Ball, would trust her in her hyper condition of sheer madness to be dealing with a real little child. We know, of course, that Margarita passes her big test with flying colors (as I already wrote about this in the chapter Backenbarter: Margarita’s Maiden Flight, segments XLIV, XLV, and XLVI), but still that could not be a real boy, which Bulgakov clearly indicates by the following phrase:

“The boy looked slyly somewhere to the side, and asked: ‘And where are you, Auntie?’”

I already wrote elsewhere that Bulgakov painted the character of Kot Begemot with great love, first of all for M. Yu. Lermontov being such an inspiration for him.

Secondly, because their lives, Bulgakov’s and Lermontov’s, had certain similarities. Bulgakov lost his father at the age of sixteen, and his life and the life of his family (there were seven children in it) was never to be the same ever since.

Thirdly, M. Yu. Lermontov’s situation was even worse than being an orphan. There were rumors aplenty that his father was guilty of his mother’s death, when Lermontov was still an infant. Lermontov wrote several poems about it, suffering on account of these rumors and refusing to believe them.

And finally, M. Yu. Lermontov perished at such a young age that Bulgakov with his own experience may have treated him, even in his short adulthood, as a mere child…

…And so, Korotkov “ran into the mirrored space of the vestibule [of the eleven-storied building, where he was effectively goaded by the lustrine little old man, alias the black cape, who, having achieved his goal, disappeared]. A boy in embroidered jacket with gilded buttons (compare this with the very famous portrait of Lermontov in his Russian officer’s uniform!) jumped away from the elevator and burst into crying. ‘Take it, uncle, take it!’ he bellowed, ‘only don’t beat an orphan!’”

The word “uncle” is loaded, and it gives away the store. What immediately comes to mind is the well-known poem Borodino by Lermontov, where a boy addresses his uncle:

“You tell me, uncle, that it wasn’t for nothing

That Moscow, burned by a fire,

Was surrendered to the French?

Weren’t there some heavy battle engagements,

They say, they were quite something;

For it isn’t for nothing that all Russia remembers

The day of Borodino!..”

And then, right after giving away such a telling clue, Bulgakov tries to confuse the reader:

“You, uncle, best go to the very top, where the billiard rooms are, suggested the boy. There you can hold on, on the roof, if you got a Mauser to yourself.”

The boy gives Korotkov good advice, but this time he does not use the regular word “dyadya” (“uncle”), but the derivative “dyadenka” (diminutive of “uncle”).

I would like to note also that Bulgakov himself draws the reader’s attention to the fact that having done his job, the lustrine little old man, alias the one very fat and pink, the “fat man from the platform jumped into the cabin, closed the shutters, and rocketed down,” that is, without waiting for Korotkov, he left him there alone after the assault on Dyrkin-Palkin. In a very similar manner, “the boy rushed into the elevator, shut himself in and dropped downward” after taking him to the “top level.” One Russian officer helping out another in the hour of trouble…

Leaving his hero alone by himself, Bulgakov provides plenty of evidence that this is a military man, a Russian officer.---

“Korotkov leaped out, looked around, and listened… With an eagle’s eye he observed the position… With the battle cry Charge!.. Korotkov realized that the position could not be held… Encirclement… It’s over… over. The battle was lost. Ta-ta-ta, he sang the trumpet retreat with his lips. The courage of death poured into his soul... Korotkov climbed up to the post of the parapet... straightened up to his full height, and shouted: Better death than dishonor!.. With a shrill cry of victory, he jumped and soared upwards…”

To be continued…

GALINA SEDOVA’S BULGAKOV. XCIII.

Diaboliada Continues.

“…Independence and self-respect alone can elevate us over the trivialities of life and over the storms of fate.”

A. S. Pushkin. Voltaire.

…Bulgakov gives the reader four clues as to who the lustrine little old man is.---

1.      “The little old man took out a large handkerchief… started crying and blowing his nose.”

