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dragon, not quite a little hump-backed horse, its sharp muzzle pointed
towards the city she was leaving.
The thought then came to Margarita that there was really no reason for
her to drive her broom at such a speed. She was missing a unique chance to
see the world from a new viewpoint and savour the thrill of flight.
Something told her that wherever her destination might be, her hosts would
wait for her.
There was no hurry, no reason to make herself dizzy with speed or to
fly at such a height, so she tilted the head other broom downwards and
floated, at a greatly reduced speed, almost down to ground level. This
headlong dive, as though on an aerial toboggan, gave her the utmost
pleasure. The earth rose up to her and the moonlit landscape, until then an
indistinguishable blur, was revealed in exquisite detail. Margarita flew
just above the veil of mist over meadow and pond ; through the wisps of
vapour she could hear the croaking of frogs, from the distance came the
heart-stopping moan of a train. Soon Margarita caught sight of it. It was
moving slowly, like a caterpillar blowing sparks from the top of its head.
She overtook it, crossed another lake in which a reflected moon swam beneath
her legs, then flew still lower, nearly brushing the tops of the giant pines
with her feet.
Suddenly Margarita caught the sound of heavy, snorting breath behind
her and it seemed to be slowly catching her up. Gradually another noise like
a flying bullet and a woman's raucous laughter could be heard. Margarita
looked round and saw that she was being followed by a dark object of curious
shape. As it drew nearer it began to look like someone flying astride, until
as it slowed down to draw alongside her Margarita saw clearly that it was
Natasha.
Completely naked too, her hair streaming behind her, she was flying
along mounted on a fat pig, clutching a briefcase in its front legs and
furiously pounding the air with its hind trotters. A pince-nez, which
occasionally flashed in the moonlight, had fallen off its nose and was
dangling on a ribbon, whilst the pig's hat kept falling forward over its
eyes. After a careful look Margarita recognised the pig as Nikolai Ivanovich
and her laughter rang out, mingled with Natasha's, over the forest below.
'Natasha! ' shrieked Margarita. ' Did you rub the cream on yourself?'
'Darling!' answered Natasha, waking the sleeping pine forests with her
screech. ' I smeared it on his bald head I '
'My princess! ' grunted the pig miserably.
'Darling Margarita Nikolayevna! ' shouted Natasha as she galloped
alongside. ' I confess--I took the rest of the cream. Why shouldn't I fly
away and live, too? Forgive me, but I could never come back to you now--not
for anything. This is the life for me! . .. He made me a
proposition.'--Natasha poked her finger into the back of the pig's neck--'
The old lecher. I didn't think he had it in him, did you? What did you call
me? ' she yelled, leaning down towards the pig's ear.
'Goddess! ' howled the animal. ' Slow down, Natasha, please! There are
important papers in my briefcase and I may lose them! '
'To hell with your papers,' shouted Natasha, laughing. Oh, please
don't shout like that, somebody may hear us!' roared the pig imploringly.
As she flew alongside Margarita, Natasha laughingly told her what had
happened in the house after Margarita Nikolayevna had flown away over the
gate.
Natasha confessed that without touching any more of the things she had
been given she had torn her clothes off, rushed to the cream and started to
anoint herself. The same transformation took place. Laughing aloud with
delight, she was standing in front of the mirror admiring her magical beauty
when the door opened and in walked Nikolai Ivanovich. He was highly excited
and was holding Margarita Nikolayevna's slip, his briefcase and his hat. At
first he was riveted to the spot with horror, then announced, as red as a
lobster, that he thought he should bring the garment back. . . .
'The things he said, the beast! ' screamed Natasha, roaring with
laughter. ' The things he suggested! The money he offered me! Said his wife
would never find out. It's true, isn't it?' Natasha shouted to the pig,
which could do nothing but wriggle its snout in embarrassment.
As they had romped about in the bedroom, Natasha smeared some of the
cream on Nikolai Ivanovich and then it was her turn to freeze with
astonishment. The face of her respectable neighbour shrank and grew a snout,
whilst his arms and legs sprouted trotters. Looking at himself in the mirror
Nikolai Ivanovich gave a wild, despairing squeal but it was too late. A few
seconds later, with Natasha astride him, he was flying through the air away
from Moscow, sobbing with chagrin.
'I demand to be turned back to my usual shape! ' the pig suddenly
grunted, half angry, half begging. ' I refuse to take part: in an illegal
assembly! Margarita Nikolayevna, kindly take your maid off my back.'
'Oh, so I'm a maid now, am I! What d'you mean--maid!' cried Natasha,
tweaking the pig's ear. ' I was a goddess just now! What did you call me? '
'Venus! ' replied the pig miserably, brushing a hazel-bush with its
feet as they flew low over a chattering, fast-flowing stream.
'Venus! Venus! ' screamed Natasha triumphantly, putting one arm akimbo
and waving the other towards the moon.
'Margarita! Queen Margarita! Ask them to let me stay a witch! You have
the power to ask for whatever you like and they'll do it for you.'
Margarita replied :
'Very well, I promise.'
'Thanks!' screamed Natasha, raising her voice still higher to shout: '
Hey, go on--faster, faster! Faster than that! '
She dug her heels into the pig's thin flanks, sending it flying
forward. In a moment Natasha could only be seen as a dark spot far ahead and
as she vanished altogether the swish of her passage through the air died
away.
Margarita flew on slowly through the unknown, deserted countryside,
over hills strewn with occasional rocks and sparsely grown with giant fir
trees. She was no longer flying over their tops, but between their trunks,
silvered on one side by the moonlight. Her faint shadow flitted ahead of
her, as the moon was now at her back.
Sensing that she was approaching water, Margarita guessed that her goal
was near. The fir trees parted and Margarita gently floated through the air
towards a chalky hillside. Below it lay a river. A mist was swirling round
the bushes growing on the cliff-face, whilst the opposite bank was low and
flat. There under a lone clump of trees was the flicker of a camp fire,
surrounded by moving figures, and Margarita seemed to hear the insistent
beat of music. Beyond, as far as the eye could see, there was not a sign of
life.
Margarita bounded down the hillside to the water, which looked tempting
after her chase through the air. Throwing aside the broom, she took a run
and dived head-first into the water. Her body, as light as air, plunged in
and threw up a column of spray almost to the moon. The water was as warm as
a bath and as she glided upwards from the bottom Margarita revelled in the
freedom of swimming alone in a river at night. There was no one near
Margarita in the water, but further away near some bushes by the shore, she
could hear splashing and snorting. Someone else was having a bathe.
Margarita swam ashore and ran up the bank. Her body tingled. She felt
no fatigue after her long flight and gave a little dance of pure joy on the
damp grass. Suddenly she stopped and listened. The snorting was moving
closer and from a clump of reeds there emerged a fat man, naked except for a
dented top hat perched on the back of his head. He had been plodding his way
through sticky mud, which made him seem to be wearing black boots. To judge
from his breath and his hiccups he had had a great deal to drink, which was
confirmed by a smell of brandy rising from the water around him.
Catching sight of Margarita the fat man stared at her, then cried with
a roar of joy:
'Surely it can't be! It is--Claudine, the merry widow! What brings you
here? ' He waddled forward to greet her. Margarita retreated and replied in
a dignified voice :
'Go to hell! What d'you mean--Claudine? Who d'you think you're talking
to?' After a moment's reflection she rounded off her retort with a long,
satisfying and unprintable obscenity. Its effect on the fat man was
instantly sobering.
'Oh dear,' he exclaimed, flinching. ' Forgive me--I didn't see you,
your majesty. Queen Margot. It's the fault of the brandy.' The fat man
dropped on to one knee, took off his top hat, bowed and in a mixture of
Russian and French jabbered some nonsense about having just come from a
wedding in Paris, about brandy and about how deeply he apologised for his
terrible mistake.
'You might have put your trousers on, you great fool,' said Margarita,
relenting though still pretending to be angry.
The fat man grinned with delight as he realised that Margarita had
forgiven him and he announced cheerfully that he just happened to be without
his trousers at this particular moment because he had absent-mindedly left
them on the bank of the river Yenisei where he had been bathing just before
flying here, but would go back for them at once. With an effusive volley of
farewells he began bowing and walking backwards, until he slipped and fell
headlong into the water. Even as he fell, however, his side-whiskered face
kept its smile of cheerful devotion. Then Margarita gave a piercing whistle,
mounted the obedient broomstick and flew across to the far bank, which lay
in the full moonlight beyond the shadow cast by the chalk cliff.
As soon as she touched the wet grass the music from the clump of
willows grew louder and the stream of sparks blazed upwards with furious
gaiety. Under the willow branches, hung with thick catkins, sat two rows of
fat-cheeked frogs, puffed up as if they were made of rubber and playing a
march on wooden pipes. Glow-worms hung on the willow twigs in front of the
musicians to light their sheets of music whilst a nickering glow from the
camp fire played over the frogs' faces.
The march was being played in Margarita's honour as part of a solemn
ceremony of welcome. Translucent water-sprites stopped their dance to wave
fronds at her as their cries of welcome floated across the broad
water-meadow. Naked witches jumped down from the willows and curtsied to
her. A goat-legged creature ran up, kissed her hand and, as he spread out a
silken sheet on the grass, enquired if she had enjoyed her bathe and whether
she would like to lie down and rest.
As Margarita lay down the goat-legged man brought her a goblet of
champagne, which at once warmed her heart. Asking where Natasha was, she was
told that Natasha had already bathed. She was already flying back to Moscow
on her pig to warn them that Margarita would soon be coming and to help in
preparing her attire.
