The singing club

The singing club is a minor but emblematic episode in Bulgakov's novel, a concentrated satire of Soviet bureaucratic enthusiasm and the ease with which official institutions can be hijacked by demonic mischief. The incident occurs at the affiliate for city spectacles, housed in a peeling old mansion set back from the street, famous for its porphyry columns. There, the manager, a man with a mania for organizing clubs, had already established circles for Lermontov studies, chess, checkers, ping-pong, and horseback riding, and was threatening to add fresh-water canoeing and alpinism for the summer. Into this atmosphere of relentless, empty organizational zeal steps Koroviev, the long, checkered demon with a cracked pince-nez, accompanied by a completely impossible mug, and recommends himself as a prominent specialist in organizing choral-singing clubs.

The Forced Choir

During the lunch break, the manager, to set an example, declared himself a tenor. The checkered specialist-choirmaster immediately took charge, bawling out "Do, mi, sol, do!" and dragging the most bashful staff members from behind the bookcases where they had tried to hide. He told Kosarchuk, a known toady, that he had perfect pitch, began whining and squealing, tapped the tuning fork on his knuckle, and beseeched them to strike up "Glorious Sea, Sacred Baikal." The staff, led by the eager toadies Fanov and Kosarchuk, signed up and began to sing. They finished the first verse gloriously, but then the director excused himself, saying he would be back in a minute, and disappeared. Ten minutes passed, and he did not return. The staff was overjoyed, thinking he had run away.

The Uncontrollable Compulsion

Then, suddenly and of themselves, the staff began the second verse. Kosarchuk, who may not have had perfect pitch but did have a rather pleasant high tenor, led them. They sang it through. Still no director. They moved to their places, but had not managed to sit down when, against their will, they began to sing again. To stop was impossible. After three minutes of silence, they would strike up again. The manager locked himself in his office from shame. The singing spread through the entire building: a messenger appeared on the stairs, shook his fist at someone, and began singing along in a dull baritone; the girl selling special literature about spectacles at a small table in the vestibule, despite her tears, found herself singing an octave higher; in the neighboring room, a powerful, slightly husky octave stood out. The choristers, scattered in various places, sang quite harmoniously, as if the whole choir stood with its eyes fixed on some invisible director. Passers-by in Vagankovsky Lane stopped by the fence of the yard, wondering at the gaiety that reigned in the affiliate.

The Aftermath and Hospitalization

The spell was broken only by the arrival of a doctor and a policeman. The secretary of the affiliate, burning with shame, began falteringly to explain the case of mass hypnosis, but choked on his words and suddenly sang out in a tenor. The girl, after receiving a dose of valerian, revealed that the checkered specialist had simply disappeared after setting the trap. A quarter of an hour later, three trucks drove up to the fence, and the entire staff of the affiliate, the manager at its head, was loaded onto them. As soon as the first truck drove out into the lane, the staff members, standing on the platform holding each other's shoulders, opened their mouths, and the whole lane resounded with the popular song. The second truck picked it up, then the third. Passers-by, hurrying about their own business, cast only a fleeting glance at the trucks, thinking it was a group excursion to the country. They were indeed going to the country, though not on an excursion, but to Professor Stravinsky's clinic. The episode stands as a grotesque parody of Soviet collectivism, where the very enthusiasm for organized leisure becomes a demonic trap, and the forced harmony of the choir becomes a literal, inescapable madness.