“The little old man all shook and burst into tears.”

“The little old man flowed in wild weeping…”

What we’ve read so far strongly points in the direction of Koroviev, in Master and Margarita. Compare these:

“Koroviev pulled a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, pushed his nose into it and started weeping.”

“Tears flowed from under the pince-nez in torrents.”

“Being unable to contain himself, Koroviev started convulsing in sobbing.”

“Having wept to capacity…”

All of this is taking place in the episode with Berlioz’s Kievan uncle, as Koroviev relates to him the details of his being crushed by a tram, but withholding the information that it was Koroviev himself who sent Berlioz there, to his death.

2.      “A black cape weaved out of the air and dragged alongside Korotkov, with a cry thin and long.” We already know that the “cape” is the lustrine little old man:

“Like a black bird [raven?!], the cape shut off the light, the little old man started whispering in an alarmed voice…”

“The cape embraced Korotkov and pulled him along, whispering and giggling…”

“The cape flittered to the side…”

The “cape” merely shows that Bulgakov poses a riddle for the reader, as to who this is. The coat of this type, we know, was an attribute of Sherlock Holmes. But our main clue here is a different one: “weaved out of the air,” as in Master and Margarita the regent [alias Koroviev] appears similarly on the second page of the novel:

“And then the balmy air thickened before him [Berlioz], and, woven out of this air, appeared a most strange, transparent citizen... This long see-through citizen was dangling in front of him right and left, without touching the ground…”

 

3.      Although the “lustrine little old man” calls himself an “old dog,” he is much better suited by the description of “ghost”:

“Don’t go in, mumbled the lustrine little old man, and flew through the air waving the wings of his cape… I am not going in, not going in…”

“…And as for the paper, I’ll still sneak it in. You sign any, there you go to the dock.”

“He pulled a stack of papers out of his wide black sleeve.”

Note also his words concerning the psych-ops: “Oh yes, I’ve done them such a service, what I’ve sprinkled on their desks should earn each of them at least five years, with a defeat on the battlefield.”

The words “you sign any” also belong to Koroviev in Master and Margarita, in the scene with Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of the housing cooperative:

“Koroviev with the greatest speed and agility drew up a contract in two copies. In cursive, in cursive, Nikanor Ivanovich!.. thousands of rubles…” And we all know of course what happened to Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy: “…The tenants of the building saw how the chairman, in the company of two more persons, proceeded straight to the gate. Nikanor Ivanovich had no face on him… he was shaking, walking like a drunk, and mumbling something to himself…” In other words, Comrade Bosoy was arrested.

 

4.      And finally, the blue lunettes of the lustrine little old man (incidentally, matching the color of the psych-ops’ suits) turn into Koroviev’s pince-nez in Master and Margarita:

“Now the regent [Koroviev] fixed upon his nose an obviously unnecessary pince-nez, which had one glass missing entirely and the other one was cracked. Because of this, the checkered citizen became even more repulsive than when he had been showing Berlioz the way to the rails.” And at the ball the pince-nez is replaced by a monocle: “The flickering light was reflected not in that cracked pince-nez which had long deserved being thrown out as trash, but in a monocle, also cracked, to tell the truth. The small moustache on his face was curled and pomaded.”

The question arises: why is Bulgakov showing us his idol as such an unbecoming sight?..

It is very hard to believe, in spite of all aggregate proof, that we are looking at Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin. By showing us the appearance and behavior of Koroviev in this fashion (the same goes for the lustrine little old man), Bulgakov emphasizes vice in mankind, and makes the reader think about what is in fact going on in everyday reality.

In order to understand it the way it is, we need to read A. S. Pushkin himself. In his diary of 1821, Alexander Sergeevich writes:

“It is not enough to be scum, one has to be scum openly.”

I believe that this is precisely what Bulgakov was basing his “Pushkin” characters on. A. S. Pushkin’s words above are our key to the understanding of the characters of the “lustrine little old man” and the “pink and fat in a top hat” in Diaboliada, and of course those of Koroviev and the “Backenbarter” in Master and Margarita.