Margarita's short stay in the willow-grove was marked by a curious
event: a whistle split the air and a dark body, obviously missing its
intended target, sailed through the air and landed in the water. A few
moments later Margarita was faced by the same fat man with side whiskers who
had so clumsily introduced himself earlier. He had obviously managed to fly
back to the Yenisei because although soaking wet from head to foot, he now
wore full evening dress. He had been at the brandy again, which had caused
him to land in the water, but as before his smile was indestructible and in
his bedraggled state he was permitted to kiss Margarita's hand.
All prepared to depart. The water-sprites ended their dance and
vanished. The goat-man politely asked how she had arrived at the river and
on hearing that she had ridden there on a broom he cried:
'Oh, how uncomfortable! ' In a moment he had twisted two branches into
the shape of a telephone and ordered someone to send a car at once, which
was done in a minute.
A brown open car flew down to the island. Instead of a driver the
chauffeur's seat was occupied by a black, long-beaked crow in a check cap
and gauntlets. The island emptied as the witches flew away in the moonlight,
the fire burned out and the glowing embers turned to grey ash.
The goat-man opened the door for Margarita, who sprawled on the car's
wide back seat. The car gave a roar, took off and climbed almost to the
moon. The island fell away, the river disappeared and Margarita was on her
way to Moscow.
The steady hum of the car as it flew high above the earth lulled
Margarita to sleep and the moonlight felt pleasantly warm. Closing her eyes
she let the wind play on her face and thought wistfully of that strange
riverbank which she would probably never see again. After so much magic and
sorcery that evening she had already guessed who her host was to be, but she
felt quite unafraid. The hope that she might regain her happiness made her
fearless. In any case she was not given much time to loll in the car and
dream about happiness. The crow was a good driver and the car a fast one.
When Margarita opened her eyes she no longer saw dark forests beneath her
but the shimmering jewels of the lights of Moscow. The bird-chauffeur
unscrewed the right-hand front wheel as they flew along, then landed the car
at a deserted cemetery in the Dorogomilov district.
Opening the door to allow Margarita and her broom to alight on a
gravestone the crow gave the car a push and sent it rolling towards the
ravine beyond the far edge of the cemetery. It crashed over the side and was
shattered to pieces. The crow saluted politely, mounted the wheel and flew
away on it.
At that moment a black cloak appeared from behind a headstone. A wall
eye glistened in the moonlight and Margarita recognised Azazello. He
gestured to Margarita to mount her broomstick, leaped astride his own long
rapier, and they both took off and landed soon afterwards, unnoticed by a
soul, near No. 302A, Sadovaya Street.
As the two companions passed under the gateway into the courtyard,
Margarita noticed a man in cap and high boots, apparently waiting for
somebody. Light as their footsteps were, the lonely man heard them and
shifted uneasily, unable to see who it was.
At the entrance to staircase 6 they encountered a second man,
astonishingly similar in appearance to the first, and the same performance
was repeated. Footsteps . . . the man turned round uneasily and frowned.
When the door opened and closed he hurled himself in pursuit of the
invisible intruders and peered up the staircase but failed, of course, to
see anything. A third man, an exact copy of the other two, was lurking on
the third-floor landing. He was smoking a strong cigarette and Margarita
coughed as she walked past him. The smoker leaped up from his bench as
though stung, stared anxiously around, walked over to the banisters and
glanced down. Meanwhile Margarita and her companion had reached flat No. 50.
They did not ring, but Azazello silently opened the door with his key.
Margarita's first surprise on walking in was the darkness. It was as dark as
a cellar, so that she involuntarily clutched Azazello's cloak from fear of
an accident, but soon from high up and far away a lighted lamp flickered and
came closer. As they went Azazello took away Margarita's broom and it
vanished soundlessly into the darkness.
They then began to mount a broad staircase, so vast that to Margarita
it seemed endless. She was surprised that the hallway of an ordinary Moscow
flat could hold such an enormous, invisible but undeniably real and
apparently unending staircase. They reached a landing and stopped. The light
drew close and Margarita saw the face of the tall man in black holding the
lamp. Anybody unlucky enough to have crossed his path in those last few days
would have recognised him at once. It was Koroviev, alias Faggot.
His appearance, it is true, had greatly changed. The guttering flame
was no longer reflected in a shaky pince-nez long due for the dustbin, but
in an equally unsteady monocle. The moustaches on his insolent face were
curled and waxed. He appeared black for the simple reason that he was
wearing tails and black trousers. Only his shirt front was white.
Magician, choirmaster, wizard, or the devil knows what, Koroviev bowed
and with a broad sweep of his lamp invited Margarita to follow him. Azazello
vanished.
'How strange everything is this evening! ' thought Margarita. ' I was
ready for anything except this. Are they trying to save current, or what?
The oddest thing of all is the size of this place . . . how on earth can it
fit into a Moscow flat? It's simply impossible! '
Despite the feebleness of the light from Koroviev's lamp, Margarita
realised that she was in a vast, colonnaded hall, dark and apparently
endless. Stopping beside a small couch, Koroviev put his lamp on a pedestal,
gestured to Margarita to sit down and then placed himself beside her in an
artistic pose, one elbow leaned elegantly on the pedestal.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' said Koroviev in a grating voice. ' My
name is Koroviev. Are you surprised that there's no light? Economy, I
suppose you were thinking? Never! May the first murderer to fall at your
feet this evening cut my throat if that's the reason. It is simply because
messire doesn't care for electric light and we keep it turned off until the
last possible moment. Then, believe me, there will be no lack of it. It
might even be better if there were not quite so much.'
Margarita liked Koroviev and she found his flow of light-hearted
nonsense reassuring.
'No,' replied Margarita, ' what really puzzles me is where you have
found the space for all this.' With a wave of her hand Margarita emphasised
the vastness of the hall they were in.
Koroviev smiled sweetly, wrinkling his nose.
'Easy!' he replied. ' For anyone who knows how to handle the fifth
dimension it's no problem to expand any place to whatever size you please.
No, dear lady, I will say more--to the devil knows what size. However, I
have known people,' Koroviev burbled on, ' who though quite ignorant have
done wonders in enlarging their accommodation. One man in this town, so I
was told, was given a three-roomed flat on the Zemlya-noi Rampart and in a
flash, without using the fifth dimension or anything like that, he had
turned it into four rooms by dividing one of the rooms in half with a
partition. Then he exchanged it for two separate flats in different parts of
Moscow, one with three rooms and the other with two. That, you will agree,
adds up to five rooms. He exchanged the three-roomed one for two separate
frwo-roomers and thus became the owner, as you will have noticed, of six
rooms altogether, though admittedly scattered all over Moscow. He was just
about to pull off his last and most brilliant coup by putting an
advertisement in the newspaper offering six rooms in various districts of
Moscow in exchange for one five-roomed flat on the Zemlyanoi Rampart, when
his activities were suddenly and inexplicably curtailed. He may have a room
somewhere now, but not, I can assure you, in Moscow. There's a sharp
operator for you--and you talk of the fifth dimension! '
Although it was Koroviev and not Margarita who had been talking about
the fifth dimension, she could not help laughing at the way he told his
story of the ingenious property tycoon. Koroviev went on:
'But to come to the point, Margarita Nikolayevna. You are a very
intelligent woman and have naturally guessed who our host is.'
Margarita's heart beat faster and she nodded.
'Very well, then,' said Koroviev. ' I will tell you more. We dislike
all mystery and ambiguity. Every year messire gives a ball. It is known as
the springtime ball of the full moon, or the ball of the hundred kings. Ah,
the people who come! . . .' Here Koroviev clutched his cheek as if he had a
toothache. ' However, you will shortly be able to see for yourself. Messire
is a bachelor as you will realise, but there has to be a hostess.' Koroviev
spread his hands : ' You must agree that without a hostess . . .'
Margarita listened to Koroviev, trying not to miss a word. Her heart
felt cold with expectancy, the thought of happiness made her dizzy. '
Firstly, it has become a tradition,' Koroviev went on, ' that the hostess of
the ball must be called Margarita and secondly, she must be a native of the
place where the ball is held. We, as you know, are always on the move and
happen to be in Moscow at present. We have found a hundred and twenty-one
Margaritas in Moscow and would you believe it . . .'-- Koroviev slapped his
thigh in exasperation--'. . . not one of them was suitable! Then at last, by
a lucky chance . . .'
Koroviev grinned expressively, bowing from the waist, and again
Margarita's heart contracted.
'Now to the point!' exclaimed Koroviev. ' To be brief--you won't
decline this responsibility, will you? '
'I will not,' replied Margarita firmly.
'Of course,' said Koroviev, raising his lamp, and added:
'Please follow me.'
They passed a row of columns and finally emerged into another hall
which for some reason smelled strongly of lemons. A rustling noise was heard
and something landed on Margarita's head. She gave a start.
'Don't be afraid,' Koroviev reassured her, taking her arm. ' Just some
stunt that Behemoth has dreamed up to amuse the guests tonight, that's all.
Incidentally, if I may be so bold, Margarita Nikolayevna, my advice to you
is to be afraid of nothing you may see. There's no cause for fear. The ball
will be extravagantly luxurious, I warn you. We shall see people who in
their time wielded enormous power. But when one recalls how microscopic
their influence really was in comparison with the powers of the one in whose
retinue I have the honour to serve they become quite laughable, even
pathetic . . . You too, of course, are of royal blood.'
'How can I be of royal blood? ' whispered Margarita, terrified,
pressing herself against Koroviev.
