The Garden.
Posting #17.
“…Splashing emeralds
into the eye
Are angry handfuls of flies…”
Andrei Bely. The
Countryside.
Marina
Tsvetaeva’s poem To Akhmatova, just
like another one, dated August 31, 1921, was written “in response to the persistent rumor of her [A. Akhmatova’s] death.”
Which is why Tsvetaeva writes that both her “brothers” in poetry and city of
residence (all three are from St. Petersburg) are in Paradise.
“...Must
be – in two quills
They are writing from
there...
One feather comes from a
falcon [Gumilev],
And the other comes from a
dove [Blok]…
And from the storm cloud [the
deaths of both poets] –
(Praise God – a wondrous
wonder!)
An arrow from a falcon, from
a dove...”
Marina
Tsvetaeva sympathizes with Anna Akhmatova over the tragic death of her first
husband and friend Gumilev, as well as over the death of their comrade-in-quill
Blok. The poem is written in a cryptic form in order to confuse censorship.
Marina Tsvetaeva, while worrying about Anna Akhmatova, must also have been
concerned about herself and her own family.
“...Seems
that soon will come for you
A certain document:
-- She’ll be breaking her
wings
Over the cobblestones,
Oh my black-wings
Black
magic-maker you!”
***
Thus,
Matthew Levi’s appearance “out of the wall” points to the execution by the
firing squad of the Russian poet N. S. Gumilev. But it also means that Matthew
Levi must have a prototype.
Strange
as it may seem, Bulgakov gives him features also shared by Pontius Pilate. For
instance, Matthew Levi “had a sullen
wolfish glance, scowling and smiling.” Same goes for Pontius Pilate, of
course.
And
also, as I have already written before, it is precisely in the personage of
Matthew Levi that Bulgakov is making such a strong emphasis on “knives.”
In
the 16th chapter of Master and
Margarita/Pontius Pilate: The
Execution, Bulgakov writes that Matthew Levi had a tremendous in its
simplicity stroke of genius.
“And immediately, as was his hot-headed habit, he started hurling
curses on himself for not having thought of it before. The soldiers’ line was
not too tight. There were gaps in it. With sufficient agility and very precise
calculation, he could bend forward and slip in between two legionnaires, force
his way toward the [prisoner’s] cart and jump on it. Then Yeshua would be freed
from torments.
It would take just a moment to strike Yeshua in the back with a
knife, exclaiming: Yeshua! I am saving
you and going with you! I, Matthew, your faithful and only disciple!
And if God should allow him one extra moment, he could stab himself
too, thus avoiding a painful death on the pole. That, however, did not hold so
much interest for Levi, the erstwhile tax collector. He was indifferent to
whatever form his death might take. All he wanted was to spare Yeshua, who had
never done anybody the slightest wrong in all his life, from torments.
The plan was very good, but the point was that Matthew did not have
a knife on him. Nor did he have any money on him to buy it…”
[See
my comment on this in my chapter Two
Bears, posting #CXCIX.]
***
But
here I was now interested in one question only: Who among all Russian poets could serve as the prototype of Matthew
Levi?
And
then, after a long deliberation, it occurred
to me that only Andrei Bely of all the poets whom I have ever read, had
such an emphasis on killing with a knife.
But
this alone was obviously far from enough. I had to return to Marina Tsvetaeva’s
memoirs, in order to find in the personage of Bulgakov’s Matthew Levi the
traits of the Russian poet Andrei Bely. I succeeded in finding my proof, and as
a result, certain previously obscure passages in both Master and Margarita and Pontius
Pilate became clear to me thereafter.
But
first, I would like to start with Andrei Bely’s poetry.
To
be continued…
No comments:
Post a Comment