Why I read . . . and now re-read Dostoyevsky

St. Ambrose

Holy Elder

Optina Monastery

(Image from Wikipedia)

According to Marc Slonim, who wrote the Introduction to Constance Garnett's translation of The Brother's Karamazov, "the Holy Elder Ambrose," depicted above, "was definitely the model of Father Zossima," and it was this Ambrose whom Dostoyevsky -- accompanied by the philosopher Vladimir Solovyov -- "had gone . . . to the Optina Monastery to meet" (Dostoyevsky, Brothers Karamazov (New York: Random House, 1950), p. xiii). Father Zossima has some insightful words about resentment that are relevant not only for my interest in the 'resentful' character of Darcy in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice but also for the resentment that I recently encountered on this blog.

I am, of course, no stranger to the experience of resentment within myself, though I hope that I have overcome most of that, and I recall not only cases of 'justifiable' resentment but also (and even more so) cases of unjustifiable resentment. At times, I believe, we find that we wish to take offense . . . though I think that this happens more often when we are young and passionate, before the passage of years has taught us to entertain more suspicions about our own precious 'causes'. We carry a chip on our shoulder -- sometimes the right, sometimes the left -- and not merely wait but positively expect, even hope, yes actually actively seek, for someone to knock it off. We nurture a base and baseless resentment that we hope to help grow.

In Dostoyevsky's novel The Brothers Karamzov, the insightful and saintly Father Zossima speaks to those who resent without cause:

"Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love . . . . The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than anyone. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offence, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill -- he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offence, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness." (Dostoyevsky, Brothers Karamazov, p. 48)

How true, that a "man may know that nobody has insulted him, . . . yet he will be the first to take offence . . . and so pass to genuine vindictiveness." Such a man will gesture toward equanimity, extoll his own reasonability, praise himself and his own patience to the heavens, and fall into an outraged indignation at the mildest challenge to his opinions, expressing his vindictive outrage through harsh but ultimately ineffectual insults of his own.

But perhaps we learn, some of us, from experience . . . the best teacher.

Bulgakov: The Seventh 'Proof' of God's Existence

Mikhail Bulgakov

(Jan Vanhellemont Website)

Yesterday, I asked about the "seventh proof" of God's existence, a 'proof' referred to in Mikhail Bulgakov's magnum opus The Master and Margarita, and I promised to look into this proof.

Well, I did look into it, and I have nothing to report.

Just kidding. I found some speculations. This website by Jan Vanhellemont -- a Belgian man who read the novel and was so taken by it that he began to learn Russian in order to read the work in the original -- offers annotations, including one on "the seventh proof" of God's existence, introduced by the mysterious Professor Woland in chapter 3:

In this chapter Woland asserts the existence of yet a seventh proof, which is demonstrated to Berlioz minutes later when he is decapitated by a streetcar -- "At least believe that the devil exists! I no longer ask you for anything more. Mind you, there exists a seventh proof of it, the surest of all! And it is going to be presented to you right now!"

And a couple of minutes later Berlioz notices that Woland is right. The seventh proof could be called the experiential proof. Because Berlioz experiences that the devil exists, by which the seventh proof of God's existence is given.

It may be worth to mention that Bulgakov's close friend, the philosopher and literary critic Pavel Sergeevich Popov (1892-1964), was absorbed by the problem of the proofs of the existence of God.

(Parenthetical aside: Did Pavel Sergeevich Popov speak of a "seventh proof"?)

Calling this seventh proof the "experiential proof" is intriguing, but whose experience? We're not told explicitly what Berlioz experienced in death, but we do overhear this as he falls beneath the tram:

In Berlioz' brain someone cried out frantically, "Really?..." (Chapter 3, Mirra Ginsburg translation, 1967)

Whether this is Berlioz himself recognizing the truth of the devil's and thus of God's existence or some anonymous spectator expressing unfathoming horror in a voice that finds echo in Berlioz's final moments of consciousness, I don't know.

At any rate, the one who seems to 'experience' the seventh proof most powerfully is the poet Ivan Nikolayich Poniryov, better known by the pseudonym Bezdomny (i.e., "Homeless"), who pursues Woland and his two compatriots -- an unnaturally tall denizen of some foreign place and a black tomcat as large as a pig -- eventually concluding . . . well, no, not quite concluding anything supernatural (albeit perhaps subconsciously, given the icon that he pins to his chest in pursuit of Woland). Bezdomny has to be told:

"It was Satan whom you met last night at Patriarchs' Pond." (Chapter 13, Mirra Ginsburg translation, 1967)

Yet, Bezdomny remains skeptical, at least briefly. Apparently, the proof takes time to work its effect. Leslie Milne notes this delay of the proof's effect in Bulgakov: The Novelist-Playwright (Routledge, 1996), but rather than talk about an experiential proof, Milne notes the effect wrought by the accurate predition of Berlioz's death.