'Ah, your majesty,' Koroviev teased her, ' the question of blood is
the most complicated problem in the world! If you were to ask certain of
your great-great-great-grandmothers, especially those who had a reputation
for shyness, they might tell you some remarkable secrets, my dear Margarita
Nikolayevna! To draw a parallel--the most amazing combinations can result if
you shuffle the pack enough. There are some matters in which even class
barriers and frontiers are powerless. I rather think that a certain king of
France of the sixteenth century would be most astonished if somebody told
him that after all these years I should have the pleasure of walking arm in
arm round a ballroom in Moscow with his
great-great-great-great-great-grandaughter. Ah--here we are! '
Koroviev blew out his lamp, it vanished from his hand and Margarita
noticed a patch of light on the floor in front of a black doorway. Koroviev
knocked gently. Margarita grew so excited that her teeth started chattering
and a shiver ran up her spine.
The door opened into a small room. Margarita saw a wide oak bed covered
in dirty, rumpled bedclothes and pillows. In front of the bed was a table
with carved oaken legs bearing a candelabra whose sockets were made in the
shape of birds' claws. Seven fat wax candles burned in their grasp. On the
table there was also a large chessboard set with elaborately carved pieces.
A low bench stood on the small, worn carpet. There was one more table laden
with golden beakers and another candelabra with arms fashioned like snakes.
The room smelled of damp and tar. Shadows thrown by the candlelight
criss-crossed on the floor.
Among the people in the room Margarita at once recognised Azazello, now
also wearing tails and standing near the bed-head. Now that Azazello was
smartly dressed he no longer looked like the ruffian who had appeared to
Margarita in the Alexander Gardens and he gave her a most gallant bow.
The naked witch, Hella, who had so upset the respectable barman from
the Variety Theatre and who luckily for Rimsky had been driven away at
cock-crow, was sitting on the floor by the bed and stirring some concoction
in a saucepan which gave off a sulphurous vapour. Besides these, there was
an enormous black cat sitting on a stool in front of the chessboard and
holding a knight in its right paw.
Hella stood up and bowed to Margarita. The cat jumped down from its
stool and did likewise, but making a flourish it dropped the knight and had
to crawl under the bed after it.
Faint with terror, Margarita blinked at this candlelit pantomime. Her
glance was drawn to the bed, on which sat the man whom the wretched Ivan had
recently assured at Patriarch's Ponds that he did not exist.
Two eyes bored into Margarita's face. In the depths of the right eye
was a golden spark that could pierce any soul to its core; the left eye was
as empty and black as a small black diamond, as the mouth of a bottomless
well of dark and shadow. Woland's face was tilted to one side, the
right-hand corner of his mouth pulled downward and deep furrows marked his
forehead parallel to his eyebrows. The skin of his face seemed burned by
timeless sunshine.
Woland was lying sprawled on the bed, dressed only in a long, dirty
black nightshirt, patched on the left shoulder. One bare leg was tucked up
beneath him, the other stretched out on the bench. Hella was massaging his
knees with a steaming ointment.
On Woland's bare, hairless chest Margarita noticed a scarab on a gold
chain, intricately carved out of black stone and marked on its back with an
arcane script. Near Woland was a strange globe, lit from one side, which
seemed almost alive.
The silence lasted for several seconds. ' He is studying me,' thought
Margarita and by an effort of will tried to stop her legs from trembling.
At last Woland spoke. He smiled, causing his one sparkling eye to
flash.
'Greetings, my queen. Please excuse my homely garb.'
Woland's voice was so low-pitched that on certain syllables it faded
off into' a mere growl.
Woland picked up a long sword from the bed, bent over, poked it under
the bed and said :
'Come out: now. The game's over. Our guest has arrived.'
'Please ...' Koroviev whispered anxiously into Margarita's ear like a
prompter.
'Please . . "' began Margarita.
'Messire . . .' breathed Koroviev.
'Please, messire,' Margarita went on quietly but firmly: ' I beg you
not to interrupt your game. I am sure the chess journals would pay a fortune
to be allowed to print it.'
Azazello gave a slight croak of approval and Woland, staring intently
at Margarita, murmured to himself:
'Yes, Koroviev was right. The result can be amazing when you shuffle
the pack. Blood will tell.'
He stretched out his arm and beckoned Margarita.
She walked up to him, feeling no ground under her bare feet. Woland
placed his hand--as heavy as stone and as hot as fire--on Margarita's
shoulder, pulled her towards him and sat her down on the bed by his side.
'Since you are so charming and kind,' he said, ' which was no more
than I expected, we shan't stand on ceremony.' He leaned over the edge of
the bed again and shouted : ' How much longer is this performance under the
bed going to last? Come on out! '
'I can't find the knight,' replied the cat in a mumed falsetto from
beneath the bed. ' It's galloped off somewhere and there's a frog here
instead.'
'Where do you think you are--on a fairground? ' asked Woland,
pretending to be angry. ' There's no frog under the bed! Save those cheap
tricks for the Variety! If you don't come out at once we'll begin to think
you've gone over to the enemy, you deserter! '
'Never, messire! ' howled the cat, crawling out with the knight in its
paw.
'Allow me to introduce to you . . .' Woland began, then interrupted
himself. ' No, really, he looks too ridiculous! Just look what he's done to
himself while he was under the bed!'
The cat, covered in dust and standing on its hind legs, bowed to
Margarita. Round its neck it was now wearing a made-up white bow tie on an
elastic band, with a pair of ladies' mother-of-pearl binoculars hanging on a
cord. It had also gilded its whiskers.
'What have you done? ' exclaimed Woland. ' Why have you gilded your
whiskers? And what on earth do you want with a white tie when you haven't
even got any trousers? '
'Trousers don't suit cats, messire,' replied the cat with great
dignity. ' Why don't you tell me to wear boots? Cats always wear boots in
fairy tales. But have you ever seen a cat going to a ball without a tie? I
don't want to make myself look ridiculous. One likes to look as smart as one
can. And that also applies to my opera-glasses, messire i'
'But your whiskers? . . .'
'I don't see why,' the cat objected coldly, ' Azazello and Koroviev
are allowed to cover themselves in powder and why powder is better than
gilt. I just powdered my whiskers, that's all. It would be a different
matter if I'd shaved myself! A cleanshaven cat is something monstrous, that
I agree. But I see . . .' --here the cat's voice trembled with pique--'. . .
that this is a conspiracy to be rude about my appearance. Clearly I am faced
with a problem--shall I go to the ball or not? What do you say, messire?'
Outraged, the cat had so inflated itself that it looked about to
explode at any second.
'Ah, the rogue, the sly rogue,' said Woland shaking his head. '
Whenever he's losing a game he starts a spiel like a quack-doctor at a fair.
Sit down and stop all this hot air.'
'Very well,' replied the cat, sitting down, ' but I must object. My
remarks are by no means all hot air, as you so vulgarly put it, but a series
of highly apposite syllogisms which would be appreciated by such
connoisseurs as Sextus Empiricus, Martian Capella, even, who knows,
Aristotle himself.
'Check,' said Woland.
'Check it is,' rejoined the cat, surveying the chessboard through his
lorgnette.
'So,' Woland turned to Margarita, ' let me introduce my retinue. That
creature who has been playing the fool is the cat Behemoth. A2a2ello and
Koroviev you have already met; this
is my maid, Hella. She's prompt, clever, and there's no service she
cannot perform for you.'
The beautiful Hella turned her green eyes on Margarita and smiled,
continuing to scoop out the ointment in the palm of her hand and to rub it
on Woland's knee.
'Well, there they are,' concluded Woland, wincing as Hella massaged
his knee rather too hard. ' A charming and select little band.' He stopped
and began turning his globe, so cleverly made that the blue sea shimmered in
waves and the polar cap was of real ice and snow. On the chessboard,
meanwhile, confusion reigned. Distraught, the white king was stamping about
on his square and waving his arms in desperation. Three white pawns, armed
with halberds, were staring in bewilderment at a bishop who was waving his
crozier and pointing forwards to where Woland's black knights sat mounted on
two hot-blooded horses, one pawing the ground of a white square, the other
on a black square.
Margarita was fascinated by the game and amazed to see that the
chessmen were alive.
Dropping its lorgnette, the cat gently nudged his king in the back, at
which the wretched king covered his face in despair.
'You're in trouble, my dear Behemoth,' said Koroviev in a voice of
quiet malice.
'The position is serious but far from hopeless,' retorted Behemoth. '
What is more, I am confident of ultimate victory. All it needs is a careful
analysis of the situation.'
His method of analysis took the peculiar form of pulling faces and
winking at his king.
'That won't do you any good,' said Koroview. ' Oh! ' cried Behemoth, '
all the parrots have flown away, as I said they would.'
From far away came the sound of innumerable wings. Koroviev and
Azazello rushed out of the room.
'You're nothing but a pest with all your arrangements for the ball,'
grumbled Woland, preoccupied with his globe. As soon as Koroviev and
Azazella had gone. Behemoth's winking increased until at last the white
king guessed what was required of him. He suddenly pulled off his cloak,
dropped it on his square and walked off the board. The bishop picked up the
royal cloak, threw it round his shoulders and took the king's place.
Koroviev and Azazello returned.
'False alarm, as usual,' growled Azazello.
'Well, I thought I heard something,' said the cat.
'Come on, how much longer do you need? ' asked Woland. ' Check.'
'I must have mis-heard you, mon maitre,' replied the cat. ' My king is
not in check and cannot be.'
'I repeat--check.'
'Messire,' rejoined the cat in a voice of mock anxiety, ' you must be
suffering from over-strain. I am not in check! '
'The king is on square Kz,' said Woland, without looking at the board.
'Messire, you amaze me,' wailed the cat, putting on an amazed face, '
there is no king on that square.'
'What? ' asked Woland, with a puzzled look at the board. The bishop,
standing in the king's square, turned his head away and covered his face
with his hand.