Koroviev wears broken glasses as an example of what the Russians call “rubbing someone’s glasses,” meaning deceiving someone. According to Bulgakov, the blue color of the lustrine little old man’s lunettes reveals grief, trouble for each and every one whom he meets. Bulgakov’s blue color is the color of deception, fraud, set-up of a man. On the other hand, Bulgakov’s violet color is the color of glory. Only to A. S. Pushkin in Master and Margarita, and to Bogdan Khmelnitzky in White Guard does Bulgakov render the association with the violet color.

 

It is most interesting to observe that the “pale youth” threatens Korotkov with a “red fist.” We know that M. Yu. Lermontov wore a red military tunic with gold embroidery seventy centimeters long. On the other hand, he, Lermontov, called the gendarmerie (police) “blue tunics” in his poems. On a funny note, according to Dr. Constantine Hering, under the influence of valerian, “red parts become white.” In Bulgakov’s Diaboliada the fist of a white man becomes red.

In Master and Margarita Koroviev changes his appearance twice (aside from his well-known transformation into a dark-violet knight, at the end of the novel): into the rook-chauffeur, taking Margarita and Master to Master’s old basement apartment (see my posted segment L) and “some nude fat man wearing a black silken top hat” on the riverbank (see my posted segment XLIV).

In Diaboliada the “lustrine little old man” also changes his appearance.

“The cape, like a black bird, shut off the light, the little old man apprehensively whispered: ‘Now there is only one way out: to Dyrkin in the Fifth Section. Move! Move!’” While Korotkov was going down on the elevator, “the cape flittered to the side, there was a draft of wind and dampness from the [elevator] cage going down into the abyss.” The “cape” came down before Korotkov did, and it was already waiting for him in front of the elevator: “One very fat and pink in a top hat met Korotkov with the words: ‘Well, isn’t this lovely. Now I’m going to arrest you.’”

The proof that this is Pushkin is the same as in the case of the Backenbarter of Master and Margarita: the top hat. It is not only the fact that men no longer wore top hats in Russia of the 1920’s, but, as I already wrote in my subchapter Backenbarter, Bulgakov writes in his Notes on the Cuffs about a shadow in a top hat, when he quotes Pushkin’s poem in the chapter Footcloth and Black Mouse:

“Drunk with despair, I mumble: ‘Alexander Pushkin. Lumen Coeli, Sancta Rosa, And like thunder is his threat…’ Am I going mad, or what? The shadow from a lantern ran. I know it’s my shadow. But it has a top hat on, whereas I sold my top hat at the market, being hungry…”

What Bulgakov means here is a play of his which he wrote in the Caucasus and sold for money. In other words, the top hat here is a symbol of integrity, and Bulgakov awards Pushkin with the top hat for his integrity: A. S. Pushkin never wrote on order. In his diary entry for 10^th May, 1834, he writes, paraphrasing the words of the great Russian scientist and poet M. V. Lomonosov:

“…But I can be a subject and even an [unwilling] slave, but a [willing] slave and a buffoon I shall not be even to the Tsar of Heaven.”

Pushkin thus reacts to his humiliating appointment as Kammerjunker at the court of Tsar Nicholas I Palkin, which tied Pushkin to the despised court.

Curiously, in his article Voltaire, A. S. Pushkin returns to this question, writing that only personal ‘independence and self-respect alone can elevate us over the trivialities of life and over the storms of fate.’

Bulgakov in Master and Margarita reacts to these Pushkin’s words:

“Messire, you just need to order it!, Koroviev responded from someplace, but not in his customary rattling voice, but very clearly and sonorously.”

Thus he stresses that although Koroviev serves Woland, that is, he has no personal independence, still he keeps his self-respect. As we may remember, his “account” is closed on Russian Orthodox Easter, when he receives his independence.

To be continued…