For more on the devil's existence as the "seventh proof" of God's existence, see "The Apocalyptic Vision of Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita," by Edward E. Ericson, Jr. (pdf), who investigates Bulgakov's debt to Russian Orthodoxy.

Personally, I wonder if there might be some obscure connection to the "seventh seal" of "The Apocalypse of John," especially given the title of this last article above. But more on this another time.

Alexander Boguslawski: "Theotokos of Kazan" and "Blessed Silence"

Theotokos of Kazan

Alexander Boguslawski

(Image provided by Alexander Boguslawski)

My wife showed me how to transfer images stored on my computer to Photobucket, which I referred to yesterday, so I can now reveal the above icon by Alexander Boguslawski as well as seven more more icons of Christ the Blessed Silence.

Actually, Boguslawski calls his icon the "Mother of God of Kazan," but "Theotokos" means "God-Bearer" in Greek and is less literally 'translated' as "Mother of God" in English. The expressions are used in Orthodox and Catholic Christianity to refer to the Virgin Mary but aren't intended to imply that Mary herself was divine, simply to emphasize her role as Christ's mother. Perhaps Professor Boguslawski himself could say more on this if he happens to visit here and has time for commenting.

There exists, by the way, an original "Theotokos of Kazan," which I've provided below for ease of comparison:

Theotokos of Kazan

Russia, 16th Century

(Image from Wikipedia)

Boguslawski has subtly altered the direction in which the eyes of the Virgin and the Infant are focused. The Virgin in the original icon looks directly at us, and her head is slightly less inclined. Boguslawski's Virgin, her head more bowed and her face so serious, seems lost in contemplation, as if reflecting down upon the earthly pain to come, but her uplifted eyes suggest a reliance upon God. By having the head bowed and the eyes raised, she gives the impression of looking both down and up simultaneously. Interestingly, Boguslawski has made the Infant more youthful but also, like the Virgin, so very serious, whereas the original Infant seems to have the hint of a smile despite being depicted as aged beyond his infancy. In neither icon does the Infant look at us. In the original, he appears to gaze upward, but Boguslawski's has him gazing downward, perhaps reflecting upon his earthly mission ahead. But these are my subjective impressions, for I lack any expertise on these works of sacred art.

Below are the images of the seven icons showing Christ the Blessed Silence that Professor Boguslawski fowarded from the art expert and dealer Richard Temple to me, including the two icons with the seraphim depicted in a manner similar to the depiction of the seraph in the icon posted yesterday (and also prior to that). Since these seven were not identified, I cannot provide any further information as to their origins, but we can still appreciate their beauty:

Christ the Blessed Silence

(Image provided by Richard Temple)

Christ the Blessed Silence

(Image provided by Richard Temple)

Christ the Blessed Silence

(Image provided by Richard Temple)

Christ the Blessed Silence

(Image provided by Richard Temple)

Christ the Blessed Silence

(Image provided by Richard Temple)

Next come the two icons with the seraphim depicted: first with the blue ones and then with the red ones:

Christ the Blessed Silence

Depicted with Blue Seraphim

(Image provided by Richard Temple)

Christ the Blessed Silence

Depicted with Red Seraphim

(Image provided by Richard Temple)

And for our convenience, a detail of the traditional, red seraphim:

Detail of Christ the Blessed Silence

The Three Red Seraphim

(Image provided by Richard Temple)

So, here they are in all their glory. Icons, I might add, are believed by the devout to be windows into the sacred realm, so one is not simply staring at a religious object, one is gazing into paradise itself, even if the specific image depicts an earthly scene from the life of Christ or some saint. Thus, they really are depicted here in all their glory. Or possibly not . . . for I've only provided images of the originals. A sort of borrowed heaven.

And that's about all that I can show or say on this topic of the 'winged' Christ in Christian art.

UPDATE: Alexander Boguslawski has informed me: "As far as the Blessed Silence icons are concerned, only four of them came from Richard Temple's Gallery; the rest were collected over the Internet." However, since I don't know which are from where, I'll leave the identification as is (until I should happen to find the online sources).

Alexander Boguslawski: Seraph in Bosom of "Christ the Blessed Silence"

Detail, Christ the Blessed Silence

Russian, circa 1700 (30.7 x 27 cm)

(Image from The Temple Gallery)

Two blog-days ago, I posted the entire icon of which the above image is a detail, and for ease of comparison, here is the full icon, albeit much reduced in size:


As previously noted, Brandon Watson (who blogs at Siris) drew my attention to this Russian Orthodox icon some days ago when I was blogging about various depictions of Christ as a winged figure in Western art.