'Aha, you rogue,' said Woland reflectively.
'Messire! I appeal to the laws of logic!' said the cat, clasping its
paws to its chest, ' if a player says check and there is no king on the
board, then the king is not in check! '
'Do you resign or not? ' shouted Woland in a terrible voice.
'Give me time to consider, please,' said the cat meekly. It put its
elbows on the table, covered its ears with its paws and began to think.
Finally, having considered, it said. ' I resign.'
'He needs murdering, the obstinate beast,' whispered Azazello.
'Yes, I resign,' said the cat, ' but only because I find it impossible
to play when I'm distracted by jealous, hostile spectators! ' He stood up
and the chessmen ran back into their box.
'It's time for you to go, Hella,' said Woland and Hella left the room.
' My leg has started, hurting again and now there is this ball . . .' he
went on.
'Allow me,' Margarita suggested gently.
Woland gave her a searching stare and moved his knee towards her.
The ointment, hot as lava, burned her hands but without flinching
Margarita massaged it into Woland's knee, trying not to cause him pain.
'My friends maintain that it's rheumatism,' said Woland, continuing to
stare at Margari.ta, ' but I strongly suspect that the pain is a souvenir of
an encounter with a most beautiful witch that I had in 1571, on the Brocken
in the Harz Mountains.'
'Surely not! ' said Margarita.
'Oh, give it another three hundred years or so and it will go. I've
been prescribed all kinds of medicaments, but I prefer to stick to
traditional old wives' remedies. I inherited some extraordinary herbal cures
from my terrible old grandmother. Tell me, by the way--do you suffer from
any complaint? Perhaps you have some sorrow which is weighing on your heart?
'
'No messire, I have no such complaint,' replied Margarita astutely. '
In any case, since I have been with you I have never felt better.'
'As I said--blood will tell . . .' said Woland cheerfully to no one in
particular, adding: ' I see my globe interests you.'
'I have never seen anything so ingenious.'
'Yes, it is nice. I confess I never like listening to the news on the
radio. It's always read out by some silly girl who can't pronounce foreign
names properly. Besides, at least one in three of the announcers is
tongue-tied, as if they chose them specially. My globe is much more
convenient, especially as I need exact information. Do you see that little
speck of land, for instance, washed by the sea o"n one side? Look, it's just
bursting into flames. War has broken, out there. If you look closer you'll
see it in detail.'
Margarita leaned towards the globe and saw that the little square of
land was growing bigger, emerging in natural colours and turning into a kind
of relief map. Then she saw a river and a village beside it. A house the
size of a pea grew until it was as large as a matchbox. Suddenly and
noiselessly its roof flew upwards in a puff of black smoke, the walls
collapsed leaving nothing of the two-storey matchbox except a few smoking
heaps of rubble. Looking even closer Margarita discerned a tiny female
figure lying on the ground and beside her in a pool of blood a baby with
outstretched arms.
'It's all over now,' said Woland, smiling. ' He was too young to have
sinned. Abadonna has done his work impeccably.'
'I wouldn't like to be on the side that is against Abadonna,' said
Margarita. ' Whose side is he on? '
'The more I talk to you,' said Woland kindly, ' the more convinced I
am that you are very intelligent. Let me reassure you. He is utterly
impartial and is equally sympathetic to the people fighting on either side.
Consequently the outcome is always the same for both sides. Abadonna!'
Woland called softly and from the wall appeared the figure of a man wearing
dark glasses. These glasses made such a powerful impression on Margarita
that she gave a low cry, turned away and hit her head against Woland's leg.
' Stop it! ' cried Woland. ' How nervous people are nowadays! ' He slapped
Margarita on the back so hard that her whole body seemed to ring. ' He's
only wearing spectacles, that's all. There never has been and never will be
a case when Abadonna comes to anyone too soon. In any case, I'm here--you're
my guest. I just wanted to show him to you.'
Abadonna stood motionless.
'Could he take off his glasses for a moment? ' asked Margarita,
pressing against Woland and shuddering, though now with curiosity.
'No, that is impossible,' replied Woland in a grave tone. At a wave of
his hand, Abadonna vanished. ' What did you want to say, Azazello?'
'Messire,' answered Azazello, ' two strangers have arrived-- a
beautiful girl who is whining and begging to be allowed to stay with her
mistress, and with her there is, if you'll forgive me, her pig.'
'What odd behaviour for a girl! ' said Woland.
'It's Natasha--my Natasha! ' exclaimed Margarita.
'Very well, she may stay here with her mistress. Send the pig to the
cooks.'
'Are you going to kill it? ' cried Margarita in fright. ' Please,
messire, that's Nikolai Ivanovich, my neighbour. There was a mistake--she
rubbed the cream on him . . .'
'Who said anything about killing him? ' said Woland. ' I merely want
him to sit at the cooks' table, that's all. I can't allow a pig into the
ballroom, can I? '
'No, of course not,' said Azazello, then announced : ' Midnight
approaches, Messire.'
'Ah, good.' Woland turned to Margarita. ' Now let me thank you in
advance for your services tonight. Don't lose your head and don't be afraid
of anything. Drink nothing except water, otherwise it will sap your energy
and you will find yourself flagging. Time to go! '
As Margarita got up from the carpet Koroviev appeared in the doorway.
Midnight was approaching, time to hurry. Peering into the dim
surroundings, Margarita discerned some candles and an empty pool carved out
of onyx. As Margarita stood in the pool Hella, assisted by Natasha, poured a
thick, hot red liquid all over her. Margarita tasted salt on her lips and
realised that she was being washed in blood. The bath of blood was followed
by another liquid--dense, translucent and pink, and Margarita's head swam
with attar of roses. Next she was laid on a crystal couch and rubbed with
large green leaves until she glowed.
The cat came in and began to help. It squatted on its haunches at
Margarita's feet and began polishing her instep like a shoeblack.
Margarita never remembered who it was who stitched her shoes out of
pale rose petals or how those shoes fastened themselves of their own accord.
A force lifted her up and placed her in front of a mirror: in her hair
glittered a diamond crown. Koroviev appeared and hung on Margarita's breast
a picture of a black poodle in a heavy oval frame with a massive chain.
Queen Margarita found this ornament extremely burdensome, as the chain hurt
her neck and the picture pulled her over forwards. However, the respect with
which Koroviev and Behemoth now treated her was some recompense for the
discomfort.
'There's nothing for it,' murmured Koroviev at the door of the room
with the pool. ' You must wear it round your neck-- you must... Let me give
you a last word of advice, your majesty. The guests at the ball will be
mixed- -oh, very mixed--but you must show no favouritism, queen Margot! If
you don't like anybody ... I realise that you won't show it in your face, of
course not--but you must not even let it cross your mind! If you do, the
guest is bound to notice it instantly. You must be sweet and kind to them
all, your majesty. For that, the hostess of the ball will be rewarded a
hundredfold. And another thing-- don't neglect anybody or fail to notice
them. Just a smile if you haven't time to toss them a word, even just a
little turn of your head! Anything you like except inattention--they can't
bear that. . . .'
Escorted by Koroviev and Behemoth, Margarita stepped out of the bathing
hall and into total darkness.
'Me, me,' whispered the cat, ' let me give the signal! '
'All right, give it,' replied Koroviev from the dark.
'Let the ball commence! ' shrieked the cat in a piercing voice.
Margarita screamed and shut her eyes for several seconds. The ball burst
upon her in an explosion of light, sound and smell. Arm in arm with
Koroviev, Margarita found herself in a tropical forest. Scarlet-breasted
parrots with green tails perched on lianas and hopping from branch to branch
uttered deafening screeches of ' Ecstasy! Ecstasy! ' The forest soon came to
an end and its hot, steamy air gave way to the cool of a ballroom with
columns made of a yellowish, iridescent stone. Like the forest the ballroom
was completely empty except for some naked Negroes in silver turbans holding
candelabra. Their faces paled with excitement when Margarita floated into
the ballroom with her suite, to which Azazello had now attached himself.
Here Koroviev released Margarita's arm and whispered :
'Walk straight towards the tulips! '
A low wall of white tulips rose up in front of Margarita. Beyond it she
saw countless lights in globes, and rows of men in tails and starched white
shirts. Margarita saw then where the sound of ball music had been coming
from. A roar of brass deafened her and the soaring violins that broke
through it poured over her body like blood. The orchestra, all hundred and
fifty of them, were playing a polonaise.
Seeing Margarita the tail-coated conductor turned pale, smiled and
suddenly raised the whole orchestra to its feet with a wave of his arm.
Without a moment's break in the music the orchestra stood and engulfed
Margarita in sound. The conductor turned away from the players and gave a
low bow. Smiling, Margarita waved to him.
'No, no, that won't do,' whispered Koroviev. ' He won't sleep all
night. Shout to him " Bravo, king of the walt2! " '
Margarita shouted as she was told, amazed that her voice, full as a
bell, rang out over the noise of the orchestra. The conductor gave a start
of pleasure, placed his left hand on his heart and with his right went on
waving his white baton at the orchestra.
'Not enough,' whispered Koroviev. ' Look over there at the first
violins and nod to them so that every one of them thinks you recognise him
personally. They are all world famous. Look, there ... on the first
desk--that's Joachim! That's right! Very good . . . Now--on we go.'
'Who is the conductor? ' asked Margarita as she floated away.
'Johann Strauss!' cried the cat. ' May I be hung from a liana in the
tropical forest if any ball has ever had an orchestra like this! I arranged
it! And not one of them was ill or refused to come!'
There were no columns in the next hall, but instead it was flanked by
walls of red, pink, and milky-white roses on one side and on the other by
banks of Japanese double camellias. Fountains played between the walls of
towards the city she was leaving.
