Tag Archives: The Master and Margarita

Writer’s House (Pasternak, Olesha, Ilf & Petrov etc.) on Lavrushinsky, Moscow

Click on photos to enlarge.


I would call this one of the greatest-kept secrets in Moscow cultural lore. This building, which you have surely seen if you have ever spent time in Moscow (because it is located right across the street from the Tretyakov Gallery and you, of course, have been there), is absolutely chock-full of literary history, real and imagined. This, for example, is the very place to which the slicked-up and scantily-clad Margarita flies and destroys a critic’s living quarters at the end of Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. You see, Bulgakov was in line to receive an apartment here in the early 1930s, but was refused. A nit-picking critic who was always yapping at the heels of Bulgakov’s work did receive an apartment here. It pissed Bulgakov off enough that he famously avenged the nasty man through his literature. The only change Bulgakov introduced into the story was that in M&M the building ostensibly stands on the Arbat. In fact, this is it: 17 Lavrushinsky Lane, in the Zamoskvorechye region.
Just look at the list of people who were entered in the list of the winners of the “lottery” to receive apartments a full year before construction on the building was complete in 1937: Boris Pasternak, Ilf and Petrov, Konstantin Paustovsky, Ilya Erenburg, Viktor Shklovsky, Agnia Barto, Vsevolod Vishnevsky, Mikhail Prishvin, Lev Kassil, Nikolai Pogodin. Other luminaries who lived here in later years and decades included Veniamin Kaverin, Valentin Kataev, Yury Olesha, the theater director Anatoly Efros, the singer Lidia Ruslanov and more. In terms of literature and art, this building surely beats out the famed House on the Embankment, located just a mile or two away, for saturation of fame and infamy. I bother to add that second word in large part because of the fact that Vsevolod Vishnevsky, the rabble-rousing playwright, lived here. Vishnevsky was an acid-tongued, often jealous and envious, man who wrapped himself in the cloak of Revolutionary fervor and purity as, behind the scenes, he sent others to their doom. Vishnevsky played no small role in the downfall of Vsevolod Meyerhold, Zinaida Raikh and Nikolai Erdman.
If you know Yury Olesha’s famous last book, No Day Without a Line, you now know where it was written. Here is what Olesha had to say about living here shortly after having moved in: “Constant meetings. The first is Pasternak, who has barely come out his own doors. He’s carrying galoshes. He puts them on after crossing the doorstep, not while still inside. Why? For cleanliness’ sake? Going on about something he says, ‘I talk with you as I would with a brother.’ And then there’s [playwright Vladimir] Bill-Belotserkovsky with his unexpectedly subtle commentaries about Moliere’s long monologues…”
I’ve drawn this quote, as I have much information, from an article on the Writer’s House on the Big City website.

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This building, an article on the Travel2Moscow website tells us, was actually signed off by Joseph Stalin, in large part because Maxim Gorky had convinced him there needed to be not only a home, but a whole neighborhood or small city of writers. Many talk about the distinctive black marble frame of the entrance (see the photo immediately below). It, indeed, is impressive, if not off-putting. And it becomes increasingly so when you think about the reality of the people, the years and the events that converged in this structure. It was built in 1937 and people began moving in precisely as the Great Purges (about which I have often had reason to write, and about which I’m sure I will write more – such is the nature of that beast) were beginning. As such, there were numerous people who were arrested here and sent packing to Siberia, barely having had the opportunity to move in. Could it be that Stalin took Gorky up on the idea of putting a bunch of prominent writers in one place in order to make it easier to spy on them and round them up? I mean, why is the entrance to this building framed in black granite? It looks like a building in permanent mourning. Was Stalin – by way of his architect Ivan Nikolaev – telling the tenants something? ‘Beware all ye, who enter these premises!’ Am I making that up? Maybe. Stalin has been known to do much weirder things. One thing is certain, the building is “within reach” of the Kremlin. Look at the first of the grouping of three photos above. You will see the yellow buildings of the Kremlin rising up there in the distance. The Kremlin is just a hop, skip and trip across the Moscow River away.
Interestingly, the building was erected around an old 17th-century structure that now stands hidden behind the grand facades. You can see that 2-story building in the final photo below.
And now let me, again, turn things over to those who know more than I. This last lovely bit is from the Travel2Moscow site:
“The building’s most famous tenant, Boris Pasternak, wrote a poem that began, ‘The house loomed large like a watchtower…’ Neighbors spread humorous rumors about it, such as the one where Pasternak kept a huge dagger on his wall and could often be seen on the building’s rooftop. Indeed, Pasternak’s apartment was located on the top floor and even had an exit onto the roof. Valentin Kataev wrote that during the war Pasternak (‘at night, without a hat, without a tie, and with shirt collar unbuttoned…’) heroically battled incendiary bombs [launched by the Germans], putting them out with sand. In fact, two of these bombs destroyed five apartments and half of a wing, penetrating five floors into the building. During the bombings Paustovsky’s apartment was damaged. Pasternak himself, unlike many writers, did not leave the building during the war, writing that ‘all the dangers frightened and intoxicated.’ It was precisely in this building that he wrote his famous novel Doctor Zhivago.”
Absolutely fascinating stuff, if you ask me. I have just one question at this point, however. Why in the world would Kataev have considered it odd that Pasternak battled incendiary bombs on the roof of his home “without a hat or tie”? What was he supposed to do, don a tux to greet the German bombs?
I must add here a few words spoken by my wife Oksana after I allowed myself to scoff at bit at Kataev. “The humor is Kataev’s,” she said. “What that means is that Kataev, like everyone else, rarely ever saw Pasternak without a hat or tie.” I.e., the only thing that could induce Pasternak out without a tie were German incendiary bombs. Whatever the case may be, my fascination with this structure and its inhabitants is only going to grow.