I noticed that the icon depicted a seraph held in the bosom of Christ, and in my response to Brandon, I called his attention to the seraph and wondered if it were an allusion to the story of St. Francis receiving the stigmata from a six-winged 'Christ' in that puzzling vision, where Christ, a seraph, and the soul of St. Francis appear to coincide in identity -- a baffling vision to which I devoted several blog entries.

Brandon doubted an allusion to St. Francis, and I myself had thought the possibility remote but wanted at least to air it.

Just to be certain that this was not such an allusion to St. Francis, and also to learn more about the icon, I emailed an expert, Professor Alexander Boguslawski, who had noticed (and commented on) an earlier post of mine on Andrei Rublev's icon of The Old Testament Trinity, for I had cited Boguslawski's analysis of that icon in my blog entry.

Before sending the email to Professor Boguslawski, I posted my query in a reply to the comment that he had posted on Rublev's icon:

By the way, if you have time, perhaps you could explain this icon showing a winged Christ the Blessed Silence with what appears to be a seraph in his bosom.

When I saw this, I wondered if there were some allusion to the winged 'Christ' of St. Francis's vision when he received the stigmata, for 'Christ' took the form of a seraph there (though such a Catholic allusion would be unexpected in an Orthodox painting).

I then sent Professor Boguslawski the mentioned email, just to make sure that he was aware of my query:

Greetings from Jeffery Hodges (aka Gypsy Scholar). I was pleased to hear from you in the comment to my blog post on Rublev. I left a reply there, and also a query, directing you to my most-recent blog entry. I'm curious about the six-winged seraph in the bosom of a winged Christ (in the form of the Blessed Silence). What does the seraph signify? If you take a look at the blog entry (and some of its links), you'll understand my query.

Here is his reply, which he posted as a comment to my blog entry of two days ago on this seraph in Christ's bosom:

I can answer some of the questions you posed, but, unfortunately, not all... The seraphim is definitely not an allusion to St. Francis, even though St. Francis did have a vision of a seraphim! The icon from the Temple Gallery seems to be absolutely unique; I looked through my extensive book collection and through the Russian Orthodox sites and found not even one similar icon of the Holy Silence. On all icons, the angelic figure is shown with hands crossed at the bosom. So why the seraphim at this particular icon? The only possible explanation I can think of would be that the author of this icon wanted to stress the closeness of the seraphim to God.

The God-loving six-winged SERAPHIM stand closer than all before their Creator and Maker, as the prophet Isaiah saw, saying: "And the seraphim stood around Him, each having six wings" (Isaiah 6:2). They are fire-like since they stand before That One of Whom it is written: "For our God is a consuming fire." (Heb. 12:29); "His throne was a flame of fire" (Dan 7:9); "the appearance of the Lord was like a blazing fire" (Ex. 24:17). Standing before such glory, the seraphim are fire-like, as it said: "Who maketh his angels spirits; his ministers a flaming fire" (Ps. 103:4). They are aflame with love for God and kindle others to such love, as I shown by their very name, for "seraphim" in the Hebrew language means: "flaming".

Icons of Holy Silence (Blessed Silence) were most popular among the Old Believers, but they, as dedicated traditionalists, would not accept any significant change in iconography. Therefore, the question why the seraphim was included in this icon remains unanswered... I wonder whether Richard Temple realized what kind of a unique work he had in his gallery.

I hope all this helps. Looking forward to finding more about this and other icons.

That the icon was "absolutely unique" thrilled me -- in an intellectual way -- and I replied:

[T]hank you for your reply to my query about the seraph in this icon.

I looked more closely at the icon at Richard Temple's website, and since the site allows close-ups of details, I was able to see the seraph more clearly. Although the figure is clearly a seraph, given the six wings, it seems to have no body and looks more like an image of the sun -- which would connect to the Hebrew meaning of "seraph" as "flaming."

This looks like a topic for an article, but I lack the expertise in icons. Perhaps you will write something?

Meanwhile, I'll post your comment as a blog entry, for this is informative stuff.

And today's is that 'promised' blog entry. Perhaps some reader who knows the explanation to this puzzling image of the the seraph in Christ's bosom will take the time to lead us through the labyrinth to the answer.

UPDATE: Concerning the seraph's lack of a body, Professor Boguslawski informs me that "In Russian tradition, seraphim are always represented this way (they can be larger in size)," so my speculation about a possible resemblence to the "sun" is perhaps way off target.