The thought then came to Margarita that there was really no reason for
her to drive her broom at such a speed. She was missing a unique chance to
see the world from a new viewpoint and savour the thrill of flight.
Something told her that wherever her destination might be, her hosts would
wait for her.
There was no hurry, no reason to make herself dizzy with speed or to
fly at such a height, so she tilted the head other broom downwards and
floated, at a greatly reduced speed, almost down to ground level. This
headlong dive, as though on an aerial toboggan, gave her the utmost
pleasure. The earth rose up to her and the moonlit landscape, until then an
indistinguishable blur, was revealed in exquisite detail. Margarita flew
just above the veil of mist over meadow and pond ; through the wisps of
vapour she could hear the croaking of frogs, from the distance came the
heart-stopping moan of a train. Soon Margarita caught sight of it. It was
moving slowly, like a caterpillar blowing sparks from the top of its head.
She overtook it, crossed another lake in which a reflected moon swam beneath
her legs, then flew still lower, nearly brushing the tops of the giant pines
with her feet.
Suddenly Margarita caught the sound of heavy, snorting breath behind
her and it seemed to be slowly catching her up. Gradually another noise like
a flying bullet and a woman's raucous laughter could be heard. Margarita
looked round and saw that she was being followed by a dark object of curious
shape. As it drew nearer it began to look like someone flying astride, until
as it slowed down to draw alongside her Margarita saw clearly that it was
Natasha.
Completely naked too, her hair streaming behind her, she was flying
along mounted on a fat pig, clutching a briefcase in its front legs and
furiously pounding the air with its hind trotters. A pince-nez, which
occasionally flashed in the moonlight, had fallen off its nose and was
dangling on a ribbon, whilst the pig's hat kept falling forward over its
eyes. After a careful look Margarita recognised the pig as Nikolai Ivanovich
and her laughter rang out, mingled with Natasha's, over the forest below.
'Natasha! ' shrieked Margarita. ' Did you rub the cream on yourself?'
'Darling!' answered Natasha, waking the sleeping pine forests with her
screech. ' I smeared it on his bald head I '
'My princess! ' grunted the pig miserably.
'Darling Margarita Nikolayevna! ' shouted Natasha as she galloped
alongside. ' I confess--I took the rest of the cream. Why shouldn't I fly
away and live, too? Forgive me, but I could never come back to you now--not
for anything. This is the life for me! . .. He made me a
proposition.'--Natasha poked her finger into the back of the pig's neck--'
The old lecher. I didn't think he had it in him, did you? What did you call
me? ' she yelled, leaning down towards the pig's ear.
'Goddess! ' howled the animal. ' Slow down, Natasha, please! There are
important papers in my briefcase and I may lose them! '
'To hell with your papers,' shouted Natasha, laughing. Oh, please
don't shout like that, somebody may hear us!' roared the pig imploringly.
As she flew alongside Margarita, Natasha laughingly told her what had
happened in the house after Margarita Nikolayevna had flown away over the
gate.
Natasha confessed that without touching any more of the things she had
been given she had torn her clothes off, rushed to the cream and started to
anoint herself. The same transformation took place. Laughing aloud with
delight, she was standing in front of the mirror admiring her magical beauty
when the door opened and in walked Nikolai Ivanovich. He was highly excited
and was holding Margarita Nikolayevna's slip, his briefcase and his hat. At
first he was riveted to the spot with horror, then announced, as red as a
lobster, that he thought he should bring the garment back. . . .
'The things he said, the beast! ' screamed Natasha, roaring with
laughter. ' The things he suggested! The money he offered me! Said his wife
would never find out. It's true, isn't it?' Natasha shouted to the pig,
which could do nothing but wriggle its snout in embarrassment.
As they had romped about in the bedroom, Natasha smeared some of the
cream on Nikolai Ivanovich and then it was her turn to freeze with
astonishment. The face of her respectable neighbour shrank and grew a snout,
whilst his arms and legs sprouted trotters. Looking at himself in the mirror
Nikolai Ivanovich gave a wild, despairing squeal but it was too late. A few
seconds later, with Natasha astride him, he was flying through the air away
from Moscow, sobbing with chagrin.
'I demand to be turned back to my usual shape! ' the pig suddenly
grunted, half angry, half begging. ' I refuse to take part: in an illegal
assembly! Margarita Nikolayevna, kindly take your maid off my back.'
'Oh, so I'm a maid now, am I! What d'you mean--maid!' cried Natasha,
tweaking the pig's ear. ' I was a goddess just now! What did you call me? '
'Venus! ' replied the pig miserably, brushing a hazel-bush with its
feet as they flew low over a chattering, fast-flowing stream.
'Venus! Venus! ' screamed Natasha triumphantly, putting one arm akimbo
and waving the other towards the moon.
'Margarita! Queen Margarita! Ask them to let me stay a witch! You have
the power to ask for whatever you like and they'll do it for you.'
Margarita replied :
'Very well, I promise.'
'Thanks!' screamed Natasha, raising her voice still higher to shout: '
Hey, go on--faster, faster! Faster than that! '
She dug her heels into the pig's thin flanks, sending it flying
forward. In a moment Natasha could only be seen as a dark spot far ahead and
as she vanished altogether the swish of her passage through the air died
away.
Margarita flew on slowly through the unknown, deserted countryside,
over hills strewn with occasional rocks and sparsely grown with giant fir
trees. She was no longer flying over their tops, but between their trunks,
silvered on one side by the moonlight. Her faint shadow flitted ahead of
her, as the moon was now at her back.
Sensing that she was approaching water, Margarita guessed that her goal
was near. The fir trees parted and Margarita gently floated through the air
towards a chalky hillside. Below it lay a river. A mist was swirling round
the bushes growing on the cliff-face, whilst the opposite bank was low and
flat. There under a lone clump of trees was the flicker of a camp fire,
surrounded by moving figures, and Margarita seemed to hear the insistent
beat of music. Beyond, as far as the eye could see, there was not a sign of
life.
Margarita bounded down the hillside to the water, which looked tempting
after her chase through the air. Throwing aside the broom, she took a run
and dived head-first into the water. Her body, as light as air, plunged in
and threw up a column of spray almost to the moon. The water was as warm as
a bath and as she glided upwards from the bottom Margarita revelled in the
freedom of swimming alone in a river at night. There was no one near
Margarita in the water, but further away near some bushes by the shore, she
could hear splashing and snorting. Someone else was having a bathe.
Margarita swam ashore and ran up the bank. Her body tingled. She felt
no fatigue after her long flight and gave a little dance of pure joy on the
damp grass. Suddenly she stopped and listened. The snorting was moving
closer and from a clump of reeds there emerged a fat man, naked except for a
dented top hat perched on the back of his head. He had been plodding his way
through sticky mud, which made him seem to be wearing black boots. To judge
from his breath and his hiccups he had had a great deal to drink, which was
confirmed by a smell of brandy rising from the water around him.
Catching sight of Margarita the fat man stared at her, then cried with
a roar of joy:
'Surely it can't be! It is--Claudine, the merry widow! What brings you
here? ' He waddled forward to greet her. Margarita retreated and replied in
a dignified voice :
'Go to hell! What d'you mean--Claudine? Who d'you think you're talking
to?' After a moment's reflection she rounded off her retort with a long,
satisfying and unprintable obscenity. Its effect on the fat man was
instantly sobering.
'Oh dear,' he exclaimed, flinching. ' Forgive me--I didn't see you,
your majesty. Queen Margot. It's the fault of the brandy.' The fat man
dropped on to one knee, took off his top hat, bowed and in a mixture of
Russian and French jabbered some nonsense about having just come from a
wedding in Paris, about brandy and about how deeply he apologised for his
terrible mistake.
'You might have put your trousers on, you great fool,' said Margarita,
relenting though still pretending to be angry.
The fat man grinned with delight as he realised that Margarita had
forgiven him and he announced cheerfully that he just happened to be without
his trousers at this particular moment because he had absent-mindedly left
them on the bank of the river Yenisei where he had been bathing just before
flying here, but would go back for them at once. With an effusive volley of
farewells he began bowing and walking backwards, until he slipped and fell
headlong into the water. Even as he fell, however, his side-whiskered face
kept its smile of cheerful devotion. Then Margarita gave a piercing whistle,
mounted the obedient broomstick and flew across to the far bank, which lay
in the full moonlight beyond the shadow cast by the chalk cliff.
As soon as she touched the wet grass the music from the clump of
willows grew louder and the stream of sparks blazed upwards with furious
gaiety. Under the willow branches, hung with thick catkins, sat two rows of
fat-cheeked frogs, puffed up as if they were made of rubber and playing a
march on wooden pipes. Glow-worms hung on the willow twigs in front of the
musicians to light their sheets of music whilst a nickering glow from the
camp fire played over the frogs' faces.
The march was being played in Margarita's honour as part of a solemn
ceremony of welcome. Translucent water-sprites stopped their dance to wave
fronds at her as their cries of welcome floated across the broad
water-meadow. Naked witches jumped down from the willows and curtsied to
her. A goat-legged creature ran up, kissed her hand and, as he spread out a
silken sheet on the grass, enquired if she had enjoyed her bathe and whether
she would like to lie down and rest.
As Margarita lay down the goat-legged man brought her a goblet of
champagne, which at once warmed her heart. Asking where Natasha was, she was
told that Natasha had already bathed. She was already flying back to Moscow
on her pig to warn them that Margarita would soon be coming and to help in
preparing her attire.