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Mikhail Bulgakov house, Moscow


I hate to say it, but Mikhail Bulgakov’s memory has not been done a favor by all the attention paid to the building he lived in at 10 Bolshaya Sadovaya Street from 1921 to 1924. It is honored with two plaques, one a workmanlike affair indicating the years of the writer’s residency and the information that the building is maintained by the state, the other a more decorative thing that adds the information that some scenes from Bulgakov’s popular novel The Master and Margarita are set in this building. This latter plaque, as you can see below, is rather under attack from the signs that the contemporary world heaps on many city dwellings. Even the rather imposing second-floor balcony sign proclaiming the location The Bulgakov House, gets lost in the visual chaos of the place.
That’s not so bad, you say. That’s just what happens in the modern world. And you’d be pretty much right. I wouldn’t argue it. But, to my eye somehow, Bulgakov plays second fiddle here, popular as he is. The surfeit of information smacks up against a deficit of impact. But that’s nothing compared to what hits you when you enter the courtyard of the building where the entrance to Bulgakov’s apartment was located.

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Here the building featuring two museums and a theater has been plastered with all kinds of stuff – sculptures, bas reliefs, pictures, posters, marquees and such. At least one statue – of Woland’s helpers Fagot and Begemot – was erected near the door to one of the museums. This work by sculptor Alexander Rukavishnikov was originally planned to be part of a large ensemble of sculptures that was to be erected in the mid 2000s in and around Patriarch’s Pond, another section of the city that is closely connected to the plot of The Master and Margarita. (You can see a bunch of them here.) Although all (or almost all) of the statues were made, none  were ever erected in the intended location. I guess it was kind of a consolation prize that Fagot and Begemot were given a home at building No. 10. If you’ll look closely, you’ll see that they stand in close proximity to a trash can, although if you look even closer, you’ll see that many candy- and cigarette-hungry visitors just stuff their waste papers into the primus heater held by Begemot. People have their picture taken with the duo like they don’t really care, and the whole atmosphere of the place reminds me of a cheap attraction in a run-down, half-forgotten town. A little deeper into the courtyard is the entrance to museum No. 2, the so-called “bad apartment” from The Master and Margarita – that is, apartment No. 50, in which Bulgakov actually lived. I don’t know, folks. De gustibus non est disputandem. The great truth of which is proved by taking a gander at one of the many websites devoted to this conglomeration of museums and statues and such. Here, for example, are just a few of the comments on Afisha, or Marquee, magazine’s page devoted to the place:
“The Bulgakov House is a special place for me! I was there once and I talked about Mikhail Bulgakov all night…,” writes Svetlana Migovich.
“I think this was done really well and the spirit [of the place] is well-created…,” writes Aigul Kh.
“The museum may be marvelous, but the rudeness of the guy at the door amazed me…,” writes Ekaterina Arkharova.
Well, nobody’s perfect. As for me, after about 10 minutes of forcing myself to take pictures, I ran out there as if somebody had sucked all the air out of the place.

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