Margarita's short stay in the willow-grove was marked by a curious
event: a whistle split the air and a dark body, obviously missing its
intended target, sailed through the air and landed in the water. A few
moments later Margarita was faced by the same fat man with side whiskers who
had so clumsily introduced himself earlier. He had obviously managed to fly
back to the Yenisei because although soaking wet from head to foot, he now
wore full evening dress. He had been at the brandy again, which had caused
him to land in the water, but as before his smile was indestructible and in
his bedraggled state he was permitted to kiss Margarita's hand.
All prepared to depart. The water-sprites ended their dance and
vanished. The goat-man politely asked how she had arrived at the river and
on hearing that she had ridden there on a broom he cried:
'Oh, how uncomfortable! ' In a moment he had twisted two branches into
the shape of a telephone and ordered someone to send a car at once, which
was done in a minute.
A brown open car flew down to the island. Instead of a driver the
chauffeur's seat was occupied by a black, long-beaked crow in a check cap
and gauntlets. The island emptied as the witches flew away in the moonlight,
the fire burned out and the glowing embers turned to grey ash.
The goat-man opened the door for Margarita, who sprawled on the car's
wide back seat. The car gave a roar, took off and climbed almost to the
moon. The island fell away, the river disappeared and Margarita was on her
way to Moscow.
The steady hum of the car as it flew high above the earth lulled
Margarita to sleep and the moonlight felt pleasantly warm. Closing her eyes
she let the wind play on her face and thought wistfully of that strange
riverbank which she would probably never see again. After so much magic and
sorcery that evening she had already guessed who her host was to be, but she
felt quite unafraid. The hope that she might regain her happiness made her
fearless. In any case she was not given much time to loll in the car and
dream about happiness. The crow was a good driver and the car a fast one.
When Margarita opened her eyes she no longer saw dark forests beneath her
but the shimmering jewels of the lights of Moscow. The bird-chauffeur
unscrewed the right-hand front wheel as they flew along, then landed the car
at a deserted cemetery in the Dorogomilov district.
Opening the door to allow Margarita and her broom to alight on a
gravestone the crow gave the car a push and sent it rolling towards the
ravine beyond the far edge of the cemetery. It crashed over the side and was
shattered to pieces. The crow saluted politely, mounted the wheel and flew
away on it.
At that moment a black cloak appeared from behind a headstone. A wall
eye glistened in the moonlight and Margarita recognised Azazello. He
gestured to Margarita to mount her broomstick, leaped astride his own long
rapier, and they both took off and landed soon afterwards, unnoticed by a
soul, near No. 302A, Sadovaya Street.
As the two companions passed under the gateway into the courtyard,
Margarita noticed a man in cap and high boots, apparently waiting for
somebody. Light as their footsteps were, the lonely man heard them and
shifted uneasily, unable to see who it was.
At the entrance to staircase 6 they encountered a second man,
astonishingly similar in appearance to the first, and the same performance
was repeated. Footsteps . . . the man turned round uneasily and frowned.
When the door opened and closed he hurled himself in pursuit of the
invisible intruders and peered up the staircase but failed, of course, to
see anything. A third man, an exact copy of the other two, was lurking on
the third-floor landing. He was smoking a strong cigarette and Margarita
coughed as she walked past him. The smoker leaped up from his bench as
though stung, stared anxiously around, walked over to the banisters and
glanced down. Meanwhile Margarita and her companion had reached flat No. 50.
They did not ring, but Azazello silently opened the door with his key.
Margarita's first surprise on walking in was the darkness. It was as dark as
a cellar, so that she involuntarily clutched Azazello's cloak from fear of
an accident, but soon from high up and far away a lighted lamp flickered and
came closer. As they went Azazello took away Margarita's broom and it
vanished soundlessly into the darkness.
They then began to mount a broad staircase, so vast that to Margarita
it seemed endless. She was surprised that the hallway of an ordinary Moscow
flat could hold such an enormous, invisible but undeniably real and
apparently unending staircase. They reached a landing and stopped. The light
drew close and Margarita saw the face of the tall man in black holding the
lamp. Anybody unlucky enough to have crossed his path in those last few days
would have recognised him at once. It was Koroviev, alias Faggot.
His appearance, it is true, had greatly changed. The guttering flame
was no longer reflected in a shaky pince-nez long due for the dustbin, but
in an equally unsteady monocle. The moustaches on his insolent face were
curled and waxed. He appeared black for the simple reason that he was
wearing tails and black trousers. Only his shirt front was white.
Magician, choirmaster, wizard, or the devil knows what, Koroviev bowed
and with a broad sweep of his lamp invited Margarita to follow him. Azazello
vanished.
'How strange everything is this evening! ' thought Margarita. ' I was
ready for anything except this. Are they trying to save current, or what?
The oddest thing of all is the size of this place . . . how on earth can it
fit into a Moscow flat? It's simply impossible! '
Despite the feebleness of the light from Koroviev's lamp, Margarita
realised that she was in a vast, colonnaded hall, dark and apparently
endless. Stopping beside a small couch, Koroviev put his lamp on a pedestal,
gestured to Margarita to sit down and then placed himself beside her in an
artistic pose, one elbow leaned elegantly on the pedestal.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' said Koroviev in a grating voice. ' My
name is Koroviev. Are you surprised that there's no light? Economy, I
suppose you were thinking? Never! May the first murderer to fall at your
feet this evening cut my throat if that's the reason. It is simply because
messire doesn't care for electric light and we keep it turned off until the
last possible moment. Then, believe me, there will be no lack of it. It
might even be better if there were not quite so much.'
Margarita liked Koroviev and she found his flow of light-hearted
nonsense reassuring.
'No,' replied Margarita, ' what really puzzles me is where you have
found the space for all this.' With a wave of her hand Margarita emphasised
the vastness of the hall they were in.
Koroviev smiled sweetly, wrinkling his nose.
'Easy!' he replied. ' For anyone who knows how to handle the fifth
dimension it's no problem to expand any place to whatever size you please.
No, dear lady, I will say more--to the devil knows what size. However, I
have known people,' Koroviev burbled on, ' who though quite ignorant have
done wonders in enlarging their accommodation. One man in this town, so I
was told, was given a three-roomed flat on the Zemlya-noi Rampart and in a
flash, without using the fifth dimension or anything like that, he had
turned it into four rooms by dividing one of the rooms in half with a
partition. Then he exchanged it for two separate flats in different parts of
Moscow, one with three rooms and the other with two. That, you will agree,
adds up to five rooms. He exchanged the three-roomed one for two separate
frwo-roomers and thus became the owner, as you will have noticed, of six
rooms altogether, though admittedly scattered all over Moscow. He was just
about to pull off his last and most brilliant coup by putting an
advertisement in the newspaper offering six rooms in various districts of
Moscow in exchange for one five-roomed flat on the Zemlyanoi Rampart, when
his activities were suddenly and inexplicably curtailed. He may have a room
somewhere now, but not, I can assure you, in Moscow. There's a sharp
operator for you--and you talk of the fifth dimension! '
Although it was Koroviev and not Margarita who had been talking about
the fifth dimension, she could not help laughing at the way he told his
story of the ingenious property tycoon. Koroviev went on:
'But to come to the point, Margarita Nikolayevna. You are a very
intelligent woman and have naturally guessed who our host is.'
Margarita's heart beat faster and she nodded.
'Very well, then,' said Koroviev. ' I will tell you more. We dislike
all mystery and ambiguity. Every year messire gives a ball. It is known as
the springtime ball of the full moon, or the ball of the hundred kings. Ah,
the people who come! . . .' Here Koroviev clutched his cheek as if he had a
toothache. ' However, you will shortly be able to see for yourself. Messire
is a bachelor as you will realise, but there has to be a hostess.' Koroviev
spread his hands : ' You must agree that without a hostess . . .'
Margarita listened to Koroviev, trying not to miss a word. Her heart
felt cold with expectancy, the thought of happiness made her dizzy. '
Firstly, it has become a tradition,' Koroviev went on, ' that the hostess of
the ball must be called Margarita and secondly, she must be a native of the
place where the ball is held. We, as you know, are always on the move and
happen to be in Moscow at present. We have found a hundred and twenty-one
Margaritas in Moscow and would you believe it . . .'-- Koroviev slapped his
thigh in exasperation--'. . . not one of them was suitable! Then at last, by
a lucky chance . . .'
Koroviev grinned expressively, bowing from the waist, and again
Margarita's heart contracted.
'Now to the point!' exclaimed Koroviev. ' To be brief--you won't
decline this responsibility, will you? '
'I will not,' replied Margarita firmly.
'Of course,' said Koroviev, raising his lamp, and added:
'Please follow me.'
They passed a row of columns and finally emerged into another hall
which for some reason smelled strongly of lemons. A rustling noise was heard
and something landed on Margarita's head. She gave a start.
'Don't be afraid,' Koroviev reassured her, taking her arm. ' Just some
stunt that Behemoth has dreamed up to amuse the guests tonight, that's all.
Incidentally, if I may be so bold, Margarita Nikolayevna, my advice to you
is to be afraid of nothing you may see. There's no cause for fear. The ball
will be extravagantly luxurious, I warn you. We shall see people who in
their time wielded enormous power. But when one recalls how microscopic
their influence really was in comparison with the powers of the one in whose
retinue I have the honour to serve they become quite laughable, even
pathetic . . . You too, of course, are of royal blood.'
'How can I be of royal blood? ' whispered Margarita, terrified,
pressing herself against Koroviev.
'Ah, your majesty,' Koroviev teased her, ' the question of blood is
the most complicated problem in the world! If you were to ask certain of
your great-great-great-grandmothers, especially those who had a reputation
for shyness, they might tell you some remarkable secrets, my dear Margarita
Nikolayevna! To draw a parallel--the most amazing combinations can result if
you shuffle the pack enough. There are some matters in which even class
barriers and frontiers are powerless. I rather think that a certain king of
France of the sixteenth century would be most astonished if somebody told
him that after all these years I should have the pleasure of walking arm in
arm round a ballroom in Moscow with his
great-great-great-great-great-grandaughter. Ah--here we are! '
Koroviev blew out his lamp, it vanished from his hand and Margarita
noticed a patch of light on the floor in front of a black doorway. Koroviev
knocked gently. Margarita grew so excited that her teeth started chattering
and a shiver ran up her spine.
The door opened into a small room. Margarita saw a wide oak bed covered
in dirty, rumpled bedclothes and pillows. In front of the bed was a table
with carved oaken legs bearing a candelabra whose sockets were made in the
shape of birds' claws. Seven fat wax candles burned in their grasp. On the
table there was also a large chessboard set with elaborately carved pieces.
A low bench stood on the small, worn carpet. There was one more table laden
with golden beakers and another candelabra with arms fashioned like snakes.
The room smelled of damp and tar. Shadows thrown by the candlelight
criss-crossed on the floor.
Among the people in the room Margarita at once recognised Azazello, now
also wearing tails and standing near the bed-head. Now that Azazello was
smartly dressed he no longer looked like the ruffian who had appeared to
Margarita in the Alexander Gardens and he gave her a most gallant bow.
The naked witch, Hella, who had so upset the respectable barman from
the Variety Theatre and who luckily for Rimsky had been driven away at
cock-crow, was sitting on the floor by the bed and stirring some concoction
in a saucepan which gave off a sulphurous vapour. Besides these, there was
an enormous black cat sitting on a stool in front of the chessboard and
holding a knight in its right paw.
Hella stood up and bowed to Margarita. The cat jumped down from its
stool and did likewise, but making a flourish it dropped the knight and had
to crawl under the bed after it.
Faint with terror, Margarita blinked at this candlelit pantomime. Her
glance was drawn to the bed, on which sat the man whom the wretched Ivan had
recently assured at Patriarch's Ponds that he did not exist.
Two eyes bored into Margarita's face. In the depths of the right eye
was a golden spark that could pierce any soul to its core; the left eye was
as empty and black as a small black diamond, as the mouth of a bottomless
well of dark and shadow. Woland's face was tilted to one side, the
right-hand corner of his mouth pulled downward and deep furrows marked his
forehead parallel to his eyebrows. The skin of his face seemed burned by
timeless sunshine.
Woland was lying sprawled on the bed, dressed only in a long, dirty
black nightshirt, patched on the left shoulder. One bare leg was tucked up
beneath him, the other stretched out on the bench. Hella was massaging his
knees with a steaming ointment.
On Woland's bare, hairless chest Margarita noticed a scarab on a gold
chain, intricately carved out of black stone and marked on its back with an
arcane script. Near Woland was a strange globe, lit from one side, which
seemed almost alive.
The silence lasted for several seconds. ' He is studying me,' thought
Margarita and by an effort of will tried to stop her legs from trembling.
At last Woland spoke. He smiled, causing his one sparkling eye to
flash.
'Greetings, my queen. Please excuse my homely garb.'
Woland's voice was so low-pitched that on certain syllables it faded
off into' a mere growl.
Woland picked up a long sword from the bed, bent over, poked it under
the bed and said :
'Come out: now. The game's over. Our guest has arrived.'
'Please ...' Koroviev whispered anxiously into Margarita's ear like a
prompter.
'Please . . "' began Margarita.
'Messire . . .' breathed Koroviev.
'Please, messire,' Margarita went on quietly but firmly: ' I beg you
not to interrupt your game. I am sure the chess journals would pay a fortune
to be allowed to print it.'
Azazello gave a slight croak of approval and Woland, staring intently
at Margarita, murmured to himself:
'Yes, Koroviev was right. The result can be amazing when you shuffle
the pack. Blood will tell.'
He stretched out his arm and beckoned Margarita.
She walked up to him, feeling no ground under her bare feet. Woland
placed his hand--as heavy as stone and as hot as fire--on Margarita's
shoulder, pulled her towards him and sat her down on the bed by his side.
'Since you are so charming and kind,' he said, ' which was no more
than I expected, we shan't stand on ceremony.' He leaned over the edge of
the bed again and shouted : ' How much longer is this performance under the
bed going to last? Come on out! '
'I can't find the knight,' replied the cat in a mumed falsetto from
beneath the bed. ' It's galloped off somewhere and there's a frog here
instead.'
'Where do you think you are--on a fairground? ' asked Woland,
pretending to be angry. ' There's no frog under the bed! Save those cheap
tricks for the Variety! If you don't come out at once we'll begin to think
you've gone over to the enemy, you deserter! '
'Never, messire! ' howled the cat, crawling out with the knight in its
paw.
'Allow me to introduce to you . . .' Woland began, then interrupted
himself. ' No, really, he looks too ridiculous! Just look what he's done to
himself while he was under the bed!'
The cat, covered in dust and standing on its hind legs, bowed to
Margarita. Round its neck it was now wearing a made-up white bow tie on an
elastic band, with a pair of ladies' mother-of-pearl binoculars hanging on a
cord. It had also gilded its whiskers.
'What have you done? ' exclaimed Woland. ' Why have you gilded your
whiskers? And what on earth do you want with a white tie when you haven't
even got any trousers? '
'Trousers don't suit cats, messire,' replied the cat with great
dignity. ' Why don't you tell me to wear boots? Cats always wear boots in
fairy tales. But have you ever seen a cat going to a ball without a tie? I
don't want to make myself look ridiculous. One likes to look as smart as one
can. And that also applies to my opera-glasses, messire i'
'But your whiskers? . . .'
'I don't see why,' the cat objected coldly, ' Azazello and Koroviev
are allowed to cover themselves in powder and why powder is better than
gilt. I just powdered my whiskers, that's all. It would be a different
matter if I'd shaved myself! A cleanshaven cat is something monstrous, that
I agree. But I see . . .' --here the cat's voice trembled with pique--'. . .
that this is a conspiracy to be rude about my appearance. Clearly I am faced
with a problem--shall I go to the ball or not? What do you say, messire?'
Outraged, the cat had so inflated itself that it looked about to
explode at any second.
'Ah, the rogue, the sly rogue,' said Woland shaking his head. '
Whenever he's losing a game he starts a spiel like a quack-doctor at a fair.
Sit down and stop all this hot air.'
'Very well,' replied the cat, sitting down, ' but I must object. My
remarks are by no means all hot air, as you so vulgarly put it, but a series
of highly apposite syllogisms which would be appreciated by such
connoisseurs as Sextus Empiricus, Martian Capella, even, who knows,
Aristotle himself.
'Check,' said Woland.
'Check it is,' rejoined the cat, surveying the chessboard through his
lorgnette.
'So,' Woland turned to Margarita, ' let me introduce my retinue. That
creature who has been playing the fool is the cat Behemoth. A2a2ello and
Koroviev you have already met; this
is my maid, Hella. She's prompt, clever, and there's no service she
cannot perform for you.'
The beautiful Hella turned her green eyes on Margarita and smiled,
continuing to scoop out the ointment in the palm of her hand and to rub it
on Woland's knee.
'Well, there they are,' concluded Woland, wincing as Hella massaged
his knee rather too hard. ' A charming and select little band.' He stopped
and began turning his globe, so cleverly made that the blue sea shimmered in
waves and the polar cap was of real ice and snow. On the chessboard,
meanwhile, confusion reigned. Distraught, the white king was stamping about
on his square and waving his arms in desperation. Three white pawns, armed
with halberds, were staring in bewilderment at a bishop who was waving his
crozier and pointing forwards to where Woland's black knights sat mounted on
two hot-blooded horses, one pawing the ground of a white square, the other
on a black square.
Margarita was fascinated by the game and amazed to see that the
chessmen were alive.
Dropping its lorgnette, the cat gently nudged his king in the back, at
which the wretched king covered his face in despair.
'You're in trouble, my dear Behemoth,' said Koroviev in a voice of
quiet malice.
'The position is serious but far from hopeless,' retorted Behemoth. '
What is more, I am confident of ultimate victory. All it needs is a careful
analysis of the situation.'
His method of analysis took the peculiar form of pulling faces and
winking at his king.
'That won't do you any good,' said Koroview. ' Oh! ' cried Behemoth, '
all the parrots have flown away, as I said they would.'
From far away came the sound of innumerable wings. Koroviev and
Azazello rushed out of the room.
'You're nothing but a pest with all your arrangements for the ball,'
grumbled Woland, preoccupied with his globe. As soon as Koroviev and
Azazella had gone. Behemoth's winking increased until at last the white
king guessed what was required of him. He suddenly pulled off his cloak,
dropped it on his square and walked off the board. The bishop picked up the
royal cloak, threw it round his shoulders and took the king's place.
Koroviev and Azazello returned.
'False alarm, as usual,' growled Azazello.
'Well, I thought I heard something,' said the cat.
'Come on, how much longer do you need? ' asked Woland. ' Check.'
'I must have mis-heard you, mon maitre,' replied the cat. ' My king is
not in check and cannot be.'
'I repeat--check.'
'Messire,' rejoined the cat in a voice of mock anxiety, ' you must be
suffering from over-strain. I am not in check! '
'The king is on square Kz,' said Woland, without looking at the board.
'Messire, you amaze me,' wailed the cat, putting on an amazed face, '
there is no king on that square.'
'What? ' asked Woland, with a puzzled look at the board. The bishop,
standing in the king's square, turned his head away and covered his face
with his hand.
'Aha, you rogue,' said Woland reflectively.
'Messire! I appeal to the laws of logic!' said the cat, clasping its
paws to its chest, ' if a player says check and there is no king on the
board, then the king is not in check! '
'Do you resign or not? ' shouted Woland in a terrible voice.
'Give me time to consider, please,' said the cat meekly. It put its
elbows on the table, covered its ears with its paws and began to think.
Finally, having considered, it said. ' I resign.'
'He needs murdering, the obstinate beast,' whispered Azazello.
'Yes, I resign,' said the cat, ' but only because I find it impossible
to play when I'm distracted by jealous, hostile spectators! ' He stood up
and the chessmen ran back into their box.
'It's time for you to go, Hella,' said Woland and Hella left the room.
' My leg has started, hurting again and now there is this ball . . .' he
went on.
'Allow me,' Margarita suggested gently.
Woland gave her a searching stare and moved his knee towards her.
The ointment, hot as lava, burned her hands but without flinching
Margarita massaged it into Woland's knee, trying not to cause him pain.
'My friends maintain that it's rheumatism,' said Woland, continuing to
stare at Margari.ta, ' but I strongly suspect that the pain is a souvenir of
an encounter with a most beautiful witch that I had in 1571, on the Brocken
in the Harz Mountains.'
'Surely not! ' said Margarita.
'Oh, give it another three hundred years or so and it will go. I've
been prescribed all kinds of medicaments, but I prefer to stick to
traditional old wives' remedies. I inherited some extraordinary herbal cures
from my terrible old grandmother. Tell me, by the way--do you suffer from
any complaint? Perhaps you have some sorrow which is weighing on your heart?
'
'No messire, I have no such complaint,' replied Margarita astutely. '
In any case, since I have been with you I have never felt better.'
'As I said--blood will tell . . .' said Woland cheerfully to no one in
particular, adding: ' I see my globe interests you.'
'I have never seen anything so ingenious.'
'Yes, it is nice. I confess I never like listening to the news on the
radio. It's always read out by some silly girl who can't pronounce foreign
names properly. Besides, at least one in three of the announcers is
tongue-tied, as if they chose them specially. My globe is much more
convenient, especially as I need exact information. Do you see that little
speck of land, for instance, washed by the sea o"n one side? Look, it's just
bursting into flames. War has broken, out there. If you look closer you'll
see it in detail.'
Margarita leaned towards the globe and saw that the little square of
land was growing bigger, emerging in natural colours and turning into a kind
of relief map. Then she saw a river and a village beside it. A house the
size of a pea grew until it was as large as a matchbox. Suddenly and
noiselessly its roof flew upwards in a puff of black smoke, the walls
collapsed leaving nothing of the two-storey matchbox except a few smoking
heaps of rubble. Looking even closer Margarita discerned a tiny female
figure lying on the ground and beside her in a pool of blood a baby with
outstretched arms.
'It's all over now,' said Woland, smiling. ' He was too young to have
sinned. Abadonna has done his work impeccably.'
'I wouldn't like to be on the side that is against Abadonna,' said
Margarita. ' Whose side is he on? '
'The more I talk to you,' said Woland kindly, ' the more convinced I
am that you are very intelligent. Let me reassure you. He is utterly
impartial and is equally sympathetic to the people fighting on either side.
Consequently the outcome is always the same for both sides. Abadonna!'
Woland called softly and from the wall appeared the figure of a man wearing
dark glasses. These glasses made such a powerful impression on Margarita
that she gave a low cry, turned away and hit her head against Woland's leg.
' Stop it! ' cried Woland. ' How nervous people are nowadays! ' He slapped
Margarita on the back so hard that her whole body seemed to ring. ' He's
only wearing spectacles, that's all. There never has been and never will be
a case when Abadonna comes to anyone too soon. In any case, I'm here--you're
my guest. I just wanted to show him to you.'
Abadonna stood motionless.
'Could he take off his glasses for a moment? ' asked Margarita,
pressing against Woland and shuddering, though now with curiosity.
'No, that is impossible,' replied Woland in a grave tone. At a wave of
his hand, Abadonna vanished. ' What did you want to say, Azazello?'
'Messire,' answered Azazello, ' two strangers have arrived-- a
beautiful girl who is whining and begging to be allowed to stay with her
mistress, and with her there is, if you'll forgive me, her pig.'
'What odd behaviour for a girl! ' said Woland.
'It's Natasha--my Natasha! ' exclaimed Margarita.
'Very well, she may stay here with her mistress. Send the pig to the
cooks.'
'Are you going to kill it? ' cried Margarita in fright. ' Please,
messire, that's Nikolai Ivanovich, my neighbour. There was a mistake--she
rubbed the cream on him . . .'
'Who said anything about killing him? ' said Woland. ' I merely want
him to sit at the cooks' table, that's all. I can't allow a pig into the
ballroom, can I? '
'No, of course not,' said Azazello, then announced : ' Midnight
approaches, Messire.'
'Ah, good.' Woland turned to Margarita. ' Now let me thank you in
advance for your services tonight. Don't lose your head and don't be afraid
of anything. Drink nothing except water, otherwise it will sap your energy
and you will find yourself flagging. Time to go! '
As Margarita got up from the carpet Koroviev appeared in the doorway.
Midnight was approaching, time to hurry. Peering into the dim
surroundings, Margarita discerned some candles and an empty pool carved out
of onyx. As Margarita stood in the pool Hella, assisted by Natasha, poured a
thick, hot red liquid all over her. Margarita tasted salt on her lips and
realised that she was being washed in blood. The bath of blood was followed
by another liquid--dense, translucent and pink, and Margarita's head swam
with attar of roses. Next she was laid on a crystal couch and rubbed with
large green leaves until she glowed.
The cat came in and began to help. It squatted on its haunches at
Margarita's feet and began polishing her instep like a shoeblack.
Margarita never remembered who it was who stitched her shoes out of
pale rose petals or how those shoes fastened themselves of their own accord.
A force lifted her up and placed her in front of a mirror: in her hair
glittered a diamond crown. Koroviev appeared and hung on Margarita's breast
a picture of a black poodle in a heavy oval frame with a massive chain.
Queen Margarita found this ornament extremely burdensome, as the chain hurt
her neck and the picture pulled her over forwards. However, the respect with
which Koroviev and Behemoth now treated her was some recompense for the
discomfort.
'There's nothing for it,' murmured Koroviev at the door of the room
with the pool. ' You must wear it round your neck-- you must... Let me give
you a last word of advice, your majesty. The guests at the ball will be
mixed- -oh, very mixed--but you must show no favouritism, queen Margot! If
you don't like anybody ... I realise that you won't show it in your face, of
course not--but you must not even let it cross your mind! If you do, the
guest is bound to notice it instantly. You must be sweet and kind to them
all, your majesty. For that, the hostess of the ball will be rewarded a
hundredfold. And another thing-- don't neglect anybody or fail to notice
them. Just a smile if you haven't time to toss them a word, even just a
little turn of your head! Anything you like except inattention--they can't
bear that. . . .'
Escorted by Koroviev and Behemoth, Margarita stepped out of the bathing
hall and into total darkness.
'Me, me,' whispered the cat, ' let me give the signal! '
'All right, give it,' replied Koroviev from the dark.
'Let the ball commence! ' shrieked the cat in a piercing voice.
Margarita screamed and shut her eyes for several seconds. The ball burst
upon her in an explosion of light, sound and smell. Arm in arm with
Koroviev, Margarita found herself in a tropical forest. Scarlet-breasted
parrots with green tails perched on lianas and hopping from branch to branch
uttered deafening screeches of ' Ecstasy! Ecstasy! ' The forest soon came to
an end and its hot, steamy air gave way to the cool of a ballroom with
columns made of a yellowish, iridescent stone. Like the forest the ballroom
was completely empty except for some naked Negroes in silver turbans holding
candelabra. Their faces paled with excitement when Margarita floated into
the ballroom with her suite, to which Azazello had now attached himself.
Here Koroviev released Margarita's arm and whispered :
'Walk straight towards the tulips! '
A low wall of white tulips rose up in front of Margarita. Beyond it she
saw countless lights in globes, and rows of men in tails and starched white
shirts. Margarita saw then where the sound of ball music had been coming
from. A roar of brass deafened her and the soaring violins that broke
through it poured over her body like blood. The orchestra, all hundred and
fifty of them, were playing a polonaise.
Seeing Margarita the tail-coated conductor turned pale, smiled and
suddenly raised the whole orchestra to its feet with a wave of his arm.
Without a moment's break in the music the orchestra stood and engulfed
Margarita in sound. The conductor turned away from the players and gave a
low bow. Smiling, Margarita waved to him.
'No, no, that won't do,' whispered Koroviev. ' He won't sleep all
night. Shout to him " Bravo, king of the walt2! " '
Margarita shouted as she was told, amazed that her voice, full as a
bell, rang out over the noise of the orchestra. The conductor gave a start
of pleasure, placed his left hand on his heart and with his right went on
waving his white baton at the orchestra.
'Not enough,' whispered Koroviev. ' Look over there at the first
violins and nod to them so that every one of them thinks you recognise him
personally. They are all world famous. Look, there ... on the first
desk--that's Joachim! That's right! Very good . . . Now--on we go.'
'Who is the conductor? ' asked Margarita as she floated away.
'Johann Strauss!' cried the cat. ' May I be hung from a liana in the
tropical forest if any ball has ever had an orchestra like this! I arranged
it! And not one of them was ill or refused to come!'
There were no columns in the next hall, but instead it was flanked by
walls of red, pink, and milky-white roses on one side and on the other by
banks of Japanese double camellias. Fountains played between the walls of